#INSURANCE FOUGHT ME ON IT

[sunnys-side-upside-down]

T-TIME T-TIME T-TIME

[whimsycore]

The way suffering from neglect fucks up your entire life and no one cares when you’re a kid or an adult. I have life lasting health, emotional, and physical issues from this. I have no one to go to and I can’t even leave because I can’t afford to. My mother literally called me her retirement plan a year ago and I cannot afford to move out despite working. I don’t see a way out of this.

[beauty-grace-outer-space]

I am gonna leave the worst fucking review for this doctor when all of this is settled and done.

[your-jellyfish-senpai]

My friend / boss just called me after work to tell me that I'm probably going to be laid off tomorrow :)))

My partner and I just closed on a house yesterday :)))))

We're moving on Saturday :))))))))

Our mortgage is double our rent and I will have no income :)))))))))))))))))))

[gamerwoman3d]

Personal in the tags.

[ghwosty]

seriously why do dentists be like this tho

I show up to my 10:20am appointment 10 minutes early just sit and wait in the chair for a whole ass hour after my initial appointment time it is literally 11:20 as I'm typing this and I've only been seen by the nurse that took me back to the room.... this is time theft, they are thieving my time

[zinniajones]

Text of thread at https://kolektiva.social/@zinnia/110418489814171631:

Yes - this is what is happening in Florida due to SB 254, which was signed into law on Tuesday 5/17/2023, taking immediate effect. This immediately cut off 80%+ of adult trans people in Florida from having their HRT refilled, because SB 254 uniquely prohibits only nurse practitioners from prescribing only gender-affirming medications.

This has already been in effect for 7 days now.

Trans adults in Florida have already been cut off from their HRT refills for a week now, including those of us who have been stable on these medications for years or decades.

This is VERY different from the general situation of trans youth care bans in 19 states, many still working their way through the courts.

This has *already* happened, to *all* of us: all trans adults in the third most populous state in the US.

The number of trans adults on HRT massively exceeds the sliver of the population that are under 18 and are prescribed puberty blockers or hormone therapy.

These laws, advanced under the pretext of 'protecting children', are now directly impacting a far larger group of people who are not children and are not subject to those pretextual concerns.

Other arguments about withholding public Medicaid funding for transition treatment also do not apply here: SB 254 does not even allow receiving this care through private insurance or paying cash out of pocket. The care isn't simply not covered - the care itself cannot be provided regardless.

What is happening in Florida requires special attention above the situation of trans youth care bans nationally. This is having a vastly larger impact quantifiably.

It will have worse impacts qualitatively as well: adults are responsible for taking care of and protecting trans kids and making sure they do not hurt themselves.

Whereas as a trans adult, we have no one standing guard at the brink but our own self and the void to which we are accountable.

These are the facts as they stand right now. These are the facts as they have stood for a WEEK and NO ONE nationally is putting any attention on this because there are 19 trans youth care bans all across the country going on, along with everything else targeting trans people and the LGBT community broadly.

This is a specific harm that is happening now and has been happening for 168 hours.

It is not a hypothetical issue to raise awareness of, as if it were at the stage of some proposal that needs to be fought back. This has already happened and is happening right now. Active harm is happening until this law is rolled back.

For all of Florida's history since the inception of the applicable regulatory and licensing bodies, nurse practitioners have been allowed to prescribe hormone therapy, testosterone blockers and other relevant gender-affirming medications.

That has been the case since I moved here in 2011. There was no reason why this wouldn't be the case. It's also the case in every other state.

This new law is a carveout of prescriptions when used for one purpose, gender-affirming care, from nurse practitioners specifically, in a way that has never been done before. It affects all ages.

It has immediately obstructed access to HRT prescription refills for more than 80% of TRANS ADULTS in Florida.

It has also prohibited first appointments for HRT via telehealth with in-state or out-of-state MDs or DOs - first appointments must be in person. This will require expensive and time-consuming travel that is beyond most trans people's means: driving to Georgia from Florida can take 8 hours.

This was an intentional targeting of almost all trans adults in Florida, and the means by which we have received our generic, FDA-approved medications for years. And it included closing every possible door that would let us find another way to keep taking the medications we have taken for...

Well, for me it was 3,891 days when the clock stopped

[fabulouslygaybean]

don't fucking rb, but you know your mental health is fucked when you feel genuinely jealous about your friend going into a really good residential mental health treatment facility

[dailyrothko]

Scans ( a little long)

When I ask people not to steal my scans I assure you it has nothing to do with my ego. I have relationships with a number of people that trust me to provide full credits and copyrights and supervise, as much as possible, how things are used. And it gets a little complex, like some people will give me a photo I can only use on instagram. I have to honor these agreements.

And, Rothko paintings are copyrighted so, unlike some artists, if you make tee shirts or use it in a movie or something , it's actually illegal (without permission) They are not going to come after you for casual use of you own, but I know of many examples where people were hit with a copyright notice for trying to profit in the work.

It took me a long time to build these relationships and get all of these scans, including many i have done myself. I gave myself this Rothko job I do, and because of that I didn't have background to give me things or answer questions. It was only after years of doing it that people started to reach out to me in a bigger way and help.

The art world is strange, I was talking to a museum curator recently and there several questions I had that I was told they were not at liberty to answer. In the case of Rothko, there's nothing really cloak and dagger about it, it's just the family (who I think are great) fought really hard for these rights and spend a lot of time trying to control how the work is used and seen. It's a good thing because we get things like the Paris exhibit which took an insane amount of planning, loans, insurance etc. All the paintings had to be inspected before they were shipped over seas, in case damage was done to them over there. These paintings are BIG and in the hands of many different people, so it really took tons of effort and (sadly) money to do it, but it's something like (can't recall exactly) 179 paintings. The biggest Rothko show since 1978.

People on tumblr do sometimes (as we all know) take stuff from here or from my other social media accounts and I know it's typical social media behavior, as people like the credit and notes to their own blog, but I mention this now because I have some things coming up that almost no one has ever seen and I don't want to lose this privilege because I won't be able to show you cool stuff and big scans.

So, sorry for the ponderousness, I just thought a little background might explain that I'm not just being grumpy about it. I think people may see it as "It's the internet get over yourself" but I honestly feel a responsibility to do the best I can for people following these accounts and I am just trying to keep doing it and hopefully, expand as I go.

This blog started on out tumblr and it was the support of all of you that made me continue it, I will be 10 years in July. I can't take a lot of credit for it, it's not my art. My only idea was the once a day aspect. However, I try to do my homework and striving for accuracy is part of that, including copyrights and credits.

So thanks for everything too, people participating in this has been very valuable and educational for me.

[intheholler]

On Appalachian and Southern Stereotypes

After seeing some people leap at the opportunity to insult and further harm us under my posts, even by obviously leftist accounts, I wanted to address some of the most popular stereotypes of our region.

Not as an excuse. There are many negative, violent and otherwise harmful features of the American South. We have a horrific history especially in terms of the violence we inflicted and continue to inflict upon the Black community that cannot be forgotten, and, as a culture, we do need to pay our dues.

But maybe this will help y’all apply some nuance to the situation and understand that we aren’t all your enemy.

Stereotype 1: Everyone is a Republican Racist

Absolute horse shit, my friends. There are people like me all over the south and in the hollers. We just get drowned out by the fascists, and it is all by design. 

In my home state of North Carolina alone, they are working tirelessly to make it impossible for young, often liberal (if not outright leftist) voices to be heard. They specifically target regions with heavy POC populations.

As recently as May of this year, the North Carolina Supreme Court overturned their own previous ruling which once made gerrymandering illegal. This allows Republicans free range to draw their congressional lines wherever benefits them most. 

Meanwhile, Roy Cooper, our Democratic governor, has been in office since 2017.

Gerrymandering is a real problem, and it reflects the worst of us. But it does not reflect all of us.

We are a working class, pro-union people.

We are coal miners and mill workers and farmers.

We took up arms against the government and fought for our labor rights during the Coal Wars as recently as the 1920s.

We bled for labor rights at the Battle of Blair Mountain.

It’s a myth that you keep perpetuating that we are all closed minded, bigoted regressionists. It diminishes the efforts of everyone from the coal miners to people like me while we try to make the region a better place.

It actually only worsens what you say that you wish you could “saw off into the ocean.” 

That's my home you're talking about.

Stereotype 2: Everyone is Obese

36.3% of the overall population of the Southeast is obese. This is true.

Have you considered why that may be? For starters, Southerners are more likely to be uninsured compared to individuals living in the rest of the country.

"Among the total nonelderly population, 15% of individuals in the South are uninsured compared to 10% of individuals in the rest of the country."

Partially because they didn't even expand the same Medicaid benefits to us. and partially because we are just so fucking poor. 

17% of the American South is below the poverty line, compared to 13% in the Midwest, 13% in the West, and 13% in the Northeast.

Percentages under 5% may not seem like much, but when you consider 1% of the total United States population is around 3,140,000 people, yeah, that adds up real quick.

How does this relate? Well...

Mississippi has 19.58% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 39.1% obesity rate.

West Virginia has 17.10% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 40.6 % obesity rate.

Kentucky has 16.61% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 40.4% obesity rate.

Are you seeing the trend?

We, generally speaking, are more likely to be unable to afford to feed ourselves wholesome foods, and we are less likely to be able to afford medical insurance--two things that are obviously important to maintaing good health and a "healthy" weight.

By the same token... 

Stereotype #3: We're All Uneducated 

The South and Appalachia are some of the lowest ranked in terms of educational funding and spending per pupil in the entire country. We don't even break the top 30 on the list, y'all.

49. Tennessee at $8,324 per pupil 47. Mississippi at $8,919 per pupil 45. Alabama at $9,636 per pupil 42. Kentucky at $10,010 per pupil 36. North Carolina at $10,613 per pupil 35. South Carolina at  $10,719 per pupil 33. Georgia at $10,893 per pupil 32. West Virginia at $10,984 per pupil

The top three best-funded states, by comparison, receive between $18k and $20k per pupil.

In terms of higher education, student loans are a death sentence for everyone but especially impoverished kids just looking for a way out. It just isn't feasible for most of us. And that's if we even tested well after going to shitty schools our whole lives. If we had better education, we'd have better literacy in all things, including critical thinking, allowing us to better see through the bullshit we are taught. But we don't. And you aren't helping the ones who are trying in spite of that.

Stereotype 4: Bad Teeth

Quickly going to touch on this one--when we consider a lack of access to affordable, healthy food, shitty medical insurance in general and our poverty rate, this one is kind of obvious. Even so:

“Dental coverage was significantly lower than the national average in the South Atlantic (45.6%), East South Central (45.6%), West South Central (45.9%), and Pacific (48.0%) regions.”

Every time you make a toothless hillbilly joke, ask if poverty is really the butt of the joke you want to be making.

These are just the most pervasive of them, imo. And they can all be underlined by extreme poverty which is absolutely by design.

It also contributes to why it isn’t so easy to “just leave” as we are so often dismissively told to do. Moving is expensive.

And why should we have to, anyway? Why should we have to flee our homes?

Why, for those who feel safe enough and/or have no other choice, should we not stay and fight to better the region?

And why can’t you other leftists get behind us and help us in our fight instead of perpetuating harmful stereotypes? We're your people, too.

Just some food for thought. And I hope some of y’all take a big ol bite.

[typingcorgi]

can't quit you

rating: e (minors, please shoo. you will be blocked) word count: 4.1k+ pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: mention of age difference, tipsy sex, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable but totally fuckable joel, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, creampie, praise kink makes brain go brrr, taylor swift references if you squint, porn with plot, moody-ish joel, no use of y/n summary: joel miller isn't able to tell you what you mean to him, but he can show you. author's notes: this is probably the fic I'm most proud of (not that I've written very many) and if you read, i would absolutely love feedback, reblogs, or comments. tell me what you like! tell me what you hated (kindly pls lol). i am open to feedback and love praise can't you tell so enjoy reading your thoughts. now enjoy getting dicked down (respectfully) and thank you to @foli-vora for letting me pick your brain on some of the plot devices; truly appreciate it (:

Right now, you have two things on your mind: cheap whiskey and Joel Miller.

The former comes from the promise of your smuggler who’d agreed to deliver an unopened bottle of Rittenhouse in exchange for three or four cigarettes you’d hand-rolled that morning. Quality tobacco is a thing of the past, so you’re fine with offering up one lackluster product in exchange for another slightly less lackluster product. There’s a good chance the bottle will be half-empty by the time your visitor makes it to your meeting spot. No one is ever as good as their word anymore, and their word means virtually nothing.

You hold Joel Miller to his promises, though. He said he’d run out to barter for his own offering of supplies—he’s low on ammo for his shotgun, and he needs to find a good number of batteries for the two-way radios he’d stolen off a sleeper last night. He figures it might be a good insurance plan, a good backup just in case either of you split up in this next leg of the trip to Jackson. And while you don’t like the idea of him traveling alone—despite knowing he can very much take care of himself—you don’t fight him on it. He’s not wrong, and more significantly, if you try and argue with him, you’re probably going to be disappointed. 

You used to bicker more when you thought he hated you; when you were the annoying neighbor and not the escort out of Boston and downstate. You fought like cats and dogs when you lived next door to him in those mangy apartments, never liking the way you looked at each other—like both of you knew the other had an ulterior motive to force yourself out of the QZ, and you picked up on it, tapped into this common secret you hadn’t planned on sharing with anyone else. And while the proverbial walls with which Joel shields himself are crumbling at a painfully sluggish pace, it’s something. You’ll take something over nothing.

You’re hiding out in the basement of an abandoned convenience store on what was probably a main street in this New York suburb. There isn’t much by way of furniture; just a couple of rust-ridden folding chairs, a worn green couch, empty, dusty shelves, and a sink that probably hasn’t run clean water in fifteen years. Small privacy windows along the top of the walls offer little by way of natural light, and the angle of its golden rays tells you that it’s time to go. Your connect is waiting for you on the street’s southern corner. Or at least, that’s where you planned to meet right before sundown.

Joel’s left you with his smaller, quicker shot, a semi-automatic that he usually entrusts you with while you’re apart. He doesn’t say it, but you can sort of tell that he doesn’t like leaving you. And it’s probably not personal because yes, while Joel Miller is slowly coming out of the shell he’s lived in for the last twenty years, it’s not as though he’s developed some sort of overt attachment to you. In a life like this, attachment is almost as dangerous as the Infected. There’s no room for him—or for you—to seek anything beyond a sort of temporary comfort with one another.

Get him to Jackson. That’s it. And then you’re on your own again on your route back home.

You switch the safety on the rifle, then keep it tucked in the front pocket of your jeans while you head up the dilapidated stairs and push open the cellar doors. The sunset meets you right in your eyes and you squint, and then the same thought you have at almost every beautiful encounter sweeps through your mind. Am I seeing another sunset tomorrow?

With any measure of hope, yes.

You close the cellar doors behind you, careful to avoid stepping on any overgrown grass along the cracked sidewalk toward the street corner. You’ve been unusually fortunate to not run into any runners or clickers today, but that streak would come to a dreadful end if you’d stepped on any patch of cordyceps fungus hidden along the green. They’d come charging at you in an instant, and if their overbearing strength didn’t kill you first, the brain parasite would. Eventually.

A quick death sounds better. You can’t fathom slowly losing your mind as many have. You can’t fathom losing the memory of Joel.

Fuck. You’ve really got it bad for him, you’re fucking thinking about him when you should be on guard, when you should be looking out for—

“Girl,” a voice calls out from behind you. You don’t know this smuggler that well; it’s not as though he has a voice you’d recognize. Your shoulders jump and you try to downplay it as you turn around, rifle now held in your dominant hand.

“Yeah,” you say, unimpressed with his greeting. You notice the edges of a paper bag crumpled in his strong grip, and as you eye him, you take out a tin-wrapped package of cigarettes, holding them out for him to take. He accepts your barter and unwraps the foil, inspecting each product to ensure you’re not ripping him off.

“Yeah,” he echoes, then hands you the paper bag. It’s heavy, containing the glass bottle that he’d promised, but right away, you can tell its contents aren’t completely full. You don’t mention it. Some things aren’t worth the energy. And you’re fairly confident you’d start feeling it after a swig or two, considering your last drink feels like ages ago.

When you return to the cellar, you’re alone again. Concern and disappointment flood your veins as you realize Joel hasn’t returned. Fuck, now would have been a good time for those fucking walkie-talkies. Hey, Joel, you dead? No? Great, get back here in one piece.

You dig around your pack for something to eat, eventually settling on something that you think was a protein bar at one point in time, but now just tastes of slightly sweet dust. It’s unappetizing. It’s all this end-of-world can offer you, and while getting good and drunk on an empty stomach sounds like it would be a fan-fucking-tastic idea, you can’t afford to slow down tomorrow. You can’t afford the hangover.

It feels like hours have passed within the span of minutes, and you take a swig of Rittenhouse before you hear a clang at the cellar door. FEDRA wouldn’t wait for you to open up—they’d just bust the door open without hesitation. Joel. Maybe. It could be him, or it could be your smuggler coming back to collect, realizing now your flimsy cigarettes weren’t worth the trade.

Your shotgun is again in hand—someone told you long ago that alcohol and firearms aren’t a wise mix, but that was probably before they realized the world was eventually going to end—and after carefully walking up the wooden stairs, you push open the door, gun ready to fire.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters, lowering your aim away from the space between his tired eyes. “You really are ready for anythin’, aren’t you, honey?”

He says it almost sarcastically, like he doesn’t mean it. Like he’s teasing you in an aloof sort of way that only makes total sense for the Joel Miller. And you know he doesn’t intend for your stomach to twist like it does when he says it—honey, fuck, you could just melt onto the cold cement floor—but it does.

“In times like these, you have to be,” you offer, leading you both down the stairs.

You sink into the couch, finally able to exhale that long-awaited sigh of relief as it hits you: Joel is back, and from what you can tell, he’s unharmed. He’s alive. You don’t give yourself much time to relish in the silent celebration of it, though. 

“How was it out there?” You ask. “Run into anything? Anyone?”

“Couple’a stalkers,” he replies, shrugging. “Shot ‘em before they could get close. Got the batteries for the radio, along with some other crap.”

Your smile is small but genuine. “That’s good. Anytime you don’t end up maimed or dead is a win in my book.”

He almost chuckles, and it makes your heart squeeze. “Yeah.”

—

The “other crap” Joel has brought back to you includes a used, but functional woolen blanket and a stash of beef jerky that’s likely way past its expiration date. “I don’t need you passin’ out from hunger,” he says as he hands one of the pieces to you. Your fingers brush and it feels fucking electric, but likely only to you, since you know Joel has shut himself off to any sort of emotional electricity long ago.

He sits next to you on the couch, and honestly, takes up a considerable amount of space. His legs are splayed open, his broad back resting on the cushion behind him, and the full extent of his intimidating size begins to sink into you. It’s not like you ever thought Joel Miller was small, but you’ve been with him long enough that sometimes you forget how he might appear to others: menacing. Threatening.

You’re passing off the whiskey bottle between you, taking swigs every couple of minutes to fill the silence that’s fallen between you. Your conversation started benign enough (if benign could be used to describe the next leg of your runaway route, now that FEDRA knows two of its civilians have escaped the Boston QZ), but then it’d taken a more personal turn. Suddenly you know a sliver more of Joel Miller’s past; you know he’d been separated from his brother since Outbreak Day. You learn he had a daughter.

“I’m sorry,” you say lamely. It doesn’t feel strong enough. I’m sorry is what you might have said had you accidentally closed the cellar door on Joel’s pinky finger. He doesn’t say anything back for a while. He just takes another swig of whiskey as he leans back into the couch, as though it fully catches the weight of his grief.

“Was a long time ago,” he says finally. “She would’a been close to your age by now. Maybe a little younger.”

You nod and immediately feel a little guilty. You’d somehow survived, against all odds, against losing your family—if not to the outbreak itself, to the violence it’d caused. Your family was collateral damage in a devastating blow. It could have been you instead of her—Joel would still have his daughter, and you’d be with your family in a place hopefully much better than this hell on earth.

“Still,” you try, still not feeling as though your words convey your true meaning. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for trusting me with that.”

Joel’s eyes flicker towards yours as if he’s only now realizing that’s what’s happening here: he’s trusting you. And whether it’s an effect of the whiskey, it’s something. Neither of you is full-on drunk, just loose enough to take the edge off, to put aside some of the overwhelming weight that comes with surviving the literal plague. It’s just enough to let some of the walls built between you begin to chip away, bit by bit.

You don’t leave him hanging out to dry, though. You can’t. Joel just exposed one of his deepest wounds, so the least you can do is mirror the gesture.

You tell him everything. You tell him about your life in New York, your escape out of before you’d barely begun to drive. You tell him about your family and the hit it took to your life to lose theirs. You tell him about your connection to the Fireflies (although you’re pretty sure he’d already picked up on that, considering your frequent interactions with Marlene and Kim). You tell him you’d needed a light to cling to in the everlasting darkness until you’d realized even the light was no good, even then, you’d come to accept the only risk worth taking was one that ensured your security and yours alone.

And now, as it happens, his, too.

He doesn’t say anything afterward. He doesn’t come out with a line like thank you for trusting me with that or anything gooey or empathetic. How you have the emotional space for such reactions is beyond even your understanding, so you understand why a complete stoic like Joel Miller just…sits there. Stoic, nodding his head a bit in an effort to communicate he hears you. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. Everyone is expected to live like this.

“You know,” you continue, the whiskey warming the blood swimming in your veins. “When you didn’t come back as quickly as I thought you would, I got worried.”

Joel exhales through his nose. “Yeah,” he replies. “What else is new.”

You turn your body to face him, legs crossed over one another as you adjust your seat. Your eyes widen with meaning. You’re like a kid with a secret to spill, a story to tell, and you’ll be damned if Joel Miller doesn’t hear it.

“I mean it,” you push. “I’d been thinking about you all damn day. You just come and go as you please, or at least, you think you do. You’ve only just started telling me where you plan on going, or how long you think it’ll take. And I stick by you despite it all. You know why?”

“Yeah, and why’s that?” Joel presses, but the sarcasm dripping from his voice signals that he doesn’t actually want to know. Wanting to know what you mean—and then actually knowing—translates to pain. And this sort of added pain, the one that comes from wanting too much, is just not something either of you can manage at a time like this.

Your pointer finger gestures between the two of you, and with a bolt of whiskey courage, you finally say what’s been plaguing your mind for months. “It’s you and me,” you admit. “That’s my whole world. I got nothing else worth saving or fighting for anymore. So when you leave, half of my world walks out on me. Half of my fucking reason for being here is just—”

He cuts you off, and you don’t fucking believe what’s happening. His kiss is harsh, biting, bordering on punishment for you to shut the fuck up and he knows yelling at you won’t work (when has it ever?) so he kisses you. He lunges for you, his broad palm and dirt-coated fingers covering your entire cheek, the pads of his fingers pressing slightly into the flesh of your face.

Stop.

He pulls back, and both of you are met with the heavy breathing of the other. Your eyes open, slow and dreamy. You wish you had something more articulate to say.

“What the fuck?”

He says nothing.

“No, really, Joel. What the fuck was that?”

He pulls back, observing you. The weight of his gaze is nearly paralyzing.

“Don’t make me say it,” he concedes. You lean back against the arm of the couch, waiting for something more satisfying.

“Had too much to drink,” he tells you, but you know for a damn fact that you’re the one that put most of that liquor away. You’d had a head start, after all, waiting for him to get back to you.

“Not buying it,” you argue, shaking your head. “Just admit to me that you feel something between us, too?” And there’s your index finger again, flicking between your two bodies, tracing a line over the invisible string that binds you to the other. “Admit to me that this isn’t just about getting to Jackson. That you need someone here with you, because you can’t carry the damn weight of the entire world on your shoulders anymore.”

He can’t tell you that. It’s as though the words simply don’t exist in the Joel Miller lexicon. Your gaze drops, casting downward at his thigh, though you’re not exactly looking at anything.

Finally, he says your name. It’s low and pleading. Stop.

He’s leaning into you again, and this time, you meet him halfway. It’s agonizing, the painfully short distance between your mouths before he kisses you again. He’s slow and hesitant this time, almost seeking permission for a kiss as biting as your first. Your tongue sweeps along the seam of his lips, and when he parts them, you kiss him like the world is ending.

You can’t fucking believe what’s happening. It’s as though you’ve manifested this moment within your dreams. On the nights you’ve fallen asleep alone, you’ve touched yourself thinking of this. You’ve played your own body like a harp, imagining every stroke and rub of your fingers belonged to him instead. Joel is kissing you, and you’re kissing him back. Joel’s hands are running up through your hair, and your hands are on his chest, bracing yourself for him to pull back when he inevitably realizes this is a bad fucking idea.

It doesn’t come. He pushes you down, a gentle press of his hand to guide your back along the couch. His lips move from yours toward your neck, his kiss a brand, declaring you as his for as long as he’ll have you.

For as long as you survive.

Your bodies dance between wanting to savor the moment and needing to feel the heat of the other. Joel’s fingers toy with the zipper of your jeans, eventually pulling them down your legs and discarding them toward the cement floor so he can better focus his energy on you. On pleasing you, of course, but maybe to also give into the desire he’s been repressing for so long.

“Joel,” you whisper. “Are you su—“

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and then his mouth is on your cunt.

It’s sudden and harsh, but fuck, your body needs this. Nothing about this man is subtle, and now you learn his sex isn’t either. His tongue traces patterns against your clit, eventually probing deeper to taste you from the inside. Maybe if you’d been a little more firm in your inhibitions, you’d tell him this was a bad idea. Maybe he wouldn’t be fucking you with his goddamn perfect mouth like this. But he is, and you’re here, beneath the twitching overhead light in this decayed basement until it flickers once, twice, and goes out.

You learn Joel is braver in the dark.

Your hands grip his hair while he eats you out. His fingers press so deeply against the flesh of your hips that you know it’ll bruise, but it’ll be a pleasant ache to remember a night like this. It’ll be proof that even for a moment, Joel Miller felt something for you, and he could show you even if he couldn’t tell you.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he mutters, pulling back to catch his breath. You crane your neck to glimpse at him. His lips and beard glimmer with evidence of your arousal, and he sighs into the flesh of your thigh. “Too—too old for this.”

“Fuck that.” You actually laugh at his unexpected comment. “Keep going.”

For a rare moment in your relationship, Joel listens to you. His head dips back between your legs, mouth returning to deliver your pleasure. He’s slower this time, but just as deliberate. His hands hold your legs apart to give his tongue the perfect space against your clit, and when you feel your body begin to crest in relief, you give a sharp inhale through your mouth.

“Joel, I’m—I’m going to—“

He doesn’t need to hear anymore. He drinks you in while you climax, your limbs tensing while stars explode behind your closed eyes.

You kiss him when you push yourself up, needing to taste your own lingering flavor—needing confirmation that all of this is real. Joel fucking Miller just ate you out in this dingy little basement, and you can’t be sure, but you think it’s because he might actually have developed some sort of feeling for you. Something beyond the need to run or hide or defend. And you reciprocate it, eagerly.

How inconvenient for you both.

He’s breathing heavily against your mouth, and you smile in the earnest afterglow.

“You’re really good at that,” you praise into your ear, and he offers something between a growl and a moan in response.

His jeans are dirty and stiff, but you’re just as impatient to pull them off his thick legs and experience him as he’s delighted in you—the weight of his body, the feel of his cock. You hold his length in your hands and immediately notice he’s fucking huge. You practically gasp at the realization, thankful that the dark room hides your growing blush.

You’re laying on your back, and Joel’s fingers slide against your entrance, priming you for his next move. He speaks again, and while you’d normally have a little internal celebration at any ounce of vulnerability he’d be willing to share with you, this time you immediately cut him off.

“You sure abou—“

“Never more about anything else,” you confess.

It’s all too damn much, the amount of immense sensation that comes from Joel teasing briefly with the head of his cock. He pushes into you, and it’s almost as if you can see the way his eyes roll back into his head. Your own body has to adjust to his size, and you bite your lower lip as you brace yourself through the sweet pain of his length filling you with all he has.

He groans against the warmth of your neck, eventually building up his slow thrusts to a rhythmic pace that causes your blood to dance.

“G—god damn it,” you choke out, your ankles hooked around each other along his spine.

In the darkness, you can make out the slight reflection of his tired eyes. His breathing turns ragged quickly and he hisses once or twice—whether out of pleasure or plain you can’t determine (especially because you’re certain you heard him grumble something about his damn knees while he slid out and pushed forward, but honestly, you’re so fucking spent that it’s hard to be sure).

“Feels good?” You ask, clenching your walls as he thrusts home. 

He groans. “Uh-huh.”

He pulls you to sit up on his lap, and it’s only then he realizes you’re both still too damn clothed. He hurries to pull your white t-shirt overhead, then pushes your bra straps off your shoulders before managing to unhook the thing with both hands. Hs teeth nip and lips suck at your nipple while he fucks you, while you softly bounce on his damn cock, and shit, you want this night to last for fucking ever. 

You’re fucking ecstatic. Your heart sings with the knowledge that you’ve managed to bring Joel pleasure, if only for tonight. Your body thrums like a guitar string plucked by his experienced fingers, and you pant against his lips, sweat forming along the hairline at your temples.

“I’m c—close,” you warn him. “I’m going to—”

“M—me too,” he stammers. “Let me feel you, honey. Just l–let go.”

And you do, you really fucking do. You feel his heat begin to spill inside you and it only intensifies the blinding orgasm Joel coaxes out of you. It reverberates within you, spanning from your fingertips down toward your toes, turning your spine to liquid.

He fucks into you slowly while you both come down, humming into your ear during the aftershocks.

“That’s it, darlin’. Did so fuckin’ good.”

The praise alone is nearly enough to send you over another edge. You suddenly want to bury your head into the crook of Joel’s neck, hiding any evidence of vulnerable relief along your expression. But Joel doesn’t let you. Instead, he holds your chin between his thumb and the crook of his index finger, and kisses you through it.

Joel falls asleep on the couch in his jeans and an old t-shirt. He lets you wear his flannel (though he tries telling you it’s dirty and bloodstained, but mostly everything you own is, so you don’t care).

He falls asleep with you resting behind him, trusting you to hold him while you keep each other safe. He kisses the inside of your wrist, lips lingering at your pulse point.

When you wake in the morning, he’s already gone. And your heart would completely sink had you not realized one of the two-way radios standing upright on the shelf across from you, low static playing through its speaker. There’s a little red light next to its antenna.

You feel as though you can breathe again.

Padding across the basement floor, you grab the radio with both hands, press the call button, and speak into the receiver.

“Joel?”

[jasmines-library]

This might be a weird request, but can you take your favorite song and make a batfam story with it? I saw the “Kristy, Are You Doing Okay?” fic and immediately folded I loved it so much <3 <3 <3

The Ghost of You.

YES YES YES! It's really hard for me to just pick one song, but this came to mind so i thought i'd give it a go. Also this probably wasn't what you were after anon, so i'm sorry. You're all going to hate me after this :(

Summary: After your death, the batfam struggle to navigate their lives without you.

Warnings: This fic deals with death (mildly graphic) and the aftermath, contains suicidal thoughts, grief, unhealthy ways of processing grief and some other heavy content so please be advised.

Word Count: 2k

⛤ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛤

I never said I'd lie and wait forever

If I died, we'd be together

I can't always just forget her

But she could try

Tim was the first to arrive too late.

Your body had already careened over to the side, collapsing into a puddle of your own blood. Tim faltered as he made his way over to you, gawping at the arrows that protruded gruesomely from your stomach, your shoulder and the back of your knee. That was what had taken you down: a well placed shot to the back of the joint. The other two followed as insurance. To ensure that you would bleed out. 

And even though Tim was right there, he faltered. Even though he could see the way your chest spluttered as you fought for air, he couldn’t bring himself to move. His hands shook. His lips trembled. And if anyone was focusing hard enough they would have been able to see the glint as water collected in his eyes. 

Then came Jason, grappling down from the building. He had heard it before he saw it. Grimacing at the way your cry was followed by two more, he was gripped tight by a fit of rage. Mercilessly he took out the two crooks in front of him so he could dash to your side. He should have been helping Nightwing and Batman, but at that moment all he could focus on was your safety. 

He managed to gather himself up enough to try and press around the arrows, but your blood pooled through the fabric of your suit and your breathing had slowed to nearly nothing. Tim had finally got himself to move and he was sure that he heard someone call your name. Though he couldn’t remember if it was himself or Jason. Either way he too pressed down harshly around the arrow to try and staunch the blood flow. And it should have hurt. God, you should have been thrashing and screaming. But you just lay there, spluttering as you faded. Tim didn’t know what was worse; but he came to the conclusion that the sound of your agonised scream was better than waiting in this near listless silence. 

“Just hold on, Raven.” Jason. But you would have never guessed it from the way his normally firm voice wavered. “We’re going to get you to help…j-just a little longer. 

Then you moved. Your hands shifted to lay atop of theirs and you strained your head to see them. Tim’s stomach dropped as you looked at him with your hooded eyes and small smile. A gesture of consolidation. You were trying to tell them that it was okay. It made Tim want to hurl. How could you be thinking of them in a time like this?

 “Y/N..?” Tim muttered. He should have used your vigilante name. He didn’t care. 

“s’okay” you slurred as your eyes fluttered at him. You could no longer make out much as your vision became a blur of colour. Jason palled at the sight of the crimson that stained your teeth as a sickening contrast to the paleness of your skin. He wanted to look anywhere else, like to Dick and Damian who were still trying to take down the criminals who just wouldn’t quit, but he couldn’t tear his eyes off of your face. 

“S’gonna b-be ok..” 

“No…” Tim was crying now. They both were. Neither made any effort to try and hide it.

“P-promise you won’t do…any’thn stupid-” you mumbled.

Tim brushed his thumb over your hand. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to but he would. For you. “I promise…”

You wanted to turn your attention to Jason, but your eyes fluttered and you could feel your strength fading.

“ Love you…” Then, your chest rose… and fell as you took your final breath. 

~

At the end of the world or the last thing I see

You are never coming home, never coming home

Could I? Should I?

And all the things that you never ever told me

And all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me

The manor was silent. Deathly silent.

And even though the manor was the busiest it had been for a while it still seemed so empty. It was almost like the minute that your heart stopped pumping, so did all of the life in the manor. 

Dick hardly slept. He spent his nights staring blankly at the ceiling, letting his thoughts carry him away because if he didn’t his mind would torture him with pictures of you. He had thought about it. He had thought about it a lot actually. Especially after he had seen your body being lowered into the ground sealing you into nothingness. You were gone.

Dick remembered Jason and Tim uttering something about promising not to do anything stupid. But he wasn’t sure. They didn’t talk much anymore. He thinks he remembered them saying that they had promised you. But he hadn’t. And so the thought crossed his mind often. If he was only brave enough to do it. Oh, what he would jive to see even just a ghost of one of your charismatic grins again. Or to hear your laughter as you sang to your music poorly in your room across the hall. You often used to keep the door open, just a crack as a form of comfort blanket and that let your voice carry through the hall. But now the door was firmly closed. 

Pull yourself together. Dick blinked away the film that formed in his eyes. Though no tears fell; he had cried himself dry a long time ago. You wouldn’t want this. Dick had tried to tell himself. But it seemed everything he did reminded him of you. Reminded him how he was never going to see you again. And it hurt. You were still so young. You had your entire life ahead of you to live and Dick yeared to have seen it. But it was ripped away from you cruelly like candy from a child.

Ever get the feeling that you're never all alone?

And I remember now

Your bloodstained face was burned permanently into Tim’s mind. It was there every time his eyes drifted closed. 

Each time he finally got himself to sleep, there you were. Crying out his name. 

He should have been quicker. Tim scolded himself often for this. He thought that his fumble could have been the difference between you living and dying. But of course, he had frozen. His body had refused to function no matter how much his brain screamed at him to just move! But he was frozen. He remembered watching fearfully as Jason, who was much further away, dropped to his feet from above and tried feebly to help. If only he had been just that little bit quicker. If only he had been paying attention then you wouldn’t have gotten hurt in the first place. 

He was sitting in the batcave, staring blankly at the monitors. Not because he wanted to but because someone had to. Though him being there wouldn’t have made much difference. All of the shapes on the screen had blurred into one colour. 

Tim had never felt more lonely sitting in the plush chair because usually you would be there with him. Cracking a joke or two, or reminding him he needed to go to sleep with a gentle touch on the shoulder or his hand. Sometimes Tim thought he could still feel it. A phantom pain: like when someone loses a limb. 

You had become such an important part of his daily life that his body yeared for your touch or the sound of your voice. He yearned for the warmth of your fingers, but then remembered that the last time he felt them, they were ice cold and covered in your own blood. 

At the top of my lungs in my arms, she dies

She dies.

Jason was angry. He had never handled his grief well, even from a young age. And his coping mechanisms were far from healthy. Whilst his brothers spent their time reserved to themselves, Jason was searching for revenge. But he had promised you he wouldn’t do anything stupid. 

So he found his solitude in a punching bag. 

Your scream piercing through the air. A punch to the bag so hard that it swung violently on its bolt. 

The feeling of your blood trickling around his fingers. A right hook.

Your cold and clammy skin against his as he removed his gloves to trail his hands along your face. Another. 

Your last words falling from your tongue. Punch. 

Your chest rising as you spluttered. Punch. punch.

Your last exhale. Punchpunchpuch.

He kept going until his knuckles were a mangled and bloody mess and he felt like his jaw might snap from how much he had been clenching it. 

Jason didn’t bother to wrap his knuckles as he trudged towards the shower, despite how much they burnt and throbbed. But for some sick reason he couldn’t wrap his mind around, he savoured it. Almost as a punishment for not being able to save you. 

When he slipped into the shower, he still couldn’t stop the flood of images ricocheting around his head like a broken record that still somehow managed to play no matter how scratched up it was. He thought he might have found some solace in the feeling of the water trickling over his skin, but all he found was his mind confusing it for the feeling of your blood on his skin. 

Jason let out a cry of anguish, bringing his fists to clench at his hair as he sank to the floor and began to cry. 

And all the wounds that are ever gonna scar me

For all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me

If I fall, if I fall down

Damian had seen a lot of death in his life. That came as part of being a human weapon. But no death tore him up as much as yours.

He would forever remember the cold that gripped him when he saw Jason with your body in his arms. He had never felt so empty as Bruce tried to pull him away. Damian had fought against him, nearly clawing at his father to try and get to you, but Bruce just held him close and pressed Damians face into his chest to shield him from the horrors in front of him. But it was too late. He had already seen your mangled body and he couldn’t help the way his body trembled as he clung to Bruce like a scared little child. 

And Damian would never admit it, but he was scared. 

Scared of how everything would play out now that you were gone. Scared that you were angry at him for being so far away. Scared that because he wasn’t there when it mattered most, that it might happen again. 

He should have been there. Damian cursed to himself. 

He had been on the other side of the building trying to deal with the last of the crooks. Dick was with him for a time, but had finished up much earlier than Damian and had fled as soon as possible. Damian should have picked up then that something was wrong. 

But he didn’t.

And he was so frustrated with himself for not. He should have been better. Should have taken the criminal down with one blow and followed his brother to your side. Surely with all four of them there, you would have made it… right?

He wasn’t so sure. 

He wasn’t sure of much anymore. No one was. And they all felt so betrayed because you being by their sides was one of the things that kept them going everyday. And now…

One thing they did know for certain though was that you were gone. And no matter how much they yearned for you, you were never coming home.

🦇 BATFAM TAGLIST:

@aestheticdaisies

@hell-o-kittys

@mamapucket

@xxrougefangxx

@hearts4robs

(I'm sorry.)

[ay0nha]

Boiling Point | Chef Luca (Prologue)

(working) SUMMARY: A well- known food critic is retiring. Apart of this condition is that you continue writing on his behalf as if he hadn’t. To show you the ropes, he implores Luca to teach you what it takes to enter the culinary world.

There he was. His pristine white jacket contrasted perfectly against the warm ambiance of the evening. The distance was covered within a few long strides and once at the table, his charmed smile made you nauseous. He played his part better than you had that night

PAIRING: Chef!Luca x f!reader (food journalist/critic)

WORD COUNT: 1.4K

WARNINGS: smoking, drinking, canon-typical things, future enemies to lovers sort of, mutual pining, inspiration from Kitchen Confidential and the movie Boiling Point, etc.

A/N: Just a little sneak peek/intro to this request. Might do a short series (three/four parts)...stay tuned. It’s a little choppy at the moment, so I hope it makes sense. Let me know if you’d like to be tagged. Comments are always appreciated! Enjoy.

Deep breaths helped.

The nicotine’s warmth sparked excitement in your veins. It made a tedious night seem just bearable with each inhale. You eyed the falling ash as if it were tea leaves promising your near future. Yet, when your eyes surveyed the crowd within the restaurant, it cemented the dull company you’d join.

Excusing yourself was easy. Slipping away wasn’t the issue; it was expected as the call for a cigarette completed your image. The cliché of it made your mouth pucker with your final drag.

“There you are...” A hand settled on your shoulder. Ryan. “They’re ordering another bottle as we speak.” Lighting her own cigarette, she cursed. “We better fucking land this deal—I’m about to max out the company card.”

Flicking your roach under the point of your heel, you scoffed, “Please, if I have to hear that man say heavenly one more time, I’ll—

“You’ll smile.” She reminded you. It was an instruction, really. “Nod your head, agree with anything—Everything.”

“He said supposebly.” You tutted. “I can’t take him seriously.”

“He’s ancient. Cut him some slack!” She laughed. Charm came second nature to Ryan; you weren’t convinced she even knew its effect on people. “He’s sweet on you.”

“Right…” You tried to make out the stars, but the light pollution fought against you. “So, what? I marry him for the life insurance?”

“Let’s just make it through dessert,” Ryan spoke definitively, always cutting through. Yet, room always remained to entertain you. “Then we can talk wedding plans.”

The man that waited for you was Avery Sinclair—world-renowned something. You had listened, but the information had already left you. Those around you, though, knew who sat across from you well. They were almost as good as you hiding their discomfort. Eyes were always on him, knowing his thoughts before he could form them. New forks were laid after the slightest touch, napkin splayed on his lap before he could lift it himself, and every meal came with the chef that made it.

He was respected.

Yet, all you saw was his brittle and thin mustache, sitting upon his lip like forgotten food. The comb-over was just as wirey and pulled kindness to his cheeks. They flushed now as he flirted with another glass of wine.

“There you are!” He bubbled. With a wave of his hand, your diligent waitress returned with the Italian bottle. “I ordered the oak-aged white. It has a buttery note that is just heavenly with the gelée.”

You smiled.

“I cannot believe our night is coming to an end.” Ryan charmed. She held her nose to the glass, listening intently as Mr. Sinclair explained each technique to her. The slurping was a bit much.

“My dear, this is just a start.” The deal was confirmed with those words alone. A part of you wished the promise had a false bottom. “We can draft up something agreeable, I’m sure?”

He looked at you. You had that feeling like you’d forgotten to walk. Each step felt forced and off. You played off your misstep cleverly, your glass raising to the center, “I look forward to working together.”

Ryan was impressed, pride swelling in her chest. She and you were an unmistakable duo. Angel and devil. Thelma and Louise. Introvert and extrovert.  Fill in any this and that, and there you two were. Most importantly, she was the publicist, and you were the writer.

“Under one condition…” Mr. Sinclair smiled, far too tickled by your toast. He leaned in, elbows brushing the circular table. “Do you know why I chose this place tonight?”

You hadn’t expected the question. Your answer came out blunt. “Favoritism.”

“You’re sharp.” He smiled broadly, wagging his manicured finger at you. “Exactly that. Look around you…”

You took a genuine moment.  The perception of fine dining was all theatrics. It was a large show that ran every night of the week. Even those who dined were an unassuming audience. Those swiveling doors may as well be the curtain line to backstage. The kitchen, the dressing room. The dripping alleyway, the green room.

You were all too aware of the communication chain. The insults were coded frustrations that later into the service would be water under the bridge. There was a reason for everyone being here just as you were.

“We’re all cut from the same cloth. You, me, dear Ryan.” Mr. Sinclair smiled at her. “We all express our passions differently, but we love just the same.”

He felt content. His body relaxed with his decision to hire you. Sinclair could see how you hadn’t quite trusted yourself with the responsibility that he was putting on your shoulders. But he was confident you’d grow into it perfectly.

“I hope you understand the reasons for my poetics—” The rumors and gossip about him failed to do his sincerity justice. “—as I’m trusting you with my legacy.”

“Of course.” You gave another smile; this time, it felt real.

“Excuse my sentimentality!” Mr. Sinclair clasped his hands together in a soft clap. You could almost see tears forming in the corner of his eyes.   “With that out of the way, dessert? The pastry chef here is—” His favoritism came into play. “—is something special.”

You could picture the chef now, cursing at the interruption. Hopefully, complaining about the big wig seated at table seven wasn’t worth his time. You waited for the rehearsed, polite decline.

Apologies, however, our chef is tied up between aeration.

But there he was, Chef Luca. His pristine white jacket contrasted perfectly against the warm ambiance of the evening. The distance was covered within a few long strides, and once at the table, his charmed smile made you nauseous. He played his part better than you had that night.

His features were tight, unwavering as the compliments poured. Your lips twitched down as you took him in. With his hands behind his back, his chest pulled broadly, but you could still make out the littered tattoos on his forearms. Typical.

Even with his eyes on you, you hadn’t shied from your judgment. You only stopped when you heard your name.

“Isn’t that right?” Ryan prompted you again, defined features expressing her sternness. Focus.  “You always talk about how much you love to bake.”

You don’t.

“Sure.” You nodded.

“A match made in heaven, then!” Mr. Sinclair exclaimed. “You must get to know Luca; he has the most interesting story!”

In your short assessment, you already disparaged his comment. To you, Luca was, like you, a walking cliché.

“I don’t doubt that…” Your sarcasm was palpable. Luca’s stoicism broke with a smirk of confusion. “Let me guess... You were a troublemaker?” Your tone was teasing but bordered something wicked.  “Cooking put you straight, and you owe your life to grease and adrenaline.”

“Forgot to mention that I’m a hard-partying criminal.” Luca didn’t waste a beat. Impressive.

“And when did the anger issues start?” You hummed. You played at every stereotype you knew. “Before or after your—

“I think what she means to say—” Ryan cut in seamlessly. She came prepared for your shenanigans. “—is that she admires the journey you’ve taken to get here.”

Luckily, Mr. Sinclair was far too enamored with the preciseness of the dessert to interpret the sudden banter.

“Of course.” Luca looked at you. Then as you had only moments ago, he pulled a practiced expression to address his loyal customer. “Mr. Sinclair, as always, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Unfortunately, I must savor tonight.” He spoke. “My home on the Amalfi coast has been quite lonely.” Sinclair let out a regretful sigh. “I trust you to keep this between us, yes?”

Luca nodded. “Of course.”

“You will be a very lucky man, son.” Sinclair further divulged the secrets behind his retirement. “I hope you heed my advice and get to know this young lady.”

All eyes were on you.

“She will continue to write for me. Use my name.” He explained your purpose. You weren’t ready to hear it aloud. “So treat her kindly, or you will have to answer to me.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” Luca almost protested. It seemed elaborate to allow someone so young—you— to take his place.

“Be open. Present.” Sinclair answered. He wasn’t a man of riddles, but you noticed that the more he spoke, the harder to understand. “You were once new. You had to figure it out on your own. Maybe you can help her, show her your world. Our world.”

[flowersandbigteeth]

Your firefighter wolf alpha lets you sleep over

General Plot: Your house burns down, but no fear, a handsome firefighter wolf alpha is happy to let you sleep in his guest room.

Wolfman Firefighter x female Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

W: longer nsfw smut, stalking, obsessive behavior, knotting and breeding kink , baby trapping, ambiguous ending

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you watched everything you owned burn to a crisp. Had you left the stove on? A candle? You couldn’t remember, shivering in your bare feet and pajamas wondering what you were going to do next. If it wasn’t for the brand new fire alarm your friend Ruston had installed, you might not have even made it out alive. 

The local fire chief and pack alpha Ruston came jogging over, his yellow uniform hanging open revealing a firm chest of white fur. The blaze cast his huge form in sharp silhouette while the rest of the wolves in his pack fought it with hoses. His eyes were full of concern and he threw his jacket around your shoulders, pulling you over to an ambulance. 

“Come on (Y/N), let’s have the boys look atcha,” he said. 

“I’m fine!” you fussed, scared, confused, and overwhelmed. Your nerves were strung tight. Your hand clapped to your mouth and you looked up at him apologetically. If it bothered him you couldn’t read it on his canine face. 

“Indulge me, peach?” he asked in the soft, but stern voice that always made you cave, “you could have inhaled some smoke.” 

He was right and he was the expert. You needed to listen to his advice. He was always right and sometimes it drove you crazy. He was about fifteen years older than you. You’d met when he came to the elementary school you taught at to teach the kids about fire safety.

After the demonstration you had struck up a conversation and found you both liked to do charity work. Over the years you kept running into each other at the soup kitchen you volunteered at.

He volunteered there too when he could, which wasn’t as often as you because of his job, but often enough for you to get to know each other pretty well over the 8 hour shifts.  

Volunteering, his work, and pack duties kept him too busy to date, so it never really came up and you assumed he wasn’t interested. You thought he was very attractive with his white fur and golden eyes, but you didn't know much about wolves. He probably had a wolf princess somewhere he was prearranged to marry and that was about as much thought as you’d given it over the years you’d known him. 

He let the EMT’s take your vitals and breathe oxygen out of a bag until they were satisfied you didn’t need to go to the hospital. By that point reality had started to set in and tears were forming in your eyes. What were you going to do? Maybe with the cheap insurance policy you had you could afford a new house, but a new car? Clothes? Furniture? Food? Your $500 in savings was not going to cover that. 

You sat on the bumper of the ambulance just staring. You pulled Ruston’s coat tighter around you, catching a whiff of his masculine musk mixed with the slight scent of smoke. It was a small comfort and you let your mind go blank so you could bask in it for a second without any complicated thoughts. His voice pulled you out of your stupor. 

“Hey, peach, it’s going to be okay,” he said, leaning down to your eye level and brushing your cheek with a claw, “you don’t need a place to stay while you get yourself put together, I’ll take you home as soon as we’re done here.” 

You started to shake your head, but he held up his hand. 

“I won't take no for an answer, I know that face too well,” he said, “you're in shock. Don’t try to think right now, just let me take care of it. We can figure out everything tomorrow morning when you’ve had some sleep and some food.” 

You conceded that he probably knew better than you and you didn’t have another plan. Your wallet, your phone, and all your credit cards were in the burning house. 

His claws curled around you protectively as he glanced over his shoulder at the rest of his pack working dutifully to put out the fire. 

“Thank you, Ruston,” you murmured, “I don’t know what I would do without you here.” 

He pulled you into his soft furry chest and stroked your hair.

“Everything is going to be okay, (Y/N),” he assured you. 

You didn’t see how that was possible, but you just closed your eyes and let him comfort you. There was nothing else for you to do. 

–

“What do you mean I’m fired?” you gasped at your principal, holding the slip of paper she’d given you announcing your dismissal. You were wearing clothes Ruston had bought you so you could get back to work, but as soon as you came in you were called into the principal’s office. 

“There was a very serious complaint filed against you Miss (Y/N). You behaved inappropriately with a student’s parent.” 

You gasped in horror as raunchy pictures of yourself in lingerie you’d taken for some past boyfriend were spread out on the table, printed on a sheet of paper along with emails from your address trying to seduce one of your student’s parents. 

“But…but…this…it’s not true! It’s been photoshopped or something! I don’t understand!” 

Your principal raised an eyebrow. 

“That is you in the picture, right?” she asked. 

You nodded numbly. It was you. A much younger you, but the same person. 

“Then I think that says all there is to be said,” she snapped, “we don’t tolerate this kind of perverted, pornographic behavior here, Miss (Y/N), it’s an elementary school. Please vacate the premises or you will be escorted out.”  

Your mind was too muddled to say much else and you stumbled out of her office, tears streaking down your cheeks. You didn’t even bother to ask yourself why Ruston’s truck was still sitting outside of the school waiting for you. 

“What happened, peach? What’s wrong?” he asked, hopping out of the pickup and running over to you. He grabbed you by your shoulders and stuffed you into the passenger seat. 

“They fired me!” you sobbed, letting out big ugly tears. 

“They called me a pervert!” you cried.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed, pulling you across the seat into his lap, “they must have gotten it wrong. Of course you aren’t a pervert. Who would say something like that?” 

You shook your head, your cheeks prickling with salt. 

“I don’t know…I don’t understand it…none of it makes any sense! They’re saying I seduced someone! I don’t even know half the words in the email she showed me!” 

According to the email, you had some very creative ways of referring to your cunt. 

“Shhh,” he purred, pushing your head into his warm chest, because he already knew what they’d accused you of.  

“Let me take ya home, peach,” he said, running his claws through your hair, “we’ll get some food in ya and a bath and everything will look a lot brighter.” 

His slight southern accent and gravelly voice went a long way to soothe you. When he said it was going to be okay, you almost believed it. You sniffled, dehydrated from crying and out of tears, clinging to him in his lap while he drove you back to his house. 

__

He unloaded you from his truck and carried you into the kitchen propping you onto a stool while he rustled through the cabinets for ingredients. He’d stocked up on foods for humans just for you. 

He pulled out a bowl and some pancake mix, and rifled through the refrigerator to pour you a glass of orange juice. 

“What am I gonna do Ruston?” you moaned, “nobody is gonna to hire me with that picture going around! I might as well leave the state!” 

He froze for a second before gathering himself and sliding around the counter to you. 

“Don’t say things like that, peach,” he cooed, holding you against him. There was something incredible about having a large fuzzy wolf hold you to his chest and your heart fluttered, despite your misery. 

“Everything is going to be just fine,” he went on, “maybe you should just lay low for a while until this whole thing blows over.” 

“Lay low?” you gasped, “what…what does that mean? Just hide somewhere?I have to eat! I can’t live in your guest room forever!” 

No, because you would live in his bedroom, he thought. 

“But you can live here for a while,” he reasoned, brushing your tears away, “just think about it. You’ve worked so hard, don’t you deserve a break? I don’t mind at all. It’d be nice to have some company for once.”  

“A- a break…?” you mumbled. 

“Sure, hon,” he said, slipping back to the other side of the counter to give you some room to think, “volunteer at the soup kitchen, work on a novel…just take some time to take care ah yourself and let me do the rest. I manage a whole pack, what’s one more?” 

You chuckled. 

“Ruston, thank you for the offer, but that’s crazy,” you said, “I can’t just live off of you. That’d be wrong of me.” 

He flipped a pancake, wondering how to work his way out of this hole. You were too independent, he would have to break you of it. 

“Well then help me out with the pack,” he said, liking the idea more and more as the seconds passed in silence. 

“Doing what?” you asked. 

He shrugged, plating a pair of pancakes for you. 

“I need lots of little errands run, things organized, there’s plenty of work to be done. You don’t have to answer now, just sleep on it and tell me what you think tomorrow.” 

Warm food went a long way towards winning you over. He slid the pancakes across the table to you, covered in butter and syrup and you could forget your sorrows for a few sweet minutes while you ate the fluffy treat. 

“Let’s getcha in the bath,” he said when you were full and had a little smile on your face. Wolves had different baths than humans. Instead of a small porcelain tub, they built large stone baths sunk into the floor with underground heating that could be kept filled and warm for a long time. His was already filled with tepid water, as if he had been preparing for this when he led you in. 

The space felt small, filled with steam and Ruston’s large body. The scent of his musk surrounded you. There was something…maybe his pheromones that smelled so good to you. You just wanted to roll in it. You brushed a few fingers absently over his hip as you slipped past him. 

He reached above you, putting you directly in line with his broad chest and his chiseled pectorals. 

“Here’s some soap,” he said, pulling down a bottle and leaning down to set it behind you. As he dipped his head, his mouth brushed yours. Maybe it was because your life was a total wreck and nothing was making any sense, but you leaned in and pressed your lips against his muzzle. 

You immediately drew back, your cheeks going red. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I- Mppf!” 

Your words were cut short by Ruston’s tongue in your mouth. He lapped at you, kissing in the way wolves did, before dropping his nose greedily down your neck to graze the skin with his teeth. How long he’d been waiting to taste you. He couldn’t stop himself. He was sure he wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t kissed him first. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

He licked his way down your body, popping the buttons of your shirt and your bra all at once with one downward swipe of his claw. His agile tongue pushed its way past the loose cups to your nipple and he gave it a long lap, before licking and nibbling it with his teeth. 

“Ah…Ruston!” you gasped, surprised by his passion. 

He hoisted you up on the small countertop in the room, stripping you of your pants. 

“Need you,” he grunted, his animal taking over. 

You could see the feral look in his eyes. Ruston was gone and his wolf wanted to rut. 

Something in you said fuck it. Everything else in your life was trash, why not have this one thing? Let the handsome wolf firefighter ravish you. You wanted it. Maybe you’d always wanted him. 

You nodded slowly, giving him your permission, and your panties went with the rest of your clothes. He dropped to his knees, his flat tongue invading your folds. 

“Sooo good,” he groaned into your pussy. He’d waited ages to taste you and it had been worth everything he had done. He wiggled his tongue into your channel eager to lick up your flavor. Your hands gripped his head, digging into the fur on either side of his ears. 

He pushed a thick finger into your pussy, bringing the incredible pressure of his tongue to your clit. Your cunt spasmed around his finger. It had been a long time since you’d had sex and the pleasant invasion blew your mind. Colors flashed in front of your eyes as you ground your hips into his face. 

“Fuck Ruston!” you squalled, “I’m gonna cum!” 

He just growled at you, but it sounded like a good sort of growl, so you let yourself go, pushed over the edge by the vibration of his tongue on your little nub.

You fell back into the cool mirror behind you and Ruston popped up, his muzzle wrinkled and his teeth bared as if he were going to attack. His long tongue ran over his lips, as he drew your juices into his mouth and he loomed over you. It was clear by the thick rod thrusting into his pants and the dark wet spot of precum there what he wanted.

You fumbled with his belt without having to ask and his deep pink cock popped out, drooling cum. He didn’t hesitate to line himself up with your slit and thrust inside. 

“Mine,” he snarled, his claws digging into the fat flesh of your ass as he lifted you up and fucked you into the wall. 

His instincts were locked in on you. He needed to rut you and knot you. He curled his body down to you, so he could tangle his much larger tongue with yours. He savored your flavor before pulling you off of him and propping you up on your knees on the counter so you were high enough for him to enter you easily.

He bent you forward until your cheek was pressed into the glass and fucked you like you were his pretty doll, his hand buried in your hair, holding your head back so he could see your face and your spine arched. 

“Yeah, sweet peach, that’s it,” he grunted, his laser focus dropping to your ass, “you can take it.” 

You weren’t sure of that, feeling his huge shaft in your stomach. He was splitting you open so wide you could only drool and moan into the glass. His cock was made for wolf pussies, you were just a tiny human. He was big enough to fuck you stupid and was just barely squeezing into you. 

He loved how his claws looked digging into the plump flesh of your rump. How he wanted to just take a bite out of it. He felt his knot swelling at base of his cock and he hurriedly jammed it in before it got too big to fit.

He could have waited…held off until your relationship was more established to knot you, but his wolf was having its way with you and it wanted to seal all of his cum inside you and breed you. 

You screamed a full bellied scream at the intrusion. It hurt a bit, but more than that it stretched you more than you thought you could go. He rocked it gently inside of you as it swelled to its full size, careful of your smaller biology, until you moaned again in pleasure. His finger slipped underneath you and stroked your clit, soothing your aches and making your pussy wetter as he worked the knot deeper into you. 

“Easy, little one,” he coached, “you can do it. Just like that.” 

Your pussy milked his cock and his wolf loved it. You had a fat ass, but your pussy was small and his wolf didn’t want to hurt you. He pulsed his thrusts in rolling waves, gently, but firmly bringing himself to release in you as he strummed your clit.

You reached back clinging to his fur with a decadent scream, as he bottomed out in you, forcing himself and his knot all the way in. The two of you came in tandem, his teeth sinking into your shoulder right as your orgasm bloomed masking the pain. 

Your fingers drifted shakily to the wound as you went limp, panicking a little when you pulled back and there was blood, but he nuzzled your hand away with his muzzle, licking the spot until it was soothed. His knot was still inside of you, locking you together, so he slid the two of you backwards into the bath to wait for it to go down.

“Wh-wh-what did you do…?” you panted, the warm water slipping around you while he continued to lick your neck. 

“I marked you,” he said, “but don’t think about it now…just relax.” 

To distract you he flicked your oversensitive clit, licking your neck, until he brought you back up to a dizzying height, so full and stretched around his knot. 

“Let go, (Y/N) he whispered,” you didn’t hear the double meaning in his words, just indulging in your orgasm as you clutched his furry body. 

Finally, you were too spent to think anymore and you let the hot bath and Ruston’s rhythmic licking ease you to sleep. 

As Ruston held you while you slept, he hoped he’d bred you. He’d replaced all of your birth control with sugar pills, so he knew you were fertile. It was only a matter of fucking you until his seed took root.

He licked the wound on your neck again that would scar and leave his bite on you, claiming you forever. The red punctures, the unique shape of his teeth, looked so perfect on your (Y/C) skin. 

When his knot went down he eased himself out of you, cleaning up your pussy a bit with his fingers before he wrapped your dead weight in a towel. He scooped up your panties as he took to his bed. After he laid you down and tucked you in he went down to his basement, unlocking a door only he had the code to. Inside, he’d built your shrine. 

He’d been stalking you for a long time. 

He could have asked you out like a normal person years ago, but he wasn’t a normal person. He needed to own you. It was something perhaps broken in his brain. 

He’d assaulted all your dates, threatening each one after they dropped you off at your front door. No one ever called you back. You chocked it up to hook up culture. He’d crept into your house when you were at the school, stealing your panties and cumming in your food. You’d seriously blamed the little things you found amiss when you returned home on a ghost you’d named “Annie”. 

He stalked your social media, had a tracker on your car, and had installed cameras all over your house that he could monitor from his phone. He’d even phished his way into your email account. Everything that seemed a little off in your life, you’d found a reason to brush away.

The fact that only he commented on your social media photos, the fact that you were always running into one another around town, and that he knew things about you he shouldn't know, like your dress size.

Maybe if you had been thinking about those things it all would have turned out differently.

He wanted you so badly he felt like he could just eat you up. His mouth watered when he thought about it. No, a normal relationship was not enough.

He needed you completely dependent on him. Completely under his control. You had to be his and his alone. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to share you with the children you taught. Only his children should get your love. 

He’d sent the emails getting you fired from your teaching job from your email account, choosing the most chaste lingerie photo he could find to attach, but the most lurid language he could think of. 

He hated to do it, but it was the easiest thing he could think of to get you fired, short of blackmailing your principal. That had been his second plan if this didn’t work, but then he would have to try and do the same thing to every other school you applied to. This way no one in a hundred miles would hire you. 

He’d started the fire in your house, knowing just how to do it as a firefighter. Hiding in the bushes, he'd watched you climb out of your window with the escape ladder he installed. He needed you helpless with nothing for his plan to work, so he'd burned it all up.

There were pictures of you on the wall of this room, locks of hair he’d cut while you were sleeping, notes you’d discarded that he liked the way your handwriting looked, and other things he’d stolen from your house. The most relevant at the moment were the panties pinned to a bulletin board marking important dates to him. 

One pair he’d stolen after he’d watched you bike all the way home from downtown, driving slowly behind you so he could watch your ass as you peddled your little legs off.

Another had been from a day he’d seen you at the soup kitchen and you’d complimented his fur. He just liked that memory so he’d stolen those panties from your laundry bin while you were at work the next day.

There were a hundred of them, stolen over the course of a few years. How you didn’t realize so many of your panties were going missing he never knew, but you always absently ordered more online to replace the ones he stole, thinking the washer was eating them. 

He had them all labeled and he neatly wrote a new label for this one on a crisp strip of paper cut specifically for this purpose. Claiming (DATE). He pinned the note and the panties to his board and stood back looking at all of the things he’d collected. 

He’d sit you down in the morning and explain to you that you belonged to him. He was sure you would accept him, because no one loved you as much as he did. No one knew you like he did. No one deserved you as much as he did and he wouldn’t let anyone else have you. 

[arbiterlexultionis]

Instant Eternity

Time travel involving the infinite realms is truly a bizarre thing. Sometimes it follow one set of rules, and sometimes that set of rules may as well not exist. Usually, however, it works in one of two ways, the first is when the time travel is achieved through artificial means such as clockworks portals and allows for the altering of the timeline as one would expect time travel would allow. The other type of time travel is through natural means, portals usually, and it’s just that, Natural. That portal to the past opened up in the past the same moment it did in the present. If you step into the portal in the year 2000 then you already stepped out of the portal hundreds of years ago. It’s A Thing That Already Happened. Danny himself experienced this, as while chasing Vlad through time they fought in the middle of a Roman coliseum and, whoopsy daisy, set a really big fire. A fire which Danny had learned about years before he even had his accident.

So, the infimap can take the user anywhere, anywhen. And the infimap is just that, a map. It doesn’t make new roads, it just drags you across already existing paths. So it is a natural form of time travel, if you use it to go in time to kill your grandfather in order to insure your never born your interference will result in your grandparents falling in love and your birth.

Danny realizes that anytime he needs to heal from a battle or has gone 156 hours without sleeping or eating he can use the infimap to pop back to the past for a few days and then have the map bring back to the “Present”, exactly one second after he left. A three week vacation that lasted one second. At first he’s really wary about using this, worried about accelerated aging or getting lost in the time stream and a hundred other issues. At first.

It’s been months sense the accident. Sam and Tucker have both shot up several inches. Danny, on the other hand, hasn’t grown sense the accident. At all. They fought a ghost who could rapidly age opponents, a single slap turned Tucker into a decrepit old man. The ghost wrapped his hands around Danny’s throat and spent 5 minutes trying to strangle him while Danny bought time for Sam and Tucker to pull off the plan. The sucked him into the thermos, his influence on time ceased so Tucker returned to his proper state. “Jeez it sure is lucky he didn’t try and age me, right guys? Ha ha ha”. Danny gets blasted through a natural portal while making a trip through the zone and spends years trying to get home, not aging a day.

He can’t deny it after that, can’t ignore it. He’s immortal. He’s going to live forever. He’s going to watch his friends and family whither away and die out. He’s going to have to spend the rest of his life wandering from place to place trying not to get outed as the same 14 year old who save someone’s great great grandma 100 years ago.

After having his first middeath crisis, suddenly the only reasons he had to not spend years on end wandering the world and the past is gone, even if he loses the infimap, worst case scenario he’ll just take the long way home. Suddenly, he’s dreading the next 80 years of the “Present”. He decides that if he’s going to watch his friends and family grow old and frail he’s going to make sure it’s takes as long as it possibly could, from his perspective. By the time they’re 20 Danny’s gonna have 200 years under his belt.

He becomes a temporal tourist, hopping into the past every time the late night fights and schoolwork become to much. Spends years in every civilization imaginable, mastering every skill he can, leaving legends in his wake.

I feel like Danny and his adventures do have a lot of potential for story’s, as it’s a pretty good setup for having Danny in any type of time period or historical event for extended periods of time, fighting in the trenches of World War I, exploring the Americas during the era of colonialism, sailing the seas a swashbuckling vigilante pirate. I, however, have most of my related ideas being based around crossovers. So most of that will be in part two, so that people who like to filter out all that can still see this post.

[blueberrytravelblog]

Ok so uhhh I think I portaled into a meeting of some kind? It seemed important and there was a lot of yelling? Uhh. I think they tried to grab me for knowing state secrets or something, and I wasn't about that, so then I was "resisting arrest" and then they started shooting at me, so naturally did the cool vagabond, roguish hero thing and fought back and uhhh...

I'm safe now, gonna portal out soon, I don't think im welcome back in there. They like, probably have space insurance for all of that or something its fine.