#Stock Photo Businessman

[mugenfinder]

This is my favorite stock photo guy He does everything

[limesquares]

sketch pile :3

[out-of-context-image-search]

Clearly it's a stock photo but here's a challenge for you: come up with an ad that would merit the use of this image

[californianedgeworth]

as a fanartist for ace attorney and yakuza bless the wealth of businessman stock photos on this internet

[very-normal-userboxes]

[emilnikos]

most normal guy in the earth

[world-of-advice]

[paigelts05]

FNAF: Angry Purple Man cutting Phone

https://www.deviantart.com/paigelts05/art/FNAF-Angry-Purple-Man-cutting-Phone-773079404

Published: Nov 18, 2018

This was inspired by that one stock photo of a businessman swinging a katana at a phone. 

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Casey Novak x Reader Headcanons

Completely fabricated but I've decided they're canon nonetheless, don't fight me

Absolute puddle if you send her flowers at work. But you always send them during the day when lots of people are around because Trauma™.

Queen of delayed gratification. Girl puts in the work (at her job and at home iykwim 😉).

An expensive date, but she's worth it.

Secret finance bro with quite the stocks portfolio.

Tries to do all home improvement things herself, on principle, then is pissed for days when she ends up having to call a professional.

Fancy as fuck at work, but changes into sweats and a tank top immediately when she gets home.

Took a first class flight once and is now ruined for pedestrian travel.

Gets her nails done every other week religiously.

Could fall asleep anytime, anywhere.

Very smart with money because she kind of had to be.

Calendar wizard. Will schedule sex to make sure she gets laid.

Huge Giants and Yankees fan.

Works hard, plays harder.

Never doesn't have a travel deals tab open.

Eats Raisin Bran and Frosted Mini Wheats for breakfast like an old man-child hybrid.

Was not very open to the idea of going to therapy before you, but would do anything to make you happy. Now she actually likes going, and she's salty that you were right.

Will actually be so pissed if you question her directions in the car.

Her Instagram is just photos of you. Maybe one with both of you every once in a while.

Would die for a good lox bagel.

Loves to tease you, but would kill anyone else who tried it.

Convinced a hot toddy will cure her when she's sick, when what she really needs is NyQuil and sleep.

Makes you watch the Thanksgiving episode of Friends every year.

You have to physically keep her out of the kitchen on holidays or she will eat like half of the food before the meal starts.

Still reads the newspaper. She likes to stay informed, plus she thinks it makes her look like a hot '50s businessman (it does).

Drinks a glass of milk at night like a psychopath.

Would only miss Sunday brunch with you for an absolute emergency.

Knows every single word of "Baby Got Back."

Always drives. No exceptions.

Would never say no to a New York slice.

Does everything she can to make you feel loved and supported.

Protective to the max.

Sexts you before court, then has her phone off for the whole day like an asshole.

[your-fave-is-being-blended]

can you blend a stock photo of a happy businessman with lots of money

business millionaire over white - dollars coming down from Shutterstock is being blended!!

You cannot save him.

[amygdalae]

have this dumbass assignment due tomorrow but i got sidetracked drawing sebastian lacroix using silly stock photos i found by googling "evil businessman"

[mugenfinder]

"Businessman jailed for his crimes"

[thefieldermethod]

google search ridiculous businessman stock photo

[tyrannuspitch]

⚠ parasocialism check ⚠

have YOU been spending minutes of your precious life on affection or, god forbid, sympathy for a blond man who went to eton? have YOU found yourself entertaining for even a second the idea of a sweet, intelligent, marketable tom hiddleston who shares your precise fandom opinions and grudges but simply cannot say so because of his noble professionalism and the tyranny of His Contract?

it's not too late! get out now! here are some alternative tom hiddlestons to imagine to purge the poison from your brain:

tom hiddleston who secretly loathes playing loki and is trying his damnedest to sabotage the character for good, arthur-conan-doyle-style. "i hate this stupid gay character," he whispers to himself, staring haggardly in a hotel mirror at 3am, "but i got credited as an executive producer on that last shitshow and they STILL think i'm their martyred muse. what will it TAKE to get these fucking emos to leave me alone"

tom hiddleston who sincerely believes taylor swift was and is the love of his life and has never been the same since

tom hiddleston who was having a torrid affair with a key member of marvel's hair and makeup department and got blacklisted by the whole industry for breaking their heart. he had to find his own wig in a fancy dress shop twenty minutes before thor: ragnarok started rolling. he'll never look good on screen again

no thoughts head empty tom hiddleston. if you read his mind at any given time it's just a really old tape of shakespeare's complete sonnets playing on an infinite loop. (with 1950s nasality) ah! wherefore with infection should he- hm? superheroes? oh yes i love them

tom hiddleston who found out his wife was having a baby and immediately did the stock photo businessman-throwing-his-phone-into-the-sea thing. everything he's done since has been the acting equivalent of colin firth in mamma mia 2 refusing to close his Big Business Deal so he can do disco karaoke at his daughter's wedding. "corporate synergy"? "cinematic universe"? none of this means anything, kevin. i'm a DAD!!!!!

[thethistlegirlwrites]

For Love

Josefina Quintero slips the framed photo from the front hall into the battered brown duffle bag and zips it closed. She pushes the curtains back from the window before opening the door. No cars moving on their street, and the old brown dog is still sleeping on the corner. That loco animal chases anything that moves, even though he has three good legs and two teeth left. 

They’re safe. For now. 

She presses her fingers to the medal around her neck and prays the car starts and doesn’t blow her to hell.

Nothing and no one can be trusted right now. 

She can’t let any more of the Quinteros be headlines. It’s bad enough her mother’s name moved from the bylines of articles condemning a local businessman for mistreating his factory employees, to the headline of a brutal murder.

Everyone knows who’s to blame. Marco Reyes may not have been the one to put a gun to Sofia Quintero’s head himself (and he’s probably too much of a coward to do so), but he wanted her silenced. 

No one is to say he won’t go after the rest of her family to make his point. 

The car starts, coughing and sputtering, but at least not exploding into a fireball in the alley. Josefina leaves it running and steps out, knocking on the door. Mauricio and Olivia are looking up at her wide-eyed when she opens it, clutching their school backpacks, stuffed until the zippers are straining with clothes, books, and Olivia’s seizure pills. 

“tenemos que ir de verdad?” Mauri asks, eyes wide, the turtle shell of his backpack held against his chest like it’s armor that can protect him from the outside world. 

“Si.” She can’t be sure how much they understand of what happened to Mami. 

Her only job now is to make sure they don’t end up like her. 

…

Joey adjusts the braided bracelet around her wrist, that covers the faint pink and white scars, and counts out the money onto the top of the wire spool.

“You can pick them, Lonnie.”

“When you been watching fights all your life, you just know who’s gonna win.” Lonnie mumbles around the blunt pinched in his cracked lips, then picks up his winnings. He steps out of the makeshift room, and another man takes his place. A loser this time, who hands over his cash with a scowl.

They’re all gamblers here.

Somehow, she’s had pretty good luck playing the odds so far.

Her father gambled, before he left them. Mauri and Via probably don’t even remember him, but Joey does. She’d sat beside him at the breakfast table, with his coffee and his paper and the little notebook of numbers and figures.

If he ever actually won the fortune he’d dreamed about, she’d never known.

She’s not making a fortune either, but it’s enough. 

She’d tried to do things the right way, the legal way, and it had fallen apart. The first lawyer she’d found had scammed them, and the second had only agreed to take Mauri and Via’s cases. No legal adults.

Joey tried on her own, but the only visa that made sense was one that had work requirements attached, and Via’s hospital visits and doctor’s appointments made holding down a steady job nothing better than a dream.

After the third dismissal in as many months for being ‘unreliable’, Joey had given up.

The right way wasn’t working.

So she’d found her way here.

At the last place she’d worked, a grimy little bodega where she stocked shelves at night, one of the guys was always betting. On everything. He’d been going to a new underground fight club sort of thing happening near the docks, and right before she was fired .

Joey had decided to try her luck. As it turned out, luck had favored her a little more than she’d expected. The bookie who normally worked the fights had failed to show (she’d found out later he’d been arrested and is currently serving a five year sentence), and Joey had known enough of the right words to take his place.

Turns out, a lot of people tend to hand over their money a little faster when there’s a pretty face taking it. She’s at least making enough to get Via the medicines she needs to actually get better, not just survive.

When the smell of sweat suddenly gets a lot thicker, she knows the fighters are showing up for their cut. Winners get a share of the take on their fights. Her own personal strategy, and while it means she doesn’t take home as much as her predecessor, it also means she has the goodwill and protection of a lot of very dangerous men. 

If she ever does get challenged for the right to take bets on the fights, she’s got plenty of people who will stick up for her.

It’s the long game that matters.

Of course, there’s a downside too. 

“Hey, sweetheart, what say we forget the money and you make it up to me some other way?” 

She’s none too fond of Aidan. Never has been. He’s too forward, too aggressive, even in a circle of men who beat each other half senseless for the fun of it. 

“Hey.” A hand slams down on Aidan’s shoulder. The man behind it is a good head taller, in a different weight class entirely.

Shane Barrett.

He’s one of the regulars, and he’s good. Fights like there’s something feral inside him that wants to get out. It’s rare he doesn’t get a nice handful of cash from her at the end of a night. 

She’s not sure if it’s the money or just a genuine kindness that makes him defend her, but she’s inclined to believe it’s the latter. 

“How many fights did you win tonight?” Shane asks. His voice is quiet, but dangerous.

“Two.” Of the four everyone usually participates in unless they get too severely injured or choose not to join.

“I’m about to win five, if you don’t take your money and get out of here right now.” To drive the point home, Shane’s hand squeezes at the curve of the man’s shoulder and neck. 

Aidan flinches, grabs his take off the table, and bolts.

Joey counts off Shane’s money and hands it to him with a small smile. “Thanks for the help.”

“He fights dirty.” Shane shrugs. “And clearly he’s worse outside the ring.”

Joey just nods.

She collects the money left over and tucks it into the inside pocket of her jacket, then walks three and a half blocks out of her way and spends half an hour in an all-night bodega making sure no one from the fight is following her.

She won’t let the one way she can take care of her family be the thing that gets them killed.

Because everyone is nice until they find your weak point.

And if anyone finds out Joey has anyone she calls family, they’ll know exactly what hers is.

…

Joey is all too familiar with hunger.

It’s been a constant part of her life for the past seven years.

She knows how it clouds her mind, how it slows her steps.

How it makes her want to take back the food she’s placed in her brother and sister’s hands so badly she has to clench her fists until her fingernails bite into her palm, because there’s not enough. Not for three.

How eventually, if she can ignore it long enough, how it fades into an echo in the back of her mind, in the pit of her stomach.

This isn’t hunger.

This is something else entirely.

This is something that has crept into her veins, wound itself around her heart like barbed wire, and turned her mind into the ruthless cunning of a predator.

This is why she snapped to awareness standing over the feebly-thrashing body of a jogger, the woman’s pale blonde hair stained crimson, a wound in her neck dripping more onto the concrete, seeping toward a fallen, faded photograph of four people on a sun-drenched veranda. A photo that must have fluttered out of the dirt-streaked jacket Joey was buried in, when she lunged at the jogger like some kind of starving wolf.

This is why the moment she realized what she’d done, what she’d become, she found the sturdiest building in this graveyard, a massive stone crypt owned by a long-dead family (she’d counted the years on the wall niches to distract herself at first, and the last burial in this place was in 1935, unlocked the door long enough to slip in, with a key that some careless caretaker had left half-visible under a fake potted flower, and let the latch slam shut behind her with a sound that seemed as final as death ought to be.

She thanks a God whose name she can no longer speak aloud that whoever owned this crypt was rich enough (and wanted to flaunt it enough) to have the door handles and hinges plated in real silver. She can feel it whenever she comes close.

Her newfound strength wouldn’t even be enough to force it open. She can feel herself weakening the closer she gets to the bright metal.

She huddles into a corner, clutching the photo with blood-stained edges she snatched from the ground to remind her why she’s doing this in shaking hands, repeating the words she wishes there was some way to get to her family.

I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want to leave like this but I don’t have a choice. The one thing I’ve always tried to do is protect you. From the monsters in this world. And now that means protecting you from me.

Tía Patricia will take good care of you.

Because now, I never can again. 

(You can read this story and more from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter @the-lovely-wren

[merakiui]

Okay, I don’t love Azul. He isn’t one of my top 5 favorites or anything of the sort, but he is just so pathetic, such a scrunkly little man, stupid little octopus, that I just want him to cry and feel so pathetic while he jerks off with yuu’s underwear, believing that they would never want him.

He’s just so babygirl shaped.

He is a very pathetic babygirl and that's what makes him so great. Put him in every romantic comedy situation ever and watch him proceed to fall even deeper for you, only for him to shatter his own hearts because he sincerely believes you'd never want him in the way he wants you. He'll collect things of yours without your knowledge: a chewed pen cap, underwear, a sock/stocking, jewelry, etc. Anything that has been touched or worn by you. Anything that helps him feel closer to you when he's masturbating to thoughts and photos of you.

The amount of times he's fantasized taking you in the halls of Octavinelle, pushing your body against the glass and pressing kisses into your shoulders and neck. Or taking you in the privacy of his VIP room, pinning you to the desk, or having you ride him on the leather sofas. Or lying you down on his bed, dimming the lights, and fucking into you so slowly just to hear your pretty voice sing the sweetest of sounds. He's always miserable in the post-nut clarity because he realizes he doesn't stand a chance with you, so he'll never get to indulge in any of his dreams. NRC has so many eligible bachelors who he can hardly compete with. Azul is not royalty. Azul is not the strongest mage. Azul is not an athlete. Azul is not your best friend and so, according to his logic, he'll never be your boyfriend.

You only know him for his reputation: a scummy businessman who'd trade anyone if it's to his benefit. And while that may be true, it's not the image he wants you to hold onto when you think of him. If you even think of him, that is. His human body may be attractive to curious merfolk and humans with low standards (no matter what he does, he's never truly satisfied with his appearance), but it doesn't mean anything if it's not attractive in your eyes.

So Azul will do what he does best: camouflage. He'll act like the perfect gentleman on the stage that is NRC, blending seamlessly into beautiful backdrops. Behind closed doors, he'll fester in mounting hatred, self-deprecation, and crooked infatuation while he continues to fantasize about a life with you. And if he has to cheat a little just to get you alone and drunk on artificial love brewed in the form of a potion, he'll do what he must. No one ever said the game of love was fair, and Azul plays for keeps.