#but you like it when it smells like him

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

Remember that day you made a few days ago ? The one with the red shirt (reader and Simon love language is to buy goofy shirts)? Well👀👀👀 I do. I remember 👁️👄👁️ and since I can't sleep I decided to finish a drawing, so here you go <3

One day I'll learn to do backgrounds but the day hasn't come yet jjdksk

WCEYWVAUSUAHABIANAIAAH ❤️❤️❤️❤️ @kaplerrr

I’m glad you remembered it because I love that shirt so much. Everything about this is so canon in the roommate series Simon would lose his mind seeing you in his shirt and then when you tease him like that? Well let’s hope you’re prepared for the consequences ☺️😈

Also the slide where he says “run”, and the fact that he looks lowkey intimidating is accurate because as much as he tries not to look that way towards you sometimes it comes out when you tease each other (don’t worry though you’re never bothered by it because you know he’s joking)

Edit: yes one of their love languages is give each other the worst/goofiest shirts they find. It’s almost a competition now and Simon is winning since he’ll sometimes bring goofy shirts from the countries he’s been in while on work

[eternity-death]

Sunday thought of the day:

Sunday likes to leave traces of himself on you.

He’ll adorn your neck with beautiful jewelry, classy and not too gaudy, made with precious stones that were imported from other star systems. Your favorite dress was commissioned by him, hand-made with the softest fabrics and finest stitching (Sunday reviews the stitching himself. The seamsters who worked on the apparel can only stand there with bone-chilling anticipation as Sunday silently— meticulously— scrutinizes the sewing. He only wants the best for his darling, after all). He’s bought some aromatic oils for you too. When you get ready in the morning, he takes his time massaging it into your wrists and the pulse points of your neck (you don’t seem to realize it’s the same scent that he uses).

They are all symbols of affiliation— a claim over you that remains unspoken. Despite this, others are not ignorant to the tacit message that reflects off of the glimmering stones in your necklace, or the luster of the silks that swathe you: you are involved with Sunday, and one should remain circumspect in their interactions with you.

[willowser]

ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴ ᴀʟʟ ғᴏᴜʀs. werewolf kiri au.

you wake up under a mountain of furs.

light comes flickering from the hearth and, warm and welcoming as it is—you've no idea where you are.

you don't recognize the inside of the cabin; it's certainly not yours, nor is its layout that of any you’ve seen in the village. it's rather plain, with a singular window and table and chair and small fireplace, empty enough that you wonder how anyone could live comfortably with so little.

outside, the winter storm rages on, and there's a howl that cuts through the air that strikes bone-deep.

all at once your memories come back to you: dragged through town with bound hands and ankles, in only a thin night dress, screaming with all your might as the physician that delivered you into this world tied you to an old pine, along with the priest and the man that sold you blueberries in the spring.

people you knew and loved. had trusted.

the memories become hazy after a while, darkening with the night that crept in. you remember your body losing its feeling, but not its fear. you remember the violence of the storm, breaking trees and branches and uprooting the forest floor. you remember the horrible and hulking shape of something rising in the moonlight.

the door shoves open then, with enough force to send you scurrying back into the corner of the room. the blizzard tries to rush inside, but a man stands in its way, leaning back against the wood to keep the wind and snow out where it belongs. he's—big, as tall as the frame and just as wide, with thick hair that he's tied back, messy and low.

he's rosy in his cheeks and on the tip of his nose, as bright as the eyes that snap to you the moment you dare to breathe.

he doesn't say anything, at first. the bag of firewood he sets at his feet settles as he turns to you in interest, eyebrows raised. the clothes he's wearing look—old and worn, certainly not suitable for the storm roaring outside, with the holes and tears in the fabric. the boots he has on, however, seem heavy, have his steps echoing when he moves further into the room.

you pull your knees up to your chest and try to shrink away; beneath your thin dress, your skin has pebbled up, reminding you of just how vulnerable you still are.

your fear translates; the man stops on the other side of the little table, breathing in deeply before raising his hands up in what reads as surrender.

"hello," he finally says, and when you don't respond, he places a thick hand to his dark-haired chest and introduces himself as, "eijirou."

he nods emphatically and then repeats himself, as if to reinforce the name. you only grant him a small nod in return—and he smiles. it's wide, stretching across his face, and friendly, authentic enough that you question whether you're as damned as you thought, or perhaps saved.

how did you even get here? the question finally thaws out from the recesses of your brain and you take another look around the room as if the answer lies between the wood or nestled into the furs. this place looks too hand-crafted, you realize, all of it—and the man before you looks like he could move mountains, if he wanted to.

the chains that had bound you were iron-strong and didn't once budge in all your thrashing, before things went dark—but now you are inside by a well-maintained fire, warm and free, and all that remains of your ill fate are the indentions worn into your wrists.

he's still staring at you, the man. eijirou. he's not moved any closer, either, and when you meet his curious gaze, his lips twist and his eyes narrow. a thoughtful noise comes out of his mouth, like he's thinking of what to say or how to say it, and you're reminded that you don't recognize where you are, nor do you recognize him in the slightest.

big as he is, you don't think he could have carried you too far in a snowstorm such as the one still raging outside; are you still somewhere deep in the forest? in a cabin at the heart of the wood? saved by a man that somehow survives with so little out in the middle of nowhere?

"eijirou," you test the name on your lips and he perks up at the sound, attention snapping back to you instantly. you don't know if it's winter seeping through the floor, or if it's in the way that he watches you, that makes you shiver.

finally, he asks, "cold?" and when you nod, he slowly makes his way over to you, carefully, as if approaching a deer ready to run.

—and then he sheds his shirt with a quick shrug and holds it out to you.

you should want to look away, for decency sake, but you're—stunned by it, by him. there's a litany of scars that paint him in odd and worrisome places, but he stands tall and strong before you, unbothered by his own state. unbothered by the eyes that run over the expanse of his bare shoulders, the dark, thick trail of hair running down from his belly button, the ripples of muscle his loose shirt did well to hide.

you take it from him carefully and it's so warm, almost hot, that you press it to your face immediately to chase away the chatter of your jaw. the material itself, however ragged, is big enough to drape over your curled form like a blanket, and so you do just that. it carries the earthy smell of the woods, deeply woven into the fabric; pine and musk and something smoky.

with your cheek still pressed to his shirt, you look up to thank him, at last, but the words still in your throat at the minute changes of his face: still smiling, though sharper now, somehow, and his eyes are still wide with that keen, rapt interest—but the crimson to them has set like the sun and they've grown just as dark as the night outside.

[cavennmalore]

with the amount that the main series dunks on the forbidden cities i would just love for unraveled to be just an unabashed celebration of humanity. like yes there is poverty and pollution and crime but also there is dancing and music and rollercoasters and scary movies. let keefe discover the beauty here! the first book was all about the wonder of the lost cities but unraveled could be all about the wonder of the forbidden cities

[politemagic]

everyone say congratulations to the first time homeowners!

edit: i may or may not have been inspired to write some headcanons based on this, if you're interested

[spielzeugkaiser]

[MASTERPOST]

Eskel is like "I WILL read this book about... A wolf and all his friends? Dancing and being. happy... 🥺"

[theloveinc]

Can't wear flavored lip product around Togame because he's absolutely going to eat it right off your face.

(It’s not enough that he already practically demands a lipstick stain somewhere on his face whenever you do your makeup in general—he’s also gotten used to the flavored glosses and balms you sometimes coat his lips with...wanting to let the flavor, sweet and fruity, linger in his mouth until he pops the marble of his next soda.

It’s practically every day you can catch him with dewy lips, half of the time even stained a flushed and rosy hue which matches your complexion, a little bit of tongue sticking out to keep the taste of you on his tongue for hours.)

[whoisspence]

no way this is real there's absolutely no way

[nemhaine42]

and so Vegeta spent the rest of the afternoon desperately trying to remember if that was actually true or if it was just something Nappa made up in order to force Vegeta to share a bunk with Raditz and give himself some extra space.

Headcanon: Vegeta and Raditz were brothers and I cannot be convinced otherwise. Not nicey-nicey brothers like Gohan and Goten but like awful, antagonistic, constantly squabbling brothers who made Nappa lose what was left of his hair from stress. Nor is it a sentiment that either Raditz or Vegeta would ever admit to, not even to themselves, not under pain of death.

But like at some point when Goten is really little he'll refer to Vegeta as his uncle, which Vegeta will vehemently reject. He is adamant that Kakarot was not his brother, therefore he cannot be Goten's uncle. Unfortunately when the word 'brother' passes his lips Raditz's stupid face flashes in his mind's eye and this cannot be undone.

[bigkickguy]

some daan marcoh doodles around some dialogue bits I hit in game haha - gave me some thoughts on how one could think of daan if you only bumped into him at certain points? I don't remember the lines exactly but there were a few like this? 'Are you moving on? I guess we'll split ways here.' 'Someone has figure out how to treat these people...'

'You were very heroic stepping in there.' 'In the dark, your thoughts can really get to you out here...' 'Am... I... still a good man? Or...'

[canisalbus]

For how much Machete is described by others as off-putting, he really is a beautiful dog. Does Vasco ever tell him so? That his eyes make him look earnest, his fur the most comforting shade of white like cream, the way his ears catch light like stained glass? If someone doesn't tell him so, he'd forever think he was ugliest duckling

I think Vasco definitely tries, sincerely and often, but Machete is very reluctant to accept compliments and positive feedback. Especially if it's about something as personal and innate as his looks.

[vecnuthy]

"C'mon," Eddie said as he twisted the doorknob and grabbed Steve's hand.

The smell of rain hit Steve's nostrils when they stepped through the front door onto the porch to experience firsthand what they had been watching from behind the door. It was breezy and warm out due to the late spring storm rolling through their Indiana haunt, making the big metal wind chimes clang in low tones. The rain fell thick but with far more grace than Eddie did onto their glider, pulling Steve down with him and making him land awkwardly with an oof that Eddie definitely felt, judging by the wheeze he let out.

"How's your spleen?" Steve joked, shifting into a more comfortable position, his back against Eddie's chest, feet up on the footstool.

"A little banged up," he groaned out with a voice of somebody who had lived centuries, but that melted away when Eddie wrapped his arms around Steve's waist and held him close and spoke, grin evident, into the shell of his ear, "but I've got my favorite heating pad."

Steve's skin prickled to life and he smiled, eyes closed as Eddie rocked the glider into a slow motion. Thunder rolled lazily in the distance.

This was new. Not the two of them being together, but the two of them having this. A big porch. A glider. Those ridiculous wind chimes that Steve thought he'd never get used to but would now miss if they were gone. Their modest plot of land sprawled with more trees than lawn, but there was a big enough clearing to have a garden that they had taken full advantage of. There was privacy there. It was home, and Steve melted into Eddie's hold as they took in the steady, heavy patter of rain around them.

They stayed out there for a while and watched the way the rain bled down the tree trunks and saturated the soil. The leaves already looked more vibrant due to them soaking up the nitrogen the lightning provided, while the taller flowers sagged under the weight of the water trapped in their throats and coating their foliage. Despite the added weight, there was no denying how much better they looked already. It had been a couple of weeks since the last rain, and, honestly? Faucet water just wasn't the same.

"We needed this," Eddie muttered quietly into the crook of an all but dozing Steve's neck.

The only sign of life was his breathing and the lazy drag of his fingertips over the skin on Eddie's arm, still wrapped around his waist. Steve hummed in agreement, unable to resist adding on, "Alright, gramps."

He could feel Eddie's smile against his skin, could feel his teeth nip at what was probably a mole because Eddie was predictable and weak.

Which Steve couldn't say a thing about, because as Eddie's breath washed over and heated his skin, adding to their own humidity, Steve couldn't be paid to move.

And, god, that thunder. Every time it rumbled, Eddie's lips brushed against Steve's shoulder. Steve didn't even know if Eddie was aware he did it, and there was no way Steve was going to point it out and risk it stopping. The fear was totally unfounded (it's Eddie), but still he would keep it close, shelter it like a greedy dragon, because, like clockwork: thunder; feather light kiss. Or a nose rub. And sometimes, Eddie would sigh with contentment, too, chest rising and slowly falling, making Steve sink back into him. No troubles, no worries. Nothing but the rain, thunder, humidity, and mutual adoration.

Eddie was right. They needed this.

[dwellsinthebog]

he better not be throwing that old man around

[chandralia]

that blindfold challenge where someone has to guess who’s kissing them?? yeah Bakugo says “Deku” before their lips even touch, they’ve never kissed before either

[beeholyshit]

You know you made a promise Maroon

So please don't forget about it!!

[harbingersecho]

... and however hard I try to integrate Iʼll always remain alien

lowkey inspired by thiss