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equalonline · 1 month

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Equal 2 Door Mild Steel Shoe Rack for Home, Office & Indoor/Outdoor

Since 2001, equal has followed a simple business philosophy: to devote its talent and technology to creating superior products and services that contribute to a better working culture and environment. To achieve this, Equal sets a high value on its people and technologies. we are dedicated to developing products that help you make the most out of every day. the stylish and practical equal shoe storage rack is a 2-tier unit that can store up to 6-8 pairs of shoes.

Product details

Material & Color: Heavy Duty Mild Steel Sheet with Rustproof Coating; Comes with Ventilation Holes To Keep Rack Free From Odor And Humidity. Soft-Forming Side Panels Outlook And Sturdy Structure with A White Finish For Lasting Good Looks with Brown Color.

Size & Capacity: Size: 65.5L x 15W x 67.5H Cm., Item-Weight: 16.10Kg., Max-Capacity: 6-8 Pairs

T Safety Lock: It Includes, A Safety Lock (One Door Only), a Quality Lock To Keep Your Footwear Safe Even Outside The Home.

Dustproof Shoe Rack: A Mild Steel Panel covers the Top, Side, And Back Of This Shoe Rack, And Is Protected with An Easy-To-Open Door, It Can Effectively Prevent Dust and is easy to Clean. The Door Design Allows You To Find Shoes Quickly.

Assembly Instruction: Easy Installation At Any Wall with Screw Points On the Back At Shoe Stand. Please Contact Us Anytime After Received The Product with Any Condition, Our Customer Service Will Respond within 24 Hours.

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hotvintagepoll · 4 months

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Propaganda

Cary Grant (The Philadelphia Story, His Girl Friday, Bringing Up Baby, Charade)—just the peak of old-school Hollywood sexuality. The glam, the suits, the gentle wit, the acrobatics, those eyes that always looked like they knew exactly what movie they were in and were laughing at the joke...

Vincent Price (Laura, Leave Her to Heaven, House on Haunted Hill, The Masque of the Red Death)—svelte, stylish, horrifying, beautiful, wickedly funny, camp and gorgeous and evil. he was an art connoisseur who advocated passionately indigenous art, he was an actual literal gourmet cook, he was so liberal he got greylisted during the mccarthy era for being too rad, he's my favorite muppets guest of all time

This is round 4 of the bracket. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage man.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Vincent Price propaganda:

Submitted: this fancam

Submitted: this entire Tumblr page

Cary Grant propaganda:

"My Golden Age of Hollywood professor, who was very outwardly gay himself, put it this way: Even though Grant's sexuality was kind of an open secret in Hollywood, the public couldn't know in any real way. But anybody could see that there was a queerness about him, so he was casted for roles where he physically embodies his masculinity in a non-explicit but queer way. Bringing Up Baby is famous for the scene where Grant wears a frilly robe (pictured below, but what people don't always realise is that he plays kind of an awkward nerd in that movie. He's a hot awkward scientist in a grand robe!!! Hot!!! In The Philadelphia Story, one of my famous movies of all time, he plays C. K. Dexter Haven, a rich, sarcastic, supposedly abusive guy. And yet, what we see is this laid back, dandy-ish figure, who absolutely does not feel threatened when a woman he supposedly loves (Katharine Hepburn) starts having feelings for, and hooks up with another guy (James Stewart). He lets a drunk Stewart into his office and helps him get his job back! Obviously that is the script and not the actor, but the whole film, and that scene in particular, shows him having this very queer attitude of openness toward Hepburn and Stewart, which is only amplified by the casting of Grant and his portrayal of the character. Anyway, this is not an essay arguing for The Philadelphia Story to be considered a queer film, all I will say is: he's super hot in it."

The link to the above mentioned frilly robe scene from Bringing Up Baby: "I just went gay all of a sudden!"

last minute cary grant propaganda: the last few paragraphs of that new vanity fair article about him and randolph scott that just came out 2 days ago on cary's birthday where he calls it "gravity collapse" and "love at first sight" and says their souls touched and and and i'm actually sharing this mostly because it makes me emotional but also because a vote for archibald is a vote for love. this is my message. apologies for sounding mildly insane.

#vincent price #cary grant #round 4 #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old man

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rheya28 · 4 months

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The Crown [ Lounge + Bar] ♥ The Sims 4: Speed Build // CC

Welcome to The Crown, a haven of refined indulgence that seamlessly shifts from an upscale morning restaurant and lounge to a sophisticated evening gentlemen's club. In the daylight hours, experience culinary delights in an ambiance of polished dark wood accents, moody lights, and soft jazz.

As the sun sets, The Crown transforms into an intimate and stylish club, where discreet luxury meets thrilling entertainment. With an emphasis on sophistication, The Crown offers an unforgettable fusion of exquisite dining and sensual experiences in an atmosphere of opulence.

Additional Notes: ● In order for the adult club function to work, you must download the wicked whims mod [Download at your own risk]. ● This build does not have to be a club, it can be set as a restaurant, a lounge, or a bar. ● I am not 100% familiar with wicked whims so I will not be answering questions regarding the mod. However, I played around with it and did some playtesting as a club owner and everything is functioning correctly on my end. I advice that you look up tutorials if you're not sure to how this lot type works.

● Please make sure to turn bb.moveobjects on! ● Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ● Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ● Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ● Thank you to all CC Creators ● Please let me know if there's any problem with the build

➽ SPEED BUILD VIDEO

00:00 Beginning 00:02 Intro 1:25 Speed Build 15:52 Photos Sim's Featured in the video are by the talented @rhdweauni0 <3

➽ LOT DETAILS

Lot Name: The Crown Lot type: Gentlemen's Club/Str*p Club [Can be set as a lounge, restaurant or bar] Lot size: 30x30 Location: Windenburg or San MyShuno

➽ MODS

● Tool Mod by Twisted Mexi ● Wicked Whims by Turbodriver [optional: This is only required if you want to set this lot as a club] ● Functional Pool Table by Utopya

➽ CC LIST:

Note: I reuse a lot of the same cc in all my builds, specifically cc's from felixandre, HeyHarrie, Tuds, and Pierisim so if you're interested in downloading past, present, future build from me i suggest getting all their cc sets to make downloading a little easier! other creators include Sooky, Charlypancakes, Sixam, Thecluttercat, Myshunosun, awingedllama, Peacemaker. This will also ensure that the lots are complete and are not missing any items upon downloading ! CharlyPancakes ● Miscellanea [books] ● Soak [ Floor pattern, wall lamp] Amelie ● Vintage Art print #3 Severinka ●Aura Bedroom - Ceiling lamp V01, V03 ● Ceiling lamp Alpha ●Industrial Light II Ceiling B, Ceiling D Sooky ● Dark Academia Victorian Oil Paintings 01 ● Horizontal Oil Painting - landscape ● Horizontal Oil Painting - Still Life ● Vertical Oil Painting - Landscape ● Vertical Oil Painting - Portrait ● Vertical Oil Painting - Still Life The Clutter Cat ● Dandy Diary pt 1, 2 ● Hello Horses FelixAndre ● Chateau [all ] ● Berlin pt 1 ● Colonial pt 2, 3 ● Florence pt 2 ● Gatsby ● Georgian ● Grove [ all ] ● London Interior ● Paris pt 2, 3 ● Soho pt 3 House of Harlix ● Harluxe ● Livin Rum ● Orjanic Harrie ● Brownstone [all] ● Baysic ● Brutalist ● Coastal pt 2, 3, 8 ● Klean pt 3 ● Kwatei ● Octave pt 2 ● Shop the look pt 1, 2 ● Spoons pt 3 ● Jardane Kiwisim4 ● Block house dining [dining chairs] Lilac Creative ● The classic Collection Little Dica ● The even Grander Piano Myshunosun ● Garden Stories [patio lights] ● Lottie [candle] ● Simmify pt 2 [book clutter] Pierisim ● Coldbrew pt 3 ● Combles [chair] ● David Apartment pt 1, 2 ● Domain du close pt 2, 3 ● MCM pt 1, 3 ● Oak House pt 4 ● Tilable ● Winter Garden pt 1, 2 ● Wood Land Ranch pt 3 Plush Pixels ● Parisian Apartment [coffee table only] Simcredible ● Bossa Nova Ceiling lamp Simplistic ● Rusticlife area rug Sixam ● Boho Bathroom [floor tiles] Taurus Design ● Lilith Chilling Areas MycupofCC ● The Modernist [wall lamp] Tuds ● Ind Syboulette ● Ratatouille [Sign ] Utopya ● Pool Table [mod]

● Tray File: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: Applez ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Patreon: Rheya28 ● Youtube: Rheya28__

#ts4 #sims 4 #thesims4 #sims #thesims #showusyourbuilds #sims 4 cc #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 builds #builds #sims 4 build #sims 4 interior #the sims 4 cc build #the sims 4 restaurant #simblr #sims 4 gentlemens club

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aothotties · 2 months

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Sneaky Link w/ Onyankopon

Warnings: MDNI, Public sex, mirror sex, multiple orgasms, squirting.

Wprd Count: 822

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Ony has played soccer for as long as he could remember. Soccer is his safe haven, it’s how he met his teammates and best friends.

It’s also how he met you, his pretty little thing.

One day during his off season you came to one of their practices with your cousin, Connie’s sister. Onyakopon immediately caught your attention and once you set your eye on something you always seem to get it.

“Ay Connie!” You call your cousin over and lean against the railing to talk to him.

“Introduce me to your friend over there.” You smile as you lock eyes with the man in question.

“Absolutely not, try again.” He says and you roll your eyes.

“I’ll give you the information to the girl who does my tattoos damn!” You cross your arms over your chest and he smiles proudly.

“He’ll be over at the end of practice, thank you prima!” He skips off like the dumb ass he is and you sit back on the bleachers.

And he was right, by the end of the game Ony came up to you and introduced himself to you, lord his smile could light up a damn room.

“So you’re Connie’s cousin? Are you here to stay or just visiting?” He asks before taking a drink of water.

“I’m visiting for a few weeks, I’m flying back home in a month.” You stand closer to him and he nods his head.

“You should come to this kickback tonight, me and the boys will be there.” He takes your phone and puts his information in it.

You make sure to graze your fingers over his as you take it back from him with a smile.

“As long as you’re there, then I’m there.” You kiss his cheek and walk off.

You catch him at the party later that night and can’t help but bite your lip at the sight of him in something beside his uniform.

“Aren’t you stylish? He chuckles and shrugs his shoulders slyly.

“What can I say, I’m smooth on and off the field.” He leans against a counter and sips his drink.

“Is that so?” You tilt your head and he raises an eyebrow in return.

“You want to find out?”

That’s the last thing you remember before you ended up where you are currently. His large hand slapped over your mouth as you cream sll over his thich shaft.

“P-papa, you feel so good!” You moan out into the bathroom you both ran into.

“I know baby girl, you take me so good.” He smooths his hand up your back and into your hair, grabbing it in his hand. You come around him without a warning at the feelings of his hand in your hair.

“Shit girl! I got you cumming like that?” He grins, you whimper and nod in response. He grabs your hips and pounds into your pussy faster.

Wet squelching noises fill up the bathroom, if the music were to shut off you two would be so screwed. That’s the last thing on y’alls mind as Ony’s thick tip nudges your g-spot.

“Look at you, such a nasty fucking slut.” He forces you to watch him fuck you in the mirror, you clench around him tightly and grip the counter.

“Y-yes, ‘m so nasty papi!” Your eyes roll to the back of your head in ecstasy, his big ball slap against your clit.

Your orgasm sneaks up on you again and you bite your fist as another orgasm rips through you. You whine as his hips never lose speed and continue tapping your g-spot.

“I want you to squirt for me, we’re not leaving until you do.” He slowly trails a hand to your clit and you squeeze your eyes shut at the command.

“O-ony I c-can’t.” You bite down on you lip at the mixture of pain and pleasure you’re feeling.

You swear you can feel him tapping your cervix, but you only want him to go further. You’re up on your tip toes as he continues drilling in and out of you, loving the mess you make on his pelvis and thighs.

“We gotta make this month worth your stay mami.” He leans down and whispers in your ear, locking eyes with you in the mirror.

He bites down on your neck and at that same moment you squeeze around his cock for the final time and come hard. You scream into your hand as you release splashes against his thighs and the floor.

“Oh fuck.” He groans loudly. Pulling out quickly before stroking himself and finishing on your lower back.

“Damn baby, what can I do to get you to stay here forever?” He asks, somewhat playfully but also in all seriousness.

You chuckle at the question and he begins to clean you up with some toilet paper nearby.

“You keep fucking me like that and I’ll take it into consideration.”

“Deal.”

Ari

#aot smut #aot x black reader #aot scenarios #aot x reader #aot imagines #aot x female reader #aot x black y/n #onyankopon x black y/n #ony x black reader

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itsvelyria · 5 months

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"new years eve with the boys"

Charles Leclerc

the festive chaos envelops the Leclerc home, everyone having gathered to watch the countdown. bubbles of champagne dissolves in your mouth as you giggle over shared jokes with a friend. hollers of "10, 9, 8"s shocks you, whirling to watch the numbers flash a touch too brightly on the TV screen. "7, 6, 5," has you craning your head over the exhilarated crowd, struggling to find charles. you wonder if he's somewhere outside as someone shouts "4, 3" right into your eardrum. now you're half sure you're deaf as the tipsy mess screams the final numbers. a muscular arm finds its way around your waist, twirling you round to meet the eyes of your much-missed boyfriend. "happy new year," he whispers along with the rest of your loved ones, soft lips meeting yours to celebrate a new beginning with your love.

Carlos Sainz

carlos steps onto the red carpet, polished loafers gleaming black against the textured fabric. his hair is coiffed and a watch that costs a little too much on his wrist. but all that pales in comparison to the jewel on his arm. an air of sophistication surrounds you two as you attend a glamorous new year's eve gala for ferrari. the elegant event has celebrities you had only seen through screens milling around, dressed in stylish attires. your partner turn heads with his charismatic presence, grinning at cameras with his boyish smile. in the buzz of lively conversations and artistically plated food, you clink glasses with people whose names go right over your head. when dawn breaks, all you can recall is carlos' voice calling you his and all you can care about is the expanse of warm golden skin beneath your head.

Danny Ricciardo

the dark colour of the ocean should scare you but all attention is drawn to the huge bonfire in the centre of the sandy shores — the heart of danny's new year's eve celebration. the beach is a turquoise canvas that has been painted with shades of relaxation, with the rhythmic sound of waves and the crackling fire creating a carefree atmosphere. friends and acquaintances huddle together in groups, boisterous laughter intertwining with the music that echoes along the shoreline. you perch on a washed-up piece of driftwood nursing a beer, watching the bonfire flames dance against the night sky, casting playful shadows on daniel’s face as he goofs around with his friends. cheers sound against the crashing waves as a chugging competition begins, your boyfriend at the heart of the chaos. and even in the midst of it all, he manages to pull his gaze away to search for yours, a bright smile crossing his face when he notices your attention already on him, waving you over.

George Russell

in a last-minute attempt to avoid the holiday craze in London, you and george decide escape to the secluded beaches of Koh Samui, far away from the adrenaline that seems to pump through everyone’s veins during this period. on the serene beaches, far from the public eye, you send off a selfie you two took lying yesterday with the stunning fireworks. a reply shoots back quickly from your mother, a thumbs up and heart. putting the phone aside, your attention turns to your boyfriend who is fast asleep beside you on a hotel towel, having fully embraced the peaceful surroundings. burning the image of your boyfriend in a state of tranquility, you decide you quite like him here, not needing to share him with the rest of the world and all for you.

Lando Norris

in the heart of new york, the city that never sleeps, someone had done a fantastic job turning their apartment in a haven for celebration. the floor length windows was recently polished in preparation for viewing of the ball drop and fireworks. the cityscape was stunning, the lights in almost all the building windows – everyone awake to ring in the new year with their loved ones. a familiar hand proffers a beer at you and you take it gratefully. the heavy arm slings over your shoulders, a familiar weight, and pulls you closer to its owner. lando presses a long kiss to the side of your head, silent words telling you he had missed you in the few minutes away. and in the countdown that would come soon, he would cup your face in his cold hands, ignoring the shivers that ran down your spine, and kiss you with an intensity that seemed to grow with every exchange.

Lewis Hamilton

lewis, in classic hard-working fashion, has orchestrated an exclusive charity gala, the festive spirit of the date infused with purpose. the sophisticated venue had been adorned in blues and greens, with the flair of a charitable celebration. influential figures and friends gather, floor length gowns and full suits bringing an air of sophistication. as his partner, you find yourself at the main table, beaming as he takes the stage, not only as a host but as a force for change, raising funds for a cause dear to his heart. if being with lewis has taught you anything, it was that your support and presence meant more to him than any present you could gift. and you have grown to love the man and all his ambitions and dreams. but if you find yourself in the backseat of a car later, being thanked by a barrage of kisses, it would be your little bonus.

Max Verstappen

max opts for a quiet night in, a private new year’s celebration with just the two of you. he had spent the day setting up the apartment, delicately strung fairy lights on windows and a lit scented candle he had found somewhere near the TV. the flickering candlelight on the dining table between two intimate place settings giving rise to an house of warmth and mellowness. as the clock ticks toward midnight, max holds you close, his deep breathing music to your ears, unknowing of how it feels like a drug on you. the cloying scent of vanilla marks the moment and the calming joy of the evening is found in the simplicity of shared memories, tender smiles, and the promise of a new year together.

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radiofreederry · 8 months

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Dorothy's Top 5 Games of 2023

2023 was a remarkable year for gaming. The number of major, high-quality releases was truly astonishing, both in the AAA and indie scenes.

2023 was also the year I started leaning more into gaming as a hobby, beginning to do Twitch streams in April. Because of this, I thought I'd go through a few of the best games I played this year, and talk a bit about what made them so enjoyable. Consider this my "games of the year" list, like I know so many people are going to be doing this year.

My list is reflective of my own preferences and tastes; I tend to play a lot of RPGs, action-adventure games, and platformers, so you won't find a lot of fighting games or shooters in contention here. Feel free to comment or reblog with your own list - you don't have to write little essays about everything like I did, but it'd be fun if you did!

Honorable Mentions:

Pentiment (Obsidian Entertainment): Released in November 2022, but didn't play until this year. One of the most gripping and original RPGs I've ever played.

Persona 5 Royal (P-Studio): Released in October 2022 for Xbox, but I've been streaming it and having a lot of fun with @lakemojave and others.

Katamari Damacy Reroll (Namco): Released in 2018 for Switch, but played it for the first time this year and had a blast.

And now, the list proper.

Fifth Place: Hi-Fi Rush (Tango Gameworks)

There was a sort of game prevalent in the sixth generation of consoles which doesn't exist much anymore outside of the indie space. These were bold, bright, games which were unapologetically "video gamey," and wore their medium on their sleeve. Playing Hi-Fi Rush, I felt as if I was Anton Ego eating the titular dish in Ratatouille, and being transported back to that forgotten era of gaming. Hi-Fi Rush is stylish, hilarious, and deliriously fun, mixing the rhythm and action genres to create an experience unlike anything else currently on offer in gaming.

With addicting timing-based combat, a killer soundtrack featuring a suite of certified bangers (such as a cover of "Free Radicals" by the Flaming Lips, one of my favorite bands), and a delightful cast of colorful characters, Hi-Fi Rush carries the off-beat spirit of games like Jet Set Radio and Viewtiful Joe in its DNA, and had it been made 20 years ago, I do not doubt that it would have an animated adaptation airing on Kids WB.

By evoking the spirit of a bygone era while remaining utterly unique, and by virtue of its slick presentation and impossible-to-put-down gameplay, Hi-Fi Rush manages to punch far above its own weight and snag fifth place on my list.

Fourth Place: A Highland Song (Inkle)

A Highland Song came out of nowhere at the tail-end of the year and forced me to completely reevalute my game rankings. It is one of the most delightful and charming games I've ever had the chance to play, and has managed to do what I thought was impossible: create a roguelike experience that I actually want to see through to completion.

A Highland Song does this through its emotive embrace of the Scottish Highlands as a setting, with those ancient hills acting as both the main antagonist and a stalwart companion in main character Moira's journey to cross the mountains and reach her uncle's lighthouse by the First of May.

The Highlands are your dear friend. They will provide you food, shelter, and the tools you need to complete your journey. The Highlands are your worst enemy. They will deny you a safe haven when you're exhausted, out of energy, and being soaked through by torrential, bitterly-cold rain; they will give you tools long after you've passed the point where they would have been useful. The hills will preserve you. The hills will kill you.

It is in these contrasts that A Highland Song shines. It is a game about finding yourself, and pushing forward in the face of impossible adversity. There is an indescribable joy to spending days in-game exploring a section of the Highlands, trying to find the way forward, and finally running through one of the game's rhythm-based sections, triumphant Celtic folk music blaring in your ears as you finally find your way. All the while, Uncle Hamish's warm, fond recollections of Celtic folklore and Moira's descriptions of her family life make you want to push on, to learn more about this magical place and the people who inhabit it.

You will not make it to the sea in time in your first run through A Highland Song, nor likely your second or third. Yet each time Moira passes through the mountains, you learn more about them, become more familiar with the slopes and pathways that carve through these lands that are older than time. You will stumble, you will fall, and then, eventually, you will make it to the sea by Beltane.

Third Place: The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom (Nintendo EPD)

How do you follow up one of the most important and well-regarded games of the 2010s, improve almost everything about it, and even correct its flaws? Tears of the Kingdom manages that and then some. The direct sequel to 2017's Breath of the Wild, Tears of the Kingdom follows that game's version of series lead Link through a melancholy journey through a world ravaged by unnatural weather, blight, and time. Link is himself nearly torn apart by the corrupting influence of returning series antagonist Ganondorf (voiced in this installment in fine fashion by Matt Mercer), and the hastily replaced arm granted to him by the sage Rauru grants him new abilities, which replace and improve upon the ones he possessed in the last game.

With these new powers, the game becomes a truly open sandbox. Link is able to build almost anything with his Ultrahand ability, and the Fuse ability not only virtually eliminates the previous game's major flaw, its weapon durability system, by allowing the player to turn virtually any weapon top-tier by properly leveraging fusion materials, it also creates a resource management loop that discourages being stingy with strong resources - since they can be used to create very powerful weapons. Meanwhile, the Ascend and Recall abilities open new avenues in traversal and speed up exploration through Tear's of the Kingdom's massive map, which not only uses the previous game's world map as a base - with lots of altered and added locations to signify the passage of time, including a host of explorable caves - but more than doubles it by also adding floating islands in the sky and a dark, hostile undergound below.

The intense focus on exploration, not to mention some of the best dungeons and bosses in Zelda history, make this a game I had genuine trouble putting down at times as I sunk hundreds of hours into it, as I always felt like there was something new to find around the next corner, or some new treasure to find deep in the underground. Tears of the KIngdom is a masterclass in crafting an open world experience, and easily secures a spot in my top five. It only places so low on this list as a consequence of some blemishes on an otherwise extremely polished and technically impressive product - specifically its story and progression, which feels too much like retreading the structure of Breath of the Wild and not enough like it's blazing its own trail.

Second Place: Cyberpunk 2077 (CD Projekt Red)

Let's get this out of the way first: Cyberpunk 2077 originally released, infamously, in late 2020 in what was essenitally an unfinished state. However, with its 2.0 update that fundamentally restructures how the game is played, as well as the massive Phantom Liberty expansion dropping this year, I feel comfortable regarding this game as a 2023 release.

I didn't expect to have Cyberpunk 2077 on this list. I certainly didn't expect to see it so high on this list. And yet, here it is. I went in with almost no expectations, and came out with one of my favorite games of the year, and one of the most thoughtful RPGs of the decade. Cyberpunk 2077's great strengths lie in its richly detailed game world and its extremely strong writing, both of which impressed me beyond any preconceptions I may have had, especially given how the game originally launched as a broken, buggy mess.

Cyberpunk 2077's Night City is as fully realized a game world as I've ever seen, brimming with detail and things to both see and do. It is incredibly immersive, and I often found myself forgoing the game's fast travel system in order to simply cruise the moody, neon-soaked streets on my motorcycle as I sped from one gig to the next, taking in little details like the ethnic enclaves in different districts, or how infrastructure differed in poor areas compared to rich ones.

Cyberpunk 2077 tells a story about struggling against impossible odds, and finding hope and beauty in a hopeless and ugly world. In a future where capitalism's atomization and hyperindividualization rend the flesh of society at-large, the life of protagonist V is enriched through the human connections they are able to make as they race against time to save themselves from the biochip in their head eating away at their existence - a piece of technology stolen and then impulsively inserted during their first big job, a job taken in pursuit of the ephemeral and ambiguous glory that comes with being a legend of Night City. Their deteriorating condition throughout the game, and the ever-present acidic commentary of rockerboy Johnny Silverhand, serve as constant reminders of the folly of chasing such impermanent glory.

Whether it's Johnny's former bandmate Kerry, whose insecurities lead him to ostentatious acts of violence and destruction, or Judy, who has suffered loss after loss and desperately tries to find a situation she can control and someone who won't use or leave her, my journey as V centered around finding these connections, and using them not only to save V's life, but preserve her humanity. These themes carried through with the Phantom Liberty expansion, which explores such topics as freedom, survivor's guilt, and governmental corruption and exploitation, and features a delightful turn by Idris Elba as a weary government agent burdened by regret. There are plenty of bombastic setpieces, cleverly-written quests, and moments of intense action, but the things I think I'll always remember are quiet, intimate, human moments, from sitting with and comforting a girl whose girlfriend just killed herself, or meditating with a monk who has no ulterior motive but to bring V a rest in the midst of a grueling situation.

All that to say that while I had a lot of fun with the gameplay, the game world and the writing were what made me fall in love with Cyberpunk 2077, what will likely keep me coming back to the game on replay, and what landed it at number two on the list. The only reason it didn't end up at number one was because there's just one game I played this year which impressed me just that much more - and even then, it’s a thin margin.

First Place: Baldur's Gate 3 (Larian Studios)

Here I must confess not only have I never played the original Baldur's Gate games - early works by BioWare, a company whose work I generally respect - I had until this year never touched Dungeons and Dragons or any ancillary media. Total blind spot! Never even saw the movie this year! I'd played plenty of tabletop, but never any DnD.

What a treat, then, to be introduced to the world and mechanics of DnD through such a game as Baldur's Gate 3. This game glistens with careful and thoughtful design, and proves the vibrancy and potential that still remains in the classic CRPG style. Baldur's Gate 3's great strengths shine in two major areas, which I will go in more detail about now.

Firstly, the game offers a truly remarkable amount of freedom to the player in allowing them to resolve a situation in a myriad of ways, emulating the flexible nature of tabletop storytelling to an extent I've rarely seen in the video game medium. Want to defeat a boss that's giving you grief by running up to him and shoving him off a cliff? Sure, that works! Want to stealthily surround an enemy camp with explosive barrels and then cast fireball? Ok, go for it!

The other side of this coin is that the game permits a lot of flexibility in permitting the player to truly fuck up royally, while keeping the narrative going and not forcing them into a game over because they "played wrong." Took too long to save some gnomes from a cave-in? Too bad, they suffocated to death! Allowed an important NPC, whose spell was protecting a community from a curse, to be defeated in battle and captured? Tough luck, all those people have died a horrible, agonizing death! It's your fault! Now keep moving. In Baldur's Gate 3, all of your decisions, good or bad, have consequences, and you have to live with them.

Baldur's Gate 3's other great strength lies in its character writing. Every major character, and many minor characters, are written with such depth and nuance, with varied motivations, backstories, and moral alignments, which the player can both influence and be influenced by. Notable standouts include Astarion, the cynical vampire whose acid tongue is a defense mechanism to not let anyone get too close and who delights in thumbing his nose at others and seeking power for himself, but who can be guided towards a more empathetic and caring place; and Shadowheart, the cleric of the dark goddess Shar who finds herself torn between what she sees as her duty to her goddess and what she knows deep down to be the right thing to do.

Every character in Baldur's Gate 3 has a story to tell, and they're all good ones. That alone would land it on this list, but combined with the astonishing freedom it allows players and its infinite replayability rocket it to the top spot. Baldur's Gate 3 is my game of the year.

#long post #game of the year #goty #cyberpunk 2077 #baldur's gate 3 #tears of the kingdom #hi fi rush #my writing #star wars

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fateisfiction · 15 days

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Hawks x Reader, Keigo Takami x Reader, Endeavor's Personal Assistant

NSFW Part 2 because I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep.

SFW part 1

It's been a week and a half since Hawks' very heroic rescue and it's only today that he realizes you don't know his name. It's not like he'd have been able to hear you say it up to this point. He makes a point to keep you quiet when you're at work.

But tonight, tonight you're at his place. Well, one of them. He has several. This just happened to be the closest at the moment.

After work, he invited you out for dinner. A cute little place, off the beaten path, where he knew he could hide away in a corner booth and not be recognized. The staff are known for their discretion and among the hero population, restaurants like this we're a nice little haven away from the prying eyes of the public.

The food is good, the service is anonymous, and the atmosphere is pleasant enough. After dinner he takes you for a walk, telling you about his day, asking you about the moments when you weren't under him. You're almost impressed that he's managed to keep his hands off of you for so long, but then you're outside the apartment complex and you've spent enough time around heroes to know how these things go.

No door man, private elevator to the penthouse, and then you're alone with him in his nest. Yes, nest is probably the best description of whatever this is. You wouldn't have expected something so cozy based on Hawks' whole cool and stylish presentation, but as soon as the door opens, you're greeted by soft light, quiet jazz instrumentals and a crackling fireplace.

He takes your coat and places it on the hook alongside his. Hand settling on the small of your back, he guides you over to the couch telling you to make yourself comfortable, he'll be just a minute. He returns seconds later with a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses and pours heavy. Not that it matters. Within a matter of minutes, he's between your legs, wine long forgotten as your back arches off the cushions.

That's when it hits him. You call him 'Hawks' as you're cumming on his fingers. The long, drawn out moan as your legs shake, trapping his head between your thighs as your body stiffens around him.

When you come down from your high, he's resting his head on your plush thigh, looking up at you dreamily. "The least you could do is call me by my name, pet."

#quill writes #bnha x reader #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #yandere hawks

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itgirlblogger · 6 months

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❆‧₊*How to have a cozy and girly Winter *₊‧౨ৎ

As the winter season approaches, it's the perfect time to transform your living space into a cozy and girly haven that radiates warmth and charm. Embracing the winter wonderland doesn't mean sacrificing style; instead, it's an opportunity to infuse your space with comfort and femininity. Here's a guide on how to create a cozy and girly winter atmosphere that will make you look forward to chilly days and long nights.

Cozy Loungewear and Pajamas:

Upgrade your winter wardrobe with cozy loungewear and pajamas. Choose fabrics like fleece, flannel, or soft cotton in girly prints or pastel shades. Having a collection of comfy and stylish loungewear sets will make chilly evenings and lazy weekends feel like a fashion-forward retreat.

Warm and Indulgent Treats:

Treat yourself to warm and indulgent goodies that embody the spirit of winter. Bake girly-themed cookies, sip on hot cocoa with whipped cream and sprinkles, or experiment with seasonal recipes. The process of creating and enjoying these treats can be a delightful self-care ritual. Display a variety of teas, hot chocolates, and coffees in beautiful containers.

Luxurious Bath Time: Elevate your bath time into a luxurious experience. Treat yourself to scented bath salts, nourishing bath oils, or fizzy bath bombs. Light some candles, play soft music, and unwind in a warm bath, enveloping yourself in relaxation and comfort.

Winter Fragrances: Select fragrances that evoke the essence of winter. Warm and sweet scents like vanilla, cinnamon, or lavender can add a comforting touch to your beauty routine. Consider investing in scented body lotions and hair mists to carry the cozy fragrance throughout the day.

Fashion Forward: Cozy and Chic

Winter fashion is all about layering, and you can turn this into a stylish advantage. Opt for soft pastel sweaters, faux fur coats, and cute accessories like mittens and beanies. Don't forget to explore the world of stylish boots; knee-high or ankle boots in soft tones can add a feminine touch to any winter outfit

Hot Cocoa and Chill: Girly Winter Activities

Embrace girly winter activities that warm both your heart and soul. Plan a cozy night in with your favorite chick flicks, indulge in hot cocoa topped with whipped cream and sprinkles, and surround yourself with plush blankets and pillows. It's the perfect recipe for a girly winter evening.

Warm and Rosy: Makeup for the Winter Glow

Winter often brings dry skin and a pale complexion, but that's no reason to abandon your makeup routine. Embrace rosy cheeks, soft pink lips, and a hint of shimmer to capture the winter glow. Opt for a dewy finish foundation to keep your skin looking fresh despite the cold weather.

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astermath · 1 year

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she was a skater girl ♬☆

pairing: ethan landry x skater!fem!reader

summary: ethan always watches you skate past him across campus. he finally asks you to try and teach him some tricks, and the two of you share a heartfelt moment together as you watch him struggle.

word count: 1.7K

warnings: mentions of scars and an injury

you can read my other ethan fic “close call” here!!

notes: call me a poser all u want but I’ve never been on a skateboard before. I have however, dated a skater, which I think makes me knowledgeable enough to write this. just some fluff-ish writing, I’m writing a bit of a smutty fic for ethan too so stay tuned for that ʕ •`ᴥ•´ʔ comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

comment if you’d like to be added to the tag list for further ethan landry related content!

Ethan had his hands in his pockets as he made his way across campus, the sunlight making him squint a little to see properly. It was a beautiful day, the weather had been treating the residents of New York surprisingly well these past few days. He made use of that by taking the long way around to class.

Yeah, that was the reason.

Totally not because he was hoping to catch a glimpse of the cool girl he’d sometimes see skating across campus. Not at all.

He still remembers the first time he saw you. It was one of the first econ classes of the year, and his ears picked up the faint sound of wheels rolling over concrete behind him. He didn’t think much of it at first, but a voice calling out “watch your left!” properly caught his attention. He turned his head slightly, and was soon passed by you just nearly missing him as you zoomed by at a speed most would call dangerous.

The scent of your perfume caught his nose, and it genuinely had not left his mind ever since. He’d stared at you as you rode up to the building’s entrance and hopped off the board, catching it with ease. He thought about it so often, the way you seemed to so effortlessly glide along the concrete, your stylish clothes, your voice. Love at first sight might have been pushing it, but a crush? Without a doubt.

He’d watch you during the boring parts of lectures, noticing you drumming your fingers against your desk. Upon further inspection, also noticing you always had at least one airpod in. It made him wonder what kind of music someone like you would be into, probably something cool and indie he’d never heard of.

In reality, the soundtrack of the Shrek movie game blasted through your left ear. Maybe a tad less sophisticated than he was expecting, but a banger nonetheless.

His heart nearly skipped a beat when his eyes caught the familiar sight of you skating past the fountain. Instead of going further, you circled around it once, before doing a trick off the side of it. Ethan’s eyes widened and he refrained from applauding to make himself known, but man did he think that was cool. In reality, it wasn’t that hard, at least not to you. You’d been doing this for years, and you had the scars to prove it.

You both went to class like usual, him sneaking fleeting glances at you. You looked so pretty, lost in thought. Though he doubted those thoughts were about class, you tended to busy yourself with basically anything besides paying attention. He swore he’d seen you watch the Bee Movie during a lecture before...

You quickly rose to your legs after the lecture was announced to be over, grabbing your board by the edge and getting ready to head out, swinging your backpack over your shoulder. You went on your merry way to your favorite spot near the campus, a small abandoned skatepark, head nodding along with the beat of your music. You smoothly manoeuvred across campus and through a couple of streets, hopping off when you finally reached it. No one else was there, and honestly, you preferred it that way. There was no one in the way when you practiced, it was your secret little safe haven.

“H-Hey!” A semi-familiar voice called out behind you, seemingly slightly out of breath.

Great, up until now, it was your secret little safe haven.

You turned around, a confused expression plastered across your face when you made eye contact with Ethan. You remembered him, the boy from econ class who would sometimes stare at you during lectures. You were certain he didn’t know you knew, but honestly, it’s not like you minded.

“...Yeah?” You pulled off your headphones, letting them hang around your neck.

“I’m uh, I’m... I’m Ethan.” He struggled getting his words out, still catching his breath. Okay, so maybe he ran after you to see where you went, because he really wanted to ask you something. And maybe you didn’t hear him over your music before. So maybe...

“Did you follow me?” You questioned, stepping closer and taking your board under your arm.

Maybe he followed you. Ethan’s face grew flushed at the question, though in reality, that’s kind of exactly what he did. “N-No!” He put up his hands, trying really hard not to make himself sound like a creep. “Well... Yeah, but... I tried to ask you something, and you didn’t hear me, and I never get a chance to talk to you, so...”

“So you followed me.” You became slightly amused at him struggling to explain himself, suppressing a chuckle to spare him from further embarrassment.

“No I swear I--” He caught the slight smirk on your face, realizing you weren’t mad. “I’m sorry, I just...” He gestured to your skateboard. “I always see you skating by, and I think it’s so cool, and I would kill to know how to do that.” He gathered his thoughts and put his hands together. “Would you be so kind as to forgive me for following you, and please teach me some tricks?”

You looked him up and down, bringing up a hand to rest at the back of your neck, scratching slightly at the skin there. “Ah, fuck it.” You chuckled slightly, and his heart warmed at the sound. Your voice was so pretty, there was something so special about it. You held out a hand, and Ethan reached out to shake it as you introduced yourself. He already knew your name, but in fear of sounding like even more of a creep, he kept that to himself.

“Come on,” You gestured for him to come closer, setting down the board and hopping on it. You showed him the basics of a good stance, and his eyes watched your beat up sneakers balance on the wood as you explained yourself. “Got it?”

His head snapped up and he looked into your eyes. “Y-Yeah! Totally!”

You laughed softly, getting off the board. “You didn’t hear shit of what I said, did you?” You took a step back. “Get on, show me how you think you should do it, and we’ll adjust from there.”

“Okay, yeah... I can do that.” He carefully put a single foot onto the deck, and it instantly moved to the side, almost making him fall to the ground.

You reached out and he grabbed onto your arms, yelping when he nearly lost his balance. He put a second foot on, and his hands slid down to meet yours, gripping tightly out of fear for nearly eating concrete again.

“You got it, see? You’re standing!” You tried to be cool about holding his hands, but inside your mind, thoughts of all kinds were running rampant. Ethan was cute, really cute, and here he was, putting his faith in your hands. Literally.

“Yeah... Yeah! I am!” He got a bit too confident and shifted his weight, to which the board responded by moving again. You both got startled and you readjusted your grip on him, before you caught each other’s eyes again. Laughter broke from the both of you, unabashed giggles erupting as you both realized just how silly this was. This whole situation was pretty humorous, but watching him stand on the board like Bambi on ice was something else.

“Okay, okay...” You swallowed, catching your breath after your laughing fit. “I promise I’m not laughing at you, this is just... You’re kinda shit at this.” You giggled again.

He would have been offended if he didn’t know it was true. “I know, shit, I’m surprised I’m still standing.”

“You and me both. Alright, let’s move.” You gently started walking to the side, hands not letting go. The wheels rolled along the hard concrete as he followed along your side, eyes fixated more on you than the board. “There we go!”

He chuckled out of pure surprise that he was still on the deck, and partly to cover up the awkwardness he felt about you having to explain things so simply for him. He looked down at the board, imagining if he was doing it all on his own.

He was so good at imagining it, that he hadn’t even noticed you’d already let go of his hands, and he was now balancing himself as the board moved. It was only when it halted a bit after that he realized he was doing it by himself. He giggled adorably, arms raising up in a victory pose. You gave him a thumbs up in response, standing a few meters away from him now.

His confidence got the best of him as he gently put his foot down to push himself to your direction, forgetting everything he’d just learned and losing his balance right in front of you. He took you down with him as you both tumbled to the ground, limbs entangling when he landed on top of you.

“S-Shit! Ah, I’m so sorry! Oh my god, are you okay--” He spoke in a panicked tone, before he looked up at your face. You were grinning, clearly suppressing laughter. He let out a nervous chuckle, and that resulted in you bursting out in giggles once more. The two of you shared a good minute of pure, wholesome laughter, not even realizing you were so close together. Nothing else really mattered in that moment, all you could do was laugh.

“Aw, man...” You wiped away a tear from laughing so hard. “Kinda glad you followed me now, Landry. Haven’t had this much fun in ages.” Your heart fluttered at your own words. You couldn’t believe you were being so sappy, but you were genuinely having a blast, even if it involved falling horribly. You looked down at your knee and noticed a scrape, hissing slightly through your teeth when you reached your hand out to touch it. “Shit, uh... Do you have a band-aid?”

He looked at the wound and then back at your face. “I, uh... I have some back at my dorm.”

You smiled, a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“Alright, lead the way.”

tag list <3 let me know if you’d like to be added!

@kometqh

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simspirationbuilds · 4 months

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Nestled along the tranquil waters, this cottage offers a perfect blend of rustic charm and modern comfort. Imaging waking up to the soothing melodies of flowing water, surrounded by nature's embrace - every day! This cottage is a haven of relaxation, seamlessly merging the beauty of the riverbank with stylish interiors. Create lasting memories for the years to come in your own river retreat xx

#sims 4 cc #sims 4 #simspirationbuilds #sims #simblr #sims 4 build #sims 4 lot

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equalonline · 2 months

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Equal 5 Door Mild Steel Shoe Rack for Home, Office & Indoor/Outdoor

Since 2001, Equal has followed a simple business philosophy: to devote its talent and technology to creating superior products and services that contribute to a better working culture and environment. To achieve this, Equal sets a high value on its people and technologies. We are dedicated to developing products that help you make the most out of every day. The stylish and practical equal shoe storage rack is a 5-tier unit that can store up to 15-18 pairs of shoes.

Product details

Material & color: heavy-duty mild steel sheet with rustproof coating; comes with ventilation holes to keep rack free from odor and humidity. Soft-forming side panels outlook and sturdy structure with a white finish for lasting good looks with brown color.

Size & capacity: size: 65.5l x15w x 159h cm., item-weight: 28.50kg., max-capacity: 15-18 pairs

Safety lock: it includes, a safety lock (in one door only), and a quality lock to keep your footwear safe even outside the home

Dustproof shoe rack: A mild steel panel covers the top, side, and back of this shoe rack, and is protected with an easy-to-open door, it can effectively prevent dust, easy to clean. The door design allows you to find shoes quickly.

Assembly instruction: easy installation at any wall with screw points on the back of the shoe stand. Please contact us anytime after receiving the product with any condition, our customer service will respond within 24 hours.

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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gamersgalore · 5 months

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33+ Best Sims 4 Modern Furniture CC Packs for Stylish Homes

Tired of your Sims’ homes stuck in the past with outdated furniture?

In this post, you will unlock the chicest Sims 4 modern furniture CC finds to transform your virtual spaces into sleek, contemporary havens.

Say goodbye to outdated décor and hello to modern magic! 🏡

🛋️ CHECK OUT THE FULL POST HERE 🛋️

Big thanks ✨ to these amazing Sims 4 modern furniture CC creators: @joshseoh, @miikocc, @xogerardine, @imfromsixam, @syboubou, @cowbuild, @kai-hana, @greenllamas, @maxsus, @jomsimscreations, @plushpixelssims, @myshunosun, @aphroditecc, @taurusdesign, @littledica, @simplistic-sims4, @pierisim, @arwenkaboom, @madlensims, @harrie-cc, @simcredibledesigns, @nikadema, @awingedllama, @kerriganhouse, @ts4novvvas, @kaisosims, @felixandresims.

Thanks for making their virtual living spaces chic and stylish! 🌸

#the sims 4 #sims 4 cc #sims 4 cc finds #sims 4 custom content #sims 4 maxis match #ts4 maxis mix #ts4 cc finds #sims 4 #sims 4 furniture #ts4 furniture #sims 4 modern house #sims 4 modern furniture #sims 4 modern furniture cc #ts4 modern #ts4 modern house #ts4 modern furniture #ts4 modern furniture cc #ts4 house #sims 4 house

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pochipop · 1 year

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＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — LET ME PAINT YOUR SKIES (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira, a frustrated geneticist in the throes of an impossible war against her superiors, meets a despondent young artist drowning sorrows at the bar. as it turns out, the latter is a particularly good listener, and the former is the type of woman you’ve only met in your wildest dreams .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — light angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, extreme slow-burn .

#. word count! — 11.7k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — sorry i've been gone so long, got busy w/ school and irl stuff :// feel free to hmu to play overwatch lol (i swear i'm not ass all the time!!) anways, moira kissers, this one's for you!!

This place is as rundown and decrepit as they come these days, —a hole-in-the-wall type of establishment with old, creaky stools and paint that chips off into the drinks from time to time. Fruit flies are more regular than most customers, and they provide little bits of extra protein to those either too wasted to fish them out of their shots or unfortunate enough to not notice them. It's incredible that this place hasn't been permanently shut down, actually, with health and safety hazards galore. . . And yet, despite all its undeniable (and very obvious) flaws, you quite like it here. It's where you come when you're stuck in a rut and need to drink away some sadness.

Sure, it's not the healthiest of habits, but everyone has their vices. This is yours, —but it's an occasional thing, for the most part. You go months at a time without so much as glancing in the direction of any alcohol whatsoever, and most times when you indulge, it's more of a social thing than that of a desire to get plastered. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they say, and being an artist has its ups and downs. The highs are more intoxicating than any alcoholic beverage could ever be, but the lows hit you like a semi truck. They claw at your ankles and pull you down into the depths so mercilessly, as if feeding on your sorrow is the feast of a lifetime.

Thus, here you are again for the first time since mid-November of the prior year. It's been roughly five months since you've sat on this stool, ordering shots from the grumpy bartender who never remembers your name and doesn't care much about conversing with his customers. This time, however, a fresh face stands out to you. She'd come in when you were still nursing a whiskey on the rocks, insisting that tonight would be different, that you wouldn't leave with your head all foggy or your balance thrown completely off. You've since changed your stance on that, of course, —as one simply does when they're wrung dry of artistic inspiration and turn to seeking some sort of haven in an unhealthy vice.

Still, the woman at the other end of the bar has your full attention, even if she hasn't realized it yet. Even from her slouched position you can see that she's quite tall, —and equally as thin. She's dressed in more formal attire than yourself, a starkly white button-up and a pair of black dress pants as opposed to your own ill-fitting jeans and a greyish-blue sweater you'd picked up simply because it was seventy-five percent off. It's certainly comfortable, but stylish is most definitely up for debate.

Her foot taps against the bar counter, the toe of her black flats ringing out in little thumps that nobody seems to notice but you. She swirls a shot glass in her elegant hand, —her long, lithe fingers adorned with lengthy nails all painted a uniform shade of violet. Strands of short, ginger hair fall over her forehead, clearly unstyled after a long day. Whatever she's going through, you're sure it isn't pleasant for her to have ended up here alone on a Thursday night. Even so, you silently wonder if she's aware of just how attractive she is. In a sense, she's almost ethereal to you, with her extended limbs and sharp lines. . .

You reach for a napkin and are pleasantly surprised when the rusted dispenser sitting loose just a seat away isn't completely empty as it usually is by this time of night. Digging in your bag for a moment, you find an old ballpoint pen buried at the bottom. You try to take something to write or sketch with wherever you go, —but sometimes you still find yourself wholly unprepared for when inspiration strikes.

It takes a bit of scribbling before the ink begins to flow. Even then, it's rather choppy and doesn't come out in a smooth line. But, it's the best you have on hand, and so you're sure to use it to your advantage in whatever way possible (which isn't many.) Your gaze flickers between the woman at the end of the bar and the napkin you're sketching her likeness on in inconsistent ink. It's certainly rough, but it's the first thing you've drawn all week that you haven't felt the urge to light on fire, so you're considering this a win.

You get a little carried away with the shading and the general environment, adding flowers that aren't there and little markings all around for some additional texture and pizzaz.

"Interesting," a low-toned, curious voice says from just over your shoulder.

You startle at the sudden interruption, nearly scribbling a horrendous line across the center of your sketch. The woman had been so silent in her move, (or perhaps you'd just been too engrossed to hear her make her way over) that you were left flinching under her looming shadow.

She seems fittingly confident for the aura she gives off, —like some kind of CEO.

"Uh. . . Sorry," you apologize, hoping the mood won't become too awkward. "This must seem pretty weird."

This is pretty weird, actually, and you can acknowledge that much. After all, when someone trudges to the bar late at night, it's not as if they go there expecting that some equally as frustrated stranger will see them and be unable to resist the urge to sketch their likeness on a painfully thin napkin.

"I've seen weirder," she replies, —and though you don't ask for examples of that, you're rather curious about what she'd give as some.

She sits next to you now, on the bar stool just to your left. Her knee brushes against yours as she does so.

"You're an artist then, I presume?" She asks without missing a beat.

You nod, letting your pen drop to the bartop, giving her your full attention now. Something about her demands it (not that you're complaining.)

"Yep," you answer, though you can't bring yourself to sound particularly stoked by that admission at the moment.

She takes notice of that much too quickly for having just met you.

"You don't seem very pleased about it," she notes. "Trouble in paradise, perhaps?"

An Irish accent clings to her words; not a heavy one, all things considered, but more than enough to be obvious. It's quite attractive.

"Yeah, something like that," you say with a bitter laugh, —one directed more at yourself than her statement. "Nothing I'd want to bore you with."

She hums in acknowledgement, not trying to pry anything out of you that you aren't readily willing to share. That makes you like her all the more.

"I understand that quite well," she seems to sigh. "I'm a geneticist, —seasoned and well-ingrained in my field."

That makes sense. She speaks with an air of confidence that you assume comes with not only age, but experience, and it's clear she's well-educated.

"Yet here I am, constantly being pestered and questioned by those around me," she complains. "They insist upon checking and checking and checking again for ethical violations, —as if any true scientist has ever been able to examine the fullest potential of life without bending a few rules."

You gather rather quickly that she likely just needs someone to vent to, and a stranger is as good as anyone else. Though you're sure it won't be long before she gets into specifics and you lose the plot entirely, you have no qualms about keeping her company for the time being. In fact. . . This might as well be just as much for you as it is for her.

"They say rules were made to be broken," you quip, hoping it'll be enough to keep her talking.

"I don't know that I'd go quite that far, —but what I will say is that being ethical will do no good if it leaves us plateaued and unable to advance," she says. "Humanity is shackled by so many things. I am searching for the key to those shackles, —searching for the means by which to unlock the true potential of human beings. Just imagine what could be achieved if every individual was consistently performing at their highest levels of functioning. Productivity would skyrocket, advancements that have taken decades in the past would come about in less than half the time. . . There's so much waiting to be discovered, and yet so many seem to want to stand in the way of that."

"I'm sure that's frustrating," you acknowledge. "Obviously I'm not familiar with your field, but it seems a bit counterintuitive to stunt your progress when advancement is such a crucial part of today's society."

At this point, you're just speaking and hoping something sticks. It'd be nice to have someone to share time with, even if all she does is rant about things you're nothing short of completely removed from.

"Exactly," she practically hisses. "Sometimes, I'm utterly convinced that I'm surrounded by fools. Fools who haven't a clue what it means to strive for the betterment of humankind."

Truth be told, she knows you don't get it. She knows you're telling her what you think she wants to hear from you. . . But, at this point, it's enough. She doesn't have the patience to keep it all bottled up anymore, and your vague attempts at encouragement are something she's rather pleased by (for the time being, anyway.)

As a result, she goes on, and on, and on, well into the early hours of the morning. She drinks, but seems to hold her liquor so well that it hardly affects her at all. Or, perhaps you're just a bit sensitive in that department. Either way, she finds you to be a tantalizingly good listener, even if she lost you the moment she started detailing something about stem cell research and the possibility of using the brain's localization to its 'fullest potential.'

By the end of your time with her, you're drunk less on the drinks you've admittedly been nursing, and more on her. A woman of such. . . Confidence and refinement. Perhaps in great contrast to the artist at your core, who craves some semblance of chaos and passion that burns so hot you can feel it course through your veins.

It's only after you've parted ways with her that you realize you never caught her name.

You return to the bar several times after that, though you seldom have the urge to drink any of your problems away. Your long, strange conversation with that enchanting force of a woman weighs heavily on your mind. Her very likeness on its own had helped to chip away at your stunted inspiration, giving birth to new designs and a perhaps pretentious series of paintings in which long, slender fingers with sharpened nails painted a deep violet color held different types of flowers. A part of you wonders if she’d like them. . . After all, they were born only because you’d had the chance to meet her (and spend at least a good two hours staring at her hands.)

Now, however, you’re content with staring at the art displayed at this gallery. It’s clear many of the paintings are uninspired, simply taking the form of references, —which is all well and good, of course. . . But there’s a sense of romanticism missing from most of them that isn’t quite scratching the itch inside your chest.

You stand before one such piece; a beautiful painting of a teacup filled nearly to the brim with amber liquid. It’s accompanied by a few cookies, ones that look delectable in spite of their bland appearance. The scene is nothing revolutionary, but there’s a sense of warmth it exudes that the other works here lack, so you’ve chosen to camp here for a bit, if only to bask in its delight for a while longer.

“I don’t presume this is one of yours.” You’d know that voice anywhere.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, your head whips to the side, eyes immediately scaling upward. You meet the duel-colored stare of the woman you’d met at the bar, and the intensity of her gaze leaves butterflies tickling your stomach. She’s dressed much the same as the night you first crossed paths with her, but her hair is pushed back completely, —not a single strand out of place. She wears some subtle makeup, a bit of color on her lips and liner on her eyes. You couldn’t even begin to picture her in casual clothing.

You blink, clearing your throat as you remember that she was likely looking for a response.

“No, not quite,” you reply.

She hums in acknowledgement. Her hand almost looks empty without a glass in it, you note, but choose to say nothing of it.

“I’m y/n, by the way,” you introduce yourself, hoping that she’ll follow suit. . . Hoping that she’ll take it as a sign that you’d like to see her again at some point, even if just at random.

“Moira.”

You swallow. It’s a name that sounds so elegant, and it suits her completely. Before you can compliment it, she turns her full attention to you, no longer dividing it between the painting. She never seemed particularly interested in that one anyhow.

“Are any of your pieces displayed here?" She asks. "I'd be interested to see them."

You swear the smallest semblance of a smile quirks at the corners of her lips as she speaks now.

"No, unfortunately not," you reply. "The deadline was too tight, and. . . Nothing I'd created recently felt worthy of the spotlight."

Untrue. The few paintings you'd stayed up until ungodly hours to finish were more than suitable; but they were of her. Only her hands, thus far, but. . . You still felt the urge to keep them to yourself. That's why you'd lugged them back to your apartment instead of keeping them at your worn-down studio.

She hums in acknowledgement.

The conversation is running thin, and you feel your chest tighten. She’d gone out of her way to speak to you first, so you assume there’s some semblance of a spark here, even if only a little one. You yearn to keep it safe from anything and everything hellbent on snuffing it out before it even has the chance to burn brightly.

“How’s work been for you, then?” You ask, somewhat desperate to keep her talking.

Moira heaves a heavy sigh, —not so much at you, but at the mention of work. You take that as ‘less than stellar.’

“It could be better,” she replies bitterly.

It’s then that you let impulse take over. Working as an artist is the culmination of your life’s devotion and effort to refining your skills. . . But it can be a bit lonely. Usually, that doesn’t bother you much, —it’s a feeling that rarely bubbles up enough to even cross your mind; but since you’d met Moira, it’d been much more difficult to ignore. In the end, you took a chance, perhaps a bit rashly. And yet, it paid off.

“I’d be willing to listen, if you’d like someone to talk to,” you offer. “There’s a little cafe just down the block. I’ve heard the pecan pie is to die for.”

She stares for a few moments, as if eyeing you down like prey. At the very least, Moira seems to be giving some thought to your offer, and you consider that as good a sign as any. Eventually, she breathes out through her nose just loud enough for you to hear it (and make note of the amusement it carries.) A smirk tugs visibly at the corner of her pretty mouth, and this time, it’s not one you’d have to squint to catch sight of.

“Suppose I am feeling a bit peckish,” she notes, then tells you to lead the way.

You’re almost dumbfounded that you’ve gotten this far. It’s all too easy to abandon the gallery and travel with Moira to the newly opened cafe just a ways off. You’d stopped by a few times since its grand opening just a few months back, but had never ordered anything more than a simple drink. You’d also never taken the time to sit down and enjoy the sweet atmosphere of the establishment, always rushing about too frantically to even consider the possibility.

This time is different. You sit with Moira by a large window, tendrils of sunlight pouring in from above, creating long shadows on the table between the two of you. She orders a simple cup of dark roast, but decides for the both of you that the pecan pie does, in fact, look too heavenly to pass up; so she requests one slice with two forks.

She tells you about her day, —about her work and her ongoing struggles to convince her superiors that she knows exactly what she’s doing and should be permitted to do as such. You still don’t understand most of it, but you make sure she knows she has your full attention nonetheless.

And then she makes the decision to turn the direction of the conversation.

“How has life as an artist been treating you since we last spoke?” She inquires.

You’re almost thrown off by the sudden reciprocation of curiosity. Between the both of you, you’d simply assumed she was leading the more interesting life, and had been completely content to listen to her spew her frustrations while sipping on coffee for an hour or so.

Still. . . It felt nice to know she cared about your own ventures, if only out of politeness. (Though, really, Moira didn’t seem like the type who’d ask a question she didn’t care about receiving a genuine answer to for the sake of saving face.)

“Better,” you smile softly. “I was struggling to find inspiration, —worried that everything I was producing was just bland and uninteresting. But, after speaking with you, I started digging myself out of that rut. Since then, things have steadily been getting back on track, so I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Moira hums in acknowledgement.

“I’m happy to have helped, though I’m not certain I truly know what I did to spur any of your artistic inspiration,” she admits.

“You’re alluring,” you tell her without thinking the compliment through.

You qualify: “Unique. Very visually striking.”

She raises an eyebrow at the sentiment, then offers you a low chuckle in reply.

“Is that why you asked me here?” She questions, though she doesn’t seem perturbed by the idea. “To be your muse of sorts?”

Your heart thumps a little louder in your chest now, though you’re not sure why.

“No,” you answer honestly, shaking your head a bit, “—but I’m sure that’ll be a secondary benefit.”

Will it ever.

“I take it you simply enjoy my company then?” Moira continues.

“Precisely,” you nod. “It’s exactly that.”

She stares at you for a moment longer, her eyes all but boring holes into your own. In a good way.

Finally, she cracks an amused smile, and mumbles: “Likewise.”

At that, you’re certain you’ve won the lottery. You talk with her a bit more about a variety of things; what it’s like to be a full-time artist, about her nails (press-ons, apparently, —you could hardly believe the notion), —about how right everyone was about the pecan pie. She disappeared before you could say a proper goodbye, paying the bill and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin that she left at your seat while you were in the restroom. You grin to yourself the whole way back to your apartment, letting the day’s events wash over you like the evening tide.

Just before you turn in later in the night, you send a quick message to her phone thanking her for paying the tab and telling her that next time is your treat. She responds in almost record time, and you let yourself believe for a moment that maybe she’d been waiting around for you to reach out since she’d left the cafe.

Looking forward to it.

As late spring turned to early summer, you kept in contact with Moira, if only passively. She was a busy woman, unsurprisingly, and despite the continued conflict with her peers and superiors, she remained wholly devoted to her work and ideals. It was easy to recognize that you came second, —if you even made her list at all.

But that was okay. It didn’t weigh heavily on you as it might have if she were anyone else.

You saw her only a few times here and there over the weeks, returning to that same cafe to chat for a bit over coffees, venturing to a steakhouse on the far end of the city for a night of fine dining, and attending an opera performance with her after she’d been given tickets by a work colleague as a regifted-gift when that individual had no interest in attending themself. Each time, you saw a new side of Moira; getting to know her better, getting to experience the many shades of her.

It was mid-June when you heard your phone buzz late at night, vibrating against the oakwood of your bedstand. On the off chance it was Moira contacting you at such a strange time, you shot upright, startling yourself awake in the process. You snatched your phone off the surface, squinting at the brightness only to realize it was a completely unrelated, automatic notification from an app. But you sat there that night, your stomach tied in knots, that device clutched a bit too tightly in your hand, only to realize something all at once.

You were falling for her. For Moira. And you were so certain that that was a terrible idea.

You laid awake, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong in the face of this newfound revelation. Really, had anyone else had a say in the matter, the more shocking part of it all would have been that it took you so long to put two and two together. —She’s addicted to her work, utterly devoted to her job. That had long been established. Any plans you sought to make with her had to first be run through her hefty work schedule; the one that was so bizarre and so obscure that you’d given up trying to make sense of it a week into your acquaintanceship.

Any relationship you could hope to forge with her would be a lowly affair. Her first love was destined to be science. Still, you rationalized that Moira wasn’t much unlike you, in that sense. You too were deeply devoted to your career, thinking of it often, keeping your art at the forefront of your mind more often than not.

Even that aside, there was so much that could go wrong here. If she were to feel the same way, which seemed so unlikely to you that even considering it felt like something akin to a cruel joke, —it was more likely to be fleeting than anything else. Yet, a part of you still wanted it. . . Wanted the push and pull, the long weeks of her undoubtedly forgetting that you even existed, just to fall back in her arms at the first sign of affection. Foolishly, a part of you still wanted the late nights and early mornings, —wanted to feel your own heart break as you watched her slip out of your bed through hazy eyes, leaving you lonely without a proper goodbye.

Obviously, you were getting miles ahead of yourself.

Still, the fact remained that you liked Moira. . . You just weren’t sure what exactly you were supposed to do about that.

The summer heat became sweltering before long. Moira traded her long-sleeved dress shirts for short-sleeved ones in the same color and style, and you began to stare not only at her hands, but at her arms now when the two of you found time to get together. You’d sit and listen to her frustrations, —always about her working life and how it was so difficult to deal with being stifled, told that she couldn’t do this or that because someone had deemed it inappropriate by their own standards.

Admittedly, you still didn’t get it. Her work was so different to your own, and in the end, she didn’t really get yours either. But, each of you managed well enough. Your relationship was symbiotic. She had someone to vent to, you had someone to lust and desire for, someone to get your inspiration pumping. . . And that was good enough.

Until it wasn’t.

You did your best to drown your feelings out. There was too much at stake, what with Moira being your closest friend in the city, you assumedly being hers (since she often made note that you were the only person she spoke so candidly with,) —and you didn’t want to disrupt the balance the both of you had created together. It worked, and they say what isn’t broken doesn’t need to be fixed.

But it was breaking you, little by little. It was something you could ignore at first, until ignoring it became much more difficult, and you defaulted to stuffing it down on purpose, forcing thoughts about the bow of her lips and the dips of her waist into the back of your mind. If she ever caught sight of your wandering gaze, she never mentioned it. Still, you were prepared to chalk it up to admiring her frame for artistic purposes, and Moira likely would have bought that without much thought otherwise.

And then came the banquet, —the gathering, the party— whatever the hell it was. You didn’t really know what it was about other than that it had to do with Moira’s work, and that in itself was enough to signal to you that you probably wouldn’t have been able to make much sense of it anyway. She’d asked you to attend alongside her, saying that it would go much smoother with someone there to talk to (presumably so she could ignore everyone else that would be lapping at her ankles, vying for her attention.)

Whether her colleagues liked or disliked her and her methods, it was surely undeniable that Moira was intelligent and could provide insight into just about anything (within reason.) Thus, she’d requested that you come along as her so-called “plus one.” It didn’t help that when you mentioned that you’d likely be out of place at such an event, she responded by assuring you that many of the scientists would surely be taking their partners and spouses along with them.

“So, this is your way of asking me on a date?”

It was a joke. You gave a sly smile to project that, and it seemed that she understood the intention. You just hoped she didn’t catch sight of the desperation that lingered in the back of your stare, —desperation born from the desire to cross every line known to man and then some.

The worst part is that she didn’t deny it. She seemed unphased by the proposition even, telling you to “call it what you’d like.” And you would, albeit not to her face again. In your mind, this was a date. Perhaps one of convenience more than anything else, —but a date nonetheless.

When the time comes, you meet Moira just out front of your apartment. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her sleek, black car in person. She’d made mention of it before, (only when you’d asked first), but your get-togethers with her had been within comfortable walking distance of most things in the city. This time, however, the venue was a bit further out, and because the occasion called for fancier clothes, Moira decided driving there would be the best option.

You watched through the slightly tinted windows as she reached over the passenger seat, her long, slender arm easily reaching the inner handle of the car door. She pushed it open for you, and you got in, feeling like some kind of moviestar. It wasn’t often that you saw a car as expensive and luxurious as hers around your admittedly worn-down apartment complex. It was even less often that you got to ride in one.

“Wow,” you note, slipping your seatbelt on, “I figured you’d drive something nice, but this is really something else.”

She lets an amused tuft of air escape her nostrils.

You turn to look at her now, taking her in as the last rays of dying sunlight spill down from the sky. She’s in a nice suit, as expected of her, —one that compliments her lengthy stature noticeably even in a sitting position. The fabric of her blazer is a deep, crimson red, a few shades darker than the scarlet iris of her right eye, and it’s paired with a black undershirt and black dress pants to match. Her hair is slicked back, and her hands are hidden under a pair of black gloves. She’s almost too stunning to be real, you think as she seems to examine your own attire.

Though Moira pays you no compliments, the light smirk that curves her lips upward ever so slightly says enough.

“I’ll have you home before it gets too late,” she says. “This is more for appearances than anything else. Those matter much more than one might think in the scientific field.”

Unsurprisingly, she seems less than excited about all of this, and you temper your own expectations as a result. It wasn’t so much the event itself you were looking forward to, —it was just getting to spend time with her that really lit your fuse, so to speak.

“I’ve got nothing better to be doing,” you note. “I’m yours for the night.”

Maybe that was a little too forward. As soon as you’ve said it, a part of you wishes you hadn’t. . . But Moira gives you a little hum in reply, throwing you a final glance before fixing her eyes ahead, and that’s the end of it. You like to think she was pleased with that admission, though. The drive is quiet, but in a comfortable sense. She seems to be in neutral spirits in spite of her distaste for the final destination, and you’re glad for it (not that you mention it.)

The venue was about as extravagant as you would expect; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling in the party hall, well-dressed staff members carrying platters of red wine and bubbling champagne, weaving their way through the guests with surprising grace and elegance. You can’t help but think to yourself that you’d never survive a day doing their job.

Moira snags the both of you some wine.

“Can’t help but think this is a bit nostalgic,” she comments as you put the rim of the glass to your lips to take a small sip.

The dark red liquid almost matches her outfit.

“I guess so,” you smile sheepishly. “It’s been a bit since we first met, and that’s the last time we drank together.”

“Indeed.”

She takes her own sip now, her lipstick clinging to the glass. You let yourself stare for a moment, gaze caught on her mouth. . . You let yourself wonder what it’d be like to pull her in, match your hand to the curve of her neck, —kiss her, taste the wine on her lips. It’s a bad idea, of course, but. . .

You just can’t help it.

“I suppose I should give you a proper thanks,” Moira notes after a few moments of silence. “I’m sure this kind of event isn’t much like anything you’d be used to.”

“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head.

She appreciates the candid way you answer, not trying to soften the blow for the sake of saving face. Your honesty is part of your charm.

“Lucky you,” she notes. “These things are practically the bane of my existence. They’re just glorified circle-jerks, —everyone squanders their time meeting here to drink alcohol and grit their teeth while they speak with colleagues they haven’t seen since the last one, even though they promise to keep in touch every single time.”

You get the feeling she’s quite pleased they never actually go through with that. The very prospect seems more like a threat than a broken promise.

“Sounds. . . Fake,” you answer lightly.

“Utterly synthetic,” Moira says, venom lacing her words.

She really isn’t holding back tonight, and there’s a certain luster that comes with it, —the kind that makes your insides twist into pretzels. Though she’s seldom the type to be vulgar for the sake of it, her gloves seem to be off tonight. Metaphorically, anyway. The actual gloves on her pretty hands are still there, tightly fitted to her elegant fingers. You’d be a tad more bitter about the view they steal away from you if not for how nice they look on her.

“Worse off, you may think idle workplace gossip would be less common in a career such as mine, —but you’d be wrong,” she tells you. “The amount of nonsense they spew never ceases to amaze me.”

And here you thought it was an impossible task to impress her. Imagine your shock when you found that a tried and true way of doing so was just to spout off pointless grains from the rumor mill. . .

“Seems hellish,” you remark.

You shiver at the mere thought of it, your eyes surveying the loose crowd now, looking for anyone who seems to be questioning your presence at Moira’s side or making assumptions about whether you really belong here. You don’t, and that just makes the anxiety worse. Another sip of wine down the hatchet, but your worries don’t go down with it the way you’d hoped they would.

“Hellish may be a bit of an understatement,” Moira mumbles sourly.

“Really though, a proper thank you for coming along is in order,” she sighs. “If you have anything you’d like in return, do tell. Money isn’t much of an obstacle, —within reason, of course.”

Unsure of how to say that all you really want is for her to pull you in and let her body meld into your own, you give her a little nod and a polite smile instead.

“I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

She seems pleased enough by your confirmation, swallowing down the rest of her wine in a few ungraceful gulps. The way her throat contracts as she tips the glass back sends a shiver down your spine. Everything she does is so mesmerizing, and at this point, it’s just unfair. No one person should be able to captivate you; mind, body, and soul the way she always has, even from the very start. Sitting at a rundown bar, standing tall before a painting of tea and cookies, —drinking down blood red alcohol under dazzling chandeliers and crystalline lights that dance off her eyes like fireflies in mid-July.

You stand by as the night drags on, going much too slow for Moira, and far too quickly for you. It’s clear she’s not content to just be by your side here, and that hurts a little more than it should. She has another two glasses of wine and leaves a lipstick stain on each of them. . . And she doesn’t know just how much you’d risk for her to leave that same mark anywhere on you.

For the briefest of seconds, you consider asking that of her in return, but you banish that thought to the shadow realm just as quickly.

A few fresh faces greet Moira with varying levels of that synthetic politeness she’d mentioned not long ago. Seeing it in real time is like looking through a kaleidoscope of disgust, and you have to force a scowl off your face. You try your best to zone out when they come around, figuring that you’re not supposed to be privy to whatever information they’re sharing, —and that you wouldn’t understand much of it anyway. Unless they were suddenly struck with the urge to discuss color theory or artistic interpretation, you were pretty certain you wouldn’t be of much help. Moira’s field of expertise was worlds different than your own.

“Doctor O’Deorain,” a pretty blonde woman greets, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and a little black dress clinging to her body in all the right places.

Moira regards her with less hostility than the others, her expression softening a bit.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually show up,” she continues with a familiar giggle, losing the formal nature of her address. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you were offered in exchange for your attendance.”

If she’s comfortable enough to joke with Moira, you assume she’s known her for long enough to have built that kind of comradery. Maybe it was just a hunch of yours, but you’d have been willing to bet that Moira didn’t ease up to people very quickly. You like to think you were a slight exception to the rule.

“More like what they threatened to take away if I didn’t,” Moira answers, that characteristic bluntness still present in her tone, —but it’s softer with this woman, for one reason or another.

The blonde laughs again, seeming content in the redhead’s presence. Jealousy prickles at your heart, making you feel utterly ridiculous. Her blue eyes finally travel to where you’re standing, as if she’s just now realizing that you’d been standing there the entire time.

“You brought a friend along?” She inquires, her kind smile never fading. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Moira beats you to the punch.

“Lover, actually,” she corrects, one of her gloved hands sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer and nearly knocking you off-balance in the process.

Your throat goes dry, face falling into an expression of panic, but you gather yourself before the blonde woman can take notice. Though you have no idea why she’d lie about such a thing, you can only assume that Moira has her reasons, and the last thing you’d want to do is correct her in front of a colleague, —even about something like this. You’ll probably never see this woman again anyway, so no harm, no foul. (Well, maybe some harm to your heart, but what else is new.)

The woman seems shocked by even the idea of it.

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” you say with a forced smile.

It’s not that she isn’t kind or easy to talk to. She’s both of those things, actually, and you can admire that (and you do.) But you’re still reeling from Moira’s sudden concession, and making small talk is the last thing on your mind.

The rest of the conversation is a blur. You do your best to fall into the background, hoping that each of them might just forget you even exist. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, beating something dangerously close to out of control.

The feeling of her hand on your waist all but burns itself into your flesh.

By the time they’ve said their goodbyes, she’s taken it away. But it’s far too late to fix the damage she’s done.

Moira never does explain herself that night, and you don’t have the nerve to ask. Questions are ripe on the tip of your tongue the entire ride back to your apartment, but you sit in silence just as you did before, —albeit much less comfortably.

It’s then that you’re forced to acknowledge the crueler parts of her. . . And yet, you fear, you’re still falling for her anyway.

Communication is brief and inconsistent over the rough week and a half following the event. You send a few messages out of nicety, hoping she might choose to spark up a conversation. . . But she doesn’t, and you chalk it up to her being busy with work. At least, that’s the story your rational mind would like you to believe. The part of you that you’d like to shut out completely warns you only of the possibility that you’re being overbearing, and it’s pushing her further away.

You begin to worry that it’s now or never. If things continue as they are, Moira might as well just be another person who only contacts you when it’s convenient or they’re feeling a little nostalgic and want to hear a whisper from a ghost of their past.

As a means to counteract that possibility, you decide that it’s time to put that favor from Moira to good use. Best of all, —it’s utterly free of charge.

She agrees to meet you at your little painting studio to provide some assistance. Upon arriving, she walks around and gazes long and hard at each of your pieces, —finished and unfinished alike, sparing you the flurry of compliments she’s sure you’ve heard a million times over. If she were anyone else, her silence might have been a bad omen, but you know her well enough to understand that she means well.

“I’m not certain I can really be of any help,” she says, giving you a sidelong glance over her angular shoulder. “I enjoy art, but I haven’t the slightest clue how to create it. I leave that to the lot of you who’ve crafted your skills and put in the time.”

“For many of us, —myself included— inspiration is just as important as skill,” you reply. “These days, it’s been running a bit dry. But I was hoping you could get the wheels turning, if you know what I mean.”

Moira thinks she has a good idea of it.

“And how, pray tell, should I go about that?” She asks. “Do I just need to sit here and pose?”

“Actually,” you say, hoping to rip this off like a bandaid, —because you know it’s bizarre and that she might well say no, but you’re sick of wondering about it.

As it goes, you’ve prepared for the worst, but you’re hoping for the best.

“I’d like to paint on you.”

She looks at you evenly, as if she’s not shocked by the request at all. You’re more surprised by her lack of a visceral reaction than she is by your requisition.

“Interesting,” she notes, though it doesn’t sound like this is particularly intriguing to her, “—where, exactly?”

“Just like that?” You laugh. “No hesitation? You’re just gonna let me do it?”

“That’s dependent on the where,” she replies, an amused smile thinning her lips out. “If I’m right to assume you’re keen on keeping this within a certain boundary, I see no real reason to object. I do owe you, after all.”

Above most things, Moira is practical. She sees this as repayment, not only for your attendance at her working banquet, but also for the many afternoons, evenings, and nights she’s talked your ear off, sharing her own disgruntled feelings over coffee, steak, and whiskey neat respectively.

You offer her an appreciative smile, as if she’s done something so loving for you out of the kindness of her beating heart.

It’s more out of obligation, you fear, but you’re fine to ignore that for now.

“Will an arm suffice?” She asks.

“Maybe two,” you answer cheekily, and she doesn’t object.

You grab her a wooden stool to sit on, one much less rinky-dink than the barstool she’d sat on the night you first met as you go about procuring your materials; paints, brushes, —the necessities for this kind of ordeal.

“Can you roll your sleeves up a bit more for me?” You request.

“Would it be easier to just discard the shirt?” She asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. Yes, she’s probably right in some sense. . . That likely would make this process increasingly easier in a pragmatic sense, —but you’re certain seeing her in such a state would do numbers on your heart that you’re not sure you’re really equipped to handle.

“I. . . I suppose so,” you nod.

You try not to stare as her elegant fingers undo the buttons of her shirt with ease, like she’s a master of the craft. Her back arches ever so slightly as she slips her arms out, long and limber as they fall to her sides and she keeps the mess of white fabric balled in her hands now. Her bra is a stark black, the kind of deep shade that really contrasts with every inch of her pale, porcelain skin. You swallow nervously at the sight of her, taking the shirt from her hands to drape it over an unused easel.

She seems to have no reservations about this. Maybe it’s because she’s simply confident in every aspect of herself, —or maybe it’s because she trusts you enough to remain stoic in the face of it. You don’t ask, and Moira doesn’t tell.

“Any ideas?” She says instead, “—For the artwork.”

“I was considering something floral and nature-themed,” you answer, focusing in on that aspect of the ordeal so as to forget that she’s sitting in front of you like this, so much of her on display for your eyes only.

“Butterflies with carnations,” you add, “—or daisies, perhaps.”

“I’m impartial to hyacinth myself,” she notes.

It’s not so much a suggestion for your art piece as it is something Moira simply wants to share with you. Still, you think it best to run with it, and you give her a slightly lopsided smile.

“Hyacinth it is.”

She watches with curiosity as you go through the motions, —mixing colors, cleaning your brushes between them, dabbing them dry. It’s not often that Moira has the luxury of watching something like this in person. . . In fact, now that she’s thinking of it, she’s not sure she’s ever witnessed an artist work firsthand at all. In her lifetime, she’s seen innumerous things she would personally describe as incredible, —and unbeknownst to you, this is one of them.

“This is actually quite relaxing,” she says. “Like a massage. I don’t fancy those much, I loathe the thought of a stranger touching me so extensively, —but this is nice.”

You offer her a small smile.

“I’m glad,” you reply. “I knew it was a bit of a strange request, and I wouldn’t have blamed you for turning me away, but I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to allow it.”

“Perish the thought,” Moira shakes her head slightly. “If anyone knows about unconventional methods, it would be me. I know better than most that in order to reach one’s full potential, sometimes it’s necessary to step outside the proverbial box.”

That wasn’t quite your mindset going into it, but if she was ready and willing to place a perfectly good excuse for this in your lap, then so be it. Truth be told, you were simply a conduit of passion to your very core, and in a perhaps distorted sense of the word, this was romantic to you.

You hum in acknowledgement.

“While you’re here. . . Can I ask you something?” You inquire.

Though it feels like your heart is in your throat now, you manage to keep your hand steady enough to continue your work with little disruption.

“You can ask,” she says, “though my ability to answer might waver depending on what the question is.”

“At that event. . . You told that blonde woman we were lovers. Why?”

It’s been eating at you since it happened, in more ways than one, and now seems like as good a time as any to get it off your chest. You steal a peak at Moira’s face, noting the way she remains completely composed, even in the face of such an off-color inquiry.

“So I did,” she says plainly, certainly not the type to deny responsibility or deflect accountability for her own actions. “It’s an unfortunate fact for me that my colleagues can be quite. . . Eccentric. And by that, I mean they often poke their noses in the affairs of others with something similar to reckless abandon.”

Her brows furrow now as she thinks about it, clearly agitated.

“It’s not uncommon for them to pry into my personal matters, and I was hoping to quench their overbearing interest in my romantic life by giving them a glimpse into it, —if only a false one. Like I said before, everyone there is in it for themselves. It’s all synthetic. . . An act they put on to please one another a few times a year. That night, it was my turn to do the pleasing.”

“That makes sense,” you acknowledge.

Of course it did. You weren’t expecting anything less from her of all people.

“Did it work?”

A low rumble of brief laughter resounds from her chest, —husky and divine.

“Like a charm,” she tells you. “I’m sure they’ve found another staff member to harass with their incessant yammerings about intimacy and partnership.”

“You’re not a fan of those?” You ask, and the question is punctuated by the quiet ripples of your paintbrush through water as you clean it.

Moira is silent for a few moments, as if pondering on your inquiry.

“I don’t. . . Dislike intimacy,” she replies, —though she doesn’t sound as sure of that response as she normally would have had the two of you been discussing anything else.

“Rather, I don’t dislike the idea of it,” she corrects quickly. “In practice, I suppose that’s a different story. I don’t offer my trust like candy, and for me, intimacy only follows trust.”

“I’d argue this is quite intimate,” you note softly, blending two shades of deeper purples together on her bare skin. “Does that mean I’ve won your trust?”

You fear you’re pushing your luck here, but can’t stop yourself from asking. Eventually, Moira lowers her chin a bit, seeming amused by your line of questioning.

“I suppose so.”

Bingo.

If nothing else, that was your win for the day. If nothing else, —Moira trusted you. . . And that was more than enough for the time being.

You thrive off the high of that evening for the next several days. You don’t even worry when things go silent on Moira’s end. It’s all too easy to simmer yourself down now that you know for certain she trusts you, —and it’s almost elating to hold that information so near and dear to your heart. She invites you for a drink that Saturday night, in the cooling heat of summer, and you jump at the first opportunity to see her in person again.

This time, the bar isn’t quite so run down. It might just be the fanciest one you’ve ever set foot in, and the outfit you wore that you were worried would come off as overdressed now feels like the opposite. Things like this remind you of just how different you live in comparison to Moira. . . It’s easy to forget that she’s quite wealthy, and though you’re well past your struggling artist phase, you’re far from living the way you imagine she does day in and day out.

She’s not keen on discussing work tonight, so you sit around nursing lemon drop martinis with sugar-lined rims, hanging off her every word like the admitted lovesick fool that you are.

It’s nothing profound, nothing inherently important in the grand scheme of it all. . . But it’s nice to know that her favorite season is autumn, and it’s nice to know that she can play a bit of piano. It’s then that you really understand just how much little things really do matter, even within the finite days we’re given. Especially within them.

Just like your drink, it’s slightly bittersweet.

You talk with her well into the night, eventually forgoing the bar to simply walk around under the stars and the city lights. And maybe it’s alcohol or that aforementioned trust she’s placed in you, —but she tells you that she misses her home on nights like these, and when she sees you shiver, she drapes her jacket over your shoulders and walks a little closer to you now. So close that the back of her hand brushes against yours, —once, twice, thrice— but the fourth time never comes.

Instead, she reaches out in between the hum of passing cars and the hollow breeze that swishes by, and takes your hand in her own. You don’t bother to bite back the smile that graces your lips.

That night, you consider telling her all the things you’ve been keeping bottled up inside, —all the time you’ve spent groveling over her and her unfair ability to captivate you like no other. But, a part of you is almost certain she already knows now, as if the poetry written in your heart has all but flowed right into her own from the lines in your palm.

As summer moves both far too slow and much too fast all in a single breath, Moira becomes a semi-frequent guest in your studio. Sometimes she simply watches as you work on canvas, and at others, she becomes the canvas herself. You have a little collection of photographs of her now, —posed according to your will, displaying her painted arms in the process. It must be hours upon hours now that you've spent gracing her skin with your brushes, listening to her tell you about her day; the good and bad parts.

She leaves out the finer details, not wanting to bore you with the intricacies of a job one could only understand through years of training and experience. Still, you know more than you probably should about her research, and you're there when the scientific community at large decides that she's a perfect fit for their next public enemy.

For how harsh the punishment is, you'd think she would have been more upset, —but she remained indifferent to it all, as if taking it in stride was the only way she knew how to cope with it. Moira asked that if you stumbled across any articles of her, you pay them no mind. . . And you didn't. Maybe that was a naive choice, but her work was only your concern to a certain extent, and you were already well aware that she was prone to bending ethical guidelines. At the end of the day, you knew her as a woman rather than a scientist, and that was that.

You have to admit, it’s a little tortuous seeing her so often, being constantly reminded of just how hard you’ve fallen, and yet never having the courage to act on it. You often hype yourself up, readying yourself to shoot your shot, —but as soon as Moira is actually in front of you, all the confidence you’d spent the prior day and night building up all but crumbles to your feet in pathetic little pieces.

You sit with her at that cafe again, sipping on lattes together in the early afternoon. She seems more relaxed today than she is most of the time, —like something amazing has happened, though she hasn’t told you what. If anything even happened at all. For a moment, you let yourself believe that she’s just happy to be here with you.

The new employee of the quaint shop slips you a napkin with some scribbled numbers on it, and you feel a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t too long ago that Moira gave you her phone number in much the same way.

“His number, I presume?” Moira inquires.

You nod.

“I was wondering when he’d decide to make a move,” she laughs. “He’s had his eyes on you since you sat down.”

“O-Oh?” You utter, heat rising to your cheeks, “—Has he? I didn’t notice.”

You were a little distracted by the way she held the handle of her cup, though you’re keen on keeping that particular detail to yourself.

“Indeed,” she confirms. “So, any plans to take him up on it?”

“Ah. . . No, I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered and all, I just. . .”

“He isn’t to your liking?” Moira guesses.

She’s so nonchalant about this that it’s close to driving you wild.

“I don’t know that I’d say it like that,” you mumble.

“He’s not your type, then?” She revises.

“I don’t think I have any specific type,” you answer.

“Perhaps there’s someone else?”

Your face falls and it doesn’t go unnoticed no matter how quickly you right yourself. There’s no hiding that it’s the case now, —but you have a feeling she already knows as much. She’d known it for days, weeks, —maybe months. Maybe she knew you were falling for her before you yourself had the wherewithal to pick up on it.

“Something like that,” you mutter, taking a long, drawn out sip of your drink.

Something like that.

She doesn’t press it any further, letting it drop completely for the time being. You part ways as you exit the cafe, and while she spends the rest of her day in her lab, you meddle about your studio, unable to keep your focus steady enough to get much done.

Perhaps there’s someone else. . .

You sigh deeply, frustrated and overwhelmed. If there was ever a time when you wished she’d be as blunt as she always seems to be, —it’s now. A part of you is certain even rejection would hurt less than this; less than the unknown. You’re sick of sitting in this pit of misty grey indifference, stuck in limbo, always waiting for the right time (that never actually comes.)

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath. “Fuck.”

You feel pathetically underproductive, sitting against the wall in your studio as the sun begins to set. You’ve done so little, but your mind has been racing for hours, and there’s still no sure-fire way you’ve found to reason yourself out of this mess. Telling her how you feel is always an option, but there’s a risk there that you’re just not comfortable with as things stand now. Moira pushes and pulls, and you don’t know what to make of it.

She makes that choice for you, as expected of her.

When your phone buzzes, lighting up with her name on the screen, you’re close to jumping out of your skin. It says so little, but it makes you feel so much.

Dinner?

Though you’re not particularly hungry despite having eaten very little all day, you quickly agree, if for no other reason than to bask in her presence and soak her in for everything she’s worth (which is more than any simple number could ever do justice, no matter how large.) For the sake of having an idea of how to dress, you ask where.

My place.

And so it goes. You get her address and she tells you to swing around by 7:30. You’re there by 7:28, spending the last two minutes outside her door, preparing yourself for whatever is to happen next. This building is incredible, —clearly high-class and unsuitable for the average working person based on price alone. You’d expect nothing less of Moira.

The outside pales in comparison to the inside, however. Her bookshelves are filled to the brim with titles, —some academically inclined, and others more for pleasure (though you’re not certain Moira would see much of a difference between the two.) She greets you in her typical attire, dress pants and a white button-up, although the top two buttons are undone tonight and her hair lacks any form of styling. You’re staring as she sits you down at a table overlooking the city, but you can’t help it, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. There’s something about her tonight that has your heart shivering in your chest.

“Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” she tells you. “Feel free to look around. I don’t mind what you touch as long as it isn’t broken.”

There’s a twinge of a smile on her lips and eyeliner slightly smudged beside her eyes. This is probably the closest you’ve come to seeing Moira in her rawest state, topping even the version of her you saw that night at the bar. It seems like that was so long ago now, but also feels like it was just yesterday somehow.

“You’re cooking?” You inquire.

“I dabble,” she replies. “It’s a necessary skill. I’m no Michelin star chef, mind you, but I can manage a proper meal.”

She hasn’t even set the food before you yet, and you already know she’s being far too humble. In the meantime, she pours you a glass of champagne, apologizing for the fact that it’s all she has on hand besides whiskey. You think nothing of it. If you didn’t know better, you’d consider this a date. . . And maybe you will, if only to yourself.

While she’s off in the kitchen, you run your fingers along the many book spines of her collection, imagining what she’d look like just sitting near a window in this place, a cup of tea resting near her, those elegant fingers flipping through pages.

Dinner is mostly quiet, but delicious. As you’d guessed, she was certainly being humble about her own culinary skills. She takes your compliments with lilted smirks. Moira seems more comfortable here, which makes sense. . . This is where she lives, after all, where she sleeps and spends a fair amount of time (you’re assuming) when she’s not in the lab or off doing something with you. She keeps her space impeccably neat.

You ask about the things strewn about her place, —about some of the awards she displays on a shelf all to themselves. It’s pressed into a corner, like she isn’t much proud they’re even there. She doesn’t seem to mind telling the tales, but doesn’t jump at the opportunity; like she’s doing it to quench your curiosity rather than stroke her own ego. She gives you a few book recommendations after gauging your tastes, —offers to let you borrow her copies, and you tell her you might just take her up on the offer, even if you won’t.

“It’s a bit late,” she says at a quarter past ten, “I hadn’t meant to keep you so long.”

But she doesn’t apologize for it, and Moira doesn’t seem sorry at all.

“I can drive you home,” she continues, “—or I could walk with you.”

She leans in a bit closer now, and you swallow nervously. You’re convinced you’re misconstruing something, but her lips are so near to your ear that you can almost feel them ghost against your skin.

“Or you’re welcome to stay,” she says softly, “if you’d like.”

You’re scared she can feel your heart hammering away in your chest. A part of you wants to just do as she’s offering, —stay the night with her, let her crawl under your skin, let her wrap you up in her arms and melt into her. But you’re not certain you’re ready for that yet. It’s a leap, and the both of you know what happens between adults when the lights dim and you stay over.

When you say nothing, she places one of those beautiful, elegant hands on the side of your face, cupping your cheek. You never really knew Moira could be that gentle. She waits, watching as your eyes flicker about for a moment, then leans closer; almost touching, but not. Like she’s waiting for permission or rejection. You meet her gaze, then let it flicker off nervously, and a smirk grows on her face.

Moira’s lips fall just to the side of your own, pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. She leans back, standing to her full height, letting her hand linger on your face before pulling away. You were hesitant, and she could feel it.

“Goodnight,” she says, —as if she already knew how this night was going to end.

She’s not upset, and you let yourself smile up at her.

“Goodnight, Moira.”

This thing with her is intoxicating. It’s like a drug, and it’s getting in the way of everything. You’re finding it difficult to even be in her presence now without your eyes wandering or thoughts sneaking off somewhere they need not be. You fantasize about her more than you’d like to admit.

And now, you know that she must like you to, —at least to a certain extent. There’s plenty you aren’t certain of, plenty you’ll likely overthink in the future, but. . . You want this. You want her. You’ve known that for weeks, and now the only question left is what the hell you’re going to do about it.

You tell yourself the next time she comes onto you, you’ll accept her advances more readily. You’ll ask for the kiss she silently offers, tell her you want to stay the night. . . Maybe you’ll take the initiative, grab her by the ivory button-up and stand on the tips of your toes to press your lips against her mouth, even if it’s somewhat out of your character.

But then what?

What happens after, when the heat has cooled down, when the water’s stopped boiling, —when her dry luster has dimmed and you’re tired of being tossed to the wayside everytime she’s set her mind to something else? What happens when you’ve fallen down the list of her priorities and she has a million and one things to think about before she ever gets to you?

What happens when you run out of excuses to make for her. . . ?

And why doesn’t that seem to matter to you as much as you know it should?

You wonder if that’s what it means to love someone. . . To know that there are parts of her you’ll likely wretch at the sight of, to know that there are facets of her that you’ll find absolutely fucking repulsive, —and you’ll love her in spite of it, just as you do now.

Or maybe you’re just a lovesick fool.

She kissed you a few nights later in your shabby little studio. Your eyes had flickered from the roses you were painting on her arm to the glimmering red and blue of her irises that still shone even in the yellow lighting of the dying bulb above your heads, and then to the bow of her lips. Moira reached out, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear, as if this was how she’d chosen to test the waters. Your stare was so tender, and even she, in all of her romantic ineptness, could see that you were practically begging for her to make the first move so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break the ice.

You felt one of her fingernails trace your jawline from chin to lobe, then back down again. She cupped your cheek that time around, her surprisingly smooth palm sitting warmly against your skin.

You’ll never forget the way she paused just then, or the way she met your gaze just to lean in closer, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips before she asked simply: “May I?”

And even when you were still uncertain of what that really meant, —uncertain of what she’d do in the moments that followed your approval, if only naively, you gave her a nod, because you trusted her.

Her lips were soft and imperfect, and her lipstick wasn’t the type she could kiss with and leave nothing of the remnants behind. The reddish-orange color left an imprint on your mouth, faintly, of course, but it was there. It served as proof that what happened wasn’t just in your imagination anymore. You felt your heart stutter when she pulled away, and your head was swimming.

Since then, you’ve gotten that same feeling more times than you can count. Sometimes, it seems to live in the marrow of your bones. You had it for hours on end the first night you spent with her, all but glistening in afterglow under your worn-out covers. She never complained about the quainter life you lived, even though it often paled in comparison to her own. Moira held you just the same whether on your creaky frame and dreary mattress or on the king-sized bed in her luxury apartment that overlooked the cityscape.

You get that feeling when she takes your hand in her own, —when she traces shapes and cursive letters against your flesh under humble moonlight. You get it when she peels you apart, when she looks inside your chest with a single glance, when she soothes your deepest flaws simply because she can.

And it’s not always perfect. Sometimes she’s snippy, sometimes you’re sensitive, and sometimes you sleep in the spare room of her apartment just to make room for your thoughts. Sometimes she doesn’t call when she knows she’ll be working late, and sometimes you don’t see her for a few days when her workload piles up too high and she shacks up in her laboratory. Sometimes she forgets to make the most of every moment, and sometimes you shut her out when you know deep down that you shouldn’t.

But there’s always love to be found, —no matter where you are. She attends company banquets with you on her arm, just to show you off like a prize. You sit and watch her with stars in your eyes when she cooks, when she reads, when she paints the press-on nails she wears like claws for protection. She makes your coffee for you in the mornings, memorizes the way you like it, and keeps the additives on hand (even when she drinks hers straight from the pot.) You make her your greatest source of inspiration, filling in page after page of her likeness, never tiring of a single thing.

It’s not always easy. Love never really is, —not even in most of the movies these days. But as Moira crawls into her bed, —your bed—, the bed you share now more nights than not, her hair ever so slightly longer now than on the night you first met, she drapes a thin arm over your waist and welcomes your warmth, pulling you closer, smelling faintly of the perfume you gave her for her birthday, —you’re certain some things are not just meant to be, but are meant to be maintained: and this love is one of them.

#moira #overwatch #moira x reader #moira o'deorain x reader #moira odeorain x reader #moira o'deorain #moira odeorain #moira overwatch #overwatch x reader #moira reader insert #moira x you #moira o'deorain reader insert #moira odeorain reader insert #moira x y/n #overwatch imagines #moira imagine #overwatch x you

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petalruesimblr · 4 months

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Download Link: Sim File Share | MTS (for approval) Name: The Monotwo Description: Once a modest abode, this house emerged from the ashes of a meteoric past to embrace a revamped, stylish identity. Despite its budget-friendly roots, the revamped design now strikes a harmonious chord between affordability and sophistication. Is the new owner destined for a one-hit wonder in this transformed space or will they rise to become the neighborhood's next superstar? Explore the reinvented charm and discover the untold story within these revitalized walls. Price Furnished: 15,479 Price Unfurnished: 12,113 Lot Size: 20x30 Version: 1.42 Store Content: None CC Used: None Packs Needed: The Sims 3 File Type: Package

I wanted to try renovating residential lots first before I dip my toes into building a house from scratch. Thus, I present my own version of the starter home once called 'The Monotone' from Sunset Valley. It is base game compatible, so no expansion packs were used in this build and it remains a starter home priced at $15,479, leaving a bit of money for the Sim to use for food and groceries for a day!

This charming 20x30 house is a fully furnished haven, meticulously designed to maximize comfort on a budget. It is suitable for a single Sim or a couple who wants a fresh start in a new town, complete with basic furniture and appliances. More pictures and information in the MTS link provided above (once approved).

📣All my content lots are in the form of package files (.package). Kindly place the .package file you just extracted into the following folder: Documents\Electronic Arts\The Sims 3\Library\ .You should find it in your Library bin in the game when you navigate to Edit Town.

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cemeterywretch · 8 months

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i say this every time i play this game, but the world of darkness as a setting is really missing something without the whole "gothic-punk" thing it used to go for. the modern stuff feels too like, idk, sleek, stylish. this game nails that old atmosphere so well. everything in this game looks like shit, and that's not a dig. like, the art direction in this game focuses so much on the rot and decay. everything is falling apart. you're wandering around in a garbage heap of a city and everything sucks and no one is happy and the world is probably going to literally end in like two months. downtown and hollywood are my favorite hubs for this feeling. the plaguebearer questline downtown and the snuff film investigation quests in hollywood take you to such shitty, gross, awful places. speaking of hollywood, the bgm there is so good, just really sells that sense of melancholy. i love to just walk around in that hub. the dreams are dead, the place is rotten. when isaac talks about like, the seedy underworld under the glitz and glamour, it just makes it seem like he doesn't leave his haven much, if at all. the glamour died long ago, it's all seedy underworld now. there's so much about this game that has aged fucking horribly, but i don't think i'll ever stop loving it for these things.

#vtmb

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ecoamerica · 1 month

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youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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