#sorry man all I got for this decade was

[fencesandfrogs]

One of the best moves of my life has to be reenacting an AIDS protest on 80s day in my senior year of high school.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

due to things lining up Horribly, no stream this weekend! and maybe not the next, either!

[risingsunresistance]

apparently twitter is fightng about whether or not alpharad is Literally Rich Like Actually 1% "Eat The Rich" Rich because of his last vlog and people are mad that he was nice to his friends and think he's just bragging about having a lot of money because they didnt care enough to watch the video and only went by the title and thumbnail

anyways have i told you how much i love alpharad that guy is awesome

[idiosyncraticrednebula]

Even since Michael's heavenly ascend, not just the music industry but, quite frankly, the entertainment industry as a whole has been left with a massive void that I don't believe will be fulfilled in the near future or ever again. That man had a star power equivalent to three Galactuses at their most powerful. You will never witness someone like that ever again, not in this lifetime nor the next one. He was and still is one of a kind.

[bruhstation]

@hkpika07 DUDE YOU CAN'T DO THISBTO ME

[archive2394934]

trying to make henry homophobic when hes been abused and oppressed his entire life for being noticeably “different” (Which you know, you could actually read as being metaphorical to someone who is openly queer but what does my gay ass know lol) and that is literally the reason hes trying to fight to change the world so people like him who are “different” dont have to suffer under social constructs & systematic oppression, partic if you also hc him as queer, are still and will always be the worst takes on this character and in this fandom and I cant believe I keep having to see them in real time. 

[freebooter4ever]

Hey thanks I thought I was the only one who didn’t like the joke. Everyone laughed yuck

Ahhhhh yeah :/ i thought the joke was definitely funny, but with that harsh twinge of sadness at just how normalized and accepted this sort of sexism STILL is.

' i was never good at telling jokes but the punchline goes, i get older but your lovers stay my age '

And its not necessarily a damnation of the man himself - obviously rami is a favorite of mine but i dont think hes ever dated anyone over 30 and is veering towards jake and leo disease too, and i still think rami is one of the most brilliant character narrative builders in the business currently - but its a damnation of a culture that treats romantic partners not as equals but as disposable play things with an expiration date. Look, i got flirted with by much older guys in pittsburgh all the time - usually it was cute, they were friendly, very complimentary and flattering about it, and they never treated it seriously or asked me out. Then i came to LA and the difference was night and day. Older (rich) men here feel entitled to younger women in a way that is frankly scary - at one point in a bar when a guy in his 60s was hitting on me my muscular male friend had to physically step between us and scare the guy off to get him to go away.

And it doesn't help that im sort of in the 'one of the guys' category, so i've heard the way these super rich dudes talk about the models they date behind their back while hanging with 'the guys', and, ugh, its not nice. I will say one thing for sports dudes - i imagine guys like ja*gr have way more respect for young women who are passionate about health and fitness than computer science executives.

But there's negatives in the sports world too - yall know how much i adore taylor. But even i recognize that she's not 'sports bro hot' - she doesn't have silicone, her make up is understated, she doesn't have that social media defined 'hotness' that sports fan dudes expect their sports heroes to date. So while i was naively scrolling insta looking for cute snapshots of taylor and travis being all lovey dovey at the end of the game, a good half the comments were men complaining about her. Saying they cant understand why travis is dating someone so old, that she will never be able to give him kids, that she's already showing her age (both of them are 34 btw). So far travis seems to ignore these types of comments but it would be hard to judge him for giving into peer pressure because this stuff is just so prevelant and exhausting.

And it does effect us older women - while i was dating Pilot Boy i was absolutely hyper aware of the fact that here is this rich, handsome, successful, and extremely smart guy dating beneath him. Like we bonded over being literally the same age - we had mutual friends in college without even knowing it. But i was always questioning like what does this guy see in me - why isn't he dating a gorgeous 25 year old whose only goal in life is to live on the beach with him??? Like he was honestly more the type of dude i would be friends with while he dates hotter women, lol. So i really was not surprised when he ended things (i was mostly sad that we couldnt stay friends and continue geeking out on airplanes and history together LOL), it just felt like it made sense, of course he wouldn't be serious about me, a guy like him should be dating a fresh, youthful, less bitter and cynical 25 yr old blonde. Six years in LA and this is just the pattern i see repeating itself over and over.

And im the romantic - when i fall in love its ALL in. Usually it's personality, usually its intellectual - that comfort in finding someone who just understands how you think. I love being so close to someone that you know them better than yourself, that you can communicate wordlessly. Shared humor, shared experience. As i age im learning that i actually dont pay much attention to the signs of aging when it comes to attraction - who notices wrinkles when what you're in love with is that look in their eye when they smile at you? The mental connection between romantic partners is the most important for me in my book. For me this typically means someone within the ten year range plus or minus - though i prefer it even within a five year age gap.

[tuliptiger]

Just saw a post about a person being upset or frazzled that depression and anxiety are the "everyman" mental illness. I want to proceed this by saying I am NOT going to be shitting on this person at all and they have a point but I didn't quite agree with uhm the tone or everything about it.

I don't think it's wrong or bad that these two specific mental illnesses have a wider understanding and reach. They have been watered down for lack of a better term because they have come to mean many things including less debilitating symptoms and signs. This is not to say it's bad, I don't think. I think it's objectively good that more people are able to look at themselves and talk with medical professionals and be able to be helped for any severity be it minor or major.

And that was their main point of contention though because the more debilitating cases of anxiety and depression are taken less seriously when using the terms "depression" and "anxiety". I think that is completely a valid point and reasonable thing to be upset about.

However...

I do not think the answer is to "take back" the terms and that also isn't what they said or implied either. What I really heard from them and that post was "when I talk about my life altering devastating mental illness I want to be taken seriously and understood without having to go into detail or explain it" (because the last part can and is incredibly exhausting and frustrating especially if it is not outright understood or has a base assumption of the less debilitating ideas and versions). What I heard was "I want to be taken seriously". That ISN'T what they said but it is what I understood from it.

In which case the solution to this is for people to respect each other, listen to each other with good intentions and faith, and take each other seriously when we talk about ourselves. Unfortunately that's an individual and societal problem that runs a little too deep for this post.

As for the terms, there probably does need to be a language separation between severities of depression and anxiety even though there are rough versions of those already. Like social anxiety, moderate depression, major depressive disorder, chronic depression, oct, ptsd, etc. The very word depression has kind of lost it's oomf but I think for a relatively good reason. Maybe there should be an entire other word for major depression that doesn't include that phrase though to help with that communication gap. IDK. My two cents if that's worth anything.

[katyspersonal]

WASN’T THAT MICO COMIC GOOD?? Did you see the little hints about Rom in the first two parts? I loved that so much and it fits so well with our ideas about them being siblings. I’m so obsessed with the idea that Rom ascended unexpectedly and left Micolash behind, which sort of sent him spiraling into further madness. If I remember right, you have different ideas, but the sibling thing is mutual!! Idk, there’s something so natural feeling about. Kos choosing Rom and Mico being left in the dust, only to go crazy trying to play catch up. I love these characters.

And unhinged madman Micolash is the best. It was so nice to see him in character <3

That comic with Micolash going full psycho mode on a poor Choir member is just...

I mean there was also the sheer agony of seeing that comic was made in 2016, I feel like Micolash is hardly ever portrayed that way anymore. Maybe Rom decided to also hide the secret of his depraved, mad personality from humanity for a good measure so now everyone blissfully sees him as the cutest blorbo that isn't dangerous at all? heheh; /lh

Also YES for the siblings headcanon club! I honestly just came up with it based on this line:

It felt like it had to be them based on various tiny things! Each Brain Fluid has different description, and this particular one drops from a female just-head patient guarded by the black Church Doctor doctor! However it doesn't feel for me like THEY are the mysterious brother and sister, since black doctors are lower rank and I feel someone that discovered Arcane has to be the white doctors rank. Lore does say that black ones dispose of "failures" but the white ones are who experiment! Besides, that head calls for Maria for a comfort which is odd if her brother is RIGHT here?

My latest idea on how the things happened came from not knowing in canon where did OoK's umbilical cord go! So here is the timeline:

🎀 Byrgenwerth obtains OoK's cord after Fishing Hamlet massacre, along with other things, Willem is unsure of how to make the best use of it but intends to investigate its features

🎀 Rom casually goes, 'Wait but if we don't know, why won't we ask his mother? o:' and nobody has a heart to tell her Kos was murdered and cord wasn't "just found laying somewhere" (Caryll attempts to say something but the whole class gives him killer glare). However, this exact question gives Micolash an idea, as the only one who figured by now that every single thing Rom says, even if naive/dumb one, tends to be worth of considering (fate foreshadowing much?)

🎀 He steals the cord and has a hunch to call Rom with him to attempt a ritual of beckoning spirit of Kos with it, trying his hardest to ensure her he wants no harm but instead to advance humanity in the way no such terrible thing can happen again

💦 Kos blesses Rom with eyes, thus making her 'Patient Zero' brain fluids of which could be used to transmit to other people with the water; Micolash gets no eyes but weird telepathic connection with her - similar to Willem/Ebrietas, Izzy/Fauna and... whatever strange thing went down between Ludwig, Laurence and Flora. Being the will of a Great One in mortal world is the closest analogy I could give.

(I have an idea that after this point the eyes of siblings change from brown to arcane blue... Because Micolash's face data oddly has brown eyes, but his cut-scene model has blue)

💦 Willem is angry when he discovers the insane plan the two pulled, but can't deny that despite being crazy it was genius. (Except he fucking can because Micolash is cursed with never having his contributions acknowledged). But this encounter is not only the root for Research Hall antics, but also for Laurence learning that grieving Great One moms can be beckoned by a child's cord!

💦 Research Hall gets a different formal leader in stand of Willem however in actuality everything there is manipulated by Micolash from the shadows, Insight-granting brain fluids found within Rom's spinal cord quickly become mass distributed and created in large quantity (of course at the expense of other humans), but instead of true progress, it seems like patients are merely suffering witnessing horrors of the Deep Sea. Micolash is THE cruel mad doctor everyone is terrified to get under treatment of, always yelling at patients for being 'useless cowards' upon failure after failure to reach deeper into Sea and giving them more 'water' than they could handle (and always using Adeline as a model patient example -_-)

💦 Some patients discover the alternative - ones reaching for cursed Amygdalae knowledge become Gardens of Eyes (to later to be taken in Byrgenwerth), others discovering the 'stars' to give Blacksky Eyes and some live to become Living Failures. However...

sjdsahdsgs no, no, sorry, but seriously tho, Maria was soon to suspect that something is wrong and the "progress" with the Sea doesn't seem to be... a good faith, to say the least. That was true; Micolash knows just what Kos wants, remember? Hunter's Nightmare is meant for HUNTERS, yet patients, innocent victims, are there too! And that was Micolash's fault; during his procedures, he'd ensure that combining their sheer terror with arcane would make them good fundament to ensure the creation of the Nightmare, as Kos was weak and her wish alone was not enough. (not saying he didn't still genuinely wish to learn more about the Sea from them...)

💦 Maria begs Brador to get a word out for her because Healing Church would LISTEN to him, and it works out in the end. Micolash is striped of his influence, along the lines of the Church re-purposing itself to seek the abandoned Ebrietas and focusing on the 'stars' for good, much to Micolash's resentment.

☄️ Speaking of resentment! His envy and bitterness towards Rom were increasing, largely based off the fact that Kos chose her as knowledge-bearer, not him. Around this time, he was to take the pain and anger about his failures out on her, rejecting her as a sister, calling her names, asking why Kos picked him as the one to ruin human lives and not Rom because 'you did just fine having ruined MINE!' and so on.. She never was ready to hear something like this from the brother that she was looking for her entire life and idealised. That caused Rom's attempted s*icide by downing way too much liquid, and she had another communion with Kos - never knowing whether it was just a dream or she did go somewhere that day. It was attempt of Kos to truly adopt her as a child upon her pain of 'no longer having family', that Rom rejected because she was unwilling to abandon humanity without even trying to help them against the mess they got themselves into. However, that still gave Rom absolutely unique Insight and properties (and gave her those strange tails).

☄️ Micolash was able to restore his presence and status in Healing Church's 'nerds' faction (that was only Choir by that time) by presenting Rom and her new abilities! Like 'look, I can not only ruin patients, but give them skills none of you can dream about, right? :)' . Rom became the head of the Choir, and the best way to communicate with Ebrietas, especially since Caryll was gone by then.

☄️ Rom's precedent also became an inspiration for the Choir to use little orphaned children to beckon the hearing ear of the Great Ones the best! She had intellectual disability* making her as naive as a child, and just like Micolash, she was an orphan herself. So like... why not use people with the same features, right? Pure naive mind, combined with yearning for a parent.

🕷️ In uncertain time, Rom reconnected with Patches and was able to seek selling herself to Amygdalae - ensuring her association as a 'Spider' despite connection to all three kinds of the divine. It was done under encouragement of Micolash, as Amygdalae knew the secrets most forbidden, all about immortality, splitting soul and body, true nature of the 'Moon' behind the 'Stars', and much more.

🕷️ Micolash would eventually separate from the Choir and have his own faction, researching the forbidden and knowledge basically opposing the 'stars'! Some left with him, like our friends Damian or Iosefka! Depending on the timeline, Edgar would either fake leaving the Choir with him to be the secret agent, or only appear later after Mico's leaving and...

🕷️ Rom, however, would stay in touch with him - especially through various reflective surfaces. And because she could use bodies of water to hide things, when Choir provided her a whole giant puddle in where Altar of Grief is now. She would secretly help, down to coordinating his cultists to be undetected, helping him with directions and... reviving body of Queen Yharnam (and Mergo that got fused with her womb, an actual thing happening irl). So the cord of her (eternally) infant could be taken...

And... this is where I get lost. x) No, honestly. I am not sure how she became a true Great One. Since Altar of Grief has her petrified body but we fight her in the lake (astral) and dungeons (physical), I presume she has the same body-soul split as Queen Yharnam, but... how?

I have this scene in my head where Fauxsefka discovers all the lies, secrets and twists Rom was pulling all along, and how she was helping Micolash all along, and how there is now a perpetual ritual to beckon Bloodmoon that was obscured. Naturally she exposes her before everyone, asks her how much Rom truly knew and said nothing, calls her a twisted monster (with only Julie getting defensive). And Rom is not able to explain her motivations, or how she had to play the slow game because Choir people were not ready for harsh truth about the world, nor they had the same approach as Micolash.. She just cannot deliver her point at all, and both ascends and soon turns into stone out of raw panic and despair. She was willing to escape the uncomfortable situation, and she is an idiot god that doesn't realise the extent of her powers, so... this happens. It'd put a permanent tension between Fauxsefka and Julie, that will only truly break later when they have to work together upon return to Byrgenwerth. Also Micolash would probably comment how undergoing something as extreme as becoming a god for a 'dumb' reason was a very Rom thing to do, ahaha.

But yeah, for all I know it could be something else? I just gotta agree with Micolash here - it IS a her thing to do, to accomplish something incredible without trying over a very humane reason.

And I totally agree that he was jealous. And... well, I guess he also did resent her for rejecting Kos' offer. She rejected something Micolash wants above everything else (being Kos' surrogate baby) for the sake of something he has nothing but disdain for (the humanity). He had to hate her, we know this much </3 On the other hand, it is things like this that make me slightly regret picking the siblings idea, because can you even comprehend how much drama it'd contain as a romantic ship, and how satisfying the happy alternative would be?

But heyyyyy, the story makes sense, right? This is kind of more important! Because I do not have feelings, only logic, right- right...? sighhhhhh

Anyways, you didn't really ask for this, but the ask felt prompting enough, so here are my thoughts on the timeline and the story! Would like to hear yours!

[wcrstarter]

if theres ever an attempt at another hellboy movie, or a remake of eragon movie, they need james cameron because nobody does visuals the way he can

[thevirginslvt]

i had a chance… but this stupid man had to be stupid

[prickly-paprikash]

Kendrick doesn't just hate Drake as a person. He hates the very idea of Drake.

Hip-Hop is rooted in revolution. In defiance. These are the songs of an oppressed group of people, and decades upon decades people have hated it. Accused of being meaningless and invalid. Media outlets took steps to belittle hip-hop and make sure it isn't recognized as an art form and as a means to fight back.

2Pac spoke of wealth disparity and inequality. Tupac was literally a member of a communist organization when he was younger and never stopped speaking against capitalism.

Lauryn Hill spoke of the struggles a woman faces. Not just women, but black women. Salt-N-Peppa. Queen Latifah. MISSY FUCKING ELLIOT.

N.W.A made sure people knew about police brutality and violence against the Black community.

And now, in this day and age, we're also experiencing an explosion of Queer Hip-Hop. Lil Nas X is at the forefront of this. Lil Uzi Vert came out as non-binary and uses they/them pronouns, even when they knew that a lot of their fans would never use it or even respect them for it. Auntie Diaries, a song about a young man who grew up in a transphobic environment and bought into those beliefs, but could never fully do it because his Uncle loved him so much and taught him a lot of life lessons, and that wisdom translated to him accepting his cousin as a woman as well.

Drake is none of that.

He's the perfect representation of what people think hip-hop is. Flexing. Posturing. Objectifying women. A fucker so insecure he bought 2Pac's ring just to feel like he's part of the black community. Rejected by Rihanna publicly. Tried to groom Millie Bobby Brown. Kissed and inappropriately touched an underage girl during his concert. His songs have inspired so many young boys to treat girls like shit. His belief that the amount of rings and chains and cars he has is the true meaning of success.

Additional Edit: This is my fault. If this post gains more views, then it would be remiss of me not to add to this. It was my fault to begin with, not stating this beforehand because while I did know, I got lost in celebrating Hip-Hop in a place that doesn't usually do so, and rightfully so.

2Pac did fight for wealth equality and better social living for the black community. He also has a long, long history of battery, domestic abuse, and sexual harassment against women. Specifically against women of color. He made a song to celebrate his own mother, but outright refused to give the same show of respect to other women in his life. His hypocritical nature was brushed off in later decades, just the way I did now.

N.W.A is the same. Sexual assault charges, violence—they spoke of Police reform, but refuses to give the same treatment back towards the women in their lives.

50 cent refuses to backtrack on any of his misogynistic lyrics.

Modern rappers of today, such as the dead XXXtentacion. 6ix9ine. Kodak Black.

I do love Hip-Hop. I love rap. And the music itself has always been anti-authoritarian at its core, because those are its roots. And I was happy that circles that did not normally know of it or enjoy it were getting into it, even for one thing like this rap feud.

Lil Nas X, Little Simz, Childish Gambino, Missy Elliot, Queen Latifah, Lauryn Hill—rappers who have at the very least consistently tried to put their money where their mouth is. Who have tried to act in accordance to what they rap and write and sing for.

@shehungthemoon @ohsugarsims finnthehumanmp3 were the ones who rightfully clarified in the comments. I know an apology won't correct my hypocrisy or my stupidity. I should have added all of this before making this post, but I wanted so badly to celebrate a genre of music but failed to do my due diligence in showing a better, holistic view of it. If anyone felt triggered, offended, troubled, frustrated or any other intense negative emotions surrounding this, please do block me. I'm sorry.

[gutsby]

Make It Stick

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel never thought he’d need a vasectomy. Then, one night, he accidentally finishes inside you.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected-peepaw-p-in-v (I’m sorry). Accidental creampie. Age gap. Cumplay. Breeding kink. Ovulation has led me places I wouldn’t go with a gun.

Note: Convergence is a painting by Jackson Pollock. We studied it in high school and I thought it looked like jizz idk

Word count: 4.7k

He should’ve gotten snipped when he had the chance.

Should’ve taken the plunge, faced his fears of needles and fluorescent-washed doctor’s offices like any man his age could have done and gotten the damn vasectomy. Now he was here, nearly two decades older and still none the wiser in this cold, dead world with a pretty young thing like you between his sheets. In lieu of elective surgery, Joel Miller had only to grit his teeth, bite hard, and repeat over and over again in his head, desperate:

‘Don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, don’t cum, DON’T—’

Words like those normally worked. With women that weren’t you, they tended to serve him exceedingly well.

But you were just so tight. And wet. And welcoming. And try as Joel might to pretend like he got laid on a regular basis, the truth was that he didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t seem to think straight when it came to this fixation he’d developed for you, so, instead, he let his dick do all the decision-making whenever he found himself around you. Ten times out of ten that ended in:

“J-J-Joel—oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—I’m gonna CUM.”

And that made it worth every last life-endangering drop.

Feeling how your flushed, lithe body came apart beneath his touch. How you needed him. How your eyes grew to half the size of your face and you gaped up at the man, lips parted, like you couldn’t even comprehend how the friction of seven inches could make you feel so good.

If he had it his way, he would’ve loved nothing more than to show you that feeling every night, and twice the next morning if his hip wasn’t giving him too much trouble.

But, at present, the man had bigger fish to fry. Like not becoming a new father at fifty-nine if he could help it.

With the last two fluttering pulses of your heat, and almost going cross-eyed from the pleasure as he felt it, Joel yanked his big, slippery cock out of your body and made a fist around his member as he always knew to do. Tugged and pulled and grunted above you—‘Sweet girl, you’re so fuckin’ good to me’—and watched your tits and your belly for the milky white ropes to ensue.

Strangely, though, your skin stayed the same.

No cum-spray Convergence appeared before him, no opaque and cloudy fluids dribbling down your ribs, nothing. Your stomach was as bare as the rest of you, save for a few beads of sweat, and that was all there was.

Joel shook his dick harder, confused. Beneath him, you were still coming down from your high smiling ear-to-ear and staring blissfully at the ceiling. Your chest rose and fell, rose and fell in quick succession, and while you endeavored to recollect your mind, Joel was losing his.

Where the FUCK was his cum?

In no naked horizontal tango to date had Joel simply…cum without noticing. Shit like that just didn’t happen to men, least of all to ones his age, so when he’d wrung his poor cock like a sodden towel and still saw nothing come out, he felt his stomach turn and plummet inside him.

He dropped to his hands and knees in less than a moment and lowered his head between your legs.

“No, Joel!” you squealed, giggling. Kicking your feet, “Another round and I’m gonna combust, you old perv!”

But Joel wasn’t looking to get his dick wet again. He was inspecting you. Or trying to, anyway. Quickly realizing he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, he let out a breath through his nose and lifted you off the bed. Your naked frame thrown over his shoulder, bare hip beside his head and your strangled, muffled cry of, ‘What the hell, Joel?!’ hardly seemed to register with the man carrying you off.

You were toted to the bathroom. Joel was about to ease you down on your feet. Then, appearing to change his mind at the last second, he set you onto the sink instead. Your skin bristled with indignation, anger. A little arousal.

“Last time we did it on a sink we broke the faucet,” you reminded him, feigning more dismay than you really felt inside. If anything, you liked it when your fossil-age fuckbuddy switched things up. You were just exhausted.

Heedless of your words, Joel kneeled on the floor and pried your legs apart before him. When you swatted at his silver-flecked head, he brushed your hand away.

“Hold still,” he grunted.

“How come?”

“‘Cause I said.”

How quickly he commanded that tone of a father.

“Wanna sleep,” you groaned, about to roll your eyes.

But you couldn’t deny you liked being doted on by him.

Joel’s touch was gentle. Probing. Spidering down the most sensitive parts of your bare lower half, between your thighs, and slowly coaxing you closer to the edge of the sink. Your breath hitched when you saw his head tilt.

He appeared to be deep in thought—a rare sight for anyone who’d seen Joel Miller in the postcoital state. Most every time he’d blown his load before, the man was dead asleep within ten minutes. His joints could barely hold himself upright after a half hour of plowing the back forty, much less carry you, too, so you were puzzled now.

He thumbed at the seam of your cunt, and you whined:

“Jo-el—”

“Can ya…push, baby?” His eyes flitted up quickly.

“Push?”

“Yeah, just…” With a look you couldn’t quite read, he placed the palm of his other hand on your belly. Then, pressing, “Like this. Like you’re squeezin’ somethin’ out.”

You cocked a brow in muted confusion but did as he asked. You watched his gaze, and it stayed on you.

Or, rather, on that soft and pliant spot between your legs the old man seemed to favor so much. On any other occasion, in a position like this, he surely would’ve been wearing a smile. Tonight, his lips curled into a grimace.

And twisted even further when you ‘pushed’ like you did.

At first you felt nothing. A gentle clench of your walls supplied little more than a sense of having been stretched—no novel concept to you, who’d spent the last three-and-a-half months or so getting fucked by the finest AARP affiliate alive most every night. It wasn’t until you clamped down again that you got the feeling there was something else. Something thick and warm and slow as molasses trickling out from between your folds.

You let out a low, tender, ‘Mmph’ without meaning to; it felt kind of nice. Beneath you, Joel’s face turned grave.

He watched as his spend oozed out of your freshly-fucked hole and thought of vasectomies again.

You were young—too young to know better. Too sweet and naïve to see any peril in spreading your legs for a man like him, in a world like this. And Joel swore he’d be careful. But no post-apocalyptic birth control method was perfect, or even close to it, and it was clear he’d relied too heavily on reflexes to keep him from cumming inside you. Joel was old—too old to be doing this shit.

Too grown and well-versed in sex to be making mistakes as stupid as that. His brow pinched in, and he drew his next breath as if the air around him was growing scarce.

“Joel, what’s—”

“When’s the last time you— you— uh…bled?”

Hardly more in control of his face than the rate his heart went thudding in his chest, Joel winced at the end. This time, you were the one to knit your eyebrows together. You could tell by that tight, discomfited tone he wasn’t talking papercuts, but were still unsure of his purpose.

“Like two, two and a half weeks ago. Why?”

Well, fuck.

Joel buried his face in his hands. You scooted closer to the sink’s edge, thinking little of his cum leaking out.

“Why?” you tried again. Softer this time.

An old, weathered head lifted to greet you. It was bleak.

“You see this?” Joel paused. Swiping his finger through the viscous white substance that had trickled out on the counter, in a puddle now, “Y’know what it means, right?”

You let his look, and the question, remain suspended in air for a second. Then another. Then you shrugged.

“Yeah. But…you’re old,” came your answer at length.

You’re old.

Joel and you both knew as much, but the former wasn’t quite following your train of thought. Still wanting to try and mitigate damages while he could, though, Joel reached for the roll of toilet paper that was fastened to the wall and tore himself a strip. He bunched it up and, reaching for one of your knees to spread you further for him, took to daubing the tissue across your entrance.

“What’s me bein’ old got to do with anything?” A little sharp, then, seeing you flinch when he drew too close to your clit, “‘m sorry, baby, just— gotta get this out of you.”

You made a face but let him continue anyway. Your eyes followed each movement of his hand, and reflexively, the muscles in your thighs tightened. Why bother with this when the man has so many better uses for his hands?

For a second, your eyes fluttered half-shut.

“Maria says old folks are, uh…infertile. Got something to do with a middle pause,” you said, breaths labored.

Joel stopped just long enough to shoot you a look.

“Menopause,” he corrected, all too matter-of-fact, before returning to his work, “is a woman thing.”

What the hell were they teaching in Jackson’s sex ed classes, anyway? Then Joel remembered how his brother sincerely believed that women peed out of their vaginas until he was twenty-three, and the thought of you not knowing the ins and outs of male virility wasn’t the most far-fetched idea in the universe. Besides, sexual health wasn’t exactly the community’s highest priority when the world around it was in a perpetual state of decay and hordes of fungus-faced fuckers ran rampant in the wild.

He curved a tender, careful finger against the ring of muscles framing your sex, trying to absorb more cum, and your grip on the edge of the countertop tightened.

“S-So, you—” You swallowed, throat constricting a little too, “You’re sayin’…men can make babies…whenever?”

You sounded so innocent as you said it. Joel wanted nothing more than to club himself over the head for being the cause of this predicament—of being such an instrumental part of the perceived corruption, as it was.

Meanwhile, your head was swimming in filthier thoughts.

Deeper, Joel, keep…pushing in…dee-e-per. You would have scarcely had more luck giving a fuck what Joel was talking about now than if he’d just said the room was on fire. By his voice, you knew you should’ve been paying attention, but the dexterity of his fingers was too much. He was caressing the first couple inches of your inner walls, attempting to scrape what bits of his release he could get unstuck from the flesh, but it seemed he was succeeding mostly in just turning you on. Rendering you deaf to the drone of his words as you pictured him pushing something else inside your tight, throbbing—

“—whole lotta problems for us if you’re, uh…ovulating,” Joel finished, expression taut and oblivious. You hadn’t heard the first part of that sentence and didn’t care to.

“Ovulating,” you repeated slowly. Indifferent.

Joel carried on without a hitch.

“Kids just ain’t fit for this world. I know you know that.”

You nodded along, not hearing a word.

“And if you’re— if y’ever did consider, maybe…”

Your lungs took an extra sharp inhale when Joel’s fingers coaxed out a warm, sticky glob of his load, and he petted your folds with his thumb. Then let out a breath himself.

“…y’oughta start a family with someone your own age—”

That part snagged your attention. Too swiftly, it came:

“My own age?”

Sighing, in spite of those welts of pleasure so heightened by his touch that the space between your legs began to throb and ache. Hardly possessed of more sense to form words that weren’t just echoes of his own, you tried communication from a simpler source—your foot.

You nudged his shoulder, and Joel looked up.

“What?”

“What?”

Parroting was, evidently, a hard habit to kill. Your toes curled into the bare skin of Joel’s shoulder, and when he re-inserted his finger, you ground your heel even deeper.

“When’s that ev…ever stopped us from doing it before, hm?” you said, tone strained but laced with some humor too, “Thought you liked sayin’ you’d make me a mama.”

Joel’s face flooded pink at the recollection—as a matter of fact, there had been several such memories. Instead of answering immediately, he just averted his gaze again. He anchored one hand to your thigh, and with the other teased out another string of your shared arousal before wiping his finger on the tissue, clinically, and repeating. All he had to offer in reply after was: ‘That’s different.’

And it was, to some extent. Joel wasn’t blind to the sea of uneasy looks that trailed behind you both whenever you walked the streets of Jackson together. How wide the eyes would get when instead of observing some filial display of affection play out before them, as expected, you’d loop your arms around his waist and take his lip between your teeth as you kissed—‘Can we please go home now, baby?’—that Joel was certain he’d been cemented as the resident pervert among everyone in town. Just how much worse that reputation was liable to get if there ever happened to be a round and swollen belly between that embrace someday was unthinkable. Dirty talk was one thing; parenthood another entirely.

This is for the best, became the low, grating refrain in his skull. Why he dug so hard, pushed so far inside the wet, velvety interior of your body without a thought for his own desires in that moment; he had to cull every trace of himself out of there, before he had half a chance to think.

“Baby, hey, hey, no—” Joel cut in a second later, abrupt.

No, no, no. You weren’t thinking either. Wrapping your hand around his wrist, pushing his fingers deeper inside.

Smiling a little, too.

“What are you— no, honey, don’t— you can’t,” Joel’s words splintered in every direction, watching you plunge his own index and middle fingers into the slick and the warmth he’d just been trying to get his cum out of. He looked up and saw your lids were heavy, about to close.

“What are you doin’? This ain’t…no, baby, it ain’t…safe.”

Back to sounding like a dad in no time at all.

“What’s wrong with leaving it in a bit longer? Feels nice.”

You had no idea what you were talking about. Joel pulled back on his hand and, in less than a second, had it freed.

“I just told you,” he huffed, “You’re too young—”

“I’m plenty old, Joel,” you returned, eyes snapping open, “You’ve shown me that more times than I can count.”

Joel was silent, stunned. He rose to his feet as your eyes seared holes into his, and for a second, he was uncertain whether to take a step back or reach out for you again.

“Baby…”

To his surprise, something like hurt surfaced behind your eyes. You set your lips in a tighter line, and your grip on the counter grew firmer just the same. He would’ve taken that move as his cue to lean in gently, slot his body between your thighs, and venture an apology of some sort, when the next thing you did stopped him cold.

Without a word, you slipped your free hand between your legs—eyeing Joel closely, almost scornfully, as you did.

You took your middle and ring fingers and sank them into your cunt. Not intending to let a drop of his spend leak out, you wedged them in as far as they’d go. Joel watched. Gawked. Once sufficiently pleased with the look of shock taking over his handsome, aged features, you withdrew the fingers. You brought them up to your mouth, wrapped your lips around the tips, and sucked.

It was a rare thing to get a taste of you and Joel together like this, so you savored it. You moved your mouth further down to drink it all in, peering up with wide, indulgent eyes and a look that was meant to punish.

Feels nice.

Tastes alright, too.

You’d licked the last bit of this glaze off your hand when your stomach clenched. You knew it would happen. Full as you were, you feared your body still hungered for more. As such, it hardly came as a surprise when next your muscles tensed, and you shifted closer to Joel.

“Maybe I don’t want babies with someone my own age.”

Either one of your knees were nudging his hips. Drawing him in. Joel appeared to waver for a second, unsure, but the look on his face made it clear this was mostly a matter of a delayed reaction. He couldn’t get his legs to move because the rest of him was still in awe. Staring at your lips, where the residue of his spend was glistening, then to your eyes, which were no less inviting, then up to the crown of your head and over it, to fix his stare on the mirror behind it. You watched him watch his own reflection with a look that was both hard and unkind, breathing slow. When he didn’t stir from that position after a minute, you touched a hand to his lower stomach.

And, brushing the heel of your palm against what felt like a hundred grey hairs in the old man’s happy trail—your favorite ones—you smoothed a caress along his belly, back and forth, before moving it left. Your hand came to rest on a mound of muscle and fat sitting right above his hip. Love handles, Joel had remarked one morning with vague distaste. Love handles, you’d repeated, beaming. You held on tightly now, appreciatively, and used your well-loved wall of flesh to pull him closer. As with any beckoning of yours, Joel didn’t have so much as half a mind to resist. He did, however, refuse to meet your gaze while you tilted your hips and spread your legs wider, before winding your ankles around the backs of his legs.

“Don’t you think I’d look pretty?” You pouted up at him. Your folds made a light, warm suction rubbing along the front of Joel’s cock—of course he’d grown hard again, and you could hold him, point him down to that wet embrace awaiting him patiently at the edge of the sink.

Joel cursed under his breath.

“‘Course I do…” he said, voice hoarse, “Y’always look—”

“I mean…with your baby inside me, Joel. Right here.”

As if to put a finer point on your words, you nestled the head of his cock inside the first inch of your body. Joel had to seize the laminate underneath you and grit his teeth to keep from letting out a groan too loud. That tip may as well have been a first-rate conductor of heat, and your warmth the thing that might send him spilling again

“You don’t—” Joel choked out, nearly incensed, “—don’t know what the hell you’re sayin’, baby. What that means.”

In truth, there wasn’t a world Joel Miller could imagine where a girl like you could give more than a passing thought to getting knocked up by him—a man his age. What good would it do? You had your whole life laid out before you like a four-course dinner spread; there was no sense whatsoever in letting the meal go to waste on him.

He communicated as much by moving to pull out.

You met the effort with a push of your own, sinking down another inch or two on his shaft and smiling when you saw his eyes roll back in his head at the dizzying friction.

“I know more than enough, old man—” Grin stretching ear-to-ear as you dug your heels in his ass and tugged him deeper, “—who do you think taught me all this?”

Of course, it had been Joel.

Always, always him—the only one, in fact.

Your walls drew him in like a hug. For once, Joel conjured up the strength to take a look between your lower half and his, and when he did, the next moan was inevitable. It trickled through his lips. Your body looked sublime swallowing a third of his cock, and it was almost as though a maggot had crawled into his brain, chanting:

‘Make her full. Make her yours. Tell any man who’d even think of looking her way she belongs to someone else.’

He couldn’t.

Joel would never be so selfish. Just think of her youth.

But when his gaze drifted back to yours, every thought and any word besides seemed gently to melt away. Beneath him, your eyes were two pools of desire.

“You like this…don’t you, Joel?” Your voice was tiny.

“I do.”

In fact, he loved it.

“Then why can’t we?” Why shouldn’t we?

Minuscule now, the words that reached him barely exceeded a whisper. It was as though the moment itself had drained all fear from your face—and out of Joel, all common sense from his brain—leaving you both to stare at the other with shared, stupid, anoetic looks of bliss. The man who had you beat by thirty-odd years seemed nearly of the same mind, with almost identical ignorance.

Idiocy.

“Just once?” Joel croaked.

Somewhere underneath, unseen, you smiled.

“Just one?” you murmured back.

He sank in another inch. When your walls contracted around him, Joel’s hands found your hips by force of habit and pushed your back against the glass behind it. The mirror was cool, and inside you, Joel was throbbing.

“Once,” he repeated, not thinking too deeply.

“One,” you said, with a world of more purpose.

Joel relinquished the last three inches, and with it, all of his resolve. The handsome, scarred, and plainly greying features all twisted as one, and the expression that you knew too well to mean that the man was feeling good took on the slightest hint of guilt. He gripped you tighter.

“One?” Joel panted. Confused.

He pulled out halfway just to find his home again. Your pearly slick mixed together with his spend, and both coated over Joel’s shaft in a pretty, generous sheen.

“One more of you, I mean.” You sounded too sweet. There was no way in hell you’d actually meant it.

Joel’s cheeks flushed again, but he didn’t stop, either.

“Baby…” he trailed off instead. He pushed in, pulled out, felt your tender little hole make an ‘o’ around his shaft, and then he kissed the edge of your left cheek—maybe to rein in the need in his words before he spoke again: “One’a me takes and I’m givin’ ya fifteen more, y’hear?”

The smile he received told him as much as he needed to hear. He probably wouldn’t have believed it even if you’d said the words yourself. Joel’s thrusts sped up, and as the pleasure distended in the pit of his stomach with the friction and the feel, his words flowed a little more freely.

In disbelief, “Wanna be a mama that bad for me, huh?”

Your grin grew bigger. You nodded your head.

“Make your old man a daddy, is that it?”

Exactly. Senseless as it was, your look said it all.

To have slipped between the grooves and ridges of Joel’s brain and caught wind of even a fraction of the things he wanted to do to you then, a smarter girl would have run. Would have shoved him back out as swiftly as she’d let him in and told him no, that’s gross, and gone home. And, had the grey matter floating inside your own skull not been so completely dominated by primal need and wanting, that’s likely what you would have done, too. Instead, with a head full of lewd, youthful stupidity, you seized the black-grey curls dangling at the nape of his neck and drew him closer. You spread your legs wider.

“That is what you’ve wanted this whole time, right?”

Under his scruff, a muscle tensed as Joel bit down.

That’s all he’s ever wanted.

Let the neighbors talk.

Let them say what they wanted to say—it was probably all true to the point they were trying to make, anyway. That Joel was a pervert, of course. That you were naïve, also true. That you would look too good not to stare in a white cotton frock with a bump underneath, absolutely. These were the ideas permeating your brain and his while Joel took a firmer hold of your sides and brought his nose to rest against yours. With every stab of his hips, he pressed kisses to your soft, parted lips, speaking low:

“That what you want, too, darlin’?” More serious now.

The head of his cock nicked a sensitive ridge inside you, eliciting a whimper, but you nodded. You nodded again, feeling the brush of his stubble at your mouth and your chin, and nodded again when he bottomed out, stuffing you tight. It felt a little more momentous than any other time in the past, now that you were picturing a fullness that wasn’t just him. Him and you: a concrete being to soothe the sting of his absence long after Joel withdrew.

Something to stick.

“Please say it, baby.”

Someone to call yours.

“I want it,” you said, sounding desperate.

A coil was just starting to form in the place you felt him. Drifting up, pulling tight, making your eyes go glossy and wide while they stuck to Joel’s and begged him for more.

“Want what?” He sped up, and his thrusts got sloppy.

“Want you,” you breathed, “Inside me, Joel, please.”

As if predicting your next thoughts, the man lowered his hand to your belly. You hadn’t even noticed the smallest bulge had taken shape beneath the skin. Joel slowed, momentarily, then rubbed the base of his palm against the mound where your body was obliged to make room for his cock inside you. He drew soft, tender circles there and, with the motion, sent stars flying before your eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured, “Right here?”

“Ri— right there. Right there.”

Joel adored that sound. The soft, elated look, the gentle knoll of flesh in a bump below his hand, the whimpers rolling off your tongue repeatedly, quicker and quicker the more the pleasure inside you continued to build. Joel’s release was coming soon, too. For the hundredth time that night, he silently wished he were a little younger; so he could fill you up once, twice, twenty more times until your insides were stuffed and painted white. As if reading his mind, as he had for you, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Hope our baby has your eyes,” you murmured to him.

It shouldn’t have had such a strong effect—but of course, it did. Joel pictured the small, sweet infant with irises that shone a bit like his, and his stomach caved in.

Tonight, tomorrow, or ten months down the line, he was getting you pregnant. He’d clear his whole schedule for it

“That right?” And now he couldn’t stop the smile as he spoke, leaning even further in, “What about their nose?”

He kissed the tip of yours.

“Hope they get this.”

He kissed either one of your cheeks.

“These too.”

You had to fight back a laugh while his scruff tickled skin. Two deep strokes away from the brink of release and he still somehow always stayed in tune with your needs.

The threat of your peak was perilously near. Joel’s spend and your slick, tender glaze made a chorus of sounds at each thrust, and the deeper he went, the bigger it swelled. Your smiles couldn’t stay for much longer when the feeling inside you both was being amplified like that. Sensing this, Joel took hold of your face and slipped his touch to cup your chin. He made you tilt your head up to him, as if to ask again, ‘Are you sure?’ and when you nodded, his lips twitched again. A fleeting hint of a grin, like he couldn’t be more eager to finish now if he tried.

Holding your face, cock swollen and throbbing and desperate between your walls, he felt a familiar twitch.

There it is.

[ozzgin]

I just finished playing Firewatch and the cozy, lonely vibes gave me another monster idea! You got a summer job as a fire watch for the closest National Park. All you have to do is to sit in your tower, and...watch. For fires. Sounds boring? Worry not, your supervisor is there to keep you company over the radio. Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, obsessive behavior, suggestive ending

"And? What are you running away from?"

"Excuse me?"

You raise your eyebrows at the unexpected question coming from the radio. The deep voice belongs to your supervisor, the man who'll guide you throughout your stay at the National Park.

"No one picks up an isolated job in the mountains out of sheer desire. Especially someone as young as you." He chuckles briefly, then resumes in a more professional tone: "My apologies. You don't have to answer that."

What a strange way to begin the conversation, you think to yourself. Yet this nonchalance and casualty is all you have for the following months. The other watchtowers don't talk much, if at all. You're entirely alone in the wilderness, save for the mysterious man on the radio.

Slowly, you begin to warm up to his chatty nature. He likes to ask a lot of questions. A terribly curious individual, though you can understand his reasoning: he's been working for the Park for over a decade. How does one survive without another human being?

He never leaves his tower, and thus you've never seen his face. He's content, you're indifferent. Occasionally, he'll mention sketching you to pass the time.

"How would you describe your eyes, (Y/N)?" he'll ask between his pencil scribbles. "I see. I'm sure they're beautiful. Why are you suddenly quiet? Have you forgotten how to take a compliment? I'm just messing with you, kiddo."

You haven't witnessed a single fire since coming here, despite the torrid summer heat. Your days are spent hiking without aim and talking to your supervisor.

One morning, you wake up to the grating beep of the radio instead of your alarm. You pick up the small device with an irritated grunt.

"Would you like to meet?"

You need a moment to process the words. Are you finally going to greet the one man who's kept you distant company for weeks? Intriguing. You mumble your agreement, still half-asleep.

As you make your way down the hill, you notice a supply station covered in moss and overgrown vegetation. You check your map, just to be sure. There shouldn't be anything here. What a peculiar thing to stumble upon. You approach the old wooden box and lift the lid carefully.

The musty inside is filled with rows of newspapers and some scattered notes. You pluck one newspaper out, and rest your eyes on the first headline.

"National Park is saying goodbye to its employees. The area will be permanently closed after the devastating fire."

You gawk at the title, then at the photographed location.

It's your watchtower.

You scramble to read the rest of the paragraphs, words slipping behind in your frantic search. This forest has been sealed off for years. You recognize the name of your supervisor in the report: a father of three, loved by everyone, died tragically before a rescue team could reach him.

"Found anything interesting, kiddo?"

You turn around with mild hesitation. Whoever this impersonating maniac is, or what he wants, is rather irrelevant at this point. You're trapped alone with him.

Across from you stands a creature, resembling a chimera more than a human being. Long, grotesque limbs ending in black claws, hollow eyes, and mangled rows of razor-sharp teeth put together in a grin. Monstrous.

You're out of breath.

"That looks great", the creature remarks cheerfully.

"Don't use my voice to talk. It's embarrassing to hear myself like that", you lecture it as you spread out the food onto the picnic blanket.

It switches back to the supervisor's soft, masculine tone.

"Sorry, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable."

The monster extends one bony hand over your head, fanning out the fingers and dragging them across your hair in gentle strokes. What a precious little human you are.

You did not run away. A terrifying thought: losing you after all the time spent together. It didn't want to chase you down and make it even worse for you. But you stayed, you truly did.

"By the way", you say as you bite into your sandwich, stretching out your legs. "Is it you who prevents the fires? Usually it's a common occurrence here, especially in summer."

You recall the scorching flames from the newspaper.

"Yes. To keep you safe, you understand."

"Not only did you lie to me about the job, but you kept me out of work, too", you whine. "I got bored to death! Days on end!"

You're suddenly pushed down into the blanket, and you stare into the spiraling, empty sockets, confused.

"I can entertain you to your heart's desire, (Y/N)."

Its snout widens in a flirty smile, releasing a bizarre succession of clicks. Is it laughing in its natural voice?

You blush.

"I suppose there are some ways..." you suggest cheekily, unbuttoning your shirt.

[More Monsters] | [More Original Works]

[noisilyscreechingsong]

Alfred knows Danny from long ago during his secret service days. He always found the other odd, but his company was enjoyable enough to overlook. They were friends for a short while. Danny even saved his life once or twice. However, despite their trust in each other, they didn’t keep in touch. It was like Danny disappeared and he never heard from the jolly man again. That is until Danny showed up at the Wayne manor decades later looking the same as when they parted ways carrying the daughter he talked so much about.

Danny stood on the front porch with a toddler Ellie in his arms. She’s been behaving wonderfully. The new environment gave her curious self something to look at and distract her from a tantrum.

He rings the doorbell awkwardly with her in one arm and a bag of supplies resting on his shoulder.

If things were any different he wouldn’t be here, but he’s got to do what he’s got to do even if it’s the last scenario.

Footsteps can be heard on the other side before it opens to reveal a boy in sweatpants and a hoodie. It’s a little warm for the summer and Danny expects they have an expensive electric bill for this large place.

The kid, Damian Wayne he remembers, scowls. He gives Danny a once over with narrowed eyes.

“How’d you get through the gate?” Damian demands.

Danny blinks and adjusts Ellie on his hip.

“I walked of course.” Damian grows even more suspicious and Danny decides to change the subject. “I’m Danny. Danny Fenton. And this little monster is Ellie. Want to say hello, Ells?”

Ellie looks at Damian for all of three seconds before losing interest.

“No.”

Danny sighs. Yea, he was expecting that answer. It’s her favorite word at the moment.

“Why are you here?” Damian asks.

Straight to the point then.

“I’m looking for Alfred Pennyworth. Is he around? It’s urgent.”

“What is it concerning?” Damian straightens his spine to appear taller but it doesn’t change the head difference.

Danny sets Ellie down on the brick when she won’t stop squirming to be let down. She doesn’t waste a moment wandering away to investigate her surroundings. Damian raises a brow while watching her.

“I’m cashing in that favor he owns me.”

That got the boy’s attention. He studies the adult for a moment before opening the door wider for the both of them to enter.

Danny manages to wrangle Ellie into the house with Damian’s judgmental gaze following them. The bag had slid down to his elbow when he bends down to hold Ellie’s hand to steady her.

It’s as Damian is closing the front door that a man comes around the corner in a butler uniform. The same man he was looking for.

Alfred freezes after registering who was in front of him. The older of the two sighs heavily. Shoulders back and chin high, as expected he approaches this situation with a level head and posh dignity.

“Daniel,” addresses Alfred. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Danny cringes. He really should have called with a warning but there wasn’t time. He also always hated it when Alfred refused to use Danny’s preferred nickname, a sort of teasing that was consistent. If Alfred was anything, he’s stubborn enough to do what he wants and get away with it.

“Sorry, Alf. Next time for sure.” Danny sends a cheeky grin that doesn’t impress anyone. He glances over at his daughter to see her trying to touch the expensive looking vase on a side table.

“Ellie!” He dashes over to pull her away which immediately starts a struggle war and fussing. He knows if he lets this continue it will turn into a full blown tantrum.

“That’s not ours, we can’t touch it without permission.” She whines in frustration. “Do you want to ask if it’s okay to touch? Gently?”

Ellie thinks about it a second before looking up at him. Danny nods in understanding and turns her a bit to look at the two spectators.

“Toush?” She asks with an adorable chubby arm raised to point at the vase.

“Are you going to break it?” Damian asks with folded arms.

“Master Damian, I’m sure that’s not her intention.” Alfred turns with a smile back to Ellie. “That vase is fragile. Can you be very careful?”

Obviously her answer is a confident nod of the head and immediately trying to reach out again. Danny helps to lift her and hold her wrist steady.

She pets the vase like a kitten, feeling the raised edges of the design with her little hand. After a few long moments Danny pulls her away to set her on his hip like before, earning an annoyed huff in his direction for his efforts.

“Very good, Ellie. I knew you could do it.”

She hides her face in his shoulder and he takes the opportunity to send a look at Alfred. The older man understands immediately and inclines his head before turning to walk further into the house.

“It was nice meeting you,” Danny shoots Damian before following Alfred to what appears to be a parlor a few rooms away.

“I shall fetch some tea.”

Danny shakes his head as he sits.

“No time. I’m in a rush.”

Alfred eyes him up and down before gingerly sitting in the armchair across from him.

“Yes, so I have noticed.”

In other words, spill your guts for abruptly intruding like you have.

“Something…urgent has come up-“

“I assumed as much.”

“-and I know how good you are with kids-“

“Daniel, you cannot expect me to-“

“You owe me,” Danny says firmly. Alfred leans back at the reminder. He knows Danny would never hold that over his head without a good reason. “I have no one else to go to, to look after her. I normally would just take her with me, but I- it’s gotten dangerous. Too dangerous for her.”

He looks to Alfred with desperate eyes. Ellie tries to squirm out of his arms, which reflexively tighten securely around her middle. He can see the dark bags under the younger eyes.

Alfred sighs.

“How long?”

Danny sags and Ellie slips out of her father’s arms as soon as the chance presented itself. Alfred would need to keep a close eye on her in the future.

“A week, two, three tops.”

Alfred sends an unimpressed look and Danny cringes but doesn’t redact his statement.

“Anything I need to know?”

Danny looks down at the hastily packed diaper bag like it had all the answers.

“We’re kind of in the middle of potty training so I threw in some pull ups but those will go quick. She hates carrots. Won’t go to sleep without a bedtime story. Don’t give her any sugar after four or she’ll turn into a monster. Oh, and her powers are coming in so I packed a shield for at night.”

Alfred raises a single eyebrow.

“Could you be more specific?”

Danny waves it off like it was no big deal.

“Just the normal stuff. Invisibility, intangibility, and flight. It’s all very weak and sporadic right now. Keep calm until she figures it out on her own. She’s just learning.”

“So you are leaving a child in my care for an unknown amount of time, a child that can disappear, walk through walls, and fly. Anything else?”

Danny rubs the back of his neck guiltily.

“Why do you always have to make everything sound so…” He sighs heavily, glancing over at Ellie who has managed to take every blanket out of the basket in the corner and crawled in to make a nest out of the materials. He smiles fondly.

“I’ve probably forgotten something, but I know you can handle it. You can take care of her.”

Danny then stands and pulls out a piece of paper, handing it over.

“My number is at the top in case of emergencies. Her favorite stuffy is in the bag, she won’t sleep without it. Her favorite word right now is ‘no’. I wrote down anything I could think of, which you probably can’t even read my chicken scratch…”

Alfred gently takes the paper from his hand and Danny slowly makes his way to the messy corner.

“Hey, Elles,” he says softly, far softer than anything Alfred has heard from him. Usually he was a rambunctious, jovial loudmouth, but right now he was hesitant. Prolonging the farewell they both know needs to happen with how urgent this mysterious problem was.

Ellie looks up for a moment before going back to maneuvering her fort.

“I gotta go away for a while. Alfred here will be watching over you while I’m gone, okay?”

That got her attention. For a child that young, she knew something was wrong, but didn’t know what. And now her dad, her protector, was leaving.

“No.”

Danny folds his lips together, expecting the response but still not ready to go through the hard part of leaving.

“I’m so sorry, baby girl. I am, but I have to go. I’ll be back when I’m finished.”

“No!”

Danny sighs and reaches in to pull her into his arms. She fights him valiantly, but he was stronger and bigger.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”

They might as well have been empty words for the lack of effect it had on the struggling toddler. Danny sways with her for a few beats until he gets an idea.

“Danielle, look.”

He makes sure she’s watching as he creates a loop of ice, infused with his ectoplasm and therefore, his signature.

“Hold out your hand,” he coax.

She does so with a sniffle and he gently moves the glowing green ghost ice around her wrist to make an indestructible, unmeltable bracelet. He shrinks it until he’s sure it won’t fall off and won’t be too tight either.

“There. Now you have a piece of me wherever you go. Even when we’re far apart.”

She pointedly doesn’t look at him.

“I love you, Ellie. I’ll be back soon.”

He kisses her forehead, breathes in her soft scent, and turns to Alfred. The older man is watching carefully and makes his arms available for a new passenger.

With a deep breath Danny hands her over, Ellie immediately starts whining and tears fall from her eyes.

“Hey, you’ll be okay. Alfred here is a mighty warrior. He’ll keep you safe. I trust him.”

He does his best to wipe away her tears but he has to physically step away when she reaches for him. Instead he looks to Alfred.

Alfred holds her securely and nods in assurance.

“Not to worry. Danielle and I will be too busy to notice your absence.”

Danny smiles at the effort but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He can’t resist petting her head one last time, her pigtails in disarray, and wiping her tears from her cheeks.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promises, marking it with another kiss to her head before backing away again. He looks at Alfred sending his gratitude without words. Alfred accepts it with a slight incline of the head. Danny nods once and leaves before he can’t.

The door opens and the young boy from earlier stumbles back with a glare to hide his embarrassment.

“Master Damian-“

Danny holds up a hand to stop Alfred. Of course the boy would eavesdrop, what did either of them expect?

The young father leans down to get eye level with Damian, looking him straight in the eye with seriousness. Damian straightens at the attention.

“It’s very important Ellie is safe and occupied while I’m away. It would mean a lot to me if you would help Alfred do that.”

Damian folds his arms.

“What would I get out of that useless goal?”

“What would you want?”

“Daniel, Master Bruce would not-“

“A knife,” Damian interrupts. “Not just any knife though. It has to be special.”

Danny hums in thought, studying Damian for a moment, almost making the boy squirm.

“Deal.”

He holds out his hand and Damian shakes it after a second of hesitation. Danny nods to the boy, then nods to Alfred, and he’s finally out the door making a portal as he walks from the gentle breeze of outside to the chill of ectoplasm, transforming into his kingly attire as he crosses the threshold.

The GIW had a lot to answer for and he couldn’t hold his subjects back any longer. The United States had declared war against the Infinite Realms and he would be the one to answer.

[lokischocolatefountain]

Warning || Men Like Me

Masterlist

Fandom: The Last of Us Pairing: Joel Miller x Virgin!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: girth age gap, virgin!reader, eventual loss of virginity (not in this chapter), gratuitous descriptions of Joel Miller's body, somewhat creepy!Joel, fetishization of youth, dom!Joel, breaking and entering, playboy magazine, objectification, fingering, sexual discoveries. Word count: 6.2k Summary: Joel's warnings about what men like him would do to girls like you only makes you want him more. A/N: Back in the depths of hell again, you guys. Now this isn't the most depraved thing I've written by any means but it's up there. Come say hi in my chat or inbox, I'd love to talk. Keep a look out for follow up parts and pleeeeease give me comments. I am very very desperate.

Joel Miller was a bad man. That much he knew. 

Even as he fixed taps and renovated houses that were falling apart, he could see the blood on his hands. The very hands that packed lunches for Ellie snapped necks, pistol whipped men, stole from a starving child so he could feed his grown brother. But there were lows even he didn’t stoop down to. 

Not that he didn’t have the opportunity. Men always did. And in this world, opportunities had only tripled. Even the Boston QZ, as strict as it was, had an underground brothel. He knew Tess to frequent it and never asked questions. Sometimes she needed to bury her face between a good pair of thighs and wrap her lips around a pretty pussy, and this wasn’t something he could give her. There was a lot he couldn’t give her.

Being in Jackson should’ve civilized him. It did in many ways. He’d reverted to the southern gentleman with table manners. ‘Yes, Ma’am’ spilled out of his lips effortlessly when he spoke to women. He held the door for anyone walking in after him. He even went to Church– sorry, the multifaith house of worship–to help renovate. 

That was where his troubles began. 

There was no point in him going where people prayed. Being back in civilization did not erase his decades of disbelief in a cruel God who would take his baby and keep him on this accursed Earth. But he did because he was back to being a contractor and Tommy asked him to go fix up the pews instead of him. He didn’t have much time, being a new dad and all.

He was on his knees checking out the rotting wood and evaluating how much wood he’d need for building new ones when he was confronted by a pair of legs and a sweet voice. Yours. 

“Lemonade, Mister Miller?” 

He looked up, his eyes traveling up your legs, bare until he got to your knees where the hem of your flowery skirt sat. Pure, unblemished knees, never taken a fall, didn’t fucking creak, and never knelt before anyone but God. You looked down sweetly, eyes wide and innocent like a newborn cow. Everyone had a kind of darkness about them in this world. Everyone except the kids who didn’t know a world outside the insular walls of Jackson. And you, it turned out, even though you weren’t a kid.

He wiped his sweat off with the greasy rag he carried and looked up at you once again. You had a pitcher and an empty glass in your hands. A sweet smile on your lips and hair falling down your shoulders and reaching your breasts. A yellow ribbon sat in a bow where your neckline dipped between your breasts, adding to the innocence of your look.

“Yes please, Ma’am. Thank you,” he said, giving you a nod. Your pretty plush lips curled up, a giggle escaping them as you poured him a glass of lemonade. 

His hand brushed against yours as he accepted the glass, his hand too large to curl around it without making contact with you. You giggled again before retracting your hand and occupying it with adjusting your hair. 

“I’m younger than you, you know? Don’t have to call me Ma’am.” 

“Just being polite. Ma’am.” He took the glass to his lips, mindful to take only a small sip instead of downing it in desperation. Another adjustment to make when food was no longer a scarcity. Sweet, sour, and salty danced on his tongue before it glided down his throat. Just a sip refreshed him. And the sight of a nice girl didn’t hurt the cause either. 

It’d been so long since he had a nice refreshing glass of lemonade. Summers meant worse infestations of infected, not the barbecues, lemonades, and swimming of past. When surviving each hour was under threat, small luxuries like this became out of reach of even one’s dreams.

“Well, guess I should call you Sir then,” you said, leaning against the wall. You held the pitcher up to your chest and the tails of the ribbon on your chest dipped into it, the soft shiny yellow turning dark, tainted.

His mouth watered and fucking hell, it wasn’t the lemonade you just gave him. He took a sip of the drink and licked his lips, imagining how you’d taste if he wrapped his large hand around your neck and pressed his chapped lips to your plush ones. Better yet, if he held your legs apart and devoured you other pair of lips until you were leaking down his mouth. Would you call him Sir then? His cock twitched in his jeans as he pictured you bent over one of these pews, your skirt pushed up and his hand in your hair as he slid his cock in your hole. 

Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Made the lemonade yourself?” He asked,  groaning as he managed to get himself back up on his feet. His knees creaked like the floorboards of the houses he renovated, but ultimately supported him as he stood. He towered over you, making you appear smaller, more fragile. 

“Depends. Do you like it?” 

“It’s wonderful, of course. Hot summer day like this…I really needed it,” he said, raising the glass up a little before taking another sip. 

“Well then yes, I did make it.”

He chuckled, feeling himself pulled in by your easy charisma. It was nice to have normal conversations like this once again. No agenda, no need for establishing himself as someone who wouldn’t hesitate to beat someone up if even mildly threatened. It was just…normal. 

“It’s very sweet, Ma’am. Like you I assume,” he added, mentally dusting off the part of his brain where he stored skills for conversing with pretty girls.

You laughed, holding your free hand up to your mouth to cover your lips that widened and revealed your teeth. 

“Is that the southern charm that I hear our townspeople talk about?” 

“They talk about my charm? I didn’t hear.” 

“Oh yes, they do… Joel Miller, charming pants off of everyone in town.”

“Pants? Well that’s disappointing. I was hoping I’d charmed some pretty skirts off.” 

“Lots of experience with that, Mister Miller?” you asked, sliding your hand over the soft fabric of the skirt of your dress. Such delicate fabric. He could fist the hem and give it one tug and it’d rip right off.

“More ‘n what you got for sure,” he said, loath to hint at how infrequent his encounters had become in the recent past. Tess died, he did a cross country hike with an annoying kid, he needed to maintain a good reputation in his new town. One buried after the other. Enough to leave a man with nothing but his fist and his imagination. He would kill for a fucking Playboy magazine. Literally. He’d killed for less.

“What do you know about how experienced I am?” 

“Been experiencing longer than you’ve been alive, Ma’am.” 

“Oh well. Nothing I can’t learn.” 

He laughed nervously and stuck his hand in his jeans pocket. Surely you couldn’t be flirting… Why would a young thing like this flirt with him? He was in his late fifties looking like mid sixties and you were… He didn’t know. Young.

“If you could teach me, Mister Miller. Give a girl some experience?”

“I’m sure you can find someone else.” 

“Oh. Not your type, am I?” you asked, and he deluded himself thinking you sounded disappointed. No chance. 

He didn’t have a type. Long time since he thought of frivolous shit like that. But you shouldn’t be his type. 

“There’s much more eligible men in town is what I’m saying,” he said, suddenly hesitant to lie. Lying had never been an issue for him. The right thing was to lie, say you weren’t his type so he wouldn’t cross lines. It’d been a long time since he did the right thing.

“I’ll be the decider of that,” you said with a shrug of your shoulder before taking the empty glass from him. “Have a good rest of the work day, Mister Miller.”

Later that night, he wrapped his fist around his cock in the privacy of his room. His mind flooded with images of you spread out for him, sweet lips and a sweeter pussy milking him. He couldn’t even recall the last time he was with a woman. It was Tess, of course. Sometime before she got thrown in FEDRA jail for the last time. Too fucking long ago.

Surely it was only because it’d been a long time since he got his dick wet. He’d never, in his entire life, pictured a woman so much younger spreading her legs for him. Sucking his cock. Crying out his name. How old was she even? Not past mid twenties for sure.

It was wrong, he knew, as white hot spend spurted out of his cock and covered his hand. A sour tang took over his mouth as the fog of unadulterated lust cleared up to reveal the ugliness in his head. He shuddered, feeling like something had crawled under his flesh. He hadn’t felt guilt like this in so long. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

You weren’t even as old as his kid would be had she been alive. 

He’d known men like that back in the day. Grays in their hair and skin like old leather, but pretty young things old enough to be their daughter hanging off their arm. It was obvious that none of them kept these girls around for love or for their personality. It was always sex and the feeling of self-importance when a sweet young thing paid attention to balding heads, beer bellies and limp dicks that needed a blue pill to get up. 

Fucking disgusting. 

He began avoiding you whenever you happened to be in the same space. At the house of worship, the town clinic where you interned, trading days when people exchanged what they had for what they wanted. His eyes never met yours and he always quickly looked away when they stared too long at your uh…feminine features– pretty legs, cute ass, round tits. Where the fuck did you get sundresses anyway? Who kept that shit around in this world? 

He didn’t know that when he avoided you, you took note of him. When he took glances of your features, you memorized his for later in the night when you buried your head in your pillow and pushed your fingers inside your pussy to simulate what it must be like to be with a man. 

He was older. That much you knew from his grey hair, sun-damaged skin, and gait that exuded bone-deep weariness. You knew Tommy had just turned fifty. Hard to miss occasions that meant a free slice of cake from the canteen. Joel had to be in his mid-fifties at the very least. At first glance, he wasn’t what you’d consider handsome. There were younger men in town. Fit and muscular. Didn’t groan and scrunch up their faces when they got up. Didn’t have lines on their foreheads. No bags under their eyes. 

Yet there was something about Joel that was more entrancing. 

After your first meeting when you offered him lemonade, you made sure to visit under the guise of worship. You didn’t know much about religion and were conflicted about embracing a god. The only faith you had rested in your medical instruments and the medicines the town’s chemist concocted. But it was a nice place to meet people, to check on healing patients.

The visits were worth it for a glimpse of Joel’s large hands wrapped around his carpentry tools. When the sun was the hottest, he sometimes stripped down to his tank top, giving you a show better than any film played in the community theater. His broad back looked masculine enough in his flannel shirts. But you didn’t know desire like the first time you saw him in a white tank, showing off his muscular arms as sweat dripped down his tan skin.

When you pleasured yourself in your room, it took time, imagination, your fingers, and a lot of effort to make slick pool in your pussy. That day, all it took was the sight of Joel Miller working. You sat with your thighs pressed together, rubbing them against each other in the most inconspicuous little movements. 

Could it be blasphemy if the God who was supposedly orchestrating everything made this man take his shirt off in front of you?

It made no fucking sense. Joel was old. He looked like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed every goddamn day. He had been chewed up and spat out by whatever the fuck was outside Jackson these days. Hardened expressions, graying patchy beard, hands calloused from carpentry and decades of using weaponry. Features that only indicated a long life lived, not attractiveness.

You were supposed to be attracted to the soft, sweet ones like the guys in the worn out copies of romance stories that the previous inhabitant of your house stashed in the basement. Even his little brother would be a more reasonable target for your lust. Younger, taller, softer, head full of dark, silky hair with few grays. But you wanted Joel Miller with his rough graying beard that would prick your skin were you to cup his cheek like the women on the novel covers. 

Something about him just screamed Man. Something that none of the other guys in town had. There was nothing wrong with any of the other Jackson men, but none of them made you want to take the plunge and lose your virginity. It wasn’t the lack of offers, per se. You’d gotten looks from many eligible Jackson bachelors. You had drinks with a few of them. Dinner with fewer and shared a kiss with more than one. Alright, two. But anything beyond that had you trembling in anxiety. 

It wasn’t anything precious to you, virginity. But you’d waited so long. Focused so long only on survival and then helping to build this town and now training to become a doctor. Whatever passed for doctor these days. With all your life dedicated to everything but your love life, you simply had no experience. What if you messed up and they laughed? You knew anatomy, but that didn’t translate to practical stuff. What if you couldn’t make them feel good? You’d have to see the guy all the damn time in the small town. There would be no escaping the awkwardness.

Sure it was counterintuitive to keep pushing away sexual encounters because you had no experience. But you didn’t know what else to do. You were too old already to not have done anything. But each day that passed with you rejecting perfectly nice men meant you were getting even older for your first time. 

You didn’t know where Joel fit into your need for exploring your sexuality, but it didn’t hurt to stare. God knew everyone else in Jackson did. 

So you stared. Work with his carpentry tools. Riding on horseback into Jackson after patrol. Helping with the fucking sheep. Walking around with Tommy. Carrying his nephew around town. It should be inappropriate to be fantasizing about a man when he was doing something as innocent as carrying a baby. But seeing his large hand cradling the baby’s little head made you want to scream into your pillow and kick your legs. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” 

Your heart fluttered and you let out a nervous laugh at being caught. You smoothed out the wrinkles on your clothes just to make it look like you were alright. Unfortunately you were wearing a pair of fucking jeans. You didn’t even want to know how awkward you looked. 

“‘m alright, Mister Miller.” 

“Joel’s fine,” he said, rocking his nephew in his arms.

Oh fuck, his fucking arms!

“Oh I don’t know,” you said, fidgeting with a belt loop on your jeans. “Wouldn’t want to be impolite addressing you by your first name like that.”

He smiled, recalling your conversation from the house of worship when you called him Sir and had him fucking himself in the shower to the memory. “Ah. ‘cause I’m an old man,” he said, more as a reminder to himself to fucking behave. 

“You’re not that old…” you trailed, looking him over in a way that set fire to every inch of skin that you laid eyes on.

Behave, Miller. You’re out with your nephew. 

“That so?” he asked, eyebrow raised. 

“Mhmm. You don’t look a day over seventy.” 

He snorted, making Miles stir in his arms just a little. That stung a little. It shouldn’t. Your estimation of his age, whether you were serious or not, was reminder enough that he was too old to be lusting after you.

“Thanks. I’m actually eighty-two.” 

You giggled your pretty little giggle, lowering your gaze to the ground and looking back up only when it had turned into a wide grin. “How old are you actually?”

“Old. Fifty six.” 

“Fifty-six isn’t that old…” you trailed as you brought a hand up to his bicep. Joel gulped, praying to the non-existent God that you would stop before praying to the same God that you would keep your hand right there. God answered his second prayer. You squeezed, licked your lips and looked up at him with your doe eyes.

“Checking if the hardware is still working, Doctor?” 

“I’m not a doctor yet.” 

“When do you become one then? Ain’t no Harvard handing out medical degrees in this town.”

“Howard?” you asked, squinting at him. Ah, of course you didn’t know. Harvard didn’t mean the same thing to you. Now it was just like every other building in Boston. Run over by infected. These ones were just the nerdy kind with glasses on.

“That was a thing, too. But I said Harvard. They were big universities back then.”

“Ah. Did you go there?” You asked, with no malice or bite. Oh, bless your heart. No one expected a dummy like him to have gone to university at all, much less Harvard. No one in his family had gone. Sarah was meant to be the first.

“Yeah. Traded some oxy and threw molotovs at clickers in the campus.” 

You rewarded him with a giggle and that was incentive enough for him to keep going. “Guys like me didn’t get into Harvard. Or Howard. Didn’t even go to community college. I finished high school and got a job in construction.” 

“You didn’t go to uh…construction college?” You asked, cocking your head and raising an eyebrow as though testing out the term.

“No such thing. Well, there were civil engineering programs, but I just learned on the job.” 

“Like me.” 

“Guess so. I see you reading from all those fat medical books. But there’s no need to study any books in construction. ‘cept if you wanna be an engineer or architect or something, which I’m not.” 

“Maybe you should write one. We could all do with some knowledge from before. It’s important to document it, pass it on to Ellie and little Miles over there.” 

“I ain’t writing books, sweetheart. Don’t think I even remember how to write much. I’ll just keep to fixing things up in this town. So, if you need some help with your place…I’m happy to help.” It was the least he could do. Maybe as some kind of penance for having impure thoughts about you. Or as a fucked up trade for starring in the mental images he conjured to jack off in the shower.

“There is something, actually. But I don’t have anything to trade for, so I’ll wait until I do,” you said, clasping your hands behind your back and swaying in place in an endearing manner.

“Nonsense. You patched me up just last week. You’ve done enough for the town’s health to not have to trade for anything ever again.” 

“Well, no. That’s not how it should be… It’s people’s health. Can’t put a price on that.”

“Believe it or not, health had a steep price back in the day. Cost four thousand something just to give birth. Double that if they had to cut you open.” And that was just how much it cost when Sarah was born. He was sure it had only gone up by 2003. If he hadn’t worked his ass off, there was no way he could’ve escaped debt. It helped that his Ma and his then wife’s parents helped with childcare. Would’ve been even more expensive without that.

“Damn. I don’t know how much that is, since…y’know we don’t have money now. But that sounds like a big number. It shouldn’t cost anything just to be born.” 

“Tell me about it,” he said, shaking his head. “But listen. Anything you want fixed, I’ll help out. You can give me something later if you’re worried. I know Ellie’s always on the look for new books to read and you seem to have a lot of them.” 

“Nothing Ellie would like. Not like the special limited edition of Savage Starlight or anything. Just medical textbooks and romance novels.” 

“We could trade for the lemonade from that afternoon,” he insisted, desperate to do something for you. Take care of you as you took care of everyone who walked into the clinic be it papercuts or a fucking knife in their abdomen. 

“Alright. Trade for the lemonade it is then,” you said, giving in to his pressure.

“Now tell me. What d’ya need fixed?” 

⌘⌘⌘

It had been a few days since Joel promised to fix your shower for you. Each time he came by and rang your doorbell, you hid somewhere away from your windows. When he caught sight of you in public, you quickly walked away or engaged in conversation with someone else. You didn’t need shit fixed. Everything in your house was perfectly alright. Tommy and his guys had given the place a complete makeover just a couple months before Joel and Ellie arrived. 

You were no paragon of honesty, but you didn’t make lying a habit. There were a few white lies here and there and this was meant to be one of them. It just didn’t fucking hit you that if you lied to a contractor that your shower was broken, he would eventually come over to fucking fix it. All your desperate sex starved brain wanted that day was for Joel Miller to come use his tools in your room and flex those muscles while at it.

So invested were you in that particular fantasy that as you unwound after a long shift at the clinic, it was with Joel’s beefy arms in mind. You stood in front of your mirror, taking in your reflection. One of the magazines you’d found in a box under your bed laid open on the dressing table. Playboy. Entertainment for Men. Each had a scantily clad woman on the cover. And many more inside. 

You made comparisons to yourself and the woman in the center page of the issue.

She stood in front of a dressing table too, but much different from how you stood. Her legs were on either side of her dressing table chair and her hands on the top of it. Between her arms were breasts, big and round and with smooth skin. They didn’t have any marks on them like yours. No moles, no stretch marks. Just plain. And she just stood there, soft brown hair down, tickling the top of her breasts and her lips parted as she gazed at you. No, at the men she was meant to entertain in this men’s entertainment magazine. All she had on was panties that went high up to her flat belly that connected to high transparent socks.

You reached behind your back and unclasped your bra, wishing that you had something nicer like the woman on the cover of another one of the magazines. Bright red and showing off her breasts wonderfully, but pulled down to reveal almost everything. What was the point of a bra then if it didn’t cover or support anything? Entertainment, you decided. Men seemed to be very entertained by breasts. 

Many a man had stared at yours even though you had them behind layers of fabric unlike the naked women of the magazines. Many had conversations with them instead of your face. Some brushed up against them ‘accidentally’. Joel thought he was being covert, but you felt his brown eyes rove all over them. You thought maybe that he too would brush up against it sometime, but he never did. Maybe entertainment stopped at just looking, as in the magazines. 

You wondered if Joel sought out men’s entertainment magazines like this. He was from before everything went to shit, so it was very possible that he did. Did he like the women in these pages, sticking their asses out and looking through the pages at him? Would he be entertained if he saw you like this? 

You didn’t know that if you turned your head to your bedroom door, you would have your answer. Joel’s cock strained against his already tight jeans as he stood awestruck by your figure. He swallowed as you held on to the top of the chair and lifted your knees, one after the other and placed them on the plush seat. You arched your back, a little too much at first before reducing the curve. Your ass stuck out enticingly and he didn’t know whether to grab, squeeze, slap, or spread your cheeks apart and fuck your ass. 

He should leave. 

It was stupid of him to walk into your house with a box of plumbing tools to fix your shower when you hadn’t yet given him a date or time for it. Plus you were avoiding him. Running away with your little friends and picking up stuff to hide your face from his view. He was plenty sure that when he’d rung your doorbell, you weren’t always away from home. 

He should leave. 

Fixing the shower could wait. He could confront you some other day. 

But you were putting on such a pretty little show in nothing but your panties and he was only a man. A bad one. 

His boots stayed put on your hardwood floors as you enjoyed yourself in front of the mirror. You spread your knees and let your fingers between your thighs, eyes closed, lips parted and low whines escaping your lips in just a few minutes. He palmed his growing erection over his jeans, consequences of being caught be damned. He was a foul beast already. What bad was another sin on the list? Besides, you were the one who’d left the fucking door open. 

Your soft whimpers grew into moans as you brought yourself closer and he forced his feet to stay put despite their urge to walk up to you and give you something to really moan about. 

“Fuu– mmm Joel, pleeease.”

He let out a gasp, all his restraint flying out the window as soon as he heard his name from your lips. You couldn’t actually be doing this… There had to be another Joel in town. Younger, better looking, smarter.

Your voice grew needy and the pitch higher as you kept at it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Gimme it, Sir.” 

No, it couldn’t be anyone else. 

Joel toed his boots off and took quiet steps towards you, emboldened by the filth that spilled from your lips. If this old man was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stop himself from reaping the benefits. He wasn’t a goddamn saint. Never was. 

He stopped in front of you, surprised you still hadn’t sensed his presence. As though the universe heard his thoughts, it had you open your eyes. You gasped as soon as you saw him and buckled off the chair, but Joel caught you. You shuddered, unable to cope with the sudden touch. 

“J-Joel?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, touching your cheek with the back of his hand. You whined, your body molding itself against his chest. You brought a hand to his arm, feeling the rock hard muscles underneath his sleeves and your other hand worked between your legs.  

Your fingers no longer felt adequate as you felt his large fingers on your cheek. “Want you, please,” you whined, desperate to return to the edge where you had been right before you saw him. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me…” he spoke dangerously, soft brown eyes clouded with a kind of desire you had longed to see in him for weeks. 

“Want you…want you to be with me,” you repeated stupidly, your desperation clouding your senses too much for you to say anything else. While in the past you only wanted to get rid of your virginity, your goals had become more specific with his arrival. You wanted him. You wanted his big hands and broad shoulders, to hold on to them as you rode him. To watch his grumpy expressions turn to ecstasy under you. 

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said, his tone low and almost threatening. Any other threat from him, you would’ve heeded. But not this one. 

“Touch me!” 

It was as though something in him snapped at your words. While darkness only loomed over him before, it now completely took over.The hand that previously only caressed your cheek now wrapped itself around your neck. Before you could completely process the move, his other hand slapped yours away. He replaced two of your puny fingers with his middle finger, eliciting a strained moan from you. 

“Touching yourself to a Playboy magazine, huh?” 

You only nodded, unable to form words now that a fantasy of yours had finally come to life.

“Dirty little thing…Thought you were a nice girl and all. Helpin’ out at the clinic, head buried in books all the time. Turns out you actually got your head in dirty magazines.” 

You whined, your pussy clenching and gushing around his finger at the way he was speaking to you. The same man who insisted on calling you Ma’am despite your protests was calling you a dirty girl now. The veil of respectability seemed to have floated away at the sight of you naked and pleasuring yourself. Had you known that this was all you needed to get Joel Miller to touch you, you would’ve done it much sooner.

He added another finger, the girth of him enough to stretch you more than you had done for yourself. You brought a hand up to his shoulder and fisted his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself to. 

“You ever been taken by a man, sweetheart?” He asked, his tone too cool and casual for what he was doing to you. You shuddered, partly from his phrasing– taken, he said. Taken. Like you were a thing. Like the women in the magazines positioned so uncomfortably just so their breasts could look a certain way for the picture. Printed on the cover page with the words Entertainment for Men written on top. You shook your head, feeling small as you confessed it for the first time. 

“Any man?” 

“N-no,” you managed to breathe out, whimpering at the way the bulge beneath his jeans twitched at your simple answer. He took a step to position himself behind you, letting you lean your back against his chest. The angle at which he touched your pussy changed, opening your world up to a wonderful new kind of pleasure. 

“A virgin. Pretty young things like you ain’t for men like me,” he whispered in your neck, making you shiver. His thumb roamed between your legs as far as they could reach, caressed you gently, his softness with you contradicting his warning about men like him. The hand around your neck slithered down your torso, cold air forcing you to face your new desire of having your breath kept hostage. 

He took your left breast in hand, squeezing the flesh like someone starved would hold on to a piece of bread. It felt more like a punctuation to the warning he issued than a part of sex. Just then, his thumb between your legs stopped its search, stopping a little above the fingers inside you.

A moan you didn’t recognize as yours at first filled the room and you buckled forward. Blunt nails sunk into the flesh of your breast as he saved you before you could fall. He hauled you back up, making you collide against his chest. 

You gasped and quickly grabbed the hand between your legs, the sensation too intense for you to know what to do with. His thumb kept on, rolling over something there that set your person on fire. 

“Fuuuck! Joel– I– I– hnnng–”

“I know, sweetheart,” he crooned, keeping at whatever the hell he was doing to make you feel this way. 

“Please… I don’t– what was that?” 

You felt his chest rumble before you heard his laughter. Heat rose to your face and your throat felt strained though there was no hand around it anymore. 

“Never touched your clit? Do you even know what that is?” He mocked, the cruelty somehow not repelling you from him. He forced you to look up at him. Your heart lurched at how close you were to his face. You could see every gray hair, every minute blemish and line.

“Don’t know your own fucking body but you want a man? You don’t know what you’re handing me on a silver platter. I ain’t like the other guys in town. I walked across the fucking country and lemme tell ya, there’s no pretty things like you out there. I’m starved.” 

“Take me, then,” you begged, using his own words from earlier. “Please. Whatever you– a-aaah!” 

He ramped up the pressure on that spot– your clit– and with it, took your ability to speak coherently. It was as though he’d done it on purpose. You hated it. To be so bereft of control. To be a puppet in someone’s hand. For someone to acquaint themselves with parts of you that you didn’t know of. But it was too much to fight, so you let go. Let him play with you. Take you. Like a thing.

You renounced control of your lips too, his name slipping out effortlessly like it did when he caught you. Then you renounced what was left of your dignity and began begging relentlessly. For what, you didn’t know. In his hand, you’d gone from woman to pupper, your strings pulled by a man, your voice now his. Sounds that would be indiscernible from that of a wounded animal emanated from somewhere deep within you. 

Perhaps none of this was real. Why else did your own voice grow so distant from you? Why did your vision become blurry? Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. Your eyes clenched shut, depriving you of your blurred vision. Your toes curled. You wanted to shrink into yourself, shrink away from all this goodness. You went higher and higher, soaring like a bird. Every nerve ending in your body felt electrified, awoken like one switch turned on every light on last winter’s Christmas tree. 

You let out a loud cry, the soaring bird in you reaching its peak before beginning its fall to the ground. You could hear your breaths again, labored but doing everything to stabilize itself. Your thighs still shook. Your chest rose and fell. A hand caressed your hand. Behind you, something strong supported your back. Kept you from falling backward. 

“Joel…” 

“I know, I know…” he whispered into your head. You opened your eyes and looked up at him, surprised to see a softer visage. He picked you up off the chair like you’d seen him lift giant logs before. With ease. You didn’t protest as he carried you. Didn’t protest when he laid you out on your bed. 

He bent down and picked something up. No questions, no instructions. He simply spread your leg away from the other. Cold air touched the gushing mess dripping out of you and you shivered, feeling a sudden need to cover yourself but unable to defy him. His hand was on your pussy again. His hardened, calloused fingers behind a soft fabric this time. He wiped upwards, collecting the mess he made out of you. When he lifted the fabric up, you realized it was your panties. 

He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans and then looked back at your face, the intensity of his gaze making you want to run. Problem was your weak legs wouldn’t take you anywhere. You didn’t screw your eyes shut. You didn’t pull your blanket to conceal yourself. You looked back at him, defiant. Like you were trying to prove something. I can handle a man like you. 

“Be a good girl from now.” 

That and a condescending pat on your pussy and he was gone.

⌘

Part 2