#your landlords are organised - are you

[queen-mabs-revenge]

To reiterate one of the students' signs: Join CATU - Community Action Tenants Union

Like industrial unions, tenants unions are the way that we can collectively wield our power against the ruling class; we organise to take strong collective action as tenants against landlords and private property owners. Our rent is what makes their profits - if we organize together, we can exercise that leverage and protect each other not only to save our own homes against evictions and malicious neglect, but to force the expansion of student accomodation, public housing, and end the selling of public land to private developers - to guarantee homes for all of us.

CATU has successfully protected the homes of people all over the country -- in Limerick, when multi-millionare shithead Pat McDonagh attempted to mass evict residents of the Shannon Arms, CATU helped residents organise and now two years later, all residents who joined CATU are still in their homes.

CATU is explicitly anti-racist, anti-fascist and believes that fighting for our right to homes means fighting for all of our rights to homes. As the song says, no force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one, but the union makes us strong!

Since I’ve been making posts about American/ British entitlement towards Ireland, I thought I’d talk about this video here.

I am a student at this college. It’s a big tourist attraction for many reasons, but the main one being that the book of Kells is kept here. I am also from Kells itself, but Dublin having the book and not Kells is a whole other issue.

So this protest that’s been happening over the the past few weeks is in response to the college once again raising rents for student accommodation to astronomical rates. That being when rent in Dublin (and Ireland as a whole) is already unliveable. You’d find cheaper rent off student accommodation, but it’s hardly easy to find places like this. As well as this, the majority of the student accommodation isn’t even on campus to begin with. Most are about a 45 minute luas journey away. So what the fuck are you paying for?

This protest is necessary. It’s been a long time coming. Time and time again they prioritise tourists over us. Buildings are old and falling apart, equipment isn’t functional, accessibility is god awful. I know this because I am disabled and use a rollator, but I can’t even use it on campus most days because there’s simply no ramps/ elevators in some buildings.

In one of my lectures last week we were in one of the old buildings. We had a lot of content to cover, but of course the projector wasn’t working. The professor spent fourty minutes trying to get the computer/ projector to work, but to no avail. So we have a whole lecture to catch up on! All of this while I was looking out the window at this atrocity:

A new building for tourists! Yay!

They’ve been building new school buildings for years, but of course instead of finishing them, they’ll spend their time and money on the tourists. I’m not even having an exam in one of my modules because they told the professor that there simply isn’t enough room to host our class for the exam. And it would be “too expensive” to book a venue… it’s only a class of about thirty. He had written a whole exam and we were under the impression we’d have one, but now it’s just continuous assessment I guess!

So you have to understand why we’re not exactly jumping for joy for the tourists. There are hundreds on campus everyday, just generally being annoying and entitled. And yes DISCLAIMER; not all tourists, not all Americans/ British people, blah, blah. But from my experience, you do encounter some obnoxious people everyday.

So that’s why they blocked entrance to the book of Kells. That’s why it’s disgusting for the tourists to be arguing with them and demanding entrance. For once we just want our college to prioritise us! So yeah we will revoke your entitlement, because we are the ones who study here, we are the ones who have to LIVE here.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice. 

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window. 

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman. 

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment. 

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara? 

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning. 

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach. 

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was… 

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying . 

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist. 

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!" 

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring. 

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask. 

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him. 

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep. 

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him. 

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class.  She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely. 

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day. 

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it. 

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo. 

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it. 

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course. 

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself. 

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall. 

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure. 

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself. 

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here. 

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video. 

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen. 

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all. 

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners. 

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you. 

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs. 

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-" 

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please." 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers. 

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall. 

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home. 

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions. 

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night. 

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy?? 

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water. 

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there. 

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway. 

You wince."...F-Fine?" 

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?" 

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further. 

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together. 

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand. 

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"You look… wet." 

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze. 

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed. 

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression.  His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds. 

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?" 

He's got a hand on your arm now,  The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details. 

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy. 

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside. 

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word. 

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?" 

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too." 

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same. 

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way. 

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost. 

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand. 

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza? 

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal. 

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy. 

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats. 

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought. 

"Yeah?" 

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-" 

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!" 

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-" 

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips. 

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you. 

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand. 

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close. 

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile. 

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side. 

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular. 

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?" 

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it. 

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty. 

"Huh. I guess they do." 

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums. 

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name. 

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch. 

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ." 

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest. 

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-" 

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own. 

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name." 

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing. 

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-" 

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together. 

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest. 

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts. 

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck. 

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum. 

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth. 

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin. 

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt.. 

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara. 

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?" 

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?" 

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction. 

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach. 

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel." 

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth. 

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue. 

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole. 

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue. 

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off. 

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily. 

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him. 

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him. 

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs. 

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck. 

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should. 

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head. 

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily. 

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

_

edit: the full fic xx

[dalamjisung]

A muted shade of green ✧ Spencer Reid

genre: fluff, light angst

word count: 6339

pairing: reader x spencer reid

description: Dr. Spencer Reid is simply adorable. And you actually think he might be perfect. Until, that is, he isn't.

a muted shade of green masterlist // next chapter

His apartment is a muted shade of green and you always wonder why is it that he painted it so dark. The book covered walls never fail to impress you, making you smile into the ether that was this place with its shelves and shelves of worldly stories. His taste, you think, is more towards the classics and refined tales that carry significance and importance in the world of literature. Dostoyevski, Austen, Orwell, Doyle. Though here and there, in some corners of the living room or thrown haphazardly in the kitchen counter, you see peeks of contemporary names, the ones you’re sure you sold him a long, long time ago. Murakami, Zadie Smith, George. 

You met Spencer when you first moved into D.C., about a year or so ago, and sometimes, you really think that it was just yesterday when you first saw him with his purple scarf walking inside your store.

“Excuse me.” 

You have too many books in your arms to even see who is talking to you, but you apologise nonetheless; it’s the least you can do for your first customer. “I’ll be with you in a moment, apologies for the mess, we literally just opened.” In your defence, you had been so busy unpacking all the new orders and organising things into shelves that you absolutely forgot to put the plaque with your opening hours by the door. You can hear his shoes clicking and clacking around the place, and a wave of anxiety washes through you. If he leaves with a book– luckily two– you will have made your first sell and that just might remind you that of the reason why you decided to do this in the first place.

Carefully putting the pile of Maggie Nelson’s on the counter, you finally turn to face him, tired smile from ear to ear when you see him holding two books already. “You found something you like?” You gently ask, voice calm and fingers fidgeting while you wait for an answer. “Many things, actually. I’m quite glad to see a wide variety of books here, it’s been hard finding something new to read lately.” 

His voice is pointed and it echoes in the empty store. The clock on the walls says it’s 7:58AM and you suck in a breath; it’s definitely too early for someone to be looking for books, but maybe he wants entertainment for his commute, maybe he needs a distraction for the way, or maybe he is odd like that. 

It must be cold outside. The man is wearing a purple scarf  inside what looks like a wool coat, and somehow, he fits in there, in your store. He looks like the kind of person who would be buying books as early as 8 in the morning and you’re not sure if that is adorable or unhinged. 

“Just these, thank you,” The loud thump of the pile of books he deposits by the cashier makes you gasp. “You have a great selection here, I was lucky you open early!” The twinkle in his eyes is what keeps you from telling him that that, in fact, was a big mistake. In the middle of rushing to get the keys from the landlord in time, get the deliveries, get everything sorted and organised, you had completely forgotten to put out the hours for the shop. 

“I am glad you found us here! Do you live nearby?” At this point, you’re just trying to make conversation as you bagged his items, smiling at the titles and happy to see your favourite book in the midst. “I live just across the street, actually,” He said, giving you his card. “You’ll see me a lot, I’m afraid.”

“And what should I call my most loyal customer, then?” One look down at his card and you would know, but you wanted him to tell you himself. 

“Spencer Reid.”

There is not really a sound reason as to why you walk so freely into his apartment. The first time he asked you to do this, he was going on a case and needed someone to water his plants. As it turn out, your store is quite literally across the street from his building and you don’t really mind the mindless task, so you tell him to not worry, you’ll take care of it. It had been a few months since you two met, five or so, and despite taking you some time to truly understand, you got used to the fact that Spencer created a routine for both of you, knocking on your shop’s door every Monday at precisely 8 in the morning. With time, you stopped questioning him even when you had many, many questions– was he even reading all these books? If yes, how?! Every visit, he left with three books or more, and unless he pulled all nighters every night, those were simply sitting on his desk. 

Instead, you start putting a few titles aside whenever you spot them. You start it with ‘A Gentleman From Peru’ by André Aciman, short and sweet. Next week it was ‘A Little Paris Bookshop’ by Nina George. Then ‘Cultish’ by Amanda Montell. And just like this, you two form your own little book club, his visits extending beyond their usual thirty minutes into the better part of the hour to talk about the plot, the characters, the arcs. You know there is quite a lot you don’t know about Spencer, of course there is, but you learn more and more with every little debate you two have. You learn about his morals through the character he likes, and his dreams through the plots he enjoy. You learn about his photographic memory that allows him to quote his favourite sections to you, and you learn that he is a very logical man through his hatred for the inaccuracy of investigative books. You learn and you learn and you learn and you find out that you like learning about Spencer. More than you like learning about anyone else, that is, and now, every time he walks in, you can’t help but get excited, smiling as you only imagine what you would learn that day. 

Sometimes, you did notice the absence of your favourite customer. He would disappear for weeks on end and then act like nothing happened, and you get it; he doesn’t owe you anything, you’re just the lady that sells him books, but you feel like there is something that is starting to bloom when, every time he comes back, he brings you a book. “I thought you’d like it,” Is all he says before leaving with his bag of new reads. For a moment, it’s like an exchange, but Spencer never demands anything of you; never asks for anything more than new books and recommendations. 

It’s quite rewarding finding the books you sold him scattered through the apartment. There are a couple in the kitchen, open split on the counter and you smile fondly at the clumsy way he marks his books. There is no folded page, no book marker, no random picture; just his book, cover facing up, open and splitting the spine in half enough to crease. You shake your head, smiling like he’s done this just to rile you up.

“Oh my god, don’t!”

You don’t mean to shout but it’s too late. His eyes widen in shock and he immediately freezes, mouth stuck in a little ‘o’ shape that makes you blush. “What did I do?” 

The wince in your expression is as visible as the light of day when you speak. Your hands hover in the air, unsure of what to do now, but still trying to do something. “The book, Spencer,” The words come out like a whine, and if you start stomping your feet you might as well look like a child. “The spine. The book. The– oh my god, the noise!”

The way he laughs at you is contagious, and you start laughing with him, face hidden behind your hands in embarrassment. Owning a bookshop doesn’t come for free. Your particularities when it comes to your literary treasures are enough to scare any sane person away. “You know, there are worse sounds than a book’s spine breaking,” He mused, closing the book before walking to your counter. His nimble fingers drum a soft rhythm as he waits for you to go around and charge him for the book. It’s a symphony, almost; so loud in your quiet store that, for a second, your heart is tuning in, thumping as his fingers do, beating to the song he creates. 

“You don’t have to buy it,” It’s a little ridiculous how airy your voice sounds then. Aren’t you a little too old to have a crush? “It’s okay if–“ But he doesn’t even let you finish, rattling off some facts about the writer. Most of the time, actually, he is rattling off some fact about something, and some you know, some you don’t, but you never interrupt him. You like hearing him talk. 

You miss hearing him talk. Whenever Spencer leaves, you miss him. You miss the knock on your shop’s door at 8AM. You miss the shy little chuckles. You miss the purple– the constant, always there purple. A wave of sadness hits you then, looking around the apartment with a longing expression. 

The first time he calls you over, it’s not really an invitation. A week before it happens, he doesn’t show up for your Tuesday unboxing and you have to carry all the new orders inside by yourself. It takes double the time and despite the effort it takes you, it’s the absence of his coy chuckles and snarky commentary that leaves you breathless. When you open the boxes, checking inventory to make sure there had been no issues with your order, you find the book Spencer asked you to get him. It’s one of those special books, so old and unique that you could only get your hands on it because you had contacts in the space. “Huh,” You frown at that– it isn’t like Spencer to forget something. Hell, it isn’t like Spencer to forget anything. Before you can cower away from doing it, you send him a text. You have his number saved in the system, and this feels wrong, it really does. Using his personal information that he gave to you as a client felt wrong. But for a second, it makes you stop biting your nails in anxiety. 

Your book is here. 

It’s Y/N, by the way. 

He doesn’t answer right away and you wallow in your regret for as long as you can. Your shoulders hunch forward as you line up the new arrivals in the shelves. Your frown sits on your forehead all day while you help other passing customers. Your hands brush against the book, all ready and wrapped up and sitting on top of the counter. You hate waiting; you hate waiting for someone or for something to happen as if you’re praying for a miracle. Literature has taught you many lessons in life. It has shown you countless of love stories that could’ve been resolved with a simple conversation. It has told you about people that waited and waited and waited until time passed them away. It has taught you that waiting is simply delaying the inevitable. 

But what literature has not taught you is that, sometimes, waiting truly is all you can do. 

That day, you don’t get a message back. 

You get a call instead. 

“Y/N?” The familiar voice on the other side speaks before you can and your shoulders tense up. Something is wrong. He sounds hoarser than usual, airier, too. 

“Spencer,” You say back, clearing your throat of any remnants or indicators of how nervous you are. “Spencer, are you okay? You sound rough.”

Even his laugh sounds weak and a zap of worry rushes through you. “I’m fine,” He mumbles, and you know he’s saying it out of politeness. “I just got sick. I think I have a cold, it’s nothing much, really.”

The relief that washed over you in crashing waves is almost embarrassing. Even though he is not there to witness it, your face still flushes in a dramatic red. “Oh. I see. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you–“

“It’s not a bother,” The way his voice interrupts you, so strong and concise, makes you chuckle. “You’re not a bother. I uh, I’m glad to hear my book arrived.”

For a moment, you both stay quiet. You, on your end of the line, are nodding like he can see you. Except he can’t. Except he is waiting, probably, for you to say something. Do something. “I can bring it to you. If you want.”

This time, there is no pause. “Yes. I mean, yes, please. I– I don’t have anything new to read and–” Spencer pauses to cough and you start moving immediately. There is no one in the store and you quickly change the sign to ‘closed’, grabbing his book and your bag before locking the door behind you. There is a pharmacy at the end of the block and you keep your cellphone balanced between your shoulder and ear while your hands make sure you have your wallet with you. “Sorry.”

“No problem at all,” You cross the street in such a hurry that you don’t notice the traffic, getting a symphony of horns calling you out as you run to the other side of the street. “Shit…”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” You tease, laughing a little and entering the pharmacy with purpose. “So just a cold, right?”

“Y/N, where are you?”

“Out,” There is no need to be vague, but you don’t want to give him a chance to protest. “I should be at yours in fifteen minutes with the book.”

“Just the book?” He asks in such a suspicious tone that you can’t hold back a laugher. 

“What else?” Thank god for automatic cashiers speeding up this entire process. You are in an out in less than five minutes and before he can even answer, you are almost at his door. Admittedly, you are speed walking, almost running, in a futile attempt to get there sooner. “Which apartment do I buzz?”

“Apartment 23.” And that is the end of the call. 

By the time you make it to his floor, panting just as you hike the last step upwards, he is already waiting for you, and you can’t say you’re terribly bothered to have a man like Spencer Reid waiting for you by the door. “Spencer,” You still admonish, a small smile playing on your lips. “You shouldn’t be out and about like this.” 

“Then who would let you in?” The mischief in his expression, much like that of a child making an innocent joke, makes you giggle, nodding in agreement. “Do you want to come inside? I promise everything is clean, I’m not a slob or anything.”

“Yeah, let me come in so I can give you your stuff.” 

“I knew it wasn’t just the book,” The coughing fit that followed has you rushing your hands, pulling things out of your bag in a desperate attempt to get him the medicine you bought. This had always been your curse, the flustering anxiety of wanting to help but being unable to take your time. Shaky hands push the book towards him, with the medication and some old receipts stuck to it. 

“Oh shit, sorry!” You squeak, grabbing the receipts and shoving it back in your bag. One of these days, you’d have to close the store early to clean this thing. “But uh, yeah, I got you some cold medicine and your book. I’m sure you know this with your big brain and all, but you need to take this before bed, cause it makes you drowsy, and this other one in the morning since it has caffeine! And you should be good in no time… hopefully!”

In life, a pause is not always a bad thing. It’s a time to think. A time to appreciate, to enjoy. It’s a time to be. A pause, however, from the man whose brain worked a thousand miles an hour, doesn’t feel like something to be thankful for. “Is… Do you not like that brand? I didn’t want to get the generic thing, I don’t know why, I–“

“Thank you.”

At first, you barely hear it. For someone whose voice is so rough and hoarse, you’re surprised he can still sound so smooth and airy. Your reaction is obvious; he can see the blush in your cheeks and the way you bite back a smile. “Y/N, thank you, I really appreciate it,” He says it again and now you think he just wants to get a rise of you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” You shrug, faking humbleness while you keen at his praise. “I wanted to.”

“I know.” 

There is a dance that happens after that, one that you find yourself enjoying quite a bit. Spencer is more present than ever, and you’re getting used to having him around. It’s like you two broke the glass wall the kept you at a safe distance, and now is when you two discover each other a bit better. Like how you find out that, when Spencer’s hand lays on the cashier counter, just an inch or less away from yours, you feel the heath that it emanates. Like how your fingers curl and your palms itch at the sight of his shaggy curls falling on top of his beautiful eyes. Like how his laughter is deep when it’s true and dry when it’s forced. Like how he can read 20,000 words per minute, but he chooses to read 183 instead just so he can read you passages out loud.

You are not sure what he has learned about you, or if he even cares to learn something about you, but the thought still makes you smile. “What’s gotten you so smiley so early in the morning?” 

Ah, yes; another thing you’ve learned about Spencer Reid– he is as quiet as mouse when he wants, and as loud as an elephant when he doesn’t. “My god!” You jump, hand immediately going to your heart to try and keep it from beating our of your chest from the shock. “Spence! You scared me!”

“I’m so sorry,” He laughs, raising his hands in the air, shaking the two cups of coffee he is holding. “I come in peace.”

“And with bribery, I like your style.” 

His style doesn’t change, still haven’t. For ages, you think he buys you coffee at the nearby cafe. You don’t really know the name of the place, some cliche Cafe something something, but the one time you’ve been in there the coffee was terrible and the music too loud. It’s hard picturing your shy, smiley book-lover in there, trying to order something without raising his voice. It’s only when you see the go-to paper cups on his counter, on the fourth or fifth time you come around, that you realise Spencer has never gone to that cafe to begin with. 

The cups are still there. You make a point in spotting them every time you come over– next to the microwave, close to the paper towels. The reminder that this man has, in fact, been making you coffee most mornings validates the fluttery feeling you have whenever you think of it. It makes it somewhat logical. “I must be spending too much time with him,” You mumble to yourself, pushing your sleeves up and getting to work. You are there for a reason, and if those wilting plants die on you, you fear that you might just never be invited back. “Why does he even have plants?” 

You don’t know much about Spencer’s job. He hasn’t told you anything about it except that he travels a lot for it, but you can imagine it is something of importance– a man like Spencer was someone of importance, after all. In your mind, you can imagine him walking into an office down by the Financial District, working with big corporations as an advisor. Yes, you can absolutely see him as some sort of advisor or consultant, but something about him working in finances doesn’t sit right with you– he is yet to talk to you about crypto investments and how to better implement a payment system into the store. Shaking your head, you switch it up. Financial services, aren’t quite right, but maybe an editor, working in a publishing house. With the way he devours books and how well-rounded his personal library was, you could see him as a Publishing Director instead, reading manuscript after manuscript. 

The thought of him reading brings a smile to your face. In his living room, there is an armchair that sits next to the large window on the west wall of his apartment– he says he likes how the sunset hits and makes the pages look warm and golden, turning words into a burning fire of knowledge– and you can practically see him there, blanket over his legs, books and books pilled next to it. It’s your own little secret, how every time you come over, you grab a book, any book, and you sit there for thirty minutes, forty, fifty, an hour; until the sun has completely set and you have to get up to turn the lights on. 

Today, when you sit down, when you bring your knees up, when you drape the blanket over you, something feels incredibly right and incredibly wrong. On the pile of books next to you, right at the top, lays a copy of Gulliver’s Travels. If you remember correctly, which you usually do, last time you sat down at that spot you managed to read up to chapter five before the sun was gone. When you grab the book and you see the bookmark you gave Spencer the second time he visited the store, and you frown– usually, he’d pick up from where you left off. “How long has it been since you last came home, Spencer?” You muttered out loud, grabbing the book regardless. Because even when it breaks your heart to know something has been keeping him away from his precious nook, it fuels your heart to know he leaves your book where you can easily pick it up. To know he doesn’t mind you sitting on his armchair, to know he doesn’t mind you reading his books, to know he doesn’t mind you settling, somehow, in his house. 

A knock on his door, however, breaks you away from your precious moment of rest and relaxation. For a moment, you can’t move, frozen in place light a kid that has been caught doing something wrong. It’s only when they knock again that you move, shuffling to the door to look through the peephole. “Who is it?” You ask, voice weak and shaky. 

“I have a delivery for Spencer Reid.”

How silly you feel in that moment, hand over your heart as you take a deep breath in relief. Unlocking the door, you smile to the USPS guy. “Sorry, he isn’t home right now. I can take it for him.” All you have to do is sign it and close the door, but once you put the package on the counter and your eyes catch sight of a note scribbled on top of the box, all those butterflies inside of you slow down. And find perch. And for a second, make you miss them just like you miss him. 

The first time you think Spencer might have a girlfriend is when he comes into the store with a certain look in his face. He is practically glowing and his eyes don’t leave his phone for a second. “What has you smiling like that?” You two are close enough to ask these kind of things now, making jokes about each other as if you have been friends for ages. “Or uh, who?” Even though you started the conversation, you want to end it now. There is a sour aftertaste in your mouth when you suggest another person to be cause of his happiness, and you know, right there and then, that that is just your jealousy speaking. At this point, you’ve been harbouring a crush on Spencer for the almost two months and there’s only so much a girl can take before exploding. 

“Oh, it’s just a friend.” Somehow, this answer doesn’t settle you as much as you hoped it would. 

The second time is when he brings a woman around. She is blonde, and loud, and colourful, and you eye her carefully. They are matching costumes, and for a second, without even saying, you already feel left out. It’s stupid, being this green over someone so pink. If Spencer was purple, and if you are green, than that woman was pink– she is happy and light and exciting. Next to her, you… well, you are as muted as his green walls. “Y/N!” He calls for you with such a big smile and you just don’t have it in you to pretend to be busy anymore. 

“Hey Spencer,” It comes out quiet and a bit distant, but he doesn’t seem to notice, not with the way he is going back and forth on the ball of his heels. “And hello, ma’am. Welcome, I’m Y/N Y/L/N, the owner. Please let me know if you need any help.”

That day, you two barely talk, but that’s okay, because Penelope, as she introduced herself to you after you help her find a specific book on coding, speaks for both of you. She says that it’s lovely to finally meet you, and mentions how much she has heard about you, and you think this is a very cruel thing to do to your poor, squeezing heart. But you push through. You pretend you’re tired, you apologise for the distance, and you lie about a cough. It’s better if they stay away, you say, but Spencer doesn’t buy it. Instead, he buys Penelope her book and leaves with promises of coming back the next day with your usual coffee. 

After that, you don’t see Spencer for two weeks.

It’s a bittersweet feeling when you get the text that he is back. After almost a week and a half without seeing him, you miss Spencer. He created a space for himself in your life and in your store, and when he is gone, it’s just not the same. But just like how he did, you created a space for yourself in his apartment. Suddenly, the muted green walls aren’t claustrophobic or smothering, but comforting. They are safe. Familiar. They are Spencer. And just like you said, you miss Spencer.

“Y/N!” 

You should be happier to hear his voice, but it’s not the same. The fluttering in your stomach is still there, like a slow buzz trying to come alive, but it’s not the same. Not when the note on the box, flashing like neon signs behind your close lids, has been tormenting you and your poor heart ever since you made the mistake of opening the door. “Y/N? Are you here? The door says open…” At one point or another, you have to come out of hiding and face him. Delaying the moment, though, is the best defence plan you’re able to come up with– if you look into Spencer’s eyes, if you see that pretty smile he has every time he comes back from a work trip… you’re fucked. 

“Y/N, I need you to tell me if you’re here!” It’s not the same. 

His voice. It’s not the same.

Usually mellow and undulating, Spencer sounds stiff, like he’s holding something back. Something new. Something… heavy. There is an edge to him right now, so sharp and cutting that it has you stepping out from behind the Science shelf in pure curiosity. And just like people say, curiosity killed the cat. In this case, however, it almost kills you. 

When you turn the corner to find him by the door, the first thing you see is a man. He is tall and handsome and oddly serious. The way his brows are pulled together make you falter, steps slowing down and mouth opening to ask if he needs help.

That’s when you see it. 

More like you catch a quick glimpse of it, the shinning spark of metal to your side, and you do a double take. You have to do a double take. It’s like your brain doesn’t believe what you’re seeing, and you move your head so fast you feel your neck tensing up in that way that makes your eyes water. “WHAT THE FU– OH MY GOD!” There is no way to throw yourself against a wall graciously, arms over your head and fear written all over face. You land in an awkward angle and your shoulder takes the brunt of the shock, making you gasp in pain while your legs give our under you. 

Of all the ways you’ve imagined Spencer, him holding a gun up to your head was never one of them. “Y/N!”

“Oh my god!” You think you might pass out– you’re breathing too fast and your chest is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing to the point of physical pain. There is a ringing in your ears, muffling the entire conversation between Spencer and the other man and even though you try, you can’t look up; you’re frozen in a state of distress. For the first time since you met him, you’re scared of Spencer Reid. “I– I– Oh my god, I c-can’t– I can’t b-breathe, I can’t–“

“Y/N, look at me! Look at me, you’re okay, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” The moment his hand touches your shoulder, you’re shrinking away. 

“Who are you?!” You manage to gasp enough air into your lungs to scream at him. One shake hand moves to the back of your neck, pressing down on the sore nape as you finally move to look at him, crying and all. “Spencer, who are you? Who is he? What is happening? Why do you have a gun in my bookshop, why–“

“Ma’am, I need you to take deep breaths,” The other man quickly holsters his gun and you actually think you might be going insane when flashes you a badge. “I’m SSA Derek Morgan, I work with Spencer. We are with the FBI.”

Federal Bureau of Investigation. Spencer is a fed. And he never told you. 

“The FBI…?” You whisper, eyes going wide and breath hiccuped in your throat. “S-Spencer, you work for the FBI?” Nothing about this makes sense to you. The gun, forgotten in his left hand and now pointing down and away from you, is all you can look at. The gun that looked heavy and cold. The gun that those hands hold– the same hands you’ve wished and, admittedly, dreamed of holding yours instead. The gun, the gun, the gun.

The gun. You’ve never seen a gun before, not this close. In museums, of course, and in movies and shows, but never in real life. You don’t have interest in it either, having voted, without fail, for anti-gun laws and representatives. Anything and everything about this, about seeing him with that deadly weapon, feels wrong, and you really think you might be sick soon.

“Kid, put it away, you’re freaking her out.” 

Then is when you catch sight of the Spencer you know. It’s the clumsy actions, looking almost freaked out himself– his hands fumble with the holster and it takes him a couple of tries to fit the gun properly. That’s when you know for sure– you are going to be sick. “Trash,” You mumble, trying to get up but falling again and again. “Trash, pass me the–“ But there is no time and you throw up right there and then, between the cashier and the nonfiction section. 

“What just happened?” 

“Morgan, get her some water– there, over the counter,” The rapid successions of words make you feel a bit better, a cadence of tone and rhythm that has your hands finally stabilising. “Y/N, you’re in shock. Adrenaline kicked in and left, and you pressured crashed, which is what made you nauseous. You need water, and to come sit by the counter.”

It’s funny, how in any other circumstance, you’d be ashamed and embarrassed to have gotten ill in front of him. As far as you know, Spencer is a germaphobe and this surely counts as germs. But as he grabs your hands, gentler than you’ve ever seen him grab any book in your store, and brings you to your chair behind the counter, you wonder if he forgot or simply doesn’t care. Both options don’t make sense. “Spence, what is going on?” Your voice comes out winey and rough, and there is no way to hold back the pained wince when you feel the sting spreading through your throat. Sip by sip, you try your best to drink the water and soothe yourself, but nothing seems to help. 

Nothing until you hear him next to you, small and quiet and, dare you say, meek. “I’m sorry.”

As much as you’d like to tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, he does. “I see…”

“It was just… it was new, having someone not know I’m FBI,” His thumbs play with each other and you’ve known him long enough to recognise that Spencer is nervous. “And we started getting closer and I just didn’t find an opportunity to tell you.”

“There were plenty,” You clarify, feeling a bit of a bitch for the bite in your voice making him gulp. “But it’s okay. I’m not… I’m not anything of yours, I guess, so it’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Don’t say that. You’re my friend.” That hurt.

“Do you point a gun at all your friends or am I just special, Spence?” It is supposed to be a joke, but the memory makes your bottom lip start wobbling again and you feel stupid. You feel so, so incredibly stupid right now that you can’t even begin to explain why. “Sorry, I’m just�� I’m not okay.”

“I know, and we’re sorry,” There is such raw honesty in his words and he manages to make you smile a little. Your hand is still shaking, but you stretch it out towards him regardless. It’s a conscious decision to hold onto his wrist, covered by his jacket, than to reach out for his palm, and from the way he looks at you, you know he recognises the effort. “But you need to come with us.”

“Why?” You cry out, a single tear coming out of the corner of your eye. At this point, the shock is going away and you’re more overwhelmed than anything else. You’re scared and confused and overwhelmed and it’s his pulse, beating again and again, that brings you back to Earth. “Why do I need to go with you? What is going on?”

“Y/N, when you were housesitting for me, you received a package, right?”

In the midst of everything, the memory of that day, that box, that note, all fade. Frowning, you shrugged. “The delivery man knocked and said he had a package for you… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I–“

“No, no, no, you didn’t, you didn’t. Please.”

“Ma’am, when you signed for the package, did you use your name?” The man, Morgan, ask, and all you do is nod. Of course you signed with your name. “Kid, we need to take her to the office now.”

“I am not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on!”

Finally, some energy in you. Some strength. Your voice echoes in the empty shop, and the chair tips back when you stand up on stiff legs. Looking at Spencer is hard, when you feel the burning of your rage inside, but you still do; you still meet those pretty brown eyes, you still stare him down until you practically force the answers off of him. “The package… did you see who it was from?” 

“Spencer, are you insinuating you’ve pointed a gun at me because I read a message your girlfriend wrote on the package she sent you?! Because I didn’t mean to– I didn’t! It just… It was there, right at the top and I–“

“She is not my girlfriend,” He immediately cut you off, hands waving in front of him in a visual demonstration of desperate denial. “Not at all! I don’t have a girlfriend! I was–“

“We can deal with this later,” Morgan is quick to interrupt, sighing as he looked at you. “Y/N, we re really sorry to disrupt you like this, but this is for your own protection. Please lock the store and let’s go.”

It takes time for you to gather everything you need. You are not a disorganised person by any means, but suddenly, you can’t remember where you put what. Your bag is thrown under the cashier, and your keys are, for some reason, in the Fiction shelf. Your glasses are in your head the entire time, and Morgan has to point that out to you. The more you look, the more flustered you get, yet somehow, you make it to the car. Morgan is driving and Spencer is on the passenger seat, and the way they keep talking to each other using words that make no sense to you make you want to scream. “Spencer.”

The heaviness of his name, said with such emotion,, lingered in the air. His eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror, and he nods. “Yeah?"

“Spencer,” You whisper again, eyes wide in shock as reality starts to dawn. “Spencer, if she’s not your girlfriend, then who the fuck is Cat Adams?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AAAAAhhhhh I'm trying something new >.< I've been a massive criminal minds fan for a long, long time and Dr. Spencer Reid has my heart <3

Please let me know what you think, this is my first Spencer fic and I'd love if it got to turn into a series!

[sserpente]

For Old Times' Sake

Synopsis: When your landlord drags you before Lord Gortash to settle your debts, your life gets turned upside down. It is not the fear of imprisonment that paralyses you at Wyrm’s Rock—it is him. Enver Flymm, as you’d once known him, a shy and clever boy and your only childhood friend. Will he recognise you and show mercy, help you out?

A/N: My obsession with Gortash is getting out of hand. I don’t think I care.

Words: 2853 Warnings: angst, homelessness, mentions of death and abuse

The number on your tax letter was bright red—quite possibly scribbled on there with the previous tenant’s blood. Three thousand and five hundred gold pieces. That was more money than you had ever seen in your life.

“I’m a little short.”

The half-orc—your landlord—rolled his eyes. “By how much?”

“Um…about three thousand and four hundred ninety-nine gold pieces.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“I’m not, I…I am trying to find work right now. I was preoccupied with organising a funeral and scraped together the last of my savings to buy my parents a coffin. I will start paying off the debts and all the money I owe if you give me just a little bit more time…”

The half-orc scoffed. “Funny, that’s what your parents always said too. Just a little bit more time. I’m done playing games, kid. In times like this, the Fist can’t let this keep happening. You pay your rent, you pay your taxes, you contribute to the city’s safety—and you face the consequences if you cannot do so.”

It was this new Steel Watch mainly that ate up most of the tax money. An entire Foundry had sprouted from the ground down by the docks seemingly overnight. They were rather scary automatons and they were not known for their mercy.

“It’s Friday,” the half-orc continued. “We are settling this once and for all. Your missing payments are biting a hole into my coin purse.”

Your eyes widened. Each Friday, Lord Gortash—the city’s new hero, protector, and saviour—held public hearings where citizens could voice requests, concerns, or other pleas. You’d never seen the man in person. He looked handsome enough on the posters, you’d read about his good deeds and heard about his generosity. But apart from that, he was a stranger to you. You’d known a young boy once called Enver though—Gortash sharing the same first name could only bring you luck, no?

Perhaps…perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad. You could make your case—explain to him that when your parents died from sickness, the remaining debts from all the medication that didn’t help in the end had been passed on to you.

You inherited a small house with broken windows, corroding wood and a serious rat problem in the cellar rendering food rations useless. Not that you had many to spare. You’d always wondered what a full stomach felt like.

“Will you come with me willingly or do I need to get a Fist?”

“This really isn’t necessary, saer. As soon as I’ve found work—”

“I am done making exceptions. We are leaving for Wyrm’s Rock. Now.”

You didn’t want to make a scene, not here. Not with the Steel Watchers within reach. With a sigh, you folded the letter from your landlord and handed it back to him, then followed him through the Lower City to Wyrm’s Rock as if you were walking to the gallows.

The place was packed. You’d expected little else. Lord Gortash was very much in demand. There was a long queue when you arrived, several Fists positioned at every possible entrance along with some patrolling Steel Watchers to ensure no one cut the line.

Five minutes turned into ten minutes, ten minutes into twenty. With every passing second, you felt the nervousness tightening its iron grip around you more. The punishment for evading rent was eviction, for one, and imprisonment for another. But perhaps Lord Gortash would hear you out.

It took another ten minutes before you were called up to the audience chamber. As if he was worried you’d try and make a run for it now, the half-orc grabbed your upper arm, dragging you with him. At the far end of the hall, two Steel Watchers were positioned on either side of a pretty throne in front of which stood a handsome man with short black hair and elegant black armour.

“Lord Gortash…thank you for your time,” your landlord began. He bowed—and so did you. Gortash’s eyes skimmed over the half-orc with mild interest before moving on to you. Dark orbs boring into yours, stirring…recognition within you. His face…you could have sworn you’d met him before.

“How can I be of service, hmm?” he asked with a sly smirk. Your heart almost leaped out of your chest. That scar on his chin…that little boy you knew from your childhood…a boy named Enver…

“E-Enver? Enver Flymm? Is…is that you?”

Your landlord’s head whipped in your direction, the disrespect apparent, even more so when Gortash began to frown. Who were you to call the archduke by his first name? But this…this was different. You knew him. He was…or used to be…your friend.

“It’s me!” You told him your name, excitement washing over you like a wave. “R-remember me? We used to play together as kids. You…you just disappeared one day. I never found out what happened to you and your parents wouldn’t talk to me…”

Your landlord cleared his throat before Gortash could answer—the archduke’s face, however, was painted with recognition. He did remember you.

“Whatever, Lord Gortash, this…tenant of mine has been behind with paying rent for months. I am currently missing nearly four thousand gold pieces which she claims she’ll be able to ‘pay back soon as soon as she finds work’.”

Enver knew your family was poor, they always had been. He himself didn’t have a lot growing up. While other kids would brag about the new toys that they got for their birthday, Enver got a beating out of asking for some simple tools for his special day. He’d always been a tinkerer.

“I see. I am going to deal with this. Would you excuse us for a moment?” Gortash finally spoke.

Taken aback, your landlord nodded. Dismissed. You breathed out audibly. Good, this was good. You’d get to tell him your side of the story and he’d help you, he had authority now, he had the power to…

“You have chosen a criminal career then?”

Your heart dropped. “C-criminal? I’m not a criminal.”

“You refuse to pay rent. And tax evasion too?”

“I don’t refuse. I simply…I can’t, I have no money left. You…you remember my parents, right? They passed two ten days ago. We spent all we had on medication and healers and that was after they started struggling with their health. They couldn’t work as much anymore and so we fell behind.”

“Hmm.”

He tilted his head and for just a brief second, you saw the young boy flash before your eyes again. You couldn’t help but smile despite your sad circumstances. Gods, you were a childhood friend of the archduke… Now that your parents were gone…perhaps you wouldn’t be all alone after all.

“I…I thought about you a lot. You were my only friend back then. I always assumed your parents sent you off to some private school outside the city to give you better opportunities or…or that an incurable sickness claimed you. Just earlier today I thought I once knew a little boy who would have loved these Steel Watchers. And now it turns out it was you all along. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I put my talent to good use.”

“You did. I remember when we were little kids we would roam the streets and search the city for old metal parts. You’d tinker away and build your own toys with them. This one time you made me a dancing ballerina, do you remember? You…you found this old music box a merchant had abandoned. The music was all distorted at first but…you made it work again. That was the best toy I ever had.” You paused. All of a sudden…you were mourning him. Mourning your childhood friend you thought you had lost for good.

“What happened to you? Where did you go?”

Gortash’s brown eyes locked with yours. But then, his expression hardened. “That matters not. Your landlord expects a solution for his dilemma.”

Your face fell. “You…you could help.”

“I could,” he mused. “But I am the archduke of Baldur’s Gate now, my dear. If I start waiving laws in favour of an old acquaintanceship, people are going to start questioning my reliability.”

“But—“

“Your landlord is in the right. If you cannot afford rent, he has the right to evict you. I am going to spare you the dungeons—for old times’ sake.”

“Enver…”

“That is Lord Gortash to you. We are not children anymore.”

Your lips parted. “Is…is that it?”

“Yes. You are dismissed.”

You didn’t even notice your tears until they wet your cheeks. You turned around without a word of goodbye, without a formal bow. Your landlord was seemingly pleased as you rushed out. You didn’t wait for Enver to tell him the good news.

As of right now, you were homeless. And even though you hadn’t seen your only friend in years, against all reason, your heart shattered into a million pieces.

You just didn’t understand. Enver used to be such a sweet boy. Innocent, full of visions and dreams, shy, quiet. Everyone who knew him including his own parents labelled him as ‘odd’ but you knew better.

Now, he was the reason you’re homeless. Wait, no. That wasn’t right. Your landlord was the reason you were homeless. Enver had simply honoured the very rules set in place before he became the archduke. Perhaps he was right and he couldn’t make an exception—it would be unfair on others. He could have sent you to prison but he didn’t. That had to be enough.

As you made your way through the Lower City past merchants, civilians, and Steel Watchers a few weeks later, wondering if you’d be able to have a meal today, the sudden tumult right in front of Basilisk Gate had you pause. You frowned, hurrying toward the crowd of people that had formed before the gallows. Three men with nooses around their necks stood on the wooden platform, in front of them, facing the citizens, stood Enver.

What in the hells was happening?

“…so let this be a fair warning. These are the consequences of disobedience. I am not going to tolerate disrespect. I have led this city to glory—and I ask for recognition and your trust in return.”

Your frown deepened when Enver gave a court nod to the hangman. The very moment the trap doors gave way under the prisoner’s feet was the moment you looked away—but not before the archduke’s eyes met yours.

“I am telling you,” you heard a citizen whisper to another, “there’s something foul about this man. He acts like a bloody Banite.”

A Banite. You swallowed. That was a serious accusation. Surely, a sweet boy like Enver wouldn’t turn to Bane worship.

“My words exactly,” the other citizen responded, “I heard he is friends with the chief editor of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette and only what he approves of gets printed.”

A scoff. “Talk about propaganda.”

You’d heard enough. With your heart in your mouth, you stepped away, attempting to disappear in the crowd and perhaps ask for a gold piece or two. You flinched when a Fist touched your shoulder and flipped you around to face her.

“Lord Gortash has requested your presence. You will follow me.”

“W-why? What does he want?”

She didn’t respond. And if you refused to follow her? You didn’t want to find out.

You hadn’t expected to return to Wyrm’s Rock any time soon, nor that you’d be led up the stairs to Lord Gortash’s private quarters. The place was imposing. And of course, when you spotted him behind his desk, he was accompanied by two Steel Watchers.

“Ah, hello, my dear. Have you been faring well?” he mused. You could have been mistaken—but it was almost like you sensed scornfulness swinging in his voice.

“I am homeless. How do you think I’m faring?” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

“Oh, don’t give me that reproachful tone. We are all bound by laws and order, my dear.”

You blinked. “What do you want from me?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“You do?” Hesitation mixed with suspicion. After seeing him hang people in public today…you weren’t sure a proposition would do you any good.

“It’s quite simple, really. Serve me and I shall give you a roof over your head.”

“Serve you?”

“I’ve had my Watchers keep an eye on you. It is quite noble of you not to resort to stealing. Surely, you understand why the citizens of Baldur’s Gate are becoming more and more hesitant to spare a few coins, though.”

You’d read in the Gazette only yesterday that the tax rates were going to be increased yet again starting next month. Both the Fist and the newspaper itself had become very vocal about their dismay when it came to the poor and those in need. It was concerning—terrifying, even.

“Being archduke comes with a lot of responsibilities. My hands are full with political duties, I need people around me to run errands for me and assist me. What do you say? For old times’ sake?” he continued.

“You want me to work for you?” Only weeks ago, you would have jumped at the opportunity. You and your childhood friend reunited at last. Him being the archduke, you being his assistant, his right hand. Now, however, the request left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. You did not agree with his cold-hearted choices to hang usurpers. There was always a more peaceful solution. Imprisonment, for one.

“Do you know what people are whispering, Env-…Lord Gortash? They have suspicions you could be a Banite. You hung people for disobedience! How is that a fair judgement? How can I work for you if this is how you—”

“One of them plotted an assassination against me. You have no right to question my rule, my dear. Lest you’ll end up like them.”

Your lips parted. He didn’t even deny it. He…he didn’t deny he was worshipping Bane… Damn all appropriation. “Enver, please, what happened to you? You used to be such a sweet boy, you comforted me when the other kids picked on me, you—”

“My parents, my dear, sold me to a Warlock. I disappeared because I was shipped off the hells to serve a devil called Raphael in his House of Hope. I faced years of degradation and abuse until I finally managed to escape. I had nothing, I was nothing. The Black Lord picked up the pieces that were left of me and made me what I am today. And I am giving you a chance now. You have potential. Serve me and we can rise together.”

You blinked, processing his words. Sold? To a devil? No wonder his parents had refused to speak about him after his sudden disappearance. The torment he must have experienced…you could almost understand why a tyrannical god like Bane would infiltrate his dreams and promise him power and glory.

“I…I don’t know about this, Enver. This…this is tyranny.”

“In times like this, tyranny is what people need. They don’t listen—and they need a strong leader to help them make the choices that are best for the city. As of right now, free will is their greatest enemy.”

“Is that truly what you think?”

Enver’s expression darkened. He took a menacing step forward. All of a sudden, you felt so much smaller than before.

“I will not have you belittle my faith.” He paused. “I expect an answer. Now.”

You were torn—way too much so. This answer should be a decided No. Working for a Banite, for a worshipper of one of the Dead Three…it was wrong. It should be wrong. And yet…you were hesitant. Not only did Enver promise to end your homelessness but also an alliance. You were clueless as to how he assumed you would be of any use to him but you’d be damned if you didn’t admit that ever since he’d stepped into your life again…it felt like a part of yourself had returned to you. Against all reason, that made you happy. Relieved, even. You weren’t entirely alone—and you certainly wouldn’t be if you accepted his proposal.

You took a deep breath. “F-fine. I…I accept. I…I don’t want to lose you again.”

If he’d expected you to agree, he didn’t expect this. For just a split second, his composure faltered, surprise and something ever so soft washing over his face. It was gone again as fast as it had appeared.

“Splendid. A wise decision, my dear. I shall have one of the empty servants’ rooms prepared for you. Unless of course, you’d rather stay with me?” he mocked.

“You know, I would actually like that,” you said with a weak smile. Because you’d missed him. Banite or not, you were grateful he’d found his way into your life again. Not all was lost—perhaps you’d be able to talk to him. Help him be a better person just like he’d helped you be one when you were young. You’d find a way. For old times’ sake.

A/N: I already have an idea for a Part II.

[sofasoap]

When the rain stops

Pairing: Simon "Ghost"Riley x F!reader Rating: T-M rating. slightly open ending. no angst ( for once!)

Summary: You were stuck at the shop with your groceries, and your intimidating ( but nice ) masked neighbour waited the rain out with you.

Thank you @glitterypirateduck for organising the writing challenge! you are totally awesome :) Go here to check out other wonderful writer and artist's work for this challenge.

Prompt used : No.83 Stuck/Caught in the rain note: I have to thank @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world her roommate series simon will always be my inspo for any neighbour/roommate related ideas. *taking deep bow*

Part of the Memory in a Fragrance series Master list

Holding one bag of grocery in one hand, and a bag of rice in another arm, sighing as the sky opened up, regretting not listening to yourself earlier on.

Should have brought my brolly, or should have driven here instead of walking. Thinking to yourself. So much for wanting to get some exercise and steps into my daily routine. 

Oh well, What else can you do but wait? 

“You gotta be kidding me.” 

Suddenly a large shadow with a deep rumbling voice loomed over you, cursing away.

Looking up, stands Simon, your large yet mysterious neighbour, with a small bag of grocery, seemingly in the same predicament. 

“You too?”

Awkward silence. He slowly turns his head down towards you. You can almost sense his discomfort from the tense body language and the way he is staring down at you. 

“There’s extra storage space on the ground floor. Rubbish collection day is every Monday, remember to take it out. Oh good morning Simon.” your landlord greeted a tall masked man, with a big camo bag who was about to head out the door. He nodded his head towards the two of you, before turning away abruptly.

That was your first meeting with Simon.

After that, he only appears every few weeks, always carrying his Camo bag. Sometimes in his uniform, sometimes already changed into Civilian uniform.  The two of you never spoke a word to each other, nor acknowledged each other. 

“Um. I am your neighbour two doors down?” You shifted uncomfortably, thinking he doesn’t remember you. 

“I know.” 

Another awkwards silence. 

“I don’t think the rain is going to stop for a while.”

“…….” 

Pointing to the cafe next door to the grocery store,“Would you, would you like to um, have a cup of coffee while we wait?” WE? You don’t know why you offered.

“Tea.” 

“Pardon?”

“I drink tea.”  He repeated.

“Oh.” Well, you assume that is a yes. “Let’s.. Let’s go?”

You look out the window, at the rain that is currently bucketing down heavily, showing no signs of stopping. The drumming sound drowning out the chatting voices of the cafe patrons. 

“Not to your taste?”

Simon’s voice snapped you out of the reverie. 

“Sorry?” you blinked, confused at his question. 

He pointed at your coffee. “Not to your taste? Should I get another one for you?”

He has insisted on getting the drinks.

“I am very particular with tea.” He insisted as he gently set the groceries down beside the table. He raised a hand to stop you before you speak. “A cup of coffee isn’t going to break my bank. What would you like?”

You shook your head and quickly took a sip. “Oh nono, I was zoning out…looking at the rain. Listening to the sound.It’s very… calming.” 

He looked out the window, humming. Back to the silence between the two of you.

You took another sip of your coffee, and stole a glance at the brooding man in front of you. 

This is probably the first time you have seen him without any face covering on. 

Not a face of a model, but a pleasing looking face. Long eye lashes, framing those deep brown eyes,  full of sorrow, weariness and… loneliness? 

“What if the rain doesn’t stop?” You break the silence again after a while. 

“Then we wait a bit longer.” 

“Until the cafe closes?” You chuckled.

“Then I’ll walk back to get the car and pick you and the grocery up.” 

You cocked your eyebrow. Although the two of you are neighbours, technically the two of you don't know each other before this. He could have just left you there to your own demise..

“But I don’t think I need to do that. Seems like the rain started to die down. Come on.” Simon drained the last of his tea, donning his mask back on and stood up and picked up his bag of grocery and your bag of rice.

“OH, I can..” 

Before you finish your sentence, he hauls it over his shoulder like a bag of feathers and stares at you. Somehow you know it’s pointless to argue with him so you just pick up your bag of groceries and follow him out of the cafe.

Two of you walked home in silence. 

You couldn’t resist taking a peek at his strong muscles… you mean him. With the first glance he sends people scrambling with his deathly stare. But from his actions today.. You know he’s a man of action.  From the little things he does. Insisting on paying for the coffee. Carrying the heavy bag of rice.

Oh he smells so nice. You also couldn’t help but take a deep breath in as he gently nudged you to the inner side of the walking path and shielded you from all the puddle splashes when the car drove past. 

Smell of fresh pine. Citrus. Freshly cut grass.

Just like after the rain. Your favourite smell since childhood. 

It gives you comfort. And joy. Memories of going for a walk and running around on the field with your family and falling over onto the grass, big patches of mud on your butt while your siblings laugh at you, and your mother shook her head.

“You got the front gate key?” He grumbled, adjusting the bag of rice on his shoulder.

“Ah? Oh. yes. Sorry..” you quickly dug through your bag for the keys and opened it up to let the two of you into the building. 

“Well, Ah, Thank you for your help today.” You said as he put the bags down in front of your door. “ Would you like to come in for a cup of tea… OH.” What the hell are you saying, the two of you just sat in the cafe for more than an hour drinking afternoon tea.

He chuckled. Oh, he sounds nice when he laughs.  “I think we have enough tea and coffee for the afternoon.” 

You nodded your head, embarrassed and somehow disappointed at the rejection. You opened the door and half kicked your groceries in.  

“But maybe next time.” you snapped your head around, he was already walking towards his own door. “If you need people to go grocery with you. I will be happy to if I am home.” 

You blinked your eyes, is..that his way of asking you to go on a .. date but not a date? Or is he just being friendly??

You stood there for a long time mouth gaping, long after he returned to his apartment. 

Simon look down at the little container of home baked biscuits left on his front door step the next morning, and smiled. 

“Just a little thank you for the impromptu afternoon tea and carrying my groceries yesterday. This is my number just in case you want to ask me to go again…”

tag:

@homicidal-slvt

@cumikering

@siilvan

@gamergirlbones

@a-small-writer-in-a-big-world

@nrdmssgs

@writeforfandoms

@devcica

@liyanahelena

@okayyadriana

@clipperfly

@glitterypirateduck

[soadawritesstuff]

Video games

Pairing: best friend!touya todoroki x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut with too much plot, fluff (?), Minors DNI, quirkless au, friends-to-lovers, unprotected sex, penetration, oral sex (fem. receiving), mild swearing, pet-names (doll, princess etc.), intoxication, alcohol consumption, reader isn't referred to by name, reader has female genetalia, probably some grammar mistakes

Synopsis: What was supposed to be a comfortable game-night with your best friend quickly took a drift as the drinking game Touya suggested leads to something way steamier

A/N: I don't know why and how this ended up this long but I had a bunch of fun with it. Also this turned out fluffier than intended, you're welcome lol. Of course all characters belong to Kohei Horikoshi. The banner is from the Manga Dengeki Daisy.

You were excited for this weekend. Not that you weren't excited for every other weekend as well, but you have been looking forward to seeing your best friend since he texted you a long awaited: "Hey, I finally got this weekend off, wanna hang?"

You haven't seen Touya in MONTHS, both his job and your schedule occupied too much time for a proper meet-up. Every time you planned something, a random emergency prevented it from happening: a curse that seemed to haunt the both of you.

So Touya and you agreed to just have a slow day, veg on his couch and play video games. Maybe watch a Ghibli movie as well. Anything else was too stressfull and neither of you had the energy to do something more elaborate. Both of you organised snacks (which were, of course ,already carefully chosen over text) and you brought games from home in case Touya didn't already have them.

At exactly 7pm you stood in front of your best friend's apartment door, knocking your usual knock-pattern the two of you created when you were kids. His doorbell didn't work and he was too busy but also too lazy to fix it, he wouldn't even contact his landlord about it.

You heard mufffled curses shortly after you knocked followed by rushed shuffeling which you presumed was Touya's attempt of quickly cleaning up. A notorious procrastinator as usual. The door openes and in front of you appears a slightly messy looking Touya in black sweats and a white shirt. A wide grin spreads on both of your faces as he steps forward to hug you.

His hugs were the bomb, you always felt so safe and warm whenever you hugged him. His cologne sneaks it's way up your nose as your face is comfortably smooshed against Touya's chest, a boyish chuckle escaping from the man that you call your best friend.

"I missed ya, you clown", his big hands ruffle your hair making you squeal as you shimmey out of his hug, your hands trying to fix what he so shamelessly destroyed.

"My haiiir, Touya you ASS"

"What, doesn't matter anyways, it's just me", a mischievous glint flickers in his eyes, "Or did you pretty yorself up just for me?". Not even 5 minutes in and he already got an eyeroll out of you.

"In your dreams, dirtface"

And with that you waste no time and march right into is apartment. You just hear a "yeah yeah" behind you but you will not give into his bs just yet.

You toss your sneakers next to the entrance and flop down on his comfy couch. So many mario kart sessions were held on that couch. Glorious victories and devastating losses.

"So, what are we playin'?", you hear Touya shifting around in the kitchen that is connected to the living-space.

"Mario Kart and whatever I have laying around", he carries the chips bag he just got over to the couch, already snatching one from the bag before you even got the chance to grab some.

A grin spreads on your face.

"Oh I will so kick your ass"

"big words for a loser"

"You are dead meat Tou"

And with that the two of you busy yourselves with cussing each other out and laughing, both of you blue-shelling the other countless times. Touya's winning tactic consits of trying to block your range of motion so dealing with him taking over all your couch-space made it hard for you to get a win.

After two hours both of you got bored, you played every track a billion times.

"I wish there was a new game-mode or something" you sat criss-cross on Touya's couch, head resting on his shoulder as he puts his controller to the side.

"How about we turn this into a drinking game?", you turn your head too look at him. He just smirks. The suggestion lingers in your mind for a few seconds.

"And how exactly would that work?"

"Hold on"

Touya swiftly makes his way to the kitchen. You hear glasses clinking and the fridge being opened. Shortly after your best friend returns with two shot glasses and a bottle of Vodka.

"Woahh, I haven't had a sip of alcohol in a year, ain't that a bit much?"

"Oh relax, you're gonna be fiiine", Touya puts the two shot glasses down in front of you on the couch-table.

"It's simple. We play rainbow road. Whenever someone falls down the track, they take a shot. First one to finish the race wins. Easy enough, right?"

"..I don't know Touya"

"You're just scared you're gonna lose", that mischievous look returns on his face.

"Am not!"

"Oh? What was that?", Touya begins to make chicken noises "I think I just heard a chicken"

"Stop it Touya!"

"There it was again, chicken." You try to swat him, unsuccessfully. "What's wrong chicken? You scared that you're gonna lose?Hm? HM?!"

"FINE", there was no way getting out of this one. Once Touya has an idea you basically already lost. It's not like you want to be a killjoy or boring, you just weren't sure what would happen if both of you were highly drunk. You weren't sure nothing would happen. And you didn't know what would happen to your friendship. Touya and you were always playfully flirty around each other and you would be lying if you said you didn't wish you were more than best friends sometimes.

But you couldn't lose your oldest and strongest friendship in your life. Everything was way too risky for your liking. But Touya's pain-in-the-assery left you no other choice.

You forgot all about your previous worries as soon as you started playing.

The first few rounds weren't too bad, you only fell off the evil rainbow-track a couple of times and even won one race. But with every round it got significantly harder, with every shot the track got even more evil. Touya fell off a good amount of times as well, but he seemed to be holding up much better than you.

.

You were laughing histerically as Touya fell off the track shortly before the finish line, allowing the Luigi NPC to win instead of him. Both of you lost count of how many shots you drank and how many rounds you actually played.

"Tou I am exhaustedddd"

"Jus' one more doll", Touya had swung his arm around you some time before this round but you honestly didn't remember when.

"Nah Tou, I can't anymoreee", Touya leans close tou your ear, squeezing you closer to him.

"Please doll, I promise 's the last one" his tired and gravelly voice slurred against the shell of your ear.

"I can't hold my 'ontroller right, I'll die if I fall off one more time"

"Y'don't have to play alone, w'can play together, see", he grabs your waist and shifts you between his criss-crossed legs, your back hitting his torso.

"Ya don't need to drink, I jus wanna play one last round", He loops his arms around your waist, putting his chin on top of your head and pulling you closer.

"Here, we'll play with my controller"

Touya pushes his controller into your hands, placing his on top of yours while his head still sat on top of yours.

He was so painfully close, your face turning hotter and hotter the longer you played. Him guiding your hands lazily while watching the track had something oddly comforting as well as feeling his heartbeat pressed against your back. Everything was just so warm and fuzzy, you didn't even notice the growing hard-on in your best friend's sweatpants.

It was only after you made the finish line that you felt a certain something poking your lower back. Holy crap.

"Touya.."

"Mmm?"

"I can feel you.."

Silence. He probably didn't immediately catch what you even meant.

"I mean your dick"

Oh.

His body shifts slightly, you can feel it even more now. Touya grabs your waist again, electricity rushing through your veins.

"Sorry doll, 's just what happens when your body is that close", his voice is just above a whisper by now. Touya's hot breath trickles your neck, all your hair stands on end.

"I just don't really know what to do" your voice left the chat long ago. You can't bring yourself to speak up, even now your words come out shaky.

"Do you want to do something?" Touya starts to nibble just behind your ear, freeing a whimper from your lips.

"Tou~..."

"If you wanna stop, y'gotta tell me now. Because I won't.."

You can't even think straight. Everything turned foggy and you don't know if it's Touya or the alcohol.

"I...don't want to stop"

"Good", his voice is barely audible yet so dominant.

Touya proceeds to place a trail of kisses down your neck, stopping at the base to leave a nasty hickey along the way. Your hands find his hair as Touya slowly starts to peel off the layers of your outfit, one-by-one. You turn around to face him, all of your garments on the floor except for your underwear.

The look in his eyes is swarmed with lust and something unreadable, that face of his is so incredibly close but something keeps you from connecting your lips to his. He places a hand onto the small of your back and lays you back-down onto the couch. Something about him hovering above you gives you the worst case of butterflies in your stomach, excitement and arousal bubbles up and spreads across your entire body.

Sitting on his knees, staring down at your exposed body, the white haired man pulls his shirt above his head, revealing just the silver chain around his neck and a trail of white pubic hair down his abdomen. He tosses the shirt aside and leans down, him now nestled between your legs and caging you with his arms on either side of your head.

"You don't know what you do to me, doll", you just hear the jingle of his necklace as he leans down, engulfed by him and his smell. The tension is intoxicating, his forehead on yours, heavy breathing. The heat radiating off of both your bodies.

"I wanted this for so long", you swallow, your tounge feels endlessly heavy. "Please..", you can only mouth that word.

His lips brush against yours, breath hitching. You need to dive deeper into him. You grab his head and let your lips crash together, both of you finally fusing into one. It's so strong, his lips taking control as he devours you with one passionate kiss. Your head spins. You've always imagined this moment yet it was never as intense as it really is.

You feel Touya's hands wander down your body, grazing your sides and gliding to your hips, where he slowly slides his fingers underneath your panties. Goosebumps follow everywhere he touches. Still mid-kiss, your panties are slid down and tossed across the room, followed by your bra. He finally breaks the kiss only to slide down your body and plant himself between you legs, eyes looking up and finding yours. The boyish grin on his face sends a shockwave through your body.

You are too dazed to react in any sort of way, glossy eyes just pleading for him to eat you out. His hungry gaze fuels the fire in your lower abdomen, causing heat to pool between your thighs. Touya dips down, carefully placing kisses and licks to your inner thighs and outer folds, diving deeper and deeper. The man has you squeaking and yelping in no-time.

You always knew he got around plenty yet it never hit you until now, his experience clearly showing as he licks every little crevice and circles your clit expertly. Your legs are shaking violently, somehow you're gonna crush his head between your thighs with your orgasm oh so close. Closer and closer until it suddenly rips through you, hands buried in his white hair as your whole body tenses up and then collapses right in front of the man that makes your world crash down. It's like a supernova exploded right inside your mind, everything goes blank. Nothing but euphoria.

You've never experienced a climax that overwhelming before, you can't stop shaking while tears roll down your eyes.

"Shhh, woah, it's ok, it's ok" Touya's voice calms you as he brushes your tears away with his thumb.

"Are you alright? We can stop if you need a break", you slowly calm down from your high and take his hand to press a kiss against his palm.

"I'm good Tou, just...need a second" you try to supress the sniffles while you wait for your nervous system to rebuild itself again. A few seconds pass by when you finally collect yourself.

"wanna keep going", you smile softly.

"As you say, princess".

With a quick peck to the cheek and a squeeze to your thigh, Touya sits up to slide his dark sweats and boxers down. His length is impressive yet not monstrous. The nice curvy shaft and pretty pink tip make your mouth water, you didn't know a dick can be this pretty.

Your awestruck gaze makes Touya chuckle as he pumps himself a couple of times before positioning himself between your legs again.

"One last chance to stop"

You place your hand on the side of his face as he leans forward. "I want this Touya, please", and with a passionate kiss your once-best-friend slowly slides into your messy folds, stretching you out so deliciously you could've cum just from that.

After some adjusting, the both of you start to settle for a slow but balls-deep rythm, moaning into each other with hands and lips everywhere. After some shifting and re-positioning Touya eventually finds that one special spot that makes you scream his name like a damn prayer, hitting it over and over again.

You clamp down, the sensation too much when he reaches down to fondle your clit. After a few more thrusts you collapse again, this orgasm even stronger than the first one. Your eyes meet Touya's as he fucks you through your orgasm, dick twitching and gaze clouded with so many emotions at once. "Fuck, princess you squeeze...so..hard", with that he fills you up to the brim, cum shooting into your still convulsing walls. You remain like this for a couple of minutes to come down from both your earth-shattering orgasms.

Touya just collapses on top of you, still inside you but too tired to do anything about it. He hugs you tightly.

"You are..so amazing doll"

You are both still slightly out of breath as you fall into a deep sleep with you in Touya's arms. You forgot to turn off the Tv, the dim light shining on both of your intertwined bodies.

[bangtaninborderland]

JHS - Twisted Feelings (15)

Summary: After working at an award show for 2 years everything had become normal, idols were no longer exciting to see, performances became dull and every day blended together, that was until an unexpected man asked for your help.

Warning: themes of stalking.

A/N: it was my grandmas funeral today, I felt bad not posting. I’ll trying to get my shit together lol.

Ch.14 | MasterList | Ch.16

It had taken you twice as long to pack everything thanks to the continuous throbbing on your side and because you’d refused help. Hoseok had cancelled your Saturday session with Jungkook asking to do your Sunday session over video call.

You were thankful for the time it gave you to prepare for the move, all you had to do was find a moving company and everything was set. In all honesty you were excited about the prospect of a new apartment, it was significantly nicer than the one you had now but you couldn’t help feeling sentimental.

This was the first thing you had for yourself after leaving home. The first place you convinced a landlord to let you rent as an immature adult, the first place you’d brought a doormat for, the first place you’d had a taste of independence at.

It would be a place you missed but not a place you wished to return to.

You limped your way up the stairs, the thought of taking the elevator alone making your stomach churn uncomfortably. The halls were bare which wasn't weird for 8am on a Monday, with everyone either busy with a schedule or at home not yet being required to work. You still had 30 minutes until you were due to have your class with Hoseok which was definitely a blessing as you continued to hop your way to your ‘office’ with as little issue as possible.

“Yn?”

You nearly made, so nearly made it to relaxing in your comfortable chair for a little while before teaching all day. “Yes?”

You turn to find Jimin watching you, eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine jimin-ssi.” You smiled through your teeth.

“Ah” he shook his head. “Taehyung and I already agreed on us all being Informal with each other, we are all the same age.”

“I know, I still want to be professional when it calls for it though. I just don’t want anyone thinking badly of me.” You admit, working around celebrities had meant you had to carry yourself differently least everyone suspect you to be fame hungry or whatever other accusation they could come up with. “Is everything okay?”

“I just noticed you were limping.” He gestured to your leg and you did all you could to stand straight.

“It’s fine.” You brush him off. “Just too much walking.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think I remember you being checked out after the elevator accident.” He frowns as though recalling the incident.

The last thing you want is to spend any more unnecessary time doing unprofessional things in your very professional workplace. “I promise i'm okay. I was fine afterwards, I was packing all weekend and overdid it. If it gets any worse I’ll go to the doctor for a check up.”

He sighs, thankfully giving up on the matter. “Okay, Hyung should be here soon. If you need anything Jungkookie and I are going to be practising in studio B. Come and find us whenever.”

“Thank you, I will do. Have a good practice.” You wave him off as you enter your office, grunting as your body slumps rather ungracefully into the chair.

You quickly organised the papers you needed for the day, finding Hoseoks folder and setting it out on the desk ready for whenever he came.

You felt your bag vibrate against your leg, reaching down to grab your phone.

No caller ID

You tried to think about who would be calling you, it wasn’t as though an abundance of people had your number but then again with the move you’d had to contact a few moving companies and of course your new landlord.

You picked up. “Hello?”

“Blue shirt, black dress pants, you have a limp… I guess you did get hurt in the elevator after all.” The voice was distorted, it sounded like somethi he straight from a horror movie.

You hung up quickly, stuffing the phone in your bag as you checked out of the small window.

Someone was watching you, someone was watching you and knew exactly what you were wearing…did they cause the elevator accident too?

“Hey.” Hoseok knocked on the door, making you jump. “Woah I’m sorry.” He takes a step back, hands up as a surrender.

“No no.” You quickly apologise, grabbing his folder and the extra pens you’d brought. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You look scared, is everything okay?” He asks as he slides onto the chair opposite you.

“Yeah, I got lost in my own head, ignore me.” You laugh, pulling out the necessary worksheets. “I thought we could practice conversation today, it’s better if you learn the correct grammar for speaking rather than writing. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you think is best.” He agrees, taking a sip of his coffe before cleaning closer and giving you a full whiff of ‘expensive’.

You talked him through a few conversation starters, correcting him whenever he responded incorrectly before moving on to some vocabulary games, throwing in a few awful jokes along the way to make it a better experience for the rapper.

“You’re good at this.” He laughs out.

You can’t help but smile. “At what?”

“Making boring things fun. You don’t make me feel as though I can’t do it.” He explains sincerely.

“I’m happy to.” And you were, despite the fact it was your job it brought you joy. “Okay so just a few more vocabulary cards and then we will practice again and you can take a test.”

“I feel like im back in high school.” He sighs dramatically. “So much for graduating.”

“Actually, your cover of that graduation song was played at my school when we left.” You couldn’t help but recall the memory, a few of your classmates had gathered to do a little dance to it.

“Really?” He sat forward, eyes wide in surprise. “Did you listen?”

“I even danced to it.” You were fine embarrassing yourself if it made him laugh more.

“Wow.” He leans back. “I want to see.”

“Pass the test and I’ll ask my eomma to send me the video.” You shrug, sliding the paper over to him.

He looks at the paper. “What about the questions and vocabulary cards.”

“I’m making teaching fun.” You laugh, packing them away. “Good luck on your test.”

“I take it back, you are just like my high school English teacher.” He huffs playfully, picking up the pen.

He takes 25 minutes to completely finish, only asking for clarification on one question which was an improvement from your last few classes. You marked it quickly, his leg shaking in anticipation.

“So?” He asks the second you set the red pen down.

You fake a frown. “I guess I’ll text my eomma and ask.”

“Yes!” He shouts, slapping the table in excitement.

“You’ve done really well today, you should be proud of yourself. In between our classes you should listen to podcasts, YouTube videos, music, anything with English as much as possible. It may seem stupid if you can’t understand it all but I promise it is worth it.”

The timer goes off before you can give him any more ‘homework’.

“Thank you. Seriously, I had fun. I’ll try to do what you said.” He holds out his pinks. “Promise.”

“Very American.” You laugh, linking your pinky before pulling away. “Have you got a busy schedule today?”

“About 4 hours of dancing.” He groans. “And then just recording some more adlibs for the album.”

“I’m sure you’ll do amazing.” You give him a thumbs up as he opens the door.

“You’re welcome to come and watch if you have time, the staff are always there.” He offers.

“I’ll try and come by if I can, I was sent a few interviews to translate.” You explain, your love to watch them dance but you still didn’t feel as though it was your place. You didn’t want to seem overly comfortable when you’d only gotten the job because Hoseok had personally requested it. “You shouldn’t be late.”

“Of course not.” He checks his phone before frowning. “You’re right I should go, I’ll see you later if you’re still here when I get a break.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” You wait for the door to close before relaxing on your chair with a groan, your hands instantly wrapping around your hip as though to syphon the pain away.

It took you four hours and 45 minutes to completely every single interview that had been sent to you, in hindsight you probably should have procrastinated as much as you did but you couldn’t help it.

With work out of the way your mind drifted back to the earlier phone call, it was something you should report, you knew that.

You just didn’t want to worry anyone.

“Fuck.” You hiss, rummaging through your draw, finding the painkillers you’d put in there for emergencies and taking three.

Your phone buzzed, the screen flashing up with an email notification.

You click on it, guessing it was something work related only to notice the sender being unregistered and the text box empty.

Strange.

There’s an attachment at the end of the empty text box, your stomach twisted as you opened it. The screen now displays an image of you entering the building with the words “You’re easy to find.” edited across it.

“What the fuck.” You cuss to yourself. Taking a screenshot of both the image and the email before closing the app.

If this was happening because you were working with the members then why did it feel so personal?

“You’re still here?” You looked up to find Hoseok standing in the doorway, hair and face sweaty from dance practice. “I thought you would have come to see.”

“I really wanted to.” You explain. “I just had so much work to do.”

“I understand, it’s important and you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” He takes a few gulps of his water bottle. “Have you finished it all?”

“Yeah, finally.” You playfully swipe your forehead. “How was dance practice?”

He shrugs. “It was good.”

The conversation falls silent and for a few seconds you stare at each other before your phone buzzes with another notification.

Another email.

You can’t help but open it, despite how rude it may seem to be during a conversation your fingers itch to know what lies within the attachment.

It’s another image but this one had been taken days ago, one of you outside of the restaurant you had gone to with Jimin, Taehyung and Hoseok.

“Hoseok?” You call out, turning your phone towards him.

He frowns as he takes the device, eyes going wide at the picture. “Is this the only one?”

“Of us? Yes.”

“And of you?” He asks, handing the phone back to you.

You contemplate lying but decide against it, you didn’t want to break the little trust you had. “I received another one earlier.”

He huffs shaking his head. “We need to take this to management, they may be able to have the email address tracked.”

“Okay let’s go.” You mumble, attempting to stand only for your leg to give out underneath you leaving you undignified as you fall to the floor.

“Shit.” Hoseok drops his water bottle as he reaches out to help you up. “Are you okay?”

“My hip.” You explain, using his body to support you. “It hurts.”

“Can I see?” He asks, resting your body against your desk.

You lift up your shirt, pushing the waistband of your pants down, a deep purple bruise scales your hip

“You have to get it checked, that looks awful.” He grabs your phone before wrapping an arm around your waist. “Lean on me, I’ll take you to the company doctor.”

You internally cringe at how another day has gone so wrong. “Okay, thank you.”

“What are friends for if not human crutches?” He laughs weakly carrying you both to the doctor.

Thankfully the room is close, the doctor rushing you in to sit on the hospital style bed. You explain what happened, answering all of his questions whilst he layers heat packs against your side.

“It’s not broken but you definitely have a hip pointer.” He explained, showing you similar images from a book. “It’s when you directly impact your hip causing bruising, pain, tenderness and it may impact your walking. You shouldn’t do much physical activity for at least a week.”

“It’s not bad.” You feel lighter knowing nothing had broken and all that could help was a little bit of rest. “Thank you for seeing me so fast.”

The doctor waves you off, giving you a prescription for some antibiotics as you left the office.

“Here let me help you back to your office.” Hoseok offers, wrapping his arm around you before you could contest against it. “I’m sorry we didn’t realise you were hurt.”

“It’s my own fault really, I pushed it too hard this weekend getting everything ready to move.” You hate the idea of him blaming himself for your own actions, you were a big girl and it was your responsibility.

He practically carried you back to your office despite your protests that it would do no good for him to be injured too only for him to shush you and insist on helping. Only when you were secured back in your seat did he drop onto the small couch in the corner. “I think you’ll have to attend a recording session tomorrow, there’s some producers coming from America and Nicole isn’t here.”

“I’ll check my schedule but I'm sure it will be on there if Nicole isn’t here.” You’d briefly met the other translator, she was kind but far too busy to make daily conversation with. You could see why they needed a secondary translator. “Don’t you have to record some things?”

“Ah.” He shakes his head. “We are going to wait until tomorrow so we can see what the producers say.”

“About the picture…” You start addressing the elephant in the room. “I think we should be careful about who we tell, I don’t understand how anyone would know where we were or what I was wearing unless they had been close to the building and possibly even had access. “I know inside leaks aren’t that uncommon.”

“It’s true but after years of experience it’s always best to tell management, if you can’t walk there I can call them and they will come here?” He offers.

Despite how cramped your tiny office would be you didn’t think you’d be able to manage another trip around the building so soon after having your hip poked and prodded at. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

He steps out of the room as he makes whatever phone call he needs to, returning a few seconds later. “They are coming down now.”

It’s relatively a quick affair, Sejin taking all the information from the email along with screenshots before explaining that he will take it to the HYBE security and protection team to have it investigated, finally explaining. “If you’re worried you should stay with someone else, a friend or family maybe. We ask that you don’t contact the police yet, we want to compile a full report before involving them.”

“Thank you Sejin-Ssi.” You nod respectfully in his direction as he leaves.

“It wasn’t that bad.” Hoseok jokes trying to lighten the mood. “If you’re finished for the day I can drop you home? We have been told to rest until the producers come by tomorrow.”

You soften at the offer but still can’t find it in your to accept. “Oh no it’s absolutely fine, I can just take a taxi or the bus. I doubt it’s safe for you to come to my apartment with all these pictures being taken.”

“Please? I feel awful that you’re in pain. I know how to go undetected.” He presses.

You consider it before giving in, it was daylight and he knew what he was doing. “Okay, only if you’re sure.”

“I am. Here, let me take that.” He grabs your bag, swinging it over his shoulder before once again offering you his arm to lean on. “One time Jungkook hurt his foot before a concert and afterwards he felt awful so we took turns carrying him around.”

You both make your way into the elevator, your heart picking up as memories from the accident flash through your mind. “Did it help him feel better?”

“Nope. Jin Hyung dropped him.” Hoseok snorts at the horrified look on your face. “It was fine, everyone was fussing around him. We got him onto the couch and Jin Hyung ordered his favourite foods.”

“It worked out then?” You ask, grinning as the elevator grows closer to the ground floor.

“Sort of?” He questions. “When Jin Hyung went to get some extra napkins Jungkook poured hot sauce over his food.”

“So it was payback?” You ask through a laugh.

He shakes his head as he grins. “Not at all, Jin Hyung had been plating up Namjoons food.”

The realisation dawns on you. “So let me get this right, Seokjin-ssi dropped Jungkook-ah and then as an apology brought him his favourite food. Jungkook sabotages Seokjin-ssi’ food but it was actually Namjoon-ssi’ food?”

He hums as he helps you out to the artist only car park. “Yep, but Taehyung-ah stole a bite and he is terrible with spicy food. He ended up knocking over a pitcher of water all over the dish Jungkook had wanted.”

You take a moment to laugh at that, the thought of a joke turning into absolute chaos around the dinner table. “So then what happened?”

“We all gave up, half of the meal was drenched in cold water, the other half was cold.” He chuckles as he unlocks his car and helps you in.

You wait until he starts the car to ask any more. “What did you eat?”

“Yoongi Hyung had ordered pizza as he didn’t want fried chicken so we stole it.” He laughs, carefully checking the street as he turns the car. “But Hyung is good, he ordered two pizzas.”

“You’ve known each other for a long time, I'm sure he probably can tell when it’s necessary.” Na-Rae has always been the same, knowing what you need before you do.

He shrugs. “I think we are all just synched. It’s a little scary how similar yet different we are.”

“Well clearly it works.” You point to the little picture resting in the back of his phone case, one of all seven of them at an award show.

He looks at you with a smile. “I guess it does. Put your address into my phone, I don’t know where im going.”

You punch in the address, the map on his phone displaying a 20 minute car journey.

The drive passes by as it had started, filled with never ending conversation and laughter. When you finally pulled up to your apartment you frowned to yourself, you didn’t want to journey nor the conversation to end. “Thank you for dropping me home.”

“Let me help you up.” He doesn’t give you a chance to argue before he is already opening your door, throwing your bag over his shower before helping you stand. “Does your building have an elevator?”

“Yeah, it's not fancy or anything though.” You explain.

You weren’t often a person who felt insecure but Hoseok was someone who had everything, whatever he owned, wore, ate, did was far more luxurious than anything you’d ever experienced. “Fancy is overrated.”

You push the broken elevator button, the machine loud as it carries you up to your floor. As soon as you step off the elevator you’re reaching for your keys, only to stop as you see your door open.

“Oh my god.” You rush over, forgetting the pain in your hip as you push it open.

You’re thankful Hoseok is there as you feel your eyes water. The apartment is wrecked, pictures of your friends and family had been smashed on the floor, the walls covered in paint and other substances you weren’t willing to touch, pillows torn open, furniture thrown across the room. Anything and everything that could be reached had been damaged.

“Come back out here.” Hoseok directs, pulling you into his arms as he dials the police.

You let yourself cry as he spoke to the operator, your heard pained with the acceptance that everything you’d worked for had been destroyed.

[memoirsofasim]

Ep 1 - Meet your new tenants

When Ozzy decided to invest in rental properties he did zero research and had no idea what he was getting into. How hard could it be managing three rentals?

He heard the sound of someone playing a guitar behind him and guessed it was Clyde, mainly because on his rental form he put down he was a musician, Ozzy climbed out of the pool to go watch.

Ozzy cheered as he listened to Clyde play. This guy could actually play a tune. Rosalie who was kneeling down beside him roasting a marshmallow cheered Clyde on as well.

After Lily came and joined them Ozzy knew this was the right time to ask everyone.

'Right, since you are all here I'll be having a party later tonight and you're all invited!'

Seeing Rosalie's expression made Ozzy rethink his idea. Clyde seemed interested and Lily didn't show much enthusiasm.

'I'll be there!' Lily said jumping up from the her seat and already trotting off. 'Thanks Ozzy!'

Both Rosalie and Clyde confirmed they would attend too. Phew, thought Ozzy. Even if they didn't attend he was going to have a party anyway. But he was glad they were all coming.

So, there's going to be a party later, thought Rosalie as she relaxed on the floater. There were many things to prep for, her outfit, her makeup. She wondered if the landlord knew about this so called party.

Rosalie slipped off the floater into the water and swam elegantly over to Ozzy. 'I appreciate the party invite', she said batting her eyelashes.

'Hey, it's cool. I thought it would be a chill way for everyone to get to know one another', Ozzy replied.

'So, you must work out? I admire your physique.' She gushed at him.

Lily liked the idea of a party, maybe she could tell a few jokes to everyone, test her material out before her first comedy gig. As she mopped up the pool water she thought she saw a flash out of the corner of her eye.

When she glanced over she could see Clyde playing around with the fire. She hoped he wasn't some sort of pyromaniac.

Clyde had no idea what happened. All he did was try to light the fire and now his arm was ablaze. How was he going to get out of this situation?

By jumping in the pool, of course! He ran past Lily, who lost her balance, and quickly climbed the steps to the diving board.

While Lily was trying to regain her balance she glimpsed at Clyde's butt. It was literally right in her face anyway, she couldn't look anywhere else. It was an okay butt, nothing to rave about. She did think he was kind of cute too. In a scruffy rock star kind of way.

Time was ticking for Rosalie, she had to organise her outfit and makeup for the party. 'I'll see you later then, Ozzy' she said giving him a flirty wave.

'Yeah, catch ya later.' Ozzy slipped his cap off and dipped underwater. When he resurfaced he saw Rosalie already walking to her apartment. This sim was damn fine, but was he her type and should he get involved with one of his tenants?

None of them yet knew he was the landlord and he was still undecided about announcing it. Maybe he would see how the party went first, if it was a success then he would tell them, but if it wasn't maybe he would keep it to himself.

[tutantmeenageneetleteetle]

Getting used to eachother

Let's be real, New York is a dangerous place. Whether it's the Kraang, Shredder or evil landlords, there will be a time where you will have to live in the lair with the turtles. Suddenly living with 5 men will come with it's challenges...

Leo

Hogs the TV in the morning. If you're not in for Space Heroes or other cartoons, too bad...

Depending on how clean you are, he might nag you on being organised and doing chores

Keeps asking you to join them for training, even if you don't want to. Tries to convince you anyway

Watches you a lot. Maybe it's interest, maybe it's protectiveness, maybe it's just his need to make sure everyone is doing everything right, who knows.

Raph

Listens to loud music in his room or plays his drums

The beanbag is his, don't even try to sit on it

Criticises the food you make when it's your turn to cook

Always fighting with one of his brothers, the yelling gets super annoying at some point

Donnie-boy

Don't talk to him before he had his coffee. Well, you can try, but he's not quite with us on earth yet.

Might accidentally ruin some of your stuff if you leave it in or around the lab

Will keep on talking about his invention, even it it's really really boring and you really don't care for it

Will get annoyed if you don't care for it

Will constantly want to run tests on you

Mikey

He will not leave you alone

Will make a mess and might also accidentally ruin your stuff

He will eat in his room and leave all the dirty dishes there, until there's almost nothing left in the kitchen to use

Tries to get out of doing his chores

Leaves no snacks for anyone else

His room smells so bad sometimes you can smell it from outside his door

Splinter

He will adopt you and act a little too much like a parent to you

It's his house, and as 'his child' you will live by his rules

The squeaking sound of his giant hamster wheel will drive you insane

You can never find him when you need him because he's always meditating, not to be disturbed, or out somewhere doing god knows what

Gives unsolicited advice

[dameronology]

it's cold outside (natasha romanoff)

for @wokeupinawalnut - for the fic giveaway organised by @startrekkingaroundasgard. i apologise for how late this is, but i hope you enjoy & happy holidays🥰

summary: coming home to you is always natasha's favourite thing

Natasha Romanoff hadn't expected your shared apartment to be so fucking arctic when she came home.

New York was cold at the best of times but it seemed bitingly so when the Quintjet came in to land early that morning. It was too cold even for snow and that just felt like insult to injury. Still though, it was hard for Natasha to feel sad about the weather, knowing that this mission was going to be the team's last before their Christmas break. The idea of getting home, switching off her phone and existing just in the plains of your apartment had been the only thing getting her through. So, after exchanging goodbyes with the rest of the Avengers, Nat hung up her uniform and got into a taxi.

Naturally, every would reunite on the day of Christmas at Tony Stark's insistence, but until then, they'd be off to their own homes. Steve and Bucky back to Brooklyn, Clint back to the farm, Thor back to New Asgard and Tony back to wherever it was that Morgan demanded. The journey for Nat wasn't very long - just over the bridge to your loft in Williamsburg. She'd lived there for the better part of three years now, when she'd come to stay the night a few weeks into your relationship and just never left.

The cold air hit her like a knife (and it was safe to say that Natasha might be the only person here who would know that feeling with accuracy). Even though it was early in the morning - just gone 7AM - you were passed out on the couch, a duvet bundled around you and several blankets. The TV was still on Netflix, the classic are you still watching? messaged displayed on the screen. With that, Nat could easily deduce that you'd probably fallen asleep watching it last night.

"Hey," she leant down beside you, gently brushing a hand over your face. A nice, warm hand against your freezing skin. "Hey. I'm back."

You peeled open one eye, a grin spreading across your tired face. "Nat, hey."

"Why's it so cold in here?" she asked.

"The heating broke," you grumbled. "I called the landlord last night but he's gone back to Arizona for Christmas. We still have hot water so that's...something."

"That explains it," she rolled her eyes. "You're freezing-"

"- Nat," you sat up, duvet falling off your shoulders. "You can turn off mum mode, okay? I know you've just spent a week straight with the guys but I am not stupid like them."

Natasha gave you a smile, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You're right. Sorry."

"How was the mission?"

"Boring," she took a seat on the sofa beside you, laying her legs over yours. "We went in, got the intel we needed, came home. Textbook, really."

"But did you look good doing it?"

"Of course I did," she grinned. Natasha gave your leg a squeeze before standing up and sticking out her hand, head nodding towards the bathroom. "C'mon, a warm shower will help."

Begrudgingly rolling out of your blanket palace, you followed your girlfriend through the apartment and to the bathroom. If you hadn't missed her so much, you wouldn't have moved come hell or high water. Still though, a warm shower didn't seem like the worst idea. Natasha certainly wanted one after days of trekking through Siberia and honestly, she just wanted to hold you close. Seven days apart wasn't even the longest she'd gone without seeing you.

You stood there like a lemon with ease as she did most the work - just bubbles and soft kisses from Natasha.

The run from the shower to the bedroom was jarring. Clothes flew everywhere as you both ripped apart the wardrobe in an attempt to find the warmest clothes - you were more successful in your attempt, finding some thermal bottoms and a thick hoodie. Six pairs of fluffy socks later, you were content.

"Those are mine," Natasha scowled. "I was looking for those-"

"- they were in my side of the wardrobe," you replied, holding up your hands in defence. "Finders, losers, Nat."

"That's not fair! Those are my special warm socks!"

"Now they're my special warm socks."

Before you could even finish your sentence, Natasha had crossed the room and thrown you onto the bed. She pinned your arms above your head, hands wrapped around your wrists and hair dripping little cold drops of water onto you. You let out a shriek as she did, trying to wriggle free.

"Say your sorry!" she demanded. There was no point in arguing, or trying to wriggle your way out of the grip of a highly trained assassin. She was freakishly strong.

"No!"

"Say. Your. Sorry!"

You tried to fight back a laugh, gaze avoiding Natasha's. "No."

"You're so mean," she pouted. Still, she leant down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, smiling against you.

Natasha rolled off the bed, once again signalling for you to follow after her. She made her way over to the kitchen, hands moving in autopilot to turn on the kettle and pull things out the cabinets.

"Shouldn't I be the one making you breakfast?" you asked. "You just came from a week long mission-"

"- shuddup and sit down," she said. "You're colder than me. Wrap up and I'll be there in two minutes."

Smiling to yourself, you returned to the sofa. It was perfectly indented from where you'd spent the last two days sat there, but you moved some cushions aside to make room for Natasha. As promised, two minutes later she returned with two mugs of coffee and a bagel for you. She'd known since the day you met how you took your coffee; she was trained to be observant but in some way, knowing the intricate details of your life was her love language. There were very few things she didn't know.

Natasha pressed a kiss to your temple, pulling the duvet over herself as she snuggled up next to you. She was perpetually warm - a curse in the summer but a blessing during times like this. You shuffled closer, leaning your head on her shoulder.

"You good there?" she asked.

"Yeah," you smiled. "Just glad you're home."

[dailyanarchistposts]

J.4.6 What are implications of anti-government and anti-big business feelings?

Public opinion polls show increasing feelings of disappointment and lack of confidence in governments and big business.

Some of the feelings of disappointment with government can be blamed on the anti-big-government rhetoric of conservatives and right-wing populists. Of course the Right would never dream of really dismantling the state, as is evident from the fact that government was as bureaucratic and expensive under “conservative” administrations. So this “decentralist” element of right-wing rhetoric is a con (and quickly jettisoned as required by the capitalist class). The “anti-Government” rhetoric is combined with the pro-business, pro-private tyranny, racist, anti-feminist, and homophobic hogwash disseminated by right-wing radio and TV propagandists and the business-backed media which shows that capitalism is not genuinely anti-authoritarian (nor could it ever be), as a social system based on liberty must entail.

When a right-wing politician, economist or business “leader” argues that the government is too big, they are rarely thinking of the same government functions you are. You may be thinking of subsidies for tobacco farmers or defence firms; they are thinking about pollution controls. You may be thinking of reforming welfare for the better; their idea is to dismantle the welfare state (for working class people). Moreover, with their support for “family values”, “wholesome” television, bans on abortion and so on, their victory would see an increased level of government intrusion in many personal spheres as well as increased state support for the power of the boss over the worker and the landlord over the tenant.

If you look at what the Right has done and is doing, rather than what it is saying, you quickly see the ridiculous of claims of right-wing “libertarianism” (as well as who is really in charge). Obstructing pollution and health regulations; defunding product safety laws; opening national parks to logging and mining, or closing them entirely; reducing taxes for the rich; eliminating the capital gains tax; allowing companies to fire striking workers; making it easier for big telecommunications companies to dominate the media; limiting companies’ liability for unsafe products — the objective here is obviously to help big business and the wealthy do what they want without government interference, helping the rich get richer and increasing “freedom” for private power combined with a state whose sole role is to protect that “liberty.”

Such right-wing tendencies do not have anarchistic elements. The “anti-government” propaganda of big business is hardly anarchistic. What anarchists try to do is point out the hypocritical and contradictory nature of such rhetoric. The arguments against big government are equally applicable to business. If people are capable of making their own decisions, then why should this capability be denied in the workplace? As Noam Chomsky points out, while there is a “leave it alone” and “do your own thing” current within society, it in fact “tells you that the propaganda system is working full-time, because there is no such ideology in the US. Business, for example, doesn’t believe it. It has always insisted upon a powerful interventionist state to support its interests — still does and always has — back to the origins of American society. There’s nothing individualistic about corporations. Those are big conglomerate institutions, essentially totalitarian in character, but hardly individualistic. Within them you’re a cog in a big machine. There are few institutions in human society that have such strict hierarchy and top-down control as a business organisation. Nothing there about ‘Don’t tread on me.’ You’re being tread on all the time. The point of the ideology is to try to get other people, outside of the sectors of co-ordinated power, to fail to associate and enter into decision-making in the political arena themselves. The point is to atomise everyone else while leaving powerful sectors integrated and highly organised and of course dominating resources.” He goes on to note that there is “a streak of independence and individuality in American culture which I think is a very good thing. This ‘Don’t tread on me’ feeling is in many respects a healthy one. It’s healthy up to the point where it atomises and keeps you from working together with other people. So it’s got its healthy side and its negative side. It’s the negative side that’s emphasised naturally in the propaganda and indoctrination.” [Keeping the Rabble in Line, pp. 279–80]

As opinion polls show, most people direct their dislike and distrust of institutions equally to Big Business, which shows that people are not stupid. Unfortunately, as Goebbels was well aware, tell a lie often enough and people start to believe it. Given the funds available to big business, its influence in the media, its backing of “think-tanks,” the use of Public Relations companies, the support of economic “science,” its extensive advertising and so on, it says a lot for the common sense of people that so many see big business for what it is. You simply cannot fool all the people all of the time!

However, these feelings can easily be turned into cynicism as well as a hopelessness that things can change for the better and that you cannot help change society. Or, even worse, they can be twisted into support for right, authoritarian, populism. The job for anarchists is to combat this and help point the healthy distrust people have for government and business towards a real solution to society’s problems, namely a decentralised, self-managed anarchist society.

[911-on-abc]

<3 pt1 i don't have time to write an entire sugardaddy bucktommy fic but the rent for buck's loft has always been his biggest expense, and it's always been on the top end of his range. but a pandemic and medical cost exceeding his usual extensive insurance (bc fuck them for not covering the coma after the lightning strike), and global conflicts and the landlord raising rent and things getting more expensive and late-stage capitalism means that buck will have to move out sooner rather than later. it's just not sustainable anymore to stay in a place that's never felt home and doesn't even have a couch. so ever since he broke up with natalia he's been looking at other rental properties, but LA is the worst, so he hasn't even been able to tour more than two places, even with ravi's help. and then bobby and athena's cruise capsizes and tommy kinard flies them in on a helicopter and buck is in awe at this man and his quiet confidence and self-assurance, a literal calm in a storm. so of course buck tries to spend time with him, make a new friend. and tommy invites him to flying lessons at some private airstrip, and brings him some learning manuals the next time they see each other. takes him to some craft beer place that lets you engrave your bottles. brings lunch from that fancy new place with a waiting list longer than a cvs receipt. they attend some concert together with seats that have the perfect view of the stage. tommy flies them to the grand canyon on a random wednesday because buck mentioned it once. and they get to talking and buck invites him over for a beer, and tommy is impressed by the loft, but where buck would've preened at the compliment before, something about tommy makes him open up. admit that he can barely afford it, that he's actively trying to find another place. and tommy just offers to half of the rent until he finds another place. like it's nothing. and buck really can't accept that, like why would tommy do that? "it's a nice place and you don't seem to be happy about having to leave and i can help you. it's a temporary solution." and they argue about it and buck finally relents and tells him he'll pay him back. tommy waves him off. so buck starts cooking dinner for him. comes over after tommy had a tiring shift and does the laundry and cleans the kitchen. organises the pantry. repots some plants on the balcony. until tommy takes him aside and tells him he doesn't need to make himself useful, he enjoys his company even if they're just sitting in silence watching tv. so buck asks him why. why is he being so nice to him. "because i like you. and life hasn't been the kindest to you, and i have the means to make it a little better. so please let me?" and buck asks how, like how does he even have the means, surely air support doesn't pay that much better? and turns out it doesn't, but in combination with his army pension and some hefty inheritance from his grandparents, he likes to spend his money on people and things who matter. who make the world a better, brighter place.

ANON I LOVE YOU OHMYGODDDD I was totally NOT expecting anyone to write anything for me when I made that post tasrtudyifuoinwa;clskgblna;wnbiwapb THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[crystalstunes]

crystal's tunes #2: WORRY. by Jeff Rosenstock (2016)

i was going to wait a while before talking about this album, but i mean come on, it's literally got a track called June 21st. if i was gonna do it any day it'd be today.

WORRY. is an album that's very special to me. i originally discovered it via James Acaster's book Perfect Sound Whatever (named after the closing track of the album), and in the years since it's become one of my most listened to albums of all time. i'm not going to link any specific songs here, because i feel like the album is meant to be listened to in its entirety.

this was the second studio album Jeff released after the end of his previous project, ska-punk collective Bomb the Music Industry!, which in itself was born out of the end of his previous-previous project The Arrogant Sons of Bitches. this album really feels like a culmination of all of his work leading up to this, refined to a T and bursting with energy.

"We're not stupid people but this financial oppression has got everyone believing all that we can do is nothing/'Cause we organise through avenues they lace with advertisements so the ones we rage against are still lining their pockets" - Festival Song (Track 3)

thematically, the album discusses a variety of issues with modern-day America, such as landlords/gentrification, the coroprate sponsors of festivals and culture, social media mining your data, police brutality, and how the world just keeps getting worse due to capitalism in general. this is especially evident on tracks such as Festival Song, Staring Out The Window at Your Old Apartment, Blast Damage Days, HELLLLHOOOOLE, and The Fuzz, but is present throughout the album. he also touches on some more personal issues, such as alcoholism and the struggles of being a DIY musician.

the production here is absolutely top-notch, every single element is balanced perfectly, guitars are clear and crushing when they need to be, drums are punchy, vocals cut through well and instruments such as saxophones, glockenspiels and synths are used in certain songs to offer various different sonic textures. its not just the instruments that are varied here though, he also travels across a number of styles such as his classic ska-punk on the 91 second track Rainbow, to more hardcore punk on 30 second track Planet Luxury.

the A-side of this album is fantastic, with tracks like We Begged 2 Explode, Pash Rash and Festival Song becoming fan favourites and staples of his live sets, but i think this album really comes into its own during it's B-side. every track from Blast Damage Days through to the final track Perfect Sound Whatever perfectly transition into each other, creating a medley of different punk subgenres that is absolutely incredible. it's cathartic and danceable all in one, and its one of my favourite things he's done on an album.

"Whenever we feel ashamed, being alive and awake in such an era of hate and military police/These are the mass murder days, we are the blast damage age, where we can't love anything, because they keep us afraid/Oh, I will be there, kicking, fighting, beating, screaming 'There's no fucking way I'm ever letting go of you!'" - Blast Damage Days (Track 9)

the album builds up in energy until its final anthemic, gang vocal repetitions of "Perfect always takes so long, because it don't exist/It doesn't exist!", which is one of Jeff's main mission statements creatively. the first Bomb the Music Industry! album Album Minus Band has anti-piracy hiss throughout from various plugins he used the demo versions of instead of buying, and a track that's project files corrupted so he couldnt mix it properly, but all of that just adds to the artistry of it all. nothing can ever truly be perfect, so just be honest and authentic and do what you want, because in both art and people, our imperfections are what make us whole. i'm not a perfect person, and that's alright. i may have my own anti-piracy demo plugin hiss in my brain, but that's just part of what makes me myself - i wouldn't truly be me without it, and that's beautiful.

i think this album is truly great because despite the overwhelmingly negative topics being discussed, in the end its hopeful, even if the world or your life seem like theyre fucked, there's always a light at the end of the tunnel. the penultimate track ...While You're Alive, ends with the verse "And it's not like the love that they show us on TV/It's a home that can burn, it's a limb to freeze/It's worry/Love is worry". this can just be taken at face value as the fact that when you love someone you worry about them, but i interpret it a different way, especially with the context of the rest of the album.

when the government and systems are against you, you're fighting your own brain, and you're overwhelmed with worry, that worry is coming from a place of love, because you wouldnt worry about something you dont care about. you love yourself, you love the world, and in a way, your anxieties are really just a form of expressing your care and love even if it feels like fear, and anger, and sadness. and, for me at least, that's one of the most reassuring messages i've ever been given from an album. thanks, jeff.

"Because it's June 21st, and this winter was the worst we've ever seen, but we made it through the freeze/And now it's June 21st, and this winter was the worst we've ever seen, now it's 84 degrees forever." - June 21st (Track 14)

[stephensmithuk]

The Red Circle

Published in 1911 as a two-parter, this is the penultimate story we'll be covering His Last Bow, leaving just the titular story there.

This does sound rather like "The Veiled Lodger", doesn't it?

These days, you'd have to check the immigration status of your tenants. In 1902, really not an issue. Although anti-immigrant sentiment was definitely there and growing.

Those strange coded personal messages - some even encrypted - very much existed in newspapers back then. Once radio had become a thing, the British would use them on radio broadcasts to Occupied Europe in the Second World to get messages to the resistance movements. Including the "get ready" and "go" codes for the mass sabotage operations that preceded Operation Overlord in 1944.

"Timekeepers" were used for recording arrivals and departures at a site, including that of staff for the purposes of paying wages, determining lateness etc.

Great Orme Street is more properly called Great Ormond Street, located in Bloomsbury. It is best known for the world-famous children's hospital called Great Ormond Street Hospital. They have a permanent UK copyright to Peter Pan which gives them a right to royalties for publications, adaptations, performances etc. The US copyright on the original version expires next year. If anyone wants to do a LfW retelling of the original book, it would be nice to contact them and arrange a donation. They're a very good organisation.

"Art for Art’s sake" was a French slogan from the latter half of the 19th century. You may know its Latin version - ars gratia artis - as the motto of film studio MGM.

The light flashing message gets a whole chapter covering it in Klinger's annotated version, as it's been heavily discussed by scholars. Basically, it would take multiple minutes to send that message.

The Pinkerton detective agency did a lot of investigative work in its early days, both criminal investigation and more nefarious stuff to aid strike-breaking. The latter got the US government banned from hiring them as such in the 1893 Anti-Pinkerton Act. They are still involved in anti-union stuff today.

Much of Notting Hill had become increasingly slum-like by this time as an influx of people led to houses built for one family being split to hold far more; the idea when the area was built was for the middle classes to live there, but they didn't buy the properties. It later attract large numbers of Afro-Caribbean immigrants in the post-war era, partly as the notorious slum landlord Peter Rachman was prepared to rent to them while others weren't. This growing ethnic tension culiminated race riots in 1958, with white "Teddy Boys" attacking West Indian homes. Since then, the slums have been cleared and the area has gentrified quite a bit.

It is also home to the annual Notting Hall carnival every August since 1965 (bar 2020 and 2021), which around 2 million people attend. The Metropolitan Police have moved from active hostility to active cooperation in its running and there will be photos of officers dancing with those in the parade at any given carnival. The reputation for violence is unjustified and arguably fuelled by racism - while there were frequently arrests for violence, drugs and weapons offences, on a pro-rata basis, the arrest rate is about the same as the Glastonbury Festival.

The Carbonari ("charcoal makers") were secret revolutionary societies active in what would become Italy in the early 19th century. After failed uprisings in 1831, the various Italian governments cracked down hard on them and they were effectively eliminated. They were not really engaged in protection rackets.

Dynamite was patented by Alfred Nobel in 1867. Being a good deal more stable than nitrogyclerine - although storage is important as old dynamite is a good deal less stable - it became popular for terrorists and criminals, with a series of bombings by Irish republicans between 1881 and 1885 leading to the formation of Special Branch.

Covent Garden is home to the Royal Opera House.

[werewolfetone]

Hello! I wanted to humbly ask if you had any pointers on where one could get started on organisations in Ireland in the 18th century that were primarily about harrassing your local landlord for being a greedy asshole? I know I'm terribly simplifying but that is why I'd love to know more and understand how those movements are situated in Ireland's political situation at the time. Thank you for all your history posting btw, it's a fascinating period you talk about and I always know where to look if I want to know more about it.

To hit the main ones, the articles Secret Societies and Agrarian Violence in Ireland, 1790-1840 and The Whiteboy Movement, 1761-5 are good introductions to the Whiteboys + for the Hearts of Steel and Hearts of Oak the best starting places are probably the articles Hearts of Oak, Hearts of Steel and Lord Donegall and the Hearts of Steel + Priests, Parsons and Politics: The Rightboy Protest in County Cork 1785-1788 is a pretty good introduction to the Rightboys. They weren't just an anti landlord group but personally my favourite study of the Defenders is the book The Men of No Property by Jim Smyth but Defenders and Defenderism in 1795 is shorter & also good, if you are curious about the Defenders too.

In terms of books, there's the aforementioned The Men of No Property, and also the book Rituals and Riots: Sectarian Violence and Political Culture in Ulster, 1784-1886 by Sean Farrell, which touches on the Defenders too but I haven't finished it yet so take the recommendation of it with a grain of salt. There exists exactly 1 book afaik about the Steelboys and Oakboys and it is The Ulster Land War of 1770 by Francis Joseph Bigger, which is... basically a tract Bigger wrote to convince more people to join the IRA of the 1910s. Honestly I don't think I can fully recommend it in good conscience but it has its uses. Lastly, if you're interested in contemporary loyalist reactions to these secret societies, Sir Richard Musgrave, an early 19th century Orangeman, talks about nearly all of them (but lingers on the Whiteboys the longest) in his book Memoirs of the Different Rebellions in Ireland. What he says about them is mostly correct, just very opinionated + also Musgrave's nationalist counterpart, RR Madden, talks about all of these groups at different points in his books about the United Irishmen but, again, particularly had a lot to say about the Whiteboys.

[methed-up-marxist]

"If you remove the English army tomorrow and hoist the green flag over Dublin Castle, unless you set about the organisation of the Socialist Republic your efforts would be in vain. England would still rule you. She would rule you through her capitalists, through her landlords, through her financiers, through the whole array of commercial and individualist institutions she has planted in this country and watered with the tears of our mothers and the blood of our martyrs. Nationalism without Socialism – without a reorganisation of society on the basis of a broader and more developed form of that common property which underlay the social structure of Ancient Erin - is only national recreancy.

It would be tantamount to a public declaration that our oppressors had so far succeeded in inoculating us with their perverted conceptions of justice and morality that we had finally decided to accept those conceptions as our own, and no longer needed an alien army to force them upon us." -James Connolly, Socialism and Nationalism, 1897