#day 591

[searchingwardrobes]

Battling Anxiety Day 591

Tagging @jrob64 @snowbellewells

[rooooobeeeeeee]

[haiku-every-day]

The people around, /

the ones that surround me now, /

I would have none else. /

[jaina-chaosweaver-of-fate]

Oh it is such a shame, When the enemy makes a mistake, And they shoulder all the blame, While the spoils are yours to take.

[chuusdayinnit]

[is-opm-back-yet]

No.

[lee-hakhyun]

orv side story

LMFAO it's not yoo joonghyuk if he isn't grabbing someone by the neck lee hakhyun and yoo joonghyuk interactions. finaklly i am SO happy

another reader,, this kid has read orv 50 times are these readers all insane JIYOON MENTIONED AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER? IS SHE OKAY???

...oh sooyoung :(

[redfagdiver]

Rainmaker

[admiralgiggles]

Italian Frigate (🤌) Virginio Fasan F 591

[astrometrych]

Astronomy #Space #Espace #Astrometry

[4unnyr0se]

❥ being kento nanami's wife

warnings: nanami being the best husband ever, mentions of overstimulation, mentions of breeding, nanami lowkey being a sugardaddy

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 591

Kento Nanami fucking loves his wife.

Everything about her was perfect, right down to the letter. The way your hair framed your pretty face just right made it look like a framed painting in the Met. The way your eyes shined like the most expensive gems in the whole world whenever you saw him after such a long day in the office. The way you would bound towards him the second Nanami entered his house, tackling him against the wall with hugs and kisses and his favorite dinner on the table that only you could properly make. 

The way you dressed up for him, no matter how silly his requests were. He brings home a new designer dress? You’re throwing a nice belt over it so it shows off the waist that Nanami so loves to caress and hold. He got you some new pumps? You’re walking around in them for at least a couple of weeks; the way your ass looked even better due to the arch support in the heels. Has he bought you new and expensive lingerie from Paris? You’re all dressed up for him, displayed on the silk sheets of your Alaskan king mattress, looking like a present for him to unwrap. Nanami loved that he didn’t even have to ask you for these things; you just did them to make him happy. You, the most perfect wife, knew precisely what he wanted the minute he wanted it. 

And you were so good in the bedroom, so well-behaved, always doing exactly what he wants with no questions asked. Nanami wants you from behind? Ass up, face down in seconds with your dripping cunt on display for him to play with at his whim. Angry at a coworker that was being an asshole to him? He’s taking his anger out by fucking you stupid, your pretty wrists bound above your head with his spotted tie as he ranted and complained about his coworkers while pistoning in and out of your pussy without a thought for how many orgasms you’ve already had. Did you complete all your chores today and got caught up on tomorrow as well? He has you sitting on his face, riding his tongue as he desperately laps at your delicious arousal, his strong hands wrapping themselves around your plush thighs so you couldn’t squirm away. 

His cock was so painfully huge as well, long and girthy and oh so veiny with the prettiest pink tip that was constantly kissing your cervix. Nanami thinks it’s adorable how you swore up and down that you could handle his dick every time, babbling nonsense into his ear as he fucked you so expertly with his appendage. Your nails scratching and clawing at his back as your legs wrapped around his thin waist, shaking and twitching as another orgasm hit you like a runaway train. You could never say no to your handsome husband, but he always knew when you wanted to stop cumming and just cuddle, usually after he’s cum inside of you a couple of times.

His muscular frame cuddles you every night, no matter the temperature of the room. His arms pull you against his chest, scared you would disappear once morning came. Nanami often fell asleep to the sound of your cute little kitten snores, mesmerized by how his hickeys danced a ballet on your pretty neck. Every morning, he would wake up, and you would be in the kitchen, happily making his breakfast and humming a little tune.

Fuck, Kento Nanami fucking loves you. 

[charliemwrites]

Hiiiii! So I’m not super thrilled with this but I’ve been having a time of it at work so I worked on this when I could 🙃

Not sure if there will be a second part yet tbh we’ll see!

Edit: almost forgot to add that the gorgeous divider below is by @gildui they have some absolutely beautiful cod themed dividers.

Carrion

Reader comes back Wrong

Content: implied/referenced torture, injury, suicide reference/implicated “pact” (by background character), lack of wound care

The breakup was bad.

Not in the top 3 of Simon’s worst nightmare-inducing memories - but likely top 5. He certainly wakes up chest aching and eyes burning often enough for it to be a solid contender. He’s haunted by tears that dripped like acid and the cracks in your voice deafening him.

On bad days, he thinks he can still see you shuffling down the halls, eyes sunken and red-rimmed, dark circles and chapped lips. Anger giving way to resignation giving way to pain and sadness. The rest of the team tight-lipped and wincing, no sides taken, shoulders and ears offered equally in commiseration.

Your misery wanted no company, though.

You didn’t tell Simon that you were leaving. Gaz let slip over a subdued but obligatory game of cards, you’d be gone for a long time - loaned out to Laswell.

Simon didn’t go to see you off. Didn’t ask why you were leaving or accuse you of being too immature to be on a team with him. He didn’t wish you good luck, stay safe with the rest of the team on the tarmac at 0-dark when you took off.

He should have.

Price says you’ll be gone for six months. Just six. It’s better this way, he reminds them when Johnny balks. His eyes are on Simon, though, when he adds that you need to get your head on straight, and you weren’t able to do it with them.

So. Six months.

Simon stops expecting you on his left. Stops smelling your shampoo lingering on bits of clothes he pretended not to notice you steal. He still dreams about you begging him not to push you away.

183 days come and go.

On day 184, Laswell sends word - your temporary team likes you quite a bit. They want you to stay on for one more month… one more mission… one more…

Six months turns to ten.

312 days since you left; since you were home.

The team hasn’t stopped leaving a space for you at their tables, right between Gaz and Price. You miss your own birthday. Laswell says she’ll pass along well wishes.

The situation changes. A target resurfaces. All hands on deck, including yours.

374 days. Twelve months and some change.

They don’t spend the holidays with you, but there’s a stack of presents waiting in Price’s office. Your mugs have collected dust in the back of the rec room cabinet.

Laswell says you’re still deployed on one last mission, return TBD. Soon, though.

487 days. Still TBD. Soon. Really. Just some loose ends to tie up.

561 days. There was some trouble during exfil but you’re alright. Just a bit of recovery.

You’re coming home.

590 days. You’ll land at 0700 tomorrow.

It’s been 591 days since Simon last saw you. Since any of them last saw you.

Laswell has come to deliver you personally, a kind of apology for keeping you away so long. She’s the first off the transport and you’re right behind her.

Your hair is shorter. Much, much shorter. There’s a new patch on your jacket - memento from your temporary team, Simon figures.

Apart from that, you look… almost exactly how you did when you left. Dark circles under your eyes, mouth drawn and tight. There’s invisible weight compressing your shoulders, urging them in and down. But you’re there again. Just the way he remembers.

(Why are you the way he remembers?)

“Long time, no see,” Gaz calls, reaching for you.

There’s half a beat, you blink. Hesitate.

Then you grin and reach back.

“Missed my pretty face, did you?” you reply.

Johnny laughs and brings you in for a hug. You twitch hug him back, patting his shoulder as you pull away.

“Good to have you back, Sergeant,” Price says, shaking your hand.

You turn to Simon, nod in greeting, expression pleasant. “Ghost.”

So that’s how it’ll be? Alright.

“Sergeant.”

That night, you go out for drinks with the team and Laswell. Simon goes along to show there are no hard feelings.

(Not that you seem to need reassurance. It’s not even that you’re not looking at him. You are. Whenever he speaks, the rare times he does, or if he shifts in his seat. Your gaze doesn’t linger or jerk away, you treat him like you do Johnny and Gaz and Price.)

When Johnny mixes up your usual for Price’s, you don’t even seem to notice. But Simon does.

“When did you start drinking whiskey?” he wonders.

You used to swear you’d never like it, claiming it tasted like boot polish and the “Boys Club” wasn’t worth the indigestion it gave you.

“Someone from my other team,” you say by way of explanation.

You don’t ask for another whiskey. Laswell gets the rest of your drinks for that night.

Simon turns into the rec room two days later and finds you already there. There’s only the light above the sink on, and you’re staring at the steady drip, drip, drip from the faucet. A cup of black coffee cools in your hand. You’re already wearing gloves.

“Sugar’s in the left now,” he calls.

Your head twitches, something pops in your neck.

“Oh, thanks,” you chirp, turning for the cabinet. “Sleep okay, LT?”

“‘Bout as well as I ever do,” he replies gruffly, sidling up next to you for the kettle.

You hum. There’s a yellow packet in your hand. (Didn’t you used to like the blue one?)

“I get that,” you sympathize.

He snorts. Since when?

“Do you?”

When he glances down, you’re not looking at him. Instead, you’re trying (and failing) to get the sink to stop dripping.

“You know that’s been broken for ages,” he says.

At least as long as the 141 has been around. You tried to fix it once when you first joined up, too, with no luck.

“Right,” you say. A little too quickly, a little too agreeably. “Well, anyway, enjoy your tea, Lieutenant.”

You leave the packet of sugar behind. Unopened.

You’re back and it’s like it used to be - not just before you left, but before the breakup. Before there was ever anything to break up.

Your time away seems to have given you whatever space from Simon you were hoping for, because you act like there was never anything at all.

He’s half expecting, dreading, that you’ll pull him aside at some point. Ask for a word after dinner, or swing by his room before bed. Talk about the break up now that cooler heads prevail and 19 months have sanded down the rough feelings. Seek closure, maybe.

But you don’t. The weeks pass until a month has gone and you never exchange more than easy pleasantries with Simon. You give him space, give him privacy. Things you never used to give him much of before, for better or worse.

You fool around with Gaz and Johnny, trade quips with Price, and follow Simon’s orders. Train recruits. Write reports.

You’re back, better than ever.

So why does it feel like Simon’s still waiting for you to return?

You’re always dressed now, head to toe. Day or night, rain or shine. From the neck down you’re in full sleeves, long pants, boots and gloves.

It doesn’t occur to anyone until you’re sweating through your compression shirt in the gym. Wipe your shiny forehead for the dozenth time before Johnny says, “why not just take it off?”

“It’s not that bad,” you laugh, waving him off.

When you lie down to bench press, Simon notes the bottom of your shirt tucked tight into your waistband. He exchanges a glance with Johnny - he’s seen it too.

You used to dress in shorts and sports bras during exercise, a towel over your shoulder. In the common room, you’d mill in tank-tops and boxers. Even used to trot down the hall swaddled in a towel or robe, mumbling that you forgot a razor or some other toiletry before showering.

“What, did ye get an embarrassing tattoo or somethin’?” Johnny asks finally.

You blink at him, expression bemused. “A tattoo? Why do you think I have a tattoo?”

“Yer covered up like a nun on Sunday. It cannae be comfortable.”

You snort. “Just because you’re allergic to clothes, MacTavish…”

“Allergic?! Wha’s tha’ s’posed t’mean?!”

Gaz barks a laugh. You grin and continue your workout.

Simon tries not to be disturbed by the name “MacTavish” coming off your tongue for the first time since you met.

It’s your first mission since you’ve been back. You have new gear, a new handgun. Something’s been carved into the side of the barrel in Cyrillic, Simon can’t read it. A new callsign.

(“What kind of a name is Carry-on?” Johnny teases, but he doesn’t quite hide the unease in his eyes.

You snort and lace your boots tighter. The edge of you sleeve inches up, revealing the curve of a glossy scar that wasn’t there before.

“You’re one to talk Mister Maybelline.”)

Someone painted an upside down cross on the temple of your helmet with their finger. You thumb it before stuffing it over your head.

“You ready for this?” Gaz asks, knocking his knee into yours. The two of you have been paired together for this mission. (Was it Simon’s imagination, or did you look annoyed that you would have a partner?)

“Always,” you reply.

Simon doesn’t hear what happens, but Gaz looks shellshocked when you haul him into the helicopter during exfil. You shake him a bit once everything is secure and the bird’s in the air.

“Garrick,” you shout, “c’mon, where did he get you?”

It takes him a second but he blinks, offers his arm for your inspection. You move with a speed even Simon is impressed by, tearing into the nearby med kit almost viciously. Gaz is patched up in record time and you sit back with blood on your hands, barely even seem to notice as you wipe them carelessly on your pants.

(You used to be more squeamish, weren’t you? You used to be the last one they asked for medical care because seeing your teammates in pain made you nauseous.)

“What about you?” Gaz asks after a small eternity.

You yawn. “What about me?”

“You got nicked too, didn’t you?”

Simon takes a second look at you and now that Gaz mentions it, you’re soaked in blood. Wet patches on your vest, your pants, dripping down your boots. It takes him a moment to notice the tear in your thigh, shredded flesh visible when you rock with the wind turbulence.

“Did I?” you wonder, glancing down like you only just noticed it.

Johnny curses, reaches for you - but you wave him off.

“It’s just a scratch,” you reply. “Barely even feel it, no worries.”

Then why is it still bleeding?

When the team lands, you hop off the heli without so much as a wince. Droplets of blood lead all the way back to your room.

(When Simon asks Nikolai about the hand-etching on your gun, he says the word means “promise.”)

In the after-action report, your callsign isn’t “Carry-On.” It’s Carrion.

Laswell takes you off the mission two months later, a joint assignment with KorTac. They send three operators to work with TF141 - Stiletto, Konig, and Nikto.

On the transport to infil, Simon notices the Russian inspecting his handgun in a seat separated from the rest of the squad. He recognizes the Cyrillic carved into the barrel this time: Promise.

It’s an eerie, creeping suspicion. An anxious fog rolling in.

It’s not one single thing that trips an alarm in Simon’s head, but a steady collation of oddities over months. A single arhythmic beat, a note off key. Just once or twice, but over and over until he can’t notice anything else.

You act just like yourself except for all the minute ways you don’t.

You smile big and wide, sunshine bright, when they make a good joke. Your laugh is still the same, bubbling up in your throat, head thrown back. You smell the same when you pass Simon in the hall, shampoo and soap that’s haunted him for a year and a half.

It’s insidiously subtle; he can’t pinpoint what it is for the longest time. Your mannerisms are almost too practiced, the cadence of your voice too measured. A missing turn of phrase you often used, replaced by something unfamiliar.

Simon dismisses it as guilt-laden paranoia. The two of you ended on bad terms with a year and half worth of space between. He’s hardly one to gauge what’s normal for you anymore.

And besides, the few times someone else has noticed at those tiny yet all-too-obvious inconsistencies, you shrug it off as something you picked up while away.

But he catches Johnny’s brows furrow one afternoon as you light up a cig (after swearing for years that you’d never pick up the habit) and Simon knows he’s beginning to see it too.

“You ever notice,” Gaz begins slowly. You’re the only one missing from the rec room this evening, retired with a drawn-out yawn. “That Carrion always mentions being away, but never talks about it?”

Simon stills. Johnny’s eyes fly to Price, who’s grimly tapping at his crossword puzzle.

“The file’s redacted,” he says. He’s seen it too then, tried to investigate for himself.

“That’s normal for a mission like that,” Simon reasons carefully.

“I don’t mean the mission,” Price says. “I mean Carrion’s file.”

“This is a good movie,” you mumble from the armchair you’ve stolen from Price. “What’s it called?”

Simon exchanges glances with the rest of the team. No one points out that this is (used to be?) your favorite.

Price looks into the team you were loaned out to. All were KIA or remain MIA. All but one. His file has been scrubbed too, the only documents readable are discharge orders and a PMC contract, both associated with the callsign “Nikto.”

They’re running out of time.

Less than 36 hours on the clock with only one lead, and it’s a zealot with a suicide pact. Price and Laswell both took a crack at him with nothing to show for it. Even Ghost has gotten hardly anything and he’s running out of nails. With time, he might get something useful, but they don’t have much of that left.

In the anteroom looking into interrogation, you’ve been observing through the one-way glass with your hands in your pockets, head tilted, expression serene.

Price and Laswell are discussing strategy, contingencies. Gaz and Johnny are throwing in their two cents, but Simon… Simon is watching you.

Like medical, torture used to be your Achilles. You were trained like the rest of the team, but there was never any need for you to step into the room yourself. Hell, you were a last resort even for observation or emergency resuscitation. No one blamed you for having a weak stomach for information extraction.

But today, you glance over your shoulder and make eye contact with Laswell.

“I’ll handle it,” you say with an air of finality.

The room goes silent. Price opens his mouth, but it’s Laswell that speaks, voice hard with resignation.

“Do it.”

You don’t blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walk out the door without a backwards glance, shoulders loose but each step steady and purposeful.

“What the hell is going on, Kate?” Price demands.

Kate sighs, looks away as you enter the interrogation room.

“Let’s do this outside. It won’t take long to get that intel.”

The only thing she’s able to share is that you and your team were captured. For a long time. And then you’re already stepping out of the interrogation room, wiping your bloodied hands off on an old rag.

There’s an unusual glint in your eye, an unnatural stillness in your expression.

“Got what we need,” you announce cheerfully.

[devildomwriter]

Fun Facts 591-600

• In season one, Solomon allows Asmo to spoon feed him.

• Belphegor’s room in the Celestial Palace was filled to the brim with things from the human world

• Simeon sent Michael pictures of Lucifer in his chess outfit and Michael liked it so much Simeon had to mute his phone because he wouldn’t stop texting him about it

• Mammon contemplated seducing Barbatos to get into the Demon Lord’s Castle but chickened out

• When Asmodeus asks the May the Maid doll who the fairest of them all is she responds Lucifer which infuriates him

• Solomon taught the angels how to pole dance

• Michael used to sneak into Lucifer’s room and Lucifer would yell at him about it.

• Diavolo helps rats escape the castle before Barbatos can find them

• To make up for upsetting Barbatos, Solomon tried his job for a day and was very confused when Diavolo wanted tea for the fifth time and a celestial realm cake and expected him to be able to get it.

• Luke and Simeon tried a curse that let Luke control his movements. Luke had him pose like a gangster and Lucifer asked where he’d learned that.

581-590 • 601-610

[everydayspamton]

day 591 of drawing spamton every day until deltarune chapter 3

[lcriedlastnight]

Lando waking up before reader and just staring at her, pulling her close then falling asleep with reader in his arms (reader was awake the entire time but just let him)

eeeeeeee, i love soft lando :)

tw: fem!reader, she's short, lmk if you want me to add anything.

w/c: 591

it was one of those rare days where lando was able to sleep in. no racing duties tied him down today, so that only meant one thing. he was yours for the full day.

the early mornings must have reset his body clock though because here he was, awake before you, the sun shining through the gap in the curtains. the boy could not be bothered to check the time but if he was to guess he would say it was around eight o'clock. way too early for him to awake on his day off. he knew you would tell him that if you found out he was awake right now.

it was awfully weird how both of you woke up sometimes. lando was always complaining that you moved too much in your sleep. all he wanted to do was hold you close throughout the night but you always were one for tossing and turning in your sleep. lando had worried that your sleep was not a restful as it should be but even though you were constantly rotating around the bed you slept soundly. you were sure you could sleep through a hurricane.

so it shocked lando, when he opened his eyes to find your sleeping form facing him. not that he was not appreciative of the view. your boyfriend always did favour your sleeping form as one of the best to admire. he thought you looked your prettiest when all the stresses of the previous days had melted off your features and been replaced with a content and relaxed face.

lando sighs a little and pulls you closer to him, not too close where you were hidden from his view but close enough that he was happy with the amount of touch he was receiving from your sleeping form.

lando's hand comes up to brush some stray hairs from your closed eyes as he stares holes into you. "pretty girl." he says to himself, thumb tracing its own little path on your cheek before his hand moves back to rest in its original resting place, your waist. well to be specific, underneath the baggy t-shirt that you had stolen from lando, tracing gentle circles across the dip in your back.

he eventually gives into the sleep that feels like it is pulling his eyes closed. the boy would sit there and stare at you forever if he could, but unfortunately sleep was calling him back. lando's hand moves back up to the back of your head to push it into his chest, where he presses a few kisses onto your hairline - he could not help himself.

lando feels your breath hit his chest and it brings him a weird feeling that he was much too tired to name right now. all he knew was that he liked it and it made him happy. lando matches your breathing and finally feels himself fall into light sleep alongside you. well so he thought. unbeknown to lando, you had actually been awake for maybe under a hour. you had not wanted to wake up so you just lay with your eyes closed, listening to lando's own sleepy breathing until you had felt him shift as he woke. it was so difficult to try and keep your composure as he treated you like a princess. you had to return the favour once you were both awake later on. you lay thinking of ideas, which does, eventually send you back into another sleep. sleepy sunday mornings with lando were your favourite you had decided.

[luvjunie]

miles “i got it” morales earth 42 miles 591 words

Between the both of you, Miles is always the first to stand up when the bell rings at the end of class. With all the textbooks you bring to school, he knows your backpack is just one mechanical pencil away from hitting a ton and for that reason he never lets you carry it yourself. In fact, he makes it his mission to pick it up before you do. With his own backpack on one shoulder, he’ll watch for the exact moment you’re done tucking your supplies away just to interrupt you as you’re mid-reach so he can scoop it up into his free hand by the top handle.

“I got it.”

Miles always pays for you guys’ dates. You knew this wasn’t abnormal when it came to relationships, seeing as he’s the guy, you’re the girl, and that’s just the ‘societal norm’ or whatever. It’s how your dad told you a male should treat the girl he’s with, and based off how Miles acts, you assumed his own father had given him the same speech as well before he passed. But even when you two take a stroll to the corner store to pick up some cheap snacks for a study session—the total coming out to as little as $4.37 for some sunchips and sour gummy worms—he still won’t let you pay.

He’s already getting his wallet out before the cashier can read the total off. And when you try and protest, he’s all—

“I got it.”

When your laces have come undone and you hadn’t noticed.

“Ma, your shoe’s untied.”

You’ll stop in your tracks and look down at your loosened laces, prepared to hand your phone off to him so you can bend down to tie them, and like always—

“I got it.”

When the pizza you ordered an hour ago finally shows up at the door and you get the ‘arrived’ notification on your phone—which he’s already seen because he’s always looking over your shoulder as you scroll your time away on tiktok, watching them with you as an excuse to be all up on you—you can bet your life on what his response will be.

“I got it.”

You knew he only wanted to be a gentleman, but at this point, you were convinced ‘I got it’ was his middle name instead of Gonzalo.

For a while now, Miles has felt like he has to take responsibility and do everything even when something isn’t asked of him, and you wanted him to know that same sentiment didn’t have to apply to the two of you. So you started trying to beat him at his own game.

Brushing past him and rushing down the concrete steps of his apartment building to make it to the passenger side door and open it for yourself before he can.

Keeping your backpack on the opposite side of your desk so you can have the chance to pick it up before him, even if it earns you a subtle glare each time. And while some days it really is too heavy for you to carry—heavy enough to make you question exactly what point you’re trying to prove here—you remain determined.

Having cash ready and smacking it down on the peeling countertop of the bodega before your snacks have even been rung up, and regardless of how insane you look and how the clerk squeezes his face at you to confirm that, the triumphant grin you give Miles (who’s struggling to contain a smile of his own) doesn’t falter.

“I got it.”