#ticktock day

[parwatisingari]

The TICK Tock Day

On set of 2023 There was this seminar by Landmark Forum, one of the things they asked us to do was to put in tasks that we intended to do but didn’t then asked us to do put a time line to it… I was every radar less those days, and was also going through a wonderful sea of self-pity that no amount of chocolate or samosa could cure. I bought my self-planners like I do every year and gave it away,…

[melanirana]

here's a MF I haven't drawn in ages, and that you guys never saw.

This is Arcadia, he is from the very early days of the DCA craze, when Arcade Eclipse didn't have his name quite yet.

So Arcadia was my version for him. I first drew him two years ago for Ticktock and then never again.

I'd like to think my art as improved since then, ever so slightly.

[mostlydailylyrics]

But the whole world's tryin' to get a piece of you

And my heart keeps fighting in this battle of fools

Gotta make it through, gotta make it through

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Hypno Handyman Inc.

So I got this idea about a week ago: what if I used some hypnosis to help my failing repair business. See, all of today's young men are afraid of getting their hands dirty, and it's been impossible to hire any of those pansies. So I thought, 'Why not hypnotize them instead?'

This is Tim and Jim. They're identical twins, but I made Jim shave his head so I could tell them apart. Wait, maybe that was Tim. I don't remember, but it doesn't matter anymore! What's important is that they've been thoroughly hypnotized. Just look at the dopey grins they always have on!

These brothers were once my neighbors, back when they were influencers or something. I'm not really sure what they did for work, but now they are actually contributing members of society. I did them some good, bringing them under my control. Now they actually enjoy all the long hours and hard menial labor.

"Go ahead and tell 'em what your doing, boys!"

"Sure, boss," Tim answers brightly, "Jim and I are just grabbing some tools for a job. Mrs. Jones has a leaky pipe again."

"This is the third time this month." Jim explains with a blank smile.

I chuckle and shake my head. Mrs. Jones, the retired widow, was almost definitely just calling so she could oggle these young men as they tinker with a problem she made up. She's definitely wasting my employees' time, but I don't mind as long as she keeps paying.

"Just remember your new mantra, boys," I check.

Their bodies stiffen as they robotically relay what I taught them, "We work for you. We are your handymen. We work hard, stay humble, and always respect our client and our boss."

"That's right," I beam with pride, "Go ahead and unbutton your uniforms, boys. If Mrs. Jones wants a show, you're gonna give her one."

"Yes, boss!" they declare, smiling as they loosen their shirts before packing their tools in the truck.

They used to have a real attitude problem: thought awfully highly of themselves since they were 'TickTock famous' or whatever. Obviously, that was the first thing I corrected in their personalities. Tim and Jim are now just the perfect humble and eager-to-please workers they should be. I don't think I've seen them drop those stupid smiles in weeks!

This here is Rodrigo. He used to be a model or something, which meant he had practically no skills or common sense to begin with. At least his simple mind was super easy to hypnotize. I tried programming a bunch of common knowledge about plumbing or mechanics in that head of his, but it never stuck. That's why I always have him doing the simple heavy lifting.

"What's up, Rigo! Working hard?"

"Yes, boss," he reports with a heavy breath, "I'm just hauling the fresh supplies into the garage."

"Glad, I can count on you, boy," I clap him on his shoulder, pleased to find his hard work soaking into his uniform, "It's hard work, but someone's gotta do it!"

"Yes, boss," he agrees, and turns his head to the floor as he gets back to it.

I doubt that boy ever had a hard day of work before he met me. He didn't have a shred of real muscle on him when I found him. The only thing his pretty arms could carry were a bunch of shopping bags from the mall.

He threw all that fancy attire away after I had him under trance. I think those clothes on his back are the only thing he owns now. It's not like any of my guys need something nice to wear. They're just my handymen, after all, and I intend to milk their hard-working asses for all their worth.

This last guy is my newest recruit. He came crawling to me when he got fired at his last job. His name is Cameron, and he's been quite a handful. Out of all the idiots I've hypnotized so far, he's been able to resist the most.

He's still thoroughly under my control, but I can't seem to control his thoughts like I can with the other guys. That's why I have him doing all the nastiest jobs. Hopefully it'll break that strong will of his!

"Hey, Cammy," I call.

"Don't call me that!" he snaps, "I'm not your damn puppet like those other freaks!"

His words have venom in them, but his body doesn't seem to agree. His head stays bowed in a mock of submission as he diligently searches the supply closet.

"What you lookin' for, Cammy?" I ask.

"The fucking plunger! You've got me on clogged toilet duty, remember?" he growled in frustration, "How long are you going to keep me doing this?"

"There's a lot of people who aren't willing to clean their shitters," I explain, "And you'll keep doing it as long as people will pay!"

I let out a sigh as Cameron continues to get more and more frustrated. Despite his radical glare, his body can't stop searching for that plunger.

"It's in the bathroom," I finally admit, "Go ahead and kiss each of our shitters while your in their."

Cameron's face twists in disgust as his body obediently marches past me, carrying him to our company restroom. He's clearly angry beyond words for being made to degrade himself once again. One day I'll get him to see me as a respectable employer just like the rest of the guys do. It's only a matter of time.

"Hey Cammy!" I call before he leaves, "Don't forget about tonight. You remember what we discussed yesterday, right?"

Despite all his internalized rage, his eyes glaze over as my hypnotic instructions kick in, "I'm on house duty. I will cook, serve, and clean up dinner for you and the rest of the men. I will be ready to give massages and showers to you and the rest of the men. I will not let myself relax until you and the rest of the men have no need of me. I will be on house duty every night forever, until you say otherwise."

"That's right," I smile in amusement, "Carry on!"

His vacant stare melts away, and he quickly adopts his trademark glare. His hands ball into fists like he's about to fight back, but he just turns and walks down the hallway. I chuckle at the idea of him in that empty bathroom, angrily kissing each of our toilet seats.

I put aside Cameron's defiance and relish just how far my repair business has gone. Not only am I making a ton more money than when it was just me, but I also have a whole flock of guys to keep me company. Even though they are all products of a weaker generation, I am well on my way towards turning each of them into real men like myself.

Already, I have Tim, Jim, and Rodrigo sipping beers and watching football with me after work everyday. I'll tell you that none of those boys enjoyed either of those things before they met me. Eventually, I'll have them genuinely laughing at all my jokes too!

Whether or not Malcolm comes around, is honestly unimportant. As long as he keeps up the disrespect, I'll keep him in the worst jobs and the longest hours.

I'm telling you, hypnotizing your employees is the way to go! So, let me know if you need any help getting your workers under your control. Or just let me know if you need a good old-fashioned handyman to fix something for you!

My boys will do anything as long as you fork over some cash...

[alavestineneas]

Glass and mirrors

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader summary: There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one. warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of mental illness, narcissism, blonde men who need therapy, unhinged women, people in shitty relationships and toxic industries word count: 4.6k PART TWO IS HERE

author's note: Hello and welcome to our small community of people who have fallen victim to the charming (and evil) blonde man! This fic is heavily inspired by the edits of models that pop up on my ticktock feed every day. Shout out to them and the talented editors who bless my eyes with their creations. As for YN this time, prepare to be on quite a ride because she, surprise-surprise, is evil! In my head, there has to be at least one victor who feels no remorse at all; they can't all be morally good (and relatively sane) people. Also, the obsession with beauty in this fic is, in fact, intentional, so bear with me. Feel free to comment or insult the author in the comments, but only if you are creative with it. Enjoy and see you in part 2!

In all of her short childhood, she always loved mirrors. Her grandma used to joke about it with her old friends while they shared lunch at the factory: ''That empty-headed child wants to do nothing but stare at herself all day.'' The women would laugh, their raspy voices making the glid, already filled with toxic fumes to the brim, hotter. YN didn't mind; she would pretend not to hear them, clinging to the machinery in front of her instead. She would get out of here sooner or later, and she'd see whose laughter would be left echoing all through the narrow streets.

She wasn't born to rot in this place like these people were; YN was sure of that. Not with a face like hers, with manners she taught herself from the bright magic box in their cramped commune apartment, where a few times a year the government played the show. It was supposed to be a punishment, YN reminded herself each time, but it didn't look like one. She watched the children eat more food than she had seen in a month and then cry on the stage in front of millions. She wouldn't cry if she was there, that was for certain. People die every day here, but none of them get to dress up in the jewels provided by the wealthiest people she has ever seen.

It was funny how they had all the money in the world and still chose to dress so horribly. Mismatched fabrics and smudged colours on their faces, like the colours of the lake near her house—the factories polluted it with dyes, turning the water green, purple, and sometimes even pink. That's how she got her old grey dress to be such a pretty lavender colour. It didn't matter that everyone at school laughed at her, even Miss Kyla; she was horrendously ugly anyway, her hair resembling the colour of unwashed underwear. YN wore her dress with pride, mimicking the voice of the funny multicolour-haired man on the screen, chatting with long o's and a's.

That's how she ended up here, on the first floor of the newly renovated training centre, with a drink in her freshly manicured hand. She had two hours before her stylists would need her again—a time designated for sleep, which she apparently so greatly lacks. YN doesn't care; she went without sleep for much longer than two days. Instead, she does what she loves the most—turns on a shiny screen and watches the golden letters appear: the 15th Annual Hunger Games.

It starts with reaping, as always, but YN skips that part—she doesn't like seeing herself in those dirty rags, although, as papers would later state, ''nothing could make this girl ugly, even if a potato sack was put on her body.'' She likes interviews better. Luckily, the wait is not very long; soon enough, her favourite host pops up, his hair shimmering with sea green.

''And now, our dear viewers, I am more than pleased to announce our next tribute from District 1—please let her hear how excited we are to meet her!'' His voice booms through the theatre as the crowd erupts into applause.

YN moves gracefully, a beaming smile on her face matching that of a host. Her gloved hands wave at the supposed people in front of her as if they were guests at her birthday party. But most importantly, dress. The one she chose herself, arguing over it with her stylist for the last few hours, the one that fitted her perfectly. Capitol enough to appeal to the audience, district enough to highlight that she isn't one of them—she is something new, undiscovered, and worth keeping an eye on. It's almost not a dress at all—the sparkling, sheer fabric of beautiful white, with stars gathering at her chest and bottom to finish the ''almost naked'' look. And the crowd goes crazy for it. People shout, and the splashes of the cameras blinding her create a new melody that is so unfamiliar to YN's ears. Admiration. The thing she craved for so long.

''Alright, alright,'' Lucky Flickerman smiles, gesturing for the crowd to settle down. ''We don't want to scare her off now, do we?'' He turns to her, a microphone in hand. ''What's your name, sweetheart?''

''YN Y/L/N. And I am afraid you can't scare me off, no matter how hard you try. The thing is, I am here to stay,'' she jokes, cocking an eyebrow at the man beside her.

''Oh, how I love your confidence! Now tell me—we heard you are a volunteer—the first in the history of District 1! Are there any special ties to the girl who was supposed to stand here tonight, or what's going on?''

''Well, I was dying to see you in person, of course—no pun intended.''

Oh, there weren't any ties to the girl, or the boy, for that matter. No, YN simply wanted to go at her peak chance of winning—countless years of secret preparation in the factory; working a night shift after school and full days of weekends; hours of studying every plant and animal known to mankind—all to ensure that she wouldn't waste her chance like most kids here did.

''That's an honour coming from your lips; we are happy to see you in the Capitol, Miss Y/L/N. Since you came here by choice, what strategy are you planning on using in the arena? Maybe something tied to your district's craft?''

''If you promise to keep this between us, I'll confess—I will use my charms to make everyone fall in love with me and watch them fight by promising the winner a kiss—and then I will take it from there.'' YN turns to face the lights, staring directly into the camera for a few seconds. The crowd laughs once more, some going so far as to cheer and whistle in excitement. ''But in all honesty, I think I have a fair shot—I would win in a day if it meant the unlimited supply of those amazing cupcakes with sprinkles on top.''

''Well, in that case, you should definitely get a good rest this night—you are not the only one who got your eye on them! Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the Cupcake Games tomorrow, and don't forget to sponsor this lovely girl right here if you want to see her win! And now, a short word from our sponsors.''

Cupcake jokes are still funny to her, even after two years, although she got sick of them a week after her victory and was just as sick of all the titles papers came up with to fit her into the candy girl box. It served her well, for which she is grateful; the sponsors did send her a shitton of things, although mostly useless.

Next is the introduction of everyone else; YN doesn't care to look at it for more than just a few seconds, speeding it up to maximum. It's boring to no end—how do Capitolees watch it every year with such excitement? She stops to look only when her face appears on the screen, covered in crimson blood.

She counted six canons when she finally stopped to take a breath in and look at her surroundings. That was about right, although YN didn't count how many times she pulled a knife out of somebody's still-warm body and lurched into another nearby. The sand soaked up the blood fast, she noticed, stepping over the pile of what used to be her competitors and walking towards the cone-shaped something. Nobody in sight—each one of the ''better'' kids is now dead without a chance to kill each other, to kill her, and ''others'' will die like flies under the hot sun of what looked like a desert. YN noticed that some even left behind the given jackets; she collected them before stepping into the Cornucopia, claiming them as her own. Not everyone grew up in hot factories, she thought to herself, so they have no chance of knowing how cold it gets at night.

YN doesn't like how the uniform looks on her; the T-shirt hangs around her frame too loosely. It's evident that she didn't eat enough back then, but it was tolerable. The dried blood looked worse; with her stoic face and eye colour, the streams looked too grotesque, almost unserious; it didn't fit the look she was going for. Her hands itch to wipe it before YN remembers that it's non-existent now—the girl on the screen is just a recording. She forwards a little more, looking for the commentary of the first night from the hosts—their excitement and praise never get old—but hears knocking at her door just as she is about to press play. YN glances at the clock—it's too early for the prep team, so it must be someone else—and turns off the TV just to be sure she heard it right.

When the knocking continues, she shouts a quick ''Come in,'' after checking her reflection on the now dark screen. ''Ah, Maggie!''

''How many times do I have to repeat that my name is Mags, not Maggie? Not Mags with fangs either, to be clear. Just Mags.''

''But everyone calls you that! And I want to be special,'' YN whines, laying back on the sofa.

It's Mags. YN likes Mags. Mags is the only girl besides her on the victors' list. Mags is the one who is always down to eat lunch together or to watch the new collection in the magazines. She is funny and down to earth, and, most importantly, Mags doesn't take bullshit from anyone.

''Even more special?'' Mags smiles, opening the fridge to look for something edible. There isn't much; they both know that YN would never eat something to ruin her figure. ''I saw your photoshoot on the street today. It's beautiful.''

''Thank you,'' YN smiles. She doesn't remember which one of her campaigns was supposed to air today, but it doesn't matter. ''Are you here for the promo again?''

The curly-haired woman nods, not looking up from the shelves. ''I hate it. I wish they would just leave me alone, so I can go home and forget about all of this.''

YN is always weirded out by such comments from Victor from 4 but never says anything. Not everyone was born to be in front of the camera; if that were the case, her talent wouldn't be so special anymore. ''It's our job, Maggie. They'll never leave us alone.''

''I know.'' Mags sighed, planting her body on the sofa beside her.

They are different, but YN thinks it's better that way. They are the same age, both 20, and that's about the only thing that ties them together. YN watches as her friend's chest rises and falls as she stares at the ceiling, her long, curly hair in some type of twist. YN would never style it like that, but Mags doesn't ask, so she stares at her in silence, trying her hardest not to compare them. She knows what type of conclusion will sparkle in her brain, but she doesn't want to admit it. Mags is her friend, her only good friend, so something inside YN fights hard to leave her alone. It's an unusual feeling, almost foreign, but YN wants to make an exception. She thinks Maggie deserves it.

''Are you okay?'' the woman asks her, finally snapping out of her trance. ''You are less talkative than usual.''

''Oh, yeah—just a little tired from work, that's it.''

Work. It's not the type of work people can really get tired from, and if anybody thinks otherwise, they never worked a day in District 1. Sometimes, YN can still feel the burning cloud of steam hitting her face when she closes her eyes. The work she does in Capitol is child's play—photoshoots, interviews, promotional campaigns, and runways. She is the only one with this kind of hectic schedule, the only one who is interesting enough for the general public to want to see her everywhere they go. Multiple shows a day wasn't uncommon; photoshoots until five a.m. were basically her usual routine; she did so many of them that she never remembered the brand name for more than an hour.

''Well, I hope I don't interrupt your me-time,'' Mags notes. ''Panem knows you need it. ''

''You worry too much about me. Better tell me about how life is in 4—anything new?''

There is probably nothing exciting, but it feels nice to listen to somebody talk with such love for their home as Mags does. It's also a great opportunity. YN catches every subtle expression and every movement of her friend with attentive eyes, making sure to parrot them later. She noticed from the recording today that her speech misses a certain effortlessness.

-

Curl and twist, curl and twist—YN has learned the pattern by now, sitting in front of the gigantic mirror, surrounded by a team of stylists. Hair, make-up, nails, and toes—five people work hand in hand for her to appear for two minutes on the long podium. The backstage is loud, and a lot is going on—last-minute changes, alterations, and quick touch-ups. YN doesn't bother to look around; she closes today like a face of the collection, and after she is done with this podium, the day is finally coming to an end.

''Oh, YN, darling, here you are!'' The bald man in his forties appears on the horizon of her peripheral vision, clasping his unnaturally white hands together. ''How are you doing, my little star? Anything you need?''

She is irritated to no end; her team booked seven shows for her today; she hadn't had anything to eat in the past six hours; and the loud music makes her head throb. But she doesn't voice any of that—nobody really wants to know how she is feeling.

Just like she guessed, the man doesn't wait for her response. ''There have been some changes in the order today, sweetheart. Jenovia will be closing today, and you will walk in her dress instead,'' the man says, turning to face her styling team. ''Change the hair to fit, and take off the blue in her make-up—it won't match. Good luck!''

''Do what he says,'' YN announces, her mouth twitching just a little. She is furious. To have that blonde bitch Jenovia walk in the best dress of the collection YN inspired? Over her dead body. Or, should she say, over Jenovia's? She will figure it out but do so later. Now there are only four girls before her, so she needs to be ready.

''Three, two, one! Go, go!'' the stage coordinator shouts, opening the curtain for her.

Right and left, hip and hand, followed by the strong clicking of her five-inch heels. The music is even louder here, with the beets vibrating through the runway and pouring into her bloodstream. She doesn't pay any attention to the glass floor underneath her. Surprisingly, her training before games helped her model more than one could guess. YN doesn't see anyone but the blinding lights lining the podium—not that she needs to see the hungry faces of the spectators. It doesn't matter what piece of fabric covers her body; they are looking at who wears it. Final pose at the centre—no smile is her go-to. Hold and turn is the golden rule.

''Here you are!'' One of the seamstresses grabs her hand, pulling her into a small, curtained space with countless clothes on racks. ''Calio wants you to hold a purse for the backstage photo and lose the belt. Where the fuck is the golden belt?'' she shouts, searching for one. ''Wait here; I'll go find it,'' she finally announces, running away before YN has the chance to suggest anything.

YN looks around, carefully moving the laying rags with her foot. She mentally goes over the outfits labelled with names, rating them one by one, until her eyes stop on the white dress. The closing dress, the one she was supposed to model. Underneath it are velvety black high boots.

The idea comes to her mind quickly: she steals a needle from the nearby table and carefully places it inside the shoes, making sure it looks like an accident.

''Finally,'' the woman returns with a belt in her hands, oblivious to YN's half-smile. ''Put it on and go; they are already waiting.''

''Of course, thanks.''

YN isn't sure how much time has passed before she hears a scream, standing up from her place in the corner with a blanket around her exposed shoulders. Surely enough, Jenovia is on the floor, crying crocodile tears—a needle inside her heel deep enough to make a few of the girls around her gag.

''What the fuck happened?'' It's Calio, the boss here; he was ordering her around before.

''I don't know,'' all the blonde girl can manage before bursting into tears one more time.

''Well, can you walk?'' he asks, kneeling to take a look.

''No,'' Jenovia whispers, her hand holding her bloodied foot.

The bald man sighed, more annoyed than concerned. ''We need a replacement. You,'' he points at YN. ''Take it off and change into the dress. Quick!''

YN does what she is told in no time; she doesn't want to wait until Jenovia suddenly gets better or the man finds a better-suited girl to close. After a few minutes, she is almost ready; she only needs the lipstick to finish it off.

''We don't have time!'' the man roars, dragging her to the exit. ''Here!'' He puffs out her hair and adjusts the layers of fake pearls covering her neck. ''Three, two, one! Go, fucking go!''

And go she does. A few steps on the runway, and she discovers that lipstick is still in her hands. YN puts it in the pocket of the enormously large black coat that hides the gorgeous white dress underneath. Step after step, her long black boots draw patterns on the glass. She will have no choice but to buy them; YN doesn't care if it's stupid. They helped her, so she will have them.

It's time for the final pose: YN takes out the lipstick from her pocket and applies it with two swift motions, blowing a kiss to the camera. It will definitely be a hit with the photographers. YN throws one last look before turning around and returning to the curtained exit. On her way back, when the lights lower to follow her back, she can see a little clearer. In the sea of vibrant hair colours and clothes, the platinum-blonde hair and a simple black suit stood out too much not to notice. There is only one person who could afford to look so simple—YN knows it. An opportunity of a lifetime.

She makes another stop in the middle of the podium, right in front of his seat. The coat slides off her shoulders effortlessly, and YN catches it just when the fabric is about to hit the floor. The crowd goes crazy, clapping and whistling at her tricks, but YN has no wish to entertain them any further. YN pauses for a moment, her eyes meeting icy-blue ones, before turning away and finishing the show. There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one.

-

Since the last show, she has done fifteen more—day after day, opening and closing. Her little trick got her where she wanted to be, with more money than one person could need in a lifetime and nowhere to spend it. Even now, standing in the long hallway of the training centre, she wears nothing she bought herself; all are gifted, sent, or handed by the adoring fans. Like a rag doll, with no say in how she looks or what she does, YN hears everyone say that it was ''a price of fame''. She doesn't think so; she was told what to do long before she tasted real butter on her toast.

The sliding door to her apartment moves almost without noise. While most victors complain that the lock system reminds them of prison, YN is grateful to have it. The thought of some crazy fanatic waiting for her in the dark isn't the most pleasant one. The designer bag finds its place on the floor, soon joined by the coat—room service will clean it up later. The heels slide off her feet quickly, leaving bloodied marks on her skin, but YN doesn't care enough to do something about them.

''Forgive me for joining you without an invitation.''

YN turns around, her hands grabbing the keys in her hands tighter. She mentally goes over her means of escape or fight—a mirror could easily be broken and used as a weapon; if necessary, she could also grab a nearby ottoman. The man in the chair doesn't look too impressed with her thought process. His lips curve into a smile, blue eyes staring at her with undivided attention. A suit, not very different from the one he wore at her show, was a deep brown colour.

''Mister President,'' YN breathes out, lowering her hand.

Coriolanus Snow. Light, almost white hair frames his face like a halo, with his suit hugging his waist just enough to highlight the broad shoulders. YN saw him on TV a couple of times, but seeing him in person was something entirely different. It's like the air shifts around him and changes with his presence.

''I believe we met before,'' he humours her, his eyes shining with mischief.

The light knocking on the door doesn't leave YN any time to answer. She presses a button near it, fixing her hair before opening it. YN tries to look as composed as possible without betraying her nerves—why was he here? ''Yes?''

''The dinner, Ma'am.'' the room service declares, pushing a cart in front of her.

YN nods, even though she didn't order one. ''Leave it here,'' she says, gesturing to the place nearby. When the door closes and she is alone with the man in her room again, her heart skips a beat.

''I took the liberty of ordering; I hope you don't mind.''

Even if she did, she knew better than to say anything. Instead, YN watched as the man stood up and took the dishes from the cart, placing them on the coffee table, before turning to her once more.

''Please, have a seat.''

She does what she is told, sitting down on her king-sized bed—the chair is already taken by him—and waits for the blonde man to start speaking. He doesn't right away, choosing to pour a glass of wine for her and himself.

YN watches the dark liquor pour into the glass, swirling with each drop. She isn't hungry—she rarely was—and the soup he ordered looks more like vomit than a dish, but she still takes the spoon and carefully places it into her mouth. Her lipstick stains the silverware with colour, leaving a small circle right at the end—that's when the man finally decides to speak.

''Dare I say I am a huge fan of your work ethic? Everyone who I've spoken to is very satisfied with your,'' he pauses, searching for the fitting word, ''dedication .''

''Thank you, Mister President,'' YN replies with a polite smile before returning to her soup. She watches him only from the corner of her eye. The way he cuts his steak with his ringed fingers and the way he places a small bite in his mouth before his lips close. There is a subtle roughness in his movements, a power play of some sort.

He catches her gaze and, for a moment, is silent. ''You probably wonder why I am here in the first place, outside of the amazing steak they cook here, of course. The thing is, Miss Y/L/N, that you are popular not only with the general public but with people higher in power as well. One may even say they fell in love with the way you present yourself.''

''I am pleased to know that, Mr. President, but I am only doing my job as a victor.''

''Then you will understand the weight of my dilemma. Those people who have served Panem all their lives faithfully usually don't ask for much recognition; they work because they want to build a better future for all of us. So, when they do ask for a small favour or two, I am more than happy to satisfy them. But recently, all they ask for is you .''

''I believe I don't quite understand. They want to meet me?''

''You can phrase it like that, yes. For a night or two, of course, with all expenses covered.''

It's heavy, the understanding of what Mister President really implies. The thought of someone's hand roaming her body brings her dinner up YN's throat. ''Why?'' Her voice is shakier than she would like, but she is more focused on composing the rising anger than noticing it.

''I am sorry, Miss Y/L/N, but I am afraid there is nothing I can do; I am greatly outnumbered. Unless,'' he starts but doesn't finish his sentence.

''Unless what?''

''Unless you are seen with me.''

His piercing blue eyes look at her, but there is nothing in them. Her chances are limited, and he knows it. There is something rogue in him beneath the veil of chivalry he offers. YN smiles at him. That's what this whole charade was about—he wants her. Coriolanus Snow, the most powerful man in the whole world, wants her.

''Of course, Mr. President. That's very generous of you.''

''Mister President is too official, don't you think, Miss Y/L/N? Perhaps we could find a more informal way of addressing each other?''

''Informal?'' YN asks, tilting her head to the side. If he wants her, he'll get her. ''What about Mister Snow?'' The buttons on her shirt are easy to manage—a few quick motions, and it slides off her shoulders onto the cream cover. ''Or, Sir Coriolanus?'' The pants are a little trickier, but YN learned that backstage, every second counts, so they soon also pool around her heels, the fabric hitting the floor with a slight thud.

The blonde man watches her intently, his eyes following every move of her hands. His legs are still spread wide on the lime-green chair as he slightly leans back. YN can't tell if he is enjoying her antics or not, but frankly, she doesn't care; she is enjoying it.  The way her shadow dances on the wall, the way the air shifts in the huge room, transforming it into a tiny stage. YN looks at him with mischief, with superiority, even. After all, she is the show here. Why not let Mr. Savior think it is for him?

''Come, Mister Snow,'' she says, throwing it in his face like a bone to the dog.

He doesn't have the haste to join her; on the contrary, he stands up painfully slowly. His tall figure almost seems to stretch as he raises, covering the floor lamp behind him fully. When he finally circles the table to stand above her, his presence is overwhelming. YN lets him stand between her legs, his unusually cold hand on her thigh.

''I prefer Coriolanus,'' he whispers in her ear, lowering himself enough to touch her ear with his velvety lips. He pulls away slightly, planting a kiss on her cheek instead. ''Have a most pleasant night, Miss Y/L/N.''

And then he walks away. YN watches as his figure disappears behind the sliding door before she lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Her gaze instinctively finds her reflection in the nearby mirror; there is no reason to shine if no one watches her.

[eeeeeeeeef]

my sister found this fucking ticktock I'll link it please watch it we literally pissed ourselves laughing

[chiptrillino]

How the hell do you find every accurate representative culture fashion for the avatar gang? Like it pains me the hell how people this good and hardworking can find these gorgeous cultural clothes and accessories and draw them so well and detailed like you- TELL ME YOUR SECRETS (Please)

idk about accurate. at the end it is still a fantasy world inspired by real life cultures contrasting or soothed out to fit a charakter personality and traits. listen if i spot an option to have a older fire lord zuko with his titts chest out i will go for it and nothing can stop me not even accuracy i say this as if i didn't already do it in private with seethrough material hahah

there is not much secrets behind it though, sorry its research, fact checking. often even the most random things. at least that is my method. you go to google and type in what you need and would like to know. read the wikipedia article for some general understanding on the topic but them go to the source part and check these out. or like double check these. if reading is not your thing there are lots of dedicated youtubers or ticktockers that love to share and explain parts of their culture or tradtions (clothing included. depends on what you research.) contemporary to that or after that you build up your visual library by collecting images on pinterest, or google or websites covering the topic you are researching. make your own folders or pin boards.

an amazing blog for atla real life culture sources is of course or beloved: @atlaculture blog!

https://www.tumblr.com/atlaculture who recently began to dedicate some post in flashing out more water tribe and air normad cusine, also instruments. its a delight to read through.

of course you have an easier time with some research than with other. some things are clear others a contradicting some are barley documented. it is also necessary to have an occasional reality check. like reread your sources see if there is something new. replace what you misunderstood before. don't always go for what looks pretty and aesthetically good to you. there is a reason why things looked like they did. was it the material, was it protection, was it culture.

a part looking at contemporary photography i personally preffere to look at how people liked to depict themself at that time. Statues, wall painting, illustration, old fotos from that time and compare them to current pictures to see how they used to stylize this element or to see what was essential to them. thats probably my old art-history phase flaring up again though hahah. at the end it is also how you Interpret and headcanon the atla world for yourself. before i were able to redesign jet i had to figure out how i want to draw fire nation armor. because to me jet repuporses a lot of the armor from the enemy. a shin guard will be used as an arm protection. the red shirt he wears is fire nation, a shoulder guard that fits will just be used as it is. i just assume that FN armor is better in being fire resistent than earth kingdoms ones.

but fire nation armor is a chellenge on its own again. because is it tang dynasty? is it song? but the collar protector is a typical thai armor element. how do i combine that? is there a history behind it?

speaking about armor what would be the southern water tribe one? if it is lamellar ivory armor, how and why does it look so different by season 3 at the day of the black sun? did the southern water fleet separated form their home begin to adopt EK styles. switching out kuspuk and parkas in for sleeveless wrap shirts and armor with inside plating like they have in ba sing se? because that what was aviable to them?

(appart everything the talk of armor is in general really curious because... what do you wear when you go in to fight against fire??? in the poles you can argure that it is not a concern. if you burn you roll in the snow but in the EK... hm.. they dont have fancy heat resistand clothing like fire fighters have now.... armor is ment to cushion off impact and or slicing. our standard armors conzept can work well against earth-, water- and air bending (to some degree) but fire burns what do you idealy do against that? leather helps to some degree)

while the southern water tribe is clearly circumpolar people inspired (although lacking lots of world-building which you can kind of excusing it with... the war destroyed everything but also... uh.... its a nearly 20 year old show.... ) the northern water tribe shows korean or even mongolian elements. so what do you want to focus on? i personally like to make things connect because these characters live in one world togheter and trade and exchange happens. (yes even during a 100 year war or at least there had to have been a time of influence and the lack of exchange froze(*snorts*) this culture in time) you know... migration? and transition of style and life through out history.

maybe i overthink things to much for just drawing some clothes... -srugs-

[emira-addams]

Hazbin Hotel - Carmilla x Rosie - Juliet and Juliet in Hell

Interlude: Ink-Stained Slumbers

Rosie sighed sorrowfully. Again and again, her restless gaze fled from the pages of her book and strayed across the lonely living room to the face of the grandfather clock. Its hands displayed an ungodly time well past midnight, while its heavy ticktocking reverberated unbearably through the darkness that reigned over the house.

The only other sound against the oppressive silence was the turning of the pages of the book, with only the characters from the story to keep Rosie company as she sat alone in the armchair in the living room, waiting for Carmilla to return home. Again, Carmilla hadn't been back home from work for dinner. This was the third time her dinner had gone cold in the fridge, Rosie kept count.

Rosie stifled an insistent yawn. Her patience was about to surrender to her desperate need for sleep.

A week ago, Odette had climbed through the living room window and for the past week, the Carmine house had been in a state of war. Every day for the past seven days, Clara had started setting her alarm clock two hours earlier so that she wouldn't accidentally get caught in the crossfire of the verbal battle between mother and daughter at breakfast. Even Zestial didn't want to voluntarily get caught in between the fronts and had canceled his and Carmilla's weekly tradition for leisurely tea parties. In the presence of Carmilla, Rosie avoided the word Velvette and any subject of the three Vees at all costs. For the last seven days now Odette was not allowed to leave the four walls of her room, except for food, and Carmilla spent long days at work, returning home late every time in the middle of the dark night and locking herself in her study with a pile of paperwork.

Rosie missed Carmilla's warmth under their shared sheets.

Her vision blurred again and again, Rosie blinked hard. Her eyelids threatened to fall shut as she desperately tried to refocus on the plot of her book, but the many words seemed empty to her fogged mind. Eventually the sentence structures disintegrated and the letters melted into a black mass, none of the original lines legible. The black splotches of ink slipped from the pages.

Exhausted from the effort of waiting, Rosie succumbed to her sleepiness. She closed her eyes a second too long and fell asleep sitting in the armchair.

The sound of the front door being opened with a squeak and falling shut with a thud startled Rosie out of her slumber. Drowsy, she heard Carmilla's quick footsteps in the hallway, the sharp clink of angelic steel on cold tiles bouncing back from the high walls. Before Rosie could fully regain her consciousness, she heard the opening and closing of the next door in the distance, the door to Carmilla's study.

"Oh, Milly..." Rosie sighed, her voice thick with sleep. She quickly placed a bookmark between the pages, closed her book and got up from the armchair. This time she would not allow Carmilla to bury herself and her feelings in tears and amidst thousands of towers of paperwork in the darkness of her study. Her beloved Carmilla had an awful habit of abusing her work as an escape in stressful situations, the fight with her daughter surely being one. Then she would spend all her waking hours working, the bleached pages her refuge until exhaustion will finally catch up with her. She would either fall asleep at her desk over her work or try to suppress the fatigue with copious amounts of caffeine until the next morning, when she would again leave the protective solitude of her study at dawn to disappear back to work, a vicious circle.

Rosie knocked gently on the hard wood of the door to Carmilla's study and waited.

No answer.

"Milly?" Rosie whispered worriedly, opening the door. "Oh, my poor Milly..." she gasped as she carefully entered the room. Her heart ached at the sight she found. With her head on her desk, Carmilla slept hunched over ink and paper. Her face was twisted into a grimace and she winced, nightmares evidently plaguing her sleep.

Rosie circled the maze of piles of paper. "Wake up, Milly..." she whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. "My love, are you awake?" Rosie asked softly as Carmilla stirred and raised her head in surprise.

"R-Rosie? Where am I?" Voice hoarse with confusion, Carmilla looked around. Stray and sweaty strands of her snow-white hair hung in her pale face. Groaning, she rubbed her bloodshot eyes.

"At home in your study... You fell asleep over your paperwork," Rosie mumbled. She brushed the irritating strands of hair from her face. Carmilla looked so exhausted, so broken. Her sheer sight made her heart ache.

"Oh..." Carmilla looked at Rosie in surprise, then suddenly stood up from her desk. Her balance wavered precariously. "I really need some coffee..." She massaged her aching head, her whole body trembling.

"You really need some sleep," Rosie objected. "When was the last time you slept in a real bed?" Rosie knew the answer from Carmilla's silence, her lover could barely stand up straight. "Let's get you into bed, okay?"

Carmilla mutely agreed. Rosie gently wrapped her arm around Carmilla's waist and supported her stance. Without any resistance, her lover allowed herself to be dragged into the bedroom by Rosie.

"Sit down," Rosie ordered sternly. Carmilla dutifully perched on the edge of the bed while Rosie fished a fresh pair of pyjamas out of their closet for her. She quickly helped Carmilla change before gently pushing her onto the mattress and covering her up. "Please stay put... I'll be right back," Rosie promised. "I'll quickly make us a cup of tea to calm the nerves..." She pressed a gentle kiss on Carmilla's forehead, then disappeared towards the kitchen, humming some unnamed song.

The smell of freshly brewed chamomile tea filled the bedroom as Rosie entered the room and placed a tray on the bedside table. She quickly slipped under the covers with Carmilla. The cannibal pulled her lover into her arms and handed her her cup of tea as they leaned together against the headboard.

"Thank you." Carmilla kissed Rosie on the cheek. She slowly sipped her hot tea. The warmth crept into her bones, draining the tension from her whole body as Rosie's soft hand crept under her clothes and traced their gentle circles on her back.

Carmilla blinked sleepily, eyeing Rosie up and down skeptically. "Tell me, are you wearing one of my pyjamas?" Carmilla wondered in her utterly weary state.

"Can you blame me?" Rosie shrugged her shoulders. "I've missed your warmth under the sheets all week, your embrace and your sweet scent. You've been too busy with your work to come into bed with me..."

Carmilla cleared her throat. Her ashamed gaze fled into her cup, trying in vain to drown itself in the chamomile tea, avoiding Rosie's. "I'm really sorry..." she whispered.

"I know, Milly..." Rosie cupped her cheeks and locked their eyes into a soft stare. "But there's nothing to apologize for. I'm here, with you, and we'll deal with everything else together when you feel better. All I want is for you to talk to me. Please talk to me, Milly, will you?"

"Yes…" Silent drops of tears crept down Carmilla's cheeks as Rosie's tender fingertips ran gently over her cheekbones and she wiped away her tears again and again. Her hand drew caressing circles over Carmilla's back. Up and down her spine and back and forth between her shoulder blades. "I love you so much," Carmilla murmured half-asleep as Rosie pulled her further into her arms.

"I love you too, Milly, but now you need to try to get some sleep," Rosie whispered as she took the empty cup from Carmilla and placed it back on the tray.

Carmilla stifled a yawn. Exhaustion causing her eyelids to flutter and the last sight before sleep overtook her and she succumbed to a sound slumber was Rosie's loving smile.

"Please," Carmilla begged. Her shallow voice nothing the less than a soft whisper. "Don't let me go."

Rosie shook her head. She brushed strands of Carmilla's snow-white hair from her face affectionately. "I'll stay awake and by your side until the end of the night. Now get some rest, my love."

Chapter 06:

[venus-celestial]

Here's the summary of the house of the dragon fanfic I'm writing called The Dragons tower that will hopefully be posted within the week considering I'm ill

Under the cut as to not ruin anyone's feeds

Ever since Alicent came to the red keep she’s been terrified of dragons and she doesn’t expect that to change except… Except now she has a hatchling and.. Rheanyra and Daemon are being very affectionate and… the Velaryons are spending a lot of time with her and… they all seem to want to kill her father… But… She feels safe and loved… Maybe this won’t be so bad

Or

Alicent Hatches a Dargon Gets courted by 2 and gets adopted by 3 more plus a Seahorse maybe or maybe not in that exact order

And here's a snippet from the first chapter

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

It was a nice day in the red keep Alicent thought as she lay Beneath the weirwood tree it was warm with a light wind blowing through the branches causing them to rustle. It smelled fresh and sweet like flowers and it felt comfortable enough laying down that Alicent didn't feel like getting up right away.

She took a breath and squeezed her eyes tight she had an argument with her father that day the same one they had been having for a week and and a half after she had failed to obey his orders to comfort the king and ended up indisposed on top of that.

And because why not here's a fun ticktock I made for it

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

[isaacsapphire]

Several days ago, I made the questionable life choice to buy Honest brand face wash, because I have a face that sometimes gets dirty and I thought it might be nice and relaxing to have a special product just for my face.

It took me two days, multiple internet searches, and multiple failed attempts to watch explanations from the Honest company on Instagram and TickTock (can’t be done because I don’t have the app) to figure out how to get the pump to work. It is not obvious or intuitive or easy. The method or the need for it is also pointedly not described on the bottle.

(You get a piece of paper towel or something like that, unscrew the pump, grip the straw inside that’s covered in product using the paper towel and then twist the top so it will pop up and screw the pump assembly back into the bottle.)

This is souring me on the whole company tbh. Putting the information needed to use your product behind a websearch and a fucking Ticktok/Instagram download instead of printing it on the bottle really underlines that not being on those platforms means you’re a non-entity as a customer to any vaguely trendy brand.

[david-goldrock]

helpppp lmao

https://youtu.be/jPognKfpUc4?si=IUJT_A5dHQCZ8Gn9

To expand for context:

This is Moshe Cursiya, a teacher and a singer who turned famous after getting enlisted on Oct. 8 and making ticktock and shorts videos about his service, cracking jokes on Hamas, the Israeli public, and how he was getting fat from the food in the army

Here's an example from Oct 10th

"Sweety I am not trying to get to a Bruno Mars concert, I am trying to get to the reserves, to park the car. I'm DEAD I am just tryina get here! Give me a weapon already! Emmmm.... sorry... Give me a weapon already! yeah, like that"

He got 2 catchphrases during this time: "Gaza sweetheart", which he said everytime before cracking jokes on Hamas, and "It doesn't feel good... it feels very good!", which he says after being insensitive to the terrorists

This song is about his feelings after returning from the war and seeing the state of the country, being disorganized and getting more problems by the day

It's a rather cynical song, mentioning many of our problems with no solution or hope, but In the Moshe Cursiya style, it tries to bring moral regardless

[justasillyartist]

People on ticktock who read and like acotar are delusional like they excuse when rhysand SAs feyre and locking nesta in the house of wind (which has a thousand steps down to the front door and nesta doesn't have wings to fly to the balcony they all use)and go on to day she wasn't locked up (she basically was) he also threatens to kill nesta because she told feyre she was going to die because of her pregnancy and rhysand feyres husband (feyre forgave the man who SA her and rhe proceeds to marry him or whatever they did)didn't tell her like......what

Rhysand also rules over land (or Idk what its called )where he only basically rules over one city and the rest is full of misogynist men who where women have no rights and there are loads of victims

And the inner circle is just so entitled like do they have any manners where in the highlords meeting they are basically making sure they get there way

I say there are probably more shit I have forgotten because I have touched the books in a while .

But oh who am I to judge how weird the booktok community has gotten because this most of the people who recommend a court of thorns and roses series

[theehorsepusssy]

You're the best, I wish to know more facts about you

6'3" or taller depending on shoes and hair

finally reached my goal weight of 199lb

I pee several times a day but only poop several times a year

I hate driving/owning a car

Dandruff sufferer. Denture wearer.

I'm eating less than 60g carbs a day currently

Favorite foods are corn dogs and tacos (taco bell kind, not that weird floppy burrito with cabbage and mayonnaise shit. And no I don't want no goddam sour cream or sauce packets.

About an hour ago I just heard what Kim Kardashian's voice sounds like for the first time and yikes.

Touching/ hearing abrasive surfaces/noises (sandpaper, Terra Cotta, chalkboards, microfiber towels, etc) send me into a Death Con 3 psychotic rage

whenever someone starts telling me about something about anything they saw on you tube, I ask "so you're like one those Qanon people?" Then ignore whatever the fuck they're talking about

Whenever someone starts telling me about something about anything they saw on ticktock, I ask " oh, ticktock? Like..." and I do the dance where your knees go one way and arms the other. Then ignore whatever the fuck they're talking about

[idkisaccmoon]

Speedpaint for drawing on ticktock!! (HandyGlitch is NOT mine)

Full under cut lmao

HandyGlitch creater:

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Influencer Island

Isn't this generation the worst! My family's resort used to be a peaceful retreat, but now it's crawling with whiney influencers who spend their time staring at their phones and ignoring our service. All of them are rude and obnoxious to the staff, but I have a new plan for every entitled brat I find.

"Hey you!" a snide call comes my direction.

He's lean, muscular, and emerging from the tropical shrubbery of the hotel's expansive gardens. The guy is clearly a fitness YouTuber, and he's just returned from a sweaty jog. His body seems to be the only thing on his mind, because he flaunts it in front of me without even glancing in my direction.

"Grab me a towel," he insists and brushes past, "This place is humid as hell."

A bored look sits on his face as he begins routinely stretching the toned legs inside those tiny shorts. The guy actually scoffs and looks offended when he realizes I haven't raced off to fetch his towel. It's the first time he's actually looking in my direction, and I can practically feel the sense of entitlement dripping off of him.

"Dude, I want a towel. The air on your island is wet and gross," he slowly repeats, like I must be an idiot who can't understand.

"Shut up about the humidity, Carlos!" my anger gets the best of me, but I finally put my diabolical plan in place.

"Who the hell is Carlos?"

For the first time, the influencer's smug face flashes to one of confusion. He doesn't believe someone like me would talk to him like this, let alone call him the wrong name.

"Carlos is the new gardner," I explain in a spiteful voice, "He's hard-working, he's humble, and he isn't bothered by the wet muggy air one bit!"

The athletic social media star looks completely taken aback now. He's retreated from my barrage of words, but there's no escaping the transformation he's already undergoing.

His revealing shorts rapidly unfold into a more coarse material that extends over his shoulders, forming a baggy pair of working overalls. Our hotel staff polo pops up beneath the straps of his workwear and leather gloves appear on his hands.

"How...?" he quietly gasps, "What am I wearing?"

"Carlos isn't very smart, but he makes up for it by shutting up and working hard. Don't you, Carlos?" I continue, "You spend all day in this disgustingly humid air, trimming bushes, pulling weeds, and manicuring the shit out of this garden. It's the only thing you're really good for. Isn't that right, Carlos?"

"Yeah," the former jock answers numbly.

A name tag appears over his chest, sealing his identity as Carlos the gardner. His face ages and takes on the character of a Hispanic local. His once youthfully lean body expands outward, filling his new uniform with a layer of fatherly pudge. This guy looks like he's spent his entire life working on this island. I know he'll spend the rest of it here too.

"Get back to work, Carlos, and don't let me catch you taking a break again," I say.

"Yes, Señor," he answers humbly, turning to a wheelbarrow full of mulch right beside him.

I watch sweat glisten on Carlos' forehead as he dumps the wood chips and rakes them around the plants. I note the damp air already permeating his heavy uniform before leaving and stepping inside the hotel lobby.

The interior of my family's hotel is quite grand and luxurious, but it's Mediterranean architecture creates an atmosphere of culture and class. Unfortunately, not many of my younger guests have the same culture and class. Approaching the front desk, I find a handsome young man in a vehement debate with the concierge. Apparently, his room was not up to his standards.

"Do you know who I am?" he asks tersely.

"I have 300k followers on TickTock! Everyone sees my travel vlog, so don't piss me off," he demands loudly.

My employee working the front desk looks overwhelmed and exhausted. Guests should never verbally assault my staff. This guy needs to learn how to behave at my hotel.

"So you're the famous influencer!" I jump to the defense before voices are raised any further, "We of course prepared a premier experience for you and your followers."

The entitled TickTocker's eyes roll but he seems relieved that somebody is finally treating him as he believes he deserves. I send a comforting wink to the concierge before gracefully escorting the rude guest away from the front.

"About time," he clicks his tongue, "That bellboy could barely speak English. You'd think a supposed luxury resort would be a bit more accommodating."

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, sir. How may we be of service to you?"

"Well to start, my room faces the forest. I booked one with a view of the ocean," he explains, missing my blatant sarcasm.

I'm done playing around.

"Come on, Jose. You don't care about looking out windows," I correct him, "Just cleaning them."

The young man stares back at me like he's just been insulted. He can't believe I have the audacity to call him by the wrong name.

"I'm not Jose," he snaps.

"Sure you are," I go on, "You're the Jose I've always known. The Jose that keeps his head down and gets his work done. The Jose that is quiet and respectful with the guests."

"That's not me," he growls, frustratedly denying it.

"I know there's a bit of a language barrier, Jose, but come on. Just look at yourself!"

The influencer narrows his eyes before nervously glancing down. As he does, his crisp white shirt fades to an old blue color. The buttons latch themselves all the way up to the base of his neck as the shirt tail stitches itself seamlessly with his pants of a now identically worn material.

"What I have on!" he gasps with an awkward inflection.

"Jose, it's your uniform," I laugh, "You're the hotel janitor! You wear coveralls, buddy."

"Estoy el janitor?" he questions with a heavy new accent, but his mind is already accepting the new role.

His eyes glazed over as he pulls out a pair of rubber gloves from his back pocket. He slips them on like it's second nature, and a uniform cap appears on his head of dark hair. The final touch of a name tag reading 'Jose' slides over the breast of his coveralls, cementing the reality of his new life.

"Jose," I say slowly.

"Sí, jefe?" he seems to snap out of an idle daze.

"You know your not supposed to loiter in the lobby unless you are cleaning."

"Lo siento, señor."

Jose fishes a rag and spray bottle out of his pocket to act busy wiping down different surfaces in the lobby. He keeps casting nervous glances in my direction as I supervise his work.

"Jose."

"Sí," he returns to my side like an eager puppy.

"The staff bathroom has a clog in it. Take care of that and the rest of the staff area. You can clean the lobby tonight when guests aren't here," I instruct.

"Por supuesto, jefe," he nods and shuffles through a staff-only door to the rear of the building.

Thank God I took that pretentious jerk down a peg. Thanks to me, the hotel has one less raving social media nut and one more quietly dedicated janitor. He'll certainly help clean up after all the other careless youths who make a mess everywhere they go.

Patting myself on the back for a job well done, I leave the lobby and head deeper into the building and towards the kitchens.

"Excuse me?" a wandering voice calls from down a hall.

An exasperated sigh blows out of my nostrils. Am I really about to deal with another entitled young man again?

"You shouldn't be down here, sir," I explain impatiently, "This is a staff-only area."

"Oh, I know," he throws his hands up in mock surrender, "My family owns a hotel back home, so I just like to check out the behind-the-scenes when I travel different places."

"Well, then you know hotel staff could use less distractions in their work space," I retort.

The young man doesn't seem to understand my frustration. He throws his hands in his pockets and slumps his shoulders.

"I just like to see how the employers of hotels treat their employees," he defends himself, "Especially in a place like this."

"What do you mean a place like this?"

"You know," he continues, "Foreign countries don't have all the protections for the working class that America has. I wouldn't be surprised if this hotel took advantage of the natives."

"You think I take advantage of the people from this island?" I shake my head in utter disbelief.

"Well, maybe," he goes on, "I write a blog about-"

"Let me stop you there," I cut him off, "You know I don't take advantage of the locals because you are one, Pedro."

"I'm not Pedro. Does he work here?" he raises an eyebrow.

"Yup. Pedro started working down here about four years ago. He was so excited to get a decently paying job," I explain, "He reminds me of yourself, only he keeps his hair neat and trim, the way a good employee should."

The young man seems interested in my story but doesn't seem to realize it's about him. His oversized Hawaiian shirt slowly tightens into a fitted jumpsuit while thin gloves glide over his hands. Meanwhile, his wildly long hair shrinks into a head of neatly cropped black curls.

"Pedro doesn't leave the basement too often, but he doesn't mind because he is so excited to finally have a consistent source of income. His bedroom is right around that corner, actually."

"Really," the guy asks dreamily, completely unaware of the uniform cap that's dropped over his new haircut.

"You're Pedro."

"I'm Pedro," he agrees without resistance, and a name tag materializes over his yellow coveralls, finalizing his transformation.

"Pedro," I say, "I know it's nice to catch up, buddy, but don't you have a lot of work to do?"

Pedro glances down the hall towards the laundry room. "Your right, sir," he responds with a new accent.

"A lot of guests arrived today, and I heard quite a few of them put in requests for clothes to be laundered and pressed."

"I'm on it, sir," he assures me.

My newest employee races to find an empty laundry hamper and starts rolling it down the hallway. The idiot is rolling the laundry bin towards the guest elevators in the front of the building.

"Come on, Pedro!" I call.

"Yeah, sir?"

"Son, use the service elevator in the back," I remind him, "The front ones are for guests. You know that."

"Right! Sorry, sir," he shakes his head and turns around, lugging the hamper in the opposite direction.

Pedro climbs on the old elevator and hits the button. Rusted machinery groans to life, pulling the laundry boy and his hamper slowly up to the top floor.

I take a seat and rest in the service corridor. It's been a long day of transforming insufferable influencers into good employees. Their absence will no doubt improve the atmosphere of my hotel greatly, but I may need to consider expanding the business if I keep taking on so many new workers...

[mymedlife]

Thinking of starting an “educational” ticktock featuring videos such as “if you keep misusing the word lethargic I’m going to hit you in the head until you actually are lethargic” and “no a catheter urine sample does not mean we are taking your 7 day old daughters virginity.”