#like you can make them so complex if you want to

[batbetbitbotbut]

Low space & low budget weaving

Want to weave but don't have space for a loom? Have a few sticks and yarns but no DIY skills? Come, be tempted anyway. Weaving is a whole family of crafts, some of which don't require a loom at all.

Small-ish looms like box looms (as basic as yarn wrapped around a cardboard grocery tray), inkle looms, and rigid heddle looms exist, but I'm assuming every possible space for a box in your life is already filled. In this post we're going even smaller and cheaper. As far as possible, everything either is flat enough to stow behind/under furniture or rolls up safely into a bundle of just sticks and yarn.

Many of these crafts have some crossover - the same setup can be used for multiple styles of weaving. Most of them can be improvised at home depending on what you have on hand, or if you need to buy something there is not a huge gulf between homemade vs professional equipment. Alas I am not skilled in any of these and my descriptions will not be wholly accurate; corrections and additions welcome! If you need help, I'd only be able to tell you to seek out books and tutorials yourself, ask other weavers, and just try stuff out.

All photos included with permission. My thanks to the people allowing me to use their projects! I saw so many gorgeous and skillful projects when assembling this and I wish I could have included them all.

Fingerweaving

Projects by @kitteniestkitten (here) and @wefty-weaver (here)

Culture - I am aware of this as a Native American technique, I don't know its history with any more specific tribe.

Fabric - "Warp faced" cloth of any width, insofar as warp and weft have meaning for this craft as the weaving is on a diagonal. Often used for sashes or blankets.

Method - There is no loom! A couple sticks hold the yarns to begin with, but then it is all freehand. Starting at one corner, you use your fingers to weave a strand through the other strands, and... that's it. Very simple beginnings work up to very complex patterns that no loom is capable of. The whole project can be rolled up when not active.

Backstrap loom

Projects by @calendae-creations (here) and @weavingforlooms (here)

Culture - I am most aware of this from the Andes but I think it is much more widespread than that.

Fabric - Warp faced or balanced fabric of any width up to your own reach, suitable for blankets and clothes and many other things.

Method - You are the loom! Several horizontal rods hold and manipulate the warp threads but your body provides the tension, with the other end hooked to some furniture or around your own feet. When not in use, you can roll up all the equipment into a small bundle of yarn and rods. You can also use a backstrap loom setup for other methods like tablet weaving.

Warp weighted loom

Projects by @shadowcreepling (here) and @doctormead (here)

Culture - used by ancient Greeks among many many others.

Fabric - any kind of fabric at any size. Shadowcreepling is using a warp weighted loom for a tablet-woven band, Doctormead is probably using heddle rods to make a wider piece of cloth.

Method - the warp threads are held by a bar at the top and tensioned with weights on one end that hang down towards the floor, then the weft is woven into them with any method such as tablets, heddle rods, or by hand (if you have a lot of patience) and beaten into firm fabric at the top or bottom of the loom. Warp weighted looms can be very big, but they are simple and can also be very small and taken apart when not actively weaving.

Tablet weaving / card weaving

Projects by @damage-ko (here) and @foxease (here, hardware from CellesKit on Etsy)

Culture - found as far apart as textiles (geographically and temporally) from Byzantine Egypt and the Vikings

Fabric - a warp faced fabric with patterns made by twining warp threads around each other, usually used for strong narrow bands like collars, belts, and shoelaces.

Method - the cards hold open the shed so you can pass the weft through, then rotate the cards to advance the pattern. Many people make their own with cardboard or playing cards, or you can buy some. The rest of the weaving setup can be improvised with a backstrap (or just a shower curtain hook clipped to your trousers), a cardboard box loom, or warp weights.

Rigid heddle band weaving

Projects by @pisaracraft (here) and @crookedtines (here)

Culture - small rigid heddles like the first project have been found in Roman archaeological sites across Europe. The larger rigid heddle in the second project is being used for "baltic pickup" style designs on the band.

Fabric - can be warp faced or a balanced weave, size limited by the size of your heddle.

Method - you provide tension with any setup you please such as an inkle loom, backstrap, or warp weights. The heddle creates sheds so that you can pass weft yarn through the warp easily. Infinitely many "pick-up patterns" let you weave patterns and even words into the cloth.

Pin loom / potholder loom

Projects by @pardalote (here) and @weavingmyheartout (here)

Fabric - a small square (or rectangle or triangle) of balanced weaving, which can be used alone or patched together into larger fabrics. Pin looms are finer and suitable for many knitting/crochet yarns, potholer looms are chunkier and designed for big elastics, but the method is similar.

Method - wind yarn lengthways around one set of pins and then pull yarn widthways through these strands with a hook. Or, work at 45 degrees in continuous strand weaving! Lots of room to experiment with colour and texture. You can improvise a pin loom by cutting notches in a square of sturdy cardboard.

Needle weaving / stick weaving / peg loom

Projects by @thaylepo (here) and @pastelispunx (here)

Fabric - weft-faced fabric and rugs of any size.

Method - thread long thin warp threads through the pegs, then wind a thick weft (eg heavier yarn, sheep fleece, or long scraps of fabric) around the pegs. Push the weft down along the pegs as they fill up, so that it slides off onto the warp. The pegs can be secured in a base to make a peg loom for large projects, or just handled freely. I believe these evolved as separate crafts and the nuances are different, but the overall method is similar.

Frame loom / tapestry loom

Projects by @squeakygeeky (here) and @battlestar-gasmacktica (here)

Fabric - weft-faced or balanced fabric ideal for wall hangings and upholstery, size limited to the frame being used.

Method - (usually) thinner warp threads are wound round a frame, such as heavy cardboard with notches cut in the end, a picture frame, or a small and flat purpose-made loom. Thicker weft threads are woven in by hand using needles or just small lengths of yarn. Some people make lifelike images, others make more ordinary fabrics or geometric patterns.

Bobbin lace

Projects by @crochetpiece (here) and @noxx-notions (here)

Culture - began in renaissance Italy and spread throughout Europe, often as a cottage industry.

Fabric - balanced fabric usually made of very thin threads in freeform shapes. It's not usually considered "weaving" but the basic cloth stitch is definitely a woven fabric!

Method - each thread is wound onto a bobbin (e.g. a clothespeg) and then bobbins are crossed over each other to weave threads together. The lace is pinned to a cushion to hold everything in place while the design grows.

[khymera2000]

I wonder if one could manage to make furry art that would be embraced by the general art world. Already artists like Oliver Laric used commisioned furry art in pieces displayed in museums. As he proved you dont even have to change or sanitize the art, just change the context, way its displayed and possibly medium and scale. So much furry art has as complex themes as any piece of "fine art" and so much art you see in museums is raw, deeply personal and sometimes sexual. You might ask "Why would you want furry art that apeals to the art world? Its a horrible hypercapitalist system and we have our own wonderful art community. " And yeah i agree to both of those points but Id just really like furry artists get the general recognition and appreciation they deserve as well as seeing how people will react and how will it challenge them? Connect to them? but even more so see what furry art can be when you give it a lot of reasorces and physical space. Imagine life size furry sculptures, huge paintings, experimental fursuits, multimedia art instalations all exploring ideas around identity and humans relation to animals and who knows what else!

Oliver Laric, ‘Untitled’, 2014/15 (still shown is a commissioned digital drawing by Aycee Harper)

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

71 / 2.1k / part 4 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

nsfw; dubcon, group sex, predator/prey dynamics, degradation, manhandling, sex while on substances. also monsterfucking and sex pollen if you squint.

...

You're not stupid. You know fur won't save you. Their hunt is sweeter for prey that changes skin.

You'll pay for this. And they intend to make you pay in more than just blood--they want your fear, your pleasure, your vulnerability. Everything you've refused them until now.

You run until you reach the ancient chapel in the middle of the woods. Right as you reach the empty space where the front doors used to be, enormous paws slam into your back. The henbane's power ebbs. Your palm bleeds where glass shards remain embedded. The cracked stone steps, laced with overgrown brambles, press cold on your naked skin. Gaz's paws dig into your back as they shift into clawed fingers. You hear Soap's approach, too--the way he shifts halfway from crow to human as he lands behind you. The half-beast shape sharpens the look of starvation and lust in his bright eyes.

Gaz's claws dig into your shoulders as he flips you onto your back. You writhe as Soap's hands close around your legs and pull you between him and Gaz. Your body is human, but adrenaline and henbane trap your mind partway between animal instinct and human nerves. Your body is hot and your cunt swells and glistens as their rough hands grip you, squeeze you, drag you away from the entrance of the holy sanctuary, and spread you open over the forest floor. The chapel's crumbling walls loom over you, moonlight slicing through broken stained glass to paint your naked skin in fractured colors. You were so close.

Soap's claws carve crescent moons into your hips. "Think you're clever, aye?" His hand wraps around your throat and presses his thumb to your frantic pulse. "Playin' games with us."

Gaz pins your wrists above your head, his catlike pupils blown wide. Henbane still clouds his movements. He watches Soap spread your thighs. "She's dripping for it. Nothing better than a chase to make rabbits want to fuck."

Soap licks a stripe up your thigh and chuckles against your skin. "Knew you wanted to be caught. Should've stayed a rabbit. Och, but this is better," he groans against your skin, cock already pressing against your leg. "Fightin' us even when you're fucked raw on poison. Perfect."

The henbane twists everything--their snarls into hymns, the pain of being chased and held down into a perverse sacrament. With Gaz holding your wrists above your head and Soap holding your thighs apart, you're completely exposed. Your heartbeat makes your skin warm, makes it flush, and you know they can see how wet it makes you. Both sets of eyes are glued to your cunt.

You buck uselessly as your human pride compels you to fight. Then rabbit-like instincts compel you to lay still. Your throat is ragged from the chase.

Soap laughs. He splays his hand over your lower belly, pins you there, and leans mouthwateringly close to your cunt. From above your head, Gaz leans over you upside-down and drags a messy, open-mouthed kiss up your sternum. "Poor creature."

"Should've known she'd like this. Witch with a martyr complex. Gets off on being punished."

"Could've let the villagers take you," Gaz croons. "Would've paid good coin to watch 'em try to torture our witch. Bet you'd rut against their stakes just to feel something."

You feel Soap's breathy chuckle against your core and jerk. He holds you fast. "Could've just tied her spreadeagle to the old tree, aye? Let the whole village watch us fuck her. Ghost can have first go."

"Now that's just cruel."

Their cruel words braid into praise in your henbane-fogged mind. Soap licks a hot stripe through your folds, and your back arches against your will. He chuckles again, breath fogging your wetness. "Think she'll come on my tongue before Price gets here? Five silver coins says she screams."

Gaz's free hand pulls your head back to expose your throat. "Ten says she bites like a hare."

You writhe, but Gaz's grip is iron. Soap's mouth seals over your clit and sucks hard enough to blur your vision. Your thighs tremble. The pleasure is a serrated knife sawing through your weak resistance.

"Fuckin' starved," Soap growls against your cunt. His fingers spread you wider to lap harder at your clenching hole.

They move in tandem. Soap's tongue fucks into you, long and relentless, while Gaz’s hand angles your face toward himself. Gaz laps at your mouth and the beads of sweat saturating your skin to take his fill. As Soap's claws dig into your hips, your body betrays you over and over--arching into their mouths, cunt and throat clenching around nothing. You writhe, but Soap pins you harder and harder with each lathe, grinding you against the moss until your thighs shake. The henbane amplifies every sensation--the drag of his tongue, the scrape of Gaz's stubble against your neck, the damp earth beneath you. Every rough touch ignites nerve endings you didn't know you had. Your vision blurs at the edges. Rabbit instincts scream for you to submit even as your hips lift greedily for more.

Gaz releases your hair to palm your breast. "Slow down, Soap. Price'll skin us if we don't leave some fresh."

Soap's obscene groans vibrate through your core. He pulls back, lips glistening. "Better get here faster if he wants some, then. Him and Ghost both."

You moan at the loss of contact. Your hips chase his mouth, and his self-restraint snaps.

"Nah, fuck 'em." He flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and pushes a finger inside you eagerly. Anything to get you wetter. "Let 'em hunt for themselves."

You're so high and dizzy, cheek pressed to the broken stone below, that it takes you a few seconds to notice when Gaz runs his hands up your arms, over your shoulders, and cups your jaw in his hands.

"Beg," he says softly. "Beg your servants to fuck you."

You whine as he lifts your front half up to kiss you. He practically cradles you in his arms--protective, but completely unyielding--and slips his tongue into your mouth to devour all he can.

You squirm and gasp around his tongue. The command surprises you enough that your humanity--your pride as a witch--surface over the instinct to submit. You sink your canines down on his invading tongue.

Gaz pulls back with a hiss. His eyes narrow and his pupils slit.

Soap laughs. "That's ten to you, then. Rabbits do bite, don't they?"

Gaz ignores him. His grip tightens around your jaw. He takes your mouth in another searing kiss that lasts until your lungs burn and you taste his blood in the back of your throat. He holds you captive there and enjoys the way Soap's finger-fucking forces your desperate moans into his mouth. Then he pulls back.

"Good rabbits," he growls, "know when to play dead."

Gaz's hand fists in your hair and yanks your head back. It forces a deeper arch into your back just as Soap slips a second finger into your cunt. You clench around the inclusion. God, it feels to good. You've been so careful, looked over your shoulder, smudged sage into every dark corner. So much tension, protecting yourself the way you need to, and nowhere to channel it. Even lying awake at night in your house, gritting your teeth and thumbing tight circles around your own clit, the release wasn't enough. Wasn't even practical. The animal in you never left; it only slept.

Soap's fingers curl inside you, calluses scraping your walls. He chuckles. "Greedy."

Gaz chuckles, too, at the sounds you're making. "Chatty."

Your back arches further as Soap adds a third finger. He stretches you ruthlessly. Gaz's other hand drifts down to circle your clit, fingers pressing hard enough to make your thighs twitch and shake.

"Look at her," Soap rasps. "Fightin' for more. Fuckin' made for this."

Ghost's howl rolls through the trees. A warped distortion of an owl's screech calls back in response.

"Price is coming," Gaz says.

Soap withdraws his fingers with a lewd schlick. He drags you upright and presses his chest against your back. "Better get our fill first, then."

Gaz spreads your legs wide. "Hold her open."

Soap grips your thighs as Gaz lines himself up. His cock drags through your slick--teasing at first, and then slow and rough with sudden hunger. You can't remember how to form words. Just as well--if you spoke, you'd only beg him to take you. So much for pride.

Then Price's shadow falls across all three of you. He descends from the trees as something resembling a screech owl--but larger, older, something that blurs your vision at the eddges with instinctive fear. But by the time he lands atop the leaf litter, his talons have already morphed into boots, and his enormous wingspan is gone.

"Having fun, boys?" Price's voice is venomously calm. "While I track our wayward witch through three miles of cursed thicket?"

Soap doesn't lift his eyes from his new view down your body. "Just securing the kill, Cap'n. Didn't you hear our signal?"

A lie. "Move."

Soap sighs and wipes his glistening chin. "That's five more coin."

He pulls away, but before he can withdraw--if he intended to at all, still eying you with hunger--Ghost is there. He grabs Soap by the neck and hurls him away as easily as a sack of cats. Soap skids across the moss, leaving furrows in the earth.

Ghost doesn't pause to see him react. He pins your hips down with a hand the size of your face. Gaz watches from above you with careful eyes as Ghost's claws divot your skin as he leans down. Gaz glances at Price, but wisely does not stand in the way.

Soap straightens up casually. "She's high as fuck on henbane, LT. Go easy."

The divots under Ghost's claws deepen. "No."

He replaces Soap's mouth with his own. The difference is immediate. Brutal. Where Soap languished, Ghost devours. His tongue spears into you, thick and unrelenting, fucking and scooping into your cunt with the same merciless rhythm a wolf would use to feed. You choke on a sob, heels digging into the loam.

Price's hand fists in Ghost's hair and yanks his head back. "Enough. She's not some tavern whore to be ruined before the main event."

Ghost licks your slick from his lips, gaze burning into yours. "Could be."

"Later." Price steps over you, boot between your splayed thighs. "Up. Now."

They haul you upright. Your legs buckle. Gaz catches you and bands his arm around your waist. You try to stand, leaning into him, but you're struggling to remember how. The sudden movement blurs your vision and your body aches from the chase and from the torment of pleasure still thrumming through your muscles.

The threshold of the church--holy ground--looms so close, still. Then, to your shock, Price crosses over that threshold. Right into the old hallowed church.

Your breath hitches. "How--?"

The chapel gives an echoing groan. "Sacrilege," Price mutters. He glances up at the half-collapsed rafters. "Good."

He turns, backlit by moonlight pouring through the broken windows. His shadow stretches long and strange across the altar. "You really thought a pile of crumbling stones could keep us out?" He taps the tattoo on his inner forearm--your mark, seared into his flesh the night you bound them. "We go where you go, darling. Even into God's own house."

Gaz's hand slides up your ribs and plucks at your nipple. "You're ours down to the marrow, love. Nowhere holy enough to change that. But we admire the effort. Running, hiding, getting us good and hungry." His too-sharp teeth graze the shell of your ear.

He pulls your head sideways to expose the scarred sigil behind your own ear. The one you branded there the night you summoned them.

Price unbuttons his coat. "You bound us. Fed us. Let our filth seep into your bones." His belt buckle clinks open. "Now you'll take your communion. Ghost," he commands. "The altar. Bind her."

Ghost pulls you out of Gaz's arms. Your fuzzy, drug-addled brain struggles to keep pace. Then the cold bite of iron shackles snaps shut around your wrists, chaining you to the marble surface of the altar. Ancient restraints meant for darker rites.

Soap whistles low. "Harsh even for you, LT."

Ghost stands. "Witch needs to learn her place isn't in the dirt." His boot nudges your spread thighs wider. "It's on her back."

...

← part 3 / [part 4] / part 5 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[uinferno]

Following is my best explanation. Can be used for building a PC or buying a PC.

Storage (Hard Drives/Solid States/NVME) are rows of book shelves. More Bytes, more books it can hold. Kilo < Mega < Giga < Tera. Read speed basically determines how quickly you can get books off the shelves.

Hard Drives are the slowest because it requires to physically move to individual shelves. They don't like magnets. With these you need to worry about RPM, which is how fast its parts move. Higher number the better.

Solid States and Nvme you have access to all shelves at once and so you can load any given file faster. Solid States are larger but slower than NVME. These have more limited writes but you usually don't have to be concerned about it.

Most modern memory sticks are DDR4 or DDR5. High number is better but either isn't an issue. Not interchangeable. Your system only supports either DDR4 or DDR5, that's because they have different shapes.

Memory (RAM) is basically a desk where you study. When you get books from the shelves you store them on the desk while you work. You often need to look over the book multiple times so it's good to have them on hand. Smaller than Storage, but faster. It's often cleared upon shut down however which is why you need to save your work.

Speed is also a concern. (How fast can you read the books). Measured in MHz, which is just "million things per second" (GHz is "billion things per second"). Match them between RAM. It's not critical but your computer will run it according to the slowest stick.

As for RAM size, 8GB is usually the minimum bit 16GB is decent for most people. It basically means how many books you can have on your table at a time. I'm a freak and have a 48GB RAM (which is overkill). You can only have a number of sticks that your motherboard (MoBo) can support. Whether you get two 8GB sticks or one 16GB, honestly, is mostly a concern on how many sticks you want. Most MoBo's have at least 2.

CPU (Central Processing Unit), now, is the person at the table doing the math. They can read from the books, jot down important details onto scratchpaper ("cache") and do a lot of complex math with the information.

Speed is the primary part of the CPU. Usually measured in GHz (billions of things per second). Larger the better.

Cores. How many different "people" are at the table lower bound is often 4 but can be 6 or 8. Higher sometimes better but diminishing returns. "Logical cores" are basically like one person doing the work of two.

Cache size is less important. It's how big the scratch paper the people are using is. You probably don't need to know exactly what is because you're probably going to be looking at:

The name of the CPU. There's two brands that make them. Intel and AMD. Both have similar naming schemes.

Intel is usually i🟥-🟨🟨🟧🟧🟧. The yellow squares are the generation, the red square is iteration within the generation, the orange square further differentiate between iterations. Higher generation is newer, higher iteration is more powerful.

AMD — specifically Ryzen — has a similar naming scheme. Ryzen 🟥 🟨🟧🟧🟧. Yellow generation. Red iteration. Orange variants within iteration. Higher the better on all three usually.

Sometimes CPU's will have "integrated GPUs" which do the job of of both. What's a GPU? Well...

GPUs (Graphics Processing Unit; also called Graphics Card or Video Card) is basically a group of millions of toddlers doing basic math independently of one another. They can't do hard math, but they can do a lot of math all at once. CPU will being multi-variable calculus while GPU will be adding two numbers a million times a cycle. This is why CryptoBros and AI people are gravitated towards. Blockchain and AI both need to do a lot of repetitive math thats not hard in isolation. Unfortunately, it also what runs graphics and other visuals ("shaders") in video games. NVidia and AMD are the two leaders in this field.

NVidia GeForce is split between GTX and RTX. The main difference is RTX is optimized for raytracing (drawing a lot of lines in 3dspace), this is what makes lights pretty. GTX is cheaper. Usually named 🟨0🟧0 where yellow is the generation and orange is a variant within it. As always, higher better.

AMD's flagship is Radeon. Numbering scheme is 🟨🟧00. Same as above for GeForce. I honestly don't have much nuances about this beyond:

VRAM. Video RAM. Like normal RAM but for the GPU. These are built into the cards so you won't need to purchase them separately. Basically, the desks that all the toddlers share. Not as important as they also use normal RAM. Some GPUs with lower VRAM work better than those with higher VRAM. Check reviews first to see how much of a part it plays.

Next is the motherboard (MoBo). Usually, it's decided last because what it can do is entirely dependent of everything above. It has to match or exceed the criteria of every other part. The biggest concern is dimensions. How it can fit in your computer case. ATX is the normal size Mobo. Mini-ITX is smaller. Micro-ATX is smaller than that.

Power Supply Unit (PSU) just supplies enough power. There are calculators that basically take into account every other part mentioned above and estimate the required wattage. A good adage is that the required wattage is at most 90% of the maximum watts of the PSU because it will put out less over time, though I would recommend 80% (if you need 800 Watts, get a 1000 Watt PSU).

All PSUs will have a rating attached from Bronze to Platinum. This basically means how efficient it runs when at maximum load. So if you're using all 1000 watts from the PSU, how many more watts will be extracted from your electrical system. Gold has 87% efficiency at maximum load and 90% at half load. Better efficiency sometimes means a better electrical bill but shutting down your system when you're done is also a solution (it will also extend the life of it — I abused my laptop but took care of my desktop and which is still working at full speed) Bronze < Silver < Gold < Platinum

PSUs usually are described as non-modular, semi-modular, or fully modular. Basically how many wires can you remove without the need of cutters. Semi-modular basically has the important wires unremovable (mobo and cpu cords) but can let you clean up cords if you're not using it. Fully modular let's you remove those as well. These modular cords are sometimes proprietary which makes getting one to power your new GPU hard because you inherited the PC from your older brother and the company that made the PSU went bankrupt 6 years ago so searching tech stores doesn't work and you have to dig deep into shady websites to find a cord that fits the needed sockets.

This a lot of info to take in, but reddit will love to explain it and if needed, Newegg reviews can discern individual parts and unlike Amazon the website is exclusively for tech nerds so they usually (usually) know what they're on about. PC Part Picker is also a site that let's you... well... pick parts. It will calculate the required wattage for you, identify any incompatibilities from the parts you decided, show price histories of the parts and compare various websites pricing. It also let's you flag parts and when to send you an email the first time it's pricing drops below a designated threshold or regularly send a list of products of a certain time and their current pricings. It also makes finding parts easier.

why is shopping for computer shit so difficult like what the hell is 40 cunt thread chip 3000 processor with 32 florps of borps and a z12 yummy biscuits graphics drive 400102XXDRZ like ok um will it run my programmes

[atlabeth]

bend an ear

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: your boyfriend doesn't listen to you. good thing your friendly neighborhood spider-man does.

a/n: there's just something about him idk. andrew garfield spidey bc of course! look at him! this came from me playing the spider-man game after it went on sale and yearning for peter parker (will prob have to rewatch the movies bc of this) anyways hope you like it

wc: 3.6k

warning(s): reader's bf is shitty -- they argue for a while and he lowkey slut shames her. but this is basically all fluff otherwise bc childhood best friends to lovers babby!!! real yearning loverboy hours!!!

Peter just wants to go home. 

It’s been… a day. He got his ass kicked by an English test (he doesn’t have time to do the readings when he’s fighting crime), got his ass kicked by Flash Thompson (it’s not like he can fight back with his super strength and pulverize his ribs), and has spent every second since his final class ended fighting petty crimes around the city. 

Stopping ATM thefts and minor muggings feels good, sure, but on days like these, it doesn’t really make up for failing intro literature classes and getting absolutely zero sleep. He’s just thankful May is still letting him live with her while he studies at ESU—if he had to do all of this in addition to trying to make his rent? He doesn’t really want to think about it. 

So he swung his way to the roof of some random building, and he’s taking a break. Sue him, but Peter thinks he deserves it. What’s the point of living in a city like New York if you can’t have a second to yourself every once in a while? 

He’ll go home soon. Grab a bodega sandwich, maybe stop another crime, and then get home for some much needed rest. But for now, he’s just going to sit on this rooftop and relax for a second. Even Spider-man needs some peace and— 

“Babe—” 

“Why are you following me?”

Peter winces as the door slams open, an argument following close after as a girl storms out onto the roof followed by a guy speeding to keep up with her. His first instinct is to swing away as soon as possible, but for some reason, he stays. 

“Because I want to talk!”

“God, do you even hear yourself?” 

“You keep talking over me, so I really—” 

“You don’t get to babe me right now!” 

As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, now he’s accidentally made himself privy to some couple’s dispute. He’s about to web himself out of this third wheeling nightmare when the girl turns around with a groan, revealing her face, and Peter realizes who it is. 

It’s you.

This is your apartment complex. Peter came here without even realizing it, but can he really be surprised? Your name is synonymous with peace in his brain. Comes with the territory of being friends for so long—it still calms him, even when you’re being the opposite of peaceful. 

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this!” the guy exclaims, frustration clear in his voice. 

Of course. Why wouldn’t your shitty boyfriend be here too? The only reason you live here is because you scored this place together; said he didn’t want you living on campus anymore. Ethan Frey might be the bane of Peter’s existence after two and a half years of him being your boyfriend. 

“Because you and your posse are acting like complete jags in front of all my friends!” you shout back. 

He laughs in disbelief. “I’m just being myself, babe. Besides, you’re the one who said I could invite them!” 

“Because you complained about it just being my friends,” you grind out. “You weren’t even supposed to be here, Ethan! You just can’t handle the thought of me being around guys that aren’t you!” 

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, huh?” He gestures wildly. “You spend every second with that geek and I’m supposed to believe you’re not into him?” 

And now he’s eavesdropping on a conversation between you and your boyfriend about him. How could this get worse? 

“God, it isn’t like that at all!” you exclaim with a mirthless laugh. “Peter is my friend— my best friend since elementary school. You knew when we got together that wasn’t going to change.” 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding lazily, “but that was before I knew how obvious his hard-on for you was.” 

Peter feels his face heat beneath the mask, wants to wipe the sweat off his palms. That’s how it could get worse. 

Your nostrils flare as you turn away, your hands flexing while you shake your head. “Get out of here, Ethan.” 

“Oh, of course that’s where you draw the line,” Ethan mocks. “When I bring up fuckin’ Peter Parker.” He pauses then chuckles. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

Peter nearly intervenes right then and there, wanting to stop this mess before Ethan does anything to hurt you. But revealing himself sounds like the worst possible thing to do, so for once he listens to the rational part of his brain over the emotional. 

“He’s not even here!” you retort. “I live with you, not him. I’m dating you, not him. Why are you bringing him up?” 

“Because I’m not blind.” Ethan crosses his arms. “Y’know, I thought you’d get over this little thing after you let me take you out, but for some reason, it’s exactly the same. I swear you spend more time with him than me.”

Your hands clench into fists. “Get out of here.” 

He scoffs. “You want me to leave you up here?” 

“Yes,” you nod. 

“God, you’ve been acting crazy this whole night!” he complains. “You’ll freeze up here. Just get over it—we’ll go back down, I’ll get you a beer—” 

“I hate beer.” 

“Then I’ll get you a fucking apple juice,” he spits. “Just stop being so dramatic.” 

“You’re not listening to me!” you shout. “I want you to leave me alone!” 

This time he says your name, and you shake your head. 

“Go back to the apartment,” you interrupt. “Because if I have to spend another second with you, our relationship might not make it through the night.”

For once, Ethan is silent as he stares at you. You stare back with no sign of giving up. Eventually, he just huffs and shakes his head. 

“Whatever.” He starts walking towards the door. “You better cool off up here, because I’m not dealing with this shit when you come back down.” 

You stare at the door for a good twenty seconds once he closes the door—slams it, rather—before you angrily kick a stray soda can. Your childhood days of rec soccer must still be in you, because you get an arc on it. Just before it can go over the side of the building, Peter shoots a web to catch it wholly on instinct. 

Your eyes widen as you dart around, and Peter is finally spotted from his place on top of the roof door building thing. What is that even called? He doesn’t really have time to think about it. The aluminum can crunches as it flies into his hand, and you stare at him in complete shock. 

“Uh,” his mouth suddenly feels very dry, but he has to make some excuse for why he’s up here, “littering is bad.” 

Good one, Parker. 

“You’re Spider-man,” you say, eyes still wide. 

“The one and only,” he nods. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble, finally seeming to break out of your shock as you cover your mouth and turn away. “Oh my god, Spider-man just heard my relationship falling apart.” 

“I didn’t hear anything!” Peter exclaims. “I—”

You shoot him the withering look he loves so much, that was able to get his bullies to shrink on the spot in high school—it feels weird being on the receiving end of it. 

“I’m not stupid,” you say. 

“I kn—” He has to stop himself from saying I know, because realistically Spider-man has no idea who you are. “I’m sorry.” 

You huff and cross your arms. “Do your superhero duties include eavesdropping on failing couples?” 

“It was an accident,” Peter says. “I was up here before you were. So technically, you were eavesdropping on my actual superhero duties.” 

You laugh, and he smiles just at the sound of it. One benefit to wearing the mask, because it would expose him right on the spot. “Oh yeah? And what are those?” 

“Patrolling the streets,” he says. “I’ve got a very good vantage point from up here.” 

You hum, your mood turning a bit more morose as you glance away. “Well, I’m sorry you had to hear all that during your patrol.” 

“I’m sorry you had to go through it,” he says. “Your boyfriend sounds like an asshole.” 

You roll your eyes. “He’s fine, most of the time. Just had a little bit too much to drink.” 

Peter will never understand why you defend Ethan so much. You’ve been together since freshman year and he’s only gotten worse since then—maybe he hides how he is around you, because he hasn’t really shied away from showing Peter how much he hates him this past year.

“He looked pretty sober to me,” Peter says. “And trust me, I have plenty of experience fighting guys that have had too much to drink.” 

You huff. “What are you, a spider-therapist?” 

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says. “And I’m always good for bending an ear.”

“Surely you have better things to do than listen to me complain.” 

Peter shakes his head. “My schedule’s pretty clear right now, actually.”

“Really?” you marvel. “There’s no crime in New York City at,” you check your watch, “11:37 pm?”

“Absolutely none,” he says. “I solved it all. At least for now.”

You laugh again at that and gesture with your head as you walk over to the edge of the roof. “Then I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Peter jumps down and follows you over. You hoist yourself on top of the wall, legs dangling over the edge, and he feels himself frown as he leans his back against the wall and looks up at you. 

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” 

“You’ll catch me if I fall,” you say. 

“Obviously,” Peter says. “I’m supposed to encourage safe behavior in New Yorkers, though.” 

You laugh and tilt your head up towards the night sky. The moonlight reflects in your eyes and Peter knows he could get lost in them forever. “Just this once, then.” 

“I think I can let it slide.” 

“Good.” 

A comfortable beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Peter finds himself smiling. No wonder he ended up at your place out of instinct. There’s nothing else like your company. 

“I always think it’ll be different,” you murmur. Peter glances up at you, your expression shifted to something more melancholic. “We’ll have a good day, which’ll turn into a good week and a good month, but he always does something to mess it up. It’s like it’s in his DNA.” 

He stays silent as you think. Most of the time when you rant to Peter, you just want to be heard, not given advice. At this point, he’s an expert at listening to you. It’s not like he minds. 

“I want things to work out. I— I still love him. I mean, I think I do. But everything is a fucking struggle with him. If I don’t do things the exact way he wants, if I try to do something for me instead of him, if I can’t read his fucking mind, then he loses it and we argue. And I’m so fucking tired of arguing!” 

Your voice has risen by now, and you bite down hard on your cheek. Peter doesn’t realize he’s started reaching towards you to comfort you until you look back down at him, and he runs his hand over his head in an effort to cover it up. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I promise, I’m a much nicer person than this. You just caught me at the worst time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I know.”

Your brows rise. “Spider-man knows I’m a nice person?”

“I can just tell,” he rushes, trying to save himself. He’s doing a real good job at not revealing his identity. “I’m good at reading people.”

You chuckle and shake your head, then adjust your position so your back is towards the open air. It makes Peter nervous, he can’t lie, but it’s not like he’s not a superhero. 

“So, spider-therapist,” you say. “Any advice?” 

So this is one of the rare times you do want answers. Peter wonders if you’ll leave your boyfriend if Spider-man tells you to. 

“He doesn’t sound great,” Peter says, inclining his head. “How many times have you argued this week?” 

“Four,” you say. “Five, if you include tonight.” 

He whistles. “And it’s only Wednesday.”

You tip your shoulder. “We’re efficient.” 

“And unhappy, it sounds like.” 

“We’re not unhappy,” you defend. “We’re just…” 

“You’re up here talking to me instead of down there with him,” Peter says wryly. “That doesn’t exactly scream ‘happy couple’.” 

You shake your head with another sigh. “It’s because he can’t get over Peter.” 

He tries to act as nonchalant as possible when you bring him up. Is this an invasion of privacy? Letting you talk to him about all this when you have no idea who Spider-man actually is? 

Instead of floundering over moral qualms, he just clears his throat. “And who’s he?” 

“My best friend,” you say. “The one person who’s been by my side since the second I moved to New York. He means everything to me.”

Peter feels his heart skip a beat. “Yeah?” 

“He’s like— like the opposite of Ethan, and it’s wonderful. I guess that’s why Pete irks him so much. Y’know,” you pull out your phone and start typing in your password, “maybe I should call him. He always knows what to say.” 

“No!” Peter exclaims with a bit too much force, causing you to give him a look. “No— I mean, it’s late. He’s probably asleep. And— and it’s a school night?” 

You tilt your head, and Peter exhales when it seems to work. “True. He’s probably studying for that biochem test.” You grimace. “I should be doing that too.” 

He watches you type out a few texts and send them, and Peter’s never been more thankful to have his phone on silent. What a way that would be to blow his cover. 

You shove your phone back in your pocket with another sigh. “I just hate that my boyfriend and my best friend don’t get along. I love them both—why can’t they like each other?” 

“I mean…” Peter trails off when you look at him, and he gestures with his head. “It seems pretty obvious why they don’t get along.” 

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “Because Ethan thinks Peter likes me, and he probably thinks I have some secret crush on him too. I swear, he’s always looking for a reason to fight.” 

God, could the universe be calling him out any more? It’s honestly ridiculous how this is going. 

“Do you?” Peter asks, because he can’t help himself. “Like him, I mean.” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I love Pete, I do. It’s always been the two of us no matter what. But I…”

He holds his breath as he tries not to look at you, tries not to make it too obvious that he might have stumbled his way into his simultaneous dream and nightmare scenario. 

He’s had a crush on you for what feels like forever. Since you stood up for him against his bullies in elementary school, honestly, and it’s only grown over the years as the two of you have grown. From recesses spent together and bike rides through the city; spending the night in Peter’s apartment because it was easier for your sister to let it happen than try and drag you back home; endless nights with heads bent over textbooks trying to study for tests, over college applications trying to get into the same place, and now studying and researching near every damn weekend together because you’re both unfortunate enough to try for ESU STEM degrees. 

You were there when Ben died. He’s there on every anniversary of your parents’ accident. Without knowing it, you were there when he got bit and his whole life turned upside down. 

You and Peter have been there every step of the way for each other, and it’s why he’s content with just friendship—Peter wants you in his life no matter what. But he can’t lie and say he doesn’t hope. 

No, actually. He yearns. He’s doomed to be a yearner for the rest of his life because he’ll never stop loving you. How could he? 

“I’m not sure,” you finally say with a sigh. “All I know is that I’d rather be with Pete tonight than Ethan.”

Peter wonders if your chest compressions are still as good as they were in high school, because he feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. 

You’d rather be spending tonight with him than your boyfriend of two years and seven months, and Peter isn’t even supposed to know. 

You mistake his silent freakout for nonchalance, and you clear your throat as you jump back onto solid ground. 

“Well, I’ve spilled my soul to you,” you say wryly, crossing your arms. “Anything a superhero can spill in return?”

Peter thinks for a good, long second. His hands itch to take off his mask, to do what he’s wanted to do since he got bitten by that stupid spider and show you who he really is. 

How many times has he been a total asshole, canceling plans on you because he had to go stop some supervillain from wreaking havoc in Times Square? How many times has he been late to something important to you because he was caught up stopping dime a dozen muggings? He still remembers the look on your face when he showed up just in time to miss the entirety of Les Mis’s opening night with your first lead role. 

You were a better best friend to Peter than he was to you because of this stupid mask. If he took it off, it wouldn’t make every mistake fade away, but it would sure help explain some of it. 

But Peter has been doing this since high school, and he has seen far too many times what happens to the loved ones of heroes. They’re used as leverage, used for ransom, sometimes just straight up killed.

You’ve been friends with Peter since you and your sister moved into the apartment next to May’s thirteen years ago. It doesn’t matter if you never share Peter’s feelings. You’re one of the only constants in his life, and he’s not going to lose you because he’s too selfish to keep a secret. 

Losing you would be the last straw. He couldn’t take it. 

So Peter pushes all thoughts of secret identities revealed out of his mind and tries to chuckle convincingly. 

“I’m allergic to peppermint, believe it or not.” 

You stare at him, deadpan. “That’s nowhere close to all the shit I just gave you.” 

“It’s true!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “Happened after I got bit by the spider. They’re repelled by peppermint oil, and I guess I am too.” 

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Spider-man is a coward.” 

“A superhero’s gotta have some secrets,” he says, and he taps the side of his head. “Otherwise this thing doesn’t do much good.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Whatever.” 

A chill suddenly goes up Peter’s spine and he whips around—he can hear a distant scream followed by a distant gunshot, and he mentally curses. 

“Duty calls?” you ask, drawing his attention back to you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t be.” You smile, and it’s genuine. A nice change from the state Ethan effortlessly puts you in. “You went out of your way to cheer me up. Pretty super of you.” 

“I hope it makes up for the eavesdropping,” he says. 

“More than,” you nod. “Now get out of here. Your city needs you.” 

Peter nods too, and he backflips onto his original spot. “Have a good night. You’re real special to somebody.” 

He’s gone before you can say anything else, already zipping across the rooftops to get to the scene of the crime. Peter can only think of your face as he swings through the air—all the things he’s too scared to say to you. 

The crime, which turns out to be yet another petty theft, is resolved easily enough with some punches, kicks, and a snappy one-liner. Once he’s retrieved the woman’s purse and alerted the police, he’s back in the sky. 

Peter only stops once he’s swung a couple miles away, perching on the edge of some rooftop for some actual peace and quiet. He checks around once or twice to make sure he’s not somehow back at your place, and when he’s sure it’s all clear, he pulls his phone out. He swipes past all the notifications he’s racked up until he finds the one he’s looking for: the texts from you. 

hey pete, I know you’re prob asleep rn but you were right. I really need to study for that test lol

wanna meet me at the library tomorrow after QM? I’ll buy the coffee this time i promise <3 

as long as you use your roomie’s dining dollars to get me a croissant lol 

Peter can’t help but smile, larger than anything tonight. This is why he’s okay with being nothing but your friend for the rest of his life. 

Deal. Anything to get you an A 

lol

asshole 

Never 

Try to get some sleep. No good studying on a tired brain 

Three dots appear for a good long second, enough to constitute a decent paragraph—then they disappear. In its place: 

I’ll try just for you 

night boy genius

(How could he not love you?) 

Night, girl wonder

[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.

[invincibledc]

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶

𝟑𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋

🃏

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄🃏

~

˚　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★synopsis: when a simple medieval jester shows up to Gotham, stirring the curious minds of certain boys of a bat colony. What could ever go on with this child’s life.

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★genre: oneshot special

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★note: thanks for 3K followers!!

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★ word count: 1,296

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★info: Taking after the inspiration of joker and Harley Quinn, aesthetic wise. They loathe that man even after the inspiration. They always loved circuses, watching the old flying graysons clips their families use to record. Their age and genders are unknown despite their small frame which makes them confused a child. People think they work joker, forcing Batman to put them on his charts. They can never caught due to always being sneaky and playful. Someone who is some random person that helps crimes and wear a medieval jest costume that is either monochrome for night stealths but is bright and happy colors for random day shenanigans. The jester, who people can’t tell if they’re a girl, or a boy. They seem genderless, they also seem skinny as well with how the sleeves of their so called costume is loose, covering their hand.

The small child, their thin body covered by the baggy medieval jester clothing. They looked around the dark city with wide and curious eyes. Walking around, the small child couldn’t help but look through alleys, ignoring the strange looks of the people in boxes and the folks giving them dirty looks.

The jester moves past a fallen man, maybe the man was just tired. The clown child looks around to see a small cardboard box. Going towards it, the child places it over the man. Walking off with more confidence in their step. “Hey kid!” a man bellowed, catching the small child’s attention, they've been picked up like a scrawny cat.

“Who do you think you are walking around this alley in that tacky colors of yours.” the man gruffed, shaking the mute child who just stared at the man with wide undisturbed eyes.

Not getting an answer, the man got angry, throwing the child. Usually, a person would expect the child to just fall harshly, but this wasn't a normal kid. The jester had landed on their feet gracefully as if defying gravity.

The child dusted themself off, keeping eyes on the big angry man. The jester moves back from the big man who pulled out a butterfly knife, not wasting time, the jester then moves forward.

The jingles of the bells on their hat and shoes jangled loudly. The small clown child jumped into the air, midway they did a triple spin kick. The man was hit on his face and the back of his head, knocking him out.

The child could only hum, taking the butterfly knife from the man and politely placing it onto the man’s chest before bouncing from the brick walls of the tight space.

The small child flipped themselves onto a fire escape before climbing onto another brick wall of a complex apartment. Climbing their way to the roof, they met Red Hood who just stared at them with two batburgers.

The juicy smell of the burger made the thin child’s stomach growl.

“You’re starving aren't you kid? I ain't here to harm you, only to get to know you.” those seem to be working as the small child with a painted face, a painted mask to hide their past forward towards the red hooded male.

But as if sensing something, the child did a spinning roundhouse kick towards a male with a fringe. “Wow! Fast reflexes!” Red Robin tries to capture the child who only stares at him and then looks back at Red Hood who sighs, knowing how this may go. The child stays still, that was before the child ran off the roof. The two male’s eyes widen.

“Kid no!” “Omg!?”

The two red vigilantes look over the roof to see nobody, no child, no jester. Completely gone.

“Dang… guess we have to try another night,” Tim says to Jason who nodded. As much as he wanted to, his older brother's instincts were taking over.

Their small frame irks him.

☆

Huddled in a cardboard box, the small child smelled of sweet cotton candy, reminiscent of treats from a bustling circus. But at this moment, they were just a lonely figure, aching for warmth and belonging. Denied entry anywhere, the child was mistaken for a goon of the Joker—certainly a mislabeling, but one that weighed heavy on their small shoulders.

Clenching their tiny fist, determination ignited within them. Despite their appearance, they felt an unwavering drive to help others. Emerging from the confines of the box, a small smile crept onto their painted lips, signaling the start of a journey to reclaim a piece of Gotham City.

Their first mission? Defend the local bakery. With a fierce resolve, they startled the shop owner, earning themselves some fresh bread and a handful of delectable cupcakes. The baker, initially stern, soon softened, watching the child devour the treats with wide eyes. As crumbs coated the child’s face like powdered sugar, the baker’s heart ached with a mix of pity and tenderness.

"Sweetie, slow down before you choke, okay?" she urged, her voice tinged with concern. The child nodded, ignoring the messy mouthful of crumbled icing. But when the baker reached out, accidentally swiping away some of the child’s carefully applied makeup, panic surged through the tiny form. Memories of shattered dishes flashed in their mind, and a soft whimper escaped their lips as fear took hold.

“Hey! Hey! What’s wrong?!” The baker knelt, startled by the child's distress. Without knowing what else to do, she rushed to the back, returning with a puff of white powder, gently reapplying it to the child’s face. “There!” she declared, relief washing over her as the child slowly regained composure.

After the brief episode, the baker escorted the little jester out of the shop, handing over a bag filled with bagels and a few sweets—a meager feast, but a feast nonetheless. The child bowed deeply, their gratitude palpable, before scampering off with the jingling bells of their hat and shoes echoing behind them.

As they munched on the chewy bagels, savoring their hard-earned treasure, the joy was short-lived. Suddenly, strong hands gripped the child from behind, hoisting them up into the air. A man dressed in a striking blue-black uniform, with neat hair and charming dimples, faced them.

“Sorry, little guy, I’ll buy you food,” he said, a playful smirk on his face as he swung away with a grappling hook toward the rooftops. “But first, you’ve got to answer a few questions.”

The child stood frozen, wide-eyed, staring up at Nightwing. Suddenly, a thick cloud of gas—sweet as cotton candy—erupted from their suit. Nightwing instinctively covered his nose, shocked, yet he tightened his grip on the thin child. But in a split second, the little figure slipped through his fingers like a ghost.

With an agile burst of movement, the child took off, already anticipating their escape route. Nightwing recognized the sugary scent of the gas instantly, letting go of his nose. He dashed after the child, who skidded across the rooftop. As Nightwing closed in, they turned, flashing a daring look before launching themselves into the air, landing gracefully on him. It was as if he were nothing more than a springboard for their acrobatics. But as he turned to catch them, the child vanished like smoke.

Frustrated, Nightwing pressed the comms hidden in his ear. “They’ve disappeared. Robin, you’re up.”

Meanwhile, Robin was perched nearby, eyes sharp and ready. He smirked as he spotted the child darting his way. The moment was electric. Robin charged forward, but the quick-witted jester used the boy as a launchpad, vaulting over him with effortless grace while tugging him down in a whimsical twist. As the jester sped off, the child playfully slapped Robin’s cape, leaving him exasperated. “Ugh!” he exclaimed, determination igniting as he sprinted after them, refusing to give up.

But the chase took a tense turn when the jester led the way into a dead end. “Nowhere to run! We know you work for the Joker!” Robin shouted, planting his feet firmly. The child turned, their expression still as blank as before, and exhaled slowly, as if time itself had slowed.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a wall erupted between them. Robin reflexively hurled a Batarang, but the jester countered with a Joker card, flinging it at the boy. The card began to beep ominously, its sound a countdown. Robin’s heart sank as he realized the jester was escaping through a vent, glitter exploding in the air around the child, painting the scene with chaos and wonder.

Once again, the elusive jester slipped through their fingers, leaving Bruce grappling with questions. How could such playful devices aid them? The clock was ticking. They had to catch them before it was too late.

[nwarrior777]

Good post, but have smth to add

Bad news but very good ones too. Ai users stole and will steal graphic from good interesting art (which is sucks), but they will not be able to take away the core of art. And core of art is not good skill

Training skill in art process is not most important part of being artist. Everyone for some reason is obsessive over idea to train skill forever, even not questioning it

"I draw, it means i just need to run to perfection forever!" - what style do you draw, what do you even think as perfection. Renaissance paintings - okkay, why? why do you like renaissance paintings? do you like it even, or you think it's cool cause art teacher says so. if you like it - why. why this, and not like 1000+ other styles. why focus is on style even. do you know what those renaissance paintings about? or do you think it's just cool style makes them cool and these paintings don't have anything more in. do you know history behind it, country, context?

do you know something about art aside it looks? aside it looking good?

because - ai definitely will steal that, the look, the graphic, completelly. it sucks, yeah.

but good news - art is so so so much more than good skill and ai will not be able to steal that

ai already can make "stories" and narratives. but who use it and for what? companies, for money sucking. evil politicians for their evil sht.

and what good art is always about? no, i am not asking how it looks. what good art is about?

good, interesting art is *always* about fight with that. not always literally - not all good interesting art is epic story about epic good fighting evil epicly, but good interesting art is always about freedom, love, care, strive for that.

you literally can't make good interesting ai thing as capitalist, esp big capitalist company. because all that makes art good and interesting, well, aside from look - it is going against it. good interesting art is riot, it's queer, it's anti capitalism, it's feminism, it's gay, it's trans, it's against racism, it's against evil. it's about riot, hope, love, fighting, experiment. it's about thoughts about reality. even if it doesn't look like it, if you see interesting thing, it's about it, but it has layer of events and plot to cover metaphors and message, cause it's art, it's poetic. And good interesting art can have many forms, endless forms of that: it born in minds of oppressed people, discriminated people, people who Saw Sht, people who love freedom, and loved art, who savior in hard times was Art. so they can Think, they can make context into thoughts into Anti Evil Message, wrapped in so many ways of say this message poetically. From kid's little poem about Tiger who broke the cage and run to freedom ("yes, YES, the tiger is out" tumblr legendary post) to complex game which is hitting so deep and personal, at the same time so wide to human soul, that you can relate to it being from any part of the world looking sadly at very specific-real-world-references architecture locations where you probably never was, and crying because the game say you and seagull have something in common (disco elysium)

and what ai "art" used for? casino and gacha games and casino and gacha features on apps, like that trash rewards in bank apps, to make you spend more money. or ads. or other money sucking sht

or, well, they try to make films.

do you think these films are good and interesting? some interesting reflexia on historical events we are in? some interesting thoughts, from author experience, which cut their soul and they want to share? some queer- ok it's funny even to continue, of course no. it's just money sucking of course. i've seen ai films announces - it's some sht based on tiktok meme. yk, to get as many kids as possible to theatres and get tons of money. and they use ai cause meme will vanish week after, and if to make it, yk, by hands, it would take years.

do you see my point

so yeah. ai will steal graphic. it's sucks. "haha it's ugly and have mistakes!" - capitalists will fix it soon. do you remember first ai things? i do, because it was scary time to spent in internet - i thought i am having strokes sometimes from it's look, being very vaguelly fluid and "dreamy". now it looks like, well, usual art or photo. "it can't have layers!" - it will be able soon. they will steall all graphic things. layers, quality, all styles, everything

it sucks and people who have resources to fight this fighting, big regards to them

but it's important sometimes to hear some words, not only win cases agains ai can be win. calming thought or understanding things is win too

art is not about style. art has so much more in. art is about something. it is good word in screenshot of op post - "invaluable". Values - ai will not be able to steal it. if you have values in your art - they will not be able to steal it. they will not be able to steal your Heart. and if you artist - it's probably your life. they will not be able to steal values of your life, The Your life-fight. even if they steal your graphic.

(writing this as someone who artwork will be probably stolen btw, because i worked in start up in accessibility field, but turned out the project was a cover for the main guy to get big money and make big business and all ethic thing he said was lie. and yes maybe they will steal my art - but they will not actually. they can imitate style i can do. but a) i can do endless variety of styles b) my art is not about style, not about graphic. my art is about being art representative activist, that's why i leaved the project immediately after i knew truth. another point, btw, why it's important to have your art goal - it will be impossible to manipulate you to stay or come to awful things like that. like, why do you think i am not working on disney or some game studio which makes genshin-gacha-like games? not even trying to get there and staying away is choice.)

ai, the instrument of capitalism, instrument of evil, can't "create" something with values being anti-capitalistic and anti-evil. ai "art" is not art - it's capitalism money sucking instrument

i saw post recently, saying "if you don't understand why you draw, what you draw, how, what next, just sht up and draw" which is common thing for artist. being afraid to even question the very important, actually, questions. and it needs to be asked in our times most importantly

ask yourself why you draw, what you draw. what you telling with your art. it's hard question. but it needs answer. and it doesn't needs to be philosophy degree answer. "to relax", " to have fun ", " to tell my expirience", "it's activism, i help in [ ] field by my art", " it's rebelion", "it's experiment", " i draw cute things to give people safe chill space in hard times " etc

find your goal of art, your answer of why, what it's about. because "it's about endlessly train skill" - well, it was sad even before ai (all those artists who were saying that they hate their art and it's ugly.. or were saying it about art of *others*) but now it's. kind of even more sad. esp even if you don't know or question or have direction of what you actually train, *what* style, just looking on endless white artists "advices", told millions time the same, about how to make shadings on realistic cube by pensill, a oh and by the waay look at these sponsored pensils he has to show you, cool pensils buy (do you see the point here?). some woodwork, or some interesting skills can be focus-trained yeah. but it's always "i train this skill for-". for keeping ancient tradition alive. for making epic furry costumes and making people happy, giving them unique opportunety, unique look, unique expirience

making unique art graphic is, unfortunately, stolen goal now. sometimes technobros says it's same as photo invention - no, it isn't same (photography is new mechanism and photo is not merged all world paintings together, it's different chemical procces, it's new media, not drawing even). but, to artists - i think it was one similar thing about it, about impact of invention of photo to art: new understanding of what is art

before photo art was mostly about capturing reality as it is, the style were mostly kinda-realistic (if to talk about western art and not about paleo period, it is smth different). then, we had photo - *new* capturing reality instrument, new media. it was progress, it busted art forward, opened new direction for styles, artists asked "can art be *something else* - not about capturing reality?". (by the way, actually stealing was and is a thing. but it wasn't about inventing photo - artist were stealing from each other. western one stealing from african and asian is whole big thing. but i didn't hear technobro saying smth about andy warhol stealing art features which made him famous from japanese female artist Yayoi Kusama, so it's for another post). look for "...isms" by Sam Phillips. It calls "isms" cause its something like encyclopedia about contemporary&modern art, about many styles and "isms" (cubism, impressionism, expresionism, suprematism, etc) which came after 1800'th to around 2000-+, then book was written. and, it's a lot of isms let's say, and i think it only take gallery art, not deeping in internet art or intersections of art and other media, like animation or theatre

we had diverse styles and "what it is about" - every style is not actually about graphic. graphic of art is instrument of it message - capturing reality; getting your feelings about thing to canvas, your impression of what you expirienced (impressionism); getting your emotions and feelings from your soul to canvas, expressing yourself (expressionism); what if color can be the focus of artwork itself, without image or characters or backgrounds? (suprematism); what if it's possible to take object and get it's purpose away and change to another purpose? (ready-made); is it possible to create image on canvas without actually creating an image on it? (whatever the thing of lucho fontano and his ripped by knife canvaces is called and answer is yes).

art was about diverse of styles and experiments, yeah. but, in the core, still - it was always about strive to freedom of experiment, capturing something important for author, in the core art is "what it is about and what for" answer of The author

and now capitalism stole graphic from art

so yes, - graphic is stolen from art by capitalism. evil always steal, it's only that it does. but they can't steal core of good interesting art - it's value, it's messages, it's author. it can't create Love. yes they can pretend - but, if you see money sucking happening to some rich wallet, it's cover. pretending. evil can't create true Love. they will just create gacha casino and other money sucking things wrapping it in good-looking "art" and "well written" text

so find something more in your art, than graphic. find something more in your words, than good grammar. and, i am sure you have it if you creator of Love. just don't be afraid to ask yourself why you do this, why you choosing it as your life thing.

cause in our times you can't left big choices of your life unanswered. if you don't have your answer on your purpose of life - companies will answer it for you and your life purpose will be to serve them. and it's saddest thing to give them such Life thing as art, such powerful thing, for that

This machine kills AI

[revelboo]

Revel! I'm so happy to see you posting, I hope you've been good. 🫶 It's my birthday today and reading more of your Starscreams made my morning. Thank you for sharing your amazing writing, you're a gift! 🩷

Happy belated birthday! The inbox is somehow just shy of 500 again and I’m struggling 🤣

Bottom Feeder Pt 8

TFP Starscream x Reader

• “Eat,” he growls, shoving a fistful of random stuff at you that you really don’t want to think about how he got. Because it looks like your big, neurotic turkey kicked a hole in a grocery store wall and just grabbed whatever was within reach. Including shelving. But he’s trying at least. Digging through the pile, you know he’s also trying to distract you because after find out alien dick is a thing? You’ve been hounding him mercilessly to the point that you’re almost sure he’s recharging elsewhere just to avoid you. Biting your bottom lip to keep from smiling, you wonder if you should ease up on him.

• Wings flicking as you tear into a package and dig out a handful of crunchy, shaped little objects and start eating, he sits on the edge of his berth and studies you from the corner of his optic. Relaxing slightly when you don’t immediately ask about Cybertronian interfacing. Again. Because apparently your species is just obsessed with coupling. “I’ll be good,” you say startling him. And you’re looking up at him with those innocent eyes, cute in your unsettlingly alien way. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Optics narrowing, he clears his vents noisily.

• Hiding a snort with a cough when his wings lift slightly, looking so relieved it’s hilarious. And messing with him is the highlight of your day since he’s such a prude, but you’re almost positive you’re giving the giant alien an anxiety complex with your questions. Not even sure why that makes you feel guilty since he’d apparently kidnapped you as some sort of twisted status symbol, making you into his little purse dog. Maybe it’s because watching him interact with the other mechs on the bridge had made you realize his twitchiness is actually fear, flinching when some mechs talk to him, wings drawn tighter to his frame while flaring them out and snapping if the Vehicons, as he’d called them, approach him for anything. “What’s it like to fly?” You ask him and his expression softens some.

• Reaching out, he runs his talons through your hair, fascinated despite himself with how soft it is and you smile up at him to make him feel off balance. “Like life itself,” he mutters, easing back to lay on his berth with his legs hanging over the edge. Venting softly when you wander closer and try to climb up on him, using a servo to help you up and you sit crosslegged on his chassis. Misses other Seekers, flying together. That sense of kinship that comes from Seekers in a trine. Sometimes he wonders if he’s the only one left. If his frame-type, his traditions will end with him. Optics shuttering, he hooks his servos loosely around you. “You learn the wind, the way it plays over you as a sparkling,” he says, unable to keep the fondness from his voice as he uses a servo to lift one of your arms out like a wing. “It becomes familiar, almost a friend and up there, you’re free. Nothing can touch you.”

• He sounds almost lonely and you stretch out on him, feeling the weight of his servos draped against your back. “Maybe I could go flying with you?” And his optics open, head tipping to stare at you. His servos sliding against your spine and you wait for him to scoff at you, curl his lip and huff through his vents. Instead his servo shifts to rub against your jaw before he’s pressing you flat against him and you can feel the thrum of his spark. Not answering at all, but you’re not really surprised. You’re just the exotic pet after all. Eyes closing after he drapes his other arm across his face, murmuring something in his own language that you can’t understand.

Previous

[bookshelfdreams]

no, I'm gonna say it out loud actually:

Cliques and circles forming in fandom is normal. People with similar tastes and opinions will naturally flock together.

This is because for most people, fandom is a fun and relaxing thing they engage with in their limited spare time. Most people do not want to spend that free time obsessing over things that annoy, anger, or upset them.

It might therefore seem like something is uncontroversial when it in fact is not. But, again, most people do not spend their days endlessly complaining about things they hate because, to most people, this sort of constant negativity is draining. It is much more fun and rewarding to engage with things or people we like.

Eventually, most people will develop a tendency to simply ignore, filter out, and block the things/people that annoy them, because engaging with those things very quickly gets frustrating.

Yes, that does create an environment where a certain type of fraudster can thrive. This is not a flaw; this is every human community ever. Unless, of course, you are surrounded by people who are extremely hostile towards and suspicious of everyone around them. That wouldn't be much of a community though, would it?

Because, and I cannot stress this enough, most people do not go around scrutinizing the backstory and personal life of everyone they meet. We generally believe each other, and not doing so, as default, is deranged. Suspecting everyone who writes fic you find distasteful or has opinions you dislike of being this much of a fraudster is not a healthy attitude to have. Extending goodwill and grace towards your friends is normal.

Again, yes, liars and manipulators will exploit that. But that's not the fault of the people being lied to.

If you perceive only yourself and the people you like as individuals with nuanced opinions and everyone else as a hostile hivemind out to get you, you might have a tiny bit of a persecution complex going on.

If you make this situation about your silly little shipwar, then idk what to tell you.

[senku-ishigami-official]

Thanks for tagging me, this is pretty interesting. Art and science ten billion percent go hand in hand. You can't have one without the other. There are multiple ways to take this.

Think about the colorful paintings you see in museums. Obviously, there's a scientific explanation for the colors. The color and light spectrums were studied by Isaac Newton himself in his famous prism experiment. This is just one example of science within art. As for art within science, let's take our craftspeople Yuzuriha and Kaseki, for example (some people would argue that art and craft are not the same, but that's a dispute for another time. I'm saying they are). Their art form helped us with scientific innovation that would be unimaginable without that skill. The hot air balloon wouldn't have been possible without Yuzuriha's crazy talent.

Let's expand on the similarities between the scientific and artistic processes.

1. They're both hands-on as hell. Science and art are both means of creation and expression. You have to tinker and toy with the materials you have to make something that fulfills the innate human desire to create. You have to use your hands and your brain -- those are the two primary essentials for both art and science.

2. They both go through our beloved trial-and-error system. We know the whole process for science already: find a problem, try to solve it, fail, try again. It's the same for art. Look at the development of art in Europe specifically. Here are some pieces from the medieval, renaissance and modern movements, in that order.

The styles are wildly different because these pieces are products of what the artists learned from artists before them and their own creative spirit/what they figured out themselves through countless trials. It's the same with science. Knowledge builds upon itself.

3. They both make our world ten billion times better, and in practical ways, too. Science helps us learn more about the world so we can use our resources wisely and not have to live like cavemen (who, by the way, also made art, in case you weren't aware). Art helps us with understanding of culture, an equally important aspect to humanity, which also has its scientific origins. And, like user wilwheaton demonstrated for us, each scientific and artistic discovery inspires more discovery. They're the reason for humanity's exponential growth in so many areas.

4. They're both fun! The possibilities are endless. Art and science can both be anything you want it to be if you put your mind to what you're creating. Like I said earlier, it's about expression and creation. It's supposed to be fun, a testament to the real complex and unique nature of humanity.

Every scientist is an artist and every artist is a scientist, even if they don't realize it. They're two sides of the same coin. I'm not big on symbolism but I'm sure there's a metaphor somewhere for how science is art or something more abstract. You can figure that one out.

“the arts and sciences are completely separate fields that should be pitted against each other” the overlap of the arts and sciences make up our entire perceivable reality they r fucking on the couch

[jessaerys]

the critiques of the severance finale wrt essentially (i)markhelly vs (o)markgemma keep hitting weird and ringing misplaced. to me. and i'm trying to articulate why and it's like. i think that the mark (pun not intended) of a valid racial critique is being missed by positing "gets chosen by mark" as the measuring stick that decides if the finale was Good or Bad.

my good faith take is that severance is ultimately working towards that final nirvana of synthesis, with dylanists having been framed as the more emotionally fulfilling, more fair, more peaceful path towards freedom vs the necessary but violent rebellion of mark and helly, both hellyists (and i don't think severance wants us to think they are in the wrong - helena and (o)mark are far more abusive to their innies than (o)dylan ever was. they have dug their heels in and refuse to relinquish their control over their subjugated selves, as opposed to (o)dylan. which is a far more common and expected reaction from those in power.) BUT. but. mark is not yet reintegrated. a complete mark reintegration is going to be an extremely momentous event upon which everything will revolve, when it happens. we are not at a point within the narrative where we can consider mark a single character (yet).

(i)mark has always been the main character. the arc of the show has always been about the innies fighting to first discover and then secure their personhood. severance is a rebellion storyline, an oppression allegory. like christ alive, we got the *stands on a table* we are many, they are few! speech.

(i)mark doesn't know that he (he! the mark synthesis! the mark final form!) loves gemma. i don't care about (i)mark and helly as a ship, i don't care to think about them in Scenarios or AUs or what have you. BUT i care about mark and helly as the vehicle through which severance explores and signifies choice and humanity. i find that deeply moving - that last moment of (innie!) mark chosing himself as an entity separate from (o)mark, chosing even a handful of minutes more of life and love and independence from the powers that be - it's a triumph. the show was always going to lead us here. lumon may or may not try to kill (o)mark, but there's (in the innies minds, at that moment) not a universe where (i)mark and helly get to live. they are in a doomed timeline. they have nothing, not even their flesh belong to them. they are so suffocatingly denied or personhood that to steal even one more moment together they must kidnap their own bodies.

THAT SAID.

that said. i have talked about how annoyed i am that gemma's motivation was "ohh woman can't have baby". i think that writing choice was lazy. believable, sure, and it makes sense within the narrative, but i hate it. it's reductive, it's objectifying. i wish they had given gemma more life beyond "marks dead wife", i wish we had gotten to know her as a person as complex and moody as mark scout.

i am also tired of allegories for oppression being filled with white faces.

the racial problem in the helly/mark/gemma dynamic exists within what i can only think to call the infrastructure of showmaking. with diversity being applied as a coat of paint to the outer edges of a cast, rather than roles being written for non-white people, or letting main characters be non-white. there's no reason why gemma couldn't be white and helly asian, or mark, or all of them, except racism in casting.

ON THE OTHER HAND.

i try not to judge shows before the story is completed. to let a non-white character end a story unhappy or in tragedy might often be an afterthought of racism in storytelling but it doesn't have to be. we have been shown that severance can handle a complex racial narrative with milchick. i am hoping that the same will happen with gemma, either because of critiques currently being made or because they have always planned to address her racial identity in relation to both mark, helly, and lumon, but we haven't gotten there yet.

or they might not.

they might have filled their talking-about-race quota, and the intersection of racism and misogyny might be a tragic, infuriating blind spot in the severance writers room. idk man, maybe we just need to give the writers the benefit of the doubt. only time will tell. and if they fuck it up we will still have our hammers next season

[wordsofelie]

🔭Saturn

part of my observatory event, requested by @stellar-haikyuu <3

kuroo tetsurou x f!reader

summary: you’ve finally found a rival who meets your standards. too bad the man is the most infuriating, stupid and annoying person on earth.

content warnings: high school setting, hurt/comfort, sports / academic rivals, swearing, reader kinda has an inferiority complex

words count: 1.4k

It started as a game. A silly, stupid, little game.

At least, that’s what you told yourself at first.

You’ve always been rather—competitive. Ever since you were a kid, you chased after every first place, every gold medal, every record waiting to be broken. Higher grades, longer races in PE, and everything else that would make you better. And then, you found volleyball—a sport that only fed that hunger, made the desire to win burn even brighter.

But before, no one had ever truly met your standards.

That is, until you met him.

Kuroo Tetsurou.

You became classmates in your first year of high school. You didn’t pay much attention to him on your first day (he seemed like the perfect depiction of a teenage boy—messy-haired, slouched over his desk, probably more interested in making dirty jokes than studying). But when the first chemistry grades came, your jaw dropped—that bastard had a better score than you. Maybe it was chance, you tried to tell yourself at first, but the semester passed, and his grades only improved.

“Need something?” is the first thing he ever asked you.

You didn’t realise you were staring at the paper in his hands until his voice reached your ears.

“I don’t,” you quickly regained your composure, clearing your throat and lifting up your chin.

His mouth turned into a side smirk. Infuriating. “Cause I can tutor you if you want.”

That motherfucker, is the only way you could describe Kuroo at this moment. You gripped your pen like it was his throat. Your hands clenched so hard your nails dug into your palms.

Still, you forced a smile in return, “I’ll pass thanks.”

“Too bad. I’ve got the annals from last year’s exam at home. I could’ve lent them to you. Or maybe they’d be too hard for you to understand.” He rested his chin in his palm calmy, looking almost bored.

Oh, you were going to kill him.

“Don’t bother, I fear I might smash your face with the book.”

His eyes widened in surprise, but his laid-back attitude came back just as fast.

“You can try, but I don’t think you can reach me. I’ve seen you play, I jump higher than you, you know.”

“Wow. Real mature-”

You were convinced the game could have gone on for hours, but unfortunately—or fortunately—the bell rang, and the class got dismissed.

You remember watching him getting up. If you didn’t just get belittled by him maybe you could have given credit to his looks. Tall, athletic, confident. That’s what Kuroo was like in your eyes. If he didn’t have a shitty personality and a stupid hairstyle you think that maybe he could have been less unbearable. But as you got out of the classroom, you only wanted to prove him wrong and dethrone him.

Your first-ever interaction transformed into a declaration of war. And the war lasted all high school.  Because, obviously, Kuroo wasn’t just good in chemistry—maths, physics, PE. Teachers loved him, praised him, classmates laughed with him. He was perfect in everything. And what made your blood boil in your veins was how effortless he made everything look. You sacrificed so much to be where you were, gave so much passion and time into school that you couldn’t stand the sight of him acting like it was easy.

And he played volleyball, which gave you even more reason to compare yourself to him.

It got worse when you both became captains of your team. You started comparing scores and blocks and victories.

At first, you liked the unspoken rule between you—the constant back and forth, the rivalry that kept you both on edge whether it was for school or volleyball.

Then, it became an obsession.

You started waking up earlier to go for a run, going to bed later to study for exams. You did everything you could and still—he was better.

You remember seeing Kuroo once on the sidelines at one of your practice matches, grinning at you with hands on his hips. “You’re looking a little slow today, Captain.”

You shot him a glare.

“Why are you even here Kuroo?” You spat once the game was over. “You’re not gonna get any girls with that haircut, you know.”

“Making fun of my hair again? You’re getting a little repetitive these days.” He chuckled. Gosh, you hated this laugh. “Besides, there’s only one girl I want attention from.”

You rolled your eyes and walked away, but deep down, your heart was pounding fast. You hated how good he was. You hated that he pushed you to be better. And more than anything—you hated how much he could control your emotions, making you sad and angry and frustrated just by being close to you.

The Inter-High qualifications arrived too fast, but you were ready.

Your team had trained relentlessly. You’d pushed yourself harder than ever, and now, it was time to prove that you could do this. That you could win.

You made it to the semi-finals. You were so close.

And then—you lost.

You didn't even make it to the finals, let alone Nationals. Your dream shattered in front of you, a cruel joke the universe had played at your expense.

You shook hands with the winning team, congratulated them like a good athlete should. Then you headed to the locker room, collapsing onto the bench; your throat was tight and your eyes burnt.

You didn't hear the door opening.

And a few seconds later, you knew he was here.

You hated him. Kuroo Tetsurou.

You hated him from the bottom of your heart.

And that hatred only grew bigger now that he was standing there, hands in his pockets, ready to make fun of your loss.

“I’m not in the mood for your teasing, Kuroo.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “I’m not here to tease.”

You finally looked up. His usual smirk was nowhere to be found, you almost missed it. Your eyes immediately stared at the floor again. “I just-” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t deserve this.”

You scoffed, bitter. “Yeah? Tell that to the scoreboard.”

Kuroo took a step closer. “I know how much this meant to you.”

Your jaw tightened. You couldn't look at him. If you did, you’d break. And you didn't want to break in front of him.

“Don’t you ever get tired of always winning?”

Kuroo blinked in surprise. “What?”

“You’re always ahead. Always. You beat me in volleyball. You beat me in grades. You beat me at everything. It’s exhausting.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. “I’ve spent years trying to keep up with you. And now-” You laughed, but it was humourless. “Now, you get to go to Nationals while I sit at home and watch.”

Kuroo frowned. He opened his mouth—you saw it from the corner of your eyes. “I never—”

“You never what?” you snapped. “Never tried to one-up me? Never enjoyed being better than me? Cause I’m way behind you, aren’t I?”

“That’s not-” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I never wanted to beat you.”

“Bullshit. Every time we got a grade, you asked to see mine. You came to every practice game, telling me I could do more. You stayed late after school just to show me how your receives were better than mine. At tournament, you came in the frontline just to see me lose and-”

Kuroo shook his head. “It’s not that-” He hesitated. “You inspire me.”

Your heart stopped beating for a second, or two. “What?”

“You’re the best opponent I’ve ever had,” he admitted. “And yeah, I like pushing you, but not because I want to humiliate you. I just-” He rubbed the back of his neck. For the first time in the three years you had known him, he looked nervous. “I like seeing you play. I like watching you get better.”

You stared at him. This—this wasn't how your conversations usually went. Kuroo was supposed to be smug, sarcastic, insufferable. Not… this.

Not kind.

“I don’t need your pity,” you finally muttered as you looked away.

Kuroo stepped closer again and knelt down in front of you. “It’s not pity.”

“Then what is it?” The words quieted one after the other.

He seemed to be looking for the right words. But then—

“I’m going to miss you.”

You froze and your heart stuttered, and you hated that it did. (Or maybe the feeling wasn’t so bad, maybe you didn’t hate it, maybe you could get used to it.)

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you asked. You tried to sound annoyed instead of breathless, but your voice betrayed you.

Kuroo grinned—soft, for once. “It means I don’t want this to be the end of our game. Even in uni, even when we’re old and can’t play volleyball anymore, I want you to remain my best opponent.”

You stared at him. He was serious.

“You’re an idiot.”

He chuckled. “Maybe.”

A few seconds passed before he spoke again. With his usual smirk and his stupid bed hair, he asked: “Need something?”

And then—because you were exhausted, because you’d lost everything that day, because you didn't have the energy to fight anymore—you let yourself leaned into him, just a little.

His arms were warm as they wrapped around you.

Tears started falling from your eyes, your muscles eased. Everything hurt and softened at the same time.

He was right. Maybe this wasn't the end of the game.

Maybe it was just a new round.

a/n: i had so much fun writing this <33

thank you so so much to @keishuii for beta-reading it, you’re the best!!

[kunfuseddd]

Chemistry Beyond the lab

W.c -3k

Paring -y/n x haechan

Warnings- slightly nswf mentions of characters having sex kissing flirting making out

Genere - study partners to lovers non idol au

A/n - hi guys sorry for not posting i have a lot going on with my disorders and health but i try posting more!!! Hope you like it anyone can request story positive feedback appreciate ENJOY!!

YN never expected Chemistry to be this difficult—or this distracting. It wasn’t the complex equations or endless experiments that threw her off; it was her lab partner, Lee Haechan.

From the moment Professor Suh paired them for the semester-long project, YN knew she was in trouble. Haechan was effortlessly charming, always flashing a teasing smirk, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. Meanwhile, YN was quiet, focused, and more comfortable with her nose buried in her notebook than engaging in playful banter.

“Looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together, partner,” Haechan had said on the first day, leaning in just a little too close. “Try not to fall in love with me, okay?

”YN had rolled her eyes, but the way her cheeks burned betrayed her.

Their assignment was to create an experiment that demonstrated chemical equilibrium in action, which meant long hours in the lab together. For the first few weeks, YN tried to keep things strictly professional. She meticulously took notes while Haechan mixed solutions with practiced ease. But he had a way of breaking through her walls.

“YN, you’re too serious,” he teased one evening as they worked late in the lab. “Chemistry should be fun. Passionate. Like love.”

She choked on her breath. “It’s a science, not a romance novel.”

“Why not both?” He winked, and she quickly turned back to her notes, pretending to be unaffected.

But she was.

One evening, they met at YN’s dorm to finalize their project presentation. The tiny desk lamp cast a warm glow as she spread out her notes, and Haechan sprawled on her bed, flipping through their research.

“This is good,” he said, pointing to a paragraph she had written. “You’re brilliant, YN.”

She looked up, surprised. “You actually read my notes?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m your partner, aren’t I?”

Something in his voice made her stomach flutter. He wasn’t teasing this time.

They worked in quiet harmony, the sound of her pen scratching against paper mixing with his occasional humming. But as the night wore on, Haechan's presence became harder to ignore.

She was hyper-aware of how close he was, the warmth radiating from his body. When he reached across her to grab a book, his fingers brushed against hers. She froze.

“Relax,” he murmured, his lips curving into a knowing smile. “You act like I’m dangerous.”

“Aren’t you?” she shot back, trying to regain control of the situation.

He chuckled. “Only if you want me to be.”

The night before their presentation, they stayed late in the lab, perfecting their experiment. YN was measuring a reagent when she felt Haechan watching her.

“What?” she asked, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded.

“You’re cute when you concentrate,” he said casually.

She nearly dropped the flask. “Haechan.”

“What? It’s true.” He stepped closer, the playful edge in his voice softening. “I like seeing you like this. Passionate. Determined.”

Her breath hitched. He was so close now, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her like a trap.

“This—this isn’t part of the project,” she stammered.

“Maybe not.” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. Maybe it was the late hour, the exhaustion, or the way he was looking at her, but she gave in.

He kissed her.

It was hesitant at first, almost as if testing the waters. But when she didn’t pull away, he deepened it, his lips moving against hers with a mix of confidence and tenderness. She melted into him, hands gripping the front of his lab coat.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“That was a pretty good reaction,” he murmured. “Should we test it again?”

She laughed, breathless. “You’re impossible.”

After that night, something shifted between them. The flirting wasn’t just teasing anymore—it was charged with something deeper. Their stolen glances in class lasted a little longer. His touches lingered.

One evening, after another long study session in her dorm, things escalated.

Haechan had been reading over her shoulder, chin nearly resting on her shoulder. She was acutely aware of every breath he took.

“This is torture,” he finally groaned.

She turned to him. “What is?”

“Being this close to you and not being able to do this.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he tilted her chin up and kissed her again. But this time, there was no hesitation. It was deeper, needier. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her onto his lap.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as he trailed kisses down her jaw, whispering her name like a prayer.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his voice rough.

But she didn’t. She wanted this—him.

The rest of the night was a blur of heat and whispered names, of tangled sheets and soft moans. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced—intense, electrifying, perfect.

The next morning, she woke up to the feeling of fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder.

“Morning, beautiful,” Haechan murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

She buried her face in the pillow. “This is a bad idea.”

He chuckled. “Too late for that.”

She sighed, rolling over to face him. “What does this mean for us?”

He propped himself up on one elbow, studying her. “It means I really, really like you.”

Her heart skipped. “You do?”

“Of course.” He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “I didn’t flirt with you all semester just for fun. Well—partly for fun. But mostly because I wanted you to notice me.”

She smiled. “I noticed.”

“Good.” He grinned. “Now, let’s ace this project and make it official after.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

Maybe she did.

And maybe, just maybe, their chemistry wasn’t just confined to the lab.

The end!!!!!

[afsalovescats]

helloo !! i was wondering if you could write something with beast dazai <3 maybe where hes readers husband or something like that ヾ(´▽｀;)ゝi feel like he would be a sweetheart with the one he loves

omg beast dazai is literally so AGGHHHHHHHH

need him.

heheheehe ^ 3 ^

sorry for being on and off u guys, luv u sm. take care of urselfs <3

Dazai was something. That was for sure. Your husband was a little crazy, but you didn't mind. He was so sweet with you.

Your husband has such a huge obsession with you. One of them is touching. You can't think of a time where his hands weren't on you. Caressing each part of your body, holding you, just skin against skin was something he favored. Its genuinely a problem since most of the time he genuinely could not function with you around. He needs to consume you whole, you think.

I mean despite him being a scary and complex figure, he masked that up pretty well..? You knew he loved his spouse- you, very dearly. You clutched his heart in your hands tightly, he simply could not resist you.

Perhaps this is why currently you are under him on the couch, his kisses softly yet slowly trace from your temple, to your forehead, your eyelid, nose and so on. You simply close your eyes basking in the moment. His semi chapped lips planting kisses wherever he could reach.

His hands trail against your body, touching anywhere, but he favored your waist. He loved any and every part of you.

Sometimes he didn't tell you things, but you knew there was something. You wouldn't bug him about it which he appreciated.

Then he nips at your neck slightly harsh and you instinctively your eyes shoot up. Glancing down at him. You keep on staring at him, telepathically communicating 'what was that for?'. He lets out a dry chuckle as if to telepathically communicate 'nothing'.

It seemed none of you wanted to break the quiet moment, nor the eye contact. So he slowly trails up, his lips finding yours. It fit perfectly, so perfect. you gently close your eyes as you reciprocate.

You didn't know for how long, but you knew it'd been a while. Kissing and smooching and combining lips, over and over again. Dazai's lip kept on finding yours as they continued their worship on yours. You then placed a hand over his heart, it was pounding. Sometimes he felt you were the only one who could make it beat, which sounded ridiculous but it was somewhat of an understatement.

"you know I can never resist you," he murmurs, but he didn't even have to. His eyes communicated with yours as a small smile graces his lips. He gently nips at your bottom lip, then traces it with his tongue. To apologize, you assume.

You get really content after a little. Really really content. You ended up falling asleep mid make out session. He didn't even really notice until after a minute. He pauses and furrows his brows. He felt offended for a second, 'am I boring you?' he thought.

But as quickly as it comes it goes. You looked so vulnerable. You trusted him if you fell asleep like this. He simply stares at you. Then plants a kiss as he dims the lights, enough to see you. Then grabs a blanket as he lays over your chest with the blanket covering you both.

After his eyes continue tracing your features as you slept peacefully, his hand gently slides up to yours. The one with the ring. The pretty one he got you, that you loved and adored. He eyes it. Bring's it up to his lips, kissing that finger. Then each knuckle and finger tip separately. This goes on for a little until sleep consumes him. You both fall asleep and wake up together later that day. You enjoyed moments like these. especially with him. Your husband and you.

[0wlettie]

alright random ass thought but hear me out a sec; warning, this is messy asl and might not fully make sense, but this idea just kinda gripped me tight and refused to let me breath ;;;;;;

idol!caleb x obssessedfan!reader

something something you're a fan of the idol group 'deepspace', and have been for years. you've been following them since their conception, being one of the few fans to witness their rise to success. you love and appreciate all of the members of course--and sometimes rafayel tries to sway you--but the one that is your number one bias is caleb; the leader and main rapper of 'deepspace'.

you adore him, and you have ever since you saw their debut stage. you can't help it--caleb is everything to you.

tall and boyishly handsome with wide, almost puppyish eyes and ruffled dark hair. he's cute, unbearably cute, and combined with the muscular and big figure he cuts, it turns your brain to mush. playful and mischievous, playing pranks and making lighthearted jokes with his fellow members. but when he needs to be the leader, breaking up fights, speaking for them at award shows, and even defending his fellow members when he feels as if the interviewer has gone too far, he excels at it with flying colors. the gap moe of his personality and actions routinely drives you insane.

you've witnessed the interactions between him and his group--the playful bickering with him and rafayel, the bright cheer to counteract zayne's dry wit, the more passive role he took when sylus and him and were alone, the firm and supportive role he took with xavier, their youngest. he fulfilled something inside of you, as embarrassed as you were to admit. he feels like an older brother figure to you, a figure you've sorely lacked in your twenty something life.

you've collected all of his photo cards and have them in a sparkly purple binder that you keep close to your bed at night. different posters line your walls top to bottom, a mixture of official comebacks, photo shoots and fanshoots. you've got every album from their debut to the repackages, and you've got each single version. you've been to every single one of their concerts, even the ones abroad, and you're always in the closest row to the front of the stage. you honestly don't know how much money you've spent, but the amount of zeroes would definitely overwhelm you if you were to guess.

as the years passed, the depth of your love for caleb followed. but, it grew to be something that overtook your very thoughts. and you started to fantasize about seeing him in person, outside of the fanmeets and concerts. where he was just caleb, and not caleb of 'deepspace'. to the point where you're stalking his movements through what little social media the boys are allowed to have. following fansite accounts that get pictures of the boys on their off time, going so far as to try and stake out those spots, waiting for caleb to appear.

it's strange, how far you'll go to see him. how much you want to feel those pretty and warm eyes on you and only you, taking care of you the way you just know he can. stalking his dance and singing studios, delving deeper into what he does and where he goes when he's off work. through your desperate searching, you've found out what complex he stays in. a discreet yet expensive looking area that you know you stick out like a sore thumb in, with your baggy hoodies and unruly curly hair.

you don't know what floor or what apartment he's staying in, so you take a week of vacation off to find out. loitering around the area, waiting to see if you recognize their managers car. after a few more days of that, you discover both the floor and the number of the apartment. with only a couple days left, you waist no time in walking up to his apartment. you just...just want to drop off a letter to him, is all. you've written it out in the prettiest handwriting you've got, with your love and hopes colored in sparkly purple ink. clear instructions to meet at a nearby cafe are jotted down as well, and you hope in your heart of hearts that he accepts and shows up.

you get to his door then, and are about to slide the note under when you realize the door is slightly ajar. caleb had previously looked in a hurry while being ushered away by their manager, so maybe he left the door unlocked? well, if it's been unlocked this whole time, did that mean someone could've gotten inside? if so, maybe you should check it out before you close the door, make sure that no one nasty is waiting for him to return, yeah?

it makes total sense to you.

so you tuck the letter away and slowly inch past the cracked door. tension and excitement war within your gut as you shuffle deeper within caleb's home. you're here, somewhere you've only dreamed of entering. it's exactly how his personality reflects, mostly clean save for a few messily half-done model planes, and the mini workout corner filled with barbells and pull up bars. warm and cozy, with wide windows and a modern and sleek kitchen. you know that, between the others in the group, he's the best cook. you also know that it's something he enjoys as a bit of a side hobby, based off the occasional posts on his socials about the food he makes. inch by inch you scour the entirety of his home, the thinly veiled excuse of yours melting away when you reach his bedroom.

you're entire mind goes blank at the thought of seeing inside, and by the time you return to yourself, you find that you're rolling around his sheets and covers. shoes kicked off and hoodie tossed on the carpet, you're completely trying to immerse yourself in caleb's scent. you don't know how much time passes like that, but you come back to yourself when you hear the distant voices of people. it immediately snags your attention, and with a dawning dread, you realize that caleb's manager must be dropping him back off. panicking, you grab your hoodie and kick your shoes underneath his bed.

hearing footsteps get closer, you look around the room for a place to hide. your wildly darting eyes lock onto the random side door, and you don't hesitate to quickly wrench it open. heart pounding fiercely within your chest and adrenaline pumping so loud you hear nothing but white noise, you close the door and go still. you try to swallow back your panting breaths as you hear the footsteps walk closer.

when the door opens and someone enters, you instinctively back further into the room you're in, flinching when you bump into something. you mange to right yourself as well and bend down to catch whatever you ran into, but you're heart freezes when the footsteps abruptly go silent. sweat drips down your neck as the strain in your arms and legs threaten to give out on you, but eventually, the footsteps move. another door opens before the footsteps recede. you still wait a few more moments despite the pain in your limbs, but eventually, you untwist yourself and turn around. you fumble for your phone as you balance the chair you nearly bowled over with one hand. you manage to turn on your flashlight, eyes swinging around the room.

your jaw drops, eyes widening as you take in the sight.

they're...pictures covering the small walls of this side room; pictures of you. they go back years, back to the days you first got into the idol scene. the baby days of 'deepspace'. you can only stare in shock as your head robotically turns, eyes jumping from candid photo to candid photo. you walking down the street. you enjoying a small snack at the park. you walking into your job. you walking into your apartment complex. you taking out the trash. you petting a stray cat that loiters outside of your job. you going grocery shopping. you, you, you.

you don't even blink when you hear the door behind you creak open. you hardly even breath when you feel someone approach you from behind. the flashlight from your phone wobbles slightly when you hear a laugh you're used to hearing with distortion from the microphones, the cameras, the music. you feel the intimate brush of hands against your shoulders, a quiet huff of air displacing one of your curls as someone leans down until their level with your forehead.

"Took you long enough, pipsqueak. I've been waitin' forever for you to find me."

as usual, this is way longer than i expected it to be ;;;; this is just something that popped into my head when playing through the game today, and this is all my fingers could come up with. not the most coherent, but it's a cute little thought bunny that refused to leave me alone, so here this is <3 may or may not get a continuation we'll see ¯\_(ᵕ—ᴗ—)_/¯

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