.hands.beaten and bloody-
weathered and torn.
those are the hands I grew up with.
Rough, coarse, and covered in cuts.
my father never managed to make it home
without a new cut.
he made the city famous,
cutting and smoothing and polishing steel.
he does what he can to take care of them,
which isn't much; he's no witch doctor.
he can't use salves and spells
to stitch his skin back together.
with their broken skin and old scars
are what I've wanted to be like
since I was a young child.
they're tough, and strong,
and heroic, and purely dad.
they're the hands that handed me my first fishing rod
and paint on walls and polish piping.
they're the hands that steadily fire a .22 pistol
and control an old F150 as we speed down the road,
and pop siding on his friend's old house back into place,
and the hands that write measurements and mow the lawn.
they're the hands that have been punctured by IV needles
every time we're in the hospital
because his legs and feet
aren't nearly a
Tch, ti Amo. (RomanoXReader)
"Hey Lovi?" you asked. The two of you were sitting together on your couch, snuggled together and watching some weird Italian drama that he was oddly into. He grunted, not removing his eyes from the television. You frowned and lightly nudged him in the side with you elbow and waited for him to finally look at you. When he finally did, you asked, "Can we get married?"
You saw him freeze up, fear in his eyes as he gulped. You didn't really blame him; the question was sort of unexpected. You allowed him a couple minutes to recover, but when he still didn't answer, you started to get worried. You went to touch his hand, but retracted your own hand when he flinched. Ouch. That hurt. "Lovi...?"
He licked his lips and looked away nervously. "W-what brought this up?" he asked quietly, rubbing his arm. You knew what this was; he had a habit of messing around with his hands when he was nervous. He started to study his hands, clearing his throat and twiddl
From HomeI'm sorry I'm useless.
I'm sorry that I'm wishy-washy trash,
And that I'm always changing or canceling plans.
I'm sorry that I'm stupid and ugly,
Not the cute or charming person you expected.
I'm sorry that I'm bitter and angry
And take it out on you, even though it's not your fault.
I'm sorry, I swear it's not my fault;
My family's not too great right now, and it's complicated.
Friendly Neighborhood Stalker (ReaderXNyo!Belarus)
*small trigger warning* It's male Belarus, so there's a bit of stalking. Don't like, don't read.
You had felt like someone was watching you for a while now. You didn't know who, and you didn't know where it was coming from, but someone was watching you. It was really starting to irk you. If you hadn't been in the middle of a grocery store, with people all around you, you probably would've yelled at whoever it was to show themselves. You didn't think the middle age mother standing with son beside you would appreciate it though.
You pushed your cart down the aisle, leaning on it and occasionally reaching out to get something. You stopped when you saw a small box of (f/c). Should you...? You gave up and splurged, grabbing the box and setting it in the cart. When was the last time you treated yourself? Yeah, could afford to spend a couple extra dollars to make yourself happy.
You plowed through the rest of your grocery shopping, making