Welcome to my masterlist! REMINDER: My blog is 18+ MINORS DNI
My requests are currently closed.
Joel Miller
One Shots / Requests :
Darling, Everything's On Fire Joel Miller x GN!Reader
↳ After you're shot in a confrontation with hunters, Joel bears his soul to you when he isn't sure you're going to make it.
Try to Love Me, Honey Please Joel Miller x Reader
↳ Following a run-in with a group of clickers, you cut yourself on a piece of glass and don't realize you're bleeding until Ellie points it out. Joel's face flashes in anger and chaos ensues.
You Are My Heaven On Earth No Outbreak!Joel Miller X Fem!Reader
↳ Sarah reveals to you one night that Joel can sing and play guitar. When you ask him to sing for you, you're not prepared for what you hear.
Triple Frontier
Series:
Everything I Know Leads Me Back To You Masterlist
↳ Four months ago, your childhood best friend and first love Frankie Morales showed up on your doorstep strung out on cocaine, mumbling words you hadn’t heard him say since high school. You fight your feelings as long as you can, trying to keep him at a distance. But what happens when you give in and it eventually falls apart?
One Shots / Requests:
A Bad Day Frankie Morales x Reader
↳ When everything that could ever go wrong in your day does, Frankie makes everything better.
if you told vin diesel fast and the furious you were gay he'd be like "Some people like driving stick…some people like driving automatic…what matters is you cross the finish line.." and then he'd rev up a dodge challenger and drive through a building and kill 16 people
If you asked if he was cool with trans people, he'd probably say "sometimes, aftermarket parts are the only way to get the vehicle you really want. Everyone should have the right to hot rod."
yes, correlation is not causation though i couldn't help but notice that as more and more women have become experts in their fields, the public trust in experts has also diminished. but i'm sure that's just a coincidence
lately I’ve been seeing a lot of people (mostly ones with totally empty blogs) complaining about not being able to find a certain fic in their likes…
baby, that’s what reblogging and tagging are for! reblog the fic, so you can keep track of it for if you want to go back and read it again later!
also you can make your tags literally whatever you want them to be, you can organize them by character, ship pairing, genre, au, etc. scrolling through a specific tag on your blog is going to be a hell of a lot easier than trying to search through EVERY SINGLE post you’ve ever liked.
and if you really don’t want your main blog to have fanfiction on there, (I see a lot of people saying they are embarrassed about it, which fuck anyone who makes you feel that way.) you can make a side blog specifically for fics!
small side note: if someone deactivates their account and you only liked their fic, you won’t be able to find it in your likes later. but if you reblogged the post, you’ll still able to read it!
I hope this is useful information, as I know a lot of people come over to tumblr from other sites and genuinely don’t know how anything works over here. but tumblr has always been the reblogging website.
doing this will not only help you keep track of the fics you’ve enjoyed, but it can also help to put that fic on other people’s dashboards so even more people can enjoy it too. <3
You told yourself it was just a moment. A stupid, flirty, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing.
He wasn’t touching her.
He wasn’t kissing her.
He was just being… him.
Johnny.
Golden boy. Flame-for-blood. Made of smiles and sin and silver-tongued charm.
It wasn’t a betrayal. It was just Johnny Storm being Johnny Storm.
You just wished he’d stop being that around other women.
⸻
It started first at the party.
The rooftop of the Baxter Foundation was buzzing. Post-mission celebration. Reed and Sue were busy talking about something nuclear. Ben was cracking jokes by the grill.
And Johnny?
He was at the bar with a redhead in heels and a bodycon dress.
She was twirling her straw between her fingers while he leaned in like she had the secret to immortality. He grinned at something she said. She touched his arm—brief. Bold. Familiar.
You saw it.
You looked away.
Be cool. Don’t be that girl.
He didn’t come to you for another fifteen minutes.
When he did, he smiled like nothing was wrong.
“Hey, baby,” he said, nuzzling your cheek, pressing a warm hand to your waist.
“You looked busy.”
He pulled back, blinked. “What?”
You gestured—vague and casual—toward the bar. “The girl. Red dress.”
Johnny chuckled. “Oh, that was nothing.”
“She touched you.”
He smirked. “You touch me all the time.”
You stared. He laughed like it was sweet, not maddening. “C’mon, don’t pout. You jealous?”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re impossible.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re the only girl I’m going home with.”
That was supposed to make it better.
It didn’t.
⸻
Next was the gala.
A week later, you dressed up for him.
You wore a backless champagne-colored gown, curled your hair, added the perfume he liked—the one he said made you smell “dangerously edible.”
He looked at you like you were art when you stepped out.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, pulling you close. “You trying to kill me?”
He pressed his mouth to your ear, hand on the curve of your hip.
“Gonna be hard to keep my hands off you all night.”
You smiled. That soft, private kind of smile that belongs to someone who feels chosen.
⸻
You should’ve known better.
⸻
It was halfway through Reed’s speech when you saw her.
She was older. Stunning. In a glittering navy gown and Louboutin heels.
She was laughing with Johnny near the champagne table, hand brushing his arm.
He leaned in to whisper something. She blushed.
Blushed.
And then she slipped a business card into his breast pocket.
You stopped breathing.
Sue watched you from across the room. She was already making her way over when you turned away.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
You nodded. “Mhm.”
“Want me to start a fire in her hair?”
You laughed. Hollow. “No. I’m good.”
“Y/n…”
“I’m fine.”
But you weren’t.
⸻
That night, in the car home, you didn’t say much.
He didn’t notice.
He tapped the wheel as he drove, humming to a song on the radio.
“You were real quiet tonight,” he said at a red light.
You kept looking out the window. “Just tired.”
“You looked beautiful, y’know that?”
Your throat burned. “Thanks.”
He didn’t notice the way you curled in on yourself a little more with each mile.
⸻
Then the lab.
You were wearing his hoodie when it happened again.
A soft gray thing that smelled like his cologne. You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a bowl of popcorn in your lap while everyone decompressed after a rough week.
Johnny walked in wearing that cocky smile and a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. His hand was still wrapped from earlier. You worried over it, like always. He kissed your cheek. Ruffled your hair. Mouthed “you’re perfect” against your temple.
And then he walked over to the reporter.
You’d seen her before. She’d interviewed him once for an online feature and called him “a human torch and a heartbreaker.”
She was younger than you. New to the floor.
She giggled as he leaned on the table beside her.
He twirled her pen in his fingers and made some stupid joke about “needing someone to patch him up.”
She laughed. Loud. Flushed.
He said something else. She blushed. Again.
You watched.
You waited.
You counted to ten. Then twenty.
You closed the popcorn bowl. Slid off the couch. Walked down the hall without a word.
⸻
“Y/n?”
Of course he followed you. He always followed you.
You were standing by the vending machine, trying not to cry.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
You didn’t look at him. “Do you even know how many times I’ve stood there and watched you do that?”
He paused. “Do what?”
“Flirt. Let them flirt. Watch them touch you. Watch you let them.”
He scoffed. “Babe—”
“Stop calling me that.”
His eyes flinched.
You looked at him then. Fully.
“Do you have any idea how small I feel every time I have to pretend it’s fine? Every time I make an excuse for you? Every time I smile through it so I don’t look crazy?”
He was quiet. But only for a moment.
Then—
“I like attention, okay?”
You stared.
He shrugged. “I like feeling wanted. I like knowing I could if I wanted to.”
“But you have me.”
“I know.”
“And it’s not enough?”
His voice cracked.
“I didn’t say that.”
You took a step back.
“I love you,” he said.
You didn’t respond.
He stepped closer. “You’re the only one I come home to.”
You looked up, exhausted.
“Then why do you keep making me feel like I’m the one who has to competefor you?”
Silence.
Then you nodded. Just once. Quiet.
“I’m going home.”
He didn’t stop you.
Just stood there, biting the inside of his cheek.
⸻
You didn’t sleep that night.
But you dreamed—
Of being touched by someone who didn’t make you feel second place.
———
You didn’t plan to lose your patience today.
In fact, you woke up next to him with your cheek on his chest and the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and you thought—maybe today will be better.
He looked at you half-asleep, mumbled something about your breath smelling like cinnamon, and pulled you closer like he didn’t want to let go.
That was six hours ago.
⸻
You stopped by the Foundation café after a morning errand. He hadn’t texted, but you figured he’d be working late again, probably hadn’t eaten, probably hadn’t slept. You wanted to surprise him.
Two coffees. A chocolate croissant. His favorite. Your name and a little heart written in Sharpie on the lid of his cup.
You were smiling when you stepped into the atrium.
You weren’t when you saw him.
There he was, posted up on the edge of one of the science benches in that effortless lean he did—legs stretched out, one arm propped behind him. Relaxed. Casual. Untouchable.
And next to him?
A girl. Pretty, soft-voiced, leaning too close to be professional. She laughed as she touched his knee—lingering. His hand stayed where it was. His smile never wavered. You watched her reach out and adjust his collar like she’d done it before. Like she had permission.
Your stomach twisted.
You stayed frozen, halfway between the elevator and the bench, both coffees in your hands like you weren’t sure if they were gifts or jokes now.
He didn’t see you until someone else did—someone who nudged him and nodded your way.
“Oh,” he said, blinking like your presence had just occurred to him. “Hey, baby.”
You walked over. Handed him his coffee without looking at the girl.
“Brought you this,” you murmured.
He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “You’re the best.”
The girl watched you both with a raised brow and the smug kind of smirk that said she wasn’t worried about you.
He didn’t introduce you.
He didn’t explain who she was.
He didn’t move away from her, either.
And you? You said nothing. Again.
⸻
Later that afternoon, you wandered into the main floor labs. Reed had a public interview lined up for their quarterly PR outreach, and everyone was watching from one of the media rooms.
You stood in the back, arms folded, chewing on your thumbnail. Just watching.
Johnny looked good. Too good. Button-down rolled at the sleeves, curls in disarray, fingers drumming on the edge of his chair as he smirked into the camera like he was born to be there.
You weren’t in the frame. You never were.
“So, Johnny,” the interviewer asked, voice coy, “you’re known for being the team’s heartthrob. Are you seeing anyone?”
You froze.
He glanced off-camera. Not toward you. Just away. That was all.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got someone.”
The woman tilted her head. “Lucky girl.”
You could practically hear her biting her lip.
“She doesn’t like the spotlight,” Johnny added, all casual charm. “Likes to keep to herself.”
Which was code for don’t ask about her, I don’t want to talk about her.
The interviewer leaned closer. “Well, if she ever changes her mind…”
Johnny smiled. Big. Full teeth.
You left the room before the interview ended. No one stopped you. No one noticed.
He didn’t text.
You didn’t expect him to.
———
Your heels click against the rooftop stone as you make your entrance—red silk, thigh slit, a neckline that’s practically criminal. Hair glossy. Eyes dark.
You walk in knowing exactly how you look.
You walk in knowing he’ll see you.
You don’t walk in for him.
You walk in to end this.
⸻
Johnny doesn’t notice you right away. Not with Vogue Magazine clinging to his elbow and whispering something into his ear while her fingertips drag down his lapel.
You stop near the bar, pulse steady. Breathing calm.
You feel like a soldier in a dress.
Then—
“Y/n?”
Ben’s voice is soft. Friendly. Safe.
You turn toward him and smile like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey, big guy.”
He looks you up and down. His rocky brows lift. “You look…”
“Dangerous?”
He chuckles. “I was gonna say gorgeous, but yeah—dangerous works.”
You move toward him.
“Do me a favor?”
He nods. “Anything.”
You glance over at Johnny. Then back at Ben.
“Pretend I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Ben freezes. “Uh… you alright?”
You loop your arm through his like it’s instinct. Like it’s muscle memory. Like you haven’t been aching all day.
“Just need a little help making someone remember who the hell I am.”
Ben blinks. There’s a beat of hesitation.
And then something shifts in him.
“Then let’s remind him.”
⸻
You drag Ben across the rooftop—heels clicking, hips swaying, head held high. You pull him straight to the bar, right next to Johnny. You don’t look at Johnny, but you feel him tense the second you arrive.
You laugh at something Ben doesn’t say. You touch his chest with an open palm. You lean your head back like this is the most fun you’ve had all night.
Ben catches on fast.
“So what exactly am I supposed to be pretendin’ again?” he asks quietly.
“That I’m irresistible,” you murmur, tipping your glass toward your lips.
“That ain’t pretendin’,” Ben says before he can stop himself.
You grin.
And then you go in.
⸻
You start with the classics:
“God, I always forget how massive you are…”
Ben’s hand twitches around his glass. “Been told I’m hard to miss.”
“Bet you’re hard in a lot of ways.”
His head jerks toward you.
You sip your drink and smile like an angel.
“I mean, I just feel so… tiny next to you.”
“I… yeah, I get that a lot.”
“You think you could lift me?”
Ben blinks. “You want me to?”
“One-handed. Just for fun.”
He glances over his shoulder—toward Johnny, who is now visibly fuming, drink untouched, jaw clenched so tight it could crack.
Ben smirks.
“You sure about this?”
“Positive.”
With one arm, Ben lifts you—effortlessly—by the waist and places you gently onto the marble edge of the bar like you weigh less than air. You laugh. Throw your head back. Spread your knees just slightly for balance.
You lean in, voice low:
“That was hot.”
Ben grins. “Told you.”
You let your hand trail down his arm—slow. Deliberate. You don’t need to say anything else. The heat of your body, the tilt of your lips, the wayyou’re looking at him—it all says enough.
Johnny’s hands curl around the edge of his glass.
“Y/n.”
His voice cuts through the air like a blade.
You look over your shoulder, still perched on the bar.
“Oh. Hey.”
“Off.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“Get down.”
You raise your brows. Turn back to Ben.
“You hear something?”
Ben shrugs. “Just static.”
“Thought so.”
Johnny steps forward.
“Now.”
Ben takes one very protective half-step in front of you—still calm, still cool, but clearly ready.
You smile and swing your legs around, hopping off the bar slow and steady. Your heels click when you land.
You walk past Ben and brush your hand across his chest.
“Thanks, baby. You were perfect.”
Ben clears his throat. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
Johnny is burning.
You finally look at him.
“You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it.”
Then you walk away.
———
He pins you to the table like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
Mouth back on yours—messy, frantic, bruising. His tongue is all fire and fury, hands everywhere, pulling at your dress like he’s trying to rip time itself apart.
“You make me fucking crazy,” he hisses against your lips.
“Good.”
You yank his shirt from his pants. Buttons scatter across the floor. He lifts your dress, shoves it up to your waist like it’s in his way, like it offended him by existing. His palm cups between your legs—hot, rough, possessive.
“You’re soaked,” he growls. “That for me?”
You meet his eyes, smug. “Could’ve been for Ben.”
He slams his hand against the table beside your head. The entire thing shakes.
“You really wanna play that game right now, baby?”
“I’m not playing. You wanted me unhinged. You got her.”
He growls like an animal and slides your panties aside, dragging two fingers through you with absolutely zero mercy.
You gasp. Arch. Moan his name like it’s venom and worship all in one.
“That’s mine,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your neck. “Say it.”
You don’t.
So he chokes you.
One hand around your throat, thumb pressing up just enough to make you gasp again—just enough to keep you still.
“Say it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles darkly. “That’s the plan.”
⸻
He’s already unzipped. Already grinding against you, leaking and hard and mean.
“You want it?” he pants, rubbing himself against your soaked entrance. “Say you want it.”
“I want it like I want to slap the shit out of you.”
“Then fucking do it.”
You swing. Slap him across the face—sharp, loud, lightning-bright.
His eyes go feral.
“Harder next time,” he spits.
“Make me come first.”
He thrusts in with no warning. No buildup. Just possession—fast, deep, furious.
You cry out, and it’s not pain—it’s relief.
“That the voice you moaned for Ben?” he sneers.
You rake your nails down his back.
“Ben wouldn’t have stopped.”
He thrusts harder.
“Then I won’t.”
⸻
He fucks you like he’s punishing himself for ever looking away.
Pace brutal. Rhythm perfect. The table is rattling under you. He’s got a hand around your throat and another between your thighs—fingers circling your clit like he wants you ruined.
“You gonna come, baby?” he grunts. “Come on my cock like a good girl?”
“Fuck you,” you whisper.
He slaps your thigh. Then your face. Light. Perfect. Electric.
“Already am.”
You come so hard your vision whites out.
But he doesn’t stop.
Not even close.
⸻
He pulls out, flips you over like it’s instinct, bends you over the table—face down, ass up, dress bunched around your waist, skin slick and sensitive and shaking.
He slides back in deep.
You scream.
“Too much,” you gasp.
“Too bad.”
He grabs your hair and pulls.
“You think I’m done? After you let him touch you?”
“He didn’t—fuck—he didn’t touch me like this—”
“Damn right he didn’t.”
He thrusts harder. Deeper. Meaner.
You come again. And again.
You beg him to stop. You tell him not to.
He does neither.
⸻
“This pussy,” he snarls, voice wrecked, “is mine. Mine to ruin. Mine to claim. Mine to remind you who the fuck you belong to.”
You’re sobbing now—not from pain, but from everything. From the week of feeling ignored. From the war of needing him and hating him.
You clench around him like a vice and come again, body shaking like the words I hate you and I love you are fighting for dominance in your throat.
He spills into you with a groan so deep it sounds like surrender.
He doesn’t pull out.
He stays buried.
———
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.
Your chest is pressed to the table, legs shaking, inner thighs soaked with him and you and everything you’ve been too afraid to say for weeks.
You don’t speak.
Neither does he.
Not until you shift your hips slightly and whisper:
“Still hard.”
His hand comes down on your ass—hard. You gasp.
“You think I came just to stop?”
“You think you’ve earned that?”
“We’re not done.”
You start to push yourself up but he slams you right back down—face to the cold wood, breath catching in your throat.
“Stay right there. Don’t even fucking twitch.”
His hand trails up your spine—open palm, slow and possessive—until he grips the back of your neck.
“You embarrassed me,” he growls, voice shredded. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough for you.”
You breathe hard, trembling under his hold.
“Now I’m gonna remind you no one else gets to fuck you like this.”
And he starts moving again.
⸻
It’s deeper now. Slower. But cruel.
Like every thrust is a punishment. A declaration. A goddamn warning.
You try to push away—cry out that it’s too much—but he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls.
“Don’t run. You didn’t ask permission.”
“I don’t belong to you,” you whimper.
He leans down, teeth scraping your shoulder.
“You do.”
⸻
His hand slides around your throat again. He presses you back into him—flush—and pounds up into you like he’s going to split you open.
“Fuck, baby. You feel that?”
“Mhm—”
“That’s how full I am. How perfect this pussy is when it’s stuffed with me.”
You cry out.
“Louder.”
“Johnny—”
“That’s it. That’s the sound I wanna hear when you’re not busy trying to be a fucking brat.”
You clench around him. You’re close again—way too fast. He knows it.
“Already?” he laughs darkly. “You that needy for me? After acting like a little cocktease in front of the whole building?”
“Please—”
“You wanna come again?”
“Yes—fuck, Johnny, please—”
He pulls out.
You scream.
“Then beg.”
You shove yourself off the table, turn to face him, and slap him again—harder this time.
His lip splits.
He grins through the blood.
“God, I love you when you’re mean.”
⸻
You drop to your knees. No hesitation.
He grips your hair instantly.
“You gonna be a good girl now?”
You look up at him, spit gathering in your mouth, voice wrecked:
“Gonna gag on this cock until I can’t even speak your name.”
“Fuck.”
You take him all in one motion. Down to the base.
You don’t let up.
You use him.
Your mascara’s already running. Your throat burns. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your tits. And Johnny?
He’s choking on his own breath.
“Look at you,” he pants. “So fucking filthy. Didn’t need Ben. Didn’t need anyone. You just needed to be ruined.”
You hum around him.
He grabs the back of your head with both hands and fucks into your mouth.
You let him.
He pulls out with a loud pop and spits right in your mouth.
“Swallow.”
You do.
He groans like it’s his breaking point.
“Get on the table.”
You climb up—bare, trembling, soaked. He pulls your legs open and leans down.
“You think I’d let you come from anything but me?”
He doesn’t give you time to respond.
His mouth crashes into you, tongue unforgiving, hand gripping your thigh so hard you can’t move. He eats you like a man who’s about to die and wants to leave this world tasting you.
“That’s it,” he moans. “Come on my face. Fucking come.”
You do.
Hard. Messy. Loud.
He doesn’t stop.
⸻
“Johnny—fuck, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
“I’ll pass out—”
“I’ll wake you up and fuck you again.”
He slides back into you—no warning. Your scream echoes off the walls.
You don’t know what number this is.
You don’t care.
You’re gone.
And he’s right there with you.
⸻
One final climax. Together.
His lips to your ear, your nails in his back, his teeth on your throat.
You sob. He moans.
Your name. His name. A thousand apologies without a single sorry.
⸻
When it’s over, he holds your shaking body in his arms—still inside you, sweat cooling, blood still buzzing.
He presses his mouth to your temple. Whispering against your skin.
“I’m not losing you.”
You close your eyes.
You don’t say anything.
———
You’re the first one to move.
Your legs are trembling when you slide off the table, and you wince as you reach for your dress. Johnny watches—still tucked, still wrecked, still panting—and you don’t say a word as you fix your straps, tug the fabric down your thighs, and swipe at the smeared makeup under your eyes.
You feel like a hurricane wearing lipstick.
He tucks himself back into his pants slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might scare you off.
The silence is unbearable.
He opens his mouth. Then closes it.
You beat him to it.
“That meant nothing if it happens again.”
His throat bobs.
You turn your back to him. “I’m not strong enough to do this twice.”
“I know.”
You spin. “Do you?”
He flinches.
You walk past him. Pick up your purse. Fix your necklace in the mirror by the door.
Your voice cracks.
“Because I meant everything I said, Johnny. I felt invisible. Like I was just something you came home to. Something… reliable. Replaceable.”
He steps forward. Carefully. Gently. “You’re not. You’re not replaceable.”
You stare at your reflection.
“Then why did you keep letting them act like I didn’t exist?”
He opens his mouth—but you cut him off again.
“Why did you let them touch you?”
“Why didn’t you stop it the first time you saw it made me uncomfortable?”
“Why did I have to flirt with your best friend for you to finally look at me like you used to?”
The words spill out like blood. Sharp. Messy. Honest.
“Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to watch you pretend I didn’t matter?”
He takes another step forward. His voice is quieter now. “I didn’t pretend. I just… I got used to thinking you’d always be there.”
You finally turn to face him.
Your voice is shaking. Your hands are shaking.
“I almost cried in the bathroom this morning because I thought you were pulling away.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I thought you were falling out of love with me.”
“I wasn’t.”
Your lip trembles. You look away.
“I don’t believe you.”
It kills him. You see it in his eyes. In the way he takes another slow, careful step toward you like you’re a cornered animal.
“Then let me prove it.”
You look up. Blinking fast.
“How?”
He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.
“Starting now. No more flirting. Not even as a joke. Not with anyone but you.”
He kisses your wrist.
“No more ignoring you. No more acting like you’re just background. You’re not.”
He kisses your collarbone. The corner of your mouth.
“You’re everything.”
You whisper:
“You can’t just fuck me like that and expect it to undo everything you broke.”
He nods.
“I don’t expect it to. I just hope it means you’re still willing to let me try.”
Your breath hitches.
You don’t say yes.
You don’t say no.
You let him hold you. Let him bury his face in your neck. Let the silence stretch into something fragile.
"if i had a time machine i would go back in time and kill hitler"
I would put sea mines around medieval britain. i would give hannibal barca ww2 era heavy artillery and tell him not to stop till he starts seeing gauls. i would give boudica a fucking abrams. i would appear before jesus like an angel and tell him "you gotta stop. not cause theyll kill you, youre fine with that, surprisingly, but because your fanclub is gonna spend about 1500 years making everything worse for everyone, everywhere." I would take a glock back in time and shoot romulus, shoot remus, and shoot that damn dog too just to be safe. i would be on the side of christopher columbus' ship in a scuba suit planting c4 on that bitch like rainbow six siege. i would be waging a one woman campaign of terror across andalusia to prevent the reconquista. i would be getting way out in front of that shit is what im saying,
daily reminder that there is absolutely nothing normal about being expected to waste a majority of your life at a corporation to survive instead of indulging in better life experiences ✨
In the 1960s it was a common speculation that by 1980 the typical work week would consist of 4 days. And by the year 2000 we’d be working no more than 3 days a week.
Because of computerization, automation, and better efficiencies in workflow.
