#car wash machine for home

[pickapea]

posts that make you remember that american healthcare has close to no hygiene protocols

I’ve told this story ten thousand times and I will tell it for the ten thousandth and first: whenever I think about wearing a costume to work on Halloween, I remember the time I saw a doctor breaking what must have been devastating news to a sobbing patient while the doc was dressed as a ketchup bottle.

[rassdetergent]

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[itzpookiepooh]

Poor Baby

How the boys act when you’re sad

A/N: it’s that time of the month and I’m sad and got too much going on so bear with me. (It’s 2am don’t judge me)

Zayne takes in every detail about you down to the way you sigh. It’s been one of the roughest weeks of your life. You were out late fighting wanderers, doing paperwork, helping new hunters, the list goes on. Work started spilling into your personal life and it was daunting. What made it worse? You had to keep rescheduling time with your boyfriend. You felt…negligent. Going on week two you were leaving work rather late. You walked out of the association sluggishly.

Was this even worth it anymore?

Was this what you wanted to do anymore?

The pressure of work was crashing down on you. You felt alone in everything. Yeah you had people in your life but you don’t see them as often now. It was rare you had anything planned outside of work. Your mind raced a lot lately with different questions. Your eyes filled with tears, the day to day repetitive activity, the long hours, all of it was getting to you.

“Do you need a ride?” You heard a familiar soft voice. You lift your head to see Zayne standing in front of you.

You didn’t want to burden him with what you had going on personally. He could see it though, the exhaustion. He could see you were drained and that whatever was plaguing your mind was taking a toll on you. He stepped closer letting you get a whiff of his cologne. You didn’t move, you didn’t speak, you just let the tears roll down your face.

Zayne tilted his head when you didn’t answer catching a glimpse of your tear stained cheeks. Your head was down no signs of moving. He didn’t know whether to comfort you or take you home first. He had better things to be worried about, he’s a cardiologist for goodness sake’s you weren’t expecting him to say anything to you at all.

His actions took you by surprise when he wrapped his arms around you. His chin on top of your head as he rubbed small circles into your back. You still didn’t move not even to embrace him in return. He knew you were tired and hurting.

“I’m always here.” He whispered into your hair and that is what broke you. Your sobs were soft as your tears soaked his coat. Your fists clench his coat tight as you cried and he comforted you.

He managed to get you into his car and drive you home. He stayed there with you all night making sure you ate and were hydrated. Luckily for him he always kept a few of his clothes at your house. He gave your job a call saying it was doctor’s orders that you take a few days off (perks of having a doctor as your boyfriend).

You apologized to Zayne all night for your uncontrollable crying. He was barely listening to you since he didn’t care about that but cared about your wellbeing. He wiped your tears and even tried to cheer you up with dumb jokes. His tone was what really made them funny.

By the time you came back to work you were refreshed and felt like a whole new person.

Caleb was always taking care of you. Always. He would cook, clean and even wash your hair for you. He would even come home early from the academy for break just for you…and grandma of course. Everything he did was so you wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You wanted to repay him for all he has done til now. So you planned the perfect day of relaxation for him.

Here’s where it started going wrong. You were supposed to wake him up to breakfast but you tried multitasking and burnt the pancakes causing him to make breakfast. He didn’t sigh, complain, or even get angry. You thought it’s just one thing ruined you could handle the rest. You wouldn’t mess up again.

WRONG!

You took him to the arcade to let off some steam however, when you tried to win him a plushie the claw was flimsy and wouldn’t grab it let alone hold it. He offered to use his evol to which you shook your head and reminded him what today was about. In the end you left with nothing considering the owner had to put an out of order sign on the machine due to the claw not gripping. He gave you a refund telling you he meant to shut it down before opening. An honest mistake.

Caleb needed relaxation. If he didn’t get it this would be all for naught. You took him to the best spa in Linkon and all went well at first until it was time to get massages. Caleb enjoyed it since they got all the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. Being a colonel is hard work! You however got the roughest treatment which left your right leg and ankle hurting. You had to limp the rest of the day because of it. Discreetly though because you didn’t want to ruin the day for Caleb.

Finally you make it home and order dinner and desert. The desert was a cake saying thank you for all that you do. It was the cherry on top of this catastrophic day. This had to go well. Caleb sat on the couch as you went to get the food from the delivery person. When you were handed the food Caleb was behind you to take it as you went to grab the cake. The driver wasn’t paying attention and the cake slipped from his hands making your fast reflexes come into action. Unluckily for you so did the his and his head slammed right into yours making you clutch your head and he flinches swinging his head upwards slamming into your nose.

Caleb drops everything to help you. You were fuming from the pain as you held your nose and head. Blood gushed in your hand from the impact of his head to your nose. The driver apologized repeatedly before leaving. Everything was ruined and it set in for you as you sobbed. Caleb frowned as he pat your bloody nose. He had no idea what kind of day you were having.

“I ruined everything!” Your voice trembled as you curled up head to knees. Caleb purses his lips placing a reassuring hand on your leg.

“No you didn’t, Pips.” He reassures you but it wasn’t enough.

“Yes I did. This day was supposed to be about you and I ruined it.” You cry. He chuckles trying to comfort you.

“You tried and that’s what matters. You didn’t have to do all this for me.” You look up from your knees, lashes wet from the tears.

“But the day—“ He shakes his head quickly before making you look at him.

“You tried to give me a day of appreciation and while I do appreciate it you’ve had a rough day just trying. Don’t think I didn’t notice that limp.” He raises an eyebrow tilting his head slightly. You look away in embarrassment.

“You saw that?” She mumbled making him nod as if it were obvious from her point of view.

“Why do you think I told you I wanted to rest on the bench and admire the pond? While it was pretty to watch your limp wasn’t.” He said in an authoritarian manner. He very much talked to you like he was your guardian.

“All I’m saying is I enjoy helping you or just doing an act of service for you. It’s what makes me happy. That’s why I do it.” He explains to you making you nod slowly in understanding.

“Are you sure?” You whimper making him smile softly and nod.

“Now let’s not let the food and cake go to waste. I can already guess what flavor it is.” He chuckled hoisting you up before checking your face for swelling.

Sylus is just as observant of you as you are of him maybe even more than you. He knows when you’re sick, angry, hungry, even tired. Nothing gets past him and he prides himself on that. Recently he had to leave elsewhere for business and you were staying at the base because your apartment complex is dealing with a gas leak. You insisted on finding somewhere else to stay and mentioned that you might stay with a colleague. He flat out refused you and came and got you himself.

You decided you’d go out to lunch with Tara and Simone. The problem was your hair wasn’t cooperating with you. You tried brushing it, putting it in a ponytail, a bun, curls, nothing worked. You thought it looked horrible and then on top of that you couldn’t find your watch. It was closer to the time you had to leave but you couldn’t leave like this. You hit yourself in the head with the brush as the bump in your hair would not go down.

You put the brush down and cried. This was so overwhelming and you couldn’t fathom how hard this became. You hear the door creak open before a familiar set of footsteps approached you. You feel hands on your shoulders caress you softly. You already knew it was a little white haired someone.

“Take a deep breath.” His voice rumbled from behind you as you take a shaky deep breath.

“My hair looks stupid.” You tell him your voice filled with sorrow. He purses his lips before grabbing the brush and rubber band.

“It does not look stupid. You’re just rushing so you think it does.” He puts the rubber band around his wrist and gently brushes your hair smoothing out the bump you once struggled with.

When he’s finished he lets you look at it making you crack a smile. He smirks walking away with a nod. You rush behind him to hug him as he let out a chuckle. You thanked him countless times squeezing him tighter.

“You’re welcome, now go before you’re really late.” He reminds you handing you your phone and watch before you dash out the room. Not before giving him a kiss of course.

Rafayel is what many call a diva. Many knew this about him especially you. Throwing himself on furniture and sassing people out was his signature move. Today was different though you seem to beat him in the diva category in his eyes. You went out with him to a fancy ball for his art as usual everyone flocked around him like seagulls on a beach for bread.

This was normal and you usually go off on your own until he finds you again. This time was different though as someone who frequently bought his art came up to you starting conversation. They noticed he always brought you along and that you would end up alone. It was like a never ending cycle. This piqued your interest because you didn’t think anyone watched you that closely but maybe it was just because you came with him.

“It must be hard being an artists’ lover. I couldn’t imagine always being forgotten whenever I went out with him.” The woman rambled not realizing how she was making you feel. “I mean come on! You’re pushed aside and forgotten! No respect and then he comes back around like nothing happened!”

Your chest ached at the thought. It was true that you were forgotten but not by Rafayel no, never by Rafayel. You were forgotten by the critics, buyers, admirers of his artwork. You were never not at the forefront of his mind. You were always the first person he thought about whether he was near you or not. You didn’t know that though.

“It’s not like that.” You try to reason with the woman as you feel a lump form in your throat.

“Isn’t it though? You’re forgotten I wouldn’t be surprised if you were just for show.” She scoffs shaking her head. This broke you for some reason even if you wanted to believe it to not be true it still stung.

Tears dripped onto your clutch leaving dark stains from your mascara on it. You clutched it tighter as you hiccuped slightly. The woman moved in closer caressing your arm sympathizing with you. Maybe Rafayel was using you for show like a trophy. You felt like you were a burden and holding him back from something.

“Why are you crying cutie?” His voice rings in your ears making you stop crying. He then eyes the woman suspiciously his eyebrows furrowed as he watches her hand on your shoulder.

“Leave.” He commands the woman as if she were the bane of his existence. She scoffs glaring at him.

“Excuse me?” She challenged him but she obviously didn’t know Rafayel personally. He was the last person you wanted to argue with.

“Should I say it in a different language?” His tone poisonous. You grab his wrist indicating that this wasn’t the time nor the place. He sighed dragging you to the garden to talk.

“Alright spill it.” He demands with his arms crossed. You didn’t want to tell him you were embarrassed.

“She just got under my skin that’s all.” You brush him off as your hand caressed the roses in the garden.

“You’re a terrible liar cutie. She said something and I know it.” He told you making you side eye him. You sigh before giving in only because of the stare he was giving you.

“She felt bad for me and then…ugh! It’s stupid!” You pout turning away. Rafayel crossed his arms and raises an eyebrow at your actions.

“Well whatever she said it’s not true.” He reasons sitting next to you on the stone bench.

“How would you know? You don’t care—“ You sigh in frustration clenching the rose before sadly letting it go. You explained what the woman said and boy did it upset your boyfriend.

“I don’t think I’m good enough for you.” You whispered sadly as you pick at the skin around your nails.

Rafayel pouted angrily at your statement. Who cares what some random lady thought? Everyone was ugly and annoying compared to you in his eyes. What was that lady trying to accomplish by telling you such things? No one was going to tell him who he can’t have around and what they are to him.

“Who gets to decide that?” He snaps glaring at you. You look at him and shrug before he sighs dramatically. “I do. Only I get a say in who I bring around!”

He grabs your face squishing your cheeks together. You looked like a puffer fish to him now. He presses your cheeks together a few times before you groan in annoyance. His expression nor his actions let up until he’s satisfied. He wanted to drill into your head who you are to him and how he felt about you.

“Don’t listen to some crabby old lady. You are the most important thing to me and all of Lumeria knows it.” He says softly as he stops squishing you and just holds your face instead.

“You need someone to keep up with you and—“ He groans loudly squishing you again.

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you telling me I needed to make an appearance. I’m only at these events because you convince me to. Otherwise no one would ever know what I look like!” He tells you his face pouty. His forehead touches yours as he sighs.

“There’s not a soul on this planet that is more important to me than you, understand?” He explains lacing his fingers with yours. You nod as you both stare at each other.

“And if that lady says anything else to you I’ll have her become an ocean delicacy.” He threatened making you giggle. Unbeknownst to you he was dead serious. He placed a soft kiss on your lips before staring into your eyes again.

“Now let’s get out of here I’m starving and I do not want caviar.” He gagged dragging you to the car as you laughed at his reaction.

Xavier has always been soft spoken and kind. He always tried not to overstep or upset you. Not like he was walking on eggshells or anything but he just didn’t like making you upset. He didn’t like anyone making you upset. So imagine his surprise when you both got off work and he invited you out for hotpot and you declined. You never declined hotpot especially if he’s paying.

“What’s wrong?” He questioned tilting his head sideways, his eyes never leaving your face.

“I’m just not feeling it today.” You brush him off walking towards the train station. He was closely behind you he wasn’t going to let this go so easily.

The ride was silent only the sound of the wheels hitting the tracks filled the train car. Xavier kept eyeing you wondering what he could do to make you feel better, then it came to him. He wasn’t going to force you to talk but he would give you the space to do so. When you made it to the complex he followed you to your front door, you thought he was just making sure you got home.

“May I come in?” You were going to protest until he gave you that sad puppy look. You couldn’t resist so he came in and got to work on his plan. You watched him stack your cushions and pillows into a fort using the sheets as a sturdy foundation. He beckons you to come inside making you sigh and do so.

You sit next to him as he hugs you. He didn’t need to say anything the hug was just what you needed. You cried a little before explaining anything to him. He let you cry to your heart’s content. He waited for you to tell him whenever you felt comfortable.

“I got my bike stolen and then i decided to find it myself but whoever stole it crashed it.” You pout. That was your baby it was one of the first things you got yourself as an adult.

“We can shop for a new one. It doesn’t matter as long as you’re safe.” He reassured you with a tight squeeze.

“Besides that means you can ride with me more often.” He nudges you making you laugh. He was waiting to hear that laugh he missed hearing it.

“Yeah that’s an upside.” You sniff and wipe your nose. He crawls out of the fort helping you do the same. As you both stand you hug him tight.

“I’ll get dinner started.” He kissed your forehead but your eyes grew wide.

“A—Actually, hotpot sounds so good right now.” You nervously laugh pushing him towards the door. You refused to lose your apartment to his cooking skills.

This is my first time doing dividers because I could find any I thought would go with this.

The hardest one to write for was Sylus because I had a plot but I went to sleep and forgot it also who would be sad with Sylus I mean come on (any of these men really).

I hope you like it muah bye 💋

[goatgoesmbe]

When you're divorced to Price, you're not divorced to the team

Johnny still tried and invite you to everything they're doing, whether it is some kind of celebration or simple hangout.

And you felt rude to deny it, just because you're divorced.. doesn't mean you should stop having mutual friends with your ex-husband right?

Kyle still texted you from time to time, asking if you baked anything today. Making not so subtle hints of him- and the others, missing your baking.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw John walking past the door. You didn't know why, but you did save one cupcake. So as the others were occupied, you snuck away to put it on his desk.

So you visited their base, carrying a box of cupcakes in the rec room as you watched them demolish your work- oh god the cupcake wrap isn't edible Johnny.

And Simon?

Well.. before you were divorced, John used to make him keep an eye on you since he was too busy with work. Being your guard dog when you hang out around the base, or to take care of stuff if you have any trouble at home.

Like right now.

"Simon, i'm so, sorry about this- i already called a plumber and for some reason they canceled last minute, and I just can't wait another day to get it fixed-" You rambled as you watched him look at what's wrong with your washing machine, days worth of laundry piling up near it.

"It's alright" He simply responded. "Don't bother calling them next time, you have me" he added.

Then there's Laswell.

You've always got along so well with her, so it wasn't a surprise when she invited you to a ceremony where she would renew her vow with her wife.

It's been a while since you doll up properly and wear a dress. But you try to not feel self-conscious as you stepped out of your car. You didn't want to give your ex-husband the satisfaction. You wanted to look fine, more than fine, like the divorce didn't affect you.

It was easier said than done with the way you could feel his eyes from across the room as you tried to ignore him and focus on your conversation with Kate and her wife.

Goddamn, can he stop that, he's really making you nervous.

Sighing, you took a sip of a champagne that was served. Maybe the alcohol would help.

...

You woke up with a throbbing headache and turned your head to groan at the fluffy pillow. Fuck, you drank too much.

Opening your eyes slowly, you blinked when you saw a figure lying beside you.

John.

John?!

Your head throbbed even more when you sat up too fast. Looking under the blanket, you sighed when you see that you're clothed at least. Even though it wasn't the dress you wore last night.

Sighing, your gaze shifted to the man beside you and took in the scene that was too familiar to you once upon a time.

Against your better judgement, you laid back down. And for some reason, you didn't move away when a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist.

Why did you divorce him again?

[hrrtshape]

things that my boyfriend does in my better cr that truly warms my heart ( aka emma yaps about coryo . . again )

i just have to say that like every time i am with him it might as well be raining rose petals because GRAH . i love this man so bad fuck

he steals the hair tie off my wrist mid-conversation just to snap it lightly against my arm. menace behaviour. then kisses the spot he snapped like it's reparations. it's not. but okay.

he uses my perfume when he misses me. pretends it was "accidental" because he was "in a rush" but i literally caught him spritzing it on his pillow. okay scented softboy.

him scribbling my name in the margins of his physics homework.

when i'm sitting on the counter he stands between my knees like it's just. where he belongs. like we're in a 2007 coming-of-age movie starring people with tumblr edits. which we are.

he bought a stupid little charm for my pandora bracelet when he went on a trip without me. i asked why that one. he said "it looked lonely." shut. UP.

he hates when i'm crying, like. goes feral. paces. brings me tea and tissues and then blames the weather. he’ll be like "it's always cloudy when you're sad" like okay shakespeare.

he always knows when i'm cold before i say anything. he'll just silently drape his jacket over my shoulders like it's a cape.

he keeps the receipts from our dates in a box. they're relics. we're going to bury them under a tree one day and kiss above the grave.

he'll grab my wrist when we’re crossing the street. dramatically. we're in a victorian and there’s a carriage hurtling toward me. we're literally on a suburban sidewalk.

he kisses my knuckles. ALL. OF. THEM. slow. one by one.

he makes me playlists with stupid names like "songs for when you're being dramatic (but i love u anyway)" or "music to study the divine tragedy of your smile to" and then says "it's not that deep." shut up it IS.

his mom super duper likes me because i helped carry the groceries once and he hasn't stopped bringing it up like i saved a child from a burning building.

he'll just. rest his head in my lap. no words. he's safe there!!!!!!!!!! that's home.

every time he kisses my temple i lose two years off my life expectancy. every. single. time.

he eats around the onions in my burger. without even saying anything. and then gives me the side-eye like how did you not check for onions.

he always opens my drinks for me. bottle caps, soda cans, vitamin waters. he lives to hear the hiss-pop and hand it to me like some sort of carbonated chalice. boycoded service.

he lets me pop his zits. i don't even want to unpack this one. i think it means we're married.

he pulled a leaf out of my hair and kept it in his wallet. it's still there. crunched and dry and maybe disgusting. romantic rot. ROMANTIC ROT.

every time we're walking past those claw machine games he makes me stop. wins me a plushie.

he saves the voice notes i send him.

he fixed the chain on my necklace with his teeth. we were running late. i was spiralling. and he just said "come here" and bit the clasp back together. yea. yea.

he let me win at chess once and i knew.

if i fall asleep anywhere near him, car, sofa, bench, airport floor, he'll tuck something under my head. his hoodie. his bag. his own arm. i'm never on tile. i'm on love.

i dunno if i ever said that....but yes....he has...indeed....put his jacket over a puddle.

he wrote "ema was here" in the dust on the back of his car. left it there for days. weeks. i checked. he washed everything else. not that. (p.s., i have an obsession with him writing ema instead of emma. just something about that.)

he carries my water bottle like it's his cross to bear but also refills it without me asking. i’m not a girl. i'm a beloved houseplant.

he figured out my coffee order before i told him and now i feel unsafe (in a romantic way).

my phone dies and he lets me use his. like "here. text your mom." and i'm like ??? i'm texting my pinterest mutual actually but thank you!!!

he keeps gum in his glovebox just for me. like i asked once. in january. and now it's always there.

when he walks behind me he'll tuck my tag in.

sings along to my favourite songs under his breath while driving even though he acts like he's too cool for them. you know. he knows every word.

when i wear lip gloss he won't kiss me right away. just stares. and says something stupid like "you're too pretty. it's a trap."

sometimes he picks me up and spins me like we're in a musical. usually in the kitchen. mind you, i'm just trying to get juice.

he learned how to tie a silk ribbon in my hair. doesn't talk about it. just does it when i can't get it right.

once i got mascara in my eye and he said "blink at me. i'll get it out" as if i was a disney princess.

he has my shampoo. doesn't use it. but. it's there. help.

he never lets me carry a takeaway bag. even if it's like. one (1) croissant. "you're not meant to suffer," he'll say, already loading five things into his arms.

he lifts me onto countertops. regularly.

he puts my earrings in his wallet if i take them off.

every time we hold hands he presses his thumb into the back of mine.

if i fall asleep in his bed he'll put socks (his!!!!!) on my feet and act like it's just something that happens.

when i talk about something i love, he looks at me instead of the thing. full eye contact. the whole time. THAT one image from pinterest. you know the one.

when i'm talking and he wants to kiss me, he just. does. mid-sentence.

once when i was crying he wiped my tears and went "you're gonna get dehydrated." (hrrtshape dot com is malfunctioning currently i need a moment)

knows how i take my tea. knows what brand. knows i like the ugly mug.

he put the 'emergency chocolate' in his bag. for me. not himself.

told me he dreams about me. casually. just said it.

when i send a selfie he'll say "come home."

he walks slower when we're holding hands so our steps match. who does that. freak behaviour. soulmate behaviour.

sometimes i catch him just watching me, smiling, and when i ask why he says "nothing." MHMHMMHMHMHMMmmmmmmm.

[wheelie-sick]

people way underestimate the needs of wheelchair users.

there's a lot of what I'll call walkism (bias towards pedestrians and against wheelchair users) among disabled pedestrians (people who primarily walk, assisted or not, as their means of mobility)

diminishing our needs is walkism.

people within the community see us as ableds minus legs. they see our disabilities as simple- just can't walk, it's that easy. they see us as having low accommodation needs and as having the accommodations that we do need met. they see our access barriers as being as simple as ramps and curb cuts.

we are frequently compared to low support needs (LSN) non-physically disabled people by ablebodied disabled people and physically disabled people alike. we are compared to people who walk through life (literally) with little to no support, who make it through school with minimal accommodations, who have access to the whole world.

people are so incredibly out of touch with what wheelchair use actually looks like. people don't personally know wheelchair users, often don't even follow them on social media. people assume they can understand our entire lives by looking at our wheels and imagining. that doesn't work.

this belief that our disabilities are simple especially goes for paraplegic wheelchair users who are so often used as the "closest to abled" examples. they don't consider how many paraplegic wheelchair users experience things like spasms, chronic pain, bladder spasms specifically, both urinary and fecal incontinence, among much else that I'm sure I'm not aware of as I am not paraplegic. they especially don't consider that fact that wheelchair use is absolutely not close to abled.

they don't consider the extent of needs that full time and near full time wheelchair users experience. have you ever had to wait in the grocery store parking lot for 30+ minutes so an accessible spot with an access aisle could open up? how deep is the washing machine in your apartment? how large is the room it's in? is your sink too tall? what about the cabinets? how high is your bed? how low is your dining table? how easy would it be to fit a wheelchair in your car? how reliable is your bus? how reliable are the people on it to not put their groceries in the wheelchair spot? does your workplace have a ramp?

when people become wheelchair users they often have to uproot their entire lives to rebuild in a way that allows them to access things as vital as their home and workplace. when people already are wheelchair users they experience shortages of everything- jobs with accessible buildings, apartments they can get into and use, cars they can put their wheelchairs in easily.

this isn't even getting into things like access to businesses and other locations wheelchair users may want to go.

wheelchair users always have significant disabilities. yes, always. yes, even that disability you think is mild. people don't end up as wheelchair users because they have mild chronic pain or lose balance occasionally. people end up as wheelchair users because they have significant mobility disabilities. significant mobility disabilities rarely act alone. I cannot name a wheelchair user who only experiences mobility disability. everything, yes, everything comes with other effects.

while I've spent a lot of time talking about the comparatively low support needs wheelchair users there are high support needs wheelchair users as well. people only look at those of us who have ability to do all or most ADLs with our wheelchairs, this is not the case for every wheelchair user. there are wheelchair users who use group 3 powerchairs. there are wheelchair users who transfer via hoist. there are wheelchair users who need to control their wheelchair with their breath. there are wheelchair users who can't move their wheelchair independently at all and rely on someone else to push them. there are wheelchair users whose disabilities cause significant disability in areas other than mobility meaning they have feeding tubes, ostomies, suprapubic catheters, and ventilators. these presentations of disability are not even uncommon.

true high support needs wheelchair users are so often erased from every conversation (including conversations among wheelchair users) but I have not once seen a pedestrian mention quadriplegia & tetraplegia or muscular dystrophy or spinal muscular atrophy or any other number of conditions that leave someone needing both a wheelchair and very high support. I never see mentions of intellectually disabled people who use wheelchairs for conditions connected to their intellectual disability and I never see mentions of conditions like sanfilippo syndrome.

ultimately though, wheelchair users are just not a monolith. I will stand by the fact that, while some wheelchair users may have low support needs compared to other wheelchair users and high support needs neurodevelopmentally disabled people, none of our support needs are so low that they are at all comparable to those of low support needs non-physically disabled people. it's erasure of our disability to suggest there is no difference in support required between a low support needs autistic person and a wheelchair user on the low support needs end of the wheelchair support needs spectrum.

it is especially erasure to collapse all wheelchair users down to the lowest level of support needs a wheelchair user can have. it pretends that our higher support needs siblings don't exist.

the community does not understand us or our struggles. it won't understand us or our struggles until we are included, until people stop seeing us as the most privileged part of the community and until people stop minimizing our struggles. walkism is the reason wheelchair users have built our own communities separate from the rest of the disabled community. it is made clear time and time again that we are not welcome and we will not be understood.

A note: by wheelchair user I am specifically referring to people who use a wheelchair on a regular basis for day-to-day tasks. for the sake of this post I am not including people who only use wheelchairs at the mall/Disney/theme parks/other long distances.

[all dividers are described in alt text]

[iwtv-az-hours]

Armand with your eyes so bright Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?

Vampire eyes ❤️

[gutsby]

Joel Miller

Waiting Game (dbf!Joel)

Joel has mastered the art of self-control in all areas except one: not fucking his friend’s daughter. A cross-country road trip home from college takes a hard turn when he’s forced to share a motel room with you.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

One shots for the Waiting Game ‘verse

Homemade: While your dad’s watching a movie downstairs, you and his best friend decide to make one of your own.

Diehard: Joel tries Viagra for the very first time.

Ruined!: Joel is an old man who struggles to cum sometimes. You’ve got time to kill and a tight hole to fill.

Cabin Fever (Dark!Joel x Dark!Reader) [DEAD DOVE]

Joel saves your life, but help comes at a price.

Confines: Joel locks you up in a subterranean bunker.

Finders Keepers (bfd!Joel)

When you find an old shirt of Mr. Miller’s lying around, you can’t resist. When he finds you humping a pillow and moaning his name, neither can he.

Cry, Baby

Joel fucks you to the point of tears. That’s all.

Just Peachy [anal]

Joel’s got a jealous streak and a bold idea.

Wingman (himbo!Joel crackfic)

Your bestie braves the tampon aisle for you.

Watch Your Mouth

Joel teaches you to keep quiet during sex.

Love Tap (dad!Joel)

Old habits die hard with your husband—touching you at inappropriate times is one of them.

If You Like Piña Coladas (neighbor!Joel)

You secretly make Joel a profile on Hinge. Then he shows you exactly why he doesn’t need one.

My Body, His Choice [freeuse]

After a long day, Joel just needs some relief.

Who’s Your Daddy? (stepdad!Joel)

You get stuck in the washing machine. Thankfully, your stepdad is around to help you out.

Make It Stick

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

Stiff: At fifty-nine, Joel isn’t sure his dick can keep up with every day it’s going to take to get you pregnant. He seeks help from Jackson’s local apothecary and gets more than bargained for when that little blue pill kicks in.

Stuck: Joel gets nominated to play Santa Claus for Jackson’s holiday festivities. Of course, you’re into that.

Cowboy Killers

On a mission to find—and fight—your best friend’s lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair.

Seeing Pink [DD/LG]

Joel steals more of your innocence every day. Fortunately, you love to give as much as he loves to take.

Easy to Please (sleazy landlord!Joel)

Months pass, and you can’t make rent—again. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again.

Wants and Needs (sugar daddy!Joel)

Bills are high; your dad’s boss wants to help. How you pay him stays between you and him—for now.

Bigger in Texas

Joel won’t fit.

Trashed (trailer park!Joel)

You fuck Joel in his filthy double-wide.

Too Close for Comfort

You’ve been babysitting Sarah Miller forever. One day, you’re surfing the web on her dad’s computer, and you find some…unusual things in his search history.

Brighter Times (dark!Joel)

You’ve always been Joel’s favorite. Always.

Older, Bolder (GILF!Joel)

Joel can’t get it up.

Marcus Acacius

Bloodline

The General needs an heir.

Bucky Barnes

Wedded Bliss (Mob!Bucky)

The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Daryl Dixon

Dead Ringer

Weeks of separation and sexual frustration come to a head when Daryl pays you a visit in the middle of the night. Whether it's the product of your own sex-deprived subconscious or reality, you can't be sure—and couldn't care less. Daryl wants to fulfill the fantasy any way he can.

Easy Street

You steal a cop car and almost run Daryl over en route to the Sanctuary. You can’t decide if you want to fight him, fuck him, or bring him back to Negan. Lucky for you, Daryl is game for all three.

Nighthawk

You decide to bring Spencer to the neighborhood Halloween bash to take your mind off your breakup with Daryl. Your ex isn't so easily convinced of your intentions and decides there's no better place than his motorcycle to show you just how much he misses you.

Cherry Pie

You know virtually nothing about sex, and Daryl’s done it all. Together, you take on an impromptu anatomy lesson, and you learn that Daryl has a lot more to teach you than what’s covered in the textbooks.

Walker Bait

An unforeseen foray into a sex shop leaves you and Daryl trapped between a plastic cock and a hard place as a herd of walkers closes in. Angry sex ensues.

Grow a Uterus and We’ll Talk

Daryl has a bad case of baby fever, to put it lightly. You’re practically terrified of children. Rick lends you his kid for the night, and together, you come to learn that parenthood might not be the worst thing in the world. Even easier than baking muffins, one might say.

Honey Trap

You’ve been tasked with two simple jobs: infiltrate Alexandria’s community and bring intel back to your boss by any means necessary. When your entry point into the group takes the form of a familiar blue-eyed archer, you expect this to be your easiest gig yet—that is, until your prey decides to hunt you back.

Pregnant Pause

Babymaking is a bit trickier than anticipated, and months have passed with no sign of pregnancy. When your period finally doesn’t show up on time, you and Daryl act fast and head straight for the pharmacy—and get a little caught up along the way.

Mr. Dixon

Your efforts to seduce the DILF next door have all failed spectacularly, so you decide a wet hot car wash in front of his house is in order. Mr. Dixon is less than impressed with your antics and plans to teach you a lesson in good manners and ‘neighborliness.’

I’m a Good Girl, Officer!

Apparently flashing your tits to truckers on the freeway is frowned upon in small towns like yours. When three familiar King County cops take charge of the case, you learn they punish bad girls a little differently.

Playing Dangerous

Working undercover in a seedy part of town, homicide detective Daryl sees you in your skimpy club attire and mistakes you for a hooker. A wrongful arrest makes for a funny way to foreplay, but you’re still game.

Fake It Til You Make It (Or Drown)

Daryl finds out you faked an orgasm. Instead of getting mad, he decides to get even.

Best Served Cold

Since your fiancé can’t seem to keep his hands off of Lori, you decide Daryl is the perfect way to make him pay. Revenge sex has never felt so good.

Coming Soon:

Bite the Bullet

Back at the prison, new recruits have been showering you with gifts. One of these presents doesn’t sit quite right with Daryl, and he decides it’s time to let the men know just how he feels—and who you belong to.

Atlantic City

A very drunk Daryl meets a stripper in Jersey and wastes no time putting a ring on her finger. With the late, great Elvis Presley presiding, the two get hitched in a slipshod ceremony a couple weeks before the world descends into chaos. This marriage may be short-lived, but damn if the honeymoon won’t be one to remember.

Requests are open!

[theorist-fox]

Whisky

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Reader

Crossposted on AO3

Word count: 4.3k

Summary: Kyle’s the perfect partner, even when he slips up. And as you come to realize, he slips up quite often—which only makes you love him more.

18+

CW: fluff, smut, drunk sex in established relationship with enthusiastic consent, handjob, cunnilingus, Kyle is cute

Masterlist 🦊

Kyle is perfect. 

He is sharp, cunning—the answer to everything is always on the tip of his tongue. 

Problem-solving is his special skill. He thrives under pressure, not a finger of his so much as twitches even when the weight of the world crushes his shoulders: he calculates it all, pros and cons, risks and benefits, in the span of a minute. 

Self-sufficient, precise, deadly.

He charmed you with a handful of well-placed words, dazzling smile and clever eyes, gentlemanly as few. Opened the car door, insisted on paying for dinner, and kissed you on your third date. His tongue tasted of Moscato and chocolate from the dessert, yours a tick bitter—scotch and brown sugar.

He had you helplessly wrapped around his finger with shocking ease: a smooth talker at dinner, a sex God once home, incredibly selfless and devoted—made sure you came at least twice on his fingers before he even thought about fucking you and giving you more of that high.

With him it's neatly wrapped presents, roses delivered at work, dinner dates and endless, deep, passionate kisses that leave you heaving like you've run a marathon, warm and breathless.

He makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery, and also like maybe you’re aiming too high with your averageness, while he stands tall, spine straight, and a chain of golden candy draped across his chest.

However, Kyle softened up when you two finally became steady. 

It was hard not to notice how cautiously and deliberately he tiptoed around your relationship—until he slowly unfurled and fell into a comfortable pattern, one in which he didn’t have to put up an act, one in which he could turn off his head and have you guide him through the softer motions of the day. He finally relented, dropping the veneer—cracking like fine ceramic, chipping away.

It's then that you truly, really met Kyle.

And that is how you found out that he is, in fact, perfect—a stunning man, kind, brilliant and charming—but he’s so much more than that, too.

Kyle is clumsy.

You have to be careful where you place your shoes at the entrance of your flat because he trips on his own feet. More than once you’ve heard a cheery “Home, love!” followed by the flat door closing shut and a subsequent tumble. Then, a thud. An “Ow” echoing in the living room. An embarrassed chuckle.

Kyle is a menace. For his safety, that is. 

God forbid you initiate a chat while he’s in the kitchen. Once, he got so awfully invested as you spilled the office tea that he slammed his palm on the induction stove. His shocked "No fucking way" had quickly evolved into a dramatic scream.

Lovely night spent at the hospital, that one.

Kyle is forgetful.

You wish you could count on one hand how many times he has forgotten to add the colour catcher in the washing machine.

You can’t. You are currently out of plain white knickers, since they’re all blotched pink or blue. God bless him, he beats himself up every time he’s reminded. You tell him it’s okay, that it can happen, but it always ends up with him apologising so emphatically that you promise yourself you’ll never make him notice again.

All these habits make him more real to your eyes, like he’s not cast with pure gold and melted medals, like you can allow yourself some slip-ups as well. 

And while this is making your home life definitely easier to slip into (despite your lack of underwear), you can tell how hard it is for him to shed the perfectionist uniform—self-loathing each time he makes the most subtle of mistakes.

It's not easy to remind him that he’s human too, but you try until he gets it, until he understands that maybe you love this tangible version of him more than you do the untouchable, polished SAS sergeant.

That you love his vulnerabilities as much as you love his strengths. And perhaps, to your eyes, those things are the same.

That you love how he scratches the back of his head with a grimace when the bacon turns charred, when your sleeping t-shirt comes out of the washing machine two sizes too small and awfully shrunk. 

That you love how flustered he gets when he drinks, because yes.

Kyle is a lightweight. And the cutest drunk.

One Saturday you’d both planned it all: nice dinner out now that he’s home for R&R, stroll through the city, a shared cigarette under the stars, and then a proper nice fuck once home. 

Perfect.

Or it would’ve been—if your plans hadn’t been rudely cancelled by the awful weather.

Which brings you both to now, lazily slumped on the sofa, still wrapped in your fancy outfits, dress shoes and heels shed on the floor. Your backs rest on the opposite armrests, legs meeting and intertwining in the middle. The TV roars with some action movie you chose together, and while you're enraptured by the plot, Kyle has his eyes on you.

Big fingers spread over your shin, occasionally shifting back and forth as if he’s shocked by how soft your freshly waxed legs feel under his palm. 

"Yer pretty," he mumbles, cueing a cute hiccup at the end that makes your stomach flutter.

His mouth is curled in a cheeky smile, plump lips hooking upwards just on one side.

You blink and divert your attention from the film to your boyfriend, spread out on the sofa with one arm hanging out, hand curled around the rim of his tumbler. 

The lazily enamoured look in his eyes prompts you to smile back, already knowing where this is going. "Why thank you, Kyle. Not so bad yourself.”

He smirks in that familiar way he does when he thinks he's said something particularly clever and wiggles his eyebrows.

“All that for me?” He mumbles, nodding with his chin to your outfit. 

You snort, but otherwise hum a soft reply in agreement, hiding your smile behind your glass.

“Ah,” he says, slowly sipping on his whisky, looking straight into your eyes. “Lucky man I am.”

Your cheeks heat up, because even when he’s tipsy he manages to smooth talk your confidence away, turning you into a shy mess. The alcohol in your system doesn’t help.

“Don’t need to flatter me,” you mumble, trying to keep the act up. “M’already your girlfriend.”

His eyes light up like a Christmas tree, as if you just fed him some new, exciting piece of information.

“My girl,” he echoes, with a smirk that dimples his cheek and settles properly into your chest. “Really like the sound of that.”

A sip. His head lolls sideways, abandoned, eyes glittering with love for yours—you can tell, because yours do the same.

“My girl.” He tests it again, as if he’s never said it before.

"Already, love?" You tease him, but there's no bite behind your words. "It’s the second glass.”

His lazy smile melts into a frown, and then he points an accusing finger at you. 

"You're one to talk. Look at you.” He wiggles his fingers your way. “All wobbly."

You are, in fact, very steady. Steadier than anything.

You cock a brow, cheeks puffed in a smile. With a dramatic sigh, you reply, "Just proving my point, really."

He quirks his eyebrows and shakes his head mockingly at you, echoing your words in a high-pitched tone, before returning the glass to his lips. 

You gasp in mock offence, placing a theatrical hand on your chest.

After a very short but fiercely fought battle of stares, you soften up. Kyle takes the way your shoulders unravel as his own personal victory. He raises his glass at you.

“Cheers,” he says proudly, throwing his head back to down the rest of his whisky in a gulp. 

“Jesus—” You splutter, eyes widening at the sheer courage. And then you burst into a laugh because when his eyes return to you, he is positively wincing—alcohol burning down his throat something fierce, you reckon.

An exasperated rub of your forehead, while Kyle keeps his lips sealed shut to avoid openly coughing. His cheeks comically balloon every time.

He’s such a kid sometimes, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t adore this lighthearted side of him. 

"Lightweight," you singsong, because if he can act childish so can you. 

You bring your own glass to your mouth to hide your smile, though you drink your whisky much more responsibly than he did.

Kyle takes that one personally, it seems. His brow furrows, full lips curling in a pout. Brown eyes hooded and bloodshot. Nose scrunched in that twitch he often has when irritated.

Yep, you stand by the fact that he's a lovely-looking drunk.

Which means you must correct yourself. "Cute lightweight."

He grumbles something under his breath, looking away and crossing his arms like you’ve gone and done it forever. Pride hurt and thrashed.

But you're giggling at this point. 

Okay, maybe you’re tipsy, you’ll give him that.

"Don't pout." You say, pouting yourself. "You're making me feel bad."

He turns up his nose, and, with spite, he sets the empty tumbler on the coffee table. Glass on glass. It clinks, like he wanted to make a powerful statement with that motion alone.

"As you should."

"Kyle."

"Nuh-uh."

"Kyle, c'mon—"

"Grovel."

You burst out laughing, and from the corner of your eye, you see how it manages to make his lips quirk. You decide it's time to apologize for hurting his drunk pride.

Struggling, you place the unfinished glass of bourbon on the coffee table. 

"Kyle," you whisper his name like honey, this time.

His shoulders stiffen, and he steals a glance from you. Good, you got his attention.

On your fours, you start crawling to his side of the sofa, until your knees are digging into the cushions on each side of his hips, your hands next to his head. Back arched prettily, showing off like a peacock to soften him up a little.

Kyle seems to be trying to have the couch swallow him whole as he flushes his back to it. His eyes are wide and big like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. As if he’s never witnessed this beforehand.

You cock your head—cheeky, batting your lashes and all. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he replies at the speed of light.

You snort. “You sure?”

“Yeah—yeah,” he croaks. Clears his throat. “Yes.”

“Mhmh.” You smile knowingly, letting your fingers draw a line down the buttons of his shirt, rich dark navy. 

He follows the trail with his eyes, tongue briefly darting out to lick his lips. Your nails tap on the buttons, soft brushes of your pads along the cotton down to the waistband of his slacks, where you hook your finger. Tug.

Kyle’s breath stutters. His chest falls back down heavily, as if a rock’s been suddenly dropped on it.

“All this for me?” You ask back, cocking your head to the side.

He catches on. Mimics you, trying to align his eyes with yours. His face is slack, relaxed, but his eyes—oh, his eyes. When you’re this close, with the tips of your noses touching, you see there are hints of green in there. Deep forest trees, speckles of golden sunlight, mottled in earthy brown irises. Investigating ones, studying how the light of the telly catches your skin, as you do the same, following the dotted lines of his moles. 

“Yes,” he replies, voice rough.

Your heart skips a beat. 

He notices, and his hand silently travels to your wrist. He guides your hand down. The heel of your palm catches the bulge in his trousers. Heat pulses at your fingertips—you need them to do something, anything, to release it. Your thumb catches the zipper. Tentatively, you tug it down.

Kyle wastes not a moment more and lifts his head so his lips meet yours.

A deep inhale. His tongue lingers with the smoky aftertaste of whisky, the pleasant tang of alcohol, as you remember how it had burned your throat when you drank it moments before. 

Kyle thinks you taste like the first day he kissed you. Languid tongues intertwining, coated with a sweeter taste, like that of brown sugar and maraschino cherries dipped in your Old Fashioned. How you’d plucked them with your lips, tugging gently at the stem. 

He fell for you that night, he thinks. Thinks it every single day; when he trips over your shoes, burns the dinner, and botches the laundry, while you smile at him with understanding pinched eyebrows.

He busies himself, now, giving you ample space to work with both your hands at the button and zipper. He grasps at your breasts through your dress, squeezes clumsily both fabric and softer flesh underneath, while taking a handful of your ass—fat bugling between the grooves of his fingers. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. A strangled thing between a moan and a gasp.

He wants to be cocky about it, tell you that even when he’s plastered he seemingly has all the faculties to make your heart race and your cunt wet—but alas, he chokes on a groan of his own when you slide under his boxers, setting platitudes aside, and curl your fingers around his sex. 

One would think the alcohol would’ve made it a bit tougher for him to rise to the attention, but the truth clearly lies elsewhere, since he’s hard as a rock in your hand.

“Whisky did this to you?” You quip, though it doesn’t land as funnily as you’ve anticipated, since you sound as breathless as he is. 

Your words brush his lips like petals. Bourbon swims in his head, but he’s more drunk on you than he’s drunk on that. His head is clouded, but there’s still enough willpower to focus on how your mouth slots with his, how your hand starts to gingerly smooth down his shaft.

He pinches your nipple in retaliation. You hiss, shifting awkwardly on your knees like you’re looking for friction, but his legs are keeping your thighs too far apart. 

“Bit chatty tonight, are you.” 

You breathe a chuckle, nudging his nose. 

“Like to get you all fussy.”

“S’working,” he concedes. “But not because of that smart mouth of yours.” 

You stop. Pull back. 

You thought him drunk, but the sharp tongue he’s hitting you with tells you otherwise. Tipsy, perhaps. But not drunk.

You know drunk Kyle, and that one is a flustered mess. This Kyle definitely isn’t.

So, while Kyle might be tipsy, he’s not off his head yet. He manages to tighten his brows in a silent question—why did you stop. 

When you cock your head, eyes narrowed, he matches your stance.

You both smile.

“Are you telling me to shut up?”

A groan escapes him and Kyle rolls his eyes so far back you see a bit of redness at the bottom. He takes you by surprise when he lunges forward, slotting his lips with yours again. 

He’s not gentle when he sinks his teeth into your lower lip, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

“I’m telling you to finish what you started,” he says with playful command, but you know that if it weren’t for the alcohol softening his words, you’d be replying with a swift "Yes, sir".

He takes the lead, if only briefly, and has his hips jump upwards to meet your first stroke.

A breathless curse leaves his lips when your pace starts to languidly grow. You keep it soft and slow, but still steady enough to make the words die in his throat.

He kisses you, then. Makes sure to hide the embarrassing sounds that would inevitably leave him if he’d allowed his lips to move freely.

“Yeah?” You ask in a whisper that touches his mouth first, his cottoned ears much, much later.

Kyle nods. Doesn’t break the kiss again, doesn’t dare. 

You feel good, he thinks. Too good to let go, with your lithe fingers barely reaching around, with the cold bands of your rings causing gooseflesh to rise on his thighs.

He grabs your hand, reluctantly taking it away from his cock, until he has it hovering between your faces, palm facing your lips.

“Spit,” he says.

You heed him, an eager shake in your breath as you release a glob of saliva on your own palm. Kyle turns it his way and flattens his tongue against it, licking upward, until he has your middlemost fingers in his mouth.

Your legs shake in shivers that travel to the tips of your toes, back arched like you’re trying to press your sex back against something only to find a wall of air. 

Kyle twirls his tongue around your pads only to watch you squirm, because he likes the way your lips tremble in anticipation each time.

He releases your hand, shining with yours and his spit, and presses the softest kiss on the tips of your fingers. You guide it back down, to where his cock rests, heavy and leaking, on his now wrinkled navy shirt.

When your hands curl around him again, Kyle sighs a shaky breath, like you’ve finally gone and given him what he needs. His head spins a bit faster, then, but he’s not daft enough to place the blame exclusively on the bourbon he just drank.

“Much better,” he murmurs, trying to keep his eyes open.

His breath hesitantly reaches out for yours, as they mingle in the sliver of space between your lips. 

Alcohol increases hunger, they say, and Kyle’s never felt more voracious than he does now. His movements might be a bit slower, but he still manages to tug at the straps of your dress, watching them flow down your shoulders. His finger’s already at the neckline, tugging down just enough to have your breasts spill out.

Your hand tightens a fraction around his cock when his mouth curls around your nipple. He’s zeroed in on it the moment your tits came to view, licked his lips and dived in headfirst. 

Kyle sucks on it as though he’s never tasted anything of the likes before. He grazes his teeth around it as it pebbles under his tongue, his hand kneading and grabbing at the softer flesh of your breasts.

“Taste so good,” he mumbles, almost like an afterthought, like he’s sure you’re not hearing him and he’s there alone, talking to himself.

The only way you know he’s actively there with his head, it’s when his hand grasps your own around his cock. The head shines with precum and your spit after you’ve diligently spread it all over its length.

“Bit tighter, love.” He rasps, voice so rough and jagged you feel it rumble in your chest.

You follow his lead, allowing him to guide you even though you already know how he likes it. But there’s something unbelievably hot in having Kyle take you through the motions—showing you exactly how to make his teeth grind, and his hips tilt.

“Like that,” he goes on before you can ask if this is okay. “Fuck—fuck, like tha’.”

You hold his head to your chest, as his kisses become less focused, more open and sloppy, like he wants to taste you all over. Biting down where the flesh is more tender, leaving blooming love bites on your skin.

His hands explore with similar hunger, gripping wherever they land—from the fat of your waist to that of your thighs. Your dress rides up and he takes the chance to feel your warm skin dimpling under his fingers.

Kyle gives it away easily when his hips jerk upward in a desperate attempt to fuck your fist. You recognize the stutter in his breath as well as that of his movements.

Gently, you tap his cheek and he drops his head back on the cushions, as if recognizing the muted order. 

You meet his eyes. Heavily hooded, occasionally rolling back as he fights it, deciding to focus them on your face instead.

“Gonna cum, Kyle?” You breathe into his mouth.

Kyle chokes on a groan, or a reply—you’re not sure, and judging by the fucked out look on his face, you reckon he doesn’t have a clue either.

“Yeah, baby?” You pant, like all of this is happening to you and not to him.

His jaw locks tight, junction bulging each time he grinds his teeth.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Fuck—yes.”

You drop your forehead on his, noses brushing. Your forearm aches and tightens, but you push through because there aren’t sights as good as Kyle when he’s bathing in bliss.

“Then cum, baby,” you whisper to his lips, gently pressing them to his. “Cum for me yeah?”

Beneath you, Kyle arches his back before his body grows taut. His cock twitches in your hand, spilling cum over your fingers while some spurts reach farther and stain his shirt. He bites on his own teeth, huffing from his nose to keep quiet. 

Gingerly, though a bit too cheeky, you press your lips to his and nibble at his lower lip. His mouth hangs open to reciprocate, and that causes the sounds he tried to keep in to spill out. 

A heavy groan that chokes on itself into a softer, breathy moan. Stuttered, cracked.

Fucking hell that would be enough to make you cum, if you had him stuffing you full instead of filling your hand.

But still, you bask in this like it’s happening to you. His eyes rolled back, eyelids heavy and almost closed, fingers leaving imprints on your thighs as he clutches the flesh so very tight—only thing currently tethering him to earth.

As his cock softens in your hand, you slow down your pace until you stop completely, aside from a gentle swipe on the sensitive head of his dick. It makes his muscles twitch, and you chuckle softly at that.

You give him time to recollect himself, gently using one flap of his shirt to clean your fingers—it's already stained anyway, right? No harm done.

A kiss on the corner of his mouth seems to be what brings him down.

Kyle blinks once. Twice. Until his eyes focus on you, finally. 

As he regains his bearings, he breathes a laugh, airy, like there’s no strength in him to offer more than that. A sigh that makes him deflate, and then his lips spread in a dopey smile. 

He looks high on it.

You press a kiss to his nose. “Good?”

He nods emphatically, causing you to giggle a little louder. 

He seems to like that, because his hands, still a bit trembling, shoot up and encase you, pulling you down to him. Chest to chest, your arms wrapped around his neck while his own trap you to him by the waist.

He peppers your face with kisses as you push against his chest and laugh until your cheeks burn.

“Baby—” you wheeze, cheeks smushed. “—'m gonna have bloody cum stains on my dress for fuck’s sake!”

His lips are too busy to answer you properly, so his words come out muffled and faint. Still smug as ever, though.

“Eye for an eye.”

You laugh.

“Ah, stop it!” 

“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles. “Wash it later.”

He nuzzles your neck. “Lemme kiss you now.”

And you let him. 

You let him kiss you until your giggles turn softer, until his lips capture yours and you forget how to breathe. Until innocent and fun turns into heated again, and he travels lower down your neck, to your breasts, sucking at the tender flesh.

Until his hands gently guide you backwards and you flop on the sofa, thighs draped over his shoulders. 

Kyle eats you out like a man starved. Dips his fingers inside your cunt and presses upward, while his mouth lavishes your clit. 

You cum hard on his tongue, holding your breath as your chest flushes with warmth that clutches your lungs. Nails scratching scalp, hips dancing to get closer to his mouth.

He doesn’t let go until you’re floppy and syrupy warm, as glassy eyed as he was moments before.

And then you’re both stumbling to the bedroom, tipsy and high on sex, lazily taking off your clothes and dropping them to the bedroom floor. You collapse in bed, naked and with your tongues still tasting of whisky. 

Kyle's arms are wrung around you, nose buried in your neck—until his breath softens, and so does yours.

When you wake up the next morning, it’s because the smell of coffee wafts just below your nose. You inhale, smiling, blinking your eyes open.

Kyle is squatting next to your side of the bed, wearing only a pair of briefs and holding a mug full of steaming coffee.

“Morning sweetheart,” he whispers, looking like he doesn’t even know what a hangover is, the bastard.

“’Ello,” you mumble, sleepy, while nuzzling your pillow.

Kyle sets the cup of coffee on the nightstand. You hear it clink. The coffee sloshes lightly. The steam billowing from it briefly brushes your skin when the cup passes near your face.

Long fingers come to caress you, knuckles to cheek.

“Breakfast’s ready,” he says tenderly. “I got the washing on while you were still asleep.”

You smile softly, whispering a "Thank you" while keeping your eyes closed. Then, almost mindlessly, you ask, “Did you chuck in the colour catcher?”

His hand stills, petrified, and then it leaves your face completely. 

Confused and still dazed, you flutter your eyes open at the lack of touch, briefly squinting as the sun peeking through the blinds stings you awake.

Kyle has guilt written all over his face.

“’M gonna fix it,” he says hurriedly, as he stumbles on his feet to get to the laundry room.

You chuckle, rubbing at your face in loving exasperation. Once you’re feeling like a fully functioning human being, you sit up, bare feet touching the cold floors. With your coffee in hand, you shuffle to the kitchen to check on the supposedly ready breakfast.

Because the house is starting to smell like burnt bacon.

[electricgg]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 2: I Am Not My Body, Not My Mind Or My Brain

Trigger Warnings: Body Dysphoria, Medical Procedures

Heating food is a simple task. Humans have evolved enough through the decades to have invented this precious device called a microwave so that food could heat up faster for consumption. Sure, various studies confirmed that too much radiation on food is not suitable for your health, but people still smoked car batteries while claiming it was good for their anxiety.

Still, Timothy Drake managed to burn his dinner even if Alfred left instructions to leave it for one minute and twenty seconds. 

He could feel the smugness coming from Damian’s spot at the kitchen island, chomping on his food with the refinement of a prince while staring at how Tim scraped his burnt food from the plate into the trash can.

Coffee will do for now. He will not have a meltdown over that diabolical microwave that seems only to burn his food without fail.

“Losing against a machine is beneath you, Drake,” the boy said while glaring at the coffee machine with disgust.

“I'll take it as a divine sign to wait until Alfred comes home. Or I will throw the damn thing out the window.”

Damian scowled. 

‘Leave it to Drake to embarrass the family.’

‘At least it’s on the privacy of the manor. Not like the real embarrassment of the family.’ A cold voice whispered in the back of his mind, making the food in his mouth taste bitter.

It wouldn’t be the first time that she pulled a stunt like that to gather some attention from their father. Damian always kept track of her embarrassing actions (it satisfied him to know that no one could sink lower than the person he supposedly shares blood with), but it would be the first time the police had to be involved. Not even Todd had managed to do that, if we are talking about civilian aspects. 

In his opinion, she needed to stop trying so hard and learn that she would never be on the same level as the rest of them. Too soft. Too weak. Too much of everything and too little of anything. 

There was no way they could be related. Damian refused to be associated with someone who was beneath his intellect, and much less call them his sister. He demanded his father for a blood test after he had lived in the manor for about six months. His father only sighed deeply and denied his request. 

Tt, curse his father’s sensible need to help charity cases.

The chattering from the television transmitted from the room next to the kitchen interrupted his train of thought, chair scraping as he stood up and began washing his dishes.

The main living room of the manor was spacious, a tall ceiling complementing the old-fashioned structure of the dark wallpapered walls and big door windows leading to the backyard field. An L-form black leather couch with a couple of decorative pillows and fluffy blankets folded in the corner was occupied by none other than Cass, who was very focused on the bright screen.

It didn’t take long for Tim to stagger towards the love seat with his cup of steaming black coffee, very proudly showing the ‘#1 Coffee Addict’ engraving on the porcelain. It was a gag gift from Bart, but it was the biggest one he had, so he used it religiously.

Damian stood behind the couch, arms crossed, as the news went on about the recent controversial theme that has been invading every type of communication media. Under any other circumstances, he would have gone down the cave for his late-night training due to not being on patrol. 

But when the item that’s being talked about has been putting even the Justice League on tense negotiations, he’s a bit more inclined to put up with the fake neutral accent from the news reporter just to be more informed.

Mutants.

A bomb that the world is waiting for to blow up.

They’re not old news, but they have been gathering attention in the last few years. Especially in the past three years. 

Mutants have always been a touchy subject. Most of the public confuses them with metahumans due to their similarities, but they couldn’t be any more different. Metas are a recent development compared to mutants. Mutants were born with their ‘gifts’, from physical to mental, while Metas are a result of experimentation or a freak accident that triggered their meta gene. While they share the fact that their powers/mutations manifest under stressful or traumatic situations, mutants have a broad spectrum of possibilities on how their mutation shows up.

Multiple studies have come up with the theory that puberty might be the trigger due to the imbalance of hormones and the unstable emotions that teenagers go through at that age, but it hasn’t been fully backed up because of the high rate of cases of mutations showing up at birth. Too many factors and possibilities exist on how to identify mutants to settle on just one theory.

Which brings the public’s opinion on mutants. 

…People fear. A lot. It’s the basis of survival, the main reason why humans have lived and evolved for centuries. When facing something that qualifies as a threat to themselves, they will respond between their fight or flight instincts. As an evolving species, this has gone from physical needs to a more intellectual field.

Which leads to the public having very violent and strong opinions when it comes to mutants.

So, yeah. A very touchy subject.

“-that brings us to the big question: are mutants able to be controlled, or are we at the mercy of them?” a reporter with way too much blush even for the camera questioned, making Tim snort quietly behind his cup of coffee.

“That’s stupid.”

Damian couldn’t help but agree. And if Cass’s little shuffle was any sign, so did she. It was a very stupid statement.

Can a child with a gun be controlled, or are we at the mercy of them? The news was truly desperate for some pretty faces to get views on their programming.

“With that question in mind, let’s welcome our visitor of the night!” Interrupted a cheery male voice as the screen switched to the other side of the news set. It showed the interview chairs, soft blue chairs occupied by the interviewing reporters on the right side of the screen. On the left side sat the news’ visitor.

He was in a wheelchair, seemingly made of a sturdy material with a thick X formed on the wheels. Blad, thin eyebrows, and a gentle, pleasant expression. Dressed in a brown suit with a dark blue tie. It gave him a very open air, but with a touch of professionalism. He gave a very teacher-like aura. Trustworthy, intelligent, and secure. 

“It is our greatest pleasure to present such an important figure to our interview. We present to you Prof. Charles Francis Xavier. An expert and leading figure in the genetics field, as well as many other scientific fields. It is a great honor to have you here!”

The man chuckled gently at the introduction, dismissively waving his hand over the very flaunting words of the reporter.

“Please, Professor Xavier will suffice. No need for full names here.” His tone was polite and kind, making the atmosphere more soothing after a very bootlicking introduction.

At this point, Damian’s interest was lost. He didn’t need to hear about stuff he already knew about due to all the data and information Drake had engraved into the family’s brain, thanks to Prof. Xavier’s papers on genetics. He could feel Drake’s upcoming debrief on the whole interview during the next meeting, taking notice of how he straightened his back and laser-focused on the TV screen.

As Damian walked away from the living room, the professor’s voice echoed down the halls.

“I’m sure that most people sitting at home are concerned about mutants, but I am here to reassure you that there’s no reason to be so. First, let me explain what the X-Gene is and clarify some assumptions. Shall we?

➳➳➳➳➳┄┄※┄┄➳➳➳➳➳

“It worries me, Alfred,” grunted Gordon as he sat down behind his desk. The butler followed the action, sitting on the opposite side with a worried frown on his face.

Gordon was waiting for him at the very entrance of the station, not even letting him go through the ridiculous registration process at the front desk where a very tired secretary sat surrounded by messy papers and four empty cups of coffee at her desk. He didn’t utter a word until they went up the stairs towards his office, dodging sleep-deprived detectives and running cops to do their duties.

“She didn’t seem to even recognize where she was walking or who I was.” Gordon began typing into his computer, sighing once he found the file.

“You mentioned Lady (Y/N) had a head injury,” the butler commented. “How grave is it? Is your doctor competent enough to treat her here?”

The underhanded comment was not missed, but he knew better than to take it personally. Gordon has seen at first hand how Alfred could be a deadly force when it came to the members of the Wayne family. Especially when he prided himself on his medical knowledge.

Even more so when it came to Bruce’s youngest daughter. He remembers very well the day the poor girl’s case came to his desk all those years back.

“Dr. Vidal hasn’t given her report yet, she is still waiting for some blood test results.”

That made Alfred switch his attention.

“I believe I am not familiar with her. What happened to Dr. Ramirez?”

“Old man finally retired two months ago and recommended Vidal for his position.” Gordon snorted.

“She has been here for about two weeks. I was expecting her to quit two days in, but she is quite stubborn. Took hold of the morgue and now only leaves to turn in reports or treat suspects and victims.”

“So nursing background? Perhaps Paramedic training?”

“Worse. Emergency Room back at Gotham General.”

That made Alfred grimace internally. He has way too many horror stories dating back to when Thomas Wayne worked at Gotham’s General Hospital. And ER was hell on Earth, as he recalled the multiple visits due to the young masters’ accidents when they were younger, and he didn’t have the proper resources.

“Try the night shifts. Those were adrenaline-inducing.” A womanly voice caught the older men's attention, making them look back at the office door.

Brown, long hair in a ponytail, and soft brown eyes with a strange glint. Tall and long limbs, her black heels clicking as she walked towards the desk. She wore a white coat, black loose pants, combined with a classy deep emerald green shirt.

But what took Alfred’s attention was her expression as she stared at him directly, even while handing Gordon a cream file with documents.

Her lip’s corner was curled in what could be interpreted as smug. But it didn’t feel like it when her gaze assessed him sharply. When they made eye contact, Alfred felt a freezing sensation at the back of his head and ran all over him.

Like cold nails scraping at his skull, gone the moment she took her eyes off of him.

What an unnerving woman. She fit right in this city without a doubt.

“Test results came back negative, but I wouldn’t discard a bacteria or infection in the following days. Aside from the scraped knees and the head wound, no need for stitches. There were signs of a swollen throat and vocal cords, all from vomiting and choking in the water, but at least the risk of water in her lungs is out of the equation.”  

Gordon nodded, typing the report into his computer. He switched the documents around until he found the one he was looking for.

“And how is she responding? Does she know what happened?”

Dr. Vidal exhaled through her nose, a closed smile indicating there was a lot to unpack there.

“She has motor skills and reacts to questions and answers… but she doesn’t know anything beyond her name and someone named Billy. Claims she has to find him.”

That made Alfred’s stomach twist in a knot. This information wasn’t good at all.

“What exactly ‘she doesn’t know anything’ do you mean by?” the butler snapped in, making Gordon look at him and the doctor pick up the file to hand over to him personally.

“She has basic knowledge and quite a personality. But her mind becomes blank when asked about what her last name is, where she goes to school, what happened before the situation, or where her own house is.”

Gordon hesitates for a few moments, giving Alfred some space before asking in a very slow and careful manner. “Are you implying she has amnesia?”

The Doctor sighed, crossing her arms while sitting on the corner of the cabinet attached to the wall behind the desk and looking between the two men. 

“I believe it’s a bit more than that,” she said in a mindful tone. Alfred felt his heart pounding at his chest, but he didn’t interrupt the woman.

Gordon nodded at her to continue, leaning over to listen to her theory.

“Whatever she hit her head with was with malicious intent. I found a couple of cement residues on her wound, and by the form of the injury, it was thrown at her, or someone took hold of her head and hit her with what I believe could be a brick. Did she fall into the water by accident, or was she pushed in? I don’t know. But I think that someone is out for her, and her mind is blocking it as a trauma response.”

The silence in the office went on for long minutes.

Alfred’s mind ran down with the possibilities. Master Bruce had plenty of enemies, both inside and outside the mask. And it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to go for one of the children. He even remembered trying to talk his master out of microchipping each one of them while they slept, blaming it on his paranoia taking hold of his common sense.

But what puzzled him was that this was (Y/N). The ‘Embarrassment of The Wayne’.

He hated that title. Loathed it to hell and back.

A girl accidentally falls into a fountain on her very first gala, and the media goes nuts and creates a cruel moniker for a seven-year-old. He curls his fingers tightly around the document file in his hand.

The sobs and calls for her mother still make his nerves boil.

Which leads to why she would be a target.

While it made her feel insecure and the object of many cruel jokes and curious looks, it kept her safe and away from any dirty actions to harm her and Master Bruce.

A cruel price to pay for her safety.

“You mentioned another name.” Gordon’s voice took Alfred’s attention out of his head.

“Billy, wasn’t it?” He repeated the name with a frown. He couldn’t recall anyone with that name.

It took both men off guard at the dark look that came over the doctor, the air turning cold in just a few seconds. But it was gone in the blink of an eye. She cleared her throat and straightened her spine.

“Yeah. It could be someone close to her, maybe even the last person she saw before this happened. There are a lot of possibilities, but her mind latched onto the name like a dog with a bone.” 

He tried to search through all the talks he had had with the young miss in the past few weeks and months.

No one named Billy came up in their conversations. Not a classmate. Not even a friend (She didn’t have any. She always calls them classmates.). All that she does is go to school, practice after school, visit the psych ward, and go back home. That’s it.

Before anyone could say anything else, a knock at the door took their attention. Gordon permitted them to enter. A young officer opened the door, his face filled with hesitation.

“Sir, we have an issue in the showers.”

Gordon mutters under his breath while taking off his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. “What is it now, Perez?”

“Um, it’s the Wayne girl.”

That got everyone standing up, with Dr. Vidal already running out the door towards the showers at the back of the station. The three men were also going a step after her, with Alfred almost catching up to her.

“What the hell happened?” Gordon questioned the poor, nervous guy.

“She broke all the mirrors, sir…”

“What?!”

➳➳➳➳➳┄┄※┄┄➳➳➳➳➳

Forget riding in a police car with the signal on, taking a hot shower after being in nasty water was the top of best feeling in the world. Fight her on that fact.

The weird doctor was pretty nice. It had been odd at first, being alone with her and the nice police grandpa (he was called Gordon. That’s what she heard the cops call him when they got to the station while he guided her through the halls.). The doctor took care of her head first, putting some stinging spray on the gash to clean any nasty stuff that may have gotten on it. While she continued to check on her body for any other wounds, she asked questions.

Way too many questions. Who knew doctors were this chatty?

When Gordon left to heaven knows where, the doctor seemed to finally relax about the number of questions she threw at her and became quiet.

Which made the ambience awkward.

Which made her start to talk and make it less awkward.

It didn’t work.

Thankfully, the doctor (she grew tired of calling her that so she asked for a name. The woman only looked at her for a bit before saying Rio and go back to write on her file. Such a sociable lady.) didn’t tell her to shut it and just let her talk and talk until she ran out of things to say.

Her skin was vibrating under the still-wet clothes, the uncomfortable sensation making her bounce her legs from her seat on the medical cushioned table. Her fingers were wringing at the white paper beneath her, the crinkling sound breaking goosebumps into her skin.

Then, more personal questions started. But this time, Rio was looking directly at her.

From her full name to where she lived. Even the last thing she remembered before waking up in the nasty pool. It was quite an eye-opening experience, and it left her feeling lost.

Do you know your last name? How old are you? Um, odd. She can’t recall.

What day is your birthday? What does your dad do for a living? …That’s very weird. Birthdays were a funny thing. And her dad was- was a- he was? He was fading, he faded.withthem.he’swiththem.heisgonegonegonegon-

What grade are you in? What is your favorite color?...

Who are your siblings? How many do you have? …justone-

Where is your mother? alivealivealivealivealiVEALIVE-

It was a very tiring experience. Her head was pounding, and she had to close her eyes and lie down for a while. Rio got her some water and pills. Said it was for the headache.

They helped very little. Her fingers continued to tremble around the half-empty plastic cup.

Which was why it was the perfect moment to ask if she could use the showers. Rio blinked at her before rolling her eyes and handing her some sweats and a towel she found in the locker room. 

And that’s how she got her very much needed shower.

As soon as she got inside, she beelined towards the benches and put down the new clothes and stripped out of the nasty, ruined uniform. Then she hauled towards the nearest head shower and stood beneath the hot stream for a while.

Rio told her that while the bandage on her head was waterproof, she would have switch it for a new one after she finished. So she didn’t mind wetting her head.

Throughout the whole thing, her hair hadn’t exactly come to her mind. It wasn’t a priority.

Her fingers got stuck in a few knots that would be hard to get rid of without a brush at hand, so she just tried to get out as much of the moldy smell emitting from her with a bar of soap and a small shampoo bottle that Rio got her. It was a bit hard but not impossible, the scent of pomegranate and rosemary soothing and washing away the nasty gunk of her hair.

She hadn’t realized that she was calm enough to close her eyes and enjoy being clean after all of that fiasco.

A new plan had to be made. Not having a single clue of where she was and only her name and Billy’s was not working in her favor. After this, she had no idea where she could go or turn to. She needed guidance, someone to turn to and tell her what-

This is not her hair.

All of her thoughts came to a full stop. She had looked down to take the strands of hair that got tangled on her fingers. Just a simple action. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But the strands were wrong. It wasn’t her hair.

Black, long strands of hair were going between her fingers. They were forming different shapes and lines on her skin, which led to another thought.

This is not her skin. Those are not her fingers.

The water suddenly felt too heavy on her. She switched it off and ran off, almost slipping on the floor until she reached her towel and wrapped it around her.

This is not her hair. This is not her skin. These were not her fingers.

She gripped the towel, her gaze still focused on the hair strands on her hands. A ringing sound started to sound around her ears—a very far-off sound.

This is not her hair. This is not her skin. These are not her fingers.

She lifted the hand closer, looking at the black hairs while a shuddering breath left her lips. The ringing grew closer and louder. Goosebumps broke out on the skin, and her stomach fell down in a very uncomfortable sensation.

This is not her hair. This is not her skin. These are not her fingers.

One strand of hair was rubbed between the fingertips. Tiny water drops dripped down from it, revealing the natural pattern of the hair. Pin straight. The ringing was just by her ear, not registering any other noise. Her chest was heaving rapidly, heart at her throat, and a cold sweat was going down her spine.

Not her hair. Not her skin. Not her fingers.

…What else wasn’t hers?

A mirror. She needed a mirror. Right now.

Her head moved around in circles, the ends of the wet hair wiping against her back and making a sick feeling go through her body. She took a few steps backward, looking for any type of thing that had a reflection on it.

It felt too long. Her hair was never this long. She was sure of it.

‘There! Corner!’ her mind supplied when a glint of light caught her attention by the corner of her eye.

At one moment, she was by the benches, clothes folded or thrown on the floor and forgotten. At the next, she was standing right in front of the mirror, body trembling as she finally made eye contact with her reflection.

Not even the noise of lockers slamming open by a gust of fast wind snapped her out of her trance.

The facial structure was sharp. Cheekbones specifically. A very distinctive mole stood on the left side of her face, just above the start of the cheekbone. Skin looked pale, almost translucent due to the lack of sunlight. She could see the blue lines of the veins underneath her skin thanks to the white lights of the bathroom.

She looked sick. Very sick. Her mouth was suddenly very dry, making her swallow hard and feeling all senses of wrongness in her chest to the ends of her fingertips.

This was wrong. She was all wrong.

She took a few shaky steps closer to the mirror. Close enough to have hands against the cold surface. Fingers trembling, making a tapping motion as her gaze wandered around the reflection. 

Straight black hair, some heavy knots visibly sticking out around it. It reached halfway down her back. Water stopped dripping down the ends since she made her way to the mirror. The bandage gauze was still attached to the side of her head, no signs of blood on sight, but the material looked a bit inflated due to being soaked.

And her eyes… she only saw a glimpse of cold grey before she slammed her lids shut. Scrunching them hardly until the only thing she could see was white spots around the darkness.

The tapping increased. It moved the glass beneath her fingers.

It was all wrong. She wasn’t supposed to look like this. That wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. She is supposed to look like Billy. She doesn’t have black hair. She doesn’t have long hair. She is not this pale. She is not sick.

The mirror trembled under her fingers.

She is not this tall. She is supposed to be shorter. She doesn’t have these awkward limbs.  She looks like-

…Who was she supposed to look like?

Her mind supplies images, but they are all missing something. Like a magazine that has stuff cut out or ripped away. She sees a house, but the people are gone. She sees a front yard, but the neighbors are gone. A Halloween party, but nobody is on the streets. A children's room, but the beds are empty.

The mirror shakes under the pressure.

An empty house office. A dog bowl with no food. A messy kitchen with no kids. A dinner set at the table with nobody to eat it. A garden with gardening tools lying around. A red sky is coming closer and closer.

A framed picture with a family whose faces are scratched out.

She screams as the mirror explodes under her tapping fingers. 

The shards flew around the place, but not a single one touched her. Some landed on other mirrors, the impact making them shatter. 

She jumped back and landed sitting on the floor, head and heart pounding, as officers entered the place with all the commotion. Someone tried to grab at her, but she flinched and scrambled back until she made contact with the cold wall.

Her ears were ringing. Vision blurry. All she could see were blobs moving around, some farther and others closer. The voices were muffled. Her knees were brought up to her chest, hugging them tightly. Waiting for whatever was happening to pass.

Time was weird. Everything moved either too fast or too slow. Was this what a panic attack was, or was this something else entirely? Either way, she hated it. Hopefully, she would never have to go through it again.

It was then that Rio’s face came into view. The first person her mind managed to register.

She didn’t touch her. She was talking, but the ringing was still going on strong. Rio began to talk to the other people around the room. It actually looked like yelling, but it wasn’t at her, so she was not going to say anything about it.

Then a warm touch came to her shoulder.

This time, she didn’t flinch. It was weird. Her body leaned against it before she turned her head to the side to see who it was. And why she felt so safe and calm out of the sudden.

An old man. Dressed sharply, like that butler in the sitcom about a nanny. Gray hair and a concerned expression on his face. A classic mustache that brought some tears to her eyes, along with a warm feeling that spread from deep in her chest.

“(Y/N), can you hear me?” his accented voice registered through the fading ringing.

Before he could say anything else, she dove into his arms, forgetting that she was only covered by a towel. Sobs and tears stained his clothes. But before any apologies could come out, the man wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly as he talked to her soothingly. Caressing her head while she continued to cry.

A whisper went on the back of her mind. It was quick and gone in an instant. But she still heard it.

‘Alfred. Safe. Trust him. Only him. Not the family.’

‘Never the family’

“Alfred,” she whispered out loud. The man, Alfred, sighed in relief at hearing her respond.

“It’s alright. You can rest now, my dear. I’ll take care of it.”

She sighed shakily at his words. Eyes slid close. Not to sleep, just calm down for a bit. There was no way she could sleep with all that had transpired in the past few hours.

But I have someone now. I’m not as alone as I thought.

And that was enough for now.

Author's Note: This chapter was a beast to write. It will probably be the only long chapter for a while. I was even thinking of dividing it in two parts but I decided against it. Next chapter we are finally going to see the dynamic with the Wayne, so excited for it because it will be hilarious. Maximoff is about to enter like a tornado through the manor lol. Let me know what you all think, what theories and your favorite part of this chapter you all liked!! Happy early chapter and sending hugs, GG✨

Tag List:  @bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild

Bonus Memes:

[noirhistories]

"i'm going to say that the majority of the people here are weirdos." for two reasons - firstly, why not go to a different bar with different wait staff, and secondly, they chose to live in antioch, which marks them as weird. ari is fully aware those rules mean that he counts as weird, but he has thicker skin than to be bothered by anyone thinking he's odd. "if the worst you hear about is elections, i need to know your secret." maybe max's personality was simply too loud for anyone else to get close, that was the best that ari could come up with.

reaching out to push his glass slightly on the counter, ari notes that max didn't bother to come up with a name for this one. it would probably be something fatal. exposure? bone shard? he doesn't know, and ari has never considered himself that creative, that's better left for max, who ari never guessed had the patience for a podcast. "can't say i've ever taken the time to find a crime podcast, but i used to watch crime documentaries when i couldn't sleep. typical crime of passion case?" shit like this is why people want prenups, they give financial incentive not to divorce or to murder as long as they're written up right.

as he waits for max's answer, he goes back to examining the drink, fairly certain it's bubbling. not at all ominous, he thinks picking it up to take a sip and frowning before taking another sip. "it's missing something." he eventually decides, nose wrinkling. "don't ask me what, that's your problem to solve." all in all, not the worst thing that he's drank, but he can't guarantee that he'll finish it off. "what do you call this one anyway? i need to know so i can leave a review." he says, as if there's some private max menu to order from and he doesn't routinely leave the fate of his stomach in the hands of an artist.

there's this old saying not to mix your liquor, but max has never once taken it into account. does it usually end up with him sick? yes. but consequences are a thing for the future, and max is perpetually stuck in the present—it's part of the reason he's such a poor planner. sure, he has them. but planning is for the important things in life—once in a lifetime sort of events—and nothing more. anything more sophisticated than a house party, without influence from the other side, and he flounders about like a fish out of water. or more accurately, he makes sure everyone else is floundering while he sits back and imagines himself as the sole orchestrator. given that, he has no issue with brewing ari a terrible concoction. this time, it's got tequila in it. and white rum. and club soda. and a few other things that ideally, shouldn't all be together in the same drink. it's like he's a schoolboy creating a monstrosity out of whatever the lunch ladies deem fit to serve—and just as likely to end up with the receiver hunched over the toilet. even a cursory sip has his face—turned away from everyone else—screwed up. he's just lucky it doesn't come right back up afterwards! "never claimed i didn't," he snorts, setting the poison in front of ari like it's a bomb he's not confident he's defused. "i'm half the reason this place gets any business at all. but the last thing i want to do is listen to them ramble on about elections—do you even know how many weirdos come in here?" it's a blessing and a curse that max is uninterested in politics. he knows he would make a fabulous politician (insult) but to him, it's too short-sighted. why pretend to rule a country when he can actually rule a world? "it was a murder case, actually. one of those podcasts i throw on in the back whenever we're slow. you ever listen to any of those, or do you prefer to leave the criminals at work?"

[rassdetergent]

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[dameronology]

laundry (frank castle)

summary: frank castle is good a lot of things. being domestic is not one of them.

warnings: language and this has not been proofread in the slightest lmao. enjoy!!

It wasn't often that you caught Hell's Kitchen in a beautiful moment but that first hour of light on a cold Tuesday morning caught your entire apartment perfectly. Streams of blonde light peaked through your crooked blinds, filling your bedroom with a warm glow; you could see little specs of dust in the air rising with the angle of the sun - shit, you really needed to vacuum in here - that eventually faded off into nothing. It was your day off, and you didn't want to get up early but Frank Castle's insufferable snoring had interrupted your slumber and unless you'd suddenly gained a liking for Jurassic Park style white noise in the last five seconds, the chances of getting back to sleep stood at zero.

You threw the duvet aside and pitter-pattered out the room, quietly shutting the bedroom door behind you. There was no reason for Frank to be up any time soon, either. With his night job and you being on a work trip, he'd had about seven hours sleep in the last three days.

The state of your apartment reflected that: there was a pile of unwashed combat clothes in the corner, paired with a few pairs of unpolished boots and every single mug to either of your names marinating in the sink in a washing up bowl of coffee and last night's dishes. You let out a sigh - fucking hell, Frank. Still, you weren't going to get on at him for it. You'd only lived together for a month or so by that point and up until now, he'd been perfectly tidy to the point where you hadn't even lifted a finger. The mess was clearly just a reflection of his drained mental state.

With that in mind, you set off to work. Laundry into the washing machine, plates into the dish washer that you weren't even entirely sure Frank knew existed, boots polished and put to the side. It was like clock-work really, just half an hour of cleaning, cleaning and a little bit more cleaning.

"Morning, sunshine," Frank's gravelly voice rung through the small apartment, just in time to walk into a cloud of Febreeze. "Jesus fuck, are you trying to suffocate me?"

"Sorry, Frankie," you pressed a kiss to his jaw, "was just doing some cleaning."

"I can see," Frank looked around, brown eyes flickering between you and the sparkly kitchen counters, "I'll do my bit later."

"It's cool," you shrugged, turning to flick on the kettle.

"Huh?"

"I already did it," you replied, "your clothes are in the drier now and I think I polished your boots."

"You did my laundry?"

You put down the coffee filter you were holding, turning to face Frank with a furrowed brow. "Yeah. Don't tell me you're weirdly specific about your laundry being done? Only because last week I saw you use tape to fix a hole in your-"

" - no, it's just, uh..." Frank paused, dragging a calloused palm through his cropped hair, "I'm not used to people doing shit for me. Sorry. I mean...not sorry, baby. Thank you."

You smiled. "No problem."

--

A few weeks passed, and the apartment stayed tidy.

Another Tuesday came and went, and as usual, Frank was dead to the world. He was finally sleeping normally now that you were home and his routine had been restored. Frank always slept in nowadays - now that he had you beside him, he was catching up on a decade's worth of sleep.

Now, Frank Castle was normally a very heavy sleeper. Save for when he was out on tour in the military, he slept like a fucking plank. Nothing could wake him up - not fire alarms, not your neighbours and their inconsiderate routines, not even when a police car came ripping by your apartment window at 4AM.

"FRANCIS FRANKLIN FUCKING CASTLE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY FUCKING CLOTHES?!"

Yeah, that'll do it.

Before Frank even had a chance to open his eyes and comprehend what was going on, the door to your shared bedroom burst open. He could see that you were angry - seething, even. The second thing he quickly spotted was your favourite jumper. Only now, it looked like it was from the newborn section at Target.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Now you're speechless? You run your mouth your whole life but the minute you ruin my favourite jumper - my favourite VINTAGE Paramore jumper THAT THEY NO LONGER SELL - you're silent?!" you exclaimed, throwing the jumper onto the bed. "Finally, a solution!"

Frank gulped. "Uhhhhhhh."

You let out an angry huff.

"You did my laundry last week," he began. Frank had a habit of starting sentences and hoping that the rest would come to him half way through, "it made me happy so I, uh, I thought maybe I'd do the same for you. But, I guess you read instructions on clothes and I don't."

Your angry face suddenly softened. "Oh, fuck. Now I feel bad."

"I did wonder what the little symbol on the label meant," Frank muttered.

You picked up the edge of the duvet and slid into bed beside Frank, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He was obviously still a little embarrassed, albeit more relaxed now that he knew you weren't about to bury him alive. Many people had tried, but he was sure you were the only one who could do it.

"Sorry, baby," he quietly said, "I had good intentions. For once."

You smiled. "Don't worry about it."

Frank furrowed his brow at you. "How the goddamn hell did you calm down so quickly?"

"I dunno, I have a hard time being mad at you."

"Huh," Frank murmured. "No-one's said that to me before."

You elbowed him lightly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I said I had a hard time staying mad. That doesn't mean you don't drive me up the-"

Before you could finish, a strong pair of arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you under the covers. Frank pressed a warm kiss to your lips, forehead resting against yours.

"I'm sorry about your jumper," he said. "I love you."

"I love you too," you replied, "and it's okay - you can just Paypal me the money for a new one and I'll forgive you."

[maiamore]

MILE HIGH CLUB

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female!Reader - No Outbreak

Rating: 18+ | W/C: 3.3k

Summary: Joel has to fly out of state for the first time in his life and his nerves are frayed. Luckily, he finds a good distraction. You.

Tags: m!receiving oral, deep throating, public indecency, mention of drug use, blowjob on a plane basically, alcohol consumption, nervous old man joel 

A/N: maybe i’m just into exhibitionism atp  MASTERLIST

Like every other man, Joel Miller had his kryptonite. 

It wasn’t the idea of never finding someone to settle with, despite countless attempts—he had his fair share of awkward dates and mind-fucking-numbingly repetitive conversations about what his favourite colour was. 

And sure, it could have been having to deal with empty nest syndrome after Sarah moved out of state for college. The loneliness came as a cold wash, but he kept busy enough to avoid spiraling down the rabbit hole of a quiet home. Babysitting for Tommy or tending to work troubles was a rickety solution at best. 

But no, that wasn’t enough to rattle the man. 

It was the very fact that he was hours away from having to sit in a “flying death machine” as he eloquently phrased it, just so he could visit his daughter. 

Joel had successfully gone forty one years of his life dodging air travel. The thought of sitting in a metal contraption, being flung through the skies made his stomach churn. He couldn’t care less about how safe it chalked up to be. A car? He could control. Walking? Reliable. 

A plane? Definitely not. A paper airplane for grown-ups, that’s all it was. 

The glaring fluorescent lights, nauseating sound of suitcases and tearful goodbyes wasn’t doing him any favours. Least of all the sleaze bag at the counter, who hadn’t even spared more than a couple seconds. Being seven hours early was overkill, but he’d figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Can’t let ya in yet. Come back in a few hours.”

A litany of curses left unsaid under his breath about “dumb rules” and “what’s the point of gettin’ here early if yer just gonna make me wait?” 

He shuffles out of the line with the creaky luggage he had with him, finding himself a seat by the waiting lounge next to a girl reading from those gizmos he’d seen Sarah use last Thanksgiving. A scowl crept up his face.

Did they have to invent some gadget for reading, too? Wasn’t that free?

He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small black leather bound book. It was worn, the edges were scuffed and the pages slightly dog-eared—a testament to its’ use.

Licking the pad of his thumb, he flips through the pages. There in black ink, lay a list of instructions he prepared prior to coming here. Misspellings here and there—chicken scratch, really. 

1) checkin n’ give bags to airport 

“Already screwed that one up,” he mutters out loud, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the growing aches. 

2) go to gate no. on tikket

Joel peels out the airline pass tucked into his passport and squints at the printed words. “Christ.” He clicks his pen and painstakingly copies the details into his notebook in block letters big enough to read from across the room. “Tiny ass fuckin’...printin’...”

“Don’t travel much?”

Your voice breaks through the haze of uncertainty that had been plaguing him. Joel doesn’t offer more than a quick glance at first, his grip tightening slightly around the pen in his hand.

When he does look at you. You’d made him do a double take. 

Despite the sorry state of his dating life–or maybe because of it–Joel wasn’t immune to the kind of attention a pretty thing like you could command. Even if it was just your attempt to be polite. His gaze then falls in disdain to your kindle laying abandoned in your lap.

“Not really, darlin’,” he says, his voice low and rough, with just enough warmth to take the edge off his typical gruffness.

Joel wasn’t big on small-talk, so when silence settled between you both, he didn’t feel the need to fill it. He wasn’t entirely sure why your presence had eased his nerves, even just a fraction, but it had.

And then you spoke up again, your tone uncertain but laced with quiet hope.

“There’s a lounge in the back with a bar,” you begin, tipping your head towards it. “Might be more your speed.”

Joel follows the motion with his eyes, then huffs a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “Man after my own heart,” he tucks his notebook back into his pocket.

Maybe it wasn’t all too bad that your dad dropped you off at the airport hours too early.

When you’d first seen Joel, you’d nearly dropped your kindle. The heavy thud of his boots on the polished floor caught your attention. You slowly pulled your gaze upward–from the worn blue jeans to the faded grey t-shirt that did nothing to hide his strong forearms. His dark brown curls looked like they’d been through more than their fair share of rough mornings, but god did you want to run your fingers through them.

And then there was his scruffy beard–uneven in an endearing way that somehow made him even more pleasing to the eyes. You blinked, forcing yourself to look back at your screen, but the words blurred into nothingness. The way he sat stiffly on the chairs he made seem so small, down to what seemed to be a checklist for his flight.

“I’m pretty sure more people have died on construction sites than flights, Joel.” 

Joel. 

Introductions came easy the second the whiskey infiltrated his system, and damn if he didn’t he love the way his name rolled off your tongue. 

He drags a palm down his jaw, a dry scoff slipping past his lips. “This your idea of makin’ me feel better ’bout all this?” he counters, half-regretting that he’d let slip what he did for a living. 

You weren’t wrong, of course–he’d faced far more dangerous situations on the ground than he’d ever likely encounter in the air.

Still, it didn’t help.

“I ain’t sayin’ m’gonna piss my goddamn pants,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “Just makes me feel queasy, s’all.”

Joel sighs into the crystal glass, thumb idly tracing the rim as if the whiskey might’ve given him some courage. When he glanced your way again, you were watching him with that look–the one that made him feel exposed and oddly at ease all at once.

He shot you a faint glare, more bark than bite, and nodded toward your drink.

“Drink your goddamn kiddy juice,” he grumbled.

Your lips curled up into a slight scowl, cupping your glass of bellini defensively. Despite your show of annoyance, you did feel a tinge of empathy for him. For crying out loud, he was hunched over the goddamn bar seat, looking at his empty glass like a kicked puppy like he was about to go for a neutering or something.

Gesturing towards the bartender for a refill of his glass, you dragged your bar stool closer to him.

“Look. If you’re up for it. I’ve got a little pick-me-up I take to settle my nerves before a long flight,” you said, fishing a small pill container from your bag. “Works like a charm.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, his interest piqued despite his better judgement. But the second you popped open the lid, his reaction was instant.

“Hard pass.”

“You don’t even know what it–”

“I ain’t about to get drugged up,” he cut in, folding his arms. Your eyes shamelessly trace over the way the sleeves tightened around his biceps. “And besides, I hardly know ya.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line and without missing a beat, you tipped one of the white pills into your palm and dry swallowed it like a pro. Joel’s brow furrowed deeper, his disapproval practically radiating off him. Though that notion had him adjust his jeans discreetly.

“Well, it’s your funeral,” you said with a shrug. Then realizing how that might’ve come across, you raised your hands in mock surrender. “Figuratively speaking! Not literally–”

“Gimmie that damn thing,” Joel huffed, snatching the container from you. He popped the pill into his mouth and chased it with a gulp of whiskey, muttering something under his breath about regrettin’ this already.

You leaned back in your seat, a sly grin tugging at your lips. “You didn’t even ask what it does.”

Joel fixed you with a hard glare, the kind that could silence most people. But you weren’t most people.

“It also gives you a raging erecti–”

“Sweetheart.” Joel’s warning tone cut you off, his glare piercing.

You couldn’t help it–you laughed anyway, the sound earning a reluctant lop-sided smirk from him as he shook his head.

In all his years of living, Joel never thought he’d succumb to relying on drugs.

The idea was irresponsible at best. He’d pride himself on staying clear-headed, the occasional joint in his teenage years being the closest he’d come to experimentation. But that was a lifetime ago, a glimpse of a boy who didn’t have responsibilities or a family to think about. His body was a temple now, for at least a semi-respectable contractor.

Yet here he was, in the fluorescent purgatory of a transit hall, deciding that a four hour stint in a “metal coffin” justified drastic measures.

Your vague explanation on what that little white pill of yours was didn’t help either. You both agreed you were in this together now. He had to admit that it was ironic where life took him. Misery loved company, and you, his current “drug buddy,” were far easier on the eyes than his high school crowd had ever been.

And, well, it worked.

Joel could feel the change, his mind easing from the coiled tension it had been gripping since he set foot in the airport. His inhibitions, usually locked tighter than the pentagon, were suddenly looser. Not reckless, but freer.

If you’d thought Joel wasn’t the clingy type before, that illusion was thoroughly shattered now. He shadowed your every move, from hauling your luggage onto the conveyor belt without you even asking to tapping his card at the terminal before you could pay for yourself.

And then…there were his hands.

At first, they lingered tentatively–a brush of his palm at the small of your back, a quick touch to your arm as he gestured to something in the duty-free window. Testing boundaries. Waiting for a sign.

When you looped your arm through his without hesitation, Joel took it as his green light.

After that point on, his touches became a constant presence. Steady, warm & grounding. A hand resting lightly on your hip as you wandered through the departure hall, fingers curling against your wrist as he guided you through the crowds of travellers.

Joel fully blamed the pill for his current lapse of judgment. 

He spit into his palms, smearing the wetness onto the length of his cock. His other hand gripped firmly onto the granite counter. The dull slaps of him fucking his fist filled the small space. Along with his strained grunts. 

“C’mon, c’mon…”

Trying damned hard to focus—he thinks of you. How your body felt under the weight of his hands. The way you’d wet your lips before giving your own witty remark to his rants about shit he found ridiculous about Delta. 

And he jolts, instinctively tightening his grip around his cock when the announcement rings in the speaker above—some bullshit safety reminder. 

“Shit—…shit shit.” He mutters. Willing himself to come so he’d put himself out of his self made torture. 

Joel was rock fucking hard the second he seated himself by the back of the plane. Thoughts of the way you’d smiled up at him & rubbing his arm before heading to your seat up front was enough ammo for him to daydream about you for the next hour. 

He did think you were joking earlier. But this could very well be the side effect of whatever you’d given him. 

Nevertheless, it was pointless. The sterile bathroom was doing nothing but turning him off. 

With an annoyed sigh. He’d shucked his half limp cock back into his jeans. Thoroughly scrubbing his hands clean before he heads back to his seat.

He stops short, brows quirked at the intruder. 

“Howdy. How ya holding up.”

You grinned. Lowering the latest issue of Baseball Digest that Joel was occupied with from where it covered your face. 

“I’m—…what are you��doin’ back here.” He manages. Cursing himself for sounding way off. 

“Flight‘s pretty empty, so…Donna did me a solid.” 

Joel briefly glances up at the flight attendant that you did a little finger wave to before looking back, nudging his head to the vacant seat next to you. “Scoot over.” 

“Jesus. Thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Yeah. I was. And I tried to jerk off to you too, not that it worked out. 

“So that I can be tormented for the next three hours?”

You frowned at his words. Flipping through the magazine loudly. “Someone’s panties are in a bunch.”

He exhales as he sinks into his rightful seat. Thankfully, the shock of seeing your face again did a number to deflate Junior Miller. 

The combination of turbulence and drinking two glasses of whiskey earlier was a nasty concoction. He thumbs eases the crease between his brows before finally deciding to speak, ignoring your earlier  comment. 

“Bout’ the side effect you mentioned…”

That causes you to tip your head towards him. You were silent, briefly. 

“What about it?”

“…How long does it…last.”

You looked to the side. “Just for a bit.” Though you sounded unsure of yourself. “Why?”

“Nothin’. Suppose I’m gettin’ one of those weird reactions to it.”

“Weird how.” You pressed. Though Joel looked less than pleased about your probing. “Don’t gotta explain it to ya. S’just weird, darlin’.” 

You get the memo regardless. 

“Well did you try to—“

“I did.”

“And you didn’t—“

“No.”

“You sure you were doing it correctly?”

Joel drags his hand down his face, letting out a muffled, yet pained scoff before he looks at you. He doesn’t speak yet for a couple of seconds. 

“Yes, sweetheart. I know how to fuckin’ jerk off.”

Your lips pressed into a taut line. His words stirred something deep in you, fuck if it didn’t make you want to do something stupid right now. 

“Obviously you don’t. Wouldn’t be sitting here all wound up if you had.”

Joel’s lips part to shoot something snarky your way. 

It’s quickly floored when he feels your fingertips trace past the sides of his thighs. 

You look at him. Offering him an opportunity to pull away. 

He adjusts his hips to shift lower. A firm tug on your wrist ground your palm directly onto the bulge of his jeans. 

A shaky exhale leaves his lips when you knead against his hard on. Tipping his head back onto the headrest. He lets out a soft grunt escaping his lips as you continued your ministrations. 

“Feels…real good.” He manages. Barely being able to look at you. 

Fuck. You were so warm and you smelled so good. He couldn’t remember the last time he had something that he wanted real bad.

“Told ya, not doing it right.” You leaned in close enough for your cheeks to rest against his bicep. Watching how his grip around your wrists began to falter. 

Joel’s breathing became a little more ragged as he started to become more and more pent up with each rub.

With a conspicuous sniffle, you dragged the zipper of his jeans down, earning a jolt from him. He whips his head to look at you as you maneuver his stiffened cock out of his boxers. 

Locking your gaze with his, you provide a calming kiss to the edge of his shoulder before you lower yourself. 

“Christ. Are you crazy?”

Joel lifts his gaze to scan the surroundings. Considering it was an evening flight, the dimmed overhead lighting provided a more intimate and gentle glow. 

The absence of attendants who were likely resting up front, and the emptiness of the last five rows does provide him assurance, even when it shouldn’t have. 

He lets out a hiss at a wet glob of saliva trickle down his shaft, stealing his focus once more. Followed by the softness of a smaller pair of hands pumping the wetness up and down. 

You feel a strong hand gather your hair up loosely, before the fingertips entangles firmly through to hold your head in place. 

He tugs you to meet his gaze momentarily. Eyeing your soft features being reflected with the amber mood lighting. 

“Can I?” 

You bit the insides of your cheeks. Realising what he’d meant. You nod slowly, kissing the tip of his weeping cock. 

“Tap me twice if it’s t’much.”

He mutters with a gentleness that had you rubbing your thighs together, the slick wetness growing in your cunt. 

You take him into his mouth fully this time. Feeling his hips jump up involuntarily. The tug on your head encourages you to continue. 

“Ah..fuck. Fuck.”

Joel grinds his jaw at a painful intensity. The warmth and wetness of your mouth hollowing around his cockhead was intoxicating. He had to physically control himself from thrusting into your mouth too quickly. 

The noises that rumbled from his throat spurs you on. You alternate between deep sucks through your hollowed mouth and stroking his cock. Though the hand holding your head became more of a weak hold than a guide.

You caught the hesitance in his actions. Treating you so damn gently as though you would break. It frustrated you, so you abruptly lowered yourself until you practically swallowed him whole. Nose grinding against the denim. 

It catches the both of you off guard. 

Joel, nearly lets out a fucking groan at the warmth of your throat convulse around his cock. And you, with your thumb digging into your fists to control your gag reflex. 

That was enough for Joel to snap. 

His grip around your hair goes taut. “Tap me.” He reminds, before he properly fucks his cock into your throat at an almost brutal pace. 

You choked for a couple of seconds, the warm tears pricking your eyes as you gripped tightly over his thigh—essentially using your mouth as his personal fleshlight. 

Letting out strained grunts as he quickened his pace, you taste the salty mixture of your tears and saliva. Joel doesn’t let himself go just yet, keeping the rational part of him awake in case you couldn’t take it, which in fairness—most women couldn’t. 

But you? You took it like a fuckin’ champ. 

You pulled away from his cock with a pop, letting a string of saliva follow as you dragged your lips down to his balls, giving one of them a sloppy suck as much as your mouth could fit before taking his cock into your throat. 

Joel shudders at the sensation, It doesn’t take long before his hips stutter, spurting his hot, thick come into your throat. 

He pulls you off him with a gentle tug, catching sight of your tear stricken face, lips pouty and reddened. 

Joel groans at how pretty you looked like this. 

He glances towards the bathroom behind them and back at the serenity of the moonlight illuminating inside the plane as he hastily tucks himself back in. 

With a firm hold, he hoists you up underneath your arms to guide you into the cramped stall with him. 

“You okay, honey?” He practically whispers. Thumb swiping the strands of your hair that stuck to your sweaty cheeks, tucking them behind your ears. 

“Y…eah.” You managed. Voice coming out raspy. His dark brown gaze held nothing but concern for you. 

A lazy smile graces your features. You stabilise yourself with Joel’s arms. He doesn’t hesitate as he leans in to lock his lips with yours. 

“We can go back. Or continue. Whatever you want.” The gentle curve of nose comes to rub against your cheeks, though you could tell by the twitch of his cock that he was far from done. 

You bit down on your lips. Hands travelling lower to let the sharp sound of Joel’s buckle give you the answer he needed. 

As you flip over to lean against the counter with your palms flat on the granite—your cheeks presses against your shoulder to gaze up at him through your lashes. 

“By the way…that pill I gave you? Just Vitamin C.”

[joelsbloodyhands]

Enjoy the Silence

SUMMARY: You come home from work and find yourself having sensory overload from everything. Joel comes home and takes care of you.

WARNINGS: no outbreak, no mention of Ellie 😭, established relationship with Joel, soft!Joel, descriptions of loud noises, reader gets big sad and unable to manage themselves, needs Joel for comfort, an overuse of terms of endearment (baby, sweetheart, honey), Joel is here to help with everything, sensory overload of touch, sounds, sensitive smell. Just absolute fluff (I need it so bad rn) 🤧 no use of y/n, gender neutral pronouns used, reader has hair long enough to tie up, reader has no visible disabilities. Reader loves Sarah. WE LOVE SARAH 🥺 but she’s unintentionally overwhelming us, sorry Babygirl 😭

Dividers by @nicodefresas 🎀

A/N: As I’m writing this, I’m currently having the worst sensory overload episode 😔 also I don’t think I should need to specify but everyone has different triggers and symptoms when dealing with overstimulation. A lot of this is based on my own personal experiences.

You don’t have the foggiest clue where it triggered from.

You just know that one minute you were grinding away at work, then you were driving home in the rain becoming all too aware of the blaring lights of other cars bothering your eyes more than they usually did.

If you could’ve worn sunglasses without crashing in the evening darkness, you would have. The sudden outburst of a car horn had you gripping the steering wheel tighter causing you to subconsciously flex your fingers, becoming all too aware of the rough leather of the steering wheel against your dry hands.

Dry hands. My lips are dry too.

You lick your lips.

My mouth tastes weird.

You’re becoming all too aware of your teeth grinding against each other.

Just tired, yeah…that’s all. Just tired. Long day at work. I’ll be fine once I get home.

So you keep driving.

Sarah was home when you got back. Her voice shaking you awake as soon as you passed the threshold of the house while she spoke to you about her day.

You look forward to these moments usually.

Coming back to Sarah and Joel.

Gossiping about the joys of working and all the drama of high school that you definitely don’t miss but enjoy hearing when Sarah gives you her best dramatic retelling of events.

Though as she followed you through the corridor to the kitchen, your ears rang.

Is she talking louder than normal?

You open the refrigerator, a sudden overwhelming scent of Thai green curry catching your senses and not in a good way.

But it’s your favourite?

Joel made it yesterday, putting the leftovers into three Tupperware boxes to eat for dinner today. The pounding of the washing machine and dryer causes you to close the refrigerator uneasily, your eyes glancing to it. Sarah’s voice joining the chorus of sounds echoing off the kitchen walls.

You don’t feel hungry all of a sudden.

“Are you okay?” Sarah voice breaks through and you come to realise you must have been staring at her for an awful long time, your eyes wide.

You nod and Sarah frowns ever so slightly.

“So what do you think?”

Your mind goes blank.

You didn’t even hear anything she said except yes you did but it was so loud, you didn’t take any of it in.

“About what?” You find yourself murmuring, your own voice startling you.

It sounds unfamiliar to you for some reason.

You’re worried you’ve upset her while Sarah takes a minute before a smile breaks out on her lips and she’s laughing and prodding you on the arm playfully. Your eyes drift there instinctively, her laughter making you wince.

You don’t laugh in return.

“Long day at work, huh?” She giggles and rolls her eyes before telling you she needs to go study and that you should eat dinner.

She leaves you then, your body standing in the same position in front of the refrigerator where she left you. The sound of her feet hitting against the staircase filling your head, the floorboards creaking harshly. You exhale a heavy breath.

As you stand there, eyes turning distastefully towards the washing machine and dryer singing their tune far too loud, your skin starts to itch. You tug at the sleeves of your work shirt, unbuckle the belt at your waist, the feeling too tight against your hips. You pull the hair tie from your wrist and put your hair up into a bun, the tickle of the hairs against the back of your neck bothering you.

You know what’s happening.

You’re just trying to refuse to accept that it is, hoping that for once you can just ignore it and go about the rest of your evening like you originally planned.

You just want to hear Joel’s voice, cuddle into him on the couch, eat your curry and go to bed.

Except when you hear the front door open and his voice is carrying through to the kitchen, you retract into yourself, carrying your feet away from the overwhelming sounds of mundane tasks and to the staircase. You want nothing more than to sit on the floor of your bedroom with your legs crossed and the lights off.

So you skip up the stairs, albeit with dramatic wide steps, trying not to trigger the creakiest of the floorboards. When you get to yours and Joel’s bedroom, flooded with darkness, you shut the door and allow yourself to crumble.

Ah you can’t take this. You need your shirt.

Where is it?!

You’re frantic, the tears falling down your cheeks as you continue to feel itchy in your work shirt, longing for the wide airy comfort t-shirt you keep for this very reason.

“Hey,” a whisper sounds behind you and you turn abruptly, eyes wide to see Joel stood, his eyes on you intently as he holds your oversized shirt by the shoulders in both hands.

Lost in all your distress, you hadn’t even heard him come in.

You realise you’re crying then.

“Joel, I-“

He watches you harshly rub at your face.

He knows you hate to be touched at times like this.

It feels like nails on a chalkboard but he ever so gently, puts two fingers to the wrist of your hand practically clawing at your face and you drop it immediately, your eyes meeting his again, pained and bloodshot.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you cry, “I’m just-“ you flail your arms in frustration, the intense sound of your sobs making your eyes twitch.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, moving towards you and taking the hem of your shirt in his fingers, careful not to graze any more skin as he starts to lift it from your body.

“You don’t need to apologise, baby,” he keeps whispering, “let’s get you more comfortable, hm?”

Joel knew all too well about your episodes.

In fact, it’s partly the reason of how he met you at Tommy’s house when you attended a barbecue and got overwhelmed by the music and sounds of neighbours, talking and getting louder the more drunk they got.

Joel had planned to leave early but was surprised when he found you curled in the bottom of a dark closet when he was retrieving his coat.

He froze when he saw you, your watery eyes lifting up at him, your arms wrapped around your knees pulled up against your chest.

Your cheeks had flushed dangerously, embarrassed about being found in this predicament but all Joel saw was a young woman clearly upset so he bent down to your level, his head turning this way and that scoping the corridor to make sure no one was around and asked you what was wrong and if he could help in any way.

You had shook your head so fast, the room span but Joel didn’t back away so easily.

Truth be told, you’d caught his attention all night and Tommy had nudged and smirked at him for noticing his eyes on you, encouraging him to go talk to you but he never did.

He couldn’t find a reason to.

Well, what more of a reason did he need than finding you sat with your back against a coat closet in his brothers house?

You had stood up so shakily that Joel found himself wanting to take you in his arms just to offer you some support to stand but you backed away when his hands instinctively held out to grab you if you fell.

He retracted them just as quick.

You told him you were fine and thanked him, saying you just needed to call an Uber and go home. You made the excuse that you’d had too much to drink and your head was spinning.

Dizzy and nauseous, you just needed somewhere dark to sit.

With the daunting thought in mind of having to sit in a stuffy taxi with a voice trying to make polite conversation with you, you didn’t catch Joel’s offer until you met his eyes again and he realised your blank expression, his back straightening and voice softening with a smile.

“If you need a dark closet, I got one at my place across the street if you need it?”

Somehow you laughed and even though your own voice hurt your ears, you found yourself saying, “if you’d said that to anyone else, you’d sound like a murderer,” and all it took was Joel’s pretty smile to take him up on his offer.

Except rather than a dark closet, he simply closed the curtains in his living room, offered you some chamomile tea, a blanket and sat in silence with you on the couch. And though your voices were silent, your mind was loud, finding it completely baffling that a man you just met and barely knew was being so incredibly sweet as to offer you a safe space. No questions asked.

Then he’d asked you out on a date and you were absolutely dumbfounded.

Later in your relationship, you had admitted what had happened and while he understood what it meant to feel overwhelmed (god did he feel it sometimes), sensory overload was a completely new term for him.

You explained as best you could, your cheeks the same shade of red he had seen when he found you in the closet. Joel took it upon himself when he was awake lying next to you, tangled up asleep in his bedsheets, to take his phone from his bedside and spend a good hour reading about what sensory overload was and how it can be eased.

You couldn’t believe your luck of finding this man. You practically thank that damn closet for it’s existence in Tommy’s house every time you visit.

So now you’re back in that predicament again and Joel is pulling back the covers from the bed, folding it up at the end knowing you just want a nice cool mattress to lay against.

Your heart twists at his care, tears falling from your eyes like rain, except Joel is the sun as warm and inviting as can be even when you want nothing more than to be left alone.

“Okay, honey,” he now whispers, knowing it’s easier to talk to you that way. His heart aches at the sight of you as he turns to face you, slowly walking so that his footsteps don’t make too much noise along the wooden floorboards.

“You wanna lie down? I’ll get you something to eat.”

“I don’t think I can eat, Joel,” you reply, your voice shaky as you lay down on the bed. Joel kneeling beside it, his palms flat on the mattress beside you while you lay on your side looking up at him.

“Usually liquids are best, right? Soup? Or I could make you a smoothie? And a cup of tea? Do you want your noise cancelling earphones, baby?” Your eyes are tearing again at his words and Joel’s face crumples at your glistening cheeks.

“It’s okay, honey,” he cooes, hand rubbing the mattress, pretending it’s your back.

“I feel bad,” you cry.

“No, no, no, sweetheart,” Joel shushes you, knowing all too well where this is leading and disallowing you to talk badly about yourself.

“But Sarah, she…she was trying to tell me about something and I couldn’t even concentrate on what she was saying-“

“Baby, you know Sarah understands,” Joel leans in closer, his breath on your face as he reassures you of your racing thoughts.

“She told me as soon as I came in that she thought you were having an episode. She knows, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widen, your crying stopping momentarily.

“Really?” You ask, your throat dry.

Joel nods, a small smile on his lips, “And she gets it, baby. She doesn’t judge. We’ve talked about it before. Just to make sure she always knew you might have a moment every now and again so if you need space, it doesn’t have anything to do with our relationship or the one you have with her. She loves you, honey and she knows you love her. Okay?”

You nod and Joel’s smile grows, glad to have consoled you.

“Now,” he starts again, “I’ll go get you what you need and you stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

You nod again, “thank you, Joel.”

Joel has to stifle his chuckle only a little, “how many times do I have to tell you? You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart. I’m your partner. It’s important that I take care of you. You do it for us plenty.”

You smile a little and it makes Joel swoon, happy to finally see your lips turn up, your dimples gracing the edges.

True to his word, he disappears but not before scoping the wardrobe and retrieving your earphones. You put them in and try to close your eyes and relax when he leaves. Trying to will your body to loosen up, your muscles to relax rather than freeze rigidly with every sensation. The mattress is cool, your long shirt light and airy and Joel left a cold glass of water with a straw on the bedside for when your mouth was feeling too dry.

He was one in a million and you smiled knowing you won the lottery when he found you that day in the wardrobe and then you became the richest person on the planet when you met Sarah and the connection you had to both of them grew stronger until he eventually asked you to move in.

Five years later and here you were. A family.

The best family you could’ve asked for.

“Hey baby,” you lift your head to see Joel wandering in, taking out one of your buds as he places a shaker bottle he normally uses for his protein shakes on the bedside full of a pink smoothie, joined by a cup of camomile and a bowl of your favourite soup.

“Thank you, baby,” you smile and Joel turns his head giving you a wink, seeing you that you seem to be gradually returning back to your normal self.

And luckily you are feeling a little more comfy now.

The sounds of the evening chores going on downstairs are becoming less aggravating.

You don’t feel like you need to tear your skin off your body. In fact you’re almost longing for a bath, feeling a little sweaty from being worked up so bad earlier.

“Joel?” You sit up, Joel turning to see the way your oversized shirt rides up over your underwear, his face flushing at the sight.

“You need something, baby?” He’s got that flirty smile on his face, the one that tells you he sees something he likes but you’re still not completely past your overwhelming senses.

If anything, you’re now bothered by the smell of sweat emitting from your body.

“You know how you love me so much?” You start and Joel’s eyes crease, his smile growing into a full grin.

He hums in response, awaiting your command.

“Pretty please could you run me a bath? You always make it feel so good.”

Joel kneels at the bottom of the bed, his flirty smirk returning at your words, his hands splaying out over the mattress, smoothing over it as you inch a bit closer to him.

“Is that right, sweetheart? You want a nice warm bath with all your rose petals and bubble bath? Is that what you need, baby?”

You nod with a pout, overplaying it a bit, watching his tongue poke into his cheek amused by your behaviour.

“If that’s what you need, I can do that for you but first I need you to eat some of your soup and drink some of your smoothie. Can you do that for me?”

You nod with a dimpled smile and as much as he longs to reach out and graze your knee with his fingertips, he reframes from doing so, continuing to respect your boundaries while you might still be working through your hypersensitivity.

True to his word, Joel ran the bathtub at just the right temperature, sprinkling rose scented petals and dropping a floral scented bath bomb into it. He’d even gone as far as to light some candles, set a fresh cup of tea on the side and stolen some chocolates from the last Halloween run you���d had with Sarah.

If you thought your lover couldn’t get any sweeter, he’d helped you out of your clothes and respectfully kept his hands away from you until you prompted him with a small smile to offer his hand and help you climb into the tub.

Joel left you to check on Sarah while you laid back, your senses mellowing out and coming back down from the heightened agitation you were experiencing earlier. Now finally you felt like a weight had been lifted. Your skin felt less itchy.

“So pretty…”

Your cheeks redden when Joel walks into the misty bathroom, stopping in his tracks at the doorframe and overlooking your soft skin peppered with fluffy soap.

“Have you washed your hair, honey?”

You shake your head, your smile slipping momentarily.

You would have done it if the room wasn’t a little cold. You were doing what you could to stay buried under the hot water, still feeling slightly sensitive to the temperature of the room. The aspect of lifting your bare wet arms out of the water to massage your scalp made you feel uneasy. You weren’t completely out of this episode yet and even if you were, the twinkle in Joel’s eyes told you he’d still offer up his services.

You watch him with bated breath as he kneels beside the tub, pushing up the sleeves of his favourite green plaid shirt, your eyes following the hardened muscles of his forearms up to his biceps peeking out under the flannel.

Though Joel may have a soft tummy, his arms were a statement to his hard work running a construction company with his brother, Tommy.

You rather adored your man being soft and a little hard around the edges.

“Want me to help you, sweetheart?” His voice captures you again, your eyes on his soft brown orbs.

You nod wordlessly, suddenly longing for his large hands and gentle fingers to work their way through your locks and massage your scalp deliciously.

You anticipate Joel’s touch anxiously when he leans over and reaches for your cherry scented shampoo, squeezing the red shiny liquid over his thick hands and lathering it together.

He offers you a smile, his head tilting in request to proceed in touching you. You nod and he moves behind you, his fingers sinking up into your hair from the back. You fight to suppress a shiver tickling up your spine when Joel works the product through your scalp, massaging and coating the ends of your hair with soft strokes.

It constantly amazed you how Joel’s strong hands that spent most the day throwing around heavy parts, growing calloused from checking wooden palettes during the day, could become so delicate and gentle when touching you.

You smiled to yourself, dropping your chin to your wet chest with a satisfied sigh.

Joel made sure not to massage too hard or tug harshly at your hair. He didn’t want to make you retreat back into your shell by triggering your hypersensitivity again.

He could see just from how your shoulders were gradually easing back down to normal level below your chin that your overstimulation was dissipating as the time passed.

He bites his inner gum when he hears a slight moan leave your lips at his movements.

“That feel okay?”

You hum in response, a short nod of your head.

“Good,” Joel whispers, even daring to lean forward, your damp soapy strands sticking to his cheek when he presses a slow soft kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your words caress the relaxed atmosphere.

Joel smiles.

Joel wanting nothing more than to strip back and join you, holding you against his chest under the warmth of the water but he continues to hold back.

Instead he greets your quiet intimacy with a whisper.

“I love you too, baby.”

You open your eyes to a light breeze, birds singing and a smoky cup of coffee on your bedside in your favourite mug.

You lay on your side for a good few minutes, blinking away sleep, your hands cradled under your cheek and buried against the pillow.

You don’t remember falling asleep but when you feel a shuffle behind you, large warm hands slipping under your nightshirt and tugging you against his bare body, the memories start flooding back.

You were so relaxed in the bathtub that it made you sleepy. So sleepy in fact that Joel leaned over the tub after emptying it, bundled you up in a fluffy towel and lifted you into his arms.

Your cheeks warm when you vaguely remember the slight groan of protest on Joel’s lips as his aching back retaliated but with you squashed nicely against his chest, Joel couldn’t complain.

He laid you down in your bed carefully and dried you as gently as he could before tucking you in.

You remember being alone in your half-asleep state that you heard the familiar murmur of father-daughter voices, the click of the door and padded footsteps before the mattress dipped.

A kiss pressed against your forehead and all went dark.

Now the world was brighter than ever before, the sounds of the birds and cars passing by doing nothing to disturb your hearing. Your bones no longer stiffening at the natural sounds of life.

More importantly, the sensation of your lovers thumbs brushing your naked hips was very much welcomed. So much so you groaned happily, rolling over to face those perfect brown eyes and plush lips quirked up into a tired smile.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You lean forward, meeting Joel half way and kissing him softly. You let your hands slip under his arms, cuddling into him while shuffling just below his chin.

Joel presses a lingering kiss against your head.

Distantly, you can hear Sarah’s record player and you sigh happily as the music carries through your home.

All I ever wanted…

All I ever needed is here…

In my arms…

You squeeze Joel tighter.

[cherie-doll]

someone on ao3 requested a while back i do a hc for that boxing machine game, so uh, here:

𓏴𓏴 Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Phillip Graves, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

Ghost would raise his eyebrows, being quite surprised at the numbers flashing on the screen. He did not expect for the score to be so high. Perhaps he shouldn't have provoked you earlier.

The crowd that had gathered around gasped at the shocking number your fist had scored. Soap stood there, mouth agape, he had always joked that your strength couldn't compare to his. Needless to say, he would think twice before doing something that would make you mad.

Gaz had always knew you were independent and strong, how strong you were mentally but never giving much thought how far your physical strength could go. Why he was the one with the military training.

Roach was so flabbergasted he couldn't even speak. (Not like he ever does.) Did not speak to you the entire car ride home, like a kid too afraid to be scolded. Put on an apron and washed the dishes he had procrastinated on all day.

Alejandro had witnessed the wrath of women like his mother, who may be small but dominant the moment their rage flared up. Seeing that side of you come out though was something else. It honestly made him feel some type of way.

Phillip couldn't have been more astounded. He felt proud but deep down his ego was a bit hurt as he was the one who prided himself for protecting you.

"Well, damn." Keegan kept saying over and over again, muttering under his breath. Why did he ever start training you? Cleared his throat a few times as you smiled proudly looking at the score. He didn't like how intimidated he suddenly felt.

All König could think of were all those times he had opened a jar for you. Did this mean you could do it yourself? Maybe you've been feigning being the weaker person and he should watch his back.

Horangi was no less surprised, he always had you ready to deliver a punch when you two would play fight. Seeing how strong you delivered that punch, however, did make him chuckle.

Nikto continued staring at your arms, specifically the arm and hand you had punched with. When did you get so strong? And did this mean you were able to help with the yardwork now?