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prolix-yuy · 1 year ago

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Sheer

(Moodboard by @missredherring)

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Plus Sized F!Reader

Summary: You owe more to an unlikely savior than you could ever imagine.

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: T, discussion of off-screen character death (cancer), negative body image and self-worth talk, light spicy thoughts, angst. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: This story was a real surprise and a treat to pop out of my head one morning, especially with a Pedro boy I haven't written for! Our reader is a plus sized girlie in this story, and we're dealing with some negative body image and self-worth talk on both sides. The reader also discusses the death of a friend, so if that may be triggering to you feel free to scroll along, lovely reader.

This should have been your best first day. The first day at the job that will finally get your head above water. The first time you’ve felt qualified, and that you’d fit in. And the first where you could see the stepping stones to something bigger and better in front of you.

It was your fucking thighs that ruined it all.

You’d wanted to make a good first impression. Bought a whole new outfit just to show how committed you were, down to the thigh-high stockings and matching underwear. That was for you, something under the pencil skirt and blazer that made you feel even more powerful. It had cost a pretty penny too. Your ample bottom and full figure needed good support, and that plus lace was always the highest price at the lingerie boutiques. But you shelled it out, along with their recommended garters and thigh highs “for peak professionalism,” and were feeling yourself as you strutted off the subway. There was practically a soundtrack playing behind you. Maybe “Uptown Girl,” the notes making a smile come to your face and your head bob as you exited the train.

You’re normally more careful, aware of how much more space your body takes up than the other knockout New York girls streaming around you. But confidence had you swinging your hips and stepping confidently…right until you bumped into a woman’s handbag with an aggressive closure, the metal skimming past your calf and over the delicate nylon.

It ran instantly, a testament to how much of a rip-off these undergarments were. You felt it split along the length of your shapely leg as you hurried out of the station and towards the gleaming monolith of your office. Scurrying inside, you slipped into the bathroom unnoticed to assess the damage.

The run had split into a gaping maw down your leg, the smooth fantasy of the nylon revealing the more mottled flesh underneath. You held back tears as you wracked your brain for a solution. You could run to a shop, get a replacement pair. You’re still early to clock in, wanting to arrive punctually to impress your supervisor. That’s it, you’d just pop out to a drugstore for a new pair and no one would be the wiser.

It was a perfect plan. You just needed to move. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot.

The mirror mocks you, internal monologue screaming to the forefront from where you battered her back this morning.

Wouldn’t have ripped them if you were smaller.

Why do you need to take up so much space?

Did you think all this would change what you are?

Nastier names you call yourself only in the torture chamber of your mind echo in your ears. Your mascara is dangerously close to running, eyes catching on every flaw in your outfit, every wrinkle, everything that screams don’t look at the parts I hate, every unflattering angle. You reach deep to return to that carefree state you held just fifteen minutes ago but it’s dissipated like steam from a coffee cup.

Grabbing a handful of tissues you storm into a stall and lock it, leaning over to let the tears drip onto the floor without ruining your makeup. The minutes are ticking away, time running out to fix your minor wardrobe malfunction, but the ache in your head and behind your eyes has become the only thing you can focus on now. Your sobs are quiet little sniffles and short gasps, thankful for the privacy.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom slams open, and you shoot up, holding your breath. You’re not alone anymore.

Someone in smart leather shoes smacks across the floor, walking past the stalls and coming to a stop. A zip, then the tinkle of urination. Your expression crumples on itself in confusion.

Then a deep, masculine sigh reaches your ears, and your face quickly burns with embarrassment.

Fuck, did you walk into the men’s room?

You didn’t even check, just burst in to the first door with a toilet on it. There may have been urinals, but you were too preoccupied in the moment to pay them any mind. You clap your hands over your mouth, lightheaded at the fact that you’re listening to a grown man piss and he has no idea you’re in here. This day has turned from amazing to devastating to mortifying so quickly you could throw up.

The man finishes, striding over to the sinks to wash up. You breathe a sigh of relief, ready to make a mad dash out before someone else enters. The water turns off, a few flicks of his hands in the sink, and then…

He starts talking.

“This is your day,” he says, an order that you can imagine him doing in the mirror. “You will succeed in what you do, and you will find satisfaction in that success. You will continue to grow, and be proud of yourself. You will start doing that today.” With every word you cringe inwardly. He’s so earnest-sounding, really enunciating his daily affirmations in a public restroom. His voice is pleasing to listen to at least. If he was a late night radio DJ you would certainly tune in to him to fall asleep.

A moment of silence, a silent hope.

“This is your day…”

Oh for fuck’s sake, embarrassment be damned, you can’t keep listening to this.

“Hi there,” you squeak out, your whole body tense as his monologue cuts off sharply. The pause is at least ten months pregnant before he speaks.

“I-I’m so sorry, I thought I was alone,” he stammers out, two quick steps heading towards the door.

“No, I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t even be here, it’s…” Your words run out of steam when you realize his footsteps have stopped.

“You’re a woman. In the men’s room.”

You can’t help but smirk. He’s a little slow on the uptake. It’s surprisingly sweet.

“It’s been a rough morning.”

Another pause.

“Are you in trouble?”

You peal out a weak laugh.

“Nothing like that, just…” Taking a deep breath, you blow it out. Might as well admit your failures to a stranger. “I ripped my pantyhose on the way here, and it’s my first day and I wanted to make a good impression, and then I got overwhelmed and…” Your breath starts to quicken, and below the Pepto Bismol pink stall you see two shoes slowly approach. They’re well cared for, supple shining leather, but scuffed all along the toe. Tan slacks overtop the laces, a crisp pleat ironed into the length. You even see a glimpse of striped socks underneath, a collection of garish colors that makes you smile.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the voice says soothingly, closer than before. His accent sounds Spanish before he manually flattens it, forcing it back into his throat in favor of an all-American good boy accent. It eases the tension in your shoulders, sitting down on the toilet seat and dabbing at your eyes.

“I know it’s stupid. And I should just go out and get another pair. I just…” you say, but struggle to voice what’s really bothering you to a man who hasn't seen your face. Who probably doesn’t care who you are beyond a bizarre Monday morning anecdote. Most don’t, after all. You can’t remember how many times a man has looked through you because of the roundness of your tummy, or the thickness of your thighs. Or even worse, devoured your curves with roaming eyes but won’t look you in the eye, or call you back.

“It’s not stupid. You wanted to feel ready to take on the day, and something bad happened. We all deal with it,” he says, the gentle register he’s taking on soothing to your frayed nerves. “Do you have a place to go for another pair?” he asks. You bite your lip, shaking your head before realizing he can’t see you.

“First time out here, but I can manage,” you say timidly. The embarrassment of your predicament is climbing back up your throat, the thrumming need to get out and away making your hands shake.

“I know a place, but it’s probably quicker for me to run out for you. Do you want to stay here while I get them?”

You sputter, a thousand excuses why he should not do that roiling in your brain. “You don’t have to,” is the only one you manage to get out, heart hammering. A little chuckle wafts to your ears, and the heat in your cheeks blooms in your tummy as well. He sounds handsome, and that is short-circuiting your brain even more.

“I have gone on an errand or two in my life,” he jokes, feet making their way towards the door. “Lock it behind me so no one else comes in. I’ll do this -” He knocks on the door in a quick but recognizable pattern. “- when I’m back. It should only be a few minutes.”

“You’re that good huh?” You stammer again, your whole body threatening to light on fire in this stall. This man may come back to a pile of ash instead of a woman dying of embarrassment.

“Eh, I could be better,” he says, and the door to the outside opens with a rush of lobby noise. “Be right back.”

A thick slam lets you sneak out to bolt the lock. Returning to the mirror that betrayed you just minutes before, you watch your reflection. Behind the roundness in your face you pick at and criticize, you recognize another emotion. Determination, and fortitude you push yourself to stop downplaying. You can overcome this setback. Nothing is lost. If anything, you might have gained a confidant, someone you could laugh about this comedy of errors with over coffee in the break room.

You’ll be sure to thank him properly when he gets back.

Maxwell Lorenzano hurries out of the office building he’s worked in for six months, down the street and to the Macy’s two blocks away. He knows these roads like the back of his hand, and all of the stores that line them. A good thing to keep in his back pocket when he was pitching new products and charming sales people. Especially good when he knows exactly which door to go through to get to the women’s delicates section.

He strides in with all the glorious purpose of a man on a mission, and people part for him. He likes to think it’s because he cuts an impressive figure, tan suit over a white button-up, brown and yellow striped tie flapping with urgency. But there’s always the nagging worry that it’s because they recognize him. That the scurry away is fear. He’d been confronted in the past, a handful of angry men and women who wanted to take out their frustrations with their fists. But worse is the anxiety, the fear, like he could snap his fingers and magic them out of existence.

The aftermath of that damn stone still hangs heavy around his neck.

“Can I help you?” a petite saleswoman asks when Max comes to a stop in the nylon section. His sudden drop in demeanor from confident to hesitant must have signaled her over. In his eagerness he didn’t even ask his damsel in distress which kind she needed, or her size. He chews his lip in contemplation.

“I’m looking for a pair of nylons for my…” He pauses, no words coming to mind. His unlikely acquaintance? His mystery girl locked in the men’s room? His noble quest? The saleswoman - Karla, her name tag informs him - puts him out of his misery.

“I can help you with that. What kind does she wear? Control top? Thigh highs?”

Max’s mouth dries out. The most he knows of her is the glimpse he got of her feet, sensible black heels, well worn. The sight warmed something in his chest. She must be a hard worker, someone on her feet all day and always up to run an errand for a friend. He bets they ache at the end of a long day. Does she have someone to rub them for her?

“What do…most women wear to an office?” he asks, flitting his eyes over the variety of styles and shades.

“All the professional women I know use thigh highs. Easier in the office than a full set.” Karla directs him to the right section. “What size is she?”

Damn, this is where his lack of foresight fails him. He should have asked, but the intimacy of that question died on his tongue. Why did they size nylons in weight and height, the two most sensitive topics? He’d rather swallow a mouthful of glass than ask. Picking up one of the packets, he flips it to the size chart. There are only four options, which is easier than he expected.

“I can’t remember, better safe than sorry. One of each,” he says, Karla’s well-manicured eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

“And what color?” Karla asks. He noted that at least.

“Sheer black.”

Karla moves to grab a handful of the basic style, the cheapest on the display, before Max stops her.

“These ones,” he amends, tapping the more expensive set. If she’d already torn one pair, another flimsy set wouldn’t do. It had nothing to do with the fact that the lace edging the expensive ones is more delicate, a prettier pattern, and thinking of giving it to you raises goosebumps on the back of his neck.

He doesn’t even know you. It’s just…practical.

Karla rings up his purchases without further question, though maybe a little side-smile. She gives Max a brighter one when he takes the bag.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” she comments, scurrying off before he can respond. His face burns hot as he exits the store, checking his watch. The innocuous word - boyfriend - pings in his mind.

It had been some time since Max had run an errand for anyone. A few empty flings followed his divorce but nothing substantial enough to require a trip to the drugstore, or even a coffee shop. It was one of his favorite things about being a husband. He lived for the little memos on his desk blotter - Mrs. Lord needs you to pick up hairspray and milk - and followed them to the letter and beyond. He prided himself in knowing her favorite scents, what brands she preferred, what she turned her nose up at and what feminine products she needed. Sometimes he’d slip in something extra, a bouquet of flowers, a simple card. She’d groan at the expense, especially in the most dire times, but it always ended with her on her tiptoes kissing him, whispering, “My hero,” in his ear.

He really enjoyed being her hero, even after everything that happened.

It’s still early enough that his bathroom stowaway won’t be late to her first day. He’ll get to swoop in and save the day, be a hero to one person for a short moment. Jogging back into the office, the clash in humidities making his shirt stick to his back, he returns to the bathroom door. Rapping his pattern on it, he waits for the shick of the lock and a few moments more in case she wants to be back in the stall when he enters.

Stepping in and locking the door behind him, the open space is still empty, her shoes in her stall. Her toes are pointed towards each other, legs nervously rubbing.

“I, uh, forgot to ask your size,” Max blurts out, cringing immediately at the first thing that comes to mind. He knows she’s holding her breath, so he speeds through the next part. “Those sizing charts are more invasive than a doctor’s visit, so I just got one of everything, and the shop lady said that thigh highs are what everyone’s wearing but I’m not an expert so I hope it’s…okay.” He trails off before stepping further in and sliding the bag under the stall door. He scolds himself not to look further but he does catch a glance at her shapely calves before straightening back up.

“I can…leave now. Unless you want me to stay until you’re ready to go. What…whatever you want.”

She still hasn’t said anything and it’s heavier than his anxiety on his chest. He’s sure he’s offended her, or completely screwed this one small task up. Leave it to him to take helping a stranger to new, wildly creepy levels. Should he have just gone to reception to ask a woman for help? Is she mortified a man she’s never seen bought her something so intimate?

He waits in agony.

You try to comprehend what this stranger has handed you. In his absence you practiced thanking him for what you assumed would be the wrong size of pantyhose. You planned how you would reassure him that he could leave so you could escape to the women’s room and struggle into whatever he returned with.

But instead, he surprises you with a folded bag tucked discreetly under the bathroom stall.

Four identical pairs of thigh-highs, all matching your outfit, and in every size you could hope for. Pulling out the correct packet, your breath catches in your throat. They’re nicer than you allow yourself to buy, the high-quality nylon silky under your touch. The lace along the edge is finely textured, beautifully designed.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, your voice faraway to your own ears, a ball forming in your throat. The man’s feet shuffle against the tile floor.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being a creep. My ex-wife always said I was good at finding exactly what she needed.”

His voice is tight, and it plucks at your heart.

“Not a creep, you’re definitely my hero today,” you manage to say, rolling down the ruined pantyhose. The other follows, tucking your bare toes into your shoes to protect them from the cold floor. The man paces outside while you stretch each new nylon up your legs.

“Definitely not how I thought my day would start,” he says, the smile in his voice making your first real one grace your lips.

“Me neither. I can pay you for these.”

“I could never accept. I’ll return the extras, but please. Consider them a ‘welcome to the office’ gift. Or consolation after the morning you’ve had.”

“Oh, so you work here too? Great, now I’ll have to worry about bumping into you in the other men’s bathrooms.”

“I would gladly approach all bathrooms with caution if I got to run into you in one again.”

A softer pause than before.

“Would you like me to leave?”

Smoothing the lace band around your plush thigh, you let your fingertips trace the edge. Briefly, you imagine fingers other than your own following the same path before hooking underneath to slide them down inch by inch, replaced by soft lips.

“I’d like to thank my savior face to face,” you tease, smoothing your skirt and toeing your shoes back on. You dab some toilet paper under your eyes, pat your hair, and take a deep breath before exiting the bathroom stall.

The stall door slams shut as the man who saved your day turns to face you. His eyes light on your face first, open curiosity melting into a charming smile that is…familiar. In fact, a lot of him is familiar. His wide shoulders, suit jacket stretching against them. The sweep of his blond hair, not as light as it used to be but still caramel with burnt sugar strands. His large hands, no longer sporting a Rolex or an ostentatious pinky ring. And his face, one of the most recognizable in recent years, wearing an expression you’ve never seen. If you weren’t so dumbstruck you’d think it was appreciation. It was the look someone might give before calling you beautiful.

“Max Lorenzano…”

“Max Lord.”

His introduction trips over your recognition, dazed expression sharpening and shattering under those two words. The hope in his eyes dims as he schools his expression into acceptance, honey-golden aura swapped for the cool light of cold winter mornings.

“I’ll go. My apologies,” he says, simple, direct. You’re sure this has happened to him many times, possibly followed by shouts or sneers. Your own words stick in your throat as he claps his hands together and moves to leave. Thankfully your hands are fast enough, wrapping around his arm and pulling him to a stop.

“No, please, wait,” you finally manage, your bodies so close you’re burned by the heat radiating off his jacket. He turns in your grip, which you release to clasp your hands in front of your stomach.

“I didn’t mean…you startled me, I never expected…” you start, rolling your next words around in your mouth. He watches you, half wary, half hopeful. This close you can see how the edges of his lips are slightly chewed, how close his shave is, the sheen of sweat along his neck. He must have ran to get back here so quickly. Your heart thumps weakly against your ribs.

“I never thought I’d ever come face to face with the person who granted my wish,” you say, watching his jaw tighten in anticipation of vitriol.

“When I saw you on TV, and you asked me what my one desire was, I had…so many things come to mind. To be prettier, thinner, beautiful.” You can tell he wants to say something but you barrel on before you lose your nerve. “But I’m not a complete idiot, I’ve seen a few movies about wishes. I know those things can blow up in your face, and I don’t think I could take being hurt about how I looked by some magic rock.”

Max’s hand cups your elbow, thumb rubbing a soothing path.

“So I closed my eyes and I wished exactly this: I want one more day with my best friend at the time in her life when she was happiest.” The next breath you take in shakes. “She died seven years ago. Breast cancer. I miss her every day, and I just wanted one more with her. And I got my wish. And it was the best fucking day. The world outside might have been a mess, but we watched our favorite movies, snuck out to the spots we loved before she got sick, ate our favorite foods and talked all night. And I know it was real because she handed me my own ass and made me come to terms with some shit I did not like about myself. Only she would do that.” You fight against the tears, a sniffle coming out instead, as Max watches you with blossoming wonder.

“And when it was done she hugged me and told me to kick ass and eat cake and break hearts and I’ve been doing my best ever since.” You let out a watery giggle, Max’s smile warming your cheeks. “I never thought I’d be able to thank the person who gave me my best day, but then, here you are, giving me something I needed again. So, wow, thank you. I…thank you.”

Max clears his throat, his own eyes glassy.

“Can I hug you?” he asks, and you push into his arms without further preamble. He holds you with deep breaths, both of your hearts cracking open and healing pressed together. The overwhelming scent of sweat and spicy deodorant and the warmth of his skin is a balm to your frazzled nerves. His cheek rests against your forehead and when you squeeze him a little tighter he returns it.

When you part, your reddened eyes and sniffling noses make you both snort out laughs, moving to the sink to freshen up. You powder your face, surprisingly unselfconscious after all that just happened. Max straightens his tie and sweeps back his hair. It looks soft, barely styled. His shoulders seem lighter.

Both presentable, he lets you into the hallway, hazarding a peek to prevent any scandal. You walk side by side as he asks you where you’re starting work - transcription - and you ask where you’ll be able to find him - the mailroom. He waits for you to sign in with the front desk before leading you to the elevators, not so surreptitiously angling for the empty one before leading you in. He’s meant to be going down a floor, but rides with you up to the sixth.

“I’m glad you made that wish,” he says once the doors shut, the elevator whirring to life under your feet. “And that you didn’t make the other ones. You’re already beautiful.” He says the last three words quietly, like they would spook you if he said them with his whole chest. Your cheeks burn, the smile dimpling them. “And…thank you. For telling me. No one’s ever told me they’ve been happy.”

You ride in silence until just before your floor, turning to look at the man who gave you so much. He’s watching you like a miracle, like he wants to wrap you in his arms again, like he wants to say something very stupid to a person he barely knows. He swallows it instead, but you can’t help yourself. You lift up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, and savor the way he leans into it.

“My hero,” you whisper, stepping out to let the doors close between you.

Your lips, and your words, linger on him for days. Your impressions lingers on his heart for longer. After a week he tries to forget, to push you to the background in a futile attempt at self-preservation. You don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you. Fate smashed you together but you should part just as quickly, save you both the heartache. He’s still a complicated man, and you deserve better than that.

It works until he gets a piece of mail for you, two weeks later, and possessed by some boldness he’s forgotten he has, he plasters a sticky note on it.

“I hope your first week has been better than your first day.”

He wants to write so much more, but knowing anyone could see it stops his hand.

He doesn’t expect a response, at least not right away. You might still be embarrassed. So when he’s closing up at the end of the day and you come up beside him, the shock on his face breaks you into laughter.

“My week has been nowhere near as good as my first day,” you finally say. “But I did find a good place to eat a few blocks away. Great dinner options.” Max’s heart pulls between stopping and beating uncontrollably in his chest until he finally says, “We better check it out then.”

The laughter is just as easy as the first day, the conversation even better. He refuses to let you leave without trying the milkshakes, and beams when he watches something heavy fall off your shoulders as you look at him.

You tell him more about your life, your friend that brought you both together more than she’d ever imagined. He tells you about the life he lives now, of Alistair and how proud he is of him. Questions and anecdotes and words both loud and soft wrap around you in the wooden booth. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s felt like Maxwell Lorenzano.

When he walks you to your subway stop Max’s hand falls to your lower back and remains. The soft way you look at him makes him think that maybe all his heroics have finally gotten him somewhere after all.

And next time he finds himself in a bathroom with you, it’s very much on purpose.

END

I didn't want to spoil the turn, but yeah that's the face he gives her and it makes me emotional just looking at it.

#max lord x reader #maxwell lord x you #maxwell lord x reader #prolix fics

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worlds-worst-ships · 1 month ago

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Ad Libs: KSI gets shooting pains in his nards from how sexually frustrated DanTDM has made him, so he spaffs so hard that Dan's minecraft server crashes

~A Tale Of True Unrequited Love~

*Click "keep reading" for some extremely cartoonish sexual content*

Contains: Monster c*ck, Mpreg, use of food, pillowf*cking, extreme load fetish, a tiiiiny bit of scat, a happy ending with a wedding.

Dan. He was the people's YouTuber. One whom, amidst a maelstrom of allegations and wealth-fuelled madness, has become what every man wishes he could be... truly normal. Succesful, revered, one of the greats, but nonetheless, down to earth in such a way that you'd be forgiven for not realising you're in the presence of greatness were you to walk past him in the street and pay him no mind. His channel, fanbase, and his beautiful wife and children, the spoils of his long and illustrious career, the battery powering the eternal engine that is his well-earned happy future. And beneath his modesty, as any man would be, Dan is proud of what he has accomplished. Proud, yet not swollen with pride. Some, however, were...well..."torn" when it came to what to make of him.

Some, that is, being KSI and his fanbase. Well, his fans won't have time to read the story, because Cbeebies stops airing at 6pm and they have to go to bed before school tomorrow, so we'll leave them out of it and focus on their idol. Yes, KSI, from the screen to the ring to the pen to the king, with his crown and his bling, its always trouble when he rings. And ring, he did... by that, of course, I mean rim his ring until his keyboard looked like someone stamped on a pile of jellyfish when DanTDM popped up in his twitter mentions. Dan was the envy of many men, but most of all to KSI. Despite how illogical it was, KSI couldn't possibly imagine how Dan could sleep every night next to his wife and not him. How it was her that he kissed every day, her who got to make him dinner, her he made love with... it made him feel so left out. So lonely. So lost.

Hence, after years of waiting, when Dan mentioned him on twitter, KSI simply lost control. He couldn't hold it in anymore. His scrotum crumpled up like a sheet of foil, his mouth began foaming, his nipples hardened, and his KSI (Knee-length Sausage Incinerator) hardened to the point where it began to come to life, the urethra opening up like a mouth and screaming like Arnold did in the Predator movie.

It was negative publicity, an attack against the ultimate wonder-meal that would soon cure cancer that is Lunchly, but it didn't matter. This was as good of an excuse as any. KSI ran to his room, grabbed his pillow, threw it to the floor of his office, stabbed a hole in it, then placed his PC and monitor on the floor. Then, while furiously mating-pressing the pillow, he began his onslaught against Dan.

Hours became days. Days became weeks. KSI pounded the pillow into oblivion, wishing it could be Dan, wishing Dan would do the same to him, posting one tweet with every thrust. His PRIME (Pre-cum Releasing Immediately, Multiplying Excitement) was gushing through the pillow and into the carpet, seeping through the ceiling downstairs.

"DAAAANNNN!!!! DAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNN!!!!! I NEED YOU DADDY, DAAAAAAANNNNN!!!! Shrieked JJ, hitting record on his microphone so that the sounds of him fucking the pillow could be made into a beat for a new song. "DDDAAAAANNN!!! EAT MY ASS LIKE A LUNCHLY, DAAAAAANNNNNN!!!!"

Did I mention Dan had no idea this was happening? Anyway...

Olajide still wasn't satisfied. His pillow was burnt to shreds now. He was simply penetrating a hole in the ground he had made. Dan was yet to respond, and he couldn't bust until he did. He truly needed something, anything from Dan. And then...

Dan responded. He posted a tweet. But for KSI, it was sweet sorrow... the best he was going to get. "Living the dream" said Dan, posting pictures of him having fun with his family.

It would have to do.

With a mighty squeal, KSI finally let loose his love custard. His fuck muck. His Olajizze. His KSI (klumpy spunk injection) cascaded from the tip of his willy, completely staining the carpet as if a bucket of yogurt had been spilled. The carpet was two inches thicker than last month due to weeks of P R E, and now KSI finally had his release.

Dan, meanwhile, was playing a rousing game of minecraft, when all of a sudden, he hears something... a loud, sorrowful voice seemingly from miles away. It said "GYORSH, PLEASE FIST MY KNOB HOLE DADDY DAN!!!!" sending vibrations through his entire house, crashing his minecraft server. Confused, but not particularly bothered, dan just did something else with his evening.

KSI on the other hand, went to sleep exhausted, his meaty clackers still in pain from the need for Dan's touch.

Dan still plagued his dreams. They looked something like this.

But they were just that... dreams. Or so he thought.

THREE MONTHS LATER

There was set to be a con in London today. All the big YouTubers would be there. Well, they'd be in private booths drinking champagne and avoiding their fans like lepers, but they'd be there. Including KSI.

On the fated day, KSI arrived at the con, still missing the sweet parasocial touch of DanTDM. This wasn't even enemies to lovers anymore. It was just fucking pathetic. No matter how many tweets, how many nuts, how many cheeky toilet wanks during Sidemen shoots, KSI just wasn't satisfied. It would never be enough.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the con, KSI in his zoned out state occasionally bumps into someone. After a few times, he thinks "Man, I need to get a grip, huh?". Thats when...IT happened.

KSI bumped into someone. Again.

"Sorry man, my bad" he said.

"No worries" the person replied, walking away, not really registering that he'd just bumped into KSIOlajideBT.

Wait...that was...no way...

It was DAN!!! KSI was truly elated. He wanted to run up to his beloved daddy, tackle him to the ground, and rub his baseball bat willy up and down his ribs like a xylophone, but by time he turned around, his daddy was already long gone.

Needless to say, he was distraught. Dan was probably going back to the wife he envied so much. No more chances. No more Dan. KSI had lost his one chance at the ultimate nut.

But then, as if sent by God himself, the G.O.A.T Deji appears with two boxes in his hands.

"HEY JJ, ITS COMEDYSHORTSGAME- oh, sorry, force of habit. I got you a chicken wrap. Here you go, bro." he said, handing Olajizzums his wrap.

KSI knew what he had to do. He looked at the end of this wrap. The way it was folded. The way it stared at him, so tight, so cute. The way a few drops of BBQ sauce leaked out of the end. It reminded him of one thing.

Of course... it was bussy. He would use this wrap as an allegory for bussy, and mate with it until the very planet itself shook, right here, and right now.

KSI unsheathed his love steak, slamming it with the force of Tommy Fury's right hook into the end of the wrap. With Deji looking on in horror, KSI made a stir-fry out of the chicken wrap with his nigh sentient leviathan winky, bucketing paddling pools worth of pre-cum all over the convention floor. Imagining it was Dan. Wishing Dan would do it to him. Longing for a pickaxe up the bumbum, courtesy of his one true love.

Deji wanted to be pissed off, but he was honestly kinda impressed, so he did some tiktok dances while his brother made it possible to get chicken wraps pregnant.

Opening the floodgates on his pained and blueballed ballbag, KSI released his population pudding into the wrap, and for several hundred meters up the street. The A2 was congested for hours because of it. The sperm cells were the size of bloodhounds due to how pent up KSI was over Dan, so the army had to fight them. They won btw.

Another three months later;

Due to the absolute bussy bludgeoning KSI gave the chicken wrap, it ended up getting preggers. So technically, KSI discovered the secret to Mpreg, which would be a really good tag for this post, but also a reason for KSI and the chicken wrap to get married. Not because they love each other, but because they had to for the kids.

"What should we name the baby?" the wrap asked KSI.

"If its a boy, Daniel. If its a girl, Daniella." KSI replied, rubbing his bellend on the pregnancy bump... in front of all the wedding guests. Yes, I decided chicken wraps have a very short gestation period, thats why there's a bump.

"Isn't that the name of the guy you want to put his wooden sword up your choccy starfish?" said the wrap.

"Wait.. what makes you say I'D be the one getting it up the bum?" said KSI.

"Because you were acting like a bratty bottom on Twitter" responded the wrap, tugging on Olajide's dangly meat eggs, making him giggle.

"Fair" he said.

The result? A 1500 word crackfic that I am fucking sick of writing. Goodbye.

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defilerwyrm · 11 months ago

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A fond farewell

CW: Pet illness, cancer, death.

My Mom’s cat Sookie, littermate to Tigger and my Cassiopeia, had been terribly sick for several months. Test after test came back negative, until finally x-rays showed a deep shadow in her lungs. It was either an advanced fungal infection or lung cancer. If it was fungus, the treatment would be injections three times a week for 6-12 months with a 50% chance of recovery. If it was cancer…there was no treatment plan. We’ve been waiting on more test results to screen for one of four types of fungus common in this area while giving her anti-nausea meds and encouraging her to eat.

Sookie went missing two days ago. We figured she didn’t like the ruckus of the roofers and went out into the woods like usual. But she wasn’t coming back at night to eat, and she can’t afford to miss meals, so we’d been out looking for her without any luck.

This morning, Dad saw Tigger playing in the front yard like she hadn’t in years. Tigger is a grumpy old cat, but she was leaping and racing and dashing halfway up trees and gamboling like Fang & November (6-week-old kittens) do with each other. But there was no other animal with her that he could see.

He found Sookie mere yards away from that this evening, stiff but bugless still, uninjured, recently passed. It seemed she’d been on her way home from her usual hunting grounds and laid down in a thicket to pass away—died doing what she loved.

I’m a skeptic. There are plenty of explanations for what he saw this morning, I’m sure.

But the most comforting one is that two old littermates played together one last time, like they did when they were very young.

Rest in peace, Sookie Kitty.

#cw pet death #meatspace

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celestial-astro · 8 months ago

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Blackpink Jisoo Career Tarot Reading (2024 Energy)

Disclaimer: This reading is for entertainment purposes only! Please continue to follow the general guidelines and be respectful. Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you!

Cards: Queen of Pentacles, The Hermit, 2 of Cups, 8 of cups, 3 of pentacles, Knight of Wands, Ace of Pentacles, 4 of Cups, 6 of wands

Oracles: A personal issue reaches resolution (Full Moon in Cancer), Don't let your past hold you back (South Node), The end of a tough cycle approaches (Full Moon in Capricorn), Show the world the real you (Full Moon in Aquarius)

The reading:

Jisoo is going to take full control of her career this year; she will be at the helm of everything (Queen of Pentacles). I think in the past Jisoo has felt restricted and possibly alone in her career (The Hermit). She has had a lot of fears that she needed to overcome and challenges she needed to face (likely by herself). However, she is now no longer afraid to face these challenges and knows when she needs to walk away (8 of cups). The presence of the Two of Cups tells me that she could possibly be part of a successful on-screen pairing this year. This pairing could increase her popularity even more. This could also signify that she is likely to meet a real-life romantic interest in a work setting or be introduced by coworkers. Collaboration is going to play a big role in her career this year (3 of Pentacles). She is also going to feel very passionate about her projects this year (Knight of Wands). She will also likely gain a lot of monetary rewards from her projects this year. [get that bag, girl!] (Ace of Pentacles). She is also likely to get many offers for jobs; some of which she will be rejecting for various reasons (4 of Cups). Overall, she will feel very victorious about her career this year since the reading ends with 6 of Wands.

The oracles tell me that she might have felt a little lost in her career before. (this is likely due to YG’s restrictions). She felt held back and restricted, but now she is free. Free to make her own choices and forge her own path. There could also be some aspect of self-doubt that plagued her before, but now, she’s released all that negative energy and is willing to move forward with a more positive outlook.

Honestly, her career prospects are looking amazing and better than ever!

I hope you like this reading!💗🌸✨ Please be kind and respectful. Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. Please let me know if you have any suggestions/requests. Thank you!

#kpop tarot #free tarot #free tarot reading #jisooblackpink #jisoo tarot #blackpink jisoo #bp tarot #blackpink #career reading #tarot #career tarot #kpop divination #kpop readings #kpop #k drama tarot

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wayfaringmd · 2 years ago

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Wise Wayfaring (can we call your advice posts this?)! I'm a medical student and due to unfortunate circumstances I find myself having to repeat a year of med school :( this sucks esp. after working so hard. I'm trying to work on my study habits and improve, but I was wondering if you had any advice on how to address this for residencies?

Wise Wayfaring….I like the sound of that.

Anywho, yes, I have advice.

1. Make sure your Step scores are competitive AND show improvement from step 1 to step 2. When my program is recruiting we start with a Step 1 score baseline to screen people out. So if your score is good, that may get your foot in just so your application can be seen by programs. When there are academic troubles early on, we look for growth in the later years, so improved test scores as you advance further are key.

2. Do outstanding on your clinical rotations. Ask for feedback as you go along so you can be constantly working on improving yourself. When we see “functions as a fourth year” on a third year rotation evaluation or “functioning almost as a resident” in a fourth year eval it bodes very well. These are the things that get you interviews so you can then have the chance to explain your repeated year.

3. Don’t make excuses. There are a lot of reasons why people have to take a leave of absence or have to repeat a year. If your reason was purely just crappy grades due to your own crappy study habits, own up to it and then explain what you learned from it to make your grades better in the subsequent years. Tell the programs what you have changed about your study system in order to do better.

4. If you had to repeat or you got behind because of a personal or family tragedy or something, know that programs (at least mine) are forgiving about that kind of stuff. It’s not your fault that bad things happened and got in the way of med school. We occasionally see someone who had to take an extended leave of absence because they had a parent dying of cancer or something and we don’t hold that against them as long as they maintained good academic standing when they came back.

5. If you had a mental health crisis that led to bad grades and repeating the year, it’s important to show how your mental health has improved. You don’t have to tell all your business, but it does help to be sort of open and honest about what went on. Explain what you learned in therapy and changed about yourself. Tell them you’re on a good med regimen if you are. Have a plan for how you’re going to manage stress in residency so you don’t have another crisis.

6. Be prepared for interviewers to ask you about the repeated year. Have a good answer prepared but don’t make it sound like a practiced speech.

7. Don’t be a victim. Programs like to see applicants take personal responsibility. It generally translates into a resident who is going to be conscientious and a team player. Don’t act like the repeated year was the worst thing that ever happened to you, even if it was. Don’t dwell on the negative aspects of it. Talk about how you grew from it and how it’s going to make you a better resident.

#residency #eras #repeated year #medical school

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chefgretamorrison · 9 months ago

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GRETA MORRISON

Born under the glimmer of Hollywood's golden era, with a name inspired by screen legend Greta Garbo, Greta Morrison came from the lush comfort of her privileged upbringing to the rigorous kitchens of Le Cordon Bleu. She's traded opulence for the heat of the stove and the zest of innovation. As the soon-to-open La Boheme's heart and soul, she marries her passion for exquisite cuisine with a dash of rebellion. Amidst personal awakenings and culinary conquests, Greta wants to remain a steadfast in her commitment to authenticity, love, and the creation of unforgettable experiences. She aims to weave her own legacy in Covington, Georgia.

SELF

NICKNAMES: G, Chef G AGE: 40 BIRTHDAY: May 5, 1981 SEXUALITY: Lesbian GENDER: Cis Female PRONOUNS: She/Her PROFESSION: Owner & Chef of La Boheme (opening soon) LOCATION: Orchid Park, Covington, Georgia FACE CLAIM: Danielle Savre RACE/ETHNICITY: Caucasian NATIONALITY: American HEIGHT: 5'6" BUILD: Slender and fit HAIR: Blonde, often styled in a casually elegant manner EYE COLOR: Blue ALLERGIES: None, but has a peculiar dislike for cilantro DISORDERS: Mild anxiety FASHION: Rustic elegance combined with a touch of Southern charm. Blend of comfort with a hint of sophistication. Fitted blazers, soft flowing blouses, occasional statement piece like bold, patterned scarf. Earth tones and textures, leather boots and artisan jewelry that add personality to her ensembles. NERVOUS TICS: Taps her fingers rhythmically on surfaces when deep in thought HOBBIES: Antique shopping, especially culinary tool collecting INTERESTS: Sustainable farming, culinary history, poetry POSITIVE TRAITS: Creative, empathetic, ambitious NEGATIVE TRAITS: Impatient, self-critical, struggles to ask for help MBTI PERSONALITY: ENFJ (The Protagonist) ZODIAC CHART: Taurus Sun, Scorpio Moon, Virgo Rising CORE VALUES: Integrity in culinary creations, community engagement, sustainability PERSONAL CHALLENGES: Finding a balance between work and personal life, overcoming childhood neglect PERSONAL ACHIEVEMENTS: Establishing a successful culinary career independently, nurturing meaningful relationships, successfully breaking from her family’s traditional expectations to carve out her own path, creating a loving and chosen family LIFESTYLE: A blend of culinary innovation and quiet, quality time with loved ones QUIRKS: Small whisk tattoo on the side of her left ribs, bursts out French when cooking or overwhelmed or angry FUTURE ASPIRATIONS: To expand her culinary brand focusing on sustainable practices for fine cuisine, write a cookbook intertwining recipes and narratives, and share cooking tips online, reaching a wider audience with her culinary philosophy and skills.

FAMILY

MOTHER: Julien Morrison (deceased, was a socialite and philanthropist, with a fondness for old movie stars, which influenced the naming of her daughters) FATHER: Peter Morrison (successful businessman, often distant) CHILDREN: Step-daughter, Emilia Parish SIBLINGS: A younger sister named Katharine Morrison, after Katharine Hepburn. FIANCÉ: Laikyn Parrish, a novelist and the adoptive mother of Emilia

BIOGRAPHY

tw: cancer, death

From the opulence of her birthright to the culinary heights of Le Cordon Bleu in France, Greta Morrison was always a vivid canvas of what a life lived under privilege looked like. Born into a wealthy family, to Peter and Julien, Greta's early years were marked by the kind of advantages that most could only dream of.

Since she was a child, Greta had everything her heart could desire. A pony? Her father would make sure hers was the most prized and that she had the best instructors. The latest toy? She would have two, for the sake of never to worry about losing it. A trip to Disney World? Greta would be at the best hotel, with all at her disposal. She had everything, except what she truly desired—present parents.

Their wealth permitted them to provide the best tutors, and nannies, but nothing replaced that abandonment in her heart. Because their life was so busy, her dad with work and her mom as a socialite, Greta was rarely in their home in Georgia. Always traveling with them and the staff, or being sent away on her own. Her educational began at an all-girls boarding school in Switzerland, and Greta, having learned ways to get her parents attention, was never afraid to get herself into trouble. She quickly carved out a reputation for herself there.

The privileges that surrounded her seemed only to fuel her defiant spirit, and Greta never shied away from pushing boundaries. Troublesome incidents and clashes with authority figures peppered her adolescence, all that deviated from what her mother had expected her privileged upbringing to be. The structured environment of the boarding school struggled to contain her free spirit, and Greta's endeavors became a defining feature of her youth.

Around that same time, Greta grappled with the exploration of her own sexuality. It was during these formative years that she first began to realize and understand her attraction to women, thought it wasn’t until many years later that she began identifying herself as a lesbian—as the conservative environment of the boarding school provided no sanctuary for such self-discovery.

After graduation, Greta took a gap year to travel Europe and that’s when the culinary world beckoned, which Greta answered the call with gusto. Her culinary adventurous in Europe took her to the laps of many women, which she greatly appreciated the mixture. Beautiful women and excellent food were Greta’s kryptonite. It wasn’t until later into her gap year, unsure what to do with her life still, that her path crossed with Marie DuPaul, a lover much older than her, who managed to get Greta a spot to study in the prestigious Le Cordon Bleu in France.

Her time there broadened not only her palate but also her appreciation for love and romance. She learned with the French that any woman could be romanced by their stomachs, if cooked the right food.

Greta's culinary prowess and insatiable curiosity for the world led her to work under the best chefs in Paris, where she honed her skills and refined her craft, aside from working her ass off. For almost a decade, she wandered far from her country, embracing the world as her home instead. Yet, despite the allure of exotic locales, her roots remained tethered to the small town of Covington, Georgia.

Tragedy struck when her mother became sick with cancer, pulling Greta back to her home. Reluctantly, she left her work, her friends and a few lovers and returned to the States. Her arrival felt more like a bittersweet farewell, as her mother's passing cast a somber shadow over the reunion. The anchor of her family, the very force that had nurtured her extraordinary spirit, was gone, leaving Greta adrift in a sea of grief.

Five years later, Greta finds herself at a crossroads, ready to embark on the journey she promised herself she would undertake – building her own fine cuisine restaurant in her hometown. The years, and her hard work in kitchens all over, taught her to be more humble and less entitled, but she’s still the same stubborn girl she was when she first left Covington.

Since last October she's been engaged with Laikyn Parrish. They moved in together quickly when they started dating, and they've been like that for around three years. Lake and her met through Greta's younger sister and Lake's daughter, who happened to be best friends and in the same cheering squad together—the one Lake coaches. They did a whole plan to get Greta and Lake together, parent trap style, and even though it almost went sideways a first, it worked out in the end. Greta is head over heals for Lake, she'll do anything for her woman. From bringing her midnight snacks when she's writing up her next novel to praising and supporting every single endeavor she joins in.

Pinterest board: https://pin.it/2kgZffq0q

#about #shortbio #fc #{ playing with fire }

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s65ns · 10 months ago

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Out of Time - Chapter Three.

Out of Time Masterlist

Previous Part: Six Months / Next Part: Two Months

⚠️ TW: Mentions of Cancer ⚠️

word count: 2.5k words

��•••••••••••••

Chapter Three: Four Months

third person's pov.

"Mari, hey!" Evelyn said as she opened the door for her childhood best friend.

"Evelyn! I missed you!" Mari exclaimed. Mari opened her arms wide to engulf Evelyn in a long awaited hug. Evelyn hugged back with every cell in her body.

"My! Look at you!" Mari said as she cradled Evelyn's face in her hands. Evelyn rolled her eyes knowing her friend was being modest and that she definitely looked like complete crap. She had rolled out of bed in her SpongeBob onesie and currently had no makeup, Mari was not fooling her.

"Oh stop." Evelyn said, swatting Mari's hands away. They sat down on the couch and did their best to catch each other up on what was going on in each other's lives.

Mari and Evelyn used to be the best of friends. Their mothers were best friends so it was only right for them to become best friends as well. They were practically joined at the hip everyday. They rode the bus together. Did their homework together. They even got in trouble together.

Mari and Evelyn were an unstoppable duo. That was until Mari's dad had to relocate to Australia for work. At age 14, Mari and her family had to pack up and head to Australia together, leaving the poor girls devastated.

They managed to keep in touch, but things were never quite the same. Mari and Evelyn used to take turns each year visiting each other. Once they were well into their teenage years though, the visits faded out. It wasn't until Mari got news that Evelyn was sick did she start visiting again.

"So...are you seeing anyone?" Mari asked wiggling her eyebrows. Evelyn scoffed, rolling her eyes and took a sip of her homemade pumpkin spice coffee.

"As if. Who would want to be with a woman basically on her deathbed?" Mari smacked Evelyn.

"None of that kind of talk. I don't want to hear it. You know words are powerful. I'm sure there are plenty of guys flocking and throwing themselves at you and you're probably just turning them down with your negative mentality." Mari said. Evelyn rolled her eyes once again, taking another sip.

"You're wrong. There are no-" Evelyn's speech was cut short by her phone buzzing. Both her and Mari's eyes snapped to the phone buzzing on the table. On the screen flashed the name Evelyn had been trying to forget.

Mari slowly turned her back to Evelyn with a smug smile on her face. Evelyn kept her eyes casted down as she felt Mari's gaze fall on her.

"No guys, huh? So who's Harry? Last I checked you don't just put a heart next to any random guy's name. You don't even have a heart next to my name!" Mari said in disbelief.

"Actually I do have a heart by your name."

"Yeah? Show me." Mari said smugly. She knew pretty well Evelyn did in fact not have a heart by her name.

"I have a heart by your name in here." Evelyn said patting her chest. Mari and Evelyn burst out laughing.

"Whatever. Don't try and avoid the question. Who's Harry?" Mari was not letting Evelyn get away that easy. Mari had never seen Evelyn give herself the chance to be loved by someone, so for her to see a guy's name with a heart next to it meant a lot to her.

"He's just a friend." Evelyn mumbled.

"Just a friend? Come on, Eve, I know you better than that. You put a heart by his name!"

"Alright! Alright," Evelyn paused to put her cup down on the table, "he is a friend who is, perhaps, interested in being a bit more than friends."

"Sooooo?" Mari asked expectantly.

"So...nothing happened. He asked me to be his girlfriend a couple months ago, and I said no."

"Oh." was all Mari could say.

"Yeah." Evelyn said with a sigh.

"Why'd you turn him down?" Mari asked. Evelyn thought about her answer. She knew exactly why she turned him down, but she didn't exactly want to let Mari know about her insecurities.

"Because he doesn't deserve that. He deserves someone who he'll be able to be with for the long run and have children with and perhaps buy a house that's far too big with a white Pickett fence around it. He deserves to get his dream and I can't give him that. I'm nothing more than a sick woman getting worse and worse every day until her demise. He wouldn't be happy with me and I want him to be happy." Evelyn said.

Mari nodded her head solemnly. She placed a reassuring hand on Evelyn's knee, rubbing circles.

"I know you could probably care less about what I have to say with how stubborn you are, but take it with a grain of salt. Don't you think he already knows all of this and is still willing to take the chance? I mean, he's braver than most men, but doesn't that go to show how much he loves you? How much he cares about you?"

"I'm not sure if he loves me in that way. It could very well just be an infatuation with something you know isn't going to last. It's like how some men like to chase things they know they can't have." Evelyn said with a snort. Mari nodded in acknowledgment.

"Well then let me ask you this. How do you feel about him? I know you said you want him to be happy, but do you love him?"

Before Evelyn could answer Mari's question, there was a rap at the door. Evelyn's brows furrowed as she wasn't expecting anyone.

"I'll get it." Mari said leaving her spot on the couch. She glanced through the peephole to see a man with curls up to his shoulder standing at the door impatiently. The man was gorgeous to say the least.

Mari took a step back to open the door. There stood Harry in all his glory. His head snapped in the direction of the door opening to see a woman that wasn't Evelyn.

"Can I help you?" Mari asked. Harry furrowed his brows, but smiled nonetheless.

"Hello, I'm Harry. Is Evelyn here?" he asked.

From the couch, Evelyn shouted, "Who's at the door?" A wave of relief washed over Harry as he heard the familiar voice. Mari glanced back at Evelyn to see she had emeresed herself back into her show.

Mari placed a finger on her lips in a shush motion and quietly ushered Harry in. Harry stepped in taking off his shoes. The thumping of his shoes hitting the ground caught Evelyn's attention.

She turned around from her place on the couch and released an audible gasp. Mari stood behind Harry with an evil grin on her face.

"Hello, Evie." Harry said with a small smile. Inside Harry was somewhat angry with his girl for not answering his texts or calls. The only saving grace he had to know she was safe were her poetic story posts on Instagram.

But Harry was also relieved to see she was okay. He could immediately tell she had gotten thinner, but nonetheless she looked beautiful in his eyes.

Harry walked over to the couch tentatively. Evelyn's eyes followed him as he came closer.

"May I?" he asked pointing to the spot next to her on the couch. Evelyn nodded her head while making a mental note to kill Mari later for letting him in.

"Oh my! Would you look at the time. I've got to get going, yeah? I've gotta feed my cats and do some of Tony's laundry. You kids have fun. But not too much fun, yeah?" Mari said slipping her coat and shoes on.

Evelyn was sending Mari daggers with her eyes while Harry sat there amused.

"No clearing any cobwebs." Mari said with a wink. Evelyn picked up the pillow nearest to her and chucked it at Mari just as she was closing the door.

Harry let out a small chuckle at their antics. They both turned back around and focused on the TV show in front of them.

The atmosphere was tense. Evelyn could tell Harry wanted to say something, but was holding back for her to make the first move.

After sitting there in silence for another minute, Evelyn grabbed the remote and put the show on mute. She turned her body to face him.

She let out a sigh before asking, "Why are you here, Harry?"

Harry cocked his eyebrow as he turned to face Evelyn.

"Why am I here?" he asked rhetorically. Evelyn nodded waiting for him to proceed.

"I'm here because I wanted to talk to you." he said.

"Why?"

"Because you ghosted me and I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Why?" Evelyn asked again.

"Because I asked you an important question two months ago and you randomly vanished." Evelyn couldn't hold Harry's gaze. She casted her eyes to ground out of embarrassment.

A moment went by before Harry spoke up again.

"Did I do something wrong?" Evelyn shook her head no.

"Not particularly."

"Then what is it?" he asked. Harry was beginning to get impatient. He had been waiting for a response for two months. He thought maybe Evelyn needed time to think about an answer for his question. But when she suddenly stopped returning his text and calls, he knew something was up.

He didn't want to show up to her house uninvited. He never really planned to. He just happened to be in the area and his feet led him to her front door.

Evelyn mumbled something Harry couldn't quite hear.

"I'm sorry?"

She mumbled again. Harry subconsciously leaned closer to hear her better.

"I'm sorry, love. You're going to need to speak up." Harry's eyes never left Evelyn. They were like a hawk watching their prey. He'd never seen Evelyn seem so small before. He wondered if maybe he had done this.

"It was because of your question." Evelyn said clearly. She finally let her gaze trail back up to Harry's.

Harry's face contorted in bewilderment.

"You stopped talking to me for two months, because I asked you to be my girlfriend?" Harry asked incredulously.

Evelyn sighed. She was speechless. She had no other excuse for her actions except for fear. The fear of losing him.

"Yes." was all she could say.

"Why? I thought we were finally getting somewhere in our relationship?" Confusion was written all over Harry's face. He didn't understand where he went wrong or what he may have misunderstood.

"Our relationship is only going to end in heartbreak, Harry. You know that." Evelyn said holding back the tears welling in her eyes.

"Loving you is a losing game that I am not prepared to play."

"Then don't. Don't play with me, Evelyn, because I'm not playing with you," Harry pauses to take a deep breath before continuing, "I love you."

A neutral silence falls over them as Evelyn lets Harry's words sink in. As Evelyn thinks, Harry continues to speak, "I have loved you for a while now, and trust me, I wanted to respect your wishes. I wanted to keep everything platonic between us, but I can't deny my feelings for you."

"I was reading a poem by Courtney Peppernell the other day. It said 'one day someone walks into your life, a total stranger, and they become so important to you. And while you've known them such a short time, you feel you have loved them for a lifetime' and that is the exact way I feel about you, Evie. I felt that way back then meeting you in that car park and getting to know you and how amazing you are, and I feel that way about you now even after you ghosted me. And believe it or not I'm going to feel that way about you forever."

Evelyn's face flushed at his confession.

No one had ever said such sweet things to her. She almost let herself enjoy the moment before remembering her impending doom.

"But Harry-"

"And I know you're going to try to detour me with the whole 'Harry, I'm dying' thing as if I don't already know that," Harry cradles Evelyn's face in his hands, "but I'm going to love you through this. Even if you don't feel the same way about me. I'm going to love you. I already do. And there's nothing you can do to try to stop me from it."

Tears begin to well up in Evelyn's eyes as a smile appears on her face. Harry's thumbs wipe the tears away as they fall.

Evelyn moves closer to Harry to hug him. Oh how she had missed his warmth. His sweet smell suffocating and intoxicating her at the same time. She let herself fall apart in his arms as she always had before and Harry soaked up every minute of it. He sat holding her one arm wrapped around her back and the other holding her head to his chest.

After a moment of simply existing with each other, Evelyn sat up. She placed her hands on Harry's thighs as a means to stabilize herself. Her eyes flickered back and forth between Harry's eyes.

Harry watched her intently with a soft smile on his face. He used his thumb to wipe more of her tears away and fix the beanie atop her head. Evelyn let out a small laugh at how pathetic she must look.

She was the one to ghost him and yet he's here comforting her. How ironic.

"We're going to be okay, Evie. I promise." Harry said reassuringly. He held the side of Evelyn's face and brought their foreheads together. She smiled nodding against him. They both closed their eyes and relaxed into each other's comfort.

"I love you." Evelyn said. Harry's eyes snapped open at this. He moved his head back as he grabbed Evelyn's chin with his two fingers to make her meet his gaze.

"You what?" Harry asked. He wanted to make sure he hadn't misheard.

Evelyn giggled before repeating herself, "I love you." Harry felt tears of his own well up in his eyes.

"So does that mean..." Evelyn nodded her head 'yes' before Harry could even finish his sentence.

A wide grin spread across Harry's face as he slowly leaned in. His eyes went back and forth between Evelyn's eyes and her lips.

He waited patiently for Evelyn to give him the go ahead before he could kiss his girl.

Evelyn nodded her head as she leaned in as well and their lips locked in a passionate kiss.

The new couple felt nothing but butterflies and fireworks in their chest as they finally let themselves feel what they have always felt...

Love.

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lovingcollectivepeach · 3 months ago

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Lilith in Leo

Marilyn Monroe listens while smoking at Costello’s restaurant in March 1955 in New York. Born with Lilith in Leo.

Lilith, the Black Moon, a mysterious moving mathematical point, has a primal potency that spreads its roots and feelers beneath the surface of things, erupting upwards sometimes in a rustle of dark leaves or a flare of gunfire.

We each hold this potential — more or less — in ourselves. It shows somewhere in your birth chart and mine. Those with Lilith Rising or on the midheaven cannot help but embody her more obviously to the rest of us, naturally, but there are other ways and places that the Black Moon makes herself felt.

(For astrologers: I use “mean” Lilith but may note the space between mean and true.)

Lilith moves with the same clockwork timing as the two Lights — strictly forward, with no retrogrades. Lilith takes about nine years to move through the zodiac, nine months to move through a sign, and about nine days to move through a degree — a satisfying number of near completion for numerologists, a period of gestation.

According to legend, she was the first wife of Adam, banished to the outer wastes for having the temerity to want to satisfy her own desire. It’s said that she wanted to straddle the first man during intercourse, and when he refused she left him. In the wastelands of the Red Sea, or thereabouts, she lived as a demon, kidnapping babies — and doing whatever she liked one supposes. Which is actually not true but the church tried to diminish her . She was denied giving birth after leaving the garden of Eden as punishment for disobeying Adam as both were created equal and she refused to be degraded under him. That is why she also used as a symbol for feminism movement.

Astrologically, her significance is still the subject of some debate or dispute. She has been used by European astrologers since the 1920s — especially in France and Germany — but the English-speaking world is catching up. Like everything in astrology — planets, signs, angles, points, fixed stars — Lilith has both positive and negative effects.

From my experience, Lilith relates to: love-triangles and infidelity, being the other man or woman, sexual allure and attraction; both feminism and misogyny; abortion, miscarriages, infertility; adoption and lost children; outsiders, wildness, taboo-breaking, rule-breaking, sheer outright craziness; wild beauty, wilderness itself and being cast into the wilderness; both inability to love and fierce desire; aloneness; witchcraft and magic; natural power; abuse and retribution. There is more, but suffice to say, I never disregard Lilith when looking at a chart.

Here is an example of Lilith in action. This is Carlos Santana’s chart. He made the song Black Magic Woman famous. Lilith is in the 9th house of broadcasting, opposite his Mercury (words) in Cancer, and she is the only thing above the horizon. Without that beautiful, wild Lilith energy in performance would there be Santana?

What of Lilith in Leo?

Leo is a sign associated with childhood and its delights. I have observed though, that people with Lilith in Leo, especially when Pluto is involved, may have actually survived some form of sexual abuse or in some other way had their childhood stolen. A couple of famous examples are Marilyn Monroe and Rihanna, both of whom had pretty traumatic childhoods but then turned that Lilith in Leo into scorching charisma, another attribute of Leo. Monroe’s Lilith is in her first house, making a conjunction with Neptune, the planet of the silver screen. Where Lilith works, we can have astonishing allure. Leo is also a sign of kings and queens: Elizabeth II, JFK, Vladimir Putin and Barack Obama all have Lilith in Leo. And arguably, they — along with Rihanna in particular — show a kind of unboxed regality.

So what do we make of Lilith as she travels through the Zodiac? How do her transits work? 2022 year’s transit through the sign of mothers and the USA, Cancer, certainly chimed with the overturning of long-standing abortion rights and the subsequent public pushback in the US. But this year, we’ll be seeing Lilith in the sign of high drama — also hair: it’s a Leo thing! The women of Iran have already demonstrated the power of hair, but they were cutting it. What if we all grow giant manes?

Leo is also a highly creative sign. Paula Rego, who painted a series on abortion, had Lilith in Leo, and so did Virginia Woolf (opposite her Mercury and sextile her Mars in Gemini), who broke all the rules about what a novel actually is, and, of course, wrote A Room of One’s Own, on the Lilith theme of aloneness and the creative process. So we may expect art around Lilith subjects — female power and disempowerment, outsiders, unbridled desire, black magic women….

Quote : Christina Rodenbeck

#black moon lilith #leo zodiac #lilithinleo #lilith

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wolves-against-the-world · 7 months ago

Text

Witchfinders

Jay started from a shivering half doze when their target finally appeared. May slapped his arm several times, making empty fwhoop-fwhoop-whoop sounds on his winter jacket.

"Told you!" She hissed triumphantly.

"Great," Jay said between chattering teeth. They’d first noticed him about two hours ago. Well, May had, because May was a psychic, something she never ceased to mention she hated.

"It's not like I picked this", she always said. "Do you know how fucking inconvenient it is to always see people's negative feelings and whatever lurks around without being able to do anything about it? If that was what I wanted, I'd have become a tabloid writer."

Jay wasn’t certain she was not exaggerating - psychic abilities were genetically recessive, and you needed a lot of luck to get more than a few psychics in any lineage.

She was admittedly a keen observer though, which had made her entire family fairly successful spiritualists until that sort of thing became embarrassing instead of impressive.

Jay looked at his radar and found the screen infuriatingly empty. He already regretted spending the exorbitant amount of money (about 70 pounds) on something this useless. The seller - a sturdy old woman who had been well known for being the only reputable psychic in the country, ironically because she didn't like the spotlight - had assured him it could detect latent magic. So far it had only been useful for detecting cellphones, microwaves, and one time, memorably, a minor radiation leak at a cancer clinic.

May was staring at something a bit away, which was impressive since there was very little to warrant more than a passing glance. To one side, there were the houses in their neighborhood that hadn't changed in about as long as they could remember, if one discounted the pressure wash of several house fronts that had made plaster drop on unsuspecting people for a week. To the left was a fence restricting access to the train tracks out of town, or into town, depending on your perspective. Current demographic surveys suggested the former.

May was staring down the street, her jaw set in the way it was when she was very certain of something. Now, very certain of something didn't mean she was right, not even in the supernatural realm.

"Absolutely not," he said.

"Why not??" Her voice carried the indignation of her entire heritage.

"Because last time you did this, we got laughed out of a theater AND a restraining order! You weren't even right! We need a better plan than just going up to random people and hoping for the best!"

“Then make a better one.”

They stared at one another.

Jay scowled. “Fine, then go up to a possibly magical human that might just zap us out of existence.”

"Oh don’t be stupid. He’s not a witch, I just think he's carrying some sort of magical item."

"You don't even know that's a he, how can you tell what he's - what they're wearing under those layers? Could be a tall woman, for all we know. And besides-" He had meant to bring up the frankly nerve-wracking cold, and was pleased to have found a logical place to slot the topic into. "It's cold as balls, we should go home and - wait-"

May gave him the sort of look that typically made people's toenails roll up, dampened slightly by its path over her shoulder. She left Jay to catch up with her as she strode down the street, catching up and then holding the pace of the figure she'd locked in on. May, full name Mayflower Justicia Borden, was very tall and the sort of person that was remarked on by being remarkable against her will. She hadn't spoken for most of her school life, until she realized people picked on you for things that were out of your control anyway, and from then on made it everyone else's problem.

"Excuse me, Sir, sorry to bother you-"

The personshaped black spot turned slightly and for a second she thought "fuck, it's a woman after all, she's gonna be mad" until the figure pulled off a pair of headphones and turned to reveal, indeed, a man, if the beard was any indication.

"What?"

The tone wasn't unfriendly per se.. but the man didn’t have a very welcoming face. If that was by accident of birth or a choice was to be seen.

"Right, sorry Sir, this is going to sound very odd-"

"So sorry about that, we're uh-" Jay came to a rather undignified halt with one hand holding onto a street light lest he turn his last step into a sledding trip.

The man stopped walking and observed them. He was in his mid-60s, tall, but not remarkably so, handsome but not remarkably so, with a long-ish, square-ish face and brown-ish skin. The only thing not -ish about him were his eyes, which were too blue to be anything but contact lenses. Jay felt acutely seen, in a way he hadn't felt since May's grandmother had read his future and been right all the damn time, too.

The difference to Mrs Borden was that this man wasn't trying to hide the cold calculation in his face. He'd picked the contacts well. It turned the gaze from smoldering to arctic, sending a physical shiver down Jay's spine.

"It's not very polite to follow strangers," the man pointed out. His voice reflected the same control, not using a syllable more than necessary.

Well, shit. Jay already saw another policeman call his parents to ask what the hell he was up to, and why he couldn't do this in his university town instead. "Uhm."

Even May seemed taken aback, visibly calculating how far they'd been away, then decided it didn't matter. "So sorry to bother you, Sir. Do you happen to be carrying a magical item?"

The stranger didn't even blink.

"If you're trying to rob me or sell something, that's an odd way of going about it," he said. His expression remained flat, which would have been funny if Jay hadn't been shitting his pants for a reason he couldn't pinpoint. Somewhere in his brain an instinct so old it preceded upright walking woke from a coma to scream "DANGER DANGER DANGER GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE". But Jay also had anxiety, so that was really not out of the ordinary.

"What, no!" Jay stammered. "We're, uh, we're paranormal investigators. She's a psychic!" He gestured to May, who nodded with all the dignity she could muster.

"Didn't know psychics used knives these days.”

May shifted uncomfortably, revealing a switchblade knife. A pink one.

"Where'd you even get that?" Jay hissed. "Aren't those illegal?"

May ignored him, easing her grip on the knife but not putting it away. "Going up to strangers can be dangerous."

"Undoubtedly," said the stranger.

"As my, uh, colleague said, I'm a psychic. You're carrying something with a strong magical aura, we just wanna make sure you're safe. And, uh, maybe take a look at it. For research."

"And I'm sure you're not just trying to sell your services." His calm tone stood in stark contrast to his words. Well, at least he didn't yell at them like the last five people.

"Absolutely not!", May assured. "We're volunteers. No money involved. Uh, unless we're doing like. An exorcism."

Finally, the man showed a physical response: he lifted an eyebrow.

"Right, uh, could you, like, warrant a guess what it might be?"

The man pondered this for a moment. "No." He cut May off when she wanted to speak. "Mind walking with me for a bit?"

May had already said yes before Jay could tell her how stupid an idea this was, so they walked. The stranger introduced himself as Zachary. When Jay asked where they were walking, Zachary told him an address that was vaguely familiar. He still spoke mostly in single sentences, but it was enough to reveal an American accent. Maybe they'd gotten lucky. Americans believed all sorts of shit.

Zachary told them he'd just gone grocery shopping, since his cousin wanted to make dinner. Even though the bag looked like a pimple about to burst, he carried it easily in one gloved hand. As they walked along the empty and depressingly gray street, May filled him in on their work, emphasizing their good intentions and downplaying how little they'd actually accomplished so far. She omitted the radiation incident, which was probably their biggest success, though in a different way than they'd hoped for. To his credit, Zachary didn't remark upon their names, which raised Jay's opinion of him substantially.

May described and then quizzed their new friend on various magical artifacts he could have come in the possession of, but save for a notebook bought in a second hand shop, he denied knowledge of all.

Maybe, Jay thought, they were being set up. Maybe the guy was wearing a microphone and camera, stuff like that was so small these days, shit, he could just use his phone for all they knew. They'd be laughing stocks for all the internet to see. Or maybe he was a psychic himself, or even a witch, fully aware of his item's traits and just entertaining himself. Staking out the competition.

The closest coven they had identified was in Sheffield, a circle of old ladies who used their abilities to enhance their healing potions and alcoholic beverages. Didn't mean there couldn't be others, more hidden ones, doing scary things.

Jay tried to get May's attention, but she was deep into explaining the intricacies of aura reading. They'd made their way from the train tracks to the square in a needlessly complex route. Maybe he was one of those guys. A manly man who didn't ask for directions. Or he was just enjoying the walk.

"So you can see everyone's aura?" Zachary asked. His voice was still the eery drone of pack ice moving, but there was a lighter note of curiosity now.

May paused longer than was necessary or comfortable.

"Mostly. Non-magical people don't know how to hide their aura, let alone that they have one. If it's gone the person is either dead, magical or, like, really introverted. The colors often give me a hint of someone's personality and the movement can indicate emotions. They get very bright when someone is using magic. It's not an exact science unfortunately, experience mostly. My grandmother was really good at it in the end."

"Fascinating." Zachary looked around and turned into a side street instead of returning to the road following the train tracks. "How about my aura, then?"

"I thought you didn't like people selling you things?"

"I don't like buying the cat in the bag. I'm sure my cousin wouldn't mind hosting you for dinner, though."

"That's really not nece-"

"Sure," Jay said, thinking with his growling, frozen stomach instead of his brain. The trip back home would take a minimum of thirty minutes walking. He'd also finally matched the address to the town's only pub (and B&B and event location). They were safer among people than out here, completely alone.

May gave him a searing look, but Jay was used to that.

"Look at that, we're already there." Jay decided to ignore how ominous that sounded.

Indeed there was the front of the pub, painted black and reading something incomprehensible followed by "goat" and the words "founded in 1367". How true that was had been up for debate since the pub opened.

"How are you liking Britain so far?" Jay asked conversationally. "Lotsa old buildings here compared to home."

If there was a physical reaction, Jay didn't notice.

"The weather could be improved upon."

"Yeah," Jay said unimaginatively.

The door moved disappointingly silently. Jay’s face began to itch in the sudden warmth and he hurried to take off his coat before he cooked to death. He'd been in the pub once and now found it no less unpleasant but all in all no different than any other several century old pub. The room was almost entirely made of wood, the woodworm probably doing more work than the actual struts by this point, blackened by smoke and maybe tar.

"Welcome back," someone purred.

Jay flinched, nearly flinging his coat at the figure. The woman gave them a smile, wholly unimpressed by the reaction and decidedly closer than social convention dictated.

She was stunning, simply put, though too short to make it as a model. Dark hair flowed over a shiny turquoise top, and tight black leather pants showed about anything anyone wanted to see. Around her hips hung a belt made of silver medallions.

"You've brought guests, how lovely."

While Jay was still working on rebooting his brain, he was dragged away from the door and the woman's hypnotic gaze. They were met by a short, middle-aged man on the verge of fat with a kind, round face. He greeted them warmly and hugged Zachary, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Corner of the mouth. Maybe.

Jay was still puzzling about that gesture in the context of the man's priest collar when the next revelation hit: It was quiet.

Not in the way of a forest near a predator, but in the way a theater is quiet waiting for the performance to begin. He could tell May was thinking the same. There were about a dozen people in the room, all of which were looking at them.

"Nice to meet you," May said stiffly. "Is the pub not open tonight?"

"We rented it out for a few days," the priest said in a very much not American or British accent. "We're doing a...reunion of sorts. Our friends came from all over the place, you see." He smiled. It was a very nice smile. He seemed like a nice, reasonable person, Jay thought. Hardly a witch of any kind. They hated churches, they'd never survive all the time it took to become a priest, even if it was a pretty good diversion.

"My name is Mayflower," May said, shocking Jay and probably all her ancestors. "I'm a psychic. Zachary is carrying a magical item and we want to make sure you're all being safe."

"We're not trying to sell anything," Jay added hastily. In a much smaller voice he added: "Though he said something about dinner."

Jay was aware he missed a lot of things in life. His brain just had different priorities than other people. He did not miss the sudden interest of the people at the back table, a short man with almost implausible golden curls and a duo of women with heights firmly outside the average in both directions.

"A magical item?" The priest did not seem too alarmed. "That is indeed something worth investigating. Come and sit with us then, we'll have dinner soon."

May looked around, scanning everyone, but not coming up with an excuse. They went to sit at a table near the front, where the woman in blue had already taken a seat, one leg in knee-high boots lazily draped over the edge. She unwrapped a piece of blue bubble gum and tossed it into her mouth.

"My friends, this is Eliza. She has an interest in the occult herself." He was interrupted by an enormous man with alarmingly ginger hair throwing himself into one of the seats. "You shoulda told me there's stuff going on. What's that about magical items?"

"These are our guests Mayflower and..." He looked at Jay. "Jayden?"

Jay just shrugged, too taken up by May trying to break his hand. He didn't want to draw back so obviously but she pinched his finger really hard and -

Ah.

Jay shot a stealthy look towards the priest. His radar was vibrating in his pocket. Both men were wearing a silver sigil in the form of a pendant and a brooch. They looked different than Eliza's, the wolf head combined with some sort of pointy cross, but unmistakably related.

Jay considered if they had in fact not stumbled into a witch coven but some weird nationalist fraternity. Not fraternity, specifically, considering there were several women, but some sort of... Cult? They were all different ages, too, the woman, Eliza, looking no older than 25 and the priest being in his 50s at minimum.

"Really cool, uh, pendant you got," Jay said before his brain could tell him this would get them killed. "You into, what's the name again, that fantasy show where people die all the time?"

"Didn't like the ending much, but the books are good," Eliza said in that way too sultry voice. The big man made a face between distaste and amusement. He leaned onto his elbows, resting his chin on one large but surprisingly delicate hand. A lot of things about him were paradoxically delicate, from his pale, freckled skin to a face looking surprisingly young despite the visible lines around his eyes and mouth. His hair was the color of wildfire, curls pulled into a ponytail that left bangs spilling over the side of his face.

"Sooooooo, what kinda psychics are you?" he asked. "Telling the future? Making potions? Kinda hard to find proper witches these days."

"You've met proper witches?"

Eliza loudly popped her bubblegum.

"I just said they're hard to find, didn't I?", said Red.

"I'm not a witch," May said stiffly. "I read auras and magical signatures." Not for the first time, Jay wished desperately he could see what she saw. What were these people's auras like? Were they dangerous? Upset? Laughing at them?

"Yours is blue," May said in the tone of voice she used when making shit up on the spot. "Light blue, a bit silvery. Like a tuna."

Red didn't seem offended by the comparison. "Neat. How about Sasha?"

"Who?"

"Zachary, sorry."

"It's grey," May said without even turning around. "It's a pretty rare color, but it means he's a very controlled and logical person."

Red nodded enthusiastically. "He is! How about me?"

"You're curious," Jay said. "Silver and blue are the colors of the sky and sea, you like to travel, can't be in one place for too long. You're also not really into pointless workouts, but like to apply yourself."

May had meant to kick his leg, but had thought better of it. Jay felt vindicated.

"That's something every half-baked carnival psychic could tell you," Eliza huffed. She swung her legs off the table, heels thumping the wooden floor. "Tell me something secret."

There was a long pause.

May knitted her brow, then held out her hand. "Okay."

Eliza observed her, still chewing her bubblegum. Then she placed her manicured hand in May's. Her nail polish was bright blue. "Knock yourself out."

The moments May sat there seemed to draw into eternity. Eliza kept the vague expression of distaste, while Red was leaning forward in obvious interest.

Jay tried to get an overview of the room in case things got ugly. Zachary was speaking with a tall man behind the bar he hadn't noticed before. Under the beanie he'd taken off, Zachary had shoulder-long brown hair with a white streak at the front. He hadn't seemed the type for that trend. The other man had waist-long black hair, a goatee, and wore sunglasses inside.

The table in the back was silently sipping on their drinks, clearly trying to listen in. The priest - if he was one - had disappeared.

The tiny bell over the door rang and then took a nosedive, hitting someone with a muffled thud. "Aw man," the someone said.

"There you are!" The priest was back, somehow. It was quite disconcerting.

The newcomer was a lanky youth, looking to be barely out of secondary school. His pale cheeks were flushed from the cold, a thick scarf wrapped around about everything above the belt.

"My apologies, this place wasn't too easy to find. Are we still on schedule?"

Under the thick jacket, the youth was wearing a white shirt and black bow with matching suspenders, meaning he was either a nerd or a waiter. Hired help meant paperwork, meant questions asked if someone disappeared. Jay relaxed a bit.

He really was being too paranoid. The worst thing that had happened on any investigation was being forced to drink bad tea and being laughed at. And the radiation exposure. That was pretty bad.

Still. Nothing supernaturally bad had happened.

He liked May a lot but her abilities were nothing to brag about. They were just two kids who liked to dig into things most people didn't take seriously.

The young man hung up his coat and immediately began sorting things behind the counter, finally removing the man with the sunglasses. Coming around the corner, the man revealed an arm covered in Nordic occult tattoos. Enthusiast, witch, or fascist? Impossible to tell by looking.

"You're a con artist," May said suddenly.

Jay turned back to the table. Eliza had raised one very accurately formed eyebrow. "Takes one to know one I suppose."

May didn't take the bait. "You're from Scandinavia, liv

#wolves against the world #short story #more like medium story idk why i always write entire epics #tw suicide mention #very briefly tho #i have an entire document with short stories about the pack but this is one i feel comfortable sharing. some outside perspective

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xcestlavie · 5 months ago

Text

" I'm all talk with a thorn in my side I got a real big heart that I'm willing to hide "

full name . alexander oliver morgan nickname(s) . alex , ander ( exclusive to his mother ) , oli ( brothers ) age/birthday . 28 06/23 ( cancer ) gender/pronouns . cis man he/him place of birth . bristol , united kingdom current residence . frog hollow , cape may sexuality . pansexual / romantic occupation . actor aesthetics . half-finished mug of coffee , the smell of rain in the air , and unanswered texts .

physical .

height . 6'0" build . lean hair color / style . brunette ( with a tendency to dye it blonde ), goes for the unkept stylized mess look . eye color . blue face claim . tom blyth

mentality .

positive traits . creative , loyal , charming , protective . negative traits . distant , flirty , jealous , smart ass . most of his personality is an act , a homebody by nature he keeps his circle small and tries to keep his head low . expressing himself isn't something he does well and he lashes out if his feelings are hurt or his trust deemed broken . he can be quick with a joke and can sometimes flirt himself into awkward situations most of which he doesn't know how to get himself out of . willing to take little jabs at noa if for nothing else just to see them get frustrated he thrives on the chaos and bickering between them ( won't admit to being jealous of anything they have going on , has their back no matter what , lowkey feels miserable that he's pretty much riding they’re coattails , actually secretly adores them ( but i didn't type that ) ) .

biography . ( tw . cancer mention / parental death )

born in bristol to an already large family alexander oliver morgan is the youngest of five boys, the closest sibling age-wise to him being five years older and the oldest being ten years older than alex. he was a mommy's boy, if she was out and about the small boy was bound to poke his head from behind her. he always made it a mission to make others smile with whatever he did whether it was mispronouncing a word on purpose or repeating jokes he'd heard on tv or at school. there was a passing comment that he was cute enough or funny enough to be on tv and it's all something the young child let go to his head. when he was seven his father was diagnosed with an aggressive form of pancreatic cancer and he lost his fight with it a year after that. despite not being exceptionally close to his father it was still his father and the young morgan boy found escapism in movies, the movies he watched during that point are what had him hellbent on carving a path for himself in the industry. he begged his mom for acting classes and took every opportunity he could to perform on a stage. from eleven to eighteen he tried at least making a local name for himself before he started throwing his net out in different ways. it took it a moment but he got a bite, but when he was twenty he found himself flying to america for the first time for a screen test. life turned into a whirlwind and somewhat nauseating situation of pressure, he didn't know what to expect from the show but it wasn't quite that, and cameras on him at all times was not something he was used to nor did he like as much as he thought he would. there came the time when the show ended and it was a bittersweet thing. alex carried a lot from that show his first acting credit, a fake relationship, and a better way to grasp at fame no matter how small or big. he's matured since he was younger, he tries to keep a certain air about him that he was more than another face in the actor/thespian populace. he had done things while working on the show but free of it he was able to move and pursue bigger projects, the most recent one being filmed in france. at the end of every shoot in he had he'd find himself in an apartment in new york city, it had always been a dream to live in the big city but with it came a lot of eyes lighting up with recognition he found cape may in a passing conversation with his agent when talking about places to live, he almost instantly fell in love with the beach from the pictures he saw of it and also the idea of something slower than california and new york city was somewhat appealing to him. he's been living in his house for around eight months now, being in and out sometimes he still somewhat lives out of the boxes he hasn't unpacked yet.

headcanons .

- loved playing football as a child. wanted to do rugby but it was shot down by his mother. -likes music and spends time - he's not willing to share just how much time - making a playlist for each character he auditions for or portrays. -still a huge mama's boy. -besides english, he knows enough french to get by, and enough japanese to introduce himself. -lowkey romantic. he romanticizes the idea of romance more than anything. -lowlowkey nerd. good book-to-movie adaption and superheroes make his little heart happy. - in interviews he says he doesn't have any form of social media but it's a lie, he has a secret accounts on all the social media platforms that matter (save for facebook. he really doesn't have one.) under the username bristolssoliolioxenfree. the accounts are private and he just uses them to lurk. imagine his surprise/panic when people that actually do the contact sync up and have his number were sending him requests to follow. -the show he got his start on was very friend's coded. -totally chose frog hollow to buy a house because it reminded him of the play a year with frog and toad.

#cape.intro #&& . amorgan ; burn all the rumors about you ( study . )#tw.cancer mention #tw.parental death

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