#Office Chair Impact on Productivity

[interiorergonomics]

How Does your Office Chair look Like?

Hey... Have seen this? ..

The design and appearance of an office chair play a significant role in creating a conducive work environment. It impacts both office aesthetics and functionality. A well-designed office chair not only provides ergonomic benefits but also contributes to the overall ambiance of the workspace. Here are the various aspects defining the look and impact of an office chair. Ergonomic Design and…

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override (6)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I hope you all have found ways to cope after the breakup, but here all your questions will be answered on what went down pre-August! Special shoutout to @just-fics-station @thepurplecrown @clarkysblog @hotdismylife and @sprinklesprinkle888 for sharing your ideas and indulging me with the lovely, crazy discourse!

To everyone, I am so chuffed at how this has become OUR story - our lil self-indulgent Ewan Nation production. You all are aces <3

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

In the aftermath of the breakup, the reader and Ewan throw themselves into their work, trying (and failing) to avoid any trace of the other. Will they remain this way - former lovers doomed to drift in each other's orbit?

Some time before August

New York City

The lush office was laden with expensive wooden antiques, one side with built-in shelves displaying film awards and plaques of varying degrees of prestige. A full glass minibar occupied the other side.

The casting director introduced himself as Bruce, insisting that Ewan call him by his first name and not any of that "sir or similar stick-up-the-ass names". Ewan can see him as a mentor or maybe even a friend, Bruce insisted.

After all, they were going to help each other out a lot.

The discussion was straightforward enough, never mind the saccharine tone Bruce seemed to be so good at. Aimed at making Ewan feel welcome, coddling him, remarking with awe at his projects thus far. But there was a fakeness to it. Ewan steeled himself, trying to adapt to the style of conversation. After all, if he is in this for the long haul, then he would have to get used to these situations.

Bruce appraised him, leaning back on his leather swivel chair. "How are you with the fantasy genre? All that YA, lovesick stuff the kids eat up so eagerly nowadays? Personally, I haven't got the taste for it, but it always makes bank, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, well, I'm a fan of all movies. I definitely see why the fantasy genre has made such an impact on audiences, especially with the romance element, you know, I get the appeal."

"Well, son, we've got a solid franchise in our hands here. Some adaptation of an elf-human love story, mind you, it sound ridiculous, but you know how it is. And the team seems to be in agreement - you fit the bill for the male lead. The male elf lead - " he almost guffawed at the thought, then collected himself " - hope you don't mind my saying that you've got elvish features yourself. Long nose, long jaw, lanky. The teens are going to eat you up."

"Ah," Ewan smiled curtly, nodding. There was a backhanded compliment if he ever heard one. "Well, sir, I've read the script - at least, the bit that was sent to me - and it looks quite promising. I'd be honoured to - "

"Of course, of course!" Bruce exclaimed in pleasure, cutting Ewan off mid-sentence. "And there's the case of your leading lady, and this all boils down to chemistry as you know. Our top contender is that Jenna Ortega girl from the Netflix show, you know her?"

Ewan nodded, well aware. He's seen her work, and thinks that she is a top actress of her generation, but leave it to Bruce to reduce her to being that girl from the Netflix show.

"Yes, she's a very talented actress," Ewan replied.

Bruce hums in agreement, head bobbing as a smirk materialises on his face. "Think she's a looker?" he said openly, without shame.

Ewan laughed nervously, his words caught in his throat.

Bruce, characteriscally oblivious to the discomfort of others, carried on. "I only ask because we're going to need you two to be pretty chummy with each other when you jump on this project. It's kind of a condition of the whole thing, but really nothing to concern yourself with." He waved a hand in the air, his proposition barely carrying any weight in his mind. But Ewan was catching on, and he started to develop a dislike about the whole deal.

"What do you mean?" Ewan asked.

"It's pretty common in this business, son. There's a reason why young, new actors like yourself opt to remain unattached so to speak, so they're always open to a PR arrangement or, you know, just so their - your - hoards of fans would think they got a chance with you," Bruce explains lazily. "In this case, since you and Ortega are, as I said, unattached, getting you two together would fuckin' do wonders for our movie."

Our movie, he said, convinced that Ewan was all in, because why would any young actor refuse such a golden opportunity? Franchises like this can set up an entire mainstream Hollywood career.

Ewan thought that he wasn't unattached. Granted, his date with you was yet to happen, but he already felt bound to you. He wished you were the one tapped to be his love interest. Very little acting would be needed there. Maybe he might even be inclined to go along with the idea of selling the relationship, using it for publicity for the film, but even that made him uneasy.

The industry offered a lot of privileges, but more often than not, they come at a cost.

"Sir, I - "

"Bruce."

"Right, sorry. Bruce, I have to tell you that I'm not exactly unattached."

"Got a partner?"

Ewan actually found himself smiling at the thought of you being called his partner. His first easy smile since entering this office. "Yes, she's an actress herself," he agreed.

"I heard of her?" Bruce asked with obvious disinterest. You were but a wedge in his flawless plan.

"She's kind of a new talent like me, but she's brilliant. She plays Alyna Rivers in our show."

"Ah her," Bruce loosened up a little. "I get it, she's a piece."

Ewan cleared his throat loudly, his jaw clenching on instinct. "So, like I said, I'm with her. I'm sorry but this whole PR arrangement with Jenna wouldn't work."

"Look, kid, I want my movie to do well, alright? I got a lot invested here. This PR thing has proven to be highly bankable time and time again. If you don't trust me, I can ask the team to show you the data on all that. It's a lot of boring numbers, but shit, the numbers are never wrong."

"I don't need to see - "

"If you wanna be with your girl, you can, but you just gotta learn to hide it. Sweep it under the rug, you know. Don't canoodle in public, you crazy kids," Bruce offered, like that made things any better.

"You want me to hide my relationship?"

"Hey, now, come on. Word gets around. Isn't your girl also doing this exact same thing with Jacob Elordi?"

"Not anymore, I don't think," Ewan clarifies, "and that was... that was hardly anything. They weren't obligated to do it. It just worked by chance because they were both single for a time."

"Po-ta-to, po-tah-to." Bruce clicked his tongue before making his next point. "So you see how it works, your thing with Ortega won't be any different."

"Do I have a choice?" There it is, the defining factor.

Bruce smiled slowly. The calculating and menacing air about him intensified, and it was obvious he was not there to be Ewan's friend.

"It would be stupid to refuse something like this, kid."

Ewan's blue eyes flashed in return. None of this was ideal, but his nan raised him well, and he knew better than to falter on his values in times of trial.

"Sir, what's stupid is if you ask me to hide my real relationship for the sake of mere publicity for a film."

"Stupid you say?" Bruce sneered, having already discarded Ewan in his mind, his fragile ego bruised. "What a shame."

There wasn't much to say after that. Bruce was clearly not disinclined to reveal the ice that settled in his veins, and it dawned on Ewan that it had always been the case. There was no true hospitality here.

For bigwig casting director-slash-execs like Bruce, this was a transaction. And Ewan was not about to put what he has, or what he could have, with you on the line.

There has to be another way to advance his career. If not bigger productions, then at least those with less domineering producers.

"That is a shame," Ewan said, getting up from his seat. "I won't waste any more of your time, sir. Thank you for considering me."

Bruce's eyes darkened even further. "You're actually refusing me? For some girl?"

Another genuine smile formed on Ewan's face at the thought of you. Some girl.

But you're not just some girl. He nodded without a trace of doubt in his mind, before reaching out to shake Bruce's hand. "If you don't mind, sir... I have to go and see my darling."

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Near the end of August

Los Angeles

The modern space sported a minimalist yet rustic feel, the interiors a blend of sterile white and sleek wooden surfaces. Very LA, as they say. The windowed walls offered plenty of light, as well as precious views of the valley below.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Donna," you greeted Ewan's publicist as she ushered you in her LA office.

"No problem at all, sweetheart," she said. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea? Ewan always has his coffee with way, way too much sugar. Mind you, if that kid wasn't active and boxing all the time, I'd be worried for his health."

You smiled fondly at her genuine concern. "Don't even mention the cigarettes."

"Oh, yeah," she scoffed, settling down on the chair across from you. She could have sat down at her desk, making the meeting more official, but Donna's always had a friendly and open way about her. "So, my sweet, how's your new movie coming up?"

You respond eagerly. The dialogue flowed freely, talking about your film and the lukewarm reception of season 2 of House of The Dragon. And finally, Ewan.

"I really thought he would get the Greta Gerwig film," you said. "Everyone said he was perfect for it. I think Greta herself had nothing but praises for him when they met on Zoom."

She sighed thoughtfully, "I thought so too. And, theoretically, he did have that one almost booked up. But there was an issue with one of the producers, which - I don't even want to get into that."

You shook your head, catching on whom she hinted at. "Donna, I heard... well, it didn't go too well in New York, didn't it? Ewan told me about it but... if you can tell me more, I just want to understand why - "

"Sweetheart," she offered a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes, "you should talk about this with Ewan."

"I tried. But he wouldn't budge. Mallory told me... that it might have been because of me that he didn't get the role? And also why he's struggling to get roles now? Donna, I... I can't have that."

It took some time for her to formulate a response. She didn't want to step in something that's none of her business. Your relationship with Ewan is yours. But when his career is on the line, she supposed that she needed to have some say in that.

"He met with this top producer in New York. This real old money Hollywood guy. For decades, he's built careers for the greats, you know - Pitt, DiCaprio, Theron, and whatnot. There was a franchise project practically offered to him on a plate, but Ewan refused, because a non-negotiable was that he would have to hide you in favour of a PR arrangement with his leading lady."

You swallowed, the weight of the truth making itself clear. "Couldn't he have just done the movie without that?"

"You would think," she grimaced, "but some producers... when they want something, they have to get it. And well, Bruce wasn't lying, that would have sold the movie well."

"I thought we were past this," you expressed sadly. "I understand how PR relationships work. Just recently, I found myself kind of in the middle of one. But there was no pressure, it wasn't forced on us, and it was meant to be all in good fun."

"I know, sweetheart," she insisted, reaching out to squeeze your hand. "Bruce is an outlier now. Most of the time you do get lucky, with an all-around supportive production team, just like with your project with Elordi."

You hummed in agreement on that positive note, but your mind kept drifting back to Ewan.

Donna continued, wrapping up her story, "but Bruce is still here, and he still has a lot of power. But you know, it'll be fine. Ewan's got such a huge fanbase and so much talent that it'll only be a matter of time before something else knocks on his door."

You wanted to share her sense of optimism, but something ate at you. What else will Ewan have to sacrifice just to be with you? This was his dream, his one dream, and you were standing in the way. How much longer before he is offered another project but he refuses to take it for your sake? Your thoughts blurred together, bordering on irrational, but you couldn't help it.

All you could picture was the unabashed sincerity on his face, that sense of wonder, when he told you that acting had always been his dream.

Being tied down to you, this early in his career, would surely only hurt him. And you don't think you're worth it.

"Ewan loves you, sweetheart. Anyone with eyes can see that," Donna said after a while, heeding the storm brewing in your expression.

He loves you. It was true.

Less than a month in, and you've already found yourself with a love that you've never felt before. And perhaps never will again.

And that was the problem.

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Late September

The podcast moderators are overly welcoming, if not a little loud for Ewan's taste.

The BBC podcast is called Loose Ends, and it's one of the first things Ewan agreed to take on upon returning to England.

He had wanted to head straight home to Derby, to bury himself in his heartache and bitterness, but the team for the show tapped him for a couple more promotional stints, riding on the high of the season finale. And who better than Ewan to offer to the media, the undeniable fan favourite.

Clad in an old gray shirt and blue jeans, people would think he just rolled right out of bed. He didn't really have the motivation to put in more effort. The only striking thing about him is his newly bleached head of hair, supervised by his stylist for a photoshoot a few days ago.

It was ironic, the timing of such a change. Ewan knew that if word got out that you dumped him, he would never hear the end of the joke of that being the reason for his hairstyle change, typical of all heartbroken sods.

Everyone bursts into laughter when he tells them about his mum's reaction to his nude scene. It feels like going through the motions, and he must have been so out of it, so forlorn, that his team prepared an outline for him prior to the interview. The questions and answers all pre-agreed.

Make them laugh. React as required. Remember to speak when spoken to. The mantra goes on in his head.

And don't think about her.

An impossible task, worsened when a moderator goes off script and asks, "Now it wasn't me who saw this, as I'm not on social media myself, but one of our interns did mention that you ventured into Instagram recently? Is that true?"

Oh fuck.

"Mmm, yeah, I guess," Ewan laughs nervously, his hand massaging the back of his neck in a self-soothing motion.

"And your first post went viral? What can you tell us about that? Our listeners would love to know."

"Uhhhm - " He remembers that the broadcast is live, and he can't exactly ask them to edit this part out, so he quickly settles for something indirect. Inconclusive. Safe. " - did it go viral? I'm not too sure how that thing works. I haven't used any kind of social media before."

"Apparently it did! And it had to do with the subject featured in that photo, Ewan. Your costar - "

"Mmm," Ewan stops him there, "didn't you say that you don't use Instagram?"

"No, I think I'm too old!" The moderator laughs.

"It's insane, that whole thing," Ewan shakes his head. "I don't know how to handle it. I'm logged off most of the time."

"Oh, you log off?"

"Yeah, yeah, helps me keep my focus, you know. Keep calm and all that."

"It can get frivolous, can't it?"

Ewan hums in agreement, and thankfully, the moderator moves on to his last question. One that does not breach the subject of you.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Another day means yet another media stint for Ewan, this time for Now TV.

Still in London, his stylist Davey and the rest of the team prepare him for a day of brief interview clips, to be posted on the social media pages of the company.

Davey had half-joked about Ewan needing even more concealer than usual, the shadows under his eyes having significantly deepened after the breakup.

Some of his team have gotten wind of what happened. They would curiously ask about you, how often Ewan keeps in touch with you while you're on set...

You must be on FaceTime everyday!

Is it hard to be doing long-distance so soon?

Do you miss her? Is that why you're not getting any rest?

...but Ewan would only laugh uncomfortably, dismiss it by bringing up another topic or shifting the attention to someone else, or excuse himself to go for a smoke.

He'd been drowning himself in cigarettes and caffeine during the day, pint after pint in the nighttime. Aimless.

He is coping. He knows how it must look, but he deserves this. He deserves to drift for a while. It's the only thing he can do to keep himself from jumping on the next flight to Atlanta and begging for your hand back.

You said you love him. You did. He hangs on to it like a beacon in a storm. No matter how pointless it may seem, with you choosing someone else over him.

Work is becoming something of an anchor, something that keeps him from spiralling. He's an actor, and he has always wanted to be an actor. People now have expectations of him, and he will answer the call.

The interview session begins with generic questioning, stuff he's answered before on several occasions.

How special is the bond between dragon and rider?

What is a funny moment from set that you can share?

How similar are Aemond and Daemon?

All safe. He's proud of himself for not breaking mental clarity thus far. You're in the back of his mind, dormant as a memory, and not something looming darkly over him. For a while, at least.

But then he is asked, If you could invite any 5 people to a Ewan Mitchell dinner party, who would you pick?

"Matthew McConaughey - "

You.

" - Bruce Lee. I think they could strike up an interesting conversation - "

Your name echoes in his mind, and he can't control it.

" - Andrea Riseborough. She's just a chameleon, like in any role she undertakes -

You have great taste. Even if you would make him eat spicy food again, he'll take it. He'll endure anything for you.

He's stumped for a second, lump in his throat, and his effort in avoiding you leads him to mention someone who will always be a comfort to him.

" - Maybe my nan, because I miss her -

Your name. He has to say your name. Who else? Think of someone else.. but who else? Who would be better?

" - and then, another person. Let's make it from the show... it would be Alyna Rivers."

"Oh really?" The interviewer asks. She's not really meant to respond in this instance, but she knows that the fans would go crazy about any mention of you or your character, so why not jump on this opportunity? "Can you tell us why you chose her?"

"Uhhm, well, she's just an amazing character, you know, fiercely loyal, beautiful, tenacious," Ewan replies easily, "so yeah, she would make for good company."

It is obvious that he is describing you just as much as he does Alyna Rivers, and no doubt, the fans will catch on to this detail.

Later, he's asked about his favourite part about season two, and he duly answers, "Seeing more of Aemond and Vhagar's bond and how that perhaps have gotten stronger. Aemond has definitely reined her in, after the accident at Storm's End."

Then, "There are some new additions to the show. Do you have a particular favourite?"

Another obvious piece of bait. And he takes it, he doesn't care anymore. What's the use of denying the truth?

"A favourite new character? Oh, well, uhmm... I really do like Alyna, and I think I've said before that Aemond and her are quite similar in a sense that they both know what they want and how to achieve it. It's just a shame they're on opposing sides, because if those two get together... " he trails off, leaving it up to the audiences to fill in the rest of the thought.

And they eagerly do. The clips where Ewan mentions Alyna get the most traction, flooded with comments that more or less talk of the same thing -

We know why you chose Alyna, Ewan. We know your ways.

He could have said Alys. Or Gwayne. Or even the ghost of Daeron ffs. But nooooo.... it's Alyna Alyna Alyna 😮‍💨

I wonder if she's there behind the scenes

yeah shes definitely lurking in the background!

Aemond and Alyna better have at least a scene together in season 3!!!!!

Someone kidnap Ryan Condal and make him write this

Ewan doesn't see any of it. Not that he's missing out, because he soon feels the need to call his younger cousin to ask her how to turn off his notifications on Instagram.

Day in and day out, his one single post gets dozens of new comments and likes, a brutal reminder of what he's lost. He could just delete it, and get rid of his profile entirely, but he hates to imagine the discourse that would follow.

All the invasive allegations and rumours. So he leaves it be. It makes no difference to him now. Let people believe what they want.

To his chagrin, he finds himself scrolling on his home page once in a while. The addictive element to it was true, and for him, it's exacerbated because the things he sees are often related to you.

Photos of you from fanpages and news accounts. Ones where your friends have tagged you. It's a toxic habit, looking through it all, but he can't help himself.

Then one day, as he's slouched on the seat in his London apartment, phone propped on his knees, he sees a cutout photo of his face on the corner of the screen. He clicks on it, and it's an image of him interposed among different posts. Posts which he apparently liked.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he cusses at himself, reading the caption.

Boyfriend lurking? - Ewan Mitchell may play a formidable TV villain, but in real life, he's just like us. Click on the link in bio to see his series of liked posts!

Dread takes root in him, followed by self-loathing. Why couldn't he just keep off this bloody thing? He takes to the comments to see what he has allegedly liked on accident and it's predictably photos of you - you at a premiere, stills of you as Alyna, and even, heavens fucking forbid, a behind the scenes shot of you getting pretty close with Jacob Elordi on the set of your film.

He vividly remembers seeing that last one, because he went on a bender after coming across it.

Cursing himself and his wayward, sticky fingers, he exits the app and deletes it from his phone.

Whatever goes on there, whatever people might leave on his profile, he washes his hands of it.

He calls up several of his mates, asking them if they want to come over for a few drinks.

"Again, Ewan?" one of them exclaims. "C'mon, you gotta take a breather, mate."

"I don't need a breather." I need her.

"Ewan - "

His composure breaks, all his damned frustrations rising to the surface, and he confesses, "I wonder if she thinks about me."

"Hang in there, mate. We're coming over."

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October

The director finally yells a satisfied, "Cut!"

It's only taken a good twenty-something takes for you and Jacob to nail a challenging scene. You had been on a roll since the beginning of the shoot, the last few weeks seemingly a breeze on paper, though it's a constant struggle to keep it together.

You've had to quell your internal dialogue so it does not stray to him. His smile. The feel of his skin against yours. His way of subtly picking up on details, and doing sweet things that surprise you as a result.

But you received word just before the scene that a few of your friends have come to visit, waiting back at your trailer - Phia, Fabien and his girlfriend, Bella.

And so, as if on instinct, Ewan is all you can focus on, every repressed memory of him rushing in like a tidal wave.

Do they know? What could you possibly say to justify what you did? You can only hope he took on that project, to give you a bitter sense of vindication.

It's the only thing that keeps it all the bay, the only thing that keeps you from jumping on the next flight to England and grovelling at his door.

Phia has her arms wrapped around you the moment you open the door to your trailer, loudly squealing, "I missed you!"

You sink into the hug, comforted by her presence.

As well as the fact that she represents some connection to Ewan.

Phia, Helaena. Helaena, Aemond. Aemond, Ewan.

It's a sick game to play, but it's what you have.

"Hey, yous," you hug Fabien and Bella in turn. Not long after, you're all lounging on director's chairs right outside your trailer, enjoying a bit of sun.

"How's our big Hollywood star?" Phia quips, her lips curling in her trademark pleasant upturn.

"Hardly a star," you shake your head fondly. "More of an indie darling."

"Of course, of course," she relents, before going on a monologue about how she's been keeping tabs on your project, how she just adores the costume designer whom she spoke to at length while you were working, and how the rest of the cast is rooting for you.

The rest of the cast.

"Ah, are they?" you ask, making a conscious effort to not simply blurt out his name. What does he think? Has he mentioned you at all?

Do they know?

Do they secretly hate you for what you did?

"Mhmm, right Fabs?" she says.

"Oh, definitely." Fabien agrees right away.

"How's your film? Are you done shooting in Philly?" you ask him.

"Just about done, but I think we're doing some final reshoots next week. I'm just glad my girl's here to visit," he slings an arm around Bella, who smiles and leans closer to him.

You smile at the sight, but it visibly falters. Ewan could be visiting you on set right now, just like Bella with Fabien, if you hadn't fucked it all up.

They notice.

"Love," Phia sighs, her tone softening. "I just want you know - we want you know - we're here for you, okay? No matter what you went through with... " A pause. Like saying his name would open up the floodgates.

Your gaze falls to your lap in shame. You pick on invisible lint on your trousers. Bite your lip. Breathe deeply.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

"So you guys know, huh?"

"Well, more or less," Phia says. "I just spoke with... Ewan... recently. He's back in Derby for the time being, and he's - "

"He's a bit rough," Fabien says firmly. He's not taking sides here, but he's heard from Ewan, and he feels the need to have his mate's back. "Look, I don't want to pry, but what happened? It seemed like you guys were doing so well together!"

"You don't have to tell us," Phia adds, shooting Fabien a look. "But if you want to, we're here to listen. We love you both and we just want to help, love."

You feel your eyes welling up. Leave it to Phia to be oh so sweet. You can't lie to them, you don't want to. Even if you did, they would see right through it.

Your friends know you too well.

"I... I miss him."

Phia squeezes your hand, and the whole story is about to spill out of you when you hear your name being called.

It's your assistant Clara, letting you know you're needed back on set.

You swallow back tears, standing on your feet, trying to maintain enough composure so you can grant yourself access back to your character.

"Go do your thing, superstar," Phia smiles comfortingly. "We'll be here when you're ready."

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November

"I'd like to propose a toast," Tom declares out loud in the empty pub, "to Ewan, Hollywood's new elf... Lord? Prince? Ah sod it, cheers!"

Round the table, Ewan, Fabien, Luke and Elliott all raise their pints with a collective, "Hear, hear!"

The pub has been cleared out for the lads, thanks to a favour called in by the twins, with the owner being their gym buddy and good friend.

"Thank you," Ewan replies, smirking. "I am your new elf prince, address me as such."

"Your ears have never been pointier, mate," Luke quips.

After a month of moping back home in Derby, or recovering as Ewan prefers to put it, he got a call from his manager telling him that the offer from Bruce still stands.

Apparently, the production team for the movie still had him tapped as the prime choice for the lead. After observing his audience metrics and overall viability, they decided that the movie would fare the best with him in it.

They had planted some half-baked announcements in the media, stating that it was Ewan against Joseph Quinn and Manny Jacinto for the role, and the fan reaction veered in Ewan's favour by a landslide.

Even though Bruce had an unsavoury word or two to say about him, he was willing to work past it, so long as Ewan would be more amenable to his demands.

After careful deliberation, Ewan chose to throw caution to the wind, and accept the role. So what if he has to pretend to have a real-life romance with Jenna? This is what you wanted.

"I'm glad you finally came out to see us, mate," Fabien says. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, fuck's sake. Remind us never to break your heart! That was tough to witness, you hunkerin' down out there all mopey and whatnot," Elliott laughs.

"Mmm." Ewan takes a swig of his beer to hide the wince he couldn't hold back. His friends, and most of the cast know by now, not in too much detail, of what went down between the two of you.

A typical short-lived romance of two actors. A summer fling. Most of them would look back and only see it as that.

Even though it was so much more. Even though Ewan still recalls how warm and soft and beautiful you felt as you whimpered underneath him, the loss of you as painful as getting hit by a freight train.

The liquor helps. Burying himself in work helps. Denial... well, that certainly helps the most.

When he goes out to the back garden for a smoke break with Fabien, he tricks himself into believing it's mere curiosity that compels him to say, "Phia mentioned that you guys went to Atlanta."

Fabien is rendered off guard, because he knows what's coming. "Yeah, we did. Bella came with us too. She was visiting me on set," he says, measuredly.

"Mmm." A long drag, a flick of ash towards the ground, an unaffected shrug - and eventually, with as impassive of a tone as he can muster, Ewan asks, "So how is she?"

Fabien smiles knowingly. "She's doing great. Her film's looking pretty good." He's privy to the truth, after he and Phia managed to gently coax it out of you over several martinis at a hotel bar in Atlanta. But he doesn't think it up to him to reveal that to Ewan, out of respect for your privacy.

While he might not share your sentiment, he thinks it's not in his place to tell Ewan that you basically lied for his sake.

But that doesn't mean he won't drop a helpful nugget or two.

"You know, I don't exactly know what's going on... but her and Jacob came across as nothing more than friends."

Ewan's hand freezes mid-air, the cigarette inches from his lips. He loathes the sense of hope that immediately bloomed in his chest. He's so bloody easy. One miniscule hint, and his delusions break through the wall of indifference he worked so hard to build.

"She said she has feelings for him," Ewan stresses, trying to convince himself. What was the fucking point of all this... this pain... if you never did?

"Hey, mate, I dunno," Fabien puts his hands up, "just telling you what I saw."

"It doesn't matter." It does. "She ended it." He wants you back, he will always want you back. "It's better this way."

"Is it?"

Ewan doesn't answer. He doesn't know how to, without grossly embellishing the truth.

Fabien watches his friend, sensing his hesitation as he averts his gaze. One thing becomes clear to him - you and Ewan are far from being over.

So he says, "She misses you, you know."

Ewan regards him with a stony look, one that slowly softens to reveal the broken boy inside. For but a moment, before he clears his throat and throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

"Let's head back inside."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

December

You're back in London, as production for your film is paused for the upcoming holiday season.

Work is supposed to be the last thing on your mind, but it just so happens that your manager has you booked for a chemistry read for a yet undisclosed film.

Phia came over to your apartment, insisting that she help you get ready. When you asked how she found out about your audition, she was quick to say that she was up for the role as well but didn't think it was right for her.

"Why not?" you ask, as she hovers over you, patting blush on the apples of your cheeks.

"Oh, you just get a feel for these things."

"Phi, it's just a chemistry read," you say, when she reaches for the mascara. "I don't need to get all dolled up for this."

She gasps, "Oh, but this is showbiz, darling. We always have to put a face on."

"Fine," you relent. "Do your worst."

The makeup she ends up doing on you is minimal, but it enhances your features just the right amount. You rush through your final preparations, folding up the script sample you were given and stuffing it in your purse.

Phia stands out on your balcony, in the middle of a call. The window screen is slightly open, so you hear snippets of the conversation as you walk by.

"Is he ready?" she asks. Who's he? You assume it's the guy you are doing the read with.

You don't know about him, but you are ready, so you stick your head out to say, "I gotta go, Phi."

"Oh!" She startles a little, angling her phone away. "Already?"

"Yeah, the read's at 4, I believe. Just lock the door when you leave, 'kay?"

She hurriedly whispers something to her phone, presumably ending her call. "I'll actually head out with you," she grins. "My work here is done anyway."

"Any plans for the night?"

She shrugs, "Might meet with Tom and Martha."

"Oh, why don't I meet you guys after my thing?"

"Uhhhm," she chews on her lip, thinking. Under her breath, you barely hear her mumble, "... hoping you'd be busy."

"What?" A restrained chuckle escapes you, confused as to why she's being so coy.

"Nothing," she tilts her head. "We can meet if you'd like."

The weird exchange is out of your mind when you arrive at the casting agency. You run the scene through in your head as you walk in the building, up the elevator, down the long hallway.

It's a heartfelt scene, if not a little tense, a dialogue between reunited ex-lovers.

Your manager Polina and publicist Mallory greet you at the doors, swiftly briefing you before directing you in.

"They're waiting, just walk right in, doll," Polina says.

"Okay, wish me luck!" You have your hand on the door handle when Mallory strangely remarks, "Don't hate us, sweetheart!"

"Why would I - "

"Go, go," Polina guides you in, then shuts the door behind you.

The office sports an spacious and open layout, with plenty of natural light streaming through large windows. The primary workstation is partially hidden behind a subtle partition. You see silhouettes of a few people behind it, so you walk down that way.

The figures reveal themselves soon enough - the casting agents you recognise as Patrick and Amie, sitting in front of the actor you're meant to read with.

A range of emotion washes over you, but you don't even have time to reckon with them. The casting agents divert your attention from Ewan, as they approach you with wide smiles in greeting.

"So nice to finally meet you!" Amie croons. "Take a seat. You two already know each other, of course. Between us, there won't really be a question of chemistry here."

"Right?" Patrick adds, looking between you and Ewan. "The fans sure think so, and we have to say we already agree."

"So just give us a minute to set up," Amie says. "Then we'll start."

You smile stiffly, settling down on the opposite end of the couch. You keep your gaze straight, trying to keep your attention on Patrick as he sets up the camera. Your heartbeat races the entire time, and you feel your hands getting clammy.

"They're all in on it," you hear Ewan say, prompting you to finally look at him directly. You take him in hungrily, admiring his outline, ever so handsome with his Targaryen-blonde hair and black leather jacket.

A weak "Mmm?" is all you can muster.

"Our teams, Tom, Phia... they set us up. Tom came over and I overheard him on the phone with Phia."

"Oh," you mumble. He doesn't even spare you a glance, leaning on the armrest on his side of the couch. He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere but here, next to you, and it hurts.

It's what you deserve.

"Is this not a real chemistry read?" you ask meekly.

"I suppose it is," he laughs humourlessly, "but it's not a coincidence that you and I just happen to be the only ones scheduled for today." He turns to you, giving you a critical sideways glance. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"

"I... I can leave if you want - "

"Mmm," his brows furrow, "you do seem to be good at that."

You look away. He is not being fair, but you weren't neither, that wretched night back in September.

And he is making you pay for it now.

But then you hear him speak in a softer tone, "Stay."

Stay. When you look at him once more, his attention is entirely on you, arm outstretched on the couch like he just tried to reach for you but decided against it.

Stay, he asked. So you do.

It's what you should have done, months ago.

"Okay, guys. Whenever you're ready," Amie says. She and Patrick take their seats in front of you, with the camera on a stand between them.

The script crinkles on your lap as you hold it with shaky fingers. "It's been a while," you read out your opening line.

The dialogue plays out twisted and ironic, now that you know who your scene partner is.

"Hardly," Ewan responds in character. "I feel like no time as passed."

"Feels like a lifetime."

He pauses, then sighs, "Do you even miss me?"

"How... how can you even ask me that?"

"How can I - "

"Why didn't you... why didn't you fight for me?" your voice breaks, the lines hitting a bit too close to home.

"You're a fucking hypocrite," he spits with venom. "You weren't exactly giving me anything to fight for."

"I did it for us. I did it all for us." If you didn't feel like crying at the weight of the scene, you would have rolled your eyes at the similarities.

"Like I said - nothing to fight for."

"Nothing? So you're telling me I was nothing to you."

"No," he levels you with an icy look, "you were everything to me. Everything. But you left me behind, and for what? So you can run off with the rebel sect?"

"The mission needed me. You wouldn't understand." You feel a sense of relief when the sci-fi elements roll in, otherwise you might have given in to your emotions and sobbed right there on the damn couch.

"I needed you," Ewan says, eyes not leaving yours. "I needed you and you abandoned me, just like that."

"And are you not better for it? When I left, did they not make you General?"

"See, that is the difference between you and I," he says coldly. "I wouldn't have traded what we had for anything - no position, no amount of wealth, no glory... I would have chosen us every time."

"Aaand cut!" Patrick jokes, effectively breaking the tension.

The two of you have unconsciously drifted closer, now only a foot part. Ewan does not drop your gaze, watching you closely. You see his eyes flit down to your parted lips, and he leans in almost imperceptibly.

"Alright, how about we go one more time?" Amie says, diverting your attention. "Give us a different take, and then that's it!"

Ewan settles back on his end of the couch. When he reads his lines again, his tone is harsher and he no longer meets your eyes.

Patrick and Amie commend you both afterward, singing praises about your acting abilities. Ewan is polite as always, blushing and grateful, but he practically dashes out of the door when the meeting finishes.

You're left standing with Amie, as Patrick has taken to his laptop to file the footage.

"The way he looks at you," she sighs dreamily, referring to Ewan. "You'd think the sun shone out your arse, doll."

"He... he was just in character," you disagree. "He's a good actor, as you know."

"Yeah, I mean, he nailed the part's rancour perfectly. But his eyes - oof - you've got a good one there."

Oh. Of course they would still assume you and him are together.

How desperately you want it to be true.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

An hour later, you've just sent Phia a text saying - You owe me. Where do I meet you guys?

But you hear a knock on your apartment door. If you didn't buzz anyone in, it can only be a neighbour or someone the doorman recognised.

Someone familiar to you.

And it's him.

"Ewan?"

"I need to speak with you."

You step aside so he doesn't linger at your doorway. He walks past you, a welcome if not unexpected presence in the room.

You can't decipher his expression, his gaze angled downward as he leans against your kitchen counter.

When the silence becomes almost deafening, you laugh awkwardly, about to make some silly remark on whether he is still in character. But he doesn't let you diffuse the tension.

"I want you," he blurts out without warning. "God help me, I still want you. I think I might have a fucking problem because how can I... after what you did - " A momentary glance of betrayal, but you see the spite clear in his eyes. " - but I do. I can't get you out of my system."

"I'm sorry - "

"I don't need that," he says sharply. "I don't need your sorry. I need you. I need to have you, and maybe this way, I'll satisfy whatever pointless desire I still have in me."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying - I'm asking - will you let me have you?"

"Ewan, I don't under - "

"I'm saying that we should sleep together," he says bluntly, and it feels like the rug has been pulled from under your feet, "but only just. You won't be mine, and I won't be yours."

"You're kidding."

He shakes his head, before adding, "Don't worry. It'll be our little secret. To the rest of the world, I'll have a different girlfriend anyway."

His words register, along with the bitter ache at his words, that you won't be his, he won't be yours. This is purely for pleasure. There used to be love here, and now he just craves the comfort your body allows.

You'll be using each other.

You should refuse. This is not healthy; this is not how you move on. Can you even go back to being good friends after this? But also - what have you got to lose?

What, except for him, and for good this time?

What, except everything?

"So what do you say - " He closes in on you, and with every bit of malice intended, the name no longer possessing the sweetness it once held, he sneers, "- darling?"

💌 next chapter

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @livcookesgf @onlyrealjoy (continued ... )

Some notes in the margins...

Well well well... the transition from friends to lovers to strangers to angsty FWBs sure is a slippery slope!

The time jumps are so we get through the moping quicker! It's mostly back to the regular shenanigans in the next part. Only, you know, angst-ridden. But you hurt Ewan, reader. *wags finger* Don't say you didn't expect this switch! Tsktsk

So what now - will you accept this arrangement? Will things ever be truly okay? Part 7 is going to be hot and hilarious and stupid and messy, just as the doctor ordered.

Let's hash it out in the comments, shall we? 🗡💕

[wovenintosilk]

Stubborn

Received a request through a reblog for something related to Miguel's fangs. It's not exactly focused on them but they're definitely part of it!

No Content Warnings

GN!Reader

Word Count: 1100

━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━

“Get your fingers away from my mouth. Are you a child?”

You pouted and withdrew your hand, thwarted in your attempts to sneakily lift the corner of your boyfriend’s lip. “I want to see them,” you defended. “They’re so nice to look.”

“If you’re that bored, I will find you something more productive to do,” he reminded you and twisted his face further from your reach. “I’m not in the habit of allowing people to lounge around my workspace for the fun of it.”

“Can my something productive be getting you to smile?”

“Absolutely not.”

You sighed and sank further into your chair, head tilted back to the ceiling you stared at far too much. “You said you would be finished with this by now.”

“It was a possibility but it required far more attention than I expected. It won’t be much longer.”

Miguel’s desire to be busy never surprised you. From the day you’d met him to the day you kissed him for the first time, you always understood why he obsessed in the way he did. It didn’t hurt you but you worried – more about his own health than anything else.

When was the last time he’d even eaten?

“You know, I actually do have a job to get done,” you said. “I’ll be back soon. Try not to get too big of a headache by scowling at that screen.”

“I know.”

The grumbled words didn’t help your concerns. You cast a glance over your shoulder in his direction. The harsh artificial lighting of his office highlighted how he hunched over his work, shone off his suit in a piercing way.

It really couldn’t be good for him to stand like that.

Your first stop took you over an hour to reach and you still didn’t doubt for one second that Miguel would still be working on your return. Though he cared little about food quality lately, you insisted on getting him something healthy and what you knew he would enjoy.

If it took you ages to find, you didn’t mind too much. You knew it wouldn’t impact on your plans going forward.

Around the side of Miguel’s office, a few wires connected just behind a broken section of the wall. You had to hold your breath to squeeze half into it in order to reach them.

“This is a very bad idea.”

You jumped, hit your head against the wall in your startle, and groaned in the unexpected pain. Lyla watched with a humoured smirk from where she’d appeared, projected out of your personal watch.

“It’ll be fine,” you said. “He won’t even know it was me.”

“He will,” she corrected. “But that’s not what I’m worried about. I know you can handle Miguel yourself but I think you shouldn’t play with electricity.”

“When you asked me to get him to take a break, you should have known I’d need to resort to some extreme measures.”

She sighed and waved a hand for you to continue. You squeezed your way further in so you could reach the wire that fed his office and a few of the surrounding halls. Hobie showed you it wouldn’t turn off the rest of the complex when he did it last time as a joke.

“I’ve already backed up everything he’s working on. If he throws you out, I take no responsibility for it.”

You grinned cut the wire. Everything plummeted into darkness around you, computers shut off loudly and the ever-present hum stopped. You grinned proudly and dropped your cutter back into its space before you headed to the office.

You realised one of the main problems when you walked through the doors and spotted him on his platform. The one that wouldn’t move now without electricity.

“Wow,” you said loudly. “Can you believe the timing of this?”

He turned slowly. The silence stretched thickly between you, your smile a match for his glare. Lyla was right, he knew exactly what had happened.

“Either you have to come down here or find a way to get me up there,” you called. “Because I can’t reach you otherwise.”

You held up the food right as a bright web attached to your chest. It pulled you forward and lifted you into the air as though you weighed nothing. It might not be the first time it had happened to you but you’d never really get used to the sensation of being dragged around.

He steadied you when you landed, his hand rested on your arm until you gained your balance back. His lip curled up ever so slightly as he waited.

“I brought food,” you said and sat down in your chair.

“What did you do?”

“Went a ridiculous distance to get this for you,” you noted. “Do you know how far this place is? And then I got back and the power disappeared. Had to walk here in the dark.”

“Do you know how busy I was? How much you may have gotten lost?”

“I’m sure Lyla managed to get it saved. You can take a break while she finds the fault.”

He loomed above you, leaned down and opened his mouth ever so slightly. Finally, you had an opportunity to see those massive fangs you loved so much. You loved his habit of using them to intimidate. He didn’t even do it purposefully.

“You can’t really be blaming me for the electricity,” you said.

“I’m not stupid.”

You finally placed the packet of food aside, reached up and grabbed the front of his suit so you could pull him closer. You used your free hand to cup his jaw, ran your thumb over his bottom lip. Those fangs really were beautiful. What you’d give to have them showing more often…

“I need you to take a break,” you said. “It might take a while to fix. You may as well give your body a small rest, okay?”

Before you let him go, you pressed a small kiss to the underside of his jaw. He leaned into the touch just enough to let you know you’d been somewhat forgiven for your meddling.

He took the food from you, muttered something about stubbornness, and listened as you spoke about everything you’d been waiting to tell him.

[jinxhallows]

kinktober #o17 | glory

KINKTOBER 2023 || jinxhallows glory (praise kink) || chan x fem!reader summary: you and chan met as volunteers for the local cabaret theatre, working as stagehands, but when it blossoms into something more, and the temperatures drop below freezing, chan figures out a way to warm you up, and fast... warnings: praise kink, and all that entails, plot heavy, fluffy, lots and lots of praise, 'daddy' petnames, non-idol AU

word count: 4k masterlist - click here

The first time he let it slip, you two were still just friends.

You both volunteered as stagehands at the downtown cabaret theater, and you had been sent out to purchase some last-minute supplies. Your coat was dripping wet over your arm from running through the rain, a shopping basket hooked in the crook of your opposite elbow, and you held the phone to your ear, spinning around to decipher the location of the checkout.

"Did you get the safety pins?" Chan's voice came through the phone.

You nodded, even though Chan couldn't see you. "Yeah."

"And-"

"I also got the glue gun sticks, an extra pack of AA batteries, and a small can of black acrylic paint," you rattled off.

"Good girl," Chan responded, genuinely impressed.

At the time, he had no idea that his words had a much different impact on you than he could have ever imagined. The idea of him praising you under very different circumstances had ignited a fire within you, one you couldn't ignore.

The season progressed and Chan worked up the courage to ask you out for drinks and now you two are barely two months into a very new relationship. Still working together, now as hired staff seasonally, at the cabaret theatre, you two are now working together on helping out with the production of A Christmas Carol.  It’s two months until showtime, so you’re in the thick of things, managing a team of stage designers. Chan is managing the costume department and overseeing music direction. He has a brief gap between meetings, so he decides to surprise you by grabbing your favorite drink and muffin from the local coffee shop. After leaving a generous tip in the paper cup at the front of the register, he heads back to the theater through the brisk winter cold.

Chan enters the theater's workshop, finding you in your office. He closes the door behind him, greets you with a kiss and your drink, and then takes off his coat. As he hangs it on the nearby coat rack, you take a sip of the drink, savoring the warm, spicy flavors of your favorite spiced winter beverage. Opening the small, white paper bag, you take out your favorite muffin. "I needed this so badly. I was late this morning and couldn't grab breakfast."

"Why didn't you call? You know I could've picked you up," Chan says, sitting on the edge of your desk as you ease into your chair. You blow on your drink, preparing it for a sip. "Your car's been in the shop for weeks now. Any word on what's going on with it?"

You pause for a moment, taking a sip of your drink as you ponder how to address the issue. You've been avoiding Chan's questions about your mode of transportation since receiving the bad news. You're hesitant to reveal that you don't have everything under control, fearing it might push Chan away. After swallowing, you gather your thoughts and finally speak up.

"It's gonna be a while," you say, your voice tinged with a touch of uncertainty.

At this point, Chan has confirmed his suspicion that you're intentionally keeping this information from him. He nods, taking in your response, and glances at his watch. Fiddling with one of its links, he contemplates whether you've been together long enough for him to press you about these matters. He doesn't want to start an argument or intrude on your privacy, but he's genuinely concerned, especially with the weather getting colder and the distance you live from the theatre.

"That... doesn't sound good," Chan finally says, after you've taken another sip, looking back at you. You can feel the hesitation in his words and sense that he's holding something back. Your fingers nervously tap against your cup in an unknown rhythm that's stuck in your head. "Yeah, the engine, it's kind of... shot," you say, tapping the cup at a higher tempo. You find the lid of your cup more interesting than Chan's attempt to hide his shock. He knows he's not great at concealing his emotions, and he clears his throat, suddenly fascinated by his watch.

"Wow, that's... I'm sorry to hear that. Engine troubles can be expensive. You know if you need any help at all—"

"I'm just getting another car. I've been looking, but I haven't had the time yet, especially with the production coming up, so I've been taking the trains. I'm okay, though, Chan, really," you reassure him. Setting your cup down, you interlock your fingers, resting your chin on them, and offer him a disarming smile.

"Since you've had time to come visit me, I'm guessing you're ahead of schedule?" you inquire, relieved when you see his focus shift, steering the conversation in a different direction. 

For now, you've evaded his questions again.

"Like a well-oiled machine. In fact, there's a little bit left over in the budget to get the fog machine fixed."

"Chan!" you laugh, "How did you manage that?"

"A few people owed me a few favors. I know how much you wanted to give those Ghost of Christmas Future scenes more ambiance." Chan embraces you, and you eagerly rush into his open arms, hugging him tightly, the scent of his shampoo and cologne filling your senses. When you let go, he slowly turns you around in his embrace, his arms encircling your body, your back against his chest.

"Thank you for this. Oh, Hailey will be so excited to hear this, and Thomas, we'll have to space out the set for Act Three, but that's no problem. I—" You stop yourself, your hand on your forehead as you catch yourself from rambling again. Chan loves seeing you excited like this, so he never stops you during your enthusiastic outbursts. You turn around, your arms resting on his shoulders, and you kiss him, expressing your gratitude with a hundred silent thank-yous.

Chan finds the courage to speak out, his hands gently resting along your waist. "Please let me give you a ride, at least to and from here. You live outside the city, and I'd feel better knowing you're safe in this cold." He anticipates a rebuttal and adds, "Just for the cabaret. Whatever else you do is your business, but if you did need me for other rides, I'd be up for it—just needed to get that out there," nodding affirmatively to you and himself.

You decide to accept his offer this time. You had guessed wrong; it had never left his mind the entire time.

"Fine," you roll your eyes with a small smirk, "I just know you live in the city, and that's out of your way."

"It's not, honest," Chan stands up and leans forward, kissing your forehead. "You're really special to me." With a smile, he heads out and adds, "I'll meet you in the lobby after rehearsal."

"You're really special to me..."

Those words reverberate in your mind for the next four hours of work. They're louder than the hammering of nails into wooden boards, louder than saws cutting through plywood, and even louder than the timpanis in the orchestra pit.

As you work, your head down while distressing the paint on the side of a fake building, you can hear Chan stopping and starting the musicians, going over pieces meticulously. It's hard not to lock eyes with him when he glances over at you occasionally.

Unbeknownst to you, Chan is entranced by the way you bring a vision to life, ingeniously assembling pieces that leave him baffled. He observes you walking among other stagehands, adeptly adjusting a streetlamp, your gloved hands confidently resting on your hips, toolbelt hanging down. You point, shake your head, and oversee adjustments, stepping back and tilting your head, scrutinizing it from various angles before granting it a thumbs-up.

Every so often, you cast an inconspicuous glance over your shoulder, but Chan has already shifted his focus long enough to deceive you into thinking he wasn't watching. He splits his attention between you and the piano, directing the musicians, a sight he relishes.

At one point, a designer stands beside the piano with a partially costumed actor, waiting for the right moment to approach Chan. The designer holds up a piece of velvet red fabric against the navy blue costume.

"Was thinking maybe this material?" the stylist asks.

"Nah, not really, the blue is better against the gold buttons," Chan nods, providing his expert opinion.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Thomas' voice teases, breaking your focus and startling you from your reverie.

"Oldest one in the book. And corniest," you quip back.

"Don't do it, boo. I'd be distracted if Chan were mine too," Thomas remarks, and you both sneak another glance in Chan's direction. "He is a delicious piece of sweet potato pie, ain't he?"

You nudge Thomas playfully, and both of you head backstage.

As the day concludes, everyone gathers around for announcements and updates from the director. Afterward, people begin to disperse. You're embraced by hugs from Thomas and other crew members who've become like family. The holiday break is upon you, and some are leaving town to enjoy their vacation. The lobby teems with people, and amid the crowd, you spot Chan. You hear him chatting with others, and as he finishes, his expression brightens as he spots you.

You’re really special to me… You give Chan a warm hug. It's cozy inside, a welcome refuge from the cold winter winds outside.

"Ready?" he asks with a grin.

You nod, and together, you make your way to the exit. The bitter cold greets you as you step outside, and the wind feels like needles on your exposed cheeks. You tug your scarf up around your nose to protect yourself from the icy gusts. Chan holds you even closer as you both step out into the open, and he opens the passenger door of his nearby parked car.

The car's interior offers immediate warmth, and you welcome it with relief. Chan yawns as the silence settles in around you. He had a busy but good day, and now he's just as eager to hear about yours, especially after getting lost in watching you do your thing.

"Are you sure you wanna do this? Like, drive me all the way home?" you ask, your voice tinged with doubt.

"Yes, I want to drive you all the way home," Chan says with a chuckle. He starts the car, shifting it into reverse to back out of the parking space. "And then I want to walk you all the way to your door, and then I want to kiss you, like we're a couple of teenagers from the fifties."

You laugh at his sweet sentiment.

"I'm serious! You make this relationship thing feel like it's worth something, like it's something I can do... forever," Chan says. He starts to feel a little self-conscious about gushing and quickly dials it back. "You're just... really special to me." There it is again.

"Chan," you begin, and there's a moment of hesitation.

"Yeah?" Chan's gaze remains fixed on the road, but he's eager to hear your words.

"I love you," you say, surprising both yourself and him with the sudden confession.

Each quiet second Chan spends frozen on the road ahead makes you want to backpedal.  It’s too soon.  Are you dumb? He’s gonna think you’re crazy.  It’s not even three months yet.

“I love you too.” He says, and it comes out like his own kind of word vomit, at the tail end of his ruminating thoughts of whether or not you actually meant your statement.  Then he guilts himself for doubting the expression of your feelings. Chan would just like to get out of his own head for thirty seconds.

"Ok, now that that's settled," you say, your humor helping to break the tension, and you settle into your seat with a sigh. "I'm sorry I get so weird about you helping me sometimes. I just feel like you have your shit together, and I'm still trying to figure it all out. I know you didn't sign up to get a girlfriend with a bunch of problems—baggage."

Chan snorts, a mixture of amusement and relief. He's glad to hear that this is what's been on your mind, that you've been carrying a self-imposed burden. He appreciates the vulnerability in your words. Sometimes he needs to feel needed, especially in a relationship.

"I'm not sure what your definition of having my shit together is, but this version of me, isn't it," he says with a smile. "I didn't sign up for a girlfriend with a perfect life. I signed up for Y/N, and all that comes with her. How dare you short me the fries to my combo?"

You both share a laugh, and as the car settles into the quiet hum of the engine, you notice snow falling and sticking to the slushy roads as you leave the city behind and enter the suburbs. You check the weather forecast on your phone, prompting you to speak up.

"There's a frost advisory tonight, love," you muse. "You think you should stay over tonight? The roads are gonna be awful."

Chan hadn't planned on it, but he realizes he has nothing urgent to rush home to, and he's getting pretty tired too.

"Good idea."

It takes another thirty minutes, but soon, Chan is pulling into your driveway, turning off the car and walking you to your door just as he said he would. He waits patiently next to you, his hands warming in his pockets as he looks around at the snow falling and piling up, covering the black streets in blinding white reflected against the streetlights.

It's a perfect night to snuggle with a special someone.

You turn on the music, an old Aqualung album filling the former silence, making the blanket of white outside look even more magical. You had never found yourself enjoying the quiet company of another until you started dating Chan. It's a new experience for both of you since you can get lost in conversation for hours. But with Chan, there's no pressure to keep coming up with new topics. It's one of the many reasons why he enjoys your company. He can just be himself around you.

You come over to join Chan as he sits on the floor against the couch. He initially begins to unfold his crossed legs to make room for you, but you extend a leg over his, straddling him instead, holding two cups of hot cocoa in your hands.

"Oh, well hello, beautiful," he chuckles, taking one of the mugs from you.

The way he says it makes your heart flutter, and you can't help but tease him. You sip your drink, looking at him with a mischievous gaze. "There's just something about the way you say those things to me."

"What things, baby?" Chan asks, playing along. He knows what you mean, but he loves hearing it from you. "When I tell you how pretty you are? How I get caught staring at you at work at least five times a day by the other volunteers?"

You can't contain your giggles, and he takes your mug and his, placing them on the coffee table as he cups your face. "I can feel how hot your cheeks are getting too."

"Because!"

"Because why? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't list every reason why I've fallen in love with you to your face."

You bite your lip, realizing Chan's winning the playful banter. He holds onto your hips, shifting himself underneath you and readjusting, all while focusing on being romantic rather than all the nasty things he wants to do to you with you straddling him like this.

He kisses you, gently at first, and then more passionately. "For one, you are beautiful. Anyone with eyes can see that..." You notice the drop in Chan's volume and the edge his tone gains, making you crave him in ways you haven’t been able t0 have him yet. “I like that.” “Yeah?  You do? You should, ‘cause you’re a pretty girl, my pretty girl of course.” Chan's eyes linger on your lips, and you lean forward, capturing his lips in a single kiss that leaves both of you lingering, breathing heavily, your faces close.

"Call me your pretty girl again, and you might start something you can't finish."

"Who says I can't finish it, pretty girl?" Chan counters with a sly smile, his lips dangerously close to yours.

Chan is the next to initiate another kiss, drawing you into a passionate embrace. His hands trail up the bare skin of your back, hidden beneath your hoodie, leaving a trail of sinfire in their wake. You lean your head back with a gasp as he hums against your neck.

"Listen to those breaths you take, so sweet for me," Chan says, eager to hear more of your reactions. He sucks hard enough to leave a bruise under your collarbone, making you gasp in response.

"Oh my God, Chan, I—" You start to express concern, but the juxtaposition of his arousal and your own, both concealed beneath clothing, interrupts your common sense. He shouldn't be marking you up like this. You realize you'll need to wear a turtleneck or a collared shirt to cover your collarbone.  “B-Be careful-”

"I'm sorry, baby. You're just so intoxicating, you know that?" Chan manages to peel himself away from devouring you for a brief moment, a feat that takes immense self-control. "And you have the most adorable smile."

You try to hide your smile, but he pulls your arm away. "No, let me see it. Look at how you get when I compliment you. I can't tell if you love it or hate it, but it's damn hot seeing you get all shy like this. Makes me want to say more, see how else your body responds to me."

"I think it's turning me on," you admit, your voice slightly shaky, and a coy smile forms on your lips.

“You think?” Chan states more than questions, running his nose and lips against your chest, peppering kisses up your neckline. He sucks again, leaving another mark, this time closer to your jaw. You moan in response, and he tangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck as he pulls you in for a kiss. Your lips bruise against his, swollen as he pulls back, looking up at you as if you were Aphrodite herself.

“Thank you, babygirl. I’m sorry I left a couple of marks.”

“It’s okay, you should leave a couple more.”

So Chan does just that.

You hold onto his neck as he moves forward, pressing you into the floor, lifting your hoodie up and sliding it over your arms so he can lay more open-mouthed, deliciously wet kisses down to your navel. He dips his tongue in, taking your piercing between his teeth. Your back arches, and he's going for your jeans, ready to unbutton them, but he stops, sitting up on his knees.

Chan knows if he goes any further, it would be akin to dragging him from quicksand.

He has to ask first.

“We’ve never gone this far,” Chan says, feeling somewhat awkward for not just outright asking you. You realize, of course, that you two haven't gone this far, but Chan wants to ensure you're comfortable. How much further are you willing to go? Chan can easily wrap things up right here, but the way you're writhing underneath his lips every time they press into your skin, leading further and further down south; Chan needs you to tell him otherwise. “I want to go further,” you say, your thumbs hooked into the top of your pants. “You told me you'd finish it, didn't you?”

You assist him in getting your bottoms off, and he nuzzles against the damp fabric of your panties, taking in your scent. “Had no idea you’d smell this amazing,” Chan says, pulling your panties aside to slip a finger in, curling it up. “You must really want me, hmm?”

“Mhm, I do.”

“Can you take more fingers, baby?” “Yeah, I can,” you nod fervently, vigorously, eager to feel him spread you further. Chan gets two more fingers inside of you, and he pulls the panties even further around your lips, leaning down to kiss and suck your clit. He enjoys the way his saliva catches the light as you buck your hips up.

“Prettiest pussy I've ever seen, babygirl. Are you going to let my cock feel it too?”

“Yes, please, daddy?”

Chan has to process the fact that you've called him this. He nearly short-circuits.

“You must want to be my good girl tonight,” he says as he pulls off his hoodie, tossing it aside and unbuttoning his pants.

“I'd give anything to be your good girl, Chan.”

“Anything?”

His fat cock slaps against your wet slit as he holds it firmly. “Anything.” you begin to twist your hips, attempting to grind in a way that will make him slide inside you. You're wet, it's spread everywhere, slicking your inner thighs and cheeks. All it takes is one good thrust, and he can –

“I want this, right here,” his firm taps stop you in place, and his eyes lock onto yours as he pushes his cockhead between your folds, stopping as soon as he's sheathed inside, feeling your walls begging for more. “You feel so wet, baby. Is this for me?” he asks, inching inside until he's halfway in. Chan wants to stop, but the sensation of your walls squeezing him proves to be too much, and he bottoms out inside of you.

“Yes!” You cry out, stronger and louder than you intended, spawning Chan to thrust again, rutting into you. He doesn't always go deep; in fact, he's stroking you at just the right angle to make you see stars as you drag your almond nails down his back, feeling his muscles tense under your touch.

“S-sorry,” you hiss, your head falling against the floor as you cum around his cock. “Keep it up, baby,” he encourages you, “You look so good taking me like this right now, so fucking good.”

"I-I look—"

His firm grip on the strands of your hair at the nape of your neck forces your gaze upwards, compelling you to meet his intense, smoldering eyes.

"Beautiful," he breathes as his thrusts take on a deliberate, measured pace. Each motion propels you closer to the precipice of another orgasm, and you can barely keep your eyes open. His hand presses flat against your head, angling it so you can witness the raw, primal connection between your two bodies. "You look beautiful, say it." You gasp and muster the strength to whisper, "Beautiful," as he introduces two of his fingers to your lips. You eagerly accept them, your tongue tantalizingly caressing the pads of his digits, still bearing traces of your earlier essence. He withdraws his fingers and expertly circles your clit with confident, steady pressure, evoking whimpering pleas from deep within you.

"Such a good girl," he praises with a low, smoky voice, pride lacing every word. "I'm so proud of you, baby. Can you cum again for me? I just wanna see that face one more time.” He wants to etch the vision of your blissed-out expression into the depths of his consciousness, ensuring it's the first thing he sees every morning as he awakens with thoughts of you.   Instinctively, you attempt to shield your contorted, furrowed brows with your hands, but Chan swiftly restrains your wrists, pinning them above your head with a powerful grip. His other hand intensifies its attentions to your clit, moving more vigorously.  He pairs this with shallow, accurate thrusts,each one striking your g-spot with unerring accuracy, causing you to unravel until you could think no more.  You’ve been fucked dumb, for the first time in your life.  As you gradually return to your senses, you struggle to find words or even make sense of how another human being can make you feel this extraordinary.

Amidst the haze of your post-orgasmic stupor, a lucid thought pierces through: sex is a potent, heady concoction, a force to be reckoned with.

Then, the second wave of awareness washes over you when you hear Chan's voice, close to your ear, whispering those two potent words, "Good girl." - fin

[ssahotchnerr]

hey, i just broke my wrist today so i was wondering if you could possibly write some fluff about aaron taking care of reader with a broken wrist.

btw i love your writing!! 💓💓

fractures

omg oh no i hope you recover quickly!!!!! & you're so so sweet thank you <33 cw; bau!reader, reader gets hurt, descriptions of injury, established relationship, cute banter, aaron being concerned and a dork <3

it wasn't uncommon for you to do paperwork in aaron's office. you would never deprive yourself of being in his company - that was the first obvious reason you opted to work in there - but the occasional change of scenery was nice. it was much easier to tackle files, especially when caseloads were demanding and high in quantity, alongside aaron; making small talk, getting his seasoned input, a kiss or two if you were lucky. the setting also prevented the inevitable distraction of derek's humored remarks, usually leading into a conversation that was far from productive.

aaron sat behind his desk, while you were seated opposite of him. in the instances the two of you stayed behind after hours, your chair would join his, or you would simply end up on his lap. it wasn't very convenient with the limited space; it was uncomfortable yet comfortable at the same time. but just having aaron close, being able to hear his soft breaths and sighs as he worked, the warmth radiating off his body, sneaking more than just two kisses. it gave you a feeling you couldn't quite put into words.

it was crazy to think, that when you stepped into this office for the first time, ages ago, that you would end up here. with your boss of all people, who you loved more than anything.

a man you used to think had no emotion, but were granted the gift of being the only person he chose to reveal that side to.

however, and sadly, this wasn't after hours, so your current position was across him, scribbling away. as you finished writing a statement your pen quirked, slipping out of your fingers onto the floor. and while leaning over to the side to retrieve it, you and the chair completely tipped over.

your hands fanned out to break your fall, but unfortunately you reacted a bit too late- you still landed onto your right hand. hard.

intense pain shot right up your arm, the impact hot and immediately throbbing at your wrist, causing you to let out a small yelp, both from pain and the surprise.

"shit." aaron was on his feet just as fast as you fell, a few papers toppling off his desk in effect. "honey, are you alright?"

you didn't answer as you peered up at him, the expression on your face saying it all.

like him, you were stubborn. when injured, you would downplay it- insist you were fine, it wasn't as bad as it looked, all the usual excuses. but aaron knew you, so he knew the pain in your eyes.

he crouched besides you, reaching out for your hand hesitantly, raising his eyebrows in a silent question, may i?

you nodded your head in confirmation, and aaron picked up your hand at your wrist. his touch was gentle, but it still resulted in an immediate wince from yourself. the burn caused also tears to fill your eyes.

"can you move it?" aaron asked, his brown eyes lifting to meet your gaze.

"i think so?" you lied, not even bothering to try, your hand remaining limp in his. the swelling had already begun, your skin flamed with a vague blue faintly mixing in.

"shit." aaron swore again, a breath exiting his nose as your wrist changed colors right in front of his eyes. "well, it's best we get this looked at. and quickly. c'mon."

after helping you to your feet, holding onto your wrist firmly, but softly, aaron escorted you out into the bullpen.

"don't move it."

you began to quip back, "i'm not moving it-"

his tone was insistent, light. "yes you are."

"no, i'm not."

the exchange was on the playful side, but still weighed with concern. to aaron', you could get a paper cut and he'd be just as worried.

a few concerned heads poked up from their desks as the two of you passed, aaron pausing momentarily at the bullpen's kitchenette, still supporting your wrist. he stopped in front of the refrigerator, which luckily contained an ice pack in the freezer.

"keep this on, okay?" aaron quickly grabbed a paper towel, wrapping it around the frigid pack, slowly placing it against your wrist.

you winced again at the contact, but nodded as your hand laid overtop of his, taking over. the chill with the contrast of your hot skin was uncomfortable at first, but soothed the ache just a bit. the throbbing didn't falter, though.

-

at the ER, an x-ray confirmed a minor fracture, and soon enough, your wrist was bound and secured in a cast. the doctor mentioned physical therapy to restore motion and to regain strength, but that was a matter for the future.

"so i guess this means no hand to hand combat for me for a while, huh?" you stated once the two of you were in aaron's car.

"you got that right." aaron chuckled softly, reaching over you to buckle your seatbelt for you himself. "for the next five to six weeks," he pressed a kiss to your temple, "you're desk-ridden sweetheart."

"and can spencer do my paperwork?" you joked, but your right hand was your dominant one.

he started the car. "we'll see."

"morgan?"

"oh, definitely."

you laughed, "then one thing needs to be in order."

his arm rested on your seat briefly as he peered behind, backing out of the parking space. the sight caused butterflies to erupt in your stomach, he truly was too attractive for his own good. "and what's that?"

"you'll sign my cast, won't you?" you teased, your lips tugging into a smile.

aaron snorted a laugh. "sure. how about, aaron with some hearts?"

his suggestion was all play, teasing you right back. but in all honestly, if that's what you wanted, he'd do just that.

you rolled your eyes, his laugh making you forget any pain your hand still withheld. "just humor me, hotchner."

aaron grabbed onto your left hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a kiss on the back of your hand. "always."

[brightlotusmoon]

While researching anticipatory election stress, Neupert landed on one particularly effective coping strategy: problem-analysis. “It’s when people think critically about what they think will happen, and why they think it might happen,” she says. “Like, why is it you think you're going to have this argument about the election with an acquaintance tomorrow? And could you try to understand their perspective ahead of time?” As you reflect on those questions, brainstorm how you’ll respond to each point they bring up, she suggests, with the goal of preventing an argument and still engaging in a productive conversation.

Problem-analysis helped Neupert’s study participants protect themselves from the damaging effects of stress during the event they were worried about. “There was no significant decrease in their physical health,” she says. “We’re aware the messaging could be, ‘Elections are stressful. People should just put their heads in the sand, and wait until it's all over’—which isn’t great for democracy. So we’re trying to understand ways that people can stay engaged but still preserve their mental and physical health.”

Put your thoughts on trial

In addition to brainstorming how you might handle future election-related stress, it can be helpful to challenge the existential fears you have around the presidential election. Colleen Marshall, chief clinical officer at the mental-health clinic Two Chairs, calls this technique—which is common in cognitive behavioral therapy—putting your thoughts on trial. Let’s say you think life as you know it will go up in flames if the candidate you’re pulling for doesn’t win. First, ask yourself what evidence you have that that’s true: “You’ll have to hear their name for four years, and it's true they'll have an impact on policy, and some of those policies might impact your life,” she says. But what evidence do you have that your belief your life will be over is not true? “I’d be like, ‘Well, they probably won't impact who I'm married to, where I live, or where I go to dinner on Friday night. They're not going to impact what job I have, what I do for fun, or where I travel.’” Identifying “anxiety thoughts”—as opposed to factual thoughts—typically quells people’s nerves, Marshall says. She’s found it’s an effective antidote to catastrophizing and black-and-white thinking.

Set boundaries around news consumption

[nouearth]

not a request but i saw the "send dirtiest thoughts about a character" and well i just wanna share if that's okay!

how bruce/batman does punishments. (all consensual ofc!, and imagine which depiction of bruce do you want)

i can imagine bruce/batman's punishments are rough, if you were ever to make him angry, its probably because you know what you're in for...

a light punishment to him is tying you up and fucking you in his bat suit on the front of the batmobile, but whatever he used to tie you up with has been adjusted to discharge small amounts of electricity at his control, not enough to hurt, but enough to overstimulate you in minutes, always ending with you begging for batman's mercy.

sometimes, punishments happen even outside of the bedroom or the batcave-specifically, in his office, he likes when you go there to visit when he's working overtime or at lunch.

if you were to be particularly daring on a day when you visit during lunch when he's having a bad day in the office, then you better be prepared to get bent over his desk. pants down and clothes messy with a hand wrapped around your neck.

If someone happened to knock on the door to his office, he'd go even faster, asking the person to come in, much to your surprise and humiliation, as he nonchalantly asks what that person wants....word quickly spreads around the office about the playboy billionaire's shenanigans with you, its not like he cares though.

if you were to really get him mad, then it wouldn't be him punishing you-no.

you're tied up and blindfolded, getting spitroasted by two of bruce's friends as he sits from a chair on the corner of the room, watching the scene unfold infront of him.

in front of you was Clark, hips moving with need and strength as makes you gag on his big cock, his strong hands holding your face, behind you was Barry, hips moving fast and rough as he pushes his own length in and out of you, hitting that spot inside of you constantly., barry's hand was tightly gripping your hair while the other was at your waist, both men getting to use you as per bruce's request.

it ended with you sucking off bruce on your knees to show him how sorry you are, while filled and covered in the cum of his two other friends as a lesson for you.

oh my god, yes.

i imagine for the light punishments where you're tied up before him, you'd come from being fucked so good. the shockwaves and ropes to your body all the more restrictive and painful, but you still managed to come, hand-free, from bruce's cock, constantly digging into you despite your confusing pleas for him to stop, to slow down, and to fuck you harder.

hot, needy, and sloppy sex is the best when it's done in the office, where everyone can imagine what goes on behind those closed doors because you're practically his stress ball. he calls you in whenever there's been some delayed shipments or whatever, slowing production, and he needs to take it out on something, fuck something raw and hard to dispose his annoyance—blinded rage.

oh my god, and clark and barry?! how do you know my deepest fantasies?!

with clark, i imagine that he likes the way you're so obedient under him. you would open your mouth and pant hungrily as he fucked into your mouth, throating you until you gagged and coughed. and then he probably wouldn't be satisfied enough, so he would yank you by your hair, guiding your head back and forth on his cock because he likes taking control of you even for a brief moment—he was always envious of bruce.

then for barry—yes to the hair-grabbing! yes to everything, basically. but while he's fucking into you, he's annoyed that he can't see anything else. only your flushed back and the back of your head, your bouncing locks as the impact of his thrusts rocked you. so in midst of his frustration, he marks your back in tiny kisses at first. but then it grows to hard bites that made bruce almost jump from his seat.

no one was allowed to be so intimate with you like that, bruce would ironically think to himself as your hole was dripping in cum, your mouth as well when clark finished inside of you.

and later that night, he'd show you who you really belonged to, whether you liked it or not.

[racefortheironthrone]

Are you in favour of term limits for members of Congress? Like the way that say Michigan has stricter rules on how long you can be in. Or maybe something like they can't serve more than two consecutive terms, but could serve again after another term.

I am against term limits for pretty much all elected offices; I consider it to be the worst of the "good government" reforms, because its actual impact is so directly counter-productive to its intended outcome. After spending eight years in California politics at a time when term limits dominated state politics, I can say with some confidence that term limits had a poisonous and corrosive effect on both the political culture of the state and the policymaking process.

The logic behind term limits is that it is supposed to discourage the formation of a professional class of politicians and encourage the ideal of the disinterested citizen representative who serves his time in government and then goes home, a la Cincinnatus. This did not happen, because term limits doesn't actually change the electoral process to make it easier for amateurs to win elections, nor is it the case that there's a finite pool of professional or would-be professional politicians who will be disbarred from the political process.

Instead, term limits encouraged politicians to spend even less of their time focusing on the business of government and more time raising money and planning their re-relection, because now they had to develop a complicated hop-scotching career path that went from assembly to senate and then to some statewide office and then back down to county supervisor or something else minor, and so on.

Moreover, because the number of elected positions tends to dwindle as you move up the political ladder, this encouraged a vicious culture of musical chairs, where politicians constantly schemed to stab other politicians in the back to clear the field for their own campaigns. This led to some truly ugly primaries and a general low level of trust between politicians that made cooperation on legislation even more difficult.

Finally, let's talk public policy. Contrary to "good government" ideology, in reality being a legislator or an executive or a judicial officer is a real specialized profession that people have to develop expertise (both in the legislative or executive process, and the details of a certain subset of public policies that the politician cares about) over time. Term limits directly attack that development of expertise - if all you have is two terms and generally freshmen politicians spend their first terms with no clue as to what they're doing, you're never going to learn to be very good at your job, and you don't have much of an incentive to get good at your job because you're going to be kicked out permanently anyway. But you know who has infinite amounts of time to learn to get good at the political process and the details of public policy? Lobbyists for wealthy corporations. Very quickly, the lobbyists become the source of expertise that legislators turn to to help them write legislation and tell them how to vote, because they're the only ones who know what they're doing. Moreover, term limits massively encourage revolving door politics, because when everyone's running to keep ahead of the term limit axe, a permanent job that pays much better than legislative office and still lets you stay in politics sounds really good.

[antaxzantax]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 58

Summary:

Alfred Ashford and Auguste Campbell continue in the abandoned factory. Confrontation between Alexia Ashford and William Birkin.

1

Neglect had cracked the walls and soiled the floors to the point of merging the dust with the mould that seeped through the dampness of the ceiling. A horror vacui of graffiti covered the frame of the building and much of its skeleton.

Alfred unlocked a rusty gate to access the lower floor of what was once a factory for the production of glyphosates. He climbed down metal stairs to a catwalk that led to one of the synthesis chambers. There he built his temple to Leviathan, where Auguste and Peter awaited him.

At the temple to Leviathan, he was greeted by an intense stench of disinfectant that clogged his nostrils. Auguste was waiting for him seated in one of the two armchairs placed at the end of the room to contemplate the spectacle offered by Peter. Peter was lying on the floor between the two pools of corpses.

Alfred did not announce his return, but directly sat down on the free armchair and lit up a cigarette, refusing the joint Auguste offered him.

Peter got up from the floor.

A sacrifice was being tossed around inside a burlap sack hanging from the ceiling.

Auguste leaned back in his seat. Alfred poured himself a glass of wine.

The god of Flesh was thirsty for blood.

2

“Ben Bertolucci.”

“What?”

“Ben Bertolucci!”

The receptionist wrote his name on a piece of paper. Ben showed her his credentials as a freelance journalist.

“What are you doing here? Are you here to sell an exclusive?” The secretary stapled together a document, ignoring Ben.

“I'm on my way to get that exclusive. Could I speak to the editor-in-chief?”

The secretary turned in her chair and dialled an internal number. She spoke loudly to her interlocutor and then hung up.

“First floor on the right. Hurry up.”

“Thank you.”

Ben slung his rucksack over his shoulder and trotted to the first floor. M. Wood. Editor-in-chief of the Raccoon Times. He knocked on the door.

“Hello? I'm Ben Bertolucci.”

“Come in!”

“Ben stepped into the disorganised office. The editor-in-chief greeted him with a cup of coffee in one hand and a freshly baked newspaper in the other.”

“What do you want from us, Mr. Bertolucci?”

“An exclusive: the mysterious disappearances taking place in the slums of Raccoon City.”

“Do you really consider it an exclusive?”

“Yes, and for a very simple reason: there is a pattern. A perfectly clear pattern. There have been a total of 10 disappearances. All 10 disappearances share the same homeless men from the same slums, and they all have a family member who is a university student, specifically a family member who is studying at Raccoon City University.”

The editor-in-chief took off her newspaper and coffee cup to light up a cigarette.

“You mean a serial killer?”

“No. Not at all! It is something else. A very powerful thing. Before coming here I did a little preliminary research. It turns out that the university relatives of the 10 deceased agree that they met a blond man and a red-haired man in the days before their relatives disappeared. The blond man introduced himself as a doctoral student studying poverty and lifestyle in industrialised Midwestern cities. How about that?”

“So what?”

“A high-impact story about a disappearance plot involving Raccoon City University and a couple of suspects?”

The editor-in-chief raised her eyebrows.

“Do what you want. But we will review the material before publication. We have a good relationship with the university and we are a very small newspaper. Don't screw it up.”

“Of course I won't screw it up. Trust me!”

“Go away.”

Ben Bertolucci left the newsroom with the promise of future high-impact reporting.

3

Alfred brought a typewriter with him to the factory. His slip-up with the police and the subsequent conversation with his sister and father had inspired him to change his perspective on the development of his doctoral thesis. He did not want it to be a standard academic analysis, but a more personal and original work.

The subject of the thesis was the socio-political transition that took place in Northern England between the end of feudalism and the beginning of capitalism, and according to the thesis of biopower proposed by Michel Foucault. A theme that fitted in perfectly with what he was doing in the factory. A question of biopower, that was the god of Flesh; of control of bodies and their wills.

On the other hand, he stopped taking drugs. Apart from the risk, the new perspective deserved the full attention of his senses, as he devoted himself to narrating the emotions and feelings he experienced during the rituals and then relating them to the rest of the study. He did not think that this particular part would make it into the final version, but he could reuse it to publish a self-illustrated novel or as part of a larger independent research project.

In conclusion, it had been proposed to complete the PhD by the end of next year. For this reason, the number of total sacrifices was agreed at 15.

15 and end.

4

Annette made her way to the changing room to get out of her uniform and change into nice, comfortable clothes. She would meet William outside the building to drive home. It was two o'clock in the morning.

Her salary had been raised. She as a lab technician and William as chief researcher. Without warning or explanation, it had simply happened. They were also paid double overtime. In this way, they had promised to pay the last installments on the car and part of the mortgage, although they had both increased their bank credit by enrolling Sherry in the best private school in the county. But their financial affairs didn't worry them. Their biggest source of stress came from Alexia Ashford.

William was back on his antidepressants. Annette tried to talk him out of starting the medication again, but William gave in to temptation and popped the prescribed pills for a full day. Alexia had beaten him at his own work and under his own nose. William had failed; he was a failure and he couldn't stand himself.

Apathy settled back into the Birkin household, and it was becoming unbearable. When the incident in the laboratory occurred, she fought for William because she really loved him. They met by chance at Arklay and she decided to stay by his side because she believed in his ambition and good character. It was also a radical departure from her previous partners and a chance to redirect her own aspirations. She was never attracted to the life of a housewife with a dog and child, so she chose to fulfil her own American dream by pursuing a career in biochemistry, a career she studied hard for after abandoning her vocation for philology.

Sherry's birth was unexpected, but they had no regrets. On the contrary, William proved to be quite a competent father despite his social awkwardness and workaholism. But despite the difficulties, they managed to build a happy little family, or so they thought. Be that as it may, the incident with Alexia threw everything into disarray. Annette fought for William in the hospital and during his convalescence. She fought for him in his worst moments and until he himself bounced back. She hated Alexia for what happened, but she had to swallow her pride when William made it clear that he would not leave Umbrella.

William returned to Umbrella, and now they were worse off than before. In her rare moments alone, Annette pondered the possibility of divorce. She loved William, but his behaviour was beginning to be excessively erratic, and she feared for Sherry and for her own life. If William didn't realise the damage he was doing, Annette would have to take steps of her own; even if it was a separation without divorce.

Annette entered the changing room.

“How long are we going to be locked up here? It's like a prison.”

A shower tap turned on. Annette did not recognise the voice, but it seemed to belong to a very young woman of British origin. Annette quietly approached the shower space. Hidden behind the corner of the wall, Annette spotted two naked women. Alexia and a stranger. The stranger was leaning against the wall opposite Alexia, who was washing her hair without paying much attention to the other woman.

“It's your fault. Couldn't you behave like a normal fucking person for a couple of hours?! Because of you my father is going to be lynched!”

The unknown woman was arguing with Alexia, but the latter seemed more focused on taking a shower.

“What now? Are we going to live here forever? I slept terribly tonight. Those weren't mattresses, they were mats. I want to go home. To my bedroom. I want to get my life together. I need to talk to my boyfriend.”

“Talk to him.”

“Oh, right. I'll tell Daniel that I'm locked up in a fucking clandestine lab because my dear cousin Alexia came up with the brilliant idea of bumping off the asshole who harassed her during the party I threw with my father's friends' kids. Great! Amazing story!”

Alexia turned off the tap. Annette hid in one of the cubicles.

“Ogie is also busy.”

“Ogie is an asshole. If they put him in jail with Alf for what he's doing at the factory, he deserves it. But I don't deserve to go to jail. I didn't do anything! Do you hear me, Alexia?! I didn't do anything wrong! You're the bad guy! You're the one who killed John!”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? Perhaps?! My God, there are stones with more sensitivity than you. Why the hell are you like that?!”

“Because I'm a crazy punk.”

“Alexia, don't start. Just because your childhood sucked doesn't excuse you killing John.”

Silence.

“No,” said Alexia.

“Alexia... Seriously, it doesn't make sense. It's absurd, and you've never been stupid.”

“I don't want to talk about this any more.”

“Why, are you going to isolate yourself in your room and ignore everyone like you always do? Is that how a genius like you solves problems?”

Annette nearly had a heart attack with the tremendous punch Alexia threw at the locker.

“You don't scare me at all, Alexia,” said the unknown woman. “You're angry because you hate the world you live in and you hate yourself, and the hatred you feel is eating you up inside. That's why you're bitching at that employee, Birkin, because you want to destroy him. Because you want to destroy everything!!!!” The unknown woman slapped Alexia's face. “Stop victimising yourself and react!”

Alexia and the unknown woman left the changing room shortly afterwards. Annette emerged from the cubicle, her nerves raw. She hurriedly got dressed and ran to the entrance to tell William what she had heard.

5

“William, please don't go!” Annette pleaded.

William went to the laboratory's secretariat.

“Where is Alexia?!”

The secretary was reluctant to respond.

“Call her, damn it!”

The clerk called Alexia Ashford's office.

“William Birkin wants to speak to you. I understand. She is in her office.”

William ran to the office. He knocked on the door three times and went through.

Nobody was there.

The door closed behind him and someone bolted it.

Alexia faced him. William was hyperventilating. She pushed a strand of hair out of her face. He gritted his teeth with all his might.

“I killed a man,” said Alexia.

William swallowed hard.

“Electrocution. He had a cardiac arrest. I felt no regret.”

Alexia made her way to her desk, where she sat down, leaning on the edge of the table.

“If you had killed me that time, would you have regretted it?” she continued.

William did not move from his spot, focused as he was on Alexia's speech.

“What the hell do you want from me?” William asked, his jaw aching.

“Your first reaction to the loss was attempted murder.”

“Because I was furious! Who the fuck do you think you are!”

“My reaction to the loss was similar.”

William hesitated.

“I saw myself reflected in your anger. Strange.”

“What?”

“My father wanted to fire you and ruin your life. I interceded on your behalf and proposed your promotion to chief researcher. I want us to work together.”

William put his hands to his head, completely confused.

“Wait, wait. Start from the beginning. You destroyed my virus and now you want to work together, and after what happened? Are you crazy?”

“Would you have regretted it?”

William smiled.

“I would have regretted ending up in jail... but not your death. Fuck.” William had definitely earned his dismissal.

“Would you try again?”

William relaxed his hands so as not to succumb to temptation. He did not answer. Alexia smiled subtly. A gloomy silence hung between the two of them. William thought for a split second about both possibilities, what if he killed her, while another voice inside reminded him of Annette's and Sherry's names.

“What do you want from me?”

Alexia walked around the table and sat down in the armchair.

“We will meet again at 17:00, or 5 p.m.”

William unlocked the door and walked out of the office. That she had seen herself reflected in him. Was she testing him? And why was she testing him by destroying the G-virus? What did it mean that she felt the same anger? The unknowns were piling up, as the answers were trickling down the drain.

What was Alexia Ashford's intention?

6

Dear blank page:

My name is Amelia Campbell. I was born into a Scottish family descended from the Stuarts. I spent my childhood in our castle in Glasgow and my teenage years at boarding school. Two months ago I turned 19. I have been living in a laboratory for a month because my cousin Alexia killed a human being.

I am a good Christian. I am not like my big brother. I am good. I am not like the rest of my family, like my father and my mother. I am good. I am not like the Ashfords. I am good. My heart is kind, in spite of the trials that fate puts me through. I am good and I will prove that I am good and that I am not like Alexia, but God has tested me again.

Alexia has begun to sympathise with William. That man who once tried to kill her over something as stupid as a test tube. Why does God always make it difficult for me? If Alexia is able to show sympathy for a stranger, it means that I will have to show a higher morality in order not to fall into evil. But what if it's a ploy? Alexia could kill William or stop sympathising with him at any time, so I would have passed the test. I pray to God it's the second option.

Amelia Campbell

7

Dear paper:

Alexia and William continue to socialise. I have seen them chatting on the sly and for several hours. They keep talking. I am disturbed by their suddenly good relationship. I know Alexia has a plan. I can feel it. Annette seems just as disturbed as I am.

Amelia Campbell

8

Dear crumpled paper:

And there was light. Back to Scotland. To my home. Sasha has arranged everything. Thank God, freedom. But an unexpected event has occurred. Alexia has invited William to Ashford Hall. Yes, crumpled paper, as you read: Alexia has invited William to Ashford Hall for a few days to, she says, continue research into the Progenitor virus. I don't know what happened and I don't care. BACK TO SCOTLAND.

PS: Ogie sucks. He is still fucking around in the factory with Alfred. Idiots.

Amelia Campbell

9

His brain was throbbing. His wrists and ankles ached from the locking restraints. Strapped to a gurney, William had become a mass of flesh that existed to breathe and withstand the thrust of the drugs seeping into his nervous system.

He didn't know where he was. All he remembered was a man Alexander called Ward. It was this Ward who started talking to William. Ward convinced him that he had broken the Ashford's trust when he tried to escape from their mansion, but that Alexander was willing to forgive him. William did not want to return to Ashford Hall. At Ashford Hall he had discovered horror.

For a week he was alone in that house. De Vermis Mysteriis. The book led him to a dungeon filled with esoteric superciliousness, and to an altar of sacrifice. Stanley Ashford's voice echoed pristine through the loudspeaker: Ïa! Aa! Azathoth! He went mad as, in the kitchen, he read Thomas Ashford's recipe book for flaying a human body and eating it. He vomited when he went into one of the guest rooms and discovered the tools Arthur Ashford had used to perform lobotomies and trepanations. Photographs showed how they worked: children with their skulls pierced and maps with racial hierarchies. In the basement he also saw her. Resting in her tomb, the mummy of Veronica Ashford lay at the heart of the pyramid. But the worst came when he finished listening to Edward Ashford's autobiographical recordings. He created the Progenitor virus as a replacement for the atomic bomb.

William broke through one of the doors and fled. Nowhere. Everywhere. But they stopped him in his stampede through the Cheviot Hills. They tied him up and put a bag over his head. He woke up tied to a steel chair and in a straitjacket.

Alexander Ashford.

Alexander spoke to him as if he were his father. He told him that Alexia protected him and that he would survive. But that protection had not been given to him in exchange for anything. William would have to repay Alexia. William would have to prove to the Ashfords that he was worthy of their trust. There would be no second chances. Loyalty or death.

William chose loyalty. He sacrificed himself for his wife and for his daughter.

Alexander disappeared.

William was thrown into a padded cell. His mind was blank. Stupid, William, I warned you, Albert would have said. You were never very mature, his parents would have said. Indeed, I was never very mature and he had failed, anger being the only thing driving his body's mechanisms.

That was the end of him. The end of a life devoted to zero ambition. Really, he should have devoted himself to astrophysics.

The door to his cell opened.

Alexia.

10

Her existence was fragmentary.

First of all, there was an Alexia who was happy. A naïve and curious Alexia, unaware that she was conceived as the by-product of a transitory selfishness. Elizabeth missed that Alexia. But she had disappeared.

Secondly, there was an Alexia who was thrown into an adult world that both admired and repudiated her. An Alexia who learned to behave according to the taste of adults. An Alexia who learned to override her emotions in order to survive her feelings. An Alexia who never felt understood because adults, including her father, had erected an imaginary wall separating her, the exception, from the common, the experience of the common being what should determine the exception. An Alexia who focused on books so as not to let herself drown in anguish; so as not to let herself be suffocated by the strange thoughts that assailed her. What if she disappeared? But that Alexia did not disappear, she was transformed.

Thirdly, there was an Alexia who, confined in a laboratory, imagined herself as the queen of a fairy tale. An Alexia who wanted to create her own utopia. A utopia without suffering, without anguish, without adults, without emotions or feelings. A utopia tailored to her will. But the will disappeared. The queen died.

Fourthly, there was an absent Alexia. An Alexia who secluded herself in the safety of her room to escape the outside world. Between the ages of 12 and 16, this absent Alexia took refuge in the shelter of her broken dreams. An Alexia who, despite getting her doctorate and continuing to fulfil the dreams of adults, existed for and because of her fantasies. Melancholic fantasies about the loss of will and of what could have been and never was.

Fifthly, there was a lost Alexia. An Alexia who left the room because of the only person who really loved her. Alfred. But his love was never enough to defeat the monster that germinated inside her. A monster that fed on her despair, her helplessness and her anger at not being able to decide who she was. A monster that was throwing her past happiness in her face, that was tempting her with the memory of T-Veronica, that was convincing her to sink into seclusion, that was whispering in her ear to commit suicide. A lost Alexia who only felt the anger born of her helplessness at being unable to know who she was; the naïve Alexia, the queen Alexia, the absent Alexia or the lost Alexia.

Alfred could not help her. Alexander never knew how to be her father. Elizabeth never knew how to love her. And her lineage, the Ashfords, and her dynasty, the Stuarts, chained her to carry on the tradition of those who were dead.

But she wanted to live. Not to live according to the dictates of adults, but to live according to her will. The adults tried to tame her with therapy and medication, but they never succeeded. Because there was something in her, an Alexia, that always rebelled. An indomitable force in her being that kept her alive because it never died out. And this being had one thing to do. A test. A confirmation. A verdict. A question to which it must now answer. However, the questioner was not supposed to be her. It had to be an outsider who was also capable of understanding the monster that was roaring inside her.

A desperate measure. A blind shot. A miscalculation. But I couldn't waste any more time. It had to be now.

Alexia opened the door of the cell where her father had imprisoned William Birkin.

“William.”

William's eyes narrowed, but he was conscious.

“What...”

“I need your help.”

“What for...”

“To conclude our conversation.”

“We've talked about many things....”

“About what we talked about that time in the sewer.”

William opened his eyes wide.

“The world sucks,” he said.

“We need to conclude the conversation.”

William closed his eyes.

“Get me out of here,” he said.

“We fly to Canada. There we will decide what to do next.”

“Annette. Sherry. I'm sorry.”

Alexia unstrapped William from the stretcher. They both ran to the exit.

11

Police search a factory with 14 mutilated bodies inside.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Come on, dad, pick up the fucking phone.”

“Yes? Who's calling?”

“Dad, it's Alfred. Dad, please, you have to help me.”

“What happened?”

“The factory, dad, they've discovered the factory.”

“Where are you?”

“At home, with Auguste and Peter.”

“God... Go to the airport. Go to Rockfort. Quickly!”

[interiorergonomics]

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[banananutmilk]

A Bout De Souffle Film Essay (1960)

By Jacob Christopher

Watching A Bout De Souffle is like listening to the romanticized memories of our elders, a glimpse into their own youth and a comparison of them and us. Jean- Luc Godard has created a film that wants you to know that it is a film. Still discussed and dissected today with the backdrop of the city of Paris, the story is filled with experimental cinematography and an abstract sense of storytelling, this film credited with being a catalyst of The French New Wave, has stood its test of time as a pivotal history of film. 

The beginning of the film perfectly serves it’s thesis to the audience, where we open with Michel who can be viewed as a satire of an American gangster, further parodied when mimicking a Humphrey Bogart onscreen mannerism of wiping his lip. Where he then steals an American automobile owned by an American Military officer which leads to his possession of a revolver found in the glove box. Running a redlight Michel is then chased by the cops turning into a shootout with Michel killing an officer. 

It is here where the film speaks subtly, the scene of Michel killing the policeman took place within 10 seconds and 5 camera shots used steals the attention away from Michel, he is not meant to be seen as formidable. In the cinematography of the 5 shots the persons are framed in close up shots, obscuring the scene and dissipating any satisfaction. Yes Godard could have used more conventional wide angle shots for this scene to give watchers more context, however the scene was not meant to film the death of the police officer, but to rob Michel of his spotlight. The Film criticizes Michel, Later in the story Michel stands face in front of the movie poster of Humphrey Bogart with the camera panning back and forth from the two faces, highlighting the wants of Michel. 

The film has an abstract style, where conversations turn into monologues, cinematography is subverted and the main characters are frustrating. “The Americans are real and natural. But this attitude means something over there. We in France must find something that means something—find the French attitude as they have found the American attitude", a quote by Godard that I can't help but see in this film. Playing almost like Godard’s thoughts on American Noir films and how he could do things differently. With the character introduction of Michel playing more as an interview with the actor breaking the fourth wall and conversing with the audience. The film progresses very mundanely between the two leads despite the dire circumstances of Michel on the run from the law, the film takes its time with Michel and Patricia’s relationship and how it develops. A Bout De Souffle plays as if one of the characters are telling it. 

image of Jean Luc Godard

The film is unconventional without a doubt, and even for today it is still. A Bout De Souffle was a movie made with the budget of 400,000 FRF which is equivalent to 120,000 USD, Godard’ disdain for large studio productions, many elements of the cinematography add to the realism of the film. With the previously stated exaggerated close up of characters serving as only a singular example, many more experimental cinematic choices are present. Throughout the film you will see the usage of unnecessary jump cuts, most would consider this as an error on the production's hand however these snappy cuts help aid to the realism Godard wants to implement, reminding the audience that they are watching a film. With such a small budget the crew had to become creative with their filming. Too expensive a dolly could not be afforded for the long walking shots, so a wheel chair was used instead.

Just right before the independent film’s release it had won the annual Jean Vigo Prize, and then after release the film was praised and astonished as an immediate success. Establishing the impact of the French New Wave and redefining what old cinema and new cinema had meant. Now 64 years later the film is viewed in classes and Godard has gone on to inspire the likes of other directors such as Tarantino. With a budget of 120,000USD the revenue came back with great return. Domestic box office numbers soared above to about $425,000 USD. To put this into more perspective, from the year 1960, $120,000 and $425,000 have grown to $1,266,210.81 and $4,484,496.62 for the year of 2024. 

At the end of A Bout De Souffle I was left knowing I’ve seen a good film, the quirks and elements of intrigue litter the movie. It’s a film I would recommend being seen at least once, for it is a film that should be watched knowing it is a film. From an ex film critic to a man filming his criticisms I end my essay with a quote from Godard. "I write essays in the form of novels, or novels in the form of essays. I'm still as much of a critic as I ever was during the time of 'Cahiers du Cinema.' The only difference is that instead of writing criticism, I now film it."

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Trump’s return casts uncertainty over G20 following advances in Rio

U.S. president-elect may hinder discussions and stall measures, reinforcing dissenting positions like Javier Milei’s

Following Brazil’s advancements during its rotating presidency of the G20, the summit of leaders from the world’s largest economies faces a period of uncertainties starting in 2025, with Donald Trump assuming office in the United States. Mr. Trump, a critic of multilateralism, signals potential challenges for the group. That was evident in Rio de Janeiro, where Argentine President Javier Milei, an ally of Mr. Trump, made clear his disagreement with several points of the G20’s consensus final declaration.

These challenges are expected to arise at the next meeting in South Africa, during Mr. Trump’s first year in office.

“The feeling is that nothing will be the same. Trump’s return will have an unimaginable impact,” a Brazilian diplomat said. Another negotiator added, “It’s one thing for the United States, China, or Russia to come to the G20 ready to disrupt the declaration; it’s another for Argentina. They [Argentina] cannot handle the consequences alone. With U.S. support, the situation changes.”

Buoyed by a decisive electoral victory, with more global experience and no reelection on the horizon, Mr. Trump aims to shake up international relations. Not only will he be in the White House for the next G20 summit, but he will also chair the group in 2026. Some in Brazil’s Foreign Affairs Ministry fear that Rio may have witnessed the last “productive” gathering of the world’s major economies, despite Mr. Milei’s presence.

Continue reading.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Denis Campbell

Published: Nov 22, 2023

Growing numbers of people in England and Wales are being found so long after they have died that their body has decomposed, in a shocking trend linked to austerity and social isolation, doctors have said.

Such deaths have been rising steadily in England and Wales since 1980 and are a product of wider societal breakdown, although Covid may also have played a part, according to new research.

“Many people would be shocked that someone can lie dead at home for days, weeks or even longer without anyone raising an alarm among the community they live in,” said Dr Lucinda Hiam, of the University of Oxford, and four co-authors.

Yet the numbers of “undefined deaths” – which will often involve people who have died at home, gone undiscovered and then been found already decomposed – have gone up considerably for both sexes since 1980, while death rates from all other causes have fallen over the same period.

Men are more than twice as likely as women to be discovered in a decomposed state, according to the doctors’ study, which is published in the Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine.

“The increase in people found dead from unknown causes suggests wider societal breakdowns of both formal and informal social support networks,” they said. “Being found decomposed after days, weeks, months or even years might indicate a high level of neglect, but this is speculative without further investigation.”

They cite the case of Laura Winham, who was 38 and had severe mental health problems, who was found in a “mummified, almost skeletal state” at her flat in Woking, Surrey, in 2021, more than three years after she had died.

The body of another woman, Sheila Seleoane, 61, was found badly decomposed in her flat in London in 2022, two years after she had died.

The doctors analysed Office for National Statistics data showing the rising number of deaths at home and trends over time in “undefined deaths”, which they used as a proxy for deaths where the person has decomposed, as such fatalities are not currently recorded separately.

Dr Kamila Hawthorne, the chair of the Royal College of GPs, linked the trend to loneliness and people’s loss of social networks.

“This study makes for very sad reading,” she said. “Loneliness is all too common and although all age groups experience it, for those in later life it can be particularly problematic. The impact it has on a person’s health and their quality of life is pronounced. Loneliness puts people at a 50% increased risk of an early death compared to those with good social connection.”

While advances in medicine mean more people are living longer, “some are potentially living for prolonged periods in isolation from others”, Hawthorne said. “I can think of patients I’ve seen who may not fit the traditional label of ‘vulnerable’ but are nonetheless in need of support due to their experience of loneliness or social isolation. While physical or economic vulnerabilities can be visible, social and mental vulnerabilities can be just as detrimental and difficult to recognise.”

The World Health Organization last week declared loneliness to be a threat to health on a global scale and to pose a risk of early death.

[loraxswiftie]

Palace of Greed

Pairing: Onceler x reader

Summary: Inspired by the lyric “now he sits on his throne in his palace of bones, praying to his greed // he’s got my past frozen behind glass, but I’ve got me.” Once-ler and reader reminisce about the past; you are not fond of the man he has become. 

Word count: 1,651

Warnings: angst

A/N: I love writing angst, so I had a blast with this one. I don’t know if I’ll continue to write for this fandom, but we’ll see. 

this fic is unedited.

How bad could it possibly be that your lover was in denial over the severity of his actions?

How quickly things change, even when you savor each moment, you’re tormented once they’re over because there is no return to better days unless you learn from where you’ve come. You were dragged here, forcibly, by the skin of your heels and plunged into the ice-cold depths of an empire you did not fully understand.

What matter was it of yours, then, if you weren’t at the helm, driving this ship into the black night further and further away from port. This vessel ran on cold hard cash, gasoline, manual labor and exploited the ecosystem that was never meant to support it but now there was no other way. A capitalist society ran on greed and your dearly beloved made no exception; he would drive these poor helpless creatures to extinction all while continuing to defraud and cut corners for the sake of his own greed.

You were sick to think that it had come to this. In the beginning, you’d tried to stop him, or at least slow him down. When you found sickly Bar-ba-loots scrounging for pieces of fruit to eat, you fed them their fill of what you were lucky enough to find. You cleaned off the oil and slop that clung to the poor humming-fish and washed the feathers of Swomme-swans that were ruffled and black with tar and suet that the smokestacks from the factory belched into the air.

Were there no rules? No regulations? No justice for malicious intent?

You were so overwhelmed by the consequences that you could not keep up with how many animals needed your help. You were powerless to stop this on your own, nor could you cease your efforts in good conscience. Your hands were tied, but you still had one more hand left to play.

You stormed into the Once-ler’s office and the double doors groaned from the effort with which they fought to remain on their hinges and not smack straight into the walls. You could not remember a time in which you had been this angry, but destroying company property was a lot more gratifying than taking away so many creatures’ habitats with no recourse.

He reclined in the great chair behind his desk, busying himself with the next big project to be underway. You hated the way he sat, stretched back like a king on his throne, praying to his greed as he built his kingdom brick by brick, bone by bone, life by life on the backs of anyone he could exploit to get the job done with the least amount of impact on cash flow.

He hadn’t built the economy; he was the economy.

This was never going to stop until it was too late.

“Once-ler, we need to talk.”

You stood before his desk, prepared to hold him accountable and this time you wouldn’t back down. If there was even the indication that the man you loved still existed somewhere within him, you were intent on bringing him back to you. Money had turned him into someone you no longer knew; how far were you willing to go to get him back?

“Yes, we do,” he agreed and his response shocked you, “we’re going to need to increase production again and I think the only reasonable way to do that is-”

“Reasonable?” you scoffed, “when have you been reasonable about any of the things you’re doing?”

He seemed surprised even though the way you had entered the room more than expressed your displeasure, “this, again?” He sighed exasperatedly and drummed his gloved fingers on the gold gilt chair arm.

Even his posture was unrecognizable from the man you knew before all of this.

“I told you,” he began, “there is nothing wrong with what I’m doing. If you don’t like it, I can’t force you to be here, but the decision is mine to make. I built this company and I take care of us. I take care of you. This is a good thing that we’re doing and we’re doing it together. Can’t you see that?”

If only you were as blind to it as he was.

“There has to be another way…”

“You used to tell me that you didn’t care what we did, as long as we were together.”

He was trying a different approach, determined to have his own hide and steer the conversation down a path that was within his control. In his obsession, he had become manipulative. Anyone could see how hard he had fought to get to the top. With perseverance and dedication, he had done the impossible but that would never be enough to satiate him. He had created a monster whose hunger knew no satisfaction and with that his days were numbered. Even if he couldn’t see the writing on the walls, you had always known that nothing good comes from sacrificing what is right for the sake of something so insignificant as money.

You’d do best not to start that argument again.

“Within reason,” you corrected him, “always within reason.”

His constant pursuit of wealth and power-hungry ethics clashed dramatically with your own principles and you were beginning to bear the full weight of grief over the man you had lost. The Lorax had warned him to be careful which way he leaned and when he fell, he would hit the ground harder than the trees because there would be no one to pick him back up.

It wasn’t wishful thinking to hope that he might change his mind or his ways. It was foolish to think that this was still the same man whom you had fallen in love with so many years ago.

Once-ler smirked at you from behind his desk, long legs spread as he regarded you with a glint of want in his eyes. The suggestive look made an uneasy shudder unfurl down your spine; he never ceased to look for what more he might have…or take.

“I always give you what you want, don’t I?” he asked and waited for an answer that never came.

His eyes had you mesmerized, spellbound and completely at his mercy.

‘Don’t tease me,’ you thought and your eyes filled with tears, “don’t tempt me with the promise that things will be different.”

“I buy you nice things. I provide for you. I give you all my love.”

He got to his feet and glided around the length of his desk. An air of confidence wreathed around him like the smog that hung over what was left of Truffula valley. His shoes snapped harshly against the cold floor and he stopped mere inches from you. Gloved fingers gently grasped your chin and tilted your head to look at him, “we’re better off now than we ever were before.”

You’d have begged him until your knees bled if you thought it might make a difference.

You needed him to hear what you were not saying. He could read between the lines and make his own annotations, but the dialogue stayed the same. He could not rewrite the past, but he was the writer, the editor and the publisher of his and your futures. If you could not convince him to change, how could you remain indifferent to his transgressions?

The perception of you he kept frozen in his mind held nothing on who you were now.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Oncie,” the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

How long had it been since you’d used that nickname? You were already starting to forget; convenient, you noted, to the man who seemed to have taken over and wiped away your precious, ambitious inventor who had done his best in the beginning to keep the promises that he made.

He released your chin to pull you against him, held fast in his embrace as hot tears rolled down your cheeks. You clutched desperately at the lapels of his tailcoat and muffled your sobs against the fabric, “I miss you.”

He had to strain to hear those three words, but they were not lost on him. If it were enough to break through the façade, he’d have burnt the place to the ground, destroyed all his hard work as we knew it and began anew, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough for a man who wanted so much that he wasn’t willing to compromise. He couldn’t lose you or the factory, his wealth, his status, his power.

He could and would have it all.

He was better than this though and in the most self-centered recesses of your tired heart, you wished he’d never sold that stupid invention. His success had come at a price, but he was too busy digging his own grave to notice.

Once-ler’s hold on you tightened and his hand soothingly rubbed at your back as he let you cry into his clothing. He’d have it cleaned later; he could offer you this much without a fuss. A few tears won’t hurt, he reasoned, lest you forget how much he had sacrificed and how hard he had worked to maintain this level of wealth.

If you were afraid he had forgotten who he had been, then the least he could do was remind you he was still the man you loved. With all that you had now, the love was there, even if that did not change the outcome.

He was not too busy for you, even though you saw less and less of him as the days dragged on.

Reminiscing wasn’t such a bad thing. Not when one was so fond of the memories.

Neither of you had much in the beginning, but at least you had each other and for you, that had always been enough.

You suffered knowing that he had never felt the same.

[beardedmrbean]

Oct. 11 (UPI) -- The Biden administration on Wednesday announced new measures in its ongoing effort to eliminate so-called "junk fees."

President Joe Biden was expected to join FTC Chair Lina Khan and Consumer Financial Protection Bureau Director Rohit Chopra at 11:45 a.m. EDT at the White House Wednesday to announce the latest initiative aimed at prohibiting surprise fees that continue to burden consumers.

The Federal Trade Commission proposed new rules Wednesday that would ban hidden fees on goods and services that continue to nickel and dime American consumers with unexpected costs.

If enacted, the new rules would prohibit junk fees and deceptive charges for airline tickets, hotel and resort bookings, live events, apartment rentals, and utility bill payments -- potentially saving taxpayers tens of billions of dollars each year.

The U.S. Consumer Financial Protection Bureau also issued fresh guidance Wednesday to the nation's big banks, saying they were still subject to the 2010 Consumer Financial Protection Act, which prohibits large financial institutions and credit unions from charging junk fees for basic customer service.

"While small relationship banks pride themselves on customer service, many large banks erect obstacle courses and impose junk fees to answer basic questions," Chopra said in the statement from the agency. "While the biggest banks have abandoned the relationship banking model, federal law still requires them to answer certain customer inquiries completely, accurately, and in a timely manner."

Since taking office in 2021, Biden has called for increased limits on bank fees for bounced checks and account overdrafts, which would save consumers more than $5 billion a year.

Under the FTC rule changes, businesses would have to disclose all mandatory fees up front, which would make it easier for consumers to comparison shop for the lowest price, the agency said.

Airlines would also be required to disclose all fees up front, and eliminate family seating fees, while hidden fees for concert and sports tickets would also be prohibited, the White House said previously.

The proposed rules seek to end bait-and-switch practices across the wider economy and prevent businesses from running up the tab with hidden fees, ensuring customers know exactly how much they are paying and what they are getting from the deal.

The changes would have the effect of sparking more competition in the market, leading to lower prices for consumers, the administration said.

The time savings alone equates to about $10 billion, or 50 million hours, that consumers currently spend each year searching for cheap tickets and hotel stays, according to government estimates.

The Biden administration requested public comments on bogus fees a year ago, with more than 12,000 consumers attesting to the ongoing impact of hidden charges.

"All too often, Americans are plagued with unexpected and unnecessary fees they can't escape," FTC Chair Khan wrote in a press release announcing the next phase of public commentary on the issue. "These junk fees now cost Americans tens of billions of dollars per year -- money that corporations are extracting from working families just because they can."

Khan said the hidden fees take advantage of consumer-protection loopholes while serving as a drag on the American economy.

During the first public comment phase, a majority of consumers said merchants often don't reveal the total cost of a product until the transaction is completed, and the receipt printed with the fees included.

Many also said that sellers often misrepresent the purpose of certain fees, leaving consumers wondering what they are paying for or if they are getting anything at all for the fee charged, the agency said.

"By hiding the total price, these junk fees make it harder for consumers to shop for the best product or service and punish businesses who are honest upfront," Khan wrote. "The FTC's proposed rule to ban junk fees will save people money and time, and make our markets more fair and competitive."

Should the provisions become law, the FTC vowed to enforce the rules by seeking federal damages against companies that do not comply and give those awards back to consumers.

The FTC voted 3-0 to approve the public notice of the proposed rules, which will now go into the Federal Register for 60 days for public comment.

[haggishlyhagging]

“But with the collapse of the Old Order, there appeared a glimmer, however remote to most women, of something like a choice. It was now possible for a woman to enter the Market herself and exchange her labor for the means of survival (although at a lower rate than a man would). In Europe, in Russia, in America, wherever industry demanded more workers, there arose a new wave of "single women," like those honored by Bolshevik leader Alexandra Kollontai:

They are girls and women who ceaselessly wage the grim struggle for existence, who spend their days sitting on the office chair, who bang away at telegraph apparatuses, who stand behind counters. Single women: they are the girls with fresh hearts and minds, full of bold fantasies and plans who pack the temples of science and art, who crowd the sidewalks, searching with vigorous and virile steps for cheap lessons and casual clerical jobs.

Entering the Market as a working woman might mean low wages and miserable working conditions, loneliness and insecurity, but it also meant the possibility—unimaginable in the Old Order—of independence from the grip of the family.

But this atomized and independent existence hardly seemed "natural" to women whose own mothers had lived and died in the intimacy of the family. There was still the household of course, a life centered on husband and children. But the household had been much diminished by the removal of productive labor. Women like Charlotte Perkins Gilman questioned whether there could be any dignity in a domestic life which no longer centered on women's distinctive skills, but on mere biological existence. The logic of the Market led a few outspoken feminist analysts of the nineteenth century to a cynical answer: that the relation between the unemployed wife and the bread-winning husband was not very different from prostitution. Could such a mode of existence, despite its superficial resemblance to women's traditional way of life, be "natural"?

These were the ambiguous options which began to open up to women in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. In most cases, of course, the "choice" was immediately foreclosed by circumstances: some women were forced to seek paid work no matter how much their working disrupted the family, others were inescapably tied to family responsibilities no matter how much they needed or wanted to work outside. But the collapse of the Old Order had broken the pattern which had tied every woman to a single and unquestionable fate. The impact of the change was double-edged. It cannot simply be judged either as a step forward or a step backward for women (even assuming that that judgment could be made in such a way as to cover all women—the black domestic, the manufacturer's wife, the factory girl, etc.). The changes were, by their nature, contradictory. Industrial capitalism freed women from the endless round of household productive labor, and in one and the same gesture tore away the skills which had been the source of women's unique dignity. It loosened the bonds of patriarchy, and at once imposed the chains of wage labor. It "freed" some women for a self-supporting spinsterhood, and conscripted others into sexual peonage. And so on.”

-Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English, For Her Own Good: 150 Years of the Experts’ Advice to Women