#Anything-As-a-Service Market Size

[grimrester]

i am really so sorry to continue harping on about the watcher entertainment streaming service. but this kind of stuff (internet content as a business & marketing it as such) is truly my obsession, and i think i will implode if i don't talk about some of the takes i'm seeing.

i'd like to emphasize again i don't have strong feelings about watcher either way. i like ghost files, i watch mystery files sometimes, i watched worth it back in the buzzfeed days. i don't watch any of their shows religiously.

anyway, here's the main things i keep seeing crop up and my thoughts on each:

"watcher has 25 employees they have to pay, and employing people in this economy is good, so we should be banding together to pay them."

employing people is good if you currently have the capacity to pay them. i checked watcher's linkedin page, and many of their employees were hired within the last year or two. if they hired people they cannot pay with the business model they had before, something is seriously wrong with their internal bookkeeping/decision making. it means they either didn't know they couldn't pay these people long term, or they did know and were content with risking newly hired employees' livelihoods on a huge content pivot in the next year.

of note is that none of their employees' titles have anything to do with managing the finances of the company. they are the size of a small business but have no one aside from the figureheads of the company in charge of their finances.

this is the kind of company decision making that leads to downsizing and layoffs, which can be devastating. but you know what's worse than laying off a portion of your staff? laying off everyone because your business is going under.

"not everyone can afford the subscription, but those who can should pay it to support the watcher team."

no. $6/month for a couple hours of content (depending on what shows you actively watch and the natural fluctuation of their release schedule) is a fundamentally bad value. i can pay that much for a few movies on amazon. i can pay that much for dropout, if i want to support a smaller business instead.

and to be totally frank, even if people do sign up, i don't think they'd get enough to compete with the amount they get through patreon/sponsorships. and the fact that they didn't know how many of their subscribers would realistically sign up is a bad sign.

a pretty good conversion rate of free to paid subscribers of a service or content is 3% (usually accomplished through a free trial). given the very poor reception of the announcement, let's say about 1% of their 3 mil youtube subs pay for their service. that's 30k people paying for their new platform. that's $180k a month in their pocket.

(they currently only have 12k subs on patreon so we are being generous here.)

a sponsorship deal (based on my googling, i have less direct experience with this) is anywhere from $10-50 per 1000 views. they've gotten about 1 mil views on their last few videos. 3 mil subs is nothing to shake a stick at, but let's say they're on the lower end of the payscale at $25 per 1000 views. that's $25k a video, $100k a month if they release 1 video a week. their lowest patreon tier is 5 bucks, so even if all their subs are at that tier, that's another $60k, so $160k total. it's entirely likely they're bringing in much more than that when you factor in merch, adsence, etc.

did anyone on their team crunch numbers on how many people would need to sub to make the switch worth it? did anyone do market research on how many people they could convert to paid users? because if not, if they really didn't have a game plan for this, the subscription service was always doomed to fail.

"this was their only option to continue making the content they want to make, with the production value they want."

i watched their announcement video. a key point in that video is that they have done sponsored videos and that's what used to pay for their content, but they did not like the amount of creative control the sponsor had over the content.

look, i get that's no fun. we'd all love creatives to be able to make whatever they want. but when you are a small business with a team of employees relying on you, you have to think about making money, sometimes at the cost of creative liberties.

and they had so many other options to make money for the projects they want to make without jumping to a subscription platform.

they could have started actually promoting their patreon, and maybe done some restructuring of the tiers. why not a highly produced, special series just for patreon members? or a special high-budget episode of each series, while the main series is lower budget?

bite the bullet and continue taking sponsorship deals on some less-produced shows, while axing sponsorships from the ones the crew feels more passionate about.

schedule larger, blowout-production shows only when they can be afforded. this is what Notorious Amongus Guy streamer jerma does. he saves up for big productions like his baseball or dollhouse streams, so he can really get creative with them.

they had other options and they've tried very little, especially when you compare them to other content house business at similar scales. try guys and good mythical morning both put out significant content with significant staff, and have had to diversify their income streams with auxiliary products, shows with widely varied levels of production, etc. but it seems to be working for them. watcher has merch and that's about it, and seems to only want to increase the production quality of ALL their shows.

really, all this just boils down to a terrible business decision. it's hard to say if the watcher team is working with a consultant or anyone outside of their team, but they certainly don't have anyone internally who is experienced with running a business like this. to me, it seems very much like they got in a room together and did some extremely optimistic income ballparking with no research behind it.

and that might have been fine for three dudes running a channel alone, but if they're a business, they have to start making decisions like one.

[gilverrwrites]

Best friends to lovers, but it's Dick Grayson.

≈1.3K words, CWs: F!Reader, cunnilingus, dirty talk. Pet-names: Princess, baby girl, pretty girl. Rating: 18+ MINOR DNI

Your best friend Dick Grayson has no boundaries.

He helps himself to your food, swapping and changing dumplings for noodles, carrots for celery, dips his fries in your milkshake, without even asking.  

He leaves his dirty clothes in your washing hamper, ‘borrows’ your lotions, and leaves his streaming services logged in on all your devices. In the winter he puts his cold hands under your shirt, stealing your warmth, and laughs when you flinch. “But you’re so hot!” He whines, hugging you tighter, “Let me hold you a while longer, please.”

In the summer he struts around your apartment, shirtless and sheening with sweat, eating your ice cream, pumping up the AC so he and Haley can chill out post-run. Not that you mind, it’s just that ‘oh, no, he’s my best friend’ is a hard sell when you bring dates home.

At random hours of the early morning, he wakes you up by crawling into bed with you, clings to the over-sized shirt you're sleeping in that is clearly his and makes fun of your tattered old underwear. “They’re comfy!” “They’re… something...” He trails off, all dreamy and quiet, refusing to expand before falling asleep, and is gone by the time you wake up.  

Your best friend Dick Grayson brings you gifts from all over the world. Chocolates from that one mom-and-pop you once mentioned in Keystone, jewellery, and perfume he probably paid way too much for from market vendors in cities like Paris and Istanbul, risqué pieces of underwear from Milan.

On late nights, he rests his head on your tummy, settled between your thighs as you watch your favourite film series for the nth time, smiling to himself as you babble on about your favourite scenes, about facts he already knows because you already told him, but he wants to hear you say it again anyway. When you start falling asleep on the couch, he lifts you, bridal style with ease, and carries you to the bedroom. “Come on then princess, let’s get you to bed.” “I can do it myself.” “You can’t even keep your eyes open, let me.”

He brushes stray pieces of hair out of your face when you’re too engrossed in something to do it yourself, when your hands are too full to reach, or when he wants to get a better look at you, just because he loves looking at your face.

“Um, what are you doing?” He nonchalantly hooks his finger into the waistband of your trousers, disappointed when he gets a not-too-subtle peek at neither your endearing threadbare usuals, nor the lacey Italian ones he’d bought for you.

Your best friend Dick Grayson flirts with you blatant and publicly;

“The red or the blue?” “Neither.” “I have to wear something!” “I’d love to see you wearing nothing.” “Wear the blue, always the blue.” Jason would never let it go otherwise.   “What do you want?” “You.” “I meant to eat.” “Same answer.” “I could never be you.” “What? Why?” “Must be tiring, being that cute.”

He texts you when you’re not together. “Good morning pretty girl” “saw this and thought of you.” “What are you wearing?”

One day you text back a picture, a mirror selfie from behind, your skirt hiked up, showing off the tiny navy-blue thong and he doesn’t text back. You worry that you’ve taken it too far, overstepped a line. 

Until your best friend Dick Grayson is waiting for you when you arrive home, sporting a nasty black eye and a smile the size of titan tower. In actuality, that image was exactly what he’d been hoping for every time he messaged. That image had been ingrained in his mind since you sent it, and it was one thousand times better than he’d imagined. That image was his hook, time to reel you in.

“Sorry I didn’t text back, I was speechless. No really, I got this” he points to the purple bruise forming around his eye “because I was distracted, thinking about you.”

“It’s cool, you didn’t have to say anything.” You lie. “Not like you haven’t seen it all before.” 

“Can I see it again?”

In the middle of your cramped kitchen, your best friend Dick Grayson lifts your skirt above your waist and drops to his knees, brazenly eying your folds. On request, you take the skirt from his hands, holding it up, exposing yourself as you do a little twirl for him, letting him see the full picture. 

When he lands a playful smack on your ass-cheek he grins, thrilled by the playfully petulant look you fire at him over your shoulder. When he runs a finger over your clothed slit, he’s even more delighted by the way your body shivers, by the hint of wetness he can feel seeping through the thin piece of fabric.   

You don’t stop him when he hooks a finger in the crotch, pulling the obstructing lace to the side, or when he runs his fingers through your now exposed lips. Deft fingers tease you, ghosting over your clit with no real fiction, making your pussy clench around nothing. 

“Want something?” The sight of him at your feet, watching you through defiant eyes has you weak.  

“Yes, touch me.” The sight of you, spread and writhing has him near feral, but he wants something more. 

“I’m already touching you, Princess.” He laughs, his warm breath against your slick tingles. If his breath is enough to make you quiver, he can’t wait to find out what his tongue will do to you. “Ask for something else. Nicely.”

You’re not sure exactly what he wants you to say, so you stammer the first words that come to mind; “Please Dick, stop teasing. Just do whatever you want to do, I want it too.” 

It’s enough. 

Your best friend Dick Grayson lifts you by your knees, setting you on the counter and securing your thighs over his shoulders as he descends on your folds. He’s messy and desperate, unable to get enough of your sweetness, darting his tongue in every direction until he finds the select few motions that have your fingers curling in his hair, have you panting his name between loose lips.

When you start to roll your hips, using his mouth for your own pleasure he can’t help but moan, the reverb sending further vibrations through your body that has your toes curling. He’s rock hard, itching to palm his cock, to grind it against the closest surface, but that’s an afterthought. He won’t get off until he’s lapped up your climax at least once. 

“Are you gonna cum for me?” His words are slurred, muffled between your legs, unwilling to pull away long enough to get his words out cohesively. “I want you to cum all over my face, okay baby girl?”

If he wasn’t already salivating against you, Dick’s mouth would water at the sight of you. Your body begins to jerk, your back arching, head thrown back as your orgasm hits you, his firm hands tighten around your legs, locking your lower body in place until all your tension is gone, and his face is soaked with your fluids. 

As you come down from your high, he savours the flavour, occasionally licking up stray droplets from your skin. He admires the way you look, head lolled to the side, eyes static under heavy lids, jaw slack, until it’s too much, until he needs to see you high on his doing once more. Without warning he lifts you. The collar of his shirt is damp, his cheeks are flushed, his hair a mess.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable for round two.” Your best friend Dick Grayson says as he cradles your body in his arms. 

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

On Tattered Cloaks

Part four of this pirate!au. You didn't really think your husband wouldn't track you down, did you? ~4.5k words

Quiet sobs start to fade to disbelieving giggles. It really was that easy. All of your husband's promises had vanished with just one careful plan and a few moments alone.

You were actually getting away. You actually managed to flee his presence without letting him catch you. It's all made worse at how painfully simple it was.

He had been nearly perfect in the market, everything you had missed in the years apart. He wanted to build you a garden, a home away from the sea. He saw a life with you.

But that doesn't change that he has a life without you. Something better, something bigger without you to drag him down.

The wagons continue none the wiser to your suffering. Hours of being trapped in your own thoughts eventually come to a halt, as dirt roads turn to stone once more. Voices pick up as the wagon comes to a stop, and the canvas parts to reveal the old caravan leader.

He offers you his hand, and you hope you don't look like you've been crying as you take it. He helps you down as you murmur shaky thank yous for his generosity.

"Ah, here, you'll probably want this," he says, gently releasing your hand to pull out a decent-sized coin purse. It's filled with enough coin to buy you food and lodging for a few nights, and a ticket to the next town.

You falter, eyes darting between him and the coins, "I– Oh. I can't take this. You've already helped me so much."

His expression softens as he takes your hand and places the purse in your grip, "You've had a long journey. Take it. I insist."

"But," You start as he pulls away, "I can't pay you back."

He shakes his head faintly, sympathy crossing his features, "The look on your face was clear enough, dear. I know the signs of someone running from something. Allow me to help, at least this much."

Your shoulders slump, his words make tears want to fall all over again, "Thank you."

He shoos you along kindly, "Just be careful. It's dangerous to travel alone."

You offer him a smile and he returns it before focusing back on his cargo. You slip into the crowd without another word, heartbreak is heavy, but the old man's words make your steps a bit lighter.

It doesn't take long for you to find another caravan, offering its services to Central City. It's an easy decision to make. This town is far too small to stay in, and far too close to Star Port. All it takes is a few coin from the merchant's purse, and you're seated and traveling to the next city.

You fidget with the hair pins in your pocket as your thoughts inevitably return to your husband, to Jason. Was he looking for you? Is he relieved that the burden of his past is gone?

It's irrational, but the feeling of being followed makes your skin prick, makes your head turn to check over your shoulder as the Central City gates approaches. There's never anything there.

The guards wave the caravan through without much inspection and you find yourself in a brand new city. It's strange, to be in a city with no port. There's no cries of gulls and no smell of the sea. It's nothing like Gotham, nothing Iike Star Port. It brings a sense of security.

You're quick to leave the other travelers as the wagons stop, and you're even quicker to weave through the crowd. You make your way from the fancy, wealthy district and towards the seedier, tavern lined streets.

It takes longer than you'd like, going through the inns and taverns to look for a job, to look for somewhere to stay. Eventually, you find a sign outside of a grimy looking Tavern called The Wildcat, looking for a barmaid or barman to apply inside. The pay doesn't look exceptional, but it does offer free room and board.

The old man at the empty bar doesn't even bother to look up when you walk in. "Excuse me," You ask, "are you still hiring for the bartender job?"

He doesn't spare you a glance, just focuses on the glass he's cleaning, "yer too soft."

"I– what?" You ask, taken back.

"Yer too soft," he repeats, finally looking up at you, "couldn't handle the types we get in here."

That makes you straighten out, "I can handle whatever drunks find their way in here." It's the truth. The long days spent searching for any information at Gotham's docks prepared you enough for that.

He looks you over, but something in his eyes changes as he studies you closer. He nods, like he found what he was looking for, "Yer room is upstairs. Last door. Your shift starts in an hour."

You blink, "I– okay."

"Don't cause any trouble," he mumbles grumpily and goes back to cleaning the same glass.

It takes you more shifts than you expect to learn the owner's name. He eventually grunts out 'Ted Grant' between showing you the best way to kick the taps to get them to work. Within a few short weeks, The Wildcat becomes something like a home.

Your coworkers, who only seem to come in when it suits them, joke with you and introduce you to the best parts of central city. Cissie King pulls you onto tables to dance and she shares stories of how she misses living by the sea too. She's your first friend that's completely yours in a long time.

Ted knocks more than one handsy patron on their ass for you, and there's a story to him you haven't quite been able to get him to open up about. He pats your shoulder the first time you hit someone yourself, and murmurs how you remind him of his niece.

It's almost perfect. It really would be, if it wasn't for the dreams. Dreams of your husband, the way he used to hold you, the sound of his laugh, the color of his hair, the warm touch of his hands. His promises echo in your head, that you're his, you'd always be his. That he's going to find you, no matter how long it takes.

It makes you snap awake, grabbing at your blankets and eyes darting frantically around your empty room. Your gaze always settles on the hair pins set on your vanity. The ones you can't seem to get rid of. The silver rose seems to glimmer when you look at it.

There's an ache in your heart during mornings like this, where a part of you so desperately misses your husband. You trace the petals of the rose. You never dared to wear it, never risked even the possibility of being recognized.

The day seems to pass in a strange haze, like the calm before a storm. Not even your weekly lunch with Cissie eases the edge in your body. Every stranger seems like a threat. By the time you've returned to The Wildcat for your shift, you're jumpy.

Ted notices and waves you off to deal with the kitchen, lazily grunting that he can handle the bar himself. It's a blessing in disguise that he does.

A red-headed man swaggers through the door, and drops down at the bar. For a second, your heart drops with the idea it's Roy– but, no. Ted huffs out, "Thought I banned you, West."

The man shrugs, a boyish smile on his face as he brushes off his dark long coat, "That was ages ago."

Ted grumbles something, but you don't hear the rest of the conversation. You just see the glint of guns at the strangers side and the way his eyes lock on yours through the serving window. It makes your skin prick and the feeling of danger set in.

Nothing in his face gives away anything, but a part of you feels that he knows. He knows who you are. He knows Jason.

"Hey. Eyes off my staff," Ted snaps, waving a hand at the stranger.

'West' smiles widely, "Don't worry so much, old man. I was just leaving. Give my best to Cissie," he drawls, making his way out the door. He shoots you a wink as it closes behind him.

Ted grumbles over how he didn't even buy anything, but you can't focus, overwhelmed by the feeling of how wrong that felt. It has to be impossible, whatever that was, it can't be connected to your husband.

It's what you tell yourself as your shift ends, as you turn restlessly over in your bed, as the day passes until the next night. It's what you keep repeating right until a hooded figure walks into The Wildcat.

It's busier tonight than normal, but it doesn't stop the man from walking through the crowd and sitting in front of you at the bar. You can't ignore the figure, even if you do delay serving them by talking with other customers. The sensation of walking into a trap curls in your gut when you finally speak to him.

You ignore your unease as you smile, professional and pleasant, "What can I get for you tonight?"

You can't make out their features, concealed by the shadows of their hood, but their cold, low tone sends chills down your spine, "Rum, if you will."

"Coming right up," You chirp with a sweet smile, quickly busying yourself with pouring their drink. You set the glass in front of them, "Can I get you anything else?"

"No," They answer evenly, gloved fingers curling around the smooth glass before downing the drink with a single swing.

You take the cue to return to your other customers, but the tension doesn't leave your shoulders. He's watching you, calm and collected as his fingers drum rhythmically on the hard surface of the bar.

The night continues like this, he denies any more liquor, and even the patrons who usually are unruly and flirtatious seem mellowed in his presence. It's unnerving, so much so you find yourself in front of him again, "Would you like to close your tab?"

He nods slightly and reaches under his cloak to pull out a pouch full of coins, dropping it to the bar.

You tilt your head, whatever amount is in there greatly exceeds the cost of a single rum, "It's only a few coppers."

He seems unbothered by this, leaning forward to speak in a gravely tone, "Keep it."

Your unease is visible now, like you can feel the walls closing in, "I couldn't possibly."

The hooded figure merely chuckles and it makes you jolt, the sound quiet, low and cold and all too familiar. Chills run down your spine as he speaks again, amused, "Don't protest on my account. It's a gift."

"A gift," You ask, strained. There's no way. It's impossible it's him. You'd been so careful.

"A gift," he echoes, and his voice has a strange tone, an implication there's more to the offer, "a gift for the pretty bartender."

You pick up the pouch reluctantly, "Is there an occasion for such a generous gift?"

His fingers resume their drumming, voice still low and amused, "Call it an appreciation for beauty."

You blink, then lower your tone to match his, "Does this gift have a price? Perhaps, sir, you'd like to know when my shift ends?"

His fingers still and he tenses at your coy tone, he murmurs, almost absentmindedly, "Perhaps I would, love."

You lie easily about when you'll be free. It surprises you sometimes, how easily you've come to lie.

The hooded figure hums, you tell yourself you're imagining the disappointment in his tone, "I shall be waiting for you then, darling."

"Outside," You ask, keeping the shake that threatens to make itself known in your voice at bay, "In the alley?"

He laughs softly and nods, "The rear of the tavern will do just fine, love."

"I look forward to it," You say happily. Another lie. You have no intention of being anywhere in this city by the end of the night.

"As do I," he drawls, and for a moment neither of you move. It's a standstill, and his complete attention focuses on you in a strange, familiar way.

You watch with bated breath as he finally rises from his seat and leaves the tavern. You don't relax, immediately mumbling to Ted that you think you're going to be sick.

He doesn't get an answer out before you're taking the stairs to your room two at a time. You tug your cloak on, throw whatever you can carry into a small bag, shove the hair pins into your pocket.

You scribble an apology for Ted and Cissie onto paper, chastising yourself for not leaving after the red-headed man stared you down yesterday. You dump out the hooded figures' coin purse, quickly counting out the coins.

You freeze when you see coins aren't the only thing in the bag. There's a ring. It's beautiful. So visibly expensive and so obviously something you would wear, it makes you sick. You leave the coins for Ted. You drop the ring into your pocket alongside the hair pins with shaking hands.

Your mind races with plans and the best routes to get out of Central City as you scramble down the stairs. You stop yourself just before you take the back exit. It's too obvious. It's where he'd be waiting.

You sneak into Ted's office, it's more of a closet with a window really, and push the glass open. You drop out the window quietly into the tiny garden, the only light to guide you coming from the tavern and the moon.

You make your way carefully to the adjacent stables, constantly checking for the hooded figure over your shoulder. The shadows of the night conceal most of the area, but there's enough light to see the horses stirring within.

You wake one of Ted's horses, a young mare you convinced him to buy to help pull a wagon. You murmur a soft apology to Ted, and hope the obscene number of coins you left make up for this.

You saddle the horse quickly, and pull your hood low over your head as you pull yourself onto the mares back.

It makes your heart race, as you guide the mare from the stable, how many hiding places there are. How easily Jason and his crew could be around any corner. You head for the city gates, and goosebumps rise on your skin every time you check behind you.

There's a heavy feeling in the air, the shadows seem to reach for you as you encourage your horse out the city and onto dirt roads. You have a terrifying thought that you're being tracked. It gnaws at your mind relentlessly.

You grip the reins tighter as you ride faster. You're so far from the ocean, you've been so careful, and as you get further from the city you start to convince yourself you overreacted. It must have been nothing, only a traveler interested in the poor and pretty bartender working in a cheap tavern.

The thought is comforting, it's what you convince yourself of as you guide your horse towards an inn along the road. The hour is late, and to continue traveling only risks thieves and highwaymen.

You stable your mare, and with one more glance over your shoulder, you enter the inn. It smells of food and ale and dirt, but it's clean enough. None of the patrons seem familiar, but you pull your hood lower nonetheless.

The staff member standing over the guest book looks friendly enough as you walk over, "May I get a room for the night?"

They nod, almost uninterested, "Would you prefer a single or double?"

"Single. I also have a horse in the stable," You supply, anxious to hide away in any room they give you.

"Very well. Four silvers for the night and one for the stable," they answer, "and your name?"

You hand them the coin and lie about your name. "I'll return with your key in a moment," they say, and disappear through a curtain.

You glance towards the door as you wait. It's unexplainable, but you half expect to see Jason barge in, sword drawn, just as he did at the ball so many moons ago. It takes longer than it should for the innkeeper to come back.

"Is everything alright," You ask when they finally hand you your key.

They pause, then smile, "Apologies for the delay. We've had quite the day here today. Everyone is tired and eager to rest."

"Oh," You prompt, "is that so?"

"Indeed. We had a group of rowdy sailors stay last night, and they only left this afternoon," they answer.

"Sailors," You say, a little strained, "we're somewhat far from the ocean, aren't we?"

They nod, "They were picking over a map, quite the strange bunch. They caused a few fights with the other guests. Their captain was quite a sight."

"Their captain," You breathe out airily, heart in your throat. Any mask of a simple, curious traveler is hard to maintain as the inn keeper talks.

"Yes, his presence demanded attention. Dark red hat, more scars than I've ever seen, unruly hair. He was very intense, even as his crew joked around him," They answer, "but he paid fairly."

"I see," You mumble, forcing a smile to your face as you place a gold coin on the desk, "I do enjoy my solitude so, and I would be very grateful if you discouraged anyone from the idea that I was ever here."

The innkeeper's expression visibly shifts, greed and interest sparking in their eyes, "Of course. Your generosity is welcomed. We pride ourselves in dissuading anyone who inquires over our guests."

You smile again and head to your room in a daze, any comforting thoughts of the hooded figure not being related to Jason disappear. You have the urge to get back on your horse and keep riding. But it'd be a sure way to get hurt or robbed if you did.

You have no choice, but to wait until dawn. You settle in for the night, on edge. Sleep doesn't come easy, and the rest you do have is plagued by the color of your husband's eyes and the sound of his voice.

You're out of your room at the first rays of sunshine peeking over the horizon. It's a habit now, to tug your hood low as you drop your key on the inn keepers book. You ignore the hunger in your stomach and head straight for the stable.

The reassuring sight of your horse doesn't make you stop short, but the hooded man holding her bridle does. Neither of you speak as he pets her with gloved hands.

He's clearly no stable worker and you cross your arms at the sight, an attempt to hide your nervousness. You weigh your options, before speaking, "You're touching my horse."

He turns his head slightly at the sound of your voice, "Aye. So that I am. She's a fine stead." His voice has a subtle edge to it, almost menacing. You don't miss how his hand clenches around the reins, firm and unwavering.

"Are you going to keep touching her," You ask, and for all your plans and escape attempts, you can't think of a way out of this.

"Why shouldn't I? Such a fine beast deserves some attention, don't you think." He would sound playful, almost nonchalant if it wasn't for the challenge in his voice, daring you to confront him.

You exhale softly, stepping forward, "As much as I'm sure she adores your attention, I have somewhere to be."

He makes no move to release his hold on your horse's bridle, and you can feel how his gaze roams over you. He shrugs, dismissive and his tone dips almost condescendingly, "Do you now? What a shame. I was just beginning to delight in our little conversation."

"What is there to delight in," You bite back, fed up with the arrogance he exudes.

He lets out a laugh, his grip tightening on the reins before releasing it completely. He drops his hand to the pommel of the sword slung on his hip. "Ah, there's the spark I've been hoping for," he muses, voice low and laced with humor, "You're not one to bow down easily, are you, treasure?"

You stiffen, and it's like jumping into a cold river in the early morning and a harsh punch to the gut. He called you treasure. There's only ever one person who's called you that. It's a chilling, unarguable fact that your husband has tracked you down with a relentless determination.

Your eyes dart, scrambling for a plan. He has a sword. He's too close to your horse. You'd be lucky if you outrun him. He likely paid off anyone in the tavern that would help.

He steps towards you, tension mounting, "What's the matter, love? You've gone so quiet."

"How?" You ask sharply.

He tuts, unimpressed, but his voice is laced with satisfaction, "Well it wasn't luck, treasure. Do you think I'd be foolish enough to rely on mere luck when it comes to matters as important as this? No, no, my love. I used every resource at my disposal. Connections, favors, whispered words in the right ears, all to find you"

You imagine he looks smug right now, that despite all your careful steps, he still found you, "Take off your hood," You bite out.

His demeanor changes, any playful mockery gone as his hand tightens on his sword, voice dripping with danger, "Why should I?"

"Why wouldn't you?" You retort, hands dropping to your sides. It's not a secret who either of you are anymore, even he hasn't said your name, and you haven't said his.

He stares at you, as if weighing the pros and cons of the action, "Very well, treasure." With a steady motion, he draws his hood back, revealing a cascade of dark hair framing his face, the sunlight illuminating his features, rugged and determined and familiar, Jason.

He looks harsher. It's only been a handful of months but something about him seems off. His gaze is more intense, shoulders more stiff.

You try to reconcile your memories of your smiling husband with the man in front of you as he sets his jaw, "You look different," You tell him.

There's suspicion in his eye when you drop your hood as well, but his gaze darts over you greedily. "It has felt like an eternity without you. The months where I couldn't find you..." his voice trails off as he studies you, "it shouldn't be surprising that I look different."

"It was nothing compared to when you were missing," You say flatly, trying to keep your emotions in check.

Your husband's gaze darkens, and pain and frustration etches themselves onto his features, "Perhaps that's true, treasure."

His voice grows bitter, but his longing is clear as he continues to speak, "Yet, every moment apart feels like a lifetime. This aching absence, the unbearable uncertainty, it haunts my soul day and night. Can you blame me for taking drastic measures to find you?"

"Drastic measures?" You ask, voice pitching with surprise.

Jason's face hardens, eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity, "I have left no stone unturned, no resource untapped. I've sent men to scour every corner, paid off every informant, and spared no expense."

He stares you down, voice resolute and unyielding, "So let me make one thing clear, treasure, I am not the same man I was before I lost you. I won't hesitate to use whatever means necessary to keep you by my side."

Your breath hitches, "I– your crew must hate me for that," You say softly. What you really mean to say is, 'you must hate me for that'.

His eyes soften as he registers your words and he closes the distance between you two, "Hate you? No. No one hates you, my love. You're a part of me. They understand that."

The way he says it sounds like a fact. You're not completely sure if it is. "Treasure," he continues, "my heart bleeds for you more than anything in this world."

"Then why was it so easy for me to leave?" You choke out the question that's been haunting you since that day in the market, hands curling in the fabric of your cloak.

Irritation flashes in his eyes, clearly you struck a nerve, "Easy? You underestimate your own cunning, love. I should have been more cautious that day, but don't mistake my momentary lapse of judgment as weakness on either of our parts."

You scoff and he steps forward to hook his finger under the clasp of your cloak, drawing you closer, "I was blinded by my own heart. You should know you've always had a way of making me lower my guard."

Your eyes widen. He's close. You can see the flecks in his eyes, the older scar lines on his face. Your voice is strained when you speak, "Why are you doing that?"

His brow furrows slightly, "Doing what? Talking to you?"

"Yes!" You lament, "that! Humoring me. What's your plan?"

"You want to know my plan," he drawls, dropping his hand from your cloak, "I'll tell you, my love. Allow me to make this perfectly clear, I'm pursuing you, humoring this conversation, leaving that ring for you," your fingers twitch towards the ring in your pocket unconsciously, a movement he devours eagerly.

He leans down, voice lowering as he continues, "because my plan is simple. I'm not letting you go again. I'm not allowing you to slip through my fingers and disappear into the ether."

His gaze is unwavering, studying your every reaction to his words, "What, no protest, treasure? No arguments?" He straightens back out, "Perhaps you recognize the futility of resistance by now."

"I don't know. I didn't really think I'd get away the first time," You admit quietly, his words swirling in your head.

A wry smile tugs after his lips, and pride over his ability to hunt you down and your own ability to get away slip into his expression. "Yes, it was rather an impressive feat, how long you managed to hide," he confesses, begrudging admiration in his voice, "But rest assured, my love, it won't happen again."

"Why couldn't you just let me go," You ask, pained. That should be what you really want, to free him and you of the endless waltz around each other. But a secret, small part of you is happy to see him.

He breathes out your name, voice longing and resigned, "Every fiber of my being screams for you. My heart and soul belong to you, they always have."

He says your name again, softly, gently. He grabs your arms, wrinkling the fabric of your cloak as he meets your eyes steadily, "I cannot let you go."

Part Five

[comradeocean]

"I have found myself talking out loud to you, hoping you can hear me" is a bonkers way for a celebrity to begin a public memorial statement less than 24 hrs after the death happened by someone who has possibly not personally spoken to the dead person in question for almost ten years. I cannot stop thinking about it.

In 2013, Channel 4 did a documentary called Crazy About One Direction that featured a number of high octane waaaay out there fans. I think the band was asked about it during an interview; Louis and the others basically disavowed it, saying it was an unfair representation of girls who like One Direction and the fanbase in general. He wasn't being totally selfless in sticking up for the fans, because some of those girls were profoundly sad and lonely, maybe unwell. And if your mission is to be marketed as a fun-loving carefree boyband, the last thing you'd want to be associated with are young, maladjusted, friendless girls.

Anyway, at one point, one of the girls interviewed says:

Twitter is like a prayer place. When you go to a prayer place, you feel like you’re connected to God. So when you’re on twitter, you feel like you’re connected to 1D. You just have hope. [audio description alt-text: an image of Louis as Jesus Christ]

Zayn is also the only one of the boys to have crossposted his message to twitter.

The thing about One Direction being an accident, sure, a manufactured accident, but an accident nonetheless, is that they were guileless going in, and it showed. I've been mainlining old videos this week, trying to compare those early xfactor days with their contemporaries who were trying to break out around the same time. With everyone else, it was always a band full of Liams: intensely driven little freaks. Sorry, freak is maybe too mean a word to describe that particular mix of hunger and desperation to be accomplished, to be famous, and at the bottom of it all: to be liked. There's been a conscious shaping of the persona in service of those goals: they've learned to dance, to perform, to give pitches, soundbites, hit camera marks on cue. Most of them were also older, in their early to mid twenties. It's not inconceivable to imagine such a trajectory for the most diehard theatre kid you knew from school who decided after uni or whatever ~ to follow their dreams ~. That was the more typical boyband background. (not Liam though. lad was fourteen. he was closer to another subspecies of the genus: the child star)

And 1D in contrast were unpracticed, unstudied, as Zayn put it in that slightly off-kilter way of his (which I always imagine to be indicative of a disjunction between the vocabulary one encounters in school and what everyone around them is used to speaking), "novice children."

Like, truly, they did not give a fuck cos it hadn't yet occurred to them they were supposed to. Liam aside, industry norms were a complete mystery to them, and for many years, they managed to inhabit that sweet spot of flippancy without contempt, whether it was about the project, themselves, or their audience. Liam tells the story about being the go-between for xfactor stylists and the boys and getting into so much trouble on their behalf for wearing human-sized babygrows during a video diary. "Because Westlife would never wear those." [The punchline he then delivers is that Westlife members were pictured wearing onesies soon after. (quite possibly due to how viral anything 1D-related got)]

The boys were so immature. The whole boyband thing had fallen into their laps. They were just happy to be there! This thing that they didn't even know they wanted, they somehow got, and it took the shape of four other boys in exactly the same situation. It comes across very strongly how taken they were with themselves and each other. Find yourself a guy who looks at you the way blah Larry Stylinson blah blah Ziam blah blah blah. Never mind that cos they were all actually so hyped with each other. Any time any of them says anything remotely clever, or funny, or notable, the rest of them lose their shit like they're in on the same hilarious joke. Even if there was no actual joke. Their entire existence at that point was the joke bc how on earth had they landed from where they'd been — small deadend towns hollowing out from deindustrialization — to where they ended up — the xfactor house headed for the very top about to win it all, in the way they did — saved from bootcamp elimination at the last minute, with who they did — four other working class boys they would have never been friends with in another life. It must have been a high like a kind of limerence, like finding long lost family members on the exact same wavelength, like love.

And that was the other key thing about the stratospheric rise of One Direction. We didn't love One Direction only because we loved this or that member. We loved them because they loved each other, because they loved themselves, because they loved us. And they used the internet to show it.

In 2010, mass social media platforms were in their nascence, which is to say, the exploration of how to be a person, with other people, online, at a broad level not limited to specific subcultures, was in its nascence. For many years now, given the levels of extreme over-exposure, the dominant mood has become the mortifying ordeal of being perceived and so on. We've somehow all adopted mini-celebrity mindsets of our own, weary of being exposed to the maw of an unseen public. To be known is to be surveilled.

But the boys individually and at the collective level invited surveillance back then. Because the inverse — to be surveilled is to be known — seemed more relevant for that moment, at the beginning. They made a point of living their newfound lives at least partially online.

They were constantly on twitter, they livestreamed with a dedication that rivaled x-factor video producers, and none more so than Liam. It was already reality tv, this was just the next bleeding edge of "real": the unfiltered, unedited, direct sharing of yourself and what you loved in the last days of the old free-as-in-freedom internet.

When they said, over and over again, that it was all about the fans, it was meant in a very literal sense. Social media and the reality it created produced a feedback loop between the love they had for each other and the band, and the love we had for them, until it was inseparable: their relationships, our relationships, the process itself. Parasociality as it is currently manifested might have found its first mass expression through One Direction.

In separate interviews from This is Us (2013) deleted scenes, Liam and Louis say that Zayn wears his heart on his sleeve. Yet within the best-friends-slash-brothers-for-life schema cultivated as the One Direction vibe, he did not seem necessarily exceptional in his frequent declarations of love and fellow-feeling for various band mates. What he did ultimately end up doing was pulling the trigger on the contractual form their relationships were bound within, such that the I-love-you's inevitably passed from unpracticed to rote to a mandatory matter of their livelihoods. Someone had to be the first to explicitly and consciously decide that this "love" was no longer something they could continue participating in.

From the same set of deleted interview, in a somewhat fitting twist of symmetry, Louis and Zayn go on and on (much longer than Niall or Harry) about how Liam had been the serious and sensible one, but they've managed to corrupt him a little. It makes sense to assume that Zayn is referring to the band in general, but one can also read it to mean the two of them specifically, being the eldest, and their meta-cognition of the terms and conditions imposed by One Direction as a phenomenon.

The love the members of One Direction had for each other and the band and the fans was undeniably "real." The making of that "realness" was conditioned by the x factor throwing together four boys who had very little reference for what the fuck they had gotten themselves into, and Liam. Liam was the intermediary. He was already a creature twisted up and contorting, trying his level best to wedge himself into whatever spaces there could be found in the juggernaut of the entertainment industry. His neuroses and anxieties made the rest of One Direction possible, made One Direction "real" and "not like the other boybands" because that DNA, that what-not-to-do instruction manual could just be crammed into him, and the rest of them could be let loose into the world, unburdened by expectation, free to not give a fuck.

Louis and Zayn's raw, unpolished, typo-ridden letters were the most direct and irrefutable way they knew to swear fidelity to the boy they knew, the band they built, and the lives they lived together. The unfathomable ether of the internet, of the fans, of the massed publics seen and unseen made them, it destroyed their senses of self in ways they could weather until they couldn't, and it's into this ether they send their words, their grief, something real of themselves. Because in the universe of One Direction, this is the orthopraxis by which one proclaims one's faith and one's hopes. This is the prayer place that transcends distance, time, even death. This is how their brother could somehow, some way, still feel their love.

[gladiatorcunt]

- JOYRIDE / VIII.

i drink the honey inside your hive

cw: kinktober prompt (daddy kink), southern florist president’s secret child!reader x secret service agent!toji, reader has a vagina, tits used to refer to your chest, age gap (toji is 47 and reader’s early-mid 20’s), dad bf type shit, willing to expand on this, hints of political intrigue and fictional plots, toji x your mom mention, implied and eventual betrayal (not of reader), typical politician behavior, parental neglect & it’s consequences, anal & lack of proper anal prep, dirty talk, light pet play, arguable one sided incest role play & possible actual incest, plus sized!reader, gun play mention, underlying mental health issues, mention of itafushi, flower language, dead dove do not eat

please do not repost, translate, or feed this work to ai

kinktober 2024

“There. After nearly breaking my back, the seeds are all planted, finally.”

You'd like to be buried under this magnolia tree, it would be a pretty funeral. Black outfits against the white backdrop of rare winter snow. You have big dreams for this sapling, clearly, as unassuming and drab as it appears freshly planted in the soil of your garden. The ones you’re mom took care of are all gone, maybe they got up and walked after her to somewhere on the horizon. If it doesn’t get so hot the state gets put under another burn ban next summer, this little thing should grow into a beautiful thing that obviously showcases how not depressed you are.

Could a depressed person cope with grief by growing a new life? Well, you wouldn’t know, coping isn’t on your to-do list for a long time if ever. What’s the point of getting better when you’re just going to feel bad again?

Whatever, you shake your head and head back into the shop, you have bills to pay and moping around won’t do anything to help with them. Since you live in a pretty small town, it’s a slow day like always. That is until a tough looking man steps in through the door, opening it and making the bell ding.

His loud sports car is still on and roaring outside, a bright yellow Alfa Romeo 4C.

The man notices your wandering eye and smirks, “You like it, doll? Didn’t take you for someone who’d be interested in cars.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s cool. Must have cost you a lot.”

“Nah. I bought it off one of my buddies at work, fixed it up myself. Well, me and my son’s boyfriend that is. You lookin’ to get somethin’ like that for yourself?”

You’re not really on the market for one, no, because it’s loud as hell and practically rumbling in your ear. You rub it off and ask him what he wants, forgetting some of your politeness, but this man doesn’t seem like he’d care if you spit in his face and kicked him in the balls.

“I’m not from around here.” He rasps and adjusts his sunglasses, leaning one heavy arm on the counter and cocking his hip out, “DC, actually. I’m lookin’ for somebody. You could call it confidential business.”

You hum and narrow your eyes, “Unless that confidential business involves a funeral or getting out of the doghouse with somebody, I can’t help you.”

Suddenly you remember your mother telling you about a big shot politician that knocked her up with you, how he hid you both away when she told him she was pregnant. Your mother was down on her luck 16 year old diner girl, and apparently the politician knew all too well how to use and discard her. The money was enough for your mom to give up her dreams and keep you in this town. When you’ve lived so long without what you think you should, you’re fine to obsessively make sure you never go without again.

He’s the president now anyway, even more reason to make sure you’re the bug that stays squashed under the rock.

The man with the mouth scar notices and decides to drop the act, sighing and taking out his gun. He doesn’t shoot you, just scratches underneath his chin with the puzzle and pointedly makes eye contact with you.

“Okay, let’s cut the shit. My name’s Toji Fushiguro, and I know that you’re who I'm after just as much as you know why i’m here, so why don’t ya just appreciate that y’r old man wants you back and come with me?”

You grit your teeth but you know there’s only one way this interaction is going to end is with you getting in the passenger seat of this nutjob’s car. He watches you shut everything off in the shop and leave a message for the only other employee, asking them to take over until you can come back. He’s a gigantic wolf, tall and silent in the corner, keeping his eyes constantly on his prey. Toji’s never let a bunny or prickly house cat out of his sight in his entire career, but in his current line of work it’s at least legal. Essentially.

“Pretty flowers ya got here.” He says, prolonging your unease. “Maybe his office could use some of these, dull ass beige box that it is.”

Your lips quirk up despite the awful situation, “Yeah I guess. The camellias are new, but hellebores are my favorites, I think. Not many people are into flowers this time of year, but I don’t have anything else to do.”

Toji nods, leading you out of the shop with a hand at the small of your back and oddly content to let you stress babble.

“I’m nowhere near good enough to do arrangements for the White House anyway, regardless of who’s sitting all cozy in it.” You spit and bite one of your nails, nipping at a piece of a hangnail. “Probably’d just throw some buttercups, yellow carnations, orange lillies on the floor, a bit of aconite in there too.”

You know that the agent corralling you into his car doesn’t have a damn clue what you’re talking about, but he seems at ease the more you relax into the leather car seat.

You make yourself fall asleep when he puts the car into drive and speeds down the street.

You’ve been in DC for about a week now, without ever actually meeting your dad of course but you’ve met plenty of his staff after Toji introduced you. He’s a secret service agent, who was given the special task of watching over the president’s only child, you can tell he’s not that happy about it.

Probably not as much action as there’d be in his usual position, you’re very willing to go with their plans of you laying low and staying inside most of the time. You’re still so confused, none of this makes any sense at all. You’ve lived your whole life without being involved in any of this but it’s only when your mother’s dead and your father can’t ignore you anymore that he wants to claim you?

It’s all another move in the game towards the re-election. At least he’s a better president than a father, but that’s not by much. Promises to address climate change and the country’s oil dependance getting pushed to the side, worsening class issues and trickle down economics, putting up more anti-homeless measures. You wish you felt like you could leave, but the tiny sliver of hope that by some weird miracle you could do something keeps you from being bold.

There’s nothing you could actually do anyway, you’re never going to be a part of the groups that their agendas support. You’ll always be the small town reject who saw meth addicts at the local gas station more than your own father.

You and Toji have gotten closer, by necessity and the sheer oddity of being polar opposites. You’re both equally as prickly though in different ways, birds of a molted feather. He’s there when you wake up, there during your mundane day, and there outside your door when you go to sleep. Even if you wouldn’t have liked your “bodyguard”, and you’re not sure you do, the distance between the two of you decreasing was inevitable.

He delivers you food, opens your jars, fixes the pipes in your penthouse, drives you everywhere you want to go in the city, carries your books for you in a bookstore, kneels down beside you in the dirt so he can help you with weeding out your garden, and keeps an itemized list of period supplies and your favorite things.

Your favorite minor holiday is national cherry day, he puts a reminder on his phone with the help of his son to always stop by the supermarket and get you some.

You feel like Whitney Houston right now, and if late at night you listen to her albums more than your mom did growing up, fantasizing about a 40+ year old man who treats you like a bug he has to keep alive, then no one has to know.

But no other man’s gonna do

So i’m saving all my love for you

You also think he’s going to assassinate your father. Sometimes you’ll hear hushed whispers late at night between Toji and someone on the phone, he’ll break protocol and leave you alone to duck into another person’s office and end up leaving with a grim look on his face.

You’ve seen the logs he keeps of your father’s whereabouts, which he should have anyway. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but you get the most awful storm in your gut when you see them under a gun that’s never been fired, like it has a special purpose.

You only speak to your father briefly, tense hellos and goodbyes exchanged over the bridge of a too tight handshake. You immediately expressed your distaste for being involved in his political career and he accepted that, letting you galavant on your merry way around town with his most dangerous agent. Ahead of Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Nanami Kento, and Sukuna Ryomen, your father’s closest gaggle of hyenas.

You call them that because you could easily imagine drool dripping from their jowls if they felt so inclined to attack, to devour.

They give Toji their own versions of the same look when you pass them in the halls or they need to meet to give security updates, watching and waiting.

They only give you smiles, of every shape and size.

It’s easy to get a closer look at what your father does, the lives he ruins. Peace can only be an option for so long before other courses of action have to be considered. You don’t know Toji’s motives, this could just be another murder for hire paid for by one of your father’s political rivals. You doubt his heart is that deeply invested in those sorts of things, he’s made himself too apathetic, but you can tell that he still cared a little bit. He told you once that he’s had children who grew up starving before he got the job he has now.

They’re your age now, but he’d still do anything to keep it, to support them.

And then you think that maybe someone who’s only ever been abandoned knows what it’s like to hoard any good thing you can get your grubby hands on.

You give him own little bouquet of flowers one day, half because you’re going stir crazy as the weeks go by with Toji being all you know and half because you think you do want him to kill your father.

Purple Orchid.

Red Lily.

Red Anemone.

Gloriosa.

Red Delphinium.

Red Clematis.

Genista.

The next day, he’s barking at you to get packed for a stay at one of the out of the state safe houses. Don’t ask questions, protocol means you heed his warning and hop back in that canary yellow mid life crisis status symbol.

The tension was bound to be cut with a knife, the whole ride to the safe house is filled with sideways glances and slipknot blaring from the speakers. You have the same uneasy feeling that you do anytime Toji even hints at something being wrong, but something seems especially wrong this time. It’s not your job to worry about it though, and the older man tells you as much.

“Shut y’r trap, alright? You never have to get your panties in a twist when y’r with me, sorta.”

The safe house is as boring as expected, something out of a kindergartener's drawing. One story cube shaped, small roof, faded brown door.

You're only in the tiny kitchen for a second when Toji locks the door and comes to prop himself up on the counter, licking his scar.

He chuckles, “You’re a lot different than I thought you'd be, ya know that?

“I could say the same about you, I mean not really, but there are things I was surprised by.” You retort and sort through the cabinets, picking what cereal you’re going to stress eat tonight.

He comes around the counter and his hands slide from the tile to grip your waist.

“Yeah? Like what, doll?” Is cooed right in front of your mouth when Toji leans down.

You’re not immune to the proximity, your heart does a factory reset. “I never knew you could be so sweet, Toji.”

You’re not supposed to refer to him by his name, but you can’t let the word you secretly want to say slip out. You’d have to tell the employee back at your flower shop to be ready to claim the insurance policy on it after you go back and set yourself on fire.

But God, the miserable man looming over your bunny-tense figure really is sweet, distantly warm in the way a generally emotionally unavailable father is. But Toji’s the kind that would actually give you something to hold close to your heart over his long stretches of being absent until months go by and he tries to be better again.

You’re glad Sigmeund Freud isn’t an immortal vampire who would still be around to psychoanalyze you to shreds.

“Sweet to you maybe, ‘cause I have to be.”

“My dad couldn’t care less if you beat me silly.”

“I know.”

He never once said it was your father that compelled him to be as gentle with you as he is. A woman he met decades one, shacking up with an up and coming politician who he didn’t even try and pretend to be better then. They hooked up once and then he met his late wife, but months later the woman from his one night stand swore the baby in her belly wasn’t his. He never asked for a paternity test.

He never will, he’s already enough like your Daddy anyway, there’s no point in getting a confirmation or a denial to what his soul (and his cock) knows is good enough for a rat bastard like him.

You come out of your shame spiral as he splays one of his beefy gigantic hands out on the counter so you don’t get cold when he pushes your head down.

“I’d kill your old man if he kept me from this ass pussy, but it ain’t like he could if he tried.” Toji grunts, pendulous balls slapping your ass like a couple of grapefruits with every rough thrust in your puckered hole.

You gave up on being shy as soon as he clamped a hand around your throat to direct the first kiss you’d share. “Daddy- ngh, you’re gonna break me”.

His hand is so warm, your cheek squishes against the grooves and minor cracks in his skin as your head bobs forward. Despite you already being pressed down into the kitchen counter as much as humanly possible, Toji seems determined to force you to become one with it.

He gropes your thick ass cheeks, watching them bounce and jiggle as his burly hips slam against you continuously. Performance art in its truest form, whiney little baby pushing their hips back to take him even deeper in their fat ass. He didn’t have the means to properly prep you, just spit on his hand and massaged it into your already wet rim and called it a day. No condom either, but he can probably save the pussy job and it's obvious consequences until after your old man’s been made to lie face down in the dirt.

“I like the way your cunt sits under your squishy belly, ‘s pouting, baby. Both you and your pussy are clingy as fuck, huh?” He laughs deeply, reaching the hand that’s not under your face to smack your clit.

Your empty cunt gets wetter at the teasing, clenching around nothing because Toji likes to play pretend that he can be halfway considerate to the poor thing until he can’t. You want it too much right now, when you’re all loopy from his mean pounding in your ass is the moment he’ll regretfully have to pull himself out to sheath his hung length in your chubby pussy.

You moan, thought it gets precariously close to a wail the longer it goes on. “Daddyyyyyyy, oh fuck, shit- ‘m gonna tear.”

Your words end in a squeal of delight, your off the cuff rambling driving Toji to speed up his thrusts to piston his fat cock harder into your ass. Like he almost wants it to tear, your biological daddy gave you some nasty emotional scars, let your real one leave you with a couple physical ones. That’s what good daddies do, they take care of their babies and always give them something to remember them by when they won’t like their ancient relic of a father so much.

“Now don’t get mad at me, but- Oh, fuck- i was gonna kill ya, that was the plan. Take ya back, blow your brains out in front of your dad, make ‘im piss his pants because he knows he’s next.” He smiles knowingly when his hand on your clit feels it throb at his dark thinking-out-loud musings, wishing he could scrunch his fingers all up in your scalp and roughly pet you. “You like it like that, baby bunny? Daddy gets you gooey and syrupy sweet when he touches you, huh? Could just gobble you up whole, bones and all.”

Fuckin’ hell, you’re more precious than diamonds or gold or any loot he could’ve swiped from your old man’s crib. He’ll have to remember to slide his cock between your slick girls later, soap them up in the freestanding bathtub and spill his thick off white load all over them. You’ll lick up what you can but cleaning you up is obviously Daddy’s job, slurping up his own jizz like a wolf smoothing his rowdy pup’s fur down, nuzzling his nose in the valley of your tits and in the crook of your armpits.

“Daddy-” Your mouth gapes, little punched out ‘unh-unh-unh’s fly out of your mouth as your ass ripples. A few of your hairs stick to your forehead and you look over your shoulder, flushed and overwhelmed.

He just said he was going to kill you, you couldn’t even say when he changed his mind if he’s even telling the truth. But all you can focus on is that you really hope no other security personnel arrive at the safe house to check on you, whatever the fuck you’re doing definitely isn’t protocol.

Toji leans forward and scruffs the back of your neck with his canines, nipping the skin and leaving a mark as he slams his hips forward again. His grip on your love handles becomes iron clad and binding, wishing on a shooting star for bruises to form. He plunges in to the hilt with every thrust and gnaws at your sloped shoulder, he’s gonna cum and fill your cute little butt up. Pump your backdoor so full of cump it bulges and trickles down your trembling thighs.

You keen brokenly, floating up and away into his kiss. Which is basically more of an affectionate bite, but his tongue is mapping out your teeth and your cherry chapstick lips glide against his cold weather chapped ones. So it can be technically considered a kiss, but it leaves you reeling, someone just smashed a rock into your face and you’re collapsed on the ground unable to walk it off.

You try to squirm away from the earth shattering pleasure.

“What i’d say about givin’ me a chance, doll? Anyway, you were good as dead until I actually laid eyes on ya. Pretty thing, soft heart with a softer touch, ripe for the picking and left all alone…”

He can feel you getting close, you’re humping back against him like a bunny in heat as his thumb does a frenzied dance on your clit. He slides his big hand up your body to strum your nipples, his soft as a butterfly’s wing touch contrasting deliciously with his diabolically rough strokes.

In the fantasy he coos in your ear and asks if you agree that he did such a good job making this body, didn’t he? He twists his wrist on your pert bud, timing his ministrations with the upwards angled stroke of his cock. Your whimpering, his thick tip hitting the sensitive place you’ve never been able to reach with your fingers or your extra large toys.

“Fill me up, Daddy, please.” You beg, tears streaming down your face and sticking to his hand cushioning you. You turn your head the tiniest bit to wetly smack your lips together, kissing the rugged appendage. “It’s so hungry, I need it, give it up to me already. Not goin’ anywhere.”

Your cock-crazed eyes widen in panic whenever he acts like he’s gonna pull out, allowing you only the tip before grinning and sliding all the way home once again.

“Don’t worry, baby. I fixed it, didn't i? Got you all plugged up and owned doll, would sooner ride the muzzle of Shiu’s gun than kill ya now. Y’r soakin’ my balls so goddamn good.”

“Thank you, Daddy. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you-“

Holy fuck, you can’t breathe. You can’t fucking breathe because how can you when all the air in your lungs is beaten out of you by some 47 year olds’s massive cock. The coarseness of his body is so right for you, abrasive where you’re soft and riddled with signs of being battleworn where your body’s only enemy is you. You feel split right down the middle and you’re half afraid that when Toji eventually pulls out, you’ll fall apart and actually become two bleeding halves of a whole fucked out person.

Your clit throbs at the mental image of his hairy swallowing the muzzle of a gun, Toji licks his lips and mercifully lets you reach behind yourself to claw at his rippling muscular glutes as he fucks you. Your ass squeezes his cock in a vice like grip as you shoot your load onto the pale wood laminated floor below. Your ass cheeks jiggle as your hips jump forward, grinding against the air as you get it all out. Riding that lightning off to who knows where.

“Jesus, oh, Jesus- You’re so fucking insane, Jesus Christ!”

At least Daddy will be there, because you’re certain you’re gonna crave keeping him inside and Toji seems like a terrible guy to try to do cockwarming with.

“Shit, baby bunny, this bouncy cottontail is gonna milk me dry, take me for all my money, isn’t that right honey bunny?” His voice is coated with sickenly toe curling condescension.

He roars a guttural groan, his nails forming crescent shaped indents in your hips as he pushes his cock as far as it can go and spurts his hot cum into your ass with a gruff grunt. He can feel your walls spasm around his dick, the sensation hurtles him further over the edge and his hips jerk and the joints begin to creak from the effort.

He’s not the wild and reckless young man who fucked your mother anymore, but you have him all wrong if you think he’s going to roughouse your shit any differently.

When you’ve both calmed down, his salt and pepper stubble gives you beard burn between the fleshy globes, punctuated by a breathless snicker and a barely there peck to your ass hole.

“Sleep in tomorrow, baby bunny” He says abruptly, his tone dropping to become startlingly serious. “I’ll bring back some breakfast for ya, give you a massage. I better come back and find your adorable ass right where I put it to bed, ya hear me?.”

“Yes, Daddy. ‘Said I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He pats your lower back, curling his thick digits around an invisible ball of fur.

[velvetures]

Vulnerable pt.1?

A/N: A not-so-little thing I've had for a few weeks, and wanted to see if a part two was something anyone would be interested in reading. If so, please let me know. Summary: You try and get Ghost to relax after a harsh mission and find a bit of a quiet moment. T/W: not proofread :)

Bad intel led to you and your Lieutenant being nearly hunted down and killed by a not-so-small group of arms dealers who caught on quickly to the pair of foreigners lingering just a little bit too close to their sheltered storage garage right in the middle of a market district in the South East. The task force assumed sending in an entire squad would be overkill just for some simple recon information and decided that you and Ghost would be the perfect pair for the job. ‘In and Out…’ Price had said quite offhandedly, sliding the prepared information in two files across the table to you. Only Price’s sources hadn’t double-checked if the area was secure enough for them to enter without full backup on standby. Not necessarily a lethal kind of mistake when bringing you and the Lieutenant into the equation, but there were too many close calls and stray bullets that were clearly heard for either of you to feel super confident in getting away unscathed.

Your only savior was a small farmhouse that had been recently abandoned due to the illegal and dangerous activity that had been surrounding the small city. Modest in size with two bedrooms and running water. Perfect for a makeshift safe house to keep the trackers off your asses until an extraction could be arranged and put into motion. Contrary to belief, the 141 didn’t have the bottomless pit of resources everyone believed they had at their disposal. Which included access to evac and trained air-support teams. This wasn’t a big mission that had a lot of working parts and multiple organizations involved that had enough liquidated funds to through out for a helo and heavy gunners to rescue two operators from the middle of who-the-fuck-knows-where.

That means with busted equipment, inoperable comms, hardly enough ammunition to fight out of a wet paper bag, and zero way of knowing when and if you’d be rescued, there was nothing left to do but try and relax in one of the most difficult predicaments. It left you searching through cabinets for maybe some kind of food to keep the both of you while Ghost did one of his favorite things. Pacing the house from window to window looking for the slightest bit of movement. The trouble being, there wasn’t anything for at least two miles in any direction. The people who owned this place were farmers of some sort, and had placed their home right in the middle of crop fields that gave a very advantageous sightline. While that information gave you quite a bit of comfort, it was not effecting Ghost positively in the slightest.

Your relationship with the Lieutenant was complex, to say the least. When you were first introduced it was for a succession of short co-op missions that were nothing if not brief and very impersonal leaving you with more questions than answers about the man who stayed hidden under the mask. Through some talks that you hadn’t been privy to being in the room for, John Price decided that your skills would be more useful to Task Force 141 than for the U.S. Division of Clandestine Service and offered you a position that you couldn’t possibly decline.

By day-in and day-out contact with Ghost, you got a lot more comfortable with him and learned much of his little idiosyncratic behaviors. Maybe a little too well…. He didn’t particularly act much differently towards you in the grand scheme of things, but something in you felt like trust had been developed to where he could depend on you when the situation called for it.

“Go hit the rack, I’ll take first watch.” He called gruffly from the living room where he had moved a chair from the kitchen to sit facing the front door head on with his MP5 resting lazily on his chest.

You couldn’t help but notice just how damn tired he looked under all that gear and through the black smeared around his eyes. He couldn’t be carrying less than one hundred pounds on him right now; even sitting in that chair with it wasn’t a good enough solution. Let you take a moment or two for yourself, stripping out of your tac vest and heavily weighted gear to drop it on top of the kitchen counter with a little grunt. Two days ago you both got the luxury of sleeping, and since then it’s been nothing but being on the run.

This would be the safest place for you that wasn’t in the belly of an evac bird, and the thought of Ghost not taking the time to sleep sat in your mind like a lead sinker. Leaning against the doorway and watching him for a long moment, you start having thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. Ones that normally wouldn’t surface if you’d been able to separate working with Ghost from the more personal aspect of literally sharing almost every part of your life with him. Thoughts about how you could make him feel better… even if just for the night. That no one was around for miles and whatever happened could safely stay between the pair of you.

By utter carelessness of your position with the team or lack of fear about how the Lieutenant might respond, you walk into the living room and kneel down right in front of him with your fingers reaching out to unlace his dusty boots. Off instinct alone, you expected and watched as his foot flinched away from you. His whole body jumps and stiffens at the contact and sight of you kneeling on the floor. He quickly pauses and collects himself, taking several moments before his gravelly voice breaks the silence.

“What’re you doin’ Sergeant?” His eyes grew heavy and showed more expression than the rest of his massive body as they flashed with confusion and a little swell of anger. That aloofness didn’t hide that slight guardedness of something that made him uncomfortable in one way or another.

“I’m perfectly capable of takin’ care of my fuckin’ self.” He adds with zero discernible sign of either offense or gratitude. You can’t help but smile tiredly, feeling like you’re attempting to soothe a feral wolf into letting you pull it’s paw out of trap.

“I never said you couldn’t L.T.,” You reply gently, reaching back to start unhooking the laces from their claws on his left foot. “Just thought you couldn’t use some affection.” Smirking to yourself, you can’t help but think something this small being considered ‘affection’ didn’t fit anyone save for Ghost. He was just too hard to approach. Walls so thick and tall that it would take someone with patience beyond that of a human to break through and see what rested behind all of that brash posturing and icy disposition.

“You know affection is something I’m averse to,” he utters, watching yet making no effort to stop you. “What you’re doin’ is unnecessary.” A small sound close to a growl escapes from behind the mask when my hand reaches to the back of his leg to help aid my effort of pulling his boot off.

Chuckling softly and sitting the boot down at your side you respond, “I know you don’t like affection,” You’re already working on the other one, purposefully moving slowly as not to overwhelm or spook him. “That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it, L.T..” You can’t help but look up at him almost exhaustedly yet still trying to be reassuring.

“M’fine without it.” He spits out quickly, looking away from your face back down to your progress on the laces, his masked face otherwise unreadable. “Didn’t ask you for this shit, Sergeant.” Tinged with an undercurrent of irritation his deep voice sounds near the bridge of turning to anger.

“Mothering me isn’t in your best interest.” He growls low and threateningly in your face as he bends down to grab the boot sitting next to you and giving it a quick look of observation before sitting it back down closer to him. You just finish taking off his other boot and sit it down next to the other without much more of a verbal fight and put a hand on his thigh to steady your sore legs as you get back up to your feet.

“I’m younger than you Ghost, I can’t mother you.” You reply, holding out your hand for him.

He doesn’t make note or stop you from using him to help yourself up, however, Ghost follows your movements carefully… closely. He’s doing everything in his power to hide his emotions, but there’s still a faint twitch of his lips when he looks down at his boots sitting at his side. You’d done something very unusual, and he knew berating you was what he should’ve done. Yet a flinch of a smile was what really moved Ghost’s mouth. It’s gone before it even surfaces, pushed down by the sight. of you holding out your little hand in front of him. The sounds of his deep breathing fill the quiet house as you both sit there unflinching of each other. The Lieutenant shifts in his chair, readjusting his rifle on his chest.

“Go to bed. It’s late.” His repeated command felt softer now. Wavering a bit with you hand still held out and your fingers wiggling a little.

“Come on,” You hold steady and patient.

Reward comes in the form of feeling Ghost’s heavy and large hand falling into yours and gripping just hard enough to allow you the phantom sensation that you’re actually helping him up from the chair, hearing a short grunt as his back straightens up. Without explanation, you lead the Lieutenant through the small house back towards the only bedroom in the house with an actual bed left behind by the owners, pulling him to the center of the room and turning around to face him.

“Put your arms up for me.”

“Excuse me?” Ghost’s frown can be heard from behind the mask. Despite his apparent bewilderment, he hesitantly obeys, extending his arms above his head with an exhale of a tense breath, looking down at you with dark and questioning eyes. “What are you doing now?”

You just smile and hum to yourself softly, reaching out to begin unclipping and unzipping the sections of his tac vest holding it on his upper body and the multiple ammo belts. Carefully draping them over you shoulder as you release his body from them one by one. Seeing the way Ghost’s body sinks into itself with the weight being pulled off after days without rest. You feel his eyes scan over you, over your hands finding ways to take off his gear for the first time in your life, feeling your way through sunch an unusual yet careful act.

“Bein’ fuckin’ ridiculous…” He growls, covering up the feelings of not being so concealed by barking at you a little.

“Shhh.” Your hush does enough to stop his quiet and brooding complaints.

Long enough for you to kneel back down at his feet and work at the thigh straps over his pants and even remove the ankle holster you’d left alone while taking off his boots. He doesn’t resist this part, just watching you undress him bit by bit with half a mind questioning just what had happened for you to start acting so strangely. You’d always been sweet. Much nicer than your job allowed for. Yet even this was quite off the edge of the character Ghost had built for you over the years. This felt downright intimate for just two operators to be doing.

Then again your shared situation wasn’t exactly one of professionalism at this point. You’d been improvising for nearly a full day just trying to stay alive. Once back on your feet, you take hold of his hand again, this time with a little less caution since you’d already touched him there, and begin pulling at the fingertips to slide his sand and dirt-cakes gloves off. Even seeing his bare skin under his gloves be seen in the dim lamplight of the house, Ghost doesn’t do more than flex his fingers once you’ve rid him of the stiff material.

Purposefully avoiding his mask, you get Ghost down to nothing more than boxers and a t-shirt, even with his help at certain parts without him growling more or acting like you were irritating him. While he still gave off a feeling of all-around grumpiness and more than a little confused as hell, you paid it no mind as you led him towards the edge of the bed and pointed to it with a short yet polite command for him to ’sit’. Right away you noticed his hesitation and the way that his shoulders and arms tensed, his attention solely on you, flashing between your eyes and mouth like he was trying to reassure himself that he’d heard you correctly. But with one small tug on his hand, he turns around and sits on the bed with his feet resting on the floor and his arms braced on both sides of him a little stiffly.

“Now what?” His voice held a bit of rasp to it as he tracked your movement from his side, seeing you climb up into the bed and position yourself on your knees behind him. The close proximity didn’t go unnoticed by the Lieutenant as he cleared his throat, once again interrupting the calm silence in the house. His tension filled the small space between you, heating the gap of air, almost electrifying it.

“Just relax Ghost.” Easily touching his shoulders, you begin working your palms flat against the slopes of his muscled neck.

Purposefully but gently rubbing at the stiff cords of muscle and introducing the sensation to him as easily as possible in the case that it was a bit too overwhelming for him all at once. You knew you’d pushed the boundaries with him much further past anything you’d expected to achieve in one night. But now that he was sitting here in front of you, it was hard not to smile brightly that he was trusting you so much. Allowing your hands to be on him. Accepting that you had positioned the both of you in a very vulnerable position that could lead to a lot more violent options than affectionate ones. Torture and nightmares had given more than a fair share to Ghost, yet he was patiently staving off his own clear hesitation so that you could play out whatever this was turning out to be.

Your command went unacknowledged just like all of Ghost’s from earlier had; His breathing steadily slowing down into a deep and rich, relaxed sort of rhythm. Power of your hands and calming attitude worked faster than you anticipated, leaving the massive man sitting between your thighs begin to release. Tension falling out of his body not only under your hands but by sight of his jaw loosening. You’re even lucky enough to spot him trying to take glances at you from the corner of his eye, only to look back ahead since you were in quite the blindspot. Taking your thumbs in a sweeping motion from the edges of his shoulders inward, you apply pressure on the back of his neck and experimentally reach higher up under the hem of his mask. A dangerous game to play. Rumbling sounds of appreciation filling your ears are better than any sort of medal you could earn or bet you’d ever cash in. His head rolls back slightly with each small circle of your thumbs and fingers, pushing against you. Silently asking for more pressure.

“Feel good?” You ask at just a whisper, not wanting to disturb the warm sort of feeling the room has right now by speaking too loud.

Under the safety of his mask, Ghost’s mouth curves into a smile hearing you. He rolls his head back again, arching slightly to accommodate your small hands struggling to find good purchase to keep working at the intensity he’d been hinting at. A much less controllable sound escapes his mouth when you begin working at a very sore spot he didn’t even know was present right at the base of his skull.

“Keep going,” His sleepy-sounding mutter makes your chest ache.

Grinning at the feeling of his harsh accent and sudden domestication you work away diligently down his back carefully and methodically so as to not miss a single thing. And while it’s not necessarily going to help him much, you go ahead and use your fingernails to gently scratch up and down. It’s then a groan interrupts your focus and you see Ghost shift on the edge of the bed. Believing you’d found the end of your time, you leaned back on your heels and expected him to get up and leave you in the bedroom alone. Watching him tug at his t-shirt and pull it over his head to toss it somewhere across the room was how you were told that Ghost did indeed want more. Only his shirt was getting in the way of something he wasn’t getting.

Hearing him give a deep sigh when your fingertips returned to his now bared skin gave you a rush of adrenaline and nearly caused you to wiggle happily that you’d been able to share this with Ghost. He leans back into you a little more, letting your hands and arms take more of the weight as he groans out;

“You’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, but not for a long time.” You answer, eyes smoothing over the muscles rippling as your hands work at them.

“You’re good,” He grunts, closing his eyes and zeroing in on how to focus his attention between your small hands working so efficiently and the conversation he’d begun. “How’d you get so good at it?” His head turns a little, trying to get at least one good look at you. He keeps shifting now, allowing him to keep you just in the edge of his periphery.

“Had a good teacher for a few years,” You answer, working in tight circles over a large ball of muscle fibers all collected just at the edge of his shoulder blade, earning another growling sound from the Lieutenant.

“Teacher? When?” He asks, giving a slow release of a deep breath giving a short indication that the muscle you’d been working to release was getting a bit uncomfortable. Pulling back for a moment just to give him and your hands a break, you hear him make a noise then lean back a little further, pressing his back against you almost like a dog wanting to be pet more.

“Don’t stop.” He requests in a husky tone. You chuckle aloud, returning your hands and taking a less aggressive approach by smoothing your palms over him in less-than-planned patterns, just enjoying feeling his tattooed and scarred skin under your hands as you think about how to answer him.

“A woman in London taught me,” you start, using your nails again on his skin softly. “In the year or so between my U.S. military discharge and acceptance into the task force with you.” You see the effect of your touch on Ghost as it takes him longer to respond and the way he keeps leaning more and more weight back into you, unable to keep himself from subconsciously trying to get closer. Wanting more whether he’d ever admit it or not. There’s no mistaking it between either of you, he’s enjoying this.

“I assume she was special to you.”

It was your neighbor just across the hallway from you. An older woman named Sarah. Eccentric in modern times, you’d always believed she must’ve been a force to be reckoned with when she wasn’t hindered by an aging body and an even more ailing mind. A massage therapist by trade, and a pianist by heart there wasn’t much that Sarah could accomplish without someone helping her once she became limited in movement living on the eighth floor of the apartment building you shared. Back then you didn’t have much in the way of contacts after leaving the country, and it led to a friendship with the old woman living across from you. Sharing stories, eating dinner together, grocery shopping together when she felt like going out, and trading some skills between each other. After telling Ghost this much with your fingers tracing out letters and shapes over his back, you can sense he’s listening carefully. And Ghost is feeling a slight fuzzy sensation building in the back of his brain, spreading out in a warm wave down to his fingertips and toes.

“She taught me massage since at the time I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my life.” Your head falls to the side, examining how the lamplight shines on ghost and deepens the already significant definition in his physique.

Ghost falls against you even more, and this time he lets his head fall back against you. Trying to counterbalance his weight and keep both of you from falling backwards with just him limp he’s becoming, you wrap on arm around his neck and hold his head in the bend of your arm. He gives another sigh, and settles against you heavily. He. looks at you in silence out of the corner of his eye listening to your explanation.

“Why was she your only friend?” You can’t help but chuckle at his question, resting your chin on his opposite shoulder and bringing your other arm under his to begin scratching and rubbing at his chest, feeling deep and puckered scars littering nearly every inch of him.

“I didn’t know anyone else. And you know me well enough to know that I’m not exactly extroverted.” You smile, tracing lightly up and down his well-defined arm. Ghost couldn’t be more comfortable laid against you.

“Sorry to hear that.” His voice low and husky with his mouth so close to your ear. “She must call or ask about you…”

You shake your head. “No. She died just before I joined you all. Her mind was… failing her. And there was some kind of accident in the middle of the night The police told me she was likely trying to get to the bathroom and fell. She apparently died on impact… they didn’t say what, but I think her head hit something.” You explain quietly. “And you and I both know that means lights out. So she didn’t suffer.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he answers as softly as he can manage after hearing the darker part of your happy memories. “How did it become… intimate, like this?” He asks, nodding to the way you were leaned up against his back with your hand tracing over every inch of him that you could reach. The longer you’ve both let this go, the more boundaries get pushed further out of reach, making it hard for either of you to really know where it could end.

You smile with a blush creeping up your neck onto your cheeks, thankful you’re somewhat hidden out of sight. “This isn’t really what she taught me,” You mutter a bit quiet. “When i was massaging you… yes. That I got taught. But this, it’s… just me.”

Out of your sight Ghost’s face flushes slightly as well, his cheeks a warm rose-color. You’re touching him in a way that he’d never expected. But hearing that you’re not just doing it for… relaxation, it’s a heavy but welcome thought. And Ghost can’t help that his body reacts to it with chills raising all over his skin despite the house being perfectly warm. He lets out a deep breath focusing on your words, repeating him over just to ensure that you’re not saying it one way and him interpreting it differently due to your hands being all over him, making him feel so good. Mind racing, heart pounding, he truly realizes just how vulnerable he is under you at this moment.

“I can stop if you’d like?” You offer, preparing to move away from him.

“No,” His hoarse voice gives away his sudden dry mouth. No matter how much your touch is affecting his body, he’s not willing to stop you right now. You’ve crossed into a level of trust that he can’t think to make you abide by anymore. It’s a foreign feeling for him, but he wants to push through it. Hoping he can feel more of you if he just holds on a little longer to this.

“Don’t stop."

Comments & Reblogs are Appreciated <3

[laurentidal]

Boober

With ride share getting so expensive, knock offs were a dime-a-dozen. At least fifty competitors had sprung up almost overnight. And Audrey needed some extra cash.

Her friend, Hailey, recommended one called Boober. Audrey had rolled her eyes but Hailey had insisted that it was legit. A bit tongue-in-cheek, but the fares were good and the cut was fair. So Audrey downloaded it and set up a driver profile.

The questions were straightforward, if a little annoyingly structured. Each one was on its own page, so you had to click to advance after every answer. And the screen made a little flash each time.

Age. Sex. Height. Weight.

Wait. Weight? Why would it care about that? But still, Audrey answered. Click to continue. Flash.

Hair color. Brunette. Click to continue. Flash.

She started answering automatically, without really thinking about the answers or the peculiarity of the questions.

Sexual Orientation. Flash. Bra size. Flash. Body count. Flash.

By the end, her eyes were unfocused and her fingers where moving on the screen and in her panties. She smiled dumbly as the took a picture of her face and a picture of her tits for the profile. She didn't even remember taking her top off.

The screen flashed a final time and she returned to reality. Her phone displayed the message: "Profile complete. Ready to ride."

It wasn't long before she got her first request.

Rider Profile: 7453336 Pickup Address: 243 Market Street, Private Residence. Rider requests: No bra, No panties

Audrey happily stripped off her panties and put her dress back on without her bra before jumping in the car. When she pulled into the driveway, her rider was waiting for her and she opened the door.

Something in the far back of her mind whispered that drivers should stay in the car. They didn't need to get out for any reason. But that just wasn't how things were done at Boober. Their drivers were full service.

And as Audrey approached her rider's front door with him, she knew she'd do anything to get 5 stars.

Across town, Hailey's phone chimed.

Referral complete. You may cum.

More to Come.

[hypokeimena]

I was just talking about this "mass handmade cookie cutter product" phenomenon, I was just at a con with four discreet 3d printer booths all of whom had the exact same articulated dragon with roses on it's back? and I literally own one of these at a small scale it's adorable i like the model quite a lot, but like. it's a $4 STL file online, the filaments are $20 each on amazon, once you buy the printer you can just print them in any size forever and charge whatever people will buy because they don't realize the seller has don't like. none of the design or labor involved in producing this item, despite the fact that they did factually make it themselves on a small enough scale that it's not out of place at a handmade maker con. it's odd.

IT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE I AM INSANE. IT MAKES ME FEEL OUT OF TOUCH WITH CONSENSUS REALITY!!!! like it's not the same as dropshipped items bc i think those should just flatout not be allowed without VERY clear signposting - like if you are selling mass produced notions for other people's creative products you should be legally required to state who your supplier is so ppl can look up how much you're upmarking shit, bc like. there IS a market for "the factory sells those buttons in batches of 100 and i only need 5, so i'll pay a little more for a middleman to have purchased the batch of 100 and handle all the inventory" like that is a service that makes sense. to have exist. but ohhhhh my fucking god.

but what you're describing is really true, i think there's a mix between like... i know small artists who sell stuff at markets and cons and stuff pay a table fee, so they want to make back what they spent on that, and so it makes sense to want to be sure that some of what you're making is going to sell, and maybe it even makes sense to do what you describe - buy an STL file, print off some proven winners.

but from the buyers' perspective, it means that half the art markets i go to are full of enamel pins that say CAT MOM and stickers about liking avocados and pride flag keychains, bc that's what sells, and anything that's original sits unsold - or it's more expensive bc it wasn't mass-produced and had higher labor costs, so it takes longer to move... so ppl stop stocking or bringing it... and it's like if all of this is the same why am i even here. T_T

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt: “Match is technically also a Luthor”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Match slants his eyes back to Luthor, who still just looks indulgently amused and does not seem inclined to correct his . . . whatever Lena is. She called him “Father”, but since Luthor’s also referred to himself as both Superboy’s and his father, that isn’t necessarily trustworthy intel. 

Also, if nothing else, Lena clearly doesn’t know his assignment or understand his purpose here any better than he does, so that also implies her to be a poor source of intel. 

“Am I her replacement bodyguard?” he asks Luthor skeptically, because admitting he doesn’t know something is better than making a mistake. 

Probably. 

“Right now, you’re her babysitter,” Luthor replies dryly, then pauses and amends, “Or she’s yours. I’m still unclear on your capacity for long-term independent function, to be honest, and I wouldn’t trust the opinions of the idiots who plagiarized you even if I had bothered to read them. We’ll fit in some independent cognitive tests at some point this week, I suppose.” 

“. . . ‘cognitive’ tests,” Match repeats blankly. “Cognitive” is the last thing the Agenda ever cared about testing him on, because he isn’t supposed to be–he isn’t thinking about anything. Obviously. 

Physical tests would make sense. Combat assessments, physical readings, DNA scans; that kind of thing. 

. . . then again, he supposes Luthor already knows everything that’s in his DNA, doesn’t he. 

Assuming the Agenda “plagiarized” him well enough, anyway. 

“To start, yes,” Luthor says. “For now, if anything goes wrong, the security system will alert me. Don’t let her eat too much sugar. Or eat too much sugar yourself.” 

“. . . I have no idea what ‘too much’ sugar is for either of our metabolisms,” Match says. 

“I’m sure you can google something,” Luthor says, giving him a wry look. 

“I have no idea what that is either,” Match says. He doesn’t like admitting not knowing things, for obvious reasons, but also there is no possible way that Lex Luthor can’t pronounce “googol” correctly, and also he can’t imagine how a googol would even be relevant to whatever the hell Luthor is saying anyway. 

“Hm,” Luthor says, his eyes narrowing slightly. Match does not let his hackles raise. “I should’ve murdered more people in that lab, apparently.” 

“Google Search is a web-based service operated by the American multinational corporation Google LLC as the most popular search engine globally and most-visited website in the world,” Lena informs him promptly, ineffectively pulling at his hands again and using her full weight in a entirely fruitless attempt to get him to move. “It has a share of ninety-two percent of the search engine market and its parent company’s current net worth is valued at 1.97 trillion dollars.” 

. . . that seems like something that should’ve been covered in his uploads, yes, Match thinks, eyeing her warily. Assuming she’s actually correct, anyway, which–again, she’s been a poor source of intel so far. 

. . . is that even normal information for a kindergarten-aged child to have, either way? Especially one who’s not even intelligent enough to realize how futile trying to drag a telekinetic metaweapon twice her size around without any enhancements of her own is? Match has no idea.

[agapi-kalyptei]

crowdstrike: hot take 1

It's too early in the news cycle to say anything truly smart, but to sum things up, what I know so far:

there was no "hack" or cyberattack or data breach*

a private IT security company called CrowdStrike released a faulty update which practically disabled all its desktop (?) Windows workstations (laptops too, but maybe not servers? not sure)

the cause has been found and a fix is on the way

as it stands now, the fix will have to be manually applied (in person) to each affected workstation (this could mean in practice maybe 5, maybe 30 minutes of work for each affected computer - the number is also unknown, but it very well could be tens (or hundreds) of thousands of computers across thousands of large, multinational enterprises.

(The fix can be applied manually if you have a-bit-more-than-basic knowledge of computers)

Things that are currently safe to assume:

this wasn't a fault of any single individual, but of a process (workflow on the side of CrowdStrike) that didn't detect the fault ahead of time

[most likely] it's not that someone was incompetent or stupid - but we don't have the root cause analysis available yet

deploying bugfixes on Fridays is a bad idea

*The obligatory warning part:

Just because this wasn't a cyberattack, doesn't mean there won't be related security breaches of all kinds in all industries. The chaos, panic, uncertainty, and very soon also exhaustion of people dealing with the fallout of the issue will create a perfect storm for actually malicious actors that will try to exploit any possible vulnerability in companies' vulnerable state.

The analysis / speculation part:

globalization bad lol

OK, more seriously: I have not even heard about CrowdStrike until today, and I'm not a security engineer. I'm a developer with mild to moderate (outsider) understanding of vulnerabilities.

OK some background / basics first

It's very common for companies of any size to have more to protect their digital assets than just an antivirus and a firewall. Large companies (Delta Airlines) can afford to pay other large companies to provide security solutions for them (CrowdStrike). These days, to avoid bad software of any kind - malware - you need a complex suite of software that protects you from all sides:

desktop/laptop: antivirus, firewall, secure DNS, avoiding insecure WiFi, browser exploits, system patches, email scanner, phishing on web, phishing via email, physical access, USB thumb drive, motherboard/BIOS/UEFI vulnerabilities or built-in exploits made by the manufacturers of the Chinese government,

person/phone: phishing via SMS, phishing via calls, iOS/Android OS vulnerabilities, mobile app vulnerabilities, mobile apps that masquerade as useful while harvesting your data, vulnerabilities in things like WhatsApp where a glitched JPG pictures sent to you can expose your data, ...

servers: mostly same as above except they servers have to often deal with millions of requests per day, most of them valid, and at least some of the servers need to be connected to the internet 24/7

CDN and cloud services: fundamentally, an average big company today relies on dozens or hundreds of other big internet companies (AWS / Azure / GCP / Apple / Google) which in turn rely on hundreds of other companies to outsource a lot of tasks (like harvesting your data and sending you marketing emails)

infrastructure - routers... modems... your Alexa is spying on you... i'm tired... etc.

Anyway if you drifted to sleep in the previous paragraph I don't blame you. I'm genuinely just scratching the surface. Cybersecurity is insanely important today, and it's insanely complex too.

The reason why the incident blue-screened the machines is that to avoid malware, a lot of the anti-malware has to run in a more "privileged" mode, meaning they exist very close to the "heart" of Windows (or any other OS - the heart is called kernel). However, on this level, a bug can crash the system a lot more easily. And it did.

OK OK the actual hot lukewarm take finally

I didn't expect to get hit by y2k bug in the middle of 2024, but here we are.

As bad as it was, this only affected a small portion of all computers - in the ballpark of ~0.001% or even 0.0001% - but already caused disruptions to flights and hospitals in a big chunk of the world.

maybe-FAQ:

"Oh but this would be avoided if they weren't using the Crowdwhatever software" - true. However, this kind of mistake is not exclusive to them.

"Haha windows sucks, Linux 4eva" - I mean. Yeah? But no. Conceptually there is nothing that would prevent this from happening on Linux, if only there was anyone actually using it (on desktop).

"But really, Windows should have a better protection" - yes? no? This is a very difficult, technical question, because for kernel drivers the whole point is that 1. you trust them, and 2. they need the super-powerful-unrestrained access to work as intended, and 3. you _need_ them to be blazing fast, so babysitting them from the Windows perspective is counterproductive. It's a technical issue with no easy answers on this level.

"But there was some issue with Microsoft stuff too." - yes, but it's unknown if they are related, and at this point I have not seen any solid info about it.

The point is, in a deeply interconnected world, it's sort of a miracle that this isn't happening more often, and on a wider scale. Both bugfixes and new bugs are deployed every minute to some software somewhere in the world, because we're all in a rush to make money and pay rent and meet deadlines.

Increased monoculture in IT is bad for everyone. Whichever OS, whichever brand, whichever security solution provider - the more popular they are, the better visible their mistakes will be.

As much as it would be fun to make jokes like "CrowdStroke", I'm not even particularly mad at the company (at this point - that might change when I hear about their QA process). And no, I'm not even mad at Windows, as explained in the pseudo-FAQ.

The ultimate hot take? If at all possible, don't rely on anything related to computers. Technical problems are caused by technical solutions.

[breelandwalker]

so, I know you've been vending at a lot of different craft fairs and witch markets for awhile now (sadly, too far away for me to attend!). would you happen to have any tips for someone looking to do the same at their local fairs? thanks!!!!!! ❤️

Sure! To start, brush up on three things - networking, recordkeeping, and people skills. Get an idea of what's going in on your area, talk to the organizers, see what the particulars are for the events. Here are some questions to ask:

What's the venue like? (indoors, outdoors, parking, accessibility)

Do I need to bring my own table and chairs?

Is there electricity / wifi available?

What is the table fee?

When is the event and how long does it run?

Is there a theme or target audience?

Is there advertising being done for the event? (Signal boost!)

Based on the answers you get, you can start putting your stock and setup together.

Do as much as you can WAY ahead of time. If you need to make things, start now. If you need to buy things, give yourself at least a month before an event to make sure everything arrives in time. Get yourself a 6-foot folding table and a comfortable folding chair or camp chair for events where they're not provided by the venue. Sign for Paypal, Venmo, and Cashapp as well as a card payment processing service like Square to give your customers the most payment options possible. And of course, plan to carry some small bills for cash patrons. (You don't need a register or cashbox, a simple bag of appropriate size will do. I literally use a pencil case that says Resting Witch Face. Works great.)

You'll want to get some displays for your merchandise. The type will vary depending on what you have, but it should be simply and sturdy and preferably easy to pack in and out. Vertical visibility is important at these events, so if you can find some kind of stand or tiered display, that will help you get noticed. I'd also suggest some simple clear plastic standups that you can put a printout price list and a basic sign in. A table banner helps people notice your table from afar and you should definitely have business cards to hand out with your shop info and socials. (I use Vistaprint for both.) Decorations are nice, but don't overload the table with them. They should augment your setup, not overwhelm it.

You may also want to get an 8x8 or 10x10 popup canopy and canopy weights if you plan to do outdoor events. Also, GET A COLLAPSIBLE WAGON. Best investment I ever made was a $45 collapsible wagon. It fits in my backseat and makes hauling things in and out of venues SO much easier.

Keep track of everything you spend related to your endeavors, including event fees, supplies, stock, setup items, displays, signage, business cards, and gas and food on the day. Keep those receipts - you can deduct them on your taxes later to offset your earnings. (Because registering as a business can be a pain and comes with fees, but if you don't do it, you may owe money for not collecting sales tax. Put aside some money for that tax bill, just in case.)

Prep your setup and stock the night before an event. Check your merch, charge your card reader (and bring a fully-charged auxiliary power pack and cord, just in case), make any updates to your inventory or pricing that you need to. It really cuts down on stress when you're loading up if you know you've already get everything set. I suggest reusable shopping bags or clear plastic bins to make things easy to haul, plus they can double as storage.

Plan to leave as early as you need to in order to account for traffic and pit stops. Pick an outfit ahead of time so you don't have to dither over clothes. It should be something appropriate for the event and the weather that looks neat and clean and is easy to move around in, including comfortable shoes. (Look to other vendors for examples.)

Make sure you bring water, snacks, and anything you'll need to get through the day, i.e. medicine (headache pills and stomach medicine at minimum), energy drinks, a fan for hot days, an extra layer for cold ones, etc. Get to the venue as early as the organizers allow. The more time you have to park, load in, and set up, the less stressed you'll be. Make sure things are arranged in a way that's accessible and makes sense. Place signage where necessary to explain items and pricing.

GO TO THE BATHROOM BEFORE THE EVENT BEGINS. TRUST ME.

During the event, you're gonna have to do a LOT of socializing, so prepare for that as best you can. Try to stand if possible when there's a lot of foot traffic so you're more noticeable. Be personable - you don't have to grin constantly, just try to keep a pleasant expression and greet people as they pass, especially if they look in your direction. Don't be afraid to invite passersby over if they pause to check out your setup. Welcome them in, invite them to check out your stuff, and let them know you're happy to answer questions. (And ALL questions are good questions. There are no dumb questions. Even if the question is the dumbest thing you've ever heard or it's the fifteenth time you've been asked that day.) Chat and banter a bit where possible. If you can get people smiling or laughing, they're more likely to stick around and possibly purchase your wares. Make sure as many people as possible take your card when they leave.

Yes, you will be exhausted when the event is over, even if you're a naturally outgoing person, and you'll still have to break everything down, haul it out, load your vehicle, and drive home. If you happen to have somebody who can help you out, that really comes in handy.

In any case, know your own capabilities and personal limits and plan for that when you're deciding where to vend. If a venue is too far away for your comfort or doesn't have what you need or the table fee is too high (be wary of any thing over $75 for a single day event), don't sign up. If an event is too long or too far outside your target audience, don't sign up. If you don't have an appropriate setup or don't have the stock / can't get it in time, don't sign up. If something about the event or the venue or the organizers rubs you the wrong way, DON'T SIGN UP. Talk to other local vendors to get an idea of where to go and what to expect. Most will tell you right away what works, what's good, and what to steer clear of.

This is all just the basics. You'll learn a lot more when you start to vend, as far as what your individual needs are, where to go to find reliable business, and how best to connect with local venues and customers. Keep records of everything you do (spreadsheets are your friend!), network with organizers and other vendors, and practice that sociable game face.

And trust me - if a disorganized introvert with social anxiety and ADHD and absolutely NO sales experience can figure out to do this, I think pretty much anyone has a chance.

Good luck!!!! 😁

[littlemessyjessi]

"To Woo A Warrior": A Holiday Hobbit Imagine: Dwalin Fundinson

….

A Holiday Hobbit Imagine

Dwalin Fundinson x Reader, Plus Size Reader, PS Reader, Human Reader

Warnings: Middle Earth in and of itself?  This is post BOTFA .   HOWEVER, we’re rewriting it in which I’ve chosen to keep the line of Durin alive because I don’t want to bawl my eyes out this holiday season.  That’s the joy of fanfiction and writing it myself.  I can do what I want. 

Use of Y/N because we’ll all be lucky to see this if I stop to figure out a character.  For those of you who are still waiting for Thorin and Fawn’s story… I’m sorry.  It’s coming.  I just… got stuck in world building mode.   *cowers in writer’s shame*.  Back to Dwalin and this fic though.  

TBH… this is loosely based on a story I’ve written for Dwalin but I just haven’t had the confidence to post.   

Fem Identifying Reader just cause I wanted to.   If that causes gender dysphoria for you, hey, please take care of yourself.  No hard feelings if you scroll on.   Totally fine.   I just like writing a fem Y/N a lot of the time because I love writing women because women are awesome.   

Disclaimer:  I don’t own the works of Tolkien or his characters.   I just own my own characters, my writing and such.   

Additionals:  If you are under 18, listen.   I love you.  I wish you well.  A very Happy Holidays.  However, this would be the time for you to leave.  My page is not for you until you reach a certain age.  Sorry but it’s not.  Love you but shoo.  But also be kind to yourself, remember to drink water and do something nice for you today.   Tootles, though.  

……

The markets of Dale were bustling and busy as ever. 

The morning was crisp and a certain cheer seemed to saturate the very air itself. 

Winter Solstice drew closer and closer every day, urging the citizens of Erebor and Dale to leave the cozy warmth of their homes and venture to the markets. 

Delightful trinkets and trades laid out just waiting to catch your eye and make you think of the perfect recipient. 

This morning was no different but the buttery sweet scent of star bread cut through that crisp cool mountain air that morning and a certain Captain of the Guard was all but paralyzed in fear. 

Dwalin knew that no one else made star bread that smelled like that. 

Y/N.

A very talented baker who lived in the city of Dale… though she frequented the halls of Erebor so much that she might as well have lived there.  

This was, in part, because of Thorin. 

He sought out her services on a fairly regular basis because, frankly, Bilbo Baggins had a remarkably large appetite for such a small creature. 

It had nothing to do with those little blackberry and brie swirls of bread, fruit and cheese that danced on his taste buds as if his very ancestors came to bless him.   

Most certainly not. 

It was just because the hobbit had an insatiable appetite and a seemingly endless cavernous void for a stomach. 

Bilbo was very much aware of Thorin and his pride. 

And he let him keep it because Thorin’s borderline obsession with blackberries actually served to further his matchmaking tendencies. 

You see, the baker, Y/N was a lovely woman who Bilbo had spent many an afternoon tea with at this point.  

A delightfully charming creature with a wonderfully surprising duality. 

The woman could throw together a handful of anything and turn it into something scrumptious…. and that was high praise coming from a hobbit. 

However, she also seemed to have a penchant for weapons. 

He’d seen the impressive set of kitchen knives … and the endless array of weapons that seemed to produce from seemingly no where.

Bilbo swore that she and Fili would have a grand old time speaking of weapon concealment if he could ever get her out of the kitchen and Fili out of council meetings.  

But back to how Y/N came to Dale.  

After Smaug the slughead had been slain a relative had sent word. 

Her ancestors who had lived there previously had long since passed many years ago. 

However, it was a great surprise to her when she received word from her cousin, Bard. 

She’d been to Dale only once before and it was directly after the passing of his wife.

Dale was struggling as were all its inhabitants. 

Suddenly, Bard had lost the love of his life, his partner and was left to care for their little ones alone…. and unable to do so because he could not leave them. 

Sigrid and Bain were still quite small and Tilda was just a newborn.   

It was an impossible situation. 

He couldn’t leave them alone to care for themselves but if he didn’t leave for work they would all starve.  

He’d sent word to his nearest kin… all of which rejected him by claiming they had their own problems. 

Y/N, who’d barely been out of adolescence herself at the time, wrote back and told him that she’d only just turned sixteen but that she’d had plenty of experience in caring for children, keeping house and plenty of other things. 

And most importantly, she said she’d come and help. 

He’d been a bit hesitant because it seemed she was still a child herself and that seemed like another mouth to feed and care for. 

However, he was desperate and sixteen was old enough to be in charge and look after the others. 

He’d wrote her back in thanks and acceptance. 

Imagine his surprise, when she showed up by the next full moon with a wagon of supplies. 

He learned that she was a highly resourceful creature and given the right equipment and ingredients… could make delicacies that brought many a man to his knees. 

What had surprised him was how she managed to evade the shake down upon entering. 

He learned just exactly why the next time Alfrid saw her in public. 

The man had apologized profusely and ran the other way. 

When Bard had asked her about it, she’d given him a vague answer involving a frying pan and a battle axe. 

He hadn’t questioned her about it since. 

She stayed with the family for a few years and when Tilda, who’d been a baby when she came, reached five years of age… another family member wrote to her asking for help. 

A cousin of her father’s had lost a child and succumbed to the darkness of it herself. 

The father had followed after her in heartbreak. 

Understandable, but it had left the twins without anyone to look after them. 

And they were only seven. 

It had broken her heart to leave the family she’d come to know in Dale.  

Bard’s as well. 

She’d come to be like a younger sister to him rather than a cousin.

He hated to see her go but understood that the twins had needed her more than they did now and so she left. 

It had been many, many moons since they’d seen her. 

They’d received the occasional letter from their Y/N but had not seen her in years. 

However, when Smaug had been slain and Erebor restored… Dale had flourished and her cousin, Bard, was now the King. 

Of course, all those family members he’d reached out to before came in droves then but they mattered not. 

He hadn’t been heartless about it but they hadn’t been the ones he had missed. 

When his duties as King only increased, he found himself with less and less time for his children. 

They understood, of course, and they were well looked after… but he knew what was missing. 

So he finally wrote to his cousin, Y/N, asking for her help once again. 

She was there once again by the next full moon. 

Though this time, it hadn’t been needed; she arrived again with a wagon of supplies. 

She had been embraced by Bard and the children once again.  

Auntie Y/N had returned to them.  

Upon remembering how wonderful her baking had been, he’d immediately offered her a job as the royal baker. 

She’d accepted the frilly title but in reality she much preferred her old apron that had been worn soft with age. 

Bard had provided her with a room and kitchen of her own and that’s where she really created her magic. 

Sure, she worked in the kitchens where she was in charge of the feasts and delicacies and every other ridiculous thing one could think of when it came to food. 

But where she found her joy was on the days of the market where she sat up a little stall with her wonderfully charming little treats. 

They weren’t over the top in design. 

Simple but pretty and the taste always felt like a warm hug. 

Her prices were fair and she always gave samples. 

Bard had assured her that she didn’t need to, as he’d buy her whatever she wanted. 

She had thanked him but informed him that she enjoyed it and to let her be for she was far more pleasant to be around when she was happy than not. 

Bard, who had been married to a woman for years, understood that that roughly translated to, “Bard, thank you but mind your own business.   I need a project to keep me from overthinking everything.  Either this can be my project or annoying the ever living hell out of you can be my project.  Take your pick.” 

He chose wisely and didn’t question her again. 

Fortunate that he didn’t because it was for this very reason that led her to Dwalin Fundinson. 

Or rather, led him to her. 

You see, Dwalin had a sweet tooth about as big as his arm and when word spread about the new royal baker and her amazing creations… he’d been intrigued. 

When Bilbo returned to the castle with two guards carrying boxes upon boxes of them… it got his attention. 

When Thorin nearly had a stroke over a blackberry pastry and suddenly had to place an order from the woman every few days… Well honestly he hadn’t been surprised by that one. 

His cousin had a serious problem with blackberries that he really thought he might need to see someone about. 

Gold sickness looked like a jealous pouty child compared to what Thorin Oakenshield looked like when there were blackberries to be had. 

However, one day Bilbo decided that he was going to the market and Dwalin, having had enough of listening to stuffy council meetings all day, volunteered to be his personal escort. 

Bilbo was happy to have the company of his dear friend and they set out to the city of Dale. 

Bilbo drug Dwalin all over the market looking for this vegetable or that fruit or that jam or those herbs but he didn’t mind. 

The fresh air did him well. 

Dwalin did not miss hardship in the slightest but occasionally he did miss the freedom of his old life. 

The simplicity of it. 

For example, a lot of peace can come to the mind when doing something as simple but useful as sharpening your blades. 

‘Maybe a new whetstone…’ he thought to himself as he caught sight of a stall ahead. 

Bilbo, having already followed his gaze in that incredibly observant way of his, simply waved him off and told him that he would be right here looking at honey for quite some time. 

Dwalin had laughed for he knew just how long the hobbit could spend deciding on honey. 

He’d nearly watched Kili explode out of impatience once when Thorin set the young dwarrowman to be Bilbo’s guard as a punishment for falling asleep during a council meeting. 

Bilbo, the mischievous little creature that he was, actually took the opportunity to ask about every. single. honey infusion available.    

It had taken hours and Kili nearly lost his mind. 

So he felt assured that the hobbit would be just fine for him to peruse the stall and check out the new wares. 

Dwalin spent some time looking at the stones as well as a bit of time eyeing some new polishing cloths. 

However, his mind was clouded in a haze as the scent of buttery, sugary sweetness filled his nose. 

“Hello, Mr. Kaznia.  How are you today?” 

“Quite well, Miss Y/N.  And yourself?” 

“Lovely actually.  I love it when the air is a bit crisp like this.” “Oh aye.   It’s coming strong off the mountain today.  Probably a fair bit of wind coming.” 

“I hope so.” she giggled. 

“You hope for wind?” the dwarrowman asked with a laugh. 

“Oh definitely!” she said.  “I sleep best with a bit of cool air.  I’m no fun when I’m too warm.  A bit too stuffy and I become right unpleasant.” 

“Oh, Miss Y/N.  I’ve never seen you be unpleasant a day in your life.” 

“Well, Mr. Kaznia, you haven’t known me my whole life either… nor have you been round when I’ve just woken in the morning.” she said. “Let me tell you.  Perhaps, the lot of you should have loosed me into the mountain on the great slug when I’ve just woken and there’s no tea to be had.  According to Bard, I am quite the fire breathing beast when there’s no tea.” 

Dwalin couldn’t help it and he laughed a bit. 

However, he’d gotten a first hand account of Smaug and was well aware of Bard and his … Bardness. 

“You must be tha’ cousin then.” Dwalin said.  “The wee fancy baker that's the cause o’ me cousin’s blackberry addiction.” 

She turned to face him fully and his breath caught in his chest as he looked at her. 

She was a beauty absolutely ridden with a soft fullness that had him absolutely enchanted. 

“You must be a cousin of King Thorin then.” she smiled.  

“Aye.  Dwalin.” he said with a bow.  “At your service.” 

She gave him a kind smile, “Y/N.  At yours.  Charmed to meet you, Master Dwalin.” 

It was there that began the very long and drawn out game of cat and mouse between Dwalin and Y/N. 

And subsequently the testing of every last nerve that Bilbo Baggins had in his possession. 

For months, the two of them did this song and dance.  

  Sometimes they met at the market at the stall where they first met. 

Sometimes Dwalin hand delivered Thorin’s latest order. 

Sometimes she slipped a tiny star bread into his hands as she passed him while she hand delivered the order to Erebor.  

Over time the both of them just kept making excuses to see one another … and yet neither would make a move. 

Bilbo was about to lose his patience. 

But that day, on yet another cool crisp market day… with Winter Solstice drawing near… the pair of them set out to find one another again. 

Bilbo had had just about enough and he was about ready to take matters into his own hands. 

It had been months, nearly a year, and no progress had been made. 

He knew and if neither one of them would make a move… he was going to make it for him. 

He was so sick of dwarvish courting customs and human wooing. 

Hobbits had their own ways of course but this was simply ridiculous. 

He set off to grab Dwalin by that mangled ear of his and drag him to Y/N if he had to. 

However, upon nearing that little stall… the hobbit halted in place. 

There they were strolling through the market. 

Dwalin happily munching away on a massive star bread in his hand. 

Y/N gleefully clutching a shiny new axe in hers. 

And their free hands entwined together swinging between them. 

The hobbit tilted his head, a funny little smile on his face. 

It seemed that Miss Y/N knew exactly the way to woo a warrior.  

It wasn’t how he thought this would go but he was happy nonetheless. 

He nodded to himself, thumbs tucked under his suspenders in contentment until…

“Miss Y/N!” 

Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin when Thorin lumbered past him towards the pair of them. 

“I heard you had blackberry bread today at your stall.  How many more do you have?  I will buy them all.” 

Bilbo sighed and turned his face to the heavens. 

“Yavanna, help me.” he said in exasperation, “Thorin, come back here!” 

Thorin did not, in fact, come back there. 

Bilbo did have to chase him down. 

Dwalin never stopped eating his star bread and Y/N simply laughed at scene before here. 

This blackberry obsessed dwarf being chased by a tiny meddlesome hobbit. 

She turned her gaze to her own dwarf, “Dwalin, love?” 

“Hmm?” he asked, licking his fingers along with the last of his treat. 

“On a scale of one to ten-” 

“Ten.” 

“What?” 

“Tha’ was a ten, lass.  Best one yet.” 

“Well, thank you, sweetheart but that wasn’t what I was going to ask you.” 

“Ok, ten again.” 

“What this time?” she giggled. 

“Yer definitely a ten in mah book, love.” he said with a bit of a smirk. 

“Smooth.” she said, hand reaching to smooth over the top of his head.  “But not that either.” 

“Alright.  What is it then?” 

“On a scale of one to ten, what would I have to do to get you to help me make a certain dwarf king and a certain hobbit to admit their very obvious feelings to one another?” she said.  

“Ah, lass.  Let them be in their own time.” he groaned. 

“I will make you a yule log cake, cranberry creme puffs and star bread.” she said.  “As well as kisses and canoodling.” 

Dwalin chuckled, “Ye had me at cake, lass, but I’ll definitely be taking everything from cake to canoodling.” 

“Good.” she said with a nod before pulling him into the bushes.  “Let’s have dessert first then.” 

His eyes lit up, “Oh? Ye got more treats you been keeping from me, lass?  Where are these secret treasures?” 

She gave him a smirk of her own, “The cakes come later, love.  They’ll take time to make.  However, I can make good on my offer of kisses and canoodling right now.” 

The two of them shared a massive grin before the sweetest of kisses... a lots of canoodling.

Miss Y/N certainly knew how to woo a warrior.

……

…….  

Hello, loves!  I hope you enjoy this holiday content! 

Hope ya’ll are having a great day! 

Love you. 

— 

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K, Love you, Bye!

[acerathia]

pink camellias || Chapter 1: hyacinth

Chapter Summary:

purple hyacinth: sorrow

Wordcount: 3.2k

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

Pairing:

Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

Tags/CW:

royalty au, inspired by Mulan, war and its consequences, violence, childhood friends to strangers to companions to lovers (i am sorry), Angst, Acts of Service, Character Death (Major, and Minor), swordfights, misogyny, f!reader, kidnapping, implied torture, let me know if I missed anything lol

Note:

I got too impatient, so, I'm posting the first chapter today lol, still, i hope you enjoy reading it!

You opened the windows as soon as you woke up. As the soft sunlight warmed your skin, you watched the breeze rustle the flowers of the garden. Beyond that garden was a beautifully constructed posh house, barely blocking your view to the adjacent village. The rows of different houses gave the scenery a special kind of feel. The view was breathtaking, the bustling of all these people making you feel alive under your skin. 

You stood by the window, trying to discern the lives of the common people below you in the valley. There was a small stripe of forest bordering the village and the mansion, which stood atop a hill. 

“I wonder how life is down there”, you mumbled before looking back to your bed.

The softest of fabric was spread over the king-sized bed and you slowly stepped closer, your hand enjoying the feel of silk between your fingers. Then with a tiny jump you threw yourself onto the mattress, sinking deeply in its comfort and warmth.

With a sigh, you tried to imagine living in such a village. Maybe you would operate a bakery, making tasty bread and confects. You would wake up early, which you usually would never even think about, but this was only imaginary. If you were lucky, you could watch the sunrise for some time, while waiting for the dough to rise. Your hands would be kneading and caressing the dough into different, but nonetheless tasty goodies for the day, the lit oven warming your back with a gentle sigh. It would hug the soft dough and prepare it for the day.

After the bread and sweets would be ready, you would open up the shop, awaiting the first jingle of the door. You would, as usual, greet the oncoming customers, the ones you saw regularly with some deep questions, and the newer ones with some welcoming small talk. Your heart would beat in happiness every time something of yours would find its home somewhere else. And if everything got sold, you would close the shop and head to the market to replenish some of your necessities. If not, you would go around and give the bread to someone who would need it at the moment, not wanting to let anyone go hungry. 

You imagined such a routine to be relaxing and enjoyable, especially connecting with so many people. The wish to go out and change something for yourself lit a spark, even if the possibility of leaving this place without guard would never happen. 

Some day you would wake up with the hope of appearing in another place, like the characters in your stories. Landing inside a novel with the knowledge of every scenario, being actively a part of some grand scheme or an adventure. But no matter how long you kept your eyes closed, you stayed in your little bland life. 

Sometimes you would dare to write down some ideas, with your scrawly font. And while doing so you blamed yourself for not listening to your teacher when learning how to write. But you wrote. You wrote every little idea that emerged in your little head. Huffing and puffing when the intricate dreams vanished after waking up. 

With a low grumble, you stared at your ceiling. You grew weary of only imagining things and felt the urge, the desire to actually live your own adventure. 

“My Lady, I’ve brought water to wash up”, the voice of your maid Hana sounded before she entered the room. 

You furrowed your brows, wondering how long you had been lying there, and if you would succeed in sneaking out, if your maid wouldn’t be so punctual. But you only greeted her and rolled from the bed to walk towards a stool.

While you were washing your face, Hana brushed your hair gently and got rid of all the knots taking residence on top of your head. You looked into the mirror, feeling the soft towel on your skin. 

This was your face, even if you wished you were another person. No matter what you think, the baby fat on your face would not dwindle until much later. For a moment you wondered how soon your birthday was. 

“You should go to the dining room to eat some breakfast, my Lady.”, Hana told you, after helping you into a simple baby blue wrapper. Something simple for your indoor endeavors, as you did not plan on leaving this mansion any time soon. 

With a nod you made your way to the dining room, greeting your father, who was leaning over some papers spread over the table. 

“Good morning sweetie, did you sleep well?”, he asked while stretching his arms for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

“Yes, thank you for asking, Father.”, you smiled with a slight crook, before turning to greet your mother the same way. 

After the greetings, you took a seat and started eating your breakfast. 

Despite the current silence at the table you were quite attached to your parents, as they were to you. They both were loving and warm and so doting on their only daughter. And who were you to resist getting spoiled like that? You would do anything for your parents, and even if you longed to go outside and experience new things, you were aware how your disappearance would break their hearts, and yours. 

“Ah, we’re supposed to return to the palace today, did you prepare your luggage, or did you forget again?”, your mother started speaking with an amused smile after finishing the meal.

“Mother! Of course, I prepared everything! But, I’m still going to ensure that everything has its place.”, you hurriedly responded and jumped from your seat. Soft chuckle followed you out of the room. 

How could you forget the return to the palace? Your father was the marquess and your mother attended to the queen herself. And despite your current young age, you wanted to make a good impression on the people living there, even if they may have already formed one around your person. But nothing speaks against working to better those impressions. 

With the help of your maid, you threw everything you may need in that visit into a tiny case, fitting for your tiny stuff. And when Hana suggested you take your stuffed cat with you, you vehemently refused. Because what if someone saw it and thought of you as inferior? Especially little kids your age, they were usually the most vicious and you refused to be the victim of their bullying. 

After making sure everything was in order, you let your maid help you into some outdoor gown with the same blue color as the other one. With a fitting pair of gloves and a bonnet, you were ready to leave your home for your stay at the palace. 

Clutching Hana’s hand you made your way outside to the awaiting carriage. The coachman already heaving their luggage into its respective space. But you didn’t need his help to get into the carriage, not even Hana’s help. You grabbed some of the fabric of your dress and took the large step with one stride. The next step let you tumble into the insides of the carriage, where you immediately acted like everything went as planned. 

Hana took the seat in front of you and the car slowly left the property. You knew that your parents were in the carriage in front of yours, so you did not fret and simply enjoyed the passing sights of the marquisate.

After a couple of minutes, someone slightly shook you and you blearily opened your eyes. You didn’t remember closing them in the first place. Did you already arrive at your destination? That was weird, you thought the way would take some hours. But beggars shouldn’t be choosers and you didn’t mind that very convenient time skip of sleep. Even if you now felt tired and grumpy. 

With half-closed lids you let Hana lead you to the inside of the palace, where you already occupy a room. This wasn’t the first time your character visited the palace, but every time felt like it was. And no matter how much you wanted to look around, you felt drained and wanted nothing more than to continue your nap in peace. 

The moment you stepped into the room, you threw yourself onto the bed, without care of your bonnet falling off your head. But for some reason you could not fall asleep again, making you whine into the soft pillows, before sitting up. 

And before you could even plan anything for the afternoon, someone started knocking on your door. 

“Hello! We were wondering if you wanted to play knights with us?”, a boy your age with bright green eyes, Izuchan,  asked you with a smile, the moment you opened the door. Another was lingering with crossed arms and a slight scowl. 

You turned to look at Hana, who just nodded with a sigh before you also nodded to the boys in front of you. “Yes! I’d love to participate in a game!”

With that, you followed them outside, where the sun shone upon your heads and warmed you slightly. 

They immediately started clashing their wooden swords and began screaming something about ‘villains’ and ‘crime’. You wondered when it would be your turn, but you didn’t hold a wooden sword in your hands. 

For some reason you felt the need to fix it, so you started wandering to the training camp of the real knights, looking for some kind of sword you might be able to use. 

The only thing you discovered were of course actual knights in training. Their movements and the swing of the sword in their hands were mesmerizing and you could not help yourself but stare. Their flow seemed like a hidden dance, its steps only obtained by the truly worthy. 

You felt trapped in watching the blades clash, eliciting bursts of tiny stars. A desire to wield this magic grew in you and a grin formed itself across your face. Now you fully understood the reason everyone admired knights. And you desired to be one. 

You barely managed to rip your gaze from their dangerous dance only to see the object you were seeking only minutes ago. Without a second thought, you grabbed the wooden sword to return to the fighting boys. Only to see them running towards the training grounds, their gaze focused on something behind you. 

And what were you supposed to do but follow them? So you ran with them towards a group of people converging around a massive person. 

“Allmight!”, Izuchan gasped and started talking about the best knight in this whole kingdom and you couldn’t do anything but listen with rapt attention and interest. 

Kacchan tried to get to the overrun knight, but before he had the possibility of reaching him, Allmight found the right timing to detach himself from the crowd and thus was missed when the boy finally broke through. 

The blond started raging, concealing his disappointment in a fit of anger and screams. The other boy tried to calm him down, yelling ‘Kacchan’ to get his attention.

Undeterred by his outburst you gripped the wooden sword tighter in your hand and declared something to him, maybe you hoped to calm him down or to distract him from his missing hero. 

“I am going to be a knight! One better than you!”, you declared war on these two young boys, who were supposed to be your friends, but your ambitions seemed to destroy any semblance of kinship. 

“Hah? A girl can’t be a knight, are you stupid?”, Kacchan immediately replied, his anger only simmering, but directed at you nonetheless. 

“You’re stupid!”

While you could have replied with a better comeback, annoyance made your brain empty, only the desire to show him filling you to the brim. 

Without waiting for the next words of this brash boy, you turned and ran towards the toy dummy, which has been abandoned offside the actual training grounds. You didn’t care if your dress stained, the seams filling with mud, as you hit the dummy repeatedly, acting as if you were already a seasoned knight. 

The two boys joined you soon after. And while the blond and you could not do anything but push each other into anger, you still played with your wooden swords, even if any of you would have dared to say that it has been a fight for life and death. 

And if your maid clicked her tongue and reprimanded you for ruining your dress, you only responded with your dreams and hopes of becoming a knight. Out of necessity, your maid had, soon after that conversation full of sighs and aspirations, sewn you some proper clothing resembling the ones of a knight. 

With your pants and shirt, you continued to fight your friends at every possibility, even if it meant getting stained in blue blood underneath your skin and ripped hair between your fingernails. 

***

The seasons have passed and you still lived at the palace with your mother. You spent your daily life studying everything this place had to offer and everything your duty obliged you. But the moment you managed to free yourself some time, the people found you in a pair of pants, swinging that old wooden sword with your friends. 

Finally, you had finished your reading for the day, getting some free time for your extracurricular activities. But before the teacher could properly dismiss you, your maid knocked and entered the room, a grave expression marring her face. 

“Miss, I’m afraid, your mother is at death's door…”, she started speaking, but you jumped from your chair, grabbing the fabric of your dress to allow you to run as fast as you managed. 

Your mother, your dear, loving mother, laid there, unmoving in her too-big bed. Her pale frame almost sunk into the soft fabric of the bedding and you were afraid. You were so afraid to step too close and to hurt her. 

Still, you carefully sat at the end of the bed, taking her hand in yours, as soft as your rough hands cared to achieve. You only had eyes for her, everyone around you nothing but a blur. Nonetheless, you caught some pieces of information from the people hurrying around you in a senseless frenzy. The white plague. Your mother has been suffering under the act of consumption for longer than any of the people around her anticipated. Her paleness mistaken for lack of sun and worry. Her feverishly red cheeks and lips simply for a mistake in the chosen shade. 

You wondered how long she had been plagued by this illness. How long had she been suffering without anyone taking notice? Had she already known prior to this? 

Suddenly her lack of presence in your life in the last couple of months started to make sense. She knew you would have noticed her lack of energy immediately. How could you not? Your mother used to be the sun in any dark room. Her presence soothing and warm, even if bright. This woman in front of you was nothing but a pale, sick shadow of her old self. And it hurt you.

It hurt to see the most important person in your life suffer and on the brink of death. Oh, how you would do anything to soothe her aches and take her pains away. 

Something cold dripped onto your hands, but you were not able to find the source of those tiny drops. Not until you took a shuddering gasp and a sob broke free, your lungs yearning to scream and cry. 

Even if you grew weary and bored of your life, you cared for this woman, it drove you crazy. How were you supposed to move on after this? 

People grabbed your sobbing shoulders, but you refused to let go of her frail hand. Someone was whispering empty words into you and you didn’t react with anything but a heartbreaking wail, lowering your head against her hand, pressing her cold skin against your cheeks. 

Despite your vehement protest, someone managed to loosen your grip around your dead mother, leading you into your room. After getting pushed onto your own bed, everything became a blur. 

You barely noticed getting moved around or getting into a carriage. The only thing you numbly remember was the regret of not telling your friends about your hasty departure. Even if you yourself had not known about it until you arrived back at the mansion you used to live at. You supposed this was your actual home, even if the palace felt more like it. 

After your arrival at the mansion, you refused to eat and did not leave your room under any circumstance. At some point, your father's worry grew and he started trying to lure you with different things. Most of them got no reaction from you at all. 

“Hello dear. How have you been?”, he asked with a soft voice, taking a seat at the end of the bed. You gave him a tired smile as an answer, your voice itching and scratching. 

“Good, good.”, he nodded, taking your hand in his. “I know I have said it multiple times already, but you need to get out a bit… I know, I know. But she would not want you to suffer in such a dark room.” He tried to persuade you, already knowing your answer, even just with your nonverbal facial expressions. 

“How about this: You still want to be a knight, don’t you? Well, then we shall get you some proper sword master to teach you. Can’t have you swing a wooden sword without instructions forever.”, and his suggestion made you perk up. 

You still wanted to master swordsmanship, but your father had never supported that particular endeavor of yours. Until to this day, it appeared. Even if the circumstances should have been better, your mother should have been there to celebrate that milestone with you. Still, you knew she would have wanted you to run towards your dreams, even if she wasn’t there. You decided to dedicate this work of life to her before you agreed to your father's suggestion with a slight nod and a hesitant smile. 

And your agreement seemed to spark some happiness in the eyes of your old man, as his smile gained that special depth. Without further words, because you simply didn’t need to, he pecked your forehead, before standing up. And if he pulled the curtains open and let you bask in the warmth of the estranged sun before he left your room, then so be it. Because this time, the sun didn’t symbolize another day without her, but a new opportunity dedicated to her, in remembrance of her. Starting with that day, you promised yourself to think of her every time you held a sword. Your dear beloved memories with her would lend you whatever strength you would have needed in any possible situation. 

Your gaze wanders out of your window, into the beautiful garden. And you were mesmerized by the whipping flowers, almost like it was your first time seeing them. With this breathtaking, familiar view you held your promise close to your heart and planned on never letting go.

[youmakethelight]

Pessimistic thoughts about the spin-off and spoilers below the break.

In my gut, I just feel like part of the reason the darabelle kiss was approved was to push out/silence most of their female audience.

I feel like they want to focus on a new, male audience, so they can reinvent daryl however they want. They're basically stealing a beloved character, face of the franchise, and known name, to secure an interested audience.

But that audience doesn't need to know anything about Daryl's history, or particularly care. They can turn the abuse victim with difficulties with physical intimacy into an abuse victim with man pain instead. That works better for this imaginary new audience. And these are the viewers on social media saying "I don't get why you can't just be happy for daryl that he found happiness with the nun. It shows his growth.".

And I think Carol was never meant to be co-lead. Not since zabel's been in charge. In tboc, she feels like a side kick to daryl, who just so happens to also pine for him, like every woman he meets in spin-off world.

I don't think they'll kill her off... but not bc they might not want to. I think they think she can pull in audience interest by being ruthless, badass Carol. That's what the typical male audience like her for - getting shit done that services the plot and the other characters.

Even though Melissa created a story I've wanted for her for so long about working through her grief, the editing of tboc feels like it toned down her healing journey. Compared with certain scenes in season 10, which honoured and respected the size and depth of her pain so well, tboc brushes over it as long as it can. Melissa McBride's acting is really what helps you feel her journey, not the script, or anything else. Her pain is pushed into all the corners of tboc, instead of made front and centre and truly honoured.

Apart from the fact we have carol, this spin-off is becoming the worst I feared could happen to it. The only hope I have is that their marketing strategy clearly aimed at caryl fans, so they must know they need us. Buy they know from experience that caryl fans keep watching and promoting for them, even when all we have is subtext... especially now melissa is back.

And that's why it's still daryl dixon... If it were a daryl & carol show by name, it might not attract as many dudebros. So, it's daryl dixon... and carol is there in the sidelines for the caryl fans. They can see they're losing us, so they're desperately throwing melissa promo at us so we think they care about and recognise her. But they don't honour her.

But why did they want to change the content to suit a different audience? Why did they think that would be the most profitable strategy? I don't know.

And regarding canon, I think the plan is for carol and daryl to end up together at the end of the spin-off. I think that originally, the plan was for daryl to adventure on his own, and then at the very end, he'd come home as an old man, and Carol would be waiting for him. And then they'll be like the old couple in episode 4 of tboc (note that the exact nature of the old couple's relationship is kept ambiguous). And I think that's still the plan, but carol is there for us to have some crumbs along the way so we'll keep tuning in. And they'll keep their relationship ambiguous as long as possible bc that's what seems to secure the most viewers.

Anyway, it's the middle of the night, and I haven't been able to sleep bc I keep having flashbacks to daryl going "no no no no" and running towards isa when she's dying. The dialogue in tboc is absolutely horrendous. It's so soap opera and not at all daryl. But again. Dudebros are fine with that. So.

[galaxyedging]

Din Djarin x f!reader

Dave York x f!reader

Marcus Pike x f!reader

Based on this post and comments made by @sheepdogchick3 and @bonezone44

Warnings: Smut. Stalker behaviour. Dub con. Lying. Betrayal.

What has he become? The kid changed him in so many ways that when you came along in his absence it was easy for you to slip into his life. The affection he had for the child he could now devote to you. In his own way.

He wasn't open with it of course. He could never be that forward. He'd do little acts of service. He'd tidy your workbench. Bring your favourite food from the market when it was his turn to go. When it was your turn, he'd watch you from afar, just to keep you safe. He'd do anything to keep you safe. Even shed his armour and helmet to follow you on your supple runs. The Armour said he was Mandalorian no more until he bathed in the Living Waters. He may as well take advantage.

He told himself it was the cramped, dingy cantina that made his blood run hot. Not the man giving you attention. Not the way his fingers skimmed your bare arm or how you curve your spine towards him to draw his attention to your breasts barely concealed by your dress.

Then it was the night air on the arid planet. Not the way the man led you by the hand down a dark alleyway. Not the way he palms your breasts or dips his fingers into your underwear.

Then it was the ridiculous clothes he wore to fit in. Not the wet sound of your cunt being filled. Not your moans audible even over the muffled music of the cantina. Not him vigorously pumping his cock until he spilled his seed onto the sand at his feet.

When he returned to the ship, he thought you'd brought the man back with you for a second. He could hear you moaning as he snuck in. With his cock twitching, he listened intently only to discover that you were alone. That man had the honour of sliding inside your beautiful body and hadn't even satisfied you. This was the case with your next two encounters. At least one of them made you come, just not as much as you'd like. Din had watched from the shadows as the man fucked you from behind, bend over a crate with you dress around your hips and your tits spilling out. Din didn't even touch himself that time. Instead he committed it all to memory. Later he would bite down on his gloves as he painted his armour.

It all got to the point where Din couldn't stand to see you unsatisfied. Mandalorians weren't supposed to have sex before marriage but then again he was a Mandalorian no longer. Even if he was, it would be you he'd want to lay with first, and forever.

Din was surprised at how easily he caught your attention, unlike the times he'd watched you before, you pursued him. Your laughter was even more melodious without his helmet as you touched his bicep. The same touch found his thigh and he thought he might come there and then. You didn't seem to notice or mind his inexperience when you kiss. Or when his hands roam up body as he pushes you into the wall at the back of the cantina.

“How do you want me?” You purr.

In the shadows, Din felt bold enough to answer. “I want to take you from behind.”

Din's cock swells even further as you bend over a nearby barrel and hitch up your skirt for him. The beautiful pussy he'd fantasised about was now spread out to be taken by him. As he lined himself up he could feel the heat radiating from you. He doubted his ability to last.

When he pauses you look over your shoulder. “Sorry, it's been a while. Doubt I'm going to last in this gorgeous pussy.” He lies so easily to you he worries what type of man is left now that the Mandalorian is gone.

All thoughts leave his brain when you tell him that you don't mind. “I think it's hot to cause a guy to lose it so quickly.”

Din is glad of this confession as he slides in and knows a heaven he had never even dreamed of. It's all over in seconds. He thrust maybe two, three times. He hears you gasp at his size and praise The Maker. He feels you warm and tight around him then he's gone. His sizable load is flooding your pussy in waves. For a moment he stays deep imagining it taking and leaving no doubt about who you belong to.

“S-sorry.” He slurs, more drunk from your pussy than the alcohol.

“It's okay. Like I said, it's hot. Especially a big, sexy guy like you.” You start to fix your clothing.

“Let me make it up to you? Show me how to make you come?” He tries not to sound as desperate as he feels.

“Maybe tomorrow. I have to get back.”

Your fix your heels back in place, he'd fucked you so deep that they slipped off your feet as you whole body shuddered forward.

“What? You have a boyfriend or something?” Din tries to sound casual.

“Or something. He's so…” you sigh wistfully and Din's heart nearly explodes faster than his dick. “I don't even think he sees me though.”

With a quick kiss to his cheek and a thank you, you're gone.

“I see you.” He mutters into the night.

Dave drags his boneless body up from his bed when the door to his apartment slams shut. He doubts that his roommate will just barge into his room but better safe than sorry. Even Dave would have a hard time explaining the panties haphazardly shoved back into their ziplock bag, while he's spread out naked, sweat cooling on his skin and cum still leaking from his softening cock.

Hearing various doors slamming in the kitchen, Dave knows that the route to the bathroom is clear. Throwing on some grey sweatpants and a white tee, he emerges from the bathroom grabbing the uncorked bottle of wine you have left on the kitchen counter along with a glass for himself. He'll sit and play the role of the understanding roommate. He'll listen while you offload about your crappy date and unsatisfying sex life. He'll make all the right noises in all the right places despite never having sex himself.

In high school he was too focused on earning his football scholarship to let girls distract him. Then he was taken down hard by a spiteful teammate. His football scholarship disappeared and he needed to find a new way out of town. The army seemed as good a way as any. He went to college, he let women suck his cock and jerk him off, he had needs after all. He'd make them come on his fingers or his tongue. He could never bring himself to cross that final line. Some part of himself still idealised his grandparents' marriage. He wanted what they had. They were each other's firsts. They were only in love with each other for their entire lifetime. Even by his early twenties. Dave had already been betrayed by too many people in his life. He wanted an unshakeable partnership. He wanted her.

They'd met on Dave's first day on the army base. She shadowed the doctor that performed his physical. With her brow furrowed and her lips parted in concentration, Dave thought that she was the most beautiful woman that he had even seen. Life took them on different paths but Dave never lost contact with her. He kept watch from afar as she went to medical school. He looked on with pride at her scores and fell deeper in love with her with each comment from his tutors. He followed her hobbies, she made the local papers a couple of times for her help in the community. He dutifully cut the article from the paper and stuck it in his notebook. In it he kept tokens to remind him of her. Ticket stubs from movies he'd gone to with her while she was on a date. The hotel key from the room he rented that overlooked her’s on that anniversary trip with her boyfriend. Dave had milked his cock dry that weekend watching her ride her boyfriend like a woman possessed. She took his cock so well too when he slammed into her. There was no way Dave could settle for anyone else for his first time.

Yet he bided his time. He didn't think it was fair to not let her get to know him first before he made his move. He already knew everything about her. His new CIA connections helped with that. His training even helped him break into her apartment. He spent an hour searching for her secrets. He found her vibrator stuffed in her underwear drawer. It looked clean but he couldn't help but greedily shove the shaft into his mouth on the off chance that he could taste her. He took a pair of panties from her bathroom hamper. He rooted through her medicine cabinet and hardened in his pants at the thought of sliding his bare cock inside of her when he found her birth control pills. It took all his self control to walk out without fucking his fist. She'd moved out soon after, convinced that her roommate’s boyfriend stole your underwear. Dave decided that he had to be careful. No more sneaking around.

“I don't know. Maybe I'm just cursed.” You sum up the tale of your bad date to Dave. Downing the remainder of your glass, you eye him. “Anyway, enough about me. You not up to dating yet?”

Dave clears his throat. You two are roommates. Roomates share, right?

”Actually. I don't date.”

“Oh?” Your eyebrows raise at his words. Dave is gorgeous, funny, smart, you'd be lying if you said you hadn't fought to keep him out of your night time fantasies.

“I have, had, this crush and I sort of idealised it. My grandparents were only ever with each other and they loved each other fiercely. I know I'll never be with her but I haven't found anyone else I want to lose it to.” Dave confessed to the bottom of his wine glass.

Dave had been nothing but sweet to you the past few months. Yet his confession endeared him even more to you. “So are you still saving it for someone you want to spend the rest of your life with or…?”

“No. If it's not her. It's not worth holding onto. I just want to find someone I trust to enjoy the moment with.” His words charged the air. A current ran through you, connecting the two of you and drawing you close.

Just before your lips met so there were no mistakes, you asked. “Do you trust me, Dave?” He answered by crushing his lips to yours.

Dave might have been a virgin but he definitely had experience. After he made you come on his fingers you led him to your bedroom.

He was even more gorgeous naked in the low light of your bedroom. You'd laid him back on your bed and sat next to him.

“I have condoms but I'm clean and on the pill. Might make your first time more special if we go without.” A shyness suddenly came over you. Dave kissed it away.

“I'd like to go without.” His large hands held your hips as you straddled him.

Slowly you sunk down until he was fully sheathed inside of you. His eyes rolled back into his head as you did before screwing shut as he came hard with a moan.

“Shit. Sorry. I'm sorry. I…”

You hushed him to kiss his lips. “It's alright. We can try again, if you like.”

“I'd like that.” He kissed your lips then your forehead where he lingered to catch his breath from the best orgasm he'd even had.

He would definitely try again and keep trying while the fake birth control pills he replaced yours with did nothing to protect you. He'd given up on sneaking around. If he couldn't make a connection with you the old fashioned way he'd make sure you were bonded for life. He knew you so well that he knew he was your soul mate, he just had to keep you close to give you time to realise it.

Marcus Pike. Sweet, good, respectable Marcus Pike was sitting on his living room sofa breathing hard and desperately trying not to blow his load as his older sister's best friend rolled a condom onto his eager dick.

He tried to think of baseball, of that teacher that he had for a while in Spanish class who hated him for being bilingual. He thought about the time he watched a few minutes of a dirty movie and came in his pants, the embarrassment burned his skin for weeks afterwards. He didn't know if he could ever face you again if he came before he was even inside you.

Marcus had been in love with you for two years. Even since you moved here after your parents divorce. You were the star of all of his late night fantasies.

There was only eleven months between you, you were still a sweet sixteen year old when you met. His older sister used to give him a hard time about him hanging around you both. You would just smile and say that he wasn't bothering you. With you being new to school, Marcus would look after you. After six months things between your parents turned nasty and you started to rebel. By seventeen, you had earned quite the reputation. Marcus knew that you lost your virginity to a college kid in the stock room of a local video store. He knew that when the head cheerleader caught you giving her boyfriend a blow job, you'd stop her complaining by lifting up her tiny skirt and making her come too.

As he turned eighteen his friends started to lose their virginity. He'd come close himself once but he stopped himself when he realised that he wanted you to take it. His desire was driven by overhearing you talk with his sister. Telling her all the dirty details and how good it all felt. His desires became harder to ignore the first holiday you came back from college to stay with them, while avoiding your parents.

The guest bed creaked as you touched yourself, believing that the whole family was out. That night Marcus took an extra long shower replaying your breathy moans in his head. The next night everyone truly was out, except for Marcus, when you returned home slightly drunk. Lazing on the sofa next to him, your hand high on his thigh, you told him how sweet he was after he got you a bottle of water. Your fingers combed back his hair as your peach sweet breath fanned his face. The alcohol on your tongue burned his as you kissed him. When your hand accidentally brushed against his hard on and he gasped, you only moved closer to deepen the kiss.

“My sweet Marcus. What do you want from me? Do you want me to swallow your cock?” your lips trailed kisses down his neck and he knew exactly what he wanted.

He had to swallow to wet his dry mouth to form the words. “I want you to fuck me.”

You smile against his skin. “You want me to fuck you? No, you don't. Not for your first time. You want to make love, you want to take it slow.”

Miraculously, Marcus managed to wait for the first roll of your hips to fill the condom. He gripped your body close while the euphoria washed over him. He mumbled apologies as you soothed him. “Don't worry. The first one is free. Let me take care of you.”

The second time, Marcus lasted longer. All the care he had shown you was returned to him. You let him gently explore your body. Showing him what felt good to you. Pride swelled in Marcus's chest each time you sighed or moaned at his touch. This time, the two of you worked together to reach your highs. The years and trauma melted away, and you were just that sweet girl he first met, laying vulnerable in his arms. That was the point that Marcus Pike forever became enamoured with finding a life partner that he could devote himself to.

[wolven91]

Under The Influence

'The Staggered Ursidain' had every indicator that it was a 'human' bar.

However, any self-respecting human would usually not be seen dead in one of those types of bars as they painfully leaned into all the stereotypes including being the source of some of the more outlandish ones. It appealed to those with a romantic view of humanity. Who near fetishised the critically endangered species. Those 'human lovers' often had some internal notion of what a human 'should be' and these establishments aimed at catching that, alarmingly large, chunk of the market.

That said, Danny had just gained the unpleasant education that on this tiny waystation at The Edge of the galaxy, this was one of the only establishments that served actual alcohol. At the centre of the galaxy, The Galactic Community had made it almost impossible to find somewhere willing to serve a human anything that was deemed 'unhealthy'.

Danny frowned as he stepped inside. The Community list of illegal food stuffs was extensive, but only illegal to sell to a human. Alcohol. Stimulants. Spice. Technically salt was illegal to humans. But... out here on The Edge? That list was a long way away.

The unshaven human did have other options for a drink. There were a few Scent bars a few streets over and the more overt 'Love Lounges' available that had bar service, but the former was useless to Danny and the latter would send the wrong signal. He didn't want to be slobbered over; he just wanted a drink.

Entering, he inwardly groaned as he found it was busy with punters. More than a few glanced his direction, eyes widening, and neighbours being nudged.

The human walked the length of the bar until he had to turn the corner and settled at one of the few stools at the bar still free, he mercifully ended up near the end at the back, almost obscured to most of the bar. He could see the entrance and most the bar, yet only if someone was facing him would actually notice him. He could be nice and quiet; most humans had learnt how to meld into the background these days.

The only patron close to him was something big and quiet in the booth at his back. A glance found a shadowy figure, maybe an ursidain? Nah, not enough fur. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He didn't like it, but moving now wasn't an option.

The bartender was a sluggat perched on a piece of metal with wheels attached to the bottom, he pulled and pushed himself using the bar's counter. It was the fastest slaggat Danny had seen move, he smirked as he watched the alien roll away to get the human his first pint.

After his third pint Danny hadn't noticed his shoulders slump nor the shadowy creature behind him slowly begin the sway in time with the music. Just the vague creaking of the seat beneath it's bulk.

The rest of the patrons had begun to get rowdy, singing and chanting in an uncharacteristically jovial fashion. The sluggat behind the bar had stopped charging Danny for his drinks and snacks after the first two. The sluggat had been in the game long enough to know when to take a loss to gain later. A human in his bar was good for business and would draw in customers in the future in their vague hope of seeing another one.

However, Danny's first notion that he was under someone's direct attention was when a scaled and clawed hand twice the size of his own, hit the bar, right next to his. Before he could react, a second, matching hand appeared on his other side. They were boxing him in. It was then he felt the hot breath from behind him washing over his shoulders.

A voice spoke out that reminded him of a storm on the horizon. A rumble that plucked at something primal deep in his guts.

"Well then... what's a placsh like you, doing in a gal like me?" Came the slurred words from above and behind him.

Also quite 'fresh', Danny spun in the spot and lent backwards craning his head to look directly up. He saw a jawline filled with teeth and stubby horns that accented the sharp lines of the quadruped Draconic that was looming over him.

"Want me to get out the way?" He asked carefully. Any draconian with more than two legs was one to treat carefully. They were known to be more chaotic than their two legged cousins.

"Nah... I want to buy you a drink..." Came her cool reply, her swaying was arrested somewhat by holding onto the bar, but the elongest neck continued to wobble slowly.

Danny would have to be careful now... it wasn't easy to turn down a draconian who was drunk, was larger and could feel insulted that a human wouldn't simply throw themselves into their clutches at the first ham-fisted attempt at 'flirting'. Not being aware that he hadn't been charged for his previous drink, Danny merely saw this as a way to save his pennies. A drink wasn't a promise and even out here on The Edge, humans were still protected, least the station be blacklisted.

To the human, he could milk this alien for at least a few drinks and he could simply excuse himself to the bathroom then make himself scarse if it went sideways.

"Sure!" Came his happy reply, beaming up at her.

A grin spread across her muzzle before she waved the Bartender over.

"Two more in the booth!" She ordered holding up her shovel-sized hands with two fingers extended.

The booths were admittedly comfier than the stool, so Danny allowed the muscled arm to loop over his shoulder and he was guided to the worn leather seats. The draconian had to do a mild 'hop' as she walked with only three legs, the forth draped over Danny.

She swept a hand towards his seat in a dramatized 'gentlemanly' gesture. The two of them chuckling at the action he settled himself in and the draconian shuffled into the opposite side.

The party mood of the 'tavern' seemed infectious, colouring the mood between the two aliens. The conversation was light, filled with banter and jokes. The draconian was the first to offer an innuendo, and at Danny's hearty chuckle, was emboldened to lead into more and more dirty jokes as long as Danny kept genuinely laughing at them. In all honesty, Danny hadn't been this relaxed in months and discovered that he was actually, honestly, enjoying this creature's company.

They eventually found themselves sat next to each other, moving around the rounded booth until they were pressed into each other's side. They even joined in with some of the more well-known shanties. The draconian taught Danny one or two, despite her and his slurring.

When he blinked and had a moment of clarity, he took stock of where and what was happening.

His left hand was relaxed and resting lightly on top of her right thigh, his pinkie finger was actually trapped between the soft scaled flesh of each of her inner thighs when he thought about it. His other hand; held a bottle of beer, but her right arm was now looped over his shoulder, her hand distinctly limp so she wasn't grabbing or touching him beyond resting against him.

His body was leant completely against her, the side of her torso pressed against his forehead. Powerful lungs expanded the chest, and contracted in time.

She took a long drag of her own drink, draining it pointedly. He lifted his own to find it was also empty.

He turned to look at her only for her to be turning to look at him at the same time.

His lips touched the silk soft scales of her snout by accident, but neither jumped to stop the touch.

Her hands became bold, putting down her drink, her freed hand found his thigh and ran her claws gently up to his hips. She grabbed at the side of his pelvis and pulled him roughly against her.

"My place isn't far.." She whispered.