#eye glasses in peel region

[highhhfiveee]

safety net, part two

part one: 💸 | part three: 📹

are we excited???? prepare your hearts cause the feels kinda took over

pairing: pornstar!mike schmidt x blackfem!reader summary: mike and reader are both genuine people and that draws them to each other. wc: 3.5k tags: fluff, lots of internal pining, porn mentions but nothing graphic. should be error free bc i actually proofread this one but if there are any, my sincerest apologies

“you have to be, like, evading taxes or something.”

mike chuckles behind you as he closes the door to his apartment--sorry, penthouse.

you're stood with your jaw unhinged, eyes scanning over the wide, sweeping space of his open concept living room and all of the furniture that decorates it, expensive-looking but cozy in a way that you wish you could replicate in your own place. you stalk over to tall windows that line the farthest wall, creating a corner that allows for you to see the bustling city below; all of the flashing lights, people drunkenly stumbling around street signs, and cars zipping and weaving through traffic.

you'd never seen anything like this, just a girl used to the urban suburbs on the south side of town, and your cheeks flush with embarrassment when you feel mike's presence behind you. you don't turn to him, dropping your shoes and purse to the ground and keeping your eyes trained on a street corner below.

"the view's what sold me on the place. i'm able to watch the sunrise on that side," he points to the windows on the other side of the kitchen, offering a view of the green space nestled in between skyscrapers. "and the sunset on this one."

"must be nice," you reply, backing away from the glass and observing the rest of the space. it was the size of, like, three of your apartments combined, organized and free of mess. "i only have a view of a corner store, and a really really busy bus stop. it's super annoying."

"where do you live?"

you give him the name of the neighborhood you'd known your whole life. you didn't recognize any of the area's flaws when you were a child. it was never a red flag to you that the street off of the one you grew up on had two storefronts of the same fast food chain on either end, or that the closest supermarket was twenty minutes away. you hadn't even batted an eye when some of your school “friends” would tell you about visiting gourmet cupcake restaurants and vintage consignments stores. you just went along with it, saying, "that's so cool. the fanciest place by my house is the $7.99 buffet." they all laughed at you.

it wasn't until you were older, freshly graduated from high school and looking to be on your own that you realized the disparity across the region. only people with certain attributes got the nice things, and you'd been conditioned to be grateful to have a daycare in a plaza with a smoke shop and tax preparation office.

"it's just too expensive for me to move anywhere else. i can barely make rent now, with the way they keep raising it every year. kept the tag on this dress just so i could take it back." you look down at yourself and mike can see the longing in your eye, the twinkle in them that wishes you could hang it up in your closet tomorrow.

after tonight, you kind of wish you hadn't bought it at all. you thought that simon would’ve found it insatiable, wining and dining you before taking you back to his place for a night cap, but all you think about now is the embarrassment of walking back into the luxury department store, handing them your receipt for the item you wore once and couldn’t keep.

it fills you with distaste and you find yourself desperate to peel the item off your skin. “is it okay if i shower?”

mike nods furiously, apologizing for not offering. he’d just been staring at you while you talked, admiring you. he was used to people with perfect appearances around him, done up by professionals that costed $200 an hour, but you were different, uncaring about your unruly curls and smeared eyeliner. you were unbothered and carefree, and that fascinated him.

he leads you down a long hall, coming to a stop once it forks into three different directions: left, right, and slightly diagonal right. the walls are lined with paintings and photos of mike and people that share his features, and at the end of the diagonal path is a giant trophy case, filled to the brim with plaques and trophies of various sizes, shapes, and finishes.

“jesus,” you murmur, abandoning your escort. mike’s walked ahead of you, but he makes his way back when he notices you’re not behind him.

“everything okay?”

you point to his trophy case, letting out an incredulous laugh. “are all of those for you?”

mike nods, and you laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “okay, so you’re obviously some sports star because no way someone living like this wouldn’t be.”

mike goes rigid next to you. he never knew how to bring up his career to new people he met, sometimes ping-ponging between “i work for a world-renown production company” and “i’m an entrepreneur”. he had no problem lying to other people, his guard all the way up from years of rejection and disgust at the mention of “sex worker” and “pornstar”, but something felt wrong about lying to you. he swallows hard, racking his mind for a semi truth.

“not sports, but definitely still physical.” you scrunch your nose at this, blinking at him in confusion, but you stop when he grabs your hand and nudges his head in the direction of the bathroom. “didn’t you want to shower?”

you nod, allowing him to pull you down the hall but not without a second glance at the case. what other physical career presented you with that many awards?

the bathroom is a star in it's own right, modern in a way that you fawn over when you're watching hgtv. the gigantic, complicated looking shower invites you from the corner, nestled in between the gadget-rigged toilet and garden bathtub.

all of the decor in here was clean, pale blue, a nice offset to all of the white tile and gold-accented appliances.

you're half-listening, your conscience replaced with static as mike explains where everything is. "so...towels are over here..."

his shower had a rainforest head and a small, handheld one clipped into a holder, with a screen embedded into the wall. there was a bench and railing to hold onto, a speaker on the back tile....your eyes cut to the toilet, and the smaller one next to it. a bidet??????

"...and, the bidet remote's right next to the soap. i'll lay some clothes out for you on the hall table, but let me know if you need anything, okay?" you react a little too late, raising your hand and squeaking, "wait" right as mike's backed out of the room.

"fuck."

you try to look around for things, eventually finding the towels in a closet concealed as a part of the wall and, as a bonus, a knob to turn on the heated floor?????

you strip down, completely bare under the dress, and fold it up, retail employee coded, delicately placing it by the sink with the tag on top. it was exactly how you'd return it, with a shitty excuse and plastic smile. you do the same with mike's jacket.

you throw your hair up before wrapping yourself in the towel, delicately cloaked in what had to be egyptian cotton, and pace on over to the shower. you tap the daunting screen, and it lights up with a flourish, displaying the date, time, weather, and a host of different icons.

you don't know why it's so hard for you to turn the shower on, scrolling and bumbling through a collection of options that weren't simply turn on. why did you need to use a screen anyway? why reinvent the simple wheel that was a faucet lever?

you decide you need mike's help after a bit, though self-conscious about having to ask after he probably told you earlier. you splash cool water on your face before leaving the room, attempting to wring the anxiety out of your body.

you're at the fork in the hallway again, the view of you obscured from the living room by a wall, and you turn your attention to mike's trophy case again. you're too far to see any of the engravings on anything and you're so curious to find out what they say.

you feel your muscles attempt to pull you down the lonely hall, but you halt, reminding yourself that mike was a kind person who'd invited you into his home, and you were supposed to be showering, not snooping. still, even with the moment of morality, untrustworthy interest prodded at your brain.

mike's exiting his room with a handful of clothes for you when he catches you, arms wound around yourself to keep your towel up. you haven't seen him yet, your gaze fixed on something down the hall. he gulps softly, unaware that he would see you like this so early in your connection. your long neck cranes forward to see better, and he prematurely wonders if you're sensitive there, mind swirling with musings of bites and marks.

"something wrong?" you jolt, blinking and stammering and damn near jestering as you attempt to defend yourself. mike doesn't look at you with malice or cynicism, simply stepping closer as your eyes flitter around. "i, uh...i need help with the shower. i don't know how to turn it on."

mike huffs, squinting his eyes at you jovially. "that the only thing?" fuck.

you drop your shoulders with a deep sigh, throwing a pointed finger down the hall. "i also wanna know why you have all those awards." there's a small, almost undetectable change in mike's face, his eye twitching. you watch him shrug it off, placing a hand on your shoulder to lead you back to the bathroom. "i'll explain after you shower."

you're puzzled as to why he's so cagey about it, but you don't question it, accepting his statement and finally listening to him as he explains what to do

you're alone again after he sets the clothes down and leaves. he took your dress, easing you with "just going to hang it up. no worries" and a sheepish smile, and you're eager, ready to hear about what he does and how he's able to afford all this, including this shower that provides you with the best shower you think you've ever taken.

you're able to get the water to the perfect temp, scalding, with the perfect amount of pressure to sting your skin and make you feel clean. you wash away all of your worries; thoughts of keeping a roof over your head, being okay, and finding a genuine connection extinguished with the hum of soft jazz and lather of ylang ylang scented soap.

you lotion yourself with one of the various creams on mike's counter, soothed by the powder smell, and slip into the clothes you're provided--a pair of soft, heart-covered boxers and a university t-shirt, faded into burgundy from countless washes.

mike's sitting on the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone when the the demure pitter patter of your feet sounds against the floors, and he swears he almost dies when he sees you.

maybe it hadn't been totally random when he chose the clothes for you, deciding to give you two of his favorite items so he could see how they looked on you. the shirt, very lived in and from his alma mater, skirted your thighs and covered up his boxers, draping over your lithe body in a way that made his mouth go dry.

"okay," you call, dropping beside him on the couch. the wispy hairs around your hairline frame your clean face, guiding his attention to the smattering of dark moles around your eyes and temples. "tell me. what are all of those awards for?"

"do you want some water or something?" he interrupts, and while you accept, you furrow your eyebrows at him. he gets up with the swiftness of a nascar pit crew, and you hold your gaze on him, pivoting your body as he moves.

"mike, c'mon, what gives? you can trust me."

his back is towards you, filling a glass with water from the filtered water faucet. he hunches at your baffled tone, your voice all soft and downcast.

he wants to scream because it's so easy to just come out and tell you what he does. you didn't say anything at the restaurant, but maybe you'd put two and two together when he finally told you truth, remembering a thumbnail from the porn site of your choosing. he wasn't ashamed---nowhere near that. he'd been in the industry almost a decade, moving past the internalized and societally-imposed scrutiny he felt for his career. it was other people that were ashamed, other people that turned their nose up at him because of what they assumed he was; sleazy, devious, a player. he'd had so many connections blow over because of it, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle that happening with you.

you just stare at his back, watching it rise and fall with every laboured breath he takes. what was so bad about what he did that he couldn’t just tell you? he was obviously good at whatever it was, and you wondered if it was a front for something. maybe he disarmed you with his nice guy act, and he lured you here to kill you an—-

the clink of glass on glass brings you back to reality. mike is beside you again, staring blankly ahead while he wrings his hands.

“i’m a pornstar,” he utters plainly. he squeezes his eyes shut, expecting you to make a noise of disgust or get up and leave, but you don’t.

he opens one eye, and then both. you’re staring at him with no concrete expression, lips pursed. he closes his eyes again, counting in his head before opening them once more.

you’re still there, and it almost makes him cry.

“that checks out,” you muse. you’re fairly non reactive, but not because his admission freaks you out. you’re thinking back to the awards, the sheer amount of them in that case, and how good he really must be at what he does. “why didn’t you want to tell me?”

he runs a hand through his hair, melting into his couch with boyish reserve. his eyes are a mixed bag, bouncing between relief and despair. “people run every time i tell them. lots of them act like i just told them i killed their childhood pet and it's just so...disheartening, y'know?

"i just don't get it because it's just like any other job. you work, fucking hard, because you want to perform at your best, just like anyone else. the stigma around it never goes away, no matter how hard you try to convince people. they think you get around outside of it, having sex every second of every day, or that you're gonna mess around with your coworkers and give them something. it's like the trust level is in hell before you're even able to prove yourself." you scoot closer to mike without a word and place your hands over his. his rings are cold against your palm.

it's a gentle gesture. the airy smile you give pacifies him and he swears he's never felt anything like what he feels now.

"i'm not here to judge you, mike. i never will. sex work is a completely valid career, just like anything else. i'm sorry about all those shitty people who made assumptions about you."

"no need to apologize," he whispers, adjusting his hands so that they cradle yours now. you tilt your head down bashfully, lashes fluttering. "all those times led me here."

you two chat for a long while. mike tells you all about the production company he works for, how he got into the business, what his work schedule's like, the community of other stars that he works with, his stage name. you can tell he's passionate about it, lost in his rambles and talking with his hands. certain words segue your convo into other topics, like books and food and pop culture. you two have a lot more than coffee in common.

"i was surprised you didn't recognize me, honestly. not in a douchey way, but just because everyone does. it's usually the first thing they come up to me with." you could only imagine, being approached with "i've come to all of your work" in the condiment aisle at the grocery store.

"i don't watch professional porn really. too staged for me."

"i get that. i think you'd like our content. we really found a good balance between professional quality and ethical, genuine, safe fun."

you try to stay nonchalant, not wanting to betray the fact that you're itching to watch something of his work. "that's really nice. i bet you have quite the catalog."

"almost ten years worth so, yeah, i'd say," he chuckles, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth. "enough about me though. what do you do for work?"

"nothing as exciting and well-paying as porn. i type letters and numbers into a computer in a cubicle. it barely pays the bills, but i've worked in too many customer service jobs to ever go back." mike agrees. you're about to say something else when you're interrupted by a yawn, unhinging your jaw like an animal. you quickly cover your mouth, muttering, "jeez. sorry." you didn't realize it, but you were tired, exhausted from the night you had.

"it's okay, it is pretty late." he checks the time on his phone and turns it to you. 2:23 am. had you two really been talking on this couch for 3 hours? "i can show you to the guest room if you're tired. i have a shoot tomorrow anyway so i should get to bed too."

"sure," you whisper, grabbing his hand when he extends it to you. he pulls you to your feet like you weigh nothing at all, and you tail behind him like a lovesick puppy.

you're feeling that tingly ball of warmth in your stomach, the one you've felt with every person you thought you'd marry. you usually indulge in it, but with mike, it scares you. why do you feel like this after one night with a man you barely even know?

it's rash and inappropriate, you decide, and you're still convincing yourself as you slide under the black satin sheets and duvet on mike's king sized guest bed. you recline on the satin-covered pillows, sinking into the memory foam. it's a nice departure from your noisy childhood mattress back at home.

"do you have work tomorrow?" you shake your head, and mike claps his hands together with a cheer.

"yay. i'll be leaving around 8 or so, but feel free to sleep in and hang around as long as you want. the remote for the blinds is right there, i'll put a toothbrush out for you, and there's all kinds of food in the kitchen. help yourself. just let me know when you're leaving so i can lock the door."

your eyes squint. "you're gonna lock the door after i leave?"

mike nods, smiling excitedly and geekily diving into his rationale. "mhm, i have a smart lock. i can do it from my phone."

you're so tired that the words just foolishly tumble out of your mouth. "you must have great dick."

mike lets out a laugh that's a blend of flattered, nervous, and amused and you're both red-cheeked and flustered. "i am so fucking sorry, i, uh..y--" you stammer over all of your words, finally able to wrench out, "a smart lock just sounds expensive."

mike stares you down with fascination, backing towards the door. "watch the videos and find out for yourself, yeah?" he winks at you, and you gulp so loudly you're sure he hears. "goodnight, y/n. sleep well.”

"you too,” you croak.

you're out like a light once he leaves, but not before telling yourself to put up a new sticky note at home: “watch mike's porn."

you awake what feels like days later, refreshed and made anew. you click on the remote for the curtains, and they rise slowly, flooding the room with rich early afternoon sun. the clock on the nightstand reads 12:38 pm.

you hop to your feet and make your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wash your face before stalking to the living room. it's filled with light, and you think about how you'd probably never be depressed living in a place like this.

a box, red and moderately sized, sits upon the kitchen counter. you think you should ignore it, but as you get closer, you see a paper with your name scrawled across it. you like your name in mike's voice and handwriting.

you pull up the lid and inside is your dress from last night with the tag missing, two fat wads of hundred dollar bills, and another note that reads, “you deserve to feel beautiful and pay your rent <3 call this number when you're ready to go home. -m”.

in this moment, you're 100% positive that you're falling in love.

wow wow wow wow. they are so fucking CUTE! i love themmmmmmm <3 hopefully this tides y'all over for a bit because i need to outline the rest of their story, and i wanna work on some other stories for a little bit 💜 more parts are definitely coming, have no fear! i'd also like to say that while i use y/n in my stories, reader is typically a character that i'm inventing. using your own name and likeness while you read is totally fine, of course! i just use y/n as a placeholder name for my reader character bc i don't feel like coming up with character names all the time <3 sorry if that doesn't make sense 💔 i hope you all enjoyed! happy reading my seedlings 🌱💜

faire's seedlings ✿

@leahdhopkins4321-@pyr0-kai-@angstywhore-@sunazroo-@nyxthoughtsss-@mirophobic-@fayethor-@marixsimps-@regretfulme-@ithinkitszeph-@707xn-@cattt777-@violetta-ximena-@amnesia33-@topnerd03-@fastnights-@laprvphette-@savage-aespa-@mfdxz

[aspiringtrashpanda]

Satan "knows a guy" for everything. I love how social Satan is. I feel like we don't talk about it enough.

Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 7 Prompt: Satan

It was a warm day in the Devildom. Not uncomfortably warm to the degree where peeling off your skin would be the only way to seek relief – No, it was only that warm in the desert region to the south, or in the steaming waters of Asmodeus’s bathtub – but warm enough that you could comfortably stroll from store to store in a shirt without requiring a sweater. 

“It is a nice day out,” Satan observed, though you weren’t sure if he was speaking to himself or expecting an answer from you. 

Apparently, you guessed wrong when you assumed the former. Curiosity tangoed with amusement in his sea green eyes, peering at you as you took slightly longer strides than usual to keep up with his brisk pace. “Is that why you wanted to accompany me?” 

“No.” You shook your head, tugging open the door to Hell’s Supermarket and grinning at him with all your teeth. He thanked you, a slightly bewildered expression lancing across his face as he entered the store before you. He probably hadn’t anticipated such a direct response. 

“Ah! Satan! Good afternoon,” A fresh faced demon waved from where she leaned over the death deli counter. “Your turn to buy the groceries?”

“Yes.” With a charming smile that squinted his eyes into crescent moons, Satan offered a playful, “I’m lucky I wasn’t the one on grocery duty yesterday.”

You grabbed a basket, and started surveying the meat that the demon had available. Though you pretended to be very occupied choosing between smoked basilisk and oven-roasted black tapir, you eavesdropped on the easy volley of conversation between the store clerk and the Avatar of Wrath. 

“Oh, yes. The rain was just awful.” She frowned, “Your brother made quite a fuss when he stormed in here.”

Satan laughed sheepishly, “Well, that’s Mammon’s fault for failing to check the forecast.” 

The demon giggled, glancing towards you for a brief moment before concluding, “Sure, but I’m certainly happy to see you in his place. What can I get the two of you today?”  

“Why are you smiling?” Satan asked as you both exited the store, two shopping bags in his grasp. 

“No reason.” You chirped, unable to hide the giddy bubble swelling in your chest. A lie would have to suffice. “If I close my eyes, the moonlight is almost as bright as the sun.” 

And you did just that, allowing the affection thrumming throughout your body to spill over into a silly display of closing your eyes and craning your face towards the moon. You heard Satan click his tongue, though you know it was less a sound of irritation, and more a warning to the many demons passing by to watch out for your blind steps. 

Despite the beautiful weather, the downtown strip wasn’t overwhelmingly busy. Merchants seemed to be taking advantage of the quiet afternoon, tidying the front of their stores or preparing new window displays. Even the patio of Hell’s Kitchen was rather empty, with only a handful of patrons munching on a burger and sipping a glass of demonus.

“Are you homesick?” Satan asked, sometime after he had used a book he thought would interest the shopkeeper at Demoning to negotiate a deal on tea leaves, and sometime before making plans to visit the theater with the piano technician at the music store. You had stopped there to purchase a new metronome, as the old one had mysteriously disappeared (Mammon had probably sold it), but you weren’t bothered in the slightest by the employee's fifteen minute review of the visiting symphony. Frankly, Satan committing to plans with someone outside of the House of Lamentation delighted you greatly. 

“Nah.” This time, it wasn’t a lie. 

His steps paused. His emerald eyes swept over you, his brow slightly creased as he tried to see into your soul. You weren’t sure what he surmised from your body language, but he came to some sort of conclusion, as he turned on his heel. “Wait here for a moment.”

You watched as his mop of golden hair retreated across the street, to the bored popcorn vendor lingering outside of Café Lament. It was entertaining, the way he moved with such alert grace. You could practically picture fluffy ears flicking this way and that atop his head. 

He did possess a sort of feline quality, in his movements, in his behavior. He managed to hold a conversation while being more observant than the average demon about his surroundings. The entire time the vendor filled his order, he made small talk that seemed genuine despite his attention remaining on you. You could feel it. 

Satan returned with popcorn, movie theater yellow and wrapped up in a commercial striped bucket. “It’s simple butter and salt. I figured you may want a snack that reminds you of home. The vendor also had an extra coffee from Café Lament, and he was nice enough to offer it to me.” 

You accepted the gift, regardless of the meaning. If it comforted Satan to think that he had cheered you up by buying you a snack, then you would let it be. In reality, simply existing in his space was what had encouraged you to accompany him from the start. His company was quiet, honest, and steady. 

You knocked your popcorn carton against his coffee cup.

You had a feeling many others appreciated his company, too. 

Well, except for the jackass who slammed right into Satan’s chest. The demon’s face had been buried in his D.D.D. It was now dripping with premium hell coffee.

You flinched, gasped, braced yourself for the inevitable blow up. Satan’s hand – the one that wasn’t drenched in spilt coffee – clamped onto the demon’s bicep, steered him off to the side of the street. Should you look away? It was probably best to avoid witnessing a murder.

But then, the demon was walking away, completely unscathed, and Satan was returning to your side with only a mildly perturbed expression. 

“You aren’t upset?” You asked, eyeing the bright skin of his index finger where the hot coffee had gushed over his skin. 

“Hm?” He didn’t seem to understand why you would even ask. “No. Why would I be? It was an honest mistake.”

It was as if the record had skipped and you were stuck in this moment where only the audience understood the irony of the situation. You filled him in. “Lucifer did the same thing when he was half-asleep two weeks ago and you summoned hellfire to burn his phonograph to smithereens.”

“Well,” Satan laughed, loud and brash. “That was personal.” 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

OBEY ME! MONTH MASTERLIST

[cor-lapis-candy]

I have come back out of the long break I took cause I got hooked on a few different games to dump on y'all a few bits of braintot.

Now I am particularly partial to Neuvillette, I like an old man, even more so an emotionally awkward one that has that disconnect from humans cause he isn't one per say.

I am also of the mind to make them nasty pervs that go feral for sick shit...

Be warned this is about sweat and vaguely piss related, you are not comfortable with that please there is a read more for a reason.

Imagine the Iudex of Fontaine, Neuvillette the hydro sovereign and your lover who in the warmer months layers you like it is winter for outings. I'm talking leggings, stockings, ankle socks under your shoes, chemise, underskirt, petticoat, skirt, corset, shoulder drape, and gloves a true full ensemble that is making you sweat and strain to keep yourself from making a scene as you shyly fan yourself the moment no one is looking.

An outing with him is never complete without a stop for something to drink, be it a simple glass of juice or tea for you and some water for him or being held up by a courtier offering a glass or bottle of something that Neuvillette insists you drink when it is handed to you, eyes gleaming as he watches you swallow every drop and mouthful offered.

This man who tastes waters from different regions and select areas of the world is delighted as he watches the small beginnings of sweat roll down your neck, the first droplets wiped away by him and slyly wiped across his lips with a soft smile.

He loves the taste of you in every sense of the word, so having you return from a rare outing sweating and flushed from the sheer warmth your body is experiencing is something he reveals in. Not ever making you go out and about with him for long enough to cause harm but just long enough that by the time you have returned to his home, he is purring softly at the smell and lingering taste of your sweat that he had lapped from the bow of your lips when he stole a kiss.

His home is quaint for someone so high-ranked. It has easy access to the waters of Fontaine and is just far enough away from the city to have a truly discreet personal life. Once you are past the threshold, he is pulling layers off you, groaning and mouthing at where your sweat had seeped into the fabric, like an unruly dog huffing at your scent as he peels away layer after layer.

Being carried through the house to your shared bathroom, seated on the vanity as he kneels before you still in his regalia as he rumbles and purrs at the moment he finally can lave his tongue across your skin and lick away any and all patches of sweat you have on your skin.

Being the dragon sovereign his temperature is lower so his hands are cool as they wander across your skin, what a sight it is to have the man at the top of Fontaine panting as he licks along the underside of your chest, somehow teasing without tickling as he basically tongue bathes you before stripping himself down and tugging you into the pool like bath.

Leaving himself submerged as he makes his home between your legs, unfurling his more dragonic tongue as he basically seals his mouth around you and presses down on your bladder watching you from under the clear water as he drinks down what you give him.

[mobblespsycho100]

An Interview with Kabru.

Q: Glad you could make it! Happy to have you here

K: Likewise. I admit, I was surprised when I got this invitation. I'm quite flattered, haha.

Q: Shall we just get right to it?

K: Go right on ahead, if you please. I'll be sure to answer as earnestly as possible.

Q: Okay then! First question: why do you smile?

K: Why wouldn't I smile? It puts people at ease. Discomfort will bring seperation, and a smile can disarm their worries as easily as words or a trade of blows can.

Q: Ah, I see... smiling as a tool of effective communication! Interesting. Moving on to the next one, (you can give as many answers as you like) what do you love?

K: The company of others. How humanity can stab one another in the back as they see fit, without much deliberation. We lift others up, so that we can piece them back together when they shatter into glass.

Q: You sure do love talking with other people. Third question, what you do love most about yourself?

K: Myself? Hahaha, what a wonderful, thought provoking question. My answer is always the same, what don't I love about myself? It should be clear that I wouldn't love the company of others if I loathed my own self.

Q: Alright, then. What is something you wish you could change about yourself?

K: I wish to have more control over things outside of my control The color of my eyes. It's a bit of a ... unsettling distracting shade of blue, isn't it?

Q: It really is! They're quite enchanting... Now here's our fifth question, Why do you think so much about others?

K: Humans are fascinating, aren't they? Unlike monsters, they heal and they hurt. They create and they destroy. They want others to be genuine with them, but lie as easily as they breathe. We are all just living in our own worlds, and it is when these worlds collide do we invent what is known as 'community'. Is this enough of an answer?

Q: Of course. Interesting answer... Final question for today then, why do you stab oranges to eat them?

K: It's just more convenient, isn't it? I don't like to get my hands dirty, and peeling just feels so much more difficult while wearing gloves especially. I never really thought about it much though, why should it matter how I eat my oranges? They only taste differently depending on the region where they were grown in.

This is such a silly interview, haha! Thank you for having me

(Q: Thank you for answering honestly.)

Oh hey, by the way, did you know? When using a knife to slice or pierce through oranges, it apparently has the same sensation as stabbing human flesh.

[trulybetty]

oct' 21 x acorns

Prompt: acorns Pairing: tim rockford x f!reader Word Count: 724 Warnings: T+ mentions of crimes & a touch of spice. Summary: pretty proud of this one and it's use of the prompt 😋 tim knows the way to your heart is discussing the latest research for your podcast.

x. masterlist

“Acorns? You moving into squirrel crimes now sweetheart?”

“Ha ha,” you responded dryly,  “ACORNS, the Australian Cybercrime Online Reporting Network.” He raised an eyebrow in interest, you weren’t sure if this was the result of learning what the acronym was for or if it had something to do with you starting the process of peeling off your t-shirt.

When you looked back at him, once the shirt was up and over your head, he was adjusting himself where he was sitting up against the headboard of the bed, his glasses now folded on top of the book he had been reading when you’d entered the room.

“So,” he began, a soft smile playing at his lips as he crossed his arms at his bare chest, “what’s caught your eye?” he asked.

You smiled back at him, a genuine one - he knew the way to your heart, true crime.

“So,” you started, turning to the dresser as you unhooked your bra, “so they were seeing an increase in reports on ACORNS, right? You've got your standard mix of fraud, identity theft, all the usual cybercrime stuff. Nothing to write home about right?”

“But?” Tim pressed, playing along.

“But what got me curious was a pattern of crimes that looked like random, disconnected incidents targeting average people. We're talking about everything from a cafe owner in Sydney to a retired nurse in Perth. And this has been going on for years.”

"Years?" Tim echoed, intrigued. "And they're just noticing this now?"

“Exactly!” you replied enthusiastically, tossing your bra into the laundry hamper and reaching into the dresser for one of Tim’s oversized shirts, what he wore when he actually had more than five minutes at home between cases. “The reports have only now been made public, and by the looks of it it’s taken them this long to even realize something might be off, and because it’s public knowledge, it’s caught the attention of the armchair detectives who are digging in, but no one can find a connection.”

Tim shifted in his seat again, tapping his fingers against his chest thoughtfully. “Not entirely strange though,” he said. “Cyber crimes are still relatively new. Many countries are sitting on data that they just don’t know what to do with besides selling it. Though, with any crime, patterns usually emerge sooner or later, someone slips up. Have they found anything that could point to a single culprit or group?”

“Nothing. Zilch. That's why it's so bizarre,” you said, shimming out of your jeans and kicking them off before walking over to sit beside him on the bed. “But here's where it gets interesting. When you compare these Australian cases to similar crimes reported in neighbouring countries like New Zealand or Indonesia, little patterns start to stand out.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, his attention fully piqued. “What kind of patterns are we talking about?”

You grinned, thrilled by his obvious interest. “Teeny tiny little anomalies,” you took his glasses and book and placed them on your bedside table, “Specific coding sequences, certain times of the day when the attacks occur, even certain types of targets that are more frequently hit in both regions. Individually, these little things don't really mean much. But when you start looking at them collectively and across borders, it’s like a constellation. You begin to see the outline of something much bigger.”

“Sounds like someone's running a long con,” Tim observed.

He uncrossed his arms as you swung your leg over to straddle his hips, your arms wrapping around his neck to rest on his broad shoulders.

“That's what I'm thinking too,” you said, your voice low as you leaned in to place a kiss on his lips.

Tim's hands slid up your sides, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your back under the t-shirt, “You really shouldn't have bothered.” he said, his voice low and husky.

You leaned in closer, your breath hot against his ear, “Bothered with what?” you whispered feigning cluelessness, trailing kisses down his neck.

“The shirt,” Tim replied, tilting his head back to grant you better access. “You're much better without it.”

You laughed softly, the sound sending shivers down his spine. “I needed something to wear.”

“Who said you needed to wear anything at all?” Tim countered, flipping you both over so he was on top of you.

[marcusmettalus]

When to Smile, How to Breathe, and Where to Love. (Part 2)

(Continued from Here. Again, R'tan and Ostia belong to @rowscara)

-

"I hate her,,,"

"You've said this before Ostia. And no, you don't."

The gray haired Scion grumbles and scowls with her arms crossed over her chest, positively huffing with irritation. R'tan couldn't help but compare this puffed up woman with a puffed up kitten, an amused chuckle sneaking out as the mental image appears.

"She is insufferable,,"

"From my interactions with her, and the way she holds herself among her companions versus her peers, I believe she is quite competent and is a skilled diplomat." R'tan leans back in his seat, silently praising the craftsmen who could make an entirely wooden chair who could handle the weight of an Astartes.

The establishment the duo were taking refuge in was a manner of restaurant, the locale semi-filled with fellow chattering customers, clinking of cutlery and drink glasses while the kitchen emits savory scents and fresh cooked meals. In the background was only the numb rumbling of heavy rain and echoing thunder in the distance. Lady Noémie and Lieutenant Lukas had taken the couple here to get some peace from the paparazzi, and to get a more casual area to speak openly.

"Dame Noémie is a competent leader of her people aye, her Council Advisors bring wise words and opposing views to help shape the future of her growing worlds," Lukas spoke quietly, taking a sip from a steeped drink smelling of something spiced but faintly alcoholic ", yet Lady Ostia, you say you despise her?"

",,, not like that. She behaves so care-free around me, acting like there are no troubles or wars going on. Taking me round the city, purchasing clothes and meeting new faces,, I am not some fething Nobilis Diplomat!" Ostia glares at Lukas as her voice raises a little, R'tan reaches over to lightly place a hand over Ostia's shoulder, attempting to ease the volume.

"No, you are not. And that is exactly why she is treating you like this."

Ostia blinks briefly, caught off guard by the rather short and strange response. The previous mag-train of thought suddenly halted as Ostia tries to make sense of the answer.

"Were you an official Diplomat, like Herr Celtos, you would be treated not as a person but as an item or prisoner of war. Strict protocols of handling, communication, how much of our worlds and facilities are shown, limiting their access to various regions of their temporary abode, armed guards and the like. You would be treated fully, wholly as an Outlander, and not welcome." Lukas sets down his mug slowly while elaborating his spartan response, adding a small curl of spiced bark into the still steaming drink, stirring the burgundy beverage all the while he avoided Ostia's gaze. Those amber eyes a stark contrast to the dark oaken locks tied back in a tight braid, gazing down into his little task.

"Wait,, Ostia is not seen as an Imperial Agent? How was she allowed then to enter your Realm?" R'tan raising a brow, still trying to figure out the fellow Astartes across from him.

"Noémie simply listed Lady Ostia as her guest of the Realm. Ergo, Ostia is a guest of Karseille who is simply is tagging along while Noémie is attending her meeting with the High King." Lukas took a slow sip from the mug, breathing in the spiced fumes as if savoring a morning blossom freshly plucked from the meadow. Those cursed eyes that Ostia can't quite get over, despite everything, turned now to gaze at the Scion.

"The High King, who you will meet come dawn."

"Watch your tone whe-"

"Here we go everyone; one serving of stektfläsk o raggmunk med råröda lingön, one of Croque Madame with soft poached gåsägg, one half serving of poulet rôti, and one Nasigören'. Enjoy your meals~"

R'tan's retort getting cut off by the waitress arriving with a wide serving platter, setting down each meal before the respective seats, the wide set of colors and smells hitting all three persons. Whilst the waitress peeled away to take care of other customers, Noémie made her reappearance and took her seat by Lukas.

"Apologies, had to take a short call, but look at this divine assortment we have~ hope you have a good appetite." Noemie clapped her hands excitedly before digging into her meal. Ostia gives a short glance over to R'tan before looking down at her meal.

An actual hot meal. Not rations, not food made in a mess hall, nor wild greens scavenged from the field. Half of a roasted fowl with some manner of sauce, rough cut vegtables and greens along with,, what are these golden wedges? Picking one up with her fingers, Ostia bites into it,,, a brief crisp crunch and a pillowy interior greets her.

Its delicious.

And then dips the wedge into the sauce.

(Will try and see if can make a Part 3 for this mini-series, so long as its cool with Rowscara that is.)

(Characters involved; Lt. Lukas Tova, Grand Dame Noemie Durand, Lady Ostia Haldus, and Brother R'tan Esatar)

[plasticfangtastic]

Can we Be Lonely Together? Ch.9

A Homelander X Staker! Reader fanfic

this is also a Supe! reader fic, GN neutral but male leaning in all honesty. Prev. chapters in the #my fic tag and #can we be lonely together? tag on me blog. this is a slow burn fic

Author's Note: might not be able to post the next ch. 'til next wk due to work and a dire need to work in my main WIP (so behind my writing goals for this project) might log on tumblr on a computer for once to just put a link of the prev. eps for the final chapter.

R18+ slow burn, smut, urolognia mention, Rape mention, gore, cannibalism, child abuse, child death, long chapter.

Chapter 9

We don't forget

Whether it was your first, first in a long time or last time– the way you held a cigarette in your hand appeared fitting, there was an air of misplaced elegance to your mannerisms… in the way your smoke drew cryptic symbols in the air. 

Watching your hand was a lot more hypnotic than Homelander anticipated, it was an easy distraction from that thousand yard stare in your eyes. 

He had seen that look once before.

He could smell that memory vividly, it had perturbed him the most– even if it shamed him to admit. The name and appearance had faded but he still remembered the silence, and those eyes. Even as he ripped hands clean off the wrist, there was no whine, no cry-- just a huff. As if whatever being that once lived inside this person had already departed long before Homelander had decided to entertain himself for the evening with these unlucky sods who decided to rob a store that autumn now leaving an empty husk. Homelander astounded as he peeled him clean, removing the jaw after breaking it in a dozen pieces, but the man simply failed to respond, gargling, and gasping as his lungs flooded, dying seconds after.

Panting, finding the foreign blood bitter on his tongue.

His eyes watched Homelander much like yours did now, your mouth ajar awaiting to put the lit cigarette in your lips once more.

You had died a long time ago… way before you ever met. 

Homelander was simply a new bullet in a once empty gun.

You had become a walking corpse the moment he brought you inside his penthouse, you just kept imitating the living, he wondered if he would be in this place watching your hand just to avoid your creepy emptiness had he listened and kept his hands to himself, if he had let you choke on your blood that night instead of pursuing merriment. 

In all certainty he was unsure as to why he allowed you to continue your “disposing”, he even got inside your vehicle as you drove to this dilapidated warehouse space that once inside hosted a pop-up restaurant, finding your vehicle so cramped but no amount of sass and complaining got your attention.

He should’ve stayed inside the car letting this take place somewhere else but Homelander followed after you– not wanting you to run away (not that you could ever get further enough) but it was the sentiment that would offend.

 Dolores had jumped and picked a knife instinctively at the sight of him but the mortal deity simply glared and bore his fangs, making the cannibal turn meek, she stared at her knife that might as well have been made of glass– completely useless against Homelander. She shook her head and dropped it.  

As soon as you deliver the goods and sat on the silver counter top to watch her work it was back to business, unlike you Dolores did threw poorly concealed worried glances at his direction, her heart rate severely elevated and her bladder building pressure down her nether regions but she continued to work, fearing their guest but ultimately committed to meeting her deadline.

At the sight of you, she offered an untouched box of cigarettes plus a glass of milk to their executioner– simply mentioning that his breath had a rich aroma of 2% milk, in fact she could smell it simmering in his stomach juices from when he had pour more milk on his tea and in his digestive track.  

He sat on the bench beside you crossing his ankles awkwardly holding his cape on one hand, watching you drift away, watching as the chef prepped, covering what once had been his teammate in softened butter for dry-aging, you pointing at things and analyzing her techniques, re-assuring her that the menu was perfect, as she prepared sauces.

He was surprised when the spoon came to his face, a rich yuzu heavy reduction, he could feel the tang on the back of his throat– that had managed to spark some color in your eyes, your skin had become duller by the minute, but as his lips wrapped around the spoon he was glad to see some color on your chest, so he played along there was no need to argue with nutters.

In all truth the magic had faded, you had once been so beautiful but now he no longer recognized you, without the carefully constructed facade and manufactured responses, this was the real you… the real you was ugly. The way your eyes sank and your lips didn’t bother to take shape as you slurred your words depressed Homelander, he looked back at the kitchen. This was after all a funeral service for a lover… it had cost him dearly, something that would make him lose sleep one lonely night in the future, perhaps. As he watched you become pure misery, he had nothing nice to say about his own… Homelander was anguish and loneliness incarnate… pitiable if you dare, on the other side there was your misery and sequestration… but he couldn’t feel genuine empathy… none that he could believe.

Now he understood the morbid reasoning behind your attraction, you saw somebody who could understand what it was like to be born alone, that's why you seeked him so desperately, why you had lied to the point you’ve become a parody of what Homelander had always seeked.

“How did you end up like this? You know why I’m like this… you saw the videos.”

You bounce awake to the sound of his calm cadance, this was the tone he used with the press so often, it was upsetting knowing it was used against you.

Snuff. 

All you could compare those videos was snuff, at any corner you expected him to be raped just to put the cherry on this yucky sundae. Certainly in all your years of life you had encountered horrific memories, private horrors, all manner of depravities and awful thoughts from the ones holding the knife and their human pin-cushion, all manner of creative abuse had crossed your mind unwillingly.

But they were strangers, not the man who put his gloved hand on your thigh.

A man’s voice jabbering on a shitty mic.

A little boy no much older than six.

A pool of boiling water.

Emerging covered in blisters and blind but neither disfigured nor dead, he would come to heal fully after a couple weeks.

Another man’s voice on a shitty mic.

Little boy is now eleven.

Welded restraints holding him placed on a thick concrete slab, on the other end an unmanned vehicle holding two crash test dummies. 

Same little boy covered in rich purples and three busted cars getting dragged off screen, each one increasing in size-- a rubble of metallic matryoshkas.

Little boy cried until his voice had all but gone leaving a pained squeak.

By all accounts it was a miracle this little boy had grown relatively well adjusted, the other boy took it like a champ when John no longer could, that hateful glare that fit so well below his brow took the 4x4 head on.

Your least favorite was the first big test… the lung test. Just how long could a four year old hold his breath underwater?

“I was six when my powers manifested. I learned my school principal had a weird hobby of putting cameras on the little girls restroom– but ‘cuz I was a kid screaming about voices in my head nobody cared, thinking I had schizophrenia until my parents remembered they’ve given me Compound V. None believed me… until I showed them, and then they got mad at me because he was a good man– a church going man! He worked in charities, parents and kids alike loved him– it had to belong to somebody else!! So his daughter smashed my head with a stapler and called me a liar.”

You smiled at him with a smile that only existed beneath your nose.

“My parents abandoned me for three weeks just to get a break, the cool powers that would make them thousands, reflected back at them and spat venom… no Vought trainer could figure out why I couldn’t control it. I lost like 10 kilos in those three weeks ‘cuz I was nine and didn’t know how to cook. If I didn’t peek into my neighbors mind I wouldn’t have figured out how to use a can opener– mind you they locked me in the basement with just some cans, water and a bucket. I swear I can still smell my fermented shit.”

He offered the sauce spoon at you, watching you fail to register the labor behind the homemade spicy sauce.

“My foster parents… well… I ran away for a reason. Then I met… Kent, he told me after he freed me from my confines “Either cry or learn to be apathetic to the world” So I learned to stop caring… learned to know that nobody in the world would get what it was like to understand God”

Homelander raised his brow retreating the spoon away from you.

“He must be overwhelmed… to hear everyone's prayers, never knowing silence since he made us… I would stay away from us too if I could” 

“You think you’re God?”

You scuffed taking a long puff.

“No? But I guess I understand him.”

A deity, he was perfection incarnate but as he stood staring down on earth holding his breath while strolling on the moon watching the bleached cloth that once copied the flag on his cape, the world had looked so beautiful– his eyes stung thinking of crying without permission, scratching a thin layer of frost off his chin as he rubbed his eyes just to stop himself, to Homelander God stayed silent so he could watch his creation in awe. The people made it ugly, but he had to admit it was beautiful, as he got closer the sounds returned but you couldn’t escape into space for some peace and quiet, only learning to silence it all to sleep without ripping your hair from exhaustion.

If Homelander had your powers he would be God… there would’ve never been a doubt in the heart of this man-made lab tulpa.

“Not with your paranoia”

“Learn to mind your business, darlin’” He pointed at you, almost growling.

You scuffed, a muted chuckle from between your teeth, sliding out the counter burning your cigarette on your thigh, not flinching as it burned.

He watched you march outside knowing he could catch up to you in a few seconds.

“When you kill Y/N would you let me cook her? Y/N said that I could use them to make our favorite dishes… it would mean a lot to us if you enjoyed the meal.”

Dolores spoke as she moved to an elephant– hanging by a hook was a carcass its feet bound and pierced by garish chrome, split in halves, emptied of organs and its skin flamed to remove unwanted hairs, head and genitalia had long been removed, no much resembled humanity beside its general shape, she carved using a deboning knife to remove one of the arms swiftly off its socket, the skin squelched letting go with a sticky sound– he pictured you like that. 

He had hanged you, piercing your talons with a hook and gutting you clean, watching as your face hid behind the spilling mass of your lower intestines.

He hurled into his mouth.

“You’re sick” red flared in his eyes– "I'll kill you too, once you’re done gentrifying cannibalism with the rest of the Sawyer family!”

“One last service it is.”

He took off trying to hide the weird embarrassment from his reference, he had no energy for quips or sardonic wit.

He found you leaning against a metal pillar, you didn’t turn just focusing in the mind of a passerby, and the homeless living beneath in the pipes 

“Together we could’ve been God made whole.”

His hands unusually wrapped around your hips, his gloves falling around your ankles resting his cheek against yours.

You turned your head slightly taking a deep whiff of his cologne-- he could smash your spine perfectly clean in this position.

“I complimented you?”

“Your powers didn’t upset me. I would be creeped out at first… weary for a long time but eventually… it would be nothing but another part of you… like the color of your eyes… proof that you belonged to the better group.”

His jaw clenched caught in the what if’s, running after a picture of a stranger than wasn’t either of them, the first time he’d read “Love in the time of cholera” he hadn’t understood the lead, but as he grew older, the more that lover one could long for fifty years became less of a stupid fixation for somebody to have but something relatable. Those women had been Madelyn and Maeve, but then you came.

A hope.

Hope that he didn’t need to long for anymore, here it was… it was you who had longed for him all this time before you ever saw him, he told himself that as he remembered the way you cuddled him in your sleep, your grip squeezing him with all your strength– you had been a warm blanket during winter, Homelander rested to the sound of your breathing both had held each other so desperately, the way your eyes stared at him as he bit half moons into your skin and all he received was caresses and kisses as if he was the one hurt.

Turning around to rest your head on his shoulders, poking your cheek against the golden eagles, you spoke.

The sound of a fish tank filter inundated his apartment. Most of the house is dark, unnevely illuminated by different sized fish tanks. We stared at each other from opposite sides of his kitchen, he had a nervous look in his eyes, all of his bravado had washed away as he gulped, he looked pale and ready to hurl, he was ready to piss and shit himself as one of his many amateur films played on my phone.

“You help me, or that ends up on the front page of every fucking porn site you can imagine. I would spam the fuck out of it on twitter… heck I’ll make it look like you posted it too, Kevin.” 

He looked at me with very big eyes and stuttering lips.

“I need you to go to the archives and get me photos of these boxes… open them and take photos of the contents too” I slid him a piece of paper– you got ‘til the morning to get these files, or I’ll destroy you.”

“I know I put a lot of pressure to you at work but we can work this out—

His mind was incoherent, at this level of nerves there really was no point in unscrambling his thoughts, but I was impressed nonetheless by his capacity to try to negotiate with this sinking ship.

“Listen, I like my job… I’m not doing this because I hate you– I’m doing this because I have the most shit on you, and you’re a member of The Seven meaning you have access to areas of the building I don’t. Nobody will think there’s anything weird if the head of Crime Analytics goes into the archives, either. I’m just threatening you ‘cuz you do overwork me, you owe me overtime and you can finally be useful at your job. So after this is done, I’ll delete all copies of the video and make sure my associates do so as well… it's not like you can kill me.”

He looked at the slip.

“What is it?”

He knew very well that you and I had something going on based on your past lil’ requests, Homelander. He was smart enough to know not to touch or it would be his head on a spike.

“This is in the lab's archive! They might think– he  continued asking.

“Not my problem. Just don’t let Homelander get a whiff of this… or he’ll kill you too. Fuck he might flatten all of New York afterwards”

That got his attention real bad, his nerves scrambling his mind further; his mind might as well have been eggs in a microwave .

“Wait, what does Homelander have to do with this!?”

“The less you know the safer you are.”

He believed me, when it came to you he wouldn’t doubt it was dangerous for his health.

“How do I know you’ll delete the video… not going to ask how you got it… you hacked my phone, no?”

“Make sure to change your password on a regular basis.”

We didn’t make any eye contact as I left, I heard him scrunch up the piece of paper and then scream and trash his kitchen after I closed the door. 

I left, you’ve returned to the tower suspecting nothing. You noted there was something keeping me quiet, and blamed it on well… dinner. 

You did your best to get me talking that night, but I barely gave you attention, my mind and heart heavy, you thinking it was ‘cuz somehow I’ve figured out you been getting your dick wet with Firecracker pussy, which was true but unrelated at the time– while you been bumping uglies with your new fangirl did peeved me, I wasn’t concerned. She was just another looney looking for good PR and cheap ways for advancing her career, she was pretty, energetic, had a great personality and great tits so obviously the heads at Vought and the public would think you two would look cute… compared to me… but she wouldn’t handle you. Sure right now you were sweet, but you had vices and soon she would’ve stopped being enthusiastic about your fetishes… I knew for a fact she would never tolerate your piss kink… that unexplained excitement that degrading without violence gifted you, I knew she wouldn’t return your wet play with frothing quivering delight– would you clean her afterwards, either? As you filled her asshole and forced her to hold it inside while you wanked and glazed her hole.

I knew she would not take kindly to your paintings sessions either, her reaction would be insincere she had no capacity to smile for you when you’re pinching so hard it almost tears the skin just stopping short of drawing blood looking back to make sure she wouldn’t hate you, she wouldn’t pull your hair and demand your kisses, would she? Would she’ve asked you to continue with your olive clouds?

 Maybe Firecracker would enjoy your oral fixations ‘cuz who doesn’t enjoy orgasming seven to ten times in an hour as you slurped on her juices greedily as if it was god’s own ambrosia, who wouldn't like feeling their brain shut down from ecstasy so good it tote the line into agony, who wouldn’t love kissing until jaws grew sore, would she find herself coveting your spit? or your loving demands to have her suck at your tongue? 

But she wouldn’t last, it would never be love… for I knew you.

So eventually it would end.

And you wouldn’t want it to end.

For her skin wasn’t made of tissue paper.

She wasn’t lying to you about being a super. I was. So I deserved it, for lying… apparently.

Firecracker would run in her mind but you put your chains on her.

I wasn’t all that narcissistic to think I was that special to you… but it stung… it stung regardless.

But I am patient if anything, and unlike her I was here making you dinner and helping your son with his Homework, I was here under the blankets watching you read while I was on my phone reading your reviews– you could be so witty, you had over 2 thousand followers and so many reviews to keep me occupied.

That next day I met with Kevin, the office was empty and my excuse was that I had work piled up.

“What did you ask me to get you!?”

It caught my surprise to see a small jar placed on my desk, it was labeled carefully with a bunch of numbers, and inside its cylinder was the remnants of a hand.

I picked it up, opening my laptop to match the numbers to my files.

“That’s a kid's hand!”

“I can see that… that’s the hand of a three year old Jane Doe. Look Deep… if you had any shred of human decency left in you, I could trust you with that information but you're a coward. Not to mention that I don’t want to let Homelander kill you, not because I care but I feel like I should be the one to kill you… now give me the rest okay! And pay me my fucking overtime.”

He slid me a go pro and a phone, I showed him the file being deleted and me severing the backdoor connection I had with his phone.

“I might need you to go back and get me some of those documents.”

“You said–

“What? Do you think I only had one video of your romantic escapades?”

He had nothing to say, just a squeaky fist in return.

“I’m going to be in trouble aren’t I? Regardless of what you said I will get it up my ass at the end.”

“If I was you I would memorize the evacuation plan for the Tower, and avoid leaving via helicopter. If it's any consolation it would be me who dies first altho… do you think of yourself as a hero? Like do you ever feel like doing the right thing for once in your life?”

I don't know what possessed me but I had a lightbulb moment.

“I am a superhero.”

He was genuinely insulted.

“Then mister superhero… there's something else you can help me with…”

I made sure to have a perfect excuse, you were in the honeymoon stage of your affair so it wasn’t too difficult for you to ignore the red flags. If anything I gave you a free pass for the day.

The Deep was surprisingly a good driver, he also had the manners to stay quiet and simply follow the map without small talk, any attempt to do so barely got a response from me and at least the music helped with the awkward tension, at this point I figured soon I couldn't bullshit much further.

So yes… I told him before I told you.

“This is ���Sage Grove Centre’…? Why are we in a loony bin? What does that have to do with the dead bodies!?”

He was hungry for information, so I spilled the beans… It felt good letting it out.

“... about fifteen years ago… Homelander surprised everybody by proving that he wasn’t completely infertile… and ever since Vought has kept an eye on all of his laids… they had wanted to recreate him for years as you know Homelander is… a loose cannon. So their attention turned to his offspring, and out of the eight kids he has made only one of them is alive… Ryan Butcher. That hand belonged to Eun-Ji K. who a month after her birth went missing alongside her mother, Eun-Ji was a natural born supe… but unlike her dad, she didn’t have completely impenetrable skin… Do you want me to spare you the details of how she lost that hand?”

He thought of the box, of the small sample vials and jars, of the gruesome photos of small corpses, he had puked almost immediately.

“Then there was Simon P. who survived testing ‘til the age of three… Aaliyah T. who survived ‘til ten. Robert and Roberta C. who survive to the ages of four and three  respectively and Miguel S. who survived ‘til the age of five. Miguel was alive two years ago… they kept some of them in similar sound stages… his eldest weren’t so fortunate, but unlike Ryan’s mother… The other moms were more than happy to begin testing the moment their kids showed signs of having powers or weren't around to complain, so they did the same experiments.”

I looked at him, placing my hand on his shoulder.

“Now as I dug around to find more about his dead family and his history… I noticed something interesting… Homelander has health insurance– makes sense you have to have mandatory health insurance for certain jobs… so it didn’t bother me, until I read into his policies and I wondered: Why does a man with a perfect 20/20 vision pay for extras such as optical? not to mention dental… he does get his teeth whiten often but… when did he ever get a wisdom tooth removed?”

Kevin’s eyebrows touched clearly intrigued.

“So I keep digging… and a lot of those glasses went to a patient in this facility… a fifty-four year old Jane Doe… she had been taken into Sage Grove thirty-nine years ago with a diagnosis of PTSD, and severe panic disorder. They noted the patient had suffered past psychotic episodes where they had harmed themselves and others for she had no tongue… They suspected she was a drug addict which would explain her wounds and disorders, but more suspiciously  somebody had paid for her to stay there… and still do… for the last twenty-one years Homelander has been unaware he’s been paying for this Jane Done. I suspect that this Jane Doe is Ms. Gillman… his mother.”

I looked at my phone showing The Deep a picture of your mother, it was still grainy but there it was a young girl barely into puberty that once had been a prospective gymnast from a  shitty family.

“I’m so fucking dead.” he said.

Homelander unwrapped his arm, his gaze staring at nothing spitting short lived puff, gasping just to shake off the matching twist in his stomach and throat.

The city had become so lively, it was electrifying, an abuse of all his senses, turning once more to face you, a red glow coming from half-shut eyes as he shook them off fighting the urge to finish you once and for all, your face should had been nothing but heated mince on the pavements the moment you handed Firecracker to your accomplice.

Comfort.

He yearned for comfort so your hands made sure to hold him even if he tried to push you.

The city was so lively, it drowned him.

Your love was unwanted but he couldn't shake you off, the world had ceased to make sense.

One could only compartmentalize so much. 

“Can you erase my memories?” He asked softly, his voice not a decibel over a murmur– all of it…?”

Homelander cupped your cheek, his mouth humored a smile but it was forced, desperate to provide the illusion that he wasn’t crumbling inside, He chuffed trembling as you both looked at each other, your hand held his straight.

“I don’t want to know anymore… I don’t want to know… I want to pretend the last three days have been a bad dream. We can stay the way we always were. Sure I’ll be confused about Firecracker– but who cares!? There’s a hundred other broads that can take her spot…” 

He brushed your hair off your face while his felt apart around his temples, his whole body shuddering.

“It could kill me and not work… but it could hurt you… hurt you a lot.”

“Try… I… I want everything to be the same as it was three days ago… my love… I can’t.”

“Mi sol.”

[thelastmorgan]

CURSED WORDS . ARTHUR MORGAN

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Summary: Arthur Morgan seems to be unable to thank you after you save his life. Inspired by this post!

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Prostitution (but no description of any sexual encounters), graphic depiction of violence, gun violence, mentions of blood, minor character death.

Notes: This is a repost, since I deleted my old blog! How you doin’, cowgirls? I’m writing for Red Dead Redemption for the first time, so bear with me! I’m still getting the hang of writing about characters I’m not used to. Keep in mind that English isn’t my first language. Sorry in advance for any mistakes. Enjoy!

If you prefer to read on AO3, here it is!

If you want to take a look at my other writings, here they are!

Arthur Morgan rarely visited hotels, especially in Saint Denis, where the wealthiest citizens of Lemoyne glided across paved streets in luxurious carriages towards purposeless social gatherings. Today is an exception. Van der Linde’s camp had been settled near Beaver Hollow, in the Roanoke Ridge region of the New Hanover territory while Arthur wandered through Saint Denis, not in a luxurious carriage towards purposeless social gatherings, but on his horse returning from Bluewater Marsh.

Secretly working for Henri Lemiux, the mayor of Saint Denis, required a night routine. Moonlight dimly lit the roadway, elevated on woody boardwalks due to deposits of silt and mud flowing from the river; Arthur’s eyes squinted at the foggy scenery beyond him and his horse, silently cursing the lack of gaseous fuel to light the lantern hanging from the saddlebag over the back of his horse. He had investigated Bluewater Marsh in search of a band of painting smugglers, which sank into the silty and muddy soil refusing to negotiate with Mayor Lemiux, interested in enriching Saint Denis’ cultural background.

The damp wind blew silently, digging its way through leaves, branches and trunks. The sky was the navy blue of the ocean, and everything was quiet except for coyotes howling in the distance and the annoying crackle of woody wheels of a painting loaded wagon behind Arthur in its way to Saint Denis. He led the way, ignited senses wary of remaining smugglers. His horse nervously neighed causing Arthur to skillfully pull at the leather rein. “Yer alright, girl. Move on, there are few miles left for Saint Denis.”

Out of gaseous fuel and exhausted after a day traveling from Emerald Station to Saint Denis before meeting Mayor Lemiux and riding to Bluewater Marsh, Arthur unwillingly entered the Bastille Saloon, sighing heavily. The stolen platinum watch between his fingers indicated half past four, yet his surroundings buzzed in laughter and conversation and here and there drink was slopped from glasses over crowded poker tables, which squandered savings. Arthur wanted to enjoy that, but honestly, he was just there for a bath and a bed. At least on that particular night, he just cared about getting a good night’s sleep.

The bartender prepared an empty glass for Arthur as he approached the bar while adjusting his hat, but he quickly dismissed it. “Hey, sir, I’m ‘ere for a bath and for a room.”

“That’ll be $2,00. The farthest room is empty. The bathroom’s beside it,” The bartender mumbled, dirty fingers wrapping around the empty glass, a ragged grey dishcloth ranging from his shoulder. Arthur eagerly left the money on the wooden surface of the bar and made a beeline for the staircase, which led to the second floor, willing to abandon the overwhelming noise of the saloon. He followed the dimly lit corridor, its flowery wallpaper peeled from the walls and the wooden floor crackled underneath his dirty boots.

Arthur entered the bathroom, turning on the few gas lights, which flooded his surroundings in a comfortable yellow light, engulfing him in dizziness and exhaustion. He closed the lilac lacy curtains over both windows, their square windowpanes slightly dirty. The brass bathtub invitingly glowed before his eyes, impelling him to open the faucet and to strip himself naked, muddy clothes thrown into a pile over the soft rug laying near the bathtub. The sound of water hitting its base was music to Arthur’s ears; he desperately wanted to get rid of the damp Saint Denis’ air that sticked to his skin.

“YN!” The bartender exclaimed, kicking you awake, his boots staining your already overused dress.  “Wake up. A man’s in the bathroom. Go offer him your services, woman.”

You cursed him. Having been dragged to your senses, the uncomfortable surface of the bench you had been sleeping on became too much to bear as shots of pain travelled through your limbs. Your arms pulled you up and your bare feet touched the stony ground underneath them. With a cigarette between your fingers, you adjusted your hair and your dress the best you could. Abandoning the cigarette, it fell beside your feet and you – head empty, no thoughts – stepped on it, burning the skin and hissing at the consequences of your unthought action. Whatever. You needed to get out of that rat hole.

You made your way to the back of the saloon, crossing the bar and receiving a slap from one of the drunk men around the poker tables. You offered your body to people for money, but that didn’t mean they could do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. Rats. Swallowing your pride, fingers closing in a fist, you made a beeline for the staircase and ascended its woody steps. Your bare feet carried your emotionless self through the dimly lit corridor.

Soap bubbles escaped from the bathtub as the water menacingly reached its curvy edges, vapor rose in the air in what seemed lazy spirals. Arthur stepped inside, hissing at the hotness of the water, nonetheless letting it engulf his muscles, as though a mother lovely embracing her child and singing them to sleep. He rested his head against one end of the bathtub and closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the mother’s singing. His bag lay abandoned on the bathroom floor, the stolen platinum watch inside it, therefore he wasn’t sure for how long he had been there when your knock on the door dragged him to his senses, the first reaction of his muscles – an involuntary reaction – was to reach for his pistol, propped on the shampoo holder.

“Who’s there?”

“Sir… Would you like some help?” Your voice, a woman’s voice, floated to Arthur from the crack underneath the bathroom door. Wrapped in dizziness and tiredness, his brain lazily processed the words. Nevertheless, Arthur’s fingers momentarily tightened their grip around the pistol, reaching for its trigger – another involuntary reaction; he gulped after realizing the woman’s offer. The redness crawling up his naked chest and neck certainly was due to the hot bath, right? “U-Uh, no, ma’am. Hm, I’m alright.”

“No problem, sir. Have a good night,” You mumbled against the door, resting your forehead on its surface and secretly thanking the man for refusing your services. Well, if you had any honour left burning inside your system, this man spared you from completely losing it. Your footsteps cracked away, and Arthur rested the pistol on the shampoo holder once again. He exhaled, dragging his wet fingers through the dirty brown locks of his hair. It soon needed trimming. To avoid the shame crawling around his viscera for such an unexpected encounter, Arthur poured shampoo over his calloused hands to distract him from thinking about it and washed his hair, followed by his body.

“Why are you here, woman?” The bartender growled, pushing a drunk man from the bar, who motionlessly hit the ground. “Didn’t I tell–”

“Shut up, man. The man’s fine. He refused my services.” You, irritated, mumbled.

Returning to the bench you previously occupied, Alicia and Rooney left the saloon, pulling cigarettes from their wrinkled dresses and lighting them up. They silently offered you one, but you simply refused with a shake of the head. You submerged in an uneasy sleep, the buzz of the sleepless city you slowly sank yourself in constantly reminded where you belonged: to the scum of Saint Denis. Fuck the rich, who slept in comfortable beds and large rooms in larger mansions. You had a bench – sometimes a poor citizen’s house – and debts, which led you to a double life: bounty hunter at dawn and prostitute at dusk.

The bathroom sank in vapor when Arthur left it with a towel wrapped around his waist, switching off the gas lights. Everything was silent except for his steps on the battered wooden floor. The door to his room was unlocked and he gladly opened it with a feeble creak; a candle burned to its end, being the sole source of light alongside the moonlight that invaded the bedroom through its open curtains.

Throwing his dirty clothes into a wobbly chair, Arthur closed the curtains and rummaged through his belongings stuffed inside his bag. He pulled a wrinkled black Stand-Collar Overshirt and a pair of black Fancy Pants. He dressed himself and collapsed against the somewhat soft mattress, that stirred him to a dreamless sleep until the sunlight woke Arthur up. He repeatedly blinked, annoyed at the interruption. His calloused hands pressed over his eyes and he let himself slip back to dizziness, but Saint Denis didn’t want sleepers after half past eight. The streets buzzed in its daily activities and Arthur had no choice but to join them, preparing himself to leave Saint Denis to return to Beaver Hollow.

He packed everything inside his bag, put on his muddy Riding Boots and Kneller Spurs, his Fine Leather Suspenders and his Gunslinger Jacket. He adjusted his hat and hung his weapons on his back and shoulders. Leaving the bedroom, he descended the staircase towards the bar, where, again, the bartender prepared an empty glass for him, which he didn’t refuse. The saloon was empty, except for scattered drunk men sleeping on tables and two men leaning against the bar.

Crouched behind the bench, you ripped the stained dress from your body and shoved the piece of clothing underneath it, where you had plucked loose stones to dig a hole in the earth. Your bag, your hat and your clothing constantly smelled earth, but that was the price to pay for your mother’s debts. The yellow Molina Blouse combined with a stolen pair of black Hollman Pants, a pair of brown Moreton Boots and a black Leather Duster composed your bounty hunter outfit alongside a bandana and a hat. After adjusting your holster and your pistols around your waist, you covered the hole with earth, repositioning the loose stones over it.

“A glass of whisky, please,” Arthur sleepily mumbled and threw a coin on the bar when a punch hit the left side of his face, causing him to scream in pain and stagger towards the nearest round table. His left hand instinctively floated to the left side of his face while, with his right hand, he desperately tried to grasp the table, but knocked it down alongside him. “Jesus.”

“Arthur Morgan, Mayor Lemiux’s pet,” A voice mumbled over him. His blurred vision allowed him to count nine men. “Where’s the rest of the money for the paintings?”

“Yer got it, go away, rats,” Arthur managed to utter with gritted teeth.

The air was knocked out of his lungs when a kick hit the side of his body. Arthur groaned in pain. “Where’s the money, cowpoke?”

“Over your damn corpses if y’all don’t leave me alone, idiots,” Arthur threatened the men that were reduced to six when his blurred vision stubbornly faded away. Another round of kicks and punches. He felt blood pool inside his mouth, spitting it over one of the men’s boots. The air aggressively burning against the left side of his face indicated that his skin had been cut deep. One of the men spit on Arthur, who patiently waited for a breach to confront them. He wrapped his right arm around the wooden table, calculating the amount of damage he could do to the people around him.

“Gentlemen, would you fancy going outside?” The bartender threateningly asked, drawing a pistol and pointing it to the men who had cornered Arthur.

Three of the men drew their pistols, two of them pointing them to Arthur while the third man pointed it to the bartender. Well, Arthur was definitely running out of time. Gripping at the wooden base, he pulled the round table over his body. His right elbow and right shoulder violently cracked in response to the physical effort causing a curse to escape from Arthur’s lips while his left hand desperately aided his right one – fingers firmly wrapping around the table base and both arms pushing it towards the men who had drawn their pistols. They groaned at the aggressive impact of the wooden structure against their calves; a shot was misfired, hitting the wooden saloon floor beside a fourth man.

The bartender missed a shot as Arthur desperately crawled to the bar and propped himself up; his limbs agonizingly ached, his body begged for mercy. Staggering on his muddy boots, the first reaction of his muscles was to reach for both of his pistols, firing four shots in sequence. Yells echoed around the sleepy saloon. As a payback, a bullet agonizingly carved its way through the thin fabric of Arthur’s Fancy Pants, through the skin, and the muscles of his leg, ripping a scream from his viscera. Once again, Arthur’s body collapsed against the floor. Momentarily, his senses failed him. His accelerated heartbeat pumped against his eardrums; blood oozed from the throbbing bullet wound, soaking the fabric around it in a round dark spot.

A round of shots travelled to his ears and a pair of brown boots stepped in the fight. “Out, bastards! Out!”

The feminine voice tone caused Arthur to blink in confusion. Sadie Adler? He anxiously propped himself up in his elbows, but his right elbow failed him, and pain shot through his arteries and veins. The chink of Moreton Boots Arthur spotted using the fallen round table as shield indicated Sadie Adler wasn’t Arthur’s saviour. The shooting alarmed authorities in the area, drawing unwanted attention to the conflict.

“Sir, will you crawl to the bar? I’ll deal with the authorities and we’ll get you to a doctor.” You mumbled, firing three shots, alternating between pistols.

“I don’t need a doctor, woman,” Arthur groaned in response. Nevertheless, as he needn’t any more trouble with Saint Denis’ authorities. He gladly accepted your offer. Trying to move, he cursed as his muscles contracted and relaxed and pain throbbed through his limbs. Leaning against the inside of the bar, he heavily sighed, removing his jacket and using its sleeves as a torniquet. He tied them together above the bullet wound and snapped a bottle of whisky from one of the bar shelves. He popped it open and thirstily swigged the alcoholic drink. Then, he poured it over his wound and hissed silently at the intense burning sensation emanating from it in waves of pain. Blood flowed to his boots; he followed its path and noticed the bartender’s eyes open in a silent plea for help.

Arthur crawled to him and pressed his left ear against the man’s chest. Dead. “Jesus…”

He returned to the previous spot his body leaned against and drank the remaining liquid inside the whisky bottle. He pulled another one toward him and poured it over his face, washing his wounds. That bullet desperately needed to be ripped from his muscles, so, as you patiently chatted with – lied to – the authorities, Arthur pulled the bloody dishcloth to his lips, biting it hard as his fingers worked on removing the bullet from his leg. Blood oozed from the wound and dizziness infected his senses. He blinked in an attempt to maintain his focus, but tears blurred his vision.

Exploring the wound, he felt the metallic bullet against his fingers, pulling it slowly out. His jawline tensed against the dishcloth; his ragged breath was almost too loud for the authorities to listen; his eyes collected tears. Another swig from the second whisky bottle allowed him to pull the bullet out of his system. He poured more alcohol over the wound and pressed the dishcloth to it. His senses failed him once again and his eyes threatened to close. He desperately reached for the whisky bottle, chugging the drink into his system.

You hurried to the bar and knelt beside Arthur, evaluating the situation before your eyes. Blood stained the dishcloth pressed against the bullet wound as well as the man’s fingers. The vivid colour that once must’ve illuminated his features had been drained from him; he looked pale, as fragile as a porcelain utensil. “Yer not Sadie,” Arthur uttered. His voice dinged something inside your brain. Well, an innocent man at dusk and an outlaw at dawn.

“No, I ain’t. I’m the one who’ll take you to a doctor.”

“Or the one who’ll knock on bathroom doors.”

Gulping at the slurred words that cascaded from his lips, you swallowed your pride again. “Well, mister…”

“M-Morgan.” Arthur managed to say between violent coughing.

“Well, Mr. Morgan, I’m surviving,” Sarcasm dripped from your lips. “Let’s get you to a doctor.”

“Oh, don’t worry about ‘e. I just need another bottle of whisky.”

“Ye’ve lost a great amount of blood. I ain’t leaving you here to die.”

“Oh, you still carry honour after knocking at my door.”

“Yer no better than me, Mr. Morgan. Mayor Lemiux mentioned your name once.”

“Jesus, woman, alright.”

“Well, thanking me would oblige this conversation to change its route to a polite one. I sense your pride won’t allow you to do it, though. ‘Me, Mr. Morgan, saved by a prostitute?’”

Arthur opened his mouth to answer. Instead, he ended up licking his lips in nervousness. What was he doing? Arthur Morgan, an almost dead man judging people for surviving in an unfair world. Not every bastard encountered Hosea Matthew’s kindness along their path. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m sorry. I’m–”

“Well, that’s something’, Mr. Morgan.”

PLEASE, CONSIDER REBLOGGING THIS AND/OR GIVING ME FEEDBACK, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT A LOT!

[arabellaflynn]

I've been wearing contact lenses a long time. I was first issued daily-wear disposables when I was fourteen. After being late to school every goddamn day for two weeks, my mother marched me back to the optometrist and got me extended-wear disposables -- the kind you could sleep in -- instead. A lot of people don't tolerate these well, but I do, and I've been wearing them ever since.

Fitting these lenses is not the exact science they would like you to believe. Getting eyeglass prescriptions in general is not. They stick you in front of a rig with switchable lenses and ask you which one you like better, ffs. You go to the eye doctor to make sure your eyeballs aren't going to fall out, not for custom tailored prosthetics. Neither glasses nor contacts are ever 100% custom-fitted to your needs, at least outside of very specific circumstances. Glasses are ground to "close enough" specs from the settings available on the machine, and lenses come in fixed size/power combinations.

If you wear rigid gas permeable lenses, you do need them to conform pretty well to the front center of your eyeball; as the name suggests, RGPs do not flex, and if they don't adhere well you will blink them right out immediately. In fact, the suggested procedure for taking them out is just to pull your eyelid taut and let a blink peel them right off the surface of your eye, where they ideally fall into your other hand. RGPs are not common anymore. The last person I knew who wore them had a prescription of something like -12.00, which is beyond what you can even grind acrylic eyeglass lenses for, and definitely qualifies as 'very specific circumstances'.

Soft lenses are less picky. They're squishy and flexible, and fitting them is more like fitting clothing than like fitting a new leg. Toric lenses are the contact equivalent of bifocals, where the corrective power is different in the middle and at the edge. You don't want these to stay bang in the middle of your cornea, or you'd be unable to change between the regions, but they need to drift a certain minimal amount. Lenses that correct for astigmatism are wobbled along an axis that goes through the center of the lens and need to stay in a particular orientation; they are slightly weighted or have a flat edge at the bottom to keep them upright. 

If torics and astigmatics are the lens equivalent of tailored clothing, then then ones I wear are basically jersey knit. I have one power correction, same in both eyes, and astigmatism not worth bothering with. The prescription has been the same my entire adult life. I'd still be wearing the same kind of lenses I was given in high school, but they were discontinued a while ago, so I swapped to CooperVision for my clears. I've actually been fitted for a lot more kinds than those two, all of which had radically different (in contact lens terms) base curvatures and diameters -- it just doesn't really matter when all I need is a bit of hydrogel to recontour the front of my eyeballs a bit so I can see things at a distance. If I stick it on and it stays comfortably where I put it, then it fits. CooperVision "Biofinity" varieties are easy to get and their quality has stayed consistent even when they revise their materials and manufacturing practices, which is not something I can say for everything I've tried.

Colored lenses, on the other hand, I order from the UK. I order all of them from the UK these days; it's cheaper and faster if you don't have vision insurance, especially if whatever hole-in-the-wall place your uninsured ass makes the "new patient special!" appointment at doesn't happen to have your preferred size and brand in stock. (Strip mall optometrists, like Victoria's Secret, will generally "fit" you into whatever they have handy in the back. No thank you, I want my regulars please.) In the US, you technically need a separate prescription for colored lenses -- and sometimes each color, if the otherwise-identical lenses are branded differently -- even if they are literally the exact same as your clear lenses but with some printing in the middle, whereas UK suppliers are very obliging about just mailing me the thing I fucking ordered without an interrogation.

One of my earliest tries at color lenses was a type called "softcolors" that had translucent screen printing over the entire center of the lens. There was a very faint tinting effect that wasn't noticeable at all unless I wore one color and one clear lens, and even then it didn't bother me. I had an unusually bluish-evergreen color. I really liked them, but they don't seem to be out there anymore. Everything I can find now is the "ring" style, where there are streaks of color around the iris part of the lens with a clear area in the center. I've no idea why the change, other than the softcolors only work on light eyes, and only work really brilliantly on eyes like mine, which are the gray-blue structural color you get from Tyndall scattering when there's no pigment in the iris at all. You'd think this would be the default in natural redheads, who are generally short of pigment everywhere, but it doesn't take a lot of melanin to turn eyes honey brown, or a lot of lipid deposits to make them look green, so those are more common than you'd think.

Nothing wrong with my normal color, it's just fun to change and I like decorating myself.

The first set of ring-style lenses I had were huge compared to my normal ones; the color streaks were opaque and the extra-wide rim going across half my sclera was necessarily to stabilize them and prevent the pigment from drifting into my field of view. The colors all seem to be screen-printed dots now, which makes that less of a problem, and everyone's "natural colors" are all pretty much the same diameter as my Biofinity clears. I find the current style less convincing than the tints or opaque ones, because a band of your natural color can show through the middle when your pupils constrict. I suppose most people consider that invisible at normal conversational distance. 

The second ones I got were FreshLook, which seem to fit across all their lines, and are the ones I normally order now. I'm fond of the "Dimensions". The only "green" they had at first was the very jade-y one with a smattering of honey-colored dots in the middle, which changes more than you'd think, since my eyes have no brown/gold in them at all naturally. They've expanded the color range a bit, and I think I'll try a different one next time I order. FreshLook lenses are 1-2 week extended wear and come in boxes of 6 lenses, which for me is 3 complete pairs, and in my experience can be cleaned/stored/reworn just fine if you use them for shorter stints. They are idiotically expensive from US sources, running close to $100/box. Ordering them from the UK is less than half that, including overseas shipping. (For further information: My regular Biofinity lenses are $43.99 + S&H uninsured from 1800Contacts, a big independent supplier in the US. The exact same lenses are £13.99 to literally anybody with a credit card on NextDayLenses.com, which is under 20USD, and they are more than happy to mail all your shit straight to the colonies for about $7.50. Feel free to rage.)

FreshLook doesn't have quite a full range of fantasy colors, and I try to keep these things around for costuming, so I took a chance last time I did the rounds and plonked for a pair of indigo contacts from Bausch & Lomb. Sadly, I don't like them quite as much. I don't know what they're packaged in, but when I took them out of their plastic blisters they were oddly tacky and wanted to fold over and stick to themselves, which usually means they're dehydrated. I did get them to adhere to my (palms and fingers and) eyeball once out of the package, but they still weren't very cooperative. Taking them out and giving them an overnight soak in my normal cleaning/storage solution -- ironically, also by Bausch & Lomb -- made them behave much better, although still not as nicely as the Biofinity or FreshLook lenses.

What do we think of the indigo? It's much more striking in person. Not as natural-looking as the jade green ones, but fun nonetheless.

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[mythriteshah]

A Good Winter - Pt. 1

“SO! There I was, just traipsin’ along the snows o’ the ruined city.   ‘Another uneventful night out on patrol’, I thought.  But by the Navigator, was I in for a surprise!” spoke a towering Roegadyn, donned in the colors of the Maelstrom.  Around the ceruleum fires of the now-sustainable Camp Broken Glass, several soldiers sat, sharing stories with their comrades-in-arms.  The Ilsabard Contingent had a well-established presence in the greater Garlemald region, and efforts to stabilize the countryside had begun in earnest.  Dawn had broken through the frosted heavens, bringing some semblance of warmth amidst the biting cold which heralded the coming of Winter.  As the other soldiers chuckled at the Roegadyn’s initial statement, he would take a few big spoonfuls of his borscht – apparently some local specialty soup – before resuming the story…

“I was tasked on surveyin’ the inner city shortly after the Tower of Babil was cleared out for good.  It was dreary enough bein’ so close to the palace, but then the fog rolled in, and I was practically on edge!  Axe at the ready, I kept my head on a swivel, keepin’ my eyes n’ ears peeled for any sort o’ renegade warmachina still hauntin’ those streets.   Whether through the grace of Llymlaen Herself or sheer dumb luck, I reached my destination without a hitch.  Creepin’ my way through the fog, I made my way back, but I swore that it got so thick that I forgot which way I came from, and eventually found myself in a dead end between some ruined buildings.  I bet you can tell what happened next!”

“Something lashed out at you from within the mist, right?” chimed a female Highlander Resistance soldier with a chuckle.  “Probably had piercing red eyes to boot?”  The others laughed with her, but the Roegadyn scoffed in response.

“Must’ve witnessed that firsthand to know, eh, lass?” he retorted.  The other Maelstrom soldiers jeered as the Highlander stuck out her tongue in a feeble defense.  “But aye, you’re right.  The damned thing wasn’t a warmachina, but a bleedin’ blasphemy!  Turns out there are some still lingerin’ about even after ‘Emperor’ Nerva ate it!  Tried as I did to brace myself, the thing bulldozed me into a wall before the ogre-like thing rose its claws to swipe at me!  I was still reelin’ from the initial attack to properly defend myself, but I steeled myself anyway as it came down!”

“Wh-Wh-What happened next?” asked a jittery Elezen Adders soldier.  What followed was a swift motion of the Storm Sergeant’s arm and his best impression of a blade audibly slicing through the air, rendering the circle of troops silent.

“In a flash, the fell beast’s arm went clean off!  And before I had time to take full measure o’ the situation, another two slashes later was all it took before the blasphemy was layin’ before me in pieces!  The mist faded along with the beast, and my savior was what appeared to be a female Samurai – someone from the Doman Liberation Front, I reckoned – but she didn’t have on the usual colors!  It was a Hyuran lass wearin’ a robe as white as the snow we tread; as blue as the Rhotano Sea, and as violet as… a field of lavenders or some other!  I couldn’t make out her face because that weird straw hat they like to wear had a veil danglin’ from it!  But after the dust settled, she turned, bowed, and fled the scene.  I wasn’t aware o’ any vigilante-types wanderin’ this far into Garlemald…”

“Come to think of it,” spoke a Vieran scout, “I recall a similar event on the way from the Magna Glacies.  While securing another supply shipment, we were beset by a band of Jotunn.  There was this Hyuran woman in colors not unlike what the Samurai was wearing, but this one had gilded trim and a visor covered her face.  She blindsided the giants with a queer shield that soared through the winter air like a boomerang.  She then bombarded our erstwhile foes with magicked shells that would eventually rout the Jotunn.  Before we could properly thank her, she had fled the scene as quickly as she entered it – but that garb of hers I’d recognize anywhere.”

“So we got ourselves a couple o’ fashionably-dressed special ops folks…?” pondered the Maelstrom sergeant.  While everyone else struggled to make heads or tails of the matter, the Highlander woman let out a hearty laughter that was heard throughout the encampment.  This obviously alarmed the entire area as she commanded the attention of all who bore witness.

“Colors of blue, white, and violet, sir?  Well, it’s only obvious: those are the colors of House Higuri!” she exclaimed as she rose from her seat.   Hushed murmurs began resounding throughout Camp Broken Glass as everyone ascertained the truth of the Resistance soldier’s words…

“House Higuri…?”

“The reclusive Hannish noble house…?”

“I’ve one of their catalogues!  You don’t think…?”

“But for combat gear…?”

“Too good to be true…!”

Amidst the confusion, the Highlander stole away from the camp to a copse of trees that bordered the Eblan Rime.  Now out of earshot from the camp, she leaned against a tree and turned on her linkpearl…

“The camp’s abuzz, Princess.  I think it’s safe to say we’ve done our part.”

The woman turned out to be one of the Angels disguised as a member of the Ilsabard Contingent (although she herself was an actual member of the Ala Mhigan Resistance).  It would not be much longer until a postmoogle could be seen flying overhead, delicately carrying within its satchel lots of hurriedly scrawled missives.  From the campsite, the jittery Elezen woman would doff her Adders hat to straighten her long, sea green hair before putting on her spectacles to witness the moogle’s flight with a grin…

[skinqurederma]

Best Melasma Pigmentation Treatments In Delhi

Melasma is a skin disorder that causes dark skin patches in areas most exposed to the sun, especially the face. In as much as melasma is not dangerous in any way, it is very displeasing to the eye and the morale since it discolours the skin and makes it look sallow and uneven. Fortunately, several best Melasma Pigmentation Treatments In Delhi can treat these dark patches and give back a natural-looking radiant skin. At SkinQure, many treatments are practised to ensure that melasma is treated and cured using modern approaches and procedures.

What Causes Melasma?

Melasma appears because of excessive production of melanocytes, the pigments which are responsible for the colour of the skin. Various factors can trigger or worsen this condition:

Sun Exposure: This is caused by ultraviolet radiation which provokes melanocyte to proliferate in order to form dark patches on the skin.

Hormonal Changes: Melasma may be caused by pregnancy, birth control pills, or hormone therapy because these things cause the hormones to fluctuate.

Genetics: Melasma is likely to occur in people who have had a history of this disease in their families.

Medications and Stress: Some treatments including antibiotics have been found to cause melasma. However, stress can be mentioned as one of the factors which aggravate the given condition.

Melasma in general is characterized as brown or grey coloured and is most commonly located on the forehead, cheeks, nose and upper lip regions. It is a skin condition that is known to cut across the sex divide; however, women especially those of color are most susceptible to developing it.

Top Melasma Pigmentation Treatments in 2024

Melasma is often difficult to treat, but several clinical treatments now available offer good options. Melasma Pigmentation is a service we offer at SkinQure to treat pigmentation issues and achieve a glowing skin in Delhi.

Laser Treatments

Melasma can be best treated using laser therapy.

Q-switched Nd

Lasers selectively damage and destroy the extra melanin while sparing the rest of the skin.

The sessions take a few days to complete with improvements being seen after each session.

This laser treatment is effective for all first-degree and second-degree dark skin colours.

Chemical Peels

Chemical peels are useful to reduce the outer layer of the skin by encouraging new skin cell formation.

Peels involving glycolic acid or salicylic acid eliminate dead skin cells and gradually cause pigment changes.

They also give the skin a better feeling and also fade away fine wrinkles and other skin discoloration.

Topical Depigmenting Creams

Depigmenting creams are often used as a first-line treatment for melasma.

Active ingredients like hydroquinone, kojic acid, and azelaic acid help reduce melanin production and lighten dark patches.

These creams are generally used under a dermatologist's supervision to avoid overuse and skin irritation.

Sun Protection

Sun exposure can worsen melasma, so proper sun protection is essential.

Using a sunscreen with SPF 50+ daily prevents further pigmentation.

Wearing sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats can provide additional protection.

Even on cloudy days or indoors, sunscreen should be applied as UV rays can penetrate glass windows.

Why Choose SkinQure for Melasma Treatment?

Here, at SkinQure, we offer specifically customized Melasma Pigmentation Treatments In Delhi. Expert dermatologists employed here utilize laser technologies, skin chemical peel solutions, topical therapies, and other solutions to provide clear and enduring results. We have been an expert treating melasma for years and know the trick of avoiding new outbreaks.

Comprehensive Consultation: We assess your skin type and the severity of melasma to create a customized treatment plan.

State-of-the-Art Technology: We use the latest lasers and clinical-grade peels for optimal results.

Experienced Dermatologists: Our team of skilled professionals ensures safe and effective treatment with minimal downtime.

Begin Your Journey to Radiant Skin with SkinQure

Melasma doesn’t have to be a lifelong concern. With the right care and advanced treatments, you can restore your skin’s natural glow and even tone. If you’re struggling with melasma, don’t wait. Visit SkinQure today, a trusted destination for Melasma Pigmentation Treatments In Delhi, and let us help you achieve flawless, glowing skin!

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary332

8/17/24

saturday

almost 11 pm and sleepayyy.

i did not watch nosferatu today... and i needed to prepare chicken but i did not...

but i did work on music, i sorted out a plugin issue hopefully... hopefully.... makes me feel crazy that stuff... and i read a little tiny bit so hopefully i can carry that into tomorrow. my cousin reached out, we talked for a bit, and i'm gonna call my mom tomorrow!! that's exciting.

tomorrow i'll do nosferatu and a short, and get some drums down in songs... yeah ... that sounds like a good idea. today i got a guitar sound a little better, less, i dunno... lame sounding maybe,

listening to this now:

fun ep, it'd be cool to get a guitar sound like this... i guess i could probably try to make some stuff a little gnarlier, post-amplifier stage and stuff... some more... grodyness. hard to figure out how to do that,

oh and i learned a new word today, i should have learned two but the other's eluding me now so i need to put it here tomorrow... oh and my selfies... that's tomorrow too. i'm too sleepy now. the new word from today is asterism(s), which is not a synonym for constellation but a word for things like the big dipper, a broader idea about groupings of stars. there's something super poetic about how close it is to "spasms," to me.

the story i read in dennis cooper's book today made me think about things losing connection to all else, here is one tiny quotation:

"they were no more his cast-offs than a stripper's fallen thong and tassels are mementos of the single mother forced to peel to pay her bills, and even to identify them would be like trying to assign rain puddles to their rightful cloud."

things bloated with thought and history and then that all turning to bile and digesting it almost, connection to others, it's all just distance, you're distant to yourself. of course, here in the story, it's about a group of men who murder boys because they find it sexy, and they eat them, and it's narrated by someone who speaks with such distance and cleverness about everything so as to be beyond it almost, or to draw the body into that region of elaboration and articulation, the delicate tendons of speech and fingers.

another quotation before bed:

"i could have sworn they weren't the same eyes he had always used on me, or, since they had to share the same orbs, that the relationship between them and his ego was entirely technical, as in the case of people who are blind but stubbornly refuse to wear dark glasses."

interesting how he finds ways to travel through these themes and particular framings of these themes, images, and so on.

i'm so tired though, so it's hard to get into all of that...

so

byebye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[holethoa2010]

I Discovered A Strange Fruit: "Red Banana" And Interesting Dishes From It!

Discovering the Red Banana

While exploring a local market in a rural village, I stumbled upon a peculiar fruit that instantly caught my eye. Unlike the familiar yellow bananas, these were a striking reddish-purple color, almost resembling a vibrant sunset. Intrigued by this exotic sight, I decided to buy a few and learn more about this unusual fruit.

The vendor, noticing my curiosity, explained that these were Red Bananas, known for their distinct taste and rich nutritional profile. Originating from Southeast Asia and cultivated in regions like India and Central America, Red Bananas are not just a visual treat but also a culinary delight.

Nutritional Benefits of Red Bananas

Before diving into the culinary possibilities, it's essential to appreciate the health benefits that Red Bananas offer:

Rich in Nutrients: Packed with vitamins C and B6, Red Bananas support immune function and brain health.

High in Antioxidants: Their reddish color indicates a high level of beta carotene, which helps fight oxidative stress.

Good for Digestion: Like their yellow counterparts, Red Bananas are a great source of dietary fiber, aiding digestion.

Boosts Energy: With a natural sweetness and carbohydrate content, they provide a quick energy boost, making them perfect for a pre-workout snack.

Culinary Adventures with Red Bananas

Red Bananas have a unique taste, slightly sweeter and creamier than regular bananas, with a hint of raspberry flavor. Here are some exciting dishes I tried and loved:

1. Red Banana Smoothie

A refreshing and nutritious smoothie is an excellent way to start your day.

Ingredients:

2 Red Bananas

1 cup of Greek yogurt

1/2 cup of almond milk

A handful of spinach

1 tablespoon of honey

A few ice cubes

Instructions:

Peel and chop the Red Bananas.

Combine all ingredients in a blender.

Blend until smooth and creamy.

Pour into a glass and enjoy!

2. Red Banana Pancakes

These fluffy pancakes are a delightful breakfast treat, perfect for weekends.

Ingredients:

2 Red Bananas, mashed

1 cup of flour

1 cup of milk

1 egg

1 tablespoon of sugar

1 teaspoon of baking powder

A pinch of salt

Butter or oil for cooking

Instructions:

In a bowl, mix the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.

In another bowl, whisk the egg and milk together.

Add the mashed Red Bananas to the wet mixture.

Combine the wet and dry ingredients, mixing until just blended.

Heat a skillet over medium heat and add a bit of butter or oil.

Pour small amounts of batter onto the skillet, cooking until bubbles form on the surface.

Flip and cook until golden brown on both sides.

Serve with maple syrup or your favorite toppings.

3. Red Banana Bread

A twist on the classic banana bread, this version is moist, flavorful, and perfect with a cup of tea.

Ingredients:

3 Red Bananas, mashed

1/2 cup of melted butter

1 cup of sugar

2 eggs

1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1 1/2 cups of flour

1 teaspoon of baking soda

A pinch of salt

Optional: nuts, chocolate chips, or dried fruits

Instructions:

Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease a loaf pan.

In a large bowl, mix the melted butter and sugar.

Add the eggs and vanilla extract, stirring well.

Mix in the mashed Red Bananas.

In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, and salt.

Gradually add the dry ingredients to the wet mixture, mixing until just combined.

Fold in any optional add-ins like nuts or chocolate chips.

Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan.

Bake for 60-70 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Let the bread cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

Conclusion

Discovering Red Bananas has been a delightful journey, adding a burst of color and flavor to my culinary adventures. Their unique taste and impressive health benefits make them a fantastic addition to any diet. Whether enjoyed raw or incorporated into various dishes, Red Bananas are a delicious way to explore new flavors and embrace the beauty of diverse produce. So next time you come across these vibrant fruits, don't hesitate to give them a try and experiment with your own Red Banana recipes!

[elysian-noctuary]

Kaede held out his hand, offering to help Adrian get back to his feet - blushing all the while. It was an accident, bumping into him like this, dressed in his 'going out' clothes (maybe a touch too revealing), camera in hand but primarily focused on the going out part. He hadn't expected him to still be at the studio, rushing in to grab his camera just in case, and there he was, glasses and all - and he had the audacity to run right into him. "S-sorry, Ganhaku-dono. What are you still doing here anyway?"

Waving off to his boss, Adrian fiddled with the strap to his bag before opening the door to the studio. Before he even stepped out onto the pavement, something blocked him from leaving-- sending him backwards and tripping over his foot. Never did he claim to be graceful outside of dancing, nor his part time job as a sorcerer.

Afraid to glance up at the person who he bumped into, Adrian swiped the glasses from his face and cleaned the lenses with his shirt. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going... but pretended he just couldn't see due to finger prints on the glass.

Placing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, a familiar voice caught him off guard. Though, relieved he didn't nearly knock over someone above him like the regional manager. Then he might have been put in some hot water.

"O-oh," he spouted nervously, peeking over the frames to see Kaede. "N-no, it was my fault." Fixing his view, Adrian finally looked over his friend. Nothing seemed to be broken, which is good. But... the cutouts of his clothing sure did take him a while to pull his eyes away from.

"I... I was just finishing up on some paperwork." Adrian took his hand to pull himself back up from the floor. Brushing over himself nervously to keep his eyes peeled away from Kaede's form. He can't be caught gawking... especially in a place like this. His face grew hot and cheeks flushed rosy. A gentle shake of his head once he gathered his composer once more.

"Also, you gotta stop calling me that... Ganhaku-san is just fine."