#US Laundry Detergent Market

[pujarathod]

[p0orbaby]

Dancing in the Dark

summary: a tactics coach and a vice captain walk into a bar… have a not so secret relationship

warnings: mentions of sex but nothing graphic

a/n: i asked for requests and someone sent me this gem

word count: 3.1k

-

Leah texts you at exactly 12:02 a.m., a time she insists is “late enough to avoid suspicion but early enough that we’re not knackered in the morning.” The precision of it is very Leah—practical, calculated, with just the faintest whisper of rebellion. It’s always the same text—Room 308—as if she’s writing it for a stranger who might need the address for their sat nav. She never adds punctuation. You think that’s intentional, a way of keeping it casual, devoid of any intimacy that could be misconstrued.

You’ve stopped bothering to reply. It’s not that you don’t want to see her—want isn’t the word for what you feel when you see her name flash on your screen, but it’s close enough. It’s that typing on my way feels excessive when the answer’s already obvious. She knows you’ll come. You know she knows. And there’s something about that silent agreement that feels like the only part of this whole arrangement that makes sense.

The desk lamp casts a faint yellow glow across the room as you pack up. Your laptop goes into the bag first, followed by the notepad you’ve been using to scribble ideas for tomorrow’s strategy meeting. You pause to carefully align its corner with the edge of the desk—a habit you’ve had since you were a child, though you’re not sure if it’s a quirk of personality or a learned behaviour from years of Catholic school and its draconian rules about neatness.

Your hoodie is next, slung over the back of the chair like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. It’s an old one from university, the logo cracked and peeling, the sleeves stretched from too many washes. It smells faintly of your laundry detergent—a scent marketed as “ocean breeze,” though you’ve always thought it smells more like cheap fabric softener and an overactive imagination. Nothing about it suggests the ocean, or even a breeze. It’s more akin to the air freshener in a Southend-on-Sea rental cottage, the kind with faded floral curtains and a broken kettle. You wonder, briefly, if Leah would find this thought amusing. Probably. She has a way of laughing at things that don’t seem funny until she does.

The hotel corridor is silent, save for the distant hum of a vending machine and the occasional creak of overused floorboards. You walk quickly, your trainers barely making a sound on the patterned carpet—a gaudy, swirling design in shades of burgundy and gold that seems to scream corporate retreat. You keep your eyes trained forward, as if avoiding eye contact with the carpet will somehow render you invisible to anyone who might happen to step out of their room.

You’ve mapped out every staff member’s room, memorised the most efficient route, and calculated the probability of running into someone based on their known habits. Karen from PR always goes to bed early, probably still jet-lagged from the US tour. The physio, Jamie, is a night owl, but he’s more likely to be glued to Netflix than wandering the halls. Leah finds this level of detail ridiculous.

“You’re acting like MI5 is going to raid the place,” she’d said once, sprawled on her bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Her hair was still damp from the shower, a faint halo of gold catching the light as she turned her head to look at you. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know”

She’d been peeling off your shirt as she said it, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, her eyes glittering with amusement. You wanted to argue, to tell her that fun is precisely what you’re having, in the only way you know how to have it: meticulously planned, risk-assessed, and executed with the precision of a military operation. But then her hands had moved lower, and the argument had dissolved into something else entirely. Something much harder to put into words.

-

Room 308. You knock twice—firm, precise knocks that betray none of the absurd nervousness bubbling under the surface. The kind that makes your palms clammy and your chest feel like it’s trying to audition for a drum solo. The knocks are part of a ritual now, as familiar as tying your boots before a match or double-checking the pitch markings. Three sharp raps, never four, because three would seem impatient, and two would feel too casual, as though you’re dropping by to borrow sugar or ask for her Netflix password.

The door opens almost instantly, as if she’s been standing on the other side, waiting for you. Leah’s dressed in one of those oversized T-shirts she always wears off the pitch, the kind that blur the line between effortless and lazy. This one is black, or it might have been once, but it’s faded now, the fabric soft and worn thin at the seams. The logo across the chest is barely legible—AC__ME—as though it’s been through the wash one too many times. You can’t tell if it’s a nod to Arsenal, a subtle homage to Wile E. Coyote’s endless misfortunes, or one of those niche designer brands that only appear on people with a six-figure salary and a curated Instagram aesthetic. It’s probably the latter. Leah strikes you as the kind of person who’d know what Vetements is and pretend she doesn’t care about it while secretly owning three pieces.

“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let you in. Her voice has this easy warmth to it, like she’s just woken up from the kind of nap that makes you forget what year it is. There’s a hint of amusement in her tone, the faint lilt of someone who’s just thought of something funny but isn’t planning to share it with the group. You’ve always liked that about her—how she can hold a joke in her mouth like a secret, like it’s something she doesn’t owe to anyone else.

“Hi,” you reply, because what else is there to say? Hello feels too formal, like you’ve shown up for a job interview, and anything else—anything softer, more intimate—feels dangerous. Like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff just to see how far you can lean before gravity kicks in.

Her room is a mirror image of yours, down to the garish burgundy carpet and beige curtains that don’t quite close properly. It’s a symphony of stereotypical hotel design, where the furniture all looks like it’s been bolted down as a precaution against theft. But there’s something different about hers, something distinctly Leah. It smells faintly of her perfume, a citrusy Chanel scent you’d once looked for in John Lewis out of curiosity. You’d sprayed it onto one of those paper tester strips, only to feel your lungs contract at the price tag. It smells like sunshine and sharp edges, and now it’s permanently tangled up in your memory of her.

The bed is unmade, the covers thrown haphazardly across the mattress like they’ve been caught mid-escape. One pillow teeters on the edge, a casualty of her apparent inability to sleep neatly. There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand, its label peeling from condensation. A pair of socks—crew-length, white with a small Nike tick—lie abandoned on the floor near the foot of the bed, one inside out. The room is messy in a way that surprises you. Leah, who is precise and meticulous on the pitch, leaves her personal space in a state of mild chaos. And for some reason, it makes you smile. It’s humanising, like finding out that superheroes still get toothpaste on their shirts.

You step inside, careful not to trip over her trainers—Adidas Sambas in a muted beige tone, scuffed at the edges but somehow still immaculate in their coolness. The door clicks shut behind you, the sound punctuating the silence like a full stop. You turn to face her, and she’s leaning against the dresser now, her hands resting in the pockets of her shorts. She’s watching you, her eyes half-lidded and impossibly blue, the kind of blue that makes you think of open skies and lost afternoons.

“What?” you ask, because the weight of her gaze always makes you self-conscious, like you’ve walked into a room wearing mismatched socks.

“Nothing,” she says, her mouth curving into a smirk. “You just look…” She pauses, letting the sentence hang in the air like an unfinished melody.

“What?” you repeat, a little sharper this time, though you’re smiling too.

“Like you’re trying not to smile,” she finishes, pushing off the dresser and moving closer.

And maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying not to give away how much you like this—the quiet intimacy of it, the way she looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who knows what this feels like. Maybe you’re trying not to admit how much you want to reach out and touch her, to close the space between you with a single step. But you don’t. Not yet.

-

The sex is unhurried, languid. Leah moves with the same precision she does on the pitch, her hands mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw, like she’s planning her next move three steps in advance. It’s the same deliberation you’ve seen in her during matches—the way she reads the game like it’s written in a language only she understands. But this isn’t a match. There are no spectators, no whistles, no rules, just her and you and the slow, deliberate way she’s undoing you, piece by piece.

Her kisses are deep, focused. They land with intent, the kind that makes you forget your own name, let alone the fragile, tenuous boundaries of this arrangement. Her mouth lingers on yours, then moves to your neck, her lips brushing just beneath your ear. She doesn’t bite, not yet, but you can feel her teeth graze your skin, an unspoken promise that leaves you gasping, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of the hotel sheets.

Her fingertips press into your skin—not hard enough to hurt but just firm enough to leave the ghost of her touch behind, as though she’s marking her territory. They trace the length of your back, down your spine, to your hips. Her thumbs skim over the waistband of your joggers before she tugs them down with a kind of casual confidence that feels maddeningly unfair. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She always does.

“You’re so quiet,” she murmurs, her voice low, teasing. She presses a kiss to your collarbone, her hands slipping beneath your shirt to push it up, her palms warm against your ribs. “That’s not like you”

“I’m—” You try to respond, but her mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, and the words catch in your throat.

“Exactly,” she says, her voice smug as she moves lower, her lips trailing down your chest, your stomach, her pace agonisingly slow. She hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips instinctively, barely registering the soft laugh she lets out, the sound dark and smooth like melted chocolate.

There’s no rush. Leah’s always like this—methodical, unhurried. She knows how to take her time, how to keep you teetering on the edge until your body feels like it’s no longer your own. She kisses her way back up, pausing to nip at your jaw, your shoulder, the place where your pulse beats just beneath your skin. Her hand slips between your thighs, her touch deliberate, controlled. And you’re gone.

It’s like a tidal wave, slow to build but devastating when it crashes over you. You’re not sure when you start begging—if it even counts as begging, the broken sounds spilling from your lips without your consent—but Leah doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she seems pleased, her smirk pressing against the hollow of your throat as she mutters something you’re too far gone to catch.

At some point, she presses her forehead to yours, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. She murmurs something—low, unintelligible, a slurred mix of swear words and your name. Or maybe it’s not your name. Maybe it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s both. You don’t ask her to repeat it. You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe, your hands clutching at her back, pulling her closer like you can merge into her, like you can stop time if you just hold on tightly enough.

By the time you collapse onto the mattress, tangled in the hotel’s suspiciously rough sheets, you’re vaguely aware of how loud you’ve been. The walls are thin. The kind of thing where you can hear your neighbour’s TV murmuring away or the occasional flush of a toilet. It’s almost comedic, really, the way you’d tried so hard to avoid being seen earlier, only to make it painfully obvious now. You half expect a knock on the door, some irate teammate demanding silence.

Leah doesn’t seem to care. Of course she doesn’t. She lies beside you, her face flushed, her hair falling loose from the ponytail she’d barely tried to secure. She’s smirking, the way she always does after these nights, like she’s just scored the winning goal and nobody else on the team noticed. Her arm brushes against yours as she stretches out, her skin warm and damp, her breathing slow and even.

-

The next morning, you arrive at breakfast twenty minutes late, a record even for you. You’ve spent the better part of that time in front of the mirror, tilting your head at impossible angles to assess the carnage Leah left on your neck. Hickeys, in various stages of bruise-like blossoming, dot your skin like a battlefield casualty report. You try concealer—two layers, then three—but it only makes you look like you’ve dipped your neck in cake batter. After an extensive wardrobe evaluation, you settle on a jumper with a collar just high enough to obscure the worst of it, but not so high that it screams I’ve made several poor life choices and am now concealing the evidence.

You enter the dining area cautiously, your eyes scanning for witnesses like you’re in the opening sequence of Casino Royale. The room is loud with the sound of clinking cutlery, chairs scraping against linoleum, and conversations overlapping in a way that is both chaotic and oddly comforting. You spot Katie McCabe first, standing by the buffet with a bowl of cereal that is more milk than anything resembling a solid. Her spoon hovers mid-air as she glances at you, then swivels her head in Leah’s direction, who is seated at a corner table, scrolling through her phone like she has never made a suspicious noise in her life.

Katie’s eyes narrow, and her mouth stretches into a grin so wicked it should be trademarked. She sets her cereal down and makes a beeline for you, walking with the kind of determination that belongs exclusively to people with too much time on their hands and absolutely no regard for personal boundaries.

“Well, well,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes dart to your neck, then back up to your face. “Someone had a busy night.”

You freeze. Instinctively, your hand twitches toward the collar of your jumper, but you stop yourself. Guilty behaviour. Act normal. Be cool. You shrug in what you hope is a convincing display of nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Katie tilts her head, her grin widening. “Oh, don’t play dumb,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward your neck. “What’s that, then? Tactical bruising? Working on a new game plan?”

“I slipped in the shower,” you deadpan. It’s a lie so bad it physically hurts to say, but the alternative is giving Katie McCabe ammunition, and you’d rather die than give her the satisfaction.

She snorts. “Jesus, you’ve got to at least try with these excuses”

You glare at her, but it’s useless. Katie is like a shark in open water—she can smell blood, and she’s circling. She follows you to the table, sliding into the chair next to yours without so much as an invitation. Her cereal sloshes precariously in her bowl, milk dripping onto the edge of the table. She doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.

Leah, of course, is completely unbothered. She’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone like she’s reading the football section of The Guardian and not actively trying to avoid eye contact with you. Her hair is still slightly damp from her morning shower, and she’s wearing a hoodie that looks suspiciously like yours. Katie clocks the hoodie immediately and raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Not yet.

“Just to clarify,” Katie says, her voice loud enough to carry to the next table, “are we calling this a team-building exercise or…?”

Leah doesn’t even flinch. Without looking up from her phone, she says, “Mind your business, McCabe”

Katie lets out a delighted laugh, stealing a slice of toast from your plate like she’s earned it. “Oh, it is my business,” she says, buttering the toast with an enthusiasm that borders on offensive. “You lot kept me up all night. Thought someone was being murdered in the next room. Turns out it was just—”

“Katie,” you interrupt, your voice sharp enough to cut through her sentence. Your face is burning, your ears hot enough to fry an egg on.

Katie leans back in her chair, utterly unrepentant. “Relax,” she says, taking a bite of the toast she stole. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now”

She winks at you, a gesture so insufferable you consider lobbing a teaspoon at her head. Instead, you glance at Leah, whose lips are twitching at the edges, betraying the smirk she’s desperately trying to suppress.

You shoot her a glare that you hope translates to I will kill you later, but she only raises an eyebrow, as if to say go ahead, make my day.

Katie’s still watching you, her grin as infuriating as ever. “You’re lucky it was me who heard you,” she says, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Imagine if it had been Beth. She’d have the whole squad doing impressions by now”

Leah finally looks up from her phone, her expression cool, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. “You done?”

Katie holds up her hands in mock surrender, her grin never faltering. “I’m just saying. Maybe next time, try keeping it down. Or don’t. Makes for great entertainment”

You slump in your chair, burying your face in your hands. You can feel Leah’s gaze on you, and when you finally peek through your fingers, she’s smiling. Not smirking, not teasing, but actually smiling, like this is the most fun she’s had in weeks.

You make a mental note to kill her later. Or maybe kiss her. You haven’t decided yet.

[saryasy]

What do you do about a haunted house when you're the one doing the haunting?

Years living under the same roof as his parents that mostly consisted of days where he wondered if he was see-through. Where he pinched his cheeks and jammed a fist into his stomach, wondering until the very last second before impact if this was the day it passed right through.

It never did but he never stopped trying, with a little more force each time, never stopped wondering.

Months of living in a house that's not his, seeing Abby in every corner. A trail end of her hair disappearing beyond a slightly open door, a waft of her perfume skipping away out the window, a knock that's not a knock but a faulty pipe. Her laugh echoing, echoing, echoing, but never the real thing.

Sometimes the light flickered, the shadows twisted, the floorboards creaked, and he wondered if he turned his head just so, if he'd see her ghost floating down the hallway.

It took him months to figure out the ghost was him. To look in the mirror and wonder who the hell that was he was seeing.

Evan Buckley is haunting his third house.

“I think I like it," Eddie says, the camera still pointed at the place in large. “It's small, but- uh- well," he laughs, a little awkward. It's a new kind of laugh, well newish, usually paired with flickering eyes and an avoiding gaze. It's been making an appearance more and more lately. “It's not like I need the space," Eddie finishes, quiet and quick.

Buck looks up at all the empty house around him.

He gets it, really, he doesn't need all this space either. This couch where he sits right now is all he needs, it's his bed even though Eddie still insists Buck should take his, and it's his dining table and living room, and well, couch.

There's space that needs to be filled but Buck's never been big enough to fill it, can't dream of it, not when that space has molded to the shape of one teenager who hasn't been home in months, and a man who's only been gone two days but it already feels like more.

Buck's heart feels like that often- an empty space, too big to fill despite his endless attempts and pleas. And lately, that space has taken two distinct shapes too.

It's funny the things you don't know you won't survive without until you're suddenly gasping for air, drowning and bleeding.

“So, yeah," Eddie sighs. “I guess it'll do."

After a couple of conversations with Chris, during which he hinted that he doesn't think he can say a permanent goodbye to LA, Eddie decided to backpedal a bit, going for renting instead of buying, which would've left this house empty instead of on the market. It's how Buck's found himself here, playing the game of chasing ghosts again. Eddie's laundry detergent stuck to his own clothes, but that's nothing new. Eddie's favorite brand of minty toothpaste the last thing he tastes at night and the first thing he does in the morning. Which is nothing new either.

Eddie's favorite mug telling him good morning when he goes to grab his own, Christopher's bowl next to the pan he likes to use, because this is the Diaz household and Buck's cooked here enough times to have a favorite pan and a favorite knife and a favorite spoon.

What do you do about a haunted house when you've made it your home?

But ghosts don't have homes. They jump from one house to the next. Leaching from one person and another.

A home requires a heartbeat, movement and hustling and laughter. So Buck will stay, the next best thing - always the next best thing and never the first - until its rightful owners come back, and the house is beating again with two familiar heartbeats.

“Yeah," Buck says, “It'll do."

[delphi-shield]

kiss it better ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Jill Valentine x Reader Smut / MDLG mdni wc: ~5.6k i don't have to explain myself, so i won't. 🙂‍↕️ dividers by @/adornedwithlight.

summary: Jill's got reservations about this whole 'mommy' thing. She's not the maternal type - but for you, she can try.

content: mommy dom!Jill, little!reader, afab!reader, boot riding, dumbification, extensive depiction of cgl dynamics/lifestyle, humiliation, finger-sucking, spit, fingering, titsucking, aftercare, use of sippy cups/coloring book/the word 'stuffies', ruined orgasm, orgasm denial, implied age gap (di era jill, mid-late 20s+ reader).

In hindsight, the sippy cup should have been the first red flag.

Jill didn’t even bat an eye when you bought it. You'd tucked it to the back of the belt during a grocery trip, hiding it amidst the other canned goods, tried your damnedest to distract her while the cashier rang it up. She didn't know how to break it to you that she had seen you pick it out. She'd watched you deliberate between pink or green - strawberries or watermelon - before settling on pink.

You'd said you were going to look at candles - probably the truth, because you'd put one in the cart, too. Jill had doubled back to pick up laundry detergent and had caught you lingering in the kids aisle. She had always been able to pick you out of a crowd, had a sixth sense for where you were, hand practically magnetized to the small of your back. You looked so focused alone in that aisle that she had swallowed the call of your name and marched back to the cart.

So yes, she’d glossed over the (rather obvious) way you had tried to hide the purchase from her. That was as far as she was letting it go, though. Once you got home, you tried to bury it behind all the coffee mugs. Weird, she thought. You just bought the goddamn thing. You'd been talking about wanting a water bottle with a straw for a full month. It would be out of sight out of mind if you put it way back there, eaten up by the cabinet. 

You shuffled away to put up the rest of the groceries and Jill plucked the cup from the back. She put the pink plastic front and center, right next to the rest of the glassware, as though it belonged there.

“That’ll cut down on our carpet cleaning,” she had even joked when she heard you traipsing back in.

A beat. She turns to look at you over her shoulder, brow raised. You look like a deer caught in floodlights, waiting to be gunned down. It took a moment for you to dig your voice up from the pit of your stomach.

“I know. All the regular ones didn't have the latching lid. Like, I need that anti-spill technology. I have to be baby-proofed.”

Yeah. It was a little out of place that you felt the need to justify the cup to her. Again - in hindsight, maybe it was a little odd. Surely there had been a water bottle that wasn’t pink and covered in cute little strawberries, but you were an adult. You made your own money. If you wanted the sippy cup with the strawberries on it, then you could have it. She wasn't about to police your tastes. After all, at a certain point of maturity you started to realize that the difference between kid stuff and adult stuff was just marketing. So many 'kid' versions of things were just the same as their adult counterparts. Covered in smiling bunnies and rainbows, maybe, but functionally the same item. 

Suffice it to say, Jill didn't give two shits what stuff you bought for yourself. You were prone to spilling drinks, so the latching lid excuse made sense. Her singular complaint was the size. As your designated drink-getter, her trips had doubled. (She'd found some online in a bigger size, all muted, muddy colors, no cartoon strawberries. “Anti-spill technology,” she'd pointed out. You had shrugged, sipping at your little drink. It was the perfect size for one bottle of your favorite apple juice. That, she couldn't deny.)

She'd been unintentionally feeding into your preferred lifestyle the whole time, buying you the cutesy set of stickers for your scrapbook, picking up glittery markers when she saw them on sale. 

The coloring books certainly weren't a bridge too far. You wanted to turn your brain off after a long week at work. That was all, really. Jill hadn’t asked for an explanation - she had asked which ones you liked, that she might pick one out for you. The first few she chosen had been branded 'adult coloring books' but again - what was the difference, other than subject matter and the complexity of some of them? You'd dutifully sat next to her during movie nights and colored regardless of difficulty. Your hand-eye coordination was developed, see? Made staying in the lines so much easier. And the colors you picked out - they don't (usually) clash. That all ties back to that developed eye for style.

‘Babydoll’ might not have been the best choice of pet names for you, but it had slipped out. It felt right, more sincere than ‘dear’ or ‘babe’. If she had known she was unintentionally enabling you, sending the little plastic gears in your head grinding to a halt, she might have picked something different. 

The first time she'd said it, you'd given her a blank look. Jill had sworn not to say it again, already marking that off the list of options, but your response had been quick.

“No–” you reeled yourself in, a little too forceful there. Like a kid stomping their feet. “No, it's okay. I like it.”

How was she supposed to know that you had dubbed her ‘mommy’ in your internal monologue? That ‘babydoll’ did nothing but feed into your perception of her? 

After it had all come out, after your first little slip-up that had sent both of you hurtling headlong into a series of changes in your lifestyle, you'd confessed that you had been thinking of her this way since you had moved in. Jill had been synonymous with ‘mommy’ since your possessions had spilled from the open mouth of the U-Haul and flooded her apartment. Her sparse, curated collection of decorations had been swallowed up in a wash of stuffed animals and plush blankets, and she had done nothing to stem the tide. Hell, she’d piled more on. Bought you stuffed animals from boutiques, airport giftshops, gas stations - anywhere, so long as it made her think of you.

Jill hadn’t thought twice about the stuffies. If most of her keepsakes hadn’t been obliterated via air strike, courtesy of the U.S.A. back in 1998, she’d probably have a collection of decor to contend with yours. Maybe less of the fuzzy variety, but she understood the appeal. She had never been one to get jealous of an inanimate object. If you wanted to lay your head on her lap, favorite stuffed animal coiled tight in your arms, then she had no objection. She’d willingly cocooned you in the fluffiest blanket within reach, her hand settling at the bend of your waist.

So, the stuffed animals? Totally normal. The sleepy, nonsensical babbles you’d catch from time to time during a night in, when it was just the two of you? She didn’t think twice. That had hardly been an adjustment.

Jill felt a little slow for not catching on before you let it slip. There had been so many signs. Piles of evidence all around her, some of which she had contributed to. She must be getting lax as the years wear on. Normally, she's sharp as can be. She'd know things about you before you did.

You’d been riding her boot the first time you said it. Jill had been busy - too busy to spend a couple hours folding you in half and fucking you to sleep, she told you. You'd dragged yourself into her office in your barely-there shorts, nipples pert and peaking the flimsy fabric of your tank top. Wait a minute - not your tank top. Hers. An old, faded Depeche Mode tank, white, damn near see-through.

She kept track of you in her peripheral as you dragged your bean bag chair (she'd offered to get you a real chair, something with back support, but you'd insisted; when you hit thirty, she’ll be able to gloat) right up next to hers, and dropped into it. Foosh. Makes your tits bounce when you plop down like that. That's probably why you did it.

She scooted forward in her chair, flipping the armrest up and kicking one leg out. Your eyes lit with glee. Horny little goblin. You moved to straddle her thigh, hands braced on her knee while you wobbled into position.

“Ah-ah.” Jill didn’t take her eyes from the screen. She kept hammering away at her report, the deadline looming. She stopped at a paragraph break to snap her fingers twice, pointing to the floor. “Down.”

You’d cratered to your knees without so much a second thought. See? Obedience wasn’t new to you. How was she supposed to know it was a different sort of devotion, different from the submission she was used to?

Something warm curls around her ankle - your hand, she realizes with a glance. Jill sighs. She hadn’t said not to touch. It’s difficult to be mad at the way your thumb circles her calf, especially for a command she hadn’t issued. Jill’s chair creaks backwards, her hands stilling on the keyboard. Your chin settles on her knee, eyes big and pleading for her touch.

Jill folds her arms under her chest. Your eyes track the way her chest moves. It's almost cartoonish - she half expects your tongue to loll out of your mouth.

“Get on.” Jill wiggles her boot back and forth. Your head tips to the side, confusion drawing your brows up. “On my boot, babydoll.”

She sees it - the brief flash where you’re drawn out of play time. The quickest twist of annoyance in your pout. How many times did you have to tell her to stop wearing her shoes inside? Especially her work boots, crusted with mud and shit and god knows what else. But if you’re worried about that then you’re too horny to protest. Her babydoll comes back in another blink, pressing your cunt down onto her steel toe.

There you go. Jill starts typing again and you get the hint. You're independent enough that you don't need her direction at every turn. Thank god - she'd never get anything done if you couldn't find a rhythm on your own, if you couldn't use whatever part of her body she dictated to get yourself off.

It doesn't take long for you to start whimpering. Your arms wind around her leg, chest pressed tight to her while you grind your drippy pussy against her. You use her body as leverage to drag yourself back and forth. Poor baby. Reduced to humping her leg like a damn dog.

Your pretty little whimpers come quicker, louder. Jill's fingers scrape against your scalp, urging your head upwards. She pools spit at the tip of her tongue, considers dripping it into you. Your mouth is popped open for her already, moans punctuating every push of your hips.

Any thought of tormenting you with the anticipation disappears when she sees you pinch your nipple, hips circling against the toe of her boot frantically. Your eyes flutter, thighs pulsing, so close–

“Stop.”

Jill rips her boot away for you. You plop against the floor, whining at the loss. Your hand flies to your pussy, rubbing your clit desperately through your shorts.

“I said stop,” Jill grinds out. 

Her hand grips your jaw, fingers curling. You pull your hands away from yourself, fingers glistening when you lay them flat against the tops of your thighs. A whine squeaks out of you. Jill’s eyes narrow.

“Open,” she demands. Your mouth pops open obediently. When Jill gives you a directive, you follow it. Jump— how high? Cum— how hard?

Look at you - perfect little slut, tongue plopped out for her. She spits a fat glob of spit dead center and drops your jaw.

“Swallow.” It’s said carelessly. She looks away from you as if uninterested in you display. Her clit throbs in time with her heartbeat. Perfect girl, perfect, trained little–

You swallow. From the edges of her vision, she sees you stick your tongue back out as proof. “Thank you, mommy.”

The air in the room shifts, suddenly colder. Her skin feels as though it’s been pulled taut. Confusion swirls with her arousal. You said ma’am. Surely you said ma’am.

“What?” She blurts out, hands at a full rest on her keyboard.

You’ve still got that floaty, airy look about you. Jill wonders if it’s even possible to get a straight answer out of you right now.

“Thank you?” You repeat, unsure yourself. You blink quickly. She can pinpoint the moment you come back into your body, shoulders tensing, eyes widening, skirting away from her. “Uh– ma’am?”

Nice try. Not buying it.

“Did you call me mommy?”

Jill will probably regret the way she had spat that out until the day she died. It hadn’t been worth seeing the crushed look on your face, the shame flushed through you in a full-body shudder. In the moment, though, she can’t deny the pulse of disgust.

That night had ended on unsteady footing. She’d asked you not to call her that. You’d apologized again and again throughout the conversation, set her teeth on edge with how small you’d made yourself. It felt worse, seeing you slink out of her office, knowing you were going to curl up in bed - knowing you’d pretend to be asleep when she came in to check on you a few minutes later.

She had already been doing this for you, she realized. The new context was uncomfortable. She had sat in that feeling for a few days, tried to fall back into the patterns of your relationship without thinking of them these new, strained terms. Despite reassurances, she’d watched you shove away the things that had made you so comfortable.

No more coloring books - not in front of her at least. You’d left a stray marker lying out when you scrambled to hide the evidence of your coloring from her. Your sippy cup had been pushed to the back of the cabinet again, no matter how many times she’d moved it back to the front.

The final straw was when you’d started packing your stuffed animals away.

She could have been gentler about the whole thing, admittedly, but it had made her so goddamn angry to see you shove away things that made you happy. You had misunderstood her - or she hadn’t communicated clearly, or – or something.

“Quit,” she demands, pulling the stuffies from their cardboard prison. She set them firmly back on your side of the bed (never tossing - you’d told her before, tossing them was mean). “Stop doing this shit, babe. You don’t have to quit doing stuff you like.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“No, I–” Jill pinches the bridge of her nose. This is going nowhere, round and round in circles. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slow.

“I don’t want it in the bedroom.”

“Then where do you want them?”

“Not the– the stuffed animals can stay. Okay? I just don’t like it when we’re having sex. The ‘mommy’ stuff. But you– I want you to be how you want to be with me. We were already doing the little stuff before. Right?” Jill’s hand cups your cheek, urges you to keep looking at her. There’s no hiding from this, not from her.

You still struggle to meet her eyes. She can tell you’ve picked a spot over her shoulder, staring past her. She ducks her head, puts herself into your vision.

“...Kinda. Yeah.”

“Then we can keep doing that.” Her answer is firm. She’s spent hours thinking about this, analyzing where her discomfort came from, why it hit her so goddamn hard – how to ensure you never felt so rejected by her again. The discomfort lingers, smaller than before. Dwarfed by how greatly she misses having you next to her and comfortable. There had been an openness that she had stolen from you. “...Just don’t call me mommy when you’re getting off on my boot anymore, okay? I’m not ready for that.”

In time, the discomfort faded. Having you next to her at the end of a hard week, eyes wide and vulnerable, trusting her completely to take care of her - it became a little intoxicating. Her boundaries expanded, pushed farther and farther from where they had started as she slipped back into routine.

It surprises her how well she takes to it. Jill hasn't got much in the way of maternal instincts. She's good with dogs, though, and kids and dogs both need discipline. It's the same thing, right?

No. Not at all. But you're not really a kid. Your real mom did all the hard work, and now Jill gets to sweep in and have all the fun. Sit. Roll over. Speak. You're good at those. 

Stay, not so much. She knows she’s got you in the right headspace when you won't stop wiggling. Jill's grown accustomed to slinging an arm across your stomach when she buries her face in your pussy. The squirming never ends, and pressing your hips into the mattress had only ever made you curl upwards, arms bracketing her head, shoving her face into your cunt.

The real danger is letting you sit on her face while you're like this. You squirm and buck, squeal out your pleasure while she laps at you. She rocks her head from side to side, her nose bumping against your pudgy clit. The way you thrust down into her - christ, you’re going to send her to the hospital one day.

That was how it had been the first time Jill had opened up the floodgates, the first time she’d let these little games back into your bedroom.

Her hands palm the globes of your ass, spreading you open for her tongue. She keeps you nice and tight against her face, her neck craned at an angle that would hurt later. A problem for tomorrow. Today’s problem is that you keep biting your knuckle, tucking those pretty little sounds away from her.

Jill swats your ass, quick, sharp. She pulled away only far enough to reprimand you – “Don’t hide from mommy” – before she wrapped her lips around your clit and churned her tongue against you, again and again.

You let out a surprised squeak, garbled behind your fist. Your hips shot forward, pressing her face into the mattress, suffocating her with your cunt. Jill moaned, gripped you tighter, held you to her face and tongue-fucked you through an orgasm that made your spine twist, your thighs clamp tight around her head.

Jesus Christ - that’s what she’d been missing out on? All because she’d been too squeamish about a title?

That was all it took to convince herself that she was fine with it, really. Jill helped you roll off of her. She lowered you back to the mattress as if you were a priceless, fragile little thing. The urge to care for you, to pamper you, had never been stronger. You’d nearly had to force her to quit flitting around you. It took insisting that you needed to cuddle for her to stop, for her to let you settle against her.

“I think you broke my nose,” Jill teases.

“Stop.” You hide your face in the top sheet, but she hears you bite off a giggle. Her hands float to your sides, long digits brushing along the curve of your ribs, snaking up your stomach to cup your breasts. She rolls them in her palms - together, then apart, thumbs flicking over your nipples. Languid, no heat behind it. No need for another round, not yet, but she wants to appreciate the art before her.

“I'm serious.” Jill turns her head to the side. Her profile silhouettes in the lamplight.

She's the kind of woman they make statues of. Her nose cuts a proud shape from the light, the slope of her brow relaxed only here in your bedroom. It occurs to you to trail a finger along contour of her face and, uninhibited, you do. Jill holds still for you, let’s you marvel at the work before your eyes. Her nose has been broken before - not by your weight, but by fists. Her throat bobs as you trail a knuckle down her chin, against the delicate skin of her neck, childish in your wonder. 

Jill still had her boundaries, the same as you had yours.

Your appreciation is every bit grown. You tuck yourself against her side, kiss along her jaw until you reach her lips. You mutter your ‘I love you’ against her there. She can be ‘mommy’, she realizes. Just for you, just within your home.

No disciplinarian stuff, not while you're acting all little. It makes her feel grimy. You don't get in trouble for little stuff, not for leaving your coloring book out or for flooding the living room with stuffies while she's away. You do get in trouble being an absolute brat and pawing at her leg while she's in the middle of a meeting.

That had been fun. You'd been all curled up in your beanbag chair, tucked out of frame while Jill listened in on the eastern European division’s quarterly report. Evidently, reduction in bioterrorism incidents weren't thrilling enough for you. She’d popped her leg out to the side, wiggled her boot at you - a command you knew well enough by then. 

What kind of mommy makes her baby girl ride her boot? A strict one. It had always been a favorite punishment, denying you her touch and making you get yourself off however she dictated. But when you were all soft and malleable? Desperate for her attention, for her touch? Now it has her soaking herself. An added, unexpected side effect? You'd stopped nagging her to take her boots off as much.

On the other hand, you staunchly refused for this to be a 24/7 arrangement. You were an adult. You contributed to the house, had goals and ambitions just as much as she did. As happy as Jill was to pamper you, to be your mommy when you needed it, she wasn't ever to hold that over your head. 

Once, she'd dared to tease you in the middle of a discussion about utilities - gas bill's so high 'cause my babydoll like the house too warm - and the look you'd given her had been enough to make her backtrack immediately. You hadn't even been willing to entertain the notion that she might treat you as less capable, less of an equal partner just because you enjoyed her care.

That had been a rocky discussion.

“I don't want to do this with you if you're just going to think less of me for it.”

Christ, she wants to pull her hair out, stuff her words back into her mouth and just pay the goddamn gas bill. It wasn't like you couldn't afford it.

“I don't think less of you.”

“Then don't say stuff like that.”

“Babe, you're kind of overreacting.”

Your eyes harden. Obviously, that hadn't been the right thing to say either.

She'd nearly lost you in that conversation. Not entirely, not your whole relationship - just this soft, needy part that craves a softer touch, a nurturing hand. Maybe a better, more experienced mommy would have stepped it back better, assured you that wasn't what she meant. But Jill's not built for this, not naturally.

It's your thing. She's just indulging you.

She gathers up your coloring books, piling them neatly on the coffee table. She takes a minute to thumb through them, to admire the work you'd done that evening. Spooky Cutie, Gummy Bear World, the more complicated dinosaur coloring book from the Smithsonian. You'd been rotating - proudly showing her your work from page to page, polling her on what color you should use from time to time. One moment it was a bear and a cat cooking stew together in a simplified, cutesy kitchen. The broth was dark brown because mommy had decided they were having beef stew, not chicken and dumplings.

The next, you were asking for her favorite dinosaur, then her second favorite, then her third, and flipping through your book to find any one of them. She'd never seen a more elaborate backdrop for a triceratops. You'd dutifully laid out every shade of green you had and set to work on the foliage. Halfway through the movie she realized she'd missed a plot point, too busy checking in on your coloring.

It's not her thing. She just ended up at a craft store one day for something completely different. It was a good deal on markers, honest. Yeah. The deal had been on the ones that were high-end, that had the shades of green you needed to really make that cretaceous-era flora pop.

Jill is so fucked.

Right. Definitely just your thing.

She's above this. Keeps her personal life and her professional life neatly separated, despite the Redfield's best efforts. Claire knows she has a serious girlfriend. She'd done the detective work on Jill's limited social media, pored over new friends and comments like it was her job. 

(“I had in-flight wi-fi.” Never a sentence you want to hear Claire Redfield say.

“So you wasted your time stalking me online?”

Claire shrugs. “Your girlfriend posts a lot and she likes everything you post. It wasn't hard to figure it out. She seems nice. Not subtle, but, you know – nice.”)

If Claire knows, then Chris knows. For years he's maintained that he hates gossip, but he's always suspiciously well-informed.  

So when Chris sets a big hand on her shoulder and asks how the detective work is going, the appropriate answer should be ‘fine’ or ‘I'm going to blow my brains out if I have to dig through another financial record’. It should not be:

“Mommy's tired.”

Silence. God, she can't have said that. That wasn't what came out of her mouth, surely. She just said ‘I'm tired’, right?

Jill looks up at Chris. His eyebrows are in the fucking stratosphere. Before she can tell him not to say a goddamn word, his face splits into a grin.

“Does mommy want a coffee?”

“I'm reporting you to HR.”

Chris laughs, full-bodied, the sound bursting from his chest. He looks years younger in that moment, and when she huffs a laugh she wonders if she does too. All of that gets wiped away when she remembers how utterly fucked she is. Her cover is blown, her personal life finally hemorrhaged into the office.

“I'm reporting you to HR,” he counters. He swings himself into the chair opposite her desk. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not if I have to call you mommy.”

Jill’s more than a little pent up when she kicks the door closed that evening. You turn your head, hands plunged in the basin of the sink. Domestic, homey - not quite her babydoll, but her girlfriend.

As you can imagine, the rest of the day was a nightmare. Chris didn’t know how to let a joke die, but at least he had the sense to keep it between the two of them.

She can change that.

“How was work?” You greet.

“You got me in trouble today.”

Confusion clouds your eyes. You try to turn from the sink, but Jill's arms cage you in. She's not a tall woman, but it's never stopped her from being imposing. She wedges her knee between your legs and lifts, pressing against your cunt. The heat pouring through you short circuits your brain, leaves all your intelligible thoughts fizzling out of your mouth in a confused heap.

“Huh?” Is what you finally manage to muster.

Jill snorts. Very intelligent. Her hands grip your hips. She turns you to face her, presses you down against her thigh, rocks your hips back and forth for you until you get the picture. Your movements are slower, uncertain. She has to battle the urge to force your movements quicker. Patience. She can rip the pleasure from you later.

Her mouth latches onto your neck, open-mouthed kisses pressed against your skin again and again, your pulse quick and unsteady under her lips. Your hands hover inches over her sides, water dripping from your fingertips, iridescent suds drying against your skin. You're not going back to the dishes, not if she can help it; leave them to soak in the sink.

Jill shifts a hand under your waistband, fingers ghosting just above your panties. A shudder rattles down your spine, stomach rolling against her hand. She slips her other hand up your front, ghosting between your breasts. Her knuckles catch under your chin.

“Everyone knows, babydoll.”

It's cute, watching you try to put the pieces together. Your poor little brain is frying and she still turns up the temperature on you. She shifts her leg away to palm your cunt through your panties. Goddamn, you may as well be molten heat at this point. Won't be much longer before she has you dripping into her palm.

It takes all her restraint not to shove your panties to the side and plunge her fingers into your needy little pussy then and there. Patience will make it sweeter, wetter, make you cling to her shoulders, clamp around her so tightly she loses circulation.

Her hand moves from your chin the moment you start forming a question. She presses her middle and ring finger to the seam of your lips and you open before she can so much as muster the first syllable. She chuckles, derisive. Your tongue swirls around her, laving against the pads of her fingers. Dutiful, obedient, her perfect little babydoll lapping at her skin.

You suckle, sloppy wet noise spilling from your mouth. A rush of love hits Jill square in the chest. It drops, settles in her gut right next to the need to claim.

“Everyone knows you need mommy to take care of you,” she coos, mocking. You squirm, something between fear and arousal sparking in your eyes. You suck harder. Definitely arousal.

It’s easy to walk you over to the counter, hips pressed tight to yours. She lets you suck at her fingers as long as she can before she needs that hand to pick you up and drop you on the countertop. Jill shoves your shorts down, tugs your panties to the side. Her spit-slick fingers trail along your slit. You shuffle down, greedy for more of her touch. Her poor baby, alone all day - and already so wet for her.

You suck her fingers in greedily. Her hand presses at your hip, a silent urge for you to stay still, to let her prep you. You can get so ahead of yourself, she knows - but she’ll take care of you. Jill’s mouth latches onto your neck. She only detaches to shuck your t-shirt up and off.

Your legs latch over her hips, trapping her hand between your bodies. Greedy little girl, taking more than she wanted to give. Jill can’t be angry about it, not now. She pumps her fingers into you steadily. Her mouth trails down to your chest, lips latching onto your nipple.

“Take it, babydoll, there you go – take it for me.” Her breath fans against your breast. She buries her face between them, moans against your sternum. Your back arches, tits pressing into her. Your arms press your tits together around her head, smothering her, and her pussy clenches around nothing.

Jill's fingers drill into you, grind right up against that spot that makes you squirm. She could find it blindfolded. No more long, slow-strokes with her thick fingers. Hard, deep, just how you need, thumb rubbing your clit.

Fuck - you must need this as badly as she does. You snap after a few more strokes, moan strangled and high. Your chest arches, your hands flying into her hair, holding her tight to your tits.

“Good girl, perfect girl for mommy– gonna have you cumming all night.” Promises seared into your skin just before her mouth latches above your breast, sucks a bruise into your skin.

Your hand pushes at her wrist, babbling about too much. Jill nearly goddamn growls, as if you’re trying to take her favorite toy away. Her thumb slows against your clit, fingers drawing languidly out of you. One last pump for good measure, just to watch your legs twitch.

Her cheek rests against your chest, rising and falling with your breaths.. She watches you recover with half-lidded eyes.

“Do– do people really know?” You ask once you’ve managed to regain the ability for language processing.

Jill pouts. Clearly she hasn’t fucked you good enough if you’re still worried about that. She shifts to grip your hips, tugging you the the edge of the counter. She cants her hips up, trying to fit them flush with yours. Promises for later.

“Just Chris.” You groan. Honestly, it could be way worse. You’re overreacting. She knows better than to say that out loud now. “He’s not gonna tell anyone.”

“Not even his sister?”

Jill hesitates. She steps back from the counter, helps your newborn deer legs find their foot on the floor. She thumbs the button of her jeans open, stumbling out of them while she helps you over to the couch. You’re easy to position like this, malleable to her wants. Just how you both like it. Jill swats your ass - playful, not punishing.

“You worry too much. They’re not gonna care.”

“What if I care?”

Jill sinks to the floor in front of you, guiding your legs up to her shoulders. She kisses her way up your sweat-slick skin, savoring the taste on her tongue on her way to your core.

“Just let mommy kiss it all better.”

[lostinlovingrevery]

Saturday Night Laundry

Worst! Wolverine X GN! Reader

You take Logan to a new dig

A/N: Yay! I finally made something! Also yes, I'm using an aesthetic image instead of Logan gif. I want to broad my horizons...Yafeelme?

Warnings: Fluff, laundry (ugh), small description of rotting into the earth, mentions of Wades antics, established relationship, implications of previous sexual activity

“See? I told you it’s not so bad!” 

Logan looked at the building with distaste. This wasn’t his idea of a good time on Saturday night. You insisted, however, maintaining that this place was the best to hit up on nights like this. You claimed that its vibe and energy were unmatched by any other like it. 

The laundromat. 

A place with a blue neon sign above its doors, called Fold It Like It’s Hot. On the window was a small red neon sign, flashing 24/7. Another sign with Laundromat flashing blue.

Sitting between an organic foods market, and a chiropractor’s office, the cold inflorescence lights inside poured out onto the empty street, over you and Logan’s figures. He held a large laundry bag in one hand hanging over his shoulder, and a smaller laundry basket, his arm wrapped around it. You had a basket perched on your hip. 

He looked down at you, a frown on his face as you beamed up at him. 

“I’m still not convinced.” He shakes his head. 

“Oh, you will be.” You nod confidently. You walk forward to the door, pulling it open for Logan as he steps inside. 

The place was very clean, compared to the place he usually went to for laundry. Wade and Althea went there, so naturally Logan ended up there too. It wasn’t exactly a high quality laundromat. The washers don’t seem to do good in actually washing, and he’s had to run his clothes through a dryer more than two times to actually get dry. The floors were always strangely sticky, there was a bullet hole in one of the windows the owners never patched up, and the worst part of it was Wade always insisted on doing laundry there with him; Then proceeded to tell everybody in there that they were newlyweds. 

He still gets congrats from neighbors in the building. 

He doesn’t even live with Wade anymore. He has since moved out and you and him have gotten a nice little place together. Away from Wade. The fucker always knows what you two were up to though. 

White walls with painted bubbles across it. Squeaky clean blue tiled floors- so shiny he could see his reflection. Dryers lined two walls opposite of each other, with two rows of washers that sat in the center of the space. Two vending machines filled with snacks and drinks sat by the door, and another at the end of the room dispensed detergent. Plenty of fine, comfortable chairs are placed everywhere. The lights were harsh with the inflorescence, but there were small neon signs with laundry puns everywhere- and plants decorated the space, bringing out a liveliness to it. Perhaps he could understand where you were coming from. 

It was deserted. 

“People don’t come here on Saturday nights to do laundry. Perfect for us!” You smile. “Empty, open washers and dryers. Pleasant music-” You referred to the classical jazz playing on the speakers. 

“I don’t like the lighting.”

“Okay I give you that. Very cold.” You say glancing around, you set your basket on top of the washer. “It makes it feel clean though?” you turned to face him, a shrug of your shoulders and tilt of your head as you smiled. 

He curled a brow, and finally a glimmer of a smile came across his lips. He walked over to where you were, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“Yeah, it’s clean at least.” He hummed. He sat the basket on another washer, and the bag on the floor. “You got the quarters?”

You reached into your back pocket, pulling out your wallet, which you then pulled a card out. “No coins. We go digital in this house.” You wink. He sighed. “What? At least you don’t have to worry about it jamming in there and losing it. You just put how much you want on the card, and poke it in there and it’s done. Easy!” 

“Damn machines are going to corrupt us all.” He shakes his head. You giggle, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him.

“You really are an old man. You know that?” You tipped your chin up at him. You mimicked his voice, “Those phones are bad for you! That TV is going to rot your brain! Get off my lawn whippersnappers!” 

He growled, his arms wrapping around you and dipping you, making you shriek and giggle profusely, attempting to grab on to him but he had himself wrapped tight around you. He leans his forehead against yours. “If I’m an old man, what does that make you huh bub?” 

“A golddigger.” You smiled, your lips brushing over his as you talked.

“I don’t have any money sweetheart.” 

“Mm, I guess it’s the personality then.”

He chuckled, tilting his head to capture you in a searing kiss. You melted into him, your body laxing in trust that he won’t drop you. He brought you back to your feet, leaving you giggly and lightheaded as he snatched the card from your hand, winking at you with a smirk as he went to a washer. 

He stopped at the washer, staring at the machine and the laundry card, observing them both. Then shook his head. 

“Where the hell does this go?” 

After you showed him how to pay and operate the washer properly, you both worked on starting multiple loads of laundry in comfortable silence. With the empty laundromat, you had all the washers needed. A combination of you and Logan’s clothes, both of your underwear, and the bedsheets that had become very messy from your proclivities early this morning. 

While you were pushing in the last load of laundry, Logan went to the vending machine, dispensing your favorite snack. He presented it to you casually, but you beamed up at him and thanked him as you opened the snack and gladly feasted. 

You both sat down on one of the more comfortable chairs presented to the area. You leaned on his sturdy shoulder, closing your eyes as you quietly chewed on your snack. You felt him take a deep breath, his muscles finally relaxing.

“I guess this place isn’t so bad. It’s quiet.” He mutters. You opened your eyes, a twitch of your lips, as you nuzzled into him. He moved his arm, wrapping it around you and pulling you closer. “Never thought I’d be…doing this.” 

“What. Laundry?” You giggled. “Did you not do laundry? You must have smelled awful before we met.”

“Hush.” He says, but you could hear his amusement. “No I mean just something so…. Normal. Quiet. It’s nice.” 

“It is.” You say, you tilt your head up at him. “You okay?” You ask, saying the reflective look on his face. His eyes met yours, and a reassuring smile grew on his face as his eyes softened.

“Yeah bub. I am.” He says. He leaned forward pressing another kiss to your forehead. You hummed, before standing up, and reaching your hand out to his, pulling him up from his seat with you. He looked at you quizzically but you pulled him close.

“The music is nice. Dance with me?” You asked. 

He wrapped his arms around you, obliging in your wish as tilted his head down to yours. Slowly, you both began rocking back and forth to the melody of the smooth jazz over the speakers. The rumble of the washers filled the room. You both were wrapped in each other's arms, lost in each other's eyes. 

At one point in his life - actually, multiple points. He begged for death. To be able to finally close his eyes and take the eternal rest. Let his body rot into the Earth and actually do something good for the world by letting the bugs and critters and detritivores eat away at him and provide some kind of nourishment to life that he couldn’t do himself.

He’s fought men and monsters. Endured pain that would make anyone go insane. Saved a few lives, and ended more. He carried a heavy weight inside him everyday, both physically, and metaphorically. 

Now here he was, doing laundry. With you.

He’s not exactly sure what the universe’s goal is. To put him through hell, and then place him in this life of domesticity; He was glad to be here though. As long as you were there.

“I hope we can do laundry every Saturday night like this, for a long time.” You whispered to him. He hummed in agreement. 

Maybe this place wasn’t so bad.

[pedriscroquettes]

The thought I can NEVER get out of my head for academic rivals is when both of them end up putting their brilliant minds together to solve one thing can we get that w academic rivals gavi plsplspls 😭

here you go anon bae <3

warnings. business class mentions & suggestive content 18+

a/n. literally went through the depths of pinterest to find pictures of gavi in this specific suit. spain needs to bring these suits back idk.

lightly tapping your pen against your lips you kept analyzing the last question on your presentation. while gavi flipped through his many notes trying to find any piece of information that could back up his claim. the two of you had never been paired up for a project before so the newfound territory was not helping either of you. in retrospect the question was quite simple all the two of you had to do was pick the best business offer of the three given to you.

“it’s the third option-” gavi starts

“what? no it’s not.” you scoff. “if our business chose that offer we’d lose more than twenty percent of our ownership.”

“okay, yeah but they’re giving us over a half a million euros plus additional funding for marketing purposes. it’s a really good deal if you think about it.” he stands up from your desk making his way towards your bed.

“not when our company has already made over five million in sales in just one year. we’re fine in the marketing department. yes, we need the money but we also shouldn’t be giving up such a high stake of our company. it’s too risky.” you try to reason as he stares up at you. the red tie from your school uniform making his brown eyes pop out.

“okay fine. which option do you find more appealing then?” he grabs his pen pointing it at you. “and it better not be the first option.”

“well obviously not. it’s clearly the second option. we’re only giving up ten percent of the company and they’re giving us over three-hundred thousand euros which is more than what we need to expand our warehouses. not to mention they’ve also helped thousands of other local companies become big names around the country. it’s the smart choice.” you type down your reasoning as you explain it.

“you know…” he leans over you carefully removing your laptop from your lap. “you get ten times more attractive when you do that.”

“do what?” you look up at him and notice his smirk.

“when you take your work all seriously like that. our company isn’t even real.” he teases you. “it’s so hot.”

you barely have time to react before his lips on yours your hands making their way towards his hair like second nature. his hands trails from your cheeks to your neck before making their way to your ass. you gasp into the kiss as he gropes your ass, the brunette using it as the perfect opportunity to leave a trail of kisses from your mouth to your neck.

“well one of us has to- fuck...” you can barely speak as he places kisses on your neck. “to be the smarter one out of the two.”

“oh, so now you’re the smarter one? i recall you calling me asking me for help-” he tries to tease you.

“you know now that i remember you left your stinky uniform here the other day. maybe you should go take care of that.” you push him off you. “i don’t want my room smelling like sweaty athlete.”

you walk him towards the laundry room dropping off some of your clothes as well. he watched intently as you place his clothes in the washer and carefully pour in some detergent. the act feeling too domestic. he wondered how you could possibly take care of him while you still had your own problems going on. you were too good for him.

“have you ever done it on top of the dryer?” he sneaks up on you.

“you’re disgusting pablo.” you shove him away.

“oh, come on.” he grins.

[waitingonher]

hi there!! congrats on 100 followers,, could you do prompt 17 for leo valdez? i love ur writing so so much you write characters just how i imagined them

EMMY'S 100 EVENT CELEBRATION

leo valdez + this reminded me of you.

content warning: nothing

authors note: HI THANK YOU SO SOSOSOSO MUCH!!! that really means a lot to me <33 thank youuu

your only regret about joining camp-half blood—besides the lethal quests issued every once in a while—are the monthly cabin check-ups. why chiron had to implement this incredibly useful, yet incredibly stupid system? you wish you knew. well, you do suppose it’s come in handy against your siblings who’d prefer to live in a complete pigsty. but other than that, it’s proven to become everyone’s least favorite day. a day full of cleaning, very irritable campers, and the overpowering scent of every detergent on the market isn’t exactly what someone would want to wake up to.

but here you are, unfortunately put on laundry duty. damn your terribly cruel siblings. they get assigned the fun things like sweeping, and dusting! well actually, those still aren’t very fun but it’s way, way better than doing laundry. the process of separating, washing, drying, and then folding isn’t your ideal way of spending your afternoon. but, the only benefit of laundry duty is that you’re basically completely alone, which also means no one’s there to pester you about your quality of work. yay to no one screaming in your ear about better sweeping techniques!

that’s why you find yourself half-assing the color sorting. you absentmindedly toss somebody’s light pink hoodie into the colored laundry basket. light pink and black? basically the same thing. but your focus comes back as you realize that you’re onto the last basket that requires sorting. you really have to fight yourself from doing a victory dance. 

while your focus does come back, it doesn’t necessarily go back to the clothes though as you hear the door of the laundry room slam open. a sweaty, disheveled-looking boy enters, a grin plastered on his face that makes it seem as if he’s relieved to have found you. and he just so happens to be your boyfriend, “babe, i’m here to rescue you from laundry duty.” 

“thank the gods,” you toss the sock in your hand into a random basket and make your way to leo. he chuckles at your carelessness before pulling you in for a kiss. you really needed that, “now tell me, how do you plan to rescue me from laundry duty?” 

leo makes a face that tells you he hasn’t really thought that far, “um. well, i brought you temporary relief,” he responds, fishing something out of his jean pocket. and out comes a tiny red satin pouch. 

“oh?” your head tilts out of curiosity, “did you find and steal something while cleaning?” the thought of leo doing something like that wasn’t totally out of the question. so that’s why you’re a little more confused when he simply shakes his head and offers you the bag in silence. 

with the pouch in your hand, your boyfriend makes a motion for you to open it, “okay, i might’ve hyped it up a little too much,” leo gives you a sheepish smile as you pull out two absolutely adorable matching cat keychains, “but they reminded me of you, so i bought them. plus, i also thought they’d make a good gift of encouragement for today.” 

“oh leo, these are so cute!” you put the cats side by side and you almost scream, once connected, they form a heart! all of a sudden your hatred for laundry duty and everything else bad in the world washes away. who knew two little cat keychains could have this effect on you? apparently leo did, “thank you so, so much babe,” you kiss him on the cheek, “i swear, as soon as i’m done here,” a smooch on the other cheek, “i’m putting my half on my bag,” finally, one for his lips. 

leo’s features form a lopsided, lovesick smile, “wow. if i knew two little keychains would earn me this many kisses, then i would’ve just bought you two real cats,” he says, a teasing tone laced within his words. 

you laugh at the idea of leo walking into the laundry room carrying two random cats. as much as you’d love to see that come to fruition, cat hair and clothes do not mix well. you pocket your keychain and hand the other to leo, “you should probably go, chiron would lose his shit if he saw you here with me.” 

“wait, more kisses, then i’ll leave,” your boyfriend’s lips begin to turn comically downwards as his brows raise, and you realize what he’s doing: his stupid puppy dog eyes, “you can’t resist this can you?” 

you quirk your brow, “oh, i can,” but the way he looks so incredibly dumb and desperate makes you give in, “fine. let’s make it quick.”

[theyluvsavi]

My Saiki K Scent HC’s:

I don’t usually post things like these but I decided to share this to whoever sees this lol. This is my opinion but I’d love to know your thoughts as well :3

Kusuo - he tries to smell like nothing, but always ends up smelling like either vanilla or strawberry

Kusuke - usually doesn’t have a scent, but if he does it probably smells like new/unworn clothes or something refreshing like laundry detergent

Kuniharu - feet. Or a cheap smelling cologne

Kurumi - she smells like roses. she’s pretty like one but also has the hidden thorns. so, definitely roses.

Kaidou - his natural scent may be lavender or vanilla but he will use strong scented colognes that suit his persona

Nendou - tangerines

Kuboyasu - something masculine and musky like sandalwood, though occasionally there’s a suspicious a metallic undertone in his scent

Hairo - the beach and/or pure sweat

Toritsuka - he either smells really weird(?) or insanely strong because he will use too much of the wrong cologne

Akechi - if he’s not pissing himself, he might smell like a peach

Saiko - since he bathes in money, sometimes paper lmfao. but i feel that if he opts for any specific scents, it may be ones that are powdery or fruity, something just rich in scent. his cologne collection definitely consists of the most expensive ones on the market

Teruhashi - flowery scents that gives people the impression of rainbows on a sunny day

Yumehara - coconut or sweeter scents in general

Aiura - any Victoria secret perfume under tease or bombshell

Imu - uses fruity scents but will switch to flowery ones after meeting Teruhashi

[kikiyoomis]

you thought you knew skincare. you had some pretty bad acne in middle school which led you down the rabbit hole of trying out any and every product that was said to clear your skin. you've tried all sorts of cleansers, serums, toners, moisturizers, sunscreens... you name it.

and with your hard work, your skin has been pretty clear recently in adulthood. there are a couple of bad breakouts here and there but much better in comparison to your middle school years.

your boyfriend, on the other hand, was blessed with good genes (that you are seriously envious of). he could use dish soap as a cleanser and his skin would be clearer than yours on your best days. but the way that your boyfriend is, you know he would not be putting anything like dish soap anywhere near his face.

sakusa kiyoomi has a skincare routine that has a least seven steps on a regular night and twelve steps on a "special night." hell, he knew more than you when it came to skincare and he didn't even have the desperation that you had when it came to it.

the first ever time you went over to his apartment, roughly two years into your relationship, you were shocked to see the number of products that lined his medicine cabinet.

any skincare product type you can think of, he had it. he even had at least one backup per item in that medicine cabinet, even travel sized versions. some of them you recognized when you told him your own favourites. he seemed to like it too. it appears that this was his regime that he was going to go with for the next couple of years.

"why do you look surprised?" sakusa asks you. you don't know what to say. you've always been under the impression that he was just a basic cleanser, moisturizer and sunscreen type of guy.

"i didn't expect you to have this many products," you confess, in awe that his collection somehow rivaled yours.

"it's just the basic necessities," sakusa shrugged, closing the medicine cabinet and taking your hand to lead you out of his bathroom.

"but i've seen your photos when you were in elementary school, middle school and high school. you've never had a single pimple, rough patch or anything in those!"

"i got a bit of acne when i first moved out," sakusa says. "i found out it was the new laundry detergent i was trying out that caused it. i tried anything i could get my hands on to get rid of it. luckily it didn't take long to figure it out," he continues. he sits on his bed and pats the spot next to him. you go to join him but he pulls your waist and has you sitting on his lap instead.

"now, i do it for self maintenance. it's very relaxing to do at the end of a long day," he says quietly as his arms wrap around your stomach, hugging your back as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

"well you've seen my place, i have shelves upon shelves of products all because i can't seem to get rid of these stubborn pimples," you grumble.

"first of all, i always finish off whatever i have before starting a new one. all of yours are either half empty or barely used. it really bugs me how you don't bother finishing one before starting another," sakusa interjects.

"but how am i supposed to keep using it when it makes my skin worse?" sakusa presses a kiss to your cheek.

"then throw it out. i have more than enough money to buy you whatever skincare product you want. you can have the most expensive ones on the market if that's what you want."

"you know all of those luxury products are nothing more than a cream with perfume," you smile as you give him a kiss on the lips in return.

[quirkymarshmallows93]

Gas Station Stream of Consciousness Post

Gas Stations as Liminal Spaces

I've had quite a few hyperfixations in my day - ATMs, laundry detergents, credit cards - so my current one pertaining to gas stations is fitting considering my affinity for liminal spaces and the dedication of this blog to them. Liminal spaces are transitory in nature, hence their portrayal in online circles through photos of carpeted hallways, illuminated stairwells, dark roads, and backrooms, among other transitional points.

Gas stations are posted online as well; images of their fuel pumps or neon signage photographed through a rainy car window communicate their liminality and the universal experiences they provide to all of society. Perhaps they are the ultimate specimen of a liminal space. The machines they are created for, automobiles and tractor trailers alike, themselves are tools for motion, vestibules that enable travel and shipment across long distances at high speeds. Cars and roads are liminal spaces, albeit in different formats, and gas stations serve as their lighthouses. Vehicles at filling stations, therefore, are in a sense liminal spaces within liminal spaces within liminal spaces.

The uniqueness of a gas station as a liminal space, however, is its intersection with the economics and aesthetics of capitalism. Gasoline (and diesel fuel) is a commodity, downstream from crude oil, merely differentiated by octane ratings. Some argue that minute distinctions between agents, detergents, and additives make some brands better than others. Indeed, fuels that are approved by the Top Tier program, sponsored by automakers, have been shown to improve engine cleanliness and performance, but this classification does not prefer specific refiners over others; it is simply a standard. To a consumer, Top Tier fuels are themselves still interchangeable commodities within the wider gasoline commodity market.

The Economics of Gas Stations

The market that gas stations serve is characterized by inelastic demand, with customers who reckon with prices that fluctuate day in and day out. This is not to say that consumer behavior does not change with fuel prices. It has been observed that as prices rise, consumers are more eager to find the cheapest gas, but when prices fall, drivers are less selective with where they pump and are just happy to fill up at a lower price than last week. In response, gas stations lower their prices at a slower rate than when increasing prices, allowing for higher profit margins when wholesale prices fall. This has been dubbed the "rockets and feathers" phenomenon.

When portrayed as liminal spaces, gas stations are most often depicted at night, places of solitude where one may also enter the adjacent convenience store and encounter a fellow individual who isn't asleep, the modern day lightkeeper. The mart that resides at the backcourt of a gas station is known to sell goods at higher prices than a supermarket, simultaneously taking advantage of a captive customer, convenient location, and making up for the inefficiencies of a smaller operation. It may come as no surprise, then, that gas stations barely make any money from fuel sales and earn their bulk through C-store sales. This is a gripe I have with our economic system. Business is gamified, and in many cases the trade of certain goods and services, called loss leaders, is not an independent operation and is subsidized by the success of another division of a business, a strategy inherently more feasible for larger companies that have greater scale to execute it.

Nevertheless, most gas station owners, whether they have just one or hundreds of sites, find this method fruitful. Even though most gas stations in the US sell one of a handful of national brands, they operate on a branded reseller, or dealer, model, with oil companies themselves generally not taking part in the operations of stations that sell their fuels. The giants do still often have the most leverage and margin in the business, with the ability to set the wholesale price for the distributor, which sells at a markup to the station owner, which in turn will normally make the least profit in the chain when selling to the end customer at the pump. This kind of horizontal integration that involves many parties lacks the synergies and efficiencies of vertical integration that are so applauded by capitalists, but ends up being the most profitable for firms like ExxonMobil, who only extract and refine oil, and on the other end of the chain merely license their recognizable brands to the resellers through purchasing agreements. Furthermore, in recent years, independent dealers have sold their businesses to larger branded resellers, in many cases the ones from whom they had been buying their fuel.

A Word on ExxonMobil's Branding Potential

The largest publicly traded oil company in the world is Exxon Mobil Corporation. It is a direct descendent of the Rockefeller monopoly, Standard Oil, which was broken up in 1911 into 34 companies, the largest of which was Jersey Standard, which became Exxon in 1973. This title was generated by a computer as the most appealing replacement name to be used nationwide to unify the Humble, Enco, and Esso brands, decades before AI was spoken of. The latter brand is still used outside of the United States for marketing, arising from the phonetic pronunciation of the initials of Standard Oil. In 1999, Exxon and Mobil merged, and the combined company to this day markets under separate brands. Exxon is more narrowly used, to brand fuel in the United States, while Mobil has remained a motor oil and industrial lubricant brand, as well as a fuel brand in multiple countries.

Mobil originated in 1866 as the Vacuum Oil Company, which first used the current brand name for Mobiloil, and later Mobilgas and Mobilubricant products, with the prefix simply short for "automobile". Over time, Mobil became the corporation's primary identity, with its official name change to Mobil Oil Corporation taking place in 1966. Its updated wordmark with a signature red O was designed by the agency Chermayeff & Geismar, and the company's image for service stations was conceived by architect Eliot Noyes. New gas stations featured distinctive circular canopies over the pumps, and the company's recognizable pegasus logo was prominently on display for motorists.

I take issue with the deyassification of the brand's image over time. As costs were cut and uniformity took over, rectangular canopies were constructed in place of the special ones designed by Noyes that resembled large mushrooms. The pegasus remained a prominent brand icon, but the Mobil wordmark took precedence, which I personally believe to be an error in judgement. This disregard for the pegasus paved the way for its complete erasure in 2016 with the introduction of ExxonMobil's "Synergy" brand for its fuel. The mythical creature is now much smaller and appears only at the top right corner of pumps at Mobil gas stations, if at all.

Even into the 90s and the 21st century the Pegasus had its place in Mobil's marketing. In 1997, the company introduced its Speedpass keytag, which was revolutionary for its time and used RFID technology, akin to mobile payments today, to allow drivers to get gas without entering the store or swiping a card. When a Speedpass would be successfully processed, the pegasus on the gas pump would light up red.

When Exxon and Mobil merged in 1999, the former adopted the payment method too, with Exxon's less iconic tiger in place of the pegasus.

The program was discontinued in 2019 in favor of ExxonMobil's app, which is more secure since it processes payments through the internet rather than at the pump.

What Shell has done with its brand identity is what Mobil should've done for itself. The European company's logo was designed in 1969 by Raymond Loewy, and is a worth contender for the "And Yet a Trace of the True Self Exists in the False Self" meme. In recent years, Shell went all in on its graphic, while Mobil's pegasus flew away. I choose to believe that the company chose to rebrand its stations in order to prevent the malfunction in the above image from happening.

ExxonMobil should have also discontinued the use of the less storied Exxon brand altogether, and simplifying its consumer-facing identity to just the global Mobil mark. Whatever, neither of the names are actual words. As a bonus, here is a Google map I put together of all 62 gas stations in Springfield, MA. This is my idea of fun. Thanks for reading to the end!

[codexty]

Rook Headcannons: Family, life, etc.

Just cause I find him so funny

Edit: This got long! I wont apologize

You can pry the Bird Beastman Headcannon out of my cold dead hands.

I saw the idea that his siblings were named after chess peices, and I do love that but hear me out: Robin, Raven, Rook, Rosella, Ruff, Wren (hes the odd one)

Middle child energy- Rook may be a bit more extreme than his siblings, especially the older ones, but I feel like the whole family is on the same wavelength

The random mansions around the world with goverment approved portals? They are 100% black market associated. Probably animal trade or sell useful byproducts as potion ingredients. Scavengers, like the birds they are

Not ruling out some highly illegal/Immoral trades. But yeah.

Rook and each of his family may seem unassuming on their own, but when all of them are together? People can't get out of their way fast enough.

Uncanny Valley the whole lot of em. Give everyone goosebumps.

The Addams Family 100%

Probably also why you wouldn't hardly see them all together

Each sibling probably has/had a nanny and probably aren't too close with one another

Definitely "let kids roam" parents, as long as a kid showed up sometime, probably didn't care what they were up to

Rook 100% walked out of the house at 10yo with his bow and said he was off to hunt down a bear and parent Hunts were like "ok have fun! we'll taxidermy it when you get back"

One of the younger ones definitely does taxidermy

Rooks older sister knows every natural poison and even which ones can potentially be poisons when mixed with common household items!

Rook has been stabbed/trapped/poisoned by his siblings before

Hunt Parents are very much like morticia and gomez but worse parents in that they are less involved

Probably Not a lot of physical affection in the house

Dunno why, Rook just seems a bit touch starved

Probably also didn't hear much praise as a kid.

As such; Love language to give is words of affection, to receive is physical touch

Rook prior to Pomefiore smelled like blood. Just slightly mettalic tinge clingling to him constantly

Beastman in Savannaclaw gave him a WIDE berth.

Currently, smells like nothing, he doesn't wear the perfumes or scented products vil reccomends, much to vils dismay

Love the idea that vil gave him strong scented perfumes as a way to "bell the cat". Vil is mad it didn't work and is slowly getting less subtle about it, trying more and more obvious ways. Including changing the laundry detergent in the dorm to a strong scented one.

Rook is aware and finds it funny

Vil may say he tolerates Rook, but I think they were both lonely kids in a big new school and rely on each other.

Vil and Rook will probably be longtime friends if not lifelong friends. Vil heavily values having someone beside him who is unafraid to give him true, valid, critique and Vil has shown how much he values Rooks input. Rook admires Vils tenacity more than anything and will probably never leave him willingly.

They definitely fight though. Rook is a bit too callous when Vil needs a little soft and Vil is a bit too cutting when Rook could use a gentle hand and they get hurt. Will always make up, even if neither of them are good at apologizing

Or maybe one day years from now someone takes it a bit too far (probably rook) and they go a few years without talking

I can't imagine Rook in a profession besides whatever it is his parents do. Black market deals and trade probably. If someone asks he'll just say he is in Business

Rook will be a Parton of the Arts his whole life. sponsoring artists, probably from backgrounds like Neige. Will definitely be a very sketchy backer. No one will know what he does, but hes always throwing money around and who ever he finds, they will probably be the next big thing.

[aeide-thea]

06-07-23 Why Patagonia helped Samsung redesign the washing machine

Samsung is releasing a wash cycle and a new filter, which will dramatically shrink microfiber pollution.

Eight years ago, Patagonia started to study a little-known environmental problem: With every load of laundry, thousands (even millions) of microfibers, each less than 5 millimeters long, wash down the drain. Some are filtered out at water treatment plants, but others end up in the ocean, where fibers from synthetic fabric make up a surprisingly large amount of plastic pollution—35%, by one estimate. Fragments of your favorite sweatshirt might now be floating in the Arctic Ocean. In a collaboration that began two years ago, the company helped inspire Samsung to tackle the problem by rethinking its washing machines. Today, Samsung unveiled its solution: A new filter that can be added to existing washers and used along with a “Less Microfiber” cycle that Samsung also designed. The combination makes it possible to shrink microfiber pollution by as much as 98%.

[…] Patagonia’s team connected Samsung with Ocean Wise, a nonprofit that tests fiber shedding among its mission to protect and restore our oceans. Samsung shipped some of its machines to Ocean Wise’s lab in Vancouver, where researchers started to study how various parameters change the results. Cold water and less agitation helped—but both of those things can also make it harder to get clothing clean. “There are maybe two ways of increasing the performance of your washing machine,” says Moohyung Lee, executive vice president and head of R&D at Samsung, through an interpreter. “Number one is to use heated water. That will obviously increase your energy consumption, which is a problem. The second way to increase the performance of your washing machine is to basically create stronger friction between your clothes . . . and this friction and abrasion of the fibers is what results in the output of microplastics.” Samsung had already developed a technology called “EcoBubble” to improve the performance of cold-water cycles to help save energy, and it tweaked the technology to specifically tackle microfiber pollution. “It helps the detergent dissolve more easily in water so that it foams better, which means that you don’t need to heat up your water as much, and you don’t need as much mechanical friction, but you still have a high level of performance,” Lee says. The new “Less Microfiber” cycle, which anyone with a Samsung washer can download as an update for their machine, can reduce microfiber pollution by as much as 54%. To tackle the remainder, the company designed a filter that can be added to existing washers at the drain pipe, with pores tiny enough to capture fibers. They had to balance two conflicting needs: They wanted to make it as simple as possible to use, so consumers didn’t have to continually empty the filter, but it was also critical that the filter wouldn’t get clogged, potentially making water back up and the machine stop working. The final design compresses the microfibers, so it only has to be emptied once a month, and sends an alert via an app when it needs to be changed. Eventually, in theory, the fibers that are collected could potentially be recycled into new material rather than put in the trash. (Fittingly, the filter itself is also made from recycled plastic.) When OceanWise tested the cycle and filter together, they confirmed that it nearly eliminated microfiber pollution. Now, Samsung’s challenge is to get consumers to use it. The filter, which is designed to be easily installed on existing machines, is launching now in Korea and will launch in the U.S. and Europe later this year. The cost will vary by market, but will be around $150 in the U.S. The cycle, which began to roll out last year, can be automatically installed on WiFi-connected machines.

[businessnews01]

Laundry Soap Wholesale: Cost-Effective Cleaning Solutions

Fundraising can often feel like a challenging task, requiring significant effort with uncertain results. However, one of the most effective and hassle-free ways to raise funds is through an easy laundry soap fundraiser. Instead of selling typical fundraiser items like chocolates or wrapping paper, organizations can offer a product that every household uses—laundry detergent!

This unique fundraising approach ensures a steady demand, making it an excellent choice for schools, sports teams, and community groups looking to maximize their earnings with minimal effort.

Why Choose a Laundry Soap Fundraiser?

Unlike other fundraisers, detergent fundraising provides a practical, high-value product that people are already purchasing regularly. This means you’re not convincing supporters to spend extra on something they don’t need—you’re simply offering them a more convenient way to buy an everyday essential.

Here’s why this method is gaining popularity:

Essential Household Product: Everyone does laundry, making detergent a necessity.

Affordable & High-Margin Sales: Fundraisers can sell large, high-quality detergent bottles at competitive prices, ensuring strong earnings per sale.

No Perishability Issues: Unlike food-based fundraisers, the detergent doesn’t spoil, making storage and distribution easy.

Hassle-Free Selling Process: Supporters recognize the value immediately, leading to faster, easier sales.

How to Organize a Hassle-Free Detergent Fundraising Campaign

To ensure your hassle-free detergent fundraising campaign is a success, follow these simple steps:

1. Partner with a Reliable Fundraising Supplier

Work with a supplier that offers bulk detergent options at discounted rates, allowing your group to make a profit on each sale.

2. Set Your Fundraising Goals

Determine how much money your organization needs and calculate the number of detergent units required to hit your target.

3. Promote Effectively

Leverage social media, school newsletters, and community networks to spread the word about your easy laundry soap fundraiser. Providing sample packs or testimonials can also boost sales.

4. Make Ordering Simple

Offer online and offline order forms, ensuring that supporters can easily place their orders.

5. Organize Distribution Smoothly

Once orders are placed, arrange for a pick-up location or doorstep delivery, ensuring a seamless experience for buyers.

Maximizing Your Fundraising Success

To get the most out of your detergent fundraiser, keep these tips in mind:

Offer Bundle Deals: Encourage supporters to buy in bulk by providing discounts on multiple purchases.

Emphasize Quality & Value: Highlight the benefits of the detergent, such as high efficiency, long-lasting use, and eco-friendly formulas.

Engage Your Team: Assign fundraising roles to members, from marketing to distribution, ensuring a smooth workflow.

Create a Sense of Urgency: Set a deadline for orders to encourage faster decision-making.

A Smarter Way to Fundraise

A hassle-free detergent fundraising campaign is an ideal way to raise money without the usual challenges of traditional fundraising methods. It’s simple, effective, and ensures steady sales since laundry soap is a necessity in every household.

By choosing an easy laundry soap fundraiser, your school or group can maximize profits while providing supporters with a high-value product they actually need. Start your campaign today and experience the benefits of stress-free fundraising!

[posttexasstressdisorder]

So in an effort to manifest a spot opening up for me in Berkeley, I've been using the google streetview to just check out the neighborhood. It looks like California! The crazy thing being the insane proximity of very different things.

On the one hand, if I go left out of the front entrance about ten feet there's another street that only has houses on one side, and the park and creek on the other.

As i was trotting my little streetview ass around I could feel myself walking back up that little street, and i just said out loud "THIS is the California I've been looking for!" and had to stop and realize what I said.

So the surroundings are a combination of houses and apartment buildings. You go right out of the front entrance, and walk down to the next intersection and across the street and suddenly you are in an ultra-urban Target parking lot.

The place is literally bordered on one side by a groovy park and creek, and walk in the other direction and it is literally a few hundred feet to the Target from the old-fart apartments where I want to land.

And it looks like several other groovy things within walking distance, a couple of tucked away coffee roasters. The portion of Berkeley this place is in is called, appropriately enough, "Poet's Corner".

You can literally walk maybe 100 feet from a re-naturalized creek in a park, and go one block north and there's the major artery to the University, walk less than a block east and you're at Target. Another block or two and you're at a Trader Joe's.

Imagine finally being able to walk everywhere I need to go for daily necessities. Ooops, forgot to get laundry detergent, no worries, just walk across the street katty-korner and get some at the store.

That's what I thought Alameda could be, but it has never really felt that way. Things are a little too spread out and that generates the "expensive corner market" phenom here. Also there is very much a class war going on here between the landlord cabal and everyone else. You can feel that more than you feel "Hey, this is California".

Berkeley has always been about inclusion and protest and speaking up and out and it's a very different vibe from Alameda. I could sense that just using the streetview. Yes, I'm sure many cool old places have been ripped down for shit like the Target, but babies, when you get old being able to walk to the store, without having to get in a car at all, THAT is gold.

I know, i'm daydreamin' about what I want. Especially those coffee roasters I could walk to. Not espresso. Real Coffee. From various climes around the globe.

At this point in that mindfuck known as time, that's probably the best thing I could do.

[iamthepulta]

rip through these really fast so I can actually write it: /rambling about circular cobalt hydrometallurgy under the cut/

Reduced chemical diversity. Honestly all they're doing for this refining process with the initial Co ore is H2SO4. The second steps use CO2 and H2O to get the graphite, then H2SO4 for the main process and you're just precipitating things sequentially as they drop out of solution. By the time you get to Ni/Co/Mn that's pretty good, and I assume you 'clean' the solution by adding HCl and precipitating NaCl? Guess you can't use that for table salt or add it back to the solution, but I'm sure it'd be fine as road salt. 's a good question though how they clean the solution. NaOH is also relatively cheap, so

Benign chemicals: literally none of the things they use are harmful. It's actually pretty impressive. They're just precipitating elements from the solution too, so there's no residual hydrocarbons or problematic minerals going to tailings. They also have a state of the art water processing facility that the tailings water goes through before being added to the lake. They built this even though their goal is to incorporate the tailings water into the hydromet circuit, so it's a true complete loop. Both good housekeeping and good goals. I suppose it's much easier for them though: this isn't a precious metals circuit. The challenge is dealing with lighter elements mixed with base metals: Li/C with Fe/Al/Cu/Co/Ni not Au/Ag/Pt with base metals. That would require a much harsher environment; probably analogous to the Co-Au flowsheet I saw that looked nasty as hell.

Maximizing energy: The only thing I could point out here is that as they're working on the CoOH circuit, I assume their plan is to reinstate the original cobalt crystallizer and somehow separate the Co and Ni and Mn. I did also read a paper on how to separate the Co via freezing, which in Canada, would be a much better year-round process to use than boiling; would really bring the energy down in the winter.

Preventing Waste: hell yeah we're preventing so much waste. Black mass is tricky because of ~30% graphite/carbon, but with the ESLR putting the graphite/carbon into solution first, we're able to get pretty decent recoveries on the ~60% metals, and if we're selling mixed Cobalt-Nickel cathodes to people, we don't need to separate the Cobalt and Nickel, which saves smelting and waste.

Zero Waste Mining: Theoretically this can help with zero waste mining, but it's because we've changed our understanding of what we can use as products rather than what we're getting out of the ground. But I think this is a good perspective to have: Instead of mixing silicone and tellurium as semiconductor reagents in its own factory, for example, can we have silicone and tellurium precipitating together on the circuit and sell that to semiconductor producers?

After considering it, I think this is a much more realistic perspective than Zero waste mining as presented in the circular hydromet paper, which just argues for tacking on equipment to the solution you got out of the ground until the whole circle is pointless (negating their 'maximize mass and energy' rule in the process.)

Overall, VERY solid process! I'm so glad I picked this refinery because I knew nothing about it and I have a much better understanding of the cobalt lifecycle.

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Actually I just realized Na2SO4 is a much better Na removal precipitant and we actually have a huge market for Na2SO4 in laundry detergent, glass, and textiles. So even the precipitants we need to use to refresh the circuit are viable products of the system. PEAK hydrometallurgy!

(Meaning, since we keep adding NaOH to the system in order to increase the pH and precipitate all the metals out, Na will keep building up in the system unless we remove it after the metals are removed. So we'll add SO4 to the circuit to lower the pH (not changing the original H2SO4 solution chemistry) and precipitate Na2SO4.)

[sidewalkchemistry]

Don't Let the Packaging Get to You😭...

this is my follow-up on "2023 Is the Year to Become A Mindful Consumer"

We learn to buy things based on their packaging - the labels, the colors, graphics, etc. It gets both the logically minded and artistically minded alike. Looking beyond the packaging is not a matter of "not judging a book by its cover." It's important to outsmart the package's many ways of crying out "buy me!" Next thing you know, you've come home with a facial serum that breaks you out, a superfood powder that's 85% powdered rice grains, a drink you saw hyped up on TikTok, and a laundry detergent that claimed was "environmentally friendly" but the contents are just like the conventional brands. You might not even realize how many disappointing purchases you make like this. But if they fooled you, they've surely fooled others -- which fuels the company's marketing team to become more convincing & appealing.

First thing to address is your mentality when you enter a store or online shop. Realize that the point of the set-up is to get you to leave with as many products as possible, spending the most money possible, and leave with the thought of as many products as possible in your mind. If you struggle with sticking to just what you need, understand what is it about the store (its layout, employees, samples, etc) which cause you to be so easily convinced.

Next, understand what kind of customer you are. Place yourself in the shoes of a product marketer. What would you put on a package to sell it to yourself? How would you design that package? Who would you sponsor to convince you even further to buy that package? Look at the common denominators between the products you buy. Do you like going for the tried-and-true/popular brand, glam or sleek aesthetics, environmentally-friendly or ethical claims, more affordable option, latest trends, "doctor recommended" claims, or whatever else?

Also, understand what it means to make a purchase. Sure, everyone has heard that we vote with our dollars. But we don't always take full responsibility or power of our positions. Let's say that you like a product's contents except it's watered down with some waste product (like mineral oil), or you know that the company is deluding consumers with its claims & people are getting sick from it, or you learn that a shop aligns its aesthetics to look a lot like a small & mindful boutique but really it's just a normal sweatshop-run production. What can you do? The easiest thing you can do is not buy from that company (buy from a small business with great practices or make it yourself). You can leave reviews which share the truth. You can contact companies to see if they will consider different ingredients, materials, etc. You should talk about the company with others. You can even discreetly move products in a store so that their less noticeable to shoppers (as to decrease their sales. This isn't something petty, but to prevent funding dangerous or unethical items).

Finally, it's always good to have the habit of questioning, "Do I really need to buy this?" This is how mindless consumption really becomes mindful. It's better to find ways to make the product on your own. Normally, we look at the selection of products offered to us and consider, "What among this appeals to me?" Really, most of what we buy has either convinced us that we need it or it is the closest fit to a product which will serve our life. Creating an item which suits you exactly is better by far because it tends to eliminate more of the unnecessary evils and "unknowns" which come with our industrialized products.

Soon, you'll get in the habit of getting only what you need, being more resourceful & creative, seeing through the marketing tactics, learning about what goes into production processes, and finding fun in supporting true artistry & ingenious handmade creations. You'll begin to feel freer and less easily swayed. This is an important piece in taking control over what kind of lifestyle you live and the impact it has.