#electric kettle brand

[toytulini]

i may not be able to open posts from my notes or messages or get more context on posts via looking at the notes, but at least i can make fucked up coffee properly now

[apollo-zero-one]

I could get a hotplate, an electric kettle, and a camping sink- the kind with a foot pump and a refillable reservoir- and a washbasin with a scrub rack, and a 5 gallon water jug. And I could make my bedroom into a tiny apartment. I am retreating from my family and if I can't move out, I will simply move inward. I will pay whatever rent they decide on given my continued use of space, water, electricity, and the wifi. I will however make it clear that I am no longer contributing to groceries and will be taking nothing else from the kitchen ever again, nor will I be making any use of any of the dishware. I will reclaim my mini fridge and the handful of cutlery and bowls I purchased when I briefly lived in a dorm, and they will not leave my new mini apartment.

[pathologicalreid]

for the fear of falling apart | epilogue

good things come to those who wait, and you're finally getting your happy ending

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | epilogue

series masterlist

who? spencer reid x jareau!reader category: fluff (there's a first time for everything) content warnings: spoilers for criminal minds evolution but nothing super detailed, dad!spencer, babies, breastfeeding, takes place during s16, cancer, spencer's "special assignment" is just him being a dad word count: 1.74k a/n: the spencer reid dilf agenda is at the center of the universe. i cant believe ffofa is over. this is just a short and sweet look into what r and spencer are doing during cme - aka being parents. (the gif has nothing to do with the chapter he just looks so sexy)

“Where is she?” Spencer asked, minding the hour as he hung his token leather satchel in the entryway. He peeked around the living room before making his way to where you were in the kitchen, closing up your book of crosswords before he saw the clues and gave you all of the answers – a habit of his that you had been begging him to break.

Affixing your pen to the cover of the puzzle book, you hummed in response to his question, “It’s nine p.m., she’s asleep, in her crib.” You turned to face him, “And you may not go up there and get her,” you caught at his hand as you noticed him moving toward the stairs, “You will not wake that baby up, Spencer Reid.”

He accepted his defeat, coming back and gently wrapping his arms around you, “Did she go down okay?”

“No,” you answered bluntly, reciprocating his hug by reaching your arms up and slinging them over his shoulders. “She never does when you’re not home,” you added, providing a fact that he was already well aware of.

Spencer chuckled softly into the crook of your neck, “I thought I would’ve been able to get away earlier.”

You were unbothered, leaning into his touch, “Bedtime is at 7:30, you never would’ve made it in time.” His faculty event at school started at seven. It had been scheduled to run until midnight, but Spencer always made the effort to be home with you at the end of every day. The two of you hadn’t missed a tea date since before your daughter was born.

“But now it’s too late for us to do anything of substance,” he said, separating himself from you to switch on the electric kettle, looking over his shoulder at you, silently asking if you wanted tea.

Nodding at him, you watched as he pulled two mugs from the cabinet and dropped tea bags in each of them, “We can watch that documentary you were talking about last night.”

“You’ll fall asleep,” he countered. It was a symptom of motherhood that you hadn’t seen coming, falling asleep while watching anything.

You shrugged, “She’ll wake up to eat, I’ll wake up to feed her.” While your otherwise perfect daughter had mastered sleeping through the night within her first few months earthside, teething had ruined any semblance of a sleep schedule she had, so, she started crying to eat in the middle of the night.

Your husband didn’t seem convinced, but he grabbed the kettle off of its base and poured the hot water into your mugs, sliding a bureau-branded one toward you and keeping the octopus mug for himself. “Last time you fell asleep on the couch and I tried to get you to bed you threw things at me,” he reminded you, stirring honey into his tea before handing the sweetener to you.

“I threw a pillow at you,” you disputed, drizzling the honey into your mug before asking him to put the dish back up in the cabinet.

He rolled his eyes, leaning over the counter and smiling at you, a sweet, dopey, Harlequin romance smile. “I probably deserved it,” he acquiesced, bringing his mug to his lips and taking a sip of the lavender tea.

Spinning your mug on the counter in front of you, you raised your eyebrows and considered changing the subject, but you were lacking any kind of segue material, “So, JJ called me today,” you said.

Spencer set his octopus mug on the counter and frowned, “Are they still having problems?” He asked, resting his chin in his hands and keeping his attention on you.

Nodding, you shared a knowing look with him. Havoc had been wreaked on the BAU since Penelope left. You were lucky enough to be on maternity leave while administrators tore your unit apart and Spencer was on a special assignment – playing the long game on a case that the bureau felt needed to be closed. “I still can’t believe they dragged Penelope back, she was so content with SOAR,” you griped, knowing how much the techie’s life had improved since leaving the FBI.

“I can,” Spencer admitted, “There’s no BAU without Penelope Garcia. There were four people in that tech room trying to do the work she did,” he said, picking his mug back up before making his way around the kitchen island and sitting in the bar stool next to yours.

You leaned back in your stool, with Matt out on an assignment of his own, the BAU’s numbers had gone down drastically. “In better news, Dave went home,” you told Spencer, pointing your sock-covered foot out to nudge him gently.

His expression softened, “Good, the hotel was getting…”

“Yeah,” you agreed, sipping at your tea. Krystall had been the picture of health until she wasn’t, and losing her had nearly sent Rossi to a place you feared he’d never come back from. “Anyway, JJ asked if we were still alright with hosting Christmas this year,” you recalled from the phone call, “I said yes.”

Spencer nodded in agreement, “Have they heard anything from the oncologist?”

You frowned helplessly, “Not yet, depending on the results they might have to do more tests. I offered to take the boys next weekend if they need the time, J’s afraid mom will blab to Henry.”

“You miss it,” Spencer observed, eyes flitting over to the baby monitor on the counter.  

Rolling your eyes, “You do a job for nine years, you’re going to miss it when you take time off. Don’t act like you don’t,” you chided gently, smiling into your mug. When the bureau took everything you had been through into account, they willingly offered you an extended maternity leave, which you took without a second thought. However, you hadn’t anticipated feeling so disconnected from the team.

Spencer pursed his lips, “I do, but I like being home with you and Mila more.”

Leaning forward, you reached out and took his hand in yours, “Baby, if you want to go back to the BAU full-time, you know I’d never, ever get in the way of that.”

He shook his head dismissively, “No, not yet at least, but someday.”

The BAU was home, you knew that well enough, but now he had a home with you and Amelia. That wasn’t something he’d give up easily. You watched Spencer at he looked at the baby monitor again, “Stop praying on my downfall, she’ll wake up soon.”

Taking your empty mug in his hands, he set both yours and his in the kitchen sink, “I love you,” he told you.

Your face warmed at the expression, one of those times where there just wasn’t anything else he wanted to say – he just needed to tell you that he loved you. “I love you too,” you said, happily basking in what you assumed was your lingering new parent glow – the two of you were stronger than ever.

Quietly, Spencer loaded the rinsed mugs into the dishwasher before closing it, coming back around the counter and stopping in his tracks when a phone started to ring.

Dropping your head to the counter, you waited for the inevitable wailing to come from the nursery, when the cries started, you looked up at Spencer, “You get her, I’ll get the phone,” you negotiated.

Fishing the ringing phone – Spencer’s – off of the coffee table, you frowned at the caller ID before bringing the screen to your ear. “I need to talk to your wife,” a frantic voice said on the other end.

“Hi, Penny,” you greeted, eyes drifting to the top of the stairs where Spencer was emerging with a squawking baby in his arms.

Penelope gasped on the other end of the call, “I so very desperately need your advice. Do you remember me telling you about Tyler?” She sounded almost out of breath.

You hummed in response, “The guy from the serial killer website?” You wondered where she was going with this – technically the team wasn’t supposed to share case information with you, but that had never stopped any of them.

“Yes, that one,” she confirmed, “I kissed him.”

Surprised, you dropped down onto the couch, looking up at Spencer as you searched for an appropriate response to Penelope’s confession, “Emily is going to kill you.”

The other end of the call was silent except for Penelope trying to articulate a retort. Spencer frowned at you, swaying gently with Amelia in his arms, “What happened?”

Moving the mouthpiece away, you looked up at him, “She kissed a material witness,” you told him, watching as he clamped his lips together in a failed attempt to hide his amusement.

“This is serious,” she scolds over the phone. “I need a debrief. Coffee tomorrow?”

You nodded as the baby grew increasingly impatient in Spencer’s arms – his chest was just no good to her. “Hold on,” You said over the phone, waving for Spencer to hand the baby off to you so you could feed her.

He settled her in your arms, helping you as best he could before he was in the way, “You’ve got her?”

Spencer pressed a soft kiss to your hairline when you told him you were fine, bringing the phone back up once Mila latched, “Hey, so tomorrow, nine?” You offered, peering down as the baby nursed for comfort. “I can meet you at the kiosk in front of Quantico if that’s easier.”

Penelope sighed dramatically, “As long as you bring your pretty face and your pretty baby, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lobbing the phone across the couch cushions, you leaned back slightly, adjusting the baby when she was done so that she could hopefully drift back to sleep. Your husband came back downstairs, having swapped his work clothes and contacts for pajamas and glasses, he deftly sat down next to you and took the baby.

Carefully, he settled her on his chest, letting her tiny limbs curl in neatly as she let out sweet coos, brown eyes fluttering shut as Spencer gently swiped his thumb across her back. That little girl had him wrapped around his finger from the moment he knew about her existence.

You shifted to rest your head on his shoulder, watching Mila drift off into her dreams, “Are you going to fall asleep like this?” Spencer asked you, keeping his voice at a whisper.

Humming, you shut your eyes briefly, “Yeah, this is my favorite show.”

taglist: @football1921 @thedancingnerdmermaid @dollarstore-lydia-deetz @cillsnostalgia @alivesarcastically

@hellsingalucard18 @poetoflawed @lillysfrogsandbogs @mega-kittyglitter-1 @sndixz

@k-corbett @nott-my-riddle @guiltyyassin @starkeyellow @rainydayathogwarts

@roblino @awildfirestarting @getawaycarsficrecs @syd-maximoff @melodyflowersblog

@stargirlls-world @ovando13 @cxtherine

[emilys-bangs]

we were wild and fluorescent (come home to my heart) | e.p

Tags: established relationship, rockstar!emily, no use of yn, use of petnames, smoking, fluff

Summary: You’re your girlfriend’s muse. She writes a song about you.

Word count: 2.6k

inspired by this post

Emily Prentiss is captivating. She has the world on its knees with a blink of deep brown eyes, has the strings of fate at her mercy with a tilt of red lips and a flash of dimples. On the stage, she reigns over people’s hearts, capturing them with a riff of her electric guitar, a toss of her raven hair back as she dances to her own music.

She’s gorgeous and alluring and unattainable, flitting past people’s extended hands with sly smiles. The envy of fellow artists and the dream of every youth, her pictures are hung up on walls, her songs continually hummed on tongues, her talent dissected by critics whom she blows away with a few honeyed lyrics. 

Her image is striking; with her cherry red guitar and her bold eyeliner and her leather jackets that barely brush the bottom of her ass. She wears silver rings on fingers with bitten nails and has small, colorful tattoos littering her body and takes pictures of her cat more often than of herself, so much so that Sergio has unironically and unexpectedly become her mascot, another unique brand on her already formidable name.

On the stage she’s untouchable, dressed in black and red and leather, a sheen of sweat making her glow, the darkness of her eyes made darker by the liner she draws on her skin. She’s a wild, electric thing in front of the crowds, buzzing with intensity, brimming with energy, larger than life.

And she’s all yours.

“Hi, dolcezza.”

Her body crashes into yours. She’s warm, the scent of her perfume mixing with the clean scent of her sweat. It’s a mix you’re well acquainted with, one that feels like home. The rougher quality of her voice makes your stomach swoop as you hug her back and ignore the buzz of backstage, the eyes drawn to your girlfriend—and consequently, you. 

“Hi, Em.” A smile lights up your face as she nuzzles into your neck, her fingers twisting in your shirt. She always claims she misses you after a show. “You were amazing up there.” You murmur, squeezing the leather-clad skin of her hips.

Emily glows, her eyes brightening at your praise. “It felt great,” she breathes. Her tongue skips over her lips, her cheeks flushed from the heat and adrenaline. There’s always a certain buzz to her after she performs, an incandescence that outlines her in gold. There are stars in her eyes, lightning in the curve of her lips. 

She’s radiant.

Emily takes you back home and heightens her high, pressing you into her mattress and drowning in your skin, your scent, the beat of your heart. Her fingers wander over your collarbone and the line of your jaw, lips pressing against yours to swallow the sweet sounds you’re unable to hold back. She’s always like this after a show—if exhaustion doesn’t pull her under—needy for you and determined to spend hour after hour imprinting the feel of you onto her skin.

When you’re both sated and your legs have turned into jelly, she coaxes you into the shower. There you press her against the tiles and taste the water off her skin before gently, reverently washing away the sweat of the night from her body, using careful fingers and jasmine soap.

After the shower you dress in an oversized shirt and she wears a satin short pajama set, the material slipping over the marble of her counter as she lifts herself onto it and watches you make her the usual drink after every show; chamomile tea with honey. Making it has become a routine, something to soothe her throat and ease her into sleep after a night of pumping adrenaline and burning it off.

Emily watches you prepare her tea. Your movements are light and practiced as you slip your way through the kitchen, the socks on your feet softening your steps. She hears you hum out a familiar tune over the rumble of the kettle—a song of hers, she then realizes, biting her lip to hide a smile as you pour the hot water into a mug.

As you stand there, your wet hair soaking your shirt, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks as you steep the tea and squeeze in a generous amount of honey, she feels the light of inspiration hit her, swift and sudden as lightning. Lyrics form in her head, uncoordinated and incomplete, but the more she looks at you the more they rush forward.

“Oh,” she breathes, sliding off the counter and rushing to grab a notebook, a piece of paper, anything to write the words down on before they disappear.

“Em?” You call out after her, brows knotting together at her sudden departure. From the kitchen you can see her rummaging for something in the living room, damp hair falling across her shoulders. 

“Hey, everything alright?” You ask as you walk into the living room, the mug of tea forgotten. Emily doesn’t respond. 

When you see the notebook in her hands, it all makes sense. Her lip is between her teeth as she raises her index finger, an indication for you to shut up while she frantically scribbles something. With a fond smile and a roll of your eyes, you oblige and go back to fetch her tea, setting it on the coffee table in front of her before sitting next to her on the couch. 

You sink back on the cushions and watch her in silence, smiling at the way she stares off into the distance. She taps her pen in a quick pattern on the side of her notebook, her gaze distant and glassy; you can almost see the gears turn in her head. Then she perks up, her eyes brightening with a familiar spark as she returns to writing vigorously, her hand flying across the paper. 

She’s lost in her own world by this point. Smiling, you rise and kiss the top of her head, lips lingering on her raven hair before you flit about the living room in search of your pack of cigarettes. If Emily’s writing, you know it’ll be a long night.

Finally locating the pack and slipping a cigarette between your lips, you light it and pad back to the couch, socks slipping on the floorboards as the smoke exits your mouth with a low exhale.

Unsurprisingly, Emily is still bent over her notebook, though now she rests her back on the couch and gazes down thoughtfully at the words rather than writing manically. You smile and pick up her discarded tea, nudging it into her hand.

“Drink.”

She obliges, her smile disappearing beneath the rim of the mug when she brings it to her lips. Her eyes meet yours over it as she drinks and you blow out another puff of smoke, before darting down to the notebook. Emily picks up the pen again and scrawls a few lines. She settles the mug precariously on her thigh and holds out her hand without looking up.

Rolling your eyes, you hand her your cigarette.

The two of you share it back and forth as you lean over her shoulder, peeking at her lyrics despite her initial, displeased grunt. When you nuzzled your nose into her cheek, however, and let your lips ghost over her jaw, she relaxed and stayed silent. 

Moments like these always feel special, like there’s something big cresting right over your heads, something life changing, earth shattering, even when it starts as nothing more than words on paper. You feel the magic in the air, feel Emily’s genius and her passion and her love for her craft as she labors over songs with furrowed eyebrows, tweaking and editing until everything is just right.

A few crossed out lines and torn out pages later, she has a complete song. The cigarette has long since been stubbed out and Emily’s mug is drained, the tea bag drying in a tiny pool of leftover chamomile. You read over her shoulder, a light blush on your cheeks at the words Emily has written, for you.

“That’s really good, Em.” You say softly and run your fingers through a few strands of her hair, tucking it behind her ear so you can kiss her cheek. Her dimple appears beneath your lips.

“Mm, let’s see how it sounds on the guitar.” She turns and catches your lips in a quick kiss before extracting herself from your arms.

And the two of you stay up until night starts blending into day, your legs crossed on the couch as Emily tries out riffs and tunes, sings out her lyrics with high pitches and lows. The exhaustion of the day doesn’t register in either of your bodies as you go through the song with her, offering your opinions and your praise, your cheeks heating until they’re close to the color of her guitar. It makes your heart pound, how her love for you produced something tangible, something you could almost hold in both your palms. 

She titles the song and writes down the notes, noting the highs and lows, where she softens her voice to almost a whisper and where she lets it build into a strong cadence, aided by the grit in the back of her throat. By the time your girlfriend sets aside her notebook and guitar it’s somewhere near three in the morning, the whole world asleep except for the two of you.

You’ve witnessed this very process of creating countless times, and yet it never ceases to blow you away. Sometimes it happens over days, sometimes weeks; but sometimes she’s lucky and it takes only hours.

“That was amazing, Emily.” You tell her, your voice hushed with awe. She has your legs over her lap, one of her hands lightly resting on your ankle bone.

Emily sighs softly. “You’re my muse, dolcezza.” She murmurs, her voice like silk in your ears. “The air in my lungs and the light in my soul.” She takes your jaw in her hand and kisses you, slow, as your cheeks burn.

Her hands squeeze your waist, wander over the bare skin of your thighs. The coarse calluses on her fingertips scrape over your skin and you shiver. Emily pulls away, staying just close enough to keep your lips touching, her forehead resting against yours. 

“Still in writer mode?” You try to tease, the words escaping breathily against her mouth.

“Always in writer mode when I’m with you.” She replies, taking your lips in another kiss.

Though security stands guard outside, though the cook sleeps quietly upstairs, in this moment, it’s just you and her.

——

By the time her next show rolls around, she’s perfected the song.

“Stay still,” you murmur, a chiding tone to your voice as you finish up Emily’s makeup. “And keep your eyes closed.” She just had to start getting jittery during the eyeliner.

“Sorry.” She stills, her hands lightly grabbing for your waist, but her lips turn up at the corners. Backstage, she’s careless about hiding her affection for you, quite openly calling you nicknames and linking your fingers through hers—not that you mind in the slightest. You shake your head, smiling in half fondness, half exasperation as you sharpen her wing. 

The reason for her abundant excitement is obvious. She’d been going over her new song—editing it, recording it at the studio, singing out the lyrics at odd times—and tonight she’ll be releasing it out into the open for the first time. A similar excitement runs through your veins, but you steady your hand as you cap the eyeliner and take out her lipstick.

Sometimes she has time for this. Time to brush away her makeup artist and take you by the hand instead, her grin bashful and sly all at once as she asks you to do her makeup instead. You never say no, knowing that the possibility of her passing out after a show is a big one.

“All done.” You wipe gently at a smudge of lipstick on the corner of her mouth.

Emily’s eyes flutter open. “How do I look?” She grins, the action carving two dimples into her cheeks.

Unfairly gorgeous. In this moment, you almost resent the crowd waiting for her just outside. But you smile and brush her dark hair away from her face. You’ll have her after. 

“Perfect as ever.” You wink. 

Emily takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, her lips catching on one of the rings adorning your fingers. Your breath hitches as her eyes meet yours, dark and lovely as she says, “Thank you, mi amor.” Dropping your hand, she cups your jaw instead and kisses your cheek. “I’ll be sure to treat you extra well when we get home, hmm?”

Your skin heats. Before you can grab her hip and keep her close, someone calls for her—five minutes till show time. She steps back, her lips leaving your skin, the warmth of her replaced by the cold air of backstage. 

Emily winks, “See you on the other side.”

“Blow me a kiss.” You tease.

She throws you a salute and you laugh, barely getting time to look after her retreating from before one of the organizers ushers you to a sectioned off area in front of the stage, in clear view of Emily.

When she appears between fog and strobing lights, her fans go wild. Her dress tonight is red, short and swathed in black lace, her leather jacket falling off one shoulder and exposing pale, ivory skin. When she starts strumming her guitar, falling into the music, her lips tilt into the familiar smile, slow and just for her before she widens it and directs it to the screaming crowd.

She makes two hours feel like a matter of minutes. Though Emily is alone on the stage, she embodies the whole space, controlling it with tosses of her hair and shakes of her hips and strums of her guitar. More than once she strays to the edge, close enough to touch you, her lashes fluttering in the faintest wink when your eyes meet. It makes you sickeningly giddy, your heart jumping each time she smiles at you, though it’s hardly new.

“Tonight,” she drawls into her microphone after her last song, the rasp of her voice quieting down the crowd, “I’ll be singing a song I wrote for a special someone. You know who you are.” Her eyes meet yours and she winks, deliberately, just enough that some girls shift in front of you, thinking she meant it to them.

Emily eventually tears her eyes away, but they keep straying back to you as she sings her new song—your song—the butterflies in your stomach growing wild each time she smiles at you and looks away, her struggle in looking somewhere else clear as day.

When the concert ends you bound to backstage once more, waiting impatiently for your girlfriend to arrive. A smile breaks across your face when she does, guitar slung over one shoulder, her hair mussed and fluffy, her makeup somehow perfectly intact. A matching smile tugs at her mouth as she pulls you gently from the guitar pick that hangs around your neck—one of her favorites, strung through a chain—and kisses you hungrily, a maddening, dizzying juxtaposition of controlling lips and tender hands that makes your brain fog.

“I’m yours,” Emily whispers, her mouth swollen and pink, her eyes nearly darkened to black. “Only ever yours.” Her fingers tangle in your shirt again, twisting, twisting.

You smile. 

“Mine.”

taglist: @suckerforcate

Reblogs and comments mean the world! Please let me know what you think <3

[pinoyhawks]

i'll see your heart and i'll raise you mine

takami keigo/hawks x gn!reader

Description: You can read him just as well as he can read you and he's not yet sure whether that's a blessing or a curse.

He's starting to edge toward blessing when you reach for him.

content warnings: hospital setting, whump, graphic description of injuries, brief descriptions of medical procedures, bodily trauma

[crossposted from my ao3: link]

~~~

“So you’ll never guess what I saw today.” Hawks tugs at the curtains, blocking out the golden rays of the setting sun. He knows you hate it when the sun’s in your eyes. “Do you remember that one photoshoot where I had to stick paintbrushes and scrub brushes through my hair and behind my ears and in my mouth?” 

Hawks glances back at you. The slight dip of your head urges him to continue. He gives the curtains a final tug before making a beeline for the electric kettle on the counter of your hospital room’s mini-kitchen. The water within begins to boil at the push of a button.

“When I was on patrol, I saw a billboard advertising some sort of brush for feathers and—wouldn’t you know it?—I was on it! Apparently, that was what the photoshoot was for! Brushes for feathers!” 

He shakes his head in disbelief as he tears open two packets of peppermint tea, the electric kettle beeping loudly as steam pours out of its spout. “They didn’t even tell me what the photoshoot was for while we were taking it. Wanna know what the kicker is?” 

He pauses for one or two seconds, for both dramatic effect and for the space where your answer would be, before pressing on. “They didn’t even give me one of those feather brushes!” 

Hawks dips two bags of peppermint tea in and out of two paper cups, one for you and one for him. “I mean, I’ll admit, my feathers don’t really need brushing nor did I really want one, but still. Would’ve been nice to receive some sort of care package or branded gift basket from them, right?” 

The smell from such a small portion invades his nostrils and feels like toothpicks sticking into his brain. How you drink this every night without getting overstimulated, he’ll never know, but there’s no way he’ll make a fuss about it. Not when recovery from your incident demanded that much of your independence and daily rituals be taken away from you. 

Hawks figures it must have been painful to be denied the simple joy of having a cup of peppermint tea before bed during the worst parts of your recovery. So he makes two. One for you to drink, one for him to hold. You’ll finish yours and he’ll give you his. 

He picks up the two cups and makes his way to you, treading carefully so as not to spill. From your seat on the hospital bed, you carefully pull the overbed table towards you, a safe place for two cups of tea to land. “I know it’s stupid,” Hawks says, gently placing one cup in front of you, “but hey. You asked me to talk about my day and that was the only thing I could think of.” 

You beam up at him before shaking your head as if to say, No, I don’t think it’s stupid. I’d ask for a gift basket too if they made me stick a toothbrush up my nose and took a picture of it without telling me what it was for.  

Something in his chest aches at the thought of your possible response. His grip on his paper cup tightens as he watches you breathe in the minty steam before taking your very first sip.

It’s been two weeks since the incident, hard to tell from how quickly you’re recovering physically. Dark circles still bruise the bags of your eyes, your face looks gaunter, and your skin looks a little duller than usual, but the scratches on your face are shrinking and with every change of bandages he stumbles upon, the gauze wrapped around your abdomen comes away with less and less blood. 

Yes, you’re healing, no doubt about it, but the silence that hangs over your room and fills the air like a wicked miasma tells him a completely different story. 

A quick tap on his arm startles Hawks out of his spiral. You fix him with a concerned look, brows knitted together. Hey. You’re flying off again. Come back to me . Hawks tacks on those last two words, just for himself. You’d never say those last two words, but he lets himself be selfish in that way. It’s hard for him not to be selfish when it comes to knowing ( knowing , not guessing ) what you, his very first, genuine friend, would say. 

Hawks plasters a placating grin on his face. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, patting the back of your hand. “I’m fine. I promise.”

Your lips press together briefly before splitting into an affirmative smile, but Hawks catches the microexpression quick enough. You don’t really believe he’s fine, but for his sake, you’ll help him keep up that silly little illusion. You can read him just as well as he can read you and he’s not yet sure whether that’s a blessing or a curse. 

He’s starting to edge towards ‘blessing’ when you reach for him, palm up and fingers opening and closing. Hawks switches his cup to his other hand to take yours. As soon as his hand is in yours, your thumb brushes over the back of his, back and forth, back and forth. It’s okay. It’s okay, you seem to say. You smile up at him as you squeeze his hand tightly. It’s gonna be okay.

Hawks swallows down the lump in his throat at how the situation has turned itself around. He’s here to comfort you in your trying times, not you comfort him for not being fine. 

You’re the one who got caught in the crossfires of a villain attack, not him. You’re the one who suffered multiple blunt-force injuries in the chest, the stomach, and the head from being tossed around so violently, not him. You’re the one who could barely breathe the moment you entered the hospital’s treatment room, your breath rattling as your lungs fought to push air in and out of you from within your battered ribcage, not him. You’re the one who’s nonverbal thanks to a mix of trauma from the incident and vocal cord paralysis from your injuries, not him. You’re the one relying on body language and the notes app of your phone to ask for the simplest things, not him. 

Between you and him, Hawks is the most selfish person in the room. How dare he call himself a hero? 

Hawks drops your hand. 

For a moment, your expression falls before he takes your hand in his once more. His thumb strokes over the cracked and scarred skin of your knuckles in the same way you did his. Your smile makes his heart hammer against his ribcage. He sets down his paper cup on the overbed table to cup your hand in both of his. 

I’m here. I’m here for you. I’ll take care of you, he hopes he says as he raises your hand to his mouth. 

Briefly, he presses his lips to your knuckles. Short, but reverent in every way. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

Hawks looks up at you with bated breath, taking in your softened gaze, your teary eyes, and the pleased curve of your smile.

You set your cup down on the overbed table, right next to his, and cradle Hawks’s cheek in your palm. Something blooms in your chest, something much more powerful than fear and injury.

“Love you, too.”

[sourpeachpit]

resident runaway here: if you're getting an air fryer, don't also get a toaster oven. toaster ovens are great (much better than pop-up toasters, 100% agree) but counter space is something that runs out fast. pick one or the other, they're not that different. (for me personally I've found that between the two, the air fryer has more versatility. I make toast in mine all the time. but ymmv!)

also I always recommend getting a french press or even a phin instead of a keurig or other big hulking machine. they're much cheaper, easier to clean and maintain, and better for the environment while not taking much more time to use. moka pots are good too but you'll need a stove instead of just a kettle.

and if you're pretty sure you'll have access to a stove (including one of those single camp butane burners), don't worry about the panini press unless you're sure you have the room. again, they're great but they take up a lot of space. and if you can only own one (1) pan (as I did for a while) take the L and get yourself some cast iron *if* you have an oven also (you'll need to season it now and then just to stop it from rusting), or a good nonstick pan if you don't. (of course this is not important unless you'll only be able to afford a single pan, but having been there, it's good to have a place to start just in case.)

also if you can get access to an ethnic grocery store like an asian market or something, it's often cheaper to buy a 15-pound bag of rice and keep a couple of green teabags and bay leaves inside of it to keep bugs out than buying a bunch of 2-pound bags from other grocery stores.

also you can cheap out on toothpaste (generic/cheap is perfectly fine) and toothbrushes but don't do it for shaving cream, especially if you shave your face.

and if you *do* shave your face, getting a proper safety razor and a few boxes of blades will get you a better shave for *far* cheaper than even the shitty cheap disposables, even if you use a fresh blade every single day. just make sure you have a blade bank or sharps container. (caveat: using a safety razor does have a skill curve, but there are tons of forums full of weird (affectionate) wet shave enthusiasts and hella tutorials on youtube on how to use it if you're keen on trying it out

Kitchen appliances I would recommend purchasing when moving out on your own:

Air fryer

One of those panini press grill things (not only can you make sandwiches but you can grill chicken and steak if you have an expensive model)

Rice cooker (not only good for rice but quinoa and any other grain, alternatively you could buy an Instapot)

Electric kettle (depends on how much tea you drink but it’s good for boiling water for cleaning and preheating water for pasta etc)

Kitchen appliances I would not recommend buying when you move out on your own:

Counter top coffee maker (you should not be drinking an entire pot of coffee on your own and it will be stale by the time you get to the bottom, plus these bitches suck to clean, Keurigs, French presses and stove top percolators where you make one or two cups at a time are more practical for a single person)

[heich0e]

There's an arm tight around your waist when you wake. It's heavy and familiar. It pulls you a little closer as your return to consciousness becomes known.

"G'morning," you mumble, rubbing at your eyes with the point of your knuckle. You blink, once and then twice, as the waking world comes back into focus and takes the shape of a new day.

"Morning."

Levi's voice is always so raspy in the morning. So low and rough. You shiver a little at the sound, but hide it in a stretch–your movement stunted by the hold he has you in, pulled to his bare chest.

"What did you dream about?" you ask him sleepily, rolling over so you're facing his way. He lets you move freely, but keeps his arm over you, and you prop your chin in your hand once you're laying on your tummy. You watch him as he watches you.

"Dunno," he says indifferently. "You know I don't ever really remember stuff like that."

You scrunch up your nose, having expected the answer but being no less disappointed by it.

"What did you dream about?" he turns your question back to you.

"Got a boob job."

Levi's eyes widen in surprise and his lip curls in distaste.

"Why the hell would you dream about that?" he grunts derisively, almost sulking.

"Who knows," you shrug as much as you can given your position. "You loved 'em though."

Levi takes your face in his hand and squishes your cheeks together until your lips purse. His expression is surprisingly severe as he looks you in the eyes. "Don't even joke about that. I like them exactly as they are."

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, your lips still puckered thanks to his grip. He lets your face go after a moment, and then pushes himself up to slip out of bed, shuffling off towards the bathroom down the hall.

You lay back in Levi's bed for a moment, flopping down with your face pressed in the pillows. They smell like him: like his soap, and his beloved laundry detergent whose brand he's so loyal to he buys it in bulk and keeps stacked at the back of his closet.

Down the hall, you hear the tap running as he washes his face, just like he does first thing every morning. The next thing you hear is the medicine cabinet open as he retrieves his blue toothbrush, kept in a little storage holder next to the yellow toothbrush he'd bought for you a few weeks ago to replace the pink one he'd bought you before that.

You lay there, peacefully listening to the motions of his morning routine step-by-step, until eventually he comes shuffling out again in his slippers and heads towards the little kitchen on the other side of his bachelor apartment.

Next is the kettle, filled with enough water for him to have tea and you to have coffee, then onto the electric base to boil.

"Get up, lazy."

You smile into his pillow as he calls to you.

"Don't wanna," you say, rolling over onto your back so he can hear you clearly.

"You have work," he reminds you, though he really doesn't need to–you're as aware of the fact as he is. You groan defeatedly, pushing yourself upright.

Levi looks over at you from the kitchen where he's preparing two mugs–one with looseleaf tea in a steeper, the other with a single-cup percolator resting overtop, waiting to be filled. He watches as you stretch your arms up over your head, the hem of the long-sleeved shirt he'd loaned to you the night before lifting from the motion. Your muscles ache a little, not in an unpleasant way, and you're still a little stiff from sleep.

You roll yourself out of bed and into the kitchen after him.

"What are you gonna have for breakfast?" he asks, the kettle shutting off automatically as it comes to temperature. Levi has one of those kettles where you can choose the automatic shut off temperature because–in his own words–he'd rather drink nothing than drink badly made tea.

"I want that pie from last night," you say, reaching for the door of the refridgerator to retrieve the very pastry you speak of. The two of you had stopped at a diner for dinner after a long day, and you'd lost your motivation to eat dessert but brought a slice of apple pie home with you for later. Levi stops you with a strong arm hooked around your waist.

"You can't eat pie for breakfast."

You pout. "Why not?"

Levi huffs indignantly through his nose, like it pains him to even dignify your question with an answer.

"You need to eat something with some nutritional value to start the day."

"There's fruit in it!" you argue uselessly.

"No."

You fight weakly against his hold, reaching out towards the appliance he works to keep you from. "But I want pie."

Levi finally lets you go with a long, world-weary sigh, knowing that his water is going cold.

"I bought you jam," he grumbles, pouring the kettle delicately over the mug waiting for him at the counter. "If you insist on starting the day with sugar at least have it on some toast."

You open the door to the refridgerator and sure enough on the door beside his usual condiments there's a little bottle of jam waiting for you. The same brand you always keep in your own fridge for yourself. You smile, plucking it out, eying the takeout container with your apple pie a little wistfully before letting the door swing shut behind you.

You creep up next to Levi at the counter, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he pours the hot water over the coffee filter waiting over your favourite mug.

"Thanks for the jam," you murmur into the soft, warm skin of his cheek.

"Yeah, yeah," he says dismissively, nudging the loaf of multigrain bread in front of him towards you with his free hand. It's the really seedy, healthy kind your mom is always telling you to buy because it's high in plant sterols and good for your heart. You expected nothing less. "Just make your toast."

You know he wouldn't have stopped you even if you ate the pie.

You know he still would have made you your coffee and driven you to work and kissed you goodbye when he told you to have a nice day.

The same as always. Never changing. Because he likes you exactly as you are.

But you just laugh and do as you're told, and make his life a little bit easier–if only just for once.

[allsadnshit]

eat a raw carrot, make cold pressed nettle hibiscus tea, buy two new books (one hard to read, one easy), do really simple low effort stretching in bed, pledge to wipe down your fridge tomorrow, go to the farmer’s market and just walk around, listen to a movie soundtrack you’ve never heard, unfollow brands and influencers on ig, buy a real stove kettle and throw out the electric one, text your current favorite song to your old co worker

[dumplinsiims]

Cozy Autumn Mod Recommendations 🍂

- Gameplay mods:

Pumpkin Patch Lot Trait by simwithshan

"Me Time" Calendar Traditions by simwithshan

Brand New Bedsheets by llazyneiph

Make The Bed Mod by utopya_cc

Self Pedicure by mercuryfoam

Self Manicure by mercuryfoam

Family Traditions by danitysimmer

More Cross-Stitch Patterns by janesimsten

Cry Mod by simkatu

Endless Grief by simkatu

- Functional Items/CC:

Punkin Patch Kit by zwhsims

Pumpkin Carving Anywhere by srslysims

Archery Skill by janesimsten

Campsite Playhouse by taurusdesign

Functional Halloween Candy Bowl by ohmysims

- Food mods:

Hot Drinks Seasonal Selection by littlbowbub

Hot Chocolate Machine by littlebowbub

Functional Electric Kettle by somik & severinka

Functional Tray for Tea and Coffee by somik & severinka

OnePot by icemunmun

S'more Options by RVSN

- Overrides:

Default Rake Replacement by largetaytertots

Coffee To-Go Cup Override by largetaytertots

Life is Strange Font Replacement by moonwoodmillz

Computer Desktop Override by simkatu

Extended Reading Animation Override by simkatu

Default Remote Replacement by dynamus

Reality Tv Override by themintsimmer

- Reshade/Gshade

White Willow by tianaberrie (video shot with this preset)

Pumpkin Pie by softpine

Primrose by lotusplum

Autumn Kisses by lustrousims

Autumn Preset by lyrascenes

Sweet Candy by tinisims

Azalea by cozybri

[thoughtremixer]

3 Years, 3 Months, 6 Days and I finally got a speck of justice... hopefully.

For those of you who followed me throughout the years, on May 31, 2020, I was attacked by the NYPD unjustly for covering the George Floyd Protests. I was held in a holding cell along with other protesters and later released literally an hour before the crack of dawn, without being charged with a crime.

A brand-new electric bike destroyed by the FDNY (no fault of their own). My phone busted, along with any evidence. My chest is forever scarred. The memories of the NYPD forever in my mind, altering my already views on policing in general to the point of abolishing the current police system.

What followed years after was me in a case vs. the NYPD and NYC. Along with other victims of NYPD's brutal tactics, we stood firm in holding the NYPD accountable.

I decided to become one of the public faces of this case, by doing interviews (under my real name of course), recalling details while trying to hold back tears mixed with anger.

I spent years reading comments about how I was "a paid actor by the Democratic Party", a "plant" by Black Lives Matter, a "crisis actor" and an opportunist when the only opportunity I wanted was to cover the protest from the protesters side, sell my work to the media and go home and have a quiet birthday.

I have to fund raised and get strangers to help me put my mental state back together in a quick manner so that I will be able to be of sound mind as I speak up for people.

Well, I'm happy to say that something came out of it.

My quote, if you don't want to read the article states:

Matthew King-Yarde, a protester involved in the suits, said all New Yorkers should support the agreement — whatever their political leanings.

“Regardless of your stance, none of us should have faced trauma, both physical and mental, for voicing concerns about law enforcement’s disregard for Black lives,”

King-Yarde said.

“The NYPD must undertake extensive work beyond what’s been done. Are they up for the challenge? One can only hope.”

(The reporter didn't do any research, just grabbed quotes from the lawyers website)

Sadly, one of the things I can't do is go into the exact details of how I feel about the settlement. I do have some strong opinions about it, but that's the problem with settlements. You can't really express them the way you want to.

However, I will in the near future talk about the impact of the settlement.

But at the very least... the very least... I can start to move on from this long and tiring court case.

[shoku-and-awe]

Awful pictures, but it's that time of year where my ramen cravings flare up suddenly and violently, then I realize I've been eating out too much, and finally I remember that store-bought fresh ramen is cheap, easy, and often really, really good! Last night, we did tantanmen (sesame chili), and I went tsukmen style—yes, dipping noodles!

Seiyu brand medium-thick fresh ramen (¥89/serving)

Soup No Tatsujin brand tantanmen paste (¥110/serving)

1/2 pack spinach each

~2~3 tbsp ground pork each

1/2 ajitama egg each (recipe)

2 green onions each

Calculating roughly (and excluding the oil, salt/pepper, and egg marinade), it was less than ¥800 for a nice ramen meal for two. Super reasonable!

Now, my favorite local ramen costs ¥680 (+¥100 for an egg), usually ¥1460 for the two of us. And that place is *amazing*, so it easily wins on quality, but it doesn't have tantanmen, which I really wanted last night. Also, it's a 23-minute walk away...... so let's look at the time!

Not counting marinating the eggs overnight, this should only take 10, maybe 15 minutes (if you have an electric kettle for the broth water, one burner for the spinach, and another for the noodles). It did take me 20, but that's including a round of hide-and-seek with my dog :) Which would also not be allowed at most ramen shops!

All I'm saying is that supermarket ramen is kind of a Godsend! I wonder if there's anything new since last spring......

[weirdponytail]

My roommate and I have taken to naming our kitchen appliances after Red Vs Blue characters.

The coffeemaker is Wyoming because of the armor color. The toaster oven is Shiela because it burns fucking EVERYTHING no matter if you set it to friendly fire on or friendly fire off. We have a bright green electric kettle named Delta (currently in storage under the cabinet), and our previous coffeemaker was dark red/halo maroon and was called Simmons. Simmons got swapped out to our old coffeemaker (Wyoming) because while he was a brand new one he constantly burned the coffee, which somehow seems on brand for Simmons. Poor guy always tries so hard but messes up.

I’m currently debating the safety of naming our fire extinguisher Sarge.

[anhay-hootenheimer]

Skubby looks at their tablet, visibly upset at something. The kobold peeks over their shoulder and sees yellow stains all around the screen.

Kobold: "Yip, Ive seen this, that tends to happen when the LCD's inside the screen get moist. Could be from a variety of factors. Likely this is just a bad batch of Tablet."

Skubby: "You almost burned down the house last week trying to use the electric kettle and now you are somehow an electronics expert?"

The Kobold simply shrugs.

Skubby: "So... how can I fix it?"

Kobold: "Probably replace the screen, if you can find a replacement for it online, seems to be some very obscure brand, yip."

Skubby looks to the kobold hopefully

Skubby: "Could you do it?"

After some careful deliberation the kobold grabs the tablet.

Kobold: "Yip (maybe)."

[titanium-arum]

You hear... flapping. Like a bird. Squelching, like flesh. Whirring, like a machine. Someone's at your door.

They stand beyond it for minutes before deciding to knock. When you open the door, you're greeted by Jackdaw, or, rather you greet them. They don't talk.

White hair is glued to their face with sweat and tears. They're shirtless, pressing a haphazard knot-ball of loose, dirty bandages to their abdomen. Those are, were the bandages they use to cover the Crow-brand surgery scars on their chest. The strips of cotton are stained red where they meet the open gash.

There's nothing behind their eyes. - @j-ckdaw

Florez ushers in the injured(?????) hero into their lab as quickly as possible, bringing them over to a shabby living room.

Jackdaw is able to finally see Malcom's handiwork in action as Florez moves about the room, long tendrils of sinew and muscle stretching about the room as they work on making sure their guest doesn't bleed out.

Silently, carefully, they cut fresh bandages, wrapping strips of cloth across their torso with their normal arm, making sure they apply enough pressure to help the wound clot. Across the room, the tendrils coming from their other shoulder search through cupboards and drawers, eventually getting an electric kettle set up for a warming cup of tea.

....... Florez is pretty silent already. Hopefully Jackdaw doesn't mind the silence.

[magpiepills]

tag game!

rules: answer + tag 9 people you want to get know better and/or catch up with!

Thanks for the tags, @nerdieforpedro and @fhatbhabiee !

favorite color: they’re all fine. Probably whatever color you’ve got on, it really brings out your eyes. You know, you’ve got really pretty eyes. And your lips…

last song: Love Her Madly by the doors. (Don’t you love her madly? Want to be her daddy? 😏)

currently watching: those damn corona commercials.

currently reading: smut. Just smut. All the time. From sun up to sundown, it’s me and written porn. Business hours are 6am-1am.

craving: raspberry poppi (papi??) and corona for delulu purposes.

coffee or tea: I need both. Listen. Don’t come after me or anything, but I am an instant coffee gal. I don’t care. I have an electric kettle and I can just boil my water and not fool with brewing and filters and cleaning all that equipment. Me and Kroger brand instant coffee with sugar free caramel macchiato creamer and some Splenda. Or some cafe bustelo. That’s plenty good enough. I do like good tea. PG tips or Harney or Yorkshire gold. Little milk little sugar. That is the flavor of comfort and love and security and peacefulness.

I’m extremely late so probably everyone has already been tagged to hell and doesn’t want to do this again. Feel free to disregard!

@mermaidgirl30 @mountainsandmayhem @demonsandbullets @bigbutchenergee @for-a-longlongtime

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

Going all out on this because Dot did an amazing job with these questions:

🧩, 🦴, 🥝, ❄️ & 🦷 for the ask game, please <3!

KEZ YOU OUT HERE SPOILING MEEE 🥰🥰💖💖

🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

9 times out of 10 it’s either first person POV, a character waking up for the day age describing themselves as they look in a mirror, or WALLS of text. Formatting and first paragraph will always destroy my perception of a fic, and it doesn’t matter how good it is even two sentences after that.

Another more esoteric thing is any kind of dad’s best friend or stepfather or barely legal/he’s too old for me trope. I think those are literally the most vile fucking shit, and I just block on site. And I’m all for taboos, and people writing what they want, but I’ve never seen that shit written well nor on a blog that isn’t sparkly and pink and giving off major DDlg vibes. Fucking stomach turning.

🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?

Answered this guy here! But I’ll add a few others that aren’t pieces of media dfhj. The words: abattoir, incandescent, butcher, slaughter, dappled. Different deep jewel shades of blue and green. Animal eyes. Bones in odd places. Videos of interesting women cooking. Dreams about: mothers, children, fire, the apocalypse, all my lost true loves, every corner of the town I visit that I should mark on map.

🥝 ⇢ do you lie a lot? what’s the most recent lie you told?

I lie quite a bit, but it used to be that almost every word out of my mouth was an exaggerated abs pointless lie dfhjd. Yay growing up in dysfunctional household! These days I’m much more conscientious and purposeful about being honest, and I’m always trying to improve, just going with white lies about stuff at work to make my life easier (“I need to use the restroom” means I’m going for a smoke), or at home to keep things smoother (“They were out of X creamer” means I forgot).

Most recent lie was this evening when I told my sister I had left the store and I couldn’t get her a certain brand of energy drink, but I was in the checkout line and didn’t want to go back through lmao.

❄️ ⇢ what’s your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

HO BOY SO MANY DFHJ. These are more vibes than anything solid sfhj. In alphabetical order:

@alittleposhtoad grieving in a cold place, love that has kindling in friendship, oranges peeled by one set of hands for another, tea in an old electric kettle on a black night, you can always come home here and home is what you call my head on your chest.

@dotcie two weirdos walk into a dive bar, and their mutually assured obsession exhibits as mutually assured destruction, sweating under a street lamp in a town where tourists don’t go at 3am with a man you swore you’d never see again, bedsheets they smell like sweat and home under an open window.

@kastlequill cannibalism as a type of taboo and closed religion, rage wielded elegant and precise like a blade, thought put into evils until they’re extrapolated into facets of humanity, the dichotomy of suffering as holiness and pointlessness, dangerous men they have either accepted or full on love the blood in their mouths, cities at sunset with the lights glittering on.

@parttimeprophet hey babe hehe. Animal hated paid back in animal brutality, cold women with colder determination, hell and religion and the death of god and the apocalypse, lipstick that glimmers like rubies, men that love the collars around their necks.

🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on

More wisdom: take breathers as much as you can in any area of life - steal then when you can at work, in hobbies, in talking, in cleaning - whether it’s 5 mins or 5 months, you need to rest, shit will be waiting for you when you get back. Don’t write down anything you don’t want read. Horses and boats are fun hobbies, but you can have the same financial experience by throwing wads of cash in a bonfire.

More life hacks: if you want to buy a used car, go for a Honda, bc you can beat the dog shit out of them for 30 years and they’ll still run like a clock. To save money, don’t get addicted to coke. The secret to the best homemade fried chicken you’ve ever had in your life is a pinch of cinnamon in your seasoned flour, and to make it crispy add a tablespoon of baking soda. Cream of tartar will make it meringue not break, but if you use too much it will taste hella metallic. 2 drops of dandelion tincture in a shot glass worth of water helps with liver and gallbladder inflammation - that’s Appalachian not crystal woowoo medicine. Don’t whistle outside at night.