#Bulk salt

[genericpuff]

Hey so I have a question-

Is Rachel even contributing to LO's art anymore? Like, at all?

CAUTION: MILD FASTPASS SPOILERS AHEAD !!!

I've talked at length about the 'tells' of each assistant and artist, and while it doesn't guarantee that I can tell exactly who drew each panel, there's one thing there's been a lot less of in the most recent episodes that have caught my attention - things that I know Rachel would typically contribute.

And most of it comes down to her lineart.

The shading was always her, no doubt about that, you could tell with how consistently awful it is, how she would take actual decent flats from her assistants and proceed to butcher them with muddied shading.

AmyKim89's flats vs. after Rachel's gotten her hands on them:

(seriously Rachel why tf did you darken Persephone's legs here, it looked so much better before ??)

But there was also her lineart which, at first, I didn't realize who was drawing it. It didn't show up super often in LO but it was always very noticeable when it did so I knew it had to be someone on the team doing it:

The thickness of the lines and the extra little strokes added in along the knuckles and bends, that wasn't something that was really common in LO at this point... at least it hasn't been since S1:

And when comparing it to the lineart she used to do in The Doctor Pepper/Foxglove Show:

(look at the mouth in The Doctor Foxglove Show vs. Hera in the pilot version of LO, they're literally the same)

So yeah, it was certainly the revelation to discover that that one instance of "weirdly detailed lineart" wasn't one of her assistants having a little extra fun, it was Rachel herself. It was already so uncommon for her to contribute all the way back in S2 that her contributions seemed to be more of the exception rather than the norm.

And since seeing the art that's been in the newest FP episodes following the return of the series... is Rachel even drawing at all anymore? Because lately the lineart has felt very thin, in a way that I can't tell if it's her assistants just doing all the lineart now or if she's trying to emulate S1 LO more by using less lineart. But S1 didn't have thin lineart, it had very thick lineart, BUT only being used where necessary to emphasis shadows and depth.

Now the lineart feels very... dinky? Especially when you look at the eyelashes.

That said, there are moments from S1 that had similarly 'dinky' lineart, so take this with grains of salt. It still didn't feel as dinky though as it does today where the lines are practically non-existent in how thin they are.

There are also times when you can tell they're really trying to emulate that S1 look, the pieces are there but they aren't being put together very well:

So yeah at this point I wouldn't even be shocked if all Rachel's doing at this point is scripting and roughs. And considering there are definitely times where she'll just draw without knowing what to write, the 'scripting' is also practically non-existent. It's just her leaving her roughs off to the last second for her assistants to whip out with very little time to pay attention to what's being submitted.

Once again it's Rachel fundamentally missing the point of the criticism that's being made of her work. She's trying to forcefully emulate something that she didn't even have a process behind. I can attest as someone who's been trying to do studies of her past work to recreate it as faithfully as possible through Rekindled, it's very difficult to achieve the 'old LO' look because 'old LO' was literally just Rachel slapping down brush strokes until they looked good, there was no specific process or guidelines that she followed, she just made things look textured and colorful. Everything else was basically up to her figuring out what actually looked good, with panels often having their own vibes separate from others in isolation of one another.

Now she's trying to replicate that look while missing the point entirely that it's not something she can really replicate anymore. Though we do get the odd panel that's way closer to the point, those panels have one thing that she's clearly not putting into the comic as a whole anymore - love and effort.

(fr this panel is so gorgeous but I feel like at this point it was more sheer luck because of how rare it is to see panels like these nowadays, this feels like an accident LOL)

Case in point, this honorable mention towards Persephone's outfit which is literally just a color-swapped version of the sketch that Rachel posted to Blue Sky that got meme'd to death in the ULO sub:

Did you catch that though? The weird dark patch over her boob and the gap in the lineart of her cleavage?

That's because they copy pasted the first panel and then erased out the hands, but missed the part of the hand shading that was overlapping the breast and the gap in the lineart.

I shit you not, Rachel coming up with memes on Blue Sky that she's scraped out of shows she watched 20 years ago is basically the full extent of her writing at this point.

Haha take a thing and make it bigger! So funnyyyy!

(seriously Rachel's 'humor' feels like it's stuck in 2010)

Yep, you're really earning that #1 NYT Bestseller label that you haven't even gotten since Volume 3, Rachel. Put your hand down, there are no high fives for you here.

[xidrielthebard]

everyones loved and hated gifts

love: mana is a universal love

bap- Flowers, Essence

corsac- Fungus, Flowers

luna- Fruit

mint- Bones, Plants, Slime

muttuk- Fish, Bone, Ore

quinn- Bug, Flesh, Slime

roxanne- Mineral, Gem

saff- Slime, Plant

s&p- Fish, Ores

xid- Bugs

-----

hate:

bap- Bones

corsac- Fish, Flesh

luna- Essence, Bugs (you get an achievement for giving her one)

mint- Fungus

muttuk- Plants

quinn- Fruit, Gem

roxanne- Flower, Fish

saff- Gem

s&p- Slime

xid- Mineral

[fruitless-vain]

One gram of salt + 6tsp koolaid in 710ml = cheaper than salt pills and mostly concealed salt flavour

[chalet2000]

kosher salt is BACK baby!!!!

[ffc1cb]

You probably get this a lot but I love Parsley so much

not as often as you'd think considering it still comes as a surprise every time i receive messages like this. it's been 3 years and it still baffles me whenever people express interest in them, moreso when people i don't personally know recognize them in art & are excited to see them because for me they're like. this oc that maybe 5 of my friends are aware of that i sometimes become annoying about, so i'm truly very grateful. thank you very much for liking them :)

please enjoy this image of parsley (real!) next to my tomato sprouts

[sams-venting]

this fandom fucking hurts

mentally, emotionally, physically. It hurts so much

I had my very first panic attack because of the false allegations placed onto me a year ago is cropping back up, only this time worse. The fucking thumbnail artist reblogged it for gods sake! Everyone now sees my mistake and my year of trying to become a better person is worthless. I want to relapse so badly. I want to grab that same fucking knife and make another attempt because then I know for sure it can’t continue to haunt me. because people don’t care that I still to this day feel guilty for everything that I did. I was pushed so far by them that I thought I had to self harm in order to make up for it, I almost actually did but I was forcibly switched out by one of our gate keepers. People don’t care if I tried to get better. They only care to condemn me because the doc left out so many important details such as I was the one to inform them it was grooming. I was the person who told them what they went through shouldn’t have happened. I was more than willing to do anything that I could to make it up to them and I did. They just couldn’t stop being mad at me. It’s understandable given I am not owed acceptance or forgiveness for what I did. But people won’t ever know that because I try to keep personal details in private. It’s even worse now that the doc doesn’t bother to censor anything, even the porn that I drew of myself! Big blogs like the thumbnail artist willing rebloged a doc knowing their audience is minors! My sexual preferences are personal ! I feel violated! I feel exposed and scared!

No one that would have the reach would be willing to give me the benefit of the doubt because The thumbnail artist already reblogged it with tags that pointed to it being only a year ago as early. This could’ve happened 2 or 3 years ago and it still would count as early

why am I constantly villainized by everyone?! I try and try and try and try!!! But it’s still not enough!! Nothing I do ever is enough for people!!

I had to delete this app and my bookmarks of it because of how badly this all was affecting me. I was getting physically ill. I had a migraine so bad the pain was white. Fuck!!

I’m a physically and mentally disabled adult who has to juggle some sort of stress 24/7. I can’t get a break! What more do people want from me?!

.

[dinosaur-mayonnaise]

ok. come here. do you not like vegetables? that is possibly perfectly valid. i know some of them don't taste great on their own or have weird textures. you don't have to like them.

but before you do completely write them off, here's a tip. take it or leave it. you don't have to. just a tip. look up some south asian recipes. ask your brown friends. hell, if you want tell me a vegetable you want to try cooking in a new way and i'll drop some recipes. you don't have to like every vegetable. but especially if your issue with them is the taste, consider trying some desi recipes.

[midwestseacompany]

The Emergence of Mass Bath and Body Product Distributors

The wellness sector has seen a notable explosion in recent years, drawing in customers who give self-care and leisure top importance. The growing need for bulk bath and body product supplies is one of the clear patterns in this expanding sector. Buying in bulk appeals more as more individuals invest in their well-being. Along with economic savings, it lets companies keep a larger range of goods to satisfy different consumer wants. Retailers and spa owners may use this trend to guarantee they always have enough premium bath and body basics.

Wholesale Scented Bath Salts Appeal

Wholesale scented bath salts stand out among the other goods on the mass bath and body market for their special capacity to improve well-being and ease relaxation. Often mixed with natural substances and essential oils, these fragrant salts provide a luxurious experience along with medicinal advantages. From soothing lavender to energizing eucalyptus, retailers may gain by providing a variety of aromas that appeal to different consumer tastes. Stocking premium bath salts will be a great addition to any product line as more customers search for goods that improve their bathing experience.

The advantages of mass purchase

Buying bulk bath and body care supplies has several benefits for individuals and companies alike. Purchasing in volume lowers the cost per unit for stores, therefore enabling them to have good profit margins and provide competitive prices to consumers. Bulk purchasing also lessens the frequency of purchases, therefore saving transportation costs and logistical difficulties. Bulk purchases for customers give access to quality goods at a lesser cost, therefore motivating them to investigate new products and engage in their self-care routines. This trend shows a rising respect for the wellness industry's value and quality.

Improving the Customer Journey

Businesses trying to distinguish out in the packed wellness sector have to give customer experience a priority. Presenting a wide range of wholesale scented bath salts will greatly improve the buying experience for a consumer. Providing thorough explanations of every product including smell profiles and benefits helps stores enable consumers to make wise decisions. Making visually appealing displays that highlight these goods may also draw attention and inspire impulsive buy-through. Social media and in-store events help consumers to get even more connected to the company, therefore promoting loyalty and repeat business.

Bath Product Ingredients: Their Function

Attracting and keeping consumers depends much on the components of bath and body products. Customers understand more and more the value of natural, organic, and cruelty-free foods. Retailers concentrating on bulk bath and body care supplies have to make sure their products reflect these ideals. Emphasizing the origins and advantages of every component will help to build a story appealing to customers who value their health. For individuals looking for natural health remedies, for instance, utilizing Himalayan salt in bath products not only improves the bathing experience but also appeals.

Bath and Body Products: Sustainability

The wellness sector is starting to center on sustainability, which shapes many customers' buying choices. Companies that give environmental sustainability priority in their wholesale scented bath salts and other items might draw a devoted consumer base that shares this philosophy. Using recyclable packaging, sourcing materials ethically, and cutting waste during manufacturing may all help to accomplish this. Using sustainable methods helps stores not only improve the surroundings but also establish themselves as ethical brands in a cutthroat industry.

Conclusion

Demand for wholesale scented bath salts and bulk bath and body products indicates a larger societal change toward health and self-care. Retailers that follow these trends will open fresh chances for expansion and consumer interaction. Businesses that fit customers' priorities for sustainability and quality will flourish in the changing market as consumers keep giving these factors top priority. midwestseasaltcompany.com offers a wide range of high-quality bath goods; think about looking at some below. Accept the path of health and self-care with excellent products that improve every bathing experience. 

[reikunrei]

cannot stop giggling about james trying guacamole tonight and liking it. cannot wait to get this man to eat avocados all the ways i like them

[ukbestservices]

How to Clean Your Vape Tank for the Best Flavor Experience

If you’re a regular vaper, you probably know that one of the key components to a great vaping experience is ensuring your vape tank is clean and free from residue. Whether you’re using a high-puff disposable vape like the OG Super Smash 10000 Puffs or a refillable tank system, cleaning your vape regularly can make a significant difference in the flavor quality and overall performance. For those using disposable vapes like the Bling Gold 10000 Puffs or WGA Crystal Pro Max Extra 15k Puffs, maintaining the device in peak condition also ensures that you get the most out of every puff.

In this article, we’ll guide you through the process of cleaning your vape tank to ensure you enjoy the best flavor experience. Plus, we’ll explain how proper cleaning can also extend the lifespan of your vape.

Why Clean Your Vape Tank?

Over time, the residue left behind from different e-liquids — especially if you switch flavors frequently — can affect the taste of your vapor. That’s why keeping your vape tank clean is essential for:

Improved Flavor: Build-up from old e-liquid can lead to a burnt or stale taste, negatively affecting your vaping experience.

Better Performance: A clean tank ensures that the coil works efficiently and you get a smoother, consistent vapor production.

Extended Vape Life: Regular maintenance helps prevent clogging and wear on the internal components of your vape.

Though many disposable vapes, such as the OG Super Smash 10000 Puffs or Bling Gold 10000 Puffs, are designed for single-use, keeping them clean during use can still help maintain their flavor and smoothness. If you are using a refillable system, cleaning is a must to keep the coil from becoming clogged and to prevent unpleasant flavors from lingering.

How to Clean a Refillable Vape Tank

For vapers who use refillable tanks or pods, cleaning your device is an essential part of maintenance. Here’s a step-by-step guide to ensure your vape tank stays clean for the best flavor:

1. Disassemble Your Vape Tank

Start by disassembling your vape tank. If you’re using a WGA Crystal Pro Max Extra 15k Puffs or another advanced system with a replaceable coil, remove the tank from the device and take out the coil. Set the coil aside, as it might still be good for a few more uses, depending on its condition.

For disposable vapes like the Bling Gold 10000 Puffs, disassembling isn’t necessary as these devices are designed for single use, but you can wipe down the exterior to ensure a clean, fresh experience.

2. Empty the Tank of Any Remaining E-Liquid

Next, pour out any leftover e-liquid from the tank. If you’re switching flavors, this is particularly important. Leaving old juice in the tank can cause flavor mixing, which can create an unpleasant taste.

3. Rinse the Tank

Rinse the tank thoroughly under warm water. Be sure to clean every part of the tank, including the mouthpiece, the chamber, and the airflow holes. Avoid using any soap or cleaning products that could leave residue behind. It’s best to stick to warm water for a gentle, effective rinse.

4. Clean the Coil (Optional)

Cleaning the coil is not always necessary but can help improve the taste and performance of your vape. If the coil is particularly dirty or you’ve been using it for a while, consider soaking it in warm water for a few hours to loosen up any built-up e-liquid. After soaking, gently pat it dry with a paper towel.

If you’re using a disposable vape like the OG Super Smash 12000 Puffs, the coil is built into the device and can’t be cleaned or replaced. In these cases, focusing on keeping the device clean on the outside and ensuring the vape is stored properly will help maintain the flavor.

5. Dry Everything Thoroughly

After rinsing and cleaning all parts, it’s crucial to let everything dry completely. You don’t want any residual water left inside your tank, as it can mix with your e-liquid and affect the taste. Let it air dry for at least a few hours or use a dry paper towel to gently wipe down the tank and coil.

6. Reassemble Your Tank and Refill

Once everything is dry, reassemble the tank and coil (if applicable), and refill it with your preferred e-liquid. Be sure to use high-quality e-juices to ensure a smooth and enjoyable vaping experience. It’s also important to check for leaks before you start vaping again.

How to Clean a Disposable Vape

If you’re using a Crystal Bling 6000 Puffs or another disposable vape, cleaning isn’t as necessary due to their single-use design. However, if you’d like to extend the lifespan of your disposable vape for a few extra puffs, you can wipe down the mouthpiece and ensure that no e-liquid spills onto the exterior. This can help maintain the device’s cleanliness and minimize the chances of a stale taste.

Most disposable vapes, like the OG Super Smash 10000 Puffs, are designed to be discarded after they run out of puffs. Cleaning them won’t significantly extend their use, but it can make the final puffs more enjoyable.

Tips for Maintaining Clean Flavor and Longer Lifespan

Regularly Change the E-Liquid: If you’re a frequent vaper, consider switching out your e-liquids often to avoid flavor build-up. Some vapers even keep a separate tank for different flavor profiles to avoid flavor mixing.

Avoid Overheating Your Coil: Overheating can cause the coil to burn out and affect flavor. If you notice a burnt taste, it may be time to replace the coil.

Store Your Vape Properly: Keep your vape in a cool, dry place to prevent internal components from degrading. This is especially important for disposable vapes like the Bling Gold 10000 Puffs, as exposure to heat can affect their performance.

Use High-Quality E-Liquids: The type of e-liquid you use can affect the cleanliness of your tank. Try to use reputable brands that don’t leave behind heavy residue or sugary build-ups.

Conclusion

Cleaning your vape tank, whether you’re using a high-puff disposable like the OG Super Smash 10000 Puffs or a refillable system, is essential for maintaining the best flavor and ensuring optimal performance. By regularly cleaning your tank, coil, and other components, you not only enhance your vaping experience but also prolong the life of your device. While disposable vapes like the Bling Gold 10000 Puffs are meant to be thrown away after use, keeping them clean during their lifespan will help you enjoy a smoother, more enjoyable vape. Ultimately, the key to an excellent vaping experience is consistent maintenance, high-quality products, and proper care. Happy vaping!

[healthandlifestyle053]

How Himalayan Salt Bricks Reduce Stress Naturally

[ppecltd]

Wholesale Epsom Salts | PPEC LTD

PPEC LTD offers premium Wholesale Epsom Salts, perfect for health and wellness retailers, spas, and therapeutic centers. Our Epsom salts are sourced and processed to the highest standards, ensuring purity and effectiveness for various uses, from bath soaks to gardening applications. With competitive pricing and reliable bulk delivery, PPEC LTD is your trusted partner for all wholesale Epsom salt needs. Enhance your product offerings with our top-quality Epsom salts today.

[yeyinde]

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

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