#And out of the 4 there is 3 different fathers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

frostsinth · 2 days ago

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Your Heart's Got Teeth - Pt. 4

Part 1|2|3 - Masterlist

Here, have another part! More juicy. Language warning. Likes, reblogs, and comments are my writing fuel!

I've pretty much written this piece out to its end, just have to fill in the gaps between the scenes. Already plotting my next project... DM me suggestions if you want.

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“Jamie!”

“Curt!”

“Bal!”

The cries and shouts of glee filled the air, more and more names, more and more exclamations of relief, or joy, or love. I watched as each young man embraced his family. Watched tears well in eyes, watched souls shatter as the reality of what had happened settled on their faces. More than two dozen men in all, perhaps more. It had never been a large village, but now, it felt almost hollow. The men once prisoners now staggering about on legs they hadn’t properly used in weeks. Half the number the village had been prior to the attacks, not including the soldiers who had also entrenched themselves within the walls prior to.

None of them walked among the men now returning.

I stayed on the roof where I had been attempting to patch one of half a dozen holes. Watching the heartfelt reunions. Uncertain how to feel. The orc guards who had brought the men down the hill lingered at the edge of the village square, also watching. Though I had to admit, they looked a bit bored. Not begrudging or upset that they had to release the men, as I would have thought they might have been. I placed the hammer down, slipping back to the window and into the house. Suddenly feeling terribly, terribly useless and alone.

I snuck out the back, away from the crowds and reunions. There was no one there looking for me, I knew. And I wasn’t in the mood for being shuffled about to say some awkward welcomes or blessings to men I had only met maybe once or twice before in my life if at all.

I went to the edge of the square, noting a patrol of orcs lounging in their usual place. They looked up as I neared them, but made no move to stop me. I considered that, so different from previous days, and decided to test it further. Walking quietly towards them. Their eyes followed me, yet I passed them by unmolested. Out into the streets of the now decimated village. I breathed a sigh of relief when I was just out of eye shot, feeling a moment of glee fill my chest.

So the bastard had made good on his word. I felt my lips twitch. Without prompting… And with additions. My feet hurried as I realized my newfound freedom, limited though it was. I made my way to the village edge, past a few other patrols who only made note of my passage. Not slowing until I passed under the half ruined gate and the stone wall was behind me.

Now I stopped, turning my face up towards the sun. Closing my eyes and taking in a deep breath. It wasn’t much, I admitted. But it was something.

“Calliope!” Came the excited call, and I turned. Resisting the urge to sigh.

“Izu’lemi.” I replied as the lanky tween walked up with a crooked grin on his face. “You’re starting to make a habit of this.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Of what?”

“Appearing out of thin air whenever things around here suddenly improve.” I glanced over our shoulders, back towards the village’s main road. I noticed a few guards lingering along the remains of the wall, watching us, and resisted the urge to sigh again. At least there were no villagers around. “Are you following me?”

“No,” He said with a shake of his head, “My father had me clearing rubble from one of the stairwells, so that we can access the top of the wall again.” He pointed out the spot a few yards down. “I saw you walk by. Why, what happened?”

I crossed my arms, tapping the fingers of one hand on the opposite. “The men were released.”

“That’s good, right?” He mused. “Is that one of the things you asked father for?”

I paused a moment, the realization fully dawning on me. “… No. It’s not.”

“Oh.” The youth seemed to think about that for a moment, then shrugged a little. “Maybe he got tired of managing the guard shifts.”

I looked towards the hill, just visible above the rooftops, as if I could see the orc chief’s tent from here.

“I doubt it.”

More than likely he had other reasoning. One far more sinister. I wondered if perhaps he intended some other punishment, or thought to keep all the cattle together rather than separate. I tapped my fingers again, then looked over at the younger orc. Realizing belatedly he had spoken.

“What?”

“I said, what are you going to do first?” He repeated. “Now that you can leave the square?”

I turned towards the woods. “I need to go hunting.”

“I think you need permission.” Izu’lemi said. “Cuz it’s further than where we can see on top of the wall.”

“Right, how long will that take?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. You’d be the first to ask.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “I can ask for you. The kil’wan is friendly with me.”

“The what?” I asked.

Izu’lemi stratched the side of his head. “Ah… it means… umm.” His brow scrunched up. “Leader? But not like my father. Below him. The warriors listen to him, but he listens to my father.”

“Captain.” I reasoned, and he shrugged.

“Yeah maybe. But I can ask him for you.” Then his grin returned. “Maybe I can ask to be your guard!”

“Izu’lemi,” I sighed at his eagerness, looking down at the ground, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But-”

“You don’t owe me anything. Life debts aside,” I added quickly, raising one hand even as the protest formed on his lips, “I’m too old for you. You should marry someone you actually like.”

“But I do like you!” He argued.

I raised a brow at him. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He winced a bit at my sharp tone. “Well, maybe you should tell me.”

“I’m not the sharing type.”

Izu’lemi’s bottom lip jutted out stubbornly. “Then I’ll just follow you around. Until I figure it out.”

I almost groaned. “Don’t do that.”

His grin returned. “Then just tell me something. And I won’t have to.”

“Fine. I’m not marrying some kid.”

His face fell, which made a little pang of regret stab my heart, and his pouting lip returned. “I’m not a kid… and I’m not marrying you yet. I’ll be an adult when we do-”

“Izu’lemi-”

“You can call me ‘Izu’ if you want.”

“Izu’lemi.” I repeated firmly. “You are a kid. You not going to want to marry me when you’re not a kid. Just let it go.”

“I’m thirteen.”

“Congratulations. You’re still a kid.”

“I’m not-”

“I’m thirty-three.” I interrupted. “When you’re twenty-three, I’ll be forty-three. When you’re forty, I’ll be sixty.”

He chewed at his lip. “… That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Because you don’t understand.” I sighed, putting my hands on my hips. “You will, I hope. Someday sooner rather than later.”

“You can wait for me.” He told me eagerly, and now I did groan. It was like talking to a brick wall.

“You’re as thick headed as your father.” I muttered. Then turned and headed back into the village. Resisting the overwhelming heaviness that settled on my shoulders as I passed beneath the stone gate.

“Where are you going?” Izu’lemi called.

I heard him jogging after me, and sighed again. “… I’ve got to see someone.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

He scoffed lightly. “Well, you need a guard.”

“Not within the walls.”

I saw him chew at his lip out the corner of my eye. “But I could come. Just to make sure no one bothers you.”

“Izu’lemi.” I spun on him, my face scrunched in frustration. “You want to learn something about me? I like to be alone. Alone alone.” I clarified as I saw him opening his mouth. “It’s better if I’m alone. I am not a nice person.”

“You’re nice to me.” He argued.

“Sometimes. Don’t make me regret that.”

He sighed, then reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “Ok… I’ll see you later, I guess.” He turned slightly, looking back at the wall. “Inu’u gave me a bunch of things to do. To help the camp. So I guess I’ll do that.”

“Good.” Came another familiar voice, and I groaned again. “You can do as you’re told.”

We turned together to face Jou’kiel as he approached, another orc at his shoulder that I didn’t recognize. I saw his eyes flicker over me, felt my heart flutter a bit. Suddenly remembering the softer way his face had looked the last time I had seen him. Wondering what he remembered from that night. He glanced at the other orc, grunting something in orcish which had them chuckling. I felt my ears burn hot and a scowl returned to my face.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I grumbled, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Don’t you have anything nice to say?” He replied in Common, then gestured towards the square. “I thought you’d be more grateful.”

“Grateful you’re not a complete bastard?” I asked. “Grateful you realized you were being inhumane?”

He jerked his thumb at himself, returning my scowl. “Not human. Orc. Definition of ‘inhuman’.”

“Definition of idiot.” I retaliated. “I said ‘inhumane’. Barbarous. Brutal. Cruel.”

He shoved his finger at me, snarling a bit. “You should watch your mouth. And I thought I told you to stay away from my son.”

“Inu’u, you can’t order her away!” Izu’lemi cried, shoving himself between us. “She’s going to be my mate, whether you like it or not.”

“Oh save me the dramatics,” I half mumbled in a bitter tone, “I was just leaving anyway.”

“Good. Fall in a pit somewhere and stay there.”

“Go to hell and take your horde with you.” I shot back.

Then I turned and marched away, ignoring Izu’lemi’s farewell and the smattering of angry orcish that rose in the wake of my exit. I couldn’t resist a glance over my shoulder though. And found a pair of copper-yellow eyes staring after me. I straightened, pretending I hadn’t noticed, ducking around the next corner.

My feet knew the path well, even if the streets were not what they once were. It was the only place I would have visted regularly when coming to the village. Even with buildings crumbled in my path, even with orcs wandering the alleys between. Even without really thinking about it. I followed the same trail towards the back side of the village that I had a thousand times before. Feeling myself sink a bit into my thoughts, finding my feet slowing as I approached the old rickety fence off the beaten path.

The winter frost had kept the weeds from overgrowing during our containment in the square. And the site was far enough away from the nearest building that it almost felt as if the invasion hadn’t reached here. There was some errant rubble. A few burn marks where a stray fire might have made it before the cold, damp grass had prevented it from finding its way further. As I passed through the opening, I felt an eerie stillness settle over me. As if I had entered another world.

I walked past the other stones in the graveyard, to one in the back. Half hidden behind a scraggily tree. I reached out as I approached, lightly tracing my fingers over the top as I rounded the corner.

“Hey bud.” I said softly. “Sorry it’s been so long… I didn’t want anyone to know you were here. Hope you’ve been good.”

I rubbed my brother’s tombstone, absentmindedly clearing some dirt. My fingers lingering over the etching of his name. Remembering carving it myself as carefully as I could through thick tears more than five years prior. I slowly settled in front of the stone. Brushing aside the leaves. Trimming back some of the weeds.

“You’d have been excited.” I told him. “Having orcs here.” I smoothed my skirts down, staring at my hands. “And you would’ve thought it’s funny, that some kid wants to marry me.” I glanced at the stone forlornly. “I hope you’re having a good laugh, wherever you are.” I choked a bit, swallowing hard. “… I miss your laugh. I could use your laugh about now.”

I sniffled, then rubbed the back of one hand at my eye stubbornly. Swallowing again, and looking around. Wondering if any of the other villagers would bother coming here now that they could… Wondering how many fresh graves would be added once the ground thawed. Or if only tombstones would. Being that they had no bodies left to bury…

“I’m such an idiot.” I told the cold stone, my voice frightfully weak. “I should never have let that stupid kid go. I should never have… Ugh.” I rubbed at my face with both hands, feeling them shake as I did. “If the villagers ever find out that I’m…” I stopped, my voice breaking. “… I wish you were here. I wish you could tell me it’s not my fault. Even though it is. Gods above… I can’t believe how much I miss you sometimes.” I rubbed at my eye with the back of my hand again. “I miss your hugs. I miss your smile. I even miss the goofy jokes you made.” I choked again, my throat feeling tight. “… The villagers still hate me. They pretend they don’t, but maybe now that the men are back they’ll remember. That I’m angry and bitter and awkward.” I sighed, shaking my head a little. “They should hate me now more than ever, even if they don’t know why.”

I stared off towards the square, my face blank. My heart feeling numb and achy. Letting the cold seep into my legs through the frozen ground. Feeling the tips of my fingers fall asleep with the chill. The balls of my cheeks tingled with the cold too, and I felt the stinging of it at the tips of my ears. Still I sat for a long time. Wishing I could sleep, but unable to remember the last time I had been able to without the screams filling my ears. Without the guilt racking my chest.

I sniffled again, then rubbed at my nose.

“… You’d have liked Izu’lemi.” I said softly, still staring off at the village. “He’s a lot like you, in some ways… Maybe how you could’ve been, if things had been different.” I scoffed lightly, dropping my gaze to my hands. “Not at all like his father. The picture of big and stupid.” My heart skipped suddenly as I remembered Jou’kiel’s hand around mine. Remembered the smell of him as he had leaned across me. “… He’s annoying too.” I continued stubbornly. “And cocky. And arrogant… The man is like a barn; big, but full of straw and shit.” My lips almost twitched into a smile. “Gods only know how he does anything. So full of hot air, I’m surprised a stray needle hasn’t popped him yet.” I glanced back at my brother’s tombstone, falling quiet. Thinking for a moment. “… You probably would’ve liked him too.” I admitted. “You liked everyone. And Jou’kiel is…” I stopped again, then shook my head. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter does it?” I sighed, reaching out and laying my palm flat against the rock. “You’re just a stone now… though you’re still a good listener…” I dropped my hand and sniffled a final time. “I should get back. Before someone does something stupid… I owe them that. More than they know.”

I stood slowly, brushing my hands down my skirt, then running my hand over the stone a final time. Silently promising to come back soon. I didn’t say anything else though. I could never actually say ‘goodbye’ outloud. I stubbornly pretended I had never realized that, as I did every time I visited, and wiped at my face. Clearing my throat and straightening myself out.

Stomping back to the village with a scowl fixed back in place.

------

Some men had never come back, and some had found they had nothing to come back to. There was some prayers said, now that we could fully assess who was missing. But the pressing issue of being able to survive the winter took the majority of people’s focus.

With those men that had returned, it was faster to gather wood. Soon the forest line had receeded an extra few yards for all the trees cleared from it. The women gathered what they could from the bushes there as well, and were able to sow a few of the small fields within eyeline of the wall. A few old stores were pulled out of cellars from those houses and the ones further from the square. Some clay and thatch was gathered from rubble and source alike. A few chickens were re-captured and brought into the village, as well as other livestock that had escaped their pens and managed to survive the few weeks untended.

I set snares and traps at the treeline. Away from the lumbermen. I persuaded an orc at the wall to lend me his huge bow and arrows while he watched, and shot a few geese that had dared fly too close to the village. I missed my own bow. Their bow had been hard to wrangle, but with some jest and some broken pointers, the orcs had taught me the best way to manage it. They seemed amused, and perhaps a bit impressed with my skill as a hunter. I made a point not to linger.

Overall, I avoided orcs and villagers alike as best I could. Preferring to keep to myself as I always had. Waiting for formal permission to leave to hunt. Escort or otherwise, I itched to get as far from the village as I could. Wondering if I would be permitted to go to my cabin, or if I would have to make due with the hunting supplies I could garnish from the orcs.

I was getting more and more restless. It didn’t help that I still wasn’t sleeping very much. That I still stayed in the drafty attic of one of the most decrepit buildings in the square. So when the quickly raising voices reached me, I was more than willing to track down the source only a few buildings down from my own make-shift shelter.

I found two orcs shoving each other back and forth in one of the less sturdy buildings still mostly standing. A fact very evident considering one half of the building was completely gone. Leaving the brawl visible to the square. I heard the villagers shouting their protests, but the brutes didn’t seem to hear them. And the villagers weren’t interested in getting any closer to make sure they did.

I had no such qualms, and ducked through the remains of the doorway.

“Hey, dumbasses!” I shouted at them.

They paid me no mind, the largest grabbing the other by the shoulders, then slamming him against the wall. The whole building shook, and I looked up at the ceiling warily. I had to jump to the side a minute later as the two orcs toppled and rolled across the ground. Slamming into the opposite wall and sending a shudder through the remaining stone again.

I reached down, picking up one of the newly loosed stones, and chucked it at the biggest orc. He froze, shoving his opponent back. Looking over his shoulder at me.

“Knock it off!” I said.

I had their attention now, and they turned almost as one to address me. Slugging each other a final time before climbing to their feet. The biggest taking a lumbering step forward. Baring his teeth.

I pointed to the half crumbled ceiling, then gestured around to the building at large.

“You idiots are going to knock it down on yourselves.”

If they understood me at all, they made no sign of it. Another lumbering step, another angry snarl. The other orc gathered closer, shoving at the first as they rallied for space. Which had them shoved back heavily into the wall, and the building shook and groaned again. I glanced about warily, then back at the biggest orc.

“Are you stupid??” I demanded, then pointed to the door. “Go fight somewhere else!”

I barely dodged his swinging fist and staggered back a few steps. The pair shoved at each other, then advanced towards me. In my haste to avoid being struck, I had moved away from the door, and now found myself effectively cornered. Realizing that with each angry stomping foot, the building became more and more likely to collapse.

But the pair were obviously not of joint determination. They shoved at each other again as they approached, then fully spun at each other to roar. Slamming each other into the wall. Shaking the foundations again. Perhaps fighting over who got to kill me. I grabbed another rock, chucking it at them. Then another. They snarled, spinning back on me. One even went so far as to pick up a stone as well. I ducked and it crashed into the remains of the wall behind me, and I felt mortar fall into my hair.

“Idiots!” I snapped, making sure to manuver back towards the door. I moved to pick up another rock. Even craned my arm back to launch it at them in retaliation. Hoping to draw them out that way.

Something firm grabbed my wrist, halting the throw before I could fully swing it forward. Twisting and forcing the rock to drop from my grip. I kicked instinctively, and heard an irritated grunt. Then the offender swung me fully around towards them.

“By the gods,” Jou’kiel groaned, “Why is it always you?”

I wriggled in his grasp, my scowl growing. “They are obviously punishing me.”

He tossed my hands back to me, turning and speaking to the other orcs angrily in their native tongue for a moment. The orcs grunted almost as one, shooting me a disapproving look. Then turned and made their way out of the building.

“I don’t know who is worse,” Jou’kiel sighed, switching back to Common as he returned his attention to me, “You or Izu.”

“I’m not a child.”

“You act like one.”

“I act like a child??” I snapped. “You are the one stomping around in a tantrum all the time.”

He growled, stalking a few paces around me. “Why are you even here? This building-”

“Could come down at any minute.” I interrupted, which had him glancing around warily. “And your stupid warriors were playing with its frame. Asking for it to collapse onto innocents in the next building over.”

“You have no authority to force them out.”

“I have the right to keep us safe!” I argued. “None of you have brains enough to do it!”

His growl filled his chest, his face, and his brow dark. “Quiet yourself,” He warned, “Or I’ll do it for you.”

“What, don’t want your warriors to hear you being scolded like a child?” I quipped, not bothering to lower my voice. “Or don’t want your prisoners to see that you are an idiot?”

Jou’kiel leered over me, his scowl deepening. “Don’t push me, huntress. I have been civil-”

“Civil?” I interrupted angrily. “You call this civil?? Of all the arrogant, bull-headed-”

He grabbed my arm roughly as he bared his teeth, then stopped, shaking his head. Glancing around angrily.

“Come with me.” He hissed instead, already dragging me behind him without waiting for a response.

“Let me go!” I half shouted, trying to tear my arm free.

He dragged me out of the building, then down the street. I saw a few of the orcs raise their heads as we passed, saw a few eyes peek out from behind shuttered windows. I punched at his arm with my free hand, but found it hurt my knuckles more than it seemed to faze him. Deciding instead to try and dig in my heels. Both made little difference, and I staggered after him as he steadfastly plowed forward. Finally ducking into a building a few yards away and slamming the door behind us so hard the foundation rattled.

He tossed me free, and I glared up at him angrily.

“What is your problem??”

“YOU.” He snapped. “YOU are my problem, you foul, irritable, bane of my existence.”

I scowled at him. “What, for saving your stupid orcs from being crushed alive?”

“Not-”

“Or for saving your stupid son?”

His eyes darkened and he bared his teeth at me again. “Don’t.”

I tossed up my hands. “Maybe for making you realize you aren’t just ‘passing through’. That the people here aren’t just ‘unfortunate ramifications’.”

Jou’kiel stalked closer, glowering at me. “Do you really think yourself high and mighty?” He snarled. “So beyond repercussion?”

“Well, I’m certainly no prince.” I jeered.

He nearly shook, gesturing angrily with his hands. “You have no idea what I have done. What I have sacrificed. Don’t you dare judge me.”

“Should I let you judge me??” I shot back. “Should I just roll over and accept your boot on my back?” I waved my own hands about dramatically. “The poor little prince. He does suffer so.”

I almost jumped as Jou’kiel let out a roar, his jaw dropping wide and baring his huge teeth. Spittle shooting out as he shook his head and threw his arms wide. One massive stride and he closed the distance between us. Shoving me against the wall before punching it with his fist so hard mortar trickled down on us. I refused to give him the satisfaction of flinching, fixing him with an angry glare.

“Gods above!” He snarled at me, his Common more harsh with the effort of using it in his rage, his hands reaching as if to strangle me, “I don’t ever know if I want to KILL you or… Or…”

He stopped short, breathing so heavily his broad shoulders heaved. His copper eyes hot and blazing as they stared me down. I glared back at him, feeling my heart in my throat. My own chest fluttering with nerves. Feeling a sound heat rising in me, feeling goosebumps race across my skin. He was so close, his hot breath splashed across my face. His nose practically brushed mine, and his thick braids were like a curtain around us. Shielding us in our own private bubble. Away from time and place.

“Or what?” I dared press breathlessly.

He let out a hefty huff which had the ends of my hair shifting in its wake. I noticed him shift closer, noticed his big muscles seeming to quiver with restraint. His fingers twitching as he pressed his palms against the wall. I felt my own tense at the sight.

“Or what??” I snapped again impatiently, unable to stand the coil of my nerves, and he growled, “Or WHAT, you big, stupid-”

I jumped as he suddenly crashed his mouth against mine.

The kiss was quick, and harsh. Almost painful. Even when he tore away a breath later, I felt the shape of his mouth on mine. I fell back following it and let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. My lips feeling like they were on fire. He stood there, panting a little, his hooded eyes flicking back down to my mouth. His big tongue tracing the inside of his.

My hand had come up instinctively with his movement, as if to push him away. But now, I felt it rest against the bare skin of his collar. Felt my breath sputter and skip. Felt my heart race and my face flush. He shifted slightly, and I shifted with him. More attuned to his body than I was my own. I tilted my head back, my hand inching up to trace along his thick neck. As if it had always been there. Feeling the anticipation building between us as the realization of our shared interest spread.

Then it snapped. And he plowed back in, breaking the tension with his mouth against mine once more. I responded eagerly this time. Grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into me. Feeling his hand go from the wall to my waist to curl my body against his. He bowed over me, encompassing me with his girth. Pinning me back to the wall a moment later as his lips greedily sought mine. His tusks pressed against my cheeks as his mouth worked against my own, and as I felt his thick tongue roll out I brought mine to meet it. Straining deeper, wider, to accommodate him. To suck in his heat as desperately as he sought mine. Feeling his hands grope and tug and pull. Bruising soft skin, pinning me first to his body, then to the wall, then back against his body as we writhed against each other.

I fed him a gasp as his hands caught under my thighs and he hoisted me up. Carrying me two steps to the left to plant my buttocks on a table there. It groaned as he leaned over me. Tearing our mouths apart only to bury his against the skin on my neck. There was a deep rumble of desire in his chest that rippled through me as he tugged my legs to either side of him. Submerging himself in my flesh. Kissing, licking, biting. Pushing the top of my blouse down to find the sensitive parts there. Feeling the hairs of his beard trail over my collarbone then between my breasts.

I wrapped my arms around his head. Running my hands over his braids. Squeezing my thighs around him. Letting my head roll back to allow him better access. He gave another rumble of pleasure, his groping hands eliciting another small gasp from me as his mouth worked across my skin. He pushed my skirt up further, pulled me closer to the edge of the table. Pressing himself against me through his furs.

I tried to shake my head. Tried to pull myself out of the heat that had engulfed me. Blinking rapidly and trying to draw in one deep breath amid the panting fever.

“Jou’kiel,” I breathed finally, my voice weak with want.

He growled against me. Leaning away at last only to plunge back to my mouth. I couldn’t help losing myself for a moment again there. Pulling him down with my hands cupped against the back of his head and neck. Relishing in the taste of his hot breath.

But a sudden rush of guilt filled me like a cold bucket of water. I turned away, pushing him back a little. He growled again, kissing my cheek, my jaw. Biting lightly at my ear.

“Jou’kiel,” I said again, more firmly.

He nibbled at my skin. “I like when you say my name.” He rumbled, his Common harsh with his arousal. His words hot against my flesh. “Especially with your cunt pressed against me.”

I let out a breathy huff. Struggling not to let myself be drawn in to his tidal wave again. Feeling the guilt slowly wrapping choking fingers around my lungs. I shook my head.

“We can’t.” I managed finally.

He pulled back sharply. Staring at me in surprise. His hands stilling, his heat ebbing.

“… What?”

I shook my head again. “We can’t do this.”

He ignored my hands attempting to push him further back for a moment. A small scowl forming in the corners of his mouth. Looking as though his brain was not fulling connecting my words with any meaning yet.

“Why the hell not?” He said finally.

“Just…” I struggled, fumbling with words. Then shoved him angrily. “Just get off me!”

He did step back. Dropping his hands. Staring at me a bit dumbfounded. He looked around, as if the answer he was looking for might be in the room with us. I rubbed my own hands across my face, trying to cool the heat still lingering.

“… Did you not… was this…” He looked back at me, confusion lining his face.

I dropped my hands, sighing. Trying unsuccessfully to fix my skirts still half bunched around my hips.

“We can’t let this happen again.” I told him. Finally sliding forward and dropping to my feet. Finding my legs a bit shaky.

“… So you did like it.” He reasoned. “You did want it.”

I refused to look at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

A low growl formed in his chest, and he shook his head. “Can’t stand the thought of sleeping with the enemy, is that it??” He shoved the nearest unfortunate item, which happened to be the table, and it slammed against the wall loudly, “Can’t bear the idea of your cunt being wet for me?”

I slowly fixed my blouse, my hands shaking. My heart aching in my chest. I blinked back tears, still staring at the ground. Then I set my jaw angrily.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I grumbled.

He glaried at me with a fiery look in his eyes. “Don’t lie to yourself.” He shot back.

“I don’t need some stupid idiot groping me.” I snapped. “Go fuck one of your whores and leave me out of your horny rutting.”

That made him scoff, and he tossed up his hands angrily. “You think I need to pay to fuck??”

I scowled. “Obviously you ran out of coin to come sniffing after me.”

“You’re the irritating little bitch with the wet cunt.” He sneered. “Or maybe you realized you couldn’t take an orc even if you didn’t hate us?”

“Get your head out of your ass.” I said bitterly. “Or go drown in the river. Either way, just get the fuck away from me.”

His hands balled into fists. “You vile, wretched twat.” He growled. “If you think-”

“Just shut up and leave me alone.” I interrupted, spinning my back to him to stalk towards the door. My exit belittled by the strange softness of my voice.

He gave a grunt, but it sounded dismissive. I was happy to find my legs obeying me as I made my way to the door. Pulling it open and ducking out before I lost my battle to keep it all together.

To be continued...

#terato #exophilia #monster lover #monster x human #slow burn #monster boyfriend #orc boyfriend #orc x human #your hearts got teeth #enemies to lovers #update #friday update

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see-arcane · 2 days ago

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Blood of My Blood: Longest Night

I imagine it's tricky for a family that's 3/4 vampires to celebrate the regular batch of holidays. But a kid deserves to be festive now and then and there is a handy time of year for nocturnal sorts to celebrate.

December 21st, the winter solstice, the Longest Night.

You can read under the cut or on Ao3 here.

There were three holidays in the castle.

One was St. George’s Day Eve, which neatly held hands with the boy’s birthnight. Father was always called away for the hunting of blue flames, but after the celebration of the night with Papa and Mum, Father would be waiting for him by his coffin at sunrise. He would have a coin harvested early from the earth and some gift of his own to give. It was good.

Another was New Year’s Eve. To the boy’s knowledge, this was considered the birthnight of Time itself. He would get to unwrap a fresh calendar to hang and do something called a ‘toast,’ though there was no hot crisp bread involved. Papa would down a glass of something that burned the boy’s nose to smell, then Father, Mum and the boy would take a single quick sip and welcome the New Year. Papa’s blood always tasted different after those drinks, a little singed, but somehow nice and swimmy on the tongue. It was good.

But the best was Longest Night.

Longest Night was preceded by the crucial private magic of Shortest Day. No one was allowed to be up and awake during the Shortest Day, or else the joys of Longest Night would not happen. The Visitors that came by daylight were swift and skittish and would not stop to deliver their bounty if anyone was up to spy on their work. They might skip by regardless if they were not left the token of food before all were in bed by sunrise.

“What do they eat?”

“Whatever a home has to spare for a plate,” Papa told him. “Sweet things, usually.”

“Like the pep mints?”

“Peppermint, yes. Biscuits, cake, chocolate.”

This had worried the boy at first. Papa tasted sweeter in December from all the Longest Night things he and Mum put together in the kitchen. Once, Papa had been doing something with pieces of fruit, cloves, and spices, the result pouring perfume out of the bowl and through the air. And, perhaps not quite by accident, Papa allowed one of the hard little cloves to cut his thumb.

“Oh dear. Could you help me, Sweetheart?” Under his breath, smiling, “Quick!”

The boy rushed to put his mouth to the cut. Papa’s blood hit his tongue in a new way. He thought of the red-white candy that had shown up after Papa’s last errand—

“You had pep mint!”

“Peppermint. Yes, I did. Is it any good?”

“Have to check.” Another sip. Another. “Checked. Very good.”

“Good.”

Good, but sweet. What if..?

The Visitors will not come for Papa, Dearest.

Mum’s hand on his shoulder, her smile on her face and in her son’s mind.

He is for us alone. Besides, he would not fit on a plate. On that note…

The boy watched his mother’s gaze float to Papa, something of either mercy or conspiracy in her look.

…it need not be desserts alone. It is cold out for those who are not like us, and the Visitors would surely appreciate something with more heat in it. Supposing Papa is willing to part with some of his paprika.

“Absolutely.”

Something to keep in mind for the Eve before Shortest Day. But for now, we need to hunt for the tree.

The tree was very important for the Visitors. They were wild folk who were used to taking and receiving bounty in wilderness. Unless the boy wanted the gifts from them all left piled against some random trunk in the forest, the castle needed a tree of its own. One they could shelter and dress so that there was no mistaking it as the tree to stop for. The boy was scrupulous in seeking this particular quarry. It could not be too tall or too short, too spindly or too thick. There must be no animals living in it, not even the bats; though he knew already from Father that they had all taken off to their caves for the winter. It must be just right.

Eventually they came upon it, powdered in snow and sweet-stinging with its aroma.

This one?

“This one!”

Mum cleaved the trunk from its roots, hoisting it as airily as she might have carried the boy. They returned to the castle and set it within the stand that Papa had built for it. Then came the decoration. Threads of nutshells and dry berries hardened to beads were wound around the boughs, ready to turn to kindling once it came time to break the tree up into firewood. Give or take a few wooden ornaments the boy painted himself. He was still hanging them when Father appeared. Standing and staring and silent as the boy worked.

Father had allowed Longest Night to happen because of Papa. The boy knew so. Young as he was, there were some realities that one accepted without needing the Lesson laid out in words.

It was especially easy to accept as the boy had spoiled his own attempt at wheedling Father about holidays not so long ago. He had found one in a book on a high shelf in the library. The boy had clambered up to it for the sake of its pretty leather spine and flipped through it in awe of its illustrations. One in particular had arrested him. Even what little bits of the poem-story that went with it seemed somehow simpler to ingest than the rest of the dense writing about a king named Arthur and his many legendary knights. The image that held him was all holly greens and reds, with a wide-eyed young man gawking up at an emerald giant in knight’s armor, holding his own severed head as it rained blood. Beyond them, rows of knights and King Arthur himself stared over their banquet tables.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight had much the same bones as other fairy tales he was privy to, but the boy had caught on a word that had yet to show up anyplace else in his storybooks. A word that carried with it implications of revelry that was meant for adults as much as children, a thing of games and gifts and feasting and joy that nobody grew out of. A miserable fate that seemed to be the case with birthnights. The boy was alone in celebrating his, despite Father, Mum and Papa surely having birthnights of their own. It suggested to him that birthnights would go without celebration on some distant grownup year. But a holiday! Those stuck. And they were for everyone.

All this in mind, he had come to Father with the book under his arm and asked, “What’s Christmas?”

Father declared that Christmas was two things. First, a dreamed-up fiction for the imaginary knights in the book to celebrate. Second, a topic the boy was not to mention again. Now give him the book, diavol.

Foolishly, the boy had hugged the book to himself, citing the fact that it was in the library, and Father had said he could read whatever he liked in it, and—

“Boy,” Father had said, soft as a knife cutting snow, “you have a moment to consider whether you wish to disobey me.” Father’s eyes had flared. “There, it has passed. Now give me the book.”

The boy had given it. Father had given it to the fireplace.

Knowing he wasn’t to cry and waste blood, the boy had held his tears in. At least until he was outside, far from the courtyard and tucked up in a tree, weeping until he was the color of Papa’s hair. Mum had found him. They’d returned home only when they felt sunrise plodding toward them. The next nights had been odd. Different in the way they had been after Father had torn Hoppy to shreds.

That time before had ended with Father taking him aside for a lecture on the folly of pining for weak animals that would only break one’s heart with their frailty, capped with the gifting of a wolf crafted from downy fur and glass eyes. The boy had managed to tamp back joyous tears then, embracing his Father through an armful of plush.

The atmosphere of those preceding nights had settled thickly again. And it came, as it had before, from Papa. It was not so fiery as Father’s presence or as icy as Mum’s, but it was there. No one was more aware of it than Father. It might have been funny in a book: Father growing more and more agitated the more sedate Papa turned, until Father was left pacing and fuming while Papa went silent and almost frigid with patience. Until, finally, a week’s worth of nights passed and Papa and Mum came to the boy with talk of Longest Night. A thing left uncelebrated thus far because Father was not one for frivolity and Papa and Mum had left off holidays when they came to live in the castle.

Why?

“Your parents want for so little here, diavol,” Father had broken in, lupine smile back in its place. “It seemed unnecessary for us to bother with such rites. But you are here and young and new enough to want such things.” A clawed hand had flapped as Father dismissed them and himself. “Revel with it as you like.”

And that had been that.

Now here was Father, scrutinizing the tree, curling his lip at the decoration.

“Is something wrong, Father?”

“Not for me. I am not the one expecting a tree wearing nothing but nuts and berries to stand out from every other in the forest. Even painted, it will hardly catch any Visitor’s eye.”

The boy sat up with a shiver, “It won’t?”

“I am afraid not. Your Papa and your mother, they hail from a choked and choking city with little in the way of nature. It is no wonder any meager flash of green caught attention there. But here, in our verdant mountains, there would need to be more applied. This?” He flicked one of the nutshell cords Mum had helped him with. “Will be as good as invisible.” He held up his hand before the boy could speak. “I have something that may be of use. Supposing you wish to bother with it.”

The boy was already adhered to his side. Off they went, up, up, up to Father’s own bedroom. There, piled in the corner…

“The coins will not hang, of course. But these?” Father hooked a dust-caked golden necklace. A ruby huge as a hen’s egg and bright as his own brooch dangled on it. The boy was already enamored with a chain of twinkling emeralds and a bracelet dewed with diamonds. “If these do not snare attention, the Visitors must be blind.” They were perfect and the boy told him so, pausing in his elation to embrace his Father’s leg tight enough to break an ordinary man’s bones. “Yes, yes. Take your bounty, magpie, and be off.” But Father lingered to watch as the boy loaded himself up with chains and cuffs enough to make him jingle all the way downstairs.

“Mum! Papa! Father had more decorations!”

They saw. Mum kept her expression even while Papa straightened with something like recognition. Yet this moment passed as the work of stringing the gold along the boughs began. The tree glittered and blazed as though it had been crafted by a giant’s jeweler. Given the chance, the boy might have sat up with the tree all day just to stare at it.

“You need to rest, Sweetheart. There’s more to do tomorrow.” Papa held out a sheet of paper and a sharpened crayon. “Remember?”

The boy squirreled himself away with the stationery, scribbling carefully in his coffin. Another important thing to remember about Longest Night was that the Visitors were not like himself or Mum or Father. They couldn’t just dip into someone’s mind and know what they wanted. If the boy did not write out what he wished for and have it sent out, the Visitors would be left to guess. Papa was entrusted with delivering his list in the post on his next errand in town. Father even let him seal the envelope with his own stamp, the wax writhing with a scarlet dragon.

With that done, now he had to consider what gifts he would bring to the tree. For the Visitors were not responsible for every present brought. Families wrapped and traded gifts among themselves too. But oh! What could he give that his parents, who wanted for nothing in the castle? Worse, how could he do what even the Visitors couldn’t, and guess the answers? He was not as smooth as Mum or Father when he peeked into a mind; even Papa caught him at it. There was simply no knowing without being found out. So…

“Mum?”

Yes?

“If…someone wanted to get you something for Longest Night, what would it be?”

I need nothing and want little, Mum assured, her hand soft in his hair. But I suppose if I had to want something, it would be my loves, safe and happy.

That hardly narrowed it down, but the boy didn’t say so. He went to Papa.

“Papa, is there anything you want that you didn’t ask the Visitors for?”

“My family safe and happy.”

“No, I mean something that can go in a box.”

“Do you not still fit in the coffin?”

The boy huffed away, still puzzling. Surely Father would have something he wanted. Father was never satisfied. There had to be something he—

“The things I want are not delivered to me, diavol. If I want a thing, I take it. Besides,” Father’s teeth shined bright and sharp as icicles, “I have you and your mother and dear Papa. You are gifts that give every night in new and wonderful ways. As to anything I want beyond that?” A shrug. “Those will come to me in time. …Oh dear, such a look. Whatever is the matter, child?”

“I can’t wrap any of that! Mum and Papa didn’t say anything I could wrap either! Longest Night is only a few weeks away and I don’t know what to make or to find or—or anything!” He stared glumly out the frosted window as the moon stared glumly back. “I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t give anything.”

“Mm. So you shouldn’t. Folk such as the Visitors do take such a sour turn if they think they spy someone being selfish. Yes,” Father nodded with solemn weight, “you must have something to offer. I dread to think what would happen if the Visitors discovered you left your poor parents with nothing. Come.” Father rose and turned on his heel. The boy scrambled after him. “We shall find them something fitting.”

Again, the trip to Father’s chambers. The boy left it beaming, his new treasure hidden inside a blanket.

“But Father, this is all for Mum and Papa. What about yours?”

Father only grinned, insisting, “The Visitors know I am lord of this castle and Count of these lands. I would draw ire myself if I went bothering anyone for excess. No, diavol, that you would give these gifts from my hand and yours is fine enough.”

Time passed. Games were played. No titanic knights came around asking to have his head lopped off, thankfully. Although the boy did treat himself to one snowman he dappled all over with coniferous green before knocking its head off with a twig.

Other than that, he built up a whole snow family with Papa. Father took him flying to see the entire valley from above, mute and lovely in its winter white. Mum started a snowball battle with him that stretched for some nights off and on. It might have been shorter had Father not joined his side and made a war of things. And that too might have ended in a short victory if Father were not distracted by the boulder of a snowball that struck him from behind. Papa dashed away from his vantage point and into the trees. Father, being himself, gave snarling grinning chase. While they were off playing hunt, the boy pleaded a tired and happy truce to Mum. Towards dawn, Father tromped home with ice on his boots and Papa in his arms, drowsy and swaddled in Father’s cloak.

After that was the Eve before Shortest Day.

The boy could scarcely sit still all night. He would swear the clocks were going slower and that Father was somehow stretching the night out even further by covering up both moonrise and sunrise with extra helpings of cloud. It wasn’t until Mum and Papa sat by the fire for stories that he ceased fretting. This was Longest Night tradition as well.

“I thought grownups always did story time all quiet, reading to themselves.”

“Usually we do. But on this evening, and on through the last nights of the year, we like to tell stories to each other.”

Often frightening ones. We understand if you do not wish to listen.

But the boy was already in Mum’s lap, sharp ears up and mind alert. Mum told her stories. The boy shuddered through some and gasped over others.

Would you like to stop?

“No…” came from under the boy’s blanket.

…Would you like Papa to tell one?

“I’d be happy t—,” The boy popped his head out the blanket and twisted in his mother’s lap. Papa told his stories. They were not half so scary as Mum’s. A few even made him laugh. It was at the end of one of these that he heard the rooster outside begin to crow. The boy sat up as if pinched and went running to the nearest window. Too many clouds and a new swirling of snow and no hint of daylight yet, but the rooster always knew when the sun was coming. It was time.

“The plate! Mum, Papa, we need to set out the plate!” They set it out. A thing with biscuits and hendl and a helping of hot chocolate in a little cup. The boy pinned a note of thanks under fork for good measure. “I’m ready to sleep now.”

Dearest, the sun isn’t even up. Are you sure?

“Very sure. It’s time for everyone to sleep. Please.”

“Mm,” Papa nodded. “And you won’t be up running circles around the vault past sunrise?”

“No. I’m going right to sleep.”

Some hours and a sunrise later, the boy was up and pacing. Just to tire himself. That was all.

That doesn’t feel like sleeping.

The boy returned to his coffin. It was tricky to lay there with all the secret flotsam hidden inside with him. He managed to keep his eyes shut until roughly noon. Then he went slinking toward the stairs. Just to see if the Visitors had come. Nothing more. Nothing—

“Were you going somewhere, diavol?” This time the boy almost yelped aloud. Father almost never bothered to be awake during the day. But for Shortest Day, he had sat and lurked upon the stair. Waiting. “Were you?”

“No, Father.”

“You were just stretching your legs, perhaps?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. I was stretching mine too. Now sleep.”

The boy dragged himself back to his coffin and flopped despondently into his covers. Shortest Day was a lie, he decided. It was actually the Longest Day. Perhaps even an eternal one. It would never ever end and he would be doomed to toss and turn in the coffin forever and ever and…

He woke to the tell-tale shift of day falling to dusk. It bristled in his bones. Carefully, carefully, the boy peeked from his coffin. Mum and Father were still in asleep. He gathered up his hoard of gifts and crept on half-mist feet up the stairs and away to the tree. Elation almost made him fumble the crookedly wrapped packages.

The Visitors had come and gone. Presents stood waiting under the twinkling branches. The plate and cup were empty. Scrawled on his own note in tiny block letters was a message of thanks in return from the Visitors; they looked forward to next year’s trip. The boy snatched the note up for his pocket, tucked his gifts behind the tree, and ran.

Up to the tower, dashing to Papa’s bed. How could he still be asleep!?

“Papa! Papa, Papa, Papa—,”

“Yes, yes, yes?” Papa asked into his pillow.

“They came! The Visitors came and it’s Longest Night! You have to get up, come look!”

Papa lurched upright, bloodshot but smiling.

“I’ll be down soon. I have to put my coffee on. Are we the only ones up?”

“I’ll get Mum and Father!”

And he raced away before Papa had gotten both feet on the floor. He paused only for another giddy glance at the tree, then onward again. Mum was already sitting up in her coffin, taking a moment to stretch and stand.

“Mum!”

Yes?

“It’s Longest Night!”

So it is. Did the Visitors come by?

“Yes! There’s so much and it’s so pretty and Papa is getting up but he has to do his coffee first and Mum you have to go look at the tree and is Father up yet?” He wasn’t. Mum watched the boy lunge toward the great black coffin. The boy pressed himself right up to the lid, whisper-shouting, “Father. Father, it’s Longest Night. Are you up, Father? Father, you have to get up, come see! Father, Father, Father, Father—,”

The lid opened a crack. A red eye gleamed.

“I will rise when it is time I rise. Go with your mother.”

The lid closed.

Mother and son went up. Papa was there, a steaming cup in hand.

Counting a missing head, Papa asked, “Did he want us to wait?”

“Wait for what?”

Papa and the boy jumped. Mum narrowed her eyes. Father was in the room and wearing a robe the boy had never seen before. A thing of deep arterial scarlet lined in ermine. He dragged the largest armchair up to sit and watch as the boy assailed the bounty around the tree. Toys and books and a new little fishing pole and a music box and a dozen other fun little oddments were waiting, some from the Visitors, others from his parents. The boy was so dazed by it all that he nearly forgot his own part. Nearly.

“Your turn!” the boy announced to Mum and Papa who had just taken their own seats after clearing the mess away as paper flew. The boy took his own offerings from behind the tree and placed them proudly in their laps. Father’s grin sharpened as Mum and Papa unwrapped two leatherbound journals with fine fountain pens to match. “Father helped me find them. He said you were both such good writers when you all first met, but lost your diaries when you came to live in the castle. And see!” He shuffled some of the gifts aside to dredge up his own new sketchpad. “We can all do writing and drawing together! I want to make a book, maybe.”

Mum and Papa continued to smile, but a flint of hardness passed in her eyes and a melting fatigue polished his.

You would make a wonderful author, Dearest. You could illustrate your own adventures.

The boy pretended not to notice how her claws pricked the cover as she set the journal aside. Papa put his own down gently. His hand now free, he laid it on the boy’s shoulder.

“Are you forgetting one, Sweetheart?”

“Oh!” He was. The boy ducked back around the tree and came up with the third gift; one Father did not know of. Father’s grin actually faltered as the boy rushed up with the little package in hand. A tiny box smothered in butcher paper. The boy bounced on his heels as Father opened it with agonizing slowness. The paper revealed box of weathered secondhand shop velvet. This had not come from the boy, but his Papa. The gift inside had his touch too. “Papa waded out to get them before the river iced up. They came out all clean from the water.” Father said nothing, casting a steady glance at the back of Papa’s head. Papa nursed his coffee from one hand and twined his other with Mum’s. Father switched the box from his right to his left hand and gingerly wedged it open with his thumb.

Inside, gold shined in the shape of two coins. Their already-rough images were smoothed from the river and the metal was brighter than any token Father had dug up from under his blue flames. He stared at one and the other, turning them in his fingers.

“…These are quite old,” he said at last. “My own father would know them only from memory.”

“Papa said they were special since the blue flames wouldn’t show up over anything but dry ground to tell where treasure was, so those,” the boy pointed to the coins, “would’ve been hidden forever if they stayed stuck in the riverbed. And he taught me how to do buying with them.”

“It was a bargain,” Papa hummed. “I bought such a fine piece of quartz off you with my two little coins. Practically a steal.” So saying, Papa cast a smiling glance at Mum. Mum cast her own back, turning her gift from Papa over and over in her free hand, the firelight filling its pale crystal like magic. It turned out that Papa had taken the lump of quartz into town to have a man chip it into the shape of an owl for Mum. Mum had written Papa a slim storybook all her own and it now sat tucked within Papa’s robe, flat against his heart.

“A steal you say,” Father huffed. “It might be, if my eyes do not deceive me. Or have I gone without a gift from my friend and the mother of our son?”

Your eyes deceive you, Mum intoned, her gaze still firmly nailed to the clear stone owl. The gift is from us both. In the tree.

Father and the boy looked up. A large envelope the color of ivory balanced in the branches, wrapped in a red ribbon.

“I can get it!” The boy misted his way up for it, pondering the crinkling weight inside. He turned it over to find Mum’s own elegant swirling script penned along the flap.

For Future Consideration

—J, M

Father took the envelope from him with even gentler, almost tentative care. He even sniffed it. Mum and Papa gave him only an idle glance. The boy fidgeted again.

“I can open it if you want.” He reached for the ribbon. Father swatted at his knuckles.

“Shoo, thief. Go play with your own spoils.” The boy retracted his hand and even went to sit among his presents, but his eyes stayed with Father and his gift. After some endless seconds, the red ribbon fell away, the envelope was opened, and out came…paper. A thick sheet so large that it had to be folded twice to fit within its broad container. Father frowned at this until he opened the entire thing. For once, the smile on his face seemed actually to reach his eyes.

“Father, what is it?”

“Art,” Father beamed. “Of a very particular kind. Perhaps intended to lure me away to France.”

“What?”

Father turned the paper around. It was a poster done in reds and blacks, showing a smiling woman with a narrow sword on a stage. A man had dropped flat past her feet while beyond them an audience sat and watched. There was another man dangling by a rope around his neck, looking annoyed. Above it all were the words Le Grand Guignol on a banner. It looked scary, but the style of it made the boy think of the funny comics Papa let him clip out of his newspapers. Light, almost silly, like the fearful things were there for the crowd to enjoy. The lady with the blade certainly seemed happy.

“It is for a certain theatre recently founded in Paris,” Father went on, raising an eyebrow again at Mum’s writing on the envelope. “They put on the most amusing plays, I’ve heard.” His gaze leveled first at Mum, then at Papa. “This is a fine thing to consider. Perhaps as a family outing some night.”

The boy sprang up.

“When?”

“When you are old enough, diavol.”

“But how long until that?”

“Long enough that you need not fret about it for some time, Sweetheart. Now, would you be kind enough to hand me one of the ribbons from your pile?” The boy wondered at Papa, though not deep enough to spy in his head. There was a surprise pacing somewhere behind the clear eyes. Another red ribbon was fetched. Papa took it and bound it around his wrist in a bow. It covered half of the boy’s past kisses. “Longest Night comes with feasting. I must fill myself up before I can be decanted.”

Mum and Papa took themselves to the kitchen and the boy followed at their heels. In time, Papa found himself seated at the dining table, trying to both stuff and pace himself between different portions, some heady, some sweet, some rich. He sipped a creamy drink with a funny name—the boy would whisper nog nog nog to himself off and one for the next few days in his coffin, giggling over the sound—and a little of cider and of chocolate and, when Father set down a gleaming bottle of it, something called Tokay.

Eventually Papa pulled away from the table, sighing.

“No more. I will burst.” He unwrapped the ribbon from himself and tucked down the heavy robe’s collar. “I fear I might sleep until the New Year after this.”

“You will do no such thing, my friend,” Father murmured into his neck. “We shall roll you down the stairs if need be.” He slipped his teeth into the bend between Papa’s throat and shoulder. The boy thought he did so with a lighter kiss than usual, almost nipping in the way of a wolf nibbling at his kin in play. Blood welled just the same and Father lapped it clean. Mum went next, just as gentle, nursing in a steady stream. When she pulled away it was with a bloodless kiss to Papa’s jaw.

Thank you, Darling.

Last came the boy, fitting himself carefully on Papa’s wrist. He couldn’t say whether it was the bliss of the holiday or the seasoning of Papa’s meal or some dizzying blend of both, but the kiss tasted better even than his birthnight sip after Papa had sampled the cake. The boy sucked every droplet from his teeth and gums, savoring as best he could.

“That was a really really good kiss, Papa. Is that part of Longest Night too?”

“Perhaps,” Papa said sleepily. “Or else it was the nog.” The word set the boy snickering into his hands again. The Longest Night unspooled and the boy swore again the names must be tricks. How else to explain how infinite the Shortest Day felt and how brief the Longest Night was? Too soon he felt the sunrise coming to herd everyone away to bed. Mum walked with Papa up to the tower. Before the boy could follow up and give his good days, Father halted him with a long white hand at his shoulder.

“Leave them for now, child. There is something waiting for you below.” The boy fought against the urge to race down and ahead. He stayed dutifully parallel to his Father’s long strides, hustling in his own short steps to keep pace. Down in the vault they strolled up to Father’s coffin. “I had my own trouble sleeping during the day. Such was why I was up on the stairs. I believe there is some lump in there that bothered me. Can you see it?”

Father lifted the lid. The boy saw.

Here was the last gift, another tell-tale rectangle whose solid weight spoke to a book hidden in its skin of crimson paper. The boy unwrapped it delicately at first, then in an unstoppable gleeful rush.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was in his hands again, this time only a solitary volume in its immaculate cover of gold and green foil lettering. He saw it was still made thick with artwork in a spread of fantastical painted visions.

“I shall be glad to bring you all of King Arthur’s legends should you still wish them some night in the future. Such are an old and favorite collection of myths penned in your Papa’s distant England, but many tales are not quite suited for a child. I had thought I’d made the library safe for your eyes and burned my mistake to spare you. But this?” Father tapped the cover with his claw. “This I shall be happy to read and explain, should you desire its deeper meanings. But the lesson at its very top is something clear even to one so young.” Fangs flashed and eyes burned. “The weak live by the mercy of Powers greater than themselves.” The smile softened then, almost musing. “And I suppose the illustrations are to be commended if nothing else.”

The boy nodded at all of this but found his throat too tight to form words. He peered up at his Father’s face, high as the moon above him. His eyes asked. Father nodded and opened his arms. The boy leapt up and locked his small arms as far around Father’s shoulders as they could reach. Father held him close in turn. His throat stayed strangled with heat and his eyes threatened to betray him with the ruby twinkle of tears. He fought them back.

“Thank you, Father. I love it.” His face buried in the black fall of hair, his brow rasped against the trimmed wilderness of winter’s growing beard. “I love you.”

Father was quiet for a moment. His down-spotted hand stroked the small curve of the boy’s head.

“I love you too, diavol. Happy Longest Night.”

The boy wished him the same. He gave his love and his happy wishes to Mum on the way back up, racing against dawn.

Hurry, Dearest. He was half-asleep when I left him.

The boy all but flew. Papa was in bed, eyes still open for him. If only just.

“Did you enjoy your first Longest Night?”

“It was better than anything I thought it’d be, Papa. Why haven’t we done this before?”

“You were a babe,” Papa smiled, eyelids drooping, “and your parents had forgotten celebrations for quite some time. I cannot speak for Father, but your Mum and I did not have much celebration even when we were small. Our lives were very thin as children and stayed much the same as we grew up.”

“But then you met Father,” the boy beamed. “You came to the castle where everything is and he loved you like the princes in the books do.”

“…Yes. He did. And I loved your Mum. And now we live in the castle, where everything is, love and all. And where we forgot much of holidays, for there was no point to them. Not here.” Papa’s hand settled on him, light and cool as snow. His eyes shined like wet ice. Perhaps quartz. “Not until you. We might never have remembered the 21st of December without you, son. Thank you. Come here.” The boy came, folding himself into his Papa’s arms under the covers. His ear pressed to the faint drumming of the man’s heart. “I love you, Sweetheart. So much.”

“I love you too, Papa.”

“Mm.”

“Happy Longest Night.”

“Happy Longest Night…”

Soon Papa was asleep. His chest lifted and dropped with his breath, the boy clinging to him and the sound. He left a bloodless kiss on his Papa’s cheek as the first rays of sun arrived, lining the mountains in gold.

Down the steps.

Into the coffin.

The boy laid his head down and began to dream of the next Longest Night.

(This goes out to @ibrithir-was-here in particular. Happy Nearly Birthday, Merry Christmas, and a gothically grim-sweet Longest Night to you, friend.)

#let Little Quincey have some fond holiday memories dang it #kid deserves it #quincey harker #jonathan harker #mina harker #dracula #blood of my blood #winter solstice #longest night

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bwat5-blog · 2 days ago

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Father Of Madness: A Clear Look At Silco And Jinx

**Spoilers for all of arcane**

Silco is one of the best villains I’ve ever seen on screen. His complexity is endless. A ruthless murderer, a doting father, a criminal kingpin, a revolutionary…

Silco understandably appeals to many of us in the fandom for a variety of reasons. And if he is your favorite character, I have not come here to judge or look down on you... There is a lot of negative discourse regarding people who enjoy his character and that’s not at all my purpose. There is much that can be discussed regarding this man, his relationship with Vander, how much good he has or has not done for the lanes, and more. I will be focusing on his relationship with and impact on Jinx. As we dive in, there are two truths that we must accept:

1. Silco loves Jinx as his daughter fully and completely, and never intentionally harms her

2. Silco’s broken and warped psyche has twisted his love for Jinx into a cycle of violence and self-loathing that almost destroys her

Prior To Season 1: What To Know About Silco

1. Best Friend/ Brother to Vander in his youth

2. Worked with Vander on the idea of "The Nation Of Zaun"

3. Close to Felicia, Vi and Jinx's mom: Vowed to build a safer Zaun for the unborn Vi at that time

4. Parted ways with Vander after massacre on The Bridge Of Progress-- After Silco's actions (his actual culpability is never confirmed) lead to an incident on the bridge becoming a massacre, Felicia and Connol are killed, and Vander almost kills Silco leaving him disfigured in one eye. It seems like the fight between them is a different incident? Hard to say. Like maybe they met afterwards.

5. Vanished for years, amassing followers and resources, reinvents himself out of response to trauma

The Bridge Of Progress Massacre:

I have been unable to find a firm answer regarding how this incident began. Some say it was an uprising, some say it was simply a peaceful march. My assumption, is that it a peaceful event lead by Silco that was exacerbated in someway by the Enforcers, eventually leading to violence. My reasoning is as follows:

1. While we of course don't spend enough time with Felicia and Connol to say this with confidence, I don't think children as young as Vi and Powder would have been there if the plan was violence to begin with.

2. Despite his conflict with Silco over his actions in the present day, Vander is unflinchingly apologetic to Silco regarding what he did. That would not have been the case if he genuinely believed Silco to have been at fault for what occurred.

The aftermath of this incident is the birth of Silco's new self. He lost someone he was extremely close to in Felicia, his dream of Zaun has failed for at least the time being, and the man he loved as a brother tried to end his life leaving him maimed and abandoned. This is period of immense psychological trauma gives rise to his new belief in strength over all else.

1. "Real power... comes to those who will do anything to achieve it"

2. "It's a little crude I'll admit, the base violence necessary for change... but we both know, topside won't listen to anything else"

3. "The only way to defeat a superior enemy is to stop at nothing... to become what they fear"

This all ties in with his relationship with Vander, which is hugely important but not my focus tonight. What does matter, is that Silco's revenge against his former brother by taking him, is what sets off the chain of events that will impact almost every part of this story. Including my purpose here this evening. Meeting Powder.

What To Know About Powder Before They Meet:

In terms of what we need to understand about Powder, there are two primary issues to draw attention to

1. First and foremost is quite simply the loss she has already been through. She lost her birth parents. She has spent her early childhood in the lanes only a step away from danger. And when he finds her, she is attempting to grapple with the emotional overload of having killed her second family, and believing she has been abandoned (and has been hit) by Vi.

2. Her intense fear of abandonment, and the link to her feelings of insecurity. We see quickly that she is constantly picked on and teased by her male siblings, her worth as part of their team questioned. This all culminates in her being left behind during Vander's rescue. Vi was extremely gentle and kind with her in telling her to stay behind, but she did tell her she was not ready. And we later see Powder alone, having a panic attack and preparing to smash the symbol of her insecurity or inability to contribute, her monkey bomb.

*** As I always make sure to mention when talking about this wonderful character, I am not a mental health professional in any way. However research as a fan and reading people's thoughts online have suggested the two disorders below as conditions Powder may be suffering from in this early stage of her life for those interested***

The End Of Powder:

Silco has taken his revenge on Vander leaving he, Mylo and Clagger dead, and as we will come to know he believes Vi is dead as well... The same Vi he once made an promise to fight for to her mother... his friend. He stalks down the alley to a sobbing Powder, who is grappling with her bomb killing her family, and her beloved older sister having left her behind after striking her and calling her a jinx.

And even when he approaches Powder, he is clearly still carrying a knife slick with the blood of Vander. Now like anything we don't see go a certain way, speculation is required. Was he going to kill her? I think so. He had shown no hesitation at all in killing thus far. Which begs the question, why did he take Powder instead?:

1. He sees himself in her, she was "abandoned" by a "sibling", has no family, and is full of rage and pain

2. Remorse over Vander. the GIF is too short to get a good look, but re-watching the scene shows us him staring at the mutated body of his former best friend and comrade in arms, emotion clear on his face

3. She looks like Felicia and although he had clearly dishonored his oath to her, I imagine in this moment he can see his departed friend in this little girl

4. Quite simply it could be that there is enough good in him left that he couldn't bring himself to end a child's life who was clinging to him and grieving.

The last we see of them, Silco wraps her in a protective embrace, claiming her as is own.

"Its okay... we'll show them. We will show them all"

The Rise Of Jinx:

Seven years have passed and we find that Powder has indeed grown up. She now goes by the name Jinx, and has become a ferocious warrior with a reputation in her own right as someone to be feared. But we also quite quickly learn as the rest of season one progresses, that she has never healed from her trauma and pain. The specters of those she lost haunt her, she hears their voices, and although outwardly she has become strong and dangerous, inside her head remains the shadow of a guilt stricken young girl who only wanted to help.

Let me be clear, I am in no way suggesting that Silco does not love Jinx. I firmly believe he has come to love her as a daughter. The issue, is that Silco himself is a broken and traumatized man. And the way in which he loves her, and has raised her regarding processing and healing from what she has been through, has only strained her already fractured mind. He took that child in his arms and spoke to her of revenge and justice. Instead of safety, and healing.

Driven By Fear-

As previously discussed. When she was still that little girl named Powder, Jinx displayed intense fear of abandonment even before losing her second family and Vi "leaving" her. Now as a member of Silco's organization, those seven years of unresolved trauma have not improved. After the incident with the firelights in which Jinx broke down, due to hallucinating Vi being there, Silco benches her. We see her in her workshop, she is angry, she is increasingly agitated, and the voices of her fallen family push her until, in a bid to regain his favor, she kills six enforcers, and steals the hex gemstone. This of course pleases him, when he realizes what she has taken. He is happy, so she will not be abandoned. We see this moving forward as well.

An Impossible Standard-

"You need to let Powder die, so the fear of pain will no longer control you... your strong now, like you were always meant to be. Jinx is perfect"- Silco trying to baptize Jinx in his ways in Season 1 Episode 5.

Silco speaks a great deal on strength. About surrendering your fear of pain, and about becoming what your enemies fear. And in a way, Jinx has done that to a point. But here's the problem. There is a part of Powder in her that has never healed, never truly grieved. A primal, long buried part that she has no control over. She has now spent years learning to weaponize her deep seated fear and guilt to survive. But that is not healing. And now she finds herself in an unwinnable situation slowly tearing her apart.

So, in summary, she is not mentally capable of meeting his standards, and terrified that if she does meet said standards, she will be abandoned, and alone. I can't speak for you, but to me, that sounds like a very young woman, in a terrible amount of pain.

*For clarity and fairness, he is trying to help her survive in the same way he did. But he is broken as well, and he cannot see that he is handing his adopted daughter the gasoline and matches that lit the flame already consuming his soul*

Vi's Return-

As soon as Silco finds out Vi is alive, he starts making moves to have her murdered. Even knowing that Jinx is still struggling with guilt and closure over what happened those years ago, he is determined to keep them apart. Because he to has been abandoned, hurt and alone. And he knows that if Vi finds Jinx, there is a chance she will leave him. Or perhaps even worse, Jinx will remember that Silco killed Vander... Mylo... Clagger.. That it was his puppet who took Vi and hid her away even if Silco didn't know.

And so it is that to prevent their reunion, Silco tries to end Vi and Caitlyn both, as well as poisoning Jinx against Caitlyn by lying, claiming he knows why she is there. Sevika does this as well, even with the express purpose of destabilizing Jinx to the point Silco may throw her out.

We see how this plays out, Silco's attempts to keep them from reuniting causing Jinx more and more pain as things build to a head:

1. First Reunion-

When Vi finally finds her sister after all those years, things seem to be going shockingly well. Until seeing Caitlyn, who Jinx would know and suspect nothing about if not for Silco and Sevika, she immediately becomes agitated, the voices chattering in her head, even putting her minigun under Vi's chin.

2. Closing her wound-

After the fight with the firelights, Jinx is trying to staple her wound. The perpetually tormenting specter of Mylo is trying to convince her Vi had only come for the stone, only cared about Caitlyn, while Jinx is trying to push back. But with every spike of pain she gets worse until finally she focuses on Caitlyn alone.

3. The Bridge-

First and foremost, Jinx could have attacked at any point if all she wanted was to hurt Vi, Cait or Ekko. she watches them walking down the bridge while the specter of Mylo hovers like a giant spider. She even insists that Vi is just telling Caitlyn goodbye because she wouldn’t leave her again when they hug. It’s not until she sees the stone…. Sees that object that means Silco’s approval, his love, that she launches her assault. And for all the brutality of that attack, if you notice she is extremely calm. Until she sees Vi holding Caitlyn. And her fractured psyche shows her evil faces dancing across Caitlyn’s features. Jinx unloads almost killing them both before Ekko stops her, and she tries to kill both of them.

4. Singed-

She is tied to a table, critically injured from the blast, and going through terrible pain from the shimmer Singed is filling her with. In a short moment of quiet, when she is afraid and in pain, she hallucinates Vi. And when it’s just Vi, she is comforting, loving, there to help. But then Caitlyn appears. Caitlyn who again, has done NOTHING to Jinx at this point. But Silco has made her a demon in Jinx’s mind.

5. Taking Caitlyn-

This is an extremely dark moment that shows a notable shift in how unstable Jinx has become at this point. This is not an explosive episode where they just run into one another. This was deliberate, thought out, and with intention to terrify her target. Now, ultimately, Jinx chooses to do this. But again my point is that how did this all start? With Silco using Caitlyn as a tool to keep Vi and Jinx apart.

The Dinner Party:

Jinx’s dinner party is the culmination of the mental tug-of-war that has been going on within her and ultimately driven her almost past the point of no return. I have broken down this scene many times. So I’m not going through a point-by-point again. But for our purposes here what does this boil down to?

Vi believes she is only Powder and tries to get through to her, while Silco insists she is only Jinx. They are both wrong, and it is that fracturing in her that made things get so out of hand, as when we see them both yelling to get through to her.

The visions and sounds grow worse and worse, beating her down more and more until Silco frees himself, and she is forced to kill him to save Vi. As she cries and apologizes, he assures her he never would have let Topside take her. She’s perfect. And with the sight of Silco’s lifelong enemy looming over them, Vi and Caitlyn watch helplessly as she attacks the council of Piltover. A last attempt to honor the man who made her what she is.

*Regarding Vi’s contributing to her dissonance by insisting she is the Powder she was, I’ll say this. Was Vi unintentionally making her worse? It seems so based off of that last scene. But Vi is trying to remind her of everyone who loved her and who she was before Silco took that from her. So while I can admit Vi’s inability to see JUST how different her sister was before this was a mistake, if you believe Jinx would have been better off left alone on Silco’s path, that is not a stance I can understand*

Aftermath:

Ultimately, Jinx goes through a lot more after this until she starts to find her way out of the dark, but from this point on, it is without Silco. We see a few times instances where that influence threatens her, such as Sevika demanding she honor Silco’s sacrifice and the brief moment of glitchy chaos in her before she regains control. But I would say the ultimate proof we need to understand the toxicity of Silco’s influence upon her rests in their conversation in season two. Her mind could have presented the lesson of breaking the cycle to her in any form. But ultimately, it was the man whose shadow would fall over her even in death, who told her to break the cycle, and find a new life.

As always, to anyone who reads these I really appreciate you. Til next time.

#arcane season 2 spoilers #arcane #arcane season 1 #vi arcane #jinx arcane #vi and jinx #powder #arcane silco #vander

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darka-3363 · 3 days ago

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Wave your hand

From parallel universe

Hidden in a folded palm

After 28 light-years, my research

Must be ended somehow...

Anyways that took me forever to make, I am so not used to drawing this much lol

So here's notes what I've written in my terrible handwriting in all of those lil papers:

1. On the page: Remember cosmological constant!

2. The shitty rectangulars are 'dimensions', while between them is, well 'the in-between'

3. On the mug it's a Hawking formula for calculating entropy

4. And I honestly forgot what's that last one supercomplicated formula is lol

On the third page on the papers on the board:

How to locate a dumbass lost in multiverse 101

2. Dimensions: think less furniture in a room, more fruits in jello in a jar: separate, yet connected. Does that mean there are more multiverses?

My own take on fem!Stan makes its debut! This is Stacy Pines, the proud owner of Mystery Shack. Her Pa was constantly saying, she's got too many manly interests, like fixing cars and beating up the bullies, and is always scolding her for being 'unladylike'. About the only hobby he approves is sewing - after all, if she wanted to be a fashionable young lady, she had to make the clothes herself, because her father will surely not spend money on the new, fashionable items, and he was barely tolerating even having to buy them second-hand.

Instead of going for boxing lessons, she was signed up for dancing lessons - Ma Pines was insisting; her daughter will learn how to dance, or else. It was fine by Stacy though, she liked to dance, and she even roped Stanford to dance with her from time to time.

She still gets kicked out of the house for accidentally breaking Ford's school project, and she still has the Cadillac, though what happened during the 10 years on the streets differs quite significally from what we have seen in the canon, but that I'll leave as a secret for now, since I do plan to expand, either in a fic or comics, whichever comes first.

After getting Ford back from multiverse, Ford realises Stacy is hiding something big from him - and somehow, the kids and Mystery Shack workers know the secret, but none of them are willing to share it for some reason. It's fine by him, if Stacy wants to have secrets, then by all means, it's not like he cares that much, after all (lie). He has better things to do anyway (doesn't stop him from obsessing about what's Stacy hiding though).

And that's it for now!

PS: Yes, she's using Petri dish for cigarette ash.

PPS: The lyrics is from Jinjer - I Speak Astronomy, it's a metal song so be warned.

#gravity falls #gravity falls stanley #gravity falls stanford pines #gravity falls stanford #gravity falls stanley pines #stanley pines #female stanley pines #stacy pines #comic #fan art #art #fanart #fan comic #my art #gravity falls au #gravity falls aus

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ultimatebottom69 · 11 months ago

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...If i tell you all IRL that my step-mother actually made jokes about my lityle brother huge balls when he was birthed and how she was extremely graphic about how early on in the pregnancy every doctor and X-ray graphic showed it so she felt forced to do another kid to have a daughter.

Would you believe me ?

I can't I can't I can't I can't

#She also has per my mom says a breeding kink #Cause girl did 4 kids in total #But 2/4 hate her guts and the last two are toddlers so jury is still out #And out of the 4 there is 3 different fathers #Her first kid was when she was 18 #She is from Dominique the island #So explains a lot yes #Anyway the breeding kink comes from the fact she loves being pregnant but hate taking care of kids #She likes treating kids like dolls instead of human beings #And has argued mulyiple times they should allow parents to make babies something permanent #Like a breed of small dogs #Or something to stop them from growing forever #So she can play dress up forever with them #So huh yeah is it a surprise she is a manipulating bitch ?#And she hates to admit being wrong and has beaten up every kid she ever had #So everytime someone tell me shit like “People from Dominica are so hot”#I have to stop myself to tell them they are also the biggest trash you will ever meet #They also steal money #And their cops are allowed to shoot you on sight #And my dad is an idiot who only think with his penis anyway #I love him but he is stupid per all accounts #Step-mother #Irl family #my life #not lying #When i say “I will never get in couple” this is totally due to my upbringing

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sabraeal · 2 years ago

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You mentioned having to work at finding Soowon's voice for To All the Ghosts, and I believe you mentioned struggling with Shirayuki's voice in early fics, so my question: do you have a process for finding characters' voices?

Lots of screaming and crying 🤣

Mostly it's something I find through drafts. Some characters come easy (Suzu, for one, because he is such a weirdo), but new characters are always a process, some more than others. Lili was much easier, because she's a character you can KNOW through her dialogue. She wears her heart on her sleeve and so just by reading the manga you have her voice.

Soowon is a much more private character. No one truly know him, not even himself, so you have to piece it together from everyone around him. How he reacts to people. All the things he doesn't say. And so I'll use my first draft to get down lines and actions, stuff I'm generally solid on what he needs to do...and then really flesh out the internal narration in the second draft. Why is he doing this? How does he feel? And since he's incapable of looking an emotion straight in the face, how do i convey that without saying a word of it? 😅

Shirayuki was a similar challenge, because she's so nice. She might get sassy, but she's not snarky. So first draft was what I wanted to get across...and second draft was walking it back to be NICER.

#asks #carte blanche meme #actually i went back to see if I could find an example for soowon #and was surprised to find out that the WHOLE FIRST SCENE never existed in draft 1 #I actually started it right where he grabs her wrist but it required SO much backstory that I was like #he has to have a whole ass monologue about unloved kings #purely from coming up with the 'for a king so beloved xing mourned him very little)#because i felt like that encapsulates Soowon's problem in that fic. he is fixated on legacy #specifically the legacy of fathers. and so he needed to chew the scenery about it #i needed to remind the audience that he is both the boy thinking about how he wished kouka had rioted at the death of his father #and also can fake smile at this lady and thank her for sweet rice cakes #draft 2 went through like 3-4 different beginnings until I rearranged things to make it flow better #and then rearranged things AGAIN during a beta because it still wasn't like. punchy enough #Lili's first scene was literally added in during a round of editing and it FLEW out of me it was stupid #now that Lili's around Soowon will have less time to angst so like. it'll be better for next time

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milo-is-rambling · 1 year ago

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Damn yesterday me telling my friend I could bring her a stick of butter today but now all I want to do is day drink and smoke weed and watch sunny and cry about everything

#got in a weird fight with my mother that wasn’t really a fight and was more her saying you need to stop being a dick about my boyfriend even #tho this is me being good like I have so many worse things to say in my head I am just barely being rude #they’ve known each other for like at most two months #and this dude is talking about going on out of the country trips he keeps saying to my mom ‘we need to get you a passport’ and like dude #1 you barely know each other and just started dating 2 my fathers urn is ten feet from you. he is in my peripheral vision while you say this #3 I have serious abandonment issues and the idea of my mother going strange places with strange men seems. frightening. to say the least.#4. he’s talking about taking this trip in a year or maybe two from now #5. it feels like he is changing my mother and if they stay together I don’t think I will ever get the version of my mother I’m familiar with #back and that triggers my abandonment shit which makes me think about my dad which makes me cry #and then I’m crying and my mom is mad at me and she feels different and I feel different and the version of me that my dad knew is gone and #everything is going to keep changing for forever and my dad is in the past forever and there’s nothing I can do about it he’s just dead and #I want to scream and cry and drink and smoke until I throw up but I have to stop sobbing and go put shorts on that don’t have a hole in them #and bring my friend a stick of butter

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save-mohamed-family · 6 months ago

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My campaign is verified and added to the Gaza Donations page with number 192.

Thank you for documenting my campaign from the following accounts:

@sar-soor @heba-20 @el-shab-hussein @90-ghost @soon-palestine@ibtisams @marnota @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @i-am-aprl @northgazaupdates @fallahifag @fairuzfan

I love you all 🙏��♥️🌹

I am Mohammed Almanasra, 32 years old, married, and a father of three children: Abdulrahman, 6 years old, Sarah, 4 years old, and Lina, 3 years old.

My story began with the loss of my parents and four of my sisters, who were bombed and lost their lives along with their children after the events of October 7 and the severe war on Gaza. Now, I am facing a severe injury to my leg, which is at risk of amputation if I do not receive the necessary treatment. My wife, children, and I are displaced, without parents or siblings, and my wife is also suffering from uterine cancer.

Recently, I moved to the south of the Gaza Strip, fearing for the lives of my children. We left behind our memories and our new home, for which we had not finished paying the installments, in addition to losing my job. Currently, I live in a tent that does not protect me from the heat of summer or the cold of winter, and without the minimum necessary livinng basics including water, food medical care, clothe and even bedding .

I suffer from a chronic asthma and severe attacks from tightness and an extreme allergy in the ear and I need medicine that are not available, or very expensive .

Under these difficult circumstances, after five attempts at displacement and narrowly escaping death from the bombing, I am trying with all my might to protect my family, the most precious thing I have.

My dreams were shattered, and my house was destroyed, and I found myself living in a tent no larger than 4 square metres. My work turned from a tailor to a street vendor in order to barely buy a few crumbs of bread to feed my children.

Look at what happened to my children because of the intense heat and the insects that thrive in the summer season. Every day, I take them to the hospital to treat them due to poisonous insect bites. I implore every kind-hearted soul to help me protect my children.

My son, Abdul Rahman, has a deep passion for playing football and is a devoted fan of Real Madrid. He always dreamed of playing football at his school, but the war prevented this dream from coming true.

Where are you, Real Madrid fans ?

Help Abdul Rahman achieve his dream.

Every donation will make an enormous difference in helping me save my family.

I feel very sad and embarrassed to ask for help, but I have no other options left. I know that this request is difficult, but I also know that there is still humanity and living consciences and I believe in miracles.

Your support during this extremely difficult time will give us hope in the midst of devastation and despair.

If you have any inquiries or questions, feel free to ask me, please!

To everyone with a compassionate heart,

To all who understand the essence of humanity,

This is a message from my innocent children, who trust that their words will reach everyone who truly understands the meaning of childhood.

We cry out to you, asking you to feel our sorrow and pain, and to extend a helping hand to us in this time when we are in desperate need of your mercy and compassion.

My name is being repeatedly added to many public and private donation campaigns. Please, be a support for me in this difficult situation.

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/u/0/d/1yYkNp5U3ANwILl2MknJi9G7ArY4uVTEEQ1CVfzR8Ioo/htmlview

Sincere greetings & thanks

Mohammed & the family

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al-luviec · 3 months ago

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I ran out of tag space but oomf had some good notes

smthn easy for today (sorry)

#Kronos is the worst dad no. 1 #I remember that fic where he made it obviously that Acronix was unwanted until he found out he's the master of time too 💔#<- prev tags #prepare for a whole rant that doesnt make sense from me #its not really a hc BUT in my brain the time twins are the first and only time in ninjago history that a power has been used by two people #so when krux was born first... kronos just assumed he was the only one to get time. this is coupled with the fact hes a faster learner than #acronix. so he was the first one to actually present the power of time. i think nix finally did YEARSSS later but until then he was seen as #a bit of a failure... my son who is very smart and has this strong power ... and then my other child who never listens to me and is weak #(acronix having adhd and being treated like a bad child because he presented undesirable traits... yeah)#and because of this there was quite a bit of animosity between the twins. even though they loved each other. nix was very very jealous of #krux for soooo many things. krux was treated better and it wasnt like it was *his* fault .. they were KIDS !!! but when youre a child angry #at the world... its harder to express that anger to the adult causing you harm vs someone on more equal ground to you. if that makes sense #'i will not yell and scream at my warrior father but i will refuse to play games with my brother' . obvs this didnt last forever but yknow #neither of the brothers were really able to be who they wanted to be. they couldnt really express themselves properly. but krux was always #able to mask better than acronix. so a bigggg part of that jealousy is also misunderstanding. like krux isnt happy either but when youre a #child its hard to clock how others feel. idk. and then after nix was discoveres to be a master of time .. straight to the grooming to be #child soldiers !!! the culture 60 years ago in ninjago was veryyy different. during the serpentine war i imagine most of the elemental #masters to be 20 ish ? some in their 30s but they had been elemental masters for basically MOST of their lives #esp wu and garm... they grew up and had to fight and never really had that time to be kids. which is how i like to imagine the time twins #theres a lot of parallels between those 4 and i want to gif their fight bc i realized that nix kept looking to krux like 'what do we do'#time twins are very codependent on each other. wu and garm rapidly aged when they were separated. etc #dont think nix couldve lasted those 40 years without his brother. krux takes big brother leading the way to the next level #3 minutes apart !!! but you wouldnt be able to tell that bc they act years apart. well prior to them actually being years apart #the way krux was piloting the iron doom and nix was the co pilot. the plan to go back to the past. nix just going along with stuff #hes more prone to stick to a plan krux makes than krux is to stick to a plan nix makes ... which is kinda canon #like how krux sent the snaks to destroy the borg store (veering off the plan) vs nix who kindaaa needs his brothers leadership or he'll die #in my version of s7 krux gets sent to the time vortex and then acronix is the one waiting years and years. ALSO FUCKKK smthn i realized :#wu isnt really one to hold a grudge like that and so i find it interesting that he WAITED for acronix at the monastery #like for morro and aspheera . they came to wu. vs wu who came to acronix to finish what the twins started all those years ago #thinking about how the time twins were heroes at one point. thinking about how the ninja didnt recognize them in the painting. thinking abt

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ghostbsuter · 2 months ago

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Those were quite the news to hear.

To think that the Duo of Jon and Damian would grow into a Trio...

He wondered how the girl did it, Elle Nightingale, she must have fit right in.

To say Clark and Bruce weren't surprised would be a lie when those two boys brought in their new third companion and proceeded to roughhouse Robin-Superboy style with her.

And she seemed to retaliate just as hard.

Both fathers wondered if she was the child of a former colleague or another vigilante, that or she was a meta/alien.

So when they went to Central City to meet Elle's parent and let the kids have their fun— well.

They didn't expect a young adult– barely out of the teenage years— greeting them with a grin in a hoodie.

"Sup."

And down the rabbit hole they went.

—

Over the weeks of meet ups, Clark and Bruce have gathered around 4 different kind of responses to their questions of Elle's other parent/relationship with elle.

It went like this:

("Brother? Aww, you flatter me. I'm her dad, actually.")

("Hm? Elle's other parent? She doesn't have one.")

(A shrug. "I decided I wanted to have a kid. Elle is the result.")

("Plasmius has always been a moron. Elle! On his next weekend, rob him broke!" To which he got an enthusiastic nod from said girl.)

They've gathered;

1. Danny and Elle weren't meta-humans. Instead, at least, half something/alien.

2. Whoever Plasmius is, he was involved.

3. The boys know. Elle seemed to have shared some of her past with them, and they're holding onto the promise of safekeeping and secrecy.

#do you know how much evading and dodging Danny goes through?#elle just HAD to befriend the kids of CLARK KENT and BRUCE WAYNE #is she laughing? SHE IS!#dcxdp #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #fic prompt #writing prompt #dc x dp prompt #dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc prompt

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gutsby · 11 months ago

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Hating Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Celebrating your dad’s birthday at the yacht club becomes damn near unbearable when Joel Miller brings a date along too. Jealousy and hate sex ensue.

Warnings: 18+. Food fight turned hatefuck (don’t ask). Cockwarming and semi-public sex on the bridge deck. Oral (m! and f!receiving). Daddy kink. Dirty talk. Age gap. C*mplay. Katoptronophilia. Orgasm denial. One risqué Viagra joke. Drinking games. Descriptions of vomiting. Joel cockwarming you while smoking a cigarette <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

"Can ya try that one more time, sweet pea? For daddy?"

You can. Try, anyway. Controlling your tongue while he’s buried so deep inside you is a far harder task than expected, though. Especially when he’s so still.

Joel sees it. Feeling a twinge of pity, he leans over your body and digs his hips even deeper—not thrusting, but still granting a modicum of friction as he takes another drag of his cigarette. The hot, heavy throb of his girth pulses like your own fucking heartbeat, and your eyes roll back.

An orangutan on roller skates would’ve had more grace.

A grizzly bear in hibernation might’ve been more lively.

A fucking cross-eyed octopus reciting Shakespeare would’ve been less strange, alarming, and painfully awkward to see than your father’s best friend the week after he’d railed you senseless in the front seat of his car.

Joel Miller had shown up with a date, for Christ’s sake.

Of course, you’d been three cocktails deep and playing stack cup with a random group of gentlemen on the bridge deck at the time, but that was almost immaterial. This was your dad’s fifty-first birthday party—one of the rowdiest nights the Austin Yacht Club had yet to see—and yeah, you planned on getting belligerently shitfaced on Dirty Shirleys and obscene amounts of catered food.

You’d never thought to bring a date of your own, though.

That was just distasteful and crass, all things considered.

Presently, you slammed your ping pong ball to the tabletop and watched it make a wide arc over your cup.

“Fuckfuckfuuuuuck,” you whispered low as the man four spots down made it in, and the man after him bounced the ball straight into his own on the first go. He moved the tall, swaying stack of red Solos immediately to your right, and you knew from the jump you were fucked.

Tommy Miller was a master at stack. You could already see the sly smile on his face from the corner of your eye.

Just as Mötley Crüe gave way to Hall & Oates on the speakers overhead, Joel’s brother crammed his stack of cups over your own and made a smug, triumphant bow.

“All you, kid,” he grinned and slid the second to last cup in your direction.

You could’ve cursed his whole bloodline, Joel included.

There was no way in hell you were getting stuck with death cup again—the last, cruel punishment for the loser of the game a mix of three different types of liquor, soda, and a spritz of Natty Light. Filled to the brim and waiting to be downed by whoever didn’t sink the final shot.

You squared your shoulders and locked the fuck in.

Bounced the ball once. Twice. Christ, this was hard. The man to your left was struggling too, but he seemed just as determined and twice as skilled, and you were pretty buzzed. A second later, he made it in and, of course, slid it right back to Tommy, who was practically overcome with laughter.

“MILLER! MILLER! MILLER!” Men were not creative when it came to chants. Or beating fists on furniture.

“Quit shakin’ the shit!” Tommy roared, tapping his ping pong ball deftly onto the table’s surface.

You blinked a few hazy, anxious thoughts out of your head and tried with everything in you not to miss this shot. The instrumental bridge of ‘Maneater’ was sinking its teeth in your soul and taunting your nerves to no end.

You took the ball, swallowed hard, watched the cup, and flicked your wrist, at last, from a singularly perfect angle.

The ball was a millisecond away from making it in.

Tommy Fuckstick Miller managed to stack you first.

A chorus of obnoxious, wholly drunk howls rang loud in your ears, and suddenly, the attention was back on you, the unhappy victim of the game’s most gruesome drink.

You didn’t hesitate. You pinched your nose and guzzled from the cup before the torment could go on any longer.

You did well at first.

Opened your throat like a pro and cleared it down to the last fourth of the drink, to the point where you could see the slick white bottom side of the cup clear as day.

Your mouth had just flooded with the final draught of death cup when a familiar guitar riff caught you off guard.

You weren’t sure why it had to happen that way, but after being forced to listen to the song some five thousand times on your road trip with Joel, the tenor of Billy Joel’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard to you now. Grating. Nauseating.

Vomit-inducing.

Swiftly, you ran to the nearest railing and lost your last drink—and your whole dinner—over the side of the boat.

You yakked into Lake Travis like you never had before.

And, just as that stupid, forever-tainted song surged on, you heard footsteps approaching. A moment’s pause. Then a hand on your back. Patting gently and, seconds later, lowering a cup of water to the side of your head.

Your face was still dangling upside down off the yacht. You didn’t want to be touched.

“Go to hell, Tommy,” you muttered.

“You first,” he said, chuckling.

You didn’t sit so much as slump back onto the deck with your head in your hands. The whole boat had gone sideways in your mind, and Tommy’s outstretched arm looked more like a bubbling lump than a friendly gesture.

You groaned at the sight of the cup and shook your head.

“I’m alright, okay. I’m good.”

Then, when the cup didn’t waver:

“Can they change the fucking song already?!”

Tommy cocked a brow and squatted down next to you. He set the water aside.

“Got a problem with dad rock or somethin’?” he smirked.

You shook your head no—it wasn’t the music that was making you sick but the man Tommy called his brother that made you wanna vomit again. The thought of that man tangled up with a svelte brunette who looked fresh off the cover of Sports Illustrated when he couldn’t even be bothered to shoot you a text after the condom broke last week. Like he just didn’t give a shit if you were alive, dead, or pregnant with his child. Unfortunately, you had nothing more to throw up, and your eyes were on fire.

Tommy slung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side. Took a handkerchief out of his pocket.

“No more Dirty Shirleys for you, young lady,” he chided, dabbing lightly at the tears that had trickled out.

“No more men for me,” you grumbled quietly.

You couldn’t see it then, but you could feel him trying not to smile. He tugged you closer.

“Boy trouble, huh?” he said, “Whose ass needs kickin’?”

Your brother, actually. Curb stomp that fucker, please.

You shrugged instead.

“Some guy from school.”

Tommy nodded, waiting for you to elaborate. When you didn’t, he just assumed you wanted to keep it to yourself—which you did—and squeezed your shoulder softly.

“Well…you know you’ve got your dad, me, and Joel to beat the shit outta any guy, any time, any place, right?”

You wished it were that simple. You wiped your nose and nodded all the same.

“And…” Tommy started again, working slow to get you back on your feet, “Most guys your age don’t know their ass from their fuckin’ elbow, honeybun. Don’t take it too personal if he’s dumb enough to lose a gem like you.”

The corners of your lips twitched slightly at his words. Almost smiling by the time he had you up on your feet.

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

You might’ve rolled your eyes when he pinched your cheek, but the water he held back up for you to drink looked far too appetizing, and you knew he meant well. You took the cup from him and started to chug.

Again, you’d almost made it through the whole refreshment when a sound threw you off. Abruptly.

“Where have you two lovebirds been?!” Tommy chirped.

You lowered your water and almost regurgitated again. Bile jumped up in your throat, and you just narrowly managed to keep it all down with a cough and a sputter.

Joel and Ms. Centerfold were at the far end of the deck.

Joel was tucking his dress shirt back into his pants.

Are you fucking kidding me?

“Gettin’ nasty on her daddy’s yacht? That’s bold,” Tommy cackled, nudging you playfully.

Your face was bloodless. Every last ounce of pretense and decorum had spilled out with your dinner, before, and now you were just staring at Joel blankly. Numb.

You watched him shove the last clump of his shirt under the waistband and straighten up slightly. The woman at his side flashed you and Tommy a blinding white smile.

“Might say the same for you,” she called back. She seemed to be eyeing you both with a half-curious look.

Tommy made a face as if to say ‘yuck—what the fuck?’ and threw his arm around you again, shaking you lightly.

“She’s like my little sister, Ashton. You’re fuckin’ gross.”

Little sister. Nice. Like a knife twisting inside your gut.

If Joel took any notice of the comment, he didn’t show it. He just stood there, dull and impassive as a loaf of bread. Every coarse lineament of his face was unreadable—just as bleak, bland, and uncaring as the eyes staring out of it. Then he fished around in his back pocket and pulled out his lighter and a pack of American Spirits. He passed the latter to Ashton and leaned over to give her a light.

Throwing yourself off the boat seemed like the most logical next move out of anything available to you.

That’s when you knew you were off your shit and needed to leave the bridge deck—immediately.

“Need a drink,” you mumbled, starting off the other way.

Tommy was hot on your heels, following fast after you.

“That’s— that’s actually the last thing you need, I think, sweetie. How ‘bout some lemonade?”

“Can you spike it with bleach?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Tommy followed you down the staircase straight through to the galley, past the throngs and pockets of partygoers crowding the main dining area. Hitting the bar was a bad idea—wait staff knew you well enough to sense when you were utterly trashed, sad, or both—so you slipped toward the wine cooler and quickly sidestepped Tommy.

“No! No way. Nuh-uh.” He was still trying to block your access to the fridge when you grabbed hold of the door.

“Hair of the dog, Thomas.”

“That’s not a thing. That’s— you just projectile vomited off the deck, dude. You need a breather.”

You stopped just long enough to let Tommy pry you off the refrigerator handle and back to the kitchen island. You were pissed off, sure, but also not nearly prepared for another drop of alcohol if you were being honest with yourself. Your head was still spinning when you sat down on the counter.

Once you were settled, Tommy got to rifling through the cabinets, and you pressed a hand to your forehead.

“So how long’s that been going on?” You couldn’t help it.

“Wha- oh, Joel and Ash?” Tommy hummed from deep inside a cupboard. He came out with a small blue box.

You winced at the nickname. Watched him go from the pantry to the sink, fill a glass halfway, find a spoon, and tear the box in two, along with a couple chalky tablets.

“They’ve been…weird.” The sentence was punctuated with a pinch of his brow and a frown. He started stirring.

“Weird how?”

Your feet were dangling over the edge of the island; you pretended to gain a sudden interest in a smudge on the toe of your shoe.

“Weird like…I don’t know,” Tommy tossed the spoon in the sink and turned back to you. Holding out the cup, “They’ve been ‘friendly’ for years—Ash is a coworker of ours—and Joel swears it’s nothing more…but I dunno.”

He ended his speech again with that weird intonation and grimace, like he wasn’t so sure if he believed what he was saying himself, then shook his head and shrugged. He watched you take a sip of the Alka-Seltzer and urged you to get the whole thing down. It tasted like shit.

“Christ, that’s salty,” you coughed.

You didn’t want to keep going, but Tommy tipped the glass back in your hand and made you finish.

“It’ll help with your stomach,” he said before strolling over to the caterers’ fridge to look for bland food options.

“So if they’re not a thing, why’d he bring her here?”

You didn’t care what Tommy thought of your questions. He knew you were eager to hear the tea in any situation.

You watched as your friend procured a hand of bananas and some bread. He gave the fruit to you and took the bread over to the toaster, where he dropped in two slices. You couldn’t quite tell if he was contemplating an answer, didn’t want to spill, or hadn’t heard the question at all. He snagged a plate and a butter knife while you peeled apart your snack, silently dying to know the truth.

At length, Tommy shrugged. Again.

“‘Cause Joel’s a goddamn drama queen and doesn’t know what he wants, I s’pose,” he said.

Ain’t that the truth.

Then, after a minute:

“Had his panties in a wad ever since he went to Boston.”

You stiffened hearing that. You couldn’t pretend to be invested in your shoe scuff, the floor, or the food in your hand any longer. Your eyes flitted up to Tommy to see if his expression had shifted any.

It hadn’t—he was just looking for strawberry jam.

“You hitched a ride home with him then, didn’t you?” he asked casually.

You swallowed and nodded. You watched Tommy retrieve the two freshly-warmed pieces of toast that jumped up to greet him and, having found the jam he wanted, slapped them both on a plate and lathered them up. You muttered a quiet ‘thank you’ as he slid them over.

You were almost too scared to ask more questions, but you knew you had to find out. About Joel, Ashton, anything Tommy might’ve gleaned about your trip home from Boston. You found you could hardly sit in one place and had to step off the counter to eat your food.

“Joel’s been, uhh…how do Gen Z’s say it? Trippin’ balls?” Tommy reached for a banana himself and started in.

“Tweaking,” you corrected him.

“Tweakin’, yeah. Joel’s been a real fuckin’ tweaker lately.”

“In what way?”

“Just…shuttin’ himself in is all. Wouldn’t talk to me or your dad or anybody for days after he got back. Didn’t show up for our monthly Bingo matchup at Mando’s—and he hasn’t missed one of those in almost six years.”

You pursed your lips, equally mystified. You knew just how seriously your dad and his friends took those games—how rare it was for Joel to turn down any opportunity to drink, play Star Wars-themed Bingo, and shoot the shit with his buddies over Coors Light and cheese curds. You took another bite and waited for Tommy to continue.

“And there’s— there was this…thing he— I dunno.”

Suddenly, it seemed your friend had lost the power of coherent speech, and he was rubbing the back of his neck, flashing a half-sheepish smile, and shaking his head. Contemplating whether he should share something with you and ultimately deciding against it.

You raised both eyebrows.

“What?”

“Nah, it’s dumb, really.”

“Tell me.” You took a far-too-large bite of your banana and had some trouble getting it down.

“Well, he…” Tommy trailed off, shifting his gaze from yours to take a look at his own shoe, for a second, “When me and your dad were riding with Joel to a work site…we, uh…found a box of Plan B in his glove compartment.”

Half-chewed banana and toast almost flew across the room while you spluttered and choked and just barely managed to cover your mouth to keep it all in.

“Right? Threw me for a loop, too,” Tommy grinned as you beat your chest with a fist and fought to keep yourself breathing, “Your dad damn near had a baby when he picked that little box and those booty shorts up himself.”

When he what?! You wanted to scream, just picturing your straight-laced, conservative father flipping a Plan B box between his hands, in shock, and then…your shorts—when the fuck had you taken your shorts off again?

Right, when you were busy trying to scoop some more of Joel’s jizz from your cunt as he raced you both to CVS.

Good times.

You held your hair back and leaned over the sink, spitting two more chunks of banana and bread down the drain. Tommy reached around behind you for the spigot and filled another glass with water as he tried not to laugh.

“Easy, now,” he said, patting your back like he’d done for you before, “Joel didn’t happen to mention this lady friend to you now, did he?”

“No,” you choked. You wiped your mouth clear of any spit and food residue and slowly blinked down into the sink, feeling an old wave of nausea begin to settle over you. Accepted the new glass of water from Tommy and hoped he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your hand as you did.

The man seemed completely oblivious. Still standing close behind you, Tommy rubbed circles in your back and leaned a little closer.

“Death cup really got ya, huh?” He smirked, and you realized then that he very much was like an older brother. This whole situation with Joel was fucked on so many levels and would be fucked tenfold if Tommy ever found out.

You turned around and felt yourself steadied between two warm, broad palms—‘Wanna sit? Lie down?’—and then you were shaking your head, reaching for another banana and trying like hell to seem semi-composed, though every neuron in your brain was firing away at a million miles per second and your legs were feeling like scrambled eggs.

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

Suddenly, one of Tommy’s hands had moved up to brush a few strands of hair from your face, and you felt your skin radiating raw heat. A deep-seated anxiety, too.

He’s going to find out—what if he already knows?

What if Joel tells Tommy?

What if Tommy tells dad?

Your mind was reeling, on fire, still working in earnest to find something to tell your friend to say you were fine, just dizzy, and definitely not fucking his big brother.

Your brain was drawing blank after blank after blank.

Just then, a clatter sounded nearby. Both of you jumped.

When you shot a look to the source of the intrusion, you nearly folded into Tommy from secondhand humiliation.

“Nice hands, feet,” the younger Miller called over to Joel, who was currently trying to recover the dozen-odd pots and pans he’d knocked over at the threshold of the room. You stared at the two in a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and disgust—the latter reserved exclusively for Joel.

You set your drink down, held your hand over your stomach, and pretended to head for the bathroom.

“Be right back,” you muttered, brushing past both men.

You knew you wouldn’t be back at all if you could help it.

Still clutching your banana in one hand and your raucously churning tummy in the other, you climbed the galley stairs fast to get back up to the bridge deck. You almost tripped over both your heels trying to make it up the steps so quick, desperate for solitude and quiet.

Another hair metal hit from the ‘80s was playing overhead, but fortunately, the deck was free of people. You stumbled over to one of the catering tables, looking helplessly for something that might settle your belly, but no, this sickness was coming straight from your head—from that insufferable munch of a man, Joel Miller.

You gingerly approached the railing behind the table and prepared yourself for another round of dry heaving.

You rested both elbows on the metal, looked out toward the dark, glassy water beneath you, then hung your head in abject defeat. You slid your tongue across the roof of your mouth and waited for the vomit to come.

The only thing that followed were footsteps.

Heavy, thunderous sounds making their way up the stairs.

“Stay back, Tommy. Please.” You raised a hand to the man approaching softly behind you, not turning your head, “That Alka-Seltzer stuff didn’t work for shit.”

“Shoulda stuck to water, sweet pea.”

That made you pivot.

Not a quick tilt of the head or a twist to the side, but a full-fledged 180-degree spin on your heels, hand to your gut, what-the-FUCK-are-you-doing-here turnaround.

You stared ahead and felt sicker than you had all night.

Then, pointing one crooked, accusatory finger his way without thinking, you hardly knew or heard what you were saying before the words came out. It sounded a little something like, “Joel, you goddamn fucking idiot.”

Joel didn’t flinch.

In fact, he seemed supremely unfazed.

He just held your fuming gaze and frowned.

“You tryin’ to fuck my little brother or somethin’?”

Your hand had closed around your banana on the table before his words had hung in the air for even a second. You flung the fruit full-force at his head, enraged.

Unfortunately, you were drunk and your aim was shit. Your yellow boomerang-like weapon of choice barely made it within three feet of its target before it glanced off a light fixture and struck the ground with a thud.

Accuracy be damned, you weren’t quite done.

“You left the fucking Plan B out for my dad to find?!”

Just when Joel tried to answer, or perhaps hurl another accusation in your direction, you stuck your hand in the closest catering tray you could find—a serving of green peas, as it was. You lobbed a handful at the man as he started to draw closer, and this time, you managed to land a pretty hefty spray. Joel only rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t leave it there—you did,” he retorted.

“My shorts, too?!”

You grabbed another fistful of peas and threw it. Joel was able to dodge it right before making it to the other end of the table. He gripped the edges of the wood in both hands and stood stern—imposingly—opposite you.

“Your shorts, your fuckin’ problem, sweets.”

Just when you reached for another green pea projectile, he surprised you and made for the tray right beside it.

Shortly, a glob of garlic mashed potatoes struck the front of your dress and slid slow, almost sluggishly down the pristine pink silk fabric before falling at your feet. Joel’s aim was evidently much better than yours.

You brushed what chunks of food you could get off your chest and pinned him with a wide, incredulous look.

“You’re a Grade A fucking asshole, you know that?”

“You’re a bit of a shithead too, potato tits.”

“FUCK you!”

“Already DID!”

You would’ve flipped the whole table if it were in your power to do so. Would’ve toppled all the tables, kicked the chairs, took a lighter to the curtains and sent the goddamned yacht down in flames if you had to—that was how much you despised the man in front of you.

Instead, you threw your hands up and stormed off.

“Maybe I will fuck Tommy!” you barked as you started toward the stairs, “I’ll fuck your brother’s brains out, and you can screw Ashton all you want, how ‘bout that?”

You’d made it about two feet before Joel grabbed hold of one of your wrists and yanked you back. You didn’t hesitate to throw a gruff—and ultimately fruitless—punch that hit him square in the chest. He didn’t budge.

“You don’t mean that,” Joel sneered. He shook your whole frame with one simple flick of his forearm.

“I’ll tap your whole bloodline like a keg, Miller. Try me.”

Again, you tried to shake him off, but the hand only constricted around you tighter. Then it was walking you backwards, slowly, almost carefully, until your back was to a wall and your eyes were searching his, angry as ever.

“You’d break your daddy’s heart with that one,” Joel said just above you, voice lowered considerably.

“Yeah?” you challenged, “Maybe if I was less of a shithead I would care what my dad thought. But I’m not. So I won’t.”

“Wasn’t talkin’ about your father, darlin’.”

Joel was good.

He was an insufferable ass and he was good.

Then you remembered the radio silence over the past seven days and the fact that he may or may not have fucked someone else earlier that night—possibly right where you were standing—and he lost all appeal real quick. You shoved him hard in the chest once more.

“Don’t play that shit with me. You, of all people—” You made as if to read him the riot act but cut yourself short, deciding it wasn’t worth your time explaining human empathy to a man who believed bootcut jeans and all things Ely Cattleman were peak fashion, and just learned what ovulation was last week. Then, sliding along the wall and trying to head to the stairs again, you felt Joel’s leg slot between your own.

“What did I do?” he said, curious.

Before you could answer, his thigh had stirred in place, grazing lightly over the spot the hem of your minidress had exposed to him. You ignored it.

“Doesn’t matter,” was your non-answer.

Joel seemed intrigued by the ambiguity and only lowered his head to get closer to yours—‘Then why’re ya so mad you’re throwin’ dinner food at me, darlin’?’—puffing warm breaths on your neck and only smiling when you flinched back. He took your response as a cue to keep pressing, both figuratively and physically.

“Just wanted attention or somethin’? That what it is?” Joel’s voice was as saccharine as it was taunting, words paired with a hand circling light across your thigh. He wasn’t moving in, and it was tearing you to shreds inside.

“Fuck your attention, and fuck you, Joel.”

Words hardly reflecting how you felt internally.

Swiftly, then, the hand at your leg was raised to your face—cupping it with a bit more force than you expected. Joel’s grin stretched even wider.

“Attention and discipline,” he mused aloud, “Two things dad never gave his little girl growin’ up, I see.”

Before you could reply, he was squeezing your face even tighter and nodding his head, as if already anticipating your answer. Then, somehow lower, “Such a filthy mouth on her, too. Never knows when to keep it shut and how to be polite to someone who fucked her so nice already.”

You might’ve whimpered if you didn’t also want to throat punch the motherfucker and knee him in the balls. When Joel started stroking your cheek, you groaned instead, and you hoped he would hear it as chagrin, not arousal.

“I can help with both of those, y’know—” His thumb rubbed a little harder, and his leg moved up. You pressed your hands flat to his thigh to keep him from teasing, but the man would do no such thing to oblige you. In fact, he just shifted his leg back and forth…and back, again. A ripple of bliss from the friction sparked low inside you.

“I can give you attention, and I can scrub that mouth clean if that’s what you really need,” Joel continued, “Just say the word, darlin’.”

“Fucker.” That was your word.

And it worked well enough for Joel.

In the next instant, he had you half-carried, half-dragged across the deck and thrown onto the table where you’d lost that dreaded game of stack. Solo cups still littering the surface, and puddles of beer soaking in through your dress, you made a sound of disgust and tried to thrust yourself up, just to fail. You squirmed and swatted at the man standing in front of you, who easily kept you pinned to the surface with one palm laid calmly on your belly.

He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and retrieved his lighter and cigarette pack.

“Someone could catch us,” you hissed, helpless, unsure of what else to say to show you weren’t giving in just yet.

Joel lit up in four seconds flat. He sucked in a breath.

“I roped off the stairs coming up,” he replied.

He what?

You moved back, slowly, on the surface when Joel worked a hand to his belt buckle, and you heard half a dozen plastic cups fall to the floor behind you.

You would not be his date’s sloppy seconds—ever.

Joel yanked at your thighs and pulled you back to be straddling his hips, shrugging his pants down; you couldn’t bear to keep looking when he lowered his briefs.

He took another drag and eyed you hungrily, happy to see you all sprawled out and pretty before him. The tight fabric of your dress had cinched over your hips and left you bare to just panties, making him grow even harder.

“Joel.”

He worked his dick out of his pants and moved the head to trail slow along the seam of your barely-clothed cunt. Even through the lace, he could feel how wet you were. He notched the tip at the space where your panties had parted just slightly to the side and felt your arousal pool even wetter around the end of his member. He grunted.

“Joel, I—”

“Daddy’s gonna give ya attention, sugar. Hold still.”

You couldn’t. Wouldn’t. You splayed your fingers over the hand that was trying to guide his cock into you and clenched your jaw—every carnal fibre in your being telling you not to do what you were about to try anyway.

“You fucked her didn’t you?”

Joel flicked the ash off his cigarette, “No.”

“You brought her here.”

“Had to.”

Your face was flushed and likewise flooded with smoke, curling slow from Joel’s lips before it painted the air an opaque, muddied grey above you. You wriggled your hips away from his, and for once, he didn’t try to stop you.

“I saw you tucking your shirt in. Tommy said you fucked!”

“Tommy’s about one fry short of a Happy Meal, honey,” Joel puffed once more, “He’s always sayin’ shit like that.”

Incredibly, he’d managed to use about a dozen funny words in that old Texas lilt and still say so little to actually answer your question. When the pinch in your brow told him you weren’t quite satisfied, Joel let out a sigh.

“Ash spilled pebre on my shirt. I had to change.”

Oh.

“And you—” you started.

“—have no fuckin’ right to know, one way or the other, because you’re the one who said we’d just ‘fuck and forget it,’ remember?” Joel interrupted, reminding you of your own curt words from your Bronco boning session.

Again, you tried to speak and found yourself spoken for, Joel carrying on as casual as ever as he sucked the last life-breath from his cig and stared you down, cynically.

“Your dad’s the one who made me bring her tonight. Said I seemed ‘down’ since the last gal I fucked wasn’t around—I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was his daughter—and here we are,” Joel smiled, wryly, and flicked his cigarette into the lake. You would’ve liked to tell him littering was a crime that trashed us all but refrained.

You were too busy staring at his lips, wondering why he hadn’t kissed you yet. You reckoned all the pea flinging, swearing, and swinging might’ve played a small part.

At length, Joel slid a new American Spirit out of its pack and wrangled you back to his hips as he lit up again.

“Happy?” he said, after a beat.

You weren’t sure whether to nod or cross your arms. Beckon him in with both hands or kick his bunched-up pants, belt, and boxer briefs away altogether and keep the bratty act going. You didn’t like being wrong.

At any rate, it didn’t matter. He’d called you on your bluff.

Still smoking, still smiling, still happy as a clam at high tide, Joel pressed his length straight up to your folds and watched you squirm on the wood underneath him.

“Gonna listen now?” he hummed.

“Uh-huh.”

Good, his wretchedly deep brown eyes seemed to say. Good that you were here, good that you were spread wide and supine beneath him, good that you’d gone all soft and pliable under his touch and were watching him now with a look that said you’d let him do just anything.

Good that he could fuck you.

Great that he wasn’t planning to—not fully, anyway.

Joel wasted no time taking your answer in the affirmative to slip past your panties and push deep inside your sweet cunt. When your walls stretched and cried all around him, he sighed and gripped your legs even tighter. He gritted the cigarette between his teeth and brought your ankles to rest over his shoulders, sinking in even deeper. Then he had to hold steady inside you and keep you flat on the table in front of him, and just when you whined to fuck me now, Joel, fuck me right now, daddy, please, he stilled. He took a big, long drag and didn’t move an inch.

He’d teach you some discipline one way or another.

“Joel, please,” you groaned again, hands bracing the table to start fucking up and down on his shaft, before he put a stop to that fast and held you firmly in place, “Please, Joel, I need you so fucking bad, daddy, please.”

Joel tapped his ash to the side and ignored your pleas.

He felt your walls contract around him and tried not to grunt. He focused instead on the smoke overhead.

“Wanna say that nicer?” he asked, deadpan. Then, staring expectantly down at you, while you flushed and struggled to stay still, “Keep that mouth a little cleaner?”

Fuck, did he have that father-figure tone down to a T.

You laid there before him and almost forgot his cock was wedged inside you for a second. He seemed so sincere.

“I wan— want you to move, daddy, I-I-I don’t know how else to say i— FUCK!” Your pussy spasmed around him when the tip of his pubic bone grazed your clit. That squeaky clean mouth of yours was nowhere to be seen.

“Mhmm,” Joel nodded anyway, pretending to be observing your behavior as he might for a clinical trial. Like he was testing a new drug, not his dick inside your cunt, practically clenching in Morse code around him.

“Can ya try that one more time, sweet pea? For daddy?”

You could. Try, anyway. Controlling your tongue while he was buried so deep inside you seemed to be a far harder task than you could’ve ever expected, though.

Joel sensed it. Feeling a twinge of pity, he leaned over your body and dug his hips even deeper—not thrusting, but still granting some modicum of friction. The hot, heavy throb of his girth pulsed inside you like your own fucking heartbeat, and your eyes rolled back.

“Fucking shitsucking DICK BITCH CUNT! FUCK!”

Sounding every bit the uncouth novice in a COD lobby chat circa 2009, you knew you didn’t have the faintest hope of earning Joel’s strokes now. You hated yourself for it—and Joel, too, for subjecting you to such cruel and unusual punishment for just needing to fuck him hard.

You were desperate and heated. Five seconds away from yanking your sex off of his and going to town with your own fingers, you felt a palm press down on your tummy.

Damn Joel and his super-sized hands.

You could barely breathe, much less pry yourself off.

Joel was quiet and calm. Stuffing you full and puffing away at his cigarette the whole time. He smirked.

“Ain’t that difficult, honey,” he said, hardly losing his will or his sympathy when you shot a raw glance his way, “Stay still on this cock and ask daddy nicely, ‘s’all ya gotta do.”

He could tell by the look in your eyes you couldn’t stand to play nice—but needed to cum. He watched you swallow your pride, soften your eyes just a bit, and when you felt you might implode from all the feeling, whined,

“Please make me feel good, daddy, please, I need it.”

Joel breathed and eased back just an inch, lowering his hand to thumb softly at your clit. You keened.

“That’s my sweet girl.”

Still just rubbing that bundle and looking down while you came unraveled, Joel thought you perfectly sublime. He’d kill to keep you there like that, eyes rolling and skin soaking the table beneath you both in sweat and arousal. He stared down at the place your bodies were connected—a sliver of his cock visible and soaked with your juices—and he felt a wave of desire crest over his mind. Panting, quietly, he brought one hand to your hip and kept the other working furiously over your clit, trying to ignore the urge to rut inside you. It was self-discipline for him, too.

He wouldn’t let you know that yet, though.

He crushed the cigarette between his teeth and kept still.

“Ya like that, sugar? Like daddy stuffed inside this pussy, makin’ ya beg real pretty for me?” His husky Southern drawl ran like molasses off his tongue, thicker now when he was balls-deep and half-drunk off your cunt.

You watched his mouth, intrigued, and saw a long line of spit drip deliciously from those pretty, stubbled lips of his to your lower ones, making the spot more filthy and warm as your fluids mixed together. Still, Joel didn’t move a thing more than his thumb—but the sounds from you both were growing louder and more desperate.

The gentle squelch of spit, sweat, and arousal running all down your pussy, paired with those noises you made when you were feeling this good and squeezing him tight, was enough to send Joel straight over the edge. Now he didn’t have the strokes or any motion to focus on before him, just you—he flicked his cigarette away the second he sensed you were getting close yourself.

“Sweet little thing,” he cooed, still rubbing in circles, “How’s my baby feelin’?”

You clawed at the table beneath you and knocked your head back once or twice on the wood, humming a quick, ‘Good, daddy, good’ in the most hoarse and pathetic voice you’d ever used, and Joel smiled. You hadn’t cursed out loud in a minute and seemed to be taking his touches well. He’d have to give you some form of reward.

Gently, Joel pulled back and made a shallow thrust inside you. Both your body and his jolted with pleasure.

“FU—n stuff, fun stuff,” you hissed, trying hard to mask the expletive.

In truth, Joel was struggling too. Just one stroke inside you and that coil inside him was about ready to burst.

“Fun, huh?” he teased, keeping his motions down to quick pistons as he laid his palms flat on either side of your head, “Daddy make ya feel fun-ny, does he?”

“Yeah, he does, he— ah, SHIT right there, right there!”

Evidently, he’d found your G spot.

Joel stilled inside you as soon as the foul word escaped.

You whined. Loud. Almost tempted to burst into tears.

“Nononono, that doesn’t count, Joel! That doesn’t—” Your voice was shortly supplanted by a whimper when the man went back to thumbing your clit, hips rendered still once more and cock wedged deep inside your core.

“What’s it gonna take to make you behave for me, huh? Do I have to talk to your daddy again?” Joel seethed.

You shook your head quick and felt him circle your clit even harder, more punishing now. Your body craved the friction from his cock but could barely contain the words that were coming out now. You pinched your eyes shut, feeling your orgasm creeping closer and closer, and whimpered gently, desperately, ‘Fuckfuckfuuuuuck.’

Whether it came down to making terrible plays at stack cup or getting your clit torn apart by Joel’s thumb, you simply could not keep the filthy language at bay.

You weren’t going to listen, that much was clear.

Joel had no choice but to make you learn a different way.

So, prying his fingers and his cock from your cunt, he reached across for your hips instead—pulling you off of the table and pushing you down to the floor, at his feet.

He smoothed a palm over the top of your head and fisted your hair in one hand, his cock in the other, and brought his hot, swollen, slick-coated length within an inch of your face, stroking fast.

Your gaze flitted from the sight in front of you to Joel’s eyes, back and forth, stunned and in utter disbelief. As you felt your own climax crumble and recede from you at once, the sound jumped up your throat before you could stop,

“What the FUCK is your problem, Joel?!”

“There it is,” Joel just flared his nostrils as he jerked himself above you, “There’s that nasty fuckin’ mouth.”

He pulled your head even rougher and tipped your chin back to meet the scowl on his face. Pleasure had almost swallowed the man whole, yet his expression scarcely betrayed a trace of it, eyes cold and jaw clenched tight.

“If that mouth can’t be good for me, can it open real wide and show me how a dirty slut does it?”

You were beside yourself. Holding his gaze like a bomb might go off in his brain any second—something you’d be happy to see—you scowled as well. Begrudgingly, and knowing Joel wouldn’t ease off of this punishment until he’d made you pay for your language, you nodded.

“What’s’at?” Joel snapped, stroking himself even faster, “What do ya want me to do, sugar?”

You gritted your teeth and silently wished they were crushing his balls to powder between them.

“Want…you…to cum…on my face.”

“Little louder, sweet pea, can’t hear ya from up here.”

The sound of his palm working over his cock again and again, shimmery and slick with your arousal soaking it, was almost too much to bear. You watched, forlorn and silently boiling with rage as Joel stared down at you, as merciless as he’d ever been. Mocking, almost, it seemed.

“Want you to…cum on me, please.”

“One more time, darlin’,” Joel pressed, pupils blown wide with desire, “Be real sweet and say it one more time f—”

“I WANT YOU TO CUM ON MY FACE, YOU FUCKER.”

That sparked the first real smile on Joel’s lips you’d seen in a while, and then he was watching you cockily, nodding.

Before you could even think to blink, stand up, or storm off again, you felt a fat, sticky-wet glob of warmth hit your cheek. Then another. Then another. Then another. You winced and flinched back, but Joel held your head in place, in front of his cock, and gripped you firmly as he unloaded rope after rope of his cum all over your face.

By the time he was finished, your skin was glistening. Coated in the stuff and still blinking through strings of the hot, sticky mess as Joel stood over you, chest heaving fast as he pumped himself through his release.

Must be fucking nice.

When the downpour had slowed to a trickle, two thick fingers swiped at a dollop of cum on your cheek. Then, wordlessly, they moved down to your mouth.

“Open,” Joel commanded.

You’d barely parted your lips a quarter of an inch when he pushed both digits inside. Swirled them around in your mouth and made sure to cover every soft, wet contour and crevice before pulling out with a pop.

He wiped at your other spend-streaked cheek and repeated the action, plunging his fingers in and out of your mouth to make sure you cleaned him thoroughly. This was more of an act meant to tease than anything else, you knew, almost demeaning in the way he stood there and nodded his head while murmuring, ‘’Atta girl.’

You hated how much you liked that stupid show of dominance—and, even worse, how good he tasted.

Joel brushed your tongue with another fingerful and watched you bob your head in time. He hummed his approval and scanned your face for any spend left over.

There was a lot. He paused, as if considering something.

“Drop ‘em.” Joel motioned to the straps of your dress.

You did as he said and pulled both bands down at once. When your breasts spilled out of the fabric, you watched Joel lower his gaze and, fixating on the spot you’d just exposed to him, take two—no, three—careful fingers to collect the remainder of himself and spread it downward.

Joel took his cum and smeared it all over your tits.

He was equal parts meticulous, gentle, and gratuitous in doing so, and he took pleasure in every second.

With a heavy-lidded, glossy gaze trained unwaveringly on your chest, Joel rolled each nipple between forefinger and thumb and fell into a trance. Rubbed you up and down every inch he could find and groaned at the sight. Glazing your skin all over with him and savoring it.

You couldn’t deny the feeling of being marked in a way so degrading, dirty, and adoring at once had a dizzying effect on you, too. The look in his eyes, and the soft brush of his fingers, almost quelled your rage entirely.

Almost.

When Joel pulled your spaghetti straps back into place—and you, in turn, back onto your feet—you yanked away. Forcefully. While Joel straightened up, silently cursed his bad back, tucked his dick in his pants, and started to reach for your waist, you jabbed the fastest, fattest, fuck-your-whole-family middle finger in his face and took off.

“Honey—”

“Don’t.”

“But I—”

“Have some goddamn fucking nerve.”

You’d nearly made it to the staircase again, heels turning to start down the first steps, when Joel sidestepped at lightning speed and blocked off your passage. All you saw then was the front of a starch white dress shirt and a light patch of chest hair peeking out from the highest button, crowding your vision, moving in time with every manoeuvre you tried to make around him. He smelled like sweat and fresh citrus. Perhaps a hint of vengeance.

You wouldn’t meet his gaze when he grabbed your face. Tried to shrug him off when he made as if to pull you into a hug—‘Are you off your shit?! Are you?! People are right downstairs’—and Joel just smiled. Grinned like a jackass eating briars, about five times too smug for his own good, and drew you into his chest by gentle turns.

You weren’t sure why you recoiled when he kissed you.

Hell, you’d done it a dozen times before—albeit a bit more frantically, in a way to say ‘I need to fuck you’ when words just wouldn’t suffice—but this one was different. Deeper. Joel was gripping both sides of your face and still grinning as he kissed you, feeling your muscles slacken some and your frame meld gently into his.

You hated it.

“I missed you,” Joel murmured between kisses.

Hated him.

“How’s my baby been, huh?”

Oh, you know, just waiting. Hating you a little. Hoping we didn’t inadvertently create a baby ourselves, courtesy of your prehistoric condoms.

“I missed you.” Gently. Again.

You tensed in his hold when his lips trailed down to your neck. You felt a low flutter. It was like your feet had been glued to the floor and your tongue left wholly immobile; you let Joel caress, kiss, and whisper down your skin like every cell beneath his touch wasn’t seething en masse.

Your stolen climax. Broken condom. Close call with your father and Tommy. Radio silence ongoing for days.

You couldn’t wrap your head around any of it, or him, or how grossly inconsistent the man’s every move upon you now seemed to be with the way he’d acted all week.

Joel slowly descended your body.

“Like I said, honey…you fuck with my head,” he said soft against your dress, then your legs, then the space in between them.

“Makes two of us,” you grumbled back.

You braced your weight against the railing over the stairs just behind you when he slipped your panties to the floor. Then he tucked them snug into one of his back pockets and brought his face to your wet, aching core.

“Discipline doesn’t come easy, does it?” It sounded like something trapped between a question and a declarative coming out from the side of Joel’s mouth.

Fortunately for you, he didn’t try to clarify which of the two he meant, or do much else at all except eat your pussy from that point on. He kissed your thighs, gripped them tighter, then wedged his face between them while you held fast to the metal behind you. You stifled a moan when his tongue traced over the seam of your cunt.

You didn’t have to like the man to love what his mouth could do for you, you silently reminded yourself.

Love it you could—and would. Without shame.

Granted, you were still sensitive as all hell from your last almost-orgasm of the night, but Joel knew how to work his lips and tongue around it. He swiftly lapped between your folds, teased a finger at your hole, and wrapped his warm lips around your clit to suck once or twice, and you were damn near ready to spiral in seconds. You fisted the soft salt-and-pepper hair at the top of his head and rutted your hips in short, shallow motions against him.

“Good girl,” Joel crooned, welcoming each thrust with another swirl of his tongue, “That’s my sweet baby.”

“Joel.”

You traded expletives for the simple repetition of his name, not wanting the pleasure to stop. Joel hummed and sucked and held your legs around him even tighter.

You sighed, almost whined, and dug your fingertips into his scalp, feeling your climax building quick inside you.

Joel’s mouth was working faster, sucking harder, drawing smaller and crueler circles, lapping eagerly against your arousal and giving it everything he had, it seemed, to work you up to your release. He grunted when you yanked hard on his hair but didn’t stop.

In fact, the bastard just kept trying to talk you through it, fluid movements of his own tongue and lips be damned.

“Doin’ so damn good for me, sweet pea, keep goin’.” There was an apology in there somewhere, working hard to atone for the orgasm he’d denied you right before.

Four more flicks of his tongue and a gentle endeavor to pump his fingers in and out, again and again, right above that soft, spongy pad of pleasure deep inside had you teetering over the edge of a cliff.

You tore your gaze from Joel for a second, preparing for that sweet and lusty consummation, when your head turned to the side just slightly. You almost groaned.

Your own hot, flushed, and fucked-out reflection was the first thing to greet you in a sliver of a mirror on the wall. Just beneath you, as you could’ve expected, there was Joel—kneeling between your legs with his chin tipped up, beard coated in moisture and pleasure and warmth. You weren’t sure why the sight from this angle had such a strong effect, but something about the full view of your bodies in motion gave your stomach a pinch. A burn. You ogled the glass and made a sound audibly higher in pitch than a whimper as Joel suckled and tongued at your clit.

You came just like that—gripping the rails, fisting his hair, rutting your hips, and staring implacably at that mirror.

When Joel resurfaced, you were still fully transfixed.

Gawking at how fucking nice he looked between your thighs. How filthy it all was to be seated on his face and cumming for his tongue while the rest of your father’s dinner party mingled blissfully unaware downstairs.

When you saw Joel rise, you jerked your head back.

You weren’t sure why it felt like being caught, but it did.

Just as you began to murmur some half-assed apology his way, you felt hands on your hips and a rock-hard bulge at your rear as Joel spun you round in front of him.

He shoved you flush against the mirror so your tits were pressed up to the glass. He gave you a quick once-over.

Slid the straps of your dress off your shoulders and shimmied the fabric down your chest, once again.

With your breasts splayed out in front of you and your hands pressing hard on the mirror—as if letting up the slightest bit might send you straight through it—you tried to crane your neck. You felt the sticky squelch of cum and fresh spit painted over your chest, muddying up the glass with every movement you made. Your chin dug deep in your shoulder as you cocked your head to the left, eyes searching for Joel’s behind you.

You heard the clink of a belt, followed by a rustle of fabric. Then a hand slamming close beside your head on the mirror, while another worked industriously to free his cock from the confines of his trousers once more.

“Joel,” you breathed, still tender from your climax.

“Hm?”

He was gruff as he rubbed and smacked your bare ass with his cock. Let it rest on the soft, fleshy shelf between you two and teased his length over that space.

“Did someone take his little blue pill today?” you teased.

“Fuck off.” You saw a flicker of a smirk in the mirror.

No way Joel Miller was getting a full-fledged erection twice in the same ten minute span. That shit didn’t happen outside the realm of porn flicks and a woman’s wildest fantasies when it came to men Joel’s age. He knew it just as well as you but tried to feign indifference when he pressed the head of himself to your folds. He did, however, suck in a breath at the new sensation.

He could do this.

He could cockwarm you raw, tonguefuck your cunt, ravage and render you all but brainless on the surface of that mirror, and still have the wits about himself to take another breath. He could show those shit-for-brains college boys he’d been battling for days in the depths of his mind how much better he could fuck you than them.

Really, Joel was just manifesting at this point.

He hadn’t busted a nut and fucked this quick since Bill Clinton had been in office. All hat and no cattle whatsoever for this pussywhipped cowboy.

“Better hope I go easy on ya, sugar.”

“Best believe I won’t.” You would’ve winked if you weren’t so bone-crushingly aroused and fresh off your peak.

Joel had just chuckled, more than a touch nervous, and began rubbing your warmth to coat himself in it—angling his slightly apprehensive penis up to your cunt when you straightened some. Rather than keep your tits to the mirror, you chose to press your back against him, ass snug to his front and eyes roaming wildly over the reflection of your two forms. Both of you flinched when the head of his cock hitched around your entrance.

Joel’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat just over your shoulder. He pressed a kiss to your skin.

“Gotta be the sweetest thing I ever seen,” he whispered into your ear. Meeting your gaze in the mirror and lifting his hips just so before breaching your folds.

He hoped you’d take it for sweetness and not just a vicious strain of anxiety or weakness as he prepared for the first thrust. He’d need a second, a minute—maybe a goddamned hour, if he was being real honest. You were too damn pretty to be fucked by a two-pump chump.

Joel nudged his nose against your ear and tried to stall. Pausing a beat.

“Never been humped and dumped before, yaknow.”

Wait—the fuck?

That came out wrong.

You cocked a brow and tilted your hips. You didn’t seem keen on talking but had no choice but to humor him.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” you hummed.

Joel balked at his own stupidity, trying, and failing, to remove his foot from his mouth and remedy his words.

“I mean, I— I get it,” he returned, too fast for his liking, “I’m no texter myself, I just…thought, uh, maybe—”

“Miller. Spit it out.”

Your body was all but leaking arousal before him and the man was trying to divert the conversation to…phones?

Joel winced.

Felt his member deflate with embarrassment just a bit.

NO! No. No. Just…fuck. Stay hard. Please, stay hard.

He’d done it to himself. Tried to hamper sex for a second too long just to give his dick a fighting chance at survival and ended up mucking things up supremely. Per usual.

“You never texted me back.” He sounded blunt now. Rushed.

Joel watched you raise both eyebrows.

“Texted you back?” you scoffed.

“Yeah…texted, called, snipchatted, whatever.”

Your face didn’t change despite the glaring Gen X error.

“You never texted me, Joel!”

What?

Suddenly, the dick wedged between your legs and hovering over your cunt seemed to be the last thing either of you could be bothered to worry about.

“I’ve…been texting you all week. Called a few times too.”

“Like hell you have. You ghosted me and went off the grid this whole fuckin’ week—Tommy said so, too.”

Joel cringed again to hear his brother’s name brought up in this context and shook his head. You were wrong.

“512-867-5309. Been trying to talk to you all goddamn week, see how you were, and you never responded,” he said, indignation creeping into his tone against his will.

At last, your expression dropped.

From furious to frowning to just fucking annoyed. Your lips were drawn tight in a line across your face.

“My number is 512-867-5305, dipshit.”

“Huh?”

“5 at the end, not a 9.”

“…No.”

“Yeah…”

Shit.

Joel Miller had made his fair share of flubs in his life, but fucking up the phone number of his best friend’s daughter whose pussy he’d accidentally cum inside the week before seemed almost criminal. Too fucking asinine and rookie-level dense to ever recover from. He blinked.

“Thought you…hated my fuckin’ guts,” he confessed.

You threw your hands up in disbelief, frustration. Fury.

“I do— believe me, I do,” you snapped, “But not for that.”

‘That’ meaning the last time you two bumped uglies. Joel wasn’t sure whether to take heart or step back.

“What’s’at mean?” he asked.

You pushed your feet a little further apart on the floor and pressed back into Joel. He took that as a decidedly good sign and reached for your hip. Then took his cock, again, which had invariably twitched and swelled up at the smallest motion from you.

“Means we’ve got plenty of reasons to hate each other, but fuckin’ ain’t one of ‘em,” you shrugged, angling your ass in the perfect place for penetration. Joel was just about back to full-mast and buzzing as you spoke, “I can get over the whole…old dude taboo—you being dad’s friend and all—I just couldn't stand the thought of you leaving me in the lurch when shit got weird at the end.”

‘Weird’ meaning risky. Virulent. Damn near catastrophic if it ever came to be that one of Joel's swimmers had latched onto one of your eggs and knocked you up. The fear of pregnancy, and every bloodcurdling, awkward conversation to ensue, had been amplified tenfold by the thought that Joel didn't even care one way or the other and couldn't be bothered to text, call, or otherwise show that he didn't totally regret what you'd done in his car. You could handle a clean break, but leaving it on such uncertain terms had been torture. At length, you sighed.

Joel was nosing behind your ear now, a bit less tense.

A little more laid-back and warm this time around, as he, like you, had gotten to exhale a breath of relief realizing that neither of you had deliberately tried to fuck the other over, or ghost, just yet. You'd been pissed at him all night, and he'd been busy barraging a perfect stranger somewhere in Austin with strings of texts and calls all week, but the two of you were ultimately OK. For now.

“But you still hate me, huh?” Joel spoke low against your skin and felt you soften just a little.

You nodded, careful not to slacken too much.

“Mhmm.”

Now Joel was almost glad to have taken that brief, heated detour, because his dick had made a complete comeback and was aching to tease you some more. He grabbed the base of his length and slotted it slow as ever between your folds. Rolled his hips forward and pushed you both a little closer to the mirror. One of your hands flew up to steady yourself, and Joel’s hand followed. He laid his palm over the back of yours and pressed in.

“It’d be a real shame if you do,” he said, smirking as he notched the tip of his cock just within the tight ring of muscles at the groove of your cunt, “For a second there I was starting to think you might’ve liked fucking me, too.”

In the next second, Joel was easing inside you. Feeling you arch into the motion and grabbing hold wherever he could across your front, he pulled you into his chest and felt a streak of coarse pleasure lick up the full length of his spine. Your walls were squeezing him in a brand new way, a novel position, and he was starting to fear there wasn't any place he could fuck you that wouldn't send him veering for release within his first two strokes inside.

He bucked his hips a little something like an amateur, he thought, getting used to taking you like this. You were moaning, holding his fingers between your own atop the mirror as you squeezed your pussy tight around his cock, and he hoped that meant you hadn't minded the few stuttered, desperate strokes he'd delivered at first.

“I love…fucking you, Joel,” you seethed at last.

Then, wordless as it was pointed, finding his gaze in your reflection, ‘I still hate you, Miller. There’s a difference.’

He slammed into your ass and quickly got the sense that you liked it this fast—loving, lusting, or despising him otherwise. Almost needed it a bit frantic and rapid-fire when he was fucking you from the back, he reckoned.

Joel looked you in the eye from his view behind you in the mirror and saw it clear as day. He almost grinned.

You were wildly fucked out and in need of quick release.

For once in his life, he could oblige you on that, easy.

He slid his cock in and out, rutting much quicker than he ever thought you’d want it, and he grunted. Slipped a hand between your thighs and felt you pulse around him, involuntarily, when his fingers found your clit. He could tell by that grip, and those febrile little whimpers, that you were loving this just as much as him and probably were as close, if not closer, to a new, shuddering climax.

Joel plunged deep inside your cunt and drew you closer.

Taking your throat in one hand, he nudged your body into the glass and smirked, drunk with the feel of you.

“Ya like it when I fill this pussy, huh? Love feeling me deep inside this needy little hole?” he murmured, slow and taking care to draw out the syllables in each word.

You nodded that you did. Rocked your hips back to meet his thrusts and moaned.

“I love it, daddy,” you managed weakly, “Love it so much.”

The fingers at your clit increased in speed, and Joel rutted into you even harder, relishing the soft squelch between your bodies as he moved. Then he reached for a fistful of your hair and, instead of pulling back like he might normally have done, he pushed in. He pressed your face in the mirror, turned to the side, and pistoned his hips even faster. Felt your moans spill out across the glass and mix with his own, and he couldn’t help but let a raw, primal impulse take over his thrusts—and tongue.

“You make the prettiest fuckin’ noises, y’know that?” Joel breathed, hunched over and close to your ear.

Before you could so much as acknowledge his praises, bob your head, or moan in response, he shifted the hand in your hair again. This time turning your face toward the mirror, he brought your lips within inches of the glass and made you watch him fuck you, again and again.

You trailed your gaze over your full reflection and almost whined out loud, ripe with desire and ready to cum just seeing how good he looked as he took you from behind.

With his brow furrowed, pupils blown, hair a fucking mess, lips parting slightly with the strain of every grunt and moan, and hips rolling repeatedly, furiously into your own, Joel looked about as handsome as you thought you’d ever seen him. You felt the soft nudge of his tummy behind you, the tightened grip on your hip and in your hair, and within seconds, you were nearly there.

“My pretty. fuckin’. girl—” Joel managed through gritted teeth, each word punctuated with a thrust, “—and her pretty. fuckin’. moans.” Then, bringing his beaming, sweaty expression right next to yours in the mirror, “Ready to cum for me, pretty girl?”

You curled your toes into the floor and nodded, slotting your fingers through his own when he planted a hand above you again,

“So— so close, daddy.”

Joel squeezed your fingers back. Kept your faces damn near side-by-side in the mirror and relished the marked change in your features when he grazed that spot inside. You let out the filthiest, fuckdrunk moan and didn’t need another stroke—you came around his cock with a tight, pulsing spasm, seizing his hand, rocking your hips back into his hard as the pleasure washed over your body.

Joel’s cock absorbed every last delicate throb, hot and heavy enough to send the man spiraling himself. He braced his front tight against your body and kept fucking you through your release, groaning a vicious, desperate bout when he felt that deep-seated urge to spill his seed.

Fuck. He’d have to pull out. Now.

Just as his own climax was close at hand—close as he could ever, or should ever feel it while still inside you—Joel reached down for your hip to pull out and cum all over your ass, but he was brought to a stop. Swiftly.

To his surprise, it was you pulling off of him—sliding off his cock and dropping to your knees as if to take him in your mouth.

Thank fuck.

Joel grabbed his dick as quick as he possibly could and moved to start stroking himself over your face, when your hand closed around his own. Stopping him. Again.

You grinned.

Feeling the slightest twinge of retributive pleasure at seeing him like this, just like he’d had you, your smile stretched even bigger. Joel could’ve wept at the sight.

You brought your lips to his cock and grazed it, barely.

“Wanna try something fun?”

He knew better than to let a moan slip at a time like this.

Not when he was sitting at the dinner table; not when he was surrounded by the people he knew and loved the most. Not when he was celebrating his best friend’s fifty-first birthday, and certainly not when that man’s daughter was currently perched between his thighs, out of sight from every eye at the party but his.

Joel lifted the tablecloth. He almost came on the spot.

This was your idea of ‘fun.’

Payback by any other name would’ve smelled as sweet.

Seeing your mouth open wide and your lips curled tight around his hot, throbbing member, Joel couldn’t help but ache for reprieve, or else a split-second lapse of judgment—one where he forgot all sense of decorum and simply went to town on that pretty little face of yours. But, as it was, the rest of the party was totally oblivious to your absence, and he didn’t want to draw attention to it, or him, by roughfucking your mouth.

That would come later.

No, now he would let you glide your mouth gently over his shaft, leaving trails of thick spit and hints of a shiny pink lip gloss in its wake. He’d let you bob your head softly—self-assured in a pace you got to set—and he wouldn’t lay a finger on your face or let a thrust of his get in the way, because this was all about you giving him the pleasure. Maybe making him squirm just a little, too.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t steal a glimpse every now and then and pin you with an expectant look when he wanted something done his way. The room was dimly lit and everyone in it drunk; Joel would gladly take the risk.

‘You can go deeper than that, sweet pea.’

‘Nope, three-fourths ain’t enough, I need your mouth around me whole.’

‘You did wanna make daddy feel good, didn’t ya, sugar?’

He didn’t have to speak a word of it out loud for you to know what he meant. What he needed. You loosened your jaw and stretched your lips even wider, whining just a little when the head of his cock grazed your tonsils.

“Fuck that feels nice,” Joel said aloud.

You froze.

Then, without missing a beat, you heard him continue just as comfortably, speaking to the people around him,

“Y’all feel that breeze comin’ in?”

Sick fuck. You continued to suck him anyway.

One hand braced tight against Joel’s leg and the other moved shamelessly between your own, and you tried not to moan, but the sound escaped anyway. No one heard it, but Joel felt it reverberate down his shaft, and he gripped his glass of Merlot like a vice. Your dad shot him a curious look from across the table but said nothing.

“Can’t get enough’a her, huh?” Tommy grinned beside him.

“What?” Joel faltered. Set his drink aside carefully.

Down below, you dragged your mouth just far enough to take his tip between your lips and suckle. Joel grunted.

“The wine,” Tommy said, still smiling, “You must love it.”

Joel let out another strangled breath that he tried to pass off as a chuckle and nodded.

“Got me on my fuckin’ knees,” he admitted.

And that was the truth. Starved for air and blinking through tears as you knelt down to blow him, it was still you with the chokehold on Joel, and both of you knew it.

Try as you might to convince yourselves otherwise, the man was enrapt. Too spellbound to turn down your offer of sucking him dry under the dinner table just minutes after he’d almost cum all over your face, Joel was in it, and he was in it deep. It was just that small matter of you being his best friend’s daughter that made him loath to admit it. At any rate, he had your tongue licking strips up his cock and felt a sudden, sharp clench in his stomach.

He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Neither would you.

Joel couldn’t see it then, but you’d practically soaked your own hand from how hard you’d been rubbing your clit—ignoring his orders not to touch yourself there—so turned on from just sucking his dick and needing to feel relief while you selflessly, secretly pleased him beneath the table. While Joel reached for another draught of wine, you brought one hand to his balls and kept the other at your cunt, triple-tasking like the efficient little slut he needed you to be: sucking, cupping, and rubbing all at once to get the two of you off in one minute or less.

You guided him down to the furthest place in your throat, then pushed him even deeper. You gagged just slightly and felt a hand reach down for your cheek. A thumb began to rub at the tears welled up at the corners of your eyes.

‘Sweet thing hasn’t felt a man this deep before, huh? Wanna swallow some more?’

You nodded that you did. Couldn’t actually hear him now, or see much else besides the soft tufts of hair on his belly, but you could feel a light, heady warmth seep into your brain.

You rutted your hips and just hoped no one dropped a fork nearby. Bucked desperately into your hand and felt the heat start to swell to a whole new feeling, and suddenly you were whimpering, whining on Joel’s cock from under the shade of the table and cumming all over your fingers.

Joel returned a quick smile from your father and cracked a joke about the Super Bowl. Raised his hips just the slightest bit and wiped one of your tear-soaked cheeks.

‘Almost there, hon, keep that throat open for daddy.’

All you could do was cry and try your best. Wild feelings from both the slow, deep facefuck he was giving you and the flurry of euphoric aftershocks coursing all throughout your body made it almost impossible to bear, but you obeyed your sweet and strong and steady-handed Joel and sensed a blossoming desire crop up for something else.

You wanted to taste him as he blew his load in your mouth, flooded your tongue with his spend, and painted every inch of your insides with that hot, sticky stuff.

You needed him whole.

Your Joel.

In tune with your thoughts—or perhaps just overcome with a need to see you before he reached his peak—Joel raised the tablecloth the slightest bit when Tommy wasn’t looking. His gaze locked on yours, and his tongue darted quick between his lips. He cocked a brow. Brushed his thumb again and looked down as if to say,

‘Ya want this, darlin’? Want all of me?’

You gave a soft nod, and that was all he needed.

No sooner had you given him the green light than his cum went pulsing out in ropes, coating your throat and eventually your whole mouth as you held still and took it all.

There was so much more than you thought. So much of Joel that had been waiting to give your mouth a proper fucking glaze that once he’d started he just couldn’t stop. Above the table, your dad shot a pointed look in his direction—‘You good, man?’—and it took every ounce of strength in Joel’s body to grit his teeth tight and nod.

He’d filled so much of your mouth it was spilling out.

You tried to hold steady, keep your movements extra slow. You’d heard your dad’s voice and just knew there’d be a lot more on the line than Joel’s dribbling seed if either one of you fucked up now. Your breath caught in your chest, and you felt too afraid to even swallow.

“I just…came,” Joel started, and your head almost cracked on the wood surface from how abruptly you flinched back,

“—to the realization—”

“—that you…are so…motherfuckin’ old, my friend.”

Your father’s laugh was the first you heard, followed by Tommy, his friends, and a dozen other party guests.

The next thing you felt, to your complete and utter shock, was Joel’s cock brushing your cheek. Then your lips. Then your tongue. He slid his still-hard member through the ‘o’ your mouth had made in awe and started to move in gentle motions back and forth, like a man all but aching to get a feel for your wet, sodden walls.

A man who couldn’t risk a glimpse now, but wanted more than anything to see the mouth he’d just filled.

Your father’s words hadn’t even cooled in the air.

Joel Miller, you sneaky, freaky fuck.

As the laughter subsided, and Tommy scooted back in his chair to take leave of your table, you felt a spark ignite. Whether it was yours or Joel’s or both your perverted minds suddenly alight and insane with the same thought, you couldn’t be sure, but you could make out the sound of a tablecloth flipping back up above you.

Joel slipped his dick out of your mouth and grinned. Took a firm hold of your face under the table so his fingers were coaxing your jaw to unhinge before him.

It was the lowest, slowest, menacing sort of sound you’d ever heard from him before, but it was his all the same.

Speaking to you now, softly, “Show daddy, darlin’.”

You thought you might like to see him that way forever.

Eyes honey-soft and glazed, thumb toying at your lip. Chest heaving up and down in time to your own breaths and growing ragged as you opened your mouth to him. He was sated and somehow unfulfilled—a bottomless pit of raw prurience as he stared down and held your gaze. Hair tousled, pants unbuckled, cock resting comfortably against your cheek, the man looked wonderfully undone and half in love with your sweet face peering up at him.

You couldn’t deny you loved doing this, too.

You’d just wished he saw Tommy before Tommy saw you.