#she gets them threaded FOR SURE

[syrupbitee]

free my boy from his own show he did nothing wrong

[lesbianshepard]

so the current project im on might be split up to send us to another surveying project 4 hours south of here. we might find out tomorrow who's being sent away. i think they're going to decide based on who lives where.

anyway send good vibes my way that i'm sent on the project with the coworkers I like or that the project is pushed back a few months ❤

[fate-defiant]

Duck hits different when you're no longer thirteen and in the throes of navigating friendships for the very first time and defining yourself by your social ineptitude.

[midnightwind]

half asleep and considering writing the stereotypical Rook and Lucanis have to do a job at a ball, but with Rook actually poisoning half the people there in a dramatic flourish and cackling like a maniac in the rafters about it while Lucanis just kind of stares

[arolesbianism]

Finally fixating on some nugget relationships that aren't horrible for everyone I love friendship <3

[hyaciiintho]

🌸｡*ﾟ+. THIS IS A TEST POST !! This is not an actual inbox call, I just wanted to test and see how the graphic would look posted to tumblr ;; ;; Might use this when doing inbox calls and then a copy/paste text body.

With that being said-- how do people feel about a "permanent" inbox call post? Just for my own reassurance so I don't feel like I'm bothering people but don't wanna like... constantly make a new inbox call post. Basically just a list of people commenting below a post, one that maybe specifies whether people prefer random IC interactions or want asks leaning more to IC questions/ooc headcanons stuff?

I know it's silly because if we're mutuals, we shouldn't be afraid to reach out to each other, BUT !! I also know some people do not like random asks, so... it would just be for the sake of... "You have permission to send random things whenever you feel like it" but of course it's not like I'm expecting you to answer things immediately after I send them either.

But yeah, just a thought! If it seems too silly I'll just keep making individual posts each time ♡ c':

[theskeletoninthegarden]

I had a dream where I was playing as a thief tasked to find out the truth behind the whereabouts of another criminal on a college campus. It was fun in that I was given an overall objective, but absolutely no one gave me an idea as to where to start first. Basically a lot of it involved either me figuring out how to B&E into different offices, or eavesdropping at the right time, but there were other hired thieves that I had to deal with at the same time that added an element of "combat" to the experience.

[tariah23]

Whenever I go to get my brows waxed/threaded, man, these ladies be acting like they don’t know what to do with my brows. My brows are naturally thick like really, REALLY thick, and the lady threaded a little off one brow and was like “I won’t cut more off because it wouldn’t fit your face because it’s much more rounder-“ then I looked into the mirror and was thinking to myself “um, I can barely see a difference 🫤,” and asked her to cut more off and I heard my sis from the back saying that “she wants her brows to look like they were actually done.”

[midnightwind]

I'm having fun with this nonsense now

[fluffypotatey]

📝📝📝📝📝

Okay, okay, nice. Now. This one is both in general and for the fic.

How would you make Teresa worse? 😈😈😈😈😈

well, it’s said that Albert Einstein defined insanity as repeating the same task over and over and over and over and over and over and over thinking you will find a different result

and science experimentation is designed in a way to repeat trials over and over and over and over and over to see where certain factors differ and if your data has enough consistency and accuracy to be viable

so for me, that’s my time loop for her. she wants to aid WXKD in their endeavor in finding the Cure, but she also wants Thomas there along with her. unfortunately, Teresa cannot have both

you can see it in the books and movies but i think it needs some more fleshing out because yes she cannot have both but Teresa refuses that truth and tries many attempts (trials) to change his mind and prove WCKD is good

she ignored the data staring her in the face because of her own personal biases and desires to keep two things that will never combine the way she wants them to

Thomas will always rebel whether he was indoctrinated or Swiped or given her sob story. and even if he did agree, it wouldn’t feel satisfactory for her. she would constantly be trying to convince herself and Thomas that what they’re doing is for a good cause, but Thomas isn’t happy nor does he talk to her. it unsettles her to the point that whether she got her way or not, the result isn’t her ideal and it leads to her spiral

which is my humble opinion on how her arc should go Mr Dashner, sir :P

[iniziare]

"Is this fate or am I just lucky to have run into you?"

It is perhaps rude to intrude upon a lady without any warning but Aventurine never importunes without reason. Most of the times said approaches amount to mere scout work, the more he knows of the players the better and he'll take any reaction to his behavior as clues to the person's inner self. This woman however, is not a regular player to his gambles, nor is she a chip he has to account for his plans. If anything, he should be fearful, Kafka has earned herself quite the reputation within the cosmos, especially with the likes of the IPC.

She may not know who he is but he knows her. From the alluring smile to her empty gaze, downright to ever increasing number of her bounty, Kafka is perhaps the most wanted Stellaron Hunter. The reports on the numerous attacks on Pier Point should be enough to caution him, but Aventurine's never been one to be afraid of people. What they may do to him, is a whole different story.

"Not everyday one runs into a hunter." He does omit the title, partially. While he wants her to know that he's onto her, he doesn't need the rest of the room to be aware of her presence. The lounge is discreet, he only really visits when he has free time as it allows him to rest from his image and enjoy the quiet of being unknown. It seems perhaps, he's not the only one to indulge in such respite. How terrible of him to peak through Kafka's veil.

"I'll have what she's having."

He would not prompt an immediate response, but he would enrapture a gaze soon enough, coax it to his person as had surely been done to many before her— but she was hardly one like the masses, was she? Though before it would stray in any such way, it'd linger on the rim of her glass for a moment longer, the temptation to sip almost too great. And so the silence stretched between them, heavy, but hardly uncomfortable, at least not to her. But how long could she ever deny fate, or the mention thereof— a concept that was weaved between those gloved fingertips, or at least in some hypothetical. Ah, her lips quirked in slight, until a whisper of a smile that never quite reached her eyes settled amidst her countenance. "Fate," came in certain echo, as if weighing the word against her own amusement. "It does love its disguises, doesn't it? Sometimes a mere accident, sometimes an inevitability, dressed in coincidence. Makes it easy to believe in." The glass turned between her fingers, deliberate, languid. "Or perhaps you’ve strayed too far, and found yourself somewhere you were never meant to be." The words did not cut, did not accuse, but it simply hung between them in curiosity, ever so feather-light. It was never a warning, merely a possibility: a door left half-open, should he dare to step through. She was hardly fond of being at a disadvantage, after all. And so the moment stretched in hush, the cadence of her voice betraying neither invitation nor dismissal, only a soft lilt of idle amusement. But there was something to be said about a man who approached anyone so comfortably— too comfortably. Especially one who deemed her familiar.

"How bold." The smile was faint, but there— there, in the curve of her lips, was the trace of something. A teasing amusement that lingered without fully, really revealing itself. "To share in the taste of a stranger, without the slightest inkling of its flavor."

The booth, quiet save for the soft hum of conversation around them, seemed to frame her in a manner that was hardly ordinary— yet perhaps it wasn’t meant to. The shift to one side was a delicate movement as though the space she created was the natural course of things at the behest of... hm, perhaps curiosity, but certainly not of concession. The gesture was made without haste, her posture remaining wholly unruffled. Her fingers, ever elegant in their precision, grazed the edge of a long skirt, smoothing over the fabric with the meticulousness of one who understood the art of presentation. And she did. A quiet pause followed then, encompassed by a slight adjustment of the cuff of her blazer, the subtle action adding an air of carelessness that wasn’t entirely carelessness at all. It was an extension of a careful control that she wielded over each gesture, a simple shift in attire, a deliberate smoothing of creases that seemed to capture the attention without demanding it. And then, her gaze shifted towards him, finally, though never quite meeting it, but acknowledging him nonetheless. "Come then." Her voice was soft, one low as it lingered. "You have me curious, Diamond Eyes."

Prompt: Ever so unprompted many moons ago. // @aventvrina

[fellstcr]

⚔️ // byleth supposed that she had indeed brought this upon herself . although she was yet but a fish out of water when it came to the frills and frolics of fanciful things , there were others that seemed to be WELL SUITED TO THEM .

to byleth , miss furina was certainly one of those latter sorts .

it was under her guidance that byleth had flown from the nest of the greys and neutral colors she had always known to those a bit more ... eye - catching . as she trailed behind furina , with her hands clasped before her , byleth couldn't help but think that , were mercedes or annette here beside them , they would all most likely chatter a good long while with one another . perhaps even sparking new waves of conversation that byleth felt herself SORELY INEPT IN . in comparison , she feared herself to be a sorely drab accompaniment —

byleth blinked out of her thoughts as a new garment was held aloft .

". . . it's certainly . . . ribbon-y."

@ladyfurina / shopping ! :)

[ceramicbeetle]

tbh the more I think about her the more I wonder if Tiffany is going to wind up more of a side character than an actual Main Character in this series... like if i wind up actually writing as much as i am conceptualizing writing, the distinction might not necessarily matter that much, but i do sort of wonder what i'm going to wind up doing with her lol

[softaestluv]

more of Ghost’s sweet wife from this blurb! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Ghost’s sergeant’s are still trying to figure out how a sweet thing like yourself ended up as their Lieutenant’s wife. Rumors spread, ones that bruise Ghost’s ego just a little— ‘Did you hear the Lieutenant is holding a poor lass hostage as his wife?’

It doesn’t help that anytime anyone asks he chalks it up to his ‘irresistible charm.’

The truth? Well he can’t let his team know how utterly soft he is for you.

It would ruin his image if he told them that when he’s not on base he spends his spare time at his elderly neighbor’s apartment. Carries her mail up the stairs everyday so she doesn’t have to climb up the stairs herself, helps her up them whenever he does see her shaking and stumbling up the steps.

Asks her if she needs anything from the market when he’s going shopping, takes her to get refills of her medicine. Always makes himself available to her no matter how minuscule, opens stubborn jars for her, helps her read the tiny font on her prescription bottles, fixes the time on her clocks when the time changes.

Her glorified maintenance boy, and truthfully, Simon was more than happy to help. It felt good to be needed for something normal, so he replaced her light bulbs, drained her clogged sinks, fixed her lopsided wash machine with a smile.

Every Sunday morning, the same routine, tea and biscuits while she taught him how to crochet. It wasn’t exactly easy to hold the slender hooks in his thick fingers, but he could hold them steady long enough, zero his focus through a needle after years as a sniper. He was quite a patient person, and the stitching helped pass the days he was alone, numb his mind to nothing, but loop and thread.

Loop and thread.

It’s not like she was the only one benefiting from the agreement. It was quiet, peaceful, a much needed contrast to the draining and stressful occupation he put himself in. Most days he fell asleep in her recliner, always had her heater a little warmer than needed, the smell of pastries she was baking wafting from the kitchen. Made her living room entirely too comfortable, but she didn’t mind when he took naps, even if he was sure he snored like a bear.

Insisted he call her ‘Gran,’ even if she wasn’t his grandmother. Though, he supposed she acted like she was; baked him an abundance of pastries, always made more than enough dinner for two people. Gave him left overs for lunch— ‘a little lady like myself can’t finish it all alone, Simon.’

Plus, it led him to you.

There were days their conversations strayed to his relationship status. Single, of course, something Gran tried to change, dropping hints throughout their time together:

‘A young man like yourself should have a wife and kids by now, Simon!’

‘You sure are a handy man, you’ll make a great husband someday.’

‘You should meet my granddaughter, I think you two would get along swell.’

‘You know, my granddaughter can cook just as well. Taught her all my recipes.’

He always brushed it off; he wasn’t exactly looking to be in a relationship, but Gran was cunning, sneaky, and set the two of you up. Invited him over for dinner and to watch the football game on the telly one day. Except when he walked through her front door, calling for her, he saw your figure in the kitchen, adorned in an apron, covered in flour and sugar.

And well, he already called her ‘Gran,’ why not legally make her his grand-in-law?

[luveline]

Hi Jade! (I’ve sent this before so ignore if you aren’t into it) just thinking about a bau!reader (maybe shy!reader??) who’s dating post-prison Spencer but didn’t know him before prison and she sees some footage of season one Spencer (maybe they need to refer to a recording of a previous case?) and she’s just dying at how cute he is 🥹

You’ve barely woken up with your face in a solid shoulder when Spencer’s turning around.

“Don’t,” he says when you whine, slipping a familiar hand over your hip. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Too early to make fun of me.” 

“Do you think I’m making fun of you?” 

His talking warms your nose where his head is angled down. Your skin smarts with goosebumps as he trails his hand lightly up your back, down again, the slowest, tumbling touch. You shiver, and Spencer, ever so slightly devious in love, says, “Oh, you’re cold?” with great pity as he pulls you closer. 

You rub your face against his shoulder. “Sorry.” 

“Why?”

“I smell.” 

He hums. “Sort of. Not like sweat, though. You smell like sleep.” His lips touch your cheek.

He lets you ‘warm up’ in his arms for a few minutes, then however long you doze for, lost and too comfortable to bother even trying to wake up properly. Your phone pings a couple of times after it comes out of sleep mode, a sure sign you’ve overslept, but Spencer doesn’t make you move until your stomach growls. 

“Come on,” he says, kissing your nose and slipping you back onto your side of the bed. “I’ll make breakfast.” 

“It’s nearly twelve.” 

“You just woke up, and it’s the first thing you’re gonna eat. You are breaking your fast. Breakfast.” He looks pretty even through achy, tired eyes, all the sleep crusted in your lashes no match for Spencer Reid. How you went so long without knowing him is a mystery. 

You get up only because he told you to and because he looked quite lovely when he did it, not because you want to. The bed is warm, that pit of his arms calling your name, but Spencer’s already rolling out of bed with an eager hand scratching through his hair. Sweat has made them tight and a little darker in the back. You’ll both have to shower at some point, preferably after he’s made you breakfast in bed. 

He can see your expectations on your face, and he laughs as he pulls a t-shirt on over his head. “Get up! I’m not bringing it up here, do you know how badly your sleep cycle is affected when you start doing the wrong things in bed?” 

“What counts as the wrong thing?” 

Spencer laughs again, softer now, and for a moment he traces your face with his eyes without speaking. “Fine,” he says, waving a hand at you as he makes for the bedroom door, “stay there. But only ‘cos you look so pretty!” 

“Thank you!” you call back. 

This time with Spencer isn’t enough. You need ten more years of this, thirty, fifty, you need to wake up in his arms and have him touch you and tickle your cheek with his breath. He’s too far to have him come back, so you resign to hugging him when he returns. 

Your phone pings again, drawing your attention finally. The first notification is a reminder to buy toothpaste today at the grocery store. The second is a text from a friend, the third an email. It’s one from last night that piques your interest, another friend, full capital letters: HELP. 

Her use of a laughing emoji defers any urgency. You click on the text thread and scroll up, puzzled by her previous messages, a link, and a caption: oh my god he was so dorky??? 

You open the video and feel your breath catch in surprise. 

Is that Spencer?

You're not stupid, you’ve seen photos of him and his friends together dotted around the apartment from over the years, and every time you come across that photo of him and Diana at a spelling bee with his huge black-framed glasses you have to laugh, but it’s different seeing him to hearing him. 

He’s so nervous. You can’t understand what it is he’s saying, something about mathematical components to profiling criminals. Jason Gideon stands in the background watching him closely. 

“There’s actually a good joke that–”

“Spencer,” Gideon reprimands. 

You watch in awe as Spencer stammers an apology, his cheeks a little pink. You’ve seen Spencer blush, but this feels different. He looks so young. His hair is straight as a pin. 

“Spencer, did you used to straighten your hair?” you call, hoping he can hear you over the sound of a frying pan popping in the kitchen. “Or do you have a perm now, or what?” 

“What!” 

“I’m confused on the logistics of your hair!” You feel something weird in your chest as on screen Spencer tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. It’s a mixture of wanting to eat him and wanting to reach through the screen to stroke his cheek with your thumb. 

Spencer treks back into the bedroom with his pink and white pinstripe apron over his shirt and sweatpants. He smells like cinnamon sugar already. “What are you talking about?” 

“My friend found a video of you and Jason at one of those lectures you did.” 

Spencer presses his lips together. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. “I didn’t do any lectures.”

“Uh, yes you did, liar, and you looked so cute.” You turn your phone to him. “So sweet.” 

He marches to the bed. Before you can stop him, he’s taking the phone from your hand, giving you the world's silliest, tiniest shove when you try to get it back. 

“Cruel,” you quip. 

Spencer stares at the phone screen, then you, “Sorry,” he says, turning pink, “I don’t know why I did that, just– I just–” He frowns deeply. “Can you stop smiling like that?” 

You climb onto your knees, a morning disaster, but when you wrap your arms around Spencer’s waist he looks at you like you’re perfect. His eyes soften, brows relaxing, his irises like dark dimes that slowly dilate as he looks you over. Your phone presses into your back, his arm wrapping around you. 

“You were adorable,” you say sincerely. 

“Not anymore?” 

You rub your cheek against his apron. “No, you still are. Let me watch the video again.” 

“Not a chance.” 

[lvrsfilm]

Lieutenant Simon Riley has a favorite nurse. She's sweet as sugar and polite, stitching up every bloodied soldier with gentle words and touches so light they barely feel the push and pull of the suturing. Appreciative, whether they return the soft conversation or not. He likes the way she floats around the medical wing, the way she smiles softly at everyone, even him. He's sure she knows what he's been doing, but she isn't stopping him, so he assumes she doesn't mind.

Every morning, without fail she gets up and comes into the wing in a different colored pair of scrubs. A new color every day, never the same one twice in a week. She sits at the front desk or at another station somewhere around and sips a can of ginger ale through a straw, pretending she doesn't see Simon's eyes on her while she works.

"Wha's it t'day?" Simon says gruffly as he approaches her, bypassing the other nurses almost completely. "Blackberry," She says softly, looking up at him and displaying the can. He takes a look at her scrubs, and of course, they're a dark purple, matching the can. It suits her, he thinks. Not an obnoxious shade, one that matches her skin tone well. "Good?" He asks her, like he always does. "Not my favorite,' she says as she sets the can back down. He hums lowly in reply as his eyes linger on the fabric of her scrubs, the way the cloth dips over her soft curves.

"You hurt?" She asks him cheekily, "Or just taken an interest in the medical field?" He grunts, pulling his eyes away from her scrubs and meeting her own. "Nae," He says lowly. "Just passing by," he adds, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets to keep from touching her. Or reaching out to smooth out a wrinkle in her clothing, or tucking some of her hair behind her ear.

He doesn't know what else to say, wanting to keep her attention on him. "Suits ya," He ends up saying softly, trying to sound as gruff as possible, but his eyes are trained on hers, his hazel eyes staring into her own irises. "The purple." He grumbles, cursing inwardly because why is he acting like he's never spoken to a pretty bird before?

"Thank you, Lieutenant." She says sweetly, a nice red tinting the apples of her cheeks. Simon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to say next. Small talk hasn't ever been his strong suit, but walking away feels wrong, like cutting a thread that’s barely started to weave.

"You sure you're alright?" she asks again, but this time there's something softer in her voice. A note of genuine curiosity, her hands stilling on her keyboard. "You don’t usually linger this long."

He scowls—not at her, but at himself for being so obvious. "Dinnae know I was bein’ timed," he mutters, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

She chuckles, the sound low and warm. "You’re not. Just... noticed, is all." Her gaze flicks over him, quick and subtle, like she’s trying to piece him together without openly prying. She's familiar with Simon, knows how private he is. "Busy morning?"

He shrugs. "Same as usual. Training, Paperwork."

Her lips quirk upward in a faint smile, but there’s a shadow of worry behind her eyes. "Sounds like you could use a break."

"Aye," he says gruffly, a hand leaving his pocket to scratch at the base of his balaclava. "Reckon this is it."

Her smile softens at that, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. There’s a weight in the air, something unspoken that presses against his chest, and hers. He wants to say more, to keep her talking, but the words are tangled up in his throat.

"Y’know," she says after a pause, "I think purple might actually suit you too."

His brows furrow softly, squinting at her a bit behind the mask, and for a split second, he wonders if she’s teasing him. But her expression is sincere, her eyes glinting with a quiet kind of amusement.

"Me?" he scoffs, shaking his head. "Don’t reckon that’s in regulation."

She shrugs lightly, leaning against the desk. "Wouldn’t hurt to try. Maybe a mask or something. Just a little color." There’s a playful glint in her eyes now, and he feels the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

"Don’t think I’d pull it off," he mutters, though there’s a faint warmth creeping up his neck, hidden by the black fabric.

"I disagree," she says softly, and the weight of her gaze feels heavier than before. He looks at her then, really looks, and finds himself rooted to the spot.

"You always this cheeky with the patients?" he grumbles, trying to mask the fact that she’s gotten under his skin.

"Only the ones who hover around the nurses' station without a good excuse," she quips, her smile widening just a fraction. "But I don’t mind. You’re welcome anytime, Lieutenant."

His heart gives a traitorous thump at her words, but he swallows it down and grunts in reply. "I’ll hold ya to that," he says, his voice rougher than he intends.

As he turns to leave, her voice calls him back again, soft and lilting. "Oh, and Simon?"

He stops dead in his tracks. She’s never used his name before. Slowly, he turns his head to glance at her, his hazel eyes locking onto hers.

"Next time," she says, lifting her can of ginger ale in a mock toast, "you could at least bring one of these to share."

His lips twitch into something dangerously close to a smile. "Aye," he murmurs, his voice low. "I’ll see what I can do."

And as he walks out of the wing, he finds himself already wondering what color she’ll be wearing tomorrow.