#but clearly these are just disposable decorations to this fuck.

[bitchfitch]

i can not imagine being proud of a set up like this. and yet it is Depressingly common. You have three Incredibly expensive fish that also happen to be extraordinarily aggressive in a tank that's on the small side for one of them. with an additional aggressive predator that's half the size of them and so likely to get mauled. and at least one ray that will outgrow that tank quickly.

and then on top of it all you have no substrate layer, and thus no where for the microbiome to set up and keep the tank stable following water changes, no enrichment, no line of sight breaks nowhere for any one of your incredibly aggressive fish to hide from eachother.

This is a tank that only looks stable because all the fish inside it are too stressed to risk attacking each other. but the Moment one of them starts showing weakness from the cortisol poisoning happening here the others will turn on them and the tank will collapse.

these are animals. They're not just decorations. If you want that aesthetic ™ just spend the money this nightmare cost you on a resin mount.

[friendlytikek]

Our Flag Breaks Bad, Part Eight

Read here or from the beginning here.

Summary:

A brilliant high school chemistry teacher with a terminal illness.

An ex smuggler desperate to keep his boyfriend around longer.

A criminal seizing the opportunity to reconnect with his best friend the only way he knows how.

A scam artist down on his luck who gets more than he bargained for.

Stede gets lung cancer. A few months shy of his forty-eighth birthday, he’s told he may not live to even make it to his fiftieth. What happens next is a natural response to this.

Chapter Preview:

Trouble comes in many forms.

But mostly when you least expect it.

Izzy shows up at The Swede’s, the bar they used to frequent a lot ten years ago. Only then it had a different name. Drinks were still good though. And even though the bar has changed, Izzy’s familiarity with it hasn’t. All the regulars are on first-name basis with him.

It’s Ed who looks a little out of place, sitting in one spot in the corner.

“So there’s news,” Ed begins. He’s already started without him, looks like.

Izzy nods and sits down. He waves at the bartender and gets a nod in return. “Not the kind of news where I’ll have to dispose of a body, I hope,” he tries to joke, but Ed is frowning. Not unlike him, but ever since the Bonnet business started, he’s been sullen. He doesn’t want to openly stare, opts for just studying Ed out of the corner of his eye as the bartender brings over his usual.

Ed has no such subtlety, eyes fixed on Izzy. “S’not work. Not exactly.” He takes a deep breath, clearly bracing himself, and Izzy has his suspicions before he even continues with, “Cancer’s spread. There’s this drug that… look, I don’t fucking know, but it’ll give him a chance. More time. We’re looking at surgery in the next couple of weeks.”

To Ed’s credit, he delivers it with a surprising lack of emotion. Stating facts. Getting right to the point. So Izzy takes his time to process and has a sip of his beer, admiring the decorative bottles on the opposite side of the bar, dozens upon dozens of them.

“Gonna need to do an impressive amount of cooking then,” Izzy finally says. “Might need a bigger boat.” He can’t help the way his mind lingers on more time, but he doesn’t bother echoing it back to Ed. “Yeah? That’s what this boils down to, right? Need more money.”

Ed’s jaw remains tense. But then he nods. “That’s right. That’s why we’re talking. We need to cook a lot more. Stede wants money for his kids, and we’re looking at houses.” His grip on his glass tightens. “Gonna need Roach more too.”

Something about that doesn’t quite add up in Izzy’s head, but he isn’t stupid enough to ask, What, Bonnet doesn’t want to die in a shitty trailer? Instead, he side-eyes Ed again and has another sip of beer.

“Yeah, Roach won’t be a problem. Boys will do their part.” Izzy pauses, trying to find a delicate way of phrasing his next question. He settles on, “Is there any particular… deadline? When do we need all this money by?”

Despite Izzy’s attempt at being tactful, Ed freezes, then his scowl increases tenfold. “Surgery, two weeks. Other shit? Two, three years? Do you need an exact time of death?”

...read more on AO3

[i-think-i-did-it-again]

Love never dies

Requested by @meganfox19x

A/N: I love doing requests but they always make me nervous that you're not what you're expecting 😅 But let me know what you think!

Warning: swearing, drug abuse, starvation, slight depression talk

“Dude, you know I would literally stay anywhere else if I could,” you beg your ex, Colson, through the phone. He sighs dramatically.

“Fine but the only reason I’m letting you stay is because of Cameron,” Colson loves using your son against you.

You hang up and finish packing your stuff. If you had time to sit and dwell, you’d probably feel depressed that your entire life fits into one box and a suitcase but you don’t have time. Your landlord made it pretty clear that if you didn’t cover the rent you owed, he’d kick you out. You just never figured he’d follow through on his threat. Having him stand at your front door and listen to you beg your ex for temporary accomodation was embarrassing enough that you’re glad you’ll never see him again.

You can’t help but feel resentment towards Colson and his life. He has this big mansion in the hills, like 6 cars in his garage and a shit tonne of disposable income, whereas you’re working 50 hours a week at a shitty diner, scraping barely enough together for food and clothes for you and Cameron. Colson was a great father and he always made sure Cameron had everything he needed. He paid for his school, extra curricular activities and clothing. But when he was with you, you were sacrificing meals so Cameron wouldn’t go hungry. 

You take a deep breath before you knock on the front door, preparing yourself for whatever Colson you’ll get today. It’s 10am so Cameron will be at school for the next few hours and then he has baseball practice. Which means you and Colson will have to spend the next few hours together, alone, and that never ends well. You tap timidly on the door and wait a few moments. The door swings open and you expect to see Colson but instead you’re met by Rook’s kind face.

“Y/N!” Rook exclaims and then his jaw drops as he looks you up and down. “What the fuck happened to you girl?” he gasps, clearly noticing the weight you’ve lost 

Practical starvation and working long shifts at the diner have caused you to drop a significant amount of weight. You look down at your skinny jeans that hang off your boney waist and the t-shirt that is practically a dress on your small frame. You were never overly concerned about your weight but you liked to try and make healthy choices, especially with the lifestyle you and Colson lived together before you got pregnant. 

“Nothing happened,” you mumble and walk past him nonchalantly. You decide to get your stuff out of the back of your car later, too ashamed for everyone to see what little possessions you have.

As you walk through the entryway and down the hallway into the kitchen, living room and dining room, you can make out music coming from the backyard. You can also hear voices, lots of voices. If Rook is here, it’s safe to assume that all the other guys are here too and probably a few women as well. You know you’re in no mood for pretending to be ok or making small talk with the rest of the guys. You hate being in this house. It depresses you too much to think about everyone and everything you lost when you walked out on Colson. 

You thought you were making the right decision 5 years ago. His drinking and drug use had gotten out of control and you thought taking his son away until he got help would be the best way to fix your little family but instead it broke it apart more. Once you walked out, Colson saw that as an abandonment and he treated you like the enemy. He pushed you away harder and fell into his addictions with more purpose, escape. 

“I’m going to go lie down for a while,” you tell Rook and before he can say anything, you head upstairs.

Cameron’s room is still in the same place it’s been since you decorated it with Colson while you were pregnant. He was so excited to be having a baby boy. He started planning the nursery after your 20 week scan when you found out the gender. You open the door and the room hasn’t changed much. The walls are still a deep blue, there’s still Cameron’s name in cursive writing on the wall, the big lion rug in the middle of the room. The only thing that has really changed is that he sleeps in a single bed instead of a cot.

You lay down on the bed and it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep. You can’t remember the last time you had a day off from the diner since you started working there. It felt relaxing to not have to rush to work and spend 10 hours on your feet for shitty tips and creepy customers. For some reason men see a woman in an apron and skirt and immediately think it gives them the right to grab your ass. 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep for but when you open your eyes, it’s almost completely dark outside. You sit up in a panic, unfamiliar with your surroundings for a second, then you remember where you are. Your next thought is Cameron and then you remember it’s Colson’s week with him so he would probably be downstairs with his dad and the rest of the guys. You’re about to get up and head downstairs but hushed voices outside the door stops you.

“Bro, something is seriously wrong,” you hear the concern in Rook’s voice.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Colson scoffs, completely cold and uncaring.

“She looks sick! There’s barely anything of her, she looks exhausted and rundown. I almost didn’t recognise her when I opened the door.”

“I don’t know what because she hasn’t told me anything. Cameron has been asking some shit about when she’s going to come live back here with me but I’ve just had to tell him that his mummy and I are better apart than together. I hate lying to him.”

You hear the handle of the bedroom door rattle and you quickly lie back down and pretend to still be asleep. Light streams in from the hallway and you can hear footsteps retreating down the stairs. You assume that both Rook and Colson have gone back downstairs but you stay still just in case. You feel the bed dip and realise someone is in the room with you. You feel cool, long fingers brush your cheek and you recognise Colson’s touch right away. 

“Fuck, Y/N, why didn’t you come back to me? I would do anything for you,” Colson whispers into the darkness.

You feel him get off the bed and hear the door close softly behind him. You lie there for a few more minutes, trying to understand his words. Nothing he’s done has ever shown you that he still loves you. When he drops Cameron off to you, he stands in the stairwell and watches him come inside but doesn’t say anything to you. If he needs to talk to you, he always sends a text. His messages are matter of fact and he never adds any pleasantries. He just says what he needs to and leaves it at that. Is it all an act?

You decide you need to get up and stop hiding from everyone. You’re desperate to see Cameron and explain everything to him. What you’re going to say you haven’t worked out exactly but you need to give him some explanation as to why you’re temporarily living back with Colson. You grab your phone off the bedside table and check the time, 6:00. He’ll be back from practice now and probably eating dinner. The thought of a hot meal makes your stomach grumble. You suddenly can’t remember if you’ve eaten today.

You walk slowly down the stairs and can hear Cameron’s laughter as Rook does his best impression of a southern cowboy. Colson is adding humorous comments every now and again and you can make out the sound of Baze, Slim and Dub playing pool in the living room. You take a deep breath at the bottom of the stairs and plaster the fakest smile you can muster. As you walk into the room, everyone stops what they’re doing to look at you. You hear the faint sound of a strangled gasp from Colson as he sees you in proper lighting and he immediately turns his head away so you can’t see his expression. Baze, Slim and Dub all try their best to hide their shock at your appearance. They each give a little wave and offer warm smiles, even though you can see the panic in their eyes.

“Mummy!” Cameron comes bounding over to you and crashes his body against yours in a bear hug. You wince slightly as his head comes in contact with your ribcage and it hurts way more than it should. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” he begins to pull away.

“No, it’s ok baby, you just surprised me,” you wrap your arms around him and cradle him against your body. His face is covered in guacamole and you notice the big bowl of nachos he’s abandoned on the table. You usher him back to his seat and he continues to eat while Rook entertains him. Without even looking at you, Colson places a big bowl of nachos in front of you. You practically scarf down the entire bowl without taking a break. Again, without making eye contact, Colson places a full bowl in front of you. You take your time with this one and make it about halfway through it before you start to feel sick. Your body is not used to digesting this much food in one sitting. You sip on a beer as Cameron tells you all about his day. 

Around 7:30, Cameron begins to get tired so Colson takes him upstairs to give him a bath and put him in bed. You come up once he’s in his pyjamas and kiss him goodnight. You sing his bedtime song softly, You are my sunshine, that you’ve been singing to him since he was a few hours old and within minutes he’s completely out. Colson stands at the door and watches but says nothing. You switch off the bedside table lamp and night light glows in the corner of the room. You follow Colson out of the room and close the door softly behind you. Colson says nothing and instead stalks silently to his room, still not able to look at you.

“Colson,” you call after him but he keeps walking.

He closes his bedroom door behind him without a word. You follow him and slam the door open, storming in like a bat out of hell. Colson is sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. 

“Look at me!” you demand but he doesn’t budge. “I said fucking look at me!” you grab his arms and rip them away from his face.

“I can’t!” he half screams half sobs. His eyes are filled with tears, half of them already spilling down his cheeks. “It hurts too fucking much to see what I’ve done to you.”

“What are you talking about?” you’re shocked at his sudden display of emotions.

“Look at you!” he shoves your body in front of the large full length mirror on his wall. “Look at yourself,” he orders and you do.

You see the hollowness in your cheeks, the bags under your eyes, the way your collarbones are more pronounced, the way your jeans hang off your body. You’d never really paid that much attention to how you looked. You knew your clothes weren’t fitting the way they used to, you knew you weren’t eating enough but you at least thought you were hiding it a little better.

“Our son hugs you and you flinch from pain because there’s nothing off you. I did that and I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve been taking care of you, giving you everything you deserve and more but I just pushed you away because you did the responsible thing and left. I love you so much and it kills me to see you like this. I’m not saying we have to get back together or anything but I want you to stay here, with Cameron and me-”

Before he can continue, you crash your lips to his. Everything you’d been holding onto for the last few years finally broke through and you couldn’t hold back. You had missed this smart, kind, loving man for so long. You’d thought you’d lost everything when in reality Colson thought it was him that had fucked it up. He kisses you back almost immediately, wrapping his arms around your tiny frame. He lifts you so you can wrap your legs around his waist and he holds you against him.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips.

“I fucking love you,” he whispers back before deepening the kiss.

That night, for the first time in a long time, you had no fear about the day that would follow. You laid in bed, Colson’s long body wrapped around you, cradling you against his chest. You were home and finally, you could breathe again.

[sinclair-wax-fan]

All the boys are very mechanically inclined. Vincent clearly tends and maintains the intricate piping of the waxing system in the basement. (The pipes have to be flushed regularly with boiling water to keep the wax film inside from building up and clogging.)

I like to imagine he does regular maintenance checks of the town buildings and let’s Bo and Lester know what major issues he needs help mending.

Of the three, he’s the best at coming up with creative rigging that gives the illusion of the town being alive. The puppies with the wagging tails? The old woman who opens and closes the curtains? That’s Vincent. He’s great with small gears and clockwork. (He is also the only one who had the patience to read the manual and figure out how the old projector in the theater worked. Bo fucking hates that thing because it constantly breaks down and he refuses to touch it at this point.)

~~~~~

It would be a grave mistake to think Bo is stupid.

He has a temper for sure. He’s impulsive, vicious, endlessly tenacious, and only cares for social graces as a tool for stalking prey or charming people into getting his way.

But the man is deeply cunning and whip smart in the fields of mechanics and mathematics.

He’s basically an engineer, degree or no degree. He’s the one who help maintain the really big stuff: the towns power grid; the houses septic tank—he wasn’t joking about the bathroom at the station being broken, one septic tank is enough to deal with, thank you—and the well that delivers water to the house and museum.

(Again, I am convinced everything is powered by the nearby sugar mill—which is directly in between the town and the camp site we see in the movie, which was close enough Paige sees it up the road and runs to it. The kids were visibly parked by what looks to be some kind of small pond/creek— I headcanon it as an offshoot of the larger stream the mill is built directly next to. I imagine the mill utilized hydroelectric power, making it completely independent from any existing grids. Ambrose was a modern company town whose electric was incorporated into the mills set up.

Bo worked at the mill in maintenance before it shut down—and learned some very useful info from the older engineers while he worked there. Enough that once the town was rapidly emptying of workers and inhabitants, he turned to his brother and said “I have an idea that I think you and I can pull off together.”)

Also, the friendly mechanic schtick is only half a ruse. He absolutely knows cars inside and out. Tinkering with cars and various broken machinery around Ambrose as a teen is how he got enough experience/notice to earn himself an entry level position at the mill. (Maybe his first job was actually as an attendant at the gas station?)

The town takes money to run and he makes most of that money by repairing cars in the next town over (where he owns a small garage).

~~~~~

Lester, while he is part-time employed to clean roadkill through a contractor with the state, has taken plenty of odds jobs that include: roofing, bricklaying, and carpentry.

Also, some specialized personal hobbies: hunting, taxidermy, tanning and leather work, and smithing!

All those odd looking knives hanging next to clothes rack on the wall of Vincent’s workshop? Actually gifts from Lester! (The man just really likes knives.)

I also headcanon that Vincent’s satchel was made by Lester as a birthday gift when they’re young. If you look, you can see animal teeth decorating it. (I like to think he also made the actual blades for Vincent’s knives. Although I think the bone Vincent later carved for the handles probably didn’t come from an animal.)

I also like to imagine he makes the glass eyes for the waxed figures. (Their real ones don’t last long.) That’s about the extent he’s willing to help with the bodies, however—if you don’t count helping dispose/bury some of the less desirable corpses.

Lester and Vincent are closer than Lester and Bo. Lester has always kind of idolized Bo for being his “cool” older brother—but he also learned growing up to keep a careful eye on Bo, to always be aware of him. The loquacious older man has since better learned to direct his baser impulses away from his own family and towards his victims, but when they were younger he didn’t have that outlet. At times, the younger, smaller Lester was a convenient target Bo just couldn’t help but zero in on—especially when angry.

He did often try to make up for his indiscretions against his little brother in his own way—typically in the form of smuggling Lester booze/cigarettes/small stolen goodies from stores, protecting him from other bullies, letting Lester borrow his truck and later helping him get one of his own—but Lester certainly never has the luxury of forgetting what Bo’s capable of.

As they got older—with Bo finding new prey and Lester being able to come and go from the family home as he pleases—it got easier.

Now a days Bo genuinely values the aid Lester provides and they often bond over the more “normal” activities they enjoy that Vincent can’t relate to/has no interest in.

[fanfic-wonderland]

For the tom x assassin can u do after they kill his dad they have sex and she’s the son and toms the sub virgin

😏 Although I do read smut, I'm not used to writing it, so I hope this isn't too cringy. 😂 You can read the first part here, if you haven't already.

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Assassin!Reader

Warnings: Language, unprotected sex, oral (male receiving), sub!Tom Riddle

_____________________________________

Killing off Tom’s father was easy, but disposing of the body and the evidence was much easier. It came with the advantages of being a wizard.

Tom set the body on fire until there was only a mere pile of ashes left, which he quickly got rid of with a single wave of his wand. You did the same thing with the blankets covered in blood, which was now dry, and replaced them with fresh new ones. You turned to Tom once he re-entered the room after finishing with his task, a proud smile on your face. "You're quite the learner, aren’t you?"

His lips curled into a smirk. "I guess so."

"Come," you sat down on the neatly made bed and patted the empty spot next you. "sit with me for a bit."

He wasted no time in making his way towards you, sitting much closer than you had expected. However, just because it surprised you didn't mean that you minded it.

His eyes stared down at your face, and his musky scent hit your nostrils immediately. You both had taken a shower almost half an hour ago, and it was getting hard for you to ignore the small details that you were just starting to notice about him. Like how his hair was still wet (and yet it still looked stylish, somehow), or how the gray t-shirt and black shorts that he was now wearing made him look ten times cuter, if that was even possible. "You must be exhausted."

"Are you?" He questioned.

You leaned closer and you saw how his eyes dropped to your lips, the proximity between you two becoming dangerously close. "Not at all."

That was the last thing you remembered saying before you guys were already kissing, hungrily reaching out for each other as if you wanted to touch each other in every way possible, all at the same time. Your hands took a hold of his wet curls, tangling them around your fingers while his hands went down to your waist, and you didn't have to think twice before climbing onto his lap to gain better access to him. All of him.

Your tongue coaxed his as the kiss deepened, neither of you daring to be the first to break apart. You've kissed your fair share of people before, but this one was the most intense so far. There was just something in the way that Tom responded to your actions that made you go weak in the knees.

Once you felt his hard-on through his shorts, that was when you had to pull away in order to take off the random, oversized shirt that you had found around the house. Throwing it aside, you watched Tom’s blank gaze move down to your bare breasts, his upper body going stiff. You suddenly realized why. "Tom," you grabbed his face, in order to force him to look back up at you. "have you ever done this before?"

He stared at you for a few seconds. "No. Never."

"Is that so?" A smug smile crept onto your face as you softly pushed him backwards, so that now his back was pressed against the mattress. "So I'm the very first person to witness you like this?"

You noticed how his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Witness me how?" He whispered.

You bit your lip, your hands beginning to wander around his clothed torso. "So... bare. So vulnerable. It's fascinating."

He chuckled, his hands landing on your hips, the friction between you and his pants becoming almost unbearable -even more so when you began to slowly grind against him-, but he had no intentions in showing you how much it affected him. "You find me fascinating?"

"Very." Was your answer as you leaned down, so that your faces were only inches apart.

Instead of kissing him again, you went lower and pressed your lips against the soft skin of his neck. When he felt your tongue slithering against it, and then your teeth nipping at a certain spot, he couldn't help but let out a sigh. Clearly, he wasn't someone who let people take charge that easily, but he would be lying if he said that he wasn't enjoying the way you were making him feel at that moment. You, of all people, he never would have guessed.

You helped him take off his shirt -fucking finally- and it probably landed somewhere alongside your own, but you did not care as you kissed down from his chest and then tracing down to his stomach, where you disposed of his shorts, quickly followed by his boxers. His length was now in full view and you couldn't help but look up at him, almost like you were asking for permission to touch him. He didn't look nervous, nor did he want you to stop, so when he gave you a small nod of approval you began to stroke him. You didn't miss the way his breath hitched as soon as you touched him, and it made you smile in satisfaction. You looked back up at him to see his reaction; his head was thrown back and his eyes were now closed shut. It was probably the hottest thing you had ever seen, the fact that Tom was usually so collected but now you had him wrapped around your finger.

"Should I keep going?" You asked him. Your hand did not stop its movements.

"Yes." He breathed.

"As you wish." You didn't want to make him wait any longer; you ran your tongue through his length, slowly licking all around it and then lightly sucking on the tip.

"Fuck." He muttered quietly. His hand tugged on your hair; you weren't sure if he was aware of how hard he was pulling, but you did not stop. You took him in fully, your head bobbing up and down as you sucked him off; one hand was still stroking him, while the other one was holding onto his thigh. Small grunts of pleasure escaped his mouth every now and then, and it made you smile against him. "Fuck, I think I’m going to-"

When you were sure that he was close, you unwrapped your lips from him, but increased the speed on your hand movement. You opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, and soon enough warm drops of his cum fell flat on your tongue. Even when he was finished you licked around him a few more times, just to make sure that you got everything.

He finally fluttered his eyes open when you were crawling back up, leaving yet another trail of kisses behind, until you found his lips again. He grabbed your chin, holding you in place as he kissed you roughly, tasting himself on your mouth, and maybe that was the hottest thing ever. "Did you like that?" You asked him against his lips.

"It was amazing." He replied, kissing you shortly. His hands were running up and down your back as you continued to grind against him. "You're amazing."

"I'm not done, yet." You let him know as you took off your underwear, the only thing separating you from being skin against skin completely. Before he could say anything else, you aligned yourself against his tip, and then you took him in, all in one swift movement.

You moved against him, his length hitting every inch of your inner walls perfectly, and you let out a few moans that could not really be kept in even if you tried. He lifted himself up a bit in order to capture your lips once more in yet another sloppy kiss. His hands got much more curious, cupping your breasts and playing with your nipples almost subconsciously, and it only made your moans duplicate. You wrapped your arms around his neck as you both stared at each other for a moment, his lips parted open while your foreheads pressed together. You felt your release building up at the pit of your stomach, which only made you go faster, harder. His facial expression told you that he was close, too, and he wrapped his arms around you to pull you closer to him. He needed as much from you as possible.

Although the pleasure was out of this world as soon as you finally finished, your favorite part was watching him come undone for the second time that night. Both of you were breathing heavily, trying to calm down and process what just happened. Tom buried his head in the crook of your neck while his chest was still heaving up and down, your bodies still tangled with each other because neither of you wanted to let go. It was too nice of a feeling to have his warmth embracing you whole. "How was it?" You asked him once you could speak again.

You felt him kissing your neck. "It might have felt just as good as killing off my father."

You laughed as he looked up at you, again, while a toothless smile decorated his lips. You combed his hair with your fingers. "Good to know."

[astroninaaa]

Hot take: Tommy played a huge part in why Tubbo is suicidal like that. Here, I said it.

Imo Tubbo defo internalized the "discs are worth more then you ever were!" and "if discs don't matter, then why any of this matters?" lines.

Tubbo also possibly (aka most likely) blames himself for the Exile, especially after saw the pillar, while (bonus hot take) Tommy really fucked up those negotiations himself.

Tommy is not the only one to blame, Wilbur, Dream, Quackity, Technoblade are there too.

/rp /dsmp

i personally think this is one of the most interesting hot takes i've ever received.

for one, i'd like to say i agree with it, but i don't think that'd be true. while i do believe tommy's fussing over the discs + the way he seems to not see or recognize how tubbo's trauma affects his day to day life hurt tubbo, i don't think tommy does it on purpose and therefore i think it's unfair to blame him for it. also, tubbo definitely blames himself for exile and for most of tommy's pain, partially because of how tommy ("i'd never do this to you", "you're a monster", "tubbo, you can't do this”) and his cabinet ("you're literally acting like schlatt right now", "tubbo, you can't do this", "tubbo, this is your fault") reacted to it on the first place.

other characters have a tendency to demonize tubbo, and that's because, differently from most other characters in the smp, tubbo makes most of his decisions from a rational viewpoint, not from an emotional one. by nature, he's someone who relies on critical thinking and logicality - of course everyone was mad at him for exile, how could he do that to his best friend? however, tubbo didn't exile his best friend: he weighted two different decisions and chose the one that would protect his country while exiling a l'manburg citizen. tubbo didn't exile his best friend, he protected his country. that's how he makes decisions. sadly (and understandably) most characters don't get that, and so they get mad at him for it. he then proceeds to internalize that and hates himself even more.

i don't think tommy played a huge part on it because i believe tubbo's suicidal tendencies come from a feeling of disposibility, not of tommy's treatment of him. it doesn't come from his cabinet's treatment of him, it doesn't come from new l'manburg, it doesn't come from the disc war. all those things contributed, yes, but i think the matter runs deeper.

i think tubbo first started to believe he was disposable during the final control room. eret was someone he trusted deeply, someone he'd die for, someone who killed him in the pursuit of power. back then, tubbo was nothing but a mere sacrifice for something more important. god, no one even cared about it, because fundy was a child and wilbur was a leader terribly betrayed by his own and tommy died a second time in less than an hour and tubbo needed to be level, and rational, and calm. there were more important things at hand. he was disposable, everyone else wasn't, he needed to think.

(or at least that's what he believed in)

it carried on to l'manburg. wilbur himself admitted to not being the best leader to tubbo he could've been, and, while wilbur cared about him, tommy was the one he called brother. i believe tubbo internalized that quite a bit - he was not the first choice, not to anyone.

(he was to tommy, of course, but tubbo never realized that. he never saw it, and he kept not seeing it until he was almost murdered and tommy begged for his best friend's life in dream's vault. i think he still doesn't see it.)

tubbo was a trophy to schlatt. he was a symbol of schlatt's victory, of his power, something to hold close and shove into pogtopia's faces. not important, not a person, but a pawn, a piece easy to move and to kill in the grand scheme of things. tubbo was a spy but he still cared for schlatt, and he was still proud of being called a right-hand man. he was made as a clown, decorating his own execution and going down with a bang. wilbur didn't come for him. tommy didn't come for him (he wanted to, but tubbo didn't know that). quackity stood by and watched. everyone stood by and watched. technoblade betrayed him because there were more important things in sight, and his death was a good way of swaying the manburg citizens against schlatt.

i think tubbo thought he deserved it, in a way. for not being good enough. wilbur didn't trust him, schlatt made him believe he was cared for and then made him die beautifully, colorfully, publicly. he immediately forgave techno because there was no point in being mad over it- he wasn't the important one in the story. he wasn't the main character. in the big picture, tubbo saw himself as disposable.

and tubbo could see the big picture from the start. he's one of the most rational characters in this entire story for a reason.

it didn't stop, not for a second. he was elected president of a crater and he wasn't enough to fix it. everyone ordered him around because he was sure he wasn't good enough to make decisions himself. he exiled his best friend and tried to tell himself it was the right choice no matter how much it hurt and no matter how much he was yelled at. he tried to execute technoblade and it tasted bitter and wrong on his tongue but, in the grand scheme of things, he kept doing everything wrong and if quackity told him technoblade was still a threat then he was probably right. ranboo betrayed him and he instantly forgave him because he knew it was for good reason, because he wasn't good enough. his best friend called him a monster and he agreed. dream humiliated him and he agreed. no one came for him. everyone stood by and watched, just like they did in his execution.

they stood by and watched because they knew he deserved it, he thinks. they must know he deserves it, because he knows, as well.

tubbo's suicidal tendencies stem from a feeling of unimportance, of the certainty that if he died it'd be okay and make no difference at all. it might advance plot, even, and, while tommy and quackity and dream and wilbur and everyone contributed to his train of thought, at the end of the day it just circles back to the fact tubbo is too self-aware, too rational - the war, the hunger, the pain, they all made him like that and now he understands. he understands schlatt never cared. he understands eret was willing to sacrifice him. he understands dream manipulated him. he understands that, to a lot of people, he's just a pawn.

and he accepts it. he accepts it, and he's willing to die for it. he'd like to die for it, actually, because then maybe it won't hurt anymore. maybe he won't have to understand it anymore.

tubbo has a skewed view of himself and the world around him caused by trauma. he presents that trauma in a way no other character does, and so everyone thinks that trauma doesn't exist and unknowingly contribute to it. it's unfair to say tommy played a huge part on how suicidal tubbo is because it runs deeper, it holds stronger. it comes from the inside out, from tubbo analysing the world around him and understanding how everything works because he's a rational character by nature. he's the one who does math, who builds nukes, who manages to rebuild entire countries in a matter of days. he knows what games they're playing and in the big picture (the one he sees so clearly, even tho tainted by his messed up perception of himself) he's just a pawn, and, if he dies, it doesn't matter. it just doesn't matter.

tommy contributes to it. as did quackity, and wilbur, and schlatt, and eret, and fundy, and dream, and even sapnap. however, tubbo's suicidal tendencies are a lot more complex than just that.

send me a hot take!!!

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Eivor x Fem!Reader - Ink Me Up

Oh, what to do when the Norwegian woman tattooing your thigh is insanely attractive, clearly gay, with a criminally good bedside manner?

Warning: about tattooing and obviously needles.

Word count: 4363

Can be found on AO3 here.

Heavily inspired by this post here. The tattoo itself is purely self-indulgent. Eivor is stupidly attractive and it's not fair. (Y/N) replacer safe.

After months of saving and deliberation, the time had come. For the longest time you had dreamed of getting something big, bold and beautiful permanently inked into your skin. Something meaningful. And you wanted someone talented to tattoo it.

Thus, you found yourself scouring the web for reputable tattoo shops, hours upon hours poured into searching artists’ portfolios, hoping that someone was skilled enough at black-and-grey realism within a relatively close radius. If you were going to pay a hefty sum for a tattoo, you wanted it to be perfect. Your desktop was flooded with reference images of sword lilies – the subject of your desired ink – and about a dozen different parlours, tabs whittling down one by one during your search.

The final tab was the website for a slightly pricier shop, but one of the artist’s Instagrams utterly captivated you. Their artwork was extraordinary, the details in their pieces stunning and intricate; you decided investing a little extra cash would be worth it. Eivor Varinsdóttir, handle @wolfkissed_ink. Grinning, you emailed the artist, requesting a consultation.

You explained to the artist during that consultation that you wanted a composition of black-and-grey realistic gladioli on your left thigh. Sword lilies represented strength, after all, and you wanted to commemorate overcoming a difficult part of your life with something gorgeous and symbolic. That and, well, flowers were pretty. Within the week they had responded with a sketch that was beyond what you could have possibly thought up yourself: two stunning, bloomed sprigs of the flower with petals floating either side, lifelike as a monochrome photograph. Smiling ear-to-ear, you booked up your first appointment.

Unbridled excitement led to the time before your appointment soaring by, with you opening up the file of the sketch almost every day. Bringing us to the present: you stood anxiously outside the parlour door, 12:50pm, ten minutes before your scheduled appointment. Sucking in a shaky breath, nerves both good and bad, you stepped inside.

The tattoo shop was sleek, modern and decked wall-to-wall with flash sheets, the small designs varying in style, colour and detail. Everything was spotless, as one would expect, with shining awards dotted about. Just seeing the various trophies did well to quell some of your anxieties, knowing you were in good hands, that you’d end up with a lovely piece on your thigh. A stout man covered neck to foot in swirling Japanese designs manned the front desk, smiling warmly at you, obliterating any stigmas you had heard from older relatives about tattoo culture.

Biting your lip, you made your way to the desk, mustering a nervous smile. As thrilled as you were about getting the tattoo, the whole pain aspect was still rather daunting. “Hey, one o’clock appointment for (Y/N) (L/N)?” You fidgeted with the hem of your shorts while the gentleman checked his desktop.

“With Eivor, right?” he verified. You nodded.

“Sorry I’m a little early—”

“No, not at all! Rather you be early than late,” he chuckled, clearly sensing your worries. His eyes flickered across a clipboard. “She’s not with a client at the moment, so I’ll send you through now, if that’s alright.”

“Sounds good, thank you,” you bade, pulse quickening. Come on, you’ve wanted this for so long, you can’t pussy out now.

The guy asked you to wait by the desk as he ventured down a long corridor, the black paint giving off an ominous vibe that did nothing for your nerves. A few seconds later, he returned, cocking his head for you to follow. Your knuckles were white from gripping the strap of your purse so tightly.

He led you to the room at the end of the hall, holding the glossy black door open for you. “Go easy on her, Eivor, it’s clearly her first,” he called out, flashing you a wink, before letting the door close behind you.

Holy shit.

She was hot.

Eivor was nothing short of a modern day viking. Tall, rippling with muscle, late twenties to early thirties, blond hair strewn into an unruly braid with a strip on the right shaved clean to the flesh, revealing a fucking skull tattoo of a bird…a raven? Her face was stupidly handsome, eyes blue and icy but warm with greeting, a long and gnarly scar cutting into the flesh of her left cheek with a smaller nick protruding from her upper lip. Hell, the nape of her neck was marred with an even more vicious looking scar. She wore a tight black t-shirt that strained around her deliciously grizzled arms, which were adorned with Norse-looking runes and text curving into circles, ink that carried on to her hands and neck. The smile she offered you made you weak in the knees.

“(Y/N), right? I’m Eivor, a pleasure to meet you,” she greeted, voice deep and gravelly, decorated with a rasp that to you sounded like butter. Fuck me, she’s a tall, tall glass of water.

You shook her hand when she extended it to you, marvelling at the patterns and blacked-out bands on her long, thick fingers. Her nails were cut extremely short, confirming the strong lesbian vibe she gave off. “Likewise,” you squeaked, cursing yourself for acting like some bloody schoolgirl.

She sauntered over to her setup, weight carried in her shoulders, consolidating her already intimidatingly attractive butch energy, sanitised her hands and pulled on a clean pair of gloves. “Come on over,” she said, grabbing a disposable razor from a box. “I’ll just need to make sure the area is shaven, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” you replied, joining her by the leather chair, covered by a sheet of cellophane. It was a relief to see all the hygiene precautions taken in the shop. Eivor picked up a disinfectant wipe.

“Left thigh, if I remember correctly?”

“Mhm, yeah.”

She dropped to one knee – wasn’t that a fucking sight – and wiped down the expanse of your thigh before gliding the razor over the flesh.

Hesitantly, you asked her what the general procedure was, desperately trying to divert your thoughts from the sapphic spiral they were travelling down.

“Alright, after I’ve finished here I’ll apply the stencil. You’ll get to check if you like the placement, and if you don’t I’ll keep going until you’re happy with it. It’s a big piece, so we’ll have to split this up into two sessions, as we discussed alongside payment.” She brushed away the loose hairs and peach fuzz. “I’ll do the linework this session, and the shading next time.” With one final pass of the razor she pulled back, tossing it into a bin.

Eivor then picked up a sheet of thin paper with the sketch printed on it. She plucked a purple pen from her table. “Give me a few minutes to trace the stencil, then we’ll apply it and see how you like it.” You nodded, trying to focus on your breathing.

While she traced over each line of the sketch, she kindly attempted to soothe your fears with small talk. “I’ll admit, I’ve never heard of a ‘gladiolus’ before our consultation. Any reason why you chose it?”

You smiled. “They represent strength. I finally got through a rough spell and wanted something to celebrate with,” you explained, heart skipping a beat at the soft expression on the artist’s face.

“All the more reason to get this perfect then,” she said with a grin. The way the scar on her upper lip quirked was positively adorable. A couple minutes passed and she re-capped the pen. “Stand up straight for me, darling.” Oh.

Cheeks burning with bashfulness, you complied. Eivor took a second to angle the stencil before smoothing it over your thigh, leaving a purple outline once she removed the paper. “Just have a look in that mirror over there and tell me if you’re happy, okay?”

You walked over to the mirror and stared at your thigh. The tattoo was large – which you expected, with the amount of detail in it – and perfectly central, the loose petals appearing to float down the length of your thigh. “Perfect,” you breathed out, giving the woman a thumbs-up.

Eivor switched over her gloves and gestured for you to take a seat on the chair. “Get comfy, then. Do you have water?” Nodding, you took out your water bottle from your handbag. “Brilliant. Still want to do this?”

“Hell yeah.” Weirdly, the nerves about the pain (not about the sexy artist) had almost wholly subsided, leaving you brimming with anticipation.

She poured some jet black ink into small caps, no larger than the tip of your thumb. “Remember to breathe through it and hold still, yeah? You picked a smart place for your first tattoo, not too close to the bone.”

“I’ll try.” Eivor opened a sealed packet containing a new, sterilised needle, inserting it into her tattoo machine. She switched it on, the buzz of the machine’s piston filling the room with a gentle hum. Looking up at you, she cocked her brow – if only your gay thoughts could bugger off for two minutes – as if to ask, ready? Affirmatively, you beamed at her.

Dipping the needle into the ink, she pulled the skin of your thigh taut. Immediately, you noted the warmth of her hand on your leg, fighting off a shudder. Then came a mildly painful scratching sensation as she brought the machine to your thigh.

Honestly? It wasn’t bad. Irritating, like an itchy eye, but not drastically unpleasant. You followed Eivor’s advice, keeping your breathing steady, averting your attention to the artwork on the walls, some of which you had seen on her Instagram portfolio. Portraits, flowers, animals, realistic-looking jewellery…the woman had mastered black-and-grey. You knew you picked the right artist. The frown of concentration on her face spoke volumes about her dedication to the art, steeled and intently focused on the lines she was pulling.

When she wiped the area and reached for more ink, she glanced up at your face. “All good?” she asked.

“Yeah, no issues here.”

“Wonderful.” She set back to work, positioning her needle over the flower’s curved stem, dragging it downwards in a slow arc. “Your skin takes ink like butter, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you breathed out. Her hand suddenly felt a little warmer. Tell me this woman does audiobooks, you thought.

After a few more lines, you tried to pepper in some small talk without breaking her concentration. Fortunately, her bedside manner was immaculate, and she entertained your questions without any grudges.

“Your voice is really soothing. Where abouts are you from?”

“Oh, thank you. I’m from Norway, moved here a few years back.” She grinned at the compliment. “It’s funny, people usually say the opposite about my voice.” You wondered if they were deaf.

“It’s a nice rasp,” you chuckled. Buzzing stopped, more ink.

“I was bitten by a wolf when I was nine,” she explained. Buzzing recommenced, scratching returned. “My larynx never properly healed from it, so I’ve sounded like some chain-smoker since before I hit double-digits, despite never touching a cigarette in my life.”

“You don’t sound like a chain-smoker, though. I mean it.”

Her grin widened. “That actually means a lot.”

An hour passed by, most of it spent in comfortable silence, with Eivor checking in on you occasionally to see how you were coping. Certain patches of nerves stung a little more than others, but none of it was unbearable. That was until her machine passed over a particularly rough area. It fucking killed, the burn of the needle seemingly deeper than anywhere else, the sting infinitely more intense than before. You hissed, gritting your teeth together.

“Ow,” you winced, clutching onto your water bottle in an attempt to relieve the pain, to no avail.

Eivor continued pulling her line, her rasp coming out in a low mantra. “Just breathe through it, nice and slow…” You tried to follow, attempting in vain to relax your shoulders. “Keep holding still for me…” Your breaths came shallow but steadily so, the stinging slowly becoming more endurable. The machine reached the end of the line. “Good girl,” she muttered, blissfully of absent mind.

Good girl.

Oh fuck.

Just when your clearly gay tattoo artist couldn’t get any hotter, she comes out with some hot-girl bullshit like that. And fuck, you didn’t think you had a praise kink before, but now this certainly awakened something. Why, why did it have to sound so good in her husky voice? No, you were absolutely not going to fantasise about your artist, not when her hands were on your skin, on your thigh of all fucking places. God, this stupidly attractive Norwegian butch was making you uncomfortably hot.

When she finally pulled away, sweet bloody reprieve, you took a sip of your water. “That wasn’t fun,” you remarked.

“Took it like a champion, though,” she beamed proudly, clearly unaware of the affect her words had just had on you. “Need a break?”

“Just a minute or two, thank you,” you sighed with relief. Eivor wiped you down and analysed her work.

“We’re just over halfway there,” she commented. Only halfway? Fuck. You allowed your eyes to wander over the black lines, all perfectly smooth from practiced precision. Yeah, this woman was talented.

“I mean, that killed, and that was my thigh…” you trailed off, making her laugh. “What was the most painful tattoo you’ve gotten?”

Eivor answered without hesitation. “My head, without a doubt. Packing solid black into that thing was agony. My fingers killed, too, but all completely worth it.” You couldn’t help but agree with that last part. Her hands looked extremely good, both with and without those gloves.

“I’m guessing places with more nerve endings and by the bone are the worst, then?”

“Definitely. The palm of the hand is the most sensitive, and it’s tough to get right. Ink bleeds, skin bleeds…and if you don’t do it well it’ll just fade. All that pain for nought.”

You gulped down some more water. Ouch. “Duly noted.”

After ninety odd more minutes, Eivor switched off her machine for good, the linework finished and utterly flawless. “All done for this session,” she announced, changing gloves once more to clean and wrap the area. There was minimal irritation around each line, and the wipe felt wonderfully cool against the reddening flesh.

Once she finished placing various equipment in a tub labelled ‘autoclave’, she escorted you to the front desk. You paid half the decided fee of the tattoo and booked your second session for three weeks’ time. Eivor gave you an aftercare kit, explaining in detail how to keep the tattoo clean, how to prevent infection, and to avoid direct exposure to sunlight as much as you could. Eagerly, you listened, trying to drink in as much of her voice as possible before departing.

“I’ll see you in three weeks, then. Take care, (Y/N),” she grinned. From the moment you stepped out of the shop, you knew that grin would be engraved into your mind for the weeks to come.

  The second appointment couldn’t have come quickly enough.

You spent an embarrassing quantity of time thinking about your dreamy tattoo artist, right up until the day you walked back into the shop, this time free of any concerns pertaining to the tattoo. The gentleman from before recognised you and asked how the tattoo was holding up, if you’d had any issues keeping it clean, to which you replied all was good. Only this time, Eivor came to greet you by the front desk.

“How’s it going?” she asked, welcoming as before.

“Really good. I just hope I’ve been doing everything right,” you chuckled, anxiously glancing down at your thigh. The redness had completely disappeared a few days after your first appointment, the black ink proudly meandering over your skin.

Eivor smiled reassuringly. “Trust me, you’d know if you haven’t. From here it looks like you’ve done a fantastic job of keeping it clean, anyway.” You followed her to her studio, mentally noting how she was wearing an even tighter black t-shirt than last time, the fabric clinging to the defined contours of her muscled back, biceps, abs… Needless to say, the gay thoughts had returned at full-force.

As before, she shaved and disinfected your thigh, but instead of a stencil she had the full greyscale reference images for the design printed and taped to a metal beam above her table. She took careful time in diluting various caps of black ink into a plethora of greys, experience shining through as she added precise amounts of diluter to each cap. There was something addictive about watching the woman work, with how methodical she was, how delicately she handled the bottles of ink.

When she unpacked a needle, you noted the shape was different to before. “Now, some parts are gonna be only a little rougher than before. Others will suck, I’ll warn you now,” she mentioned as you positioned yourself on the chair.

“Mama didn’t raise a bitch,” you joked. Eivor laughed.

“You handled it like a trooper before. I have zero doubts you’ll do the same today.”

And so she began, making multiple passes with the machine unlike before, packing in the different shades of grey in front of her, scratching into the already broken skin. It wasn’t massively painful, but Eivor was right – last time was a breeze in comparison. You rested your eyes and bore the pain, focusing on the faint music playing from the shop’s reception.

As previously, she was ever considerate, checking up on you as she worked – albeit not as frequently, now that you were accustomed to the needles – and encouraging you through the nastier patches. You tried your hardest to not look at your thigh, wanting the final result to be a surprise, but over time it grew increasingly difficult not to sneak a glance at her hands. Merely the thought of them flustered you (pathetic, you knew) and nothing would be more embarrassing than drifting off into a less than appropriate fantasy about the woman when she was simply being professional.

Time blurred together amongst your inner dilemma – to look or not to look – until Eivor’s signature rasp caught your attention. “Time for your least favourite part,” she said, giving you a knowing look, positioning her needle in one of the petals over the area that hurt like a bitch previously.

“Oh god, I forgot about that area.”

“Just own the pain and keep still, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

Eivor smirked: a wicked thing that could have killed every sapphic in a mile radius. “Squirm and I’ll pin you down. I’ve had to do it before, and I’ll do it again.”

That, under different circumstances, would be an appealing notion.

Closing your eyes once more, you tried to decipher the song lyrics resonating through the shop’s hall, grimacing when the needle penetrated the skin. Just focus on Rihanna, focus on Rihanna…

“That’s…not so bad, actually,” you mutter, not entirely self-assured of the words leaving your lips, hoping some placebo affect would take place.

Eivor chuckled, dipping into another shade. “You sound convincing,” she drawled.

“I’m – ow – serious… Okay fuck, that’s way worse.”

“Shh, it’ll be over soon. Find something to focus on.”

So you did, on what happened to be the first thing in your immediate line of sight when you re-opened your eyes: Eivor’s bicep. God, her shirt strained around the muscle, black fabric against tanned skin and the deep green runes littering her arm. Perhaps the ink had something to do with her ancestry, given that the woman said she was Norwegian – that or she was just a mythology nerd. Your eyes trailed over the spirals of script, the perfectly concentric circles. Mind wandering, the idea that she may have tattoos on her back and front piqued your interest. Then came the delightful image of Eivor without a shirt. Pinning you down. Fuck.

Before long the pain subsided, leaving a dull ache where the needle had worked at your skin. “All done, darling,” Eivor murmured, wiping the patch. Darling. You knew it was simply her bedside manner, trying to keep you as relaxed as possible, but damn was it having the polar opposite effect. Cheeks feeling impossibly hot, you unscrewed the cap of your bottle and took a sizeable gulp of water. She gave you a moment to breathe, now that the most difficult part was out of the way. Still flustered, you drained half your bottle.

Concern plastered on her face, Eivor leaned closer, inspecting your face intently. “Are you feeling faint?” she asked, evidently worried. “It’s important you tell me if you are—”

“No, no, I’m fine, really.” You were stuttering, annoyed with yourself that you made her worry. “Just being weird. I promise.”

“You do?” Her eyebrows were still upturned, not entirely believing you.

You nodded frantically. “Yeah, really. Please don’t worry.”

Taking a slow breath, she restarted the machine, relief flashing across her features. She gestured for permission to continue tattooing, which you granted, and set back to work.

Cursing internally, you let your eyes flutter shut, thoughts full of nothing but ‘good girls’ and ‘darlings’ in a husky Norwegian accent. Numbing yourself to the needles, you drifted off into slumber.

  “Hey, (Y/N)?”

A gentle pressure squeezed at your hand, slowly stirring you, bringing you back to the world of the living. Yawning, you opened your eyes, gaze brought to a gloved hand atop your own.

“Good evening,” Eivor said, retracting her hand and watching as you gasped and scanned the studio for a clock in a panic. Evening?

“Kidding,” she laughed. “I finished up ten minutes ago.” You shot her a half-hearted glare through sleepy eyelids.

“That was mean,” you pouted. She grinned.

“I do stab people for a living.”

Snorting, you swung your legs over the side of the chair, stretching them to regain a semblance of sensation. Chest pounding with excitement, you looked to the mirror at the side of the room, then at Eivor, silently asking permission to peak at the finished tattoo. She held out her hand in gesticulation.

Giddy with anticipation, you walked over and… Holy shit.

It was beautiful.

Each shade of grey blended into one another in a perfect harmony, so seamlessly that the black outline from before was barely visible. The shadows underneath each leaf, each petal looked real. Every speckle and wrinkle on the petals shone through, love and attention going into every marking. The falling petals were akin to a photograph, with the light grey background wash tying them to the main flowers, each little shadow appearing to give them different depths. It was beyond anything you imagined. All that pain, mental and physical, turned into a lifetime of beauty.

You didn’t realise you were crying until the salt of tears rolled into your awe-parted mouth.

“I’m, well… Wow.” Beaming, you turned to face your artist, who looked at her artwork with pride. “Thank you, Eivor. Thank you so much.”

She shook her head and offered you a box of tissues, from which you took one gladly. “I’m just honoured to have helped you lay that chapter of your life to rest. May the sword-lilies battle any shreds of it that remain.”

Stunned by her poetic inclination, you dried your eyes in silence, lips curved into a joyous smile. Meanwhile, she removed her gloves.

“You have tissues at the ready. I’m guessing people cry a lot here?” you asked, finally prying your eyes away from the masterpiece on your thigh.

“Mostly from the pain,” she remarked.

“You know, you could just lie to me so I don’t feel like such a fucking sap.”

The sound that left Eivor’s mouth in response was nothing if not angelic. She practically howled in hearty laughter, echoing through her studio, her eyes crinkling at the corners. You didn’t think it possible for your grin to widen further still, but her outburst was contagious in the best way.

“I’m glad you’re happy with it. Truly,” she breathed out, chest stilling from her fit.

“It’s beautiful. Happy is an understatement.”

Eivor made her way over to the desk in the corner of the studio, where a graphics tablet lay alongside a stylus. “Now, before I dress it, I’m legally required to ask you if I have permission to photograph the tattoo for advertisement purposes. I appreciate it’s a personal subject matter and completely understand if—”

“Go for it,” you shrugged.

“Are you certain?” You nodded.

“Of course. It’s a work of art.” The smile she gave you was genuine.

“This’ll only take a minute. Thank you, really.”

She knelt down and snapped a picture with the tablet, checking the quality. “All done.” Eivor then proceeded to sanitise her hands and slip on one last pair of gloves, grabbing the wipes and plastic wrap from her station. “The photo will be uploaded to the shop’s website and my professional Instagram, if that’s alright with you. Completely anonymous, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Although, it’ll be weird seeing my leg on my feed.” She chuckled.

“Feel free to email or DM if you have any concerns with the healing.” Patting your leg, she stood up to her full height, placing her gloves in a biohazard ziplock. “Well, I’m honoured to have given you your first tattoo.”

“Honoured to be your…canvas?”

And just like that, your time with the artist was up. You watched wistfully as she put together an aftercare pack at the front desk, your previously overjoyed expression drifting into a sad one. After paying, you thanked her one final time.

“Take care, søta,” she said with a wink.

The very moment you arrived back home, you whipped out a Norwegian-to-English translator and immediately tried to replicate her pronunciation of the word she called you, blushing profusely when discovering it meant ‘cutie’. And upon opening your cleaning pack, you found an addition that wasn’t present in your previous bundle:

A small slip of paper. On one side, a mobile number. On the other, in beautifully neat cursive,

I’d love to take you to dinner. Text me if you’re interested?

Yours, Eivor

[omoghouls]

To add on to the previous anon’s message (❤️ to them and you btw), Modern Izzy has to cope with Stede knowing which is…mortifying to say the least, at least Ed never made a big deal out of it and he’s pretty sure Jack forgot 2 minutes after he found out so Iz could pretend it was just his thing to deal with, but Stede. Stede doesn’t know when to shut up, Stede doesn’t know when to leave a room, Stede doesn’t know how to pretend he didn’t see something. Izzy manages to avoid him for a few weeks until Ed asks him to come over and watch a movie since Stede would be gone for the weekend, only to arrive and find out the fancy schmancy event had been cancelled so Stede is perched on the couch with expensive wine and a charcuterie board instead of the promised beer and pizza. He throws himself onto an armchair and stares at the tv, trying to give off as many “do not fucking mention it” vibes as he possibly can but the second Ed gets up to get them blankets, Stede starts chirping about how he’s sorry for barging into the washroom - though he will say the door was unlocked so it wasn’t entirely his fault - and he understands that it must be terribly difficult for Izzy but he and Ed do support him and can help in any way he may need. Stede starts talking about having experience with diaper changes and potty training but Izzy is already up and storming down the hall to the same bathroom that got him into this situation to have a quick tantrum/yell into towels/kick something breakdown so Ed doesn’t get mad at him for swinging at his boyfriend’s stupid face. He ends up with puffy red eyes and has clearly been crying so starts to look through the bathroom cabinets for something to make it less obvious and finds a pack of high quality, obnoxiously decorated adult diapers in his (presumably) size along with other changing items. He has to sit on the floor to contemplate why. Ed had never been mean, but he’d also never involved himself. He’d been there when Izzy had pick up a pack of his usuals in the middle of the night when he was going to start leaking but they weren’t ready to go home and he’d brought him supplies when he was sick, but he’d never offered to keep a stock especially not since he moved in with Stede. So, that left Stede. Who was also the only person he knew who’d care about the aesthetics of disposable underwear more than the fact they seemed thick and impossible to hide under his usual clothes. He also had enough money to buy the expensive ones that were made to be worn by someone who would use them rather than someone who’d do everything in their power to avoid it, along with the ridiculous extras that looked like they had been shipped over from Paris. So, he knows that Stede knows and Stede has thought about it enough that he put his credit card to work. Stede who never does things halfway and was ready to change his “pampers” without knowing that Izzy wasn’t wearing them for the fun of it. Stede who definitely was never going to let it go. Stede who’s stupid need to care for and provide for all of his friends, and Izzy who was NOT his friend he was Ed’s friend but those two were now a package deal, meant he’d accommodate anything and everything they may need. He’s processing the reality and gravity of the situation when a knock comes to the door and Stede once again let’s himself into the bathroom that Izzy once again didn’t lock properly and asks if he needs help with anything before they go back to finish the movie.

O M G ANON I LOVE YOU HOLY SHOGUSRTHOS OMGGG

Poor fucking Izzy omggg- this man is use to people who just shrug his things off, something he prefers that way.

But, here comes Stede fucking Bonnet, waltzing his stupid way into Izzy’s life, weasling his way into Izzy’s issue. Acting as if he can just bring himself into this with these aids and saying how he’s there to help Izzy. Izzy doesn’t need help, he’s taken care of this by himself his whole life, just because Stede is here now, doesn’t mean he needs this blonde pompous man to push himself into helping.

Izzy just wants to have his mini scream into a towel but noooo, nothing can be easy for him when he’s at Bonnet’s house, particularly in this bathroom.

Oh god, when he sees that package, that is his new breaking point, one that has him thinking over everything, probably causing fresh tears to fill and run down his face- something that Stede instantly can see Izzy’s been crying- definitely noticing that Izzy had been in the cubbies.

Izzy definitely wants to yell at Stede, grab the man by the legs, pulling him to the ground and bark at him to stop throwing himself into situations that aren’t his to worry about. But, all Izzy can utter out is that, no, he doesn’t need or want help, especially not by the likes of Stede.

Thankfully, Ed is walking by at that moment and sees the murder in Izzy’s eyes and ask Stede if he could find some more crackers- just so it can be just Izzy and Ed. Ed tries his best to explain to Izzy that, yeah, Stede can definitely be, not the best at reading the room but, his heart is in the right place. He wants to help out but, the man just has the too much gene. Which, does get Izzy to snort, “You can say that again”

The two chat for a small while, just letting Izzy calm down. Eventually Ed is like, “And hey, who is to say those were even bought for you? Maybe those dope ass, aquatic themes are me,” he chuckles before patting Izzy’s back.

“You ready to get back to the film?”

Izzy sits there for a moment before standing up, letting Ed lead.

“C’mon, before Stede starts to stack the crackers into buildings.”

Maybe for tonight, Izzy can just, pretend no one is the wiser. Then, maybe, just maybe tomorrow he’ll actually talk to Stede, possibly

[kyidyl]

Kyidyl Does Archaeology - Part 4

(As before, if you’re only seeing this part 4, the rest of them have the tag KyidylCL)

THE ARTEFACTS

Ok, so I’ve talked about the site and what we’ve been digging in and such, but I’m gonna be honest with you guys: I like lab work exponentially more than field work.  So I am the one who has been processing the vast majority of the finds and ergo have lots of stuff.  That’s why I sometimes make jokes about the stuff in my basement - I’m storing the majority of it here in my basement.  I’ve gotten the question before about ownership, so here is how that works.  The dig is on private land so anything we get technically belongs to the owner of the land.  Now, as far as I know, he has no interest in keeping any of it so it’ll likely end up in the hands of the arch society, who will basically just be custodians of it but not owners.  It might end up in a museum, too.  I don’t really know, but that determination won’t be made until we’re finished, and not by me.  

So every site has its own sort of categories of stuff that you find depending on who lived there (although for ease, archaeologists often categorize this stuff based on location and time - more on that later.).  For our site the majority of it falls into these categories: animal bone, shell, lithics, pottery, charcoal, modern contaminants, and artefacts.  And, to lend a bit of clarity here...lithics are anything made of rock.  So they include fire cracked rocks, flakes from stone tool making, material that was used in construction, material that was crushed to make temper for pottery paste (more on that later, too.), etc.  If it came from a rock it’s a lithic.  

And imma tell you a secret: I hate lithics.  Everyone has their thing, their category of human refuse that they simply do not like.  A prof of mine hated teeth and pottery.  That’s just how it is, and mine is lithics.  I think they’re boring, I can’t tell a flake from a blade, I don’t give a single fuck what material they are, I don’t care about the style or craftsmanship...I just don’t care.  I call them all rocks, and I do it so much that everyone on the site has started accidentally calling them rocks, too, which amuses me.  Rocks, to an archaeologist, means “stone that wasn’t altered or used by people”.  They’re worthless.  Not that I think lithics are worthless - far from it - I just really hate them and this site has so.  goddamned.  many.  Lucky for me, we have a Rock Guy aka someone who really loves lithics and actually has gotten pretty good at flint knapping and just, y’know, is really into rocks.  

And to clarify about artefacts.  When you’re out in the field everything you find is either an artefact or a find.  The collection of these things is called an assemblage.  When you’re doing lab work and sorting through it all later on an artefact is, well...like a thing.  I’m explaining this poorly....it’s a complete object with a specific function.  So, a whole pot = artefact, broken pieces = sherds (not shards, sherds.). Complete arrowhead = artefact, flakes or a broken one = lithic.  Artefacts also tend to be somewhat unique, or at least something you don’t have a lot of.  They don’t always have to be complete, anything that is a specific object can go in here.  Like, for example, this piece of pipe we found: 

To recap, we’ve got pottery, charcoal, lithics, shell, bone (animal - we haven’t found human. But I’m just gonna say bone.), and artefacts.  If you are sensitive to things like that, this is your warning that this post is going to have pictures of animal bone and you should scroll quickly.  

Now, for reference, this is what it all looks like before I clean it and after it’s been dying out for a day or two (the ground has natural moisture, so I basically just open the bags and let them air out.): 

And, yes....I am cleaning them off on an actual antique blotter with real silver edges that my mom gave me for this express purpose.  A factoid I’m only sharing because it amuses me in that sort of “bet they never envisioned this use for this thing” sort of way.  Normally, if I was in a real lab, you’d do this over a metal tray.  When you’re working with an assemblage you never hold it over empty space, you always hold it over the bench and preferably over whatever your work surface is.  That doesn’t mean I haven’t dropped my fair share of stuff anyway, but most of it just lands on the work surface and not the floor, which is why you hold it over a work surface.  But anyway, as you can see, it just looks like a brown, dirty mess.  I usually do a quick sort of the stuff I know for sure what it is and then I wash it with a soft toothbrush and some water.  The rocks I just submerge and swoosh around because they’re rocks and I can’t really damage them and there’s SO FRIKKIN MANY that I refuse to clean them individually.  

So now that you’ve gotten through that long-winded but necessary explanation of terms, where are we at? Since I’m a bioarchaeologist and I prefer things that were once alive to the general detritus of human society, we’re gonna start with the bone.  Specifically, we’re gonna start with how I know those two pits from yesterday’s post are one pit.  This is how: 

This is a deer bone.  Don’t ask me which one bc I’m really not good at ID’ing species and animal anatomy, but it’s a leg bone of some kind.  See how it’s broken? One piece was found in one hole and the other piece was in the other.  Clearly it’s the same animal, ergo the pits are related to each other.  The vast majority of what came out of that particular feature was bone, with the rest being charcoal and the occasional pot sherd.  This means it was probably used for cooking and not as a garbage pit. Also there was food in it, if you recall the cooking accident from yesterday.  but sometimes y’know, stuff falls into the fire pit or it’s put in there as a way of disposing of it.  

But wait, I have more cool animal bones!! 

Ok, so there’s this one: 

This bone has a special place in my heart. IDK what species it is (I *think* it’s a fragment of deer long bone.), but that’s not why it’s cool.  This single bone is strong evidence for the presence of dogs.  =D See that circular mark on the right? That is the impression of a canine tooth from a carnivore.  Human teeth can’t make those marks in bones - our teeth aren’t strong enough to do significant damage to bone, and anyway we tend to crack bones open with rocks (a form of damage called percussion marks.) and not with our teeth.  Those other longer scratch marks are also likely from chewing, not butchery, because they’re in the right places and they’re the right shape.  Now we know this was a settlement, and this bone was found smack in the middle surrounded by human detritus and not on the fringes or outskirts.  There were no domesticated felines in the Americas at the time BC this is from the lower pre-contact level, so what’s really the only carnivore that would be wandering around a human settlement? Dogs.  I love this kinda stuff because it’s so easy see them chilling around the fire pit, talking and eating, teasing whomever it was that spilled dinner, and then tossing the bones to their dogs to gnaw on after dinner.  It’s just such a people kind of thing, you know? All from one small, circular mark.  I actually found more on later bones that came out of other places, so it’s pretty safe to say there were dogs living here with their people even though we have found neither people nor dogs.  

So here’s another cool bone: 

Again, no idea what species it is bc I’m not a zooarch (yes, there are archaeologists that specialize in animals and wooooo boy can they tell you a LOT about migration and eating habits of people.). It’s about the size of half my thumb, IE, not large.  This one is cool, and it’s the only one I have like this, because of that notch you can see vertically in the image on the right hand side.  I don’t know what it was for, but I DO know that it was an intentionally made modification to the bone.  Those striations aren’t natural - natural bone is smooth or has a very specific texture and this isn’t that.  It’s probably not damage done to the bone after it was deposited in the archaeological record.  It has the same patina as the majority of the rest of the bone, which you can compare to the lighter area there on the right hand end of the bone.  That lighter area does not have the patina of age that the rest of the bone does, and is the result of damage in a much more recent time - probably as we were taking it out of the ground.  Small bones are fragile.  So someone gouged this channel intentionally in this bone, either because they were going to use it as decoration or it served some purpose as a tool.  I’m not really sure what though.  Hell, they could have just been bored and fidgeting after eating.  Either way, it’s a human modification to this bone that has nothing to do with cooking or consumption (damage from human consumption is cracks and breaks, not scrapes.).  It could also be a butchery mark, although it’s a bit deep for that.  Butchery marks are there from separation of meat from bone - they’re usually just shallow scrapes.  

Ok, last cool bone I’m gonna show you.  Well, bones, plural.  

Ok so this is part of the same assemblage as the ones above, and if I remember correctly these were the ones that came out of that pit.  You can see the same bone with the canine tooth mark there in the center.  There’s also some interesting things like some pottery on the left and a couple teeth off to the right (one is a deer and I *think* that curved on is a squirrel.), but the really interesting thing is the series of 3 shiny bones that are in the center.  There’s a lot of ways to cook meat, and they all do different things to bones.  You will often find the dry, brown looking ones like you can see here in the non-shiny bones. That’s like...your basic “this bone had meat on it when it was cooked”. Then you’ll see ones that are black, and that’s “this bone probably didn’t have meat when it was cooked, or someone tossed it back in the fire when they were done”. Lastly, you’ll see white bone, and that’s a bone that has been burned at a high temperature for a long time.  Usually it’s done on purpose (you can use burned, powdered bone to make stuff.).  

But the shiny ones were in a soup.  And the reason I know that is *because* they’re shiny.  Bones, especially old ones, aren’t shiny.  I mean...you can see that.  You have to do stuff to ‘em.  And bones are porous, but those weren’t.  They felt like hard plastic. And they get that way by being boiled.  The shiny patina is what we call pot polish - they were stirred in the soup while it was cooking and rubbed against the side of the pot and each other, and it gives them a smoother texture.  

All of these collections of bones tell us what and how they ate things.  I know from what I can ID here (which isn’t everything, trust me.) that they ate a lot of deer and wild turkey (we have an entire almost completely intact turkey long bone.). There is also, I believe, squirrel (I found a portion of a skull and jaw that I’m pretty sure belong to a squirrel), and an assortment of other small rodents and birds.  Lots of birds.  Bird bone is really distinctive, it’s light and the spongy bone has a distinct texture.  A zooarchaeologist can look at bones like this and ID species and age, and from there tell you what time year something was probably killed.  Societies that hunted a lot tended to do it seasonally so that they wouldn’t damage the populations.  Plus especially with fish and stuff they have very specific growing cycles and short lifespans, so they can also tell you a lot about where the people were hunting and when.  Like certain fish will only spawn in certain places, so it’s really informative.  Zooarchs are so important and there just aren’t enough of them.  

Anyway, there are other cool things in the bones but I’m trying to strike a balance here between too much and not enough and I really love bone so I’m going to stop here for today.  Tomorrow is going to be other artefacts (yeah, sadly, even lithics, lol), and what they tell us about the site and the people who lived there.   As an aside: if anyone has any like just general “how do they know this?” sort of questions about history and archaeology those would be fun to answer.  I love to tell people how we do things but I don’t just wanna infodump.  I DO want to explain procedure in what I hope is a readable way because I think understanding how we make the sausage will help people have more trust in science.  So if you have any questions, please, send asks.  If I don’t know the answer I’ll research it or pass it on to someone who does.  

[spunsugarmusings]

Old Man Henderson (The Director's Cut) Starter Sentences

Change pronouns as necessary, TW for cursing, drug references, and religion bashing. Some entries have been edited for clarity.

"He has no concept of collateral damage, or inside voice."

"I know you're thinking about leaving, but I want you to stay. I want you to watch what I'm going to do."

"I've done something. I'm not sure if it's a good thing yet."

"I've created? No, created is the wrong term; I feel like it was already there, waiting for me to give it life."

"Is (Blank) his first or last name?"

"Man, I don't even fucking know."

"You know, I still remember the first time I got high, in the back of my older brother's van. Must have been some good shit, too, because I was an only child."

"MUCKLE DARMED CULT! WHERE THE NAMBLIES ARE YOU KEEPING ME WEE MEN?!"

“It’s the ugliest fucking poodle ever, oh god!”

“Killing that many little people would probably constitute a hate crime.”

"Never mind that he totally just leveled a church with the speed and brutality of the fucking Spetsnaz."

“I need a minute, or, ten.”

“I brought out the big guns; I don’t even think I have the small ones anymore. I think I was given some once, and promptly returned them. “Won’t be needing these,” I said.”

"So when I ended the last story, we had a dead shoggoth, a burning building, a bunch of MIA lawn gnomes, and we totally just ordered some bitchin' Chinese food."

“I need a man who’s good at finding things, has no great love of religious loonies, and doesn’t mind shooting an ugly-ass poodle or two.”

I’m not saying it was cultists, but I’m pretty sure it was cultists. Or aliens, but that seems unlikely, given the circumstances.”

“How do you fucking steal 40 thousand dollars in decorative lawn fixtures?”

"The antique gnome collection was my retirement plan."

“Any man who can afford to have forty grand in lawn gnomes lay around can write a paycheck.”

“Don’t tug on this particular string, just. Don’t.”

"You kiddin'? I NEED to see how deep this rabbit hole goes."

“Found out what the nasties are weak against. Point blank annihilation."

“Tell you what, if we catch the guy, I’ll hold him down while you kill him.”

“What the hell kind of evil cultist just fucks around in the living room when they have a creepy cellar to play with?”

"What the bloody all loving fuck hell are you doin?"

“The dice land as the dice land.”

“We all have in us some quality or two that might be detestable.”

“Now all the internet knows you done goofed.”

“Does this shit happen to you on a regular basis?”

“Fuck it, there’s a Best Buy and a video rental place around the corner, I vote we get one of those portable DVD things and rent a movie.”

“Let’s get baked and watch something funny.”

“Turns out, cults aren’t as awesome as she thought.”

“Tell you what, memory’s the first thing to go, followed by memory.”

“If you’re old enough to kill cultists, you’re good to drink.”

"You guys are clearly having a laugh at my expense. I don't mind that, but I'm not getting the joke and it's pissing me off."

“Maybe if you didn’t burn down everything, we’d have more to work with.”

“We wave a scorched earth sorta war here, kid.”

“The Hell’s an internet?”

“Sadly, google has zero results under "gorram poodle fuckin’ cultists”.“

"Dude, I fucked a shoggoth and you’re creeping me out.”

“The enemy of my enemy would make an excellent disposable asset for the given value of a friend.”

“I came to reenact a James Bond movie and be thrown out under an assumed name. With your hilariously liberal gun laws, that should take most of my holiday.”

“These morons will make for EXCELLENT cannon fodder.”

“I fully expected to crash that thing in a field, followed by the entire fucking military.”

“All that mattered at this point was that our deaths were long, glorious, and brutal.”

“We managed to briefly steal a tank from the National Guard and drive it right through a bunch of zombies at a shopping mall.”

“Something I learned early in life, is nobody expects a sucker punch from someone they underestimate.”

Ain’t nobody gonna mourn me or give a shit that I even lived.“

"Well I’m either in Hell, or Utah. Utah, knowing my luck.”

“That better not be a fuckin’ mirage.”

[hopeswriting]

hey wouldn't reborn's fame actually be much more low key? like, realistically speaking. and not low key as in less famous, but more like way less openly spoken about and advertised (by reborn included).

because he's the world's greatest hitman, right? and the dead can't talk and i doubt he'd ever leave any witnesses behind, if only because it's just common sense not to lol.

and all his disguises he clearly loves to indulge himself with? i mean he'd have to pretend to be a different person for each of his hits so to approach his targets the easiest/get them where he needs to to kill them. and if not that, then it just wouldn't be smart to approach them as he really looks like in the very unlikely case the hit goes wrong.

also he can't just have people know what he really looks like, and makes it more difficult for him to approach his targets. not that he wouldn't love the challenge, even if unfortunately it wouldn't make for an actual challenge at all because they just can't hope to ever see him come soon enough it'll make any difference. i mean, he's reborn.

and that one panel that shows he has a wide array of weapons he can and knows how to use? it makes sense he'd have needed to pick up on the skills because different requirements of his hits would have required different means of doing them, but also he can't have people pick up patterns on how he likes to kill people either. not that there're any to begin with, reborn isn't one for consistency after all (he gets bored quickly).

so no one knows what he really looks like.

and no one can ever hope to guess how he'll kill his next target, even if they'd knew everything else about the hit. and it's even more unfortunate when they're the next target in question lol.

no one even knows what flames attributes he has, and a good chunk of them actually think he isn't active at all because reborn likes to do things traditionally, and also mastering weapons by his own efforts is just a hobby of his. but also because he's always disguised as a different person, so none of the few crumbs they have on what he might really look like is the same, and thus a good majority of them thinks he's a mist.

so like, less of a "has a whole mafia island decorated with balloons in the shape of his head" type of fame, and more of a "the monster under your bed" type of fame. except when you go to look under your bed, the monster is actually here, and he gives you a nice hole right in the middle of your forehead.

or the monster in your closet, except when you open it to look inside, you know it, he shoots you in the head. and then probably puts you inside the closet, so the next person to open it has the nice little surprise to find a body in it. and hey, it's their fucking problem now to dispose of it.

and suddenly "skeleton in your closet" comes to mean an entirely different thing in the mafia world. a much more literal one too, because now the skeleton in the closet is you, except you're less of a skeleton and more of a very cold, very much dead body.

like, idk, they'd ask each other if they have skeletons in their closet, meaning if they had the pleasure to open their closet one day and realize reborn did a little spring cleaning in their life. or hardened hitmen warning the newbies by asking if they want to find skeletons in their closet, because sure, we all want to take on the big/challenging hits to make a name for ourselves and prove our skills, but those hits? if you know what's good for you, you wait to see if reborn won't show an interest in them first.

or just as a general warning, really. mafiosi starting to make it big, and draw attention onto them, and make people talk about them, and someone else goes "you sure about that buddy? because that's a surefire way to find skeletons in your closet."

because, consider, bogeyman reborn. and in the literal sense of the term too, because let's be real, reborn just wouldn't accept any hits. what is he, their errand boy? he's doing them a favor by letting them pay him to do their dirty work, so the least they can do (and will do, or else) in exchange is making it interesting. though it isn't enough to just be a big name, even if of course, reborn would like to see anyone try to pay him to go after anyone that didn't even make it on the top dogs’ radars yet. either you know his worth, or you get shot on sight.

but anyway, for reborn to accept a hit? the target not only needs to be big, but also and mainly, have some Flare.

they have to create and be surrounded by a decent amount of Chaos, and bonus points if everything will turn even more chaotic once he puts a bullet through their head.

you know, some Tastes, an Aesthetic, be involved in Outrageous Drama, and be Scandalously Gossiped about like it's the victorian era and they showed too much skin. (i actually know nothing about the victorian era lol, sorry if this isn't accurate.)

so he does, in fact, keeps everyone in their best behavior in that way. because like, the last thing they need as they're making it big is making it outlandishly big, lest reborn accepts the hit on their heads should it ever be asked of him.

"oh shit, oh fuck, is that a green chameleon?? oh god it fucking is, and this guy says he’s a hitman too, fuck fuck fuck—"

but also, because reborn's proud, and more importantly would hate for some incompetent nobody to take credit for his work, i feel like he'd still sign his hits somehow. i'm thinking something to do with leon. just so reborn can watch people freak out whenever they see leon on his hat, and go

then

"no, wait, would he show him just like that? no way, haha, you're being stupid, the world's greatest hitman is always so careful not to let on who they're really are, no way—"

but also like

"what if though??? what fucking if?????? oh fuck fuck fuck, do i need to run—"

and reborn simply will never get tired of it.

idk guys, just. reborn being and having his own little horror story, both the warning and the punishment.

reborn having lore about him, being talked about in fearful whispers with no one ever daring to speak his name.

and idk where i was going to take this, if anywhere at all lol, but also consider, the chosen seven meeting.

so even then, they still don’t know who reborn is.

i know in fics they're often made to introduce themselves to each other, but also? i mean, they're strangers gathered together by a suspicious masked man they never heard about before, so let's say they don't just go ahead and drop their actual names and what they do best to each other.

lal and reborn use guns as their primary weapons, and even if the wgh is known to use a variety of weapons, it's also known they use guns the most often.

they know the wgh is among them because checker face clearly said this was the gathering of the strongest seven, but to narrow it down further than that? and the thing is, they have reason to doubt everyone else.

viper is the primary suspect because they're a mist, what's with the countless different appearances that are linked with the wgh.

likewise with skull, who actually comes second to viper as the one most suspected, because as a stuntman he'd have dabbed in acting, which means pretending to be different people and getting to learn how to use different weapons.

fon would also have been a primary suspect, but it becomes obvious really quick he's exclusively a hand-to-hand combat fighter.

verde and reborn again, because of the wgh's needlessly intricate mind games and schemes, but that sure as hell always work perfectly.

and luce, as a donna with the political reach and influence that comes with it, because the wgh sure doesn't seem to give a fuck in what political sand boxes he plays, and how dire the consequences will be once he leaves them bloody.

but then of course, they learn about each other by working together, and what everyone's respective field is. and, hear me out, from then one they think skull is the wgh.

because they're proud assholes, and being the greatest stuntman just doesn't cut it for them. and more importantly, skull sucks mafia wise because for all intent and purposes he's a civilian, but no way that isn't just an act. after all they're the strongest seven, and as far as they know he was chosen alongside with them.

and they think skull is the wgh, and he finds it so funny.

meanwhile reborn is fucking with them with a straight face while looking them straight in the eye the whole time. he says he's the best spy of his generation or something, tho of course he never comes with nowhere near as flawless covers as he could in front of them. all around he’s constantly downplaying his skills around them, and strictly uses guns around them and nothing else.

and whenever they start to catch on he just uses his flames in a very obviously healing manner, because not so subconscious bias sure is a force to be reckoned with, and what kind of sun would end up as the wgh?

meanwhile luce knows exactly what's happening from day one. and enjoys the chaos immensely. and sure as hell doesn't tattle. she gets to know something and not tell and have it be completely harmless for once, as a treat. <3

[css1992]

Guilty Pleasure

Summary:  Peter and Beck used to be a power couple in the porn industry, but after Beck dumps him, Peter is forced to start over. With no money, no family and nowhere to go, he doesn’t have much choice other than to keep doing porn, so he joins Just4Fans to get back on his feet and then one day he gets a very generous tip from someone under the username of YKWIM. 

All the warnings listed on Part I apply.

Read on AO3

Part I / Part II / Part III / Part IV / Part V /  Part VI /  Part VII /  Part VIII  / Part IX / Part X /  Part XI / Epilogue

-x-

Almost two months after moving out of Beck’s place, Peter was able to rent an apartment in the same building as Ned and MJ. It was tiny, of course, but pretty inexpensive, compared to other options he found around that area. Besides, with the money he made with Just4Fans over those few weeks, he would be able to afford it comfortably for at least a few months – largely thanks to YKWIM. He still planned on saving up as much as possible, so he put a lot of effort into making his account grow and it was working – by the end of April, he was up to five hundred subscribers.

He didn’t check to see what Beck was doing, he was too afraid to look and see him with his new boyfriend, but he got lots of comments from his old fans, who still followed Beck, telling him that the new boy had nothing on him. Again, he didn’t dare to check, but the ego boost was nice, even if he didn’t really believe them. Also, he was down to crying once every two days instead of every other day, so he was counting that as a win as well.

His apartment was still pretty empty, specially because he spent most of his time downstairs at his friends’ place, but he decorated the bathroom and his room to the best of his ability, since they would be the background of pretty much all his videos and pictures. He also bought some new lingerie sets, a few costumes and sex toys he wasn’t even sure how to use, but he was slowly figuring them out.

Aside from decorating his room and the bathroom, he also bought an armchair and placed it by the  window with a couple of pillows. It was a nice spot to spend the afternoon reading or working on his computer. The light in that apartment was great, sunlight streamed right into his living room and warmed it up nicely. As they approached the end of April, the weather was getting better everyday.

Some days, he felt happy. He felt okay with the fact that he was still doing porn and that it wasn’t a terrible crime. Sure, it wasn’t what he had planned to do with his life, but he was young, he would eventually figure things out. For the time being, he needed that gig and he couldn’t beat himself up for it. Also, it wasn’t so bad now that he was only doing solo stuff.

Some other days, though, were just – hard. He remembered all the videos that were still online and he felt awful for the sole reason that they existed. Not so much for the ones he filmed with Beck, he was somewhat okay with those, the guy was his boyfriend after all, they had sex anyway, the only difference was the camera in the room. But the other ones…

When he started filming with other men, it quickly turned into an unpleasant experience for him. He hated every second of it and always ended up feeling guilty, used and disposable at the end of the day. Beck didn’t make it any better with the way he looked at him afterwards as he told him to get in the shower.

He wasn’t entirely sure of the reasons why those videos bothered him so much, sometimes it felt like it wasn’t even him in them. It was like he was watching a different person, he looked at himself and felt completely dissociated from that boy – at the same time, he looked at him and he knew – he knew – exactly what he was feeling when those were shot.

But that was a lot to unpack and he just wasn’t ready for that particular crisis.  

So in short, sometimes he was still a little unsure about how long he would be able to keep his Just4Fans account, because even though most days he didn’t feel too weird about it, sometimes it reminded him of things he preferred to forget. But that was fine, he was usually able to work around that. Also, most of his subscribers were great and didn’t make him feel like a cheap whore, so he had that going for him as well.

YKWIM was one of the good ones. They chatted almost daily, and Peter always sent him exclusive pictures and videos just because. He never posted those pictures on his feed once he sent them to him, it was their little secret. In return, he got his own collection of short videos of YKWIM finishing himself off. He didn’t know much about the person behind the videos, he’d taken to calling him daddy because most of his subscribers seemed to like it and YKWIM never complained, so it stuck.

Peter did know he lived in New York – which made him shiver – and that he was a businessman of some kind, but he also always talked about a workshop, so Peter wasn’t sure and he avoided asking personal questions. He worked most of the day and into the night, they usually talked when it was late, always around two in the morning.

He traveled a lot, too, and sometimes sent Peter small clips of his hotel rooms or the view from his balcony. In return, Peter sent him pictures of his messy bedroom and the horrible view from his window as a joke. It was nice talking to him, he always made Peter laugh – and then it often ended with a very satisfying orgasm that put him right to sleep, which was awesome.

Peter estimated YKWIM was older than Beck, but not by too much. He clearly had a fit body, which at first led him to believe he was in his thirties, at most; but he noticed YKWIM sometimes talked about the 80’s like he lived them, so he had to be at least in his forties, but Peter couldn’t be sure. He really wished he would show his face, though, it would be nice to have one to fantasize about. But then again, maybe it would ruin the whole thing.

One afternoon, after Peter spent hours taking pictures, shooting videos and editing them so he could post them over the following week, he got a message from YKWIM. He hurried to check it and was shocked to see that he had sent him yet another tip – forty thousand dollars this time.

“For you to buy pretty things so you can show them off to me.” Said the message that came with the money.

Peter almost dropped his phone when he saw it. It had been only five weeks since his last insane tip, so that made fifty thousand dollars in just a little over a month. For, like, thirty nudes. Who even was that guy?

“Wow, daddy, that’s way too much!” He added a flushed face emoji, for lack of something better to say. He was honestly feeling a little overwhelmed, even if the guy had millions to spend, there was no way just giving someone that amount of money was normal.

“That’s not nearly enough for what you’ve given me, baby.” Peter’s cheeks burned.

“I’m very flattered, but please, I really don’t think I deserve all this.” He was pretty sure he sounded pathetic, but that was how he felt, so. Yeah.

“Oh, but you do. Trust me, you really, really do. You’re worth every penny.” Peter bit his lower lip, a little unsure and still a little shocked.

“At least tell me what you’d like to see from me, please. Do you have any kinks that you’d like me to perform? Don’t be shy.” He asked, even though it always made him nervous to offer that kind of thing. Sometimes people were just waiting for the perfect opportunity to make the weirdest requests.

But, to be fair, he had been talking to YKWIM for over a month, so he somewhat trusted him not to ask for anything too absurd.  And then again, the guy had just paid him forty thousand dollars.

“Well, if you insist...” Here it comes, Peter thought, bracing himself. “Red and gold are my favorite colors. I’d love to see you wearing them.” Oh. Not what he was expecting at all.

“Done! Anything else? Come on, there’s gotta be something else.” Again, risky move. But again, forty thousand dollars.

“I’d love to hear you. You’re always so quiet in your videos. If you feel comfortable, I’d love to hear you call my name.” The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end at that request. It sounded… almost sweet? It obviously wasn’t meant like that, it was completely sexual, but out of all the wild things he could have asked for, he wanted to hear Peter call his name.

“What’s your name, daddy?”

“Tony.” Tony. Peter tested the word out on his tongue, saying it out loud once, twice. Tony. It suited the image he had created in his head. Tony.

“I can definitely do that, Tony. Anything else?”

“Buy yourself something pretty and send me a picture wearing it. Nothing sexual. Something you’d wear to a date with me.” Peter’s breath hitched. He supposed it was probably just a weird, rich people kink or something, but his mind went wild anyway. Very, very wild.

“I don’t know what I’d wear to a date with you, daddy. Any advice?”

“I like expensive and beautiful things such as yourself, baby.”

Normally, Peter wouldn’t appreciate being called expensive, like he was a thing to be bought, but he felt weirdly flattered by the answer. He promised YKW – Tony – he would send everything he requested over the next few days, and he was actually excited about the whole thing. And of course he knew that feeling was trouble, there were warning signs flashing like crazy before his eyes, but he ignored them and convinced himself that he was just having fun and he was allowed to have fun if he was going to keep doing porn. He didn’t have to feel miserable and guilty all the fucking time. He could – and should! – take some pleasure from it. He deserved it.

So the following day he asked MJ to go shopping with him, but he still didn’t tell her the whole story, he just said it was for his Just4Fans and she readily agreed to go. They went to Victoria’s Secret and Peter told her what he had in mind.

“So, how’s the job going? You’re doing okay? Not too overwhelmed?” She asked coolly as they searched through the panties section.

“Yeah, it’s fine, it’s different when I’m in control, you know? Like, I know my limits and I don’t need to count on other people to respect them. Well, most of the time. So it’s cool.”

Some subscribers were a little pushy sometimes, asking for things Peter wasn’t willing to do and then getting really aggressive after being told no. But it didn’t affect him as much as it did when Beck ignored his boundaries, because those pushy subscribers could be easily blocked, whereas with Beck, well. It was a different story.

“Don’t ever feel like you need to push your limits, okay?” Michelle stopped what she was doing to grab him by the shoulders and force him to look at her. “If you ever feel like stopping, for whatever reason, just do it. No matter what, you’ll always have me and Ned, understand? We’re family, we’re here for you, we’d never leave you alone. If you want to stop, we’ll figure something out together, you hear me?” The way she looked into his eyes made him understand that she really meant every single word of it.

Family. He had a family with them.

Peter felt silly tearing up in the middle of Victoria’s Secret, so he pulled her into his arms and hid his face in her neck.

“Thank you. I needed to hear that,” he muttered, as she squeezed him a little tighter, before pushing him away.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all teary-eyed on me, come on, you’ll ruin my reputation.” She looked around, sniffing, then stuck her hands in her pockets. Peter laughed halfheartedly, drying the corner of his eyes. “C’mon, there are panties to be bought.”

They spent a couple of hours searching the store, but in the end he found the perfect set. He bought some other pieces, too, for his feed, people had been asking for lingerie a lot lately, after a slightly weird phase of cat ears and tails. Once they left Victoria’s Secret, Peter was nervous because he had to tell MJ at least part of the truth to get her help with the second part of Tony’s request.

“So, listen,” he started and she turned to him, happily sipping her large coffee as they walked down the street. “I have this subscriber. He’s, like, a rich, old dude who always sends me tips and stuff. Anyway, he gave me some money and asked me to buy something nice and pose for him, but like, not in a sexual way. He wants to see me clothed.” She frowned, staring at him suspiciously. “Um. I was wondering if you could help me with that?”

She was silent for a few seconds, just looking at him with narrowed eyes. He looked away discreetly, trying to avoid her mind-reading skills.

“Should I be worried?” She asked, finally. He shook his head and chuckled nervously, waving a hand dismissively.

“He’s harmless, just some lonely, old dude. So, will you help?” He looked at her expectantly. She was still frowning and definitely knew something was up, but she nodded anyway, to Peter’s relief.

“What do you have in mind?” MJ asked and resumed her stroll down the street, Peter had to jog a little to keep up.

“Something expensive and beautiful,” He quoted Tony, like an idiot, because he honestly had no idea what that meant.

“That’s oddly specific and somehow not helpful at all.” She lifted an eyebrow and looked around the busy street. “How expensive are we talking about?”

“I’m not sure. Very?” He answered nervously, and, yet again, she looked looked like she wanted to rip the truth out of him, but she also knew that was not the way to go with him.  

“How much did this guy give you?”

“Um. for – five thousand dollars.” He stuttered. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the actual amount, because it sounded absolutely insane and she would worry unnecessarily.

“Holy shit!? Fuck, why aren’t I doing porn?!” She screeched and Peter hurried to put his hands over her mouth, because at least three people turned around to look at them.

“Don’t even joke about that, you hear me? You have a bright future ahead of you, don’t fuck it up,” he told her seriously and she looked like she wanted to argue just for the sake of being annoying, but something in the way he looked at her must have made her realize he meant it.

“Chill, I’m joking.” She patted his shoulder and looked away. “So. Five thousand dollars? We can work with that.”

He was a little scared of the weird gleam in her eyes, but followed her anyway.

They spent the rest of the afternoon shopping, it was a lot of fun and he even got her a pair of shoes she kept staring longingly at. She was worried they would go over the budget because she wanted him to save some of the money, but he assured her he could afford it. They managed to put together a great outfit that he was very confident about and then called Ned to meet them for dinner in the evening.

Later, they took the subway home and, for a while, he felt like a normal 20-year-old guy – happy, weightless and just a little heartbroken, like everyone was bound to be at some point in life. He was going to be okay, he realized. That thought hit him like a punch in the face and it felt fucking awesome.

He rested his head on Ned’s shoulder with a sigh of relief, feeling the warmth of MJ’s hand on his thigh.

It was around midnight when he got home, which for him was still a little early, he had developed the terrible habit of going to bed well after two in the morning – he blamed Tony, but to be fair, many of his subscribers were mostly active around that time as well. He debated whether or not he should start working on Tony’s requests, he was a little tired from a long day of walking around carrying bags, but also surprisingly eager to show the older man what he got for him.

He took the Victoria’s Secret bag and displayed the new outfit on the bed. It was a simple, but beautiful lingerie set. What Peter loved most about it was the fabric – it was made of deep red satin, smooth and glossy, and it felt simply amazing on the skin.

He decided to try it on, just to make sure it fit properly.

The top was a delicate bralette, two little triangles only big enough to hide his nipples and a little bit of his pecs. It was the perfect size for him, it sat flush with his skin, no unflattering cup gaps. The panties were tiny, Peter wasn’t too sure about those back in the store, he was worried not everything would fit in it. It did, but just barely, but it actually worked in his favor, in his humble opinion. Lastly, he put on the garter belt, which was just a thin piece of fabric that went around his waist, with two straps that hung down to clasp onto two elastic bands that went around his thighs.

Since Tony said red and gold, he also put on a thick, golden choker, just to see how it would look.

Once he was dressed, he went to check in the mirror. He bit his lower lip, running his hand over the fabric that covered his chest. It felt really smooth, and the way it brushed against his nipples sent shivers down his spine. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Tony’s hands on his body. They looked strong enough to hurt, but he imagined they would be gentle with him, as they traced a path from his collarbone to his neck, to wrap themselves around his throat – but not tight enough to choke him, just a promise.

He sighed, as if to check that he could still breath under the pressure, and slowly slid his hands down from his neck, brushing his hard nipples on their way down to the front of the panties – God, it was so smooth...

For some reason, he imagined Tony would be a gentle lover. Maybe it was the way he talked to him, always so charming, all sweetheart and baby, all praise and compliments. Maybe it was the way he never demanded anything, only asked nicely, all please and thank you.  

Tony wouldn’t ruin him, like he promised so many times in those last few weeks, he would fuck him long and slow, raspy voice whispering sweet praise in his ear, rough hands holding him down, hips snapping with each unrelenting thrust.

He bit his lips, knees buckling as he felt the front of the panties getting wet, while his leaking cock struggled to get free.

Well, then.

He grabbed his camera from the closet and positioned it on a tripod in front of the bed, just a few feet away, and programmed it to take pictures every five seconds. He sat on the bed, facing the camera, feet still on the floor, and just closed his eyes for a minute, letting a sigh escape his lips as the fantasy from before filled his mind again.

He spread his legs and his fingers reached down to the front of his panties again. His cock felt impossibly hard, straining against the delicate fabric, dark pink tip peeking out of over the top of the tiny underwear. He touched himself slowly, hips rocking lightly to match the pace of his own hand, as he listened to the clicks of the pictures being taken.

He had to force himself to stop, before he lost control, and moved to kneel on the bed, with his side facing the camera, and lowered his chest until it was touching the mattress, letting his back curve in a sinful arch, head turned to the side, staring right at the lens. At Tony. Imagining what he would do if he were there.

He sat back on his heels and turned his back to the camera, spreading his knees, each of his hands grabbing one ass cheek, pulling them apart, only a thin, barely there strip of fabric hiding his nakedness. He looked over his shoulder and waited for the camera to take at least a couple of pictures.

Next, he laid on his back, side facing the camera again, left hand rubbing one nipple over the silky fabric, as the right one reached down the front of the panties, to finally give himself some sort of relief. He let out an almost pained moan as he wrapped a hand around his cock, pumping it slowly, once, twice, but all that teasing was driving him a little insane.

He knew he should probably take a few more pictures, but he also knew wouldn’t last much longer.

He got off the bed and went to the dresser where he kept all of his “work stuff”. He grabbed a tube of lube and a vibrator that was neither too small, nor too big, it was a size Peter was comfortable with.

He switched the camera to video mode, pressed record and resumed his position on the bed, knees on the bed, holding his lower body up, and chest resting on the mattress. He squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, pushed the panties a little to the side and circled his hole gently, slowly, because that was how he imagined Tony would do it. Those big, rough hands would have grabbed him by the hips, put him in that exact position, before teasing him mercilessly.

He moaned quietly and closed his eyes, rubbing slow circles around his rim, pressing a little against his entrance, but not hard enough to breach it. He felt his cock pulsing, begging for attention, but he didn’t dare to touch it, not yet.

“Tony, please...” He whined, pushing his hips back against his own hand, he was so lost in his fantasy he almost forgot he didn’t need to beg. Almost. “I need you...”

Gently, he started pushing one finger inside, knuckle by knuckle, he was so aroused he barely felt the burn, just delicious pressure that made his eyes roll to the back of his head. He started fucking himself on his finger, feeling the muscles around it slowly make way.

“’Been thinking about you, Tony…” he rasped out, hips pushing back against his hand. “Can’t stop thinking ‘bout you...” When he felt loose enough, he pushed another finger inside, the stretch becoming a little more noticeable as he slowly scissored himself open. He got on all fours and turned his back to the camera to give Tony a better view, all spread out for him, and kept fucking himself, picking up the pace once just those two fingers weren’t enough. “Fuck, daddy, need you so bad...”

He eased the fingers out of himself, sighing at the loss, and reached for the vibrator that was sitting on the bed and turned to face the camera again. He knelt on the bed and, with one hand, he propped the vibrator up on the mattress, holding it down from behind him, as with the other hand he guided its tip to his already abused hole.

He flicked the switch and it vibrated to life, nudging against his hole before finally slipping in. Peter’s breath hitched at the intrusion, feeling the delicious burn on his lower back, as he moved his hips up and down slowly, trying to push more of it inside with each painful thrust.

“Fuck me, Tony,” he begged, as his free hand finally reached for his neglected cock, pumping it hard and fast, matching the maddening pace his hips set. He lost all sense of rhythm when he felt the tip of the vibrator finally – finally – reach his prostate and he pushed it even further in, until the pressure against the bundle of nerves became too much and he exploded in one of the best orgasms he had had in a long, long time. “Oh, f-fuck!” His vision went dark for a second as he let himself fall back on the bed, wasted.

He spent almost ten minutes just lying there, trying to catch his breath and regain consciousness. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like that, he was boneless, floaty, completely satisfied. It was honestly the best he felt in months.

When his legs stopped shaking, he got up and headed straight to the shower, still feeling a little dizzy and weak, but he wasn’t complaining.

Once he was finished, he debated whether he should just go to bed or send Tony what he had, but with the way he was feeling, he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep so easily. So decided to send at least the pictures right away, even though it was nearing 3AM. Peter knew Tony was probably up, the man did say that he was an insomniac and that he sometimes went days without any real sleep, so it wasn’t a surprise when he answered just a few minutes after Peter sent them.

“Holy fuck, Peter!!” Peter bit his lower lip, burying his face in the pillow to hide his blush, even though he was alone in his room.“What the fuck, baby, it’s three in the morning, are you trying to fucking kill me?!”

“So you like them?” He asked with feigned innocence.

“I fucking love them, you little tease, these are hands down my favorites yet. I swear I’m gonna have them framed and hung in my workshop and I’ll spend the rest of my fucking days just writing odes to you.” Peter giggled into the pillow, turning on his side to get more comfortable on the bed.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.” He joked lightly, blushing again, which was stupid, but he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck no! You’re something else, kitten, and you don’t even know it.” Peter suppressed a smile, biting his lower lip.

“Are you touching yourself right now, daddy?”

“To be honest, I’m so fucking hard I think I’m gonna come instantly if I even brush my fingers on my cock. I’m literally just staring at the pictures right now and worrying I’m gonna come untouched just from that.” Peter laid on his stomach and bit the pillow, gently rocking his hips against the bed.

“That’s so hot. Can I see it?”

Seconds later, there was a video in the chat. He played it immediately and, sure enough, Tony wasn’t kidding. His cock was rock hard, throbbing, the head was an angry purple, already glistening with pre-cum. Tony was just holding it at the base, not daring to touch it, and the whole thing almost made Peter hard again, but he was really exhausted.

“Fuck, daddy, I really wish I could help you with that.”

“Oh, you don’t even know what I wish.”

Tony didn’t say anything for a few minutes and Peter figured he had gone to sleep, but then his phone beeped, alerting him to another message from him. It was, of course, a picture of Tony’s spent cock, resting against his belly, which was covered in come, so much of it Peter’s mouth watered.

“Was it good, daddy?”

“The best, sweetheart. Thank you. I’m gonna sleep like a baby today.” Peter chuckled. Tony always said that was high praise coming from someone who hardly ever slept and the younger man took his word for it.

“Goodnight, Tony. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Looking forward to it, Pete.”

He knew he was fucked the second he tried to suppress a small smile, but couldn’t.

[infinitebells]

Could you please write about William and his s/o starting in the worst possible way? they hate each other's guts and spend all the time bickering and arguing about everything and anything (even about freaking math theorems), until Will says something awful that actually hurts her and he might be a bastard but not that much of a bastard so he tries his best to apologize and they slowly grow closer and closer until they realise they are in love

enemies to lovers is my favorite thing ever

✧ you two cannot be in the same room for more than five minutes without being at each others throats

✧ albert and moran have actually had to pull the two of you out of the room and away from each other because you two just rile each other up to the max

✧ louis literally sighs when you guys start arguing about math because what the fuck it’s the same literally everywhere and he has had to leave the room before because he gets so annoyed

✧ the reason you’re even in the group in the first place is because you and moran grew up together, and he knows you can hold your own in a fight and are a good diversion tactic for nobles

✧ now because you’re the only female in the group, that automatically means if a mission requires having to flirt with a noble, you are the one to do that

✧ you’re quite honestly ashamed you have to do it in the first place, and when moran can see how uncomfortable you get during one of these missions, he’ll make an effort to pull you out fast so that you don’t have a panic attack

✧ william starts to notice this, and it isn’t an issue until moran pulls you out too fast, which infuses the noble with suspicion

✧ luckily the other boys were quick to dispose of him, and the cab ride back to the manor is deathly silent

✧ once you’re in the house, william goes absolutely ballistic on you, screaming louder than he ever has before

✧ albert is trying to calm him down while moran has to drag you out of the room, but before he can get you to move an inch william loses it

✧ “maybe if you weren’t such a whore for the colonel, the fucking mission wouldn’t have almost failed! but i’m glad to know your only priority includes getting fucked to the point where you’re brain-dead stupid by the only man in the house who would even be willing to put his dick anywhere near you,”

✧ the room goes obscenely silent

✧ albert is staring at you as your face completely drops, any angry emotion once painted across your features is replaced by an almost empty look

✧ fred has stopped watering the plants because he can’t believe the words that just left william’s mouth

✧ louis is five seconds away from dropping his cup of tea that’s shaking in his hand now

✧ moran’s eyes are wide with shock, too stunned to even begin to be angry at william

✧ you gently pull your arm out of moran’s hand before walking quietly out of the room and into your own room, closing the door with a silent click

✧ william’s shocked because usually you always have a comeback, a sarcastic remark or an insult ready to hurl back at him, so why didn’t you do that now?

✧ everyone breaks out of the trance as soon as the door shuts, and albert, louis, and fred have to hold moran back from completely pummeling william

✧ moran and you had never had that kind of relationship, if anything he was your best friend

✧ after the boys get moran to calm down, william is still standing still in his spot

✧ albert suggests going to apologize to you, and louis walks william out of the room and to your room

✧ when you don’t answer his knocks, he slowly cracks the door open, and upon hearing no response, opens it all the way to see an empty room and your window open

✧ the house erupts into chaos once again

✧ moran storms out, determined to find you, while albert goes after him because god knows what will happen

✧ louis offers to stay here in case you come back, and fred goes out on his own to look for you

✧ william has yet to say a word since yelling at you, and all he can think about was how wrong he felt after shouting like that at you

✧ fred’s the one who finds you, sitting alone in a bar all the way across town

✧ dried tear tracks decorate your face, and your hand shakes around your glass of whiskey

✧ neither of you say anything for a few minutes, until fred finally speaks up

✧ “sebastian and albert are out looking for you,”

✧ you’re quiet for another moment before responding

✧ “tell them to not bother. if i’m such a whore then clearly i’m not needed on the team,”

✧ your voice cracks at the team, and fred see how white your knuckles are for gripping your glass so damn tightly

✧ when he coaxes the glass out of your hand, he manages to convince you to come back to the manor with him, promising to keep william away from you

✧ he’ll lead you through the house, silently nodding to louis in a way of telling him you were okay, and they could talk more once you weren’t a flight risk

✧ louis goes out to bring moran and albert back, while fred gets you into bed and sits on a chair next to you to make sure you don’t leave again

✧ you haven’t said anything since the bar, so when the bedroom door opens and in walks william, you don’t speak up

✧ fred leaves to give you two some space, making sure to stand right outside of the door in case something happens

✧ william pulls the chair up next to your bed, staring at your curled up form and the way your eyes stay open and unmoving, focused on some invisible spot on the wall

✧ william’s quiet for a minute as he gathers his thoughts before finally speaking

✧ “i’m sorry for my words. i know you and colonel moran are close friends and nothing more, and i should have seen how uncomfortable the noble was making you. you aren’t a whore, and you certainly are a wonderful addition to the team. i hope you can forgive me for my rude and brash words, but for right now i’ll leave you alone,”

✧ he gets up, moving the chair back, and going to leave the room until your small hand wraps around his wrist, holding him in place

✧ he turns back to see you still staring at the floor, but fresh tears have replaced your old ones

✧ “thank you for the apology,”

✧ your voice is quiet, so quiet it can barely pass as a whisper, but he hears it all the same

✧ he nods before walking out, refusing to make eye contact with moran, who returned home and was standing just outside of your room

✧ once william’s gone, he’ll storm in and sit down on the chair next to your bed, rubbing your hand comfortingly

✧ you’re eternally appreciative of how kind he is after everything that happened, and he knows you are from the slight squeeze you give his hand

✧ he stays the entire night, making sure you won’t up and leave again

✧ the next few days, you’re much quieter than normal, and everyone can tell

✧ the air is tense, but no one says a word about what occured

✧ after the first week, william offers you a book he had in his library that he knew you liked, and it’s the one action that finally starts to set things back into place

✧ albert feels like he can finally relax after constantly watching you and william

✧ louis is relived because he can breathe again without feeling like someone was going to go ape shit again

✧ moran is his usual, laidback and snarky self

✧ the only thing that has changed is your and william’s relationship

✧ after the first week of tenseness, things only go up

✧ you both can stay in rooms with each other without constantly fighting, instead talking about a book you both have read or discussing next week’s mission plans

✧ you even manage to crack a smile around him, and vice versa

✧ everyone in the mansion is happy to see how you two start to get along, including moran because he hated how much you two fought

✧ after a month of being friendly with each other, you start to appreciate how beautiful he really was

✧ his soft blonde hair, ruby red eyes, and his smile that had you weak in the knees

✧ you both spent extended periods of time alone together, and he was starting to enjoy it too

✧ it was about a month and a half after the incident, the two of you were alone in his study standing next to each other and going over the plans for your next mission

✧ tonight you decided to tease him about how if he puts all of his time and effort into killing nobles, he’ll never get a girlfriend

✧ cue him looking up from the papers to meet your eyes, and you’re both aware of how your faces are inches away from each other

✧ neither of you can tear away from looking into each others eyes, and it’s quiet until william finally speaks

✧ “well i’d hope any girl i court would have extensive knowledge of these plans and how passionate i am about them. it helps if they’re even a part of it, say as a beautiful distraction,”

✧ both of you know he’s talking about you, and your breath hitches in your chest

✧ he’s slowly leaning down, and you know how terribly fucked you are when you meet him halfway, your lips just barely meeting for a kiss

✧ he pushes against you harder, one hand coming to rest on your waist to keep you close to him

✧ and when he pulls away blushing lightly, you both realize just how in love you actually are

✧ “i know we’ve had our fair share of cruel words, me especially, but i can’t stop myself from loving you,”

✧ his voice is soft, silently pleading for reciprocated feelings

✧ “then don’t, i’d hate for my love to go wasted,”

✧ and then he’s kissing you again, and again, and again, until neither of you can think of anything else besides loving each other

[xenteaart]

Apocalypse Chronicles

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck in the apocalypse certainly has its ups and downs, and this is somewhat of a dairy with little glimpses into the life you two had.

Warnings: mentions of vomit

Note: This is sort of a part 2 to this fic. Also you can check out my other fics on this Commission AU right here!

Hopefully, this is a rollercoaster.

Day 548.

You and Five were currently on your way… somewhere. You rarely had any particular destination in mind, if you were being honest. Mainly, you were just moving from one place to another, seeking shelter and looking for food and other essentials such as clothes, medical supplies and many other things, most of which were really hard to come by.

It’s been a very long day, and a fairly hard one as well because the weather seemed to get harsher with each passing mile and moving one foot in front of the other was beginning to feel like an impossible task. So, since all of your focus and concentration went into walking, naturally, you’d stopped listening to what Five was saying about thirty minutes ago. Funnily enough, it took him that long to notice you completely zoning out and ignoring his passionate ranting.

“Hey! Have you been listening?” he asked bitterly, mostly just annoyed by the fact he’d been wasting his breath.

You quickly snapped out of your daze and blinked a few times.

“Charming.” Five added as he rolled his eyes. It was this very moment when you realized something and couldn’t help but smile widely, and he raised one eyebrow in confusion as to what could be making you so happy right now.

“Your voice is starting to crack,” you pointed out. He clearly didn’t expect you to say that, and it caught him completely off guard, making him forget he was mad at you mere seconds ago.

“My boy is turning into a man!” you exclaimed; tenderness, pride and just a tiny bit of sarcasm radiating from your voice. Five shook his head and scoffed at your observation as he was trying to conceal his embarrassment; rather unsuccessfully, you must say.

Getting stuck with a slightly older girl and going through puberty was, in his opinion, beyond humiliating.

You wrapped your arm around his shoulder and squeezed it lightly, pulling him closer as the sound of your joyful giggling was filling the air.

“Can’t wait till you start getting facial hair too,” you teased him and immediately felt his elbow kick your ribcage, the impact too mild to leave a bruise but certainly sudden enough to make you go “ouch!”

Day 1325.

“Five Hargreeves, you may wanna propose to me right now,” you screamed from a distance as you were still rummaging through the ruins of what used to be a grocery store. Oh, you knew he was going to love this.

After spending almost 4 years by Five’s side, you’ve come to know an impressive amount of facts about him, most of which were mundane and in the grand scheme of things, he would say, insignificant. But you didn’t see them as such and kept them all in mind, waiting for the right moment, and today was your lucky day.

“What?” he yelled back, a little confused by your assumption that seemingly came out of nowhere. Not that he didn’t like your company but marriage wasn’t on his to-do list quite yet.

As you awkwardly climbed over the debris, obviously carrying something in your hands but trying to hide it underneath your ill-fitted parka, you said, “Close your eyes.”

Five seemed hesitant, so you insisted.

“Come on, I know you don’t like surprises but it’s the nice kind, I promise.”

He finally complied and exhaled loudly as a means of communicating his growing impatience. You promptly pulled out a coffee pack from under your clothes, swept the dust off its surface in one quick motion and handed it over to Five.

“Look.”

“No way,” he opened his mouth, sincerely shocked you had managed to find something whole and completely untouched. And it happened to be coffee.

“I think I deserve at least a kiss on the cheek, wouldn't you say?” you grinned at how fast Five’s expression turned from grumpy and tired to excited and grateful.

In no time his tight grip found your waist, and he effortlessly spun you around, making you squeak in surprise as you clawed into his shoulders for support instinctively. His movements were smooth and confident as if you were light as a feather or rather weighed nothing at all, and you caught yourself really enjoying the warmth of his hands on your skin.

“You deserve a lot more than that,” Five replied with a sigh as he put you down carefully, his tone suddenly losing its playfulness and blossoming with something a titch more unexpected, and if you had to put a name on it, “affection” would be the most fitting.

Fortunately, the smudges of dirt on your skin were doing a very good job at hiding just how red your cheeks turned at the comment.

Day 1557.

“God, do you ever shut up?” Five snarled irritably, interrupting you mid-sentence, and your jaw dropped in shock. You could have sworn it felt exactly what getting stabbed in the stomach would feel like.

You were a very short-tempered individual and in any other context you would have snapped back, making some scathing comment and walking away with your chin up. This time - not a single word left your mouth as you were paralyzed by Five’s unfiltered hostility. You felt your eyes burn and immediately turned away to wipe away the tear rolling down your cheek, too proud to let him see how much it hurt.

In your defence, you weren’t much of a talker before the apocalypse but it didn’t take you long to find out that being locked up in your own head in a deathly quiet world was not a good way to spend your days. So you kept talking, for both Five’s and your own sanity. It made things feel less real, however paradoxical it may sound. But, more importantly, it was a gesture of care.

You spent the rest of the day without saying a word, and, to your disappointment, Five wasn’t willing to break the silence either. Not talking, however, didn’t mean not looking after each other, and you, of course, made him dinner while he organized a safe place for you both to spend the night.

Since there was never a roof over your heads, you tended to sleep very close to each other, exchanging body heat to keep each other warm. At first, it was only a safety precaution but the habit slowly transformed into something more meaningful, somewhat of a necessity to know and feel that the other was still alive and breathing, still there, safe and sound.

As the two of you were lying in your improvised bed, which was essentially just a few layers of blankets on the hard and unfriendly concrete, you felt Five’s hot breath against the back of your neck as he cuddled you from behind. The big spoon.

“I deeply regret saying that,” Five whispered and sighed in frustration at his own self. He knew he royally fucked up.

“Please, don’t ever stop talking. I need it and I need you, okay?” he uttered so quietly that it was almost inaudible but you caught every word.

You clenched your teeth.

“Okay.”

Day 1866.

Birthdays were never a happy event in the apocalypse and you only kept track of them in order to know your own age.

Every birthday was nothing but another reminder of how much time you’ve spent trapped in this nightmare, and there was truly nothing either of you wished to celebrate.

However, this time you decided to make an exception. Five was turning eighteen and, despite the fact that your circumstances were far from perfect, it was a big day nevertheless.

To say you had limited resources would be saying nothing at all. No cake, no candles, no decorations, no anything to create an environment for having fun, and the only thing at your disposal was your contagious enthusiasm. It wasn’t much but it was surely something.

“Wakey-wakey, sleeping beauty,” you whispered into Five’s ear as you tapped on his shoulder, gently breaking him out of his sleep. He murmured something incoherent and placed his hand over his eyes, trying to escape the bright and intrusive daylight.

“Come on, I’ve made you a birthday breakfast,” which wasn’t at all different from any other breakfast but you believed a sprinkle of love that you so thoughtfully added was definitely going to make it taste a bit less like wet cardboard.

“We have plans for today,” you stated proudly as you were waiting for Five to get up. He glanced at you suspiciously, and you were quick to reassure him.

“You can do your clever math things till evening but after that we’re celebrating. There are two bottles of wine that you didn’t know about, and we’re going to drink them and dance. But not ball dance, properly drunk dance. No sadness allowed. Instructions clear?”

Five nodded, feeling a weary yet content and cheerful smile touch the corners of his lips.

Maybe, it wasn’t going to be a shit day, after all.

Day 2587.

“Come on, don’t you dare die on me, you idiot,” Five hissed after pressing his lips against your forehead and coming to a disturbing conclusion that your fever was only getting worse.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” you laughed weakly as you looked up at him, and in less than a second a violent wave of nausea washed over your body and swallowed you whole, leaving you with very little chances to escape the overwhelming feeling. You’d been throwing up non-stop the entire day, and the severe dehydration you were suffering was becoming a genuine concern.

The two of you didn’t have the luxury of medicine, and most days you were doing just fine. This time, however, sleeping it off didn’t seem to be doing it for you, and Five was beginning to panic.

“Don’t say that,” Five said coldly, and you winced at the sudden change of mood, almost offended that he wasn’t trying to distract you from your mysterious illness with humor.

“I’m just worried about you,” he clarified as he noticed a gleam of sadness in your eyes.

It was absolutely killing him to see you like that - in pain, sick and exhausted, and he simply couldn’t afford to have “sad” on the list as well.

If there was one thing that Five despised more than anything else in this world, it would be helplessness, and now, as he was facing the invisible enemy that was threatening to take you away, he was feeling exactly that. Helpless. Useless.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe through another urge to vomit, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth loudly, but the agonizing sensation didn’t seem to have any compassion or mercy for you.

“Okay, I can’t hold it back any longer,” you warned, and Five nodded in silent understanding.

He’d been sitting by your side and holding your hair all day, thoughtfully keeping it away from your face while you were restlessly puking your guts out, and, as you were doing so, not a single muscle on his face cringed in disgust. The only thing that was truly bothering him about this marathon of vomiting was how soon you were going to recover from it.

Thankfully, your immune system was strong enough to get you back on your feet without any external assistance, and you began to get better eventually. But even during your weeks of sickness there wasn’t a single day when you didn’t feel loved and cared for, and the precious moments of Five holding your hand during your feverish nightmares were going to be imprinted on your mind forever.

[starkeristheendgame]

Hi! Can i give you a prompt? If yes... what are your thoughts on starker with mob boss!peter? I don't remember reading anything like that... thank you!

We love MB!Peter in this house. This is, safe to say, an AU wherein Tony works for MB!Peter as his bodyguard and not-so-secret lover. On that note, if anyone has any MB!Peter recs or rec lists for Anon, please don’t hesitate to share them!

TW: Implied off-screen death of non-major person | Weapons references | Demeaning talk/Mild humiliation | BDSM references | Soft violence

The man that strode into the hall for an audience with Peter cast his gaze over the both of them assessingly, then fixed it on Tony.

That was Peter’s favourite part. How they all glossed over him so easily, how they took one look at the duo and immediately disregarded him.

Who wouldn’t? A rumpled little twink with cherry-bitten lips and a shirt half-open, sprawled between the thighs of an older man in a Giovanni suit with grey at his temples and a gun at his hip. The choice seemed obvious - The man who looked like he owned the term Mafia Don. It hadn’t been deliberate the first few times. Peter had pouted and laughed when they’d addressed Tony instead of him. Now, it was something of a test. Who was smart enough to look past face-value and ‘obvious choices’?

Not this man, clearly. He threw Tony a steep bow and a simpering smile, hands twitching between dangling limp at his sides and forming nervous fists. “Its an honour to be given your time," he began, licking his lips. Tony kept soundless and stoic, carding his fingers gently through the brown curls that tickled the inside of his palm.

“I... May I... Perhaps the matter may best be discussed without your... Companion,” he tried, placatingly lilting it like a question near the end, and Tony had the skim the edge of his tongue with his teeth so as not to smile. Between his legs, Peter’s head lifted like he’d been woken from a slumber.

Two long, slender fingers traced their way along his jaw, stroking the prickle of his stubble before they dipped between his lips, sliding over his teeth and pressing teasingly on his tongue before hooking down. Peter used it to pull him forwards, and he took the hint, rising so that Peter could sprawl in his rightful place, sucking his fingers clean of Tony’s drool with his pretty lips pursed.

“Are you scared of dogs, Mr. Ross?” Peter asked softly, cheek atop Tony’s knee. The man looked almost affronted at being spoken to by what he surely presumed was some cheap whore, but he shook his head, mouth tight.

“Neither am I,” Peter murmured, twisting in Tony’s space to crawl atop him like some sultry lap-cat, one hand reaching up to cup Tony’s jaw as he leaned over him, soft-honey eyes gazing into his own with unbearable tenderness.

“What is it folks say when they have their precious hounds attack? Sic ‘em?” Peter asked, faux-casual and sweet. Tony knew better, though, and turned swiftly on his heel, striding down the courtly dais towards the man. Fear had began to leech into the confusion etched on his face, and he scrambled backwards as Tony reached for him.

“Loyal things, dogs,” Peter mused, as Tony’s hands closed around the man’s throat, cutting off his alarmed cry. “Obedient,” Peter hummed, propping his cheek up on the backs of his knuckles as he watched. No sooner had Tony gotten a good grip, teeth bared on a snarl like his namesake, Peter called out an idle “Heel,” and Tony, as ever, obeyed.

“I don’t take kindly to being betrayed, Mr. Ross,” Peter announced as Tony knelt before the throne-like seat, head ducked in compliance. Peter’s slender fingers found their way into his hair, tugging the strands gently. “Thankfully the officer you ran squawking to was one of mine. Hence your appearance here today. But... I’m afraid, I must make an example of you, you see." He sounded pitying as he said it, rueful.

“Y-- You-- Mr. Parker, Sir. I can assure you I don’t-” The man stammered to defend himself, scrabbling for any scrap of a lie that might save his hide, but Peter had already raised his fingers to his lips, whistling a sharp, pert note. Tony did not need to look to follow the sound of the doors and footsteps, of Mr. Ross being dragged away to his fate. The next Tony would see of him would be assisting in disposing of whatever remained of him.

“Trust is worth more than any currency,” Peter murmured, looking down at him fondly as he carded his fingers through the raven locks in his grip. Tony raised his gaze, levelling Peter with he hoped conveyed you can trust me. Always.

“My sweet Hound. Loyaler and prettier than any beast I could find in a kennel,” Peter praised him, a twisted pull on his hair bringing a soft whine to the hollow of his throat. It made Peter smile, lips curved in a manner just for him. When Peter was feeling meaner it was Dog. A slobbering beast that served only for his entertainment. Tony didn’t mind; he’d mount Peter every night for the rest of his life no matter what term of endearment called him to his master.

“I will always be loyal to you,” he murmured, tipping his head into the hand that drifted down to cradle his cheek. The smile and head tilt Peter gave in response showed the boy knew that. Had always known that, from the moment he’d first wrapped his legs around Tony’s head.

It felt snug against his throat, a reassuring weight as Peter laughed and shifted on his seat, splaying his thighs to drag Tony between them by the claim against his skin. He tipped his head and willingly opened his mouth for Peter to lick into, kissing him senseless, searing hot and sloppy in the otherwise quiet room. By the time Peter licked across his teeth then withdrew, lips swollen and dark, Tony was light-headed and hard against the pressed slacks that hugged his thighs.

“What would I ever do without you, hm? My Hound,” Peter answered fondly, hand roaming from his jaw down to his chest, slipping inside the crisp suit to find the inner pocket near his breast, fingers closing around supple, dark leather to draw it out. The collar was ornate, a perfect blend of decorative metal and soft, black hide.

“You fuck better than any stud,” Peter assured him as he unbuttoned Tony’s shirt collar to make room, and slipped the leather around his throat.

Peter reached between them and groped him shamelessly, fingers curling around the rise of his cock as he kneaded gently, feeling its girth and hardness. Tony exhaled sharply into the space between them and rut forwards against his hand with a growl, one hand snaking up to twist in Peter’s brown curls, gripping tight. Peter’s lashes fluttered and he pressed his thumb against the tip of Tony’s cock through his trousers, one canine bared in a warm, smirked grin.

“Tell me what you want, Dog,” Peter breathed at him, and Tony’s body warmed with the demeaning name, huffing out a breath as he shifted, one hand in Peter’s hair and the other closing around his throat, with just enough pressure for the weight of his fingers to be felt in the hollow of that pretty, slender neck.

“I want to feel you sink down over my cock,” he growled at the boy-king, gaze dropping to his mouth, teeth bared on an exhale. Peter’s hand left his cock and came back to his collar, tugging him closer.

“Oh, my Hound. You want to rut against your bitch, hm? Want to breed your claim?” Peter teased him, and it was all Tony could do to give one curt, sharp nod.

The boy released him and flopped back into his seat, sprawled and splayed like a whore on a bed. He gestured to himself almost lazily.

“Go on then, Dog. Mount and breed."

[barnesbabee]

He’s Dancing Like A Stripper || C.S

Summary: Strippers were made to get people’s attention, but what happens when you catch their attention?

Pairing: Choi San x Reader

Words: Billions of them

Genre: Smut

A/N: I have some kinky followers. You’re my favourites. Enjoy xx💖

REQUESTS SUPER OPEN

---- THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REQUESTING ANON ----

 It's not that you regretted it, but you certainly didn't love it here.

  Your mom was getting re-married, and she insisted for you to be at her bachelorette party. Of course you didn't want to be there (around middle-aged women that had about nothing to talk to you about), but you also didn't want to disappoint your mom or make her sad, so you agreed to go.

   You thought that after the gins and extravagant dancing at some random club you'd be done, but oh were you wrong. One of your mom's friends suggested that you go to a strip club to "celebrate her last days of freedom". You dreaded the idea.

   If you were with your friends it might have been fun, but you were absolutely not looking forward to appreciating men's bodies with your mom and her friends. You tagged along nevertheless because you're a good daughter.

   You sat with your "group" in one of the pink fur sofas, bewildered by the ambient. It smelled of alcohol, horny people, and desperation. You shifted in your seat, clearly uncomfortable at the women beside you screaming at the toned man in almost no clothing dancing teasingly in front of you. He swayed his hips along to the song, adding in complementary body rolls as his hands followed his movements.

   You averted your eyes from the scene and accidentally ended up making eye contact with one of the other strippers on a separate stage. The man didn't break the contact, he simply smirked and bit his lip as he kept working his hips.

   The man was certainly one of the most (if not the most) attractive men in the room. He had perfectly combed back, coal colored hair with shaved sides, wide shoulders and a jawline to die for.

   The stripper quickly finished his shift and disappeared behind the curtains of his stage. You let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding for a while now and snapped back to reality, as if the man's eyes had put you in some sort of trance.

    You decided you needed some air, since you couldn't use your phone inside the club, and you were oh so bored.

    You made your way out of the door for a second, to scroll down Instagram and reply to some messages before your mom realized that you didn't actually need air, you were just sick of the night.

    It had been almost five minutes, and you were ready to go inside when someone spoke up beside you.

    "I've seen many expressions inside that room, bored surely wasn't one of them."

   You looked up to see the owner of the soft voice, only to see the male stripper that had caught your attention. He still had the stage makeup and the perfectly styled hair, but he was now wearing a black Adidas tracksuit. You smirked at him.

    "Nothing caught my eye." You told him teasingly.

    The male grabbed the zipper of his jacket and pulled it down slightly, partially exposing his bare chest.

    "Is that so?" He questioned in the same tone.

   Your eyes rested on his exposed skin for a second and then traveled back up to his eyes.

    "Is that part of some plan?" You asked, crossing your arms in front of your chest and raising an eyebrow at him.

   "It's part of the plan where I take you to my room backstage and you let me fuck you."

   The sincerity of the statement amused you. You laughed faintly at the man and shook your head.

    "And this is the part where your plan doesn't work because I'm not going anywhere but back inside."

   You turned on your heels so you could return to your mom's side when he grabbed your wrist.

   "Come on, I've never seen someone so bored in there, I loved it. I loved that none of those half-naked men peaked your interest, it's as if their presence was a bother." He stepped closer to you and whispered in your ear "I wanna make you unbored."

   You inhaled a sharp breath and stepped back slightly.

   "I- I can't. My mom is inside, she asked me to be present in her bachelorette party I can't just leave her."

   The man grabbed your hip, pulled you towards him, and kissed your jaw.

    "She won't even notice you're gone, and I promise you you'll have the best night of your life."

    Your mind was saying no but the alcohol and the pool forming between your legs said yes.

     Fuck it.

     You looked him in the eye and smirked.

     "Are you going to show me that room then?"

     One of the man's hands slid from your waist to your ass and gave it a squeeze as he bit his lip.

      The male guided you to the small room in the back of the strip club. The hallway leading to said room had several other doors, which you assumed were for the other workers. You two reached the very last door and he opened it for you.

    The floor was made out of dark wood and the walls were red. A black, round, large rug decorated the floor. To your right, by the door was a grey vanity with some makeup spread on it, on the wall in front of you was a black closet with sliding mirror doors, and, finally, to your left was a big black couch and a white coffee table in front of it. There weren't many decorations, besides some photos of what you assumed were his best stage moments hung in the wall.

    You looked around and took in the scenario. The male crept up behind you and traced your curves with his hands.

    "San." He whispered in your ear.

    You looked at him, confused.

    "My name is San, just so you know what to yell."

    You blushed a little at the realization that you accepted a one night stand with a man whose name you didn't even know.

    "I'm Y/N..." You told him quietly.

    He turned you around and kissed you softly, starting by your jaw, then your cheek, and then the corner of your mouth. His lips ghosted over yours and your desperation for him made you close the gap.

    Your arms draped around his neck as San's hands worked on undoing the buttons of your cute pink button-up dress.

     Once he'd gotten all the buttons you let go of him for a second to let the dress fall off of your shoulders, then reconnecting your lips and attaching your hands to his neck.

   San's kiss had the right amount of passion and roughness to it, as he suckled on your tongue and bit on your lower lip. The male disposed of his jacket swiftly and moved his lips down to your neck. He bit down on some spots and as he did it, your hand traveled to the hem of his pants. Your fingers tugged on the strings of the sweatpants, undoing the bow that was holding them up. The item of clothing fell down to the man's feet and your hand was free to palm the man's clothed member.

   You moaned at a particular bite he gave you and he smiled at it. You placed your hands on his chest and pulled him away softly. You then dropped to your knees and slowly pulled down the waistband of his tight boxers, allowing his member to spring free.

   You were quite surprised at the length and instantly felt the desire to see if it fit whole in your mouth. You wrapped your fingers around his shaft and swirled your tongue around his tip, tasting the precum.

   San's fingers found your chin and tipped it, making you stare at him while you sucked him off. You went as far as possible, until his tip collided with the back of your throat, making you gag. San grabbed your hair and repeated the process until you had to gasp for air.

  The man chuckled at your appearance and made you swallow his cock once more. A couple of tears escaped your left eye and there was drool all around your mouth. San's breath quickened and his hands left your hair, letting you take full control.

    "Fuck Y/N, I'm coming."

   You let his cock hit the back of your throat a couple more times before pulling away and stopping completely. San looked down at you with a darkened expression and chuckled. The man knelt down, so he could face you, and grabbed your jaw.

   "You're gonna wish you'd never done that." He threatened.

  As if it was nothing, the man swung you over his shoulder and threw you on the couch. He removed your soaked panties as quickly as possible and attacked your breasts with his mouth. San's fingers found their way between your folds and he inserted not one, not two, but three fingers in you. You yelled out his name loudly, not caring about who heard you. You didn't know what to do, the feeling of his mouth and his merciless fingers were too much for you and you loved it.

   San curled his fingers inside you and moved them around. Your high pitched moan announced how close you were, and that's just what San wanted to hear.

   "You want to come now, don't you?"

   You nodded desperately, already regretting not letting him cum in your mouth. He pulled out his fingers and inserted them in his mouth, making sure you watched as he licked them clean.

    San then knelt on the sofa and spread your legs wider so he could position himself in between them.

   "I'm gonna make you scream my name."

    You couldn't describe you much you wanted him ramming into you, and never before had you craved something you'd never had. San entered you without permission and you instantly grabbed onto the sofa's pillows as you took him all in. God he was huge.

     San grabbed one of your legs and placed it over his shoulder while the other held your waist.

     As you were already sensitive from his fingers, it didn't take long for you high to approach.

    "San... San I'm coming." You announced.

    His pace sped up, and you yelled out for his name as you clenched around him and your back arched. He did not stop thrusting into you, however. He sped up even more and slapped your inner thigh harshly. The overstimulation was becoming too much to bear, and your legs started shaking at the feeling.

    "Oh my God San please..."

    Your little beg made him pull out and paint your stomach with his cum.

    He looked down at your pretty, petite figure all fucked out.

    "Have you ever thought of becoming a sex worker?"