#but I also know I do not want people asking for stuff

[its-just-m]

I wanted to post something and seeing this just got me typing so most of this probably won't be related to the above.

As someone that gave up on sexuality as a whole when they were a teenager.

At the time I didn't have much freedom to look into it and anyone I did approach about the subject, regardless of gender, said no.

Trying to figure it out at ~30, as a virgin, sucks.

Not only virgin, never been in a relationship, never been on a date. After the 3rd or 4th person in a row saying the exact same thing "You? Pft, Never" I stopped trying.

Was never that good socially and I often put sentences together incorrectly. The meaning is mostly correct but sometimes the wrong word means the person never talks to me again. Never felt confident, often felt like I was the enemy. My physical appearance does not help matters, people treated me like I was dangerous and I started to believe them. So I stayed away from people whenever I could.

This went downhill quickly.

Edit: It's my eyes that people have issue with. Had them called "crazy eyes", "somehow dead inside and too aware at the same time", told I "see too much", had an army vet I worked with tell me "I feel like you have an incredible capacity for violence but society has told you your whole life it's wrong so you've locked it away and it's killing you". Like, bruh.

I had a bit of a (mid?) life crisis a while back, quit my job, got some piercings, and decided to try being more social and also some dating apps.

With the dating stuff I was so unprepared for a lot of the questions they asked, I spent a couple weeks looking stuff up and playing around with personality/ sexuality/ gender tests trying to find answers.

The answers I got were ...

Neutral.

Like,

Not straight, but not bi or gay either

Not cis, but not trans

Not binary but not NB/fluid

Not ace but not alo

There's one sexuality and gender test that has a square chart where each corner has either cis or gay or what have you.

Dead fucking center, both nothing and everything.

Edit: "contrary" might be a better word than neutral, possessing conflicting trais rather than none at all?

Even my looks are just average, not short but not tall, not thin but not obesse, I'm told I'm not ugly but apparently I'm not beautiful either, not ripped but no limp noodle, no big tits or "nice cock" to show off, but not so lacking as to be pitiful either.

I put finding answers on pause and tried to just answer all the dating questions as best I could and figured as I met people I would learn more about myself.

All I have learned is the only way I'm gonna get someone to talk to me or spend any time with me is by paying them. And my financial situation isn't impressive either.

I'm not bothered by the lack of success, I expected failure (though I had hoped i was wrong). More that I want to know who/what I am and I can't seem to figure it out because I don't have anything someone else wants and I can't afford to persuade them financially.

Looking at any kind of romance/ sexual media just makes me feel jealous and lonely. I can't put myself in any of the situations but somehow I could see myself on both sides and it doesn't seem likely to fufil the craving that I have.

Often times I will look at a person and not feel anything. Or I will acknowledge they are aesthetically pleasing. Sometimes I will feel something but struggle to decipher if it's lust or jealousy.

The only feeling I think I understand is the craving for intimacy. I struggle to explain it but it like all the things couples do but without the sex part, or maybe that part too but I don't understand it enough to know where it fits in.

I just want to learn things about them, to touch them in places that aren't inherently sexual but also need consent for.

And the same the other way around. I want someone to see that I have worth (other than the old man that runs the liquor store who's always high). I want to be comfortable enough around someone that being touched doesn't make me want to go light myself on fire.

Oof

Got thru all that and only that last one got me teared up.

Anyways, I've come across a couple things with older individuals exploring sexuality but it's usually either "I'm a virgin and I just need a dark-daddy to teach me pleasure" or "haven't had much luck with men and this chick is making me feel some type of way and btw I was so repressed lol" or 40yr old virgin type a story. Or yoai.

Mostly not helpful.

Idk, I think I've run out of words for the moment.

Edit: I want to add that I in no way feel entitled to the attention of others or that it's their fault for not wanting to be around me, more that I'm never going to be good enough anyways so why try. But then like, sometimes trying out of spite too.

Don't hesitate to ignore!

-M

characters in their 30's and older exploring their sexuality and discovering themselves beyond their teens and twenties is so important and beautiful and worth telling

[himbosandhardwear]

Steve is rifling through Eddie's collection of magazines, while he's waiting on Eddie and Wayne to get done fixing the dryer(Wayne's fixing, Eddie's getting in the way it sounds like), when he realizes how insane the assortment is; Heavy Metal, Car and Driver, Rolling Stone, National Geographic, OMNI, MAD, even a copy of Good Housekeeping. It's all so Eddie though, to have so many varying interests. He's a little jealous, if he's being honest with himself.

"You have a lot of stuff," he comments when Eddie comes back, closing the copy of Rolling Stone.

"Oh, yeah, sorry, let me just..." He starts kicking a pile of clothes under the bed.

Steve huffs a laugh. "No, I meant you have a lot of interests." He waves the magazine. "Hobbies and stuff."

Eddie nods, continues to shove piles of stuff under the bed anyway. "I guess, yeah. I tend to jump from thing to thing though. Last night it was painting miniatures, tonight it could be writing a song. I don't really get a say in which one. Oh, nice, I've been looking for this," he says, holding up a random T-shirt.

He watches Eddie get distracted by the new discovery and leave the rest of the pile where it's at, smiling to himself as Eddie goes on a tangent about merch vendors at concerts being the real enemy of the people.

"How do you know what you like?" Steve inadvertently blurts out during a gap in Eddie's tale.

He turns toward Steve. "What do you mean?"

What does he mean? "I guess... It's just, I like cars and sports and girls. That's, like, kind of it. And since I started being friends with Henderson and Robin and you I've figured out that's, like, the most basic shit a guy could be into. Level One Dude Interests. So, I guess I just want to know how you find other things? And how will I know if I'm interested?"

"Hmm." He frowns softly. "I've never had to think about it before. I kinda just...fall into things. I like it or I don't."

"Okay, but what's it feel like?"

Eddie puts the shirt down, forgotten again in a moment, and sits. "What does it feel like when you think about cars and sports and girls?"

Steve really thinks about it. Nothing is as consuming as when he was younger, but he does remember a vague sense of excitement, a feeling of connection with the people he surrounded himself with, who shared his interests. But he hasn't felt that in a while. Maybe he wasn't as into those things as he thought, was only into the connection.

"You're having very deep thoughts over there," Eddie points out with a grin.

"Shut up." He grins back. "I think maybe I don't actually know what it feels like to like something because I like it, not just because everyone else likes it. You know what I mean?"

"Well, yes but no." He waves both hands to indicate his person and also the chaos of the room around them.

"See? This is why I'm asking you. If anyone can help me figure out what I like it's you."

Eddie slaps both hands together and rubs. "A project! Excellent idea!"

Wasn't his idea but sure.

"First we have to get you exposure to new things. Movies, TV, music, culture. Then we'll rate how you feel about each demographic. Your music taste is already improving so that's good. Movies, I'm thinking 12 Angry Men to start. Food? Authentic Mexican. We're gonna get you excited about shit!" He seems excited enough for the both of them, which is great. "Excitement is key! You want enthusiasm, yearning even. Your interests should consume your every waking thought. When I'm consuming a new hobby, I'm focused like a shark, I'm obsessed. I go to bed thinking about it and wake up thinking about it. Excited to get back to whatever it is. I wanna talk about it, share it with other people. Complete and total immersion. You wanna marry that interest. You know what I mean?"

Steve blinks at him, stunned into silence. Eddie's just described how Steve feels about him...

Oh.

Oh.

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

then send me a son

pairing: joel miller x reader

cws/tags: so much angst (w/ happy ending! i swear), discussion of suicide attempt (the canon one), suicidal ideations, losing a child, losing a parent, survivors guilt, discussions of abortion, unplanned pregnancy, p in v, oral sex, virginity loss (but it's not that big of deal/not a kink), both dealing w grief, ellie is dead, this is set in jackson post tlou pt I

summary: joel is put on suicide watch after he returns to jackson w/o ellie and reader becomes his 'caregiver' of sorts. lowkey enemies to lovers but also not bc it's kinda one-sided 'hatred'

a/n: author is pro-choice! and also understands the complexities of mental health that reader and joel do not at times (just wanted to make it clear that i understand... from personal experience... what depression is like as well as suicidal ideation).

title is from the song 'the suburbs' by arcade fire, but listen to the entirety of the suburbs (album) and funeral (album) if you want to understand my mindframe while writing this

the last sentence is a quote and i've reblogged it before but i'll find the image and post it/reblog it again

wc: 9.4k

masterlist | ko-fi | taglist

Joel is just surprised Tommy has the gall to ask, “Where’s Ellie?” when he arrives in Jackson alone. 

In this world, when two people leave and only one comes back, you don’t ask because you already know what happened. You wait for that person to tell you about a miracle, and when they don’t, you know for sure. 

“Heaven, if you believe in that sort of thing,” is Joel’s response. 

But Joel doesn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, or anything other than ashes and dirt. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Tommy says because he’d already said ‘I’m sorry’ when Sarah died, and that didn’t bring her back. 

It takes a hefty amount of booze to get Joel to tell the story.

“I just hope she died for something. Then, at least, I’ll know I’m being selfish.”

I didn’t get that with Sarah, he thinks. She didn’t die for a ‘noble cause’. He doubts Ellie did either. 

“You’re being put on watch,” Maria tells him the next morning – when he’s sober and asking what his duties are now that he’s back. 

Life goes on, which means work goes on, so what’s my job? As long as it’s not burning bodies, I’ll be okay. 

“Watch? Like I’m watching, or I’m being watched.”

“Being watched.”

He asks why, though he doesn’t need to. Tommy knows why he’s got that scar on his forehead. 

“Fucking authoritarian bullshit,” he mutters, half into his pillow. “Thought you were a communist.”

“I am. And this has nothing to do with that.”

“I bet Tommy put you up to it anyway.”

“He didn’t ‘put me up to anything’.”

“But he told you, didn’t he?”

“He told me a long time ago.”

“Figures. You always knew I was a coward.”

“You say stuff like that, and then act like you don’t need help.”

“I didn’t say I don’t need help. I said I don’t want it.”

She’s silent, letting him continue. “Now let me grieve in peace, will you?”

She hums something akin to agreement, but asks for something that sounds like protest to him. “Where’s your gun?”

“Which one?”

“All of ‘em.”

He tells her because he doesn’t want Tommy or anyone else searching through all his bullshit because that’s what happens if he doesn’t give ‘em up.

“Want my kitchen knives too?” he says, almost wryly. 

She takes most of them, but leaves the more blunt ones out of sympathy. He can have butter on his toast. Unless she takes the toaster so he can’t take it with him in the bathtub. 

She leaves the toaster, and then, leaves him alone. 

Quite frankly, he’s too old to kill himself. Sure, people do it at his age, but he’s so goddamn tired. Moreover, he knows he could get someone else to do it pretty easily. Maybe he could be a martyr. He could save someone from a clicker or a soldier. He could save someone’s life for once. But would that be enough to save his soul? To make it to Heaven and see Ellie and Sarah again?

Maybe, he would, if God really does love people the way some say he does. But if Joel was God, he’d deny himself entry.

He stays in bed for the rest of the day. Aside from the two times he eats. And once in the middle of the night to take a piss because he may be depressed, but the last of his dignity is motivation enough not to wet the bed. 

He doesn’t shower or change his clothes. Not like he’s wearing a shirt anyway, just boxers ‘cause it’s too hot outside and he doesn’t want to get up and turn on the fan. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it comes. It comes because it has to, reluctant as it is.

He wakes up to the voice of an unfamiliar woman. Quieter than Ellie or Sarah, less stern than Maria or Tess. Not like he was expecting to hear from three out of four of those women, not outside of his dreams. 

You’ve always cared about people, saving lives and all that. But you’re no good with a gun, so Tommy finds a better job than patrol for you.  

“You’re going to be watching my brother, Joel.”

“Like, spying on him?”

“No, like making sure he doesn’t kill himself.”

A suicidal man is nothing new, especially in this world, but Tommy’s bluntness about it is. He acts as if it’s a normal job. Like the ones in office buildings that sound wonderful even though the people who tell you about them assure you it was barely better than life is now. This new watchmen position is the same as patrol, in a way. Terrifying in the gravity it holds. You have to keep someone alive.

You can shoot deer, you can run quickly, you can hide well. You can survive on your own. But, at age 10, your mom bled out as you sat by her side. You were too weak to carry her, to dig a grave and bury her. Your survival feels unearned, but you’re no good with guns. You’d miss if you tried to do it. That’s a rare thought anyway, and surely not one you plan to ever speak aloud. They’d put you on watch too, which sounds suffocating, in all honesty.

You don’t know Joel. You’ve heard his name in passing, but you arrived in Jackson during the period of time he was gone. He was going to take some girl to some hospital for something or other. 

“What about that girl?” you ask. “Is she not taking care of him?”

“She’s not around anymore.”

“Oh,” you say. 

He just nods. The ‘why’ of the whole arrangement makes sense, but you’re still unclear on the ‘how’. Am I just supposed to stay in his house 24/7? Is he allowed to shower on his own? Do I have to cook or do laundry?

“Just check in on him. He’s not the most… personable, but don’t take anything he says to heart.”

Just check in on him. It sounds simpler than it will be, you know that much. Even keeping a plant alive takes more than ‘checking in on it’. 

You arrive at his house around 10 AM. You assume he’ll be awake, but when you look around his living room and kitchen, you can’t find him. Oh God, you think. What if he’s… 

He’s asleep in bed. You’re pretty sure. He’s lying there and there’s no evidence that anything’s wrong, but when you say his name from the doorway, he doesn’t move. So, you walk closer to him, just to make sure he’s breathing. 

“Joel,” you say softly – because your other option is reaching out to touch him, and you feel that’s a little too personal, especially when he’s not wearing a shirt. 

“Who the Hell are you and how did you get into my house?” he says. 

“Tommy sent me.”

“Oh, so they’re making you watch me?”

“Yeah.”

You’re glad he knows about the arrangement. Maybe he’ll give you some direction on what to do with him. 

“Must hate you if they stuck you with me.” 

You can’t tell if he’s being ironic, but you hope so. Still, you don’t know how to respond. You decide on a simple, “I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Though you’re alone in the room, you sit with perfect posture on Joel’s couch, looking around at the decor – or lack thereof – looking for clues about who this man is. 

You think about making him breakfast, but you’d have to raid his cabinets to do so, and you’re terrified to make any missteps when it comes to Joel. You don’t think he’ll kill himself over burnt toast, but there is a persistent need lodged inside your brain to make him like you. It’s a little selfish when you should be focused on just keeping him alive, but maybe if he likes you, he’ll feel better, maybe you’ll feel better too. That’s still nothing but the ever-lingering hope in your heart. But it’s something.

He comes downstairs eventually, in a t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. 

“Good morning,” you say. 

“No, it ain’t,” he says, heading in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Do you want me to help you with anything? Breakfast or coffee?”

“I can make my own damn coffee, kid.”

And he does. The first shred of kindness you get from him is an offer to pour you a cup. 

“I’m alright, but thank you.”

He sits down in a chair across from you and sips his coffee as you watch him awkwardly. 

“Are you really gonna do that all day?”

“Do what?”

“Sit there and stare at me.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could leave, for starters.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“What? You afraid Tommy’ll get upset with you?”

“A little.”

“He’s a softie. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

You are worried. Sure, you want Tommy to be happy with you, but moreover, you don’t want to leave Joel alone lest something happen to him. You might not know the guy very well, but you’d hate to see someone take their own life. 

“Can I just stay here? I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

He shrugs, and you take it as a yes.

He does not need a caregiver or a watchman. He does not need you, but you look like a kicked puppy and there’s no way he’ll force you to leave. Another young girl he’ll reluctantly let stick by his side. It’s almost cruel of Tommy to send someone like you. Someone young and full of life. Someone he has a hard time pushing away. 

He should’ve sent Joel a crotchety old bitch or a drill sergeant. Maybe Tommy thinks he’s doing Joel a favor by giving him a nice girl, polite and eager to please. It’s a good thing your chipper attitude irritates him. It’s the first item on the very small list of qualities that Joel dislikes.

At first, he insists on making his own food. You’re still a guest, even if he’s reluctant to have you as one. It doesn’t matter where he lives, he’ll always have been raised in Texas. He’ll always hear his mother calling him out on his lack of manners. His hospitality is force of habit.

Plus, if he lets you do anything for him, he’ll owe you something – at least in his mind. And he doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. He doesn’t want to give or get or build any kind of rapport with you whatsoever, especially since you seem to take all attention as progress, despite the fact that Joel is harsh with you most of the time. 

The whole ordeal makes him feel like more of a failure than he did before. He couldn’t save Ellie, or Sarah for that matter, and now he’s being forced into his own retirement or held hostage depending on how you look at it, so he can’t even get the satisfaction that productivity brings.

He also finds himself pretty fucking bored without work. He became so used to being in constant battle, even in his sleep. One wrong move and he was dead. The worst injury he’s gotten in the past few weeks was a paper cut.

Reading was never his biggest hobby, but it’s not bad when you find the right book. Often, you’ll sit across the room from him and read a book of your own, and the silence as he relaxes into the couch is quite peaceful for a change. 

No amount of peace and quiet can cure his boredom, though. It makes him antsy, and you notice. You notice a lot when your job is just staring at him, it seems.

“I found a book of crossword puzzles,” you announce. 

“Congratulations,” Joel says. 

“I thought since you were bored, I’d give them to you, and maybe you could do them…”

By the look on your face, he can guess that you’re regretting your words. Lest he make you cry, he accepts the book. 

“Plus, it looks kind of old so I don’t know if I’d know how to do it myself,” you add.

He knows you don’t mean it as an insult, but it sounds like one, and it makes him laugh. The list of qualities Joel likes about you is already long — and buried deep in his subconscious — but he’ll have to add the fact that you can make him laugh.

“Are you calling me old?”

“Not in a bad way. You’re just older than I am.”

He flips through the book and finds that about 80% of them are done. 

“Somebody did most of these already.”

“I’m sorry… maybe I could erase that person’s answers and then you could do them?”

“I think I’d still be able to tell.”

You hang your head in defeat. 

“Gimme a pencil and I’ll try the ones that aren’t done yet.”

You look through his junk drawer, find a pencil, and hand it to him. He doesn’t expect you to sit on the couch next to him. 

“I know you’re supposed to watch me, but you don’t have to watch that closely.”

You move away slightly, no longer looking over his shoulder. 

“I was just curious about the answers.”

“I was kidding around,” he says (though, it’s only a half-truth). “Come back here.”

It takes him about a week to finish the book. 

“Had to go back and fix some of the others,” he says. “The person who originally filled ‘em out was an idiot.”

“That’s not very nice. Maybe it was a kid.”

“Kid had great handwriting, then.”

You pause, hesitating for a reason he can’t pinpoint. 

“What? You want me to say sorry for calling that guy an idiot. ‘Cause I will if it matters that much to you.”

“No, no, fuck that guy, he was an idiot,” you say, clearly taking after him. 

“Language, Missy,” he says, jokingly scolding you. 

“Sorry. I should stop swearing.”

“It’s okay. You probably picked it up from me anyway.”

“Maybe,” you agree. You’re fidgeting, holding something behind your back, he notices. 

“Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” you say, holding it out to him. “I just figured since you finished the crossword book, I should get you more.”

He only did the crosswords for you. He never really cared for them anyway. He just wanted to make you happy — he’d rather have you content than pissy or whiny. The only thing worse than your constant insistence on getting his approval would be if you just sat there and cried all day.

He’d tried to give the book back to you, but you couldn’t do ‘em on your own since you were lacking in 90s pop culture knowledge. So, he did them, with you watching over his shoulder the whole time. 

He’s about to admit this to you and hand the new one back over to you when he looks at the pages – white paper, stapled together, all drawn up in pen. 

“Did you make these?” he asks, in awe of both your ability to draw perfectly straight lines, and moreover, how much you must care if you’re willing to go to these lengths. Kiss-ass behavior, he tells himself.

You nod, and he gets the sudden urge to hug you, but opts for a thank you with a smile he can’t repress.

“You didn’t have to do all this, but it’s very sweet of you.”

He considers taking back the ‘very sweet’ comment when he finds that 3 down is four letters with the prompt “grumpy old man”. JOEL fits perfectly in the blank spaces. 

You go on walks, read endless books, and Joel finally lets you start taking on some of the housework. It should be nice, but you get the feeling he’s not all that happy about this situation. Not that he tells you it outright. He doesn’t tell you much at all. And you’ve tried. It’s not like you’re asking hard-hitting questions. 

“How old are you?” 

“56.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

He doesn’t even bother to ask the same question back to you. Sometimes, he doesn’t even look up at you when you speak to him. You know it’s the depression of losing someone close to you, you know what that feels like – the problem is, you don’t know how to fix it. You only know how to hide it.

It’s quite simple, in theory. All you have to do is give him the desire to get out of bed every day. But you don’t even know what he likes. All you know is that your presence is not high on his list of favorite things. You try and try until you swear his shitty attitude is rubbing off on you. 

Tommy checks in with you periodically, asking you how things are going with Joel, and this would be the perfect opportunity for you to get out of this position, which Joel would probably love, but to spite him, you tell Tommy it’s going well.

And it is, in a way – Joel is not actively mean to you. He doesn’t insult you or argue with you, he just mostly ignores you. So, you figure if you ignore him, maybe he’ll miss your attention. Stupid teenage bullshit mindset, acting like you have a crush on him, playing some sort of push and pull game that he’s not even privy to. 

But that’s not like you. That brooding behavior is all Joel, so it lasts no more than a day or so until you go back to trying, and accept the fact that he’s just an asshole. Doesn’t mean you have to be one. 

You never expected to win him over with the crossword puzzles but you see the look in his eyes when you give him the homemade ones, and you know there’s something in there besides all that pain. You know that look, can’t put a name to it, all you know is that it’s a good sign, one you had yet to see from Joel.

Joel wouldn’t have thought he’d get tired of hearing someone ask, “can I do anything for you?”, constantly begging to dote on him, to care for him. The last time someone did this for him was on Father’s Day, which is an ancient holiday now, almost mythical.

But it’s been weeks of the same old shit. It has nothing to do with you. In fact, you’re probably the best ‘caregiver’ he could’ve gotten stuck with. Thing is, though, he doesn’t want a caregiver, and he’s tired of said caregiver bombarding him. It’s enough to just have her watching him like a hawk, but yapping in his ear is another thing. Because he enjoys the quiet (and because the way you ask him questions reminds him of Ellie.)

It’s a joke, a stupid joke. It’s his patience wearing thin.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask. 

“Sure. A beer, maybe. And a fuckin’ blowjob,” he mutters. Yeah, that’d be the dream but it’s a joke, bordering on a jab at you. 

“I don’t think we have any beer,” you say. You both know damn well there’s no alcohol in the house. 

“I know.”

“And, as for the other thing- is that something that you’d want… me to do?”

“Hey,” his tone softens. “Sweetheart, it was a joke. I was messing with you.”

“Okay, so you don’t want that, correct?”

“It was a joke. I’m sorry I even said it.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, sheepishly. “It’s your house, your rules, right?”

The concept of free speech in his house was one he’d brought up regarding ‘swear words’— It’s his house so he’s allowed to say ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, ‘bitch’, and every other word he could come up with, and he came up with some deep cuts just to make you laugh. Admittedly, it’s a nice sound.

“Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. “I just think that these sorts of topics aren’t appropriate for someone…”

“You know I’m an adult, right, Joel?”

“Yes, I know, but you’re still young and you seem a little innocent. I don’t want to put those types of thoughts in your head.”

“I know what a blowjob is, and I know what sex is. I just haven’t found the right person yet. That doesn’t mean I’ve never thought about it or whatever.”

You rarely snap at him, so he knows that word — innocent — must’ve been more offensive than he’d meant it. Maybe you’re not innocent. Maybe you’re just kind and a hell of a lot younger than him. Maybe it just seems like you should be.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying that I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“But do you want it?” You punctuate every word with a newfound annoyance.

“It’s not about that.”

“Yes it is.” You’re quite incredulous for someone who has been presented with the idea only a moment ago.

“Fine. Yes, in theory, if we were just two people who know each other, then, sure, if you offered, I’d say yes.”

“I offered.”

The way he calls you ‘sweetheart’ feels more like an insult than a term of endearment. You’d rather be ‘kid’ or nothing at all, anything less patronizing. It’s worse when he calls you innocent. You’re not innocent, you’re just nice — something that Joel is not. You’re painfully nice. You’ve heard it makes people like you. You’re still waiting on the results, though.

But, if he’d ordered you to suck him off, you’d have kneed him in the balls, and he would’ve thought twice about calling you ‘sweetheart’. The thing is, he doesn’t. Instead, he backs away from the opportunity, tells you it was a joke. 

But you see two things behind his eyes: one, he wants this. He might not want to want this, but he does. More importantly, you see his genuine concern for your well-being override this desire and you realize you feel safer around him than you do around most men. That’s one of the reasons that you do give him ‘a fuckin’ blowjob’. The other being that, sometimes, before you go to bed, you can’t sleep, and a certain man comes to mind as your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties. 

When you reiterate that you offered, you exchange a long stare wherein you try to reach into each other’s souls and sort this shit out but when you both realize you can’t, Joel says, “Okay.”

And you say, “Okay.”

A new kind of tension bubbles to the surface as Joel sits down on the couch and you kneel before him. 

You fiddle with his belt, eventually managing to get it undone, but Joel does the rest of the work it takes to get his pants down to his ankles, boxers too. 

You’d imagined he’d be big, but that’s how fantasies work. Every man’s dick is big in your lewd daydreams, but it’s like you manifested it with Joel. You begin to feel like you’re in over your head, and though you aren’t innocent, you aren’t experienced enough to take him. But who are you to back down from a challenge?

Joel can see hesitation wash over your face for the first time. You pause, study the scene like you’re trying to decide your approach, and then you take his cock in your hand, looking up at him like you’re asking for the green light.

He gives you the go-ahead with the only piece of advice he thinks you’ll need. “Just don’t bite, and you’ll do fine.”

He probably should’ve mentioned another thing: don’t take too much at once or you’ll choke. His head lolls back and his eyes fall closed the moment your lips meet the tip of it. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t want you to feel intimidated by his presence while you’re exploring, so to speak. He lets out a low groan of approval to let you know he’s still with you.

But he’s fading into a beautiful oblivion until he hears you gag, feels you sputter and it shocks him out of that blissful feeling. His eyes snap open and he cradles the back of your head. 

“Easy, easy,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

You pull away briefly and catch your breath. 

“That’s good,” he says. “Breathe, baby.”

He can see you looking for instructions, so he takes your hand and helps you get a firm grip on his cock, sliding your hand up and down, and finally letting you do it on your own. 

“Doin’ good, baby,” he says. “You gotta give your mouth a break sometimes.”

You’ve never gotten anything close to praise from Joel before. It’d warm your heart like nothing else if it weren’t so goddamn sexy in this context. 

You nod, wipe the spit from your chin, and give your mouth a brief break, but you can’t hold yourself back forever. Soon, your lips are back on his cock, kissing from the base to the tip, flicking your tongue over the head, seeing what reactions you can get from him. 

When you get into the rhythm of hand and mouth in tandem, you barely register him telling you that he’s gonna come. 

You imagine it’s an acquired taste but it’s not awful. You can swallow it. So, you do, and you look up at him with a smile. 

He looks like he’s woken up from a dream and he’s still getting his bearings straight, but he’s quick to stand up and take your hand. 

“Where are we going?”

“To my bed.”

You’d follow him anywhere but bed does sound good to you right now. It sounds like an adventure. You don’t go into his bedroom unless absolutely necessary. You’d think he was hiding something horrible in there if you didn’t have a mutual feeling regarding your own bedroom.

“Are we going to have sex?” you ask. 

“No,” he says. 

“Then, what are we going to do?”

“You,” he begins. “Are going to lie back and relax.”

He coaxes you to lie down, and he doesn’t have to try hard. 

“I,” he continues. “Am going to make you feel good.”

You’re fairly certain about what he means, so there’s nothing left for you to do but let him do the work. It’s just another part of the job you’ll have to learn from experience.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says. 

You nod. 

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he says, playing with the hem of your t-shirt. 

“Wait-” you say, sitting up, and he withdraws. “Can we kiss… first?”

He looks surprised for a moment, and you worry you’ve fucked up. 

“I just feel like we should do that,” you say, much quieter.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that makes sense.”

His hand cups your cheek and he looks you in the eyes like he’s trying to find answers somewhere in there. 

“Has anyone ever kissed you before?”

“Not really, not the way I want you to kiss me.”

“Feels a bit rude of me to have put my dick in your mouth before you’d even been kissed.”

Still, he leans in and kisses you, but it’s soft, gentle. It’s not a peck on the lips, though, it’s more. It gradually gains momentum and passion. Eventually, he slips his tongue in your mouth and you take it in stride. 

“You’re very good at this,” he says. “If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think this was your first time.”

“Is that a compliment?” you ask, doubting Joel is capable of such things.

He ignores your question, and sighs. You know it’s not directed at you because you’re fairly sure he’s not listening.

“I know I said I was gonna do some things with you, but I don’t wanna take things too fast, okay?”

“Are you saying you’re just going to kiss me?”

“I think that’d be the right thing to do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whine.

You wish you could sound sexy, or whatever, but you probably come off like a bratty child.  

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not fair. You said you’d make me feel good. I thought you were gonna return the favor.”

“I was.”

“Then, why are you backing out?”

You’re shocked that he’s the pussy — pun-intended — in this scenario.

“I thought it might be too much for you.”

You grab his hand and slip it under the flimsy fabric of your shorts. 

His eyes go wide. 

Fucking hell, you’re wet, is the only thought on Joel’s mind. It makes sense. He’d be offended, maybe even worried if you were dry as a desert down there, but he’s barely touched you. Either you really enjoyed kissing him or you actually liked sucking him off too.

He gently presses the pads of his fingers against the wet spot on your panties.

“You’re right, baby. It’s only fair if I help you out.”

He’s able to get your shorts and your panties down in one swift pull. You look impressed by the action. Just you wait, he thinks. He’s not an expert by any means, but it’s not too hard to learn if you pay attention — and sex is one of the only times Joel does listen — it’s also not a skill you lose over time. It’s muscle memory, or maybe it’s innate.

His thumb rubs your clit lazily as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure, your eyes fill with need. When the first finger slips inside you, he hears a breathy sigh come from above — it sounds like relief though he knows you haven’t come yet.

He’s never had a woman have such a strong reaction to his lips on her clit. It almost startles him at first. You’re frantic from the moment his lips meet your skin, crying out for him like you’re scared he’ll stop.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. Don’t have to get so worked up. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He can’t say another word because his lips are occupied, so he relies on his hands, his soothing touch, to tell you that everything is alright. He gets the urge to tell you how good you are for him, how good you taste, how pretty you are like this, but he knows it’d be cruel to let up now. He’s callous often, sometimes harsh, but rarely cruel.

His instinct tells him to drag this out, to make your thighs shake, to have tears running down your cheeks, to tease you. To be the asshole that he tends to be when you’re around (and when you’re not). This is a version of Joel you might come to like.

He’s lived long enough to be well-practiced in this field of life. Doesn’t matter if he’s particularly romantic or even sociable, it’s just happened enough times over the course of fifty plus years for him to know the ins and outs. He can get you there quickly and lead you through it slowly.

He’s so used to you saying his name in a tone he considers pestering that he’s begun to hate the word itself. But when it’s drawn out and desperate like this, it sounds wonderful.

You’re at his mercy, he thinks. Which means he’s in control. And, as much as he’d hate to admit it, control does not mean he can kill you, control means he can care for you.

When you come down from your high, Joel is looking up at you from between your thighs with messy hair and kiss-dark lips. His smile looks like one of pride. Your cheeks heat up, only half-remembering what just happened. You could describe the event simply in a cause and effect relationship — he went down on you, so you came. You know what an orgasm feels like, but that was something beyond anything you’d ever experienced before. You fear an addiction may be coming on.

Your voice comes out shaky, which only makes your first words after a long silence sound stupider. “Thank you.”

He looks confused, and it takes him a moment to respond. “My pleasure,” he says, and you swear it might be when you see a semi through his sweatpants.

You’d offer more ‘help’ but you truly don’t think you can manage it. You can feel your body pulling you towards sleep. Your eyes have barely opened and they want to close again.

Joel notices because how could he not, you’re completely naked in every sense of the word.

“Get some rest,” he says before standing up.

He’s leaving.

“Where are you going?” you ask, instinctively.

“Downstairs.”

You do not want to say it. The fear of rejection is too strong, but so is the sudden urge to cry. Holding back tears is a strength of yours, though, so Joel never sees them. Somehow, after doing one of the most adult things, you feel like a baby in the wake of it. You are supposed to be taking care of him, and you are failing.

“What?” is his response to your refusal to meet his eyes.

“I just assumed you were going to stay. That’s all.”

“I can. If that’s what you need me to do.”

You don’t say anything. He climbs into bed anyway after picking up your underwear and handing it to you.

He doesn’t hold you but he doesn’t leave either. What he does do is kiss you on the forehead when he thinks you’re already asleep. It’s a compromise between your fear and your desire.

It isn’t as weird as one might think it would be — acting as if you’ve never done anything remotely sexual with one another. It’s easier because you don’t have to go back to being friends. You never really were. It was always awkward. What’s new? Only your knowledge that at least some of your feelings are mutual. Only the fact that you think about having sex with him every time he’s in front of you. It’s really just out of curiosity sometimes. What would he be like in bed? Does he want it too? How would you even broach the subject?

Sometimes, it’s not just curiosity. Those days are harder to navigate. You have to pretend like every little touch — most of them accidental — fuels the fire. It’s not the sensation itself. It’s just the acute awareness of his body, how close it is to yours, how easily you could reach out and touch him, that enters your mind.

“You’re staring.” Joel says from the other side of the couch.

“Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Got something’ on your mind?”

“Not really.”

“C’mon, what is it?”

“Why do you suddenly care about my thoughts?” About me.

“You think I didn’t care about you before? You’ve been in my house everyday for months now.”

“So?”

“And, I haven’t tried to kick you out yet.”

“You’re not allowed to kick me out. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Okay. How ‘bout this: I’m down here sitting with you because I know you don’t like to be alone.”

“So you pity me?”

“No, if I pitied you, I’d have told Tommy to give you a new job.”

“Okay, so, you expect me to believe you care but you refuse to talk to me half the time.”

“I’m not much of a talker. But, now that I’m trying to talk to you, you’re shutting me out.”

“I’m not— It’s just not a big deal. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about anyway.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I said, that’s bullshit.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, one long enough that he gestures for you to go on.

“I was just thinking about what it would be like if we had sex.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, since we, you know, we did that stuff… it’s not like it’s a totally crazy thought.”

“‘That stuff’? Be more specific, honey.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do, but you can’t be thinking about having sex with me when you can’t even use big girl words when you’re talking about it.”

“It doesn’t even matter.” Your face is burning. It so, totally, does matter. “I was just curious.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Mm-hmm. Go on thinking, I’ll get back to reading.”

“Wait, what? You just made me tell you that to make me embarrassed? You’re not even gonna—”

“What? Gonna fuck you?”

The word slips out of his mouth so easily.

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Well, I’m not.”

Truth is: he’s been thinking about you every day since. He only caught you staring because he was doing the same. He tries to restrain himself because it feels like the right thing to do.

But he still, he acquiesces and takes you upstairs to his bedroom.

He lays you down on the bed and undresses you slowly like you’re a gift and he doesn’t want to tear the paper. He places your clothes atop the dresser, but leaves his strewn across the floor.

Wonder fills your eyes as he reveals his naked body. Hesitation and awe wrapped up in one.

“Wow,” you say, breaking the silence, “it’s, um, you know— do you think it’ll fit?”

It’s not the first time he’s heard that. It no longer brings him that bashful pride that it did when he was younger. It’s just a fact. A nuisance sometimes.

“Not if we don’t get you ready first.”

“Do you need to get ready first too?”

He looks down at his cock, rock-hard and eager.

“No, baby, just looking at you is enough to get me ready.”

A thought crosses his mind — one he thought he’d left in his teenage years — what if he comes too quickly?

He lies back on the bed next to you and reaches for you, waits for you to let him maneuver you.

“Come here,” he says.

You sit up and face him, slowly inch towards his arms that beckon you.

You’re fairly sure you know what he wants you to do. Sit on his face. But god, something about it seems awkward in the amount of control you simultaneously give up and are given in turn.

“You trust me, right?” he asks.

“Of course.”

An answer you wouldn’t have ever thought you’d give back when you first met.

“Then, come sit on my face.”

You swing your leg over him and steady yourself above his face.

He grips your thighs to guide you. You grip the headboard to save yourself from passing out the moment Joel’s mouth meets your skin.

Joel wouldn’t be the man you’d have thought would have such a talented tongue based on how little he uses it. You can’t blame him for not talking right now. Your moans echo off his bedroom walls and permeate the balmy summer air. The windows are closed and the curtains shield your naked bodies from the neighbors but even if you’d left them open, you wouldn’t have the sense to care.

You’re an incoherent mess of moans and half-words, trembling thighs and sweat. Your orgasm comes on strong, and if your eyes weren’t screwed shut, maybe you’d see the gates of heaven.

It’s been a while since he’s done this. Tess never liked it like this and the last woman before her was one from another lifetime, pre-outbreak, an inconceivable world despite having once called it home.

He’s not really thinking about that, though, in this moment, all Joel can think of is you. Your skin, your sweat, your heat, and the pretty noises you make. At one point, he swears he hears his name though your thighs are covering his ears. And he doesn’t mind it one bit.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he hears from above him.

“No, you’re not. I’ve got you,” he tries to say, though surely his words are muffled.

“Don’t let me go.”

He doesn’t. He carefully helps you lie back on the bed. When he meets your gaze, he swears he’s never seen adoration like that in anyone’s eyes before. At least, not in a long time.

It terrifies him, but in spite of his hesitation, he holds you close.

A blanket of peaceful silence settles over your bare bodies.

You speak quietly, trying not to awaken Joel’s senses. The ones that pull him away from you. The moment feels like glass in your hands.

“Are we going to have sex?”

“Hm?”

“We were going to, right? You were getting me ready for it.”

“I thought I wore you out.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’d tell you if you were.”

He hesitates.

“I’ll be good. I promise.”

Those are the words that awaken his arousal. In an instant, you find his body looming above yours. He kisses you until your lips are red and puffy. He doesn’t break your gaze as he positions his cock at your entrance. Your green light is your needy hips begging him to fuck you.

He starts slow, even the head is a stretch. You scrunch up your face and hold back the urge to squirm.

“It’s gonna be a little uncomfortable at first, baby, and that’s why we’re gonna take it slow.”

Slow is an understatement. It takes ages for him to give you another inch — or maybe you’re just antsy. This one makes you whimper, makes you clamp down around him.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”

Joel’s voice is tender and sweet, and it gives you enough hope to ask for something you think he’d usually deny you.

“Can you hold my hand?”

He interlocks his fingers with yours. It feels oddly natural. He doubts he’s heard someone ask to hold his hand since— not now, he’ll go soft if he thinks about her. He’ll close in on himself and you need him — in more ways than one.

He continues slowly as he promised he would until he hears your moans of pleasure and your pleas for more, more, more. More is a little bit faster, a little bit harder, as deep as you can take it, and most importantly, his thumb tracing circles on your clit.

You squeeze his hand with yours as your inner walls clamp down around him.

“Just let it happen. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

When you come, he does too — the most blissful mistake he’s ever made.

Curses fly out of his mouth through his orgasm, stopping briefly as he catches his breath, and resuming when he pulls out and watches as his come drips out of you.

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you insist. “I liked it.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Because I fucking loved it. “But, it’s dangerous. We’ve gotta be more careful.”

In the future — it’s implied. Another time is nothing when the lines have all been crossed and when the other side brings him a warmth the hot summer never could.

You have more power over him than the sun.

It becomes a routine — briefly — and you are more careful. You discreetly buy condoms, but when your next period doesn’t come, you fear it might be too late.

You don’t tell Joel, not at first. Sometimes, they’re irregular, and you don’t want to give the man a heart attack. But then a week passes, another week passes, and eventually you have to — especially when you’re beginning to feel a bit nauseous and have no other explanation for it. It’s better to say something before he asks.

“Joel,” you say, “I haven’t gotten my period yet.”

A look of horror crosses his face before he asks, “How late is it?”

You take a breath before admitting, “A few weeks.”

“How many?”

“Almost three.”

“Fuck.” He sighs in preemptive defeat. “Have you taken a test?”

“No, I thought it would come so I didn’t want to overreact.”

“We’re going to go get one.”

He stands up immediately and turns towards the door.

“Wait,” you say, stopping him in his tracks.

“I should probably get it. It’ll look less suspicious.”

No, it won’t. Those who suspect something is up with you, will have their suspicions, and those who don’t, won’t think to pay attention.

They recommend taking multiple because false negatives are common.

The first one is a clear positive, so clear you think it might be a false positive, so you wait to freak out until you see two lines come up on the second test.

Joel is silent, even when you hand him the test.

But, so are you, because what more is there to say? The tests say it all.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” he says, and you’re surprised until he clarifies.

“I doubt they’ll make you pay for the pill or the procedure — however they do it, but I’ll take care of you while you’re recovering. I’ll be there through it all. Promise.”

The pill or the procedure. The abortion that he expects you to have. Truth be told, you hadn’t really thought about what you’d do until now. It’s probably the right decision. Do you really want to bring a baby into this world? Can you even take care of one?

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll make an appointment.”

You save your tears for Maria. She approaches you in the clinic. You’d be delighted to see her at any other moment.

“Making an appointment?” she asks.

“Yeah, just a checkup,” you lie.

The woman at the counter clarifies with you. “Just a checkup? Is that what you’d prefer?”

You turn back and forth between her and Maria.

“Um, no,” you say, “keep it as is.”

Maria raises an eyebrow and there is nowhere left to hide. You might be able to outrun her, but she knows where you live and isn’t afraid to confront you at your doorstep.

She saves you some of your dignity when she whispers, “How about a chat at my place? I have some tea that helps with nausea.”

The tea is persuasive but you’d have to go anyway. You don’t speak on the walk to Maria’s. She brews the tea and you sit across from each other in the kitchen before she finally speaks.

“What’s the appointment for?” she asks. “And I’m not here to judge you, I just want the truth.”

You’re not my mom, you could say, but she’s the closest thing you’ve had to one since your own passed.

“An abortion,” you say quietly, looking down at the table, at your hands around the mug.

“Okay,” she says, gently. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You try to reply but all the comes out is a sob.

Eventually, she pries the truth out of you. You explain what happened when you told Joel the news.

“So, he made the decision, and then told you he’d be there for you if he did what you wanted?”

“I guess. But, I think it might be the right choice. I mean, it'd be hard to raise a child in this world…” You cut yourself off when you look at her bump. She’s gonna be a mom, a good mom. And, stupidly, you’re jealous.

Even though it’s not there yet, you swear you can see a high chair in your periphery. You could be holding a warm bottle instead of a hot mug of tea. Maria could be feeding her child his first bite of baby food next to you.

“Let me ask you something, and I want you to really think about it, and be honest with me.”

You nod and wait for her question.

“If Joel had said he’d support you no matter what, even if you wanted to keep the child, if he said he’d step up as a father, would you have made the appointment?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, but you do. Maria waits for you to come to a conclusion, for you to spit it out.

“I like the idea of having a kid. I love kids, and I sometimes think about what it would be like being a mom, but I know that I can’t be one. Not right now.”

If there is one thing Joel can’t be, it’s a father. Not again. He’s too old, too grouchy, too cynical. He’s not the man he used to be. He was never good at it anyway. He couldn’t save his own kid. He’s already a failed father — once, if not, twice.

You’d be a great mother, and that’s the greatest tragedy. He’s failed you already. He’s not good at the kinder things of life. He shouldn’t have indulged in you, in the love you gave him when he cannot give it back. There are a lot of things Joel can’t quite get right — being a lover, a father, a good man.

Every night since the outbreak began, he’s watched Sarah bleed out in his arms. Sometimes he sees Tess, Sam and Henry, Bill, even Tommy which feels like an augury. Ellie is there almost every night, losing consciousness. Only sometimes is she in that hospital bed, often, she’s lying in the show, with blue lips and almost no pulse. Now, you’ve begun to enter his subconscious. You’re always too far out of reach, screaming his name until he’s shot dead, and the last thing he hears is you shriek as you watch him die in front of you.

Another person is another tragedy once they have the misfortune of coming into his life. There cannot be another person, especially not a child.

You should be back by now, he thinks as he splashes water on his face for the umpteenth time, hoping it’ll wash away all the mistakes he’s made.

He can tell it’s Maria by the way her knuckles rap on his front door. He can tell she’s pissed too.

When he opens the door, he sees you in standing behind her, like you’re afraid of him.

“Unless you want to have this discussion on your doorstep, I suggest you let me — us — inside.”

He does, reluctantly.

“Joel Miller, when do you plan on becoming a man?”

“What?”

“You just told her to make an appointment, didn’t even give her a chance to think about it? You managed to run away from your problems while you’re on house arrest. Impressive.”

“I thought that was what we both wanted,” he says, looking past her, to you.

“I guess, maybe,” you shrug.

The one thing he’s grateful for is Maria’s suggestion that you talk privately.

You sit further from him than usual, you refuse to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted. I thought I was making the right choice.”

“It’s okay. I don’t even know what I want.”

But the tears suggest otherwise.

“Do you want to keep the baby?”

“Maybe, but I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s what I think, but Maria’s right, it’s your choice.”

“But I don’t know how to make that choice.”

“You’ve got a good heart. Follow it.”

You spend a lot of time thinking, remembering, and trying to convince yourself that there is no part of you that wants to be a mother. But, in your bedside drawer, there is a handful of photos — all from before the outbreak. You see your mom as a child on a swing set, and as a teen blowing out candles on her birthday. Her mom is in that one too, sitting next to her, smiling. You wish more than anything to have pictures of you and your mom.

You think about the little girl who pretended a ratty old stuffed bear was her baby. You can hear your mom telling you that you’re doing a good job, how you’ll be good at this one day. Your bedtime stories were never about fairy princesses, but about your family, the ones you didn’t get to meet.

“I wish I could have that,” you’d say.

“One day, you might be able to — the world is scary right now, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be like this forever,” she’d insist.

In retrospect, you wonder if she really believed that, if she really believed that teddy bear would one day be a baby that you’d be the one carrying, and she’d be the proud grandmother.

“I told her I wanted to be a mom like her,” you explain to Joel, and he understands.

You know about Ellie, but not about Sarah. Joel never brings either of them up to you. Until now. It’s a fair trade, he tells himself. Photos for photos, info for info. But it’s more than that.

“Hold on for one minute, I’m gonna go get something, and I’ll be right back.”

It’ll only take him a second to grab the pictures, but he’ll need a moment to compose himself.

“This is Sarah,” he says, pointing to the little girl in the photo. “My daughter.”

You’re silent for a moment, gazing at the photo, at a younger Joel you’ve never met.

You’re the first person not to tell him that you’re sorry for his loss, and he is relieved not to hear the empty sympathies once more.

“What was she like?” you ask.

It’s hard to explain, and for that reason, he talks for at least a half hour about Sarah. All her likes and dislikes, all his favorite moments from the day she was born until the day she died. He tells the story of that too.

When you try to tell him that he sounds like he was a good dad, he has to explain why he wasn’t.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says.

“I couldn’t save her either,” you say, pointing to your mother in one of the photos.

“You were just a child,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

“And, you were just a man,” you say. “It’s not your fault.”

“A grown man.”

“Doing the best that you could.”

And you’re right. He did try his best. He stops arguing not because he’ll ever concede but because the weight of the present falls upon him all at once as he meets your eyes and remembers why you’re here.

He can’t have Sarah back, he can’t have Ellie back, but you’re right in front of him — and he loves you. It’s too late to turn back and kick you out on your first day, it’s too late to never speak to you, it’s too late to not love you.

It’s not too late to fail you like he’s failed everyone else. It’s not too late to do the opposite either.

You tell him your decision, and wait for his disagreement, for him to dissuade you. But, he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try my best.”

You cancel the appointment and make the final decision, but it doesn’t feel real until Joel finishes building the crib in the spare bedroom. The most unexpected part is how excited you feel even when you’re nauseous, even when your feet are bloated, even when your back is killing you.

You’re also terrified, particularly when you hear Maria’s account of her labor and delivery. For someone describing how painful it was, she seems oddly unfazed, happy even. She’s too focused on her baby boy, and you get it — he is pretty cute.

When the day comes, you find that you’ve underestimated the pain entirely. The wounds you’ve gotten in combat are nothing compared to this. Every hour that goes by feels like a full day for you. Every time the doctor checks your dilation it’s still not yet time.

Until it is. And everything becomes a million times more chaotic. You swear the only thing keeping you sane is Joel’s hand in yours. (You have to apologize later for squeezing it so tightly.)

Finally, the telltale cry comes, and it feels like you’ve run a marathon by how exhausted you are and by how proud you are of yourself for doing it. This will go down as the greatest feat of your life and you are more than satisfied with that fact.

The doctor announces that it’s a boy and though he said he’d be fine with either gender, Joel’s smile is wider than you’ve ever seen it. You’re smiling almost as big. It hurts your cheek muscles but you can’t stop, especially when they hand you your baby boy. Though he doesn’t know how to speak, his hand wrapped around your finger tells you that it’s going to be okay.

There is so much pain in this world, but not in this room.

[girl4music]

That’s not true with me. I don’t have NOTPs because I don’t really talk about the relationships between characters that I don’t ship together. Just the same as I don’t really ever talk about a character that I don’t like.

If I don’t talk about them all that much, you can safely assume I don’t like them all that much.

As for characters I absolutely hate.

You’ll never see me talk about them.

People often assume it’s the other way around. That if I talk so negatively about a character, I hate them.

The reality is I really like that character.

May even love them. I talk about them so negatively often because I find their negative characterization interesting or compelling. It’s not because I hate it.

For example: Willow Rosenberg.

She’s actually my favourite character in the entire Buffyverse. But I read her for filth most of the time.

I’m constantly talking about her negative characterization. Her qualities or arc.

The reason why is because I LOVE THAT about her. I find it so fascinating about her character. Willow’s representation and development is highly exciting.

She’s an amazingly well-written and well-portrayed morally grey character with an arc that is riveting.

But I’ve actually had so many people on here ask me why I talk so much crap about her. Why I hate her.

I don’t hate her. Not in the slightest.

I hate the way she behaves and reacts sometimes but that’s part of what makes me so thoroughly invested.

If I actually hated her, I’d never talk about her because I don’t talk about characters that I do actually hate.

Yes. Those characters exist. You’ll just never know it.

The same with ships. If you know I am aware of a ship but I never ever talk about them - assume I hate them.

If I always talk about the ship but not in the most positive way - don’t assume that. I do love them.

The way I consume media and TV art/entertainment is in a very unusual way because my intention is to learn.

It’s not to be entertained or pleasured.

I have no interest in art/entertainment to be appeased.

I don’t care what looks good, sounds good, feels good.

Blah blah blah. I want to be mentally stimulated.

I want to expand my consciousness and sense of self.

Everything I watch, regardless of what age or genre it is, it has to be something incredibly thought-provoking.

I just fucking switch off otherwise. I just don’t care.

I am incapable of consuming media just to consume.

Now what’s funny is aesthetically and thematically, I like camp, I like stuff that really isn’t all that serious at all. I like the supernatural, metaphorical, philosophical.

But the caveat is that it has to be well-written. The writing is very important to me in whatever it is. So when it comes to characters and also character relationships/dynamics, I don’t have to “like” or “ship” them. I just have to be compelled by them. That’s it.

I have to be given room to think and feel and interpret.

You give me that - I’ll quickly a be lot more engaged.

I do not think you have to “like” a character or “ship” a character dynamic. You just have to learn something.

It’s just with me personally that tends to be why I like or ship them because what’s important to me is learning.

I don’t ship Xena and Gabrielle so obsessively and egregiously because they’re “cute” together. I couldn’t care a less about that. I ship them because they’re an incredible multi-faceted compelling character dynamic and I learn something new or something profound out of watching them - out of understanding that dynamic.

If all that they had about them or between them was “cuteness”, I wouldn’t ship them. I wouldn’t give a shit.

It’s not about that for me. It never has been.

Never will be.

i feel like nobody has NOTPs anymore. like if you hate a ship now it has to be for some deep moral reason and you have to justify it to everyone what happened to just not liking stuff that isnt inherently bad but just because you personally think it sucks

[ipushhimback]

would you be able to write oscah fluff after china win?

there you go, anon!! it is not too long but i hope you like it <3

shut up and give me a hug

pairing: oscar piastri x reader warnings: none words: ca. 800

The whole last week Oscar had been in a bad mood thanks to everything that had happened at his home race in Australia. Not even the fact that he had secured his first pole position in qualifying made him feel better. 

Now you were standing next to Oscar, who was getting ready for the race in China. 

“Listen, baby. You will go out there and you’ll fucking win this race, ok? Don’t think about anything than winning. You can do it. I know that you’ll win, the fans believe in your win.”, you said as you moved to stand in front of your boyfriend to look him in the eyes. “Did you understand? You’ll win.”

Oscar looked down at you and nodded. “Of course. I’ll try my best.” He leaned down to you and pressed a kiss to your lips before grinning down at you. “But I want a reward”, he said smirking. 

“Yeah yeah, sure. Now go”, you said and placed his helmet on his head. He gave you a thumbs up before getting in the car. 

***

He won. Oscar really won the Grand Prix. To be honest you were a little scared after his start but then he crossed the line first, making you tick another cube on your bingo card. Yes, you did have a bingo card because you need something to keep you interested in the races when they become boring.

Your boyfriend got out of the car and he looked… like always. Oscar has never been one to show his emotions after a win. That didn’t mean he wasn't happy to be first. Just that he liked it better to celebrate with you.

After the interviews and the podium, where you cried but… no one has seen that, he went over to you still smelling like champagne and sweat. 

“I hate to break it to you, babe, but you really need a shower”, you greeted him. 

“Shut up and give me a hug”, Oscar mumbled as he stepped forward to wrap his arms around you. 

“Yes, you big baby”, you said hugging him back and patting his back over the race suit which was drenched in champagne. 

You scrunched you nose. “Osc. I really really love you but can you please take a shower and change? You are smelly. And wet. And I know the champagne is amazing bc you know you won but it is also just gross…”

”Okayyy…”, Oscar sighed. “But remember my reward, yeah?”

You nodded and gave him another pat to his back to get him to leave for a shower. He left you standing there wondering what you could reward him with. You knew he would be happy with a night full of sex but you wanted to give him something else. Something more meaningful. You just had no idea what. Until it hit you. Something simple. But you were excited to see his face when you would give it to him. 

You sprinted to a small stand where the fans could buy merch and other stuff. You bought what you were looking for before running back to wait for Oscar in front of his driver’s room. 

Only a couple minutes later the door opened and Oscar, now in jeans and a McLaren hoodie, was standing in front of you.

”So? You got my reward?”, he asked, smirking as he leaned down to kiss you.

”Yes. I do. Close your eyes.”, you demanded. 

Oscar looked confused for a second before doing as you told him. You grabbed his hand and slipped something on his wrist. Oscar furrowed his brows trying to make out what it was.

”Ok, you can open your eyes again”, you said nervously. What if he thought it was stupid? What if he didn’t like it? But before you could overthink it Oscar opened his eyes and looked down at his wrist. 

An orange hair tie with a small charm of the chinese gp on it. 

“I’m sorry it is only something small and probably a little silly but you know when people are a couple and the girl gives her boyfriend a hair tie? We haven’t done that yet and I thought it might be cute like from now on you can just add the charms of races you won or so but if you don’t like it it is ok as well or-“

Oscar interrupted you by pressing a kiss on your lips.

”Shut up. It’s amazing, babe. Thank you”, he told you as you blushed. “Now to the reward I actually meant before…”

a/n: loved writing this and i hope you like it! pls continue sending requests i already got a few and am so happy about all of them <3 tags: @strawberryy-kiwii / @a-distantdreamer / @requiemforthepoets / @martygraciesversion381 / @l-vroom4 / @comicqlivy / @sid-is-gr8 / @picklesbuddy93 / @sadiemack9 / @f1fantasys / @cloud-55 / @sunny44 / @widow-cevans / @gigicisneros / @mbioooo0000 / @sinfully-yoursss / @bravo-delta-eccho / @rue-t / @mayax2o07 / @alexanderachillesisgay / @maviesamour / @suhchenjun / @pippyth3hippy / @sweate-r-weathe-r / @joannaln4 / @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy / @aleatorio1234 / @anayaverse 

[dewwshi]

The people demand more Minlach. ( please more we are desperate and your art of them is so good 🥺🥺🥺)

🫡

my beautiful yuri... sooo critical to me that minthara 1. fell first 2. fell harder. something abt the idea of this self-avowed villain being utterly and inexplicably smitten with the sweetest nicest golden retriever girl in the world

[hopepunk-humanity]

Hi! I am the anon who sent you an ask ages ago about wanting to take responsibility for my life despite not really believing in it. It's ok if you don't remember, but back then I sort of asked the question: Why should I be the one to do it if it's not my mess and no one else took responsibility for me?

I wanted to send an update. It's a funny thing. I still don't believe in it. I'm still not convinced why I should do it (despite doing it).

I don't have the strength to clean up for two - for myself and for those people who let things go slack and did not teach me. It's like I'm raising myself as my own kid. I'm working for two people here, and I really, really want to wallow in it and give up. And I don't want to hear about how others have it worse.

I hate every second of it. But do you know what? Every time the depression hits, or the freeze mode that keeps me paralyzed, or grief or apathy or fear or panic or rage - gosh, you should see the rage, my kitchen has dents all over from me throwing pots and pans around - ... I have turned all of that basically into "productive mode". Angry about lack of skills? Don't waste precious energy on destroying cups and cutlery. Reward yourself the hard way by turning that energy into doing the things for fun that you wished you could do. Cook yourself a wonderful meal instead, put serious effort into the seasoning and the ingredients and all that, because you haven't eaten all day. Turn that into a cooking lesson and prove yourself wrong because YOU taught you. Now you have taught yourself how to make a new dish. You're a little more of an expert now than you were before. And I don't do sacrificial shit for other people anymore. I do this for me. I give to others only what I have more than enough of. This is me healing me first.

This is how I do it with most things now. There are still huge blind spots, but in regard to many things that need solving, I have somehow managed to successfully install "fun productive mode" in auto-pilot, so to speak. It is immensely satisfying. I still don't understand. I still don't know who will make up for the lack of good things and for all the stuff I've suffered. I want justice. I want compensation. I want things to finally be well. But I'm in a better place than I was before.

And taking responsibility is working, whether I like it or not.

Also can't leave an ask without saying thanks again for you keeping this blog. It's humbling, and a real light out there!

That's amazing, what a great way to redirect those emotions. I'm so happy you're in a better place.

[siri-ike]

(TW: the bats keep getting more reasons to think Danny was being abused, and the clueless one is oblivious to how things look.) (Also, this danny is cis, but circumstances keep making him look trans)

"I can't, I have to go. He knows what I look like." Even Danny could hear how half-hearted his plea was.

"It's not like he'll be looking for you while it's raining." Bruce suggested. "The forecast said it should be over by 2 pm. Think you could stay till then?"

Danny looked outside. The rain really didn't look that bad. Not 4 more hours bad. But he also really wanted a shower and dry clothes. He couldn't think it over much before the baby started crying. He hadn't been able to feed it. It must have been just as uncomfortable as he was. "Do you have diapers?"

Through some witchcraft and not at all Danny's own hunger, he got tricked into eating the most delicious meal he's ever had. None of it was poisoned, drugged, or undead. Ten out of ten. Danny giggled to himself at the thought, earning a look from a weary looking older teenager. The look wasn't suspicious. It was more like confusion. The same look people give you when they're trying to remember your name and end up calling you Inviso-Bill. Danny hurriedly finished his plate and was about to run off, but that was when the old guy, Alfred, came back with the baby in a cloth diaper. He must have cleaned off the rest of the vat goop, too. Danny decided to stay a while longer. Just to make sure the baby settled in. After that, he's gone for sure.

Alfred tried feeding it, but the baby just kept slapping away at the food. Danny wasn't too surprised. This thing had probably never even seen food before. It finally managed a lucky slapp and got mushy something all over the man's clothes. "I say, this is no way to treat a butler."

"Alfred," the boy across the table spoke. "Do you have a baby with you?"

"The baby is real master Tim. Go to bed." He sounded exasperated.

"Ha, I always thought Dick would be the first to get some girl pregnant. But you Jason?"

"Master Daniel is our guest, master Jason is at his own apartment." Alfred sounded like a man holding in violence.

Danny stood up. "Can I try?" He walked over to the highchair, grabbed the plate of mush, put a small serving of it directly on the chairs' tray table, and a little swipe of it on the baby's nose.

The baby looked confused as all hell. It grabbed the handful of goo on its face and examined it. Then, gave it a little nibble. Make sure it's safe. Naturaly, the stuff on the table has to be taste tested, too. Both turned out to be food.

Danny wiped the food off his finger but hesitated to turn away. It's not like he's mad at the clone or anything. He can't be. That would be wrong. Vlad is the only villain. That's who he should be mad at. It didn't choose to be made.

"Alfred," Danny mumbled, looking down at the baby. What's the sex? He wanted to ask. He tried to ask. But he couldn't.

"The bathroom door locks, so does the bedroom door, and there are fresh clothes next to the bath." Nightwing rattled off, way too energetically. "The room is all yours. If you follow the blue ming vases, you'll get to the living room. I'll come back in an hour to check on you. Do not fall asleep in the bathtub." He sounded like he was speaking from experience.

As if he could be dumb enough to fall asleep in the bath.

He could have sat in that bath forever. It was so warm, Nightwing put some kind of salt in it or something, and it smelled so nice. It was even strong enough to overpower his natural sent of "sweaty with a hint of death." Danny let himself sink in. He relished in the feeling of warm soapy water in his hair. He touched it, and it almost felt like entire clumps of grime and grease came out. He lingered below the surface for a while, much longer than any living person could. He didn't care. He wanted to enjoy being caressed by the water. He took a cleansing breath and, oh, fuck, shit, dammit. He pulled himself up, coughing and wheezing.

The doorhandle wiggled. "Danny, are you ok?!" Nightwing yelled from the other side. Had it been an hour already? The key hole made clinking noises.

"I'm fine." He called back, embarrassed. He got out and wrapped the towel around himself. It was so warm and plush. And wide too. He had to put it all the way up to his armpits, and it still reached below his knees.

Nightwing got through the lock and burst in.

"Not much use in a lock if you can get in anyway."

Dick saw the choke marks around the boys eyes, bruises all over his arms, and one on his left calf. "Did you fall asleep?" Dick stared directly at a set of stitches on his right inner elbow and two near his collarbone.

"Uhm, yeah. I did. Guess I was more tired than I thought." Danny lied. He was tired, but ghosts don't really need to sleep. He regains energy by engaging with his obsessions. Which admittedly he hadn't been able to do in a while.

Dick didn't buy it for a second. He's led the Titans long enough to know a depressed teen when he sees one.

"Can I get dressed?" Danny wanted him out as fast as possible. Dick left the room, but Danny suspected he was standing right outside. He threw on the nice soft red pajama bottoms and the loose white t-shirt provided. He was proven right when he stepped out, and Nightwing was still there. It's like this guy expects him to try and escape or something. Which he will. As soon as the rain stops. Danny looked to the window at the clear sky. Uh, 5 more minutes. "Do you guys have a library or something?" Look, if he's ever going to see a super old astronomy book, it's gonna be now.

Dick was a little taken aback by the question. If anything, he thought the boy would want to sleep. "Sure, it's, ah, down the hallway. Just follow me."

The library was huge. Bigger even than the public library at home. It was reminiscent of the library from Beauty and the Beast. He hurried directly to the science section. High up on a wooden shelf, he spotted a leather book. No name, but he recognized the constellation embroidered on the spine. The Fornax constellation. It's not a flashy one, just a square, really. It doesn't matter. Space is space. Danny would have just floated up there if he wasn't being watched. "I wanna see that one." He pointed twenty feet up. "Is there a ladder around here?"

Dick simply climbed up the shelves and brought the giant book down with him. He's the reason Bruce had the shelves reinforced. He's also the reason all the chandeliers are reinforced. This thing had to weigh a solid 20 pounds. He walked past Danny and placed it directly on a table with a thudd.

Danny eagerly blew on the cover, revealing a name in caligraphy. 30 more minutes can't hurt.

Danny looked so excited about the book that Dick decided to leave him alone in there. He needed to check in with the others anyway.

Bruce sat in his office/meeting room, the one he uses whenever the police visit. On his desk were two sets of adoption papers, from the bottom right drawer. One was practically filled out with all of Danny's information, but the other was mostly blank. Not counting Bruce's information, which is prefilled in on most of them. "Can you tell me when you were born?" He said in a soft jokey tone. The baby was more preoccupied with a baby book. "No? How about a name? Never had to pick a name before." He'd have to wait for Danny to wake up to awnser the rest. For the time being, he was fully content with canceling all of today's plans and baby proofing the mansion. "Who's there?" He pointed to the door, still in a baby voice.

Dick stopped hlering and came in.

"Danny asleep yet?"

"No, he's at the library, reading some book about stars. Look, B, I'm not sure how much we can leave him alone. He tried to drown himself in the bath."

"Are you sure?" Bruce raised an eyebrow. A purposeful movement. He's perfectly capable of keeping his face stoic.

"Pretty sure." Nightwing looked down.

"And he's in the library alone?"

"Dami's in the library, too. He's there all the time now."

"He started Journey to the west. He says they shouldn't be removed from the set."

"Did you put down a name yet?"

"No, I'll try to get one out of the boy. He'll stay if we get him attached."

"I was thinking the same thing, but in less creepy words."

The library was unusually cold for such a lavish mansion. Danny could even see his breath. He felt his eyelids get heavier with each page turned. The book smelled like dust, and his arms were reluctant to move. With a lot of effort, he turned one more page. The Fornax Constellation. Finally. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He had, to, find the, zztar, the right zzstazzz. Zzzz.

Damian stared at the stranger in his house. In his library. That Grayson had just invited in. And he dared fall asleep with his head in a 300 year old book?

He moved silently in order to rescue the book from potential drool and guaranteed skin oils and wet hair. He slid the book across the table and pulled out his cellphone.

"Father. Why is there a stranger snoring in the library?"

"This trespass will not be tolerated."

"That does not excuse such heathenus behavior."

"Some astronomy book. The over appears from the 17th century."

Damian huffed over to the book and looked at the cover. "There's no name. Just some gears and stars burned into the leather."

"Then remove him, and discuss it in the evening."

Damian hung up and sneered at the boy. It's, too warm in here, for condensation.

It didn't take long for Nightwing to return.

"Expect him to put up a fight?" Damian commented.

Nightwing looked confused, and then he looked down at his full gear. "I didn't have time to change." He looked over to Danny. "Did you talk to him?"

"Yes, Grayson. The first thing I do when I spot an intruder is have a pleasant conversation."

Damian has a way of testing Dicks patients. He picked Danny up with very little effort and carried him out. He felt cold. The room wasn't cold. He just took a warm bath. His clothes are dry. And yet his breath was visible, and his skin was freezing.

Nightwing carefully set Danny down in his bed and put a thermometer in his mouth.

*crack*

"What are you doing?!"

Danny kept chewing as he opened his eyes. There was a sudden hand in his mouth.

"Spit it out!"

He lazily stuck out his tongue, letting some shards fall. He swallowed and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt someone pick him up and start running. "Whas goion?" He slurred and tried to push against- wait. Tall, able to carry him easily, dressed in dark colors, the widest chest? "Vlad?" He found him. He cought him. And now he can get to the baby, too. How could he have been so stupid? He should have left forever ago. He pushed harder, this time turning a little intangible.

They both fell to the ground. Nightwing got up as fast as he could, but Danny was gone. There wasn't so much as a trace.

After the Nasty Burger incident, Danny went to live with Vlad under the promise that he would change. And he did, for all of two months before Danny discovered a secret basement full of clones. All except one of them were unstable.

Thoroughly betrayed, Danny takes the one stable clone and puts the rest of them out of their misery. Then he heads to Gotham where the local billionaire has a habit of taking in black hair blued eyed orphans. Fight fire with fire right? Or in this case money with money.

[eggfriedricedwasian]

Duke comes home one day from school looking down in the dumps and a bunch of paper work.

"Hey Duke, what's all that paper work for?" Dick asks from the couch as Duke sets the foot tall pile of papers on the coffee table.

"Oh you know, just, bullies making me do their work." The whole room freezes.

Bullies?

"Duke, you're being bullied?" Duke seems to realize his mistake of words. Instead of the excuse he made up to tell them about how he missed a lot of work because of Signal work, he said the truth which was the fact that he had bullies.

"Erm-"

"Duke, why didn't you tell us?" Dick nearly whines out, hurt his foster-brother didn't tell him about having bullies.

"No- guys, it's okay. Seriously. You don't have to do anything about it. Seriously." He eyes Bruce from where the man was about to type in *probably* the school's number to complain.

"Why not? We can deal with those punks for you. Are they being racist or some'n?" Jason crosses his arms, standing in front of Duke with a raised brow.

"A little. But seriously, it's nothing I can't handle."

Bruce rubs his temple.

"Are you sure? Are you sure you can handle this?"

"Yes."

"Thomas, just know, we can step in whenever." Duke turns a smile towards Damian, and places his hand on Cass's when she hugs him from behind.

"Hey- it's the weekend. Let me handle those papers since I've got nothing to do and I'm ban from case work." Tim says, holding his hand out.

"Uh- okay?" Duke hands him the stack, thinking nothing of it, because it's Tim.

Tim takes a look through the papers, scrunching his face a bit before shrugging, a smirk appearing on his face.

"Uh- should I be worried?" Tim looks at him and waves him off. "Nah, don't worry 'bout it. I got this handled."

Uh. Okay?

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

The following Monday, Duke shows up and puts his stuff in his locker.

Or at least he was until it was slammed shut.

"Hey Thomas. Got our work?" Turning around, Duke faced his three bullies; seniors Clint Rodriguez (the "big dog" as he called himself) and his lackies, Arion Centry and Pete Swinez.

"N-No.."

"No? Where is it, bitch? I told you to have it done by Monday." Rodriguez held him up to the locker. "Oh you mean these papers?"

Turning around, there stood Timothy Drake-Wayne; two three time nepo-baby and the biggest reputation in the school. The real life Regina George and Heather Chandler. He was with his two best friends, also big popular kids and his two Gretchen Wieners, Karen Smith, and Heathers.

"Drake." The mere face of him made the trio seethe. "Hah! You should see your face right now. Anyways, I did your college essays for you, hope you enjoy them. Would be a shame if you had to repurchase the papers for them."

Tim tosses them in the air, and everyone watches as they all fall to the ground.

"What the hell did you do."

"Oh, ya know, the basics of what you should put. Also, this your girl?" A girl, a cheerleader, goes and slides herself under Tim's arm.

"Babe!?"

"Sorry, Clint, but I have a reputation, people can't know we dated. Also, Tim's better looking and a better kisser." Morgan Letto, another popular nepo-baby in Gotham High, turns and kisses Tim right in the hallway, before stalking off.

Tim's trio laughs at their faces.

"Hey! You should probably pick these up, ya know, since they have your names on them. Wouldn't want to get sent to the principles for littering the school. Bad reputation means you can't go to Princeton." Bernard says.

"Or Oxford, or Harvard. See ya losers!" Ives laughs along with Bernard and Tim as they walk through the halls.

As if a bomb dropped, the three seniors scramble to pick up hundreds of papers worth of applications.

" "I'm racist towards black people because they're below white people like me" " Someone reads off of one paper down the hall.

" "I use grades that aren't mine that I bully people into doing for me." " Another person reads nearby.

"Give me those!"

Duke is left standing there, struck by the scene that just unfolded before his eyes.

He didn't know what to say, do, or act.

Should he laugh? Play it off? Call Bruce? Or Tim? Or anyone? Get picked up?

It's fine. It's just one day. Right?

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

Lunch time rolls around.

Duke is sitting at his table with his friends eating. They were prime targets for Clint and his group.

As if on cue, the three stride up.

"Hey Thomas, got Tim Drake to do your work for you, huh? Well guess what?"

He was spun around and picked up by the collar, his two friends being held back by Arion and Pete.

"You ain't getting away with it here." Clint grits out. Of course he chose the cafeteria, the pretty much only place teachers don't monitor 24/7 and is void of any supervision, even with every grade in there for lunch.

Clint set Duke down and lined his fist up ready to punch him. Duke flinched as the fist came swinging.

"Hey loser!"

Cheers and shocked 'Oooh!'s were heard from around. He squinted one eye open and saw food fall from Clint's red face and a tray in Tim's right hand.

"Woops! Sorry! Guess my hand slipped!" That got a laugh from the crowd. Tim set the tray down and pat Duke's should before stalking towards Clint.

Duke saw behind them at the far wall where everyone could see Ives and Bernard setting three trays of food down (The senior trio's trays).

"You'll pay for that, Drake!" Clint took a swing, which Tim dodged easily and side sweeped him onto his knees.

Ives and Bernard did the same to Arion and Pete.

The three took the seniors by the hair and dragged them to the trays the two laid out previously.

Cameras went up and Duke watched in muted awe and terror at what Tim was doing. Was Tim really like this when he still went to high school? He was a junior now and he dropped out sophomore year? Was he like this as a freshman?

The three pushed the seniors faces into the trays.

"Since you're the big dog maybe you should eat like a real dog then, bitch. Here's some kibble. Dogs enjoy this one!" Tim poured dog kibble onto Clint's tray, seeing as his face turns redder and shows more humiliation than he's ever seen on anyone.

"Eat it, bitch! Like the dog you are! Or start barking and begging for forgiveness!" Tim says it through his teeth in such a grueling tone it sends shivers down Duke's spine.

"Hey Arion! If you actually did your work, you'd know that your name is a horse in Greek Myth. So maybe you should neigh like one too! Neigh, neigh. Get to eating horsey! You should start prancing for the rodeo. Giddey'yup!" Ives mocks him pushing his head into the tray over and over.

"Swinez? More like Swine-ez! Oink-oink! You stink like a pig. And you're eating like one too! Ewwww! Disgusting. Hahahahhaha!" Bernard's name change made the whole cafeteria roar in laughter.

What made the laughter stronger was when the three brought out collars with leashes and attached them to it.

"Come boys! Start walking like the animals you are!" Tim called, pulling on Clint's leash, dragging him mostly until Clint got up and started crawling in front of him.

Everytime they tried to get up, the three juniors were behind them to push them down to the ground again.

Almost everyone was recording.

"Look everyone! Look at our new pets!" Ives called out.

"If you know any better, you three better keep your collars on. You should better than to make your owners mad!" Bernard barked out a laugh.

"I think, you guys should start speaking in woofs, neighs, and oinks from now on. Especially, when we make you ask forgiveness to those you bullied." Tim said, grabbing the collar and forcing Clint to look at Duke.

The bell rang, lucky for those three.

"Woops! Looks like the fun's over! You better clean up for mess! Wouldn't want to make the janitors work more." Tim walked off. "Or look like complete idiots with all that gunk on your face." Bernard said as he and Ives followed Tim.

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

Later, when Duke got home, he was silent. Bruce was silent too, despite him being the one Duke expected to ask about the bullies since he slipped up and told them.

"Hey Duke, how was school? Did they mess with you again?" Dick asked.

He looked at him, then at the rest of his siblings, noting Tim wasn't there, swallowed and shook his head.

"N-Not really."

"Not really?" Jason looked confused, as did the rest of them.

Before Duke could explain more, Tim came in laughing, tossing his bag on a couch before hopping on Bruce's arm rest.

"Bruce! You won't believe what I did today." Bruce looked at him and smirked. Smirked.

Tim relayed the entire story of what he, Bernard, and Ives did to Clint, Arion, and Pete. Bruce looked proud and the rest looked shocked.

"My reputation still stands even after I've been gone a year!" Tim seemed very proud of that.

"Atta boy!" Bruce ruffled his hair. "Yes, here's the tray of cookies you were promised all to yourself, master Tim." Alfred handed him a whole plate of cookies. "Thank you!"

"What!?"

"Hold on! He gets a whole plate of cookies for that? Why isn't he in trouble!? When did you enroll back?" Jason was beyond furious.

"Tim had a reputation in school for being like that towards bullies. Which is why no one bullied anyone with him around. Guess they all came back when he was gone. Duke didn't want us doing anything, and he didn't expect Tim to do anything because you all think he's a goody two shoes, so I sent my calvary in." Bruce explained.

Tim laughed at their faces.

"Oh please! I'm just getting started with them! Just wait till the end of the week. Then! I'll be done with them and they won't ever come back to the school."

[sexlapis]

ur so right about cecil being a 'life hard, titty soft' kinda man, also thanks for the reblog omg?? i love your cecil stuff. Would u wanna do some headcanons on Cecil playing with yn's nipples? like pullin n tuggin,, i just know he's into nipple play, i just KNOW it. my guy for suuure has those clamps that are connected by a chain, i can smell it a mile away

TYSM i always love reading your reblogs to my cecil fanfics, they literally make me do backflips i appreciate it so so much <3333

and yes. cece is a tits guy. no matter the size, no matter the gender. i feel like only people with more personal Problems prefer tits over ass and that’s definitely cecil🎀.

i know you said only hcs abt him playing with nipples but…i just did a whole nsfw hc list 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

cecil steadman ns4w headcanons

ns4w. gn!reader. no pronouns mentioned. smut. nipple play. cecil being old.

a/n: the obsession i have for this guy is so lame ;(

masterlist

*

cecil & tits

ꨄ︎ okay, first of all, cecil loves tits.

ꨄ︎ man woman big small he loves them.

ꨄ︎ “life hard, titty soft” is his deal. his job is stressful, most of the people who work under him don’t even like him. the only light in his life is you and, yes, your tits.

ꨄ︎ he would spend a lot of them with them during foreplay.

ꨄ︎ he’d like to cup them both in his hands and run his thumbs in circles around your nipples, getting them sensitive and hard. he loves how responsive they are, how responsive you are and how something so small can make you feel so much.

ꨄ︎ i think he prefers touching and playing with your nipples over putting them in his mouth (though he would never say no to that)

ꨄ︎ cecil likes to feel your nipples harden under his touch, feel how malleable the erect flesh is, see the goosebumps ripple across the skin of your chest - he just loves it, they’re such a beautiful part of the body, especially on you.

ꨄ︎ sometimes he’ll also just rest his face on your chest - they’re just so warm and it feels so comforting on his skin.

ꨄ︎ if you wear any form fitting clothing or your nipples are leaking through your shirt, cecil is looking. he’d try to be discreet, try not to make his admiration so obvious, but the blush on his cheeks gives him away.

ꨄ︎ how pathetic is it that you make him so easy?

ꨄ︎ i don’t think cecil is too much of a kinky person, but with enough convincing…maybe you get him to let you wear nipple clamps. not the crazy extreme ones though

ꨄ︎ cecil likes the clamps more than he wants to admit - loves how erect your nipples get and how quickly and easily you can cum with them on. likes to flick and twist your nipples with them on just to get a strong reaction (which he does).

ꨄ︎ the clamps aren’t used often but when they are it’s always a treat.

ꨄ︎ nipple clamps + cecil’s fingers = heaven.

*

general ns4w headcanons

ꨄ︎ i think he would have a moderate amount of experience, leaning to the lesser side.

ꨄ︎ cecil doesn’t seem like the type of guy to just have sex with anyone, but i think he would’ve had a fling here or there, but nothing serious due to the nature of his job.

ꨄ︎ cecil is not a patient man. of course he does all the foreplay, it can even last a long time (he’s old-fashioned like that), but that doesn’t mean he’s not dying to get onto the main event.

ꨄ︎ due to that fact, i feel like he can get quite…rough.

ꨄ︎ like accidentally ripping your clothes, gripping onto parts of your body so tightly that they bruise, dragging you closer to him, kissing you so harshly it leaves you gasping, thrusting hard.

ꨄ︎ he prefers to be dominant most of the time. and whether he is dominant or it is one of his rare moments of submission, cecil is always in control.

ꨄ︎ he is a control freak. he needs to control much to his own detriment and he wants to control you - in bed at least.

ꨄ︎ he can be very bossy.

ꨄ︎ “take this off” “turn around” “get on your hands and knees. now”

ꨄ︎ sometimes doesn’t even ask. he will just manhandle you into the position he wants, grab your chin to have you face him etc.

ꨄ︎ sometimes not even a simple “please”.

ꨄ︎ bossy, impatient, rough, controlling…that’s cecil.

ꨄ︎ favourite position is to fuck sideways. from behind or face-to-face. he likes to feel close and be able to see every little expression on your face much to your embarrassment.

ꨄ︎ i think he’d talk quite a bit. cecil likes to run his mouth, sometimes too much and i think that trait of his would transfer to the bedroom as well.

ꨄ︎ he wouldn’t strangle or hit you. maybe he’d slap your ass but actual violence enough to make you bleed or cause injury? nope. he sees too much violence in his job. he wouldn’t want to see you like that.

ꨄ︎ but he would wrap a hand around your neck - maybe when you’re both making out or while he’s thrusting into you - just as a reminder of who’s in control right now.

ꨄ︎ loves blowjobs - cecil likes giving you head but god he loves when you give him blowjobs. he loves guiding you by head, caressing your cheek with his thumb, wiping away tears and your hair away from your face and most of all, your teary eyes looking up at him as you give him all the pleasure in the world.

ꨄ︎ wouldn’t facefuck you - he’s impatient but not that impatient. he wants to see you do all the work in this regard. it’s much more rewarding to him that way.

ꨄ︎ likes to see you stick your tongue out so he can cum on it, and stick your tongue out after you’ve swallowed it all. he doesn’t like mess.

ꨄ︎ he’s average in terms of length by the way. his girth? god help you. he’s so thick. so, so thick. stretches you out every time.

ꨄ︎ his ears and bald head get stupidly red during sex. it’s really funny.

ꨄ︎ cecil’s old. his stamina isn’t crazy, after he cums he’s pretty much done, which is why he holds off for as long as he can so he can give you as much pleasure as he is able to.

ꨄ︎ complains about his knees, hip and back if he’s been in a position for too long. will have you get on top to ride him to completion.

ꨄ︎ is surprisingly gentle after sex. he will clean you up, wipe the sweat from your face and kiss you on the forehead.

ꨄ︎ he will lay with you afterwards - maybe no cuddle but he wouldn’t just leave you right after.

ꨄ︎ will watch you go to sleep before he leaves (if he decides to). kinda creepy, but he doesn’t sleep so what else is he supposed to do. leaves a note or something before leaving.

*

૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

[eemamminy-art]

oh the drawing you made of your farmer two hours ago oh my god so cute and sweet I’m the same dude who sent a anon about Alex listen man your art is so good they both look so fucking like pretty and and bro like I wanna like cup their faces and just fawn over them both your art is damn good

This took way longer than I wanted it to, but I finished up something I started a couple of weeks ago to put into this reply! 🥺 Thank you so much, I'm so happy you like them and also my art!!! 😭💛💛

They're just two guys who suffered a lot and now they're healing and finding themselves with each other!! Holy shit they're just like me fr 😭 They're a really good outlet for me, I've been working out a lot of my stuff through them and finding a lot of joy in drawing and writing them, like they're just really special to me!! 🥺 I never really expected anyone to care about my OC or what I'm doing with him so it's really blown me away how much people have been supportive of both him and also me!

Thank you for not only this message, but all your other ones too! 🥺 People don't really reach out on tumblr so much these days, but it goes a long way when people do! So please know that your asks meant a lot to me!! 💛💛

[buckevantommy]

bucktommy ghost au! 👻🫀🧑‍🚒

Tommy dies in that gas explosion; Howie gets him out but it's too late. Meanwhile across the country, young Buck crashes his motorcycle and gets more than a broken arm: he needs a new heart. Fortunately there's a match in LA.

So young Buck gets Tommy's transplant heart, and during recovery is where he finally finds some direction in life.

option 1: Buck learns all about his donor and decides to become a firefighter too, wants to help save people.

option 2: Buck ends up in LA training to be a firefighter all on his own. It's only when he joins the 118 that he realises his donor worked there too.

(i prefer option 2, so more on that..) Buck learns all he can about Tommy, learns as much as he can from Chim and those who knew him, meets Sal.. and people ask why he's so interested and Buck lies through his teeth. He can't explain how he feels connected to Tommy, like he was meant to be a firefighter because Tommy was. Can't explain why he took art classes and a workshop on jeep maintenance and developed a taste for a particular brand of craft beer. He's never been a movie guy but he watches a few romcoms and feells things he's never felt before.

Buck visits Tommy's old house - now up for sale but struggling in this economy, plus there was a bad storm that caused damage and they're waiting to get repairs. So Buck squats in Tommy's old house for a few weeks.

And then he starts seeing him.

It starts after everything goes to shit: losing a victim, the thing with his therapist, a first responder stalking him.. Tommy appears when Buck feels more alone than he's ever been despite being surrounded by people and having a great team and captain.

It's not the first time he sees Tommy, he just didn't remember it until now. Tommy was there in his hospital room when Buck woke up from surgery, a figure in the room, and beyond the glass. He was there his first day at the 118, just another blue shirt among the rest, in the background. He was there the night Buck lost his first victim, sad eyes in turnouts on the tarmac.

And he's here, now: in his old house looking right at Buck. It's the closest he's ever been and Buck is now sure it's Tommy. They talk for the first time, but it's mostly Buck doing the talking. Tommy doesn't say much. He seems confused, and when Buck gently explains that he's dead he witnesses a bit of bitchy Tommy for the first time, too. Tommy knows he's dead, what he can't figure out is why he's still.. around.

note: eventually there's the reveal that Buck can see ghosts - but Tommy is the first. Maddie has the stronger sense. There's also the reveal about Daniel but that's all background stuff.

[suteflower]

Sute, now that you’ve admitted Denii has helped you with a lot of your conversions, how come you never credited her or anyone else who’s helped you? People have been saying for a while that your conversions are broken because you didn’t actually know how to fix them yourself—were you just posting other people’s work this whole time? If that’s the case, do you think it’s fair to take commissions when you needed others to help fix your stuff?

Okay, help doesn't always mean someone doing something for you, but rather helping you by teaching you how to solve the problem. That's what Denii helps me with: she teaches me how to solve the problem, and if I ask for help with something, it's usually something that's hard to solve, even for someone who already has experience. Do you really think that if I did that and didn't give credit, Denii would still be so calm? Whenever someone helps me with more than just showing me how to solve something, I put the credits in the thumbnail of the content, or if it's an object, I'll mention it in the description. One example is the dress I converted and @deniisu helped me with the sleeve of the dress. Some dresses that I converted and haven't released yet also have credits for those who helped me!

When I started the requests, I really wasn't that good and I didn't know half of what I know today, but I always made it clear, if you talk to people who have already asked me and look at the conversations, whenever something goes wrong or I can't make it perfect, I explain the situation to the person. It's up to them to decide if they want to ask for something else or if they don't care about the content having this small error. Another very important thing is that I always say if my content has an error, PLEASE TELL ME, it may take me a while to fix it, but I'll save it for when I have time and I WILL FIX IT!!!

People ask, knowing the quality of my conversion, I myself know that my content is not perfect and I accept this problem and always try to improve.

[strangebiology]

So I understand that it is extremely difficult to know which type of fur is more ethical/sustainable/less damaging to the environment due to bias coming from basically all sides of the discussion, however, what would you recommend for consumption of fur products? Do you have any "best practices" for trying to reduce one's impact in general? I rarely buy fur, I mostly get it second or third hand if I get it at all and use scraps and such as much as possible. Overall I'm not a big consumer, but if I need fur for crafts or something similar, do you have recommendations on how to cause the least harm? Thank you for your contribution to the overall discussion. I think this is important.

Thank you for asking openly! Unfortunately I don't have a clear answer, except #1 below:

The one you have I feel confident that "the most sustainable coat/car/whatever is the one you already own." But, obviously, sometimes you need a new one.

Thrifting Second to that, I figure thrifting is probably best. Or making sure you take what you want when Grandma dies and you clean out her house. Logically, thrifting either one--whichever you find that fits you and your needs--should have a fairly minimal impact. And there are tons of clothes out there that are just about to hit the landfill. (Nice coats, though? Might be a little harder. Probably not too hard.) There could be issues with second-hand stuff, of course. I read in The Scavenger's Manifesto that there was a time when vintage clothes were so popular that demand outstripped supply, and companies just started manufacturing vintage-like clothes. I could imagine a world in which items become so commonly thrifted that it's close to the same price to just buy something new, and that props up the new-product industry. I wonder if Poshmark is popular enough that people are just shipping clothes around and polluting via transportation without really wearing them enough, but all in all, I think second-hand is probably second-best (to the one you already own.)

More sustainable real fur options? I did profile someone who had a roadkill-fur business. But: a simple fox-fur ruff for your coat was thousands of dollars because the economies of scale weren't there, and the company went out of business anyway. If you know and trust someone or can do something like that yourself, great! But that's not a really accessible option for the average American.

More sustainable faux fur options? Not all faux fur is made of microplastics, companies like GACHA and Savian. But...I don't really know how accessible those are, nor have I seen environmental assessments on them.

Sooo...honestly I won't judge what you buy or wear. I'll say that second-hand anything is probably very low-impact, sustainably.

I have to admit there are reasons to buy new. If you buy something on clearance, is it possible you're saving that from a landfill, too?

Once, I spent a whole bunch of Saturdays in a row biking around to garage sales, trying to get a second-hand lamp. So many hours wasted. I found a dirty one for $10 and couldn't get it home on my bike. One weekend my roommate took me in her big car to Walmart and we got a new lamp in a box for $7. No shopping around, no hoping to get lucky, just "there it is, and I can return it if it doesn't work." So...while secondhand is almost certainly more sustainable, I also won't blame anyone who wants to just buy new.

Another sustainability thing: I also recommend trying to ensure your coat fits your parameters really well, like your size, do you want hoods and pockets, do you think it looks good, so you don't get in the habit of stuffing it in your back closet because you don't like it and buying another.

Sorry I don't have a simple answer!

EDIT: I now realize I have written this as though Anon was asking about a coat, but their ask is more about crafts. Uuuuuuummmm gosh, I don't know. Faux fur can be so much cheaper and easier to find than real. And not everyone has a thrift store nearby. I know I don't, except that little store that sells used things for 150% of the new price. If I was doing a craft...I'd probably start with the fur someone gave me for free and then if I needed more I'd probably just order faux so I don't have to drive 150 miles to risk it at a thrift.

[will1survive]

Personally, I believe a service dog would help this. At least for me - but there's only like 5 people that can train dogs to look for sleep attacks narcolepsy. So inevitably, it's like $20,000 for service dog. My hope is that i can speak to charities about the dogs they train and ask if its possible for a dog to be trained in multiple areas.

But also - many service dogs for things like autism are trained to find the nearest exit (helpful for fatigue because you want to do the least amount of strenous activity possible), they can also be trained to find the nearest seat, a quiet area etc. (A place where it's safer for you to fall asleep or let the drowsiness pass). And when do you have a sleep attack in public/end up sitting on the floor, the service dog would be able to sit with you and make sure nobody approaches you.

That would be IMMENSELY helpful for brain fog/drowsiness because it's terrifying to essentially lose all autonomy in a public place AND be completely aware of what's happening as is the case during some narcoleptic sleep attacks. Also, it's SO MUCH more exhausting to have to constantly be prepared for falling asleep or being drowsy - which, of course, doesn't help the feeling that your brain is asleep whilst your body stays awake.

AND!!! the service animal could help with tasks that I often can't do/don't have the energy to do, such as laundry, putting stuff away or fetching items - which are typically tasks preformed by service dogs for many conditions.

Finally, I personally experience cataplexy in the form of a full body collapse, but these are rare enough I wouldn't need to consider a service dog to assist with that. However, I know many people who do experience cataplexy as buckling at knees or anything that makes you vulnerable to falling, a service dog would be able to alert someone you have fallen when you may not be able to.

Not to mention that Narcolepsy is often a comorbidity of conditions such as POTS, CFS, Fibromyalgia, (and other chronic pain conditons have also been identified but im unable to find the specific ones) and Agoraphobia (possibly due to the fear of falling asleep or being incredibly drowsy in public and the assumptions people may make because of it).

being a person who sleeps a lot and can fall asleep in pretty much any situation makes you super vulnerable, and it’s terrifying. even just being very tired/sleepy without actually falling asleep is a very vulnerable position. be nice to sleepy people.

[walkingstackofbooks]

Write more Ezri x Julian and don’t undermine the female character this time plz

This message seems to be lacking in basic politeness. However, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt here and assume that you haven't realised how rude this, so here's an explanation of what went wrong, in case you'd like to try again ❤️

"Write more Ezri X Julian":

Even taken on its own, this is a demand, not a request. I write what I enjoy, for fun, and hope that other people will like it when I share it - I don't owe it to anyone to write what they want. If you'd like to avoid being rude to fanfic writers in the future, I'd suggest a question such as: "Do you have plans to write any more [X]? I've loved all your other [X] stories!"

"and don't undermine the female character":

A few things here:

Again, this is a demand.

It's also unsolicited criticism, which is always rude in this context.

If you don't enjoy someone's writing, the polite thing to do is to not read it: telling someone to change their writing for you is not the way forward.

I'm pretty unapologetic about the fact that Julian's my main man - all the other characters, of any gender, are going to be secondary to him. I do try to make all my characters as three dimensional as possible, because that's enjoyable - but in most of my fics, they are also going to serve as vessels with which to bring Julian hurt or comfort, or lenses through which he's being viewed. That's simply what I find fun to write: again, if it's not fun for you, you don't have to read my fic.

"and don't undermine the female character this time":

My friend, I do not know to which previous time you're referring! (I'm assuming this one, but I have no way of knowing if I'm right.) If you were genuinely trying to engage with me in good faith, I'd appreciate it if you actually gave me some details! I might still disagree with your assessment, but as it is, I have no idea how you've determined that I undermined Ezri, and even if I were inclined to write another Jezri thing right now, I wouldn't have a clue if it was going to live up to your standards.

If you'd like to avoid being rude to writers in the future, I'd suggest a friendly, non-judgemental phrasing such as: "I really enjoyed [A] part of the story! Do you mind if I ask why you decided to write Ezri in [specific description] way? It read to me as somewhat undermining her character, and I'm curious why you made that choice."

--

I genuinely don't know what your intention was with this message, but if you were honestly hoping I'd "write more Jezri without undermining Ezri", then I hope you can understand why your message wasn't very persuasive.

In summary - and this goes for anyone engaging with fanfic writers in the hopes that they'll write more of the stuff you like - then:

Tell them what you enjoyed about their previous stuff! A request for more fic is not a compliment on its own - if you liked something so much that you're asking for more, it's also on you to explain what you liked before.

Ask them if they have plans to, or if they'd consider writing more. Don't tell them to. Don't demand it.

Accept before you ask that their answer might very well be "no".

If you didn't like their fic, then don't ask for them to write something different, and don't send in critcisms. Their stuff just isn't for you.

Read back whatever you're planning to send to check that it sounds friendly! If you're unsure, check in with a friend.

If you'd like to reword your message in a way that would allow me to give you whatever reply you were hoping for, then go for it. I'd be happy to hear from you if you're engaging in good faith. Just keep in mind that I'm a human person playing with fictional characters for fun, and you'll be golden :)