#but these are NEW and UNSOLICITED noises

[vveissesfleisch]

nothing like getting a new phone to make you feel like a fucking boomer lol

[dangerclaw]

I’m getting real tired of the Epoch Times acting liberal when they’re clearly conservative

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

Personal Trainer!Toji Fushiguro—”Push through, ma. Do it for me, yeah?”

req by: @sumbarbietingz tyty hope u like <33

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday at 6 AM.

By now, working out is muscle memory—a chore you tick off your list without much thought. You’re not aiming for an Olympian’s physique, nor do you dream of flipping tires or crushing quadruple-digit squats. For you, fitness is about balance, not obsession. The gym is filled with the usual suspects: frat bros showing off one-armed pull-ups, bodybuilders flexing between sets, and athletes moving like they own the place. You don’t envy them, nor do you aspire to join their ranks. In truth, their antics are more intimidating than inspiring.

But lately, something’s shifted. You’ve grown restless with your go-to routine: treadmill sprints, a quick core workout, and stairmaster till failure. It gets the job done, but there’s a whisper in the back of your mind, daring you to try something new. Maybe it’s time to add weights to your regimen. Maybe it’s time to sculpt those glutes and finally chase the coke-bottle figure you’ve been daydreaming about.

For weeks, the squat rack has been your Everest. You’ve watched others load up the bar, their muscles taut with effort, and wondered if you could do the same. It’s not fear holding you back—more like the memory of too many gym bros turning innocent glances into unwelcome conversations. At this gym, you’ve perfected the art of blending in. Headphones in, eyes down, immersed in the personal concert blasting through your ears. The only human contact you entertain is a nod and a quick smile for the woman at the front desk.

Today, though, is different. After your core workout, you finally approach the empty squat rack. Your heart races—not from exertion, but from the thrill of trying something outside your comfort zone. You set down your water bottle, lift the bar experimentally, then add two 20-pound plates on either side. It feels doable. With a deep breath, you duck under the bar, letting it rest on your shoulders. A hype Sexyy Red track thunders in your ears, spurring you on as you knock out your first set.

The burn in your thighs intensifies with each rep, but you keep going, driven by the mental image of your future self: confident, curvy, unstoppable. Sweat beads along your forehead, catching the fluorescent lights above and glistening on your skin. By the time you hit your second set, you’re locked in, laser-focused—until a firm hand lands on your shoulder, breaking your concentration.

You freeze mid-rep, your eyes snapping to the mirror in front of you. A tall, broad-shouldered figure looms at your side, leaning in close enough to be unavoidable. Your stomach twists with annoyance. Of course. Another unsolicited interruption.

Lowering the barbell with a controlled motion, you let out a sigh, already steeling yourself for the usual spiel. You tug your headphones down to your neck, the music fading into background noise as you prepare to deliver a polite but firm rejection. Why is it always men who think mid-squat, drenched in sweat, is the perfect time to chat? And why, without fail, are they never the gym’s best-looking prospects?

Before you can speak, a gravelly voice cuts in.

“Damn, ma, you tryna go deaf? I could hear your music from all the way across the gym.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. The irritation brewing in your chest falters, giving way to reluctant curiosity as you turn to fully take him in. You wipe the back of your hand across your forehead, collecting the beads of sweat rolling down your neck, letting your gaze rake upward. 

Crisp white Air Force 1s. Baggy black sweatpants slung low on his hips. A fitted white compression shirt stretched tight over a chiseled torso. Broad shoulders, thick biceps—his entire frame is a testament to strength, and the shirt does little to hide it. You swallow, willing yourself not to gawk, though it takes effort.

When your eyes finally reach his face, restraint becomes even harder. Fine as hell doesn’t do him justice. His sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and the scar slicing through the corner of his smirking lips paint a picture of rugged perfection. Jet-black hair falls messily over his forehead, accentuating dark, brooding eyes that seem to hold an unspoken challenge.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly waiting for you to respond. Too many seconds have passed, and you hastily clear your throat, scrambling to collect yourself.

“And that compelled you to approach me?” you ask, arching a brow of your own. A teasing smirk plays on your lips. “Don’t tell me you’re a fellow Sexyy Red fan?”

His smirk deepens, and he crosses his arms, leaning casually against the squat rack like he has all the time in the world.

“Me?” His voice is low and gravelly, carrying an almost teasing edge. “Nah, can’t say I’m also bumping F My Babydad. In fact, that song’s been used against me in the past. Strongly recommend shuffling your playlist.”

The implication makes you blink. He’s someone’s baby daddy? You glance at him again, and yeah, it tracks. His whole aura screams DILF.

You laugh, breathless from both exertion and his audacity. “My heart goes out to you, but that’s not enough to turn me off the song. It’s keeping me pumped.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling low in his chest. His eyes sweep over you again—this time lingering on your two-piece set, the biker shorts and zip-up jacket hugging your frame. You feel a flicker of pride, knowing the pump is definitely doing its thing. But you quickly remind yourself not to encourage him, no matter how good he looks.

“I noticed,” he says, straightening. “That’s actually why I came over. Hope I’m not overstepping, but your form could use some tweaking. You’re targeting hamstrings more than glutes right now.”

Oh. So he wasn’t hitting on you? Maybe he’s just one of those older gym vets who genuinely want to help. Reluctantly, you concede, eager for the guidance. “Damn, is it that bad? I’m tryna build a dumpy for real. Any tips would be great.”

His brows knit briefly. “A what?”

You grin. “A dumpy. A dump truck. A fat ass. Come on, oldhead.”

His scowl deepens, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Toji. Use my name, not that.” He rolls his eyes, moving to strip the weights from your bar. “But that explains the Sexyy Red. You’re out here tryna Skeeyee or go to Pound town, huh? Don’t worry—I got you. Grab the bar.”

Snickering, you follow his instructions. “Absolutely not. Just help me with my form, Toji.”

Satisfied with your correction, he places a hand on your back, guiding you into a squat. “Wider stance,” he instructs, nodding as you adjust. His hand trails lower down your spine, encouraging you to drop further. “Lower. If you don’t hit a 90-degree angle, you’re not getting the full range of motion.”

You comply, biting back a shiver at his touch. He stays beside you, squatting to observe your form. “When you rise, drive through your heels and tense your glutes—lightly. Not too much.” His hand rests briefly on your hip as you rise, and your focus wavers dangerously.

Somehow, you power through the adjustments and complete your next set, his guidance making all the difference. By the time you finish, you’re drenched in sweat, thighs trembling from exertion, but the burn feels… good.

“You’re a quick learner,” Toji says, lifting the bar off your shoulders and racking it. His tone carries an edge of approval that makes your chest swell. “How’s it feel?”

“Sore, but good.” You glance in the mirror, a grin spreading as you take in your reflection. The pump is real. “You’re a lifesaver. You could seriously be a personal trainer.”

His smirk returns, and for a moment, he almost looks proud. “Good thing I am one. Imagine if you’d said I was trash.” He pauses, then extends a hand. “Hey, doll, this might sound out of line, but I’ve never trained someone on a glute-dominant program. Most of my clients are bodybuilders or boxers, but this could open doors. If you’re down, I’ll train you for free so I can develop a structured workout regimen. What do you say?”

You blink at him, stunned by the offer. Free sessions with this hunk of a man? The decision is a no-brainer. 

“How could I say no to that big guy?” You swat playfully at his arm, earning a chuckle. You retrieve your phone from the ground handing it towards him, “I’m in. Here, give me your number.”

Toji takes the device from your hand, his fingers moving swiftly over the screen. His grin is almost teasing as he hands it back. “Demanding,” he murmurs with a grin. “I like that. I’ll text you over the weekend. We’ll start Monday. That work for you?”

Though you agree, the wait over the weekend feels endless. You check your phone obsessively, half-convinced you’d imagined the whole interaction. But finally, a notification pops up while you’re leisurely sprawled out on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through your timeline.

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) Wassup, ma. How about 6 AM on Monday? Tues-Fri, I’m booked mornings, but anytime after 2 works.

You grin, slightly confused by the contact name he’d given himself, but already planning your reply.

You Bet, I’ll be there. We can do 3 PM the other days—I get off at 2.

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) Bet.

You I gotta ask… what does YHPT mean in your contact name?

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) 🤣🤣🤣  Young Hot Personal Trainer

You Young?! Sorry I asked. Lemme fix that.

Toji Fushiguro 👴🏼 (PT) Not too much on me, ma. 😒

On Monday, you start to wonder if Toji even needs to develop a new glute routine. He seems to already have it down to a science. When you meet him outside the locker room, he’s surprisingly professional, carefully explaining the plan for the day.

He considers your current fitness level but warns that he won’t go easy on you. “If you want results, you’ve gotta work for them,” he says.

Back at the squat rack, you steal a glance at his backside, confirming your suspicions: Toji definitely practices what he preaches. His ass is… impressive. Bubble butt levels of impressive. If this workout built that, you’re sold.

The session starts with barbell walking lunges. Toji adjusts the weights slightly heavier than you’re used to, staying close as you move through each step. He’s comfortable in athletic shorts and a pullover, barely breaking a sweat while you’re already glowing in your two-piece set. His hands are steady and deliberate when tweaking your form, his words always encouraging.

By the time you’re on weighted step-ups, you’ve shed your zip-up and tee, left in just your sports bra and shorts. When you transition to hip thrusts, you play coy about your familiarity with the exercise. It pays off deliciously as Toji demonstrates.

He drags a bench over, slides a barbell onto his lap, and gets into position. His thighs flex, the barbell pressing into his hips as he slowly thrusts upward, his voice low as he explains the importance of balance and control. But honestly, you’re too distracted by the sight of him—muscles taut, skin glowing under the gym lights, his bangs sticking to his forehead.

“Got it, ma? I’ll hand it over to you in a sec—might as well finish this set myself.”

That breathy ma and the half-lidded look he shoots your way? It’s lethal. You fidget on your feet, suddenly aware of how warm the gym feels.

When it’s your turn, you do your best to mimic his movements. To dispel any awkwardness, you wink at him. “How’s my form, big guy? I’m giving you all I’ve got.”

Toji chuckles, his grin playful. “Someone’s catching on quick.” He places a firm hand on your knee, his voice dipping, returning your wink. “That thrust is second to one.”

You end with sumo squats, a challenge given their deep range of motion. Determined to achieve those coveted “Megan knees,” you complain to Toji, who looks at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

“Alright, hold up. I know you can nail this—let me help.”

He positions you in front of the mirror, his presence towering behind you. When he steps closer, your breath hitches, his chest brushing against your back as he adjusts your stance.

“Open your legs wider. Angle your feet out,” he murmurs, his hands warm on your thighs. The heat of his breath on your neck nearly sends you spiraling, but you focus on the squat, sinking lower under his guidance.

“Atta girl,” he says softly, his tone making your heart race. “Just like that.”

It hits you then—there’s no way this is just standard training. Especially as you’re keenly aware of the firm press of his body behind yours.

“Toji, how many more? ‘M so tired,” you mumble, struggling through another rep.

“Two more. Push through, ma. Do it for me, yeah?”

His hands guide your hips, and you somehow manage to finish the set. Resting your hands on your knees, you catch your breath while he smirks, handing you a water bottle.

“Good girl,” he says.

Your brain short-circuits.

By Tuesday, you’ve settled into the routine, though Toji remains as hands-on as ever—literally. His physical guidance feels less like training and more like testing your resolve, especially when he throws in casual touches that linger just a bit too long.

The workouts are brutal, but Toji’s encouragement and relentless banter keep you going. You learn snippets about his life, mostly centered around his middle-school-aged son, Megumi—a tech-obsessed, angsty tween with whom Toji is actively struggling to connect with.

You start caring about how you look for these sessions—styling your hair, spritzing perfume, even picking out your cutest gym fits. You tell yourself it’s just motivation, but deep down, you know you’re becoming weak to Toji’s charm.

And Toji? He’s an enigma—a hot, muscular DILF who knows exactly what he’s doing.

On Friday, you meet Toji outside the locker room as usual. His unusually upbeat demeanor is paired with an announcement: he’s reserved a private room upstairs, equipped with advanced machines and, most importantly, a touch of exclusivity to let you experiment with new moves in peace.

“If you wanted to get me alone so badly, you could’ve just said that,” you tease, poking a playful finger at his cheek.

He smirks, catching your hand mid-air before letting it drop. “Can’t a guy be a gentleman and save his moves for later? But if you’re looking for forwardness…” He leans in with a wink, the grin on his face equal parts charming and incorrigible. “I won’t hold back.”

Rolling your eyes, you laugh. “Sure, big guy. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I took your advice,” he says, leading you up the stairs, his hand warm on your back. “Set up Discord for Megumi. Now the kid can actually game with his friends without me being the middleman. Thought I’d reward you with an advanced workout for that stroke of genius.”

You scoff, withdrawing yourself from his grip to cross your arms. “Reward? Sounds more like a punishment.”

He grins wider. “You’ll thank me later, mama. And if you’re not satisfied, you can choose your own reward.”

Inside the private room, your eyes roam over the space. Polished mirrors line one wall, reflecting sleek machines—a leg press, rowing machine, power bike, and more. A faint scent of disinfectant lingers, blending with the promise of an intense workout. Toji tosses his duffel bag near a large speaker in the corner.

“Look at that—a speaker. Gonna cut on some throwbacks so I can put you onto some real music.”

“Still not helping the oldhead allegations,” you quip, shaking your head as he connects his phone.

His smirk widens. “I’m whatever you want me to be, doll. That’s the business I stand on.” He points skyward with dramatic flair.

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “Toji, your usage of slang is deteriorating by the minute.”

Stretching side by side, his 90s playlist humming through the speaker, you fall into the familiar rhythm of the glute routine. The effort is paying off; you swear you’re already seeing results. 

Between sets, you’d even started pestering him for diet tips—anything to build that elusive shelf.

But as always, your attention drifts. During hip thrusts, your eyes wander to Toji’s defined arms, the way his shoulders shift as he mirrors your movements. During squats, you can’t help but notice his hands lingering on your hips, guiding you down with whispered encouragements.

“Drive through your heels, mama,” he murmurs near your ear, his breath warm against your neck. You’re panting by the final rep, equal parts exhausted and electrified.

When the set ends, Toji steps back, his absence leaving a surprising chill. He crosses his arms, eyeing you with that ever-present smirk. “You’ve mastered this routine. How about graduating to mine? Fridays are upper body days. What d’ya say?”

You trail a finger down his arm, tracing the veins. “And get jacked like you? Obviously.”

His grin softens into something almost fond. “Bet. Just try not to distract me too much, yeah? It’s hard enough maintaining my professionalism around you.”

You laugh as he pinches your cheek, only to retreat and yank off his tee, leaving him in a fitted black tank. He leads you to the dumbbells for bicep curls, and you challenge yourself with heavier weights to avoid ogling his sculpted frame.

“Look at you,” he says approvingly as you curl the weight. “Getting stronger every day.”

“Thanks, coach,” you reply, though your arms burn with effort.

Toji hoists a 45-pound dumbbell with ease, and your curiosity gets the better of you. “How much can you bench, anyway?”

He pauses mid-rep, considering. “Good question. Haven’t checked in a while. Wanna find out?”

Before you can answer, he’s clearing the bench, stacking plates with casual efficiency. Three 45s on each side—a total pushing 300 pounds—makes your jaw drop.

“Damn.”

He meets your stare, the bar balanced on his lap. “Don’t just stand there gawking. Come spot me.”

You circle behind the bench as Toji reclines, gripping the barbell above his chest. His muscles coil with tension, veins slightly raised under his skin. As you hover your hands just above his for support, you give a small nod for him to start.

Toji pushes the bar upward, arms locking at full extension before lowering it with precision. The rhythm is steady, his breaths growing heavier with each rep.

“Fuck,” he exhales, voice low and strained.

A laugh bubbles up from you, and you instinctively place your hands on his shoulders, feeling the solid swell of muscle shift beneath your touch.

Toji glances at you, eyes narrowing with playful admonition. “What’d I say about distracting me, huh, ma? Cut me some slack.”

Setting the bar down with a controlled thud, he looks up at you, dark locks falling across his face. His smirk is wolfish.

“I don’t think anything could really distract you,” you counter, grinning. “You’re benching 300 pounds like it’s nothing. Feels a little… superhuman.”

“Damn right.” Toji sits up briefly, flexing his arms like a bodybuilder and striking exaggerated poses in the mirror, whistling at himself.

You snort. “Alright, don’t let it go to your head now, big guy.”

He lays back down to begin his second set, but you’re feeling bold. Moving swiftly, you straddle the bench, swinging one leg over and settling into his lap.

His eyes widen briefly as he lowers the bar back to his chest, but he recovers fast, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.

“Guess you’ve got a better view from there, huh?” he murmurs. “You don’t mind counting these out for me, do ya?”

“Not at all.” You plant your hands on his stomach, the fabric of his tank top taut against the solid expanse beneath.

He starts again, pressing the bar up with ease.

“One… two… three… four,” you count, smirking. “You think you can hit twenty?”

“Easy work,” he grunts, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

But you’re feeling mischievous. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, fingers grazing the hard ridges of his abs. The contrast of warmth and strength makes your breath hitch.

“Five… six… seven…eight…” Toji’s steady rhythm falters as you increase the pressure of your movements. His eyes narrow at you, daring yet pleading for restraint.

You relent—for now—your hands sliding to rest firmly on his hips as he recovers.

“Nine… ten… eleven… twelve.” His reps slow significantly, the strain visible in his taut muscles. 

Sensing an opportunity, you lean into his weakness, grinding your hips down against him deliberately, the friction drawing a sharp hiss from his lips.

“Shit, ma,” Toji mutters through clenched teeth, sucking in a deep breath before lifting the bar again.

“Thirteen,” you murmur, your voice laced with mischief. You rotate your hips in a slow circle, reveling in the way his eyes squeeze shut and his breath hitches.

“‘s not fair—you’re playing dirty,” Toji rasps, lowering the bar with a groan. For a fleeting moment, you envy the steel weight—it holds all his focus while you fight to claim just half of it.

But it doesn’t matter; his body betrays him. You feel him harden beneath you, the friction growing deliciously intense through the thin layers of clothing separating you.

“Toji,” you gasp, biting down on your lip to stifle the sound as heat pools low in your stomach. Your movements become instinctive, grinding against him in search of relief.

And yet, Toji—ever determined—continues his reps, each lift of the bar accompanied by a subtle grind of his hips into you, fueling the dangerous tension.

“Sixteen—shit… seventeen—mhm… ah—eighteen… n-nineteen…” Your counting falters as you ride the edge of control, each syllable more breathless than the last.

“Mf—ma… I can go to thirty,” Toji growls, his voice thick with desire. “Take it out. Use me. Make yourself feel good.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you scramble to shed one leg of your shorts, fumbling with his waistband. Relief blooms when you find him bare beneath his sweats. You flick his chest, the movement playful yet teasing.

“Slut.”

Toji’s eyes darken, the weight of his gaze making your pulse race. “And what does that make you?” 

His voice is a low rumble as he lifts the bar again. “Keep counting, doll.”

“‘Kay,” you breathe, positioning yourself above him. The thick head of his length presses against your clothed center, and the sensation draws a near-whimper from your lips.

“Twenty… fuck—twenty-one… Toji—shit… twenty-two…”

You grind down harder, your movements desperate as you pump him with trembling hands. The feel of his shaft, hot and solid, against your slick sends you spiraling. Toji twitches under your touch, his breath ragged.

“Twenty-three—ah…”

A sharp, obnoxious buzzing cuts through the air, snapping you both out of the haze. The speaker blares with Toji’s ringtone, and he fumbles to set the bar down safely. The sudden motion sends you toppling to the floor in an undignified heap.

You blink, dazed, trying to make sense of the abrupt interruption as Toji curses under his breath. He hauls you back onto the bench, his movements rushed but gentle, before striding to his phone.

“Fuck, it’s Megumi,” Toji grumbles, glancing at his phone connected to the gym’s speaker. He picks it up, the ringtone still blaring. “Kid’s got the worst timing.”

You nod in acknowledgment, adjusting your shorts and ignoring the visible wet patch at the crotch. Toji answers the call, his tone shifting to frustration as he paces.

From his clipped responses, you catch snippets about school, carpooling, and a very annoyed Megumi. Toji sighs heavily, muttering a half-hearted apology before ending the call with a gruff, “See ya soon.”

“Mama,” he starts, turning to you with a weary look. “Forgot it's my turn to pick up Megs and his friends this week. In my defense, he deliberately didn’t remind me this morning just to get me caught up.”

You laugh softly as he digs through his duffle bag, pulling out another pair of sweats. Approaching you, he presses them into your hands.

“Here. Can’t have anyone else noticing the strong… impression I left on you,” he teases, his grin cocky. “Next time, I’ll double it.”

You step into the loose pants, tying the drawstring snugly around your waist. “Next time,” you echo, smiling up at him.

Toji hesitates as if it pains him to leave. He briefly embraces you, firmly squeezing your ass, and planting a wet, lingering kiss against the side of your neck before jogging toward the door.

Hooking up with your personal trainer. Immoral? Yes. Professional? Not even close. Hot? Absolutely.

But hey, it’s still exercise. Gotta see it through.

don’t try that freaky bench press position at home, take spotting seriously—not everyb got a heavenly restriction LOL

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One of Rock Star Eddie and Baker Steve wrong number AU

Link to Part Two

Eddie's got dubious history with picture messages. Only a very small group of people have his number, considering he's the front man of a multimillion best selling metal band, he doesn't ever want his number to be public knowledge.

So yeah, picture message from and unknown number? Dubious.

Eddie's had enough dick and...vag...pics in his time that he, honestly, doesn't really want another. But when the picture is followed by a message, "were you thinking something like this?"

Well, Eddie's a curious guy. So, committing himself to the idea that this might be new number time, again, he opens the message.

To be confronted with a cake. A really fucking cool cake actually, it's got a car dashing around a muddy track on top with a big '5' in the middle. All of it looks edible, made out of...cake stuff. Eddie has no idea what it is, but it looks delicious.

"One layer chocolate, one layer red velvet? I can do any combination of flavours you want."

Well. Eddie isn't anything but impulsive and he was trying to figure out what the fuck to do for the 'quiet' celebration they were planning for going platinum. Again.

"I think you have the wrong number'" Eddie types, "but I definitely want to order a cake from you."

"Oh my god I'm so sorry, unsolicited cake pics are the worst 😉"

And Eddie can't help it, he laughs, and types back, "if I told you I wanted three tiers of the darkest, spookiest, cherry chocolate what would you come up with?"

It takes a couple of minutes, but Eddie's phone pings twice in quick succession, the first picture is of a spooky orange cake clearly Halloween themed, covered in ghosts and skeletons and stuff. The second is jet black and has a coffin on top that looks like it's leaking green corrosive stuff and Eddie nearly throws his phone in excitement. "That! The second one!"

"🤣 that's an old pic, I was just starting out then, but everything is edible, the green slime is made out of jello"

"Where are you based and can you make it for the 15th? I'll get a courier to collect."

"Sure thing, how many portions? And I need a deposit up front. I'll do chocolate ganache and cherry filling."

"Errr...like, 150? Maybe?"

Eddie sits and watches as the dots appear and disappear, appear and disappear, and then there's a pic.

It's a selfie of the most beautiful man he's ever seen. And he's standing in a kitchen, holding a cake pan. Suddenly Eddie's phone is ringing in his hand and he is panicking because beautiful man is calling him. "Hello?"

"Hey, man, it's Steve, the cake guy?". Eddie assumes he makes an affirmative noise because Steve keeps talking, "anyway, that cake pan I'm holding is literally the largest one I own, even if I did three tiers, no way will it cater that many, I'm a small business, you know, it's just me. I can recommend you some companies I know would do a great job."

But then, Eddie will never get to talk to beautiful man ever again, "what if you made like, three cakes?". He asks desperately.

There's a long beat of silence on the phone, "I mean, in theory, I mean, it might cost you more than-"

"I'll pay it. I'll pay double, for, inconvenience, or whatever-"

And oh no, beautiful man has the most beautiful laugh too. Eddie's fucked. He's so fucked.

"I'll raise you, two cakes and fifty muffins?" Steve laughs again, and Eddie laughs right along with him.

Steve grabs his phone when it pings, hoping for Eddie. It is Eddie. It's a selfie from the neck down, like always, Steve still doesn't know what the guy looks like, but Eddie's wearing a deep red shirt that he's clearly just dumped a whole cup of coffee down, "hope your days going better than mine, sweetheart,"

Steve sends back a selfie with a lump of uncooperative modelling fondant in the background, "that depends, can you tell what this is supposed to be?"

Steve's pretty sure it's wierd to talk to a customer every day, but he's started to find he's looking forward to Eddie's messages. Even when they turn flirty. Especially when they turn flirty, maybe.

And maybe it's not exactly professional that Steve's found a lot of reasons to call Eddie. He just, needs to get this right, and if Eddie wants chocolate covered cherries on the cupcakes, well, Steve needs to call him and check, right? Right.

Steve heads out into the lounge with flour on his nose and a mixing bowl under his arm, Dustin, Lucas and Max are sprawled on the couch, El lying on the floor. He can hear Mike and Will fucking around outside. He spoons up some cherry mixture, "hey will you try-"

"Shhhhhhhh!"

Well. Rude. Steve looks to the interview they're watching on the TV. It's some metal band Steve vaguely recognises, and when the lead guy speaks...Steve has to sit down. Because that sounds a lot like-

"So, Eddie," the show host guy starts, and Steve's knees would go weak of he wasn't already sitting down. He's certain his stomach has left the building. "Seeing anyone?"

Eddie laughs, says no, but the band mate next to him makes a show of nudging Eddie and sharing a look.

The host picks up on it immediately, "so there is someone," Eddie's still shaking his head, but he's got a shy smile on his face that makes Steve feel like he's melting. "Come on Eddie, give us something."

"It's not a thing," Eddie flaps his hands, "don't make it a thing."

"Oh it's a thing alright," the audience laugh, "come on, give us something!"

Eddie looks uncomfortable for a second before shrugging, "they, uhm, they make the most amazing cakes you've ever seen."

[noirscript]

call avoidance.

Yandere Hotline: 3/?

featuring: implied drugging. implied tresspassing. lots of male masturbation. unsolicited phone sex (?). implied kidnapping. AFAB!Reader (yan calling reader mommy)

note: this is written while half-asleep. not edited. brain go brrr. i'll add the src some time.

Dealing with mad people can drive anyone insane. But if you're given a hefty sum to keep the insane ones company, you'll take. Life is tough, but you can choose your own hell.

"Got you some drink. Your favorite flavor," Heidi, your 'neighbor' in cubicle, said cheerfully as she placed the drink and sandwich on your spot.

"Well, who are we kidding." You shook your head before placing the plastic cup in your trash bin along with the tasty sandwich that came with it. "They're really persistent, you know?"

You smiled sheepishly as you arrange your cubicle to start a new day. Unlike your workmates, your place is quite neat and devoid of anything that would identify that spot as yours.

No personal images pinned on the corkboard. Not even a framed picture of whoever inspires you to get up and work hard without becoming insane yourself.

Upon accepting the job offer, you made sure to draw the most visible line to keep your personal life to yourself. You've heard some stories—some myths—about some agents disappearing without any trace overnight. Like they never existed in the first place.

"I hope they fuck off, you know?" You sighed before putting on your noise-cancelling headphones. "May we survive this shift," you grumbled as you wait for the first call with baited breath.

You have frequent customers. Most of them were pleasant to talk to. Let's just say that they're not exactly the dangerous type of callers. Those type clients were, most likely, drawn to the idea of being a 'yandere' as a fantasy. Sometimes, there's a hint of sexualization.

Almost every person on the floor are taking calls. Including you. However, your gut's been telling you to ignore the call. Maybe it's one of those unhinged callers who believes that you're theirs. Like they own you and all of your time.

You still have some available credits for call avoidance since you rarely used your credits. Surely, this one call will not affect your performance rating.

While waiting for the phone to stop ringing, you decided to clean up your work email. Being bombarded with useless newsletters about food and books on sale is the worse. Not only does it make your inbox crowded, it's also spammy.

You were fightung the urge to just select all and delete everything at once when you suddenly heard a notification. One after another.

One from your email, another one from your messaging app, and lastly—from the internal chatroom.

You opened the email with an attachment. It was a blank email but as soon as the preview for the attachment appeared, you almost gagged.

It was an image of a man's cock. There were translucent liquid splattered everywhere while the tip of his dick is on a cup—filled to the brim with iced coffee with foamy top. Your favorite.

Your hands were shaking as you exit the window of the website. You clicked the messaging app first. 'Perhaps it was just a promotional message from one of those companies.'

But no.

It was a message from a private number. You don't have any idea how they did it, but they kept sending you images. Most of them were blurry, but the ones with better quality almost made you vomit.

It was taken in a small room. At first, the room was dark, but eventually the image light up. His face was blurred, but you could clearly see what he was doing.

He was fucking your pillow. The one you've been using since you've moved in a better place with better security.

You were confused. And scared.

How could he easily enter your place? Your keys are with you and only the management has access to other duplicates.

"No way..." you whispered as you close the messaging app's window.

One bomb was dropped after another. And you knew something's off.

[NOTICE OF TERMINATION]

Due to multiple reports of call avoidance and drop calls, the management has decided to relieve you from your position as an agent effective immediately.

As we value your well-being, rest assured that you will be receiving your full payment for the next three months along with the other benefits that the company has sworn to provide you.

We sincerely appreciate your efforts for the last three years. We wish you all the best from this day forward.

You were devastated, yet relieved upon reading the letter. You've been wanting to receive this for months. It was the only way out of this place and this industry. You've also managed to save up a lot that you can start fresh somewhere. Far from this place.

Another phone call managed to bypass the automatic system of the place. You took a deep breath before accepting the call.

"Hello?"

"I can't... wait... haah..." the man on the line was clearly doing himself. By the eay he sounds, he's probably close. "We'll move to a big house... haah... hngg... a baby, a babyyy... nhnn... come home..."

Your eyes widened upon hearing your name. Not the screen name you gave them, but your legal full name.

"Let me... hngg... make you a mommy... d'you want that, huh?" You could a wet sloppy noises in the background. "Tiny baby... sucking on your tits... while I make a mess out of you?"

"Ap—"

"No need for... apologies..." he was breathing heavily. "I'll see you soon, okay?

"Heimdall."

He chuckled. "That's me, my princess... took you long enough to say my name."

"How did you get into my house?" you asked while gritting your teeth.

"Patience, my love. We could talk all about it once you're home. Should I get you something to eat? Chicken? Cake? Sandwich? Coffee?"

"I'm done with you."

You immediately pressed the end call button before gathering your things and left. Not even a farewell to your friends.

But there's something you should probably know.

Heidi can't wait to be an aunt and to be your sister-in-law!

[satoruswifeyyyy]

megumi fushiguro vs. a nosy old hag

masterlist

it was a beautiful sunday afternoon, and the park buzzed with the cheerful noise of children playing on the swings, the occasional bark of overexcited dogs, and the distant hum of ice cream trucks. megumi walked beside you, his expression as stoic as ever, one hand casually shoved in his pocket, the other firmly gripping the handle of hana’s stroller. the little girl, barely a year old and bursting with energy, sat strapped in, her chubby hands reaching out for every leaf that passed her line of vision.

you sighed, watching her attempt to shove a particularly soggy leaf into her mouth. “hana, no. we don’t eat leaves.” you bent down to pry it from her tiny fingers, earning a stubborn pout from the toddler.

“she’s just like her dad,” megumi muttered, his eyes fixed ahead, his tone flat but laced with a hint of exasperation. “no sense of what’s edible and what’s not.”

a snort escaped you before you could stop it. “you’re not wrong. i once saw gojo eat sushi off the floor because he claimed it ‘built character.’”

megumi grimaced, his lips twitching upward ever so slightly. “he’s the reason hand sanitizer sales are still booming.”

the two of you exchanged a rare laugh, your banter bouncing effortlessly back and forth. hana, oblivious to the jokes at her father’s expense, giggled as though she were part of the conversation. it was one of those moments where everything felt perfect—until she appeared.

the old woman came shuffling down the path, her sharp eyes narrowing the second they landed on the three of you. she had the aura of someone who kept a mental list of everyone she disapproved of, and today, you and megumi were apparently at the top.

she stopped abruptly, her knobby cane planted firmly in the ground. “you two should be ashamed of yourselves,” she declared, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. “so young, already with a child? what were you thinking?”

you blinked, caught entirely off guard. “excuse me?”

the woman’s glare intensified, and she jabbed her cane in your direction like an accusatory sword. “girls these days have no shame. couldn’t even keep your legs closed, could you? and you”—her eyes flicked to megumi—“should’ve had more sense than to let her ruin her life.”

you opened your mouth to retaliate, but she steamrolled ahead. “and the child doesn’t even look like you!” she squinted at hana, her gaze scrutinizing. “did she cheat on you? i wouldn’t be surprised. girls like her can’t be trusted.”

the smug satisfaction on her face made your usual sarcastic confidence falter, replaced by an unfamiliar knot of insecurity. hana, picking up on your sudden tension, began to wail, her tiny fists flailing.

you tried to soothe her, your voice shaking slightly. “don’t cry, sweetheart. it’s okay.”

that’s when megumi stepped in. he handed the stroller over to you and turned toward the old woman, his dark eyes narrowing into a glare so sharp it have frozen the sun mid-sky.

“first of all,” he began, his voice calm but seething with disdain, “she’s not our kid. she’s my sensei’s daughter. but even if she was, how exactly is that any of your business? are you the ceo of unsolicited opinions, or do you just hand them out for free on sundays? like do you hand out judgment for a living, or is this just a hobby?”

the woman blinked, clearly not expecting such a reply. “well, i—”

“second,” megumi interrupted, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “thanks for your concern, but i didn’t know we asked for a dna test expert. what’s next? you gonna tell us her astrological sign doesn’t match ours?”

you stared at him, half in awe and half biting back laughter. this was new.

“i’m just saying—” she began, but megumi cut her off again.

"oh, you’re saying plenty, and all of it’s useless. if you’re so worried about other people’s lives, maybe start with figuring out how to mind your own. and for the record, if this was my family, i’d be damn proud of it and if she was ours, she’d grow up surrounded by love, protected from nosy strangers who can’t keep their opinions to themselves. and she’d have the wittiest, sharpest mom in the world to teach her how to shut down busybodies like you. so unless you’re ready to explain why anyone cares about your outdated opinions, i suggest you keep walking."

“also,” he added, his gaze colder than ice, “don’t you dare talk about my girl like that again. she’s smarter, kinder, and more accomplished than you could ever dream of being. she doesn’t need validation from a stranger.” hana, as if sensing megumi’s unwavering confidence, stopped crying and began giggling, her chubby hands reaching out for him. megumi softened instantly, crouching to pick her up. “see?” he said, his voice quieter now as he held her close. “even she thinks you’re full of crap.”

the old woman’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, but no words came out. megumi rolled his eyes at her and then glared at her, with narrowed eyes, "don't you dare mess with my family ever again. if you do, i will personally summon mahoraga and haunt you down to the depths of hell."

the woman huffed, muttered something about “kids these days..." you flashed her a grin. “thanks for the free entertainment, ma’am. you made our day.”

megumi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. “you’re impossible.” you gaped "as if you are not!" you stared at megumi, your heart doing flips. he turned to you, his expression back to its usual stoic calm. “what?”

“‘mess with my family?’” you repeated, a teasing grin spreading across your face. “didn’t know you had such a dramatic streak, fushiguro.”

he shrugged, looking down at hana, who was now happily chewing on his sleeve. “she pissed me off.”

you laughed, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “you’re such a softie. i bet you’d cry during a pixar movie.”

“shut up.”

“oh, you love me,” you teased, smirking.

he sighed but didn’t deny it, his ears turning slightly pink. “let’s just go.”

with hana’s giggles filling the air and megumi’s rare smile softening his features, the three of you moved on.

A/N: okay i remember reading a similar drabble like this somewhere on tumblr but i remember it being sukuna and yuji instead of megumi and hana. i personally loved it and took inspiration from there so if you find the plot similar then yes, i have taken the writing prompt from that user (i am sorry, i don't really remember the name).

[leashybebes]

@a-mel0n, your tags made me choke so here, have some unsolicited fic. this is what i have from la's finest ally giving his new colleagues the lowdown

"Oh, I can't, I'm meeting a friend at Micky's."

Hen's eyebrows go up. "Yeah?"

"Oh. Not like that! Not that there's anything wrong with that - obviously. I'm an ally! I just wingman for a friend of mine sometimes. He's like - super hot, but he was in the army and then - I don't know, I get the feeling his dad's kinda homophobic, which - that sucks. He hasn't been out long, so I just go along for like. Moral support, or whatever."

Chim makes a long, high-pitched noise like the air leaving a balloon, and looks at Hen. She shrugs.

"I'm not touching that one with a ten foot pole. Have fun, kid."

"What? What?"

[itsnathateasy]

Hi! I really love your blog😭 Do you have any general bf head canons for eren or Connie?

warning: some nsfw headcanons, BUT they're in <s>! please skip if you’re uncomfortable with such content! word count: 1,1k a/n: do i have headcanons for these two baddies huh? thank you anon for assuming i’m a sane person! thank you for requesting this!🤍 these are all so random LMAO I’M SO SORRY but i laughed SO HARD writing them!

Eren Jaeger

With Eren, you’ve forgotten what showering alone feels like, because he keeps invading your space. Lovingly. And you also don’t really mind. But, sometimes, you need your quiet time. I don’t think Eren cares much about that or at least he doesn’t until you explain to him that he needs to ask before pulling the shower curtain open and randomly jumping in. “You said you were gonna take a shower, y/n, and I wanted to come and see.” With pouty eyes.

He calls you a bunch of times during the day, just so you can be on facetime together. You don’t even have to speak much, especially if you’re at work. He just wants to feel closer to you. (You can also read the clingy!bf eren headcanons!)

Eren has the time of his life when you’re going grocery shopping together. He’s being goofy and tries to get you to only buy snacks or asks you the most random questions about this thing he read in the ingredient list and you’re – somehow – supposed to know the answer. But the real reason he’s enjoying himself is that he’s lowkey upsetting you, and he finds it hot when you’re angry. That man needs a therapist, I swear.

DEMANDS cuddles. He doesn’t have to beg for them, but he likes to think he can get them anytime he wants to. Which is true, but you feel me. You don’t need to be persuaded to cuddle him.

He’s bought you guys matching cups for your morning coffee but, at some point, he decided he preferred your cup and proceeded to stealing it from you every now and then.

At first, you didn’t take him for a guy who gossips, he always seemed so ignorant about it. That was until you had some work/friend drama and you didn’t update him on the new deets. Frankly, you didn’t want to, talking about this topic drained emotionally. “But I need to know, y/n! What did his bitch ass say to Caitlyn? You shouldn’t be keeping it to yourself, come on, spill!” He’d taken the seat across from you on the couch and demanded that you tell him all about it.

He sees nobody else but you. You might bring it up in conversation that this person seemed to be interested in him or that they paid extra attention or whatever, but he honestly hadn’t noticed. He was busy watching you have fun wherever you were at and taking pictures of your cute face.

Will send you unsolicited d*ck pics. He was at the gym and he looked good, what’s your problem? “Didn’t see you complaining the other day now, did you?” “Just warn me before you send me that kind of photos, Eren, I’m working!” He might give it a second thought next time.

He makes so much noise, it’s embarrassing. Especially when you stumble upon your neighbours the morning after. But Eren is so proud of his loud ass and takes greater pride if manages to get you to be louder than him. The man is so whipped, he actually believes only the two of you exist. Everyone else is just here to fill up the simulation or something.

Eren unironically suggest that you film yourselves during it. Which isn’t gonna happen of course, but he’s convinced you’d be so good at it “people would pay to watch it”. Honestly, he knows he’s really pretty, and so are you. You’re like a top modle power couple in his eyes. It’s his arrogance speaking.

Connie Springer

I feel like connie is the type to text you the most random things throughout the day, from his food to the receipt he got from a convenience store because “you won’t believe how much they charged me for a tube of pringles babe!”

He will call you because he tried to cook dinner and misplaced some ingredient only for you to tell him you’d never had that ingredient to begin with. Turns out he confused the name of said spice/sauce and was looking for an everyday item, like black pepper or something. Baby boy was so ready to come at you because “we’ve ALWAYS had horseradish, y/n, WHERE IS IT??”

He looks up at you a lot, especially if your interests don’t collide. It’s not necessarily that he wants to learn from you (the way Armin would for example) but he’s really curious about anything you say you’re interested in and just wants to be included, you know?

Say you like this particular film genre, he’s made it his life’s mission to check if such a film was out in theatres and he forwards you the links so you can decide if you want to go watch it together.

He’s very open about his friend group and invites you to join them even early on in the relationship. He’s the type of guy with minimal boundaries, not in a bad way of course, just in the sense that he’s not private about his friends or hobbies etc. He wants you to know about him, same way he wants to know about you.

You know, I hate it when people make Connie be a pothead and nothing but that (if you’ve read the domestic!connie headcanons you know all about it) but I can’t deny that he does strike me like the guy who loves his mari. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how he originally confessed to you too. He’s not shy, on the contrary, but maybe you were hanging out at his place or with his friends, casually passing smoke when he admitted that “I’ve had my eye on you for ages, but I never knew how to bring it up in conversation”. You giggled for ages at his words, because who would’ve thought that he just didn’t know how to come about it, right?

Connie wakes you up in the middle of the fucking night to show you a funny video of a raccoon and be like “that you, y/n hehe”.

He also wakes you up in the middle of the night because he popped a boner and needs your attention. I think he’d play all pouty like “this only happens because I’m dating you, the hottest person in the world, y/n...”

I KNOW he whimpers, okay? I’ve heard him. But if you point it out, he’ll play coy and deny it.

Listen to me. People have been saying this, but I need you to pay attention. He eats it before he puts it in. Probably afterwards too. He’s a firm believer of mutual fun and he’d never deprive you of a good time. Besides, joy shared is doubled, right?

🏹 wanna be notified? join my tag list!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 39

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, pegging, Lloyd being the worst, post partum, csection, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The doors of the operating room fade behind you as the anesthetic takes you under. The splitting pain dulls as you sink beneath the veil of artificial sleep. Laced within the clouds of your unconscious you hear the beeping of machines, the clinks of metal tools in the tray, and the deep voice of your unshakeable pest; Lloyd Hansen.

The dread and horror are equally muddled by the intravenous flow. You feel a distant tugging, a plucking deep within, and somewhere beyond, you hear squalling. You’re vaguely aware of the sudden weight taken from you, and that new one that settles in its place. Tight and tender.

You float back to the surface slowly. Wading up above the layers of oblivion until you hear that steady rhythm, feeling it in your chest. That incessant tempo of your pulse mirrored by a digital beep. You groan and suck back a dribble of drool along your lip.

A longer, louder noise rolls from your throat. The pain nips its way through and your lashes flutter lightly, giving short glimpses of the world that awaits you. You hear fussing, low whispers and the soft murmur that responds. Hushing and humming that draws you in.

“Grhhhhsh,” the gibberish slips from your lips and your hand bounces off the rail clumsily.

You open your eyes, vision fuzzy and ears thrumming. A shadow approaches as you turn your head, blinking as you try to see past the sheen of sleep. You smile dopily as your head swims. Your other hand lingers on your thigh and you cautiously feel higher; you’re now doughy where the flesh was once taught.

“Bay-bee,” you pronounce, “girl.”

“Ah, sweet cakes, yes, you have a beautiful daughter,” Dottie’s voice drips into your ears, comforting you as it pools in your chest, “she was just lookin’ for ya.”

“Dot,” you utter weakly.

“Yes’m,” she touches your arm gently, “you want the precious bean?”

“Dot,” you open and close your hand, reaching for her without finding her, “where… Lllllll.” you swallow and lean back heavily, “tired.”

“Here,” Dottie leaves you, returning in an orb of red and pink. She takes your arm and hooks it around the warm bundle she eases onto your chest, “there, there. Look at that cute little peach.”

You look down. You feel the tiny form squirm and your eyes pinpoint on her face. A baby. Your baby? Yes, your daughter. The girl without a name.

“Harlan’s just gone to get the nurse,” she comforts as she stays close, “we’re just waiting to get the paperwork done. She needs a name and all that.”

You stare at the infant. Your heart feels like iron. Still and cold. You curl your lip and turn your chin up.

“Take her,” you murmur.

“You okay, darling?” She rubs your shoulder.

“I said take it. Now,” you demand harshly, “I don’t… I can’t.”

“It’s alright,” Dottie lifts the child from your arm, “you been through a lot, we’ll just give you some time to get your bearings.”

You scowl and don’t say how you don’t think you’ll ever want to hold that thing again. The way it wriggles and whimpers, so quietly. It’s so light and small, it may as well be nothing. 

“Well, whatcha wanna call her?”

“I don’t care,” you sniff, “ask him.”

“Well, we had some ideas but Marion didn’t say which he liked,” she explains as she lays the baby back in the small rolling crib.

“How about Marion? After the father?” You snap dryly.

“Hmm, I dunno,” Dottie hums, “you want some water, I got some here–”

“I don’t want to be here,” you retort and immediately cringe, “I’m… sorry, I’m just…”

There’s no way that baby is yours. You can’t remember anything more than the gripping agony in your gut. And now, the pain persists. All that and for what?

“I’m tired. Hurting,” you lie, only in that it’s not the reason you lashed out.

“Right, honey, that’s okay,” she assures once more.

“Just going to doing a check,” The nurse enters.

You glance up and see Harlan dip in behind her. You smile at him and search behind him, expecting another to follow. Nothing but an empty doorway.

“How’s the pain, scale of one to ten?” The nurse asks as she fiddles with your IV.

“Ten,” you grit out.

“Mmm, we’ll see what we can get you for that,” she says, “gotta make sure you’re able to feed your daughter.”

You frown. Feed? You look down at your swollen chest and moan at the fullness that throbs in your tits. Fuck.

“We can have an advisor come to help you with latching,” the nurse offers, “you should feed soon.”

“Fine,” you shrug. “When can I leave?”

“It’ll be a couple of days so we can keep an eye on your recovery. We’ll make sure you know the proper aftercare before you’re discharged.”

“Days?” You grumble.

“Yes, you have a new incision so you can’t be moving too much. Once you’re home, you’re going to be limited, no lifting, no strenuous activity…”

“Great,” you shake your head.

You stare at your body, deformed beneath the flannel blanket. You can feel it. You're totally ruined. You weren't ever a supermodel but the damage is done. Worn and loose and gross.

“Baby’s getting hungry,” Dottie says softly, “please send in the therapist so we can get her fed.”

You stay silent. The nurse leaves as you glare at the door. He has to show up any minute now.

“Where’s Ll–”

“Now we were just talking about names,” Dottie interjects, “Harley, why don’t you tell her the one you liked.”

“Oh, uh, hope I’m not to forward sayin’ so,” he says.

You look at him. Just say it. At this point, they can choose.

“I liked Luna,” Harlan says, “cause that little moonlight in her nursery, ya see… always liked the looka the moon.”

You nod. It’s pretty. You can’t think of much else and they definitely wouldn’t want you calling her the leech.

“I like Luna,” you agree flatly, “fine with me.”

“Well, that’s a nice name,” Dottie chimes, “yeah, Luna, it suits her. Shining and all.”

“Where is Lloyd?” You ask curtly.

Dottie smiles and looks at Harlan. His lips are straight and set. He swallows tightly.

“Now, hon, he… just went out to deal with some stuff, to make sure you can go home,” she explains, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“Oh.” You accept bluntly. “Right.”

“Too bad you didn’t see him,” she takes out her phone, “but I got a picture.” She holds up the screen to show you the image of Lloyd holding the bundle child. His eyes are wide as he stares at her. “Baby looks just like you, sweetheart.”

“Does i– she?” You ask.

“Well, I think so,” Dottie says, “but you know, babies always take after their daddies early on.”

You nod and play with the string of the linen gown. You watch the door. Waiting. This isn’t your mistake, it’s his.

[ladycrocy]

My very first fanfic!!!

AO3

Hey everyone! I have finally pieced togeth a small fanfic of just a scene I recently had in my head of Crocodile and Doflamingo.

Please go a little easy on me for this one as I am just starting out. I hope that you find it at least as entertaining as I did.

Word count: 1446

Warnings: Use of foul language, unsolicited graphic images, Verbal humiliation/abuse. (Please let me know if I need to add more ;-;)

Crocodile x Doflamingo

Crocodile caught in a birdcage

The king of the desert sat atop his throne amongst a pile of paperwork. This had become the norm now that all his pieces were falling into place in Alabasta. With Baroque Works finally taking off on its own, he could finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. Crocodile took a long puff of his expensive cigar and released a large cloud of smoke with a content exhale. Today would have to be another late night. The lack of trust in anyone else was his own demise and often left him with more paperwork than necessary.

A familiar bleating of a transponder snail snapped him out of his trance. He hadn't realized just how much of a headache he was suffering. "Click." The snail responded to him when he picked up the receiver. "Mr.0,"was his answer to the call connecting.

On the other end of the transmition was a soft, feminine voice. "Sir, you have a guest here to see you."

This irritated Crocodile to no end. Who could be bothering him at this time of day? Most likely one of his own to give him disappointing news. Baroque Works was a huge organization, but he was sacrificing quality on all that quantity. At least they were expendable. "Send them in." His deep voice could hardly care to hide his disapproval. Mentally preparing himself, he hangs up the receiver.

This was a good time as any for a drink. He poured himself a glass and leaned back in his big leather chair in order to relax before a vein popped out of his already furrowed brow. Nothing had even happened, and he was already preparing for the worst. At this time, he had made a mental note to weed out some of his more useless subordinates.

The doors burst open with no sign of anyone behind them. The smell of expensive cologne wafted in before Crocodile could make out the outline of a ten foot blond. The guttural sound that left his lips could never even remotely express his absolute disdain for the man entering. Donquiote Doflamingo. However, Crocodile is nothing if not a business man first. Doflamingo had proven his worth of this trait in his own right. If only he didn't have to be so.. him.

Doflamingo chuckled his way into the large accommodating off. That signature grin plastured on his face as he slipped through the large oak doors and slammed them shut just by holding out his hand. "Crocodile, you are a very hard man to get ahold of." Doflamingo's voice was loud and filled the entire room with his noise. Crocodile's headache only grew stronger.

"To what do I owe the displeasure of this little visit, Doflamingo? I already told you I am not interested in 'teaming up with you.' You are too reckless, and I can't find a good reason why I should." Crocodile's voice carried the heavy weight of his day as his deep rasp conveyed. He took another long puff of his cigar as he awaited what possible reason the pink menace could be here for. "If that was what you came here for, it could have waited for the next warlord meeting, or did you just want a change of scenery where I tell you to 'go to hell'?" A small chuckle released with the puff of smoke that was being used to cover up the strong scent of Doflamingo's expensive cologne.

Doflamingo's sadistic grin only widened. Within mere moments, he had made his way to behind Crocodile. His chuckle echoed off the wani tanks and flooded the room quickly. "Crocy-baby, you wound me. You know I can take more than that half assed insult. It's like you don't care anymore.~"

And just like that, Doflamingo's grin faded to a frown, and he stood up straight. It was as if a switch was flipped in this wild card of a man. He was every bit of his ten feet as he stepped to the side of Crocodile's chair. Doflamingo crossed his arms as he leaned against the desk so he could face Crocodile. His voice no longer holding his joyful cadence. "Alabasta will fall, Crocodile. You have too many cards stacked against you, and you can no longer see the top."

The pink warlord leans down to invade Crocodile's space and was now face to face with him. With his grin forming again, his long obscene tongue licked his lips like a hungry cannibal. "Don't worry though.. Because when that happens and you fall.. I will catch you.~" Despite his eyes being hidden behind opaque shades, the sexual desire was palpable enough to sense.

Crocodile didn't think it would be possible to portray the disgust and irritation he was feeling. Instead, he settled for puffing his cigar like he was a locomotive. Any bit of nicotine to take this edge off would have been welcomed. The only thing keeping him from having an all-out brawl with this pink idiot was the fact that he didn't want to cause anything to jeopardize his hard work and planning. Though the fantasy of reading in the paper that Doflamingo was found dead did cause an involuntary smile to creep across his face.

"Sand cannot be caught nor contained. It slips through the cracks just as I will forever slip through your fingers. You will never be able to keep me. I would rather drown in the deepest darkest ocean then ever team up with you. Being in the same room with you for this long should be its own level of hell." Crocodile ashed his cigar. He stared at the whiskey glass on the table that was accruing condensation. He felt so thirsty at that moment.

That roaring laughter began to build slowly until Doflamingo had to throw his head back to let it out. As he let it all out in one breath, his head jerked back towards Crocodile as it silenced immediately. "Fuck, if you only knew what you fucking do to me!" He cocked his head to the side, popping his neck and held up his hand. The unseen strings clung to Crocodiles chair and pulled him quickly in front of Doflamingo. With how tall Doffy was, his crotch was not too far off from where he thought it needed to be. "Wani~ Drowning you would be a waste. I have other ways of making you a leaking mess.~"

With a flick of his wrist, he pushed the chair back with his strings with an almost disgusted look on his face. That faded quickly before he spoke again. "Keep trying my patience, little slut, but I always get what I want. Even if I have to attach a string to every goddamn grain of sand and lock you away in a sea prism tower..." He paused as his venom filled words drew from his lips.

Doflamingo's tone changed once again to one that was almost jovial. "Oh, I almost forgot, it's your country's anniversary, so I decided to get you a little something. You know me.. always the romantic.~"

Sexual... to upset.. to kind... impossible to read what this pink feathered man is thinking. Crocodile stays silent as he ponders how this could have come to be that this other warlord is so obsessed with him. To his memory, he had barely introduced himself.

Doflamingo reached into his poofy pink coat and pulled out a small box. He tossed it onto Crocodile's desk as he began to walk out of his office. He lifted his hand in the air to wave him off as he exited. "Teaming up with me is more than what you could ever imagine. Let me know when you are ready to be a God.~"

Crocodile eyed the box and didn't even consider opening it until he knew for a fact that annoying bird was gone. His hook scooped the box closer and he opened it. A thin powder that resembled the dance powder. Along with it was a formula that looked to be modifying it in a way. "Impressive." The warlord was pleased to see such higher quality and nearly began to think of a way to thank Doflamingo until he flipped the formula over.

His blood boiled as the scar on his face tinted crimson. He was disgusted, repulsed, and.. is it that big?! The stupid pink menace had put the formula on the back of an image of him in nothing but his pink feather coat and holding his cock. Crocodile stabbed his hook right through that image. Grabbing his whiskey glass and downing it before shattering it in bare hand. "What a freak!"

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4

[whohasthecards]

Diners and Late Nights (CH 1)

Ch 1/Ch 2 (Work and Distractions)

Hangman slipped out of the crowded bar, leaving the chorus of celebrating aviators behind him, and started walking towards the Boardwalk. It was quiet, no tourists this time of the year, so barely anyone was milling around. Shops closed, light from dying lamp posts, the beach dark.

He got far enough that the bar was a blip in the distance. He reckoned by the time he got back, most of his classma- former classmates would have gone home to wherever. The bar doors closed for the night. 

He leaned his forearms at the railing, hearing the waves crash on the beach, but only see glimpses of the water due to the moon’s reflection. He sighed as he pulled out a new pack of cigarettes, unwrapping them and pulling one out.

He brought one between his teeth and lit it with a lighter, his other hand blocking the wind. He took a slow deep drag, held it in, breath again, 5 seconds, and out. He watched the smoke dissipate in the air, before he brought the cig to his lips again.

He won Top Gun.

After all those weeks of intense training. All these past few years in the Navy. All the years he spent studying, working, and training his ass off. He got the trophy. He should have been elated. He was, he swear he was, but all he felt was, nothing.

When his name was called he felt elated, as if a weight was lifted off his shoulders, relief. He smiled, laughed with Javy as he hooked an arm around his shoulder. Shook hands. Gave a grin and sarcastic remarks to his cohort. 

It died down.

Not the noise. Never the bright lives of the people around him, smiling, laughing, celebrating. From the classrooms, hangar, to the bar. All of them were celebrating, and he was smiling too, but it felt forced. Everything around him felt out of focus, as if he wasn’t fully there. Going through the motions of getting inside his truck and driving to the bar. Ordering a beer, but letting it get cold and stale. 

He won.

He felt relieved.

Then nothing.

He looked up, the sky was devoid of any stars, the moon was bright though.

He pulled out his phone, and opened the messaging app.

He scrolled down and pressed on his Dad’s contact. 

Stilted conversations. Unsolicited advice or criticisms. One word answers. Last message was sent 6 weeks ago.

He closed the chat.

Javy was probably back at the barracks sleeping. He had an early flight tomorrow.

Hell, he was pretty sure everyone else had an upcoming flight.

He took another drag of a cigarette.

He hoped that winning Top Gun would mean they could expedite his deployment. Better to have something to do, right?

He closed his eyes and leaned forward, groaning as he ran a hand through his hair with his other hand. 

“A penny for your thoughts, Lieutenant Seresin?” a voice asked and Jake turned around 

It took him a second to realise who it was, he’d never seen Admiral Simpson in regular clothing.

“Sir,” he said, straightening up, stubbing his cigarette on the railing.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Cyclone drawled, walking to lean on the railing beside him. “I’m not in uniform, and we’re off the clock. No need for formalities right now.”

Jake hesitantly nodded, throwing the cigarette bud away in a trashcan nearby.

“Didn’t think of you as a smoker,” Cyclone started casually.

“Not usually one, first time in months,” Seresin said, shrugging.

“A celebration for winning Top Gun?”

“Nah, ‘just needed to clear my head.” 

“Hmm, I get that, you’ll be needing a lot of those times when you go up the ranks in the Navy, try not to rely on that thing too much.” 

Jake felt a flash of irritation, “I don’t smoke a lot. Anyways,” Seresin said before giving the older man a smirk, “You think I’ll go up the ranks, Admiral? That seems like a compliment.”

Cyclone simply grunted in response. “That attitude will both help and curse you up the ranks.”

Seresin simply shrugged, “I know.”

“You know, I got your deployment request,” Cyclone started, making Jake stiffen.

“Yeah?” Jake said, trying to play it casually. He wished he didn’t snub out his cigarette, but he wasn’t rude enough to smoke in front of someone who wasn’t smoking.

“Pretty early timeline, don’t you think?”

“Got nothin’ better to do,” Jake said, shrugging. “Top Gun’s over, time to move-on to the next thing, right, sir?”

Cyclone gave him a look that made Jake hunch his shoulders before straightening up, “What?” He said glaring.

“I probably should have expected it, but I did not think you were a workaholic, Lieutenant.” Simpson said coolly.

Seresin shrugged, “I like to keep busy, sir, what else would I do?”

“Hmmm, you like breakfast Lieutenant.”

Jake looked at the admiral with a raised brow, “... Yes-?”

“Do you have anything you have to do tonight?”

“No-”

“Perfect, meet me in this diner, my treat, I need to properly congratulate this year’s Top Gun winner anyways.” Simpson said.

“You gave me my trophy and shook my hand already, though-?”

“Defying orders, Lieutenant?”

“I thought we were off the clock!”

-----

Seresin stood in front of the brightly lit diner. Before stepping inside. Noticing the classic red seats, 80s decorations, and bright neon lights. A little ring from a bell on the door.

“Be there in a sec!” A voice shouted from the back where the kitchen presumably was.

“Seresin,” Cyclone called out from the counter. “Almost thought you weren’t coming.”

He almost didn’t.

“It was a walk to my truck,” Jake answered instead, sitting down next to the man, opening the menu in front of him.

“Order whatever you want, I already ordered,” Cyclone said, sipping from his mug.

“Coffee this late at night, sir?”

“No, hot chocolate, they make theirs themselves, it’s very good.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jake said, nodding. “How’d you know this place, anyways?”

“You stay around these parts long enough, you start to know where the best 24hr dining option is. Been going here for years. Tastes better at night.”

Jake couldn’t argue with that.

An older lady came out from the back, “What can I get for you, honey?”

“Just the platter, ma’am, bacon and scrambled eggs,” Jake said, smiling. “And a hot chocolate too, please.”

“Aww aren’t you a polite young man,” she said, making Jake flush and duck his head. Barely anyone in the Navy would call him polite. “Beau, bring him around more often.” She said before going back to the kitchen.

“So you can get along with people,” Cyclone mused.

“I know how to get people to like me, I just choose not to, not worth the effort, most of the time,” Jake said, reaching forward for the case of toothpicks, shaking one out to his hand and bringing it to his mouth.

“So, you usually bring your subordinates to diners?”

“No,” Cyclone said simply. “Just the ones that look like they need a warm meal in them.”

“You’re the airboss, maybe you should do something about the slop in the cafeteria.”

Cyclone snorted, “I tried like many before me, and it remains one of my greatest failures,” Cyclone said drily. “Plus, it wouldn’t be the Navy without shitty food, would it?”

“I suppose not, sir.”

[forasecondtherewedwon]

The Ladies Whistledown

Fandom: Bridgerton Pairing: Eloise Bridgerton x Penelope Featherington Rating: T Chapter: 1 / ? Word Count: 1660

Summary: Their fight the night of the Featherington Ball breaks Eloise and Penelope's hearts. Not ready to lose her best friend, Penelope risks what little she has left, placing her new pages—and the future of Lady Whistledown—in Eloise's hands.

Eloise began to cry because she had cut her thumbs tearing the paper. She then continued to cry because all she could think, seeing the flurry of abused Whistledown pages strewn across the floor, was that Penelope—forever resourceful, forever observing beauty where Eloise saw ugliness—would have collected the crumpled paper and turned it into something wonderful. A doll for Augie, a ball for Gregory and Hyacinth to bat back and forth above Anthony’s head, something for Eloise which she could not even have fathomed. Something she could love.

Oh, Pen.

No.

Staring out the window at the brilliant flashes of light bursting above the Featherington residence, Eloise made a valiant effort to harden her heart into a thing which would similarly pop and crackle when touched by any fond emotion. Broken noises which might remind her to take better care. And she would have to now, would she not? Without Penelope to give a subtle nod to signal that Eloise was to curtail an irritable rant about one of her brothers because the brother in question had just entered the room behind her. Without Penelope to twitch the skirt of Eloise’s dress away from a mud puddle while they promenaded and Eloise ranted (admittedly, a favourite pastime) about Lady Whistledown’s strengths and flaws (again). Without Penelope to shop with her, or linger on the edges of ballrooms with her, or love her, really, just love her. A love which was neither an obligation (familial) nor a performance (male, obligatory, heavy with the unsolicited intent to court).

Eloise felt that she had lost much, but that she had destroyed much, and could therefore hardly be deserving of pity for her wounds. Just as she planned to do to the pages of Whistledown when she could stand to turn away from the window and look at them again, she had burned her friendship with Penelope down. It blazed still. Eloise had a feeling that, when she woke, she would find only cold ash in the hearth they had built as children. Now she was a lady, out in society, who had cut the creature who had been her very best friend in the world. (She squeezed the aching pads of her thumbs.) She might trail the silken fingertips of her fine new gloves through the cinders of her own broken heart.

When she saw Benedict come home, back across the street, Eloise thought about leaving her room to speak with him. But what would she say? How would she comport herself—she, this murky combination of victor, victim, and villain? She watched Benedict stop before coming inside, watched him turn back for a moment to enjoy the display. Green erupted and scattered in the sky; blades of grass tossed upward from a giant’s fist. The colour glowed on Benedict’s face, and Eloise noted that he was smiling. Another firework threw out an orange that imitated the setting sun and Benedict turned away mid-burst. His smile had gone. Perhaps he had spoken to Anthony, Eloise reasoned, and might therefore be in no humour to speak with her.

She also realized she had been watching the street in the hopes that someone else might race across it. This person would wear another colour that suggested the sun, but high in the sky, not setting. Yellow. Warm and giving, helpful and constant. The sob fought its way up Eloise’s throat as though she had swallowed a frog, a wet rip that seemed to grasp the air and claw its way through. She thought again of going out onto the landing and calling for her brother, but instead, she called for her lady’s maid.

When she entered the bedchamber, the maid remarked, “Gosh, Miss Eloise!” as her gaze fell upon the bulk of disembowelled gossip sheets. Eloise saw the woman swallow and compose herself. “Shall I have someone clear this away?”

“No,” Eloise sighed. “No, do not bother. I shall burn them myself by and by.”

“Very good, Miss.”

The maid did not appear convinced, but she very professionally dropped the matter and proceeded to assist Eloise with the letting down of her hair, the disrobing of her glittering gown. She brought a basin of hot water, and Eloise held a wet linen to her face, to her neck, her chest, the top of her back as her maid lifted her hair out of the way. She breathed in the warm damp as she cleansed herself of the ball. She had sweat—first, an anxious sweat as she had skirted the Featherington’s ballroom, hoping not to be asked to dance, and second, a panicked, irascible sweat as she and Penelope fought in her bedchamber, exchanging awful, perhaps unforgivable words.

When she was dressed for bed, Eloise dismissed her lady’s maid with a tired nod and a weak smile, lips pressed together and tucked in. The maid had asked whether Miss would like a fire that night—the air outside had taken on an unseasonable chill—but Eloise had decided against it, for some reason or other. Quietly, once alone, she picked the papers off the floor and scattered them into the cold grate. They resembled a drift of cream-coloured snow. Eloise left them and climbed into bed. There was nothing else to do.

She wanted a dream, something pleasant, to take her away from this night, but sleep would not come out to play, and so Eloise tossed between the sheets in overtired irritation. The revelation that Penelope was Lady Whistledown had ruined her evening, and now she would ruin her night? Monstrous!

“I will! Not! Allow it!” Eloise muttered in between pummeling her pillows before dropping down once more in a huff. She laid on her back and crossed her arms.

It was Penelope’s face she could not stop seeing whenever she closed her eyes. Eloise did sometimes think of her friend as she fell asleep, but always with a smile on her face that matched the one on Eloise’s own. As long as they had known one another, that had been Penelope’s natural state: a sweet, smiling girl. Now, Pen’s face came unbidden, and the expression that adorned it did not speak of pleasure or contentment. Instead, it was the very picture of frustrated heartbreak, as Eloise had last seen her. Brow furrowed, eyes tearful and accusatory, mouth open as she shrieked about how sorry she was, and yet, how unapologetic. They had never raised their voices at one another before.

Once more, Eloise could not escape cognizance of her role in the rupture of their cherished friendship. Putting Lady Whistledown’s missteps and cruelties to one side revealed Eloise’s serious betrayal of her own beliefs—for had not she always hated to be underestimated? To be thought useless, insipid, small? Not only in others’ eyes, but in their actions, which too often divulged an appraisal of her in which she was found somehow wanting. Most of the time, this did not truly matter—Eloise paid would-be critics so little mind—but to be thus judged by a friend? A dear friend, one who ought to have been a lifelong companion. The thought was unbearable. This was what she had done to Penelope. It was therefore impossible to think herself blameless.

While Eloise had dreaded every hurtle society set out before her—now curtsy, now smile, now dance a quadrille with sweaty Lord So-and-so who is bound to tread upon your feet—hating to perform with the aim of achieving some ephemeral idea of feminine perfection, Penelope had found someone else to become. Not only palatable, this seemed to have been Penelope’s very source of refuge. Eloise, who had only ever yearned to be herself, exactly as she was, could not comprehend it.

And did this mean that it was wrong?

Certainly, Penelope had done harm. For Eloise to say or even think otherwise would be an injustice to many, including herself. Yet the seed from which the toxic plant had grown and the poisonous flower eventually bloomed… it had not been sown with ill intent. If Eloise commanded herself to step back and consider the matter impartially, she could believe that. She could revive the sympathy she had felt for her friend before, whenever Lady Featherington had Penelope dressed in yet another gown that did not suit her, or concentrated her husband-hunting efforts on prospects for Penelope’s sisters, or told Penelope to stop reading because it would not be useful if she ever did become engaged. Eloise could see the turns at which Penelope’s interests had been neglected where Eloise’s had been nurtured, her ambitions thwarted where Eloise’s had been indulged, her personality treated as a thing which had to conform to the Featherington’s flat façade where Eloise’s always had a place within the larger, occasionally chaotic, Bridgerton living portrait.

Eloise was intimately familiar with the loneliness of her own heart. Penelope’s would not have been less severe.

But the secrets! Even knowing Penelope and Whistledown were one and the same, Eloise felt as though the friendship she had known as well as she knew that the earth went ’round the sun suddenly had three people in it where there had formerly been just two. She could not raise an arm without hitting her elbow against the pernicious gossip peddler. That was how it felt: as though this other woman had snuck in, rudely squeezed herself between Eloise and Penelope, and told Pen what to do, all the time shielding her from Eloise’s view. In this imagining, Whistledown was bossy and opinionated and uncompromising, and it was so very difficult for Eloise to hate the figure she had constructed because she wanted to admire her instead. And Pen. Pen wanted that, as Eloise had seen; she wanted Eloise to admire her endeavors and share in the accomplishment.

But I do not want to share you, Eloise thought bitterly, finally sinking into a sleep weighed down by the many tears she had shed.

[theoldgaylion]

rain down on me

And just like the rain

You cast the dust into nothing

And wash out the salt from my hands

So touch me again

***

Time seemed to pass with an unusual rhythm of its own at the Lighthouse, day and night blending into each other as the its inhabitants busied themselves in their chambers or common areas, like the briefing room for example.

And that was right there where Lucanis almost walked into Antimo and Emmrich amiably talking sitting next to each other, each of them holding a fuming cup of tea in their hands.

Before he could cross the threshold, he swiftly hid behind the wall as the door was left ajar. He'd been lucky he didn't make any noise. And now he was standing there watching the two and he didn't even know why.

As of late, it didn't go unnoticed to Lucanis the way the Mourn Watchers spent quite some time together, Antimo looking enthusiastic to talk about his life subject with someone who could actually understand and share his passion. And Lucanis couldn't help but be happy for him, because he learned that the man really loved talking about the Grand Necropolis and his work as a Mourn Watcher, especially after what he'd told him about his former wife not being supportive of that kind of life.

So that view wasn't a surprise to him. What was new, however, was Emmrich standing a little too close to Antimo, and the latter not flinching away from that attention.

He couldn't properly make up what the current topic of the conversation was in particular because words were spoken softly, confidentiality almost.

But what he could see clearly from his hiding spot was Emmrich’s right hand gingerly resting on the other man's knee.

“Ohhh. Would you look at that.” Spite’s voice echoed in his mind, sounding amused. “That happens when you. Take. Too. Long.” he added, punctuating the sentence by harshly clapping his hands.

The Crow’s lips twisted in an annoyed grimace at that unsolicited comment, as he kept staring at the two.

Antimo chuckled at something the other Mourn Watcher said, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening with glee. And Emmrich squeezed his knee in reply.

That snapped something in Lucanis.

Keep reading on ao3

[archduchessgortash]

OC Deep Dive Questions

Thank you for the tag, @hippotooth

I may have forgotten this in my drafts... 😅

Answering on behalf of my 2 favorite Durges in separate posts... (the other one will be up tomorrow)

Reposting one of the beautiful shots made by @aristenfromwarsaw

For Tyrsa, my halfing Durge bard from my AU fic, in which she's been fighting the Urge tooth and nail since it manifested, answers are below the cut:

Also of note: ARACHNID JUMPSCARE ahead...

What common/uncommon fear do they have?

Tyrsa struggles with quiet. Alot. The Urge is always there, but if the world around her is loud and boisterous, it blends into the noise, making it easier to suppress. In silence, there's only it and her.

She's also claustrophobic and has a lingering concern about very dark places. It has to do with a fear of the dark inside being awakened by the dark outside.

Do they have any pet peeves?

Excessive unsolicited flirting really irks Tyrsa. This sweet little redemption Durge punched Gortash when they first met in person. And she was not there intending to murder him or anything.

She also rolls her eyes at Astarion and calls him a tart. He calls her a harpy. It's a running joke between them.

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

She has two bedrooms. We'll start with the Temple of Bhaal. There's a dagger in an unsnapped leather sheath under her pillow, less for her protection than as a way to protect others from her. A bookshelf is lined with jars of pickled organs, the trophies from her more personally-motivated murders over the years. Behind a loose stone, an arm's length down into a sheer drop off, her personal journal is hidden. In between the pages are carefully folded letters sent by Gortash and all of the songs that Tyrsa wrote for him.

Tyrsa's other bedroom is shared with a certain scrunkly tyrant. Three things we find within are: a black marble artifice-powered hot tub designed by her sexy genius, a cabinet of outrageously expensive custom musical instruments of every portable variety (gifts from you-know-who), and in a dresser near the lavish four-poster bed, a leather harness that is used for something much more fun than mere bondage.

What do they notice first in a person?

Tyrsa has a knack for detecting the pain that someone is in, even when they're desperate to hide it. She was ill-treated by a lot of people over the years after she lost her parents, and the one constant she observed was that the people who were the most horrible to her were themselves in terrible pain. Easing the pain of others eases her own in turn.

Physically, she's drawn to uniqueness. She has a particular weakness for facial scars. She would have been all over Wyll and Halsin if Astarion hadn't already sunk his fangs into her heart.

On a scale from 1-10, how high is their pain tolerance?

Like 12, maybe? They didn't really make the scale for her... Physical pain is a vacation from the emotional pain she's usually in. Screaming for Abdirak was all performance. More of a vacation, honestly.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?

'May you never know the violence it took to make me this gentle.' An apt phrase for her.

Every memory the Urge shows her is a new nightmare she's desperate to avoid repeating. Tyrsa doesn't wish to do harm unless absolutely necessary, but once a fight is inevitable, she's calm and calculated. Battle is the only time she's even slightly in sync with her Urge.

Emotional pressure is a different story. Fight is usually her first instinct, either to prove a point in a verbal battle or to be the one who fights so others don't have to. Flight will activate if she's afraid of losing control, however. Her pride will go completely out the window, and she won't care if she looks like a coward, a monster, or an imbecile, so long as it saves innocent lives.

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?

Yes and no. Biologically, Tyrsa has many Bhaalspawn siblings, though most are long dead. The couple that adopted her had no other children. That being said, her chosen family is very important to her.

What animal represents them best?

Before she meets Gortash...

While adorable AF, these tiny arthropods are agile hunters who expertly plan their attacks. Like all species of spider, they're also cannibalistic. One important note about female spiders is a penchant for devouring their mates as a post-coital snack.

After she meets Gortash...

Co-leaders of a pack, alpha wolves mate for life and fiercely protect each other.

After the tadpole...

What is a smell they dislike?

She blends into both. Her new, tadpoled, scared-shitless-yet-putting-on-brave-faces friends bring out protective maternal instincts that she, as a Bhaalspawn intent on never reproducing, had no idea she possessed. They are all her babies (except Astarion), and she will carry them until they are okay to make it on their own. She makes her Star walk beside her, not behind.

Have they broken any bones?

The coronation invite's scent made Tyrsa gag a little. Gortash's vanilla and rosewater cologne is the result of bad advice he took when his Durge wasn't there.

She also has this moment, when she's rejected Bhaal, after Withers saves her (I keep Orin's corpse intact in this AU because I hate Bhaal owning her so hard that he can just turn her into blood). Tyrsa bursts into tears because Orin's corpse actually stinks. It only stinks. Finally.

Many. Some of them were even her own. She's dislocated her shoulders multiple times as well. From restraints.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

It depends on the role she's playing. Tyrsa uses Disguise Self liberally, especially on hunts, and slips into whichever persona is required to accomplish her objective. Usually, she remains as forgettable as possible. When she's true to her core motivations, however, she is often seen as annoyingly selfless. For example, within twenty minutes of meeting her on the Nautiloid, Lae'zel called her she'lak and k'chakhi, Wyll and Gale reach Exceptional level approval for her super early, and Astarion is always griping about her good deeds. Yet he's still crazy about her.

Are they a night owl, or morning bird?

Pre-tadpole, she was more of a night owl, as the most by-the-book Bhaalist murders take place at midnight. After her memory loss, she was deeply moved by Astarion's reaction to the first sunrise they watched together. Ever since, even though she's groggy, they wake before the sun and watch it rise. This is very poignant later because she won't help him ascend.

What's a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?

Do they have any hobbies?

Humanoid flesh. Tyrsa hates it; the Urge loves it. Outside of Durge-specific lore, however, she hates oysters. In spite of their supposed aphrodisiac properties, she thinks they taste like the ocean sneezed a glob of snot into her mouth.

Tyrsa loves tomatoes like a hobbit loves mushrooms.

Bards have so many! Songwriting, dancing, swimming, and, mustn't forget... contract murder. She's also exceptional at Lanceboard. She and Gortash played a strip version once. He won... but only because he cheated. Tyrsa has a weakness for scientific language, but only when Gortash says it. She calls it speaking inventor at her. And it always works.

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprise?

Do they like to wear jewelry?

Since Durges don't really have birthdays per se, I think most people with Durge OCs have lore for it. Here's mine: Tyrsa's adoptive parents, upon realizing her paperwork had no birthdate on it but she was estimated to be about three years old, decided to give her a birthday, on the day that they adopted her, which was Midsummer. The parties they threw her were among her happiest childhood memories. After the Urge killed her parents, she never celebrated her birthday again and sort of blocked out that she had ever had one, even before Orin's betrayal. It was impossible for her to remember her parents without pain, without the Urge showing her their deaths again. Even the happy memories she had to lock away.

Gortash knows this about her, and also that she always makes a huge deal out of his birthdays. In the post-game, once she's rejected Bhaal, he makes Astarion tell him when his birthday is. Star doesn't want to celebrate because it makes him feel old, but Gortash tells him it's not about him. Maybe calls him a sassy bitch? 🤷‍♀️ It is, in fact, all a ploy to get Tyrsa to help him plan a surprise party for Astarion that actually turns out to be her own.

So there's crying. The happy kind.

Jumpscare surprises--on the other hand--will get the offender punched.

Yes. Tyrsa has multiple piercings, including both ears, her eyebrow, and her navel. They're often fidgets, particularly the loop in her left ear and a silver ring with an infinity symbol engraved into it that she's worn on her thumb since she was thirteen. It was a gift from a kind person she sang to at a house of healing in Waterdeep when she was attending the Bard's College there. It's the only non-piercing that remained on her after waking on the Nautiloid.

One very precious jewelry item didn't make it, however: an intricately carved golden locket with a large, heart-shaped gemstone in it, a gift from Gortash that she had never once taken off. She unconsciously paws her chest for it after the memory loss. She tries on every new necklace she finds, but none of them feel right, just grasping at a memory she can't seem to hold onto. She's been known to fling amulets across the camp site in fits of frustration no more explicable to her than to her companions.

Do they have neat or messy handwriting?

Tyrsa's handwriting is quite showy. Lots of loops, etc. It's just barely legible.

What are the two emotions they feel the most?

Rage and love. Sometimes simultaneously. There's a reason she was drawn to Astarion after her memory of Gortash was gone.

Do they have a favourite fabric?

Very fine, soft cotton is her top pick, but leather gets an honorable mention for how deeply she loves the smell of it.

What kind of accent do they have?

She has the same London-sounding accent as Wyll Ravengard. Only with much, much, MUCH more profanity. Bards and language, ya know?

[omegaremix]

Consumer Electronics / Alberich / Yellow Tears / Copley Metal @ Saint Vitus, N.Y.C.; December 7, 2015.

“Consumer Electronics will be the next act I will buy tickets for should they come to New York City” I exclaimed in September. It was checked off by Philip Best, and five weeks later there it was. Consumer Electronics declared a show in New York City. There it was. I called it. I got what I asked for, so now go get it or else.

I took the train to Woodside, then its’ “7″ subway to the “G” to Greenpoint and Manhattan Avenues, walked a few blocks to arrive at Saint Vitus which has to be the most raw, tasteful, and bad-ass venue dressed in black. As soon as I verified my ticket, I wasted no time to walk through the bar to the floor where Copley Metal, dressed very nice and neat, was performing right in front of the audience at their level.Ten minutes later Copley Metal ended to pack up to give way to Hospital Production’s Alberich, who offered us a thirty-minute slow-burn of maelstrom noise set. Alberich sat very calm and collective in much control, later on shaking a microphone for more effects and adding in voice samples. He stood up adding more force to his combat noise, shaking the microphone more vigorously before giving it lyrics when some Gaye Advert look-a-like in a leather jacket bowling-pinned her way to the front of the crowd, giving free unsolicited hugs to a select few other bystanders. Alberich shuts it off for good before getting a very respectable round of applause from the crowd.

Yellow Tears then arrived. Their set-up consisted of Korgs, Yamahas, two guitars, knobs, a toilet seat placed on a custodial bucket, and two “splash zone” banners draped from their tables. If there was a joker card thrown into the set, then they would be it. Their performance went in a different direction from what other people would assume in any given noise show. Ridiculous. No one knew who they were before this, so any expectations of seriousness and maturity flew right out the window. Yellow Tears played the audience as equal as they were playful themselves as they pulled every card from their very versatile deck.

What other act would repeatedly scream “What Is Frank?” as a still of vocalist Frank Ludovico constantly zooms in and out? Psychedelic backing films on screen that could make Tim And Eric blush and reconsider themselves, plus a film loop of Disney’s Cinderella shower scene as Ludovico literally lightly sweeps the stage and then proceeds to sit down on the makeshift toilet seat bucket, exasperating light sighs of relief while the whole audience continued their what-the-fuck moment with Yellow Tears. During their entire set, they went from many different styles of music while seeming to perform as if they were a skit comedy show in succession. At first, I thought they were playing with a random bag of tricks to the tune or game of “do you get it?”, but since the audience had been there and seen various cartoon, kid show, or skit culture references before, they did get it. And they weren’t finished: Yellow Tears’ set turned a participation act into a sales pitch. Only Ludovico has the steel to take two audience members up on stage to sell them ten-dollar coffee mugs with free cups of coffee during their set, and they fucking bought it.

Finally the moment all of us have been waiting for: Philip Best and wife Sara Ruth Best shortly took the stage to set up shop, fine-tuning everything before starting. Consumer Electronics still continues where Whitehouse left off with all the controversy, uneasy subject matter, deprivation, and grit that the former was all about, while Whitehouse became William Bennett’s Cut Hands, a tribal-electronic project of his. Whitehouse truly made me think of how they got away with everything they done, how their lyrics were pieced, how the noise not like the others came to be, and what to make of their output. Over the last few years, I was so interested in Whitehouse that I followed their respective future projects and took what they offered in terms of thoughts, commentary, or even recommendations. With the Best’s Consumer Electronics project, the philosophy still continues.

Best greeted us “cunts”, as he always does. We cheered because we know it comes from Mr. Best. Best charged his accusation finger calling for all of us to “Come Clean”. Throughout the show, he shared with us all of his raw material: cut up, photocopied, stitched, glued, and wrinkled for all of us to see. He even walked over to show us lyrics to “Elite Gymnastics”. The references: various questionable obscenity, controversy, Anne Frank’s smiling portrait, Alice Elizabeth, Baby’s Gang, present for all to witness. Best licked the pages and rub it against his crotch. Later on he threw those same pages on the floor, once knocking over a drink from the stage to the floor. He licked his fingers in such an uneasy, disgusting gesture. His fists shaking, screaming in his usual rage, sometimes inciting the crowd. With Best walking and his usual blood going, he walked back and forth to two microphone stands, trading tirades from one to another. All the while, the tall, slender, and beautiful Sarah Best did controller duties and even took to screaming for a few songs including “Murder Your Masters” and “Co-Opted By Cunts”, made with repetitive, sweeping, crunchy beats courtesy of sometimes-member Russell Haswell, who unfortunately was not part of the show’s festivities. But we were treated to “Affirmation”, “Colour Climax”, “Estuary English”, “Knives Cut”, and more from the last four Consumer Electronic’s records (2007-2015). They ended their show with the horrific and terrifyingly real “Black Cotton Wool”, a abrasive shred of bone-shivering abusive screaming and grinding noise before Best motioned to have Sarah shut it down, declaring to visit us again very soon.

Two beer cans (Pabst Blue Ribbon, the prized beer of hipsters) were thrown in their direction. A cute shaven skinhead girl was dancing happily. One heckler was screaming at the couple to “get back to work” with other pointless one-liners as well. One fan who was leaning on the speakers took a very heavy whiff of an ether his lady friend offered him and twitched uncontrollably for about five minutes. When he finally came down to Earth, he screamed at Best to “fuck me, Daddy”. Best replies: “You wish.” We all burst in laughter. During some songs, the meat of the crowd suddenly whipped itself in a frenzy. As those songs came into play, the crowd got very into it and bobbed to the pulsations of the Bests’ driven beats. One person stage-dived into the crowd while others participated into a vicious mosh on the floor. And that’s why it’s called power (violence) electronics, as times haven’t changed. The Best’s made it all happen. It was everything I expected to be and I’m very happy to have seen The Bests / Consumer Electronics in action as I wanted to.

Which now leaves me to one more act on my current bucket list which is the other half of what was Whitehouse: William Bennett’s Cut Hands. I had the chance to see him along with Pharmakon and Godflesh but passed it up, and another on very short notice this year with only a week to have a ticket but scheduling disallowed it. Just like seeing Consumer Electronics and the other noise show earlier this year in New York City, I need to see Cut Hands for an excuse to go to the city again to keep my music quotient and style points up.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

Would you ever write stories about other groups?

This blog is exclusively for BTS. If I do choose to post somewhere else, I feel like my writing style is very distinctive so you'll probably know right away it's me (also I don't hide my biases of other groups, SVT's Woozi is just Min Yoongi, special edition Busan version). As of right now I don't have any plans to publish anywhere else.

if you're interested in current wiyllt status, read under break

I don't post much about myself because I generally think it's unnecessary but you did click here so I'll let you know what's up. 2025 started off a lot busier than I thought due to work (gotta pay for concert tickets somehow) and personal life (not really me per se but people around me smh), so naturally wiyllt did the responsible thing and picked up a new video game, Metaphor ReFantazio (turn-based JRPG by Atlus that is probably now one of my top 3 games - dynamic characters with exploration of complex emotions in their storylines, insightful and deep messages about today's society, excellent gameplay mechanics, wonderful art as a whole) which has helped me keep a level head (chasing after my marbles all day gets tiring). It also made me remember something important. There can sometimes be a lot of clatter and noise that ultimately dampens a wonderful experience even despite you ignoring it. It is unavoidable, to some degree, and not all of it is negative of course, yet to have that peace of enjoyment is an unparalleled serenity. Is your free time truly free if it is constantly hijacked by unsolicited loud voices? People seem to constantly want to be the ones to twist the knife and find those minor flaws to create cracks in others' happiness. I'll stop here, as that's quite enough yap lol. The game has me both greatly pleased and greatly pensive and actually has nothing to do with what I stated above though HAHAHA if you want to play it, just play it, it is worth the blind buy.

tl;dr wiyllt busy being wiyllt