#sleep editorial look

[loganslowdown4]

More Sleep Photos Dropped

Come and get your dose of sass, folks 😄🤍🖤💤

#do you think The Other Side of The Pillow saw these and died? 😂😂😂 #hawt stuff #sleep editorial look #thomas sanders #sleep sanders #remy sanders #Thomas sanders photoshoot

[ceilidho]

prompt: price/reader bear shifter fic. PART 1.

-

“—are priced wrong. You need to fix that.”

“Hmm? Sorry?” you ask, mind snapping out of whatever fog it’d descended into upon seeing John Price’s truck pull up out front of the grocer. You blink a couple times before focusing on the older lady lined up at your till, her face pinched with displeasure. It deepens when she realizes that you haven’t been paying a lick of attention to whatever she’d just spent the better half of a minute complaining about. 

“The beefsteak tomatoes are priced wrong. They’re supposed to be two dollars a pound—it’s in the catalogue.”

Before you can so much assure her that you’ll certainly honour the advertised price and save yourself the headache, she’s already opening up her purse to pull out the crinkled grocery catalogue, unfolding it across your conveyor belt; it goes out in the local paper once a week with all the sales and rippable coupons, and this isn’t the first time you’ve had someone try to lecture you about discrepant prices (Kate, your manager, is a sweet, gungho lady, that often sends off discount confirmations to the editorial staff of the local paper without informing anyone that actually works in the shop day-to-day). 

From the corner of your eye, you see John slam the door shut on his truck and make his way towards the shop, hands shoved into his pockets. Even from a ways away, the sight of him makes your cheeks redden; his beard’s gotten fuller in the week since you last saw him, clad in even more layers of flannel and tweed now with the fast approach of winter. He looks properly ready for the winter months, with just an air of heaviness present in the lines on his forehead and the tilt of his head. 

You feel your lips slip down into a frown. Helpless, you can only watch in defeat as John lumbers into the grocery store, brushing his hand over his hat to shake off the snowflakes onto the mat by the automatic doors. He picks up one of the baskets by the front door before heading down one of the aisles. His eyes don’t flicker to meet yours so much as once. 

Your shoulders slump when he ducks out of sight before you focus your attention back on the woman in front of you. She’s pointing out the tomato print with the little two dollar sign in the advertisement with a stiff finger, eyebrow cocked like she’s pulled one over on you. You really can’t imagine there being anything less important to you than the price of beefsteak tomatoes, never mind having to refund someone a whole dollar because you inadvertently overcharged them and you happened to get stuck with the one customer that would spend a full thirty seconds reviewing their bill before leaving the shop. 

“See?” she says, the word coming out sibilant and stressed. You blink.

Turning back to the till, you click a couple buttons before the register pops back out again and you pluck up a dollar to hand back to your customer. On the receipt that’s printed out, you hastily scrawl the reason for the refund and shove the seller's copy back into the till. The woman stares at the dollar now sitting on the belt in front of her.

“Of course, ma’am,” you say, a robotic smile stretching across your face. “Apologies for the inconvenience. I’ll get someone to reprice the tomatoes so this doesn’t happen again.”

She doesn’t say anything when she snatches up the dollar along with her groceries and hobbles out the front door, the automatic doors swooshing behind her. With her finally gone, you close your eyes for a second, a private moment just to yourself.

Someone clears their throat from just off to the side. Your heart bursts into a frantic pitter-patter when you open your eyes to find John waiting patiently at the end of your till, his basket filled up with bottles of mustard, gherkins, and other preserves. 

“A paper bag, please,” he says in a gruff voice, like he tousled with sleep just a few minutes ago. It makes your head spin. 

You nod, hardly able to even respond.

Up close, he smells like firewood and smoke, the ever-present cigar usually hanging off his lip nowhere to be seen but still clinging to his jacket and flannel beneath it. The mutton chops of his beard have grown out more than the rest, but his jaw is covered in a layer of fur in comparison to the week previous. John doesn’t really make eye contact as you scan his groceries, almost too tired to raise them from the conveyor belt. Not for lack of respect—it comes off as pure exhaustion. 

You know John as the gruff, taciturn park ranger that comes in once a week to load up on steaks, cold cuts and fresh produce, but in the months you’ve lived in this town, he’s always fresh off work, a little rough around the edges and not quite fit for human interaction just yet. He just grunts and nods when you tell him his total, towers over you and never really makes much eye contact. 

It’s always non-perishables with him these days. At least for the past several weeks, as far as you know. Cans and jars and freezer-ready meals. He doesn’t strike you as much of a prepper, but his order speaks for itself. It’s one of the things you like most about your job—getting to peek into the small crack of life laid bare before you. 

“Getting ready for the winter?” you ask. 

John grunts, eyes meeting yours just briefly before dropping down again. Dark brown. Sometimes you swear you catch the faintest glimmer of gold in them, like a honey glaze, but it’s likely just a trick of the lights. 

“Gonna be a rough one.” 

You try not to shiver at the sound of his voice. It’s not often that you get to hear it; even though you moved into the house next to his almost six months ago, he spends most of his days in the mountains, working up there as a ranger. He comes home after dark nearly every day—not so hard now that the sun sets early on in the day, but even back in the summer you’d spy him coming back from his shift well after dark. 

He’s gotten more heavyset in the last couple of weeks, a comfortable weight to his midsection and arms. Beefier, more solid. When John is in front of you, it’s like no one else in the world exists at that moment; he removes them all from sight and mind. It soothes some of the worry that his constant late coming has stirred up in you, knowing that he’s fed. Not all of it though.

“You know the, uh—” you start, clearing your throat midway through, almost losing your nerve under his sudden attention at the sound of your voice, “—the butter’s twenty percent off this week. I, um…I wasn’t sure if you’d noticed.” You catch his little frown and clarify. “You usually get butter.”

“Thank you, but not this time,” he says gruffly. “Got enough of it in the freezer.”

“Oh…well…” you trail off like you’re going to say something else but you let the conversation fall flat instead. 

He’s quiet the rest of the time as you bag his groceries. John always is. There’s a hurt side of you, silently begging for more, but you’ve watched him enough around town to know that this is just what he’s like. Gruff with the other rangers on the mountain, taciturn after a long day’s work, and sweet as apple pie with the older townsfolk. You’ve seen him help people at crosswalks and more than once he’s footed someone’s grocery bill when they’ve come short. 

Maybe you’re not interesting enough to merit conversation or that same goodwill he extends to others. Not that John has ever been anything less than polite with you, but—your thoughts scatter like birds when you recite his total without thinking and watch him wordlessly as he pays. 

“Thanks, honey,” John says, eyes meeting yours again. “See you next week.” He finally manages a smile, his eyes crinkling under the weight of it. 

You could get lost in his smile if you let yourself. It comes freely but seldomly these days, kept at bay by rough days out in the woods helping lost hikers, ticketing hunters for going over their allotment, and managing the wildlife. But when he smiles, you feel the blood go hot under your cheeks and fight every vision you have of him suddenly leaning across the counter and tipping your chin up for a kiss.

Tongue-tied, you nod. You can’t even force a smile on your face, wide eyes still set on him in wonderment. He doesn’t wait around for you to find your words.

But—you think again wistfully as he turns to leave—it might be nice once in a while. For him to look at you like you’re more than a stranger. 

You mourn your chance to talk to him once he’s out the door, wishing you could call him back. It’s not his fault that just the mere sight of him leaves you tongue-tied. It folds up like a cherry stem in your mouth when he speaks to you and you haven’t yet managed to untangle it in his presence. Maybe someday. 

That’s just life though. 

He’s always made you feel nervous, like a schoolgirl with her first crush, but it’s a safe kind of crush. The kind that feels fun to indulge in because there’s no possibility of reciprocation, like you can just ogle him and pine over him without having to worry about what you’d do if he felt the same way. You mourn the loss of him when he leaves, but like a tender bruise on your knee that you sometimes press just to shy away from. 

The rest of your shift pales in comparison to the eight minutes spent in his presence. Rinse and repeat. Someone else complains about the tomatoes and you write a note for your manager to read the next day. It’ll be her fault if someone finally emails in to complain or takes it to the news; there’s always an op-ed in the papers that’s little more than a thinly veiled bad Yelp review. 

John’s car is outside his house when you make it home at the end of the day, the lights still on inside. You sit in your car and stare at the light hidden behind the curtains. 

It would be nice, you think, resting your head back against the seat, to go up and knock at his door. If only you were braver. You’d march right up, knock on his door, and offer him something to eat. You could do it too. In the six months you’ve lived here, it’s not as though you’ve ever treated him particularly neighbourly. 

You squeak when you see John pull the curtain back and peer out the window, sliding down in the front seat so he doesn’t notice you there.

Maybe some other day then.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #cod mw2 #captain john price #captain price #john price #price x reader #price x you #price/reader #x reader

[whoresidentevil]

Leon and Your Hair

a/n: I haven't written in years so this is very experimental 💀 I'm open to constructive feedback!

Also, I wrote this with the reader having type 4 hair in mind but I tried to make it as texture-inclusive as possible :)

General: 

Leon himself takes pride in his hair and appearance in general which is one of many ways you guys relate to each other.

 I imagine your shared bathroom would be full of hair products and tools more than anything else, though most of it is yours.

Leon isn't ignorant, he knew how important hair is to your culture way before you got together. Because of this, he respects how much effort your maintenance requires.

RE2:

This man 100% uses all your stuff every time he comes over. You start wondering if these containers have a hole at the bottom of them or something. Eventually, Leon just starts buying the shampoo/conditioner combo you use for himself at home because it's doing wonders for his hair. Plus the scent reminds him of you, it's a win-win.

Leon had nice hair before, but your presence in his life introduces him to products like deep conditioner, hair oils, etc that just elevate it further.

When you get your hair braided or styled Leon always wants to be the first person to see it! He even goes out of his way to pick you up from the salon so he can shower you with compliments right after. 

If he has time I can see Leon sitting in the salon with you for however many hours it takes the stylists to be done. He sits there flipping through the hair magazines he took from the waiting area, turning the pages over to you every couple of minutes. "Babe, you should try this next time." with the most genuine smile on his face. Even if it was some atrocious 90's editorial style, you smile and nod at every single one.

RE4:

Once Leon starts going on long missions he's unable to be your personal chauffeur 24/7, so he'd definitely want you to text him pictures every time you get your hair done. He always sets them as his phone wallpaper to have an updated photo of you everywhere he goes.

During his training I doubt he'd have the luxury of technology though, instead opting to get a Polaroid of you every now and then in the mail. He always makes sure to compliment you on something in the letters he sends back and keeps the latest Polaroid somewhere in his pockets while the older ones are tacked to his wall. (poor guy misses you so much)

When he's home with you he realizes how much he missed your silk pillowcases and bed sheets. He didn't think they were actually helping his hair and skin until he had to sleep in crazy locations during training/missions and noticed the difference. he silently thanks you for that.

RE6/ID/DI:

After so many years of being together, Leon knows about all your hair preferences, favorite styles, and even things he hasn't seen you in yet. (our boy is educated 👏🏾).

Sometimes you ask him to help pick what you'll do with your hair next which either ends with him saying "You look beautiful no matter what" or showing you very specific photos he found on Google.

It's been years since you've paid for your own hair because Leon insists on taking care of that for you. It doesn't matter how much it costs, he has no problem with it as long as you are happy.

He'd go into the beauty supply store with you and know exactly where to go and what to get, even reminding you not to forget some things along the way.

Leon has a huge soft spot for your natural hair, whatever texture it may be he's whipped for it. Loves being able to touch your hair (with permission) and probably asks to help you on wash days so he has an excuse to do so.

speaking of which, I can see wash days becoming an intimate thing for you two as you get older. He'd help you shampoo in the shower as a form of affection, or you're sitting in his lap while he helps you detangle when your arms get tired.

If you have locs I can see Leon looking up a tutorial on how to do retwists to help you out. Even if you tell him time and time again that you'd rather have your loctician do it he insists you give him a chance. Turns out he's not half bad at it and you let him do it a few times a year.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #black reader #leon s kennedy #resident evil #fanfic #x reader #x black reader #leon x black reader

[bloompompom]

.˳⁺⁎˚ WAKE UP SLOW ˚⁎⁺˳.

One Shot

♡ content: eren jaeger x female reader. domestic au/established relationship, fluffy and smutty morning sex goodness, porn without plot but heavy on the feelings, sleepy sex, rough(-ish?) sex, praise, some possessive language/tones, explicit sexual content, explicit language. reader discretion advised.

♡ word count: ~3.2k

You always liked lazy mornings. How could you not?

The scene was set: it was one of those mornings—when you knew you’d spend the day in bed before you even cracked open your eyes. You lay sprawled on your stomach, face smushed against the pillow, while you listened to the rain. It was your gentle alarm clock, sloshing against the window and drizzling down the gutter. It was early. You could only tell because it was the grey time of morning—bright and like someone had stolen the color from the room. 

It took a few blinks before you woke up, your dream luring you back in. While the memory of it was fading by the second, the tingling warmth it left, low in your stomach, was very real. 

Sloth and lust sinfully swarmed around in your stomach, and you weren’t sure which would win: your desire to sleep for another hour or to fuck your boyfriend. You let the throbbing between your legs make the decision for you, already having you clenching your thighs and needily rutting against the cotton sheets.

You turned to your other side to look at Eren. He was fast asleep, lips only parted enough to let shallow breaths escape. He didn’t even flutter an eyelash at the rustling of the bed. 

By the look of it, you both must have passed out watching TV, its screen still on and waiting for you. ‘Are you still watching?’ Eren’s hair was still tied in yesterday’s bun, though much more touseled and not in the editorial sort of way. You giggled—even more when you slipped his phone, resting loosely in the hand he had on his chest, and set it aside.

Eren had mentioned (not so offhandedly) that he ‘wouldn’t mind’ having you wake him up with sex, whether it was with your hand, your mouth, or just sitting right on his cock—you could use your imagination.

You usually shied away from the thought, more worried about startling him awake or colliding noses or something else deathly humiliating that you may or may not laugh about later. But today, you went for it, though you opted for the safer route of gently rousing him instead. 

You snuggled up at his side, nudging into him until his arm had no choice but to loop around you. You nestled your face against him with your nose in the dip of his collarbone. He still smelt like his after-work shower but more like him after a night’s rest. It was a warm, intoxicating smell. 

The little breaths through your nose had him stirring until his arm pulled you even closer to him. Not just closer but bringing your face to his neck, where you were sure he wanted you to kiss him awake.

You swept his hair aside, pressed your smile to the hollow beneath his ear, and started to kiss him there. You could hear his breath hitch in his throat—feel it with the hand you had on his chest. He was in only a pair of boxers, leaving you free to kiss the expanse of him. The plunge of his shoulder, the span of his collarbone, the spot where you could feel his heartbeat beneath your lips—all of it was his to give you.

You draped a leg over Eren, making it extremely apparent you wore only your underwear beneath your tee and that you were in such dire need of him that you'd resort to something as chaste as grinding on his thigh.

He was awake. You knew it because whenever you’d gift him a tiny moan, you’d wait to feel every response he gave in return. Even the slightest ones, like the quiver of his muscles, to the way he’d trace the tips of his fingers over your shoulder. And you were certain he was awake because you could feel it in his cock—hard before you had even taken him into your hand and twitching with your whimpers.

You kept your grasp light, slipping your hand around him and stopping after just a few strokes. Eren groaned. Whether it was from your touch or lack thereof, you weren’t sure.

With just a hand on his hipbone, you heaved him as you rolled to your side, him collapsing over you big-spoon style. He was dozy enough to not hide just how riled up, shamelessly rutting against the plush of your ass. And when he slotted his knee between your legs, you were just as flagrant as you make yourself comfortable on it, working your hips as you pathetically tried to get off on his thigh alone. 

Eren’s hand splayed over your stomach before sliding higher, stretching out the neckline of your tee to cup your jaw. You could feel the sleep in his touch, his fingers heavy as they tilted your face to him. When he kissed you, there was just as much weight behind it. It was slow and deep with his tongue entering your mouth like it belonged there—like it was the usual way you told each other, ‘good morning.’ 

You were clumsy about it when you kissed him back. You didn’t mean to be, but you didn’t have the best angle. It was sloppy, and you bit and sucked at his bottom lip until you were sure you had bruised it. 

He didn’t seem to mind, though. His arm—the one you were laying on—wriggled beneath you, trying to get you out of your underwear. He shimmed them down to your leg, satisfied enough once they hung around your calf. Then, he only freed your face to strip from his boxers. 

You expected him to fuck you right then, and you found yourself achy and disappointed when he didn’t. He made up for it by slipping a hand between your legs. You shifted your hips slightly, spreading just enough so he could reach where you needed him. 

The taste of him still floated on your lips. You tried to kiss him again, but it was interrupted when he took your earlobe between his teeth. You felt it in your spine—the shooting feeling Eren gave you when he rasped, “You’re so wet already.”

You loved his voice in the morning, all husky and low. It made you light-headed—even more so when he pressed the pads of his fingers against your clit. You didn’t hold back your whimpers as he started making steady circles.

“Were you dreaming of this?” he asked, whispering right against you, his breath fanning your cheek. “Dreaming of me?”

You shouldn’t feel embarrassed about your wandering mind; you had only fantasized about your boyfriend—about him—having you exactly as he was now. But even after all the time you spent together, Eren's words were always enough to make your face burn hot. It was one of the things you loved (and hated) about him. 

You didn’t need to answer for Eren to know he was right. You couldn’t hide it, not with the way you squirmed around in his arms with every kiss he pressed to your body, anywhere he could reach. His mouth was hot wax, each kiss like a seal to a paper envelope. 

You weren’t in control when your back arched for him, your ass wantonly wiggling over his cock. It didn’t take long for him to get the hint. His hand curved under your thigh, lifting it just enough for him to slip between your legs. You kept it propped in the air for him as he lined himself up with you, your jaw going slack as he slowly pushed inside.

It was tight at first. You felt it, and you knew Eren felt it, too. His grunts were strained—nothing more than beautiful and breathless curses you couldn’t quite make out.

You didn’t mind the stretch; the pain was sweet, momentary, and melted away when he said, “I was dreaming about you, too. How—shit—”

He interrupted himself with a hiss, right as he bottomed out inside you, your walls squeezing him perfectly. 

“How good you are to me—so good.” 

Eren’s praising murmurs turned your insides soft. It only took a few more rolls of his hips before he slipped into you effortlessly, stuffing you over and over again with the steady pace of his cock.

“That’s it. Fuck, it’s like you were made for me.”

Eren’s palm smoothed up your stomach until he was between your breasts, pulling your back to his chest. He took one of your nipples between his fingers, rolling it until it was perky enough for him to pinch. 

The longer he fucked you—leisurely, with sleepy and drawn-out strokes—the deeper he nuzzled into your shoulder. You could hear the faint croaks in his panting and listened to the sound grow more and more erratic. You sweltered in his heat—his breath, the arm he had latched around you, the way he filled you—and grew sticky beneath the duvet. 

It was slow, lazy sex, in tune with the lowly thunder grumbling through the room. It was sheets tugged back from the mattress with desperate fingers searching each other out. It was a maze you became lost in—endlessly and entirely so.

And when Eren shoved a hand between your legs, you could no longer keep your eyes open. You hiked your leg higher for him, spreading yourself so he could fuck further into you while he played with your clit. One particularly-deep thrust pulled a yelp from you. 

Eren heard it, and you noted the smirk in his voice as he growled, “Yeah?”

Then he did it again, another snap of his hips, and it drew the same reaction from you.

He must have become serious about making you come right then because he abruptly slipped from you and crawled on top. His hands were needy as he bunched your shirt over your tits. You always liked how he looked at you—like you were something to be cherished and ruined, as if both were possible.

Eren savored you, tasting the skin between your breasts with hot kisses. Goosebumps scattered across your skin as his breath cooled the trail he left behind. You carded your fingers through his hair when he lightly bit your nipple, sucking at it with a wet pop.

As Eren worked his way down your stomach, you watched how he smiled when he caught the lovebites he adorned you with last week. They were nearly healed—barely there, even if you squinted—but that only made him want to make more. Fresh and inky stains, for you and you only, that meant you were his. 

You felt his lips first, just against the fleshy part of your inner thigh, and then his teeth. He nipped at you before soothing the sting with a lap of his tongue. He could only do it twice before your giggles, all flimsy and flowery, were tamed when he put his mouth on your clit.

Your whole body jolted as he licked over you. You were still agonizingly sensitive from his cock just moments ago. It was head spinning, but in the best way, like you could come again just from his contented licks.

But when he started to take you feverishly with the flat of his tongue, you couldn't help but squeeze your thighs together.

Eren didn’t complain. Obviously, Eren didn’t complain. He didn't even relent as you nearly suffocated him. The shaking of your thighs only encouraged him to add a finger inside you.

The whine you released was filthy both because you didn't want him to stop and because you knew it turned him on when you were loud for him. It especially got him going when you moaned, “Ah—Eren.”

He groaned against you. The vibration of it had you bucking against his mouth. 

You threw the blanket off to see him, and the cool bedroom air prickled along your skin. You wanted to see him—spread your fingers through his hair. And when you met Eren's gaze, his eyes keen and affectionate, you could feel his lazy smile against you. 

Eren always enjoyed watching the very moment you came undone for him, as if you—every flick of your brows or toss of your head—were something that could be studied and perfected. If his mouth wasn’t so distracted, you knew he’d tell you as much—how much he loved watching you fall apart because of him. 

Without words, he showed you his adoration by suctioning his lips around your clit, softly sucking as he added a second finger inside of you. Your eyes lidded when his knuckles were flush against you, his fingers slender and reaching all the places you couldn’t—that no one else could, as he’d often remind you. 

The pressure of his fingers, opposite his mouth, had you coming on his tongue. You sobbed his name as raptures of heat rippled through you. Every muscle in your body tensed and relaxed, all at once, again and again. 

Then, after you came, you went spacey, like a delicious huff of helium. Before the moment was up, Eren unceremoniously pushed you onto your stomach until you got a face full of pillows.

He used the hand that wasn’t pinning you down to shove your shirt higher up your back for a better view when he sank inside you again. The bedding smothered your cries, but you knew he could feel your body shuddering—see how you twisted the sheets between your fingers in a weak effort to cling to any source of stability. 

His fingers dug into your flanks as he yanked you against him. You imagined the lovely crescent moons you’d find seared into your skin when you looked in the mirror later. 

“God, I fucking love fucking you,” Eren seethed. The end of it was saturated by a single, breathy sound—almost a laugh—like he had somehow found heaven inside you.

You’d giggle if it weren’t for the way he continued to wreck you. He made sure to pull out entirely, with his tip barely kissing your entrance, just to slam back into you with frenzied and deep thrusts. You choked out at each of them, his hands flattened against the small of your back to keep you still and pliant for him.  

Eren was grunting, slumberously fucking you into the mattress, when he told you, “C’mon, baby. I know you can take it.”

His voice was thick in his throat, like he was drunk from sleep and arousal. You were no better, replying in desperate sputters against the pillow as you continued to take everything he gave you.

“You’re doing so well for me.” Eren spoke so lovingly, with a voice as saccharine as syrup. It was nothing like the way he bullied his cock into you. “Look.”

You didn’t know how you were supposed to look with your face pressed into the bed. 

You placed a smearing hand against the headboard, but before you could push yourself upright, Eren flipped you onto your back. He petted from the crown of your head to the nape of your neck, angling it so you had to watch him pump in and out of you.

“Look how beautiful you are when I’m inside you.”

You were mesmerized by the sight—the tightening of his lower abs with every tilt of his hips. 

Eren dropped your head and slid his hand beneath your back. He cradled you, his arm protective and firm underneath you, pulling you against him with every thrust. He lifted your hips just high enough—the way he knew drove you crazy—to have you gasping, “I’m close.”

It quickly became a mess of airless gasps when you hooked your legs around him. You ground against him as if you could possibly have him any closer, and he bit a growl into your neck, telling you to come with a plead of your name. 

His voice—always his voice. Eren knew how much it made you swoon. You knew he could see it, too—the longing in your eyes as he took you through your high. 

“Oh, God, please—Eren!” 

You were grasping at him now, raking and clawing your fingernails down his back and over his arms, with blooms of fire at the base of your spine. Eren remained steadfast, not stalling or flinching at the sting, and he watched you with his eyes blazed. 

You came again then, with your arms thrown around his neck, eyes slammed shut, and chin tucked against his chest. You barely heard Eren over the pulsing in your ears when he breathed out, “Don’t hide. Let me see you.”

You lolled your head back into the pillow and looked at him through hazy vision.

The transient light in the windows remained silvery but hadn’t yet stolen the color of his cheeks. He was flushed pink, just across the bridge of his nose. You thought how he’d scald your fingertips if you were to hold his face. A thin sheen of sweat made his loose hairs stick to his forehead, and you imagined how he’d taste salty and warm if you were to kiss his neck. 

You couldn’t do either of these things because you were still coming—hard. 

“Perfect,” Eren whispered against the corner of your mouth. He kissed you like he wanted to taste your moans. “You’re perfect.”

You’d say the same thing about him. 

You smiled up at him—big and dopey, you were sure—but there was something glimmering behind it. Awe, devotion, infatuation—whatever it was, it stole the strength from Eren’s arms. You wilted in a sort of fucked-out bliss right as he dropped you to the sheets. 

His hips lost their rhythm and became more like stutters. With a final, twitching thrust—deep enough to have your toes curling—you were left moony, struck by the way his brows crinkled in pleasure and how his eyes shut as he tried to concentrate.

“Fuck—I’m coming,” Eren said on nothing more than an exhale. 

He sat back, his face still inches from yours, and he pulled out of you. He finished himself off with his hand, his knuckles dragging against your stomach as he came in spurts over you. 

With a heaving chest and closed eyes, he looked like the prettiest disaster with ruffled hair and glossy, kiss-swollen lips. You ran a delicate finger along his bottom lip and noted how you did, in fact, bruise it earlier.

Eren held himself up with hands planted on either side of you. He pressed his forehead to yours, and you shared the same air through mingled breaths. After a moment, when you started to feel dizzy, he separated just enough to replace his forehead with his lips. He left a lingering peck there, then another at your temple.

You could hear his shaky breaths as he continued kissing down your face—the apple of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and finally, your lips. He repeated it again until you were giggling and swatting him away. 

After, Eren told you, “I like how you taste in the morning.”

You didn’t know what he was referencing when he said it, but you chose the naive option when you replied, “That’s gross. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet,” and he smiled at you for it.

“I don’t mind,” he hummed, then kissed you again.

Eren reached for the box of tissues over on the nightstand. Once he cleaned you up, he fell at your side with you tumbling over him. You cuddled there, in nothing but your t-shirt, listening to the tepid patter of the rain, and waited to drift back to sleep so you could, perhaps, do it all over again before noon. 

#eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren smut #eren fluff

[landwriter]

Desperate Measures | Dream/Hob | 1.2K | G v silly and fluffy, literally 90% air, dream attempts a romantic gesture, hob is a sap and forgetful, human au, part text fic

for @domaystic drabbles, Day 6: Under the Same Umbrella

---

Dream woke up to 26 texts from Hob. He put on his glasses and began his morning read. It’d replaced Times for him. The editorial quality, he thought, was far superior.

Hob (7:19 am) heading out, gave you a wee forehead kiss and you didn’t even stir. sleeping bloody beauty. love you disgustingly much x

Hob (7:26 am) couldn’t find my umbrella anywhere can you take a look if it’s not too much of a bother? feel like i’ve gone mad

Hob (7:30 am) christ it’s bucketing down!! standing under the eaves just to tell you how much it’s bucketing down

plants will be happy at least so will my goth boyfriend ;) hope your writing goes well today love. extra atmosphere!!

Hob (8:42 am) nevermind don’t look for it remembered that i left it in my office told johanna she can use it since i’m at the archives all day anyway glad i’m not the only one who’d forget their own head if it wasn’t screwed on :) :) :)

Hob (10:11 am) you should’ve seen the look lisa gave me when i showed up had to dry myself off in the men’s w half a forest of paper towels there goes my carbon offset from walking i said christ you’re probably still in bed asleep warm dry!! lucky bastard

wish i could come back already and drip puddles all over you

Hob (10:37 am) if this keeps up i’m going to look like mr darcy in the rain on your doorstep tonight don’t worry i promise not to propose marriage while insulting you xx although i do love you most ardently

...elizabeth

Dream smiled, read them all again, contemplated, and then sent his reply.

Dream (11:01 am) Sir, I appreciate the struggle you have been through

Hob replied moments later.

?? you sound like a customer service agent wait you’re quoting the film you can’t reject me if i’ve not proposed to you!! yet!!!

Dream snorted. 'and I am very sorry I have caused you pain' went the line. They’d watched it last weekend. Hob had cried, and Dream had privately decided that if Hob proposed, he’d say yes. Even if it was poorly done. It wouldn’t be, though. Not if Hob was doing it. He sent a second text.

...and I am very sorry you were drenched by rain.

Then he got out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. His phone buzzed anew as he made tea and toast. He smiled at the sound. On their first date, Hob had warned Dream that he had a bad habit of annoying boyfriends over text. Dream, on his first date in six years, had wondered what it might be like to be so effusively charming that you could have enough boyfriends to form habits around them at all. He hadn’t known what to say, and Hob had ducked his head, grimacing a little, and said, “Just tell me to piss off, please, if I do? I know I can be a bit much.”

Dream believed it, because the man was telling him about his habits with boyfriends after one date. Not that he minded. And three months in, Dream had yet to tell him to piss off.

Turns out, a bit much was exactly what he’d wanted. Needed, in truth. Someone to tether him to the real world. His phone had become a modern-day lodestone in his pocket, a comforting pull of Hob-ness that would always point him back to life whenever he’d emerge, blinking and disoriented, out of the mire of his work. Work that he loved - creating worlds out of nothing, writing stories that would change people - but, coming on the age of thirty with nothing to show for it but recurring wrist strain and an upmarket flat that never had any guests, work that had also made him spend so much time apart from the rest of humanity that he was sometimes unsure how to rejoin it.

The tipping point had been when his eldest sister had found out that he hadn’t spoken to anyone else in between two of their regular dinners. Which were monthly. It had been mortifying. She’d smiled sadly, which was excruciating enough, and then gotten the gleam of a plan in her eyes, which had been far worse. “I’m setting you up,” she’d said. “I know just the guy. We go way back. I think you’ll like him.”

He had. Now, when his phone buzzed, he found himself frowning if it wasn’t Hob. (An exceedingly rare occasion.) But this time it was, of course. Four short messages sent one after the other:

hahahaha ok fine that was v good enjoy your day x

Five hours later, not even the curtain of rain awaiting him outside could douse the anticipation in his belly. An idea, he knew, was a powerful thing. Dream didn’t have an umbrella - Hob always shared with him, and would’ve apologetically nicked his if he had - so he would make the first leg of the journey as Hob did. He intended to go and get something nice, but once in the cold downpour, his resolve failed him almost at once, and he ducked into the first shop that had umbrellas in the window.

“Hiya,” said the girl at the counter without looking up from her phone.

Dream ignored her, blinking the rain out of his eyes, belatedly registering all the merchandise had a unifying theme and that he’d made a terrible mistake, borne of sheer desperation.

“Would you happen to have any other umbrellas? In black?” he asked. Hidden behind the counter, perhaps. If only you knew to ask.

The girl looked at him with an air of disbelieving reproval only accessible to teenagers and the very elderly. “You could try Boots, you know. It’s just down the street.”

Dream looked out the window. Rain torrented down. Commuters hurried past with their sensibly coloured umbrellas. From places exactly like Boots.

“Or we’ve got rain ponchos,” she added. It sounded like a threat.

“Nevermind,” said Dream quickly. “I’ll take it.”

“Enjoy your visit in London, sir,” she called out as he left.

He stepped outside and flicked open the umbrella with slightly more force than necessary.

Dream waited a few paces outside the archives, wanting to surprise Hob properly. Two separate pairs of tourists had thought he was their London Ghost Tours guide, and he was beginning to regret not holding out for longer, drenching be damned. Then Hob emerged, striding out and immediately stopping to pull out his phone. He was smiling at it. Dream smiled too, in anticipation.

A moment later his own phone buzzed loudly in his coat pocket, and Hob looked up in surprise.

“Oh my god,” he said. Then he said it again.

“I heard you needed an umbrella,” said Dream. He’d had the line already, since he got the idea. It had been very dashing and romantic in his head. It was somewhat undermined by the dreadful costuming choice that had been forced upon him.

Hob looked between Dream and the umbrella, bafflement melting into a happy laugh. He ducked underneath, pecking Dream on the lips. “I’m not sure I needed one quite this badly. Did you rob some poor tourist?”

“Unhappily, I paid for this.”

“Oh no,” said Hob, pulling away and pretending to inspect him for injury. “My poor darling. Your dignity.”

Dream sniffed. “I will recover.”

“Here,” said Hob. “I’ll carry it for you. You’ll only be guilty by association, then.”

They began walking, a bobbing Union Jack in a sea of blacks and greys. After the chief sin of ugliness, it was also a little small for two grown men, but Dream found he didn’t resent that at all, as Hob tucked him tightly into his side to keep them both dry. People gave them a wide berth. Tourists could never be trusted with umbrellas.

“You’ve rescued me, you know,” said Hob, nuzzling into his cheek.

“It wouldn’t do to have you dripping puddles all over the floors,” said Dream.

“Even if I looked terribly handsome, all wet and ardent?”

Dream bit his lip and smiled a little. “Perhaps you can be wet and ardent in the shower. Instead.”

Hob laughed again. It was Dream’s favourite sound. “Much warmer than the rain anyway. Deal.” Rain drummed down on their private nylon ceiling. “I was thinking chicken tikka masala for dinner?”

And so they made their way home, and although the rain never let up, Dream was so content and warm that he might’ve sworn they were walking in the sun.

#dreamling #domaystic2023 #this is DISTRESSINGLY sweet you've been warned #the sandman #three days in a row! #new record for actually doing a monthly prompt thing #continuing to just write about today's weather and call it a fic #my writing #the sandman fanfic

[emyluwinter]

What will happen to a teenager who finds himself in a completely strange world, without support, without knowledge, without elders or guardians, without friends or help? What happens if this kind heart gives resonance to the hungry other hearts around? Without the editorial office, I feel very exhausted, and the pain began to bother me again. Therefore, I allow myself to write imperfectly.

These are the little headcannons that came to my mind by accident.

For the first few weeks after Riddle's Overblot, Cater and Trey secretly took two more students outside their dorm under their invisible wings. After all, with their appearance there have been very big changes, certainly not in the most pleasant way. But it has moved for the better.

Ace and Deuce talked about their living conditions, and they themselves witnessed being in hidden horror at the very sight of this piece of territory in college. To put it mildly, Trey and Сater decided that let these two be often in front of their eyes, to look after their younger students. than breathing dust and mold, blown by all the draughts and winds in your dorm.

Ace mentioned several times that Grimm has an endless battery of energy, but their Prefect looks like an exhausted zombie in the morning. They just couldn't rest physically or mentally. The time for rest was ruthlessly devoured by studies, repairs, attempts at adaptation and rehabilitation. Add to this endless ridiculous and insane rumors, disrespectful or disdainful behavior on the part of other students. The list could be continued until the end of the shining of the stars in the sky. Or Yuu was tormented by insomnia, which was quite a logical consequence and reaction of their psyche and body to so much stress and frayed nerves Or they couldn't afford the luxury of a "good sleep"

Trey has noticed many times how Yuu takes a quiet, inconspicuous place in the garden or in the maze of corridors of their dorm just to sleep. A quiet, clean place, even without a bed, even sitting on the floor. One Seven knows how they sleep in such an uncomfortable place, but compared to their accommodation it was a five-star hotel.

Cater went the other way, gently woke up the "mouse dormouse" if it found them in the most unsuitable place to sleep, and carefully laid them somewhere on a sofa or in an armchair away from other people's eyes and faces. Covering them with a warm blanket so that they can finally get warm, give them a pillow and see with emotion how they hug her. It's like they're someone's protective shell and the pillow is their secret treasure. In truth, he was visited by the thought that this was dozing with this "exhausted" younger of his….Was it comforting?Was it soothing? It was as if he wanted to heal his wounds in his heart when he was not given a place for himself and his thoughts. As if he wanted to hide that little boy inside himself. A quiet sniffling at their side, the slow movement of their chest when breathing. A slight tugging of their eyelashes or fingertips. What are they dreaming about? Of course, it's not good to stare, but Cater caught itself thinking that for the first time in a long time, it also wants to just take a nap in silence. Without acting, roles, smiles, masks. A serene, quiet slumber.

Yes, that's what he suddenly wanted to do for himself for the first time in a long time. And not someone else chose for him. A little sleep was a really good solution. For some reason, Diamond felt much better. Maybe it was the fact that there was some trust in the lost child. Or maybe he really just wanted to sleep in the company. During these moments, he did not touch his phone, neither before nor after.

Riddle once caught the two of them having such a sleep session. And didn't dare to wake them up. After all that had happened, an unpleasant voice in his head kept saying that this was the least his dorm could offer to atone for all the guilt towards Yuu and Grimm.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #disney twst #twst yuu #twst mc #disney twisted wonderland #twsited wonderland #twst cater #twst thoughts

[outtoshatter]

Inspired by @christinesficrecs, I'm going to do a few author spotlights! No one can stop me. I am going to shower love upon my pals and boost other writers in this fandom.

Up first we have @halevetica! She has so many options for readers!

Multi-Chapter Fics:

Leave Me in Ruins | 66K+ | 48 chapters tags: friends with benefits, slow burn, miscommunication

Summary: Derek finds himself in a difficult spot when he mistakenly sleeps with Stiles. The two agree to forget it but Derek can't. Before long, its becoming a regular thing, now Derek has to deal with the issue of falling even more for Stiles or losing him all together.

Stiles never dreamed of waking up next to Derek, but it's now a regular thing. However, he has to keep his emotions in check so Derek doesn't realize how he truly feels all while keeping their 'relationship' a secret from the pack and fighting the new big bad in town.

Like it or Not | 80k+ | 56 chapters tags: fake dating, enemies to lovers, mutual pining!

Summary: Stiles works as the editorial assistant at Vogue. He loves everything about his job except for his boss, Derek Hale. Derek Hale is the worst and Stiles hates him. But when Derek drags him to the yearly awards dinner within the company, he is forced to play boyfriend for the night to make Derek's ex jealous. Things couldn't get much worse…or so Stiles thought.

Same Old Song and Dance | Rated: E | 125k | 91 chapters tags: Alpha Derek, hunter Stiles, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers

Summary: Raised in the hunter life after his father was killed, Stiles hates werewolves. So when he lands a contract to kill the alpha of the pack that killed his father, he's elated. Until he runs into complications. The alpha is smart and strong and playing a game Stiles can't figure out. When secrets are revealed and new enemies made, Stiles must decide for himself what side he's on and who he can trust.

One shots:

Cute Together | 4k Summary: When Stiles gets stuck on a ski lift he meets Derek, who is scared of heights. He helps keep Derek calm until they can get rescued which leads to Derek teaching Stiles to ice skate. Along the way he helps Derek's two friends get together.

Promise | 3k Summary: Derek is stuck in the airport after his flight gets cancelled on Christmas eve when he meets Stiles Stilinski. Stiles is a friendly stranger that convinces Derek to have a little fun while stuck in the airport. His night with Stiles has more of an effect that Derek thought it would.

Feels Like Home | 4k Summary: Derek has spent years trying to quell the storm in his chest. The one that makes him feel lonely, like he doesn't belong. When searching for that feeling of home in New York where, he lived with Laura, he runs into Stiles Stilinski, who insists on Derek staying with him while in town. Derek shouldn't be shocked to find that Stiles feels like home.

Things to look forward to (aka works in progress!)

Shatter my Reality | 32k so far | 23 chapters to feast on! tags: mutual pining, jealous Stiles, ~magic~ Stiles, Stilinski twins! Summary: Months after the nogitsune, Stiles starts to see his own face around town. He dismisses it as PTSD. That is, until Lydia starts having a feeling that Stiles is going to die. As the pack scramble to find out what is going on, Stiles is forced to face a ghost from a past he didn't know he had and a future that seems to threaten his place in the pack.

Tangled Crowns | 23k so far~ | 14 terrific chapters to enjoy! tags: royal au, prince Stiles, prince Derek, magic Stiles! Summary: Flattery. Derek's life is full of it. Fake smiles, fake compliments, fake people. It's exhausting.

Desperate for a night away from the high expectations and rigid life of royalty, Derek escapes to a small tavern where he meets a sweet, attractive, genuine man who only gives him the name "Mischief". He has Derek swooning by the end of the night, and Derek doesn't swoon. Their night together, the first and only real connection Derek has had in years, if not his whole life, ends too soon, and he must return to his responsibilities.

Stiles isn't ready to give up on the mysterious, handsome "Samuel" that he met in the tavern, convinced they have a connection. He finds himself risking family secrets and even the peace of his own kingdom just to keep that connection even when it seems impossible. As circumstances force them together despite betrayal and aching hearts on both sides, Derek must fight both his heart and Stiles while Stiles struggles to prove to Derek that everything between them is real.

Go check out Halevetica's AO3 page and enjoy! Don't forget to mind the tags, leave a kudos, maybe even drop a comment!

#sterek #author spotlight #sterek fandom #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #derek hale #halevetica

[vertigoed]

tinder || satoru gojo

PART 2 out

gojo: do you want to have sex?

you stare at your phone with a mixture of disappointment and disgust. this satoru gojo that you matched with was truly a wasted potential. he was your ideal type- tall, massive shoulders and muscly forearms with a pretty face and beautiful blue eyes. every photo on his profile looked like an editorial just by his aura that oozed from the screen.

seriously? not even a hello, how are you? you think to yourself and a sigh escaped your lips, wondering if you should delete him.

normally you would instantly unmatch the guys who asked such vulgar questions upfront. usually, you don't even bother replying, but this time, you found yourself replying to this 30 year old man.

a part of you enjoyed the shred of attention given by this stanger. even though you knew he probably sent the same message to every women he's matched with and fucks anything with a hole.

the man was atrociously stunning, the type to have you squealing on the bed when you realised he swiped back on you. the type to have, without a doubt, thousands of matches spamming his inbox with beautiful women all over the globe asking to meet up with him.

your heart beats fast as you press send.

you: no

you knew you were just playing hard to get, he was probably aware of that too. you wouldn't be surprised if he didn't answer. but within a couple minutes, you get a notification.

gojo: well that's unfortunate

gojo: i really wanted to be with you

your heart pounds faster. you were ashamed at the fact that you were blushing over a stranger asking you for sex. he didn't even have the common courtesy to ask what your interests are, let alone ask how your night is going. you were better than this, right?

you: it's unfortunate that you're such a pervert.

he begins typing back straight away.

gojo: do you want me to take you out on a date before or something?

your eyes roll at how cocky he sounded. this man obviously knew he was attractive and could get away with saying anything he wanted. you chew on your lip as you type your response.

you: obviously why would i sleep with someone i don't know?

gojo: you'll like me though

you decide you'll wait a bit before you reply, not wanting to give him too much validation. you go on his profile, raising an eyebrow at the vague description he had.

Satoru Gojo, 30

occupation: sensei

i like quick texters

perfect, he can wait two hours then, you think to yourself and placed your phone down. it was hard for you to ignore the buzz of your phone, instead you try to focus on the anime playing on the tv screen.

you found yourself checking the time every ten minutes or so, until you couldn't resist seeing what he said.

gojo: let me take you out then and we'll see if you let me fuck you

this time round, something else inside of you fluttered. you hold back the smile creeping on your face, fingers hovering over your phone as you thought of what to say.

you: i dont like to meet strangers without getting to know them first

you had a slight feeling he was going to give up by this point as he just seemed desperate for a quick fuck. even though the man was irresistibly hot, he could be a deranged serial killer so you had to play it safe.

gojo: wanna facetime then?

your eyes widen, your hands instantly reaching to your bed hair as you read his message. there was no way in hell you were going to facetime him. you gulp and toss your phone to the bed again, not knowing what you were going to say.

an hour passed and your phone buzzed again.

gojo: stop playing hard to get, it doesn't work on me

you smirked and typed your answer: it's working isn't it?

gojo: facetime me or you're a bitch

you: i guess i'm a bitch then

gojo: can i call you other names when i fuck you?

your mouth drops at his obnoxious message. you feel yourself tingle at the thought and that truly made you hate every fibre of your being.

normally, guys like satoru disgusted you. turned you off, made you want to gag. as your eyes were glued to the television, you were deep in thought, questioning your entire morals and self esteem. were you really going to let a random man objectify you, just because he was hot?

you look at his profile photo again and you don't even realise that foolish smile you had. i guess a face like that gets a free pass, you think to yourself.

you: we shall see

-

PART 2 out

masterlist

#gojo satoru fic #gojo x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jujutsu kaisen #gojo #gojo satoru fluff

[positivelybeastly]

X-Force #50

All right, well, we finally did it, gang. We hit the big 5-0, and it's all done. And guess what?

It's all up hill from here! Wednesday spoilers below the cut, and . . . quite a lot of rambling? If I'm honest?

So, we open up on X-Force trying to kill good Hank and Simon, because they are dumb, despite Kid Omega and Sage asserting their genius. They blow up their little gay boat of love, and our intrepid heroes get pitched into the drink.

So . . . this is . . .

Why is Simon wearing a rebreather/oxygen tank?

Dear reader, I implore you to open this link, and scroll down to Simon Williams' powers and abilities.

Immortality: Williams is functionally immortal. Because of the ionic energy that empowers him, he no longer ages and is immune to disease and infection. This same energy sustains Williams' physical vitality far more efficiently than the biochemical process that sustain ordinary human life.

Self-Sustenance As a result of his transformation he no longer requires food, sleep, water or oxygen to survive. Simon is now a fully energized entity who can sustain himself indefinitely without nourishment, easily able to live outside habitable planet orbit.

Benjamin Percy, writer; Drew Baumgartner, Assistant Editor; Mark Basso, Editor; Jordan D. White, Senior Editor.

All four of these men are incapable of Googling basic facts about a character that Marvel has owned and been using since the 1960s. Basic facts that are available if you do so much as a basic skim of the man's Wiki page.

So, why is Simon wearing a rebreather/oxygen tank? So that evil Beast can destroy it and send Simon up to the surface, and good Beast and evil Beast can talk uninterrupted. That's the only actual reason. This is laziness from both an editorial and a writing standpoint, since you could have easily just had evil Beast use some kind of gadget to achieve the same effect, but don't worry! This won't be the most egregious lack of attention to detail this issue!

Yaaaaaay . . .

"My Beast," huh, Simon?

Gay.

Also, this scene makes X-Force look fucking pathetic, because Simon could literally wipe the floor with every one of them and not break a sweat. Simon 'my fists are LITERALLY as strong as Thor's hammer' Williams has nothing to fear from fucking Omega Red. His pacifism is the only thing keeping you from looking even stupider than you already do.

Orchis attacks to give the rest of X-Force something to do. I don't care.

But we do get this funny fuckin' shit.

Tie him up?

Logan, did you forget the last time you fought Simon? Or the time before that?

Anyway, the Beasts talk. It's not a particularly interesting conversation, for the most part.

God, this plan is just so fucking stupid.

But.

There is one moment that actually kinda works.

It's really funny to me that two of the worst Beast writers of all time, Brian Michael Bendis and Benjamin Percy, both managed to grok this essential fact - Hank McCoy loved being this version of Hank McCoy.

He was happy.

He was comfortable.

He was loved.

Feline Hank, as much as I love him, as much as he's my favourite iteration of the character, was never happy in his skin. How could he be? It wasn't something he chose, it was forced upon him. To save his life.

Well, what if he didn't want to be saved? What if he felt his life was so miserable that he might've thought, perhaps I should just let it all end?

He had moments, sure. But he never really escaped this feeling. This fear, this anxiety, this trauma, this pain. He carried it with him for the rest of his life. Just constant trauma, death, misery, regret, mistakes, chances not taken, failures.

But he would never be the same again. It's funny. He's the version I love most, but he's the version of Hank who could never love himself.

Which . . . is partly why it bugs me when people say Hank has internalised mutantphobia. Like, he kinda does, but I honestly don't really feel like it's quite that simple. He's comfortable in his simian form, he loves it, he only very occasionally angsts about it, he is happy. It's when he turns feline that he hates his mutant 'gift,' because now he has to worry about what might come next.

This is not the same as, I hate my mutant powers because they make my life inconvenient, because it means people hate and fear me. He can deal with that. He's been dealing with that since he was seventeen and nearly beaten to death by an angry mob for saving a child.

This is, I hate my mutant powers because they are turning me into something less than human or mutant. Because I am a danger. Because I am in danger.

And his fears are validated. He nearly kills Blindfold and Armour. He eats Logan's leg, tastes human flesh. He spends the last seven issues of Whedon's Astonishing X-Men with the taste of human skin and meat on his lips. How the fuck is he meant to be happy like this?

Anyway, back to X-Force. The two Beasts fight. Orchis shit happens.

Fuck off, Logan. Stop acting like you're at all relevant to proceedings.

Gay.

"X-Force ain't the ones you root for. But we get the dirty jobs done."

You didn't fucking do anything.

Hank and Simon could have fixed this entire mess without you. The only reason you were fighting a Sentinel was because you drew it to your location with your jet, firing at a gay little blue man and his fruity ionic boyfriend! You didn't contribute anything!

And then, as if to cap it all off . . .

What a self-aggrandising load of wank.

Hey, what was Colossus' plot arc through this series?

He spent 5 years being mind controlled and killed his girlfriend.

What was Domino's plot arc through this series?

Well, she got hurt a lot. There was that one time she got skinned. That was fun.

What was Laura Kinney's plot arc through this series?

There were entire issues where she didn't speak a fucking word.

You had.

50.

ISSUES.

And this is the best you could come up with?

"The plan was always for the war without to lead to the war within these two characters."

Is that why Wonder Man was more important to the climax of your book than Logan?

Go step on a fucking Lego, Ben.

This was allegedly a run all about black ops wetwork, the sacrifice of your soul to the harsh work that protecting your country requires, the inexorable slide towards moral degradation that comes from compromise.

It ended with a blue man in a stupid plant suit sacrificing himself to save a D-list actor from a bomb that would have crushed Mars into a pocket dimension, all so that his clone can go and become roommates with said D-list actor.

Ben Percy, of all the writers the X-office has welcomed into its midst, you were certainly one of them.

I just . . . this was what was worth jettisoning 40 years of Hank McCoy's personal history for? This cockamamie bullshit? This excuse for you to whip your dick out and pretend you're Larry Hama, when you can barely measure up to Chuck Austen?

Also, Jonathan Hickman, you're kind of on my shitlist for this, too. You may write a halfway decent comic book every now and then - and make no mistake, they're mostly halfway decent, I think he scrapes greatness with his ideas, but his execution is. Dry.

But that's better than his eye for talent, clearly.

I hate being negative. I feel guilty every time. I don't enjoy it. I hate to dwell. I hate to spiral. I hate to obsess over things.

But X-Force is just . . .

X-Force was, just shit. I will go to my grave telling anyone who'll listen that it's not worth reading.

"It'll read better in trades!" No, it won't.

"It has such a good team!" If you burn a pie made of good ingredients, you still have a burnt pie to eat.

"The art is so good!" And if you put sprinkles in a toilet bowl, it's still a toilet. It just looks prettier now.

Oh, and just in case anyone from Marvel ever reads this - they won't, they only hang around on Twitter so people can jerk off about the panels they write explicitly to be shared by the X-stans - I've pirated every comic I've read in the last 10 years. Every issue of X-Force? Pirated. All these caps? Pirated. Every time someone asks me where to read comics, what to read? Pirate links.

I didn't pay a dime for this series. I still feel like I got ripped off.

I almost can't believe it's over . . . what am I going to do with my life now that I don't have X-Force to complain about?

Oh, yeah. I can just read good comics. Nearly forgot about that.

But hey. That leads me to . . . I don't know, I guess, the end of an era.

Because Hank didn't get his memories back. Maybe he will in the future, but I don't have faith that there's anyone at Marvel that feels this strongly about Beast, so I doubt it. I need to write this down, anyway, for the catharsis. It'll help me say goodbye.

Rest in peace, Hank McCoy, 1985-2018.

You were the Beast I fell in love with. You were the man who taught me to be gentle when the world was unkind. You were the man who taught me that sometimes you don't have to love the body you're in, you just have to want to keep on going, because it can get better. There's always that chance. You were the man who led me to my boyfriend of 12 years, who I love more dearly than anything else on the planet. You were my friend when I didn't have many, and you've helped me make a lot of friends I quite appreciate. People I'm proud to know.

You're gone now. A lot of people aren't going to mourn you. They don't appreciate what was lost. But that's okay. I'll tell anyone who'll listen how brilliant you were. I'll try not to hold it against the version of you I'm left with, that he isn't you. He was you once. He could be like you again. Maybe better. I'd like that. I hope that's the case.

I'll keep writing you. I honestly don't think I could ever stop.

I'll try my best not to be sad that you're gone.

I'll try my best to instead be simply glad that you happened.

I'll give the past its due.

Which is all you can do, in the end, for the dead and for the past.

Well.

That, and live.

#outofmuffins #hank mccoy #wednesday spoilers #blood tw

[makethosenarratorsfight]

UNRELIABLE NARRATORS; SIDE C

Dr. John Watson Propaganda:

He literally admits that he changes his stories. "One day the true stories may be told"? Do I need to say more?

Gideon Nav Propaganda:

(Spoilers for Ht9) She just. Fully ignores most of the magic plot happening around her in the first boom to be a dyke. In the second book it’s even less reliable and it’s fully fucking insane. It’s first person but she’s telling YOU (harrow) what is happening and it’s impossible to decipher. The appearance and personality of every character is fully morphed by Gideon’s mean dykishness.

MASSIVE spoilers. Like even mentioning that this is a thing is a huge fucking spoiler. I normally don’t care about spoilers that much but I legitimately feel awful for anyone with even a passing interest in reading these books who has this spoiled for them. Anyway. Yeah turns out the second-person narration is actually a first-person narration by the dead girl living in Harrow’s head whose death traumatized Harrow (and the entire fandom) so badly that she literally lobotomized herself to forget it and give Gideon a chance at not having her soul digested.

constantly adds her own commentary, does not pay attention to the interesting moving parts of the plot bc she's too busy looking at pretty girls, cannot be trusted to read her own intentions correctly never mind anyone else's. I love her dearly

she just doesn’t notice or doesn’t give a shit about a ton of plot-essential information. Harrow and Palamedes are talking about a necromantic theorem that would blow open the entire story if we could hear them? You can instantly feel Gideon’s eyes glaze over and her mind wander to the nearest available hot girl, and our attention goes with her. It’s handled so smoothly that you might not even notice it happening until a second or third read.

More Propaganda under cut!

Gideon Nav is all but useless as a narrator, and we love her for it. So first of all, she knows absolutely nothing. She grew up under a rock. Almost literally. When the plot is happening near her, she almost never tells us about it. Politics, history, and the magic system are boring. Let her know when there's something she can FIGHT. She also has very selective emphasis and focus that can change a scene completely without ever actually lying. She can tell the same story—to us, in her third-person narration as a factual recounting—and in one version the incident will be a schoolyard scuffle, while a later telling will reveal it to have been a near-homicide. She'll confidently interpret other character's motivations and emotions, only to later be proven wrong. But the thing that makes her REALLY unreliable? She lies to HERSELF constantly. She will tell us in her narration that she doesn't give a shit where someone disappeared to, and then spend the whole day searching for them. She'll say she hates someone, when. Well....

okay so i am actually going to do one segment about her own book and one about harrow’s so many apologies and also many spoilers ahead okay? okay so in gideon the ninth it’s a well known thing that she’s an unreliable narrator on two fronts: she lies to herself and therefore us about how she’s feeling and what she’s thinking, and also she isn’t paying attention to the plot at all. the only things she pays any attention to are hot girls, swords, and hot girls with swords. at one point she watches their only way out be sealed off and is so bored about it that she goes to sleep watching it happen, taking absolutely no note of “oh hey they’re trapping us here”. later someone asks IN FRONT OF HER “hey where did all our shuttles go” and shes like “😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌” and still does not make the connection. babygirl. but THEN!!!!! in HARROW the ninth (MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD) gideon is the narrator the ENTIRE TIME (except for the revised canaan house parts) and not only does she editorialize, she also straight up lies about events and motivations! partially justified by her being inside harrow’s head, but like. babygirl. beloved. the interjections of “holy fuck” and “pommel” and othersuch things is so important to my mental health and wellbeing. thank you. thank you for lying to us so so much.

#gideon nav #gideon the ninth #the locked tomb #dr john watson #john watson #watson #sherlock holmes #unreliable narrator battle #unreliable narrators #polls #side c

[loganslowdown4]

I love him 🕶️

🖤🤍💤🥱🛌🕶️☕️

#sleep’s 6th birthday #thomas sanders #sleep sanders #sleep editorial look #remy Sanders #sanders shorts #sassy man

[ridestomars]

MY MEMORY HAS JUST BEEN SOLD – E. MUNSON HEADCANONS

𖥻 summary: a few headcanons about this concept about rockstar!eddie. 𖥻 pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x model!reader. 𖥻 warnings: fluffy ig. not proofread.

💭 liv's thoughts: i can't stop thinking about this so i developed the few ideas i had!! totally gonna write more about this later lmao. i hope you like it! oh, i just posted my 900 followers celebration, so feel free to join!

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU'RE UNDER SIXTEEN.

🎸ㆍBeing just another girl from the small and narrow-minded town of Hawkins, you were never much ambitious about your own dreams, trying to keep them as down-to-Earth as possible. But now you can't help but be amazed at how far you've come as you stare at the February issue of Sports Illustrated magazine with your picture on the cover. 

🎸ㆍAll the stress you felt while posing in that sparkly and very itchy bikini was worth it, you recognize now. You don't think you've ever looked this good in your entire life, and it was certainly the achievement of all your past daydreams. 

🎸ㆍYou have done a few photoshoots throughout your life, but none felt this real or this big. Those small TV commercials and good-girl ads on the interior pages of Seventeen Magazine had nothing on this. The cover meant you were in the same category as the other recognizable names in the industry, and your agent made sure that your gigs were on that level, too: editorials for Vogue, New York, Milan, and Paris Fashion Week, meetings with Gianni Versace and Todd Oldham. 

🎸ㆍYou were getting big, and your lifestyle grew bigger with you. After establishing yourself in Los Angeles your routine consisted of trips to New York, couture fittings, photoshoots, parties until early in the morning, and repeat. Sleep was important, too, though it was never your top priority. 

🎸ㆍEvery time you were out doing something impressive, like getting your pictures taken by Steven Meisel on top of Brooklyn Bridge, wearing only a Chanel gown and no shoes, a little voice in the back of your mind wondered what your friends back in Hawkins might be thinking of you now. 

🎸ㆍIn all honesty, you were never popular, like Steve Harrington or Cindy Cunningham. You have always kept a girl-next-door profile, being nice to everyone who decided to talk to you, but also preferring the company of your intimate circle of friends and staying in, instead of attending those big High School parties. So, you can only imagine their surprise to find out that the model in one of those magazines is you. If they even care. 

🎸ㆍYou just never expected to be answered by bumping into a very familiar face at the Rainbow, on one of your nights out with your LA friends. Sunset Strip was about a mile long, and yet, you two had met again as you were passing by to get back to your table. 

🎸ㆍ"Hey, hotshot," Eddie Munson greeted you with a playful smile, his big brown eyes drifting down your figure before settling on yours. He hasn't changed at all. Long dry hair, slightly flushed cheeks, and that same mischievous gleam in his eyes. He wore his old jean vest, the one with the metal bands patches. The only thing that was different was his new shiny leather jacket, which glowed under the bar's yellow lights. 

🎸ㆍThen, you go to sit at his table, where the rest of his band was. Corroded Coffin was grabbing headlines everywhere in the country, mainly because of their new approach to Metal, composing elaborate guitar riffs and melodic choruses, making commercial music but with that underground edge. But also because of their Dungeons and Dragons inspired songs, which weren't well received by the older audience and labeled as Satanic. Because of this, their albums all have the increasingly popular 'Parents Advisory' sticker. 

🎸ㆍThey are also known to make Nerd-Metal music, which was a genre specifically created to describe their music. Just one album out and they're already infamous. 

🎸ㆍAs far as you remember, Eddie Munson already had a reputation for himself back at home, but now that he had one hundred percent surrendered to the rockstar lifestyle, his notoriety was unprecedented. He was in every music magazine, every TV channel and everyone seems to know who he is – something that he handles more gracefully than you thought he would. Eddie seems to really like the attention. 

🎸ㆍWell, next thing you know, you're standing at the side stage of Corroded Coffin's gig at The Troubadour, and Eddie merrily walks up to you holding a backstage pass. I believe it's needless to say that this was the first of many passes to come.

🎸ㆍThe beginning of your relationship wasn't easy at all, given your busy schedules. It seemed like whenever you had free time, he had an interview; or when he could spend the entire day at his hotel room, hanging out, you had to leave for another tiring photoshoot. It took a long while until you figured out how to make things work. 

🎸ㆍBut you have to admit that those late-night escapades to his rented room in Chateau Marmont are forever engraved in your mind. Besides the endless partying, there was nothing better than laying on Eddie's side while he lazily played guitar for you, as you shared one of those long lounging chairs by the hotel's poolside. 🎸ㆍHe swears he had never written as many songs as he did when you did that. The thought of you, laying so gracefully on that chair with the sun coming up above you, on the horizon… man, it inspires him to the max. 

🎸ㆍTogether, you started to build the reputation of an it-couple, or whatever those teenage magazines say about you. All you know is that his fans also became your fans, especially the young girls. Suddenly, it was like Corroded Coffin's concert audiences became a sea of mini-yous – wearing clothes reminiscent of your style, haircuts similar to yours, eyeliner just as smokey.

🎸ㆍAppearing on the cover of gossip magazines started to be normal for the two of you. People would start the most outlandish rumors about your relationship, and according to the issues, you got married exactly ten times throughout 1994.

🎸ㆍBut your rising fame as a couple also brought the most recognized campaign of your career so far: the Guess Jeans advertisement you shot walking through West Hollywood, just living another normal day of your lives – well, with constant wardrobe changes. There were a bunch of really good pictures, like the one of you in all-denim at a record store, holding Corroded Coffin's new album; one where Eddie is sitting on top of a random motorcycle (he tried to buy it off the owner on the spot, but the offer was rejected) with his usual jeans and leather jacket combo; and finally, one of you two walking on Hollywood's Walk of Fame. His arm is thrown on top of your shoulders as you hold his hand, and the picture captures your matching boots perfectly. 

🎸ㆍEddie requests for that photo to be printed on a big canvas so that he could hang it up on his living room wall, and it's his main decor item ♡

LIKES, REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE APPRECIATED!

eddie masterlist | main masterlist | navigation ── beep! you have an invitation to join my 900 followers matinee. take a look at the movies i'm currently screening!

#eddie munson x reader #liv talks about eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #model!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader

[classyinnie]

𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬; 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮

content: Keiji Akaashi x reader — how Akaashi would comfort a mentally drained, overthinking reader | hurt/comfort, established relationship | 1.0k words

warnings: mentions of burnout and stress

notes: Write comfort fics for when you need comfort >>>

[7:37 p.m.]

At the peak of hopelessness, you hunched over your work area. Opened in front of you were files of unfinished artworks. However, despite the flashes of color and potential references, you couldn’t think of something to create.

The submission for your client was tomorrow night. You've been working on this project for a week and still haven't produced a favorable outcome. You have several drafts, but none of them are adequate or even close to workable.

You wished to pause time for a moment to catch your breath. Close all browser windows and relax in the comforting presence of your husband – who is situated behind you on the bed, busy with work. He’s sporting an old sweater and has his working glasses on, making him look cozier than he already is. You desired - no, required - a break, but you cannot afford to waste time. 

So, grudgingly, you pull yourself together and scroll through the number of unpolished drafts. Hoping and praying that a sliver of creativity will enter your burnt-out mind. 

[9:50 p.m.]

Akaashi brings you a sandwich, sliced apples, and a cup of hot tea. You looked at the clock and were surprised to see that it had already been 2 hours. A sense of dread rose in your chest.

Akaashi kisses your brow while leaning in to inspect your work. "That looks incredible, hon." He says while lightly stroking your hair. You close your eyes and relish in the feeling, desperate to succumb to the grip of sleep. "Please don't overwork yourself, okay?"

You have to force yourself to nod. “Okay. You too.”

Akaashi hums before returning to his editorial proposals. Looking back at your work, you couldn't see what he meant by "incredible". All you could point out were flaws and squandered opportunities. Every line and color on the screen screams mediocre.

At this point, you were beyond worried about what your client would think. They trusted you, and in return, you are giving them a piece of rubbish.

You are running out of time.

You rub your eyes, willing the exhaustion to leave. In desperation, you try to arrange the elements on the screen, seeking to fix the compositions. 

The color scheme is revolting. There's almost nothing to look at.

Aware of the worst possible outcomes, the weariness of looking at the same things over and over again and not coming up with anything new seemed to weigh heavier than it did. Before you knew it, you were spiraling through the surging panic of endless possibilities of failure.

[10:00 p.m.]

“Akaashi.” You say his name like a plea. As if chanting it would push back the thoughts that were threatening to cave in.

“Yes, love?” He calls out. You remain frozen in the spot. Unable to squeeze out a reply. The bed shifts and Akaashi find himself kneeling beside you. Slowly, he angles your chair so he can see your face better. He holds your cheeks, surprised to feel their coldness, and asks, "What's wrong?" 

"I can't do anything right," You say. 

He scans your eyes. "That’s not true, you know that. What caused these thoughts, hm?"

You leaned forward to his touch, resting your forehead on his shoulders. Exhausting. It was all so exhausting. So silent yet so loud.

He takes your hand in his and squeezes it, attempting to bring blood and warmth back to your pale skin. “Can you feel this?” He presses his thumb against your palm, gently but firmly enough to draw your attention away from the overwhelming feeling in your chest.

You nod, drawing yourself inexorably closer to him. Akaashi carefully pulls you up and guides you to sit at the side of the bed.

“Fight it off love. It’s not true. I’m right here, I won’t leave.” He says repeatedly as he tucks your head under his chin. His one hand constantly presses down on your cold hands, while the other gently strokes your hair.

You feel the first stream of tears roll down your cheeks.

Akaashi hums a familiar worship tune near your ear. You allow the warm sensation of familiarity to embrace you. Allow his heartbeat to guide your breathing, and his presence to ground you in a state of calm.

"Lend me your sorrows, and I'll face each one of them with you," He says.

So you did. You voiced out each fear slipping through the surface.

…Your fear of settling for less because you are unable to produce something better. 

…Your fear of not being able to produce anything good, coherent, or worthy of the request.

…Your fear of not meeting the standard.

Akaashi listened throughout it all. Intently, so.

Speaking your concerns aloud was enough to alleviate some of your unease. It was able to make you realize that some of the doubts were only the result of your overthinking.

When the last of your worries were recited, Akaashi didn’t waste time pulling you from his chest to look you in the eye. He kisses a stray tear away. "Success is not measured by how productive you are or how much you put yourself in," He says softly. A gentle caress. “It is not measured by how much you can do until your body is forced to break down because it can no longer function."

Brushing the strands of hair off of your face, he continues. “You’re just burnt out at the moment. So please, take a break, okay?”

You adamantly shake your head. You can’t waste time. “I can’t. I need to finish it all.”

Akashi's eyes soften, a look of patience on his face. “It’s not a matter of you can’t, love. You must. I’ll help you brainstorm ideas after you’ve had at least a little rest. You need it.”

Upon seeing that you have no choice. He is right after all. You give in, nodding. “Okay.”

Akaashi pulls you to the center of the bed and positions you comfortably in front of him. He holds you until he notices your even breathing, indicating you've fallen asleep. 

In the stillness, he whispers, "I’ll fight off every thought that’s too loud for even you to silence." A promise marked on this day and for the future beyond. 

#II. –⚜ jasswrites. #haikyu #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu x reader #haikyu imagines #haikyu headcanons #hq imagines #hq fluff #hq x reader #hq x you #akaashi x reader #hq akaashi #akaashi scenarios #akaashi fluff #akaashi imagine #akaashi keji x reader #akaashi x y/n #haikyuu akaashi #akaashi fic #akaashi imagines #akaashi x gender neutral reader #akaashi headcanons #akaashi comfort

[armpirate]

Anti-romantic || JJk | Ch. 3

Pairings: Boxer!Jungkook x fem!reader || Enemies to lovers, neighbors

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, curse, illegal boxing, violence

Warnings: fuckboy!Jungkook x reader, smut, dirty talk, curse, mention of tarot and fate

Summary: Jungkook had always been carefree when it came to love. He always believed he was worth sharing himself with everyone, and thought it was selfish of him to ever think of keeping himself exclusive to just one person.

And maybe that was exactly what got him into the big problem he was in.

A curse that kept him away from love didn't seem an issue for him. The fact that his ex-girlfriend thought he'd be affected by the idea of the girls he slept with running away from him after sex was ridiculous. She actually did him a favor, and took a burden away from him.

At least that was what he thought at first.

He had never found himself thinking of the possibility of repeating with neither of his hook ups, because they disappeared before he was able to even think about it. But when he makes the mistake of sleeping with the sexy neighbor that lives in front of him, he finds himself hoping to get the chance for a second round every time their paths cross.

Y/n hated him the second he set foot inside the building by the way he started making her life a miserable mess for no reason. Sleeping with him was a big mistake she wasn't thinking of repeating. At least not until he came up with the excuse that she rejected him for a curse. Not only she thought he was annoying, but she was also convinced he was crazy. 

There was no way she could take him seriously.

Aprox. time of reading: 14 minutes

Previous || Next

MASTERLIST

Y/n stopped in front of her elevator, wondering whether she should get in there to get to her floor, and then she looked to her left. She could see the few steps that marked the beginning of a long way up to the third floor, and while she fixed her eyes on the grayish stain -that had been there ever since she moved to the building-, she remembered how judged she felt earlier that day when she joined her colleagues' conversation.

—Your metabolism works like that now, but it'll go all down to your ass if you keep a sedentary life —her brunette coworker sighed—. You'll also feel happier with yourself. You'll feel productive. I promise you, going to the gym will change your life.

Donna was a failed attempt of influencer. Of course she would preach the fitness life she advertised on her social media, she had an image to maintain -even if she was still working in the editorial as the big mouth that made young girls feel bad over not looking like her. Not only teenage girls, Y/n herself let her comment and cocky smile get to her, instantly thinking that she maybe was right.

Her colleague was dumb, but she was even dumber for paying attention to whatever bullshit she said, and choosing to get to her floor through the stairs.

She didn't go to the gym, but she had a long route -coming and going- from her place to the station, and from the station to the workplace. It wasn't like she didn't move throughout the day. Actually, she thought she moved a little bit too much.

After reaching the second floor, she could feel that burning sensation on her calves, rising to the back of her knees. But she still ignored it, cheering herself with the idea of being almost there.

Pulling from the railing, she gave herself the last impulse to give the first step on the third floor, sighing with a tired smile as she threw her head back. Although it was soon replaced by a whine as she bent her body onwards, assuring herself she wouldn't be as dumb to do that again, unless she had no other choice.

As she looked down, she noticed all the traces of her neighbor's moving were completely gone: there were no small cork balls, the huge box was also gone... and so it was the small note she hung on his door.

Her shoulder sank to her sides when she turned around and realized the note changed its position, going from his door to being hung at hers then. She hurried to the door, taking the piece of paper, just to see he wrote something under her first note.

"It's easier for me to understand things when someone speaks to me directly, instead of leaving notes"

And the smiley face next to it almost made her lose it.

Her right eye started throbbing, almost blinking by itself as she crumpled the paper in her hand. But even in that situation, she tried to find as much inner peace as possible, slowly turning around to his door when she felt the throb almost disappearing.

If he wanted her to speak to him directly, she would.

She rang his bell once... twice... three times. She knocked on his door, and waited for him to open it, only to be paid back with silence.

Maybe if she had had a good day -instead of being questioned about her habits-, and maybe, just maybe, if she had slept properly -which was ironic whose fault it was-, she probably wouldn't have gone the bad route. But she was tired, angry, and the rope to her patience kept shortening a little.

Twisting her lips, she took out her phone and opened the residents' group chat.

Y/n: The last few days a few annoying and noisy activities had been carried out. In order to keep the good environment in the building, I ask for the new resident to adapt to the norms and respect that are part of our building. Thank you.

She closed the app and locked her screen, saving the phone back in her jacket as she made her way to her apartment.

She couldn't feel bad about it even if she thought about it. She called out his attention in a respectful and private way, and he mocked her for it. Now she was sure he would indeed understand what the characters on the text were saying. And if he wasn't able to understand what was written, at least shame would get to him.

Shame would get to him... What a joke that was.

Her neighbor was indeed in the residents' group chat, and he did read her text, that was why he clapped back with something that had nothing to do with the noise.

Unknown: Since we're at it. I would also like to talk about something that's also been bothering me since I moved in. I come pretty late at night, and I always end up wet because 3A waters her plants in the balcony that's on the street side.

Not only did she think it was the dumbest complaint he could think of, it was also a lie. By the time she watered her plants, he wasn't even home. She knew it because the way he interrupted her sleep followed an annoying pattern that always started around three and four in the morning.

Either way, that message took Roger not longer than half a day to show up at her door, reaching out to her in a friendly way about the flowers issue. He was something like the person in charge to keep the good environment in the building, and to keep note of every complaint or any problem that could come up regarding the place they were living -at least regarding the common areas.

—So you come to talk to me, but you don't talk to him? —she raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms over her chest.

—I did talk to him —he passed his hand over his shaven head—. Yesterday morning before he left for work. And it seems like he was rational about it, so I'm asking you to take the flowers away. Use plastic ones, you won't have to water them. It's a win win —he suggested with a forced smile.

Y/n gave in, but not without throwing a killing glare at his closed door, before she made sure to slam the door as hard as possible before she stepped back inside. On one hand, she did it because of the little problem she had with it. But on the other hand, she felt chills running down her spine as the walls vibrated to the sound.

Never, in the year and a half she had been living there, she had been called out for anything. And after he showed up, she felt judged and cornered for the dumbest reasons. The fact that it also happened the only day she'd stay home, because she finally managed to get her landlord to hire someone to repair the door, made her even more frustrated.

She tried to distract herself by doing some cleaning, and hung out the washing on the edge of the window that was on the common interior courtyard of the building.

Maybe she shouldn't have done it, but her rage was acting on her behalf. Pressing her lips together, she used the broomstick to reach out to the velvet shirt that was hanging on his clothesline under his window. She had no idea what she wanted to do with it, but she gasped when instead of hooking it up around the tip, it fell three floors down.

Could be that was even better.

With a smirk, she picked up the bottle of bleach that was saved in one of the lower drawers in her kitchen, throwing a bit over the wrinkled fabric.

—You're bothered about water. Let's see if it's better with bleach.

Y/n closed her window, and drew the thin white curtain, after all of her clothes were hanging, taking the rest of the morning to wait for someone that should be about to come.

Jungkook woke up with a groan, rolling in his bed, stretching his body with a smile when he realized he had been able to sleep without being interrupted by his neighbor.

It was the first time since he moved there that he was able to sleep those seven hours in a row -because not even the weekends were an excuse for some little peace between them. In a good mood, he walked around his home, tidying some things up.

Honestly, one of the girls was right. He felt way better after all of the boxes were gone and he found some stability in the order he settled. It felt like his home, finally.

His mood was still cheerful, despite noticing one of the most expensive shirts he owned on the floor of the common courtyard. Could be he didn't place it properly, or maybe the pinches broke, since the two of them were also on the floor.

Jungkook walked down the stairs, giving little jumps until he reached the entrance to that common area -that he found quite useless. His mood changed in a matter of seconds, after he picked up his shirt. There was a huge stain that adopted a pink-ish tone that stood out among the velvety ones. As he raised it to check it better, a strong chemical odor he slightly recognized filled his nostrils, forcing him to lower his arms.

—That crazy psycho —he muttered, looking up at her window.

That shirt cost him seven stitches on his eyebrow, after he fell knocked out in a fight. He had allowed that other bigger boy to break his face, because it was dealt that way between that other guy's trainer and him. And that maniac destroyed it in a matter of seconds.

While he looked at the stain on his shirt, he found a man curiously looking at the entrance while he waited for the lift. And judging by his uniform and the tool case he was carrying, he guessed he wasn't there to pay a visit to someone.

—Woodsbroz? —Jungkook asked, raising his eyebrow.

—Ah yeah —the man smiled—. We work with wood, but mainly doors and windows.

He smirked, nodding at the information, although he wasn't genuinely curious. He was just thinking out loud, unaware that the man could easily hear him. That smirk quickly disappeared, turning into a thinking expression when the man hit the third floor button before he could.

—Are you going to work at the 3A? —Jungkook casually asked, turning to him.

—Yeah, why? —the man frowned.

The younger boy grimaced at the comment, auguring anything but good news to the older man at his right.

—She isn't home today —Jungkook lied.

—Seriously? —the man scoffed, tilting his head annoyed— I was pretty clear that I'd come, and they assured me there would be someone waiting for me. How am I supposed to work like this? —he mumbled to himself.

—Yeah, some people have no respect —Jungkook agreed—. Well, have a nice day —he greeted them when they reached his floor.

—Have a nice day. Thanks for warning me.

Y/n ran to the door when she heard the sound of the elevator reaching her floor, looking through her peephole, but only seeing a tall auburn man with short hair. She wasn't quite sure of who he was, but he did look good from behind, even if he was wearing baggy clothes that barely allowed her to admire him properly. But all that attraction slowly vanished when he twisted his tattooed wrist, opening the lock and stepping inside the house she had been having nightmares with.

So that man was the one she started a war with? She was damned.

Her blood was boiling after she called her landlord, and he told her the company did send someone, but they were told no one was at home. Her jaw was clenched so tight that she could almost hear her teeth squeaking as soon as she was aware of what happened.

Of course her neighbor had something to do with the fact that her door would still not close properly.

She lost one day of work, which meant losing ten dollars in subsistence allowance, and she was convinced she'd have to lose another day of work to be able to be home when the carpenter showed up again, which meant the loss of another ten dollars. And the fact that she wasn't going to work, and there was no way she could justify it, also meant she would have an absence of two days and she wouldn't be paid for those days either.

Of course that morning she wouldn't let him sleep, sticking her wireless speaker to their shared wall to blast some 90s techno songs. There was no response on his side though, until late into the night, that he started kicking the wall past twelve.

And he played it double.

She didn't know. She thought that maybe he was waiting for her next move until the old lady from the 2B apartment knocked on her door with a dirty letter on her name.

Her breathing was faster, her chest was bulking with anger when she saw the stains of sauces on a penalty fee that would have cost her three hundred dollars if her neighbor hadn't noticed it in the bin. She had enough with being called out in the middle of nowhere after she tried to sneak in the subway, because she realized way too late she didn't pay for the monthly pass three days into the month, to having to add a bigger amount of money to pay.

She could only think about how she hoped he didn't dare to make a sound that night.

But of course 3B was going to do the exact opposite she wanted. She moaned into her pillow when his headboard started kicking the shared wall with a rhythm move, slowly being followed by some whines and groans.

As usual, Y/n kicked back. As expected, she was completely ignored, which added with what happened earlier that evening, didn't help to rub her inner peace.

She thought of where to hit him to hurt him the most, and it was when she remembered the drill she bought shortly after she moved there, to assemble some of the furniture that didn't come with the house. She placed the biggest drill bit until it clicked, starting the engine a few times to make sure it worked.

Jungkook, whose face was sunk on the neck of the brunette he took home, moved up slightly at that weird sound, looking down at her. Maybe he was already imagining things, or so he thought when she looked up to him, confused at his sudden move. He simply shook his head, bending over again to kiss her before she made them roll over the mattress so she would be on top of him.

It was the last move she could do before the thick drill bit crossed the wall, at the length of Y/n's head -more or less-, over the part that was closer to the corner rather than the bed.

The girl hopped off Jungkook scared, looking at the small hole that had been formed in front of their eyes.

—The fuck? —Jungkook mumbled, kneeling on the bed to see it better.

But even if he had wanted to pay more attention to it, he still tried to ignore it, trying to reach the girl that was now sitting on the bed, trying to be as far from the wall as possible.

—She's just a crazy lady. Let's get back to where we were —Jungkook tried to convince her.

But Y/n's voice, warning them of consequences if they kept bothering her, made the girl push him away as Jungkook chuckled at the tone of voice his neighbor was using.

—Are you fucking serious right now? You think this shit is funny? —the girl reproached him— You're insane —she concluded, getting up to get dressed.

Jungkook simply laid on his bed, still giggling at the length his neighbor went to to keep that push and pull game they had going on alive. He knew any other person wouldn't have found the funny part of that at all, but he couldn't help it. It was way too comedic to ignore it.

—Do you want me to call you? —he asked.

—Don't —she rushed to answer—. In fact, don't approach me if you see me on the street. Forget I exist.

Not like it was difficult for him either. Added to his lack of desire to see her again, they were living in Chicago. The chances of them coming across one another were quite low.

After he was left alone again, he curiously peeked through the hole Y/n had just created, disappointed at seeing no one there. His neighbor had a screw loose, but she certainly was a good sight by the little he saw of her his second day in the building.

Jungkook stepped back startled when suddenly his vision was obstructed by a ball of paper.

—I didn't think you were the shy type —he commented.

—Not only disrespectful and noisy, you're also a voyeur —she replied back—. You do have all the negative traits someone could find in a person.

He smirked, finding himself somehow attracted to the melodic voice behind that wall.

She could only hope what happened that night would make things calmer for them. But no. She was sure he was even louder on purpose, and it was driving her insane. To the point where she ended up calling the police, only to be told that if she had a problem, she should simply buy herself a pair of plugs and let people live. She remembered how embarrassed, yet annoyed, she felt that night. Right after talking with her neighbor, they knocked on her door to tell her there were more serious problems than hearing her neighbor having sex. And if there was a problem, she should try to speak to him directly.

As if she hadn't tried that already.

Through his peephole, Jungkook giggled at his neighbor's expression after the cops left, and how she threw a death glare at him before she went back to her apartment and closed her door.

It was when, after a few times, one of her phone calls was answered with a "You again?", that she knew it would be of no help.

So, after feeling hopeless and completely by herself in that fight, she decided to play his game again. If he played music late into the night while she was asleep, she started her morning making noise, moving things and hitting their shared wall, until it was time for her to leave back to work.

If he was noisy, she was even noisier.

The loud sounds of pans, or her just accidentally hitting the wall, were getting to his last nerve. Usually, he never woke up any earlier than eleven, because his trainings never started before two in the afternoon, and until then Jimin was the one looking after the gym. But ever since they started that small war between them, his schedules started to change.

It was as if there was a constant war between them, and neither of them could find a way to stop it.

Taglist: @jk97bam @ttanniett

#armpirate #army #boxer #bts #btsfanfic #btsff #btsjungkook #btssmut #btsxreader #fanfic #ff #jeongguk #jeonjungkook #jk #jkxreader #jungkook #jungkookxreader #kook #kookie #kpop #reader #readerinsert #anti-romantic

[twopoppies]

Second part of their investigation https://bylinetimes.com/2023/07/20/dan-wootton-was-a-serial-bully-at-the-sun-but-bosses-promoted-him-as-complaints-were-silenced/

This is honestly horrific. And the thing is, you can be sure these are likely the least of the things he’s done.

[…]

In one of the cases, a very senior member of The Sun team took a kitchen knife to a meeting with a former editor of the newspaper with the intention of slitting their own wrists in front of the executive, who had sided with Wootton in a dispute ultimately settled for a six-figure sum.

The Sun made the pay-out at the eleventh hour ‘at the steps’ of an employment tribunal in 2018, at which emails from Wootton disclosed to the employee’s lawyers would have entered the public record and led to judicial findings of fact.

Former staff have told Byline Times’ investigators how Wootton “continually tried to make people admit they were bisexual or gay – he challenged people on their sexual orientation all the time”.

Several sources have spoken of the sexual harassment of male colleagues, while at least two female colleagues were reduced to tears daily by his conduct.

Naming three particular targets of “very inappropriate behaviour”, they said: “He sexually harassed these male colleagues all the time. One would come in and Dan would often comment on the way he looked and goad him, saying ‘are you sure you want to be married? We all know you’re gay’.

“He was pressurising them to turn [gay] and acting like it was a joke but people – men, women, everyone who heard – were visibly uncomfortable especially as it was coming from a boss.”

A different source said: “You were either with him or against him. If you were against him, he would make your life a misery, and if you were with him, he would treat you as a slave. He’d demand people run errands for him – get him food or drinks or do his dry cleaning. It was so demeaning but it amused him. If you wanted to stay in your job, there was no choice but to endure.”

Byline Times can reveal how another complainant started losing their hair with stress after working closely with Wootton, whose conduct as The Sun’s executive editor was characterised as being one who considered himself “untouchable – he made you feel helpless”.

[…]

The staffer said: “It was ridiculously stressful. He was constantly condescending and sarcastic. Diaries of his behaviour were kept – the things he was doing.

“As the boss, he had control over the company payment system. He would sabotage other journalists. He would go into the payment system and find out the names of contacts. He would then get in touch with them himself and make them deal with him directly.

“It was impossible to do your job. The most valuable thing a journalist has are their contacts. They are our stock in trade. It was a classic campaign of constructive dismissal. He knew what he was doing.”

A different member of staff became “thinner and thinner” and “cried every day” they worked for Wootton, who they said “destroyed” them “physically and mentally”.

Another editorial worker said: “There were months and months of real bullying – mind games and heavy emails often late at night so bad they ruined your sleep.”

x

Part One of the investigation here.

#Dan Wootton

[pinkch3rie]

~coquette self care tips~

🍒 have a skincare routine that suits u! 

there’s no need for a 10 step skincare routine, all you really need are makeup remover, cleaser, moisturizer, some special treatment serums if you really need it, and sunscreen. If you want to figure out if there is an area in need of improvement or how to treat a special concern, one thing I’ve found helpful is to go back to the basics and add products after having that routine for a while. 

🍒shower on a regular basis and take care of your teeth. 

this should go without saying but take care of other parts of your body too. your teeth are so important and brushing them regularly is the best way to protect them, especially if you’re like me and live for sweet treats. as for a shower routine, you only need a body wash/soap that you like the smell of, some type of exfoliant, and lotion. again, do not fall into consumerist traps that is not very lana del rey vinyl of you. 

🍒pretty ppl need pretty hair

wash and condition your hair based on your hair type! and by that I mean wash it as often or not often as you need to. In between washes, use a hair oil/serum to keep ur luscious locks healthy. same as skincare, start with a very basic routine and add onto it as you see fit. If you dye your hair, try to maintain your color so that it doesn’t become patchy. finally, don’t forget to style your hair everyday! they do not need to be intricate, but i find doing a cute hairstyle just makes me feel better, even if it is a very slight change. and sleep on a satin pillowcase.

🍒get ur beauty sleep

I love sleeping but I can’t always get my 8 hours, either due to school work or I just can’t fall asleep. to solve that, i started to use a shit ton of fairy lights and other ambient lights in my room, and turning them on after 10pm. I also suggest doing something fun but relaxing when you’re ready for bed, no matter how late it is. this helps ur brain destress and get better quality sleep. for me it is crocheting/reading/watching a youtube video. I also recently started wearing vintage slips and nightgowns instead of pajamas, which not only are cute but also very comfortable. oh and i think having sex before bed also helps me fall asleep but it’s completely circumstantial. 

🍒spice things up w/ accesories

having a signature scent is important, but I also love having a signature jewelry. instead of buying more lesser quality pieces, invest in 2 or 3 well made, gold or silver quality pieces that you’re going to wear everyday. some motifs i personally love are hearts, fruits, initials, and bows, but yours can(and should) look different. the great thing about these pieces is that you can just keep them on your body at all times, saving time and effort in the morning. 

🍒romanticize school/work/errands/whatever you need to do

oh you have to go to school? that is so cute it’s so americana unreleased lana del rey. but you have to work at a shitty minimum wage job? it’s ok so does *insert whatever character you want*. you have to go to a stupid 4 hour lab for your chem class that’s only worth 1 credit? it’s ok ur a woman in stem and isn’t a lab coat all the smart girls wear in sci fi movies? have an essay to write? you’re literally just like a journalist girl living in nyc working for an editorial. stay delusional but don’t let it go to your head

#Coquette #coquette aesthetic #coquette community #mine