#concealed laundry hamper

[kanehopkins]

Laundry Room Laundry Example of a small traditional laundry room design with a single-wall porcelain tile, a gray floor, shaker cabinets, beige cabinets, granite countertops, blue walls, stacked washers and dryers, and white countertops.

[fatherbrat]

neighbor!toji who's a bit of a perv, standing shirtless on his balcony every morning when you're leaving for work, eyes planted on your ass as you walk to your car.

neighbor!toji who always helps you carry your groceries up to your apartment, saying that a pretty thing like you shouldn't have to do so much heavy lifting by herself.

neighbor!toji who immediately says yes to helping you replace the blown lightbulbs in the can lights that dot your ceilings. you let him roam the apartment while you cook dinner. he checks the lights in your bathroom and your bedroom, and he checks your laundry hamper too, grinning when he sees a pair of your panties sitting at the top.

neighbor!toji who walks out of your bedroom with a hard-on and your underwear in his pocket, not bothering to conceal his tented pants as you thank him for his help.

neighbor!toji who frowns when he sees you coming home late one night with tears streaming down your face, blubbering something about a cheating boyfriend.

neighbor!toji who tells you to forget about those good for nothing little boys, tells you he'll show you how a real man treats a lady before he nudges his way into your apartment and eats you out like you're his last meal.

neighbor!toji who laughs a little when you thank him after you cum on his tongue multiple times. you watch him lick his lips before he tells you it’s no problem. neighbors are supposed to help each other out, right?

[celestialprincesse]

Simon coming home to sleepy partner💤☁️

nsfw below the cut 🪽 mdni 🤍

Simon, more often than not, comes home late after getting back from deployments. seeing as after landing on home soil, they still have to mission debrief, collect and pack up their belongings and say their goodbyes, Simon is itching to get back home - back to you.

When he does, and you're all curled up in your shared bed, head resting on his pillow, one of his shirts clutched tight to your chest, sound asleep in his sweater, which had ridden up the arch of your spine to reveal thin cotton panties that have him straining at his boxers. It's when your eyes open at the sound of him dumping his bags, half lidded and lazy until you register his presence and spring up in the bed, running to meet him with tears of relief already pooling on your lower lashes. By no means does Simon Riley consider himself a needy man - in fact, quite the opposite, he's practised restraint his entire life. That said, after months away with nothing but his hand and some very private polaroids to sort himself out, he's desperate, already pushing you back until the backs of your knees are hitting the bedframe, collapsing underneath him with the thick comforter giving a whooshing exhale of air under the sudden addition of your bodyweight.

The latest deployment had been especially tough, stationed in some shithole with no cell service or access to a secure line. Soap had been fine, copping off with local women when he grew bored of his hand, Gaz had Simon fully convinced that he had some kind of erectile dysfunction with how long he could go with no contact, whilst Price and Simon had to settle with a few grainy photos of their partners and the thought that they'd soon be home.

Now, when he noses at your neck and smells sweet perfume and your laundry detergent, it feels very much like a wet dream coming true. He doesn't even bother to fully take your panties off before he's thumbing at your clit through the flimsy material, stripping himself of his gear with one hand. He quickly grows frustrated with the way his dick is straining at the fly of his pants, grunting as he pulls his hand away to strip his clothes off, whilst you take the opportunity to lose your panties, throwing them vaguely in the direction of the hamper , parting your legs and bending them at the knee, waiting for him with your bottom lip chewed anxiously between your teeth. He doesn't even bother kicking his clothes away, kneeling on where they're piled up at the side of the bed as he grabs your hips with hands that have forgotten to be gentle after being rough for so long, pulls you to the edge of the bed, hooking his forearms under your thighs and splaying his hands over your stomach as he noses at your clit. There's a feral, barely concealed glint in his eye as he whispers kisses against your cunt, murmuring how bad he missed you, about how you look more beautiful than when he left. "Missed y' so fuckin' much baby. Missed your angel face." He growls into your skin, the tears mixing in your eyes split between need and pure relief.

He doesn't even bother with his fingers as he licks a hot stripe between your folds, your hips twitching under his hands as he savours you like a last meal. "Si.." You whine out sweetly, voice whiny and utterly pathetic. "Tha's right. Tha's it, gonna let me hear ya?" His Mancunian accent, eroded around the edges from years of travel, and the rumble of his voice have you on edge, hands gripping into the sheets as you let your eyes fall back into your head swimming with utter bliss. "Mmhm!"

Not even a minute later, Simon looks utterly perplexed as you try and shimmy yourself away from his tongue, despite the way your thighs are clamped like a vice around his ears. "Wha's wrong baby?" He growls, messy brows furrowed in concern as he looks up at you in the near darkness of your bedroom. "Jus' need you, Si." You whine, body short circuiting as you consciously attempt to free his face from between your legs whilst the animal side of your brain compels you to keep him there and continue the ecstasy his tongue spearing into you provides. Your needy words cause his expression to perk up as he gently guides your knees outwards so he can actually remove his face from where it's stuffed between your thighs and cunt.

From your position on the bed, and his kneeling beside it, you'd been unable to see the way his cock was already hard and leaking, bouncing against his stomach, but as he pushes you back to the centre of the mattress, you got a full view of his pretty dick as he lines the pearly tip against your entrance, smearing precum against it as though to make the stretch easier (which is a total placebo). His fingers loop through yours as he notches his tip inside, refusing to blink as you take him to the hilt with a quiet whine, lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut. "Fuck, 've missed seein' you take me so well." the sound of his grunts and the lewd squelch which accompanies his thrusts is the only thing besides your airy moans and his soft growls filling your blissful bedroom.

The sight of you alone has him almost embarrassingly close to finishing inside of you, but when your pussy flutters around him and you give a choked off keen before cumming around his cock, he gives up on any restraint, snapping his hips so that his tip hits your cervix, ropes of hot cum spilling into your tight heat as he lets his head fall into the crook of your neck, repeating how perfect you are, how much he loves you and missed you.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Meant for this to be some cutie, fluffy little brainrot not 1k of smut Sorry! (not sorry!😚) also this isn't edited because rereading my own writing makes me cringe so apologies 4 any mistakes 🩷

[en-vys]

xiao - ciao, xiao! .~+*+~.

summary : what happens when you aren’t around when xiao’s heat strikes? what do you imagine he’ll do… and the lengths he’ll take just to feel better.

content & warning : masturbation, pillow humping, needy!xiao, needy, dirty dreams, FEMreader -sorry- ,

a/n : THIS ISNT THE ANGST ⚠️ i spelled xiao as ciao awhile ago so i thought about it as a title and thought of a category and context 😭

“XIAO! i’m gonna leave soon. ms. ningguang is going to be here soon to pick me up.” you yell to the adeptus, whom was upstairs sobbing. you jogged up the stairs to see why he wasn’t responding. “alatus? sweetie? wher-” you hear hiccuping in your shared room. “oh my. alatus why are you crying?” you ask pulling xiao towards you, hugging his crawled up form. “i could always canc-” “no! y-you don’t have to. its an important c-con °hiccup convention! you need to go.”

“y’know it’s okay to miss me right? i’m not telling you to conceal your feelings.” stroking the back of his head. “my love. i know you need to go.” you felt bad for leaving. especially with his heat coming up. “you know what week it is right?” he asks his eyes shining a wonderful green hue. “yeah it’s your heat week. i’m sorry i can’t help you out xiao.” he wipes his tears away. “the reason i was crying wasn’t that you were leaving. but that you were going to leave me during my heat week.”

“oh you sly bitch.” he smirks, you know what hes going to say next. “yeah. but i’m your bitch aren’t I~ 💗” he cocked his head sideways, moving in slowly for a kiss. you immediately moved just to tease him, and earned a small whine from him.

now after you left xiao felt a bit untouched… i mean you did leave him without fucking the poor guy. “hnhgg y/nnn~” he moaned as he palmed himself through his airy pants.

needy!xiao / was desperate by nightfall. he dug through the hamper for your dirty underwear just to smell and feel you, but to his suprise. you did the laundry.

needy!xiao / scrambled through his phone to find a sultry photo he was allowed to take during one of the many sessions the two of you had.

needy!xiao / couldn’t even find sweet release after hours of humping the pillow that smelt the most like you.

needy!xiao / forgot all about the emergency disk that held numerous voicelines of you moaning his name, or calling him a good boy, or degrading him.

needy!xiao / only felt release when he thought he had heard your voice but it was just scaramouche entering the door using a recording he had to spook him.

needy!xiao / wasn’t even aware scara had come to check up on him til he heard a shutter click, and he turned around to see a snickering scara.

———————

“DAMN. she has you wrapped around her finger.” scara snickers, sending the picture of xiao collapsed on the bed panting. cum dripping everywhere on the bed sheets. “you’re even wearing a collar? whats the name tag say? “y/n’s bitch” or “needy whore”.” once his heat was over xiao was going to beat the living hell out of scara and make him buy a new phone. “d-delete that.” xiao muttered. “yeah no worries. y/n asked me to check up on you and send her picture of what you were doing.” xiao heard the click of the door, meaning scara was gone.

———————

tired!xiao / still feels horny so he tries to muster up the courage to rub himself through his pants.

tired!xiao / was ecstatic to find out that you were going home in 2 days. he couldn’t wait to fuck your brains out.

tired!xiao / tried going to sleep but failed as his dick twitched in his pants again.

tired!xiao / lazily strokes himself while being half asleep. imagining you kitten licking and edging the poor guy.

———————

“MMMMMHAAG. i n-need. you y/nnn.” he says speaking into the mic of his phone. “i c-can’t cum without you.. scara made me think you came home early and made me cum by accident :(”

poor baby. you think “i know. he sent me a picture of you with cum all over the sheets and yourself.” yeah stifle a laugh. “don’t laugh!” xiao continues rubbing himself, whining into his phone. “i want to see you y/nnn!” he sounds like hes going to burst.

“did you not listen or watch the tapes in the disk i gave you alatus?” his ears turn red. “t-they don’t work… i need you.”

———————

lol this is half of a past post. :0

[rqgnarok]

a house upon the hill - nolan price

love you better now (sequel, original work)- leave a light on (prequel part 1) - this work is prequel part 2 but can be read individually!

fandom: law & order, law & order special victims unit

wc: 8,838

warnings: conversations about ptsd and ptsd episodes, aftermath of a traumatic event. canon presence of injuries, blood, violence, weapons, and hospitals. female reader

summary: after being shot and waking up in the hospital, the relief of your survival is short-lived.

ao3 / masterlist / buy me a coffee!

author's note below!

The relief of your survival is short-lived.

You’re tired and in pain, the doctors slowly wear you off the meds and your answers to how are doing? gets shorter and shorter to anyone who asks. Your grip around Nolan’s hand tightens further every time someone comes and goes, and by the time you’re leaving the hospital the bags under your eyes are prominent, your cheeks sharper than they were when you first got there. 

Nolan, the trooper, writes down and listens carefully to all the instructions given to him about your care. He packs your bags with all the things he brought from your appartment and the get-well-soon gifts given by family and friends. He doen’t notice you shifting restlessly as he struggles to manhandle the wheelchair, regarding it with distrust.

“Okay,” he says faux brightly, hands at his hips and looking between you and the wheelchair. “You ready to get out of here?”

Your smile is brittle as you nod. That should be Nolan’s first clue, how you don’t rise to the banter at the first chance of it. “Alright, come here. The nurse will kill me if I let you pop your stitches.”

Your jaw tightens but you go, holding onto Nolan and digging your fingers into his arms when you rise off the bed and your body feels like it’s being lit on fire. You curse under your breath and Nolan catches it, tries to meet your eye while you struggle to conceal how much you’re hurting.

“If you need a second–”

“I’m fine.”

“Honey, you can’t push yourself too hard,” he reminds you as if you don’t know. “This type of thing doesn’t heal overnight. We can take as long as you need.”

“I just want to go home,” you say, and it sounds so much like begging it makes you sick, makes you mad. “Just– can you just help me out here, please?”

“You just gotta–”

Your reply is biting. “I know, Nolan.”

The room is engulfed by silence. His hands tense where they’re holding you but to Nolan’s credit, he doesn’t let go, even if his mouth is now set in an upset, even line.Your guilt rises like waves but your annoyance drowns it out, and there’s no apology made as you finally sit in the wheelchair, exhaling in relief. 

Nolan doesn’t let go until you’re settled in nicely, and even then he remains close; gripping the handles of the chair and standing behind you where you can’t see him.

You’re buried under two sweatshirts and a coat, but the lack of touch leaves you cold nevertheless. 

Your almost-month long stay at the hospital has left your home rotting in neglect. Your furniture lays under a thin layer of dust and the dishes from your last dinner together are still in the dishwasher. The dirty laundry hamper is about to blow.

Nolan appears sheepish when your eyes inevitably go towards the chaos, expression unreadable. He’s got his arm around your waist and his grip is tight as you make your way through the apartment. “I was hoping for time to clean up a little before you came home, but I’ll take care of it, promise.”

“It’s fine,” you say, monotone. Nolan can’t really read into it, unsure if you mean it or not. Halfway to the bedroom, you dig your nails into his shoulder, pulling him to a stop near the couch. “This. Here. Here is fine.”

Nolan frowns disapprovingly. “You should really lay down.”

“I can lay down here,” you say, stubborn as always but through gritted teeth. “I don’t wanna go to bed, okay, just– here is fine.”

Nolan visibly disagrees but relents, his mind still stuck in the way you’d snapped at him back at the hospital. You unclench slightly when he finally stops touching you, body limp on the couch. Nolan tries not to bristle. 

It’s the first of many uncomfortable, tense interactions. You can’t move around the house on your own and stiffen whenever Nolan reaches out to support you. You’re quiet and short when you’re not, trying and failing to keep everything polite.

You drive each other crazy. Nolan works from home as much as he can and you don’t work at all. No matter how much you beg Cragen to send you some files, your day remains sans responsibilities. There are only so many reruns of Seinfeld you can stand before you’re making up a psychological profile for each of the characters just for the hell of it before you realize you’re losing your damn mind. 

“What happened?” he asks one afternoon when you don’t come out for dinner. You’re lying face down on the made bed, curtains drawn shut. When you don’t answer, don’t move, Nolan’s voice turns sharp, calling your name. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” you snap, muffled by the sheets. Your sigh takes over your entire body, pushing yourself up to glare at him. “Nothing. Fucking nothing. Cragen won’t let me back without a therapist’s okay, alright? But other than that, everything’s perfect.”

“Isn’t that standard procedure?” he asks, sitting on the bed with a bowl of pasta on his lap. Your frown deepens like he’s the one who’s keeping you locked inside the house against your will. 

“I’m fine,” you say. “Do you know how many people I’ve seen get shot in this job? I don’t see why this is necessary.”

“It doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” he says, quietly. 

“You know how department’s shrinks are,” he has never heard you speak about psychological aid with such hatred. “But Stabler used to get a pat on the back and he’d be back to work within the hour. Go figure.”

“And look how that worked out for him,” Nolan says, the wrong thing to add, he can tell, for how you settle back into bed and refuse to face him. He sighs and speaks to your back. “What else did the Captain say?”

“‘You want back on the field, come to my office with discharge papers from Dr. Masters office,” you parrot in a poor imitation of Captain Cragen. “Other than that, he’ll be sending some paperwork my way. As if that’s the fucking point.”

Nolan lets the silence stretch, unsure of how to follow up. He flinches when you turn to scream into the pillow, raw and frustrated. You say, venomous. “Motherfucker.”

He leaves your dinner on the bedside table and leaves without a word like a chastised child, feeling like he’s walking away from something bigger than your wirldwind temper. 

—

It gets better before it gets worse. There are days in which you don’t utter a single word and walk through the apartment like you’re haunting it; from bed to the living room to the kitchen, unaware or uncaring of Nolan’s presence. Others, you’re out the door as soon as you’re physically able, disappearing for hours on end, phone off to Nolan’s alarmed dismay.

He calls Liv, Cragen, Munch, anyone who knows you and has the resources to pull a nation wide man hunt until he realizes you always come back and it’s better to welcome you than drive you away by asking questions. Those conversations usually lead to one of you sleeping on the couch and your injuries are still a little too tender for Nolan to let you pass the night on that old thing. 

One night he leaves the bedroom for a glass of water and finds you standing in front of the open window in just your pajamas. The air is chilly and your skin is covered in goosebumps, but it’s the look on your face that scares Nolan the most. 

“Honey,” Nolan, bleary and confused, comes up behind you. You don’t even flinch. It wakes him up quicker than anything else ever has. Saying your name urgently, he wonders, “What are you doing? It’s freezing.”

“It’s fine,” you say, detached, not even there. You blink, staring dazedly into the night. You don’t snap out of it as he leads you back into your room. 

When he asks you about it the following morning you just stare at him, blank-faced, without a single memory of the event. 

To no one’s surprise, Dr. Masters gently refuses to sign your discharge papers after two months of leave and therapy sessions. Cragen takes one look at you and caves, albeit hesitantly, to reinstate you to a desk job as long as you follow the mandated breaks to talk about your feelings in an office that smells too much like lavender and vanilla.

You hate it. Absolutely abhor it. Dr. Masters, just like everyone else, wants you to talk about the shooting and nothing else. It doesn’t matter that your memory betrays you, keeping the event locked away in some faraway corner of your mind. According to her, refusing to acknowledge it is refusing to heal from it.

It leaves you short-fused. Home is a few curt words of polite conversation before you begin to snap, annoyed at Nolan’s placid attitude. Even the squad begins to lose their patience, you find yourself in Cragen’s office more often than not, glowering like a kid sent to the principal.

“Talk to me,” is all he says, not we’ve already been too lenient with you or shouldn’t you be over it by now? because he genuinely cares about you, which warms and enrages you all at once. 

“What,” you say, purposely dense, arms crossed defensively.

“You’re biting heads off out there like you’re a suspect for a crime,” Cragen replies, no-nonsense. “You’re not in trouble here, I just want to know what’s going on.”

“It’s not on me that no one gets shit done around here,” you lean back against the chair, tense shoulders and sweaty hands. “We wouldn’t be so slammed if you all worried about me a little less. I’m fine.”

“Right,” Cragen says, waiting you out. 

“You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me,” you continue, rough. “You can’t hurt me. I’m not gonna break, Cap.”

“Everyone keeps asking what I need– I need everyone to stop looking at me like I’m dead,” you say rushedly. You’ve started now and can’t bring yourself to stop. “I breathe a little funny and they’re on me, wanting to– to make me tea and give me casseroles that won’t fit in my fridge and ask me how I’ve been sleeping, I don’t need that shit–”

Cragen hums knowingly. Then, after a silence:

“How’s Nolan?” 

You huff. “Fine. Fine, he’s always fine. Always looking for something to do. He’s cooked more these past few months than in our entire marriage, you know?”

“He’s only trying to help–”

“I know,” you snap. Cragen only stares as you pull yourself together, filled with everloving patience. It’s why he called you in, not to reprimand or punish but to let you breathe without people accusing you of doing it wrong. 

“I know,” you say again after several exhales, closing your eyes and tilting your head towards the ceiling, avoiding his eye. “Just because he’s trying doesn’t mean it’s working.”

“Have you thought of telling him that?”

“Sure,” you snort. “‘Hey, honey, can you not ask me how my day went? I zoned out for thirty minutes at my desk and picked at my scar until I snapped myself out of it.’”

“There’s help for that, you know,” Cragen says. “I heard they call it therapy, these days.”

“Name it, I’m on it,” you reply, smiling wryly. “Physical, for anxiety, for PTSD. I should get a goddamned discount.”

The Captain doesn’t laugh. Neither had any of your therapists, for that matter. 

“I don’t want to be like this,” you continue after a moment of silence, unsure if you’re allowed, but Cragen only nods. Decades on the job have made him wise beyond his years, sometimes even to his own detriment. “You– I know what you’re all thinking–”

“I’m not sure you do.”

“–but I don’t–” your breath hitches. “If I could be over it already, I would. This isn’t any more fun for me than it is for you.”

“No one thinks badly of you for reacting to something that happened to you,” he tells you, and it’s so close to absolution you could cry right here in front of him with all your coworkers at the other side of the door. You didn’t know it was something you were seeking. 

“I can see how they look at me,” you say, quiet. “I know what they want, who they want. I just can’t give it to them.”

“What do you want?” he uses your first name and it disarms something inside of you. It’s an innocent enough question, but it reaches for your lungs and squeezes mercilessly.

“I want it to stop,” the niceties, people explaining your own PTSD to you. The racing thoughts, the breathlessness, the chest pains you haven’t been able to get rid of even if the doctor says there’s nothing wrong with you anymore. Not physically. 

You sigh and it comes out shaky. Your eyes burn. “I just want everything to stop.”

Two days later, you mistakenly say this to your therapist, who throws the question back to you with interest. “What do you mean by that? What needs to stop?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, infinitely more annoyed than when you’d been talking about this with Cragen. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Well, maybe you do know. And that’s what scares you, what has you lashing out over the simplest innocent things. Think about that.”

“Oh, so I’m supposed to do all of the work here? I thought you said this was a partnership.”

Dr. Masters sighs, keeping careful watch over her exasperation. She writes something down, tries again.

You leave the sessions sans any breakthroughs but with enough recommendations to implement at home in hopes of finding normalcy in your marriage once more. 

Try doing something together, the suggestion has you shifting uncomfortably in your seat. Have a movie night or breakfast together before work, host dinners with friends. Make your home yours again, is what I mean.

You try. It’s not a relaxing endeavor. God knows your work schedules suck even now that you’re both working half time, tempers gone through the shredder more than once. Still, you mention it to Liv and she suggests a double date kind of thing, and suddenly you’ve got a full dining table while a migraine inside your temples builds and builds and builds and–

“How you holdin’ up?” Brian asks casually, cutting off your racing thoughts like a record scratching. Your hands tighten around your fork and knife as you swallow down the urge to scream that washes over you at the question. 

You think about the sleepless nights and the anger that comes out of nowhere, the inexplicable lack of patience directed at Nolan despite loving him more than anything else. You wonder if Brian would understand, having been shot before. If this is a good as any place to let everything out.

The thought fades as soon as it forms.

“Working on it,” you shrug simply. “Everything hurts and therapy’s a bitch. You know what it’s like.”

Brian snorts. “Fuck yeah, I do. Last time I went down I was so restless, Liv was gonna shoot me herself.”

“Hey now,” Liv says, but she’s smiling behind her wine and has a hand on Cassidy’s knee that inches slightly higher as she teases him. “I will say, going to work sounded like a dream just to get out of the house. You’re get better, though.” 

“Hey, anything for the time off, I guess,” you say faux-brightly, a cynical twist of your lips that resembles a smile. “Next time I’ll make sure they shoot me somewhere less tedious, though.”

Brian scoffs and Liv shakes her head, but no one laughs. Nolan clears his throat after an awkward pause, obviously upset. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and leaves it gently on the table as he stands, avoiding your eye. “Excuse me.”

He walks away and closes the bedroom door gently behind him, the living room falling into uneasy silence. You pipe up with dark humor, “You think I’d get more time of if I was stabbed?”

The fight after Liv and Brian leave is a massive, unavoidable bloodbath. 

There’s relief in the heat of it all, in a fucked up way. All the pent up agression you’ve been harboring finally has an opponent, even if Nolan doesn’t know he’s bringing knives to a gunfight.

“I hate when you say things like that and you know it–”

“It was a joke, Nolan, for Christ's sake–”

“Well, it’s not funny. For none of us, Liv was there with you in the ambulance and I–”

“Oh, please, tell me how I ruined your life by almost dying,” you scoff, goading. “Please, honey, the floor is yours.”

“Stop,” he says, firm, but his voice wobbles, and his eyes fill up with tears. You hate the sight of him like this and you hate to be the one who causes it. Still, the part of you aching for chaos, for emotion, can’t help but to press at the bruise. “I’m not doing this, I’m not having this argument with you.”

“You don’t have any arguments with me!” you exclaim in disbelief. Nolan purses his mouth in discontent and look away. “You tell me how to feel, what to do, what this whole thing has been like but the second I try to have an actual conversation it’s like your eyes glaze over and you’re fucking gone–”

“You don’t know what it was like for me,” Nolan snaps, tear stained cheeks glittering against the warm light of the bedroom. He hasn’t stopped crying ever since you came home. You hear him sometimes when he locks himself in his office or in the bathroom in the middle of the night. “Getting Liv’s call, the hospital, watching you like that–”

“This didn’t happen to you, Nolan!” you scream. The world has taken a sharper edge after the shooting, and all you can do is attack it likewise. “I laid in my own blood hoping someone would notice I was gone. I wasted away in the hospital for weeks, I am living a life where not a damn thing is right!”

“I’m drowning here,” your voice breaks, losing all its volume and vehemence. “And all everyone keeps telling me is how they feel about it, how I’m supposed to be getting better. I’m not. I’m not, Nolan. For the love of God, can we make this about me for half a second?”

“You,” Nolan begins, but it gets caught up in his throat, dissolves into nothing before you can hear what it is. Nolan shakes his head, adamant. “I’m not doing this.” He gathers his things all while you desperately call his name. The door closing behind him echoes through the apartment not unlike a gunshot in your ear.

That same week, Nolan goes to therapy.

He doesn’t tell you about it, just like he hasn’t told you about the past couple of months worth of sessions. He doesn’t tell anyone, actually. It starts when a victim’s husband loses it mid trial and lounges at her killer right in front of God, the judge and a panicking Nolan. He’s sure he conceals his feelings well, yet his boss takes one look at him and stops by his office at the end of the day.

“Someone recommended him to me,” he says while Nolan traces the dark blue letters of the contact card he just handed him. “I haven’t been to him in years, but he’s good. If you don’t think he can help you then I’m sure he’ll find you someone who can.”

“I–” Nolan begins and leaves it at that. It’s such a quietly kind thing to do for him that it renders him speechless. 

“It can’t be easy,” he continues when Nolan doesn’t, endlessly patient, oddly personal. “What she went through, what you’re going through. I’m sure you’re both doing the best you can, but if you ever feel like you need more, well. It’s good to have options available.”

Everything that’s been offered the last few months; the casseroles and the rides to work, home, the hospital, a shoulder to cry on– it’s all been about you, for you. Nolan appreciates it but there’s something conditional about the whole thing, like he’s not worthy of help unless it’s somehow related to his wife. 

He loves you. By God, he loves you with everything there’s in him to the point of ruin, but this– this is for him. His boss is offering him a lifeguard he so desperately needs, and it has both everything and nothing to do with you. He gets to be selfish about this one thing, and the thrill of it drowns out the guilt he feels about leaving you in the dark. 

“Thanks,” he says, choked. Nolan clears his throat, hoping it comes out with at least some of the gratitude he’s feeling. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

The older man smiles, already at the door and saying his goodbyes. “See you tomorrow, Nolan.”

So Nolan goes to therapy. His first time on Dr. Rhymes’ couch he begins to weep before he can introduce himself. When he resurfaces from his grief, the man is offering him a box of tissues without a hint of judgement in his gaze. 

He gets now why you come back frustrated more times than not after a session. It’s like pulling teeth, no matter how badly he knows he needs it. But it helps more than he hoped it would and the nightmares about your death slowly lose some of its gore. His once rusted instincts coming back to its brilliance in court after a week’s worth of full night’s rest. 

He gets better. Starts to, anyways, but not you. In your dreams, you still bleed and bleed and bleed.

No one comes to get you. Liv misses the alleyway and chases after the perp, Nolan doesn’t call to wonder when you’re coming home, your gut pulsates with pain until there’s nothing but numbness, nothing but darkness, nothing left of you.

You wake up and don't know where you are. Your flail is purely instinctive, and despite the sharp pain that pulls at your chest you do so again, eyesight blurry, panic rising sharp and quick. Your entire body’s on fire but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter because you don’t know where you are and the perp is getting away, and Liv is still blocks away and, and, and, and–

Bleeding. You’re bleeding, bleeding out and your radio’s too far away and you can see the perp running but can’t hear his steps, there’s only your heartbeat echoing in your ears and the wet taste of death in your mouth as the world fades to black around you–

Sometimes you wake up from nightmares so quietly that Nolan doesn’t notice. Your eyes are closed and then they’re not and that’s all the movement your body can produce even if your heart is hammering against your ribcage. Other nights– nights like this one– you’re drenched in sweat and sprinting to the bathroom before your stomach returns the dinner you ate mere hours ago.

You hear Nolan fussing in the bedroom and picture him as clear as day in your mind; hair rumpled from sleep and eyes bleary, creased pajamas and worry lines on his features like he was supposed to grow into them. And he’s looking for you. Always, always looking for you.

You hate doing this to him but you hate having to go through it alone more. When you feel a cool, protective hand soothe up and down your back where your shirt sticks to your skin, you sob through your gags. 

Nolan only says let it out, honey, I’ve got you, just let it go in different variations until the panic subsides. You focus on the timber of his voice, the roughness of sleep coating his vowels and the tilt of his consonants. 

The bathroom tile is rough against your knees and your mouth tastes like acid, arms shaking with the effort of keeping you upright against the toilet seat. When you’re done, you fall back to the floor and Nolan is there next to you, ready to catch you. 

He cradles you almost like one would a baby and you nestle against his chest, exhausted. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak against his heartbeat. Nolan’s hand finds the sweaty nape of your neck and massages the tension out of it, hairs sticking to his fingers. 

His soothing reply is automatic but no less honest. “It’s alright. It’s just a dream.”

“Not for this,” you correct, panting against his cotton grey shirt and reaching to hold it in a tight, shaky fist. “I mean– yes, for this, but for before. Everything. In the hospital and for fighting, for not… For everything. I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“Don’t be,” he defends, awfully vehement for a man who’s been awake for less than 10 minutes and is sitting on his bathroom floor at 4 in the morning. It’s the most emotion he’s shown since your last fight and you could weep with the relief it brings you. “Never be. You’re in pain. I’m allowed to want to help you when you’re in pain.”

“I’m tired of being in pain.”

Nolan’s chest shudders and you unclench your fist to lay your palm against it, the beat of his heart fluttering despite his calm demeanor. He shifts his hand to brush his thumb against your cheek, calming. “I know, honey. I know.”

He doesn’t say it’s okay or it’ll get better because as much as you know Nolan hopes so, it’s not the kind of thing he can promise. You wouldn’t want him to. 

The sun rises through the horizon. Nolan holds you, holds you, and holds you. 

“It’s stupid,” you say against your hands, hours later in your emergency session with Dr. Masters, wet and high-pitched. “It’s so fucking stupid.”

You don't elaborate. She  gently goads. “What is?”

“It’s so simple,” your voice drips with disbelief, muscles coiled tight. “It’s so– it was one bullet. One second, and I’m– I can’t let it go. Why can’t I let it go?”

No answer, but you don’t need it. You’re already on a roll. “I’m okay. I’m alright, I recovered. I have my job and my husband and my life back then why am I like this? Why–”

Your voice breaks, a sign of weakness you’re done trying to hide. “Do I not want it? To get better, do I not want it enough? What am I doing wrong?”

“You have to understand, this isn’t something you did,” she sighs, leaving her notebook and pen to lean in closer. “Are you listening to me? This is something that happened to you, not because of you. Healing isn’t linear, isn’t that what you always say to the victims you encounter at work–”

You sniff, sharply wiping at your nose. “Yes, but–”

“But it’s different,” she finishes for you, leaning back against her seat. “Why? Because it’s you? Because you know better since you’re a cop? Because you’re not allowed any moment of weakness in the face of adversity?”

You’re rendered quiet, almost but not quite pouting after being called out so thoroughly. Masters continues. “You keep punishing yourself for reacting to trauma in an unpredictable way. Even that in itself is predictable. There’s no rulebook for this.”

“I know,” you say like you’ve done so many times since this whole thing started, but this is different. It’s not angry or sarcastic. It feels like a tipping point.

“This happened to you. You didn’t chose it,” your therapist says. Then, carefully, like she too is aware you’re on the cusp of something that you might be, finally, ready to hear. “But what you do with it– that is up to you.”

“You got handed this ugly, terrible thing,” she continues. “It’s yours now. And you can let it take over your life or you can take it in your hands and mold it into something you can live with.”

“That’s awful,” you say; tired, honest, terrified. Why should it be up to you? Why is it your job to fix what someone else broke? Master smiles. 

“It is. It’s all work,” you say. “At least at first. And then, piece by piece, you make a life with the fragments from before. You get new ones. It’s not gonna be the same, but it’ll be yours. But work. It’s the only way out.” 

It’s all work. 

The session hollows you from the inside out and the day at the office is a blur. You get home much, much later, weary and exhausted. The sun is already deep behind the horizon and your head is filled with statistics and suspect heights, ethnicities, possible sightings…

Your eyes hurt and Nolan is already in bed, bent over his book with his glasses perched low on his nose. A lifetime ago he would’ve joked they made him look old, and you would kiss him senseless until they went askew and tell him he looked distinguished. It’s such an old, nice memory, both distant and right there for the taking. You get a little breathless just thinking about it. 

He looks up to greet you when he hears you come in, tired but genuine. You think mold it into something you can live with and make a decision. 

“Hey,” he welcomes you. “How was work?”

“I…” whatever your apprehension is, you visibly shake it off before focusing on Nolan with a sense of determination he hasn’t seen from you in a very, very long time. “I would like you to come with me. To therapy.”

“You… would?” he hates that he sounds so surprised. He places his book on the bedside table, taking his glasses off. 

You look as uncomfortable as he feels, but aren’t backing down. You lessen the chasm between you, sitting on your side of the bed and laying your palm flat on the sheets. Realization hits Nolan like a slap to the face. 

Here you are, the strange shape that is his wife after hell and back, reaching. 

“I think… there are so many things I want to tell you,” you continue slowly, the way you do when you’ve rehearsed before speaking in court as a witness, presenting the case. “that I don’t know how. And so many things you have to say that I haven’t… wanted to hear.”

“But I’m ready,” you nod, grave. “To put in the work. Or– I want to be. And I’d– I’d like you to be with me, when I am.”

“We can go to Dr. Masters or– or I’m sure there’s some names she can draw up. Couples therapy,” you rush to say when Nolan doesn’t answer, desperate for his support. “Or– I mean, maybe you wouldn’t be comfortable with that, but I was really hoping we could–”

“Okay,” it comes out quiet. His nod, though, is resolute. “Yeah.”

You blink, a little startled and hesitatingly hopeful. “You– Yeah?”

“Yes. Okay. Yes, of course.”

“Okay,” you say, relieved, as if he’d ever say no to you. You laugh a little, deflating, running a hand through your hair. “Jesus, okay. Okay.”

A beat, two. Then you say, fragile as a baby bird, breaking the silence. “I’ve been so unfair to you.”

That finally gets him moving. He says your name, devastated. He opens up his arms, surer than he’s been in months. “Come here.”

You sigh out heavily, shakily. Standing, you move to his side of the bed and fall into his arms, work clothes and all. 

“We’re alright,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I love you. I’m coming with you. We’re gonna be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize anyways, crying into his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, too,” his voice breaks and his arms tighten. There’s a kiss pressed to your hair that only makes you cry harder. “I’m so sorry, honey, for so many things. But we’re gonna be okay.”

It’s all, all work. 

…Mostly.

“The files are on my desk,” Nick nods dutifully as you rattle off instructions, making sure your hair isn’t messed up by your coat. “Fin knows my notes backwards and forwards, if he tries to convince you he doesn’t it’s because he’s lazy, and I already let Cap know–”

Nick laughs, saying your last name knowingly. “It’s okay. Everything’s set, there’s nothing you’ve forgotten. Go have fun for once, will you?”

“Yeah, let us live vicariously through you,” Rollins pipes up as she passes by, an overflowing evidence box in her arms. “I’d kill for a hot date with a hotter lawyer right now.”

“You’d bite his head off before the appetizers came in,” Amaro smirks at her cockily, and you roll your eyes when Rollins predictably rises to the challenge. Behind them, Fin stares at them like he’s regretting all the life choices that led him to work with these people. 

“You know what, Bernardo–” Rollins begins.

“Speaking of the devil,” Much pipes up loudly before Rollins starts humming the notes to the West Side Story score at Nick. You shoot him a grateful look but your attention is soon refocused on Nolan, who looks tall and sharp as he enters the precinct. “Good to see you, kiddo.”

“You too, old man. Hey, everyone,” Nolan smiles as he greets everyone else, though it turns shy when he acknowledges you, suddenly unaware of the rest of the room. “Hi, honey.”

“Hey, handsome,” you can’t help yourself, feeling young and foolish. “You look good.”

“Had to match you, didn’t I?” he gives you a once over, long and interested, and you’re so into it you can’t even hear your coworkers making fun of you. “You ready to go?”

“Born ready,” you wave everyone goodbye and then, as soon as you’re out of ear shot, you admit sheepishly, “I’m actually a little nervous. Is that weird?”

Nolan’s laugh is tender, relieved. “No,” he says, looking more relaxed by the admission with his arm poised while you loop your own around it, keeping him close. “I am, too. I haven’t felt like this since you kissed me for the first time.”

“I’m sorry, I kissed you?” you reply. “I very vividly remember being cut off mid sentence about serious crimes punishable by law because someone couldn’t help himself.”

“Our study sessions always were interesting,” Nolan agrees, grin boyish. “Ivery vividly don’t remember hearing you complain about it.”

“Only that it took you so long to do it,” you quip.

“Well,” he tells you as you go into the empty elevator and the doors close behind you, already drawing you in. “Who am I to keep you waiting now?”

Some other weekend, the day is bright and gorgeous and neither you nor Nolan are able to to stay in. You move your slow weekend routines out of the apartment for once, going out for brunch and bringing reading material that doesn't involve case files or suspects statements for once. 

You walk around the city with a wonder rarely available to you lately and hold each other close. Halfway through the afternoon Nolan disappears across the street in search of your favorite coffee cart, telling you to stay put with a loud kiss to your cheek that leaves you giddy long after he’s gone.

“Hey, sorry,” he says breathlessly when he comes back, carefully keeping both coffees from overflowing. “They had to make a fresh pot just now.”

“‘s alright,” you say after a beat, smiling at him with an unusual shape to your mouth. It makes Nolan pause. 

He asks, endearingly concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s–” you begin and then cut yourself off. You look around, calculating. You shake your head, hoping to drop it. “No. Sorry. I just thought–”

Your breaths come out short despite your best tries to keep the previous atmosphere going. Nolan places the coffees on the sidewalk and stands back up, already reaching. He tries to keep his tone even. Calm. “Honey. Is it okay if I touch you?”

“You– yeah,” you blink, almost surprised to see him. The words rush out of you with relief, like you weren’t sure you still had it in you to be verbal. “Yes, please. Please.”

“Come here,” it’s a relief to him too, both your answer and permission. He draws you in with a protective hand on your back and you shudder into the touch, breathing in and out slowly like Dr. Masters taught you. “Great, you’re doing great. I got you.”

“Sorry,” you says again after a while, back in your body. “I thought it was the street where…” you admit. You’re embarrassed, Nolan doesn’t have to see your face to know it. “For a second, I. I saw the alley and it’s– it was literally just that but I was sure…”

You don’t finish your sentence, drifting off, but Nolan knows you too well. Understanding dawns in and he holds you tighter, protective. The perfectly harmless landscape of the city suddenly shifts before his eyes and he starts to panic. He can’t get you out of here fast enough, but maybe if he tries… an Uber would probably be quicker than walking home…

“Nolan,” you cut off his racing thoughts, oddly comforted by the fact that you’re not alone in your freak out, even if Nolan has been rendered useless by his own agitation. “It’s okay. I was wrong, it’s not the street. I’m good.”

“We can go,” he offers, terribly disappointed that your day is about to be cut short but willing to do that and more for your wellbeing. This? In the grand scheme of things this is nothing. You were gonna spend today in bed anyways. “Or– is there something you need, do you want to call–”

“I want to stay,” you say, sure, cupping his face. Your touch helps him breathe, unclogs his throat and opens up his lungs. “I want to be here with you. I want to keep living my life even with… this. It doesn’t get to win.”

Nolan’s eyes burn, but his grin is too big for his face. He kisses you, long and deep and careless of who’s watching. It’s New York, its streets have seen far worse things than a man knee deep in love with his wife. “It doesn’t get to win,” he affirms, catching his breath. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

You grin, shaky, bright. “You’ve told me so once or twice.”

Hand on hand, you pass by the alley. The day is beautiful.  

One night Nolan gets out of the bathroom to find you already in bed, frowning at your book. He passes a towel through his wet hair as he asks, “Is it any good?”

You only keep frowning. “It’s– I mean, yeah, but I. I don’t know.”

“What?”

“Have I read this before?” you ask him, showing him the cover. 

Nolan squints, mouthing the words, then his expression clears. “Oh, I know. Did Munch give it to you?”

“Yeah,” you sound surprised. You hadn’t told him about John’s offhand gift, a tattered copy of a book he lent to you the other week. “ How’d you know?”

“He was reading it to you,” Nolan begins, then shrugs and seems to hesitate before he continues. “At the hospital.”

You make a face like you just tasted something sour. “Oh.”

“A part of you must’ve heard,” he continues, softer, searching your face for signs to shut the hell up. Other than the initial realization, he finds only pensiveness. “Must remember.”

“I don’t know,” you say, thinking of days so far away and so present still, sometimes laying between you in bed. “It’d be silly, wouldn’t it? That my brain chose to retain bits of a book I heard while unconscious rather than… you know.”

Nolan breathes in deeply, holds it, and lets it out. He tries feeling comfortable in the silence you’ve built as he thinks his words through. His therapist told him once that if he expected a fight to start out of a conversation then he’d start fighting before he realized what he was doing. He’s trying to be better.

“What do you remember?” he dares to ask. You tilt your head towards your lap, fingers running over the edges of the book to ground yourself in the movements. “About the hospital?”

Your smile is brittle and you don’t look at him when you say, “I didn’t even remember what had happened at first.”

“When I first woke up after– after. I still don’t, mostly,” He watches you, patient and encouraging even when you can’t meet his eye. “Like, you know what happened. I got shot and spent weeks in there, but I don’t– It’s pretty much a blur.”

You sigh deeply. “But I woke up and I was afraid anyways. Like my body caught up to the situation before my mind did and I just– I was in pain, and I needed to get out,” you retell. 

There’s barely a memory there; of Nolan’s hand in yours and the sheer relief in his voice, the smell and sounds of a hospital that are too familiar in your line of work. 

“Sometimes,” you begin, and that’s where you cut yourself off, turning to him and smiling, fixing the facade back on. Nolan rushes to stop you before you completely hide from him, cupping your face tenderly.

You meet his eye and you look afraid. Nolan can’t blame you, it hasn’t been long since he stopped physically fleeing the room whenever you even hinted at the shooting. But he stays rooted in his spot, even if just to prove you both wrong. 

“Sometimes?” he goads, braver than he feels. You look at him intensely for what feels a very long time, then begin to relax against his touch.

“Sometimes,” you say, slowly, like you’re still expecting him to make an excuse and leave you to your feelings. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still there,” you admit, lip wobbling. “Just. Lying there. Waiting for someone to find me. To realize something’s not right.”

Nolan’s throat closes off. You’re not talking about the hospital, he realizes as his stomach drops. You’re talking about the alleyway. 

“It’s what I dream about, usually,” you sniff. Talking about the nightmare is better than having it, but it makes you nauseous nevertheless. You breathe in and out, deeply, a couple of times before you find your words again. “I’m lying there and it takes forever for someone to find me. Sometimes no one ever does and I wake up thinking I haven’t left that alley.”

That’s where Nolan’s perspective comes into view. He watches you wake, though only sometimes because there are nights in which you refuse to bother him despite how adamant he’s been about waking him up when you need him. He watches you wake and draws you back from the metaphorical cliff into his arms and your bed. 

You’d never told him about the dreams. This is definitely a first.

He does his best to breathe, to keep eye contact. He meant it, the silent vow he made to himself when you came forward and asked him to go to therapy together. He’s through running away from this. If he keeps leaving you every time you feel like this, what makes him any different than the man who left you in that alley, fighting for your life?

He does his best. “I don’t know if I can help,” he admits shamefully, out loud for the first time but for the thousandth time to himself. “But I’m here.”

You shudder with a sniff. Shifting closer to him, Nolan takes your weight effortlessly, like this is what he was meant for. That, he’s never doubted. 

“We found you,” he continues, a comfort that works for him as he hopes works for you. “We brought you home. I know exactly where you are.”

You lose the fight and bury your face in his shoulder, shaking in Nolan’s arms for a long, long time. Crying, he can tell, but quietly. He doesn’t tell you to be loud about it if you want to. He’s done telling you how to live through your grief.

“I kept thinking of you,” you admit later, much later, into his shirt. Nolan closes his eyes, wrecked. “Of who would call you, or if you… If you’d have to… to come claim a body.”

You feel him tighten his grip around you. 

“You were the first thing I recognized,” you continue, quiet. You’re toying with his shirt, soothing your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. “When I woke up, amidst all that panic, there was you.”

You huff a laugh against him, breath warm. “I don’t know if I’ve thanked you for that lately. Calming me down. You’ve always been good at that.”

“I don’t feel like I’m doing much,” he admits shamefully. 

He feels the way you shake your head, unwavering in your truth. “You do everything. You’re everything.”

“Right back at you, honey,” he says, and you hold each other for a very long time. 

Halfway through getting your life back, almost nine months after the shooting that shattered your life to the ground, the team finds and collars the perp.

The same gun he used on you shows up in CODIS for another recent crime and you get a warning text from Fin less than ten minutes before he walks in with the suspect. Rollins is stone-faced by his side, both of them holding on to him despite his very obvious lack of struggle. 

He barely even looks at you before he’s glancing away, bored. You remain unrecognizable to him but his features spark a flash of awareness deep in your unconscious and you’re excuse yourself to go dry heave in a bathroom while he gets processed. 

Your thumb shakes over the screen of your phone, right on top of Nolan’s contact. You should just call him, you know it. You’ve done it before, and your husband would cross the city during rush hour and bend time to his will just to be by your side and hold you through the panic. 

You know, but you can’t. You’ve been doing so good lately, finally; after the year from hell your lives are finally getting a glimpse of normalcy, and this– this is a Setback. Capital S setback, and after everything you’ve put him through… God, you can’t keep doing this to him.

You won’t do this to him. You call your therapist instead and hate every single second of it, hate even more that it works; forty minutes on the phone with her and you exit the bathroom with bloodshot eyes but with your chin held high and hands steady. 

Amaro is the first to notice you and he catches your stare immediately, but he only nudges a tower of paperwork from his desk to yours and says, “You snooze, you lose, partner.”

“Dick,” you answer, your voice only a bit nasal. You’re so incredibly thankful for him that you could weep again right there and then. 

You sit to get back to work, perp nowhere in sight, and bite the inside of your cheek in thought before you pull your phone back out, sending some rapid-fire texts. 

Hey

I love you

You sigh and leaf through the papers, looking for where to start. Working through an equally ridiculous amount of files in his office across the city, Nolan’s eyebrows lift in curiosity at your  texts.

I love you too

Is everything alright?

The three dots signifying your reply appear and disappear over the course of a few moments. After a while, his phone chimes again. 

Rough day. Just wanted the reminder.

But I’m okay, I promise. 

I’ll tell you all about it at home tonight.

Nolan sighs out slowly, and trusts you. Because of it, he watches you grow into your own skin again. 

Your visits to Dr. Masters get less and less frequent and the damned paper finally gets signed. The nightmares, though not gone, lessen and don’t make you sick to your stomach anymore as you trace Nolan’s features in the dark to soothe yourself back into a slumber. You tell him everything, become more lenient with your resurfacing memories and in return, you hold Nolan as he talks about those days at the hospital and cries until he physically can’t anymore. 

It’s so familiar and so, so new. You’re who you’ve always been and yet Nolan finds himself staring at you sometimes, amazed at the differences– a woman reshaped entirely by trauma and victorious over it nevertheless. Victorious because of it.

When you drag him away from the kitchen sink where dirty dishes sit after dinner, he barely puts up a fight. Nolan eagerly follows you to the couch and sinks into your embrace when you tangle your fingers in his hair, shivering against your welcoming touch.

You’re making out like teenagers– like you used to when you were in college– with no specific purpose until Nolan starts to forget himself. His hands are around your waist, squeezing unconsciously while you, on top of him, swallow his sound of elation and run your tongue along his teeth, wet and dirty. 

Jesus, Nolan thinks unabashedly, and wants, wants, wants–

He nudges his leg between your thighs, pants uncomfortably tight, when you call his name. You’re pulling away suddenly, bringing him back from a daze, a hand tangled in his hair. Your fingers twitch with restraint as you look him over, pensive.

Nolan sighs, leaning his temple against yours and trying to get his breathing back into a less agitated rhythm. All he gets is a whisk of your perfume and the warmth of your skin, his efforts useless. 

“Right,” he murmurs, voice velvet quiet. He’s still trying to preserve the moment even after your new set of boundaries. “Right. I’m sorry.”

You haven’t gone that far since– Since. Nolan can’t recall the details of the last time you were together, one random night the week you were shot. He didn’t think he’d have to, but now he wishes he had committed the night to memory; your skin under his hands, the sounds you made, how you reached bliss together–

“Don’t be,” you say equally as lowly, pupils blown, gaze ardent. “I want…”

You drift off. It’s suddenly urgent, imperative that Nolan knows what you’re asking for, needs to give it to you immediately.

“What?” he murmurs back, thumbing at your bottom lip, bruised and kissed. Your breath is hot against his skin. “What, honey, what do you want? What can I do?”

“Kiss me again,” You say. Then, before he can comply– “Don’t– don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop.”

“You…” Nolan says, shaking his head to pull himself together, attention still hazy around the edges. Your name tastes so sweet when he says it. “You mean…”

“Please,” you whine, and Nolan’s body reacts to the sound all on its own, hips subtly canting up towards you. You press your mouth to his jaw, tongue barely caressing the skin. “Please, Nole, please keep touching me.”

Nolan curses, both at your words and the realization he might not last as long as he’d like if you keep saying these things to him. “Sweetheart. Oh, are you sure?”

Your breath hitches. “God, Nolan, more than anything else.”

“Come on. Come here,” Nolan insists, turning to kiss you so thoroughly he almost forgets the point he’s trying to make. “I’m gonna do this right, okay? We have a perfectly good bed in the other room–”

He scrambles up and takes your hand, taking you with him. You surrender to him and he kisses your hand, the crook of your elbow, your shoulder and neck, in a rush and yet wanting to make this last as long as possible. 

You laugh amidst your urgency, rich and lovely, cupping his face and kissing him soundly, rubbing against him. Nolan is a weak, weak man. 

“I love you,” you say while he buries himself inside you later in bed, sheets pooled around the both of you, and looking up at him like you can’t believe he’s real. Nolan’s on top of you and he’s got your fingers tangled together; your hands pinned against the sides of your face. They’re points of steadiness as the tension inside him threatens to snap with each thrust, however small. “I love you, Nole, I love you so much–”

He’s not ashamed to say he’s crying when he finally comes, and you cup his face in your hands with a wounded sound when you realize. You kiss him as you finally let yourself go and it tastes like victory. Like work; like blood, sweat and tears. It feels like being yourself, added scars and all, Nolan’s warmth a steady, sure thing against your side. 

started this over a year ago and it's finally yours!!! sorry i've been so absent, i've been having the worst writer's block of my life lol but i hope you love this as much as i do! let me know what you think and i hope you see more from me in the next months! thanks for reading <3

[isaut]

𝒊 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅— f!reader x captain rex. divorcee au.

they're my babies. other fics of note in this series: you should probably leave | starting over. cw: drinking, throwing up, rex being the man of all time, secret relationships

It’s no secret that you drink more during the summer. During the school year, you never have more than two beverages, always reserved to fruity little margaritas with salted rims or light beers. Over the summers, however, with three daughter sized holes in your heart, you fill the craters with dirty martinis and chambord, wine coolers and peach schnapps. 

No one mentions it. Not when you always make drinks for others when you make one for yourself, and not when Rex has mentioned that you’re embarrassed about it. Aware and embarrassed. 

It’s recently that Rex has begun carrying martini glasses in his house, and one that has not gone unnoticed. There’s also no more Kirkland vodka in his house— it’s Grey Goose, which is the kind that is in your house as well. 

The snack platter is nothing like what Rex would ever prepare. It’s obvious that you made it— Chips and shrimp cocktail with cheeses and salamis and olives. It's been successfully demolished, and packs of gushers and cheesy chips have been dipped into instead. 

No one mentions the flairs you’ve begun dropping in Rex’s carefully curated space. 

You finish off your last martini of the night and it feels like a mistake. Setting it on the coffee table, you slowly stand up, excusing yourself to go to the restroom. 

The restroom is on the first floor. You climb the stairs, in favor of the restroom that you are used to using. 

In Rex’s bathroom, you use the soap you influenced him into buying and the lotion he got for you. You pull your toothbrush out of the spot it hides in and brush your teeth. You play with the neckline of your halter top, moving it around to check how tan you’ve gotten since summer began. 

Exiting the bathroom, you take off your shirt, letting it sink into a puddle on the middle of the floor. Rex will be slightly irritated by it, so you pick it up and put it in the laundry basket. In his drawers, you find a tshirt and pull it over your head, bringing the hem to your nose to take a deep breath. 

Shucking off your jeans, you drop them in the hamper as well. You find the one pair of sweatpants that Rex owns that fit you, pulling them on and flopping onto the bed. 

You should get up and say goodnight to everyone. Maybe Rex will come and hold you. 

The door to his bedroom cracks open, and you crack open your eyes to glance over at the sound.

Rex eases his way into the bedroom. His eyes soften upon seeing you, all comfortable in his clothes and his bed. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers, as to not call the attention downstairs to the pet name of choice. The pet name only used in privacy. 

Sitting up your elbows, you tilt your head to the side. “Hi.” 

“What are you doing?” Rex asks, coming over to your side. He helps you sit up all the way, fingers gently wrapping around your hands. 

“I wanted to get comfy,” you say softly, twining your fingers with his. “My jeans were starting to hurt.” 

“I was wondering why you wore them,” Rex says. Normally you’re in long sun dresses or skirts, able to have the breeze flow through you without showing off your knees. “You comfy now?” 

You nod. 

“You coming back downstairs?” Rex asks. 

You sigh. Rex catches your head before it can fall onto your shoulder. You lean fully into his palm. 

“I should… I haven’t said goodnight to anyone. Do I need to go home?” 

Rex wants to tell you that in a perfect world you are home. You’ve already made yourself at home. Instead, he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“I’ll take you home whenever you want.” 

“I don’t want to go home,” you murmur. “I just want to stay here.” 

“You can stay here,” Rex says. He swipes his thumb over your cheek, over the layer of foundation and concealer there. Somehow, it hasn’t begun to separate. “You want to wash your face?” 

You shake your head. “My eye makeup won’t come off.” 

“Oh. I got you something.” Rex stands, heading into the bathroom. He futzes about, you watched him from your lounging perch. He pulls a bottle and some cotton pads out, coming back to your side. This time, he sits directly beside you on the bed.

You eye the bottle. “Is that Mac?” 

Rex shakes the container and then pumps some of the liquid onto a cotton pad, soaking it. He responds as he presses it to your eye, letting it sit there. “I got tired of cleaning your mascara off my bedding.” 

“My mascara doesn’t run,” you protest. 

Rex gently rubs the swab against your lid, taking product with him. He repeats with a fresh pad on the other. And another for your face, his own lips for the remnants of your kiwi strawberry lipgloss. 

“You wanna actually wash your face?” Rex asks. “You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

With his hands on your hips, you diligently and sloppily wash your face. Apply his moisturizer and steal a few kisses. 

Rex shuffles you into bed, under the turned down sheets. He throws the decorative pillows onto the ground, letting you nestle in on his side, the side closest to the door. 

“Will you come back to cuddle?” You ask, watching as he drags over a trash can. 

“Yeah,” Rex promises, pushing down the can of coke and clothing tags in his trashcan. “Will you promise me not to lay on your back?” 

You’re comfortable on your side, arms wrapped around his pillow. 

“I’ll be good,” you promise. 

Rex tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. He presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“Do you need anything else?” 

“No,” you mumble. “I’m going to go to sleep.” 

“Alright.” Rex shifts the trash can, then the bedding. “I’ll be up soon.” 

You nod, eyes closed. The room’s spinning. Your mouth is sweating. Rex leaves the room, closing the door gently behind him. 

There’s approximately three minutes of half sleep, before you’re leaning over the bed and throwing up a delightful mixture of shrimp and olives and vermouth into the trash can. You need to listen to your gastroenterologist and chew your food for longer. 

Forever passes. You slide out of the bed, throwing up again and again, until the vodka is nothing more than bile. There’s laughter from downstairs, shouting. Maybe a game has come out. 

You can’t focus on that. Instead, you stumble from the crouched position over the trashcan to the bathroom, desperately searching for the mouthwash. You don’t see the familiar green liquid. Not on the counter, not under it, not in the closet. 

Frustrated, and with your mouth tasting like your intestines, you head out of the room. Brace yourself against the railing as you climb down the stairs, stopping halfway down when you make eye contact with Echo’s wife on the couch. With a slight hand movement, she squeezes Echo’s thigh, bringing his attention to your. 

Something churns in your gut that they shouldn’t see you like this. 

Rex’s head whips around to see you standing there. He quickly jumps off the couch, drawing more attention to you than necessary. He ushering you back upstairs without touching you, and you go anyways. 

“I couldn’t find your mouthwash,” you announce, louder than you mean to. “I threw up. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Rex says gently, hand on your thigh as he pushes his bedroom door open wider. 

“I threw up in the trash can,” you add on. 

“That’s good,” Rex says. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, leading you into the bathroom. His mouthwash is on the counter, and he pours some into a Dixie cup for you. “You think you’re going to throw up again?” 

“No,” you mumble. “I think… I think I’m okay. I’m sorry I drank so much.” 

Rex shakes his head. You swish the drink around in your mouth. 

“You don’t need to apologize,” Rex murmurs. “Did you have fun?” 

You nod. “What game are you playing?” 

“Uno,” Rex says. “You want to join?” 

“I just want to lay on you,” you admit. 

“Maybe drink some water?” 

You nod. Brush your teeth. Wash your mouth again. Head downstairs hand in hand with Rex. 

There’s a resounding applause for your return. You grin, sheepishly, and sit in Rex’s spot on the couch while he grabs you a glass of water. 

“I just had to throw up real quick,” you explain with a smile. 

“Old Ralph and rally,” Hardcase laughs. 

“Whatever that is,” you agree. A bottle of Gatorade is dangled in your face, that you take quickly. 

Rex settles into the space you’ve made for him on the couch, draping your legs over his. Leaning over, he plucks his cards back up from the table. 

“I’m out of luck right now,” Rex murmurs to you. You rest your head against his shoulder, cradling your Gatorade bottle like a stuffed animal. He is out of luck. Nothing but yellow 3s and 7s. 

No one says anything, but glances are shared. Not that you notice. You’re back asleep within moments, Rex’s heartbeat in your ear. 

You sleep through everyone leaving. Sleep through Rex loading the dishwasher and folding all the throw blankets. Almost sleep through his slipping his arms up under you and lifting you up. 

Blinking away, you groan slightly and look around. 

You’re being carried up the stairs. 

“Hey,” Rex whispers. 

“What happened?” 

Rex lays you down in bed as gentle as can be. “You just needed to be around people. How are you feeling?” 

“Tired,” you murmur. “Did you win? Uno?” 

Rex chuckles. “No. Lost real bad.” 

You hum. “I’m sorry.” 

“I was expecting it,” Rex says, carefully getting you tucked up under the blankets. “You should take some advil before you sleep.”��

You groan, pressing your face further into the pillow. Rex roots around in his bedside table, producing the tiny bottle and handing the dosage to you. You open up your mouth for him to place the little pills into. Swallow with Gatorade. 

“I’m going to be so sick in the morning,” you bemoan. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Rex promises, changing into pyjamas of his own. 

“You’re always taking care of me.” There’s a warble in your voice. 

“I enjoy taking care of you,” Rex says. “Someone’s got to.” 

Faintly, the comment hurts somewhere you can’t place. Not because it’s malicious. It’s sweet. It’s been a long time since you were looked after. 

From the bed, you watch as Rex gets ready for the rest of the night. Your eyes slip shut a few seconds into him brushing his teeth. They open again at the click of the bedside lamp being turned off. 

Rex places a kiss to your forehead. “Wake me up if you need anything.” 

“Can you turn the fan up higher?” 

Rex pulls away to do so. He climbs in bed, slipping under the sheets. Slots himself behind you, wraps an arm around your waist, slides his arm under your neck. 

“I love you,” you murmur, bringing the arm around your waist to your chest, holding him close. There’s a lot of other things you want to say, but you don’t know if you’ll ever have the right words to convey them. 

Rex is quiet for a moment. Then, he places a kiss to the back of your head. “I love you too.” 

Your smile is sleepy and satiated. There’s no need to ask Rex if he means it. 

[tired-biscuit]

best friend kiba who has a massive crush on you steals your underwear from the laundry hamper in your bathroom he feels like a creep about it but he honestly can’t help it — it smells so good and when he gets home he can’t help but fuck his fist with one hand while holding your panties to his nose with the other and inhaling deep. he feels like such a loser he wants to fuck you soooo bad

his post nut clarity has him red faced and hornier than ever, feeling pathetic. has him texting you ���what’re u doing tonight if u have plans cancel them” because if he can’t fuck you he has to at least be around you

even if he just saw you less than an hour ago lmao clingy bastard

poor baby! he’d act so unbearably awkward around you and would be super mega anxious even if he’d know for sure that there’s no way you’re aware of what he just did... i mean, why would you? he’s just your dumb, grouchy best friend!

i think he’d have such a hard time hiding his crush, though; especially if you have the type of friendship that’s kind of touchy? like, he’s trying his best to conceal the hard-on that throbs in his pants when you snuggle up into his side, and is forcing his eyes to steer clear from your lips whenever you’re talking to him. sometimes he even completely zones out if you smell particularly good. that kind of lovesick stuff.

and whenever he touches himself, you always, always pop into his mind, but this time it’s even worse. just the image of you wearing the panties that he’d swiped from your bathroom is enough to make the heat in his belly go batshit crazy. especially when he starts to fantasize about his fingers tugging them to the side before he slides them in, and you letting out that small gasp that you sometimes voice whenever you go to the gym with him…

and holy fuck, that’s literally your scent. he knows what your pussy smells like now and it’s driving him insane. his cock aches with need to be inside your cunt as he fucks his fist, and his heart pounds so strongly that it makes him feel slightly dizzy. he’s in love with you, so he feels kind of gross for doing this, stooping so low and all that, but he just can’t stop. it feels too good to stop. with how sensitive his nose is, the scent has literally managed to make him pussy drunk even if he’s never come close to the actual thing.

it ends up being the best nut of his life so far, but also his guiltiest one.

[ejzah]

A/N: Once again, a tiny idea morphed into a much longer than intended fic. Enjoy the angst!

***

Relapse

Kensi had learned after Deeks was tortured by Sidorov that in addition to withdrawing from everyone around him when he was in a state of distress, he forgot to take care of himself as well. It had taken her a while to pick up on the pattern, but now, especially after living together for three years, she knew all the signs. He tended not to eat often enough, his meticulous cleaning schedule became disrupted, and he either barely moved at all, or spent hours exhausting his body in an attempt to quiet his mind.

So one week in the middle of summer when Kensi noticed the counters hadn’t been wiped down in a few days, and the laundry hamper was nearing capacity—something that never occurred since they moved in together—she took note. It wasn’t a cause for massive alarm, but enough that she decided to keep a close eye on Deeks. They’d just come off a horrific case that lasted over three weeks and had them all running on fumes.

Maybe he just needed the time to recuperate, she reasoned. She’d certainly been on edge and snapped at everyone more than usual, including Deeks, who had the misfortune of spending their few hours away from work with her.

On Tuesday, they had a fairly slow day, the latter part of which they spent cleaning out in-boxes and catching up on the procedures that got overlooked during intense cases. It gave them a much needed opportunity to bond and unwind.

Inevitably, Sam and Callen ended up in argument over who had actually taken down their most recent criminal.

“Nope, I definitely reached him before you did,” Callen insisted in that tone that meant he was just arguing for the joy of watching Sam grow more irritated. Kensi dipped her head to conceal a smile.

“Are you kidding me? You weren’t even close. He’d still be on the run if we left it to you,” Sam objected, shaking his head in exasperation.

“I don’t know, Sam, Deeks is the one who distracted him,” Kensi pointed out. She waited expectantly for Deeks to jump in with his own comment, but none came.

Kensi realized he’d been quiet through most of the teasing and banter, when normally he’d be egging Sam right alongside Callen. His body was turned slightly away, gaze focused in the direction of the back wall. She wondered if he saw anything at all.

The silence grew long enough for it grow slightly awkward, and Kensi hastily added, “I’m just saying it’s a group effort.”

“Yeah, you can keep your “group effort”, Sam made air quotes around the last two words. “I’m the one who tackled him, and that’s all that matters.” He jabbed a button on his laptop keyboard. “And I’m outta here. Don’t even think of calling me before 6 tomorrow morning.”

Callen left shortly after Sam, followed by Eric and Nell, who seemed in a hurry.

“You want to grab tacos on the way home?” she asked once she finished her own paperwork, leaning across the front of Deeks’ desk. “I’ll buy.” She let her tone drop flirtatiously, shimmying her shoulders.

“Uh, I’m really behind on my LAPD paperwork,” Deeks answered without looking up. “I think I’m going to stay a little bit later.”

“This is the first night we’ve gotten out before 7 in weeks.”

Finally looking up, Deeks sighed heavily, swiping his hair out of his eyes with a careless hand. Even in the dim light, she could tell his eyes were bloodshot.

“I know. LAPD will get on my case if I wait any longer though. I’ll just be a couple hours, ok?” He gave her a pleading, regretful look, that Kensi was powerless to ignore.

“Ok.” She leaned closer, tipping his chin a little higher to kiss him. “Don’t be too long,” she said.

“I won’t,” Deeks promised, returning her kiss with a brush of his lips. “Love you.”

***

It was a full four hours later when Kensi heard the front quietly open and shut. She’d tried not to wait up, even going to bed, but too many thoughts and worries circled through her brain to get anywhere close to sleep. She tracked Deeks’ movement through the house; he stopped in the kitchen, got a glass of water, checked on Monty in the living room, then finally headed to their room.

Kensi rolled over onto her side when he walked in, knowing there wasn’t any point in pretending to sleep. Deeks stood by the closet, taking off his shoes.

“Hey,” she murmured. He stilled at the sound of her voice, shoulders caving for a second before he turned around.

“Hey. Sorry.”

She didn’t know if he was apologizing for possibly waking her. Or coming home late.

“It’s ok.” Holding out her hand, she waited until he was within reaching distance, and pushed herself up enough to slide her hand around his neck. He let her pull him down, releasing a slightly pained noise. Kensi slid her fingers up into his hair, finding the strands damp.

She didn’t call him on it, just holding him tighter when their lips parted. She felt the tension in his shoulders and back, so tight it seemed he might snap at any moment.

“Come to bed,” she told him, pulling back the covers. When Deeks slid in beside her, she curled around him, hoping took some comfort in her touch.

***

Kensi’s worry skyrocketed as she watched Deeks withdraw more every day. This time around, he tended towards movement, which meant he either woke up early (assuming he’d slept at all) or stayed after work to work out. At the same time, his appetite seemed to have disappeared.

She tried to combat it all by bringing him a donut in the morning or cajoling him into bed and doing her best to soothe him to sleep. It wasn’t enough, but she was hesitant to push too hard.

“Hey, I brought you some soup,” she said one evening as she came back from a food run. Deeks had very noticeably not requested anything.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, not even pausing considering the bucket she plunked down in front of him.

“Baby, you didn’t eat breakfast this morning. It’s after six. You need to have something.”

“Kens—”

“No,” Kensi interrupted sharply, forgetting her decision to remain quietly supportive, to say nothing. “You are tired, you’re not eating, you’re not talking, and I am done letting you fade right in front of me.”

His head sank forward for a moment, and he rubbed his hands over his face, emitting the deepest of sighs. When he looked up again, the shadows in his eyes were even darker, and Kensi’s heart clenched painfully for him.

“I’m just struggling a little right now. I’ll get over it,” he insisted dully. “I always do.”

“You don’t have to do it alone though. You have me,” Kensi reminded him, moving around his desk to crouch in front of him. She grabbed his hands, clasping them between hers. “Let me help you.”

“I want to…” he shook his head, tilting his head back with a sorrowful expression. “It just feels like everything terrible feeling is amplified by a hundred and anything good is dampened.” He smiled sadly. “Only thing that helps sometimes is when you’re holding me at night.”

“I’ll do anything you need, anything. But please don’t push me away. I can’t bear that.”

“I’ll try.” He nodded, eyes damp. Kensi drew his forehead to her shoulder, weaving her fingers into his hair.

“And eat your soup.”

That got a weak out laugh out of him. Drawing back, he grabbed the tub across his desk, popping the lid off.

Kensi knew that one meal wouldn’t magically fix everything, but as he slowly worked his way through the soup, it was a step the right direction.

Under the table, Deeks reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Hair Trigger

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam, Superfam, YJ98

Summary: A junior at Gotham University, Jason finds it difficult to conceal his worsening mental health from his family and his friend, Jon Lane Kent. Family secrets are revealed and boundaries are pushed as Jason and Laney struggle to navigate through school, their romantic feelings, and their trauma. Could the reintroduction of Laney Kent be more trouble than it's worth, or is it just what Jason needed to confront the demons of his past?

I will also do trigger warnings for chapters and if there is smut I have the chapter(s) tagged so you don't have to worry about nsfw in the fic if you're just here for the story itself.

Chapters: 20/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Jonathan Lane Kent, Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake, Conner Kent, Natalia Knight, Jonathan Samuel Kent, Cassie Sandsmark, Chris Kent, Bart Allen, Original Character(s)

Relationships: JayLaney, Clois, TimKon

Additional Tags: University AU, No Powers AU, Sharing A Bed, Romance, Angst, TW // Kidnapping , TW // Gun Violence

Chapter Twenty: Disjointed

Laney sat on Jason's bed as Jason picked up their dirty laundry and put it in the hamper. "Jason?" Laney whispered. Jason took the blankets off his bed and checked the plugs to make sure everything was plugged where it was supposed to be. "Jason—."

"Who is Caleb Forrester, and why do I feel like he means something to you?" Jason raised his voice slightly. Laney's shoulders tensed.

"He was my counselor when I went to boarding school... And I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just wanted to put it all behind me. Jason, he doesn't mean anything to me anymore. I'm terrified of him," Laney's voice cracked. Jason sat across from Laney on the bed. "I told you a lie about the first guy I was emotionally involved with, and I had to change details about it because I didn't know how you would see me—."

"I love you, Laney. Even if we were just friends or married or any of it... I love you in every way, and I wouldn't have judged you, but I'm sorry for being pissed. I just thought that maybe you wanted someone else," Jason whispered as he grabbed Laney's hand.

Laney kissed Jason's knuckles. "Jason, no, I don't want anybody else," Laney mumbled as tears flooded to the surface. "And I don't wanna cry... Caleb and I might've had something, but whatever that was was wrong. I just want it to be over. I want him to stop following me." Jason held Laney's hand over his mouth and kissed his palm.

"Wait, how long's he been following you?" Jason asked. Laney took Jason's hand and tried to cover his face. "Lane, please. Be serious with me."

"Since I was seventeen. Caleb showed up at a party I went to, then in Metropolis, he showed up at my dorm room, and now he's here in Gotham. I don't know," Laney whispered, "Maybe this is my fault for trusting him so much at first."

"It isn't your fault... Hey, look at me. It's not," Jason whispered. Laney looked up at Jason, and they met eyes.

Laney lay back on Jason's bed and took a deep breath. "Jason, I don't know what to do other than put down roots and hope that he will eventually go away," Laney mumbled as he pushed his hair back.

"Lane, I know you don't want to hear this, but I think you need to get a restraining order. I will go with you, and we can go out of town for a little bit. Okay?" Jason asked. Lois knocked on the door, and Jason invited her in.

"Your dad is on speaker right now," Lois whispered.

"Lane, how do you feel?" Clark asked.

"I'm okay... I mean, I'm screwed up because I knew Forrester was following me. I'm sorry," Laney mumbled.

Clark clicked his tongue. "Laney, maybe you should come home—."

"Dad, I can't come home. I came to Gotham because I thought he wouldn't follow me here. If I go home, he'll just follow me there... Jason's right. I have to make this stop. I'm gonna go down to the courthouse in a little while," Laney mumbled.

Lois leaned against Jason's nightstand, still holding the phone. "Lane, take the phone. Jason, can I talk to you?" Lois asked. Jason nodded, and Lois gave Laney her cellphone.

Jason stepped into the living room with her, and Lois plopped down on the couch. "Did you know anything about Laney's counselor?" Lois asked. Jason shook his head.

"Laney told me something about some guy from boarding school, but it wasn't true... I didn't really know anything about the counselor until this morning after breakfast," Jason answered. Lois pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I thought that maybe he said something to you about it... Maybe I should stay longer—."

"No, don't worry... I've got him. I'm gonna take him to the courthouse later on today, and—."

Laney came out of the room and grabbed his keys off of the kitchen counter. "Laney, where are you going?" Lois asked. Laney took a deep breath.

"I have to go get my laptop from my apartment. I forgot I have an assignment due at eleven... I'll be right back," Laney replied as he left the apartment. Jason went back to doing his laundry and cleaned his room before noticing something strange.

"Mrs. K.? Can you come in here for a second?" Jason asked. Lois came to the door and looked at him.

"Jason—."

"His laptop is in the bedroom," Jason pointed out. Lois cursed and slipped on her shoes, and she asked Jason to follow her downstairs. They got in the car and drove straight to Laney's building.

Jason texted Sylvia and motioned for Lois to stay out of sight while waiting for Sylvia to answer the door. Sylvia answered the door in tears, and she embraced Jason.

"Hey, Sylvie, is Lane here? We just had a weird conversation before he left, and I just wanted to come and apologize to him," Jason whispered. Sylvia burst into tears.

"I said that guy was weird, and Laney came here and left with him—."

"Sylvia, slow down," Jason whispered, "So he's not here?"

"No, Laney went with the guy, and he told me not to say anything, but he packed a bag—."

Jason cursed. "Sylvie, stay here, and I'll call you when I see him—."

"Jason, I'm so—." Jason smiled and shook his head.

"It's okay... I'll find him in a minute," Jason whispered as he left the apartment with Lois.

"What happened?" Lois asked as she rushed behind Jason.

"He left with him. Lane went with him. Sylvia said Laney packed a bag and went with him," Jason replied as he unlocked Lois's car door, and Jason's phone rang. Lois answered and put it on speaker.

"Caleb, I get why you're mad. I said a lot of crazy things last night," Laney said over the phone, "We can go to the farm, but I need you to tell me why you're still so mad at me."

"Because you said some really nasty things to me last night. Lane, you know that I adore you. You know that, but it hurts me when you run from me," Mr. Forrester replied.

"But, Caleb, listen to me. What do I have to do to prove it to you? Hm?" Laney asked.

"Come to Hershey with me. To the farm," Mr. Forrester answered.

"Caleb, baby, I said I was gonna go with you. I did. I wanna go to Pennsylvania with you. I want to, but you're scaring me. Can you please put that away?" Laney asked. "No, Caleb, please. We can do whatever you want to do. I just can't be honest with you when I'm scared like this."

"Lane, do you think I'm stupid—?"

"No! But I'm gonna be sick if you don't put the gun away!" Laney screamed. "Like I'm so upset right now because I feel like you want to hurt me, and all I want is to go away with you! Can you please pull over behind this grocery store? I feel like I'm gonna throw up!"

"Lane, okay... I'm gonna put the gun away. Just calm down," Mr. Forrester's voice softened, and the call grew near silent. They heard a smacking noise, and Jason looked at Lois and back at the road. She took the phone off speaker, and Jason wiped a few tears from his eyes.

"Jason, are you okay?" Lois asked as she held the phone to her ear.

Jason chuckled uncomfortably and shook his head. "No, no, I'm not okay. It's not that, though. It's not the kissing. It's just—."

Lois gasped and put the phone back on speaker before yelling for Laney. "Laney! Lane! Answer the phone!" Lois yelled.

"What happened?" Jason asked.

"Mom? Jason?" Laney sobbed before telling them where he was, and he hung up. Jason sped to where Laney was, and he ran into the police and the ambulance.

"Lane! Laney!" Jason screamed as he jumped out of the car, and the police stopped him and Lois from entering the scene. Laney sat in the back of an ambulance wrapped in a blanket with blood on his face and hands, and Jason and Lois ran to him and embraced him. Laney sat there in a daze.

"Cricket, look at me," Lois whispered, "Cricket, it's Mama."

Jason got on his phone and called Clark. "Hello?" Clark's voice answered on speaker, and Laney blinked hard before bursting into tears. "Jonathan?"

"Is he dead?" Laney asked. Lois looked around, and she shook her head.

"Don't worry about that. Did you talk to the police?" Lois asked. Laney nodded.

"What happened?" Clark asked.

"He pulled over, and I shot him," Laney whispered. Lois wandered off, and Jason stood with Laney.

"I'll be there tonight," Clark replied before hanging up. Laney reached for Jason, and Jason embraced him. Jason moved to kiss Laney, and Laney turned his head.

"Don't kiss me. I threw up," Laney mumbled.

"I don't care. I'll gargle," Jason whispered, and Laney let Jason kiss him. "Please don't scare me like this again. You know how scared I had to be to kiss you after you threw up?" Laney let out a little laugh.

Lois came back. "Let's go home... Okay? I talked to the police, and they said it's okay. Let's go home," Lois whispered as she took the blanket off of Laney, and Laney grabbed Jason's hand as they walked to the car. The ride to Laney's apartment was silent.

When they got back to Laney's apartment, Sylvia hugged him. "I thought you'd be hurt," she wept, "Are you okay?"

Laney didn't say anything for a moment as he looked around the apartment. "I need to take a shower and lay down. Sylvie, I'm sorry," Laney whispered before kissing the top of her head and going back to his room.

Jason waited until Laney went to the bathroom before making sure Laney's CPAP was plugged up and pulled the sheets back. He burst into tears. Lois entered the room and gave Jason a hug. "Jason, it's okay. Don't worry," Lois whispered.

"No, but it's not. I've never seen Lane like that," Jason wiped the tears from his eyes. "There's so much that I really don't know about this."

"Jason, Laney isn't guarded because he wants to be. Lane's got so many feelings about everything, and it's easier for him to push through them or lie about them than it is to just stop and feel something...

He loves you. He's just gonna need time to sort through this. This all seems sudden for us, so imagine how it was for him. I'm gonna order us something to eat," Lois whispered. Jason nodded.

"Mrs. K.?" Jason stopped her.

"Yeah?" she asked in a soft tone.

Jason stood there for a while in near-silence before whispering, "Did Laney kill him?"

Lois shook her head. "Almost," Lois whispered, "But I think it's better for Lane's conscience this way." She closed the door behind her on her way out, and Jason sat in a desk chair, waiting for Laney to return.

When Laney came back to the bedroom, he took off his shirt, climbed into bed, and lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Jason opened his mouth to speak, but he didn't know what to say. "I can understand if you're mad about what you had to hear," Laney whispered. Jason rolled the chair around to Laney's bed.

"I'm not mad at you. You did what you had to," Jason whispered, "I just hate I wasn't there for you." Laney turned on his side.

"Jason, I have to tell you something," Laney whispered, "I didn't want him to die... I still don't." Jason nodded.

"That isn't a bad thing... That's just how you feel—."

"How do you feel?" Laney asked.

"I would've put him in the ground," Jason whispered. Laney looked at Jason's unflinching face before turning away. "I know it's not what you wanted to hear, but he could've killed you."

"Jason, can you sit by me?" Laney asked. Jason climbed over Laney on the bed, and Laney rolled onto his stomach and turned to look at Jason, wincing as he settled into the bed.

"Where does it hurt?" Jason asked.

"My back's been hurting ever since we got home," Laney whispered. Jason reached over Laney and went into his drawer.

"You don't have any heat cream for your back," Jason announced.

"I know. I've got a little massage oil to the back right of the drawer," Laney explained, and Jason took the small bottle of massage oil and squeezed a few drops into his hands.

Jason pressed his hands into Laney's back firmly, and Laney took in a breath just loud enough for Jason to hear. "Too much pressure?" Jason asked.

"No, you—. It just startled me," Laney murmured. Jason nodded and continued to apply pressure, loosening the muscles in Laney's back. Silence fell between the two of them, and Jason's mind drifted away as he massaged Laney's lower back. Laney clutched his mattress before letting out a faint crying noise. Jason stopped and snapped back to attention.

"Does it hurt?" Jason asked. He took Laney's shirt and wiped his back off. Laney pressed his face into his pillow and burst into tears. "Lane?"

Laney curled up and grabbed the bottom of Jason's shirt, pulling it to his face as he let out loud gasping sobs. Jason froze as Laney pulled himself up onto Jason's lap and continued to cry. "Lane, I've got you. I promise," Jason reassured him as he pulled Laney up into an embrace. Laney sobbed until he was too tired to cry anymore, and he drifted off to sleep, still holding on to Jason. Jason lay down beside Laney, watching as he slept.

As the sunset on Gotham, Jason lay still, only moving to put his arm over Laney. Jason never realized how painful silence was between them. Someone knocked on the bedroom door, and Jason sat up slowly, careful not to wake Laney from his sleep. "Come in," Jason whispered. Clark cracked the door and slipped through.

"How long has he been asleep?" Clark asked.

"Just before sunset... Maybe four o'clock, five-ish," Jason whispered. Laney made a soft noise before complaining about the cold.

"Hey, Laney... It's dad," Clark whispered. Laney perked up and opened his eyes before throwing himself into his father's arms.

"Dad!" Laney exclaimed. Clark relaxed his shoulders before giving Laney a tight hug and a kiss on top of his head. "What are you doing here?"

Jason and Clark exchanged looks before Clark answered with a gentle, "I wanted to check on you. Remember we talked on the phone?"

Laney shook his head. "No? Not today, I don't think," Laney mumbled.

[the-fiction-witch]

Bath beside The Fire

Media IRL

Character Thomas Brodie Sangster

Couple Thomas X Reader

Rating Smut

Concept Bath

Smut nudity/ stroking/ hj/ fingering/ breast play/ little bird/ 

I peered inside the misted green bathroom at the utter state of luxury within, the green tiles sweetly compliment the room keeping the light low the window as usual impossible to see from the outside and yet the sweet light was allowed to cascade across the room. The sweet orange glow from the two wall sconces that sat either side of the round mirror above the sink. The shower was not in use as it often wasn't the back wall lit so beautifully but the Victorian fireplace, shapes and shadows moving in the golden mirror above it. The claw foot bathtub in the corner sat with its golden taps still on, flooding the tub with warm steamy water. Bubbles almost reached the brim of the tub even if the water had a ways to go yet, the bubbles still in that strange mountainous shape from the liquid being added to the water and thus the bubbles mostly being created by the taps shifting of the water. The sounds of the water rushing through the pipes of the old London house and filling the porcelain tub perfectly complemented either cracking and roaring of the fire to create such peacefulness. That and the Addition of the speaker on the shelf above the bath hidden by the plant pot that plaid…. I believe it was 'smooth jazz' or some other type of relaxational playlist. The scent of sweet lavender filled the room from the small cat shaped wax burner that sat on the windowsill. Stood in the bathroom on the grey tiles stood the barefeet of Thomas as he loomed over his bath excitedly wrapped up only in his thin grey cotton robe that he had tightly wrapped around his skinny body and was holding onto tightly given his clear lack of clothing below it. He tested the water with his hand seeming happy, opening up the small draw beside the bathtub it filled to the brim with various bath bombs and shower steamers and all sorts of other items he picked out a large purple bath bomb with a few blue shimmers within unwrapping it from its paper and setting it into the tub with a plop. Immediately a rush of purple colour and shimmer began to explode from the water along with a refreshing fresh English lavender scent. Next he picked out a small mason jar of purple and pink crystals unscrewing the top revealing a small plastic blue shovel which he used to scoop a large amount of the salt crystals and sprinkle them into the water them hitting the bottom with a sweet tinkling sound before returning it to the draw and pulling out a small bottle of a very watery purple liquid that he poured inside like a witch crafting a brewing potion before too returning the bottle to the draw. He waited a few seconds checking his towel on the heated towel rail was fresh and fluffy before he checked the water again and twisted the Taps off silencing the loud sounds of the water now all the other sounds much clearer and the added sound of the bubbles slightly crackling as they popped and shifted in the tub. He slipped his robe off his shoulders the thin fabric pooling at his feet leaving him completely naked without anything to conceal him, his bare feet kicked the robe across the floor towards the laundry hamper, his thin legs slightly flexing as he moved, his his squarely facing the warm tub even if his half hard erection was obvious stood to attention, he ran his hand through the fluffy forest that was his blonde hair before looking down at himself for a moment frowning at his stomach stroking his hand across it seeming upset as he squeezed the tiniest but of tummy that was there so much so his whole hand didn't even get enough to fill his hand but he looked so sad about it. Yet seemed to have no sadness for the various small cuts and bruises across his skinny body.

He slowly climbed into the tub one foot at a time settling himself among the bubbles letting out a sigh as his body hit the warm water.

"Ummmmm" he groans, leaning his head against the tubs rim with his eyes closed

I giggled at him a little which made him speak

"You are interrupting my peaceful time y/n" he warns

"Ohh I am so sorry my lord, a thousand apologies for disturbing the bath" I giggled poking my head fully thought the bathroom door rather than peering through the crack

"Out" he says kicking his foot at me sending water across the room almost hitting me

"I just wanted to come visit"

"Out! This is my time to be luxurious"

"But i-"

"What do you want, little bird?"

"I brought you a present"

"Ummm?"

"Wine" I smiled exposing the glass of wine I got from downstairs for him

"You may stay" he nods happily taking it and having a sip setting it on the windowsill where he could still reach it

I smiled and sat on the closed toilet seat watching him in his bath

"hi"

"Hello y/n"

"What are you doing?"

"Having my nice relaxing bath. Why what are you doing?"

"Watching you"

"Ummm creepy" he says making me pout "don't pout little bird. You snuck up on me in the bath you have to admit that's a little creepy"

"You do it to me"

"Because your beautiful and you have very sexy little bubble baths that I enjoy watching"

"Creepy"

"It's not creepy when you put a show on for me" he smirked making me blush a little "how am I meant to not watch when my little bird does a cute little show for me" he smirked moving down to be close enough to me he could kiss my cheek

"Well then what's wrong with me being here to watch you?"

"Fine." He sighed setting the wine down and sinking down under the water reemerging a few seconds later his hair now dark and flat I couldn't help but watch him as he moved the bubbles, washed his hair and rubbed a little on his bruises "yes?" He asks as I had been sat silently watching him the last few minutes I just smiled as sweetly as I could standing and tugging at the ties of my dress for a moment he didn't know what I was doing but quickly figured it out shifting in the water "humm my little bird wanna climb in with me?" He smirked as my dress dropped leaving me naked too which made him bite his lip hard slightly growling at me

"May I?" I asked

"You may" he smirked

So I went to step in at the other end of the tub but he stopped me taking my hand and pulling me so I sat on his lap

"There was go, cosy?"

"Ummm humm" I nodded nuzzling into his bare chest stroking my fingers down his wet skin he cups water in his hands rinsing it over my exposed shoulder before stroking down my body both above and below the water "how are your bruises?"

"Fine, they don't hurt"

"You should be more careful"

"I know little bird. I know. I didn't mean to fall off my bike"

"You still scared me"

"Shhhhh I know I did. It's okay I'm fine" he says giving me a kiss "and it was very nice having my little bird to take care of me"

"I like taking care of you"

"Ummm I know you do, and I enjoy it very much" he smirked tugging me closer "Fuck- your beautiful little bird" he Cooes "I should have you in my bath with me every week" he smirked

"I thought the point was to relax'

"Yeah?"

"Well somewhere isn't very relaxed" I smirked stroking my hand down to gently stroke his hard erection

"No it isn't, maybe my little bird can help me with that" he smirked pulling my hips so I sat over him the lips of my pussy perfectly cradling his erection "ummm fuck-" he gasps leaning his head against the tub

"We should get washed"

"Should we now? How's about I do you and you do me?"

"Don't you do me enough?"

"Not nearly enough pet" he smirked grabbing my usual lavender body wash "come on little bird," he smirked

"Alright" I smiled giving him a kiss taking the soap in my hand making it bubble up alot rubbing my hand across his neck and shoulders then down his arms making sure I left no spot untouched, then going down his chest being gentle around his bruises before I even reached his hips he was biting his lip eagerly I went to stop as I reached his stomach but he held my arm

"You're not done yet pet. Go on" he demanded

I blushed hard moving my hands down stroking his hips making sure I squeezed his butt a little

"Hey- bad girl" he smirked slapping my ass hard I continued scrubbing his v and his erection "uhhh! Yes- uuummmm either keep going or let me inside you already"

"But I'm not clean yet" I pouted

"Humm no, you're not. And you are a very very dirty little bird" he smirked taking the soap in his hands staring much as I did on my neck and shoulders I was nervous but excited as his hands moved down covering my breasts with the soapy bubbles his hands working hard to cover and clean them leaving no inch untouched often playing with my breasts in his hands as he did he chuckled slyly before starting to use his thumbs to rub on my now hard nipples sending the waves of pleasure across me "a very dirty little bird. However did my pet get so dirty?"

"Living with you"

"Don't you blame me for this pet you were just as dirty when I met you" he smirked "turn around" he demanded so I did as he asked moving to face away from him and he grabbed my hips pulling me into his lap hard he chuckled again slapping my ass hard as he now had it Infront of him he took a firm grip of my ass making sure to pull it apart as he did slipping his hard cock between my cheeks before he ran his hands across making sure to cover it with soapy bubbles

"Thomas" I giggled but he smirked and grabbed my breasts again gently rubbing my nipples as he groped my breasts hard grinding himself against my ass

"umm, you like that little bird?"

" Yes-"

"Good girl" He smirked moving his hands away to scrub down my stomach until he reached my pussy scrubbing it softly leaving a trail of bubbles as he rubbed on my clit "There my little birds all clean now"

"Almost" I cooed

"yeah?" he smirked moving his fingers inside me "That feel good?"

"Uhh thomas please-"

"Out"

"But-"

"Now" He demanded I sheepishly climbed out grabbing a towel as I got so chilly, he climbed out too wrapping a towel around himself too he sat himself on the floor beside the fire and he tugged me down with him into his lap ...

[thebearthatreads]

Find the Word Tag

Thanks to @chauceryfairytales who tagged me for this a little over a week ago!

My words for this time were Noise, Neat, Curl, and Sweet. As I'm in the middle of reformatting It's All Magic to Me for rerelease next year I decided to pull from there:

Noise

Bang! The screen door never closes without making a noise, which is bound to set Mum off any minute now. If I dump the groceries on the table and dart upstairs, though, I might be able to avoid her cornering me.

Neat

When she opens the door, he has concealed himself within the laundry hamper. From beneath a sweater, he eyes Willow and the stranger. The stranger is a young woman, he assumes the same age as Willow, with thick curls piled into a neat ponytail held in place by a sparkly pink scrunchie.

Curl

‘I’m failing her.’ He wanted to go into the room and leap onto the bed, to curl up next to her and guard her sleep. Yet, the thought of his failings stopped him. Never had he felt so powerless, not even as a kitten with only a scrap of magic.

Sweet

“Oh my god, thank you so much!” The coffee is pleasantly heated and just as sweet as I like it. “I needed this.” Though as the liquid hits my tongue, I’m unfortunately reminded of how I skipped dinner to come here. It’s tempting to ask Miri if she happens to have any snacks, but I don’t want to seem ungrateful.

A nice spread here between Willow's point of view and Sphynx.

Gently no-pressure tagging @fleurtygurl, @maskedemerald, @keysandopenmind, and anyone else if you'd like to do it. Your words are Glitch, Pop, Colour, and Crave.

[nancypullen]

Friday

I’m still walking around with a lump in my throat and always on the verge of tears.  Our children don’t have to live like this. Every country on Earth has citizens who deal with mental illness, only America has weekly mass shootings at schools, parades, malls, movie theaters, churches, concerts, etc.  It’s the guns.  Americans make up 4% of the world’s population but own HALF of the  857 million weapons in civilian hands.  Might be more now, that information is from 2017.  IT’S.  THE.  GUNS.   Shame on anyone who is defending guns instead of children.  Shame on politicians who won’t act.  Shame on this country for sacrificing the lives of innocents so a bunch of wannabe tough guys can play with deadly toys.  I’m from Alaska, every household had a gun because they were used to fill freezers for the winter. They weren’t glorified, they weren’t used to make small men feel bigger.  Now they seem to be some people’s whole personality.  Meanwhile our children are being slaughtered and those folks clutch their guns tighter instead of their kids. It’s absolutely insane. Those sweet children hadn’t even been buried when Florida announced they were doing away with permit requirements for concealed carry. They’ve scrapped existing requirements for concealed weapons permits, including an extra layer of background checks, licensing, and firearms training. Anyone can now carry a concealed, loaded weapon anywhere in Florida.  Oops, not anywhere. Guess where you can’t - the state capitol, where the ones passing that law are working.  Because they want to be safe.  The hypocrisy is staggering. Kindergarten babies are running from shooters in places where they should feel safe, while lawmakers are counting money from gun lobbyists and feeling secure in their ivory towers.  What is wrong with their souls??? I know you don’t visit here for this sort of content.  This spot on the internet is meant to be an escape, a bit of fun, maybe a dose of sweetness. I’ve got plenty of that to share - gardens are blooming, birds are singing, and yesterday was opening day for major league baseball. I love all of that, but right now my heart is shattered for the mothers who sent their babies to school only to lose them forever. Their toys and books are in their rooms, their favorite snacks are still in the frig, their laundry is in the hamper, and their pillows still smell like baby shampoo. But those sweet nine-year-olds are dead because the grown-ups in this country are willing to sacrifice them.  The party that claims to be “pro-life” isn’t. It’s past time for our heartbreak to turn into anger and action.

[turtlethon]

“Mr. Nice Guy”

Season 6, Episode 15 First US Airdate: December 19, 1992

A ray gun accident alters Raphael’s personality.

“Mr. Nice Guy” is the penultimate episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles season six. This is the only story in the series contributed by the team of Steve Granat and Cydne Clark. 

Leonardo prepares a birthday cake for Raphael’s surprise birthday party, to be held the following day. Michaelangelo soon arrives, showing Leo and Donnie his gift: a pair of ferocious goldfish. After the furious pets devour a slice of pizza, Donatello identifies them as actually being Siamese fighting fish.

The impending arrival of Raphael leads the other Turtles to hurriedly conceal the birthday cake in a nearby cupboard. Raph is grouchier than usual as he performs laundry duty, unwittingly dropping a basket of clothes in the cupboard on top of the cake. After he stomps off to find the iron, the other Turtles lament his sour attitude whenever his birthday comes around, with Michaelangelo suggesting that Donatello use an invention to change his demeanour. Donnie refuses, bringing up the time that Leonardo’s personality was lightened up by a ray gun that he had designed.

At Channel 6, Burne tasks April with investigating why crime is on the increase in the city. After it’s pointed out to him that crime is declining, he reminds her not to confuse the issue with the facts, setting her on her way. A short time later, April happens to see two hoodlums breaking into one of the station’s news vans; she pursues the crooks on motorbike.

Raphael continues to grumble as he searches through a cupboard for the iron, mistakenly plugging what he thinks is its cable into the power socket. This turns out to be the power cord for Donatello’s mood ray, which activates when Raph’s back is turned, hitting him with a beam of energy as he irons. The other Turtles are stunned when he joins them in the kitchen moments later and is uncharacteristically chipper.

As the punks from earlier drive the news van through the front window of the Crosstown Bank and carry out a robbery, the Turtles are on their way to get pizza, hampered by Raphael’s insistence on stopping to carry out acts of kindness for everyone he sees. The team spot the robbery unfolding and head in to confront the criminals, with Raphael covering the back of the building. Our heroes are unable to progress as the vault doors are closed on them, and the men escape in the van. Raphael is waiting for them, but in keeping with his new personality, is so eager to be helpful that he instead offers up bags of money and kindly waves them goodbye. April arrives on the scene and joins the other Turtles as they meet up with Raphael: when pressed as to why he let the bad guys go, he explains that he’s “just spreading a little niceness... the world could use more of it.”

Act two opens with Leonardo asking Raphael to lose the nice guy schtick. Raph responds by feigning a tough demeanour momentarily, before offering milk and cookies to the team. Later, the Turtles are seen emerging from Vinnie’s, discussing how good the liver and bubblegum pizza was - I think the show’s roster of writers are in competition to see who can come up with the most disgusting topping combinations – when the news van passes by. The Turtles board a nearby sightseeing bus and, after explaining the situation, ask the driver to give chase.

The robbers head to a drive-in movie theatre, where “INVASION OF THE TURTLE OIDS” [sic] is playing. They’re eventually forced to lose the van and escape on foot, pursued by the Turtles through the drive-in. As Raphael breaks off to console a crying boy whose popcorn was knocked to the ground by the robbers, the other Turtles confront the men in front of the screen playing the Turtleoids movie for the paying crowd. Despite opening fire with laser weapons, the punks are swiftly defeated by our heroes, drawing the approval of the assembled cinemagoers. It’s only after the battle is over that the Turtles realise Raphael is now pre-occupied with gifting buckets of popcorn to the cinema’s patrons.

We skip forward as it’s explained April aided the Turtles in dropping off the crooks with the police and returning the money to the bank. As the group travel in the now-battered news van, they spot a billboard for the psychiatric services of Dr. Otto von Shrink, determining this may be the solution to Raphael’s personality problem.

Later, Raphael is seen visiting the Von Shrink Institute of Mental Health. He’s greeted in the futuristic complex by X12, a Johnny 5-like robot in a lab coat. Raph is shown around the facilities and watches the Institute’s innovations, such as shock therapy (a robot wearing a spooky mask scaring someone) and assertiveness training (a mild-mannered man is seen walking underneath a curtain and emerges following a flash of light, snarling with rage).

Raphael’s visit culminates in him meeting Otto von Shrink, a Dr. Wily-esque figure who sounds like Howard Cosell. Von Shrink places a headset on Raphael that recalls the events leading to his personality change: this is displayed on-screen from the perspective of someone watching Raph the same way we as viewers did when the incident unfolded, despite this making zero sense. Now von Shrink is aware of the existence of the personality-altering ray gun, he tasks Raphael with bringing him the invention so that he can study it further. After the Turtle leaves, the psychiatrist confides to X12 that he plans to use the device to get his revenge on the psychiatric community for shunning him as a quack.

Act three opens with Donatello tripping over the cord for the still-plugged-in personality modifier, which somehow is now nowhere near the cupboard it was stored in when it hit Raphael. It activates again, the Siamese fighting fish getting hit by its ray and becoming docile as a result. As Donnie heads to the living room to explain what must have happened, Raphael is seen wandering away with the device as per the instructions given to him.

Von Shrink performs modifications to the personality ray to make it fully portable, outlining to Raphael how he intends to use it to walk over any authority figure that stands in the way of his reign of terror; when Raph points out that it makes no sense to reveal this to him as a crime fighter, von Shrink responds that he’s “too nice to do anything about it”. This all goes as planned, with X12 seen carrying out a series of robberies alongside a group of other robots, firing the ray at any intervening guards and policemen each time to alter their personalities.

As the Turtles try to figure out where Raphael and the personality modifier have gone, they spot April reporting on the clearing out of an art gallery; she interviews the placid guard, who explains that he stood by and let the robbers get away as he didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Putting two and two together, out heroes determine that Raphael must have given the ray gun to Dr. Von Shrink.

Our heroes soon infiltrate the Institute of Mental Health and confront the psychiatrist, getting trapped in what appears to be a forcefield. Von Shrink explains this is a “Phobia Chamber”, an invention that forces patients to face their greatest fears. These manifest in front of each of the Turtles, with Leonardo battling a giant samurai warrior, Michaelangelo facing the prospect of being eaten by an enormous pizza and Donatello taking on a three-headed monster near-identical to the one seen in “Welcome Back, Polarisoids”.

As Raphael returns, Donatello flings his bo through the forcefield, knocking the dial on the personality ray being held by X12. The device fires upon Raphael, turning him back to his normal self. Raph wastes no time in disabling the Phobia Chamber, but von Shrink has an array of warrior robots ready to attack the reunited Turtles. Stepping in on behalf of the team, Raphael tricks the robots into firing upon each other, ultimately winding up as a pile of scrap metal. Using the personality ray one last time, Raph opens fire on von Shrink, turning him into a meek and compliant foe ahead of turning him over to the police.

We close out today’s adventure in the Lair, where the Turtles hold a (presumably belated) birthday party for Raphael, presenting him with Michaelangelo’s fishes before asking him to blow out the candles on his cake. Raph blows hard enough to splatter the cake in Donatello’s face, leading the team to declare in unison “that’s our Raphael!”

“Mr. Nice Guy” is a disjointed adventure, effectively two different stories built around Raphael’s change in temperament, the first a low-stakes chase with the team pursuing two bank robbers, the second a rushed tale of Raphael’s run-in with an evil psychiatrist as he seeks a cure to his niceness. Both are fine for what they are, but I think the two bank robbers overstay their welcome, resulting in von Shrink and his Institute feeling a little underdeveloped. While there’s little as a character to separate the psychiatrist from the mad scientist villains I always complain about, Hal Rayle’s performance makes him surprisingly entertaining.

Effectively this episode acts as a sequel to “Leonardo Lightens Up”, calling back to the events of that earlier adventure, particularly in the early goings. Much as Leonardo’s bossiness was played up in that story for comedic effect, here Raphael is depicted as more of a curmudgeon than usual, although this is explained away as being due to his unhappiness surrounding his impending birthday. There’s a bit of revisionist history going on here as Donatello’s personality ray was never tethered to a power cord in its original appearance; I suppose it’s possible that he might have modified it to require one in the intervening seasons, although this seems like a backwards step.

While season six has perhaps been the most visually consistent season of TMNT ever, presumably always being handled by the same team of animators, as we approach the end there are signs that either the budget is running out or everyone is asleep at the wheel. This episode has a glaring moment while Raphael is being evaluated by von Shrink where it’s clear the animation was never finished, pasted-over footage being used instead. It’s the kind of thing I associate more with late season three or early season four episodes, and it’s regrettable to see it popping up again now.

We now find ourselves set for the season finale, and as is now standard for the Saturday morning era we’ll conclude not with a big finish in the Technodrome, but with a story not involving Shredder at all. Join us next time as 1992 wraps up with the return of Aunt Aggie in “Sleuth on the Loose”!

[joineryandkitchens]

Remodeling Your Laundry Room: The Importance of Custom Cabinets

When it comes to home improvement, laundry rooms often take a backseat to more glamorous spaces like kitchens or living rooms. However, a well-designed laundry room can significantly enhance your home's functionality and aesthetics. One of the key elements in any laundry room remodel is custom cabinetry, which offers more than just visual appeal. At Creative Joinery & Kitchens, we believe custom cabinets are the cornerstone of a well-organized, efficient laundry space.

Tailored to Your Space and Needs

No two homes are the same, and neither are their laundry rooms. Pre-fabricated cabinets may fit some spaces, but often, they leave wasted gaps or fail to meet specific storage needs. Custom laundry cabinets design allows you to make the most of your available space, whether you have a compact laundry nook or a spacious utility room.

Custom cabinetry benefits:

Designed to fit awkward spaces, sloping walls, or irregular dimensions.

Storage solutions for specific needs, like cleaning supplies, hampers, or even drying racks.

Maximizes every square inch, providing more usable storage.

Boosts Functionality

A laundry room is a high-traffic, high-function space. It’s not just about washing clothes; it's also where you sort, fold, iron, and store cleaning essentials. Custom cabinets can be designed to enhance these functions, making everyday chores easier and more efficient.

Functional custom cabinet options:

Built-in ironing boards.

Pull-out hampers for sorting laundry.

Cabinets for laundry baskets and detergents.

Adjustable shelving for flexible storage options.

Enhances Organization

An organized laundry room can save you time and reduce frustration. Custom cabinetry offers personalized storage options that keep everything in its place. You can designate specific spots for laundry detergent, fabric softeners, and other cleaning supplies, making them easy to access when needed.

Key organizational features:

Drawer dividers for smaller items like lint rollers or fabric sheets.

Concealed trash or recycling bins.

Open shelves for frequently used items, like towels or clothespins.

Increases Home Value

Investing in custom cabinetry for your laundry room is not just about functionality—it's also a smart financial decision. Custom storage solutions can significantly increase the value of your home by adding a polished, built-in look that potential buyers will appreciate. A stylish, well-designed laundry room can make your home stand out in the real estate market.

Durability and Quality

At Creative Joinery & Kitchens, we craft custom cabinets with high-quality materials designed to withstand the wear and tear of daily laundry use. Unlike mass-produced cabinets, which may show signs of damage over time, custom cabinetry is built to last. You can choose from a variety of durable finishes and hardware options that not only match your home’s aesthetic but also provide long-lasting performance.

Seamless Aesthetics

Finally, custom cabinetry allows you to create a cohesive design that matches your home's overall aesthetic. Whether you prefer sleek modern lines, traditional charm, or something in between, custom cabinets can be tailored to reflect your style.

Aesthetic considerations:

Choose from a wide range of finishes, colors, and materials.

Coordinate cabinetry with countertops, flooring, and wall colors.

Incorporate design elements like glass-paneled doors or elegant hardware.

Why Choose Creative Joinery & Kitchens?

At Creative Joinery & Kitchens, we specialize in creating laundry cabinets installation that transforms laundry rooms into organized, stylish spaces. Our expert team works closely with you to understand your needs, design preferences, and budget, ensuring a remodel that exceeds your expectations. We take pride in our craftsmanship and attention to detail, delivering a result that enhances both the functionality and beauty of your home.

Ready to Transform Your Laundry Room?

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[stickiiy]

nanami smut 18+

minors and ageless blogs dni. not proofread

five hours. your sweet fiancé has been gone for five hours. you should be used to this by now, but it's near impossible. especially when he's so tired when he comes back from work, especially when your core just aches for him, and only him

so in the depths of your bedroom...

"k-kennn... ken.." quiet and whiny pleads for nanami to be there with you fill the room. your hips continuously buck, dominant hand occupied down below in the pyjamas shorts that he bought for you. too well do you know your own body, so why can't you curl your fingers in the right places? why doesn't it feel as good unless he's the one doing it? "oh, god..."

you roll over on your side, your clammy free hand desperately reaching over for your phone. unbeknownst to him, a photo album that you keep all to yourself is the only thing you've got at the moment. filled to the brim with pictures, recordings that you took without his knowledge, the innocent voice messages he sends you that already had your pussy clenching around nothing.

for a moment, you still your fingers, shifting through the contents as you reach the bottom.

and there it is, the most recent addition, and your prized possession. your legs spread open on instinct, your shaky thumb finally pressing on the screen. right there and there, you could've came just from the sight if you didn't know better. a picture you took while pretending to be asleep, perfectly capturing him coming out of the bathroom, his hair down for once, chest and abs dripping with water, his bulge that wasn't even hard being oh so noticeable under his sweatpants... and you have to pretend to be asleep to see this?

you always wear the skimpiest outfits and loungewear you can around the house, so why does he feel the need to cover up?

"fuck, f-fuck..." immediately, your digits start to pump in and out of you, walls fluttering with insanity as your body can barely handle watching what's in front of you.

"faster..." he would never go faster and you know it, yet you still fuck yourself with a relentless pace, trying to reach that orgasm you should've had ages ago. mewls escape your lips, and you don't even bother to bite your lip anymore, to conceal your moans, because there was no point. "a-aah.. ah... faster, ken... mm~"

you didn't realise your phone had already shut off at this point, your eyes screwed shut as you tried to imagine something, anything to do with him. "mmph- ah!" after that short gasp, you couldn't even make any more noise, feeling your underwear, shorts, and the mattress below you start to grow damp. you squirted.

he wouldn't notice anything if you replaced the sheets, simply telling him that changing them a little more often would be cleaner. he wouldn't notice if you did your laundry two days early, hamper filled to the brim with wet, slick soaked panties. right?

aren't you just such a sweet fiancée, giving your future husband the perfect show from the camera in the corner of the bedroom. 'safety reasons' he said, but how can he not feel at least a little entertained when you get up to such mischief home alone?

[coolbedbugtreatment]

Strategies For Reliable Kissimmee Bed Bug Treatment

Visually examine utilized household furniture, drapery pleats and seams, as well as other regions prior to delivering them right into the home. If you find documentation of bed bugs, a signed up pest controller may utilize reduced poisoning sprays to eliminate all of them.

Dual bag tidy laundry washing and other products that can come to be plagued by bedroom pests up until you can clean them.

Eliminate All Plagued Furnishings

Doing away with ravaged home furniture is actually the 1st step to efficient Kissimmee bed bug treatment. If it is ravaged, cover each furniture piece and close the plastic prior to taking it bent on the visual or to a junk removal solution. Correlative this along with your garbage pickup organization so the things are actually excluded for as short of opportunity as achievable.

Bed bugs may jump coming from infested furnishings to some others locations of the home, or also to your next-door neighbors. Caulking cracks and splits may assist remove concealing areas in furnishings and throughout your property. You should likewise clear away and ruin any type of pet environments coming from your home, such as bird homes or even bat roosts. These habitats can easily additionally be the resource of a bedroom bug invasion.

Vacuum Cleaner Hard to Arrive At Locations

Bed pests possess a quite secretive way of living; they hide throughout the day and also gather in little holes. They conceal in the tufts, folds up and also seams of mattresses, in the internal frame of mattress, headboards and side dining tables and also behind wall structure plates as well as walls. They also conceal in opulent home furniture, like reclining chairs as well as couches, and also in drapery creases and seams. Bed insects lost their skin layer 5 opportunities as they grow coming from nymphs to adults, thus make sure to inspect for molted skin in these hiding locations.

Moreover, carefully vacuum the location under your bedroom, getting rid of any sort of boxes, publications, toys as well as other products. These items hamper the effectiveness of vacuuming and may enable bed bugs to escape treatment. Additionally, ensure to check out under and around nightstands.

Tape Cracks as well as Crevices

Bed pests are tiny, flat pests that conceal in small gaps as well as holes within the day. They are actually frequently found in the tufts and also folds of beds and also mattress, and also the interior junctions of a mattress structure or even head board. They might additionally stay in splits in wall structures, under peeling off paint or behind wall structure layers.

To make it harder for them to conceal, you ought to close the fractures and openings around beds, night tables, as well as various other household furniture that neighbors a bed. You need to likewise utilize caulk to close spaces around baseboards, and wall sockets and light sockets in the room.

Yet another reliable Kissimmee bed bug treatment technique is actually to dust the areas along with an item called CimeXa or even silica dust, which works in a similar way to sealants and also has the incorporated perk of getting rid of the insects. Simply remember to read the label and also follow all directions properly.

Frame Insects

It is very important to reduce the number of hiding locations for bed bugs while expecting your Kissimmee bed bug treatment. Vacuum every area in the space and also eliminate as well as multiply bag plagued particles (ensure to right away clean up the suction inside and outside). Apply diatomaceous planet (DE) in regions that are complicated to arrive at, specifically along baseboard slick, behind wall structure plates as well as around the junction of wall structures as well as floors.

Utilizing zippered coverings for your bed and mattress will always keep mattress insects coming from staying in your mattress, yet it is also vital to prevent them from crawling up coming from below bedrooms as well as various other furnishings. Inspect snares regularly, as well as tape gaps as well as openings along with silicon caulk.

Be careful when purchasing second-hand furnishings, and look at a travel check for travel suitcases and other travel luggage after coming back from a journey to a mattress bug-infested home or even accommodation.

Warm Treatment

Unlike chemical therapies that call for duplicated applications, heat energy treatment is among minority non-chemical techniques that is actually ensured to kill bed bugs. The absolute best technique to organize a warmth treatment is to totally get rid of the room of furnishings, photo structures and individual artifacts that will certainly not tolerate heats. Also, it is important to obstruct any kind of egress points including gaps in baseboards with silicon caulk to avoid mattress bugs from shifting into other spaces.

Suitcases must be meticulously checked, vacuumed and sealed before returning from journeys, sitters, friends or even household homes to make certain that the bugs do certainly not spread back into your home. Acquiring safety covers that will seal cushions and mattress will assist to control the infestation as the insects will come to be trapped inside all of them and pass away.

All American Pest Control

1101 Miranda Lane, Suite 131

Kissimmee, FL 34741

(321) 337-0919

Kissimmee Bed Bug Treatment