#slightly shameful self promotion

[namakes]

Frye and the Deepsea

This is a concept I’ve had knocking around for a while and have already written about once before, but I thought I’d share it here, too. So! Without further ado, I’ll get into it under the cut.

While the concept doesn’t pan out in the long run, as the three clans are said to come from Splatlands-based families, I still liked the idea. There’s a lot going on in the Deepsea outside of the Metro that we don’t get to see; stairways leading to unknown areas, floating structures with neon signs, and even some cities way down under the sea. According to an interview (full doc), the Deepsea is mainly a working/university town, which we can also tell based on the number of citizens on the Metro in various uniforms.

Frye is likely based on a vampire squid, based on her long ears (like the vampire’s fins), glowing fingertips (similar to its prominent photophores on the tips of its tentacles), and extra-long fangs (like the spiny structures along the insides of its tentacles, similar to a vampire’s teeth). The vampire squid, which is actually not a squid but is more closely related to an octopus (though it isn’t that either, but anyway), is a very deep sea cephalopod. They prefer depths of over 2-3 thousand feet, living in an extreme low-oxygen environment. Just to tack on at the end here, because I thought it was fun, but her Deep Cut pose makes me think of an elbow squid (also a deep sea squid).

Next up is her Sunken Scroll! Starting at the top, the “clouds” blowing in look like a stylized wave or sea foam. On the right is a yellow ball, to the left a white one, but the background is dark and starry all the way across. Below that are some jellyfish, which may just be there to fill space, but do look a little like giant phantom jellyfish with their similar billowy arms (particularly the ones in the back of the image) or moon jellyfish. Giant phantoms are also a deep sea jellyfish, and moon jellyfish have been known to go to depths of 3000 feet, as well as areas with low-oxygen levels. Finally, the background is decorated with an assortment of corals, and we can see sea grapes growing along the bottom left of the image. This overall gives the feeling that the scene takes place underwater.

Saving my favorite part for last; both her Scroll and Tartar (from Octo Expansion) mention the promised land, which we know to be the surface. Her scroll states “[…] as a hundred eels take flight, follow them to the promised land”, while the phone, when you first talk to it, tells you ”[...] My primary function is to facilitate your journey to the promised land”.

TL;DR: Deepsea is cool, it fits her (potential) squid-inspiration, her Sunken Scroll seems set underwater, and both her Scroll and Tartar mention the promised land.

if you wanted to read something with this concept in mind, I did work it into my fic Hell and High Water, which you can read over here.

#splatoon #frye (splatoon) #slightly shameful self promotion #not sure what else to tag #i'll add the #utsufuu #shiver x frye #tags just bc of the fic link at the end

[pinxilla]

Chapters: 2/7 Fandom: 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mòběi-jūn/Shàng Qīnghuá, Mòběi-jūn & Shàng Qīnghuá Characters: Shàng Qīnghuá, Mòběi-jūn, Ān Dìng Peak Disciples Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Shàng Qīnghuá-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Relationship, Implied Relationships, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Dubious Ethics, background OCs - Freeform Summary:

Shang Qinghua wasn't much in his first life- and from the way it's looking, he isn't going to be much in his second either. But really, isn't this too unlucky! He wasn't a saint, but surely he deserved better than this! Groveling for survival in the world he created! How ungrateful! How unfilial! Someone should do something about the universe's customer service. Not him, of course. But, someone!

chapter two is out ^-^

#svss #scumbag self saving system #scum villain self saving #shang qinghua #SQH #mobei jun #mbj #moshang #slightly shamed self promotion

[venus-haze]

Love Is a Ring on the Telephone (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: When work calls you away from New York, Homelander can’t bear how much he misses you.

Note: Gender neutral reader and no descriptors are used. This fic is fluffy (and shorter than what I usually write) but still a little dark, and takes place vaguely during season 2. Inspired by Bruce Springsteen’s and Patti Smith’s versions of Because the Night (I actually got inspired for a few fics based on various lines in the song). Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Some possessive behavior and emotional manipulation (it’s Homelander). Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Homelander stared at the calendar taped to the wall in a desperate hope that he could somehow will time to race forward, and you’d be back home. He missed you terribly, spending the past few nights in your shoebox apartment he had yet to convince you to move out of. It was too cramped and loud for his liking, between your neighbors and the street noise, but he hadn’t realized how attached he’d become to it until you were gone. 

He went as far as pulling on one of your sweatshirts to sleep in, just because it still smelled like you. It was only day two of your five day business trip to a conference in Los Angeles, but each day without you felt like a week that dragged on endlessly. He’d been on bullshit missions from Vought that went longer, ones where he couldn’t even contact you until he returned, his insides shredded to bloody mush at the lingering anxiety that maybe in his absence, you found someone else.

From the moment he stepped into the disgustingly crowded airport with you, a melancholy swept over him. He offered to fly you to your hotel in LA himself, frustrated when you decided to do things the pedestrian way. At least his presence allowed you to skip the security line that stretched all the way back to the bag check as he graciously took selfies with each TSA agent. After all, you couldn’t be a threat if you were with The Homelander of all people. 

He would’ve gone with you, if it weren’t for the ‘Dawn of the Seven’ promotions that Ashley couldn’t get him out of. She nearly threw up while breaking the bad news to him, and he could hear her heart racing even as she practically sprinted down the hallway after he dismissed her. Reluctantly, he stayed behind while you went away, gritting his teeth through every interview and guest appearance. Having been paraded around plenty of Vought conferences himself, he knew damn well plenty of people used them as an excuse to get drunk and fuck around without their significant others’ knowledge.

He huffed, turning away from the calendar and practically rolling his eyes at himself. You’d proven time and time again that he could trust you, that you were the one for him. Still, his self-assurance did nothing to abate the sourness in his stomach, and suddenly, he’d pulled out his phone, ear pressed to the screen as the dial tone rang almost mockingly. He paced the kitchen floor, glancing at the clock on the wall. A little past one in the morning on the West Coast, but you wouldn’t mind if he woke you up.

“Baby? It’s late,” you yawned, the mundane noise making Homelander’s nerves settle slightly. “Is everything okay?”

He chewed his bottom lip, feeling like a schoolgirl calling her crush for the first time, almost instinctively reaching to play with a non-existent phone cord. There was neither pride nor shame when it came to you, only the affection and devotion that he’d spent his life longing for. Your presence soothed him, but your absence made his heart wrench in his chest. 

“Missed you,” he said softly.

“I miss you too. This conference is so boring. The people are weird, and I haven’t gotten a chance to see anything in LA.”

“What’s there to see? You’ve got a hot blond at home,” he said.

Your laughter made him feel indescribably lighter, even when it became muffled by your hand covering your mouth. 

“There aren’t palm trees in New York, smarty.”

“If you wanna see palm trees, I can think of at least five places I can take you that are nicer than LA.”

“I read that some palm trees grow in the Mediterranean, like Greece and Italy.”

“We’ll have to go one day to see, huh?”

You enthusiastically agreed, and he clung to your every word as you described your dream vacations in detail. He’d bring you everywhere, wrapped tightly in his arms from the moment he took off in New York until the two of you inevitably ended up in bed somewhere beautiful and secluded, where you could truly be alone together. 

He wondered what you’d think of moving out of the city, maybe to one of the smaller beach towns out on Long Island or somewhere more secluded in the Catskills. Either way, he’d have a commute for the first time in his life, but he could deal with a quick flight to Vought Tower if it meant waking up beside and coming home to you each day. After years of clamoring for the adoration of the masses, millions of people cheering his name and going into a frenzy in his presence paled in comparison to the sincerity in your voice and steady heartbeat whenever you told him that you loved him. 

Often, he felt like no one else knew what being in love was like, otherwise they wouldn’t make him go on asinine press tours or send you away to the opposite side of the country for a conference. Something so passionate and all-consuming as what he felt for you couldn’t be ruined by distance, and though he could listen to you talk on the phone all night, it wasn’t the same as being able to see and feel you. He’d grown far too accustomed to the warmth and gentleness of your touch, the way your eyes lit up for him and nobody else. 

A loud bang and the sound of drunk chatter outside your room interrupted your voice, and though no human could have heard the commotion so clearly, he could, and his lip curled in response. You immediately apologized, ranting about the people at the conference, most of whom you found uppity and unpleasant, finding networking with them at panels and meals more of a chore than an opportunity.

He looked at your refrigerator, colorful magnets holding up your handwritten lists and reminders, but his gaze was focused on the selfie of the two of you on your second date to the Bronx Zoo just a few months prior. You’d taken the time to get the photo printed and displayed in a spot that was domestic and sentimental, somewhere you and anyone else who entered your place could easily see. His hands suddenly felt cold in your physical absence, and a lump formed in his throat as he found himself on the verge of tears.

“If it’s such a drag, you should just leave early and come home.”

“Baby, you know I can’t—“

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised softly, the ‘from now on’ was unspoken, but from the way he could hear your breath faintly hitch over the phone, he knew you understood.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Will you come get me?”

“I’ll be there before you blink.”

“I’ll keep my eyes wide open for you.”

He smiled, letting out a soft chuckle at your words. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“That’s impossible.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Can’t I try?”

“You don’t need to try. Just being mine is enough, darling.”

Everything in his life had gone to shit so fast, but not you, never you. He’d raze cities to ash before letting you go, before possibly losing the warmth that enveloped him at the thought of you and how much you loved him. Even if he could bottle the feeling, inject it into his veins whenever he pleased, he wouldn’t, not when he had you by his side. He wasn’t sure if anyone could compare. As much as he wished he’d met you sooner, he supposed later was better than never.

You ended the phone call, your voice soft and melodic as you once again professed your love to him. He did the same before hanging up, hastily grabbing one of your sweaters from your closet. You’d always get cold while flying with him. He brought the knitwear to his nose, the scent of your fabric softener and a hint of your perfume almost making him dizzy. Wasting no more time, he left your apartment to make it to Los Angeles before you could fall back asleep.

He knew which hotel you were staying at and the room number, having texted it to him before you left. Of course, he’d memorized the details, and within half an hour was hovering outside of your eighth floor hotel room window, which you gladly opened for him. You were in your pajamas, your small suitcase packed on the bed.

“My hero!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms around him and pressing a playful kiss to his cheek.

Your lips on his skin made it feel like he was on fire, and he took your face in his ungloved hands, kissing you desperately as your sweater fell to the floor. Two days had suddenly transformed into a lifetime of longing and separation, and as he slipped his tongue into your open mouth, he did so with the intention of savoring you, getting as close to devouring you as he could. 

Squeezing his hips to steady yourself only encouraged him further, a groan rumbling from deep in his chest. Sometimes, you made it so hard for him to have any self-control, and in those moments he almost lamented his powers. His strength made your being with him inherently dangerous, yet despite the risks, you willingly sought out his embrace and intimacy.

“Always yours,” he muttered huskily against your lips. 

You looked at the sweater on the floor, smiling at the gesture. “Thanks.”

“Can’t have you catching pneumonia on the way home, can I?” he said as you pulled the sweater on.

You grabbed your suitcase off the bed, and he took it from you with ease, holding it in one hand, his other arm firmly around your waist. He’d flown you plenty of places before, and though you were no longer nervous like the first time he took you flying, he loved how you clung to him anyway.

#homelander x reader #the boys x reader #homelander x you #homelander imagine #the boys #the boys amazon #the boys tv

[cannivalisms]

random question but does the world of terras town have any sort of religion

swear i've been sitting on answering this one for literal months now i'm. so sorry! wanted to be in a more tt mood again before replying (i'm still not fully but nostalgia is hitting hard on this friday night. btw).

also yeah! so since tt exists as a refraction (and opposition) of the town right above it, its no surprise that its religion also has similar (and skewed) foundations. considering lev's hometown is largely christian (& catholic), aka structured around a man dying for them, surprise! tt's is all about a woman being killed by them. which actually fits into their general day to day beliefs and attitudes more than you'd think.

so, just as lev's world has Our Lord, tt has Our Lady. and god in their case came from the earths, her divine body both one with the sand and also somehow sleeping deep within it. and in popular mythos, this is how the people of terras also first came to be: chewing and tearing their way free from her flesh, and thus becoming imbued along the way with a small spark of her divinity (aka, their magic). but subsequently, for each new person 'born', god grew weaker, until eventually self preservation rose and she woke up, with the aim to swallow them all back down again and re-become whole. this is the point where the people of terras proceeded to band together and kill her to maintain their lives. bonding activities fr

anyway it's no real surprise that as a result religious virtue in tt is based less around humility and fearing your god, and more about personal pride and surpassing them. terran religion is meant to uplift the self, promote determination and senses of justice, and encourage unity in the face of greater evils, since they are literally all each other have in the middle of this cut off dreambubble wasteland. these beliefs also tie though as to why the council & upper classes in terras generally suppress or hand wave away most religious affairs - last thing they need here is the lower classes to start being like oh shit right, we are so powerful actually, we can take on those corrupt bastards in charge if we all stick together haha!!!. it's not like they'll discriminate or outright prohibit religious displays or holidays, since that tends to only breed fiercer devotion and encourage the unwanted behavior, but for each religious holiday, some other follow up festivity or something will be made to sort of remind people of their power in particular. yk. power that you can actually see and touch and fear. not the general sense of power that allowed us all to hypothetically kill a god once upon a time. so. it's also why they encourage the vitriol and suspicion people in the lower classes have for each other.

unfortunately these attempts have also sort of largely worked, since there is not a lot to be proud of when you're fighting from day to day to survive to the next - or a lot to trust when your neighbor seems keen to stab you in the back. religious people exist in terras, but they're not that frequent (esp amongst The Masses), and are also usually dismissed more as optimists.

anyway past this, there's also some other branches off this primary faith - main sub groups include people who maintain that the Lady willingly let herself be killed instead of being gloriously defeated, and that there is no honor to be found in that kind of victory and that terras town citizens should be repenting for the original sin (sounds more familiar right?) vs people who maintain that the Lady wasn't ever really killed, only pushed back into slumber, and that one day she'll rise again to swallow them all - and that the people of tt must be ready to band together when that happens and truly defeat her for good etc etc. most people in tt find the former group whiny, if not downright heretical if they too are religious (who are you to try and shame us for our proudest and core tenet?), and the second cringe as fuck, plus slightly hererical if we are being picky (the whole point is that she's fucking dead dude).

oh and also there's the breakers. right. forgot about them. they are not connected to religion so much as they are like... the science of terras town, but they're a cult so i guess they sort of count in this section too. basically their full title is the barrier breakers, they think terras and the upper world need to be unified in a great rapture, and that the first sign of this happening will be the two planes 'swapping blood.' & they are going to love lev ❤️

#terras town #urban fantasy #writeblr #original writing #worldbuilding #talking with the wind #theres also some fun superstition around. ie sandwalkers which are like a combination of changelings and zombies #who are formed from the corpses of those who lie under the desert’s sands #people say you can identify them by the unburnt soles of their feet and pale skin #they take on faces of loved ones to lure you in and then bite you to draw the life out of you you know how these things go #oh also sandgrabbers! vaguely same premise as far as creation goes but these corpses were too skeletal to start walking about so #they stay underground and pull you under if you walk over them #this isnt religion either but hey! kinda fun. kinda fun! #anyway sorry for late reply & also forgive the slightly messy everything about this. im lacking in iron and trying to remember what my 18 y #old self was on about with a lot of this #she writes

[axlsrxses]

𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔, axl rose

pairing: axl rose x sofia moreno (fem!oc)

requested: yes/no

synopsis: in which sofia feels self-conscious over her relationship with axl and all of the tabloids.

warnings: fluff, sl*t-shaming, swearing, mentions & references of alcohol.

word count: 1.46k

𝗪𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝟭𝟵𝟴𝟳

the rain hammered down against the clouded window as sofia lay peacefully on her bed watching her favourite show, the golden girls. the past week at work had taken a toll on her and seeing how the tabloids described her and her relationship just made things a whole lot worse for the girl.

for four long months, axl had been touring the united states, promoting the band’s debut album and opening for bands like; the cult, iron maiden and mötley crüe. and although sofia was proud of her boyfriend and the rest of the band, all she wanted was to lay with her head on his lap as he played with her hair…the one thing that could calm her.

suddenly, an echo of loud cheers sounded from outside of her window, quickly followed by a small tap against the bedroom window. taking a deep breath, sofia reluctantly rose to her feet and made her way towards the window, her mind racing. it wouldn’t be the first time that fans or the paparazzi broke onto their property to get some behind the scenes photos, in fact this would be the fifth time in four months.

“babe, open the door!” axl’s familiar voice seemed to bounce through the still closed window. “we’re getting bloody drenched out here!”

letting out a long sigh of relief, sofia quickly made her way down the stairs, opening the front door to see four slightly wet guys standing in front of her, smiles stretched across each of their faces. before she could react, the four boys clambered through the doorway, wrapping their arms tightly around the much shorter girl and pulling her close against their soaked clothing.

“you guys suck!” sofia squeaked, brushing off the droplets of water from her skin as the guys stepped back. “i just had a shower!”

“and you didn’t invite me?” slash smirked mischievously, slowly wrapping his arms around the petite girl’s waist.

“in your dreams, hudson.” the younger girl smiled innocently, pushing the taller guy back. “only one of you guys is joining me in the shower.”

letting a smirk spread across his face, axl stepped towards the shorter girl, wrapping his arms around her and gently kissing the top of her head. the last four months had been hell without his girl beside him. she kept him grounded during his emotional outbreaks and was always there to look out for him whenever he decided to indulge in a night of endless drinking.

you see, when the band announced they would be touring for sixteen months, sofia was beyond happy for them and even offered to travel around with them…that was until the papers got a hold of some secret photos, showing her and slash jokingly messing around with one another and blew it completely out of proportion, labelling her as ‘the slut of the 80s’.

“get a room.” duff gagged, making sure to emphasise on the disgusting sound.

rolling her eyes at duff’s remark, sofia subtly flipped the much taller off before placing her hands on top of axl’s. she was happy he was home, ecstatic even, but she couldn’t help but think of all the dehumanising words that had been pinned next to her name in the tabloids and all the rumours that circulated around their very private relationship.

“who is ready to get completed fucked?” steven cheered, breaking the silence as he threw his arms into the air and walked into the living room, knowing exactly where to find the best alcohol in the house.

∙∘☽༓☾∘∙

a few hours had passed since the band had arrived to surprised sofia and no matter how many shots she had, she couldn’t shake the tabloids from her mind. of course she knew that her relationship with axl was as perfect as it could be and that nothing was going on between her and any of the other band mates, besides the occasional flirting, but she was worried about the way it would affect her business.

at the age of seventeen, sofia became the sole owner of her family’s restaurant after both her parents became too sick to carry on working. the ‘arco dorado’, or the ‘golden bow’ when translates to english, was a celebrity hotspot when it came to spanish food.

having left the four guys in the “party room”, sofia stood silently in front of the living room window, looking out at the rain bouncing against the many puddles.

“you’ve been quiet since we came home.” axl spoke suddenly, resting his chin against her shoulder as he looked at her. “what happened?”

“it’s nothing.” sofia shrugged, her eyes fixed on the raindrops running down the window. “go and have fun with the guys, i’ll be fine.”

it was never nothing and axl knew that. as bad as it sounded, he was grateful that sofia wasn’t someone who expressed her sad emotions a lot. it brought back a lot of memories for him that he found hard to cope with but he hated when she closed herself off completely, especially when he knew something was eating away at her slowly.

“don’t do this to me, fi.” axl sighed frustratedly, stepping back from his girlfriend as she turned round to face him. “don’t push me away.”

“i’m not pushing you away. i’m telling you to enjoy yourself.” sofia retorted, crossing her arms as she watched axl’s facial expression tense up.

“is this about those fucking tabloids?!” axl questioned, his voice rising slightly before noticing sofia flinch at the sound of him yelling. “please just talk to me.”

maybe it was the miserable weather outside or the way that she felt about axl finally being home but sofia couldn’t stay strong anymore. four months of pushing her feelings down was long enough, all because she was worried about photographers seeing her cry and spinning another story of lies and deceit.

noticing some tears escaping sofia’s eyes, axl quickly jolted forward, pulling the petite girl into his arms as he felt her body shake against his.

axl hated the tabloids, he hated the paparazzi and most of all, he hated the way both of those things made sofia feel. when the duo had got together in 1985, everything was perfect for them. the band’s music was starting to take off and photographers loved to snap photos of the young couple in love and always made sure to compliment sofia on her looks, but that photo with slash was what changed everything.

“sof, look at me.” axl spoke quietly, using his hand to raise sofia’s head. “fuck the tabloids.”

“i can’t just pretend that i don’t see what people are saying about me, ax.” sofia sighed, more tears silently escaping her eyes. “everyone thinks i’m some slut that is sleeping with slash behind your back.”

“i know, baby.” axl sighed, lifting his hand up and wiping away the tears from her cheek. “but you’re none of the things that they say you are. you’re the kindest and most beautiful girl i have ever met and i wish that you could see yourself like we do.”

his words were true. axl thought sofia was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. he loved the way her blue eyes glistened like the ocean in the sun and how her light brown hair always seemed to shine a beautiful shade of caramel. he had fallen in love with her the first time he met her and ever since that hectic night, he made it his priority to cherish and love her.

“i’m just scared that one of these days you’ll see something that you don’t like and you’ll believe them.” sofia mumbled, her voice cracking as she began anxiously picking at the skin around her freshly painted nails. “i don’t wanna lose you, ax.”

hearing the pain in her voice was enough to send axl spiralling. since the beginning of the band, he had never had good interactions with the paparazzi, often losing his temper and erupting into fights with them, but to see how they made the girl of his dreams feel about herself and their relationship, axl wasn’t so sure how far he would go to protect her.

“you’re my girl, sofia, and my girl only. not slash’s, not duff’s. your mine.” axl smiled kindly, his hand rested against her flushed cheek. “i will always love you.”

leaning forward, axl placed a gentle and loving kiss against her lips, feeling a small smile forming as he pulled away.

“i really love you.” sofia smiled, wiping away the last tears that had rolled down her cheek. “like a lot.”

“i love you too, mija.” axl chuckled, wrapping his arms around her once more and holding her close to him.

#guns n roses #axl rose #slash hudson #duff mckagan #steven adler #izzy stradlin #the 1980s #motley crue #iron maiden #axl rose imagine

[lgwifey]

friable

damon albarn x fem!model!reader

Summary : Y/n is left in an awkward situation when a doctor's appointment she was forced to go to because of recent sickness and stomach pains leave her friendgroup routing for a tiny Damon.

Warning : mentions of death, cancer, mentions of unconsentual surgery, throwing up, mentions of EDs, alot of stuff is skipped over just because i'm not too sure how to write it

⚠️ all medical info came from the NHS website or Cancer Research UK⚠️

199/

Being a model in the 90's was tough.

Hard, harsh and harming would be the only way to describe it, but even the best story teller woulf never truely be able to capture the horror that developed in every glamerous model's life.

Pain elecrocuted y/n's throught as vile acid launched it's way up her body from her stomach.

She didn't intentionally do it; she didn't force herself to throw up, she didn't intentionally starve herself and she hated her body being constantly edited and photoshopped by companies who hired her for magazine photoshoots. She was well known amoungst the modeling community for her stance against people body shameing and for promoting healthy body standards.

"Y/n, babes? Are you okay ?"

Y/h/c silk flopped over y/n's shoulder as she turned to face one of her friends who she shared the three-floored town house with. Her eyes fell dark, seeming to have lost their usual glimmer. A frown fell on her parted lips and a groggy look took over her features in total.

"Oh hunny !"

The blonde haired woman rushed over to the girl crouched over the toilet. Recently that's all she'd been doing. A small dribble of tears flooded her cheeks as y/n leant herself against the light blue tiled wall next to the loo.

           

Zoe had made her go to the doctor's to find out what had been happening recently. Y/n was still trying to pass off the constant vomiting, dizzy feeling and cramp as a temporary thing probably brought about by sleeping funnily.

She sat awkwardly on one of the green chairs in the GP's reception office after signing in via the bitchy woman behind the desk, her foot tapped in a rhythm. No-one else was their except an eldely man with a walking stick and a woman with who y/n assumed was her daughter.

'Y/n Y/l/n to GP Whitehall'

A orange strip lit up on the screen and a robotic voice echoed into the white room littered with health care posters.

Y/n lifted herself from her seat, thriwing the small handbag ovet her shoulder and walking over to the creme door which lead to the GP's individual rooms.

"Hi y/n hun, how've you been ?"

Maggie had been y/n's GP since she was sixteen and since she had first moved to London. Y/n didn't reply at first, spending a few moments with an awkward smile and making her way to the slightly more comfortable grey chair next to Maggie's light oak desk.

After half an hour inside the place, y/n eventually staggered out of the light green room with a stone expression on her face.

She was still fully processing what she'd just been told. It wasn't good, not in the slightest.

The whole taxi ride home was agonising silence, painful time to think over the news she was dreading having to report back to Zoe and her boyfriend.

God, she hadn't even thought about that yet. Her mind hadn't even thought to question how Damon would feel about what she'd just been told. Would he leave her in an instant ? No, no he wouldn't. He might, no !

She was pulled out of her self-argumentative thoughts by the silver car pulling up at the side of her house.

"Thanks."

Her voice was small as she handed over the five pound note to the driver and opened the passenger door.

She couldn't even face anyone right now, hearing people talking in the livingroom brought a ache to her head and she dashed up the two staircases.

Her room was on the top floor, right next to the guess bedroom. It meant she didn't gave to deal with people as much, Zoe and Amy had the middle floor where two out of four of the bedrooms where and where the second lounge was situated, she got her small island of privacy.

Her body flopped onto the double bed in the center of the room, head tilting to look out of the french windows on the left side of the room. Her eyes moved to look into the massive mirror she balance in the dark oak vanity desk on the front of the bedroom.

All y/n could see was pain.

She had to go back to double check. A visit to the local hoapital, it could all just be a false alarm.

Zoe thought she might be pregnant, something y/n knew couldn't happen since her body was mutated by her mother without her concent. The tragic hospital trip when she was eleven which she would never utter a word about to anyone. The thought of possibly being pregnant brought tears to her eyes, the emotions she'd been pushing down since the GP Surgery trip exploiding. She'd choose pregnancy over this any day of the week.

In the hour that she'd been hiding away upstairs nobody came to speak to her, but she did hear the front door letting people enter the home meaning the girls had probably forced Damon over so she'd have someone to open up to immediatly when she decided to come out of her french decorated cave.

"She's alive !"

Anna gave a round of applause causing y/n strut dramatically into the livingroom downstairs.

A wolf whistle danced through the room and y/n locked sight on Damon's ice blue eyes.

"Any news ?"

Zoe was sat excitedly on the end of the plush armchair, she'd been wanting Damon and y/n to have children since she first found out they where dating, having started talking to y/n's belly and calling herself 'aunty zozo' as a way of trying to infulence the decision of children on the couple.

Y/n was sat slouched between Damon's parted legs, whilst he was sat comfortable on the left seat of the black leather sofa. Her legs dangled over the chair's arm. A slow head shake made Zoe's mood fall drastically.

In y/n's mind, if it isn't 100% definatly there then there's no point breaking everyone's mood. She'd be able to keep the facade of 'nothing wrong is happening' going on for the next month or so as she waits for the hospital appointment which'll help her comprehend her future's path.

She felt Damon rub her thigh slightly, they must've told him where she'd been that day.

            

Three weeks of completely ignoring all pain which was killing off her body soon finished and y/n was being drove by Anna to London General Hospital.

She didn't ask to be drove there, but apparently she needed emotional support 'just incase'. Y/n had told her social groups that the GP was sending her for an ultrasound just to double check, she hated that Zoe and Damon's hopes where slowly increasing but there was no way to calmly break the news she'd been given.

"Hi y/n, i'm Laura. I'll be your nurse today."

Y/n took a seat infront of Laura, Anna had stayed in the main reception thankfully.

"So we got a request for a gastroscopy from your GP because there's a chance you might have stomach cancer ?"

White tones drowned y/n's skin, her hands becoming red from the circulation's sudden faultering at the thing she'd been drowning out for the past who knows how long.

"Urm yeah. It's pretty common in my family and over the past few years the symptoms have been becoming more and more frequent, my friend made me come in a few weeks back to get a check up."

A sympathetic look flooded the middle-aged nurse's features as she looked over the girl's documents on the computer screen, sorrow overtaking her sences when she found the date of birth.

She was only twenty.

Laura quickly threw back on a kind smile.

"Okay so you might not have anything as harsh as Stomach cancer seeing how most patience we get with it are males over 50. I'm just going to ask you some questions before we start the test, they'll only take a minute."

Y/n gave a quick nod before the blue scrubs dressed woman pulled out a purple A4 clipboard with a sheet of paper cliped to it and a black biro pen hanging off the top.

"Okay so first off, have you had a longterm infection of helicobacter pylori before ?"

"No."

"Alright and do you have any family member who have suffered with stomach cancer or any other types of cancer ?"

"My paternal great-grandfather and grandmother and my older brother have all passed from stomach cancer and my mum had lukemia when she was a teenager."

Laura noted down the painful sentences, a horrific part of the job having to deal with these types of conditions.

"Do you have any severe stomach conditions ?"

"I've been taking antacids for acid reflux since I was thirteen."

"Do you smoke or drink excessivly ?"

"I don't smoke but I do drink, not alot but i'd say around four pints on the weekends with friends. I know it's a possibility since it's been in my family so much so I try to limit myself with anything which could cause it."

Y/n was advoiding saying the word, it would make it more real if she said it.

"And finally, would you say you have a balanced diet."

"Yep."

Laura put the document on the desk, to the far side of the computer, before standing up and leading y/n to the room down the hall where the doctor would be.

"Okay, so everything seems okay from that. Doctor Lewis will just be in this room, he'll take care of you from here. And remember to stay calm and don't worry, everything works better when you're relaxed sweetie."

            

Two weeks past since the tube was stuck down her throught.

Two weeks of waiting anxiously for a letter or a call to tell her the agonising results.

Y/n had tryed to busy herself with work, getting her agency to double the amount of jobs she'd usually pull through, and by going out more with her friends, even if she was getting off looks off of them and Damon for only intaking juice and pop when they did, even thpigh she'd assured them all on many occations that she wasn't bareing child.

           

Y/n was being steaded by the sticky bar counter as she held a glass of 7up with her hand over the top.

Infront of her was a dark blonde singer pressing sloppy kisses down her jaw and across her cheek, pain-stakingly slowly attatching his lips to her's. The kiss was short but passionate. Passionate and intoxicated on Damon's part.

His hands drifted under y/n's floating t-shirt, the meshy, light green material falling over the top of her butterfly embroided, black bootcut jeans and silently begging for him to deattatch it from her torso.

Y/n gave a quiet whine as his hand rose to her stomach, the other playing in her back pocket. Her drink had been forgotten on the bar as she played, Damon's hair being twizzled by her freshly manicured fingertips.

When they parted slightly, he pressed a soft peck on the side of her mouth which was slightly parted and heavily intaking breaths.

"Umm y/n/n ?"

She opened her squeezed closed eyes and made them move so they looked up into his, slightly droopy and eyelashes fluttering. She gave a heavy hum and he carried on talking, hand moving from her belly to resting on her waist.

"Y'know Zoe's baby obsession. Well I wouldn't mind one."

She stunned awake, eyes widening and back straightening up at Damon's words. She wasn't ready for this talk, especually not in a bar with him not being in the slightest way sober and her being on the verge of a mental breakdown.

"Only if you want one, obviously."

He added, which only made her now feel panic and a flush of guilt run down her body.

"How about we talk about this later, when you're not drunk babe ?"

Damon gave a head nod and a hum befire resuming his prior activities with his girlfriend with a smirk and a dosy smile.

            

Thankfully, Damon had little to no recollection of that night and the appointment slip finally arrived after two and a half weeks, a time and place to be and a note that most people prefare to bring a close friend or family member with them to find out the news. Like she was allowing one of that riot to come with her. She kept trying to convince herself that it wasn't real, that it was all a nightmare, she was asleep. She was asleep and not waking up.

"Hiya y/n. Lovely to see you again sweetie."

Laura greeted her in reception, a sad smile painted on her rosey pink lipgloss. The pink scub wearing woman directed y/n to the doctor's office whilst speaking about how she'd recently seen the girl on dior's adverts, trying to distract her patient and herself from the horror about to unfold.

            

Screams echoed through London General's cancer ward block.

Level 2B stomach cancer.

Y/n held a letter, and envolope holding any details she might want and the numbers she might need in the future.

The white coated doctor sat behind the desk whilst Laura held her hand in support.

"As I said before, at this stage there is alot of treatments we can do and a high survival rate. You can have surgery to remove the cancer and chemo or radiotherapy. It's all inside the envolope and on the NHS website. Y/n we're all here for you, there are so many people to help support you through this and you can carry on your life."

The y/h/c twenty year old wiped the blotches of marscara drifting down her face and pulled at her sleeves, Laura helping her breathing stead itself.

"Have you got someone with you or someone who can drive you home ?"

The motherly woman saw how she wasn't able to make her way back safetly and probably wouldn't be for a while.

"Urm yeah, I can call someone to pick me up, one of my friends."

Laura gave a supportive smile and rubbed circles on the shaking girl's hand which she was holding.

Y/n eventually wobbed her way out of the building, going to the mossy and chipped red phone box to call Anna and as for a ride back. She pulled on a stead voice as her nails tapped against her baggy blue jean's thigh and as her lip was bit lightly.

"Hiya ?"

"Hi, just me."

"Oh hiya hun, 'sup ?"

"Not much, just wondering if you'll be able to come pick me up ?"

"Course I can, where are you ?"

"London General ."

An awkward pause occured before Anna hummed into the phone.

"I'll need an explaination when I get there hun, you've got ten minutes."

The phone beeped, hanging up rudely.

Okay ten minutes to try and figure out how to explain to her bestfriends and her boyfriend that she has a deadly but not yet ternimal tumor in her stomach whilst she's still trying to swallow the infomation herself.

A worse thought ran through her head. Never mind them, how was she going to explain this to her parents ?

masterlist

#damon albarn x reader #90s #damon albarn x fem!reader #model!reader #90s!damon albarn #blur #damon albarn #fem!reader #britpop #damon albarn fluff

[equestrianequivalent]

PSA: From Chapter 29 and Forward, The Publishing of QuintSum will take a break until I have finished the fic. It's a whole fucking thing to publish and edit consistently and I actually really don't like it that much. So y'all are getting the first 50k ish, and then y'all will have to wait. I'll let y'all know when it's being published again but until then, you'll have to wait until it's finished. (For the record, I'm more than 3/4 through, so it's not like I've given up, I just hate publishing as I go even more than I thought I did.)

What is this? A heavily self-indulgent fanfiction based on Star Stable Online. (In the future this blog will be used to promote all my fanfiction but right now it's exclusive to QuintSum, since it's the only one I'm posting at the moment.)

Where can I read it? I post each new chapter on my Ao3. I will post a blog post here every time I update the fic.

Nice longfic, bro, would be a shame if you dropped it. Fear not. I won't. This fic will be finished, not because I'm going to force myself to, but because I'm probably unable not to. At the time of this pinned update, I am around the halfway point arcs wise. It's going to be finished, and we're all going to be fine. The author has problems and that includes committing and pulling through.

Okay, but how long will it be? Good question! Wish I knew! At least 200k words and at least 100 chapters! There'll be 12 story arcs though! (I have my story structured in arcs, they're the only numbers I can guarantee. I don't plan out chapters before I finish each arc to make my own life easier, so I can't guarantee how many chapters there will be until we finish. I also have a tendency to split chapters during writing because man am I bad at math. The final word count is between Ao3 and SÄPO quite frankly. Who the hell knows.)

Okay sure, but who are you? I have revealed who I am on my main blog, mostly because it's very hard for me not to talk about my fic because I care a lot about it. That is to say, yes, this is a sideblog. (I would like to extend a warning however, if you know my main and follow me on there, I'd suggest to be wary in case you don't want to be spoiled. I'm way ahead in terms of writing and Way ahead in terms of planning. And I Love talking about my fic. So if you want to make sure you're not spoiled, be slightly careful going onto my main.)

Anything else useful I should know? Primarily that this fic contains frequent swearing. This fic is written by an adult, and there is little care to cather to the same audience as SSO does. (This isn't grimdark by any means, it is simply not cathered for a younger audience.) It is also heavily reliant on the author's own interpretation and headcanons. It is very much based off of the main story of SSO, but the author has taken many liberties with what gets done with the material.

This fic is made better through the generous help from @jorvikzelda. In fact they're the primary reason this fic exists at all. Please show them some love and check out their own excellent writing about Jorvik on @jorvikpov!

Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I do writing it!

#Pinned post with some general information!

[watchinglikeafangirl]

Just saw a discussion about "too explicit" sex scenes in BLs on my dashboard and thought I should dig into that controversial topic myself because I have nothing better to do than preventing myself from sleeping lol

I for my part don't have a problem with sex scenes in BLs and I don't think that person who got the ask has either. The problem is, since the media is so toxic and the shipping culture so aggressive, we let our judgement be clouded by how the actors must have felt. Wether or not we are entertained or enjoy watching the characters explore each other physically depends very much on the chemistry we see in interviews and behind the scenes footage. If one person seems to be slightly uncomfortable or awkward around the other, there is an instant dislike and disgust against the sex scene and we don't want to watch it again or be reminded it ever existed. Like it put shame on the show we still keep watching even though something seems off because looking away is hard and the fanservice is too appealing.

Honestly, I can't really tell if actors are comfortable with each other or not because I don't watch their interviews or the behind the scenes videos. It won't do me any good and I just enjoy the show itself.

That being said, I do see some clips here and there, so I will keep on writing this and compare "love in the air" to "KinnPorsche". I believe both are good examples for what I want to point out. It's not about the quality of the shows and it's not about the way the intimate and intense scenes are filmed. "Sex scenes are fine as long as they're beautifully shot" I don't agree. I think it's the writer's choice and we just live with it.

What I mean is, wether I enjoy a sex scene or not heavily depends on the actor's well being. We all know how Thai BL actors sometimes look very forced and awkward around each other, so I can't do anything about it. I naturally worry. The fanservice is no help in that matter because if it's aggressive, it's forced as well and things get ugly by then.

Apo and Mile had one specific intense sex scene in KinnPorsche and there was some behind the scenes footage in which they both discussed the filming process and how they saw it as a form of art and nothing personal. They are not involved. The scene is about Kinn and Porsche and their love, their relationship, their moment. It's not about Mile, it's not about Apo. The actors appreciate each other a lot, we can all see that, but there's no overbearing affection since they are promoting their acting skills and not their relationship.

It's a lot healthier and a more relaxed angle. Love in the air has fanservice. I admit, I don't know to which extend but I believe they're initiating physical contact and go to interviews containing more or less couple questions and nothing about the show whatsoever. The whole promotion concept is different and since the relationship between the characters which has nothing to do with the actors portraying them, is projected onto the real people behind those characters, it is hard to tell when someone is alright and when they're not. Wearing a mask works for their fanbase but it comes across as more aggressive since they are not promoting some kind of art but sex. The character's relationship bleeds into real life. There is a huge difference between these two shows and the approach is more stressful for the actors since a whole cult is formed around them. The fans want cute moments between the actors who give it to them, so the line between actor and character gets blurry. So much so, the actors might lose their real self in front of cameras. And that ends in a lot of drama, isolation and maybe depression. It's a lot of stress to meet the fan's expectations.

We are all used to that kind of promotion concept and we saw SaintZee and how that ended. It's forced and fake and really not good. The actors are not appreciated for their talent but for their looks only. So since the environment surrounding those shows is mostly toxic, I can't help but wonder if the actors are comfortable or not. I think many of us can't help but wonder because we have seen cases when they were forced.

The whole show is not presented as some entertainment they filmed for the audience and just do interviews about the whole process. It's like the show is still going with all these cheeky lines the actoes still deliver and the touching they seek.

So do sex scenes get more porny?

Maybe, I don't know. There were always controversial scenes, television is like that. And maybe, since the Thai BLs are gaining more western viewers, they want to be as "dirty" as sex scenes in western media are. Or the conversation is a lot more open abou it. It's not like every show has a intense sex scene. Mostly the display turns black.

Sex scenes in general are always thrilling and kind of interesting to watch. It feels like a new interpretation of the characters. We see their reaction when they're out of it. It's much work for the actors to be this immersed in the character and show the raw image sex is and how beautiful it can be played out. If we approach it from Apo's angle, it's really just art. And by thinking about it as art, it's less disturbing or uncomforting or whatever some people may feel. If we see it like that, the show just tries to mirror a certain reality.

But it's deeply connected to the way it's promoted. Mile and Apo have a very adulty approach, they are pretty mature about it whereas Boss and Noeul never talk about how they worked out what the character is feeling right there. The artsy approach of creating a show is skipped completely and the people seem to be casted for their looks and not their talent which they have. The show is not seperated from the actors, so the uncomforting feeling one gets while watching the uncensored version of the sex scene in episode 4 comes from the general tone of the story because the conversations are not that deep. It's all very one-dimensional and easy to understand. The characters look good, the actors look hot, let's spice things up regardless if it fits, if they agree, if they like the idea.

You get what I mean. By blending the actor's feelings into the one's of their character, you land in a dangerous situation of playing hot because you have a cult surrounding you. Sex scenes are not appreciated as art or part of the progress but as if it meant something to the actors as well. That's why we feel uneasy watching a sex scene because there are always second-guesses about the environment and possible atmosphere on set.

I don't think people have a problem with sex scenes in general and are not respecting the different tastes but they feel uneasy because the fanservice is an act they still hold up for a long while, so they wonder how long they are already on that act.

#bl series #thai bl #fanservice #love in the air #boss chaikamon #kinnporsche #apo nattawin #mile phakphum

[noa-ciharu]

Kiss prompt 32 , absolutely FuuKam😤😤 (i want to divide myself into 10k+ to ask you every kisses----(?))

I made sin :D rather short but definitely sinful 😘 it can be read both as X and TRC Fuukam. NSFW so under cut

32 - Kiss to wake up

"Wake up"

Despite someone's callings, Fuuma couldn't bring himself to open eyes. Still drowsy, body still sedated, bed too warm and inviting - everything was luring back to sleep.

"Come on, it's already morning", hands pushed at his shoulders. Nonetheless Fuuma still couldn't bring himself to react. Why he was so tired in the morning, he had no clue.

Sheat was shoved down to waist. Sharp hiss left Fuuma's lips once cold air hit his bare skin; maybe sleeping shirtless wasn't the brightness idea during winter time. Something was on top of him; or rather someone. Alarms should go off within mind, yet he still couldn't bring himself to open eyes, let alone -

"Fuuma I need you"

Desperation and urgency of tone along with implications had Fuuma bolting awake in a second. Before he could even put two and two together lips sealed over his.

What in the -

Ah right.

Kamui.

In a heartbeat Fuuma sobered up. His hands immediately settled on Kamui's hipbone; soft moan melted into kiss. Fuuma promoted himself up a fraction and responded into contact as ardently as his drowsy state of body and mind allowed.

Kamui leaned over him and deeped the kiss; even began grinding against his body. Fuuma had to bite back groan at Kamui's eagerness, he was scarcely ever this aggressive in the morning. Tongue flickers over his lips, wordlessly seeking entrance. Not seeing why not to, Fuuma parted lips and let Kamui take control over contact. Dying shame to not award him for such pleasant waking up.

However Kamui seemed to have other plans in mind. Moment later he broke the contact and eased away; raised up and straddles his waist. Vision swam slightly, blunted at edges as morning light blinded. Ugh, one of reasons he wasn't biggest fan of morning glories.

Only once vision clarified did Fuuma manage to take a good look at Kamui.

"Please, I can't wait anymore"

Damn.

Tousled hair and flushed face; saliva slipping down lips. Kamui gazed down at him with half-lidded eyes, nothing but lust in them. Fuuma let eyes wander lower and - ah, there was no withholding that groan. Instead of his usual pyjama Kamui had nothing but oversized button-up on; Fuuma had a hunch shirt was his. Said shirt was open at front, fully allowing Fuuma's gaze to travel even further down; inviting even. Kamui prompted himself up with one palm, rested it over his bare chest; other palm was wrapped around erection; strokes firm and swift, far from teasing tugs.

I need to pinch myself to see if I'm dreaming or not.

No way...

Fuuma's mind might have issues keeping up but his body sure didn't; sight went directly to his groin, he hardened in mere couple of seconds. Kamui must have felt that as he grinded bare ass over his crouch; then squeezed eyes and moaned. Good thing sheet was separating their bodies otherwise Fuuma had no qualms he would have shoved inside Kamui immediately.

"I got horny and tried to get myself off", Kamui whimpered, voice broken in tandem with his stokes.

"But I couldn't cum from just fingers", Kamui admitted without hints of bashfulness. Ah, so they could go all the way immediately. Fuuma felt self-satisfied grin reach lips.

"I need you Fuuma"

Ah, those words along with image of Kamui being unable to satisfy himself without his help made blood boil with lust. No hints of drowsiness, Fuuma was fully awake now. Oh if only this was how he wakes up every morning, he won't be dreading beginning of new days at all.

"Hush, let me take care of you", Fuuma reassured and grasped Kamui by bare thighs. Oh gosh was his skin soft; how adorable and sexy at the same time Kamui was, Fuuma doubted he'd be able to hold back a second longer.

He eased sheets down to legs; hastily pushed sweater pants and boxers down legs in one go. Fuuma couldn't contain a hiss when cold air surrounded his heated skin. How he managed to get fully aroused in less than a minute, he had no clue. Ah the effect Kamui had on him, noone could even try competing.

Without wasting a second more Fuuma seized Kamui by waist and instructed him to raise up over his already swollen cock. Kamui lowered down a fraction, rubbed entrance right over tip. Both of them groaned. Fuuma smirked and thrust hips up. Gripped Kamui tighter by hipbone and started lowering him down and -

Beep beep beep.

What the -

Beep beep beep.

Wait -

Beep beep beep.

Ah right.

Beep beep beep

Fucking alarm clock.

Beep beep be -

Fuuma punched device as hard as he could. Poor thing bounced of the side table, fell onto ground. At the moment he couldn't care less if it broke or not.

"That's what you get for waking me up at best part", he scolded the alarm clock as if it was responsible for his wet dreams in the first place.

Sadly not the first neither the last time. No way Kamui would have acted as bold and wanton like that, in hindsight he ought to have recognized dream from what it was, from the very start. As pleasant as those dreams were, they never were satisfactory by themselves; never brought release, not physical, not emotional. But part of him desperately wished they were real; at least that Kamui was by his side now, even if blissfully sleeping; and not heaven knows where.

Fuuma sat up and combed fingers through sweaty hair. Tent in sheets was more than prominent, and that wasn't even mentioning heat and discomfort he felt. Damn it, sometimes he cursed that insatiable libido of his.

Looks like cold showers would become unavoidable part of morning routine.

#thanks for prompt #making horrny characters suffer ust is hobby of mine #fuukam #fuuma monou #kamui shirou

[m-art28]

What is beauty?

What is beauty to me?  Wikipedia describes beauty as a thing that is pleasing to the eye.

A lot of brands tend to shape what beauty means to try to make a profit. Clothing campaigns run a risk of making many customers’ feel insecure about themselves. When a person does not have the same body type or style as the models in the campaign self criticism and internal body shaming commences.  A recent example that has caught attention and shone a light on these harmful business practices is the company Victoria’s Secret.  The Victoria’s Secret bran features “skinny” girls with large breasts who have an hour glass figure in their ads and discount any other body style. So many women do not share the body type that Victoria’s Secret showcases as the “example” leading so many of us to negatively self talk ourselves and become depressed with our bodies.  The discussion that has been occurring around social media platforms is that it is not just women who now have a warped sense of what a woman should look like but also men realizing that they too have bought in to the ads thinking that a woman is “less than” if she does not compare to the example set forth by companies like Victoria’s secret.

Another example is the store Zara and how their sizes tend to fit very small.   The negative impact that Zara is sharing to their customer’s is that women that usually fit a smaller size in other stores are having to “size up” at Zara and most will not realize the sizing is off the norm.  Women will beat themselves up and put pressure on themselves to lose weight just so they can fit into the store’s idea of size number on the tag and to fit into their ideal of being thin and only slightly curvy. Feeling insecure about how our bodies don’t compare to the look in the ads can lead the consumer to take extreme measures to change themselves to fit the new “pretty” ideal; leading to depression and potential distorted eating patterns.

Makeup industries are another sector that prey upon people’s insecurities with their facial features.   You can easily see the manipulation by observing makeup stores. The layout of the popular cosmetics stores of Sephora uses a colour scheme of black and white so that your eye catches the contrasting colours of the “limited time” pallets with high price tags. The skin care can be found way further back and out of the way in the store.  It seems to be an afterthought for stores like Sephora.  Sell the makeup first to solve people’s “problems” instead of suggesting skin care which if a proper regime is found would cause an amazing base for the least costing cosmetics.  People buy more and more makeup looking for a solution to hiding bad skin instead of trying to help their skin build a healthy base.

Everyone views beauty differently but we seem to be all be racing to fit into the same little mold that the popular companies show us in the media.  There is a movement that is circulating primarily on social media about “Silver Sisters” which is women that are choosing to embrace their grey/white roots and stop dying their hair.  The comments that women will receive on video in places like Tik Tok will go from very supportive to downright mean.  Women have been reported to loose their jobs since society has been conditioned that they are now “old” and grandma like and have now lost their worth.  I think that women with their natural hair can look very stylish and elegant and I see more than just the colour.  Some women have beautiful curls or edgier style with their natural colour, I am glad that people are starting to recognize that there is nothing wrong with aging gracefully as it is a privilege that not everyone receives.

I personally work hard to embrace the idea that at the end of the day it really doesn’t matter what other people think of you and all that matters is if you like yourself and you feel pretty.  It would be much easier to embrace this self acceptance mind set if the various fashion brands started to promote a culture of self acceptance, I know it would spread to the entire population towards a positive shift overall.

There is a lot of different ways to slowly build your self confidence. Some ways to try to build self confidence is to try new things to enhance your natural beauty.

You can research your personal colour palette (colour draping) so that your skin tone is complimented in the colours you choose in your wardrobe. A fun way to experiment is coming up with inspiration for outfits online and looking to your current wardrobe and try experimenting with different types of outfit pairings.  You can look up different makeup tutorials to practise to bring out your amazing features. Switch up your every day routine with fun hair styles.  

   You could try to help silence the negative self talk by doing self care; skin care masks, at home pedicures, paint your nails, paint or read uplifting books.  I am being more mindful to implement healthier habits like more regular physical activity like walking or swimming and aiming to eat more nutrient rich foods most of the time.  When you are kind to your body and treat it like a friend with positive self talk and healthy food (like medicine) you can start to feel better about yourself as a result.  That is what beauty means to me

#beautymeanstome

[fellpyrean]

Advent Statement 5 - Open the Door

Continuing the trend of going further off the rails as I went along in the challenge comes this chapter, wherein I barely contain my burning desire to give the Distortion ill-advised kissies. This version is actually very slightly different from the last version that was posted to ao3 to make it a touch more canon compliant, as when it was written I was less knowledgeable about how the Spiral works but extremely very enthusiastic. It is probably still not perfect, but I figure it is more toeing the line now than before. 

CWs: Canon Typical Violence, Suicidal Ideation, Self Harm

___________________________________________________________

Hah, w-wow. This is where you do this? Really? No shade or anything, just. They really don’t give you guys a budget, do they? This looks like a. Repurposed supply closet. My old office was better than this.

Y-Yeah, no, sorry. I don’t mean anything by it, just trying to make light of things. 

Could we keep the door open? I’d like to be able to keep an eye on it. I’ve had. Issues with doors, lately. Thanks. 

Hoo. Okay. 

From the beginning then? 

So, my first real job was security. Sort of. I’d had other jobs, but it’d been a while. I was 23 and coming out of a bad time, so I took the first job that gave me stable hours and, well, employment. I actually kind of lucked into my actual job? I was like, the third pick or something for this position, and the first two had dropped out for some reason, so I got promoted from misc camera jockey to head honcho. 

In other words, I worked at some store that took itself too seriously and wanted me to sit in the back and watch cameras. Technically, they wanted me to watch out for ‘time theft’ and other bullshit; I was in no way qualified for this, but it’s all bullshit, so I figured qualifications didn’t matter that much either. Time theft isn’t real. They don’t fire managers for time theft, and I don’t think I could count all the times I’ve seen the guys upstairs on their phone playing fucking Candy Crush. But if a cashier so much as stares up at the lights too long, or leans on something, that’s an Offense. God forbid they look at their phone; may as well be a felony for how worked up the big boys get. 

Right. Anyway. I didn’t last too long there. I mean, I was there for what, a year and a half? So like, long enough, but they decided I wasn’t catching enough employees committing terrible crimes so out the door I went. 

Kind of a shame. I liked that office. I mean, it did suck, objectively. It was only as big as a shoebox and had about a dozen camera screens, all on monitors about ten years out of date when they bought the things. It had its own air conditioner to keep the video recorders and storage computers cool, and man. It got brisk in there. But I mostly sat there, door closed, hoodie on in a cheap old computer chair and watched Netflix. So really, a great time to get paid for. 

I wasn’t an idiot though, and by the time I’d had the third pointed email about internal investigations, I knew they probably weren’t going to let me coast by much longer, so I began looking around. 

I did like the idea of watching cameras. I mean, as long as it was for something actually important, I could get behind it. I didn’t have to make nice for customers and I could spend a lot of time alone. Both A+ benefits honestly. Plus, I mean. It’s kind of funny, seeing what people do when they don’t think anyone is watching. So I put some feelers out looking for something sort of similar. 

That’s how I found my… my current job.

I won’t say the name, but it’s a museum. It used to be someone’s house around the turn of the century I think; some old millionaire who donated the estate on his death, along with all of his collection. That should narrow it down enough. I honestly was pretty excited when I got the offer? I mean. I thought there’d actually be qualifications and back and forth involved to be a security/camera guy at an art museum, but they just seemed weirdly happy to have me. 

I never found out what happened to the guy before me. Considering my uh. My run- ins, hah, with doors, it makes the explanation ‘he just walked out’ a little. Concerning. 

So, no surprise, but they hired me. We had one phone interview, they called me in to talk, and the guy pretty much gave me the job on sight. He was… I mean, he’s my boss so when I call him ‘greasy,’ I’m being polite. I had no idea how a guy like that was in charge of an art museum, but nobody said otherwise, so, boss he was. Is. Whatever. 

I honestly had a real good time touring the place that first day. It’s just objectively a really nice house. Sprawling, expanded at least a couple times from the original plans, with those high ceilings and carved and lacquered wooden beams and columns holding it up, extravagant tile floors, and every free wall covered in paintings. The rose garden out back - because of course it had one - had several marble works and old fountains, and there were grand staircases around just about every corner. It was disorienting, a real maze of a place, but I did my best to memorize what shit was where during our walk. I wanted to do a good job, after all. 

My boss just told me not to worry too much. There’d be other guys there to patrol the grounds in person, and I would really just be on camera to tell them if I saw something particularly weird, or like, some guy with a cartoonishly large bag shoving paintings into it. 

It was pretty normal for a bit. I’d say like, the first… two weeks maybe. Maybe a month. 

That was when things got… Well, that’s when he turned up. 

This camera room was pretty nice. It was big enough I could scoot around pretty well in my chair. It had an entire wall filled with, like, nice monitors, all with access to multiple feeds, and it would cycle through automatically every 15 seconds or so unless I paused it or manually changed it. And I didn’t need a hoodie and a blanket and a cup of tea just to feel warm. 

Then, this one night, I noticed malfunctions. Down in one of the galleries, the cameras were just… completely fucked. Staticy and warped, flickering, whole nine yards, you know? I thought it might be the connections, but I was pretty concerned. Was this something big? Like, I don’t know, the guys with the cartoonishly large bags had some… device to interrupt the cameras while they loaded up? So I called one of the patrol guys, Mike. He said he’d go check it out. 

So there I was, tracking him through the halls on the cameras that did work and just like, praying that nothing was going on that I’d have to call the cops for, when he gets to the static area. I could still sort of see him, mostly just his silhouette as he turned on the flashlight and started checking around. His radio sounded like absolute garbage, but he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so that was kind of a relief. 

And uh. Then he moved into the next room and. Well. 

I saw two people on the monitor. Just silhouettes still of course; the feed was still just fucked beyond belief, but there were two people. The first one, Mike, with his flashlight making half the screen just a mess of artifacted white, and the second one. Right behind him. Just kind of following him as he walked. But it wasn’t him. This wasn’t the screen doubling him in its glitching, because it moved differently. 

Whatever was walking behind him moved wrong. Like its limbs and joints were just kind of suggestions on how to move rather than a pretty important part of the entire thing? And it didn’t have an arm up with a flashlight. I’d have noticed, because the hands I could see on the thing were. Nightmarish. Huge and gnarled and twisted, like someone melted together a mess of. I don’t know. Knives? Scrap metal? Trying to look at it, to figure it out made my head ache. The point was, that was not my coworker.

My coworker had very normal hands and positively boring knees; his flashlight was still going strong, and this thing just kept following right behind him as he walked. 

I stared at it for a while, trying to decide if I was losing my mind. I swapped through every camera I could until I had maybe a dozen pointed at the spot my coworker would walk through next to get to the gallery. I figured, if I was losing my mind, then I couldn’t hallucinate twelve angles at once. 

No, I didn’t say anything to Mike. ‘Yeah uh, hey Mike? Is there some real fucked up guy like, right behind you? No horrible hands or anything? No? Haha, yeah, just playing! Gotcha!’ 

Look, I’d only been there a month at best, and maybe I’d. Maybe I’d mucked up something with the camera settings. I wasn’t about to start in on the crazy stuff.  

So I waited. Watched. I stared into the static until I felt it in my eyes and I did not blink. 

I knew the exact moment Mike and his freaky tag-a-long entered the frame, because I heard this. Godawful screeching noise. Like. Have you heard an electrical thing malfunction? That cartoonish electric zapping buzz noise. I heard that. A dozen times over, from each of the monitors. Buzzing and overlapping into a sound that made my ears ache, my head pound, as every screen twisted - and then all the cameras fixed themselves. 

Just like that. 

And there stood Mike, all alone, his flashlight pointed into one of the side galleries. 

There was nobody there. Nobody behind him, nothing. Just an empty wall with a random door made of oddly light wood. 

But, well. I didn’t think much of it at the time. 

It was still just a door to me, then. 

That night, I only cared about radioing him to say that the cameras were working again, and to quickly move everything back to look at what they were supposed to point at. Annnd, well, everything was just fine. Not a single rug or bauble out of place. 

Mike was a real champ about it, though. He helped check the camera connections while he was in there. He even, heh. I mean, he flirted a little bit while he did it? Might have just been guy talk since it wasn’t a private radio connection or anything and our other coworkers definitely heard it - there was a bit of hooting involved, alright? - but it kind of felt like he knew I was freaked out and was trying to calm me down. It helped that Mike’s cute. His hair has this stupid little curly flick it does, and I could see him playing with it as he went around and fiddled with the wires for me. 

Pretty stupid, but it did work. He made me smile. 

I didn’t think about the weird shit too much until I was leaving in the morning, and decided to swing through that gallery just to, you know. See it myself. Not that I thought I was more familiar with the wiring than Mike, but it just helps get your eyes on these things in person sometimes. And, well. 

In the spot where I’d turned the cameras all on him. That bend in the halls, right where he’d rounded that corner? Where I’d seen that door that didn’t match the lacquer? 

There was no door there. Not even a painting I could have mistaken for one. 

The wall was completely bare. 

I won’t say it messed me up, but it definitely unnerved me. I knew I was in the right spot; it was pretty distinctive, even in that labyrinth of a building. There’s only so many peeing angels in a place, you know? But it was only a door that had gone for a walk or something. I didn’t see it anywhere else on my way out, so mainly I just chalked it up to one more thing I’d hallucinated the night before. 

Too much caffeine probably, I told myself. 

It wasn’t the caffeine. 

That door was there, but it didn’t only have to be there. It can be anywhere it wants to. It can hide and it can wait and it can last so, so much longer than you can. 

And it belongs to that. That weird fuck. 

I saw him again. It? I don’t know. 

It took just long enough that I’d gotten reasonably calm again - you know, I’d gone and done the ‘oh it wasn’t that bad, you probably just imagined it’ bit on myself - for him to turn up, and what do you know. I was flicking through cameras, settled in for the evening with my microwaved cup of mediocre work tea and there he was. 

The camera wasn’t as warped this time. It was still bad, but I could see him. He had long, long hair. Blonde, and it moved in twisting, impossible coils; constantly shifting and swirling even as it stayed perfectly still and filled with patterns that bled onto his clothes. Like he was a coloring book page and he didn’t really care if he went outside the lines; like insisting on something like lines with him would just tickle him pink. And there he sat; his long, long legs crossed nice and leisurely, and he looked up into the camera and waved. 

Those hands like a fucking nightmare and he just. Waved like he was a neighbor and we’d both gone out to sit on the porch in the morning. And oh. Oh did he smile. It might have been nice. If it hadn’t gone far, far too wide. Too long. Too sharp and twisted. 

And then he said, Hello, little watcher. 

And I screamed, because I heard it, right in my ear. Like he’d leant over and whispered it, soft and tender and buzzing, echoing into my bones and bouncing, bouncing inside my skull as every, single screen flared, buzzed and shut off. I heard him laugh. Like I was the funniest goddamn thing he’d ever seen. He laughed and laughed as the lights in my office flickered and popped, as the computers whined and screamed, as I scrabbled backwards out of my chair until my back hit the wall, tea pouring off my desk onto the floor as I jammed my hands over my ears and tried to block out the awful, awful rebounding glee. 

And then to top it off, the wall behind me fucking opened because it was a door that shouldn’t have been there. 

I almost fell in. Right into him, and his horrid smile and fizzing laughter and hands that reached to drag me in when I jerked away. 

That was apparently my limit. Knife hands sinking into my shoulder like soft butter. A single, razor-sharp, warped finger tilting up my chin as another dragged, slowly, deliberately across my cheek, through the delicate skin to rest right beneath my eye. All it would have taken was a single twitch. And looking at him up close, unable to look away, my vision filled with those ever-shifting patterns and colors and my eyes burning in agony, pain blossoming from my shredded flesh and through my body, my brain decided: shut down. That’ll fix this right up. 

I woke up apparently two hours later to Mike shaking me and worry coming through the radio. There’d been a power surge and they’d not realized anything was wrong with me until they’d gone ribbing me for a bit and realized I’d not responded for an unusually long time. I… was a bit hysterical when I came to. Also, bleeding. A lot of that. I have no idea how they explained away the shreds that had become my hoodie and a significant part of my shoulder or the slash ending right below my eye that left blood streaming down my face, but I didn’t bleed out and I guess that. Thing. Had decided I was less fun to play with if I was unconscious. So, victory for my brain I guess? And Mike was a godsend. 

He patted my back while they waited for an ambulance to show up. 

He whispered so sweetly, so soft and tender against my ear. He ran his fingers through my blood-stained hair and smiled at me. Told me I’d be alright. 

I think he told them I had a stroke. I wasn’t in any shape to argue, honestly, and I figured this may as well fucking happen. My brain was still buzzing, and I couldn’t string a thought together if I’d tried. It was better to let Mike lie than saying an impossible bastard had decided to tenderize my shoulders and spook me so bad I passed out.

I was very glad to be given time off. Three months to heal; earlier if I felt up to it, since my job wasn’t really high on the physical exertion. It felt safe, going home. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t have that goddamn thing and its goddamn door or patterns that blinked behind my eyelids when they closed. 

I was an idiot. 

If a door can slide out of nowhere onto a wall where it shouldn’t be, if it can come and go at its whimsy, why should it matter what building it happens in? 

It gave me enough time for the painkillers to wear off and the stitches to start to itch and my first homestay pizza to get there when I opened my front door and, instead of apartment C-13 across the hall, was a blank, yellow door. 

Do you know, that almost. Almost broke me? I didn’t even grab my pizza. 

Seeing that door there, I just. The first thing I thought was Did it actually let me go? Or did I fall in and this entire thing is something my brain has come up with to cope? 

It told me, hadn’t the hall behind that thing looked a lot like the halls of my apartment? 

I don’t. I don’t think it did. I mean, I hope that I’m sitting here, talking to you. That you’re real. But I’ve seen that door so many times. It's been two months. I’ve dreamed that it pulled me into that door, limp and ragged, and has just. Been toying with me since then. Enjoying watching me doubt and panic and writhe in fear and indecision. I’ve considered just opening the damn door to get it over with, you know? Because I can’t go a day without it stalking me. 

I’ve. I’ve gone pretty far to convince myself that this is real. Pain helps. 

I stare at that door, my arm bleeding, and tell it, tell him, that I know this is real, even if I can’t tell anyone else what’s happening. I keep every door in my apartment open and curse that I didn’t get that stupid pretentious studio because I have to double check every time I want to piss that I’m not walking into a hallway that shouldn’t be there. 

Every time I open the door to the hallway, every time I get up in the middle of the night, I have to pinch myself and check. It’s showed up on the floor. I opened my fridge to hands reaching out to grab me. My fucking cabinets. My groceries live in bags on my living room floor for fuck’s sake and I twitch when I see the color yellow. Half of these bandages are from close calls. From fingers as sharp and keen as new blades catching and cutting my flesh in awful, spiraling lines that hurt to see. That make my pain into a mockery as it tells me that he is just as real as I am, and he is so Hungry. 

I’m honestly amazed I made it here to talk to you today. It’s been relentless these last few days and I. Do you know how many doors you walk through on an average day? It’s more than you think. 

Mike keeps texting to check on me, but I’ve not replied. Every time I try, the text twists. The screen glitches and blurs and warps, until what I’ve typed out doesn’t answer his question; it just says, Hello, little watcher. You’re being quite rude. 

Don’t ignore me. 

Come. Open my door.  

I don’t know why this is happening. I’m so tired. 

Is it because I saw something I shouldn’t have? Is it because I… because I watched too much? Because I enjoyed it? 

I… I think next time. Next time I see it. I’ll just open the door. It’ll be better than this. I’ll open the door and walk right into those hands and let them fold around me and I’ll feel that horrible, wonderful pain one last time. 

I can already tell; you can’t do anything to help me. You’re just listening to be nice. You probably don’t even believe me, do you? As soon as I said what I’ve had to do to ground myself, I saw what you thought. 

I’m just crazy, right? Another ‘witness’ coming off a bad trip. 

Don’t bother trying to argue. I’m. I’m not crazy. The door’s real. It’s all real. 

I Know it is. 

Don’t worry. I’ll show myself out.  

#tma advent project #i have realized that doing this nixes my italics and such from the original and i really cannot be assed to fix that #rest assured! the original contained italics! #crowswritings #knew i forgot a tag

[lostintrace]

Enjoying my art? 

Why not buy something! Help support an artist! Treat yourself to stuff! Buy something for your bestie! Spread the word! 

#lostintrace #my art #slightly shameful self promotion #redbubble #my redbubble #I find self promoting REALLY HARD sometimes #And I’m really going out on a limb here trying to get my name out there #So uh... if you feel like stopping buy and picking up something that would make me the HAPPIEST guy in the world! #Thank you for supporting artists! #And taking the time to read these tags! #I love you all!

[drethelin]

check it out

#gym goth #tank top #redbubble #slightly shameful self promotion

[clairelutra]

laksjdlaskjd i feel weird self-promoting after literally All This, but...

dropping hints is 10 kudos away from 1k. :’D

Summary:

Ladybug asks Chat Noir for boy advice.

This goes about as well as expected.

give it a shot? i don’t think you’ll regret it ^^

#ladynoir #adrinette #miraculous ladybug #shameless self promotion? #slightly shameful self promo #hallie speaks

[yaoiaddict00]

I have an unhealthy addiction to this boy.

Saeyoung x Reader (fem)

Smut: Female masturbation, oral sex, vag penetration, insecure reader (Saeyoung is a little forceful at first but it all comes together in the end as to why he did what he did. Please don’t send hate, I do not promote pricing someone into an uncomfortable situation but Saeyoung was doing it so he could comfort the reader and help them in many ways)

This took a different turn from what I intended, it is sort of yandere/stalker-ish which I have never written about and don’t really read much about ssssoooooo….. Yeah. Warning again I guess.

Sorry for any spelling/grammar mistakes

His warm, soft tongue circled your clit and his fingers twisted your nipple. Your skin felt hot, so, so hot. Your chest was heaving up and down trying to fill with air. You were so close. Your voice mixing in with the lewd sounds from your pussy. Almost there. You were grateful Saeyoung had sound proofed every room in his house for privacy reasons. It's coming. “Saeyoung…”

“Y/N?” His voice seeped through the crack in the door. Your mind snapped out of its illusion, your orgasm being ruined as you hand retreated from your nub and yanked the blanket out from under you and wrapped your front.

“I’m changing! One second!” You called, scooting back farther on your bed. The only light in the room coming from the crack in the door and the dimmed lamp on the nightstand. Saeyoung had practically dragged you to his house after the hacker had broken into Rika’s apartment. He couldn’t risk losing you. Obviously, you were the party planner, RFA needed you. That’s what you told yourself anyway. Your heart was pounding, you were almost caught fantasizing about an almost complete stranger and the person who graciously let you in his house. You must be a real pervert to get off thinking about his soft red hair in your hands, his cushioned lips touching your thighs. Your eyes were wide as you waited for the door to close. Your heavy breathing reaching his ears caused him to stay.

“Are you ok Y/N? Did something happen?” He asked, sounding concerned, the door creaking open a little more. Your heart rate picked up and you brought your arms closer to your body. Your legs pushed your self closer to the headboard with their little strength. He can’t come in here! He can’t see you like this! Your hair was knotted, your stretch marks sowing, your unshaved limbs and jelly like tummy. He would be disgusted. Your breathing picked up at the thought of him seeing you like this.

“Everything is fine! Please don’t come in here!” You pleaded, your voice sounding weak and shaky, a voice that would make anyone concerned. You closed your eyes, willing the man on the other side to go away and never see this shameful sight.

“I’m coming in!” He stated while opening the door. Light hit your eyelids and you tucked your head under the blanket trying to stay out of his sight. His footsteps rushed to your side and you felt his presence just outside the thin sheet hiding you. A hand grabbed the blanket and gently pulled the fabric, Your sweaty hands clutched the blanket close to your body and you pulled yourself into a tight ball.

“You have to leave Saeyoung! Please!” You blurted. He can’t see you he can’t see you he can’t see you he can’t see you. The blanket tugged harder as he tried to get to you.

“Y/N what did you do? Did you hurt yourself?” He asked, finally ripping the blanket off of your body. Your hands reached for your head, your knees pulled to your chest and feet covering your shining pussy. His eyes took in your form. He hated the fact that you were scared but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop. Your form was shaking and he could see your shoulders rise and fall with every jagged breath you took. He dropped the blanket in his hand and used it to gently touch your shoulder. You flinched and shot your head up to look at him. The fear and humiliation in his eyes sent a spear through his heart and the tears soaking your beautiful face made him internally hit himself. Nevertheless, you were stunning. Your bright eyes, soft lips, plump curves. You were everything he found beautiful stuffed into one person. Your eyes scanned his but the light prevented you from making out any features on his face.

“Don’t look… Please…” You cried softly, moving away from his hand. His figure stiffened and you could only assume he was shocked by your disgusting state. Fresh tears fell out of your eyes as you thought about your next decision. “I’ll leave by tomorrow. I’ll set up the party but you will never have to see me again. I promise.” You said shakily. Your breath speeding up and mind racing. The man in front of you felt a crack in his heart at your words. ‘Why would you leave? Why would you never see him again?’ So many things ran through his head, but he could only say one thing.

“Why?” You felt your body cringe at the question. Why did you fall for him? Why did you think you had a chance? Why would someone as disgusting and perverted as you even dare think of him in such a lewd way?

“Because you’re perfect! You’re caring, and handsome, and you always take care of everyone else, making sure they are safe even if it means spending hours and hours on end without food or sleep! You are all I’ve ever dreamed of! That’s why I did it!” You shouted all at once, your voice breaking but you didn’t care. It felt somewhat nice getting all these things off your chest. Like it was easier to breathe. After a moment of silence you realized your eyes were closed and you were still naked in front of the man you were fantasizing about just moments before. You slowly opened your eyes and started to look up at Saeyoung. You couldn’t read his face, his thoughts, everything was a mystery. Your chest was now soaked with all the tears flowing from your eyes and falling down your face. “I know you are disgusted, I know that you never will see me that way, that’s why I will leave and you will never have to see m-“ You were cut off by his lips suddenly attacking yours. With his face so close to yours you could finally see the freckles on his face, his long eyelashes that almost hit his glasses. Your brain was empty, your eyes wide and body still. ‘What is happening?’

“Close your eyes.” A husky, low whisper sounded against your lips. Blindly you obeyed the command, two hands gently pushing you down onto the bed and slowly removing your knees from your chest and hands from your head. The bed shifted under his weight as he climbed on top of you. His teeth grabbed at your bottom lip and tugged, your mouth opening slightly. His tongue wasted no time and shot into your mouth. You could feel his hands start to explore your chest, messaging your breasts and teasing your nipples. His warm tongue danced around yours and his breath caressed your face. ‘What is going on? Is this real?’ Saeyoung pulled back causing you to open your eyes.

“Please, never leave me.” He pleaded, eyes tearing up a little. You stared at him, dumbfounded at his request.

“Aren’t you disgusted?” You questioned, the tears on your face now drying and feeling cold in the air. Saeyoung looked at you, a small smile on his face as he held back tears. He removed his hand from your chest and reached for your own, slowly moving it further and further down his body until it touched something hard, something you never expected to touch.

“No. I’m not. I am so happy.” He said quietly, eyes never leaving yours. You felt your face heat up and your clit throb. ‘I made him like that?’ You thought. You slowly grabbed the outline in his jeans, moving your hand up and down slightly. Saeyoung sucked in a breath and your movements and removed his hand from yours. His eyes closed, finally feeling your touch after so long. He opened his and saw you looking at your hand, caressing his crotch, face red and embarrassed. He could feel your thighs close and your body wiggle with impatience. He lowered himself to his elbow, using his free hand to gently grab your chin and lift your face up, lips meeting in a slow kiss. He prayed you couldn’t feel his heart pounding, but also hoped if you could, you would realize just how much you meant to him.

His hand cupped your face and his thumb rubbed your cheek. His breathing was shaky from the kiss and your hand becoming more aggressive. It felt so much better than he could have ever imagined. Slowly his mouth and hand travelled down your face to your neck, to your chest, and landing on your nipples. His tongue circled your nub and his fingers rolled the other. Your hand paused its assault on his dick for a moment, head shooting back and mouth opening, a loud moan escaping your lips. Your hand started to rub his dick again, speeding up from before and applying more pressure. He let out a groan into your chest, the vibrations sending a shiver down your spine and goose bumps all over your skin. His lips moved down, his body following, slowly removing his cock from your reach, your hand trailed his torso feeling the abs under his shirt. It was surprising as his diet consisted of chips and soda and he sat at a computer all day. His mouth left sloppy kisses down your stomach, making its way farther and farther down your body until his hands were gently opening your thighs.

You looked down at his face, his eyes were gentle but had a sort of need behind them. He kissed your knee, then your thigh, his hands slowly rubbing your legs to try and convince you to show yourself to him. You caved and opened your thighs, your arms immediately covering your face to hide your embarrassment. A thick smell hit the red heads nose and his entire body shuddered. ‘Finally. She is in my arms.’ His mouth led a trail of kisses, working his way from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping briefly when he met his destination. He stared at your folds, the juices from earlier having dried in the chilled air, a few days worth of hair blanketing your skin, but none of that mattered to him. You were beautiful to him no matter what you looked like or how long you had gone without shaving.

A loud gasp escaped your lips as a warm, wet muscle landed on your clit. Your hands wanting to grab his head, to push him away from the filthy part yet pull him closer to feel more of him. You felt your toes curl at the sensations coming from your sensitive pussy, still aching from your ruined orgasm. The feeling was starting to be too much, your clit was too sensitive, juices poured from your pussy as you finally came undone. Loud moans filled the air, taking over Saeyoung’s thoughts. His tongue continued to work magic on your pussy, carrying you through your high and leaving you a twitching, shaking mess. Your hands weakly pushed him away, snapping him from his thoughts and made him pull back. Your chest was heaving and your head was thrown to the side, you were completely exhausted.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, feeling an ache come from his lower region. He slowly undid his belt and released his cock from its confinements. The tip of his dick was as red as his hair, angry from neglect. He carefully wrapped his hands around it and began stroking, looking at your body completely wrecked from just his tongue. A low moan came from his mouth causing you to look at him. His hand was pumping the most beautiful dick you had ever seen. It was thick and long, the tip leaking some pre cum causing it to shine in the light. Your mouth watered at the sight and you slowly started to sit up, reaching for it.

“No no no. I can’t have you do that” Saeyoung said in a playful yet desperate voice. He ripped off his clothes and pushed you back down on the bed ignoring your whines of protest. “Another time baby. I can’t wait any longer.” He whispered into your ear, spreading your legs further apart to accommodate his hips. He grabbed your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed causing you to yelp at the sudden movement. Your ankles were on his shoulders, his arms holding your legs to his body. He grabbed his dick with one hand and smacked it against your folds. You both groaned at the contact, wanting more than a mere smack. He positioned himself at your entrance before slowly piercing through your hole. Your body squeezed his tip making him almost lose his mind. It was so warm and soft inside you, nothing could ever compare to it.

After ensuring he was not going to come by just putting his tip in, he slowly moved his full length in. Your hands flew to your stomach, feeling full from his dick. You moaned at the sensation, wanting to feel like this forever. Slowly, he pulled out, watching his dick leave your body now shining with juices, it was almost too much for him. The thought made him go crazy and made his hips snap back into you. The movement made your eyes shoot open, head thrown back and mouth wide open shouting lewd moans. Your voice started to bounce as he pistoned in and out of your body, losing himself in the feeling, the sight, and the noises of you. Your mind was going blank, too overcome with pleasure to even think to breath.

“Y/N… Y/N… Y/N!” Saeyoung chanted, sweat running down his form as he desperately thrusted into you. Your head turned towards the door, eyes half closed. You didn’t think you would be able to process anything at the moment, your mind was too hazy. But one thing was for sure, there was a red blinking light in the corner of the room. The same light that was on his security cameras in the living room, hallways, outside of his house. He had known what you were doing prior to this. He had seen everything. He had heard everything.

He knew everything.

#saeyoung x mc #saeyoungmysticmessenger #mysme saeyoung #sayoung choi #707 x mc #707 x reader #agent 707 #707 smut #mystic messenger smut #smut #anime boy #anime #video games #mobile #mobile games #hot #what even is this #Im sorry #saeyoung smut #saeyoung choi smut

[after-witch]

Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Title: Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Synopsis: You’ve broken up with Ransom Drysdale, and you mean it this time. But the freedom that comes with the breakup leads to a series of unexpected coincidences that leave you wondering: was it worth the price?

Word Count: 8955

notes: yandere, mentions of physical abuse, financial abuse, comfort sweaters

Nothing lasts forever. Not even relationships--and certainly not love. What might start off as an intense, passionate relationship can (and did, in your case) eventually fizzle; things that you were willing to overlook when you were absolutely besotted would wear down with time, and eventually they became too much to ignore.

That’s what you tell yourself, what you remind yourself, in the moment after you tell him:

“It’s over, Ransom. We’re done. I’m leaving.”

It couldn’t last forever. Not with his inability to stay sober, not with his tendency to cheat on you with meaningless flings that somehow hurt more than any steamy single-minded affair. Not with his flare-ups of controlling tendencies that left you in tears on the bathroom floor as he asked you to please stop dressing like a slut in front of his family, is that too hard to ask?

You’d asked him to change. He swore he would; he never did. You forgave him, more than once, more times than you could count. But enough was enough. Maybe he thought you were too weak to leave him, especially three years into your relationship, when your lives were becoming so integrated, pushing you towards a potential permanent future. It was a future that left you feeling numb and anxious. Stuck in a marriage with someone who wanted to stay with you but treated you horribly, all the same. And that wasn’t even getting into the family dynamics that left your head spinning.

He stares at you now, and his mouth opens just a little bit in what you know is going to be a barrage of questions, insults, maybe even threats spurred on by your words. But instead he closes his mouth and shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter chuckle.

“Well, damn. This sucks.” You can see the indent of his tongue in his cheek before he clicks and shrugs. “Guess that’s it then. Need help packing your shit or what?”

His response is so blasé that you’re genuinely shocked and, you must admit, a little hurt. He didn’t even ask for a second chance or beg you to stay or argue with you about your terrible timing because our-vacation-to-Hawaii-is-coming-up. So it’s your turn to look surprised, and you shake your head.

“No, I… already took care of it. It’s at a storage locker.” You didn’t have family left, and your close friends had pulled away from you one by one once you stayed with Ransom time and time again--so you’d had to pay movers to help you pack and transport everything to storage over the weekend, while Ransom was away and you were free to make a clean breakup.

He nods, sticks his hand inside his jacket pockets. He’s looking around the room, avoiding direct eye contact in a clear show of his discomfort. It’s weird seeing Ransom like this--the normally self-assured, cocky Ransom, looking for any excuse not to look at you.

“So… see ya around?” His tone is sincere, if still confused. The idea of you leaving must have really never crossed his mind. The look on his face when he finally faces you again appears genuinely puzzled.

He sticks out his hand and it feels almost comical for things to end this way, particularly considering the nights you’d spent imagining some big blow up, some big fight with Ransom screaming and you firing off the many reasons why it had to end no matter what he said.

But it didn’t go the way you expected at all. It was calm. Easy. A clean break-up.

So you shake his hand and grab your purse and the small roller-suitcase and give a half-hearted wave as you walk out the door; the taxi you’d hired to pick you up is waiting, car running, meter going. You would be staying at a hotel for two weeks, which would hopefully be enough time to find a semi-decent apartment; your credit score had improved so much since Ransom added you to his cards, to a shared checking account, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to get approved.

A new life, one where you could focus on yourself for once, was just around the corner.

**

"I'm sorry, miss, but it's definitely not the reader. The card is declined."

You've had this nightmare before. No, you've lived this nightmare before--years ago when your credit was shit and you ran up your cards and had to face the music in a publicly humiliating display with the longest checkout line you'd ever seen behind you. Only that was years ago, in a little grocery store, and since getting together with Ransom you never had to worry about problems like this. You never had to worry about the shame of not having enough, not being enough.

But this? This was happening now. In an upscale hotel. With your nice purse (a Christmas present) and designer clothes (casual, comfortable) and your cheeks flushed undeniably warm.

The hotel clerk has a tight, sympathetic smile on her face. A coworker who walks behind her glances at you, judging, and you just know he's going to head into some break room and tell everyone but yet another piece of discarded army candy with a declined credit card. You wish you'd kept your sunglasses on.

"Did it, um, say why? I don't--" you plaster a smile on your face, hating the way this all feels familiar, like a part of your past coming back to haunt you. "I don't understand, the card is good."

The clerk's smile flickers, just a bit.

"It says there's a fraud alert on this card. Perhaps you'd better call the company. Or would you like me to call them?"

Fucking. Ransom.

"Oh, oh no, don’t worry about it. I’ll call them myself. I'm so sorry about this." You turn away from the clerk as quickly as possible and step away from the counter, away from the person waiting behind you who will surely have no trouble with their card, away from the clerks giving you a passive side-eye. You lean against a cool cement pillar in the lobby and you know what you have to do.

You have to call Ransom.

You haven't deleted his number yet--you'd planned on calling him today or tomorrow to figure out how to split up your shared finances--so it's easy enough to find the number. It's not so easy to tap his contact, but you have to, so you force yourself to do it and stare at his photo as the call rings. And rings. And rings. “Hello?” Your breath catches but in an instant, when the message continues, you feel stupid. It’s his voicemail. Fuck.

You text him, instead. Emergency. Call right away. And of course: He leaves you on read. Fuck.

You call him again. And again. He picks up on the sixth call, but your heart is racing too hard and sweat is beading down your forehead and it takes you a moment to confirm that the "Hello?" wasn't part of the voicemail message this time. Fuck.

"Um. Hey," you say, keeping your voice as un-royally-pissed-off as possible, because if he did put in a fraud alert then you don't want to risk any additional asshole moves. "So there's something wrong with the card? The one that ends in 8921? The hotel said there was a fraud alert and--"

"Did you really think I'm going to keep paying for your shit if we're over?"

His voice is quick, biting--exactly what you'd expected from him earlier. Somehow it stings even harsher over the phone, where you feel more helpless, unable to avoid his words.

"I thought..." you wet your lips, trying to maintain your cool. "Look, my name is on them, so I thought send you my part of the payments until I can get cards in my own name."

He chuckles, low and short. "Yeah? What, you want to create a payment schedule or something?"

You fight back the annoyance in your tone. You hate having to be the bigger person, but your finances--your life--is on the line. "Yeah, actually, that'd be perfect. It wouldn't be for long. You know I'll pay them on time, I'm not looking to screw you over."

"You're going too pay me on time? For all the stuff you've bought, the stuff I’ve bought for you, this hotel room and god knows what else? How are you going to afford all that?"

He knows you recently earned a promotion at your work. He knows this, because you were so excited about it, and his half-assed congratulations over lukewarm leftovers left you feeling bitter and sad and useless. So you can't help it when bitterness seeps into your voice with your answer. "You know I just got a promotion."

"Did you?" It's said in such a casual tone that it gives you pause, but a moment later he simply hangs up on you.

Fucking. Ransom.

You shove your phone back into your purse, and the clerks at the counter are staring at you. Sweat has trickled down your back and your shirt sticks to your skin ever-so-slightly as you pull away from the pillar and approach the counter, awkward smile and cheeks hot.

"There is an issue with the card, they're working on it, so I’ll just call for a new reservation when it's fixed. I'm so sorry for the mix up!" Your voice is so peppy and high-pitched and fake and you feel like you’re back at your old job, feet aching with falling apart shoes, forced to deal with people returning old toasters laden with crumbs, calming they’d “just bought it the day before and it didn’t work.”

"Of course," the clerk says, and you know this is hotel clerk code for "You're a shitty liar."

You roll your suitcase out of the lobby with tears in your eyes and you shove your sunglasses on as soon as you've cleared the building. You feel exhausted, drained--so you use what little energy you have left to start googling for cheap motels.

**

The room smells musty. You pin the plastic sheet you’d snagged at a dollar store over the comforter and pray it will be enough to protect you from whatever is on the likely unwashed fabric. The TV is broken, there’s no WIFi, and there’s a few suspicious stains on the floor that make you wonder if this hotel has ever been featured in a porno, true crime show, or both.

But it’s all you could afford with the cash in your wallet. You only had enough cash on hand for 2 nights at a ragtag hotel that offers nightly and hourly rates. You didn’t dare use your debit card or any credit cards with Ransom’s name or information on them.

You just need some sleep. A good night’s sleep to feel renewed and ready to tackle retaking your life, bit by bit. In the morning, you need to go to the bank and withdraw your money from the joint bank account. Then you can reopen an account in your name, get a new debit card, and apply for a few credit cards afterwards.

Sure, it would have been nicer to do this without Ransom being an asshole. But deep down, you suspected he wouldn’t let you have a clean, lets-still-be-friends type of break. Not after all the times he’d pressured you into staying, manipulating you with words and gifts and promises, promises. Promises that were worth shit. 

The sheet crinkles underneath you as you scroll through your messages. You’d texted a few formerly close friends about the breakup earlier, hoping that they’d maybe want to reconnect. So far, you’d been left on read, blocked, and received only one response: “New number, who is this?”

So much for that. Not that you can blame them. There are only so many times they can rush over for a late night intervention in which you tell them every horrible thing Ransom does (he’s controlling, he doesn’t want me to meet with friends without permission, he tells me what I can and can’t wear, he cheats, he lies, he pushed me--)--before they get tired of you returning to him, again and again and again.

The only one who’d been texting you recently--okay, for the past year--had been Ransom. Mostly dick pics. And demands for you to send him something back, which you always did after a while, because you didn’t want to deal annoyed texts or voice messages accusing you of clearly cheating on him or hating him because why else wouldn’t you be willing to send him so much as a sexy selfie to your boyfriend? 

But in between those, there were conversations. Sometimes sweet ones, sometimes thoughtful ones that always made you remember why you fell hard for him in the first place. Late night conversations from when he was off on trips. You try not to wonder if he was fucking someone on each of these trips, if while you were sending him a late night ramble about a TV show and he was humoring you with jokes and quips, he was actually snuggled up with someone else. Laying in bed, naked, laughing at your dumb ass waiting at home.

The not-so-sweet conversations were ones that you had screenshotted and sent to your friends more than once, before they pulled themselves away. Texts asking where you were. Asking who you ate lunch with, and whether or not you were fucking them. Asking why your new office was connected to a certain co-worker’s, and how many blowjobs you had to give to get said new office because you didn’t tell him about the new office until after you were moved in, so you were clearly hiding him. Asking you to send him outfit pics so he could approve them or make you change if they were too slutty or not slutty enough or if you were only clearly wearing that halter dress to try to get with the bartender.

Yet your mind had always returned to the nice Ransom, the Ransom who made you laugh and squeezed you hard when had a shitty day of work and let you bury your face in his sweater as you snuggled on the couch. Maybe that’s why it took so long to leave.  You were waiting for him to stop being Ransom and start being the fantasy of Ransom you’d conjured in your head.

Your eyes feel heavy so you plug in your phone, turn the sound off, and lay down on the uncomfortable plastic sheet that crinkled over the pillows. It feels strange to lay on a lumpy mattress covered in plastic, after years of custom-made beds and memory foam pillows and all the other luxuries that Ransom was able to provide.

You try not to think about it too much. While you won’t exactly be indulging in all the luxuries you had with Ransom, but your job pays you well, and you won’t ever have to go back to living hand-to-mouth like you did before. You won’t have to worry about late bills and debt collectors and landlords who come late at night and demand inspections while you’re in your pajamas.

You have work in the morning. You have to get to the bank in the morning. Your thoughts are still buzzing with anxiety as you fall into an uneasy slumber.

**

“I’m sorry, but the account has been closed.”

You feel years of customer service training cracking underneath your skin. You can’t freak out. If you freak out, they won’t feel inclined to go the extra mile. You know this, from firsthand experience.

So you take a shaky breath. “Um, this just--it isn’t possible. It’s a joint account. I’m on the account. There was money in there, you can check--”

“I’m sorry, but the funds were transferred and account has been closed by the other account holder. There’s nothing I can do. I suggest contacting the other party in the account.”

You swallow and nod and walk away, this time having been smart enough to keep your sunglasses on to hide your humiliated expression. Why didn’t you insist on having your own account? Ransom said it was better to keep it joint, so you could just buy stuff whenever you wanted. You’d agreed because it was so generous, something you’d never thought possible at the time, when you were used to having to pay overdraft fees and cringing whenever you checked your balance.

Your fingers tremble as you bring up his contact on your phone. You tap. No answer.

You don’t have time to call him two, three, ten times--you have to get to work. So you steady your nerves. You breathe in, you breathe out. You get in your car and plug your phone in and decide to contact your lawyer. Fuck--your lawyer was Ransom's lawyer. But the anxiety eases when you remember that you’d paid him a retainer fee months ago, and Ransom couldn’t do anything about that. You could at least get a basic consult out of the retainer.

The call ringing sounds muffled through your car’s speaker but it isn’t long before someone answers, and you’re transferred to the lawyer Ransom insisted you have--gotta have a lawyer when you have money, babe--and that you hadn’t spoken to in ages.

“Hi,” you say, voice artificially bright, “this is--”

You don’t get a chance to finish.

“I know who this is.” The lawyer sounds tired, and his tone is curt and clipped. “I’m sorry. I’m no longer able to provide you with any legal counsel.”

You almost miss a red light and regret calling the office while you were driving.

“Is this about the debit card? Because I paid the retainer months ago--”

“The retainer has been refunded into the connected checking account.”

Your voice looses its artificial cheeriness and you stumble over your words in frustration. “That’s--it’s--it was a joint account, which is why I called, Ransom drained it and took everything. Isn’t there something we can do, because that was my money too and--”

“I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel.”

You want to cry. You hate crying, as an adult. It makes you feel weak. Especially on the phone.

“I don’t understand. Why was the retainer refunded? Did--did someone call you?”

He clears his throat into the phone. “I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel. Goodbye.”

He hangs up. Your hands shake.

You pull into the parking lot of your work and park the car and as soon as you do, you hunch yourself over the steering wheel and simply shake in frustration.

You have no bank account. Ransom drained it. You have no credit cards. Ransom blocked them. You couldn’t even talk to a lawyer, because--shock--Ransom made sure you couldn’t. Everything was in Ransom’s name. He insisted on adding you to his accounts, closing out your own paltry ones; insisted that he pay off your credit card debt, and making you close those, too, instead adding you to his cards. It was all to help you out, he said, at the time.

Wasn’t it? He was shockingly not judgmental about the state of your finances, and while you’d put up some protest, you didn’t exactly argue with him when he suggested wiping your debts clean and getting your credit back up. And considering that he wasn’t immune to needing a bail-out now and then (late night calls to his grandfather, snarky comments at his parent’s dinner table, come to mind) maybe he could sympathize with being in over your head. Even if your issues were rooted in poverty and shitty jobs and his were rooted in a total lack of financial discipline and, as you’d later found out, a drug addiction.

Still. He helped you before. He would help you now, once he realized how serious it was. For now he was just--reacting like an asshole, acting childish and ridiculous. He was an asshole. You know this. You’ve known this. You need to call him and meet with him and make him realize how ridiculous he’s being, and he’ll sigh and snark but he’ll agree to stop acting like such an ass.

But first you have to work. Life goes on. Even without Ransom--even with Ransom, screwing you over out of pettiness.

The air conditioning in the lobby is on blast, and the familiar smell of clean furniture and floor cleaner from the late-night cleaning crew is surprisingly comforting. Here, you can forget about Ransom--forget about the cards and the lawyer and the fact that your life has been upended in mere hours. If only until your lunch break, at least.

Anthony is working the front desk and you give him a a soft, if strained smile. There’s something in the smile that he gives you in return that reminds you of the hotel clerk. Sympathetic and judgmental.

Ah. You probably look like--well, less than your best, you realize. You did pack some toiletries in your suitcase but the water in the motel had streaks of brown and you didn’t shower, opting instead to rinse your face with what was left of a water bottle you’d bought earlier and layering on more deodorant to make up for the lack of a proper scrub. You probably looked a bit tired, haggard, not unlike some of the employees who got stuck with big clients the night before their paperwork was due.

Still. Nothing that freshening up in your private bathroom--thank god for the new office--can’t help. So you hit the button on the elevator and take deep breaths as you ride up, intent on working as productively as possible. The doors open and you navigate the familiar maze of open-plan desks for the lower-tier workers, desks surrounded by half-walls that always kept you staring straight ahead, lest you accidentally glance over and see a co-worker picking their nose.

Yet as you weave in-and-out of the familiar rows, heading towards the back of the room where the real offices, the ones with full walls and doors and privacy glass lay, you can’t help but feel that something is… off. 

No one calls out to greet you, though that can be easily attributed to the jealousy over your promotion. You’d been working there for far less than most of the lower level workers--Ransom got you the job, with his connections and a hefty revision of your resume and, you assume, some personal phone calls--and you’d already been promoted to senior management. That wasn’t technically Ransom’s work, though. That was all your own effort, your own blood, sweat, tears and intense devotion to each project that came your way. Sure, the connections he helped you make, the dinner parties, all that helped--but if it weren’t for your skills, the connections wouldn’t have made a difference. Right? 

Still, whatever bitterness existed in the people hunch in open-air cubicles, the receptionists always greeted you. But today they caught your eye then awkwardly glanced down, or pretended to be looking for something in their drawers. It was odd. Did you look that bad? That out of sorts?

You shake off the heavy feeling in your stomach and for once, you shut the door to your office instead of keeping it open for passers-by or people needing approval for this-and-that. It feels good to lean against the solid wood door and take a breath, a deep one, invigorating and calming.

A quick trip to the bathroom has you staring at yourself from all angles. You don’t look that bad, you reason. Just tired. But who wouldn’t be, sleeping on a plastic sheet in the shittiest motel in the area? You take a quick sniff under your arms but even that reveals nothing much but a faint hint of sweat and powdery deodorant.

There’s a firm knock at your office door and you glance at the mirror for a final once over before opening it up. It’s your boss. Did you have a meeting? You try to do a mental scan of something you’ve missed, but nothing comes to mind.

“Hi,” you say, wavering with uncertainty at the threshold. Should you invite him in? “What can I do for you? We didn’t have a meeting, did we?” You let yourself chuckle, dry and quick. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit scattered this morning.”

Your boss doesn’t return your chuckle, which immediately raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Something was wrong. Shit--you were working on a major project for a seriously important client. The type of client that could genuinely make or break a company, if you got on their bad side. You press your lips together and make a silent vow to keep it serious.

“I’d like to keep this conversation private.” His tone is low and serious and you invite him in without a second thought, shutting the thick door behind you, trying to ignore the way everyone was shooting glances as it closed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your thoughts race--no wonder everyone was giving you the stink eye. Something was wrong with the client, and you were the one making primary contact with them.

Your boss takes a seat on the leather sofa pushed up against the wall and you immediately set yourself down behind your desk.

He sighs. Short. Frustrated. Annoyed.

“We have to let you go.”

The words don’t register.

“Go where?”

It’s only after you say it that you realize what he said, what it meant, and you feel like a colossal moron in every respect.

“It’s not working out,” he continues, staring at your desk and not at your face. “Since you’ve only been in this position for a month, you don’t quality for senior severance. The best we can do is to pay you what you’ve earned this week.”

Your mouth is so dry that you don’t know if you can talk. Your hand fumbles on your desk for a water bottle you’d left overnight, and that’s when you see it--the photo frame. You keep a photo of yourself and Ransom, cuddled together for a selfie, on your desk. The photo was lying on your desk, frameless, ripped in half--leaving only your vacantly smiling face staring up at you.

Ransom was here.

“Did he put you up to this?” You whisper. “Did Ransom tell you to fire me?”

You know he won’t answer. But you stare at him so fervently that he can’t help but look up at you, and you see it all in his eyes, in the subtle, embarrassed expression of his face.

You can imagine Ransom strolling in--maybe he called first--and settling in for a private audience with your boss in his office. He’d probably pull the chair up to the desk and put his feet on it, just to be an ass. Then he’d bring up… you. And why you had to be let go. Did he give a reason, did he tell your boss why a respected employee who he once secured a position for, who shot up the ranks through intense effort and work, needed to be fired? Did he even need to give a reason?

“This is absolute bullshit,” you say, finally, voice dry and hoarse and bitter. You want to say you’ll be contacting a lawyer. That this won’t stand. But you know--and he knows--that there’s nothing you can do.

Your boss stands, slow, and sighs again. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. Pack up your things as quickly as possible.”

He leaves, and you keep your eyes trained on the ripped photograph to avoid seeing the expressions of the people in the doorway before your boss mercifully shuts the door.

It takes all of your effort not to cry.

You don’t have much effort left.

**

Your things consisted of a handful of personal items, little touches you’d brought in to make your office feel more like “you.” A nice picture print. A pastel afghan to drape over the couch. A stapler with a floral design. You have the strong urge to dump them in a trash can, but that’s quickly quelled by the realization that you can’t afford to buy new things, or any things, at this point.

You don’t care if wearing your sunglasses as you power walk to the elevators makes you look stupid. You know someone, somewhere in this office is filming you and probably captioning it with something stupid to post to their Reels or TikTok, and it just makes you leave faster. A few people murmur comments your way, sympathetic in tone, but you’re not really listening. None of their platitudes matter, because Ransom was here, in your workplace, in your office, and he stole the thing you were most proud of from under your feet.

To his credit, when you reach the bottom floor, Anthony practically fumbles out from behind his desk and holds the door open for you. He mouths a “Sorry” and he probably is, but he’s probably used to dealing with rich assholes like Ransom who get what they want, when they want it; even when what they want is to fire a good employee on demand for very personal reasons.

The sun is beating down hard, even for the morning, and the stress of your situation makes you blast the air conditioning as soon as you get in the car. God, the car--how are you going to afford the payments? You wish you could call your mom. You wish your friends--are they even your friends, anymore?--would call you back.

You grab your phone from your purse and stare at the black screen. Maybe you should call the friend who didn’t block you. She would answer, if you called, because she knew you didn’t make calls unless it was serious. She might not rush to your side, but maybe she can offer you a place to stay, a couch, some advice. A kind word would do, right now, with how much anxiety and frustration has been packed into the last 12 hours.

But when you unlock your screen, your gut sinks. Five missed calls. From the storage company. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You tap their number and bring the phone to your ear and pretend that your hands aren’t shaking.

The man who answers is the same one you talked to on the phone before, when setting up your move. “Hello, Move’nSecure Storage Company. This is Steve speaking. How many I help you?”

“Hi Steve!” You hate how chipper you sound. “I actually just got a few missed calls from you guys, I’m sorry, I was in the office and--”

“Oh.” His voice is surprisingly flat, suddenly flat, losing its customer service inflection in an instant before picking it back up. “Yes. We’ve been trying to reach you. For confirmation, the storage locker your purchased is A443, correct?”

You fumble in your purse for the receipt and confirm the little numbers printed neatly on the paper. “Yes, A443. Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not.” You’re grateful that you didn’t have much for breakfast because you know it would be clawing its way back up at this point. “The card you gave us for the storage fee was declined.”

The debit card. You’d paid in cash for the move, and paid for 1 month of storage with the card. The card that was now useless, connected to an empty and closed bank account.

“Is there another card you can give us?”

“No, but...” You say, because no, there is not. There is not a card. There is not a job. There is nothing. “But if you could just hold my stuff, I’ll be there in less than a hour to get it.”

“We don’t hold items,” Steve tells you, a rehearsed banality to his tone. “Your items are currently outside the unit.”

You instinctively want to yell at Steve but, fuck fuck fuck, you’ve been there, behind the counter, dealing with people who couldn’t pay for shit and then had the nerve to get upset with you. “All of it?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly.

“Yes.”

You hang up, and toss your phone onto the passenger seat. The quicker you get there, the less chance that something will get broken or stolen or who knows what else.

The trip to the storage unit seems to take forever, and when you arrive you don’t even take a second to lock your car doors. Instead you sprint inside, startling Steve--looking at his phone, then at you, then at the sign plastered up on the wall leading to the storage locker floors. He points. Row A, separated into 100s, 200s, 300s, and--your number--400s.

You don’t remember if you say ‘thank you,’ because you’re speed-walking down the hallway and following the signs and it isn’t long before you see it: a storage locker with tons of stuff piled up, dumped, outside the now-empty unit where it was supposed to be safe and sound. Waiting for you to get an apartment and pick it back up and rearrange it into your new life, your new “you.”

The problem is immediate: You can’t fit all this in your car. You don’t know anyone who could take the stuff for you. You mind reels for options and the only thing you can come up with is ferrying your belongings to and from the hotel. You can pay for a few more days once you cash your partial paycheck. After that… you don’t know.

Pawn your things? Yeah. That might work. You can get enough cash by pawning most of your stuff, the good stuff. Enough money to get you into a shitty apartment with leaks and a bad landlord. Then you can a job that barely pays rent and you’ll be right back where you started, before you met Ransom. Before you thought leaking ceilings and $20 paychecks after taxes were a thing of the past.

You ignore the humiliation that makes your stomach curl as you take your things out to the car, handful by handful. Steve doesn’t bother holding the door open for you. You mention that you’re going to be back on your way out, and he offers a non-committal hum.

At least when you get to the hotel, the owner sees you fumbling with boxes and offers to help you out. It takes less time with two hands to get everything in the room, and once it’s locked up you head back out to the storage units.

You keep your sunglasses on for the second trip into the storage unit, even though you don’t know Steve or care what he thinks. He doesn’t look up when you walk in and it’s just as well, since you’re only heading back to the A-400s and don’t need his non-existent help.

But the sight that greets you when you round the corner to your unpaid-for storage locker makes your blood run cold.

Your stuff is gone. All of it.

You rush back to the desk, where Steve does look up, startled by your urgency.

“My stuff,” you spit out, “My stuff is gone! Someone took it!”

Steve shrugs. “Sorry.” He points to a sign behind him: “We are not responsible for the loss of items inside or outside storage lockers.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” You can’t the anger in your voice this time. “You just watched someone walk off with my stuff and didn’t say anything?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “If it was that important, you shouldn’t have left it here. Or you should have given us another card.”

You feel like throwing your hands up but you just clench your fist and storm out the door, huffing as you reach your car. The anger melts into the sense of loss, the realization that you only have a few meager items that you’d managed to collect; you picked the lightest stuff, first. And in retrospect it was things that didn’t matter much at all. Clothes. Hair supplies. Makeup. You should have grabbed the box with your USB sticks, your memory cards, your photo albums; your personal mementos and sentimental shit. Instead you grabbed the box with your shampoo.

At least the clothes might get something in a pawnshop. The makeup, too, on Facebook or Depop or Instagram. But it wouldn’t be enough to put you up in an apartment. You’ll have to live in your car. Until they repossess it for lack of payment.

You don’t have your bank account, your credit cards, your job, a place to stay, or your personal possessions. And soon, you won’t have your car.

You have no friends. No boyfriend. No family.

All you have $20 left in your wallet and well, fuck it. You grab some McDonalds on the way home because, fuck it, and eat all the fries before you make it to the motel. The thought of eating in your dirty room makes your stomach turn and you decide to eat everything else you bought, the burger and the shake and the chicken nuggets too, tossing the wrappers on the floor. It feels like deja vu--getting cheap fast food to make you feel full, tossing trash on the floor of the passenger seat, all bringing back the way you used to when you’d grab something from the dollar menu on your way to work at the call center.

You almost wish you could stay at this hotel, brown water and all. The owner is decently nice. He smiles at you when you enter and doesn’t bring up that you didn’t come back with more boxes, like you said you would.  

You’re surprised at how grateful you feel for the dingy hotel room now that you won’t be able to stay here more than another day. Now that the alternative is sleeping in your car, then sleeping on the street, if you were lucky.

Your phone feels heavy when you set it on the table and stare at the home screen. Another photo of you and Ransom stares back up at you. You haven’t had time to change it up yet. He’s grinning. You’re smiling. It’s a good photo. You try to place it in your memory, try to remember what beach that was, but your trips blur together and you can’t.

Should you call him? If it was just the cards, just him being petty over credit and finances, it was one thing. You could try to placate him with returning gifts, just asking him to give you what you put in from your own paychecks. But making you lose your job? It was too far, too fucking far. And there was no going back from that. Fuck, someone was probably moving into your office as you sat in this dimly lit room mourning the loss of your entire life.

For a brief, very fleeting moment, you consider calling Harlan. You weren’t exceptionally close, but he seemed to like you well enough. He’d even asked you once, puling you aside at a tension-filled family party, if Ransom treated you right, told you to tell him if he ever got to be too much. Harlan felt like Ransom’s keeper--in more ways than one. You could never tell Harlan about the shouts or the occasional bruises from when Ransom really, really lost his temper--it’s not like you could prove them, anyway, as Ransom made sure to keep you away from his family when he lost control like that. No need for excuses about running into doors when he made sure you looked your best at family functions.

But the thought of breaking the uneasy stasis that Ransom had with the most significant member of his family made you want to vomit. There would be no coming back from that, and you knew better than to cross any line involving the great Harlan Thrombey.

You could call your friend--ex-friend? The one who didn’t block you or forget your number. You should. No, you will. Because what else do you have to lose.

But before you can bring up her number, you get a text--Ransom. It’s a photo and your curiosity gets the better of you as you click the notification.

“What the fuck?”

He’s sent you a photo of his car, trunk open. It’s filled with boxes, odds-and-ends. It’s filled with your stuff.

You text him: What??

He texts back: Hey. I’m in front of the hotel. Come out? Bring your suitcase. :P

It’s your stuff. It’s his car. He’s here. All reason is thrown aside as you grab your suitcase and purse and rush down the hallway, ignoring the owner’s confused response from behind his desk as you push open the front doors and look around the parking lot.

His car is parked to the side, not in front of the hotel’s glass double doors. He’s standing outside his car, leaning against it. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his pocket when he sees you approaching, face confused and fuming all at once.

“What the fuck, Ransom, what the fuck is your problem--”

“Hey, hey,” he says, hands up in defense, “You’re not even going to thank me for picking up your stuff?”

You feel suddenly, impossibly rooted to the spot.

“What do you--what? You took my stuff?”

He shrugs. “C’mon, did you really think I’d just leave your stuff in some shitty storage unit? Someone would’ve taken it if I didn’t get there first.”

You swallow. “Why?” You ask, because Ransom never does anything for no reason. Or so you’ve learned.

His expression loses a bit of its cocky casualness. He tilts his head a bit, looking at you as if you’ve asked a particularly offensive question.

“Why do you think?”

To lord it over you? To make you think your stuff was gone and make you worried, sick, crazy?

“I don’t know,” is what you settle for in the end. “I really, really don’t. You--” You lick your lips, and try to calm down, calm the pitter-patter of your heart, and think before you speak. “You’ve done some pretty messed up stuff today. My job?” The last question comes out soft and pained, and you know your eyes are starting to tear up.

“Hey.” His voice is soft and placating and it makes your stomach flip as he approaches you, standing there on the sidewalk with your purse and suitcase. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t cry on me.”

You know this Ransom. The Ransom that holds you and pets your hair and offers to get Thai food delivered even though he doesn’t like it just to make you happy.

He puts his hand on your shoulder and you jerk it away. “Don’t.” That Ransom is a fantasy. Or an incomplete version, the version that pretends he doesn’t lie and cheat and hurt you in more ways than one. “Don’t you fucking dare, especially not after what you pulled today. My job? My job, Ransom? You’re a--a fucking asshole.”

He puts his hands up again, defensive, and takes a step back. But he doesn’t return to his car, and stays just a few steps in front of you.

“Look. Call me an asshole. Sure, fine, I can admit that. But do you know what else I am?”

He waits a beat, waits for you to look at him, before he continues. “I’m a realist. I like facts. And the fact is? You aren’t much without me. No job, no credit cards, no bank account. Without me, you’re just some broke chick scrambling to get an apartment in the shittiest part of town, working a dead-end job that don’t pay shit. With me though…. “

He leaves the words unfinished, but you know what he means. Flashes of your life, cocktails and smart business outfits and dinners at restaurants you didn’t even dream about attending before you met him. Phone calls with shakers in the industry and social media requests from people you’d never dream you’d meet. Connections that meant something, a career path, dinner parties with people who could offer tangible benefits to your career and your life.

It wasn’t that he spoiled you. He wasn’t a sugar daddy. You weren’t getting gifts for blowjobs. It was that his presence in your life boosted you, socially, financially, mentally, physically, in every which way possible.

His presence got you a job that you loved, which meant you weren’t burnt out when you came home, which meant that you had the time and energy to spend hours catching up on books or redecorating the house or watching movies. Good money meant you could order in whenever you felt like it, meant you didn’t have to worry if you burned dinner because you could just buy new steaks or order-in or go out, last minute, and still get a great table. It meant you had all the clothes you wanted, stylish and personally tailored; it meant you had easy access to a gym and exercise equipment and an indoor pool to keep you healthy. It meant you had a life that provided comfort in every way possible.

Being with Ransom Drysdale was like… like a little shot of privilege directly into your arm.

Privilege that he took away just as easily as he gave it. Just as easily as you took it. Just as easily as you took it and eagerly ignored the dark side underneath. Or maybe you didn’t ignore it. Maybe you liked it, maybe it reminded you of who you were underneath the designer clothes and expensive dinners.

Maybe you wanted to fix him, like he fixed you? He wasn’t totally bad, after all, he did make sure no one took your belongings. Maybe it was your presence that gave him the idea for that touch of sympathy, maybe with Ransom change was slow and muddled, not picture-perfect sweeping changes like the kind in movies.

“So?” Ransom’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Are you going to come home or,” he waves his hands around dismissively, at the hotel, at you.

You feel very, very less-than right now. You look awful, your hair mussy and your makeup mostly melted off with sweat and sun. You probably smell more than you normally do, thanks to the lack of a shower. Your muscles, sore from the motel bed, ache for the large spa bathtub that Ransom had installed in the master bathroom just for you, stocked with bubbles and salts and overpriced bath bombs that were $10 a pop.

But your muscles had hurt before, when he pushed you against the dresser.

You have nothing, and no one. Except Ransom. Ransom who didn’t judge you when you instinctively saved plastic bottles and boxes, but merely nudged you towards recycling and took you out to splurge on a reusable water bottle and proper storage containers the next day. Ransom who asked you what sort of job you wanted, really wanted, and made it happen for you. Ransom who shrugged and wiped away your credit card debt without making you feel like shit.

Ransom who didn’t let you leave the house if your wrists were sporting fingerprint shaped bruises. Ransom who argued with you about talking to men, even men at work. Ransom who held you tight at night and said he never wanted to let you go, and wouldn’t you just make a fine-ass addition his crazy family. Ransom who took care of you, now that you had no one else.

“What do you want me to do?” The words feel slow, sluggish. Like they wanted to stick to the roof of your mouth and it took everything in you to get them out.

His voice turns low and serious as he stares at you with an characteristic expression. “Well, the first thing is to get down on your knees…”

You feel your eyes practically bugging out.

“What the fuck, Ransom?”

He laughs. He always did have a nice laugh.

“I’m just messing with you, Jesus. Take a chi-I-il pill. Just grab your purse and come sit your sweet ass in the front seat. Let’s go get some burgers, I’m starving.”

Your legs feel like jelly when you take that first step, and the sound of your roller suitcase as you pull it along seems louder than ever. Ransom pops the truck and you just manage to fit it inside with the handle closed, jamming it in between some boxes at an odd angle. The handle of the passenger side is familiar, warm from the sun.

You open the door and practically shove yourself into the seat, closing the door as fast as possible. You can’t do more than glance at him as humiliation and anxiety and just the smallest bit of relief washes over you. It’s been less than 24 hours since you broke up, and here you are--again.

He’s staring at you quietly, his expression difficult to place. He looks relieved. He looks annoyed. He looks like he wants to kiss you. He looks like he wants to slap you. Maybe he wants to do it all at once and can’t decide which to pick.

Instead, he puts his hand on your thigh. Gives it a squeeze. Hard, bordering on painful.  He’s staring straight ahead, at the worn-out sign on the hotel’s front door, one hand gripping the flesh of your thigh. He looks good in profile. “Don’t ever try to pull something like that again. I mean it. I really mean it.”

You turn, glance out the window, familiar tears at the edge of your eyes.

“I won’t,” you whisper, dreaming of the tub and bubbles and how good a warm soak will feel on your back, on your thighs, on your soul.

“Good girl,” he says, patting your thigh firmly. He plucks his sunglasses out of pocket and puts them on in a smooth motion. The car starts smoothly, its fine-tuned and expensive engine a familiar sound, and your hands feel robotic as you pull the seatbelt over your chest and click it tight.

“Let’s get dinner and get home. You have some unpacking to do.”

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