#sometime it feels like itll be okay

[silentalltheseyearsnomore]

Somehow got through the worst of the crisis. Didn't tell S for the first time. Told her when we saw her and she asked why we didn't reach out and we said we know she's already overwhelmed and if we were to come out the other side we needed her to still be there, we needed to protect our relationship. She got it. It sucks the situation we are both in because of complete lack of support from everywhere else. She is being our care co, advocate, therapist, attachment figure, everything at once because *no one else is* but ofc it is too much. Hence ending therapy. Because the best way she can help is to fight the system for us and get us the right support, while also staying around so we don't have another broken attachment. I know it's her doing everything she can to help us the best she can. It's just hard to not view it through the lens of so many triggers and abandonment. When the reality is she is doing ALL this, soon for free, out of care. It is just not all focused on the care littles want (cuddles lol) and more of what we need. Which is what someone who truly cares for you does.

I value her seeing the situation and knowing our therapy and relationship will be damaged if we continued the same and therefore ending therapy before the damage was too big. Like others should have done. But it still sucks that it means we have to start again with someone else AND get used to seeing her less. It sucks because she doesn't even want to see her less but her life is just so that if we don't see her at work it will be less. I know how much she is doing for us behind the scenes to fight the system and yet child parts just want the time with her. Even if logically her doing that work is what will help most. I value her so much doing this for us. It's just the fear of seeing her less is so fucking huge. From outside it may seem ridiculous because we're so lucky to have an attachment figure who wants to see us anytime she can, and the least it'll be is maybe a couple weeks.. that's kind of a lot, it's more than anyone in her personal life gets besides those she lives with, even family! We'd be fine seeing anyone else every couple weeks!! Yet going from 2 or 3 times a week to knowing she'll struggle for even once a week feels like actual death. Like, we laugh when we see the facts. But for child parts it is like literal death it feels. And I just hope it actually feels okay. We'll get used to it. We'll speak inbetween. We will be adding more support and it won't feel long at all- the isolation does add to the attachment pain, its not ALL about her. Its also about what it triggers, and about being lonely in general. We have to trust that will change. And trust we will feel connected. (Mostly I secretly hope her work thing settles so she has more time lol). Remember there is the possibility for a lot more in the future when we are better, she wants us to be involved in an amazing work thing if we get well enough. WHEN we get well enough. She WANTS us in her life. We are wanted. That is beautiful. That is everything. The rest is just noise and life in the way.

It sucks how when we are connected we feel okay but then we loss it and drown in dread. When we are together we think we can handle ending therapy, these changes, the unknown, all of it. We can feel how much she cares, we know it, we see it. She gave us the most beautiful birthday gift and held us and we talked about the fears and we both are just having to face the unknown as both our lives change. And we just have to trust. Trust that even though her life is changing, even though we have to end therapy, even though xyz, she will find time to see us. She'll still be there even if its different. Trust that this is very different to previous ex therapists (who her supervisors now want us to report and are basically blacklisting already..), because yes we are close but we are doing it healthily and slowly and boundaried. She is not being our mum, she is not promising things she cant deliver like they did. She says the hard things when needed, she knows limits. Trust that that doesn't mean she cares less. Trust she'll still fight to get us the right support. And we have to trust that the right support will actually happen, despite the huge obstacles. And we have to trust we can hold on until it comes. We have to trust so many things we can't see yet.

And when we are with her, we do trust. But when we are apart, it's just overwhelming. We can't take another broken attachment. And I do trust her not to do what others did but I also know the whole situation is so stressful and she is one human trying to do her best. And so are we. I do kind of think it may be okay with her.. she won't go. I feel less sure about getting specialised therapy funded. And I know all our stuff and needs can't fall on our relationship or it will suffer. So we need the other support to work out. And I am scared what happens in the meantime. I've never experienced either thing- enough support or an attachment figure staying in a safe and healthy way. So even if factually it looks like she's staying and it'll be okay, we still need to experience it.

Honestly I have no idea how we'll feel with this transition. I have a feeling either we'll feel like we are drowning, while S is abroad and when back will see her less even if she's doing more for us behind the scenes, and no therapy..... OR, we may feel better. Maybe we dont need our attachment wounds constantly poked at. Maybe space to breathe will help. We've done SO much work internally attachment wise. We've gone from wanting child parts dead to calling them (pet names) lovingly like B did and S now does. And we've had some experiences of them being loved and wanted outside too, even if chaotic and abusive at times. I don't even really know the next step even if I was being offered it. I don't think I ever want such a deep attachment in therapy again. Some kind of attachment sure but our main one? It just feels never endingly painful. I think we do better when it's outside of therapy. And inside of it to an extent too. Just not the main and only. So maybe getting used to S outside of therapy will somehow help us see what is needed moving forward. I so wish K was safe for us..... then we'd have two attachment figures outside of therapy, and the attachment in therapy would feel less brutal and poking with its stupid hour or so a week. But she just isn't. Maybe she never will be. There's no way to know. Right now she isn't. There's S. But she can't be *everything*. And I want more outside of therapy. It's just... we don't really ever attach that way outside. Child parts never do. So I guess we just try and build the attachments and connections outside of therapy. Settle in to what S can be. And maybe we'll see therapy differently going forward.

I honestly have no fucking idea. But I do know what we've been doing isn't sustainable. I do know I don't want my main attachment figure to be my therapist. And I don't know what that means. And it's not like you have a fucking choice in who you attach to anyway lollll who am I kidding. We don't even know what we will be offered yet. Or when. In a few weeks. Years. Its so hard to keep walking forward not knowing how anything looks. And just trusting. And trusting that S won't give up fighting for us or let go of our hand. Trust ourselves that we choose to trust her for good reason and not purely attachment. Trust ourselves to feel her hand is still there even when physically apart. Trust we can keep ourselves safe when we need to. Trust that having to do so doesn't mean we don't deserve others. Child parts deserve to be rescued and protected and kept safe. And we have to trust we can do that, and that others want to, even if they can't always. Trust ourselves that we can grieve the gap between what others can do and what we deserve/d.

[ridragon]

You guys should read 17776. It's best to go in blind. It's about how football will look in the future.

(Warning that there is a very fast moving part specifically in the beginning in case you have photosensitivity, and the story includes gifs and videos. If you are sensitive to unreality some parts may bother you.)

[hollowfairybabybat]

im gna end up regretting this maybe lol or not who knows

[jamesbukkakebarnes]

🐸

[shimdta]

URL song spelling game! Thank you @bunlux for tagging me!

Setting Sail, Coming Home - Darren Korb

Heir of Grief - Seth Peelle, Toby Fox, Malcolm Brown, and Joren De Bruin

Into the Unkown - The Blasting Company

Metamorphosis - Penny Parker

Data & Picard - Pogo

Tot Musica - Ado

Answers - Nobou Uematsu

let me see if i can find anyone to tag @pinkglitteringdemondildos, @isayoldbean, @tangyaura, @banana-babies, @hollis-exe feel free to do it or not if i saw you on my activity recently i targeted you

[hiding-in-the-vault]

Sorry Vault, but I don't think there is any chill when we have seen 2/3 of DT throwing shade. :(

I just think people outta close the socials for a day or two. This initial knee-jerk reaction to things is always the most damaging

[kvroii]

I just remembered latte art is a thing so im putting some oc thoughts here for later for my barista ocs

-kori cant draw latte art. she stopped trying because she cant get the shapes right. She thinks others might laugh at her for it, or someone might ask for a refund, but shes probably more worried about it than anyone else.

- phecda can make good latte art. He probably makes the really fancy modern ones of mascots and anime characters. He's so humble about it that its not fair, but secretly he tries to overdo each one for the theatrics. He will deny this. He's a bad liar though.

- goodwin makes really nice traditional latte art, but only when wearing her prosthetic. If she doesnt have it, she cant tilt the cup just right. Its fine because she always wears it to work, and her good customer service brings people in anyway. Sometimes she spills coffee on it though which might be a problem bc the metal is more for aesthetics than functionality, which is to say rust is still a possible issue.

- kai is trying his best okay. he's getting there. sure his hand shakes too much and he doesnt have a frame of reference for any design that isnt something he saw in the lab, but hes TRYING, be NICE to him!!! Depending on a customer's stance on experiments, they either specifically want his attempts at latte art to be encouraging, or they would sooner take something drawn by kori and give the myrios cafe a bad review on the city's hologram app anyway.

Anyways i wanna draw this eventually but its 6am and i havent slept yet. So that will wait until tomorrow or whenever, bc i also wanna draw a cool kori art thats boucning around in my head. I'll see which comes first.

[skitskatdacat63]

Every time I go watch all the Seb edits in my tiktok folder, I just realize how much of a menace I'm going to be when I get to watching 2010. I really am not mentally prepared for the 2010-2013 seasons, I think I will actually explode from how much I love him 😭 I chose to go with 2009 to kinda lean in slowly to the Seb years, but I realized, he's DNFed in both races so far, so I've been spared from the inevitable combustion you guys will witness once he actually gets a podium sjdjkff

[aeirs-moved]

i hate my antidepressants so much sometimes. Not going to lie having my perception of time skewed so fucking horribly and being really prone to forgetting who i am is not helping me move through life...

[toastsnaffler]

ahh.. I have tickets for a small music festival tmr which I went to last year + had a whale of a time but this year theres only like 2 artists I wanted to see but they released the schedule a couple days ago and neither are playing before 9:30pm. since I don't live local anymore I'd have to leave to travel back home around that time or I'd miss the last train... and there's not rly anywhere I can crash overnight there (and I was planning on going alone anyway like I did last year). so I think im gonna have to let this one pass me by :-(

[blessedshortcake]

Delete later

I dont know if its the holidays coming up that has me stressing again or just everything piling up in general but its that time of my existence again when i genuinely consider serious harm to get some kind of significant help or care thats more than "just stop worrying"

I cant take school. Im too burnt out and i dont have time to recharge even tho i only have school twice a week. I have no help from my family because asking them for help will either get me forced to live with an unstable household with my sister or in an unstable household with my mother. In both cases shamed and reprihended but in different ways ig so its a pick your poison moment. I cant win

I havent been to class in months. Im terrified. Im failing i dont have enough grades and none of my classmates know me so i cant ask anyone for help. Im terrified if i drop out the gov will make me pay back the child support ive been Literally living off of since i live by myself and wont be hired anywhere because i didnt graduate yet and here you wont be hired without that for like 95% of job spaces. Youre either a student working or have your diploma or you dont exist at all

I gave up hobbies that cost money ive been doing my best to eat whatevers home so i dont spend extra money ordering in but i just dont have the energy to do this anymore. I want a job. I want a job so bad i want to be done with school i cant do school we literally have ptsd from school and no support from anyone around like family or teachers. I cant apply for therapy again because theres a 6 month waitlist and by then its fucking summer (probably) and even then it takes at least a year to start getting any diagnosis and i never managed to hold down a therapist for long enough. They dont take you seriously here in their eyes we were always just lazy or a little sad or haha teenage anxiety

We cant enter a school building without bordering an anxiety attack even if its just for like an art show or any non education related reasons. We cant learn due to alter to alter amnesia (OSDD i almost never talk about it on here but yea hi system here this is Hell) because in classes we either dissociate too bad due to the panic it causes us to just Be behind a desk taking notes with people to actually remember what we wrote if we did write anything and then if you learn anything at home theres a 10% chance youre gonna be the guy at front to take the test because, again, fear.

What the hell am i meant to do when i feel like the best option here is to either blind myself so i get to be excused since id have to restart my life pretty much or try and pretend i was hit by a car on accident because i cant sign into a ward here. I cant call a crisis hotline like "yea i wanna die it sucks ass here" because my family will again either force me to live with someone mentioned above or kick me out and then what. I cant do this im not gonna do anything harsh that could end me like thats not what im saying here im just frustrated and scared and sad about how hopeless this all feels like

[healthydoseofhedonism]

maybe im not fudementally unlovable

[livingemkayde]

en route

joel miller x f!reader (post outbreak) | 3.5k

↳ warnings: this is rated for 18+ only! minors, please do not interact. smut, unprotected pinv, fingering f!recieving, light choking, dom!joel, a mild enemies to lovers mixed with sunshine!reader and grumpy!joel miller. no use of y/n. let me know if i forgot anything.

↳ a /n: hey guys...heres a little one shot in a followers/blog milestone celebratory fashion (!!!!!!!). this sort of turned into a one shot from the scrapped ideas regarding my new series. its also helping me gear up for taking on the task of beginning to write a new dynamic (i am definitely putting off completing chaser because i have an emotional attachment to that story BUT itll be out sometime this week). i love you all so, so, so much. you have no idea. thank you for everything (can you tell i live for a flashback fic).

if you would like to read more of mine: masterlist!

“You’re—” he quirks his brow at your attempts, “you’re an asshole, Joel,” you finalize.  He takes a step toward you. You take a step back.  “You’re rude. And inconsiderate—” he smirks, it makes you more mad, “—and snarky and a jerk for no reason.” Your back hits the hallway’s wall. He takes another experimental step towards you.  “Okay. Yeah, keep going,” Joel breathes out, encourages, like you're amusing. “What else am I?”

You can’t stand him. 

You really can’t stand him. Hate is a strong word. Maybe not one you use often. But the disdain you feel for Joel Miller hinges to the breaking point each time you run into him. 

What a fucking asshole — you finally willed yourself to believe after weeks of kindness. It was practically seeping from your skin but it seemed to brush off his worn leather winter coat onto the fresh powder. It died there, and so did your hopeless attempts. 

“Hi,” you breathed out, that first fateful time. It was a surprisingly clear winter night. He had just moved in. The women were fawning over him, ogling, jaws dropping in the town square. You just observed and tried to keep your face neutral. As neutral as you can be. 

But Joel stood in front of you and just grunted in response. 

It made you try harder. 

“I brought these — made these for you,” you said, extending a pack of sandwiches for him and the girl you happened to see by his side. You figured she was with him. You traded a hell of a lot to get the meat for the sandwiches. But kindness and new neighbors seemed to fare well. At least in your very limited experience. 

“What is this?” he questioned. He didn’t take them from your hands. His fingers—big and rough and calloused, picked at the skin of its own. He didn’t take a step outside the threshold. You were suddenly unwelcome. You felt the weight of the sandwiches grow tiresome in your outstretched arm. 

“Sandwiches. Thought I’d say hello since you’re new around here,” you smiled, sort of shaking the pack, here — fucking — just take them, jesus. 

But he didn’t, and your arm grew tired, and so did your smile. 

“‘M good, thanks,” he mumbled in response, and shut the door in your face. 

And yes, of course he was handsome. He was — rugged — and you can see the wired muscles stretch the cotton of his shirt on patrol sometimes. In those especially unfortunate circumstances where Tommy has the nerve to pair you two up together. 

Handsome, yes. With a hulking bounding step over snow, and menacing shadow when he towers over you. A southern drawl—something so pitch-deep and honey-like, something you’ve never heard before. Not until you met him. And you were nursing a stupid hopeless crush over a guy you hate, but not really. And that drove you insane. 

Because he was fucking, rude, yes. Definitely. 

But you lost it. That last time you saw him. Because what’s worse was he wasn’t even being Joel Miller, his usually brooding self. He was being — nice? Kind? Funny? Maybe. You weren’t sure. You couldn’t hear much over the piercing ringing in your ears. 

“You like this route, Joel?” you said, peering over your shoulder at him on horseback. 

You tried to keep it up, the kindness, the fucking — benefit of the doubt bullshit. You really did. He seemed keen on it sometimes more often than not. 

“‘S fine,” he replied back in a rumpled, annoyed way. 

“You gotta see my favorite part,” you say, almost to yourself, almost forgetting about his dark drawl, only thinking about the meadow half a mile from the checkpoint. 

 He just snorted at that. You just tried to keep a happy face on. 

The songbirds twinkled around in the surrounding trees. The winter snow was receding, making the small dribble of water a full stream. You followed it, straying slightly from the beaten path, earning a couple protesting growls from Joel, but you ignored his pleas, and surprisingly, he just followed you. 

You got off your horse. Joel followed suit. You trudged across a little bend of water. He let out a scoff sounding more like a complaint each time he let one echo in the silence of the forest. 

“C’mon,” you said, smiling, that time, a real smile. Maybe this would make him smile too. 

You reached the crest of the small hill, hiked up your sleeves over your elbows, and bent down to touch the soft petals of the flowers beneath you. 

“Look,” you said, sending him a sideways glance behind you. He was still clamoring to the top of the hill. 

“Yeah, alright,” he groveled. You ignored him. 

Joel joined you at your side, his chest puffing slightly out of your skewed peripheral vision. 

“‘S beautiful, isn’t it?” you said to no one in particular. He didn’t respond. You didn’t expect him to. 

You bend down, picking a strewn orange flower blossom from the floor. Something broken off with the wind. 

“This what you do all day? Pick flowers?” he mumbled.

“Maybe,” you grinned, maybe you were finally getting him to crack, too. “And what do you do all day?”

“Not this,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Really?” you said, “Enlighten me. What does Joel Miller do everyday?”

“Joel Miller minds his business,” he replied, snarky, but he smirked. 

It made you a little scared, you remember. Maybe you were under some sort of falsehood that made hating Joel Miller easy. So when he actually talks to you, teases, follows you through the meadow, it seems a little intimidating suddenly. 

It’s different. 

It’s fucking weird. 

“Which one’s your — favorite,” he whispered, gesturing out to the field in a vague sort of motion with open palms. 

“Lilies,” you replied, tense. You pointed down at a brighter purple lily plant to your right. Joel’s eyes followed your hand. 

You wouldn’t dare look at him, but you could feel him moving beside you. He was in front of you suddenly, his indomitable presence made you turn your head and look up at him through the sunlight. 

He lifted his hand, in line with your ear. Your head backed away from it instinctually, but you kept a keen gaze on his eyes. 

Your brows knit together. So did his. Your mouth parted, almost speaking into the soft mountain air. But he moved his hand again, closer to your face. And you saw a flash of something orange. Like the little flower you picked up. He brushed those big calloused fingertips on your cheek, and slipped the orange flower between hair atop your ear. 

You were so confused, you didn’t know what to say. But it was bad. He was risky. You tried not to think of the fact that maybe, if he wasn’t so fucking rude, and you didn’t hate him so much, maybe that small little schoolgirl crush would blossom into something bigger. 

Because that’s all it was. A small, fucking stupid crush. He teases you. Pulls at your hair. Shoves you off the monkeybars. You put on a kind face anyways. 

And you hate him for that. Decidedly. 

“We should go,” you whispered. He dropped his hand. You both rode back in silence. 

That put you in a horrible mood for the rest of the day. And when you went to sleep and woke up this morning still in a horrible mood, you know exactly why. 

Joel Miller doesn’t get to do this. He can’t make you hate him and then pull the rug out from underneath you. Especially not with something as low as putting a fucking flower behind your ear.

You show up at the patrol meeting in an equally sour mood. 

And maybe, yeah, you are being irrational. But at this moment you couldn't care less.

You find the assignment board for next week and see your name card slotted under Joels.

“Perfect,” you huff, already moving quickly out of the building, saving your usual chit chatting for another time. Maybe when you’re less pissed off. 

“Hey,” a voice calls after you and you know. You could pick that voice out of a hundred recordings. It pulls you back, and you fight hard to keep moving forward. You’re close to your house already so you continue walking. 

He calls your name this time. 

You don’t falter in your huffing steps. 

“Stop,” he says, grabbing at your arm, pulling you around towards him. When he sees your face, he hesitates. Though the air seems a little humid and sticky, you wrap your arms around yourself. A shield. 

“What, Joel?” 

“You—left,” he breathes out, looking down to your body slightly. It’s unnerving, him making you squirm. 

“Yes. I’m leaving,” you roll your eyes, turning around again, but he locks hard onto your arm and pulls you back to him. 

“What’s—” you shake out of his grip, “what’re you doin’?”

“I’m going home,” you say, and then under your breath, “Obviously.”

“What’d you say?” He's a bit defensive now, maybe falling back into old habits. Back when things were so perfectly hostile between you two. 

“I’m going home, Joel,” you say, annoyed. “Is that okay with you?”

He doesn’t say anything. His mouth parts in confusion. You start walking again, this time, he lets you, falling in time with your steps next to you. 

“Are you alright?” he says, almost worried now. Your footsteps fall faster as you see your mailbox sneak into view.

“I thought Joel Miller minded his business,” you grumble under your breath. But loud enough for him to hear. You know it. You reach your porch, stepping onto it. The morning dew springs to life from the vibrations of your rough boot. 

“So you’re gonna throw a tantrum?” he growls, following you up, reaching the first step, you, on the top one. 

“Real mature,” you say, turning around, hands on hips. 

“Right,” he nods and looks down to his feet, “Ignoring people is mature?” 

“‘M not!” you say, looking down at him, throwing your hands out at your sides, “You’re right here talking to me!”

“Yeah ‘n I had to chase you down the fuckin’ street,” he extends one arm towards the road. 

“No one asked you to,” you bite, the venom sneaking past your lips. 

He doesn’t even flinch. 

“You wanna play that?” he mumbles. An empty threat at best. You hope. 

“No,” you say. Tears are already in your eyes. “No, I don’t wanna — fucking — do this anymore, Joel,” you whisper while unlocking the door and walking inside. It doesn’t shut behind you, not all the way. And you hear his boots follow you in. 

“The hell is your problem?” his voice echoes. He follows you in your house, to the skinny hallway which leads to your room. 

You spin around, pushing at his chest with a pointed finger. 

“You are my fucking problem,” you affirm. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. His hair is pushed back, like he just got out of the shower before attending the patrol meeting. His chest puffs in time with your rapid heartbeat. 

He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t say anything. 

“You’re—” he quirks his brow at your attempts, “you’re an asshole, Joel,” you finalize. 

He takes a step toward you. You take a step back. 

“You’re rude. And inconsiderate—” he smirks, it makes you more mad, “—and snarky and a jerk for no reason.”

Your back hits the hallway’s wall. He takes another experimental step towards you. 

“Okay. Yeah, keep going,” Joel breathes out, encourages, like you're amusing. “What else am I?”

“You’re —” your breath accidentally catches in your throat. He places his palm on the cold wall next to your head, leaning down closer to you. He’s fucking intoxicating. You’re drunk off his lowbrow and the curls that form at the base of his neck. What you wouldn't give to run your fingers through them right now—

“C’mon,” he chastises. His mouth is so close to yours, you keep switching between his eyes and his lips. 

“You’re an asshole,” you mumble. 

“Yeah?” you nod. “You already said that, baby.” 

Baby.

“Don’t stop,” his lips get closer to yours, “What else?” 

“You’re…” you look at his lips. He gets so close that his chest brushes up against yours. “You’re mean…and you’re arrogant.” 

You find it in you to put your open palms gently on his chest. You don’t find it in you to push him back. It’s not like you want to push him back though, not when all you need is to bring him closer. His breath punches gently on top of your nose. 

“Can I tell you what I think?” he grumbles, you shudder. He snakes his head down to whisper in your ear. His beard brushes the delicate skin on your neck. 

“I think,” his lips brush over the spot right under your ear. You breathe so hard you might get light headed. “You’re a pain in my ass,” the hand on the wall catches on your waist. You squirm against his body.

“With your distractions, and your sandwiches, and your little flowers,” he’s so close, he’s almost kissing you. He slots his thigh between yours. 

“Shut up,” you say, because that’s all you can say right now. The dark hallway encases him in the shadows. Even when he picks his head back up and looks into your eyes. 

“Careful,” he warns. 

You stay there, silence filling the air. Your shoulder blades dig into the wall there. 

“You need to learn some manners,” he mumbles, shaking his head, looking down at your lips. 

“I have manners,” you breathe, admittedly a little shaky, “just not for — fucking —”

“Not for what?” He smirks. 

“Not for you,” you push against his chest again. He doesn’t flinch. 

“Yeah?” something in his tone makes you fight harder, “You gonna be a bad girl?” 

“Shut up,” you say, because you don’t trust yourself. You brace yourself against the wall in a desperate attempt not to whine. He’s making you slip. You silently chastise yourself. What happened to ‘Joel Miller doesn’t get to do this’?

You suppose all rational thought flies out the window when his roughed hands land on you. 

“You can be a bad girl,” he said, pushing his fingers under your shirt. They’re surprisingly warm. You fight the urge to groan. Your eyes flicker down to your bodies touching and drag them back to his eyes. “I’ll teach you how to be a good girl, too.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, half under your breath. Joel’s eyes dance with yours, flickering from your lips to your left eye, to your right. Your nose, your eyebrows. Then back down to your parted mouth. You’re fighting a losing battle, you both are. You had no chance of winning it. Not even in the slightest, not at all. And you both know it. 

So, fuck. 

You kiss him. You learn forward, as much as the space between you will allow, and kiss him. He smells like pinewood, and fresh soap, and something smokey. He almost tastes sweet. His fingers splay across your waist. You feel the tips of them dig in there. You fight the urge to groan when you shift on top of his thigh slotted between your legs. 

He hauls you into your bedroom, you sink down on the bed. He takes off his flannel. He’s slow, in his movements, almost like he’s teasing you.

Punishing you. 

“Joel,” you say. You hate how you sound so whiny, so desperate. But after all, maybe you are desperate for him. 

“Sit back,” is all he says, in that honeyed drawl. 

You do. 

Joel stands in front of your slightly open legs, playing with the hem of your shirt in his fingers. 

Contemplating. 

“You gonna be a good girl?” he mumbles, his eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t look at you, just raises your shirt up slightly. 

And you know what? You don’t have an explanation for it. But you just say it—

“Yes,” while looking up at him. The salt and pepper on his patchy beard. His hardened brow and quirked lip. His fingers drift from the hem of your shirt up, up, up. Until his thumb grazes your nipple and you moan at the feeling. 

“Open your mouth,” he murmurs, his thumb playing at your chin, your bottom lip. Your hands dig into the comforter at his words. Your bottom jaw slowly falls under the weight of his singular thumb. 

He pushes in, tugging your mouth open. You suck his finger obediently. 

“‘S good—baby,” he whispers so low under his breath you aren’t sure if you heard him correctly. 

You look up at him through your lashes, he pushes you back with his hand in your mouth until you’re laying flat on the bed. 

“Take off your clothes,” he says, pulling back his hand. While he shucks off his shirt, you undress frantically. 

You snap your legs shut when your panties are finally off. The cold air bites at your ankles. 

He nudges them apart until he’s slotted in between your open thighs. Your cunt stares back at him, glistening. 

He runs his hands along your frame, kneading at the skin on your thighs. His fingers, big and rough and calloused—but it feels fucking good. 

“Fuck—” you puff out, reaching for him, “I—”

He puts his finger up to his lips. Quiet. He says. 

You listen. 

“Just let me—” he says, drifting off when his fingers brush over your cunt. “Jesus—baby,” he mumbles, running his thumb through your slick. You moan and whine against his hand. 

“Joel,” you say again. Pleading. 

“I know,” he is all he says before twisting his hand and slipping a thick finger into your cunt. You gasp, grabbing at his shoulders and at the cotton beneath you. His free hand comes up near your neck, resting there. Not really doing anything.  

“You’re loud,” he points out, pumping out, adding a second because you’re so wet. You moan, gasp, whimper.

“’N you never fuckin’ listen.” he mumbles, looking at his fingers pumping out of you. 

“I do—” 

He shuts you up with a strong hand wrapping around your neck. Not enough pressure to really do anything, but enough pressure to cut your words short halfway garbled into an excuse. 

“Is that what you needed?” he groans, straining against his boxers, rutting up against your thigh. “Needed someone to tell you what to do?” 

You’re close. You moan. He thumbs at your clit. You nestle your face into the crook of his neck, whimpering into his ear. His hand finds yours, pinning it back to the gray cotton there. 

“You needed me, baby?” he drawls.

Just when you’re about to come, he stops. Your eyes widen, he’s breathing heavily, his fingers are statues deep inside you. 

“Joel—just, fucking—” you whine. He starts pulling his fingers out, receding away from you. “No—fuck, please, I—please,” you reach for him. 

He looks at you. You whimper. 

“I—fuck—I needed you,” you whisper. And you think to yourself that it’s true. “I need—you.”

His face goes soft. 

“Okay,” Joel breathes, pulling out, but reaching down to take himself out of his boxers. Your legs part silently. “Fuck, angel. Okay.” 

He guides himself through your folds, you squirm underneath him. He mumbles something into your ear but you can’t focus on anything besides he dull stretch when he pushes past your walls. He’s stretching you out already, just the tip. But the pain feels surprisingly good. 

“God, Joel,” you whine. He goes slow. Excruciatingly slow. 

“You—” he eases into you. He groans against your hair. “You’re — fuck.”

“Shit,” you curse out, he slips into you all the way, until his hips are flush with you. “Shit—you feel f-fucking good.”

He stays like that for a bit, letting you mold around him. He pants into your ear. You scratch designs into his back. Memorabilia for when he returns back to his house and gets a good look in the mirror. You grasp at the curls at the nape of his neck. They’re soft. Just like you thought they might’ve been. 

He pulls out—almost all the way. And then thrusts back in. You both gasp into each other’s mouths. 

“Goddamn — tight, fuck,” he says, finding a pace that elicites the most unintelligible moans from you and sets it. He’s rough—but not too rough. And he’s hitting that spot that inches you further to a pulling blinding light. 

“Good, fucking girl—” he moans, he holds himself up above you with a strong hand next to your head. “You’re doin’ so—fuck—so good, pretty girl.”

Maybe it’s the pretty girl. Or his praise, or his cock punching deep inside you, so deep that you can feel him in your fucking stomach, but you get closer. Tighter around him. He can feel it too. 

“Joel—gonna—ngh—” you whimper. He hikes your leg over his hip, hitting something deeper. 

“C’mon, angel,” he groans, “lemme — ah — lemme f-feel you.” 

He drags it out of you, your muscles pull taut and your vision pulls white and he keeps going through it all. You moan, whimper, maybe even yell. But he keeps up his relentless pace. You dig your fingers in his back, marking him with little crescents to go with all the rest of them. 

“Fuck—fuck,” he pants, his hips stuttering while you clench around him. 

He thrusts into you, one, two, three more times, your aftershocks sending towards his release. 

He lets out a broken groan spilling into you, rocking his hips with each pulse of his cock. “Shit,” he says, gripping your waist, “You — jesus, fuck.”

Joel collapses down next to you. He cleans you up, too. You both drift off to sleep. He kisses your forehead in between a floating, dreamless slumber. 

Somewhere between then and dinner he leaves, mumbling in your ear. You’re too tired to wake up and walk him to the door. And when you wake up, and make your way downstairs you spot it, sitting pretty on your front porch through the glass. 

A little makeshift bouquet, with fraying string wrapped around two stems.

Lilies.

[lilozzzyo3569]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

OKAY so I cannot help myself I am madly in love with Ghost - you are dating Simon "Ghost" Riley and you are on your period- This is pure self indulgent fluff

SFW

Ghost is the type that when you're on your period is so sweet to you but like in a quiet subdued way

Ghost will sit with you on the couch and hold you while you snack

Ghost will rub your tummy when you are cramping or feeling swollen and generally uncomfortable

Ghost will let you cry on his chest when you are feeling especially emotional and run his fingers through your hair to soothe you

Ghost will rub your back and kiss your forehead and whisper "itll be a'right lovie, I gotcha"

Ghost with his big warm hands will let you lay on the couch with him using his front as a heater for your sore back and his hands as a heater for your abdomen

Ghost who has always been patient with you as you are always patient with him doesn't mind when you toss in turn in your sleep because he does the same thing

Ghost who doesn't say he loves you all the time but prefers to show his love and appreciation for you through acts of service

Ghost who lets you nap on his chest while he reads and drinks his afternoon cuppa

Ghost will sometimes even read whatever book he is re-reading aloud to you when you can't sleep

Ghost who doesn't understand what he did to deserve someone as beautiful, kind, understanding, patient, adorable and overall perfect as you

Alright so as I said before this is super self indulgent, and I am on my period and wish I had a big strong Simon "Ghost" Riley to comfort me. But alas I do not, but at least I have my imagination hahaha

[what-even-is-thiss]

hi! i just saw your post about your struggle with addiction, and it really resonated with me i guess, and i hope youre doing better now. ive been struggling a lot with being,,, lets call it ‘reasonable’ about my weed consumption and im feeling so overwhelmed trying to slow down with it and so ashamed that im even struggling with this in the first place, do you have any advice from when you first realized you had an addiction and like how you went about dealing with it?

im just really scared to ask my friends and family (outside of tumblr) for help because i worry that itll change how they think of me, or that theyll start treating me differently or something, especially because my parents are the ones who keep enabling this.

if youre not up to giving advice about this sort of thing i completely understand, and obviously our experiences and vices are very different, anyway sorry this is so rambly, and i hope you have a lovely week :)

An addiction counselor or a therapist might be better than me but I’ll try.

What has worked for me in the past with some things is removing the thing from my life completely and then later when I’m better seeing if there’s a healthy smaller way I can bring it back into my life.

Sometimes there isn’t. When it comes to opioids for example I can’t have those even once or my addiction immediately reactivates. Like with me it’s so fast. I become dependent on them immediately. Same with self harm. Hurting myself leads to my brain immediately wanting more of it to get rid of my emotions and it’s bad for my health so i just need to not do that.

When it comes to gambling and mobile games however I’ve been able to find a happy medium with that. I have maybe two mobile games I play that I don’t spend money on and I play more one time purchase games now without micro transactions. With gambling I put a hard limit on myself at 20 bucks a month and for the most part I’ve been able to stick to that.

Also I know that if I drink alcohol more than twice a week I’ll become addicted to it because I can feel it happening. So I just don’t drink more than once or twice a week.

You don’t have to go cold turkey. That doesn’t work for everyone. You might carefully measure out a ration for yourself for the month or week. You might not even have to give it up entirely. Or maybe you might.

I’ve found that talking it out with people in your life you trust can be helpful. The hardest additions to beat for me have been the ones I’ve never told anyone about. And part of the reason I’ve never become alcoholic is because I’ve told my friends and family about my problem and if I have more than three drinks at a party they know to tell me to cut it out.

I’ve found in general that people are more understanding than you think they’ll be. And if they aren’t then find someone who is. Even if they have to be a therapist or something.

I think the worst thing you can do when trying to beat an addiction or if you know you have an addictive personality is to isolate yourself. If you’re alone then it’s just you and your thoughts and your thoughts are what got you into this in the first place.

There’s nothing to be ashamed of if you find quitting hard. Addiction is hard. It messes with the pathways in your brain. It’s okay if it takes a while. Just keep trying.

[chocsra]

"Birds in the House of Flies."

15! Chuuya x gn! asa mitaka! reader

A/N: genuinely sorry but im gonna have trouble posting since tests are a BITCH DAMN, im sorry if u sent a request itll take some time thank you guys 😭 ALSO SORRY AB THE ONE BED TROPE THINGY IM STILL WORKING ON IT WILL BE POSTED TMRW . also asa mitaka is like the only character i kin besides shoko 😭 thank uuuu for the request 🙈

content: based off the building scene in csm, oneshot, slight angst?, pre-relationship, holding hands 🥺, ooc, mentions of suicide, mafia chuuya, civilian reader, slight crack, fluff mentions of girl once

"Fuckin' hang on!!"

Those three words echoed loud in the cold air admist the darkness below your figure, each passing second felt more like an anomaly than the present taking over it's future. A dark whirling pressure pulls you down more, a completely dark void which surrounded you fully, an emptiness that induced fear, unknowingness, it was uncanny.

Despite the dreading pull along your feet, the same body parts you hated for walking - it walked you to your worst and hated places, it held you up when you would much rather decompose in the filth of your bed, something clung onto your hand and held you up even when the only vision you see is a complete reflection of your thoughts, empty.

Sometimes, you hated touch - that was a lie, you hate touch. You hate it when you get a hug that held no value, you hate it when others send warmth to your body, your cold, without any second thought. However, the hand that held yours somehow felt like holding a mug of hot tea, like intaking hot soup relaxingly burning down your throat.

The warmth that held you was a boy, you noticed the ivory complexion laced upon his warm hands, a different feeling than when he was wearing cold, leather gloves. "Dude- you gotta be shittin' me.." a husky voice sighs from the other side, hands deeply clung onto your own in a gravitational pull.

"I'm okay with falling! Just let me go.." you mumble, now you wouldn't have to meet expectations, or feel the dread of waking up ij the morning. You watched as the ability you were trapped in completely used your greatest fear against you; the dark.

You weren't sure how you got into this situation, when you were younger - some people were gifted with special abilities that defy science, yours was no different; but instead of joining an organization to be against or with humanity, you lived your life as somebody normal would.

Only now, your ability got sold for a high price on the black market, not only do criminals desire your skill, but government workers too; strangers from fucking hell. You were taken into the backropes of the Port Mafia, reigning from Yokohama, Japan; the wish was to transport you back to Yokohama in one piece, fuifilled by a trusted mafioso, Nakahara Chuuya.

He was like any other boy your age, he was a nice guy, actually; just in the wrongest, most immoral line of work, at the ripe age of what, sixteen?

And to you, a normal student, the normalization of superpowers was pretty crazy. Nakahara Chuuya was a shithead that showed you of that, he was chill but aggressive, moral but immoral, small but incredibly strong?

"No way I'm lettin' ya go, you're fuckin' crazy!!" he shouts, pulling your limp body up from the void, you pensively look down at the endless pit, reminicing moments where you were at peace. "I'm not crazy, you are! And stop fucking swearing!!" you scream back, dangling yourself and grasping onto the leather sleeves of his jacket.

"You stop fuckin' swearing!"

"Nuh-uh!!"

A heavy silence filled the void, and the sudden tug from his hands. "The ability uses your darkest fear against you, why the hell did you willingly fall?!" the boy shouts back, a little crack in his voice emerged, causing you to lower your eyebrows in slight embarrassment. "Because why would I keep living and fufill expectations I never asked to recieve?!" you answer, eyes flitting to every corner possible in that dark void, a star, a light - no, only his hand. "You can't be serious - I get it! Life is a bitch, doesn't mean you hafta kill yourself!" he argues, pulling you upwards as you dangle your body weight down.

"I am not killing myself!" you hiss, listening as Chuuya retorts with a scoff. "Yeah, you just let yourself fuckin' fall." he chews on his bottom lip stressfully, "Think of all the amazing shit you can live for; dogs, puppies, smoking!!"

"Gross!! Don't you know how much damage that smoking causes your lungs?!" you shout back, the sleeve of your uniform cuffing onto your held up arm. "Fine - alcohol!" Chuuya clicks his tongue, trying to find out luxuries of life. "That's disgusting! The blurry lines between a social drinker and an alcoholic are extremely thin!" the boy tightens his grip in annoyance, "What the hell do ya even like?! Parties?"

"Parties are a mix of sweat and loud noises that give me migraines! Not everyone is a fuckin' gangster, y'know?" the redheaded boy sighs begrudgingly, attempting to pull you up. "..I don't know what girls like, clothes...?" you pause and rub your temple with your free hand, "Just let me go already! Nobody has it worse than me!"

"Fuuck!" Chuuya groans at your dismissal, "I'll tell ya what I'm living for - I saw weird shit until I woke up in the real world when I was like 8?! Now there's a God living inside me!!" you grew silent, ".. I'm not your therapist!" you stammer, causing the boy to hiss. "[Y/N]! Let me help you so I can find out about the past I've never had." you bit your lip torn, hearing as the void went silent.

From the minimal interactions you shared with the ginger, his actions always seemed barricaded, as if he were put behind glass his whole life. And from his story, it seemed pretty right. He's far too loyal with that mafia, and blames himself for the short coming of his old organization. 'Nobody has it worse than me!' rung through your mind, god, how you internally facepalmed. You hated being touched, but you were sort of touched; and as selfish as you were, or are, you had to dress another morning successfully waking up.

"..Or else Ima call the God - O' grantors, of dark dispa-"

"Fuck! You can help me, alright?!"