#permanent hair removal new york city | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

emjayewrites · 2 months

Text

Under His Influence - LH (1/14)

SYNOPSIS: Several years after his last submissive, Lewis finally decides to look for another. His search brings him back to The Obsidian Lotus, where he encounters Nikki, a law student working as a cocktail waitress to make ends meet.

PAIRINGS: Billionaire/CEO!AU Lewis Hamilton x Nikita "Nikki" Gaines

WARNINGS: minors do not engage, 18+ only, contains themes of BDSM. (do not read if not comfortable)

A/N: Please let me know if you would like to be on the taglist or removed.

Nikki adjusted her fishnet stockings and then smoothed down her corset, taking a deep breath before pushing through the heavy velvet curtain into the main room of The Obsidian Lotus. The exclusive BDSM club hummed with energy, its dim lighting and plush decor a stark contrast to the austere halls of her law school.

Just a month ago, she'd been struggling to make ends meet. Her scholarships covered tuition and some supplies, but living expenses in New York City were crushing. Now, here she was, navigating a world she'd only read about in steamy novels. The vetting process had been intense - background checks, interviews, health screenings, and a crash course in club etiquette and safety protocols. But the pay was worth it, especially for a broke law student.

"Girl, you won't believe what happened in my training session today," Asha, Nikki's best friend and fellow law student, sidled up next to her at the bar.

Nikki raised an eyebrow as she arranged drinks on her tray. "Oh yeah? Spill."

Asha leaned in, lowering her voice. "I met this tech mogul. He's looking for a permanent sub. The allowance he's offering?" She whistled low. "Let's just say I could pay off some of my undergrad loans and have enough left over for a cushy apartment."

Nikki's eyes widened. She'd known the real money was in being a sub, especially to the wealthy elites who frequented The Obsidian Lotus and its sister clubs in London, Paris, and Los Angeles.

"Just be careful, okay?" Nikki cautioned, genuine concern coloring her voice.

Asha nodded, her expression serious. "Always. That's why I love this place. The safety measures are no joke."

As if on cue, Nikki noticed one of the ever-present security staff doing a subtle sweep of the room. The club's reputation for discretion and safety was what attracted its high-profile clientele - politicians, celebrities, and business tycoons from around the world.

Nikki hefted her tray and made her way into the crowd, weaving between leather-clad bodies and elegant evening wear. As she straightened after serving a table, movement on the main stage caught her eye. A scene was starting, featuring none other than Madam Penny herself.

Madam Penny was a striking figure - a Black woman in her forties with flawless skin and an aura of unshakeable confidence. Her natural hair was styled in an elegant updo, and her curvaceous figure was accentuated by a form-fitting leather dress. As the CEO of a thriving beauty empire, she exuded power and grace.

Circling her on the stage was her sub for the evening - a lithe Asian man in his late twenties. His jet-black hair was artfully tousled, and his lean muscles rippled under smooth, pale skin as he knelt before Madam Penny. His dark eyes never left her face, a mix of adoration and anticipation clear in his gaze.

Madam Penny traced the crop along the man's bare back, focusing on his shoulders and the curve of his spine. "Color?" she asked firmly.

"Green," the man responded, his voice husky.

She brought the crop down with a sharp crack against his upper thigh. The man gasped, his muscles tensing visibly.

"Thank you, Mistress," he breathed.

She alternated between gentle caresses and firmer strikes across his back, buttocks, and thighs. Each impact elicited a different reaction - sometimes a soft moan, other times a sharp intake of breath.

Nikki was transfixed as Madam Penny continued to bring her crop down on the man's skin with practiced precision.

"Careful there, sweetheart," one of the men at the booth chuckled, noticing Nikki's distraction.

Nikki felt her cheeks warm. "My apologies, sir. Enjoy your evening."

As she moved to the next table, she couldn't help but steal glances at the stage. The intensity between Madam Penny and her sub was palpable, even from a distance. She watched as the powerful CEO leaned down to whisper something to the man, saw his full-body shudder in response.

A month in, and Nikki still found herself fascinated by these displays. The trust, the power exchange, the raw vulnerability - it was unlike anything she'd ever seen.

"Nikki! Table 12 needs their order taken," her supervisor, Nigel, voice crackled through her earpiece.

Right. She was here to work, not gawk. Nikki straightened her shoulders and turned towards Table 12, pushing thoughts of the scene from her mind. She had bills to pay, after all.

Nikki walked over to the table, her eyes landing on a handsome man sitting in the booth. His tawny brown skin seemed to glow even in the dim lighting, and his soulful whiskey-colored eyes captivated her immediately. His hair was neatly styled in braids with a sharp faded edges, and the sleeves of his crisp button-down shirt were rolled up, proudly displaying intricate tattoos along his forearms.

Lost in her observations, Nikki was startled when the man cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir," she muttered, quickly glancing down respectfully. It was the first rule she'd learned during her thorough training: always show respect. Between not being allowed to look a Dom or Madam directly in the eyes unless instructed, addressing them correctly, and various other protocols, it had been a lot to take in when she first began working there.

From beneath her lashes, she noticed the man's lips quirk into a slight grin. "It's okay, sweetheart," he said, his accented voice a rich baritone that sent a shiver down her spine. It was warm and smooth, like aged bourbon. "Look up for me."

His command caused her brows to furrow in confusion, but she obeyed, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze. Now that she had a better view, she noticed the glint of piercings in both his nostrils, adding an edge to his refined appearance.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous. Do you have-"

"Lewis!" a voice called, interrupting their exchange. A Black man approached, and Nikki immediately recognized him as Marcus, the club's manager. The two men greeted each other with a familiar dap, and Marcus glanced in Nikki's direction, causing her to instantly avert her eyes.

"Is everything to your liking?" Marcus asked, addressing Lewis but keeping Nikki in his peripheral vision.

"Yes, it is. Just wanted to know about this beautiful woman here."

"Ah…" Marcus said, gently taking Nikki's arm and revealing the flower bracelet on her wrist: a white lily, signifying her status as a simple cocktail waitress - off limits.

"Sorry, my friend," Marcus said, almost regretfully, to Lewis. Nikki could have sworn she heard Lewis grumble his displeasure. "Don't fret, we have many subs available if you'd like to do a scene."

"Mmhmm," was Lewis' only response. He held Nikki's gaze for a few more beats before finally speaking. "In that case, I'll take a scotch, neat."

"Of course, sir," Nikki replied, then quickly made her way to the bar. Once there, she let out a held breath, her eyes drifting to her bracelet.

The Obsidian Lotus used a system of flower bracelets to denote each person's status:

White lily for regular employees and non-subs, like Nikki. Pink rose for subs in training, like Asha. Red tulip for unattached subs, available for scenes or potential long-term arrangements. Purple orchid for attached subs, indicating they were in an ongoing dynamic.

All Doms and Madams wore an obsidian lotus pendant bracelet, marking their status and authority within the club.

Nikki's fingers brushed over her white lily bracelet. For a brief moment, she wondered what it might be like to wear a different flower, to step into that world fully. But she shook off the thought. She had a law degree to focus on. This job was a means to an end - nothing more, nothing less.

Gathering her composure, she prepared Lewis' drink, all too aware of his eyes following her movements from across the room.

Lewis watched as she walked away, his eyes tracing the curves accentuated by her required uniform. The corset-style top hugged her breasts perfectly, while the skirt flared slightly, ending just at the tops of her thighs, showing her wide hips and just the slightest hint of her pert backside. Fishnet stockings disappeared into black stilettos, the ensemble completed by a delicate white lily bracelet that now felt like a barrier between them.

Disappointment settled in his chest. Off limits. The words echoed in his mind, fueling a frustration that had been building for months. As a billionaire with stakes in beverage empires, fashion houses, and lucrative investments, Lewis was used to getting what he wanted. But here, in The Obsidian Lotus, different rules applied.

The last few months of "vanilla sex" had left him feeling hollow, and he was almost desperate enough to step in front of a bus just to feel something. He craved the intensity, the power exchange that only BDSM could provide. His mind drifted to his last sub - a relationship that had ended with security escorting her out and a hastily terminated contract. The memory was a stark reminder of why he avoided emotional entanglements.

Lewis had discovered his dominant side ten years ago, thrown into the deep end by a seasoned submissive who recognized his potential. Since then, he'd honed his skills relentlessly, attending workshops, reading voraciously, and practicing with willing partners. The Obsidian Lotus membership had come later, a natural progression for someone of his status and inclinations.

"Everything alright?" Marcus asked, pulling Lewis from his thoughts.

"Yeah, just… frustrated," Lewis admitted, running a hand over his braids.

Marcus nodded knowingly. "I could arrange a scene for you. We have several experienced subs available tonight."

Lewis considered the offer. He wasn't thrilled by the idea, but he was here, wasn't he? Might as well make the most of it. "Sure, why not?"

As they discussed options, she returned with his drink. Lewis found his gaze drawn to her once more, shaking his head at the cruel twist of fate. Here was a woman who genuinely intrigued him, and she was untouchable.

She was a vision of quiet allure. Her smooth dark skin, high cheekbones and full lips. Her hair was styled in neat box braids, pulled back into a high ponytail that swayed gently as she moved. Almond-shaped eyes, framed by long lashes, held a depth of intelligence that belied her demure demeanor.

She set the scotch down with practiced grace. "Will there be anything else, sir?" she asked, eyes appropriately lowered.

"No, thank you," Lewis replied, noting the perfect balance of deference and poise in her manner. Yet there was something else - a hint of defiance, perhaps? A spark that suggested depths untapped. It both frustrated and fascinated him.

As Nikki retreated, Lewis sipped his scotch, lamenting his poor luck. He'd love to explore that rebellious streak he sensed in her, to see how she'd respond to his dominance. But unless she changed her status, all he could do was imagine the possibilities.

With a sigh, he turned back to Marcus. "So, about those available subs…"

Marcus nodded, his expression a mix of understanding and professional detachment. "We have a few options tonight. There's Jasmine, a petite brunette who specializes in rope play. Or perhaps Alexis, a statuesque blonde who enjoys impact play. Both are experienced and highly recommended."

Lewis listened, but found his attention drifting. He nodded mechanically as Marcus continued his descriptions, his mind still lingering on her. From the corner of his eye, he could see her expertly navigating the room, balancing trays, and taking orders with effortless efficiency.

"You know what," Lewis interrupted, surprising himself. "I think I'll pass tonight. Just not in the right headspace."

Marcus raised an eyebrow but didn't push. "Of course. The offer stands if you change your mind."

As Marcus excused himself, Lewis sipped his scotch, savoring the burn. He found himself wondering about her story. What brought a woman like her to work in a place like this? Was she just here for the money, or was there a curiosity that drove her?

He shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. It was pointless to speculate. She was off-limits, end of story. Yet as the night wore on, he couldn't help but track her movements, imagining what could have been if circumstances were different.

The frustration that had driven him here tonight remained, but it had shifted. No longer was it just sexual tension, but a deeper, more complex ache. Lewis finished his drink, deciding it was time to call it a night. As he stood to leave, he caught her eye across the room. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a flicker of something - interest? - before she quickly looked away.

Lewis left The Obsidian Lotus, the cool night air hitting him like a wall of bricks as he slipped into the backseat of his awaiting town car. He knew he should be focused on finding a suitable submissive, on scratching the itch that had been plaguing him for months. Instead, his mind was filled with images of dark skin, almond eyes, and a white lily bracelet.

He wanted her.

Now he just had to figure out a way to get her.

As Nikki left Professor Larson's Constitutional Law class, her mind was still reeling from the complex legal theories they'd discussed. The course was challenging, pushing her analytical skills to their limits, but she found it exhilarating. Today's lecture on the Commerce Clause had been particularly intense, leaving her with a mix of excitement and mental exhaustion.

"Hey Nikki, want to grab coffee and study?" Jake asked, falling into step beside her. His warm brown eyes and easy smile were as charming as ever. With his wavy black hair and sharp jawline, Jake was undeniably handsome. But Nikki had promised herself not to get involved with classmates, no matter how tempting.

"Sorry, Jake. I've got plans," she replied, adjusting her backpack.

Stepping out of Columbia Law School's imposing stone building, Nikki was greeted by a crisp autumn breeze. Golden leaves swirled across the campus green, a picturesque scene that still amazed her even after months of attendance.

As she walked the path towards the subway, she spotted Professor Greene. The anthology professor and department chair was also a member of The Obsidian Lotus. Bald with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, his dark skin had a healthy glow that belied his years. Kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses exuded a gentle authority. Nikki knew from club gossip that his demeanor changed dramatically in scenes - he was known for his strict discipline and penchant for orgasm control.

"Nikki, how are you?" he greeted warmly.

"I'm well, Professor. Just finished Con Law with Professor Larson."

"Ah, the Commerce Clause, if I remember the syllabus correctly. Tough stuff."

They chatted about the upcoming Moot Court competition, with Professor Greene offering some advice on presentation techniques. Though not his student, Nikki always appreciated these friendly exchanges.

On the train, her thoughts turned to her grandmother as she headed to the nursing home in Queens. Nikki was essentially an orphan - her father unknown, her mother more interested in chasing men than raising a child. Her grandmother had stepped in, caring for Nikki until two strokes left her in poor health.

The nursing home, Sunnyside Gardens, was a modest but clean facility. Its beige walls and linoleum floors weren't luxurious, but the staff was caring, which mattered most.

In her grandmother's room, Nikki took in the frail form of the woman who raised her. Despite her weakness, her grandmother's eyes lit up at Nikki's presence. Her once-dark hair was now completely white, her brown skin papery thin, but her spirit remained strong.

"How's school, baby?" she asked, her voice thin but warm.

"It's good, Gran. Challenging, but I'm loving it," Nikki shared, settling into the worn armchair beside the bed. "I made it to the second round of interviews at Pearson Hardman for their spring internship program."

"That's my girl," her grandmother beamed. "You always were a fighter. Now, when are you going to start dating?"

Nikki laughed, "Gran, you know I'm too busy for that."

"Nonsense. You're young, beautiful. Live a little."

They continued chatting, Nikki filling her in on school gossip and her part-time job (carefully omitting the exact nature of the club). As always, leaving was hard. When she was about to exit, the nursing home director stopped her.

"Ms. Gaines, a moment please," the director said, her tone serious.

Nikki's heart raced, fearing bad news about her grandmother's health.

"I wanted to thank you for this month's payment, but I need to inform you that our rates will be increasing soon," the director explained.

Shock coursed through Nikki as the director revealed the new rate - almost double the current fee, even with a "discount."

"When does this take effect?" Nikki managed to ask.

"In two months," the director replied.

Later, on the subway ride home, Nikki's mind raced on how will she would be able to afford the new rates. More shifts at the club? A second job? Campus tutoring? None seemed feasible with her study schedule.

Then, an intrusive thought: sub training and its stipend. It would cover her grandmother's care, and a wealthy Dom might cover the rest. It was risky, but what choice did she have?

With shaking hands, Nikki texted Asha: "Hey girl, can we talk about that sub training? Might be interested…"

TAGLIST: @mauvecherie-writes @cocobutterqwueen @serpenttines @queenshikongo3 @blowmymbackout @yeea-nah

#emjayewrites #lewis hamilton #sir lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton fanfic #sir lewis hamilton x black!reader #lewis hamilton x black reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #under his influence

377 notes · View notes

lizzygrantarchives · 13 years

Text

Esquire UK, January 27, 2012

Lana Del Rey has arrived on these shores like a breath of gorgeous, sunkissed Californian air. Only she’s from New York. And, as she revealed in these out-takes from her interview with Esquire in our December issue, her favourite place is Glasgow. Some woman indeed.

Lana, you’re an international star already, but where’s your permanent home right now?

I don’t have one. I was in New York for six years, but I relocated to London because my managers were there, and then I have to work in California a lot because that’s where the producers are. But also when I have any time when I don’t have to sing or anything, I go to Glasgow. That’s where I’m happiest. I found this band that I love and I live with them out there.

Is that Kassidy? How did you meet up with them?

They reached out to me online and I heard their voices and I just thought they were extraordinary. They were real singers and I loved their songs. They came to London and we met up and we just loved each other from the feeling of them. I talk to them every day. I don’t know, I really love them. It’s funny, when you meet people who are nice people, who are just really nice to you, you forget what it’s like to have friends who are really sweet and then you’re like, “Oh! That’s how I should be spending their time!” So I don’t know, I just think they’re sweet.

Do you actually stay with them in Glasgow?

Yeah.

Aren’t they big hairy guys?

They’re not that hairy… They just have long hair. That’s rock’n’roll though! That’s how it’s supposed to be.

You’re from Lake Placid, New York. What’s that like?

It’s upstate. It’s one of the coldest spots in North America other than Minnesota, it’s in a national park so it’s surrounded by what they called The Forty-Sixers, 46 really high mountaintops. And it’s a village because there’s only about 2,000 people in it, but it’s beautiful – they had the Olympics there – but it’s pretty far removed from anything.

Did it affect you musically, or did that come later?

I was always singing when I was a baby, but I don’t think it was because of my environment necessarily. You know, if me and my family had been somewhere else then I would have been singing too. I wasn’t necessarily inspired by the landscape or anything like that, but I did like to sing, and I wanted to go to the city so I was excited when I got there.

At what age did you go?

I started sort of travelling there when I was 17, I moved there when I was 18.

Were you singing at the time?

I didn’t think I was going to be a singer, I was singing in choirs at school things like that, and just writing things for myself. When I got to New York my friends told me: if you’re not singing and you want to be singing, don’t fool yourself into thinking that you’re going to get closer to it by doing something else. So I made a decision that I would try and be a writer and a singer. I went to open-mic nights, and things happened really quickly. People would ask me to sing for them at their shows, and then I entered a song-writing contest, and got a record deal on that back of that.

What would you have done if that hadn’t worked? An accountant?

I’m terrible with numbers.

You started life as Lizzy Grant – how did you come up with the name Lana Del Rey?

“Lizzy Grant” didn’t sound like what the music was, not even from the beginning. And so when my first record came out, I just decided to pick something that sounded sonically more like what the music was going to be like. Sometimes having a certain name just gives you something to build towards. We thought that Lana Del Rey sounded exotic and beautiful and maybe like you’re not really sure what it means, which sort of summed up the music. And I speak Spanish so I liked Del Rey, and I like California so there’s a Del Rey reference. It could have been anything really but that’s just what we came up with.

Were there any musical people in your family, or did you spring from nowhere?

My dad’s a very good singer, my mom’s a good singer too. My dad and my uncle write country songs and me and my mom sing in the choir at church, so everybody sings in my family!

What do your brother and sister think about what you're doing?

It doesn’t surprise anyone really. My sister’s actually an exquisite photographer in the city. She’s only 22 but she works for Lanvin. She takes all my pictures too and helps me take my videos. She’s in the art world and that’s really nice. And my little brother has just turned 18. They’re really happy about it.

You described your sound in the past in the “Hollywood sadcore” – how long did it take you to work out what you wanted your sound to be?

To be honest the “Hollywood sadcore” thing was a little bit of a joke, although I think it’s a pretty phrase. I didn’t really expect anyone to listen to any music so I was just saying whatever I wanted. I made my first record when I was 19, with David Kahne, and that was very exciting at the time because I was signed to a really small label and he’s really famous in America. He’s an amazing producer. The first record was very inspired by trying to see the light through the dark times, and also inspired by glamour, and the way that things are in the movies which seems epic and perfect.

Another phrase which you may not have expected to be picked up as much as it was is the “Gangster Nancy Sinatra” line. What’s the gangster influence?

First of all I didn’t even make up that, that was something an A&R man said and we thought it was funny. I put it on my Facebook page and everyone was like, “Who’s this girl trying to be the next gangster Nancy Sinatra?” To be honest, I’m not that familiar with Nancy’s discography, although I know everything that Frank did. But I mean, it is a little bit gangster in that I’ve had so many good things happen and then lost it all so many times that I decided to just go down my own path regardless and do whatever I chose to do. And that way I think it makes the music kind of gangster, and not listening to anybody else, you’re in charge of your own life, and you’re running things. So that’s gangster.

How will you embrace your burgeoning fame?

It’s really not something that I want. It’s not something I’m going for today. It was when I was 16, but things change a lot and you get new things that are important to you. So I still don’t want to have to do anything I don’t want to do. Just like anybody else. I actually do believe in having icons and gods because I think it’s nice. I have my own, but I don’t think I would be very good for fame because I’m really quiet. So I hope that doesn’t happen.

We fear it might be too late.

I don’t think so. Just wait, it’ll be over as quickly as it started – you know how people are. They always find something to talk about and then before you know it they’ll just be on their merry way.

Do you have a melancholy streak to you?

I think so. I fight the dark side and I do a really good job at it. Definitely.

Things are looking pretty good however – you’re signed to Interscope and Polydor and your debut album is imminent. That’s exciting, no?

It is but we didn’t really have time to think about, I just move along. I really like everyone [at the labels], I know all the people really well and they don’t want to change everything, it’s not like you hear about. Everything’s the same, I’m still going to make my videos, even for the official videos, and everyone gets it and no one wants to change it. I feel like maybe the angels are shining on me for just a second.

Originally published on esquire.com with the headline Q&A | Lana Del Rey.

#2011 #Esquire UK

0 notes

lavyahairdesign · 7 months

Text

Hair Botox - A Beauty Treatment That Gives Your Hair a Younger Appearance

Hair Botox is a beauty treatment that’s similar to the popular wrinkle-remover Botox but instead of removing lines and wrinkles, it smoothes your hair for a younger-looking, fuller appearance. It is a deep conditioning and hydrating treatment that leaves your hair nourished with collagen and keratin, making it more resilient against environmental damage. It can help mend damaged strands, reduce frizz, and protect color treatments, leaving your hair shiny, healthy, soft, and more lustrous.

This non-invasive, hair-enhancing treatment is perfect for all hair types. However, it’s especially restorative for those with dry, damaged, or brittle locks. “It’s like a maintenance-type of conditioning treatment that helps restore what has been lost due to the environment,” says Glow Theory stylist and owner of a salon in Santa Monica, California, Gwen Ciambrone. She adds that the treatment is also great for those with fine hair, as it can thicken strands and make them appear fuller.

The Botox hair treatment process begins with a shampoo to open up your hair cuticles, and then the product is applied to each strand of your hair. It’s massaged into the strands from root to tip, and it’s left on for about 20 to 90 minutes before it’s rinsed off. Some stylists will then blow dry and straighten your hair after rinsing, which allows the treatment to penetrate deeper into your strands.

After your hair is completely rinsed, it’s important to treat it with a sulfate-free shampoo and conditioner. It’s also recommended to use a moisturizing hair mask once a week and a heat-protectant spray when you heat-style your strands. This will help repair the damage done to your strands by the sun, harsh temperatures, and hot tools.

A hair-Botox treatment can cost anywhere from $150-$300, and prices vary depending on the salon you choose and geographic area. However, if you’re able to get it in your hometown, the price can be even less expensive.

While it won’t last as long as a keratin treatment, it will give you the same results and can be used as often as once a month. Unlike a Brazilian blowout, which can have a permanent effect on your hair, hair-Botox washes out after a few months. Luckily, this treatment is much safer than Botox, and it’s not a painful procedure at all! To learn more about this nourishing and revitalizing treatment, we spoke with Michele Green, MD, a Manhattan-based cosmetic dermatologist; David Adams, trichologist and co-founder of Fourteenjay Salon in New York City; and Paul Labrecque, salon owner and artistic director of Paul Labrecque Salon and Skincare Spa in Santa Monica, CA. Keep reading to see what they have to say about the best benefits of hair-Botox, how it works, and the effects of this coveted beauty service.

Lavya Hair Design are your first choice for a Hairdresser in Toowoomba for modern hair cuts, crisp clean hair colours and naturally nourished hair.

Visit our brand new salon in Toowoomba Plaza near Kmart, where you can relax in style and be pampered whilst enjoying our affordable hair package deals.

#botox hair treatment #botox for hair treatment #botox treatment hair #bridal makeup toowoomba

0 notes

dripgymusa · 1 year

Text

A Permanent Solution: Exploring Laser Hair Removal in Queens, New York

Have you ever found yourself longing for smooth, hair-free skin without the constant hassle of shaving or waxing? This dream can become your reality with laser hair removal, a permanent solution to unwanted hair. In the heart of Queens, there's a place where modern technology meets comfort and style: Drip Gym, a premier destination for those seeking top-notch laser hair removal services.

Safe and effective

The first and perhaps most significant benefit of choosinglaser hair removal in Queens, New York, particularly at establishments like Drip Gym, is its safety and effectiveness.

This procedure poses minimal risk and can deliver impressive results when performed by trained professionals. It targets the hair follicles directly to reduce hair growth without damaging the surrounding skin. With each session, you'll notice less hair re-growth, eventually leading to permanent reduction. This makes laser hair removal not only a safe choice but also an effective solution for long-term hair removal.

Real results

When it comes to achieving real, noticeable results,laser hair removal in Queens, New York, particularly at Drip Gym, stands out from the rest. They understand that hair removal is not just about aesthetics; it's about boosting your confidence and enhancing your lifestyle. Their team of skilled professionals uses advanced laser technology to deliver long-lasting results, reducing hair growth effectively. Unlike temporary solutions, their laser hair removal treatment ensures fewer sessions over time, ultimately saving you from the constant cycle of shaving or waxing. With Drip Gym, you're not just getting a service; you're investing in a solution that brings enduring results.

Laser hair removal in Queens, New York, offers a transformative experience that goes beyond mere hair removal. It's a journey towards freedom from constant shaving or waxing, a step towards boosted confidence, and an investment in yourself.

Whether you're new to the process or looking for a more reliable service provider, the city of Queens has numerous dependable establishments like Drip Gym that can cater to your specific needs. Remember, the path to smoother, hair-free skin is not a distant dream but a reality waiting for you to experience. So why wait? Start your laser hair removal journey today and embrace the change you've been longing for!

0 notes

scalptattoonewyork · 1 year

Text

The Ultimate Guide To Hair Restoration In New York: Comparing Surgical And Non-Surgical Solutions For Hair Loss

youtube

Hair loss is a common aesthetic concern among many individuals. It can be caused by a variety of factors, such as genetics, certain medications, and medical conditions.

Fortunately, there are numerous treatments available to restore hair growth for those suffering from this condition. This article will provide an overview the different options for hair restoration in New York City.

It will focus on comparing surgical solutions with non-surgical alternatives to help readers make informed decisions about their treatment plan.

The ultimate guide to selecting the best option for each individual's needs will also be discussed in detail.

Weighing Your Options: A Comprehensive Comparison Of Hair Transplant Procedures And Scalp Micropigmentation In New York

Hair restoration New York can be as complicated and intricate as a spider web, leaving individuals looking for solutions tangled in uncertainty. It’s important to understand the different options available before making any decisions; however, this can feel like navigating an unfamiliar terrain without a compass.

As such, comparing the various hair transplant procedures and scalp micropigmentation treatments is essential. Like two sides of a coin, these methods have their own unique advantages and disadvantages that must be carefully weighed before committing to one solution.

For those considering hair transplants in New York, there are several techniques used depending on individual needs. Follicular unit extraction (FUE) involves harvesting donor follicles from areas with healthy growth while follicular unit strip surgery (FUSS) requires removing strips of tissue from the back or side of the head for later processing into grafts. Both require mild sedation during the procedure but recovery times differ significantly: FUE takes about 5-7 days whereas FUSS may take up to 14 days due to incision healing time. Additionally, costs vary between $4-$10 per graft for FUE versus $3-$5 per graft for FUSS.

Scalp Micropigmentation (SMP) is also becoming increasingly popular among men and women seeking permanent hairline enhancement without surgery or downtime. This process uses natural pigments injected at varying depths into the epidermis layer of skin directly over balding scalps to create an illusion of fuller hair density. For best results, it’s recommended patients seek out experienced SMP masters who specialize in creating customized colors and textures specifically tailored to each patient’s need – all within a few short sessions lasting 2-3 hours each. The cost ranges around $1k -$2k per session with most clients requiring 3-4 total treatment sessions spread across 6 months or more until desired results are achieved.

Overall, both hair transplants and SMP offer effective solutions against hair loss; however, understanding which option works best depends on personal preference as well as budget considerations and long-term commitment required by each method when compared to its corresponding benefits.

Prp Therapy: New York's Breakthrough Non-Surgical Hair Restoration Treatment

In the world of hair restoration, Platelet-Rich Plasma (PRP) therapy is quickly becoming a popular and effective non-surgical solution for those suffering from various kinds of hair loss. This innovative technique utilizes the patient’s own blood to stimulate natural growth pathways in the scalp area and promote healthy follicles. It can be used as an adjunct treatment alongside surgical hair transplants or other medical treatments such as minoxidil.

The PRP process begins with a simple blood draw followed by centrifugation which separates out platelets into a concentrated form that contains healing factors and proteins like hyaluronic acid and collagen. These are then injected directly into the scalp at multiple points throughout the affected areas.

The entire procedure usually takes about 45 minutes to complete, depending on the extent of coverage needed, and results in minimal discomfort for the patient.

Studies have shown that PRP therapy may improve circulation within the scalp while also encouraging cell regeneration - leading to improved thickness, volume, strength, and overall health of existing follicles. Ultimately, this breakthrough approach offers patients another option when considering how best to restore their hair without going through extensive surgery or taking oral medications over long periods of time.

Understanding The Role Of Topical And Oral Medications In Hair Restoration: New York's Most Prescribed Solutions

Hair restoration solutions are not limited to surgical techniques and can also be achieved with the use of medications. FDA-approved topical and oral medications such as minoxidil and finasteride have become increasingly popular in New York as a means for treating hair loss. These treatments help reduce further balding and promote regrowth of scalp hair, however, they require consistent use over time to maintain results.

Some key points regarding these types of medication include:

* Minoxidil is available in both 2% and 5% concentrations, depending on the severity of hair loss experienced by an individual. It must be applied topically twice daily for it to take effect.

* Finasteride is an oral medication only prescribed for adult men that works by blocking DHT - a hormone responsible for male pattern baldness - from affecting the follicles. The pill should be taken once per day, every day without missing any doses, in order to yield successful results.

* Both medications provide beneficial effects when used regularly; however, side effects may occur including itchiness or redness at the application site or changes in libido for users taking finasteride.

* To maximize effectiveness, it’s best if your doctor creates a tailored treatment plan based on your needs. This could involve combining medicated shampoos with other products like laser combs or light therapy devices.

In addition to lifestyle modifications like avoiding harsh chemical styling agents and wearing protective hats outdoors during sunny days, utilizing prescription drugs can prove extremely helpful in achieving desired goals related to hair restoration New York City. Professional consultations with certified medical specialists are highly recommended before starting any new regimen so that potential risks can be minimized while still seeking optimal outcomes.

The Psychological Impact Of Hair Loss And How New York's Hair Restoration Clinics Provide Emotional Support

Hair loss can be a difficult experience for many people, often causing emotional distress and affecting self-esteem. Fortunately, New York's hair restoration clinics provide comprehensive psychological support to help individuals cope with the effects of hair loss and find solutions that suit their unique needs.

Take Rick, who recently visited one of these clinics after years of battling male pattern baldness. He was nervous at first; feeling embarrassed about his appearance and unsure if he would ever feel comfortable in his own skin again.

But the staff members were understanding and empathetic, providing him with counseling sessions as well as personalized care plans tailored to his individual condition. They even connected him with other patients facing similar challenges during group meetings – allowing them to share stories and offer each other advice.

Ultimately, this kind of supportive environment enabled Rick to make an informed decision regarding the type of hair restoration treatment best suited for him: whether it be surgical or non-surgical treatments such as topical medications or oral supplements. With access to a range of resources available only through experienced professionals like those found at New York's top hair restoration clinics, anyone struggling with hair loss can feel empowered on their journey towards regaining confidence in themselves and reclaiming control over their physical appearance once more.

Conclusion

In the modern world, hair loss can be a difficult experience to overcome both physically and psychologically.

Fortunately, New York is home to some of the best professionals in the business when it comes to treating hair loss with a variety of non-surgical and surgical solutions.

From PRP therapy to scalp micropigmentation, these treatments serve as metaphorical 'keys' that unlock doorways towards greater self-confidence and improved physical appearance.

So whatever your personal situation may be, rest assured that there are plenty of options available to help you come out on top over this challenging condition.

Smp Masters

New York, NY 10001

Phone: (929) 492-1144

#scalp micro pigmentation New York #smp clinics near me #Hair loss solution New York #Smp artist near me #Male pattern baldness New York #Hair thinning New York #Scalp tattoo New York #Baldness treatment New York #Hair restoration New York #Scalp Pigmentation New York #Youtube

1 note · View note

buckybarnesdiaries · 3 years

Text

wakanda

bucky barnes x reader. ⎢ masterlist.

Steve gives you Bucky's dog tags for a reason.

word count: 2.4k (lol, sorry)

warnings/tags: none. bucky being a cutie.

author notes: none of my stories contain reader’s body descriptions to be inclusive.

Join the tag list here.

“Welcome to Wakanda, agent (Y/N)”.

A second after you crossed their airspace, you were courteously greeted. The views from your ship were indescribable. Peace invaded you just at the sight of the open fields and the warm colors of autumn. You could get used to that place too. To live in calm, work hand-to-hand with Shuri, and have time to spend it with Bucky. The reason why you were flying there. Removing your right hand from the control and grabbing in a fist the dog tags hanging on your chest, you took a deep breath while closing your eyes before getting ready to land. T’Challa was waiting for you at the entry of his kingdom, accompanied by his excited little sister and some of his guards.

Pressing a sequence of buttons above your head, to pull the control back, the ship went down slowly folding its wings. As you landed and turned off the engineers, you freed yourself from the seatbelt and the huge headphones to step out. Shuri received you with a friendly hug, breaking protocol and being just Shuri. You built a strong relationship since you met a year ago, when you brought Bucky to that beautiful and magical place, to let him recover. To let him rest.

“Your highness”. You uttered to T’Challa crossing your forearms in the traditional salutation of Wakanda.

“Agent (Y/N)”. He corresponded walking closer. “The white wolf asked me to let you know he wouldn’t want to be… bothered with visits today”.

You couldn’t help but frown. The last time you saw him was around three months ago. You usually interchanged letters from week to week, being one of the fewer persons he trusted in. And it wasn’t just a question of trust. Steve told you about his feelings, his shyness, and insecurities, his fears. What Bucky didn’t know, again, it wasn’t a question of trust from you either. That’s why the Captain gave you the dog tags, after more than thirteen years under custody. You wanted to see him, to know if he was happy there as he wrote you in his letters one million times.

“He doesn’t wear his arm here”. Shuri clarified, taking a position close to his brother.

By the look on their faces, you were aware of two things. One, they noticed too that something was growing between Bucky and you, and that it wasn’t a simple friendship. Two, they weren’t going to stop you. Oh, quite the opposite. They’d bring you to him on a golden platter and a big red bow on your head. The king beckoned a hand to urge you to follow him to the inside of the building and use one of their ships to fly above the place to the white wolf’s location.

You were nervous. You didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours last night thinking about him and how he’d react to having back his tags since the forties. Your eyes were focused throughout the window on your left, watching different citizens taking care of animals and plantations, children running from one side to another, playing and having fun. Oblivious to the horror of New York, where you resided. One of the cities in the world with the highest rates of street violence. Serial killers or simply killers, rapists, kidnappers, drug dealers (...). It was a minefield and Wakanda seemed and felt like Heaven.

“Did you think about the offer?” Shuri nudged you to push you back to reality, turning your head towards her.

“Since you dropped it to me”.

“So?”

“I…” You needed to put away your gaze again, focusing on the blue opened sky in front of them. “I want… to consult him first if you don’t mind”.

“Of course, (Y/N)”.

“I don’t want to put his world upside down, now that he’s not the…” You couldn’t finish the sentence. You couldn’t pronounce that detestable nickname and the pain beneath it.

Shuri nodded in silence, not needing your explanations. She knew how you felt. She understood you. The talk didn’t continue, stretching your right hand on your lap to calm your nerves and make you comfortable with the situation. The flight didn’t last longer than five or ten minutes, losing the track of time deep in your thoughts. The pilot indicated to you through the headphones that you were about to land, glancing at a complex of small houses in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and wilderness.

You were the last one jumping outside with your hand grabbing the tags on your chest, trying to find the encouragement there to follow T’Challa’s hand pointing at a man working with goats and collecting hay for them. Licking your lips and assenting with your chin, you guided your steps towards him. Slowly. As if you wanted to turn around at some point. But you knew it was too late when he was the one turning at the sound of your heavy boots cracking the grass under them.

Bucky didn’t look annoyed for your visit, nor the lack of attention to his petition. Although there was something in his pale blue orbs you weren’t able to decipher, until he bowed down his head unconsciously to his left shoulder covered by a dark fabric matching his eyes. You had to do your best to not roll yours, shortening the distance setting you apart. You had been dreaming about that encounter since the last time you were there before Shuri accessed the darkest place of his mind and cleaned it from any trail of HYDRA. Now, he was free. And he looked in good condition as the bags under his eyes had disappeared and his hair was almost tied with a bun. His cheeks seemed a little more chubby and you just wanted to pinch them. But it’d be weird and out of place. For the time being.

Bit by bit, a sweet smile widened in your lips, curving them as Bucky stared at you again when he was conscious that you didn’t care. With or without a metal arm, your feelings were exactly the same. You couldn’t admire him more than you were admiring him at this point. You couldn’t love him more than you loved him already. And God was a witness of how many times you practiced to confess to him and tell him that the only thing you wanted in life was to be by his side. Bring happiness to his days, bring him peace and harmony.

“I'm sorry…” “I brought you…”

You two spoke at the same time, breaking in a soft giggle that jumped your hearts in complete sync.

“You first”. He let you, waving his hand.

“I… brought you something”. You susurrated, loosening the grip around the metal hanging on your chest to take off the necklace.

You noticed the way his eyes widened in surprise and confusion. Why did you have them? Who gave them to you? Why now? Bucky gulped watching you stretching the dog tags between your fingers towards him. He didn’t know what to do, taking a second before he was able to react. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he saw them, and the amount of memories they gave him overwhelmed his whole brain.

In slow motion narrowing his eyes, Bucky held the chain with two fingers to hang the necklace from it. You thought he was about to wear them, but he destabilized you as he directed his hands to above your head, to place them where they were an instant before. You didn’t understand. Didn’t he want them back?

“I want you to keep it”.

“But…”

“I want you to have something mine”. Bucky recognized with a shy smile decorating his lips. “Those tags and my arm are the only things I have from my past. And… I won’t give you my arm…”

“Well, I bet it’d look good hanging from my neck”. You jocked tilting your head.

In his gift, you found the encouragement you needed to talk about T’Challa’s job offer. It wasn’t as if you were proposing to him, in the end, you were just friends even if it felt quite the opposite. You licked your upper lip, kissing your teeth after it, earning more than his attention.

“Shuri said, uh… I could come here, work with her. We’d do great things together, not only for Wakanda but for the world”.

Bucky’s gesture didn’t change a single inch, focused on the nervousness you were trying to hide from him and reading the reasons beneath.

“So T’Challa offered me to stay here”.

“Permanently?”

“Yeah… Permanently”. You assented pressing your lips, breathing through your nostrils.

“Did you accept?”

“Not yet. Not until talking to you about”.

He nodded then a couple of times, turning to the goats behind him coming closer. “Got to finish some stuff… Maybe we can talk later about it unless you have to leave”.

“No, no. I, uh… asked for the day off. Banner didn’t need me at the lab today”.

“Okay, good”.

While the king was showing you the new level for research and investigations, Bucky took the advantage to go and find Shuri without your knowledge. He found her in the surroundings of the main building, working on your ship as you said it made some kind of random noise that put you out of your nerve during the flight.

“I need my arm”.

The princess squatted close to the left wing, turned at him without standing up. Pulling her sunglasses to the top of his head, she raised an eyebrow.

“For what”.

“You know for what”. He clicked his tongue, placing his hand on his left shoulder.

“No, I don’t”. She lied while cleaning the grass and oil in her expert fingers.

“I need to have two arms”.

“You’ve been working the last months with one arm only. Why do you need it now?”

“C’mon… Argh…” Bucky rubbed his face with boredom. “I want to hug her, okay? Can you just… give me back my damn arm?”

“Not enough reasons, you can hug her using your right”.

“I want to have two hands when I kiss her”. He finally confessed in a hiss, provoking a triumphant smile growing on Shuri’s lips.

“If you lie to me, if you don’t kiss her, Sergeant Barnes… I’ll code it to punch your face”.

“Wait…” Bucky wrinkled his nose drawing a horrified gesture on his face, as he turned his blue eyes towards his left shoulder. “Can you… do that?”

“Try me”.

No, of course she couldn’t, but he didn’t know. Which were a good push for him to not go against her and her petition.

“C’mon. I’ll set it up and help you to put it on”.

Your eyes were traveling from one picture to another. He put some of them around his small house and it looked better now. More like a home. A place to stay. And for a second you felt a twinge straight in your heart when you noticed one photograph of the two of you, close to his bed. It was after your first mission together. Steve insisted on taking it, after noticing the sparkles between you. But you didn’t know he brought it to Wakanda with him, as your copy is on your nightstand too. And you used to fall asleep every night looking at it.

The curtain being moved and some steps in pulled you out from your thoughts, turning to find Bucky staring in silence at you. Your orbs landed on the metal arm. It was different too since the last time you saw it, with golden strips forming between the silver ones. You couldn’t help but sigh.

“You didn’t need to…”

“Yes, I did. I did need it”. He interrupted you, breathing through his parted lips and his heart about to fly off from his chest.

“Why?”

“Because, otherwise, I couldn’t do this”.

You were about to ask what he was referring to, watching him breaking the distance between the two of you in three fast strides. You closed your eyes at the moment his hands held your neck and Bucky slammed his lips on yours. The kiss, the contrast of cold and warmth on your skin, the everlasting longing for it to happen… All of this caused you to gasp, tangling the tunic at the height of his chest in your fists, not wanting him to take a step back. Your mouths fit perfectly without looking for it, made for each other, as he secured his fingers on the back of your neck. And you felt your knees weak when he pecked your lips one more time, before caressing your nose with his, not being able to open your eyes. Neither of you.

“I don’t have the right… to ask for anything”. He babbled. His insecurities coming afloat even if you hadn’t pushed him away. “But… I want you to stay here. With me. I… I don’t have much to offer you, but I promise to make you happy”.

At this point, your eyes were filled with tears, strongly closing your eyelids to not let them fall. You swallowed a sob, moving your hands from his chest to his middle back, embracing him tighter as you could.

“You’ve been making me happy since we met, Bucky”.

He chuckled breathless, intuiting he was too at the edge of his crying because of that affirmation.

“Every Tuesday, I wait at the stairs of my apartment for the mail, for your letters. I’ve… read them so many times I can recite them… by heart. Every word you've written to me”.

“I will continue writing them for you, even if you stay with me”.

Your voices were low, barely audible out of his place. Like secrets. Bucky kissed you again, bending enough to raise you by the back of your thighs and urge you to surround his waist with your legs. The dog tags on your chest clicked against the other, as you moved your arms to his shoulders and neck, and you were unable to stop kissing him. You two could die right now and not be bothered because you were finally together, and that was all you deserved in life.

“Tell me you will stay… please”. His beg brushed your lips, still pecking them between syllable and syllable.

“I will…” You replied without hesitating as you could, eager to correspond to every gesture from him. “I will stay with you”.

feedback is appreciated, please, leave a comment to let me know if you liked it and/or reblog it.

tag list: @mystic-232 @homesicam @theresnoplatypus @i-love-scott-mccall @slutfornat @thewilloesapphire @goldielocks2004 @whatrambles @the-mystery-spot @multiyfandomgirl40 @purrrrfect @gemini0410 @nikkixostan @spidergirla5 @amethyst-butterfliess @mariska0610 @wanniiieeee @fanofalltheficsx @goldielocks2004 @spideysimpossiblegirl @nocturnalherb16 @jointhehunt67 @the-witty-pen-name @valenquei @golden-hoax @hunter-of-baker-street @missusstark

@mayans-sauce @peoniarose @band-psycho @myakai13 @petlaufeyson @-im-fantastic- @horsesandwolvesaremyanimals @rocketqueen @rosieposie0624 @ellyseveronica @diaryofkali @ravenmoore14 @starrynite7114 @monkeyluver4546 @sheeshgivemeabreak @jadesamhart @rawrlittlepanda-95 @megapeacelovemusic-blog @skits90s @littlekittymeow @tenderclio @greeneyedblondie44 @phoenixhalliwell

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader

3K notes · View notes

phis-corner · 3 years

Text

I posted 4,923 times in 2021

376 posts created (8%)

4547 posts reblogged (92%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 12.1 posts.

I added 6,836 tags in 2021

#reblog - 3597 posts

#dc - 1781 posts

#art - 382 posts

#hq - 255 posts

#maribat - 248 posts

#asked and answered - 139 posts

#rambles - 126 posts

#them - 117 posts

#mcu - 101 posts

#her - 90 posts

Longest Tag: 120 characters

#gay & dead‚ gay & traumatized‚ gay & traumatized 2.0‚ gay & traumatized and dead‚ gay‚ gay‚ gay‚ gay‚ gay‚ gay‚ gay‚ gay

My Top Posts in 2021

marvel crossover

aka me wishing for the black widow movie to just come out already.

warning: blood and death.

@timari-month-event

Masterlist

The girl is four years old. She stands, posture ruler-straight, in the studio with nineteen other girls, as Madam walks amongst their ranks, sharp eyes inspecting every inch of their body.

Two are shot right there and then, one for having dirt underneath her fingernails, and the other for fidgeting.

By the time the girl is ten years old, she is the only one left.

When the girl is twelve, she escapes the Red Room, where she had her hands drenched in blood, so much blood, that would never wash off again. She jumps from bus to bus, train to train, never staying in one place for more than two days in hopes that they’d find her again.

When the girl is twelve, she is caught stealing from a bakery. Sloppy, Madam would say. Messy. Irresponsible. She is too hungry to care.

When the girl is twelve, she is given food and shelter and a home, with two people who are determined to be her parents and give her a normal life. They don’t care about the blood that drips from her hands, the scars littering her body, and the haunted look in her eyes. They just want her to live.

The girl is thirteen when she finds a pair of earrings that she isn’t worthy of wearing. But she puts them on and fights anyway because there’s a city that depends on her. She doubts they would feel the same way about her if they learned of the red that permanently stained her hands.

The girl is fourteen when a portal opens up in the sky above New York, spewing out creatures from beyond her world, and she watches on the news as a red-haired woman in all black kicks and spins and dodges with an elegance that only comes from years and years of dancing and training in the Room painted with the blood of dead girls.

The girl is fifteen and Sokovia falls from the sky. She finally removes the butterfly from the corpse of her partner’s father. His blood mixes and melds with the stains on her hands, but she doesn’t care, because there’s another body lying nearby with a black cat ring on its hand, another child turned into a soldier turned into a martyr for someone else’s cause.

The girl is fifteen and she steals the box of jewels in the dead of the night, cutting the throat of the man who condemned her partner to death with a single ring, and leaves, swearing that she will never let anyone use the jewelry again.

The girl is fifteen and she jumps again, from bus to bus and train to train, and takes a plane across the Atlantic to find the woman with the fiery red hair who moves like her.

The woman is in a tower that gleams in the center of a busy city. The girl simply goes up to the main entrance and knocks. The red-haired woman sees the Room in her immediately and lets her in with gentle green eyes and a smile that feels understanding, for the first time in the girl’s life.

When the girl is fifteen, she finds another one like her, another Widow, and finally feels at peace.

The girl is sixteen when she travels with the other Widow to a dark city that never sees the sun, filled with dirt and grime and desperate people, to work with a shadow.

The shadow, dressed like a bat, also has a shadow, in the form of a boy her age in red and black.

As their mentors work, they bond, meeting on rooftops at night and talking about anything and everything.

Then one day, he removes his mask. “I’m Tim,” He says, looking at her with eyes that are the clearest blue she’s ever seen.

The girl doesn’t wear a mask, but she is a ghost, nearly impossible to track, so she returns the favor, using the name she had been given when she lived in a French bakery and pretended to be normal. She quite liked that name.

“Marinette.”

Tim is different from everyone else she’s met. He’s been broken before, shattered into tiny pieces by life just like so many others that she knows, but he’s put himself back together, the only indication that he’s not the same being the fine lines where he had to use glue.

She doesn’t mind. After all, she’s broken too.

permanent

@wannajointhecrabcult @miraculous-simmer7 @certainmuffinbagelcalzone @fantasyislive @chocolateherringtacofan @junarvion @susiej1118 @aestheticnpoetic @toodaloo-kangaroo @ladybug-182 @itsmeevie01 @g-arya @souleateralicestein @nightstarblue @i-is-mysterious @moonystars14 @vixen-uchiha @flapdoodle-noodle @labschaos @nathleigh @jalaluvsu @kaithehero @iamablinkmarvelarmy @luveverything12 @technicallyburninggarden

unspecified

@momothefemur @sassakitty @laurcad123 @ilovefluffbutsmutisalsogreat @indecisive-mess-named-me @fusser90

189 notes • Posted 2021-01-09 16:21:41 GMT

high school au with theatre kid jason and costume designer/makeup artist marinette

194 notes • Posted 2021-10-11 00:10:21 GMT

okay sO @peppersonironi tagged me in a wip title tag game but I literally just remembered being tagged means I actually have to do this lmao

rules: post the file names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous the name. send me an ask with the title that intrigues you the most and I’ll post a little snippet or tell you something about it! tag as many people as you have wips.

these are only the wips I've worked on recently because otherwise the list would literally never end haha

maribat

for our reign has just begun

angst - cuddles (28)

angst - weddings (17) [REMEMBER THE HAPPY ENDING]

soi 7

dd IV-I

a secret i told only the stars

warrior

opera cake

the absence of light

sunshine

painted in blood

the language of truth

#trending ch.5 - red robin appreciation day

best-kept secrets

spoiler alert

mantle

problem solver

a:tla

perfect.

and there is no way i’m tagging one person for every wip lmao so @moonlitceleste @savagenutella46 @miraculouspenta @miraculousmelodies @jinx-jade

223 notes • Posted 2021-04-13 13:37:25 GMT

rereading shadow of the batgirl and cass is so freaking adorable sldkfjasldhgk

247 notes • Posted 2021-04-28 18:06:51 GMT

jasonette (either romantic or platonic, but i think platonic would work better for this one), but when Jason dies, he turns into a ghost. he follows Batman back to Gotham tries to stay with Bruce and Alfred at the manor, then Dick in bludhaven, but it hurts him just as much, if not more, to see them mourning him when he’s right here, why can’t they hear him?

and when Tim Drake shows up with his dark hair and blue eyes and tragic past and Bruce only fights for so long before accepting him as Robin, Jason can’t take it anymore, and he leaves.

the benefits of being a ghost: you don’t get tired. or hungry. oh, and it is so, so easy to stow away on the nearest plane headed for who-knows-where because you just can’t stand being in Gotham anymore.

he ends up in Paris, wandering aimlessly through the brightly lit streets, so different from Gotham, not bothering to move out of the way for people. what’s the point? they can’t see him, and they pass right through him anyway with only a shudder at most.

until he tries to walk through a girl whose dark hair is pulled into pigtails, and she swerves out of his way.

Marinette doesn’t really know why, but ever since Fu handed over guardianship to her, she’s been able to see ghosts.

there’s a pattern to them - the ghosts are all the ones who’d died tragically. unfairly. the ones who had the most painful, brutal ends and did not deserve them.

she wonders if it’s because of the Order’s destruction. (but that was reversed, wasn’t it?) or maybe because of all the damage the miraculi have done in the past, regardless of whether or not it was reversed. after all, Atlantis certainly wasn’t brought back above sea level.

but not every ghost she’s seen has died from miraculi-related causes, so she does not know.

all she knows is that she sees ghosts now, and they look so similar to living, breathing humans, that the only way she can tell is if they pass through her.

and she doesn’t really want to risk it if they’re not actually a ghost, you know? that’s awkward.

so she just treats every figure she sees like a normal human being, and pretends she does not see the dead at all. she moves out of the way of a dark-haired boy with soulful blue eyes while walking back towards the bakery from school, and doesn’t think much of it.

not until he appears in her room a few minutes later, anyway.

296 notes • Posted 2021-01-06 01:25:30 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

24 notes · View notes

atzaria · 3 years

Text

Lovely

masterlist

summary: basically just yunho and aria fluff :D

note: i love this pair already </3

also requests are open! and talk to me in my inbox, i don't bite!!

“Thank you, New York!” Hongjoong cheered, taking Seonghwa and Mingi’s hands and bowing to the crowd. The 9 members ran off stage, drenched in sweat from the concert and high off of adrenaline. The USA leg of their tour was now officially over, as so far, it has safely been one of the best experiences of Aria’s life so far. There was a completely different buzz of performing at a concert, compared to the feeling after performing at a music show. Hearing the crowd, the fanchants, seeing the lightsticks, knowing that all the people in the crowd are here for your group. Aria wanted to do this forever.

“What. A. Show,” Jongho smiles, taking a drink out of a water bottle. He threw his arms over Wooyoung’s shoulder, leaning his head against the older member. It hadn’t been easy for the group these last few weeks, the media work and interviews they had to do whilst over in America wasn’t easy in the slightest. All the members thanked their lucky stars that Aria and Hongjoong were fluent enough in both languages to translate.

As fun as touring is, the constant travelling and living in hotel rooms has come at a cost. Yunho and Aria hadn’t spoken about the kiss, or the confession of mutual feelings at all. Not that they didn’t want to, they just had no alone time. And when they did, they had a few minutes before a member interrupted them. They had 2 days off now before they left for London, it was now or never for him. He didn’t want things to be awkward between them, especially since she had been looking forward to returning to the UK for such a long time.

Soon, the hype wore off and a wave of exhaustion hit the group. It wasn’t a long journey back to their hotel, but nonetheless Aria still found herself falling asleep against Seonghwa’s shoulder, wrapped up in an oversized coat.

“Ari- psss- Aria,” The eldest member whispered, shaking the younger slightly. But it was to no use, it didn’t wake her up in the slightest. Yunho’s lips curved into a smile, she looked so peaceful when she was sleeping. He’s not afraid to admit that he has let his guard down since that day in the practice room, knowing that she feels the same way towards him and the feelings were reciprocated. He just desperately wanted the time to ask her out, to be able to go on dates and eventually, become an item. It was hard in their line of work, although being in the same group wasn’t the worst of circumstances.

“She needs the rest. Can someone carry her up?” Hongjoong spoke out, without a second thought the tallest member lifted her into his arms, as gently as possible to not wake her up. The other members took no notice, they were a group who did a lot of skin ship. This wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. But to Yunho, it felt like his heart was beating at a million miles per hour. Her head found its way into the crook of his neck, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Although she was light, Yunho was glad he took the time to work out his upper body muscles a few days ago.

Eventually, he arrived back to Aria’s room (that she had the blessing of not sharing with anyone). After being let in by their manager, who had the spare room key, he gently laid her down on her bed, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, before going to the other side of the room and retrieving the girl’s makeup remover and skincare items. This leg of the tour may be over, but no way was he going to let her skin break out.

“Ari?” His soft voice spoke, shaking her lightly. “Ariaaa,” he dragged out the ‘A’ and shook her a bit more. Although Aria’s eyes remained shut, she broke out into a wide smile, a clear indication that she was no longer asleep. “RiRi? I know you’re awake,” Yunho now laughed, following the urge to place a sweet, loving kiss to her forehead.

Her eyes opened, the smile still plastered across her face, although now accompanied by a redness to her cheeks. “I’m going to take your makeup off, ok? Sit back and relax, lovely.” She didn’t think it was possible, but that nickname made her blush even more. Yunho had such an indescribable affect on her.

Aria did just that, sitting up and leaning against the bed frame as Yunho worked his magic, removing all makeup, and also moisturizing her face, before brushing through her long, orange hair and styling it just how she always does when sleeping, a messy bun at the top of her head. “The princess is ready for sleep,” he said, kissing her hand. “Wooyoung is probably wondering where I am, I should probably-”

“Stay with me? Please?” Aria asked, eyes full of plead. He knows he shouldn’t, there are still unspoken feelings between them. But he couldn’t resist her. Not a chance.

The elder sighed dramatically, “I suppose you’re better than Wooyoung,”

“And I’m sure you have one of my t-shirts in your luggage,” the girl nodded eagerly in response.

Yunho felt like he was dreaming. This couldn't be possible, right? He changed into a top she had stolen from his wardrobe, climbing into the bed with her.

“Do you want to look around the city tomorrow?” Aria asked, resting her head against his chest. “Grab lunch, go sightseeing, you know?”

“Lovely, are you perhaps asking me out on a date?”

“Maybe I am,” the younger girl hummed.

“Well then, I would be the happiest man on earth.” With a genuine smile permanently engraved on his face, Yunho pressed a quick kiss to her lips. And in the utmost feeling of bliss and euphoria, the two drifted off to sleep. Together, never wanting to be separated.

76 notes · View notes

magictouchskincare · 15 days

Text

Magic Touch Skincare & Electrosys

In the bustling city of New York, maintaining smooth, hair-free skin can be a constant battle. Shaving, waxing, and plucking are not only time-consuming but also often lead to irritation and unwanted regrowth. At Magic Touch Electrolysis Skin Care, we offer a permanent solution through our specialised electrolysis NYC services. Nestled in the heart of NYC, our clinic provides a serene escape where you can achieve the flawless skin you’ve always desired. With a commitment to excellence and a dedication to personalised care, we help our clients say goodbye to unwanted hair for good.

Understanding Electrolysis

Electrolysis is a hair removal method that uses electric currents to destroy hair follicles. Unlike other hair removal techniques such as shaving, waxing, or even laser treatment, electrolysis targets individual hair follicles, ensuring that the hair does not grow back. The process involves inserting a fine probe into the hair follicle and applying an electric current, which damages the follicle and prevents future hair growth.

The Benefits of Electrolysis

Permanent Results: One of the most significant advantages of electrolysis is that it offers permanent hair removal. While other methods may provide temporary relief, electrolysis ensures that once a hair follicle is destroyed, it will not produce hair again.

Versatility: Electrolysis can be used on almost any part of the body, including sensitive areas like the face, underarms, and bikini line. It is effective on all skin types and hair colors, making it a versatile option for anyone looking to eliminate unwanted hair.

Precision: The method's precision allows for the treatment of individual hair follicles, making it ideal for removing stray or ingrown hairs that other methods might miss.

Minimal Side Effects: While some temporary redness or swelling may occur, the side effects of electrolysis are minimal compared to other hair removal methods. There is no risk of skin discoloration, which can be a concern with laser treatments, especially for individuals with darker skin tones.

Cost-Effective: Although the initial cost of electrolysis might seem higher compared to other hair removal methods, it is a one-time investment. Over time, it can save you money that would otherwise be spent on regular waxing, shaving supplies, or laser sessions.

Why Choose Electrolysis in NYC?

New York City is a hub for beauty and wellness services, offering a plethora of options for anyone looking to enhance their appearance. Electrolysis in NYC stands out for several reasons:

Expert Technicians: NYC is home to some of the most skilled and experienced electrolysis technicians. These professionals are well-versed in the latest techniques and technologies, ensuring that you receive the best possible care.

State-of-the-Art Facilities: The city's electrolysis clinics are equipped with cutting-edge technology, providing a safe and comfortable environment for clients. The use of advanced equipment ensures precise and effective treatments.

Personalised Treatment Plans: Electrolysis providers in NYC offer personalized treatment plans tailored to your specific needs and goals. Whether you need a few sessions for a small area or a comprehensive plan for larger areas, you can expect a customized approach.

Convenient Locations: With numerous clinics scattered throughout the city, finding a reputable electrolysis provider near your home or workplace is easy. This convenience makes it simple to fit sessions into your busy schedule.

The Electrolysis Process: What to Expect

If you're considering electrolysis in NYC, it's helpful to know what to expect during the treatment process. Here's a step-by-step overview:

Consultation: Your first visit will typically involve a consultation with an electrolysis technician. They will assess your hair and skin type, discuss your goals, and create a customised treatment plan.

Treatment Sessions: During each session, the technician will insert a fine probe into individual hair follicles and apply a small electric current. You may feel a slight tingling or discomfort, but most people find the procedure tolerable.

Post-Treatment Care: After each session, you might experience some redness or swelling, which usually subsides within a few hours. Your technician will provide aftercare instructions to help minimise any side effects.

Follow-Up Sessions: Depending on the area being treated and your hair growth cycle, you may need multiple sessions to achieve complete hair removal. Your technician will schedule follow-up appointments based on your progress.

Real-Life Success Stories

Many individuals in NYC have transformed their beauty routines and boosted their confidence through electrolysis. Here are a few real-life success stories:

Emma's Journey: Emma, a 32-year-old marketing executive, struggled with facial hair for years. After trying various temporary solutions, she turned to electrolysis. Within a few months, she noticed a significant reduction in hair growth and felt more confident in her appearance.

James's Experience: James, a fitness trainer, dealt with ingrown hairs on his chest and back. Electrolysis provided him with a permanent solution, allowing him to focus on his career without the discomfort and irritation caused by ingrown hairs.

Sophia's Transformation: Sophia, a model, needed a reliable method to maintain smooth, hair-free skin for her photoshoots. Electrolysis gave her the lasting results she needed, saving her time and effort in her busy schedule.

Conclusion

Electrolysis is revolutionizing beauty routines across NYC, offering a permanent solution to unwanted hair. With its precision, versatility, and minimal side effects, it’s no wonder that more and more New Yorkers are opting for this treatment. Whether you're looking to enhance your confidence, save time on daily grooming, or simply enjoy smooth, hair-free skin, electrolysis might be the ultimate solution for you. Embrace the change and discover the benefits of electrolysis in the city that never sleeps.

#Skincare

1 note · View note

welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #hook heel #this is also apparently my 50th work on ao3 #which is just patently nuts #so if you guys have been clicking and reading all these words know that i am a little in love with you

57 notes · View notes

inkandpen22 · 3 years

Text

Permanent Chaos (1/?)

Pairing: MGK x Female!Reader

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 2.8k

Part Summary: Y/N is a newly famous actress from a popular TV show and she’s willing to do everything in her power to maintain her perfect image as “America’s Sweetheart.”

Masterlist

The limelight is a hard place to be under. It’s draining to constantly be on display. Day in and day out I feel as though I’m always looking into a mirror. However, a mirror is replaced by people’s eyes. I see myself through other’s eyes. Being sat on a slippery plastic stool while being watched by millions of Americans before they head off to work is an excellent way to start my day. Perhaps if I keep telling myself that I’ll eventually believe it. Savannah glances down at her cards then continues with the interview.

“Let’s go back to a year ago, if someone approached you and said “you’ll be the most sought after girl in America,” would you had believed them?”

I shake my head “not all.”

If only she knew how absent I am in the current moment. I’ve answered similar questions a million times these past few months. All the exact same questions within the same routine.

“Now, being as famous as you are, how do you cope with your newfound fame?”

There it is, famous. A better-sounding word than popular. After all, adult life is nothing like high school… right?

“I don’t particularly like the word “famous.” When people say “you’re famous!” What they really mean is “a lot of people know you!” At least people think they do.”

She studies me, intrigued by my honest answer, perhaps too honest. “You’re saying America doesn’t know the “real” you? Including your fans?”

I shrug, I can only imagine Nicole’s face right now. My usual bubbly and charmingly excited personality didn’t wake up with me at three this morning.

“I believe they know whatever version of me they’ve created. For some, I’m that girl from the cover of that one magazine they saw in line at the grocery store. For others, I may just a name without a face. That’s the thing about being so-called “famous.” I’ll never have the chance to meet every single person who has ever read an article about me or has seen paparazzi videos. They’ll only see those tainted versions of me. They’ll never have the opportunity to know me personally and make a valid judgment for themselves.”

Savannah hums, her eyebrows scrunched up. “How do you feel about that?”

I sigh, the words settling within me. “It’s disappointing.”

If only they all knew the truth, the reality of it all.

______________________________________________________

After the interview for the show, I fly straight back to Los Angeles from New York. My schedule has been worse, but I never miss the chance to complain to my manager. Thankfully, Nicole is a mother of tween girls and a ten-year-old boy so she knows how to take my childish whining. Once we’re landed in LAX I countdown the minutes until I can return to my bed.

“I don’t understand why you insist on wearing heels on the plane,” Nicole nags me.

“Because you never know who you’re gonna meet! Best to dress nicely just in case!”

It’s been a rule of mine since I first discovered my style and began to wear makeup, never go out in public without looking and feeling confident. I’ve learned that people can sense when others don’t feel confident and take advantage of that.

“I doubt your Mom would like it,” she nags.

“Well she’s not in California is she?” I fire back but snicker slightly.

My momma’s absence was bitter-sweet, in the beginning, now it’s all sweet. When we have our luggage, Nicole leads me through the airport to where the car is picking us up.

“You may want to put on your sunglasses now. We’re about to cross the line,” she warns.

I grab my glasses out of my purse like she instructed and slide them on. She was right, as soon as we cross over that taped line it’s a free-for-all for the paparazzi.

“Y/N!” “Y/N!”

“HEY! SHOW US A SMILE!”

The yelling doesn’t bother me as it used to in the past. Now, it’s the clicking. The clicking from their cameras. A constant *click* *click* *click*, from each of the thirty cameras. Nicole attempts to create a path for me by walking ahead.

“HOW WAS YOUR TRIP TO NEW YORK?”

“Good, thank you” I reply politely with a smile toward the tile floor.

I try to manage a balance when it comes to paparazzi. They have their job and so do I. Following me, taking pictures or videotaping me is their job. As long as they respect me, I will respect them. Nicole says it’s good for my image. My image wasn’t the first reason I was nice toward them, I was being myself. Nowadays, I’m hardly myself. I have my name, Y/N Voss, but it no longer feels like my name. The paparazzi are not used to getting easy responses out of people because there’s a long pause before the next question.

“WHEN DOES FILMING START BACK UP FOR THE SHOW?”

The question comes from a different voice but that doesn’t keep me from answering.

“In two days!” I gleam, looking forward to returning to set.

“CAN YOU GIVE ANY INFO ABOUT THE NEW SEASON?”

I chuckle a little but think it over. I agreed in my contract not to give out spoilers but there is a little info I was told I can let out. Plus, I’ve only seen the script for the first episode so I don’t know too much.

“I can say that Hollyn will have a bump start this season but no worries,” I answer vaguely but with interest.

Nicole and I manage to reach outside and she guides me down the sidewalk to where the car is supposed to pick us up.

“RUMOR HAS IT YOU’RE DATING SOMEONE! CARE TO COMMENT?”

“I’m very much single,” I laugh, finding the topic humorous. “Not enough hours in the day to share them!”

There are always rumors that I’m dating someone though none of it’s true.

“YOU LOOK GREAT TODAY Y/N!”

“YOU ALWAYS DO!”

“Thanks, boys!” I give my appreciation.

The driver gets out of the front and pops the trunk. Nicole informs me to get in the car and let her worry about our things along with the driver.

“WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE SUMMER?”

I open my door but pause to answer the last question. “Work, of course, but I also want to have some fun.”

“HAVE A GREAT SUMMER!”

“SEE YA LATER Y/N!”

They all hurry to get some last shots and I grant them a couple of seconds.

“You too! See you guys later!” I wave goodbye then climb into the car.

Nicole gets in a minute later and gives the driver the address. “You did great back there,” she compliments.

“Eh, it was nothing. I was only answering their questions.” I remove my glasses and get settled in as best as I can for the hour drive home.

She pulls out her binder full of scheduling material for me.

“Yes, but you were willing and kind. The public and media appreciate that! You’re becoming America’s Sweetheart!”

I would never admit it to Nicole but that title she keeps pushing makes me anxious every time I hear it. None of this was planned, it was thrown at me. Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m grateful for what I have but geez! When everyone is telling you a whole country adores you, how are you supposed to handle that? Especially at eighteen. It was no more than a year ago I was back in South Carolina and just another girl in high school. Now, I’m supposed to be “America’s Sweetheart.” I’ll play the part but it doesn’t make the job any less intimidating.

__________________________________________________________

My best friends/co-stars, Sam and Penelope, meet up with me for dinner to celebrate my first night back in town after the press tour. The three of us have been dividing our time around the country working on various projects between filming the show. Any time we can all get together is a gift.

Ever since I’ve known Sam Merka, girls flung themselves at him. Even I’ll say it, he’s a good-looking guy. If Grant Gustin had a younger brother, it would be Sam. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, we’re just friends. A sibling sort of bond. Since he’s eight years older than me, he likes a big brother.

Though Penelope is older too, one can’t tell since I tend to act more mature. I’m jealous of her sun-kissed long blonde hair and dark brown eyebrows. We all kinda got thrown into our friendship. Having to play life-long friends an hour after meeting for the first time was, to say the least interesting. Five years later, and we are like three peas in a pond. A mini family to have each other’s back in the big city.

For dinner, we agreed on The Nice Guy, an Italian place in West Hollywood. The most important aspect of the place is the amount of privacy it grants. The interior is a lounge, super lowkey, with booths, couches, and coffee tables but there are no photos allowed. Since no photos can be taken that means the three of us and others can enjoy ourselves in peace. Sam called dibs on being designated driver as per usual as the “bodyguard” for us girls. The paparazzi tend to hang out around the restaurant because it’s a well-known spot for celebrities.

“Maybe we can slip past them,” Sam says optimistically as we exit the car.

He meets me around the front and Penelope joins us after getting out of the backseat.

“HEY! HEY! HEY!”

From in front of the restaurant, a ripple of cameras begin to take notice of us.

“IT’S THE KIDS FROM THE SEASONS OF LIFE!”

“Yep, we really snuck past them!” I tease Sam playfully.

He huffs, annoyed with the situation. Sam loves his job but hates the lack of privacy aspect. He isn’t a fan of crowds either which I can understand. However, he’s great at masking it behind his charming smile. It’s what we were trained to do. Yet, Sam is better at managing a crowd mentally overall than I am. He understands how they affect me sometimes. The swarm of photographers rushes up to us. Sam leads the way toward the restaurant door. Penelope remains close, keeping a hand on my forearm to stay together. The cluster follows us down the sidewalk to the building.

“SAM! SAM! HEARD ABOUT THE GQ PHOTOSHOOT! CONGRATS ON GETTING THE COVER MAN!”

Sam chuckles next to me, “thanks, dude!”

“PENELOPE! RUMOR HAS IT YOU’LL BE SWITCHING OVER TO THE BIG SCREEN!”

“Exactly, it’s a rumor!” She replies a matter-of-factly.

The *click* *click* *click* and the flashing lights in the dead of night never fail to overwhelm me. Though, Nicole has told me I never appear overwhelmed when I interact with them. I force on the brave and confident face. I’m not me when I’m in front of cameras or important people, I’m Y/N Voss. I’m two very different people.

While I’m lost in thought, I get stuck when one photographer gets too close to my face with his camera and blinds me for a second. Sam and Penelope don’t notice my absence amongst the chaos until another photographer barks at the other to back off. Then, I feel Sam’s hand slip into mine and he protectively escorts me toward the door with determination.

“ANYTHING YOU TWO WANT TO SHARE ABOUT HOLLYN AND ELLIOT FOR NEXT SEASON?”

Hollyn and Elliot are Sam and my’s characters from The Seasons of Life, the show we star in together. Our characters have been on again off again for the past two seasons. According to the last season’s finale, the two are currently together, but of course, the season ended on a cliffhanger so their relationship isn’t very stable.

“Sorry guys, can’t share anything!” Sam answers, sounding a tad irritable.

“ANYTHING IN REAL LIFE? YOU TWO WERE BOTH IN NEW YORK THIS WEEKEND!”

“That’s true, but we never have the chance to meet up!” I reply nicely.

Press events for last season have come to an end and work officially begins in no time! Downtime for me is filming and it couldn’t come at a better time. I’ve missed being home in Los Angeles. Living out of a suitcase and sleeping each night on a plane isn’t the best way to live, at least for me. We finally reach the doors and I thank the heavens.

“Oh my gosh! There’s no way!” I hear what sounds like girls squealing and I slow down to see where it’s coming from. My hand slips from Sam’s as he goes on. When he’s determined to get away from the paparazzi, he can ignore the voices. Yet, when he notices that I do not follow he finally stops.

“Excuse me!” A girl calls amongst the clicking and shouting.

The paparazzi move aside a tad and create a path for me to see two young teens jumping up and down. They must be around fourteen I’m guessing, younger than me at least. I approach them to see what’s the matter. I can hardly see anything with all the bright lights.

“Hi! How are you?” I greet but once I get closer and cover my eyes with the flashing lights, I recognize them. “Sarah! Emma! How are you two?”

These two have been some of my biggest supports. They run a Youtube channel and create content about their reactions to episodes of the series. Somehow they manage to make appearances at any events relating to the show. I’ve met them numerous times at events, so have other members of the cast. Besides being two of the sweets girls in the world, they’ve created a fan page for me on Instagram and Twitter.

“Good, good!” Emma replies eagerly.

“It’s been so long since we last saw you!” Sarah adds.

“It really has! When was the last time we saw each other? During the press tour?”

They nod in unison as though they’ve rehearsed it.

“Well, group hug!” I hold out my arms and they gladly accept.

“Can we get a picture?” Emma practically begs, bouncing on her heels.

“Of course!” I take Emma’s phone and hold it out to the crowd of paparazzi. “Could one of you take our picture by chance?”

Many of the guys offer and I select a random one in front of me.

“Squeeze in tight!” I tell the girls as I stand between them and we wrap our arms around each other.

“One, two, three!” The man takes a couple of shots and hands, Emma, back her phone.

“Thank you!” The three of us say together.

We all hover over her phone to check out the pictures.

“So cute!” I awe at the photos.

“Y/N...” Sam places his hand on my back to usher me along.

“Oh, my-” Emma covers her mouth.

“Sam!” Sarah’s jaw is to the sidewalk.

“Hey girls!” he charmingly smiles.

He’s had the chance to meet them a few times while on the press tour and at other various events. I was there to introduce them which was one of the most entertaining moments of my life. I thought the girls were going to faint!

“Can we ask a quick question? It’s for our channel!” Sarah nervously bites her lower lip.

“Yeah, yeah, anything for you guys!” I answer without hesitation.

Sam wraps his arm around my waist while we’re talking to the girls and I don’t think much of it but the cameras begin to go nuts. The men behind them don’t say a word since we’re occupied but there they go *click* *click* click*.

“Is there any hope of you two getting together IRL?” Emma questions intently without hesitation.

I press my lips together with amusement and turn my head to Sam. He has the same look of pondering the question. He squints his eyes at me and then the two of us turn to the girls.

“Just friends,” we answer in unison.

“Best friends!” Sam adds playfully.

“Best friends forever ever!” I one-up him.

The two girls laugh with us, but it’s clear they’re a little disappointed.

“Well, I still bet on you two,” Sarah confidently points out.

Sam and I get a kick out of it. Our viewers want us together too.

“We better get going, our moms are waiting,” Emma informs us.

“Okay, quick hug!” I order and the four of us group hug.

We say our goodbyes and when the girls disappear the men behind the cameras start yelling.

“YOU’RE GREAT Y/N!”

“HOW DID YOU KNOW THEM?”

“Their names are Emma and Sarah. They run a popular Youtube channel, Twitter, and Instagram accounts for the show. Super sweet girls those two!”

“DO YOU KNOW ALL YOUR FANS?”

“I try to! I know a good amount!” I grin proudly.

Sam guides me into the restaurant and his hand never leaves my back. All of it is platonic of course, nothing more. As I told the paparazzi before, there isn’t enough time in my life for me to share any with someone.

��________________________________________

Masterlist

Tags: @canyoubuymetoast

#machine gun kelly #mgk #mgk smut #fanfic #mgk fanfic #famous #colson baker #colson #mgk aesthetic

114 notes · View notes

criminol · 3 years

Text

The Murder of Elisa Izquierdo

Elisa Izquierdo was a 6-year-old Puerto Rican/ Cuban- American girl. she was born in Brooklyn, New York.

When Elisa was born her mother was addicted to crack cocaine and full custody was awarded to her father. Elisa's father was a doting dad who rose to the challenge, taking parenting classes and celebrating Elisa's birthdays happily with her. He would refer to Elisa as his 'princess.'

The year Elisa began preschool, Elisa's mother, Awilda, was described as successfully beating her addiction and marrying a maintenance worker. Carlos Lopez. In November 1991, Awilda got the rights to unsupervised visits with Elisa. Reportedly during these visits, Elisa would be beaten and neglected by her mother and stepfather. Both Elisa's father and her teachers noted Elisa had bruising and signs of mistreatment when she returned from these visits. She said her mother had hit her repeatedly and that she did not wish to see her mum again. In the lead up to Elisa's visits with her mother, Elisa would wet the bed and have frequent nightmares, she would also vomit upon her return from these trips. Elisa's father reported this abuse to the authorities and applied in 1992 for Awilda's visitation rights with Elisa to stop however the courts ruled the visitations could continue but warned Awilda not to hit her daughter.

In 1993, Elisa's father made plans to relocate with Elisa to Cuba, he bought airline tickets for both of them for May 1994. The story took a tragic turn when Elisa's father was admitted to the hospital with respiratory complications and was diagnosed with lung cancer. On the very day he booked the plane tickets for he died. Upon hearing about his death, Elisa's teachers contacted a court judge expressing concerns about Elisa's care if her mother was to gain full custody.

Awilda applied for full, permanent custody of Elisa. Elisa's paternal aunt attempted to challenge this custody and asked for custody of Elisa herself but was denied. Awilda's application for full custody of Elisa was granted in September 1994.

When Awilda was given full custody she changed Elisa's school to a public school. Elisa was observed as withdrawn, disturbed and uncommunicative. In March 1995, an anonymous letter was sent to Child Welfare Authorities informing them that Awilda had been cutting off Elisa's hair and locking her in a dark room. Six days later, Elisa was admitted to hospital with a fractured shoulder that had not been treated for 3 days. Elisa's school continued to report concerns but were told their worries were 'not reportable' due to lack of evidence. Awilda eventually fully withdrew Elisa from school.

Elisa was repeatedly locked in her bedroom and not allowed to talk to others. Neighbours reported hearing the young girl pleading with her mother not to be beaten and crying late into the night. She was sexually violated, forced to eat faeces and burned among other horrific abuses.

On 15th November, Elisa is thought to have died after being thrown against a wall days earlier. The police were called by a concerned neighbour and Awilda and Elisa's step-father were both taken into custody. An autopsy revealed a catalogue of traumatic and horrific injuries including broken fingers, damage to organs, deep welts and burns and evidence of sexual assault. The injuries had been sustained over a prolonged period.

Awilda Lopez pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was offered a deal in which she would become eligible for parole after serving 15 years in prison. Carlos Lopez, Elisa's stepfather, was sentenced to one-and-a-half to three years in prison. Elisa's siblings were removed from the family home and raised in separate foster homes, all five suffered from severe psychological trauma due to the extreme violence they had been forced to witness.

The case was described by New York City authorities as to the 'worst case of child abuse they had ever seen.

#murder #homicide #childkiller #child killer #awilda #awildalopez #lopez #carlos lopez #carloslopez #crime #true crime

28 notes · View notes

wulfies-kpop-fanfics · 3 years

Text

One Photo → Mark Lee [8]

↳ Pairing: Mark Lee/Reader

↳ AU: Soulmate!AU - The first touch of two soulmates permanently scars their bodies.

↳ Warning: angst if you squint, I guess

↳ Word count: 2,294

↳ Chapters: Prelude | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | You Are Here! | 9

⁙ Summary: For an end of the year photography project, you’re tasked with taking a photograph for your favourite group, NCT127, and coincidentally, discover your soulmate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WEDNESDAY - 8 TWO YEARS LATER

The heart of Toronto would never compare to the magnificence of Times Square in New York, but the mass amount of billboards by the Eaton Center always managed to send you into awe during your nightly trek home from work.

You looked up toward the billboards with a sigh as you waited for your streetcar, barely managing to squeeze out a smile as you saw Mark’s visage splayed along one of the electronic spaces. The night sky was too polluted with the city’s light to display any real stars, but Mark’s face was more than enough for you. For the past week, you had seen NCT127’s faces sprawled across that billboard, part of promotions for their latest global comeback. It was a brief respite as you waited for your streetcar home every night, to finally know that the day was over and that you could relax.

It had been such a long time since you’ve seen Mark in person. Even though you texted him every day when the two of you were awake at the same time and video chatted whenever he had five minutes to himself, it always felt depressing to be without him. To not kiss or touch or hug at all was torture.

Everyone knew that it was deadly for soulmates to be apart for so long, that depression would set in and even worse physical illnesses were a real risk. It was hard to be so far away and over the past year you had been let go from multiple jobs because you were constantly sick, and therein lies the problem. You simply couldn’t afford the solution to your problem. So, depression and illness it was. It took everything you had to keep your head above water, to keep your dream alive and know that one day your heart wouldn’t ache as much as it does at the present moment.

After a 20 minute ride on the streetcar, you entered your building and took the stairs up to your little hole-in-the-wall apartment, the bare minimum that you could afford after Rhiannon paid her last half of the old place’s rent. A single bed, bath and a tiny kitchen that housed a little chair and round table. Thankfully, there was enough counter space that you could place a tiny TV to watch Netflix on while you ate. You were lucky that the house had a large living room, which doubled as your studio.

The coffee table was one of the only things left from your old apartment, along with the tote of Marvel films you kept hidden below it. Atop the table now rested all of your cameras, a drawing tablet and cards that you got in the mail from Mark from time-to-time, instead of notes, binders and textbooks. Sitting against the wall across from the table was a small bookshelf and an easel with a large frame sitting on it, housing the last portrait you finished the night before, ready to be shipped to the buyer.

After… somewhat enjoying a quick pot of white cheddar mac & cheese and watching a rerun of Supernatural on your little TV, you head into your room and sit at the desk next to your bed. After starting your computer, you opened up discord and sat back in your wheely chair, waiting for Rhiannon’s status to change to green. Wednesday was the day that she had to be up early for her job, so that meant time for a 10-minute call before you went to bed and she went to work.

Next to your computer was a copy of the photo you took two years ago, of your soulmate and all his friends beneath the shedding cherry trees in High Park. You smiled at it, the memory was fond but now faint in your mind. You reached forward to pick it up, but you stopped yourself. You knew that if you inspected the photo more, you’d only miss Mark and all your friends more.

There were times where your apartment became so quiet that it reminded you how alone you really were. You had lived with Rhiannon most of your life, and that meant there was at least some noise going on at all times. Whether she had her headset unplugged when she was listening to music or watching youtube videos, she was clattering about when helping you wash and dry the dishes, or if she was walking around and tripped on nothing. She was always talking, laughing, or doing something that always let you know that she was there. Now, you had nothing.

The silence is broken and you’re startled by the calling sound from discord, Rhiannon’s icon popping up on the top of your screen. You place your hand on your mouse and click the join call button, adjusting the webcam perched on the top of your desktop monitor.

"Hey," Rhiannon was the first to speak, yawning and reaching back to pull her hair into a perfect, tight ponytail.

"Hey," you respond, watching her closely and leaning your chin on your right palm. "How are you holding up?"

"I should be asking you that, Jesus, you look like the Hulk if he got the swine flu," she retorts, and even through the grainy quality you can tell she has sympathy written all over her face. "I'm doing great, we've got two cleanings today and a wisdom teeth removal, so that'll be fun."

You scoff and attempt to smile, "I'm fiiiiine, other than the fact that I'm here and you're there, 13 hours in the future and at least one ocean in between us and an entire continent and a half. I'd say that constitutes abandonment."

"I got the getting while it was good and you know that," she stuck her tongue out at you. "You need to keep saving so that you can fly your ass out here." She squinted at the screen. "You really need to drink like… an entire bottle of nyquil, dude."

"If only it were that easy," you groan. "I don't even have a photographer's position yet. All I get is sitting at a desk and responding to emails… even with my head start, I can't find a good job and I barely make enough to keep living in Toronto." You stick out your tongue back at her for the nyquil comment. "As if I haven't been hiding a bottle of dayquil in my desk for the past week."

Rhiannon stopped what she was doing and leaned toward her camera. "You know why you can't get the jobs you want," her voice is soft, empathetic. "Mark is having trouble, too. He's been doing a lot of half days, so I don't know how they plan to do their tour with him being constantly sick."

You looked away. "I can't afford to take any more time off… I don't want to lose this job. If I do, I'm not sure that I'll be able to make my rent."

"You're going to need to take time eventually,” Rhiannon stated firmly. "If you don't get at least some of your strength back you're going to end up in the hospital like I did. Remember?"

You glanced back at your screen, watching Donghyuck wander around in the backdrop. You were beyond jealous that they got to live together.

"Maybe. I just miss you. More than I miss having a clear passageway in my nose."

Rhiannon smiled sadly at you. "I miss you too, everyone does. You'll be here soon, I promise. I gotta go, sleep well and drink plenty of water, okay?"

"Okay."

Rhiannon waved at you before her screen went dark, ending the call. The call was shorter than usual, so you presumed that she had woken up late. You zoned out a little, acutely aware that the apartment had gone silent again. You didn't want to cry, to give up after surviving for so long. You had made it this far without letting everything get to you.

You knew that your deteriorating health was because of your separation from Mark and companies saw that as a liability, even though laws had come into place last year to protect separated soulmates from workplace discrimination. You felt a tiny ping of hope when Rhiannon said you would be able to move soon, but you knew she was lying to make you feel better.

Feeling lethargic, you stand and make your way to the dresser in the corner of your room, stripping and throwing your clothes about the room. You open up a drawer and pull out a pair of sweatpants and the softest t-shirt you could find and slipped them on, wandering to your bed and slowly climbing in. You slipped off your glasses, placing them on your desk and reached forward to turn off your lamp.

You hugged your polar bear and tried to get comfortable, hoping to fall asleep quickly. You supposed you could call into work when you woke up; at least your manager was nice enough to understand when you needed a day off. You rolled over, tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn't come. Not while your phone was constantly buzzing.

"What the hell," you mumble to yourself, untangling yourself from the knot of blankets you had tied yourself in to reach for your phone. Your lock screen lit up with a photo of Mark, one you had taken two years ago of him standing in Union Station.

[Rhiannon (5)]

She sure knew how to type quickly.

Rhiannon: I'm on my way to work, I'll let you know when I'm there

Rhiannon: sorry our call was so short, I was running a little late

Rhiannon: I talked to Mark last night, did he say anything?

Rhiannon: are you asleep already? It's been like 5 minutes

Rhiannon: ok you're basically just ignoring me at this point

You: calm down bro I was getting in my pyjamas

Rhiannon: I forgot how slow you get when you're sick, I could die of boredom waiting for you to respond

You: hardy har

Rhiannon: so have you talked to mark today?

You: around lunchtime he woke up from a nightmare but I assume hes busy right now

Rhiannon: Things have been pretty bad around now, I think you might have guessed that

You: Yeah, things aren’t really that great here either, but I’m more worried about Mark… have they given him time off?

Rhiannon: Not much besides half days. He’s really been missing you. Maybe you should message him and see if he’s not busy

You: Yeah, maybe. I feel really guilty

Rhiannon: I know. I still could help you buy your plane ticket, you know. You: You know I can’t do that, I can’t take more from you than I have already. I owe you too much.

No response.

You: Rhiannon I’m sorry

You: Come on, you can’t have scrubbed in that fast!

You sighed, staring at your screen and still seeing no response from your best friend. You took a deep breath in and immediately regretted it when you began coughing up a lung, but at least you weren't upchucking your dinner. Instead, you decided to send a text to Mark.

You: mark, you there?

You close your mind for a moment, thinking that maybe going to bed even later than usual would just make you more sick in the end, but you really needed to know what was going on.

Mark: yeah I'm here babe, what's wrong, can't sleep?

You: no not really… do you have time to talk for a bit?

Mark: yeah, my legs gave out during our first practice so I'm taking a break

You: I'm sorry

Mark: it's not your fault (Y/N)

You: it kind of is, we're both dying because I can't afford to move

Mark: (Y/N), we're not dying, and it's okay, you'll be able to move soon

You: face it you know that we are… I haven't felt this horrible in a long time and I've thrown up three times today

Mark didn't respond right away.

Mark: why are you putting yourself down so much

You: I just… have a lot of regrets right now

Mark: what do you mean

You licked your lips and rolled over in bed, wondering if you should tell him.

Mark: are you okay?

You: no, I feel like this would make you hate me

Mark: I could never hate you and you know that. Tell me what's been bothering you.

You: For the past while… Rhiannon’s been offering me money. It’s honestly not much because everyone’s struggling nowadays, but it would be enough for me to fly to Korea, and I’ve felt so guilty about it that I kept saying no and she stopped offering

Mark: You mean that you could have been here faster? You: and now I feel that saying no was a really bad idea… and I.. I can’t afford anything, barely even food and now I hear that you’re even more sick than I am and I feel terrible

You: I don’t know what to do

Mark: It’s okay, (Y/N), really. I know how hard it is to take money from someone else, I’m not mad at you

You: Really?

Mark: I’m just disappointed that I have to keep waiting. You’ll be able to move soon, I promise, I promise, I promise

You: Are you going to be okay

Mark: As long as you are. Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll be there for you the second you land. Okay?

You: Okay. I… I should probably get some sleep now. Mark: Rest well, I love you

You: I love you too

You sighed, placing your phone on your desk and turning over in your bed. It was time.

#mark lee #mark lee x reader #mark x reader #nct127 #nct #nctu #nct scenarios #nct imagines #reader insert #fanfiction #kpop fanfictions #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines

23 notes · View notes