#pre-labour | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr.com rank in the US is 25.

autisticlancemcclain · 1 year

Text

Keith is good at compartmentalizing. Always has been. Sure, he’s not always great at emotional regulation, but when the serious shit pops up? Under lock and key it goes, to be brought out only late at night when he’s feeling sorry for himself and wants to make things worse.

(Okay. His coping mechanisms could be better.)

(He’s doing his best, alright? Life is hard.)

But sometimes, his compartments get too damn full. His brain just gets so cluttered with shit that he has no boxes left to shove the hard shit into, and he just has to handle it. It always sucks. It’s always a million times worse than his late night freak-outs.

This one in particular, though?

This one takes the cake.

If one were to steal a probably-dusty manila file from the desk one of the social workers for the State of Arizona, labelled ‘Keith Akira Kogane’, they would see, clearly labelled, a section called ‘ORPHAN’. Under that section would be a subheading — ‘Death of Father’. If this person were to read further, they would discover that officially, according to the Arizona State Reporting District, Texas Kogane died tragically trying to put out a house fire in the line of duty. His son waited three days for him to return home before walking to the fire station and demanding to see his father, and was then swiftly picked up and brought to the Grass Hills Region Arizona State Social Services Office, and assigned a group home after speaking to a child psychologist and social worker.

That story is, almost entirely, false.

Keith’s father did die tragically and heroically in the line of duty. It was a particularly brutal house fire, and Texas did manage to save the family that was trapped, at the cost of his own life.

What the story fails to mention is that the house was, specifically, home to Keith’s closest friend at the time. The file also fails to mention that Keith’s father often worked long hours, and so Keith frequently spent time at that friend’s house.

The article fails, perhaps most ardently, to mention that the day of the fateful fire, Keith was present at the house. The day of the fateful fire, Keith watched the house go up in flames faster than he could comprehend. The day of the fateful fire, Keith cried for his father, curled up in the corner of a room with a wet t-shit over his face, soot covering his hair and smoke lining his lungs. The day of the fateful fire, Texas Kogane kicked open the door behind which Keith was trapped in a blaze of glory, scooping up his small-for-his-age son in his arms and rushing him safely out of the house, hugging him tightly and pressing the briefest of kisses to his dirty hair before rushing back into the house to save the rest of the family that was trapped inside.

The file fails to mention that on the day of the fateful fire, Keith watched his infallible father sprint into the house, and never make it back out.

Keith doesn’t much like fire. The file doesn’t mention that, either. (Keith knows. He stole it, one day, and read it. It had to be locked away in a little box in his head, too.)

Space happens so goddamn quickly.

One day he’s chilling in his stupid shack with a couple cool lizards, dicking around on his hover bike and tracking some weird energy, and the next he’s flying through a real-life wormhole on a sentient lion piloted by a boy with startlingly striking brown eyes that he kind of vaguely remembers if he squints. And then that wormhole leads him to a real-life alien castle, and real-life aliens (he knew it, Keith knew it, he was right all along, his Pa was right all along, they both were —) and he’s informed by a real-life alien princess that he’s the Paladin of the Red Lion, the Universe’s Guardian of Fire.

And oh, does the bitter taste of irony flood his tongue.

He swallows quickly, desperately shoving the box closed, adding as many mental strips of duct tape that he can. He forces his face into a mask of stoicism (practiced to perfection from years of home after home after home) and prays that no one was looking closely enough to see the lick of terror flash through his eyes.

He’s lucky, that way. No one ever is.

He keeps that dangerous box closed as he frees a petulant mecha lion from a Galra ship that he navigates too easily (yet another box), keeps it closed as he argues and fights with the boy with pretty brown eyes (rival, his rival — his shadow?), keeps it closed as he fights a dictator and the dictator’s general and holds the hand of the same boy who smiles and says they make a great team. Keith holds that box shut with both hands as he nearly fights an alien who tries to take his knife at a space mall and trains with the man who’s like a brother to him, along with a brand-new team he’s supposed to trust with his deepest secrets.

Keith squeezes that box shut with every ounce of mental strain that he has, and then some. He grits his teeth and tells himself that fire is good and warm and powerful and life-ending and frightening and —

His bayard unlocks a blazing canon, flames sweeping out and brightly illuminating the stifling emptiness of space, burning everything in its path, and the box bursts open.

“Holy shit, Keith!”

“Yo! Is that a flamethrower?”

“Excellent work, kiddo.”

“‘About time you caught up, Mullet.”

The words are distorted, far away. His team’s transparent excitement fans the flames wreaking havoc on every carefully sealed box in his head, turning strict lines to ash and reducing his head to embers. His skin burns as bright as a sun, sweat dripping down his forehead, and smoke fills his lungs until he’s coughing, wheezing, choking to death —

He has no idea how the rest of the training goes. He has no idea how he manages to keep upright, with his vision swimming in and out and his hands slipping off the controls. He has no idea even how he manages to stay alive with flames licking him from the inside, burning him to a crisp from his bones out to his skin. He has no idea how he manages to land Red in her hangar, how he keeps from turning to ash in the pilot’s seat. How he manages to rip off his seatbelt with hands that have turned to burnt coal and rush down the ramp on legs that are simmering flames.

“Ay, Greñudo! What’s keeping you? You’ve been locked in here for half an hour, Shiro’s got a firecracker up his ass worrying — Jesus Christ, Keith, what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Can’t he see? Can’t he feel the flames that lick up Keith’s skin and burn him up? Can’t he feel the heat of Keith’s destruction? Do his eyes not burn from the brightness of the fire?

How is Keith alive? How is he standing when his lungs have stopped working, cooked in his chest? Keith tries to inflate them, to force them open with clean air, but it doesn’t work, they don’t work, the smoke is choking him and killing him and there’s no Pa to save him —

A shock of freezing cold gently touches his neck, his cheek. A breath is startled into his lungs.

They work again.

“Smoke’s cleared,” Keith croaks, because it must be, now that he can feel the cool air trickling down his throat again. He takes large, gulping breaths, taking in as much air as he can before the smoke returns and he suffocates again.

“That’s it,” Lance soothes. “In and out, starboy. Your lungs are clear, yeah? There’s no fire, no smoke. Feel that air. In and out.” The coolness on Keith’s cheek spreads, following the shape of his cheekbone, back and forth, again and again.

Lance’s thumb.

His hands, on Keith’s cheek and on his neck.

“Y’r hands’re cold.”

Lance cracks a smile. “Iron deficiency.”

“Oh. You should —” Keith’s breath shudders as it regulates. He realises his hands are clenched on Lance’s wrist. “—you should eat more red meat.”

What is he even talking about?

Lance smile gets a little wider. It softens his eyes again, deep and brown and dark, like they looked after Sendak. Keith likes it when he smiles at him.

“I’m a vegetarian. That’s cute of you, by the way.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” It takes Keith a moment to process Lance’s other sentence.

This time, his face gets hot for a whole different reason.

“I didn’t — I didn’t mean —”

“Hey. Cool it,” Lance orders, tapping Keith between the eyes. His lips are still curved into a smirk. “You’re coming down from a gnarly-ass panic attack. The last thing you need is to freak out again. Keep matching my breathing, okay? You’re doing great.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Keith manages between his still-heavy breaths. The redness has yet to recede from his face, but he’s pleased to hear Lance’s quiet laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, Greñudo. Treasure it, ‘cause I’m not saying it again.”

Keith swallows, tightening his grip on Lance’s wrist. Greñudo. That nickname again, but it’s not malicious. Teasing. It’s the softest he’s ever heard Lance say it.

“What’s that mean? Grendo?”

“‘Grendo’ means nothing,” Lance replies, amused. “But Greñudo means disheveled. Messy. Slang for —” he tugs gently on the hair at the back of Keith’s neck — “mullet, like this travesty.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’.”

Keith slowly moves his hand up Lance’s arm, from his wrist to his elbow. He stops when Lance’s breath hitches, simply resting on the smooth skin, but continues on when Lance doesn’t stop him, slowly tracing the lean muscles and bony joints down Lance’s bicep, his shoulder, his side, settling at his waist. Lance’s hands have stilled, but remain on his cheek and neck, cradling his face.

“You channeling your Gomez, huh, Mullet?” Lance asks, but his voice isn’t it’s usual barbed wire, but soft; quiet and stuttering.

“I liked Starboy better,” Keith says quietly. All the burning pain has quietly slipped away from his body, leaving only a soft, tender glow behind, like the amber embers from the campfires he and Pa used to have on late nights.

It’s not scary. It’s — warm, even. Comforting.

“I bet you do.”

Keith says nothing. He stays right where he is, pressed to Lance in three different places, the coolness of Lance’s skin pulling the burning heat from Keith’s bones.

“Are you always this cold?” Keith asks. It’s not what he wants to say — what does he want to say? — but it’s what he can manage, standing so closely to Lance, the quiet scent of his floral shampoo pushing out the smell of smoke caught in Keith’s nose.

Lance hums. “You always feel like you’re running a fever?”

“Yes. Worse since I started piloting Red.”

“Guess I’ll have to help you cool down, then.”

“Guess so.” Unbidden, a smirk fights its way on Keith’s face. “That would make us a pretty good team, huh?”

It takes Lance a moment to react, but then he does, pulling away with a groan and a smack to the back of Keith’s head.

“There you go,” he admonishes, “bringing up fake bonding moments are ruining the real one we were having. Can’t let things go, huh?”

Keith shrugs, but the smile stays out on his face. “Can’t let your lying ass keep getting away with it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance says, rolling his eyes. He hesitates a moment, then darts forward and grabs Keith’s hand, yanking him towards the door as he power walks out of Red’s hangar. Keith stumbles after him.

“Let’s go,” Lance says, once Keith’s got his balance. He glances back at Keith, small smile showing the barest hint of teeth. “Starboy.”

502 notes · View notes

maironsbigboobs · 7 months

Text

re: elf servants

I think generally there are servants in royal/noble households simply for practical reasons and they generally fall into 2 categories: specialised servants (think, stewards and messengers and scribes, masters of horses or kennels, that kind of thing) and servants who help with the upkeep of the household (cleaning, repairs, cooking and also the apprentices and assistants of specialised servants)

specialised servants are probably quite prestigious roles and fields of industry in their own right, and they are considered full members of a household, and probably are closely linked to the person they serve - it's as much a political and social statement to be Finwe's chief scribe as it is an economic one

but the second category are more associated with the house than the family living in it - for example, Finwe's palace in Tirion would function both as a home and a diplomatic and administrative centre, it would be impossible for him to rule and keep up with chores himself. But Fingolfin's personal home would probably not have any full-time servants - when there more people than usual to feed or house then professionals might be hired, but for the most part I imagine the day to day is done by the family (made possible by the fact elves sleep and eat less than humans)

IRL domestic service (at least in the 18th century) often functioned as a kind of prep stage for adult life (for women in particular, but gender is probably not as big a factor for elves) and I could definitely see this in Valinor - domestic servants being 80% elves between 50-100 who haven't chosen an apprenticeship or similar in another field who are earning extra money to set up their own households, getting experience outside of the family, meeting others in their own ae cohort, learning independence etc. It's a job that comes with the offer of room and board + the wages a king/prince/lord can provide. Not glamorous, but not terrible.

The other 20% is made up of professional servants - experienced elves who are genuinely like the work and are contracted workers as much as a builder or gardener might be. Some of them might be independent and others part of businesses set up by other elves who are really into cooking/cleaning etc.

In Beleriand the situation (for the exiles at least) is probably very different, though I think there would be attempts to adapt the system - but there aren't as many households that need servants and there aren't as many young elves.

#i confess i very much enjoy making ocs who are bg characters and servants are perfect for this #made my own post because i could not fit this in the tags LMAO #also the amount of labour needed to run a pre industrial household is HUGE #but elves generally get around this by having a population that is 90% adult and having magic #and having the time for anyone to become vastly skilled in their field in a lifetime #so things like food and clothing production is almost always communal and in the hands of elves who are REALLY into that specific area #the magic being relevant here because elf magic preserves - elven clothes won't wear out elf food doesn't go off etc #(or at least not as easily as human food/clothes)#i prefer to write elf societies that only visually mirror human ones - to an outsider it looks like a hierarchy of lord and servants #but the dynamic is very different #but that is just my preference #silm meta #not really a meta i just need to be able to find this post on my blog lol #long post #this is one of my fave topics hence the rambling

120 notes · View notes

carbone14 · 6 days

Text

Célébration de la fête nationale du peuple allemand – Lustgarten – Berlin – 1er mai 1933

De gauche à droite : Otto Meissner, Franz von Papen, Werner von Blomberg, Adolf Hitler et Joseph Goebbels

©Bundesarchiv - Bild 102-14571

8 notes · View notes

transwhorefinn · 2 years

Text

can’t stop thinking about dr. condi

Look at him

He is so skrunkly

Also

I call him a doctor but does this man even have a degree

Is this man even a scientist, bro seems more like an engineer dabbling in science stuff (would explain him not following any kind of y’know safety laws and casually giving zombies cocaine, no self respecting doctor or bio major or whatever would do this)

#scu condi #scu #slimecicle cinematic universe #condifiction #he is just a little guy who also broke many child labour and endangerment laws and is trying to become god #oh yeah he can’t do basic math which tbf I’m taking pre calc trig and I still use my calculator to do basic addition

135 notes · View notes

wrenofwvnds · 1 year

Text

here’s my submission for paris paloma’s art competition!! i loved the arts and crafts movement vibes of the labour MV and had already started working on an illustration inspired by it so when she announced the competition, i jumped at the chance to work with her!! i’ve loved exploring paris’ discography for the past few weeks and i’m super excited to see her live in a few weeks! <3 anyways i love her visual aesthetic and her lyricism, such an inspiring artist and i can tell she has a true vision for her art and im excited to see whatever she does next!

#illustration #art on tumblr #fan art #paris paloma #labour #arts and crafts movement #pre raphaelite #wlw #actually autistic #digital art #mixed media #illustration on tumblr

29 notes · View notes

wild-at-mind · 3 months

Text

I don't know what the answer is to Westerners living in countries whose governments frustratingly and upsettingly do not seem to care about conflicts in poorer, less influential countries. I understand why people are frustrated. I even get why people go straight to 'we should overthrow the government' or whatever the revolution plan is supposed to be. But I also don't think it is some kind of character flaw or leftist purity test failture for people to (probably correctly) assume that this government overthrow or revolution will never happen, and therefore we should work within the systen and government that we have.

#i just want to say that when you are young and starting out activism there gets to be times when it really seems like #stuff is moving and there's a momentum building #but over the years you end up seeing many disappointments- you feel you put in so much hard work and it came to very little #i think that's why as people get older they become more realistic #going back to the 12 years hard labour podcast apparently there were several times pre-corbyn #where it seemed like there was about to be a massive leftist explosion in parliament due to the reaction and buzz #only for this to not be reflected in votes in the slightest #so a lot of people seeing the corbyn cult were like 'this won't go anywhere'#that's why the 2017 vote was notable because it was closer than anyone expected

2 notes · View notes

uncanny-tranny · 11 months

Note

happy transsexual thursday!!!! i'm at a nail salon getting my nails done. since starting my transition to male i've always kinda found it hard to be more feminine but the people at my local nail salon are super accepting and nice (and also don't mind that i'm mostly silent during appointments 😭)

I've felt the same way, not gonna lie! I was so nervous to wear heels to an event, but it was genuinely fine, like it was actually so relieving... I can only dream to go to a nail salon ong

#ask #anon #transsexual thursday #my old gay friend (somewhat relevant) wanted to go get his nails done and i was so envious of him for being brave enough to consider it #but tbf i was pre-transition and he was wanting to actually explore femininity in ways i wasn't ready to (re: pre-transition)#ugh if my job wasn't so labour-intensive i'd've done my nails so much more by now #like black nails are genuinely something i wish i could grow naturally 😭#ANYway!!!! i am so proud of you!!! i hope you love your nails!!!!!!#i hope you have NOTHING but good experiences <<3 #your femininity fucking RULES. your maleness is NOT cancelled out by it; your femininity actually enhances your maleness because it is YOURS

12 notes · View notes

coffee-mage-sans-caffeine · 1 year

Text

I got invited to talk to pre-kindergarteners

So they’re doing a Mr Rogers/Daniel Tiger themed unit on ‘helpers in our community’ and my neighbour asked if I could talk to the kids about my job (I’m a labour and delivery nurse). Guys, it was the CUTEST TALK OF MY LIFE! I gave them a quick rundown of ‘before babies get born, they live in an organ called the uterus that’s in a person’s belly. I help babies come out of the uterus and come out into the world where we can hold them and cuddle them.’ I tried to keep it basic, but not assume anyone’s family structure. I really only talked for about five minutes and then the teacher opened the floor to questions. The kids were shy, so the teacher asked if anyone had a baby at home. It went something like this: Teacher: Does anyone have any questions? Kid 1: I HAVE A QUESTION! I have a baby at home. Teacher: That’s wonderful! Does anyone else have any questions? Kid 2: OH YEAH? Well I have TWO babies at home! Teacher: Oh wow, are they twins? That’s really cool! Anyone else? Kid 3: Me! Me! I have! I have THREE BABIES!” Friends, we made it to TWELVE BABIES before the teacher decided that the competition of who had the most babies at home was over and sent me on my way. It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!

#talking to kids #labour and delivery #labour nurse #nurse #pre-k

8 notes · View notes

the-busy-ghost · 2 years

Text

Something comforting to think about today- there are lots of people in the world who hate, loathe, and despise my favourite books

That doesn’t sound like it should be comforting because of course at heart I want everyone to love them as much as I do. And it does annoy me when people hate books based on what I sincerely believe to be a complete misinterpretation of them (cough-cough, the recent “Wuthering Heights is just a silly problematic romance novel” issue). But if I’m being honest I also hate it just as much when people LOVE my favourite books based on a complete misinterpretation of them and for all the wrong reasons (”XXX did nothing wrong!”- what book were you reading???). And in either situation it isn’t really my business, though I reserve the right to be irritated.

But lots of people have valid criticisms of these books. Others simply didn’t vibe with the book on a given day and maybe never will- they don’t owe me or anyone else a reason. And I may not agree with them, but I do like it when I can completely understand why some people don’t like these books. For example, I think “Middlemarch” is one of the greatest novels I’ve ever read but for other people, it’s just not for them! They simply enjoy a very different kind of book, or they were disappointed that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, or they couldn’t understand the characters, or it just wasn’t the right time for that book to come into their lives, or it was just too damn long for them.

And firstly I find that comforting because it shows that we’re all different souls. We all have different tastes and experiences, and that means that our favourite books actually MEAN something to us, rather than just being a Generic Important Book That Everyone Likes. And often the reasons why one book is my favourite, are very different to the reasons that they are someone else’s favourite- the best books are multi-faceted after all. It’s a wonderful testament to the diversity of human experience and creativity (because in my opinion, there’s a great deal of the reader’s own imaginative ability goes into engaging with a book). So all that is required is for people to be open-minded and assume that when someone says they love a book, they have their own reasons, and these might not even be the reasons you think.

And secondly of course, is that if even the books that I think are the best thing to exist, a physical symbol of worldly greatness, aspiration embodied, don’t appeal to everyone- then the things I create in turn don’t need to either. If even the greatest authors have harsh critics who will simply NEVER like their work, why are we all worrying so much about the merest hint of rejection, in life as much as in art?

#I talk a good game of course rejection is still very painful for me #And note valid constructive criticism is a different thing from rejection but if people's books can survive completely dumbass rejection #Based on complete misreading of the situation I think I can survive someone not liking me #books #reading #booklr #Also constructive criticism of my favourite books is good because it means I get to go back think it over #Argue it through in my head; point out other passages of the book in defence of it #And STILL come out of it loving the book possibly even more because it's drawn my attention to things I didn't realise about it #And sometimes I can't answer them fully either and that's ok too #Sometimes I've had the same thought as a novel's detractors and they've drawn attention to it #For example I was wondering at the end of Wuthering Heights why Heathcliff bothered keeping Nellie around #Why didn't he just send her packing rather than continuing to employ her at Thrushcross Grange #And I have lots of ideas but none of them quite stick yet #One is that she's possibly an unreliable narrator so she may- against her better judgement- have helped him more than she likes to admit #Another is that he is labouring under the impression that he can control her and so keeps her around in case he needs to use her influence #A third is that he needs a witness- there's some element of performativity in his cruelty and SOMEONE needs to see him destroy things #But I also like the idea that the four of them are all siblings really #Nelly- though she has a mother and other family at home- spent much of her youth at Wuthering Heights #And describes herself as Hindley's foster sibling in the sense that her mother was his nurse (a powerful bond in the pre-modern era btw)#So really she's as much one of the Wuthering Heights Nest as the lot of them #Heathcliff doesn't have as much reason to despise her as Hindley nor does he have so much reason to love her as Cathy #But she's still a sibling of sorts and maybe Heathcliff- whether he recognises it or not- sense that she has a right to be there #He doesn't seem like someone who needs a family but then maybe he's not as in control of the Heights as he thinks he is #I really don't know yet I will have to reread it #But yeah I think Nelly is as much a part of that nest of trouble as the rest of them #I'm getting off topic though- but see what I mean about negative criticism being important and fascinating!#Ok so I keep finding my way back to Wuthering Heights a lot over the last few weeks but this applies to othe rbooks too #I had similar feelings about some of teh criticisms of Flemington #reading log

14 notes · View notes

konigsblog · 2 months

Note

König with sensitive balls save me... König with sensitive balls save me...

Seriously a scenario with reader touching, caressing or kissing könig's balls?🫠

sensitive balls... könig's sensitive balls...

although the feeling of you groping and squeezing his balls leaves him twitching, it also leaves his lengthy, fat cock throbbing in your hand...

i raise you a new idea i've just thought about on the spot: doctor-reader...

doctor-reader checking könig's balls, but könig takes it the wrong way, his dick beginning to harden in your grasp as he watches and feels your gloved hands roam around his ballsack. you'll have to ask him if he's alright, as he's sweating, his breathing laboured and heavy, and his cheeks flushed a pretty pink. he's absolutely humiliated when you notice the pearly droplet of pre on his head, avoiding eye contact, sucking in a deep breath as you hold his cock more firmly, ignoring the way it pulsates in your hand.

doctor-reader tries to stay professional, attempting to stay responsible and reliable as his doctor, but your cunt begins to clench around nothing at the sheer size of him... being his new doctor, already imagining his huge size.

könig will tell you he struggles getting off, just to coerce and try to get himself inside of you. how about you spread your legs, let him show you exactly what he means !! and your little cunt is spread out, folds wrapped around his thick cock, feeling him thrust against you and cumming deep inside your glistening, gummy walls. he's musky, sweaty and utterly ashamed, but he's unable to hide the grin on his face, telling you that perhaps your pussy cured him !!

there were no issues, he's just a filthy pervert... :(

#orla speaks #könig x you #könig x reader #könig call of duty #könig #konig x you #konig x reader #konig smut #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig #könig cod #könig mw2

1K notes · View notes

foli-vora · 1 year

Text

once again in your arms

joel miller x f!reader

A/N: mwahah, hello boys i’m baaack (10 points to whoever knows what movie that quote's from). took an unexpected break coz life, but i’m ready to get back on track. this was requested by a beautiful anon a while back (sorry for the wait angel), but i hope you enjoy! x

Request: hello! so this is kinda angsty: joel and the reader are married and have a baby (plus sarah, obviously). the day of the outbreak, reader and baby were in town and she couldnt call joel (or viceversa) cause the phone lines were down. they were separated for a few years until they arrives at the quarantine zone he's in, and he recognizes them in the crowd.

Word count: 4.5k-ish

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, birth and having a baby, domestic fluff, angst, pre and post outbreak, some spoilery things if you haven’t seen the show yet, heartbreak, loss of a child, apocalypse things, i sweat at the idea of caring for a baby during the end of the world, soft reunions, fluff, cameos of my fave oc’s made in a different series

It’s a fact you had learnt in the very early days of your relationship... the Miller men knew how to care for a lady. Whether it was Tommy sliding in to open the door for you before you could reach for the handle, or Joel draping you in blankets and taking on the responsibility of keeping your hot water bottle warm to fend off cramps for the evening, not a moment went by when you didn’t feel the constant reassurance of their care.

Especially now, fresh from the hospital and tender from your days of excruciating pain and an extensively long labour, Tommy quickly slaps the pillows into something plusher, hands gentle as they guide you down until you’re reclining into the armchair.

Joel keeps an eye on you from across the room, the brief wash of concern slipping away with the easy smile that grows along his lips when your eyes meet.

He rocks the wrapped bundle in his arms softly, a big hand dwarfing the small head that peaks from the blankets. His fingers brush through the light smattering of hair peeking out from the cotton burrito, his index running along the tiny peak of a nose and you feel your heart swell in your chest.

“Dad,” Sarah whines with an eager smile, shifting restlessly on the couch, “come on, I’ve been waiting all weekend.”

“Oh my god,” Joel drawls sarcastically, “all weekend? Baby girl, how are you survivin’ right now?”

“Shut up,” her grin widens, “give me my baby brother before I explode.”

“Well, we don’t want that mess all in the livin’ room,” Joel quips, stepping over your weekend bags tossed on the floor and closer to the couch, “ain’t treadin’ your brain all into the rug—thing was damn expensive.”

Sarah shrugs, readjusting her body to sit straighter and holding her arms out expectantly, “Least I have a brain.”

Tommy snorts in amusement, grinning at his brother's expense, “That’s true.”

“Are you still here?” Joel side eyes him, barely fighting the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

They bicker, throwing their little snippy sibling comments back and forth before Sarah clears her throat, her eyebrows rising in impatience.

“Alright, alright. Here, watch his head,” Joel instructs gently, a smile playing along his lips, “that’s it, baby, you got him.”

It’s a beautiful picture, Sarah carefully bringing the baby closer and tucking him carefully into her arms, and the sentiment is shared with Tommy as the flash and click of a camera goes off. He removes the polaroid sliding from the slot and sits it on the coffee table to develop before instructing Joel to slide in next to her and smile.

Both Joel and Sarah are oblivious to his instruction, lost in the bubble that has overcome them. You find peace watching them, warmth spreading along your limbs by the sweet tenderness of it all. The love is clear between the three of them cuddled on the couch, and it’s almost too much for your heart to bear.

Sarah beams down at her baby brother, cooing soft words and stroking a gentle finger down Matthew’s cheek. Joel throws an arm to rest on the top of the couch behind Sarah, turning into her and answering her questions quietly.

8 pounds, 3 ounces. Smaller than you. No, he didn’t cry at all—gave me and the docs a damn heart attack. She sure did a great job.

Your Joel was never a man to wear his heart on his sleeve, but the emotion shines from his eyes, bleeds through the lines in his face and it’s enough to bring tears building along your lash line.

“You okay over there?”

His familiar drawl brings your attention to him, and you smile at him, tired and fully at peace. It’s bliss, despite the ache of birth still hanging in your limbs. M

“I’m fine,” you respond quietly, lids heavy with exhaustion, “I’m just so happy.”

He fucking beams. His grin creases his cheeks and he nods softly.

“Me too, honey,” he mutters, turning his attention back to his children and playing with a strand of Sarah’s hair as he gazes down at Matthew, “me too.”

—

Four months later.

Chaos.

Matthew wails against your chest, the deafening sounds of screams, bullets, sirens and explosions setting him off into hysterics. Your arms tighten around him, keeping his face tucked closely into your throat so your scent could hopefully provide him some reassurance.

You crouch beside cars, you run until your legs ache. You take cover in stores, the soles of your shoes crunching over broken glass of the shattered windows. Every phone you try gives nothing but a dull tone. Radios are filled with static and emergency broadcasts play on the view screens you run past in your effort to escape whatever the hell is happening.

Worry stirs along the edges of your mind. Is Joel okay? Sarah? Tommy? You can’t call him, you can only run and hope nothing takes you down in your effort to get back to your car. You pass people crouched over others, blood smearing along their lips as they tear unforgivingly into the flesh of another.

It’s a nightmare, and it’s everywhere you look.

Almost there.

You see the sign of the parking lot and it only makes you run that much faster, even though your legs threaten to give out at any minute. You pass an elderly man crouching beside a woman, blood flowing from the open gash on her throat, and the ache clutching your heart only increases when his pleas reach your ears over the mayhem.

“Gloria,” he mutters in an aged rasp, “up you get, love. You’re alright, come on now—”

You can’t help it.

Somewhere in your mind you can feel Joel screaming at you to keep running, to get yourself to safety and not give a damn about anyone other than Matthew, but the image of this man cradling his wife’s wrinkled, bloodied hand is enough to get you advancing to him before anyone could hurt him.

“Sir—”

He ignores you, too busy with brushing the woman’s blood soaked white hair from her face.

“Sir, we have to move—”

You wrap your fingers around his shoulder and shake firmly. His head gives a shake of denial as he clutches his wife’s hand tighter.

“No… no, she’ll need help—she has a bad ankle.”

Shifting Matthew unsteadily onto your hip, your fingers wrap under his arm and tug him onto his feet. He fights you, bats your hold away with an infuriated expression at your rough handling of him.

“I’m so sorry, but she’s gone—we have to run. I—I have a car, please… just come with me, please!”

“I won’t leave her—”

“Please… they’re coming! I—would she want this for you? To die like this?”

He blinks, his frown softening ever so slightly before screams pierce the air, much closer than you anticipated, and terror claws up your throat until you feel you’ll vomit.

You hold out a hand, relieved when his own rough, calloused hand finally takes it, and then you’re running, albeit slower than before, but you make it to your car with no issues.

You dive into the driver's seat, passing Matthew over to the stranger when he makes an impatient gesture to hold him and then you’re tearing out of the lot, running down the few rabid looking beings that advance on you with bloodied expressions of hunger.

You don’t think you take a proper breath until you’re past a military barricade that had seemingly been destroyed in the attack, flying down the highway and around other panicked drivers with sweat slicking your skin.

Taking a deep breath to slow the brutal pounding of your heart, you look at Matthew, now calmed and looking up at the stranger with an obvious shine of curiosity. The old man is clearly softened by the baby, letting his small hand wrap around his finger and wiggling it playfully in his hold.

“That’s Matthew,” you mutter shakily, meeting the eyes of the elderly man before gazing back out the windscreen. You take another breath before giving your own name, tears biting at your eyes when you utter the name Miller.

Do you still have a husband? A step daughter? A brother in law? The unknown scares you, outright fucking terrifies you.

The man nods in your peripheral vision.

“Harold,” he finally says, voice rough and tired.

—

There are people everywhere, screaming, crying.

People run, shout, wail over family and friends.

Tears have long dried on his face, his head thumping relentlessly with the remnants of his heartbreak. Tommy’s grip is firm on him, tugging him out of the way of people tearing down in their direction, pulling him to where a makeshift table is thrust under a tent as a reception of sorts.

He doesn’t care about the people already there asking about their family and friends. He shoves them out of the way, hands shaking as they clutch the edge of the weak table.

“I’m lookin’ for a woman… she’d be with a baby boy, not even four months old—”

His voice shakes. He can’t get it to stop. He struggles to get out the detailed descriptions of you both down to the clothes you were wearing, speaking your names through trembling lips. His stomach jolts at the thought of you somewhere, lying helplessly on the floor with your flesh getting torn into while Matthew screams in his car seat.

He’s a damn baby. He wouldn’t know what’s happening, wouldn’t know why his mama’s not there with him—

The woman gives a small expression of sympathy over the thin surgical mask covering her mouth, “I’m sorry, sir. We’ve had no babies that young come through, and nothing like that has come in over the radios.”

He retches.

His body heaves, almost as if it’s rejecting the mere idea that you weren’t somewhere safe waiting for him. He had failed. Failed to keep Sarah safe, failed to keep Matthew safe, you—the vows he had made now meant shit. He hadn’t been there for better or worse. He’d hadn’t done what a father should have and kept his kids free from harm.

Sarah had died, terrified and in agony, in his hold. Her bloodied handprints remain dry and caked on his arms. Matthew had died, not even making it to six months. A baby, still fresh to the world, only just able to hold his own head up. You had died, not knowing where he and Sarah were, if they were even safe.

Tommy hauls him to a close trash can, rubbing a firm hand up and down his back as he chokes on vomit, tears soon streaming down his cheeks when his body eventually has nothing left to give. His heart hammers in his chest, thundering against his ribs and filling his ears until he’s unaware of the noises around him.

“They’re gone,” he whispers hoarsely, clutching at the rim of the trash can in an effort to keep himself up.

“Now we don’t know that—”

“God damn it, Tommy, you saw what it was like out there!”

Tommy sighs, his own eyes filling with tears. “We gotta keep hope, Joel—”

“Hope?” Joel spits at his brother, “What good is hope against that shit out there? She would’ve been alone, you know as well as I Matthew only would’ve slowed her down. They were in the city. We couldn’t even keep safe out here! They’re—they’re gone. My wife… my baby boy, my baby girl—”

The sobs tear from his chest, harsh and painful. He mourns for hours, unseeing of the flurried movement still happening around him, his sorrow mixing with the flood of agony filling the makeshift safe zone with every new unhurt civilian looking for someone familiar.

Tommy doesn’t take his arms away from around his brother until dawn starts to pierce the horizon,

—

Two years later.

He still fills your thoughts daily.

Your life, your old life, would flash behind your eyelids at night when sleep would finally claim you. You’d feel his touch, kiss his lips, touch his face. It all felt so normal. The dreams would be nothing but memories, and somehow, it made them feel more like nightmares.

Mornings making breakfast with Sarah, dancing to the music falling from the radio. Family game nights, watching Tommy and Joel get more and more competitive with each game. Grocery shopping with Joel, simply wandering down the aisles and relishing in his comforting touch warming your lower back.

You could never quite make peace with the possibility that he was dead. It didn’t sit right. The idea that your Joel had been lost to the disaster that had claimed the world just seemed impossible. Your heart rejected the notion, refused to accept that its counterpart wasn’t somewhere out there, living, breathing, surviving,

Sarah and Tommy, too.

They had to be somewhere, holed up safely and keeping well. They had to.

“They’ve established a quarantine zone close by,” you say quietly, mindful of Matthew sleeping on your lap, “it’ll be a lot safer there than out here. I think we should give it a go… find a more secure place to live. I’ve heard they have work available, good flow of food and medicine…”

Harry snorts quietly, shifting under his old, thick jacket, “That doesn’t mean they’re happy giving it out. There’ll be a catch somewhere.”

You eye the long carved frown in his features and lean forward to fix the blanket covering his tired legs, “Don’t you think we should try at least?”

“Maybe they’ll put a bullet in me,” Harry grumbles moodily, “I’m old—I can’t work like they’ll want me to. Although, it’ll beat living through this bloody nightmare any longer.”

“Harold,” you chide softly, heart aching at the thought of losing the grumpy old man after spending so long by his side.

He’d quickly become a grandfather figure of sorts, to both you and Matthew. The little boy was obsessed with him, and had been since the day you had come together, and though he tried to hide it behind his usual icy facade, Harry was smitten, weak from the boy learning to call him pa.

“He’ll be safer in there,” Harry finally grumbles, gazing at the sleeping toddler. “This is no life for him out here. It’s getting worse and worse. Stability will do him good.”

“And you’ll come with us?”

He sighs sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine—I’ll come. But if they don’t kill me, I’ll be bloody upset with you.”

You snort in amusement, a grin curling your lips. “Fair enough. Now drink your soup.”

“I’m not hungry. You have it.”

He shoves it away, pushing it in your direction, as he usually does. It’s a daily fight—him refusing food in favour of giving you and Matthew more, ensuring you both never went hungry despite his own hunger and rapid weight loss due to the sudden lack of food.

You give him a playful frown and hold the small cup out to him.

“Don’t make me force feed you, old man, drink it.”

—

The walls of the Quarantine Zone are a lot more daunting than you had originally thought they would be. They tower high, and the barely there movement of soldiers along the front and top of it have nerves start to build in the pit of your stomach.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Surely they wouldn’t shoot without asking questions? Would they even give you a chance? What happens to you if the zone is full? Would they let you go on your merry little way?

God, you feel sick.

The ice creeping along your skin doubles, and you tighten your grip on the baby carrier strapped to your chest. Matthew hums quietly against your back, his little fingers tracing random patterns along your shirt as he bounces with your each step. Harry walks somewhat steadily beside you, his cheeks reddening with the more distance you cover.

He gives you a reassuring nod when you look to him for guidance, and you continue forward, swallowing the lump building in your throat when you become aware of them yelling about your presence.

Their guns are raised when you eventually make it closer, and it’s automatic to throw your hands up in surrender.

“We’re not infected!” you shout, hoping they’d listen.

A soldier steps forward. “On the ground, now!”

“Shit. Okay! Please, I—we’re not infected—”

“Get. On. The. Ground!”

“I have a kid! I have a—please, we’re not—”

“Get the kid out.”

Panic flares to life in your chest. You fight the tremble in your fingers as they raise to the clip across your chest, winding a supportive hand around to your back to keep Matthew from falling out of the carrier as it loosens from your torso.

After a bit of shifting, Matthew stands on shaky legs, his eyes darting between you and the few soldiers with their weapons raised.

“It’s okay, baby,” you soothe softly, “we gotta do what the man says, okay? Can you do that for mama?”

You continue to lower until your front hits the rubble covered ground, and you motion for Matthew to do the same, heart breaking as he cowers in fear and falls to his knees before copying your posture and hiding his face against the road.

More voices fill your ears, the obvious presence of more soldiers swarming from the gate causing your pulse to skyrocket as Harry lowers on the other side of the small toddler.

“Check ‘em.”

“Everything’s fine,” you murmur, keeping your gaze on Matthew and smiling when he peeks at you from between his fingers, “we’re okay. Keep your eyes on me, baby. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

It stings.

You automatically flinch away from the device someone holds at your neck, freezing when more weapons are raised in your direction. The device gives a small beep and the soldier gives a loud clear, before moving for Matthew.

He cries out at the pain, his chest heaving with his growing sobs. The guns move in his direction and you’re flying towards him before you can even think, yelping when arms pull you away from your baby before you can console him. His screams worsen.

“Please,” you beg, “he’s just a baby—!”

The soldiers remain emotionless.

Another beep, another clear.

The fingers digging into your arms loosen and then you’re free, hurriedly crawling on all fours until Matthew’s in your arms, his tear stricken face pressing into your throat. You soothe him softly, murmuring how well he did and that he’s safe with you while the soldiers move their attention to Harry.

When the device gives a final clear, another soldier steps forward, a small smile stretching his lips.

“Sorry about that,” he says, stepping forward until he’s only a step away, “but we can’t be too careful.”

It’s surreal being around people again.

For the longest time, it’s just been you, Matthew and Harry. The people left after the event had turned cruel, desperate for any remaining resources and resulting to violence left, right and centre. It’d been sheer luck that you three had escaped some of the nastier characters you’d come across during your treks. Sure, you’d lost a few supplies every now and then, but you were thankful you all were still here at least.

The man leads you into an office of sorts, with rusted old chairs to sit on while he goes about ‘registering’ you. You’re surprised at the process of it all, confused when he says you’re in luck because after this morning, there are new rooms available. What does that mean? Had something happened to the occupants?

Your stomach turns, but you dare not dwell on it.

Safety for Matthew, that’s all that matters. That’s why you’re here.

It feels like hours before you’re stepping into the sun again, lead out onto a relatively normal looking street with written directions to your new accommodation. The door bangs loudly behind you, fully closing you from the horrors of the outside world, and you try not to focus on the looks of curiosity, borderline hostility, as you start to walk further into the QZ, the height of the wall casting a large shadow over your path.

There’s a main square of sorts, filled with small stations of people selling various items. Your stomach grumbles at the sight of shitty looking food, desperate to eat something other than the random old bits and pieces you’d find through your looting, but you’d have to begin work to even afford a single half burnt bread roll. The two ration cards you had received at your ‘registration’ wouldn’t make a dent in what you’d need to afford any of it.

You pass the sellers, sharing a sullen look with Harry as he too realises he wouldn’t have enough for any of it.

There’s crowds, and you try to keep to yourself as you move, but something catches your eye, as if your sight had been automatically pulled to that direction and you’re oblivious to the people bumping into your frame.

For a moment, you’re sure you’re dreaming.

Did they end up shooting you at the gate? This couldn’t be real, couldn’t be unfolding right before your very eyes. You feel alive. You feel your pulse, your breath. You feel Matthew shift in the carrier, you hear Harry making comments about the people and the surrounding buildings.

You can’t look away.

You’re pulled in his direction, certain with every bone in your body that it’s him. It’s him.

The man turns, and his eyes are meeting yours through the crowds before you can even brace for it, and you see the moment it hits him.

He freezes, his eyes unblinking as if they don’t want to risk losing the hallucination his mind had conjured. He steps forward, and again, and again, slow in his movements, cautious.

“Joel?” You breathe, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear you over the bustle of your surroundings and the distance between you, but he must see your lips mould his name because then he’s running, ducking through the people and heading straight your way.

You start to jog, careful not to disturb the carrier holding Matthew too much, and then he’s there. He’s there and he’s real and he’s saying your name so sweetly, a broken rasp of disbelief and a tremble taking over his hands as they raise to cup your cheeks.

You sob at his touch.

The tears flow from your eyes and you grasp at whatever you can on him, your fingers tightening around the jacket hanging from his frame as you attempt to pour two years of loss into your embrace. He cradles the back of your head, keeps your face pressed tightly against the dirtied skin of his throat as he mutters brokenly about how he thought you were dead and that he’d missed you so damn much.

“Oh baby boy,” he rumbles, noticing the baby carrier and the toddler within it with tears filling his lash line, “look at you.”

You hurriedly unclip the harness and sweep Matthew out of it, bringing him into the middle of your embrace. Joel runs a hand along Matthew’s cheek before sweeping down and kissing him on the forehead, his tears dropping over the toddler’s cheeks in obvious relief and utter joy.

“How—”

You shake your head, nuzzling into the rough hand holding your cheek. “Later. We’ll talk later about everything, I just—god, I’ve missed you so fucking much, Joel.”

His head lowers until his forehead is pressed against yours, and his eyes flutter closed. You feel it in the simple gesture, how much he had missed you, mourned for you. He gives a small nod, followed by a quiet okay, before another presence suddenly makes themselves known.

Your body jolts with the weight hitting your side, and you jump in fright before your eyes come across a slightly skinny looking Australian Shepherd desperate for attention.

His tongue lolls from his mouth as he attempts to lap at your cheek, and you chuckle through your stream of steady flowing tears at the cheerful dog.

“Chip,” Joel grunts in slight annoyance, shoving the fluffy beast away from where he tries to jump and sniff at Matthew’s cheeks, “down—down, boy!”

“You have a dog?” You ask in curiosity, reaching out to pet the animal. Your smile widens when he eagerly nuzzles into your touch with an excited whine.

“He was wanderin’ the QZ when I came in,” Joel replies, one of his hands leaving your waist to deliver a rough rub to the dogs head, “followed me home one night and hasn’t stopped botherin’ me since. Tommy said he’d be good for me.”

“Tommy’s here? And Sarah?” You perk immediately in excitement, your eyes flying past his shoulder to look for his brother and the other part of your heart that’s been missing for years. “I’m so glad they’re alright, where are they?”

You don’t notice how considerably quiet he’s gone until you look at him. He’s defeated, guarded, his dark eyes drawn to the floor. He can’t look at you. Why can’t he look at you? What’s happened?

“Joel?”

“Sarah… she—she—”

He struggles to finish the sentence, the words stick uncomfortably on his tongue. His features twist in clear anguish and you feel the world around you shatter. Sarah, she… she’s gone? When? How?

Your heart sinks, weak and broken by the unexpected news. Your mind struggles to wrap itself around the notion that you’d never see her again, that the last time you saw her was truly the last.

Regret begins to build in the pit of your stomach. That last day… you should’ve hugged her tighter, kissed her forehead, told her how much she meant to you and how lucky you were to be in her life—

The tears begin again.

“Oh Joel, I-I’m so sorry,”

You both share the heartache, wrapped in each other's arms and breathing in the other. His tight hold doesn’t loosen for a second, and you attempt to put every ounce of energy in your tired body into returning it.

The world stands still, just like it did that cursed day.

How can you be so elated that he’s here, and yet be filled with so much pain at the same time? How long has he been lost, no doubt blaming himself for his baby girl not making it to where he is now? You mourn her, mourn him for being lost, stuck on a path of despair and believing he had lost everything for so long.

What had become of him? What had the pain done to him? Surely it would’ve been pure torture for the man who practically breathed family.

Harry can wait. Introductions can wait. Food, drink, sleep—you care for none of it. Not now. All that matters is that Joel is here, truly here in the flesh, wrapped in your arms and holding the child he hasn’t seen for two years. All that matters is that you had found one another in the violent hellscape the world had become.

Peace, but that tranquillity will forever be tainted by loss, a void hanging in the midst of relief, never to be filled again.

tag list 1: @maievdenoir, @javier-pena, @lv7867, @dihra-vesa, @katronautt, @radiowallet, @januarystears, @missminkylove, @beskarprincessjenny, @mswarriorbabe80, @danidrabbles, @sergeantbannerbarnes, @amneris21, @eri16, @absurdthirst, @hnt-escape, @acourtofsnakes, @ezrasbirdie, @mstgsmy66, @lovesbiggerthanpride, @coaaster, @sherala007, @kelseyxyeslek, @greeneyedblondie44, @wyn-n-tonic, @you-got-me-starry-eyed, @shirks-all-responsibilities, @withasideofmeg, @harriedandharassed, @andruxx, @buckybarneshairpullingkink, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @prostitute-robot-from-the-future, @tanzthompson, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @hope-for-the-best-98, @fangirl-316, @christina-loves, @jediknight122, @hallway5, @xoxabs88xox, @nicolethered, @churchill356, @massivecolorspygiant, @just-here-for-the-moment, @gracie7209, @pinkie289, @lavenderluna10, @goodgriefitsawildworld,

tags that have continuously not worked will be deleted from my taglist soon x

#joel miller x reader #joel miller f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x wife!reader #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader

8K notes · View notes

kyunzin · 3 days

Text

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞

✰ characters ✰ 𝐇. 𝐇𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢, 𝐅.𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢, 𝐊. 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐮

✰ summary ✰ you miss them and ask for a video

✰tags/warnings✰ (most of this is only mentioned), nsfw, higuruma {breeding kink, degradation, blowjob, dumbification}, toji {public masturbation, degradation, breeding kink, riding}, shiu {cockwarming, praise, edging, cum stuffing, orgasm denial}

𝐇. 𝐇𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢

✰ doesn’t put much effort into it but gives you what you want anyway

“this what you wanted?”

the phone is angled up towards him as he languidly strokes his cock till its standing up with a little bit of pre coming out of the tip, looking down at the camera with a bored stare. he knew that you weren’t going to last long without him but he didn’t expect it this soon.

“I haven’t even been gone a few days and you already miss me or is it my cock that you miss?”

he continues with the same slow pace never looking away from the camera as pleasure builds up. he hast had to use his hands in a while due to you always being readily accessible. he’d become accustomed to being in your presence for too long forgetting what it’s like to not be able to fuck you.

“wish this was you instead of my hand. know you’d suck it like the good slut that you are right?”

the vision of you on your knees before him has his head dropping back as he lets out a low groan of frustration , knowing that heel have to wait a bit longer before he can feel you choking around his cock again.

“cant wait to get back home and fuck you stupid till you can only remember how to scream my name”

his volume soon picks up as he tightens his hold around his cock, letting a string curses leave his lips. it’s not long before he’s spilling into his hand painting his hand and stomach in his seed.

“what a waste, this should have been stuffed deep inside your sloppy cunt”

𝐅. 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢

✰ he slips inside a bathroom stall while he’s in public.

“look at what you have me doing, just to please you “

he stationed his phone on top of the toilet seat, giving you nearly a full view of his body, while he leans against the stall door. his pants are pooled around his ankles while his hard cock hangs above his briefs.

“know you’d fuck- ride me like a pro if I was sat on the seat”

he leans his head back against the door of the stall eyes closing, circling the tip of his dripping cock with his thumb as he most likely envisions the two of you in that position. he enjoyed letting you do most of the work and he found that that was the best way to hear it, letting you bounce on his cock relentlessly.

“bet you’d let me fuck you right here in this dirty stall like a cheap whore”

pulling up his tight shirt, letting his nipple piercings free as he uses his other free hand to tweak one like you would usually do. it also serves as a way to muffle his moans even though his heavy breathing would be enough to alert anyone who was paying close attention.

“really miss your tight little cunt wrapped around me”

the hand that was previously pinching his nipple now fondles his balls whilst he begins to furiously jerk his his cock letting the slick sounds resonate through the small space. he soon doubles over spilling his cum into his hand and letting some drop to the floor.

“look how much cum could have been kept inside you if only you’d been patient and waited until I got home”

𝐊. 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐮

✰ plans to punish you for being impatient

"cant even go a couple of days without me can you?"

all that's visible in the video is his face but from is laboured breaths and flushed cheeks you can tell what's going on behind the camera. even though he teases you for being desperate he feels unsatisfied without you, knowing that it would be better if you were there for him to fuck.

"these meetings are so boring. you should be here to keep me warm, kneeling under my desk, keeping me all the way down your throat. know would swallow it all like a good girl"

you can hear the slick noises of him jerking his cock in the background, the slick noises of is hand sliding up and down his thick cock that you used to struggle to take all the way, but after sitting on is cock for a long time it was if your pussy remembered the shape of his cock.

"you wanna see what you're missing out on baby?"

the camera flips and you can see is spit soaked cock, an angry shade of red at the tip nearly overflowing with pre cum. his whole and stokes up and down in slow fluid motions, in his tight grip you can see the thick veins running up the side.

"i've stopped myself from cumming so many times now. when i get back i'm gonna fuck you full and you're not allowed to cum, since all you need is my cum to be satisfied. right?"

his pace intensifies but is grip loosens as is groan starts to pick up in volume and you can hear a few curses leave his lips when he sporadically squeezes his cock. then he suddenly lets go watching as small beads of cum drip from the tip

"when i get home you better be ready for me to fill you with this, I've stored up so much for you baby"

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍

#✰𝐊𝐘𝐔𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒✰#jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #toji smut #jjk toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #higuruma smut #higuruma hiromi #jjk higuruma #higuruma x reader #shiu kong #shiu smut #shiu x reader #shiu jjk

562 notes · View notes

multidecorindia · 2 years

Text

MDIPL offers complete turnkey solutions for office containers or you can say prefab site office cabins under one roof starting from designing, fabrication, production, and tile installation with electrical & plumbing work all complete in Pan India. Prefab site office cabins or office containers are generally placed near construction sites to facilitate the site managers and workforce with space for planning to strategize and to provide them storage for site documentation. Portable office containers are often known as ‘site huts’ even if they are large and well fitted out. It is our prime responsibility that site offices are congenial, appealing, and multifaceted as well as being suitably robust and secure. These prefab site offices are precisely tested under the supervision of our quality controllers. - Various wall cladding options include PUF panels, EPS panels, and Rockwool. - It is possible to build walls of different heights based on specifications. - Lightweight panels make transportation simple. - Glass partitions can be installed to increase aesthetic appeal. - Smoke detectors, firefighting equipment, and air conditioners can be installed in these mobile offices to provide a comfortable and snug working environment. For more information - https://multidecor.in/prefabricated-site-offices/

0 notes

Last Seen Blogs

arabichennadesigns

Arabic henna designs 0522531900

radruby

all my somethings

fourkillers

where do you go at night?

starrbirrd

"Bite me."

dogrom

Dogrom