#just quietly looking after you

[wannaeatramyeon]

Samuel Seo x Reader: Morning Routine

Sammy looks after you in the morning

Samuel is very particular about his morning schedule. He typically starts his day like this:

5:00 am - workout in his home gym

6:15 am - shower and grooming routine

6:45 am - get ready and dressed

7:00 am - coffee and a simple nutritious breakfast

7:30 am - leave for work

You start your day by rolling out of your bed too late, frantically running around trying to get ready, and rushing out the door.

The first time Samuel observes that, after living together and having an unexpectedly slow morning, his lips thinned at your terrible disorganisation.

His routine changes. Just slightly.

One cup of coffee becomes two. One simple nutritious breakfast becomes two.

.

.

"Morning."

A hand reaches out to stroke your hair.

Still one foot in dreamland, you blearily open your eyes, and see Samuel crouched down eye-level next to your bedside. You may have been having a nice dream, but damn, this view and the reality is much better.

Barely even registering his hand on you, your body as if on autopilot nuzzles into it anyway, intuitively knowing that comfort anywhere.

This routine, a constant yet never old. Almost everyday, the exact same pressure to brush your hair back to rouse you, the heat of his fingers, the callouses. The little huff of amusement as you nudge his hand with your nose, half asleep but still wanting to be close to him, so he can cup your face and run his thumb over your cheek.

"Coffee and breakfast on your bedside table," Samuel says, kissing you on the forehead and standing up.

He looks immaculate, as always. Far too awake for this time in the morning. Hair precisely groomed, not a wrinkle to be seen with his suit. Smelling expensive and intense and dark, scent matching well with the person.

"What time is it?"

"Time for you to wake up, Y/N."

"Nooo, Sammy-" and you snuggle into his hand again.

"I told you you don't have to work. I can look after you."

"I know."

And true, you don't have to. But you like the work you do. The small little contributions you make. Being self-sufficent, to an extent.

Another day, another dollar it is.

Resigning yourself to your fate, you relinquish your hold on your boyfriend, sitting up and sip your coffee. The first hit of caffeine to kick start your day.

It's adorable, really, and more than your heart can bear most mornings - the fact that Samuel prepares this for you and added your wellbeing into his own routine too.

Once you finish your coffee, and satisfied that there's little chance you're going to fall back asleep, Samuel says goodbye with a final kiss on the lips.

"See you tonight, Y/N."

It's the same routine almost everyday, yet neither of you tire of it.

[lizzieraindrops]

You know what, I figured out why we're having so many errors in Destiny 2 now. It's because with the addition of Micah-10, we've finally reached a critical mass of women with drop dead gorgeous voices, and the game simply can't handle it anymore. It's like Telesto. Too powerful. If they'd actually put Ikora Rey in a rendered cutscene for more than 5 seconds it would have shut down the servers for good

[corrodedcoughin]

It's home. He's home and its late and its dark. he knows he should have been home hours ago, wishes he could have been but work finished late and then one deal ran into another and before he knew it he was an hour and a half from home at 1 in the morning. After the last deal was done Eddie made his way back in his van, eyes red and itchy with the overhwleming desire to close but painfully aware of the distance he had to drive. After a lot of cut corners and questionable driving he was finally pulling up to the trailer.

All he wants to do is sleep but even in his tired state he clocks the light on in the window. Knowing that lights don't just get 'left on' when there are bills to pay and mouths to feed Eddie enters the trailer quietly, hoping that its not an ominous sign. Hoping as well that this isn't the precursor to getting yelled at for being out late and not telling anyone…again.

As silently as he can Eddie pulls the door open and steps in side. So far so good, nobody has started shouting yet but as he turns he sees the lamp glowing beside the couch and can hear the radio on low. Comforting sounds of Eddie's younger years playing Credence Clearwater Revival. It is at this point Eddie catches the figures waiting in the dim light. Wayne at the end of the couch, hot mug of something in his hand. His expression is one Eddie is well used to, concentrated and contemplative, measuring the words he says and actions he takes. He's in his pyjammas but far from sleep. He's angled towards the figure on the couch next to him. The person, only translated into Eddie's head as 'human' after he deciphered half of the mass as blankets and hair, sits hunched over themselves and hugs their own mug in close.

Eddie takes a step forward, makes to sit down as Wayne talks slow and gentle 'Your boy had a bit of a fright son. Thought I'd break out the big guns and show him what we used to do when you first came home'

He doesn't say the rest, doesn't need to. When Eddie came to stay with Wayne the nights were endless. He'd wake himself up in tears, too scared to go find comfort incase he got pushed away but somehow Wayne always knew. Eddie would never be alone in the dark long before the hall light went on and Wayne was knocking at his door, offering hot milk and a distraction. Eventually the routine turned into going over old photo albums of Wayne's 'glory days' and then, the new additions after Eddie's arrival. It quickly became a fail safe for the both of them when the dark nights and silence were too much.

Which is how Eddie ends up here, sat close to the mass, Steve, a hand crept under the blanket that was quickly latched on to. A photo album is sat across Steve's lap and Wayne talks him through the story of his own high school band and then quickly moves on to the photo of Eddie knee deep in mud and arms out stretched ready to pull the photo taker into the mess with him, devious smile on his 10 year old face, a hint of the dungeon master yet to come.

The stories continue, ranging from photos of a young Eddie in rubber boots and a sun dress to Wayne in denim shorts and an awful sunburn as he points a spatula at the camera in a rustic looking kitchen. This ritual calms them all between the quiet laughter and tired gasps of surprise, eventually Steve's shoulders relax and Wayne's voice becomes somehow even more subdued. Eddie is fully leaning into Steve's space and the warmth between the three of them somehow heats the whole trailer.

They are all close to sleep when Eddie takes the album off Steve's lap and manages to force himself to stand, pulling Steve up with him and still swaddled in his blanket. Eddie makes to guide Steveto their bedroom when he's met with resistance. Steve pulls the blanket tighter to himself but shifts his shoulders back, almost as if to brace for a fight when he tilts his head towards Wayne ' Thank you. I- I've never...Just thank you' he's got his back to Eddie but Eddie can hear the crack in his voice, the battle to keep the emotion down, can see the slight tremour in the blanket as Steve works to keep himself together. Its all for nothing when Wayne stands and places a hand on his shoulder before bringing him into a forceful hug 'Son, you never have to thank me'.

Its a moment that Eddie knows will be seared into his heart until the day it stops beating. The two men holding on, however briefly, to each other, both understanding the other person that little bit more and sharing more of their soul in the process.

There's a pause as they separate and Eddie takes Steve's hand tugs him forward and lets him lead the way to the bedroom. Before he turns to follow Eddie catches Wayne's eye and they share a somber smile. Eddie's heart feels like its going to collapse on itself when he thinks about how Wayne doesn't understand the traumas these boys have been through but how that hasn't stopped him from being there for them.

It doesn't go unspoken, this feeling between Eddie and his Uncle. They find time, they always do, where they put their music on and talk in that unhurried way about what they've been doing, catching each other up on their lives and knowing the love is there.

For now, Wayne tilts his head up 'that's a good one you've got there son.' All the endorsement Eddie could ever want, caught in a few words 'now go to him and let me get my bed' its a grumbled statement that has more meaning than can be explained. Eddie gives a mock salute, knowing that the nightmares and stories will be re-hashed when the time is right. But for now the urgency has been tamed and the fire burns low in their hearts.

Before he gets to the kitchen there's a final 'and I need my sleep boy so don't get any ideas' from the couch. 'wouldn't dream of it old man'

[francixoxoxo]

President Coriolanus and First Lady reader coded

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

thinking about the vaguely cannon state of the empires musical again and i think we should exploit that for as much comedy as possible. oli falls out of afterlife and is like “sausage please you have to recognize me from somewhere” and sausage just goes “wait a minute… aren’t you the narrator from the ocean queen musical?” and oli just sort of stares at him for ten minutes before officially giving up.

[hella1975]

who let my flatmate host a houseparty surely i would have vetoed that. walking into the carnage of my living room and letting out a delicate gasp

[bumblingbabooshka]

A Klingon and a half Vulcan participate in a myriad of rituals.

[carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich]

I just realised today that it’s been over 8 years since I published my first piece of reader insert fanfiction (not for DL but it laid the groundwork for what was to come) and it’s absolutely crazy to me. I don’t know that I’ve talked about it on this blog much (for it was not good by anyone’s standards) but I used to publish on Quotev and I made a couple of friends on there who really helped me when I was going through a hard time in real life (not that I think any of them necessarily realised how much :’) ). Sadly we all sort of drifted away from the site and lost contact but I still think about them sometimes and hope that wherever they are they’re doing well. 

I miss our little community on there too and the silly conversations we used to have, as while I don’t think Tumblr ever quite had the same vibe, I do think it’s grown a lot more impersonal over the years (or at least that’s certainly been my experience). 

Anyway I don’t know that there’s much of a point to this other than me reminiscing but if we’ve interacted at some point while I’ve been running this blog, or even if you just silently like a lot of my posts (because believe me, there are usernames I recognise even if we’ve never properly talked), then I’m grateful and I hope that you’re happy and doing well.

[widevibratobitch]

my god. skinny people really just have like. No Idea huh just absolutely not a single clue lmao it's almost funny to watch fr but then id lie if i said i wouldn't fucking kill to be able to be that ignorant

[softquietsteadylove]

Hey :)

If ur still accepting requests, could you something where Thena is on her period and is in a lot of pain (Cramps suck Fr) and Gil comforts her??? You can choose the AU <3

Btw ur entire account literally gives me life lmao 🫶🏼

Thena woke slowly, having drifted off on the couch after using the last of her pain meds. She had sent a message to Kingo to bring her more, though.

There were sounds coming from the kitchen. Panic flooded through her as she looked up and over the back of the couch.

"It's okay," he smiled at her, having sensed her alarm, "it's just me."

Gilgamesh.

Thena relaxed her knee-jerk reaction to reach for a knife. Although she was on high alert in other ways, seeing him at her stove. "What are you doing here?"

Gil turned down the burner on whatever he was cooking and came over to the couch, leaning on the back of it. "How're you feeling?"

"Answer me," she grumbled at him, curling around herself and drawing up the blanket she had thrown over her legs.

"I ran into Kingo while he was out getting some things," Gil answered gently, brushing some hair away from her cheek for her (why she let him was beyond her). "I offered to come and check on you."

Thena made a mental note to fire Kingo before she killed him.

"I've got some cheesy tteokbokki on for you," he smiled at her, leaving the back of the couch only to retrieve a tray from the kitchen and bring it over for her. "Start with this."

Thena frowned as he set the tray on her coffee table, on top of the laptop she had abandoned since cramps had robbed her of the ability to work from home.

He had arranged a glass of gingerale, a fresh dose of midol, a few crackers and cheese and even a few pieces of white chocolate (her favourite). There was even a tiny little vase with a budding lily in it.

Thena looked from the tray to the eager and hopeful face of the Tyrant King. She was still curled up around herself, and not just because of the cramps in her abdomen. "Why?"

His smile fell, and she hated to admit that it made her feel so bad she was willing to do anything to undo it. He corrected his expression, though, letting his smile become smaller but softer. "I'm your boyfriend, Ice. So I'm here to do boyfriend things, like comfort you when you're having a rough period."

She was a grown woman. She had no reason to be embarrassed about a perfectly natural function of her body. But she had never intended on letting him witness it firsthand.

She hadn't showered yet, she was sure she was pale as a ghost with messy hair and cold sweat on her skin. And that was to say nothing of the fact that instead of her usual silk nightdress she was in fuzzy sweatpants and an old hoodie.

Thena picked her head up off the throw pillow and gave him a withering glare, "my boyfriend, are you?"

"Well, let's go with that for now," he chuckled, putting his hand on her shoulder to steady him as he leaned over to kiss her cheek before returning to the kitchen.

She eyed the fresh ink of his ring tattoo as he moved.

"Your cup is still in its pot here, too--I just moved it."

Right, she had been boiling her menstrual cup while she had texted Kingo for supplies. This was exactly what she meant about Gil not having to be here doing all this for her. They were...something--she had thought to maybe call them an ongoing affair. But apparently he was her boyfriend.

That didn't mean she wanted him handling the pot that had a silicone cup she put in her-

Thena groaned, leaning her head back against her throw pillow again.

"Take your drugs, Princess. I'll bring lunch over in a sec."

She pursed her lips as she eyed the lovingly arranged platter he had brought her. She could hear him humming to himself in the kitchen behind her. It was so...domestic. She turned herself as best she could, keeping her blanket over her lap as she leaned just enough to reach the midol and the gingerale (and a piece of chocolate).

"Here we go," Gil narrated as he came over with a sizzling claypot in its holder. He walked over briskly with it, setting it down next to the other platter and sitting beside her. He turned to her with a grin, "want me to feed it to you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Aw, come on, Sweetness," he laughed as he stirred around the steaming hot rice cakes in their red sauce. "It'll be like the old days in the poison ward."

Was that what constituted 'the good old days' for them?

"I can feed myself," she huffed, although when he leaned out of her way, she realised just how far away the nice hot bowl really was.

"Here," he smiled, picking up the utensils and using the chopsticks to pile a few into a larger spoon as kind of an in-between serving vessel. He handed both over to her, "take your time."

Thena sighed, taking a few and blowing on them before eating them. She knew very well he made the best tteokbokki. He was quite a sufficient home cook, but something about how he made the sauce for the rice cakes--how he got them to the absolute perfect consistency for her every time. It never failed.

Gil rubbed her back as she slurped back a few more. "You could have told me, y'know."

Thena sighed between bites. She didn't have to answer him. If she didn't, he probably wouldn't pester her with it, given her current mood. She handed the spoon back so he could pick up a few more for her. "It's...personal."

He gave her a look. "Baby, I gave you a sponge bath while you were in the hospital. You think I can't handle your period?"

She glared at him; he didn't have to bring that up. "Not the point."

He let it go, handing back another few tteokbokki with stretchy, oozy cheese on them.

"Just," she said just before taking a bite, using the time chewing to collect her thoughts. She sighed through her nose, her shoulders sinking. She gulped. "Just...let me be a mess on my own."

"A mess?" he asked in a tone that was so disbelieving it was a little snarky. But surely he knew better than to be snarky with her when she was in a foul mood; she glared at him again. But he laughed, "you think you can hide how beautiful you are?"

Thena stared down at the tteokbokki she was holding. She was piled under comfy clothes and blankets and a fuzzy warmer stuffed inside the pocket of her hoodie. Her back hurt, she hadn't even washed her face that morning, let alone brushed her hair or checked what she smelled like.

Gil blinked as she handed back the utensils without having finished her last bite. "Sweetness?"

"Stop it," she grumbled, pressing her face into her hands, including the tears that were threatening more and more seriously to spill over. "Stop...being sweet."

Gil smiled as the problem was stated. He set the food aside, moving closer so he could pulled her into his lap. She growled at him a little but he nestled her head under his chin, "I don't think that's something a good boyfriend does."

Thena pressed her face into his shirt. He smelled like his office, even in his casual clothes. He smelled like gojuchang and gojugaru and aromatics.

Gil let her bury her face in his chest, her hand sliding up to join it, sitting over his heart, like it always did. "I'm right here, Thena. I'm not going anywhere."

She inhaled the mix of scents on him, letting it relax her like lavender in a bath. "Lunch."

"I'll save it for you, heat it up later," he promised, whispering as he ran his fingers through her hair. "I'll run you a hot bath, we can have a nice relaxing dinner. What do you think, Ice?"

"Hm," she mumbled, already on the verge of falling asleep again. The night had been fitful at best, and something about how warm he was always made her want to nod off. "Tell Kingo he's fired."

Gil laughed, although it wasn't the belly deep laugh he sometimes had. He was careful not to jostle her in his arms. "I think you should tell him that yourself."

She whined faintly, burying her face in his chest completely again, "later."

"Later," Gil agreed, kissing the top of her head as he supported her back with his arm and rubbed her shoulder. "Take your time."

[spaceratprodigy]

one day I'll finally talk/write abt what happens between them on scylla but I think nonstop abt what his vision mom says

[devotedlystrangewizard]

i dont like saying astarion is my least favorite of the companions because it makes me feel like im such a "look at me im so special" guy but he honest to fucking god. is my least favorite. i cannot keep silent on this matter. i think hes a good character, i think neil did a fantastic job with him, but also hes committed the unforgiveable sin of annoying me and for that he gets one thousand years in brain jail

[evanture]

EVAN EVAN EVAN

IT'S JUST A RIDE FROM RIDE THE CYCLONE,.,., BUT ITS SUSIE AND KRIS POST ROARING AND THEY ACCEPT DEATH AND THEY SOAR INTO THE SKY BECAUSE THEY, TOGETHER, ARE THE WINGS THAT MAKE UP THE DELTA RUNE

I WAS THINKING OF ITS JUST A RIDE AS. A POST-ROARINGTHING BUT I WAS IMAGINING AN EPILOGUE TYPE THING NOT THEMLIKE DYING . BUT YEA YOUR BRAIN >>>>> THEYARE THE WIIINGS RAAAH IM SO NORMAL RIGHT NOW

[tibtew]

I've seen a lot of fanart of non-possessed kenjirou with medical equipment but. that man would scream at the sight of blood ngl

[forehead451]

stream of consciousness type deal.

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.