#bread and tea for dinner

[adriansfrogs]

I know it's seven thirty p.m. but I don't care I will drink three cups of English breakfast tea if I want to

[wildsaltair]

Actual footage Maximus Decimus Meridius looking earnestly into my soul (not clickbait!)

[doll-poetry]

Last night😋

[foods-n-others]

eggy breads with chicken fillets

[neighbourhood-rambler]

if you told me 3 years ago before i got to varsity that i would be navigating a loaf of white bread with nothing but this huge cup of tea to assist me on a random friday evening, i would be like: "who the fuck are you and what are you talking about?!"

[scolek]

ive been getting such poor nutrition these past few weeks because the situation has made it. basically impossible to exist anywhere outside of my room. the fridge is packed the kitchen is occupied the living room is loud loud loud loud loud f*x n**s,

[creepybakugou]

Homemade garlic bread 😋

[valcove]

I made macaroni and cheese tonight and got asked if I would share.

...

That's one of the few things I wouldn't share with my friends.

Homemade, from scratch, baked macaroni and cheese?? That's mine, fools.

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon’s sweet wife

seen other people talk about the task force finding out about Simon’s bird at first in subtle ways so I made this

It started with the lunches.

At first, no one thought much of it. Simon had brought the occasional sandwich before, nothing out of the ordinary. But then it changed. Out went the basic bread and meat, and in came proper meals. Lasagna. Curry. A neatly packed container of something warm and homemade, tucked right beside a little folded note Simon was far too quick to snatch out of sight when Johnny leaned over, grinning.

“C’mon, Simon,” he teased, voice full of curiosity. “Just let us have a peek. We wanna know who’s makin’ you lunch like that, eh?”

Kyle nodded, snickering.

“Piss off,” Simon grumbled, big hand curling protectively around the note like it was a classified file. He didn’t care that they were watching, didn’t even look up. Just reread your words, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth beneath the mask.

“Ay, Johnny, look! you can see a heart through the paper!” Kyle laughed, catching the way the light hit the thin paper just right, revealing the faint outline of a heart signed with your name.

After that, it became a bit of a running joke. Not that Simon gave them anything to work with. But the mystery only deepened when, during a three week deployment at another unit, a care package showed up with his name on it.

To say the guys hovered would be an understatement. Johnny and Kyle practically sat on either side of him like vultures, trying to act casual. Price stayed back in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, looking disinterested but Simon could feel his eyes, just as nosy as the others.

The box had all the essentials: snacks, cold weather gear, a familiar blanket from home. A couple of your sweet notes, some of his favorite tea in bulk. But what really got them going were the Polaroids tucked in between the layers of stuff.

Kyle caught a glimpse of one. Simon sitting on a porch step with you in his lap, your smile soft, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.

Johnny elbowed him. “Alright, Simon. When ’re we gonna meet this mystery missus of yours?”

“She wouldn’t like you.” He grunted in response 

“What is she, a grump like you?”

Hardly.

The real surprise came a few weeks later, when a sweet bird showed up at base asking for Lieutenant Simon Riley.

Price was the first to see you. He’d expected someone with a set it glare, reserved, maybe a little sharp around the edges. Instead, you walked right up to Simon with a warm smile, kissed his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world, and handed him a jacket. 

Simon knew Price, Kyle, and Johnny were watching from around the corner. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if half the rookies and a few of the other sergeants were too.

But none of that mattered.

Not when his sweet girl was standing in front of him.

“Why are you here, baby?” he asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You forgot your jacket,” you said, brow furrowed. “And I heard it was supposed to be cold today. I didn’t want you to get sick.”

Your voice alone cracked something in him, and it was impossible not to smile under the mask.

“Y’know I would’ve been fine, love.”

Still, he took the jacket from your hands with a quiet “thank you,” promising to wear it, walking you down the hallway before watching you turn and head back out.

Well— not before Johnny and Kyle caught you at the corner, peering over the wall like a couple of kids up to no good.

They didn’t say much, but by the time Simon heard about it later, you’d already agreed to let them come over for dinner sometime.

He just shook his head. Not even surprised by their antics. But he didn’t say no either.

Because you’d said yes.

So next Saturday, he guessed he’d be setting an extra few plates at the table for Johnny, Kyle, and probably Price, too. 

[mahowaga]

it started innocently—really, it did.

you had no idea the chaos you were about to unleash when, that first time, you pulled your phone out at dinner to capture the gorgeous table spread.

you aren't some influencer, you don't have an aesthetic food page or anything. you just like saving the memories. you like looking back at the colors of the dishes, the way the warm lights catch the steam rising from a bowl of ramen, or the glistening sheen of freshly grilled corn. it makes you happy.

but nanami kento—who sits across from you at that table, handsome in his pressed white button-up and tie still a little too tight against his throat even though the workday has ended—mistakes your angle.

his gaze flicks up from his plate, catching you just as you are angling your phone. and for a brief moment, his face freezes.

then—composed, but stiff—he straightens his spine and fixes his tie.

you blink. "what... what are you doing?"

"you could've warned me if you were going to take a photo of me," he murmurs, eyes dropping to his food. "i must look ridiculous while eating."

the words catch you so off guard that you barely manage a confused laugh, and the words i wasn't taking a photo of you! i was taking a photo of the table, of the food don't come. instead, you stutter, "oh, well, i—"

kento nods, but his eyes don't meet yours. he simply spears a piece of potato and says, "of course."

you meant to correct him properly. you meant to explain. but watching the slight pink creep up the tips of his ears—the usually unflappable nanami kento, embarrassed at the thought of you taking his picture—you hesitate.

and then you just never said anything.

the next time it happens, it's sushi.

a fancy little place you pick because you know kento likes it—quiet, clean, no frills but top-tier quality. you're practically bouncing in your seat by the time the chef slides the first omakase platter in front of you, every piece glistening, delicate, artful.

you pull out your phone.

kento, mid-reach for his cup of tea, freezes again. just like last time.

then slowly—almost robotically—he sets the cup down, places his hands neatly on his lap, and gives you the most stilted half-smile you've ever seen.

you pause, staring at him. "kento—"

"it's alright," he says quickly. "i understand. people like documenting memories. i just. i just wasn't prepared. that's all."

you really should clear the misunderstanding right now.

but instead, a laugh bubbles out of you. "alright. then—hold still."

and you snap a photo. of him. not the food. him.

the photo is terrible—he's as stiff as a board, his jaw locked, and he looks like he's posing for a passport photo at gunpoint.

but it's cute. in the way kento always is, without ever meaning to be.

it becomes a thing after that. you don't even know how.

every time you take your phone out, kento will assume the position. stiff shoulders, straight spine, polite smile.

and every time, you can't bring yourself to tell him that no—really—you're just trying to take a photo of the food.

but by the fourth or fifth outing, something shifts.

kento starts asking, carefully neutral, "do you want me to sit differently? or is this alright?"

and that? that cracks something in you.

"no," you laugh, breathless. "you're perfect."

the words slip out before you can stop them.

kento blinks once, then twice. then he looks down quickly, ears flushing crimson. "i see."

after that, it's like he's resigned himself. if you pull your phone out, he waits. patient, polite, quietly ready.

so you start taking photos. of him. on purpose.

at the cafe, with the tiny cappuccino cup too delicate in his large hands—snap.

at the bakery, applying jam to the slice of freshly baked bread—snap.

at the park, sitting stiffly on the bench while you both have ice cream—snap.

"you're building a collection, aren't you?" kento asks one evening, watching you put your phone down with a barely-contained smile.

you start. "what?"

"photos. of me." his voice is flat, but his eyes—his eyes are soft, just the slightest glint of amusement there. "i'm assuming you have a folder by now."

you flush. "i—no—maybe."

kento lets out a low sigh, running a hand through his hair. "you could just ask, you know."

you blink. "ask?"

"if you want a picture," he says, clearing his throat. "i don't mind. but maybe then—maybe i could try not to look like a stiff idiot."

you laugh, loud and bright, and kento flinches like he's just startled a bird.

"you don't look like an idiot," you say, wiping your eyes. "you look like you. that's perfect to me."

kento stares at you for a long, quiet moment. and then—unexpected, a tiny miracle—he smiles. a real one. the kind that softens all the lines of his face, that crinkles his eyes just enough.

"that might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me," he murmurs.

you open your mouth, close it, then grin. "well, get used to it. you're stuck with me, nanami kento. my photo album's already proof."

kento gives a long-suffering sigh, but his hand—warm, steady—reaches out across the table, brushing yours.

"i suppose," he says, almost fond, "i can live with that."

seven months later, you've built a whole gallery. and when kento catches you looking through it one night—tired from work, tie loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up—he doesn't say a word.

he just kisses the top of your head, quietly, and murmurs, "just let me know next time, hm? i want to look good for you."

and that is how your silly little secret turns into the softest thing you've ever shared with him.

[miserye]

i'm drinking green tea rn and i really want a nutella sandwich

[rosemaryhoney27]

Ghost of a Chance

Gotham was not a city known for its kindness. Rain slicked the alleyways like a second skin, and shadows crept where sunlight dared not linger. Alfred Pennyworth had seen a great many things in this city. Muggers, monsters, and masked madmen were just part of the nightly routine. What he hadn't expected, however, was to be saved by a ghost.

Or something very much like one.

It was supposed to be a quick errand—a quiet evening walk to clear his head. But halfway down Burnside, three desperate men with more bravado than brains cornered him. Alfred had been ready to disarm the first and disable the second, but he never got the chance. A blur of white and black swooped in, accompanied by the distant, bone-deep hum of unnatural power. The muggers were down in seconds—one frozen to the wall, another knocked out cold, and the third suspended midair by a glowing hand that flickered green.

The boy was there and gone just as fast. Alfred barely had time to register the tattered hoodie, the hollow cheeks, the white hair and green eyes that didn’t seem quite human.

"Wait—!" Alfred had called, but the boy was already gone, melting into the shadows like smoke.

The encounter would’ve ended there—just another strange chapter in Gotham’s nightbook—if it hadn’t kept happening.

Twice more, the mysterious young man appeared. Once to stop a purse snatcher near the theater. Another time to drag a lost child out of a crumbling building during a fire. Always fast, always silent. Always gone before Alfred could properly speak to him.

And always too thin.

It was the kind of thin that spoke of long nights without food. Hollow cheeks, knobby elbows, a belt cinched too tight around jeans that barely stayed up. It reminded Alfred of the early days—of Dick, of Jason, of Tim, of Damian. Of boys who had learned to survive instead of live.

Alfred Pennyworth had a rule: no one went hungry on his watch.

And so began his campaign.

At first, it was subtle. A wrapped sandwich left behind after one of the ghost-boy’s heroic appearances. A thermos of hot tea left conveniently near a rooftop perch. A backpack, clean and durable, filled with protein bars and fresh socks. Most of it vanished, though Alfred never saw it happen.

Then came the note, scrawled in messy, tired handwriting:

“Thanks. You didn’t have to. I’m not sticking around though. It’s safer for you if I don’t.”

The next day, Alfred left a response tucked in the same spot:

“You are not a danger, young man. I’ve seen far worse, and fed far worse. If you insist on continuing your streak of rooftop chivalry, I insist you do so on a full stomach.”

He added a slice of quiche. It was gone by morning.

Bruce raised an eyebrow the first time he caught Alfred baking two loaves of banana bread instead of one. Tim said nothing when the supply order mysteriously included a half dozen extra protein shakes and thermal gloves in medium size. Damian made a snide comment—something about stray ghosts haunting the pantry—but Alfred didn’t dignify it with a reply.

Then came the night it changed.

A patrol gone wrong. Batman caught in a collapsing parking garage. The comms went dead. Nightwing was too far. Red Hood was tracking Penguin. The only one nearby—untraceable, unregistered, and undeniably powerful—was the boy Alfred had been feeding for weeks.

He left the beacon on the rooftop.

“Help him. Please. –A.P.”

Within minutes, Bruce stumbled through the Batcave entrance, soot-smudged and breathing, but alive. Behind him, almost hidden in the shadows, was the boy. White hair. Green eyes. Shivering slightly, but still on his feet.

“I didn’t do it for favors,” the boy said. His voice was hoarse, too young for his haunted face. “I just... couldn’t let him die.”

“I know,” Alfred said gently. “Which is precisely why the offer of dinner still stands.”

“…I shouldn’t.” But his eyes drifted toward the warm lights of the manor beyond the cave, toward the smell of fresh bread and something sweet baking in the oven.

“No one escapes me forever, dear boy,” Alfred said with a small smile. “Not even slippery ghosts.”

The boy stared at him for a long moment. Then finally, like a candle burning out, he sagged.

“…Okay. Just for tonight.”

“Of course,” Alfred said, already turning toward the kitchen. “We’ll start with soup.”

Behind him, the boy whispered a name like an afterthought—like something long buried finally being said aloud.

“Danny. My name’s Danny.”

“Well then, Master Danny,” Alfred said, with the same fondness he reserved for all his wayward sons, “welcome home.”

[stargirlygirl]

out your nose

zayne x fem!reader

summary: zayne's had a tough day at work, so you try to make him feel better (it doesn't go so well)

contains: nsfw, oral sex (m!receiving), his cum squirts out of your nose, zayne cleans you up, 2.6k words

You’re stirring tonight’s soup in a large pot over the stove when the front door clanks open. In walks Zayne, still clad in his white coat and wearing his usual stoic expression. After setting his things down, he creeps up behind you and encircles his muscular arms around your waist.

You raise a spoonful of soup to his lips, giggling, “Here, have a taste. Is it too salty or?” He slurps the hot soup, a little furrow in his brow as he concentrates on the flavour profile. Lowering the wooden spoon and continuing to swirl the orange, creamy mixture, you hum the song that’s been stuck in your head all day.

He finally murmurs, “It tastes good. Pumpkin?”

You nod, “And butternut squash.”

“Mhmm.” He pecks your cheek.

“What do you need me to do?” He asks. You chuckle as you set the spoon down on the bench.

Twirling around, you wrap your arms around his neck and grin, “Nothing. I’ve got it all under control, baby. Why don’t you go get changed and relax?” His lips pout ever so slightly, seemingly not satisfied with your answer.

Your boyfriend counters, “How about I set the table?”

You chortle softly, “Okay.” With one last kiss, he leaves you to handle dinner while grabbing out bowls and spoons. You continue humming mindlessly as you try the soup and conclude it’s finished. Observant as always, Zayne places the two bowls next to the stove.

“Let me,” he says quietly. You step out of the way as he hoists up the pot and fills the bowls with your soup. As he does so, you open the oven door and pull out the bread you baked earlier. Already sliced and warm, you transfer the loaf to a plate and set it down in the middle of the island bench. Zayne puts the half-full pot down with a clank on the stove before shuffling the bowls near the bread.

After adding the finishing touches, you two sit down and eat dinner together. He listens to you ramble about your day, chiming in with questions every so often, so you know that he’s still listening. But when you ask him about his day, he shrugs while taking a bite of your delicious spelt bread.

“Busy?” You ask. He nods, not offering up anything else even after he swallows. Must have been a tough day, you think.

Zayne helps you clean up once you’ve both finished. He washes the dishes while you pack away leftovers, and he dries plates as you dry cutlery.

Seeing the slump in his shoulders, you take the last plate from him and order, “Go sit on the couch, maybe put a movie on. I’ll finish up here.”

He stares at you blankly before retorting, “I appreciate your concern, dear. But I’m fine—”

“I wasn’t asking,” you cut him off. He sighs, holding your eyes for a few moments before backing down.

“Alright. I’ll brew tea,” he mumbles.

By the time you plop down on the sofa, he’s shed his tie and loosened the top buttons of his white dress shirt. You thank him as he hands you a steaming mug of tea.

Giving it a whiff, you say curiously, “Jasmine?” He nods. You curl into his side, his arm firm around your shoulders as some rom-com plays. Taking a sip of your tea, you sigh in pleasure.

“It’s just tea,” he grumbles.

You say it like it’s obvious, “Yeah, but you made it.” Zayne can’t fight the micro-smile that curls the corners of his lips.

Halfway through the movie, you’re restless. You’ve been sitting for too long, you finished your yummy beverage 20 minutes ago, and you’ve thought of the perfect way to cheer up your grumpy boyfriend.

Standing under the pretence of stretching, you lift your arms overhead. Your crop top rises, showing off your tummy. Zayne gazes back at the screen, trying to focus on the film as you tilt to the side, revealing even more of your belly.

He’s so weak for your tummy. He loves how soft it is, especially the little stretch marks painting your hip bones. One time, he called them tiger stripes, and you just stared at him blankly, both offended and flattered at the same time. He was worried you didn’t like that nickname for them, but you reassured him otherwise with soft kisses and murmurs.

“Oh, Zaynie,” you coo, finally resting your arms down by your sides as you stalk over to him. You stand in front of him, blocking his view of the tv.

He mumbles, “Yes, dear.” You lean forward, cupping his cheeks with your hands. His hazel eyes widen, staring at you like a scared kitten as you tilt his head from side to side.

Closing the distance between you, your lips seal over his. His hands grip your wrists and slide down your arms till they caress your back. He pulls you onto his lap, your shins against his thighs, and your ass on your heels as you smooch. You can taste your dinner wrapped up in jasmine on his tongue, but you don’t care.

You grip his collar, tugging him back to your lips after he dared to break your kiss.

Air is for the weak.

You remind him of that as you kiss him harder. You nip his bottom lip, making him shudder and moan. He grips the hem of your shirt, cool fingers digging into your flesh as you suck on his tongue.

Separating, a string of spit connects your lips. You smirk, the glimmering saliva snapping as you rest your forehead against Zayne’s. Heat simmers beneath your skin, your face slightly red as you pant. Your breath becomes his, and you notice the pink dotting his under eyes.

Letting go of his shirt, your hands slide to rest over his heart. He does the same, keeping one hand on your waist while his other hand comes to your heart. They beat in sync, rapidly.

You exhale, “Zayne, let me take care of you. Please.”

He murmurs, “What did you have in mind, darling?”

“I’ll show you,” you smirk. Your nimble fingers work at the rest of his buttons until his chest is bare. You yank his shirt off and discard it on the floor.

Feeling his sculpted chest beneath your palms, you whisper seductively, “Relax, I’ve got you.” He breathes out, his chest falling as he nuzzles your hairline with his nose. You gently pinch his nipples, making him groan in your ear.

Rolling the sensitive peaks between your fingers, you sloppily kiss a trail down his neck to his collarbone. You nip at his pale skin, his barely contained whimpers heading straight to your core.

Sliding your hands down lower, you unbuckle Zayne’s belt and work at the zipper of his trousers. His inhale catches, his heart stammering as your fingertips brush over his bulge. You giggle, gazing up at him with dreamy eyes as you stroke his hard cock through his boxers.

Pecking his jaw, you stand up and tug his dress pants and underwear down to his ankles (with his help, of course). He hisses at the cool air ghosting his erection as you lower yourself to your knees, sitting prettily between his legs.

You grab his length and take the tip between your lips. Drooling all over it, you pull back and coat his length in your saliva with your fingers. You lick the vein popping out on the underside, right up the head of his cock before sucking it back into your mouth. So hot and slippery, he moans and breathes heavily as you start bobbing your head. One of your hands cradle his spit-soaked balls while the other jerks the base of his cock.

Arousal pools in your panties, ruining them for sure as you push his cock to the back of your throat. Such elicits a guttural moan from your usually composed boyfriend. Your nose brushes his neatly trimmed pubes as you do your best not to gag on his cock.

Pulling off it, you stare up at him with swollen lips stretched into a sweet grin. He sighs as he pats your crown soothingly with his veiny hand.

Zayne tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear, contradicting the dishevelled mess atop his head, strands falling in his eyes and distorting his vision. Tenderly gripping your nape, he guides you back to his dick. His tip prods at your lips as you giggle.

And when you draw him back into your mouth, your boyfriend groans, “Can I?” You moan around his length, your eyes urging him on. He slowly pushes your head down on his cock until his tip kisses your throat again. You feel his fingers twitch on the back of your neck, itching to fuck your face as he reminds himself to be a gentleman. He grabs the other side of your head with his free hand, easing you up and down on his dick.

Zayne’s precum dribbles all over your tongue. But he doesn’t give you the chance to swallow it as his balls hit your chin. The wet sucking noises blur out the movie still playing, and the warm lighting illuminates your beauty in this position. So submissive and eager to please. More pre spews into your mouth as your boyfriend attempts to not cum. But he’s fighting a losing battle.

As you gag around his hard length, tears swelling your eyes, he can’t hold it back anymore. His cum shoots in ropes down your throat, scolding hot and thick. You gag, hands squeezing his thighs as you choke on his cream.

And unfortunately, your lover doesn’t notice. He’s moaning so fucking loud, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull as his hips buck. Every whine you make only intensifies his orgasm, his fingers tightening in your hair.

His release burns your throat. It rises up the back of your nose, searing all of your nerves like molten metal.

At last, Zayne’s grasp loosens and you pull off his cock faster than ever before. Hunching over, you launch into a coughing fit as his cum drips out of your nostrils. You stare down at your cum covered hands with cloudy eyes, your tears and his seed trickling onto your palms.

Your boyfriend comes around, gazing down at you with that small knot in his brow, perplexed as to why you’re coughing.

“Honey,” he rasps. You rise to your feet, stumbling as you beeline for the box of tissues next to the tv. And of course, you drop the fucking box in your haste. Bending down, more semen runs down your philtrum and lips. You pluck out a few tissues and blow your nose.

“Love, what’s wrong?” Zayne asks, confused, as he hastily pulls up his pants and comes over to you. You turn around, not wanting him to see you like this, but he’s not having any of it. As you wipe your nose, he catches a glimpse of the off-white fluid soaking the tissue. He draws a sharp breath in, bright eyes flicking between your leaking nose and the tissue.

“Fuck,” he curses lowly. He grabs your shoulders as you enter the second round of your coughing fit.

Handing you fresh tissues, he instructs clinically, “Alright. Cough it up. Blow it out. Good girl. Keep going until it feels clear at the back of your throat.” You obey, coughing and blowing your nose until his cum dwindles. All that’s left behind is—

“It burns,” you mumble through tears.

Zayne rubs your back as he murmurs, “Yes, semen can irritate the mucus membranes. Your nose is also very sensitive. Having other fluids in your nose, such as semen, which is comparatively colder than the internal temperature of your nose, can cause discomfort and a burning sensation as the cells balance out the components of the substance.” You nod, feeling exhausted as you sniffle painfully.

Your boyfriend continues, “I’m going to make you a saline solution and flush out your nose. As I do so, why don’t you get in the shower? Do you want me to start it for you?” You nod again, poutily. He draws you into his arms and carries you to the bathroom.

Setting you down, he undresses you and gets the water running before leading you into the shower. It’s nice and toasty, the steam soothing your stuffy nose. He kisses your forehead lovingly before heading to the kitchen.

Returning with a squeeze bottle in hand, he positions you out of the water’s trajectory.

“Now, tilt your head to one side.” You follow his instruction, tilting your head. He gently cups your cheek as he raises the bottle to your nose.

“I’m going to squeeze the saline solution into one nostril, and it will drip out the other. Breathe through your mouth, alright?” You hum in agreement, closing your eyes as the long tip of the bottle prods at your upper nostril. The cold fluid slowly fills the space there, mildly uncomfortable as you feel it drizzle out the other side. You breathe steadily through your mouth, your heartbeat in your ears, until Zayne stops and pulls the bottle out.

He tilts your head to the other side while explaining, “Now, I’m going to repeat the same on the other side.”

As he squeezes the rest of the solution into your nose, he praises you, “You’re doing well. Just a little more.” Drawing the bottle out, he pecks your brow and hops out of the shower.

When he comes back, he’s as bare as you are. Embracing you, he rests his chin on the top of your head as you press your chest firmly against his.

He murmurs, “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t realise you were uncomfortable.”

You mumble into his pec, “It’s okay. I’m okay.” Zayne pulls back and brushes your hair out of your face.

He shakes his head, “No, it’s not okay. You got hurt because of my negligence—”

“Zayne—”

“I’ll be more attentive to you next time. I promise, love.” He plants a firm kiss on your lips, containing the anger he holds toward himself right now. Your noses brush as he breaks the kiss.

His breath intermingles with yours as you sigh, “I feel much better now, thanks to you, doc.”

“I’m glad,” he mumbles. Zayne washes your body with precision, his movements controlled as he rinses the soap off your delicate skin. You insist on helping him wash, too, but he refuses.

You grab his jaw, forcing him to face you as you say sternly, “I know you feel guilty, but I love you.” He exhales, pecking your lips before rubbing body wash all over his toned arms.

“And besides,” you continue. “It’s kinda funny when you think about it.”

“Funny?” He grits out.

“That was anything but funny, dear.” You playfully shove him by the shoulder, but he doesn’t even budge.

“Oh, come on!” You whine. “Don’t be such a Negative Nancy. No harm, no foul, I’m fine.” Even as your boyfriend washes and dries your hair, soothes moisturiser and body oil into your skin, helps you into a fresh set of pjs, and tucks you into bed, he doesn’t relax. You can see the tightness between his shoulder blades, and his touches are so fleeting.

Patting the space next to you, you ask sweetly, “Sleep with me?” He shakes his head and kisses you tenderly, an unspoken apology as he switches the light off and closes the door behind him. You huff, confident that he’ll come around eventually, but still feeling deflated because you don’t get to sleep in his arms tonight.

more embarrassing/gone wrong sex moments:

sylus puts you in a nelson and ends up in hospital choking gone wrong with caleb xavier falls asleep while eating you out you get stuck in the sink as you and rafayel get it on

gone wrong m.list

[spookypanda04]

I may feel like garbage, but the way the pasta spiraled in the mug is nice.

[undeadmagick]

Broke Boy Guide to Altar Offerings

Hey! Are you broke but still wanna offer something up to the gods? Don't worry! (So am i) So here's a guide of things that are either free, low cost or that you probably already own to slap onto those altars. Mind you: These are mainly modern offerings that I attribute to these different classification of gods. I'll likely update as time goes on with other classifications :)

General Offerings to Deities:

random flowers from outside

random sticks from outside

hand written letters/prayers

plushies of the animals they're connected to

raw/cooked meats as "sacrifices"

drawn symbols

Art/Creative Deities:

symbol painted bottle caps

pens/pencils/markers

old sketchbooks

stickers/prints

origami

comic books

figurines

Death Deities:

bones or meat from your meals

dirt from a dead plant

dying flowers

skull imagery

coins or other gifts for those passing

photo/belongings of your late loved ones

Familial/Household/Protector of Children Deities:

photobooth photos

jewelry gifted from family

baby teeth from your children

breast milk

old baby shoes

framed photo of family

cookies/bread

homecooked meals

Fire Deities:

birthday candles

charcoal discs

burnt herbs

alcohol

incense

tobacco

matchbox/lighter

Healing Deities:

your current medications

bandaids

water

skincare

vitamin gummies

spell jar in an empty pill bottle

Knowledge/Wisdom Deities:

old books & textbooks

pens/pencils

mini chess pieces

written down philosophical quotes

good test scores/report cards/degrees

Love/Lust Deities:

origami 3D hearts

chapsticks

unused makeup

love letters to deities

love letters about S/O or crush

current perfume/cologne

current lotions

apples

Nature Deities:

plants dedicated to them

herbal tea packets

feathers

milk

fruits/vegetables

spells using recycled materials (toilet paper rolls, etc.)

bread

acorns

Sea Deities:

beach sand

shells

sea water

tiny sea animal figurines

shared fish dinners

makeshift spell jar using a shell

Trickster Deities:

laffy taffy joke wrappers

cards against humanity packs

other comedy card games

[exploredlifee]

Green tea: A natural way to keep your teeth clean and healthy.