#shoebox notes

[lefttobloom]

It's okay, I also voted Moira 😔

anon, its me and you in this cold, cruel world...

[lunar-years]

I like to think Roy leaves little notes for Jamie around the house. Some are for little reminders like "don't forget to pack this..." or a list of meal prep instructions on the food he's left for Jamie in his fridge, etc. and some are just general well wishes like "good morning beautiful, meet you at the club x" or whatever. Except Roy's handwriting is so tragically bad, and this combined with the fact that Jamie already finds reading difficult results in Jamie never having one single clue what the hell that man is trying to say to him. He keeps all the notes in a shoebox anyway because they're from Roy and because Roy always signs them off with "I love you," the one sentence in Roy's handwriting that Jamie is never not going to recognize 🥰🥰

[ghostlysleuth]

i'm moving soonnnnn yippee (not yippee because moving is great or anything, yippee because i can't wait to get out of this bumfuck majority white trumper tx town)

[snoozingbear]

i feel like many of the things wrong with me are related to hormones / my menstrual cycle ………

[shoeboxgoblin]

It is my god given right to make as many Tumblr posts that flop spectacularly as I fucking want

[littlemissmanga]

NYers still do the long goodbye, or at least my family does and I think you're right - it does wonders to take you from "I'm having fun" to "there is literally no other way for me to say goodbye anymore I need to leave."

But a good alternative could be car notes!

At the end of summer camp (sleepaway), we would all write Bus Notes for our friends that we couldn't open until we were on the bus home. If you were on the same bus as someone, you had to wait to read their note until you were home.

This way, you had a little hit of friendship serotonin even in the quiet of your room, when you haven't been used to quiet or being on your own in weeks.

googling shit like "why do i feel bad after hanging out with my friends" and all of the answers are either "you need better friends" (i don't; my friends are wonderful) or "your social battery is drained, you need to rest and regain your energy levels" (i don't; i've got tons of energy, it's just manifesting as over-the-top neurotic mania). why is this even happening. it's like some stupid toll i have to pay as a punishment for enjoying myself too much

[babymadeofbones]

did i ever show u guys my ita bag :3

[northwest-by-a-train]

Average British Fantasy Author of the 20th Century: Born in Hong Kong, raised in Singapore, Kingston and Oxford, he kissed his first girl at the tender age of 38. He spent 23 years obsessively writing notes for his epic masterwork, the Sword of Gormenlia series, with elements drawn from Indian mysticism, Arthurian mythos, Surrealist poetry, Victorian racism and Radical beliefs[?]. He died in Cyprus where he owned the world's most beautiful houseboat.

Average American Fantasy Author of the 20th Century: Born on the border between Ohio and Montana, Wizjeremiah VanderMcDercken, better known by his pseudonym John "Wizard" Whiteman, was raised in a ghost town and was the only citizen of his county who could read. At the age of 14, he stole a car and drove 30 hours straight to New York City to send his first story "The Alien was Really a Man" to Astounding Stories, for which he was paid a whopping 12$. A string of successes followed, including "The Man was Really a Robot" "The Alien was Really a Wizard" and "The Wizard is Really a Man When You Think About It". He harassed Samuel R. Delany for twelve years over a mild criticism of one of his now out-of-print novels. Died in Yonkers where he had a condo.

Average Canadian Fantasy Author of the 20th Century: Born just outside of Toronto

Average French Fantasy Author of the 20th Century: Despite publishing over 170 novels over a period of fifty years, no one outside of France, or indeed within France, knows who Jean Messac is. Left on the steps of a convent in the south of France, he soon learned to hate the nuns, the books in the local library, Parisians, Americans, specifically the citizens of Syria, the Dominican Republic and Bulgaria, the French literary establishment, Regionalist writers, Sartre, De Gaulle, Casimir, anyone who appeared on TV, Radio, Newspapers and Photographs. He lived in a shoebox gifted to him as a joke from André Breton. He was a high school teacher and wrote for a variety of magazines and publishers, was institutionalized three times and was a Majdanek survivor. His books have all been translated in Russia and Japan following a popular JRPG adapting his saga "Pox-Children of the Kamchadals". He died in the same city where he spent his entire life at the age of 64.

[lustagel]

LOSER! RODRICK HEFFLEY * readers race is not mentioned, mwah! . ⟡

loser! rodrick barely has any friends but his band members. only wears his bands t-shirts and listens to music that hurts your ears. always in the garage practicing with his band, if not with his girlfriend. puppy dog eyes and longing stares. not-no-secret softie. wannabe rockstar. has a shoebox hidden under his bed full of ticket stubs from concerts, crumpled notes and photos of/from his girlfriend.

loser! rodrick can't wrap his head around how he even got her in the first place and neither can his parents. ego boost after getting a girlfriend and no one knows how she even puts up with him. tries to impress her in anyway he can. mostly rolls her eyes at his stupidity but clearly finds him amusing and has a soft spot for his cluelessness.

loser! rodrick yearns for her kisses and chases her lips every time he gets a chance. smells of her almost always because he’s always around her and on her. gives the most softest kisses to the top of her ears. follows her anywhere with dreamy eyes. writes terrible songs for her but has never shared them with anyone. asks her to kiss his drummer sticks for good luck and of course she does after telling him how stupid it is.

loser! rodrick knows everything about his girlfriend. her favorite sweet treat, what makes her heart arch, the color she adores the most, what makes her laugh he most, what perfume she buys the most, her favorite show and genre, how she tastes (believes he’s been blessed by the gods themselves to even be able to get a hand on you).

୨ he's such a loser he moaned into your mouth the first time you kissed

୨ loser! rodrick following cool! reader around when she’s wearing a swimsuit

୨ cool! reader being everybody's favorite person in some way shape or form

୨ possessive! reader making out with loser! rodrick to show people he’s hers and him getting a hard-on

୨ loser! rodrick who smells like musk and two day old clothes, while his new girlfriend smells of the sweetest scents known to man

© 2024 lustagel, do not use my work for your own benefit.

asks are open!

[cogcontrol]

my personal hc is that the size of kirk's room is just another piece of evidence in the "jim is insane and doesn't care if he lives or dies" pile. like every other captain we see has a separate lounge area/office space. piccard has his library. pike has a big communal space + kitchen because he loves being social. meanwhile jim upon taking command of the flagship: WHY SHOULD I HAVE A BIG ROOM. AM I ANY BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE ON THE CREW?? I SHOULD SLEEP IN A SHOEBOX. FRANKLY MY QUARTERS SHOULD BE SMALLER THAN ANYONE ELSE'S. in other news I think the science department deserves 7 new laboratories

Genuinely like so funny that Pikes room in SNW is gigantic and so extra with the fancy couches, a queen size bed with fluffy pillows and blankets and impeccable interior design with all the matching decorations and colour coordination. Plus he had a whole kitchen and grill and a whole dining room separated from the living room.

Meanwhile, Kirks room in TOS makes it feels like he lives in an appartment the size of a shoe box and shops at Ikea. The tiny twin bed with a mattress that I can tell feels like sleeping on rocks and possibly the scratchiest looking sheets known to man NO blankets btw. The pillow looks like it's made from concrete and a chair that looks like it would hurt to sit on. Zero interio designers were consulted for this room

It literally looks like before Pike gave the Enterprise to Kirk, they did an entire ship refit and rearranged everything. Pike really said idgaf about my protege Kirk give me back all my fancy furniture he can't have any of it yeah and make his room smaller too he look my job, my ship and my favourite science boy, he deserves to sleep in a tiny room.

[abbotjack]

˚. ྀིྀི୧❤︎୨ ྀིྀི.˚ We know Jack writes letters.

They're the kind Robby can’t read all the way through without stepping outside to gather himself. The kind that cut clean and simple, because Jack doesn’t waste words—he means them.

So when he falls in love, of course he writes.

He works nights. You work days. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal—just a few missed dinners, a couple uneven weekends. But two years in, it’s become a rhythm neither of you like but both of you have learned how to survive. You brush your teeth while he’s lacing up his boots. He lets the microwave run too long reheating the dinner you left him. The sheets are always warm, but it’s rare you’re both in them at the same time.

You see him in fragments.

A half-empty beer left by the sink. His stethoscope on the kitchen chair. The smell of soap and hospital antiseptic lingering in the bathroom when you step out of the shower. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him in the doorway before you head out and he gets home—eyes heavy, jaw dark with stubble, scrubs wrinkled. He kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing for the hours he missed.

But then there are the letters.

Tucked in the pocket of your coat. Folded into your planner between work notes and receipts. Once, wedged between the pages of the book you keep meaning to finish, like he knew you’d open it eventually.

They’re never long—just a paragraph or two, scribbled on the back of supply sheets or crumpled chart printouts, whatever scrap he could grab between calls. The handwriting is always the same: rushed, uneven, slanted like he was writing too fast to second-guess himself. He never rewrites them. Never polishes a word. And at the bottom, always that quiet little “—J,” like he’s hesitant to leave too much of himself behind.

“Didn’t sleep today. Kept thinking about the way you were breathing last night, arm over your face like you were shielding yourself from something. I should’ve held you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“No letter tonight. Just wanted to leave a note saying I need to be near you. Wake me when you get in. Please.”

“You said something in the mirror yesterday—something about looking tired. I didn’t say anything then, but: You are beautiful. Even when you forget. Especially then.”

“There’s a receipt in your car from our favorite place. You went without me. I’m not mad. Just—next time, bring back fries. Or lie better.”

“You leave your rings on the counter and every time I see them, I think, ‘she came home.’ I don’t think you know how much that matters to me.”

“The plant you named after me is dying. Water it. Or don’t. I get it. But if it survives, I’ll take it as a sign you still love me.”

“You left the light on. Again. Which should annoy me. It doesn’t. The apartment feels like you were just here. Sometimes that’s all I need.”

“Tried to be quiet when I left. Still knocked over the shampoo bottle. Sorry. You flinched but didn’t wake up. I whispered goodbye anyway. It felt wrong not to.”

“You made the grocery list and wrote ‘Jack’s weird yogurt’ like I don’t have a brand. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

"Tonight was rough. Lost one. Didn’t want to bring it home with me, but I needed to tell you I love you anyway."

“You were talking in your sleep again. Said something about stealing a goat. If I come home and there’s a goat in the yard, I’m not asking questions. I’ll just name it.”

“You asked me last night if I’d still love you if I was a worm. I said no. You hit me with a pillow. I’ve revised my answer.”

“You bought four new throw pillows. We now have eleven pillows on a three-seat couch. I have nowhere to sit. I love you anyway.”

“You said you felt off today. Didn’t tell me what that meant. Just curled up under the blanket and didn’t talk much. I stayed quiet too. I just wanted you to know I noticed.”

“You made the bed this morning. I know you were late. You didn’t do it for you. You did it for me. I love you.”

You keep them all. Pressed flat in a shoebox under your bed, like tiny pieces of him that can’t fade with time. Some of them still smell like antiseptic and worn leather and faint traces of his cologne. Sometimes you reread them when the loneliness sneaks in, when the hours between seeing him stretch too long.

And the thing is—he never asks if you read them. He doesn’t bring them up. It’s not about the response. It’s not even about being heard.

It’s about leaving something behind.

A thread. A trace. A heartbeat in your drawer when he can’t be in your bed.

Because Jack Abbot may not say I love you in the hallway or across a crowded kitchen—but he’ll write it. Every damn time.

And he knows you’ll find it when you need it most.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

UPDATE What's up, it's the proposal guy. You said you wanted to know how this turned out, so I figured I'd tell you. First some context though, because I'm mean and I wanna keep you in suspense longer.

1- I don't wanna doxx us so I'm not telling you where we live, but suffice to say, neither of us are American, and gay marriage has been legal here for less than five years. For both of us, this is the first relationship we've had where marriage was even an OPTION, and I think that's where we've been getting some of that whole 'this has to be a REAL proposal with EVERYTHING' idea.

2- I gotta figure out how to explain this properly. So, I'm pretty used to being the GUY guy in relationships? I was always the one who did the nice gestures, not the one they got done for. Before I met my dream guy, I didn't really notice or care that it was such a thing, I just assumed that's how shit worked. Also, I promised I wouldn't talk a lot about his stuff here, but his last boyfriend before me SUCKED. Anyway point here is, it turns out we both REALLY like feeling swept off our feet sometimes, and a big part of finding each other has been getting to feel special for once? That's a stupid sappy way of putting it the point here is I think all that's what morphed into "I need to be the one getting proposed to, also it has to be completely perfect", and then our Petty & Extra genes got involved.

So I'm sitting in bed thinking about all that up there, and watching all the comments coming in basically being like "Dude, you are BLOWING this" on repeat, and telling me to compromise, and I look up and see him flossing in the bathroom and making all these doofy faces at the mirror, and it's like a switch just flips in my brain, and I'm like "Oh, I'd rather he gets to have his perfect proposal than we both have an okay one". I'm gonna do it.

Morning rolls around, and while I'm 'out for my jog like normal' I hit up a pawn shop for a temp ring (the ring pop thing is cute but NOT HIM). I found one I was at least confident wouldn't get ruined the first time he got his hands greasy (he fixes old machines as a hobby it's hot as hell), got back home, and hid the box in the toe of my nasty ass workout shoes in the bedroom closet, since I figured he'd check there last.

He was still asleep, because he stays up late no matter what and then is SHOCKED he's tired the next day, so I called and booked a table at our usual anniversary spot. (Side note about the 'he picks bad restaurants' thing. This isn't an 'I like Greek, you like Chinese' situation, dude's just BAD at finding places. He either assumes pricey is tasty and I get to eat some overrated gourmet bullshit, or he'll try and find something hip and underground and risk giving us food poisoning again, and he REFUSES to give up and pick somewhere we've been before when it's his turn to plan date night. I'm obsessed with him <3.) Date was set, I'd propose on the 21st.

Some of you might have noticed this, but fun fact! It's currently the 16th.

Last night I'm doing dishes and he's been sent to our room for mug collection duty, and he's taking FOREVER, so I go check just in case he found the ring, because the man's a gift tracking BLOODHOUND. Turns out he hasn't, he's found my Angry Box.

I assume other people have an Angry Box? Basically, we had this huge messy fight right when we first moved in together, and I never wanna let it get that bad again, so I have this shoebox where I keep a bunch of our stuff I can look at if we're fighting and hopefully cool off. There's one of those photo booth roll things, letters we wrote when he moved back with his parents for COVID, the wine cork from our first date, shit like that. Anyway, he's just sitting on the floor staring at it, and I explain about the Angry Box, and then he! Proposes!!! Kind of.

He definitely didn't have anything prepared, because by 'propose' I mean 'ugly cried & rambled at me for several minutes before I figured out it WAS a proposal', but once I got on the same page it was amazing. I said yes, and he had to admit he didn't have a ring for me because he was CONVINCED he'd win and I'd do it, so I grabbed mine because, yeah, he was right. He was like "this is the ugliest ring I've ever seen" and I was like yeah well the plan is to replace it later and he went "No. You can pry this off my cold dead fingers. After I'm buried with it." So I guess it's not a temporary ring anymore.

I'm just gonna go ahead and skip to this morning. I pointed out we still have the reservation, and he said I should propose there anyway because "We can get a free dessert. They have those creme brulee shot glasses you like. And for love, or something" and I said ok deal, but that means you gotta get me a ring to keep it fair, and his eyes LIT UP. When I swung by his work for lunch he was still on the phone with a jeweler and he had a whole page of notes on three other ones. Pray for me.

OH PS: I was RIGHT that he'd been the one behind the cat biting me, but it wasn't about the proposal stuff, it's because I paid my baby sister three dollars to shout 'fuck you' every single time he enters a room she's in for (if you ask me, he should be madder at my sister for charging so little), and he did it by giving her a bunch of treats for biting his hands too, so now neither of us can pet our baby girl without oven mitts on. HOLY SHIT I love this man.

Oh my goddddddd I love everything about this <333 I awwww'd out loud on a voice call, like, six times while reading. You two are friggin perfect for each other and so obviously smitten with each other and I wish y'all all the happiness in the world

PS Are y'all planning to have a big wedding? If so oh boy I can't WAIT to get that one in the inbox

Original post

[skeltnwrites]

Bad Cop - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You wake to a call from your boyfriend Eddie who asks you to bail him out of jail. 

Word Count: 2.2k

TW: interactions with police, mild injury, talk of fighting and bullying, sexual innuendos 

A/N: I might be a little late to the Eddie Munson party but I’m here now! :D

“This is a collect call from Edward Munson at Hawkins Police Station. Will you accept the charges?” 

You clear your throat but your voice still feels raw when you speak, “Yes.” 

“Please hold,” the operator says. 

A trilling sound as you wait, twirling the phone cord anxiously. You’d been tucked in bed a minute ago, dead to the world. The phone rang loud enough from the kitchen to startle you awake. You caught the time on the alarm clock on the nightstand as you kicked the blankets off, just after one in the morning. 

“Y/N?” His voice is soft under the crackle. 

“Edward.” It’s not angry per se but you never use his real name which is telling.

“Please don’t be mad.”

“Are you okay?” you sigh, tipping your head till your forehead meets the wallpaper. 

“I’m sorry— I’m fine. I just, can you bail me out please.” 

“What happened, Eds?” 

“Just a stupid fight. Nothing serious, I promise.” He pleads like you won’t believe him and doesn’t give you a chance to press for details, “There’s cash in a shoebox on the top shelf of the closet. On my side, all the way in the back.” 

You want to scold him but you're still kneading sleep from your face, irritated now that you know he’s okay. You bite your cheek, considering the possibility of an argument. Knowing that it shouldn’t take place through a phone. 

“You’re sure? It’s enough?” 

“Swear.” 

“Okay, on my way.”

He apologizes again before the line clicks. 

You shuffle through the band tees he’s grown out of and have since been neglected to the back of your shared closet. You make a mental note to remind him to drop some off at Goodwill. Under a stack of vinyls, you locate the box with a rolled wad of twenties held together by a rubber band. You snap the band, biting your lip. It’s enough to buy something expensive, really expensive. You jam your heel into a laced sneaker and do not bother to change out of your pajamas. The money is pushed deep into your pocket along with the house keys. You shake away arising questions as you start the van. 

Cold air smacks your bare arms as you push open the station door. You blink rapidly at the fluorescents. An officer hands you a clipboard, you sign two dotted lines, and fork over most of the cash. He retreats to a separate room without a word, presumably to retrieve your boyfriend, leaving you alone in the lobby. 

Your arms pillow your head on the counter until a familiar set of steps rounds the corner. His eyes, big and sorry, find yours instantly. But your attention quickly shifts to the marbled purple and blue highlighting the arch of his cheek. The stern speech about bar fights and bail payments you’d rehearsed on the way flees your throat. He brushes past the counter to hug you and you spot a split lip too. Your shoulders deflate as you meet him halfway. 

“Thank you,” Eddie mumbles into your crown. 

You give his waist a quick squeeze before pulling back. His hands chase the goosebumps from your skin as you scan his face. His curls are frizzy which is typical but more disheveled like he’s been running his hands through them. Your nail traces his lower lip where it was clearly cracked open but is now glazed over with a layer of dry blood. “Lose any teeth?” 

He smiles, pearls still intact, and you can’t bring yourself to be mad. His breath smells faintly of alcohol as he says, “You look tired.”

“I am so tired,” you admit. 

He grits his teeth guiltily, “I’ll make it up to you.” 

An officer clears his throat and passes Eddie a brown paper bag with ‘Munson’ scribbled on the front. He snatches the bag with a wink. The man offers nothing but a blank stare, maybe mild disapproval as Eddie pivots and jogs toward you, already at the door. He fishes for his lighter from the bag, kissing and pocketing it as you step outside. 

“Can I drive?” Eddie reaches for the keys in your hand. You always let him drive. 

You snatch the carabiner to your chest, elbowing his side, “Are you trying to get a DUI too?” 

“I had one beer,” he scoffs as you unlock the door. 

You believe him but pretend not to as you hop in the driver's seat. “You’re a criminal now. Can’t be trusted!” You yell playfully before slamming the door as he jogs around the hood. 

“Very funny,” he mutters as he climbs in. 

You sling your arm over his seat to back out. The streetlight accentuates the bruise when you glance past him. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Hmm?” 

You point at your own cheek. 

“Oh, no. It’s fine. Should’ve seen the other guy,” he chuckles. 

“We’ll ice it when we get home,” you pull out onto the main road before settling your gaze back on him. “So who was the other guy?” 

His eyes roll in your peripherals, “So Shelly Watkins was there—“ 

“You hit Shelly Watkins?” 

“Jesus! No! Her stupid boyfriend Rob Perry.” He groans in disgust. “You remember him? He was such a dick in high school!” 

You shake your head, trying to recall. 

“He’s a couple of years older I think. Well anyway, Shelly was blabbing her big mouth, as usual, about Robin and her new girlfriend.” 

“What was she saying?” You interrupt, curious but inferring already. 

“Nasty shit. And she’s talking so loud the whole bar can probably hear. I mean, I couldn’t not say anything, babe. And hey,” he throws his hands up in surrender, “All I said was ‘Seems like what other people do in their spare time isn’t your business.’” 

You smirk, knowing it was not as polite as he made it out to be. 

“And Rob is all ‘What did you say?’” Eddie teasingly lowers his voice, foot hiked up in his seat to face you with a finger curled under his nose like a mustache. 

You steal glances from the road to watch the theatrics as he retells the story, making sure to emphasize when he punched Rob square in the nose so hard it broke. 

“Did you win?” You ask, attempting to hide your proud grin by checking your blind spot. 

“Oh yeah.” Eddie crosses his arms, accidentally nicking the wound on his lip with his nail as he retracts the faux finger stache. He winces, tapping the cut to assess the damage. Fresh blood coats his finger; he’s quick to press his whole hand over his mouth as he fumbles through the glovebox with the other. A deck of fast food napkins you’d organized spills out. You catch one before it falls, crumpling it into his free hand and swerving back into your lane. He replaces his hand with the thin sheet, wiping his fingers on another napkin off the floor as you pull up to a stoplight. 

He tips his head like a puppy when he catches you staring. You lick your thumb, smearing a stray drop crawling down his chin. Your palm lingers on his skin, rubbing circles behind his ear as the light flicks green. 

It’s not long before you pull into the driveway and unlock the front door. Eddie holds a third napkin to his face. You consider going to the ER for stitches as you toss the keys on the counter and snatch a Ziploc bag from the cabinet. 

Two lines of light form a skewed L in the hall from the cracked bathroom door; A silent message that you are allowed to come in. It squeaks familiarly loud on its hinges but Eddie doesn't acknowledge you. 

He focuses on his reflection as he peels the napkin away hesitantly. The blood has stopped but his lip looks swollen and angry. You hook a finger through his belt loop, tugging him until he turns. You nudge the bag of ice to his cheek and he flinches grasping your hand to pull it away. 

“‘s cold.” 

You tug the hand towel off the sink and wrap the plastic, pushing it back to his cheek. You hold it there caressing his lash line with your pointer. He leans into the touch, rubbing his eyes with ringed fingers. Eddie pulls the thick silver off one by one, setting them on the counter. 

“Sit,” you tell him. 

He perches on the edge of the toilet lid obediently. You pick a washcloth from the drawer and run it under the sink. He parts his knees as you approach him, hands snapping into place at your hips. You cup his chin, pushing up until he tilts it toward you. Cool water cleans his lips where you brush. He doesn’t flinch, even when you accidentally dig too hard. You progress down to his jaw, where blood is smeared dry, and flaky. 

 “Think I’ll have a cool scar?” His breath fans your chin as you work cautiously. 

“No,” you say. He toys with the strings on your pants, happy to be taken care of. “But you don’t need it. You’re cool already.” 

The corners of his mouth lift fondly. He fights the urge to smile, hoping you’ll work longer if he sits still. You swipe in slow strokes, also secretly loving the time and touch. 

You give his face a once over before tossing the rag to the counter. He searches your expression for a diagnosis. But words are slow to find your mouth, too enraptured with the long lashes that bat his cheeks sweetly. “I love how eager you are to stick up for the people you love,” you start. 

“But?”

“But, we can’t afford you getting arrested over something like this.”

“I know,” he groans and headbutts you gently in the stomach. His hands cup the backs of your thighs and his hair drapes around his face like a curtain. You comb a handful of it over his neck and he tilts his head so you can see his eyes. “I don’t regret what I did, though. He’s always been such a bully. He deserved it, you know?” He sighs, gaze drifting away, “I felt like I could finally stand up to him after all these years.” 

Your fingers trail down his shoulder to smooth out the tee riding up his back. “I don’t doubt that he deserved it. I know you just want to do the right thing. But still, he can probably afford it, we can’t.” You hesitate to ask, “Where did you get that money anyway?” 

He hugs your middle, muttering into your belly, “Been saving.” 

“For what?” 

He shrugs and says what you believe to be, “Something special.” You are curious but lean on your trust rather than insecurity. He most likely intended to surprise you with something if you didn’t know.

“Sorry, you had to spend it.”

“Not your fault.” He peers up at you as if to ensure you know that and you brush his bangs back. 

“Still, sorry.” 

He blinks slowly up at you like a cat waiting for more pets. Then, he shoots up, back stiff, eyes wide. “You have work tomorrow,” he realizes out loud. 

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” you pull his arm until he stands. “I actually have come down with a real nasty cold,” you force a cough into your fist. 

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, not only that but there's this criminal that won’t leave me alone. Think I might have to file a report at the station tomorrow.” 

He laughs, flicking the light off as he follows you to the bedroom. The ice pack is left to melt in the sink and the stained washcloth to dry on the counter, a mess for tomorrow you’ve decided. You’re quick to crawl under the covers and he’s even quicker to shed his clothes and join you. 

Eddie pecks the sliver of collarbone poking out of your shirt, making his way up in a dotted line. He presses gently to your lips, and you break away mindfully, aiming for the corner instead. 

“You know?” Your eyes are closed but you feel his stare. 

You hum.

“I think it’s kinda sexy when you call me a criminal.” 

“Oh my God!” You throw an arm over your burning cheeks, “You are so horny.”

He laughs into your wrist but moves it aside to cradle your cheeks firmly. He pulls one eyelid open gently with his thumb when you refuse to engage. You release the smile you’ve been keeping. He mirrors it, teeth bright in the moonlight spilling in. “Think about it, I already have handcuffs so you can play bad cop and—“ 

You grope for a pillow to push into his face and then another when he chucks it off the bed, giggles overlapping. 

“I’m going to call the police on you, have them arrest you again. Take you to horny jail.” 

“Now you get it,” he releases his grip on your wrists to sit back on his heels and in a voice that is not his own he fawns, “Oh, officer! I promise to be a good boy from now on!” 

You roll over, groaning wildly into your pillow. “Go to bed!” 

He settles behind you, his heart races where it's thumping against your back. Yours isn’t far off. A final kiss is planted on your nape where he tickles you with his hair as he wishes you a good night.

[whateveriwant]

what about task force 141 always admiring their s/o picture before going on field or when they’re feeling lonely and missing them

Price

Because he's old (fashioned), he carries a standard 4x6in photo of you with him during his deployment

He had the picture developed ages ago – so long, in fact, you thought he'd gotten rid of it many many tours ago (he never would, of course; he even has an extra copy of the negative stowed in a shoebox in the back of your shared closet, just in case)

Every day, he makes sure your face is the first thing he sees when he wakes up, as well as the last thing he looks at before going to sleep (just like he would if he was home with you)

When he's not admiring the photo, he keeps it in the breast pocket of his tac vest directly over his heart

He's folded and unfolded it so many times that it's starting to fade and tear at the seams, showing just how loved it is all these years later

Gaz

I can see him having a locket with a tiny picture of you inside

Just a little circular gold pendant, no bigger than the pad of first finger, which he hangs around his neck right beside his dog tags

He bought a matching one for you (which you wear all the time, regardless of whether he's home or not), the only difference is yours is heart-shaped and has a picture of him inside

Most of the time, he'll keep the locket tucked safely beneath his shirt, but will pull it out and look at it on days he's feeling particularly lonely or homesick

However, sometimes (especially when he's anxious about an upcoming mission), he doesn't even look at the picture inside – just worries the surface of the pendant with his thumb, rubbing at the thin grooves that form the looped letters of your initials

Soap

Similar to Price, he carries a larger picture of you with him – his, however, is a polaroid

You bought him the vintage style camera for his birthday a few years back, and immediately upon unwrapping it, he started snapping a bunch of candid photos of you with it

Despite how unflattering you say you look in them, he thinks you're absolutely gorgeous (after all, that's why he carries multiple with him – his favorite one always on the top of the stack)

If he can get away from the guys during the mission, he often finds himself talking out loud to the photo, speaking as if you're really there listening to him

As much as he loves to study your face, his favorite part of the polaroid is your little note scrawled across the bottom: Any more chins and I'll be using your parachute as a scarf

Ghost

This might be a little controversial but I don't think he'd carry around a physical picture of you

Pictures of you on his phone? Sure. But he's not taking his unencrypted smartphone into the middle of enemy territory, you know?

Instead, I think he carries a little trinket of yours with him – something small, seemingly inconsequential, like a hair tie or one of your favorite bookmarks

You might've noticed some things gone missing here and there, but never realized that he was nabbing them for his own little keepsake

He keeps it hidden away majority of the time, but every now and then when he starts to downward spiral, he'll pull out that token as a reminder of what (or whom) he has waiting for him back home, and it gives him the strength he needs to power through

[snoozingbear]

my menstrual cycle is so fucked up (ergo i think my hormones are also fucked up) but whenever i get lab work done my primary is like you’re all good :) totally normal :)

[kxsagi]

Okaokay since u do platonic hcs and tbh I have alot but I ain't gonna disturb u ♥️

Itoshi siblings who is not good in soccer and so she was not really prioritised like her older brothers, and how sometimes she felt left out but they were good brothers, but everything changed after sae and rin fallout (the reader can be about 14) (sae and rin both became distant)

Sorry if u cant understand what I am trying to say and please take your time🫶 and i love ur work smm and srry for grammer errors

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢”

a/n: thank you! you're all good love

this def turned angsty and i’m not sure if this is what you had in mind, i hope it’s okay! 

(unsure of art credits sorry)

growing up, you were the quiet shadow trailing behind your brothers' cleats. the one always sitting on the sidelines, holding an umbrella or carrying water bottles that no one ever asked you to bring. 

you tried soccer once. and it was humiliating. you tripped over the ball, got winded after ten minutes, and burst into tears when someone yelled at you. sae just blinked and said "maybe it’s not for you." rin didn’t even say anything, just patted your back awkwardly. 

and after that? no one asked you to play again. 

your parents didn’t mean to leave you out, but your whole family orbiting around the sport made it hard not to feel like a background character in your own home. 

they celebrated goals, trophies, records. you came home with a poetry contest ribbon and your mom smiled politely and said “that’s cute.” 

but your brothers were good to you. even if they didn’t always understand you. 

sae would walk you home from school when he was free. he had that annoying big brother habit of messing up your hair when you were trying to look nice. but he’d also buy you snacks and watch anime with you while you ranted about your day. 

rin was the one who noticed when you were quiet. he didn’t say much, but he'd sit next to you with his game console and offer you the second controller like it was a peace treaty. 

you thought things would always be like that. quiet, but okay. 

until they weren’t. 

you didn’t understand what happened between them at first, just that one day sae came home with his bags packed, and rin slammed his door so hard your bedroom wall shook. 

suddenly, everything felt colder. 

rin stopped talking. really talking. he still said things like “move” or “eat your dinner,” but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. not unless he was already angry about something else. 

sae didn’t call. not even on your birthday. and when he did come back from madrid, he barely stayed home. he didn’t ask about your school. didn’t ask if you were okay. 

you missed your brothers, but it was like they were still right there and already gone. 

sometimes you sat between their empty chairs at the dinner table and wondered if you were invisible. 

worse, you wondered if they would’ve fought like that if you were the one they loved more. 

one night, you asked rin if he hated sae. 

he didn’t answer. just looked at you for a long second, then quietly left the room. but the next morning, you found your favorite snack tucked into your school bag with a sticky note: “don’t skip lunch. i mean it.” 

and sometimes, when sae visited, he’d leave gifts in your room. imported candy, a hoodie, a pretty journal with a matching pen. never a note. never a “from sae.” but you always knew. 

they didn’t stop caring. they just didn’t know how to show it anymore. 

you started writing letters to both of them. ones you never sent. pages and pages of feelings you couldn’t say out loud, stuffed under your bed in a shoebox labeled “someday.” 

and you dreamed, quietly, of the day they might both come back home and talk again. of the day someone would finally sit next to you and say, “i’m sorry for making you feel left out. we love you.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢