bby breathe

I had the sudden urge to draw them in Elie Saab dresses (x) (x) and I JUST—-

why do they look so good they’re illegal

♡ Happy Birthday Suga!!!!!!!   ҉*\( ‘ω’ )/*҉  ♡ 

a bunny hopping in to show off his murse… (〃ノωノ) 

Kinda directed to one, single follower….

Y’know it’s so funny to see the person clearly at fault complains on social media, though they’re really the one at fault.

If you love someone so much then why don’t you check on them instead of them coming to you all the time? Or, if you “love” someone so much, quit posting about you and that persons’ problems on social media. Indirectly. Yes, I get it, it’s “relaxing” and a toxic thing to do.

Y'know, not to consider how someone feels about it. Not to mention, assuming. Yeah that person may have been with another but, if you wanted to be with them so bad then move your ass and go instead of acting childish and running of to social media, yet again, to make this person look like the enemy. If you question about seeing them, then maybe you should question yourself in the relationship. Then the other person, instead of playing the victim all of the time.

You know who you are.

spookymf  asked:

If it were possible could we get a short fic or hcs for the sexy cowboy? I've been trying to form it in my head as to how he would handle losing his arm. (I don't think it would be very well). How do you think he would handle his s/o finding out? Angst city bro

Yas bby!!

You can’t breathe, you legitimately cannot pull air into your lungs as Angela tells you the state Jesse was brought back in. You imagine him bloodied and broken as he strains for his next breath, imagine him laying among the rubble as he sways in and out of consciousness. “Y/N, if you don’t breathe I’m going to have to admit you too,” Angela says gently in an attempt to lighten to mood as she places a paper bag over your nose and mouth, guiding you through taking deep and even breaths. After you calm yourself enough to appease the blonde before you, she takes you back and stops in front of a closed door.

“Does he know I’m here?”

“You’re his emergency contact and his lover, I don’t see how he would think otherwise.” She nods at you, patting you on the shoulder before walking away. You turn towards the door once again and pause, you’re not afraid of who’s on the other side, simply trying to think of the right thing to say to him. He’s going to blame himself, not the Talon agent, not the bomb they’d placed or the building they collapsed. He’s going to be angry that he didn’t do enough, as though he could have done more.

The knob is cold in your hand as you twist it silently, making as little noise as possible like you’re sneaking up on a feral beast. But the beast in question is lying sprawled on the bed with his intact hand clutching the clean sheets to his chest while the other one, the one cut just below his elbow, is stretched away from him; as though he’s disgusted by it. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you enter, his gaze fixated on the bland ceiling tiles as his breathing is slow and deep like he’s calming himself down.

“Jesse?” He doesn’t answer you and you step forward, closing the door behind you, “honey, can I do anything?” Silence.

So you sit in the chair next to him, fighting back tears as you listen to the sounds echoing in the sterile room, mainly his heartbeat displayed the monitor by his bed. You comfort yourself with the electronic beeps and the solid lines forever crossing the screen, he’s alive. He can talk or be silent but as long as his heart’s beating you don’t care, he’ll be okay.

You don’t know how much longer you sit there, the room doesn’t have a clock or any windows, it’s a room where time dies and people heal. The plain walls hold stories of pain and suffering but also those of recovery and optimism, Jesse’s would be the latter.You find yourself studying the bandages wrapped around his severed limb, clean and showing no signs of the extensive bleeding you’re positive took place. Your eyes water again as you imagine him on the battlefield, in pain and so scared. He’d never say it but you knew he felt fear, like the one time someone had shot you in the outer flesh of your hip or when he screwed up dinner that one night.

“You can go,” he finally rasps and you bolt upright, walking to his bedside and careful not to touch his arm.

“I’m going to stay,” you smile weakly as you take in his features. One of his eyes is swollen shut, his lip split terribly, his cheekbones bruised and his jaw cut up. His intact arm is just as battered and his chest has various bandages and a few stitches visible, you can’t see his legs as they’re wrapped up in the blankets. He hasn’t looked at you.

“Go away.”

“I’m staying and there’s not much you can do about it,” you want to hug him, press him to your chest and say you love him over and over again but you know he probably wouldn’t let you. You sigh. “I want to stay, please let me.”

“No one should spend their time waiting on an invalid, especially you.”

“Oh, Jesse, baby.” You can’t help but brush his hair away from his face and lean closer to him, it’s an instinctive reaction to his self-hatred. “You aren’t an invalid, this doesn’t make you weak, this doesn’t make me love you any less.”

“You don’t have to butter me up anymore, Y/N, I’ll live.” He still hasn’t looked at you.

“Exactly! You’ll live and that’s all I fucking care about, you, Jesse Mccree; alive and kicking. You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known and you’ve overcome so much and I’m just so so happy to be able to tell you ‘I love you’ every single day for the rest of my fucking life because I do. I love you so much and the fact that you’re still breathing means I get to sit here as long as I damn well please and show you just how much. You are amazing Jesse, you have never been anything less than that and you never will be.” He’s silent for a moment and you can see his lips thin before his eyes well with tears, pooling in the curve of his nose and sliding down his cheek when he finally succumbs to the emotion. “Baby,” you pepper his face with kisses as he turns to grant you access to the right side of his face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please don’t leave me alone.” He tries to drag you onto the bed but can’t with only one arm, he settles for sitting up and sobbing into your hair as you stroke his bare skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he clutches at the back of your shirt as he cries, murmuring ‘i’m sorry’s into your ear no matter how much you tell him to stop that.

It wasn’t his fault.

You just needed to convince him of that.