#people magazine 50 years

[cozyaliensuperstar7]

Beautiful People 👑

violadavis:

Happy 50th @People Magazine! Here's to another 50. 🥂🎉💚

[theromaboo]

I've been looking at this map of the Roman Empire for a long time and I still have no idea what the fuck is going on with it. This is literally from Time Magazine. There is no way they can screw up so badly with a map.

So the red means "at death of Julius Caesar." Does that mean the land Rome had at the death of Caesar? No it can't mean that, because Roman land during 44 BC was certainly not made up entirely of Egypt, North Spain, and a bit of Central Europe. Rome didn't even have those yet.

Maybe it means land that was acquired after the death of Julius Caesar and before the death of Augustus? If they meant that, I think they should've said that, but it doesn't matter. If that's what they meant, it seems to make some sense.

So the orange means "at death of Augustus Caesar." They certainly didn't have all that in the East at the death of Augustus! So maybe it means land that was acquired after the death of Augustus and before the death of Trajan? Which (not including the Britain-sized elephant in the room) seems to make some sense.

But the brown means "at death of Trajan." What does that mean now? The Romans certainly did not acquire Italy after Trajan died! This ruins the entire pattern I was setting up!

I thought maybe the colors were just mismatched, but I have no idea how to match them back up. I thought maybe orange was supposed to mean "at death of Trajan," and red was supposed to mean "at death of Augustus," and that seems okayish enough (cough cough except britain).

But the brown can't mean "at death of Caesar," because they didn't have that much Britain in 44 BC! Or that much Germany.

(I'm just going to ignore how the Roman Empire is depicted as having both all that Britain and all that Germany at the exact same time... maybe the map is just depicting the land in Germany to be permanent to make it more simple. But if the color of lands acquired is supposed to change at Augustus' death, then Germany and Britain can't be the same color!)

Now that I look closer, what's that Galatia-shaped hole doing there in the East? Why isn't it colored in at all?

But, the brown. What's going on with the brown? Is there supposed to be an extra color? I think the brown was likely supposed to be "at death of Julius Caesar," but then someone fumbled by adding all that extra land especially in North-West Europe.

Maybe I figured it out? What the map is trying (poorly) to say? Brown is (attempting to be) death of Caesar. Red is (mostly) death of Augustus. And orange is (mostly) death of Trajan? Which is absolutely not what the key says but oh well.

But, if I'm right, how did all that slip through the cracks? How did someone make a map so poorly? How did everyone who looked it over give the green light? I must be misunderstanding what the map is trying to say. It's probably obviously correct to everyone else.

But, there's no way I'm the problem. What Roman Empire growth map shows Italy and Britain as the same color, but Egypt as a different color? I just don't understand what happened. Who made that map?

[shakebelton]

i'm scream laughing at this

[batboyblog]

Things Biden and the Democrats did, this week #24

June 21-28 2024

The US Surgeon General declared for the first time ever, firearm violence a public health crisis. The nation's top doctor recommended the banning of assault weapons and large-capacity magazines, the introduce universal background checks for purchasing guns, regulate the industry, pass laws that would restrict their use in public spaces and penalize people who fail to safely store their weapons. President Trump dismissed Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy in 2017 in part for his criticism of guns before his time in government, he was renominated for his post by President Biden in 2021. While the Surgeon General's reconstructions aren't binding a similar report on the risks of smoking in 1964 was the start of a national shift toward regulation of tobacco.

Vice-President Harris announced the first grants to be awarded through a ground breaking program to remove barriers to building more housing. Under President Biden more housing units are under construction than at any time in the last 50 years. Vice President Harris was announcing 85 million dollars in grants giving to communities in 21 states through the  Pathways to Removing Obstacles to Housing (PRO) program. The administration plans another 100 million in PRO grants at the end of the summer and has requested 100 million more for next year. The Treasury also announced it'll moved 100 million of left over Covid funds toward housing. All of this is part of plans to build 2 million affordable housing units and invest $258 billion in housing overall.

President Biden pardoned all former US service members convicted under the US Military's ban on gay sex. The pardon is believed to cover 2,000 veterans convicted of "consensual sodomy". Consensual sodomy was banned and a felony offense under the Uniform Code of Justice from 1951 till 2013. The Pardon will wipe clean those felony records and allow veterans to apply to change their discharge status.

The Department of Transportation announced $1.8 Billion in new infrastructure building across all 50 states, 4 territories and Washington DC. The program focuses on smaller, often community-oriented projects that span jurisdictions. This award saw a number of projects focused on climate and energy, like $25 million to help repair damage caused by permafrost melting amid higher temperatures in Alaska, or $23 million to help electrify the Downeast bus fleet in Maine.

The Department of Energy announced $2.7 billion to support domestic sources of nuclear fuel. The Biden administration hopes to build up America's domestic nuclear fuel to allow for greater stability and lower costs. Currently Russia is the world's top exporter of enriched uranium, supplying 24% of US nuclear fuel.

The Department of Interior awarded $127 million to 6 states to help clean up legacy pollution from orphaned oil and gas wells. The funding will help cap 600 wells in Alaska, Arizona, Indiana, New York and Ohio. So far thanks to administration efforts over 7,000 orphaned wells across the country have been capped, reduced approximately 11,530 metric tons of carbon dioxide equivalent emissions

HUD announced $469 million to help remove dangerous lead from older homes. This program will focus on helping homeowners particularly low income ones remove lead paint and replace lead pipes in homes built before 1978. This represents one of the largest investments by the federal government to help private homeowners deal with a health and safety hazard.

Bonus: President Biden's efforts to forgive more student debt through his administration's SAVE plan hit a snag this week when federal courts in Kansas and Missouri blocked elements the Administration also suffered a set back at the Supreme Court as its efforts to regular smog causing pollution was rejected by the conservative majority in a 5-4 ruling that saw Amy Coney Barrett join the 3 liberals against the conservatives. This week's legal setbacks underline the importance of courts and the ability to nominate judges and Justices over the next 4 years.

[reasonsforhope]

"Two wild kiwi chicks were born near Wellington, New Zealand, about a year after a reintroduction program began in the city, the Capital Kiwi Project announced last week. The fluffy, brown babies are the first to be born near the country’s capital in at least 150 years. 

“This is very special for the team, which has been working hard for the last few years,” project founder Paul Ward tells the Agence France-Presse. The chicks are a “massive milestone for our goal of building a wild population of kiwi on Wellington’s back doorstep.”

These flightless, chicken-sized birds were once abundant across New Zealand, with the nation’s five species numbering an estimated 12 million individuals in total. But nonnative predators and habitat loss caused their populations to plummet. Today, approximately 68,000 kiwis remain....

Conservation and reintroduction programs, including the Capital Kiwi Project, have been working to restore a large-scale wild kiwi population for years. In 2022, the organization released 11 kiwis into the wild in Makara, a suburb about seven miles west of Wellington. Between February and May of 2023, another 52 birds were released, and 200 more are slated to be released over the next five years, reports Eva Corlett for the Guardian.

Along with reintroduction efforts, the project aimed to reduce threats from European stoats, also known as ermines. The mammals were brought to New Zealand in the 19th century in an attempt to eradicate another introduced creature: rabbits. But these weasel-like stoats are voracious predators and kill many of New Zealand’s native species, including kiwi chicks. Only about 5 percent of kiwi chicks survive to reach breeding age in areas where predators are not controlled, largely thanks to stoats. In areas under management, however, 50 to 60 percent survive. Knowing this, conservationists worked with 100 landowners across the bird’s 60,000-acre habitat to install 4,600 stoat traps.

Of the 63 adult kiwis now roaming the hilly farmlands of Makara, only about a quarter are being monitored—meaning more chicks will likely hatch in the near future. Conservationists will continue monitoring the two new chicks, though Ward tells the Guardian they still have a long way to go before they’re fully grown...

Over the years, the long-beaked birds have become a national symbol of New Zealand, with people who hail from the country often referred to as kiwis. The animals also hold special importance to the Māori people of New Zealand, who have cultural, spiritual and historic associations with the birds. Even the New Zealand dollar is sometimes referred to as the kiwi, and the bird is featured on the country’s dollar coin."

-via Smithsonian Magazine, December 6, 2023

[headspace-hotel]

How people in the USA loved nature and knew the ways of the plants in the past vs. nowadays

I have been in the stacks at the library, reading a lot of magazine and journal articles, selecting those that are from over fifty years ago.

I do this because I want to see how people thought and the tools they had to come up with their ideas, and see if I can get perspective on the thoughts and ideas of nowadays

I've been looking at the journals and magazines about nature, gardening, plants, and wildlife, focusing on those from 1950-1970 or thereabouts. These are some unstructured observations.

The discourse about spraying poisons on everything in your garden/lawn has been virtually unchanged for the past 70 years; the main thing that's changed is the specific chemicals used, which in the past were chemicals now known to be horribly dangerous and toxic. In many cases, just as today, the people who opposed the poisons were considered as whackos overreacting to something mostly safe with a few risks that could be easily minimized. In short, history is not on the pesticides' side.

Compared with 50-70 years ago, today the "wilderness" areas of the USA are doing much better nowadays, but it actually appears that the areas with lots of human habitation are doing much worse nowadays.

I am especially stricken by references to wildflowers. There has definitely been a MASSIVE disappearance of flowers in the Eastern United States. I can tell this because of what flowers the old magazines reference as common or familiar wildflowers. Many of them are flowers that seem rare to me, which I have only seen in designated preserves.

There are a lot more lepidopterans (butterflies and moths) presumed to be familiar to the reader. And birds.

Yes, land ownership in the USA originated with colonization, but it appears that the preoccupation with who owns every little piece of land on a very nitpicking level has emerged more recently? In the magazines there is a sense of natural places as an unacknowledged commons. It is assumed that a person has access to "The creek," "The woods," "The field," "The pond" for simple rambling or enjoyment without personally owning property or directly asking permission to go onto another person's property.

There is very little talk of hiking and backpacking. I don't think I saw anything in the magazines about hiking or going on hikes, which is strange because nowadays hiking is the main outdoor activity people think of. Nature lovers 50-70 years ago described many more activities that were not very physically active, simply watching the birds or tending to one's garden or going on a nice walk. I feel this HAS to do with the immediately above point.

Gardening seems like it was more common, like in general. The discussion is about gardening without poisons or unsustainable practices, instead of trying to convince people to garden at all.

Overall, the range of animals and plants culturally considered to be common or familiar "backyard" creatures has narrowed significantly, even as the overall conservation status of animals and plants has improved.

This, to me, suggests two things that each may be possible: first, that the soils and environments of our suburbs and houses have sustained such a high level of cumulative damage that the life forms they once supported are no longer able to live, or second, that our way of managing our yards and inhabited areas has become steadily more destructive. Perhaps it may be the case that the minimum "acceptable" standard of lawn management has become more fastidious.

In conclusion, I feel that our relationship with nature has become more distant, even as the number of people who abstractly support the preservation of "wilderness" has increased. In the past, these wilderness preservation initiatives were a harder sell, but somehow, more people were in more direct contact with the more mundane parts of nature like flowers and birds, and had a personal relationship with those things.

And somehow, even with all the DDT and arsenic, the everyday outdoor spaces surrounding people's homes were not as broadly hostile to life even though the people might have FELT more hostile towards life. In 1960, a person hates woodpeckers, snakes and moths and his yard is constantly plagued by them: in 2024, a person enjoys the concept of woodpeckers, snakes and moths but rarely sees them, and is more likely to think of parks and preserves as the place they live and need to be protected. Large animals are mostly doing better in 2024, but the littlest ones, the wildflowers and bugs and birds, have declined steeply. It's not because "wilderness" is less; it seems more because non-wilderness has declined in quality.

[biglisbonnews]

The Hustle of Women in Hip-Hop Editor-in-chief Lindsay Peoples on launching the celebration of 50 years of women in hip-hop who’ve changed the game. https://www.thecut.com/article/2023-spring-fashion-cut-cover-editors-letter.html

[neechees]

Historical Indigenous Women & Figures [6]:

Queen Nanny: the leader of the 18th century Maroon community in Jamaica, she led multiple battles in guerrilla war against the British, which included freeing slaves, and raiding plantations, and then later founding the community Nanny Town. There are multiple accounts of Queen Nanny's origins, one claiming that she was of the Akan people from Ghana and escaped slavery before starting rebellions, and others that she was a free person and moved to the Blue Mountains with a community of Taino. Regardless, Queen Nanny solidified her influence among the Indigenous People of Jamaica, and is featured on a Jamaican bank note. Karimeh Abboud: Born in Bethlehem, Palestine, Karimeh Abboud became interested in photography in 1913 after recieving a camera for her 17th birthday from her Father. Her prestige in professional photography rapidly grew and became high demand, being described as one of the "first female photographers of the Arab World", and in 1924 she described herself as "the only National Photographer". Georgia Harris: Born to a family of traditional Catawba potters, Harris took up pottery herself, and is credited with preserving traditional Catawba pottery methods due to refusing to use more tourist friendly forms in her work, despite the traditional method being much more labour intensive. Harris spent the rest of her life preserving and passing on the traditional ways of pottery, and was a recipient of a 1997 National Heritage Fellowship awarded by the National Endowment for the Arts, which is the highest honor in the folk and traditional arts in the United States. Nozugum: known as a folk hero of the Uyghur people, Nozugum was a historical figure in 19th century Kashgar, who joined an uprising and killed her captor before running away. While she was eventually killed after escaping, her story remains a treasured one amongst the Uyghur. Pampenum: a Sachem of the Wangunk people in what is now called Pennsylvania, Pampenum gained ownership of her mother's land, who had previously intended to sell it to settlers. Not sharing the same plans as her mother, Pampenum attempted to keep these lands in Native control by using the colonial court system to her advantage, including forbidding her descendants from selling the land, and naming the wife of the Mohegan sachem Mahomet I as her heir. Despite that these lands were later sold, Pampenum's efforts did not go unnoticed. Christine Quintasket: also known as "Humishima", "Mourning Dove", Quintasket was a Sylix author who is credited as being one of the first female Native American authors to write a novel featuring a female protagonist. She used her Sylix name, Humishima, as a pen name, and was inspired to become an author after reading a racist portrayal of Native Americans, & wished to refute this derogatory portrayal. Later in life, she also became active in politics, and helped her tribe to gain money that was owed them. Rita Pitka Blumenstein: an Alaskan Yup'ik woman who's healing career started at four years old, as she was trained in traditional healing by her grandmother, and then later she became the first certified traditional doctor in Alaska and worked for the Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium. She later passed on her knowledge to her own daughters. February 17th is known as Rita Pitka Blumenstein day in Alaska, and in 2009 she was one of 50 women inducted into the inaugural class of the Alaska Women's Hall of Fame Olivia Ward Bush-Banks: a mixed race woman of African American and Montaukett heritage, Banks was a well known author who was a regular contributor to the the first magazine that covered Black American culture, and wrote a column for a New York publication. She wrote of both Native American, and Black American topics and issues, and helped sculptor Richmond Barthé and writer Langston Hughes get their starts during the Harlem Renaissance. She is also credited with preserving Montaukett language and folklore due to her writing in her early career.

part [1], [2], [3], [4], [5] Transphobes & any other bigots need not reblog and are not welcome on my posts.

[wilwheaton]

When you watch The Curse, you are watching two children who were abused and exploited daily during production. No adults protected us.

This was originally published on my blog in August, 2022.

I had a wonderful time at Steel City Comicon this weekend. It was my first time at this particular con, so I didn’t know there was such a huge contingent of horror fans, creators, and vendors who attend.

I love horror, and I was pretty psyched to be in the same place as John Carpenter and Tom Savini, across the street from the Dawn of the Dead mall. Pittsburgh feels like one of the places horror was invented, at least to me.

A number of these horror fans came to see me, and asked me to sign posters and other things from a movie my parents forced me to do when I was 13, called The Curse. I had to tell each of these people that I would not sign anything associated with that movie, because I was abused and exploited during production. The time I spent on that film remains the most traumatizing time of my life, and though I am a 50 year-old man, just typing this now makes my hands shake with remembered fear of a 13 year-old boy who nobody protected, and the absolute fury the 50 year-old man feels toward the people who hurt him.

I told this story in Still Just A Geek, and I’ve talked about it in some podcasts I did on the promo tour, but I’ve never put it out in public like this, in its entirety.

I suspect someone at the publisher would prefer I tease this and hope it drives book sales from people who want to read all of it, but I honestly don’t want to have another weekend like this one where everything is awesome, except the few times people who have no idea (and why should they) put that fucking poster in front of me, and all the fear, abandonment, and trauma come flooding back as I tell them that I won’t sign it, and why.

To their credit, each person was as horrified as they should have been, told me they had no idea (if they didn’t read my book why would they), and quickly put the poster away. They were all understanding. I am grateful for that.

But I really don’t need to tell this story over and over again, so here it is, with a child abuse and exploitation content warning, so I can just tell people to Google it.

After Stand by Me, everything changed. The attention from entertainment journalists, casting directors, and especially teen magazines came pouring in. The movie was a generational hit, beloved by critics and audiences alike, and every single one of us could pick anything to do next.

River’s parents and his agent got him Mosquito Coast, with Harrison Ford, as his next movie. I also auditioned for the role, but I knew even then that River was going to book the job. He was perfect, and I’d have to wait a little bit for my opportunity to come along.

I went on a lot of theatrical auditions after Stand by Me. I had tons of meetings with directors and the heads of casting at every major studio. It was all a very big deal, and I felt like we were all looking for something really special and amazing as my follow-up to Stand by Me.

At some point, a couple of producers contacted my agent with an offer to play one of the leads in an adaptation of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Colour Out of Space.” The script was titled The Farm. (It would, of course, be changed when the film was released).

I read it. I did not like it. It was a shitty horror movie, and I saw that right away. It was the sort of thing you rented on Friday when the new release you wanted was already out of the store.

My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

I told my parents I didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. I clearly recall thinking it was a piece of shit that would hurt my career.

It wasn’t the first thing that had come our way that I wanted to pass on, and every other time, it hadn’t been a very big deal.

Sidebar: I was cast in Twilight Zone: The Movie, in 1983. The film tells four stories, and I was cast as the kid who can wish people into cartoonland. It was a GREAT role, in a movie I still love. (Note that Twilight Zone had four directors. One of them got three people killed. The segment I was cast in was not that one. I mention this because too many people zero in on this to deflect from what this whole thing is actually about.)

But I was CONVINCED by my parochial school teacher that if I worked on The Twilight Zone, which she had determined was satanic, I would go to hell. (This woman and her bullshit played a big role in my conversion to atheism at a young age, but when she told me that, I was all-in on the supernatural story they taught us in religion class.) I was so scared, more scared than I’d ever been to that point in my life, I cried and wailed and begged my parents to not make me do the movie. And I never told them why, because I was afraid my dad would laugh at me for being weak and afraid. My agent tried to talk me into it, and I wouldn’t budge. It’s the only thing I deeply and truly regret passing on, and I really hate I made that choice for such a stupid reason.

Okay. Back to The Curse.

This time, when I told them how much I hated it, they wouldn’t listen to me. My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

That is, until they made me take a meeting with the producers of the movie, in their giant conference room on the top floor of a tall building in Hollywood. All I remember about this place was that it was huge; the table was way too big for the five of us who spread around it, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, but the room was still dark. There was a weird optical illusion in the center of the table, this thing they sold in the Sharper Image catalog, made from two reflective dishes with a hole in the top of one. You placed an object in the bottom of the bottom dish, and it made it look like that object was floating above the whole thing. They had a plastic spider in it. What a strange detail for me to remember, but it’s as clear in my memory as if I were sitting in that room right now.

One man, who I presumed was the executive producer, was European or Middle Eastern (I didn’t know the difference then, he was just Not Like People I Knew), and I was instantly afraid of him. He was intimidating, and seemed like a person who got what he wanted.

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

I don’t remember what they said to me in their pitch or anything other than how uncomfortable and anxious I was to even be in that room. I tried so hard to be grown up and mature, but I — and my parents — was way out of my depth. I’d done one big movie and that was it. We didn’t have my agent with us, who had lots of experience and would have known what questions to ask.

No, in place of my experienced agent, my mother had decided she was going to be my manager, and she tackled the responsibility with an enthusiasm that was only matched by her absolute incompetence and inability to go toe-to-toe with producers the way my agent did. She was outwitted, out-thought, and outmaneuvered at every turn.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

At some point, this man, who is represented in my memory by big Jim Jones sunglasses under dark hair above an open collar, said, “We are offering you a hundred thousand dollars and round-trip travel for your whole family. We will cast your sister, Amy, to play your sister in the movie.”

It all made sense, now. I was only thirteen, but I knew my parents were pushing me so hard because this company was offering me — them, really — more money than I’d ever imagined I’d earn in my life, much less a single job.

I knew that the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to say no. There would be other opportunities, and it was stupid to cash myself out of feature films for what I thought was, in the grand scheme of things, not very much money.

It’s incredible to me that I knew all of this. It’s incredible to me that I could see all these things, plainly and clearly, and my parents couldn’t (or, more likely, chose not to).

So after this man made his offer, all the adults in the room ganged up on me, selling me HARD on this movie.

My mother said, “Don’t you want your sister to have the same opportunities you’ve had? Wouldn’t it be fun and exciting to go to Rome? Think of all the history!”

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

I don’t think about this very often, because it’s super upsetting to me. Right now, I’m so angry at my parents for subjecting me and my sister to this entire experience. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In that moment, I felt bullied and trapped. All these adults were talking to me at the same time, and I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to go home and get out of this room. I just wanted to go be a kid, so I did what I’d learned to do to survive: I gave in and did what my parents wanted.

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

But here’s the thing: when you watch The Curse, you are watching two children, me and my sister, who were abused on a daily basis. The production did not follow a single labor law. They worked us for twelve hours a day, on multiple film units (while I work on First unit, second unit sets up and waits for me. When I should get a break to rest, they send me to Second unit, then to Third unit, then back to First unit. I was 13.) without any breaks, five days a week. I was exhausted the entire time. I was inappropriately touched by two different adults during production. I knew it was wrong, but I was so scared and ashamed, and I felt so unsupported, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew my dad wouldn’t believe me, and my mother would blame me. Anything to keep the production happy, that’s what she did. That was more important to her than the health and safety of her children. The director was coked out of his mind most of the time, incompetent, and so busy fucking or trying to fuck one of the women in the cast, he was worse than useless. He was a fading actor who was cosplaying as a director, as in over his head as my mother. My sister and I were never safe. Instead of harmless atmospheric SFX smoke, they set hay on fire in barrels and blew actual smoke onto the set. They took buckets of talc, broken wood, bits of wallpaper and plaster, and threw it into my face during a scene inside the collapsing house. My sister is in a scene where she goes to get eggs from some chickens, and they attack her. So they hired Lucio Fulci, the Italian horror master, to direct her sequence. His idea, which everyone was totally on board with, was to throw chickens at my sister. Live chickens, live roosters, live birds. Just throw them at a nine-year-old girl. Oh, and then tie them to her arms and legs so they’ll peck her. All of this happened under my mother’s observation, and with her full participation.

Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

If just ONE of the things I can remember happened to someone I loved, I would have grabbed my kids, gone to the airport, and flown home. Fuck those abusive assholes in the production. Let the lawyers sort it all out. Nobody hurts my children and gets away with it.

My mom says she “had some talks” with the producers. She claims that, once, she wouldn’t let us leave the hotel. (God, what a fucking dump that place was. It was just slightly better than a hostel.) I have no memory of that, but honestly the entire experience was so traumatic, I’ve blocked most of it out.

The movie was the commercial and critical failure I knew it would be. My parents spent the money. I don’t know what they spent it on. I got to keep fifteen cents of every dollar, so . . . yay?

My sister and I hardly ever talk about this. I suspect it was as upsetting and traumatic for her as it was for me. I told her I was writing about it, and asked her if she remembered anything. She told me she’d been lied to her whole life about this movie. Our mother let her believe she had been cast on the strength of her audition. “I was excited to work with you,” she said. She reminded me about some stuff I’d blocked out, including a scene where my character’s older brother (played by an actor named Malcolm Danare, who was kind and gentle, and made both of us feel safer when he was around) shoves my character into a pile of cow shit. When it came time to shoot the scene, the mud they’d put together to be the cow shit looked an awful lot like cow shit. When Malcolm pushed me into it, we all found out it was real cow shit. I was FURIOUS. The director had lied to me and had allowed me to have my entire body shoved into an actual pile of actual cow shit. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember he treated me the exact same way my father did whenever I got upset: he laughed at me, told me I was being too sensitive, reminded me that he was the director and he wanted to get a “real” performance out of me, and concluded, “If it bothers you so much, we’ll get you a hepatitis shot,” before he walked away.

My sister also recalled that, after she survived the scene with the chickens, it was the producers’ idea to give her one as a pet.

Okay, let’s unpack that for a quick second: you’ve been traumatized by these birds, so we’re going to give you one as a pet. That you’ll somehow keep in your hotel, and then will somehow get back to America. It will shock you to learn that neither of those things happened.

She remembered, as I do, the huge fight I had with my parents in our kitchen, where I told them I hated the script and I hated the movie. I didn’t want to do it, and I hated that they were making me do it.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

“This is the only film you are being offered,” my mother lied to me. She made me feel like, if I didn’t do this movie, I would never do another movie again in my life. I had to do this movie. As my father bellowed, I had no choice.

Both of my parents denied this argument ever happened. Can I tell you how reassuring it is to know that my sister, who was also there, remembers it the same way I do?

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them.

But one thing she told me, the thing I did not know, the thing that makes me so angry I want to break things, actually managed to make the entire experience even worse than I remembered it.

There’s a scene after her chicken incident where I check up on her in her bedroom. She’s got cuts and bruises, and I guess we talk about it. I don’t remember and I can’t watch the movie because I’m terrified it will give me a PTSD flashback (I’ve had one of those and I recommend avoiding it). Here’s the thing about that scene: she has some cuts on her face, and those cuts are real. They are not makeup.

I’m going to repeat that. My nine-year-old little sister had actual cuts on her face that were placed there by an adult, on purpose.

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them. My sister told me our mother wasn’t in the makeup room when this happened — honestly, it seemed like our mother was strangely and conveniently absent when most of the really terrible things happened to us on the set — and when my sister told her what they’d done, she “lost her shit” at the production. She was pissed, I guess, which is appropriate and surprising. I wonder what would have to have happened for her to put us on a plane and get us home to safety? I mean, her son being abused daily didn’t do it, and her daughter being CUT IN THE FACE ON PURPOSE didn’t do it.

I just . . . I can’t. I can’t understand or comprehend allowing your own children to be physically and emotionally abused. They were literally selling my sister and me to these people, like we were some kind of commodity.

This was a tough conversation. My sister’s experience with our parents is very different from mine. My sister and I love each other. We’re close. I know it’s hard for her to hear that her brother, who she loves, was so abused by her parents, who she also loves. I was really grateful she made the time to talk to me about it, and grateful the experience wasn’t as horrible for her as it was for me.

As we were finishing our call, Amy also remembered one man, a young Italian named Luka, who was our driver for the movie. I haven’t thought about him in thirty years, but I can see his face now. He was kind, he was friendly, he taught us how to kick a soccer ball, and in the middle of an abusive, torturous experience, he stood out as a kind and gentle man. I mention him because she remembered him, which made me remember him, and goddammit I want at least one small part of this thing to not be awful.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares.

Ultimately, as I predicted and feared, this piece of shit movie cashed me out of respectable films forever. I got offers for movies, but they were always mindless comedies or exploitative horror films. They were never the serious dramas I wanted to work in after Stand by Me. The industry looked at me and River, wondering if one or both of us would become a breakout star. They quickly saw that River was doing real acting work, and I was in this piece of shit. For River, Stand by Me was a beginning. For me, it would turn out to be pretty much everything, at least as far as film goes.

There are thousands of reasons film careers do and don’t take off. Maybe mine wouldn’t have taken off anyway. Clearly, it’s not where my life ended up, and I’m super okay with that now. But when all of this happened, it hurt and haunted me.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares. Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

This annotation is the last thing I wrote before I turned this manuscript in, because opening these wounds is hard and painful. I put it off as long as I could, and I feel like I’m still holding back, because just this small glimpse of the experience has taken me a week to write. I can’t imagine trying to go back and unpack the whole thing. (Note that is not in the book: I’ve made an EMDR appointment to work on this because the nightmares have come back after the weekend).

Fuck The Curse, and fuck every single person who exploited and hurt two beautiful children to make it. You all participated in child abuse, and you all knew better. Shame on all of you. I hope this follows you to the end of your life. I hope that living with what you did to innocent children has been as hard for you as it has been for me, because you deserve no less.

[joelscruff]

for what it's worth (joel miller x reader) 18+

part 3 of the soft!dom joel collection has arrived! this one tackles some backstory; it's time to see how they met and how exactly their little "arrangement" came to be. i hope you guys like it, your feedback means the world to me. i also have a kofi if you'd like to give me a tip (but of course this is completely optional). previous parts: you know i don't mean it & don't think we could help it summary: your relationship with joel has always been complicated, but it's about to change drastically, for better or for worse. rating: 18+ explicit (mdni) warnings: fem!reader, smut, age gap (reader is mid 20s, joel is mid 50s), mutual masturbation, praise kink, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics (joel is dominant but not degrading or aggressive), mentions of porn (specifically magazines) word count: 10k (it's a doozy) | ao3 spoilers: this contains vague spoilers for part two of the video game (and most likely for season two of the show). nothing too major but i figured i should warn for it anyway.

To say that your first day in Jackson is alienating would be an understatement.

You feel like everyone is staring at you (they are) and no one will let you out of their sight (they won't). You understand immediately that there's a lack of trust which will need to be formed as soon as possible, otherwise you'll never be able to create a home here.

"They're wary of you," Maria explains in your brand new living room - you still can't believe you just went from having barely any possessions to having your own house - and gives you a weak smile, "It'll pass, they just need to make sure you don't have any ulterior motives."

You get it, but it still hurts. Especially that night when you join your new community for dinner and find yourself sitting alone in the corner of the room, poking at your food and trying not to let your emotions betray you. You're determined not to show weakness, even though you've never felt more isolated. You can feel their eyes on you constantly, like they're waiting for you to pull out a rifle and start picking them off like a shooting gallery.

There's only one person who seems to be consistently minding his own business, a middle aged man who sits in the opposite corner of the room. He's hulking and broad, kind of intimidating, but there's a softness to his jaw and the grey scruff covering it that makes you see something else, something kind. He takes large bites and seems lost in his own thoughts, eyes fixed on the wall to his left but unfocused, like he's looking through it. He's by himself too, mirroring you, but you can tell by the way people move around him that he's been here for a long time. He must just enjoy his solitude.

"That's Joel," Maria tells you, sitting next to you and following your gaze, "He's my husband's brother, came down here a few years ago."

"He doesn't stare at me like everyone else does," you say, still looking over at him, "Does he just not care or...?"

To your surprise, she laughs, and everyone who's giving you dirty looks suddenly seems to soften. You're grateful for Maria then for bothering to talk to you, to try and trust you.

"Don't ask me to explain the things Joel does, I wouldn't be able to tell you," you notice that she has a full plate of food with her and that she's decided to sit next to you for dinner, an attempt to alleviate the mistrust for you in the room. You can't help but smile, thankful.

"He's a closed book," she continues, "Even Tommy finds him hard to read and he's his own brother."

She changes the subject then, wanting to know more about you and what you've been through, a not so subtle way of trying to get some information for the council. You humor her; you have nothing to lose.

Your eyes still stray to the man named Joel every so often as you speak, but you're not sure why. After about ten minutes he gets up to leave, and you watch him place his empty bowl in the dishwashing area and give the woman working there a small smile. She smiles back, says something to him. He laughs, and you can almost hear it over the bustle of the dining area. You watch as he says something else to her in parting, gives her one more smile, and turns and walks out the door. He doesn't look at you, not even once.

-

Over the next few weeks, things get better. Less people are looking at you and more people are actually trying to talk to you, get to know you. You have some nice conversations and answer questions about yourself - mostly appropriate, save for the one teenager who kept asking how you got the different scars along your bicep, the long one on your neck, the one on your cheek, stories you really didn't want to recount. After hounding you for a few minutes, her friend had pulled her away with an apology, "She likes scars," she'd said sheepishly, tugging the girl's arm, "Come on, Ellie, leave her alone."

You meet everybody, shake hands and even hug a few people. You start getting invited to things, asked to suggest films for movie night, help set up some games for the kids, Tommy even asks you one evening to help him herd a few sheep that had gotten loose. They trust you, and it feels good.

You still see that man, Joel, every night in the dining hall. But that's the only place you see him. You're not sure where he goes during the day or after dinner; he must just be a bit of a recluse, which you can't blame him for. The people here are nice but a lot are overbearing and a bit too friendly sometimes, plus it's hard to find time for yourself when everyone has tasks to complete and always likes to help each other out. You begin to wonder if he'll ever notice you, which leads you to wonder why it even matters to you that he does.

-

Your patrols start around the three month mark. Tommy takes you out with a small group beyond the borders of the community and shows you the ropes, points out where most of the patrol spots are with a pair of binoculars and goes over the routine. Your first assignment is simple: manning the watchtower with Maria. You spend most of the patrol getting to know her, hearing about her past and telling her more about yours. You like her a lot, she's easy to talk to and has a strong spirit akin to your own. The conversation gets pretty personal around the seventh hour, and you end up telling her how exactly you got the scar along your cheekbone. She listens deeply, thoughtfully, nodding along as you detail the more difficult things you've had to deal with in the past, the things that have made you stronger.

"You're tough," she says near the end of your shift, nudging your shoulder, "You don't really belong on watchtower, do you?"

You shrug, "I mean, if there's somewhere else I'd be more useful..."

"How'd you like to head out to the ski lodge with Joel next week?"

Your ears prick up at the name and you nod quickly, unsure exactly why, "Yeah, that'd be great!"

"He knows the area well," she adds, then grimaces, "I have to warn you though, he might not talk very much. He keeps to himself, I'm sure you've noticed."

You wonder why she's so quick to put you on patrol with someone who might not even speak to you, but it starts to make sense as you're walking back from the watchtower in the early hours of the morning. Tommy exits the dining hall and walks over to the both of you with a smile, pressing a tender kiss to Maria's cheek.

"How's my girl?" he asks flirtatiously, and she bats him away playfully.

"Was just telling the new recruit that she's gonna go on patrol with Joel next week," she replies, and Tommy stops in his tracks, raising an eyebrow.

"Her? With Joel?" he appraises you and bites his lip, "I don't know, honey, wouldn't she be better off with someone who'll actually talk to her? I thought she was on watchtower with you."

"Tommy, I never see you anymore," she gives him an exasperated look, "The weekends used to be for us and ever since the Kingstons left-"

"I know, I know," he looks at you again, twisting his mouth in thought, "I've been, uh, a lot busier than usual lately. We had this family here for a while, big family, they helped out with the patrols. But they decided to go south a few months back, so-"

"So Tommy's been filling in for every shift he can," Maria finishes for him with a sigh, "And I never see the damn idiot anymore."

You smile, "I'm totally fine with taking over for you, really."

Tommy raises an eyebrow, "Seriously? You sure?" Maria slaps his arm lightly and he gives her a look, but then shrugs, "I mean, okay, if you wanna give it a try. It won't be all the time or anything, maybe just every other weekend, but it would actually be a big help."

"It really would," Maria adds, "You have no idea."

"But... you gotta understand, my big brother, he's.... he's complicated," Tommy's expression is serious now as he looks at you, "He's not very talkative these days, not since..." he shakes his head and you don't push it any further, though you do wonder what's changed.

"So you'll do it?" Maria asks, eyes bright.

"Even if he doesn't talk to you?" Tommy adds with a grimace.

You nod, somehow believing it won't actually be that bad.

-

It is that bad.

The first time you're officially introduced to Joel he doesn't even bother to shake your hand, just nodding vaguely to you as you stand there like an idiot with your palm outstretched. Tommy makes a face at him and then looks back to you with a reassuring smile.

"There's not usually much trouble up at the ski lodge," he says kindly, ignoring Joel's ambivalence, "The trek back and forth is arguably the worst part. The lifts were already damaged beyond repair when we got here so it's a bit of a hike, 'bout an hour to get up there and the same back."

You begin to wonder if maybe this really isn't the best idea, eyeing Joel silently as Tommy explains what you should expect. You've seen this man smile, know he's capable of making some kind of small talk, but it's clear that you're not an ideal candidate as he stands there stiffly and lets Tommy do the talking. Tommy had told you earlier that if the patrol didn't go well he wouldn't make you do it again, and you're already thinking this might be your first and last shift with Joel.

Tommy walks with both of you to about the halfway point, still going over the routine as Joel trudges silently ahead of you. He hasn't said a word, not one word. It's honestly starting to piss you off.

"Well, I gotta head back," Tommy says, giving you another smile of reassurance, "I'll talk to you tomorrow, see how it went, see if we might make this more permanent." He seems doubtful but you can't blame him.

A few moments later it's just you and Joel, hiking in complete silence save for the sounds of nature. The cogs in your head frantically turn, trying to land on something you can say to make things less awkward.

"So, when's the last time you saw infected up here?" you settle on, hoping it'll be enough to start some kind of conversation.

"'Bout a month ago," he replies immediately, voice gruff but quiet, "Weren't too many."

He's got an accent like his brother but it's fainter, less obnoxious, like he's spent more time with non-southern people in the later years of his life. Tommy had said they'd grown up in Texas and lived there 'til he was in his late 20s and Joel his mid 30s, then somewhere along the way they'd separated. You don't know much else about him other than that.

"It's the people you mainly worry about though, right?" you ask, quoting something Tommy had said a few weeks back, "Tommy said you've had more run-ins with raiders than infected."

"Tommy's tellin' you too much," he replies with a grunt, "Don't know what he's even thinking sendin' some kid up here."

You feel anger rise in your chest immediately, "I'm not a kid, asshole."

He stops then, turns around and appraises you with his eyebrows furrowed. It's the first time he's actually gotten a good look at you, his gaze catching on your face for a lasting moment before his eyes fall to your gun. You feel slightly vulnerable, intimidated by his heavy stare.

"How old are you?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"Twenty seven."

His brow furrows even more, "Coulda sworn he said you were seventeen."

"Well, I'm not," you reply awkwardly.

"No, you're not," he acknowledges, "I'm sorry," He seems to mean it, giving you the smallest of apologetic nods and then turning around again to keep walking.

"You thought Tommy sent a seventeen year old up here with you? I thought you had to be eighteen to patrol outside the border."

"You do, I just wouldn't put it past Tommy to send a kid up here with me," he grumbles, "Wouldn't be the first time."

"...Why?"

"None of your business."

"Okay, but now I'm just thinking you're some kind of pervert," you say it in a joking manner but he doesn't laugh. Instead, he stops again and spins around, looking at you with what you can only explain as pure rage. You flinch backward, eyes widening.

"Do I look like a fucking pervert to you?" he asks, voice hard and angry.

"I was joking," you say immediately, shaking your head frantically, "It didn't land."

"No, it fucking didn't," he starts walking again at a faster pace, leaving you standing there completely floored.

Yeah, it's bad.

-

"Ellie's not speaking to him," Tommy explains to you the next morning in the dining hall, hands gripping his coffee mug. You've just told him about your patrol with Joel and the horrible impression you've already managed to make. "I really shouldn't be telling you this but with an outburst like that...I need you to understand why he reacted the way he did."

You look at him, bewildered, "Ellie? That teenager who plays guitar down by the stream?" And the one who'd relentlessly bothered you with questions about your scars, but you keep that part to yourself.

"Yeah, she's...well for all intents and purposes, she's Joel's kid. And she stopped talking to him a while ago, maybe six or seven months back now," he takes a sip of coffee, "Don't ask me why 'cause I have no idea. I've asked both of them and neither'll give me any kind of explanation. All I know is they ain't speakin' and he's heartbroken over it."

"Must've been a bad argument," you say, scrunching your nose in thought, "I mean...seven months? That's a long time to not speak to someone, especially your dad."

"Eh, you haven't met Ellie. She's one of the most stubborn people I've ever met. They both are," he shakes his head, "Anyway, you calling him a perv probably pissed him off 'cause Ellie's real special to him, a surrogate daughter. He wouldn't like someone misunderstanding that, seein' somethin' dirty or wrong there."

"I wasn't-"

He puts a hand up, nodding, "I know you weren't, I get it, no worries. It's partly my fault anyway 'cause he's right, I have tried to send a teen or two up with him, thought it'd do him good to mentor somebody again. But he doesn't want it, I know that now. He doesn't want it if it's not Ellie."

"Well, he doesn't seem to like me anyway, no matter how old I am," you sigh, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms, "I mean, he didn't talk to me once after that, not for the whole shift. It was bad. I don't know if it's gonna work, Tommy. I'm sorry."

He nods and gives you a small smile, thumbing the handle of his mug, "It's okay, I didn't think it'd work out anyways." He tries to hide the disappointment in his expression but fails miserably, and you leave the dining hall feeling bad about your failure.

-

A few days later you're back in the dining hall finishing up dinner, chatting with a few of the community members who you've warmed up most to. There's not many, but you are starting to find yourself feeling more and more comfortable around people as the days go on, more like yourself. You're caught up in a story about an infected you'd encountered in a gas station when their gazes suddenly divert from you and instead fix above your head. Confused, you slow your words and turn around.

"Oh, hi," you say, voice a bit breathless when you see Joel standing there, hands in his pockets, "Did you need something?"

"I, uh, wanted to talk to you," he says it softly, kindly, completely the opposite of how he'd talked to you before, "When you're finished, of course."

"Oh, yeah, sure," your words are broken and awkward, "Uh, I'll meet you...?"

"I'll be outside the main doors," he says quickly, "Take your time."

"Okay, I'll be out in a few."

He nods to you and then to your friends, then turns on his heel and walks out through the big double doors at the end of the dining area. You watch him go, bewildered.

"I thought he hated you," one of your friends says, voicing exactly what you're currently thinking.

"Yeah," you reply, furrowing your brow, "So did I."

You finish your story much quicker than intended and shove away from the table, waving goodbye to your friends and bringing your empty dish to the cleaning station. You push past the double doors and scan the outside area for Joel, eyeing the picnic tables where a few people are enjoying their meals in the fresh air.

"Hey," you hear behind you, and you turn to see him leaning against the left side of the building, arms crossed, "Over here."

You walk over, trying to plan out exactly what you're going to say so you don't end up making some stupid joke again that'll push him further away from you. It turns out you don't need to, because he speaks first.

"I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry," he says it seriously, a soft and genuine look in his brown eyes, "I treated you horribly the other day, you didn't deserve that."

You raise an eyebrow, "Did Tommy put you up to this?"

He frowns, "No."

"Are you sure? 'Cause if he did...I mean, I get it. It's nice of him to look out for me like that but you really don't have to apologize. You didn't do anything, I'm the one who said the tactless joke."

"Tommy didn't say anything to me," he seems to mean it, kicking the toe of his boot against the building, "And I know you were joking, I knew it then too but I'd just..." he takes a breath, avoiding eye contact, "I was havin' a bad day. Doesn't excuse my behavior by any means but it...you just..." he finally looks at you again, expression pained, "I wasn't expectin' you to be there. Tommy only told me you were takin' over for him about ten minutes before you showed up. And then I thought you were a kid and-"

You put your hand up, silencing him, "Joel, it's okay. You don't have to explain."

"I didn't even shake your damn hand," he says gruffly, sounding genuinely ashamed.

You extend your hand to him immediately, splaying your fingers out into the cold air, "Here, shake it now." He stares at it, unsure, and you wiggle it a bit in response, "Seriously, it's okay. Let's start over, clean slate."

He slowly reaches up to take it, his much bigger hand enveloping yours completely. His grip is strong and firm and you can feel calluses along his fingers, showing you exactly who taught Ellie how to play that guitar.

"Clean slate," he repeats, and it begins.

-

He's annoying, but you kinda love it.

He's grumpy most of the time, hates when you don't obey his orders, isn't afraid to give you shit, and gets irritated with you very easily. But it goes both ways. You're stubborn and set in your ways, you hate being told what to do, you dish it just as much as you take it, and it doesn't take much to get you riled up. And somehow, as much as you'd both probably hate to admit it, you work well together.

After your little conversation with Joel outside the dining hall, you'd flagged down Tommy and told him you were willing to try again with Joel on another patrol. He'd looked at you like you were crazy but hadn't shot the idea down, telling you that if it's what you really wanted, he'd keep the schedule the same.

You've been up on the mountain with Joel three times now, and while there's certainly been challenges and a few arguments, it's starting to become a routine. He doesn't talk about himself - it's a bit of an unspoken rule that you dare not break - but in return you don't tell him much about you either. Your main conversation points are usually tied to your interests, not your pasts, and you find yourself discussing movies with him, as well as music and books. He's surprisingly well-read for someone in an apocalypse, but you suppose he could say the same thing about you.

-

The fourth trip is what sets things in motion.

"Did you catch the movie last night?" you ask nonchalantly as you hike beside him, almost to the ski lodge. It's early morning, around five, and the sun is just beginning to crest the tree line, "I don't think Maria knew about the sex scene."

He groans, reaching up to rub the space between his eyes - you've noticed that he does this a lot, a quirk you've become rather fond of.

"Yes," he replies, wincing, "I heard her givin' Tommy a piece of her mind afterwards."

"The way she was yelling for him to turn off the projector was so fucking funny," you grin at the memory, still fresh in your mind, "And listen, I get it, sex is taboo, yada yada yada, but it's not like there were any little kids there last night, it was just the teens. And it's not like it was a porno or something, it was one little sex scene."

"Oh, I know, but I think Maria's trying to keep 'em as innocent as possible for as long as she can."

"Good luck with that," you snort, "I think we all lost our innocence a long time ago, for better or for worse."

"For worse," he replies instantly, "Definitely for worse."

"You're probably right," you grimace, "Although, you know what? I've actually never seen a porno."

He raises an eyebrow at you, "Seriously? Never?"

You bristle slightly, suddenly a little self conscious, "Well, it's not like there's an adult video store in this town, is there?" You can remember them existing when you were a kid, before everything happened, but it's not like you'd had any use for them at that time.

"No, you're right," he turns away from you, lost in thought for a moment, "They do still exist though. Pornos, I mean. Just in other forms. There's a stack of magazines up at the ski lodge, actually."

Your eyes go wide, "Wait, really?"

"Yup."

"Could I maybe..." you trail off and stop speaking, realizing that you should definitely not be asking what you're thinking.

"Look at 'em?" he finishes for you, not looking behind him as he keeps walking, "And you call me a pervert."

The conversation ends there, and you don't dare try to continue it.

-

The day is spent keeping watch along the ski lodge balcony, binoculars passed back and forth as you trade shifts and chat here and there about irrelevant things. Your main objective in this patrol spot is to keep watch of the main watchtower's blind spots, keeping an aerial view of the border perimeter in case people - mainly raiders - decide to make themselves known. You'd thought early on in your admittance to Jackson that infected were their main concern, but you've come to learn that's not the case at all. When Joel had said they'd come across infected up here he'd been lying to you; they'd actually come across a group of raiders who'd tried - and failed - to murder Joel and Tommy during their watch. Not the most reassuring thing to hear now that you've taken over, but you needed to know.

"It's why we got the trip wires down near the entrance now," Joel had explained to you during your second patrol with him, "We won't get snuck up on again," he'd made a face, "Not unless someone decides to disobey my orders."

You'd given him a weak smile, remembering how you'd decided not to heed his warning about going outside the ski lodge after light's out and ended up almost getting your leg shot off by a booby trap, "My bad." He'd rolled his eyes and grumbled to himself.

Now that it's your fourth watch you've gotten the hang of things and have learned to enjoy the semi-solitude of being on the mountain with Joel. He's got a battery operated radio and a box of cassette tapes that keep you from being bored out of your mind, plus a few containers of books that he and Tommy had carried up over the course of a few patrols. Now that you really think about it, you don't remember seeing any of the aforementioned porn Joel had spoken of in any of those crates.

It's midday when you decide to glance through them again out of curiosity, handing the binoculars over to Joel and slipping past him as he traipses out onto the balcony. You head for the boxes immediately and start to dig through them, not sure exactly what you're even looking for. Someone naked, you guess.

"They're not in there," Joel calls to you after a few minutes and you stiffen, turning to look at him through the glass where he can very clearly see what you're doing. He's got a shit-eating grin on his face and you feel your skin flush red.

"I don't know what you're even talking about," you call back, walking away from the books and plopping yourself in the chair by the unlit fireplace, which has somehow become your chair via another unspoken rule, "I was looking for a tape."

"Okay, well the 'tape' you're looking for is in the back of the supply closet," he sounds like he's fighting back laughter and your skin burns even more, "Underneath a box of cleaning supplies."

"I'm ignoring you," you yell out, "Get back to work."

You swear you hear a muffled laugh through the glass.

-

When he comes in from his shift he barely looks at you, just pushes past you lightly and heads for the supply closet. You follow behind him, heart pounding a bit harder in your chest the closer you get to the stash. He opens the closet door and you watch as he yanks out the cleaning supplies, then digs a bit deeper and reappears with six or seven magazines in his arms.

"Here," he leans them toward you and you hesitantly reach forward to take them from him, "They're mostly from the 90s."

"And you know this because....?" you raise an eyebrow and you swear his cheeks go pink.

"I'm a man," he shrugs, trying to be nonchalant as he passes you again to head back to the living room.

"Perv," you call after him, but he doesn't turn around this time.

"You got ten minutes."

-

You've never seen so much nudity in your life, which is saying something considering you'd seen your fair share of it back in your QZ when life had been a bit easier. But seeing it on paper, in photographs that have somehow lasted through years of this shitty reality, it's something else entirely. You stare with wide eyes at the onslaught of naked bodies, most of which are posed in extremely graphic sexual positions, and feel your heart continue to pound in your chest.

Without much thought you'd opened the first magazine right there where Joel left you standing outside the supply closet, and you now find yourself sitting in said closet with your flashlight aimed at the pages, breathing heavily and trying to comprehend exactly how you feel about what you're looking at. A lot of it feels kind of fake, especially the looks on the faces of the models, but there's enough sexual energy there that makes you start to feel a bit wet in your underwear, a feeling you haven't experienced for quite some time; not since a few a years ago in the QZ when you'd been in your last relationship.

"I gave you ten minutes," you suddenly hear Joel say from the other room, and you quickly scramble to your feet and frantically shut the magazine, "In case you forgot, it's your turn."

"Fuck," you trip out of the closet and dash to the living room, clutching your brand new collection of media to your chest, "Sorry, I got distracted."

He stands by the balcony door and looks you over quickly, eyes scanning from the magazines to your face and back again, "Enjoy yourself?" his expression is unreadable and it makes you self conscious.

"Oh please," you reply, making a face, "Do not start."

-

"So which was your favorite?" he asks you casually once darkness has fallen and you're both safely settled in the lodge for the night.

"Which what?"

He looks at you from over his book and gives you a look, like he's questioning your sanity. You stare for a moment and then slap your hand over your eyes when you realize.

"Oh for fuck's sake," you groan, "I'm never gonna hear the end of this now, am I?"

He laughs and you look over at him again, laying there on the couch with a smug look on his face. You retaliate by grabbing the pillow behind you and tossing it at him, making him drop the book he's reading.

"Hey!" he reaches down to pick it up again, "I showed them to you, I'm allowed to ask."

"False," you say, flipping your hair, "And for your information, I only managed to look at one of them."

He chuckles to himself and returns to his book, "Okay, okay, I'll leave you alone. I was just kiddin'."

"Joel Miller? Kidding?" you make a faux-shocked face, "I fear we've entered the Twilight Zone."

"Don't even pretend you know what that is," he says it seriously but his smile betrays him, "You didn't know about the Twilight Zone 'til I told you about it last week."

"That's just what I wanted you to think."

He rolls his eyes and keeps reading, letting the silence take over again. You watch his eyes scan the page back and forth, taking in the story - whatever it is - and transporting himself to another world, away from the ski lodge. He does this every patrol once it's too dark to see outside, sets the battery powered lantern to its highest setting and reads until he falls asleep. You wish you had his concentration and focus; instead, you curl up in the red armchair and force your eyes shut until your thoughts quiet down enough to let you sleep. Which is difficult tonight especially, seeing as all you can think about are those damn magazines.

After about five more minutes of silence you take a deep breath, then quietly say, "The one with the blonde girl in the bunny ears."

You don't dare look at him, waiting for his response and focusing instead on the empty fireplace beside you. You hear the crinkling of paper as he dogears the page of his book and then the gentle thud as he places it on the floor.

"That's a good one," he says just as quietly.

Another moment of silence passes, and your skin feels like it's on fire as you whisper, "I like the page where she's like...bent over."

"I can't remember the pages, if I'm being honest," he replies, "I haven't looked at them in a while."

You nod to yourself, "Well, there's this page where the guy has her bent over a table. And he's like...pounding into her from behind." You wait for him to say something else but he doesn't so you continue, "It's one of the only pages where she actually looks like she's enjoying herself."

"Hey, uh, I really was just kiddin'," he says awkwardly, "You don't have to tell me, it's okay."

"Oh," you can't help but sound dejected and embarrassed, your fingers trembling a little bit as you push a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "Sorry."

"I mean, if you want to, you can," he corrects, sounding slightly embarrassed himself, "I know you probably....you probably want to talk about it."

You bite down on your lip and sigh exasperatedly, placing your hands over your face, "Kinda," you mumble against your fingers, "It's all I can think about right now."

"Did it make you uncomfortable?" he asks, voice still gentle, "A lot of people are offended by that kinda stuff, you wouldn't be the first person to find it weird."

"It's definitely weird," you take a shaky breath and drop your hands, "But no, I'm not uncomfortable. It was....I mean, it was hot," you bite your lip, "I haven't even thought about sex for a long time so it made me...uh..."

The silence is deafening and apparently neither of you wants to break it as you sit there without speaking, letting your words hang in the dead air. You suddenly feel like you want to crawl out of your skin for saying anything to begin with, for even asking about the magazines in the first place.

"Wet?" he suddenly says, voice breaking a bit, "It made you wet?"

"Very," you reply, relieved that he's not freaked out and trying to change the subject.

"Well, that's normal," he says, voice stiff.

You can't help but laugh, finally peering over at him and seeing that he's just laying there, staring at the ceiling, "I know it's normal, Joel. It's not my first time being turned on, trust me."

"Well, what am I supposed to say?" he grumbles, looking at you in exasperation, "You can't just say that and expect me to give you a casual response. It made you wet, you got turned on, congratulations."

You stare at him, watching as he reaches for his book again, "Wait," you clamor out of the chair and reach beneath it to grab the magazine you'd looked at earlier. You shuffle over to him, thumbing through the pages until you find the right one, "Here," you open to the correct page and show it to him, "This is the one I'm talking about."

His eyes assess the page, his Adam's apple bobbing heavily in his throat as he takes in what you were referring to. He nods slowly, "Okay yeah, I see what you mean. She's about to come, that's why she looks like that."

Your brow furrows, "You can tell that from a picture?"

He shrugs, eyes still on the magazine, "Well, see, he's rubbin' her clit," he points to it and your face goes hot again, "And he's fuckin' her pretty hard. So yeah, I'd say she's either already comin' or about to." his gaze shifts back to you, noticing that you're staring, and he awkwardly pushes the magazine back toward you, "What?"

"I just..." you swallow, shaking your head apologetically, "Sorry, it just sounded really dirty hearing you say that."

He suddenly looks uncomfortable, shifting on the couch and leaning away from you as he crosses his arms, "Well, you asked."

"I know, I don't mean it in a bad way," you step back and realize you're suddenly throbbing in your jeans, feeling that familiar wetness again, "It just... hearing you say it out loud like that, it makes the picture hotter, somehow."

He looks at you, gaze trailing from your eyes to your lips. You suddenly feel like you've said too much, exposed even though you're fully dressed, and you walk back over to the chair and quickly plop back down in it. You give him another look and see his lips parting like he's going to say something else. Instead he takes a breath and drops his eyes from your face, twisting around on the couch to face the opposite way, "It's late, we should sleep."

"Y-yeah," you breathe, crossing your legs, heart stuttering as your clothed core presses wetly against the denim of your jeans. "You're right."

You curl back up in the chair and try to calm your breath, slow your heart, try not to focus too much on the fact that hearing Joel of all people say the phrases he's rubbin' her clit and fuckin' her pretty hard has made you start falling to pieces. Do you even see Joel that way? Has there ever been a moment where you found yourself thinking about him like that? You want to tell yourself the answer is no, that your body is simply experiencing some pent-up sexual frustration and he has nothing to do with it, but you know you'd be lying to yourself.

He's hot. It's not some shocking revelation or something you've realized over time. There's a reason you'd felt so drawn to him that first day in the dining hall, a reason you'd watched out for him every day and hoped he'd notice you. Hell, there's a reason you're still doing patrols with him despite him being a pain in the ass. You're not an idiot, you know yourself well enough by now to know what these things mean.

You're attracted to him. You've been attracted to him this whole damn time.

You shut your eyes tight and curl up into a ball, holding your knees to your chest. He's rubbin' her clit, his voice echoes in your mind, and your cunt begins to ache.

Stop thinking about it, you shake his words away and try to focus on falling asleep. There's no way you're gonna touch yourself right now, not with him in the room, and you're not gonna excuse yourself either like some horny teenager. You can do this, you can get through it, it'll go away soon.

-

It doesn't go away.

About twenty minutes later you're still sitting there with your eyes shut, trying your hardest not to touch yourself. But it's so fucking difficult. His words are playing on a loop in your head, over and over, soft yet rough, kind yet sexy, his southern drawl making it all the more hotter:

She's about to come, that's why she looks like that.

He's rubbin' her clit.

He's fuckin' her pretty hard.

I'd say she's either already comin' or about to.

You squirm in the chair, imagining what he'd sound like whispering that in your ear with his fingers pumping in and out of you as you came undone beneath him. Rubbin' her clit, his voice breathes in your mind, fuckin' her pretty hard, she's about to come.

You're ten seconds from breaking your own rule and heading back to the supply closet to find some release when you hear an unfamiliar sound coming from a few feet away. Your eyes flutter open, thoughts stopping momentarily as you try to figure out what it is. You turn slightly in your chair to see if Joel hears it too, and you feel your breath stop completely.

He's turned off the lantern so you can't see him properly, but you can make out the shadow of him in the moonlight, see the long shape of him directly mirrored against the floorboards and his hand stroking himself up and down, quick and rough. Your lips part in disbelief, realizing the noise you're hearing is the sound of his palm slapping against the base of his cock as he jacks himself off.

You've gotta be fucking kidding me.

Here you've been, desperately trying to push away any and all sense of desire so you wouldn't make a fool out of yourself, wouldn't make him uncomfortable, and here he is doing that exact thing. Angrily, almost out of spite, you sit up in the chair and stuff your hand down your jeans.

Two can play at that game, asshole.

Your finger goes straight to your clit and you begin to rub it furiously, eyes trained on the dark outline of his hand moving up and down. You can only vaguely make out the shape of him but it's enough to make you start dripping, the base of your palm getting slick as you stimulate yourself continuously. He's well endowed, that much is obvious, and you watch his silhouette as he releases his large cock for a moment to bring his hand to his mouth and lick a stripe along his palm. You have to bite down on your lip to suppress the moan that threatens to bubble from your throat at the action, watching through lidded eyes as he brings his wet hand back down and fists himself once more.

Without much thought you slip your middle finger inside yourself, eyes trained on him as you pretend it's his cock pushing past your entrance. It's pretty difficult to imagine though, considering his cock is probably five times as girthy as your one finger, but you make do. You can kind of make out the shape of the tip, wide and shiny, disappearing and reappearing over and over. You slip a second finger inside and bite back a whimper.

The only sounds in the room are the slapping of his skin and the sudden wet squelch of your fingers; you don't even bother to try and make it softer, you're getting off now whether he knows or not, the fullness overwhelming you as you lick your lips and furrow your brow. You haven't masturbated in a long time; you know it won't take you long to get what you need.

"Are you-" he suddenly gasps into the darkness, and your head snaps up to look at him again, heart pounding when you see that his hand has stilled on his cock and he's looking over at you with an expression of pure disbelief.

You should probably be embarrassed, apologetic, but instead you can't help but feel a rush of pride, of spite, as he realizes what you're doing.

"Like you're not," you hiss back, practically spitting as you continue to fuck yourself, "I'm not deaf."

"Thought you were sleepin'," he says back, and you can see his fingers clench around his length, like he's doing everything in his power not to stroke himself.

"And that makes it less weird?"

He groans and lets go of himself completely, sitting up slightly on the couch and shaking his head like he's trying to wake himself up from a dream he isn't having. When he looks at you again his eyes fall to where you're still getting off, not bothering to be sneaky about the way he practically bores a hole in your jeans with his gaze.

"So what are you gonna do about it?" he challenges gruffly, eyes coming back up to meet yours, the hint of a cocky smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Oh, he's proud of himself, isn't he?

You glare at him, "I'm not gonna do anything about it, Joel. I'm gonna keep going," you mean it too, fingers not even slowing down as you pant breathlessly in his direction, "And you can stay here or you can go, doesn't matter to me."

It does matter, actually, it really does. If he was to get up and walk out... it would basically be a rejection, something you're not sure you'll be able to deal with. You don't break eye contact with him, staring him down as you give him your own challenge.

He swallows, gives you one last look, and then flops back down into a horizontal position as he reaches for himself again. He returns to his quick strokes, almost purposely more heavy this time as he mutters, "No talking. Let's just do it and forget it even happened, deal?"

"Deal," you reply immediately, and add a third finger.

It doesn't take long for you to find your release, a particularly hard slap of skin from Joel on the couch pushing you over the edge. You don't try to stifle your moan this time, focusing completely on enjoying your orgasm as your hand stills in your pants and you begin to shake in the chair. Your hips buck pathetically, eyes shutting tight as you whimper and cry out in pleasure.

"Jesus Christ," you hear Joel pant a few seconds afterward, followed by a long groan as he starts to come too, "Fuck."

You manage to catch a glimpse of the way he twists his wrist, aims his cock against his button-down and stains it with his release. You wish you had a better view, that it wasn't so dark, but just hearing him come apart is enough. It's exactly what you hoped it would be.

You lay there in silence for a few moments, both of you panting breathlessly from your orgasms as the weight of what you've just done starts to creep in. You're suddenly slightly afraid of what he'll say, what he'll do. Will he get mad? Will he say he doesn't want to patrol with you anymore? You decide immediately that you don't want him to have the first word.

"What were you thinking about?" you ask, barely a whisper.

It takes a few moments for him to reply, and you start to worry that you've already ruined everything, but then he answers.

"Bunny ears," he says quietly.

"What?"

"I was thinkin' about the bunny ear girl," he's still breathless, "From the magazine. Weren't you?"

You figure you can't dig the hole any deeper.

"I was just watching you, Joel," you breathe, feeling butterflies tingle in your belly at the words, "Didn't have to think about anything else."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, then mumbles something to himself that you don't understand. You can't fully make out his expression but you swear you see him frown in the moonlight, not exactly the response you were aiming for. He suddenly turns on the couch again to face away from you, exhaling loudly, "Go to sleep."

The words strike you hard, lips parting in surprise. You obviously hadn't expected him to completely reciprocate, to jump into your arms and kiss you, but that? "Go to sleep"? What the fuck kind of a response is that? You stare at him, hoping against reason that he'll turn around again and apologize, say something different, but he doesn't.

"Yeah, sure," you mutter, curling back up into a ball in the chair and hoping sleep finds you as soon as possible so you don't have to think anymore, "Asshole."

You hope he hears you.

-

You wake the next morning to the sound of someone rummaging nearby, and you open your eyes blearily to see Joel crouched near the door, packing his bag. You stretch and yawn automatically, momentarily forgetting what had transpired between the two of you last night. His head tilts up to look at you and it all comes flooding back when you see that familiar frown on his face.

"Do you ever smile?" you say, voice rough with sleep.

He rolls his eyes and goes back to his pack, shaking his head, "Like you're so chipper."

"Well, at least I have a good reason to be annoyed," you snap, sitting up in the chair and stretching your legs, "Asshole."

"You love to call me that, don't you?"

"Just calling it like I see it," you mutter, pulling yourself up and heading past him to the door, "I'm taking a piss."

"Watch out for th-"

"The trip wires, I know," you interrupt coldly, "I'm not an idiot."

He doesn't say anything else but you feel his eyes on your back as you walk out onto the balcony and down the steps. You both have to pee in the woods when you're out here - the ski lifts aren't the only things that don't work properly anymore - so you've managed to each figure out your own designated area. You feel relieved once you're out of his eyesight and beneath the thick layer of tree branches that keep your makeshift bathroom secluded.

You really shouldn't be so pissed at him, it's not like he owes you anything. You know you're projecting your own feelings onto him and that it isn't fair, but god, him telling you to go to sleep after you'd essentially confessed your attraction to him makes your blood boil. He'd really had nothing else to say? Couldn't have come up with something a little softer, a little kinder? Let you down easy?

You grumble to yourself on the way back up the steps, questioning whether or not you should keep ignoring him or just get over it. Is it really worth an hours hike of hostility? You already know this is your last shift with him, there's no way you can come back from this in any way that will keep your dignity intact. It's over.

"You say you're not a kid but you sure do act like one," Joel says the second you re-enter the ski lodge, and you stop dead in your tracks. He's got his arms crossed, nose flaring in anger, "I'm sick and tired of the silent treatment, the cold shoulder, all that shit. What happened to people just talkin' to each other?"

You shut the door behind you and shake your head, "I'm not giving you the silent treatment Joel, calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down," his voice is firm but you can hear some emotion there, something deeper. He doesn't like being ignored and you know why, but it doesn't soften your resolve.

"I'm pissed at you, yeah," you admit, shrugging, "But I think I have a pretty valid reason."

"And what is it?"

You stare, scrunching up your face in confusion, "Are you serious? Jesus, Joel, I thought you were smart."

"Oh, fuck off," he grumbles, rolling his eyes again, "I ain't a mind reader."

You shake your head again, inhaling deeply, "I'm not asking you to read my mind, Joel," you exhale and try to calm yourself, feeling the angry tears begin to sting your eyes. God, you hate how emotional you get when you're angry. You hate showing weakness like this.

"Then tell me," he groans, "Is it about last night? 'Cause I thought we made a deal that we're not gonna talk about it."

You laugh at his words, cold and hard, "Right, yeah, sorry. Deal's a deal, right? My bad," you couldn't sound more sarcastic if you tried, stuffing your roll of toilet paper back in your pack and zipping it up, "Come on, let's just head back and forget about it." Your voice cracks on the last few words and you bite down hard on your lip, feeling the tears spill over.

"Are you crying?" his voice falters, and you hear a twinge of kindness in his tone, something you'd desperately wanted to hear last night.

He crosses the room before you even have a chance to reply, striding over to you and placing his hand on your shoulder firmly, making you turn around. His face softens immediately when he sees the tears streaming down your face, the tears you're already trying to wipe away.

"Fuck," he says, brow furrowing in concern, "I'm sorry."

You snort involuntarily, shaking your head, "I'm just stupid."

"You're not stupid," it's almost a whisper, "I'm the stupid one, believe me," he brings his hand up like he's going to touch your face but seems to think better of it, bringing it back to your shoulder again, "I shouldn't have... I don't know what I was thinkin' last night, I'm sorry. You showed me that magazine and-"

You put your hand up to silence him, "I don't care about why, Joel. I don't even care that you did it, it's not like I told you to stop."

His brow furrows deeper, "Then what...?"

You close your eyes, breathing deeply before putting on your best impression of him and mumbling, "Go to sleep," like he had the night before, opening your eyes again to see if he understands.

He stares at you for a few seconds, confused, but you watch as it suddenly dawns on him, realization spreading across his features. He suddenly lets go of your shoulder and takes a few steps back, eyes falling to the floor.

"You can't... you can't think of me that way," he says it gruffly, swallowing and shaking his head.

You stand there without saying anything, waiting until he finally looks back up at you to speak. When he does, you make sure to look directly in his eyes.

"Why not?"

His hand comes up to touch the back of his neck and you swear you see patches of red begin to bloom along his collarbone, like he's embarrassed...or flattered? You take a step forward and he quickly takes another step backward.

"If it's because of the age thing... I really don't care, Joel," you say earnestly, heart beginning to beat heavily in your chest, "I think you're..." You can't believe the words are even coming out of your mouth, the tears on your face already beginning to dry as you try to process this new situation you've found yourself in, "I think you're sexy."

His brow furrows again, not in anger but in confusion. He doesn't take another step backward when you move toward him this time, staying rooted in place as you peer up at him, waiting for him to speak. He remains silent, his eyes trained directly on your face, lips set in a firm line.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

He shakes his head slowly, "I don't."

"Why?"

He doesn't reply, just keeps staring at you like he has absolutely no idea what to say. You suddenly feel the need to reassure him, comfort him. Your hand moves upward, aching to cup his face in your hand, feel that grey scruff beneath your palm.

He pulls back before you get the chance, shaking his head again, "Don't," it's barely a whisper, voice breaking as he says it, "Just...gimme a minute."

"Okay," you nod, dropping your hand, "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizin'," he breathes, still not breaking eye contact, "Just let me think, please."

You swallow, teeth tugging on your lip as he continues to stand there motionless. He's still looking at you but his thoughts are miles away; you can practically see the wheels turning in his head, calculating exactly what he's supposed to do in a situation like this. Part of you wants him to kiss you, part of you wants to kiss him, part of you wants to wait until he makes a decision. You settle firmly on the third option.

"I lied," he finally breaks the silence, jaw tense and firm, "I wasn't thinkin' about that fuckin' bunny ear model."

Your lips part; you hadn't been expecting him to say that.

"Then...what were you thinking about?" You already know the answer before he replies.

"You," his voice is strained, broken, like he's holding himself back, "I was thinkin' about you and the stupid magazines in the supply closet."

You feel your skin flush, a tingle trailing up the back of your neck as you try not to show him how pleased you are, "W-what?"

"I couldn't stop thinkin' about you in that closet, lookin' at those pictures, getting...." he trails off and swallows, then whispers, "Wet. Gettin' all wet in your panties from that girl getting fucked."

His words send an immediate throb to your core and you can feel your heart in your throat, pounding relentlessly as he continues to speak, continues to say exactly what's been on his mind as you stand in front of him, so much smaller than him, letting his words get lost in the sudden warmth of your body and the buzz of your thoughts.

"I couldn't stop thinkin' about it," he repeats, voice rough, eyes dark, "Your wet panties, your big eyes, your..." he practically chokes then, "Your pussy, all wet and aching."

"Oh my god," you whimper, crossing your legs involuntarily as you feel an immediate surge of wetness in your underwear, "Please, keep talking, please."

"Wanted to see it and touch it," he murmurs, his breath ghosting across your face as he peers down at you with desire in his eyes, "Wanted to fuck it and make you come."

Without hesitation your arms shoot up to wrap around his neck, burying your face in his warm chest and tugging at the collar of his coat, "I want you to," you practically moan, clawing at the material, "Joel, I need you to fuck me right now."

To your absolute dismay he reaches up and removes your arms from him, taking a step back so neither of you are touching. His eyes are so dark, pupils blown wide and that red blush of heat now spread all over his neck and cheekbones.

"I can't," he says, shaking his head, "I'm sorry, I can't."

You're about to protest, whine and beg if you have to, but his eyes fall to your groin. You watch with wide eyes as he goes for his belt, begins to unloop it and remove it.

"Take your pants off," he groans, and you don't need telling twice.

-

You end up masturbating together again, this time in the light of day. You find yourselves laying on the couch where he'd slept last night, the memory of what he'd done there fresh in your mind as you pump two fingers in and out of yourself steadily and watch him stroke his cock to match your pace. He watches you behind hooded eyes, his lips parted as he pants and gets himself off to your pleasure, watches you do the same thing to him.

"That's it," he murmurs, eyes scrunching in arousal as he scans your face, watches you come undone, "Rub your clit, nice and fast."

You whimper, unable to hold on for much longer as you eye his cock and see the way the fat head of it drips for you, slicking his hand and allowing him to stroke faster and faster. You want to say something to help get him off too but your words are completely lost in the sensation; you couldn't speak even if you wanted to.

He knows you're about to come, can see it in your face the way he saw it in the face of the model in the picture. He swallows heavily and fucks himself impossibly faster, harder, silently asking you to match his pace. You do it, thumbing your clit and feeling the tense coil in your belly snap as your jaw drops and you let out a long and ridiculously loud moan. Your eyes shut tight and you throw your head back, feeling your body begin to shake from the stimulation.

"There you go," he grunts, and you hear the slapping of skin stop as he rides out his own release, coming into his fist, "Fuck." Your eyes open at just the right time to see his jaw go slack, eyes practically rolling into the back of his head from the pleasure. It somehow makes you ache for more, even though you can't possibly imagine being any more overstimulated than you already are.

You both lay there, chests heaving, hearts pounding, completely undone. It goes without saying that you've both just managed to each have one of the best orgasms of your lives.

"New patrol rule," you whisper to him, legs still wide and cunt dripping with your release, "We do this. Every time. Please."

"Yes," he replies immediately, still catching his breath, "I can do that."

-

"It can't be any more than this," Joel says to you quietly as you hike down the mountain a little while later, the sunrise cresting the trees again the way it had yesterday when you'd hiked up; it's like nothing has changed, but you both know that everything has.

"Okay," you say just as softly, though part of you aches to reach for his hand, loop your pinky through his and have some degree of touch between you. But you can tell he means business, that there won't be any more discussion on the matter today.

"Just this," he whispers, glancing at you with a meaningful look, eyes soft and tender as he peers at you, knowing what he's done, what he's started.

"Just this," you agree, but you don't really believe it.

You hope, deep down, neither does he.

thank you so much for reading! there will be more in this collection coming very soon. i'd like to do some short fics of certain nights they've had, especially the first time he calls her a good girl. that was originally going to be in this part but it was just getting wayyy too long and i have so many ideas i need to flesh out more lol. i'm also going to continue where they left off in "don't think we could help it", and yes, eventually they will do the deed, i promise. among other things....

if you liked it, please let me know! and again, if you'd like to give me a tip you can do so on my kofi 💖

[thesummerpetrichor]

𝓞𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓷

SoftDark!Joel Miller x afab!fem!reader

Summary: Explicit pictures of you taken by a man you cheated with find their way to your boyfriend's father's desk. He isn't too impressed with the artistry. Good thing he can make it right. He’s a photographer after all.

Warnings: 18+ only minors DNI you will be blocked. No outbreak, NONCON, DUBCON, coercion, blackmail, manipulation, power imbalance, implications of revenge porn [not by Joel], infidelity, girthy age gap [reader is in her early 20s, Joel is in his early 50s], explicit photographs and photography, petnames, praise kink, daddy kink, minor size kink, soft dom!Joel, sub!reader, fingering, edging, just the tip action, creampie, cumplay?, unprotected P in V [be better!!]. Let me know if I missed anything 🫶

Word Count: 5.9K

A/N: Surprise Joel Miller smut because why not. This is my first time writing for Joel, so please be gentle. Going for the subtle horror meets porn vibes. Hope you nasties enjoy. mwah 💗

Masterlist

I never walk about after dark

It's my point of view

'Cause someone could break your neck

Coming up behind you

Always coming and you'd never have a clue

I never look behind all the time

I will wait forever

Always looking straight

Thinking, counting all the hours you wait

“S’ just a hobby.” Kind, gentle mister Miller had scratched the back of his neck modestly, towering over you as you inspected the black and white photo negatives freshly hung on his walls. He just seemed happy that someone appeared to be taking up an interest in his retirement activities. It was an interesting choice, you thought, to hang up the negatives. 

That was your first time visiting the Miller household, and had you known your boyfriend’s father was as unassuming and sympathetic as he turned out to be, you wouldn’t have been as worried about meeting him as you were. You surely wouldn't have been able to guess looking at his pictures. But his scowl melted away into a soft, subtle smile the moment you walked through his door, and so did your reservations. 

You learnt a lot from him that evening– about cameras and such. He indulged you in conversations about your life and interests– you had many in common. There were quite a few people at the Miller’s Christmas party, and he made sure you weren’t too lost in the crowd. It was nice to have a listening ear.

Humble as he was, it was only months later you discovered his pretty pictures in a photography magazine. At the hotel you were staying in while on vacation with his son. It was the last vacation you ended up taking together. Switzerland. 

Since that Christmas you visited him every once in a while, occupying the couch in his office to help him sort through his prints, tidy up his gear, and chart out subjects he wanted to capture. His son didn’t really like making the twenty minute commute back home, so you brought his well wishes with you. Mister Miller liked the strawberry puff pastries you baked, so you brought them along as well. 

He was a quiet guy, and after all these years alone seemed to enjoy the company of someone in the house. His face lit up just that little bit whenever you came over. Enough to let you know you were welcome back anytime. 

His office was cozy. With a large Persian rug at its center, and tufted, walnut brown, leather furniture. He had an expansive library of literature beside his desk, one that he’d fitted to the wall himself. Reading- another one of his retirement hobbies. 

His desk was tidy, almost completely empty save for a picture of him and his brother Tommy, sitting on a ledge with their arms slung around each other, an in-progress construction site for background. Judging from the lack of gray hair on his head, and the absence of the little crinkles beside his eyes, the photograph was at least twenty years old. It looked like it belonged to an alternate universe. 

Mister miller looked a far cry from the sophisticated, whiskey drinking, cigar smoking, middle aged man you knew. A regular ol’ Joe, or Joel, rather. He had this rugged boyish charm about him. He was smiling wide, he looked happy. There was a jarring absence of that tired look in his eyes. Whether he looked more handsome back then, or now– you couldn’t decide. 

It was late July. You watched the menacing, dark gray clouds drift lazily towards you from your living room window. It was 4pm, but you had the lights on, and the oven going in your kitchen. The younger Miller was not yet back from work, even though he was supposed to be off by 2:30. At times like that one you hardly regretted your unfaithfulness. 

You had your little dinner date with Mister Miller that evening, but from the looks of it you might have had to reschedule. A crack of thunder reverberated along the walls of your two bedroom, and had you reaching for the kitchen timer you’d abandoned on your center table– the dial dangerously close to hitting ‘0’.

It felt more wrong than it should, calling it a date, considering the circumstances. You couldn’t say you didn't feel guilty still meeting his father, telling him that things were going great when they really weren’t. You wondered what Joel would think of you if he ever found out about your little secret. 

It was difficult not to wonder how two people could be so similar and different at the same time. Why, save for some of his good looks, Mr. Miller’s best qualities did not seem to pass down to his son. Admittedly, you thought about it a lot. You thought about it when you found a shade of lipstick that surely didn’t belong to you stain the collar of his cream sweater. 

Things had spiraled far out of your control since that moment. Into your secret paradise of hotel rooms and weekend getaways. Worst of all, you knew your partner was living a parallel life to yours. You could have ended your relationship, but things were just never that easy. Especially when consciously, or subconsciously mister Miller was part of the mix. 

You reached in the oven and pulled out the pastries. Looking between the custard you’d put into your piping bag, and the strawberries you’d cut lengthways laying beside the powdered sugar. The clouds were closer than they were five minutes ago. Your backyard was no longer the lush Eden of green and purple it was in the morning. You thought of Mister Miller– spending the night alone at home, sitting at his desk, with no dessert to enjoy after dinner. 

You reached for the piping bag and sighed, beginning to assemble the sweet treats and lay them in the pink paper box you’d picked out for him from your kitchen cabinet. 

—

By the time you got to his house thick droplets of rain were already coming down from the sky. It was about three shades darker than it was when you left home, and the minacous clouds had caught up with you. You glanced at your phone. 

7:00 pm 

You felt a drop trickle down the side of your cheek as you ran up the front staircase leading to the main door. You rang the bell. It sounded full, and new. He must have fixed it recently. 

Mister Miller opened the door. He always wore some variation of the same flannel shirt and dark jeans. Like a cartoon character. It was quite charming. You liked it. It was soft, and smelt like his perfume. Tobacco, Sandalwood. He rubbed your back soothingly when you hugged him. 

You handed him the pink box. It had a darker pink ribbon wrapped around it, folded at the top into a big bow, with a small card wedged in between the loops. 

“To Joel Miller :) ” 

He chuckled, then smiled. “Thank you, sweetie.” You didn’t need his gratitude, he was nice enough to you as is, but you did appreciate it. In the past months he had become your only real excuse to bake. 

He welcomed you inside, and soon enough you were settled in the dining room. He’d hung up a new painting since you’d last visited, and changed the light switches on the wall. Every time you were over there was a new addition to the home. You figured he liked having something to do. 

By the looks of it he’d lit the candles there a while ago, and laid the table. He’d butterflied napkins in their napkin rings, and set out glasses for red, white, and dessert wine. You felt a lot better about not canceling. You noticed the brand new table runner against the table’s wood. He told you he bought it that morning. He sounded excited. 

You helped him bring in the pot of stew from the kitchen, as well as a plate of cheese and a loaf of warm bread set on a wooden board. He served you some stew, then cut a few slices of the bread he’d baked and placed them on your side plate. It was surprising that he’d taken up an interest in baking. He always said he preferred to cook on the stove. He did it well. 

“Taking after you.” he’d said, reaching for the wine decanter. 

You wondered if he ever taught his son to cook, and if he did why the latter never liked to do so. You recognised the cheese on the platter. It was from the shop beside your house. You’d served it when he came home in February, with berry jam, marmalade and grapes. He hadn’t been back since then. 

He was mostly quiet during dinner, as always. He listened to you ramble about the show you were watching, and how you found your grandmother’s recipe book in your attic. You assured him you’d be trying every recipe in that book. He said he hoped so. Other than that it was quiet. A comfortable quiet. And you watched wax dribble away from the candle wic, and pool at the base of the candelabra. 

He cleared up while you brewed some tea and placed your pastries on the hand painted porcelain tray you’d gifted him for Christmas. You padded across the hardwood floors to his office, and it was only then you noticed how heavily it had been pouring outside. 

You peeled back the white lace curtains to find a sheet of rain clouding your vision. You made out the dim, golden lights coming off the neighbor’s porch, and the street lamps flickering gently. You were glad you came. It was all quite welcoming, and warm and golden in the Miller household– far more than you would be if you decided to stay back home. 

The door clicked open, and you felt him walking up behind you as you stood at his bookshelf. You pointed to the clock on the wall above it. “It stopped.” He exhaled heavily, with his hands on his hips, and looked up to the pathetically stuttering hours hand. It looked like it was fighting for its life within the confines of the glass– spluttering, struggling. 

“Fixed it two days ago.”

You peeled your eyes away. 

He eased himself into his leather office chair, reaching below the mahogany table to lift a large cardboard box filled to the brim with film. Used, unused, polaroids, disposables. It had red electrical tape around its edges, and the words ‘32, spiral cord and wire’ scribbled in black sharpie. 

“Gotta sort these.” He looked at you apologetically, but you reassured him with a smile, and poured him a cup of tea while he inspected the box. Your eyes wandered to the wooden clock, the hand still pleading for help. You heard it's garbled tic. The contents of the box clattered to the desk, rhythmically with a crack of thunder outside. 

You placed a plate and cup in front of him, then took your seat on folded legs across the table. The white curtains momentarily set ablaze, followed by another hard, violent thrum. You foredged through the pile, lightly covered with residual dust. The rings on your fingers sparkled when they caught the light of his table lamp. 

Amongst the many treasures were some polaroids of the lake mister Miller liked to fish in, the cabin he built upstate, and the back end of Tommy's Miller’s orchard. They looked like test films to you. Not as fixed on composition as Joel was. The settings on the camera all over the place. 

In the pile, under an oversaturated photograph of an apple tree, two familiar eyes peered up at you– much of the face covered and lost to the clutter. You reached for it. Bound together with a thin, blue paperclip were three separate photographs flimsily hanging on to one another. 

You felt sick to your stomach.

The eyes were familiar, because they were yours. 

A mangled torso, waxy, glossy legs, a chest glazed with the sheen of sweat. You looked more like a deserted mannequin than you did yourself. The dark gray “lighting” rendered your body and its surroundings lifeless– ironically, you remember quite enjoying it in the moment. But the polaroids were far more reflective of what you felt of them at present– plagued with regret and shame, and lifelessness. 

How long had he known? Importantly, How did he find them? It hurt you to even think about it. The sound of the stuttering clock was deafening in your ears, ringing like an ominous, cruel joke. 

You distinctly remember taking those pictures. Worse, you remember thinking of mister Miller as your partner had clicked them. You thought of what he’d think if he ever saw them. You could have never guessed you would actually find out. 

“How long, sweetheart?” You forced yourself to look up, finding his eyes already boring you. He was upset, and angry, and there was something brewing behind his eyes. But worst of all he was disappointed in you. And out of all the possibilities, somehow that was the worst. You’d rather him be yelling, because there was something about that soft, gentle voice of his that unnerved you. 

“Why didn’t’ ya say somethin’?” It was like a car crash, you just couldn’t look away from the polaroids in your hands. Your spread legs, bare breasts, panties thrown to the side. You opened your mouth to say something, but you just couldn’t manage it. 

“Really shouldn’t let just anyone take those kinds of pictures.” Your eyes welled with hot tears as he reprimanded you. The whole ordeal had you feeling like you’d been sent to the principal's office, sitting across from him at his desk, both his forearms leaned on the table as he threatened you with consequences. He continued to speak, despite being met with your silence. 

“You’re lucky these ended up here, would be a shame if he found out about it before you did.” While your little affair hadn’t ended well, you surely hadn’t expected whatever this was from your ex partner. He must have still thought your boyfriend lived at his childhood address. Boy did he make a miscalculation. You didn’t know which outcome you preferred. 

You wanted to explain yourself, wanted to assure him you weren’t some cheating, lying piece of shit. That you and his son were just not working anymore, that you felt guilty, and never did it again, that the man who took those pictures was the last one you slept with. That you couldn’t just end things with his son because you didn’t want to lose him. “Mister Miller- I-” 

He cut you off, snatching the images from between your fingers. You watched with burning eyes and your heart hammering in your chest as he inspected them. The man would never look at you the same. He sighed, his downturned, disappointed eyes catching yours. That look, it broke your heart. 

“I mean, look at these babygirl. Ya’ look dead.” 

With your palms cold and sweaty, and cheeks set ablaze, you sure felt like it. The burning in your chest and neck had become almost unbearable. 

“Such a cute lil’ body ya’ got there. And this-” he shook his head, his unblinking gaze forcing your eyes to his. “This boy fuckin’ ruined ya.” He tossed the polaroids on his desk, and leaned forward. 

It took you about ten seconds to realize that mister Miller’s real quam with the pictures was, for better or for worse, not the fact that they existed, or worse, weren't taken by his son, but that they were bad. Not morally, or ethically, especially considering how they’d landed in his possession, but artistically, formally. 

“Would be a shame if my son were to say, find em, layin’ ‘round.” The room began to spin in slow circles. In a second a flash of lighting struck through the curtains in the window behind Joel, his frame completely backlit by the blinding light momentarily. You winced as another harsh crack of thunder descended upon the quiet office. 

“No, mi- Please-”

“‘Specially to see ya like this, catch ya like this. In these god awful pictures.” He took your chin between his fingers, eyes filled with faux concern, brows furrowed. But behind the obvious facade there was something sinister and cruel. Something you wished you had seen before. Because you were sure it had always been there. 

“How ‘bout we fix ‘em, huh babygirl?” your eyes widened at the realization, at the weight of his implication. His grip on your chin was unrelenting, a warning, a little taste of what was to come. Had he forgotten somehow that you were in fact his son’s girlfriend and not his? A girl who was to him, until about ten minutes before, his future daughter in law? 

“You gonna help daddy fix ‘em for ya?” Time seemed to lose its cadence, every moment  stretched endlessly as you remained trapped under his dead eyed, unwavering gaze. His words sent a jolt between your legs, that name sent a jolt between your legs, and had you squeezing them together shamefully as you struggled to blubber out a response. 

He raised his brows in question, once again offering you the artificial choice before you were sure he would take what he wanted himself. You swallowed thickly, and nodded. It was a lot less difficult than you let yourself believe. What were you going to do? 

“Hmm good girl. Get on ya knees sweetie.” Still gripping your chin he reached for the camera on his desk. A polaroid SX 70– the one he used to click a picture of you blowing out your candles on your birthday. In that same office, where he sang to you alone, because his son was on a work trip. 

He pinched your cheek, and got up to round the table. You knew better than to talk back. You were reminded when you saw how his frame towered over you, like that first night you’d met him. Except this time his broad shoulders and muscular arms were threatening, intimidating, and undeniably making you weak in the knees. 

Pushing your chair back you got on your knees on that once thick, soft Persian carpet. It’s weave like a thousand needles piercing your skin, and no longer the cloud on which you liked to sit. 

“Would’ve expected more from a smart cookie like you. Didn’t I teach ya better sweetie?” It was sick. You knew he was talking of not only your carelessness, but those pictures. You should have known to come to him. He would have helped you figure it out. Your relationship troubles, and how to take those photographs. He squatted down to your level, eyes raking over your body like you were already on display for him. 

“Lemme see ya sweetie.” You wished he would just rip off the bandaid and do it himself. It would feel less humiliating. Reaching for the buttons of your sweater you undid them one by one. He watched your every movement, eyes trained on your chest as you exposed the swell of your breasts. 

He reached forward, and brushed his thumb over your skin, hushing you soothingly when you shivered. Your hot skin burned further under his feather light touch. It was like you’d always imagined– gruff and rugged, but skillful. Just like him. His fingers were rough, and reminded you of the photograph of him and Tommy on his desk. He suddenly looked a lot more like the man in that picture.   

It was like he was eating you up with his eyes with each bit of clothing you discarded on his floor. He hummed when you got to your white, daisy print ankle socks, and caught your wrist when you reached to pull them off. 

“Keep em’ on.”

Once brimming with vitality, his brown eyes turned lifeless, devoid of any flicker of emotion or human connection. You found yourself questioning whether you ever really knew him– the gentle, unassuming man you adored. If he even existed in the first place.

Left in nothing but your bra and panties you sat on your knees in front of him, unable to meet his eyes. Pink lace. You’d worn them on purpose, because your little dates were always a special occasion. You weren't planning on him seeing them. 

By the looks of it he seemed quite pleased with your choice. 

“All f’ me, babygirl?” His voice had dropped three octaves, almost slurred thanks to his smooth southern drawl. You swallowed thickly, and nodded your head. As much as you hated to admit it, he was, in some convoluted way, one hundred percent correct. 

Excitement defiantly swirled in your tummy as he let his hands roam your mostly bare body for a few seconds. Like he was examining and inspecting you. He lifted your limp arm to get a better look at your bare waist, then let it fall by your side and reached for the straps of your bra– loosening them to the point they were barely hanging on to your shoulders. 

The room began to spin a little faster when he gently pushed you back against the carpet, one palm planted firmly on your stomach to hold you there, the other hand folding your knees and planting your heels on the ground. The cup of your bra slipped off your chest, your breast now bare to the cool air. You felt exposed, for reasons less obvious than they really were. 

You heard the violent swish of the wind outside. It felt far and distant, and like it was right in that room, all at the same time. 

He began inspecting you again. It was odd, surely he liked the sight of your body, you could tell when you eyed the obvious bulge in his pants, but he was looking at you like you were some prop– like a little sex doll for his little photoshoot. He was moving you around as he pleased, positioning your limbs and tilting your head like an inanimate object. You didn’t fight back, let him take control of your body. It made your stomach churn, your core tingle. 

He nudged and then kneeled between your legs, fully clothed, looking at you methodically. You felt the cool air brush the wet spot that had formed on your panties as you gazed up at the ceiling, far too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

You watched him reach upwards towards his desk, and shift the lamp there till it was barely hanging on to the edge. The light hit you in the face, and forced your eyes shut till he turned it away and towards your chest. You tilted your chin to get a look at him, despite your better judgment. 

He hummed, swiping your dripping seam with his thumb, only stopping to eye you in warning when your body understandably jerked at the contact. The dark look in his eyes reminded you you weren’t really there for your own enjoyment, and more for his. It was like your natural movement was some sort of inconvenience to him, something that was hindering and interfering with his creative process. 

It was nauseating. But despite the fear that bubbled in your chest, you couldn’t deny the thrum of excitement that ran through your system when he began adjusting the settings on his camera. A part of you, a much bigger part of you than you'd like to admit, was enjoying the entire experience. 

“Look at that.” He chuckled, presumably at the way the fabric of your panties clung messily to your wetness in spite of your seemingly unwilling demeanor.  You felt a drop of sweat roll down between your breasts in anticipation. 

He teased your clit over your panties, switching between watching your face intently and finding the best angle. Leaning backwards and forwards. You knew better than to move around this time. “That boy doesn't know a thing about angles does he?” He was mumbling, excessively concentrated on properly composing his shot. 

“‘S’ okay sweetheart, we’ll fix it.” Hooking two fingers under the seam of your panties he pulled them aside, exposing your bare cunt to the chilly air. “Daddy’ll fix it.” He watched himself run his fingers through your wetness, and you watched him swallow thickly at the view. You chewed on your bottom lip, summoning all your restraint not to wiggle your hips in his direction. 

“Thought ‘bout this cute lil cunt all fuckin week.” 

Your disobedient mind encouraged the desire that pooled in your core, and you turned your head side to side to rid yourself of the disturbing thought. 

He must have noticed your strained expression, the way you were so clearly begging to be touched, but refused to admit it. Your creased brow was not one of intense pleasure, but anxiety, uncertainty and perpetual frustration. His shoulders dropped defeatedly, and he looked at you like he was about to unleash on you another set of debased instructions. 

“Gotta look like you’re enjoyin’ yourself more than that babygirl.” 

Caught slightly off guard, but admittedly thankful nonetheless, a breathy sigh escaped your lips as he began drawing soft circles on your aching clit. “That’s it babygirl” His praise licked between your legs, going straight to your core. Fingers wet with your slick he rubbed your throbbing pussy, and you let your head fall back against the carpet. 

“So fuckin’ wet f’ daddy.” 

Increasing his pace ever so slightly his fingers moved to tease your aching hole, just barely pushing in. You felt a moan bubble in your throat, forcing its way out of your mouth. It was more than embarrassing to admit you were enjoying his attention. 

“Let go babygirl. Daddy’s gonna make ya’ look so pretty in his pictures- like ya’ really are, like ya' deserve.”

He bit his lip to keep from smiling when he heard the soft moan slip past your lips. “That's better.” You didn’t know if he was more pleased with your pleasure, or the fact that you’d look better in the photographs.  

As your chest rose and fell with his movements you were more and more convinced. It was undoubtedly better to play along and give in. There was little point resisting by the time the thought even occurred to you. Admittedly, embarrassingly late. At least that's what you told yourself when you moaned and sighed below him. 

“Shit sweetheart. Wish you could see what ‘m seein’.” You imagined what Joel could see through the lens. It felt dirty, and contrite, but also exhilarating, and warm and right. 

You felt the tension build in your hips, between your legs. He had been resisting fucking you with his fingers, and your need to be filled was only increasing with each touch to your sensitive clit– your aching hole clenching around nothing. Your mind wandered to the way you’d undoubtedly seen his cock twitch in his jeans at the sight of you. How you’d been wishing secretly for him to fill you up. 

The coil in your belly tightened, and tightened, and you felt yourself reach the edge, the very peak of your pleasure. You made out a beam of white lightning through your half closed, lust clouded eyes. 

He brushed his thumb over your clit, ever so slightly. You were so so close, feeling the tension reach its highest point in a split second and then dissolve entirely. You gasped, back arching off the ground. 

In the deafening silence you heard the shutter and click of the camera. The sound was menacing. And it made your tummy flutter.  

“That's it baby, good girl” 

Your slick pooled at your entrance, running down your thighs and making you shift uncomfortably. You felt numb in your toes, something in you prompting you to kick your feet just a little. At the lost pleasure. The word was leaving your mouth before you could even register it. 

“Daddy” 

“I know, I know-” Fuck. He sounded so gentle. Like the Joel you knew. The Joel you loved.  “just a little longer sweetheart, you can take it.” He rubbed the inside of your thigh. 

He rested his camera on his knees and reached forward to cup your cheek, stroking your warm skin with his thumb. His fingertips were ice cold, and made you wince. “Just think of how pretty they're gonna turn out-” The look in his eyes was pleading, like you even had a choice in the matter. You wondered if he thought you did. Either way it seemed to work on you. “How pretty you’re gonna look.” 

“C’mon be a good girl f’ daddy.” His words made you mewl. Joel pinched your hip in warning, but kept his voice steady. 

“C’mere” Hitching both your legs on his shoulders and on either side of his head he scooted forward on his knees. Your skin tingled in anticipation, and you wondered what it would be like to have his head between your thighs. 

Admiring your white ankle socks he ran his thumb along the base of your foot, making your squirm in his hold. He engulfed its arch in his large palm, placing a kiss to your soul and then your ankle, moving forward to nuzzle your calf with his nose. 

“Goddamn, such a cute lil thing.” 

You watched him palm his bulge through his jeans, then undo his belt with his eyes still trained on your messy, wet pussy. As if he’d caught you staring he reached forward and tilted your chin back up towards the ceiling. Surely, you straining your neck to get a good look at him was doing nothing for his shot composition. 

You felt him let go of your shin in favor of guiding his cock along your throbbing seam. His tip bumped your clit, making you mewl and inadvertently lift your hips in his direction. You wished you could see him, on his knees in front of you, his cock teasing your dripping cunt. 

“Poor thing, can feel how bad ya’ need it.” Exhaling heavily he continued to rub his cock against your wet folds, eyes fixated below him. He cursed lowly under his breath, and lined himself up with your entrance, pushing in just a little. 

Your mouth fell open in a wordless cry at the slow stretch of him, and you attempted to grab fistfulls of the carpet beneath you. He’d barely put it in , but it was enough to send your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Cute lil pussy can barely take my cock, baby.” 

He fucked you, giving you just the tip, over and over and over, unwilling to burry himself in you to the hilt. You felt him twitch inside you, the slow pace and minimal contact enough to keep you both on edge, and not enough to provide any semblance of relief. 

You whined in protest. 

“Shh babygirl, I know.” He fucked you in slow shallow strokes, hips barely moving. You felt his eyes glued to your face, as if he was waiting for the perfect moment to snap his shot.

He thumbed your clit, his own breath quickening when your walls clamped around his cock. 

You’d never reach your peak this way, and it looked like he noticed. It seemed to be quite a large part of his artistic vision, and you were more than glad. 

He groaned and thrust himself to the hilt in a single slow push, picking up his pace just enough to where you could feel him hit that sensitive spot inside you. His cock throbbed against your aching walls, the drag of him sending your eyes rolling back into your head. His hands gripped your thighs, lips dragging across your calves every now and then as he fucked your warm, wet pussy– slow and deep. 

You felt full, unlike you ever had before. With the way he was making you feel it was difficult to think of who he was, and how he’d got you into this position. Neither your boyfriend’s existence, nor the reality of his intimidation took away from the soaring pleasure that made your body sing. 

It was all too much to bear, and you could feel your orgasm building in your core once again. 

The ominous sound of the wooden clocks garbled tic found its way back to your ears, this time in rhythm with your pounding heart. It sounded oddly comforting, like it was pushing you closer to the edge. 

“Daddy-” you reached for his hand, bringing his large palm to squeeze your breast. He obliged, his free hand moving from there to tug and pinch at any part of you exposed to him. 

“Daddy, gonna cum-” Joel sat back just a bit, still fucking into your soft cunt. “Cum ‘f daddy babygirl, fuck, that’s it.” It was all you needed, the tension that had been building in your core for what seemed like forever finally snapping. Your body went rigid, eyes screwing shut and back arching off the ground once again, legs tingling. Your walls fluttered around his cock as he slowed his pace, coaxing you through it. He hit that sweet spot inside you over and over, seemingly enjoying the many waves of your orgasm just as much as you. 

Between the ticking and Joel's labored breaths, and ringing in your ears you barely heard the click of the camera, but the soft sound sent a jolt through your body, like an electric aftershock. 

You took more than a moment to catch your breath, face tingling and head buzzing. 

When your eyes fluttered open you noticed Joel had abandoned his camera on the ground beside him in favor of grabbing your thighs. Still sensitive you shivered as he fucked into your pussy, fast and hard. You looked up at his face, twisted in pleasure, the little wrinkles on his skin accentuated thanks to his frown and furrowed brow. 

“So fuckin tight babygirl” You felt him pulse and throb inside you, emptying himself in a few final, sloppy thrusts. 

He looked so handsome, with his hair just slightly out of place, and flannel wrinkled and messy. The thought of being filled up by him had your tummy erupting with butterflies. 

Still catching his breath he reached for his camera, pulling out ever so slowly. With your legs still on his shoulders he tucked himself back into his jeans and fixed his belt, slowly easing himself on his stomach in front of you, and dropping your legs on either side of his head. 

You couldn’t see him, but you felt him chuckle against your bare thigh, his breath tickling your skin. “Show me how full ya’ are of me babygirl– how messy ya’ are f’ daddy”. You bit your lip as you pushed, and heard yet another click of the camera echo across the room. 

“Fuck. look so fuckin’ pretty, full’ve my cum” His spend leaked out of your fluttering entrance, and you felt him swipe his finger against the cut of your pussy and push anything that escaped right back in. He shifted your panties back in place, the material already dampening once again, this time with both your and his juices.

He sat up with his legs stretched out in front of him, back resting against the legs of his couch beside you. He pulled you to rest your head on his lap. You watched him intently as he reached beside him for the photographs. They must really be something, because mister Miller sure looked impressed with himself. 

When he turned to you you were probably met with his most wide and genuine smile yet, the three fresh new polaroids pinched between his thumb and index. You watched as the white light from outside invaded the room, and struck his face, illuminating it for a split second. The garbled tic of the wooden clock had subsided into the white noise of the background, along with the steady hum of the rain. You relaxed into his embrace. 

“Make the prettiest little model, don’t ya think sweetheart? Daddy’s gonna have to use ya’ more often” 

And no, I'm not a jerk

I would ask if you could help me out

It's hard to understand

'Cause when you're running by yourself

It's hard to find someone to hold your hand

You know it's good to be tough like me

But I will wait forever

I need someone else

To look into my eyes and tell me

"Girl, you know you've got to watch your health"

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

See you on a dark night

Going to hell for this one. Please let me know what you think. Comments and reblogs keep me writing. I also want to re iterate please be careful about who you send or let take explicit pictures of yourself. Never show your face and stay safe. Dividers by @ saradika and @cafekitsune 💗🐝🫶

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Biggest galaxy brain moment from visiting the Dune dunes is that it gave me a whole new perspective on why the terraforming of Arrakis is treated with such deep ambivalence by the text. Because the terraforming process that's described in great detail in the book? That's exactly what's happening to the Oregon dunes. And they're disappearing.

At the beginning of the 20th century, the open sand you see in this picture stretched all the way to the Pacific Ocean, which is visible here as a faint blue-gray line about halfway up the photo. The sea washed new sand ashore, and the seasonal wind cycles blew it into a constantly-shifting landscape of dunes, tree islands, ghost forests and both permanent and ephemeral lakes and rivers.

As European colonization of the Pacific Northwest grew, the new settlers and the logging and commercial fishing industries they brought with them wanted permanent towns and roads that weren't constantly being swallowed by the moving sand. Starting in the 1930s, European beachgrass and other non-native species were introduced to try to hold the dunes in place.

The invasive species did hold the dunes in place--too well. The deep roots of the beachgrass shaped the sand blowing in off the beach into a permanent dune parallel to the ocean, called the foredune.

As the foredune got taller, it blocked both wind and the movement of sand, which allowed the land behind it to become grassland...

then forest.

Walking through this area, you might never know there was a dune under your feet. You can be close enough to hear the ocean, but there is almost NO wind--the main force that shapes the dunes.

There are (slow, difficult) remediation efforts underway to control the European beachgrass and restore at least some of the area to the natural dune cycle that created the miles and miles of open sand. But the ecological feedback loop created by introducing the beachgrass is stubborn, and without any further intervention, the dunes could be completely covered with forest in as little as a few decades. (I've heard estimates from 50 to 150 years, both of which are a blink of an eye in geological timescales.) The Oregon dunes are at least 100,000 years old, and within the span of just a few human lifetimes the ecosystem could be irrevocably changed.

The dune stabilization project is what Frank Herbert came to Florence to research for a never-written magazine article. Herbert began writing Dune in the mid-1950s, but by the mid-60s when the book was published, his own politics had shifted as he was influenced by the growing environmental movement and by Native activism happening around him in the Pacific Northwest. Like the story of the Oregon dunes, the terraforming of Arrakis is initially promoted as triumph of science and human rationality over nature that will make people's lives easier. But it ends up destroying the native ecosystem and the way of life of the planet's indigenous people, as becomes clear in Dune Messiah when Paul actually implements the terraforming project. (In the book, Dr. Kynes, the main architect of the terraforming project, dies in a spice blow--literally swallowed whole by the planet he tried to control.) It's one of the many political/ideological tensions in the story that's presented but not resolved, and I'm super curious to see how this element of the story is handled in Villeneuve's Dune Messiah.

All photos above taken by me at the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area in September 2024.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

María Félix (Doña Barbara, La Mujer sin Alma, Rio Escondido, La Cucaracha)—Maria Felix is still possibly the most well-known Mexican film actress. She turned down multiple-roles in Hollywood and a contract with Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer in order to take roles in Mexico, France, and Argentine throughout the 1940s, 50s, 60s. She was so famous and so respected as a dramatic actress that she inspired painters, novelists and poets in their own art--she was painted by Diego Rivera, Jose Orozco, Bridget Tichenor. The novelist Carlos Fuentes used her as inspiration for his protagonist in Zona Sagrada. She inspired an entire collection by Hermes. In the late 1960s Cartier made her a custom collection of reptile themed jewels. She considered herself to be powerful challenger of morality and femininity in Mexico & worldwide--she routinely played powerful women in roles with challenging moral choices and free sexuality. But even still, years after he death, she is celebrated with Google Doodles, and appearances in the movie Coco, and holidays for the anniversary of her death.

Maureen O’Hara (The Parent Trap, The Quiet Man)—They called her the Queen of Technicolor. That right there should help introduce people to the fiery, wonderful, stunning Maureen O’Hara. She was from Ireland, born in 1920, and started in theater at the age of ten. At 15, she was winning drama awards, including one for her performance as Portia in the Merchant of Venice. At 16, she was the youngest pupil to graduate from the Guildhall School of Music. By 18, she transitioned to film, starting off with a bang alongside Charles Laughton in Hitchcock’s Jamaica Inn, and proceeded to work steadily up through the early 1970s. She was in adventures and comedies and romances, spent a lot of time in westerns giving merry hell to John Wayne (and less merry hell to the indomitable John Ford — she held her own even when he was verbally abusive and demeaning to her). She was in The Quiet Man, which was the first American-made film entirely filmed in a foreign country. She helped make American Christmas what it is with Miracle on 34th Street. She played a lineup of headstrong, forthright women second only, perhaps, to Katharine Hepburn. She was married three times, lived for a while with a boyfriend in Mexico, sued for custody of her daughter in the 1950s, AND sued a magazine for libel in the same era. After mostly retiring from acting, she edited a magazine. She eventually sold the magazine to spend more time with her grandson, but even then ran a ladies fashion store. She was an outspoken, brilliant, passionate lady, with amazing red hair, a career to envy, and — well — that face!

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

María Félix:

She's Thee Hot Vintage Movie Woman of México. She's absolutely gorgeous and always looks like she's about to step on you. you WILL be thankful if she does.

"María Félix is a woman -- such a woman -- with the audacity to defy the ideas machos have constructed of what a woman should be. She's free like the wind, she disperses the clouds, or illuminates them with the lightning flash of her gaze." - Octavio Paz

María Félix is one of the most iconic actresses of the Golden Era of Mexican Cinema. La Doña, as she was lovingly nicknamed, only had one son, and when her first marriage ended in divorce her ex-husband stole her only child, so she vowed that one day she’d be more influential than her ex and she’d get her son back. AND SHE DID! María Félix rejected a Hollywood acting role to start her acting career in Mexico on her own terms with El Peñón de las Ánimas (The Rock of Souls) starring alongside actor, and future third husband, Jorge Negrete. She quickly rose to incredible heights both in Mexico and abroad, later on rejecting a Hollywood starring role (Duel in the Sun) as she was already committed to the movie Enamorada at the planned filming time. Of this snubbing she said, quote: “I will never regret saying no to Hollywood, because my career in Europe was focused in [high] quality cinema. [My] india* roles are made in my country, and [my] queen roles are abroad.” (Translator notes: here the “india” role means interpreting a lower-class Mexican woman, usually thought of indigenous/native/mixed descent —which she had interpreted and reinvented throughout her acting career in Mexico— and what abroad was typically considered the Mexican woman stereotype, with the braids, long simple skirts, and sandals. This also references the expectation of her possibly helping Hollywood in perpetuating this stereotype for American audiences that lack the cultural and historical contexts of this type of role which would undermine her own efforts against this type of Mexican stereotypes while working in Europe) She was considered one of the most beautiful women in the world of her time by international magazines like Life, París Match, and Esquire, and was a muse to a vast number of songwriters (including her second husband Agustin Lara,), artists, designers, and writers. Muralist Diego Rivera described her as “a monstrously perfect being. She’s an exemplary being that drives all other human beings to put as much effort as possible to be like her”. Playwriter Jean Cocteau, who worked with her in the Spanish film La Corona Negra (The Black Crown) said the following about her, “María, that woman is so beautiful it hurts”. Haute Couture houses like Dior, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Balenciaga, Hérmes, among others, designed and dressed her throughout her life. She died on her birthday, April 8, 2002, at 88 years old, in Mexico City. She was celebrated by a parade from her home to the Fine Arts Palace in the the city’s Historic Downtown, where a multitude of people paid tribute to her. Her filmography includes 47 movies from 1942 until 1970, and only two television acting roles in 1970. She has 2 music albums, one recorded with her second husband, Agustín Lara, in 1964 titled La Voz de María y la inspiración de Agustín «The voice of María and the inspiration of Augustín», and her solo album Enamorada «In Love» in 1998. Her bespoke Cartier jewelry is exhibited alongside Elizabeth Taylor’s, Grace Kelly’s and Gloria Swanson’s. In 2018, Film Director Martin Scorsese presented a restored and remastered version of her film Enamorada in the Cannes Classics section of the Cannes Festival and Google dedicated a doodle for her 104th birthday. On august 2023 Barbie added her doll to the Tribute Collection.

Maureen O'Hara:

I thought she was one of the most beautiful women in the world when I was a kid and I have yet to really change my mind. Always loved her temper and her red hair. Plus she was kind of a MILF in The Parent Trap

Haughty, red hair, hot.

I would have to give up my passport if I didn't submit Maureen O'Hara but also have you seen her? Not only did she look like that (she was called the Queen of Technicolor, though she wasn't a big fan of that sobriquet), she was also very funny and tough as nails. She faced off against Walt Disney in a contract dispute and the legend goes that when someone mentioned her at his deathbed, he sat up and said 'That bitch!'. Her comment on that story is "At least he didn't think of me and say, 'That wimp'." She struggled to get serious roles for a time, saying ""Hollywood would never allow my talent to triumph over my face," so she plays the sexy princess/pirate/harem girl in a LOT of early movies that she referred to as "Tits and Sand" films, she being the tits in question. She also turned down so many leading men and studio bosses (Errol Flynn and Howard Hughes are among her rejects) that there were rumours spread that she was a lesbian. Many egos were battered it seems. I'm including the infamous Lady Godiva scene in the photo propaganda for the sheer Moment of it [link] . It was a bit of a flop critically, but it was one of Clint Eastwood's first film appearances and she said he told her later that he was very glad of the money at the time.

She was a very proud Irish woman and when she went for her American citizenship they insisted on referring to her as British (the timeline of Irish independence is a bit wibbly wobbly, we won't get into it here). She refused to accept American citizenship under that condition and argued her way through every level of US immigration she could find, supposedly saying "I'm not responsible for your antiquated records here in Washington", until a judge finally gave up and said "Give her what she wants, just get her out of here". This made her the first ever person seeking US citizenship to be proclaimed Irish on the record!

The hair. The accent. The figure. The acting chops. The perfection.

[vintage-every-day]

Candice Bergen decides to wait up for Santa Clause on Christmas Eve 1949.

“Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t want your pity. However, this photo of Charlie McCarthy and me in our matching feety pajamas neatly sums up my childhood. My father was a ventriloquist—on the radio—and the dummy he created was a cocky, charming character who went on to become an icon in 40s and 50s America. While technically an only child, I was always known—as a kid, at least—as ‘Charlie’s sister.’ Now I want your pity. Is it any wonder my early performances in film were referred to as ‘wooden’?

“This picture was one of many photo ops that people in the entertainment business were required to do for fan magazines to maintain ‘awareness.’ It shows the two of us from a Christmas layout taken at our home in Beverly Hills; I was four. The curse of having a wooden brother. That would not be reversed until some 30 years later when, playing Murphy Brown, I realized I was channeling Charlie.”

[writing-ca-ira]

FIRST DANCE SONGS

DC various x Reader

Just some of my favs and what I think their first dances at their wedding would be like. What song they would choose, if they’d cry or not, etc.

Reader is gender neutral.

Contains: wedding dances, romantic relationship between character and reader, a shit ton of fluffy mushy thoughts, DC men are allowed to cry because yes.

Clark Kent — Easy choice; Can’t Help Falling in Love by Elvis Presley. I can imagine this song being Jonathan and Martha Kent’s song when they got married. He has a 60% chance of crying; 70% if he catches a glimpse of Ma and Pa holding hands, softly singing the lyrics to each other. There’s also a game that wedding DJs will sometimes do to see which guests have been married the longest (if you aren’t familiar, they’ll call up all of the married guests to dance, and they’ll periodically say, “if you’ve been married for X amount of years, sit down.”), so I can imagine At Last by Etta James beginning to play after your first dance, and you and Clark would be smiling as you watch the last couple standing; Jonathan and Martha Kent.

Bruce Wayne — Just Breathe by Pearl Jam, and he’s 100% crying. That’s what happens when you make eye contact with a misty-eyed Alfred. He wouldn’t do any fancy spinning or dipping with you because he’s too busy holding you close (both to hide the fact that he’s crying and because he never wants to let go). Other songs that may start playing afterwards range from Check Yes, Juliet by We The Kings and Super Bass by Nicki Minaj (a surprise for the both of you). Also, a picture of your first dance may or may not end up on the cover of some tabloid magazine, despite any of your efforts to keep your wedding from the public’s eye.

Hal Jordan — No one was surprised to hear Stand By Me by Ben E. King start playing for your first dance. However, what they were surprised by was how watery Hal’s eyes were. He has a 50% chance of crying during your first dance, though he’d cover it up by laughing as he let you goofily twirl him around. The last minute or so would just be you two with your arms around each other, foreheads touching, eyes filled with love and adoration for each other… and then the beginning of Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey would cause you two to collapse into each other with fond laughter. Expect to see Hal absolutely shred the air guitar.

Dick Grayson — You’d probably have to get through a few ABBA songs before your first dance (because Dick is The Dancing Queen™), but it’s worth it when All of Me by John Legend starts up. I’d love to think that the two of you have slow-danced to this song under the stars as a date, so of course you two would agree on this song. Has a 75% chance of crying (despite crying earlier during the actual ceremony) because you’re just so stunning to him while you sway in each other’s arms. He’d probably want a more upbeat song to play afterwards, like La Da Dee by Cody Simpson or Sugar by Maroon 5, and he’ll absolutely dramatically sing the lyrics to you.

Jason Todd — A lot about your wedding may differ depending on if Jason is comfortable with an actual ceremony or not, but one thing that stays consistent is Falling Like the Stars by James Arthur as your first dance song. He’d probably have a 30% chance of crying in front of other people, but if your wedding something more private, that number easily spikes up to 80%. Be prepared to be held tight against him. Heck, he might not let you go even after the song ends. If you have a traditional wedding, he’d have an arm around you as the two of you sit down and watch everyone else dance to Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen.

Tim Drake — I can see First Day of My Life by Bright Eyes being your song. Tim’s not exactly a dancer, so it may be the two of you just swaying back and forth, but he’d gladly let a spin or two happen if it makes your face light up. The odds of him crying are pretty low at 25%, meaning the most you’ll probably see is the slightest shimmer in his eyes (but Cassie, Bart, Kon, and Dick are 100% in shambles as you two dance). He’ll stare at you with complete adoration, contempt with just being with you, along with a giant smile gracing his lips for the duration of your dance. Something punk-rock/emo like Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down by Fallout Boy has to be the follow-up song. I don’t make the rules.

Wally West — Because I imagine your first date being a Disney movie marathon, Can You Feel the Love Tonight by Elton John fits perfectly. He’d probably hum the melody while bringing your foreheads together, eyes sparkling if you hum along with him. Be prepared to be twirled or dipped unexpectedly (he loves catching you by surprise). I’d say there’s a 50% chance of him crying, since he might be able to hold it together until something preppier plays like Shut Up and Dance by WALK THE MOON (and yes, much like Dick, he’ll dramatically sing the lyrics to you). You two will do so many goofy dance moves together, I can guarantee it.

Victor Stone — “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” is an underrated movie date idea, which is why I declare your first dance song to be Moon River by Audrey Hepburn. Slow dancing with Vic is so soft; he’ll gently sway with you and hold you so delicately. Not a big crier, so you’re at a 40% chance of that, but it’ll easily jump up to 60% if you rest your head against his shoulder or chest. Afterwards, I can totally see something like Without You by David Guetta playing. The energy on the dance floor would go from 0 to 100 when the chorus hits, everyone jumping on the dance floor like it’s a concert, while you and Vic spin each other around with warm laughter.

Kara Danvers — A few Taylor Swift and Kelly Clarkson songs later, you’d find yourselves dancing to Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers. It’s a classic, and I can totally see you two having your first kiss at an ice cream parlor with this playing in the background. I’d say there’s a 45% chance of you seeing happy tears in Kara’s eyes. There’d be a big smile on her face as she let you spin her, your arms wrapping around each other. And of course Teenage Dream by Katy Perry plays afterwards. Clark will come up to you two with a teary congratulations, and you’ll start doing a goofy three-way dance, and that somehow evolves into a giant conga line with Clark in the lead.

Jaime Reyes — I have this feeling that Jaime gets really insecure about himself, so Corazón Sin Cara by Prince Royce is the natural choice. It’s a reminder that you’ll love him as he is, just as he’ll love you as you are. While there’s a 60% of him full-on crying, there’s a 100% chance of him getting teary-eyed at the lyric, “solo sé que yo te quiero así” (I only know that I love you like this). He’s big on hand holding — he loves to rub his thumb over the back of your hand — so he’ll have at least one of your hands in his through the entire dance. After Royce fades out, I can see either Kiss You by One Direction playing, or Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley (you both forgot about the conversation you had about how funny Rick Rolling your guests would be… effectively Rick Rolling yourselves).

Zatanna Zatara — Like I’m Gonna Loose You by Meghan Trainor has that swing sound that Zee loves to dance to. She’d get a little playful with dips and spins, but that’s only to cover up the fact that she’s at a 75% of crying; you can tell by her breathy chuckles as she rests her head against your shoulder. I think it would be really cute if she did a spell to make the air sparkle like fireflies around you two near the beginning of the song. And she’ll definitely whisper an I love you backwards to you, something I’m sure you’d be familiar with in your relationship. Also, Magic by B.o.B was suggested by you as a joke, but Zatanna was like, “that’s actually so good,” so that’s the song playing afterwards. Whoops.