#how to fix drywall

[oifaaa]

at some point I really should go through all my old text posts and delete the ones I no longer agree with but not right now right now I have walls to fix

[strongermonster]

this is a really weird thing to complain about perhaps + has a really simple fix of "why don't you just switch banks then bc no one cares??"

but last year (maybe the year before?) my bank switched from a very conservative navy blue, berry red, and steel grey colour scheme that had a sort of feel of professional detachment to it that i've come to associate with dry corporate things like banking, to this "fun" new thing that's lime green and hot pink, with (mostly) light grey text on dark grey backgrounds, and uses exclusively black and white pictures of Attractive Diverse Youths of an Indeterminate Age Doing Fun Millennial-Appealing Non-Banking Activities to try and jazz it up, and i... i don't... hate it, but it feels... wrong?

it feels too very specifically engineered. calculated. like, you're a bank. you're a financial institution owned by a larger one that has all the money in the world and does not care to help a single soul with it, but you know it doesn't matter because we're stuck with you anyways.

"free spirited photography" "old-fashioned competition" "energetic black-and-white imagery" why does it feel like they're trying to convince me of something?? this is like a new wave social media app that hasn't figured out how manipulative phrasing has worked yet.

the whole thing feels disingenuous and tacky. they're an online only bank, so they're trying to appeal to millennials and younger by being Hip and Cool with the Youths, but it just feels sour. reminds me a bit of 'they live (1988)'-ish, or when you get a new job and they're like "we're a family here! 🥰" and everything is really sleek and buzzfeed/tech startup-esq and counter-productively techy in a really inhuman way and you end up getting fired over zoom by a bohemian chic hr woman wearing fashion glasses she doesn't need with bangles that jingle the entire time she gesticulates while telling you she's really-really sorry your mom has cancer, but you did break company policy by taking 10 days off this year 😢

also when i say "i don't hate it" i mean uhm. if this was the kind of colours and imagery that someone was using to promote a community-based event that involved interacting with other people, i would find it enjoyable and engaging. but there's something about it being used to encourage engagement with an app designed to take my money that makes me feel uhh well all of the above i guess.

i don't know. corporations have more access to us on a deeply personal level than ever before, so when i see things like this it makes me nervous to think about how many greedy corporate execs sat in a room workshopping the best way to seem like Your Cool Friend like some sort of shapeshifting social parasite. but maybe i'm just paranoid.

[merriclo]

back in middle school i used to watch youtube videos that were on the trending page so i could maybe understand and partake in conversation with my peers. on a completely unrelated note my friends keep on saying that i’m autistic but i really don’t see it

[briapia]

i saw a bug n shot it :( now there’s a hole in my wall!

[evilblot]

Oh btw, I'm unemployed again teehee <3c

[guhhhhhhhhhhh]

I am going to make it thru this week even if it kills me I am GOING TO MAKE IT THROUGH THIS WEEK REALLY IM going to make it through this week

[ravnloft]

[gripping the bathroom sink] amma thought she was unlovable because she thought bonnevance didn't ever really love her because she doesn't truly understand what love is because she cannot grasp the concept of wanting the world to be a better place because she is so deeply horrible and cold and vicious and selfish that in her mind love means killing!!!!!!!!!!! love means betraying everything and everyone around you except the person your swore fealty to!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! love means trusting someone to do the same for you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!+ AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[cuntwrap--supreme]

Not my neighbors getting day drunk, falling down their stairs, busting a hole in the drywall, and attempting to fix it at 8:30pm 🫣

[quiveringdeer]

I really don't want to go back to work. technically probs shoulda worked yesterday but like no one else is going in this wk pretty sure- and I technically have annual leave I can burn sooo I think I just might

ugh

[pseudowho]

When you moved in with Nanami Kento, despite having spent countless days and nights there prior, he insisted upon orienting you to the penthouse.

"The rubbish is collected on Tuesdays, unless there's a public holiday, in which case it's collected on Wednesday," Kento droned, as if he'd rehearsed his lines in advance.

You followed him, pulling a suitcase behind you with a fixed expression of earnest interest. You pursed your lips, trying not to laugh every time he turned his back to you, before schooling your expression again the second he looked back.

"Okay, Kento. Wednesday, got it. Anyway, I thought we could order some takeout, and celebrate--"

"No." He snipped, turning back to you with narrowed eyes, "Tuesday, unless there's a public holiday, in which case--"

"--it's collected Wednesday. Okay. I hear you."

Kento narrowed his eyes a little more. You stood to attention. A heartbeat passed.

"Good." Kento looked down, ticking something off his list, and you felt yourself wither and die with equal parts adoration and exasperation.

"Next, fire safety."

"Oh, god--"

"Pardon?"

"Oh, god, I love fire safety!"

"Good. We have lots to cover. First of all, the designated fire exits are marked on the map, here, here, and here."

"This, er...this laminated one?"

"Yes. I have one too."

"Oh, we match~<3"

"It's important that we're both adhering to the same protocol."

As Kento continued, highlighting fire doors, and escape routes, and emergency contact details, your mind began to wander. His voice, while deep and smooth, ran monotonous when left to run for too long, and your eyelids drooped, your arm sagging on your suitcase handle, and--

"Are you listening?"

"Me? God, yes, I love...water based fire extinguishers. I use them on everything."

Kento prickled, a shiver rippling up his beige suit from toe to shoulder, "I certainly hope not, water can only be used on wood fires, or--"

"--or my flaming hot pussy, because this is really getting my engine goi--"

"--I feel like you're not taking fire safety seriously."

"Kento...please--"

"Because it excites me when fire safety is taken seriously."

When Kento turned his back again, you turned too, dropping your suitcase and dragging your palms down your face, a silently screaming oil-paint figure on a bridge.

"Regarding bathroom etiquette," Kento toned, his voice flat, as you thudded your head once against the drywall. By the time he leaned around the corner to look at you, you smiled, bright and attentive.

"What was that noise?"

"I...jumped. Out of...excitement."

Another silence. Another narrowing of the eyes.

"Good," Kento pipped, "as I was saying, regarding bathroom etiquette, I hope you're not one of those reprobates that squeezes from the middle of the tube--"

"Oh, no, I prefer to suck it straight from the tube--"

"--I beg your pardon--"

"--Kento, are you anxious?" Kento froze with his back to you. The toothpaste lid squeezed off with force in his hand, clattering across the bathroom floor. A slow coil of toothpaste squeezed out of the tube, to slug down his clenched fist.

You crept closer, and slipped a hand under Kento's suit jacket to his lower back, and stroked it. You felt the tautness in the muscles beneath his shirt, as rigid as a door of oak.

"Are you anxious about me moving in?" You repeated, your voice soft. Kento swallowed, hard.

"How...how could you tell?"

You sighed. When you turned Kento to face you, he could hardly maintain eye contact, looking anywhere but at you. You could see the worry beneath his thin facade.

"Nothing's going to change," you whispered, cupping his cheeks in your palms, "and if it does change, it'll change for the better. And I can't wait. I can't wait for...for every late night, and every early morning. I can't wait for every hug, and every argument, and every day off where we can just wake up in each other's arms, and say good morning instead of texting each other good morning."

Kento melted into your touch, his palm rising to cup yours against his cheek. His voice was tight, exerting control in what little way he could.

"I'm just determined to get this right. You're everything to me, and if I got this wrong I'd never forgive myself."

"There's nothing to get wrong. Or, if there is, it doesn't matter, because we know we're safe together. We'll forgive each other. Alright?"

Kento sighed through his nose, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Just tell me one thing."

"What is it?"

"...do you really not know which fire extinguisher to use for an electrical fire--"

"You are joking, Kento."

"I never joke about fire safety."

[wallflowerglitter]

Woke up to my shelf in my closet falling down dumping all my clothes on the floor, love that for me. ✨

[moonlight-prose]

smut prompt #8 for logan 👀💗

forty five minutes in the closet

a/n: not me literally writing this in right where you left me ch4. hilarious and iconic timing, because i was fighting the urge to just have them fuck full on in that closet. so here's my chance to do just that. for funsies i'm shoving it into that universe. do not look at me for using that gif. i literally can't deny myself the sight.

summary: an alternative scene to what really happened in that closet.

OR wade wilson forces logan to play seven minutes in heaven. (it was longer than seven minutes if we're being honest.)

word count: 2.6k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, exhibitionism, dirty talk, logan is filthy af and we love that, spit, fingering sort of, p in v sex, quickie, rough sex, biting, he's down bad for his honey what can i say, panty gag, a formal apology for how fucking horny and unhinged this is.

The closet felt smaller than intended—even as your back was pressed to the wall hard enough to feel the cracks in the drywall that stretched to the ceiling. Laughter filtered through the thin wooden door as Wade told yet another joke about shit you couldn't discern. Even if you asked him to explain, you'd still be confused come morning.

Logan leaned heavily against his side of the closet. Approximately two feet of space between you. The tips of your shoes touched his boots. The faint scent of cigar smoke still lingered from where he ripped it out and tossed it in an ashtray. You wouldn't have cared if he smoked in here. You might have asked for a puff.

He insisted on keeping the air clean in case you had to breathe.

Wade claimed you were playing seven minutes in heaven. Seven minutes of alone time with the man who made your head spin. In a proximity close enough to feel the heat of his body from where you stood. Although you'd been standing there for four minutes (you were keeping count via the watch on Logan's wrist) and the group seemed to have forgotten about the both of you entirely.

"Do you—um—know what usually happens here?"

A smile curved on his lips—eyes scrutinizing you with a look that told you he was teasing you. "Yeah. I do. I'm old, not stupid."

"I just wanted to make sure..." In a swift move you barely saw, he rose to his full height and crossed the invisible line holding the two of you on opposing sides. "Oh–"

"Honey." His voice was low, yet you felt as if he was screaming in your ear.

"Yes?" you breathed—eyes fixed on the way his chest took up your space. His flannel was stretched across it and for a moment you wondered if you started salivating at the sight.

"Are you nervous?"

Another raucous round of laughs broke through the darkness that surrounded you. But you could barely hear them over the echo of your own heart. It hammered loudly against your chest—quickening the closer he got. The more his large frame began to engulf you in a warmth you only dreamed of. You clamored to come up with a response, to flippantly push off his advance with a tease of your own.

His hands pressing on either side of your head to the wall behind you killed every ounce of bravery you had left. All your worries and thoughts about what lay on the other side of that door were extinguished. Logan leaned down, his nose brushed yours, and inhaled deep enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

"I can smell you," he rumbled. "Sweet like honey."

A searing heat built beneath your skin, burning from your cheeks down to the tips of your toes. Your mouth opened—words still fighting to be formed—but he didn't need an answer. Not when he could smell the arousal that pooled between your thighs. How you subtly shifted to find a bit of friction in the hopes of something more.

"You mind if I kiss you bub?"

A piece of you fractured in the darkness of that closet—settling comfortably in his own chest. You might ask for it back after all of this, but Logan felt his chances of you walking out as his were growing the longer this went on.

Glancing up—eyes wide and darkened with lust—you bit back the whine that crawled up the back of your throat. "They'll hear us."

He shrugged, shifting close enough for you to almost taste the whiskey off his lips. "Good."

"Logan–"

Lips pressed to your cheek, drawing a soft sigh from your parted mouth. "Somethin' tells me they're just waiting for it." His hand left the wall to trail along your waist, dipping slowly with a kiss to the corner of your lips. "And somethin' also tells me...you like that idea."

It's not as if you were entirely opposed to the idea. Actually most nights (if not every night) was spent with you imagining what it would be like to feel him this way. To be stretched with his cock so much you would feel a delicious burn.

You craved it.

He knew solely from the wanton look on your face. The way your eyes fluttered the further his hand went.

"You gonna let me in or what honey?" he cooed, fingers dipping beneath your skirt to seek out the slick that soaked the lace of your underwear.

Surely the seven minutes had run out, leaving the both of you to make a choice. Stay here and keep going for everyone to catch you. Or walk out, find a room, and continue this in private.

The thought of waiting a second longer snapped at your heels with an air of impatience you let consume you. What the fuck did it matter if they heard you getting fucked against the wall? What did it matter if you'd never live this down as long as you lived?

How could you actually think about shame when Logan's fingers were pressed against your dripping cunt, seeking out your clit through the thin fabric that divided you.

Sagging against the wall with a soft moan, you gripped his flannel in your fist and yanked his lips to yours. He groaned, falling into your body and effectively pinning you to the wall, as his tongue met yours. And suddenly you realized...you liked how whiskey tasted off of his tongue.

He devoured you with the kiss, swallowing each moan and stunted whine as his fingers made quick work of finding your clit. Rubbing quick circles, he plunged his tongue into your mouth - licking at your teeth with a fervor that seeped down into your stomach. It was messy. His spit mixed with yours, staining the skin of your cheek. Your slick coated the inside of your thighs as he pushed the fabric into you roughly.

Yet none of it felt enough to ease the ache that spread rapidly down to the tips of your fingers. Your heart twisted as he gripped the back of your neck—leading you in a kiss that divulged down to nothing but teeth and spit.

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, your leg hooking around his hip, in the hopes of dragging him closer. To feel the hard bulge against the rough denim of his jeans.

"Look at you," he mumbled against your cheek. "All pretty and leakin' for me."

A sharp burst of need pulled tight at your stomach—the breath torn from your lungs. "Inside–"

He smiled. "C'mon honey. Use that smart head of yours. Gimme some words."

His words were a brutal tease that scraped against your skin. Yet that coupled with his fingers that seemed to hold an edge of desperation, left you gasping for air. Fingers dug into his shirt, lips found his in the hollow darkness, and you begged for mercy. This was your penance. The altar he intended to bend you across.

Oh how you longed for him to follow through.

"Fuck me," you managed to get out between sharp intakes of breath and heady kisses. "Please Logan. It hurts.

The sound that emanated from deep in his chest could only be described as feral. You'd never heard him like that before. Bordering on the line of unhinged and sanity. A flare of want pulled at your body, echoing loudly in your chest.

You wanted to hear it again. To feel him break beneath your palms as he rutted into you with need. You ached to watch him whittle himself down to the barest of his senses. The animalistic urge of lust he kept hidden for weeks on end.

"Yeah?" His words were a snarl against your ear, teeth scraping your jaw as he ripped his hand away. "'M gonna make it better. Gonna take away the pain."

Nails scratched at the back of his neck when you heard his claws slide out—cutting through the fabric that clung to you. It was sopping wet; proof that you hadn't in fact been lying about your need. Logan felt his cock leak in his jeans at the sight—how your slick clung to his fingers as he swiped along the gusset.

"All for me," he sighed.

"Uh-huh." If you thought you sounded needy before, that was nothing compared to this moment.

He eyed you briefly. The hazel you'd grown fond of now dark and clouded with lust. The plea for more lay on the tip of your tongue—ready to be laved against his skin the longer he took. But then he brought the fabric to his mouth, his tongue running across it with a broken groan. The breath was punched from your lungs—legs shaking as a wave of slick poured out of you.

"Oh fuck–" you gasped, cupping his chin to catch his lips in a kiss.

The clink of his belt buckle echoed like a gunshot in the small space. Your heart began to race. Fingers shaking as you watched him tug his cock free; fisting the red and leaking tip with a throaty moan. Saliva filled your mouth at the mere thought of him sliding between your lips. The image of him feeding you his cock with a smile.

He fanned the flames of your simmering fire, offering you pleasure with ease.

His hand gripped your other leg, positioning it over his hip before pushing you up along the wall. The yelp was muffled by his lips; your hands finding purchase against his hot skin.

"Gotta be real quiet now bub," he mumbled, sliding his cock along your drenched cunt.

The head tapped against your clit once, twice. By the third time your teeth were dug into your bottom lip so hard copper burst on your tongue.

"I promise."

He chuckled, breathless. You joined.

The compact space stretched out before you, expanding with each joined breath and laugh. Passion intertwined in your chest, reaching for him with a tender touch of reverence. And nothing existed but the two of you.

"Hey Logan."

His cock jumped at the sound of your voice so light and airy. "Yeah honey?"

"If I don't tell you after this." Your hips canted into his, grinding towards where he positioned himself. "I had a really nice time tonight."

His heart fluttered as your words settled into his skin—soaking up your warmth. "Me too."

The laughter diminished the second he pushed forward, sliding into you with a slickened thrust that left his body shuddering. You swallowed the sob that wrenched from your chest when he kept going. Stretching you until you felt the burn begin to seep into your body. You weren't prepared for how addicting it felt; how mindless he made you.

Seven minutes had surely blended into fifteen, giving the group no doubt of what you were doing. That only solidified when he bottomed out and you moaned so loud it nearly gave him a heart attack. His fingers clamored for something in his pocket—his lips sliding against yours to silence the endless whimpers. He filled you until you saw white behind your eyes each time they fluttered closed.

"They're gonna hear ya," he muttered. You caught a flash of lace before it was being pressed to your lips—willing you to part them and hold the fabric between your teeth.

Logan gave you one minute to find your brain in the muddled thoughts that filled you, before pulling out. Only to slam back in. Your cry was muffled—eyes rolled back—and he felt a searing triumph begin to form in his chest. At the sight of you in a messy state of bliss.

His hips slapped against yours, the wet slide of your cunt a loud echo. Adding to the symphony of his groans and your whimpered sounds. Your spit soaked into the lace, fingers digging hard along the planes of his back, and he felt you gush at the feel of his teeth sinking into your neck.

"So fuckin' sweet for me," he grunted, cupping your ass to push you back and forth on his cock. A shift in the angle had you going dumb. Eyes wide and glazed with tears. "My pretty girl huh?"

Fuck you wanted to scream. You longed to hear his name bounce off the closet walls and spill into the foyer of Wade's damn apartment. To remind them that time was still passing and their limit had reached the vastness of infinity.

He pounded into you with sharp gasps of praise, words that fell on ears deafened by the rush of blood that ran right to your head. Oxygen felt secondary when his cock kissed the wall of your cunt with such accuracy it left you blinded. Enough to have you sobbing into the spit soaked lace - tears spilling down your cheeks.

"You take it like it was fuckin' made for you yeah?"

You nodded, breasts bouncing as he fucked you along his cock—his other hand pressed to the wall. You took it like it was made for you, because it was made for you. Logan belonged to you. Whether he knew it now or not.

"I can feel you squeezin' me," he gasped. "Gonna cum?"

"Mhm," you mumbled, the squelch of your cunt loud enough to block out the laughter from the outside.

"Then do it honey." His thumb found your clit, swirling it with sharp pointed circles. Your toes curled in your shoes—head falling back to the wall with a soft thud. "That's it. Fuckin' cum for me."

"Mmff–" A sob of what morphed into his name tore from the depths of your body. Rendering you a shaky mess in his arms as you clamped down around his cock.

Slick poured out of you, coating the hair along the base of his stomach in your essence. Logan growled at the sight. His eyes narrowed and teeth bared with each stunted thrust of his hips into yours. Claws punctured the drywall behind you as a way to keep his body level. To ground himself as he came with a hoarse groan he quickly muffled into the top of your breast.

Grinding into you, he emptied himself entirely. Rope after rope of his spend now filling you to the point of dripping down to his balls.

You felt the need to drop to your knees and taste him.

To clean him entirely and place him neatly back in his jeans. But the movement of your body no longer remained an option—your legs numb and back sore from being pounded into the wall.

He removed the gag with a huff, kissing you gently with his thumbs pressed to the tops of your cheeks. A soft caress. A contract to the rough way he manhandled you.

"I can't feel my legs," you sighed into his mouth, tongue swiping along his bottom lip.

"You're not supposed to." The weak slap to his chest had him laughing louder than intended.

"Don't worry. Wade won't notice if you carry me."

He groaned, his teeth scraping at the flesh of your breast. "Don't fuckin’ say his name or I won't be able to fuck you again tonight."

You giggled, running your hands through his mussed hair. "Whiskey dick?"

"Shut up–"

"He's told you–"

Lips sealed over yours, hips pushing yours until the sigh stuttered from your chest. "Don't fuckin' start honey."

You smiled into the kiss. "Or you'll finish?"

A thump rammed against the door, startling the both of you. You half expected it to swing open and expose Logan with his jeans down to his knees and his softened cock still inside you. But all that came through was Wade's laughter—his knuckles rapping on the wood.

"Did he rise babygirl?" he shouted much to the detriment of the group who booed behind him.

"I will cut you open through the door!" Logan snarled. A triumphant laugh rattled the walls as Logan lowered you to the ground. Only for Wade to get the last official word.

"HE ROSE!"

[yanderenightmare]

TW: anger issues, abuse, angst

gn reader

Thinking about boyfriends with anger issues…

How it’s okay in the beginning because your relationship is still fresh, and you’re both trying your best to be perfect for each other. How it’s enough for you to tell him he’s being silly with a sweet kiss to his grumpy cheek when he’s acting grumpy and insisting on having some type of fight with you over something unimportant. It’s enough to defuse him at that point—your unnerving smile and kind eyes, how you’re able to touch him even when he feels nuclear. The knots untangle within his head, and he calms down. He doesn’t apologize, but he gets sheepish and plays dumb until he’s cracking you up with some dumb joke—so you forgive him anyway.

The fights get worse over time, but so do the good times. He’s so perfect when he’s good, you forget about the bad. And you’re still able to disengage, at least most of the time. You can leave or ignore and dismiss—you can even agree to be wrong sometimes, even when you’re not. It doesn’t really matter. Those arguments are never about who’s right anyway—it’s just about fighting to see who can outlast the other. You swear, sometimes it feels like you’re the accused on the stand in a courtroom, but the judge has vacated, and it’s just you against the lawyer hurling pointed question after question at you.

Oh, but then he brings flowers, makes you smile and laugh, does something romantic, and tells you sweet nothings that make you blush. It feels right when you move in together. You love him. And you know he loves you. He still doesn’t ever apologize for his behavior—at least not with words—but he tries making up for it otherwise. After particularly nasty fights, when you go to sleep without him and without sharing another word, he’s on his best and brightest behavior the day after—makes you breakfast, drives you to work, offers to pick you up, suggests you do something fun later.

It's soothing that he knows he’s in the wrong. It makes it easier to forgive him. Makes you believe he’ll change.

Only he doesn’t.

The bathroom becomes your escape, a space you can retreat to when you’re on the brink. You don’t want to cry in front of him—he can get so mean sometimes, and the tears just egg him on like it’s some game he’s winning. It doesn’t really dawn on you that you’re hiding from him. If you admit that to yourself, nothing would make sense anymore. If you admit that to yourself, you wouldn’t be able to defend staying with him. And so you can’t. You suppress it. You’re not hiding from him—if he were to come knock on the door to let him in, you’d let him in. So you’re not hiding from him. No, you’re just in there for a quick breath of your own and to give him a little space.

But though you deny it, he feels you slipping away—and it only serves to make him more combatant. Raised voices turn into roaring—you fear the neighbors might complain. Nothing works anymore. If you walk away, he follows angrier than before. If you agree to disagree, he’ll only use it against you. If you cry, he laughs.

The time you get as ugly as he gets and start fighting back with your own insults is when he puts his fist through the wall right next to you.

The house shakes for a moment, then stands still. All is silent. Neither of you moves. You’re as stiff as a mannequin, and your eyes have never been wider—and yet you don’t look at him. Your gaze is fixed at nothing in particular as if unable to look anywhere else. You have a hand against his chest—it shakes. He feels it, and it’s a gross feeling—worse than the pain in his hand.

And he knows. He knows he’s ruined it. He knows it’s the exact moment he’s lost you.

No, actually. He probably lost you a while back…

He pulls his fist out of the drywall—the thin plate follows him before he drags it out with force. Dust and fibers stick to his skin in blotches where the blood coats his hand, seeping from the splits on his knuckles. It stings, but it isn’t the worst. No, his chest feels worse.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely through the strain in his tightening throat. “I’m sorry.” He can never repeat it enough for it to be enough. Fuck, what’s he done? What can he do? There’s a gaping hole in the wall he has you pressed up against, and it’s about to swallow him up.

“You’re bleeding,” comes your voice—as from the break of light in a stormy sky that reminds him it’s still day. “We need to disinfect it.”

He doesn’t dare protest, even as it confuses him how trivial you are about it. He just trails after you as you take him to the bathroom and clean him up. Holding his damaged hand in both of yours while you guide it under the tap, rinsing off the debris and blood, letting it all go down the drain. He didn’t even know you had a first aid kit, but you seem well-versed for some reason—how you dab the cuts with alcohol-soaked cotton, then tape shut the deeper slits before wrapping it all in a strip of bandage.

You take him to the bedroom, but neither of you speaks. He’s afraid to. And yet, both of you say goodnight while lying on opposite sides of the bed. He doesn’t know what feeling it is that simmers within his chest, but it makes it the worst night of his life.

And still, he must have slept soundly.

You’re gone in the morning—you’re essential things with you.

It’s strange, but he isn’t even angry. No… You left a note for him, but he can’t read it—not through the swelling of his eyes as they burn with salt and water and regrets that know no end.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks, Enji, Shinso ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Megumi, Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kageyama, Iwaizumi, Sakusa, Ukai ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin ♡ AOT – Eren, Levi ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[alnilaem]

so true @altissiia. neighbour/butcher simon is but a matted cat that would charitably leave mice at your door if that wasn’t so off-putting

-

It’s eight in the morning, and there’s coffee all over your work blouse. Burning through the canopy of your shirt, sticking your skin. 

You had loudly cursed as your foot got caught behind an innominate object, propelling you face first—and coffee first—into the corridor. Surely, the whole flat heard it. The tight yelp you released, the thunder of your nose colliding with the floor. 

You don’t care about the coffee blotches congealing in the hallway. The carpet has enough cryptic stains, ones that management isn’t bothered to fix, so you look away and throw a cursory glance over your shoulder—to see the cause of your fall—and grimace without conscious control.

It’s a bag of meat on your doormat. 

Wrapped in a plastic, sitting in a puddle of fresh blood. 

A few drops of dew glaze the bag by means of moisture. It hides its contents, hindering you from recognising anything inside. You poke it with your shoe, cringing at the cartilage and meat and marrow beneath the sole of your foot. It tumbles over in the clear film, revealing its gory underbelly and a sticky-note. 

The note is dog-eared, crumpled, and damp. Covered in writing written by a slap-happy hand. Sorry for being too loud last night with my mates. Guess I’m a hypocrite. Here’s some meat please accept, is what it reads. The tail-end features a poorly-drawn smiley face and a signature. Simon.  

He was being noisy last night. You were just too skittish to slap the drywall dividing you, or to knock on his door and ask him to keep it down. There was an overlap of voices, an undercurrent of accents, and the charm of beer cans persistently snapped open.

As you peel the note off the bag, the door beside you swings open. Simon stumbles out, sweatpants low on his hips, medical mask obscuring the lower shell of his face. By the looks of it, he just floundered out of the shower. His curls are still dripping with opalescent water drops. He’s shirtless, his chest hairs so blonde they’re almost glass-like. Tousled and wispy.

A few scars distort the skin of his ribcage and makes you wince. He’s breathing heavily, distending them, puffing out his chest.

“You alright?” He asks. “Heard you fall.” 

You realise you’re still on the floor. Simon looks cosmic from this angle—colossal—hauling with him disciplined muscles eclipsed by a soft belly. 

You meekly nod, rising to your feet. “‘m fine.”

Simon’s eyes flutter down to your chest. A hot-flash pools under your skin, sticky, messy, leaving you preening under his gaze, until, of course, you belatedly remember your spilled coffee. How your shirt sticks to your skin, revealing the barest hint of your breasts. You don’t cross your arms.

“You’ve something there,” Simon sniffs. He gestures to your chest.

“Um, yeah. I know.”

A whisper of discomfort marinates between you. Discomfort that Simon doesn’t seem to notice—or doesn’t seem to care about—as he keeps staring at you. 

He grunts. “I got you meat.”

“Thank you!” You chuckle. “It was a… sweet gift.” 

It takes you by surprise when Simon tucks his chin into his chest, grumbling. His crows feet crimp together like knife-edges as if he’s barely smiling. 

“Wait here,” he mumbles, then spins on his heel. You assume he’s going to put on some clothes, or bring you some more meat, but when Simon returns, he outstretches towards you a threadbare jersey, waiting expectantly.

“Stained your blouse,” he snorts. “Wear this.”

Owlishly, you blink. It’s your work blouse that’s stained. You can’t go in a Manchester United shirt.

“Um. I wouldn’t–”

Simon shoves it in your chest. At this point, he reminds you of a wet dog. Dripping wet, gratified of his gift-giving. Leaving raw meat that stinks of ammonia at your doorstep, handing you a shirt too-many-sizes too big for you. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging.

His hand is still extended. Above his mask, Simon’s eyebrows pucker as if he’s pouting. Like a kicked mutt, confused, and a little ratty. You feel awkward indebtedness eddying through you, so you snatch the jersey from him and slip it on jointly. It smells heavily of nicotine and pomade, slightly impairing you.

Satisfied, he nods. You think he’s going to say something else—there’s a little stifle between the flicker of his eyes and his jaw—but he doesn’t. Simon turns around and slams his door shut in your face. 

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This fixer upper is a bargain. It already has a pending sale. It's called "The Gatehouse," an 1859 historic home in Bellefonte, PA. 4bds, 3ba, 2,325 sq ft, $200k.

Cars will go thru your house to visit the cemetery. I don't know why, but I love this house. For the price, I think it's well worth fixing up. Take a look inside.

The front enters into a living room and the current owners installed a spiral staircase in the corner.

It's squeezed in a little tight, and there's a powder room in here, too. I don't know if I would keep that there.

Meanwhile, the stairs go up to a loft.

It's a nice big room and the heat is in.

The kitchen isn't done. That looks like a plate covering an opening where the stove was.

This area, however, has a new floor, drywall, and sink hookup.

So, it looks like they moved the kitchen.

This area would have to be reconfigured. Look at that high door. They've put in plenty of wall sockets. It's an interesting home.

Shower room.

This bedroom on the 2nd fl. is finished. It has a door to the terrace, and 2 closets.

Vintage bath. The tub is original. They saved it, but it's so rusty.

This is going to be a laundry room.

Hallway with vintage doors and floor. I think that this is the part of the house that is over the cemetery entrance so you can get to the other side.

I think that sometimes it's better if the owner didn't even start a reno. Like what was he doing here?

This little shed on the property is cute.

Looks like he was using it for storage and a workshop.

Got a sweet little yard here. That looks like an original Victorian fence.

There's the terrace, a nice little covered deck, and look at how the house goes over the entrance to the cemetery so you can cross to the other side. This house is so cool.

Cute.

Gravestone of the former owner. She watched over the cemetery after her husband's death.

Look at the original antique keys.

This home has history and it's so unique.

The home is a Folk Victorian style and some think it was moved to this location after being a law office. Others think that it always served as the entrance to the cemetery. The property has been acknowledged by historic preservation groups for its architectural and historic significance. So, what do you think? Worth it or not? 8,276 sq ft lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/334-E-Howard-St-Bellefonte-PA-16823/75215534_zpid/