#welcome to my unsolicited opinions

[comicdolle]

PINS AND NEEDLES

pairing : logan howlett x bambi!seamstress! reader warnings : none a/n : this is my first time writing something like this so ntm (⸝⸝๑ ̫ ๑⸝⸝⸝), either way I'm super happy to start off by introducing a !reader that I've been wanting to work on for a while.

you were a mess to say the least. when you were enlisted by the x-men to work on new suit designs you thought it'd be easy considering your impressive background and being the best seamstress in the area it seemed like a walk in the park and it was, for the most part but it soon became a lot harder when you finally met Logan.

you'd seen Logan around, heard about him, some good, some bad, but nothing could prepare you for how difficult he'd be, constantly dismissing all the work you put in because it was"too modern", always giving his unsolicited opinion on the fabrics, and you can't even say the word "mood board" without him looking at you with utter confusion and asking "the fuck is that?", he was one of the most difficult clients you've ever worked with and it didn't help that he was one of the most handsome ones either

his rugged appearance and natural masculine aura was attractive, the gruffness in his voice was just as tantalizing as his size, but that wasn't the focus right now, you're currently sitting in your room wearing a beautiful white, frilly baby-doll you've graciously made for yourself, diving into all of your vintage fabrics and clothing analysis from the different eras feeling through all the materials while trying to keep Logan's opinion in mind.

as you were continuing your analysis you heard a knock at your door, not sure who it could be at this time, maybe it was Rogue, again, possibly to requesting some new nightwear, to your surprise it was Logan as stoic as ever, you couldn't help but wonder what he could possibly want at this time nonetheless, welcoming him into your room before going back to your analysis

as you continued to work Logan took in your room curiously, and caught a glimpse of you in your hand-made baby-doll. as much as he didn't wanna admit it to himself he'd always found you attractive and interesting, how when you'd met him you had been wearing this very flattering top, a pink miniskirt, and white thigh highs, pairing them with some heels you had found in the back of your closet, just that alone immediately had him sprung and he was thinking about it ever since then

he didn't wanna dwell on it though, he knows he's been nothing but an asshole to you, and you've done more than enough to express that, he was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard your voice ask him "is there anything I can help you with, Logan?" his eyes snapping to yours taking in your captivating eyes and long wispy lashes, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes move over your hair and down to that damn baby-doll again

"I came to see where you are with the suit designs" he says as he casually leans against the wall, you nod kind of surprised considering the time "really? this late at night?" you respond with a light amused laugh prompting a smirk from him as he counters with "yeah, just wanted to see if you were actually doing your job? and with a playful roll of your eyes you ask him "and when did you care about my work ethic?"

"since it became my suit you were workin' on darlin and I just wanted to see the good work'" he jabs back in a teasing tone and you could've sworn you felt your heart jump at the pet name, this was... new. feigning annoyance at his tease you couldn't help but respond "and here I thought you hated me" noticing him checking you out you smooth out your baby-doll

the space between the two of you seemed to shrink by the second, realizing that his face was mere inches from yours, you feel his breath tickle your face as he finally responds with an amused chuckle "I wouldn't say that"

as disbelief and surprise spread across your face you can't help but realize that maybe the most handsomely annoying man you've ever met just might like you too.

if there's any thoughts you have or requests feel free to ask, constructive criticism is very much welcome ( just be nice I'm sensitive lol)!

[emmg]

Aftertaste

The Emmrook modern Sugar Daddy AU I've been spinning in my brain like a rotisserie chicken finally got its seasoning. Shoutout to @thepalehorsevictoria's WONDERFUL, AMAZING, ABSOLUTELY LIFE-ALTERING The Internship for delivering the motivational slap I needed to actually finish the first stupid chapter. You're all welcome, probably.

She would look exquisite sprawled out on his pima cotton sheets, wouldn’t she? Perhaps he’d drape her in coins, or bills—her choice, naturally, though one suspects she’d opt for the flashiest, the most garish option, something appropriately Rook. And afterward, he’d collapse into her shoulder, sobbing like a maudlin fool, his tears soaking through the remnants of her ridiculous blouse. A tableau of absurdity: him, the tragic romantic, and her, the irreverent Venus, reeking faintly of cheap vanilla.

Read it here, under the cut, or on AO3

-----

Chapter 1: Oysters Are Gross

At fifty-two years and three days old, Emmrich finally surrenders. He grants Bellara—his chirpy, chattering, insufferably radiant assistant—permission to "set him up." Bellara, of course, is all gleaming eyes and endless sentences, a creature so bright she could burn holes in the wallpaper. He agrees because he is fifty-two years and three days old and it hits him: an unbearable, senseless loneliness. 

He stares blankly at the wall, realizing that the majority of those who wished him well on this fifty-two-year-and-three-day milestone—up to ninety percent of them—are colleagues. 

Happy birthday, Emmrich. Love, Amélie.

Ah, Amélie. His Orlesian once-mistress. The text is a masterstroke of brevity. He allows himself a smile before retrieving his reading glasses and composing a reply. 

Thank you, darling. Always a pleasure.

The message is sent. Amélie, of course, does not deign to reply. 

Well, then. 

His gaze shifts to the bottle of absinthe perched on the counter, a gift from the Dean and faculty, no doubt purchased more out of obligation than admiration. The label gleams mockingly. He frowns, swirls the dregs of his glass, and drains it in a single swallow. 

Bellara, that dainty tempest of enthusiasm, is promptly unleashed to do her worst. He delivers his consent carefully, his back turned to her as she flits about the library, slipping borrowed books back onto shelves. Borrowed, mind you, some three—or was it four?—months ago. The real marvel isn't her returning them but the improbable fact that she remembered taking them at all. He phrases his acquiescence in a way that suggests, naturally, he is the one doing her a favor. (Ha. Of course.)

“Ooooh, perfect!” she chirps, a human hummingbird vibrating with unsolicited opinions. “She’s like so, so pretty. Her nose? Upturned—and that’s super trendy right now. People are flying to Antiva for rhinoplasty because it’s cheaper there. Crazy, right? And she’s tall. Well, not as tall as you, obviously, but still tall. And thin. And just… really, really pretty. Like she totally knows it though. Ugh, I’m probably ruining this. Anyway, she’s so pretty, professor.”

Her voice trails off. 

He stops listening somewhere between "rhinoplasty" and "tall." He has neither the patience for Bellara’s reverence for the human scaffolding of beauty nor the bandwidth to follow her avalanche of adjectives. 

Bellara flutters on, blissfully unaware she’s been tuned out. 

****

“What are we thinking, Manfred?” he inquires, addressing the ties spread on the bed as though consulting an oracle. His arms are crossed, his brow raised. “Cerulean or hunter green?” 

“Woof,” replies Manfred, the household philosopher and occasional canine. 

“Thank you, darling boy,” he sighs, selecting the latter. The cerulean can sulk in the drawer another day. 

He assembles himself with meticulous care, a sacred ritual. The three-piece suit is virgin wool, soft, lustrous, perfect. The vest, of course, matches. His hair, combed back with fragrance-free pomade, achieves that delicate balance of hold without crunch. He is not, he assures himself, some adolescent with a tube of glue masquerading as hair gel, desperate to look like he just emerged from a car wash. No, he assures himself, he is a man of taste.

The finishing touch is his cologne: a concoction of galbanum, juniper, violet leaf, and oakmoss. It doesn’t just suggest expense; it shouts it in carefully modulated tones. The sort of scent that might cause an uninitiated passerby to pause and wonder, “Is this man a connoisseur—or simply insufferable?” Amélie, of course, once called it "enticing." 

Finally, two of his rings come off. Why? Because one never knows. Bellara’s friend might be pretty, but she also might be a thief. No sense tempting fate—or petty larceny. 

He looks in the mirror one last time, adjusts the hunter green tie, and decides he looks exactly like the sort of man who would judge someone for stealing his rings. 

Before leaving, he conducts his usual pre-departure sweep: oven off (because clearly, he’s the type to bake a pie and forget it), television off (lest it drone on to an audience of none), no faucets running (oh, the horrors of a dripping tap), and, naturally, no texts waiting to be answered (as if). This exercise in obsessive futility provides him no satisfaction, only the faint assurance that his house won’t combust or flood in his absence.

He realizes he's doing it out of nervousness.

Only slightly satisfied, he turns to Manfred, the sole companion he trusts for an honest opinion. “Not too shabby?” he ventures, striking a pose that could only be described as overly hopeful.

Manfred, ever the truth-teller, responds in the only way befitting such a ridiculous question: he vomits on the carpet. 

****

The restaurant is Orlesian, of course—where else would one go to feel simultaneously underfed and overcharged? He knows the head chef, a relic of his undergrad years, back when dormitory life was a parade of poorly considered ambitions and even worse hygiene. Xavier, once the proud owner of a neuroscience textbook he never opened, had been convinced he would unravel the mysteries of the brain—until the brain, or rather the workload required to study it, unraveled him instead. 

His grand response to this betrayal? Elfroot—smoked with dedication—and a catastrophic assault on their shared kitchen that left it resembling the aftermath of a culinary riot. Naturally, a few years later, Xavier inexplicably emerged as a celebrated chef, the sort whose name is murmured reverently in food columns and shouted across crowded dinner parties by people desperate to sound cultured. 

It’s a miracle, really, the sort of alchemy only student dorms can produce: turning the least functional among them into the toast of society, while everyone else just gets crumbs. 

He’s early, of course. Emmrich is always early, a man cursed with the kind of politeness that borders on masochism. Being late might suggest a lack of respect, but being early? That’s the calling card of someone determined to suffer. 

He orders an apéritif because sitting idle feels too desperate, even for him. Something stronger than advisable but, then again, he has no intention of driving tonight—or doing anything particularly sensible, for that matter. A Negroni it is. Predictable. As Johanna had so graciously put it, he’s a “basic bitch,” forever drawn to whatever the masses have deemed fashionable this week. 

He's nouveau riche like that. Here he is, nursing a drink that tastes like regret and orange peel, sitting early at an overpriced Orlesian restaurant, the living embodiment of someone trying just a little too hard.

And—oh. Damn her. Bellara was right. Of course, she was right. Why wouldn’t she be? Rook, she’d called her. Pretty, tall, unbearably young. And so very, very pretty—pretty to the point of redundancy. The kind of prettiness that practically begs to be noticed, long pale hair cascading like the overly poetic description she’d no doubt receive in a novel some day. 

“Emmrich?” she says, her eyes darting around the room as though she expects a less disappointing Emmrich to materialize from behind a potted fern. Surely, this can’t be the one.

“Indeed,” he says, and because he’s a gentleman—or at least a serviceable facsimile—he forces himself to stand. Hurrying to her side, he pulls out her chair with an eagerness that feels as rehearsed as it is exhausting. She sits, and only then does he allow himself to return to his own seat, feeling rather like an actor who’s just survived the first act of a particularly humiliating play. 

“Hm,” Rook says. 

She is smiling. This must be good. Surely, it’s good. Someone so young, so lovely, smiling at him. Smiling for him. Or at him? Is there a difference? Does it matter?

“Shall we start with a drink?” he asks, his voice striving for charm and almost, almost getting there. 

“You’re grey,” she says, blunt as a hammer. “Like, almost fully.” 

“Ah,” he says, because, really, what else is there? Words fail him, but her casually devastating remark does not. It feels as though she’s reached across the table and punched him in the throat with that pretty, unmanicured hand of hers, leaving him gasping for dignity. “I am.” He swallows hard and, for one fleeting moment, wonders if shattering his glass and dragging a shard theatrically across his wrist might salvage the evening—or at least end it with style. “Does that bother you?” 

A languid shrug. “No.” She lifts the menu with an air of detachment that makes him wonder if she is reading it or simply holding it to avoid looking at him. “How old are you?” 

Fifty-two-years-and-ten-days, not that anyone’s counting. “Bellara didn’t tell you about me?” 

“Bellara said you were rich.” Fantastic. His favorite personality trait. “And lonely.” Marvelous. The perfect companion to wealth, like cheese to wine. “And that you smell good.” Well, thank heavens. If nothing else, he’s fragrant—a consolation prize for his apparent lack of other redeeming qualities. “And…” She leans into the menu, her nose wrinkling in what he assumes is concentration but could just as easily be disdain. Does she need glasses? Should he offer her his? Would that be erotic or just pathetically sad? “Not married,” she finishes. 

There it is: rich, lonely, perfumed, and unattached. A portrait painted in four brushstrokes, with no room for nuance. 

He raises a hand, signaling the server. If he is to endure the rest of this encounter, it will be with a drink in hand, preferably something strong enough to blunt the edge of her candor. 

"And what about you, Rook?" he asks, once her cocktail arrives, a vulgar, lurid concoction so bright it might glow in the dark. Her lipstick smears on the straw (a straw... In this restaurant? Did Xavier finally give up?). "How would you describe yourself?"

Her grin is dazzling, predatory. "Not rich," she declares. "Very, very not rich," as though he might have misinterpreted her financial despair. "So you’ll have to excuse me, because I have no fucking clue how to deal with all these." She gestures broadly at the table. "Utensils. That one—yeah, that. Why is there a baby fork?" 

"It’s an oyster fork." 

"You ordered oysters?" 

"I did." 

"Oysters are supposed to make you horny, you know." 

He tips his head back in silent prayer, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, which sadly offers no escape. "The aphrodisiac effects are largely exaggerated," he mutters, clinging to his last shred of dignity. "They are high in zinc, yes, but otherwise... they’re simply a standard appetizer." 

"I mean, yeah. It’s like swallowing unwashed pussy." 

He chokes.

"But to answer you," Rook says, now smoothing the napkin over her lap with the deliberation of someone unused to starched linens, "literature. I just got into grad school. My brain’s about ready to explode. I’ve spent the last two weeks applying for every fellowship I could find. Leliana—that’s my supervisor—says that’s just how it is. Not much funding for the humanities." 

Ah, he thinks, so the sewer of profanity comes with a surprisingly functional brain. Who knew? 

"And what will your thesis be about?" he asks. "The broad strokes, of course." 

She perks up, her expression suddenly alight with a kind of zeal he recognizes all too well—the sort of gleam he’s seen in his own reflection, mid-tangent, while his colleagues quietly plotted their escape. "The treatment of regional culinary rituals in early Orlesian romantic epics," she announces, her tone brimming with the self-assured pride of someone convinced their niche could save the world. "I’m particularly interested in how feasting scenes reflect class dynamics and metaphysical longing." 

"Feasting and metaphysical longing," he echoes. "An underexplored intersection, no doubt." 

"It is, actually," she says, unfazed. "Leliana thinks it could open up new discussions about the interplay between consumption and identity in pre-industrial Orlais." 

He takes a long sip of his drink. "Well," he says finally, "good to know I will be dining with a pioneer in the field of… gastronomic existentialism." 

"Lucky you," Rook agrees.

"And this pioneer," he quips because he simply cannot resist, "despite devoting her studies to the poetic glow of Orlesian candlelit dinners, cannot distinguish a fish fork from a dessert spoon?" 

"Emmrich," Rook says, her glass drained, the fuchsia stain of passion fruit now blooming on her lips like some accidental masterpiece. "I read about Orlesians fucking each other with cucumbers, then slicing them up for a salad as if foreplay and vinaigrette belong in the same breath. About butter smeared in places it absolutely shouldn’t be—used as lube, naturally—but no one ever writes about the yeast infections that come knocking afterward. About cream dripping off nipples, thighs, mouths, smeared across banquet tables while someone’s ass is planted squarely in a soufflé. Wine bottles being repurposed into toys, and baguettes going places that would make a priest faint." She yawns, lifting her empty glass to hide it. "That’s what I read about," she concludes. "Not whether the trout gets a dedicated fork." 

The evening unravels as such evenings will: chaotically, gracelessly. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine he selected with care—wine she downs with all the finesse of a college freshman, pausing only to declare, loudly and without irony, that her "broke ass is never affording anything like this ever again." He lets her finish most of it, partly because she’s right, and partly because there’s something oddly charming about her bluntness, even if her choice of words makes him long for an eject button. 

By the end of the meal, she’s swaying faintly, her steps wobbling like a poorly directed marionette. Outside, as he contemplates whether to purchase a pack of cigarettes or step directly into oncoming traffic, he notices her face in the streetlight: still so, so pretty despite her vocabulary, which might as well be a butcher knife to his sensibilities. He’s always had a weakness for pretty things, after all, even if he insists to himself that he’s far too sentimental for anything reckless or self-destructive. And yet... and yet... 

He likes her hair; long, absurdly long, as though she’s been growing it since birth for the sole purpose of draping it over her shoulders at pretentious dinners. It’s pale, but not quite; between shades, as though it couldn’t be bothered to settle on a single identity. Almost brown here, almost silver there, the kind of blonde that pretentious novels would insist on calling “ethereal” or “ghostly,” though to him it looks like indecision with a sheen. He likes the gray of her eyes, too, though “like” might be the wrong word—they’re so washed-out they seem more like placeholders for real eyes, a vague suggestion of color. How can something be so devoid of pigment? 

A sharp clink breaks his thoughts. He looks down to see her car keys, glinting on the asphalt. She wobbles as she bends to retrieve them, then squints into the darkness like a drunk sailor searching for shore. 

"I know I didn’t park that far away," she mutters, turning in a slow, unsteady circle. "Ugly silver two-seater. Big scratch on the passenger window. Do you see it?" 

"You are not driving," he whispers, scandalized, his voice shrill enough to summon pigeons. And there it is: the moment he transforms from potential suitor to overbearing mother hen. Splendid. Truly, the very picture of charm. "Allow me to call you a cab." 

"Noooo," she whines, stretching the word to absurdity, her voice pitched somewhere between a tantrum and a drunken lullaby. "I don’t want to trek back up here tomorrow to get my car. I don’t live close, you know." 

"Even so," he presses, his tone teetering dangerously close to because I said so.

"No. Not even so." 

The key wrestle begins, a ridiculous little tug-of-war that makes him feel like he should be calling her "young lady" and throwing out such gems as "Behave yourself" and "Think of the consequences." All the sort of dreary phrases a man her father’s age might deploy with righteous indignation. 

But of course, he isn’t her father. No, no—father figures don’t let their gaze drift, as his does now, to the teasing dip of her blouse, where the faintest edge of black lace peeks out like a taunt. Father figures don’t notice the flush creeping up her cheeks or the sway in her unsteady defiance, nor do they fixate on the maddeningly smug curl of her lips. And they certainly don’t entertain thoughts about how those lips might feel wrapped around—oh, splendid, just splendid. He’s not only lost the moral high ground but seems intent on building a summer home somewhere in the depths of his own depravity. 

But she would look absolutely divine sprawled out on his pima cotton sheets, wouldn’t she? No doubt a far cry from whatever bargain-bin monstrosities she sleeps on—some threadbare polyester set reeking faintly of last week’s takeout. She could lie there, all flushed and glistening, while he buries his mouth between her legs, tasting her like a man starved. And then, if he whispered it sweetly enough, maybe—just maybe—she’d straddle him, her nails dragging down his chest, leaving scratches he’d probably pretend not to admire later. 

And afterward, he would probably cry into her shoulder, his tears dampening whatever remains of her ridiculous blouse. They could discuss Orlesians committing atrocities against food and sex while she smokes one of his cigarettes and he, in his most pitiful depths, silently composes a thank-you note to Bellara for orchestrating this grand act of self-destruction. 

He takes the keys away from her at last and summons a car with his phone. Even an old-timer, tradition-bound relic such as himself can marvel at the efficiency of these cursed apps. 

"I will return them to you tomorrow," he says, holding them out of reach. "May I have your number? You can tell me where to meet you." He pauses, catching himself mid-fall into the abyss of creepy old man territory. Don’t ask for her address, Emmrich. Don't be weird. "Or, if that’s too forward," he adds with a touch of forced charm, "I can hand them off to Bellara. She would probably love another excuse to meddle in our lives."

"Fine, fine," Rook mutters, snatching his phone and jabbing at the screen with the grace of a caffeinated woodpecker before handing it back. 

When the car arrives, she leans in for a half-hearted hug, her small breasts brushing against him briefly, her cheap, aggressively synthetic vanilla perfume wafting into his nostrils like an attack. It smells like something one might spritz on a cupcake, and yet—Gods help him—he finds himself wanting to drown in it. 

Ten minutes later, his phone pings. 

blra said it was your bday. hppy bday

[premiumbitch]

welcome to my page! ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

she/her. armenian. 15. LOA & SHIFTING.

My posts will cover topics like my desired realities, manifestation ideas and guidance, random thoughts, my manifestation plans, Law of Attraction tips, and insights on reality shifting. I don’t appreciate my work being stolen or copied. If I find out you’ve done that, I’ll block and report you without hesitation. Use your own brain and come up with your own ideas instead of taking credit for someone else’s effort.

DO'S ! ₊˚⊹♡

request post ideas (but please don't rush me, I'm not permanently online, request and try to be patient.)

talk about (in a respectful manner) your opinions and ideas

share your best LOA and SHIFTING tips

DONT'S ! ₊˚⊹♡

No religious propaganda or comments.

no anti loa or shifting (obviously)

do not spread lies or rumors about me

No harassment or bullying

No nsfw comments

DON'T STEAL OR TAKE CREDIT FOR MY POSTS.

Don't give your unsolicited opinion about my drs or what I CHOOSE to script or post.

ABOUT ME: ₊˚⊹♡

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹

Hi, I'm Aurora! Think of me as your cheerleader for glowing up and living your dream life-- because you deserve it!

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ name : Aurora

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ age : 15

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ main drs: batfamily drs, young justice dr, teen titans dr, other dc drs, k-pop drs, jjk dr, actress dr, singer dr,

DREAM SELF KITS: ₊˚⊹♡

FUTURISTIC SELF THEMED PACK

ROSE QUARTZ SELF THEMED PACK

FEMME FETALE SELF THEMED PACK

DREAM GIRL THEMED PACK

HANNAH MONTANA INSPIRED THEMED PACK

BILLIE EILISH THEMED PACK

(more coming soon!)

RANDOM: ₊˚⊹♡

THINGS IM MANIFESTING

ALL MY DRS

VOID STATE ATTEMPT

MANIFESTING // SHIFTING HELP: ₊˚⊹♡

SUPERPOWERS TO SCRIPT

HOW TO CREATE & THINK OF MOVIES TO SCRIPT IN YOUR DR

RANDOM THOUGHTS: ₊˚⊹♡

(will be posting soon)

SHIFTING SCRIPTS: ₊˚⊹♡

(coming soon!!)

[digitalgirlguide]

dearest reader,

you are cordially invited to become a member of the court by signing up for the digital girl guide here

what is the digital girl guide?

The inspiration behind starting this guide is deeply personal for me. I wanted to create a digital magazine that looked like the magazines i used to buy at the cash register whenever my mom took me out with her to buy groceries.

i wanted to find a way to combine my love for giving unsolicited advice, my opinions on marketing, and live up to that dream of being a magazine column write just like the girls in the romcoms i love so much. and its a bonus i get connect with my girly and creative side again. ♡

every month on the 7th i send out a new digital girl guide filled with my takes on internet hot topics, marketing trends and sometimes i even throw in my current faves in music or skincare.

this month i discuss:

what the $%@^ is going on in Sephora? - The 10 year olds in Sephora saga

the great water bottle debate (stanley vs. hydroflask) - and what that means for brand loyalty

the revival of the tumblr it girl - and what that means for content creators

+ a valentines day gift guide etc.,

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

i hope you enjoy this month's read and welcome to my little pink corner of the internet .•° ✿ °•.

[nifolution]

I Quit Masterlist

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale / Reader

Summary: Ransom takes a special interest in Harlan’s new private chef

Warnings: some smut, some angst, noncon touching, dubcon oral, harassment, sexual harassment, Ransom is his usual asshole self, the Thrombeys are horrible, recreational drug use, unsolicited dick pic/video, being drugged, undressed and tied up, bribery, breaking and entering, arguments, threats, dry humping, masturbation, a bit of somno

A/N: This is a revised copy of my oc fic. It is written in 3rd person. Reader is said to have a facial piercing, your choice where. Takes place mid-November 2013. About 5 years before the movie. The Thrombeys’ opinions are NOT my own. Thoughts are in italics. 18+ only due to smut and dubcon situations. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated.  

Main Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 (End)

[niffala]

I Quit Masterlist

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale / OFC (Elizabeth)

Summary: Ransom takes a special interest in Harlan’s new private chef

Warnings: some smut, some angst, noncon touching, dubcon oral, harassment, sexual harassment, Ransom is his usual asshole self, the Thrombeys are horrible, recreational drug use, unsolicited dick pic/video, being drugged, undressed and tied up, bribery, breaking and entering, arguments, threats, dry humping, masturbation, a bit of somno

A/N: Reader insert version found here. Takes place mid-November 2013. About five years before the movie. The Thrombeys’ opinions are NOT my own. Thoughts are in Italics. 18+ only due to smut and dubcon situations. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated.

Main Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 (End)

[karadottir111]

My Fav Sub Creators and Coaches 💗

i decided that it would be fun to give you guys some of my favorite youtubers i like to listen to as a shifter and manifestor and well spiritual person in general so here’s my list of my favorite creators and coaches (and honorable mentions are my favorite subs right now)🤗

[thecaffeinebookwarrior]

Tbh I'm at a point where I think everyone should write whatever they want forever and we shouldn't worry about Mary Sues. Who cares, let's have fun in the sandbox

I agree, everyone should write what they want! It is ultimately an act of passion, and everyone has total creative liberty over what they produce.

However, not all writing is intended to be interacted with the same way.

A work of fanfiction or an original story that someone shares for free is different, for example, than a book you have to buy or a film you have to pay to watch. The purpose of reviews for products are not just to support the author, but to guide other prospective readers and viewers about how they'll spend their money and time.

As an author, there's also a difference between a hobbyist and a professional. I'm both! I write for fun, and I've published writing for money. I also have an MFA in Creative Writing.

I would consider it rude if someone offered unsolicited criticism of writing or art I made available for free, but when a paying publisher accepts my stories, I expect them to offer edits to make it as good as it can be for the consumption of the public.

Similarly, if I were in a critique session with my MFA peers, I'd be annoyed if they told me to just have fun without offering any other feedback. As you can see, the context changes whether writing is appropriate to criticize, and whether criticisms should be expected.

Hollywood studios should also be held to an especially high standard, I think, because of the amount of money that is channeled into funding their films, and the amount of money they charge from the public.

Now, about the term Mary Sue.

Many already know that "Mary Sue" is a satirical term, originating in a parody fanfiction from a Star Trek fan magazine, and I don't think it was ever meant to be treated as a serious literary criticism. There's also a male equivalent - the Gary Stu - but it's seldom used, and the term remains disproportionately geared towards female characters.

I don't dislike characters because they're "Mary Sues," I dislike characters because they're poorly written. And I have a pet peeve when a portion of the internet reactively claims a character is well-written simply to defend them from accusations of being a Mary Sue.

Again, this is usually in regards to big budget Hollywood movies or shows, like Captain Marvel, the 2016 Ghostbusters, She-Hulk, or what have you. The criticisms against these movies were often bad, and came from misogynistic viewpoints - but that doesn't mean these movies and shows are good. And I would have been doing myself a disservice if I overlooked their flaws simply because misogynists also didn't like them.

I think Hollywood studios often hide behind superficially strong female characters to shield themselves from criticism, and avoid having to write female characters who are actually original, complex, and interesting.

(Again, this is all just my opinion. Anyone is welcome to like the above properties! I like tons of things that could be considered questionable.)

So, to conclude: yes, everyone deserves to have fun with writing! It is usually inappropriate and rude to offer unsolicited criticism of art that is available for free. But Hollywood films and traditionally published writing that we pay money to access are not the same as free art that's shared only for passion and fun.

And last but not least, calling a character a Mary Sue is usually a stupid criticism, but not every character who is accused of being a Mary Sue is a good character!

Just my thoughts on the matter, which I'm obviously more than eager to babble about for a good half hour.

[st0rmyskies]

Good morning.

Please consider this your formal reminder that fan creators do this shit for free, in our spare time, and are under no obligation to cater to you in any way.

Period.

Creators make mistakes, seeing as they are human. English isn't everyone's first language. Even for those who have studied writing, typos happen. People writing on their phones and tablets for the simple joy of writing are going to fall prey to autocorrect. I edit everything multiple times before posting and I still find mistakes on rereads, because after a while all those goddamn words just blend together.

Unsolicited writing advice, even in the form of pointing out typos, is never welcome. Ever. Unless you are Sister-fucking-Roberta risen from the grave to come beat my third grade ass in a dream every time I start a sentence with the word "and," your 'helpful feedback' is nothing but insulting. Some of us have beta readers for that sort of thing. And if you aren't a beta reader designated by the particular creator in question, do me a favor: sit on your hands and keep your opinions to yourself.

I know it's hard. But I believe in you.

[luaspersona]

Who are your favourite Bangtan writers on Tumblr? I’m fairly new here but based on your reviews, I trust your opinion implicitly 😅

first of all, welcome! here, have some flowers 💐

second of all, thank you! i love reviewing, so it means a lot when people trust my opinions lol 

ok, so. before we get into the blogs, since you’re new, i thought of giving some unsolicited advice that might help improve your overall experience as a reader here! i'll put them under the cut, and the blogs at the bottom ♡

⇢ follow bts networks (you can start through mine)! they reblog authors from their communities and you’ll get to know blogs that you wouldn’t come across otherwise;

⇢ in order to actually see what the blogs you follow post, and to not be done dirty by dumblr’s algorithm, go to your blog settings > dashboard > preferences and switch off the “best stuff first” option, because its point is to give visibility to posts that already have more notes and stuff, and you lose a lot of good works in the process:

⇢ if you’re +18 (which i’m assuming you are, since you’re interacting with me), tumblr has been hiding some smutty content as of default and limiting the reach of the posts, so to not miss any good works, go to blog settings > account > contents you see and mark “show” in the community labels you feel comfortable seeing:

⇢ last tip: if you enjoy these authors and you’re comfortable here, please consider reblogging! maybe reaching out through anon like you did now to tell them how much their work meant to you. tumblr’s not really a good platform for writers and the engagement is what keeps us going, so — if you’re ok to do so — please, share some thots ♡

ok, now onto the blogs 👏🏽 i’m sorry i can’t shut up

although it’s long, this is by no means an exhaustive list, but i tried to include all the authors i’ve read and loved (without exceeding tumblr's tagging limit), so i just know that you’ll enjoy anything from them!

@kithtaehyung, @suga-kookiemonster, @eoieopda, @here2bbtstrash, @uarmymoonlight, @taegularities, @vsualitae, @the-boy-meets-evil, @pjmparadise, @persphonesorchid, @noteguk, @yeoldontknow, @kpopfanfictrash, @vyduan, @yoongiphoria, @moccahobi, @sailoryooons, @xjoonchildx, @jjkeverlast, @minisugakoobies, @bangtanintotheroom, @jimilter, @ugh-yoongi, @chryblossomjjk, @chateautae, @magicshopaholic, @hot-soop, @yoon-kooks, @nabiolive, @casuallyimagining, @euphoricfilter, @jeonqkooks, @rkivian, @m-yg93, @daechwitatamic, @gimmethatagustd, @bratkook, @augustbutwinter, @matchy6812, @kookdiaries, @kth1fics, @here4btsfics, @yoongimingyu, @aquagustd, @snackhobi, @ppersonna, @sugalaritae, @jeonjcngkook, @sugakookitty, @baljinciaga, and i wanna shamelessly recommend myself too 👉🏽👈���

(if you’re tagged here and i haven’t reviewed any of your works yet, worry not, for i’m coming 🏃🏽‍♀️)

you can also check my reviews tag or my recs lists for more recs, but anyway *sighs* that's a lot more than you asked for, but i hope you enjoy your time here and have fun with these amazing authors 🫶🏽

[hormonalmaximum]

Hey just basic internet etiquette. If someone posts something for fun, especially something they worked incredibly hard on like art or fics, maybe don't leave comments saying you dislike said work or prefer something else??? Even as a joke. If you're not their friend it's just straight up rude and discourages creators from wanting to share their work publicly ever again.

I've been bullied repeatedly for trying to set boundaries on how people interact with my artwork, and made to feel like I was overreacting for not finding their playful criticism humorous or just something I was at all comfortable with. I literally can't control anyone else's opinions, and I don't mind them either. I like multiple different versions of the same things! But you commenting your preferences in a direct response to something I made for fun isn't welcome. You can make your own post if you really want.

People leaving unsolicited comments and refusing to admit they were wrong and apologize for hurting my feelings, even if they didn't intend to, is not welcome on my blog. Period. And if you gaslight me out of my feelings by acting like I'm overreacting by not agreeing with you, then frankly you're a shit person. Don't make public callout posts about me in the main fandom tags either, especially not with #drama as one of the tags. I am not your engagement farm. I am a small artist who does this for fun, and uses what I make as an outlet for my personal struggles.

[kedreeva]

Reading and loving second first chances! I just wanted to mention, in case you hadn't thought of it; I don't think Steve and Eddie would have used the "@" symbol as code in the 80s as it was a purely obscure scientific thing until the email, which was not widely used until about 10 years later. Just something I noticed. Thanks again for the story! 😊

This is not an appropriate message to send to a fanfic writer without solicitation first. If you're unsure why, please visit my /commenting tag for my opinions on unsolicited critique on fanfiction.

As such, you are not welcome for the story. It was clearly not written for you. Please excuse yourself from ever reading it again. While you're at it, get off my other stories until you learn some goddamn manners.

[fairy-switchblade]

💋 Welcome to My Blog 💋

Get to know me:

My name is Niamh, pronounced “Nee-v”

25 years old

I am white

I use she/her/they pronouns

High Femme

I speak English, and roundabout A2 Italian

vintage enthusiast. Vintage style, not Vintage values

kink positive

I am a psychotherapy student, my areas of interest are the creative therapies, anger management and trauma processing. The opinions I express on mental health will be grounded in theory, and/or my practical experience. However they are not the opinions of a licensed practitioner, please keep that in mind.

Get to know my content:

warning: butch/femme, femme4butch and vice versa, trauma, stone identity, and NSFW content will all be shown here.

I post butch/femme community content, including art, articles, advice, questions, etc. I particularly post content aimed at femmes though of course, butches are always welcome.

I boost other members of the butch/femme community and their content

I sometimes post 18+ content, tagged as ‘NSFW’ This includes fantasies, confessions, anecdotes, artworks, and advice. Milder sexy content is tagged ‘smexy’

Respectfully:

I do not want to see or hear about anything to do with dd/lg, or mm/lb

do not send me sexual images, of any kind

Xenophobia will get you blocked and reported- racism, homophobia, transphobia etc.

We will not tolerate sexual harassment here. The unsolicited sexual objectification of butches or femmes, or the butch femme dynamic will also get you blocked and reported.

[crochetingcatwriting]

Nop, just no.

Private bookmarks are the reader's space. The public ones are a community space and as that are ruled by the same etiquette than comments.

Public bookmarks are attached to the writers work, they are PUBLIC so saying they are off limits for authors is insane and wildly entitled.

If you want to put a note for yourself as a reader you have the private option to do so in bookmarks, the author who wrote for free the piece of fiction you decided to note it was "boring but is my OTP", "sucks, too slow" or anything else you wanted honestly declare, doesn't need to know it.

And while some authors do welcome concrit none of the examples on that twitter are concrit, just an entitled rude opinion.

Unsolicited concrit (not that it could be called concrit) is rude, no matter if it is in the comments or the PUBLIC bookmarks. So, if you want to bookmark something and you don't want it to be public you just need to check the private bookmark option:

Fanfiction writers publish their works for free, don't be a dick to them.

[nifolution]

I Quit 6

Warnings: noncon touching, harassment, sexual harassment, Ransom is his usual asshole self, the Thrombeys are horrible, unsolicited dick pic/video, bribery, breaking and entering, arguments, a bit of somno

A/N: This is a revised copy of my oc fic. It is written in 3rd person. The Thrombeys’ opinions are NOT my own. Thoughts are in italics. 18+ only due to smut and dubcon situations. No stealing, no reposts, no translations, no feeding to AIs. Comments, reblogs and likes are always welcome and appreciated. 

Chapter 5 Series Masterlist  Main Masterlist

Chapter 6

Y/N couldn't stop herself from looking out the window every few minutes. Large chunky flakes of snow slowly fell, covering everything in a fluffy white blanket. It was beautiful. The fireplaces in the manor were lit, making the house smell a little smoky and almost sweet. If she was quiet, she could hear the crackling of the burning wood. It was so calming, homey. She could pretend she was still in her pjs, warm mug in her hands, watching nature’s display without a care in the world.

The crash of the front door being forcibly opened disturbed the serene atmosphere. Followed by someone stamping their boots and swearing. Making everyone aware of his distaste for the road conditions and what the weather was doing to his new car.

Ugh, he’s back.

A few minutes later, she felt Ransom standing behind her. Tingles ran up her arms as she inhaled his intoxicating scent mixed with the winter chill still clinging to his skin. Y/N knew too much of his body at this point. Since his vacation, he continued to send daily dick pics and explicit messages. Relentless in his attempted seduction. Yet she hadn't blocked him yet. A twisted part of her wanting to know what he'd do next. How far he'd go before he gave up. Or maybe how long before she’d give in.

Ransom stood next to her at the window. Slowly sliding his hand into her back pocket, squeezing her rear possessively. If someone were to walk in, they would look like a cute couple admiring the scenery. As far as he was concerned, that was exactly what they were. “Did you like the flowers?”

“Burglars don’t usually leave gifts. So I threw them in the trash. Why don’t you do the world a favor and throw yourself in there too.”

“That’s not very nice,” he chastised. “It was only a little B&E. No malicious intent. Barely even a crime.”

Y/N scoffed and turned to walk away from him. His next words stopped her in her tracks.

“I wanted to thank you for the gift you left for me.” Ransom cackled when her confused face turned back to him. He pulled his prize out of his front pocket. “It was just too cute, I couldn't resist.”

Her face burned seeing her pink bunny thong swinging from his finger. She attempted to snatch them from him, which he dodged. He then mockingly held the material above her head, making her jump for them. Laughing each time he moved them just out of her reach.

Giving up, Y/N threw up her arms, telling him to keep them. She wouldn't want them back after his nasty hands have been on them anyway.

His eyebrow quirked, “Not just my hands.” He stuffed the thong back into his pants. Completely changing the topic, he asked her what she was making tonight.

“Chicken with honey garlic pan sauce and steamed green beans.” She crossed her arms, waiting for his scathing remarks.

“Pssh, what are you burned out already?” Ransom opened the fridge, “No appy? And what is this, chocolate mousse for dessert?” Clicking his tongue, he slammed the fridge closed, rattling its contents. “Unacceptable. I won't eat it. I want lobster tail.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at his demand, returning to her duty at the stovetop. “We don’t have any. I only planned on cooking for Harlan tonight. If you want lobster so badly, you can see yourself to the store, or suck it up and have chicken.” She added the prepared poultry to the hot skillet.

He scrunched his nose at the idea. “It’s the helps job to run errands. You really need to be trained properly. Sadly, I don’t have the time right now. I’m late for my date with Tina… Terri? T-something.” He waved off the blunder. “No matter. I doubt we’ll make it past drinks.”

Ransom leaned in to whisper in Y/N’s ear, “I want you to know I’ll be thinking of you the entire time I’m fucking her... It coulda been you.” As he moved away, he swiped at the pan, intent on spilling it and ruining the meal.

Not thinking, her hands darted out to catch it before it fell, burning herself in the process. A stream of hissing and curses leaving her mouth.

“Ouch. Don't be so sloppy, Killer. You may want to put some ice on that.” He swept out of the room and out the front door. Not sparing a minute to greet his grandfather.

 What the fucking fuck? Cannot believe that fucking asshole.

---------------

The next family dinner came too soon. Y/N felt she would begin having nightmares about the hell that was dealing with the Thrombeys. Their fabulous vacations hadn’t seemed to calm any of them down. The opposite in fact. Seeing as how they spent most of the night screaming at each other.

Linda and Richard were having it out with their son and each other. Walt was picking fights with Richard and Ransom. Donna with Linda and Ransom. Harlan with Walt and Ransom. All spewing the most vile things at their relatives at the top of their lungs. It was chaos.

Little Jacob ignored them all, playing games on his phone. Joni and her daughter were not in attendance, but Harlan’s mother was. The old woman was dressed to the nines. Smartly not participating in any of her family’s bickering.

Ransom snuck away to join Y/N in the kitchen. Looking every bit like the cat who ate the canary. His family quarreling seemed to energize him. He spared no time in flirting with her. Asking her to come home with him. That it would be good for her to have a drink, destress. Promising a full body massage with a happy ending.

“No.”

“Just no? Why, what’s the problem?” He hopped up onto the countertop next to where she was putting the finishing touches on a strawberry cheesecake. “You need to loosen up and I'm offering to help you. I think we'd have a great time.” 

Her voice came out sharp, “Can you please move your ass off my work area?” Y/N already had a headache from the noise. She wanted to finish her job, go home, take a painkiller and go to sleep. Not deal with his frustrating egocentric crap.

He narrowed his eyes at her. Not liking her attitude. Taking out his wallet, he began putting hundred dollar bills down one at a time. “How much is it going to take? Everything and everyone has a price. Let's negotiate.”

Y/N’s eyes moved away from her task, to the pile of cash, then to Ransom. Giving him a half smile, she scooped up the money, folding it in half. She stepped over to stand between his long legs, placing her free hand on his knee before traveling up his thigh. Hooking a finger into his pocket, she shoved the bills inside.

“I’m not for sale. Go back to your country club skanks.”

“I don’t get you. I’m a catch. You should be begging on your knees for someone of my caliber to give you the time of day. I go out of my way for you and you deny me.”

Y/N stepped back, shaking her head at him. “You’ve never worked for anything in your life. You have the world laid at your feet. Money, cars, women. Why don't you go play with one of those things and leave me alone. I’m done putting up with you. You play these mind games and act like a giant toddler when told no. Throwing a tantrum and probably pissing your pants.”

His jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. Y/N was ready to chastise him again, when he suddenly stuck his hand right in the middle of the dessert, ruining it. She gasped as he brought a huge handful to his mouth, taking a bite, before throwing the rest at the closest wall. Some of the mess splattering back at them. 

Ransom jumped down, going over to the sink to wash his hand. He walked out backward, his vicious glare focused on her, “Stupid fucking dyke.”

“That just proves my point, ya know.”

He kicked open the kitchen door, turning to walk back to the table. Unfortunately, she had to follow him. The family were still talking over one another. Harlan's mom sat staring at her wine glass. Y/N had to shout that dessert will be just a few minutes. Doubting anyone even heard her.

Random laughed to himself, proud that he wrecked her hard work and now she was scrambling. He expected the arguments to soon shift to dessert being late. Imagining her in the kitchen, crying and frantically trying to make something new. His grandfather may even want to fire her and he'd gallantly swoop in to her defense. She'd have to go on a date with him if saved her job. Right?

To his shock, she came back out in only five minutes. Setting small glass containers in front of everyone. Crowned with a large strawberry, cut to resemble a rose. They were layered with sliced strawberries, preserves and cheesecake filling. She called them strawberry cheesecake jars. He refused to eat it.

Donna sported a disapproving look on her face, but after noticing the happy faces of her kin, changed her demeanor to match. No one seemed more delighted than Harlan's mom. She gobbled up her dessert so fast, Harlan gave her the one untouched in front of Ransom. She smiled at him, digging into her second helping.

Ransom's lip curled watching his family. His mind on the young chef. Why wasn't she playing his game? It almost felt like he was playing hers. He contemplated how he would make her follow his rules. Get his power back.

---------------

Saturday night found Y/N putting the finishing touches on her makeup. She had a date planned with a guy she’d been recently seeing, Patrick. They had gone on two dates already and had really hit it off. The conversation flowed and they had a lot of fun together. He was sweet and thoughtful, a romantic. They had similar goals and interests, they clicked. Things seemed to be headed in the right direction.

Hearing the knock on her front door, Y/N ran over, bouncing on her toes as she answered it.

It wasn’t Patrick.

In place of her date, stood Ransom. Wearing an expensive suit with a bouquet of flowers held in front of him. 

“What, no smile? Not happy to see me? You know, it occurs to me that I've never seen you smile. Not once.” He tried to hand over the flowers, but she didn’t take them.

“You don't inspire a smile.”

Undaunted, Ransom told her how hot she looked all dressed up for him. And how he couldn’t wait to see what was underneath.

Y/N gritted her teeth, “It’s not for you. I have a date. Now leave!”

Ransom cocked his head to the side, perplexed. “Why do you resist me so hard? Just give in. Let me have you. I'm a significant upgrade from whatever farm boy you're seeing.” He spun around to give her the full view. “With me, you get to be on the arm of a devastatingly handsome, rich, ivy league grad who can spoil you.”

“That may be more impressive if your family didn't pay your way through. I'm sure my date got better grades than you and he earned them.”

He tried to push his way into her apartment. “Fine, we’ll stay in then. You really need that attitude fucked out of you.”

Y/N blocked him, “I told you, I have plans. Now get out of here before Patrick arrives.”

He barked out a laugh. “Farm boy’s not coming. I paid him off. One hundred bucks. Making this my cheapest date by far.” The mix of surprise and anger on her face made him stiff. “I may not be able to buy you, but I think for an extra two, the guy would’ve sucked my dick. He didn't even think about it, just took the money and ran.”

Seeing red, she shoved him away. Telling him off and slamming the door in his smug face.

Ransom yelled through the door. “No skin off my nose. I’ve got Dorothy on standby. She’ll appreciate being wined and dined by Boston's most eligible bachelor.”

Y/N finished her night sitting on her couch, drinking a bottle of wine and watching trash tv. Wiping the occasional tear from her cheek. Hating every one she shed for that idiot. A hundred bucks, seriously? She thought they had something. Frickin’ waste of time. Grabbing her phone, she blocked Patrick’s number. Forget him.

Why are all men such disappointments?

The next morning, she awoke to texts from Ransom. It started out the same sexual shit as usual, then stating how cute she was when she slept. Her blood froze. Included was a photo of her asleep on the couch, her top pushed up, breasts on full display.

A new message pinged. [I was right. You are sensitive… even in your sleep.]

Her mind blanked. She wasn’t sure what to feel. Alarmed, disturbed, violated, pissed off, and a little turned on. Her brain seemed to short circuit. There were no words, just static.

Chapter 7

[kiryoutann]

I think its kinda fucked up for the reader to kill Simon as a way for closure, I understand that a part of it is the fact that it is twisted and hauntingly beautiful, personally even from the stalking and attempted baby trapping I don't see her as a person who will actively kill someone. Maybe its the devil's advocate in me, but I really do think the MC is a good person with lots of bad qualities. She's human and humans are complex beings. I find her self destructive qualities at the same time having relatively good intentions very realistic. Like I believe someone like her is out there and I don't think she would do something like that if I am being honest. There has to be certain amount of malice and hate in person to take another person's life, while I do the MC has the backstory to have that arc. I haven't seen her really act that way like even if she did stalk and does all that bs there is psychology behind that and there is a psychology for killing people and I think hers is different from that. I also think the mc is more concerned about the why part of closure than accepting the fact they actually left. Anyways I'm sorry about giving unprompted and unsolicited advice and telling you what I think your character is. Its just, I selfishly want to tell you why I think the mc probably won't kill Simon. Also I think its a little unrealistic considering simon is very alert and a giant and the mc is probably not. I am sorry, I had to be a villain. I'm also sorry if I am confusing you and yeah I had to hype myself up for this ask. I'll leave now.

thanks for the ask, anon!! and no worries, i'm not confused!

mostly, for suggestions about the sequel, i share everything from my inbox so we can discuss it, but the biggest reason is that so people can freely express their opinions, the way they interpret the characters, and what they want in the sequel.

i accept all asks in the sense of "okay, i hear you! i appreciate everything you've written. thank you for sharing!" but, of course, when it comes to really deciding, i will still consider everything carefully according to the storyline, the characteristics of each character, and the ending i want to aim for.

this, i will take this as your opinion on what the previous anon said and also the characters. which, agreeing or disagreeing opinion are also welcomed here. i appreciate it a lot! thank you for taking the time to write this down. have a great day!