#personally I think that Suitcase just has extremely severe anxiety

[incidentallysunny]

I Was Never There.

Death Island Leon x Reader

Real!Dad Leon

Dead dove warning.

13k word count. Proof read 3 times until I got to around 11k then I stopped worrying and just skimmed. Critique is welcomed and my skin is thick for it.

I’d like to appear in the tagz pls so here’s a warning. My writing is not ever meant to be taken literally and is just for the sake of writing f*cked up content that I enjoy writing. If you do not wish to read this, please do not as my intentions are not to offend or make you intentionally uncomfortable but if you choose to read- don’t be hateful. With that out of the way, extremely sensitive content and dead dove material ahead.

Specifically blood-related incest, smut, suicidal ideation, mentions of grotesque imagery, light mentions of gore in a hypothetical scenario, daddy-issues, age-gap, overall disturbing topics.

As far as smut specifically: this includes talking of public sex, mentions of oral, fingering, unprotected sex, cream-pie (wrap your willy irl pls) praise, dirty talk, any probably some other irrelevant shit I’m forgetting my b.

PROCEED if you read the above, are okay with it, and are mentally unwell like I am. Happy reading, it’s a long one.

The drive from your college town to where your home had been all your life was as expected. Nostalgia and homesickness being mixed in your gut like a can of paint in one of those weird machines at the hardware store that your dad would take you to. Speaking of dad, you hardly remember him. He was present for a short while, your mom always excusing his absence with work this and work that. He really did get busy, though. Almost dying several times. You still remember your moms panicked phone calls, her countless prescription drugs for the same problems you now suffer from, and her late-night bathroom breakdowns. Apparently he couldn’t get out of this job though. Some real fucked up government shit he was tied to, your mom explained. All you know about him is that he saved the president’s daughter. Whatever.

So yeah- a perfect life with a perfect set of parents. One being mentally driven through the dirt and the other that you haven’t seen in 8 years or maybe more. You can’t seem to remember if the last few times you saw your dad were daisied dreams or reality. Bastard has never FaceTimed or video called you, either. Dunno if he even had a phone capable of that. Either way, it must be for the better, because your grades had been sufficient without stressors on your mind. And we all know a low-effort dad would definitely be one. But perhaps he’d rather just be there in person. Older people are like that.

You grunted, trying to drag your over-packed suitcase up the steep suburban driveway before sighing and standing in place. Sure, you didn’t need to bring so much shit home, but would you really want to risk some bitch at college stealing anything from your quad-dorm?

Before you could think and figure out how you’d even get the plastic luggage up the pristine, hand-painted porch steps and inside (without scratching them up and having your parents on your ass about their perfect house having a flaw) a voice called out to you. Unrecognized and not ringing any of the bells in your head. (If there were any left)

“Hey there, sweetheart. It’s been a while, huh?”

You turned to see a middle-aged man, similar to the last memory of your dad that had been printing-pressed into your mind for safe keeping. He was just emerging from the front door, broad chest accentuated by a well-fitted T-shirt. You immediately felt angry that his tits were bigger than yours. Would probably look better with a bra, too.

You didn’t answer.

Fuck- nerves were getting the better of you. Your palms were slick with sweat and you didn’t know if it was from the building summer humidity or anxiety. Was this normal? No the fuck it wasn’t.

“Uhh.. dad?” You queried- almost certain the gorgeous man at the door was just a hotter, older version of your dad and not actually him. The fuck is wrong with you? You’re getting this worked up over your father? Did college drinking really rewire your brain to be this fucked or is it all of the anxiety meds? Maybe both. Maybe you’re just overwhelmed. Maybe it’s because you rarely saw him and have zero attachment.

“Yeah, it’s me. Your old man. Missed you, kiddo.” There’s a pause for a moment- because you’re not sure why he’s talking so casually as if you see each other every weekend- like it hasn’t been years and years since you’ve seen him.

“Don’t remember me,huh?” He laughs satirically- like you’re supposed to be so sure. It makes you slightly furious and the feeling of anger bubbles up again- replacing any strange thoughts you were having moments ago.

No, my apologies dearest dad. I totally recognize you despite having met you enough times to count on almost two hands.

But the better part of you that managed to exist underneath the scores of problems you had just replied in jest- like someone without said scores of problems. It was best to keep the peace for now.

“You look a little different… sorry.” Is that all you can manage? It’s pitiful the state that your sullied mind is in.

He chuckles, though, like he knows your’re right. The sound is more pleasant and striking when it’s genuine. Makes you feel damp in other areas than just your armpits (thank you, heatwave).

“I suppose there’s truth to that. But It’s alright, sweetheart. I know it’s been a long time. People change, right?” His eyes scan you in an undecided way.

“But you, shit. You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman. College treating you well?” His words sound a little huffed then, he’s clearly beating around the bigger issue with a stick. But him calling you beautiful and being all fucking sappy makes your face feel hot and sticky like it’ll melt off. Got you wanting to rip the hair from your scalp to hear him say it again.

“Please?” You called out gently- gesturing to the suitcase and ignoring any other question. You were very much overstimulated- having overexerted muscles in your arms by being a weak bitch about a crammed carry-on. Just get your ass out here and help your daughter, thanks.

He shook his head- again laughing hotly while looking down as he stepped off the porch- his brown bangs were peppered with greys and they brushed his face on one side, his hair somehow pornographic on its own. Christ. He looked like one of those men you saw on Viagra commercials that obviously didn’t actually need it. Even the sight of your perfectly trimmed lawn and faux-looking home completed the scene. Where was the camera?

He walked over to you- there was a slight stiff in his stride; like he had a bad back or something. Maybe he did. Almost dying was the likely cause for that. Serves him right for leaving you with issues on top of issues. Maybe you should stop being mean, you’re the one getting hot over your own father. Again- because of him. Circle back to square one.

Leon towered over your frame as he hinged at the hips, picking up the suitcase with ease- the muscles in his arm flexed with each small movement. His face was a tinge of smug with a mix of something else…satisfaction? Maybe he was just pleased he was able to lift it without rupturing a hernia. Jesus Christ, his veins. You wonder if he has them anywhere else. No- maybe you should be wondering about taking your ass to an inpatient facility immediately. A few screws are loose and you don’t exactly have the tools to tighten them.

“I guess college did treat you well. You’re here in one piece.” He says- cutting you thickly from your thoughts and answering his own question from earlier. His blue eyes are sweet and gently lined with signs of aging. Which only makes him hotter- just like the fiery pits of hell that await you.

You scoff.

“Well, it’s not like I went to war or something.”

“Still. It’s nice to see you, sweetheart.” The word rolls off his tongue again. Your insides are trapezing around in their own miniature, fleshy circus- you’re wishing you could stab yourself in the stomach to stop the swarm of butterflies that don’t even feel metaphorical anymore. You’re sure they’re real now.

He continues, though.

“I know I haven’t been around much in your life- this fucking job and-“ You stare up at him- glossy doe-eyes and stupid look on your face. An apology- or even an explanation from your daddy might be part of what your scrambled brain needs.

“Work kept me away, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you every day. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there for you like I should have been. Shit… What I mean to say, is- things will be different. I’ve retired. Your mother wanted me to tell you over dinner later but I figured you’d be happy to know. I’m not the best at keeping secrets.” He jokes at the end, but how is that true in the slightest? He’s kept his job a secret for your entire life, so he clearly can’t be that horrible at it.

“Oh.” Leaves your lips quietly, ghosting over Leon and leaving him wondering if he said something wrong. But then he realizes it’s probably just overwhelming for you. The worst part of him thinks you hate him. A feeling overcomes you though, and you rush in to wrap your arms around his waist- hugging him tightly. You now wonder why he didn’t hug you to begin with. Maybe he wasn’t an affectionate guy.

He says nothing at first- he’s even more awkward than you are if it’s possible. But he’s trying. He sets down your suitcase before returning your hold. One arm comes around the back of you and the other is overlapped on top- a hand nestling on the back of your head. Seems he’s getting a bit emotional, too. The attention from him is nice, though.

When you make a small grunt as to wanting to end the hug, his hands linger on your shoulders and he smiles at you. You actually return to, not feeling anything horrid become of your thoughts right now. Whether it be anger or incestual lust.

—

Your dad pushes the front door open with one of his large hands encased on the knob. Hands you immediately find attractive, wondering if they’d feel nice scissoring your cunt open. You now begin to understand why your mom was getting suicidal over him possibly not returning home. You’d kill yourself over him too. But that’s too morbid- especially after the moment you just shared.

That’s already lost to you.

He shut the door firmly, sighing, then gestures to the stairs.

You went up first, self conscious about your backside being right in front of his view but he was your dad. Wouldn’t be looking at you that way. You’re just brain-rotted and have an ill opinion of men.

Your old bedroom still looked the same, basically. Just emptier and more hollow without your things. But the walls were still painted a babydoll-pink and lined with the few girlish decorations you left on the wall. No way you would have been caught dead with those in your dorm. Not unless you wanted to endure torment and bullying that’d lead you to jumping off the dormitory roof.

He sets your luggage down and takes a seat on your bed. A groan escapes him as he puts a hand on his lower back for a moment.

“I see this room hasn’t changed much, has it?” he muses, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Your mom and I had a blast putting it together for you when she was pregnant.”

Yikes. You almost feel guilt for both the incestuous thoughts and the fact you may have ruined your parents' marriage. Maybe that’s not true. It was his work- not you. After all, he’s insinuating how happy they were to have you brought into this world. Plus- they were fine. Never argued or anything.

“I’m sorry. I dont- I don’t know what to say.” You laughed awkwardly, throwing your hands slightly up by your side.

His face doesn’t drop, though. It seems he understands perfectly fine.

“It’s okay. We can start from scratch. Not talk about… your room or childhood stuff. I know it’s a sore spot for you, sweetheart.”

Wrong. It’s more like a festering wound with the rusted knife still wedged in it. The knife being Leon and the wound your daddy issues, by the way. And having no attachment to him as a father figure makes the attraction worse. Notably when he calls you any term of endearment. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

What the fuck. Was he sculpted by Satan himself as some kind of hell-on-earth punishment? Is this purgatory? Everything he did now was driving you up the wall like a roach- every movement and small flex showing a vein or bulge of muscle. And his arm hair didn’t help. Fucking Christ- shave it off or something. You don’t know how you’ll be able to stand it.

“Okay…. How does that work?” You cocked your head to the side a little, shifting your weight onto one leg. A nervous habit.

“Well- what do most parents do with their kids? We could go out for dinner, catch a movie, just… hang out. I’d like to spend time with my daughter, you know.”

Okay, so maybe he did care. That’s a start.

“Uh… all three?” You questioned, an eyebrow lifting along with the infliction of your voice towards the end of your sentence. You’re indecisive like your mom.

He smiled, lines and the corners of his mouth pressed. Happy. Something you heard wasn’t common for him, anyways.

“Of course. We can go out tomorrow, honey. Your mom just wants us to all have dinner together when she gets home. She missed you- not as much as I did, I bet.” He does that stupid fucking wink again. It makes you switch emotions and want to throw something at his head. Maybe your lamp. You feel bad, It’s not his fault you’re acting like a mental freak about him. You don’t even bother to fixate on the fact you’ll have to have dinner with your cunt of a mom. Okay, maybe that’s harsh.

“Okay.” You breathe out, looking around your room. Leon takes that as a cue to stand up from your old bed- the thing creaking from his weight and leaving an indent on your comforter.

“It’s a date, then. I’m going to start dinner. As much as I love your mother, she can be…scary.” He says, still rocking that pressed-in-cheek smile and cracking your door closed behind him. By the way, what he really meant was probably ‘bitchy’- not scary. But dad seems too kind to say that. He loves your mom.

You can breathe again without his presence. It was smothering, like you had to overperform. You find yourself rushing to your dresser mirror to check how you looked. Hair looks great, face too- though a little tired from college over-studying and then driving 4 hours home with no break.

You might as well write ‘whore’ on your mirror with lipstick. Or a marker- since that’s a more permanent reminder with the way you’re acting. But part of you wanted to know what he thought of you- how he perceived you. For now though, it doesn’t matter. Had barely been 15 minutes since you arrived. You turn your attention to your suitcase and push it over flat, unzipping it before the teeth give out and some of your things spill from inside.

You had less than a sufficient amount of energy to care about it being broken now- so you just put your things away quickly before plopping onto the bed and indulging your senses with the smell of the floral detergent your mom always used on your sheets.

—

It’s some time later when you’re abruptly awoken by your moms manicured hand shaking you awake by the shoulder.

“I can’t believe you’re sleeping when you could be spending time with your father. He was excited for you to be home.”

‘Way to wake me up.’ You thought. She was always having a stick up her ass about this kind of thing. Or anything, really..

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Besides, we’re going out tomorrow to do a bunch of stuff.” You argue sleepily, sitting up as your back aches with your vision still adjusting. She cuts on the lamp, sizzling your retinas.

Her face perks up but is pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, okay..” silence.

“I’m sorry, honey. It was just a long day at work and I’m just over-the-moon for you two to finally have some daddy-daughter time.”

You wrinkle your face in disgust, but not fully disgust since you were just fawning over your hot dad earlier. Maybe daddy doesn’t sound so bad.

“Ew- mom. He’s just my dad. I’m not five.” She laughs, waving her hand off at you.

“Well anyhow- come down for dinner, will you? He put in a lot of effort to cook something for us.”

You cursed under your breath and straighten out your shirt- hoping she wouldn’t bitch about it being slightly wrinkled from you sleeping in it. You seat yourself at the table- adjacent from your mother sitting at the end. She’s already changed out of her office clothes and sure enough, here comes your daddy dad from the kitchen with utensils.

“Sorry ladies- almost forgot these.” He laughs, placing down everyone’s set before seating himself next to you. Fuck.

“You know- your father has only been home a few months and he’s already shown the extent of his memory loss.” She jokes, giving him a loving yet teasing look that makes you want to vomit. And yet jealousy curls up like a cat in your lap, wanting to be lavished with attention from you. The metaphorical jealousy pounces off your lap as you’re met with your dad’s hand on your denim-clad thigh. It’s an innocent gesture but you want to his hand to go further than just sitting politely.

“She’s right, but I can be useful otherwise.” He’s bantering back with her- and you realize he’s making an innuendo when you look over at his face. But it’s weird that he’s saying it while his digits cradle your thigh so gently.

“Gross.” You take a bite of your food- momentarily shocked that a dad of any sort could make such a pleasant meal, especially when he’s spent such little time doing domestic duties.

“Oh honey- you’re grown. We’re just teasing each other.” Your mom nods to Leon, taking a bite off of her fork. His hand slides off of your thigh and he grabs his whiskey glass to take a proper sip.

Jeez, he drinks that shit like its water. No grimacing. No face was made when he swallowed it. Just a guy thing you suppose.

Dinner drags on- the both of them forcing you to talk about your less-than-thrilling college experience. No mom, no boyfriend. No dad, I’m not failing. No you two, I’m not having unprotected sex- fuck off.

After that eventful meal and conversation where your parents basically eye-fucked each other over dinner, you’re left to clean up the mess while your mom gets ready for bed. She has to leave for work early in the morning- as usual. Guess she’s going to take your dad’s spot for the absent parent now that you’re grown and traumatized full and proper.

-

Sleep came and went- leaving you to trudge out of bed and do your morning routine. It felt out of place trying to do it back at home- but it was also a sentimental feeling to be doing just that.

Leon is already in the kitchen, shirtless and cooking. Seems impractical, but holy fuck. You’d gorilla glue your eyelids open just to not miss a single second of what you’re seeing. Maybe that wasn’t needed- because you've been staring long enough that your eyes prick with tears. You remind yourself to blink and you seat yourself at the high-top, the stool swiveling slightly when your bottom meets the material.

“Morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?” He asks, turning to look at you over his shoulder. His traps are distracting you. You want to chew your fingernails past the nail bed- bite a finger off too. You can’t stand it. For a moment- the way he talks to you- you’re pretending you’re not his daughter. And then a moment later, you’re not being delusional anymore.

“Mhm.” You mumble sleepily- wishing you’d have stayed in bed longer. But piercing morning light, lack of blackout curtains, and the chirping of birds outside made that idea inconceivable. Leon chuckled to himself- turned away from you.

You decide to scroll through your phone for a moment’s time before he slides a plate to you from across the island.

“Breakfast a la Leon.” He says- clearly being silly. Corny as fuck, anyways.

“You’re old.” You snort, setting aside your phone and grabbing a fork to pick at your food until he turns away again. You didn’t enjoy the idea of having a hot, shirtless man watching you eat.

He shakes his head, sitting down next to you at the island.

Christ. Fucking go away. It’s actually enraging now.

You want to scream at him- it’s irrational and crazy- but you do. Screaming at him and being sent away to a ward sounds more appealing than the anxiety crawling up your spine like a horde of fire ants. Potentially- just like the butterflies- they’re real too.

He seems undisturbed as he settles- taking a bite. You do the same- trying to ignore the fact he's so close you can nearly feel his arm hair touching you every second or so. He breaks the silence after a moment.

“So- after this, I’ve got a whole day planned out. Mall, movies, and dinner. Sound good?” You nod, a soft ‘mhm’ reverberating on the roof of your mouth.

He finishes before you and makes his way upstairs- the occasional pain in his back unmistakeable every few steps. And yet he wants to take you to the mall to walk around? You didn’t even know how to feel about a day with your dad. What’s a dad? What’s daddy-daughter bonding? That’s lost to you- well- more like it was never even discovered. Not even Columbus could have ventured out and conquered it.

Since he’s no longer in the room, you hastily eat the rest of your breakfast before you discard the plate and fork into the way-too-elaborate dishwasher your mom had installed (you totally didn’t spend 10 minutes trying to turn it on).

Back in your room, you settle on a simple, totally not underlyingly slutty outfit. Shorts and a crop top. Can never go wrong with that. It’s just soft/core prom enough for an outing with your dad. When you leave your room- Leon is just headed down the stairs. He turns to look at you, his smile is as jovial as it has been since you’ve seen him. For a moment though, you think you catch his eyes landing on your exposed legs- but you know you’re just crazy. You’re the one lusting after him, not the other way around. Your dad isn’t abnormal like you. His head is on correctly- even if it’s been battered and spun on his shoulders throughout the years.

“Ready?” He asks, stopping in place to wait for you. You nod stupidly, breaking from your trance to follow him in a descent down the stairs.

He’s dressed similar to how he was yesterday- jeans and a t-shirt that should be considered indecent. If you were your mom, you’d beg him to wear something that doesn’t highlight every curve and dip of his chest. Hell, if you were your mom, you’d never let him go outside. Too risky. But you’re not your mom. You’re just unusual.

As a perfect man does, he opens the door for you. Then opens the SUV door, allowing you in before shutting it behind. You’re sure you've never met a guy that does that in real life, but maybe it was a ‘you’ problem and not the guy. Who knows.

When he gets in, he cranks the vehicle only for rock music to start playing from the radio- making the corners of his mouth dimple with a pleased look. Really are the simple things for him. As for you, you’re suffocated in a Hellish torment by both his presence and the expensive scent of cologne and leather seats combo.

The ride isn’t long, nor bad. Albeit you two only talk here and there so he can focus on the road- and so you can focus on not dying (he’s not a perfect driver, but not terrible either). Just enough to keep your nerves teetering between a light anxiety attack and full blown panic.

You’re relieved to get there alive. Maybe not. Your thoughts have you thinking suicide may be your only option for now disgusting they are. And it only gets worse when he helps you down from the step up of the SUV- a hand on your exposed waist and the other on your shoulder. It’s harmless. Just a dad being gentlemanly. He was shaped and carved out in that perfect, chivalrous image with only a mallet and hammer. No reason to make it weird.

Inside the mall is a tad busy- the perfect amount to be comforting. You feel a bit more at ease in a public setting since you can now focus on anything but your dad’s chest. As long as he doesn’t require eye contact or talk to you, that is.

He looks around, arms crossed. It’s almost whorish. He has to know his arms look good. Or that his everything looks good. The fuck.

“So…” He cranes his head to the side, bangs brushing over his nose for a moment. The way he looks around makes his Adam’s apple and neck muscles a little more prominent. A perfect, stubbled spot to attack with your lips.

“What do you feel like doing first, kiddo?”

You. Is what you want to say.

He looks back to you, smiling down amused. He seems genuinely happy to be able to take you out. But really- his face is making you nauseous. Obviously not because it’s bad. But because it’s good-bad. Too good it’s bad.

“Uhh… “ you look away from him, scanning the entrance area and looking at any signs. Almost like an escape.

“How about new clothes maybe? Seems like something got ahold to the other half of your pants anyways.” He nudges you with an elbow, gesturing to your shorts with his head.

So he probably did look at your legs earlier. Maybe not in the way you think, though.

You glare at him.

“Seriously?”

Leon puts his hands up in defense. He’s always on the defense in life anyways.

“Joking, joking. You’re…grown.” His forehead lines crease when he raises his brows. You did get rather annoyed at his comment, however.

“I could always buy some even shorter.” You spit sarcastically.

“Yes- because every father wants to walk around with their daughter who has her ass out.” He’s quick to remark, this time he seems grumpier when he talks. Sorta like he’s uncomfortable with the conversation. Or that he’s mad.

“Sorry my legs make you so uncomfortable. I guess I should’ve left them at home.” The back and forth here could go on forever between you two but he catches you off guard.

“Shit- no. It’s not that- ‘s just you’ve got nice legs. Can’t have these…shitheads eying down my little girl. I may be old, but I can fight when I need to.”

You know he meant his words innocently enough, but the fact that he said nice legs has you giddy inside. Same feeling when your crush calls you pretty. Yeah- that sorta feeling. And his little girl. It has a ring to it. Could even legally change your name to it so that he can call you by it more often. Maybe he’ll even let you jump on his dick right away.

Your face is pure rose-shaded. A perfect, neutral shade to make your embarrassment pop on your skin. You’re sure it’s visible to him, too. Your mom always teased you about how blotchy it would get when you were humiliated. Particularly when she would tell awkward stories about you at family dinners. Bitch.

“What’s wrong? Don’t be pissed at me, sweetheart. I was just teasin-“

“It’s not that.” You interrupt- heart thumping into your rib cage. If it doesn’t stop, or you don’t stop your word-vomit, it might crack a rib or four. Probably more. Better have hospital bill and therapy money ready, dad.

“Then what’s the matter? I just want us to have a good time together. I’m not trying to upset y-“

“You said I have nice legs.” You’re quick to cut him off again.

“And…?” He trails off, cocking his head to the side like he’s confused. Because he is confused. You stare off to the side- eyes glued to the fountain. Maybe you could go drown yourself in the penny-flavored water that you guarantee hasn’t been changed out since you were still the unlucky sperm in your dad’s ball-sack.

“I like that. You saying that.” You speak a little lower now- afraid someone will hear. Or because the tinnitus is so loud in your ears. What you’re getting at is almost clear now. Or at least clear enough.

Leon’s expression is taken aback but still confused to an extent because he’s not even certain what you’re saying. Though, he has an idea.

“Oh- uh. Okay. Sweethea-“

“Holy fuck- stop calling me that. You’re not making this easy. Wanting to fuck you. I know- I sound mental.” You spill it out, guts on the floor and the sword still in hand. Holy shit. Just told your dad you want to fuck him. You could have backtracked- fucking dumbass. You won’t be shocked if he packs his bags and leaves off again tomorrow.

He’s silent for a moment.

“Okay- clearly I wasn’t around enough. I get that. But I mean- fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair, looking around. Probably thinking the same thing about the fountain that you did. Still- he looked hot while having a crisis and contemplating immediate suicide. He paces while your nerves are being electrocuted in your body. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

“Just- sweetheart, no. None of that’s.. I can’t.” He starts, turning back to you. It seems he can look you in the eyes now. So maybe he’s not entirely disgusted by you. His face isn’t contorted with disgust, so there’s a chance. Yeah, you’re off your rocker now. You know.

“Look- let’s not talk about this. C’mon. Let’s go catch a movie like I promised.” He starts walking- leaving you standing in a puddle of shame and embarrassment for a moment before stopping to let you catch up.

Luckily- the theater is joined to the mall. It’ll be a short walk.

—

Leon is lax on the couch until he hears the crunchy sound of tires on concrete. You’re home. Despite his shitty back, he's huffing as he gets up fast and is already opening the door. The air is hot as it greets his skin and he watches you struggle with your suitcase through the heat-haze that spans over the distance.

He calls out to you- making your head snap in his direction. Your face is that of awe and confusion. You don’t seem to immediately recognize him- okay. He gets it. It’s been a while. Nevertheless, you’re beautiful. He’d seen pictures of you from your mother, but he’s in awe just as you are. Though, he doesn’t think that highly of himself so he often wonders if you’re even his kid. Couldn’t have made something that perfect, in his mind. He helps you with your bag and follows you to your room. But your demeanor around him is noticeably mousey. At first, it doesn't seem like much. You’re just getting used to him.

Plus, Leon knows he can come off intimidating. Sometimes. But for him, he’s got a good eye and his job has led him to being able to read even the tiniest bits of body language. Doesn’t take him long to see how you’re worming around shyly- subconsciously smoothing your hair down and biting at your lip. Same way your mom acted around him before they started dating. But again- maybe it’s just in his head. Leon’s been wrong a time or two.

A better man would have left it alone. Leon gets that. But an innocent thigh squeeze at dinner can help him test his theory. A thigh squeeze that’s under the guise of friendly, fatherly touch. You tense- he can hear your small, sucked in breaths as long as his hand is there, along with heat radiating off your body like a wildfire. If wildfires could be horny college-aged daughters with daddy issues, that is.

The idea disgusts him. Because he should feel disgusted and just kill himself. Where did these thoughts come from? He even has the urge to let his hand wander other places. Bets that you have a cute pussy. No matter what it does or doesn’t look like, it’s yours and he knows it's cute. He’d give you two thick digits in your hole (three if you allow him) and have his tongue kitten-lick your clit.

“There we go. Good girl.” Is what he envisions saying before diving back in for a mouth full of you. Girls like you love being praised. Especially by their estranged father-figure or a middle aged man. It’s all the same. He’d pry the daddy issues right out of you with his dick. It’s long and fat enough, and solves all of his matters properly. Your mom is in a bad mood? His dick will fix that. He can’t sleep? His dick will fix that. His daughter is a horny freak and begging for it? His dick will fix that, too- obviously.

It’s only when your mom makes some stupid fucking joke about his memory loss that he snaps back into reality and he loses the momentum he had going for an erection. Which is good. Maybe thinking about fucking your mom will make him normal again. So he drops a quip right back- something about… being useful. Yeah. Again, his cock is useful. Your mom bites at his words, but you’re annoyed and disgusted with his comment- especially with his hand on you while he says it.

Trust me, baby. Much rather be splitting you open than having performative, mandatory spousal sex. It’s like a switch flipped. He’s not interested in your mom. Should’ve had that realization years ago, even. Technically he did. He’s just now saying it in his head finally. Mostly he was exhausted because she had nothing to do with Leon even when he was home (unless it was for dick). Too bad he was a golden retriever following after her every step like a good doggy. Marriage did that to a guy. He just did what he was supposed to. Kept the lights on, blew out her back occasionally, listened to her complain, and took care of the lawn when he could. Easy enough. That’s what men do, right? He doesn’t really know what being a man is, honestly. Thanks, Major Krauser. Anyhow- he chokes down his food with a smile. The need to upchuck after everything he just thought up is a given.

He takes the liberty to fuck your mom later that night as promised per (faux) flirting over dinner. He has her face down-ass up, though. For… imagination’s sake. At least fucking a pussy and imagining you is better than his hand and imagining you. Or so he tells himself. Call it killing two birds with one stone, satisfying your mom and quelling his own desires. And it’s not hard to imagine any of it, because you look so much like your mother. He lies awake for a short while after- contemplating his existence and fucked up thoughts. He’s still holding back vomit and the urge to grab his gun from the nightstand and off himself all over the wallpaper, while in the process, traumatizing your mom. After an hour of this- he figures it’s fine, men think of perverted or weird shit sometimes. Jerk off to weird shit too. He hasn’t technically done anything morally wrong… sort of. It’s denial. At least he’s good at playing the part of a genuine, loving father. Because he is! He loves his family. Always has!

Spending time with you would make you happy, him happy, your mom happy. He loves you dearly. All is great. He’s swearing that his brain won’t be smoothied in his skull by tomorrow. It’ll be normal and function rationally.

But Leon wakes up with the thoughts being real as ever while he stretches an arm out to feel around for your mother- bed empty since she leaves at the ass crack of dawn. Leon had just missed her leave, he’s still getting used to sleeping in ever since he retired.

He gets up and heads downstairs- immediately starting breakfast to take his mind off his…mind. Breakfast is his favorite meal of the day, it makes him feel better to indulge in it right now. Though, he doesn’t bother putting a shirt on at any point- just rocking those generic, green and blue tartan patterned pajama pants. Cooking shirtless is weird- but he’s hungry and part of him wonders if he’ll get to see your priceless face when you walk into the kitchen. He shakes his head- telling himself that he just had this talk with himself last night. None of that shit.

He was right about one thing. God, he could make a killing in betting. He sees your reflection behind him in the small window above the counter but you didn’t know that. Just stood, gawking. It’s okay. He’s observative, you’re not. You’re his dumb little girl. Dumb in the way you shift in your stool next to him when he sits down, dumb how you hold your breath when he’s near, dumb how you can’t even eat next to him, and dumb how your thighs seem to wriggle when his arm ‘accidentally’ brushes yours. Oh, he’s definitely not wrong.

Still- he knows when to back off. He hounds down his food, before you even make a dent in your plate, and heads upstairs to shower. He’s analyzing every detail of himself, contemplating how he can get under your skin the most- his knuckles gripping the sink with distaste for himself. Because it’s wrong. He’s acting like a teenager. This is a date with his daughter, not his highschool girlfriend.

Leon skips over shaving his face. Likes to keep it a little grown out but not too much so. Just in case he gets the chance to eat (your) pussy or kiss (your) a neck. Then comes the Dior ‘Sauvage’ body wash he never failed to keep with him. He takes pride in smelling good if anything. And this particularly expensive wash, plus the cologne, was his lifeline for that. When he traveled for work- the D.S.O. better have god damned had some sent to his room as courtesy. Ever since Raccoon City- he’s adamant about not smelling less than great. He swears he can still smell the sewer on himself sometimes, even if it’s not really there.

His hair routine was even more extensive and involved a weekly hair mask. Hey- it wasn’t wrong for a guy to have nice hair. It paid off.

Heat protectant, blow dry, hot-comb to get any cow licks or fly-aways he might have- though it’s unlikely- and a little spritz of biotin spray to keep it healthy and shiny. All of that in reasonable time, too. And no- it's not weird for him to spend longer on his hair than your mom does.

Besides, you seem to appreciate the way he looks when you come out of your bedroom- watching him descend the stairs. Leon looks back at you- eyes on your legs momentarily then coming back up. He knows it was a quick look- quick enough to make you question it. You do. Very much. Still, taking you out in public wearing those shorts is less than ideal for him, but he’s the one who needs to be watched closely. Aforementioned, Leon’s great at pretending. Pretending to be normal. Pretending to not have ulterior motives. Pretending to not want your legs on his shoulders as he-

“All ready?” He interrupts himself here. Can’t let his thoughts keep going too far. Even if he does want to rest a hand on your leg while he drives. Or veer off the road and into a tree so that he can’t continue to be disgusting. He’d die with the image of being a good, wholesome dad in everyone’s mind. And if you did or didn’t die too, at least you would have died not having been fucked silly by your old man. He manages to not kill you both, though. He wasn’t planning to- his driving is just ass. He knows whiskey with his breakfast isn’t ideal but when you’re a recovering alcoholic plus post traumatic stressed failure of a father, it helps.

Can’t complain though since he gets to put his hands on you while helping you out of the vehicle.

Now you’re both in the mall- Leon questioning what exactly he’s supposed to do now. He hasn’t been to one since… he doesn’t have enough fingers for that. But you’re seemingly calm. Until he makes a stupid joke about your shorts. Sure. As much as he’s thinking about ripping a hole in the crotch to fuck you cause he’s impatient and stupid- he said it out of genuine concern.

He still has fatherly instinct. Some sick bastard could get a glimpse of your exposed legs and go jerk off to it or take a photo. Ironic coming from him right now. The call is coming from inside the house but the dad is too busy fiending after his own daughter to answer.

You’re royally pissed. He knows it. Women don’t like having it insinuated that they’re dressed like a whore. Big whoop, though. Someone has to say it. Then you blindside him. Big, needy eyes and saying you like it when he tells you your legs are nice. Then something about how you want to fuck him. Christ. What the fuck. He’s not sure if this is some kind of screwy set-up or you’re actually just so slutty that the only dick you’ll accept is your dad’s. He’s rocking a semi now. Would be a full hard-on if he weren’t in public but his head spins cause all the blood went to his loins too fast.

Leon doesn’t accept the advances yet. Not now, anyways. He’s mortified. He really thought he had himself going in delusion about how you were behaving- but he was actually right. And now being confronted with it… he’s fucking scared - that’s for sure. Hmm. Be a morally acceptable human or fuck your needy, whore daughter silly? He shakes his head and lets out an exhale.

That question needs some thought. No, it doesn’t. He knows better than to do any of that shit, right? He takes a moment to start walking while you follow along shamefully- the two of you headed to the theater. A movie is perfect. Don’t have to talk or anything. No interacting, really. But how the fuck is he just going to forget what you said? Sure, he’s been having questionable thoughts but they’re just thoughts. Your words, however, spoke it into existence. Like a fucked up, frankenstein’s monster of father-daughter reality.

Don’t mind us, everyone. Daughter’s got it real bad for me but I’m just going to take her to the movies and pretend it’s normal. Reality was distorted for him ever since the existence of zombies and BOWs anyway.

He lets you pick the movie- telling the attendant that he needs two tickets. It’s a horror movie. Of course. Something to trigger his PTSD, maybe. Then he could say anything he did after that was just accidental. A mental slip. He goes to fork over the $60 for tickets and popcorn- god, when did shit get so expensive? As he’s pulling out the cash, he sees you give him a look like you want to say something. His mind is racing looking at you- it makes him nervous.

“Uh.. what about candy?” You ask, looking away from him and at the display.

“What? Sour worms?” He questions you, laughing. Not in a mean way- but because it’s your favorite. So insignificant but he remembers. You were still a kid when he and your mom took you to see some milked out children’s movie that was a part of an entirely too long series. He bought you two boxes of sour worms then. You were a weird kid, though. The worms were split into two colors, and you’d always bite them down the middle and make him eat the side you didn’t like. But he’d do it. Gladly.

You nod, a little befuddled that he’d remember something like that. Cute. Too bad your weird ass just told him you wanted to fuck him about 15 minutes ago. So not entirely a cute moment.

“Oh- and two boxes of Sour Worms, please.” He adds, now pulling out a little more cash.

You both respectively grab your own drinks- Leon with popcorn in tow and you, your worms and cherry soda. His hands are full but he manages to flash the movie ticket between his index and middle finger to the usher, who then ripped it in half and pointed to the left end of the hallway.

You both don’t say anything, but you immediately race to the very top row like a child once inside the screening. Leon swears under his breath as he follows you like a geriatric snail. If a snail could have lumbar issues. He’s able to make it up the stairs to you quite some time after and takes the seat next to you that’s closest to the aisle. Safety and all that jazz.

Previews are already playing so it gives him peace of mind to not address the awkwardness between the two of you. Your soda is in the cup holder that’s separating you both, but you lean over to take a sip, cheeks hollowed out while you drink. Of course Leon looks over, fuck.

Pretty little lips wrapped around the straw until you pull off of it with a satisfied sigh. Cause you were thirsty from anxiety- like someone shoved gauze and cotton into your mouth.

He shifts in his seat and looks back at the screen. He doesn’t even know if you’re doing it on purpose. You’re not, however. He’s just a perverted dickhead.

Time passes and not a single soul has come into this screening. It’s Monday at 11am, after all. Who the hell would come watch a horror movie at this time? No one except two fucking weirdos. It’s making Leon’s nails dig into the armrest with the other set scratching at his jeans.

The movie doesn’t start off bad, to Leon’s shock. He’s actually enjoying it and you seem just as entranced, pulling open the box of Sour Worms without looking down. You do wind up looking down, however, to bite one in half because it just so happened to be a blue and orange combo, and you hated the orange side.

“Here.” Leon turns to look at you- your eyes coming up to meet his blue ones that are oddly blue enough to the point that any light from the screen makes them pop. Pretty.

“The orange half. I know you don’t like them.” His voice is husky and low since the speakers are blaring some generic string-quartet horror piece. He nods down to the half chewed candy in your palm.

You pinch it between your fingers, bringing it to his mouth as your cunt throbs. He was expecting you to hand it to him, but the way you confidentially yet instinctively brought it to his lips isn’t entirely unwelcome. The emptiness of the theater makes it that way. Allows room for incest of whatever. He opens his mouth for you, and you go to place the sour treat on his tongue. His lips gently close around it, before he grabs your wrist to hold your arm in place. A hold gentle enough to tell you that if you want to snatch your hand away- feel free to do so. But you don’t. And you won’t. He knows.

Candy in cheek, he brings your fingers to his lips and nurses your knuckles with a kiss before puppeteering your hand with his larger one, working each digit so that he can equally suck each one clean. You’re amazed, aroused, and alarmed all at the same time. Amazed because he looks so gorgeous sucking on your fingers. Aroused for the obvious reason. Alarmed because duh, he’s your father and things can only go further from here.

Leon places your hand back onto the arm rest between you, chewing the halved sour worm now. As if he didn’t just give you the most visually appealing form of sexual affection in the history of womankind. The dryness of your mouth returns and you take another sip of your Cherry soda. Maybe you can drown yourself in it. No, stupid. That’s what the public bathroom toilets are for.

Right before you set the plastic cup into the cupholder again, Leon speaks.

“Ah, ah. Put it over there.” You don’t even hesitate to listen. Record timing for you doing anything. You don’t even know why you followed his instructions so quick.

“Good girl.” His words send lightning of excitement down your nerves and straight to your clit as he pushes the armrest between you upwards and out of the way. Because that’s a thing, for some reason. It’s like theaters want people to fuck, give head, and spread their diseases everywhere. And why does he know they move? You don’t even want to question it. Maybe he’s just a knowledgeable guy.

“Come here, honey. Let daddy kiss that pretty mouth.” Fucking Christ. This can’t be real. Doesn’t matter, ‘cause again, there’s zero hesitation on your part. Leon likes that. A woman that can follow orders. He’s so used to taking them, not giving them. And your mom isn’t one to listen to other people. Either way, if this goes south, Leon can always just off himself. He wasn’t around much so what difference would it make if he was permanently gone? The reassurance of being able to log out forever gives him courage here. It’s rational.

You scoot over since you’re free from any barriers or restrictions, and he puts an arm over you. You swear you almost hear your skin sizzle from the contact. You’re not a witch- and as far as you know, he’s not water. Even if he gets you wet. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek and swipe a thumb over your bottom lip- teasing you.

“D-dad.” You stutter a protest- cringing that you sounded the way you did just now. Maybe you shouldn’t be embarrassed ‘cause he’s your dad- but you are embarrassed ‘cause he’s hot. You can’t even figure out why you wanna back out suddenly. Probably because the idea was better than betraying your mom and knowing yourself as someone who fucks their dad. Anywho- didn’t he say something about kissing you? Cause he’s not even doing as promised.

Your dad leans in, his free hand is now on your neck and angling it just to show you how easy he can manhandle your body. He plants a kiss on your earlobe before saying anything.

“What’s wrong, baby? Can’t go giving daddy blue-balls now. It’s not polite to start things you don’t wanna finish.”

Leon’s words simultaneously gross you out and turn you on in a self-deprecating, disgusting kind of way. Not to mention he’s literally contradicting himself since he would gladly eat the half of the sour worms you didn’t want to finish- therefore entirely enabling you to start things you couldn’t finish. Hm. That must explain a large portion of your life, then. And besides all do that, doesn’t the know blue-balls is some kinda stupid myth or whatever?

His thumb falls down your lip and traces your jawline with intentional slowness while his eyes look over your face appreciatively- but it also seems as if he’s looking for or at something specific.

You get the courage to speak, air sucked fully into your lungs.

“Sorry, daddy.” The fuck is wrong with you? You could have said anything but that. It’ll only spur him on. But you want that, obviously.

He smirks, lips pressed together as the corners of his mouth do that same, pitted thing they do that you like so much. Must go hand in hand with how his chin is also dimpled. It’s sexy. But little do you know, it’s one of the reasons he keeps his stubble. Doesn’t feel like having his butt chin on display to the world- even if every woman that’s ever laid eye on him sees it and wants it buried in their cunt.

“That’s my girl. Didn’t even have to be around much to teach you that, did I?” Leon queries, grabbing your chin to crane your head just so that he can plant his lips onto your neck. His other hand is on your knee, unmoving. You want it to move, though. God- you’re sure whatever higher power is in the great sky is throwing up right now, moments away from pressing the reset button. The same higher power will make a new rule on humanity.

No free will and absolutely no incest. Yeah. Probably should have written that into the books ages ago, one fears.

You fidget as he kisses your neck, stubble scratching your epidermis yet tickling all the same.

“Not gonna answer me, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your throat, the neck kiss he gives it uses a bit of tongue- making your body jolt. “I know your mother taught you manners.”’

You mumble something pathetically apologetic, hands gripping the fabric over his shoulders. Hopefully your mom won’t notice his shirt being stretched out there- cause she notices everything.

“N-no, daddy. I knew it on my own.” You huff, that hand you wanted him to move is slowly doing so- fingers dragging along your inner thigh as if everything he’s doing to you is purposefully meant to be some kind of forewarning. But for what, exactly?

“Such a smart girl. Get that from daddy, you know it?” Ok, cocky…

Leon kisses his way back up your neck, jawbone, and then your cheek. It’s sweet- if being lavished with saccharine, sexual and inappropriate attention from your dad could be sweet.

You nod, feeling his grip loosen from your chin and now sliding up the back of your neck to tangle in your hair, threading it. He’s slow and deliberate- part of you wishes he’d not give you time to think about your actions. Not that you can really think anyways. Your heartbeat is muddled in your ears and the movie is still rumbling through the speakers while someone gets murdered on screen. Lucky them.

The hand on your thigh presses firmer into the skin just below the edge of your shorts, a silent telling for you to keep your attention on him.

“Sorry baby, daddy got distracted. Just so pretty.” He must be able to tell you’re impatient because he kisses your cheek (with an oddly dark undertone to it) before slimming the distance between your lips. He pauses right when they touch and you’re breathing in the taste-turned-scent of the sour worm you fed him earlier. Sugar and that weird orange flavor that is only specific to orange candy. You’re obviously not a fan, but it suits him.

You don’t get any time left to process before it’s a full on kiss- well, make out, actually. It’s slow. You can’t recall being kissed like this, ever. Normally it’s straight to tongue with guys, and not in, like, the good way. The ‘having an eel invading your oral cavity’ kind of way. Eugh.

But your dad’s tongue does brush yours, tastefully. You can actually feel the texture and it’s easy to tell there’s an erection fueling his actions- but not so much so that it takes over the whole kiss.

He uses your hair to pull you closer, teeth clashing momentarily. Not exactly the best feeling but everything else envelops your senses to the point that it’s only a flash of a moment. Your thigh is neglected by his touch, hand moving up and around onto your backside. He gives a squeeze to the fat of your ass and groans against your mouth before pulling you into his lap- legs folded on either side of his thighs.

You break the kiss, looking over your shoulder and to where the entrance is- the exit sign casting a nearby glow that gives you anxiety..

“Can’t- we’ll get caught.” You pant, that weird feeling that’s the grotesque love child of nervousness and excitement is swimming in your gut like a parasite before settling. The severity and realness of the situation sinks in.

Leon laughs low and mean, retracting his hand from your hair and moving to run it through the top of your scalp to push it back. He juts his hips upwards to prod his denimed erection into the cunt of your shorts. You mewl quietly, or maybe it was loud. The movie is just too deafening to distinguish which.

“Suppose you’re right, baby.” He tucks a loose strand behind your ear, leaning in to give you a light peck on the lips. “Told you you’re a smart girl, didn’t I? Can’t let me go around thinking with my dick, huh?”

His hand pats your thigh as if to tell you to get off.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Up.” He commands you with a huffed voice- not because he’s annoyed but because he’s a middle-aged man. Moving is hard. You ignominiously climb off of his lap, putting your bottom back onto the seat next to him. He’s looking at you, meandering a hand back onto your thigh just to rest in place.

You stare at the screen- but you can’t even register it because you’re too disassociated from what just happened. You almost want to beg him to fuck you right here- plead for forgiveness that you suggested stopping in the first place. And you can still taste that damned orange sour worm in your mouth.

Leon behaves, though. He’s good about that. Respectful. In the way of consent- not in the way of not tongue fucking his daughter in a public space. When the movie ends, he gestures for you to stand and you walk past him, carrying your empty cup and boxes of sour worms while the uncomfortable feeling of your slick clinging the gusset of your panties to your cunt. You look back at your father, the sight of him in the palely lit theater is a bit intimidating. He’s adjusting his pants for obvious reasons. You look away quickly and keep walking- a giddy feeling of satisfaction overcoming you. Shortly enough, you’re both back in the main area of the mall. You brush your shirt out and fix your hair- the thought occurs to you that maybe you look a little mussed and should have straightened up sooner.

But the daylight beaming through the sky roof brings you back to your senses.

“Hmm. What does my sweet girl want to get up to now?” Leon asks, intersecting his arms as he looks over you.

You think, mind fizzling as it short circuits. You almost smell smoke emanating from your head, too. How can you look him in the face right now?

“Uhh..” You really don’t know what to say. What can you focus on doing after everything that’s happened today?

“How about this? We can go home a little early and I’ll cook something up for lunch. The drive will give us time to work up an appetite.” He says, nonchalant. Right back to his same fatherly tone from earlier today instead of the ‘I want to split you open with my dick’ tone he had moments ago. Maybe he’s just being sweet and you’re overthinking.

You’re befuddled that he’s not saying anything else about… that. How can he so easily go from publicly groping you to acting cheery and normal? It’s frustrating. Disturbing even. Leon can see the disappointment on your face- but you don’t know that. You assume it’s well hidden, just like the fact you kissed your own father. He thinks it’s cute though. You’re just cock dumb for him. On the other hand, this whole situation is something he has to deal with.

“Got it.” You manage to say, walking a little faster than he does. This is the second time you’ve walked off from your dad, and it does irritate him because he can’t keep up like he used to. Displaced disc in his spine or whatever. Plus, he thinks you’re pissed. Which is worrying. Should have known better than to mess around with his own daughter, he supposes.

The drive back is silent and less terrifying than the previous, part of you thankful. Maybe he was only a bad driver in the morning. Unlikely, but not impossible. Maybe it was the fact that he drank whiskey with his breakfast. Hm. ‘Responsible’ in hindsight.

It’s still early in the afternoon when you arrive back home. The concrete is sizzling from the heat and the sun beats down way too uncomfortably for even a walk from the driveway to the front door.

Leon side-steps you to unlock the house before he urges you in. He may be morally reprehensible but he still didn’t want to let any cool air out- AC’s expensive. You plop down on the couch and he locks the door, walking past you and straight to the kitchen.

The tension is thick for you- but for Leon- not at all. You watch him disappear through the doorway as he goes to prep food. Why is it so hard to read his emotions? He’s like a fucking light switch. You’re annoyed- leaning back on the couch, until he calls for you. You’re quick to get up, scrambling into the kitchen.

“Hey, sweetheart. Mind giving me a hand?”

“Yeah. What is it?” You faintly cock your head to the side.

Leon looks to the side- directly at you. You’re cute when you’re confused. He can tell that all you’re thinking about is continuing where you two left off earlier. Shit, you’re no better than your mother. ‘S just that you’re not crabby and sour all the time like she is.

“Can you grab the saucepan from the bottom cabinet. Your old dad can’t exactly bend over too well.” He laughs- shaking his head. Yes, dad. I get it. I know you have a bad back.

You walk over to the cabinet where he’s leaned onto one hand which is rested on the marbled countertop. You feel a bit apprehensive to be close to him again. Mostly because you don’t trust yourself to not jump his bones, but Leon’s already ahead of you. As soon as you bend over, he pulls you back by the hips so that your ass is flush with his groin.

You’re taken aback but definitely not surprised. He’s a dirty old man, as you’ve learned.

“Gonna let daddy fuck this pussy now, or are you getting flaky on me?” He coos against your ear while he runs his hands up your sides and down again- creeping his hands to your front and over the buttons of your shorts- unhooking them through the slits.

“Yes.. want it.” You breathe in quick- the word coming out on its own. If god could hear you right now, he’d set your house ablaze with lightning.

“Need you to loosen up if I’m going to. You’re way too stiff.” Your shorts are the opposite of you, loose and unfastened fully so they fall to your ankles, and Leon nudges your feet apart with his boot. You realize he’s got a point as you feel his calloused hand glide down your hip and yank you in place. The other hand is spreading your pussy lips apart before finding that fleshy bud between them. A moan rumbles in your throat as your legs almost give out below you. He mutters a curse under his breath, and you realize his cock is now out while he rubs up against your ass- getting off on not only playing with your pussy but from dry humping you.

“Fucking christ. Got the prettiest ass, baby. Think daddy needs to see it bouncing on his cock.” You can practically feel that stupid, smug look as he grabs his dick- slapping it on your ass. It makes you cringe a little, but maybe you should be cringing at the fact your dad is the one doing it. You figure it’s just something he saw in porn, so it doesn’t leave your expectations high at the moment. Great. Leon adjusted himself back into his pants, for now.

His finger continues circling that bundle of nerves, your legs shaky as you’re being pressed into the counter, a hand is on your lower back to keep you down so he can do what he wants. You sound stupid- tears welling in your eyes as you babble nonsensically about wanting to cum. He moves his hand off of your back and sinks to his knees to be face level with you (even if it makes his back hurt a little), sliding his fingers up your inner thigh until there’s a digit prodding your hole, slowly pushing in.

He watches your cunt swallow his finger, barely able to fit it inside.

“Fucking shit, baby. Gonna have to stretch this pussy out if I want my cock in you, huh? Think you can let daddy do that?” He asks, breathy and sounding like he’s trying not to bust all over himself.

You eagerly shake your head.

“Yes, daddy. Need you to get me loose.” The words spill like a hot cup of tea from your lips, scalding Leon with desire.

“God damned. Such a polite fucking girl I’ve got. Might have to eat your mother out later to thank her for making you so respectful.”

You scrunch your face in disgust.

“That’s fucking gross.” You moan, Leon slipping a second finger into you, which should technically feel like four with how worn and big his hands are.

He tuts, planting a kiss to your asscheek.

“Now, didn’t daddy just compliment you? Could be a bit more grateful since he’s trying to make you cum” He grits, sounding a bit (terrifyingly) stern.

You apologize again.

“Sorry, daddy. Just don’t wanna hear about you and mom. Makes me jealous.” You admit, briefly thinking about their dinner conversation last night. Then about how fucking weird you are. You’re really hoping you get the courage to bash your head on the marble countertop and get amnesia.

Leon laughs, but in a way that makes you think he’s amused more than actually laughing.

“God. Want me to stop fucking my own wife just ‘cause you’ve got a needy pussy?” A third finger slips in, making an almost unbearable stretch as you feel a slight ache, but the previous two fingers already did enough work that it’s not completely unbearable.

“Maybe you’re not that grateful. Giving you three fingers here and she’s still too tight.” He twists his hand, letting the inside of you feel every inch of his knuckles and calluses. Your knuckles, however, are ghost-white as you grip at nothing.

“Maybe your fingers are just too small.” You say- mostly from built up tension and annoyance that you didn’t get to let out yet. But you regret the words.

He’s silent- which scares you. He pulls his fingers out of you- the stark contrast in emptiness is clear and the cool air stings you.

Leon groans as he stands up, kicking off his boots before yanking you by the arms to stand straight. He leans into your ear.

“C’mon. You’re gonna come sit on daddy’s dick, since you’re too fucking picky.” Goosebumps form all over you as he leads you to the couch. Leon leaves you standing there so he can get comfortable and discard his clothing, lying back with his hands behind his head. You make a mental note of how his biceps look with his arms bent in this position, even if you kinda feel like it’s lazy. But holy fuck, his toned stomach is perfect- sprinkled with a happy trail that will definitely lead you somewhere that will make you happy. Speaking of, his dick is nice. Fat. Not sure how big it is since you have not much to compare to, but you’d imagine taking it would be a bit of a proper challenge.

You step a little closer- crawling awkwardly over his lap- ass faced towards him so that you settle on his waist. It’s hard not to feel self conscious about your backside in this position, even considering the fact that he was just fingering you from the back moments ago. You’re mostly just upset you can’t gawk at his tits or stomach.

You grab him by the base, shifting yourself to hover directly over him, letting the tip graze your wet hole before slowly sinking down- a drawn out moan escaping you.

“Fuckkk. That’s it. Sit down on it. Take all of daddy.” You glance over your shoulder as you bottom him out; his eyes are half-lidded. Well, at least he’s got a pretty face while you’re fucking him. You almost failed to realize his hands moved from behind his head to your ass- gliding up your back and down again.

You take a moment to adjust, breathing shakily ‘cause his dick is so fat you think you might die. Or maybe you’re having a heart attack at your ripe age.

“Didn’t tell you to take any breaks, did I baby?” You’re annoyed at his pushiness, but you did have a bit of a sour attitude earlier. So you can only blame yourself.

You’re not sure how to entirely do this, but you move yourself up and down. Not at a fast pace, yet. Just that savoring your dad’s dick seems like a reasonable ordeal.

He doesn’t shut up, though. You’re learning just how much he likes to talk- as if he just wants to hear himself. Is he even getting off on you or the sound of his own voice? It makes you roll your eyes even if you do like hearing him say dirty shit.

"That’s my girl. So fucking good. Ride it nice and slow... Work that sweet pussy on daddy's cock.” You just might fall over dead hearing him say any of it- it’s disgusting but sweet Jesus are you eating it up. He must know it too because of how you clench around him involuntarily when he talks like that.

“You like when daddy praises you? Yeah, you love me telling you how good you are.” His words are husky and yet pleased with the previous tidbit of information.

“See how nice I am? Letting you sit on my cock after you made me wait earlier. Wasn’t very nice of you, now was it, baby?” His words have an underlyingly mocking tone, but you’d do anything to make him change it.

“No, daddy. Was really mean of me.” You whine pitifully, bouncing yourself on his dick like it’s your major in college and you’re trying to pass with flying colors.

“I know, baby. But daddy forgives you.” He murmurs, sitting up with you still on top of him. He’s flush against your back now- reaching in front of you to make those same tight circles on your clit. You both exchange your pitchy moans and his grunting and groaning- working up to a good point in both of your impending orgasms.

“Gonna cum in this pussy, got it? Daddy doesn’t like to pull out.”

You scramble a bit, squirming on his lap.

“Fuck, dad! You can’t do that!” You whine as his other arm holds you onto him- wrapped around your stomach. Your nails dig into his forearms, hopefully not leaving noticeable scratches.

“I think I can, baby. You’re squeezing me at the idea- I’m not fucking stupid.” He’s quick to be mean again, but you’d be a liar to say you’d don’t want him to cum in you. And you’re not a liar, that’s just deplorable- coming from someone who is literally fucking their dad with enough energy to power a small village for a month. And yet, you don’t stop riding him.

And your silence tells it all.

“Yeah- my baby wants a nice creampie.” He sounds more strained now, letting go of his hold on your stomach and using his hand to now guide you to roll your hips on him.

Sweat beads down Leon’s forehead, bangs sticking to his face as he watches your ass grinding against his lap.

“Fuck, baby. Just like that. I’m gonna cream this tight fucking pussy. Want that, don’t you? ‘Cause daddy’s gonna give it to you whether you want it or not.”

You should be a little more upset or concerned in any regard right now, but the last two days have made you into a proper whore to the point that you don’t even give a shit. Self respect crawled itself into a space shuttle and launched off of the planet, probably to never be seen again. Stuck in orbit, if you will.

You’re sucked out of the motions when Leon speaks again.

“Stop, stop.” He pats your bottom.

“Turn around, baby. I wanna see your face. Wanna kiss those lips while you’re on my dick.” Your stomach flutters with nervousness and a sickly sweet feeling. You lifted yourself from him with a trail of arousal to follow and maneuvered to turn around- this time he was holding his cock ready for you. Moments went by of you staring, getting a proper look of him since everything had been a quick blur so far.

“Come on, baby. Need you to mount daddy’s cock again. Told you I wanted to kiss you, didn’t I?” He exhaled, sounding a bit pent up. Jeez- seconds without pussy and he’s getting upset. Maybe he needs a therapist and anger management, not his college-aged daughter spearing herself on him.

You replied, yes, daddy. Sorry, daddy. Didn’t mean to make you wait, daddy.

You dropped yourself down onto him once more- only this time it was easier since you were able to get accustomed to his dick.

“Start moving sweetheart, make daddy cum.” He instructed, leaning in to take you in a kiss. It was more dirty than the last kiss, somehow. His tongue slipped between your lips- Leon lifted you with his hands on your waist before jutting his hips up to slam his cock snugly into your heat, groaning against your mouth delightfully.

His teeth nipped your lower lip- giving you a little further taste of just what kind of lover he is. Or maybe this is just the version you get. Either way, you can’t complain in any area. You feel lucky to receive even a sliver of it.

The familiar roughness of his thumb returns to your already throbbing bud- circling at the same pace he’s now moving at. Despite his age, he seems awfully enthusiastic to do strenuous work involving his hips. Bad back, my ass. Or maybe he’s able to put that on the back burner to please you. Probably worried if he doesn’t give you good dick then you’ll go tattle on him.

Leon didn’t break the kiss whatsoever while he pounded into you ruthlessly, he swallowed up every moan and noise you made like it was alcohol. ‘Cause that was his favorite, obviously.

When he pulled his mouth off of yours, a trail of saliva lingered- stretching out while you giggled on top of him. Something about you laughing almost made him nut immediately, but he held out just to prolong this and let it engrain into his mind for certain.

“Got the prettiest baby- look so good on my cock like this. Want daddy to bust in that pretty pussy?” He asked, looking for your approval.

“Uh-huh. Need daddy to knock me up.” The words came from god knows where, making even your eyes look bewildered for a second.

Leon laughed darkly at you.

“God, baby. Daddy’s so fucking close.” He muttered stupidly, almost like he was drunk. At least this could be an ego boost for you- but the fact it was your dad canceled that out. Dick only counts if it’s from someone that’s not related to you. His eyes did that half-lidded thing from earlier that you found so hot, and he pulled you down onto his cock one last time, spilling thick ropes into your blood-related hole. His dick pulsed as he let out a muted grunt, head lolling back and his adam's apple on full, stubbly display. You could bite it, just like a real apple.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He moaned. Jeez. He was a whore, honestly. The way he made noises and didn’t shut the fuck up was honestly… a case that should be studied. Maybe he had been turned out a time or two himself.

His cock didn’t soften though, nor did he not forget about you cumming. He lifted his head back up, looking down at where his thumb was. It was almost like he read your thoughts, not saying a word as he concentrated on making you cum. ‘Cause earlier he had been too eager to get in you and you were too eager to get on him.

Your nails dug into his shoulders (hopefully your mom wouldn’t notice any marks on him when she gets home from work later) and he gently fucked into you while you received proper attention on your aching clit. The combination of his dick keeping you full and the sensation of his digit sent you throbbing through your orgasm around him- low curses and other disgusting things coming out of both your mouths.

‘Cause you’re both disgusting.

[ellemcu]

Chapter 7

Words: 1584

Warnings: swearing

***********

You quietly groaned as your eyes fluttered open. There was a hard pounding in your head and your whole body was aching and burning. You slowly lifted your wrist only to be stopped by some chains. You quickly raised your head from the bed you were lying in, trying desperately to get off it. Your arms and legs had been strapped onto the floor and you were dressed in your black sports bra and your matching black shorts.

You started panicking, not remembering how you’d gotten here and what was going to happen. Flashbacks of old memories as a kid in HYDRA flooded your mind, drowning your every other thought. As a kid, you would often wake up in a room just like this. Handlers coming in the room and torturing you in all sorts of ways.

You whimpered quietly while you tried to get up from the bed, your whole body aching. You slowly stood up, the chains on your wrists starting to dig deep into your skin. You felt slightly lightheaded but you kept blinking it off, not trusting your surroundings. Your knees buckled and you crashed on the ground with a thud.

You were panting on the floor, slowly moving into a sitting position against the metal leg of your bed. You breathed heavily, trying not to fall unconscious.

After a while, your body started shaking violently. It had already happened at HYDRA after your body had gone through too much for it to handle which meant days of training non-stop.

It was very inconvenient because this was the most vulnerable position you had ever found yourself in and you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. You lied down on the floor rocking yourself at a slow pace to stop yourself from shaking even more. Your breaths became uneven and you didn’t know how to stop.

After what seemed like hours of shaking the bolted door flew open and three men with white lab coats walked in, each carrying silver cases in their hands. You had horrible memories with scientists. Doctors had always taken their anger out on you, torturing you after you fell unconscious several times in a row, pushing your body over the edge after a brainwash, just because I couldn’t fight back.

You eyed them very closely, still shaking violently, while they came closer to you. Without saying a word they started taking out their shiny suitcases, long needles. You shook your head, trying desperately to back away from them. One of them grabbed your ankles, trying to stop you from shaking and another one grabbed the chain that was tied to your wrist, tugging at it harshly. You winced in pain “No” you whimpered, while another man had wrapped his hand around your throat. “ Please.” you whispered desperately, fighting against the man’s pull. “No…… no……. please…… no…… please…...stop” you begged, a tear falling from your eye. “Stop.” you whimper, not having enough energy to fight back.

The scientist was about to take a blood sample from you when a loud voice spoke. You were too busy being choked by one of the doctors to actually hear it but the doctor froze in his spot. “Hey dumb ass you heard her. Back off.” the male voice shouted. Two of the doctors immediately got up but the one choking you still kept his tight grip on your neck. “ You really sure you wanna do that? Huh?”: The man swallowed slowly and stood up, they grabbed their things and left the room in a hurry.

You breathed in quickly, your lungs finally getting fresh air. You coughed loudly and rubbed your hands on your wrists, trying to ease the pain. A tall man walked into the room after they were all gone. A tall man that you immediately recognized: James. You crawled as far away as your body and chains let you, trying to gain control over your body again.

He slowly walked towards you with his hands raised, showing that he wasn’t armed although you weren’t gonna fall for that trap again.

You closed your eyes, concentrating on your uneven breaths. After a few seconds you opened your eyes again, only to find yourself in a small room, surrounded by tall, black walls. You finally felt at peace, your body no longer aching, no more shaking. You felt your body completely freeze (idk it's like a coma but you’re in a different place its like your inside your mind. Idek if it makes sense. Stranger things for reference.) You calmed your panted breaths and regained your brain’s control.

You woke up with a jolt. James' face was covered with a confused look. “What have you done?” you snarled. “Listen, I know what you’ve been through but-” he answered calmly, but you quickly interrupted him, scoffing at his words. “ Boy, you have no fucking clue.” you mumbled. “Listen Y/n you may not know who I am because they never made us meet. They were too afraid. We would have been unstoppable together” he replied, closing his eyes as if he was trying to forget something. “ Uh uh. Sure. I’ll take that.” you answered back, not wanting to piss him off because this was the longest conversation you had ever held with someone and you were dying to see where it was going to end. “If you’re going to hurt me, could you please use one of the first 12 methods, I’m really tired of counting new ways to torture me after 1682.” you whispered knowing that HYDRA handlers couldn’t care less but what you didn’t know was that with Bucky’s super-hearing he had heard every single word and his heart broke.

As the Winter Soldier he had heard so much about you. They constantly compared her to him which amazed him greatly, he had heard that she was unbeatable, unpredictable and impossibly well trained. No one survived your missions. Ever. He had also found out that HYDRA’s men took pleasure from touting her, brain washing her and training her for hours non stop until she would faint 6 / 7 times. They forced her to go unconscious to take advantage of her. He was absolutely disgusted.

He had been through a lot and getting out of that infinite hole had been extremely hard but you had been through way more and for a longer period of time, getting out of it alive was going to be a hard challenge.

“What do you mean?” he questioned gruffly, determined to not show too many emotions, knowing you were able to manipulate any living thing. You didn’t say anything back, scared for your own safety, knowing too well a harsh beating would be coming soon. “You are going to stay here,” he announces. “And I’m going to help you.” You looked at him with wide eyes. Sometimes the moment in which after 20 years you were finally going to be free. Finally eat a full meal, walk outside, drink water without having to worry if its poisoned or not. That thought had ran across your mind a few times, briefly though before being cut off and silenced by brainwashing.

You scoffed silently “Yeah sure why would you wanna do that huh? Why would you wanna help a fucked up, high-skilled assassin like me?"You looked straight into his steel blue eyes. “ Because why not? I mean we’re all messed up here. What difference will one more fucked up person make?” He answered back, offering his hand out to you to help you stand.

You quickly stood up but lost your balance so you ended up putting your whole weight on the nearest wall. “What did you put in me?” you whispered, more to yourself rather than him. “It's to help you with all the drugs they fed you. It's supposed to bring back your strength.” He shrugged. “This burns like hell.” you whimpered, stretching your numb legs. You wiggled your wrists, showing him the chains you were still tied to. He nodded and the chains crumbled to the ground. You both made your way out of the room and found yourself walking across an empty corridor. “What's up with everything?” you questioned, not understanding why the corridor was so homey-looking. “Oh, don’t worry we just thought you’d wanna be with someone you trust at first and… um I guess as I’ve been in a similar situation, I wanted to help you too”. He answered calmly. You looked at him deeply “I guess they’re all fucking terrified of me aren't they?” He didn’t answer you. “Well I wouldn’t blame them” you mumble under your breath. “And um what makes you think I trust you?” You question with a cold stare. “Why aren’t you scared of me?” you questioned quietly.

The man walking beside you was different. His way of thinking amazed you. It was different. He didn’t see you as a poor captured girl, a very mentally unstable woman with a very insane mind. Not a girl with severe PTSD and anxiety nor a highly trained assassin with no backstory except HYDRA.

“Nothing scares me anymore. Besides I don’t see why I should be afraid of you:” He answered slowly, a small smirk making its way on your face.

"We'll see about the trust thing dude"

**************

I am truly so sorry that I've kept you waiting for so long. A lot has happened and I really couldn't keep on writing. I've missed it tho lol. I hope this makes up for it. This wasn't exactly what I was going for but I don't really hate it so I'll just go with the flow and idk we'll see. Oh and if you have any suggestion for what could happen please don't hesitate to text me!!!

Elle

[greetjk]

exhale you in pain (like smoke in the rain)

read below or click to follow ao3 link! (formatting will be better on ao3)

exhale you in pain (like smoke in the rain) by grayspider

If Queens and every other borough in New York weren’t already littered with images of the late Tony Stark, the campus of MIT definitely was. After the events in Europe, Peter was sure he was over the anxiety and terror of living in Tony’s shadow, but now it feels it's suffocating him more than ever. 

Words: 7k+ 

Chapter: 1/10

tw: should be nothing too extreme, angst, brief references to depressing thoughts and major character death from endgame

If Queens and every other borough in New York weren’t already littered with images of the late Tony Stark, the campus of MIT definitely was. After all, it would be a shame to let any student or alumnus forget that they produced the genius of the one and only Iron Man. His face is plastered on every banner, his name on several benches and statues across campus. After the events in Europe, Peter was sure he was over the anxiety and terror of living in Tony’s shadow, but now it feels it's suffocating him more than ever. It was overwhelming enough when Peter had gone for orientation last month, but now, standing on center campus where a minimalistic statue of Iron Man towered over him, Peter feels smaller than ever. His suitcase drags heavy behind him, and a fleeting moment of dread almost has him sprinting back to the parking lot where May had said her goodbyes to him moments before. 

It’s ironic how Peter has faced men with alien weapons and fought Thanos on a far-away planet, yet all he wants to do now as he faces the vast MIT campus is run. He can’t run. He knows that Tony wanted him to attend MIT, just as he did. And he wanted to-- even without Tony’s prompting-- he really did. Now it felt like a cruel joke. As if he couldn’t breathe in Tony’s shadow before, now practically every building he passed on campus had his name plastered on the front in gold plating. He wonders what Mr. Stark would think of the grandeur. 

“You know I’ve got pull at MIT,” Mr. Stark said as he fiddled with the bright blue holograms hovering above his worktable. Peter sat a few feet away at his own little workbench, his web-shooters disassembled in front of him. He held back a smirk at his mentor’s words. 

“I don’t want to get in with your money, Mr. Stark,” Peter mumbled without lifting his head. It stressed him out when Tony brought up college, especially because it was still so far away (relatively) and he really had put no thought into it until Mr. Stark came into his life. He figured with Aunt May’s tight financial situation, it would be difficult for him to go anywhere prestigious without a pretty massive scholarship. Sure, Peter was smart, but he wasn’t sure if he was smart enough to get a full ride to a place like MIT. Regardless, he didn’t want Mr. Stark’s charity. 

Tony pushed himself away from the table, the projection flickering away. He crawled his rolling chair towards where Peter sat, prying his gaze onto what he was working on. “It’s not money, per se,” he said. “Think of it as an investment. A down-payment to MIT. A shining letter of recommendation.”

“Still sounds like charity to me, Mr. Stark.” Peter didn’t mean to sound bitter, but it slipped through. He dropped the screwdriver in his hands in frustration as he turned to look at Tony. “You’ve already done a lot for me. The suit. This internship. I can’t ask for anything else.”

“You’re not asking, kid,” Mr. Stark retorts. “I’m insisting. With a brain like yours, you’d fit right in. Sure, the environment is a little elitist, but what’s the point of going to a fancy college if you can’t rub it in someone’s face?” 

Peter gnawed at his bottom lip. The way he discusses college-- let alone MIT-- so freely and trivially makes Peter squirm. As if it wasn’t something that he had to stress over and consider most of his high school career. After all, the genius had attended at age 15, way younger than Peter. When Peter was 15, Tony Stark was telling him how inadequate he was to do the one thing he believed he was good at -- Spider-Man-- and he took his suit away. How was Peter supposed to live up to Tony’s expectations of surpassing him as an MIT student when he’s already light-years behind in the race? It was unfair. 

“It’s not that, Mr. Stark,” Peter insisted, hanging his head low. He couldn’t find the strength to look at his mentor in the eye at that moment. “I just… if I’m going to get into MIT, I want it to be because of me. If I couldn’t get it done before then I shouldn’t now.”

Tony is quiet for a moment. Peter can’t see his face, but he is sure that he’s messed up. That he’s betrayed Tony Stark’s trust and he won’t be invited to work in the lab ever again. He’ll take the suit again-

“Alright,” his mentor said. “That’s fair. I’ve said it before, you’ve got this Springsteen working-class hero vibe. I get it.” 

The tension in Peter’s shoulders, which he wasn’t aware he was there, immediately melted away. He knew how incredibly stubborn Tony Stark was, so he considered the small victory enough to drop the college conversation completely. Without waiting for Mr. Stark, he turned back to his web-shooters, squinting at the microscopic grid of circuit boards beneath the external shell. In his last battle against someone who called himself Kingpin, they were crushed and have been malfunctioning ever since. He needed to get back to friendly neighborhood monitoring, so the conversation of college was hardly the first thing on his mind.

“It’s not like you’d have a hard time getting into MIT anyway,” Mr. Stark continued, rolling his chair back towards his table. “With that… super brain. Spider-brain. Whatever.” 

He looks down at his suitcase. It’s barely held together by layers of multi-colored duct-tape, but it was the only thing in his apartment large enough to carry his necessities. Including his newest suit. He misses Ben’s tattered briefcase in that moment. It was small, but it was one of the only belongings he had left of his uncle. But like many other things, he had lost it in Europe. He always wished to take a small piece of Uncle Ben with him when he finally went to college. However, now he holds a tattered piece of luggage and a broken spirit. No Ben, no May, and no Tony. He’s alone.

It’s almost enough to make him regret his decision. Almost.

The rest of the walk to his dormitory is numb. He arrives at the Baker House before he realizes he’s crossed most of the campus, dodging the crowds of students already moved onto campus. The building is an odd shape, like an ocean wave or a ‘W’. There are groups of bright-eyed freshmen piling in the front door, some hugging and saying goodbye to their parents. Peter tries to ignore  the sting in his eyes and chest as he weaves past them and ducks inside the building. He clutches his phone in his hand, glancing at the screen-shot of his email from the housing office. Room 309, it reads. His heart aches at the thought of not rooming with Ned like they had dreamed of since middle school. However, life, as always, had different plans for the pair. With Ned attending school over a thousand miles away at a technology school in Georgia, their dream is utterly crushed. May tells him, in his initial moment of turmoil and heartbreak, that it’s for the best; college is a new chapter of life, and he needs to embrace the new, uncomfortable experiences instead of run from them, she says.

So, without dwelling on his misery, Peter tugs his suitcase along into the nearest elevator. So far, he hasn’t seen Tony’s face plastered on any wall in this residence building so far. He’s grateful for the brief reprieve. He’s nervous to meet his random roommate; he hasn’t even gotten the chance to know the kid’s name yet, and he’s about to be living with him. He would be lying if he says it doesn’t make him nervous. It’s almost like he’s the sad, lonely, nerdy kid sitting by himself at the lunch table all over again. 

Before the elevator doors close, a blonde-haired girl sticks her foot into the doorway and stumbles in. Her arms are full of boxes, stacked up so high that Peter can’t see her face. His hand leaves the handle of his luggage and he stumbles to help her, holding the elevator door open so she can stagger inside. 

“Woah, thanks!” Peter still can’t see her past the boxes, but he can hear the smile in her voice. The elevator doors slide shut. 

“Uh, what floor?” Peter asks, his fingers awkwardly hover over the elevator buttons. The girl huffs and drops her cardboard boxes to the ground, running her fingers through the pieces of hair that hung out in front of her face. 

“Oh, five please,” she responds. “Thank you. My name’s Gwen. Gwen Stacey. This is my first semester here.” She sticks out her hand.

Peter clears the lump in his throat and shakes her hand. Her smile is warm and kind, and it’s a gesture of kindness that helps Peter unravel from the tight spindle of anxiety he’s spun himself into. “I’m Peter Parker, and me too. I’m a freshman. Do you need help with those boxes or--”

“What? I’m a woman so I’m unable to carry my own boxes?” She stares at him in a deadpan. 

Peter feels his face burn up all the way up to his ears. Why do girls always say stuff like that? “What? No, no I was just--”

“Relax, I’m messing with you,” she says, shaking her head. The elevator dings on the third floor. “Well, see you later Peter Parker. Maybe we’ll run into each other.”

Peter tugs on his suitcase where it gets caught on the lip of the elevator’s threshold. “Yeah, sure, see you around, Gwen.” The elevator doors slide shut before he has much time to consider the encounter. At least he knows one person’s name around here. 

The third floor is relatively empty, save for a few students and their parents finishing moving their stuff into their rooms. Most of the doors are propped open, and he can see students and their roommates setting up their beds, stocking their mini-fridges, and setting up their PlayStations as he passes by. 302. 303. 304. 305. He’s hyper-aware now of how pathetic he appears with his tattered suitcase. It’s got the necessities-- some clothes, simple twin bedding, and his toilet trees. May will meet him this first weekend to bring some more of his things down, but with a time conflict with work and her volunteer work at the FEAST center in Queens with Happy, she couldn’t take the time to help him move in this week. It’s okay, he thinks. It’s only a little bit bitter when he sees students hug their parents goodbye. 

When he reaches room 309, the door is already propped open, and he hears music blasting from inside. He peeks inside. A boy, a solid six inches taller than Peter, stands in the room with his back to him, bobbing his head to the sound of the music playing from his phone perched on the windowsill. He has a few boxes and suitcases scattered on the ground below him. A pristine, black leather case is opened on the bed in front of him, some freshly-pressed dress shirts folded neatly inside. Peter’s stomach twists with nerves. It’s now or never. 

He knocks on the open door with his knuckles. His roommate turns on his heels, seemingly not surprised by the sound. When he sees Peter standing in the doorway, an uncertain expression crosses his face for a split second before he erupts into a grin. “Hey, stranger! You must be my roommate.”

“309, right?” Peter laughs nervously, holding up his phone with uncertainty. He inches inside the room. The back of his neck tingles with nerves, and he’s unsure if it’s a real danger he’s sensing or if he’s just being a nervous wreck. Most likely the latter, he decides.

“Harry Osborn,” the boy introduces, extending a hand out towards Peter. His smile is charming and warm, but that doesn’t stop the cold, hard feeling of dread dropping in his gut. Osborn. He knows that name, but he hasn’t seen it since his school trip to Oscorp Industries. The one where he came home with an aching spider-bite on his left hand. He swallows his dread, takes Harry’s hand, and struggles to force a smile. Spider incident aside, he’s always been fond of Oscorp’s work, especially their recent focus on biomedical engineering-- a subject Peter himself is interested in exploring. But this is risky, Peter recognizes. He isn’t sure how involved Harry has been in Oscorp’s experiments, but this is the closest Peter has been to Oscorp since the initial bite. He needs to be careful.

“Peter Parker,” Peter says, surprised when Harry’s face lights up with the faintest sense of recognition. “You wouldn’t happen to have any connection to Oscorp Industries, would you?” He immediately regrets the question when Harry’s face twinges with unease. He swallows the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

Harry shakes his hand, giving Peter’s hand a firm squeeze before releasing him and turning back to his suitcase. He pulls the dress-shirts from the suitcase, slinging them onto wooden hangers and resting them at the foot of his bed. “No, don’t be sorry,” Harry says. “Norman’s my father, though I try not to involve myself too much with Oscorp. I wanted to be my own person, make my own decisions. Never thought my dad’s shadow was the place for me.”

Peter dislikes how much the sentiment resonates with him. He believes he has no right to consider Tony any sort of father figure-- after all, Mr. Stark left behind a child of his own-- and Peter was not his son. As hard as it is for him to force himself to believe that and to push down any childish hope he had that somehow Tony would fill in that impenetrable void that Ben left, he has to accept it. It would be unfair to everyone else that lost Tony. He’s not the only one in mourning. He’s not the only one left to deal with the shadow that Iron Man left behind. At least after Europe, he’s started that healing process. He doesn’t have to be Tony. 

“Is this your first semester here?” Harry asks, catching Peter off guard. He’s now by his closet, struggling with the small, creaky door as he shoves his hangers onto the metal beam. 

Peter realizes he’s still standing in the doorway of the room, holding his luggage awkwardly. He shakes it off and saunters inside, dragging his suitcase behind him.  “Yeah,” he mutters, hoisting his luggage onto the slightly lofted bed and unzips it. “What about you?” He turns on his heel to face Harry again.

“Me too, but I’m a sophomore,” Harry explains, shutting the closet door and moving back towards his bed. Peter notices his roommate’s twin bed already made thin, black silk sheets. Peter isn’t usually concerned with appearances, but he feels his face slightly burning with shame as he tugs the bargain twin bedding set from his suitcase. “I used to go to Empire State University, but my dad didn’t think it was challenging enough.”

“MIT’s a pretty big step up,” Peter mutters. “Did you like ESU?” He’s asking out of curiosity for MJ. She decided to stay in New York to be close to her family, and ESU seemed like the best bet. Peter was inches away from following her there, but the MIT acceptance letter pinned on the fridge stared at him with such distaste that he couldn’t go through with it. He’s sure that May and Happy would support him no matter where he decided to go, but his internal guilt complex convinced him that Tony would never forgive him if he didn’t choose MIT. 

Tony’s dead, Peter thinks bitterly. He doesn’t care what you do.

Harry turns back and smiles at Peter, shrugging his shoulders. “I liked it enough,” he says. “The parties were fun. You’ve ever been to a college party?”

Peter tries to physically force down the flushing of his cheeks that he knows is coming. Just his luck that he gets randomly paired with the coolest, richest guy at MIT. “No, I barely even went to a high school party, it just--”

“I’m taking you to your first party,” Harry insists, his arms spread out as he approaches Peter and claps him on the shoulders. “There’s a group of people meeting at Cambridge. It’s totally your scene. It’s like the perfect mix between a science fair and a fraternity party.” 

His brain goes into overdrive. It’s hardly his first day at MIT, and someone’s already trying to get him to go to a party. He’s inclined to refuse off the bat, his brain ringing with panicked alarm bells. What if he needs to go out as Spider-Man? What if he finds another Flash to torment him? What if anything goes wrong? 

Before he can come up with an adequate excuse, Harry’s phone is ringing. He steps away from Peter, holding up a finger and pressing his mobile phone to the side of his cheek. Peter tunes out the conversation, turning back to his suitcase and unfolding everything that is crammed inside. He feels tears stinging at his eyes. Mortified, he swipes at them with the sleeve of his shirt, glaring down at his clothes in hope that the wave of emotion will pass. He’s horrifically embarrassed, but the weight of everything is crashing down onto him. 

He misses May. He misses Happy. He misses Tony. He longs for his friends. He wishes Ned was there to joke with him and talk about Star Wars as they set up their dorm room together. He wishes Michelle was there to give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him he’s being overdramatic. Peter regrets coming to college at this moment. It’s a dramatic thought, he knows, but there’s nothing now to buffer the sadness that creeps into his chest as he stares at his shabby suitcase open on his bed. Selfishly, he wants May to be there in that moment to help him make this tiny dorm room feel like home. But he’s not sure anything away from May could feel like home. However, May is busy and has her own life now. It doesn’t revolve around taking care of Peter anymore, and he should be accepting of that. He’s stolen so many years of her life, first when his parents passed, and then even more so when Ben died. She’s been raising him on her own for so long, supported him through so much, including superhero antics, and she deserves the world.

She deserves to be happy without him. 

“So, are you in?” Harry asks, but Peter almost misses it. He turns after aggressively wiping his eyes. It would be terrifying if his suave, cool roommate saw him losing his composure not even a day into college. He clears his throat, darting his eyes across the room. 

“Uh, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, I mean--” he’s cut off by Harry laughing heartily, shaking his head and turning back to his bed. He pulls his silver-colored luggage off of his bed and slips it underneath, hiding it from view. He pulls himself up onto the edge of the bed, crossing his legs at his ankle.

“I can tell already that you’re kind of a recluse. Maybe a bit of a nerd.” Harry says, and Peter tries to ignore the pang of hurt in his chest at the words. Harry must notice this because he immediately starts back-pedaling. “But hey! That’s fine! I was nerdy in high school, it’s chill. Besides, it’s Thursday and classes don’t start until Monday. You can take one night!”

Peter casts him a doubtful glance. He knows May would jump on the idea of him going out to a party, on his first night no less. She always wants him to reach out of his comfort zone, to not let his fear of being different hold him back from experiencing college like any other normal kid. Hell, maybe even to experience it as Tony did. It was something that Mr. Stark adamantly advised against, with the number of parties and recklessness he got himself involved in. However, even though Peter’s smart, Tony was an absolute genius. His mentor could get away with spending his time at parties, but Peter probably wasn’t so prepared. He has to work hard, and especially with his side gig, he can’t afford to have anything go wrong. As he ponders, he mindlessly pulls all of his clothes and toiletries from his suitcase, refolding them and organizing them into piles. It’s pointless to refold everything; he’ll just have to store everything into his closet and dresser later. But for now, it’s the only thing to keep his racing mind and trembling fingers occupied. He’s afraid he’ll fall over if he moves.

“How do you even know there’s a party?” Peter asks, desperately trying to stall to buy himself some more time to make up his mind. He’s torn between wanting to just relax and find the peace he desperately searched for on his summer trip to Europe and playing it safe and staying home. Harry seems like a nice enough guy, with his crooked smile and relaxed demeanor.  “You said this was your first semester here.”

“You underestimate my power,” Harry jokes, lying back on the bed. He’s staring up at the ceiling, swinging his legs where they hang off of the edge of the bed. “Some of my friends from high school go here, and a few of them go to Cambridge too.” 

Peter takes a deep breath. It’s now or never. Despite his nerves, he would want May and Tony to be proud of him. And maybe this was the right way to start his college career-- without any worry, bonding with his new roommate, and maybe even making some friends. Worst case scenario, he can come home if he hates it.

“When’s the party?”

-------------------------

After the sun had set and after a short ride in Harry’s very expensive Rolls Royce, they arrived at the Cambridge quad. He’s wearing a short-sleeved button-up and jeans with his ratty sneakers, an outfit eerily reminiscent of what he wore to Liz’s party all those years ago his sophomore year. Only this time, he isn’t wearing his suit underneath. It’s a party in Cambridge. Spider-Man doesn’t live near Cambridge. There’s no reason for him to be here, right? 

There were already tons of people huddled around, neon lights strung across people’s necks, and music blaring from robotic speakers perched on all four corners of the quad. It isn’t long before they’re all swept up, and Peter completely loses Harry within the first five minutes. He doesn’t recognize any of the faces in the crowd. He stumbles forward, snaking his way through the thickening crowd until he finds an open clearing. 

Everyone in the crowd circles around this one circular area around the pavement, leaving a large clearing. Two drones fly overhead, projecting two small, white spotlights onto the clear area of pavement. Two figures-- a boy and a girl-- sit in the circle facing each other, their hands fiddling with controllers in their hands. There are two robots-- each one with extremely different designs and structures-- fighting one another in the center.

 One of them is blue and robust, two rotating blades on its shoulders. It dives towards the smaller robot, a slate gray skinny robot that seems to be made of some kind of nanotechnology. Each working component of the second robot is microscopic and detailed, and it moves with extreme ease and agility. Peter struggles to recognize it as a robot for a moment, but he watches the girl’s thumbs twitch on the joysticks in conjunction with the robot’s movements. It dodges the swinging blade of the boy’s robot-- who curses beneath his breath and fumbles with his controller. Peter has never seen anything like this, even before he quit the robotics lab at Midtown Tech. His eyes wide in awe, staring as the two strike, parry, and dodge with their two robots. He’s startled when he feels a hand tap his shoulder. He nearly jumps out of his skin, twisting his neck around to see Harry standing behind him, pressing an opened bottle of beer into his hand. Peter takes it, surprised. “Harry, I didn’t know where you went.”

“I went to find us some drinks,” Harry says, lifting his own beer to show Peter. He turns his attention back to the robots. They continue to fight, the crowd crying out and urging the players on. The drones circle overhead, flashing now all sorts of colors across the makeshift bot fighting arena. The blue robot charges forward yet again, its circular blades extending out and forming an X in front of it as it corners the nano-bot at the edge of the arena. 

He turns to Harry, eyes wide, searching for some sort of explanation. “This is so amazing!” Peter cries, gesturing wildly to the fighting arena before them. “I haven’t seen technology like this anywhere but Mr. Stark’s lab.” He cuts himself off, sucking in a deep breath.

Thankfully, Harry doesn’t seem to be paying too close attention to what Peter is saying, because he takes another swig from his bottle and points to the two bots wrestling in the center. “You won’t see this anywhere else, Pete,” he says. “I told you this party would be your scene.”

In the short moment he’s looking at Harry, the slim robot gains the upper hand. The broad robot is lying haphazardly on the ground, sparks radiating from the frayed edges of wire protruding from the midriff of the bot. The smaller, nanotechnological robot stands tall and proud. The crowd around them erupts into cheers, and the girl-- who Peter now dumbfoundedly recognizes as Gwen Stacey-- jumps to her feet, bouncing with her arms thrown triumphantly over her head. 

“That’s Gwen Stacey,” Harry says from behind him, pressing the green glass bottle to his lips. “She went to my high school and worked as an intern at Oscorp. She’s brilliant.” 

Peter bites his lip as he watches Gwen relish in her victory, grasping at a money pile thrown into the center. That type of robotics work is truly impressive, and he would love to talk to Gwen to figure out how she manufactured something like that. He hasn’t had the chance to work with engineering robotics since the last time he was in Tony’s lab, which was years ago. 

Harry nudges him with his elbow, gesturing to the beer bottle sitting untouched in his hand. “C’mon Pete. Loosen up a bit,” he urges with a comically large grin. “We’ve gotta get drunk before we can talk to girls. I can introduce you to Gwen if you want.”

“What? Oh no, I wasn’t--” Peter blabbers, his cheeks and ears heating up red. He’s grateful that the strobe lights of the drones hovering overhead hide his deep blush. Or, he hopes they hide it anyway. 

“I saw the heart eyes you were sending her way, Petey. It’s okay, there’s no need to be embarrassed--”

Peter yelps and grabs Harry by the elbow in alarm as the elder moves away towards Gwen’s direction. Harry stops in his tracks and turns back to Peter, eyebrows turned up with amusement. Peter licks at his lips. “I don’t like Gwen like that. I just met her!” he interjects, shaking his head. “Besides, I have a girlfriend. I don’t need to get drunk and meet girls.”

Harry blinks, his face blank with surprise for a second before he erupts in laughter and hooks an arm around Peter’s neck, pulling him close into his side. Peter pretends to struggle, knowing full well he could lay Harry out in an instant if he really needed to. It’s strange to him how comfortable and carefree Harry seems to be around Peter already, given that they had only met a few hours ago. “You have a girlfriend? I’ll admit I didn’t see that coming. What’s her name?”

Peter swallows the hurt he feels at Harry’s remark. “Her name’s Michelle, but I call her MJ,” he explains, feeling the tension unwind from his shoulders after just mentioning her. He misses her so much; they had hardly gotten a proper goodbye before she had to leave for college, which started a week before Peter even moved to MIT.

Harry claps Peter on the back and finishes his beer with one more big gulp, holding the bottle sloppily between his fingers. “I’m happy for you, Pete. But regardless, you should meet Gwen. She’s in your semester, so you’ll probably have some classes together.”

Before he can argue, Harry has his hand on Peter’s wrist and is dragging him in Gwen’s direction. She’s still surrounded on all sides by other students. They’re taking turns looking at her nano-robot, turning the invention over in their hands, trying to inspect for any flaws in the design. Gwen stands with her arms crossed over her chest triumphantly. She turns her chin their way, and her eyes light up with recognition. She snatches her bot from a boy’s hands and rushes over to Harry, enveloping him into a tight, bone-crushing hug. Harry drops Peter’s hand to return the hug, shoving his empty beer bottle into Peter’s empty hand. 

“Harry! Haven’t seen you around in forever. How are you?” she asks as she pulls back from the hug. She looks at Peter, smiling brightly at him. “Hey, Peter!”

Harry looks between the two, perplexed. “You know each other?”

“We met in the Baker elevator,” Gwen explains. Her eyes lock on the untouched beer bottle in Peter’s hands. “Are you going to drink that?”

Peter shakes his head and hands her the bottle, trying to ignore the exasperated look Harry’s giving him from the corner of his eye. He’s still too nervous to drink, not to mention not old enough. 

“Well, Peter drew the short stick and got paired with me as a roommate,” Harry says, hooking his room around Peter’s neck yet again. “He seemed pretty impressed by your little robot display there, Stacey.”

Gwen’s eyes light up, and she practically downs Peter’s beer in one go before shoving the small robot into Peter’s hands. “Isn’t it cool?” she gleams, stepping up to stand on Peter’s right side. She leans close to him, pointing to a microprocessor that looks similar to the one in the back of Peter’s phone. “This little thing has billions of resource files packed into this tiny processing chip. It’s a little trick I learned while working on surgical bots at Oscorp.” 

Peter swallows his nerves. The likelihood of anyone around him knowing about the incident that took place a few years ago is next to none. He needs to relax, despite the soft buzz radiating from the base of his skull. He dismisses it as his senses retaliating at the sudden noxious stimuli of a college party. He focuses his attention on the robot in his hands, but his focus is not on the microprocessor or motherboard. He’s focused on the slate material that actually makes up the robot. They are exactly what he expected-- nanobots. They’re tightly stacked together, their seams nearly invisible but Peter has an extraordinarily sharp eye. Especially when it came to technology. He wonders where a girl like Gwen could have gotten tech like this. This type of nanotechnology was fresh out of Wakanda-- or at least, that’s what Mr. Stark had him to believe. He had only seen portions of Tony’s work with the tech during their sparse lab hours when Tony was working on a housing unit for nanoparticles for his newest Mark L. To see them in a domestic, college bot-fight baffles Peter.

It’s in moments like these where he realizes that he was gone for five years. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that he’s living five years in the past. To be fair, it felt like mere seconds for him. One second, his body was screaming for help as he painfully chipped away into dust, holding onto his mentor for dear life, tears streaming down his cheeks… and the next he awoke to an entirely different world. Things were the same, but it never truly felt the same. He sometimes feels like he’s stuck in that time. It's been some time since the final showdown against Thanos, but he’s still catching up for that lost time. When he was working with Mr. Stark in the lab, Thanos hadn’t even come to earth yet. That was over five years ago. Maybe nanotechnology is all the rage, highly accessible now. Peter would be none the wiser. 

“This is really good work, Gwen,” Peter compliments, turning the bot over in his fingers and brushing his thumb over the slate-gray, metallic material. “But this processor is nothing compared to the assortment of nanobots you have on this. That’s how it can move so fluidly, right? The weight balance with these bots is so light… These are made of carbon fiber, aren’t they? That would explain the rigidity ratio-”

“I’m impressed you noticed,” she interjects, taking the robot from Peter’s hands when he’s finished examining every inch of it. Peter thinks that Gwen is blushing, but he can’t really tell from where she’s standing at his side. “They were useful for non-invasive surgical procedures that Oscorp was researching. Let’s just say I… borrowed a few.”

“You seem to know a lot about this kinda tech, Pete,” Harry remarks. “I would look into MIT robotics. I heard spots fill up fast at the beginning of the semester, so if you want to, now’s your chance.”

“You’re thinking about joining?” Gwen asks with her eyebrows raised. Peter moves to interject; he’s not sure he should be committing himself to any extracurriculars other than his Avenger duties. He could barely handle the balance of work, school, and life in high school when the stakes were relatively low. But now he’s at MIT and the world is still looking to Spider-Man to step up as an Avenger’s key player. School and work just got a whole lot more complicated. He doesn’t want to overextend. However, all of his weak protests are ignored as Gwen speaks over him. “I’m pretty much already on the team, my good family friend is becoming the captain this year, so I can put in a great word for you. All you’d have to do is pass the audition and you’re golden!”

Peter stops in his tracks. “An audition?” 

Gwen laughs at his cluelessness. “Well, yeah, they can’t just let anyone in. It’s incredibly competitive,” she says. “The team works together all year to present a finished product at the MIT Alumni-Stark Expo. Tons of job scouts and scientists looking for new tech to enter the field. Last year this senior girl named Felicia created this human tissue 3-D printer and she got a job at Mayo Clinic or something.”

“What is the audition? What do I have to do?” He’s asking out of pure curiosity, Peter tells himself. While the prospect of working with multiple great-minded students to put together robotics projects that could actually make a difference unlike his recreational robotics work at Midtown. 

“It’s pretty easy,” she says. Her blue eyes flicker down to the robot lying in her palm. She turns it over in her fingers as if testing the texture of the metal against her fingertips. He looks back up at Peter, and she gestures to the bot. “You have to win the match. Think about it. I’ll see you around, Peter.”

She turns after saying a warm goodbye to Harry and disappears into the thickening crowd. The small circle that had been cleared for the fight was overtaken again, and the spot-light drones were nowhere to be seen above him. Peter stands there dazed for a moment. He turns to Harry, looking at him helplessly. He isn’t sure what to take from that interaction with Gwen Stacey. For one, she’s absolutely brilliant. To get a high-up internship at Oscorp, she had to be smart, but the way she worked with those nanobots was revolutionary. The only other person he had met with such confidence in their robotics was Tony Stark. 

“She took your beer man, I’m sorry,” Harry says, though he doesn’t seem that sorry. His attention is split across the party. He’s itching to get into the fray-- Peter can tell by the way he’s shifting his weight from side to side and darting his eyes to every group standing off at the sidelines drinking-- and Peter feels a pang of guilt. He’s likely the reason Harry’s still hanging around watching robot fighting. Although it’s a sweet gesture, Peter doesn’t want Harry ruining the party for himself for Peter’s sake.

“If you want to go dance and drink with your friends, you can,” Peter says. He tries not to feel insecure, but he’s ultimately failing. He doesn’t want to be babysat. “I’ll be fine.”

Harry blanches, staring at Peter as if the boy has sprouted a second head. Peter rubs at his neck, maybe to check that there is, in fact, no head growing from the side of his neck. “No way, Pete,” Harry cries. He grabs Peter by the wrist and pulls him from the dispersing crowd. “This party hasn’t even properly started. C’mon, I want to introduce you to some people.” 

The night goes by in a blur. He follows Harry from party to party, largely ignoring every drink his roommate shoves into his hand. And finally, when Harry is a little too tipsy to keep going and hitches a cab back to MIT campus, he insists that he takes Peter for fresh air. That’s how Peter ends up standing with Harry at the top of MIT’s robotics lab.

Harry’s sitting on the ground with his back to the railing, his fifth beer of the night pressed to his lips. Peter has one in his hands, largely untouched. Out of boredom, he takes a few sips, grimacing at the bitter taste. It burns on his tongue, but it keeps the sleepiness from clouding his eyes.

“What’s she like?” Harry asks, suddenly. It breaks the peaceful silence that has settled between the two.  “Your girlfriend Michelle.” He tilts his head as he looks at Peter, and for a moment Peter thinks he’s actually interested in what he has to say. Feeling sheepish, Peter pulls his phone from his pocket and finds the last photo they took together on their last date to Hart Island near the Bronx. It was a morbid date in retrospect, but Peter knew how much MJ wanted to see some of the spookiest places New York had to offer, so he decided to take her to a few he found after a quick Google search. Even though she likes dates at ancient burial grounds, Peter wouldn’t give it up for the world. 

He shows the picture to Harry. “That’s her,” he says, motioning to the photo. “She’s awesome. I had a crush on her for a while, and we got together during a… school trip to Europe. It was pretty cool.” 

“Europe, how romantic,” Harry comments, looking at the photo on Peter’s phone for another moment before handing it back to him. Peter takes his phone back, leaning up against the cool metal railing on the roof of the building. It’s late, almost two in the morning, but he can’t help the desire to text MJ and check in on her.

I know it’s late. Or early, he types. I just wanted to say I miss you. Call me when you can.

He pockets his phone, letting out a defeated sigh. 

“You’re not a sad drunk, are you?” Harry asks from his place on the floor. 

Peter stifles a laugh. “I’m not even drunk, dude. You are.”

“Oops.” Harry stretches his arms out above his head with an exaggerated yawn. “Was I drunk or did you say something about ‘Mr. Stark’s lab’ earlier during the robot fight? There’s no way you meant like… Tony Stark. Iron-Man. Right?”

This is what Peter feared. It’s not that his connection with Tony Stark would give away his connection with Spider-Man. He truly was Tony’s intern after all. But that didn’t mean it was any easier to talk about. The whole world lost Iron-Man. But Peter lost Tony. No one knows who he really is, so he’s not allowed to be any more upset than everyone else.

“What? No- I mean, I’ve been in his lab, but not that often,” he begins to stammer, trying to find a way to downplay it and avoid as much conversation about Tony Stark as possible. 

“Dude, you were in Iron Man’s lab?” Harry stares at him incredulously. “What the hell?”

Peter rubs at the back of his neck. It’s certainly buzzing now, like a low warning growl that’s letting him now he’s steering too far in the wrong direction. Ever since Europe, he tries to listen to the nagging sense in the back of his mind whenever he can. But he’s still unsure why it seems to be going off around Harry so frequently. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

“I was an intern at Stark Industries,” Peter mutters, trying to avoid Harry’s curious eyes. “Only for like six months, but it was a really cool experience. I only met him a few times.”

“You never told me you were a genius, Pete,” Harry chimes, the smile in his voice evident before Peter can even turn around and see the stupid grin on his face. 

“Everyone at this school is smart,” Peter chides. He places his half-full beer bottle on the ground and takes the spot next to Harry. He presses his back against the railing and leans his head back to gaze at the stars. Someone mentioned to him once that during those five years that everyone was gone, you could almost see the milky way in the sky. But he can’t see it today. 

Harry nudges him on the shoulder. “I didn’t say you were smart,” he amends. “You’re a genius. I don’t think most kids here at MIT would be able to even get that gig. Believe me, I tried.” He gestures to himself as if the mere thought of him being turned away from Stark Industries was unfathomable. That’s something that Peter’s noticed about Harry in the short time that he’s known him: an ego too large for his head. But in some ways, Peter finds it endearing. It reminds him of someone.

Peter stares at Harry with disbelief. “You tried to be a Stark intern? But your dad--”

“My dad wanted to send me to boarding school for the rest of my life after he found out,” Harry laughs as if remembering a fond memory. There’s a trace of a painful smile on his face. Like he’s remembering something that maybe isn’t there anymore. “He was absolutely livid.. My dad doesn’t do well with competition. But I didn’t want to work for my dad, so the next best bet was Stark.”

There’s a full, bitter silence that settles between them at that moment. Peter knows, even without the uneasiness crawling under his skin, that Harry does not like his dad very much. There’s tension in the boy’s jaw when he talks about him, but the somewhat soft, longing look in his face when he talks about him is enough to make Peter question it. It’s a complicated relationship, it seems. And it also is one that is none of his business. 

“What do your parents do, Pete?” Harry asks after clearing his throat, probably to clear that suffocating lull that fell between them. 

Peter licks his lips. “It’s just my aunt May and I,” he says. “She worked as a nurse in an ER, but now she’s running a homeless shelter in Queens.”

Harry nods respectfully. “She sounds nice.”

“She’s the best.” Peter forces himself to take another sip of his beer. 

They sit like that, together, in silence until Peter’s phone clock reads three in the morning. Peter feels the exhaustion in his bones-- from the long day of travel, the stressful, lonely move in, and now the aftermath fatigue of his first actual college party. He wants to curl up into bed, call Aunt May, and tell her everything that happened today. Hell, maybe she’d even try to talk him into joining that robotics team. But he can’t. It’s far too late to call her now, so he has no other choice but to lug Harry to his feet and back to their dormitory in the ungodly hours of the morning. He doesn’t change out of his clothes or brush his teeth when he gets home. He simply deposits Harry by his bed, urging him to get into bed. But all that Peter has strength left for is to crawl into his bed with his jeans still on and fall asleep instantly.

[emoboijk]

Jeon Jeongguk—To Know a Person (06)

You’ve been calling, texting, emailing for years. But is that really enough to know a person? You’re about to find out. —fluff and angst

01 :: 02 :: 03 :: 04 :: 05 :: 06 :: 07 :: 08 :: 09 :: 10 :: 11 :: epilogue

3,562 words

gif cred

Jungkook had a million and one things he wanted to show you in Korea.

After he’d all but tucked you into bed the night you arrived, he camped out on the couch in the living room, with a concentrated look on his face. His bottom lip hung down slightly and his eyes were glassy when Yoongi finally wandered into the room around two in the morning, looking for a midnight snack.

“Gwenchana?”

Jungkook shook his head, no. He was chewing on his bottom lip, a laptop open on his thighs and his back hunched as he looked at it. He was going through a website—“Ten Best Places to Visit in South Korea.”

Yoongi shook his head, laughing at the sad sap. He plopped down on the couch next to him, momentarily forgetting his hunger. He bumped Jungkook’s elbow and said, “You know Seoul, Guk, just take her to your favorite places.”

“I want her to be impressed,” Jungkook whined, “I want…” He sighed, unable to finish his sentence because the things he wanted seemed over the top and extreme, things that would be deemed ‘too fast too soon.’

“Look,” Yoongi said, “You said that you’re trying to rebuild trust, right?” Jungkook nodded. “Then show her who you are, Guk. You have to show her that you’re the same person she’s been talking to all these years—show her your favorite places to eat, to shop, make her laugh, use inside jokes. Just be yourself and it’ll all work out.” Feeling he’d done his due diligence, Yoongi promptly got up and wandered into the kitchen.

“So,” Jungkook said, “I should plan my perfect day?”

“At least to start!” Yoongi added.

You wandered out of Jungkook’s bedroom the next morning near seven o’clock. You’d slept like the dead, much more soundly this time, although not quite without anxiety. Your eyes explored your surroundings curiously. The bare bones of the apartment were fashionably monochromatic—the cabinets, floors, and walls. But there were splashes of the members everywhere that were relatively easy to identify. Artwork that Taehyung must have hung up, gaming equipment and drawings that must have been Jungkook’s, half-broken headphones and earbuds scattered everywhere (which you guessed were RM’s), bright pillows and accents that screamed J-Hope’s style. Quickly glancing into the kitchen you saw cooking equipment that seemed like Jin’s taste, a small synthesizer that you suspected was Yoongi’s, and there were less than skillful snapshots that had been printed out and tacked to every available surface (Jimin’s handiwork you guessed).

And then, in the middle of the room, a splash of white sheets splayed over a dark couch, pale limbs hanging off the edges. You stepped further into the living room and stood at the edge of the couch, Jungkook’s feet dangling in front of you. You smiled at this image, realizing that it was just how you pictured he’d slept—dead and numb to the world, in whatever position he happened to land in. When your eyes found his face, you felt a warmth spread out in your chest from the peaceful expression he wore.

He looked so innocent now and you were reminded of all those times he’d confided in you. The anxiety he felt, the pressure. It hadn’t made complete sense, but it did now. Fame was a heavy burden to bear and he did it with such grace. But you had been privy to the sweat and grime underneath the grace, even if you had been somewhat ignorant of it.

“Don’t wake him,” Yoongi said from behind you, in near perfect English. You turned so quickly you got whiplash and Yoongi almost laughed. He added in smooth Korean, “He hasn’t gotten much rest the last few days. Let him sleep.”

You nodded, following the near-stranger into the kitchen. He was at the coffee maker, brewing a fresh pot that smelled delicious. He didn’t say anything more and you felt the need for words to fill the silence, so you told him your name.

“I know,” he chuckled, “Jeonggukie has told us...everything.” He paused, smiled and added, “He was right, your Korean is very good.”

“Kamsahamnida,” you blushed slightly, avoiding his gaze.

Yoongi leaned against the counter and waited, taking his time to slowly size you up. You were acutely aware of his silence and his shrewd gaze. When you looked up, your eyes met. His gaze was stern and cold, but there was a question in them. You did your best to answer it in kind.

“You really care about him, don’t you?” Yoongi said, allowing himself to speak freely in Korean.

Your brow furrowed, “Yes,” you said immediately and translating, “Of course.”

“You’re just...confused?”

“Yes,” you whispered, trusting he understood English enough to understand this next part, “I’m afraid that I can’t trust him again.”

Yoongi nodded, trying to let himself move from over-protective hyung to stand in your shoes for a moment. And he did understand how it could be hard for you. But—

“If you know Jeongguk as well as I think you do, then you know you can trust him.”

The coffee maker beeped and he turned back to the pot, pulling two cups down from the cupboard and pouring the contents into them so that steam curled lazily from the top in invisible tendrils. He turned and offered the cup to you and you bowed your head in thanks.

By the time Jeongguk woke up, three hours later, you had showered and dressed and were now in the kitchen, trying to make breakfast. He woke up to the sound of the fire alarm beeping loudly. He sprang from the couch and landed on his feet in a fighting stance, like an anime character.

“Aish,” Yoongi said, poking fun at you in Korean. You laughed and apologized, waving a baking sheet pan at the smoke detector to clear the area and make it stop. Yoongi was bent double with laughter, a pan in the sink with water pouring over it to quench the fire.

“What’s going on?” Jungkook said, his eyes wide and wild. He coughed from the hazy atmosphere and watched the ease with which the two of you interacted. After that initial terse conversation, Yoongi had decided to treat you like family, because you practically were. And you were eternally grateful.

“Your girlfriend has a smoking problem,” Yoongi said seriously, hiding his smile.

“Yah,” you whined, slapping him lightly.

“Don’t stop waving!” Yoongi almost yelled. You squeaked and started waving with even more determination. The whole scene made Jungkook, still in the doorway, his shirt over his nose and mouth, smile. And the casual way that Yoongi had called you his girlfriend had a million bees buzzing happily in his chest.

Glancing at the clock he said, “Shit, that’s the time, I had plans,” he pouted.

“Plans?” you grinned, “You had plans?”

Jungkook’s eyes crinkled slightly and he avoided your gaze, “Uh, yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck, “I have to shower.” And he darted out of the room in a hurry.

“This is going to be great,” Yoongi said. You turned and looked at him inquisitively and he elaborated, “You are the golden maknae’s weakness.”

You chuckled, arms burning from the constant waving, “So you’re going to tease him relentlessly?”

“Yes,” he grinned, moving past you to open a window and help clear the smoke.

Jungkook was out of the shower in record time, although you figured he’d perfected the art of quick-showering, what with being a famous idol and all. What took a long time was him standing in front of his closet in only a towel, trying to pick an outfit.

He’d wandered into the bedroom after knocking several times, to make sure he wouldn’t surprise you. Once he’d heard your voice from down the hall, he figured the coast was clear. He slipped into the room and locked the door, smiling when he spotted the traces of you scattered everywhere—the unmade bed, the makeup bag, the cell phone charger, your opened suitcase. He dwelled on it for only a moment before turning to his closet.

When it had been fifteen minutes, Yoongi rapped loudly on the maknae’s door and said, “What are you doing in there?”

Jungkook peeked his head out the bedroom door and worried his bottom lip as he said, “What should I wear?”

“Oh my god,” Yoongi said, “Something comfortable.” And then he walked away.

Jungkook emerged two minutes later in jeans, a sweatshirt, and his favorite boots, still feeling like the world was going to end. In a way it was, you were the asteroid blazing towards him to destroy his world.

Except in a good way.

Jungkook shook his head to clear the metaphor from his mind. It gave the whole thing a very devastating vibe, which was not something he wanted on your first date. He walked into the living room with his hands in his pockets, the anxiety twisting in his chest painfully. But as soon as he saw you, leaning against the couch, reading over Yoongi’s shoulder as he wrote lyrics, it melted away. Just like it had, not so long ago, when he called you after a tough show or a grueling rehearsal.

You, ever alert for his presence, turned to smile at him. “Ready?”

Jungkook wondered in the back of his mind if ‘I’ve been ready for five years’ would be ‘too fast too soon.’ Instead, he nodded and glanced at the hooks by the front door where they kept the keys. He bounded over there, and plucked a set off a hook, “I’m taking the car!” He slipped on a casual jacket and donned his go-to disguise: dust mask, sunglasses (retro today) and a cap.

“Okay,” Yoongi said, hiding a smile, “Have fun, you crazy kids.”

You laughed and followed Jungkook out the door.

The car was a simple sedan in a muted color, a few years old. Nothing conspicuous or crazy, and Jungkook hesitated slightly, wondering if you were expecting more. But your expression didn’t change and you watched him hopefully as he walked to his door. “Where are we going?” you wondered, feeling surprisingly comfortable speaking Korean with him. You slid into your seat and he lost all feelings of apprehension in the face of your smile.

“It’s a surprise.”

It took less than twenty minutes to get there. And ‘there’ was a tall, grey building with large Hangul letters above the doors. You raised your eyebrows and smiled nervously at him.

“Is this okay?” he wondered, apprehension crawling up his spine once again. Yoongi had said to plan his perfect day, and this was definitely one of his favorite things to do. But what if you didn’t want to do this?

You chewed on your bottom lip and admitted, “I’m not sure what it says.”

Jungkook burst into happy, relieved laughter, “It says,” he paused as he turned the English and Korean over in his mind, “Rock Climbing Center?” He pronounced each syllable with care as he translated, still unsure if he got it completely right.

“Really?” your eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” he whispered in quiet Korean.

“Awesome!” you cheered, undoing your seatbelt, “I haven’t done this since I was a kid!”

Once inside, you could feel Jungkook’s excitement buzzing off him like a bee hovering over a flower. He was bouncing from one foot to the other, smiling up at the tall rock-climbing wall with an expression that was pure adrenaline. He’d shed his mask, sunglasses, and hat, feeling safer inside than when wandering outside.

You were a little more apprehensive, truth be told. But Jeongguk had admitted, once or twice, to loving this kind of thrilling activity. Something physical with an element of danger—those were his favorite things to do. Far be it from you to put an end to this.

Besides, watching Jungkook now, you had faith that he would make this one of the best experiences of your life.

He turned on you with a scrunchy-bunny smile, his eyes squinted closed happily. “Excited? Ready?”

You tugged on the various harnesses that the employees had secured to you and said, “As ready as ever.”

“I’ll go first and you can meet me up there,” Jungkook said, leaning forward and kissing your forehead casually, without a second thought. But the spot burned on your forehead with a sharp awareness that Jungkook did not seem to sense. He started up the wall quickly and without a sign of apprehension.

His attention elsewhere you touched the spot his lips had pressed against gently with your hand, a smile coming to your lips as a familiar warmth flood through you. It was the same sensation as the first time he’d introduced himself or told you that you were his best friend, or...heard his voice.

You’d been laying in bed late one night, holding your phone above you and texting nonstop with Jeongguk for what seemed liked ages. The screen had changed suddenly, his name flashing brightly like a warning light. Your heart had raced but you’d answered anyways. The moment his voice had floated across the grainy speakers you felt a near physical change, completely soothed by the soft tones of his excited Korean and his accented English.

By the time you were done reminiscing, Jungkook was at the top of the wall, perched on the balcony that was set up there. His legs dangled and he raised his arms above his head, whooping loudly, “Did it!” He glanced down at you, a glow distinctly caused by adrenaline flushing his skin, “Your turn!”

“Don’t expect me to be that fast!” you yelled up at him, adjusting your helmet and facing off with the wall. You climbed up slowly, with about as much struggle as you anticipated there being. But Jungkook was grinning down at you from the makeshift balcony at the top of the wall, cheering encouragement so enthusiastically that you blushed.

The employees down below that were handling your and other people’s ropes, grinned at the exchange, muttering something about your being a cute couple.

You were almost at the top when you glanced up to find Jungkook’s face directly in front of you. Your fingertips were burning from hanging onto the rock wall, and Jungkook’s face was grinning at you smugly.

“Annyeong,” he wagged his fingers at you.

You narrowed your eyes at him, flushed from the exertion, “What are you doing?”

He smiled, forgetting himself for a moment as he said, “This.” He leaned forward and pecked your lips with his own. Surprised and happy you let go of the wall with a gasp. You were immediately caught by the ropes, but both you and Jungkook had a bit of a heart attack at the sudden drop. But as soon as he saw you were safe, Jungkook grinned at his effect on you. You hid your face behind your hands as the employee lowered you to the ground carefully. Jungkook had been so shy until now, but you figured the adrenaline and endorphins were having their effect.

He met you at the bottom, free of the rock-climbing restraints, as you were getting out of yours. You slapped his arm playfully, cheeks red with embarrassment. Still high from the adrenaline he smirked, “Did I scare you?”

You glared at him, keep your lips closed tightly because of the employee still unworking the various straps and ropes attached to you. But when you exited the building on your way to the car you slapped him again, “What was that?”

“What?” Jungkook said, grinning as he turned to you, “This?” He put his hand on your cheek and neck, pulling you close to press his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. It only lasted a few seconds, Jungkook was still aware that you were in public after all, but it had your whole body consumed in a warm happiness.

“So,” you whispered, avoiding his gaze as you tried to get your pulse down, “We’re doing that now?”

“I got tired of waiting,” he grinned, intertwining his fingers with yours and pulling you forward, “It’s been five years, after all.” You couldn’t think of anything to say in response, so instead, you just squeezed his hand and smiled.

Jungkook seemed infused with energy now, after the surge of adrenaline that came with rock climbing and kissing you. He was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel of the car to the beat of the music on the radio, muttering the lyrics absently under his breath as his eyes scanned the road alertly. You smiled as you watched this, finding these simple, fidgety, habits of his completely endearing. He’d shoved his mask down his face so that you could see the perfect outline of his lips as he mouthed the words to the song. You didn’t notice that you had arrived until his lips stopped moving and he turned to you with an open expression.

You blushed and looked away, following him out of the car and towards the entrance. “Okay, okay,” Jungkook was bouncing again, and you were beginning to develop a fondness for his little, excited bunny hops. He removed the mask and tucked into his pocket, rubbing his palms together, “The arcade.”

“The arcade?” you laughed, “What, are you twelve?”

Jungkook’s expression soured and you worried for a moment that you’d ruined the mood, but the sour expression transformed into one of mocking. He stuck his tongue out and said, “Don’t be jealous that I’m going to beat you at literally every game!”

“Um, I don’t know who you think you’re talking to,” you smirked, “but I am definitely going to win.”

It passed by in a blur, like a movie montage set to an upbeat pop song. And, of course, golden maknae that he is, Jungkook beat you at almost everything. But, in your defense, you hadn’t played arcade games in years. You’d been there three hours when your stomach growled. Your hands flew to your stomach as if to hide it. Jungkook smiled, “Hungry?”

“Starved,” you grinned.

“Let’s go to my favorite place.” He took your hand and pulled you across the street and back to the car, “It’s by our next destination.”

You pulled up thirty minutes later in front of a stony, all but deserted, beach. The salty air hit you as soon as you stepped outside of the car, it felt harsh but cleansing. Just the thing to scrub away old prejudices and leave the slate clean. It almost made you forget about how hungry you were.

Jungkook was by your side, his fingers tracing unconsciously down your arm to clasp your hand. He whispered, “Food first.”

“Yes,” you grinned, turning away from the sand and sea.

“This way,” he said, leading you to...a food truck.

“A food truck?” you grinned, “This is your favorite place.”

“Guilty pleasure,” he shrugged, leaving you for a moment to place your orders and pay. You raised your eyebrows when he came back.

“What’d you get me?”

“It’s a rice cup,” he explained, “You’ll like it.”

A few minutes later, you sat on the railing that separates the parking lot from the beach, spooning egg and rice and pork into your mouth. It tasted soft and buttery and warm. It fought off the cold sea air so effectively that you felt euphoric. When you finished you placed the empty cup next to you and leaned your head on his shoulder.

He smiled and held your hand again, “Wanna take a walk?”

The beach was cold but the sand felt soft between your toes, and Jungkook’s hand hadn’t left yours the entire time. His thumb was smooth and rubbing wild, inconsistent patterns across your knuckles and the back of your hand. He was watching the waves to keep himself from focusing too intently on you, and your eyes wandered to the ground, pebbles, and shells scattered across the surface.

It surprised you when you realized the silence. It had been almost half an hour without a word passing between you, just the birds and the waves and the touch of his skin against your own. You thought he must be tired, you both had done a lot today. But then you realized, too, that you’d never been in a space where this kind of comfortable silence could exist. Texting and phone calls required constant communication. And now you were allowed to just...be together.

And then the other surprise hit you. Because the feeling you had now, the bubbling happiness in your chest, the peaceful calm...was familiar. You felt this way when you spoke on the phone for hours on end, or when you sent cute text messages back and forth.

You stopped suddenly, Jungkook reeling in surprise when he felt your feet plant into the ground. He turned to look at you with wide eyes, his gaze automatically scanning up and down to see if you were hurt. “What?” he spoke softly in Korean, as if afraid to break the atmosphere that had been constructed.

Your lips turned upwards as your eyes scanned his face, the same way you had done when you met him at the airport, except now you saw something different. “Jeongguk?” you whispered, the sound completely the same and yet entirely different, it finally clicking in your mind. He tilted his head and smiled.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, smiling to yourself, “Nothing.”

author’s note—so fluuuuffy!

for more of my works check out my m.list ❤

[irontechdollfactory]

WHY SHOULD YOU CHOOSE SEX DOLL TORSO?

Sex doll torso, a product produced to meet the sexual needs of customers, brings customers the ultimate stimulating experience. If you haven’t heard of them, you’d better be prepared to read the following articles. Just like a full body sex doll, sex doll torso can bring you shocking visual and tactile experience.

Of course, if you have the remaining money, you can choose from several full-body sex dolls. However, if your financial situation is a bit difficult and you don’t want to worry about how to store your full body sex doll all the time, then sex doll torso is your best choice.

WHY SHOULD I CHOOSE SEX DOLL TORSO? SEX DOLL TORSO HAS MANY ADVANTAGES, SOME OF THEM ARE: CHEAP PRICE As we have already mentioned, the cheap price of sex doll torso is its big advantage. Because some of these sex doll torso have no head, some have no arms, and some have no legs, the production process is relatively simple, so its price must be cheaper than full-size sex dolls. In addition, sex doll torso can also provide the same realistic experience and multiple pleasure holes, which means that it has the same function as a full-size sex doll and can be said to be affordable sex dolls.

EXTREMELY CONVENIENT SIZE With sex doll torso, you don’t need to think about finding too much larger space to store them because of their small size. You can easily find suitable spaces to store them, some of which can even be carried with you. If you buy a full-body doll, you will eventually need to buy some special boxes to hide them, such as a sofa with a lock and a bed with storage function. These are not small expenses. The sex doll torso is made of the same high-quality TPE or silicone material and is easier to clean.

LIGHTER WEIGHT As mentioned above, sex doll torso has no parts and is smaller than full-size sex dolls, so their weight is lighter, which is very important. Because light weight means that you will be more relaxed during sex and you can achieve more postures. You won’t feel tired after sex, because it is really light, you can easily take it to the bathroom for cleaning, which is very convenient.

MORE OPTIONS If a sex doll torso is not enough to meet your needs, then you can spend more money to choose some other sex doll torso, and they are also at a price you can afford. For example, you can choose sex doll legs, or only big butts, or only breasts and juicy vaginas, and so on.

This is a great way to experiment and get rid of the boring bedroom. Different sex doll torso, different experiences, they are all worthwhile. Moreover, buying a few sex doll torso is more practical than spending thousands of dollars to buy a full-body doll.

SEX DOLLS MAGIC Fashioned in varying body types and facial features, sex dolls are tailored to get you that cozy partner you’ve not had for long. Have you ever run into a lady in the street with a body that you would like to come home to every day? I mean, a dazzling soft look, orange-shaped boobs (just the perfect size for your palm), and a good booty to spank off your problems every other day. But you can’t approach her, can you? She’s too fine. Probably won’t be interested in you anyway. Well, worry no more. Our Sex dolls come in features that resemble the modern day woman. Whether you want her skinny, flat-chested, curvaceous, large boobs, enormous soft ass, tall or petite, we got you covered. Time to own that curvaceous gem you saw on the street and make her your everyday sweetheart. Right?

Other than giving you the sexual pleasure, the primary goal of course! With sex dolls comes a submissive partner that is always ready to help you tone off your everyday frustrations and offer you a good time (every man dreams of that). You probably didn’t know that sex dolls are therapeutic. Did you? Well, these pleasure gods are an ideal prescription for people suffering from social anxiety; people that aren’t as comfortable interacting with others, especially with the opposite sex. The doll gets you in line on how to treat your partner building up on your esteem and courage.

MINI SEX DOLLS Just like your favorite liquor, sex dolls also come in miniature sizes too; the mini sex doll or the sex doll torso. Just like you like it. These are love dolls below a hundred cm height and weighing between 5-20 kg. In fact, height and weight remain the sole differential character between the mini dolls and the fill size dolls. The size of the vagina can be altered by opening and closing the legs. Amazing. Right? There are various Mini Sex dolls sizes with different features to ensure that everyone needs are met.

WHY A MINI SEX DOLL? The size. The smallness of a mini sex doll is the main convincing factor of why you should buy one. The small size makes the sex doll very efficient, and considering that the height and weight are the only difference from full-size sex doll, Mini-dolls are quite authentic to have. Don’t you think? Their small size makes it possible for you to effortlessly perform some demanding sex position with the doll without tiring yourself.

With a great number of men having diverted to sex dolls after countless heartbreaking endeavors with women, some of them prefer to keep the Love doll affair a secret. This makes the sex dolls an ideal option considering that it can be conveniently hidden in a suitcase or a closet every time you’re done using it. Going on a business trip away from town? Well that doesn’t have to keep you away from you doll. Does it? The small size renders the love doll portable as it can conveniently fit in your travel bag.

Their absolute affordability. Mini size dolls go for about 50% of the price of full-size dolls. Regardless of the material used, Mini dolls require less of the material which makes them go for a slightly lower price. They can, therefore, be the perfect prescription for those wishing to own a sex doll but not ready to fork out a lot.

The starting point for newbies. Just as a toddler finds it easy to feed using the hand and not a spoon, Mini sex dolls are a preference by persons who lack past experience with love dolls. Their small size and less weight make them flexible and easy to use. This makes them great for starters before they ultimately decide to go big and commit to a full sized doll.

According to research, in 2001 only 7% of Americans thought of polygamy as ethically acceptable, the number has since grown to 16% in 2017. Sex doll owners are not different either. Sex doll owners have admitted to always having the urge to purchase another sex dolls few months after taking home their purchase. If you would like to keep a variety of sex dolls to cater for your sexual needs, the mini dolls are without a doubt the option to go for. Basing it on the price, mini dolls will usually go for half the price of full-size dolls, making it affordable to own numerous mini sex dolls.

To wrap it up, always counter check your mini doll to ensure that you get a perfect size that you wanted. You don’t want to get disappointed by our purchase anytime soon. Do you? An important point to note before you make the purchase decision is the fact that the extremely small mini dolls do not have oral and anal orifices accessible for play. Due to their small size, they only have a fully formed and enjoyable vagina for normal intercourse.

Always ask your sex doll supplier to guide you in choosing the right toy for you. Trust me, there are numerous dynamics that come into play. You can even ask for a custom-made sex doll; most sex doll suppliers will do that for you based on your requirements. It might take some time but you can be sure the time will be worth it.

[momentumgo]

Sabrina Chaney

Freelance Motion Designer www.sabrinachaney.com Brooklyn, NY Age 25 She/Her

How did you get your start in motion design, animation, or whatever it is that you do? I majored in the Animation program at SCAD and started making the switch to Motion Design late in my junior year. By the time I graduated in May 2016 I had a few motion media classes under my belt, but my portfolio was not where I wanted it to be (you can view it here, password is sabrina2016). Out of 50+ internship applications sent over the course of junior and senior year, I was either rejected or I didn’t receive a response from anyone. I moved back home with my parents in Spring, Texas and spent the first month out of school not knowing what to do next. I only knew that my portfolio was not the same caliber as the reels from studios that I admired and desperately wanted to work for, so I decided to try and close the skill gap between my work and theirs.

I developed a game plan to polish my demo reel, resume, and personal branding. Recognizing that I didn’t have to reinvent the wheel, I used the steal-like-an-artist approach. I identified my dream studios and used them as a guide for the type of work I wanted to create. I referenced the reels and websites of my SCAD peers who had graduated and immediately found work, like Joash Berkeley, Crosby Ignasher, Eli Orth, and Sarah Beth Morgan. I also enrolled in School of Motion’s Animation and Design bootcamps. Ideas for personal projects kept jumping around in my head, but I wanted to dedicate the rest of 2016 to learning, so I started organizing each idea in a notebook including details like a 2-week breakdown of each project with daily to-do lists, sketches, and lists of the materials or assets I would need. My New Years’ Resolution for 2017 was to open the notebook and go through it project-by-project with the goal of finishing a new demo reel and portfolio website by summertime. I ended up finishing it in early March (you can view it here). Blend 2017 was announced that spring and I snagged a ticket before they were gone. I’m extremely introverted but I didn’t want that to get in the way of meeting new people, so I looked into who was attending and reached out to the artists I admired in the hopes of introducing myself and not being a complete stranger at the event. I was acutely aware that I was a newbie, but to my surprise I received many responses and ended up meeting almost everyone I contacted. It was a magical and intensely motivational experience!

After Blend I continued applying for internship positions and quickly learned that my location was a hindrance, as very few studios would help pay for relocation. I tried to send 5-10 applications a day. Finally I received a response from Matt Vojacek from ZwellyCo after spotting his call for interns on Twitter. We had a phone interview, and we’ve been working together on and off ever since. Working with Matt taught me what it means to be a true mentor; he opened the lines of communication so I could work remotely, he didn’t take advantage of my low experience level by making me work for free, we did weekly Skype calls where I could ask him questions about motion design or freelancing, and when he felt that my skills had surpassed the level of an intern he promoted me to Motion Graphics Designer and gave me a raise(!!). I wouldn’t be where I am now if he hadn’t taken a chance on my potential. Still, the type of work I wanted to do wasn’t in Houston, Texas. During a short trip to New York with my family, I used the same technique I used at Blend and contacted a few producers in the hopes of introducing myself personally. After visiting with Daniel Castro, Emily Collins, and Todd St John, it became clear that if I was in New York I would get freelance work, which was all I needed to hear. Back in Texas I ordered the Freelance Manifesto, packed two large suitcases with necessities, and flew back to New York 2 weeks later to live in an apartment my parents and I found through Craigslist. Timing was on my side; as winter approached, there were more job openings because clients steadily liquidated their budgets before year’s end. I also took advantage of the abundance of networking opportunities in the city, involving myself in Punanimation NYC. This lead to several jobs from referrals, but more importantly a tight-knit support group of kind and immensely talented artists. Most of my initial freelance bookings came from cold-emailing producers, politely introducing myself and my reel. The first few jobs were short-term, lasting only a day or two, but the relationships established during those bookings has lasted far longer. Most of my current clients are return clients that contact me directly. Dedication and strategy helped orient and prepare myself for career risks. My goal for the future is to help others do the same.

State your privilege – What circumstances may have helped or hindered you along the way?

I’m an only child, and my parents viewed my education as a team effort between all three of us. I maintained my academic and artistic scholarships and they helped me pay for SCAD with the additional aid of low-interest loans. I had very little debt by the time I graduated due to their financial support, and the rest was paid off within the year. Freedom from the burden of debt is a huge privilege that allowed me to make decisions that not everyone has the opportunity to make. It’s a gift easily taken for granted and I try to honor that by budgeting responsibly and paying it forward to marginalized artists. Luckily, SCAD isn’t the be-all-end-all of motion design education, especially with the resources available online for a fraction of the cost.

What are some best practices you use today?

I love animation but I wouldn’t die on a hill for it, so I make an effort to eat healthily and keep to a schedule. I avoid pulling all-nighters at all costs. Once work ends, I declare myself done for the day and I can run errands, cook, or go to an event. I also like to physically write to-do lists to keep my thoughts organized.

How have you learned to practice self-care? What do you do to take care of yourself?

Like many others who spend time online, I got to the point where social media was largely negative and emotionally draining. I downloaded browser extensions like Facebook Fluff-Buster to curate my Facebook feed, and I’m not afraid to unfollow or unfriend someone if I find myself feeling consistently annoyed or angry at their posts. I’ve also completely erased my Twitter a few times, removing all of my tweets and starting over from scratch. I try to keep my social media limited to following my family, close friends or acquaintances that I plan on meeting again, animation studios, and a handful of artists I like. I’m not concerned with followers whatsoever; the goal is to dip my toe into everything without drowning in the current.

What advice do you have for those just starting out?

Identify your weaknesses and find a balance between healthy competition and imposter syndrome. You shouldn’t work in a vacuum, but you also shouldn’t psych yourself into thinking that it’s impossible to reach your goals by comparing yourself to other people. Instead, take what you know you’re good at and combine it with the influences that make you excited to learn more. Take advantage of the knowledge that’s available online and apply your own twist to it after you learn the basics. Get out of your comfort zone and involve yourself in communities--the more you can do in-person, the better. Finally, you don’t have to suffer to prove your dedication; if you’re suffering, allow yourself to get the help you need. Animation is cool but it’s not worth isolating yourself, falling prey to anxiety, or losing sleep.

[heartfeltheart]

Alchemy: Little Brother’s Turn

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist/Harry Potter Rating: T Relationships: Edward/Winry, Lan Fan/Ling, May/Alphonse, Severus/Charity Series: Part 3 of 9. Summary: Part 3 of the Alchemy Series. Now it is Alphonse's turn to taking over his brother's position at Hogwarts. He quickly began to realize how much...stuff... Edward left behind to figure out on his own. Like, The Boy Who Lived, Sirius Black... and a Philosopher's Stone you say? D/C: I do not own Harry Potter or Fullmetal Alchemist. Discord: La Red(Mesh Mash of… stuff.): https://discord.gg/KYjmVAb Alchemy Series: https://discord.gg/DejEYNJ

Warning: I apologize ahead of time. I have attempted to write a character that has PTSD. If I made a mistake, I would more than happy to change things.

It's safe to say… realization hit when people prefer to deal with Edward Elric than his younger brother, Alphonse Elric.

While Edward would complain and be blunt about everything, Alphonse communicates differently. He hardly ever interjects, only doing so when asking a question or a clarification, never reveals his hand. Far more manipulative and far firmer than the eldest Elric Brother.

"You are going to this meeting. That is final.

"No."

It has been less than a week since Edward and Winry tied the knot and headed out to Rush Valley for their honeymoon, Alphonse is finally taking Sirius and Severus out to Central. Sirius has to be mentally evaluated by the Military's go-to psychiatrist, Ms. Lucile Hammond. The Fuhrer had made it a point to ensure both physical and mental health of the Military. This actually made him rather popular with the people as it came at a time of massive change.

Alphonse knew the moment he read Sirius Black's files and Edward's notes on the entire thing, that the guy is going to be dragging his feet when it comes to his mental health. Coming from a society that does not even speak, let alone acknowledge, mental health, it's going to be an uphill battle. "Big Brother had to pull multiple strings, use several favors, and so much more in order to get you out of that prison under the conditions that were placed upon your release. One of those conditions is to see if you are mentally capable of taking care of a child, whom needs to have a strong and mentally sane guardian."

"…"

"Fine. If you do not take this seriously, then you are not going to help that god-son of yours shopping for his school supplies later this summer."

"Even I find that harsh and cruel."

"If I was my brother, I would have simply knock him out and drag him all the way there, Mr. Snape."

-.-

"I'm not coming out."

"Come on, it's not that bad."

"It is!"

"I promise we'll take it slow."

"Easy for you to say."

"If you want to stop and come back, we'll do that."

Edward opened the bathroom door to peer out to see Winry, Garfiel and Paninya were waiting for him expectantly. He let out a sigh and opened the door completely to reveal himself wearing a ridiculous brightly patterned pair of shorts and had on a replacement prosthetic due to the fact his automail got destroyed by a mob of rabid Winry's Fans. Yeah… It's not even the first week of their honeymoon, and he wants to leave.

"This is seriously thing only thing you could find?"

"I think it suits you, darling."

"Gee… thanks, Garfiel."

-.-

The train ride to Central was quiet one between the three men, they had acquired a private booth and it appears it was needed. There was an extreme tense atmosphere around them and every time one of them speaks, it only leads to some sort of one-sided argument.

With nothing else to do, Alphonse opened his own suitcase to pull out his brother's notes. Might as well go over the notes for the upcoming school year. The notes were in a heavily bound notebook book that had a folder bond onto it. The entire notebook contained random notes, transmutation circles doodles, and it is heavily crypted. Looking through it, he found something that made him raise an eyebrow.

'Rules?'

Alphonse pulled out a out a packet of paper that was paper clipped together. At a first glance, it appears that Edward created a list of rules he needed to follow while at their time at Hogwarts.

Rules to Follow (Stuff I'm not allowed to do):

-No hand to hand combat

-No wondering around the Forbidden Forest (Centaurs don't like me)

-Always change the doorway

-Code of Ethics when it comes to Blood

-No more random walks (I keep ending up on the roof)

-No more allowing Xerxes grab hold of graded papers

-I need more firewhiskey.

At first glance, it looks like stuff Edward wrote down to remind himself to do. Nothing more and nothing else. Gibberish mainly. However, for someone that knows the young man rather well, knows there's more than meets the eye. Alphonse pulled out a pencil and a clean piece of paper to decode the list of rules.

Remember…

-McGonagall had a point. Kids need to be at a certain level before entering this class, BUT~ if they show great proficiency… I WANT THEM IN THE CLASS! On a side note, she is just like all the others.

-I have reason to believe Severus and I heavily corrupted Filius.

-I somehow made friends with the Centaurs. I don't know how this happened.

-Pomona… she's like a combination of Teacher, Hawkeye and Gracia.

-Severus, the only guy here that I can tolerate here. The only problem he has is that he's too caught up in his past that it clouds his future.

(Update: He's Cured)

(Second Update: Nope. Back to square one.)

(Third Update: So Close)

(Unknown number of Update: He's dating!)

Alphonse couldn't help but sweat drop at the long list of updates under the Hogwarts Potion's Master name. It only made matters worse considering that said man is sitting across of him. Slowly, he paper clipped the papers together again and putting it back in the folder part of the notebook.

"What exactly… is going to happen?"

Alphonse looked over to see Sirius shift uncomfortably in his spot. "It's different for everyone. Your first meeting with Ms. Hammond is mainly for her to get to know you and to get a second opinion."

"Second opinion?" Sirius asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Fuchs happens to also be a mental health professional. He diagnosed you to the best of his abilities and Ms. Hammond is to properly diagnose you, along with setting up a plan for treatment is possibly." Severus explained, recalling the file he had to read on Black, dressed again in his muggle clothing and appears to be comfortable in his skin. Unlike Sirius, who had on a dark green stripped buttoned up shirt with the top three buttons left unbuttoned along with a match vest. A pair of dark pants and leather shoes, not magical brand clothing. All muggle brand clothing.

"What in bloody hell did that arse 'diagnose me? When did it happen!?"

"He told you when it occurred."

"…Oh."

-.-

Ms. Felicity Hammond knew the moment she wanted to study the human's mind, she was going to meet with resistance. Especially under the former leader of Amestris. He was completely against her work, even going as far to warn soldiers of not going to see her and only to the ones he approved of. Those that were approved… many of them were part of that coup that occurred on the Promise Day and are now permanently removed. Grumman put her in charge of the people's well-being and once she got to work, everything was in complete disarray. She became a tremendous help in being part of the recovery process of Amestris. Even going as far to be nominated for a medal for her work. No medal was needed, long as she is doing her job and seeing the relief in someone's eyes… that is all the reward she needed.

Right now, Hammond is currently seeing her latest patient and is beginning to wonder if she's dealing with a repeat of the time under King Bradley's rule.

Resistance.

Fear.

Horror.

Clear signs of past events that are affecting the present and future.

-.-

"I've talked to my grandfather, he says we should elope."

"Where? Everyone knows us here?"

"He mentioned Xing or Great Britain."

"…That is tempting. Or we could do something similar Ed and Winry did? Would you like to do that?"

"I rather elope. I don't want to deal with the drama."

"…True."

-.-

Ling and Lan Fan sat in a carriage that was carrying them to the Palace. They just returned from Amestris and are almost back home. It was quite an event and are left wondering how their wedding is going to take place. Unlike Edward and Winry's wedding, theirs is not going to be a private affair. The entire country is going to be a part of it, along with fellow royalty that surround Xing and important individuals they are in contact with around the world.

Politics. So much politics.

Ling held back a sigh, he knew Lan Fan prefers a private ceremony. Something simple, quiet and no politics. Something he cannot give her.

-.-

Amestris Psychological Clinic

Patient Admission Form

Name: Black, Sirius

Date of Admission: 6/29/91

Date of Birth: 11/3/59

Material Status: Unmarried

Children: None

Residence: (Blank)

Occupation: Unemployed

Nativity: British

Religion: (Blank)

Administration

Next of Kin/Guardian: (Blank)

Personal Physician: (Blank)

Agent (If any): Severus Snape, Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, Arty Fuchs…

Register Number: 003690

History

Sirius Black was sent to a high caliber prison for a crime he did not commit for nearly a decade(Turn to page 5 for more information)…

Recently been announced innocent of all charges but scares remain of the time under imprisonment. (Turn to page 7 for more information) …

Patient informed he has been having reoccurring nightmares and flashbacks on his time in prison.

Agents and I witnessed Black have episodes of dissociation when left in an supposedly empty room.

Black shows anxiety to silence, having to fill the room with some sort of noise.

-E. Elric had gotten Black a record player and it seems to be helping. (Musical therapy?)

It is noted that the man is a god-father of an orphaned boy, and is in need of help in order to take him in. At this state… it is inadvisable to allow him to take in the child until further notice. Visitations…

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary - Chapter 28

Warnings: none really

Tagging: @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light, @thorsbathroomchicken, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y

The phone call comes in shortly before one pm; the SAT system easily tracing the number back to the Slainte pub.  At first she just blankly stares at the digits and the name on the screen, not having the energy or the patience to deal with whatever bullshit would greet her the moment she answers.  She's in a 'mood'. Rapidly switching from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs;  either dissolving into tears at the drop of a hat or frantically cleaning the room and organizing paper work and files on the lap top. Torn between wanting to curl up in bed and stay there for the entire day, and desperately wanting something...anything...to keep her mind occupied. She's nauseous. Dizzy. A pounding headache that sits at the base of her skull and above her eyes.

Stress. Always the same old, same old when her nerves are shot.  The same symptoms she suffers with for days when Tyler walks out of the house for a job.  Incessant worry accompanied by crippling fear and the deepest and darkest recesses of depression.  But at home she is able to beat it; focusing on the kids, concentrating on their needs, their laughter and their smiles and all of their hugs and their kisses making it all a bit easier to handle.

The SAT phone beeps. Indicating a text message.  Groaning loudly in protest, she throws off the comforter as she lays on her stomach in the middle of the bed, propping herself up on one elbow as she reaches out for the offending object.

You missed a call.  Nik's message reads. Everything okay?

Part of her wants to tell Nik to fuck off and leave her alone.  That it's partly her fault for getting her mixed up into this god awful shitty mess to begin with. Nik could have had her side in the whole thing; adamantly refusing to bring her into the fold, not allowing Yaz and Tyler to call the shots when it came to the Intel and now the tactical sides of things. But Nik had just thrown her under the bus; offering her up like some kind of sacrificial lamb. Acting as if there weren't other people that couldn't do the job. Other mercenaries looking for work. Who were much more experienced. Seasoned. Hardened. Instead of putting all her faith and trust into someone who had become nothing more than a housewife and stay at home mother.

The other part reminds Esme that Nik is her friend. Regardless of her history with Tyler. Nik was the one who'd initially brought her into the fold five and a half years ago; who'd brought her along when she'd gone to the little shack in the Australian outback to recruit Tyler for the Dhaka job.  In a way, it was all Nik's doing; had she not brought Esme aboard and had her tag along that day, this part of her life wouldn't even exist. There would be no Tyler.  No hobby farm in Colorado. No children. She would more than likely still be living the old existence; living out of suitcases as she travelled place to place. Lying. Conning. Getting people to trust her so she in turn could help destroy them.

Fell asleep, she types back.  If it's important, they'll call back.

She waits for the response. And in true Nik fashioned, it makes her want to hurl the phone across the room.

Get your head on straight, E. We don't have time for this.

Sighing heavily, she rolls over onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. One hand on her queasy, cramping stomach, the other holding the SAT down at her side. He's been gone for an hour; McCann had insisted on meeting forty five minutes from Belfast. Worried that there were too many eyes and ears within the city itself and that word would travel fast and the end result would be hell on earth.  He had a lot of enemies within the IRA. He knew too much. Deep and dark secrets that could bring down a lot of very powerful people. And his involvement with someone like Tyler would set off a lot of alarms.

She worries that it's more. Something far more devious. Dangerous.  He hasn't given them any reason to trust him. Right off the hop he'd fed them complete and utter bullshit regarding his New Zealand extraction; convincing them that his wife just nothing but a lowly, random shopkeeper when she'd actually been the reason he'd been hired in the first place. He hadn't gone after on a rescue mission; he'd been hired by the devil to take her straight back to hell.  A man in this thirties wooing and winning a seventeen year old girl that was essentially at his mercy. That alone is extremely troubling. And taking into account his ties to the IRA and possible lingering connections to them, it was easy to assume that his plan to get Tyler nearly an hour away from the safety net of Belfast is also some of ruse. To get him alone and vulnerable.  

Or to hit him where it really hurts and get her alone and vulnerable.

The nausea increases.  Eyes closing as she rubs her stomach in slow, smooth circles, struggling to keep a grip on the runaway emotions.  They normally weren't this bad. Usually she could easily talk herself out of the stress and the panic before they hit head on. But now it feels as if it's going way too quick. Too fast, too soon.  So much worry and anxiety that it makes her head spin and her chest ache.

Her SAT rings once more. The pub. Again.  Only this time she's able to get a grip, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and moving towards her laptop as it sits open on the table by the window.  Once she's within a foot it causes the system to come alive; the recording of the call beginning even before she presses talk.

****

“Hello?”

“Is this Meghan?”

She recognizes his voice.  Billy. The barkeep from the pub.

 “William,” she warmly greets, with the same flirtatious tone she'd used the night before when she'd dropped his full name for the first time. She'd noticed then how it seemed to get under his skin; in a good way.  That little smile that tugged at his lips,  the slight blush in her cheeks and the tips of her eyes, the way his eyes seemed to soften and sparkle.

It had been one the easiest marks of her career.  Most took a while to warm up to her.  Taking weeks to even months to soften up their hardened and weathered exteriors. But he'd been eager; ready to let someone in. And what better someone than an established, attractive, and seemingly available woman? One that would do anything...or perhaps even anyone...to get ahead in the world.

“I hope I didn't catch you in a bad spot. I was wondering if you had a little time to spare.”

“For you?” she leans back in her chair, a barefoot planted against the cool glass of the sliding door. A far cry from the evening before when she'd played the part in her business slacks and curve hugging blouse. Clad now in one of her her husband's tattered and frayed t-shirts and pair of baggy grey track pants with the Emery surfboard company name and logo down one leg; small blotches of bleach dotting the fabric in several places. No make up and her hair messy.  “For you I can make the time, William.”

A silent pause. And she smirks as she leans further back in the chair and places her second foot against the window, twirling a piece of hair around her index finger.

“I like that,” he says.  “The way you call me that.”

“Well that is you're name, isn't it?” she crosses one her legs over the thigh of the other, bouncing her heel up and down against the glass. “You are William, are you not?  That is what Billy is short for, I assume.”

“It is,” he confirms with a chuckle. “It's just that no one has called me that in a long time. Since my wife.”

“You're married?” she reaches over to snag the pen and spiral bound notebook off the table. It's full of random notes and doodles in various different colours of ink; her and Tyler both using it to hurriedly jot down names and numbers and any other bits and pieces of information, vital or not.  It's old school and shouldn't be necessary with the computer recording everything off the SAT, but technology isn't always fool proof.

“I was. We're divorced. Bad break up. She was shagging a mate of mine.”

“Well that's unfortunate,” she hurriedly flips to a fresh page of paper and places the book on her thigh. “Hard to believe anyone would cheat on someone like you. If you forgive me for being so bold, but you aren't exactly lacking in the looks department.  You're quite the head turner. In my humble opinion.”

“Well thank you,” he chuckles, and she can practically see the blush creeping into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It's not entirely a lie; he is quite easy on the eyes.  And a much younger and single Esme would have considered..albeit briefly...crossing that line between business and personal.  “You're easy to look at yourself. Very easy to look at actually.”

“I take it this isn't a business call,” she muses.  

“Not entirely. It's a little bit of both. Business and pleasure.”

She smirks.  “And what kind of pleasure are we talking about? Because I don't usually get into that sort of thing with someone I barely know.”

“I was thinking dinner. And drinks. If you're free.”

“Well that depends.”

“On what?”

“If you tell me a little more about yourself.  I can't jump into anything with a stranger.  A young woman, alone in a foreign country, far from home. That wouldn't be smart would it? If I just blindly trusted you and took you up on the offer?”

“Well what is you want to know?”

“Well I think dinner and drinks calls for first and last names,” she says.  “You know mine. So...”

“It's Flynn. My last name,”

“William Flynn,” she repeats, as she jots it down. “That has a very nice ring to it. How old are you William Flynn?”

'How old are you?” he counters.

“I asked first. And isn't it always ladies first?”

“I suppose,” he chuckles.  “Twenty eight. And you.”

“Thirty,” she lies.

“I honestly thought much younger,” he admits, and she can't help but let it inflate her ego. And encourage her to continue with the little game. “You look good. For thirty. Very good, actually.  Do you have children?”

“No,” that lie actually hurts to tell it, and she tries to push the intense feeling of guilt to the back of her mind.  “I'm too focused on my career right now. You?”

“A son. He's three. Collin. Lives with his mom. In Dublin.”

She continues to scribble things down.  “That's sad,” she hopes it sounds sincere. “I hope you get to spend time with him. That's quite the trek down to Dublin.”

“Every second weekend. I'd like it to be more often but...” he sighs.  “...it is what it is.  So you're not married? But you still wear a ring?”

“I've had a hard time severing that last string. It's a bitter pill to swallow. When the man of your dreams pick his job over you. When your happily ever after doesn't exactly turn out that way.  He wasn't happy. As a husband. We were much happier before. Before things got too serious.”

“Well pardon me for saying this, but he's a goddamn fool. He has to be to choose work over the likes of you. So have you thought about it? My offer? Dinner and drinks?”

“I'm intrigued,” she admits.  “What's in this for me? Other than the handsome and charming company?”

“I have some information. About what you asked about last night. Michael McMann. About his wife and kids and whose involved and trying to stir up trouble. And I've got some names. Of other people you can contact. That are willing to talk.  People that are higher up than I am. With real connections.”

“Higher up in...”

“The IRA.”

She grins victoriously and in big letters at the top of the page, right under the name William Flynn, prints those three initials.  “You're involved with them? The IRA?”

“It's the family business. What I can tell you is that we're not involved in this. With the wife and kids. We hate the guy. He screwed us over. But we'd never do that. Especially to kids. Even we draw the line somewhere.  But whoever is doing this has pissed off a lot of people. Tempers are running high. We want to find out who it is and do something about it.”

“Like a turf war?”  she writes that down, accenting it with a big question mark.

“There's a lot of trouble brewing, that's for sure. We want nothing to do with this. The wife and the kids. And they're using us to draw attention away from themselves.”

“Any idea who it is?”

“No real proof. Just lots of rumours. I shouldn't be talking about all of this right now,” he gives a small chuckle. “What will we talk about dinner?”

“Oh I'm sure we can find things to talk about,” she assures him.

“Or things to do.”

“Now don't go putting all your eggs into one basket. I'm not that type girl.”

“I'm sorry, Meghan. I never meant anything by it. Forgive me for being too forward. I...”

“What time for dinner? Tonight is unfortunately not going to work for me. I have prior arrangements that can't be cancelled. But if you're free tomorrow, I can certainly clear my schedule.”

“Tomorrow would be wonderful. I know this is terribly bold of me, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. You've been on my mind constantly. Since you walked into the bar. You're very...intriguing. I can't quite get a read on you. There's something so different about you. Way different than any of the women from around here.  A mystery, almost. There's so much I'd like to find out.”

“Well if you play your cards right, maybe I'll let you find those things out,” she responds.  

“Tomorrow? Six thirty?”

“How about seven? It gives me longer to get ready.”

“Done,” he agrees. “Where do I pick you up?”

Shit, she hadn't even considered that this question would come up.   It has been smooth sailing; much easier and seamless than so many initial encounters.

“Meghan?”

“You know,  I'm not entirely comfortable with a stranger knowing where I'm staying. I'm a little paranoid about that sort of thing. You can never be too careful in this day and age. How about we meet somewhere? In public. I hate to be such a bother and a worry wart, but...”

“How about we meet her at the bar? We could go in the back room. It's private there. We can have dinner. A few drinks. See where the night takes us.”

She groans internally.   “Sounds like a plan,” she chirps. “I'm very much looking forward to seeing you again. To chatting more.  I'm flattered. That you thought of me.”

“I've been obsessed with you,” he admits.

“Well hopefully you hold onto some of that enthusiasm.  I have to go. I have an online meeting with my editor in a few, so...”

“I'm very much looking forward to tomorrow,” he says.  “And I'm flattered as well. That you'd agree to have dinner with me.”

“I'll see you tomorrow,” she promises.  “Seven.”

“Seven,” he confirms, and then offers a soft, quiet goodbye before hanging up the phone.

****

“Well this isn't how I expected things to go,” Mark says, smirking from the passenger's seat of the rented SUV. “You asking me for help.”

“It's the last thing I want to be doing, believe me.  You're the last person I want to be dealing with.  Ever.”

“So why am I here? What's got the legendary Tyler Rake swallowing his pride and actually asking someone for help? You're usually a one man show from what I've heard. Must be some serious shit if you're willing to suck it up and give someone a call. Especially me.”

Tyler sighs, eyes briefly closing as he pinches the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger. “You're already making me regret this.  Could you maybe shut the fuck up for five seconds? I don't have the time or the tolerance to listen to your bullshit. I don't want to hear any comments about my marriage, no opinions on how I handle things with my wife, no stupid shit about my personal life or my kids or none of that. This is strictly business. So let's keep it that way, yeah?

“Fair enough,” Mark agrees. “So what's up? What's going on?”

“This McMann guy,” Tyler begins. “There's no way of knowing what he's really up to. If he's innocent in all of this or he's actually part of it. If he's the victim in all of this or if  this is some really crazy act of revenge and he's just wanting to get me alone.”

“I thought you didn't have history with this guy? With the IRA? Or with the wife?”

“I don't know. Well, not that I can remember anyway,” he confesses. “There's things...a lot of things ...that I don't remember. Dhaka...everything that happened on the bridge...it's fucked with my head. I'm not sure if it's because of blood loss or lack of oxygen or all the meds I've been on. But there's things I don't remember. No matter how hard I try to.  So maybe I did have history with them. Maybe I did have a job they were involved in and I pissed them off and I just don't remember it.”

“And when you didn't recognize McMann when he showed up in Telluride, he decided to play it for all it's worth,” Mark concludes.

“Maybe. I don't know. He seemed like he was on the up and up. About what's going on with his wife and his kids. But there's a couple times where he's said some things that didn't quite sit right. I brought up how if...when...things go to shit...he might not be able to get his kids out. Not both of them, anyway. He threw it back in my face. Asking me how I'd decide which of the twins to save.”

Mark scowls. “That's a bitch move.”

Tyler nods. “I told him there'd be no decision. That I'd give up my life for theirs. No hesitation. If it meant saving them and getting them back to their mother, that it was something I was willing to do. It would be easier on Esme. If she lost me instead of one of the kids. She'd get over me. But she'd never get over losing one of them. She's an amazing mum. And I'm lucky. To have her. That she's the mother of my kids.”

“It's what she always wanted. Kids. I just wasn't the man to give her that.”

“McMann wasn't on the same page as I was.  The idea seemed ridiculous to him. Having to make that kind of decision.  He wasn't...he isn't willing to sacrifice himself for them. I found it weird. That there'd be any hesitation whatsoever. How do you not want to save your kids? Your blood?  They're your legacy. Why would you not want to let them go on and live long and happy lives? It didn't sit well with me. I haven't been able to get it out of my head.”

“There's guys without kids that would make the same decision as you. I saw it overseas. In Iraq. You probably did too. Soldiers ready and willing to sacrifice themselves to save random kids...and women...from the Taliban.”

Tyler nods. “I've seen it a few times, actually. I've even known mercenaries that have given themselves up to save someone.”

“You almost did,” Mark points out.  “Even after things went to hell and there was no money, you still busted your ass to kid that get out. And Esme.”

“I wasn't going to leave them behind. No matter who wanted me to. And if it meant I died for them...” he shrugs.  “...it was what I was willing to do.”

Mark nods slowly, considering his words. The sincerity in his voice. In his eyes.

“Esme doesn't trust him,” Tyler says. “McMann. And she has great instincts. Better than mine sometimes. She didn't want me going into this alone. She's worried sick. That this could all be a trap and McMann's got an army of guys just waiting to ambush me. I need to give her peace of mind. And I promised her I'd come back safe.  That I'd come back to her.  She trusts you. I don't know why. Considering everything you did to her...” he holds up his hand; a plea for silence when the other man opens his mouth to speak. “....but she trusts you. You're the only one I could call. Yaz was made the same time I was. I can't be seen in public with Esme or she'd be made and that will fuck up her end of things. So I called you.”

“How do you know you can trust me?”

“Because you know I'd fuck you up if you crossed me.  You know I won't hesitate killing you.  And I don't think you want that, do you. You can act all big and bad, walk around wagging your mouth, try to get under my skin.  But you know the stories. All the bloody and gory details. You know what I'm capable of. And you know I won't mind adding you to the body count.”

A smirk tugs at the corners of Mark's mouth. Not nearly as confident as the ones he's given before.

“So this is me, asking you for help. Now are you in or you're out, mate? Because I don't have all day.”

Mark hesitates. Then offers a hand. An agreement. “I'm in.”

****

“William Robert Flynn,”  Yaz reads the information aloud from where he sits at the table in Esme and Tyler's room, his own laptop and ipad spread across the table.  “Born March 15th, 1997, right here in Belfast. Parents are Robert and Elizabeth Flynn. Nee McDonald.  Dad is deceased. 2011. Mother is still alive. Lives in England now. Remarried.”

“How did the father die?” Nik inquires, her image on the laptop screen. “Suspicious circumstances?”

“Coroner's report lists self inflicted gun shot wound to the head.”

“There's a police report,” Esme speaks up from across the table, her own computer in her lap, a plate of barely touched room service food in front of her. She'd been hungry and had taken it as a sign that the nausea was finally at bay. Until the first bite and attempted swallow had her running for the bathroom.  Her head pounds. Frantically. And she reaches for a bottle of water and the container of Advil in the middle of the table. “Says that William Flynn was the one who discovered his father. In the back garden. Face down in a pool of blood. Gun was lying next to him. A nine millimeter. Glock.  Spent shell casing near by.”

“He would have only been fourteen,” Yaz says. “Same age Ovi was in Dhaka. Hell of an age to walk into something like that. Your old man missing half his head.”

“Any evidence that says it may have not been a suicide?” Nik asks.

“The police reports are shit,” Esme replies, as she pops three of the tablets into her mouth and swallows them with a mouthful of water. “I've seen some pretty amateur ones, but this has to be one of the worst. Obviously the cops and the coroner didn't think this case mattered. He was an IRA member. Probably caused a world of trouble when he was around. They were just glad he was gone. Why waste the resources, they probably figured.”

“There was no gunshot residue on his hands,” Yaz says. “Or at least that's what the report says. And he's not wearing gloves in any of the photos, so...”

“It was a hit,” his sister concludes. “Before any of this, was there any connections between the IRA or the Buckmans? Anything that stands out? Anything that could tie Robert Flynn to the Buckmans?”

“Not that we've recovered so far,” Esme says. “But we're still digging.  Robert Flynn was pretty high up in the IRA. One of their best and longest serving members. A real enforcer. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty.  His son is an active member.  They have ties to the IRA going back to the grandfather and great grandfather. Not to mention several cousins and uncles still in the movement. It's the family business, apparently.”

“So William Flynn obviously knows Michael McMann,” Nik concludes. “And vice versa. Anything that shows a feud between them?”

“Nothing on paper,” Esme responds. “But he told me that everyone in the IRA is pissed as hell with McMann. For betraying them. And taking a lot of secrets and dirty shit with him when he left. And now they're even more pissed because McMann's out there saying that it's the IRA that scooped his wife and his kids. And they'd admit to that. The IRA would definitely claim responsibility. They've never denied ties to even some of their broader scale bullshit. So they'd admit to this.”

“We were wondering if maybe this is all a big ploy to make things blow up within the IRA,” Yaz speaks up. “To stir the pot enough that an outsider comes in and starts it all off. That maybe that's what Tyler is being used for. To kick it all off.  What better way for McMann to draw attention away from himself? Let Tyler cause the shit and then leave him hung out to dry.”

Esme sighs, briefly closing her eyes and laying a hand over her queasy stomach.

“Are you okay?” Nik inquires. “You look a little...off.”

“Just stress. This is all just so insane. It's so twisted and so fucked up and now Tyler's out there...alone...meeting with this guy. What if he has people with him? What if he's got a whole damn army behind him and Tyler's just walking into a huge trap? He's good. But he's not that good. He wouldn't stand a chance and you both know it.”

Yaz attempts a reassuring smile. “He'll be okay. He's smart. He knows what he's doing. Your man isn't stupid, that's for sure. Look what he handled in Dhaka. When he went into that apartment to extract Ovi.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Yaz. I do. But there's a huge difference between street thugs in Dhaka and the IRA.  These people are extremely dangerous. Extremely dangerous. And they show no mercy.”

“And neither does Tyler,” he points out.  “If anyone can handle this, it's him.”

“He should never have went there alone,” Esme huffs. “It was dangerous. Foolish. Sending him in by himself.”

“We don't have anyone there to help,” Nik attempts to reason. “Resources are extremely thin. It's the three of you and that's it. And the rest of the team is out on other assignments or they're here helping keep an eye on things. He'll be fine,  Esme. He always is.”

“Oh really? Always? Because I seem to vividly remember him bleeding to death on the Sultana Kamal Bridge. Or are we just forgetting that that happened? Oh wait, it's because you two took off to get Ovi to safety and you left Tyler there to die. And you left me there to watch him die.”

“That isn't how it happened and you know it,” Nik seems hurt by the explanation. “We came back for you. For both of you.”

“Half a goddamn hour later! Thirty minutes I spent with my hand pressed to his neck, trying to keep him alive. While he bled out all over the fucking place. You weren't there. You weren't the one holding him there on the bridge. You weren't the one with blood on your hands. His blood. So I'm sorry if I'm not as appreciative for your help as you'd like me to be, Nik.”

“Okay....okay...” Yaz pleads for calm.  “....let's not rehash this. It's over five years ago.”

“Five years ago, five weeks ago, five days ago,” Esme snarls. “It still happened. And pretending it never did is bullshit. It's bullshit and it's completely disrespectful. To Tyler. To just push it aside like you've both been doing all these years. Acting like it was no big deal. You got him into that mess, Nik. You brought him into that bullshit and then you left him there.  You left both of us there. What would have happened had you not come back? He would have died there. And who the hell knows what would have happened to me once Asif realized he didn't totally finish the job. And let's not forget that you wanted Tyler and I to leave Ovi in the goddamn street. You wanted us to just throw the kid to the wolves.”

“I wanted the two of you out of there,” Nik argues. “I wanted you both safe. The kid held you back. Had you gotten rid of him, both you and Tyler would have made it out of there before everything blew up in our faces.”

“He was a kid! He was a kid and you wanted us to just leave him there! Jesus, Nik. Do you realize how that makes you sound? Like a bloody sociopath.”

Yaz sighs. “This solves nothing. You two going at each other like this. I know it's been a long time coming but...”

“You probably wanted him to leave me there too,” Esme says. “I'm actually surprised you didn't suggest it.  You knew what was going on. Between Tyler and I. And you hated it even then. You hated the idea of me in his life. Because it took him away from you.”

“That's not true. I was pissed off that the two of you were so goddamn reckless and foolish and you actually thought it was good idea to start fucking each other while on the job. You couldn't wait until it was all over? The two of you were that desperate and horny that you had to fuck each other on my time?”

“Enough,” Yaz snaps. “Both of you. This is bullshit. We're all in this together. It doesn't matter what happened back then. It was five and a half years ago. So they fucked each other. No one else gave a shit. No one else cared. Only one it bothered was you Nik.”

“Because she wasn't the one fucking him,” Esme pipes up. “Not anymore, anyway. All the more reason she probably wanted him to leave me in the street. Get me out of the way so she could climb back into his bed again.”

“It doesn't matter,” Yaz insists. “It wasn't going to happen. Once Tyler met you, that was it. It was over. And you...” he glares at his sister through the laptop screen.  “...they're together. It happened. They're married. They've got kids. Let it go already. Let him go.”

“I've had enough of this,” Nik fumes. “We'll pick this up again later. When certain people can actually stay focused on the job at hand. That seems to be a thing for you, Esme. You couldn't stay focused in Dhaka either.”

“Fuck you, Nik. Seriously. Fuck you. I don't need to be here. I'm not one of your employees. I'm helping you, remember?”

No response. Just a black screen signalling the other woman has already logged off.

Yaz sighs, shaking his head in disbelief.  “I know that that's been coming for five and a half years, but shit. Could you not have waited until after we discussed all of this? Was it really that important that you just had to get to it?”

“Don't you start, Yaz. You know everything I said is true. She left us there. On that bridge. While he was dying. While I was trying to keep him alive.”

“What were we supposed to do? We had to get Ovi out of there.”

“Oh I don't know. Maybe it would have been nice to help me get Tyler the fuck out of there. How about that?”

“There was no time. There were going to be more cops. Military even. We had to get Ovi out of there.”

“So to hell with the two people that busted their asses to get Ovi there in one piece right? To hell with the fact that your friend is lying there with a gunshot wound to his throat, bleeding out all over the place. Tyler wasn't useful anymore.  He did what you all needed him to do and it no longer matter what happened to him. And if I just so happened to get killed too, oh well. No big loss, right?”

“We came back. I told Nik we had to go back for you guys and...”

“Wait...wait...” she stares at him incredulously. “...you had to tell her to go back and get us?”

“She thought it was too dangerous. That the situation was still too hot.  She didn't want to ask anymore  lives. But I told her that I couldn't just leave you guys there. That if Asif found out that things weren't finished and he sent more people down there, neither of you would stand a chance. I told her I was going back in to get you guys. Whether she helped me or not.”

“So she was more than willing to leave us there. To leave Tyler there. After what he'd done to make sure he got Ovi there? To get both of us there? She was okay with just leaving him to die?”

“To be honest, we thought he'd be dead when we got back. We didn't expect him to be alive still. We all saw what happened. What were the chances that he'd actually survive that? That you would have actually been able to keep him alive?”

“I wasn't leaving him there. I wasn't letting him die. Do you know what that was like? To go through that? To try and convince someone not to just give up? When dying is much easier than the fight not to? I had my fingers in his goddamn throat, Yaz. I had to stick my fingers in his neck to try and block the artery. I can still feel it. How hot the blood was. I can still feel his pulse against my fingers. And I can still smell it. Like it was yesterday.  Do you have any idea what that was like?”

“No,” he shakes his head sadly. “And I'm sorry you have to remember all of that. That you had to go through it.”

“I didn't let him die on that bridge and I'm sure as hell not going to sit back and let him die here either. Maybe your sister was willing to let that happen, but I'm not.  His life means more than that. A hell of a lot more. He's not the same Tyler he was back then.  The one that had a death wish. He's my husband, Yaz. The father of my children.  And there is no way I'm letting anyone send him out there to die.”

“You're doing what you can. The intel. The tactical.  There's only so much you can do, Esme. Killing yourself isn't going to save him. Getting yourself killed trying to keep him alive solves nothing. Because if something happens to you, he'll put a gun in his mouth. Or he'll drink himself to death. He would not survive that. You know it, I know it.”

She sighs, a frown on her face as she runs a hand over her unsettled stomach.

“You look like shit,” Yaz observes.

“Well thanks. I'm so glad you pointed that out.”

“You're not...you know...”

She laughs. “You have something against saying the actual word? No. I'm not pregnant. We've been trying. But it hasn't happened yet. This is definitely stress. I know the difference. I've been through three pregnancies. I felt the same way with each of them. I knew right away that it wasn't stress and that I wasn't just sick.  This? This is not the like any of those three times. It's definitely stress. Worry. And I miss home. I miss my kids. I just want to go home and see them.”

“Soon,” he promises. “This will all be over soon.”

She gives a shaky, skeptical smile.  

She hopes he's right.

[masterprocess]

Limited-fucking-slip differential

Sometimes I feel like I’m only having something close to half the human experience. I have a difficult time placing the emotions I have, and most of the time my brain can’t get it together well enough to make some words. There’s a pang at the bottom of my stomach. It feels like how a shell casing dropping on the ground sounds. There’s a smell in the house I sleep in that’s been bothering me for weeks. There’s a crick in my neck that I can’t get out. The room I sleep in isn’t cozy. It has mood shifts, and it can’t decide on a temperature. The smell isn’t right, and the clutter in here that isn’t mine blocks my mind like dirt clogging up a dam. I’m trying to remember my vacation from January, but I can only remember a few events. There’s a lump of coal in the middle of my lungs. It’s making me tense. I have a psychology book that I’ve been reading for class, and it’s mostly garbage, but this is how residual anxiety feels for me, I think. Have you ever been on a raft pulled by a boat? That’s kinda how time feels like sometimes. Regrets will build up and up and up, and you can either let them hit you and drag you into the water, or you can hold the fuck on and get the fuck through it. I’ve had a suitcase beside my bed for three months now. It’s been a quarter of a year and this toe jabbing irritant won’t get out of my life. It can’t go back where it is intended to, though. Someone told me that its home was being cleaned for some such nonsense. I’d rather have the walking spaces cleaned first. Toe jabbing is not fun. My parents have turned it into a sport, though. My parents are, on balance, alright people but they have a lot of issues that I doubt they’ll ever find the willpower to work through. 1) They won’t let go of the clutter in their life.

2) They have a hard time accepting the transient nature of life.

3) They don’t know how to interact.

4) They have a hard time imagining others as complex humans.

5) They are relatively resistant to any kind of change.

I have my own problems too. I have difficulty expressing myself, and my brain is kind of like a computer that randomly has it’s RAM wiped every so often for no discernable reason.

From an early age, I discovered my limits. If I set my mind to something, no matter how difficult, complex, or incomprehensible, I will eventually accomplish my task. The issue was never so much my ability so much as it was being able to make my body do what I wanted it to do. Beautiful sculptures and paintings clutter my mind, and no human has ever created them, but they will never be done justice. Hands are tools and these tools are defective. They shake, and they don’t make the lines they are commanded to make.

The Roman Empire fell because they were unwilling to become who they needed to be.

Why is money such an important concept? Why should I care about money?

I like listening to this song called “Royals” by Lorde. It’s catchy, it has a good use of the synth, I like the lyrics, and I like the singer’s voice.  The just of the song is that the music industry, and by extension the entire baby-boomer economy is entirely out of touch with the world. It’s materialist to the extreme. It’s narcissistic. It’s malignant to the world. These aren’t necessarily things the song itself says, but the thin strings of the ideas are woven through the song. If you think about it for too long, you’ll start arriving to the same conclusions as my autistic ass. The lyric “we crave a different kind of buzz” and then later on “ Life is great without a care, we aren't caught up in your love affair” gives that ethereal touch to the brain that “remember you can’t take all this fucking shit with you when you’re cold and dead in the ground.” If you believe in the afterlife, which I don’t know if I do, then the only thing you take is yourself. So you get the idea of you, and maybe some memories if you’re lucky. That’s the part that fucks with me, though. I can barely remember my most recent vacation, let alone “key childhood memories.” If the afterlife exists, there better not be a multiple choice test at the end because it’s gonna send me straight to hell. In front of me are three boxes of clear icicle lights which 

1) probably don’t work

2) will never ever see use again even if they do work because everybody is too afraid of dying to get up on the hospital to set them up (not that I blame them), and of course

3) need to be thrown in the goddamn garbage already

But come November, these fuckers will be in the same place, on top of some books that won’t be read in this household ever again and my mom will be budget shopping in wal-mart or target or whatever other consumerist baby boomer shithole is the vibe the wallet is giving this year for some more fucking lights which will pile on top of the old ones and continue the same cycle. I’ve had a word stuck in my head for the past year, and it repeats itself overandoverandoverandover again until I’m insane at 3AM. You wanna know the stupid ass word? LIMITED-SLIP DIFFERENTIAL.

The limited-slip differential is a specialized part for cars that either go off-road or on ice a lot. The differential is a part placed in the middle of the axle between two wheels so that a car can easily handle turns. When a car turns, the wheel on the inside of the turn moves slower because it doesn’t need to as much speed to cover the same relative distance as the wheel on the outside. The wheel on the outside of the turn, on the other hand, has to move much more quickly than the inside to cover the distance. It is because of this, the Chinese invented the differential back in the 3rd century to be placed on the middle of the axle so we can split the speeds of both wheels without destroying the vehicle. The limited-slip differential is a special version of the regular differential that has the benefit of being able to lock one wheel from spinning. This makes traveling slippery terrain much easier because as long as you have one wheel on relatively solid ground, you can still move your vehicle. This is all fine and dandy, but my brain can’t stop repeating this fucking word in my head over and over again. Well, I mean it’s more like a term for a vehicle part that is made up of three words, but whatever. I don’t care.

I have a series of poems that are pretty shitty that I was supposed to give my girlfriend a while ago, but they’re all pretty much garbage? I have a difficult time imagining why someone would want to read them. They’re all really basic, and there’s not a lot of depth to them, and I’m not a lesbian hermit who just sits in her room and writes poetry all day so I mean. It doesn’t really feel worth the effort to read them? I haven’t told my mom about being Bi, but she probably knows. I don’t really give a shit one way or the other, but I’m really not up for a big fight from dad.

Of all things, I’m worried that I won’t be able to get a fucking Nintendo console. I’ve been talking about it ad nauseum for about a month now, and everyone is about crazy with me. Special Interests are like that. I feel like a piece of shit for bringing up my SIs to anyone anymore because I just infodump out the heezy, which I’ve been told has a suffocating effect to everyone around me. I suppose that’ll be fun to look forward to when I’m thirty and I’ve used up 12 more infodump cards in one day than I was allotted (not). 

Anyways, I didn’t get a pre-order on day 1 because I’m too afraid to ask for anything after I was screamed out for asking for gas money several times (even though my tank was empty, but w/e). I eat lunch for 3.91$ every other day so I can stretch that shit as far as it’ll fuckin’ go so I can reduce the amount of screaming fits that my mom produces. She almost had a fit on me today. I took my sister to this Korean supermarket which had every single food ingredient that originates in Korea, and we bought some candies and lunch for me, her, and mom. Well, executive dysfunction out the ass today and I have the distinct displeasure of forgetting her goddamn diet coke from McDonalds (she’s gonna kill herself with that poison someday) so I rush over to the MnaldsMcSub to bend my ass over and get her some poison, and then when I get back I give her the shit and eat some cold ass Korean. I’m probably gonna get a bitch fit at the end of the week for the Korean food because it ended up being like 15$ a person (which is expensive) and it was my suggestion to go over there. Not looking forward to that shit.

Needless to say, I’m looking forward to the day when I’m independent and don’t receive a bitch out every day of my life. I’m actually distinctly curious as to how my parents are going to interact with me after they don’t have the availability of their primary interaction with me (bitch out) available to them anymore. Will they manufacture reasons to bitch out an independent adult? Will they ask me to see my finances so they can chew me out about how I spend my own money? Or will they (far more likely) just neglect to interact anymore in the future, similar to how my dead grandfather decided to? Who the hell knows? Anyways, if you made it this far, then congration you dun it. This how residual anxiety work with my autistic ass.