#fucking pottery barn?

[the-kneesbees]

the death of shopping malls in favor of strip malls is devastating

[uchiha-slut]

reading american psycho for the first time has been such a delightful experience. I especially love the chapter long paragraphs of insane rambling, titled "just another thursday afternoon."

[cherishcherubi]

Went to a plant nursery today!

Chanel got herself into a Situation.

[nothingunrealistic]

QUERIDO EVAN HANSEN

TALLER DE 3° ITM, PRACTICAS DE INTERPRETACIÓN EN EL TEATRO MUSICAL 21/22

this is a delight… obviously the production values aren’t the highest but many fun acting and staging choices here, especially the four evans, and i’m impressed that they managed to incorporate the anonymous ones and hiding in your hands without cutting songs

[ryanguzmanscowlick]

The thing is, Tommy’s worried about Evan coming over to his house for the first time. He’s seen Evan’s loft. It’s all clean lines, modern appliances and details. What little sentimental odds and ends he owns are tucked away or so subtle than Tommy didn’t spot them the first couple of times he came over.

Tommy’s house, by contrast, is filled with the detritus one accumulates when they’ve gone no contact with everyone related to them and they’re trying to create a homey, family atmosphere out of thrift stores and the Pottery Barn catalogue instead of friends and family.

He’s a knick-knacker, an antique furniture collector, a throw pillow and afghan fanatic.

He doesn’t have much in the way of books, but he has shelves and shelves of notebooks, some full, some half-used, some untouched. It’s a habit he picked up when his first ever therapist (after he left the 118) coaxed him into writing everything down to make a little sense of the mess of contradictions, phobias, old prejudices, prejudices still clinging on and traumas that made it feel impossible to figure out what to talk about first when he sat down in that office.

There’s a small, awkward section of wall in his kitchen created when a previous owner of the house decided to add a laundry room (embarrassingly, his favorite room in the house for it’s sheer utility) and that’s where Tommy hangs his collection of coffee mugs. Some of them are Goodwill finds, some souvenirs, some band merch or creations by local artists he picked up at some market or other.

There’s five different varieties of protein powder constantly cluttering his kitchen counter because he ran out of room in the small pantry. His pots and pans hang over the tiny, rolling kitchen island, which is itself nearly taken over by a serving tray that holds his water filter, a candle, a decorative planter filled with his cooking utensils, a plastic case of toothpicks.

He still has a dvd collection, for heaven’s sake, and it takes up most of his sagging entertainment center. He should replace it, but it’s the first piece of furniture he ever restored and he’s having trouble letting go. Speaking of letting go, there’s a dog bed in the corner for a dog that passed away nearly ten months ago. He probably will at least hide that in a closet before Evan gets here.

Because he is coming over. No matter how nervous Tommy is, he’s not gonna come up with another excuse for why they have to postpone or meet at Evan’s instead. He gets the feeling he’s already made Evan a little wary, and with Evan’s relationship history and his fear of being too much, not enough, just left, Tommy will eat his own foot before he purposely exacerbates Evan’s fears.

If Evan looks around and decides Tommy is a hoarder or a slob or a million other nasty epithets Tommy’s brain is offering up like some cruel, self-sabotaging buffet- Well, they’ll talk about it. They’ll learn and adjust. Evan has never, ever been cruel to Tommy and it’s quite frankly laughable that he would start now.

That’s what Tommy tells the rogue half of his brain trying to rain on their parade. Another thing he picked up from his therapist - name the part of you that spews negative self-talk and talk back to it. Predictably, Tommy named his Vince. Shut the fuck up, Vince.

Evan’s shift ended twenty minutes ago and Tommy has chili on the stove keeping warm. Between showering and the drive over, Evan should be due at his door in another twenty-five or so. Tommy hides the dog bed, lights the kitchen candle, tries to find things to do with his hands so he doesn't watch the time like a hawk. They’ve had conflicting shifts for almost two weeks with only stolen moments and half-asleep kisses in between. Tommy misses his boyfriend. But a watched clock never ticks, or whatever.

His strategy works, because Evan’s knock on the front door actually startles him a little from the stack of unopened mail he’s sorting through. So many flyers for what feels like every home decor and craft store in the state.

Evan’s eyes are gentle and joyful when Tommy answers the door. “Hey.” He leans in to squeeze Tommy’s bicep and press a kiss to the wing of his cheek. Tommy can feel Evan’s mouth stretch into a smile against his skin.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Tommy wiggles his fingers under the strap of Evan’s duffel to take it from him and steps aside to let him into the house. His heart thuds in his chest.

Evan surrenders his bag and steps into Tommy’s home for the first time. If he notices Tommy holding his breath, he doesn’t comment yet.

He takes a look around while Tommy tries to look anywhere but his face. He doesn’t want to let on that he’s being a complete lunatic about this, that he let his anxiety take over for the better part of the day.

When Evan turns around to face Tommy again and slides his hands over Tommy’s waist, presses his fingers into Tommy’s back, nudging them closer together, his smile has split into a full grin. Tommy can’t help reflexively smiling in return. He can feel his cheeks flooding with warmth. It should be embarrassing that Evan still makes Tommy blush at the drop of a hat even all these months later, but if it helps Evan know deep in his bones that Tommy is gone for him, Tommy wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“It looks like you.” Evan draws his hands up and down Tommy’s torso in gentle strokes. “Cozy. Warm. Like…” He trails off and bites his lip, drops his eyes to Tommy’s chest.

Tommy hooks his fingers under Buck’s chin and lifts his gaze back up until their eyes meet in a move that’s become so routine it’s pretty much an inside joke between them. “Like what? Don’t leave me hanging.”

It’s Evan turn to flush a deep pink. He takes an unsteady breath in. “L-like home.”

An immense weight lifts off Tommy’s chest so quickly it almost steals his breath, but Evan has tensed up just a fraction, so Tommy hums softly, spreads his big hands over Buck’s wide shoulders and digs his fingers in to massage the tension back out. He slides deeper into Evan’s space to take his mouth in a chaste, lingering kiss, and he murmurs against his lips. “Glad to hear it.”

[sceletaflores]

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ wip wednesday!

thanks for the tag angel baby @guiltyasdave <3 �� 18+ under the cut! MDNI!

wip #1 • far too familiar a stranger…feat. logan howlett (& crimson!)

a long time ago, logan howlett knew a woman with your face…

i couldn’t not write a ‘worst!logan coming face to face with his tragically dead love interest but from wade’s universe after wade forced her to help them stop the TVA and hating her for bringing up that time in his life until he doesn’t anymore’ fic.

it's crimson because i felt that making whole new mutant reader would be sort of confusing so this fic is in the to the bone universe but it's not the same timeline...if that makes sense lmao

Wade Wilson is the worst neighbor in the entire fucking world. It’s really something you should have known sooner, like ‘the very first day in your new place ending with him breaking in through your window fully suited up after counting the floors wrong and bleeding all over your brand new pottery barn throw rug because he was still a little too concussed to walk’ sooner. Even after that whole fiasco left you with a broken window latch and a beyond fucked non-refundable $80 carpet, you still let yourself entertain his crazy. Just like everyone else whose life Wade crashed into, both physically or metaphorically. And once he's in, you can never really get him back out again. So yeah, maybe this whole thing is your fault. Maybe getting thrown into a barren, dusty void with two somewhat failed X-Men is just all your bad karma manifesting in one huge finger from the universe.

wip #2 • red and yellow kill a fellow! feat. logan howlett & wade wilson

logan doesn’t appreciate you letting wade get one up on him…

finally finally finally getting off my ass and writing logan x reader x wade! i was inspired by this one episode of satc (which is like my favorite show ever bee tee dubs) where charlotte goes out with two guys at the same time and she has sex with one but not the other until one of them catches her with the other guy and they all break it off.

my vision is a little different cause instead of getting mad and leaving when logan finds out reader fucked wade and not him, he figures it's his turn to get even. aka wade in the cuck chair and loving it.

The three of you pass a BMW sitting in a no parking zone, all four windows rolled down as Madonna blasts through the speakers. "So," Wade says, voice breaking the silence for the first time in five minutes. "Who white-washed your guts better?" You nearly trip over your own feet, whipping your head to gape at Wade. "Fucking excuse me?" "You know," Wade shrugs, like it's a perfectly normal thing to ask. The leisurely pace of his stroll not slowing, his hands still stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. "Who carved the lyrical railway better?" He just keeps going as you stare at him with a repulsed look on your face. "The number one stud that's stuffin' your muffin? That's takin the ol' bald-headed gnome for a satisfying stroll in the misty forest. Pick one hot stuff, they all mean the same thing." Before you can even answer there's a rough, questioning grunt from your right and your stomach flips. Oh. Logan, he was still here too. Still here and right next to you, listening. Oh yeah. "You fucked?" You still haven't slept with Logan yet. You turn to him face slowly, eyes a hair wide as you take in the sharp raise of his brow. "Um..." "Whoops," Wade snorts from somewhere behind your shoulder. "Cat's out the bag."

wip #3 • it's the easiest thing (just love me and eat me) feat. logan howlett

it’s not often that logan needs this, but you’re always more than happy to give it to him when he does…

the same requested sub!logan fic from last wednesday just with a new name and weirder energy! like this has really gotten away from me and turned into something that i can't really explain well enough to make it sound like chill...

lots of religious imagery and symbolism...and some metaphors of cannibalism...idk i'm just a girl with religious trauma and a weird blood fetish sue me.

You've come to think that being in bed with Logan is like being in church. The familiar weight of his body pressing you into the mattress is the alter. The heat of it like laying in the burning flame of a candle. The strong planes of his muscles each a different scripture that you take in by touch alone, skating your hands over his skin with something close to worship. Each bead of sweat on his skin feels sacred, a testament to the intensity between you, as though every part of him has been crafted for this moment of devotion. The hard length of his cock carves a place for itself inside you, each heavy smack of his hips punching another desperate sound out of your slack lips. His breath, deep and ragged, is a chant that pulls you into reverence. It puffs against the wild beat of your pulse, his lips brushing over the fever hot plane of your skin. The sound of your name pulled from his mouth sounds like a prayer answered. You can’t help but close your eyes, not in exhaustion, but in a kind of spiritual surrender, like by shutting out the world, you can truly grasp the divinity of it. There's a holiness to the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing worth believing in.

kisses!

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @artemis-b-writes @avocado-writing @superhoeva

[fleshadept]

i don’t know i just feel like there’s the little girl buried under layers of scar tissue in the core of my soul who heard the word tomboy for the first time and got giddy because it fit so well. who got into a screaming match with her dad to wear a button up shirt instead of a dress. who looked everywhere for characters who were like her and found only angry, violent bullies. who gave up and started dressing more feminine, only to sob her eyes out to “ring of keys” from fun home when she heard it the first time. and i think it’s pretty fucking ridiculous that it’s a decade after i began that search and it hasn’t gotten much better!! if i see one more wlw couple on my screen who are both skinny, long haired, conventionally attractive, who would not stand out in a pottery barn, i will scream!!!!!

[goldfades]

Like you said, manager does have some outrageous and some cute nicknames for the girls, here are a few (These are bad btw, be prepared)

Azzi: Azzikins, Azarath Metrion Zinthos, Zazzle/Zapple, Fuzi, Izzi Pizzi (Easy Peasey)

KK Arnold: Kaptin Krunch, Hey Arnold, K.K. Slider, Krusty Kream, Krusty Krab

Paige: Peanut Butter, Pipbone (Hipbone), Paige Bruiser, All Hands on Beuck, Pottery Barn

-🐹

HELP ME KRUSTY KRAB GETS KK ANGRYYYY shes like "cmon man..." 😭😭😭 LIKE 😭😭😭😭

p is so confused with "pottery barn" cause... how the fuck did she even come up with that

[numinousmysteries]

For the prompts: Mulder peering into the wondrous world of his fishtank.

This prompt is ancient now but the muse strikes when the muse strikes. Origin story of Mulder’s fish tank comes from @sagan-starstuff's brilliant post here. (I also don't actually. think I answered the prompt but this is what happened.)

A true one-bedroom in a good neighborhood—”in walking distance to Old Town,” according to the matronly realtor—2630 Hegal Place wasn’t a posh address but it wasn’t a total shithole either. Despite his burning instinct for self-flagellation, Fox Mulder’s trust fund parachute and Brooks Brothers upbringing would only let him stoop so low. Still, it was dreary enough to feel like a punishment.

He wasn’t naive enough to think that apartment 42 would be the answer to life, the universe, and everything, but it was an appropriate answer to the question of where to put a brooding man, ears still ringing from the shellshock of a failed six-month marriage. A fitting habitat for a 20th-century Heathcliff in virgin wool Zegna suits locked on course to ruin his professional reputation in the name of a long-lost sister and memories he didn’t fully trust. 

It was meant to be a stopgap. He signed a month-to-month lease. Months turned to years.

Late at night, dozing on the couch (beds are for men deserving of rest, who have the luxury of shutting off their brains a third of each day with no need for constant vigilance), the only light came from the fish tank. 

He hated the fucking fish at first, resented their glorious ignorance, their freedom from the burden of comprehension and consequence. The tank and its occupants were a housewarming/divorce gift from the Gunmen; a poorly-considered insurance policy against what they expected was his impending suicide. Fuck them, he thought, let the fish die. Let it all burn to the ground. After two days of mutual starvation, though, he locked eyes with a translucent molly and felt his humanity pulse beneath callused layers of cynicism. He tipped the container of freeze-dried flakes into the tank. He made himself a piece of dry toast. 

Newton’s first law of motion governs that action begets action. He kept rising every morning, searching for the truth, and feeding the fish. 

He was assigned a new partner. She fed the fish when he was detained in military custody, quarantined with a parasite of unknown origin, or chasing radio signals in Caribbean jungles.  

But Scully didn’t belong in his fox den. His newspaper-plastered bile nest. 

Her home was light where his was dark, soft where his was hard, warm where his was cold. She displayed framed family photos out in the open. Apple-cheeked baby nephews. A younger Scully in a cap and gown with her father grinning beside her. He hid an album of patrilineal co-conspirators under the false bottom of a desk drawer. Unsmiling men quietly plotting the demise of all mankind over cans of Rheingold in well-manicured backyards. Demerol-dazed wives trading their children for Givenchy dresses and empty promises of a valiant future. 

All her blonde wood Pottery Barn furniture and Yankee Candle torches couldn’t protect her from his darkness, though. Duane Barry stepped right into her sanctum and tore her away from him.

He took off on an ill-fated West Coast vampire hunt that ended in a bloodless climax and a three-alarm blaze. Somehow, all but one of his fish survived. He flushed down the fallen soldier, contemplating the shortcomings of mortality and the prison of eternity. 

Bleary-eyed and broken, he sat in the darkness, his gaze darting between his loaded gun and the glowing tank. This new knowledge of himself—that he was a man who’d kill in cold blood for vengeance—threatened to obliterate his reluctant detente with the fish. By tomorrow morning, he would no longer be their worthy steward. 

A knock on the door. Melissa Scully entered, her presence a tauntingly inaccurate facsimile of the woman he wanted to see. She was a few inches too tall, her hair several shades too dark, her rosy worldview miles off base. But she wasn’t that different from his partner after all. She called him out on his masochistic bullshit and saw the light within him. 

Newton’s second law of motion states that an object requires a commensurate force to launch it into action. He doesn’t believe that. These wispy Scully women with their birdlike bones and feather-soft breath shouldn’t have the power to lift him out from under two decades of self-hatred—but they do. So he put his faith in this patchouli-scented witchy sister with her silk choker and mall-bought crystals, bid the fish (and his blood-stained, testosterone-fueled revenge fantasy) goodbye, and went to see his dying partner.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

@stunudo sent me an ask a week or two ago challenging me to share my five favorite lines that I’ve ever written, so here goes!

To be fair, a lot of these are missing something without context; most of my favorite lines are the ones that call back to other moments in the fic and tie together imagery. BUT. Here.

From A Muscle the Size of Your Fist — this is a theme that runs through the whole story, and there are places where I think I captured parts of it more elegantly, but this is where it’s said most concisely:

“Punk has always been about the outcasts, the queer kids and the misfits and the marginalized, the black sheep… everybody who feels like they’re alone. Everybody who feels powerless.” Steve’s voice rings out, fills the space like a living presence, and Bucky gets chills when he continues: “But you’re not alone, and you never were. Look around you. Next time you feel like you’re alone, next time you feel like giving up, I want you to listen to this song and remember that there are people out there who are willing to fight for you. We’ll fight for you until you’re strong enough to stand up and join in. We’ll love you until you learn how to love yourself.”

From If It’s A Highway:

Jesus always seems so damn tired, up there on his cross, with his arms spread wide as if to welcome death, and maybe Bucky can relate. If he could just sleep for three days — doesn’t sound so bad, when he thinks about it like that. Three days isn’t that long.

He wonders whether Jesus knew what was coming. Whether he was surprised to find himself alive again. Whether he woke alone in the dark and screamed until his lungs gave out, or broke his knuckles beating his fists against the stone.

Also from Highway:

Bucky used to have an empty, sterile cage in his chest and an endless stygian labyrinth of caves in his skull, and as long as he didn’t look too close, he could ignore the buried remains of past lives under his skin. The darkness didn’t bother him until the walls started to crumble and let in the light.

Every tiny human act has been a hairline crack in his icy shell. Every moment of empathy and desire, gentle touch and sharp lust, coffee and cigarettes and food and sex; pebbles dropped in wells and flashlights shone down mineshafts, tremors that shook the foundations, coffin lids splintering. Miniscule fissures, microscopic landslides.

Just for the sake of switching up the vibe, here’s The One With The Pottery Barn Couch — probably the funniest fic I’ve ever written, and there were other lines I could’ve picked out, too, but I’m a big fan of this one:

When Dick wakes up, he’s being carried. He’s being cradled to a really absurdly muscled chest that’s covered in leather and smells like explosions, and carried in one goddamn arm, like Paris Hilton would carry her fucking chihuahua.

…

Maybe it’d be nice to be a rich lady’s spoiled chihuahua, Dick thinks, and then, holy painkillers, Batman, and then he is out for the count.

It was ridiculously difficult to choose this last one, not gonna lie. I re read this fic the other day and I really love this — it does tie into the rest (and, like, into canon) so YMMV, but. From Lost My Fear of Falling:

It took them both years to get here, to learn to let themselves be loved without doubting it, without looking down waiting for the self-fulfilling prophecy of an inevitable stumble. It was worth the work. There’s no doubt in his mind. But he misses the days when he never thought twice about all the open space under that tightrope.

Dick lets the tears come. Lets himself mourn the kid who thought love was as easy as gravity, and who’d never had any reason to be afraid of falling.

Tagging — @kangofu-cb @drgrlfriend @bittercape @sammialex @oliocelottafanfics you WILL compliment yourselves dammit! 🖤

[flowerparrish]

[Podfic Link] | Rated: T | Length: 23 minutes

Marvel/DC: Jason/Bucky/Clint

"Just kidding," Jason says. “I have a dog, a boyfriend who wears an apron when he bakes, and a couch from Pottery Barn. Domestic as fuck.” That gets a solid laugh before Dick continues, “I know that your, um… profession complicates things —” “What could you possibly mean?” Jason asks innocently, wiping blood off a knife. “ — but everybody deserves to find love.” [In which Dick goes full Momwing, attends a controlled demolition, and doesn't hallucinate at all.]

Fic by @noxnthea & @there-must-be-a-lock! Podded for the Marvel/DC Crossovers Discord's Fanworks of Fanworks event!

[dollwritesarchive]

𝐢’𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥 ( 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 ) — 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐠𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ this is a dark fic. smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, infidelity ( diego’s canon marriage ), technically stepcest, diego is in fact a bastard, degradation, abusive behavior, threats and mention of murder, dub con and then noncon for like a second, breath control, all characters featured are 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ i haven’t read sbr yet but i really like him okay. do not repost or translate. please reblog && leave feedback. thanks for reading < 3

“Oh, fu—“

Diego’s hand claps over your mouth; thumb and forefinger pinching your nostrils closed as he shoves you harder into the wall. “Shut up,” he barks in your ear, but his voice is uneven— raspy, as he hisses through his clenched teeth, “just take it, don’t ruin this for me.” one of your hands claw at his wrist, but the other outstretches, smacking your palm against the table to your left as you scramble to find some sort of leverage, some way to counter the furious pressure you feel from the assault, but you hear glass shatter against the floor. an expensive vase. if Diego hadn’t been fucking you so roughly, you might’ve been able to grab the pottery before it tumbled over the side of the table, but there was no reason to worry about it now. so, you didn’t. you moan into his palm, nails scoring the leather on his wrist. you could taste it, too, and it smells like the barn, with the rest of his equipment.

“Jesus,” he scoffs, incredulous that even now, your walls spasmed happily, and you bounced back to meet the raging of his wild hips, “take your breath away and this pussy of yours only gets tighter, wetter,” he was spitting against your earlobe, as if he were disgusted that you could be so shameless, “you’re one brazen cunt.” unfortunately for him, you could hear the depravity in his voice: he liked it. a lot.

your brows knit together; you feel a low and searing anger in your gut; you wanted to punch him. you would’ve loved to see his pearly white teeth scattered on the floor at your feet, and watch him spit up his own blood. men didn’t talk to you like that and get away with it.

but, Diego did. and you hated him for it.

you make sure he knows it, too, by the way you claw at his gloves, desperate to draw blood from his vulnerable flesh underneath. but the insult on his lips sends violent waves of unbridled lust over you, and instead of fighting, you find yourself pushing back into him harder— wanting his thick cock deeper in your belly, until he hits your limit and your eyes cross. your back twisted into the tautest S arch he could force. you mewl into his hand as he stills there, sank as deep as he could go, just to make you feel it.

attempting to suck in a breath, you’re sorely reminded by the burning in your lungs that he was withholding breathing rights. you stomp one foot, aiming for his toes but you miss, slurring a plea to breathe, but he only grunts and clamps his fist tighter around your face. “Stay put,” he barks, pressing his body against your back just as you start to thrash and pumps hard, slow, and deep. over and over. robbing you of any potential thought attempting to manifest. “I’m about to fucking cum.” you buck, wild and desperate for a single gulp of oxygen, but his vice is too tight, and he wasn’t letting go.

your nails, like razors, manage to dig through his gloves and nick his wrist, then he groans and uses his other hand to pry yours off, pushing it between your slick thighs instead, “Stop being so bloody dramatic, I’ll let you breathe when you make me cum,” he demands, hips pistoning harder— faster, the rhythm making your head spin, “now rub. Rub your greedy little cunt, make her milk me…” he trails off into a strangled moan as he presses your fingers on your button and rubs fiercely, your walls clench his cock, trapping him inside, and his head drops back. you couldn’t be angry, it felt too good. so, you submit, and rub in tandem with the pressure his strength can apply, and before long, you’re melting against the wall, moaning breathless and needy, gurgling for him with your eyes rolling back. “Y—yes, oh, fuck yes…!” Diego’s moans were beautiful and sinful, and roughness of the leather scraping your face and cunt inches you closer to your own release, whether he cares about your pleasure or not.

he doesn’t.

when Diego loses his composure, he all but shakes you like a rag doll, sliding you up and down his length, your breasts jiggling out of the neckline of your sundress, the sleeve slid down one arm. he wasn’t slowing down, he wasn’t stopping, and your body was heating up.

for a moment, you thought he might — for the first time, ever — cum inside you, and you welcomed the proposition of feeling his warmth, but those dreams are dashed when he shoves you off of him and you lean into the wall he’s forced you against. your knees tremble, the sudden hollowed feeling combining with your soiled orgasm to create a thunderstorm in your belly when he erupts, splattering his release on the wooden floor between your feet, and you close your eyes, pursing your recently liberated lips to keep them from puckering into a pout— childishly jealous of the floorboards.

after that, Diego doesn’t speak. tucking his twitching cock that still smells like you into his trousers, then adjusting his shirt, and eventually his gloves, he simply clears his throat and glances in the mirror hanging askew on the wall.

you’ve managed to twirl around, resting your back against the wall, chest heaving and knees turned inwards, and you breathe, ragged, looking up at him. “Is that all you wanted?”

Diego doesn’t even look at you. what a punch in the gut. “At least until I win,” he mumbles, distracted as he gawks at himself, before casting the laziest glance at you, and reaches down for the saddlebag on the floor by the table. “Save that bratty mouth for me and I’ll fuck it stupid once I get back.”

“What about what I want?”

he’s turned away from you now, and he sighs, obviously inconvenienced. “Cock isn’t enough?”

your eyes narrow and you take a forward step. it isn’t the steadiest, but you try to stomp your feet. you’d confided in Diego about your hatred for your grandmother already, and seeing as though he’d married her a couple of months prior and avoided her like the plague, you assumed he shared your sentiments. but your desire to hurry her into the next lifetime had been met with serious disdain. after all, you were in her will and he wasn’t. she was much more useful to him alive. but you thought you could change his mind. split the money with him, make it worth his while. “You could do it right now, you know…” you mumble, glancing at the staircase, “she’s upstairs, sleeping, all you’d have to do is put the pillow over—“

Diego casts you a cold glare over his shoulder, “Drop it. Now.”

you blink, and frown, as if you’ve just been told no by your father because the barbie doll you wanted was too expensive. then, you puff up, furrowing your brows, huffing. “Well if you’re not man enough, I’ll do it myself. I’ll just wait until you’re gone and I’ll—“

a gasp claws its way passed your lips as Diego’s leather-clad fist wraps around your neck, and with one step, and then another, he’s pinned you against the wall you were pressed against only moments before. only this time, you’re much more afraid, because the fire in his ocean eyes tells you that you’re fucked.

“Listen to me very carefully, princess.” he hisses, lips hovering inches from yours. but, for the first time, you don’t want to kiss them. you’re terrified they’re dripping with acid. “I’ve been generous with you, haven’t I? I let you be my pretty, little fucktoy because you’ve got a nice, wet cunt and a cocksucker’s pout. But let me be clear: anyone who would meddle with my money is an enemy, no matter how fuckable they are.” Diego tilts his head, voice softening as his thumb creeps up to jab at your trembling lower lip, manipulation oozing into his husky tone, “You don’t want to be my enemy, do you?” you tremble, eyes wide, and shake your head. all of your superiority was obviously bravado, because you’re trying to dissipate against the wall, and escape his grasp. “Hm?” he urges, pressing the pad against your tier, “Speak, whore.”

“I… don’t want to be your enemy, Diego.”

“Do you want to continue being my little fucktoy?” you nod, but his brow quirks, “Speak.” he repeats. “Say it.”

your cheeks are on fire, but you worry he might tighten the grip on your neck if you don’t ( or worse ), so you stammer, “I— want to be your fucktoy.”

“Good.” he mumbles, satisfied, and his lips graze against yours, “My cash cow better still breathe when I get back or you’ll join her six feet below. Are we clear?” your heartbeat thunders, but you nod, and thankfully, that’s good enough for him. your shaky hands grip the skirt of your dress to keep from vibrating at your sides and you were breathing heavily against his smirking lips. his eyes coruscate as he takes in your frightened expression, “I want you to pet your pretty pussy every night while I’m gone, think about my cock in every, tight hole of yours. Keep that cunt wet and that mouth shut for me like a proper toy should.”

[ereardon]

Remember when I said I was afraid my husband would try to infuse mojo dojo into our new house?

Well he's turned the bonus room into his fucking lair I have to close the door to not fixate on it. Bought himself a L-shaped gaming desk with a curved monitor ☠

That's why I bought this Anthropologie lamp to go with our Pottery Barn console in the living room that does not in any way match his aesthetic 😭

[dc-marvel-crossovers]

Podfic of The One With The Pottery Barn Couch by @flowerparrish

Originally written by @noxnthea and @there-must-be-a-lock

"Just kidding," Jason says. “I have a dog, a boyfriend who wears an apron when he bakes, and a couch from Pottery Barn. Domestic as fuck.”

That gets a solid laugh before Dick continues, “I know that your, um… profession complicates things —”

“What could you possibly mean?” Jason asks innocently, wiping blood off a knife.

“ — but everybody deserves to find love.”

[In which Dick goes full Momwing, attends a controlled demolition, and doesn't hallucinate at all.]

For the Crossover Fanworks Celebration!

[ladylooch]

Ahhhh, I’m not the original anon who sent that they want angst for Lio and Sav but I do want it as well! Maybe Lio liking girls bikini pics or even just pics in general on instagram cause he doesn't see anything wrong with it. Maybe they argue because Sav wants kids but Lio doesn’t really want kids? 

Maybe they have a pregnancy scare… 

We all know that new man Lio would never cheat but he probably at first doesn’t understand how liking other women’s pics can upset Sav

The people want angst! And I am here to deliver the angst! Channeling some of this blurb and your thoughts above for this one 🥰

Savannah does not consider herself a snoop. She trusts Lio. She respects that he has a past from before her, just as she does before him. But she also has eyes. Blue ones that can’t help but wander over his shoulder as he scrolls through Instagram. 

Model after model sprints across his screen as he scrolls with his thumb. 

“Wow, more boobs than a swimsuit edition of SI.” She mumbles under her breath. 

“Hm?” Lio asks, looking over at her. She flips the page in her boring magazine, scanning the newest living room decor trends from Pottery Barn. 

“Nice couch.” She diverts the conversation. She points to a brown leather one. “Would look good in here.” 

“Yeah I like it.” Lio nods in agreement. “Should I get it?”

“You should ask Kendall if she would like it too before you make any decisions.” She flips the next page. 

“Who’s Kendall?”

“The girl whose tits you are engrossed with.” A wrinkle appears between Lio’s eyebrows. He takes in his girlfriend’s set jaw, then realizes she means Kendall, his ex fling, who he just scrolled by.

“Sav…” Lio chuckles. “I didn’t even notice. She’s an old friend.”

“I bet she is.” She responds, slapping the magazine shut. “What time are we meeting Lucie and Connor?” Lio stills, watching her cross her arms tightly across her chest. She rolls her foot in annoyance where one leg is folded over the other. 

“About an hour.” Sav uncrosses her arms, scratching distractedly at an itch in her hair, then stands up.

“I’m going to go read my book.” She announces over her shoulder, not even turning to look at him. She heads down the hallway to his bedroom, closing the door with a soft click. 

Lio sighs, then pulls up his Instagram. He may be new at this, but he knows whats bugging her. It’s not like she hasn’t brought it up off handedly, especially when she is drunk.

“I’m a cool girlfriend! I don’t even care that he follows over 100 models on Instagram.” 

Lio gets it. But he wishes she would talk to him instead of being so passive aggressive about it. He thinks about Lucie, wondering what she would say if it came up tonight at dinner.

Unfollow them you asshole!, probably.

So that is what Lio spends the next hour doing, unfollowing all the girls he doesn’t know, hasn’t spoken to in years, and especially the girls he has hooked up with. 

He wants Savannah to know she is the only one on his mind. He is willing to do whatever necessary to make her feel comfortable in their relationship. He knows he hurt her before. He doesn’t ever want that to happen again.

Lio raps his knuckles on the bedroom door once he is done.

“I'll be out in a second.” She calls to him. He frowns, hearing the tears in her voice. Shit, he should of come to talk to her earlier. He rubs at his hair in frustration.  Fuck, why is he so bad at this?

“Hey, time to go?” She asks brightly, sniffing discreetly when she opens the door. She tries to step around him, not waiting for an answer.

“Babe.” Lio takes a hold of her arm softly. Sav purses her lips, keeping her eyes down the hallway. “Will you talk to me?” 

“Do I really have to, Lio?” She pushes back.

“Would be nice if you did.” He shrugs. “I’m new at this.” His reminder is delicate, pleading even.

“I hate it. It makes me feel like shit that you have all these options at your fingertips.” 

“Sav, you know I’m in love with you?”

“Yes, but-“

“That is the beginning and end of it all.” He cuts her off, leaning down to smooch her lips. While he is kissing her, he slides his unlocked phone into her hands. “Look at whatever you want. Unfollow whomever you want me to. I’m yours.”

Then he slides her hips to the side to go into the closet to change for dinner.

[shadyhouse]

HOW DID YOU GET FIRED FROM POTTERY BARN ON DAY NUMERO UNO MUCHACHO!?

i wish it was a more interesting story LMAO basically i got hired on to do wfh customer service for them and i was told that i had the job and everything and on day one of training they opened up a private zoom call with me to tell me i didnt have enough ram on my laptop so i was like. disqualified from the job. it was so dumb they didnt even say sorry or goodbye or that it was nice to meet me or anything they just told me to log off.

the funny part of the story is that i went to the other room to tell my roommate what happened and i was completely ranting and raving about the whole thing, i was SO fucking angry. like i quit my previous job for this and then became unemployed in the blink of an eye. after a few minutes i went back to my room to see the main zoom call was still going and i was unmuted LOL