#I work in retail so I know entitlement when I see it - so seeing all these flame/hate comments spring up on fics

[yumiyumeuniverse]

I agree with a lot of these points in regards to leaving concrit comments VS comments made in good faith/done as a means to show you liked something in a story, but one thing I'd also like to bring up that I've seen a rise of in recent years is that there are some people who don't know the difference between leaving concrit comments and hate/flame comments.

In other words, when it comes to leaving concrit comments, there HAS to be some sort of structure to the comment otherwise it's not constructive in the sense you're trying to help the author improve their writing, it just comes across as mean or petty (even if that wasn't the commenter's original intention).

For example, using the 1st person shown replying to OP on this post, lets say I wrote a fic about characters going to a concert - in said fic, I took the time to describe characters' outfits, what they ate at the concert, how they got there, etc. and received 2 comments: "I really like how you portray the characters XYZ, and my favorite part was ###, keep up the good work!" VS "Although I didn't like how you dragged the ending out towards the end, this was still a good story."

With the first comment, it's made clear that not only did the reader like the story, but they also took the time to describe certain aspects of it they either enjoyed or found interesting, things which are typically included in possible comments one can leave that come across as positive feedback: I as the author see this comment, and understand I was able to keep the reader engaged/entertained, as well as that the reader enjoyed certain points or parts of the story, leading me to come to the conclusion that they overall like my work.

On the other hand, when it comes to the second comment, while many people may not make a big deal out of it given in the end the reader states they still thought the story was good, leaving comments like this can be interpreted as passive aggressive at best, and can be disappointing to see as a writer (especially when you're just starting out) because there's no structure here to give anything to improve. In other words, these types of comments are often claiming to be concrit, but because they offer no actual advice/suggestions to help the author construct a better story, they then are left as simply 'critcism,' and in regards to writing fanfic, it's not surprising many people don't want to just be criticized in their inbox when they didn't ask for it and are writing for free.

As such, when seeing these kinds of comments, I try to get back into the mindset I had when proofreading papers for myself and others in college and, giving the commenter the chance to change (provided they aren't being overly rude, mind you) would personally suggest amending their statement so it's not so - well - critical: in this case, "Although I didn't like how you dragged the ending out towards the end, this was still a good story." could be reworded to "While I think this story is good, I think towards the end a few paragraphs sounded a bit repetitive and this messed up the flow of the story for me as a reader. Your writing style is great, but in the future, perhaps you could maybe go over your draft a few times to cut out unnecessary details or even cut a few paragraphs for the sake of the story's pace."

Doing simple things like changing your wording and how you speak can mean a world of difference - now this comment, again which could come off as passive aggressive or as just plain critical has now actually been given structure to offer advice for the author to actually improve while still being polite in letting them know the reader enjoyed the story.

As such, with all of this in mind, it's important to remember that NOT ALL writers want nor ask for concrit to begin with as previously mentioned on this post, so please keep this in mind before commenting on your favorite works regardless of what website you read your fics on! Additionally, there's a fine line, as demonstrated above, between what constituents being critical and opinionated VS offering advice while showing what mistake was made or suggesting how something could've been improved in a future story, and if an author doesn't ask for feedback, try to keep it to yourself and try to be a positive influence instead via letting them know how special their work is to you!

Fandom should be fun, and fic writers, much like fan artists, are not automatically content creators - they are real people, and most write or draw for free/as a hobby, so if you understand the concept that we shouldn't be attacking fan artists regardless of how you feel about what they draw or how their art looks, applying this to fic writers should be easy

Is it just me, or are there less comments being written on fics nowadays? I get to a fic on AO3 that was posted weeks ago, and it has like 30 kudos but no comments yet. It happens more and more now. Why is that?

I don't like it.

[avocado-writing]

hi! it’s crazy seeing you write for bg3 (in a good way, it’s my new hyper fixation) when i used to read your writing for bullet train obsessively.

if it’s ok, i’d like to request astarion, wyll, and halsin’s reaction to their s/o having a hard time in life in general. i thought retail would get easier after the holidays but it made people even more entitled and i just want to cry and quit-

awww hell yeah boss same hyperfixation! 🤝 sorry about your job babe. I’m in a similar situation working in hospitality :( I’m sending you all my love. bg3 Taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 @trappedinlimbo15 (comment if you’d like to be added!)

Astarion

I think comfort doesn’t come easily to him, because he’s so used to deflecting things with humour or sarcasm.

But when he sees how unhappy you are he steps up. nothing gets to make you feel bad. nothing.

Swallows his pride and asks the others in the camp the ways that help them feel better (due to being a vampire for so long he needs a little guidance, bless him)

makes an effort to get your favourite foods and be sure you’re eating correctly if he sees you’re neglecting your appetite.

gets you to bathe by playfully seducing you into the water (“oh what a lovely clear lake, and so deliciously secluded. I think I’ll just take a dip if you care to join me…”)

holds you at night and doesn’t say anything when you cry, just rubs his hand up and down your back and keeps you close. He wants you to know he’s there for anything.

when you wake up he’s curled around you, shielding you from the world.

Wyll

My man has had some shitty times in his life, but is generally quite chipper.

encouragement all the time. “You’re doing so well!” “You are truly amazing, my love.” “You can do this, I know it. I’m right here for you.”

he knows your favourite things, has them committed to memory - so he always likes to surprise you with gifts that make you light up with a smile.

lots of physical touch. A hand on the small of your back when you’re walking, a kiss as he wanders past you - something to anchor you down to the world.

there for a gentle pep talk when things get too heavy. You can feel his love in every word he says.

Stays up to chat as late as you need, and makes sure you’re sound asleep before he beds down for the night, wrapping an arm around and holding you close.

Halsin

He’s a Druid. He believes in the healing power of nature.

“come, my heart. We’re going for a walk.” “Nooooooooo…” he just picks you up and puts you on your feet. No arguing.

you complain but the sunshine does make you feel better. It’s nice to walk in companionable silence, hear the sounds of the forest. The birds. The rustling of leaves.

eventually you start to talk about your feelings, and halsin is a wonderful listener. nods along quietly and offers advice when it’s needed or asked for.

sits you down in a clearing, just the two of you, and allows you to pour your heart out. Holds you if you cry. I just think sobbing into his huge chest would be so cathartic.

kisses the tears from your cheeks after. It makes you giggle, and he smiles.

“your laugh is favourite sound.”

[shotoyami]

Could do gambit x f reader basically f reader is a normal person working and is saved one day by gambit in a fight and offers to take her home and basically gets to know her and take her out on a date’s <33

prenotes: Gambit beloved <33 !!! The silly little Cajun man, he has my heart… I loved writing this sm, super cute, might make a part two if anyone would like to see that!!!

Thank you so much for the request, anon<3

pairing: Remy LeBeau/Gambit + female reader

warnings: none, yet again!

genre: fluff, that’s all to be seen here

notes: so please ignore the jokes I make in here if anyone doesn’t like them, I had to make them as a retail worker and the usual daily struggles of retail. but if anyone laughs, I’m glad! (please respect your retail workers, they don’t get paid enough or appreciated enough)

word count: 900+

Sir, this is a Walmart…

Work. Mediocre, stressful, annoying. At least, that’s a normal day on the job. Another day at some high end grocery store that cannot be named here, just dealing with the same customers to expect every day. The entitled old people, the crass young people that shouldn't be without adult supervision, crying babies that the mother literally is not even a foot away from and doesn’t care about, and so much more stupidity. 

“You young kids and not respecting their elders. I swear, it’s like I always talk to the same person no matter where I go unless it’s a machine!” Like now, where an older woman is harassing me.

I force a civil smile onto my face, knowing everything is both on video and on audio, and that anything against store policy could get me fired. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. Unfortunately, I can’t bend the rules for anyone. If I change the price for you, I’d have to change the price for everyone in the store- which can’t happen, of course.” I try to explain to the woman– which is stupid, because when do entitled people ever listen to reason? She starts shouting, which is to be expected, and of course a supervisor comes over, trying to gauge what’s happening, and now she’s screaming at them too. The supervisor gives me a glance and I just put my hands up defensively and turn and walk away– because I don’t get paid anywhere near enough to deal with this crap.

I fall into the breakroom’s couch with a long sigh, making one of my coworkers giggle. “Gosh (y/n), tell us all how you really feel girl.” I groan, but let out a small laugh, finding humor in my coworker’s words. “Was it Sharon again? Or Beth?”

I sat up as I respond, “Neither, it was Martha.” My coworker grimaces at the name, before she sighs.

“Yikes. I’m sorry girl, she’s a pain.” I snicker, nodding in agreement. “But have you seen that new looker that’s been coming in recently?” That sparks my attention, and I sit fully toward her, attentively. “No? Okay, so there’s this guy that’s been coming in, right? And he’s got weird eyes and a southern accent, and he flirts with everyone.” I nod along as she speaks, humming afterward in thought.

“No, I haven’t seen or met him yet. He sounds interesting?” She nods in agreement, but we’re interrupted as our supervisor comes in, rolling his eyes.

“Martha.” Is all he says, making both of us giggle. “You’re good to go back on the floor, (y/n).” I nod and hop up, making my way back out onto the sales floor.

Of course, my luck willing, there’s some weird looking people (hey, we’re not trying to judge here, but just imagine this the same kinda way as describing your neighborhood crackhead) getting into a fight on the sales floor. I stand there, awkwardly, because I’m not trying to get into the middle of all of that. 

As I go to shuffle on by, because I don’t get paid enough to care, some kind of metal comes flying at me. My survival instincts aren’t survivaling because I just stare at my impending doom for a moment, accepting my fate and all, until a card with a purple looking hue just flies in front of me and blows up the metal??????

Whilst pondering my existence and how I didn’t just die, I get grabbed and my snatcher???? savior???? just kind of runs, cursing in some other language – french? Once again accepting my fate, I don’t exactly struggle or anything because this is all on camera and surely  someone will clock me out for this or just give me extended pay time for dealing with this crap.

The person finally stops and sets me down in the back of the parking lot, and I find that it’s my coworker’s deemed ‘new looker’. “Ya’ alri’, cher?” I slowly nod, probably looking like a big eyed fish or a barn owl or something. He chuckles, offering a hand, “The name’s Remy LeBeau, ya’ welcome fa’ the save. How’s ‘bout yous make it up ta’ me by lettin’ me walk ya’ on home? Ya’ off the clock?” Again, I just nod stupidly – my coworkers can clock me out, it should be fine. Fortunately, I use public transportation anyway, so it all works out.

Of course, everyone’s staring at the man next to me. Not so much for his “good looks,” but moreso for his odd appearing eyes – red on black. The entire subway is…rather quiet for once. It’s a nice change, a welcome change. He’s the one that breaks the silence as we get off of the subway, “Ya’ from ‘round these parts?” He sort of leans over me, smirking but still being quite respectful. He’s probably fishing for something in common, given his thick southern accent.

“No, I’m from the next state over.” He slowly nods, humming and keeping the conversation going similarly until we arrive at my front door. “So, I be seein’ ya’ again? Here, le’mme give ya’ my fone number.” He quickly comes up with a way to scribble down his digits, handing the paper to me. “An’ maybe we can go on a nice little date or somethin’ soon, cher?”

A goofy smile comes onto my face at this words, a bit shocked that all it took was a bit of small took to charade this man, but I nod in agreement nonetheless. “I’d appreciate if it involved me not being in immediate danger next time?” He chuckles and nods.

“See ya’ then, darlin’.”

[starstruckkittensweets]

chapter one

Fandom: My Hero Academia Pairing: Dabi x Reader Words: 6.2k

A/N: The first chapter of my lil Dabi passion project. Partially inspired by "Haunting Adeline" (awesome book but PLEASE heed the warnings in it). The full list of warnings is included in the main masterlist, but individual ones will be posted at the beginning of each chapter. Also this is my first time writing from both Reader and Dabi's perspective, so I hope it's not too bad. I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ only (minors DNI), explicit language, mentions of arson, mentions of violence, stalking, breaking and entering, working in retail (I'm sorry), Reader lives in a cute lil house in the middle of the woods, Reader also has 3 plushies (that all have names, because I'm a dork)

"Kerosene and Butterflies" Masterlist

It’s raining again, for the fourth day in a row. Barely any light to work with at the little workspace you’ve made for yourself at the kitchen table. So instead you rest your hands on your arms, watching the rain patter against the window panes. Pen and paper pushed away and left forgotten on the surface.

Rain always makes you feel nice. Not happy or sad, just nice. Gives you something to look at, the sound mindless enough to put you at ease. Soft and warm, more often than not lulling you to sleep with its voice. It’s hard to explain, but it seems to make sense in your mind.

Your phone lights up on the table with a text. It’s your mother again, sending her weekly check-in text. Even though you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself and living on your own. But it’s more for her than you; you think it helps her cope with one of her kids living abroad, so far out of her reach.

Well, that’s what enticed you about this house in the first place, but you’ll never tell her that.

With a yawn you grab your phone and send a quick reply. Yes you’re okay, you’re getting enough sleep, you miss her home cooked meals. Call her tomorrow, put her mind at ease. Buy another few days of freedom before the cycle inevitably repeats itself.

When you finish and place your phone back down, you give the paper and pen one last look. Maybe you could try one more time, see if anything comes to mind?

Your chest deflates at the thought. No, the spark is long gone. Try again a different day, get some sleep for now. You need it.

You can almost hear it laughing at you, the uncapped pen lying dangerously close to its blank skin. You’ve been hearing it for the last hour or so, wracking your brain to come up with something, anything. Words, ideas, or even bullet points you can just jot down in your chicken scratch handwriting. Just a sliver of something to get those creative juices flowing.

But your eyelids are already drooping, the rainy weather not helping you one bit. Your brain feels like it’s all dried up, giving you a never-ending headache. Telling you that you’ve already reached your peak; that nothing else you make will ever come close to how you want it to come out.

Oh well. Tomorrow’s another day, right?

But you know damn well you’ll be back to square one tomorrow night, when you get home from work. Staring at that blank page with your head in your hands, praying for the words to come. For the inspiration to strike—to make you feel anything other than this.

At least the paper’s still good, maybe you can use it for a shopping list later in the week. That way it’ll get some good use out of it.

Your job isn’t exactly the flashiest; definitely not what you envisioned yourself doing at twenty-four years old. Working at a dead-end department store in the shady part of town, along with four or five other people—and none of them are close to you in age. But it keeps the bills paid and food in your fridge, so you guess it’s not as bad as it could be. You could do without the annoying entitled customers, though.

At least your shift stretches into the latter half of the day, meaning you only have to deal with them for about four hours, five tops if you end up taking your lunch break late. Then the store closes, the customers are ushered out, and you spend the rest of your time stocking the shelves and getting ready for the next busy day.

Most nights the store’s already empty, with only a handful of customers roaming the aisles. That gives you some extra time to start stocking; you prefer putting stuff back on the shelves rather than ringing on register anyways. Register gets boring and repetitive fast, but working on the floor always gives you something new to do.

“Excuse me, where can I find the laundry detergent?”

“Down the next aisle and to your left, all the way down at number twenty-four.”

“Where’s the soup and all the instant meals?”            

“Right over here actually, on the middle shelf.”

“You have any beer?”

“Last aisle down, all the way to the end. You’ll see the freezer straight ahead.”

Every interaction gives you a rush of excitement, as sad as it sounds. In all honesty, your job isn’t the complete worst. Most customers are fine and even pleasant to deal with, and it always makes you feel good when you’re able to help them find something on their lists. Besides, it tests your knowledge of the store, almost like a matching game; after three years of working in the same place, you pretty much know it like the back of your hand.

Tonight seems like one of those lazy nights, with only a couple customers roaming through the aisles, the lone cashier at the registers looking like he’s about to fall asleep. You’re sorting through the grocery bin at the front (either what customers decided they didn’t want, or items found randomly throughout the store). There’s quite a bit today, must’ve been pretty busy earlier in the day.

It doesn’t take long to put the shelf-ready stuff into a cart and trek down to the grocery section. Most of it is candy anyways, which is in the first couple aisles. One item after another, until you start to see the bottom of the cart.

You step back from the shelf, a handful of candy bars clenched between your fingers, when your back suddenly collides into something—or someone, judging by the grunt they let out.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean that, I should really watch where I’m going, I’m really sorry about that—”

The words die right there on your tongue as you glance up at the person. You can barely see his face behind the dark mask over his mouth and his hood pulled over his hair. But something catches your eye—something dark and heavy beneath his eyes.

He’s got some serious bags under his eyes, poor guy must be working himself to death. Must be a college student, you know how it feels.

Wait a minute…bags?

Your head begins to buzz. You don’t think you’ve ever seen bags bad enough to leave the skin so…wrinkled. Almost like they’re—

But he’s already walking away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. Head hanging low and shoulders tense as he disappears down the next aisle.

It’s not until another customer asks you where the hand soap is, that you remember to blink—and breathe. It takes a bit of effort, but you manage to give them the right aisle across the store. But then you’re staring off into space once more, thinking about the strange person in the black hoodie and mask.

Dark patches under his eyes… Could it really be…?

No way, stop thinking like that. You know where your mind is going, don’t you dare entertain the thought.

You shake your head. You’re being ridiculous. It’s getting late, anyway. You didn’t get that much sleep last night to begin with, it’s early to bed when you get home later tonight.

You file the last of the candy in its proper home on the shelf before heading down the main path towards the registers. Pet food, paper goods, detergent, body wash… A couple aisles here and there for every department. You should check and see if there’s any chemicals up front that need to go back on the shelf. Probably the easiest department for you to handle, other than food and appliances—

Your jaw drops when you turn the corner and come face-to-face with the dark stranger from earlier. Staring down at you with those dark eyes—no, the patches are dark, his eyes are actually quite bright, and oh my fucking God they’re blue—

There’s something sticking out of his pocket—the red and white label of a box of Band-Aids. And that’s not the only thing in there, judging by the awkward bulges and pointy corners. Maybe some extra medicine or painkillers.

You glance back up at him. Neither of you make any move to leave.

“…I won’t tell if you won’t.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. All you can think about is how this little corner of the store lacks any functioning security cameras, and how it’s probably only a few dollars, it won’t necessarily put the store out of business if he gets away with it. Just this one time. No one has to know, except the two of you.  

He’s glaring now, probably curling his lip at you from behind the mask. You swallow the growing lump in your throat, your heart throbbing furiously against your ribcage.

“Can…I get you anything else?”

“Fuck off.”

He shoves his way past you, shoulder nearly knocking you on your ass. Your throat runs dry as his words echo in your ears, his voice sending chills down your spine.

You know him, but from where? You know his voice, his looks—but why can’t you remember him?

You glance over your shoulder but he’s already gone, most likely heading towards the exit. Not like you’re gonna stop him.

Still, you can’t get your little encounter out of your mind, even as you try to busy yourself with your work. Not even ten minutes pass by before you grab another box of bandages and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, mumbling to your coworker, “Store use, I’ll claim it out when I get back,” all the while feigning injury as you cradle your wrist against your chest (where a small pack of cotton balls is pressed between your fingers).

The back of the store leads out to the dumpsters in the back alley. A prime spot for smoke breaks, despite smelling like absolute crap. Chalk marks and spray paint decorating the walls, trash bags spilling out of the dumpsters in the corner. You clutch the supplies to your chest, head swinging wildly in search of the stranger.

But there’s no one out there. He’s gone for good this time—and for some reason, you can’t explain the sudden ache in your chest.

You don’t know what makes you leave the bandages and alcohol in the corner of the alley, hidden by the shadow of the dumpsters. Or why there’s a pang in the pit of your stomach, as you remember how bright his blue eyes looked.

Here’s a tip for any aspiring writers out there: get comfortable with constantly going on the internet. Whether it’s looking for an obscure random fact about Victorian houses in the 1800s or learning just how long it takes to recover from a bullet wound in the shoulder, search engines like Google will become your best friend. It won’t always provide the most accurate information, but it’s a start to get the ball rolling.

But this particular search doesn’t stem from a story in your drafts; all you can see are those mysterious blue eyes from the store, and the dark wrinkled patches beneath them.

It doesn’t take long at all to find your answer: a thread of articles and blurry photos of the infamous League of Villains—the same ones that have been terrorizing the country for the past year or so. Casualties, crimes, and even past victims. Every word brings another wave of goosebumps, but you can’t tear your eyes away.

Of course. That’s where you knew him from. Makes sense now.

There’s a handful of people in the photos, each one more terrifying than the last. A young girl with a feral smile, associated with a string of murders involving severe blood loss. A man capable of decaying anything with just a brush of his fingers. And the same stranger you saw in the store, known for over thirty murders and thousands in property damage, all thanks to those dangerous blue flames.

You slam the laptop shut and suppress a shiver. What were you thinking? Acting so casual with a villain—you knew you recognized those eyes somewhere—and oh my God, were you really going to try to meet him outside at the back?

And for what? Some bandages that he’d clearly already stolen? Hell, you’d let him walk away even when you knew he was planning on stealing them!

Hopefully your boss never finds out about that.

You glance out the window of your living room, pulling the lapels of your jacket closer to your chest. The door’s locked, the windows are latched, and the curtains are closed. Nothing out there but the trees and the moon and the gentle rainfall.

Calm down. Why would he come after you? You didn’t do anything to piss him off, did you? So what makes you think he’d try to figure out where you lived? What would he have to gain from that?

Still, you triple check the lock on the door, before moving backwards towards your bedroom. Also clicking the lock into place once you’re safe inside.

A villain. You can’t believe you came across an actual villain.

Villains were a common presence even back home, and you knew before moving abroad there was a possibility you could encounter some of them. But they always kept to the shadows, staying out of the spotlight for as long as they could. Only showing up in cities far away from your own. You’ve never come face to face with one of them, never been so fucking close to one of them before—

You crawl into bed and throw the covers over your head. Trying to focus on the pitter patter of the rain against the windows.

But you can’t get those images out of your mind. No matter how hard you squeeze your eyes shut, or bury your face into the pillow, you can still see his face. Those horrid wrinkled patches beneath his eyes. The same shade of blue as the flames from his palms. The way he looked at you as though you were nothing but a smear of dirt on the bottom of his boot.

He could’ve burned you right then and there.

You don’t fall asleep easily that night.

Despite your paranoia, the next few days go by without any issue. Work, errands, go back home. Your life continues just as it did before you met that crazy villain—and knowing that, you can breathe a little easier when you rest your head on your pillow for the night.

The little pile of medicine and supplies you’d left in the back alley had disappeared the next morning. Someone else had probably picked them up, who could say no to free medical supplies? There’s a slim chance that villain came back and took them for himself.

You know it’s a long shot. And yet there’s still some part of you that clings to it, wondering if he’s still sticking around this part of town.

Come on, what’s wrong with you? Are you really that eager to put your life in danger like that?

The rational part of your brain says no. But there’s another part, a much more vocal part of your brain, that can’t stop thinking about your little encounter. And what you would’ve done if he’d been in that alley that night.

Probably cry your eyes out. Then get killed like the dumbass you are.

Still, no matter what you do or what you try to focus on instead, he keeps coming back to your mind. And you find yourself visiting those damn websites, those stupid forums night after night when you get home from work, speculating just who he might be beneath those painful scars and bright blue flames.

What kind of life did he lead before joining the League? Does he have any regrets about becoming a villain? Does he actually enjoy being on the run like this?

It’s only when you’re lying wide awake in bed at close to two in the morning, still worn out from a long day at work that the more innocent questions start to plague your mind:

What’s his favorite color? Is it blue, or does he actually hate it? When is his birthday? Does he have any friends, either before he became a villain, or anyone in the League? You wonder, what’s his real name?

“Why am I even thinking about this? Not like I’m ever gonna see him again…” And you should be grateful for that.

But there’s still an ache in your chest, an awkward swirl in your stomach, every time you remind yourself of that simple little fact. And you don’t really know what to make of it.

Another hour passes before you push yourself out of bed and right to your desk in the corner. Grabbing one of the little notebooks you’d bought for story notes and ideas, but haven’t really touched in the last few months. Sliding into the seat with a sigh and clicking open one of the many black pens from the drawer at your side. Flicking on the small desk lamp and squinting against the sudden brightness.

It’s not uncommon for the inspiration to hit at ungodly hours of the morning. Honestly, you do your best writing between midnight and six a.m.; the only drawback is being unable to stay awake at work the next day. But at least you have some damn good writing to show for it.

But that hasn’t happened for months now. Not since you moved and started working nights. Now you have to hit the hay almost as soon as you come home, if you want any chance of a normal sleep schedule.

The pen moves on its own. Every breath brings another word on the page. Ink starts to smudge the side of your hand.

They appear in front of you: all the questions circling around in your mind, begging to be answered. The honest, the childish, even questions you think of on the spot. Anything and everything you would ask him if you were ever given the chance.

What are you doing? You should be in bed trying to sleep. Not doing…whatever this is.

You swallow hard as a single word appears before you: Dabi.

And immediately you start to shiver, your cheeks growing warm beneath the scathing looks of the ink and pages.

You’ve always had a strange complex when it comes to writing out people’s names. They’re much easier to speak out in your mind, or even say verbally. But once you write them out, it becomes almost final. It’s different to actually see those letters right in front of you, rather than just imagining them in your mind. Guess it makes everything seem so much more real that way. 

It’s stupid, so fucking stupid.

But you don’t stop, even when your hand begins to cramp. Because this is the first time in almost half a year that you’re actually letting your pen guide you. The first time you truly feel at ease, not even caring about what you’ve written, or even stopping yourself to edit it.

What’s it called, word vomit? It’s therapeutic, but incredibly hard to do sometimes.

It’s not until the sun rises a couple hours later, and you’re half-asleep at your desk. Your arms curled beneath your head, the muscles in your hand throbbing like crazy. But then you see all those words you’ve written, all that ink staining those pristine white pages…

And you can’t help but smile as you drift off to sleep.

The air is stale with the scent of smoke and ash. The city always smells like shit, but it’s usually better on the outskirts. But the burning pile of flesh at the end of the alley begs to differ, and his hands still ache as blue flames lick at his palms.

Another shitty night coming to an end, thank fuck.

Dabi’s been in this damn city for the better part of two weeks now, boss’s orders unfortunately. Scouting for any possible members, new blood they could add to their ranks. But every group is the same; they’re either loud-mouthed fucks with more muscle in their arms than their own damn heads, or they’re practically children, fresh out of school and all set on playing hero. Still thinking this is a fucking game, and that they can stand to take the League out from the inside.

He’s already had one guy try it a couple months back, but he knew better than to go through with it. Can’t say the same for the rest of the dumbasses burning in the alley, though.

Oh, well. No doubt the heroes will find them tomorrow, if they even bother showing up. Not many of them like to venture all the way out here, especially if it means real danger.

He slides a pack of cigs out from his pocket, choosing one and lighting it with the tip of his finger. He’s walked these roads too many times in the last few nights, practically knows them inside and out. And it’s not long before that silly little department store comes into view—the same one that oh-so-generously let him borrow some of their stock last week.

Didn’t even need to use his quirk to make it happen, either.

The double doors slide open, the blaring lights a stark contrast to the shadows of the streets. He barely has time to step back before someone steps out, waving their hand behind them with a smile on their face.

Oh, the same one from that night. He can’t help but smirk at the memory.

It’s a girl—and if her face and height are anything to go by, he’s starting to wonder if she’s even old enough to work at a place like this. Apparently her brain must be impressively small too, with the way she’s walking down the darkened street without a care in the world. One hand fastened on the strap of her purse and the other dangling down at her side, a dark lanyard wrapped around her wrist. She must have a shit-ton of keyrings on them, judging by how hard she swings it back and forth. As if that’s going to protect her if someone tries to jump her.

Fucking dipshit.

He rolls his eyes and takes another long drag of his cigarette. Watching the stupid kid out of the corner of his eye—and nearly dropping the cig altogether when he watches her veer off the sidewalk and head straight for the forest.

What the fuck is she doing? Does she want to get herself killed?

Maybe it’s sheer curiosity—or maybe it’s hoping something out there will pick her off so she’ll learn her lesson—whatever it is, it has his feet moving on their own. Picking up the pace to keep her within his sights, the cigarette barely hanging from his mouth.

Didn’t anyone teach her not to go walking around this late at night? For fuck’s sake it’s nearly one in the morning, does her shift really last that long? What compelled her to take a walk in the goddamn forest of all places? No way she lives all the way out here, she’s probably got a place somewhere in the city. Probably just looking for a cheap thrill so late at night.

Stop it. She’s not your problem to worry about, so quit it already. Just sit back and watch the show.

He follows her down the old trodden path, waiting for her to hit a stray root or trip over a rock and fall flat on her face. But nothing happens, other than a few scuffs of dirt on her ratty old sneakers. Almost like she knows these woods—like the back of her hand.

It’s a struggle to keep his footsteps soft. His boots do nothing to quell the sound of leaves crunching, dirt spraying across the path. Luckily she doesn’t hear, either that or she just doesn’t care.

Where the hell is she heading at this hour?

His answer appears in the form of a house. A pretty shitty-looking one, if he’s being completely honest. Shabby roof, flimsy door, moss creeping over each and every corner. Almost like no one’s bothered to visit the place in the last decade or so—at least.

The girl steps right up to the door, swinging that stupid lanyard at her side. Shuffling around until she finds the right key, before disappearing into the house altogether. A light flickers on in the window, her shadow visible behind the aging curtains.

Fuck him, she does live here.

In the middle of nowhere, secluded from the rest of the world. She’s stupid, isolating herself from all those people in town. Help’s not gonna come if you’re stuck in some random forest, she’s probably better off in the heart of the city. Then again, it must be nice for her. Being able to wake up in the morning without the blaring of sirens in your ears. Tucked away where no one can find you, safe and sound in the comfort of your own quiet home.

He almost envies her. Almost.

The longer he stares at the little mossy house, watching her shadow flit back and forth behind the curtain, the more he starts to wonder what she has inside. Must be stocked on food and medicine; that shit’s hard to come by these days. Might be worth a peek once she’s gone. She’ll probably leave tomorrow night for her shift, right? He’ll slip in then, see if she’s got anything worth his time. Better this random cottage than an apartment in the city, right? From what he can tell there’s not a soul in sight, save for the looming trees and starry sky.

He’s smirking now, slipping back into the shadows of the forest, right beside the old trodden path. She never even sees him.

The house is dark and empty by sundown. The path is easier to walk in the daylight, but he still waits until nightfall before scoping out the house. Just in case she getany bright ideas and decides to return home sooner than she should.

It’s a two-story house, and while the front door’s latched shut, the windows sure aren’t. It slides open with a squeak, like it hasn’t been touched in years. Looks like the kitchen—or a sorry excuse for one, if he’s being honest. A small table with only two chairs, neither of them looking like they’re from the same set. Papers and books and pens litter the surface, with the napkin holder knocked down on its side.

Not that they have a better one back at the base. Hell, they’re lucky enough if they’re able to sit down for most of their meals, if they can get their hands on any.

Which reminds him of his mission, and he’s scanning the room for any possible food. And there, to his left: a crowded counter stacked with boxes of cookies and candy, below a pair of cupboards with even more food stored inside.

Jackpot.

The League’s not picky when it comes to food, anything will do when your stomach’s keeping you up at night. Well, Dabi can’t say the same for himself—he fucking hates fish. He’d much rather deal with an empty stomach rather than scarf down a few meager bites of sushi. Just the thought of it makes him want to puke.

He can’t take too much the first night, that’ll only make her wonder. It’s best to have as little people in this secluded house as possible. So for now he stuffs his pockets with small snacks for the guys back at base…and maybe even a few candy bars for Toga. Last thing that little psycho needs is more sugar in her system, but he’d rather not hear her whine that he didn’t get anything for her when he gets back.

Plus, this girl doesn’t seem to have any pomegranates around (or any fruit or vegetables, for that matter), so candy will have to do.

When both pockets are jammed with food, he takes a step back to survey the rest of the house. At least the inside looks marginally better than the outside, save for the abhorrent dining room. Simple and sweet, even if it’s a little bland in color.

A gray couch with a couple of pillows in bright colorful pillowcases. A side table with one too many remotes on it, along with a paperback that’s definitely seen better days. A kitchen isle with a sink cluttered with dirty dishes, and a single stool resting beneath the opposite end. Not a single house plant in sight, but plenty of photos throughout, some on the wall but most taped on the fridge. Must be friends and family—but so far, he can only see one person living in this house.

How sad, she must be so lonely without anyone else here…

He rolls his eyes and trods up the creaky set of stairs. Might as well take a peek at the rest of the house, right?

The hallways split up into three major bedrooms. One is filled with storage totes and moving boxes, still waiting to be unpacked (though, by the layer of dust on each of them, he’s not thinking any time soon). The other bedroom is filled, and he means filled, with books. Every square inch is either vacated with an old aging shelf or a stack of hardcovers on the floor. It’s messy and cluttered and he slams the door shut as soon as he opens it.

Lives like a fucking slob, doesn’t she?

The final bedroom turns out to be the biggest one of all, and it’s the only one in the house that actually lives up to its name. A dresser, a desk, and surprise, surprise, another fucking bookcase. There’s also a bed with a thousand plushies on the covers, each one more ridiculous than the last. A giraffe, a raccoon, and whatever the fuck that is. Some weird fuzzy brown creature with a large snout and a bitchy expression on its face. Toga probably knows the name of it, but Dabi couldn’t care less.

There’s also a set of double doors that leads out to a little terrace. It looks better than the rest of the house—must be a newer addition—overlooking the forest beyond. Overall it’s a cute little spot to live in.

And still no sign of anyone else living here with her.

He’s smirking now, thinking of all the things he can sneak out of here in the next few nights—when something else catches his eye. A strange outline under the blanket of the bed, in the center of all the damn toys staring back at him.

He has half a mind to burn the little giraffe to a crisp as he reaches in for the mysterious object. And it’s…a book. Fucking shocker.

No, wait—it’s a journal. Only a few pages filled in so far, the ink messy against the bright white pages. It’s the size of his palm, with a black leather cover and a matching black string attached to the spine, probably to act as a bookmark. And sure enough it’s stuck in a certain spot in the book, the entry dated to just a few nights ago.

I want to see him again. I know that sounds wrong, but it’s the truth. I can’t really explain it, no matter how hard I try. Everything that comes out just sounds wrong…but in my head it makes perfect sense.

I know I’m probably screwed in the head for thinking this. For thinking about him like this. Like I could be the one to change him, to be the only one he wouldn’t kill on sight.

No, wait a minute. I was, wasn’t I? We saw each other that night at the store, and he didn’t even try to hurt me.

He can feel his brow inching further up with every word he reads. What the fuck is she talking about? He flips to another random page—

And the answer’s staring him right in the face, in stark black ink.

Dabi

Dabi

Dabi   

Dabi

I want to see him again. Ask him so many questions, the same ones that keep rattling away in my head. Why did you become a villain? Where did you come from? What is your favorite color?

Please, just one more time. We don’t even have to talk to each other. I just wanna see him with my own two eyes. Now that I know he’s real, that he’s the villain everyone’s afraid of. And I know I should be too, and I am…but I think I’m more curious of him. Maybe that just makes me stupid.

Yeah, I’m just stupid.

The words are swimming on the pages, blurring together, screaming in his head so loud he wonders if he’s read them out loud. But no, it’s dead silent in this room, in this house. Just him and this little black book, written in the hand of that little weirdo. The same one that chooses to live in a creepy old house in the middle of the forest, the one that works at a sketchy department store well into the night. The same one that didn’t scream once she saw him—but instead offered to let him go, even when she knew he was stealing.

And for some reason, he can’t hold back the smirk that stretches across his face.

Of all the people in this city, in this whole damn country, he thinks he’s found the one that intrigues him the most.

Poor girl, doesn’t even know what she’s caused. Just mindlessly writing her thoughts down in her diary, hoping no one will ever read what she’s written.

As carefully as he can, he tucks the book back in its place under the covers. As tempting as it is to take it with him, he knows that’ll only cause more suspicion. Still, he wants to leave her a love letter of his own—something that lets her know she’s not alone in her fascination.

So he does.

And a few minutes later he’s climbing out the kitchen window and making the trek through the forest, pockets full with snacks and a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hate Saturday nights. Arguably the busiest night of the week, and yet you’re still so short-staffed the cashiers end up taking the full brunt of the work. Ringing register, sorting supplies, stocking shelves—oh wait, we need you back up front to do register. Wait why aren’t you working on that cart I told you to finish? Excuse me, can you unlock this item for me? Can you help me check out, and only me, these lines are too long for my liking. Why can’t you be in two places at once?

Not that you ever find it fun to come to work…but Saturday nights just make it a little less fun. And once it calms down and the store closes up, you have to make the journey back home half-asleep. It’s a miracle you haven’t woken up in the middle of the forest yet.

Tonight is one of those nights, where you stumble your way back home like you’ve just had one hell of a night at the bar. But no amount of rubbing your eyes or chugging the bottle of soda in your hands will keep you upright. Eventually you see your little house in the distance, and your chest starts to feel a little lighter at the promise of sleep.

You fumble with the keys twice before managing to unlock the door. Latching it shut behind you, you don’t even turn on any lights before heading straight to your room. The dishes and laundry can wait till tomorrow. Right now, all you need is some fucking sleep.

The trio of stuffed animals on your bed greet you when you step into the room. Before coming to live here, your mother insisted you bring along some childhood stuffies with you, just so you wouldn’t get too lonely. And you hate to say it, but she was absolutely right. More often than not do you find yourself cuddling up to them, wondering about your family back home.

You kick off your shoes and drape your jacket over the back of the desk chair. Then you flop face first onto the bed, not even bothering to change into pajamas. You know you’ll be out cold within five minutes, so what’s the point?

“Goodnight, Rascal,” you mumble to the little raccoon, “goodnight, A.J.,” you pet the little giraffe, “and goodnight, Maxwell.” The little capybara toy is your favorite, but you’ll never admit it out loud. (Not when the other two can hear you.)

You roll over onto the bed, but something sharp juts into your side. You groan and force your hand beneath the covers to yank it out—oh, that’s right… you forgot you’d left your little notebook in bed with you. Must’ve fallen asleep while writing in it last night.

But there’s something sticking out of it, something that prevents it from closing all the way. You open it up and a scrap of paper falls out; not a loose page from the book, but a folded-up index card. One that’s got a note of its own written messily on the side.

One that makes the exhaustion all but vanish from your body.

You should keep this book in a safer hiding spot. You never know who might be reading all your little love notes, doll. 

[suisen-shira]

My middle aged neighbour stays in the Philippines for most of the year. He casually mentioned the epidemic of musty retiree men from the West shacking up with late teen/early 20s Filipinas who are nearly always from impoverished backgrounds. He described it as a 'win-win', old man gets to ravish her youth plus lifelong nurse to change his diapers, she finds a way out of her poverty or at least a better quality of life.

I told him it's a hooker punter arrangement and that these men don't dare return to the West with their 'wives' in tow because their main leverage over her comes from her desperation. I noted how women from my country (industrialised) do not have to resort to such arrangements as frequently and the trend in Ph stems from penury. They could just NOT be rapacious and hire her as a nurse but why would they when they can get bang-maid benefits rolled in?

He proceeds to call me opinionated and says women from my country (say, the US) are too ugly to galvanise the mass exodus of geriatrics for companionship purposes. He then smugly explains to me that prostitution is, for the most part, not exploitative, attractive women would anyday prefer to be paid 1000s for being a pillow princess than work at Subway (nevermind the frequently supermodel tier women working in retail and hospitality). How, while 's__king disgusting men's d___s for a living' would certainly be no fun, the (Filipina) women he knows that do it are chirpy, wholesome, pretty college girls looking to earn a few extra bucks. That it is a personal liberty and I am projecting my biases on to them by suggesting such encounters may be degrading and traumatic for them.

It's all just a naughty adventure, you see. A luxury available only to beautiful women in their wild days of youth. A mandatory 304 phase, if you will. Why not get paid while you're at it? Imagine being so desirable men pay lavishly to have you. Happy hookers ftw. Because sexuality is divorced from privacy and self respect when it comes to beautiful women. The highest bidder wins.

These girls will go on to marry wealthy men and have kids (thereby scaling the pinnacle of womanhood), he explained. As if making oneself into a sex object is a rite of passage for attractive women, a pitstop before hallowed wifedom where the lewd husband continues to consume 🌽 and prostitutes while telling wifey he wouldn't dream of disrespecting her the way he does THOSE women, she is The Wife, the social position is the reward.

His talking points boiled down to 'attractive women are in possession of a goldmine, wouldn't it be a criminal waste for them to not monetise their bodies in the most invasive manner possible?' He earnestly believes beautiful young girls are available on tap if you are a wealthy men*.

*He is a wealthy man.

He, like so many other leches populating the corridors of corporate power, has made bank. Otherwise unremarkable, he is not a looker and although this post does otherwise, the less said about his nauseating personality, the better. I suspect it is his dirty old man fantasy, an assembly line of stunning, young women ever-eager to f___ him, his general unsavouriness notwithstanding.

Throughout his tirade he wouldn't let me get a word in. He absolutely would not entertain the notion that passport bro bs and sex for money is inherently misanthropic. When I pointed out that it is a combination of low self-esteem, insecurity and economic instability that impels women who claim to 'voluntarily' sell themselves, his response was: 🤷🏻‍♀️ at least they are making something out of a gnarly situation instead of acting like professional victims. The specious 'emancipation' argument. He will do anything but admit that all of it, from bubbly 'college girls' su___ing 🍆 for cash to the long-suffering, self effacing wife grateful for scraps of 'love' is an outcome of the self-serving male psyche; the unbridled lust and entitlement to women it breeds.

As though an exclusive, loving heterosexual partnership founded on mutual support and regard is a pipe dream. By signing up for it, women accept the fineprint - his roving eye and insatiable sexual appetite, the unrelenting assaults on her soul.

Going by my neighbour's assertions, objectifying women, the pursuit of no strings attached/hedonistic sex is a compulsive behaviour for human males, an inalienable part of male sexuality that is also divorced from their capacity to love. Women are either Madonnas or Wh__es. The former should be thankful men elevated her to the latter, her superior status implies he adores her even if his actions show anything but. He is simultaneously free to covet the latter, she gets his attention and admiration - a 'win-win'. Both exist to satisfy different facets of the male psyche.

I'm sad to report that even this odious man has a devoted long term girlfriend whom he frequently derides. She is always in damage control mode putting out the fires he starts with his unconsidered words. She can do better but she stays because 'the known devil etc'. Being single is inconceivable for some reason.

He is one of those men that takes pride in being obnoxious, like it is a reflection of his importance, his ability to hurt others evidence of his emotional intelligence. People tolerating his unkindness are tacitly declaring their allegiance to him. Of course that is not the case, like so many men, he has an ill formed Theory of Mind. Most people just pinch their noses and want to be done with the unpleasantness asap, confrontation (I found out the hard way) only prolongs the suffering - and all for naught. He is too daft to know better.

[hush-house-yard-sale]

Hey Librarian, I just wanna ask, how fortified is your house against thieves? Specifically people who might take a peek at books? Specifically diaries? Specifically looking for pages that might imply your true feelings for someone and all this "I don't like you" is just an act because you developed affection towards someone but want to push them away cause the m-word is not a place for love and so you just pen these memories away in a book so all that love will not die? Cause I would HATE it if someone sent an expedition of talented followers to break down locks and seduce guards just to infiltrate *my* inner sanctum and read about all these things I actually wrote myself.

I'd hate it and I'm just... Checking how you prepare against those?

-Cul... cumber. CUCUMBER

How... fortified is my house against... thieves? You... you want to know how fortified my house is against thieves? Oh, for the love of—

First of all, Mx... [scoffs] "Cucumber," you should be well aware that there is no need to resort to breaking and entering if you wish to look at books. This is a library. The purpose of a library is so that patrons can come and look at books. No, I daresay that the only reason one would need to resort to breaking and entering is if one were trying to, oh I don't know, bypass the librarian and steal the books for yourself. And I assure you, Mx. "Cucumber," that that is something for which I will not stand!

Second of all, the only book in Hush House authored by me contains my life's work. You are very sorely deluded if you think I have not made arrangements for its publication, should my endeavors succeed! If you want to read my "diary," as you so dismissively call it, you can purchase it from any reputable retailer of occult works in 2-4 business years. But frankly? I doubt you will even bother, given the disdain you've had for my "nerdy essay." At best you'll flip through it searching for confirmation of this theory you've concocted to fill the void left by the Forge-of-Days' various rejections, and fall back to your opium when you find nothing of the sort. I could translate it into— into Vak if I so desired and it wouldn't make a difference to the amount of information you'd retain upon reading! Perhaps I shall! Perhaps I already have!

Furthermore, for all your obsessions—oh yes, I know all about your obsessions. Do you truly think yourself subtle? Or clever?— you clearly have no pride and no self-respect if you intend to send your followers to discern my feelings for you. Did your followers also write this letter for you? Do they choose the people you woo? When you kiss your lovers, do they position your head for you? There are some things that must be done personally Mx. "Cucumber," if they are to be done at all. And if you will not then you are a coward, and have no hope for earning even a crumb of my respect.

You may be obsessed with me, for what reason I cannot possibly fathom, but you have shown that you have no respect for me, no respect for my library, and no respect for my life's work! You hide behind a false name, and pretend that I am too stupid to see through it. No, I know only one person this callous, this self-centered, this entitled, this... immature.

YOU ARE THE DESPICABLE THIEF OF THE HISTORY OF INKS!!!!!!!!

You will receive no further correspondence from me until the tome is returned.

Firmest disregard,

The Yard Sale Librarian

Post Scriptum: Please inform your followers that my legion of guard vipers is ever-growing. And soon I will overthrow the world.

Post- Post Scriptum: Every last one of them is asexual.

[nancydrewwouldnever]

I do think the whole process puts him on edge//

That's all fine and all but the fact he ends up taking that frustration out on some interviewers through his attitude is a problem. This why I side eye him so much after the whole "Brand" interview rant. Like he seemed so turned off after that and its funny because he was totally being an hypocrite because he definitely has a brand that he portrays. Interviewers are just doing their job, if what they are saying or doing is inappropriate then yes his attitude would suffice but to have an off attitude because he doesn't like the process is unprofessional on his part. Its like when customers take out their frustrations out on retail employees by being extra difficult or wait staff having to deal with difficult diners, like these people are doing their jobs dont take your bad days or frustrations about work, life, store or restaurant policies out on the employees. Interviewers are doing their jobs, they have people and companies they work for. I'm pretty sure they are told what type of questions to ask and topics they are allowed to cover by both sides, their employer and the celebrity's team, so they shouldn't be the punching bag or be forced into his negative attitude atmosphere because he dislikes doing them. He chose this career, he knows what comes along with the life, he knows interviews are part of this life to sell himself and his projects, its a benefit for him as much as it is for the magazines or TV entertainment programs, or online entertainment sites that are interviewing him. And this can go for an celebrity with type of attitude. Most people have some aspects they dont like about their jobs but they're required to do it, but true professionals learn to work through those parts without forcing their negative attitudes onto their productivity, clients, coworkers, management, or any other party.

I mean, I don't see it this way, but we're all entitled to different outlooks.

[datamodel-of-disaster]

Ok, long post warning, I'm angry.

I get that sex work is very often if not almost always an incredibly shitty, dangerous job that a lot of people would prefer not to do. Believe me, I know.

But it's a job.

Not wanting to do the job unless you get paid IS A NORMAL PART OF A JOB. There might be a culture of pretending to enjoy your job if you work in corporate, but don't let that fool you. The pretend-satisfaction is just another part of the job.

You cannot make the point the OP is making here without treating sex like something fundamentally, morally different from other types of labour. This is pure radfem "appeal to disgust" type shit.

Yes, stuff you do just because you need money and food and housing is... not typically super enjoyable.

Yes, the people who pay you in your job are very much aware that you aren't there out of personal enthusiasm... and they don't care. It's also not some kind of psychopath trait to not really care that the people you're reimbursing for a service are just in it for the money.

Do I need to feel bad when I order a drink for knowing my cheerily smiling waiter wouldn't serve me if they weren't getting paid?

(=> a note here. If you think paying someone entitles you to mistreat them, you're a piece of shit. But that is just as true for someone who screams at a waiter or assaults a retail worker. The problem here is that OP thinks having sex with someone for money is intrinsically abusive, regardless of whether a john *actually* abuses a sex worker. Imagine we decided that working retail was so intrinsically awful that we collectively lost the ability to vocalize the difference between the drudgery of a grocery store checkout shift and *getting beaten up by a customer* on your shift)

And yes, people paying you for stuff will very often just as gladly take the stuff without paying for it, if they think they can get away with it. Which fucking sucks, but here we are. Everyone who has ever gotten scammed, raise your hand. Everyone who has ever been forced into unpaid hours in order to keep or get a job, raise your hand.

These are qualities that ALL jobs share.

If the bosses of your non-sexwork job can get away with making you do work and not paying you for it? THEY WILL.

Look at all the industries having strikes right now. If there is a way around fair wages, bosses and companies will find and use it. Wage theft is the world's most common type of robbery.

And if the bosses of your non-sexwork job can get away with putting you in danger to make a profit? HELL YES THEY WILL.

Think of how near every industrial accident is caused by skimping on maintenance and safety, think of how many people have died from exposure to dangerous substances and environments because bosses in the know didn't want to shill for PPE. Honestly, if an industry sees a way to get away with a human rights violation for profit, they won't fucking hesitate.

This is a shitty but bog standard part of being employed. Unions have had to fight for every bit of protection employees have in most sectors. Every regulation is written in blood.

Sex work is only different in the way our societies have moralized it and left it devoid of any protection, even the meagre protection of assumed common humanity that gives most people at least a moment of pause. No Humans Involved is always in the back of my head.

If you're more interested in creating a world where men can't get sex than a world where sex workers have human rights and workers' rights and both are fucking respected, you are a piece of shit.

If you think that a man being able to offer someone money and get laid is somehow more morally reprehensible than the way our society has decided that people who offer paid sexual services are not really people, you are a piece of shit.

[postmoderntongues]

Also I love my friend but she gets me so mad she’s like convinced because she didn’t get to do higher education that it’s all fake science and indoctrination and doesn’t even read political or sociological or psychological theory she gets her politics from maga NLOGs sucking the cock of the status quo for validation that they might be spared. She refuses to think critically about anything or learn any new information and she puts down my education as if there not just like statistically a probability that somebody put through the gifted track or academia with a bachelors degree might have had more information to form an opinion than somebody who graduated as a super senior from a special education program and like acts like I am wrong or immature for knowing that I’m entitled to comfort dignity and justice just by virtue or being alive bc if she allowed herself to feel that entitlement she’d be forced to face the ways she was failed instead of putting it in her hands by seeing the unacceptable standard of living we r forced into as disabled people as something we should be grateful for anything at all like if she lets herself feel entitled she’ll have to face how ripped off she was by society it gives her more control to say she’s in the circumstances she is because she made poor choices. Or that in order to be in similar living circumstances I must have made poor choices that I’m not taking gen accountability for. She refuses to believe so many republicans are rapists bc “if the girls were talking the truth rapists go to jail” she feels high and mighty and intellectual and innovative and edgy for making fun of MOGAI even tho even the left thinks they r clowns and disowning any problematic hate mill conservative figures as “not real conservatives just trolls nobody takes them seriously” show her any proof and it’s “fake news” or “a biased source” but peer reviewed articles also aren’t valued because “liberals control the education system so they only publish and accredit thinna that validate them” and the anti-intellectualism makes me want to fucking shake her like at what point of intellectual stagnation do u start literally taking pride in ignorance and she constantly devalues the fact that I have a bfa and it’s just a piece of paper it doesn’t actually mean anything like my dude it meant I not only worked my ass off since elementary school I dedicated 60+ hours a week for 6 years to academia but if she couldn’t achieve it or was denied it she copes by saying it’s worthless and doesn’t mean or prove anything and like that’s so invalidating that’s so mad and she gets mad when I say I refuse to work service I refuse to work retail I refuse to do any job other than the one I dedicated 17 years of education to perfecting I did the work expected of me I’m entitled to the compensation that was promised and I’m never again risking expending effort for less compensation than I deserves if that means being poor until I get famous I’m fine with that but I’m not going to let some teenager who dropped out of middle school to do molly and started a retail job at 14 be my superior in any way or get more money for their time than I’m getting for mine when I followed the rules and kept my end of the bargain and she didn’t. And until I get both compensation for the effort I expended and a promise that all my future efforts will be immediately and adaquatly compensated I’d be a sucker to expend more effort. If there’s no reward for not being a degenerate hedonist why the fuck not be lol. Idk sry she can be so fucking thick

[bisluthq]

https://www.tumblr.com/bisluthq/769132223521816576/uhh-i-hope-that-one-music-history-nerd-anon-is

Oooh I’ve been summoned! 🧞‍♀️ lol

Ok so owning your masters and 50% of royalties would be insane and I don’t think Taylor would get that much on self written songs.

I don’t know enough mathematically (numbers aren’t my thing and I could very well do maths and end up with a total of 143% instead of you know, 100% lol) or about current contracts to offer a confident estimate (most of my knowledge about older artists’ contracts come from them saying how they had a shit contract well after it had ended. The only real time info I can think of at the top of my head was Kesha and jojo because they spoke out about being trapped and not able to do what they want (very simplified summary, Kesha’s was a very unique situation of course) and to a degree Katy, but that’s more on vibes - like why is she working with dr Luke when she knows people won’t listen because of him? And she’s Katy fucking Perry, any number of hot songwriters and producers would want to be the one to get her out of her flop eras! So I think there’s something fishy going on there but I don’t know what and she’s said she’s not contractually obligated to work with dr Luke, so we might have to wait for her memoir in 20+ years to know what’s going on). Sorry, that was a long tangent.

But here are things to take into consideration if you were to sign and negotiate (but also, if you do, get a lawyer who specialises in music licensing/ publishing):

- the first royalties will always be recouping their investment, so if it costs $10k to make an album, you won’t see anything until you make at least $10, 000.01

- the minimum I’ve heard confirmed a label taking is 15%, the highest was almost 80% but that was a whole other world.

- the royalties are split many ways, the writers, the producers, the publisher, the mechanics (the people making the physical product like vinyl and cd, and the people putting it on streaming - a few publishers do this themselves now though) and depending on their contracts, the session players can be paid a one off fee or be entitled to royalties - this also applies to the vocalist. Then whatever the label takes

- everyone has a different contract, more in demand producers and writers can ask for a higher cut

- if 3 people write the song, that has to be split 3 ways (there have been cases where teams work out who gets how much of a song based on the number of lyrics and proportion of the melody they contribute)

- then if you have 2 producers, that portion needs to be split 2 ways

- if you are a writer and a producer you’ll get 2 portions of the credit but they might not be the exact same - writing might be worth 5% and producing might be worth 3% (again I’m bad at numbers though so I’m just pulling random numbers out of a hat)

- the publishing royalties will be a flat fee, let’s say 10% just because that’s a nice number.

- the mechanics will also want a flat fee, let’s again say 10%

- that’s 20% of royalties gone just to the business end, before your label and creators are paid.

- so from that, getting 50% royalties, unless you are the only writer and producer, would be very unlikely.

If you wanted 50% of royalties and your masters, depending on where you live and what your banks are like, you’d actually be better off applying for a business loan from a bank. This next bit will depend on your skill level in writing and production. To keep it clean, let’s say you ask for $10k. You use 30% to hire a producer and ask them to arrange the session musicians. You’re not going to get max martin, but you can still get people just starting out like yourself who can share a vision with you. You’ll probably need 20% of the money to hire a lawyer, self publish, make sure it’s copyrighted and all the other business side of things. Uploading music to streaming is super easy. If you wanted to press CDs and vinyl, you just place your order like you’re a retailer ordering branded stock. You’ll work with someone directly from the company, but you’ll be 100% responsible for the cover art, booklet, etc. depending on how many you press, will depend on how much of your budget it takes up. Again, depending on your abilities and what you do, you’ll need to hire a band to play shows with too — this stuff wouldn’t come from your royalties if you signed to a label, but it would cut into their investment in you and how long it takes for you to make money because the performer is usually the last to make money because they need to pay so many people first.

I’ve actually forgotten your questions now apart from the 50% royalties thing, so I’ll try to stop rambling 😆

But I’ll add, I’m a music history nerd because I love music and wanted to work as a writer and producer. I’ve been friends with a lot of musicians, some gigged, some got on radio, some never put themselves out there. I never put myself out there, never showed a song to anyone else except a few friends and thought I needed to get a “real job” before I could study how to actually produce music. I wish I did things differently. I don’t believe I’m too old to try now, because I sound like screeching tyres when I sing and don’t like attention, so I have no desire to perform, and you can work behind the scenes at any age. But I’ve only recently started learning protools and it’s much harder than I thought lmao because I can hear a fully produced song in my head when I write it, so I thought it’d be easy to recreate… no. At least not for me lol. So even though you didn’t ask for this advice, put yourself out there and go to open mic nights, busk, get good at your instrument if you play one, start a band or a duo, make friends and perform where you can and share ideas and bounce off of each others energy. You don’t have to stay in that band forever, you can look for a band to support your songs, or you can look for collaborators. Some people (especially drummers and bass players in my experience) just want to perform. They want to show up to rehearsal and then get on stage. People who play instruments with more melodic capabilities tend to have an interest in writing or shaping the sound more. You might get noticed one night doing an acoustic set with your guitar, or with your band, they might want to sign you alone or the whole group. But these are things that are good to know what and how you like performing before being signed and figuring it out when there’s more at stake. Fuck around and find out in the fun learning way! Get on YouTube and learn some production stuff and how to make a drum loop and all that. Don’t quit your job and move to LA or Nashville with just a backpack (unless you want to - do you) but get out there! See a vocal coach and learn good habits. Learn to read music - not necessarily a must, many musicians can’t, but it is helpful to be able to express yourself on paper in that way. I’ll stop now. Good luck! 🫶🏼🍀

super interesting!!

[lydianlyre]

My brother was fired and didn't get unemployment. He has no savings, and he's completely relying on me and my mom now. The problem is, we're broke too. He's bipolar and had a breakdown that sent him to the mental hospital last time he was unemployed, and it's easy to see it happening again. I just don't know what to do because he's one of the few constants in my life, so I don't just want to cut him off. I love him, even though I know he's lying and manipulating us. It's only a month in, and he already acts entitled to everything even though he doesn't pay for anything, leaving food open on the countertop overnight to rot and cajoling me to buy us fast food. He gets mad and defensive when asked about finding a job, and I know it's because this is hard for him too, but what else can we do? We can't enable him, or else we'll all be homeless, but he's not mentally well enough to really work most jobs. I can't even express my frustration or disappointment because it might affect his delicate behavior. I'm so tired and sad, and I need to go to therapy, but there's no real privacy in this house, and I don't have a car or drive. Not that I can really afford additional costs, either. I know it's going to get better, I know it has to, but I can't see how yet. I can't see past the hell that will be working retail during the holidays while paying for my brother, who is 5 years older than me, to get high and ignore his problems. What is there to look forward to? What do I even want in my life? Do I wait until things get better to want things for myself? Do I cut off one of my only few family members to preserve the meager financial stability I've created? When is it going to get better? What would better even look like, with a Trump presidency?

I need to get to sleep. My shift starts at 5:30 am tomorrow. Maybe my dreams will tell me.

[choshasan]

random rant caused by a dumb argument with my mother last night ✨️

I never liked generation wars and shitting on other generations and bashing them, because stereotyping a generation on just it's bad people is dumb as fuck,

But istg, Gen X is the only generation I've personaly encountered that like..

One person, or one person and their imediate friend group, does [x] and then you tell them, heyy.. uhm.. y'know.. that's.. pretty fucking rude, right? And they be like

NO. Everyone does that! You should change your mindset and go out more if you don't notice everyone does that!

Like????

I literally had a horrible argument with my mother last night cuz we stopped at a drive through and she started off with "you're gonna give me" (in french "Tu vas m'donner") and I told her "hey. You're not gonna talk to the worker like that, she's a human not your bitch, and that's rude as fuck, we don't talk to people like that, that ain't how you fucking raised me." And she went on this entire rant about how everyone talks like that and how that's fully acceptable to talk to workers like that and it's not rude and if I can't see that everyone talks like that, then I need to get out of the house more. And just so much more nonsencical Shit and like ?!?!?!

Bitch what??

Literally, 1. You work custommer service, I KNOW you don't got people talking to u like that all day, cuz I can hear them talking to u on the phone and the vast majority of them are super fucking polite.

And 2. I GO OUT MORE OFTEN THAT THIS BITCH BRUH!! Like, she goes out once or twice a week, to buy groceries and shit, and then she be like i KnOw hOw ThE wOrLd Is BeCaUsE i HaD a LiFe In ThE '70s AnD '80's

Like gurl- wake the fuck up. It's not socailly acceptable anymore to call women "skirts" and smoke indoors and smack ur waitress on the ass cuz she's cute or whatever. Y'all just old, entitled as fuck, and reffuse to let go of the past.

And like, I know it's not all Gen X, cuz most of the people I know's parents are Gen X, and they're such kind and accepting people who accept the changing of times and recognise that someday, the world will be left to the younger generations, so they gotta addapt to them and make the world a better place for them,

But jesus fuck the entitled Gen X who act like it's the fucking 40's - 60's still in the fucking 2000s, like?! You've had 40+ years to addapt bruh, where'd your brain fucking stop??? I know change is scarry and you won't always understand the younger generations and the weird shit we do, but remember, you guys did weird shit too when you were young, and your parents were assholes about it, and you resented them for not understanding you.. like?? Remember Queen?? They had a whole music video where they cross dressed. Remember the beasty boys?? Who did satirical rap-rock?? Remember twisted sister?? Kiss?? And all those other bands??

And most importantly, remember how you were taught basic human respect?? Remember that first retail job you really didn't like when you had rude clients but you didn't have a choice to put up with them because you needed the job?? Or maybe even you chewed them out and kicked theor asses cuz you didn't care, you could just get another job??

Lets not make others lives a hell for no reason, kay? Lets be kind and polite to eachother, cuz seeing grown ass adults be more impolite than a toddler is legit embarassing bruh- 💀

And god knows how much y'all care 'bout appearances 💀

[vtori73]

There is this thing/thoughts I wish I could articulate well enough to make into a post but basically the main gist it I think it's rather odd the "privileged creative," is still such a rampant belief despite the fact that there are many, many MANY artists who are poor, who are not well off who are taken advantage of because of their passions and love for what they do. Sure, there are those who are privileged I'm even willing to say there a bit more privileged people going in the field than most when it comes to the arts but I'm curious as to why this sentiment doesn't ever seem to be applied equally to literally any other field especially those that really do require a lot of privilege and resources than most others? Isn't anyone who is able to freely pursue what they want that requires education, skill and training, specifically like getting a college degree, privileged? You don't even need a degree to be an artist, unlike a lot of other jobs. And while some might counter this by saying they are more privileged than those working manual labor jobs, those working at fast food places, retail, etc i counter that with... you do know those could be the same people right? Many artists are not just artists, they can't afford to be, sure some work more cushy jobs but I'm pretty sure a good chunk dont.

Like I said, I can't really get into it as well as I would like but it is hard for me to stomach the continued belief of the "privilege artist" just because they are able to pursue arts and be artists to begin with even though I've seen so many artists who just are trying to get by who are literally poor due to various factors out of their control and is really their main or only source of income or the many who are screwed over by their employees who get rich off their hard work while they either scrape by or end up living in poverty.

And, something I just thought about was a sentiment I saw shared about how if everyone's needs were taken care of many more would pursue art and while I initially found myself believing it thinking on it some more now I honestly don't think that's true at all. Sure more would be able to go into art fields that require more resources, more connections, more funding and support, etc but at the end of the day not everyone wants to be creative or make art or will find out they dont. At the heart of this sentiment, it feels more like it means "if everyone could choose to do something like art they would over actual work," treating art more or as just a hobby than a legit profession that requires effort and hard work, it isn't effortless or easy to do and because of that is one reason WHY many people don't become artists it's not worth it to them. Sure, many would be able to dabble in art as a hobby, for fun, but that's vastly different from making art regularly that requires skills and effort and not to mention wouldn't be limited to art, tbh. I'm sure lots of people would pick up non-art related hobbies too if they couldn't before due to cost, time, resources, access, etc.

And it is hard for me not to see it this way because I see how much the average person, even other creatives who don't work or do that specific kind of art, are quick to devalue and debase art and artists for whatever reason they can come up with not even usually for legit reasons just petty callousness & entitlement.

...I should stop, this is becoming less and less coherent, I should have gone to sleep a looooong time ago but couldn't so then... THIS happened.

The main point I was trying to get at is the continued privileged artist belief only helps reinforce our society's continued attitude of art not being a serious endeavor and profession regardless of what art they do and instead only gets recognized when it is done by the most privileged out there. Which only helps the most privileged and rich out there who aren't (or were) artists make huge profits off exploiting these creatives and gives them more a reason or more correctly an easy excuse to continue the exploitation because "art is just something privileged people get to do." I mean, that's pretty close to literally what people who created generative ai said (if I'm remembering correctly) and some will argue that's just an excuse by them and while I don't disagree a lot of people legitimately believe in this excuse to some extent.

[that-is-just-so-typically-me]

That post about hitting your kids as appropriate stress relief because parenting is so stressful (I’m not at all shocked that someone on the internet said something fucked up and unjustifiable but this is of course so many worlds beyond fucked up to try and justify)… it’s like… yes it turns out that 99.999% of the time when someone inflicts barbarous harm on another person it’s not because they were “born evil” or woke up one morning and decided with zero contextual circumstances in their perfect life to commit a heinous act against a random person, it’s because a series of stressful events, usually including past trauma and a lack of support and a general threat to their own survival and meeting of their own needs even if it’s just emotional or entirely their own fault for not stepping up or using resources at their disposal or just being a big weak entitled baby, built up and caused them to release that stress on the easiest, nearest target that they actually have power over. Like look at how people treat retail and food service workers, especially look at how that poor behavior increases during the stressful time of year that is the holidays. When you can’t (or feel/think that you can’t) actually remove your stress by eliminating the source OR by coping with it in healthy ways (like taking deep breaths and repeating mantras to yourself instead of exploding at people), people tend to default to transposing their fear- and stress-based aggression onto a target they are certain that they can release onto with absolutely zero consequences. The more private and close the locus of control is the better - so you end up abusing people in your household you have the most power over, like literal children. It’s a tale as old as time!! This is a less-obvious incarnation of the truth that power corrupts. If you are the kind of shitheel that truly would rather let other people burn than do a micron of work on yourself, who takes advantage of someone’s total vulnerability to your moods and decisions, then you’ll of course not do the correct, bare-minimum moral thing, the “harder” thing than exercising a modicum of maturity and decency and figuring out how to handle your stress in a less harmful way to others. So “parenting is stressful” as an excuse for those actions is so beyond buck-wild, like literally that one statement of “absolution” alone is the reason why we have had cycles of abuse for god knows how many millennia. Like that is exactly how every shitty person has justified their actions for all time?? No one out here who has seen a tiny bit of how the world works is thinking people just decide one day to be cartoonishly evil for fun with the tiny rare exception of psychopaths. The reality of the stress they’re under does absolutely jack shit to justify abuse. “You made me hit you”. Lord I know it’s either trolling or just shitty people being shitty on the internet as always but it’s wild to see it worded like a posi-vibes self-care girl-boss post lmao

[sims4findsnfaves]

Gods I hate the attitudes towards early access in the sims community.

"Don't you know it's ENTITLEMENT to ASK people to throw a few dollars your way for literal hours of their time and labor, for something that will be free in two weeks anyway?"

Like, maybe it's because I literally can't make my own cc due to my disabilities, but somehow actually I don't think the entitled ones are the people going "hey I made a cc set that's better than any full expansion pack EA has ever released, I spent many hours on it and it's gonna be completely free forever starting less than a month from now, but you can even have it now if you'd be willing to pay pennies on the dollar for the extra convenience"

"I immediately scroll past every time I see early access and block if I see it from the same person multiple times"

I SEE SHINY I WANT SHINY GIVE ME SHINY NOW KAREN NEED INSTANT GRATIFICATION HOW DARE CHARGE MONEY DON'T YOU KNOW WE DESERVE YOU TO MAKE NICE THINGS FOR US FOREVER

Like no wonder cc creators are getting demoralized, I've seen less entitlement from customers when I used to work RETAIL AND FOOD SERVICE

And the AUDACITY to then project their entitlement onto the creators.

Quite frankly I'm starting to think perma-paywalls wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. I mean, EA does that with both items and gameplay that aren't worth the data they take up half the time (and I say this as a person that will defend the STAR WARS pack, I'm not exactly a massive EA-hater) and you at least get people that recognize the devs still deserve decent compensation even if much of the decisions made are due to executive greed.

Yet somehow when an individual hobbyist cc creator does a HIGHLY TEMPORARY paywall to try and eke out survival in this economy without corporate greed ruining their content... y'all throw a fit.

No actually, it's not any kind of new amazing protest statement to demand artists make you stuff for free. That's all you're doing. And the worst part is, they're already doing it! Imagine going to your favorite fanartists and getting mad not because they paywalled their art, but because they paywalled SEEING IT A FEW DAYS EARLY (as if that's not literally what most artists use patreon for).

Get over yourselves. If I, infamously impatient among all my friends and family, can wait, you can too.

(If you don't do this, this post is not about you. Also this blog is literally just for organizing my favorite cc and other files so if you don't like it literally just block me lol)

[ms-rampage]

Familiar Taste of Poison 

Lloyd Hansen x Fem!reader 

Summary: Y/n has a habit of threatening Lloyd's men, so he has to teach her a lesson

Warnings: Language. Drugging. Smut. Some degradation. 18+. No minors beyond this point. 

Word count: 2.1k

Sorta based on the song "Familiar Taste of Poison" by Halestorm 

A/N: I do plan on writing more of Lloyd! Working on part 2 of "Sold Off"

Just by being associated with him, puts a huge target on your head. You use to live a normal life, you went to work and went back to your apartment in the city then you met Lloyd Hansen, you were lying if you didn't think he was attractive, maybe if he shaved that 70s porn-stache then yeah you'd fuck him, but you didn't really think much of him and you thought vise versa, but no Lloyd took an interest in you. 

Not by how innocent you look, even though you didn't look innocent to start with, but how you held yourself, he's stopped by your work a few times, you worked in a diner, and there were a few times where you raised your voice at some entitled, impatient customers because you were short-staffed, and you also had to make coffee, take orders while you, and 2 other coworkers try to move as fast as you can taking orders and getting them out, while your manager was nowhere to be found, probably taking another smoke break, that lazy, no good asshole. 

After a late shift, you finally leave, and go home. Working over time, you walk to your car, get in and drive home. Only a 15 minute drive from work to your apartment. 

Fast forward to a few weeks later, you meet Lloyd again while on your lunch break. You hate the food your work serves, crappy diner food that you couldn't bare to eat because it made you nauseous, so you went to the deli that is up the street from your work, and got your usual freshly made sandwich. 

You sat down, took a bite of it, and searched for a video to watch on YouTube. As you were eating, and watching your video, you felt a presence next to you, turning your head and you see him, that's right, him Lloyd Hansen, you didn't see him walk in, or when you walked into the deli, just the usuals sitting in their usual spots, doing their own thing. 

“Hello sunshine.” he greets you, showing off his pearly whites. 

You remove one of your earbuds, “Hi.” you respond awkwardly, “Can I help you?.”

He adjusts in his seat, facing you completely, “Yes you can.”

*8 months later*

“You want me to take out a gun, and blow a fucking hole in your head, right here, right now?!?!.” you threaten one of Lloyd’s men who is speaking utter complete nonsense which is what Lloyd absolutely hated, especially from the new guys. The so-called know-it-alls.  

“Miss Y/L/N.” he mutters, scared for his life. 

“You want that?!.” you threaten him. 

“N-no, no Miss Y/L/N.” his voice shaking, fear in his eyes. The poor guy has been working for Lloyd for a few weeks now, and he already got on your bad side.  

“Good, because I’d hate to kill another one of Lloyd’s men who thought it would be a good idea to get on my bad side.” you tell him. 

“A-also, uhh, Lloyd wants to see you in his office.” he finishes before being dismissed by you.

You wave your hand as a sign for him to leave your office, which he doesn’t hesitate to do. Months ago you were working in a diner, making minimum wage, and went home exhausted, only to do the same thing again the next day until you met Lloyd. You wouldn't say you have a short temper, but working retail, and hospitality had lowered your sanity because of how stupid, and entitled people can get. You tend to see that side of humanity. 

After that you didn’t worry about money, because he had it. He treated you well, he spoiled you, and not to mention the sex was unbelieveable. You knew what he did, to his, and also to your surprise it didn’t bother you, not even a bit. 

After getting word from the new guy, you downed the rest of your red wine that Lloyd had sent to your office. You poured yourself a little more wine before leaving for his office which is three doors down from yours, and it also has your shared bedroom attached to it. 

You approach the corridors, and open them to his office, “You wanted to see me?.”

"Yes pumpkin." he answers, standing up from his chair wiping his weapons "What have I told you about threatening my men?."

You shrug, your normal sarcastic, and smartass self "Not to threaten them." 

Placing his gun onto his desk, "And what have you been doing?." 

"Threatening them, but it's not my fault that they're idiots who get on my bad side.". you tell him, standing your ground like you always do. Lloyd knew what he was getting into when he took you under his wing. You're sarcastic, bold, blunt, strong-minded and straightforward. 

He cups your chin, forcing you to tilt your head back to look directly up at him. 

"What am I gonna do with you?." he tilts his head to the side, "Such a loose cannon."

You smile up at him, "I try.". You always had to sass him, as much as he hated it, but you knew he loved it, he just wouldn't say it. 

"What was it that you said? 'You want me to take out a gun, and blow a fucking hole in your head, right here, right now' is that what you said?." 

Shaking your head, "Thats exactly what I said, you heard that?." 

"You said it pretty loud sweetheart." he says, squeezing your chin, "God I love that mouth of yours."

Still holding your chin, he guides you back towards the doors to your bedroom, you were lost in a trance with those blue orbits of his that you didn't even notice the back of your knees hitting the end of your bed. 

You knew where this was going, and you were prepared for it. He's taken you hard, and rough before. 

To his surprise yet again, he was your first time, but at the same time he was honored, and a bit cocky when he took your virginity. Him being your first time boosted his ego to a new level. 

Lloyd pins you down into the bed, the look in his eyes, completely dark and sinister looking, he's not gonna show you any remorse. 

You always threaten his men, the new ones mostly, and he had enough of it, you've been a bit bratty. 

"You've been very bratty." he whispers in your ear, "And in gonna fuck it out of you until you can't walk properly."

Your breath hitches, your head suddenly starts spinning, vision is hazy, and you are unable to move your limbs.

"I know that look, might’ve been the wine I had sent to your office." he tells you, "Might have laced it. Might have not."

Did he drug you? If so, why? Was it necessary? He's never done it before. 

"W-why?." the only word you're able to mutter.

He moves a few strains of your hair away from your face, cupping it "Because pumpkin, you're a fighter, and I'm gonna need you… restricted. Not the first time I've drugged you cupcake, but this time it was in a slightly bigger dose."  

Your eyes wided, he wasn't wrong, you did enjoy fighting him when it came to sex, you've tried topping him, only for him to make you a bottom, you're very fiesty, but he did have his limits, he enjoyed taking control when you weren’t fighting, or resisting him. He could tie your hands to the headboard, and you would still find a way out of them.

The drugs he had slipped into your wine had stopped your movements completely, now you're laying there unable to move. You start to internally panic because you know what Lloyd was capable of, and only now it started to scare you. 

"L-Lloyd, please." you beg, wanting him not to do this, you weren't sure about being drugged, "I'll behave, I won't fight, please."

He clicks his tongue, "Oh princess, too late now. Can't magically cure you from the drugs." 

He shifts in bed, and starts to undo your pants, taking them off as well as your shoes. You couldn't tell, but you were 100% sure you were naked within a few minutes,  you might still have your bra on, you couldn't tell or remember if you put one on in the first place. Your hands pinned above your head, even though he wasn't even grabbing your wrists.

Lloyd started to strip out of his clothes, you hoped no one walked in, because it would be embarrassing for you to have anyone but Lloyd to see you naked and submissive. 

Yeah, you're a loud mouth, you don't take shit from anyone, except Lloyd, and you are gonna face a consequence of your actions. 

It's not just sex, it's sex with Lloyd, and he is one for edging, denial, choking, degrading and overall harsh punishments. 

It takes you back 8 months when you two first had sex, you wanted more of him, to feel him, to be underneath him. As much as he got under your skin, you still wanted him, it was like a sweet escape from reality, he was easy on you, but now he drugged you because you had to fight him when it came down to sex.

Without warning, he shoves his full length cock into you.  You let out a loud gasp, and it felt like you got stabbed down there. 

"It's okay sweetheart, you're doing so well." he whispers in your ear as he shoves himself in and out of you. Placing one of your legs over his massive shoulders. 

You can feel him in your stomach, if you could look down, you'd probably see a bulge in your gut, rearranging your insides. 

Not gonna lie, but being drugged made this sensation, the feeling, a lot better. The feeling of his cock going in and out with full force made you get there closer than usual, probably because you had no control over your body. 

"You're such a needy little slut aren't you?." he groans, grabbing a handful of your hair "My desperate, needy little whore." Making your head go back, as he attacks your neck, continuing his fast, rough pace, stretching you out, as soft whines and mews escape your lips. 

"F-fuck." you whine, as your body obeys Lloyd's movements. Tears rolling down your cheeks, you feel an orgasm coming, but you know he's gonna deny you. 

"I-I'm.. gonna." 

"You will do no such thing, pumpkin, you will cum when I tell you to cum. Understand?." 

You loved it when he was in his dominant headspace, which was all the time. "Y-yes." you're able to whine, looking and sounding pathetic.

"Yes what?." he asks, tilting his head as he continues to rearrange your insides at an aggressive, painful pace. 

"Yes, daddy." 

"That's right sweetheart."

He continues to fuck you like his little toy whore, making you hit your climax, and cum, not once, not twice, not thrice but four times and each time he denied you to cum, and edge your desperate ass. Your energy was completely drained even when the drugs wore off, he kept on going, he's relentless. He knows your body better than you do.

"F-fuck daddy." you cry, feeling the painful soreness between your legs, "Fuck, you feel so good." He places a kiss on your forehead slowing down his rough pace. One hand holding your leg while the other holds the back of your head, tight grip on your hair, the only thing you can do is grip the bed sheets. 

"You're so good to your daddy." he chuckles into your ear, "A loud mouth smartass, but you're so good to me."

Both your bodies covered in sweat, he rolls off of you before getting every last drop of cum into your pussy. Laying beside you with one arm behind his head. You're a panting, sweaty, messy hair mess, legs sore. Your whole body is sore, Lloyd isn't even tired, he looks like he could go another round or 2. 

"I hope you learned your lesson, pumpkin." he says, turning to his side to face you. Breathing heavily, tears still running down your cheeks. 

"Was drugging me really necessary?" you ask him, turning your head to look him in the eyes.

"Yes, I like it when you're submissive and I'm in control." he tells you, moving one of his hands onto your waist to bring you closer to him.

You scoff, "You're an asshole." He chuckles, moving your hair away from your face "But I'm your asshole, and you're stuck with me." He places another kiss on your forehead, before placing another on your lips.