#things I buy to make from scratch

[theotherpath1]

Eleven Foods I Make Myself That Taste Better and Save Money

I should preface this post by adding most of the time I make these items myself…meaning weather and schedule permitting. Living in the Los Angeles area it’s warm most of the year. The summers can be extremely difficult to cook. When it’s 100 plus degrees outside and 110 in our kitchen, you probably won’t catch me making bread or pizza dough from scratch. In colder weather in LA, cooking is fun…

[ceiling-karasu]

Uncle Gom and the Chuseok part two: Later Years

[skrunksthatwunk]

how do i tell my roommate that her cat repeatedly pissing on and destroying my things is something that people usually offer to clean or replace or apologize for instead of shrugging off

[blackmageeljin]

There is a really painful self defeating irony in people who gatekeep goth/punk/emo subcultures.

All of these subcultures are pretty broad and fluid and were formed so outcasts can band together, but if there is ONE "rule" if it can even be called such it is to stand against and question authority.

And then you have some someone come in claiming to be an authority on the subject of a group of rebels and starts policing who is allowed in this collective under the impression it's a secret club and not reclaimed words we have adopted that were once used to belittle and suppress us-

My actual sibling in Christ, Lucifer or whatever Gods you do or do not follow HOW have you SO THOROUGHLY missed the point.

You have become the authority you were supposed to rebel against.

[nocturne-of-illusions]

the struggle of "bobbin lace looks like fun and a good way to keep your hands busy" vs "i have no idea what i would possibly ever use lace for". :(

[nyhne]

.

[rottiens]

tbh proud that my brother is learning to cook after being inspired by watching me do it

[darabeatha]

❝ Please do not wear glasses with wrong prescriptions nor purchase regular fantasy contact lenses if you have astigmatism ❞

[hashtag-anthems]

I swore I was going to be a better person than my grandmother but maybe she had a point when she threw that apple pie out in the field out back when my grandpa didn’t thank her for it

anyway I made pumpkin bread today

[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.” 

[gloomwitchwrites]

Your Royal Highness, could I please request the 141 boys and how they would react if Reader pulled the “Is it okay if I touch?” Clock App trend on them 😌

Peasant, you may have what you've requested. Remember, in real life, we don't touch people without their consent. But this is fiction...and I can do whatever the fuck I want. :)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, pranks, humor, flirting, western au (Soap)

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

There are children everywhere. There are also helicopters and Humvees. It’s controlled chaos. John is trying hard not to stress.

Whose idea was it to have the local school visit base?

Price stands next to the open Humvee door. There’s a young boy in the driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel, making car noises like he’s an F1 driver. Gaz sits in the passenger seat, grinning, pretending to cling to the interior of the Humvee like they’re in a race.

Price snorts and shakes his head. As he glances away, his attention catches on the woman approaching him. You’re pretty. There’s a softness about you that he’d like to understand. Price thinks you’re walking by, but you pause, smiling at him with a flirty smirk.

Bloody hell.

You’d look gorgeous bent over the backseat of the Humvee.

“May I touch it?”

“Course you can,” replies Price, expecting you to place your hand on the hood. You touch him instead, resting your hand on his bicep. That smirk widens, and Price nearly groans under that look.

You drop your hand, backing up. Retreating.

No. Not happening. You’re staying here. With him.

“You can put that hand back, love,” he purrs.

John "Soap" MacTavish

The dust kicks up as Johnny brings his horse to a stop. This town doesn’t even have a name. It’s just a dot on the map.

“Good girl,” he purrs, lightly rubbing the horse’s neck.

The few people about frown in his direction, clearly a bit fearful of a stranger. It’s a normal reaction every time he arrives somewhere new. But he won’t be here for long. Johnny needs a stiff drink and a willing woman.

“Is it safe to touch?”

Johnny turns, glancing down at the beautiful woman staring up at him. Your voice is a sweet song, one that Johnny wants to hear all night. Preferably with you under him.

“Pretty thing like you can touch whatever she wants,” replies Johnny with a flirty smirk.

Johnny knows you’re talking about the horse, and when you reach out, he expects you to pet its hide. But you touch him instead, caressing his thigh with a teasing smile.

A willing woman. And a stiff drink.

You quickly drop your hand, clasping them in front of you. Johnny slides off his horse. He leans against the saddle and you match his movement.

A willing woman.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Is it safe to pet?”

Simon glances up from his phone. You stand in front of the small outdoor table, an eagerness in your eye. You’re an adorable thing. Bright. A spot of sunshine. Simon sees an opportunity here.

Most people avoid Bravo. The all-black German Shepherd is imposing when he’s not wagging his tail.

Simon quickly checks Bravo’s demeanor. The German Shepherd has his head up, ears alert with interest, and his tail smack smack smacks against the concrete.

“He’s safe,” replies Simon with a smile.

You step forward, going down on your knees beside Simon. He reaches for the leash, just to make sure Bravo doesn’t jump on you in his excitement. But your hand passes over his, pausing there. You bat your eyelashes at Simon, and he melts into a fucking puddle.

It’s a deliberate but brief touch. Then you’re scratching behind Bravo’s ears, your focus on the dog.

“Who’s a good boy?” you coo. “You are. You’re a good boy.”

Bravo’s tail thumps harder, tongue lolling with happiness.

You can call me a good boy, sweetheart.

“He likes you,” muses Simon.

You smile warmly. “I like him.”

An opportunity. Blooming.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Nice bike.”

Kyle’s head turns. A beautiful woman stands before him, giving him a look that’s irresistible. The bike always attracts stares, but very few actually approach him to talk.

“Thank you,” he replies, sitting up a bit straighter.

Your smile widens, and Kyle melts. You’re a sweet thing. He can tell. This is an opportunity for him, a chance to make a move. He’s always flirting with strangers on his socials, but there’s the buffer of the screen. This is an actual woman standing before him showing interest.

“Can I touch?” you ask, not looking away from his visor.

Goddamn. The eye contact if you were beneath him would be intense.

Kyle nods. “Yeah,” he laughs. “You can touch.”

As you reach out, Kyle believes that you’re aiming for his bike. But your hand skirts the bike, landing on his thigh. You lightly squeeze. Rub. Then your hand falls away. Blood rushes to Kyle’s dick.

Shit. Fucking hell.

There’s no way you’re escaping. He’s keeping you.

“Can I go for a ride?”

On the bike or on my dick, love?

Before Kyle can answer, Johnny, his riding buddy, leans forward. “He’s got two things you can ride on, lass.”

[neoheros]

sakusa knows he’s a bad date.

he’s quiet, timid, doesn’t speak much, and asks all the wrong questions at the wrong time.

he’s not very good at eye contact and a lot of the things he wants to say he feels he can’t say at all either.

(partially due to the feeling that everything he says when he talks to you ends up embarrassing him, and partially due to the fact that talking to you for long periods of time make him tongue tied).

(not that he’d ever admit that).

despite all that though, he does know the basics when it comes to going on dates:

he buys you flowers (and forgets it by his doorway), he opens the car door for you (and apologizes when it almost hits you as he opens it), and he makes dinner reservations at the restaurant you mentioned to him in passing three days ago (he did a good job with this one).

so yes, him being a bad date is not unbeknownst to him. quite the opposite in fact, it’s not only something he knows about himself, but it’s also something that he thinks about all the time.

or at least, all the time ever since he’s met you.

that’s how the two of you end up here — the evening of your first (and probably last) date, sitting on a porch step of an empty building, a bloodied handkerchief filled with crushed up snow pressed against sakusa’s left cheek, and a few missing buttons from your favorite winter coat.

sakusa always knew he was a bad date, but he never thought he would be this bad.

the plan had been simple: get you flowers, open the door for you, drive you to the restaurant you liked. sakusa had this game-plan of his memorized ever since you said yes to him four — now five — days ago.

he wrote it on a piece of paper, step by step, and kept it in his wallet sleeve in case he forgets, he repeated it to himself three times in the mirror this afternoon before he left the house to pick you up, and he said it to himself one last time in the car before texting you that he’d arrived.

he memorized it.

and still, he messed it up.

the streets are empty and the evening is quiet.

“sorry … for this.”

his words feel like they’ve been the first to be spoken all night.

on the snowy concrete just below your feet, there’s a few drops of blood making its presence known loudly against the whiteness of the snow, the drops scatter sporadically, and near it, there’s a button or two from your coat.

you sit next to sakusa on the cold steps, it’s a quiet night, and it’s not snowing anymore, but the soft bed of the cold flurry it left behind made for a beautiful evening.

you let your head fall slightly on his shoulder, “for what?”

you can feel him stiffen immediately under your touch, and he coughs, shy, and looks to the side.

it makes you smile a little bit — his efforts of hiding his expressions — it’s not like you can see him anyway with that big makeshift ice-pack covering his face.

“sorry for the bad date.” he clears his throat, more clearly now, a little louder too, but his tone almost sounds disappointed. “… and sorry for ruining your coat.”

you lift your head up from his shoulder, frowning, and you turn to face him, “it’s not a bad date.”

he doesn’t say anything to that. instead, he keeps his head turned slightly away from you, but his shoulders fall a bit when you move away from him.

“if anything, i should be the one apologizing.” you mutter lowly, “i’m the reason you got hurt.”

sakusa huffs slightly. a second pausing in the air as he refuses to return the look you give him, and finally, he puts down the “ice pack” from his cheek, and looks at you.

his cheek is scratched lightly, nothing too deep, just a red mark that’ll probably resolve itself in a few days, but his lower lip though — the culprit of the blood stained snow — is undeniably busted, still bleeding slightly, and making him wince at the sudden loss of pressure.

“don’t say stupid things.” he tells you, and if it makes him sound cold, he swears he’s not trying to be.

he just doesn’t know what else there is to say.

the truth is — it is a bad date.

he forgot your flowers, almost hit you with the car door, and now, the two of you are missing your dinner reservation because he got himself injured twenty minutes into the night.

it’s not fair, he thinks. half the things he wants to say to you, he can’t. half the things he wants to do, he messes up.

you make him fumble on his words, tongue tied, speechless, literally. you make him write things down on notes so he won’t forget them or practice on bathroom mirrors or worry in his car outside your doorstep.

he is the most capable man in his team, he is the sharpest, the most composed, his teammates and coach all count and look up to him.

but for some reason, one night with you, and it all washes away.

he doesn’t know what to say to you, he forgets things, and he falls face first flat on the hard concrete ground twenty minutes into your first date.

don’t say stupid things.

“you really won’t let me take you to the hospital?” you put your hand on his knee, turning even more to your side so you can face him better.

you have half a mind to put your other hand on his injured cheek but you don’t want to hurt him more than how he already does.

“it’s not as bad as it looks.” and as he says that, he winces, the gust of wind suddenly hitting his busted lip a testament to his bad luck tonight.

sakusa wants to kick himself, if there ever would be an appropriate time to act cooler than how he actually was, it would definitely not be now.

you don’t look so convinced, but sakusa wouldn’t know, he’s still only limiting himself to looking at you briefly before shifting his glance to something behind you or beside you or above you.

“hm. and it doesn’t hurt?” you cross your arms.

he shakes his head, “no. it doesn’t.” (it does.)

you raise a brow, “and you wouldn’t happen to be lying to me right now so i don’t take you to the emergency room?”

he shakes his head again, “i’m not.” (he is.)

you give him a look.

listen — sakusa already knows that he’s a bad date, but come on! he has been planning on asking you to dinner with him since the first week he’s known you, he’s been worrying about this evening since the second you agreed to it, and he’s been kicking himself in the head ever since the night began.

he’d rather bleed out on this disgustingly dirty porch step than admit that he’s a date so bad he can turn an evening meant for dinner into a night at the emergency room.

he doesn’t want you to think that he can be so bad like that. (is it too soon to ask you out for dinner again?)

you still look frustrated at his answers. but at least, he’s looking at you now.

you let out a big sigh, shoulders falling, and suddenly, you clap your hands together loudly as you straighten up.

“then i have an idea.” you say, and sakusa furrows his brows at the sudden change in the atmosphere.

you give him a prompting grin. “heads or tails.”

and it catches him so off guard, he says aloud, “what?”

you dig for a coin in your coat, “i’ll flip a coin and if it lands on heads, we go to the emergency room, no arguments, no fusses, no nothing.”

he frowns at that.

“but.” you tell him, and your grin gets wider as you show him the dime laid out on your palm, “if it’s tails, we go to my apartment, and i’ll try to fix you up there.”

his frown falls almost immediately into something else.

one night out with you and he’s already bleeding heavily and injured, and now you wanna take him back to your apartment?

were you trying to kill him?

“heads or tails, omi.”

he blinks at your words. and once again, he finds himself saying aloud, “what?”

you shoot him a funny look, your eyebrows slightly raising as your lips curve upward into a crooked smile.

you say, teasing, “if you don’t know; heads is the part of the coin with the head of the person showing on it and tails is the–”

sakusa grumbles loudly, cutting you off mid-sentence, making sure you see him roll his eyes at you, and he nudges you slightly with his foot.

he mutters, albeit under his breath, and he tries to hide it, but you can always tell when he’s smiling, “i know what a goddamned head is.”

you shrug, your grin wider now when you see his mood lighten up a bit.

“do you know what a goddamned tail is?”

sakusa huffs out an amused sigh. the smile on his face a lot more prominent now, and you only wonder slightly if it hurts him when he does it.

his shoulders fall as he’s defeated, “just take me to the emergency room.”

you let out a short laugh and the night doesn’t seem so quiet anymore.

you fall back against his shoulder, “ah, omi, are you just saving the opportunity to be invited into my apartment for our next date?”

there’s a choking sound to be heard in the air.

his face almost feels like it’ll erupt into flames by how casually you just said that, a hot pink hue creeping up from his neck to nose all the way to the tips of his ears. he blames it on the cold, and immediately, he presses the “icepack” back against his cheek.

sakusa stands up suddenly from the porch step, “let’s go now.”

and just like he said, he strides away, faster than what would usually be safe on snow-covered pavement.

“omi, not so fast!” you yell after him, rising from your own seat and following his pace, “you might fall again and hurt the other side of your face and atsumu will think i beat you up on our first date.”

he walks faster.

“i can go to the hospital myself, please don’t follow me.”

“that’s ridiculous! let me take care of you!”

he trips on his feet slightly as you say that and his heart feels like it would’ve fell from his mouth had he not caught himself before falling again.

you really were trying to kill him, weren’t you?

maybe this date doesn’t feel so bad after all.

and, is it too soon if he asks you to come have dinner with him again?

[shotmrmiller]

it turned to smut in seconds, i cannot control my own hands, ok. 18+ (implication of breeding kink or something and simon's a jealous boy)

ex-husband simon who signed the divorce papers without a fight. it'd stung, you're not gonna lie, but it needed to be done and the fact that he didn't make a big fuss about it made things easier for you physically. (emotionally you were in shambles because did he not even want to try and fight for you?)

he comes over only on the weekends when he's on leave.

he's a good father to his boys. he takes them to their softball games when he can, buys them the ice cream and takes them toy shopping.

and then there's a sharp knock at your door on a wednesday afternoon.

"simon?"

he walks in like he owns the place, which technically he does- even pays the mortgage because there's no way you would be able to afford living here with your own measly income.

"what's this the boys are tellin' me 'bout a man bein' in here?" his voice is calm, steady. but you know simon better than you know yourself, and he's furious.

"i- i'm not sure-" he swipes his hand in the air and your mouth clicks shut.

"don't lie t'me, poppet, or i'll be findin' him myself an' you really don't want tha'."

what man? there hasn't been any since the divorce! you're digging through your memories, scrambling to find what the hell he's talking about when-

"oh! it's the plumber!" you take steadying breath. "i called a plumber on sunday. i needed the kitchen sink fixed."

his dark eyes are piercing, so sharp they could cut. simon's always been a walking lie detector, and it's unnerving to be on the opposite end of that analyzing stare.

he nods imperceptibly, then flicks his gaze to behind you, over your head. "show me."

you scoff indignantly. "show you what? the bloody sink?"

simon wordlessly heads to the kitchen and his knees pop as he kneels-

he's actually checking the fucking sink.

with a grunt, he leans his head into the cabinet and twist awkwardly which is no doubt causing a familiar pain to flare up in his lower back. you can't help but wince in sympathy.

lo and behold, there's a shiny, white elbow in the middle of the rest of the dirty, scratched pipe.

he hums, and rises to his feet, closing the cabinet with his leg.

simon approaches you slowly, fingertips touching the kitchen island as he rounds it. "palms flat on the counter, sweetheart."

oh. oh you know exactly what that means, and your pussy throbs almost in reflex. months without his touch and your body still responds the same.

your protest already at the tip of your tongue, almost involuntarily because principles, but he sees right through you, as he's always done.

"jus' a reward for all o' your hard work. takin' care o' the boys is a stressful job all on its own." his worn hand cups the underside of your jaw tenderly. "aren't i always good t'ya?"

your exhales are weak, just like your resolve. "okay."

simon's eyes glint with satisfaction as he lifts his hand, index pointing upwards and twirls it in a slow, deliberate motion.

your palms are flat on the counter when he curls his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and knickers, tugging them downward.

they're flat on the counter when he lowers himself to his knees and taps the inside of your foot, indicating you to widen your stance.

they're curled into fists when his breath puffs against your slick cunt and his warm tongue slides through your folds, drawing lazy circles around your bud. a tingle of arousal shoots up your spine, his mouth sparking a fire right under your navel.

they're reaching for simon, nails sinking into the delicate skin of his wrist as your back bows when you come on his tongue, vision spotted with black, blurry dots and white hot ecstasy coursing through your veins.

your hands are now crossed at the base of your spine, your cheek pressing into the cool kitchen counter as he bends you over it.

"15 minutes before the boys are home from school. tha's plenty o'time, yeah?"

a rhetorical, if you've ever heard one.

your knuckles stain white as you clench your fists at the heavy, hot weight of his manhood stretching your walls to take him in, a sweet burn that you've always loved. he's gentle but sure, bottoming out in one smooth stroke that pushes the air out of your lungs. the sibilant hiss simon lets out is never fails to elicit a whimper out of you.

"fuck," he groans. "i could stay inside this pretty pussy forever."

and the dirty talk. how much you've missed it.

"would you like tha', pet? be inside of ya til you don't know where i end and you begin?"

a garbled mhm slips past your lips. your head already empty at just the sensation of being so unbearably full that it feels like you're tearing at the seams.

"another time, then, since the kids'll be home soon."

he begins to move, shallow but firm thrusts that drag his cock along your nerves deliciously- a sure fire way of getting you to climax around him in minutes.

your walls begin to squeeze down as the knot in your stomach tightens, and he lets go of your wrists, looping an arm around your waist and straightens you- his broad chest to your much smaller back.

his clever fingers wind downwards, and rub precise, little circles on your slippery clit, and it's all too much, you're hurtling toward the precipice at neck break speed- "god, simon, please-"

his pace never falters, not his hips nor his fingers as your moans begin to rise in pitch. "i'll get ya there, love."

he does, he gets you to your highest peak- blindingly intense- one that chokes the very breath out of you and slackens your knees. "i've got ya."

there's no strength left in you to brace for the spine-jarring thrusts he gives after, the only thing keeping you from sprawling forward is the arm that's looped around you as he pulls you to him.

"on anything?" he rumbles.

your ears ring at that because he can't possibly- your head shakes unbidden.

"good."

the last four thrusts are heavy, backed by his weight, and he smothers a loud groan into the junction of your shoulder as he finishes inside of you- thick, viscous cum filling you until it begins to drip and fall to the floor with an audible plop.

he presses tender little kisses to your sweaty shoulder and nips the side of your neck. "just in time."

the clock on the stove says 5 minutes before the bus gets there.

he helps you redress, chuckling under his breath when you won't look him in the eye. "i'll get the kids, go get cleaned up."

the knot in your chest loosens when you hear the boys' laughter at seeing their father on the driveway. it loosens when simon picks both of them up, one in each arm, and glances up at you as you look down at them from the window.

heat licks up your cheeks when he gives you a smarmy little grin.

idiot.

[bi-writes]

how would arguments go between simon and MOB? i imagine he would never dare raise his voice at her.

simon does not argue with his wife. if you are in danger or something is wrong, i could see him using a little bit of his lieutenant's voice just to get you to listen to him. to "get behind me" or "i'll take care of this, you go." otherwise, there's no resistance. none at all.

"you know, simon, i..." you stop at the door, swallowing. you rub a hand over your forehead, shaking your head. "i...i-i really don't want to go."

he shuffles in his boots, staring at you carefully. you're all dressed up; you've got a new dress on (that he bought you, eagerly), and you've done your makeup. you clutch your purse with clammy hands, and he narrows his eyes when he sees the tremble in your bottom lip. he clears his throat, taking his jacket off. he removes his boots quietly, scratching the back of his neck as he comes close to you to take your bag and hang it up by the door again.

"okay," simon murmurs. "then we won't go."

he doesn't tell you about the cancellation fee.

"'ello?"

"simon!"

he startles awake this time, holding the phone closer to his ear. the sheer anxiety in your voice cuts his gut sharp.

"wot? wot is it? wot happened?"

"i--i totally...i screwed up, simon--oh, god, i'm so sorry--"

"oi!" simon says firmly. "wot happened?"

"i...i'm at the shop, someone was going to back into me, so i swerved, and--"

"fuck," simon breathes. "are ya olright?"

"the car, it's--"

"not wot i asked," simon interrupts you. "are ya hurt?"

"w-what? i..." you sniffle. "no. i'm okay. just a little sore, i guess..."

simon lets out a deep breath, shaking his head.

"i'm coming," simon says lowly. "you stay there, baby. don't move."

"but, simon, the walk is--"

"i'll see ya in twenty."

"oh, no, no, no, no!" you gasp. the orange tabby's head perks up at the sound of your voice at the door. she's got one of simon's masks in her mouth, and even from this distance and without the lights turned on, you can tell the fabric is shredded to bits. it's all over the floor, scattered across the couch, flecks of lint in her fur.

"oh, god, how could you?!" you panic a little. she must have gotten into some kind of drawer or basket or the laundry, because as you start towards her, she darts away, leading you across the house where you can see shreds of more masks and simon's socks strewn about the house. "oh, no!"

the front door closes heavy. when you come into the living room, simon is there, dropping his gear onto the floor. he looks tired--his shoulders sag, and you can see his eyes half-lidded and barely opening.

"simon, i'm...i'm s-sorry, she--"

you're holding his tattered clothes, but before you can say anything more, he grabs you by the shoulders and hugs you so tight. you nearly lose your breath from how he crushes you to his chest, and you let out a quiet whimper when his knees buckle and he falls to the floor with you, cradling your head to his chest and kissing your forehead through the mask over and over.

you're here. you're real. you're alive.

you drop the shredded fabric and hug him back, closing your eyes as you breathe him in. he tips your head back finally, ripping his mask off and kissing you hard.

he doesn't care when he sees the orange cat take a bite of his thrown mask and run away with it.

he can buy a million masks. but his girls--he pulls back from your kiss to stare down at you, intense. he hasn't slept in days, and he hasn't had a decent meal in weeks, camping on different rooftops just to track a shipment, and when that bullet whizzed past his head, all he could think about was you. the cat-bitten plants. the warm food. the cherry dress. some things cannot be replaced.

some brides cannot be ordered again. they don't make them like you.

you are one of a kind.

[rafeslvbug]

military!rafe and a baby girl? i feel like she’d be his little princess, her on his hip as he makes the twins do push ups loll

military!rafe when lovebug!reader has a baby girl…

she is his little princess, confirmed.

from the moment she’s born he wants to be there for everything. first words. first steps. first sound. EVERYTHING.

with the twins he’d always make some joke about how “it’s okay if i miss one, the other’ll jus’ do it after an’ i’ll see that.” but you knew deep down he wanted to see it all.

with her? he’s not missing out. he refuses. if you even think she’s close to doing one of her firsts, and he’s deployed, you have to call him. he’ll drop everything just to hear her or see her.

he’ll do all sorts of shit for her. she wants some overpriced princess castle? fuck yeah he’s buying that. then he’ll build it.

i couldn’t exactly see him playing dress up though or any of that kind of thing. he loves his daughter but i think the most he’ll do is play shop, or maybe nurse.

he’d play nurse but then get quite morbid with it. training her to become a paramedic in the military field.

“bullet two inches deep, didn’t come out the other side, might have punctured a liver.”

“rafe!” you’d scold, while she scratches her head, not sure what any of that means.

i love the idea of him just holding her while he makes the twins do their push ups or exercise. he’s just bouncing her up and down, whispering all kinds of stuff to her to make her giggle

“don’t you think your brothers could do better?”

“boys, your sister’s getting sick of this!”

“which one of them d’you think is winning?”

“oh yeah son? you feel proud that you beat your brother? okay do five more with your sister on your back!”

when it’s time for her to eat, he’ll gladly do it. he’ll do the “train shit” or “airplane crap” as he calls it, with some voice you never knew he was capable of. but if she spits it out, he’ll be gruff in tone again, and she’ll look up at him with such wide eyes because she didn’t know he was capable of that - he’s never used that voice around her before.

doesn’t like using the pushchair. will carry her.

she’s such a daddy’s girl too. your sons are undoubtedly momma’s boys, but your girl loves rafe. she spends more time with you because he’s deployed, but her first words were “dada”.

speaking of which, when you video called rafe and she said it, he had to turn his camera off because he was tearing up, to which your daughter began to whine because she couldn’t see him anymore.

so now military!rafe and lovebug!reader are a family of five! it honestly won’t be long until it’s six. in rafe’s eyes, he wanted to knock you up at least three times, make a whole army of kids. he’s only done it twice, because he doesn’t think the twins count as two, so another one is due.

i think it would be a boy.

[malusokay]

little things to feel softer

Being kind to mean people

Teas with honey and sleeping early

A fun collection of cute mugs from little antique stores

Pearls and dainty jewellery

Buying flowers for yourself or a loved one, not just on special occasions.

being kind just because you want to, with no hidden motives, just genuine kindness

Reading and writing poetry

Self-care nights and long bubble baths

Going to the farmer's market to buy fresh fruits

No phone in the morning

Paying attention to the little things: changing seasons, moon phases, blooming flowers, etc...

Calm hobbies like painting, knitting, reading, baking

Matcha and tea over coffee

Being kind to stray animals and befriending them

Sending handwritten letters to your friends

Try cooking from scratch, make some jam, maybe attempt a sourdough... (nara smith my queen)

Flower prints and sundresses

Lacy tops and light colours

Taking time to appreciate art, listen to music, visit museums and art exhibitions, go to concerts, the theatre, cinema, etc..

Wearing only natural fabrics

Vanilla scented EVERYTHING

not sure how I feel about the title, but this all leans into the "softer/calmer life" thing; you guys get me lol. <3

As always, please feel free to share your own suggestions and tips in the comments!! ♡

love ya ･:*₊‧౨ৎ