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#Up All Night
aguuuua · 3 months
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los tiempos siempre cambian 😿💙
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loullipopx · 3 months
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Up All Night 💫
Hope your 2023 was good, here’s to 2024 !!
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Up All Night 1
Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, narcissim, probably name calling and nasty words, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (older!reader)
Note: I wasn't serious about this but now I were. Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.
Part of The Club AU
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You rub your cheek as you check the time in the corner of the screen. You should’ve been gone an hour ago, you should have your bottle of shiraz and your episode of housewives to keep you company. You don’t know why you expected that, nothing ever goes to schedule, not with your boss.
You sigh at his empty office. You haven’t seen him for two days. He has an automatic reply that he’s ‘working remotely’. You know Mr. Drysdale well enough. He doesn’t work outside the office, he barely does anything at the office.
You go back to the PDF, your red notes in the margin of the manuscript. Big meeting tomorrow. Hopefully your boss got that message. You can only imagine what would happen if a publishing house missed their introductory conference with a major writer. That could mean thousands, if not millions, in losses. Somehow, you suspect you won’t have to imagine.
You finish the chapter and press your finger to your phone. It lights up but you don’t have anything more than the several reminders you set for yourself and automated notifications from apps you never use. Drysdale…
His last name rolls from your throat without meaning too. Something about him just irks you to the bone. Maybe it’s envy, or at very least, resent. You’ve worked all these years in the publishing business to become an assistant, all while he was born into his editor’s chair.
Another bubble pops up. You’re not the social media type. You never got much into it. Your generation came a bit too early for that, but you’ve found with men like Drysdale, narcissists really, it is a great tool.
You tap the notification and it opens the story. There he is, taking a shot with a pair of statuesque twins. Not the best look for an editor, on that night, of all nights. 
You clamp your lips shut and flare your nostrils. Right. You close your laptop as you see Eugene making his sweep. Once security pops up, you know you’ve got to go. You pack up your things and say hello to the man in the blue uniform on your way out. He knows you by name too.
You shift your glasses on your nose, the little rubber pieces starting to squeeze your bridge. You come out the front of the building and make your way to the only car left in the lot. You throw your bag in the back and drop into the front seat.
No wine for you. You’ll have to stream the episode when it comes out on Prime. You set a new alarm for the morning, early enough for you to make sure Mr. Drysdale meets his obligations.
📗
As expected, you don’t have a single call from Drysdale. You’ve left several messages since your alarm blared and broke through your four hours of sleep. You see his last activity on Insta from three in the morning and you want to throttle your own phone. This isn’t good.
You have only enough time to get yourself ready. Your morning routine of a perfectly portioned breakfast and precisely brewed dark roast is nixed. You get in your car with coffee in a travel mug. You have only one thing on your mind.
As you draw up the long drive to the ultra-modern facade, the revulsion courses from your stomach into your throat. There’s something about his style that makes your eyes roll. So obnoxious and absurd. He’s exactly a caricature of a silver-spooned brat.
You park behind the beamer and take a draw from your insulated mug. Ugh, you need caffeine, you need strength and patience. You put it back in the cupholder and force yourself out of the peace of the front seat.
You stride up the white stone walkway and hit the doorbell. Once. Twice. Five times before you admit you will not receive an answer. You bring up the emergency file in your phone and key in the door code. Drysdale would shit if he knew his mother sent you it but she is a lot smarter than him. It makes you wonder how the apple rolled so far away after falling.
You let yourself in. It’s quiet but for the catch and skip of a forgotten record. You go into the front room. Open bottles of liquor forgotten on the glass table, a broken glass on the floor, and the record player crackling through the speaker.
You pull the needle off and pause to look out through the transparent wall that gives a clear view of the entire room. You know Drysdale to be shameless but really?
You put your phone away and approach the stares. The large gap between each gives a sense of vertigo to your ascent. You get to the top and head down the hall, glancing down over the entryway as you do.
You carry on and open a door; closet. The next, a bathroom, the other, a bedroom but not used. And finally, you find the door you’re looking for. On the other side, Mr. Drysdale sleeps with his ass naked in the room, upside down on the bed with his head hanging off the foot. The same woman from his Instagram are entwined with him as they sleep the right side up. Ugh, you don’t want to picture it.
You go into the en suite bathroom and take the sleek black plastic cup from beside the sink. You fill it with cold water and unhook the amber satin robe from the door as you pass. You march to the bed and dump the water onto Ransom’s head, watching it splash down his back.
He yipes and whips his head up with an unattractive snort, “what the fuck–”
“Robert Laing is due at nine. It’s ten to eight.” You drop the robe over him carelessly and spin on your heel, “let’s go., Mr. Drysdale.”
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popping-your-culture · 3 months
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Our ‘90s bedtime buddy and late night date, Rhonda Shear.
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pratchettquotes · 11 months
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There are times when you just have to miss a night's sleep. But Ankh-Morpork never slept; the city never did more than doze, and would wake up around three a.m. for a glass of water.
You could buy anything in the middle of the night. Timber? No problem. Moist wondered whether there were vampire carpenters, quietly making vampire chairs. Canvas? There was bound to be someone in a city who'd wake up in the wee small hours for a wee and think, What I could really do with right now is one thousand square yards of medium-grade canvas! and, down by the docks, there were chandlers open to deal with the rush.
Terry Pratchett, Going Postal*
*special request from @dimity-lawn, who asked me to find this particular description of everyone's favorite sleepless city-state.
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harrywavycurly · 4 months
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Happy 12th birthday to the album that started it all, Up All Night. If you need me I’ll be crying listening to One Thing😭💖
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machetelanding · 21 days
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loveforbrave · 4 months
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One Direction released their debut album "Up All Night" 12 years ago
Thanks to all the gods above us, we live in the same era
Love you boys 😭💔
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niallthebadboi · 6 months
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Finally my collection is complete!
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aguuuua · 2 months
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harry boxeador 💚
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enchantedlandcoffee · 7 months
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Art of all One Direction songs.
Blue - Up All Night
Red - Take Me Home
Yellow - Midnight Memories
Orange - Four
Green - Made in the A.M
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I am feeeelin’ my vibe today y’all. Went ahead and made a gif… or a couple… about it. 😝
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Up All Night 6
Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, narcissim, probably name calling and nasty words, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (older!reader)
Note: I wasn’t serious about this but now I were. Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.
Part of The Club AU
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You go through your usual routine. Well, not exactly. As you wait for the kettle to boil for your coffee, you go into the bedroom, the raucous, alcohol-laced snores of your boss filling the space. You open the closet, giving little concern to his sleep, as you search for an outfit.
You take a grey-blue dress and retrieve several other pieces from your top drawer. You snatch your watch from the top of the dresser, not allowing a glance towards the man in your bed. Man child!
You stomp out to the living room and leave your clothes on the couch as you go to brew the coffee. You let it steep as you get dressed. Bra and underwear first. You pull on one stocking then bend to poke your foot in the other. As you roll it up your leg, you hear a groan.
Ransom’s hand hits the wall as he lumbers down the hallway. You quickly fix the top of the stocking and snatch the dress up, hiding behind it as you face him. He groggily blinks at you as she yawns and rubs his eye socket.
“Christ,” you whisper as you flick your eyes to the ceiling. He’s still fucking naked.
“Coffee…” he grumbles.
“Clothes,” you retort and unzip the back of the dress, swiftly slipping it over your head. You strain to pull up the zipper and smooth the front. “What is wrong with you?”
“Damn, always knew you were a tight ass but–”
You collect the clothing littered around the floor. It smells like liquor and sweat. You huff as you go to him, staring him down, only looking above his shoulders. You shove the armful against his chest.
“Get dressed.”
“What time is it?”
“Urgh,” you let go of the clothes as he refuses to take them. They drop to the floor as you throw your hands up, “you do what you want then. But you’re out of here by the time I leave. Got it? Even if your buck naked.”
You spin and storm back to the kitchen. You press down the lever of the press and take out a sleek white mug. You pour the dark nectar into the porcelain, the last few drops landing on the counter as it slides out from under the spout. You sputter as Ransom claims your coffee and leans against the marble edge to sip and sigh.
“You’re–” you stop yourself. He is still your boss.
You look at the press. It only makes enough for you. Only what you need. You sneer and empty out the used grinds, starting another batch. You leave Ransom, still shamelessly nude, in the kitchen.
You put your watch on and return to the bedroom. A simple silver chain to complete the look. You enter the bathroom and start on your moisturising and makeup. As you apply your mascara, the door sings open and Ransom staggers in. Is he still drunk?
He slurps from the mug before he clinks it down on the corner of the counter. You ignore him and twist the mascara shut. You choose a neutral lipstick and lean in to trace your lips. He belches and flips up the lid of the toilet, leaning on the tank as he aims his dick at the bowl. The sudden scour of his piss against the porcelain makes you draw outside your lip line.
“Okay, that’s–” You scoff and toss the lipstick into your makeup case, “disgusting.”
You grab the entire leather chest and skirt out behind him, trying not to get too close. You go into the bedroom and slam your makeup collection down on the vanity. You wipe away the smudge and start again.
The toilet flushes and another obnoxious yawn thunders through the apartment. The floorboards denote his approach and you sense his shadow behind you in the mirror. You focus on yourself.
“Big mirror,” he comments as he nears, “ever fuck in it?”
You cap the lipstick and cringe, “Mr. Drysdale,” you look at your watch, “I have twenty minutes to drink my coffee and go. You have less time to get your clothes on and leave.”
“Relax, I’m coming with you. Obviously.”
“Is it? Obvious?” You ask sharply. 
“What does that mean?” He squints.
You stop yourself from answering. From telling him that you could run the office without him. That it’s actually easier without him there. You shrug.
“Put your clothes on.”
“Why?” He smirks, “you feeling something about it?”
“Revulsion, mostly.”
“Still a feeling.”
You take a breath and tilt your head. Exasperation floods to your throat and constricts. You’re only encouraging him. You exhale and step around him.
“Eighteen minutes,” you declare.
You sweep down the hall and through the front room. In the kitchen, you pour another cup of coffee, keeping your hand defensively on the mug’s handle. You put the press down and blow over the steamy cup. You taste the rich dark roast and hum.
“You’re gonna have to drive me to my place,” Ransom says over the rustle of fabric, “there’s a stain on this shirt.”
“Your puke,” you sniff derisively. “You can uber–”
“Be quicker if you drove.”
You roll your eyes, keeping your back to the door as you feel him at the threshold. You don’t have the energy for this. You should’ve left him at the club. Teach him a lesson for once in his life.
“So, I’m still confused. How did I get here?” He asks.
“How do you think?”
“Well, I really didn’t take you as the clubbing type,” he chortles, “definitely cougar vibes though. I know a guy who’s real into that–”
“I watch a man scrape you off the club floor. I wasn’t there for fun,” you face him with a growl, “next time, I’ll have them call your mom because I’m done playing that role.”
He scoffs. Then laughs. Then blows a raspberry.
“You really think you’re better than me? You? A sad old lady?”
“Mr. Drysdale,” you look at your watch. You won’t entertain his insults.
“Maybe next time, you should call my mother. You and her have a lot in common.”
“Surprising, because I don’t think I could ever raise a brat like you…” you retort and swallow tightly, “Mr. Drysdale.”
The humour drains from his face and his eyes darken. His jaw grits and he buttons up his shirt, glaring at you. “Coffee,” he snaps his fingers, “be a doll and get me another cup… assistant.”
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popping-your-culture · 10 months
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Rhonda Shear hosting USA Up All Night: the stuff ‘90s late night dreams were made of.
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nightbornstar · 5 months
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Got this CD in the mail today! ❤️😊
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