#old five

[laurrelise]

picture this: it’s your second week at the commission. your boss is a fucking fish. your coworkers are way too friendly. your higher-ups’ biggest concern is a random ex-employee who you’ve never met, her next being her fashion game. and her daughter is just running around wreaking absolute havoc.

and then one day the meanest 13-year old you’ve ever seen in your life walks in, finishes his case in 10 minutes, and immediately after gets recognized as the best worker in the room full of adults.

im quitting on the spot wbu

[tua-five]

Season 2 Episode 8

Starting off strong..

I know for a fact I've said this before, but I really dislike the handler. I hate how she said that she and five have a "colorful history." Makes it worse that she winked after. No, thank you.

Okay, next in line, we have Reginald. And I noticed this before, but it deserves some actual recognition. Pogo drew a picture when he was just a little guy (and technically, he still is a little guy here). It was a picture of him and Grace and Reggie in a line holding hands, the classic kid drawing. And we know Reginald hates kids, but he loves Pogo and Grace and his wife, so he's not without compassion. Anyhoo. Reggie framed that picture and put it up on his shelf just outside his office. If he was truly cruel, he would have thrown it away. But he loves Pogo. Or maybe he just loves Grace, and Grace loves Pogo, so he did that. Either way, my point still stands.

Also, can we talk about Aidan's wonderful, quick, and flexible abilities? He wasn't actually supposed to do the scene where he lists off the 7 symptoms of paradox psychosis. He had to learn all of that in less than a day. I mean, memorizing all of that that fast is really impressive.

Okay, also. Luther stops Five from going straight to his older self. He says he should break the ice because he will scare himself. Because yeah. Seeing your dead "younger" brother smiling at you is better than your younger self...

I love how in true Diego fashion, he says, "I'm Deigo, I have a knife."

I love how the writers did a flashback to Five saying "[Viktor] is the bomb" and then Diego repeating it. It's a full circle moment. And then Diego says, "[Viktor] will always be the bomb." (I'm going to make a separate post about this whole thing because I have things to say about this, s3, and what we know of season 4).

The brain scene is so terrible. It's sad and gross. I mean, I get it. Eating the brain to remember. But still...

Also, let's talk about the sibling's responses. Ben says it's not her fault. She hit her head and can't remember anything. This shows how she views Ben, always sticking up for her and the nice one. Allison says she got overheated and wiped her mind clean, and I'm not exactly sure what that means or what she's trying to say by that, so if anyone has insight or anything. Luther says she's lazy and didn't study. I think that this does show how Luther would've acted as a kid. Trying to be number 1 and whatnot. It just makes sense for him. Now, Klaus says maybe she's been faking it all along. And I don't know what to make of it. I can't imagine Klaus being like that. I mean... maybe. Like, he says it half-heartedly or just because he doesn't have enough braincells, and when [Viktor] was younger, [he'd] interpret things like that as he means it. Reginald says that they're all wrong. That [he] just refuses to remember. And I do think this is in part true. And it also just makes sense that Reginald says that.

Frick guys. I'm not ready for tomorrow's episode. Not with Ben...

Today's gifs!

[badkitty3000]

We need Old Five with his sniper rifle and his old man hat to take of a few things around here

"im tired of living through major historical events" is now "dear lord please let me witness a high profile political assassination in the next 1-2 years. amen"

[chloesimaginationthings]

What if Michael Afton was in FNAF into the pit,,

[cracklewink]

My Mane 6 Redesigns all together! I was going to post them separately but ended up finishing them all before I got around to it lol

[tumblingghosts]

ahhhh this is great!! love how “old” five in the mirror looks more manic in the original while your new version has real five feeling more threatening…

redraw from 2021

[allskywalkerswhine]

in fics where luke gets plopped into the prequels i want every jedi within ten metres of him to think hes the weirdest jedi theyve ever seen. he has negative lightsaber form. he doesnt know what a kata is. he handstands when he meditates. his solution to sith is to try and have a chat. hes a political radical who keeps suggesting revolution. you ask him what the jedi code is and he says "kindness and compassion and helping those in need :) ". you ask how he used the force like that and he says some shit about how you are a luminous being limited only by your mind. the councils authority is just a suggestion. he is somehow the new favourite of both qui gon and yoda

[meandtheyeehaws]

who is this lost sassy child and why is it on a battlefield

[metamatronic]

William Discovers How Lizzie Died

william not knowing his robots were built to be murder machines is *so* funny to me.

[spidertroupeart]

He is part cat to me

[laurrelise]

there’s something so haunting about watching scenes with five when he’s actually thirteen.

like, the flashbacks to before he time-traveled or when he was freshly dropped into the apocalypse.

the entire series, he’s supposed to look like that same damaged but not yet broken thirteen year-old, but he’s not. he’s the traumatized, lonely old man that we know and love. we don’t really know young five.

we know things about him. we know he was extremely stubborn and intelligent. we know he was distant but considerate, and that he wanted to prove himself to reginald more than anything.

but we never really learned who he was. and neither did five.

sometimes i wonder if he mourns the loss of his youth. of his curiosity. of his naivety and convenient stubbornness.

how could a kid grow into a stable man in a crumbling, apocalyptic hellscape?

the answer is, he can’t. so he never did.

he may look like he knows what he’s doing, like he’s got it all figured out, but he’s more lost than anyone in the series. he’s never had a moment to breathe. he never got to figure out who he was or wanted to be.

so he carries his young self around in his head like a rotted corpse, pretending it’s not there in an effort to stay focused in a situation that calls for urgency.

but his young self never escapes him. he may have physically gotten older. he can still feel the scratchiness of his mustache and hear the sloshing of water as innocent blood runs off of his body and into his drain. he may have had more wrinkles and scratches and scars to count, but he’s still the same naive child who disappeared out of spite.

he knows he is, and he hates himself for it.

he hates the stupid, senseless kid who ran off without a plan or the brains to make sure he knew how to handle his abilities before throwing caution to the wind. he started hating himself the moment he smelled charred bodies and burning buildings for the first time, the moment he knew that smell would never fully leave him.

and it doesn’t.

and neither does the thirteen year-old runaway.

[pearlieprincess]

★🌌🎮MISC NOSTALGIC STAMPS PT.1👾✨

Does anyone else still play wizard101?

💬Free to use | Stamp temp | Part two & Part three

[morganbritton132]

Steve gets really into birdwatching after patrolling the woods around Hawkins for upside down creepy-crawlies and then accidentally joins the Hawkins Community Birdwatching Society, and rightfully doesn’t tell anybody about it because he still wants the party to think he’s cool.

However. Eddie brings his uncle around the party for the first time and before he can introduce him, Wayne’s like, “Hey, Steve. Diana tell ya that she saw a pileated woodpecker outside of Melvards last week?”

When Steve doesn’t respond with confusion, a record scratches inside Robin and Eddie’s brains at the same time because

“This is Wayne? Your friend Wayne??” Robin asks at the same time that Eddie exclaims, “Steve from bird club is Steve Harrington?!”

[xxplastic-cubexx]

obligatory beach divorce doodling

bonus rough cover redraw of x-men #41 (1995) But Beach Divorce below cut

[chloesimaginationthings]

The difference between FNAF Roxy and Foxy

[gutsby]

Stutter

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Your daughter says her first word.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v (interrupted & brief!). Sibling bickering. Throwing of one (1) sneaker at Uncle Tommy’s head. Mention of thigh riding. Feral!Reader. Pregnant!Reader. Dutiful-and-Viagra-Popping-Peepaw keeps you satisfied through every trimester, always 🫡 You and Old!Joel are having Irish Twins because I said so.

Note: Y’all all know it, but Jolene is a song by Dolly Parton ����

Word count: 2.4k

“AAH!”

This was the closest your baby had ever come to talking. It was almost half of a coherent word, though not quite.

Joel was convinced she was trying to say ‘Dada.’

You, on the other hand, couldn’t be persuaded to believe that this noise was anything more than just happy baby babble. She’d been saying much of the same for the last ten months, and not once had her sweet and toothless ramblings ever amounted to a sound that was intelligible.

This was fine by you. Your child was already growing way too fast for your liking, and with each and every day she got bigger or learned something new, you couldn’t help but see it all through a bittersweet lens. You wished that she could stay this tiny forever, but at the same time, you adored watching her blossom into her own little person.

That was partly because she got to be more like Joel everyday. In looks, mannerisms, even how she smiled.

“The two of you are gonna have matching grins soon enough,” Tommy had said to your daughter one morning, chuckling. “You’ll be growing teeth, Joel’ll be losing his.”

From where your old man was stirring formula in the kitchen, he shot Tommy a dirty look. He grumbled.

“Jackass.”

Joel scowled, and your baby clapped—whether from amusement or a desire to be fed, you couldn’t be sure.

If you’d had the energy to do it, you would’ve intervened. But as it was, you were eight months pregnant with your second child, and preventing bickering between brothers wasn’t high on your list of priorities. It was more, like, getting foot rubs from your husband and trying to help your daughter take her first steps, maybe say a word.

No one was more committed to the latter than Joel, though. Even as he fed her, he was trying to teach.

“Who’s givin’ you baba, baby? Is it Dada?” he cooed, hovering the bottle over your daughter’s upturned face.

Hankering for milk and not particularly giving a shit who was handing it over, the infant let out a frustrated cry.

“AAH!”

“Very close, sweetie. It’s ‘Dada’,” Joel corrected gently.

“Give her the Da-damn bottle, man,” Tommy groaned.

“Language,” you chided your brother-in-law. Then, pushing to sit up: “Give her the dang bottle, Joel.”

Your daughter was rewarded with her milk in less than a second. Joel let out a deflated kind of sigh but smiled at his little girl, who kicked her pudgy legs in her high chair like this was the single greatest day she’d lived to see. She drank her milk, Joel watched on, and Tommy had to stifle a snicker. His big brother shot him another glare.

“Relax, Dada.”

“Jackass.”

“Boys.”

Baby babble listening never really stopped, no matter the time of day. No matter what you were doing, whether that was cooking, cleaning, baking a tray full of cookies, taking a walk, or else fucking sideways in your bed, Joel always remained vigilant. This morning was no exception

Joel was just working you up to your climax, spooning you from behind and thrusting rhythmically while you moaned and whimpered into your pillow. You were so close. Your eyes were about to shut in the throes of ecstasy, bliss reaching you at any minute now, when a sound startled you both. It was loud and obnoxious.

A whooping cheer.

“Hell yeah, baby!!”

Of course, that was Tommy’s voice. Who else would it be? Your brother-in-law was almost always over at your place these days, mostly to hang out with your baby and bug his older brother, and you and Joel normally didn’t mind because it meant that you two could have a little alone time before your family grew to four in a few weeks

Today, it meant you wouldn’t get to orgasm.

Joel jumped out of bed and threw on his pants.

You went after him almost as fast—albeit waddling, wincing slightly at the loss of contact between your legs—and you trailed behind him to the living room, having just slipped on a robe to see Tommy and your daughter.

Presently, your child’s uncle was clapping like a maniac.

“She finally did it!” he sing-songed to you and Joel.

“Did she—shit, did she talk?! What’d she say?”

That was Joel, drawing closer faster than you could blink. He was approaching the two of them with wide eyes, expecting news that your baby had finally talked.

While he did that, Tommy pointed.

On the floor, your infant daughter was holding an empty bottle of beer. She peered curiously at Joel, then at you.

“Baby grabbed her first beer! She’s officially a Miller.” Then a shit-eating grin spread wide over Tommy’s features, and he beamed at his brother. Like this was a momentous occasion and something to celebrate.

“AAH!” your baby shrieked, unsure what else to say.

Then she clapped, bottle still grasped in her tiny hand.

Joel narrowly refrained from smacking Tommy upside the head, though you could tell that it was taking effort.

Instead, he did what he always did, and he glared. Hard.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Tomm—” he started.

“Joel. Language,” you half-sighed, half-groaned.

Tommy snickered, and you shot him a look, too.

“Don’t start,” you warned. “I’m not in the mood.”

As you and Joel turned to leave the room, you heard a soft, barely audible laugh. You cast a glance Tommy’s direction, and sure enough, that fucker was smirking.

“Sure sounded like y’all were in the mood before…”

Referring to you and Joel banging, obviously.

At that, as he walked, Joel grabbed the nearest shoe off the floor and chucked it at his little brother’s head. Tommy ducked easily, and it missed by a lot.

“Nice hands, feet!” Tommy called jokingly.

“Jackass,” Joel griped back.

“Language, please.”

You were fewer than two weeks from giving birth.

Whenever you stood, it felt like your knees were about to give out, so you regularly stayed on the sofa. Vegetating. Playing with your baby. Occasionally receiving foot massages from your doting, near panic-stricken Joel.

You suspected if the two of you were to have any more kids after this, he would always be nervous about labor.

He milled frantically about the house, checking the fridge and the cabinets and your hospital bag to make sure that you and your daughter would be well taken care of when the delivery took place—as if your water was about to break at any second, and Tommy and Maria weren’t a stone’s throw away to take care of your child.

“We’re gonna be fine, Joel. Sit down,” you pleaded.

From across the way, in the kitchen, you could see the father of your children comb a hand through his almost completely gray locks, and he exhaled a ragged breath.

If you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve thought he might’ve been the one in his third trimester, pacing around like his backside was on fire or someone just threw on some Nickelback or Creed and he couldn’t make it out to the dance floor on time to sing along.

Typical dad.

You loved him for that.

You also couldn’t stand to see your old man worry, so with a wide-arcing arm, you beckoned him to the sofa.

“Baaaby, my feet hurt,” you pouted, pain exaggerated.

Joel was by your side in no time. He sped so fast he probably almost displaced his hip making his way over, and you had to bite back a little smile. You lifted your arms as if to say, ‘Come here, please, I missed you.’

You’d be making that sweet, peri-geriatric man a daddy at least ten more times if he kept looking at you, and looking after you, like this. He crouched beside the couch, and both of his knees audibly popped in turn.

Your daughter had just started to doze off in her playard.

Thankfully.

You smiled.

It had taken you hours to get her to nap in the afternoon yesterday, and now you had the perfect little window, as well as a golden opportunity to make the most out of it. With your due date so close on the horizon and your hormones going wild at all hours of the day, you wanted Joel at random times. Inconvenient moments. You got one whiff of his Old Spice or the Icy Hot he regularly applied to his old, achy muscles, and you felt feral.

You felt that now, tugging him onto the couch.

In no time at all, thanks to your big, round belly, you had to be the one straddling him. You wasted no time climbing on, gaze raking hungrily all over Joel.

“Aw, sweetheart…” your old man murmured.

You couldn’t quite tell whether it was from appreciation, arousal, or complete exhaustion. He had popped three blue pills this week alone to keep up with your raging libido, and for that, you were indescribably grateful. You wouldn’t ask him to do anymore work this afternoon.

“I’ll—I’ll just ride your thigh,” you stammered, already lifting the hem of your nightdress as you scooted back.

Joel blinked haltingly.

“No, no, I can—” Then his voice broke off in a groan when you pressed yourself onto his leg. Squeezed your thighs tight around one muscular, cotton-clad quad and caused his cock to stir in his pants. He swallowed and looked up. “—I can get hard an’ fuck you real nice. Just gimme five.”

More like ten or twenty, depending on how well he fared without his Jackson-brand of Viagra waiting on standby.

You smiled and shook your head. Started rubbing yourself gently over his leg, knowing how quickly you were likely to climax right now. It wouldn’t take much.

You were so aroused you almost couldn’t breathe, and your baby was sleeping peacefully across the living room. Now was the perfect time to make this happen, and Joel wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You let out a sigh.

Running a soft, delicate touch down the front of Joel’s shirt, you felt a wave of desire wash over you. Whether it was aided by the fact that you were very nearly nine months pregnant by now or simply infatuated with this man, you couldn’t tell. You didn’t care. You started rolling your hips gently, and Joel’s hands moved up your sides.

He liked to feel you. He loved to see you all swollen and glowing on account of how he’d knocked you up with his baby. Joel still couldn’t believe this some days, and he knew he would do anything to keep giving you more.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, and you’ll be changing diapers for the rest of your days, old man,” you teased.

He didn’t seem to give a shit.

In fact, as you moved your lower half over his leg and started grinding lightly, it was like you could see him picturing the nursery, one crib after the next until you had enough kids to create their very own baseball team.

You were fine with that. You grinded even harder.

And, thanks to the state of your hormones and your never-ending need for the man underneath you, you knew a climax wasn’t far. You let your jaw go slack, and you rode Joel’s thigh without another thought in your mind other than finishing, and giving him a dozen babies

“I’m so close, Joel,” you whimpered. “So, oh…”

“That’s it, sweet pea. Ride daddy’s thigh.”

He coaxed and cajoled you to no end. Rubbed his broad, callused palms over your hips and helped you bounce on him lightly, ignoring the fact that you were both still fully clothed. You were close. Joel was in awe, so wholly in love that he could hardly keep drawing breath without thinking to himself how lucky he was. How perfect it was.

How badly he wanted to fill you up as soon as he—

“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeeeeeeeeene!”

Fucking shit.

Like an EF5 tornado—destructive and completely unwanted—Tommy Miller shot through the front door.

He was so lost in singing the old country tune that he didn’t even notice you and Joel at first. He just strolled in, taking his sweet time and belting as loud as he could; as he did, you scrambled off Joel’s lap. You cursed under your breath when the next noise that rang out was a wail.

A shriek.

You immediately knew it was your daughter, and could only surmise that it would turn into crying, so you stood.

On two wobbling legs with one ridiculously heavy belly, you pushed to your feet and started after your daughter.

At the same time, Joel was making moves himself—standing and barking at his brother, nostrils flared.

“Ever heard of knocking, Tommy?!”

“Shit, Joel, I’m so—”

“AAH!”

You approached your baby’s playard, where she was currently standing with her round, sweet face perched over the bars of her little bed, and you lowered your voice

“C’mere, sweet girl,” you cooed gently.

And really, you meant to pick her up. It was just that your bump was so big, and the rest of you was still so lightheaded from standing so fast, and you had to take a beat. Meanwhile, Joel was busy chewing Tommy out.

“—she could give birth at any damn minute, y’know—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again, I swear.”

You were about to chime in yourself, tiredly say it was fine, just be more careful next time, when a new, loud sound caught you off guard. This time, it wasn’t Tommy.

You cocked your head to the side, as did Joel and his brother. The noise shot off again, exactly like before.

Your less-than a year-old baby was clapping her hands together gleefully. But that wasn’t what shocked you.

What snagged the attention of all the rest of you then was the sound that accompanied it—high-pitched. Shrill.

“Jacka!” your daughter giggled, stomping her little feet.

You didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t speak.

Clearly, your baby had no such issues herself.

She gripped the top of her crib and shook the bars, staring directly at her Uncle Tommy and smiling big.

“Jackass!”

Tommy coughed. Joel choked.

For a second, you thought you might go into labor.

Your baby, entirely oblivious to everyone else’s reactions, just stood there and laughed. Uncle Jackass Tommy was here, and that meant she got to play—and maybe crack open a cold one afterward if she played her cards right.

There wasn’t a chance Joel could’ve ever predicted that that would be her first word, so he stood there, stunned.

And when his sweet, tiny, beaming bundle of joy turned a gummy grin to him, he had no choice but to smile back

When she laughed again, Joel laughed with her.

Then you joined, and Tommy followed, fast.

Alright.

‘Jackass’ works.