#shelf liners

[calciumcryptid]

Watching Perfect 10 Liners is just me trying not to beam all my divorce kid trauma onto Faifa.

[immortalmuses]

@fatescarred liked for an Iron Bull one-liner 😏

ㅤㅤㅤThe Iron Bull shakes the limp corpse of an arcane horror off the end of his axe, not even bothering to watch it as it falls. He's far too preoccupied with leering grinning at Amariel, "--Have I mentioned that I find it incredibly hot watching you cut down demons?"

[leafnincosplay]

Cheap shelf liner chainmaille

Need chainmaille for your next cosplay but don't have the budget or hand strength for making maille? Why not fake it with shelf liner and make fake maille on a budget? Let's talk fake maille and how to make it work for you. #cosplay #tutorial

Real chainmaille involves linking a bunch of rings in a pattern. My hands won’t handle that much ring-bending magic. So when a friend suggested using shelf liner to make chainmaille, I had to try it out. Gold maille sitting under fur and fabric The result is a lightweight, easy-on-the-hands, budget-friendly chainmaille-like fabric perfect for cosplay. This likely won’t work for a full maille…

[vinnie2757]

Getting THREE packige this week

A good week

[webcastbeacon]

An illustration of a small transitional 3/4-tile shower with an alcove that features white walls, a raised-panel sink, beige and white cabinets, and granite countertops.

Evan Stuart Marshall Fine Art Home

[cesium-sheep]

well, it was nice to be out from under the perpetual running list of "small things to buy next time I have money" for a bit -n- although part of that was because I was too sick to want anything.

[genius-idea]

Chicago Pool Huge elegant backyard rectangular pool fountain photo

[newbloggycat]

Joke of the day - ‘Shelfish’

“I’ve no shelf control!” http://www.Pinterest.com

[chuuphic]

got tricked by my surroundings and unwillingness to closely read labels. accidentally bought liners instead of pads (life ruining)

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter seven

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: rain and roadblocks push you to shelter under jack’s roof, where warmth returns in quiet gestures and shared meals. and for the first time in weeks, you sleep through the storm.

⤿ warning(s): stalking

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 3k

The next two weeks feel like breathing under a heavier moon—same oxygen, unfamiliar pull—and all of it soaked in rain. It has poured every night that week, sluicing down the bay windows in Triage, drumming on the roof so hard the ceiling tiles seem to vibrate. The weather channel drones from the mounted ER TV—flash-flood watches, wind advisories, “worst band of the storm due after midnight.” 

Inside, the shift grinds on. 

You also started power-napping like a resident—ten minutes in a darkened alcove, then snapping awake at the Code-Green chime, running on muscle memory and caffeine-free stubbornness. Tiny wins pile up: you nod off less, your notes stay pristine, and the tremor in your hands is gone by midnight instead of dawn.  

Routines sprout. You haul a travel rice cooker into Margot’s kitchen and start packing real food again—ginger-miso broth, quick stir-fries, onigiri in waxed paper. Dr. Ellis claims it’s pity-fuel for her relentless sarcasm; Dr. Shen bows his head in reverence before inhaling two portions. Jack calls them “midnight bento interventions,” devours whatever’s left, then ribs Dr. Ellis that the sodium will outlive them all. Now and then the three of you share a hard plastic bench in the staff lounge while swapping ER legends—Ellis’s lightning-fast intubations, Shen’s dead-pan one-liners, Jack’s dark-humor field tales—each story punctuated by the usual rattle of The Pitt.

Late Thursday, the bays fall into a lull so thin you can hear the HVAC sigh. You’re restocking the supply alcove, muttering about med students who confuse “return items” with “scatter like confetti,” when a shape darkens the doorway.

He’s gaunt—early twenties at best—paper scrub pants slung low on bony hips, hospital bracelet dangling from one wrist. A gray hoodie swallows his shoulders, the hood half up despite the indoor heat. His eyes jitter from shelf to shelf, never settling.

You straighten, clipboard raised like a polite shield. “Hey there. Are you a patient? Need help getting back?”

He steps closer instead, sweaty fingers pinching a folded slip of paper. “You need to take this.”

Instinct coils tight. You keep your voice even. “Let’s head back to the waiting area. I can page the on-call—”

“Just take it,” he snaps, thrusting the note toward your chest.

Your right hand drops to the Mayo tray, curling around a scalpel before you register the movement. The stainless handle is cool, grounding—and dangerous.

“Take it,” he repeats, voice thin and rising.

Before the tension snaps, Jack glides in—silent and immovable—slotting his body between you and the stranger. No raised volume, no theatrics—just an open palm that fills the space.

“Back up,” Jack says, firm and with no room for rebuttal as a diagnostic tone. His stethoscope glints under the fluorescents, badge swinging against his scrub top.

The young man freezes, eyes flicking to the approaching security guard. Ramirez materializes like clockwork, clamps a steady hand around the kid’s elbow, and steers him away. The note flutters to the linoleum like an exhaled secret.

“I’m not doing anything!” the kid protests, but he goes—casting one slippery look over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

Silence rushes in. Jack turns to you. The scalpel is still white-knuckled in your grip. His fingers curl gently around yours, easing the blade back onto the tray, then wrapping his other hand over your knuckles—warm, solid.

“Breathe.”

You do—shaky, scraping your ribs on the way out.

“Who was he?” you whisper.

“Probably an unknown admission,” Jack answers, eyes scanning your face for fractures. “Security’ll run his chart. Wrong vibe for our stalker, but I don’t like that he got this close.”

Your pulse skitters. Jack’s thumb brushes over your knuckles once, anchoring. “Shift’s almost done. Come help me bully Ellis into eating something green, then we’re clocking out.”

A crooked laugh escapes—thin but real. The discarded note lies forgotten on the floor; Ramirez will bag it for Gloria’s growing file. You let Jack guide you toward the nurses’ station, his presence steady as bedrock, your fingers laced in his like a tether back to solid ground.

. . .

Dawn hovers somewhere beyond the storm, but you wouldn’t know it. At 06:47 the windows above the ambulance bay are opaque with water, sheets of rain slamming so hard the gutters gargle. The TV in Triage flashes a crimson crawl—major street closures, buses rerouted, “historic rainfall rates.” Every few minutes Bridget’s phone pings with another text: stuck in traffic / bus turned around / can someone cover?

You finish resetting Exam 4, peel off gloves, and glance at the clock again. Three minutes crawl by; the storm only deepens. Somewhere overhead thunder rolls so low it vibrates the EKG leads in their drawer.

Your own phone buzzes. Margot.

Gridlock on Saw Mill Run. Ben’s car is crawling. 45 min at least. You okay to wait?

You thumb back Of course. Be safe. And slip the phone away. Easy enough: log a few more notes, check med-cabinet temps, wipe down the bedside computers—overtime in exchange for quiet.

By 07:45 you’re at the meds cart, auditing narc counts, when a shadow looms. Jack—bag slung over one shoulder, scrubs damp at the collar from some errand to Receiving—stares at you with that flat, unimpressed look he reserves for residents who chart “LOL” instead of “little old lady.”

“What,” he asks, deadpan, “are you still doing here?”

You snort softly, ticking a vial into the ledger. “Working? Also waiting. Margot and Ben are stuck on I-376, apparently looks like a parking lot.”

He doesn’t blink. Rain hammers the bay door behind him; lightning flashes, bleaching the hallway for half a heartbeat.

“So you’re pulling overtime and hoping the river doesn’t relocate into South Oakland?”

“Preeeetty much.”

A beat of silence. Then Jack’s hand closes gently around your elbow, firm but not rough, turning you away from the cart. “Grab your bag.”

“I—Jack, it’s fine,” you sputter. “Really. They’ll get here—”

“I’m driving you,” he says, voice calm in a way that brooks no argument. “I have a four-wheel drive. Let’s go.”

You glance at the downpour pelting the loading dock window. “It’s a monsoon out there.”

“Exactly.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Your options are hydroplaning in Ben’s Civic or hydroplaning with me, who at least has combat-driver training.”

“That’s not reassuring,” you mutter, but the small smile tugging at the edge of your lips is undeniable. 

“It’s the best offer on the table.” He presses the narc ledger into your hands, already sealing the drawer for you. “End of shift. Clock out.”

You open your mouth to argue—close it again. The ledger feels heavier than it should, fatigue seeps in now that adrenaline’s ebbing. Outside, thunder cracks like a dropped backboard, and the lights flicker once.

You sigh. “Fine, but breakfast is on me.”

“Deal,” he says, guiding you toward the time clock. 

You clock out, grab your bag and shrug into your jacket, before following him toward the staff exit where rain claws at the glass. Jack tightens the hood of his parka, then holds out an arm as the automatic door slides open, water roaring on the pavement beyond.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping close under the shelter of his outstretched sleeve. Together you plunge into the downpour—his hand steady at your back, the storm booming overhead, but the path to the truck straight and sure. 

Jack’s pickup squats at the curb, rain sluicing off the cab in curtains. He shoulders your duffel before you can protest, flips the handle, and swings the passenger door wide like it’s muscle memory.

“Watch your step—running board’s slick,” he warns.

You climb in. The cabin greets you with a mingled scent of cedar dash wipes, faint engine oil, and the ever-present whisper of antiseptic from spare trauma kits stashed behind the seats. A police scanner—permanently clipped beneath the center console—chimes with bursts of static and dispatch codes: flooded intersections, disabled vehicles, the city groaning under waterlogged asphalt.

Jack tosses your bag onto the back seat, gives the door a solid push, and rounds the hood. Rain drums so hard on the roof it sounds like popcorn. He slides behind the wheel, shakes his curls once, then flicks on the wipers—long, angry sweeps that barely keep up.

“Seat belt,” he says, already buckling his own.

You latch in. The engine rumbles low, a comforting diesel thrum. He pulls away from the bay, tires hissing through standing water, scanner crackling a heads-up about another closure on Boulevard of the Allies.

Outside, Pittsburgh blurs—streetlights smeared into amber streaks. Traffic is a knot of blinking hazards and stalled buses; every alternate route you suggest is echoed on the scanner as blocked or backed up for miles. Jack makes two turns, meets a wall of brake lights, then inches forward for twenty hopeless minutes.

Finally he exhales through his nose—one sharp huff—and eases into a wet three-point turn.

“Call Margot,” he says, eyes on the mirror. “Tell her you’re crashing at my place.”

Your pulse misfires. “Jack—what? No, it’s fine, just drop me at—”

“Not driving you across town in this while you fight to stay awake,” he cuts in, voice calm but iron-lined. “My spare room’s closer than Margot’s, and it’s got thicker locks. She’ll understand.”

“But—”

He flicks you a sidelong look, soft but unyielding. “Humor me. Call.”

Throat tight, you dial. Margot answers on the second ring, background noise of wipers and Ben’s low grumbling. You relay Jack’s plan. She pauses, then mutters something about common sense finally prevailing, and tells you to send a text when you’re indoors.

You hang up, fingers fluttering against your thigh. Rain hammers the windshield, the scanner mutters more closures, and Jack merges onto a smaller artery that actually flows.

“Tea’s stocked,” he says, like announcing the weather. “Couch pulls out if the guest bed creeps you out. And my dog tags jingle in the closet—ignore them.”

A shaky laugh slips free. The tension in your chest loosens by an inch. Outside, the city is half-submerged, but inside the cab the diesel hum and the steady cadence of the scanner feel almost like a heartbeat—louder than the storm, grounding you mile by mile toward something that feels, against all odds, like refuge.

The storm is still in full throat when Jack noses the truck into a covered slot and lowers the tailgate. A sprint through sheets of rain and a three-floor climb later, you’re inside his apartment—soaked jacket already dripping on the entry mat.

The place is unmistakably a bachelor’s but not a mess: clean lines, muted paint, furniture chosen for function more than style—charcoal sofa, walnut coffee table nicked at the corners, a single reclaimed-wood bookshelf holding medical texts, a weathered guitar, and a row of battered field journals. No curtains on the windows, just industrial blinds rattling in the wind.

The air smells faintly of cedar cleaner and gun oil.

Your gaze lands on the far wall: a framed photo of a unfamiliar person in fatigues, smiling wide under desert sun, Jack’s arm slung around their shoulders. The picture isn’t front-and-center, but it isn’t hidden either—just part of the room, as natural as the oxygen you’re breathing. You feel a pulse of something—respect, maybe; curiosity folded into quiet acknowledgment—then let it settle.

The storm growls and the apartment lights stay dead. Jack mutters, “Of course,” and disappears into a utility closet. A second later a low hum rises; backup battery strips blink to life, powering a lamp and the fridge compressor. Gloom shifts to soft amber.

He reappears, already unzipping a folded camp cot from a hall closet. “Guest room’s down here—ignore the tactical gear box; I was sorting it and never finished.” He keeps talking as he moves—pulling a fresh duvet from a storage bin, snagging spare towels, stacking them on the cot as if building a fortress of linens. It’s the rambling you’ve come to recognize: the babble that sneaks out when his battlefield calm runs up against actual nerves.

“Sheets are hypoallergenic, pillow’s maybe lumpy—Shen says I’m pointless without memory foam, but—uh—water heater’s touchy; you flip the breaker twice if it sputters. Breakfast, though—I’ve got eggs, maybe some questionable bread, instant oatmeal if—”

“Jack.” You cut in, nurse-stern but gentle, palm landing on his forearm. “Kitchen. Now.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Told you breakfast was on me. I’m cooking. You drove through a flood and half of Oakland. Sit, or at least fetch ingredients. Let me do something useful.”

For a heartbeat he looks like he might argue; then his shoulders drop, a wry curve touching his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

The kitchen continues the theme: uncluttered counters, cast-iron skillet seasoned to midnight black, a French press permanently stationed beside a battered electric kettle. You shed your damp jacket, roll up sleeves, and start inventorying fridge contents by the soft glow of the battery lamp. Eggs, scallions, a solitary bell pepper, leftover rice from who-knows-when—perfect.

Jack lingers like a big, quiet dog at the edge of the doorway until you point a spatula toward a stool. “Park it.”

He obeys, elbows on the island, watching steam fog the window while you whisk eggs and slice vegetables. The generator hum, the sizzling skillet, the rain hammering the glass—they layer into a rhythm that feels, astonishingly, like peace.

You spoon the crispy-bottom rice and silky eggs into two battered blue enamel plates—the kind that look like they’ve survived a few camping trips—and slide one across the island. Jack dives in with the single-minded focus of a man fresh off a twelve‑hour shift and half a gallon of adrenaline. The first mouthful is barely down before he’s humming, eyes shutting like he might float straight off the stool.

“God,” he says, voice muffled around a second bite, “I missed this. You know what this is? This is proof the universe still loves me.”

“Pretty sure that’s just old soy sauce,” you reply, rinsing the spatula.

He points at the food with his fork, earnest. “Recipe. I need measurements—actual numbers, not your ‘dash until it smells right’ nonsense.”

“I’m protecting trade secrets,” you tease, but warmth blooms in your chest. Two weeks ago you could barely boil water without scanning every shadow. Now he’s coaxing you back to habits that meant home.

He polishes the plate until there isn’t a single grain left, then tips it your way so you can see your reflection in the gloss. “Gold standard. Seriously—midnight Bento queen. When you finally retire, you’ll have a food truck empire outside every trauma center.”

You scoff, but your grin is uncontainable. Cooking felt like breathing again—measured, rhythmic, fragrant—and seeing him devour it sparks a glow you haven’t felt since before everything.

After dishes, he pads down the hall and returns with a folded stack: a Navy-gray T‑shirt soft from a hundred wash cycles, and flannel joggers warm as a hug. “These should fit…ish,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. 

You press the clothes to your chest. They smell like cedar, laundry soap, and something unmistakably Jack. He then leads you to his spare room, and hits the  switch by the doorframe, heavy blackout blinds gliding down with a soft electrical hum. The morning storm-light is swallowed whole, plunging the room into a gentle twilight lit only by the hallway spill.

“Told you—better than curtain clips.” He sounds impossibly proud.

You step inside. The guest bed is a double—pillows plump, quilt patterned in muted blues, corners tucked with a soldier’s precision. A battered nightstand holds an alarm clock, a half-read Raymond Chandler paperback, and a small ceramic dish filled with odd coins, medals, and shiny screws—treasures of a magpie life.

The sudden hush steals the breath from your lungs. After weeks of sleepless vigilance, the room feels like slipping into deep water: quiet, cool, encompassing. You don’t realize tears have sprung until he’s there with a box of tissues he seemingly conjures from thin air.

“Need anything else?” he asks, voice gentled down to a murmur.

You shake your head, wiping at your eyes. The exhaustion is total—sinew-deep—but the fear that usually comes with it is absent. In its place sits something fragile and precious: safety.

He hovers one heartbeat longer, as if waiting to be sure. Then he nods, steps back, and eases the door almost—but not fully—closed. His footsteps retreat down the hall—soft thuds on laminate fading into the hush.

You then move to the bathroom, inside waiting a neatly folded washcloth, a still‑wrapped travel toothbrush, and a squat tube of plain mint paste. Everything is utilitarian, almost military in its order, but there’s a care to it that catches your chest.

You run the water—lukewarm thanks to Jack’s fussy heater trick—then scrub away twelve hours of hospital grit. The toothbrush is no‑frills, the soap unscented, yet the feel of clean water over your face is more luxurious than any spa. When the mirror fogs, you swipe a clear line and glimpse eyes already soft with impending sleep instead of panic.

Back in the room, you tug blankets aside but pause. One more thing. By the dim battery lamp you thumb out a text to Margot:

Safe. Jack’s spare room. Power’s out but generator humming. Will call after sleep. 💤

A confirmation bubble flicks up almost instantly: Thank God. Rest. Ben says hi.

You set the phone upside‑down on the nightstand, fold yourself beneath the quilt, and let the mattress cradle sore joints. Water thrums against the windows, the generator hums like distant tide. Somewhere down the hallway cabinet doors click—Jack tidying, grounding himself with small motions—then fall quiet.

Just as your eyelids drift shut, floorboards creak outside your door. His footfall pauses, a silent sentinel. He doesn’t knock, doesn’t speak—simply lingers long enough for you to feel the certainty of guarded space. Another quiet step, and he’s gone.

Your last waking sensations are cedar and rain in the dark, the firm weight of blankets, and the echo of boots walking the watch while you—finally—let go. Sleep rolls over you in a deep, unbroken wave; outside, the storm thrashes, but inside you rest like the dead, safe in the eye of it.

divider credit

[levigarden999]

grocery shopping ❀˖° olderhusband!levi x reader

it was a warm summer day outside as you and your olderhusband!levi entered the super market.

levi loved planning, which was the main reason why you had a specific day every week when you’d go grocery shopping. it was sunday, since it felt natural to plan the next week’s meals, snacks and other stuff you needed. levi was usually the one who made the list, carefully writing every single thing down on a piece of paper. you often tried to suggest that you could just easily write them in the note app of your phone, but quite frankly, he didn’t trust mobile devices.

the piece of paper in your hand had a long list of items in it as he grabbed a cart. the air in the huge market felt cold on your bare legs, especially now since the air outside was humid.

levi was wearing a beige linen t-shirt with a pair of linen shorts while he pushed the cart around, sneaking peeks onto the list in your hands.

”okay, uh, first- onions, tomato… pomegranate? why?” you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, surprised by the unexpected fruit.

”thought i’d make pomegranate salad for lunch tomorrow. the mix of sweet pomegranate seeds and salty feta is quite delicious” he commented. you chuckled as you began to load the cart with the listed items.

”right. cutting pomegranate is messy though, isn’t it? you sure you can handle it?” you teased with a knowing smirk. levi simply huffed.

”tch. i’ll make you cut it if you keep messing with me” he warned playfully, even though you knew it was a meaningless threat. levi loved to cook, especially for you.

you strolled through the aisles, picking what ever items you needed from cleaning supplies to chicken breast. the market was pretty much filled with people, especially parents with whiny babies, everyone was probably doing their weekly grocery shopping as well. you had picked the most awful time for your visit, since it was obviously the rush hour.

you looked down at the paper again, noticing the note ’food for petra’ next on the list. to your surprise, there was a mindless doodle of a cat’s face drawn next to it, as well. your husband was just adorable.

levi looked over at the cat food aisle’s options, a thoughtful hand rubbing his shaved chin. he reached for the top shelf on his tiptoes and grabbed a can of food.

he squinted his eyes to read the text. ”extra meaty” he said. ”should we take this? she loves meat and fish”

you grabbed the can and inspected the ingredients with a careful eye, before you shook your head.

”no, it doesn’t have enough veggies in it. pick something with more fiber”

levi picked another can, which had the text ’high fiber’ on the side. it was a better option, since it had both good protein and fiber sources in it. he placed a few more cans in the cart before you moved on.

as you walked by the small beauty section of the market, you couldn’t help but glance at levi. to your surprise, he was already looking at you with a side eye, clearly knowing that you’d want to stop by to look over what ever makeup or beauty products there was.

”we can walk through it, if you want”

you snickered, amused by the fact the man could read you so easily. you also respected the fact levi had patience with you and your interests. you often liked to check the newest make up brands or clothes or even plushies if you felt like it, but didn’t necessarily mean you’d be buying anything. even if levi was a man who enjoyed a schedule, a clear and specific way to do things, he didn’t mind standing by you as you curiously tried different shades of lip liners on the back of your hand.

”hmm, i don’t know, this feels like it’ll disappear in a second” you sighed as you brushed off a certain color from your hand, noticing how easily it dusted off. levi stood next to you arms crossed, his eyes looking at your hand as well.

”well, get the more expensive one. it’s the same shade, after all” he suggested, pointing at the other line next to the faded one, where you had tried the more expensive product. you turned your head to him, a surprised look on your face.

”it’s too expensive, levi. i’m not sure if i want it that bad” you argued back, even though you internally longed for that specific shade.

”tch. i’ll buy it, doll. it would suit you” he grumbled and took a fresh package, throwing it into the cart without question.

”levi!” you gasped. ”you don’t have to”

”no, i don’t. but i want to” he said with his usual stoicism, yet there was a genuinely soft look in his eyes as he looked over your face.

you sighed in defeat but smiled, knowing he was speaking the truth. levi would never do things he genuinely didn’t want to do – even for you. that was what made your relationship so healthy. you both had boundaries and you both respected them.

”thank you, levi”

you walked through the last aisle, which mostly contained freezers. you loaded the cart with a few packages of frozen vegetables, falael and some ice cream. you also bought frozen, ready-to-grill patties, because you were planning to host another grill night next weekend. erwin and hange would be coming and they'd also meet petra for the first time, so it was an occasion you were eagerly waiting for.

at the cash, you both unloaded the cart while the cashier grumpily beeped them and began to pack your items. levi grabbed his wallet from the pocket of his shorts, and for a moment you were distracted by his unnecessarily perfect nose and side profile. his forearm flexed a little as he grabbed his credit card, the beige linen fabric neatly straightened for this shopping trip. levi looked so youthful for someone his age, even though he definitely had the wisdom and respect of an older man.

after you left the market, you had one more thing unmarked on the list – tea. you’d have to make a stop at levi’s favorite tea shop.

more olderhusband!levi here .ᐟ

[lootandlore]

I LIKE YOU IN RED

➙ Stiles Stilinski x Goth!F!Reader

➙ Stiles was always a bit of a mess in the face of a compliment, especially when it came from a girl. More specifically when it came from the, as Lydia Martin would say, Morticia Adam’s of Beacon Hills.

what to expect…flirty fluff, stiles being a complete flustered fool, reader is definitely doing this on purpose for many reasons.

More Stiles x Goth!F!Reader Here

STILES WAS sitting in class, his leg bouncing rapidly as he stared at the teachers illegible handwriting on the board.

Coach was out for the first time in a billion years, leaving them with a sub who very clearly wanted to be anywhere else. Halfheartedly talking the students through the lesson. Voice so dull stiles found himself considering slamming his head repeatedly onto his desk for a moment of relief.

In fact, he even knocked his knuckles into the wooden desk to see how tough the surface was. If it would do the right amount of damage to keep him from having to listen to another second of whatever the hell was going on ahead of him.

He became so engrossed in his thoughts of sweet freedom that he hadn’t even realized his tapping had caught the attention of the girl behind him.

Which was surprising considering he’d all but nearly thrown himself into the chair in front of her at the start of class. Craving a chance to be close to her, even if it was to never even sneak a glance or so much as whisper a hello.

She tipped her head to the side, long wavy hair flowing over her black lace sleeves. Her lips, painted black were curved around the cap of her pen. Smoked out lids creasing as she observed him from behind. Thick liner raising on her features as she smiled.

The girl had noticed Stiles on various occasions.

When he first bumped into her freshman year and he all but blurted out that he had a hunch she was a vampire in her face. He expected her to slap him, however she simply giggled and said how flattered she was.

During lunch when he’s not so discreetly staring her down with a dumb look on his face. Nearly slamming his head onto his lunch tray whenever Scott redirects his attention to whatever nonsense they’re discussing.

Or, the memory she’s most fond of, was when he’d managed to trip and slam right into her in the library. He’d forced them both onto the floor right beside the gothic horror novels.

He spluttered and panicked, turning bright red while staring her down from above. She grinned and simply turned her head. Plucking the novel she’d been searching for off the bottom shelf.

She could recall how her heart ached in that moment, how pretty she thought he looked all red for her.

If he hadn’t sprinted from the library whispering out a frantic ‘oh god’ then perhaps she would have told him.

However, now, sat behind him. Listening to his tapping. She couldn’t help but to notice his red flannel. How red, whether it be his clothes or his cheeks, did suit him.

Very well.

She ripped a corner of her notebook off and wrote in an elegant script. Her black ink smudging against the side of her hand as she went. Nails tapping the table accidentally as she folded up the newly formed note.

Despite her attire the girl was still relatively shy when it came to being forward. Therefore she waited until class was complete to reach over and slip it into his flannel pocket.

Leaning down to whisper sweetly in his ear, her lipstick likely leaving a small bit of transfer on the tip as she spoke.

Stiles mouth dropped open the second her fingers brushed his chest. Her lips brushing his ear making him fist his fingers together and cover his mouth. Slouching down in order to hide his horribly obvious panic.

“You look pretty in red”

Then she was gone, walking off with a grin. His eyes were wide as he watched her go. Brain filled with static at the abrupt attention he’d been given.

It wasn’t until he got home that he even realized she’d given him a note. His hands frantically flailing about to catch the paper that fell from his top when he went to change out of it.

Mouth opening and closing like a fish as he stared down at her handwriting.

‘Meet me in the library tomorrow before class x’

[luvsizedfrellie]

✗♡✗♡ maybe five minutes more, please?

You found yourself in the kind of aisle you usually speed-walked past in the supermarket, where rows of colorful cupcake liners and utensils lined the shelves, your fingers trailed over the various shapes – hearts, stars, animals – before landing on a small plastic package tucked away on the bottom shelf, a dino-shaped biscuit cutters packaged in a slightly crumpled box.

You aren't much of a baker, never had the patience for precise measurements and timing. But there was something about these little metal dinosaurs that caught your attention. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of them, or maybe it was the immediate mental image of Ellie's face lighting up when she saw them, she'd probably joke on the quality of them but she'd be touched by the thought. The image made you smile.

You glanced down at your sad little bag slung over your shoulder, you didn't really need these. But as you kept picturing Ellie's green eyes sparkling, her freckled nose wrinkling in amusement as she eats your dino-shaped biscuits...that was all the convincing you needed. With a resigned sigh, you dropped—carefully, the cutters into your tote bag alongside the soda cans, bread and snacks because really, your cupboard was looking way too tragically bare for your taste. You backtracked, grabbing a bag of flour, sugar, butter – okay, you were vaguely recalling a biscuit recipe from somewhere in your mind.

Thumb flying across your phone screen, you tapped out a quick text to Ellie.

‘Hey sugar, mind if i swing by your place? xoxo’

You had that spare key Ellie had given you months ago, she had pressed them into your hand a while back, 'just in case' she'd mumbled, face going all pink.

Her reply popped up.

‘Swing away, babe. Place is yours till i wrap up this stuff with Joel. Leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry. Miss you a lot.’ — Ellie-boo ♡

Your eyes lingered on the text message, the last part 'miss you a lot ' made your heart flutter in ways you'd grown accustomed to but still couldn't quite believe, you smiled softly to yourself, reading it again, mentally planning out the rest of your afternoon with her as you paid for the groceries. Twenty minutes later, you let yourself into Ellie's apartment, slipping off your shoes and padded across the floor, dropping the bag onto the kitchen counter. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator, and you felt a flutter in your chest as you began unpacking the ingredients, feeling comfortable in the apartment that felt equally yours as Ellie's.

You walked over to the living room area, pulling out your phone to connect to Ellie's bluetooth speaker while waiting for the music to connect, you noticed something that made you pause. There, abandoned on the edge of the bed, lay Ellie's favorite hoodie, that faded maroon color she loved, the worn spot on the left shoulder from years of carrying her backpack, and the slight stretch in the collar from countless times being pulled hastily over her head. Without thinking, you removed your own shirt, picked the hoodie up and slipped it over, inhaling deeply her scent. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the familiarity wash over you with a soft smile.

The music started playing, and she moved back to the kitchen, humming along with the song in the background, your hips swaying with the music as you mixed together butter and sugar.

١٥٧٤♡

You were completely absorbed in piping icing onto a particularly stubborn velociraptor cookie, your tongue caught between your teeth in concentration, your own hair had escaped its bun in places, wisps framing your face, soo focused on getting the perfect spike pattern that you didn't notice the door opening at first and Ellie appearing in the doorway, her eyes lighting up like someone had plugged her into a power outlet as she gets her sight on you. Her messy auburn hair was sticking up in places, and there was a smudge of engine grease on her cheekbone. She looked like she'd just rolled out from under a car, which knowing Ellie, she probably had. "Hey babe, i'm home!"

Your heart skipped a beat before you could catch yourself. "Welcome back, love." slipped out softly, barely audible over the gentle hum of the refrigerator, your gaze stayed fixed intently on the dinosaur cookie in front of you, the frosting trembling ever so slightly in your piping bag as your fingers betrayed your sudden nervousness. You weren't quite ready to turn around, partly because you hadn't finished decorating this last cookie, but mostly, you hesitated because you felt that familiar flush rise to your cheeks.

One of the tray was cooling patiently, their icing hardened to perfection in the fridge, while the other waited its turn beside you, the raw cookies shaped like T-Rexes and Triceratops, their chocolate chip eyes staring blindly upward. Your fingers tightened slightly around the piping bag, causing a small blob of frosting to escape onto the counter. "Shit" you muttered under your breath, a string of slightly more colourful curses hovering just behind it, waiting for an excuse to break free. You reached for a paper towel, scrubbing at the sugary mess with more force than necessary.

"You're baking?" Ellie asked, amusement threading through her voice as she approached the counter. "You hate baking."

"I hate a lot of things," you replied easily, not turning around. "Doesn't mean i won't do them for you, Els."

Yoh glanced over your shoulder, flashing Ellie a quick smile before returning to your decorating. Ellie couldn't help but have a goofy smile as she slipped her arms around your waist, pulling you close from behind. She placed a kiss on your neck, nuzzled against your jaw, and smiled when you shivered slightly at the contact.

"What's with the dinos?" she asked, her voice muffled against your neck.

You leaned back into the embrace, letting Ellie hold you. "Found these silly cutters on discount," you said, your voice relaxed and happy, letting your head tilt back so Ellie’s lips could brush against your jaw "Thought of you."

Her hands tightened around you, a soft giggle escaping her lips as she nuzzled deeper into your neck. The familiar scent of your perfume mingled with the sweet aroma of freshly baked biscuits wafted up, making her feel instantly at home. "You thought of me?" she murmured, her voice husky with emotion as she continued to nuzzle, her cheek brushing against your jaw. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." you confirmed as you turned your head to press a gentle kiss against Ellie's jaw. "That's you," you pointed with your icing bag to the biggest, freckled dino. "Even has your freckles."

Ellie couldn't help but laugh softly as she examined the cookie more closely, the freckles under its eye weren't perfect circles like hers, but the attempt was adorable, her mouth twitched upward as she reached out to gently touch the chocolate freckles.

You twisted in her arms, carefully placing the piping bag down before turning to face her fully. God, she looked tired, but in that comfy, worn-out kind of way, like she'd been doing something she loved all day. Your gaze snagged on the smudge of grease on her cheek, you reached up to wipe it away with your thumb. The gentle touch made her eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, she just let you clean her face, her expression soft and trusting.

"You're a mess, Els" your fingers lingered on her cheek, and you found yourself staring into her eyes, the green sparkling with amusement even as they stayed half-closed. You'd never thought you'd be here, in this domestic little scene, baking cookies and wiping engine grease off your girlfriend's face. But as you looked at Ellie, you realized you couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

Her cheeks flushed pink, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into your palm, her green eyes searching yours. "S'just from helping Joel with his truck" she grumbled.

"Mmm. My little mechanic." you teased, but there was no bite to it, your eyes soft and your smile even softer, your other hand slid up to cradle her face, mirroring the other one.

Ellie let out a soft sigh, she looked so damn peaceful, so unguarded, like all the weight of the world had momentarily lifted from her shoulders. "You look tired, sweetheart. Go take a shower and nap. 'm going to finish the biscuits as you rest." your thumbs traced gentle patterns on her cheeks, watching as her eyelids grew heavier, her breathing slowing into a contented rhythm.

A tender smile spread across your face as you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. The warmth of her skin seeped into your lips, and you could feel her relax further into your touch. Moving downward, you brushed another gentle kiss across the bridge of her nose, she wrinkled it, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips.

Finally, your lips met hers in a slow, deliberate movement. The air seemed to hold its breath around you, thickening with anticipation as your faces drew closer. At first, it was just a feather-light touch, barely there. But as soon as your mouths touched, Ellie came alive in your arms, her exhaustion melting away like sugar in warm water Her lips parted beneath yours, soft and slightly chapped from the dry air, but infinitely kissable. You felt her tension release, replaced by a growing hunger that matched your own. Her mouth moved with increasing urgency against yours, but you pulled back, just enough to break the seal of your lips with a soft, sucking sound, your lips were tingling and slightly swollen, though your faces remained inches apart. Ellie's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dreamy, a soft protest rumbling in her throat as she tried to capture your lips again.

"Love, you need sleep." But even as you said it, your body betrayed you, leaning forward until your noses touched, sharing warm breaths that made her eyelids flutter closed again.

"Five more minutes." she protested back with a frown.

The words vibrated against your lips and resolve crumbled at the pleading tone, at the way her eyes sparkled even in their half-closed state, at the desperate clutch of her fingers on your hips. You knew you should push her toward the shower, toward sleep, toward recovery from whatever had left her covered in engine grease today. But five minutes didn't seem like too much to steal, not when she was looking at you like that, not when your entire world had narrowed down to the space between your bodies and the promise of her lips again.

"Okay, five more minutes." you agreed, the word dissolving into the kiss that followed, deeper and longer than the last. The dinosaur cookies unfinished forgotten on their trays, just like the exhaustion and the responsibilities and tomorrow's worries. All that mattered was this present, this perfect slice of time, this feeling of being exactly where you were meant to be, with her.

[lilackahan10]

Disappearing Act

also known as the 5 times Justin thinks he’s jinxed.

The coffee shop

The quiet chime of the bell above the door caught Justin's attention. He threw a fleeting glance to his right before returning his eyes to the menu above the counter, his mind preoccupied with the options in front of him. A young woman stepped inside the coffee shop, the spring breeze following behind her. His attention flickered over to his right once again when he heard her speak. Her voice was soft but confident as she ordered, her accent subtle but there. He found himself watching as her hands gently tugged on her sweater before quickly diverting his eyes back to the menu when she started to turn around.

He tried his best to focus on his order, having never been here before, but it was futile. She had moved to stand next to him and the only thing he could think about was how good she smelt. He didn't know if it was her perfume or her shampoo, but it was heavenly. He watched her typing on her phone in his peripheral vision and began to think of a good one-liner he could use to make her laugh before the barista interrupted his train of thought.

Right, he remembered. The coffee.

Justin placed his order and turned back around to wait next to her. She glanced up from her phone as he did so and it nearly stopped him in his tracks. Her eyes drew him in instantly and the soft smile she gave him had him certain he wasn't leaving without speaking to her. The barista called her name before he was able to, however. He thought her name suited her, despite not knowing her at all. He couldn't help but wish that was different.

His coffee was made quickly, and he walked up to collect his order alongside her. She thanked the staff kindly before heading for the door and Justin wasn't far behind. The fresh air hit him as he left the building, moving in the opposite direction to where he had parked his car as he jogged to catch up with her.

Suddenly, a voice sounded from the parking lot they were in.

"Excuse me.”

He watched as she silently turned around, locking eyes with him once again. There was no use in hiding the small smile that found its way onto his face as soon as she did so. She looked at him curiously before turning to the right, realising it wasn't him that had spoken. A young man, probably their age, was stood just off the side and was looking directly at Justin.

"Can I take a photo with you, man? I'm a huge fan."

Fuck, Justin thought. He smiled, or more accurately grimaced, as he agreed to the photo. He turned around after the brief exchange to realise they were alone in the parking lot. She was gone.

2. The grocery store

Justin felt a little silly, but he hadn't been able to stop thinking about the girl from the coffee shop. It had been a few days, but she'd crossed his mind multiple times. He was pushing his shopping cart around the grocery store, strictly sticking to the list he'd made earlier in the day, when it happened again. A young woman with similar hair to her was crouching down, retrieving something from a lower shelf for an older gentleman on a cane. He smiled to himself at the stranger's action and continued shopping before whipping his head back around in embarrassing fashion when the woman turned around.

He wasn't going crazy. It was her.

Justin's smile grew as he watched her interact with the older man. She turned and began pushing her cart towards Justin's. He manoeuvred himself to be facing in the same direction, his shopping needs long forgotten, hoping to look a little more natural than he felt. He looked up from his list and locked eyes with her for a third time that week. She laughed as she slowly walked by, recognising him from the coffee shop, and she halted her movements next to him. She opened her mouth to say something (he hoped), but Justin felt something crash into him from behind before she could.

It was a child, maybe 5 or 6 years old, and whilst he normally loved children, in that moment Justin did not. The child rammed into his back again as Justin stared at him in disbelief. The mother came running down the aisle, cursing at her child and apologising before dragging him back up the way she came. Justin nodded and turned back around to where his girl had been standing seconds before, a look on his face that said what was that about? His face fell as he turned, though. She was gone.

3. The doctors office

Justin had replayed the grocery store encounter last week over and over in his head, many more times than he'd like to admit. If only I'd turned to talk to her quicker than I did, he kept thinking. He had tried to find her on social media but gave up after feeling like a stalker. Besides, he only knew her name and the colour of her eyes.

The doctors office waiting room was busier than he felt comfortable with. There's some places you don't want to be recognised, and this was one of them. He was staring at his phone to pass the time, replying to emails and scrolling through his calendar, when he felt someone sit next to him. He recognised her scent instantly.

He looked up from his phone with a smile already on his face.

"Either you're following me, or we're meant to be" she joked. He laughed and her smile grew, mirroring his.

"Hi," he said softly, "I'm..."

"Justin", a member of staff called from the hallway.

Goddammit, he thought. He gave her a sheepish smile before standing up and heading to his appointment. He wasn't surprised that she was gone by the time he came out.

4. The restaurant

Justin had begun to believe that he's cursed. Another week had passed, and he had tried everything to run into her again. He'd been back to their coffee shop multiple times since seeing her there and he was grocery shopping at least twice a week. If it wasn't utterly delusional, he'd consider booking a pointless doctors appointment to be back in the waiting room again. He wasn't sure what it was about her that had his head spinning like this, but deep down he felt an urgent need to find out. On the surface, he was trying to convince himself that he'd given up on seeing her again. It wasn't working, but looking for a woman whose last name he didn’t even know in a city as big as LA was impossible. He knew that.

All his hard work to forget about their interactions came crashing down when he saw her walk into that restaurant. Her dress was made for her and the early sunset over the rooftop terrace made her look angelic. She was with her family, it seemed, but he wasn’t paying much attention to them. Only her.

Justin made an effort to engage in conversation with his friends throughout his meal. He stole glances over at her table whenever he got the chance, however, and every time he did he fought the urge to approach her. How could he let this opportunity slip by? But how could he approach when she was in a group, especially with her family? He fought this internal battle all evening.

He knew what he was going to do. He stood up to leave and directed his group out the exit closest to her table. Before leaving, he pulled out a pen and wrote his number on a leftover (but clean) napkin. As he walked past her table, he gently slipped the napkin under her hand as her family marvelled at the view in the other direction. She looked up at him, her eyes captivating, and Justin swore he felt his heart stop. His smile was soft and so were his eyes as they shared a knowing look.

He walked away happier than he'd been in a long time, but spun around when he heard one of his friends apologising profusely in the direction he'd just come from.

Un-fucking-believable.

His friend had knocked over a glass of water sitting at her table and it had spilt all over the napkin he'd just given her. He knew his number was illegible now, and he could feel his temper rising. He knew it wasn't his friend's fault, but what the hell? Just as he made progress with her, they were back to square one.

Justin was ushered out of the restaurant by his group, who had been oblivious to his longing stare at table 108 all evening. He could've sworn she looked back at him as he left.

5. The golf course

Justin's mood had been terrible over the last few days. Even he could admit it. He didn't tell anyone why when they asked, but he knew it all came down to what happened at the restaurant. He just couldn't believe it. His friends had decided they were taking him golfing to ease his mood, and he wasn't going to complain. He knew he needed to loosen up.

Loosen up is exactly what he did. He fell into the comfortable rhythm of his second favourite sport and let the rest of the world fall away. That was, until one of his friends hit a ball so low and so far left that it hit a nearby golf cart. Justin cursed at him quietly as he jogged over to the cart, hoping no one was inside.

"Hey, I'm so sorry about that." he said as he approached, just in case.

His went into panic mode when he noticed someone inside and his heart dropped as soon as the person stepped out. It was her, his girl, but he wasn't happy to see her this time. Not like this.

She was putting on a brave face but he could see tears glistening in her eyes as she looked at him. He hated every second of it. She was cradling her arm against her body and she grimaced as she walked towards him. He gently took her arm in his hands, but she pulled away whilst letting out a quiet whimper, clearly in pain.

I'm going to kill him.

She looked up at him, a single tear slowly making its way down her cheek, and Justin had to fight the urge to brush it away with his thumb. His expression was full of pure worry as she eventually allowed him to examine her arm, his non-expert opinion forming quickly.

"Oh God," she whined, "Is it broken?".

“I think you need to be checked over, unfortunately. I’m so sorry.” He felt his heart clench when he looked at her, knowing what it’s like to be uncomfortable and in pain.

“I’m sorry” she whispered, “I’m not great with dealing with things like this. I’m a little squeamish.”

“That’s ok” he reassured her. “I’m good with this stuff, so I’ll help you. Is that ok?”

“Yes”, she said quickly.

He smiled at her, about to sit her back down in the golf cart and get her some water. Before he could do so, however, a panicked yell from his group boomed out over the golf course.

“Watch out!”.

Justin looked up as the same friend who injured his girl came barrelling down a small hill on his golf cart, heading straight for them.

Shit.

[hidingwhere]

this idea is from @h0ney-mushroom 😋😋

John Price x feminine reader who drags John to a fancy makeup store. You’re running low on supply of pretty much everything and since John is currently home, you decide to take him with you.

You have to walk extra slowly as you walk up stairs in the store due to the large heeled boots you’re wearing. He slows his quick pace down to match yours as you take each stair slowly, mumbling that you can walk fine and he doesn’t need to slow down for you.

When you eventually reach the makeup section, you start with blushes; liquid and powder. You pull some from the shelf, using the back of your hand for a few colour swatches before running out of room and not wanting to go any higher incase it got on your jumper. You slowly look towards John where his sweatshirt is rolled up to his upper arms. You lean over and wipe a pink-coloured blush colour over his lower arm from the tester. His thick arm hair gets in the way of seeing the proper colour but by (kind of) moving the hair you can see the colour better.

John sort of just stands there as you swatch different colours on his arms, letting you pull them about as move through blushes, highlighters, lipsticks/lipglosses, eyeliners and lip liners. His arm represents a rainbow when you’re done: pinks, reds, whites, glitters and blacks sprawl over his arm randomly.

“So many shades,” he says quietly when you move onto another product.

“Which one is your favourite?” You ask as you point to the different lipliner shades on his arm.

“Why? It’s your makeup.”

“But you see me all the time… and you kiss me.” When he gives you a confused glance you add, “It’s lip liner.”

“Oh. This one-“ He points to a dark red colour. “-looks nice.”

[orphicsun]

could you pls write something about loser vi? no rush <3

A/N: Thank you anon for suggesting this:) This is sfw mainly since I like to take some breaks from purely writing smut. I can make nsfw headcannons if someone requests loser vi ones though!!

+The streets are saying she can’t read but I disagree. Vi is super smart. She loves mainly action/thriller books, anything that is super fast paced but if she were to choose a classic piece of literature it’d be something like Lord of the Flies!!

+Favorite place to take you out on dates is to the arcade. She will spend an embarrassing amount of money on the games so she can win you the cute teddy bear on the top shelf of the prizes rack.

+For some reason is obsessed with skull clothing. Maybe ironically but you don’t understand how she could use her free will for anything and instead it goes to wearing a “nobody knows im a lesbian” shirt with a huge skull in the middle of it in public.

+Loves mobile games. She could play whatever she wants to, owns a pc and playstation but chooses to kill time on some shit like Candy Crush or that silly scary teacher game, she will literally be playing while you’re at her house too. She’ll have a girl in her bed and she’s too busy on the 889th level of Candy Crush to even notice.

+Makes fart jokes like a middle school boy. If you laugh at them, it’ll only get worse from there so make sure not to even entertain them unless you want her constantly talking about farts.

+She reminds me of Rodrick because they’re on the same wavelength of eldest sibling and he’s a loser too. So Vi absolutely has a garage band in which she makes shitty music that you will still listen to and help her apply her messy black liner.

+Proudly and openly obsessed with lesbian shows like The L Word and Orange is the New Shade of Black, secretly reads gl mangas at night. Something about imagining a girl with black half shaved hair and tattoos reading something like Tamen de Gushi or Kase-san has me in a chokehold.

+Her love language is physical touch, but it’s not just intimatacy or sex. She likes small things and sometimes plays it off as a joke, sitting on the bed and poking your feet with her toes, small things that are written off as funny but she just likes to be close to you in any way. Also huge on tickling you. She LOVES to tickle you if you’re ticklish, it gives her the opportunity to tackle you, she loves play fighting. Plus she is soft for giggling and your laughter.

+Getting into less sfw content here but gets so shy over make-out sessions and seeing you. Vi struggles to make the first move sometimes but you don’t mind, you like pulling her in for a kiss at random times just to watch the freckled on her face contrast the tint that rises in her cheeks. Gets super needy about kisses, always has to kiss your cheek or your neck or anywhere if you’re busy with something and can’t actually make out with her at the time.

+Random fact she is SO good on a skateboard it’s truly impressive. Probably because the only console game she likes is skate 2