#old radio stim

[aestheticsoftheinternet]

Alastor Stimboard

x-x-x x-o-x x-x-x

Requested by Anon❤️

[stimboardofatourneykid]

Boardtober Day 4: Scream!

🔪-🔪-🔪

🩸-🩸-🩸

🔪-🔪-🔪

[garfieldstim]

Could you do a stimboard for Kevin from Welcome to Night Vale? Reds and yellows please :D

Thank you!!

kevin(wtnv) for @thesillyparablesystem

x x x / x x x / x x x

[joeloverture]

snowbound | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog | ao3 mirror pairing: dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] joel is the only guy you know with four wheel drive in the rarely-snowy state of texas, so it seems like a no-brainer to have him pick you up from work — until his truck breaks down, leaving you two to the classic 'huddle for warmth' solution. warnings: (18+ mdni) dbf!joel, age gap (assumed 20s/40s), reader borrows joel's coat, but does not wear it and uses it as a blanket, self-indulgent humor & banter, joel has sarah and she's a 15y/o menace which means liberties are taken with the timeline, blink & miss it drug mention, close proximity, unprotected piv sex, vaginal fingering, (mocking) dirty talk & dirty talk alluding to anal but no actual anal, daddy kink, degradation, dom!joel, brat!reader, brat tamer!joel, mild bondage (with a scarf), rearview mirror sex, clit stim, riding, doggy, a few pussy spanks, 2 spanks, truck sex, sort of edging, getting caught after the act [no use of y/n] word count: 12.3k a/n: this fic was a labor of love from a request i received earlier this month. i didn't expect it to be this long but i really enjoyed these two! massive massive massive shoutout to talia, @lovesickonmybed, for putting up with me + advising. this fic was way too much to handle on my own. they're the reason i pulled it off. joel is latino here, but i think game!joel can be interpreted as latino too, so read who you'd like.

“Looking ahead for our chances at wintry precipitation tonight – measurable snow, freezing rain, or sleet. It’s hard to get snow here in central Texas – if only, huh? We’re seeing some strong flurries tonight, turning into snow showers in the early morning. Low chances of any significant build up, but you can expect hazardous driving conditions. Black ice and low visibility will make extensive travel dangerous–”

The radio in Keith’s Hardware is old fashioned, curving around the volume and tuning knobs. It’s one of the ones that still has a dial pointer, which is almost always aimed at 92.7 if Keith’s in the back (country); 96.7 (pop) if it’s just you and the only other girl that works in the carpenter’s wet dream of a store. Right now, though, it’s neither of those stations. The pointer is at 162.4, the weather station.

You’d known you were in for it on the drive into work. Watch the weather and it’s real nasty out there airing from your parents lips on your way out of the house for your eight hour shift. The drive had been a gunmetal sort of gray, clouds streaked through the sky and spitting bullets of sleet at your windshield.

For a little bit, the weather had almost cleared up. You’d sworn you’d seen a splotch of sun when you’d tried to step out for break, just to be driven back in by your too-thin jacket and the cold as balls temperature.

Now, though? It’s fucking freezing, and the flurries that the weatherman mentioned are starting to fall. And as much as you’d told Keith that your shitty two-wheel-drive couldn’t handle it, he’d insisted on scheduling you and Liz for close.

Which is where Mr. Miller comes in.

Joel Miller, your dad’s buddy. Joel Miller, the grumpiest secret-softie you’ve ever met. Joel Miller, a knight in shining armor with his 4x4 Ford F150 instead of a horse. Although, if your fantasies are correct – and you like to think they are – what’s between his thighs certainly makes up for the lack of a horse. But he isn’t bringing you for a ride on his cock. He just so happens to be the only man your dad knows with a four wheel drive vehicle, or at least the only one willing to spare you from spinning out by giving you a ride home. Just thinking about it has a knot pinching in the back of your throat. His hands, big and wide and stretching over the gear shift. One muscled arm dangling over the wheel. Looking over his goddamn shoulder to back out —

Liz hops up on the check-out counter where you’re counting up the last of the cash, a spread of Hamiltons, Grants, and Jacksons. You wouldn’t expect a girl like her to work at a hardware store, especially one in the backstreets of the seedy part of town. Some sort of family emergency had driven her back to Austin from NYU design school, which you’re thankful for. Mainly because you get out of cutting wood panels since she has the better eye for measurements, but also because after years of sulking in Keith’s, you finally have someone to talk shit with.

“Those heart eyes aren’t for fuckin’ Alexander Hamilton,” Liz says, tapping her acrylics on your ledger to get your attention. You cough, flipping her off with your pen still in-hand. Liz hums, pretending to think about it as you put down the last numbers. “Although I wouldn’t be too surprised. You do love a geriatric man.”

“Joel isn’t that old,” you scoff, arranging the bills into slim white envelopes and then licking them shut. “He’s just an… acquired taste.”

“Sure, his jizz probably tastes like prohibition-era booze–”

“What the fuck,” you wheeze, hands going out to brace yourself on the closest display case. Your head dips as your chest shakes with laughter.

Liz stays completely straight-faced as she continues, “You’ll have to have 911 on speed dial because if you clench, his heart’s giving out.”

“It is not,” you say, voice still strained with the laughs that won’t stop punching out of you.

She puts her hands up in defense and crosses her legs at the ankles. “Hey, it’s not my fault you like playing whac-a-mole with Great Depression dick.”

“Liz!” You playfully shove her off of the counter, thrusting the envelopes into her hands. “You’re nasty. Fucking nasty.”

She splays a wounded hand over her heart, fanning herself with the envelopes. “You know you love me.” She slips into the office behind the register. You hear the click of the safe before she calls over her shoulder, “Any particular reason you’re fantasizing on the clock?”

“Not fantasizing,” you refute. Liz pops out of the back with a uncertain look scrawled on her face. “My dad talked him into picking me up today so I don’t drive into a snowbank.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a shitty porno.”

“Don’t give me hope.”

“I’m just saying,” she grins. “You can still come to mine. Only a five minute walk with zero chance of rejection.”

“You have such little faith in me.”

She purses her lips. “Mkay…. Pro-tip: Keith probably has some Viagra sitting around in his desk drawers.”

“Liiiiiiiz,” you say. You’re about to tune her out completely when familiar headlights light up the wet asphalt, beaming through the windows. The engine idles, a soft rumble through the linoleum floors. The truck lights dim, leaving Joel in the buttery shine of the streetlamp. His thick arms stretch across the wheel, and he rakes one large hand through his hair. “Shit, speak of the Devil.” You clip off your nametag, tossing it into your half-open bag. “Can you finish closing tonight? I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“No problem, no favors necessary.” She closes the register. You fumble to get your bag over your shoulder, not wanting to keep Joel waiting. “Use protection!” she calls after you, and you make sure to flip her off one more time as the door clangs shut behind you.

A wall of cold hits you like a blade of lightning. Wind unfurls, mauling telephone lines and frosted treetops, rippling your jacket. Not even the worn scarf around your neck seems to be doing its job. Suddenly, every one of your limbs feels like an icicle. Joints almost freezing up, you half-jog, half-penguin strut your way to Joel’s passenger side. You wipe the ice off of the door handle with your sleeve. A few stray flurries dust you as you tug the door open, exhaling in relief as you haul yourself onto the side steps and into the toasty warmth of the Ford F150.

You cozy up in the seat, too preoccupied by thawing your hands with long, winded breaths to notice the affronted look Joel is throwing your way. “Are you tryin’ to catch your fuckin’ death, girl?”

“No death to catch. It’s not that cold.” The way you’re shivering says otherwise. Joel pins you with the raise of his brow.

Before you know what he’s doing, he’s groaning as he reaches over the center console into the backseat. You see a flash of his trucker jacket before it lands in your lap, flannel-lined and heavy. You use it like a blanket, draping it across your torso and wrestling your hands into the inside pockets. The canvas smells like car exhaust and off-brand Dollar General deodorant, two things that are so inextricably Joel. As much as you hate to admit it, the warmth is already inking its way across your skin – or maybe it’s just being next to Joel that’s heating you up. “Thanks,” you grumble.

When you adjust in your seat, the inside of your foot catches an empty Dr. Pepper can on the floor. It rattles when you accidentally kick it forward. You lean down and pick it up, going to place it down in the cupholder, only to find it overpopulated with random Home Depot and Whataburger receipts.

“Tax deductions,” he shrugs. “Gotta eat on the job.”

“And a…” You pick up the receipt and squint at the faded typography. “$3.29 strawberry milkshake is part of that, I figure?”

Joel grunts, “Tommy’s order.”

You smirk. “Sure it is.”

“Quit shit stirrin’ and put on your fuckin’ seatbelt.”

You reach back, fingers snagging it and tugging it down. Groping for the belt between the seats and the center console, it goes on for at least five seconds too long before Joel grabs the buckle and shoves it into the slot. His fingers brush your thigh as he pulls away from you and settles his foot over the gas pedal. The singular touch shouldn’t make butterflies beat at the walls of your stomach, but it does. Everything about him does.

Now that you’re all settled in, everything about him is also settling in. The fact that he’s only wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt now that his coat is off. His sleeves are constricting enough that his muscles bulge below the strip of fabric. Ample scruff dapples his jawline, and his hair is disheveled in the way that you’ve learned you like it. You trail your eyes down his body, his tummy, across the undone drawstrings of his dark gray sweatpants, and no, you move on quickly from there, because you refuse to get riled up in the passenger seat.

He’s slowly peeling out of Keith’s parking lot, arm thrown over the back of your seat. You’re starting to fail at your mission of not getting riled up when you see the flex of his bicep, the way his eyes meet yours as he turns to look through the back window. He turns out of the parking lot and onto the relatively barren, icy streets–

“What the hell are those?”

Joel side-eyes you, brows furrowed. He follows the line of your gaze to his feet, which you’re used to seeing in New Balances or steel-toed work boots, but are instead wearing… fur-lined crocs.

“These here? Yeah, got ‘em recently, good for my days off with all this nippy weather. Sarah told me they’re ‘all the rage’ with the youth–”

You can’t help it. You damn near double over with laughter, clutching at your stomach. Joel’s coat nearly slides off of you, but you hang onto it with your pinkie finger, quickly going dizzy from lack of air. “‘All the rage’? Oh my fucking God– Joel, she was pulling your leg. Those are fucking hideous.”

“Hey, now–” He sighs, pinching his nose bridge with the hand that isn’t dangling over the wheel. “Zip it, I don’t needa justify my shoe choices to ya.”

“Does she do anything other than give you shit these days?”

“You’re one to talk about givin’ shit, y’know,” Joel says. Unfailingly, he smiles. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips. The smile that he only ever gets when talking about Sarah. It doesn’t matter where – loading up his plate with barbecue, your dad asking him while he’s picking up junk mail in the morning, or on the job. If someone asks him about his daughter, Joel fucking beams.

He sucks on his teeth for a second, and then, “She’s picked up soccer. Goalkeeper. Damn good at it, too, all them other kids on her team can’t match her collapse dive.”

“Of course they can’t,” you say. “She’s got better reflexes than a house fly.”

Joel hunches over the wheel, effectively ending the conversation as he concentrates on the road. The only noise is the rumbling engine and the wagging of the windshield wipers as he attempts to navigate the black ice polka-dotted roads. It shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, seeing him in such a state of focus, his thighs tensed as he manipulates the gas and brakes to stop early, start slow. His arms thickening when he makes a right turn. Thumbs drumming drumming drumming on the wheel and maybe they’d do the same between your legs—

“So how’s work?” you blurt out.

Joel mumbles something that you can’t quite make out.

“Huh?”

“Fuckin’ ‘big shot’ gringos up my ass all day. Goddamn shitshow.” He shakes his head, his lips thinned. “I tell ‘em terraforming is gonna make it look like a Flinstone-owned-and-operated putt-putt course. They say do it anyway. I tell ‘em that orderin’ custom windows is gonna put us months behind. They say do it anyway, then come up jibber-jabberin’ all ‘bout how long it’s takin’. And it’s fuckin’... window madness, not one window in that hellhole matches another. Ain’t had so much trouble buildin’ a house since Sarah had me build her one from Hobby Lobby when she was little. Their architect musta been doin’ lines.”

You think you’ve seen Sarah’s dollhouse before when visiting, just in passing when the guest bedroom door was left open a smidge. You remember stalling in the hallway to look at it, with a fleece of dust growing on the tediously placed shingles and the oakwood front door left open like it’d been waiting for someone to come home. But Sarah outgrew it, and although Joel would never admit it, you know he’s too sentimental to leave it on the curb.

“How bad can building a dollhouse from a kit be?”

“With a five year old yellin’ like a drill sergeant in your ear? Worse than you think. She even made me rig the damn thing with electric so she could have her pink chandelier.”

You pout at him, “Wah wah, I’ll bet you loved it.”

“Was a nuisance at the time. But, uh, she was fiddlin’ with some ‘a the dolls I’d gotten her. Don’t think she knew I was watchin’, had gone to put ‘er to bed ‘cause it was a school night. She was readin’ this book I always read to her. Something about… a stuffed bear with a missin’ button and a girl that was tryna to buy him. I don’t fuckin’ know–” “Corduroy?”

“Yeah, that. Anyway, she was reading, usin’ the same tone I always used with her, tucked her dolls in for the night, and switched off the lights. I don’t think I loved it until then.” There’s a glistening in his eyes at the memory.

You smirk, “Sentimental bastard–”

The truck slides. Or maybe it coasts, skimming across the thin film of black ice. Joel eases down on the brakes, hauling to a stop next to a Minivan with its warning lights on. It’s a long stretch, and you can’t even see all the way down the highway with how thick the snow is. No two snowflakes are the same, but you find it difficult to believe when you’re looking at what must be millions of them. They pirouette, landing on window panes, rooftops, and wind-agonized tree branches. Everything is blotted with white. Red warning lights glare on the ice back at you.

“Shiiit,” Joel says as he squints at the road ahead of him. He scratches at his scruff.

“Tell me you’re not going to drive through that shit.”

“I’m not,” he says.

“Then how the fuck are we getting home?”

“Chill it–” “That’s the last thing I need to do,” you huff.

“I’m takin’ the detour.”

With that, he jerks the wheel — a bit too recklessly considering the weather, in your opinion – and pulls off onto a slippery backroad. The snow seems to have clung to the trees more back here, a sort of incandescent saran wrap over the oaks. At a bend in the road, icicles hang from a yellow sign that says CURVE 30 MPH. Joel takes it at ten.

You’re not checking out his hands while he drives, no, of course not. You’re looking at the gazillion lights on his dashboard display. “You usually have that many lights on?”

“Ain’t your truck, ain’t your business.”

“I’m ridin’ in it, ain’t I?” you mock his accent. 

Joel sighs heavily. “Drivin’ me up the fuckin’ wall.” His hands clench briefly around the wheel. “Auto repair shop’s been price gouging, I’m tryin’ to get Tommy to hook me up with his buddy in San Anton–”

“Won’t be able to drive to San Antonio if your bumper falls off halfway there.”

Joel’s voice is dry as bone. “Ha ha. You get off on bein’ a smartass?”

It’s three words – that’s all it is. Just a throwaway phrase that he probably doesn’t even realize he said. If it were anything more, you’d know. But Joel, saying those words in that order? Damn him, because it turns your blood effervescent. You stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together underneath his coat. You’re about to make another quip that’ll not only distract you, but also surely drive Joel up the wall, one of your favorite activities.

His truck putters from ten miles per hour to eight.

Eight to six.

Six to four.

“Motherfuckin’.... shit,” Joel says again, this time much more urgent as he wrests the wheel to the side. The truck skims over the frosted roads and onto the shoulder, rolls for two seconds, and then falls to a complete, utter stop. The windshield wipers pause while they’re still up. Heat no longer spits out of the dusty air vents.

It’s the loudest silence you’ve ever been in.

“...So do you get off on letting your truck break down or–”

Joel sighs in the way that dogs do. “Thin ice, missy.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls out his phone. “I’ll give Tommy a call.” He stares at the screen for ten seconds. Taps it. Shakes it.

“No service?” you ask.

“No service.”

“Let me try mine,” you mumble, shifting in the car seat. Sure enough, zero bars. Even though you know it won’t work, you press your dad’s contact. It goes straight to voicemail. “Well, shit.”

“Shit,” Joel echoes.

It’s unspoken, but you both know the harsh reality of this harsh wintry night: no phone service, no operational truck, and… no heater.

“Hang tight,” Joel says, reaching over the center console and hijacking his coat from your lap. He wrestles his arms through the sleeves and zips it up. He shoves the door open against the hoarse wind that keeps the trees at a slant, hops out, then slams it shut hard enough for the vehicle to rock. From how hard the wind was blowing, stray flurries dust the truck’s interior.

You can’t really see what he’s doing – the snow’s too heavy, the hood popped wide open for him to investigate the truck’s viscera. You run your hands up and down your thighs, already feeling cold. Without the heater, it won’t be much longer before you turn to an icicle in the passenger seat. The hood bangs back down.

Joel climbs in from the backseat, slams the door as hard as humanly possible, and then scoots to the middle seat. 

You crane your neck to see him as he shakes out his cold-reddened hands before puffing air into his cupped palms. “What’s wrong with it?” You ask. 

He lets out a frigid breath. “Don’t fuckin’ know, snowin’ too damn hard to tell.”

“Ten bucks it was one of the lights on your dash,” you say.

Joel glares at you, still huffing into his hands. His fingertips are bright red to match his ruddy cheeks. Snow is sprinkled through his hair like soot, quickly melting to beads of water on his windblown curls.

“Got some… hand warmers up in that glovebox. Grab the whole pack.”

You lean forward, kneeing it open and rifling through all of his shit. Insurance papers, more receipts, Miller Contracting business cards, a folded pocket knife, lens wipes, and –

“When’s the last time these saw daylight?” you huff out a laugh as you hold up a battered box of condoms. 

Turns out, snow isn’t the thing that makes Joel Miller redder than a tomato. It’s the fifteen year old, very expired condoms hiding in his glovebox.

He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Jesus. Forgot those were in there.”

You shake the box around and pluck a condom out of it. Looking for the expiration date, you turn it over and over in your hand. “August 31st, 2004. Really that long since you got some, Miller?”

“Put ‘em back,” he grumbles. “Pain in my ass.”

You snicker, replacing the condom box with the box of hand warmers. They’re unopened, still sealed. You snatch Joel’s keys out of the ignition and swipe them across the tape. “Happy?” you toss them over your shoulder.

“No.” He tears open the pack and rubs his hands together around the warmer, sighing when it begins to heat.

“Dick,” you grumble.

More tearing. “Brat.” Another warmer lands in your lap.

“Oughta get comfortable. We’re gonna be here a while,” Joel says.

“And whose fault is that?” You ask as you weigh the warmer in your palms. The front seat already feels cramped, and you’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt. Your legs and arms fold like pretzels as you climb into the backseat. The curse that leaves you when you hit your head on the roof has Joel rolling his eyes.

“Pipe down. First thing in the mornin’ I’ll make the walk out to that country club a mile out and use their phone. Just gotta ride out the night. You ain’t ever roughed it before?”

You fall on all fours on the backseat, finally pulling yourself upright next to him. “Never had a reason to. Like, what if I have to piss? What if I get hungry?”

Joel shrugs. “Tough.”

The cold is starting to settle into your bones. Even your tongue feels popsicle numb, and your fingers are stiff where they wrap around the warmer. It’s like you’ve been trapped in a snowglobe and shaken up by a handsy toddler with how the wind rattles the truck and the snow swishes outside. You suppress a shiver, leaning against the door. Condensation is already building on the windows. Absent-mindedly, you begin to trace a portrait of Joel in the moisture. Your fingertip squeaks against the glass. Your masterpiece wouldn’t be complete without his signature scowl, so you’re sure to paint a frown on his face and his forehead wrinkles on thick.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” Joel comments from the opposite side of the back. “Looks nothin’ like me, by the way.”

You smirk, “But you knew it was you.”

Because there’s nothing better to do than burn time, you spend the next ten minutes filling up the window with whatever nonsense doodles come to mind — hearts, stars, trees, and of course, the only one that Joel seems to be fond of: Sarah, smiling and curly-haired.

Reality only settles in when you’re done with the ephemeral illustrations, their outlines starting to dissolve back to regular droplets that streak down the windows. You’re stuck, for God knows how long, on this shady backroad that the Zodiac Killer would’ve loved during his heyday. With your dad’s best friend that you’ve been harboring a dangerous crush on.

And it’d be impossible to forget that it’s freezing fucking balls.

“Joel?” you say into the dark truck.

“Hm?”

Always one to speak your mind, you say, “It’s freezing fucking balls.”

A sound that might be a laugh leaves him. “Here,” Joel says, unzipping his jacket. He tosses it over to you, and you snuggle back up with it, nose burrowing into one of the creases in the fabric. His coat smells like him – like cheap body wash, chewing gum, and gasoline. 

You try putting your hands in the pockets, even going as far as to open up a new hand warmer for each one, but they’re full of loose change and, expectedly, more receipts. When you curl up against the corner between the door and the seat, the hard plastic bites into your oversensitive back. Sitting upright or cross-legged doesn’t work, and when you test drive sitting diagonally with your feet propped up on the console, Joel makes a disproving noise and swats gently at your shin. You prop your forehead up against the window, but it’s cold enough to give you a brain freeze. 

“Jesus Christ,” Joel snorts. “Get over ‘ere, you wuss.” He hauls you over, big hand splayed over your waist, and drags you across the bench to his side. You yelp in surprise, but only for a second before you’re crushed against Joel’s side. “Can’t have ya gettin’ hypothermia,” he jests.

You don’t know where to put your hands, but eventually, you settle on cupping his neck. Touching Joel, hell, even just being near him, is like being by an open furnace. Or maybe the heat is just your stomach doing somersaults at being this close to Joel after years of frivolous pining. His nape emanates warmth, the kind that flows down your arms and wraps comfortingly around your chest.

Joel exhales, the tendrils of his breath curling from the frigidity. He grabs his coat from the side and flattens it over the both of you, a piss poor replacement for a blanket, but all you’ve got.

Still, cold seeps in through the cracks in the doors, spoiling whatever lukewarm air remains. It doesn’t help that Joel had hopped in and out of the truck to play eye spy under the hood. The truck struggles to hold onto heat properly, especially when it isn’t producing more of it.

Joel sort of… flickers against your back. You think nothing of it until it happens again, this time in short bursts, and then turns into full on shivering.

“Who’s the wuss now, old man?”

Joel tenses up behind you. “Funny,” he says. With your hands cushioned against his neck, you feel the grate of his voice in his throat. “This is the best you’re gonna get unless you wanna be butt ass naked to share heat.”

It should be a joke. But the way he says it… doesn’t sound like a joke.

You go still, lifeless, not even sure if you’re shaking anymore. Because now, the only thought in your head is being pressed against Joel, his soft cock hardening against you, his palms splayed and rubbing over your stomach to keep you warm. And if his cock needed to get somewhere warmer, too…. Your clit twitches at the thought.

You smother the initial shock in your voice with your usual solution: sass. “So what, we’re gonna fuckin’ huddle for warmth?”

As much as you enjoy the idea, you're already dripping — and that’s just from your body being pressed against his, breathing the same air as him, closer now than you’ve ever been before. With no panties in the way, it’s not a stretch to say you’d be dripping down his thighs. You’d hate to have that conversation.

“Would you rather freeze to death?” Joel asks. You look up at him from where you’re curled into his side and find no gleam in his eyes. This isn’t just some knee-slapper for him. Joel Miller is being completely, irreversibly serious.

“I’d rather something less like Naked and Afraid, Joel!”

“It works,” he says, nose flaring. “They do it in those fuckin’... action movies all ‘a the time.”

“I didn’t know Hollywood was writing survival manuals for pervs–”

“God, you’re a piece ‘a work, ya know that?” His eyes flick down to you, and maybe it’s just the fact that this road is damn near pitch black, but his pupils seem larger than before. “Listen, I ain’t tryna perv on ya. I also ain’t tryna send you back to your old man with four fingers missin’ from frostbite.”

There’s no way you’re actually seriously considering this. You’ve heard of cold temperatures impairing thinking, but not like this. Your dad’ll go chasing after Joel with a pitchfork and a shovel if he finds out the man who was supposed to get you home safe and sound was cuddling naked with you. Cuddling naked with you in the backseat, no less. You’re certain Joel won’t try anything – he’s not like that. No matter how flustered you get in his lap, he’d never take advantage of you. What you aren’t certain of is your ability to stop yourself from asking him t0 take advantage of you.

This is practical. It’s only supposed to be practical. He wouldn’t be suggesting something this drastic if you both weren’t shaking like a rattlesnake’s rattler.

“Fine,” you say, already unwinding your scarf from around your neck. Determined to keep some semblance of boundaries up, you add, “No peeping, Miller.”

Joel makes an exasperated sound as you once again scoot out from his coat and across the bench, working yourself out of your shoes, your cotton zip-up, and then the stiff Keith’s uniform – a blue polo and jeans. Joel’s eyes are respectfully trained on the truck’s floor mats, which you’re only just now noticing has a sun-bleached Lisa Frank sticker tacked onto it. 

Down to your bra and panties, your heart rate picks up. Your fingers are so fucking cold that it’s hard to get your bra straps out of the way so you can unclasp the damned thing, and then it falls to the floor. Your nipples harden in the face of the cold. The only thing you keep is your scarf, which do you do your best to cover your tits with. Scooping up your discarded clothes and tossing them to the front seat, you let out a shaky breath.

Fuck it.

You shimmy out of your panties and get rid of them just as quickly. When you try telling Joel you’re decent, or rather indecent, nothing comes out. Instead, you have to clear your throat with a strained,  “All good.”

“Alright,” Joel says, rustling around. You hear his crocs scrape against the mat, and then his shirt swishing over his head.

He doesn’t tell you to look away, but since it’s implied, you look out of the window. The snowy trees tremble in the wind, and you almost wince when you see a small sliver of his tanned skin reflected in the glass. His crocs clunk on the ground when he kicks them off, and you watch his criminally tight t-shirt go flying over the passenger seat. You casually grip the Jesus handle, hoping that Joel doesn’t notice your fist tightening around it when you hear him untying the drawstrings of his sweatpants. When his sweats and boxers follow the path of his shirt, breathing gets a lot harder than you remember it being.

Just an hour ago, you’d been certain that this would be nothing more than a ten minute drive. Maybe, if you were lucky, he’d call you a casual pet name that would fuel the wriggling of your hand between your thighs that night. 

The tension in the air is thicker than molasses. Each breath you take is fragile.

“I’m ready when you are,” Joel says.

Since you’re already half-naked, and since chickening out is out of the question, you inch over to Joel’s side. The air tumbles out of your lungs in one fell swoop when your bicep meets his. With some fidgeting, you bring your legs up at an angle beneath you, wrapping around his side in a way that has you feeling a little bit like a koala. You talk yourself into keeping your eyes forward and then scrub your palms across your freezing arms.

Joel, more indifferent than you think anyone else in this situation could be, abruptly casts his coat back over the both of you.

And, fuck him, he’d been right. The engulfing canvas of his coat keeps warmth trapped where it can be passed easily between the two of you. Or maybe it’s just being confined and skin-to-skin with Joel that has you heating up.

The silence is cruel – it’s much harder to make conversation about work or dollhouses or whatever the hell else when you’re naked. Only the wind’s sibilance keeps you company.

You can get used to this, you think. Drift off into a somewhat sound sleep with your head on Joel’s shoulder and hope that you don’t drool all over him or moan his name in your sleep. More embarrassing things have happened to you.

But then, as if you’re the unluckiest person alive, the temperature drops even more, and suddenly, you’re shaking like a leaf all over again. Your teeth almost clack together as you try to stammer out to Joel, “C–cold, Jesus fucking… Christ that’s cold.”

Joel pouts down at you, but you don’t miss the way his lip quivers. “Should I call the wambulance?”

“Should I call the r–r–r–retirement home to pi…pick up a ru–runaway resident?” It sounded a lot better in your head than bouncing off of your frozen tongue, you have to admit.

“Drama queen,” Joel mutters into your ear. “Can’t do anythin’ more about it. Sorry–”

“Can I sit on your lap?” you blurt out so quickly that you don’t even have time to think about it. You grimace, partially covering your face with your hands. Shit.

Joel’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

You’re already half doomed. Why not go all the way? “Listen, it’s just fucking… fucking freezing, Joel. Holy shit.”

“That bad?” he chokes out.

“You’d be warmer than the seats,” you defend. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Best behavior.”

Joel seems to ponder it for a moment, brows stitched together while he looks down at you from where you’re furled up against his side. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek before giving you a slight nod. “Alright.” You nod in return, heart in your throat. “–But you better mean it when you say best behavior. Can’t have any ‘a this shit gettin’ back to your dad.”

Another nod. You hold your breath as you shinny your way onto Joel’s lap, mounting him from the front so his chest hits your back. In your attempt to get comfortable, you bracket your legs around his. His soft cock fits at the small of your back, and even though he’s as flaccid as can be, he’s big. Apparently your imagination isn’t too far off. Joel’s sharp intake of breath forms a pit in your stomach, and you know when you’re warming up for an entirely different reason than close proximity, you also know that you need to calm yourself down. Fast.

Think of something awful. Like that time that you had to dissect cow eyes in sophomore year biology. Think about mold. How many murderers you’ll walk by in your lifetime. Expired leftovers. Anything–

You adjust yourself in an attempt to get away from Joel’s cock. Instead, your hips move just so his cock slips between your thighs and bobs against your slit.

You whine.

Your body immediately locks up once you realize what you’ve done. Crawling out of the truck to die a hypothermia-induced death seems like a much kinder fate than facing Joel, but no matter how much you scream at yourself to reach out and unlock the door, your hands refuse to move. You hadn’t noticed how wet you’d gotten, and you have no idea how. It’s smeared across your thighs, and now pressed up against your back after Joel’s dick had dragged through it all.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit–

Chancing a look over your shoulder, you’re surprised to find the tips of Joel’s ears flushed, cheeks cherry ripe. His Adam’s apple bobs when you meet his eyes. Holy fuck.

You’ve flustered him.

For some reason, the thought makes your chest a lot lighter. You look away nonetheless, but this time, with a newfound gleam in your eye. There’s no such thing as a bad accident, right?

Maybe Liz was right about having to call 911, because when you ‘accidentally’ repeat the movement, Joel stops breathing all together. His cock, almost hard now, you’ve noticed, bumps against your clit. You almost swallow your tongue trying to keep your moan down.

“The fuck you think you’re doin’?” he asks, his gruff voice scratching at your ears.

“I didn’t mean to,” you lie straight through your teeth, a smug little grin spreading on your face. Something about his semi-hard cock between your bodies tells you he’s going to say no to your next suggestion. “Maybe you should put the coat between us, instea–”

“Are you outta your fuckin’ mind, girl?” Joel’s voice comes out raspy. He shakes his head, clears his throat. The vibrations rumble up your spine. “And take away the whole point of stayin’ warm? Now quit it. Ain’t that hard to sit still.”

You try your hand at listening – for all of two seconds.

You hike your hips up, fumbling with his coat as you slot his cock against your slit once more, pushing yourself forward. The coat slides right off of you, falling in a dark lump on the floor. Neither of you care — you’re both too heated for the lack of cover to make a damn difference. Joel hisses, a sound like water hitting an open flame. His hands fly down to your waist, anchoring you to his lap. A surprised noise squeaks out of you.

“What, you got rocks rattlin’ around in your brain?” Joel scowls. “You’re real impolite for a cocktease, sweetheart.”

Butterflies flap around in your stomach from his words. It’s enough to make your head tip against his chest so you can look up at him, lips shaped in a perfect pout. “I’m not,” you say.

“Not a cocktease, huh? Not even when you’re rubbin’ all over my lap?”

You gasp as your hands fly down to cover Joel’s, nails etching into where his fingers meet your bare skin. You tug at his wrist, trying desperately to guide him where you so desperately need him.

“Not happenin’,” Joel grunts, yanking your hands behind you and pinning them to your waist like you’re nothing more than a poseable doll. His large, work-worn hands make yours look damn near miniature as he holds you down. The sudden roughness douses your inner thighs with a new wave of wetness. “Jesus, girl. Poor thing, gettin’ all hot and bothered. Don’t blame ya for tryna get me to help out. Can feel ya dripping down my legs, gushin’ like a sprinkler.”

“S–sorry, fuck, ‘m sorry,” you whisper, words sticky with your arousal. Your clit twitches from his words, embarrassment and need doing all the work to keep you warm.

“Nahhh,” he says. “I don’t think you are, baby.” Maybe it’s the condescension he’s purring in your ear, maybe it’s the pet name; most likely, it’s a combination of both that has you convulsing in his lap. It’s like he’s found all of the right buttons to press to get you riled up, getting you back for all of your snide comments earlier. 

His fingers find the fabric of your scarf, luring it off of your neck so he can cord it around your wrists. You squirm when you realize what he’s doing, and a breathless huff of his laughter brushes your cheek. “I’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna be, though.” He draws it tight, tight enough for you to feel your pulses bumping into each other. Joel leaves a fair amount of your unreasonably long scarf loose.

“Joel, what the fuck are you up to?”

“Teachin’ you some sweet southern belle etiquette, darlin’. Such a goddamn troublemaker, grindin’ on me like I’m some kinda… frat boy.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “Pullin’ that shit with your pops’ friend. Real fuckin’ classy.”

“Like you’re so different. Who’s the one that’s tying me up? Huh, Mil–”

You hear the hit well before you feel it, a firm whack to your cunt that makes your vision blacken and electricity scurrying up your spine. It takes you a second to come back to yourself before a ragged cry pulls its way out of your lips. You jolt in his lap, bound arms bobbing in front of you as your body instinctively lurches for control. You damn near kick your feet, accidentally ricocheting yourself into Joel’s chest. His forearms hold you there. 

“Guess I’ll make it crystal clear for ya, baby, since that dumb lil’ head ‘a yours is havin’ some trouble. My truck, my rules. You’re ridin’ in it, ain’t you?” You nod reluctantly as he turns your words from earlier in his favor. “That was a warnin’, you showoff. Think you can bat your slutty ‘fuck me’ eyes an’ get away with murder.” He fucking tsks at you.

He pulls his hand away from your pussy, and you’re both surprised and not surprised at all to see it covered in your arousal, webbed between his calloused fingers. 

“Got a whole goddamn slip ‘n slide down here…” murmurs Joel. You whine, bucking your hips against him. “Oughta just…” he starts, nudging his cock towards your hole. The noise you make is pathetic. “Stop ya from ruinin’ my seats. Cork you right up.” You tense up, fully expecting the intrusion, but his dick passes your cunt right up, instead sliding up to meet your clit. It taps against your swollen nub, and if his goal was to stop you from ruining his seats, you’re certain he’s already failed with how quickly you gush all over the upholstery.

“But that’d be real nice, wouldn’t it? Givin’ ya what ya want so early on…” Instead of pulling away like you expect, Joel griiiinds the head of his cock against your clit. You moan helplessly, head falling back across his shoulder.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And agai–

“Joooooel,” you whine, knees jerking each time his tip meets your most sensitive spot. Heat spins in your stomach.

He backs his hips up “What? Thought you loved this with how much you were gettin’ at it earlier.”

You shake your head rapidly in the negative, chest rising and falling at a breakneck pace while he teases you.

“So you can deal, but you can’t play?”

“I think you’re just taking your sweet old time getting it up, old man,” you grit out, knowing damn well he’s stiffer than titanium behind you.

Joel hums. “Ah, she’s got jokes.” His cock slips back, quickly replaced by his hand engulfing your mound. Your clit twitches ever so slightly against his palm lines, and you’re almost convinced you could get off from that alone. His palm cracks against your cunt again, somehow even harder than the first time. You cry out, eyes burning from arousal and the slightest edge of pain.

With his thumbpad, he taps your clit like he’s just scrolling through the cable guide with a remote. Fleeting movements that have you wanting more more more. It heals the sting of his slap even if the echo of the hit still simmers in your stomach. Your cunt throbs so hard that it hurts, jumping up to meet Joel’s scarce ministrations.

When he retracts his hand, your hips chase the movement. “See this?” he taunts, fluttering his wet fingers in front of your face. You make a choked noise when his drenched middle finger breaches your lips. He doesn’t even need to tell you; you latch on and suck yourself off of his calloused skin. You’re mostly salty, but a little sweet, and tasting yourself on your own tongue by his insistence manages to make you even wetter.

Joel takes his spare fingers, just as soaked, and smears them all around your chin and lower cheeks. He presses down on your tongue as he does. You gag from the pressure, and you can’t hear his laugh over the roaring of your blood in your ears, but you feel it rattle his chest where it meets your spine. Your slick cools quickly against your burning skin, syrupy as it clings to your face. “Need a bib, baby?”

He pulls his finger from your mouth with a pop and your scarf-wrapped hands spring to wipe yourself from your lips, hoping to save yourself from the humiliation of having your own pussy juice anointing your face. You only scoop up a little before Joel lowers his forearm over yours, but for once, you’re faster than him. You swipe your wet hand over his mouth, smudging as much as you can along the scruff surrounding his mouth.

He wraps a burly hand in the scarf and yanks your hands back into place. All you can do in response is giggle, but the breath is swiftly knocked out of you when he drives his cock right into your clit. “Think you’re funny, don’t ya?” He asks, and finally grunts as he rolls his hip into you. A break in his resolve, a sign that he wants this, or at least the discipline of this, as badly as you do.

You almost weep from the pressure, that rope of pleasure in your stomach that he keeps knotting tighter and tighter and tighter with each stroke of his cock, his fingers. “Joel!” you cry out as he follows it up with another firm swat to your clit. His cock spreads your folds as he softens the bashing, nuzzling his tip against your spasming cunt.

“Really, oughta give standup a go one ‘a these days. Be a real hotshot.”

“Oh yeah?” you pant, light headed and woozy.

“Mhm. If the whole crowd’s drunk.” His cock nudges your nub with a new vigor.

“Assh–”

Right as you’re about to press down and follow the sensation, Joel senses it. His cock gives way through your cheeks, just in time for him to land a ruthless slap across your pussy. It’s harder than the others – makes your ears ring for a second, gives you a sort of visual snow that has you doubling over and gripping at the closest object for purchase, which just so happens to be the metal rods coming out of the headrest. 

“Ain’t what you should be sayin’ if you’re plannin’ on gettin’ what you want, sugar,” Joel tuts. He shakes his head at you. “Don’t wanna hear no lip from ya, girl.”

You open your mouth, argument on the tip of your drool-loaded tongue, but your halfhearted attempt at defiance doesn’t last long. Joel’s hand clamps around your chin, denting your skin into your teeth. He jerks your head to face him, knocking you down a peg with scathing eye contact. “You’re pushin’ it.” He loosens his grip.

“As if, Miller. If those pre-Cold War condoms are anything to go by, you’ve been dying for a chance to get your dick wet. Doesn’t matter how much lip I give you, you aren’t gonna blue ball yourself for much longer.” Satisfied, you raise your brows at him.

Turns out, he is going to blue ball himself for much longer, because he lands six slaps in rapid succession across your sopping cunt. The skin smarts, and you cry out. Your grip tightens around the headrest rod to the point of strangling it. Your eyes water, and you can’t tell if you’re crying. Too consumed by Joel, everything has melted into him – the smell of sawdust perpetually sewn into his skin, his cock sealed against your body.

“How many times are ya gonna poke the bear before you learn your lesson, you cheeky little shit?” Joel’s palm cups the inside of your right thigh, just above the knee. He traces circles with his thumb, and heat trails after him with everywhere he touches. “See, the thing about havin’ ‘pre-Cold War condoms’ is that I’ve had a helluva lot more time to learn self control than you. Can wait as loooooong as it takes for you to get your head on right. Don’t matter if you’re waterfallin’ down my seats or not, pretty girl. I’m giving you exactly what ya deserve.”

You whimper, trying (and failing) to get your magma hot core closer to Joel’s unfairly large hand, still splayed out on your inner thigh. You can’t stop how you squirm in his lap, smearing your arousal everywhere with each movement you make.

At a snail’s pace, his hand begins to inch up your leg. Joel pauses to grope at you as his hand travels upward. Handfuls of your skin, rubbing at your scalding hot thighs. Your patience is wearing thin by the time he gets midway there. You need him to touch you. And that’s just the tip of this impossibly destructive iceberg.

You shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have let him go down this shitty backroad, shouldn’t have agreed to your dad’s ridiculous idea of Joel picking you up, shouldn’t have asked to be naked on his lap, shouldn’t have gotten naked on his lap, shouldn’t be leaking like a twenty-year-old pipe in a building he’d been hired to renovate. If your dad ever finds out–

“Joel, please, please – plea…” you trail off, dissolving into incoherent whimpers as his hand hovers over your cunt. You’re running hotter than a radiator now, and if you both wanted to be warm, then you’ve got your wish. Although mostly gibberish, Joel has to understand what you want from him. It’s just that the bastard is unwilling to provide.

Joel reaches down to pinch your clit, and your body can’t even discern from pleasure and pain anymore. You react the same to it all, back arching as you try desperately to plant yourself on his cock. “Shhh, shhh, quit runnin’ your filthy mouth. Only gonna get yourself into more trouble.”

You swear you hear angels singing, swear you see the pearly gates when he gives your clit a merciful rub. Melting into him, you exhale shakily.

“See? All nice ‘n quiet when she’s gettin’ what she wants.” You wouldn’t even dream of mouthing off to him now.

“I want – I need…” you gasp out, putty in his hands. Moldable to his liking. Everything you’d pretended not to want.

“Go on,” he coos. “Tell daddy what you need.”

You don’t even hear him say that word. You’re too hooked on begging, begging, begging. “Please – Joel, oh god, please – I need… I need… please please please, fuck, it hurts–”

Joel clicks his tongue. “Nuh uh. Start over. Always such a chatterbox ‘cept for when I need ya to be.”

“Wha…?” you ask, admittedly dazed from the harsh treatment that you’ve come to crave more of.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he repeats, words molasses slow.

You clench, gushing even more all over him. Shit, your next paycheck might have to go to replacing the goddamn seats if you keep up like this.

“D–D… D-” you start stammering out, but you’ve lost autonomy over your body long ago, and apparently that goes for your tongue, too. “Da– Da… pl–”

“Any day now,” he scoffs.

“Daddy!” you spit out all at once. “Please, please, daddy, fuck – fuck me, daddy, please, I want your cock, daddy. Feels so fucking big. Need it daddy, it hurts… please, ngh– daddy!” Tears are burning the corners of your eyes, fueled almost entirely by arousal and partially by frustration. You squirm, cunt crying all over the place. 

“M’kay, baby,” he says. Running a hand down your chest and squeezing your nipple on the way down. He slides his hand down your stomach to cup your mound, giving your clit slow, gentle circles. Your hips jump forward, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. “Daddy’s got ya.”

At the first intrusion of his middle finger in your cunt, you jump. It’s a lot compared to what he’s been giving you, but nowhere near enough. A second finger slips inside. He doesn’t have to do much work to stretch you out — you’ve been seeping out of you since you first got on his lap. He’s all too quick thrusting them in and out of you – the messy squelch of your pussy filling the backseat has you burying your chin against your chest, averting your eyes. The heel of his palm bumps persistently at your clit with each shift of his fingers inside of you.

“I know you ain’t a virgin, but you’re soakin’ like one. Too damn cocksure to ain’t have had a cock in ya before. Prancin’ around like a glorified dick trap.” You inhale sharply when his fingers scrape that spongy spot inside of you that you can never reach yourself. A moan rips out of you. The combination of him talking down to you and rubbing your g-spot has you dangerously close to cumming. Your moan is quickly swallowed up by more of Joel’s condescension. 

He starts mumbling to himself then, obscenities that make you clench even tighter around his fingers. “Gonna get you all sore baby, make you regret beggin’ for this dick like a horny ‘lil bitch that ain’t ever been laid in her life. Fuck you so hard you’ll be cryin’ for daddy’s cock up your ass instead, turn you into an anal slut, too.” He’s too busy listening to himself talk, too absorbed in his own world to feel you balancing on that razor-thin edge.

The noise you make is inhuman. You pulse around him, doing your best to stave off your impending release. “Daddy–” you warn, but he cuts you off then, too. Joel grinds his cock between your ass cheeks, his precum dripping down your slit to meet your trembling cunt. 

“Ever been fucked here before baby?” He swipes his tip along your asshole, and the way you shudder is answer enough for him. “Don’t get all jumpy, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna fuck ya there right now. Be cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” Still, he replaces his tip with his free hand’s thumb, simply rubbing at the ring of muscle. You fidget in his lap without an end-goal. You just want to be close to him, want to take everything he’s willing to give you. His fingers hook just right inside of you. “Would love to be the first to unlock this pretty backdoor. If this tight ‘lil pussy’s anything to go by… Christ. You’d look so pretty squirmin with my cock in your ass, baby–”

“Daddy!” You scream as your orgasm guts you. His fingers and his voice rip your climax right out of you and your cum streams down your inner thighs and Joel’s hand, still smacking against your clit with each thrust. Your cunt spasms around his flexing fingers. He has to fold an arm over your chest to keep you from sliding off his slippery lap entirely.

All the way through the aftershocks that make your limbs quake, Joel holds you upright against his body, still bumping his palm and fingertips against your clit and g-spot. You swear you can feel him smiling against your shoulder.

“Didn’t tell ya you could cum, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, flicking his cum covered finger across your clit. You wince in overstimulation, a whine catching in your throat.

“‘M sorry, daddy,” you pant. His hands go up to 

“‘S okay, babygirl. Pretty pussy couldn’t help it when I was talkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ your ass, huh?” His hands rove up your stomach to play with your tits, palming and stroking, getting his hands all over every carnal part of you.

You hum into his bicep, “Mmmm.”

“That’s alright. Don’t mean you’re gettin’ away with a slap on the wrist though. C’mon, up,” he guides with a small slap to your thigh. You adjust, bringing yourself onto your knees so he can enter you from behind. You look down at his sturdy thighs, flexing as he adjusts himself between your legs. He gives you one more teasing thrust through your thighs, poking your oversensitive clit one more time before reaching down to spread your folds.

You moan as he presses against your entrance, and it’s not the best time to have a come to Jesus moment, but – Joel’s size was in no way over exaggerated between your legs. You stiffen in realization, and Joel, attentive as always, notices. He guides your chin to face him and nuzzles his nose up against yours, mouth tracing down to your lips. Your breath mingles, stagnant in the long-forgotten chill. A cushion of softness against all of his spiky edges that showed up tonight. “You’re on top, baby. Take it as slow or as fast as ya want.”

Nodding at the reminder, you find yourself that you don’t want to take it slow. You want to be as sore as he’d promised, want to feel him for days and be reminded of this every time you look at the winter morning’s frost on the shingles outside.

Sinking down over his throbbing length yanks the air out of your lungs as you seat yourself with him bottoming out and going balls deep in your cunt simultaneously. He grunts against you in surprise, softening the blow of your heady moan. “Attagirl,” he huffs into the crease between your neck and shoulder. It’s a stretch, searing up your thighs and to your lower back. You’re brought back to yourself when Joel rolls his hips into you, making the pain liquefy into mind-numbing pleasure. You spend thirty seconds waiting for him to fuck up into you in a way that changes your philosophy around the world, but instead, he’s still and solid inside of you.

“Go on,” Joel coaxes, placing a steady hand just shy of your mound. “Gotta prove you deserve to cum again.” He taps your thigh as if he’s telling you to giddy up, and the shame warms the back of your neck better than any heater ever could.

You whimper. His hands coast up your thighs, squeezing your hips tight before falling to grip the seats below. You’re still weak from your last orgasm, shaky legs struggling to hold yourself up as it is. “Daddy… I can’t…” 

“Ain’t no different than fuckin’ y’self on that vibrator or dildo or whatever the fuck’s in your nightstand. Girl like you, gotta have a wimpy ‘lil fucktoy somewhere.” His words make you clench around him, and he groans into your neck. Joel looks up at the front window, now covered in snowflakes. He smirks when he spots the rearview mirror. “Oughta make you watch yourself. Show a pathetic, cockstarved slut what happens when she bites off more than she can chew.” At that, you mewl, grinding yourself down. The chuckle he lets out is lined with cruelty.

Joel pins you to his chest with one burly arm and leans forward with a hash of grunts from effort. He reaches out towards the rearview mirror, lowering it to face the middle seat that you’re both braced on. He sinks back quickly, and it almost gives you whiplash before you make eye contact with yourself. You can see everything. Tremors travel up your legs and into your arms. Your body is getting freezer burn from how cold and hot you are at the same time. Pleasured tears threaten to spill over your waterline. Joel’s smug fucking face as he murmurs endlessly at you. 

Your mouth is parted as you take yourself in, truly a pathetic, pretty little picture as you pant. “C’mon,” Joel coaxes, squeezing your ass. “You can do it. Make daddy proud. I’ll even give you a boost.” Joel reaches to your tied hands and quickly undoes the scarf, letting it drop to the floor. You flex your fingers and then reach out for the chairs ahead to get a good grip.

You prop yourself up on your knees, anchoring yourself to the two chairs in front of you. Using a combination of your upper and lower body strength, you rise halfway off of Joel’s cock before your body gives out. His balls slap wetly against your clit. He laughs, still not touching you at all. Your head flops forward as you look down to where the two of you meet, and then at the mirror where his cock is buried deep inside of you. You whine in dismay.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to get you sore. You can only moan. It’s pleasure like you’ve never had it before – too much, not enough, painful, so good. “Please, Joel – I can’t… can’t handle it.”

“I’ll decide what you can handle,” he says.

“You’re– you’re so fucking mean,” you rasp.

“Gets you this soaked, baby. Don’t see your pussy complainin’. You love bein’ treated like a piece ‘a meat. Like a little fleshlight for men to fuck.”

You clench, tight. “Ah!” Joel fucking sniggers behind you, but a rush of confidence spills through you at the underlying moan in his throat.

Determined to get what you want, you tighten your grip on the front seats. Haul yourself up, almost so that the tip slips right out, and then collapse back onto Joel’s cock. And, shit, it’s a lot. You doubt you could handle his cock in missionary, but being made to ride him in such a compromising position, sprawled out across his shitty backseat? That’s an entirely different animal, one that you hadn’t expected to have to handle.

You focus on doing just enough to please him and just enough to keep yourself intact. You repeat your movements two or three times, rising and falling. Little moans and whimpers, some pained, some good when he nudges your g-spot just right, slip in and out of you.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it. Daddy’s ‘lil wannabe pocket pussy. Doin’ a ‘lil better baby. Keep doin’ that. Jus’ keep doin’ that.”

You’re shaking like a leaf on his cock as you somehow manage to lift yourself another time before fucking back on him. “Daaaddy.” Your lips quiver as you form the word. A single tear runs down your face from overexertion, and he’s quick to wipe it up with his thumb as if it was never there. You look truly whorish and pathetic, just like he’d wanted, bouncing on his cock with the last of the energy you have left in you.

His tip jabs against that goddamn spot again, and you double over on the center console. You take heaving breaths, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror, desperate to please as you attempt to keep humping him with the change in angle. You’re letting out strings of disoriented words, but barely can tell that you’re talking.

“I fuck you dumb already? Slutty little girl. Told ya you were in for it. Ain’t ever had much of a knack for listenin’. Gonna dick you down now, sweet girl.” He drags your legs into the crook of his elbows, holding you upright for him as he shifts to his knees between your legs. Braced on the center console with your pussy settled on his cock, the new angle makes you cry out. You hold yourself up on your elbows, giving shallow rolls of your hips in return as Joel gets settled inside of you.

The first thrust makes your eyes roll back so far that you see black. “Feel good?”

“So… so fu–fucking goo… good daddy,” you whimper into the console, gripping the sides of it just so you have something to hold onto.

“Swallowin’ daddy’s dick whole in this greedy cunt. Goddamn, drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. Such a masochistic slut, all after a poundin’ from an old man. All up in a tizzy for this cock.”

You moan your agreement, completely submissive to Joel’s wills. You move like a ragdoll for him, letting him yank you back on his cock while he meets you there, thrust for thrust. He pulls out, a small mercy, but when he sheathes himself back inside of you in full, it’s the beginning of a punishing pace.

You don’t even notice yourself drooling all over the console until Joel says something about it. “Droolin’ from two places. Yeah, baby, you needed this. Daddy’s pretty cockslut.” You whine especially loudly when Joel drags you back across the console, damn near fast enough to give your stomach rugburn. 

Hands framing your spread legs, Joel hooks them both around his torso, using the leverage to plow into you. You’re boneless beneath him, mouth frozen in silent moans. His hips meet your ass with each shove of his cock in your sloppy cunt, the obscene sound of slap after slap pealing out within the truck. “Damn lucky we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Joel growls on another thrust. “Someone woulda been knockin’ on the window long time ago with how loud you’re bein’.”

“Mmph,” you gasp when Joel tosses one of your legs up and over the passenger seat. You hold yourself there as he digs his fingers into your other thigh, shifting his spare hand to your mound.

“Daddy please please please plea–” you start panting like a broken record, desperate to feel his hand on your clit, which throbs with inattention on the console. You grind frantically on the edge just in case he denies you again. 

Joel laughs above you, fully smudging two fingers across your clit in a blur of indescribable pleasure. “Ain’t gonna make ya beg this time. Can’t wait to feel ya creamin’ ‘round me… maybe I’ll make ya lick that up too. Nasty bitch.”

“Joooel, oh fuck, please…” you whine as he continues railing you, this time fiercely tweaking your clit in-time with his movements.

The new position has his thrusts meeting your cervix, and you scream, pleasure corkscrewing through your body. There’s nowhere for all of it to go with how viciously it burns in your stomach – all you can do is take it and whine for him. “Takin’ it real good. See what happens when ya behave? You get this fat cock splittin’ your whore cunt in two, jus’ like you were askin’ for.”

He grips your hip tight, clearly expecting an answer. You slur, “Mhm, daddy!”

Joel rubs faster circles around your clit, spouting filth while he drills your pussy. You can tell he’s chasing his own release, too, hips frantically fucking in and out of you, his cock twitching every single time you clench. You’re burning up as he jackhammers your pussy. Your second orgasm of the night brims low in your stomach, “Come on, baby, know you’re close. Feel this slutty pussy squeezin’ me. You gonna ask permission like a good girl this time, or are ya gonna go back to your defiant little slut self?”

“No, daddy,” you whimper, suspended in thin air over orgasmic bliss. He’s rubbing your clit erratically, doing everything he can to hold you in place. “P-please daddy, can I come?” You practically scream it out.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Come for daddy’s, come allll over daddy’s cock.”

The band snaps. Your back arches, and you feel time stop in the second before you fall slack on the console, spasming from the best orgasm of your fucking life. Your clit feels like there’s fucking pop rocks on it, something that not even your vibrator has ever achieved. “Thank you daddy!” you cry out, repeating it as you lose all feeling in your bones. You hardly have any control over your body anymore – it’s just Joel Joel Joel Joel. Sated and weary, you just lay there, letting Joel fuck into you.

And fuck into you he does – roughly, helping you ride out your orgasm as he pursues his. “That’s my girl,” he says, and you swear that alone could make you cum all over again. “Lettin’ your daddy use this juicy, well-fucked cunt to get his own.” He can’t hold back his moans, that’s how you know he’s close, grunting and gasping as he rocks his hips into yours. His hand lands on your ass in a sharp smack, and your pussy clenches in exactly the way that he expected. He lets out a particularly ragged noise, folding himself over you to nip at your neck and rest his forehead against your shoulder blade. “Daddy’s close, where do ya want me, baby?”

“Tits,” you whine. It’s a miracle you can even get that one word out, but somehow, you manage a few more. “Come on my tits, daddy.”

“Fuck!” Joel shouts, yanking himself over you. You help him roll yourself over and sit up on your elbows, and he jerks himself once, twice, before spraying his load all over your tits with the loudest groan yet. His brows fold together as he cums, eyes drooping and his mouth parted as he takes deep breaths.

You sit there for a handful of heavy minutes, listening to each other’s jagged breathing and the sawtoothed wind outside. You’re both so fucked. Literally, and figuratively. Stuck in the buttfuck middle of nowhere, you with your dad’s proclaimed bestie’s cum drying on your tits, and said bestie staring at you with post-coital puppy dog eyes and your cum all over his balls.

You’re the first to speak up, still winded. “That was… that was good.”

Joel nods mindlessly, tongue swiping out to lick his lips. He beckons you closer, and on trembling legs, you bring yourself to the backseat. You return to your previous position, huddled up and curled next to the door. Joel fumbles around under the back bench for a little until he comes up with a small, sunbleached pack of princess-themed pocket tissues that have to be as old as Sarah is. He dabs at your chest before stuffing them into the closest empty cupholder, and then brings you closer to his chest.

You don’t notice yourself falling asleep when all you can feel is Joel.

There’s better ways to wake up than a furious rapping on the window, but that isn’t the first thing you notice. You blink your eyes open groggily, only to face an egg yolk sun cracking wide open over the treeline and snowmelt bleeding out from every given surface. Joel’s behind you, nose in your neck, snoring softly with his arms wrapped around your middle. You take a moment to admire him – his sun kissed skin and his peaceful expression. It takes you a moment to remember you slept with him. You slept with Joel, and it was the best fuck of your life.

You’re stretching, on the verge of a yawn, when you see the familiar head of black hair over the window. “Shit!” you shout. Joel jerks to life behind you, mumbling something that sounds a lot like ‘what?’. 

You scramble to pull the coat over the both of you from where it fell off of you in the middle of the night, covering your naked bodies. “Get dressed!” you hiss to Joel, searching for wherever the fuck your panties ended up last night.

“What the hell’s gotten into ya–” he starts, and you feel the exact moment that he realizes Tommy Miller is outside of the truck. “Motherfucker,” he curses, swaying towards the front seat to snag his clothes. You see him almost put his head through his T-shirt armhole three times before he gets it right. His sweatpants are next, which he tugs up his bare legs without even searching for his boxers.

“Joel?” Tommy shouts outside. “Wake up, sleepin’ beauty!” He knocks on the door again, the windows blurry from melting snow. You have that to thank, at least. It buys you enough time to tug your polo over your head, but not enough time to button it all the way up.

“Fuckin’... dumbass,” Joel huffs as he clips the lock on the door and kicks it open, looking at least somewhat composed. You take deep breaths, looking between the two of them. “How’d you find us?”

Tommy looks Joel up and down, scrutinizing him. “What happened to southern gentleman manners? I came out here to save ya from Mt. Everest, brother! Least you could say is ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you,” you fill in for Joel, even if the last thing you’re feeling is grateful.

“Her daddy threw a hissy fit, y’know? Told him you were fine and we’d go lookin’ for ya in the mornin’. We saw all that backup on the highway, I went this way, he went that way, turns out my gut was right. ‘Course my dumbass brother would take this route… hey, you’re truck’s a fuckin’ mess.” Tommy sinks his hand into the closest cupholder, pulling out a wad of tissues that have been soaked in his cum. You hiss as if you’ve been scalded with boiling hot water.

Joel starts, “Tommy–”

“What the fuck is this shit?” The realization seems to dawn on poor Tommy when he’s peeling apart the tissues, and he drops them like they’re a thousand pounds. You can’t even bring yourself to scold him for littering as the wind carries them away. “Joel. You dirty dog!” He says, eyes flitting between the two of you like it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

Your heart picks up to a speed that can rival most NASCAR drivers and your face burns like hot asphalt. You look pointedly down at the ground.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joel seethes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get outta here, you little shit.”

Tommy’s hands go up. “Hey now, I ain’t doin’ anything. That is not a conversation I wanna have with her daddy.” He clears his throat, effectively clearing the air along with it. “So, uh, truck break down?” Joel grunts in affirmation.

“Been tellin’ ya you need to make a stop at the auto shop… C’mon, I’ll get y'all home,” Tommy says, jingling the keys to his own truck. “Call a tow on the way.”

Joel drags his feet all the way to Tommy’s passenger side. You get your wallet and jacket together, winding the latter around your waist. The sun almost blinds you on your way out, and Tommy stops you.

“I hope you didn’t let ‘im stick it to ya with them prehistoric condoms. You’re smarter ‘n that.”

“God, no,” you huff out.

“I dunno what’s stupider, lettin’ my asshole brother hit it raw or gettin’ a UTI–”

“Okay!” you announce, hands going up as you round the back of Tommy’s truck. “Conversation over.” You’re still smiling playfully at Tommy as you clamber into the back of the truck, sighing when the air conditioner hits.

Just like that, back to the same old same old sunny, shithole state of Texas. Joel looks at you in the rearview mirror and winks at you. You guess not everything has to stay the same these days.

[green-tea-in-absinthe-bottle]

KEEP AN EYE ON THE ROAD

How does he behave as your driver? (for the sake of headcannon you are Stellaron Hunter in this one)

General masterlist

Being Blade's passenger princess includes:

🛑 Blade driving in complete silence, you weren't sure if radio in his car was even working cause he never turned it on. Blade was not the man for small talk, he seemed to ignore you, despite you sitting right next to him. So once he actually spoke up to check up on you, you almost jumped out of your sit. His voice was rough contrasting with his elegant manner of speech.

🛑 He might not seem to be the kindest person, but if he notices any signs of discomfort from you he will try to accommodate you. If you are thirsty or hungry he will buy you something on the way, you don't even have to ask. Don't try to pay him back, he won't take the money.

🛑 He feels responsible for you when you are in his car, so he drives slower than he would on his own. Very good driver, he rides smoothly and respects all the laws. Well, unless something unexpected happens and you guys have to run away from people trying to get the money for his head.

🛑 In case of such danger expect him to keep you safe at all costs but he might sacrifice his car in the process. At best it's just gonna be abandoned somewhere along the way so enemies can't get you by following the car, at worst it will probably burn to ashes. In such case Kafka will pick you guys up sooner or later.

🛑 If there are any animals you will get excited by a long the way like horses or cows he will slow down so you can take a better look at them. Don't point at them and try to make him take a look, he will get grumpy and scowl at you for distracting him.

🛑 Expect many breaks on the road, that man is a senior citizen and he needs to rest his eyes from time to time. On the other hand he will let you take as many bathroom breaks as you need without muttering a single word.

🛑 Always keeps a blanket for you in his car, if you use such things he will also have stimming toys so you can survive long trips with minimal discomfort. He tinkered a bit with his car in the free time, as much as his stiff hands allowed him to, and has warmed up sits in this old machine. How did he do that? No idea, he was great at making mechanisms once so maybe this won't blow up.

[uboatheflesh]

Here's me recording/performing of empathy shield live on Behind The Mirror, RTR 92.1 FM on the 24th of August 2023. photos by alt.live.perth (Jess).

Set was a little shorter due to the radio time constraints. Also gave a brief interview (the interview on the site was done beforehand over email, theres also a pre-mastered version of empathy on there, I only spoke briefly after the set on radio). Again, empathy shield was completely improvised based on carefully pre-selected sound design elements. Done in the middle of autistic burnout, where I could barely speak on radio due to slowly going into verbal shutdown . Luckily my tour hosts Jess and Amir were absolutely supportive and got me through it.

I went on to play this show a few days in later, also in borloo/perth at the Badlands Bar. It used a lot of the same elements of empathy shield. I have a few feelings about it.

After the end of my set, I had a total verbal shutdown as soon as I got off stage and snuck back into the green room.

Worse, I managed to break the zip on my dress (got caught in the mesh I was wearing) and was stuck in it for 20 minutes before I had to ask a band for a shirt to cover the broken top half. Then several old perth friends I had not talked to in ages came in to talk to me only to find me simply unable to say hi back. I felt terrible about it. Indeed, I was in a terrible state. However - everybody around me there understood. A fellow autistic woman even gave me a fidget spinner. Even if I didn't use it (weirdly too overwhelmed to stim?), I kinda happy cry every time I think about that somebody even offered one to me non-judgementally. Only a few years ago would I have seen as a ridiculous r*tard baby for being a 'professional musician' who does this, but now it's ...its treated kinda like normal. Wish I had this kind of understanding growing up before I was diagnosed. Now, I am never the only ND at the gigs I play. Indeed, the NT's are usually the minority at them. Then theres the fact that so many other (and more well-known) musicians are being open about their autism (like Ethel Cain or Justin Broadrick) which would also be unthinkable years beforehand. It genuinely warms my heart. This is why I am loud, proud and cringe about my neurodivergence now. I don't want to be repeatedly traumatised by it anymore based on misunderstandings that we autists inevitably get, or failing to meet allistic standards. Every time I see a fellow autist get horridly traumatised because somebody (usually NT) got the ick it fucking hurts. Or when they blame themselves for failing to meet arbitrary allistic standards and fall into a horrible depression for not being 'normal'. It hurts even more if its a fellow autistic transfeminine person. I wish I could do more about it, like psychology or social work - but music is what I am stuck doing for the time being, so I'll try to do what I can here. Hence several upcoming songs /records (including the two Roadburn commissioned original compositions) neurodivergence takes a central role. It's lame, but sometimes its good to be lame. Sometimes it's necessary. We have a long way to go, but its also important to remember we have also come a long way too.

/gen

[technicallymaximumkitty]

Sir Pentious headcanons because I am cringe but I am free

fair warning this is gonna be long because the autism is peak RN and i am increasingly sleep deprived, ENJOY!!!

He is half indian half british

Was white passing and his face was covered in moles and birthmarks 

He was an orphan boy who worked in a textile mill as a kid

He got out of the textile life when a mechanic was looking for a new apprentice. Sir Pentious wasn't the first choice but runner up, and willing to do anything, he shoved the kid that was gonna be chosen into a machine that ripped their hands off. The kid being unable to work anymore, Sir Pentious was chosen.

As a teenager he was drafted into the army, he was never unable to climb ranks 

He died from lead poisoning (that’s why he is a poisonous snake, get it? Poisonous? Lead poisoning? I’ll see myself out) 

Sir pentious wasn't a sir in life, he only got that title in hell

All his shirts are button ups because he cant fit anything over his frill 

The egg bois are basically furbys 

All the egg bois do have names, given to them when they were first invented, but they never get called by their names. They barely remember because they have the memory of a worm 

Sir Pentious makes food hate crimes, not on purpose but still

The first time Alastor made jambalaya Sir Pentious started crying because the air was too spicy for him

Yes he has the worst pallet in the world (i mean ofc he’s british/j) 

This dude will be happy just eating bread from the bag for dinner

He was never married in life 

I know the son was a throw away line, but like what if? He had one? Out of wedlock?

MF is so old fashioned about romance 

He has autism because i said so

User vobomon has the theory that Sir Pentious has Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, i agree

When he sheds (it’s biannually) he hides for like a few weeks until everything grows back (the scales on the ends of his frill are the first to fall out and take the longest to grow in) 

He’s not inept at slang but he knowledge dose stop at 2007

Angel tried to pull an updog with Pentious but it failed and Angel was about ready to strangle the man on site 

(played out like:

Angel: he pen, smells like up dog in here no?

Pentious: smells like what?

Angel: up dog.

Pentious: what is this, up dog you speak of?

Angel: you know, up dog.

Pentious: no, i do not know what this up dog is, what is it?

*it carried out for like five minutes of this back and forth*)

He watches people sleep because he saw to many of his friends die in his former life (living on the streets and all) so he keeps a close eye on his new friends out of habit 

He and Niffty are banned from the coffee pot 

His egg bois were trained on lucky charms 

Charlie is is best friend in the whole wide world (they even have friendship bracelets to seal the deal)

Nifty used to leave the mice she caught in front of Pentious’s door for hime, they were asked to stop and now treat it like a drug deal 

Was really good at holding down his alcohol, gotten soft over the years

Both his fangs are sweet fangs

Once ate an entire container of sprinkles in front of the others

Man can and will choke on water 

He’s got the immune system of a victorian child (ie gets sick like once every other week)

He paints his claws 

Skills he learned living in hell: sewing, baking, computer science, rocket science, speaking indian and french, anthropology degree, book binding, toxicology 

Parrots slang he hears even if he doesn't know what it is 

(ie: Vaggie: I am about to kill Angel if he doesnt shut up.

Pentious: oh! Is this your villain era?) 

Stims by flapping his hands and frill 

He need chewelry or he will gnaw on his hands 

His hat is not alive, it acts like necomimi

Is immune to exhaust fumes at this point

Discovered hyperpop and scares Angel Dust when he tries to get the radio to play songs he actually knows and likes 

In his early years of having the egg bois he would eat eggs in front of them to scare them when he was upset at them, they never caught on because, well they are the egg bois 

Is a cat person

Runs a youtube channel where he swings between building tutorials and gossip commentary he’s got five followers and four of them are the egg bois and each video will rake up about 20 views 

He and emily are best friends (also with friendship bracelets) and they are like sugared up three year olds together 

They warrior cats roleplay together because let me have this

He goes around saying he kins victor frankenstein 

Ate a plastic bag once 

[coolputer]

oh hey! it's The Guy!

so yeah. new oc that I'm brainrotting over!

so this is kas, aka coolputer (their self proclaimed title)

theor pronouns are they/it/he

their voice changes a bit in a glitchy way, so they have 2 voice claims which are edgar (electric dreams) and onionbaby

they love music and are very upbeat but completive when it comes to games, but they're still a very good sport. they're really social and outgoing, but doesn't quite understand social norms amd may come off as awkward to other people

so this is kas, aka coolputer (their self proclaimed title)

theor pronouns are they/it/he

their voice changes a bit in a glitchy way, so they have 2 voice claims which are edgar (electric dreams) and onionbaby

they love music and are very upbeat but completive when it comes to games, but they're still a very good sport. they're really social and outgoing, but doesn't quite understand social norms amd may come off as awkward to other people

THE REST OF THIS IS YAPPINV IVE DONE TO MY FRIENDS

did I mention they're a hopeless romantic too or are the song choices saying that enough

also just a hopeless friendtic? they're kinda lonely bc as previously mentioned ppl see them as awkward lol

they just want a pal... and they get attached easily

they'd throw themselves under the bus for anyone who shows them even a BIT of kindness

if you give them a SINGLE compliment, they'll immediately give you their life

random fact too, their antenna are for connecting to the internet, and without internet they CAN function but they're much more glitchy and lose quite a bit of knowledge, so they can be really loopy

also they stim by twitching said antenna

another stim they have is glitching a LOT

to them it's weirdly soothing because it "feels funky"

amd when they're flustered they blue screen giggles

1 more fact (there will be more probably actually)

they're very lightweight since they're just a computer with a lightweight body lol

I'm currently drawing someone just easily picking them up

heighwise they're basically average

about 5'5

I've decided that where they originate (not built or anything, they came from a factory in that sense lol idk I don't care ab that part it's not relevant), they came from a thrift store which is where they got their love for music and gained sentience

firstly, their old owner (who probably died or something idk they don't remember bc they they didn't gain sentience yet) listened to a lot of music like the type they like now

and in the thrift store they were in the electronics aisle with plenty of other music

what brought them sentience was a certain frequency that a radio began playing (said radio was also sentient, which is how they knew to play the frequency)

so, they took this sentience and became their own person, escaping the thrift store with a new outfit and exploring the world

the radio was unfortunately not an android typea fella like them, so they were unable to escape (and kas didn't escape until nighttime) and were bought.. poor kas couldn't find them :(

in my head that music was portal muzika...

also, they carry around their boombox in honor of said radio. they named it Bambi! it's not sentient, but they still talk to it... jeez, they need a friend :(

I will be reblogging this with art others have done! I love this guy

[hazbin-mpreg]

More Beau head canons (mainly revolved around his autism)

1. Like mentioned in the earlier post, Beau hates grass or really anything touching his hands and feet. But he will tolerate socks, and does have certain safe textures such as Mama Luci’s shirts, fleece blankets, grandmama’s dress and wings (yes we have Alastor’s mother in an AU my friend has going) and oddly enough, Alastor’s hands.

2. Beau is a mix of sensory avoidance and sensory seeker, he prefers seeking out things that feel good such as radio parts, and anything mentioned above. But he’s very particular about his clothing, he doesn’t like tags in his clothes or scratchy clothing.

3. While he’s sensitive to most noises, he’s often soothed by Alastor’s radio static, so it’s often playing in a loop on an old radio he has in his room

4. He’s very emotional / an empathet, though he struggles to show his emotions and often comes to his sister (or Alastor) to talk them out, sometimes Lucifer but his main person is Alastor

5. While melt downs don’t happen often, they’re usually hard to manage and end in him hurting himself due to stimming, though over the years Alastor and Lucifer have found more creative outlets for the stimming

6. He actually has a very pain tolerance, so any of the kids resulting in rough housing (which is usually led on by Luc and Vic), if doesn’t phase him. He actually doesn’t notice it until someone points it out and even then it doesn’t bother him

[psi-spectacular]

Since I saw @kibasniper111 do this for the campers, I wanna do some headcanons I have for the interns! Also they get sadder as you go down, be warned.

Raz

Trans kid who's fully accepted by his parents. Sorry I just really can't see the aquatos being transphobic and genuinely don't think transphobia is super common in the psychonauts universe? He's unlabeled at the moment and uses he/him pronouns.

Nona mixing up Raz's name with his brothers is because her brain had to connect Raz now having a boy name and connecting that to the other brothers so shes just a lil confused but shes got the spirit

He has (currently) undiagnosed autism, mostly because 1. there is no way the aquato family is able to afford a psychologist but 2. Augustus is also autistic and they have similar mannerisms, sensory issues, and stims so most of the family doesnt suspect that Raz is neurodivergent, they just think he takes after his father.

His helmet and googles are very much comfort items, but they also help with sensory issues. While they block out noise and reduce color in the area around him if needed, his helmet also stops him from constantly hearing the thoughts of others, which can easily overwhelm him.

He's mostly able to speak to smaller animals, mainly rodents like mice, rats, and squirrels, since they were the ones that were most common at different areas he would travel too.

He fell into water and almost drowned when he was little and that was the biggest thing that spurred the "hand of galocchio" thing.

Raz spent a lot of time in libraries and bookstores in the many towns he's traveled to in between practice and shows, and that was the way he discovered both his love for psychology and true psychic tales.

Raz is sensory seeking and douses everything he eats in hot sauce and spices. He'll try pretty much anything as long as its free and remotely edible. This extends to touch, he likes rubbing his hands on textured surfaces, especially velvet and fur.

He rubs his gloves on his face, bites, and scratches at them when he's stressed, so they're worn down where he's done it.

He has a plush toy Nona made him when he was a baby that used to be a rabbit but it's been repeatedly bitten, crushed, splattered in mud, and fixed so many times that it barely looks like a specific thing anymore, But he refuses to part with it no matter what.

His relationship with the junior agents goes from "eugh its weird having a kid here, we can't swear anymore." to "hello, this is our emotional support 10 year old, his name is shitfuck, we feed him moss, he's the golden retriver that keeps the cheetahs in our hearts from going insane, we constantly make fun of him and if you do anything to hurt his feelings no one will find your body."

Dona taught him how to forage and cook when he was little.

He enjoys dressing up and acting out roles whenever he can, and is very quick on his feet with his roles. He gets into LARPing later in life.

Raz doesn't have a specific specialty, so he's a bit of a jack of all trades when it comes to powers.

Morris

Another trans dude, Wowza. He's been out for a shorter time than Raz, but he's pretty comfortable with where he is right now. He's also bi! Woo.

He's peruvian, and was orphaned at a very young age before being adopted at around age 5 by his moms. He's currently 16.

He was one of Milla's orphans, but he was very young when the fire happened and he doesn't remember what happened or Milla, but his back did get injured in the fire and never fully healed, and that's why he's in the wheelchair.

His moms are rockabillies who own a motorcycle repair shop in the outskirts of Trujillo, They're big into 50's american culture and almost always have the radio on to whatever rock station is playing at the time, which helped inspire his love of radio and older fashion style. The albums he plays on KLOB are the only ones they let him bring because they were copies of records they already had.

He has a regular wheelchair with, you know, wheels, but when he fully learned levitation he found it easier to move around with a chair on a lev ball, especially on rougher terrain, so thats what he usually uses.

Despite his amount of Rizz he has no clue that Adam has a crush on him (not totally his fault, Adam's attempts of flirting are stuttery at best). He's just. Slightly oblivious to the feelings of others.

He acts like he doesnt care what people think. He very much does, and has some very overcompetative tendancies.

He and Gisu met in the motherlobe and have been part of the intern program for the longest, spending three years doing dumb shit in the woods while brushing off their intern duties or whatever they are.

He immediately took Queepie under his wing and they end up becoming really good friends, even if he isn't the greatest DJ. Cause he's, yknow, like 8.

Gisu

She/Her Intersex transmasc bisexual. Binds.

She's an Iranian immigrant who lives in a small town in the midwest, Same town as Lizzie and Norma. They're families know each other and they're childhood friends.

AuDHD and NPD.

She's an only child and lives with her mother and grandparents. She's slightly spoiled and they pretty much let her do whatever she wants, as long as she doesn't get arrested.

She's autistic and has a special interest in paleontology and robotics. She was part of her school's robotics team before joining the psychonauts.

She's very much a romantic, but tends to leap into crushes quickly and gets her heart broken.

Speaking of, she and Norma are QPPs.

Morris and her are besties and each others hypeman.

She has a tendency to work on her projects late into the night to the point of not noticing that its three in the morning by the time she finishes something.

She's easily able to focus on something that interests her, but if she doesn't think its something she would like to do, she procrastinates and avoids it like the plague. She gets easily distracted when she finally does get started.

Has a fursona. Its an otter.

BIG Boy band fan. All paul but also n-street, synced up boys, and whatever she can get her hands on. She doesn't care if its considered "trashy", it sounds good to her ears!

Also daft punk.

She loves Dion for his lack of swag and dumb barry b benson ass expressions

She was raised muslim and is personally agnostic but Sam convinced her Jesus and Moses were psychic and she constantly pisses Norma (catholic) off by bringing it up.

She's smart and gets good grades but doesn't have much respect for authority. She has A's and B's despite skipping most of her classes.

Adam

Transfem gay, but currently unaware of his gender, mostly from repression and not feeling the need to go too far inward. (Dont all guys wish they could wake up in the body of a girl and have no one question it and call him a she?) She/He, 16 years old.

She's from a rich, very influential family in britan known for having a lot of successful and gifted members. There's a lot of push for all the kids to do something "big" with their lives, and many begin to achieve that at very young, most having scholarships and awards at young ages.

And then there's Adam. Her biggest achievements are being

Truman's intern and that time she reached the quarterfinals of the county debate tournament. She's surrounded by ivy bound prodigies and musical geniuses and she's just… some history buff. She fades into the background noise, and feels like she's failing her family despite his best efforts.

Not fully conscious of the amount of wealth his family has. What do you mean your family doesn't send you 80 dollar tea overseas every month?

On a lighter note, He's taken it upon himself to become a bit of a "big brother" to Raz because he has a sibling around his age and he reminds her of them. She's trying to teach him how to play tetris. • As mentioned before, he has a crush on Morris but is terrible at flirting. He's one of Morris' few listeners on KLOB, but mostly does it because he enjoys hearing his voice.

She and Lizzie are absolutely TOIGHT. Lizzie immediately pinned her as a dweeb first time they met and she was right. They became a lot friendlier over time and were pen pals when Adam went back home after their first year.

Adam's eyes are all funky because he's got extra strong aura reading abilities, but the downside is that he basically goes blind for a while sometimes and has to orient around the world by seeing others auras and how they reflect off and affect objects.

Had a cringey katana-and-fedora phase when she was like 13. He tries to repress the memory. Her friends won't let her live it down because they have photo evidence.

Telekinesis specialist

Sam

CW For parental neglect, bullying, and parentification. Hoo boy lotta thoughts here.

Genderfluid Xenogendered Lesbian but not fully out to people who aren't the other junior agents. 14 and uses any pronouns but mainly she/her publicly.

Her family life is... strained. She lives in a pretty small town in the middle of nowhere, southeast america. Her family was normal when she still felt like a kid, but after Dogen acidentally blew up a bullies head, it became a frantic rush of lawyers, policemen, and hospital visits.

Since her parents were frequently away trying to figure out ways to mitigate Dogens abilities and find ways to settle the lawsuit they got, Sam would spend many hours alone. She quickly had to figure out how to cook and gather food outside to sustain herself because they would sometimes be in too much of a rush to prepare anything or be gone for longer than expected.

As things started to calm down, her parents would leave her alone with Dogen while they went off doing whatever else, and when they came back they would be too tired or too stressed to help her with anything.

She spent most of her days in the companionship of animals, almost always got up whenever Dogen was hungry or sick or had a nightmare, just to feed him and make sure he was okay.

Her parents basically treated her like a third adult when she was like 10, venting to her and letting her do most of the chores in the house when they were away, and they never really left her with a babysitter because she's "so mature for her age".

She has a strong fear of developing it herself, so she represses her anger. When someone is being mean to her and she starts focusing more on not blowing up than whats happening so she gets an unfocused look which leads to more teasing.

She eventually decided to just play into the "stupid weird girl" role, hoping being the butt of a joke in a friend group and making people laugh would help ease up her anger if she just laughs it off as her being dumb. (This ended up leaking into her and Norma's relationship and was part of the reason why they broke up.)

She did actually get in prison! She had a meltdown when the teasing became too much and attacked one of the girls in her "friend" group. She got sent to juvie for that. Her parents had to get a lot of recommendations from Compton to get her into the intern program and send her away.

The anxiety is genetic!!! Yayyyy!! Same with the autism.

Her trauma's left her with a very dysfunctional view of relationships and uses the animals as a way to feel like she has some control over her life and that she isn't a servant, she can lead too and help others improve themselves. This ended up leaking into

Heavy backstory stuff outta the way, back to the present. Sam's nickname is barncat because she runs off in the middle of the night and comes back the day after covered in mud and whatever else. She's basically made herself queen of the questionable area and forages for food and scrap metal at night. also she occasionally hacks up hairballs. no one wants to know why

Despite her.. questionable pancakes, Sam is actually a very good chef! She's just better at using more dubious ingredients.

She has PCOS and is on birth control to regulate it (projecting...)

Also IBS! She gets random tummy aches a lot and has zero clue why it happens.

Sam's kinlist includes raku chan gregor samsa and that canary she saw once when she was a kid

Sam constantly masks back home and the motherlobe is the only place she feels she can be weird and free. She used to have longer hair but she lopped it off sometime during her internship because dysphoria (i hc its like end of summer so near the end of the intern program that year)

Sam ends up deciding to become Raz's weird older sister. Sam has no braincells, raz simultaneously has a lot of and no braincells at the same time, but when they're together they somehow add up to -7. She gives Raz advice that ranges from suprisingly helpful to very dubious

She really does love her grandpa, even if she's seen less and less of him throughout her life.

Her specialty is zoolingualism, but I think she'd be skilled at abilities that require her hands, like Psi-Punch and confusion bombs. She used mental connection to create a lasso of sorts she calls "critical thinking" which lets her lasso enemies and tie them down.

Norma

Cw for emotional abuse and manipulation.

Norma's a trans girl, who uses she/her pronouns exclusively. She's a lesbian, 15 years old. She's also Afro-Filipina.

I've mentioned this, but her mother is the mayor of the town they're from. They've very much in the higher rung of their town when it comes to wealth.

Norma's mother is very cold and analytical, constantly seeing most things she does as transactional. Every positive interaction is a step towards a vote, every negative action reflects badly on her status. Average politician. This extends to her daughters and how she expects them to act.

She's the kid that's always trying to be on her parents good side, because failure isnt tolerated in their family and definite high expectations for both sisters and how they're supposed to behave. The two of them constantly needed to fight to get their mothers affection and love. But Lizzie's pretty much given up on trying to appease her, so despite her powers being seen as "less rare", she's the preferred child now.

Her mom uses her as a token of "I'm not transphobic! I have a trans kid!" Despite, in private, constantly misgendering her and insisting she barely change her name (norman to norma) You know how transphobes are a minority in this verse? Yeeep. Its better for her mom to pretend her views are something else so she can get more votes.

Should I add the two of them had a catholic upbringing? Big amount of guilt on her end but at the same time a sense of superiority and entitlement. She's devout and retreats into religious studies as a coping mechanism

Raz makes her feel threatened in her status as "#1 student" and she's very aggressive about it.

She's still not over her and Sam's breakup and is slowly starting to obsess over her and why it ended.

Norma is a big fan of detective shows like Columbo, Sherlock, and Death Book. She absolutely wants to be a detective and solve mysteries, part of the reason why she joined the intern program.

She has NPD, BPD, Autism, and struggles with insomnia.

Despite her last name, neutral to christmas.

Shes a teachers pet and would remind the teacher of the homework just to piss a specific person off.

Touch averse, only lets people she trusts touch her.

She's a closet weeb and uses her psychic abilities to make her glasses glow like an anime character

She has a sherlock based tumblr (or livejournal or whatever you want them to use) and gets into ship discourse at 3 am. She also writes amateur death note yaoi. On paper. She gets so embarassed about it she burns it as soon as she's done.

She misses the time she spend with her sister and envies how much freedom she has from rebelling against her parents. She wishes she could do the same but also wishes they could go back to normal so Lizzie can have a seat at the dinner table again.

She can do glassblowing with her hands.

Lizzie

Same CWs as Norma, Cw for emotional abuse and manipulation.

She's closeted genderqueer and a lesbian, uses They/She pronouns. She and Norma are twins but Norma insists she's the older one.

She's just given up on her relationship with her parents. No matter what they do, she isn't going to go back to constant competition and stress. She doesn't want that anymore. The Natividad sisters give off "rich parents in a gated community" vibes but Lizzie abhors their entire lifestyle and spends like 90% of her time outside the house doing random shit

She's realized the privilege that comes with her position, and decided to hang out more in punk spaces and with kids considered "teen delinquents" or "the wrong crowd".

She prefers dumpsterdiving and thrifting over the stuff her parents buy her, stitching and crafting her own clothes is an act of rebellion because they constantly scold her for wearing "Rags".

Her parents finally gave up, deciding to go "Fine, you want to be stubborn? We'll just pretend you don't exist." They give her somewhere to live but otherwise don't acknowledge her existence in the family until she learns to behave. She created a second hangout spot in an abandoned building with her friends and she'd spend long hours there.

She'd rather be a high school slacker who hangs out with poorer punk kids who arent "in the right groups" and actually have a social life than fighting for the spot of "perfect precious angel child" for the rest of her life. No matter how many punishments they give her. She won't let anyone know, but the way her parents treat and talk about her really hurts.

She has undying hatred for hostile architecture and drags Norma along to melt the spikes.

She fake smokes. Using candy cigarettes and using her powers to make smoke because it makes her look cool but she doesn't want lung cancer.

Very into Christmas but more into the gift making and pagan traditions.

She reads vampire romance novels for flirting tips (and also cuz they're her guilty pleasure). She also pretends to be a vampire sometimes.

She enjoys going cryptid hunting and scouring local forums for information.

Hates wearing fancy dresses. Ripped up skirts and suits ONLY.

Introduced Norma to anime, favorite is Akira and fave manga is Battle Angel Alita.

[realistically-shifting]

🛶 do you have any DRs that are NOT based on fictional worlds or some type of fame DR or waiting room?

💍 are you married in any of your DRs?

🫶 who is your favorite person in your DR that is NOT an S/O?

🐶 do you have any pets in your DR?

🛶: I do! I’m copy-pasting from another post, but I have a DR where I’m part of a nonbinary idol group called ‘N.B’. The group has five members, ranging in age from 21 to 30, and all of us typically present neutrally but we fluctuate between feminine and masculine too. The five of us work with smaller artists to develop our albums, plus each member has an album dedicated to their personal music preference mixed with pop. We’re globally popular across age groups and genders, and we probably have fan blogs dedicated to the femme and masc versions of ourselves. I haven’t even finished the script yet, but I’m excited. I wonder what this will do for my fear of publicly dancing/singing in my CR.

💍: Generally speaking, I have S/Os that I intend to marry, but I haven’t experienced it yet. That won’t stop me from taking this chance to talk about them though!

In my zombie apocalypse DR, Orion, I originally had 12 wives (and Remus is our husband). I’m not sure if I should add them back to my script atm. I didn’t include all the faceclaims because I don’t remember the t.o.s and I don’t want to be flagged, but-

Carina is a botanist and gardener who takes care of our current greenhouse. She somehow manages to spoil Hana more than I do, and almost all the rest of us spoil Carina too.

Daphne is a MMA trainer with a passion for picking fights with the Helvigs. Felix falls for her taunts quite easily. She keeps all of us in shape and all of us have to be trained by her.

Ivy is a mechanical-electrical engineer and was actually my girlfriend in college before we were separated, thought each other dead, and I met Remus. We were in a band together in college, we both love mechanical-electrical engineering and music.

Circe was a lawyer before the apocalypse, now she’s taking this free time to study more branches of law while we go over what the new society should look like.

Aaliyah is an investigative journalist and radio personality, she also has a radio show. She set it up after the apocalypse, since she had nothing else to lose anyway.

Sylvie is an assassin. Is, not was. But since we don’t really have people we want assassinated, she’s basically retired. When she’s not training or helping Daphne train us, she’s lounging. She can be really intense with her eye contact, but I love that about her.

Valentina was a logistician that’s currently helping to handle our supply distribution. She and her twin brother are typically fighting, but he lives with us because they’re inseparable after what happened during the apocalypse.

Lucia was an architect, now she’s using her education and skills for some urban planning. She loves having something to sip on (as an oral stim, not alcoholism), so she often has a glass in her hand. She’s super giggly and she’s tied with Carina for most spoiled because we can’t seem to help it.

Nadia’s educated and trained as an ethicist, but she prefers beekeeping. Hana prefers it too, since the honeycomb from Nadia’s hives are perfect for her sweet tooth. When she’s smoking, her personality completely flips and she loosens up.

Adele is a general surgeon that would love to not be working, but the Helvigs like putting her to work. Even with super healing, we still need things taken out, aligned, etc.

Jade was a psychologist. She was working towards her own private practice before the apocalypse, now she has her hands full with us. But she’s considering training people to be counselors to take on some of the work.

Yasmin is a political historian that was working as an archivist, books and research are part of her special interests. She’s super easy to get gifts for, since she loves old books and the apocalypse happened and everything.

Other than them, I don’t have solid plans to marry in most of my other DRs. My only other husband would be…

🫶: HANA To be honest? My CR little sister who shows up in about half of my scripts as my little sister. If not her, then Juliet Starling, who is my opposite aesthetic best friend in my Lollipop Chainsaw DR.

🐶: Yeah! Not many, though. In several witch DRs, I have a white Burmese Python named Velvet. She’s just a baby and she’s the sweetest thing. She’s my familiar, so she helps me with my magic, protects me, and we have a psychic connection that allows us to communicate. This is what she looks like at only four months.

I also have a Bernese Mountain dog named Titan. Technically, he used to be Remus’ trained dog, but the hard truth is that he just likes us better lol

Thanks for asking!

[nerves-nebula]

Idk about your intentions, and feel free to ignore me if I’m wrong, but Mikey sounds like a maladaptive daydreamer lol.

Just some background, maladaptive daydreamers use these huge fictional worlds called paracosms to escape reality. Some people do it because of anxiety or stress, but some do it as like a coping mechanism (which is how I’d see Mikey doing it based on your dissociation post) People with maladaptive daydreaming can stim while doing it, like rocking back and forth, pacing, etc, but some can master the art of being able to sit still and just daydream whenever. There’s almost an addictive aspect to it, and a lot of daydreamers have to take adhd or anxiety meds to shake it

Would Mikey stim at first but learn to stay still after Splinter lectured him too many times? Would his paracosm be the book that he’s writing about killing splinter? Idk feel free to look at this like I’m crazy but this subject is very close to my heart as I’m a daydreamer myself.

OK SO like. I don't know. and I don't know if Mikey has maladaptive daydreaming for a specific reason.

That being that I'm basing him on myself. I spent a lot (AND I DO MEAN A LOT) of my time in my head as a kid. I don't really know what a paracosm is so I'm not sure if I was exploring within them. but there are huge chunks of my childhood i really only remember via the emotional exploration I was doing inside these fictional worlds. Like most of puberty for me was just imagining gay fictional gods and forbidden love and abuse and violence and at all that. and it's hard for me to tell if that was a bad thing because it's linked to a very integral part of my personality- that being the desire to tell and experience stories.

I was always dragging around paper and pencils to draw these imagined worlds. But i was also often just sitting with my eyes closed (or sometimes opened, but closed if I wanted to really focus)

if I was painfully bored, or very anxious (which happened often, basically any time i was outside the house or not watching tv or playing a game) I would do this. If I was stuck in a car or a room while my siblings were fighting violently, I would force myself to try to only think about my characters. If the talk radio host was getting on my nerves I would try to drown him out by thinking about my characters going through their worlds and getting in fights and having sex and all that stuff.

this got even better (or worse, considering how you think of it) once I got earbuds/headphones and access to my cousins old ipod. I was finally able to fully block out the world and only, ONLY ever think of my stories. just how I'd always wanted.

and sure, I was always kind of spacey, but even when I wasn't thinking of stories and art I was bad at paying attention the way adults liked. I think adults liked me more when I was just sitting there thinking anyway, instead of being hyper and then having an emotional breakdown when i realize they thought I was annoying.

There was a particularly vibrant time for daydreaming around puberty where i had dozens if not around a hundred different intricate stories that I started to overlap, just because. And I'd go through them over and over, adding or changing little things, making up reasons that the characters would all end up living in the same bunker or fighting the same enemy. making up reasons for the god of war and his little lamb prince to be torn apart. making up reasons for them to attack each other. then forcing them back together through all the trauma.

and recalling these spaces makes me kind of shiver because they're almost like real memories to me. I remember thinking of these scenarios more than I remember my real life around 11-12 years old. And i think that's largely because after I got my blackbelt at around 11 years old, my parents let me quit karate, and didn't force me to do any more sports or anything. So for the most part I legit never left the house. My entire life was in these stories and in my art.

I really only stopped doing this once I got sent off to high school at around 13-14 and was basically FORCED to participate in the real world more.

but I did that all on purpose. i was bored, and i hated other kids because they never clicked with me. and it never seemed to interrupt my life in a way that my parents noticed or cared about. in fact it was the only thing that kept me from being actively suicidal for a while there!

so like. i don't know man. i don't know.

[alluraaaa]

for the promts: z (zoo trip gone wrong) with adam shiro and younger keith?

Kids have too much energy. Shiro knows he would’ve passed out five times by now if he was doing what Keith is.

The ankle biter in question is practically vibrating in place with happy stimming, staring through the glass at the hippopotamus enclosure.

“Never seen him so happy,” Adam muses beside Shiro, tucked against his side.

“Yeah, he’s really into hippos.”

“I can hear you,” Keith grouches, but he still looks excited. “Hippos can have twelve inch long canines. That’s a whole foot of teeth. How are you not into that?”

“Well I didn’t know that, that’s cool as hell,” Adam says easily.

“Language,” Shiro remarks.

“He’s eleven, that’s old enough for hell.”

“Definitely don’t say it like that.”

“Woah,” Keith says, drawing their attention again. He’s not watching the hippos anymore, instead watching the path they’re standing on, where a ten foot long snake is slithering past them. It’s muddy brown and heavy looking but moves with ease, and Keith crouches to watch it with wide eyes.

In a flash Adam is gripping Shiro’s shoulders and hiding behind him, using his boyfriend as a shield to a snake that doesn’t seem to care about them. He says, “What the fuck?”

“Language,” Shiro says again. “I’ve heard of zoos letting animals wander, I just didn’t know this was one of ‘em. The reptile exhibit is right by here.”

“You sure?” Adam asks. Keith takes the disposable camera he was given and snaps a picture of the snake.

“That thing’s huge,” Shiro says, “there’s no way they wouldn’t see it missing. And if it did escape, they’d be making a big deal of it.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, that makes sense,” Adam says, but still has an iron grip on Shiro’s shoulders. Okay, his boyfriend has ophidiophobia, noted.

They all watch it slither away, either entertained or terrified. It isn’t long before Keith is back to the hippos, pointing out and describing their behaviors to Adam and Shiro, who listen with interest.

“Wow, looks like we have an expert here today!” a voice says, drawing the trio’s attention. She’s an employee, judging by the uniform she’s got on. No one willingly wears a tan polo with tan khakis and a chunky walkie talkie. Either way, she’s adopted a “talking to kids” tone and is addressing Keith with a big smile. “I take it you’re fond of hippos?”

Keith nods. The woman responds, “That’s lovely. Our friends here are real happy to have such smart visitors!” She gestures to the hippos, who seem more interested in napping than humans with trivia, by Shiro’s guess. But he commends this woman for trying to befriend Keith “hates strangers” Kogane-Shirogane. He’s been there.

Speaking of, he’s awkwardly nodding along to what she’s saying, before his attention is grabbed by one hippo diving into the water in the corner of the huge enclosure. The woman is then ignored entirely, and she finally turns to Shiro and Adam.

“He’s one smart cookie,” she says in that quiet, conspiratorial, “talking about kids right in front of them” tone. “Y’all must be having fun today.”

“Oh yeah, he’s been begging to see this exhibit,” Adam says, “We’re having fun too, but he’s overjoyed.”

“Yeah, plus it’s really cool that you let the snakes wander like that,” Shiro says.

“Not that fun,” Adam grumbles, and Shiro chuckles.

“I’m sorry?” the woman asks, concern beginning to take over her bright smile.

“We just saw a snake crawling around,” Shiro clarifies. “Is that… not a thing here?”

The woman blanches. “…Please excuse me,” she says before speed walking away and hurriedly hissing into her radio.

Shiro, wide eyed, turns to Adam, who looks two minutes away from a panic attack.

“Okay Keith time to go,” Shiro says.

Oblivious to the entire conversation that just occurred, Keith whines, “Five more minutes?”

From the direction they saw the snake go, a scream rings out.

“Now,” Shiro says, and Keith doesn’t protest any more. The three of them promptly start hauling ass.

[prompt alphabet - send a letter!]

[emelkae]

Happy no pressure Storyteller Saturday? If each of your OCs had their own room, how would they decorate it?

Briar's childhood room was pretty sparse despite spending a lot of time in there. He had a desk to do schoolwork, a small bookshelf with a modest pile of comics and graphic novels on it, and some cat supplies - treats, toys, etc. If he was given free reign, I think he'd love to plaster the walls of his room with posters and promotional tourist-y stuff from places he'd been. He'd get every comic he could and line shelves with them, as well as action figures to go with them. He'd have cat trees and wall mazes for Gamma, too.

Circuit's room would be... organized chaos. Like you would just walk in and there'd be old parts everywhere, diagrams, blueprints, models. You wouldn't be able to tell what was functional and what was decoration. But he'd know exactly where everything was and what it was supposed to do. Don't you dare move anything off the bed; it's supposed to be there.

Sharpe's room would be militaristic. Utilitarian. There's a bed, a window, a desk for him to sit at, and a space for him to mount his guns, but that's kinda it.

Lug's room would be too bright and colorful to be much of a functioning sleeping space - except for the plush stuff. He wouldn't have a normal bed, it would be a HUGE round beanbag-type thing with soft faux fur material. And there would be stuffed animals all over the place, stim toys, big pillows and blankets, just a really cozy place with lots of texture and stimulation.

Claw's room would have hardwood floors and no windows, just a big screen over the walls that makes him feel like he's sleeping in a dark forest. The Repair Units programmed it to show the sun rising and setting in real time, so he gets up with the sunrise, stretches, and does some physical therapy/light training in the morning. It would be a comfortable space designed for him to de-stress.

Mobo's room would be like Circuit's, but less "organized" in its chaos because he'd completely forget what was even in there. I think Mobo would be the type of person to constantly end up buying duplicates of stuff because things end up so buried he just assumes they're lost. There's a TV in there, several radios, and the most expensive state-of-the-art gaming consoles and setups that he can't even get to because he has junk piled up in front of it.

[horneboy]

Okay since you're now the official "could this person be neurodivergent?" resource, can I ask for your thoughts on Jarvis Cocker? Because like...he hates change so much he kept a used-up bar of soap for decades because it was the last one with the old label on it. And he always wanted to be famous because he found socializing intimidating and wanted other people to approach him first and felt like being famous was the only way to achieve that. Idk if he has any other nd traits though and I might just be projecting onto him so I wanted to hear your analysis.

i’m so happy to be cited as that source hshshdh thank you anon… i have had a thought and i’m not sure but i can actually see it now that you’ve mentioned?? let us analyse:

the entire good pop, bad pop book is a good example of his autistic traits - the premise of the book is looking through things of his he kept because he became emotionally attached to it. you mentioned the soap; it’s not just that, in the book he mentions he bought a bottle of cordial just because they were changing the design. he’s adamant to change and gets emotionally attached to objects, to better or for worse.

in interviews he tends to play with his hands a lot, not really sitting still, and always seems to be rubbing his hands as a stim. you can tell when he’s nervous because he gets a little stiff and plays with his hands - assuming this is as a stim?

i guess he sort of follows the social “rule” thing, on interviews he mentioned he never really got “PR training” and he would just say whatever he wanted and whatever was real. he didn’t really stop himself from talking about whatever he wanted (usually about girls 😂) even if it was seen as being rude. maybe the whole non-conformist thing might be apart of not understanding social rules? he didn’t want to be the same as everybody else so he tried to branch out by being different and wearing odd shirts and cutting his hair different ways and wearing “old style” suits.

he’s also had a few interests that could probably be considered hyperfixations - john peel and his bbc radio show, and also top of the pops (there’s definitely more but i can’t think of them).

and the socialising thing definitely!!! now that you bring that up i actually see it and think he does have it tbh. if anyone has anything to add the floor is open for discussion 🎤

[killed-the-radiostar]

Welcome to RadioStar Stims!

The Radio Station that's actually a stimboard blog!

Basic Stuff

We've moved blogs from greatclassic989 to here! You can find our old account's stimboards under #radioarchive.

If you request, we'd appreciate it if you'd clarify a source for any character requested. We live under a rock </3

WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO DENY ANY REQUEST FOR ANY REASON. Please do not harass us.

We always credit gif sources. If the link is broken, it wasn't when we put it there.

Finally, please respect our pronouns (It/Xe/3/V/He) And refrain from using They/Them please. Elaboration can be found here.

Alters use Mod [Insert Name] to distinguish xirselves while keeping anonymous. Technically, this blog is run by one system.

A plain text version of our DNI is listed in Extra Info. Though, if you match it we will just block you.

Navigation (Carrd in the works)

Our main blog is @lycanthropic-dreamer

Our art blog is @lycanart35

Main tags are #radiostims #radiotalks #posts with our art and #rb

Divider credits : Water Window, CDs, Ocean hearts, Music Player

Extra Info below

Extra Info

We're very much open to OC, Non-Introject alter, Album/Song and Concept themed boards! Please just give us as much guiding as you can handle.

We're more likely to prioritize requests about our interests and requests from our mutuals, since this is a personal hobby.

Our main 'gimmick' is including a song to go along with any board we make. Please feel free to request a specific song, or even a playlist! (CLARIFYING, WE WILL NOT MAKE PLAYLISTS FOR YOU. /lh)

Wait times can vary anywhere from a few hours to a month or two. We have chronic exhaustion and ADHD (A dangerous combo). Thank you for understanding!

We're fine doing repeat boards! If we've already made a board for a character and you wish it was different, shoot us an ask with a different theme!

Finally, if you're requesting a board for an introjected alter, PLEASE tell us if it's okay to tag as source, or kin/id. We will assume it's not on default.

DNI Clarification

Bigoted, Ableist, Endo/TransID, Pedo/Incest/Proship, R-Slur User, DSMP & Related Fans, Anti Mspec, Anti Furry, Anti Therian, Terf/TransMisogynistic, ED Romanticizer, LGBT+ Exclus, Intersexist.

Bigoted is meaning Racist (Including Anti Palestinian), Homophobic, Transphobic, Terf, Trans Medicalist, etc.

R-Slur users include reclaimers. We don't want that on our blog

DSMP and related fans includes Jschlatt, Dream, and Wilbur apologists or anyone else that's racist ableist or creepy in the mcyt space.

Anti Mspec Lesbian + Gay also includes Anti Good faith Identities.

We couldn't fit it on our DNI banner, but it should be obvious that Anti Age Regression people aren't welcome here.