Dyed Hands, Broken Heart

Hurt me with the truth but never comfort me with a lie. Bekah (she/her) Sept ‘97

[artificial-father]

Map of the United States but now each state touches the ocean

@mapsontheweb @the-real-numbers

[the-real-numbers-deactivated202]

All states can have a little sip of ocean water. As a treat.

[anais-ninja-bitch]

hm. kentucky beach. tidewater, kentucky. norfolk, kentucky, home to the largest US navy installation on the east coast.

the picturesque outerbanks of tennessee.

the big apple: new york city, michigan.

[cipheramnesia]

Make one where the fewest possible states can access the ocean.

[seabassapologist]

[tasteleeknow]

RASPBERRY PIE

minors dni. minho x fem!reader. 4k words content warnings. pet names (sweetheart, angel). mutual pining. sweet/shy reader. perv!minho. corruption kink. food play. dirty talk. oral (m rec.). soft!dom minho.

you bake your quiet neighbour a warm raspberry pie.

He's pretty sure he's utterly fucked from the jump – he finds himself attached so early he almost convinces himself you're a witch in disguise; that maybe he'd moved in next door to a creature designed to trap men like him. A siren, maybe. The sweetness was an act; all the soft tones and doe eyed looks were just a trick to lure him down beneath the waves.

He was determined not to drown.

And then you show up with the pie, a little flushed from working around a hot oven. It'd been 6 months – 6 months since he'd moved in, and as he opens the door to find you in an apron with little pink stains, a feeling of approaching and inevitable doom settles in his chest. Finally, you'd come to take him.

"Hi," you greet with a shy smile. "My friend brought me over far too many berries yesterday so..." you look down at the golden pie, carefully decorated and clearly still warm, "...well I made this. For you."

If he was wise, he'd politely decline, close the door, and never be faced with the reality of the sweet little siren in his apartment, offerings of temptation and all.

"For me?"

You look up at him through long lashes. "Do you like pie?" you ask. It's the way you say it, like if he doesn't you might genuinely hurt inside – like with a simple rejection of your offering, he had the ability to snuff out some little candle alight inside you.

"I like pie," he says.

Then you smile. Like it's the best news you've heard in weeks. "Oh, good."

He steps aside, his body betraying him. The siren enters with her warm pie and soft smiles – and he knows, unequivocally, that he's fucked.

He keeps his distance as you comfortably navigate to the kitchen to find a place for your offering. The apartments were all pretty much identical as far as he knew. The two on this floor, his and yours, were mirrored. He imagines that just on the other side of your joining wall, you took the same steps he did he each morning, in parallel.

You fiddle a little with the delicately placed raspberries atop the pie as he approaches from the other side of the island. You wear a tiny silver ring on one finger, much like one he wears on his own. He'd spotted it before, during short interactions in the elevator. He suppresses the urge to comment on it now, to ask if it meant anything to you.

He doesn't need to know you. He couldn't afford to. He was finding himself attached enough without it.

Then you pluck one little berry up in your fingers and bring it to your lips. He watches you. He watches you and he knows that he's walked willingly into a trap.

"Sweet?"

You look up. "Hm? Oh." You nod. "They're lovely. My friend gets them from this farm near his parent's place."

Friend. His. He sits in the feeling that stirs in his chest for a quiet moment. It's a rotten feeling. He doesn't like it at all.

"He brings them often?" he finds himself asking.

"Not at all. He just happened to come by after being there for a weekend. He doesn't go there often, I don't think." Your accompanying smile is almost enough to snuff out the rotten feeling before he has time to digest it. Almost.

Then he considers that this might not be the only pie. You may have made this other guy a pie just like it... maybe it was bigger, maybe you'd used the sweetest berries in his pie.

He kicks a cat toy across the floor as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, a little embarrassed by his own internal monologue. Witchcraft, turning his brain into mush.

"You have a pretty view."

He looks up to find you brushing your hands down your apron and rounding the kitchen island. You seem drawn to his floor to ceiling windows, a little moth to the light.

He follows.

"Mine isn't nearly this nice," you continue once he's standing beside you. "All I get is the construction site and a concrete wall." Then you close your eyes, head tilting back a little to let the sun's afternoon rays bathe your face. "Don't get the sun like this, either," you add, a little dreaminess leaking into your already sweet voice.

Oh, he's fucked.

"You like it?"

You blink up at him, eyes adjusting to the light again. "Hm?"

"I mean if you really like it, you're welcome over anytime, whenever." He wonders if this is part of your spell work, making him say stupid shit. Maybe he'd be better off if you were casting spells on him, if he had a reasonable excuse for being so fucking braindead. "For the sun," he adds, like it makes it better.

A small breath of laughter slips from your pretty lips. "It does get a little gloomy over there, on my side of the wall."

It was hard to imagine anywhere you were being gloomy.

"I should go," you continue after a short moment of comfortable silence, each of you basking in the sunlight. He really should appreciate that more, he notes. Then he considers the fact he'll associate this little patch of warmth with you each time he attempts such a thing.

"Sure," he says, following you from a safe distance to the door. "Thank you. For the pie."

"You're welcome."

Everything is fine. He's alone and he survived the encounter. Then he's faced with the pie. He stares down at it, warm and made with careful hands.

He plucks a berry off the top. He thinks of the berry you'd eaten in the same way.

Everything is fine.

He hesitates as he goes to pluck a second berry. Instead of lifting one from the crust, he presses the tip of his finger a little against the surface. Warm. He breaks through. His finger is coated in syrupy, red filling when he pulls it free. It's sugary sweet when he sucks it clean.

Shame. That's what he feels next. Because sweet gestures of neighbourly kindness should not trigger the kind of thoughts creeping their way into his head.

He wonders if the little siren's cunt is as warm and sweet as the little offering she brought him. He considers doing the right thing, having a cold shower and sitting in the morning sun with a slice of pie.

But apparently, today, and the day before, and every day for the past 6 months, Minho was not wise and he wasn't very good. Because he let the thoughts of his sweet little neighbour stew for months, and this is where it'd led him.

He stands there, one palm pressed flat on the kitchen counter, the other buried in his sweatpants, and he thinks of the sweet little siren with her sweet offerings, and he imagines sinking his hard cock into her warm, sweet cunt.

—

It's hard not to deflate entirely as you close your apartment door behind you. You'd expected too much from a single pie, you suppose. It would entirely out of character for him to ask you to stay for a slice, to take the opportunity to finally have a conversation longer than an elevator ride.

You sigh, dropping your forehead against the cool surface of the door. It helps a little. You're overheated, both from the cooking, the warm sun, and the heat that had bubbled up from the inside as the pretty - yet frustratingly reserved - man next door had watched you move about his space.

You hadn't lied, his apartment was far nicer than yours. You could imagine basking in that patch of sun any chance you had. You wonder if he does the same, if he sits there after a shower, chest bare and hair still a little damp - letting the sun warm his skin.

You leap back as a knock on the door jolts you out of your daydream. Sighing, you press your palm to your forehead - head thoroughly rattled - as you pull the door open.

Oh.

"Hi," Minho says casually. He's a little flushed compared to when you'd left him minutes earlier. He shouldn't be. There were no stairs between your apartments.

"Hello, again."

He glances over your shoulder, getting a clear view of your empty living room. "It is darker in here," he says, still casual.

"Oh. Mm, yeah. I miss your sun already."

His eyes fix back on you. Then he pulls his lip between his teeth slightly. He has something to say... something he won't say.

"Why'd you make me the pie?" he asks.

You blink. "I... had a lot of berries from-"

"Your friend. I know."

You're officially confused. His eyes drop down your dirty apron before returning to your face. "You only made one?"

"Is it bad?" you question.

He pushes some hair away from his eyes. "No," he says quickly. "No, it's... nice." His eyes sweep down your body again. "Sweet," he adds.

"I only made one."

His eyes jump to yours before a brief look of confusion flashes across his pretty face. He seems to remember his own question soon enough. "You didn't want to give it to," he gestures vaguely behind you, "your friend?"

"No," you answer simply. This entire interaction was drifting into territory you weren't sure you were ready for. If his questions got any more interrogative, you might find yourself wondering how to answer them in any other way than 'Oh, the pie? I baked it for you because I have a huge, embarrassing crush on you, even if you've seemed intent on not knowing me.'

"He doesn't like pies?" he asks.

You can't help following the path of his fingers as he fiddles with the chain hanging around his neck. They brush his skin as he strokes the metal back and forth.

"I... don't understand what you're asking me," you say as you pull your eyes from his neck. "Is something wrong?"

He readjusts his position in the doorway, pressing his hand to the frame and freeing you from the constant distraction at his neck. He leans over you a little like this.

God, he's pretty.

"You a witch?" he asks.

"I'm sorry?"

"Did you put something in it?" he continues, still leaning well and truly into your space. "Something to make me-" he cuts himself off, brows furrowing.

"Are you asking me if I poisoned the pie?"

His voice drops, like someone might overhear, despite you both being entirely alone on this floor of the building. "I'm trying to figure out why all I can fucking think about is how you might taste on my tongue."

Your head rushes, all the heat returning. Then your eyes drop to the floor.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

You don't. His shoes are safer. He was flirting. More than flirting. He wanted you.

His fingers guide your chin up, it doesn't take much, a nudge. "I'll leave if you want," he says. "Never mention it again. Just tell me what you want."

"Did you like it?" you find yourself whispering. "The pie."

His lips crack into a lopsided smile. It's tiny, but it's a smile. "Loved it, sweetheart. Sent me to heaven."

"Would you... would you like to come in?"

He nods.

You go to turn, to let him follow you. But then, instead, you take his hand and lead him in. He's warm. You imagine all the sun he gets over there must've absorbed deep inside him over time. Maybe he could leave some of it behind here for you - that heat might leak from him if your kept him here long enough.

He follows where you lead, his hand still grasped firmly in your own. You're not sure why you lead him to the sofa. You aren't sure what you're expecting next. It's why you find yourself simply standing beside the piece of furniture waiting for him to say something – to let go of your hand maybe.

Instead, his thumb begins brushing over your skin. He's quiet, seemingly unhurried to break the tension building.

"I asked my friend to bring the berries," you confess quietly, eyes focused on your interwined hands. Confessions were always so much easier with your eyes downwards. "I wanted to make something for you... specifically."

"Why's that?"

His thumb continues against your skin. He doesn't make you look at him like he had before.

"Because I... wanted you to - I wanted your attention."

You can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks, "So you baked me a pie?"

"I'm good at baking."

"You are," he agrees. Then his other hand reaches for the hem of your apron. He rubs it between his fingers a little. "Messy though."

You look down at the patterned splotches, pink on white. Then he releases your hand, taking that warmth with him. He only allows you a few seconds to miss it though. That same hand snakes around the back of your neck, skin on skin.

Your eyes are drawn to his without thought.

"Are you always messy?" he asks.

You nod, chewing on your lip a little.

He seems pleased with your answer, a small hum escaping his throat. "I like messy," he says, sounding a little far away. "Do you like messy, sweetheart?"

Your eyes drop to his lips, a little stained from your pie filling. "Yeah," you breathe.

He tugs you towards him before your have time to suck in another breath, attaching himself to you like he's starved. You can't help gasping a little into his mouth as he presses you into him with a hand to your back.

Holy fuck. Surely you'd wake up slumped against the door any second. Maybe someone hadn't just knocked on the door. Someone had opened it and knocked you out and you were dreaming about your pretty, brown eyed neighbour.

He groans a little before taking your lip between his teeth. No. No you were definitely awake. "So sweet," he mumbles as he releases you, his breath ghosting over your wet lips. "Can I have you?"

–

It's hard to keep his head on straight as you look up at him with those big sweet eyes. Can I have you? His stomach rolls as he waits for you to say yes. Please say yes. 6 months of denial and he was desperate.

You'd made that sweet little gift for him. Just for him. His little siren.

Then you're pressing against his chest, forcing him down onto the sofa. He looks up at you, at the stained apron and the hair sticking a little to your temples from the time spent making his pie.

Then you lower yourself to your knees.

Oh, fuck.

Your hands only have to brush his legs for him to get the hint. He spreads them, allowing you to shuffle closer to him – settling between his thighs.

Then you look up at him. "Can I taste you?"

He's keeping you. His head drops back as he collects himself. Then, "You want my cock in your pretty little mouth?"

You nod, fingers pressing lightly into his thighs.

Minutes ago he was fucking himself into his own hand imagining how warm you'd feel around him. Now you're between his legs, lips wet, asking to taste him.

He's careful to keep his eyes on you as he frees himself, intent on catching each and every reaction you make – he's keeping it all.

You're a little hesitant as you reach for him. "You're good, sweetheart," he encourages. "Touch me however you like."

It seems to be all you need. In the next second your soft little hand is wrapping around his length. His head drops back again as his eyes close.

It's a mistake, closing his eyes. He's not prepared when your wet lips press to the tip of him, soft and warm. He groans, hand automatically making a home in your hair. He needs grounding. He needs –

Your lips wrap around him. His little siren was sucking his dick into her sweet little mouth. His hips jump a little. "Oh fuck, that's right. You're all warm for me."

You hum a little around him. Then, you take him deeper. Hot little tongue dancing over his sensitive skin.

"Good girl," he groans. "Take it for me, sweetheart." He resists the urge to spill himself right here, right against your tongue. "Hm? You taking it for me?"

His hips jump again as he fucks himself into your hot mouth, wet and sweet and just for him. You'd wanted his attention. You'd come for him. Just him.

"You mine?" he gasps as he forces his head up to look at you. "You gonna let me fuck you?"

Your lips pull off him slowly, a little suction at his tip sending his head spinning. "Do you want to?" you ask, lips swollen.

He leans forward enough to begin lifting you, encouraging you to climb into his lap. Each hand rests at your hips as you settle yourself there, his leaking cock pressed between you.

"So bad," he answers.

You shift a little in his lap. He imagines you squirming on his cock.

"Me too," you confess. It's quiet, like it's bad.

Sweet siren.

"Sit on me," he instructs. "Want you to bounce on me, sweetheart."

You eyelashes flutter as you blink a few times, processing, deciding. Then you shift, reaching up under your dress and tugging your underwear down.

Something in his stomach stirs when he realises you were leaving the rest on, apron and all.

You grasp him in a soft hand, guiding him beneath your clothes – then you sink down. He's transfixed by the little sound that escapes your lips as you take him in. That, and the way your cunt feels squeezing around him. He might have to keep you for fucking ever.

Hot and sweet and wet and better than he'd imagined as he'd fucked himself against his counter minutes earlier. Better than any of the scenarios he'd dreamed up over the months he'd spent thinking of his sweet little neighbour.

You fall into him with a sigh once you're full seated, cock buried deep.

"Doing so well," he says, hand squeezing a little at the back of your neck.

You mumble something into his neck in response. He can't quite make it out, but he swears, it almost sounds like a tiny 'thank you'. He has to keep himself from filling you at the thought of it.

His hands return to your hips. You must take it as a prompt because you lean back from him enough to begin lifting yourself off him and dropping again.

It's slow at first, a little swivel in your hips, grinding yourself down into him.

The apron prevents him from seeing how his cock looks slipping in and out of your little cunt. He hasn't even seen it, that sweet little hole between your legs.

Instead, he feels.

–

It makes sense that a man as pretty as him would have the prettiest cock. One you wanted to taste. One that would have you slippery and ready to take him.

There's this vein that throbs in his neck each time he drops his head back with a groan. His neck. God you want to lean forward and bite into it. But he might not be into that. Next time, you think. Or the time after that.

God you hope there's a next time.

His fingers dig into your hip as you sink all the way down again. It feels a little like he's resisting, holding back.

"Minho?"

His head lifts, eyes a little glassy as he blinks at you. "Hm?"

"You can fuck me," you tell him. "However you want. I want you to fuck me."

He blinks again. His fingers dig into your skin harder.

"Tell me when you wanna stop. Just tell me," he says.

You nod. Then he's leaning forward and tugging you against him. His lips press to your skin just at the crook of your neck.

Then you're falling. He falls over you. Then he lets go. He presses you into the couch cushions as he drives into you, hair falling over his face. He's even pretty like this, with parted lips and brows slightly furrowed.

Your skin slaps together as he fucks himself into you. Messy, he'd said. He liked messy.

That's what he gets as he continutes to drive into you, as you begin to drip around him, as he fucks that wetness into you and over your thighs and then the sounds it all makes.... messy.

"Wanna fill you," he mutters. "God, I wanna fill you so bad. Wanna fuck my cum into your sweet cunt."

You squeeze your eyes shut as he continues, overwhelmed.

"You can take it for me, angel. I know you can. Sweet little thing made just for me. I knew it." He's muttering so much you're hardly sure he even knows what he's saying. His fingers are almost painful as they dig into your skin, like he can't hold onto you hard enough.

"Fill me," you gasp.

He eyes lift from where you join together to lock on your face. "Yeah?" he asks, a slight croakiness breaking his words up a little. "I'll make you all warm and sticky inside, hm? Just like your pretty little pie? That sound nice?"

Oh god. There was something inside you, something made for this – for him. You knew this was going to ruin you forever.

"Please."

He falls over you, then he bites. He bites into you as he floods you full.

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Best friend!Simon, who’d been in your life since you both were in primary school, the two of you becoming fast friends after he protected you from a pack of bullies.

Best friend!Simon, who never left your side when the two of you were together, the both of you always being attached at the hip.

Best friend!Simon, who shared a pinky promise with you on the playground one day that you two would get married in the future, and he swore up and down that he’d be the best husband you’d ever have.

Best friend!Simon, who never forgot the taste of your bubblegum chapstick when you shared your very first kiss with him in middle school, hiding away in the local park away from his family.

Best friend!Simon, who shyly took your virginity the night before he left for basic, whispering sweet nothings and promises of his return to you throughout the entire night.

Best friend!Simon, who told you he’d always and will always love you as he pressed a kiss to your temple before leaving your house the next morning.

Best friend!Simon, who wrote you as much as he could while he was deployed, your constant letters being the thing he looked forward to most after a long mission.

Best friend!Simon, who lost touch with you for nearly a decade after his family died, but not a day went by that he didn’t think of you.

Best friend!Simon, who laid eyes on you at a local supermarket one day after returning home from deployment, and he could’ve sworn everything he’d ever felt for you come rushing to the surface, even after all this time.

Best friend!Simon, who found himself enamored the beautiful person you’d grown into, hanging on every word you spoke as the two of you sat at a bar the following night.

Best friend!Simon, who found it effortless to fall in love with you once again, and knew in his heart that you were it for him.

Best friend!Simon, who had no hesitation when he asked you to marry him two years later, who couldn’t help the elated smile that lined his lips when you’d said yes.

~

Husband!Simon, who smiled to himself one night late in bed as you laid softly against his chest sound asleep. A sense of contentment swirling in his chest as he realized he’d fulfilled his childhood promise to you after all..

*excuse my posting spam of crappy writing lately, been back hard in my Simon era, trying to get into my writing again*

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

A wedding ring to some is nothing but a piece of jewelry worn on a finger, but not to Simon Riley- oh no, that ring is that man’s lifeline.

He absolutely loves to flaunt it. Anytime he can wear it in a public setting on his finger, you best bet he does, and is DAMN proud to do so.

Hates hates hates when he has to take it off for combat, but you’d be silly if you thought he’d just leave it in his locker during deployments. Nope. This man wears it on the same chain as his dog tags. If he can’t wear it on his finger, you better believe he’ll wear it close to his heart.

When it’s on his finger, he’s always playing with it. It’s something that keeps him grounded when his mind is a million miles away. He’ll absentmindedly twirl it around his finger, every so often pulling it off ever so slightly just to stare in admiration at it.

He will always make it visible to others when he can. He fucking loves when people look at it, or compliment him on it.

Simon will never admit to it, but he was practically bursting with excitement when he got to show off his ring to his teammates.

Someone else is flirting with you? Oh boy. Simon can see it coming from a mile away, and will casually (not casually at all) walk up to you, and wrap his arm around your shoulder, making the ring on his finger very prominent to the person you’re speaking to.

Has a slight possession kink, more specifically where he uses his left hand to lightly choke you while he fucks you, just so he can see his ring adorned hand covering what’s his.

Will literally never take it off whenever he’s home from deployment. Not to shower, not for yard work, nada- no reason at all will he let it leave his finger.

Don’t mind him, our boys just a proud hubby❤️

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Simon Riley who has got it BAD for seeing you wearing his dog tags.

Something utterly primal within him awakens whenever he sees his tags dangle from around your neck, dipping in between the valley of your breasts. You like wearing his tags? He’s fucking done for.

Absolutely fuckin adores when you ask to wear them. Won’t have to ask him twice. Hell, he wont even let you ask. He’ll just throw the chain around your neck the second he’s home from deployment.

No matter how innocent you try to play it, anytime he sees you wearing them his cock hardens in his pants almost painfully.

Will almost beg you to ride him in bed, aching for the sight of you on top of him- aching to see his tags slapping off of your bouncing breasts.

Loves to yank the chain, either pulling you in for a deep searing kiss as he rams himself up into you, or railing you from behind as his tags slowly imprint their mark onto your neck.

Will always stare at you in awe, your breasts covered in his cum with his dog tags falling lazily across your chest. He’s got more mental images of that particular sight in his brain than Simon will ever care to admit.

He hardly ever gets himself off, but when he does, you better believe it’s to the picture of you lying naked in bed with his tags on you. It’s his absolute favorite fucking picture.

Needless to say all rational thoughts go out the window the second his tags slip over your head. Just wear the damn tags for him… okay?

[osidius-el-enfatico]

people will usually say that "people dont respect meme songs as they should" about like careless whisper and never gonna give you up (whichm, granted, are two excellent songs) but we should have that same energy for gangam style. psy is a hell of a musician and lets not forget

[sluggnya]

He's so real

[idreaminphosphorescence]

what if ghost and you were on the same team. and you know, you guys acted like normal teammates. except that one time soap caught you and ghost leaning into each other after one particularly hard mission. gaz saw you kissing ghost on the cheek one morning when you think no one saw you both. price noticed how you both always managed to find each other in a room full of men.

and then one time when the team were hanging out at a bar. you all were pissed. soap asked if you guys were shagging each other and you answered with,

"oh, we're actually married!" you'd said with a bright smile and flushed cheeks.

and the way the men instantly sobered up after that and stared at you, mouths hanging open. soap managed to spit beer on gaz's face. price's cigar hung loosely from his open mouth. you bursted out laughing at the ridiculous sight.

and simon? well, simon thought it was about bloody time they tell the team. (he was getting tired of soap constantly making up conspiracy theories about you and him.)

— masterlist.

[lazarus-lazuli]

babe wake up new none pizza with left beef just dropped

[tacticalgirlboss]

afab!reader

thinking about simon and his acts of service

you will never have to open a door for yourself again. once you opened one for him, gesturing for him to go ahead and he just blinked, looking at you like you'd lost your mind

insists on tying/securing your shoes (seeing him on his knees is just a bonus)

learns how to make your favorite soup because you mentioned one time that you hadn't had it in years

pays for your nails the entire time he's deployed, the only stipulation being that he must receive pictures

extra sweet when you're on your period. rubs his warm hands over your stomach to soothe your cramps while he holds you

will take care of mundane things he knows you have to do just because he feels like it

"dropped your book off at the library for you." "i picked your meds up already love, don't worry." "you needed cookies for your work party, right? i hope i got the right ones."

likes to sit you in his lap and rub your shoulders, his thumbs rolling into the tense muscles of your shoulder blades

"gonna find out who made you so tense and teach 'em a lesson." "take a look in the mirror, riley."

carried you home once because you made a comment about not wanting to get your favorite heels wet in the rain

makes sure you always have a backup bottle of your favorite perfume (it's his too)

asked laswell for help setting up a monthly flower delivery when he's away. sends you flowers that symbolize his devotion

brings you the biggest bouquet in person when he finally comes home

[tacticalgirlboss]

situationship!simon who stares at the door after you leave, his fists clenched at his sides

puts a hole in his wall once he's sure you're really gone

getting messages from johnny begging you to talk to simon. 'he's being fucking insufferable. our new recruits won't live to see action at this rate.'

finding little gifts outside your apartment when you come home from work. a flower placed on your welcome mat, a gift card to your favorite nail salon shoved into the crack of your door

his most recent offering comes in the form of a handwritten note slid under the door. ‘you are everything to me.’

keeping it in your nightstand to look at every day

the 'you up?' messages turning into passing thoughts, jokes and pleadings for any kind of word from you

'saw that flower you like when i was out in the field. it smells just as pretty as you said. reminds me of your perfume.'

'i made my tea the way you like it. not sure if i can go back now.'

'please talk to me. i need you.'

simon calling you once a day like clockwork. doesn’t want to harass you, just wants you to know that he’s still around (and patient)

said patience flying out the window when he hears you have dinner plans with a male coworker, the same one he caught looking at your ass when he picked you up from work one day

simon who shows up at your apartment just as you're about to leave for your date, because giving you space is one thing. but giving you up is a different story.

a/n: part 1.5 of my situationship!simon i swear pt 2 is a WIP but it's so hard without a computer

[nyxiswrites1200]

Thinking of John Price being married to the prettiest wife. He invites Soap, Ghost, and Gaz over to his house where his pretty girl is sitting in the pool in the smallest bikini.

Getting all flustered because of the other guys but Price kisses her and says it's fine.

Ghost especially can't help but stare. He's never seen something so pretty in his life. Price knows you like him, you like the masked brooding L.T.

You sweetly ask for permission and of course Price grants it. You get to flirt with Ghost and hold on to his muscular arm while you try to convince him to get in the pool. However you just end up beneath him on a pool chair as he touches you.

"You take good care of your husband, love?"

"Mhm, I do. Let daddy fill me up all the time"

"You got room for one more?"

Letting him fuck you as Soap and Gaz try not to stare but they sit on the edge of the pool with their cocks hard. Price watching as he shamelessly strokes his cock, asking you how you like Ghost's dick in your tummy because it's so big.

Ghost fucking you in the backyard of your husband's house as the rest of em watch, trying not to be pervs. But you're just a sweet pretty little thing :( they can't help it.

Ghost is pounding you, making you moan so loudly. Good thing there's a tall fence surrounding the yard. He's got you pinned under his large frame, not even undressed.

Soap and Gaz cum in their swim trunks and Price's shoots over his happy trail on his stomach as Ghost pumps you full, leaving you dripping with his cum. You already know Price is going to want to fuck it back into you tonight along with his own.

Ghost was sweet though. Sent you flowers when he was away because he didn't want you to feel used even if you did want his cock anyway...

An: I don't know what came over me guys <3

[nyxiswrites1200]

Thinking of John Price being married to the prettiest wife. He invites Soap, Ghost, and Gaz over to his house where his pretty girl is sitting in the pool in the smallest bikini.

Getting all flustered because of the other guys but Price kisses her and says it's fine.

Ghost especially can't help but stare. He's never seen something so pretty in his life. Price knows you like him, you like the masked brooding L.T.

You sweetly ask for permission and of course Price grants it. You get to flirt with Ghost and hold on to his muscular arm while you try to convince him to get in the pool. However you just end up beneath him on a pool chair as he touches you.

"You take good care of your husband, love?"

"Mhm, I do. Let daddy fill me up all the time"

"You got room for one more?"

Letting him fuck you as Soap and Gaz try not to stare but they sit on the edge of the pool with their cocks hard. Price watching as he shamelessly strokes his cock, asking you how you like Ghost's dick in your tummy because it's so big.

Ghost fucking you in the backyard of your husband's house as the rest of em watch, trying not to be pervs. But you're just a sweet pretty little thing :( they can't help it.

Ghost is pounding you, making you moan so loudly. Good thing there's a tall fence surrounding the yard. He's got you pinned under his large frame, not even undressed.

Soap and Gaz cum in their swim trunks and Price's shoots over his happy trail on his stomach as Ghost pumps you full, leaving you dripping with his cum. You already know Price is going to want to fuck it back into you tonight along with his own.

Ghost was sweet though. Sent you flowers when he was away because he didn't want you to feel used even if you did want his cock anyway...

An: I don't know what came over me guys <3

[lilislegacy]

something i feel like we don’t talk about nearly enough is the fact that percy is healed by water.

it’s so normal to us because it’s one of the first abilities we discovered he has. and it makes complete sense. but like… he’s the only demigod with that ability. jason doesn’t get healed by a gust of wind. hazel doesn’t get healed if she touches a diamond. nico doesn’t get healed if a skeleton gives him a hug. annabeth doesn’t get healed if she walks into a library.

like percy could be stabbed in the chest multiple times, he could break every bone in his body, he could be slammed in the head resulting in a crushed skull and hemorrhaging, but get him to some water fast enough and not only is he good as new in no time, but he’s stronger and freshly rejuvenated.

it’s insane when you think about it. no one else can do that. do you know how hard it is to kill percy? even if he’s not near the ocean, he can be healed by rivers and lakes and streams and ponds and all sorts of water sources. water recharges him. it makes him immediately stronger.

that’s a huge reason why i argue percy is the most powerful demigod. yes, he’s shown he has incredible super strength and super speed. yes, he’s a legendary sword fighter - arguably the best one alive. yes, he has control over air, land, and sea. (deadly hurricanes with heavy winds and thunder and lighting, huge volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, etc.) yes, he’s capable of mass destruction. yes he can single handlely cause natural disasters and mass casualties. and yes, he’s capable of controlling people’s bodily fluids, including their blood and saliva. he is terrifying

but even if someone manages to beat him, he dips one toe in some water and he’s immediately healed and even stronger than before. whether the injury is internal and external. he’s healed all on his own. no ambrosia or nectar or external remedies necessary.

guys. percy is insane. he’s way overpowered.

and i love it.

[lobautumny]

This problem is nothing new, but this specific example with these numbers puts it into a fucking brutal perspective.

To put these numbers a different way: A Taco Bell burrito that used to cost ~7 minutes and 20 seconds of minimum wage work now costs ~30 minutes and 30 seconds of minimum wage work.

You used to be able to work at Taco Bell anywhere in the country and make enough money in one hour to buy at least 8 burritos (maybe 9 if you're a manager or something) and feed, like, 3-4 people a decently-filling meal. But now, the same amount of work at the same job will get you one meal for one person. And this change has happened over a mere 15 years.

Remember this whenever you see rich people demonize younger generations for our financial situations, when they call us irresponsible for not investing a ton of money in savings accounts.

[angelasscribbles]

The Feral Writer lol

Writers Corner

[cigarettescandals]

What i made instead of writing.....

[sandersstudies]

I love genuinely innocent “boys will be boys.” Just saw a guy come out of a frat house to poke a pair of jeans they’d left outside - they were frozen solid, and as soon as he confirmed that, like twenty more boys came rushing out of the house going “YOOOOOOOOOO”

[rebelminds]

I heard grunting outside my window the other night and there were four boys struggling to push this giant snowball (like 7 foot diameter) down the sidewalk.

[snarling-through-our-smiles]

I once lost my keys at a frat house.

My drunk ass had actually walked home without them, pounded on my apartment door, gotten let in by my rightfully-disgruntled roommate, and proceeded to pass out on the couch.  Apparently I puked in the toilet before passing out.  I do not remember this part.

The next morning, I schlepped back to the frat house.  I stood there, right in front of the front door.  This was a novel experience for me.  I’d never been at a frat house in broad daylight before.

A boy, presumably of the house, asked me what I was doing. 

“I lost my keys in here last night,” I called back.  “I was seeing if I could go in and look for them?”

He opened the door and gestured for me to come in.

“Go wherever you want.”

I’d never seen a frat house post-party before.  Wandering up the stairs and through the halls, I was surrounded by hungover and still-drunk frat boys stumbling around in their socks and sandals and gym shorts, seeking out food and showers like moths to a porch light.  A few of them threw puzzled glances my way.  I’m sure they thought I was some post-bacchanalia hallucination.

I entered one room where a boy was drunkenly watching some Old Yeller-esque movie on a tiny TV in the corner of his room from his bed.

“Do you like dog movies?” he asked, voice all mumbly from grogginess and also from the fact that his face was squished against his pillow and half-buried by his blanket.

I told him I did.

He mumbled again, pleased, and asked what I was doing.  I told him I was looking for my keys.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen any keys around here.”

I didn’t doubt him.

Twenty minutes had passed.  I’d searched just about every bedroom and nuclear-waste-dump-site of a bathroom in that house.  I’d given up on ever finding my keys and was prepared to beg my roommates’ forgiveness and get a new set copied.

As I stood there in the hallway, silently bewailing my predicament, a particularly-burly frat boy approached me.

“You need help with something?”

“I lost my keys here last night and I can’t find them, I’ve looked everywhere.”

“What do they look like?  I’ll put it into the group chat.”  He was already pulling out his phone.

No one ever checks a group chat, I thought, but what the hell.  It was worth a shot.  “Um, it’s just a ring of keys.  The keychain is a pink plastic cat, though, like yea big.  Like bright pink, you can’t miss it.”

He nodded, presumably typing this description faithfully into the group chat.

“Alright, I sent the message out.  Good luck.”

And with that, he turned and left.

A few moments later, I heard a distant thundering.  It was coming from upstairs, and it was getting louder and louder.  One assumes that how I felt in that moment was how Simba felt seeing the wildebeest stampede through the ravine as a horde of large young men all thundered down the stairs, making a beeling for me.

“Someone tell the girl!” One of them shouted, faceless in the mob.  “Girl!  Hey, GIRL!!!  We found your keys, girl!!!”

They circled around me.  I hadn’t felt that small since I was maybe eleven years old.  One of them split himself off from the crowd.

“Are these -” he pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket, “your keys?”

And lo, there was the distinctive bright millennial pink cat keychain dangling off the ring.

“Yes,” I whispered.  “Oh my god, yes.”

“EYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!”

The cheer went up.

Turns out he found them in the bathroom upstairs.  I thanked them again profusely.  There was a scattered round of “no problems” and then, just as suddenly as they descended, they all dispersed, like ships in the night.