#who gives these people medical licenses?!?!

[thebibliosphere]

Last month, I had to tell my mother she was having an allergic reaction to the flu vaccine, so that was fun.

She was like, "Yeah, it's so weird how it makes you feel like you have the flu."

And I was like, "Yeah, I've heard that. I wouldn't know; I'm allergic."

And she ignored me and kept talking and was like, "And it's so instant, too! Like within minutes, I was hot and flushed, and my throat was all tight and scratchy, and my nose was running."

And I was like, "..."

And mum kept talking like, "and I hate the rash it gives you."

At which point, I'm pretty sure I made a noise native only to sea lions and fog horns and made her go to the chemist to get antihistamines because, girl, that's an allergic reaction.

Anyway, she spoke to her doctor about it this week, and the doctor told her, "Oh, that's normal. Everyone gets that," and I just

*pinches bridge of nose*

Girl, MD. That's An Allergic Reaction.

[phightingconfessions]

Holy shit I love that this community is so supporting of chubby characters! The horrors of fat phobia I've seen in other fandoms is crazy especially the regretevator discord server the mods there are just scary..

EXACTLY!!!! like obviously theres still gonna be those people that get some violent rage and hatred over seeing someone draw a character fat but ive noticed theyre mostly.. a minority in the phandom? not even a VOCAL minority i just barely even see them and ngl its actually really refreshing

[torchickentacos]

In order to keep a tumblr-social-judgment-approved balance of media consumption, I alternate between Pokeani (children's media) and House MD (something problematic happens every 5 minutes). It's like pemdas or something, it probably evens out.

[trans-axolotl]

saw a post the other day that said that psych survivors were overexaggerating and fearmongering for saying that people should be aware that having diagnoses on your record can be a danger + impede your life. and the more i think about it the more annoyed i am. because i think people need to know that there are exceptions to health privacy laws that can make having psych diagnoses and psych hospitalization history on your record risky depending on your circumstances. diagnoses follow you through your health interactions-you do not have to consent to have your information shared between providers. judicial proceedings are also an exception to the HIPAA privacy rule, so for things like custody battles, guardianship, getting orders of protection--the court can petition for medical records. there's so many other situations where even if they can't legally access your information without your authorization, people will require you to disclose diagnoses, records, previous hospitalizations and refuse to give you services/hire you/whatever unless you share that information with them. for example in many states anyone (a provider, a cop, friends and family) can disclose that you have certain psych diagnoses like bipolar to the DMV which then might require that you undergo drivers license review as frequently as every 3 months. my university is actively trying to kick me out right now because i had to disclose my medical record, psych diagnoses, and hospitalization history to them as a requirement to stay enrolled.

and i don't want to scare people or make people think that having a diagnosis on their records is automatically going to mean that it is weaponized against us. because i do know plenty of people who have never faced issues with their records. but i do expect that the community supports the people speaking out about the ways that we have been harmed by diagnoses creating barriers to accessing necessary parts of our life. instead of attacking us or saying that we're lying about things we are currently experiencing.

[persevereforahappyending]

No Man's Land |10|

Pairing: Sam Carpenter x Reader

Summary: Sam can’t help but be drawn to the cute stranger from her gym, even if everything about them makes them the perfect suspect, just when Ghostface has returned.

Warnings: Fighting, Attempted Murder, Stabbing, Strangling

Word Count: 4k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

You sat on the back of an ambulance as one of the medics checked you out. You didn’t get hurt in the fight, but you didn’t realize you had ripped open your stitches until a medic was running over to you, asking if you were okay and pointing at the drops of blood. You denied them when they asked if you wanted to go to the hospital, you didn’t have time for all that, so they just stitched you up there and gave you a disapproving look.

“Gone up against Ghostface twice and game come out on top both times,” someone said. You looked up to see Kirby walking over to you. “Not many can say they’ve done that.”

“Seems like plenty have survived Ghostface,” you mumbled. Your eyes moved to focus on the figures behind Kirby. Sam was next to Tara as they were checked out by a medic and gave their statement to an officer. You took notice that the detective who was apparently on the case was the one person yet to be on the scene.

Kirby bobbed her head back and forth. “Not usually on their first encounter, unless they were running away or someone else showed up.”

“What the hell do you think you were doing?” Bailey shouted as he stormed up to you and Kirby. “You had a gun?”

“It’s licensed,” you snapped. “And it came in handy, would you like me to not have a weapon when a psycho is attacking us?”

Bailey scoffed and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe you dared argue with him. “Lot of good that did, he got away,” he gestured to the store.

“I got him, it’s not my fault you didn’t arrive in time.”

“Well, you didn’t finish the job,” Bailey snapped, as if it were your fault Ghostface got away. “Thought you were supposed to be special forces,” he scoffed.

You slowly rose from the ambulance until you were standing tall, staring Bailey down. “I’m a soldier, not an executioner,” you kept your voice steady but there was an edge to your tone, one daring Bailey to cross the invisible line.

Bailey let out a chuckle, as if he were truly amused you said that. “Your file isn’t even legible with how much is redacted,” Bailey stepped forward, puffing out his chest. “How many missions have you had involved you getting your hands dirty?” You clenched your jaw, he was trying to compare your missions to Ghostface, they were completely different, as a cop he should know that. “How many people have you executed without them even knowing you were there?”

“It’s different,” you said, your tone quiet as you tried to contain the rage underneath. You were aware of Sam’s eyes on you from where she still stood next to Tara, though she moved forward a few steps, as if she were going to come intervene between you and Bailey.

“Why?” Bailey chuckled. “Because those were your orders?”

You stepped forward, ready to give Bailey a piece of your mind when you felt a hand on your shoulder. You looked to the side to see Kirby, silently asking you to let it go. “Let’s all just take a breath,” she said, looking between you and Bailey.

“I got civilians dead because-”

“Because we haven’t got this guy,” Kirby snapped. She positioned herself in front of you, so she was now standing between you and Bailey. “So, why don’t we stop placing blame and catch this fucker.”

Bailey gave a little snarl but finally backed away. “I have a crime scene to work,” he mumbled as he turned and walked towards the store.

“When did you get the call?” You asked, your eyes tracking Bailey as he crouched down at the body of the store owner just inside the door.

“A thank you would suffice,” Kirby said when she turned around. The amused smirk on her face told you she wasn’t actually mad at you.

“Thank you,” you said sincerely anyway. “When did the call come in?”

“About twenty minutes ago. Someone saw Ghostface chasing after some people down the street,” Kirby looked back at the bodega. “Then several calls about shots fired came in a minute later.”

“Response was quick,” your eyes scanned all the cops working the scene. There was more than what would usually be considered necessary, but most of the officers were being used to hold back random people trying to get a look and the media.

“I was at the station.” Your eyes instantly snapped to Kirby. “I actually thought we might get here in time,” she let out a humorless chuckle. When she looked back at you, she furrowed her brow. “What?”

“Where was Bailey?” If Kirby was at the station, then there was no reason for Bailey to arrive as late as he did. All the other cops and Kirby arrived well before the detective who was supposed to be working the case, who claimed to care so much about the innocent lives being lost.

“I’m not sure,” Kirby shook her head. “Wait, you don’t actually think…” her voice got quieter with each word. “But you hit Ghostface.”

“Only in the chest,” your tone dropped to barely above a whisper. You didn’t know who to trust, you couldn’t risk anyone over hearing you. On top of that, just because you had your suspicions you didn’t have proof, you couldn’t be spreading rumors about Bailey if he wasn’t actually guilty, it could ruin his career. As much as you hated the guy you weren’t about to destroy a man’s career without evidence that he was dirty. “Whoever it was, was wearing Kevlar.”

Kirby followed your gaze and watched Bailey with the same kind of gaze as you. “They could have just seen the movies, learned to always wear a vest.” You nodded, that was likely, based on what little you heard it seemed like these psychos studied each other, trying to learn where the previous incarnation went wrong.

“Everything in me is telling me not to trust him,” you said.

“Better safe than sorry if you trust no one.” You looked at Kirby, watching as her eyes scanned the crowd, memorizing every face, just in case someone stood out or someone popped up again.

“Even you?” You raised an eyebrow.

You liked Kirby a lot more than Bailey. She’d done nothing but treat you with respect so far and you’d return the courtesy. At the end of the day though, you didn’t know her, you didn’t know any of them. Kirby hadn’t given you a reason to be suspicious of her but that didn’t mean she couldn’t possibly be involved. It was hell of a coincidence for Kirby to show up right after Ghostface attacked Sam, but she said she investigated Ghostface attacks, she knew Sam, they had a shared history, it was clear Kirby had a history with at least one of the previous Ghostface’s, like Sam and her friends did.

Kirby turned her head and looked at you, her eyes seemed to analyze you. She gave a little shrug. “Can never be too careful,” she said, nodding her head. “How much do you know about Ghostface, the attacks?”

You shrugged. “Not much,” you said. Of course, you knew the stories, everyone did, but you didn’t know the details. “I know the rumors whispered about Sam,” you looked across the way where Sam still stood with Tara.

“Well, I won’t say anything about Sam, that’s her story to tell.” You gave a ghost of a smile at that, you didn’t believe the rumors, you wanted to hear Sam’s story from herself. “But Ghostface is usually connected to the group of friends he’s going after. The first attacks were done by Billy Loomis and his best friend Stu Macher all to get back at Sidney Prescott, who Billy was dating.” You nodded, you were aware of that much of the story. “Me and my friends were attacked in 2011.” You furrowed your brow, you had been a freshman in high school, you probably heard people talking about the attacks in school but didn’t know any details.

You looked at Kirby when she didn’t immediately continue. She was clearly trying to remain composed but there were tears in her eyes, and rage underneath. “My best friend and the guy I liked were the ones behind the attacks. All because Jill wanted to be famous,” she shook her head and let out a humorless chuckle. “Of my friends, I was the only one to survive.”

You looked at Kirby in a new light, you understood now where all her pain and motivation came from. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. Those words wouldn’t do anything, but they were the only thing you could offer. It wasn’t easy being the only survivor, it was lonely, no one could quite understand it, you knew that all too well.

Kirby gave you a thankful smile. “I know why you didn’t finish the job,” she whispered. “But this kind of thing,” she shook her head. “It only ends in two ways, kill or be killed.”

You looked down, taking in Kirby’s words. You had done a lot of terrible things, things you never talked about. You did all of them for the greater good though, at least that’s what you told yourself, you were following orders, trying to stop someone bad from doing something worse. Killing Ghostface in self-defense was one thing but executing him when he was already down was another. It wasn’t like you hadn’t done it before, but those were always terrible people, terrorists, crime lords, people who did unspeakable things. You knew Ghostface wasn’t good but in your head, there was a separation, that being in New York, being home, it made things different, war was one thing, this was another altogether.

“Are you okay?” Kirby asked, bringing you out of your thoughts. You looked up to see Sam and Tara had approached.

“Now that we’re done with the endless questioning,” Sam grumbled.

“It’s just protocol,” Kirby gave her an apologetic smile.

“Are we free to go?”

“Of course.” Kirby looked back at you, “I just need your gun.” You let out a displeased sigh. “Protocol.”

“I know,” you said, still clearly displeased. You pulled out your gun, releasing the magazine and making sure there wasn’t one in the chamber before dropping it into the evidence bag Kirby held out.

You fired your gun, it was an active crime scene, and that meant your gun was evidence. Even though you didn’t kill anyone they still needed your gun to at least know which bullets were from you and which ones were from Ghostface, even though your 9mm was completely different than the shotgun Ghostface was using.

“Don’t worry, I will personally make sure the lab gets this,” Kirby said.

You watched her walk off. “Are you okay?” Sam asked, making you look at her. “Things with Bailey seemed tense.”

You rolled your eyes and looked around until you found Bailey across the way talking to one of the other officers. “Apparently he wasn’t satisfied with the way I handled things,” you said, glaring at Bailey.

“You saved our lives,” Sam said softly, you stopped glaring at Bailey to give Sam a grateful smile.

“Did you have a gun this whole time?” Tara asked, speaking for the first time since the attack happened. She was looking at you suspiciously, trying to appear strong with her arms crossed, but you could see the fear behind her eyes.

“Yes,” you answered honestly, you knew it would do no good to lie to Tara.

“Did you know?” she looked at her sister.

“Yes,” Sam said. Tara’s face morphed into one of hurt. “I thought it was better if no one knew, we don’t know who to trust.”

Tara clenched her jaw as she wordlessly nodded. “You could have told me.” Sam guiltily looked down as Tara stormed off.

You gently tapped Sam’s shoulder and offered her a small smile. She returned your smile and the two of you followed after Tara. You understood why Tara was upset, if the roles were reversed, you’d probably feel the same. On the other hand, the only reason you were able to get the upper hand on Ghostface was because no one else knew you had the gun on you.

The three of you walked back to the apartment without another incident. You noticed how Sam shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket as you passed people, keeping her head down, probably hoping none of them recognized her. Three of you trekked up the various sets of stairs until you finally got back to the sister’s apartment.

“Where is everyone?” Sam asked as soon as she stepped through the door.

You came up behind her, peeking around her to see Ethan and Quinn were nowhere in sight. “Quinn is with a gentleman caller,” Mindy said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Ethan left a little bit after you,” Chad said, not even bothering to look up as he mindless flipped through channels on the TV. “Said he had Econ.”

Sam rolled her eyes as she walked towards the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water. Tara flopped down in the chair next to the couch and you made your way to the far end of the couch, taking a seat next to Chad. A moment later Chad furrowed his brow and sat up straighter. You looked up to see he had stopped flipping through the channels and had stopped on the news. You furrowed your brow as well when you saw a picture of Sam pop up on the screen. Mindy plucked the remote out of Chad’s hand and turned up the volume.

“Ghostface is taking on New York,” the report said. “And the prime suspect seems to be Samantha Carpenter, daughter of the original Ghostface killer, Billy Loomis.” You looked to the side to see Sam standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with tears as she stared at the TV, trying to remain strong. “She is rumored to have setup her boyfriend, Richie Kirsch, in the killings last year.” Your ears instantly perked up at the name, it was the same name that popped up on Sam’s phone before the recent attack. “Right before killing him herself. Now-”

“Bullshit!” Chad snapped, aggressively pressing the power button. “They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.” He slammed down the remote on the coffee table.

Chad jumped up from the couch and stormed over to the dining table where Tara was sitting next to Sam, Mindy following close behind. You watched as Sam curled in on herself, trying to make herself as small as possible as Tara tried to comfort her. You couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, and you didn’t feel right about eavesdropping, they deserved their privacy. You decided to focus on your feet, as Sam’s friends tried to comfort her. You tried not to let what the reporter said invade your mind, you learned a little more about Sam, but you didn’t want to take the media’s word for it. Sam wasn’t a suspect, they already got that wrong, she was the victim.

You heard loud banging coming from Quinn’s room but didn’t think much of it as everyone laughed it off, seeming to go on as if this was regular occurrence. Everyone’s phones, besides yours, went off, shifting the energy in the room. You slid next to Anika, looking over her shoulder as she opened a message on her phone, showing a picture of Quinn being stabbed by Ghostface.

Everyone shot to their feet, the yelling from Quinn’s room got louder then suddenly stopped. Everyone gathered in the middle of the living room as they stared at Quinn’s door, waiting to for what would happen next. Before you knew it the door flung open and Ghostface tossed Quinn’s body out, which landed on Anakin, sending her to the ground.

“Go!” you shouted, pointing at the front door.

Chad grabbed Tara and yanked her out the front door. When Mindy tried to follow Ghostface slashed her across the arm and sent her to the ground.

Anika pushed Quinn’s body off herself and pulled herself to her feet. Ghostface was right there though, grabbing her by the neck and slamming her into the wall. He raised his knife, twirling it back and forth as he got ready to stab Anika. Without thinking you rushed forward and tackled him to the ground before he could stab Anika.

You punched Ghostface in the face, ignoring the pain that radiated through your knuckles with each hit to the mask. You grabbed his hand that was holding the knife and slammed it on the ground until he dropped it. You pushed the knife away before trying to stand up. As soon as you started to get off Ghostface he swung his legs around, tripping you and sending you back to the floor. He scrambled away from you as he grabbed his knife again.

He jumped back to his feet and stood over you, tilting his head as he waved the knife back and forth. You smirked when you saw Sam come up from behind him and hit him on the back of the head with a wood block of some sort. When Ghostface stumbled forward you kicked out your foot, tripping him and sending him tumbling to the floor.

Sam held out a hand to you and as soon as you took it, she yanked you up. While Sam was helping you, Anika helped Mindy up, then Sam ushered the three of you into the bedroom. She ran across the room and into the bathroom to lock a door while you slammed the door closed as soon as you got inside. Everyone rushed around the room, knocking over furniture and using anything to try and barricade the doors.

“Danny?” Sam asked, furrowing her brow as she looked out the window. You followed her gaze to see her neighbor waving his arms out his window as he tried to get someone’s attention.

Sam opened the window. “Are you crazy?” she called out. You made your way next to her to see Danny pushing a ladder out of his window. You helped Sam grab the ladder and stabilize it so everyone could crawl across.

“Go,” you said, nodding at Sam.

Sam looked back at Mindy and Anika as they tried to hold the door closed as Ghostface attempted to shove his way in. “But-” she looked back at you.

“Go,” you ordered, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Sam reluctantly got on the ladder and began making her way across. You ran to Mindy and Anakin, falling into place right beside them as you helped hold the door. “Your turn,” you nodded at Anika.

Anika shook her head, there were tears streaming down her face. You looked at Mindy for a little help and when she looked back at the door you assured her you had it. Mindy grabbed Anika and dragged her over to the window. Anika’s crying only got louder as she convinced Mindy to go first. Once Mindy was out the window and making her way across Anika turned back to you.

“Go!” you ordered again. “Go,” you gestured with your hand. “I’ll be fine.”

With shaky hands Anika lifted herself out of the window and began making her way across the ladder. Almost as soon as you loosened your hold on the door Ghostface plowed through, sending you falling to the ground. You recovered almost instantly and jumped across the bed when you saw he was making his way for the window, to Anika.

You grabbed the curtains and wrapped them around Ghostface’s neck before he could get his hands on the ladder. You pulled the curtain tighter, feeling his body spasm and kicked as he clawed at the fabric, but you were stronger than him. You caught a glance out the window, seeing Anika be pulled to safety. It wasn’t until you had him so close that you were confident this Ghostface was one of the ones from the gym, not the one from the bodega.

Ghostface stopped pulling at the cloth, but a second later you felt a sharp pain in your thigh. You gritted your teeth, suppressing a scream as best as you could. You looked down to see a knife sticking out of your leg before Ghostface ripped it out. You let go of the curtain, releasing Ghostface as you brought a hand to the wound.

You tried to stand up as straight as you could, but blood was gushing between your fingers. Ghostface recovered quicker as he whipped around and swung his knife down. You raised your hand, making sure the knife only sliced your forearm.

Your hand shot out, catching Ghostface’s arm before he could bring the knife down again. You ignored the blood running down your arm, you didn’t have time to worry about stopping the bleeding. While your other hand was still pressing against the wound on your thigh, Ghostface took his free hand and punched you in the side, right where your stitches were.

You let go of his hand as you brought your hand to your side, surely having ripped your stitches again. You ignored the others yelling for you as Ghostface brought down his knife again, this time when you blocked his arm with yours and brought your knee up, nailing him in the stomach. While he was doubled over you brought your good leg up and kicked him square in the chest, sending him tumbling over the side of the bed.

As much as you wanted to finish the fight you knew you were in no condition to do so. You limped over to the window and climbed out onto the ladder. When you looked ahead you could see Sam and Danny gesturing at you to hurry. You crawled as best as you could with one good leg and one good arm, ignoring the way the blood dripped down your hand, making the ladder and your hand slippery with each movement.

“Hurry!” Sam yelled; her voice strained. You looked up to see her eyes wide and not focused on you but something behind you. You glanced over your shoulder to see Ghostface standing at the window. He impaled the knife in the windowsill before using both hands to grab the end of the ladder.

You gritted your teeth; you were really starting to hate this guy. You continued to crawl, your grip tightening as Ghostface lifted the ladder, jostling it back and forth to try and get you to fall. You nearly lost your grip once, having to wrap your arm under the rungs and keep your body low so you didn’t go over the side.

You looked up, judging the distance from where you were to the window. You let out a shaky breath as you slowly loosened your grip, despite Ghostface still shaking the ladder with all his strength. You got into a crouch position and kicked off, ungracefully launching yourself off the ladder and at the window. You reached out, catching on the windowsill with one hand. You brought up your bloody hand, which instantly found the home of someone else’s. You looked up to see Sam holding onto you as Danny held your other hand and began to pull you up.

You made it through the window, instantly collapsing on the ground next to Danny. You looked back at him as he moved out from underneath you, his hands instantly going to your wounds to try and stop the bleeding. You couldn’t help but groan at the pressure. Sam helped drag you against the wall to prop you up. You let your head flop against the wall, you strained to stay conscious, focusing on Mindy’s voice as she called for an ambulance, and on Sam’s hands as they wrapped a scratchy cloth around your arm, trying to stop the bleeding.

Taglist: @thatshyboy1998 @artrizzler19 @btay3115 @acutenobody @godamnityess

@luvwanda @rqizzu @riyaexee @bella423

[sanguineterrain]

Hello madame terrain, I have been thinking about boxer!jason for some time now and I'm wondering if you have any thoughts about him? if not that's totally okay too ☺️ love all your writing!!!

lol hi, madame terrain is adorable 💕 also boxer jason is big brained!!! let's do it ;)

boxer!jason todd x gn!reader. reader is an apprentice to a ringside doctor (leslie thompkins). tw creepy OMC intimidates reader, jason protects/defends r, fluff, my attempt at boxing stuff.

****

Leslie said she'd be back in an hour.

You're currently at the thirty minute mark, hoping for a natural disaster, an angel, anything, because...

"Doc gives me stuff for my pain all the time," Keith says for the third time. "It's real simple."

Keith Dixon is one of the gym's regular fighters. You haven't seen enough matches to judge his fighting, but you can confidently say that his people skills are in the toilet.

He'd barged into the office ten minutes ago and had refused to leave even when you said Leslie was out.

You need to make a break for it.

"You have to wait for Dr. Thompkins," you say, lifting your chin. You won't give in and risk losing this job. No way in hell. "I can't administer medications. I'm not licensed."

Keith rolls his eyes. He's a hothead, new to Gotham. Likes to fight. Likes to fight mean.

"Look, you're new. I'm just giving you a heads-up on how things work around here," he says, backing you up further. You're nearly against the wall.

Where the hell is Leslie?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dixon, but I can't prescribe painkillers without her supervision."

"Uh-huh. Know what I think? I think you're just not cut out for the ring," Keith says, cornering you against the cabinet. "Cute thing like you shouldn't be hiding in an office. The Doc ought to know better..."

"Is there a problem?"

The new voice makes you flinch, just a little. Keith pulls back, posture easy but guarded. The second guy holds himself similarly. He's also well-built, clad in a gray tee and black sweatpants. His hands are wrapped.

"J-man," Keith says, daggers in his teeth. "Man, I thought you were benched for the week. You meet our new assistant? They're still getting used to how things run around here."

The mystery man looks at you. His eyes are a lovely teal.

"Is he botherin' you?" he asks.

"I—" You swallow. "I was just explaining to Keith that I can't administer medicine without Dr. Thompkins."

Keith huffs. "Jason, tell 'em how this works."

Jason faces Keith. They nearly match each other in height and bulk. You hope to God they don't decide to brawl here and now.

"I think you're the one who needs a reminder, Dixon," Jason says coolly. "Seems pretty straightforward to me. You need to wait for the Doc. So was there something else you needed?"

Keith's mouth presses into a line. You can tell he's got about a hundred ugly thoughts on his tongue right now.

"Nope," he grits out.

"Mm. Then step off."

Keith obeys. You slip out of the corner.

"I'll come back," he says.

"When the Doc's here," Jason adds. It doesn't sound like a suggestion. "If y'need a reminder of her schedule, I don't mind giving you one."

Keith looks at you. You hold his gaze, heart pounding.

"Of course," he says, all false charm, and pushes past Jason. "See ya in the ring, J.T."

You can't relax even after Keith leaves. Jason remains in the doorway. You close your eyes at the thought of dealing with another fighter. It's not bad with Leslie here, but this is your first time alone. It's already a disaster.

Obviously, none of the fighters respect you like they respect Leslie, even after three weeks of you working here. You don't even know all of the fighters.

"Hey." Jason doesn't move from his spot as he asks. "Y'okay?"

"Yes," you say, keeping your back straight. "I'm fine. Do you need medical attention?"

"I just came to get some more wraps. But I can get 'em at home."

His voice is softer now that Keith's gone.

"No need," you say. "That's what I'm here for."

You get a roll of tape from the drawer. It takes you three tries to pull the edge out. You drop it twice.

You feel Jason's eyes on you. You keep pulling the tape, but it won't comply.

"I got it," he says. "I can wrap myself. Toss it here."

You pause, tape half unfurled. "Dr. Thompkins told me to do all wraps myself."

"Leslie's cool. I won't tell her, anyway."

You shake your head. "Why don't you want me to wrap your hands?"

Jason glances to the side. He leans against the doorframe, purposely casual.

"'Cause Keith's a big guy. And I'm a big guy. And your hands are still shaking."

You tighten your grip on the tape.

Jason gestures to the office. "This is your space. I won't come in if you don't want me to. That's not how this works."

"It's... it's the job," you say, startled. "I don't—I've heard that Keith's rough with everybody."

"Yeah, well, he's an asshole. You shouldn't have to be rough back. Good fighters turn it off outside of the ring. I don't want to make you feel small. Alright?"

Tension bleeds out of your spine. You no longer feel like prey.

"It's easier if I wrap them for you," you say, and turn your back on him to fetch the antiseptic.

The tiles behind you creak as Jason hesitates for a moment. Then he walks in and sits in a chair, so you're higher than him.

He looks up at you. He really does have beautiful eyes. His eyelashes are dark and delicate. There's a faded bruise on his cheek.

He's boyishly handsome, with a mouth that looks like it smiles a lot.

"Do you also fight here?"

He nods. "Since I was eighteen. Been here a while."

You take one of his hands in both of yours. Jason's already thrown out the old tape. His knuckles are cut up. They're covered in scars. His fingernails are short and neat.

His hands are big, far bigger than yours. Veins feed into each other from the backs of his hands up his forearms.

You take out the antiseptic spray.

"Might be cold," you warn.

"'S okay."

You spray his skin. Jason doesn't even flinch.

"Your hands are really soft," he says.

"Oh, thank you. I use Isley's Salve. Works great."

Why did you share that?

Jason's mouth quirks. "Yeah? Might have to try that. My hands have seen better days."

"I have some in my bag." You let go of the half-done wrap and dig through your backpack. You pull out the small tube of salve and squeeze some onto his hands.

Jason is quiet and still as you rub in the lotion. He's pliant as you finish the wraps, letting you turn his hands over. You pull the wraps tight.

"All done," you say, face suddenly warm like you've been caught doing something you weren't supposed to.

He flexes his hands a few times. "Thanks. You're good. I can see why Leslie chose you as her apprentice."

You shrug. "Anybody can wrap hands."

"Dunno. I've seen some pretty shit wraps in my time."

"Oh. Well, um, I'm here most of the time, so feel free to come by and get your wraps changed."

He hums. "Sure. Don't worry 'bout Keith. I'll take care of it."

Your eyes widen. "I don't want more trouble..."

"You won't get trouble, I promise. We don't tolerate that here. 'Sides, he's overstayed his welcome."

You nod. "Okay. Thank you, Jason."

"No need for thank you's. Y'alright getting home?"

"Yes, I'm okay. Leslie's dropping me."

Jason nods, then picks himself up. He pauses like he wants to say something else, but he strides out of the room like he's in a rush instead.

"Well, um. G'night," he says over his shoulder. "Take care."

It's about fifteen more minutes until Leslie returns.

"Everything alright?" she asks in a tone that tells you she already knows the answer. "I ran into Jason on my way in. He said Keith Dixon gave you some trouble. I'm sorry I took so long. Are you alright?"

"You ran into—I thought Jason went home for the night."

Leslie looks like you've just told her the sky is red. "He wanted to make sure you were okay. So he waited till I came back. Are you okay? Did Keith hurt you?"

You shake your head. "No, I'm alright. Just shaken up. He's a bully. Wanted painkillers."

Leslie frowns. "He won't bother you again. I'll make sure you're not alone."

"It's okay. I mean, Jason was there."

She nods. "Mm. He's a good boy. I know his father."

"Yeah, he, uh, was nice. I wrapped his hands."

Leslie raises an eyebrow. Your shoulders rise.

"What?" you ask. "You said to practice my wraps."

She shrugs. "Nothing, nothing. I did tell you that. I'm glad you got some practice in."

You follow her to her car. Soon, Leslie pulls out of the lot.

"Leslie, do you mind if we stop at CVS?"

"Sure. What for?"

You feel for the little tube in your pocket.

"Need more Isley's Salve... I'm, uh, running low."

[fatkish]

Todoroki boys x Cow Hybrid Reader

Hybrid AU

In this AU, Enji wasn’t an abusive father, instead of being a hero in this world, Enji is the proud owner of Endeavor Farms. His farm is home to Hybrids that he breeds and sells. He’s trained each of his sons on how to handle the hybrids and how to care for them. The farm sells milk, wool, produce, etc. Enji had heard of a mistreated and very skittish cow hybrid that was rescued from an underground hybrid ring. These rings are notorious for either being a sex ring that makes money off of people’s kinks or fetishes using hybrids or for being fighting rings where hybrids are made to fight each other and people bet on them. Enji decided that this would be a perfect first hybrid for his sons to experience. So he brought the hybrid to his farm and put them in the barn in their own stall.

Enji:

Despite his intimidating demeanor and appearance he’s actually very kind and gentle with his hybrids and animals

He treats them all nicely since happy animals means better produce

He’s tall and muscular so you thought he was some kind of hybrid, especially since he smelled like them but since it was nighttime when you arrived at his farm, you couldn’t tell

He checked your hooves and made sure to trim them since he has the most experience with it

Surprisingly he’s one of the first people you were comfortable around

He prefers the machines since it’s a faster milking process but he’s not opposed to milking by hand

Touya/Dabi:

He teases you

He was the last person who you let milk you

You learned to trust him when he saved you from coyotes one night. They had somehow gotten past the dogs that protected the farm and were about to attack you when Touya got in between you and them. Seeing him get bit by them, you charged the coyotes and drove them away

You both were bitten and had several scratches but you didn’t care, you wanted to make sure Touya was safe

Touya doesn’t have a preference but does enjoy the noises you make when the machine milks you

Natsuo:

Natsuo had gone to medical school to learn how to treat hybrids and became a licensed doctor for hybrids

He gives check ups on all the hybrids and animals

He gave you a check up when you got to the farm, making sure you were healthy and that you didn’t have any underlying health issues or conditions

He was the third person you trusted

He’s very gentle and is kind of a clown

He’s constantly making jokes since that’s how he learned to help his patients nervousness

He’s pretty funny

He doesn’t have a preference when it comes to milking by hand or using the machine, whichever one you’re more comfortable with is what he uses

Shoto:

He was the second person you were comfortable around

Since he’s still rather young, you tend to view him more as a child or a smaller animal

His aloof personality is what makes you feel safe around him

He was the first person who was able to milk you since you’re a dairy cow

He often takes walks around the farm with you

He sometimes takes naps in the barn with the animals. Since you’re more comfortable around animals than humans, you stuck with the cows on the farm. When you saw how comfortable they were with him and how they trusted him, you decided he was trustworthy too

He spoils you the most, he gives you treats more often than anyone else

He prefers to milk you by hand instead of using the machines

[autisticadvocacy]

The Autistic Self Advocacy Network urges the Senate not to confirm Robert F. Kennedy Jr. as Secretary of the Department of Health and Human Services. Kennedy’s long record of spreading misinformation about autism in particular and public health in general makes him a disastrous choice for this role. His opposition to life-saving vaccines, his belief that HIV may not cause AIDS, his desire to increase the use of quack autism “treatments” and his comments about putting people taking psychiatric medication in labor camps should all be immediately disqualifying. Autistic people, the disability community, and the nation’s public health will all suffer if he is confirmed. 

Vaccines save lives

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is the founder of Children’s Health Defense, a prominent anti-vaccine group. He has claimed that no vaccine has been proven safe and effective, that the recommended vaccine schedule for children is dangerous, and that “autism does come from vaccines.”  He has also fought against COVID-19 vaccination, falsely calling an early COVID vaccine “the deadliest vaccine ever made.”

Vaccines are safe and effective. Vaccines do not cause autism. The idea that the measles, mumps and rubella (MMR) vaccine is linked to autism comes from one fraudulent 1998 publication claiming that the vaccine had caused autistic traits in 12 children. The man responsible for this publication, Andrew Wakefield, used unethical methods and failed to disclose financial conflicts of interest. The paper did not give enough evidence for its claim that the MMR vaccine could cause autism. It was later retracted by the journal that published it, and Wakefield had his medical license revoked.

In spite of the fraudulent origins of the idea that vaccines cause autism, and in spite of decades of replicable research proving that this is not true, some people, like Kennedy, continue to perpetuate the myth. These lies do very real harm to the autistic community. Kennedy has described autistic people in insulting ways meant to inspire fear, saying that “their brain is gone” and that the purported effects of vaccination are “a Holocaust.” By working to prevent childhood vaccination, he effectively communicates the message that living as an autistic person is a worse fate than dying of measles or pertussis. 

The anti-vaccine movement has led to a wave of fake “autism cures,” many of which have very real health risks. Kennedy recently promoted two of these fake cures when he accused the FDA of suppressing “hyperbaric therapies, chelating compounds.” Hyperbaric therapy, a treatment for decompression sickness in divers, has been promoted as a fake autism cure in spite of a complete lack of evidence and associated health risks. Chelation, a treatment for heavy metal poisoning, is another fake cure, and its off-label use for autism has been associated with at least one death. 

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and his allies claim that autistic people did not exist in his youth and that “I have never in my life seen a man my age with full-blown autism.” The idea that autistic people of Kennedy’s age (70) do not exist is not true. Autistic people have always been here, but before widespread autism diagnosis, we either went undiagnosed, or received different diagnoses than would be used today — for example, the outdated diagnosis of “childhood schizophrenia” for autism, or diagnosing people who today would only have an autism diagnosis with intellectual disability. Autistic people in Kennedy’s generation were all too often institutionalized or incarcerated. Even if Kennedy is telling the truth about not seeing us, that does not mean we were not there. 

Of course, Kennedy’s lies about vaccines do not just hurt autistic people. Kennedy and his nonprofit played an active role in a recent measles outbreak in American Samoa, spreading vaccine misinformation until the vaccination rate dropped low enough that 5,700 people were infected with measles, and 83 people died. Kennedy has also made false claims about COVID-19 vaccine trials and about the Vaccine Adverse Event Reporting System, blaming unrelated deaths on COVID vaccinations. Anti-vaccine misinformation like that promoted by Kennedy’s group has led to a reduced rate of childhood vaccinations in the United States since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic.  

Lies about public health endanger everyone

Kennedy has taken other stances on public health, also based on misinformation, that disproportionately harm disabled people. He has opposed COVID-19 vaccination when people with intellectual and developmental disabilities (IDD) are at risk for worse outcomes if we get COVID. He wants to take fluoride out of drinking water, making everyone’s dental health worse, when people with IDD have worse dental health outcomes to begin with. He opposes the use of medication for ADHD in spite of research demonstrating that these medications are safe and can prevent deaths among people who take them. He has falsely linked antidepressants, which for many people are life-saving medication, to mass shootings. None of these beliefs are based on evidence, and all of them would make terrible public health policy. 

Kennedy’s fringe beliefs have led him to propose some truly disturbing disability policies. Notably, he has discussed sending people who struggle with addiction or take psychiatric medications to “wellness farms,” where they could labor for several years and would be forbidden to use cell phones. In the autism community, we have seen farms promoted as a housing solution before, and we recognize this idea for what it is: a proposal to institutionalize the 16% of Americans who take psychiatric medication and the 16% of Americans who struggle with substance use. 

Kennedy’s commitment to spreading misinformation about public health extends beyond developmental disability. He claims that drinking raw milk has health benefits at a time when bird flu is spreading and foodborne diseases like listeria are becoming more common. He has suggested that AIDS may not be caused by HIV, and has participated in transphobic fear-mongering by claiming that chemicals in drinking water may change children’s gender identity. Once again, there is no evidence for any of these beliefs. 

We should never take “a break” from public health

At an anti-vaccine conference last year, Kennedy said that if he became President, he would tell the National Institutes of Health, “Thank you for public service. We’re going to give infectious disease a break for about eight years.” Instead, he pledged to focus NIH’s efforts entirely on chronic disease like diabetes. Pivoting government research away from infectious diseases during the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic would have disastrous consequences. And Kennedy’s claim that he will focus on chronic disease is short-sighted — chronic disease is often caused or worsened by infectious diseases like COVID. Diseases don’t take a break from threatening our lives and health, and we shouldn’t take a break from trying to prevent and mitigate diseases.

The worst public health harms in US history have been inflicted on marginalized communities when our public health systems “took a break” from protecting us. In the same way, marginalized communities would bear the brunt of a decision to abandon HHS’ responsibility to study infectious diseases.

Robert F. Kennedy Jr. promotes policies that will actively harm the health of all Americans. He intends to twist the federal agencies in charge of our health into engines of misinformation. We are dismayed by his nomination not only as self-advocates and professionals in health policy, but also as human beings who want our government to safeguard our health and embrace science. The Senate must not confirm Kennedy as Secretary of HHS. 

The Autistic Self Advocacy Network seeks to advance the principles of the disability rights movement with regard to autism. ASAN believes that the goal of autism advocacy should be a world in which autistic people enjoy equal access, rights, and opportunities. We work to empower autistic people across the world to take control of our own lives and the future of our common community, and seek to organize the autistic community to ensure our voices are heard in the national conversation about us. Nothing About Us, Without Us!

[naamahdarling]

Maybe it isn't that I actually hate medical professionals? They just suck and are weird sometimes, and a lot of them shouldn't be practicing, but I don't hate them as a group, like, personally.

What I hate is their ability to make my life harder in ways that are often completely opaque to me, and a lot of the crap things they do are not really possible to challenge. And I hate the fact that holding them responsible fort dogshit behavior in any way that will actually benefit me is almost always impossible.

And I also hate the fact that they have to do stupid things sometimes because that's how the system is set up, and those things sometimes mean patients actually get harmed. They aren't fond of that part either! They don't want the system to be the way it is! But they don't have a choice, so sometimes people like me get forced by bureaucracy into doing things that are re-traumatizing. And I can't imagine that feels good for them at all, knowing that their patients are sometimes only "consenting" because that bureaucracy will not let them be helped in any other way. Which isn't consent at all. I imagine that must be pretty traumatizing for them, too, sometimes.

If it were easier to actually access medical care without tremendous delays in this country right now I would have much less trouble finding providers who are good at what they do and are not horrible people, and who have clinic staff who can do their fucking job.

Oh and I also don't appreciate how evasive and unwilling to commit they are out of fear of being held to an answer that turns out to be inaccurate, but I can't make an informed decision about my own care unless they give me at least some information about probabilities and trajectories and typicalities. Genuinely, how the fuck am I supposed to navigate that shit. I get that some patients are really fucking difficult, but I should be able to get a special stamp on my file or something that says I understand that sometimes medicine isn't an exact science and the best answers that my doctors can give may not always prove to be accurate in the long term. I know they don't like being in that situation either.

A lot of medical professionals are fucking assholes, and unfortunately the ones who are not are still hamstrung by a system set up to actively prevent people from getting care.

I miss my old doctor. He gave no shits about anything that wasn't the patient. He prescribed scheduled meds based on what the patient needed and not based on fear of consequences potentially being imposed on him by the punitive patient-hostile drugs-are-bad moral panic machine developed to force suffering people into buying more dangerous drugs off the street in order to prevent far fewer people from maybe getting high off of drugs that at least weren't laced with lethal substances. (The purpose of a system is what it does.) Did he get sanctioned and become locally unhireable? Unfortunately yes he did. Does he now provide concierge care to rich people? Yes he does. He found a way to make it work, God bless him.

Everything about the medical system in this country is fucked. Hospitals, doctors, nurses, pharmacies, pharmacists, pharmacy techs, phlebotomists, clinic administrative staff, insurance companies, medical schools and schooling, licensing boards, drug advertising to both providers and patients, pharmaceutical reps, researchers, research, publishing, medical trials, pharmaceutical companies, manufacturers and distributors, medical equipment, charting software, billing and billing codes, diagnostic criteria, charity and low income services, accessible transportation, home care, the lack of independent individual patient advocates, dietitians and nutritionists, access to physical and occupational therapy and physical and occupational therapists, the massive bigotry of every kind rampant in every corner of the medical field, social work, senior care and assisted living, deprioritization of informed consent and harm reduction, disability applications, inaccessibility of medical records, especially psychiatric notes which are specifically allowed to be withheld from patients, lack of continuity of care for disadvantaged people, care that is equitably accessible to disabled people, telemedicine, patient portals, phone systems, clinic hours, every single aspect of inpatient and outpatient psychiatry, facility security, all sorts of things going on with therapists who are nevertheless probably the least malicious group of people in this entire charade, aaaaaand patients themselves.

Also hospital toilets that are too tall and make it literally physically impossible for me to poop while I'm there waiting for somebody to come out of surgery. I just needed to take a crap, guys. You didn't need to make the toilets so tall that my feet didn't even touch the floor. It is very clean but there is no shitting for short people at St Francis.

[buzzcutlip]

hiiii, for the prompt thing, could u do carmy + "is this the part where you kick me out" and/or "i can't do this without you"? 🩷

also i am BEGGING for part 2 of the worst day pls i check literally every single day to see if it's up !!!

Hello! Cracks and Gaps is getting longer and longer, bigger and bigger. I don't quite know how to separate the text into chapters. I'm hoping I'll publish chapter 2 by the end of August/beginning of September. Thank you for your interest and support :)

Prompt: "I can't do this without you" Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Explicit 1600 words (warnings for injuries/burns and a bit of mean!Carmy - but also gentle!Carmy so it's fine, Claire is mentioned but note that this is set a couple weeks after the fridge incident)

The loud chime of the downstairs doorbell rings sharply through the quiet apartment. You get up to the intercom and buzz Carmen in.

You’ve only ever had the girls over—Tina, Sydney, and once even Nat. Those were very rare moments spent outside the kitchen, outside The Bear, when you somehow managed to have a day off together. Normally, you’re not very comfortable letting people into your apartment. And having Carmen here—you try not to think about it too much.

The thing is, you had an accident in the kitchen five days ago during one of those crazy afternoons just before lunch opening—full of yelling, collisions, and near-strokes—when you managed to scald your right forearm. Like, properly scald, until the skin was baby pink and raw-looking. The longer you looked at the damaged area, the dizzier you felt.

Richie drove you to the hospital, not caring about his absent driving license, and sat with you in the emergency room while a nurse bandaged the big, painful blisters that had formed where just skin used to be. Only the next day did you learn that it hadn’t been your fault—Marcus had slipped on water that Ebra had spilled, bumping into Carmy, who bumped into you, forcing you to lean against the stove with a huge pot of boiling spaghetti. Due to the shock, you completely forgot. Not that you would ever hold it against any of them.

The moment you hear Carmy’s knock on the door, your heart speeds up. You know it’s stupid and unreasonable, but you look up to the chef very much, admiring what he’s accomplished, and very, very secretly, you do have a little—big—crush on him.

“Thank you for coming, really,” you greet him earnestly as soon as you’re face-to-face with him.

“It’s the least I could do,” Carmy says as you lead him toward the kitchen table where all your medical supplies are laid out. Soon after getting home from the ER, you figured out that you wouldn’t be able to change the bandages on your dominant hand twice a day by yourself—not properly. There are many other things you haven’t been able to do.

“And it makes sense since I live the closest,” Carmy adds as he settles down next to you after washing his hands thoroughly. Leaning in, he starts removing the dressing, as you instructed, holding your hand carefully.

“Have you and Richie talked yet?” you ask to fill the silence with something.

Carmy doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “You’ve been gone for four days. It’s—it's gonna take longer than that,” he mumbles, peeling off the gauze sponges soaked in antibiotic cream. You hiss, trying to retract your hand instinctively, but Carmy doesn’t relent.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, giving you a moment to relax again. He reapplies the cream to the skin scarred by the blisters, which have mostly drained by now. It hurts like hell, his touch bringing stinging tears to your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Carmy says when he peers up at you.

“Not your fault,” you grit your teeth against the burning pain, trying to remember if you’ve taken a painkiller today. His touch is gentle and careful, and the combination of his softness and the contact does strange things to you. It’s turning you on.

“We should’ve done better. To prevent things like this from happening. The kitchen should be a safe work environment,” he adds, glancing at his own scarred hands. “As safe as possible.”

When he finishes wrapping your arm with the gauze dressing, you feel a wave of relief that he’s no longer inspecting your scarred skin.

Carmen leans back in his chair, running a hand through his unruly hair. “What else can I do?”

The possibilities rush through your mind, but you quickly dismiss all inappropriate intrusive thoughts. “Would you help me wash my hair?” you ask, grimacing at your own ineptitude, embarrassed and frustrated. Your scalp has been itching for the second day, driving you absolutely nuts.

Carmen nods without hesitation, understanding the vulnerability behind your request. “Yeah, of course. Whatever you need,” he says gently, standing up and glancing around your apartment to find the bathroom.

You lead him there, feeling a mix of relief and self-consciousness. You’re not used to asking for help, especially not with something so personal. Carmen seems to sense this because as you walk, he doesn’t say anything more, just follows your lead.

The bathroom is small but clean, and you can’t help but notice the way Carmen’s presence fills the space, making it feel even smaller. You pull out a chair and sit with your back to the basin, trying to ignore the awkwardness of the situation. Carmen moves around you, adjusting the water temperature and rolling up his sleeves. When his fingers brush against your neck as he gathers your hair, a shiver runs down your spine.

“Lean back a little,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant but soothing. You do as he says, closing your eyes as he begins to wet your hair. The warm water runs down your scalp, and for a moment, you can almost forget the pain in your arm and the way your heart races whenever Carmen is near.

He’s gentle, more so than you would have expected from someone who spends his days commanding a chaotic kitchen. His fingers work the shampoo into your hair, massaging your scalp in slow, careful circles. The sensation is almost too much—too intimate, too comforting—and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“You’re very quiet.”

“So are you. When you’re not shouting,” you don’t miss the opportunity to pick at him. “It’s hard to figure you out.”

Carmen scoffs, but there’s a subtle tension in his voice. “Right back at ya.”

The water in the basin swishes loudly as Carmen rinses the shampoo, combing through your hair with his fingers, careful not to tug too hard, squeezing the excess water ouf from your hair. ““There you go,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “All done.”

You sit up slowly, feeling a bit lighter. “Thank you. Couldn’t do it without you.”

Carmen offers a small, almost shy smile, but there’s something behind his eyes—a flicker of unease, like he’s unsure of how to respond. You wonder, not for the first time, if the tenderness he’s showing isn’t something that comes naturally to him. 

The shift is abrupt. Familiar from how you know him from work. His mood swings and angry outbursts. You don’t know what causes it. Maybe he can finally see it on you. The way you’ve been pressing your thighs together, the redness of your cheeks. Is this his secret superpower -- can he read thoughts?

“What?” you ask with an unease when he stares at you for too long, wiping his wet hands in the pink towel, then putting it neatly on the radiator behind him.

Carmen’s movements are swift and decisive as he kneels in front of you, his rough voice breaking the silence. “I blame myself,” he says, almost desperately. He takes your injured hand, his lips brushing against the bare fingers and knuckles peeking out from beneath the bandages. His other hand disappears between your thighs, and you’re mortified at the thought that he can probably feel how wet you are through the layers of clothing. 

“There are other ways to make you feel better,” he says, his words dripping with a raw, suggestive intensity that leaves you stunned. You blink rapidly, trying to process the unexpected turn in his demeanor.

A wave of emotions crashes over you, paralyzing you with its intensity. “What about Cla -”

“Shut up,” he murmurs quietly, without much heat. “You want this or not?”

You do, you’re nodding. You’ll take anything he’s willing to give you, no matter what. 

Carmen eats you out. He pulls down your leggings along with your panties, eyes fixed between your legs where you’re already - embarrassingly - wet from all of his touches, intentional or not. Carmen only uses his mouth on you - his tongue and lips, keeping his hands where you can’t see or feel them. It reminds you of David Coperfield and his right magic hand never touching Claudia Schiffer. Like if Carmy put his fingers into your pussy it would suck out his mojo, or something.

Usually it’s hard for you to come just from oral sex but Carmen’s different. He uses these long, wide licks on you, literally eating your pussy out, rather than just licking at your clit. That really does the trick for you. 

When you come, hand gripping Carmy’s curls, he’s busy touching himself. You can hear the rustling and the wet noises even through the static in your ears.

You can barely catch your breath when Carmen says: “Pull,” and you do - hard - which leaves him gasping, and even though he doesn’t make any loud noises, it makes your pussy throb. 

He comes with his head between your legs, licking at you weakly without much intent. You know only because his movements come to a stop and for a moment you’re both still. Until Carmen visibly shakes himself and his eyes find yours once again. 

“Say thank you, chef,” he murmurs against your skin, punctuating his words with a sharp smack to your inner thigh. The sting of it makes you jump, gasping at the unexpected pain.

“Thank you,” you manage to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper, shaky from the intensity of it all.

[thesirencult]

Pick A Card : Soul Connection

An intuitive reading about a soul meant to find yours. In epic tales there is a literally mechanism called "recognition". The hero and his counterpart recognize eachother even after years of estrangement. Like Penelope and Odysseus. A love so deep not even multiple lifetimes can erase. A soul kindred to yours you would recognize in a sea of people.

"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."

disclaimer : a tarot reading should never be used in place of professional counselling. Your reading cannot offer legal, medical, business, or financial advice nor does any portion of your reading herein purport to. You should not rely on a tarot reading to make any decision that would affect your legal, financial, or medical condition. If your inquiry involves the law, finance, or medicine, then you should seek the advice of a licensed or qualified legal, financial, or medical professional. Also, tarot reading cannot replace qualified mental health care. A tarot reading can only facilitate how you cope spiritually with a given situation.

PILE 1

The soul meant to find yours is a gentle one. Themes that come up here remind me of couples like Queen Victoria and Albert. I t will be love at first sight. Whatever your genders are, the "supposed" feminine will be the dominant one.

Your person will take the backseat as you run things. You may come from a wealthier background or simply seem "high value". Lady and the trump vibes.

This person will fight for those who didn't get the same opportunities to grow. They cheer for the underdog. This person will love your firey nature and how "bossy" you are. One thing you have to be careful with in this relationship is to keep things balanced as sometimes they might feel like you do not respect them or you don't spend enough time with them.

They could be an INFJ. Sympathetic, compassionate and protective. Practical and detail oriented, this is the safe place you need to come back to after your long trips towards the stars.

PILE 2

The love of your life will be able to see you. The real you. They won't overlook the greyness in your face. "You're Losing Me" by Taylor Swift is a song that can talk about your past.

No one stopped hurting you even though they knew they wouldn't be able to bring you back. They didn't care.

This person is everything that you deserve. They will help you heal. No sad songs with this one. Your happily ever after. This person is a soldier. They would die for love.

Your people pleasing tendencies won't go unnoticed with this one. They care about YOU, not what you can do about THEM.

Give them a chance when they come around. Sweet energy. Safe. Boy-Girl-They next door energy. A sweetheart with a great smile and a kind glint in their eyes. My heart feels warm writing about them. Hallmark movies ain't got nothing on them. Their love is simple and "perfect". No questions and worries. Your safe place.

Your energy reminds me of those wedding photos you see on Instagram of couples in small American towns posing with their golden retriever and smiling at each other. Don't let your past wounds f*ck this up. Sincerely, from one people pleaser to another. If you picked this pile we would have been besties in real life. Lots of love and hugs your way.

P.S. They will always choose you. You are not the first, but the ONLY choice.

PILE 3

Your whole life you have felt alone and isolated. Like life is a party you have not been invited. I wouldn't say you are a "pick me", you are far from that. You just feel like there is no one there for you to keep your hands warm. You have always longed for someone that will look behind the mirror and realize there is someone is behind it. You struggle with finding your inner voice.

The catch here is that you have the ability to choose anyone behind the mirror. You have the ability to show who you truly are. Be wild and crazy. Unstoppable. You didn't come here to do pretty and quiet. You are here to awake others and break the glass.

The person meant for you, your other half is very different from you. They are way more hedonistic and may find solace is the material realm. They will do everything to make you feel wanted and beautiful. This person will see you for who you truly are and they won't feel intimidated. Your "black cat energy" won't drive them away. They have some skeletons in the closet themselves. Disturbing and compelling, this one would make a great "50 Shades Of Grey" type of movie. lol. They could listen a lot to the Weeknd or they used to live a very "rough" lifestyle in the past. Love at first sight. Intense. You slap them and they will kiss you. They will buffle you. "Why doe sthis mfer stick around somehow?".

In all honesty, in this lifetime, your other half will be overbearing. They won't back down until they take you down with them. Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem come to mind in Jamon Jamon. This person may also come from money or have a lot of money and they want you to be their dark princess/prince. It will feel like taking a panther or feral cat and trying to domesticate it. Good try. You are still dangerous though, but they don't mind a few scratches.

[soleilnewspaper]

First tattoo

Synopsis: You’ve always wanted to get a tattoo but you are absolutely terrified of needles. Luckily you have not one but two boyfriends to talk you through it.

Pairing: poly!wolfstar x reader

Warnings: fear of needles, crying, comfort, suggestive themes (nothing is explicitly stated.)

Word count: 1.6k

AN: I’m still quite ill but I do plan to release more parts of my poly!Wolfstar series once I’m better. If you enjoy this, please do all the tumblr things; reblog, like and comment.

Dividers: @Strangergraphics

It’s a little embarrassing to be honest, how you, a grown adult still have a fear of needles. An intense one at that.

Most people grow out of their childhood fears. They’re replaced by the demands of adulthood instead. Bills, taxes, rent, food and countless other things that you have to deal with as an adult.

You still share all these concerns yourself, every other adult would. However, you unlike every other adult does not almost throw a tantrum at the doctor’s office you get blood tests.

Luckily in the wizardly world, a verse majority the medical field is built on magic. Something which could be viewed as both an advantage and disadvantage depending on who you ask.

Despite being in this world for over a decade and having attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your muggle mother still feels more at ease when you have checkups at the family doctor.

Your intense fear hadn’t affected you greatly in your life, not untill recently anyway.

Sirius, one of your boyfriends officially got his tattoo license a few months back and the desire for him to give you one is growing by the day.

Remus, your other boyfriend, too has a few tattoos here and there. Not nearly as many as Sirius, and his are often hidden under sweaters and long pants.

Currently, he was in the process of acquiring a new tattoo. Remus lay back down on the leather seat, with his lower abdomen exposed. One of his trusty sweaters lifted to give Sirius the access he needs to work.

The cold air nips at his skin, and he arches his back slightly to make himself more comfortable. A task seemly easy, yet difficult for the tall lanky werewolf in such a small chair.

Straddling his hips, your other boyfriend smirks down at him as he works. His long black hair pulled into a makeshift ponytail in an attempt to be professional. You hardly see how keeping a level of professionesness is needed when he’s already straddling Remus as is.

You’ve been watching the interaction for a while now, sat in the same spot on the leather couch since they started. Happily multitasking between reading the book Remus burrowed you and watching the two while Sirius tattoos him. The only sounds leaving your lips for a while were a few giggles and smiles at the notes Remus had left in the margins for you.

Feeling a sudden sense of boldness, you put down the book on the table next to you. Neither one of the boys look up, far too engrossed in their own business.

Your shared doc martens press against the floor as you walk over to the two. Pulling up the closest available chair in order to sit next to Sirius who is still focused on Remus.

Upon seeing you, a warm smile immediately finds Remus’s face. “Did you already finish the book, dove?” He asked while stretching his arms above his head leaving more of his torso exposed. The mere act sends chills through your body.

“Or maybe you just wanted to watch.” Sirius’s eyes remained on Remus’s lower torso to avoid messing up. “Hmm, dollface.” He mumbled with a tone that made you practically hear the smirk you knew was on his face.

“Well, nothin’ wrong with that.” Remus extended his arm towards you, his fingers finding your smaller one’s.

“I want one.” You stated in a high pitched sound. Causing both boys to look at you.

“Hmm, what’s that, darling?” Remus hummed his eyes closed as he felt Sirius lit the needle from his skin to stop and look at you.

“A tattoo.” Once the words left your mouth, both your boyfriends turned to fully face you. Trying to see if you were just pulling their leg or not. After they had deduced that you were serious about this, they finally spoke.

“You sure you’re up for it, bunny?” Remus cooed, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. Both of them knowing how much you hate needles or sharp objects in general.

A few moments of thinking, and you promptly nodded your head to indicate your answer.

“Come on, Rem, she’s tougher than she looks.” The dark haired boy exchanged a look with the sandy brunette one.

“Fine, but only if you are completely sure. I don’t want you to do something your regret or that will make you feel uncomfortable or worse, scared.” Remus sat up to get a better look at you, resting on his elbows.

For months now, you’d watched Sirius tattoo people in this chair. Hell, you’d even seen your shared boyfriend be given a few by Sirius. Yet, you couldn’t stop the nerves pulsing through your veins when Sirius cleaned the needle.

On your left side, sat on a very uncomfortable bar stool was your second boyfriend. Remus rubbed small circles on the palms of your hands with his fingers in soothing motions.

Sirius walked over to the two of you, and took a seat in front of you. The needle right there in his hands. Staring at you. You tried to be brave, really you did.

Only a mere few minutes into the tattoo session and you broke. The second you felt the needle dig deeper into your skin, it was over.

Tears pulled in your irises and you dug your nails deep within Remus’s palms. You tried to keep the tears at bay, but when your boyfriend pressed the needle a little more. You became a flood gate.

Your tears quickly turned into sobs, and your breath began to hitch. Hearing you, Sirius immediately took away the needle laying it down on the nearby table.

Remus stood up from his stool to get a better look at you. Towering over you, he lifted your chin with the tip of his index finger. His beautiful honey brown staring down at you.

“Hey, hey, hey, dove, talk to us.” He cooed, his heart breaking at the sight of your tears. Sirius exchanging a look with him.

Sirius sat down on the chair next to squishing you slightly until he found a comfortable position. Once he did, he began to lightly stroke your check. “Why didn’t you say something, darling?”

“I-I-I-did-didn’t-wa-want-“ Before you could manage to get out your sentence already feeling like a child and hating it.

“Shh, deep breathes, baby.” Remus cooed once again. Pulling you to his chest. Your tears began to flow into his sweater.

Sirius moved to hug you from behind, the boys finding a way to sandwich you into a hug. Despite their awkward positions. With Remus standing and Sirius squished into the chair next to you.

“I want this.” You lay your head on Remus’s torso, looking up at him. Finding nothing but love in his eyes.

“You sure, dove, because it-“

“I do, really, I do.”

“Dollface, you know you don’t have to do it just because we have them.” Sirius stroked the back of your hair in an attempt to soothe you.

“That’s not why I’m doing this.”

A long sigh escaped Remus’s lips before he cupped your face with his large hands. “Well, then we’re goin’ need to find a way to make this work, huh?”

You simply hooded in return, your tears beginning to dry up replaced by a smile.

Remus and Sirius continued to console you untill you had reached a sense of relief. Which didn’t take long with both boys by your side.

Later, clearing the place out. You finally got your tattoo.

The city lights of London shone through the thin blinds of Sirius’s tattoo shop. He had sent the rest of his clients and staff home. Leaving only the three of you. It made it easier for you, when there weren’t too many people surrounding you.

Towards the back of the shop, the three of you found your way to Sirius’s office. The place was organised chaos as he liked to call it.

You lay back on the red leather couch, with your chosen tattoo area exposed. Remus sat right next to you. His arm draped around your shoulder, pulling you closer to squeeze you every now and then. Sirius remained focused the entire time but he exchanged looks with Moony as a silent ask for how you were doing. Stopping a few times when you had given him any kind of indication that you were in pain.

“Sorry for being a big baby, earlier.” Your voice was muffed in Remus’s sweater.

“Pardon?” Remus smirked, leaning closer to you knowing full well he heard you.

“Don’t you dare make me repeat it.” You sent death daggers at him. Which only caused him to pull you closer.

“Alright, love, I’d say you’re good to go.” Sirius turned off the tattoo machine and placed it back in its home. Removing the gloves from his hands and letting his hair loose.

“Wait, what, just like that?” You were shocked that hours had gone by and you hadn’t even noticed.

“Guess you just needed the right setting.” Remus spoke gently tucking a stray piece of hair away from your face.

“More like I needed your undivided attention.” You snickered.

“Please, we all know you have us wrapped around your fingers.” Sirius fell back onto the leather couch with a this. “Beautiful. Gorgeous. Hot.” He said in between kisses.

“Please tell me you aren’t still talking about my fingers.”

“What do you think?” Sirius smirked down at you. Whilst Remus threw his head back against the couch.

“I think you’re both going have to call in sick to work tomorrow.” You said in a low seductive tone while dragging your fingers up Sirius’s neck.

“What will you have us do, love?” Remus breath was felt against your ear.

“I think you know.”

[shveris]

my jjk headcanons, part 3

tumblr pls give me more colors

part 1

part 2

part 4

satoru’s favorite color can only be seen with the six eyes. he’s tried explaining it to his peers multiple times but it just left him frustrated and everyone else very confused like “wdym you can see different colour spectrums????”

modern!au sukuna calls the number on missing animal posters, imitates the noise of the animal that’s missing and then hangs up (he does the same with missing children ones, too, if he’s feeling particularly unhinged)

modern!au yuuji has a letterboxd account and his reviews are the funniest shit you’ll ever read

he does the same with steam game reviews, too, and at some point dragged megumi and nobara into his shenanigans as well

first year suguru said “eat the rich” and satoru asked “why do you wanna eat me????” (shoko cried tears of laughter). this is how suguru found out satoru’s a nepo baby

adult satoru brings nanami cds and vinyls from emo/alt/rock bands as souvenirs whenever he has missions abroad. nanami keeps telling him to stop but the first thing he does when he arrives home is listen to them

nanami is also who megumi got his taste of music from since nanami babysat the fushiguro siblings some times when they were younger

cult leader suguru calls shoko whenever he gets a serious injury and asks her to come over and heal it (she gets there as fast as she can)

quitting smoking was very rough on shoko but babysitting the fushiguro siblings and studying for her medical license was a great distraction

modern!au choso doesn’t have the tattoo/mark over the bridge of his nose, instead it’s just a huge scar he got as a kid during some accident

megumi likes listening to rain sounds while falling asleep

satoru’s a little (read: huge) nerd. his bookshelves are filled with lectures and studies about physics and math theories, documentations of all kinds of natural sciences, he keeps up to date with everything in the field and even peeked into biographies of big science people

despite satoru and suguru being very cat-coded, shoko is actually more of a dog person (how does she put up with them? we’ll never know)

nobara regularly uses megumi and yuuji to test out her new nail polishes. she’d wipe it off for them after but at some point neither of them cared anymore so the boys just run around with colourful nails some times

when we see sukuna eat popcorn and drink soda during his fight with mahoraga, it’s because he saw yuuji eat/drink all those things while he was in satoru’s basement. he got curious and wanted to try himself but we saw how that ended

an addition to the hc above, sukuna also has forgotten the flavours and textures of all kinds of foods. modern era foods would really mess with his taste buds because heian period food wasn’t particularly known to be as flavourful as it is today + they didn’t really use oil back then. sukuna would certainly be insanely overwhelmed if given a modern meal

this is not really a headcanon but also not canon because gege never specified it: only cursed spirits can see sukuna’s tattoos. there’s several indications in both manga and anime that humans & shamans alike cannot see the tattoos (correct me if i’m wrong) but in season 2 jogo’s inner monologue proves that he can see them. i’d like to think it must be because he’s a cursed spirit, which means all cursed spirits (or high ranked ones) are able to see the marks

when satoru held yuuji in that basement for two months, yuuji taught him how to cook because “sensei, you’re an adult. how do you not know how to make tamagoyaki??? we can’t order takeout twice a day!” (yes yuuji, he can, he’s gojo fucking satoru, he has a black card and swims in money)

yuuji is good at every sports, even the ones he’s never played before

[therealslimshakespeare]

Four Weeks in New York

gorgeous gif credit to @violaobanion

Requested: ☑️

Warnings: SO. MUCH. SEX. 18+, reunion jitters, potentially out of character actions due to rough sex? but then again, they’ve missed each a lot other, ok?! Also, i dunno, but beware he’s a horny over thinker and he’s in a funny headspace due to, ya know, war. Jean is a champ, Harry can’t manage to blow a load for awhile, mild breeding kink if you wanna call purposefully making a baby that…Gerry Hamilton and Margaret Blakely make tiny little cameos in here and I swear I’m half thinking of writing this trio of women all giggling over their legendary husbands

Word count: a hefty 7k and we’ve got more coming for ya

Coauthored with m’baby @crazymadpassionatelove

Synopsis: Harry Crosby is sent stateside to be with his wife for a month of terribly needed R&R in the summer of 1944

Caveat: this is based off a portrayal of real people in a tv series, while Jean wasn’t represented by an actress as Harry was, in this price of media I intend the same. I mean no disrespect to the real men and women mentioned and dramatized herein.

Scene One:

Jean had been at it so long in front of the mirror she began to notice every grain of powder collected in her smile lines and every infinitesimal blur of strong coal from around her eyes and -she needed to step away, at least a few inches from the reflective glass and get a grip. At the more sensible distance of gripping onto the edge of the counter -marble and swanky like everything in this posh and paid for hotel- she saw her face restored to what it was, a pretty decent cutie’s with a perfect mask of makeup and freshly styled hair: fit for a homecoming.

It was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. She was going to need to make him fine again, and give him back to them strong enough to come back to her for good. Happiness and dread swirled in a gnawing cocktail inside her, the cruel thought of almost wishing not to be teased with him at all until she could keep him for good fighting with the braver parts of herself that wanted every second of him she could have, even if it had a big red finish line drawn at a month.

A month was a long time, a month was about all they’d had to be married before he left. Technically, or at least Jean wondered if technically, it would mean she’d only been fully “married” for two months. Of course that was nonsense to the general public and the pastors who reminded about vows and the wedding band she flashed at over eager servicemen, but to her select little girl gang, the ones who worked at the factory with her and who had to give up their husbands too- they talked about their brief marriedness with hushed and giggly fondness, like something out of a dream and just as brief.

The fiancés in the girl gang were jealous of this topic and Jean supposed they had a right to be. She indulged the innocents with all their questions about being “actively” married, tried to repay them with the same frankness she’d so desperately sought before her wedding. But as it was, she’d only had a month of active service, and while it had been spent as vigorously as any young couple’s first four weeks of legal license, it had left Jean in the interim with a plain impression of herself being a little bit of a hussy.

She wanted Harry so badly this past year since he’d gone she hardly thought it medically sane. Wanted him so badly, and that was something not even the girl gang could always bring themselves to titter about. It was one thing for Margaret Blakely to joke about her Ev coming back the previous month ‘taking’ his leave in more ways than one, but they weren’t often out here asking each other if nothing really fixed the hunger since their man had been gone. It was all Jean thought of. Jean wanted to ask if it ever cooled, if the sticky frustration with one’s own inadequate fingers ever subsided.

By the dreamy eyed state of the recently visited Mrs. Blakely, the answer appeared to be a resounding no. Nothing ever beat the real thing. And that made Jean want to writhe in frustration before learning that she too, would be visited by a on-leave husband.

A year of being married and only a month of it “active”, Jean had concluded it was a chronic case on her part of salivating need for her Bing, the only cure would be him -him inside her, in perpetuity. All she’d gotten out of Maragret had been a grinning warning to Jean to “get in shape for Major Crosby’s furlough, you’ll spend it on your back.”

Jean could freely admit to herself that she needed to be ripped apart by her man, she needed him lingering inside her when he left again. She just feared that it wasn’t exactly their usual way. How could she tell him, what if that’s not what he needed. What if it was all different, what if it needed to be?

Jean pointed a finger at herself in the fancy gilt mirror, red nails pointing at her fancy clad self in pastel silk and tiny bows, “He’s your husband,” she told herself sternly, trying not to sweat at the idea he could be here any hour, catch her in this state of intentional undress, and help himself to her jittery body, “he loves you, you love him. All you need to do is let him have his husbandly rights and things will go smoothly. It’s a vacation not a death trap. You’ve got a man to patch up, get on with it.”

This speech gave her four whole seconds of empowered determination before a vigorous set of knocks on the hotel suite’s outer door made her jump out of her skin in surprise. She could go open the door but then -what if someone was in the hall with him? And saw her in this state of…lack of…well, her in her lingerie. He had a key, they’d have given him a key. He was the Mister to her Missus Crosby, they were allowed a shared suite.

“Jean?” Hearing that dear voice for the first time in twelve months, even faintly from far outside the bathroom door, flooded Jean with so much feeling her knees locked up and her throat collapsed on her response. He was her husband, her Bing, her first and only love, they’d be alright. They had to be.

Harry gingerly closed the door behind him, the heavy painted wood shutting with a finality that made him feel terribly anxious. While he had been trudging up the hall to their suite he’d been able to laugh a little at his dismal procession, morose shuffling and hang dog attitude. It had been absurd for a guy coming back to see the wife who he loved. He knew that and he could say that again and again in his head in a voice that morphed more and more into Bubbles’ voice an-

-and now he was in the room and he wasn’t anticipating anything, he had arrived and as if he’d just touched down in occupied Europe, he couldn’t help his braced posture or hunted surveillance of the oddly empty room.

“Jean?”

She wasn’t in here, but the en-suite bathroom door was shut. She wasn’t in here but from the bathroom came wafting something so viscerally nostalgic of her that he felt his heart pound in devoted recognition before his brain even caught up: her soap. Not some fancy hotel brand, it seemed she had brought her old stuff, the stuff he’d lathered on her as many times as he’d had the chance before leaving, the stuff she smelled of before church and the stuff that got more strong and pungent when he made her sweat in it from their exertions in bed.

It smelled like Jean in here and it was enough to make him drop his duffel bag with a decided thump. He was staying. This was his wife, everything might be different but some things like soap -they’d still be the same, as would the dry mouthed want it filled him with.

“Jean?”

He ventured further into the room, not bothering to call her name again, maybe being around guys had made him callous to spooking her but no real harm would be done, he was…him.

“Oh! Bing?” Jean sounded flustered behind her door and Harry found himself grinning. “I’m coming! I’m coming right out!”

It sounded less like a reassurance than it did an order to herself, which was amusing and it made him wonder, just how awkward were the two of them going to manage to make this? God knows he’d tripped over himself enough times winning her over the first round, he had such hopes never to revisit the bumbling stages of courtship. Seemed like once they’d married and joined it had been smooth as glass ever since- until…until he’d stopped being himself.

Until he had wandered into a hotel room with a woman who didn't wear a matching gold band. Jean knew nothing of that though. She never would. Sweet peaches and cream Jean who had come all this way to see him. Bringing that soap and the books he saw stacked on the night table. Bringing that sweet, pink pussy he needed to sink himself into. Remind himself of who he was. He didn't want to be Major Crosby at the moment. He wanted to just be Jean's husband. He heard the clock in the room ticking, felt the sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he waited for her. Her Elizabeth Arden lipsticks lined up like perfect little soldiers on the dresser. It had been so long that kissing her was surely going to feel like the first time all over again.

There was more amiss in the room, upon further inspection, besides her trunks and her hat boxes and the lipsticks. Amiss in that: there were elements no hotel should have, the plate of very delicious looking misshapen fudge, for instance, the plate itself looking suspiciously like their wedding set. Harry could describe that pink and green pattern on ivory in vivid detail if you had asked him yesterday, tracing it now was like no time had passed at all since that first breakfast as husband and wife, tittering over having “things” of their own. And beside the plate a book, one he’d not finished when he went over, he realized with a lump growing in his throat. Then there was the bed beneath these things, tidily made but not pristine, ha -how could it be with homey floral sheets in place of pristine white and a monogrammed pillow case each.

Giant embroidered C’s. For Crosby, of course.

Jeepers -he’d taken Jean for the first time on those very sheets, now he was recognizing them, and some very uncivilized part of him suddenly wanted to rip the covers back and find out if her virgin blood hadn’t fully scrubbed out-

“Bing!”

He is awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of Look Homeward, Angel when Jean manages to saunter out with a summoned amount of calm. His hair is sleek and trimmed, his jacket well fitting, his whole self in his army duds seeming so comfortable, filled out, self possessed -it’s the floral sheets beneath him that ruins the effect just a little, makes him seem shifty, out of place. That and those great brown eyes suddenly round as a newborn calf’s at the long awaited sight of her.

She’s seen the soldier’s return posters -does he expect the same greeting? No little party at the station in satin and lace here, but they’d both agreed it would be better to be private, secluded, uninterrupted. Now it feels too tame and mild.

Does he want that? That reunion embrace?

Before she can rethink it she rushes him. “Binger!” she gasps out right as he stands to meet her head on, long arms outstretched to engulf her. This she knows, this she dreamed of. If she squeezes too tight she must be forgiven, it’s too fabulous to be considered real for many moments, the feel of his flexing back beneath her hands and his chest under her cheek. It’s tight and jarring and not a bit smooth but it’s him, it’s him and all is well.

Harry has his nose buried in her hair, that smell is wafting in again. It’s Jean -hits him with the force of a rocket and he’s suddenly responding in kind, arms crushing her to him, can’t get close enough, can’t tell her enough about missing her and loving her and how he’s put one step in front of the other all these years for this moment.

“Oh Bing,” she exclaims again, her face just barely pulled away to really get a look at him, her hands on his cheeks, “I can’t believe it. I’ve prayed, every day I’ve prayed for this.”

Prayers -the word sours in his mind after what he’s seen, after how many he’s sent up and not plane returned with an answer. “Mmm, Mrs. Crosby.” he contemplates the dear face before him before dragging his hand beneath her hair, cupping the back of her head with his large hand, watchface cool on the back of her neck. She’s been waiting for him to kiss her, wanting to let him lead, hoping her initial enthusiasm would embolden him like before. Instead he seems lost in archiving her face, those dear, melancholy eyes flitting over every feature, the hands studying and firm but not a caress. It’s obvious there’s something missing here, a piece ajar from the puzzle.

Jean stands atiptoe carefully, and determinedly slots her lips against his plush, red ones. That seems to rouse him a bit, Harry responds instantly, making up for his hesitancy, deepening it as his tongue meets hers in a heart wrenching reunion of sorts. He always was fond of kissing, her Bing. Now he was kissing her senseless and this -this was more like what she imagined.

His hands trail from her neck down the her ribs and into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hips where he vaguely notices she’s adorned in some silky little something, no doubt chosen and worn just for him.

Say something Croz, you big idiot —he thinks to himself, confronted with the fact he is gripping at her and sucking face without another word said besides inane repetition of her name.

“Jean you look…perfect.” he mumbles against her lips.

It’s boyish and reminiscent, the stumbling praises mumbled so earnestly. It makes her giggle fondly. She breaks their kiss and takes hold of his face in her hands, indulging a little inspection of her own. “My beautiful boy,” she croons, “you came back to me.”

She kisses the prominent bridge of his nose and his perpetually furrowed brow and the smooth below each heavily fringed eye, his cheeks, his chin, the corner of his mouth -she pressed at his chest till she’s got him sat on the edge of the bed again. He’s fully dressed, taut as a bowstring and she wants him, needs him, to relax. She can feel the tension, the uncertainty, rolling off him.

She won’t let them take this away from them, she won’t let them rob them of their comfort with each other.

She kneels gently before him and undoes his boots, enjoying the way he pets her hair, quietly admiring its shine and style. His trousers are creased and starched and knelt between his legs Jean finally notices it then, the prominent tent beneath the olive weave. It makes her breath hitch. Was he always this big? Even camouflaged by trousers?

“You must be tired,” she frets aloud, working on the laces, “and cramped from such a long flight. Did you take something? Your eyes are a little…funny.”

Harry nods before realizing she’s not one of his men. Wives tend to value words and sentences, the more syllables the better. “Yeah,” he croaks aloud, “something for the stomach.”

Oh Bing and his stomach. Ever the dutiful wife, Jean rubs the sock feet she just liberated and kneads her way up his calves, hoping to leech some of the tension out of him. She works her way to his thighs, rising back up to her feet when he grabs her wrists and pulls her into another kiss. It’s even hungrier this time and his first moan of the evening sends a jolt of longing triumph straight to her core.

“I’ve missed you.” she chokes out between kisses and he responds by biting her neck, his thumbs rolling the satin in circles on her hips. His front pressing hard and firm against her lower belly, making her mouth run dry.

Still, Harry’s not saying much and if he wasn't kissing and caressing her so ardently, she'd have no clue they were even on the same planet.

And so Jean decides to do something rather bold. Something her mother would not approve of. She puts her hands on his shoulders, briefly causing him to pull away from her neck, then she whispers temptingly in his ear, “Last night I…slid my ring finger inside me. pretended it was you…I won't have to pretend anymore, will I, Harry?”

She feels him twitch against her belly beneath his layers. It’s her turn to kiss his cheek and nibble his neck, finding his little groans to be intoxicating. His grip tightens on her waist as he buries his head against her with his eyes closed, breathing her in. That scent.

That's when she adds in a plea, “Y-y-you're gonna have to…open me

up again Croz.…..you know what I

mean?...my poor little fingers are so

tiny and now I'm back to how I was

on our wedding night…”

Harry’s groan is animalistic and pained and she -well Jean’s a horny, rambling mess and she can’t bring herself to be ashamed, she missed him too strongly. “You're a hero to America.” She swears into his panting mouth, “And to me. I'm gonna give you the strength to help you get through the rest of what you need to do. But I need something from you, I need you to put a baby in me Bing.”

That is what he responds to, like orders in war. He’s good at finding his way with directions. His head rears back and his eyes sharpen with concentration. Jean wants something? he’ll deliver it, always was that way.

He nods.

“Lay back on the bed Jean.” his voice is quiet but she’s never heard it so steady, so commanding. That must be the voice he uses when he speaks to his men over there. If she wasn't squeezing her thighs together and scrambling onto the bed to follow Major Crosby orders, well, she'd cum right then and there. This isn't the same Bing that reads the paper, his beautiful lips mouthing the words as he does, the one who brings her flowers just because, or is quick not to curse in public. This man before her is a war weary Major who is used to being obeyed. Jean intends to follow every word he says, the thought of seeing him off without a little piece of him nestled inside her would just devastate her.

She burrows up against their Crosby pillows, looking like an absolute treat and admiring her man's package that seems to be growing bigger by the second. He's panting like a wild horse above her and she realizes she should heed all that advice she'd been given. Be a good wife, take care of his needs. Her painted toes rub against the sheets as she slowly inches forward to help him undress. Major Crosby beats her to it though, ridding himself of his uniform efficiently and tossing it on to the floor in a rumpled mess accompanied by a huff.

Is he mad? Jean wonders to herself. His freshly exposed cock sure looks mad. It's red, and almost looks hot to the touch as it dribbles and leaks down his thick shaft.

Was it always that big? Were his eyes always so wild? Bright -she remembers them as being bright.

He collapses on her purposefully, a crushing embrace with his hands snarled in her hair, elbows to the bed, his belly to hers, his lips devouring her own. It’s a shock and a thrill, that first feeling of skin against skin again, Harry’s so warm his tongue is nearly scalding and she feels herself sweat in her skimpy finery. The anticipation is harsh, the dynamic fumbling in its ravenous rush, her head spins when an irrational spike of fear slices through the heady haze of desire that his touches coax. Touch? -a mauling of sorts, more like, he is all teeth and nails and assessing hands, grabbing at her ferociously.

Instinctively Jean begins to rub him, his shoulders, his neck, his forearms

-a soothing caress at a kinder pace than he allows but she means it well, channels that little spark of anxiety she feels to sooth his own keyed up self.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she keeps swearing as she feels him buckle just that little bit to the insistent kneading of her hands on his arms, “I’m not going anywhere.” she swears and the rigid line of his body sags further into her neck, some off kilter focus he’s carried about him slipping under her gentle persuasion. “Baby, how about a little rub?” she coos, lithely extracting herself out from under him before she thinks on it too long.

“That might be nice.” he manages, not sure what the hell it is he needs, “My neck maybe..took a little spill a few days ago...” he casually mentions the incident, underplaying that whole fiasco of passing out cold from exhaustion, splattering on the floor like the contents of a mop bucket.

“Then let me rub your neck.” she begs.

He allows it and with a slightly lost gaze he follows her movements as she props up beside him and brings him closer for leverage. She scoops his head into her lap with that familiarity that made him fall first and hard for her, and suddenly he is pillowed on the warm, giving belly of a woman. His woman. And Croz feels himself begin to melt from that feeling alone, long before her clever thumbs start working at the knots nearly calcified at the base of his neck.

She used to do this for him when he was at school, too much reading in an ill advised position had him often so stoved up he couldn’t be of any use on the baseball team. Jean had learned to work her magic then, and Harry had learned how very much he liked his face buried against the swell of a girl’s womb.

Oh fuck -her little speech comes rushing back to him- Jean wants a baby.

Damn the jet lag, the separation jitters and all the rest that got him sent here like a looney to a special holding facility. Jean wants a baby and he hasn’t been rock hard since Dartmouth only to let it go to waste by sleeping it off.

Right when she begins to feel the motion of her hands take effect on his rigid shoulders, her Harry is suddenly lifting his head again, face slightly flushed and creased from the lace of her nighty and he smiles at her then. Mischievous and warm, “C'mere,” he beckons with a voice that means something and so she follows him as he sits up, “stand up babydoll, show me that outfit. Let me appreciate ya.” He slides his warm palm into her smaller one and tugs her to her feet, an easy sort of dance move to bring her round in front of his position, swaying her back and forth just outside the v of his legs.

“Well, look at you.” he marvels at her, his expression gone soft under that wrecked mop of curls. Jean recognizes the old spark alight in him, the one that might go dormant for her when away or when she couldn’t make up her damn mind but anytime she wanted him back?—oh he looked at her like this, like he was lucky as hell to have her and intended to be brave with that luck. “Turn around for me, loverdoll, c’mon, show me what I’ve got, come onnnn Jeaaann,” he insists, his voice playful and insistent as he spins her with a hand at her hip until she shows him the back of this frilly little excuse for nightwear, “Look at that.” he whistles behind her and Jean feels her cheeks burn pleasantly, “Pretty as a fawn, Jean.” he punctuates this odd little compliment with the back of a finger running up the length of her thigh, to the little swell of her rump and Jean knows her legs tremble in helpless response. “Go on, strike a pose for me, I know you didn’t put on this get up for nothin’. Who'd believe it? My Mrs. Crosby out here lookin’ like one of those girls.”

‘Those’ girls, whoever they are exactly, are left nebulous and Jean likes it that way, it gives her a saucy bravery to pitter patter away from his hold and turn back to face his unabashedly admiring gaze. Jean cocks a hip and drops a shoulder, knee turned in, toes pointed. Gerry had made her perfect it a million times in the mirror when she should’ve been sensibly getting into a gown and getting some shut eye instead.

Thank God for Margaret Ann Blakely and her fun loving pastimes. And also: “Screw him for us Jean!!” -thank God for Gerry Hamilton and her brazen preoccupations with her own man, for how she piled on as she convinced Jean of an assortment of little silk things thrown into her suitcase, “Screw him good, for all of us! For Americaaaaa!” the young and empty Mrs. Hamilton’s candor had built until Jean was close to frantic to get into the taxi and leave her best friends and their antics behind.

Jean didn’t doubt for a single minute that Hambone and Ev would shortly be receiving letters that good naturedly bemoaned Jean and Croz’s luck.

“You think you needed to look like this to get me to nail ya?” her Croz teases her now and his grin is lewd and Jean likes it that way, it matches the disrespectful hands that reach out without her Harry’s usual calculation and instead paw at her tits like a sex starved man. It sends a line of electricity straight to the little button between her legs and Jean ends up leaning into those hands until she’s suddenly so near him she’s on top of him and then, easy as anything, he knocks her sideways and under him once more. Legs splayed wide and with a husband lying on top of her with a very determined look on his face -she reckons the games are over.

“Gonna be like a second wedding.” she squeaks out, giddy eyed in excitement, toes curling in terror, he feels so big slotted at the spot.

Was he always so big?

Harry slings her leg over his hip and he’s suddenly in her without even needing to fumble for entrance. Little Croz pries her open all at once in a smooth, brutal, unyielding shove and that’s all it takes, he’s so overwhelmingly substantial that Jean finds herself bowing under him in a climax from the painful pleasure of reunion alone.

“Really, already?” he chuckles at her as she hoarsely keens out her ecstasy beneath him, her nails digging crescents in the flesh of his tense shoulders, his own thumbs stroking along her throat, “I missed you too, Mrs. Crosby.” he laughs.

She slaps at him, lovingly as her throat still hasn’t fully come back to use, “God you feel good.” She croaks.

“Just wait till you learn there’s more.” he teases before pulling his hips back and keeping that far tip barely nestled in her petals before slamming in again so forcefully she feels something funny in her chest.

“Bing!” it’s not a protest on her part but, my God -he, they…they used to give it the ole college try before he left, but this? This must be what it’s like to get really and truly screwed.

Screwing her, that’s what he’s doing and she wonders in a vague haze of helpless sensations if he’ll auger a hole straight through her back to the mattress with this merciless rhythm. She’s as vaguely impressed by his strength and capability as she is by her own body’s ability to absorb it, her freshly rediscovered hole burning at the use and somehow it’s all just a wonderfully heated, overwhelming miasma of delight as she keeps on seizing under him and he bullies her right though one peak after another with only a wicked grin on those full lips to suggest he’s got any idea what she’s so happily enduring.

“I can’t stop, I just can’t stop, it's just so -it’s so much.” she babbles, very keen to get her point across but very unsure what her point actually is. All thoughts, feelings and intentions center around Harry and that fat schlong of his rearranging her insides. She’s not sure her toes have been uncurled in over a quarter hour and her mind’s not been her own for longer still. “You’re so much.” she wails, and for half of it she means not his size but how long he’s been going at it.

“And you’re gonna take it.” he confirms, the hand on her hip inexorable and his pretty face is half snarling at her in desperation. “You miss this?” his voice shakes from his exertions and Jean is sure she’s never heard a more attractive sound than his wrecked breathing, “Miss this, huh? Bet you did, so goddamn tight. No married woman’s got any…any…any business being so tight. Gonna fix that, gonna make you so married you’re not gonna-“ he presses her legs back until she feels her hamstrings burn, knees to her chest, his body lunging into hers…angry again? she doesn’t know he just keeps grunting “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She’s milking him so perfectly, peaking and shuddering and clenching more frequently than he ever remembers and he should be so saved up he can’t manage to hold on but instead -the fuck if he can blow. It just won’t let go. The noise of his work is a lew phwap phwap phwap of split splat suction and from her whimpers and begs he knows he has already spent her but-

Goddamn! Came all this way, waited all this time and he can’t let loose?

Through the haze of her overstimulation Jean can feel something amiss, the tension back and worse than that, there’s the frustrated anger of before. Harry is breathing hard and his face is dark and the prominent vein across his alabaster forehead is popping so significantly she worries about stroke. He’s about to crack a tooth at this rate, his tension is so extreme and then suddenly, there’s a pause.

He stares down at the wet mess where they’re joined, brows knit together and mouth firm before a flicker ignites in his eye and in a fit of rage at himself and this deficient cock, he grabs at one of the decorative pillows and throws it across the room. It bangs dully against the window and flops to the floor.

Unsurprisingly the outburst against cotton batting and fancy trim does little for his pickle, he’s still stiff as a board and nowhere close to relief. He fought a whole goddamn war and came back just to not be able to get his rocks off. What a joke.

Gently as he can, and with rampant self pity running loose, he disentangles from Jean’s snug self and throws himself beside her on his back.

Bewildered Jean is more than a little grateful for the intermission. She does her best to collect her wits, looking over at him and clocking his defeated expression and closed eyes, the hand pinching the bridge of his nose. And poor Little Croz that is a furious magenta red with veins about ready to burst from swelling, sticking straight up from between his legs.

Shifting onto her side to face him rubs her poor kitty just wrong -or right- and a helpless mewl escapes her as she creams herself again from that little movement alone. The sound and shudder of his wife makes Croz crack open an eye, watching intently as Jean bites her lip and timidly runs her fingers through the hair on his chest.

“Come sit on my lap, Jeanie.” he mumbles.

She perks up with a smile, “Whatever my hero wants, baby.” she condones before shakily straddling his lean hips and sinking down with a noticeable squelch. It earns a drawn out moan of satisfaction from both of them. Sensing the agony and desperation of the man beneath her as she begins to lift her hips and slam them back down, juices splash on her feet from the movement. To lift his spirits she attempts her best at shoving her tits in his face while she does it and gets her nipples tugged in thanks.

This right here is perfect, she’s so full she can hardly bear it but he feels so good she ignores the burn of her legs and keeps her pace up, the beautiful expanse of her man laid out before her a perfect spur. The sun seems to have set by now and through the open curtains the sounds and lights of the city pour in, glistening off his sweaty skin like a million stars and doing nothing to dim the noise of his appreciative moans, the hoarse grunts of her name, the sounds of their sticky hips colliding.

“I've dreamed about being full like this every night since you left.” Jean tells him, stuffed beyond her limits it feels like he’s so damn deep he could describe the feel of her cervix in detail.

She can feel those tight bowling balls she's sitting on that need to unload inside her, and precariously she reaches backwards to fondle them with one hand, remembering how he used to react to it. She gets her first high pitched whine of the evening from him at that, his chest heaving and his head thrashing, curls everywhere. “Bing -- oh it's big, it's big, I'll take it all though I-I promise….we gotta make you cum, baby.” she determines, not needing the discarded pillow or fuming passion to alert her to his desperation, “Lemme help you…just fill me up, let it alllll out... you need to, must be aching so bad”

At the mention of the ache he begins to buck into her wildly like a feral thing. Jean would have toppled off from his vigor if he hadn’t seized her hips in an iron grip and held her still for his assault from below. Jean hears herself squealing and whimpering and begging nonsense, still a bit fresh -and respectful- to this new and ferocious side of him. Somewhere in it though, Harry’s beginning to crack, frustration going from anger to fury to desperation to some boyish and pitiful need for relief.

Harry doesn’t mean to groan so loudly, so pathetically but it’s all so perfect and he’s so damn close and Jean’s like a sprinkler down there she’s enjoying herself so much and -why the hell can’t a fella just blow?

Jean instantly stills atop him and cradles his face tenderly, soft searching eyes and lips whispering about …something, something something “baby boy” -and he shudders. His pants are harsh as if he’s about to have a heart attack and his chest is so winded and achy he thinks he might. Or else cry.

Wouldn’t that be fun.

Beneath his hands he feels Jean’s hips begin to flex and she’s grinding on him again, twisting her hips in a slow figure eight that feels like a man’s heaven beneath his palms, and ten times that for his cock. It’s not doing it enough to make him blow but for a moment he decides that’s fine, he inflates his poor lungs again and lays back, admittedly a bit too stiff and rigid, and touches her as she pleases herself on top of him. She giggles shyly to him and her near constant moans are music to his ears as she swivels on his cock. He enjoys watched the pink little folds absorb him and the way their curls brush and mix where they meet, his lower belly a wet mess and streaks of the same running down to her ankles, they’ve made such a soup.

Clam fuckin’ chowder, by the looks of it.

Maybe he did blow. Doesn’t feel like it. And after watching and coaxing her through another melting peak, he lets her sag onto his chest for a minute and regroup before, with a kiss to her hair and a hard smack to her ass, he tells her,

“Hands and knees, Jean, if you want that baby -hands and knees.”

He barked it like an order, and while a little startled by it, she still wastes no time in flipping herself over and off him, scurrying into the position he specified, shaky from so many orgasms and the anticipation of him back atop her. Wincing inwardly at the thought of that package at this angle with how sore she already is-

-and he wastes no time. But instead of a cock she feels the shockingly familiar but never less exquisite feeling of his tongue running up the messy length of her slit. Her face collapses into the pillows along with her pleased shriek of “Bing!”.

He he laughs warm and wicked behind her, enjoying the ass up display of what he’s done to her.

“Spread ‘em Jean.” he tells her, and two dainty hands leave off from gripping the covers to bashfully pull her cheeks apart and show her husband where his fat cock belongs. He can see her pulsing down like a living entity of its own, even in this dim light.

“I'll be good... I'll be good for you, Major. Tell me what to do.” Jean swears hoarsely, those fawnish legs trembling again.

“Just take me.” he mutters simply, mounting her suddenly with his hand on the back of her head, keeping her cheek to the pillow and her scream muffled as he shoves in and begins to plow this squeaking little lady like tomorrow is indeed not promised to men like him.

Beneath him, between the high pitched squeals of pleasure and the urgent whines of endurance, Jean is muttering a litany of …something. Again and again she’s saying words like “it’s ok baby, it’s ok” and Harry isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or her, she sounds like a drunk fairy and his head begins to buzz with likelihood. “It’s ok baby, they told me you'd be like this, it’s ok. I can take it. I’ve missed you—“ she just keeps muttering that and vaguely Harry is pretty sure that comfort is meant for him and he wonders who ‘they’ are and what ‘like this’ even means.

On Jean’s part she is legitimately unsure who’s she’s trying to convince, likely herself but also, maybe that part of her between her legs that’s torn between panic and absolute ecstasy at his rough usage. Jean's mind spins at the realization of how much she likes it, likes the feral proof of how badly he missed her, needs her, wants her still. Her sweet and mild Harry climbed on top of her and is now railing her, and while it’s not your average little jaunt in the sheets, she clings to her pillow and takes it with something like pride…in between the moments when Harry’s fat cock wipes her mind a starry white as her legs kick up helplessly beneath him and her back arches and her hole clenches and another happy mess slides down her inner thighs to the sodden sheets.

And all through it the best of it is Harry and his voice, half sane sounding for once this evening as if to balance out the animalistic pose he has her in, groaning above her,

“That's it, be my good girl..my good, good girl. Always so good to me.”

He’s petting her hair like she’s a damn Labrador or something, wrapping her beautiful curls around his hand, arched over her like a cat, it’s perfect and he’s so deep he thinks he could fuck his balls in, foot placed sturdily on the bed beside her for further leverage.

“-Croz! You gotta!” His wife wails nonsensically beneath him, he picks her head up by the hair to hear what the hell she’s jabbering about now, husbandly rights or how she was ‘told’ he’d be.

She’s so cock wrecked it ain’t even funny but when he prods her with a “What's that Jean?” between thrusts he gets a slightly more formulated thought-

“You gotta put a baby in me!” she insists through sobs, orgasm after orgasm turning her into this shaking, shuddering, limp excuse of a woman.

A loverdoll, for real.

Her words ping in his head like that damn red light everywhere he goes on base. A light at the end of the tunnel, an eminent thing he’s needed for. Tightness seizes his belly and takes him unawares, suddenly Harry’s roaring out a resounding,

“Oh FUCK! Jean! Fuck-“ that bounces around the room like a cacophony.

The hotel guests next door might be

wondering why a moose is dying in

Manhattan? But no sweat, it’s just Major Crosby seeding his willing wife.

Like a soothing balm on a surgical wound, Jean feels him exploding warm and sticky and healing inside her at last. It doesn't stop coming, rope after rope of the thick, steaming hot gold of his body swelling her own and this adds the finishing touches to what was already a melted woman. In his last rapacious thrusts, she can feel her body playing the minx, trying to squeeze him out but her Croz is having none of it, like a dying man to water, he uses every bit of strength left to shove himself back in and flood her until she’s a collapsed and leaking mess.

In a haze, Croz pulls his now mercifully limp cock out of her and surveys her wrecked self with bleary, appreciative eyes. “Looks like you been through a war of your own, baby.” he jokes but his voice is so wrecked from his previous yells it startles his newly moderated self and he ends up toppled over beside her, no longer capable of giving a damn about anything.

His eyelids refuse to stay open and his neck is laying funny but -fuck! He was just inside Jean!

“You ok, Bing?” he hears her sweet voice whisper beside him and it was no dream then, and God forgive him he was probably mean. She’s panting beside him and when he can’t manage to answer he feels her hand grab his wrist and gently guide him somewhere until he’s petting startlingly warm petals that are saturated with his spunk.

“Think you managed to open me up, alright.” she titters, still sounding drunk and he can’t help the way his cheek crinkles in a returning smile.

Smashed into the pillow as it is, it’s still the prettiest expression of the best man Jean has ever known. “Y-Yeah.” her man croaks, half insensible but his beautiful hand keeps petting her where she’s sore and recently excavated, his identification bracelet jangling softly in the stillness, “You were such a good girl Jeanie..a good wife…ya did your job.” he mumbles more, fully in Major mode as he begins to drift off, forgetting entirely that maybe a fella shouldn't praise his wife like she's one of his men gotten back from a mission.

But Jean takes the compliment well, knowing how it’s meant, knowing that maybe tomorrow when he’s more conscious and healed, she may be blocked out from that world entirely. It’s a little glimpse and she takes it for what it is, with soft appreciation. Smilingly she lets go of his hand to give deflated Little Croz some pats, the sticky, shrunken thing is playing at being harmless and she has a longing to meanly suck on it until it shows it’s true colors again.

But no, for now, Croz’s heavy and nearly insessible arm throws itself over her waist and drags her to him, slotting the married couple together like spoons in their drawer.

They could try to shower but that seems too daunting a prospect at present, and highly futile considering what lies in store -more of the same. And for her part, Jean doesn’t dare move and slosh and waste any of what her Bing gave her. His forearm is heavy over her battered womb, cum and abuse swelling it just that little bit as if she were on her menses. She’s not, those were two weeks ago.

When his hand splays and cups the swollen bulge he made, Jean whispers to his already snoozing self, “We made a baby Bing, I just know it.”

And if not— there’s four more weeks to make certain.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[mattzerella-sticks]

Y'know what would be a good storyline coming out of Bruce taking on the mantle of Nightwing (briefly)?

If he enjoys it a little too much.

Nightwing is freedom. Nightwing is light. Nightwing is fighting bad guys while smiling laughing throwing out a funny quip.

Things he never gets to do as Batman.

So what if, after things have settled in Bludhaven and Absolute Power has come and gone, Bruce decides to make a short visit and help out again.

As Nightwing.

"People are used to seeing Nightwing in Bludhaven. It makes more sense for there to be 2 Nightwings than for Batman to be here," Bruce argues. "Besides, this will only help you. Make it seem like Nightwing can be there at any moment."

And Dick relents. For now.

Barbara finds it strange (as does Dick) but he waves off her concerns with, "it's just an appearance here and there. Besides, I've never seen him so happy."

Except the odd appearance "here and there" starts to become a consistent thing. And it reaches an apex when Bruce diverts an emergency call from the Titans and makes an appearance in Nightwing's stead and hangs out with them afterwards (they are a little put off by the total 180 in Batman's personality but don't tell him to leave).

I think Dick stages intervention one telling Bruce he has to go back to Gotham and stop being Nightwing because Dick is Nightwing and Bruce is Batman.

"Maybe I don't want to be Batman?"

And the issue ends with Batman renouncing Batman. Saying that if Dick thinks there needs to be a Batman, he should take up the mantle. It wouldn't be the first time. Which leaves Dick speechless.

The next issue picks up in Gotham with Damian fighting crime, getting ganged up on, when Batman descends and helps him out. Except this Batman is Dick.

They debrief and we also get an update on what's been going on with Gotham in the weeks, perhaps months, of Bruce being in Bludhaven and how the rest of the Batfamily are picking up the slack in his absence. We also see Dick picking the Batfamily's brains about what to do about Bruce, if anything should be done about Bruce.

It takes a conversation with licensed medical professional Harley Quinn to give Dick insight into what's going on with Bruce ("trying to feel young again") and how to shock him out of it ("Bats is a stubborn guy. Even if all of you kids gathered around and said how this was affecting you, he'd say that you weren't seeing the bigger picture or whatever other excuse he can think of. What you need to do is goad him into giving up Nightwing and going back to being Batman.")

So Dick corners Bruce one day in Bludhaven and presents a challenge. Rooftop race across the city. First one to finish is Nightwing. The loser is Batman. Bruce, drunk off playing Nightwing, cocky, agrees.

Cue the night of the race Dick and Bruce, both dressed as Nightwing, stand on the rooftop with Barbara between them. She drops the flag and they're off.

It starts with Bruce in the lead, it's been a while since Dick has run these rooftops, but as the race progresses Dick slowly takes the lead as Bruce's stamina wanes.

It also doesn't help that Dick has been chatting the entire time. First nonsensically which Bruce tries to keep up with as well, but as it goes on it's deliberate strikes at the reasons why Bruce is clinging to Nightwing and, in his exhaustion, in his still existing in the 'Nightwing' persona, Bruce actually engages in the dialogue Dick creates between them and the rapport is strong.

Dick gets Bruce to admit how Dick is the kind of person he wants to be and that he thought it was Batman holding him back, and if he dropped Batman he could be the kind of person worthy of having the family he does now.

Dick tells him that it's because of who Bruce was that Dick is the man he is now, and that Bruce has the potential to be like Dick in those regards even while being Batman.

Then Dick brings up Alfred, at the exact moment they reach the statue of Alfred in Bludhaven. A statue Bruce has been avoiding since he arrived. A statue which Dick had been leading Bruce to in the guise of their 'race'. Dick has Bruce confront Alfred and what Alfred wanted for Bruce and how it's a) things he already has and b) he's never too late to change who Batman is and can be.

Bruce takes off the mask and thanks Dick for helping him out, and they hug as the race is over. Dick has won. He is Nightwing. Bruce will go back to being Batman.

However, the night before Bruce is set to return to Gotham, he and Dick are getting ready to patrol Bludhaven together one last time, as Batman and Nightwing, when suddenly another Nightwing appears. And another. And another.

The entire Batfamily drops in wearing their own Nightwing costumes. "What?" Damian says, "we heard that all we need to do to become Nightwing is win a race. Who wouldn't jump at the chance for something that easy." And the story ends with Nightwing looking to Bruce, saying "Fine. One more time." Cut to a full page panel of Dick Grayson leading a throng of Nightwings across the Bludhaven skies.

The Midlife Crisis event is over.

[leveragehunters]

I'm putting my response to this in it's own post. Nothing but respect for the rightful criticisms of the situation described in those articles. The problem is that the articles by Danielle Cahill are grossly, almost negligently, misleading.

I'm not your lawyer and this is not legal advice, but I am an autistic Queensland lawyer who's pretty ticked off at Cahill.

Cahill's articles:

Autistic drivers could find their licences in legal limbo depending on where they live after new standards introduced

New national Fitness to Drive standards are 'discriminatory' and 'humiliating' for autistic drivers, psychologists say

Short version:

If you're autistic you do not automatically have to obtain a medical clearance to hold a Queensland Drivers Licence and there is no 'list of reportable conditions', much less one that includes autism.

Long version with receipts:

The first article purportedly cites a Department of Transport and Main Roads (Transport) spokesperson who they claim said: "…all autistic drivers in Queensland have since 2012 been required to obtain a medical clearance from a doctor to show they are fit to drive." It also says: "In Queensland, the Department of Transport and Main Roads (TMR) requires drivers to obtain a medical clearance form from a doctor confirming they are fit to drive despite being autistic."

The second article says: "According to the state's Department of Transport and Main Roads (TMR), autism was added to the list of reportable health conditions in 2012."  Oh, but wait, what's this from just a little further up in the same article? "A TMR spokesperson told ABC News that "there is no specific legislation that states that people with autism cannot drive".

Let's talk about that specific legislation

Despite what the spokesperson said, there was no change to the law in 2012. A new Transport Regulation, which contains the law about medical clearances for Queensland drivers licences, was, however, passed in 2021. (link to the Regulation)

Typo or ignorance? Why not both.

The 2021 Regulation did not substantively change the law. The new Regulation was a consolidation, modernisation, and streamline of multiple pieces of overlapping legislation. (Explanatory notes)

'Jet's Law', which sets the rules for driver medical clearances, was first introduced in 2008. (Ministerial Statement). It was moved from the old Regulation to the new 2021 one essentially unchanged.

Jet's Law in chapter 3, part 6, division 1 of the 2021 Regulation

Jet's Law as passed in the previous Regulation (scroll down to page 64)

The law in Queensland re: medical clearances is the same as it was in 2008. The only changes were to language, consistent with modern drafting standards, and the addition of a requirement to not drive until you've given notice if a condition develops or worsens.  

What does Jet's Law say?

Section 177 of the 2021 Regulation states:

A person who applies for the grant or renewal of a Queensland driver licence must, when making the application, give a notice to the chief executive about any mental or physical incapacity that is likely to adversely affect the person’s ability to drive safely.

Key words: any mental or physical incapacity that is likely to affect the person's ability to drive.

If you're autistic and your autism isn't likely to affect your ability to drive safely, Jet's Law doesn't require you to give notice to Transport.

But what about that list of reportable conditions the article claims exists?

It doesn't exist. There is no list of reportable conditions.

Transport DOES provide some examples of medical conditions that are likely to affect your ability to drive. You can see them here:

https://www.support.transport.qld.gov.au/qt/formsdat.nsf/forms/S5040/$file/S5040.pdf

https://www.qld.gov.au/transport/licensing/update/medical/fitness#medcond

Here's the licence application form: https://www.support.transport.qld.gov.au/qt/formsdat.nsf/forms/qf3000/$file/f3000_es.pdf. Question 7 states that you must report any medical conditions that may adversely affect your ability to drive and asks if you have any of the following conditions:

Vision or eye disorder (other than wearing glasses or contact lenses) that may adversely affect your driving

Diabetes that requires treatment by tablet, insulin or other medication

Been diagnosed with epilepsy, experienced a seizure; or been required to take anti-epileptic medication after the age of 11

Any other medical condition/s that is likely to adversely affect your ability to drive safely

You know what I don't see anywhere? Autism.

But what about the National Standards?

Cahill managed to get that part of the articles almost right.

All Queensland drivers, regardless of age, must meet the national standards to ensure their health or any physical disability does not increase the risk of a crash. (confirmed by Transport) And before you ask, the national standard is not a list of 'reportable conditions'. (Even if it was, the autism update happened in 2022, not 2012). But what is the national standard if it's not a list of reportable conditions?

The national driver medical standards Assessing Fitness to Drive set out the considerations and medical criteria for safe driving. They also guide the management of drivers with health conditions so that they may continue to drive for as long as it is safe to do so. The standards are used by health professionals to assess and manage patients with health conditions that may affect their ability to drive safely. These assessments and the standards themselves inform Driver Licensing Authority decisions about driver licensing.

The national standard does refer to "Other neurological conditions including autism spectrum disorder and other developmental and intellectual disabilities". Yes, it was updated in 2022, as indicated by a big red banner across the top of the page. The update notes state:

The review identified that information and guidance was required to enable assessment of persons with ASD. Specialist advice noted that the variability of ASD characteristics and the degree of severity were too diverse for a specific standard. General guidance is however provided in the text of the chapter.

Wait, the review? The changes were made because of a review? They weren't a secret sneaky change as Cahill alleged? There was a public review that called for submissions from stakeholders?  Yes there was.

The review concluded there was not enough evidence to determine the MVC (motor vehicle crash) risk associated with ASD, and "Specialist advice noted that the variability of ASD characteristics and the degree of severity were too diverse for a specific standard."

So what does the standard actually say about autism?

The impact of other neurological conditions including autism spectrum disorder (ASD) and developmental and intellectual disability should be assessed individually. A practical driver assessment may be required. If the degree of impairment is static, periodic review is not usually required. People with ASD can have differences in social communication and interaction, with restricted and repetitive patterns of behaviour, interest and activities. Although evidence from driving studies are limited, drivers with ASD may drive differently from people without ASD. Shortcomings in tactical driving skills have been observed, while rule-following aspects of driving are improved. There is considerable difference in the range and severity of ASD symptoms, so assessment should focus on these and the significance of likely functional effects, rather than an ASD diagnosis.

So what does that mean?

It means we're right back at Jet's Law, in section 177 of the 2021 Regulation.

If you have a mental or physical incapacity that is likely to affect your ability to drive you need to declare it.

Could this include autism? Yes.

Does it automatically include autism? Not according to any law or standard currently in force in Queensland.

If you're an autistic Queenslander, your obligations under Jet's Law and the update to the national standard mean it's important that you consider whether your autism is likely to affect your driving ability and, if so, declare it. If it's not, then don't.

[Reminder: I am not your lawyer and this is not legal advice]