#✽ (queue) — keep calm and queue on

[bonefall]

it is healing to come onto this blog and see basic respect for diasbility after being in other corners of the fandom and reading the words “snowkit could never be a warrior because he wouldnt know what anything is. he wouldnt even know what a clan is because nobody could explain it to him” said in full seriousness

Im..... That statement is so ableist I cannot even imagine the worldview you'd need to have in order to come up with that.

They really think the only way anyone learns anything is through verbal-speaking-words-noises? No one has ever observed something before? Not even once?

This is beyond touching grass, this person just fell out of the fucking Jurassic Period when all they had was ferns and stegosaurs.

I just...

OH YES. I remember my first day of Society Lessons as a hearing person, where the everything was explained to me. Via Audiobook. FIRST they spoke and said, "you are standing on the ground." It was a life changing revelation, and the world began to spin.

But it did not stop.

THEN they said, "there are fingers on your hands." The sensation of flesh and bone crackling into existence is indescribable, but I did not yet know pain, until they told me, "that hurts." I began screaming immediately.

And yet... it continued.

They explained so much. Chairs. Tables. Walls. The sky. Frogs. Ionizing radiation. Breathing. I was told all of it, in one sitting, and only then did I understand. Only when my ears were bursting with normal hearing knowledges, did they begin... my final test.

A strange wall-chair-finger emerged from the sky-of-the-wall, stood on the ground several times, until it was in front of me. A second one came behind it, this one slimmer. The audiobook gave these things names;

Human. Father. Mother. Door. Walking. It was completely impossible to know what these things were until that very moment.

I watch a human dip a hook into water and produce a fish, and I recall my Society Lessons where they called that "fishing." I am decked in the face by a nefarious hooligan, and I have only the audiobook to thank when I know I have been "punched" by a "bad guy." It was only the magic of verbal-speaking-words-noise that made me understand that there are "other people" and that they "do stuff."

Sometimes, even, in "groups."

Before the Society Lessons Audiobook, I knew nothing. I was pure, innocent, uncorrupted by concepts such as "parents" and "door." I am grateful every day that there is no such concept as "being shown things" or "simple logical reasoning" or "looking."

Blessed be those amongst us who escape the horrors of the Society Lessons Audiobook. I pray that you never learn what anything is. Be free! Free as a bird, which also knows nothing and famously cannot learn. 🤗

DEAF/HOH FOLLOWERS I'm losing my mind do you want me to bump a 'Hearing Disabilities Herb Guide' to the top of my priorities? Something you can use to bludgeon whackadoodles like that. This is ridiculous

Obviously not a MEDICINE guide but like; common causes of hearing disability in clan cats. Accommodations for hearing loss vs congenital deafness. Actual difficulties of not having that sense Clan-by-Clan. Debunking of misconceptions like... not being able to learn APPARENTLY.

[quirkedupkicks]

preview of my latest comic ... ive been reading too many 3rd year tddk fanfics lately -////-

[daily-hanamura]

[cottoncandywhispers]

[soaps-mohawk]

I’ve been reading the latest anons and with how you’re responding I’ve been feeling like these last few chapters and possibly one or two more are all just a calm before the storm. I’m not ready for angst but I can’t wait for it😭😭

(I need someone to find those cameras 🫣)

...yeah pretty much 🤭 we're very close to some angst (which I know a lot of people have been begging for, but be careful what you wish for...)

[backtonormallife]

[fantasywritten]

@iworryalotdarling (continued from here)

“OH, DO I?” As much as Rio hated to admit it, he didn’t mind her teasing — in fact, he liked it. The little smile she’d get on her face, the cocky tone… she was even cuter when she was being sassy. “A’right, I’ll tone it down. We don’t gotta kiss if ya don’t want to.” His expression was a cocky smirk; he was teasing her right back.

[deathfavor]

@yeonban said: "if there is another version of this story …" Quietly, Aijiro whispers towards his fellow black dog, but doesn't elaborate any further. That's enough for Seiroku to catch onto the general gist of it, that is - to realize that Aijiro has doubts about his latest infiltration mission and the real fruits of the other's labor as a spy. Still, he's kept it to a low enough tone for only Seiroku to hear, so it seems that he doesn't plan on giving it away to anyone else. Why, then, did he go out of his way to mention it to Seiroku?

   Seiroku turns his head towards Aijiro just a fraction, an amount so small that anyone other than the two of them would not even perceive the change. His stomach sinks at the words even when his face remains carefully neutral. He'd been able to withhold the infernal rage that had burned and clawed and raged in his chest at the beginning of his infiltration mission with the Date. Compared to that, masquerade his dread behind his calm expression was a walk in the park. There's also the questions that come to mind that help take the weight off of the feeling. Why wasn't Aijiro saying anything? If he suspected something was amiss, why was he not reporting it? Why did he not finish what he had to say? 

   " IF — " He gives a pause after the word, as if to draw emphasis to the absurdity of the idea " — there is a different version of the story, it doesn't matter. "  Seiroku continues, his voice equally quiet to match Aijiro's while his blue eyes turn from Aijiro to stare ahead. His voice doesn't waver. It doesn't tremble or falter. Because that is the truth.

It doesn't matter. Because death will come all the same. There is no other outcome to this. There will be no fairytale ending. Seiroku had learned that long ago even beforge he became a vessel of hatred. Now and again thoug it seemed like Life took a particular delight in reminding him of such lessons. He will never have a happy ending.

" What's the point in concerning oneself over versions of stories? The ending will be the same. " Seiroku shrugs his shoulders, watching some of the other's delight at the fruits of their labor starting to grow nearer to harvesting. Imari especially seems thrilled. " All the bushi will die and the black kishin will continue to thrive. "

And everyone can play pretend in their rooms. It's a surprisingly bitter, disgusted thought that he doesn't give voice to. He can't fool himself, he hasn't been able to since the day he stepped foot into his room. It's all so fake and tailored that it makes his skin crawl. How the others can enjoy it, he doesn't know. He doesn't want it.

Seiroku turns his gaze back towards Aijiro with a thin smile. " Maaaybe I lied about not getting drunk. They had good sake, it'd be a crime not to enjoy it. " Seiroku gestures with his palms facing upwards, as if in appeasement to the small fabrication. Aijiro isn't stupid, Seiroku knows as much. He's also not as easy to redirect. But he also isn't trying to turn this into a mauling or make a scene of whatever he might suspect - so Seiroku can only offer reassurance. " The outcome won't change, Aijiro. "

It wouldn't even if Seiroku wanted it to. The gods have never heeded his pleas and life never cared for his wants.  

[lesbiananteater]

I have discovered The Queue.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

My sister rang me today.

Ever since she was six, she's had pain in her legs, which turns into pain in her hips and back for stretches of time. She's tried for years to get a diagnosis, with absolutely no joy. As a kid they thought she had collapsed arches in her feet; then it became clear her feet were fine, but something was wrong with her tendons; and then in her 20s they just shrugged it off with a "We'll never know probably" and that was that. She keeps on top of it with daily yoga, generally, though flare ups happen periodically. If she has to pause the yoga for some reason, she fairly rapidly regresses. Currently she has plantar fascitis again, which has halted everything once more, so right now she's back into a pain slump.

Anyway, she called me today while going from Doctors to pharmacy to get the codeine they've prescribed her for it.

"I think one of my yoga moves to help the fascitis might have exacerbated the legs," she said. "Trouble is, there's never been a diagnosis. I just have to trial and error what might help."

... And I had one of those lightbulb moments, you know? My brain suddenly went "Wait hang on, this is very familiar isn't it?" and rang the bells of memory.

"Did they ever test you for fibromyalgia?" I said.

They had not. It's never been suggested, even. My sister said she'd look up the symptoms and see if it chimed, and rang off.

Fifteen minutes later, she calls back.

Turns out she got to the pharmacy and gave them the prescription. While waiting, she googled fibromyalgia symptoms and found the NHS website.

"It was like someone had written a profile of me," she tells me on the phone. "Like, spookily, scarily accurate to me, right down to the temperature regulation bit. It felt like a practical joke."

And of course, as she stood there in the pharmacy, suddenly staring at the age of forty at the apparent answer she's been trying to get since she was six years old, she burst into tears.

"Oh no!" Said the pharmacist, hurdling the counter in a single leap and scattering the queue (I am exaggerating for humorous affectation.) "Quickly! Come into our little exam room, we'll get you tissues and water!"

My sister was duly ensconced into a Safe Place, and encouraged to cry it out. It took several hiccuping minutes, but finally, she managed to calm down and get back to an Extremely Watery Smile.

"Do you want to talk about it?" the pharmacist asked sympathetically.

"It's just..." my sister said, overwhelmed and searching for words. "My whole life I've been in pain, and they've never found why..."

"Ah," said the pharmacist thoughtfully. "Have you explored fibromyalgia?"

...

"TWICE IN ONE DAY," my sister yells on the phone to me later. "HOW THE HELL HAVE TWO SEPARATE PEOPLE ON THE SAME DAY FINALLY GIVEN ME THE ANSWER, AND NEITHER OF YOU IS A DOCTOR"

Anyway she has a doctor's appointment for tomorrow to discuss it, so we'll see

[daily-hanamura]

[gutsby]

Just Peachy

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel’s got a jealous streak and a bold idea.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-a. Loss of anal virginity. Possessiveness. Semi-public sex. Cumplay. Spit as lube.

Word count: 3.2k

Joel was too old to get jealous.

Long before he ever reached fifty-one, the man had known who he was and what was his—and you were it.

He got a refresher each time he split you open and watched your soft, pliant hole form an even wider ‘o’ around his shaft, moans as profuse as the moisture leaking out of you. He took comfort in that. It wasn’t often he required a reminder with such immediacy as he’d needed it tonight: thrusting you headfirst into the bathroom at the Tipsy Bison with your hands pinned clumsily behind your back. You’d laughed when he did it.

“What’s up with you?” you’d murmured, eyes alight with amusement as you watched Joel yank his belt in two.

You would’ve liked to admire the shelf of hefty, salt-and-pepper speckled belly that was left on display by the loosening of the leather, the tugging of fabric away from his heated lower parts, but the moment was so fleeting. Joel hadn’t even bothered to respond before he was smoothing your dress over your hips, drawing in, and—

“Shit!”

You seized either side of the sink and let out a yelp loud enough to stir half the bar. Joel just grunted. Approving.

“‘Atta girl,” he said, burying himself inside your cunt.

Quick fucks were never Joel Miller’s métier, it was true. He much preferred the drawn-out bouts of lovemaking that had your knees and brains in a puddle of mush by the end of it. But now there was a will behind the weight of his thrusts, a calm and calculated fervor that sent each snap of his hips moving faster against your own. You knew there had to be a reason for such an outburst, feeling his hands singe your hips in a bruising grip, so you weren’t surprised in the slightest when you heard:

“That loser ever fuck you like this?”

You made an effort to meet Joel’s gaze in the mirror, but it was hard to keep it straight when his cock was sawing back and forth between your walls at a breakneck pace.

“W-W— Who?” you stammered, teeth gritting at the last.

“Dipshit in the Sigma Chi polo,” Joel returned gruffly.

You were in awe the man had seen you two at all, much less read the Greek letters and knew what they meant. You’d spent all of five minutes chatting it up with an ex whilst deliberating which Creed song to queue up on TouchTunes. There was no way he could’ve known.

Unless, of course…

“Tommy tell ya?” you said in a breath, grimace slowly morphing to a smirk as you clenched and held the sink.

Joel groaned but didn’t slow. He didn’t like that look. Perhaps by chance—but more likely on purpose—he drove his hips all the way in until the head of his cock kissed your cervix. Your nose almost hit the mirror.

“Fucker!” you hissed.

“Right?” Joel said, pretending to commiserate. Then, fighting back a grin as your own smile began to give way to a whimper, “Dude looked like a real fucker, for sure. Just hoped he never got the chance to do it to you.”

So that’s what this was all about—stated plain as day.

Joel was surprised he’d said it himself, but with the way your wet, messy cunt was pulling him in, he had to know.

It drove him insane to think one drop of that nectar had been meant for anyone else but him. He was, of course, too old to be concerned with anything resembling jealousy, but then again, you were you. And you were his. And, mature as your Joel tried to be, the thought of that shit-brained chump ramming his dick in and out of the softest, sweetest depths of your body had him contemplating violent crimes of every flavor.

“Did he?” Joel pressed again, a bit more stern this time.

You felt a hand thread through your hair to hold your face upright in front of the mirror. You stared and saw your mouth hanging slightly ajar, saliva pooling at the sides and threatening to spill with every stab of Joel’s cock.

You were surprised you could even speak at all when that cockdrunk pout made a low, slurred, ‘Di-id he what?’

“Did he fuck you here?”

Here? Like in the bar bathroom?

As if reading your mind and seeing you start to shake your head no, Joel stilled your motions with his hand and used the other for more leverage as he continued to drill.

“No, no, darlin’. I mean— he ever fuck this pretty hole?” And, as if to punctuate his question, Joel plunged his dick so far inside you that your face did tap the mirror; nowhere near hard enough to hurt, but enough to get your attention. And smear your lipgloss on the glass.

You reeled back and moaned. Felt a pit in your tummy.

Why drag it out? By the look in his eye, he already knew. You wouldn’t be sharing any earth-shattering secret now.

“Yes. Yes, I—” You sucked in a breath when you felt that pit become a pinch and in turn, cause your toes to curl, “—he fucked me.”

“Once? Twice?”

“Three t-times.”

To your surprise, you saw the corners of his lips twitch into a smile. Like he was pleased by what he’d heard.

“Oh yeah?” Joel hummed.

You whimpered in the affirmative and tried to nod, but it was hard to do with his fingers still tangled in your hair. Your walls involuntarily clenched around his cock, and you could’ve sworn you felt an influx of warmth follow after. If ‘apologetic cumslut’ had been the goal, you weren’t quite sure you were succeeding at anything but being the latter part. Joel seemed to notice as much.

“Did he cum inside and make a mess’a her, too?” he asked, teasing now as he took his thumb and started rubbing the slick flesh that was being stretched and stuffed full of his fat cock. His pace was slowing by turns.

Normally you could not stand the thought of a man policing your sexual history, but with Joel, it felt different. Like he wasn’t really making fun at all but simply poking and prodding around for the truth so he could get to someplace else. Still thumbing, gently.

“You let him fuck this cunt and stuff her full, pretty girl?”

You had no choice but to nod. His hips had lost nearly all their speed and were now making slow, shallow thrusts.

“Yes,” you whimpered, “I— I—”

—didn’t even know you then. Didn’t like the guy at all. Didn’t enjoy having him cum inside a fraction of the—

“I know, baby,” Joel interrupted you, still rubbing the rim of your cunt with feather-light touches, “‘S’okay, I know.”

You wanted to keen at how affectionate, warm, and soft he could be—amazed by the way he’d made that switch—when the force of Joel’s thrusts halted altogether. He leaned over your body to press a kiss to the side of your head, holding your gaze in the mirror. Grey stubble licked at your temple as his cock nestled deeper inside you, and the weight of his soft and muscled stomach pressed in.

His thumb moved too.

Sliding up to the taut ring of muscles above your full, aching pussy, Joel drew a slow ‘o’ and kissed you again.

“He ever fuck you here?” he asked.

Something fluttered in your stomach, and it sure as fuck wasn’t just butterflies. You stared at the man in disbelief.

You’d just begun to shake your head no when the tip of his thumb grazed the rim of your hole and sank inward. You choked on a gasp when you felt your ass pucker, and shit did Joel Miller look smug as he’d ever been when those too-tight-for-you muscles gave in and sucked in.

“What the— ah,” you hissed, slamming your palm flat on the mirror. You couldn’t see a thing besides Joel’s elbow jutting out, tanned bicep flexing with his ministrations, but you could feel his thumb swirl gently again. Inside.

“Anybody touch you here before, honey?” Joel said.

“Nuh-uh.”

Admittedly, you were a little unnerved, on the verge of being opposed to what this man was doing, when you felt the muscles snap back—Joel retracted his thumb—and two other digits hovered along the vulnerable spot. Just by chance, you caught a glimpse of what looked like Joel about to blow a kiss or whistle, and suddenly you sensed a wet glob of warmth on the small of your back.

Then sliding, gliding down to your crack and between your two cheeks with an obscene heat you would’ve never thought possible: Joel’s spit ran down to his hand, and his index and middle fingers started rubbing it in. Circling the hole and smearing it more for good measure, Joel grinned and placed a kiss atop your shoulder blade.

“Tell me it’s mine to fuck,” he mumbled.

“Joel—” you started.

A trail of kisses led up to the nape of your neck as the fingers pushed deeper. Joel’s touch was soft both ways.

“Only mine,” he tried again, and the request was implicit.

You clenched around his fingers and his cock, feeling the former slide back and forth with near-astonishing ease. You would be lying if you said the sensation, paired with the blunt, wily lilt to his words didn’t make your legs much weaker than they were before. No, it wasn’t just the matter of it being a first for you but a first and only for you both—Joel claiming a space where no man had ever fucked you and making it his own, filling you whole.

Joel spit again, and you hated that you’d come to crave the sound, but the obscene squelch of his saliva mixing in with your arousal as he worked his fingers in and out of your ass was like music to your ears. You whimpered and found yourself nodding quickly, half-embarrassed, saying it’s yours Joel, all of this is yours to fuck and fill.

You never had been one to tell the man no. Whether it was his head between your legs at the most inopportune of times, a blowjob behind the bar, or a lightning-fast quickie in the drive thru line, you were always down. And Joel was wholly enamored with the idea he could have you anywhere he liked—now in any hole he wanted, too. You could see the fuckdrunk look in his eyes as his digits pushed in and his cock dragged out of your cunt, leaving you empty in one and getting spread for him in the other.

Joel’s lips were glistening with spit and the world’s biggest grin as he caught your eye in the mirror. Then he leaned in closer, pressed a kiss to your temple again, and kept his mouth beside your ear as he whispered:

“I’ll be gentle, honey, I promise.”

You were each a trembling mess of hormones, lust, and bottom-shelf spirits, and you definitely shouldn’t have been trying anal for the very first time in Tommy’s bar. But your pussy and ass were drenched, Joel’s fingers had pulled out and made way for just the tip of his cock to notch into that space between your cheeks, and both your minds were delirious with the idea of doing a thing so taboo and new. Full primal desire took over, and before you could think twice about what it was you were doing, Joel was squeezing your hips and pushing in.

What felt like a full fucking thrust of him was really just an inch. Your hand clawed at the towel rack on the wall and seized the bar tight as a burn shortly, swiftly took root between your legs and forced a whimper from your throat. Joel swallowed a groan and kissed your neck.

“Need it slower?” he said as soon as he saw you wince.

Stinging and stretched as you were with just the tip, the filthy urge to have him further inside was too great. Against your body’s best interest and the ache in your core, you wiggled your hips and nudged more of him in.

Joel’s kiss turned to teeth in your skin, and he cursed.

“Fuck that’s so tight,” he said, words more like a growl, “Suckin’ me in so good, baby.”

You beamed with the most sick and lascivious sense of pride and pushed your ass back again. You heard the squelch, felt the reflexive pulse of your muscles struggle to take more in, but the burn that followed this time was eclipsed by the pleasure you felt in seeing Joel’s face.

Feeling him grip you tighter, watching that expression move from bliss to guilt to ‘Sweet pea, you sure it’s OK?’ to bliss once again when you braced your weight against the sink and started moving your ass gently in time with your breaths. Then that tender brown gaze fell to the space between your body and his, and Joel just watched you fuck him, groaning each time your hole stretched.

There wasn’t a thought in his mind that wasn’t obscene. Practically monopolized by primal need, Joel Miller saw his cock glide back and forth inside you and seemed to be capable of conjuring no other thought than ‘mine.’

‘This sweet little peach is all for me, ain’t it, baby?’ Words as soft as velvet came tumbling off his lips, and he scarcely even knew he was talking, or grinning, or doing much of anything but fucking you and loving every second. The fingers of his left hand kneaded your hip while the ones on his right moved over your front. Thick, callused, and quickly soaked in your arousal, his middle finger made an easy trail to your clit and started rubbing.

You clamped your teeth tight in an effort to contain a cry. You whined into Joel’s touch, throat humming with that pathetic little sound as his groin sank deep to find the backs of your thighs and—finally—was inside you fully.

Words barely registered in your brain above the whir of your pulse in your ears, the pleasure unfurling from this strange new place, but Joel made sure you heard it when he leaned back in and murmured, ‘C’mon, baby, who’s this hole belong to, huh?’ as he tilted his hips up, body blanketing yours completely from behind. When you couldn’t contain the cry this time and your mouth fell open in a moan, he took that as his chance to slide his tongue inside and start to thrust, pinning you to the sink.

“You,” you whimpered feebly into his mouth. His tongue and the sounds of wet, sticky skin colliding over and over again all but drowned out what you were trying to say.

“What’s’at?” Joel returned, equally muffled but in far greater control of his words, it seemed, “This for him?”

“N-N-No, Joel.”

“Whose is it, then?”

You tried to answer ‘You’ again, but a shockwave of pleasure stole the air from your lungs, and you just whined in Joel’s mouth once more, head tilted limply to him as he shook your whole body with thrusts. You reached back to find a forearm, a hand, anything of his to anchor yourself, and you felt his fingers grip yours. Then he brought your hand and his up to the mirror, and he placed them flat on the glass—his big one overtop, dwarfing your own—and his hips picked up their speed.

Your lips parted just long enough to tilt your gaze ahead—Joel’s face and yours resting side-by-side in the mirror while he fucked you faster and deeper and grit his teeth.

“Use those words,” he seethed. Groaning when you clenched around him, nipping the cusp of your cheek.

If there was any doubt of what primal urges could do to a man like Joel, you were seeing it now. Feeling him stuff you full, pull back, and crash his hips into yours again and again while those sharp incisors took the tiniest, teasing, feral bites, it was like watching him come undone before he’d even cum inside you. His irises reduced to two minuscule rings around black, dilated pools; torso caging you in; breaths and groans and helpless moans commingled in a hot, plaintive medley.

Joel was too old to get jealous, and yet, he had never in his life wanted to hear the words that you were his and his alone more than he did right now, fucking you raw in a hole that had never been breached by anyone but him.

Your gaze remained on his in a sweet, near-innocent look—a staggering feat for someone getting their ass fucked bare in a dirty bar bathroom—and beneath his hand, he felt you squeeze his fingers. Your cunt fluttered too.

“It’s yours, Joel.”

The head of Joel’s cock took a nosedive to the furthest depths of you, as far as he could manage it, and he kept fucking you there, like he couldn’t bear to leave it.

“Say it again,” he said, voice hoarse. Pleading.

With what little strength you had, you laced your fingers with his on the mirror so he was holding your hand in a fist. Then you pressed your knuckles to the glass, squeezed as hard as your muscles would allow, and met his thrusts gently, keeping your eyes on him all the while.

“I’m all yours,” you returned—and when the hulking man with his grey, sweat-dampened hair and dark eyes and arms locked tight around your frame let out a whimper, you knew you’d said exactly what Joel needed to hear.

His hips canted wildly, quietly into your own, those tough and stubbled lips releasing sounds like you’d never heard before; never even thought possible for a man his size and stature with such a replete desire for dominance. This Joel was needy, panting in your ear while nudging his nose to the shell of it, ‘Baby, please keep fucking me, please, just, fuck—’ and seizing your hand, your waist, whatever flesh he could find while his cock pummeled a desperate and frenzied pace inside you. And, as much as you wished that glimpse of him would last, it was also what sent you both over the edge in the seconds right after. Your toes curled into cool checkered tile, Joel’s hand made an even tighter fist, and together, you trembled and cursed and groaned through your highs like it was the first you’d ever felt. In a way, it was.

As new to you as it was to him, that feeling pulsed and throbbed between your bodies in a shockwave of pure satiety. It left you breathless. Boneless. Slumping inward and into each other, at length, until your full weight was pressed onto that porcelain sink, and you were sure the force would tear the fixture off the wall at any second.

Fortunately, it didn’t budge.

Joel leaned even further into you and exhaled.

Evidently, the sink beneath you was the furthest thing from his mind, and all he could do was keep fucking his cum deeper while the spray of his spend was still fresh on your walls. Gently, but with intent, he drove his cock back and forth. He felt a drop or two trickle out of your wet, stretched hole and groaned, then kissed your neck.

Still in awe of what had just happened. What you’d said. Trying hard not to grin too big when he felt your walls clench around him, and you let out a low, shaky sigh.

“Feelin’ okay, baby?”

You smiled back.

“Just peachy.”

[catboyieejeno]

mark lee + domestic

♫ play love it by dean...

waking up on a late morning besides mark who, in his sleep, is subconsciously pressing his soft, pouted lips against your neck or shoulder, nose nuzzling into your warmed skin. he still hasn't woken up, which you realize when those same pouty lips part to let out a series of long and calm exhales. he rolls a little closer to you until minutes later, he eventually blinks his puffy eyelids open, smacking his mouth a few times like a baby does when first stirring awake.

it's too soon to wish you a good morning—he doesn't truly trust his voice to not betray him yet; instead, when your eyes meet for the first time today, the corner of his lips instinctively curve up into a dazed smile, and the hand that rests on your hip gives your flesh a little squeeze in a silent but sweet greeting.

cooking any meal consists of you moving around the kitchen as you gather and assemble your ingredients. meanwhile, mark follows you around, curiously and eagerly. he resembles a puppy trailing behind you. also has a habit of resting his chin on your head or shoulder to watch what you're doing; that, or he's leaning against the nearest structure whenever you linger for too long in a specific area. you're by the sink? he's bent over, resting his weight on his elbows to talk to you. you're at the stove? his hip is pressed into the counter and his arms are crossed, watching intently how you prepare the food.

after, he'll gladly do the dishes (since he isn't much help with the cooking part). the sole condition he insists on is that you have to sit on the countertop beside him and keep him company 'til he's done. he also gets to steal a kiss whenever he pleases, molding his lips over yours for a few seconds too long. he laughs when you scold him for getting distracted or wasting water, then mumbles his apology into your mouth, "m'sorry, baby! s'just hard to focus when you're here, sitting pretty for me,"

chores are usually left for the weekend, where the two of you take turns picking songs and adding them to a never-ending queue to get through the tasks at hand. the two of you are rather good at getting things done quickly, but the moment you plant a kiss on mark's cheek as you pass by, consider your work done for the day, regardless of whether you've finished or not.

you don't make it farther than a foot away before mark has dropped the rag he's holding in order to grab ahold of your waist. he dips his head down and kisses your lips so messily, longingly even, since the last kiss you gave him was not sufficient by any means. then again, he can never really get enough of you. mere moments later, you're pressed up against the wall with each of his hands at your hip bones, the tasks at hand long forgotten as his tongue eagerly explores your mouth.

its easy to get distracted with him, by him. grocery runs tend to be at least an hour longer than they really need to, because despite the fact that you've made a list of 5 simple items, the two of you navigate every aisle anyway and leave with a dozen other things. browsing for shows or movies turns into a conversation about actors and directors and soundtracks, and you never actually get around to picking something. if you do, the content is left unattended by you and mark, who giggle and mutter out jokes between the dialogue to get a smile out of the other, blazing touches left behind on warm skin.

you're undoubtedly his favorite person in the entire world—the one he looks forward to seeing at the start and end of each day, and the one he always tells good news to first. bad news, too. crashes through the front door and drops everything to bid you a warm hello as he rambles on about his day, or comes in and curls up next to you on the couch and expresses his recent frustrations. regardless of whether you give advice or just listen, your presence is soothing enough.

[backtonormallife]

A reminder from Twitter.

[fantasywritten]

@iworryalotdarling (continued from here)

“DAMN RIGHT.” Oscar grinned at her, his white teeth flashing in his smile. “But I’d still like to know your name. Feel free to give me a fake one if you’re tryin’ to hide your identity.” With a wink, Oscar put an arm around her shoulders, looking down at her. “YOU’RE HOT, ya know that?”

[wintersoldeer]

everyone else gets: ...bells?

i get: my dashboard not working at all anymore (just an empty white page)