#TIPPING THE LAD AGGRESSIVELY

[mrpuzzle]

GIVE ME ORANGE JUICE PLEASE 🗣️‼️‼️

Originally wasn't gonna post this here but I rly like how it came out!! This was made for smthn on Twt

Mortis as a bartender :3c

[diejager]

More Wolfie plz🥺? Idk what you’d right but I love the universe you built up with it and would love more of it, even if it’s just a sliver

Training Cw: smut, training, collar, ring gag, doggy style, creampie, unprotected sex, PinV, fingering, tell me if I missed any.

“What did I tell you about growling, pup?” He sounded so demeaning, his hand laid heavy on your nape, holding your face down and away from the two men in the room with you.

Ghost had pulled you to Price’s office under the guise of this being training, wanting to work through your aggression you’d thrived on while living in the wild. You were jerky and a biter, baring your teeth after a low growl, threatening to sink into someone’s hand or arm as retaliation. They were getting a lot of complaints from people who would approach you and attempt to pet your ears and tail, wanting to touch the softness of your washed fur and disregarding your personal space and boundaries.

“None of that,” his grip tightened around your neck when your throat rumbled, a growl slipping through your gagged mouth, drool rolling down your cheek.

They gave you a pretty, black ring gag, placed behind your teeth to keep your mouth open from biting them and showing off your sweet and fiery mouth. The black leather looped behind your head, a thin strap connecting it to your collar, a smooth, black leather that sat comfortably around your neck without irritating it, but thin enough for you to feel everything. They had you wear it as a sign of possession, the silver insignia of their Task Force hanging from the front, a skull and winged sword proudly gleaming under the light wherever you go.

You mellowed down, growls quieting to loud pants, exhausted from your skirmish with Ghost, doing your best ignore your Captain’s rough handling, his calloused fingers kneading the flesh of your hips and stomach, his hands smoothing over the arch of your back to your tail. Your fur was matted and wet, dirtied with slick that - prior to being forced into this position - pooled down your rim and wetting your soft fur. You’d long given up in fighting Price, he was much stronger than you and smelled of power and strength —like alpha. He was the leader of your little pack, a fiercely protective leader who had every intent of putting his group first, but it was his scent that made you stop. He smelled of strong musk, a heady scent of cigar and cedar, less smoky and sweet than your Lieutenant’s sandalwood that kept flooding your sensitive nose.

“Good pup, you’re doing so well,” Price cooed, running his fingers through your hair, scratching the reactive nerve behind your ears. It made you whine, a high sound that had both of them shush you, “That’s it, you’re all right, pup.”

Your panting grew louder, mewls slipping out as a final sign of submission, letting them bend your body to their pleasure. You arched your back, bucking against the bearded man that was ploughing into you, driving his hard cock into your wet cunt, slick squelching out of you with every snap of his hips, his balls slapping your twitching clit. You couldn’t deny how good it felt to give up all autonomy after having taken care of yourself on your own for years, letting another care for you and manhandle you in the best way. His veined girth laid heavy in your cunt, your gummy walls wrapped round him in a tight hold, just a hair away from coming.

Canting his hips and leaning forward, your world exploded in bright lights when Price’s head tapped your cervix, punching the air out of your body with every thrust. He was guiding you through your orgasm just as he had his, his cock throbbing and veins pulsing before the tip spurted ropes of cum, painting your walls white with his tangy lad, hot and thick. Price groaned lowly, palms holding your hips flushed to his, giving a few jerky thrusts before he hilted inside of you, unmoving but grounding you with the smooth touch of his thumb and Ghost’s grip on your scruff.

When he pulled out, his cum oozed out of you, dripping down your mound and landing on the old couch in his office. He admired the gift with a slight twitch of his cock, it leaked out of you like an unending fall. Wasteful, truly. His fingers slid down your thighs, gathering his cum and pushed it back in, fingering his load with a few wet sounds.

“Stay good for Ghost, pup. Can you do that?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake

[libingan]

— how the TF141 suck COCK!

JOHN PRICE

price starts by gripping your cock with a firm, authoritative hand, applying steady, controlled pressure. his mouth envelops your cock tightly, alternating between slow, deep sucks and fast, aggressive movements.

looooves maintaining intense eye contact, his gaze unwavering and filled with desire as he watches your reactions. he uses his tongue to tease the head and underside, applying varied pressure to keep you on edge.

his hands keep your thighs apart, holding you in place and ensuring you stay exposed. you just look so handsome spread out for him :(((

“so fuckin’ perfect, love,” he’d murmur, sloppily slurping up your sensitive cock, “taste so good too…”

his free hand LOVES to play with your balls, squeezing and caressing them to amplify the pleasure. he might adjust your position, pulling on your thighs or pushing you closer, ensuring you’re completely under his control.

KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK

gaz combines a firm, eager grip with skilled movements, using a mix of slow, deliberate strokes and rapid, hungry pumps. he’ll lean down and suck lightly on your sensitive tip, digging his tongue into the slit to lap up your precome.

he frequently incorporates his fingers into the experience, gently fingering your hole while his mouth works on your cock. he’ll curl his fingers just right, pressing into prostate with each movement.

gaz talks you through it all. his top one priority is your pleasure, so he makes it a point to always ask if you’re enjoying yourself (you are). whispers words of praise and encouragement the whole time! he loves making you feel loved!

“y’like that, sweetheart?” he’ll ask so sweetly, batting his eyelashes at you, “feels good, yeah? you’re so amazing, love,”

he loves experimenting with different pressures and touches, finding the perfect combination to drive you wild with pleasure.

JOHN ‘SOAP’ MACTAVISH

soap style is more energetic and varied, using a mix of fast, aggressive sucks and slow, teasing licks. be grips your cock firmly and alternates between deep, intense pressure and playful touches.

this man loves incorporating sex toys, such as cock rings and vibrators, to enhance the experience. he might use a cock ring to keep you hard and on edge, or use a vibrator to overstimulate you, pushing you to the brink.

he’s absolutely obsessed with overstimulation, always pushing you beyond your limits with relentless enthusiasm each time he’s in between your legs.

“c’mon, lad, ye can give me one more, aye?” he says with a rough, scottish brogue, his voice muffled around your cock. “gonnae make ye cum o’er and o’er again, love.”

he loves deep-throating you, taking you fully into his mouth and throat, applying a constricting pressure that makes you feel every bit of his dominance. his mouth works you intensely, pushing your cock to the back of his throat and holding it there, making you feel both overwhelmed and electrified.

SIMON ‘GHOST’ RILEY

simon is agonizingly slow, as he takes perverse pleasure in edging you. he uses a mix of torturously slow licks and barely-there sucks, teasing you to the brink of release. his mouth is relentless, but the pressure is always just enough to keep you on edge without letting you cum.

he loves applying varying pressures with his lips and tongue, sometimes giving you light, taunting touches and other times intensifying with rougher strokes.

simon is incredibly tuned into your reactions and will pull off immediately if he senses you’re about to climax, leaving you gasping and desperate. he enjoys watching your frustration and need, smirking at the way you squirm and whimper.

“you’re not cumming yet,” he growls harshly, his voice thick with lust. “not until i say so.”

he’ll lightly graze your cock with his teeth, teasing you with gentle nips and scraping motions that add a sharp, thrilling edge to the sensation. his hand also adds pressure, keeping you right on the edge with slow strokes and sudden stops, making the experience both excruciating and intensely pleasurable.

[mauvecherie-writes]

the kaleidoscope theory: l.hamilton.

• pairing: lewis hamilton x kalani halloway.

• chapter warnings: infidelity.

• ru’s 💌: i won’t be giving out chapter summaries for this story as I genuinely want this story to the kind that you engage with without any hints given. if this story is a success, who knows what the future could be for it 😉. don’t forget to comment, reblog and like 💋.

• tip: kofi | paypal

• w.c: 1.03K

PROLOGUE

JUNE 2022.

The Thompson Hill youth football club the ‘Thompson Tigers’ had won their away match against another local rival team so their energies were still high as the group of young teenagers congregated in the Nando’s restaurant. The team took space at the back of the building but their table had a good view of the high street outside.

“How can you call yourself a Nigerian but you’re ordering lemon and herb?!” Tyrique, the goal-keeper of the team, criticised Michael - one of the defenders. “You’re a disgrace to your ancestors.”

“First of all! I’m half-Nigerian and two, not all of us were born with the devil’s arsehole for a mouth.” The remark caused an eruption of laughter throughout the restaurant.

Emil, who had been quiet in his corner with one headphone covering his ear just chuckled to himself and shook his head as he turned back his attention to the video that was playing on his phone. The footage was of him at the recent match. He had scored twice, his last one being the deciding the goal of the match.

It was something that he was proud of but there had been too many missed opportunities but the rival team had put on a good defence and were quite aggressive with their offence. However, he felt like he could have done more. If he was going to get scouted, he needed to be better.

“Right Emil, what am I getting you lad?” The Thompson Tigers’ head coach. Raymond Wright asked the young boy.

“Erm, just a quarter hot spice chicken with spicy rice and coleslaw . Refill drink please.” Emil ordered his food.

“Any desert for the man of the match?” Emil felt his cheeks warm at the statement. Everyone had agreed that he had deserved the badge of honour. Throughout the entirety of the match, Emil was the man lifting the spirits of the other players, keeping them going.

“No, I’m okay. Thanks coach.” the older man patted his shoulder and then walked towards the counter. As Emil turned his attention back to his phone, a message popped up.

Mum ❤️: Coach just sent me videos of the match! You smashed it honey and I’m so proud of you! I’m sorry that we couldn’t make it. But I will be making your favourite food tonight. Love you baby boy.

The message caused him to smile. His mother was always expressive and she did not care that he found it a little embarrassing and cringe, especially when they were out together in public.

He quickly typed a response back.

Emil: Thank you mum you only missed this one match and that’s only because Titi is sick. As long as I get the most plantain on my plate, we’ll be okay.

Exiting the message thread, he clicked on the thread that he shared with his father. The last message that he had received from his dad was in the morning and it was a google luck text. Emil was a little disheartened but he knew that once his father knew about the results of the match, he would reach out.

Emil shook his head as he locked his phone and took his headphones off so that he could join in conversation with the rest of the team.

Coach and a couple of teammates returned to the table with some refill glasses and cutlery. Emil was focused on cleaning his fork and knife when his name was called out.

“Wassup?” He acknowledged his teammate, Jamal, who had called out to him.

“Isn’t that your dad?” He used his head to indicate towards the window. Outside on the high street was a parked uber and outside of the vehicle stood a man. Emil observed the man. The man’s back wasn’t particularly large, he was just tall. The back of his shoulders stretched out the fabric of the fitted suit and it was in a colour that was typical of the navy blue colour that his father would wear for work. Whilst Emil took after his mother’s rich dark skin - his father was more of a lighter brown that, when it got too hot, he would tan.

And it wasn’t until Emil spotted a tattoo of a small bird behind the man’s ear did it full recognise in his brain that the figure was his father.

Without a further thought, Emil shot out of his seat and rushed towards the exit of the restaurant without a care. His dad was outside and the joy riddling his young body was uncontainable. Months of not having his father not being able to turn up for any of his games, him making that extra effort when his mother was home bound with his little sister meant the world to him.

He swung the door of the restaurant open and only slowed down to cross the road, Emil ran over. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and frowned in confusion at the sight a few feet ahead of him.

Just a few steps in font of him, Emil watched as his father, not even turn to face him, but to open his arms as a woman get out of the fashion boutique they were standing in front of. It was a woman he recognised but in that moment, Emil could not put a name to it.

The woman jumped in his father’s arms and embrace him the way that he had witnessed his mother do so many time before. Emil’s brain was trying to catch up with what was happening but his body was already reacting.

He felt his heart pinch with an acute pain that made it harder for him to breathe. Then tears began to well behind his eyes as the pain was becoming too much as the confusion mounted.

And yet, it wasn’t until his father kissed the woman did that confusion and hurt manifested into a deep betrayal and a furious anger.

His quick feet propelled him forward until he felt his hands pushed against the bodies of the adults, breaking them apart.

“What the fuck Dad!” He yelled as the older man stared down at him with a panicked look washing over his face.

reading list: @queenshikongo3 @dhlfastestlap @saintslewis @serpenttines-library @saturnville @hopefulromantic1 @cocobutterqwueen @bluesole16 @chaneajoyyy @emjayewrites @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @sapphireheaven @olyvoyl @lewisroscoelove @lh44adore @hellomadamebutterfly @scorpiobleue @qveenmelanink @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bekindbecoolbeyou @greedyjudge2 @itsapurrfectstorm @createdbylivingclocks @samiwzx @omgsuperstarg @peyiswriting @miyuhpapayuh @blowmymbackout @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @perfecttrashface @alianovnaromanovanatalia @leilaxaliel

[7-ferrets-in-a-coat]

(takes out clipboard) tumblr user 7-ferrets-in-a-coat. survey says that people wish to see the god in the machine narinder design. will you please the people?

*Kicks feet like a schoolgirl* Oh my goood haiii user spilycoris that totally doesn't know what nari looks like thank you for the ask

Anyways you also get the backstory to go along with the Narinder design

+ Bonus , His voiceclaim is Niel Cicierega Specifically from the song Redesign the Logo , the main vocals

SO. Narinder was an Ai originally created purely to see how lifelike an intelligence could be, but Shamura eventually got a bit attached and after the studies were completed they couldn't find it in themselves to terminate the lad. Which. bad choice #1. Bad choice #2 would probably be the fact Narinder got Unsupervized internet access after a bit of successful pleading to Shamura because he was getting bored.

Tip, don't give a conscious Ai access to the internet because Narinder saw all the horrors and aggression and hate on the internet and turned Very bitter.

In the meantime the scientists started collectively working on a robotic body for Narinder to eventually reside in after he is socially formed, but after witnessing how Narinder was starting to express wishes of anihilation directed at humanity they decided to lock him out of "Having a body" rights

So eventually Narinder, now bitter , manages to escape containment and into the world wide web and nestles himself in Ludo's computer, because they seem like a person who could help him get freed and get past the radars / firewalls / Barriers/ bossfights (Idk, words) the scientists set up (for which i already got designs but we won't see them for a While)

OK NOW color symbolism /reference :3333

So you know Jesus? yeah? You know Jesus paintings? Usually he is represented with mainly 2 colored veils on him, Red and Blue. Red represents the Flesh, the humanity of Jesus, Whilst the Blue represents godhood, holyness. So Narinder has red eyes and features because he is overall Made by humans, his consciousness tainted by it, his very own Core influenced and molded by the hatred humanity has. He dresses himself in Blue robes, he Is a god, he wants you to believe that but. At the end of the day he is Human.

Also the marking on his chest is something that came later when he decided to manifest himself to the lamb and wanted to appear even more holy (And also a callback to my main cotl au where Narinder is trans)

Me when Paintings symbolism

ALSO thank you to that one good friend that helped with Shamura, Leshy and Kallamar, they helped with the Narinder Concept as well :3

[animanightmate]

We need to talk about this bad boy

Émile Bonnaire. Adventurer, mercantile traveller, ladies’ man. Likes a drink, likes a laugh, loves to tell tall tales. Flamboyant, fun, and impressively fleshed out by the tiny, dapper, gravel-voiced charms of James Callis. Even his name derives from the French for “a good time” (or, depending where you look: “good bloodline”).

We first meet him accompanied by jaunty music on his way from the docks to a tavern, tipping his hat to interested women with a smirking flash of big, dark, pretty eyes, before roaring his intentions to pay for everyone’s drinks as he bursts through the door.

A bit of a rogue, Bonnaire. A bit of a weasel too, but a funny one. And he has an excellently aggressive wife.

Bonnaire is the kind of person who gets other people into trouble but always slips free himself. Pay attention - that’s going to be important later.

Once he’s successfully wriggled his way back into the clutches of the Musketeers, he treats Porthos (and us) to the glories of his exotic wanderings, revealing himself to be something of a liar, or just prone to exaggeration and fawning.

So far, so funny.

Except that the people he’s pissed-off have a habit of finding him, and again it’s those around him who pay the price. Our lads drag a potentially mortally wounded Porthos on to Athos’s old house and, despite comedy punching, it’s clear that things have taken a turn for the serious. The music is cluing us in, you see.

And it turns out that being beholden, duty, debts owed, and notions of family and belonging are massive themes here. As well as definitions of humanity, of who gets to be chattel. Of who gets to own the enacted tragedy.

Porthos rails and growls, and Bonnaire defends himself, claiming that the barbaric (“disgusting” - thanks, Athos) acts he’s perpetrating in the name of profit are “strictly business”. Not prejudice. Porthos spells it out for us, time and again: people are not belongings, everyone is free, no man has a right to own and dispose of another living soul. Except Bonnaire is. Except Athos has. Except the King and Richelieu do, and will. Arguably, these men who kill for duty, as Maria Bonnaire threatens for love (and is killed for revenge) are part of that same culture of disposable humanity.

The episode shows us this, asks us to consider a multi-faceted view of people and their motives and actions. People can be noble and be murderers. People can be friendly and polite, and ruthless killers. People can be charming and fun and human traffickers.

We have a problem in this fandom. A pretty big one, and frankly an old one too. Dumas, for example, seemed to be showing us an unredeemably monstrous Milady while simultaneously demonstrating that, in the society where she found herself, she had little choice - drown, or by killed for a witch, essentially. Tragic, noble, beautiful Athos drowns his sorrows under a nom de guerre, and charges at well-armed enemies in a bid to escape from a crime that d’Artagnan labels correctly as murder right from the get-go in the books. And in the show, Athos condemns Milady over and over for the sins that he himself commits, of killing at the command of the powers-that-be, forever drawn to and repulsed by a woman who shows him all-too-clearly what they both are, and have chosen to be. And yet certain facets of fandom cannot see Milady as anything but evil, and Athos as thoroughly blameless. So many adaptations (or perceptions of them) see Richelieu as nothing but a big old panto baddie and d’Artagnan as a beloved puppy who never did anything wrong. Hi. We have some things we need to address. Dumas gave us a raft of characters who are frankly horrible, selfish, violent people, every one of them flawed in some way, every one of them with issues they need to face, sins to atone for. We do the source material an injustice if we reduce them to simply Good Guys and Bad Guys.

And here, in response to an adaptation deliberately rendered for a modern audience, with dozens of layers in every interlocking scene and arc, people persist in seeing Bonnaire as a funny wee guy who was merely a bit greedy. But he’s funny and flash, so no real harm done, huh? Oh, he’s misguided, not evil! 

The late, great Terry Pratchett broke down millennia of debate by saying that evil starts by treating people as things. Oh, it may head elsewhere, become more granular and a matter of opinion, but actually it’s pretty simple: don’t treat people as commodities.

The people who watch that episode and come away uncritical Bonnaire stans stagger me. This one isn’t even subtle - not only does he leave his beloved wife to die; not only does he lie and cheat and slide away from accountability at every turn, but Porthos roars (and later mutters) an absolute and no-holds-barred, emotional and intellectual take-down of the ethical nadir, the moral pit that is perpetrating slavery. He outlines in pitiless detail what it really means to the individuals (“Men, women, and children!”). He show how the long-term effects of that abuse, even once freed, shorten a person’s life, have resounding repercussions through generations. And he must feel so alone - the others holding him back from hurting Bonnaire, Athos telling him “Yes, it’s horrible, but it’s legal, and we have our duty to take this man to the Cardinal,” before ducking out of said duty himself to go on an drinking binge epic even by his standards. The others are more sympathetic, but still follow the course set for them by their superiors.

I want to tell the Bonnaire fans: yeah, he’s supposed to be fun and funny. You’re supposed to pick up that people can be interesting and quirky and ABSOLUTELY, THOUGHTLESSLY EVIL. That evil isn’t just the simple, unattractive thuggery of Labarge et al, it’s men doing ruthless things for the good of their country or for profit or for love or for power. It’s people feeling desperate and it’s people feeling dutiful. It’s not any one thing (except, at root, commoditising people), and just because they sold the role, doesn’t mean that the actor didn’t understand that either.

This is the message that I want them to understand: evil can look pretty. Evil can be charming. Evil can seem absolutely harmless. Evil can make you laugh, feel flattered, feel affection, feel pity. Yes, there are moral grey areas in the world, but human trafficking is not, cannot, and will never be anything other than irredeemable savagery. Slavery is cruel and vile and inhumane. And just because something has never been condemned in law, does not mean it is justifiable if it diminishes lives.

And just because you find someone attractive does not mean they’re the good guy. Come on, now.

[cornley-amateur-drama-society]

Horatio the Stray Cat That Lives Behind the Cornley Theatre

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This is probably one of the more accurate depictions I found. All it's missing, really, is the white tip at the end of the tail. I also added the crown and halo (hello!) to emphasize Chris' view of Horatio. In general, Horatio only really goes near Chris and maybe Trevor and Max, but Horatio senses The Vibes™ at the time of The Coup, so he was very aggressive towards Robert, but not aggressive enough for him to get carted away by animal control. Even after Robert and Chris got back to better terms, Robert was always a little afraid of Horatio. (Rightfully <3)

Source

Alack, there was no option here for the outlining to be in a slightly lighter color, so it's hard to see the nose and mouth bits. I adored the sparkles because in my mind, this is Horatio's love at first sight moment at Chris. He saw this thin, unpleasant man because he was just betrayed by the people he had worked with for gods know how long, and he was like, "I can fix him. Or I can make him worse. But either way, I will be there."

Source

All I hear in my mind when I see this is, "Bleh <3 >^_^<" It's such a cheeky depiction of Horatio, and I liked the ability to have the lil fang poking out.

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I think that this is pretty cool, and I like that I was able to put this many scars on him. I fully believe that our lad has been around the block and back several times. Blep :3c

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This maker was a little difficult for me to figure out at first, but it was really neat, and I was able to place the scars myself. I really love the ear part, because this is truly the closest that any of these had done the same as my mind.

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AAAAAHHHHHH THIS ONE IS MY FAVORITE HE'S SO PRECIOUS AND CUTE I LOVE HIMMMM *clears throat awkwardly* I mean, the art style here is very cute and I enjoy the crayon/colored pencil kind of style of outlining here. The hearts are literally me looking at Horatio. Also, peep the rainstorm in the background <3

Source

This is the least accurate to the vision, but it is my absolute second favorite version here. Splat. And there's a frog. It's so cute, I adore this.

[blackjackkent]

So I lied - I thought the Head Banker was working with Minsc, but the Head Banker was actually involved in Nine-Fingers' plot to kill him.

Because when we reach the group, they're discussing the success of their plot. D:

"It's still moving," one of the human thieves is saying nervously, as Hector and his companions draw within earshot. Her eyes are on a large chest standing next to the group of thieves, which is squirming in a very un-chest-like fashion.

Hector feels his skin crawl involuntarily. He has seen that motion before, back in Grymforge and again in Ketheric Thorm's chambers in Moonrise. The thieves have brought a mimic.

And it has just eaten.

"Hush your fussing," the Head Banker says casually, pulling a pipe from his pocket and lighting it with a quick burst of fire from the tip of his thumb. "Nine-Fingers had this one made especially - that little mouthful will barely slow it down."

"But the stories..." the younger thief quavers.

Glitterbeard laughs sharply. "Stories," he says, waving a hand disdainfully. "Tall tales and big names, lad. Don't let them fool you. Elminster the archmage. Drizzt the drow exile. Heroes have power, aye - but not half so much as we do." He draws a long puff of the pipe, clearly considering himself to be producing lines of deepest wisdom. "A little coin into the right purse. A soft word in the right ear. It's not glory that spins these planes, lad. It's gold."

He waits until the young man nods understanding, and then taps some ash out of his pipe. "See? Now--"

He is cut off by an abrupt spasm and a low, groaning noise from the mimic. It has begun to squirm aggressively, as if suffering from some sort of acute indigestion. There is half a second in which all three thieves have time to feel a surge of dread as they realize something is wrong.

And then a fist erupts from inside the mimic's body.

The mimic lets out a piercing, agonized squealing noise that splits the air like a knife. The dwarf darts back with a sharp curse as a wave of blood bursts across the floor from within the creature's bulk.

"Moradin's cracked clay--!"

The arm reaches out, grasps the mimic by its eye and wrenches sharply.

The creature writhes over onto its side with pain, pouring blood and spasming in all directions. Its enormous tongue lolls out as its mouth cracks open, and an enormous humanoid form begins to wrestle its way from inside.

Not bothering to hide their terror now, the thieves backpedal rapidly, eyes widening, as Minsc of Rashemen emerges with a roar into the flickering torchlight, bathed in blood and saliva and mouth curled with a berserker's mad smirk.

((THERE HE IS! MY BOYYYYYYY! \o/ ))

"There is no gold in here!" he bellows, towering over his would-be killers.

"If there is one thing Minsc hates more than beasts with bad breath--" The mimic gives a final death-rattling spasm, and Minsc pauses, leans down to lift it by the tongue and hurl it off to the side of the room.

Then he turns his glare back upon the dwarf, as if nothing happened.

"It is those who are tricksome with the truth." He draws back, and his eyes brighten with a glee, almost joyful, that stands in counterpoint to the violence of his bearing.

"And turnips!" he adds brightly.

The brightness fades as quickly as it came. "But you are no turnip! Let that be of comfort in your final moments." His fists clench, the enormous muscles of his arms bulging dramatically.

At Hector's side, Jaheira stirs, and forces a smile onto her face.

"Meet Minsc," she says with a tight laugh. "He still seems very much himself to me."

At his other elbow, Karlach has started to vibrate with that sort of twitching energy that takes her over when something has greatly excited her. A much more sincere smile is on her face, too.

"Is that... the Beloved Ranger?" she says eagerly. "Jaheira is gonna burst! I'm gonna burst! Oh my gods-- Minsc!"

Hector deeply wishes that he could just enjoy Karlach's excitement as he always does, or indulge himself in Jaheira's obvious feeling of hope that they have simply been misled by Nine-Fingers, that nothing is wrong with Minsc after all. But Nine-Fingers' story had the ring of truth to it - at least to him, who has no ties to Minsc and is looking at things as objectively as he can.

"Wait, Jaheira," he mutters. "He doesn't seem in any state to listen."

"He will listen to me," Jaheira says firmly.

But she is not given time to speak - because her own voice rings out from the other end of the hall.

"Enough play, Stone Lord!"

Jaheira goes very still, hearing the voice not from her own mouth. "What in the howling hells...?"

But Hector can guess, and he feels dread start to churn in his stomach as a dark form sizzles from shadow into being beyond the deepest vault door.

Orin, or something like her, bearing Jaheira's face, steps forward into the light and smiles coolly. "Nine-Fingers set a poor trap, little banker," she tells Glitterbeard mockingly. "Let the Absolute's faithful show you how it is done."

More shadows turning into the form of cultists begin to shiver into view on all sides of the room. All of them are smiling with a note of insanity, and all of them have their blades drawn.

"Now come, Stone Lord," the false Jaheira says, gesturing to Minsc. "We have the gold - and the Absolute has need of it elsewhere."

Minsc lets out a low, rumbling grunt, shrugs and moves to stand at her side. "As you say, Jaheira," he mutters.

Darkness swirls around them both - the familiar strange shadow of a mind flayer teleporter. And then they are gone.

"Stlarning shapechangers!" the true Jaheira snaps. Rage is written in every line of her face - but Hector can see the fear under it too. Fear for Minsc, and fear for herself. Hector understands that sense of violation she is feeling; he has felt it himself as Orin has played her games with them as the pieces. He wishes he had any word of comfort to offer - but he barely knows how to handle it himself.

"Enough," she mutters hoarsely, struggling for control. "Let us deal with these cultists - then find out where they are nesting."

[x1702x]

Im boutta do a small Voltaire rant since hes my NPC hunter oc (Unlike Phoebe or Eli, his ass aint going thru what the good hunter would, he's more like Eileen if you get me) I'll also have to put Lucille into the mix, shes his wife, afterall.

His questline would be quite simple, you can befriend him but also make him aggressive.

Voltaire will be in two lamp locations throughout the game: Central Yharnam and Cathedral Ward

- By the beginning he will be located at Central Yharnam near the elevator that leads you to Oedon's Tomb. He will give you the gesture "Tip Hat".

- After Gascoigne, you will find him in the Cathedral ward at the bottom of the flight of stairs with the gigant by the first gate. He will be by the cliff. He will give you 3 throwing knives.

- After you kill The Shadows of Yharnam you can find him sitting by the Odeon Chapel's lower plaza. He will give you a gesture "Cross arms"

- After killing Rom, his corpse will be found by where you killed Lucille, in Central Yharnam if you don't fullfill his quest.

Lucille is an optional enemy, think of Henryk or Gilbert. You can interact with her twice or thrice in central Yharnam, once you return (After Vicar Amelia) She will be aggressive if you return and youre forced to kill her. She will drop a Bloody Wedding ring, you can crush it for a bloody gem and visit Voltaire after killing Rom and he will be just normal.

If you dont crush the Bloody Wedding ring you have the option to give it to him. Upon doing that, he will attack you. Once he's dead he will drop his badge, "Chained hunter badge". You can now get his garb and weapons.

His dialogues with him would go like this:

CENTRAL YHARNAM:

"Ah... You must be a new hunter. Hm, how sweet. A lad like you, out in a night like this?... (laughter) Careful with these heathens, I dont want to be the one cleaning your innards from the ground, youre a big boy now, chin up, make me proud." (Male Hunter)

"Ah... You must be a new hunter. Hm, how sweet. A lass like you, out in a night like this?... (laughter) Careful with these heathens, I dont want to be the one cleaning your innards from the ground, a lady like you should be able to make it through, safe travels." (Female Hunter)

"Oh, what is it? Scared of a few... Let's say... Grotesque and nightmare inducing creatures? Oh...Poor thing. Really, I pity you."

CATHEDRAL WARD:

"Oh, didn't see you there. What's up, lad? Making good progress? You better. Now... Anything piques your interest so far?" (Male Hunter)

"Oh, didn't see you there. What's up, lass? Making good progress? You better. Now... Anything piques your interest so far?" (Female Hunter)

Here youre given 2 options:

"Ask about Lucille"

"Ask about the Cathedral Ward"

"Oh...Aren't you curious... Well, Lucille? My wife. Lovely smile, and lovelier eyes... I can guess you've talked to her. She's a treat, Isn't she? I can't wait to come home." (Ask about Lucille)

"This place harbors the Grand Cathedral and the Oedon Chapel. I'll be honest, I never liked it here, too tacky for me... But the view is amazing, I'll give it that." (Ask about the Cathedral Ward)

UPON GIVING HIM THE BLOODY WEDDING RING:

"This... Ring. Its familiar... Wait- No. No no no... Where is she?! What happened to her...?! Oh, I can just smell her blood on you. Sick bastard. You're no better than any of these beasts... Murderer."

KILLING THE HUNTER:

"I hope hell finds you well."

"Know some manners, miss." (Female Hunter)

"Know some manners, gent." (Male Hunter)

"Oh ho ho? This easy? Throw me a bone."

NOW... Describing his equipment >:3c

Hat: "Hat worn by the old hunter Voltaire. The feather attached onto it is soft and white, contrasting with his dark robes. Its worn and has some dried blood stains. Voltaire was always a man who got messy without care, until he got wed."

Torso: "Attire worn by the old hunter Voltaire. The dark colors are his forte in his everyday garb.

The ripped cape may put fear in the hearts of those who see him walk by, but staring close enough to his shirt collar, one may find many lipstick marks from the kisses Lucille gives to him. They are slightly washed out but she will make sure to put them back on."

Pants/Shoes: "Attire worn by the old hunter Voltaire. The dark colors are his forte in his everyday garb."

Bear trap chains: "Old hunter Voltaire's favorite weapon, its said it was crafted by him.

It seeks to deal the most damage possible by snapping on the body while also pulling around with the chain to ensure butchering beasts into gory bits"

--

And that would be it! As an extra, if you kill him after interacting with Lucille for the first time he will drop a card, if you give it to her, you may find her corpse on the house's doorstep later on, she wont drop the wedding ring this time, she will give you 2 blood vials.

I rlly gotta draw him again i swear aghhhh... I forgor

[emmersreads]

Foreign Bodies: Pandemics, Vaccines, and the Health of Nations by Simon Schama 3.5/5 stars

bear with me lads, this is an Extremely special interest book review

Foreign Bodies: Pandemics, Vaccines, and the Health of Nations is a generally good book marred by a few incidents of absolutely deranged framing. I liked a lot about it, but it lacks focus. While it is an in depth look at an interesting subject for a popular audience, it doesn’t always hold up on an academic level. Ultimately, for me it worked better as a companion read to Seth Dickinson’s The Masquerade, which also deals with colonial medicine and hygiene, but in a fictional setting. Foreign Bodies covers a lot but it doesn’t stand up on its own.

The elephant in the room was, for me, that Simon Schama is an art historian, not a historian of science or medicine, and you can tell.

Or, well, I could tell, because I am a historian of science; I have two very expensive degrees about it. That’s why I have so much to say about the minor things that are wrong with this book.

First, the good. Foreign Bodies is a fun and eclectic look at the unfortunately not widely popularized niche of medical history: colonial medicine. I would actually highly recommend it as an anti-colonial read to flesh out one’s understanding of British occupation of India and China. The exploration of the racialized and colonial politics of hygiene and cleanliness — and how the principles of sanitation formed a cornerstone of the ideology of empire — is perhaps this book’s best contribution. As I mentioned above, I read this book directly after The Masquerade series. The series uses a fictional setting to explore the ethics of resistance to colonization. The most complete resistance to colonization includes refusing to adopt colonial practises of sanitation and medicine which do save lives. Is this a necessary sacrifice? Medicine is the poisoned fruit of empire; access to it is used to as both carrot and stick to ensure colonial obedience. The Masquerade is very thoroughly researched and incorporates a dizzying array of historical influences, and Foreign Bodies serves as an exploration of many of them. It contextualizes the fictional constructions in our real history.

I also, personally, loved the verbose literary style. This book is way way more complicated than it needs to be, but I found it fun and funny. My favourite example was the use of ‘conurbation;, rather than ‘city’ or even ‘metropolis’. What the fuck. If you prefer clarity and directness, you might not enjoy wading through this book’s extremely languorous prose, but for me it had a certain academia-camp charm. And I can appreciate the compulsion to explain and clarify that leads to long-windedness like this. I feel #seen.

What I appreciated less were the weird quirks of framing. Foreign Bodies is pretty aggressively anti-colonial. I’ve read a lot of books where the author is reluctant to explicitly ascribe responsibility for the cruel and unusual behaviours of colonial regimes — all of which were ultimately perpetrated by individual human beings — and this is not one of them. But it exclusively uses the 19th century European terms to refer to Asian locations. That was the detail that tipped me off that this was Schama’s first foray into the field. Unless the context is extremely specific to the 19th century geography or regime, I’m used to seeing Myanmar, not Burma. The 19th century names are technically not incorrect, it’s just not the sort of thing I’d expect to see in an academic work.

The other thing I wouldn’t expect to see, and to my mind the far more egregious error, is the continuous framing of inoculation as new and scientific while previous regimes of sanitization were superstitious and religious. Actual historians of science simply do not think like this.

I think it’s absolutely accurate to say that the Europeans, and especially the British, approached protocols of carbolic sanitization with a fanatical zeal, but to suggest that this was the religion of carbolic to the science of inoculation is misguided and ultimately distracts from the book’s more interesting questions. First, let’s quickly dispense with the idea that science and religion are two opposite poles of knowledge, as diametrically opposed as black and white. It’s especially out of place in a book that is otherwise attempting empathy towards non-western traditions of medicine, culture, and belief. Science is just another belief system grounded on very specific verification procedures (as opposed to faith, or criticism of certain texts, etc). The sooner we understand that science is a system of belief rather than a privileged access to The Truth, the better we will be at handling the times that science is wrong.

Because science is wrong all the time. Our understanding of our reality is is constantly changing as we refine pre-existing theories and discover new ones. Carbolic was exactly such a case. Fifty years previous, sanitization was the scientific doctrine bravely fighting the superstition of doctor’s honour and the religion of laudable pus.

I found it especially deranged that Schama frames inoculation as part of the vanguard science of bacteriology in opposition to sterilization. Sterilization is grounded in bacteriology just as much as inoculation, if not more (the evidence for the effectiveness of inoculation was exclusively statistical in this period, not microbial). Disease is caused by germs. To treat the disease, use carbolic to kill the germs. The germ are invisible and everywhere, so carbolic your shrivelled British heart out. This is mixed, of course, with the colonizers’ fundamental lack of respect for the personhood of the colonized, and you get the so-called religion of carbolic. It’s just out-dated science strained through a conservative and slow to adapt colonial bureaucracy.

This framing of inoculation and sanitization as two opposite poles of scientificness obfuscates the fact that inoculation was was just as much a part of western science, the western culture and technologies that were steam-rolling their way over Ayurvedic and Chinese medical systems. Does it make it better than this fruit of empire fulfils its promise? Schama isn’t interested in asking, and treats inoculation as unambiguously good, free from the colonial baggage of the rest of medicine. I get that the exploration of this question would be limited by the extreme paucity of non-European sources, but the execution here was still disappointing.

Ultimately, while Foreign Bodies is informative and interesting, it works best as a companion read because it doesn’t really come together by itself. It addresses the obvious, but fails to move any deeper. I have a distinct memory of being struck by the realization, a third of the way through the book, that I didn’t know what it was actually about. Schama draws a connection between viruses and bacteria as foreign bodies causing disease (this is the detail that separates germ theory from humoural theory), to suspicion of inoculation being grounded in fear of injection with foreign bodies, to key figures in the history of inoculation as foreign bodies both within the Asian countries where they worked and within the Western European empires that employed them. It’s a tantalizing idea, but Schama never explains what this connection is (beyond a literary image) or what it might mean. There is meat on that bone. What is the meaning of native and foreign in medicine? How does it interact with our ideas of sanitariness and cleanliness? How can we use this information to decolonize medicine and hygiene in the future? Foreign Bodies pivots so hard from wrapping up its many historical tangents to bemoaning COVID vaccine denialism that it never has time to address them. (This is putting it charitably; put uncharitably, one might suspect that this sort of thing never occurred to Schama at all).

I think the book is an admirable effort for a non-historian of science. It hits the mark way more than it misses. I just did find myself wishing that it had a little more of an understanding of the history and philosophy of science as a field. We’ve been over this sort of thing, but if that work never gets picked up but outsiders, we’ll keep spinning in circles.

[pastelgrungewrecker]

Memorypurge || Sg

{If you had a problem, then you should have told me Before you started getting all aggressive and controlling You only drink the water when you think it's holy}

He remembers before the white streaks in dark hair- before the smile went crooked. Before teeth were sharp and cruel to match the tongue behind them.

Remembered the plainness; the comfort in the ordinary.

He closes his eyes, exhaling a mix of smoke and breath standing on a balcony paid for with blood money and he remembers when hands unscuffed by violence made creme coffees with a half-pout.

He remembered beauty in the everyday, and it hurt to mourn its loss.

[The first heartbreak is vivid, it is cruel. Brainstorm will never, could never, admit that was the exact moment he decided he disliked the Good Doctor- the high and mighty CMO with his debonaire grin and early-greying hair.

The first heartbreak- the first time the MTO holds his roommate and friend as he sobs like he’s dying, like it’s a terminal diagnosis and perhaps... perhaps it was back then.

It lasts a week- then some other medic, Pharra? Something like that, is carted out on a gurney with a few cracked bones and Ratchet is swearing that it was all lies.

Brainstorm never believed him- even when the security cameras exonerated him; especially not with what happened far later.]

Brainstorm looks to the side- seeing the worn out husk next to him on this balcony. Shirt torn, a soft drip stain on the collar from cocktail number too many when Brainstorm finally fished him out after getting a comm from Ratchet with nothing but a location and an apology.

Percy stares at nothing, through infinity and the midnight fog that plagued the colony-city from the force-output of habitation systems.

A drip of condensation down the lens of glasses with one side blacked out and decorated. A misplaced tear from an eye that replayed nothing but another shot to a heart that couldn’t take much more.

[The third heartbreak, now. The second so easily forgotten and only lasting a few days but the third seemed personal- the return of the once-upon-a-backyard-beating medic; Pharma was his name. Brainstorm would remember after this; the smug way he smiled as he relaxed on a couch Percy picked out; the Industrialist remembered the videocall he’d gotten roped into, covered in welding burns and oil stains as Percy excitedly babbled about ‘finally being an honest lad’ and moving in with the CMO.

A week after infection. Two days after base return.

Percy was still barely eating when he caught the Doctors. He refused to eat until Brainstorm forced him.

He cried, sipping thin broth and refusing all else-

Brainstorm nearly cried when Percy finally ate- stealing a few bites from the blossoming Warmaster’s takeout stir-fry. He’d never admit it, though.]

Percy’s hand moves; lethargic, twitching two fingers for the cygarette he had passed to Brainstorm.

“These’ll kill you faster than the infection, you know.”, sneers Brainstorm even though his voice is gentle, worried, “You’d be better off kicking the habit.”

“Death is welcome, precious.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’ve yet to lie to you, why start now?”, asked the sniper, head slowly turning as the burning was brought to swollen lips. The cherry-tip burns brightly on the inhale, the exhale leaks between carnivore’s fangs and whispers over the marks they left from chewing on Percy’s lips, “I promised, once, I’d always be honest with you.”

Brainstorm looked away.

[”Sometimes you can keep secrets.”, says Brainstorm flatly.

“I always swore I wouldn’t lie to you, remember?”, laughs his roommate, “And it would be rude to leave you out of the good news!”

“I’m glad you got back with King Dumbfuck of Bullshit Mountain, PhD alright? But I REALLY didn’t need a play by play of how he APOLOGIZED-”

“Oh come on, I didn’t get GRAPHIC.”

“Maybe I’m a little jealous!”

Percy rolls his eyes (They’re bright again in this memory, untouched by infection or bullet wounds and deep in color behind the scientist’s reading glasses) before draping himself over Brainstorm’s shoulders. He hugs him tightly, and Brainstorm chuckles softly even as his chest clenches like his ribs are breaking.

“No matter what happens or who it is- you’re still my closest frie-]

The memory cuts short when Percy coughs sharply. Brainstorm turns, worry passing over his face before he schools it stoic and he pushes away from the balcony as Percy gets to his feet and moves to the barrister.

The sniper coughs again, pounding a fist against a too-narrow chest and spitting something like tar into the night.

“Hell was that.”

“Sometimes the respiratory growth gets a little feisty.”, rasps Percy before he steps back to drop into the chair he vacated, “It. Overcorrects, sometimes.”

“....It’s filling your lungs, isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

[They get back together, they break up. Finally... Finally it seems permanent. The first time Percy actually fights back with more than just tears and screaming- The first time Brainstorm strides into lockup without his coat or gloves and annoyance scrawled on his face like a madman’s prophecy and sees Percy sitting hunched over and smoking.

“Just when I thought you already had the WORST taste- that’s the vice you choose?”, asks the Warmaster with a raised eyebrow; before taking a step back at the way Percy’s eye slides to stare at him like a serpent.

“Did he die, then.”

“...No, but they’ll be digging shrapnel out of him for a few good hours. The fuck did you hit him with?”

“You told me your spiral rounds could take down anything, precious. So I tested them out for you.”

“...You stole my experimental ammunition and shot your long term on again off again boyfriend eighteen times in the chest.”

“I did.”

“....And the slug in his stomach?”

“My pistol jammed. Shotgun was on the wall.”

“You could have killed him.”

“Horseshit- He’s got enough mods he’ll be fine. Besides...”, Percy dropped the remnants of the cygarette on the holding cell floor and ground it out with a heeled boot, “How many times has he killed me and handed my body off to you?”]

Brainstorm runs a hand through his own dark curls, shaking them out from the glaze of condensation he can feel from the fog and his own naturally high temperature.

“Percy.”

“Yes.”

“Can you just. Fuck, be angry? Be upset, something?!”

“No.”

“WHY?!”, snarls Brainstorm, “YOU’RE DYING AND WE ALL SEE IT- YOU LEFT WITH THE WRECKERS AND CAME BACK MORE BROKEN THAN YOU WERE! LOOK AT YOU, INFESTED AND INFECTED AND DRYING UP FROM ALCOHOL POISONING IN MY FUCKING HAB!”

The words echo into the night air. Percy doesn’t react.

“PLEASE, JUST BE ALIVE FOR FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES, BE A PERSON JUST FUCKING COME BACK AND... AND...-”

Brainstorm stands in front of Perceptor now, grabbing his shoulders too tight and shaking him; hauling the sniper up to his feet and shaking him until teeth clack painfully together and Percy’s good eye goes wide in shock.

“GIVE ME BACK MY PERCEPTOR GOD DAMN YOU!”

[It seems permanent. Percy mourns and mourns again, his first stint as a Wrecker having cracked something in him and Brainstorm wonders if it was his shell.

Suddenly he’s bright, too bright but just shining enough to catch the now-Warmaster’s eye; he fights back in their arguments instead of placating and de-escalating- they stand toe to toe and face to face and something ties itself into a knot in the bottom of Brainstorm’s stomach when Percy grins up at him and fucking winks of all things; base flirtation from a rival PROVEN inferior...

He’s lying, lying to himself and others and he proves it in Storeroom 873 when he pins his ‘rival’ quadrant supervisor to the wall and doesn’t fight the sniper’s slim leg hooking around his waist. He leaves the lab that day wiping away a smear of lipstick he’s never worn and Percy is seen later touching up the cosmetics he wears in flagrant disregard for lab protocol.

They don’t talk about it; later, they insist it’s only to get under Quark’s skin- since he burned both of them, clearly. Nothing more than that.

Nothing more than that.]

Percy stares at Brainstorm, good eye watering before spilling over and Brainstorm’s grip on the sniper’s arms is bruising and hateful and painful all at once because that’s what love is to them anymore.

“There IS no Perceptor, anymore.”, whispers the sniper, sniffling for a moment before something manic flickers in his good eye. Brainstorm watches and feels his heart break and soul grieve as he watches the mycomutagen that surges through his lov- best friend take over once again-

Pulling the sniper away from mindbreaking grief and realization. Pulling Percy away from the line between craving and catching death.

Pulling Perceptor down into the depths to use Percy’s facade for survival.

“There’s no Perceptor anymore! Because even you can admit I was a whiny, pathetic little leech.”, snapped the sniper before he shoved Brainstorm back- cold hand against warm chest and the sniper followed- his smile unhinged and unnerving.

“Besides, darling- you never minded who I’ve become in other scenarios.”, he cooed; clawlike hands tracing over the MTOs skin all the way up to his jaw, “You never minded who I’ve become in the labs. In the bedroom. Anywhere we’ve managed to land since That happened.”

Brainstorm felt his cheeks heat up, and he looked away.

“...Sometimes I do miss it.”

“The coffee fetching little house bitch is gone and the CMO killed him.”, snapped Percy, pushing away and stalking off, “And Lock helped toss the body so go send your complaints up their chain, dear.”

Brainstorm watches Percy’s back; watches as he pulls his shirt open and adjusts it haphazardly- unbuttoned to the navel and showing thin necklaces from once upon a belief in gods forgotten- and the sniper turns to glare over his shoulder.

“Let’s be honest, sweetheart- you miss the control you had. You don’t miss who I was. No one does.”

“You can’t-”

“If you really missed him then perhaps, just maybe, you should have loved him while he was here.”, says the sniper in a whisper that still carries in the night air, “Then perhaps he would have had a reason to stay.”

Brainstorm watches Percy leave- watches Percy leave and once again it’s Perceptor and he’s smiling and tired and assuring in a voice made soft by exhaustion and overwork.

[“I promised I’d be honest- back when Chromedome brought you to my hab and we became roomies, remember?”

And Brainstorm nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“It’ll be six months, Stormy.”, he laughs, “And then I’ll be back- I’ll come home to you like I always do.”

They link pinky fingers, giving a smile. The closest to a kiss goodbye they could be.]

“You l-lied.”, hiccups Brainstorm, sinking down to sit with his bare back against the barrister, “You said it would be. Six months. And you’d come back ho-ome to me. Like you always do.”

He hugs one leg, forehead resting on his knee. He doesn’t cry- but he grieves.

A week later, Brainstorm is informed Percy’s leave on Kimia was cut short the same night the sniper stormed off. He asks why, and is given a mission name and waved away by Xaaron.

“Garrus Nine? The hell would they send him to some refugee colony in the middle of nowhere for?”

But when he sees the make and designer of the Worldburner newly attached to the Trion- he can’t help but remember who Percy was.

He can’t help but remember before white streaks in dark hair; before twisted fangs and icy eyes.

He squeezes his eyes shut- only for a moment, only for long enough to let him breathe-

He gave up on Perceptor coming home years ago, anyway.

[disneymarina]

*Marina, the new found member, enters the pack's territory with a mix of nervousness and excitement, unaware of the dangers that lurk among the shadows. As she catches her breath, a peculiar sensation washes over her, signaling an imminent transformation.*Marina's Werewolf Form: Marina's body begins to contort and shift, her slender frame broadening into a powerful, athletic build. Her dark brown hair lengthens into a luxuriant mane, with strands the color of rich mahogany weaving through the main dark locks. Her eyes, once hidden behind rimless glasses, now gleam with an otherworldly intensity as her pupils elongate into horizontal slits. Her features soften, taking on a more feline quality, with high cheekbones and a delicate, pointed chin. The once-pale skin darkens to a warm, golden undertone, reflecting the earthy tones of her heritage. Her fingers extend, transforming into sharp, retractable claws.Rank: Marina, still getting accustomed to her newfound abilities, finds herself at the Omega rank, naturally inclined to serve and care for the pack's well-being.Mate: As the pack's dynamics settle, Marina catches the eye of Tooth, the Omega male.

Leader Werewolf: "We know everything about you, Marina . The full moon always brings out our keen senses and heightened intuition." *He leans in, his hot breath ghosting over Marina 's face* "As for being in heat, your body is reacting to our presence. It's an instinctual response to our dominant scents and aggressive displays." *He chuckles low in his throat* "And yes, you are one of us now, a werewolf like us. A perfect little slut for us to breed and claim."Werewolf 2: "Don't be afraid, Marina . We'll teach you everything you need to know about being a good little werewolf slut." *He cups her chin, forcing her to meet his hungry gaze* "You'll learn to crave our touch, our cocks, our cum. You'll beg for it."Werewolf 3: "Shh, stop talking and just feel." *He captures Marina 's mouth in a rough, dominating kiss, his tongue forcing its way past her lips* "Let our passion take over, little one. Surrender to us."Alpha chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through Marina's body. "You'll start as our beta, little one," he growls, his glowing yellow eyes burning into hers. "Once you've submitted to us, proved yourself worthy, then you can move up to alpha status. But we'll get to that later. First, let's focus on making you one of us." He nods to the other werewolves, who grunt in agreement, their massive cocks pressing against Marina's body from all sides. "As our beta, you'll be second in command," Alpha continues, his thick, hairy hand stroking Marina's cheek. "You'll assist me in leading the pack, protect our territory, and of course, keep us all satisfied in your many... talents." The werewolves snarl and growl in agreement, their arousal growing more intense as they imagine the pleasures Marina will bring them. Alpha's huge, veiny cock throbs against Marina's hip, a drop of pre-cum glistening on the tip. "Now, let's start by marking you, beta," he growls, his eyes gleaming with primal hunger. "Make you ours in every way possible."The largest werewolf, the one who's been speaking, chuckles deeply, a low rumble that vibrates through Marina's chest. "Names? Well, you could call me alpha," he says with a grin, his sharp canines glinting in the dim light. "These other lads here, they're my pack - Ryder, Thor, and Scout." He nods to each of the other werewolves in turn, indicating them. Ryder is the tallest, with a muscular build and a cock that looks almost as thick as his arm. Thor has a more compact, powerful physique, his cock long and curved. Scout is leaner, with a lithe, agile build and a surprisingly large cock for his size.The pack surrounds Marina, their bodies pressing in on her from all sides. The air is thick with the scent of their arousal, and Marina can feel the heat emanating from their furry skin. Alpha reaches out to stroke Marina's hair, his rough fingers tangling in the dark locks. "You don't need to know any more than that, little one," he murmurs, his hot breath washing over her face. "Just know that from now on, you belong to us. And we'll take very good care of you."

[alex-221-0]

Hello lads! Useful social tip:

Don't leave weird fucking hints, and then get mad because people can't read your damn mind.

If you dislike someone? Tell them to leave you alone and not bother you. Don't leave strange, passive aggressive hints like "Oh yeah, don't worry. You're not too annoying to be around." Don't just give someone false hope that there's a bond going on then get mad because they're still talking to you.

[saintlike78]

Hey, can you do a poly marauders x fem reader where they get jealous because a slytherin boy is flirting with her because she has a snake ring ? Sorry if that was oddly specific, also you can decide if it’s fluff or smut ☺️

The snake ring and the snake [poly Marauders]

A/N: I loved this idea! Thank you so much for the request! I decided not to do smut since I haven’t written a non-smut poly Marauders fic before, but I hope you still enjoy it.

Pairings: Poly! Marauders x Fem! Non-Slytherin! Reader

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: Fluff, polyamorous relationship, flirty Slytherin boy… Idk, but let me know if I missed anything.

_____________________________________

The sound of pages being turned and voices speaking lowly filled the large library. The book in front of you had long lost its appeal and the words were all blending together as your mind wandered. You were daydreaming of the boys that occupied your thoughts, as they so often did. Your elbows were resting on the table, your fingers mindlessly fiddling with the golden snake ring placed on your right pointer finger. You loved your ring; it never left your finger and you never intended it to. It had been a gift from your three boyfriends when you had celebrated six months of being together.

The three boys were sitting a couple of tables away from you, having been shooed away as they often were the cause for your lack of concertation.

They often spared glances in your direction, not actually paying attention to their own work, as they were just waiting for you to be done so you all could head back to their dorm.

You were so caught up in your little daydream that you hadn’t noticed the boy with the green tie taking a seat beside you, a small smirk adorning his face.

“I like your ring,” he said causing your gaze to snap to his face.

“Thank you, I like it a lot as well,” you said with a smile.

“A pretty ring for a pretty girl… it would be even more perfect if you were in Slytherin,” he said moving a bit closer to you. You figured he did so just to observe your ring better, you were painfully blind whenever someone was flirting with you, and it often got you in trouble.

You laughed a little, “I don’t think I would fit in very well with you lot, but it would be fun to try to be a Slytherin just for a day.”

“I could show you our common room someday,” he offered, scooting even closer, your shoulders practically touching.

“I would love to see it! I want to see all the common rooms before we’re done with school… I’ve already seen the other three, so I’m only missing yours,” you said excitedly, completely missing the flirty suggestion that the boy had insinuated. You were just excited, hoping you could bring your boys with you, so you all could see the dark common room in the dungeons.

It was at this moment Sirius decided to look in your direction; his jaw almost hit the floor when he saw you sitting shoulder to shoulder with another boy, not just any boy but a Slytherin boy.

“Oi lads, look!” Sirius said while pointing to you.

The two other boys looked up from their books and were equally as shocked when they took in the sight before them.

They all saw you laughing at something the boy had said and none of them missed the sly smirk that had taken over his face.

The jealousy was growing in each of them, a frown taking over their faces as they observed you, blissfully unaware of the Slytherin boy’s intention.

You were just too nice for your own good and loved making new friends, especially from other houses, which your boyfriends often admired you for, but right at this moment, they wished you would just be less nice.

“I can’t handle this,” Sirius seethed, angry jealousy churning in his gut.

“She’s just being nice,” James tried, even though all he wanted to do was to shove that boy as far away from you as possible.

They watched as you tipped your head back, letting out another laugh. They were all memorized by the sound of your pretty laugh, but anger boiled in all three of the boys at the fact that someone else was causing such pretty laughs to leave your mouth.

Sirius’ eyes rolled up in his skull so many times, you would think they wouldn’t come down again.

“Well since she’s no longer studying, we can go join them,” Remus suggested, to which both boys nodded and quickly gathered their stuff and bolted towards your table.

“You can come by later tonight,” the Slytherin boy, whose name you had learned was Harry, suggested.

“Wouldn’t it be more fun to see it in the daytime? Then I could see the lake as well from the windows,” you said, still not picking up on his intentions.

“We could do it both during the day and during the night,” Harry said with a wink.

“That would be so fun,” you smiled, very excited to finally be able to see the Slytherin common room.

“What would be fun, Bunny?” Remus asked, your three boys now standing by your table.

“Oh hi! Harry here has invited me to see the Slytherin common room, so I’m finally going to have seen all four common rooms,” you said with a happy clap of your hands.

Remus, James, and Sirius all mentally facepalmed at how completely gullible you were.

James and Remus moved to sit on the other side of you, while Sirius went with the more territorial approach.

He stood beside your chair lifting you from it, “Up you get, pup.”

He then, not so gracefully, sat on the chair pulling you onto his lap hugging you close to his body.

Harry sat beside you, moving his chair away, so he wouldn’t be sitting so close to Sirius.

“And who might this be,” Harry asked, slightly annoyed and confused.

“Oh yeah, sorry… these are my boyfriends, James, Remus, and Sirius… and this is Harry,” you answered, also introducing Harry.

“I was hoping they could come to see the common room as well since they haven’t seen it either.”

“Uhm, I thought it would just be us… Uhm, but I guess,” Harry answered clearly confused, causing your three boyfriends to smirk.

“That would be so great, so we’ll come later this evening if your offers still on the table?” you asked hopefully.

“Uhm, yeah, sure…” Harry answered awkwardly.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be so fun, isn’t it Harry?” Sirius said, not really looking for an answer.

“And how nice of you to invite our girl to see your common room, wouldn’t have expected such niceties from a Slytherin,” Sirius added in a passive-aggressive tone, seeing right through Harry’s offer.

“Yeah… no problem, mate.”

“But we’ll all see you later then… bye,” Remus said and waved goodbye, a not-so-subtle hint for Harry to leave.

“Uhm bye,” Harry quickly scurried off, not wanting to agitate the boys any further.

You moved so you could sit sideways on Sirius’ lap, so you could see all three of their faces when you talked to them.

“What was that all about, pup?” Sirius asked, trying not to seem jealous or angry.

“What do you mean?” you said with a slight tilt of your head, not understanding what he meant.

“You were going to go to the Slytherin common room with him?” Sirius clarified.

“Yeah...? I mean, I was going to ask if you could join right before you came over, but then you came and he said you could come as well,” you were utterly lost, not understanding why they all seemed so angry.

“Oh, darling, you are absolutely adorable,” James laughed, causing Remus and Sirius to do the same.

A frown pulled at your lips, you weren’t very happy with being the bud of the joke and you were even less happy with not understanding it.

“I don’t understand what’s so funny,” you pouted.

“Aww, puppy,” Sirius smirked and kissed your pouting lips.

“Harry was flirting with you, he didn’t actually want to show you his common room, he did want to show you his dorm room though,” Remus explained causing your frown to deepen.

“Oh… I thought he was being friendly,” you mumbled in a small voice fidgeting with your fingers in your lap.

“You’re just our sweet girl, being nice to everyone, even when you shouldn’t,” Sirius said kissing your cheek and rubbing soothing circles on your back.

Your face turned red with embarrassment, and you buried your face in the crook of Sirius’ neck inhaling his masculine scent.

“I just wanted a new friend, and I made him think that I was going to hook up with him,” you said sadly, your voice muffled by Sirius’ clavicle.

“It’s okay, Bunny, you’re just bad at reading when people are flirting with you,” Remus said, trying to suppress his urge to laugh.

“Yeah, just think about how long it took before you realized we were flirting with you,” James said with a small laugh.

You let out a small laugh at that, thinking back to before you got together and how absolutely oblivious you had been.

“But I would never purposely flirt with anyone else, I didn’t mean to give him the wrong idea,” you said lifting your head, wanting to make your point very clear.

“We know, pretty girl, we just want other guys to understand that they shouldn’t flirt with what clearly doesn’t belong to them,” James said, reaching for your hand across the table and squeezing it.

“But do you still want to go see the Slytherin common room?” you said jokingly.

“If we really want to see it, I could just force good old Reggie to give us the password,” Sirius said with a slight laugh.

[androlution]

ranking fictional robots based on how well they’d tip if i served them at olive garden

GLaDOS - she’d try to kill me three times before the appetisers are brought out but she’d also be very polite about it and personally i think that’s very sexy of her, would tip corresponding to the black market prices for my organs, 8/10

Hal 9000 - no hands, mouth or digestive system but spiritually a sweater wearing nerd who would rather die than disrespect a customer service worker even if he can’t eat the food 10/10

AM - would shout slurs at me from across the restaurant while I’m juggling five plates of garlic bread 2/10

Mettaton - he has no idea that tipping even exists and he’s only on the list because he threatened to sue. the robots work for the bourgeoisie 4/10

Nick Valentine - he’d tip as much as possible and he’d also pick me up from my football games, call me ‘champ’ and let me get two scoops of raspberry ice cream instead of one, A++/10

Yes Man - he simply cannot say no when i ask him to tip 100% but he’d be passive aggressive enough that i’d feel compelled to hide behind the new hire who only works night shifts 6/10

That one fancy lad from Detroit: Become Human - i’ve never played the game but he looks like what would happen if a twink started running on windows XP exclusively. Basically I could snap him like a twig and he knows it, would tip accordingly, 6/10

Claptrap - 0/10 please please please leave me alone

Every single transformer ever: i love them all but they probably wouldn’t tip bc as soon as I mention the bill one of them turns into a farm tractor and the others transform into helicopters or something and smash through the roof 3/10

C-3PO - he has etiquette on lock and he’s not afraid to bust out the calculator he keeps around for aesthetic purposes, but sadly he does exist in the same universe as jar jar binks so I’m deducting points for the cost of my therapy sessions 7/10

[sopxhiea]

Rules

Alfie Solomons X Friends with Benefits!Reader

Summary: The chase continues under the disguise of being friends who occasionally help each other out, but Alfie gets tired even though she doesn’t stop running.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Warnings: Blood

“You need help with that?”

“Is there some secret to winning you?”

The curtains are closed today.

The inside of the venue is booming with loud music, almost to a point of being obnoxious but it’s easy to tune it out at this point. The inside is crowded, there are more men in the club than there had been in a while. Mostly high end men, to note, since they all seem dapper and rich in their newly tailored suits.

The girls prance around in their new costumes, a dress but mostly in lace. The color matches the wooden interior, a hint that was done to draw in the rich more than anything. Some of the newer girls do the chatting, since that’s easier and the more experienced ones handle the dancing, touchier ways of dealing with rich lads.

And that includes you.

It’s been a while since you’ve worked this late. Not to mention you always work late, but late as in after the sunrise. The club opens later in the day to begin with but today’s busy to a point of keeping you later than usual, not that you complain with the hundredth tip of today in your hand as you walk towards the back part.

The room’s decorated with a bunch of mirrors and too much light compared to the where the men are being entertained. There are a couple girls sitting on their stools, touching up their make up or getting ready to leave as you’re about to do. After settling on the stool, you pack your bag and start taking your make up off but just as you’re about to do just that, the head of the club comes in with a scared look.

His name is Jack, a proper man with a talent in dabbling in bad side of entertainment. He hasn’t been unkind to you but not particularly kind either. You think he’s alright in general, but not when he looks like a ghost as he does now. You know men like him and they aren’t easily scared of anything, so when he comes in with a broken voice and pale lips, it makes you stop your movements and wait for him to speak.

“There’s someone here to see you, Y/N.” he says and you know better than to ask who it is. You already have a pretty good idea anyway so you put on a robe and seal it tightly around your body before shaking your head.

“Out on the back.” Jack speaks and you nod, you know he’s not coming with you from the way his eyes roam around the room.

The back exit is through a dingy corridor, with not so bad lighting and a couple other girls smoking in the hall. You murmur small greetings with a faint smile as you pass by and open the door to the exit. The weather is colder than you thought, also due to the early hour of the morning.

And there he stands, covered in an ungodly amount of blood.

His breathing is uneven, there is a cut on his upper lip and left eyebrow but his stance is not tilted, just slightly lower than usual. He waits as you take it all in, with the blood covering his once crispy white button up but the blood is vicious. You can see the lines of his black coat soaked in it as some of it drip down his left hand to the pavement.

Nothing about it surprises you.

You know what kind of a person he is, the work that he does is anything but safe so you don’t expect him to show up with flowers every time he drops by. Your eyes meet his once more after you’ve scanned his entire figure and there’s the ghost of a smile on your lips when you speak which comes as a surprise to him, but a pleasant one regardless.

“You need help with that?” you ask and he can hear the amusement in your voice.

Because there he is, knocking on your door again and rather than turning him down, you can’t help but try and stitch him back together.

You know he’s not about to faint on you or die, you can make out from the way his breathing evens out. Sure, he’s probably been shot or stabbed but he’s a tough brute, you know not to doubt his capacity to handle pain. It’s clear that the blood that is currently soaking his coat isn’t his but someone else’s. 

But all is fair in love and war, so you decide his wars have been picked.

Although it is not love, and you’ll make sure of that.

He scoffs at first, the first rays of sun finding their way through the street into the back exit as you stand. You don’t wait for him to answer before you motion him to sit in front of the exit where there are a couple benches and pull him by the coat when he doesn’t move. For all his might and power, he is spent as he moves towards you as you pull him.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Alfie.” you whisper as he sits down and you ask one of the girls to bring you alcohol and the first aid kit.

And much to your surprise, he doesn’t.

He’s a stubborn lad, someone who will do what they think is right even though they know they’re wrong but Alfie doesn’t even make a noise as you crouch in front of him. He sees the glint of tiredness, mixed in with a thin layer of sweat and make up as your skin under the streetlight glistens. His eye twitches every now and then due to the pain he’s experiencing but that is about it as you clean him up.

He needs three stitches, one on his left bicep, one on his left side and one more on his cheek. You figure they’ll heal up well, even though he’s told you that he doesn’t heal as fast while he talked about his younger days. 

He’s still at times like this.

But it’s like how a stallion would be still. He’s never calm, you know this from the way his anger latches on to anything in close proximity. He might get offensive at any given moment as he’s a beast among men, knows it too and that’s the most dangerous part but it doesn’t scare you. He’s just a man after all.

His breathing evens out as you work through the last stich. His eyes are glued to yours as you clean the cut on his eyebrow. The blue orbs don’t leave yours as you make sure your eyes don’t meet his, you don’t need this today. Not at this hour and especially not during work. He watches as you lick your lips and dab the last bit of alcohol on the cut before putting everything away and getting up.

The robe you had on is slightly covered in blood now, not his but someone else’s. He sees no bother on your face, no remorse as you stand up in front of him and get ready to walk back inside. He knows he broke the rules, your rules, and sees the slight annoyance on your face but it’s mixed with something else. Almost overcome by it.

Dare he say, you look worried.

He knows you’ll be the last to admit to it, since you’re even more stubborn than he is, but he likes seeing your delicate features a bit etched than usual. And all because of him. 

He’s a right bastard.

“Thank ya’, lass.” he says as you stand in front of his seated form. He’s not as pale as he was when he first arrived and it makes you sigh inside.

You nod and speak, voice stale.

“No problem. Just don’t bleed out somewhere in an alley.” you say and his eyebrows raise.

You’re being considerate and it makes him feel like he’s been punched.

He then pulls you closer by the sleeve of your robe so your knees are touching his seated ones. He’s almost as tall as your standing form, that’s how big the size difference is but it doesn’t faze you. You feel his breath tickling your face as you look down on his seated form. His hand is on your wrist while the other remains on his thigh and he speaks, almost in a hush.

“Ya’ worried about old me?” he asks, a glint of amusement mixed with affection is thrown your way and it makes you smile. Almost.

“Well, I’d like my landlord to be alive.” you say, reminding him about how he had gotten you the place.

He hums then, nodding as he looks up at your standing form as small strands of hair frame your face. It’s almost sunrise and he feels fucking hopeless underneath your gaze, like he’s a teenager again. “That right?”

“Hm.” you nod and speak once more, hand now resting on his thigh and the other on his shoulder as you talk with a softer tone than usual. “He’s a grumpy old man but he’s alright.” you say and it earns a laugh from him.

And it’s not the usual laugh either.

When Alfie laughs, it’s usually at some stupid joke the blokes working with or for him have made a dumb fucking mistake. It’s mocking, degrading in some occasions to make sure the other person knows who’s in charge. It’s rarely because he’s found something funny, seeing as there’s very little humor in his life.

But this time, he really laughs.

You smile at the sound and the vibrations almost make you want to pull him in an embrace but you know where you stand. You hear the commotion from the inside as the girls get ready to leave, as you were about to do before he showed up and realize that it’s much later than usual. You sigh and pull away from him while speaking slowly, tiredness getting the best of you.

It catches him off guard, makes him feel much younger than he is.

“Take me home, Alfie.” you speak and hear an answer right away.

“As you wish, ma’am.”

He is a right bastard.

---

His breathing gets faster by the passing second.

It’s been a while since you’ve been like this with him but it seems as though he’s missed you more than you’ve missed him. The bed creaks each time he moves, sharp groans spill from his mouth and you revel at the sight. His hair is messy in a way that you don’t associate with him, bruises from the fight earlier still on his skin as he moves on top of you.

He’s less aggressive, though. You make a note of it.

A curt thrust brings your attention to the present moment as he moves, at a slower pace now. Like he’s trying to thoroughly enjoy the split moment of you almost adoring him. You smile at him then, it’s a faint one but he catches it as it turns into a small moan at the end. His hips rock at the same, slow pace as he watches the sunrays illuminate your face and hair.

Your eyes close, slowly and your small mewls fill the room along with his grunts here and there. He wants to bask in the glory of the woman laying in front of him. He hears your moans become louder as he moves slightly faster. He takes a moment before fully speeding up, hand gripping the headboard as the mattress moves slightly with each stroke.

Your voice comes out low, like a plea you’re afraid to put out but he hears it. “Slower.”

His eyebrows furrow at that, knowing your climax was near. But he listens, unlike most men, he takes his pace down and kisses you feverishly this time and speaks against your lips. It’s a low murmur when he does, goes back to kissing you once he’s spoken between all teeth and tongue.

“What’s wrong?” he says before kissing you again and you just groan at first, pleased with the pace he’s set even though you know both of you are close.

Your words are muffled against his lips but you speak regardless.

“Just go slow, please.” you speak and it makes him halt for a second.

Because it’s far too gentle.

For a man who works exclusively with dangerous people, the existence of the word ‘please’ sometimes escapes him so acts if kindness makes him slow down on its own. It makes him feel hopeless inside, to know you have graced him with some kindness despite the cruel acts you know he is capable of.

“Alright, lass.” he speaks against your collarbone and kisses his way down until you feel him reach over to connect your lips with his in a kiss.

And you’re right. He reaches his climax right after you do with a low moan, filled with curses you’re sure would make anyone red-faced but you lie still under him, panting with a smile on at the words. He stays like that for a while, kissing your neck and cheeks before he lies down next to you and his eyes are on you again.

Like damn clock-work.

It’s like a ritual of sorts for him. After you’re both done panting and moaning and he’s laying down next to you on the bed, he watches you. You don’t do anything spectacular, just try to catch your breath and sometimes even fall asleep but his gaze doesn’t leave you, not that it bothers you.

Just makes you curious.

You see the glimpses of the man he used to be: young, naughty for sure and maybe a little shy. His beard covers up the blush that rarely graces his cheeks but you see it in his eyes, the giddy man he becomes every now and then. He’s gentle with you, you’re not complaining but merely curious of how he used to be before the cruel ways of world got to him.

“You’re staring again.” you state and he chuckles lowly at that. He’s aware of the fact that it doesn’t bother you.

“Any complaints?” he asks and you can hear the sarcasm dripping from his words.

It makes you wanna punch him.

Because he knows that very little of what he does actually annoys you, yet you act like everything he does is a menace. You won’t admit to it, but you’re fond of him in certain ways that keep you up at night.

“It’s not smart to ask questions when you already know the answer.” you speak and he laughs this time, which makes you look at him with a smile.

He looks happy. Unbothered, like this.

“Smart lass.” he says under his breath as he faces the ceiling and then his eyes are on you again.

He realizes this is where you two always end up.

Doesn’t matter of he’s coming your way with bloody fists or if he’s in your house alone, waiting for you at sunrise and you arrive with bags under your eyes. Your bed seems to be the place where things stand still and it’s only you and him. Not when you’re fucking either, although he’s very much a fan of that part as well. It’s when you lie down next to him that he feels the weight of the world lift from his shoulders and he’s a simple man again.

Not Mr. Solomons but Alfie.

And he knows this is doomed from the start. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You won’t quit, he certainly can’t and it makes the entire ordeal confusing. He reckons he’ll never have you, you’ll never be his but he can settle on being around you. Or so he thinks.

“Is there some secret to winning you?” he whispers at a low tone.

You stare at the ceiling for a minute and make sure you heard him correctly. It wouldn’t matter if there was a secret, you think to yourself before smiling and turning to face him on the bed. There is no smile on his face, just serious questioning.

“Probably not.” you say, unaware of just why he’s asking but you don’t dare question him further when he’s looking at you the way he is.

“Fuckin’ probably eh?” he says once more and it makes your eyebrows furrow.

“Well, I’m not exactly sure.” you say and hold yourself up on the bed by your elbows. Hair messy and eyes wide, you face him and speak once more. “You’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”

He chuckles and then watches you roll out of bed. Your hair is messy from earlier, no matter how many times you try to straighten it down with your hairs. You pick up the robe from the nightstand and shoot him a smile before disappearing into the kitchen to make coffee.

He shakes his head when you ask if he’d like some, hair framing your face. Time is somewhere around six and he’s supposed to head to work, make sure the lads are in place and so are the orders but he finds himself in the kitchen next to you, watching as you make yourself some coffee for the day and look to see he’s already staring.

He likes puzzles, is fond of complex things and enjoys threatening people on occasion. He’s smart, has to be when he’s doing what he does. He prides himself on always having the upper hand but maybe not with you. He takes one look at you then, yeah, definitely not with you.

He decides he likes a challenge, and you’ve provided him with a good one.

---

Tagging: @clairecrive​  @parkbearum​ @sourirez​  @vetseras​ @mollybegger-blog​ @babylooneytoonz​ @peakascum @fuseburner​ @ttzamara​ @babaohhhriley​ @fairypitou​  @paintballkid711​ @manamajil  @tommydoesntpayforsuits​ 

A/n: Hello! I hope you enjoyed yet another chapter of this. We’re getting close to the end!! Let me know what you thought. You can comment under the post if you’d like to be tagged <3