Latest Posts by hissed-the-lovecatss - Page 9

omega anatomical study 😳 🖤Ω

A soft Sodo with a flower crown

Tip jar

this is what happened right

Rob Zombie making brownies

EGGS milk and flour BAKE for half an hour and FROST with the back of my SPATULA

Hiiiii could you post the video from Twitter of the wildly buff guy turning around with animals video where you added the sound effects please? I would like to harm my friends with it

sure lol

[source]

REBLOG to fuck a WIZARD

IGNORE for PENIS CURSE

no offence but do i look like i understand anything

10 or 11 little ducks have been spotted crossing the dash board

Khajiit has wares if you have coin

This post is making me insane

Sees this fucked up thing .can I eat this

Rhythm game player: how are you today

Someone: Good

Rhythm game player:

this is so sweet oml 😭😭

A Grounded Pilot | Alejandro Vargas x trans!m!reader

Anonymous asked: And well it means I’ll request again.

I had in mind alejandro vargas x pakistani!ftm reader where reader is again a pilot and he has to go on a mission but, his jet goes off the radar for a week before the people that were sent to search for him bring him back, he had injuries but he wasn’t severely injured. He would be devastated about his favorite jet. With this prompt “I was so fucking worried, when they’d said that you-” “Hey, it’s alright. Look, I’m fine" 

Sorry if this is too specific and confusing, feel free to ignore it :)

-🦝

summary: Alejandro is all too aware that being in the air force is dangerous, but that won’t stop him from worrying when the man he loves suddenly disappears. 

tws: mentions of blood/bruises/minor injury, plane crashes, swearing, smoking 

Every day had felt like a curse as Alejandro religiously checked his phone and checked any letters that had been addressed to him, always chewing his lip and reading things once, twice, three times, sometimes four, just to make sure that he had read them properly; he didn’t want to think that it was true, he didn’t want to think that every day, another squadron of the Pakistan Air Force had been sent out to retrieve you and had come back empty handed every fucking day. Sometimes, Alejandro would ask Allah to do him a favour, and to keep an eye on you, keep you safe until you could be found again, but he knew that it was a lot to ask; it had been several days since you had gone off of the radar during a mission, and nobody had seen hide nor hair of you and could hardly even stomach the thought of thinking the worst. Not you, you couldn’t be dead, not when you were an aerial ace in your own right and when Alejandro knew, he fucking knew better than anyone else, that you were the most talented, most lethal, most dangerous pilot that the Pakistan Air Force had to offer. 

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this is so adorable i love it jdjsjdj

Pilot's Charm | John Soap MacTavish x m!reader

@guardkeywolf asked: Male Reader X Soap where he gotta go on a mission and Soap can't come so he asks him to Kiss him and he does get lucky on the mission!!!

"Kiss me once more, for good luck”

(Imma probably request one more lol)

summary: it's hard to date a pilot, Soap knows that more than anyone, he knows it's hard and he knows how difficult it can be at times.

tws: swearing, mentions of violence, smoking

Watching his boyfriend go off to war was never going to be easy for Soap, as even though he went through it himself and he saw the front lines more times than he could be bothered to count, he didn't know the experience of what it was like to be up in the air, he didn't know the experience of RAF pilots and what you had to go through; he worried a lot, he panicked and he never slept the night before your deployment, and if you slept, he would simply hold you tightly as he stared out into space and tried not to think about whether or not you would come back home. Back to him.

If he was already on the front lines when you were sent out, Soap would not cease panicking until he saw you, or until he laid eyes on that plane of yours, always able to recognise it by the painted roaring tiger on the tail; he hated seeing it fly. It was always a reminder that he could not do anything to make sure that you were safe and protected. He would refuse to rest until he could see you in person, until he could feel you in his arms and could hear your voice and smell your cologne; often, that came when you had been successful at a bomb raid or a dog fight, and had been able to safely land in allied territory. More often than not, that territory happened to be wherever the task force were.

You were smoking a cigarette as you sat on a stool in front of your plane, your recently cleaned Kukri blade sitting at your hip as you watched the task force go through some plans; you were only there for air support, but thankfully not alone, as Squadron Leader Perveen was stood beside you, cleaning his grandfather's kirpan. You smiled when you looked at his dastar, bright yellow in honour of his grandmother; it reminded you of freshly bloomed daffodils. Reminded you of home.

"I told Price," Perveen chuckled. "Any trouble from Americans, and we'll sort 'em."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Would that have anything to do with the fact that I used to be a Gurkha?"

Parveen shrugged, grinning at you. "Maybe. Probably... alright, yeah."

You rolled your eyes, taking a long drag from your cigarette and watching as Soap walked by with Ghost, both of them waving at you; you waved back, grinning ear to ear. "I fucking hate seeing John boy here."

"Why?"

"Same worry every other boyfriend faces, I guess," you shrugged. "I worry about him. A lot."

"'Course you would," Perveen hummed. "You're a Gurkha and he's SAS... but look at it this way: if he was American, you'd have to worry a lot more."

"Why?"

"Because they're fucking terrible," he pointed out with a laugh. "Americans are weak as fuck, and their soldiers are even weaker. If Soap was American... you'd have to worry about him stepping out the fucking house, let alone in the middle of fucking war. They're useless fucking pricks."

"Alright, pilots!" Price shouted as he approached, waving and clearing his throat as he held a cigar in his left hand. He didn't want to shout, but he was worried about interrupting if he didn't announce his presence.

"Alright?" You gave him a curt nod.

"Captain," Perveen copied. "What do you want from the royal air force now?"

Price smiled, looking between you as he took a drag from his cigar and watched as you took a drag from your cigarette. He couldn't stand the things, but he didn't dare to cross the RAF, especially not when they had a Gurkha on their side. "Right, we've got a plan, lads."

"Please tell me you haven't been thinking," you teased.

"Yeah, that's pretty dangerous, Cap," Perveen joked.

Price rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he silently realised how much you and Perveen were similar to his own men. "No, actually, Laswell has... but listen, and don't be knobs about how she's an American and-"

"She called football soccer," you grumbled.

"That's unforgivable," Perveen agreed. "I love her, and the dastar she got me for my birthday was lovely, but-"

"Shut it, you Muppets," Price sighed, trying not to laugh. "We're sending you boys up, anyway. At two hundred hours, we need you both to cover the northwest corner - we just need you to find one thing."

"Please don't say Americans' common sense," Perveen pleaded.

"It's not," he replied, "we need you to find a lorry. It should be standard size, standard colour, all that bollocks. But it should be parked between six trees. If you can find it, we can do our jobs."

You and Perveen shared a glance, but you cleared your throat and nodded. "Sure. I'm sure we can find a lorry for you... are we allowed to know why?"

"It's being used to transport weapons," Price explained, "and we have reasons to suspect that it's been loaded up."

"So no shooting?" You asked. "Even if we see Americans?"

"We just need your eyes, pilot. Only do it if you can spare the time and you're sure you don't get caught."

"What if they're French?" You questioned. "Can we shoot 'em if they're French?"

"If you can do it without getting caught," Price agreed with a shrug. "But all we need you to do is find that fucking lorry."

"We got it," you told him.

"Yeah, we'll be fine," Perveen agreed. "Especially if we can shoot a few yanks while we're at it."

You snorted as you tried not to laugh, bidding the Captain goodbye and making a few extra jokes with Perveen while you finished your cigarette, but when you chucked the end aside, you got up, and cleared your throat; you knew where Soap was, but the very moment you laid your eyes on him, you cleared your throat, and squatted down in front of him as he sat on his bed.

"Hey, Champ."

"Don't fuckin' pull that nonsense," Soap grumbled. "What?"

You smiled sadly, daring to sit beside him and wrap your arm around his shoulders, leaning against him as you sighed. "Price wants me and Perveen to fly."

He shook his head, grabbing your free hand and holding it awfully tightly, pleasing as he cleared his throat. "Don't."

"I have to," you said quietly. "It's my job, innit?"

"Aye, but-"

"John..." you whispered, shaking your head. "I'll be fine. It's just a bit of surveillance, and then I come back. I probably won't even be longer than an hour, I promise."

"Y'promise?" He asked, pushing you away gently, only to get a good look at your eyes, trying to commit the colour to memory as if he was seeing them for the last time. "D'ya?"

You nodded, gently cupping his face in your hands as you cleared your throat. "I promise, John Soap MacTavish, that I will come back from this mission."

"I wan'ta go with you," he whispered. "Can I not be your co-pilot?"

"No, baby," you shook your head, swallowing thickly. "Not this time."

"What can I do?" He asked quietly, putting his hands on yours as he bit back the instinct to fucking beg and plead for something, anything, that he could do.

A smile spread across your face as you gently tapped his cheek. "You could always give me a good luck kiss."

Soap wasn't about to say no to such a thing, crashing his lips against yours as he put his hands on your sides, letting you keep your hands on his face as he kissed you so gently; usually, his kisses weren't like that, but they were always soft and gentle when he knew he might never see you again. Always.

He laid you down on his bed, straddling your waist as he planted his arms either side of your head, starting to get desperate as he whimpered against your lips and let out shaky breaths; he just needed you to know how much he had wished you wouldn't go. That you wouldn't leave him. That you wouldn't die when you were sent out. He couldn't bring himself to stop kissing you, lost and drowning in the way you so eagerly kissed him back, wrapping your arms around him to make sure that he was close, but he had to pull away and break it. His lips were wet and swollen, but his eyes were still cloudy with murky worry.

"Dinnae go. Please."

"I have to go," you told him gently. "I'll be fine, Soap, I used to be a Gurkha, and I'll have Perveen with me... I'll be alright. Just kiss me once more, for good luck."

Soap was never going to refuse that, he knew it the second that you had told him and he didn't give a shit if he was going to be breathless; he just needed and wanted you to stay, even though he knew he wouldn't. He hated it when you were sent out, and he knew that he would hate to see that damn plane fly overhead when you left, too. He didn't want to be left like that, he didn't want to wish that there was a final kiss, just one last kiss that he could make sure was fucking perfect. But he knew he had to be left behind. He knew that he heard right when you whispered that you loved him before you left. It was an only an hour, he told himself. You would be back after that.

He didn't go out and wave you off, he didn't even move from his bed when Gaz and Ghost and Price had come back from seeing you and Perveen off. He didn't talk much, didn't move much. He felt sick to his stomach, his chest hollow as he held your uniform jacket close to his face; buried in the scent of your cologne and sweat. Drowning in the fact that he knew it was yours. That he might never see you again, not when it had been far more than an hour when he looked at the clock. He was starting to panic, able to feel nausea creep into his throat as his head began to feel light and his stomach gurgled and spat like spoiled milk being heated over a pan. It had been far more than an hour, and nobody had said whether or not you were going to return. It had been more than an hour. You said you would come back. You promised him.

"They're coming back," Price said when he passed Soap on his way to have a cigar. "Just radio'd in to say."

Soap looked up, a small smile on his features. "Really?"

"Yeah," Price held his cigar between his lips as he checked his watch. "They'll be back any minute now... just listen out for two blokes cursing Americans."

Soap nodded, but chased Price outside, eager to wait for you and to be there when you landed, shaking slightly as he watched the skies; he never thought he would see the day where he hoped to see that fucking plane. That fucking vile reminder that he couldn't keep you safe and protected like he wanted to. It was just about starting to get light, the sun starting to creep out from under its blanket, and Soap held onto the straps of his vest as he watched closely, listening for the engines.

"He's fine," Price said. "Just so you know, (y/n)'s fine. They just wanted to double check the area."

Soap didn't care about that, keeping his gaze on the slowly lightning blue skies as his heart raced. "He's coming back in one piece."

"Yeah, he is," Price replied, "don't worry, son, he'll be back any second."

The rush of the planes silenced them both, and when the wheels touched the ground, Price had to grab Soap by the back of his vest to stop him from running towards the plane with the Bengal tiger on it; he only let him go when both planes had landed and come to a full stop. He never saw Soap run so fast, and nearly winced when he saw him crash into you the second you got out.

Soap's arms were around your shoulders as he clung onto you, his grip was a vice as he pressed his face against the side of your neck and closed his eyes tightly. He didn't want to speak, didn't want to ruin the moment as you laughed softly and returned the embrace; the vibration from your soft laugh made him shiver, reminded him of home. That now, he was home. Now that he was holding onto you, Soap was home.

"See?" You grinned, gently swaying him a little. "I kept my promise."

Soap only grumbled in response, letting Perveen clap you on the back as he laughed. "The only men afraid of death are either lying, or Gurkhas."

"Don't tell Price," you murmured. "But, uh, we got into a dog fight while we were out there."

Soap pulled away, his jaw dropping slightly as his hands started to roam over you, checking for injuries. "What the fuck?"

"Don't worry," you grabbed his wrists gently, and smiled. "Thanks to your little good luck kiss, we managed to get out unscathed. The planes didn't even get a fleck of dirt on 'em."

He nodded, licking his lips. "Is that why you were so long?"

You nodded back, gently running a hand through his Mohawk as you dared to kiss the tip of his nose. "I'm back, though, it's fine. It's all fine."

"I love you," he whispered. "Don't make me think you've died again."

"I can't promise that," you told him softly. "But I can promise I will always come back to you."

if you liked this fic, REBLOG IT - you SHOULD reblog it; spam likers WILL be blocked. as will blogs that refuse to reblog or to give feedback. if you don't wanna reblog, then you'll get blocked; reblogging is the BARE MINIMUM. don't just "like", REBLOG

CRYING LAUGHING I FUCKIGNS CANT JFJSJX

I cant stop watching this

of the dims dale dimmadome

lady dimmadome

Cat with crocs

THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL OMG I LOVE IT 😭😭 (ik ive been unactive but i saw this and i just NEEDED to reblog it oml)

the song of achilles, retold and restitched by achilles himself part ii "if a tragedy can be seen before met, let it be known i let this one have me" for @investmentofmyheart "i write for you. for you alone. that's enough."

Our forest hides a hundred secrets.

The world seems to me magnified from our small hideaway—the dusks sink rosier, the storms come rougher, the figs swell to sweet rot, honey slips from the comb with a choking sweetness. The bees buzz, the flowers lift their faces, the waters reflect the hundred flashes of the sun, and our life with Chiron is a simple one.

An honest one.

Years past, I thought the world stopped and started with the halls of my father's home, with this and this and this.

The slender shaft of a spear.

The carved running track.

The ceaseless thrash of the sea.

The prophecy, the promise I am to be a hero.

I am to be better than any of them.

Achilles, Achilles, the Prince of the Greeks.

Yet from Chiron's lessons spill centuries of art and culture, a history hidden behind the veil.

He teaches us the names of the heroes, their fallible feats, the hungry ends; he seems to think the tragedy can be seen before met. He shows us the vast vulnerable expanse of the earth. He asks so little of us, only to tend to goats that take ill, to sit on the rocks and help with morning meals, to learn the names of forest plants and poison flowers.

It is rough work, helpful work.

As princes, Patroclus and I were raised in houses that would have killed rather than seen us at the labors of a servant.

Here, all we do means something.

Speech eludes what it means to matter.

Something close to eagerness overtakes me, and every flash of the forest seems to snatch my attention, to demand an audience:

A riot of flowers on the river. A prophecy at the gates of memory, pleading to be let in.

The gleam and glint of a spider's web.

The rain-wet press of earth.

Patroclus in the light of a fire, the freckles along his bare shoulders, the rose flush in his cheeks.

Patroclus. My rose-mouthed boy, my torment.

Youth has sharpened and slipped from him all at once, and he stands on the jutting ledge of a cliff one night, all careful hands and sloping shoulders and slender silhouette, and something so close to awe swells in my throat.

He is only himself.

Human and honest. Lit in the silver shine off the sea. Vulnerable.

He is only himself and I love him all the more for that alone.

I would like to be a vice for him.

I would like to be his art, the muse of his fantasies. I would like to map him out against a bed, slip hips pinned under a hand, head thrown back against the sheets.

I hear the low hum of his voice all over again. Where he goes, I go.

There is a slender humiliation to a one-sided romance, yet worse still is a hope that finds itself requited.

He smiles at me, all pink flush and shy dark eyes, and I feel something in me shatter. If a tragedy can be seen before met, let it be known I let this one have me.

Spring slips among the forest in all her light; another year passes. The air grows sweet with the scent of lilac and myrrh; we learn to take the sap from the cracked bark, to set snares in anticipation of life to come, to carve the rough spear shafts from wood.

Stars shyly emerge from the skies, and we learn their stories, link the constellations in their air with our fingertips. Chiron speaks, and most we know.

Andromeda.

Hercules.

Orion.

Cygnus.

On these evenings Patroclus stirs to sleep, his face pressed against my shoulder. The slightest huff of an exhale distracts me, and I can't even move, afraid the simplest of movements will wake him.

We learn of Ariadne, Princess of Crete, the coronet constellation her husband spun into the sky, tossed high like some spinning wheel.

He loved her enough to make of her a history, to call her after the most enduring light.

"You know who Dionysus is," says Chiron, faintly fond. "You know Ariadne was human."

The selfsame story, all over again.

"A poet might say a god loves a mortal, but only because it makes a clever tale."

Patroclus stirs first and doesn't speak, raising himself on his forearms. Firelight flickers on the curve of his brow.

"So little comes of a god's love." Chiron's voice has stolen an edge, a caution, and of course, he is right. "Hercules went mad. A monster was made of Medusa. And kind Ariadne was murdered in her husband's war."

Patroclus flushes angry red along his ears.

"Is it better not to love a god, then?"

"I think nothing kind will come of it." Chiron stares at him with a close contemplation. "I think the gods are overfond of making games of mortality."

"Ariadne willingly went. That wasn't a game. She went with him, for him, because she loved him."

"A hundred humans have tried to catch the heart of a god; most live to regret themselves. The cataclysm comes when the god tries to catch that of a human."

Patroclus, for a half second, seems incendiary, all haughty sharp lines. My hand finds the arch of his shoulder, and he looks to me, almost in plea.

Believe me.

Even years later, I still think to be believed is all humanity has ever wanted. I still think to be witnessed is to be loved.

I believe you.

He half smiles at me in the dark, and I swear to myself loving him is the only thing I ever want to be known for. I'll be Dionysus spinning the coronet into the sky, I'll be Orpheus fighting for his wife.

If I'm ever lucky enough, he'll be the name beside mine, a ribboning link in the dark, a story for another hero to tell around the fire.

The years slip past, sly and countless, and the forest flowers anew with every spring, and as it endures, so do we.

A poet might say youth is heedless, foolish, reckless: some days Patroclus and I are sick with it, enamored by it. Ropes are made of water reeds, stepping ledges kicked into rock, the forest mapped out across memory.

My sleep is caught with the full swell of figs, the splay of strong hands, firelight flickering against a rosy mouth.

The lilac meadow, the honeycombs, the pale blue of the sky.

The lightless cave, the bonfire we lit, the faint spark of the wood.

Patroclus stands on the edge of the sea, all windblown hair and flushing skin, sharp cheekbones and strong hands, and I am struck with it, the fact he is mine to have in these moments.

His hand lifts in a half wave—come here.

Even that sparks something within me, at being wanted by him.

Everyone seems to think love is a fallible something, a helpless happening: they're wrong. I love him in spite of and for everything he's ever done.

Maybe we are, in part, to condemn for what happens then. My sixteenth year starts at last: if we could ever pretend childhood is infallible, the end is impossible to ignore now.

Something like grief gleams in Chiron's stare when I hold my father's gifts, the slim lyre strings and heavy tunics, the vibrant cape of a king's son, a loose crown of laurel leaves.

But blink, and it is gone, and Patroclus has moved to knot the cape around my throat, clumsy and adoring, and he presses his mouth to the skin of my neck when he nicks it with his nail, and the war seems so very far away.

We spend the day, after all, in the forest.

We sprint, clothes catching on brambles and branches, over the selfsame paths he fell across so many years ago, now overlush with cloying fruit and leaves and bees.

The stepping stones over the earth, the river he skims his fingers in, the fields sticky with figs, the clinging petals of the lilac flowers; something sharp aches in my chest when I think of leaving the forest for the final time.

And Patroclus.

He runs his hands though the sea, across my lower lip to erase the sticky pulp of the figs for salt, young and alive and amused and sharply concentrated.

I would give anything to stay with him in this moment.

I would give anything to stay with him.

I want to love him through an aeon, and then another.

After, Patroclus sprawls out on our bed at night, messy and magnetic, his chest moving swift. I collapse on the space left, struck with happiness, sick with it.

The pink light of the sky is darkening, the stage curtain coming closed.

As if too exhausted to speak, his mouth curves and he reaches out with one hand.

I still.

"Are you happy?" Patroclus says at last, one thumb moving along my mouth.

I make some lazy sound, and he flicks the edge of my lip with his fingernail, amused.

"I am sorry it is ending," I admit.

He hesitates, seeming, for the first time in the forest, shy. "How is your mother?"

He always asks, and for that something in me aches. "She is well. She... she says she cannot see us here."

His finger halts, faint against my lower lip.

"I wished to tell you, because... because—" Clumsily, strangely, I try to explain. "I thought you would like to know."

Patroclus seems incendiary: his hand shakes slightly. "Are you pleased with her answer?" “Yes."

Are you?

Hope is the one endurable truth of all humanity, but he's the truth of mine. In fate's ceaseless revolt, in spite of my every attempt to fight it, he is what is loved by me.

If I have to suffer a cruelty, a heartache, at least let it be at his hands.

His hand slides under my jaw, along the arch of my throat. His eyes are obliteration bright. He's all flustered and helpless and seems so much younger than sixteen.

And after so many years, I finally kiss him, all over again.

I kiss him.

Patroclus.

My rose-mouthed boy, my torment, mine.

I kiss him.

The sweetness of the figs, the soft sound he makes, this and this and this.

And Patroclus—

Lit in flickering firelight, sprawled out, one hand across my jaw, his mouth parts, moves along my throat. His hands, familiar and clumsy, tug me up over him, and then closer again, hungrily, helplessly.

The cave spins, hazy and heavy in the dusk light.

He smiles slightly against my skin when I fumble with the sheets, and I'm in awe of him, enamored by him.

I map him out across the bed, lower my mouth to the blue veins in his wrists, run my fingers over the sharp bones of his hips. He arches up, and I skim the ridges of his spine, splay my hand in the middle of his shoulder blades, kiss him again and again and again.

This and this and this.

The slender arch of his hips into mine. The shaking of his hands when they slip across my stomach. The sharp flowering of an end, the sticky kiss he leaves against my shoulder.

Stars spin above me as he moves, and I'm helpless staring against the ceiling, awed at a fantasy made achingly real, madly in love with the rose-mouthed boy, Patroclus.

I think I could want him forever. It's spare, stolen seconds like these when I almost say it.

I love you, I love you. I've loved you for as long as I can remember.

Would he hate me, would he forsake me, it's a tide I've been hauled through again and again.

And sometimes I think I've finally found the courage, and then he snaps the silence and says something with the faintest smile, or leans over to free a trapped leaf from my hair and I. . .

I can love him in secret. I can love him, and harbor the foolish hope he might return my helpless heart, instead of having it cleaved open in halves.

I can have him here and it can be enough.

After, we sprawl across each other, hands pinned under hands, sheets half knotted around hips, spent and half asleep.

"Are you sorry?" I say at last.

Please don't hate me.

He stares at me with a soft contemplation, as though this is the simplest question in all the world. "No. I am not sorry."

Something, a sharp pain swollen under my heart, leaves. "I am not either," I say hastily, and sleepy silence falls again.

His eyes are dark in the low light. The freckles along his shoulders stand out like stars. He seems more constellation than boy.

If he asked, I would forget fate and prophecy. I would follow him anywhere. I would let him make a fool of me, a lovesick fool.

He is my worst idea.

The Fates have an old story they like to tell:

A hero's heart is unmade by the human hand.

~ to be continued

tagging: @iambecomeyourvillain @twelve-kinds-of-trouble @saltyfortunes @wafflesandschemingfaces @juxtaglomerularapparatus (hana please Go Change the url) @the-sky-is-full-of-stars @thehalfbloodfreak @ds-umbrella-manufacturing-co @ahecktonoffandomsinoneblog @duartesgem @sankta-chaosqueen @jostensminyards @thebonecarver @alonlyfangirl @lostnevarrite @theglassphantom @dreamingofmoonshadows @im-someone-i-guess @reinamxri @aleenaaalii @kazoo-the-demjin @drunk-on-inejs-laughter @moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom @stay-because-now-you-have-a-home @clockworknights @fandomstalker27 @wherearetheplants @mirrors-of-rosy-glass @valeriianz @oitreewrites and anyway here comes the part where we curse my ridiculously selective memory and i beg the rest of you to Help me remember my mutuals

“poison is the coward’s weapon” boo hoo sounds like someone’s sodium channels are easily inhibited

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Drinkline: 0800 9178282

Rape Crisis England & Wales: 0808 802 9999 1(open 2 - 2.30pm 7 - 9.30pm) e-mail info@rapecrisis.org.uk

Rape Crisis Scotland: 08088 01 03 02 every day, 6pm to midnight

India Self Harm Hotline: 00 08001006614

India Suicide Helpline: 022-27546669

Kids Help Phone (Canada): 1-800-668-6868

FREE 24/7 suicide hotlines:

Argentina: 54-0223-493-0430

Australia: 13-11-14

Austria: 01-713-3374

Barbados: 429-9999

Belgium: 106

Botswana: 391-1270

Brazil: 21-233-9191

China: 852-2382-0000

(Hong Kong: 2389-2222)

Costa Rica: 606-253-5439

Croatia: 01-4833-888

Cyprus: 357-77-77-72-67

Czech Republic: 222-580-697, 476-701-908

Denmark: 70-201-201

Egypt: 762-1602

Estonia: 6-558-088

Finland: 040-5032199

France: 01-45-39-4000

Germany: 0800-181-0721

Greece: 1018

Guatemala: 502-234-1239

Holland: 0900-0767

Honduras: 504-237-3623

Hungary: 06-80-820-111

Iceland: 44-0-8457-90-90-90

Israel: 09-8892333

Italy: 06-705-4444

Japan: 3-5286-9090

Latvia: 6722-2922, 2772-2292

Malaysia: 03-756-8144

(Singapore: 1-800-221-4444)

Mexico: 525-510-2550

Netherlands: 0900-0767

New Zealand: 4-473-9739

New Guinea: 675-326-0011

Nicaragua: 505-268-6171

Norway: 47-815-33-300

Philippines: 02-896-9191

Poland: 52-70-000

Portugal: 239-72-10-10

Russia: 8-20-222-82-10

Spain: 91-459-00-50

South Africa: 0861-322-322

South Korea: 2-715-8600

Sweden: 031-711-2400

Switzerland: 143

Taiwan: 0800-788-995

Thailand: 02-249-9977

Trinidad and Tobago: 868-645-2800

Ukraine: 0487-327715

(Source)

^^Bibi

^^ Bibi

Reblog if you think it’s okay to platonically say “I Love You” to your friends

Like can we summon this m

Like can we summon this m

Fierce kitten tries to fight mama

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