#vertical planner

[lattejournalss]

Wednesday 21st August 2024 🏙️

Todays going well 🌊 I’m honestly really tired but thats just how life is sometimes, the new job is going okay? I still strongly dislike the kind of people that work in law but it’s just something i will have to deal with for a while… other than that its good 😊

[notherngirl]

Waiting for spring 🌿

[auroratigress]

[cantkeepupwiththejoneses]

[calendarprintlab]

Portrait 2024 Calendar Printable: Manage every month of this year with a printable vertical calendar featuring all 12 months of the year. A portrait size planner is suitable for your mobile also which is your main assistant in day-to-day life. These printable calendars are your secret weapon to help you plan your days, set goals, and keep track of your busy schedule. Vertical calendars provide ample space for each day, making it easier to read and interpret your schedule at a glance. This design allows you to see your entire month's events without the need to flip through pages.

[pukefactory]

Salesperson ena x klutz reader who runs into the face of danger whenever they’re on a job! Ena becoming a pro of keeping reader out trouble because of it too develops a sixth sense of when readers about to do something insane. Hit or miss if she can stop it all the time though.

•☽────✧˖°˖ SUBAQUATIC ERROR ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Salesperson Ena X Klutz Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ At first, Salesperson Ena didn’t intend to add “Klutz Liability Coordinator” to her job title—but after the third incident involving you, a frog costume, a combustion grate, and four missing chairs, she started scheduling your catastrophes like calendar events. “Ah yes,” she mutters, flipping through an invisible planner while running. “Tuesday: [ASSISTANT EXPLODES THE BUFFET LINE]—yep, we’re right on schedule.”

☆ Her sixth sense has a sound. It’s not a gut feeling. It’s a horrifyingly specific click in her left temple, like a mechanical pencil snapping underwater. That’s when her body tenses and her clawed hand shoots out like a grappling hook, intercepting you mid-fall or redirecting you from swallowing suspicious purple smoke. “Excuse me,” she chirps with alarming calm, hoisting you upside down by the ankles. “That gas is not food. Nor soup. Nor a decision you should make.”

☆ Meanie is absolutely losing her mind. Every time you almost die, she’s in the back screaming like a broken vacuum. “YOU WALKED INTO A VOLCANO. FOR A COUPON. A COUPON!!!” She’s tried making laminated “STOP” signs, hazard maps, a whistle, and even a musical number. You tripped over all of it. You thought the warning jingle was a bop.

☆ She’s made contingency plans for every scenario and you still outpace them. Ena once drew up a full incident flowchart with “If they fall into a drainpipe during reconnaissance” branching into 13 colored outcomes. One of them ends with a goat revolution. “Don’t worry,” she tells a client mid-meeting, already sprinting toward an explosion. “This is covered under Clause: Dumbass in Proximity.”

☆ You treat danger like a scavenger hunt. You don’t seek danger, you just stumble into it like it’s hiding a clue. “Ooh, what’s this? A glowing box marked ‘DO NOT TOUCH’? Must be important!” You poke it. It howls. Ena tackles you out of the blast radius and smiles through gritted teeth. “Please, darling. For the quarterly forecast. For the future. For GØD. Don’t poke the cosmic horrors.”

☆ She literally made a wearable danger alarm. It’s a glitchy, singing megaphone hat that wails when you’re within ten feet of “anything that would get someone sued.” You wore it once. It went off for six hours straight. You thought it was beatboxing. Ena hasn’t stopped twitching since.

☆ Sometimes she just gives up mid-rescue. She’s leapt across rooftops to catch you mid-air, thrown herself in front of giant fish, and once argued with a sentient knife vending machine to spit you back out. But sometimes? Sometimes she just stares as you charge directly toward an electric void like it’s a selfie booth. “You know what? Fine. Let natural selection send me an invoice.”

☆ She has nicknames for each flavor of chaos you bring. “Oh no, they’ve gone full Confident Mole Rat Mode,” she’ll mutter, watching you dive beneath the casino tiles for “spatial leverage.” If you start climbing furniture: “That’s Vertical Disaster Initiative.” Running toward loud noises? “Classic Business Risk Manic Maneuver™.” You say you’re following your “intuition.” She says you’re following lead paint.

☆ She’s surprisingly tender about it in private. Once you fell through a mirror and re-emerged five minutes later in a fountain with a fish on your head and no memory of how you got there. You looked like you might cry. Ena didn’t say much—just quietly handed you her cap, dried your hair with a conveniently placed towel, and sat beside you as the fountain rained. “…I’m glad you came back through,” she mumbled, voice flickering to her serious side. “I would’ve…missed the chaos. And you.”

☆ No matter what, she always finds you. You once got sucked into a haunted storage closet with no doors. The security cameras caught her snapping her fingers, pulling out a megaphone, and yelling, “HEY. MISPLACED EMPLOYEE. REPORT TO FRONT DESK BEFORE I FILE YOU UNDER MISSING TAX DEDUCTIONS.” You stumbled out, covered in cobwebs, blinking. She dusted you off like this happens every Tuesday. (It does.) She never says it out loud, but she knows where you’ll end up. Always. Somehow. She’s tuned into your brand of nonsense like a second heartbeat. And she’ll be there—with a clipboard, a sigh, and a clawed hand reaching to catch you—every time.

[moonsaver]

Secret.

Sunday finds his dear assistant covered in blood. The profession of your love is tainted.

TW; blood, mutilation, yandere and obsessive tendences, non/subcon(?)[just kissing].

Yandere!reader x Sunday.

A/n; a very short drabble i just worked on. I might make something similar for aventurine and the others.

It was the 5th.

Work had been scheduled accordingly; planners, calenders, diary entries, notepads, all came to a simple culmination of a small schedule for the entire month compiling his work.

You were his assistant – the calm, almost uncaring one. Apathetic. Almost dangerously so.

And you prove that part to him tonight.

There's blood staining your pristine clothes. Your usual white collar slumped against your neck, tainted with blood. It's a horrific, vertical splatter over your shirt; even staining your black slacks, which he notices later. He stands so still he's unsure he breathes for a moment.

"[Name]."

Your eye twitches. He spots the mutilated victim behind you. Their finger twitches, too.

He stays quiet. Both of you do. For the first time, Sunday feels fear.

Fear, not the kind that made his stomach drop, when he heard news of his sister's injury. Fear, not the kind when it came to Penacony. Fear, not the kind that plagued his mind when it came to shouldering so much burden it almost crushed him.

Fear. The kind that chilled his spine. The kind that made him feel the night air halt in it's steps. Fear, that paralyzes him like a gazelle caught in the periphery of a wolf's.

"..there isn't an explanation for this, is there?"

He states, almost factually. Yet his voice is quiet, almost hoping you refute him.

"There is. But not the kind you look for.'

You reply. For the first time,

He sees you smile.

Your teeth are pretty – slightly dull under the dim light, the faint wet film over them reflecting the minimal light like a pearl under a sun shower. The blood is smudged at the corner of your mouth. Your eyes are starkly dead. The most empty he's seen them.

But he realizes he's mistaken – they're not empty.

They're full of something.

Something so thick and illusionary, he almost mistook it for emptiness.

"I love you, you know."

You whisper, the sweetness of your voice making him flinch. Your eyes crinkle more in sickening desire when they catch it.

"Always have."

Your hands clasp together, tightly. The blood is slightly sticky, yet dry at the same time, the friction of it making your skin squeak in protest, faintly.

"..who did you kill?"

Sunday's wings are slightly stretched out – alarm, fear, anxiousness. Threatened.

"Competition."

He almost shudders at your answer. Your voice is hollow.

"You won't miss them."

You say, tilting your head slightly. The same, unfamiliar, sweet smile on your face beckons him closer. It's an expression so foreign he imagines you would have ripped it off of someone else's face sooner than believe you are this delighted. But when you step into the light, your eyes swallow and drink in every bit of it into them. He finds himself believing you more and more.

He flinches again; a split second of contemplation. He should stand his ground, shouldn't he? He's awfully torn between facing you or the dead body. The dark covers the more grotesque and mutilated part of it.

You're smiling, so widely he imagines it hurts. Your eyes are so thick with desire he shudders, his wings twitching out as the cogs of his mind jam and creak, refusing to turn.

It's almost tempting. He wonders, for a moment, what would it be like to give?

You take another step closer, and he takes one back. Your smile falters. But it returns when your eyes look at him. It's fainter this time, almost dreamy, than the looming one you had before. You lean forward, hands clasped behind your back. Your wet shirt slightly shifts, the collar dropping a bit to give him a wider view of your skin underneath. He swallows thickly, his eyebrows scrunched as his eyes dart between warning and desire.

"I've always wanted you to take a break. This is the perfect time, isn't it?'

You take another step forward, and your shoe squelches. It makes him evidently twitch, his eyes slightly cringing at the sound, wings folding in defensively. You seem to take some sickening pleasure in it.

"Mr. Sunday. I'm sure we can work a compromise."

He doesn't notice when it happens. His eyes are unfocused when he stares at the body – he wonders how cold the skin must be by now, or the spasms of the muscles, or–

Just how warm your breath was.

He doesn't realize it until you're right up in his face. Your nose touches his, but your lips hover, as if asking for permission. Your eyes bore into his.

"Sun, don't you think your assistant needs a reward?"

Your hands grab at the opening of his coat - he would gently chide you if it wasn't for the grim scenario. He doesn't dare move, eyes widening as he looks down at you, your own lovesick and half lidded.

"No one's coming between us. Not even you."

Your lips are warm, when they press against his. He's careful not to stray too far, lest he tastes the blood on the corner of your mouth.

---

[beansprean]

I forgot to put these on tumblr lol! These romcom posters were made as an 'anonymous' gift for returnofthelu for the 2023 Halloween Exchangeapalooza! Check out all the entries on AO3 here!

These are also avail as posters, prints and stickers on my RedBubble!

Support me on Patreon or send a tip on Kofi!

(ID in alt and under cut)

1. Movie poster based on Practical Magic, with the title in the top center and the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top. Nandor is close up in the center, face worried and thrown into harsh shadows by candlelight. Guillermo is just behind him, staring determinedly at the viewer with a stake raised. Nandor's left hand is held out behind him, the back of it pressed to Guillermo's chest as if to hold him back. In the foreground in front of them is a cluster of lit candles and the silhouettes of dozens of bats flying past. A tagline reads 'for a vampire with a lifetime of heartbreak, falling out of love is the trickiest spell of all.' Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

2. Movie poster based on While You Were Sleeping, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top. Close up of Nandor in his super slumber robes, eyes half open, drooling and looking barely awake, head surrounded by question marks. Guillermo, a vampire, is beaming and hugging him around the neck from behind, a smear of blood on his cheek. The title 'While You Were In Super Slumber' lays across them in white with the tagline 'a story about love at second sight.' Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

3. Movie poster based on The Wedding Planner, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top with the tagline 'a romantic horror comedy about love, wishes, and other events you just can't plan for.' Waist up of Guillermo and Nandor on a background of white roses dripping with blood, pooling and staining at the bottom. Guillermo is leaning heavily against the bottom of the poster with both elbows, one hand holding up his face as he stares blankly into the middle distance, tired beyond belief with dark circles beneath his eyes. Nandor is leaning into him from behind, one arm propped on his shoulders and holding a pen while he gestures vaguely. The other hand is holding up a notebook. Nandor, also with dark circles beneath his eyes but with a more manic expression, is looking upward and appears in the middle of reciting some new list of demands. The title 'The Wedding Planner' is scrawled over the top of them in fancy font. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

4. Movie poster based on Pretty Woman, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Laszlo Cravensworth along the top. The title 'Pretty Vampire' is printed vertically on the right side with the tagline 'he flew into their lives, off the balcony, and needed medical attention.' In the center, Laszlo floats midair, facing left with one hand in his pocket. He is wearing a black suit with a patterned purple waistcoat and embroidered loafers. He is wrenched backward with a shocked and angry expression, bent almost in half, as Guillermo grabs onto his tie from behind. Guillermo, wearing a pink and red patterned sweater, black chinos, and black boots, is flailing midair, held up only by his death grip on Laszlo's tie as he pumps his legs back and forth in an effort to regain flight. His eyes are wide and panicked, teeth clenched together, and there are shadows of bat wings at his back. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

5. Movie poster based on The Vow, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top. Nandor and Guillermo are facing each other in profile, intimately close and with their foreheads pressed together, smiling gently and staring into each other's eyes. Nandor has his hands on Guillermo's hips and Guillermo has one hand on Nandor's waist and the other tucked around the back of his neck. Several top buttons of Guillermo's shirt is open, and there is blood staining the collar and dripping sluggishly from two holes on his throat. Blood is also smeared around Nandor's mouth and chin. The title 'The Vow' is overlaid with the tagline 'his word is their bond'. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

6. Movie poster based on The Breakup, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Nandor the Relentless along the top. Nandor and vampire Guillermo are both sitting up on either side of a massive king-sized coffin with a double lid. A line of duct tape runs down the adjacent wall and divides the coffin down the middle. On the left, Guillermo, hair a mess and wearing a blue striped pajama set, sits with his knees to his chest, hugging his balled-up corner of their shared comforter to his chest and glaring off to the side, away from Nandor. On the right, Nandor, wearing a loose cream blouse, sits pouting with his arms crossed, glaring over at the side of Guillermo's head. The title over their heads says 'the break-up' with the tagline '…pick a side.' Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production. coming on a sheet near you November 2023.'

7. Movie poster based on Failure to Launch, with the names Guillermo de la Cruz and Laszlo Cravensworth along the top. Full body of Laszlo and Guillermo as Laszlo, wearing a burgundy and pink suit, cheerfully pushes Guillermo across the screen from behind, grinning at the viewer. Guillermo, wearing a teal and brown patterned cardigan, beige chinos, and boots, is leaning back into Laszlo, body fully straight and rigid, digging his heels in as they scrape along the ground. He looks anxious and terrified, hands up in front of him as if to protect him from whatever he's headed toward. The title above their heads reads 'failure to launch' with the tagline 'to leave the nest, some fledglings just need a little push.' Falling down from the title is a little black and orange bat, a dotted line following it down as it fails to fly upward. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

8. Movie poster based on 10 Things I Hate About You, with the title '10 Things I Ate Instead of You' large in the right center of frame with the names Nandor the Relentless and Guillermo de la Cruz above and below it, respectively. A tagline along the top reads 'how do I resent thee? let me count the ways'. In the center is Nandor from knees up, curled in an armchair with his knees tucked to one side, his left arm resting on the chair arm and his right elbow braced on the other to play idly with his hair. His expression is a practice in aloofness, looking off to the side. Behind him stands Guillermo, left arm leaning against the back of the chair and right elbow braced to lean his head against his hand. He stares longingly at the side of Nandor's head, face flushed and lips pressed together nervously. Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.'

9. Movie poster based on You've Got Mail, with Guillermo and Nandor. Their names are listed at the top. They are walking casually toward the viewer on far sides of the image, looking off to the side away from each other with dreamy smiles, ignorant of the other's presence. Nandor is wearing a brown and gold belted tunic and boots, twiddling his fingers together. Guillermo is wearing black boots, gray chinos and vest, and his trenchcoat, a stake loose in his hand as it swings at his side. The background is blurry green and white, shadows stretching out in front of them. Between them, a tagline reads 'Someone you pass on the street may already be the love of your afterlife.' and then the title 'You've Got Mail' beneath. 'Text at the bottom says 'a beansprean production.' /end ID

[sevenop]

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: The Countess's carriage

A/n: You get your driver's license, and Billie just likes to mess around sometimes.

Billie's point of view. Small references to "Oxytocin".

"Okay guys, we're done, you're packing up the equipment! You all did a great job!" - The photographer gives the command and his booming voice shaking the bright studio like a fairy-tale giant easily lifting a log cabin into the air, and for a second it seems that even the huge vertical plane of the cyclorama behind me is swaying, absorbing his powerful, bassy voice. Something reminiscent of huge stage speakers, quite amusing. - "Thank you more for such a pleasant cooperation, Ms. O'Connell."

The stocky man smiles as kindly as if he were a boy of five, making his truly French mustache bounce upward in curls. And he himself is a living embodiment of Parisian chic, making an impression of some incompatible between windiness and seriousness. Chinos pants in gray plaid, expensive white shirt that is deliberately not buttoned up on the first button, black classic Vans slip-ons, brown jacket, and his majesty - yellow scarf. It's like I never left Paris, a really wonderful photographer.

"Just Billie," - I sank blissfully into the blue pouffe with my foot on the leg, - "and thank you, it's mutual."

The good-natured uncle walks away, looking at the camera screen with incredible satisfaction as he walks (perhaps even calculating the profits from the magazine covers, as evidenced by his dreamy feline smile), and I can finally exhale, relaxed. When I lean my head back and close my eyes for a few seconds, the studio around me is as noisy as a forest: someone removes the nozzle from the softboxes with a characteristic rustle like the sound of leaves, or heared alternating clicks that make the studio lights go out, reminiscent of a woodpecker's knocking on wood. And it's all mixed in with the rushing of people stomping around, muffled speech that I'm not really trying to make out. With an exhalation I open my eyes leisurely, and while long-legged tripods and reflectors, so similar to buds opened under the sun, are "flying by", I fumble for my phone in the pocket of baggy jeans. Even in this consonance of work noise, I hear most sensitively the sound of the notification from you. Or maybe I don't hear it, but already feel it in my heart, who knows? A light swipe up and our chat window obediently pops up. Emoji of a burning heart in place of name and your photo in the profile circle, where you deliberately playfully shine your sharpened bare collarbones, which for me is the most delicious cherry that I want to savor on my tongue.

"Hey, guess who can surpass you on the road now? 〜(꒪꒳꒪)〜"

A warm smile spreads on my lips: your efforts have really paid off despite the itchy worries in your soul. So proud of you, though I can't help but tease jokingly - the newfound opportunity is too sweet, since you and I can have such an unconditionally good time.

"Debatable about surpassing me, my girl..." - And immediately followed by a new blue cloud of a message that slipped right out from under my fingers. - "But I'm eternally proud of you, you're incredible."

"Then why does it look like you want to take me on as a bet, Eilish?"

Bingo. As soon as I slyly cast my rod, you immediately swallow the bait, even knowing full well what's involved. Your deliberate submissiveness is so enticing, it makes me bite my lower lip, automatically stoking the hungry flames of my obscene thoughts. The false fang scratches my lip from the excessive pressure. Shit... Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a tall, thin shadow looming over me, causing me to raise my head, reflexively blocking my screen.

"Billie, ready to go yet?" - Laura smiles, holding the thick day planner in one hand and holding it out to me with the other like a caring fairy godmother. I nod and immediately brag to get up from the blue ottoman in one motion. - "You look a little tired, dear, but luckily that was the last activity for today."

"And this is coming from a person who should be on a well-deserved vacation twice already, but has been putting it off for about six months now," - I chuckle, and Laura playfully folds her fingers pistol-wise, tucking her "sacred" texts under her armpit. A few impromptu shots, and I play along like an unlikely Hollywood movie actor, grabbing dramatically at the heart. - "Okey, my lip zipped."

"That's right!" - Ramsey, with a cheeky grin, alternately blows imaginary smoke off her fatal "weapon" before she get back in the same mood. - "Should I call a driver to give you a ride home?"

"No, that's okay,"- I sluggishly wave her off as the two of us weave our way toward the exit of the room, keeping our course toward the intricate weave of several dark corridors and dressing rooms. - "Better tell me, can I keep those awesome fangs?".

"I think, for a small fee, it's quite possible."

"Great!" - I dip my hand into my pocket again, unintentionally blinding myself with the display in the unfamiliar darkness at first. My fingers immediately touch the necessary letters, as if in a sharp and passionate tango. - "Simply marvelous."

One can now tread on this fragile ice far more confidently than before.

"It is, I want." - The blue cloudlet goes to you, losing the final "you" along the way, which I did, after all, erase as soon as I typed it. Not because it's not true, but because it's too boring and stupid to open all the cards at once. - "Will you pick me up?"

Two thin, white checkmarks appear almost immediately in the corner, notifying me that it's been read. The three dots at the top of the screen bounce meditatively as I say goodbye to Laura, who's walking further down the maze of narrow corridors, and I'm touch the handle of the dressing room with the palm of my hand as I make mine way inside.

"Yeah, only if you're want ride on a bicycle." - The words skillfully build into your traditional irony, and I can hold back a burst of laughter. - "I don't have a car yet, and I don't think you're so dreamy about having all of LA running after us when they recognize you."

"Take my Dragon, and show me what you can do. I'll be waiting."

I write the address and set the phone back down on the table contentedly, settling into the high chair in front of the mirror: I smile languidly, and a pair of snow-white fangs and silver grillz catch the glow of light from the warm backlighting running along the mirror frame. The silver star shining especially brightly. I notice the playful blue sparks in my gaze that flicker with the stirring dirty thoughts already running rampant in my head. Well, this is going to be fun!

×××

As soon as I leave the building through the back door, under the usual escort of two trustworthy guards and the responsible Laura, I hear the familiar, soft rumble of the engine and my favorite rustle of wheels in the deep dark blue twilight: you pull into the parking lot like a careful panther, so as not to attract unnecessary attention. Although I know how much you want to make noise for the whole block and press the gas pedal to the floor. I like to do that. And I think I like to see you driving my car, which I'm just now finding out.

"You're too sexy against the obsidian black metallic, you know that?" - I dive into the passenger seat, which feels a little unfamiliar, and you almost drop your jaw to the floor of the cabin in surprise when I look at you defiantly from under my dark glasses and smile. I bite my lip deliberately, setting the stage. - "You like it?"

"Insanely." - You look adoringly into my blue waters, so beloved of you, and I can't hold back a slight blush, immediately covering myself with a smirk. - "You seem to have surpassed even Carmilla herself, Countess."

"I hope the first vampire in the history of literature doesn't take too much offense at me." - I grab to my seatbelt, letting a chuckle pass through my lips.

"She will. It's impossible to be offended by you."

As we pull out of the parking lot, the right to stare elegantly becomes my authority, which you've unknowingly handed over to me, as if you've performed a gothic sacrament in the semi-darkness of the cabin by your mere appearance and demeanor. The massive gold chain that weighs so seductively on your neat neck is worth it. And the long coffee-colored jacket that accentuates your sculpted shoulders? My gaze falls on the thin strap threaded into the laces of your casual pants - the belt plaque is gold-plated, too. You lower your right hand, gently touching the gearshift knob, and I stare so dumbly, hungrily outlining each phalanx and the line of rings playing on your beautiful fingers. Oh my God... You're doing absolutely nothing obscene, and I'm practically dying already.

"Is everything okay?" - you ask, not taking your eyes off the road. Your face is so unaccustomedly focused, though I catch some concern in your gaze.

"Just admiring you," - I take off my sunglasses, clinging them with one earpiece on the collar of my T-shirt. - "And... I wanted to offer you something."

"Listening attentively, my Countess." - You look at me expectantly, just as we slow down at the stoplight waiting for the signal, a purring chuckle on your lips. - "Anything for your gothic majesty, the finest carriage at your service."

"Is it really the best? It's not like I'm driving right now." - A smirk shoots up on its own, causing you to do nothing but tsk tsk and roll your eyes theatrically. You're my flawless opera.

"Stop taunting and tormenting me and tell me what you're up to, slick."

The air sticks in my throat barely in time to form meaningful words, or at least syllables: a red Audi comes nose to nose, honking softly. My hands reach for mine glasses, clawing them back onto my face as a kind of reflex. And you're instantly taut, like a string twisted in the right direction by a peg on top of the fingerboard. Hands on the handlebars in perfect position, for all the flashy high marks. Again another slight honk of a car suddenly appearing nearby breaks the silence of the night.

"Did I do something wrong?" - You ask perplexedly, arching your eyebrows slightly in a frown and turning your head toward the window, just in time for the expensive source of the rich scarlet-colored sound. The Audi immediately winks playfully at you a couple times with its high beam lights, making you squint more and more with the question hovering right above your head.

"No, relax." - I run my hand down your thigh, which immediately tenses under my palm. You turn your gaze back to me, still as questioning, but you spread your leg closer to me without further ado. You're so obedient, it's a miracle. - "It's just that you're being called to a stoplight race."

"Uh, just like in the movies?"

"Uh-huh." - I slide my hand thigh , down to your knee to come back up and rest on the border of my inner thigh. The look is attentive, eye to eye, you're not even looking down yet. - "When two or more drivers in expensive cars meet randomly on the road and try to prove who is 'cooler' by overtaking each other, flashing high beams, playing 'checkers' usually with significant speeding."

"And... How do I win?" - My palm dives down, and you start breathing a little confused, which someone else wouldn't even notice unless you knew you properly. But I do know, and that brings a satisfied smile as if on cue. - "Eilish..."

"I'll tell you if you promise to grant my wish," I return back, squeezing your thigh through the fabric of your pants. - "Whatever it is."

"I promise." - You nod confidently, even without any pause. A small spark of excitement shines in the depths of your pupils. Wonderful.

"Usually this sort of thing ends with one heavily outmaneuvering the 'opponent', like while he's stopped at a stoplight, bumping into slow traffic, and stuff like that." - I lower my glasses a little, peeking over the edge of the frame. Your gaze drifts momentarily to the rich blue of my lashes, and then you're back at the mercy of my calculating eyes. - "Racing from stoplight to stoplight, usually starting on green, then rapid acceleration, 'checkers' and braking before the next stoplight.

"Well, there's no other cars here now, obviously."

"In our case, all we have to do is run a green light to get our opponent 'stuck' into a red light." - feeling the coolness of the gearbox knob with the palm of my hand is nice, even sitting in the passenger seat, even if it feels completely different. - "Roar if you want to compete."

You pause for a second, arching your back into the seat, staring appraisingly at the distant traffic light in front of you, and then place your hands on the steering wheel. Seeing the blue ribbons of your veins on your tense wrists is pure sex. You squeeze the gas pedal, shaking the silence of the intersection with a powerful roar - and that's sex multiplied by x-two. You really know how to make the Dragon sound. And I know how to make you sound. The scarlet Audi responds immediately, making noise and "shooting" the engine in a cocky, open and brazen challenge.

"I dibs pay on the fines, Eilish." - you exhale tensely with a chuckle, staring at the red light as if someone's life depends on it. Oh, you're nervous as if you're on your deathbed, waiting with your hand clasped on the handle.

"The Countess is betting all her treasure on you, my coachman." - I lean back in my chair with too much wimpy pathos on my tongue, and as I smile my teeth catch the glow of the streetlights again, which is especially visible in the side mirror. Red changes to yellow, to which the Audi growls again, and you don't make a single extra move, just wait. - "Prove it to me what you better."

Five seconds of silence - the yellow cycles to green. And you sharply push the knob on the box forward in a split second, at the same time pressing the pedal to the floor. The wheels grind to a devilish speed, and I'm immediately sealed into the seat. It's pure madness, but I like it. The Audi pathetically "shooting" the exhaust pipe, being bumper to bumper with you again. At the last decisive meters, when the green circle blinks, as if saying goodbye for a while, and the "Dragon" on half a bumper rushes forward, you confidently pull the handle a little on itself, including the second gear, then - clutch, smooth wheel spin, gas. With a whistle of tires, you fly sideways behind the traffic light hanging from above, immediately leveling off to the proper lane and driving away, kicking up dust. The red Audi stays behind the red light, a little further away.

With the realization of the outcome, we yell something unintelligible to each other, me nearly bouncing out of my seat even though I'm buckled in, you, a five-finger running through your hair disbelievingly while the road is still empty.

"Wow, I definitely have one of the best carriages of all," I whisper half hoarsely, feeling the tight ligaments in my throat peppering.

"And yet not the best?" - you pout playfully, biting down on the bottom one so your smile doesn't give you away. Still too flighty and excited from the dose of adrenaline shooting through your bloodstream. - "I won, hey!"

"You won, but you didn't win against me," - I show you my tongue, sticking it exactly in the gap between my fangs, and you laugh childishly. There's no hint of resentment or anything like that on your face.

"So be it, Eilish." - You look distractedly at the rearview mirror, as if convincing yourself that this isn't all a figment of your imagination. - "So what about your wish?"

And here comes the prize for audience sympathy! Personal and unique, so long awaited.

"Remember my apartment in the apartments near the center?" - I place my hand back on your thigh, stroking extremely close, making you almost hiss, "Head over there, right into the underground parking lot."

×××

Passing the security checkpoint without the slightest problem, and pulling into the parking lot just out of camera range - good idea, great even. Unbuckling the seatbelts on both of us and getting my lips on yours before your mechanism hit the car wall with its metal detail was great. Ordering you, so panting and disheveled from my hands and lips, to move into the back seats right out of the front seats, following me is stunning in its uniqueness. You are sprinted by me to the back seat without any mercy or excuse, with your lips slightly swollen and reddened from biting. And I deeply don't care that we're somewhat cramped right now, perhaps that only plays to our advantage. I don't care because it's my wish, and you promised to fulfill it.

"You're crazy, you know that?" - Your gaze is so serious - pure surgical steel, but you're breathing intermittently and without noticing it you're fawning your body only closer to me, your legs in expensive pants spread wider, giving more space. - "Why don't you back off and pick something safer?"

Sitting on you in the small interior of Dodge: pure insanity. Hovering over you again and tongue leaving a lust-hot stroke on your neck, pulling back the collar of your thin white turtleneck: a complete breakdown of brakes and decency. But can't I be bad sometimes? Oh, yes, I can! Especially when there's a hot girl like you in my car.

"Can't take it back once it's been set in motion," - I clutch that most fucking licentious gold and massive chain in my fist, pulling you closer by it so you're sure to hear every word crystal clear in my whisper. - "Cause I like to do things God doesn't approve of if she saw us."

"Eilish, fuck...," - I rest my knee so shamelessly between your thighs, deliberately creating friction, and you melting, letting go of any moral guardrails, your face hidden behind your Artemis palm: fingers so thin and chiseled and beautiful, like you're a perfect portrait descended from the paintings of antiquity. Mine. So excited and almost swaggering.

"Girl, I'm going to drive you crazy," - I run the very tip of a fang along the curl of your ear, and you pant in heat, swallowing your own moan so obediently that my own thighs shake from the tension. Gently I wrap my fingers around your hand, moving my hand away from your face. - "Wanna see what you can take, take you right in the my car, such a deadly hot girl. Will you be obedient for me?"

"Yes," - you wheeze, clinging to my lips, and I allow it, only biting lightly. It seems like you're about to have bloody scratchy cracks on your lips as it is, my weakness. I leave a few hickeys on your neck, and I almost laugh as you purr a muffled moan: I think I'm getting too into the vampire role, don't you think?

I touch you just everywhere, every precious cell of your body, and you still don't beg: you endure and only occasionally look away from me, wishing you could find some respite to save your soul in this four-wheeled Purgatory that is more sinful than hell itself.

"You couldn't look away, look away, look away..." - I hum mockingly right in your face, grabbing your chin, but you only roll your eyes with the new thrust of my knee. You're so interesting to 'break', my dear, so unadulterated and interesting to me.

"She'd wanna get involved, involved, involved..." - you deftly parry my own sentence. A slight smirk flashes across your lips, and then I'm nearly folded in half when you thoughtfully shut my mouth with your hand and wedge your knee into the very point of infernal heat in my body. There, between my thighs.

"Slut..." - I feel the sweat begin to trickle down my forehead, and a bitchy smile spreads across my lips. You don't look away, staring straight into my irises, wanting to swim in those seas, to stay there forever. But I won't let you - I just can't do it without you. Your parched lips fold silently into "yours," and so hard tightens the knot of heat in my lower abdomen as if all five letters were belladonna petals.

Deftly I unbuckle your belt, pull the zipper tongue down and you instantly break down, no longer having any strength to continue this teenage game we're playing.

"I'm begging, Billie, please..."

Click! And you broke, just seconds before I would have lost all patience myself, pounding into you with fingers so frantic and selfless that you never dreamed. Good girl. And good girls should be encouraged, shouldn't they?

Already half-naked, you crawl back to the narrow window with your back to the max distance, and I slide down the seat to the opposite side with my feet on the floor. I run my hands over your absolutely uncovered thighs, touching them smoothly with my lips as if they were expensive velvet. You want to grab my hair with your hands, speeding up the process, but you stopped yourself so obediently that I personally place your hand on the back of my head-you deserve it.

I run my tongue between the hot petals, and you nearly bang your head on the roof, wanting to arch your body in a beautiful arc of pleasure. Your hands are tangled in my dark hair, and I'm just trying not to scratch you with my two snow-white "gothic blade", stolen from the photo shoot so successfully. The star-shaped grillz are so contrastly, it's so cold on your aroused clit at first, isn't it?

You cum even without fingers, too taken to extremes in foreplay. All I do is suck in the pot of your clit with my lips, and you do fly into the low ceiling of the car with your forehead, jerking from your orgasm too sharply. You squeeze your eyes shut in pain, barely able to recover again from the new wave of small shudders.

"Hey, hey, hey," - I'm settling in just as you do, pulling you closer to me, resting your head on my chest. Your feet dangle to the floor, but you don't seem to care. You only squint, trying to calm the mottled galaxy before your eyes, and poke your lips against my neck. - "Gently, be accurate, my girl."

You open your eyes, and you look at me so wildly, the word Fallen Angel on Alexander Cabanel's canvas. Madly, with burning eyes, with unknown power. You don't say a word only kiss endlessly, and with one hand you manage the thin Gucci belt and the zipper on my jeans. You enter with two fingers so unexpectedly and precisely that I would have left a hole in the roof with my head if you hadn't put your hand there in time.

"The Grammy Academy still needs some talented twists, careful," - you chuckle, but I'm just feverishly thrusting against your tense fingers, eager for release. I bite my lip until it's bloody, and the star-shaped grillz blinks silver. - "Nah, that won't do..."

You pull your fingers out, and I feel like crying or biting "vampire-style."

You slide down between my thighs, throwing my legs over your back as best you can by virtue of the space, and then you say, looking into my eyes with Edenic pleasure like you've tasted forbidden fruit:

"Beg me, Billie Eilish."

Click! And I break under you in my own car, burning with excitement.

[flyingwargle]

in order to enroll in niiyama girls high school, one must score well on the entrance exam and submit three recommendation letters that pertain to the applicant's academic prowess, commitment to the community, and aptitude in sport, if they intend to play for a team.

natsu already asked her homeroom teacher and coach for a letter each, but she still needs one more, which is why she's on the phone with her brother, who chuckles and says, "i don't think i can write you a letter since we're family."

"but you could ask tobio-nii to write one!" natsu is in her room, twirling a finger around her hair, earbuds in.

"why can't you ask him?"

"we don't really talk. it'd be awkward."

shoyo remains amused. "he's practiced with you more than we have. i think he'd be a good pick."

"yeah, but tobio-nii is kind of..." she trails off, not wanting to insult one of her mentors, but thankfully, shoyo fills in the blank.

"dumb? yeah, i know. but if you give him a template, i bet he'll do it!"

"i'll have to make one." natsu reaches for her planner to add it to her to-do list. "who else do you think i can ask?"

"you've practiced with tsukishima. he'd definitely say yes, and he wouldn't need a template!"

"he's even harder to approach! you think bokuto-nii would do it?"

"do what?" a distant voice echoes on the other end. "what can i do for you, natsu-chan?"

she glances at her phone, as if her brother could see her frown. "am i on speaker again?"

"maybe." shoyo is sheepish.

"hi, natsu-chan!" atsumu’s voice is next.

"hello." sakusa's low greeting follows.

"if you need help, we got you," bokuto declares. "just say the word, and we'll be there!"

she smiles. the jackals are such a fun team, and she loves watching them play because of that. her brother seems to shine brighter with them. "it's okay, you don't need to come here. i just need a recommendation letter for a school i'm applying to."

"is it shiratorizawa?" atsumu asks.

"niiyama girls. they have the best girls' team in miyagi!"

"ooh, i remember my old teammates needed letters ta get inta inarizaki. private school things. if ya need me ta write one, i'd be happy ta do it!"

"really? thanks, atsumu-nii!"

"hey, no fair! she asked me first!" bokuto whines. "i should do it!"

sakusa's displeasure is clear. "i wouldn't ask either of them. they can't write to save their lives."

"does that mean you'll write one, omi-san?" shoyo asks mildly. they don't get an answer.

the call ends with shoyo promising to ask kageyama and tsukishima on her behalf, and she wishes them good night. flopping onto her bed, she feels excited that professional athletes will write letters for her, but on the other hand, maybe she should be concerned about the writing quality.

it should be fine. right?

a few weeks later, she checks the mail and sees a package with the msby logo stamped on it. inside are two sealed letters, one from bokuto, the other from atsumu. there's a note from sakusa, along with extra envelopes. you should read them first to see if they're to your standard, he wrote. i added envelopes for you to reseal them. your brother and i did our best to help.

she carefully slices open the first letter, which happens to be bokuto's. msby's letterhead is at the top, letter typed in crisp kanji. as she reads, her frown deepens, especially with how some things are worded.

natsu-senshuu is an advantageous addition to any team, with her superb capabilities, sunny disposition, and bright smile. it's important to keep team morale high!

if you need a point-getter, i can't recommend natsu-chan enough. she'll score lots and be the mvp every time!

how did bokuto go from advanced vocabulary to...this? natsu opens atsumu's letter next, which has the same structure and questionable quality of writing.

hinata natsu-san is valuable to any team. as a wing spiker, she's flexible and possesses the necessary skills to win. her vertical height is as tall as osaka tower (because tokyo tower is overrated) and she packs a punch with every spike. not literally, obviously, since this is volleyball, but you know what i mean. if i were a coach, i'd accept her in a heartbeat.

she places the letter on her desk and reaches for her phone, searching for a particular number to call. it connects on the third ring. "hey, natsu! the package should've arrived today, right?"

"yeah. the letters are...uh..."

"hold on, i'll put you on speaker!" shoyo shouts for his teammates. "atsumu-san! bokuto-san! natsu got your letters!"

"natsu-chan!" bokuto's voice comes through the speaker first. "did you like my letter? will you use it?"

"idiot, o' course my letter is better!" atsumu retorts. "ain't that right, natsu-chan?"

she doesn't have any space to reply, lets them squabble for a bit before sakusa's thunderous voice silences them. "quieten down, or i'm not cooking dinner tomorrow."

"omi-kun, ya can't do that! it's yer turn!"

"shut it," sakusa snaps. a moment of peace comes, and he says, in a softer tone, "go ahead, natsu-chan."

"ah, thank you." she isn't close to him compared to the other jackals, but she respects him, nonetheless. "um, actually...sakusa-san, could you write it, instead? i like both atsumu-nii's and bokuto-nii's, but...they're not really well written. if you could write it instead..."

silence answers her. she knows the call is still connected, hears sounds from the shared house in the background. then, she hears shoyo's muffled chuckle. "omi-san almost wrote the letters for them, anyway. he might as well combine them together."

"i could," sakusa concedes. "however, that'd be plagiarism, so i'd have to credit both miya and bokuto. would three names be appropriate on the letter?"

"it should be!" natsu beams. "thank you, sakusa-san!"

"...kiyoomi. no need to be so formal."

"thank you, kiyoomi-nii!"

"natsu-chan!" bokuto's whine comes next. "you can call me koutarou-nii!"

her laugh is lost with his teammates' teasing. she really is grateful for such invaluable connections.

--

natsu enters the gym for her first practice at niiyama girls. coach waves at her. "hinata! i'm glad you made it."

"thank you. i'm glad to be here," she replies with a bow.

coach chuckles. "of course. you have the golden seal of approval from three professional volleyball players. i have high expectations." natsu smiles. no matter where she is, the jackals will always have her back.

[lelysiany]

I decided to try out kinbor weeks. Since 2024 hasn't yet started, I decided to experiment with some layouts on notes pages before the start of a new year. Honestly, my anxiety about tasks is down quite a bit because there is not as much white space to fill as it was in Leuchtturm 1917 vertical weeklies. Plus kinbor size is much better for me and the planner is lightweight. Also I want to note that kinbor paper isn't printer white and also isn't very cream. It's right in the middle and I kinda like it even tho I'm more of a cream color person.

Honestly, I've been a little lazy with tracking anything that's not mental health related because I've been obsessing over my new guitar so things became forgotten.

[dr-octavio-kalev]

MOTHRA Institution, The Eleven Counselors — 01, Grandpa Lenin. (In short, the SCP's O5 MOTHRA Institution edition)

"This is fucking disgusting."

HIGH PATENT FILE – MOTHRA INSTITUTION

The Eleven Counselors — 0-1 | "Grandpa Lenin"

Name: Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov

Position: Advisor 0-1 of the MOTHRA Eleven Counselors

Keycard Level: Omni Level

In ████, MOTHRA conducted Operation Daedalus, with the goal of recovering and reactivating the brain of Lenin,. The preserved body of Vladimir Lenin was secretly removed from his mausoleum in Moscow and brought to the MOTHRA Complex via Operation Notorious. Using advanced neurotechnology, MOTHRA scientists reactivated Lenin's brain through electromagnetic pulses and partial replacement of damaged tissue with synthetic neural matrices. The brain was reinserted into his preserved body, now fitted with a biomechanical life support system, with automated control and reinforced armor.

Upon awakening, Lenin was offered a position of influence inside MOTHRA Institution, and accepted it with a chilling smile. As the First Counselor of the Eleven, Lenin acts as the ideological advisor and strategic planner behind many of MOTHRA’s internal policies. Though reanimated, he retains 99% of his historical memories, alongside a sharpened political analysis engine embedded in his cortical net.

Lenin does not sleep. He spends most of his operational cycles reading, speaking to lower-level inmates about ideology, and offering cryptic counsel to the MOTHRA Directors. His "Mechanized Doctrine Speeches" are now distributed internally via encrypted institutional frequencies and analyzed for patterns of dissent or compliance among staff.

Biography: Born in Simbirsk, Russia, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanovn, later known as Lenin, was a revolutionary theorist, political strategist, and the key architect of the Bolshevik Revolution. Following the fall of the Romanov dynasty, he established the Soviet Union and governed as its Premier until his official death in 1924. His ideologies laid the groundwork for Marxist-Leninist states worldwide and continue to echo in various revolutionary movements across the globe.

Known for his pivotal role in the Russian Revolution and subsequent establishment of the Soviet state. His life was characterized by revolutionary zeal, strategic maneuvering, and a staunch commitment to the principles of Marxism. After his death in January 1924, his body was preserved and placed on display in Moscow's Red Square, becoming a symbol of communist ideology.

Description: Maintained in a stasis-compatible cryo-embalming compound. The organic tissue, though visibly aged, is functionally augmented with biomechanical enhancements. These include an internal circulatory simulacrum, reinforced skeletal supports, and an exoskeletal spinal brace to sustain cranial interface operations.

Lenin is primarily wheelchair-bound, though not fully incapacitated. His custom-engineered wheelchair is equipped with multi-directional treads, electromagnetic stabilizers, and a shock-dampening seat frame designed for institutional navigation. Despite his limited ambulatory capacity, the wheelchair grants full-range movement and limited vertical ascension for elevated platforms or defensive posturing.

Lenin’s facial skin remains preserved, maintained through periodic dermal rehydration injections. His expressions carry a permanent semblance of stoic scrutiny. Optical implants allow for detailed retinal analysis of nearby individuals and environmental stimuli. His eyes, while retaining their historical blue-gray hue, display subtle red glints from the internal data-processing HUD overlays.

Speech is conducted via a vocal modulation apparatus embedded in his throat. The system reconstructs speech from neural impulses, emitting a low, mechanical tone that echoes through synthetic vocal cords. Though it mimics his original Russian inflection, the delivery lacks emotional cadence, resulting in an effect both unnerving and authoritative.

Lenin is never seen without his trusted weapon: a customized Winchester shotgun, dubbed "Red Dawn." The firearm is tactically modified, loaded with silver-cobalt shells and affixed to his wheelchair’s right armrest by a hydraulic auto-holster. The weapon is biometrically locked, but responds to Lenin’s vocal commands or neural trigger sequences, allowing immediate access in high-threat situations. Despite his apparent fragility, his reflexive command over the shotgun makes him lethally efficient in close-range confrontations.

Lenin's cognitive faculties have shown remarkable retention and adaptation to manipulate other technologies in contact. Extensive psychological evaluations indicate an ability to strategize and articulate complex political concepts. The integration of modern data processing capabilities enhances his comprehension of current events and historical contexts.

Final Notes: Recent evaluations indicate mixed results in terms of Lenin’s psychological adaptation. While he retains sharp memory, there are indications of frustration stemming from his pre-existing philosophies not aligning with modern socio-political landscapes. Observations have noted moments of reflective silence wherein he seems to grapple with the implications of his past decisions contrasted with present realities.

Regular psychological evaluations to monitor adaptation. Establish a mentoring program connecting him with burgeoning leaders to foster understanding and respect towards historical nuance.

[cognitivejustice]

Milanese architect and urban planner Stefano Boeri is the father of the concept of Vertical Forests, or high-rises covered with the leaves of thousands of plants and trees of different species, the first of which saw the light of day a decade ago. The Bosco Verticale (Vertical Forest) in Milan, comprising two plant-clad residential towers, formed the equivalent of three hectares of woodland and undergrowth concentrated in just 3,000 sqm of space, and came to symbolize urban reforestation championing the close coexistence of architecture and nature.

Boeri reminisces about his mother Cini Boeri, an important figure in Italian design and architecture, and his award-winning Vertical Forests.

[auroratigress]

[crimson-kas]

The last week in my Quarter 2 planner. This vertical layout has served me well, but it’s time for a change…

Printable stickers by @petite-gloom .

[eggbunni]

Photo dump from a spread in my Sterling Ink N2V (Weeks sized Vertical layout) compact common planner.