#like there was that one time i was getting out of a tram and the door closed too early and hit me and i tripped onto that leg

[luveline]

hi again!! i saw you mention wanting to write for prince!steve, and i also saw that you write with dialogue prompts so i present to you:

A: “I’ll take care of you.”

B: “It’s rotten work.”

A: “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

maybe the reader gets injured doing something for training, but it’s all up to you!! i’m sure we’ll love it regardless. kisses!!

thank you for requesting! —prince steve au. fem, 1.5k

Pain was familiar before you came to the palace. Small pains and big, all kinds of hurting, poverty-driven neglect leading to toothaches and back pain, twisted ankles walked on without choice, sore skin otherwise ignored. It didn’t matter if you got hurt as long as you lived. 

Not in a dramatic sense. It didn’t feel dramatic at the time, only miserable. You go to work with a migraine because you can’t afford not to. You walk home in the dark because the mag-trams are getting too expensive. You break your holo, so you make do without one. You pick your head up to keep looking both ways and you get everywhere you need to go because you need to work, to get paid, to eat, to work. 

That’s how it always was. So getting sick didn’t matter. An injury was temporary pain that your body would fix eventually, and if it didn’t, well, it’s cheaper to pull a tooth than pay to have it filled. 

You were used to your sorry life, and then you met Steve. Tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed Steve. Looking at him sometimes is enough to make your whole body a void for things you used to complain about; you wake up across from him in the big bed and forget you can feel pain at all, if only because he’s already awake, waiting for you to open your eyes before he rests his hand on your cheek. You met him and your soul-mark glowed with a lacy, almost feathered light, your wrist braceleted with white colour that soon faded to mellow blue. 

When you first meet your soulmate, the colours you make tend to shift. It takes time for your heart to decide if love is pink or orange or blue. It seems to have settled now —when Steve kisses you, your mark turns a Gaussian amber. When you kiss back, his mark turns light pink, like the lotus flowers he keeps in his private gardens. 

Right now, your mark hums an angry red. It’s typical in its colour, and it’s common. Most people’s marks turn red when they’re hurting. Yours is a crimson so dark it looks black in the dim lighting, and it throbs in time with your pain like a vexing metronome. You’ll never be able to put it from your mind if the mark continues to remind you. 

Steve is uncharacteristically quiet at your side. His own mark is lit in sympathy, mostly pink with his affection, but threaded in red like spider lily flowers blooming against his forearm. 

He shifts beside you. It’s been more than a month since your wedding, and yet he’s careful with you. Almost shy, though he can be brash and cocky. You know intimately how sweet Steve can be when he’s in love. 

It doesn’t make any sense. 

“How’s the pain now?” he asks, his eyebrows pulled together at their starts. 

“Not so bad.” 

“Could you rate it on a scale? If zero was no pain at all, and ten were enough to warrant another dose of white willow bark?” 

“What if I were at a five?” you ask. 

“A half dose and a good kiss?” 

You turn his way but flinch when it puts undue pressure on your leg, a stab of hot pain jumping from your fractured tibia to deep inside of your hips. Steve sees your wincing and presses your shoulder into the bed, leaning over you, a scolding he doesn’t give in the pinch of his eyebrows as he leans down to kiss you. It’s more caress than kiss, his hand cupping your cheek, his lips barely touching yours before he rests his nose at your brow. “Can you stay still?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“Just don’t want you to hurt yourself again.” 

He lifts his head. Holds your cheek for longer than you can work out why, dotting another soft kiss to your nose before slinking out of bed to find you some white willow bark tincture. It’s a potent pain reliever. You shouldn’t have too much of it. If you were still living your past life, you’d be chewing on ginger skins trying to limp your way back into work. There’d be no time to stop. 

“Steve,” you say, watching him a small ways away at the table of your quarters. He turns to you. “I don’t really need anything else.” 

“You said it’s hurting?” Steve pipettes the tincture into a cup of water. “You said a five, and you lie. Knowing you, it’s closer to an eight, you just don’t want to tell me.” 

It might not be as extreme as an eight now, laying down and bandaged, but it hurts badly and a tincture would solve this. Still, you say, “It’s fine, I don’t need it.” 

He brings the glass regardless and puts it on the nightstand. Your bed is yards too big for one person, even two, but when Steve sits next to you he leaves no room between you. He looks down at you fondly. Brown hair like down feather falls against his forehead. 

“You’re going to be in pain for a long time.” He brings a hand to your cheek again. “It might sound tame, a plateau fracture, but that’s still a fracture. You know doctors say fracture when they mean broken, right? You broke your leg. It’s okay to want pain relief.” 

“I knew that. I didn’t know you knew it.” 

“Impolite.” He ducks down to look you in the eyes. You’re a little skewiff, straight to his sideways, but it gets a point across. He wants to kiss you while you’ve said something maddening. “I don’t see why you’re so insistent on pretending it hasn’t happened and that you’re fine. You got hurt, and you’ll stay hurt for a while. It might be weeks of bed and– and you need to be looked after. I don’t know why you’re so guilty about it.” 

“I’m not guilty,” you deny guilty, turning your face to lean into his hand, rather than continue to face his imploring gaze. “I just… I’m not used to this. Before, if something went wrong, I couldn’t just lay down and wait to get better, and I surely wouldn’t be laying here with doctors and servants and the ladies in waiting all trying to make sure– It’s like it’s not my fault, and that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want to be a burden on everyone. More than I already am,” you add, a bitter mumble nearly lost to his palm. 

He makes a promise, then, turning your face to the light. “I’ll take care of you,” he says. 

“It’s rotten work.” 

Steve shakes his head gently. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.” 

You press your tongue to your teeth, worried you’ll say something you’ll regret. You don’t want him to go. You want him to mean exactly what he says, to stay here and take care of you, and to enjoy doing it. Wouldn’t it be nice to be loved for love's sake? 

Steve shuffles inward and encourages your head into his lap, thrusting pillows aside to take up station against your headboard. He frames your face, upside down, before both hands begin to run down your arms. A hug, in a way, as he twists his face to kiss the skin beside your eye. You squint at the proximity. 

“You’re not a burden,” he says, hands climbing upwards now, warm and steady where they travel, “you’re my wife. My cherished wife, remember?” 

His tone is silk. 

“You… haven’t proved to be a wretched husband,” you confess. 

“I did try. But loving you has been easy. It makes husbandry a gift.” He laughs at his grandiose and gives you a kiss that’s more familiar by your ear, his pleading, searching kisses, the kind he likes to press to all your softest junctures. “I wish you could understand that we’re marked for a reason. We were always meant to be together, and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to stand with me. I’m happy you’re here. I want to take care of you.” 

Not if it’s you, he’d said. 

You wonder if it might be okay to cry. He’s massaging your arms, still bent in half over you trying to kiss some belief in him into your forehead. 

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs between chaste, silent kisses, “really. You don’t have to pretend things don’t hurt you anymore.” 

You feel strange, then, shivery and weak as you turn your face into his thigh. His hand slips behind your back to hold you.

“Can I convince you to drink this tincture now?” he asks, just above your ear. 

“I love you,” you mumble. 

He pauses his trailing hands. You squeeze your eyes closed, but he doesn’t pause for long enough to scare you. “I love you,” he says. “Since the day we met, I’ve loved you. I’ll take care of you.” 

He is easy to believe. 

[kostektyw]

so anyway like a month ago i hurt my leg (torn muscle 😭) and at first it hurt p bad but then it was slowly getting better so i thought cool 👍 i can finally do stuff like go to a store, but then last week i mustve hurt it again somehow bc now it hurts real bad again and long story short im so done with this shit 😭

[appalachy]

[emile-hides]

I spend a lot of time at home so every time I go out to the city for any reason I am violently reminded of two things;

I am, in fact, Panromantic and find Everyone Pretty

I stare very intensely at people I find ~Attractive~

[tkbrokkoli]

wanted to write smth abt top surgery ⬇️

[schwazombie]

I've planted Erika/Winterheide (2x, going to get another I think), hyacinth bulbs, and crocus bulbs. I'm getting some more hyacinth, crocus, an tulips as well as a little fellow with decorative berries and then my garden is going to be sooooooo mehrjährig. I may get some of that silvery looking plant. I want some holly.

[drysauce]

sesja much fun at some point u get used to it ngl </3

oh it's a lot of fun for sure, every time i think there's nothing that can surprise me more i am proven wrong

dziekanka will be inevitable if i don't get kicked out, on like 4th or 5th semester

[kleefkruid]

Guys, I had one of the weirdest 15 minutes of my life yesterday, as if some higher power put me in a jar and shook me around for a very short time and then let me out again.

But before I can tell the story I need to quickly make sure everyone has the context: Kotelet, the stray I took in had 2 bigger kittens and was super pregnant. These are the cutlets 1.0 and 2.0, you’ve mostly seen the second gen as they were born with me. But the two initial kittens went to Danny. They were very wild and we tried to socialize them, but in the process unfortunately one of them got out and was lost forever. This was way back in the beginning of August. The other kitten became Dietzel and recently Danny adopted one of the 2.0 gen to keep him company since we sadly never found the other kitten again… Okay keeping that in mind I can tell my story.

Yesterday around 2 I left my house to go to Danny. While waiting for my tram I was texting someone who is coming to adopt the last kitten. This combined with the nose cold I’ve been having made me a bit inattentive, and I got on the wrong tram. Not too big of a problem, bc this tram also travels close by Danny, I just had to walk one kilometer. A 15 minute walk. What could happen in that time right, I’ve done this route so often.

I get of the tram and I cross a bigger intersection. Open sky above me, as is typical for an intersection. Light goes green, I’m on the crosswalk. Suddenly, and with a loud slap, a pigeon drops dead on the ground in front of me.

I look at the pigeon. I look at the clear sky. I look back at the pigeon. I look back up. I notice the cables of the tram that go over the crosswalk, and realize it must have flown into the cables, and was killed by electrocution. At least it died instantly. Not a bad way to go for a pigeon. One moment it was going “weeeh I’m a bird”, next thing the lights went out.

The crosswalk light had turned red. Normally this would be immediately be followed by irritated honking, but as I make eye contact with the driver perpendicular to me, he also points at the cables and we exchange some “crazy right??” looks while I hurry to the side of the road.

“What’s it called again when people tell fortune by looking at birds?” I think, (it’s Ornithomancy) “the ancients Greeks did it, I remember it from the Odyssey… sure hope it’s not a bad omen!” I imagine a Greek augur predicting a war or whatever when a bird drops straight from the sky and someone going “is that bad?” I chuckle to myself, just a tiny bit nervous, and I continue my walk. Not long to go now.

“Pigeon dropped dead in front of me” I triple text Danny “Crazy. Electrocuted by the tram infrastructure. Super dead in an instance.”

A neighborhood cat cheerfully walks by me. I automatically lean down to pet it, can’t cross a friendly cat without saying hi! It’s a teenage tuxedo.

WAIT.

The cat looks at me. It has a little white moustache. It starts sniffing my boots like crazy.

Could it be…

Squatting on the sidewalk, I go in my pictures folder and frantically search for pictures of the cutlets 1.0 The cat leans against me. I find a picture where the kitten has a distinctive black mark on the back of its otherwise white socks. I stare down.

On the back of its legs it has a distinctive black mark.

“You got to be kidding me” I say. “Sniff sniff” says the cat. He headbutts me again.

I am 350 meters from Danny’s door. Obviously I don’t have anything with me. A car drives close by. I gotta do something, so I pick him up. And he lets me. And I just start walking.

After a 100 meters, he wants to go down again, so holding him in a sitting position, I grasp his hind legs with one hand, like they hold wild birds when ringing them, and my other arm goes across him to squeeze him against my chest and I hold his front paws. He meows a little and bites me so very lightly. He just kinda presses his teeth against my skin to communicate he’s not impressed by my action, but that’s all. He’s still pretty tiny after all.

I ring the doorbell, and Danny buzzes me in. “Bring a carrier!” I yell trough the speaker. “What?? Why??” “Just come down!”

He opens te door and looks confused. “Is that Kotelet??” is his first question, as they look alike. “No, try again” I say. Now Danny’s eyes go wide. “No. It’s not possible…”

It’s been more than 3 months. Danny just starts crying out of shock. I start laughing. Both losing it in different ways about the absurdity of the situation.

We’re in Danny’s living room. The little guy is eating all the wet food he can and promptly passes out. We just stare at him. The other cats are peeking in from the bedroom. I look at its white paws, all grey from the street. He purrs. We sit in silence, kind of forgetting to blink.

“Did you see my text about the pigeon that dropped dead in front of me.”

[isaacathom]

oh hell yeah i get to find out my uni schedule today (in like. 10 hours), thats gonna be real fun. get to find out how many days im gonna be busy for and how much im gonna have to spend commuting to uni in a given week

[luveline]

could I get some miguel aftercare pls 🙏🙏🙏

cw suggestive content mdni !! I actually loved writing this it was the highlight of my day, thank you for requesting. fem, 1k

“You’re doing that thing,” Miguel says. 

You’re breathless where he’s fine, voice lost as you ask, “What thing?” 

He smooths his hands across either side of your face briefly. “Locking up. Relax, sweetheart. Catch your breath.” 

You cover your face with your hands but end up too hot, the back of your neck wet with sweat and your face glowing with heat. Miguel laughs softly, blowing cool air up and down your face where he lays beside you. 

He’d usually call you cariño or some other pet name in his native tongue, so sweetheart is out of the blue but no less affectionate. You close your eyes against his cold breath and slouch toward him, where you’re quickly held in his arms again, his voice quieter as he asks, “You okay?” 

“Mm.”

“Yeah?” He works the soft cup of your bra back down over your chest, pressing a kiss to the hill of your breast. “You sure?” he asks, your skin warmed by his breath. 

You curl down around him, trying to keep him there, your face in his hair and your knee sliding up his thigh as you turn onto your side. 

You’re hot all over and aching, but not unhappy. You walk a careful path up his chest and shoulder to his neck, your fingers brushing over the soft surface of his skin one centimetre at a time, not dragging, just touching, searching for his face. You hold his cheek in your hand and kiss his hair, not caring if it’s slightly ineffectual. He’ll know what you’re trying to convey either way. 

Sex with Miguel nearly always leaves you like this. More than satisfied, desperate to be hugged, and desperate to impress upon him how much he means to you if the sex hadn’t already. Your hand moves with him as he lifts his head to yours, eyes aligned, the familiar hint of a smile playing on his lips. 

“You want me to open a window?” 

“I love you,” you say, because what you want is reassurance that it felt the same for him. 

His voice is velvet. “I love you. Te adoro. When I look at you… me dejas sin aliento.”

“Tell me,” you mumble. 

“I can’t breathe.” 

You tip your head back with a laugh, “That’s ironic,” you say. 

He chases you there, his nose down the curve of your throat and his hands pressing behind your back, wrapping you in, hugging you and kissing under your ear, bridging the gap again. It’s weird to be so together, to feel like one person and to have that end, but he hugs you and it’s nearly the same. It’s a different kind of connection. It eases your heart, calms your hot flush. 

“You are beautiful,” he affirms. “I just have better stamina.” 

“Don’t say stamina.” 

“You’re jealous of my stamina, and that’s okay.” He smiles into your neck before kissing it tenderly. 

Moments of this Miguel are rare. He’s so happy, you only get to see him as uninhibited in moments of intense connection, though that can be anything with him. A teasing remark as he helps you up the short step of the tram or a shared smile when you lean back into his chest for no reason at all, knowing he’ll take your weight. 

You savour it. He’s got a good heart. 

And a great physique. “Doesn’t count. You got it all from a bottle.” 

His lips part. “Oh?” he says, the slight scratch of his teeth sending shivers down your arms. 

His lips close in a soft, soft kiss. Miguel pulls away from you to sit up a touch, and then he’s caressing your hip and your knee like he can sense the ache, his face pensive. “Do you want to shower, or should I bring you a towel?” 

“Whatever you want to do.” 

“I want to take care of you,” he says earnestly, hand back up, resting on the strip of fat between hip and ass. “But…” 

You look at him. Unbeknownst to you, Miguel’s taking you in, and thinking you might be the most lovely thing he’s ever seen, not just because he’s fucked you and you took it beautifully, or the sounds you made, or the feeling of your arm wrapped behind his head as you kissed him, but everything about you. He loves you and you know that, but he can’t convey it right. And he thinks if he cleans you up he might spend an hour just looking at you, because you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen, all your marks and wrinkles and softness. He’d lose half the night. 

“You want to fuck me again?” you ask gently. 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” he denies, leaning down over you. You close your eyes and allow him another kiss. “It’s late, we can’t stay up all night. You’re tired.” 

You hum regretfully. “Yes.” 

“Was it everything you wanted?” he asks. “I can…” His hand trails down to your stomach. 

You laugh under your breath. “I don’t think I can anymore,” you mumble, half flirtation and half aching fondness. “Thank you.” 

“Thank you?” He brings his hand up and squeezes your face, taking another kiss, so many now you can’t count them. 

You smile into his mouth. You’re thinking thank you for being caring enough to think about it, and he’s thinking you’re crazy for not expecting it. Regardless, he doesn’t touch any lower, only dropping his hand and rubbing a sweeping, soothing line over your tummy and your side. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers. 

You peek at him through threaded lashes. “Your eyes are closed,” you whisper back. 

“I knew before I closed them, and I know it now.” He sighs. “Sorry,” he says, kissing your cheek, “forgive me. I’ll get a towel.” 

“It’s my fault, being so enchanting n’ all.” 

Miguel kisses you again. “Exactly.” 

[inkbybambi]

best friend!simon riley picking you up from a bad date —

words: 2.2k rating: nothing explicit apart from a brief mention of sex, just some light angst and comfort. my blog is 18+ so minors please dni. warning: hurt/comfort, fluff, pet names, insecurity/doubt/worry, mentions of sex, simon is the softie we all know he is notes: originally written for @ghosts-cyphera ♡ we all need a bestfriend!simon in our lives who's so sweet and gentle with us.

One thing you love about Simon — besides everything — is how reliable he is. Strong, steadfast, there when you need him. Even when he’s not physically there — his work taking him away for weeks or even months at a time — you find yourself reading over the messages he’s sent, the little sticky notes he’s left, whatever memento you’ve kept of him tucked away in the drawer in your bedside table.

Not that you’ll tell him that.

You hate asking him for favors — asking anyone for favors, really, but him especially. Whenever you ask someone for help, it's always accompanied by a long-suffering sigh or a roll of the eyes or some very clear indication that they'd rather do anything else.

Except for Simon.

Which is why you're hesitant to ask him more than you absolutely need to. You don't want to push your luck too far, less he eventually tires of you as well.

Losing people hurts, always assuming it's you that caused the problem. You've come to accept this, even if the dark feelings of being too much or a burden claw at the edges of your mind.

But losing Simon? You don't think you'd ever get over that.

It's just after 9pm, the sky dark and clouds threatening, with thunder rumbling steadily in the sky. Your hand shakes as you fumble your phone from your pocket, trying to hold tears at bay as you scroll through your contacts.

Your call log is all Simon.

Some appointments here and there, but Simon everywhere else.

Fuck.

You hiccup, the tears spilling from your eyes as the sky finally opens up, joining you in your mourning.

You don't have any other choice, really, so you click his number before you can talk yourself out of it and walk home instead, bringing it up to your ear as it rings.

He answers before the third ring.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," you sniffle into the phone, before he has a chance to say anything. You take in a sharp breath, blood turning to ice. "Am i bothering you?" you sound so meek and small and tired. “No, dove, you’re not,” comes his calm, reassuring voice. You’re only half-convinced.

"I'm sorry," you begin again. Your heart falls to your stomach, convincing yourself that this is his final straw. You're overtaken by a wave of nausea, despite not having eaten anything since lunch. "I didn't know who else to call, and I lost my tram pass, and I don't have an umbrella, and — "

“Dove,” he says, his accent soothing to your ears — he's so endlessly patient and kind. You ache.

"I can just walk home, I-I'm sorry," you whimper out, unable to stop the tears blurring your vision, feeling pathetic and weak and so, so alone. “Darling,” he says, a little stern. Not angry, never angry. Trying to focus you. “What’s wrong?”

“U-um, my date stood me up,” you sniff, swallowing hard. "I waited an hour," you mumble, looking to your shoes. "Messaged him too, y'know. He just. Didn't show."

You think you hear Simon curse over the line and your heart lurches, feeling like you're about to be sick. “Where are you?”

There's a rustle of fabric, the clink of keys, the heel of his boot walking across his floor. You manage to tell him the name of the restaurant, voice cracking. “Twenty minutes,” he says, and you’re about to protest but he beats you to it. “Sit there and be good and patient and I’ll pick you up, yeah?”

"Okay," you whisper in agreement, before the line clicks dead and you allow yourself to cry, huddling under the awning as some protection from the rain, now coming down in thick, sharp waves.

Thirteen minutes later, the headlights of his truck shine through the dark, pulling up to the curb. You make a mad dash for the passenger door, still getting drenched in the process.

You can't even look at him, hands shaking as you buckle the belt, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

He says your name gently. You take in a shuddering breath and let it out just as shaky, looking over towards him. He's wearing his balaclava, but his eyes — even in the dark, you can make out his beautiful eyes. Assessing you, worrying.

"I'm sorry," you croak out. You can't help it. It's burned into your tongue, driven into your mind to make him understand you didn't want to bother him. He doesn't have to forgive you, but as long as he knows, that's enough.

"Love," he says, and there's... something in his voice, as he reaches over for your hand, holding it gently in his own. His eyes never leave yours. "'m never gonna be mad about you askin' for help." Your eyes flit away, but he squeezes your hand and you reluctantly look back. "You know me better than that," he says, as if he can read the treacherous thoughts swirling in your head, drowning you and making it hard to breathe.

You can only nod, not trusting your voice at the moment. He hums, bringing the back of your hand up to graze his covered lips over the back, pulling out to drive you back.

"This is your flat," you say, fifteen minutes later as he shuts the car off. You were too busy looking at the window, watching the rain drops race down the glass, to notice that he wasn't driving the familiar route to your place.

"Yes," he replies, as if it's obvious he'd bring you here. "You really think I'd let you stay home alone?"

His eyes are so fucking bright. It startles you, and you hate how your heart twists and thumps at how intently he's looking.

"I..." you start, chewing on your bottom lip for a moment. His eyes flicker to your lips, snapping away just as quick. "I was gonna eat ice cream and drink shitty, cheap wine," you say.

"As if I don't have either of those things here," he replies, opening the door and effectively ending the conversation. You scramble after him, eager to be inside in the warmth and burrow yourself into his couch.

"Go get changed," he says, voice clear as he removes the balaclava and bends to untie his shoes.

You hesitate for a second, until he looks up to you and there's that something lingering in his gaze — the same something that was in his voice.

"Go on now," he repeats, softer, and you ditch your shoes and your uncomfortably wet jacket by his.

His flat is as familiar as your own — you could walk through it blindfolded at night and you wouldn't knock into a single thing.

Well.

You might knock into a corner or two, but that's not a vision thing. It's a you're a bit clumsy thing. Simon finds it endlessly amusing, poking at the bruises that blossom on your skin while you bat his hand away.

His bedroom is familiar as well. Which is why you don't think twice before you're shimmying out of your clothes — undergarments as well — and rifling through his drawers, finding your favorite shirt of his and a pair of his boxers.

You take a moment to smell the collar, taking comfort in the scent that lingers. You’ve been dressed in his clothes many times before this but it feels different this time.

As you pad back out to the living room, Simon’s already on the couch. Your favorite blanket is draped across his lap, two bowls of ice cream and a bottle of cheap wine sitting open, glasses filled far more than you would’ve. You’ll indulge him, mostly because you have the sneaking suspicion that he’ll have you sleep here anyways.

His balaclava is off. The last dregs of tension drain from you as he looks over to you, face soft in the lowlight of the lamp, tv ready with a show you’ve watched a thousand times that he watches with you without complaint.

“Knew you’d choose that one,” he says with a bit of a smirk as you crawl on the couch, burrowing yourself into his side, his arm slinging across the back of the cushion.

“Am I that predictable?” you mumble, a small thank you as he hands you a bowl.

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the burn of his stare before he snorts, flicking the tv to start playing, the familiar theme relaxing you further.

The silence with him is comfortable, lingering in a hazy in-between of awake and sleep, empty bowls and mostly empty glasses sitting on the coffee table.

“Were you going to fuck him?” he asks, three episodes in, bottle empty.

You blink, not sure if you heard him properly as you pull back to look at him. You can’t read his eyes. Something hot twists in your gut.

“I-I don’t know, Simon,” you start, the weight of his stare heavy. “Maybe?”

He doesn’t say anything and you chew your lip for a moment, fingers curling to play with the blanket. “Depends how the date went, I suppose. Doesn’t matter much now,” you snort. His gaze hasn’t changed. “Why?”

His jaw clicks, taking a deep breath. “You deserve better ‘n that.”

A confused frown pulls at your mouth, unsure how to reply. “I know how to be safe,” you tell him, voice soft.

He seems to be weighing his words in his head, lowering the volume of the show. You feel sick.

Dark eyes rove over your face, taking in every minute detail. You bite at your nail, just for something to do.

“Don’t think there’s a bloke in the world that’s worthy of ya.”

Your frown deepens, breaking your eyes from his, twisting your fingers in your lap. Relationships aren’t easy. Being that vulnerable with someone isn’t easy.

You never want someone to pay for you, and even the smallest gestures like opening the car door or pulling out your chair feel like it’s too much. You don’t deserve that kind of attention. After a while, they’ll get tired. You’ll become a burden to them like everything else in your life.

It’s easier to be by yourself. The only person you have to worry about bothering is you.

“Love.” He tilts his head, eyes trying to catch yours. How hasn’t he gotten tired of you yet?

A hand under your chin forces your gaze up, and you try to shrink yourself against the back of the couch. Your voice catches in your throat, words stuck there.

“What’s goin’ on in tha’ pretty head f’yours?”

You swallow thickly, finding it damn near impossible to keep your eyes on his.

“‘s not like it matters,” you start. his brows furrow, but he stays silent. “No one would want me anyways.”

“‘n why would you say that?”

Frustration burns the back of your throat. Isn’t it obvious? You can barely call him in a dire situation without thinking the worst of yourself. How can he think of you as anything but a nuisance? How could he think anyone else would put up with it?

“You wouldn’t understand,” you say, defeated. You crumble back into the couch.

“Make me understand.”

Heat flashes at the nape of your neck. He takes your hands in his, cradling them in his warmth. Your name sounds so soft in his voice.

“How aren’t you tired of me?” comes your whispered question, nose tingling and eyes threatening to water. You look at him. Hesitant. Scared.

The silence is loud. His own frown deepens. It takes a few painful minutes, but you see the moment something clicks in place.

“You know I’d do anything for you, yeah?”

Your lip quivers, sniffling as you beg yourself not to cry.

“Because you do the same for me,” he continues. You doubt it, mind going blank of every time he’s come to you for something.

His touch moves to your elbow, tugging you forward gently until he can arrange you in his lap. He slips his hands beneath the hem of his shirt, thumbs rubbing on your hips just above the waistband of his boxers.

You slowly brace your hands on his shoulders. Firm and broad and safe.

“You apologize so much. You worry so much.” the tears slip down your cheeks, throat aching, but now you can’t look away from him. One hand moves to cup the nape of your neck, thumb rubbing gently at the skin behind your ear.

“You’re allowed to ask for help.”

You shake your head, a no caught in your throat, tears blurring your vision.

“Oh, love.” He cradles you into the curve of his neck, arm wrapping around your waist and keeping a gentle hold at the base of your skull. “You have me wrapped around your finger ‘n you don’t even know it.”

He lets you cry into his neck, dampening the collar of his shirt. His cologne is soothing and you eventually slump against him. You’re so tired.

His lips graze your temple, his soft touch lulling you to sleep. You’ll talk about it tomorrow, but for now you want to stay wrapped up in his arms, held by someone who genuinely loves you.

[godfistgonnalive]

ultrakill dashboard simulator 2

🐉 grounded Follow

this grey bitch has no idea whats coming lol

1,271 notes

♦️ flesh-n-teeth Follow

Contrary to popular belief, I actually do not bite people.

592 notes

🍵 benign-rodent Follow

Can we talk about how incredibly problematic the Lust Renaissance was? I personally believe the Council had every right to send Gabriel to strike Minos down. It's appalling to think people come on this website and say that Minos was in the right. Do some research.

🌷 strayandferal Follow

are we seriously having this discussion in this day and age? not only is this just an evil thing to say, but saying "do some research" afterwards is just blatantly ignorant.

🍵 benign-rodent Follow

As you can see here, here, and here, these are some proof that the Lust Renaissance was actually super problematic for both Hell and Heaven. To have the gall to call me ignorant when you probably only know very little about this topic is embarrassing.

🌷 strayandferal Follow

those are all obviously extremely biased articles. i wasn't damned to hell yesterday. there's no sources on them, either. come back to me when you have actual proof.

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎ Expand‎

23 notes

💣 skullonmysleeve Follow

CAN THAT FUCKING SENTRY OVER THERE KNOCK IT OFF

1,197 notes

🔥 throughthefireandflames Follow

warning to all limbo-goers: watch out if you go any higher than the first part of the layer. i wandered into this air shaft (was curious if i could clean anything up there) and it's extremely dark. i feel like something is watching me

📎 wicked2 Follow

🔥 throughthefireandflames Follow

what. was that

2,765 notes

🟥 teeth-n-flesh Follow

i bite people

11,089 notes

💫 gabriel-judgeofhell Follow

Please do not contact me to strike down sinners you dislike.

🔘 meowrice-deactivated22340521

isnt that what you do for the council tho lol

45,698 notes

🩸 bloodpowered Follow

fuck v2 😞😞😞 #allmachinesarethesame no one talk to me 💔💔💔 #deactivating #abandoned 😢😢😢😢😢😢

🛒get-whiplashed Follow

i go fishing without you one time and this is what happens

4,522 notes

🌵 sandfan59 Follow

today i saw some biogenic sand!!! i think is super cool how its all tiny sea creature skeletons... i collected some in my container to bring home and examine im so excited to get a better look at them

🪨 rockenthusiast234 Follow

if you come to my part of greed i can share my sand i have and you can share any rocks you find

🌵 sandfan59 Follow

hell yes. can we make out

2,002 notes

🌟 heavenly-council Follow

6,345 notes

⚰️ gutterthem Follow

i just crashed my fucking tram listening to HELL'S GREATEST COUNTRY HITS VOL. 35 on the cd player and when i got off all the guttertanks and mannequins were laughing at me

#is it over for me

798 notes

[givemequeen]

the artist; spencer reid x reader

request: Hello! It’s me again. :) I have a concept but I’m unsure about a plot, if that’s okay. Could you maybe write a Spencer x Fem!Quiet reader who likes to draw? And Spencer always sees her doodling on her papers while she’s bored like flowers and eyes and stuff? And sometimes she draws the team while they’re working but one day Spencer sees her drawing him and he confronts her very politely and she’s all flustered and blushing? I don’t know if it’s something you’re comfortable with, I just like to draw and if I worked with the FBI that would definitely be something I would do if I was bored. 😄🫶🏻 Thanks a ton!!! I love your writing.

a/n: i love spencer sm. i rly hope this is what you were looking for! thanks for the request :)

It had all started with some fun doodling; a couple of fun little drawings here and there when things were slow or during long flights. It hadn't been anything serious. Then, you attempted drawing landscapes; mountains, buildings, anything. Not just silly doodles.

Drawing helped you pass time, you enjoyed it and, if you said so yourself, you were quite good at it. Drawing people had always scared you, you weren't sure if you could get it right so you started with strangers, people on the bus or tram, in long queues, at cafes.

On one particularly long flight to Seattle you had drawn Hotch. His hard stare and furrowed brows as he read over a case made him easy to draw. Then it was Garcia, her bright smile brought you comfort. Then Rossi and JJ and Morgan.

And finally, Spencer, the cutest member. You could definitely see why Morgan called him pretty boy. His soft lips and hair beautifully juxtaposed his sharp jawline and slim fingers.

He was you're favourite to draw. You had around half a dozen drawings of the team by now; some individual, some in groups. But, your best drawings where those you had done on Spencer.

"Wow. You're really good." Spencer voice made you jump, nearly spilling your coffee over your drawing.

He had just gone to the jet's bathroom - you had been careful to hide your work as he passed by you.

"Spence!" you yelped, moving to clean up. "You scared me." you pressed your sketchpad against your chest, hiding your drawing from sight.

"May I see?" he leaned over and stretched out his hand - that gorgeous, slender hand of his. The one you had a couple drawing dedicated to in the very sketchpad he was reaching towards.

"No!" you said, a little too quickly. "I- erm-"

"Oh, that's okay, sorry for asking." he straightened up. "I just... well I thought that was a really good drawing. You made me look quite nice." his voice was soft, no one else could hear you.

Apart from the looks from that initial scream, no one was paying any attention to you two, everyone too immersed in their own thing to pay attention. You looked around, confirming no one was watching, and moved over in your seat.

"Sit." you said, patting the space beside you.

Spencer sat down, his thigh warm against yours, and smiled at you.

"Here." you offered him your sketchpad and hid your face in your hands, too ashamed to watch his reaction.

He opened the first page and oohed. You peaked between your fingers, wondering what he was looking at. It was your very first doodles. He pointed out some and smiled; his revolver, his favourite book, Morgan's headphones, Garcia's pens.

"I really like these." he said.

"Thanks." you mumbled.

He turned the pages, his fingers feeling the bumps and ridges of the drawing. He was particularly fond of the one you did of Vegas' skyline.

"That's amazing." he said, more to himself than to you.

You pulled away one of your hands and leaned over to him. His scent was overpowering in the best way possible; coffee, old books, and that new cologne he had been trying out.

He finally got to the one you made of Hotch. Spencer laughed out loud, looking up to his boss and laughing even more.

"Identical! Same expression." he whispered in between laughs.

"Thank you." you said, a smile appearing on your face.

"Oh and Garcia..." he laughed. "The same smile..."

He passed the pages - the first drawing you had done of Morgan made him laugh again. It had been of him flirting with Garcia; you had nailed his wicked grin.

Finally, he flipped the paged onto his section of the book. The first one you had done of him he had been reading a book, his fingers pressed against the pages and he read page after page.

"Oh wow." he whispered. "That's... it's amazing. You're such an artist. How did you manage it?" he turned to look at you.

"Oh, well, I dunno." you bit the inside of your cheek. He wasn't mad you had drawn him without permission or something? "You like it?" you asked.

"Of course! They're amazing." he reached out to squeeze your hand. "You're amazing. I'm really impressed."

You stared at your joined hands and your heart skipped a beat. "Thanks." you stuttured.

Spencer let go of your hand and went back to passing the pages. The next drawing, he had been fast asleep, an open book resting against his chest. He laughed at that one too, making some comment about how ridiculous he looked.

"Well, I thought you looked cute." you whispered, scared he might actually hear you.

"Yeah?" he said, looking over at you.

"Yeah." you said.

Spencer was blushing. He quickly looked away and flitted through the rest of the pages. He was especially impressed by the one of his hands ("wow, I had no idea they looked so..." "beautiful?" "creepy").

He closed the book gently and handed it over to you.

"I'd love to get a copy of some of those, if you don't mind." he was so close to you, you were afraid he could hear your heartbeat.

"Yes- no- I mean, I don't mind. I'll send you the original." you were having trouble trying not to stare at his lips for too long.

"You'd do that?" Spencer asked.

"Of course, since you were such a good subject." you laughed and stared into his soft eyes.

"I'd love to be an actual subject for you one day, since you're so good at it." he moved to stand up and you nearly whined as his warmth left you. "If you ever need a subject, let me know." he flashed you that sweet smile of his and made his way back to his seat.

You couldn't believe what had just happened. It took everything in you not to squeal and dance around like a teenage girl. You pressed your sketchpad against your chest and buried yourself deep into your seat, already thinking of all the poses you could get Spencer into.

[katakaluptastrophy]

Continuing to think about the horror of what happens to John, and the horrors of love...

When Alecto has first been created, she says to him "I picked you to change, and this is how you repay me?" and "What have you done to me?"

They're heartbreaking questions she has every right to ask, but there's something awful and ironic about them too. Because John also might have asked "what have you done to me?"

It's easy to get distracted by the cartoonish awfulness of John's own narration: "talk about police abuse", "come on, love. Guys as careful as me don't have accidents," "love a working tram system." But all of these comments come after moments where John has unwittingly come into proximity with violent death, an experience he repeatedly likens to having drugs forcibly injected into him; an omniscient, dream-like, out of body experience that seems to propel him forward through his basest impulses. The first time this happens, he's brought back from "the verge of something insane" by being shaken violently by P-. Lines like these aren't revealing John's diabolical plotting. They're a man who would rather own atrocities as premeditated than admit that he was losing his grip.

The second is when he encounters the soul of the earth. His human mind makes contact with the incoherent, furious soul of a planet. In any other context, this would be straightforwardly Lovecraftian. And everything he describes after that is full of elipses, jumbled, and detached. His friends are shot by gun-toting cultists and he says it was like a dream.

Hearing the earth screaming, feeling his friends' deaths under his skin like a drug, he might well have asked "what have you done to me?"

Alecto said to him, "I picked you to change, and this is how you repay me?" But as everything collapses, John says:

"I thought you were going to take me, somehow. Purge me. Use me as an instrument. But you didn't say anything...I was babbling, Show me. Come on. I'm ready. You kept screaming and screaming..."

John has spent months becoming something terrifying, an entity with yellow eyes and uncanny powers. He's discovered that death has an overwhelming impact on him that he cannot fully control. Everyone was relying on him to do something. And he did so many things: well-meaning things and stupid things and things that were lashing out in rage and frustration. Hundreds of people have died because of him. His friends have died because of him. Surely, surely there was a point to this. Surely there was meaning. Surely whatever did this to him, made him into this, had a greater plan.

But there is no plan. There is no great revelation. He tries to hurt the earth, to provoke some kind of answer, but the screaming continues. And when P dies, the person who snapped him out of it the last time, John lets go and the whole world dies.

John is kneeling on the grass vomiting up dirt and tearing out his own ribs, saying "there was still too much of me that was just a human being...", trying to swallow the soul of the earth. And by the end, the one shred he has to hold onto is a memory of playing with a doll as a child. That, and his anger...

The earth tried to reach out in the only way it could, amidst its incoherent suffering. And John tried to use the abilities it gave him, but he was only human. Fallible and proud and angry.

She said, "I still love you." And the horror; the horror of love, the horror of this story, is that to begin with they did this to each other.

To be clear: I don't mean to diminish the awfulness or the very specific forms that John's violence against Alecto takes, and continues to take across the story. I don't mean to excuse his own self-mythologisation. I certainly don't think he's blameless for the decisions he made and the agenda he pursued. But if there's one thing that happens over and over again in TLT, it's that the horror of love is not a one-way street.

And I wonder, in light of what we now know about the permeability of the soul, quite where John ends and Alecto begins. And when that blurring began...

[mariaace]

Sweet things they do as your boyfriends (Haikyuu!! Setters)

A/n:I love hq sm y'all don't get them like i do okay? Also these are just half of the people i wanna do, so keep in mind this might have a part two and three💜 i just don't feel like writing these days love y'all<3

Warnings: none

Genre: fluff

Type: headcanons

Pairings: Kageyama, Oikawa, Kenma, Atsumu, Shirabu, Akaashi, Semi, Sugawara

Windbreaker version

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Kageyama Tobio

Brings you to his practice. He says he 'can concentrate better' when you are around, even tho it's the exact opposite and he is even more distracted because you're there and he doesn't want to mess up. When the leaves and Yachi, he and Hinata stay for tosses he physically makes you stay too. (Show off). He also likes to answer absolutely any questions that you ask him about his tosses and the sport in general.

Oikawa Torū

He always mentions you when some of his fangirls ask about something. Like he would casually slid it in the conversation like the topic wasn't about him instead of you and then the whole convo becomes about you and your interests, habits and hobbies. At this point instead of you the media and his fan girls, come to ask him about you.

Kenma Kozume (x f!reader)

When he is playing a game with a female character he writes your name for them. Yeah, people might think he's a girl, but who cares. If you also like to play games, he would totally like to play on multiplayer with you, and he usually zones out if you are playing next to him, but he would never tell you that, of course.

Atsumu Miya

He would tell his team that he actually isn't very clingy, even tho no ones from the tram actually believed him and the moment he sees you in the audience in the matches, after it's over he's jumping onto you. And that also happens when you two are at school. The teacher needs to separate you two so you can breathe, after that he's pouting all day.

Shirabu Kenjiro

Shirabu likes to do your make up, especially your eyeliner. He's a med student, so his hands are trained to be very still. So whenever you do to do it, he immediately asks to do your eyeliner. Pop onto this boy's lap and hand him the eyeliner, and let hi mdo the magic. You can also ramble about your day while you're at it, just keep your eyes closed, okay?

Akaashi Keiji

He loves reading out to you. Whether that be after a long day that you are tired of, because you just want to finish a book, but you're too lazy, or just if you want to cuddle with him while he's reading. If you also mention some book that you wanted to get, oh he will go out of his way to get it for you. He will sit in a chair and pretend to be reading it until you actually see it in his hands and ask about it.

Semi Eita

Semi recreates your favourite songs. We all know he can play the guitar and that he's a musician in the time skip, so he recreates some songs that you like in different variations and lets you listen to them. If you have any Ideas about how he can do them, even better. Tell him at the second you think of it, he loves your ideas.

Sugawara Koushi

Sugawara can cook like no one else. And no one can change my mind about that fact. As nd he loves doing it with you, it doesn't matter if you know how to or not, he still wants you to be there if you have the energy. He sometimes even puts music as a background and when you two are done you end up dancing in the kitchen together.

© mariaace 2024 pls do not copy, translate, steal or claim any of my works!

Reblogs are highly appreciated!

[3nni3]

What happens in teledisko, stays in teledisko...

cw: +18, nsfw, rpf, consumption of alcohol, smut (handjob), cursing, lowkey exhibitionism. f! reader

a/n: when the idiots get an idea for a story, i make it happen. this is my first smut i've ever published, and english isn't my first language, but i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing this. also if you find any mistakes, no you didn't 😅

no word count because idfk i wrote this in my phone's notes app👍🏻 kinda short one

okay let's go

----------------------------------------------

The night had started out with getting drinks at the nearest Späti. You two had been wandering around Berlin for a few hours now, getting drinks at every corner store. After seven different spätis, and six beers (one stop was to get a bottle of water, even though the tall man who accompanied you wasn't that excited about your drink of choice) you started feeling tipsy and tired.

Sightseeing in Berlin was amazing, but tiring. You felt the energy being drained from your body and ready to return to your hotel, but the man who was sat next to you in this tram had other ideas.

--

"Found it!" he basically dragged you after him, holding your hand gently but firmly as you approached the teledisco booth. This was a mutual agreement earlier today, before you felt too tired, but your time together was getting closer to an end so you pushed past the exhaustion and enjoyed the moment.

You stop in front of the screen to choose a song, and he stands next to you, his hands now in his pockets.

Scrolling through the music lists, looking for the perfect one, you find something. "Can we do Gimme Gimme Gimme by ABBA?" you ask and press the button, without waiting for an answer. He grabs you by your shoulders and pushes you in the booth, closing the door behind him laughing.

The first notes of Gimme Gimme Gimme starts playing, lights flash and the vibe is intense. You scream out the lyrics together, your arms against each other as you feel the beat of the music in your body.

The space is small, not much air left between you two as you glance up at him, noticing his eyes on you, the hot air in the booth making him sweat and his face glisten. 'He looks so fucking hot' you think to yourself as you suddenly get pressed against the wall, startled. His chest is flush against yours as he gently tilts your head up, feeling his breath against your lips as you look him in the eyes.

"You're gonna be the death of me..." his voice is a whisper, but loud enough for you to hear. He captures your lips in a heated kiss, the music fading in the background as you feel his tongue brush against your lower lip. The intensity of the moment drowns your thoughts and your mind gets blurry. The blonde man's hands explore your body as yours find their way to his hair, pulling slightly as he moans against your lips. That must be the most gorgeous sound you have ever heard. You pull away to breathe, he smiles against your lips as the song nears it's end and you hear the last chords of it playing.

"Another song or do we get the fuck out of here?" he asks smirking. You push him away, laughing, as you pass him and step out of the booth, going back to the screen to choose another song. Joost stands behind you, and you feel him take a step closer. His chest pressing up against your back and you feel lips on your neck, making your breath shaky. Shaking him off of you, you open the door to the booth. "Ladies first," you joke as he rolls his eyes laughing, entering the booth.

Stepping in the booth after him as Call Out My Name by The Weeknd starts playing, and everything feels like a fever dream. Beautiful man in front of you, smiling his charming smile, you both surrounded by music and flashing lights.

"So this was your song of choice huh?" his voice low as he presses you against a wall once again. You feel his hand dragging down from your chest, over your stomach, to the hem of your skirt, lifting it up as his fingers trace your inner thigh. Whimpers leave your mouth as he grins at you, pressing his lips slowly against yours.

"What's up with all the teasing?" you ask, pulling away for a moment, playing with the buckle of his belt, and it opens...accidentally? Oops. Your fingers find their way to the waistband of his boxers, sliding ever so slightly underneath it. As a shaky moan escapes his lips, he laughs quietly, his eyes closed and his head slightly tilted back, mouth staying open. You slide your hand a bit further and his eyebrows furrow as he whimpers, begging for any kind of friction with the desperate sounds leaving his mouth. He drags his hand up your thigh, thumb getting dangerously close to your heat, turning the tables as you're now the one who's desperately trying to hold back the whining.

"Oh so this is how you wanna play?" you smirk as you slide your hand fully in his boxers, placing your fingers firmly around his length as your thumb brushes over the tip. He lets out a loud moan, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the beautiful sounds as you stroke him up and down. His head falls back, eyes squeezing shut and his concentration drifting away enough so he drops his other hand down from your thigh, fully at your mercy now.

"You sure you wanna keep doing this here?" you ask as he moans again. "I truly do not give a fuck." he answers with his head still tilted back and eyes squeezed shut. You grin and move your hand faster, as he grabs your shoulders to gain some kind of balance. As if it wouldn't be hard enough to maintain your own balance with how tipsy you are, you now need to hold up the man who's literally towering over you. His head falls forward on your shoulder as your thumb brushes over his tip again.

"I'm not gonna last much longer, liefde..." he lets out a chuckle, but not amused one. More like an 'embarrassed about how strongly he reacts to your touch' one. Proud smile creeps up on your lips as you try to hold the man up while he moans shakily in your ear. "The song isn't that long either." you remind him, and the exciting realisation hits you both that anyone could open the door any second and see this all.

You feel yourself getting more wet by every moan he lets out, every breath you feel against your neck. He presses his mouth on the soft skin of your neck, nibbling as he tries to muffle out his begging whimpers. You work your hand up and down, earning more and more beautiful sounds that get louder by every stroke.

You feel him twitch in your grip, his teeth on your neck making sure there's going to be a mark to remind you of this later. "Don't stop... please liefje, please don't stop," his weak words can be heard repeatedly against your neck as your strokes get faster and faster. His hips thrust up to meet the movement of your hand, chasing the high. The last chorus of the song starts playing in the background and your hand works it's magic on his length, feeling the twitching again.

With a final few strokes you feel your hand being coated by his warm release. High pitched whimpers leave his mouth, turning into breathless chuckles as his forehead remains rested on your shoulder. "Fuck...liefde..." he tries to catch his breath, "you're insane..." he finally manages to mumble, still chuckling, as he lifts his head up from your shoulder to meet your eyes.

You laugh, pulling your hand out of his pants and fixing his belt as the song's final chords fade out. He opens the door, places a soft kiss on your lips and steps out as you walk behind him, wiping your hand to a tissue you found in your purse.