WARNING: Cancer, medical trauma, serious illness, hospitals, discussion of disability and mortality, fundraising. Previous Post for context.
🤍
So. It’s cancer.
For those of you following along, I've been undergoing an extensive workup to determine the cause of my Horner's Syndrome. There were a dozen possible explanations. Instead, the scans uncovered something I never expected.
The cruelest irony is that I was hoping to celebrate my five-year anniversary as a survivor of endometrial cancer in August. I couldn't wait to use the words "cancer free." Almost made it.
Instead, it's a malignant Pancoast tumor at the top of my lung that has already worked its way into my T1 vertebra and first rib. It is rare, aggressive, and wrapped around major blood vessels. My bones are literally being eaten; because of the structural location, I am at risk of paralysis.
My first oncology appointment is Monday, and the truth is, I am terrified.
🤍
Because of the heart attack I just had, the treatment plan—likely simultaneous chemo and radiation before surgery—is a massive gamble. Even the biopsy carries a risk of stroke. I am trying to preemptively organize my care because I know whatever happens next is going to be bad. My decisions moving forward aren’t just about standard treatment; they are about whether my body can even endure being systemically dismantled, and what kind of quality of life will be left on the other side of it.
🤍
The strangest part is looking in the mirror. I look into the glass and I just see my normal self looking back—in my my favorite Ramones t-shirt and cute Summer bob. Maybe looking a little tired, but completely intact. Assumptions get made about people in this position, like a diagnosis instantly overwrites who you are. Four years ago, I was a C-suite executive flying family to Vail. Today, I am still entirely myself, just trapped inside a brutal trajectory and trying to make peace with the math while dealing with the fact that my doctor is 50 miles away.
🤍
I am a Medicaid patient with no car, an estranged family, and zero dollars. The state-provided transportation service has stranded me four separate times now, including this week. Missing Monday is not an option. When the van fails, a round-trip Uber is $100 to $140. There will be at least four or five of these critical appointments in the next few weeks alone just to figure out what happens next.
🤍
I’m putting the Ko-fi link below. I need to raise $500 to ensure I can actually get into the room to make these choices. If the state van actually shows up, the funds will help with groceries, and assistive equipment not covered by insurance.
It is incredibly difficult to ask for help, but I desperately need it.
Support Riff's Oncology Transit Fund 💜
Count on me to continue making thirsty edits as long as my little fingers allow. I love reading your fics and admiring your artwork. This is the best fandom and I love you all so much. 🫶
This community has always been a sanctuary, and right now, I need to call on my crew. Next week, I’m headed into the hospital for some major diagnostic testing and a high-risk biopsy. It’s a lot to face, especially after recently surviving a heart attack, but finding answers is the first step toward getting well.
To get to these appointments, I’ve got a 50-mile commute ahead of me. I'm raising funds exclusively for Ubers to ensure I can get there and back safely. This is the way—but I need a little hyperdrive fuel. Any help with the fare is deeply appreciated. i love you all so much.💜
This community has always been a sanctuary, and right now, I need to call on my crew. Next week, I’m headed into the hospital for some major diagnostic testing and a high-risk biopsy. It’s a lot to face, especially after recently surviving a heart attack, but finding answers is the first step toward getting well.
To get to these appointments, I’ve got a 50-mile commute ahead of me. I'm raising funds exclusively for Ubers to ensure I can get there and back safely. This is the way—but I need a little hyperdrive fuel. Any help with the fare is deeply appreciated. i love you all so much.💜
Hey, darling people of Tumblr. Yeah, all of you PPCU folks. I know there’s so much fewer of us than there were a year ago - or two years ago - and we all got our issues, challenges, and expenses.
But can you please help out with $5 or $10 (or even only $1 if that’s all you can spare, because every little bit helps) to make sure @rifflovesjoey can get to her cancer treatments? Please?
She’s been through so much already, her family (younger and older) are not there for her in any way, and she’s currently living under someone’s roof but it’s a volatile situation — and without a car, she really needs to be able to get to her appointments. Medical transportation is, as many of us know, incredibly inconsistent and she’s already missed out on four doctors appointments because the med transportation she had booked never showed up.
Please donate to her kofi if you can; I’m going to do so the moment I finish reblogging this. And if you can’t, that’s okay of course, but it’d be really cool if you’d be able to share this and boost the message. 💜 Thank you so much!
Seeing @for-a-longlongtime 's words turn into this beautiful shield of support has left me completely undone. Thank you for showing up for me so beautifully right out of the gate. ilysm 💜
WARNING: Cancer, medical trauma, serious illness, hospitals, discussion of disability and mortality, fundraising. Previous Post for context.
🤍
So. It’s cancer.
For those of you following along, I've been undergoing an extensive workup to determine the cause of my Horner's Syndrome. There were a dozen possible explanations. Instead, the scans uncovered something I never expected.
The cruelest irony is that I was hoping to celebrate my five-year anniversary as a survivor of endometrial cancer in August. I couldn't wait to use the words "cancer free." Almost made it.
Instead, it's a malignant Pancoast tumor at the top of my lung that has already worked its way into my T1 vertebra and first rib. It is rare, aggressive, and wrapped around major blood vessels. My bones are literally being eaten; because of the structural location, I am at risk of paralysis.
My first oncology appointment is Monday, and the truth is, I am terrified.
🤍
Because of the heart attack I just had, the treatment plan—likely simultaneous chemo and radiation before surgery—is a massive gamble. Even the biopsy carries a risk of stroke. I am trying to preemptively organize my care because I know whatever happens next is going to be bad. My decisions moving forward aren’t just about standard treatment; they are about whether my body can even endure being systemically dismantled, and what kind of quality of life will be left on the other side of it.
🤍
The strangest part is looking in the mirror. I look into the glass and I just see my normal self looking back—in my my favorite Ramones t-shirt and cute Summer bob. Maybe looking a little tired, but completely intact. Assumptions get made about people in this position, like a diagnosis instantly overwrites who you are. Four years ago, I was a C-suite executive flying family to Vail. Today, I am still entirely myself, just trapped inside a brutal trajectory and trying to make peace with the math while dealing with the fact that my doctor is 50 miles away.
🤍
I am a Medicaid patient with no car, an estranged family, and zero dollars. The state-provided transportation service has stranded me four separate times now, including this week. Missing Monday is not an option. When the van fails, a round-trip Uber is $100 to $140. There will be at least four or five of these critical appointments in the next few weeks alone just to figure out what happens next.
🤍
I’m putting the Ko-fi link below. I need to raise $500 to ensure I can actually get into the room to make these choices. If the state van actually shows up, the funds will help with groceries, and assistive equipment not covered by insurance.
It is incredibly difficult to ask for help, but I desperately need it.
Support Riff's Oncology Transit Fund 💜
Count on me to continue making thirsty edits as long as my little fingers allow. I love reading your fics and admiring your artwork. This is the best fandom and I love you all so much. 🫶
This community has always been a sanctuary, and right now, I need to call on my crew. Next week, I’m headed into the hospital for some major diagnostic testing and a high-risk biopsy. It’s a lot to face, especially after recently surviving a heart attack, but finding answers is the first step toward getting well.
To get to these appointments, I’ve got a 50-mile commute ahead of me. I'm raising funds exclusively for Ubers to ensure I can get there and back safely. This is the way—but I need a little hyperdrive fuel. Any help with the fare is deeply appreciated. i love you all so much.💜
Summary: Joel's exhausted by the time he makes it to bed. But when a pretty little thing crawls in beside him, he finds the time for you, just like he always does.
Warnings: +18 MDNI, post outbreak, jackson!joel, unspecified age difference, joel pov, porn no plot, dry humping, slow and soft sex, smut with feelings, internalized shame, intimacy, unprotected piv, clit stimulation, kissing
Note: i haven't written for joel in monthsss but i hope you enjoy!!
WC: 2k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Joel’s the kind of exhausted that only comes with age.
Weary bones, heavy limbs, tired eyes.
He’s falling into bed as soon as he gets home, often forfeiting dinner in favor of blissful rest. Sometimes even before the sun’s fully set.
And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces.
So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day.
And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”
His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.
It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.
Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.
So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.
He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it.
The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.
Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.
And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good.
But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.
Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.
The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.
Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like.
He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.
But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips.
You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack.
Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark.
“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”
He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.
It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”
You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.
Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock.
Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.
You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back.
He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”
When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you.
His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one.
In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.
Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do.
Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.
When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with.
Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.
He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche.
Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that.
But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.
He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.
When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response.
Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”
He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve.
But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.
He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity.
Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.
He slides in real easy.
You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.
It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home.
Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace.
There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it?
He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.
He wants to savor the way you love him.
“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.
You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.
It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation.
The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much.
Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves.
Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.
He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.
“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”
Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it.
“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”
He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble.
Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.
He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.
You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.
Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest.
When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.
“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."
WARNING: Cancer, medical trauma, serious illness, hospitals, discussion of disability and mortality, fundraising. Previous Post for context.
🤍
So. It’s cancer.
For those of you following along, I've been undergoing an extensive workup to determine the cause of my Horner's Syndrome. There were a dozen possible explanations. Instead, the scans uncovered something I never expected.
The cruelest irony is that I was hoping to celebrate my five-year anniversary as a survivor of endometrial cancer in August. I couldn't wait to use the words "cancer free." Almost made it.
Instead, it's a malignant Pancoast tumor at the top of my lung that has already worked its way into my T1 vertebra and first rib. It is rare, aggressive, and wrapped around major blood vessels. My bones are literally being eaten; because of the structural location, I am at risk of paralysis.
My first oncology appointment is Monday, and the truth is, I am terrified.
🤍
Because of the heart attack I just had, the treatment plan—likely simultaneous chemo and radiation before surgery—is a massive gamble. Even the biopsy carries a risk of stroke. I am trying to preemptively organize my care because I know whatever happens next is going to be bad. My decisions moving forward aren’t just about standard treatment; they are about whether my body can even endure being systemically dismantled, and what kind of quality of life will be left on the other side of it.
🤍
The strangest part is looking in the mirror. I look into the glass and I just see my normal self looking back—in my my favorite Ramones t-shirt and cute Summer bob. Maybe looking a little tired, but completely intact. Assumptions get made about people in this position, like a diagnosis instantly overwrites who you are. Four years ago, I was a C-suite executive flying family to Vail. Today, I am still entirely myself, just trapped inside a brutal trajectory and trying to make peace with the math while dealing with the fact that my doctor is 50 miles away.
🤍
I am a Medicaid patient with no car, an estranged family, and zero dollars. The state-provided transportation service has stranded me four separate times now, including this week. Missing Monday is not an option. When the van fails, a round-trip Uber is $100 to $140. There will be at least four or five of these critical appointments in the next few weeks alone just to figure out what happens next.
🤍
I’m putting the Ko-fi link below. I need to raise $500 to ensure I can actually get into the room to make these choices. If the state van actually shows up, the funds will help with groceries, and assistive equipment not covered by insurance.
It is incredibly difficult to ask for help, but I desperately need it.
Support Riff's Oncology Transit Fund 💜
Count on me to continue making thirsty edits as long as my little fingers allow. I love reading your fics and admiring your artwork. This is the best fandom and I love you all so much. 🫶
I saw ppl talking about that scene in mandalorian (season 2 I think) where he takes off his helmet to talk to those officers in the empire to get grogu back (the one with Mayfeld and they called him Brown Eyes) and talked about how he kinda doesnt know how to do things properly and acts like he still has the helmet on
Example:
As someone who regularly wears a mask (like a medical mask, like during covid because im slightly immunocompromised and I dont want to be sick or spread germs to others) I kinda relate.
Im very expressive with body language because you cant see what im doing with my face. So when I dont wear it, it looks a little weird with the amount of body language I do. I also have to remember to make my face normal. I cant make whatever face I want because ppl can see. I also have to remember not to mutter or mouth things because ppl can see and maybe even hear.
Idk i just found it kinda relatable and thats kinda cool in my opinion.
