#how to replace hot water heater

[kittlyns]

Spending my morning @ the laundromat cuz god hates me

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

bluetooth j.t.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: A little suggestive if you squint

Word Count: 1.2k words

You don't know how you allowed yourself to get manipulated into being a girlboss and moving out of your childhood home to live in your own apartment. While it was nice to have your own privacy and decorate your home however you liked, you realized just how many privileges you lost now that you weren't in the care of your parents.

There was no one there to make sure you woke up on time in the few cases where you slept through your alarm, no one that you could call on your way back from work to ask to switch on the water heater so you could take a steamy shower immediately.

You didn't have your mother's homecooked meals and you didn't have your father to pick you up snacks from the grocery store.

And one of the biggest thorns in your side was the reason you were dreading the entire day. Car maintenance. The auto shop was one of the most daunting places in your life as a girl who knew nothing about cars. Never once had you regretted not learning how to take care of your car or even the procedure required when you eventually take your car down to the auto shop.

But now standing in the hot and dusty garage, you were seriously rethinking your life choices. You should've scheduled these things for when your dad was visiting so you could ask him to take it instead. Or, even better, you should've gotten a boyfriend.

You were complaining in your head, dragging your feet about having to be here in the first place and whined about handing your car keys, with a bunch of adorable keychains attached to some rando.

But when Jason Todd, 6'2 man with biceps that were larger than your own head and a body that looked like he was shaped out of marble by Michelangelo himself walked out with a form for you to fill out, you were all too happy to be there.

Perhaps you'd be leaving here with a boyfriend after all.

"I have to admit, I don't really know much about cars so please don't scam me."

Jason chuckled, a deep, hoarse laugh that made you a little weak in the knees honestly and the boy-crazed fraction of your brain began to imagine how he would sound as soon as he woke up next to you, after a night of—

"A bit of advice, you probably don't want to let scammers know that you have no idea what they're talking about."

You giggled, scolding yourself mentally for finding that funny.

'Come on, (Y/N), pull yourself together it wasn't even that funny. His face is just great delivery.'

"Or I could keep coming here and have you check my car, since you're so trustworthy." You mused, sparing him a teasing smile.

Jason was completely picking up what you were putting down, giving you a coy smile of his own before responding, "Or perhaps this is just a tactic to get you to keep coming back."

You narrowed your eyes playfully, "Devious."

Looking back at his little clipboard, a thin metal rod of some kind tucked behind his ear instead of a pen, Jason asked, "When was the last time you got your car checked out? If your battery and brake pad was replaced recently, we could probably skip that and just do a routine check to make sure everything's running smoothly."

You winced, "I couldn't tell you, honestly. My dad usually handles this kinda stuff for me, I'm still kind of a new lamb when it comes to taking care of my car."

Jason raised his eyes from the clipboard for a second, "Your boyfriend can't do this kinda stuff for you instead?"

"I don't have a boyfriend."

He perked up immediately and you ducked your head to hide your smile, "I'm sure you probably have a record of it in your glovebox or something. Most places keep a little sticker with the date of your last service under the dash. I'll check it out for you, do you have somewhere to be, or do you have a couple minutes so I can make sure?"

You shook your head, shrugging your shoulders with a carefree smile, "It's my day off so I'm free as a bird."

He grinned, "Noted. Just give me a second."

You watched his back receding as he walked toward your car, shoulders looking like they could span the entire ocean and it was only when he was sat in the car and had turned on the engine did you whip out your phone at lightspeed.

"Ohmygosh Julie, I think I just met my future husband. Holy shit. He's so cute—gorgeous actually. He's working on my car right now and God, those arms, wow. And those eyes? God, I feel blessed just by looking at his face." The end of your message was interrupted by another mechanic running the engine.

You waited patiently for the sound of the engine to die before replaying the voice message so you could re-record the part that got cut off. Only you couldn't hear a thing.

Confused, you increased the volume, taking a sip from your coffee to soothe the inhumane squeal that you had let out while sending Julie the voice message. Once again you heard nothing.

You bit your lip at this, swiping down at the corner of your phone at access your control center and realizing the reason you couldn't hear anything was because it was connected to the Bluetooth on your car.

Wait.

THE CAR?!

You whipped around in horror only to find Jason smirking at you from the front seat of your car. If the world were fair, you'd be struck down with lightning right then and there. Or, since you were at an auto shop, a sentient car might run you over.

Alas, you continued to stand there in horror, completely unharmed no matter how badly you wished to be reduced to a puddle on the ground.

You called him your future husband. The ground should've swallowed you then and there. Instead, you just stood there in complete mortification and embarrassment while you stared at his amused expression.

Something startled him out of his gaze for a second and he pointed at your console, making a gesture like he was taking a call. Confused, you glanced at your phone.

'Incoming call: Julie'

Ah, saved by the bell.

*

"How much do I owe you?" You asked, quickly popping open your purse to fish out your credit card. You had stretched out the conversation with Julie as long as possible, begging her not to hang up and only interrupting her tangent when Jason finally came up to you, saying that your car was good to go.

"It's on the house." He gave you a charming grin, leaning an arm against the counter, "Can't have my future wife paying for anything, can I?"

Your cheeks flared red, still holding out your card for him to take, "O-Oh, I couldn't, really."

"If you insist, then you can always repay me with dinner. Today's your day off, right? Think you can pencil me in for 7?"

A shy smile grew on your face, your body so warm you had to resist fanning your burning cheeks, "Sounds like a plan."

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

DC Taglist:

@emmacata

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

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@unstable1902

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@fuckingjinkies

@some-lovely-day

[kekaki-cupcakes]

Hiiii! How are you hanging?

Warning: periods? Not sure if it’s a warning. If it is or it makes you uncomfortable I am so so sorry it was not my intention

Could you write for Leo Valdez being his s/o’s biggest simp and like acting as heater and heating pad especially when she’s on her period and building her lots of gadgets for basically anything he thinks she may need?

Feel free to skip this obviously!

Sorry again and have a lovely day!

Bye! (Ps I have reade your Nike one for about 20 times now and it still is so fun and amazing! ‘Cant wait for the Hypnos one!)

I'm working on so much rn so this is just a short head canon list that sort of derailed but it was so cute to write. I'm glad you liked the Nike one, and the Hypnos fic was just posted I hope you find it <3

And period talk doesn't make me uncomfortable don't worry I'm fine with writing lots of that kind of stuff I just have like, limits with smut and age gap kind of stuff [I'm also a minor]

This header just gave me like, hot water bottle cover vibes and matched the rest of it too, hope you enjoy!

Hotboy/Hotpack---Leo V x gn reader on their period

»»————-　★　————-««

-No but like he’s literally perfect for the job

-Who else is better at laying down as a weighted blanket and heating himself up to perfect temperature and then just literally fiddling with rubix cubes while you use him as a hot water bottle

-He’d be so happy to as well, like it was the best job in the world [which it is to him, he gets cuddles as well as being a good boyfriend. It’s a win win]. Even if you didn’t ask, he’d catch you microwaving a wheat pack while you take painkillers in the camp kitchen and sneak up behind you and hug you. Or maybe he’d lay across the counter dramatically, 

-‘mi amor are you replacing me? Why would you do this? I love you, and now there's other guys in your life!’

-‘it’s literally a hot water bottle’

-‘No! I must win you back!...Come on let’s go make out-’ 

-Then he’d take the hot water bottle away and smother you in kisses [if you felt like it] and drag you back to your cabin. He’d bring your favorite snacks and steal Pipers Ipad, the one with the hello kitty stickers, and you’d watch movies to pass the time. 

-He’s the type to try those different rubbing points on your stomach to help with cramps [gods his hands are so fine, but that’s besides the point] and even if they didn’t work you’d get a massage out of it <3

-So we’ve all agreed Leo is the little spoon, right? 

-He’d act so tough and macho, spooning you to heat up his hands on your stomach but then you rolled over in your sleep once and woke up to him grinning his head off while you hugged him

-Of course you figured it out and now you’re the big spoon because he’s just so small and cuddly, like a teddy bear [even if he’s a bit boney] and when you get cramps it works even better. He’s like a life sized heat pack pressed against you, and he always holds you hands as well because he’s just like that :D

-He has the softest curly hair when it isn’t covered in sawdust and grease, and when he lays his head on your chest or that little spot between your neck and your shoulder you could just run your hands through it. Or maybe put little plaits in it. He’d love that. Touch is definitely his love language, once he realizes he does deserve it, as well as gifts and acts of service.

-Gifts and acts of service is a subconscious thing for him that he doesn’t even realize he does and likes until he spots the shelf next to your bed filled with all the little things he’s made. Gold or silver jewelry [he quickly figured out which one was favorite through trial and error you didn’t even notice], little metal flowers he’d welded with his fingers, which were literally made with love. There’d be things like lollies and packets of gum he’d realized you liked and promptly bought when he went out, fairy lights he’d made in the shape of hearts, candles with your favorite scents he’d made from when Hazel had a wax-y crafts phase, and more. 

-If you ever gave him something in return, he’d probably cry

-But he knows you love him and he definitely knows he loves you [as well as the rest of CHB lol]

»»————-　★　————-««

[seakicker]

☆ My Next-Door Neighbor is an Annoying Older Woman Who Constantly Bothers Me

☆ between: college au!scaramouche x milf!reader

☆ synopsis: scaramouche insists he doesn’t want to fuck the milf living next door, but all his friends think he doth protest too much.

☆ word count: 10.5K words

☆ a/n: like with my venti x milf!reader fic over on ao3, this is supposed to give a sort of doujinshi vibe, hence the embarrassing title and the lunacy of some ideas like milf!reader going outside in a super sheer shirt. hopefully you feel the doujinshi vibe i was going for as i have a lot of fun trying to replicate the style, themes, and flow of doujinshis using only text!

☆ contents: fem + plus-sized reader (reader is explicitly described as chubby, busty, and taller than scaramouche), age gap obviously; scaramouche is a senior in college and reader is in her early 40s, degradation, a couple insults (such as scaramouche calling you a hag/loose/etc.), degradation, exhibitionism (scaramouche fucks you in front of a glass sliding door), sexual frustration, and unprotected sex + scaramouche pulls out

also posted to ao3 with the same title and under the same username!

Scaramouche has a problem.

Well, a problem slightly more irritating than the approximately nine hundred other problems he deals with on a daily basis. These issues include, but are not limited to, the consistent problems he has with the hot water heater in his apartment, his obnoxious group project teammate Ajax who insisted upon being the group’s leader despite his complete and utter lack of intellect, his annoying circle of friends that always seem to find ways to poke their noses into Scaramouche’s business, his frustratingly-dull history professor that always goes off on tangents completely unrelated to the class’ subject matter… and so on and so forth. It’s one issue after another; there’s always something when it comes to Scaramouche.

A matter more pressing than all of those other nine hundred issues put together, however, comes in the form of his next-door neighbor— you.

You’re a divorced woman in your early forties who lives by herself, works during the daytime while Scaramouche is on campus, and always seems to leave and return home at the same times he does. He moved in next door to you a few months ago at the start of his junior year, but you’ve never really gotten the chance to get to know him beyond the curt responses he gives you when you ask how he’s doing or what he did over the weekend. His coldness towards you doesn’t make too much sense— have you somehow offended him without knowing? You like to consider yourself a good neighbor: you don’t party (like a woman your age would ever do such a thing), you don’t blast loud music long into the night (or at all), you take good care of your things and avoid causing trouble for Scaramouche or your other neighbors, and you’re very, very tidy. When you’re in the mood to brag a little, you’ll say that you have the nicest balcony in the entire apartment complex.

…Avoid causing trouble for Scaramouche, huh? He’d beg to differ.

If Scaramouche has nine hundred problems in his life, then maybe it’d be more accurate to claim that you’re the cause of at least seven hundred of those problems rather than claiming that you’re one single, self-contained issue separate from all of those other problems. Maybe it’s the way you insist upon butting your way into his life and, in what must be your way of expressing it, “taking care” of him that irritates him more than anything else. Really, if he had to sum up your advances in one word, he’d have to go with aggravating.

At first, he bitterly wondered if you’re just some senile old hag using him as a replacement for your son, who’s surely moved out by now given your age. All you are is a woman looking to cure her empty nest syndrome by doting on someone her son’s age according to Scaramouche— he viewed your kindness as underhanded and delusional because he can take care of himself, you know. He’s an adult man living on his own; he knows how to navigate the trials and tribulations of young adulthood without some old lady insisting upon knocking on his door and gifting him home-cooked meals, bringing up his mail from the first-floor mailroom, or helping him with chores where you can. It’s not like Scaramouche would ever let you into his apartment, but that hasn’t stopped you from finding ways to help outside by sweeping outside his front door or washing the outside of his front window while he’s not home.

Okay, maybe it’s a little creepy to wash your neighbor’s windows without him asking you to help out, but it’s not like he’s going to do it. You would know— you had once waited a week to see if he’d clean up a spilled drink stain on the walkway in front of his door. As you expected, he never got around to it, so you happily cleaned it up on his behalf. Cleaning up for him doesn’t really put you out of your way either— whenever you sweep his doorway, it’s because you were already outside tidying up in front of your place; why not help out your neighbor in the process?

When you bring him meals you prepared yourself, it’s out of the goodness of your heart and because you can’t help but worry about a college boy’s diet— fast food, pizza, frozen microwave meals, and instant ramen don’t have all the nutrients a hardworking man needs. When you bring him his mail, it’s because he has a tendency to forget about it until his mailbox is, quite literally, overflowing. Whereas you check your mailbox every single day, Scaramouche seems to forget about his until the end of the week, which is certainly no way to live— what if he misses an important bill or notice? As a result, you took it upon yourself to check his mailbox for him whenever you go to retrieve your own mail.

Again, maybe it’s a little creepy to gather your neighbor’s mail, but it’s not like you’re hurting anyone, right? You certainly don’t root through his mail or open any of it. Even though Scaramouche rolls his eyes and mumbles a halfhearted little “thanks” every time you hand him his mail, he doesn’t really seem to mind. Despite his initial reluctance to accept any of it, he still eats the food you prepare for him if the empty containers he returns to you a few days later are any indication of that fact. You figure maybe he’s just a little shy or tired from his long day on campus— it does your heart well to know that he’s working so very hard.

On the flip side of things, Scaramouche considers your… activities a total inconvenience. He’ll admit that your meals taste very good— though he’d never say it to your face— but he doesn’t like feeling indebted to you or thinking that he owes you something even though you’ve told him multiple times that your favors don’t need any payback. You’re just happy to cook for someone other than yourself, you had told him once, confirming Scaramouche’s suspicion that you live alone. It’s not his fault you’re bored enough to make food for someone you barely know, so do you have to rope him into your wiles? He already has groceries and though he doesn’t really know how to cook, what’s wrong with having a bowl of cereal for dinner? It’s none of your business, is it?

Between your constant insistence on involving yourself in his life and the fact that he’s never seen anyone else leaving or entering your apartment, Scaramouche was able to correctly guess that you live alone… a realization that can’t help but annoy him. He figures that if you had someone, anyone else in your life like a spouse or another child living with you, you’d stop pestering him and stick to involving yourself in the lives of your family instead of your neighbor.

Would a pet do? Should he find some stray kitten and leave it on your doorstep? Is that what it’d take to make you mind your own business?

“Hey, Kuni, tell me about your little neighbor lady again,” Venti coos, accidentally knocking over his—thankfully— empty beer bottle when he leans forward to grab his phone. He’s drunk, but that barely makes a difference; he’d still make this request sober.

Glowering around the mouth of his own bottle, Scaramouche rolls his eyes in Venti’s general direction. “Why? If you want to know that hag so badly, go talk to her yourself.”

Venti busts out laughing, an action that his drunken body clearly can’t handle seeing as he falls sideways into Aether’s shoulder, making the latter grimace in response. Venti’s already a handful sober, but when he drinks… it takes the entire friend group to get him home and/or in bed safely. “Don’t threaten me with that, ‘cuz I really will do it— I’ll go steal your hot older girlfriend.”

Glaring up at him from his spot on the rug, Scaramouche has half a mind to shove that empty beer bottle into Venti’s eye for suggesting such a thing. Hey, wait a minute— why is Scaramouche the one sitting on the floor when this is his damn apartment?

“She’s not my fucking girlfriend,” he barks, turning to direct his glare at Kazuha too when he hears him chuckle.

“The more you deny it, the less convincing you are— you talk about her all the time, so I’m inclined to believe you really are dating,” Venti chirps, reaching for a bottle of beer that is most certainly not his.

“That’s mine,” Aether protests, watching as Venti takes a sip from his bottle anyways.

“Oops, my bad.” He doesn’t sound sincere.

“Well… get me another whenever you stand up.”

Venti waves his hand dismissively before redirecting his attention back to the more important matter at hand— Scaramouche’s complete and utter inability to just admit that he has the hots for his hot MILF of a neighbor and that any protest otherwise is a feeble attempt at hiding the truth.

“They say you’re attracted to things that make you mad,” Venti says. “…Cuteness aggression. Yeah. I saw a video about it once.”

“That’s not what cuteness aggression is, and ‘they’ say that you attract the things you fear,” Kazuha corrects him from his spot in the nearby armchair— again, why is Scaramouche the one sitting on the floor?— before he goes to take another hit off his blunt.

Venti repeats what Kazuha said in a nasally voice in an attempt to mock him, but the gesture only makes Kazuha chuckle again. It’ll be hard to draw any response more eloquent than a single laugh or a sigh out of him for the rest of the night— it’s a very, very stark difference from how he usually is.

“Why the fuck do I ever invite any of you over here?” Scaramouche sighs, taking a long swig from his own bottle. He doesn’t even really like the taste; it’s something Venti found on sale and decided to bring over, but Scaramouche has decided it’s better than spending his Friday night sober. Besides, it’ll take at least four more of these to deal with the impending conversation that he’s been trying so hard to pivot away from since Venti first brought it up.

“Because we’re best friends forever, next question. Why do you deny how much you wanna fuck your sexy neighbor, Kuni?” Venti asks again, pouting when Aether snatches the bottle Venti stole from him. “It’s super obvious. Xiao and Heizou agree with me, and I’m not just saying that because they’re not here tonight and can’t contest me on it. It’s true.”

Kazuha nods, and Aether simply shrugs. Christ alive, do they all think the same thing?

“And why on Earth do I— in theory— want to fuck her? She’s probably loose or something,” Scaramouche argues.

Venti busts out laughing again.

“It’s the opposite, really,” he starts, glancing between Aether and Kazuha when neither of them laugh along with him. “What, have you guys seriously never been with an older lady? They’re the best; the reason I know Kuni wants to get with that lady next door is because I got with the lady next door to me a couple months ago. It takes one to know one, or something. Trust me, Kuni, I know what you’re going through and we are seriously gonna get through this together.” Why is he making it sound like a relative died or something?

“They’re experienced,” Venti sighs longingly, blindly reaching out again for the bottle Aether’s holding, who moves it further away and out of Venti’s reach. “They feel really, really good. They actually know what they’re doing… sometimes the girls—and guys, mind you, I’ve gotten with plenty of both— our age clearly don’t know they’re supposed to be doing, but getting with somebody’s mom…”

“You’re gross!” Aether gasps, though his pink cheeks tell a different story.

“Not as gross as the guy who’s told us the same story about seeing his neighbor lady braless like four times now,” Venti replies, glancing over at Scaramouche with a grin. “Really left an impression on you, huh, Kuni?”

Just like that, Scaramouche finds himself instantly reminded of, well, the time he saw you braless first thing in the morning. A few months ago on some random Saturday morning, Scaramouche was out smoking a cigarette on his porch when you stepped outside to water the plants you keep on your balcony. There were so many of them: a small tomato plant, a pot overflowing with basil that you took to trimming after you finished watering everything, a couple of hanging baskets field with flowers, and a few other vegetable plants and potted succulents. More glaringly obvious than the abundance of plants occupying your balcony was your complete and utter shamelessness— even a quick glance in your direction was enough to draw Scaramouche’s attention to the distractingly sheer fabric of your white camisole.

It’s not like Scaramouche was actively staring at your tits— really, he wasn’t, he swears— because anyone would notice something that egregious. The low, low sweep of your camisole around your ample bust, your nipples beading up against the thin fabric, the constant fucking movement of the top as you shifted and bent over to water the plants sitting on the ground, moved, and walked, all of it. He complained to his friends about your complete and utter shamelessness— What kind of woman steps outside practically naked? he spat, much to the amusement of Venti, who had said that wearing a thin shirt does not, in fact, make one naked.

Worst of all, you had actually fucking caught Scaramouche staring, an action that made you grin wickedly and run your hands down the sides of your soft, plump body as if to try and draw his eyes down along with your hands. Instead, Scaramouche had only whipped his head to the other side, busying himself with tapping the ash off his cigarette as if it were the most important task he’d ever complete in his life. Jesus Christ, he was only staring because he couldn’t believe you’d be so shameless as to wear something like that outside, not because he was genuinely aroused by how low your camisole sat on your chest, how big your tits are, how soft they look…

He thinks he shuddered then, and he insisted to his friends that it was because of a sudden chilly breeze and absolutely nothing more. It was either that or because he was just so shocked by your display that a shiver went down his spine— he can’t even remember the exact reason he gave anymore.

Either way, none of them really believed him.

“Ah, he seems distracted,” Kazuha notes simply, raising a hand to point at Scaramouche before grinning. His words pull Scaramouche from his little daydream, and he groans at the realization that, yes, he spaced out remembering yet another instance of your abhorrent shamelessness and perversion.

“Spaced out thinking about cute MILF boobs, I get it,” Venti affirms, nodding. “Nobody gets that more than me. Not only that, but you’ve also, uh, ‘complained’ to us about seeing her in her swimsuit. Really, Kuni, it’s like you’re biding your time and waiting for her to take her clothes off so you can tell us about it.”

…That’s a story for another time. Scaramouche has had enough of thinking about you for one day; it’s bad enough that you brought him his mail today just mere moments before Venti, Kazuha, and Aether arrived to hang out— what if they saw you?— but to be reminded of the image of your tits underneath that pathetic excuse for a top…

He shakes his head and takes a long, long sip from his bottle.

“And they’re so soft, Kuni,” Venti says, slumping over further into Aether for support. “They feel like absolutely nothing else. I feel like firmness or perkiness or whatever is really, really overrated— the softness of a cute MILF’s boobs is unrivaled!”

“Can you not say things like that right into my ear?” Aether mumbles bashfully, making Venti laugh.

“Why? Am I gonna put the mental image of MILF boobs in your brain, too? Are we gonna become an entire friend group full of MILF chasers? That’d be hilarous. I already know about Xiao’s little crush on his English professor.”

Jesus, Scaramouche has got to steer this conversation somewhere else or he’ll go mad. “Anyways,” he beings, “Where is that pizza you ordered ages ago?”

“I thought Kazuha was taking care of it,” Aether remarks, glancing over at him. Kazuha goes to reply, but nothing comes out— yep, he’s gone for the night. He won’t be able to get out any more than four words max until morning.

As if the universe heard their request, the doorbell rings to signify the arrival of dinner. Before Scaramouche can go to pull himself up off the floor—he really should make Venti move; it’s his couch in his apartment— Venti’s already in the process of skipping towards the door. Aether takes the opportunity to kick his feet up over the other couch cushion, making Scaramouche wonder if the three of them formed some secret pact to ensure that he stays on the floor the entire evening.

However, what stands on the other side of the door is not, in fact, the pizza delivery boy. It’s you, aluminum foil-covered glass casserole dish in hand, leading Scaramouche to believe that while the universe did hear their request for food, the devil answered by sending you to his doorstep while he has three of his friends over.

“Oh! You’re not the pizza guy,” Venti beams, putting on his best ‘polite’ voice possible. Scaramouche groans and looks over towards his other two friends just so he doesn’t accidentally make eye contact with you, but neither Aether nor Kazuha look back at him. They’re looking at you.

Christ, he’ll never live this down. Not only do they know who you are, they now know what you look like.

“I’m not,” you giggle. “I live next door; I bring food to Scaramouche sometimes whenever I get a little too excited in the kitchen and make too much. I can’t eat the leftovers fast enough before they go bad, and I would hate to waste food, you know?”

“You can call him Kuni,” Venti offers. “We all do. It’s less of a mouthful, don’t you think?”

Scaramouche decides that Venti will be leaving his apartment in a body bag tonight.

His cheeks burn with equal parts humiliation and anger, and the realization that his friends’ teasing is only about to get worse now that they know who you are and what you look like more than motivates Scaramouche to devise a plot to kill the three of them.

After introducing yourself to Venti, he smiles and replies that “the pleasure is all his” when you tell him it’s nice to meet some of Scaramouche’s friends. Venti has half a mind to invite you inside for a moment, but he decides that’d be unnecessary— he figures he’s already done more than enough to inspire Scaramouche into action. If Scaramouche won’t act on his feelings himself, then maybe a little shove from his friends will help him along.

“That’s sweet of you!” Venti praises, taking the dish from your hands. “I’m glad Kuni’s eating properly these days. One time, he told us that the only thing he survived off of during finals week was a sleeve of Saltines and some peanut butter. You’re so kind, miss.”

You giggle sheepishly, a sound that Scaramouche would like to claim grates his ears. Miss? Can’t Venti see that you’re, well, old? “Well, I’m glad that he has such kind friends to support him. You all take care, okay? You too, Scara— Kuni!” You call out past Venti’s shoulder, making both Aether and Kazuha chuckle.

After bidding farewell to the four in what has to be the most mortifying moment of Scaramouche’s entire life, you leave, allowing Venti to close the door behind you and make his way back to the others. “Those boobs are huge,” he sighs dreamily, looking up at the ceiling. “If I got suffocated between those, I would die a fully satisfied man.”

“Then go die,” Scaramouche mutters in agreement, cheeks still burning with humiliation. Why does the universe insist upon tormenting him so?

Eyeing the dish in Venti’s hands, Aether pipes up too “She cooks for you? Kuni, you have it so good.”

Scaramouche is amazed that, after all this time, his friends still find it in them to be jealous of him despite all of his attempts at framing you as annoying, invasive, and overbearing. Can’t they see that you’re doing this on purpose?! Scaramouche has half a mind to wonder if you’re psychic— what other explanation is there for your obnoxiously perfect timing? He asks about food and suddenly you appear on his doorstep, dish in hand as if you had heard him through the walls. There’s no way they’re that thin, are they?

Venti moves to set the dish down on the kitchen countertop before turning around to look Scaramouche square in the eye. “Kuni, I’m saying this because I respect you as my longtime friend,” he asserts, tone and gaze both deathly serious in a way that’s genuinely almost out of character for someone as flippant and carefree as Venti. “But you better fuck that lady the first chance you get because, if you don’t, I’m taking her for myself.” That should do it.

Scowling in response, Scaramouche crosses his arms over his chest and sighs bitterly. “Why would I stop you? I don’t care what you do with her. For the last fucking time, I’m not into her.” Despite his words, Scaramouche can’t deny that there’s something… unsettling about the idea of Venti getting with you. Does he really want to watch his friend take four A.M. booty calls in order to fuck the woman living right next door to him? Can Scaramouche truly stomach the idea of his friend fucking the brains out of someone just a few walls away from where he lives? It’s hard to put his finger on why, but something about Venti getting with Scaramouche’s neighbor, despite his insistence that there truly is nothing between the two of them, really, really irks him.

Well, it’s probably just because a lot of Venti’s behavior tends to irritate Scaramouche in the first place, right? Yeah, it’s probably just that. He doesn’t need to hear every last gritty detail of his friend’s sexual trysts.

That characteristically smug grin of his finds its way back to Venti’s face as he reaches over Aether’s shoulder and snatches his beer bottle again. “Fine, I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. How about we forget the pizza and eat what she brought over?”

“Oh, I see now,” Kazuha interjects after having been silent for the past twenty minutes. He turns his phone around to show Scaramouche, Venti, and Aether the check-out screen on the pizza chain’s website. “It seems I failed actually submit the order; it was still waiting for me to pay.”

Scaramouche doesn’t have a hangover the next morning, a blessing he owes to the fact that he only ended up drinking two beers last night. He probably would’ve consumed more if he had the chance to, but Venti blew through the rest of the box quicker than the other three could try to stop him. It took both Kazuha and Aether supporting Venti’s hardly-conscious body to get him down the stairs to the parking lot so they can drive him home— there’s no way Venti would be able to safely get himself home amidst such an awful hangover.

As he pokes through his apartment scooping up empty beer bottles and stained paper plates to toss into a trash bag, the glass casserole dish sitting out on the kitchen counter catches Scaramouche’s eye. Save for a few scraps shoved into the rounded corners of the pan, it’s practically been picked clean— the four boys tore through it easily with Venti, Kazuha, and Aether all fawning over just how good a home-cooked meal tastes after months of campus cafeteria food, fast food, and instant ramen. Venti mentioned that there’s just something about a MILF’s cooking that makes it so much better, leading to a conversation about how, in Venti’s educated opinion, older women just do everything better: sex, cooking, cleaning, caretaking, all of it.

Scaramouche scoffs at the memory. “She’s nothing special,” he mutters to himself, still failing to understand Venti’s obsession with somebody he’s never even met until last night. Scaramouche is the one who’s actually been living next door to her for months now— as his friends know by now, he has plenty more to say about her than Venti does.

Shouldn’t he be the one to comment on things like the size of your bust, the softness of your legs, the plumpness of your ass and belly, and the flavor of your cooking? He’s the one who’s actually seen you lounging in tiny string bikinis by the apartment complex’s pool, watering the plants out on your balcony in a pair of shorts that certainly break publicly decency laws, and retrieving your mail in a shirt so thin he can make out the little bumps of your nipples up against the fabric.

“Christ, what am I thinking?” Scaramouche stops himself and second-guesses whether or not he’s actually hungover. There’s no way his sober mind would drift to thoughts of you, right? Clearly something must be wrong with him— he blames Venti for putting all these thoughts in his head with his never-ending discussion of what makes older women so utterly sexy.

He’s then reminded of what Venti told him right before they all sat down to eat your cooking: that if Scaramouche won’t hurry up and fuck his neighbor, Venti will do it for him. Even now, the idea still bothers him for reasons he just can’t quite put his finger on— Venti’s been with tons and tons of people; why does he want Scaramouche’s neighbor too? Can’t Venti see how awkward that would be?

Setting the trash bag down on the floor, Scaramouche takes to the sink to wash out the casserole dish you brought over for them last night. His mind concocts disgustingly vivid images of you as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn piece of dried cheese, and maybe he’d be shocked by how little effort he’s putting into warding those thoughts away if he weren’t so utterly immersed in them. His mind conjures up the image of you in that tiny black bikini he saw you wearing by the pool while he was out smoking on his balcony— he remembers the little number being so small that you had to readjust it every single time you simply sat up or lied down because every last motion was enough to threaten a nipslip. It makes him wonder if you dress like that on purpose or because you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that clothes and swimsuits you used to wear still fit you despite clear evidence otherwise— are you actively vying for the attention of any man who’ll give it to you, or are you brainless enough to throw something on without caring about how poorly or not it fits?

It’s probably a mix of both; you’re just that shameless.

Scaramouche grits his teeth at the mental image of you straddling him while adorned in that tiny little bikini that seems to only get tinier and tinier the longer he allows his imagination to run wild. Of all the fucking things to imagine you doing…

He pictures what you’d look like with your thick, plump thighs enveloping either side of his hips as you run your hands up and down your ample chest and soft stomach. God, he can see it all now: the little bumps of your nipples beading up against the thin fabric of your swimsuit, the soft hang of your tummy spilling over the tiny, flimsy string keeping your bottoms secured around your wide hips, the way your tits would bounce as you ride him…

“Something’s wrong with me,” he grumbles, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. The clump of cheese he’d been scraping at finally separates from the pan, and he realizes that if he wants to rid you from his mind for good, he should take matters into his own hands before Venti does.

No, wait, this has nothing to do with Venti— this isn’t about staking claim over you before any of his friends can, this is solely about him finding ways to release the grip you have on him as if you’re some kind of wicked succubus. Scaramouche glances downwards after setting the dish aside to dry and, much to his chagrin, finds that the mere thought of you was enough to fucking get him hard. The eager press of his cock against the confines of his briefs moritifies him solely because of the very reason why he’s like this in the first place; how the fuck did the thought of you in a bikini so tiny your areolas peek around the sides reduce him to such a state? He’d like to believe that he’s only this hard because it’s been a while since he’s jerked off, but that would be an excuse less believable than any of the ones he’s ever given his friends.

He knows that he’s too dignified to jerk off to the thought of you— if he’s feeling horny, then surely he can find things more deserving of his attention than some hag next door. He refuses to give you that kind of satisfaction (despite the fact that you’d never even know unless he told you, so how could you be smug about it?), so he decides that an ice-cold shower is in order before venturing out to settle things with you.

After a shower so cold Scaramouche swears he saw his fingers begin to turn purple, he dries off, gets dressed in something other than the clothes he fell asleep in last night, grabs your clean casserole dish, and leaves to go to the one place he wouldn’t have ever imagined himself stepping foot in— your apartment. If this is what it takes to sever the connection between you and his mind…

God, this is going to be annoying, Scaramouche thinks as he knocks on your door using his foot, casserole dish supported safely by both of his hands. He feels the need to steel himself because he just knows you’ll answer the door in something sheer, skimpy, or some combination of the two and he needs to be ready for that.

Why? Are you hoping for that to happen, Kuni? Venti’s voice whispers from the back of Scaramouche’s mind.

He really is losing it.

“Good morning— oh, Kuni! This is a surprise,” you greet him upon opening the door, flashing him a smile so bright it nearly makes him cringe. Can you spare him the pleasantries so he can just get to the point?

Fucking Venti— why teach her that nickname? Turning his head to look at a faraway bird instead of you, Scaramouche scoffs. “I need to talk to you.” Straight to the point, emotionless, and rude, it’s all so in-character for your neighbor that you can’t help but giggle.

You grin wider. “Of course. Come in; I’ll put a pot of coffee on.”

Scaramouche waits until you’re a good few steps ahead of him before following you inside, glancing around the living room of your apartment as he makes his way to the kitchen table. Your apartment’s clean, impeccably so at that— every book on your bookshelf faces the same direction, the blanket draped over the back of your couch doesn’t have a single crease, and he can’t see even an ounce of dust on any inch of your tables and countertops.

He snorts a little. Rather than viewing the cleanliness as impressive or inspiring, he bitterly interprets it as a testament to your overabundance of free time and lack of other hobbies or pastimes.

“I’m not sure how strong you like your coffee, so I’ll just make it how I normally do,” you pipe up from the kitchen, pulling Scaramouche away from scrutinizing the titles of the books on your shelf. Restless Summer Nights? The Devil’s Mistress? They all sound like bargain bin erotica novels.

It was a mistake to direct his attention away from your novels and to you instead, he figures, because only now does he get a look at what you’re wearing— if one could even call that clothing. You’re dressed in something he wants to call a workout outfit, but anyone leaving the house in an outfit like that surely has goals other than simply exercising— they want to attract attention. A sports bra that sits so low on your chest that a single bounce on an exercise ball would expose you combines with a pair of spandex leggings so tight they reveal the lines of your panties to comprise your “workout outfit,” and to say that Scaramouche is mortified would be an understatement. He can’t help but find the combination of your manner of dress and your collection of novels completely pathetic.

And despite his apparent disgust… he’s been staring at you long enough to pick up the most minute details about your outfit. The indifferent passerby likely wouldn’t notice your pantylines— a certain amount of staring is required to actually notice them; they’re really not obvious from a quick glance. Actually, why can’t he stop looking at you? He writes it off as a simple morbid curiosity at how someone can be so completely and utterly shameless— one could almost liken his sick, cynical fascination with your ample curves and soft body to rubbernecking.

Scaramouche instead stares down into the cup of coffee you’ve set in front of him like it’s the most fascinating object in the entire world. He’s half-inclined to just close his eyes entirely, seeing as the slightest glimpse of your bust still occupies the uppermost part of his peripheral eyesight when you sit down in the chair opposite of him.

“So,” you start, sliding a porcelain dish with a small bowl of sugar cubes and a saucer of creamer his way. “What can I help you with? It’s rare for you to talk to me first, Kuni.”

He adds “drop that nickname” to his mental list of topics to bring up with you. Scaramouche plucks a few sugar cubes from the bowl before him and drops them into his coffee before absentmindedly stirring the liquid with a serving spoon.

“Last night,” He clears his throat. “Why did you come over to talk to V— to my friends?” Why are you always in my business? he really wants to ask, but he feels like you’ll start crying if he presses you too firmly.

And that’d just be obnoxious.

You giggle. “That makes it sound like I came over on purpose because I knew you had people over, and that’s not true. Haven’t we been in the habit of food delivery and acceptance for months now?” Scaramouche’s eyes follow yours to the squeaky-clean casserole dish he placed on your counter.

“I’m glad your friends seemed to enjoy the food just as much as you do,” you add sweetly, pursing your lips and blowing on your coffee to help it cool down.

“It was humiliating,” Scaramouche counters, a statement that prompts you to look up from your coffee and make eye contact with him. “They wouldn’t— they wouldn’t stop fucking talking about you after you left.”

Wait, that’s not the point here, is it? Surely Scaramouche’s main complaint isn’t that Venti practically sweet-talked you right into his bed, it’s that Scaramouche is tired of you invading his business and his space, right? He doesn’t care about Venti’s comments about your soft tits or your wide hips, he doesn’t care about Aether’s bashful confession that he exclusively jerks off to older women, he doesn’t care that he has competition because there’s nothing to compete over and he’s really, actually, truly angry that you always find a way to worm your way into his days and his mind and his free time and his wet dreams and his—

“Oh, I’m flattered,” you reply simply, sipping your coffee and smiling around the rim of the cup. “They’re such nice boys. I’m glad you have such sweet friends, dear.”

What’s warmer: the tips of Scaramouche’s ears or his untouched cup of coffee?

“That’s not— what? That’s not the point I’m making and you know that,” he grimaces, clearing his throat again. “My friends shouldn’t have to put up with a shameless old hag the way I have to.”

You set your cup down. “That’s not very nice. I look good for my age— that charming boy down at the corner mart always asks for my ID whenever I pick up some wine!”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “That’s his job. Anyways, I’m telling you to mind your own business.”

“Oh, is that all? Of course I can do that for you.” Your reply comes without a single skipped beat.

“I mean it, that means don’t touch my mail and— what?” Wait, there’s no way you’re making this this easy. A shameless, conniving, lustful, lewd seductress of a woman like you agreeing to just… fuck off at the first request? Scaramouche doesn’t buy it— this is just another phase of your plan to throw him off guard and pull the rug out from under him so you can sink your claws deeper and deeper into him.

“I like cooking for you and cleaning for you, and I was very happy to meet your friends yesterday, but if you want me to stop, of course I will,” you explain. “I wonder who’ll help me eat my leftovers now… your friend from last night gave me his phone number; does he like potato soup? I’m making that tonight.”

Scaramouche almost, almost feels a shiver tear down his spine. He’s starting to believe that Venti’s just as much an antagonist in this situation as you are.

“Why the fuck did you accept his number? Delete it,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and glaring over at you. His coffee’s surely gone cold by now, but that’s alright— he was never much of a coffee drinker anyways.

You shrug, a sly smile forming on your lips. “Oh, I don’t know. He was so sweet I didn’t want to say no… it’d give me someone new to talk to, if nothing else.” Why do you need to talk to Venti when he barely knows you and I’m right fucking here?

“It’s not like you talk to me much despite all my best efforts, Kuni,” you offer him the subtlest of pouts, an action that would look out of place on the face of a woman your age if you weren’t so… if you weren’t so…

Forget it, he’s not saying anything about you that could be interpreted as a compliment. “…Especially now that you and I have agreed to leave each other alone.”

Oh, Scaramouche doesn’t like this feeling. He hates feeling like a situation has spun out of his control, and that’s, unfortunately, exactly what he feels is happening here. You’ve agreed to his terms and you’ve promised to stay out of his way, so why does he feel so… angry?

Yeah, you must have some underhanded motive here. Why else would you be making this so… easy? That’s not like you at all— he was expecting you to fan your eyelashes, pout your lips, push your tits forward, and whimper that you’re sorry and that you’d love to keep talking to him, so will he please give you a second chance?

I’ll do anything, he was sure you’d say.

You clear your throat. “Well, is there anything else you’d like to discuss now? If not, I’ll get back to my yoga. It’s good to be active, right?”

What the hell? You’re ending the conversation? No way, no how— this ends on Scaramouche’s terms, not yours. Who do you think you are?

“No, that’s not it, actually,” he blurts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Staying out of my business means staying away from Venti— from any of my friends. Don’t talk to them, don’t text them, don’t— I don’t know. Don’t be around them.”

You smile a little wider. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound jealous, Kuni.”

He scoffs, staring you directly in the eye as if to challenge you. “Seriously? Shit joke.”

Of all the adjectives you could have picked to describe him… “It’s just that the thought of you getting with Venti is nauseating, alright?”

You hum. “And why him specifically, hm? You had other friends over last night— are they single?” Jesus Christ, what is this, an interrogation? And where the hell are these sorts of questions coming from— did you already send Venti an invitation to hook up?

Sneering so hard his nose scrunches up, Scaramouche can’t help but feel appalled. “Did you decide I’m not good enough or something? Who do you think you are?”

You go silent.

Scaramouche, somehow, goes even quieter than silent when the weight of his words finally sets in. There it is— the culmination of your grand plan to humiliate, embarrass, and utterly demean him in your own home. You had this outcome planned from the start, didn’t you?

“I didn’t say that,” you stammer, attempting to correct yourself. “Why do you think I’ve been vying for your attention all this time? Of course I like you, Kuni.”

God, how you piss him off. Who do you think you are— some bashful schoolgirl confessing to her first crush?

“I know that I’m just an old woman and that you could certainly find a cute, young, perky college girl whenever you’d like to, but if you’d ever like me…”

Of course Scaramouche could get someone his age from one of his classes— he doesn’t need to settle for some loose old hag— and yet… the thought of you getting with anyone else, Venti or not, pisses him off in a way he can’t quite describe. Maybe he views himself as some kind of hero protecting everyone else from your shamelessness, maybe he views himself as the only one worthy of your attention as the one who has to put up with you the most, maybe he views you as someone actually, genuinely worth being with…

He sits up a little straighter. “You have no idea how obnoxious you are,” he mutters. “Taking up my time and attention even when you’re not around.”

“What a forked tongue,” you reply, leaning forward and, much to Scaramouche’s chagrin, pushing your breasts together with your hands. “You know that’s why I like you, right? Mean boys have always been my favorite— ever since high school.”

“You’re not worth the time,” he spits. So fucking annoying. So fucking shameless. What kind of woman your age behaves this way, anyway? So obnoxious, so pathetic, so intoxicating, so impossible-to-keep-out-of-his-mind—

“Venti sure seems to think I am,” you offer with a smug, self-satisfied smile as you rise from your seat. Hooking your thumbs up under the straps of your sports bra, you quickly snap the elastic fabric back against your shoulders to give your tits a little bounce, an action that, of course, does not go unnoticed. Slapping his hands down flat against the perfectly-ironed lacy tablecloth covering your dining room table and standing up so quickly he nearly knocks his knees against the table’s hardwood underside, Scaramouche laughs.

What a time to finally, finally accept that he has the hots for his neighbor— the same neighbor who’s supposedly the cause of so many of his bad days and sour moods. You’ve prompted many a disdainful mutter from Scaramouche after catching a glimpse of you through your drawn curtains, you’ve been the subject of many a snide comment made in the presence of his friends, and, most frustratingly of all, you’ve inspired countless, countless inappropriate thoughts that he cannot believe you’ve been the subject of.

And all it took was one of his friends hitting on you for him to realize that.

“Constantly flaunting a body like this,” he chides in a way that he wants to come off as insulting and condescending rather than sadistically flattering, but the little grin you offer in response gives him reason to believe you interpreted it as the latter. Seriously?

“Other boys your age seem to enjoy the flaunting,” you counter, slipping your thumbs into the waistband of your spandex leggings. As if to tease the act of pulling them all the way down your legs, you flip the fabric of your waistband over its seam to expose the majority of your soft lower belly.

Anger burns hot behind his pale cheeks. “Is this some kind of pathetic hobby of yours? Fucking guys half your age?”

“I like to consider it a lifestyle,” you reply, shimmying your leggings further and further down your thick thighs until your thong’s completely exposed. A black lace thong— how becoming of a nymphomanic like yourself. “I’m fine with trading experience for virility and stamina; do you know how many men my age finish in thirty seconds and call it there because they’re ‘just so tired’? College boys either go until they can’t hold themselves upright or until they have nothing left to pump into me.”

There’s that vulgar nature that’s both irritated and (subconciously) aroused him for months. He wants to believe that your disgusting nature doesn’t make his cock twitch, but the time for pretending has clearly passed. You don’t believe he finds you ugly or unappealing and neither does he anymore.

“And do you find this… lifestyle fulfilling?” Scaramouche challenges, grimacing at the pressure building in the frontside of his tight jeans.

You laugh. “Is that your way of saying you don’t? Are you a virgin, sweetheart?”

“Of course not. Just because some of us don’t fuck everything with two legs and a pulse doesn’t mean we’re virgins.” His clumsy escapades are none of your business— his high school girlfriend and that guy from the concert Venti dragged him to over the summer don’t concern you.

Bending forward to push your leggings down to your knees, you gaze up at Scaramouche through your eyelashes and giggle. “Don’t make it sound like I don’t savor every last cock or strap I ride. You could put every last one of them in front of me and I’d be able to tell you who they belong to with my eyes shut.”

Venti mentioned something about experience, didn’t he? What a sanitized way of calling older women complete and total whores.

The inferiority complex in Scaramouche wants to prove that he’s the best thing a whore like you will ever experience, that he can make you feel better than any of the other bumbling college morons he probably knows can, and that you’ll give up your ways of fucking everyone that looks at you in order to devote yourself to him and him alone. That’d be some nice payback for all the pain and humiliation you’ve subjected him to these past couple of months, right?

No, he has a better idea.

“If you want to show yourself off that badly,” Scaramouche huffs, doing his damndest to ignore the nearly-painful throbbing in his jeans. “Then I’m sure you’d be fine with doing it in front of that glass door, right?”

With your hands still bunched in the fabric of your leggings, you look back at the glass sliding door that leads to your balcony and bite your lip. It’s not likely anyone would actually see you— you and Scaramouche live on the third floor— but it’s still a possibility and an exciting thought nonetheless. Maybe you could give that nice redheaded quarterback boy you fucked a few months ago a nice show; he lives just across the parking lot in the building parallel to yours.

“Now who’s the deviant one? I’ve never fucked anywhere more public than a nightclub’s bathroom stall,” you tease, finally pushing your leggings all the way down and off your legs. He doesn’t believe you, but Christ, those thighs of yours look soft…

You accept his offer nonetheless and make your way over to the balcony door, your thong riding high on your wide hips and your hardened nipples pressing into the flimsy fabric of your pathetic excuse of a sports bra. “You’re helping me wipe off all the fingerprints afterwards,” you scold, inviting him over with a wiggle of your hips and a glance back over your shoulder.

Now, rationally, Scaramouche would never propose the idea of fucking in a place as public as right in front of an apartment complex parking lot. He’s never considered himself an exhbitionist and he’s always been somewhat obsessed with his image, and people who care about their image generally don’t have sex in the potential presence of others. Additionally, there’s probably something to be said about him potentially getting caught fucking the same woman he’s spent the better half of this past year complaining about, but the current irrational, horny, angry Scaramouche wouldn’t listen to better judgement or rationality anyways.

The relief that comes with unbuttoning his jeans and giving his almost painfully-hard cock room to breathe is so euphoric he can’t help but sigh, the throbbing in his crotch more aggravating than any pounding headache he’s ever experienced after an evening drinking with his friends.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” he laughs, incredulous. “To think the hag living next door to me is the reason I’m like this.” Jamming the weight of his bulge into the plumpness of your soft ass, Scaramouche seizes hold of your hips in both of his hands and gives the fat of your love handles a painful squeeze just to hear you suck the air in through your teeth.

“I thought you’d never come around, you know,” you breathe, beyond eager at the prospect of finally, finally getting to fuck the neighbor boy you’ve been actively working at breaking for months upon months now. A guy this mean, this arrogant, and this demeaning doesn’t come around that often, especially when so many of the guys you get with take the polite route by calling you “ma’am” and complimenting you over and over again— which certainly isn’t a bad thing, but cruel has always satisfied you in ways that kind cannot.

The height difference between the two of you means that Scaramouche has to stand up a little straighter than he normally does in order to press his hips against yours, a realization that’s only slightly humiliating. Granted, it could never compare to how humiliating it was for you to show up at his apartment in front of all his friends.

God, does it feel good to put you in your place.

“Spread,” Scaramouche mutters, knocking one of his feet against both of your ankles. He doesn’t tell you that he needs you to spread your legs so your hips will lower a bit, allowing him to reach them a little more easily since you’re a bit taller than he is.

You would tease him for skipping the foreplay and just jamming himself right into you, but you know that you’ve been plenty wet enough ever since your discussion with him first wandered to sex and masturbation. Well, that, and if you had to wait another minute to get the cock you’ve been so desperate for for so long now, you very well may go crazy. It’s taken months, but you can already tell that it was all so, so worth it.

Running his knuckles down the center of your thong, Scaramouche relishes in the smug satisfaction that comes with realizing that you’re wet. It’s equal parts arousing and equal parts pathetic— just how desperate are you for any cock you can get your hands on?

“You’ve already kept me waiting for months,” you say with a pout cast back at him from over your shoulder. “Why make me wait even longer when I’m right here?”

“Shameless and impatient,” he remarks with a frustrated huff. “Can’t you do something good with your life or yourself for once and just be quiet?”

As tempting as it is to make a teasing quip in return to only further rile up your angsty neighbor boy, a frenzied giggle is the only sound you can muster up when you feel the firm press of a cock against your clothed pussy. Even through your flimsy thong, you can tell that he’s hard, which is a reward in its own right. It’s what you’ve wanted to achieve since the very first time he caught you half-naked watering plants on your balcony— is it so wrong for you to want to rile up the cutie next door?

Scaramouche roughly yanks your thong down to hang around your lower thighs, leaving you entirely on display for him when you follow suit by tugging your sports bra up to your collarbone. The cool, smooth glass against your bare tits is an unfamiliar sensation, but it’s certainly not an unwelcome one— especially when you remember that anyone could look up from across the parking lot and get an eyeful of your bare tits squished up against the glass door.

“I wish I could watch you sink it in for the first time,” you hum, reaching down between your legs to part the outer lips of your cunt for him a little wider. “In front of a mirror or something maybe. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because you’re the spitting image of the romantic type.” There’s no way you consider him the romantic type, is there? He’s not going to hold your hands and whisper in your ear about how cute you are, you know.

Damn it, you’ve got him actually wanting you more than he’s ever wanted you before— this makes all his filthy fantasies about taking you bent over your kitchen counter or being underneath you while you ride him into oblivion look like a cheap, budget porno from a video rental store. His desire has always been real—albeit subconscious, sure—but it feels so much more genuine now that it’s been realized.

“Don’t say a word about this to anyone,” he mumbles in a brief moment of humiliation, biting into his bottom lip as he finally, finally sinks the full length of his cock into you.

Jesus Christ, if there’s anything Venti’s ever been right about, it’s how good a mature pussy feels. You’re soaked all the way down to your inner thighs, you’re so warm Scaramouche nearly feels his knees give out from underneath him, and you squeeze him so well he can feel your pussy gripping the sensitive underside of his tip.

“Why not? I can invite your friend next time,” you propose, squealing with delight when Scaramouche slaps a hand down against the side of your ass. “Venti, right? It’d feel so good to have my ass used while you—“

“Just shut up,” he hisses bitterly, glaring at you hard enough to give himself a stress headache. “Don’t talk about other guys right now. Especially not ones I know.”

“You’re right, it’s rude to talk about other men when I have such a good one right here with me already,” you feign sympathy, pushing your hips back flat against the front of his thighs. “Oh, Kuni.”

There’s that damn nickname again. As much as he hates the idea of you using it to tease him or fluster him, he can’t deny the way his dick twitches whenever you coo it in that soft, sultry tone of yours. It’s like you were custom-made to gobble men up or something— just how many of his classmates have you fucked?

Oh, it doesn’t matter. Not when he knows he can establish himself as the best of the whole damn lot of them. Not when he knows that he gets the privilege of seeing you every single day and nobody, nobody else does. Not when he’s seen your cute nipples peeking at him through that tiny, flimsy pajama top he caught you in all those months ago. Not when he gets to peruse on over to your apartment whenever he wants because you’re right fucking there and nobody, nobody is physically closer to you than he is.

Jesus, this is all starting to sound like some kind of crush.

“How’s that?” Scaramouche taunts, slapping his hips against you so wildly the sound of skin smacking on skin almost drowns out his voice. He’d like to claim that this sort of pace is supposed to be punishing, and he’d be right if he were to say that, but he wants it hard and rough just as much as you surely do. He couldn’t stop his hips even if he wanted to because he knows there’s nothing he’s wanted to do more than fuck your brains out for months upon months now.

You don’t answer him, too preoccupied with relishing in the feeling of his cock pounding into you with everything he’s got. How befitting of Scaramouche to fuck you like he’s angry at you— if he could even claim to be mad anymore. The combined sensations of his hips hammering against yours, his fingernails digging into your soft, plump love handles, and his balls slapping against your ass on each thrust are all far too overwhelming to even attempt a reply.

“Seriously? You run your mouth for ages and now you shut up when I ask you a question?” You’re doing this on purpose— Jesus, you’re insatiable.

Your back arches when Scaramouche digs the tip of his cock into a particularly sensitive spot inside of you, a broken whine leaving your lips instead when you attempt to reply with a dirty quip. He laughs when he realizes what’s just happened— that’s certainly one way to get you to shut that filthy mouth of yours.

“I hope somebody’s watching you, actually,” he admits despite all the jealousy even a single mention of his friend stirred up in him. “That way they can see you’re not worth their time because you don’t value yourself whatsoever. Why would anyone want someone who’s happy to just give themselves away like this and get fucked in a place so public?”

Maybe that’s just a weird, roundabout way of saying I want someone to watch me fuck you so they know a whore like you has been whipped into shape and that you only want me now. Who’s to say?

“You don’t care about getting caught yourself?” You finally pipe up with a grin.

Scaramouche snorts. “Getting caught with the likes of you? I’d transfer universities.”

You pout. “Would I still get to see you?”

For whatever reason, the question catches him off guard. How many times does he need to remind you that you’re not his girlfriend, that you’re not some sweetheart with an innocent crush, that you’re just his fucking neighbor who just so happens to have a hot body and just so happens to feel so, so good around him like this and just so happens to be the subject of his wet dreams and fantasies and—

He’s only able to spit out one word. “Obnoxious.”

His hands reclaim a firm grasp on your ample hips before he takes to fucking into you at a whole new angle— one that’ll surely hit that spot that got you to shut the fuck up moments ago. Your hands clamor for anything you could possibly grab onto to steel yourself, but there’s nothing except for the cool, flat glass beneath your palms.

“Kuni,” you rasp in a broken voice, beyond impressed with his ability to have found your most sensitive spot and target it specially. Call it sheer dumb luck or a testament to how perfectly compatible your bodies are, it doesn’t matter. He won’t let up on it until you’ve collapsed— maybe it’ll be a nice change of pace from your partners being the ones to collapse after an evening with you.

With the task of finding something to hold onto having proven fruitless, you instead slip a hand back between your legs to rub at your clit. Scaramouche snickers at your apparent desperation to orgasm, but he’s not letting you off that easily.

“What a pathetic display,” he remarks, pounding into you so quickly you can barely register the full length of his cock before he’s pulling it all the way out of you again. With your legs trembling and your knees buckling, the possibility of actually collapsing underneath him is becoming increasingly likely— these wild, frenzied thrusts of his prove exactly why you’re so into college guys.

Looking down from the fuzzy reflection of your face in the glass, Scaramouche watches each sink of his cock into your tight, dripping cunt with all the intensity and attention of a virgin. It may as well be his first time— you feel so fucking good he’s starting to lose his train of thought. You take him all the way to the hilt on each thrust so easily that he’d absolutely call you a common whore if he were able to form even a single word.

Despite his inability to form a coherent sentence, Scaramouche finds that he has just enough rationality left to pull out mere seconds before coming all over the swell of your ass, his cock twitching in his hand as he bites back moans. Here he is, coming all over the soft ass of his obnoxious older neighbor lady after spending so many months convincing his friends that he does not, in fact, want to fuck her.

You laugh breathlessly, the hand between your legs still rubbing frantic circles over your clit as you attempt to reach your own orgasm as well. “What’s wrong with coming inside? I’m hurt.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. That’d be irresponsible.

“Well, that’s alright,” you chirp, standing upright and turning around to face him. “I can always wring it out of you myself, right?”

“You’re insatiable,” he replies, inching backwards towards the couch as you step forward in time with his footsteps.

“Pot, kettle. You’re still hard, Kuni.”

With the realization that he’ll need some kind of excuse to offer his friends when he inevitably returns to a slew of unread messages a few hours from now, he falls backwards onto the couch just before you make yourself comfortable in his lap.

Well, not that any of them have ever believed any vague, half-baked excuse Scaramouche gives.

[luvverslair]

Hear me out: price who has mom! Reader next door who's dealing with all these handyman tasks herself and eventually he goes over and asks her if she wants help, cue a cute conversation as they fit her house up together and her kid(s) loving him and oh my goshhhj

hi!! Thank you for requesting this I love this with price, I tried my hardest to write this and hope you enjoy!! (also I decided to do a both son and daughter so there could be a bit of both hope that's okay!!)

prompt- Price with next door neighbor Mom!reader needing some help with work around the house.

You had recently moved into your new home with your kids, it was a bit run down but being a single mom in today's economy was not easy. On your first day there you met your neighbor, He induced himself as John but said everyone called him Price. He was kind enough to help you move some of your boxes in while your kids were running around in the backyard. Once you had finished moving everything inside you offered him some tea which he immediately accepted, you both sat down on the front porch as he began telling you about local places to go to “Yeah, there's a place right down the road that has probably the best food around here, the grocery store is also just a couple blocks away” you smiled at him replying “Thank you, for the advice and also helping me with all the boxes, your too kind” he smirked before saying “Its really no problem, love” a light pink started to make its way across your cheeks as you both sat in silence staring at the sky, that was until your kids decided to run into the front yard playing some form of tag, you let out a soft sigh before yelling out “Kids! Come say thank you to the nice neighbor that helped us.” your kids ran over before looking Price up and down and saying in unison “Thank you Mr. Neighbor sir”, Price let out a small laugh Before saying “No problem kids, your mom made it worth the work” you kids then both started ooing before running off.

in the following weeks, Price had joined your family for countless dinners, that was until Your water heater broke, You had tried fixing it when your son said “I'm going to play outside” before grabbing his younger sister and running out the front door you followed with a yell saying “Be careful! Don't go in the road” before slamming the tool you had in your hand down and putting your head in your knees. You had zero clue about fixing a lot of things, especially an old water heater the past tenants never replaced.

Little did you know your two kids had run over to your next-door neighbor's house knocking on the door when price answered your kids immediately started rambling about how you needed help fixing something. Price went to go get his tool bag before following the kids into your basement when they reached you, you had made zero progress and had probably made it worse than before. Price spoke out saying “Looks like you need some help there love, why don't you kids go play for a while I'll stay and help your mom out.” The kids nodded their heads and thanked him before running off, You sighed saying “I'm sorry I had no clue they went to go bother you…” he replied, “Nonsense, they never a bother neither are you.” Before working on the water heater, After a shirt twenty minutes he had your water heater up again to which you profusely thanked him. After a while You had dinner ready and of course invited Price to stay for “payment” knowing you would've had him either way, You called your kids inside and instructed them to wash their hands, as they did your daughter stated “You got the hot water working already?!” running up and hugging price thanking him for helping her mom, he smiled and hugged back. You could get used to having him help You.

I loved writing this, it’s pretty short, I apologize but I hope you like it anyway! thank you again for requesting and I’d love to get more from you in the future!

luv, luvver

[konigsblog]

hiii, how would kidnapper!konig treat reader during her period?

so, so much more gentle :( he understands what a period is, but always feel a slight pang of fear when he see's blood trailing down your thighs, washed away by the water from the shower head. absolutely will bathe you, like usual, making sure you're all fresh and giving you either a hot water bottle, or substituting it with his large hands, always warm like a heater.

kisses you all over when you fall asleep on the couch, usually brings you onto his lap to cradle your skull like he would with a baby. your face tilted up at him as he peppers sweet, tender kisses along your temples and cheeks, kissing the tip of your nose and chuckling when you stir in your sleepy haze!!! “meine schatzchen... are you alright, liebe?” you mumble something incoherent in your sleep, seeing him holding a bowl full of austrian soup, a spoon meeting your lips as you accept it, still dizzy and confused.

the soup usually always helps your cramps, but the back pain continues. he'll massage your sides, making you whimper from the pain shooting down your lower back, grasping at the sides of the couch in agony before replaced with pleasure as he washes the throb away :(

[fuck-customers]

I work for a call center that services water heaters and hoo boy, the stories I could tell you. 

First of all, you'd think it would be common sense that you have to actually be standing next to the appliance that you're asking for help with so that we can get the info we need to get started (No, I cannot help you with a water heater in Florida if you are calling from FRANCE), and they will find new and inventive ways to look everywhere except where you told them the serial number was located.  I've learned that I have to specifically tell them to bring the phone with them to the unit or they will put it down and walk away for several minutes leaving you in awkward silence.  And that's before we even get into the actual problems. 

Attempting to return the unit to the store despite the bold print label on the front of the tank that says "STOP!  DO NOT RETURN THIS UNIT" and lists our phone number and then will claim that the label isn't there when we bring it to their attention.

Not bothering to read the manual and then complaining when we tell them their electric unit needs a different breaker switch. 

We ask for pics of the exhaust venting and it looks like a 90's screensaver (gee I wonder why your carbon monoxide detector is going off). 

Customers who physically cut the tank open to prove that the leak isn't repairable and then complain when we tell them they've voided their warranty. 

I once got a person who called to complain that they didn't like the indicator light on the gas valve flashing to indicate that it was working properly. 

another guy stopped in the middle of installing his unit to turn the water back on and flooded his basement. 

Another one waited TWO YEARS to tell us that the part we sent him didn't fix his problem and then demanded a replacement. 

The ones that just go "yes yes yes yes" when you tell them to turn off the breaker switch and then complain that they got shocked when they open the panel on the front of the tank. 

They actually won't let me troubleshoot anymore, not because I did anything wrong, but because too many customers complained when I pointed out to them how they caused their own problems. 

It's not uncommon to get a caller who just goes "MY NIPPLES (the fittings where the pipes attach) ARE BURNING HOT AND LEAKING ALL OVER THE PLACE!  AND MY AY-NO (mispronunciation of anode) ROD IS MAKING MY WATER SMELL LIKE SHIT!  IT SHOT OUT LIKE A ROCKET AND GOT STUCK IN THE CEILING!"

Bottom line, there should be a mandatory government-subsidized class for new homeowners so that they know how to take care of their homes.

[pro-memoriia]

Can I have some Dew/Rain snuggles? Someone cold being kept warm by a furnace of a Fire Ghoul? 💕🙏🏻

❤💙

I'm sorry if this isn't long enough, I didn't know how to extend it 😭

Rain shivered as he walked through the big Ministry doors. He had missed swimming since November had started, but now he didn't. He didn't realize how awful swimming in a nearly frozen lake could be.

His lips were chapped and cracked. His skin was cold as ice and stung from windburn. He could barely move his tail and he felt as stiff as a rock. He didn't like that. He was a water ghoul. He was naturally fluid and smooth. Not being able to move felt agonizing. And the way his teeth kept chattering didn't make him any less uncomfortable either.

Rain was thankful for his mate in times like these. Though he'd probably get called stupid, he knew Dewdrop would take care of him.

His shaking hand reached up to knock on the fire ghoul's door. It was a specific pattern of thuds, one that he and Dew made up to signal it was them.

Dew opened his bedroom door in a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt that probably wasn't his. His straight face became one of confusion as he saw his mate looking more blue than usual and shaking like a leaf.

"Fuck, what did you do?"

Dew pulled him in by the wrist and Rain winced at the burn on his skin, but it faded quickly with Dew's comfortable touch.

"I wanted to go swimming. I miss it in the winter."

"It's 35° outside and you went swimming? You're stupid."

Rain sighed and shrugged. "Mind warming me up, darling?"

"Are you gonna pull this shit again?"

"I can promise you I don't want you," Rain said.

Dew let out a quick sigh. He went to his drawer and pulled out some boxers. He opened another drawer, pants. He grabbed a shirt from his closet and shoved them against Rain's chest.

"These are yours anyway. Put them on."

"Why do you have my—"

"Just put them on, babe."

Rain complied after a second, slowly shuffling out of his clothes and changing into the warmer pair. He hugged himself and shivered when he got them on.

Dew didn't care about Rain's clothes on his floor. He'd just wash them and replace the ones he'd just given away.

He grabbed an incense and spit a flame to light it. He set it in the holder and put it up so the warm scent of wild honey drifted around the room. Dew clicked off the lights, knowing that's how his mate preferred it.

He pulled Rain to his bed and they both crawled under the covers.

"Big spoon or little spoon?" Dew asked.

"Little?"

Dew nodded and waited for Rain to turn around before wrapping his arms around him. Rain let out a relieved sigh as he felt the warmth against his backside. It felt like a fire or heater right on his skin, just warm enough to kill the cold but never too hot to burn.

Rain's hands rested on top of Dew's to feel the warmth in his palm. He moved one of the fire ghoul's hands to his face to rub against. Dew was quiet. He wouldn't admit it, but he found it cute.

Soon enough, Rain felt completely relaxed again, relishing in the warmth of his living heating pad of a mate.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Dew didn't reply. But a quiet rumble kicked up in his chest and he started to purr. Rain rolled in his arms and bumped his horns with Dew's.

"This is nice... Maybe I will go for another swim."

Dew eyes snapped open. "I will fuck you—"

Rain cut him off by bursting into a fit of giggles. "I'm kidding! I'm kidding."

Dew rolled his eyes and bumped his nose against Rain's before kissing him softly.

"I'll warm you up any time you want, but I'll lose my shit if you get in that fucking lake again before March."

Rain smiled and gave another kiss. "Okay, fine."

Dew closed his eyes and curled his neck to out his head against his mate's shoulder. His purr picked up again, heavy and loud.

"The little engine that could," Rain joked.

Dew would've made a snarky reply or given a glare, but he didn't feel like it at the moment.

Rain kissed him again and started purring himself.

Dew would always be there to warm him up.

[f9clementine]

"Spark Plugs"

pairing: mechanic!Chan x afab reader // genre: fluff // words: 1.5k // warnings: just swearing.

Note: y’all… idk how to fix a car at all. I shamelessly call my Dad the minute something’s acting up in mine. So if you know how car’s work, just suspend that knowledge for a bit.

With a deep sigh, you slowed to a stop on the shoulder of the road, the brakes on your old truck screeching as you did. You quickly threw on the hazards and pulled the switch for the hood before hopping out of the cab. Immediately, the hot summer sun began to beat down on you, sweat perking along your hairline, but you were determined.

You unlatch the hood, pushing it all the way up to get a better look at the engine. You scan over it, frowning as you had no idea what you were looking at. But a quick glance up at the empty road next to you as well as the completely barren fields to your left and your right let you know you were on your own with this.

You pulled your phone out, glancing at the clock before you unlocked it. “I got time,” you mumbled, opening youtube and pulling up the video you had been watching the night before: ‘Replacing Your Spark Plugs.’ You hit play and began to get to work, listening intently to the instructions.

It took a half hour, along with some colorful swears when you accidentally smacked yourself with the plug socket you retrieved from the cab, but you’d done it. The spark plugs sat revealed in the engine, ready to be replaced.

You wiped a stray drop of sweat from your cheek, then grimaced when you realized you’d manage to smear some grease there instead. “I can clean up later,” you told yourself, focusing instead on the task at hand and reaching into the engine with the plug socket again.

It was a little arduous, but with a final tug you pulled a spark plug loose, emerging from the hood victorious with it in your (absolutely filthy holy shit) hands. You took a few steps back, looking at the spark plug for a minute. It didn’t look like it needed to be replaced, to be honest; it wasn’t brand new but there was minimal wear and tear. It should still work just fine.

To any mechanic worth their salt, it would give you away in a split second.

You turned to the field you were closest to, pulling your arm back before letting the spark plug fly. You calmly watched as it sailed through the air before landing somewhere in the field, and leaving you stranded on the side of the road.

You nodded, proud of yourself before turning back to your truck. You picked up your phone, the youtube video finished up as the instructor congratulated you on successfully changing the parts on your vehicle before you closed the app and looked at the time. Your heart suddenly began to race, realizing the time you thought you had was almost up.

Moving quickly, you put everything back the way you found it (sans spark plug, of course). Right when you tossed the wrench behind your seat, you could see the jet black car on the horizon, heading your way. Right on time. Places, everyone.

The 1970 Ford Mustang slowed to a stop next to your truck, the driver side window already down. “Hey neighbor, you having car issues?” Chan called out, lifting his sunglasses to sit on the top of his head.

You pulled back from where you had been leaning over your engine, flashing him a sheepish grin. “Yeah, she just stopped and I can’t figure out why.”

“One second.”

You watched as he pulled his car to your side of the road, parking in front of you on the shoulder before hopping out and joining you by your truck. 

“You just have the worst luck, huh?” Chan lightly teased, looking over your engine next to you. “First your water heater, and now this.” 

You hoped your ‘I’m so embarrassed’ giggle was believable. “Someone has it out for me, I guess.”

“Well, unluckily for them, you have me.” You were glad he was focused on your truck now, missing the way your cheeks suddenly burned- and not from the heat. “Can I see your keys?” 

You nodded, pointing to the cab of the truck. “They’re in the ignition.”

“Perfect, give me a second.” Chan moved around you, lifting himself into the driver’s seat. You took a step back from the engine, listening as he tried to start the engine. After a few tries, he rejoins you. “Well, it’s not the battery and you’re not out of gas.” He mumbled the last part to himself, dark eyes darting back and forth as he tried to think what could’ve happened.

“Maybe it’s your-” He stopped as he looked over at you, frowning for a second before reaching for his back pocket. “Don’t move.” He commanded and you froze. You watched as he pulled a red bendana from his back pocket, stepping up to you before gently rubbing it against your cheek. “You’ve got grease on your face.” His other hand gently grasped your chin, directing your face to turn a little.

You really hoped he couldn’t feel how heavily your heart was pounding against your ribs.

“There we go- all clean and pretty again.” Chan pulled away, repocketing his bandana and you were grateful since you were definitely on the edge of passing out. 

“Oh, uh, thank you.” You finally managed to wheeze out, simultaneously glad you had your space but missing how right his fingers had felt on your skin.

Chan grinned at you again before returning his attention to the broken vehicle in front of you. “But I think maybe it’s your starter or it’s your alternator… but I won’t know until I can really look at it. I can call Changbin to come tow you to the garage, if you’d like?” He offered and you nodded.

“That would be amazing, please.” 

Chan nodded, reaching for his other pocket to pull his phone out. “How long were you out here for?”

You shrugged, “Oh, not long. I only got off work about maybe an hour ago?”

Chan stopped and looked up at you, brows furrowed slightly. “You were out here for an hour? Did you call anyone?”

You blinked, suddenly realizing the hole in your plan. “Uh…” You hummed, searching quickly for an acceptable answer. “I thought maybe I could figure it out myself?” You timidly answered, unable to keep eye contact with him. “I was about to call my dad, though.” 

“The one that’s over two thousand miles away?” 

You groaned and scuffed your tennis shoe across the ground, “I figured he could tell me over the phone or something.”

Chan let out a laugh, selecting a contact on his phone and hitting the call button. “Next time, just call me. It’s a good thing I left the garage at a decent time today, or else you’d probably be waiting for help until nightfall.” The ringing stopped, Changbin’s loud ‘hello?’ interrupting Chan. “Hey, Changbin! Y/n’s truck broke down. Can you bring the tow to the road leading up to my place?” He paused, nodding as you could hear Changbin responding, but unable to make it out. “Yeah, that one. And then put it in a bay so I can take a look at it tomorrow… Perfect, thanks man.”

He hung up, sliding his phone back into his pocket before pulling the hood of your truck down. “Alright, so that’s taken care of. I’ll give you a lift home, obviously.” He leaned on the hood, tilting his head a little as he frowned, thinking. “I’ll give you a ride to work tomorrow, too.”

“Oh, uh,” You held your hands up, shaking your head. “I’m actually off tomorrow, luckily. But thank you for the offer.” 

“Gotta be thankful for small miracles, at least.” He stood up straight, nodding his head toward his car. “Let’s get you home and out of this heat.” He took a step and you began to follow before he stopped, turning to look at you again, a slight frown pulling at this full lips. “I wonder if it’s your spark plugs, maybe?”

Oh shit- play dumb, Y/n.

“What’s a spark plug?” 

Chan let out a loud laugh as he ushered you to his car with a hand on the small of your back before opening the door for you. “Y/n, I gotta tell you, you’re too cute sometimes.” Once again, you thought you were going to die as you slid into the passenger seat, ignoring how the leather seats were already sticking to your bare skin. 

Chan was still giggling as he came around the driver side, getting in himself. He grasped the keys, about to start the ignition before suddenly leaning over. You froze as you felt his soft lips brushing against your cheek, so dangerously close to the corner of your lips as he pulled away. 

“The next time you want my attention, pretty girl, you don’t have to sabotage your truck for it.”

He turned the engine of the mustang right then, the car roaring to life under you and drowning out your stammers before Chan shifted into first gear, pulling back onto the road as he continued to grin proudly.

Was this any of one my WIPs? of course not.

[swaglet]

yap post about architecture and climate. maybe you'll find it interesting

that post about architecture becoming homogenous across the world is true but it doesn't even mention how DANGEROUS something like that can be. like. humans started building permanent settlements depending on wherever their group ended up, and their individual climate determined what materials they built their shelters out of, how high off the ground/how deep they built them, how far from shore they built them, etc..... like. i'm not an architect i know next to nothing about architecture but you know what pisses me off? brick houses with asphalt or clay tile shingle roofs and a basement with solid brick foundation walls are the ultimate superior option where i live for climate control reasons. they are more resilient to tornadoes (especially the debris being flung around by the tornado so they're less likely to collapse from the debris), the inside of your house is kept cool during hot summer temperatures especially if you have trees and plants for shade outside your home above your roof, the inside stays warm when you heat it up and the heat doesn't readily escape through the brick walls or the roof tiles during the cold extended winter months, and you can open up the windows as you please during spring and fall because it's usually room temperature outside for most of those seasons anyway and then you can save on the heating/cooling bill and all that. like literally all year round. especially if you have a fireplace and a little bit of insulation in all your walls and the roof, you literally will have no heat escape and you won't even need to turn your heater on. the clay/asphalt roof tiles with any type of insulation under them make it so that your roof won't collapse if there's a ton of snow sitting on top of it even for weeks on end. both the material of the shingles and the insulation will stop the cold from seeping in and it'll stay warm even though there's like a foot of snow on your roof. we have asphalt tile shingles that have not been replaced or even touched in 20 years since this house was built and there has never been a single leak of water into this house from the ceiling and by god does it rain something fierce here. there have been tree limbs and rocks and shit flung at the roof during small tornadoes and the worst thing that happened was a few tiles got dislodged and we put them back up after the storm was over.

this is an extremely wooded area. pennsylvania is literally means "Penn's forest country" we are THE state for timber and wood and whatnot. if a tree were to fall on your brick house with clay/asphalt shingles after it was blown over or struck by lightning in a storm, it has a lot better of a chance of staying intact than a flimsy wooden beam house with a thin metal sheet for a roof and some more wooden beams underneath it. your plastic siding panels made to look like wood are all going to crack and crumble and like. explode. the moment that tree hits your house. that tree is coming into your living room. if lightning strikes your house, or your porch, or anything near your house like a tree or your garage or anything flammable, your house could be engulfed in flames and you will burn to death. that literally happened here not even a year ago btw. there was a really bad storm and lightning struck a tree in someone's backyard and the tree caught fire and it eventually fell and crashed through their porch and lit their whole house on fire and to add salt to the wound it landed on their power box outside their house so it exploded everything inside so all their wires caught fire as well and everyone except a little girl died because it happened in the middle of the night. brick houses are fire resistant and so are clay&asphalt tiles and that was a freak ass accident and since the flaming tree hit their power box they probably still would have been fucked anyway if they didn't have a cheap ass modern infrastructure fuck ass house but maybe stuff like that would happen less if we paid attention to what our climates are like and what materials are best for our area........... rip to that family i drive past the lot that their house was on almost everyday and think about them

Idk i rant about this shit all the time to my boyfriend like. i wish the housing market (and the market in general) wasn't absolutely diabolical right now because i genuinely want to build a small little cozy house sims-style someday, from scratch, that is entirely based on the climate and weather of where i live and make it as power efficient and safe as possible. Does anyone else ever think about this stuff

Like. Why the hell are all the houses being built nowadays all made with fugly ass metal roofs and shitty ugly fake wooden panel siding on the outside. So inefficient, so useless, so swagless. What is the purpose. We added an extension to our garage recently and metal roofing was the only affordable option and if you step inside that part of the garage it boils you alive in the summer if it's hot out. i CANNOT imagine that shit on top of my real life actual house

[thedept]

Things we didn’t plan for this morning: the hot water heater sprung a leak.

Can’t be replaced until Monday, but the service guy told us how to turn it on and off so we can use it sparingly.

[everydayfrimmel]

July 22, 2024

"The L Word (Love and/or Leaking Roofs and/or Late-Night Cable Television)" words, roommate au, part 15/15

This place has a leaky roof that patching never seems to fix, a refrigerator that hums ominously, and no air conditioning. Its small sideyard fills with weeds if they’re not careful, and though most of the trash that used to live there is gone now, a single punched-out window screen leans forlornly against the wall and leaves a rectangle of brighter blue where the peeling paint on the wall has faded around it. No one can leave the driveway until the stray cats that come for the food Himmel leaves out for them disperse for the morning. Half of the place sits empty where it hadn’t before.

Frieren is starting to love it. 

She wasn’t supposed to stay here, out in the country in this broken-down house in dire need of care and attention she was unwilling to give. It was always her plan to use the twelve-month lease to look for somewhere better to live. Not that she was itching to leave—Frieren rarely itches to do anything—but it was never a permanency. 

Then, May had arrived, and Frieren hadn’t even thought about finding a replacement home, and Himmel looked so crestfallen when she mentioned it that she hadn’t had a reason to keep looking. And the lease had been renewed. And Flamme had started calling her up asking when that boy is going to take you off my hands. And Frieren had become rather confused, but not unpleasantly so, and then she’d simply accepted her lot in life and called the exterminator for the roaches in the basement so Himmel could put a treadmill down there (for the winter, apparently) and stayed. 

No amount of small improvements ever make the house seem any less decrepit. The paint is still peeling. Frieren slightly suspects that the hideous Victorian wallpaper in her bedroom is radioactive. The hot water heater likes to fake its own death. Flamme and Himmel, sick of hearing Frieren talk about the carcinogens in her wallpaper and starting to grow slightly worried that she might be right, team up to get the landlord’s permission (he’s all too happy if it brings the price up) and pay somebody to take down the wallpaper and paint her walls instead for her birthday. It’s nice, it really is, but the old stuff haunts her even beneath a thoroughly sensible coat of light-blue paint. A lot of things about the house are like that.

But it’s become theirs, and she starts to overlook its shortcomings the way she overlooks Himmel’s constant chatter and buzzsaw snore: not without exasperation, but with a great deal of fondness. Like one does with all the things one loves.

“We can fix all that,” Himmel keeps on promising, but Frieren’s not half as optimistic. They can tear up anything they want, but the version that sticks in Frieren’s head will be the one she met when she arrived. The only thing that’s ever given this crumbling place a half-measure of its fading life back is Himmel, and that would be too embarrassing to tell them. 

“Doubt that,” she always replies. But it’s only half about her doubt in his abilities. Truthfully, Frieren doesn’t know if she wants it to be fixed.  

It won’t look like it did when she met him if they do that. The kitchen won’t be the same kitchen where she kissed him for the first time. She won’t hear his singing in the shower after a workout the same way if they knock down a wall to enlarge the bathroom. Her bedroom is all right to change for the sake of her health, and because her most prominent memories of it do not involve Himmel; and perhaps she wouldn’t mind being rid of the sagging couch, but the living room absolutely must stay as is.

She doesn’t like change where it concerns something she cares for. It always surprises her how sentimental she can get when she’s reminded of that. 

But then, change is inevitable. Change means that sleeping in her own bed so she can sprawl out like a spider means Himmel thinks she’s upset with him, and learning that it is probably for the best to avoid that. (He lets her sleep like a starfish all the same.) It also means having to do things like admit she has a personal life to her boss because she needs her untouched time off to go on a honeymoon, and put someone else on her tax returns, and endure questions from the old people in town about babies that make both Frieren and Himmel flush for different reasons. Not all of those things are unbearable.

And some of them are excellent.

When she reads now, it is not under compulsion, because Flamme, in all honesty, would rather discuss Himmel and how she’s getting on with him than anything else. And sometimes, when Himmel is around and unoccupied with grading papers and sleepy, it is aloud, resting the book on his head like a stand while he lays in her lap. 

He does not keep whole pallets of cup noodles in the cupboard anymore, takes on some ridiculous affectation of health-consciousness (as if he hadn’t always been going for runs) and cooks real food as if it is his spousal duty to swear off his bachelor diet of candy, bananas, and things that could be prepared in a microwave. This benefits Frieren, who is lazy, very much.

There is always someone home when she finishes work.

She is allowed to accompany him to meetings of the parent-teacher association and sit in the corner eating the baked goods that the parents of his students bring in. 

Sometimes he can be convinced to wash her in the shower if she is feeling too lazy to do it herself, and on airplanes, his shoulder makes a very reliable pillow. She likes the way Himmel coaxes her awake far better than an alarm clock. 

So there are good changes, she supposes. All of those. Late-night movies and late-night drives. Always being seen together. Watching Himmel sing in the kitchen or the car, feeling more than she thought she was capable of. Liking this decaying house for having Himmel in it. Not being so used to loneliness anymore. No longer counting down the days until she can go home for a visit like she did in college and her first few months in the country, craving warmth without knowing it, hungry for love. 

Because, after all—home is here now. 

[eventide-imp]

This is a vent post. It's kind of long I guess. I just needed to put it somewhere because I feel like I'm losing my mind. And I had already woken up depressed as hell yesterday when part of this happened.

I need someone in charge of the strings of fate give me a FUCKING break. Gas gets cut off with no notice and we manage to get it back on after four days and TWO calls to the gas company. Since the pilot lights went out because there was no gas, the oven is still dead and there's no way for me to relight it. It just keeps giving an error. Which means spending more money for it to be serviced.

The water heater light was also out. Well guess who's going on almost two weeks with no hot water now because after getting the gas back on, we discovered the fucking control panel for the water heater is dead! Which means we can't turn the damn water heater back on. It's 325 to replace it OR over 900 to just replace the whole damn thing.

And the shower doesn't work. It's a simple part to replace but the one my grandmother bought doesn't fit. my grandmother refuses to pay a plumber to come fix it or just buy a new part that should fit. That's been broke for over a month. So everybody has to try and wash in the tub, and now in freezing cold water. I finally ended up going to my mom's just so I could wash my hair for the first time in two months.

And then my 12 year old Big Pup was doing a very normal 12 year old thing. Being curious about one of those character chatbots. His friends use it, so of course he's gonna want to look at it. Frankly I'm only concerned about him potentially getting something 18+ out of it. My ex on the other hand is CONVINCED someone could hack it and start talking to him through it??? Nothing I said could dissuade him from this, even when I said it doesn't work like that he just insisted "well it has HUMAN OVERSIGHT doesn't it!?" And like yeah but that's still not how it works???

The only real issue, in my opinion, was Big Pup feeling the need to sneak around to use it. My ex was also concerned that the kid was apparently talking to the character like a romantic partner, which, I don't actually know what that means. And he didn't bother to take a screenshot or anything to show me as an example, so I still have no idea what that means. His other concern was the kid not feeling like he could talk to people well and struggling to socialize. Which is normal??? For being 12???? Like middle school and high school are AWKWARD AS FUCK, there's so much going on for them to deal with!

I made it clear I had no issues with finding a therapist for Big Pup (he's an anxious bean, has parents who aren't together, has a younger sibling with a decent age gap, he's got a lot to cope with!), and I was also not opposed to getting the kid into after school programs so he could try to socialize more within his hobbies.

But I offered to show the kid ao3 so he could have fanfic to read instead of using the chatbots. I thought that was a good compromise. My ex just said "NO. He can write it if he wants but I don't want him reading anyone else's stuff. Yeah that's your thing and you read it at his age cause your parents should've been paying more attention to you."

I......I am trying not to take the rest of what he said personally, because it basically just continued like that where he shut me down instead of at least considering that as an option alongside the other things. And comments about my parents not paying enough attention to what I did on the internet. but it just really REALLY felt like he was basically saying he doesn't want our son to end up like ME.

I know I struggle socially. I always have. The only time in my life where my friend group was greater than four people, one of whom was usually my twin, was high school and that's purely on the patience of one girl deciding she was gonna stand in front of my desk to talk to the nervous and shy mouse of a girl with the manga during history class the first day. And then three of her friends, all of them having been friends during middle school, joining her. They stood around my desk and talked over my head for three days before I got the courage to actually join the conversations. And then they found out the school had an anime club. And even in anime club, surrounded by peers who actually liked the same things I liked, I still struggled. I still talked the least. They didn't care. I was there and listening and could manage a few jokes, that was enough.

Most of my friendships moved online after I had Big Pup. Nobody wants to keep inviting someone who can never come out anyway. (My family staunchly refused to babysit unless I needed to go to a doctors appointment or do the grocery shopping). I'm very glad of my online friendships. They've helped me so much. I try to return the favor as much as possible. They've bought my kids Christmas gifts, and birthday gifts, and helped me with transportation and so many other things. They're part of my support system. I love them.

I know I'm not any better socially. If anything I've probably gotten worse. I KNOW I've pretty much stopped masking my neurodivergence most times. It's just too exhausting to have to pretend to be neurotypical 24/7. It's part of why I burnt out and my body crashed. Nobody really wants to accept it. So I still have to partially mask. But I can't keep it up. I just can't. It's too much for my own mental health. My ex is adhd. I've got epilepsy and a strong case for autism. Both Big Pup and Little Pup are blatantly neurodivergent. It's always been obvious to me. But my ex has been in denial about it for years. He's only just recently (like the last three or so months recent) come around to the idea that they are.

And apparently the thought that they might be like me is too much for him. But I'm supposed to take myself out of it. I'm supposed to not get defensive. I'm supposed to not take it personally.

AND ALL OF THIS WITHOUT ANY GODDAMN HOT WATER.

[taavisplushies]

Our plumbing is messed up.

We need to tear down at least 1 wall and replace all the pipes in our house. we also need a new water heater.

Right now our water will occasionally come out black. we don’t know how long it’ll be until it only pours out black water. our water heater also broke and now we don’t have warm/hot water.

This is going to cost thousands of dollars to fix everything.

I have art commissions open here.

I also have a ko-fi here where i am selling some adopts and stuff.

finally i have a mercari where i mostly sell older plushies (usa only) here.

i am thinking about selling some of my plush collection too. i don’t want to but i also don’t want to drink dirty water.

thank you for reading!

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

What are some smells that make you feel nostalgic?

oh boy.

chlorine. chlorine always brings me back. reminds me of summers spent in swimming pools or going on vacations with family. sunscreen lotion too.

bleach tbh. and pine-sol.

cinnamon and pumpkin spice more generally. always reminds me of childhood holiday season and my grandmothers' homes.

the sea. always nostalgic for me.

strawberries! my hometown used to be surrounded by strawberry fields and every spring/summer the whole town would smell like strawberries. (now they've replaced most of the strawberry fields with weed and now the stench of weed lingers -- high key makes me wish they'd make it illegal again)

speaking of strawberry, there is this strawberry scented dial soap bar. there was a deal on them when i was in high school and my parents bought a billion of them and i swear it took a couple of years for us to use them all. but yeah i strongly associate that scent with my teenage years.

also whatever cologne i was using then. i don't remember the name of it off the top of my head.

also, speaking of weed....tbh weed makes me nostalgic. i grew up surrounded by stoners and so my home constantly smelled like weed. for better or worse, i have lots of fond memories that happen to be associated with the smell of weed.

also tobacco. have a few people in my life who are/were important to me who smoked a lot of tobacco too. cigarettes, cigars, pipe tobacco, etc. like my uncle bill. the smell of tobacco instantly takes me back to his bedroom and all the trinkets of his that i'd explore and his big beard and his crazy stories and so on.

diesel. my father used to own a chevy blazer with a diesel engine. sometimes he'd take all of us on little scenic drives in it. and tbh just the smells of different kinds of gases and greases and metals in general. lots of family and friends were always working on mechanical stuff all the time, for work and hobbies.

freshly cut grass. again, takes me back to my school days. especially when i played football.

also the smell of pool water on a really hot concrete sidewalk when you're laying on a towel on top of it trying to dry off after swimming.

jasmine. there used to be a bush of jasmine around the block from where i live and it was a frequent hangout. a lavender bush too.

also, hard to describe but it's the smell of wet earth and decaying plant matter that you find in swampy areas or lakes or in the woods after a rain. brings me back lots of memories.

also another hard to describe one but just the scent of the first day(s) of school. i feel like i mostly associate it with elementary and middle school. but i can't quite put my finger on it. i imagine it's a combination of smells.

the smell of an arcade! oh man you don't find that smell very often anymore.

the smell of the heater when you turn it on for the first time in the winter.

the smell of a fireplace or a campfire.

pine trees.

there's this one air freshener my family used for years. i have no idea how to describe it but i've been looking for it for years. but it used to bring back very specific memories. i think it was some kind of lavender.

probably a million other scents too. again. i'm a very nostalgic person. i feel like i smell some nostalgic scent every day.

[casecous]

our landlord replaced the water heater from a giant conventional one to tankless one and now it takes 5 minutes of running the water for it to get even near hot. i don't get how this is not considered and waste of water and acceptable for 4 units??