#heavy on the third one bc hes rich rich

[chrissdollie]

CHRISSS

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

*image from The Boys on Amazon Prime stills

Summary: This fills my #Sensory Deprivation square for @jacklesversebingo

Characters: Soldier Boy x female reader

Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY, blindfold, massage, D/s, power play, twist ending

Words: 1,800

Author’s notes: many thanks to @brrose-apothecary @talltalesandbedtimestories @sam-is-my-safe-word—without you three, I’d have shelved this thing. I might have to do a follow-up to this for Kasey bc our behind-the-scenes riffing cracks me the fuck up lollll

B.C.L. RED

Early on Saturday morning, her doorbell rings. No one so much as approaches her door without Ranger, the bodyguard assigned to her. Regardless, she peeks through the secure viewer before opening the door to her penthouse.

“Good morning,” she greets Ranger, and he silently nods in answer, handing her a small envelope.

She accepts, thanks him, and closes the door behind her. 

She flips the envelope over and picks at the oxblood wax seal over the flap until it pops open, then reaches inside to pull out a notecard, impressed with his handwriting.

“Be ready at 7:30 PM. Ranger will drive you.”

It’s been a month. She hasn’t kissed him, felt his touch, heard his voice—there hasn’t been so much as a phone call or text message in 30 days.

Her heart flutters and her skin ripples. She draws a deep breath to calm herself, then exhales before setting his note aside and heading to the kitchen for breakfast.

Hours later, after her shower, she emerges from her steam-filled bathroom, gently squeezing her hair dry, and stops in her tracks. 

On the foot of her bed is a sheer bra and panty set. They’re fairly plain other than the Swiss dotting—but they’re red.

“Whores wear red!” He bruised her lips, swiping his thumbs outward, smearing “Ruby Woo” from ear to ear, and ripped the cherry red PVC Versace dress in two as if it were tissue paper. His hand wrapped her throat as he yanked the garment from her shoulders, and threw it aside while pushing her to her knees. He was violent and reckless, and she’d never been so afraid of him.

She gasps at the recollection branded into her memory. Why would he send her something red after that? Her memory is blessedly derailed by the arrival of her hair and make-up artists, bursting into the room.

They blow out and roll her hair, prime her skin and make it up, then set everything with the appropriate spray. Two of the women begin to clean up as she slips into the bra and panties set, wondering what to wear over it. Then, out of nowhere, the third woman appears with a red silk cloak with black trim and a pair of ruby red stilettos.

“And here’s the icing on the cake.”

At 7:30, Ranger meets her at the door and escorts her to the parking garage. She tries to gain control of her heart rate as they chat amicably. Before helping her into the backseat of the town car, Ranger hands her a small unadorned box.  

“I’ve been instructed to assist you if needed.”

She shivers at the thought of exactly what type of gift he would allow Ranger to assist her with. When she opens the box, she almost laughs at the innocuous blindfold inside.

“I think I can handle it,” she sighs with relief, turning toward the open car. “I assume he wants it in place before we leave the garage?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She eagerly fits the black silk blindfold over her eyes, relaxing into the backseat. Ten minutes later, Ranger pulls into a parking garage and helps her out of the car. 

“There’s a step up here, ma’am, but once there, we’re directly in front of the elevator to the penthouse.”

She nods, and he ushers her inside the elevator car. Within moments, the doors open, and he’s there.

She can feel him, smell him, hear him move closer. Her heart races and her breath hitches.

It’s been so long.

“There she is.” His rich, rhythmic baritone and heavy, measured steps reverberate throughout her body, mind, and soul. “Thank you, Ranger. You can take the night off.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The door clicks softly behind her, and then the room is quiet. She stands still and waits.

For several moments, she waits.

Finally, he draws a slow deep breath and then exhales as his boots shift against the marble floor and begin to beat a circular path around her. His scrutiny weighs heavy in the air, landing on her shoulders, wrapping her arms, hips, and thighs. She’s quaking inside, uncertain, and powerless. 

“Do you have any idea the hold you have over me?” he asks.

She remains unmoving and wordless.

“I can have any woman I want, any time. And yet...” He stops in front of her and sighs. “Did you miss me, princess?”

She opens and closes her mouth like she’s chewing on the words that she can’t say.

“Answer.” The heat from his skin washes over her breastbone and bare shoulders as he pushes her heavy cloak to the floor.

“Yes, sir,” her voice cracks just above a whisper.

“Do you like your presents?” he asks with a lilt of amusement in the depth of his voice. 

Her heart skips, but she tries to remain present.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, he touches her—both hands scooping and cradling her jaw, he tilts her face and dips in to kiss her. His mouth is warm, and his lips are firm, his movements sure and smooth. She whimpers, her fingers itching and her gut clenching.

“You can touch me,” he mutters against her lips with a chuckle. “Let’s catch up a little, huh?”

She sighs and leans into him, pushing her fingers into his hair, running one hand up over his chest and around the back of his neck. He kisses her as he lifts her, encouraging her legs around his waist, as he moves to a plush sofa across the large room. 

“Do whatever you need to do to get comfortable,” he instructs, brushing his thumbs across her nipples and pressing kisses along the column of her throat.

Her brain is thrown into overdrive because she needs a lot of things, and never once has he cared to ask or discuss them. She shifts under him, wanting friction, to get closer.

He groans, pulling at the backs of her knees and slotting his hips between her open thighs, rolling one sheer silk-covered nipple between a thumb and forefinger and taking over the other with his mouth. 

“Fucking beautiful tits.” He licks and nibbles, and her body heats from the tips of her ears to her toes. 

She arches her neck and back, reveling in his praise, and his mouth and hands on every inch of her body. He kisses her skin, licks her nipples, and grips her thighs tightly as he ruts into her. She’s so wet and needy, she can smell herself. She wonders if he can smell her, too, as she hooks her hands over his shoulders and leverages herself to grind against him.

“Let’s get rid of this,” he murmurs, unclasping her bra and tossing it aside before burying his face between her breasts.

He is so good with his mouth and hands that she’s afraid she’ll come before he’s given her the rules for the night. He pinches and slowly twists her nipple as he burrows the hard bulge in his pants into the sodden silk covering her aching cunt.

“Tonight you can come whenever you want. And, I know you want to; I can smell how much you want to, but I’ve got plans.”

He hauls her to her feet before taking her mouth in another savage kiss.

“Fuck,” he sneers, twisting the back of her hair in his hand to give himself something to hold onto as he pulls away and leads her to the bedroom. “I canceled your scheduled massage today because I want to do it. Make sure it gets done right.”

He spins and lifts her onto the massage table. She inhales the fresh scent of eucalyptus, spring greens, and peppermint, and relaxes her shoulders.

“Lie back,” he murmurs, dragging thick, heavy fingers from her rib cage to her hips.

She silently obeys, and he caresses her calves and ankles on his way to remove her stilettos. She squirms from the way the damp silk feels between her legs as it cools.

“Should I-” she begins, then clamps her mouth shut. 

He chuckles as he curls his fingers around the string of her thong to pull them over her hips and off. “Allow me.”

Once her thong is gone, he’s covering her up to her neck with a warm, luxurious sheet. 

“You know,” he runs his big hands over the sheet, across her shoulders, and down her arms, gently squeezing along the way. “You’re fascinating. And infuriating.”

She is perplexed by his shift since she saw him last. Is he finally coming to think of her as someone he might love?

He retrieves a bottle of massage oil and dispenses an ample amount in his palm then rubs his hands together to warm them. “Just relax.”

He slides his hands under her neck and tucks his thumbs at the base of her skull then grips each hinge of her jaw with his pointer and middle fingers. When he presses and slides his middle fingers along the undersides of her jaw, tilting her chin toward the ceiling with his thumbs anchoring her cervical spine, the tension breaks. 

She moans loud and long, and he chuckles.

“There you go, baby girl. Let it out.” 

He slowly manipulates her neck and upper spine, loosening her jaw and shoulders, and working his way down her chest. Before moving further down her body, he pumps more oil into his hand then skates his hand under the sheet to cup her upper rib cage and gently lift, flexing her thoracic---

“What the fuck is this?!” Soldier Boy flicks the script in his hand like it’s a gnat.

“This kinda thing is trending in media.” Legend raises a hand in defense.

“What’s trending? Acting like a pussy?” Soldier Boy looks back down at the script. “What’s this, ‘do you have any idea the hold you have over me?’ bullshit?”

“Power Play in romance is very popular right now.”

“Romance.” America’s first hero scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Jesus. ‘You can touch me’?! What is this girl, twenty-six-years-old? Does she need a chaperone, too?”

He stands and begins to pace.

“They’re looking at Florence Pugh for the role.”

“What about Jane Fonda? She may be a commie but at least she’s hot—and doesn’t need to be told when to touch someone.”

“This isn’t a vehicle for a woman her age.”

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.” Soldier Boy tosses the script across the room like a frisbee. “I founded Herogasm, ya know; this is not how this shit works.”

Legend sighs and massages his temples. “Ben...”

“Get Stan Edgar on the phone!” The supe shouts and the Ashleys scatter in a flurry of ‘yes, sirs’. “Should’ve stuck to ‘whores wear red’; at least that was compelling.”

Soldier Boy lights a joint as Legend quietly mutters to himself that he’s too old “for this shit.”

The supe exhales. “You can say that again.”

More Soldier Boy | More Jacklesverse Bingo | MJ's Master List

[gay-disabled-characters-showdown]

LGBTQ+ Disabled Characters Showdown Round 1, Wave 1, Poll 2

A character being totally canon LGBTQ+ and disabled was not required to be in this competition. Please check qualifications and propaganda before asking why a character is included.

Check out the other polls in this wave here.

Ignis Scientia-Final Fantasy XV

Qualifications:

Blind, gay/demi-romantic, asexual

Propaganda:

Ignis only lost his eyesight (rather than his life) due to his strong will to protect Noctis. He is stated by the game makers to be in a deep relationship with his colleague and friend, Gladio. So it's halfway confirmed/heavy implied for those two boys. (And might be Ignis is asexual). And this man deserves so much. He is the mom friend and gives everything. And so much is taken from him.

Wylan Van Eck-Six of Crows

Qualifications:

Wylan has dyslexia (heavily implied, but not outright said bc setting) and is gay,

Dyslexic and gay!

They are in a adorable m/m relationship, and also have severe dyslexia to the point that (when eight) he could not read or write despite formal education

Wylan is gay and dyslexic!

Propaganda:

Wylan and Jesper have the absolute cutest relationship. Also, Wylan has dyslexia. I don't think it was outright said, but that was heavily implied. It just couldn't be set out loud for the sake of maintaining the fantasy setting. He's such a good character, and is primarily known for his skill with explosives, not his struggles with reading and writing. The other protagonists also never judge him for it, and the only character who does is the kind of person 90% of readers want to kill by the end of the series.

His boyfriend Jesper helped him fake being able to read so they could beat Wylan's shitty dad.

- He's incredibly sweet - But can also be ok with murder sometimes, like when killing unconscious people wasn't good - so just wake them up. - He was thrown out of the house and his father tried to kill him, because of said dyslexia, but managed to survive. Then rebelled against his father and with the help of friends took down his empire - He is very talented at the flute. And can draw very well, along with being a great chemist and demolition experts (hired for making flash bombs and other cool shit-) - Helps break into a world-class prison, then blushes the entire time because the person he's pared with keeps flirting with him - Asks his (eventual boyfriend) if he's into guys. Then immediately gets flustered when Jesper picks it up - Is very rich heir (due to shenanigans) and there's a one-off line about this sweet bean kind of being a sugar daddy- (just gives his boyfriend money to do stocks with, to stop him from gambling) - Supports his boyfriend throughout his gambling addiction and tries to help him overcome it

Wylan is dyslexic and because of this written off as stupid by his father. However, he is actually a genius, especially with chemicals, and he uses his genius and his new band of misfit friends to take his father down and read him for filth in front of a whole bunch of important people. He is good at making things explode. He also nabs himself a hot boyfriend in the process so good for him!

The qualifications and propaganda paragraphs correspond, @wisheduponastar is the third submitter.

[byersbootyshorts]

Guitar Lessons

Summary: Eddie has a thing for playing his guitar at some unholy hour of the night. You're there to punish him for it.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Warnings: sub!Eddie, dom!reader, some heavy ass smut, mommy kink, wrist restraints

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: This is the first time I've ever written a one shot let alone a smutty one. Please be nice and enjoy.

You wake up with a start. What the hell is that racket? It takes you a few moments to come to your senses before you realised what had woken you from your peaceful slumber. It was the sound of an electric guitar blasting through the windows of your dingy old trailer.

God, one thing you hated about living in a trailer park was the unrelenting lack of silence. If it wasn’t the wheels of Max’s skateboard on the pavement or a random baby’s cry echoing through the park it was Eddie Munson’s BC Rich Warlock blaring whatever song he felt like playing at two in the morning.

You were surprised when you first moved to the park that none of the other residents did anything about his late-night jam sessions but you weren’t going to let that stop you from trying.

And so, every night you heard that guitar blast through your window you got up, threw on the first hoodie you put your hands on and walked over to the trailer two down from your own.

It started out as a simple telling off. Pounding the door, telling him to shut up because its literally 2am and slamming the door in his face again.

But one day he decided to say something back.

‘Hey, you just moved in, didn’t you?’ he blurted out before you could slam the door on him for the third time that week.

You paused, releasing the tension in your arm that was about to whip the door shut.

‘Uh, yeah. I moved in two trailers down last month,’ you replied, your annoyance reflecting in your voice.

‘You wanna come in?’

And that was where it started. It turned out Eddie wasn’t the asshole he made himself out to be. You’d never admit it but you couldn’t wait for those nights when you’d be awoken by a riff from another Black Sabbath song. Those few hours in the dead of night spent in Eddie’s trailer were some of the best. Underneath his rock star ego was an intriguing guy you couldn’t help but like.

As those nights of talking went on and the two of you got more comfortable around each other it soon became clear it wasn’t just talking you wanted to be doing. What started out as nights of deep conversation turned into nights of, well, deep something else.

Tonight is no different. You scramble to pull on the Hellfire Club shirt you ‘borrowed’ from Eddie as you hear the familiar thrum from down the park. You exit your room, almost running to the door when you hear your mother’s voice coming from her bedroom.

 ‘Make sure he knows if he plays that goddamn guitar this late again it’ll be me coming over there to give him a piece of my mind!’ she shouts angrily.

‘Oh, don’t worry mom. He’s in for it,’ you reply, stumbling out the door.

You’re barely half way to his trailer when the riff stops and the flimsy door flies open. He’s been watching for you.

Before a you even share a word, you’re pushing him back into the dimly lit living room, lips on his. After a few minutes of silent making out you reluctantly pull away.

‘How many times do I have to tell you to shut the hell up,’ you say between kisses.

‘As many as it takes for you to do that thing you did a couple nights ago,’ he said breathily.

Your mind drifts back to that night and a smirk forms on your face. Compared to what you have planned for tonight choking him like you had a few nights prior was child’s play.

Eventually the two of you managed to make your way to his bedroom. You can already feel how hard he is under his tight black jeans. You pull him off you and throw him onto his bed. The way he stares up at you with those dark chocolate eyes almost makes you melt.

‘You know, my mom said if you pull that shit one more time, she’s gonna come over here and speak to you herself,’ you began to move closer to the bed. ‘I said I’d teach you a lesson.’

You’re on top of him now, lips only an inch from his.

’You’d rather have me punish you than her, wouldn’t you?’ you whisper, grabbing his dick, making him squirm.

‘Yes, yes mommy,’ he gulps.

‘I’ll only do it if you ask me to,’ you tease, getting off him slowly, as if to leave. ‘If you beg me to.’

Without hesitation he grabs your waist and sets you back on top of him.

‘Please, please, I want you to, please.’

‘You want me to what?’

‘Punish me. Please mommy, I want you to punish me. I’ve been a bad boy.’

It almost makes you laugh how desperate he is. Lying there practically writhing when you haven’t even taken any clothes of yet.

On that note you point at his chest and order him to take off his shirt while you undo his belt painfully slowly, making sure to rub against his bulging jeans as much as possible.

When, at last, you pull his pants off, and remove your own clothes, you look up to find him with his eyes closed, gripping his sheets.

‘You can’t be like that already,’ you taunt. ‘We’re just getting started.’

He just nods, raggedly breathing like he’s just run a marathon.

‘Excuse me, look at me when I speak to you,’ you raise your voice.

His eyes whip open to reveal a look of pure desperation.

‘Good boy,’ you hum, stroking his hair. That only drives him more crazy.

‘Now I feel you need to learn a lesson or two,’ you say, beginning to leave a trail of hickeys down his collar bone and chest as he shifts uncomfortably beneath you. ‘Lesson number one, you need to learn to be patient. I mean look at you already.’ You pull his hair to lift his head so he look at the state he’s already in.

‘This isn’t going to be much fun for me if you’re done before we even get started now, is it?’

He shakes his head violently.

‘Then let’s see how long you can last for me.’

You slowly ease your way onto his dick, stifling a moan as you take it all in. He isn’t so subtle. He throws his head back, grabbing your thighs and releases a breathy moan.

‘Ah, ah, ah,’ you tease removing his hands from your thighs. ‘Don’t make me tie you up. I can’t punish you if you’re all over me like that.’

Without thinking he whines, ‘Please, fuck, please tie me up.’ He glances over to his bedside table where a long piece of rope lies waiting. You begin to laugh.

‘You little slut,’ you say, reaching over to grab the rope. ‘You wanted this all along.’

You tightly tie his hands to his bedpost, all the while still sitting on his dick. You have to admit, you’re surprised he hasn’t came already. So, you decide to up the action.

Without warning you begin to grind up and down on his dick, immediately receiving the reaction you’d hope for.

‘Mmh, oh fuck,’ Eddie moans, a little louder than you’d expected.

You smirk. It’s time for his second lesson.

‘Lesson number two. You need to learn to shut the hell up. First your loud ass guitar and now this. How about giving the people in this trailer park a bit of peace and quiet,’ you bend down, put your finger on his lip and whisper, ‘shhh.’

You remove your finger and replace it with your lips, kissing his lips, neck and chest while continuing to grind at a faster pace. Every so often his hips jut upwards but that only makes you grind faster.

‘Don’t do that. You wanna be a good boy, don’t you?’

He can only reply with a choked whimper.

‘Then start acting like one.’

After a while of grinding and hair pulling and choking, you too begin to feel yourself become weak with pleasure.

‘Okay, let’s make a deal, shall we?’ you begin, looking down into his tear-filled eyes. ‘If you can hold off and wait to cum at the same time as me, I’ll let you scream as loud as you want.’

The look in his eyes tells you all you need to know.

You use him like a doll until you feel you can go no longer. You look down at him gazing back up at you, his bangs stuck to the sweat on his forehead.

‘You’re so pretty,’ you say without thinking.

And that just about sends him over the edge. His hips jut upwards again, almost splitting you in half as he cries, ‘Oh god, please. I’ve been so good. I’ve been so quiet. I did everything you asked mommy. Please, fuck, please,’ he pleads

You love it when he begs like that. Looking so pathetic but so beautiful at the same time. It’s almost too much for you too.

‘Okay, okay. You have been a good boy. Thank you for that.’ You stare into his deep brown eyes for a moment before ordering, ‘Go on then.’

He doesn’t have to be told twice. Within seconds he’s cumming, and so are you. He screams your name louder than you’ve ever heard him scream it before. And you’re whispering his, trying to keep your composure.

When at last you both come down from your euphoria you begrudgingly lift yourself off him and untie his restraints. You lie on the bed as he practically shakes beside you, breathing in time with you.

‘Well, did you learn your lessons then,’ you ask after a moment of recovery.

Still out of breath, he replies, ‘If it means we get to do that again, then fuck no.’

[jackrrabbit]

Spoiled Rotten /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Request: What if Overhaul fucks spoiled rich reader because her dad owes the yakuza money and in exchange Kai takes the daughter as a form of payment using her as his personal stress doll whenever and wherever he wants making her into his perfect little doll

A/N: While I was writing this my roommate asked if I was okay bc cause I kept stopping to fan myself and blush lmaooooo god I’m such a brat. I did change the concept up a bit, hope that’s fine!

This is dedicated not only to the OG requester but also to everyone who read the excerpt I posted a while back and told me they couldn’t wait to see the finished product!! Love you guys ❤️

Tags/warnings: threats, dubcon/coercion, dom/sub, brat taming, degradation, exhibitionism, restraints, mentions of forced prostitution, verbal & physical harassment, kidnapping, kinda breath play?, long

The first thing you notice when you come to are voices. Multiple people talking to each other, speech overlapping in patterns you can’t make out. They’re quiet—not whispering for your sake, but quiet because you’re still half knocked-out and you can barely hear.

The second thing you notice is the pounding in your head and the lingering smell of something sweet spread over your nose and mouth.

The third thing you notice is the fact that when you try to blink your eyes open, your lashes brush against something soft and dark. You’re blindfolded…and gagged, and your hands feel like they’re cuffed behind your back. From what you can sense around you, it seems like you’re hunched in a kneeling position with your cheek flattened against the floor and your bare feet tucked under your backside.

At least you’re still in your nightgown. You can feel the frilly silk of it, a useless barrier between your skin and the cool air, and it reminds you of how you got here in the first place.

A loud noise in the night. Your father’s voice pleading. A heavy thump. The door to your bedroom banging open and a strange man holding you down to your bed…lifting a sweet-smelling rag to your mouth…telling you to “take a deeeeep breath, princess.”

“Hey, I think she’s waking up.”

An invisible hand fists itself in your hair and you whine in pain as your upper body is lifted off the floor. Once you’re properly upright, you hear squeaking, shoes against concrete, and the heat and breath and presence of someone behind you. Something rustles at the back of your head—you’re too scared to move so you stay still—and then the blindfold is being lifted off your face.

Once it’s gone, you have to blink for a moment even despite the low light of the dingy room where you’ve…apparently…been kidnapped. By the freaking yakuza. And for some reason, they’re all wearing bird-beak masks.

You close your eyes, almost wishing they hadn’t taken the blindfold off. You’d prefer to live in blissful ignorance of how decidedly unclean the floor is. How dare they let your face touch it? What happened to honor among thieves?

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Against your will, your eyes flick up to the speaker. He’s the only one sitting, and somehow that gives him a position of power among the others. The leader?

Unsettling golden eyes rest on yours, and you realize he’s waiting for your answer, so you slowly move your head from side to side.

“Didn’t know about daddy’s bad habits, huh?” This time the person speaking is behind you, the one who untied your blindfold, a thin man with lank, greasy blond hair. He’s the one who drugged me, you remember in a surge of panic, and you try to stand up away from him only for him to step on the chain that connects your handcuffs, jerking you back and pinning you—painfully—to the floor.

“Careful, Setsuno. I told you not to leave marks. Let her talk.”

“Got it, boss.” The blond—Setsuno—fumbles at the back of your head and then he’s pulling the gag out of your mouth.

You open and close your mouth a few times to stretch out the stiff muscles. “Oh. My. God. Was that polyester you just took out of my mouth? Do you have any idea how bad synthetics are for sensitive skin? I’m totally going to break out.”

A hush falls over the little room. You could hear a pin drop.

“…Are you complaining about the quality of the fabric we gagged you with?” the leader asks after a second.

“You may be yakuza, but you don’t have to act like savages,” you reply primly, aligning your knees together and sending a proud look off to the side.

“Ohh…little princess deserves better, does she?” Setsuno coos. He edges closer to rub his cheek against yours and laughs when you cringe away from him. “Boss, you shoulda seen her bedroom. All pink and frilly, looked like royalty lived there. Bet they treat you like a real princess at home, huh? No wonder your daddy’s in debt.”

“Daddy isn’t—“

“Your father…took out loans from my gang. My men came last night to collect,” the leader says, drumming his fingers over the armrest of his chair impatiently.

He’s wearing plastic gloves. Why is he wearing plastic gloves? Immediately your mind is spinning, imagining all the different gruesome possibilities of what they’re going to do to you. “That’s ridiculous. My daddy doesn’t need to borrow money—“

“Clearly he does, because it looks like he pissed it all away on his daughter.” The leader’s eyes are cold enough to make you shiver—although maybe that’s just the icy temperature of the floor soaking through your nightgown.

“He had a couple payments overdue, so we stopped by to ask nicely for him to pay up,” Setsuno says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Didn’t find too many valuables in your house, but then we got our hands on a real treasure.”

“Don’t touch me—“

“You don’t seem to understand the position you’re in,” the leader says. “When I made my contract with your father, he understood that obligations like these are inherited. Since he can’t pay his debt, you’re going to be working it off in his place.”

Working it off? You swallow. Somehow you don’t think he’s talking about your little part-time job as a receptionist at your daddy’s company. “You can’t make me do that.”

“I’m not sure you’re getting the gist, princess,” Setsuno hums. “What we’re gonna do is we’re gonna put you in a room, and then men are gonna give us money, and then we’ll let those men fuck you. All that money’s gonna go toward paying what your daddy borrowed. Sound good?”

For the first time since you can remember, you’re shocked speechless. They’re going to…what? But you’re a quick thinker, and instead of letting these filthy, awful gangters boss you around, you raise your chin haughtily to look directly into the leader’s eyes. “I don’t think so. If Daddy’s the one who got himself in debt, you can make him whore himself out to pay it back. You can’t hold me responsible for something he’s done.”

Another brief silence, and then you hear a whistle echo out from the corner of the room (and you try not to look toward it, reminding yourself that this can only get worse if they know how scared you are). “She’s got a mouth on her, Overhaul,” someone says.

Overhaul. So the leader’s name is Overhaul. How ridiculous; it sounds like a villain’s name.

“Aww, princess,” Setsuno says, and once again his voice is too close for your comfort. “Little spoiled princess doesn’t know how to shut her mouth and suck it up when things don’t go her way? Well…you’ll learn.”

You don’t want to know what he’s talking about, although if you thought about it for more than a second it’d be obvious. You suck in a harsh breath and the cool, damp air stings against your dry throat. “You can’t just make me—“

“Ohh, I think we can. See, if your daddy’s been spending all of the Shie Hassaikai’s money on his precious daughter, don’t you think you owe a little too? Like, this dress—“ you jump as Setsuno’s hand tugs on the thin, floaty silk— “was bought with Overhaul’s money, so it belongs to him, right?”

You keep quiet, not wanting to prompt him to go further, but when his hands stroke up over your waist to grope your breasts in full view of everyone else in the room, you don’t really have to guess.

“And, y’know, your daddy’s been keeping you nice and healthy with Overhaul’s cash, making sure you grow up into such a pretty girl…” Setsuno’s voice is a purr in your ear as his hands squeeze your tits almost lovingly, then pinch your nipples through the fabric. “So hey—if you think about it, this tight little body…belongs to Overhaul too. Isn’t that right, sir?”

You squirm in place as best you can but with the metal cuffs digging into your wrists, there’s nothing you can do to get away from his touch. You’re desperate enough to shoot a terrified glance up at the leader—surely there are rules about treating an innocent girl like this, even for the yakuza—but he looks as unmoved as before. “Get her out of my sight. We’ll give her a rest for the next few days, and then…”

“No!” you yelp, too panicked to keep up the pretense of confidence. “I won’t, I can’t do that, please don’t make me—“

“Shhh. You’ll get used to it, princess. And if you don’t…” Setsuno’s hand combs though your hair and then trails down your neck, tracing the path of your spine between your shoulder blades. “…well, you won’t really have much of a choice, will you?”

And then he’s tugging on your cuffed hands, pulling you to a standing position, but you wriggle away from him and do everything you can to stay planted on the ground so they can’t take you away from here, away from the only man who is capable of stopping this. Overhaul. “Please! I’m— I can work it off another way! I’ll be useful— I’ll—“

Overhaul leans forward a fraction in his chair, and you wonder if you’ve caught his interest. “What, exactly? How do you think you can be useful to me?”

You bite your lip and wrack your brains, not knowing whether the question is rhetorical. What skills do you have that would be valuable to them? Suddenly all the knowledge you’ve gained in your short life seems so meaningless. You’re a decent receptionist (well, decent is a stretch), but if Overhaul wanted someone to answer calls for him you’re pretty sure he would’ve asked.

Why did you spend your life learning such impractical skills? The four-year weekend course you took on horseback riding jumps to mind and you want to hit your head against the wall. Why didn’t you ask your father to sponsor a class in something that would actually matter in the long run? And what would even be useful to these people? Accounting? Bookkeeping? Extortion?

There’s nothing valuable you can offer. You’ve wasted your life, and now you’re going to pay for it. Seriously, the only thing you’re actually good at is keeping your boyfriends (or, rather, the men you cycle through once a month) happy until the novelty wears off and you get bored and move on to the next lovesick target—

—wait. Keeping your boyfriends happy. That’s a skill, isn’t it?

Once, a little bit after you turned eighteen, you’d had a rather illicit conversation with one of your more sexually adventurous friends about being a sugar baby. Your friend had just secured a very generous benefactor, and you’d been so intrigued by all the designer purses and vacations to Cabo that you’d almost considered trying it for yourself. She’d even helped you set up a profile on Seeking Arrangements that listed your physical features and interests, but you’d blanched when it came time to post photos.

“But why do men even like this?” you'd asked your friend after your picture-less profile received its dozenth unsolicited offer. “Rich, successful guys shouldn’t have so much trouble finding girlfriends that they have to resort to paying for sex.”

“It’s a power trip,” she’d replied. “Most men never get the chance to have a woman who’s willing to do and be whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. You’re his ideal girlfriend, his therapist, his wife, and his stress relief all in one.”

At the time, you’d decided against it, deleting your profile and telling your friend you’d rather just keep taking advantage of your real father doting on you than have to fake orgasms for rich men in their 50’s. But back then, you’d had a choice; now that you’ve been kidnapped by a gang who wants you to get fucked by a bevy of strangers to pay off a debt you’ve never even heard of, you no longer have the privilege of a way out. Or, at least, the options are a lot less appealing than before.

You tilt your head back to Overhaul, eyeing him for the first time with real scrutiny instead of prideful disgust. Judging from what you can see of his face under the ornate bird mask (and again, what is with the freaking bird masks?), he’s fairly young, mid-twenties at the oldest. Short, sort of wavy dark hair (you’ve always had a thing for dark hair), a trim suit and tie, and those eyes. Like he can read your mind just looking at you.

He’s…handsome enough, you have to admit to yourself. But it’s not just that. There’s something pristine about him, something untouchable that commands discipline. He’s clean. You and him are probably the only clean things in this hovel of a room.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Overhaul says.

And now that you’ve got the idea in your head, it’s almost too embarrassing to meet his gaze. But you can do this; you have to do this. At least it’ll be your choice, and—you’re hoping—it’ll be better than the alternative.

“I could be yours,” you tell him, taking pride in the fact that your voice isn’t breaking.

His eyes narrow and you think god, his eyelashes are long. It’s not fair. Men never appreciate having long eyelashes. What is he thinking? Is he going to kill you for even suggesting it? But it’s too late now…you have to dig yourself a little deeper if you don’t want to go through with their original plan for debt fulfillment.

You force your muscles to relax, knowing this’ll be impossible to pull off if you’re tense and biting down on the words like they’re going to choke you. If you’re going to make him believe it, you have to make yourself believe it too. “You… This job must be hard. Even for a—a powerful man like you, it has to be stressful, right? Always looking out for the interests of the gang instead of your own…needs.”

Overhaul doesn’t move, but you’re so focused on him it would be impossible for you to miss the way a single muscle in his neck flexes. You’ve hit a nerve.

You take a cautious step toward him, trying to channel the sexually-liberated vixen you consider yourself when you’re not in your nightgown surrounded by men who could murder you with their bare hands and not miss a minute of sleep. “You’re always giving, aren’t you? Looking toward the future of the gang? Doesn’t it get frustrating when—when a pretty thing is in front of you and you don’t even get…a little taste of her?”

Oh god, you can feel the humiliated heat rushing to your cheeks. How can you be saying this? You’ve played the role of seductress plenty of times before, but never in such a risky situation. You just have to keep moving toward him and hope it feels authentic enough to convince him.

“You’ve worked hard. And…like he said, my—my body belongs to you.” Now you’re close enough to Overhaul and he hasn’t stopped you, so you lower yourself onto the floor, knees bumping softly into the cold surface. Kneeling between his legs.

Overhaul stares down at you, gaze as sharp and cold as before—and you’re sick with anxiety, so scared you can feel your hairs raising up on end—but if he wanted you to stop, he would have said something, right? So you shuffle a little closer and nuzzle your cheek over the inside of his clothed thigh like a kitten, then raise your head up to him to give him your best bedroom look, the one that says, I want you. I need you. No one but you. The look no man has ever been able to resist.

“…You deserve something to yourself, sir,” you murmur.

There’s a collective intake of breath as every person in the room simultaneously realizes what you’re offering. Overhaul’s expression doesn’t change, but once again, a tendon jumps out white under the skin of his throat and there’s a creak of latex on leather as his grip on the arm of the chair tightens.

“Damn,” Setsuno says under his breath from behind you. Someone whistles. You’re pretty sure you hear the word ‘slut’ being tossed around, but there’s reverence behind it.

“And what makes you think you’re so valuable?” Overhaul asks.

You close your eyes to ground yourself for a second. He’s interested, you know that much. You’ve never really had to convince someone to want you, but there’s a first time for everything. Besides, you only have to look at him for a second to know he does want you, which isn’t a surprise. Who wouldn’t?

“I’ll do anything you want, be anything you want,” you tell him, echoing your conversation with your friend back then. “Take out your anger on me if that’s what you’re into. When you’re tired of me, you can consider my debt paid and let me go.”

“And?” he prompts.

‘And’? And what? You’re offering yourself to him, your body and your mind—what more can he possibly ask from you? You cast your thoughts around, wondering what else you have to give him. “And…and I’ll do it willingly. You, um—you look like a man who appreciates obedience.”

And that’s it. Your last shred of pride is gone. Not only are you offering yourself up to a man to use as his personal stress doll, you’re saying you’ll be compliant every step of the way. Knowing yourself, you’re pretty sure that’s impossible, but you just need to make him believe it long enough for you to find a way out of here. You can pretend to enjoy getting fucked by a gangster a few times. You’ll live.

But you’re naive. And with the stream of thoughts pushing through your head, you never really consider one thing, one essential thing: how you look pleading up at him in that pale pink nightdress—soft, pure, immaculate against the filth of the underworld, the only clean body that Overhaul’s seen in a long time.

And you’re right. He is a man who appreciates obedience.

“Willingly…so you’d be willing to prove it.”

Your head jerks up and down in response. Yes! He’s taking the bait, now I just have to get him alone and—

“Then demonstrate.”

When a moment passes and you don’t move, Overhaul tips his head to the side, gaze still locked on you, and gestures vaguely at his lap. You blink and then shy back, shrinking under the hungry gazes of the onlookers. “You can’t mean—in front of them?”

“And here I thought you were going to be obedient.” There’s no mercy, no amusement in his voice. No hint of humanity.

So he’s serious. He wants you to give him a blowjob in front of—how many? one, two three, four—four other men!? Your first instinct is to jump back away from him and your next is to slap him for even suggesting it; you can actually hear the jingle of your cuffs as you attempt to raise your hand. You’ve gotten a little kinky before—blindfolds, vibrators, maybe a hand tied to the bedpost with a Hermès scarf once or twice, but this is a whole different level. And the way they’re all looking at you…like they’re itching to see you brought down. How absolutely disgusting.

But Overhaul’s waiting for your answer, and you know full well that you’re not going to deny him.

“O-Of course.” You lean forward over the seat of the chair so your face is just inches from his lap. “Um. My hands...?”

They’re still cuffed behind you, but it seems like they’re going to stay that way when Overhaul gives a curt shake of his head. “Use your mouth.”

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. How are you supposed to—? Without your hands? It doesn’t even seem like he’s going to undo his pants for you. It’s like he wants to humiliate you…oh, wait. As soon as the thought crosses your mind, it’s clear that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

You give him another doe-eyed glance, bidding him to at least undo his belt, but he remains unmoved. Bastard.

After aiming another glare at him (because as obedient as you’re attempting to be, you’ve never been good at concealing your emotions) you lean deeper in and take the stiff leather of his belt between your teeth, gently easing it out of the buckle and trying to ignore the mixture of earthy and metallic tastes it leaves on your tongue. It takes a few tries, but eventually you’ve got the tail of the belt out of the buckle and you pull your head back to guide the metal down until the belt is hanging open from its loops.

A rush of accomplishment surges through you when you get it open, and then you want to slap yourself. Accomplishment? From doing this with your mouth like an animal—like a dog? You can hear laughter and mocking encouragement from the men watching, but you steel yourself and dip back in to get Overhaul’s pants undone. The button is tricky, especially with your face nudging into the hard muscle of his abdomen through his shirt, but somehow you manage to tug the fabric slit over the button and then—delicately, delicately—clamp the zipper between your teeth and peel it downward.

“Oh, she’s good,” someone says from the background. Setsuno. You look up warily, but Overhaul’s eyes haven’t moved from you.

Now that you’ve got his pants open, you’re face to face (literally) with what you’re going to have to deal with. The outline of his cock is bulging the fabric of his boxers outward, and he’s not even half erect. You snatch a look back up at him—and damn it, you have to stop doing that, because every time you look into those golden eyes and that stupid bird mask you feel like a lamb looking at a bird of prey right before it snatches you from your safe little lamb-house in the meadow and—fuck, you just have to get on with it.

So you dip down and mouth over him through the fabric, spreading the flat of your tongue over the length of his thick cock. Your mouth feels like you’ve been eating cotton (probably because they drugged you earlier) but you force yourself to salivate, letting drool spill over your tongue and dampen his boxers. When you duck and spread your lips down on the place you can feel the tip stretching out, you know the friction must feel good, because despite the lack of even so much of a deep breath from the man above you, his cock is getting harder.

You nudge your mouth over the tent between Overhaul’s legs again, letting the heat of your breath wash over him—but when he doesn’t do anything, you pull back and blink up at his face. Does he expect you to get him off through his underwear? You could, but most of your moves depend on skin-to-skin contact. There’s no way you can get his cock out with your mouth like you undid his pants, so…what? “Are—are you going to take it out?”

Overhaul brings a gloved hand to his face to rub absently at one of the straps on his mask. “…Beg,” he tells you.

Your mouth drops open and you reel back from his lap like he asked you to lick the dirt off the floor. What!? He can’t seriously expect you to—to beg him to put his dick in your mouth when you’re clearly disgusted at the whole situation. When he doesn’t give any indication of retracting the statement, you can’t help the mocking sneer that forms over your face. “Please, sir,” you spit, and a deaf man could hear the spite in your voice.

Now, that gets a reaction. Overhaul’s eyes flash and you take a certain degree of pride back at the anger you’ve clearly inspired in him. But it’s extinguished as soon as you see it, and then he’s reaching down to cup your chin, tilting your head back and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip.

“I think you can do better than that, princess,” he says, and you can hear your own mocking tone reflected back in his voice. “Unless you’d like me to give my men a turn?”

This, more than anything, scares you. He must be able to feel the way your spine goes stiff, adrenaline rushing, your fight-or-flight instinct kicking in at the prospect of what he’s threatening.

“Each of them, one by one. Between the four of them, I think they could cure that smart mouth…although they might just break you in the process,” he continues, and then his thumb is pressing into your lip, into your mouth, and you loosen your jaw to let him in. You can taste the rubbery latex of his gloves and the other men mutter agreement, encouraging their leader to turn you over to them, and you want to cry.

But you hold the tears back. “Please, sir! Please, please may I s-suck your cock sir? Please!” Your voice is more terrified than obedient, but that’s probably what he’s into anyway. When he doesn’t say anything, you babble on, unwilling to let yourself get gangbanged by a group of men who could probably wreck your pussy in a single round. “Please, please, Mr.—Mr. Overhaul, um, boss? M-Master?”

“Sir will do just fine,” Overhaul says, apparently satisfied, and he pulls his hand away from your face to free his cock from his boxers.

You let out a hot sigh of relief and angle yourself back toward his lap so you can zero in on his cock (and, hopefully, do a little to block out how sickeningly degrading all of this is: how easy it is for him to threaten you; how he has all the power and you have none; how the men around you are goading you, taunting you and calling you things that should get their mouths washed out with soap). You can focus on this, and this, at least, you’re good at. You’ve always been good with your mouth.

It’s a nice dick, too, you have to admit to yourself as you stare at it. Perfect length, girth, and a thick, cut head that you know just by looking that you’re going to have to stretch your jaw to get around. All his hair is neatly trimmed and groomed, and he even smells good, clean and fresh like soap. You’ve never been in front of a dick that didn’t smell like day-old ball sweat, so this is a first. It’s got a nice upward curve, too, and there’s a bead of pearly precum oozing out of the tip. The kind of cock that’s made for penetrative orgasms—

No. Fuck. You cannot be thinking this. You cannot allow yourself to lust after a gang leader who thinks of you as little more than an interactive sex doll. A tingle of blood rushes to your cheeks as you feel wetness pool in your panties and you adjust your stance, shuffling your thighs apart under the pretense of getting closer and hoping Overhaul doesn’t notice.

If he notices, he does the merciful thing and keeps quiet (which makes you think he has no idea you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, because he’s probably never chosen to do the merciful thing in his life). He does, however, shift one of his knees farther apart to accommodate you as you crawl close enough to him to get your head all the way between his legs.

So now you’re staring up at that unfairly pretty cock and wondering how the fuck this is supposed to start, but—best just get on with it. Pretend it’s not him, pretend it’s…no, wait, pretend it is him, it is Overhaul, the same bastard who’s looking down at you like you’re trash, except pretend you’re in control. Because no matter how many orders he gives, once you’ve got his cock in his mouth he’ll have to be the weak one. Right?

Lightly, slowly, you trace the tip of your tongue in a wet path up the underside of his cock, sliding up from the hilt to caress every bulging vein with all the delicacy and accuracy of a surgeon. When you reach the tip, you flatten your tongue to curve it around that bulbous head and then slip it off, the suction providing a wet smacking sound as your skin leaves his.

The breath of his barely-heavier exhale ruffles your hair and you relish the knowledge that he’s getting impatient. Yes. The bastard can wait.

You kiss the tip of his cock, barely moving your lips around the slit, only enough to let your tongue flick out against the precum and gather the bitter liquid up in your mouth. And then—right when he’s getting annoyed, when you can tell by the tension in his body that he’s five seconds away from shoving your head down to fuck your face—you duck closer, relax your throat, and swallow.

Like a fucking python. Or so you’ve been told.

The exhale that escapes him isn’t light this time. You can almost hear the barest hint of a groan under his breath, but you’re more focused on holding down your gag reflex as you let that heavy cock hit the back of your throat. Once he’s all the way down (or at least as far as you can get him), you rock yourself back an inch and then take him deeper, forcing yourself to hold still so he can feel the walls of your throat convulse around him, sucking him in, dry-gagging on the mass that’s filling you up.

“Fuuuuck,” you hear someone whine, and it’s not even Overhaul. It’s one of the men watching, and you feel a perverse mixture of hatred and arrogance rise up in you.

Overhaul’s cock is too big for you to properly moan around it, but you give it a go anyway so he can feel the vibration of your voice through his skin. You’re rewarded with a tangible twitch with it sitting on your tongue, and—oh—your mouth is watering out of where you’re clenching down on him at the back of your throat.

Spittle slips out over your lower lip and onto your chin, but you ignore it in favor of jerking your head up and down in fractional strokes, trying your absolute best to get yourself down to his base but knowing that he probably doesn’t give a shit anyway, not with how good your throat feels around what you’re capable of stuffing in.

What were you saying about ‘valuable’, sir? you think, and then you pull your head off his cock, so slow it’s almost cruel, sucking your cheeks in and hollowing out so those wet walls are rubbing up on every millimeter of his skin. When you reach the tip, you savor it, letting your tongue do the dirty work and looking up at him through your lash extensions before you release him with a nasty wet pop.

“Holy fuck, can I have her next?” one of the other men says, but you and Overhaul are too focused on each other to even look and see who’s talking.

His gaze is trained firmly down at you, and—no way, damn it—he looks bored, like he could be waiting in line at the DMV instead of getting sucked off by you, a girl who’s been complimented by every man she’s ever been with (including her first) on her bj technique. You know he’s feeling it—he can fake calm, but he can’t fake the way his cock’s throbbing under your tongue as you lick up the shaft. Still, now that you’ve got it in your head that Overhaul’s not going to make a sound, all you can think about is forcing him to moan. Let him look weak in front of all his little lackeys.

With renewed vigor, you lap up the length of Overhaul’s cock in sloppy dabs, leaving strings of saliva dripping off your mouth and his cock only to slurp them up, audibly, wiggling your tongue over the tip when you reach it. And that, that gets him, because you feel more than see the buck of his hips into your face as he hisses out a curse.

And—oh dear, maybe you shouldn’t have done that—because the next thing you feel is Overhaul looming forward over you, hand gripping the back of your head, and is he going to force you down? You hate that—so you take the initiative, tilting forward to take him into your mouth again, head bobbing up and down so quickly that your hair is falling all over your face, but it’s okay, because he’s got you, he’s got you, got his hands combed through your hair holding it out of your face, pulling so lightly it barely even hurts, but it does hurt, and he’s guiding you up and down on his cock and it’s hitting the back of your throat every time, and—and it hurts.

You really shouldn’t have done that.

“Take it deeper,” Overhaul instructs, almost encouraging, although you’re not given the option to pull off because he’s holding you down, pushing you firmly toward the base of his cock. You sputter around it, gagging, and you’re almost fucking choking, and he won’t let you up.

God, you’re not—not breathing, you can feel your throat choking down on him—“breathe through your nose,” he says, and this man, this villain has no idea what he’s fucking talking about, because you’re trying, eyes stinging and then you can feel tears down your cheeks. You try to squirm back on your knees, but somehow the combined force of every muscle in your body is outmatched by his single hand on the back of your head—and—and—you squeeze your eyes shut, relax, open your throat as much as you can and—

Overhaul forces your mouth down to the hilt.

Fuck, is he going to keep you there? You can’t, you can’t—if you could move, you’d be shaking your head and begging him to let you stop and as it is you’re whimpering around his cock. Your throat is making gagging noises and you’re crying, actually crying, actually fucking crying on a man’s dick. So this is what it feels like to be used?

“Good.” There’s something lower and darker in Overhaul’s voice, a husky undertone from the growl he’s trying to suppress. “Hold still…remember, you asked for this.”

You did. You asked for it. Begged for it. Pleaded.

“Want me to forgive your father’s debt…? You’re going to have to earn it.” He pulls out an inch just to ram himself back in. You make a weak attempt to move your tongue around his shaft and you can feel the shudder all the way through him, his cock twitching where it’s locked in your throat. “Mm…good girl. Just a little—little longer—“

His fingers are tightening in your hair, curling around the strands and tugging instead of just applying pressure to your head. He’s close, you think, and then you struggle back, not wanting him to cum down your throat, what if you choke on it? Like, really choke? You don’t want it, don’t want his cum in your stomach, but then he sighs and tells you again that you’re a good girl, and ohfuckohfuck you must be so scared you’re desperate for praise because you feel heat rush into your cheeks and your cunt when he says it and you try to move your tongue like you did earlier and his hips jerk forward and—he cums. In your mouth.

It’s salty, you think. The next thing you think is that you want to gag, because you’ve never had cum in your mouth before. For all your sexual experimentation, you’ve never let a man cum down your throat like this, always telling them it shoot it on your tits or whatever because you are not a person who should have semen in her mouth, much less ingest it.

But right now, with Overhaul lazily dragging your head up and down for a last couple pumps on his softening dick, your choice isn’t spit or swallow. It’s swallow or choke.

Hot. Thick. The texture is slimy, so viscous you can feel it going down your throat in strings. Part of you wants to throw up. It’s repulsive. Filthy. You hate this.

Part of you has to shift your position again so you don’t have to feel your own wetness slicking up the insides of your thighs.

How. Is. This. Possible. You may have just had to swallow your pride (and not just that), but what about your dignity? You’re a good person…okay, well, even if you’re not a ‘good person’ per se, you don’t hurt anyone with your selfishness. You don’t deserve to be kept as a pet by a sadistic bastard who gets off on watching you almost pass out on his cock, and you certainly don’t deserve the humiliation of finding that you’re turned on by it.

And yet. Here you are. Still held securely in place until Overhaul slides you off him. As soon as your mouth is free you suck in a dizzyingly deep breath, but even that is too much for your battered throat and the breath turns into a cough; you instinctively fold down away from Overhaul so the mixed saliva and cum you’re hacking out spatters in cloudy white flecks across the floor instead of on his clothing.

“Stop that,” Overhaul scolds, hauling you back up by your hair and forcing your mouth closed with a hand on your jaw. “If you make a mess, you’ll be cleaning it up.”

Considering what he just made you do to him, there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s implying you’ll have to lick it off the floor. You clench your jaw, holding back the convulsions of your throat as best you can, and hope he doesn’t press the issue.

Now that you’ve got your coughing under control, you can start to sense things that you had been tuning out before: the men hooting and wolf-whistling and applauding your performance, the traitorously persistent throb of your clit pulsing under your panties, and Overhaul’s hand releasing your chin to pet down your neck. “Now. What do you say when someone gives you a meal?”

Just you wait, bastard. I’m going to tie you to your bed and set fire to it. But you’ve got the sense that that answer won’t go over well, so you take a deep breath and look up at him again, meeting those piercing gold eyes with your own. “Thank you, sir,” you say in a soft whisper because it’s all your abused throat can manage.

“That’s right.” His hands feel colder than the concrete under your legs as he spreads his hand down your neck, only to toy with one of the lacy pink straps of your nightdress. “Stand up.”

You stand shakily, too cowed to even consider stepping back from him. Without warning (much less permission), Overhaul lifts the hem of your stupidly short dress up past your thighs, exposing your panties and lower belly to view.

“Hold this in your mouth,” he says, and after only a few seconds of hesitation you open up and bite down on the fabric so you’re effectively holding up the skirt for him. Overhaul skims gloved hands down the sides of your hips and comes to a rest when he reaches your panties—and why did you have to wear these today? Shiny red satin in the front; the back is just flowers worked in crimson lace. You know exactly how good you look in these panties, and judging by the things Overhaul’s men are saying, they’re more than appreciative of the view.

But Overhaul ignores them in favor of hooking his fingers under the elastic and pulling the panties down until they’re resting stretched between your upper thighs. You don’t have to see them to know there’s a string of slick connecting the lips of your cunt to the fabric, betraying in full technicolor detail how turned on you’ve gotten just from sucking him off. He gazes down at your pussy and then up to you as if waiting for you to admit it, but you stay silent.

“Well, well. What a nicely-trained slut I’ve found myself.” He gracelessly pulls the panties the rest of the way down your legs and lets them fall to the ground. “Do you always get this wet when you let your boyfriends fuck that smart mouth?”

It takes you a second to comprehend that he’s expecting an answer. “N-No, sir,” you reply, voice muffled by the fabric you’re still holding between your teeth.

“I suppose I can’t leave you like this, not after you took me so nicely.”

Does he mean he’s going to get you off? No freaking way. You drop the hem of your dress, let it flutter down over your thighs, try to scramble back, but his hand on your waist keeps you from moving. “I— It’s okay, I don’t need—“

“No, I think you do. I think I’m going to reward my pet for a job well done.” He leans back, eyeing you without sympathy. “I’d have you touch yourself, but—“

The mere possibility that he might remove the handcuffs has you straining against them again, and the sound of metal against metal rings out from behind you.

“—but, I think it’s best to keep the cuffs on for a few days…until you’ve settled down.”

Days? He can’t leave you in chains for days, helpless and powerless, so easy to take advantage of. “You can’t,” you whimper, and even though you mean for it to be a decisive statement, with your throat ravaged and hoarse it’s downright pathetic. Overhaul doesn’t even bother reprimanding you for talking back.

“My men have been patient,” he muses, and an enthusiastic wave of agreement wells up from the others. “Any of them would be happy to do it.”

You may have been through a lot in the past hour alone, but there is no way you’re going to let those rowdy criminals have their way with you. You send a nervous glance around the room and as predicted, not a single one of them looks like they have the slightest shred of control over themselves.

None of them…except Overhaul.

Still eased back in his chair, he looks just as relaxed and unaffected as he did when he was explaining your father’s debts to you. But there’s something flickering in his eyes, something he isn’t going to say to you, isn’t going to say out loud. A challenge.

Maybe, once again, he’s waiting for you to ask for it yourself. And if it’s a choice between him and one of the grimy ruffians who’ve been looking at you like dogs look at meat, you know what you’d prefer. Well—really, you’d prefer option C: none of the above (your current state might be uncomfortable, but you’re not so wanton that you’d rather cum in front of strangers than keep your legs together). Unfortunately, you’re starting to come to terms with the fact that ‘no’ is no longer an option.

Overhaul’s stare flicks from you to an unseen figure behind you, and you can tell he’s about to summon one of them over so you force yourself to move, lurching forward and climbing into his lap to straddle one of his thighs with all the grace you’re capable of. You feel the stir in the air when he inhales sharply, surprised, and his masked face is so close to your neck that you wonder if he can smell the lotion you put on before you went to bed last night.

It’s one of your favorite scents: vanilla, lilac, orange blossoms. You bought it because it smelled pure.

“Please, sir, I don’t want them,” you breathe next to his ear, injecting every ounce of sexual frustration you’re feeling into the needy tones of your voice. “I’m yours. I belong to you, just you. No one else—please, sir…Overhaul.”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and you think he’s going to hit you, or maybe even kill you for your disobedience. Push you off his lap at least. But just when you’re teetering on the edge of jumping back from him and begging for forgiveness for talking out of turn, you feel it—a low rumble of laughter from deep in his chest.

Big, cold hands wrap around the sides of your ribcage under your breasts and his fingernails dig into you through the layers of latex and fabric. He tilts forward, forcing you to arch away and all you can think about is how horribly weak you are compared to him. Are you trembling? Will he be angry if you feels how afraid you are?

“You know, I guess I’ll keep you after all,” he hums, stroking his fingers through your hair and down your neck. “How does that sound, princess? I think you’d like that very much, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The response comes all too easily, even if the words taste bitter in your mouth. You’ve never said the word ‘sir’ so much in your life…but as he repositions you on his lap and slides a single hand up the inside of your thigh under your dress, you bite your lip and decide to hold back your protest.

If you’re going to have to learn manners, you’d better do it sooner rather than later. Something tells you Overhaul’s not going to accept any less than your best behavior if you want to pay off your debt.

[dandelion-turtle]

Hyakinthos

Hyakinthos was a Spartan prince, most prominently known in Amyclae with a decent cult following. there are a couple of different people listed as being his parents, but the most popular is King Amyclus and Diomedes. if Amyclus was his father, that would also make Daphne, another of Apollo’s lovers, Hyakinthos’s sister. it seems like he would be quite simple, he has a relatively small story with one of the earliest written records from Hesiod. in this version there is no love rival, just an accident. written in the 7th century BC, it was merely one, albeit long, sentence.

”. . ((lacuna)) rich-tressed Diomede; and she bare Hyakinthos (Hyacinthus), the blameless one and strong . . ((lacuna)) whom, on a time Phoibos (Phoebus) [Apollon] himself slew unwittingly with a ruthless disk.”

however, the most famous version, and one that most will know, comes from Ovid’s Metamorphosis. written somewhere between the 1st century BC and 1st century AD, this sentence long story grew to be paragraphs long. in which Ovid describes the love Apollo and Hyakinthos have for each other — which was the ultimate demise for the young prince. with parts of it coming from the perspective of a mourning Apollo, Ovid writes how Hyakinthos was turned into a flower with “ai, ai” written on the petals to express Apollo’s sadness. and the version that we all have come to know including betrayal and jealous rage from Zephyros (the West Wind), is hinted at in Pausanias’ “Description of Greece”.

”[In the temple of Apollon at Amyklai (Amyclae) Nikias (Nicias) [painter fl. c. 320 B.C.], son of Nikomedes, has painted him [Hyakinthos (Hyacinthus)] in the very prime of youthful beauty, hinting at the love of Apollon for Hyakinthos of which legend tells . . . As for Zephyros (the West Wind), how Apollon unintentionally killed Hyakinthos, and the story of the flower, we must be content with the legends, although perhaps they are not true history.”

despite this seemingly clear-cut story, there’s a lot more than meets the eye with Hyakinthos. according to many historians the -nth part of his name is pre-Hellenic and comes from the Mycenaean era. another word like that would be Corinth — a pre-Greek polis that was destroyed and rebuilt. this leads many to believe that Hyakinthos was around BEFORE Apollo. he would have been a chthonic vegetation god — almost like the male equivalent to Persephone. this leads to a few different theories, but before I get to that, let me tell you the story of Hyakinthos as told by Ovid and Lucian’s “Dialogues of the Gods”. ═══════════════════════════

⊰ The Myth ⊱

Hyakinthos was a beautiful Spartan prince. he had many lovers, but the one that had eventually won his heart was Apollo. the god taught beautiful long-haired Hyakinthos how to play the lyre, how to use a bow and arrows, a little bit on prophecies, and gave him a swan chariot. the two were incredibly in love, but sadly, there was someone who didn’t like that. Zephyros, the west wind, was jealous for he too loved Hyakinthos. he had tried to woo him but it really was no match for Apollo. he watched the two men play again and again until he had eventually had enough of it. he ultimately created one of the most tragic love stories. like most days, Apollo and Hyakinthos were together, playing around and having mild competitions throwing a discus. Apollo wanted to show off for Hyakinthos so he could see just what a god could do. he threw a discus high into the air, clearing the clouds away and it disappeared into the sky. Hyakinthos wanted to impress his lover as well, so he chased after the discus laughing. Zephyros in a fit of rage at the two men enjoying themselves changed the course of the discus. as it came to land, the force was so strong that it bounced off the ground and smashed into Hyakinthos’s face. Apollo ran to his lover and tried every kind of medicine and healing he could think of. he even placed ambrosia on his lover’s lips but blood flowed freely from the wound. there was no way for him to stop a wound of Fate. in his despair, he turned Hyakinthos into a flower, but seeing that wasn’t good enough, he wrote his grief upon the petals. ═══════════════════════════

⊰ Symbolism From The Myth ⊱

Taking A Temple as mentioned before, it’s very likely that Hyakinthos was an older deity from the pre-hellenic period. something that many Greek writers did, was create a myth of how a deity began their worship in a specific place. we know the temple that Apollo was worshipped at in Amyclae was older than when his worship would have started. one theory behind this myth then, is how Apollo came to be worshipped over Hyakinthos at the temple and area; by killing the previous deity. it sounds sad, but it’s actually happened several times, and even with Apollo specifically. the most famous example I can think of would be at Delphi. originally the temple was in honor of the titan Gaia. Apollo came in valiantly and killed the Python (which is what gives Apollo’s priestesses their name) and inevitably took the temple over with his worship. what this doesn’t account for, is the fact Hyakinthos is still worshipped at the temple heavily, his and Apollo’s worship having mingled and being near inseparable. it is even said that upon his death and burial, Apollo said to give him (Hyakinthos) all offerings first. now, if you know a thing or two about Greek worship, the first portion of the offering was incredibly important, especially considering hero worship was probably closer to chthonic sacrifices in practice; though they were not considered to be ‘dead’. within my research so far, I have yet to find this happening somewhere else, but I will update this if I ever do. now all of this is unusual with the theory that this myth symbolizes one deity taking over. if that were the case, why continue to worship Hyakinthos? Duality some of you may not know this about me, but I am a sucker when it comes to duality, specifically with lovers. this myth may be a symbol for the growing season and harvest of the crops. while it may be a common motif, especially among the Greeks, I think it’s a sweet and somber story giving personification to an important aspect of Greek life. I also believe the duality is less about the exacts of what they rule over, but the way they were worshipped. the closest example I can think of also comes from Delphi with the duality between Apollo and Dionysos (who, shockingly enough, was the only other god historians believe was present during the Hyakinthia festival besides Apollo and Hyakinthos). as a hero, or simply for his chthonic aspect, the ritual and practice would have been far different than that for Apollo. while this isn’t exactly backed by anything I can find specific to duality, I personally feel a reason both Apollo and Hyakinthos were worshipped together in Amyclae is due to that duality between them. Hyakinthos would have been a chthonic deity probably for vegetation or agriculture, whereas Apollo here is a god of light (not the sun) representing life, health, and the ultimate grief. their worship in Amyclae was always together once Apollo was introduced (to some this hinted that they were possibly the same person representing a cycle, but most disagree with this theory). the duality is clearly a theme already for Apollo, and I think what happened at Delphi with Dionysos is the same for Amyclae and Hyakinthos. together they represent loss and mourning but also happiness and life — love. ═══════════════════════════

⊰ Hyakinthos Associations ⊱

okay, now that I have bored you all to death, let’s talk about some less heavy things. due to their worship being completely together, I would say that nearly anything related to Apollo can also be associated with Hyakinthos and vice versa. however, we love individuality in this house, so let’s talk about the things either associated with him through the various, limited texts we have and some UPG. Associations ➳ larkspurs/hyacinths ➳ swans ➳ bow and arrow ➳ summer! ➳ new spring growth ➳ chiton’s (they were offered to him by the women of Sparta) ➳ death ➳ rebirth/cycles ➳ chariot’s ➳ blood ➳ blue/purple/red colors ➳ discus (sorry) ➳ lavender ➳ lyre ➳ lapis lazuli ➳ amethyst ➳ black tourmaline ═══════════════════════════ Devotional Activities ➳ keeping a garden ➳ maybe even an indoor garden ➳ go to parks and feed the swans/birds ➳ archery ➳ sports ➳ making a chiton ➳ writing poems ➳ taking care of those around you ➳ growing larkspurs/hyacinths ➳ get a devotional journal ➳ create a playlist (sad songs for the most part) ➳ fall in love deeply ═══════════════════════════

⊰ Deity Or Divine Hero? ⊱

I don’t know if this question can be answered for a fact honestly. what we do know is that he was at least worshipped as a hero, that much can be said. anything further than that comes at a later time and from the outside perspective. a lot of ancient Greek writers didn’t write down certain things because they saw them as common knowledge. this doesn’t help us looking back now. what we can say, is that some of the offerings given to him were not common with hero worship and would have been reserved for the gods. this is according to Angeliki Petropoulou, a professor in ancient greek studies/religion, and the author of “Hyakinthos and Apollo of Amyklai: Identities and Cults. A Reconsideration of the Written Evidence” pages 153-161. Within this, she makes the argument that Hyakinthos has gone through ‘apotheosis’. this is the action of a mortal, usually a hero, becoming a god. note: ‘βουθυσία’ is a traditional oxen sacrifice.

“The βουθυσία for Hyakinthos, which is indicative of his new immortal status, should be placed on the third day too. Oxen are costly victims, the bull being the most “noble” sacrificial animal. After mourning for Hyakinthos’s death and making a propitiatory sacrifice at his tomb, they honoured him with a bull sacrificed as if to a god. Yet the geographical range in which he was regarded as god was rather circumscribed and did not spread beyond the borders of Lakedaimonia. The βουθυσία for Hyakinthos would have been instituted after the construction of the altar on which Apollo received sacrifices; for the only altar excavated, in an area filled with remnants of burnt sacrifices, is attributed to Apollo.”

so there you have it. most places will probably call him a hero, and that wouldn’t be wrong. others may call him a deity, which also isn’t wrong. I’ll tell you what I’m personally going to go with, and everyone can make their own decision based on the information listed through this post and the readings I’ll link at the bottom. no matter your conclusion, the relationship you have will be completely yours, and it’s ok! if anything, I encourage that over taking my word for it. ══════════════════════════ for me, I think I consider him a deity. I know that I heavily romanticize the story, and with Apollo being so near to my heart, him having a terrible love life hurts my soul. while I don’t exactly want to rewrite any myths, I won’t claim that they are married, I will say that I believe them to be happy. their worship in Amyclae was so intertwined and based completely around each other from the history we know, that, for me, it makes sense to also honor them together. I’ll leave you all on one more incredibly sad quote from Lucien’s “Dialogue of the Gods” (that I referenced from earlier).

”Apollon : Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyakinthos (Hyacinthus) were my great passions; she so detested me that being turned to a tree was more attractive than I; and him I killed with a quoit. Nothing is left me of them but wreaths of their leaves and flowers.”

it’s ok to cry, I do nearly every time I read that.

⊰ For Further Reading ⊱

➳Hyakinthos theoi ➳Apollo theoi ➳Hyakinthos Wiki ➳My Hellenic Research Google Drive this also contains the Sparta book I reference and a few others worth a read.

[oftenderweapons]

Mold Me New (1) – Taehyung

A Small Town Swoons story

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Wordcount: 3.2k

Genre: ceramic artist!Taehyung, divorced!reader, Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Angst, Slice of Life

Rating: 18+ (for future smut and explicit thoughts)

Hello to my readers!!!  Welcome to the Small Town Swoons Universe! 🥰✨

In this episode: Introducing the reader’s backstory, exploring her life as a wife and then as a single woman who is slowly getting to know herself as an individual person.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: There are mild curse words, a bit of a sad vibe regarding falling out of love and getting a divorce, description of several bad dates and good ones that end badly, mention of getting drunk, mention of sex toys, mention of one night stand.

In case you like my writing, here is my directory for idol!AUs, scenarios and imagines, and in case you need it, here’s the Spotify music companion.

I forgot to mention, bc I’m dumb and bc we’re becoming one body with two souls, but this chapter (as most of the decent, edited things I post) was beta read by the magical @joheunsaram​ (she’s recently lost her previous blog and she’s rebuilding it, please go say something nice and YOU SHOULD FOLLOW HER SHE’S A QUEEN ,,,,, my queen 🥺✨)

Enjoy 💜✨

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7 

When you fall in love with someone, the feeling is like entering a chocolaterie. The scent engulfs you, full and rich and sultry, igniting your senses, the heat making your skin glisten in a light sheen of perspiration, making you exceedingly vulnerable to pointless stuff, like the way your lover exhales. Or their hands skimming your arms.

At least, that was what your best friend had told you.

You had none of that. To you love was a daisy being twirled under your nose, sharing cotton candy, the smell of crisp apples, flannel sheets, the sound of dead leaves crackling under matching footsteps, a sturdy but shiny steel band around your finger suddenly substituted by a golden one.

That had been the beginning of the end. When practicality and simplicity had turned into conventionality and disinterest.

When gifts stopped being things you loved and became things he thought you loved. And then things everyone loved.

When love became a chore, that's when everything crumbled. When kisses became just a good morning and a welcome back, when there were no more laughs echoing in the kitchen, when leaves kept falling but it was your footsteps alone making them crackle, when flannel sheets kept feeling warm but still something was missing — because someone was missing — when suddenly there was no more time for fairs and cotton candy, when daisies became roses, Love stopped making sense. It stopped having a meaning for you.

You were no longer sure of the life you had built with the man of your dreams, the boy you had fallen in love with when you were eight, the guy who had walked with you across the corridors of your high school, who had made you twirl under the lame disco ball of your prom, who had gone through college finals with you, who had spent three summers making your hangout spot into a home, turning the small old shack into a proper place for you to build a new life together. He was your first kiss, your first valentine, your first time. He was the man at the end of the aisle, the man who would walk with you until the last of your days.

But one day he started running and you still walked.

Or maybe you were both running in different directions, no longer on the path to the same destination, your priorities somehow switched.

Of course, it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't yours either.

You had both participated in this small unraveling, and you had both expressed the intention of changing, of finding compromise, an in-between, without either of you actually making the effort of fixing your trajectory, small habits and old pet peeves pulling you even farther apart.

The attempts — multiple ones — were painstakingly embarrassing. There were tears on both sides as you wondered what had caused this sudden rift that separated you — except it wasn't sudden, only your realisation was; the crevasse had been there for way longer. Maybe it had started as a small chipping the very day you met him, and it wasn't until now that you realised how the small sign had turned into an ominous presence, and then into unfathomable, inevitable doom.

And then the divorce.

It had been disgustingly easy, both parties agreeing on the procedures.

You didn't want the house. And you didn't need it. He didn't either.

Selling it had been exceedingly painless, you had shared the money, since he wanted to offer you stability. He already knew you would both suffer and he didn't want you worrying about rent. He was still your friend, after all.

Going back to being alone scared you at the beginning, until you realised that few things were truly bothering you. At least there wasn't this ghost of a human making you doubt all of your plans. You could plan dinner five days ahead or improvise. You could go to the restaurant as a last minute deal. You could go on long walks without the 'I'm sorry baby, emergency' making you rush back to town.

It felt like a bit of a liberation.

And your family's bookshop was doing well enough, since it was situated near the college and it also offered printing service.

Of course there were bad days. Sometimes you woke up searching for a body beside yours, however that feeling had significantly subdued after you had gotten used to the new bed. You missed human contact, being close, intimate with someone, having someone who knows you that deeply.

And then the true nightmare.

Finding someone new.

You were genuinely uninterested in dating. You had given it a go and it had sufficed.

It wasn't your world.

How could it possibly be?

You had never dated. You had basically offered your heart to the person that has always owned it. It's not like you had any experience in that labyrinth that is dating. All those unspoken social norms and the pining and tension. You only knew the comfort of a warm hug, the beauty of a kiss sparking from innocence and affection and slowly turning into steady, warm passion. You didn't like infernos, you liked candles. You liked the domestic hearth. You liked moderation.

And dating was all about extremes, from strangers to 'I'm inspecting your throat' on date one. And then suddenly it's date three and the same guy who brought you to a pizza place and a diner is suddenly going out of his way to bring you to a pretentious, expensive restaurant as a way to propitiate the possibility of you dropping your panties.

You had allowed this foolery only three times. Apparently all the suitable suitors were either really prone to pushing the pedal or had a passion for tongue gastroscopies.

The first one, Albert, had been quite the gentleman on date one. On date two he started making inappropriate jokes with a heavy body shaming undertone — a bit cliché for the stereotypical gym rat. And on date three he had dropped all pretenses at politeness and had outright palmed your ass in public, which made you rightfully uncomfortable. As you pointed that out, he proceeded saying that after all it was your third date and it was time to loosen up a little.

You didn’t even bother staying for dinner, left a bill on the table and left.

No matter the first disappointment, you decided not to let that disrespectful fool slow you down. And since your best friend knew everything about rat headed number one, you allowed her to set you up with one of her colleagues after she reassured you he was nothing like the one before.

Except somehow he was. The first date was at the local pub, and you somehow found yourself getting along well, his jokes were funny and he had good timing, he was relaxed, confident but still a bit clumsy and shy. He could be a good candidate.

But that was before he pushed his tongue to your tonsils as he kissed goodbye.

You gagged.

On date two he admitted you weren’t exactly his type. You were glad to reciprocate the statement after he told you his dream was having four children and a farm, alluding to the fact that his bride needed to be the perfect housewife.

You were pretty adamant that was not the kind of future you wanted for yourself.

Candidate number three was a guy you had met while grocery shopping, and somehow he had impressed you in an absolutely positive way on date one and two. Everything had been perfect, he was kind, considerate and well-mannered. Date three had been innocent, simple, down-to-earth. And then date four. Perfect dinner at his place. He had made you swoon and he had a very pretty cat he was very affectionate with.

He was the first man you had felt desire for in a very long time — almost eight months after your divorce.

The sex had been decent for being a first time.

And then he had entirely disappeared and never texted or called you back, which didn’t sit entirely wrong with you. You wished him all the best but you were actually glad. You liked being you and doing your own thing: having someone too much down your neck, getting in a relationship, having to check in with another person again felt more like a burden than a win.

Maybe it was just a coping mechanism to avoid facing the fact that he had been someone you could have liked, someone you could have built something with.

You were a happy woman, and it’s not like you really felt lacking or incomplete, like some of your single friends felt. And you had no intention of starting a family anytime soon, no matter if your old high school classmates had begun popping out kids left and right. You were more than happy to live the teen and early-twenty years you had spent in a relationship.

You were getting to know yourself in a way most of your friends didn’t have time to — you could already see them going through a midlife crisis after their kids became old enough to navigate life by themselves, which meant no more need for overprotective, and sometimes borderline suffocating, mothers, who suddenly found themselves with too much free time and too little tasks to complete.

Knowing your needs made you a stronger, better woman, and solitude had gifted you a level of introspection and balance that you doubted they could ever reach; maybe that was an arrogant consideration, but you knew there was no way knowing and loving yourself would ever bring you to crying over disrespectful, ungrateful youth whose only fault was that of growing up out of their mothers’ plans.

Unfortunately, there was no way your family — especially your grandmother — could ever tolerate the idea of you not needing a man and a family to be happy.

“Oh, come on, isn’t it time for you to bring a nice fellow back home?”

You shook your head as you and your grandma took a walk along the river, the sunny March afternoon feeling way too nice to stay at home. “Granny. There’s no people like Grandad anymore.”

“Oh, darling. You’re starting with the wrong role model. Not even back in my days we had men like him. He was the exception.” She nodded to herself with a sweet smile, remembering the husband she had lost a few years back.

“It’s so frustrating. And after all that happened… You know how it was. We were together for years. He was the only one I had. I don’t even know how to do these things. And books cannot teach you stuff like that. The more you read, the more you realise that most of these men had never even seen a rom com.”

“Oh, come on, but you have the internet these days! Can’t you find him in there? You have all these phones and computers and everyone has them, there must be a good one in the internet.”

She always said that “in the internet”. Like it was a physical place.

“I don’t even want to look in there, Granny. There are so many dangers in there.” You shuddered as you thought at the funny instagram pages where the people posted screenshots of the worst descriptions. All the embarrassing playboys and the fishermen and the lame wanna-be poets.

“Right… How can you know he is really is a person?” She considered, patting your back proudly. “You’re pretty. And you’ve always had the most perfect bum of all your cousins. Just like mine!” She grinned cockily, giving a playful smack to your ass, making you laugh loudly.

“It won’t last long.” You said, looking down. Solitude scared you sometimes. Being old and alone could be hard on the spirit and you had a feeling that old hag you would curse your dumb arrogance and inconsideration. However, for now you were still somehow making it through. Your divorce was finalised almost ten months ago. You could still consider yourself just fresh out of it.

“You’re smart. And I’m sure you have a lot to offer. You’re a good woman, and you’re far from being too old. There’s never a thing such as too old. Don’t let yourself be fooled. Look at me.” She said. “I’m still living a good life. Herbert has left me but I’m still here. Walking. Cooking. Drizzle keeps me good company.” She smiled sweetly at the mention of her dog, a lovely large poodle elegantly strolling at her side, its light grey fur finely trimmed by your grandmother’s expert hands. She had been a hairdresser for decades: learning how to keep Drizzle’s coat had been a cup of tea for her and he’d kept her distracted from grief after your grandpa passed away.

Her face formed a meditative pout. “Maybe you should just get a dog. Or even better, a cat. You’ve always looked like a cat child to me. So quiet and focused, like you knew some secret that nature would speak to you alone. You were always so attentive as a child!”

You smiled and looked at the path under your feet. Drizzle stayed unbothered as a loud, angry dachshund walked towards him, barking annoyingly. You had never felt sympathy for that small evil breed.

“I think I could get a kitten one of these days. Or a cat, from the shelter.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it in the internet!”

“So we’re really doing the party thing?”

“Listen, baby. It’s gonna be your first party as a free woman. Real mind blowing birthday sex.”

“I’m not a virgin, you know?” You stared at your face in the mirror, spreading some moisturiser over your forehead, inspecting the small lines there. You shrugged and let them be.

Maybe you would spend your best years single and find a sugar baby in ten or twenty years. Wait, weren’t those called toy boys?

Who cares.

Maybe it was time to get the post-grad you had always dreamed of. You would need to check your bank account before making that decision — maybe finally telling yourself yes could be the real birthday gift. That is, beside the huge dildo waiting in your drawer. Not being attracted to men or women didn’t mean you didn’t like sex.

You just found it difficult to imagine being with someone.

“Darling I’d bet an arm and a leg he never gave it to your right. You just need a bit more experience.”

All you needed was a hot bath, some candles and a good book. No man, no one night stand, no birthday sex could possibly make you as happy as decent jazz, wine and a novel.

“Why aren’t we doing that wine tasting at the winery out of town?”

“Because I want you choking on cheap alcohol, having all the fun you didn’t have on your twenty-first birthday because you were planning your own wedding. And I bet you’re the only one who wasn’t fucked in the bathroom of the Wickhead.”

Terry could be incredibly crude, but you loved her nonetheless. You loved her even more for it. She had never hidden anything from you, she had told you even the most embarrassing details of her own life. And she had always been the kindest, most faithful friend: she had driven you way out of town when you were eighteen and your period was late and you needed to buy a pregnancy test without all everyone and their dog knowing; she had chosen your wedding dress for you, spotting it and telling you it was going to be the one before you could even see it. When your marriage had started crumbling, she had spent countless nights with you, keeping you company when your husband was busy with his business trips. Though Terry had insinuated cheating, you knew he would never break your trust like that, and she had decided to trust your better judgement.

You had simply fallen out of love with each other.

And when you had moved into your new apartment, Terry had helped you repaint the walls and build the extra bookcases and install the shelves and fill your wine stand. Before leaving she had grabbed an unfamiliar box from her car, placing it on top of your bed, opening it and spreading out a set of “single necessaire”, as she called it. A couple toys, lube, condoms. To celebrate your re-found sexual promiscuity, she had said, though you objected, it was hard rediscovering something you had never had.

She had shaken her head and left you to “familiarise” yourself with everything.

“You know I’m not exactly a party person, Terry. This will end badly.” You said, sitting on your bed with your back against the headboard, your legs stretched out before you.

“You can allow yourself some fun once in a decade, you know?” You could hear her scoff on the phone.

“But I do have fun. Book. Wine. Bingo!” You explained, rolling your eyes as the booed.

“Come on, do it for me. Do it for your single friend who wants to get drunk and possibly sixty-nine? Please?” The other thing wrong with Terry is that if you ever met her in person, you would face the sweetest five foot three and a half — she insisted on the half — human being you could ever meet, with pretty wavy blonde hair and wide, sweet green eyes, the most boopable button nose and a sprinkle of freckles on her golden skin. She literally glowed in sunlight and her flowy gowns always made her look like a goddess: you could see men fighting for her, dying for her and going to war for just one of her gentle smiles.

“Don’t you have a FWB for that sixty-nine thingie?” You asked with an exceedingly inquisitive tone. It had been a while since she last updated you.

“Dumped him.” She replied curtly.

You tutted before exhaling. Emotionally constipated people — what’s wrong with them?

“He’s dating someone since he was ready for a relationship.” Terry sounded a bit colder than usual.

“And you weren’t?” You asked. You felt your tone hesitate with slight concern. You knew she would just put up a wall and ignore your question.

Fortunately, she didn’t. “I’m not ready to talk about that. It’s complicated, Frog.”

She was hurt and wanted a distraction.

“Okay, Terry. We’re going to get rip roaring drunk this Saturday.”

The line went silent.

“You know I love you right?”

“I love you too, sweetie. Now go to sleep, you have an early shift tomorrow.”

The line went silent after you bid each other goodnight, your body settling underneath the sheets once you realised your eyes were fluttering shut  as you tried to read a few pages to put yourself to sleep.

Placing down the book, you hugged the extra pillow, settling your face in the corner between your sleeping pillow and your spare one, the heavy woolen comforter acting like a weighted blanket. You placed another pillow behind your back, making a soft cocoon all around you.

Yes, sometimes you still missed being hugged to sleep.

The taglist is open!

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

[kjmsupremacist]

for the fic title ask game imma send you a bunch to keep you occupied at work hehe :D (some of them are album/song titles but i think theyre pretty and can work as aesthetic fic titles as well lol)

entropy

where the dragonflies flew

dream launch

a star called you

dear sputnik

"i love you" and other words i couldn't say

the bucket list

wisteria blooms

vertigo

where the sea meets the sky (one day i'll meet you there)

i think you think too much of me

the last young renegade

you don't need to use them all if you don't wanna btw! and have a nice day at work!! ily <33

emmy you're iconic for this ilysm <3 im gonna pick the ones im most inspired by bc i believe in quality over quantity but i genuinely do appreciate u ur the best mwah mwah

send me a made up fic title and i’ll tell you what i’d write for it!

entropy (jaehyun x sicheng; apocalypse au, end of the world, sci-fi, heavy angst; explicit) - many centuries in the future, the earth is polluted and nearly uninhabitable, and those rich enough to do something about it have long since abandoned the planet. They left long ago to colonize new planets, to mine their resources, to start anew. Those without the money or opportunity to leave are stuck on a slowly failing planet, trying to get by.

New projections show the earth becoming completely unable to sustain life in just a decade or so's time. It's at this point that Jaehyun meets Sicheng, disqualified from one of the last government-sanctioned space missions due to a rare heart condition. Jaehyun, hopeful and determined, wants to show an angry and bitter Sicheng that there is still life left on their dying planet—and maybe get him to love him back in the process.

where the dragonflies flew (johnny x taeyong; childhood best friends to lovers, slowburn, mild angst; explicit) - Johnny comes home to visit his parents after almost a decade abroad only to run into his next-door neighbor and childhood best friend, Taeyong. They spend the summer getting to know each other again, and Johnny realizes he might have liked Taeyong a little more than as a friend all along. When the summer ends, he's faced with a decision. Should he return to his old life of mundane stability, leaving Taeyong behind, or follow his heart and try something new?

dream launch (donghyuck x yangyang; enemies to lovers, regular life au, humor and general ridiculousness; explicit) - donghyuck enters his start-up in a competition hosted by one of the biggest technology firms in the country. Unfortunately, someone with a very similar idea and drive also enters. The company decides to merge their teams so they can accept them both. This would be fine, if 1) donghyuck wasn’t one of the most competitive motherfuckers on the planet and 2) the other guy wasn’t such a son of a bitch, head to toe. 

[suicide TW] the bucket list (doyoung x taeyong; regular life au, angst, hurt/comfort; mature) - Doyoung’s always been a bit depressed, but this last year has really put him through the wringer and he’s been pretty suicidal. So his therapist cuts him a deal. Make a bucket list. A real, actual bucket list, of all the things he wants to experience, and then do everything on that list. If, at the end of the list, he still wants to kill himself, then they’ll go from there. His therapist has a feeling that won’t be the case. Doyoung would beg to differ, but he plays along anyway. And then he meets Taeyong, who finds out about the bucket list and makes it his mission to help Doyoung fall in love with being alive again.

vertigo (joohyun x seulgi; college au, gay awakening lmao; explicit) - joohyun’s always considered herself straight. She’s an ally, make no mistake! But then in her third week of undergrad, she meets Seulgi and her whole world flips on its head. The discovery is as dizzying as it is thrilling, but as she gets closer and closer to Seulgi, Joohyun finds that the giddy joy is worth the fall.

where the sea meets the sky (one day i'll meet you there) (merman!ten x human!kun; mermaid/man au, fantasy; teen & up) - Kun likes to swim in the ocean at night, but one evening he gets caught in a riptide. When he wakes up, he’s alone on the beach, but he swears he sees a long tail disappear into the waves. He comes back every night, and eventually meets Ten, the merman who saved him. Ten admits that he sometimes comes near the surface to watch Kun swim. Slowly, they become friends. Kun likes Ten a lot, but that’s crazy—right? Being friends is risky enough; there’s no way they could ever be anything else.

lighthouse (jongin x kyungsoo; regular life au, slow burn; mature) - jongin’s always been wildly ambitious, while kyungsoo was perfectly happy to start his own little hole-in-the-wall restaurant and have that be it for the rest of his life. But when jongin gets in over his head in the dark, fast-paced world of business, the sanctuary of kyungsoo’s little life is a welcome relief. During his break, Kyungsoo reminds jongin that no matter what happens, he’ll always be there to guide him home.

burning sunset (yuta x mark; college au, angst; explicit) - undergrad freshman mark meets senior Yuta at a party in the spring and falls head over heels. He knows he’s just a hookup to Yuta, but he can’t help but go back for more, even though he knows it’s gonna cause him a whole boatload of heartache. After all, Yuta’s graduating in just a couple months. The short nights they spend together as time hurtles forward will never be enough to keep them together.

3108 (jungwoo x reader; grad school au, angst, hurt/comfort, childhood best friends to lovers; explicit) - your childhood best friend (and secret crush) jungwoo moved away at the end of 8th grade, and because of the distance, you lost touch. For about a year, you kept track of the number of days since you’d last seen him, but gave up eventually as you got older. Now, eight years later, you run into him in the halls of the university, and find out he’s in the same graduate program as you. You tentatively try to pick up where you left off, hoping to rediscover some form of the sweet, deep-seated love you had for one another as children, or maybe even something more.

and then there was us (junmyeon x reader; mutual pining, friends to lovers, regular life au; explicit) - it seems like your entire friend group is getting into relationships. It’s just you and a few others left. It’s not that you mind, it’s just that everyone seems like they’re busy these days, and they don’t have time for you. When the last of your friends announced a new relationship, you and Junmyeon, the only two single people left standing, decide to throw yourselves a little pity party. Junmyeon asks you why you think you’re still single. You don’t know how to respond, because the real reason is that you’ve been in love with him this whole time.

waiting for spring (jeno x jaemin; royal au, fantasy au, arranged marriage; explicit) - jeno and jaemin have been betrothed since their infancy. When they came of age, jeno moves to jaemin’s kingdom, as jeno’s older sister is already married and set to take over for their parents. Where Jeno’s kingdom was usually sunny and warm, Jaemin’s experiences long, biting winters. In a strange land with no friends and no way home, Jeno must learn to adapt while he learns to love his new husband. The only problem is that Jaemin has no plans for love.

[astralaffairs]

musée d'orsay 01 | g. lafayette TEASER

title: musée d'orsay 01 | playlist

pairing: lafayette x reader

words: 10k-ish in the full chapter

warnings: not much. meet-ugly instead of ur regularly scheduled meet-cute, lafayette’s coat collection, all the dialogue is actually in french i swear, lafayette is filthy rich

desc: when the desperate postgrad shows up in stubborn pursuit of a particular painting (and yes, it has to be that one), the new conservator can’t seem to catch a break.

tags: @stargazelaurens @ivory-haired-queens @exoticxchicken8 @assbuttstyles777 @distinguishedpotsticker @fukaaaaaaaa @hereforthepsyche-assessment @ivetoldamillionlies @fangirl570 @thealaddinkid @lasciviouspeach @shy-and-awkward-daveed @rachelhermionerose @soft-weeb-s @gryffinclxw @anamrnk @daveeddiggsit @ayayayayana @marinovakovich @cryinghazelnutt @thefandomgirl03 @a-hopeless-fan @cloudynblw @tinywhim @lolidunnoaboutnow @siriusorionblackiii @fanfic-addict-98 (lowkey this is just the fotp taglist bc i pasted the header on this so lmk if u wanna be removed lmao)

"Excuse me?" Lafayette called out down the hall, stopping the woman headed the opposite direction in her tracks, and she gave a heavy sigh. She turned. "What?" she asked, folding her arms, but when she caught sight of Lafayette, she had to lift her gaze by about another foot. "I need to— I have somewhere to be. And you can't have your coffee in here. Either finish it or throw it away." Although the hostility in her stature gave him pause, it didn't deter him from approaching her tentatively. He ignored her latter statement. "Do you work here?" he asked, and she nodded. "I have been looking for a painting by Gustave Caillebotte for the past hour, and I have had no luck. I need to know where it's housed; can you point me in the right direction?" "Everything we have from Caillebotte is on the third floor, room 31. You could've checked the map." With that, she began stalking off in the other direction, but he frowned, glancing down at the map he had in hand. As though he hadn't consulted it at least twenty times in sixty minutes. "Wait, please, just a moment." When he continued after her, she wore a scowl. She'd made it a considerable distance in the few seconds he'd paused, but his long strides caught up with her easily, and as he came up beside her, she raised an irked eyebrow. "I have been through room 31, as well as the entire wing of impressionist paintings. It is not there." She glanced up at him. "Check again." "Please, is it not your job to help visitors to the museum?" he asked, and she didn't even turn her head. "I'm a conservator, not customer service," she replied, the words terse. "Find someone else." "I have been looking, but no one knows," he lamented. "Would you give me just a moment of your time?" "Have I not made it clear enough that I'm busy?" She paused for only a moment, pursed her lips and looked at him as he took another sip of his coffee. "And throw away your coffee before you spill it on a Degas." "How would I spill my coffee onto a painting?" At his incredulous tone, the woman scoffed, rolling her eyes, and she promptly turned on her heel, decidedly done entertaining his questions. His eyes widened. "No, wait! I'm sorry," he called after her. "There is only one painting I'm looking for. Can you at least tell me if it's been moved to the archives?" Lafayette's plea was met with silence, and he huffed, trying to catch up to her. "Please, I'm desperate. I need to find this painting before the end of the semester. I'm studying art history, and--" He looked down at her, his breathing picking up as he tried to keep her pace, and he furrowed his brow. "Would you slow down?" Once again, all he received in return was a scowl. "I cannot fail my final for the fall. The paper I am writing is worth fifty percent of my grade." His distress was clear in his tone, and while guilt flickered across the woman's face, if only for a moment, her resolve was firm. "I looked it up, and the museum website says that it is here somewhere, but it clearly is not on display." She turned a corner as he glanced down at his map, and in the moment he wasn't looking, he thought he'd lost her. He picked up the pace. "Please, miss, I—" "Can you just—?" She turned abruptly to him, fuming, just at the moment that he reached out to grab her arm, trying to catch up, but his skidding to a halt wasn't quite quick enough.

She gasped when they collided, and Lafayette immediately took a step back, eyes wide in horror when he saw her. His black coffee was no longer in his to-go cup but instead spilled all down her shirt. She winced as it seeped through her clothing, almost certainly scalding her skin. Lafayette was frozen.

When she looked up, there was fury in her eyes, and he visibly swallowed.

Neither of them moved.

[aboutanancientenquiry]

The “Babylonian chronicles” and the open questions about them

“Manuscript and archive: who wrote and read Babylonian chronicles?

Caroline Waerzeggers 1

The Dutch historian Johan Huizinga famously defined historyas “the intellectual form in which a civilization renders account to itself of its past. (...) It comprises every form of historical record; that of the annalist, the writer of memoirs, the historical philosopher, and the scholarly researcher.”2 In Mesopotamia, “historians” used many forms for this purpose since the late third millennium BC, including annals, epics, royal letters, pseudo-autobiographies, prophecies, chronicles and lists. In this paper I will focus on chronicles, a genre of history writing that became popular in first millennium BC Babylonia.

“In the fifth year, the king of Akkad (remained) in his country. Hestrengthened his numerous chariotry and cavalry.”  ———————————————————————————  

“In the sixth year, in the month of Kislev, the king of Akkad mustered his troops and marched on Hatti. In Hatti, he dispatchedhis troops and they went in the direction of the desert. They carriedaway astonishing riches, cattle and the gods of the many Arabs. Inthe month of Adar the king returned to his country.”  ——————————————————————————— 

 “In the seventh year, in the month of Kislev, the king of Akkadmustered his troops, marched on Hatti, and set up his quartersfacing the city of Yehud. ...” ABC 5: 8’–12’ (translation by Glassner, Mesopotamian Chronicles, 229 – 31).

This passage illustrates some of the key characteristics that present-day scholars attribute to the genre. Written in a compact and terse style, the “chronicles”  present year-by-year accounts of noteworthy events. These are mostly high-impact events –  such as the accession and death of kings, battles and rebellions, festivals and lootings, and plagues and famines –  but sometimes lesser happenings are reported too, such as historical price data, the appearance of wild animals in cities, and weather conditions. Whenever independent testimony is available to corroborate these reports, for instance from archival texts or royalinscriptions, their reliability can generally be confirmed. For this reason, the chronicles are often held to be objective accounts, based on detached observation. Although the precursors of the genre can be traced to Sumerian literature, chronicle-writing was a particularly productive activity in Babyloniain the first millennium BC.3

Assyriologists have identified c. 45 texts so far that can be considered products of this activity. The texts were composed between the late seventh and second centuries BC. There is, and should be, unease about lumping together all these texts in a single category: even within the parameters of format, style and subject matter set up by modern scholarship, individual compositions differ considerably from one another; it is unlikely that anybody in antiquity would have recognized these texts as a distinct group.4 Some chronicles treat the (distant) past, others are about contemporary events. Some chronicles have a clear thematic focus; others are more general in orientation. Some chronicles are written on large, columned tablets, many others survive on small, contract-type tablets. Some chronicles treat long stretches of history, many others focus on a single reign or even small parts thereof. In view of this variety, the notion of“chronicle” has heuristic value only if the constructed nature of the corpus is borne in mind.

  Who wrote and read chronicles? Because of their heavy focus on the acts of kings, it could be suggested that the king or a royal chancellery had an active hand in their composition, but this is unsupported by the evidence as it currently stands. The texts offer no direct clues about the identities of their authors or their sponsors: they contain no address, no statement of purpose, no dedication. They are authorless texts, or at least, this is how they present themselves. Colophons are rare and not informative about authors; they do, however, reveal to us the figure of the “scribe” or “copyist”  –  the person who produced the manuscript.This information allows us to approach the topic of readership as a function ofthe text’s reception or circulation at a certain moment in time and place.

  So far, only two chronicles with a colophon are known, both of them written in the 6th century BC.5 This evidence tells us that at that time “private”individuals cultivated an interest in chronicles and that they may have kept copies in their “private” archives.6 One colophon reveals that Ea-iddin, the son of a certainAna-Bēl-ēreš of the Ur -Nanna family, copied the first tablet of a“series” of chronicles in Babylon in 500 BC (ABC 1A). In this case, we do not know where this tablet was stored, but it was certainly not at court or in an official chancellery, simply because no such material was found at the time when the tablet was retrieved from the site of ancient Babylon.7 The second chronicle manuscript that reveals the name of its copyist is ABC 15. This tablet was written by a certain Nabû-kāṣir of Borsippa’s Ea-ilūta-bani clan.8 Although no personal library of this man has survived, there is reason to believe that the tablet was kept in somebody’s private collection. This is based on the fact that most of the tablets from Borsippa, and in particular its chronicle corpus, have survived in archives of “private” individuals.9 More precisely, these individuals can be identified as members of the temple community –  priests, who, though depending on royal sponsorship, did maintain their own critical discourse on the exercise of royal power.10 In short, based on current evidence, we cannot say much about the “official” status of sixth century chronicles as histories produced at the behest of, or sanctioned by, the king or some royal chancellery. The circulation of these texts rather points to an environment physically removed from the court, but in association with it through the temples and their priesthoods. The inclusion in these chronicles of military setbacks suffered by the Babylonian state has long alerted scholars to the fact that royal control on the composition of chronicles may have been limited in this period.11 On the whole, the interplay between state and temple in the creation of chronicles remains  difficult to capture in the sixth century chronicle corpus, and the matter requires a more focused discussion.

What about the chronicles of the Hellenistic period? Bert van der Spek concluded that these chronicles were a “database” of facts compiled by astronomers for the purpose of divination, locating authors and readers within a single, narrowly defined professional community.12 This suggestion is based on the close connection that existed in the Hellenistic and Parthian periods between chronicles (recorded on single tablets) and Astronomical Diaries (integrating various types of observational data). The link between these two groups of texts is in evidence at a number of levels: through archival connections (the texts were part of the same collections), stylistic similarities (idiom and spelling), topics, and structural connections (they develop according to complementary patterns).13 The conclusion that the authors of the chronicles and those of the Astronomical Diaries were identical seems inevitable.

But transferring this conclusion to the entire chronicle body is problematic.The chronicles never existed as a group.14 While some chronicles indeed exhibit close links to the Diaries, not all of them do. Chronicles written in and about the earlier Neo-Babylonian period existed in manuscript populations where no Diaries were present: there, no complementary patterns developed and no exchange of information took place, at least not in any verifiable way.15 The composite and artificial nature of the chronicle corpus as a modern philological construct demands that questions about audience and author are asked not at the level of the genre, but at the level of the individual text, or at the very most, at the level of the manuscript group. Only if clusters of chronicles existed as a unit in antiquity (as can be argued, for instance, for many of the Hellenistic chronicles edited on line by Finkel and van der Spek at livius.org) can wholesale statements be warranted.

  In this paper, I propose to take a step back and direct the question of authorship and readership at a single, famous exemplar: the Nabonidus Chronicle.16 I will use this text as a case study, in order to illustrate possible approaches to the topic of authorship/readership in the absence of any direct  information supplied by the authorless text. By no means will my conclusions be automatically applicable to all chronicles. On the contrary, the fundamental point that I wish to convey in this contribution is that such overall statements are bound to be mistaken as long as chronicles are treated ahistorically as a single corpus. I will argue that the manuscript –  in our case, the clay tablet carrying the text –  supplies a historically defined point of entry into these questions, and in doing so this paper fits the trend that sees a growing awareness of the materiality of texts, scribal agency, manuscript cultures, and the archive in Assyriology andother historical disciplines in recent years.17″

This is the first part of the study Manuscript and archive: who wrote and read Babylonian chronicles? of Caroline Waerzeggers, available on https://www.academia.edu/37663700/Manuscript_and_archive_who_wrote_and_read_Babylonian_chronicles_pp._335-346_in_Conceptualizing_Past_Present_and_Future_Proceedings_of_the_Ninth_Symposium_of_the_Melammu_Project_held_in_Helsinki_Tartu_May_18-24_2015_eds_S._Fink_and_R._Rollinger._M%C3%BCnster_Ugarit-Verlag_2018

See on the interesting thesis of Caroline Warzeggers on the provenance of the Nabonidus Chronicle and its relationship with Greek historiography the second part of the same study, but also its presentation and criticicism by R. J. van Spek in my previous post https://aboutanancientenquiry.tumblr.com/post/679494262420865024/the-babylonian-nabonidus-chronicle-and-the

Caroline Waerzeggers is Professor of Assyriology at the Leiden University Institute for Area Studies. Source: https://www.universiteitleiden.nl/en/staffmembers/caroline-waerzeggers#tab-1

[krewbies]

hi! im desperate for some frenemies to lovers ANGST w my girl asami, honestly wldnt mind it being a korra x asami au, but x fem!reader is just as swell ! also , if its not too much to ask , id rly love some bolin x reader fluff bc i am such a simp for that boy 🥺🥺 the gay agenda™️ is top priority but ,, bolin 🥺🥺🥺🥺

ahhh i decided to go with a high school au cause why not! regarding bolin stuff, there is content to come 👀 i really hope you enjoy, i would’ve done some korrasami but i am honestly SHIT at writing stuff between two canon characters, good characterization is one of my weak points :/ also!!!! warning!!!! major mentionsof death!!!!

•••••

You and Asami always held a sort of.... animosity for each other. There was no reason for the clear cut tension that hung between the two of you, but anyone would be able to notice it.

It’s not like you hated her. It was just, you, Mako, and Bolin had grown up together, you were basically an honorary sibling. When Korra had joined your trio in freshman year it had been enough of an adjustment, but Asami had felt like a tipping point that you just could not handle, ESPECIALLY after the whole love triangle situation that had almost torn the 5 of you apart in sophomore year. High school was shitty enough without shitty romances to go with it.

You guys generally could get along, too. You had a number of classes together, so you walked and chatted back and forth all the time, but thick tension always hung in the air when you did.

It didn’t help that she was disgustingly rich and attractive either. She practically had guys falling at her feet, and it pissed you off to no end. How could you be the only one?

“(Y/N), you’re missing the educational mover!” Your economics teacher, Mr. Varrick, had paused the movie specifically to call you out. You groaned, sliding down in your seat and throwing a hand over your eyes. “Third time this week! Get your act together...” He continued to mumble under his breath. Hell, was that man eccentric. He resumed the action on the screen, and you actually attempted to pay attention this time; this was your only time to learn in this class, after all. Mr. Varrick was an excellent man, but a horrible teacher.

From the seat next to you, the one and only Asami Sato laughed quietly, fiddling with her pen and side eyeing your slumped form. God, even her damn laugh was attractive, that woman was aggravating. Minutes passed and you couldn’t help but stare at the clock.

Mr. Varrick paused the mover and you couldn’t help but panic; he had a thing for calling principal Moon a little bit too often for minor student misdemeanors just so he could talk to her.

“Ms. Sato, can I see you outside?” He then promptly unpaused as Asami stood up. She glanced back at you, making her way up the aisle, and you attempted to give her a reassuring look, despite you low grade hatred for her.

Your teacher slowly and softly shut the door behind him... odd. He was a slam-the-door kind of guy. You rocked your knees back and forth, starting to get nervous for her. Stop. You don’t even care that much...right?

The door opened again, and he held a solemn look at his face. He raised a hand, ushering you over. You swiftly stood up, an odd feeling in your stomach, almost like you felt bad for her (which, you didn’t, obviously). 

It was a blur. Ms. Sato. Office. Father. Died. You froze. This couldn’t be happening, not to her. 

You found yourself wrapping you arms around her, despite her lack of tears. Maybe she was in shock. I mean, what could she do? What could you do? The walk was silent. You felt impossibly heavy as you walked with your arms wrapped around Asami. The fluorescent high school lighting gave you a headache. You couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling. 

She dropped to the floor, taking you with her, right outside the office doors. She let out a silent, breathless sob, choking on her own intense emotion. 

“Asami,” You felt for her, you felt your chest tighten as you watched your ‘frenemy’ lose all her composure, tears ruining her perfect makeup and her hands grasping your arms tightly. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not for a girl like her, “I’m so sorry, Asami.” You choked out all you could manage.

All she could do was shake her head. All the principal would do was give her stupid, distanced condolences, and then she’d have to go home and face a world of hurt. “Let me take you to my house.” You blurted out. It was all you had to offer her. She nodded without even thinking, wiping her nose on her sleeve and letting you lead her out to your car instead.

You both took a solemn seat. Her silence was lost, forgotten as the car door slammed behind her. She reached her hand over, laying it in your lap, asking for anything. You took it gently, watching her closely, and leaned over cautiously to wrap her up in an awkward hug over the center console.

“Thank you, Y/N. I’m sorry you-” She gasped lightly, burying her head deeper into the crook of your neck. “-you had to see this.” She pulled away slowly, looking at you with a certain tenderness behind her red eyes and broken heart. You weren’t expecting it in the slightest, but she leaned in you, kissing the side of your mouth.

“Asami, are you-”

“No, I- I, you don’t realize how fleeting everything is or how quickly things change, and I... I’m sorry, I had to do that.” You nodded curtly, starting the car. Your chest was still heavy, and your heart still ached for Asami, but you would be lying if you said your heart wasn’t racing for another reason.

~

okay im sorry this is honestly not great. i lowkey wrote this as a comfort fic for myself because my dad died recently and it was nice to write... what i wish my experience had been when i first found out? idk, i know it was depressing. i can write a part 2 if the ‘lovers’ part wasn’t accentuated enough (i know it wasn’t), just let me know!!!

[curiosity-killed]

sunbeam flaring

hair...healing...thoughts...?? They’re Dumbasses, Ur Honor

(title stolen from Love Sonnet XI by Neruda bc I had litcherally no idea what to call it)

word count: 2354

He notices it on a perfectly ordinary afternoon two weeks before Callebero’s twenty-second birthday. Inasmuch as the captain of the imperial cavalry has such a thing, it’s Sirion’s day off; he sleeps in, waking only briefly when Callebero extricates himself and presses a kiss to his cheek and then dozing until the sun is two fingers above the horizon. His morning is slow and indulgent; breakfast with Regent Aquios, who insists he call her by her first name despite the way he shies from such familiarity, followed by a few hours catching up on the paperwork and correspondence that has piled up in his office lately. Now, he pauses in the middle of running forms with Mikolan as Callebero crosses the gardens. He’s dressed formally today, in those heavy layers he hates and which always draw Sirion’s eyes to his narrow waist and the broad strength of his shoulders. An older retainer walks at his side, mirroring his frown, but it’s not their conversation that catches Sirion’s attention.

Callebero’s hair has been pulled back from the front, the long tail tucked into a neat bun that’s secured by a gold band. A spider’s-silk thread of jewels drips in a loop below it. Beneath it, the rest of his hair forms a short curtain falling just below his ear. The end of a staff taps him on the top of his head. “Stop gawking. We already know you and the imperator have turned the palace to your love nest, but you don’t have to be so obvious,” Mikolan scolds. “That is not—” Sirion starts to sign before huffing out a breath and giving up. Once she recovered from the initial shock of Valyn’s treachery and Callebero’s return, Mikolan had thrown herself gleefully into teasing him about their relationship. So far, she is still too mindful of place to say anything to Callebero, but she has taken full credit for them meeting and has not missed a single opportunity to remind Sirion of his early impressions of Callebero. There’s no point fighting such a losing battle, so he turns back to their practice and stows that startled notice away for later contemplation. It’s not like he’s unaware of it. He’d noticed Callebero scratching the back of his head with the end of a reed pen when his hair was little more than rabbit-fur fuzz, and Sirion has combed his fingers through both the long tail of his crown and the shorter locks just growing out. It’s just—he hasn’t thought about it. That night, curled close around each other with their legs tangled, Sirion skates his fingers through Callebero’s hair and tries to order his own thoughts. There’s a sharp division between the thick, downy underlayer and the longer half, sleek and silken. A fiercely selfish part of Sirion is grateful he never saw Callebero’s hair hacked short. He thinks he might have killed whoever held the blade. “I know, it’s ridiculous,” Callebero mumbles from where his face is smashed partially into the pillow and partially into Sirion’s left arm. Canting his head, Sirion shakes his fingers gently out of his hair and taps Callebero’s shoulder twice in the negative. Callebero shifts so that half his face is unburied and squints blearily up at Sirion. He’s not sure what all happened today, but Jisel had been clearly nursing a headache throughout dinner and Callebero had collapsed face first onto their bed before removing his crown or hairpieces. He’d muttered something about doing away with all laws and ceding absolute power to Jisel, to which Sirion had reasonably pointed out that she would kill him herself if he did such a thing. Groaning, Callebero had smashed his face into the pillow and muttered a string of curses that made even Sirion’s brows lift. “It is nice,” Sirion signs now. “I liked how you had it today.” Callebero squints at him, brow wrinkling as if in complete bafflement. “You may be a once-in-a-generation commander,” he says finally, “but your taste in men remains questionable.” Rolling his eyes, Sirion flicks his shoulder. “Say it again, and I’ll bite you,” he warns. For a moment, Callebero stares at him in open confusion, his lips parted around words that don’t escape beyond a faint squeak. Then, he breaks into laughter and reaches up to drag Sirion down and kiss him. “So much for my protector,” he teases. Sirion arches his eyebrows. “Jisel would say the same,” he retorts. “I can assure you Jisel would never bite me,” Callebero rejoins with a laugh. Rolling them over so that he can drape himself across Callebero’s chest and free his left arm, Sirion shakes his head. Callebero allows the shift comfortably, curling his arm around Sirion’s side to trace slow strokes up and down his back. Despite his earlier exhaustion, he’s bright-eyed now and smiles up at Sirion. “Only because she would be better prepared,” Sirion replies. At that, Callebero only breathes out a soft laugh and tilts his head to one side in apparent concession. “Very well, Commander,” he teases. “I solemnly swear not to doubt your taste in romantic partners ever again.” He leans in when Sirion presses a kiss to his lips and hums in pleasure when Sirion nips his bottom lip. “I don’t know how anyone thinks you’re such a solemn and decorous leader,” Sirion gripes. Callebero yawns and wiggles his shoulders in a mix of a shrug and an effort to nestle down into the mattress. Easing off him, Sirion settles back at his side with his arm draped over Callebero’s waist. His sleeping robes are warm and creased from being pressed so close between them, and Sirion can feel his own body slipping closer to sleep. “Mm,” Callebero hums. “It helps that I mostly keep my mouth shut.” Sirion can’t help breathing out a laugh at that, shaking his head. Like many, his first impression of Callebero had been a silent one—and at the time, Sirion had read that as cool haughtiness much as many visitors did. Laying such an image over the Callebero he now knows seems laughable, but he knows he’s one of only a few who can claim such familiarity. Under his arm, Callebero’s belly tenses with a quiet laugh. He prods Sirion in the ribs. “It worked on you, after all,” he teases. Mikolan’s incessant teasing rises to Sirion’s mind, and he shakes his head. Callebero grins. “You thought I was a brat,” he says, unreasonably gleeful. “I”—Sirion starts and then stops short, because that is true—“changed my mind.” Callebero snorts, graceless, and wriggles out from Sirion just enough to smother the candle on the side table. With only the moonlight left spilling blue through the cracks in the shutters, the room is ink-dark and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust. “It took me kicking your ass to change your mind,” Callebero retorts. “It was a draw,” Sirion signs. “I laid you out, love.” There’s laughter in Callebero’s voice as he speaks, and Sirion finds amusement battling down the old wound to his pride. He can still picture the staff end hovering right before his nose, Callebero’s careless, bright grin on the other end. He hadn’t fallen in love in that moment, but it had been a shift—a sudden, bracing change like dunking into cold water on a summer day. “You had the element of surprise,” he still insists. “Mm,” Callebero hums doubtfully. “I could still take you.” Narrowing his eyes, Sirion squints at him in the darkness. It’s absurd. They’re both grown men with more accolades than most families have in three generations. They’ve each emerged from three wars and a coup with honors and scars to prove their valor. There is no reason to quibble over an old sparring match. “Could not,” he signs anyway. Callebero’s laughter is more of a hot brush of air against Sirion’s skin than a sound, and he squeezes him once. “I suppose we’re due for a rematch then,” he says, the words briefly warped around a yawn. “Ah maybe next week?” Sirion hums and drops his head to Callebero’s shoulder, hooking his ankle around his calf. “For your birthday,” he signs, and Callebero laughs. Jisel catches on quickly, of course. On the third day of Regent Batu’s visit, they duck away with a pot of tea in the far corner of the library where only Callebero ever thinks to look. If anyone asks, they aren’t hiding. It’s simply a convenient location to get some work done while the visiting gentry fill the palace with gossip and traveling parties and more gifts than any single person has ever needed. For the most part, Sirion looks on all the pomp and frivolity with amusement. All these rich nobles falling over themselves to litter Callebero with gilt and gems as if they could win his favor with enough gold. And, selfishly, part of Sirion likes that none of their piled gifts will never match what Callebero actually wants. A toothed satisfaction runs through him at the futility of their sycophancy. “If Jemma catches you gawking at his hair one more time, I think she might combust,” Jisel remarks. Rolling his eyes, Sirion glances up from the report he’s been reading to shoot her a glare. Over the last year and a half, it has become apparent that Jemma doesn’t quite know how to handle he and Callebero being partners and seems stuck vacillating between threatening Sirion should he ever hurt Callebero and lecturing Callebero on valuing Sirion enough. Hayalen has spent most of it laughing at both her wife and the two of them. “I do not gawk,” Sirion retorts now. Jisel raises her eyebrows, hiding her smile behind her teacup, and he can feel heat suffusing his cheeks. Huffing out a breath, he leans back in his chair. “It’s not”—he stops, pressing his lips into a seam in frustration before sighing—“I’m just not used to it.” Humming faintly, Jisel lowers her cup to cradle between her hands and runs a fingertip back and forth over the lip. “I did the same when Kieran came back from Jimar,” she admits. “It took a while, and I hardly noticed at first but then…” She pauses, looking away. A pang squeezes Sirion’s heart. He doesn’t know exactly how she and the younger Aquios’ relationship fell apart, and they’ve seemed to be on polite enough terms now—but it still feels shocking and somehow wrong that they should have ended at all. “It’s comforting,” she says finally, turning back to him with a little smile, “to know that he’s not planning to rush headlong into danger again.” Oh. Sirion blinks, startled by that analysis. He’s hardly thought of it in such serious terms; when he’s pondered his sudden fixation on Callebero’s hair it’s been more in curiosity and bafflement. Footsteps sound behind them, and Sirion twists around. Callebero’s eyebrows arch up as he nears, unimpressed, and Sirion grins back at him. “Traitors,” Callebero announces. “We only wanted to give our imperator princep space to celebrate with his courtiers,” Jisel replies, sweet as honey. Huffing out a breath, Callebero drops down into the chair beside Sirion. “Your imperator princep would rather shovel out all the horse stalls in the capital,” he retorts. He kicks lightly at Sirion’s ankle, glancing over to grin at Sirion as if Sirion weren’t already looking at him. Shaking his head, Sirion reaches over to pull him in for a brief kiss. He comes willingly, smiling against his lips, and across the table, Jisel snorts. “Shameless,” she singsongs. Callebero laughs, a warm breath of air against Sirion’s lips, and then he pulls back to grin at her. He’s still leaned close enough that Sirion could run a hand through his hair if it weren’t so neatly pinned up. “I remember someone telling me that Aeridians are all too repressed and that’s why we spend so much time polishing our swords,” he says. Pausing, Jisel narrows her eyes and searches his face like she can’t tell if he’s joking or not. After a moment, she scowls and leans back. “You can’t use the things I’ve said while drunk against me,” she says. “And I stand by it anyway.” Shaking his head, Callebero snorts out a laugh. The motion makes his earrings jingle, ringing together like little chimes. When they turn in for the evening, he’ll grumble about all the layers and seriously contemplate going to bed with each of the dangling piercings still in, and Sirion will nudge him into sitting still long enough to let him take them out and loosen his hair from its severe styling. He can nearly feel the memory of it, the body-warm metal and the cool brush of hair, already lingering in his fingertips. “Since neither of you drink properly, it’s only fair,” Jisel says with a careless shrug. “That is for the sake of the nation’s dignity,” Callebero rejoins. Sirion snorts. “Where would we be if everyone knew the fearsome Black Prince fell asleep after one cup?” he teases. That earns him a short glare and a flick in his shoulder, but he captures Callebero’s hand to tangle their fingers together, which earns him a smile and a net win. Sitting back in his chair, Callebero rolls his shoulders and finally starts to relax. “Jar,” Callebero corrects loftily, and Jisel snorts. “Half,” Jisel rejoins. Stifling a grin, Sirion settles in to let them bicker it out. He’s never seen Callebero drunk, only warm and loose with wine and contentment. His only part in the quibbling is to tease both of them wherever possible. A few strands of Callebero’s hair have slipped loose from the braids and bun, sliding down in a loose loop. Humming softly, Sirion reaches out to tuck them behind his ear. His hand lingers, brushing gently through his hair. Callebero turns slightly, just enough for Sirion to catch the smile on his lips. It softens, warms, and Sirion finds himself mirroring him, helpless. Across the table, Jisel snorts at both of them, and Sirion’s smile broadens into a grin.

[redrobin-detective]

Soul Bond Facts

So clarifications or extra details from my fic Putting Infinity into Words that I had to cut for time. I suggest reading that before this otherwise nothing under the cut will make any sense. If it does anyway.

- Soul Bonds are bonds you share with people who, over the course of your entire life, you will share a relationship with. The relationship can be good, bad, romantic, platonic, antagonistic, as long as you have some impact on another, you will have a bond. It begins the first moment you touch and lasts a lifetime, even if the relationship itself falls apart at some point. Its a representation of your entire dynamic through touch.

- Every time you touch a Bond Mate, the Bond renews, strengthening in its own way. Each touch brings with it the entirety of your feelings for a person you will have during your relationship. The feeling is unchanged throughout the lifetime. The deeper the feeling, the more intense and strong the Bond. People like Izuku and Bakugou have a complex Bond bc it starts out very antagonistic and ends up (decades later as pros) very strong and positive. Each time they touch they feel that entire spectrum of what they’ll feel for the other which can be very confusing.

- The Bond is composed of a whispered fact about your future relationship (take every interaction you have with someone over a lifetime, shake it up and  have one random fact falls out). When the Bond is “completed” it means that you have reached the point in time where the one fact occurred. Its signified by a whole body tingle and you’ll never again hear the Fact in your head. Though the Bond is completed, the relationship endures and you’ll still feel the Bond hum when you touch. 

-Bonds always come true, even in roundabout ways. Many people debate if Bonds cause decisions or if decisions cause Bonds but its an unanswerable question. Some (like Bakugou) try to avoid the Bond but end up fulfilling it instead. Others run towards it, trying to fulfill it (like Todoroki) not realizing that Bonds complete on their own time table.

- While the Bonds can be about pretty much anything, from the ordinary to the life changing, more often than not they comment in some way on the future relationship between people. 

- Izuku’s Bond to Kirishima: He Will Protect You Kirishima’s bond to Izuku: You Will Break His Fingers. 

Kiri feels really bad about future him hurting his bud so, in a show of friendship and dumbassery, Izu tells Kiri to break his fingers now in attempt to complete the Bond. It doesn’t work but they get a lecture from Recovery Girl and a good laugh out of the situation

- Uraraka to Iida: He Will Keep You Grounded Iida to Uraraka: You Will Give Her 1000 Yen

Iida, being the lovable, rich Himbo that he is, is always giving Uraraka money thinking its part of their bond. Uraraka tries to refuse at first but it was upsetting Iida so she started accepting it. Getting 1000 yen every now and again really helped her stretch her food budget when times were tough. Almost every time they touch, Iida will begin searching through his wallet to give to his friend. 

- Though Izuku’s Bond with Tsuyu completed at USJ (She Will Save You From a Villain), Tsuyu’s Bond to Izuku (He Will Frighten You) isn’t completed until their first year as Pros when Izuku fights off a villain with two broken arms, snarling and manic. 

- Bakugou does eventually accept his bond with izuku (He Will Always Be By Your Side). It took a while, longer than canon bc hes spent years raging at the idea specifically of working alongside Deku. By the time they graduate though he chokes out a semblance of an apology and they settle into a healthier, if really really intense rivalry. Over the years they become attuned to each other, a Bond so strong, it resonates all the way back to 4 year old Deku and Kacchan on the playground.

- Gran Torino’s Bond to Izuku is that Izuku will knock him out one day which he finds incredibly amusing. Doesn’t know why the brat gets all teary eyed when they touch though. Izuku avoids touching his grand mentor because he doesn’t want to be reminded that he will be present when the older hero dies. It happens 10 years later, peacefully but the knowledge is still an ugly heavy burden. 

- Izuku is certain his Bond to Shinsou (He Will Sleep On Your Couch) means he’ll be a hero and, in the end, is right. Shinsou’s Bond says that Izuku would get him flowers and he has numerous nervous breakdowns thinking they’ll start dating but it actually completes 7 years after the Sports Festival when Izuku brings him flowers in the hospital after Shinsou was hurt in a villain attack.

- Todoroki, god love him, seems to think he needs to kiss Izuku in order to keep up the Bond (You Will Kiss Him). Izuku doesn’t really correct him of this because the attention and affection is quite nice. At first the kisses are platonic until midway through their Third Year, Todoroki is like “wait I think I’m in love with Midoriya. How was I supposed to know falling in love would be a consequence of constantly kissing my best friend.” Uraraka looks into the camera like she’s on the office.

- Iida is in the eventual Tododeku wedding and, still freaking out on which side he will stand on, switches back and forth throughout the ceremony. Izuku is trying not to laugh but iida is SUPER OBVIOUS about his movements. Todo doesn’t notice anything but his handsome groom all day. 

- What Aizawa heard through his bond with Izuku: You Will Watch him Become Number One Hero What Aizawa told Izuku: I knew you’d be a problem

He tells exactly no one until Izuku eventually does make it to Number One, Aizawa claps him on the shoulder and tells him good work also great job completing the Bond which floors everyone. Kept that shit hidden for years

- Stain’s Bond with Izuku said that Stain would rescue him which completed when he saved Izuku from the Noumu. Izu’s was that Stain Would Hurt Someone He Loved which also completed when he went after Todoroki. Izuku tries not to think about the corrupted, ugly whispers of a warped Bond he heard from the Noumu, one he thinks he might remember from one of his childhood playmates who disappeared. He cries over it anyway.

- Toshinori’s Bond to Izuku (He Will Learn Your Secret) completes with the reveal of Nighteye’s prediction of his death. Izuku’s (You Will Call Him Father) doesn’t complete for many, many years. He calls Toshi ‘dad’ a great many times in that period.

[swordmaid]

creator tag meme

tagged by the local angel @giuseppearcimboldo thank you so much lizzie!

rules: it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 (ish) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

VERY happy i can fill this out because i’ve been so productive this year lol. also this is all gonna be jb bc ive been RELENTLESS and spamming and i would apologize but i wont lmao 

1. jb eros/psyche au.

i am talking about everything i have done for the au btw, because i’ve done quite a handful of things and honestly i really love all of them--even the doodle ones which rarely happens. anyway, i love this au in general. i think the tale is perfect for them, and i’m happy with the works that i managed to put out most esp this one that’s based on canova’s sculpture of eros and psyche. translating sculpture into digital art was interesting since it was all about converting the weight and structure of the sculpture into the screen and i think i managed to do it imo! i love how brienne looks heavy in his arms, i love how strong jaime looks holding her up and i especially love the way i shaded her dress to mimic the lines that the statue has. all in all, this au slapped and i actually want to do more of it but i have no inspiration right now. 

2. jb as classical art series. 

honestly i never thought that this was going to be a series lol i thought it was just a two time thing, but then i did another one, and then another one, and then another one and now here we are. i love all the pieces that i’ve done for it actually. my favourite thing is that they’re all not direct translations of the original art. there are some aspects that i’ve taken and adapted while also putting my own flair into it. i love the reverse colour scheme with klimt’s kiss and my own rendition of it. the gold being the accent highlight in a field of murky brown/black whereas klimt has the black squares present to emphasis the richness of the gold and yellows. i also like the little thing i did where i put the geometric shapes outside of the subject instead of inside (what he did). i put on the tags that i didnt like how it turned out but i actually like it lol i just didn’t like how long it took me i get too impatient with my art i think. anyway. i love this whole series sm i think all the pieces have their own character, and tbh i always get nervous adding another piece into this just because all the ones that i’ve done has been so well received i don’t want to be a disappointment lool. regardless, i love classical art and i love jb and i love being able to put the two together hehe we love to be self indulgent

3. la belle fleur sauvage commission. 

aka THIS commission that was based from SD’s fic, la belle fleur sauvage. some behind the scenes with that one--that one took me SO long to do, like it was taking longer than i had wanted and i felt very bad and i am forever thankful for sd’s patience 😭😭😭. i really can’t be too mad though since i was working on the third year of my degree, but i still would’ve wanted to finish it sooner than i did. but as for the art itself---i actually love it lol. i always say to zoom in on my stuff to see all the details but i WISH folks would zoom in on that because it’s so big and so intricate. i love how everything turned out; i love how rich the colours are, i love the composition for all three panels, i love how the SKY looked like actually that’s the first time i sat down and painted clouds with that technique and i am so happy and pleased with how it looked im using it for everything LOL, i love jaime’s outfit in the 2nd panel---i actually designed a whole outfit for that and he DOES have his pouches and daggers, etc. stuff that he would have with him if he was a mercenary, but because of the cropping, those details were taken out but it’s THERE. i love the colours and the shading on the 3rd panel. it looks so soft and romantic and it’s everything 😭😭. honestly i didnt know if i was able to finish whole three panels just because of how big the project seemed, but tbqh this piece really pushed me as an artist and im really happy that i had the chance to work on it (-’: 

4. early morning.

this one is a more recent piece and i was thinking post canon jaime/brienne married and either living in casterly rock or evenfall hall. originally the sheets were gonna be red with the gold brocade but i just made it green to make their location more ambiguous. they’re in a castle because of the finery, but which castle i have no idea. anyway i love their faces here in particular--jaime because it’s not often that i draw him old (this is the second time i drew old jaime i think?) and i love how he turned out here. i love how he looks like a silver fox and a dilf and we really do love that for brienne. full disclosure, i have no idea how to draw older folks since i don’t have a lot of practice in that area so im glad my lack of experience doesn’t show lmao. i also love how soft brienne looks here! the little smile on her lips is very sweet, her body language and how relax she seems is very telling abt her confidence in this scene also i think i drew her hands hella well haha. all in all i think it’s a really sweet art! and the full version is not so bad either jaime’s ass was referenced from marble sculptures so you know im aiming for Quality. but i love this headcanon of a younger brienne tiring jaime out, i’ve read a handful fics about it and im happy i can do my own version of it hehe 

5. unravel.

wow we love domesticity. someone said that if you compile all my ns*w art of them together it’s like they haven’t left their bed ever since they got together and you know what? love that for them it’s what they deserve. anyway i chose this one because of how sensual and simple it is. their body language really does all the talking ; jaime’s hand pulling on the ties on her shift, her hand on his hair, how soft and lazy their kiss looks--it’s enough to tell the story me thinks! i just love how simple this whole thing is but it’s very effective. there’s really not much to it besides what you see but that’s really enough.

i am actually very proud of myself with how productive i’ve been. it’s really not often that i get as much drive and energy to post so much art. iirc my art tag is nearly 200 content already (i think it’s 180 ish rn?) and honestly that’s a LOT if you told me ill be making more than 100+ content for jb i would’ve been like nah im too lazy for that lmao. but im really proud of myself this year! i think i pushed myself as an artist and i’ve familiarized myself more with my strengths as well as my weaknesses. i have a clear idea on the areas that i need to work on, and i’ve really gotten more comfortable with being happy with my own pieces and i’m trying not to put myself down more if something doesn’t go the way i want it to. also, i’ve had the opportunity to work with more people this year--so for the people who has commissioned me or IS commissioning me rn--- thank you so much for trusting me with your visions 😭😭 ive never expected to get this kind of reception with my art but i am very grateful for all of it. 

anyway as for the tagging i tag -- @na-bruma-leve / @dreadwulf / @dilfjaime / @fawnilu BUT i would highly recommend you to come along and snatch this tag meme up like a little raccoon because we all should start being proud of our own works imo !!

[rockmusicjunkie]

Hello, me again, finding time away from school and homeworks to make this

I’m not sure how interested you are in picks but as a pretty decent guitarist and bass player i decided to, as someone with roughly 2 years of experience, write a short post about the topic of pics and which ones i like and for what kind of music etc.

So, i’ve had 3 medium fender picks, similar to some of the ones in the picture above, and one heavy pick, and that was recommended to me by the employee there. My dad is a guitarist, not bassist, with around 33 years of experience and he was never into picks so he wouldnt have been able to help even if he was there. My experience with these medium and heavy picks is okay, they’re fine but just okay, if you know what i mean - definetely well made but not what i was going for when it comes to material, thickness, grip, shape, texture and other factors

Last week i did research on bass picks, which i wanted to buy for playing unplugged at home, or late in the evening, and i came across the jim dunlop gator ones, the big stubby ones and just in general the triangle shaped once so i decided to buy each of those, and here’s what i think:

TRIANGLE: Definetely love the shape, the one i got was a triangle dunlop ultex, 0.73 mm thick, doesnt move around my fingers like the fender ones, better feel and material, loved the secure feel the shape gave me, tried it out on bass and it is perfect for sadder songs, kinda similar tone to the fender but much richer and higher quality

BIG STUBBY: i chose a big stubby, 1mm thick, but next time i’ll buy an even thicker one to give that a try. Standard shape but a bit sharper tip, love the red bc it matches my bass, smooth material with a textured section for a better grip, the smoothness doesnt make it slip or move around and definetely my favorite vibe and it just makes playing seem easier and more enjoyable, definetely recommend this to someone who is just starting out BUT you should pick the size and shape, in case you stumble upon variations of it, according to your own taste, not mine, also definetely a very soft, rich and just beautiful tone, love that!

GATOR GRIP: i got the 1.14 mm one which just feels like heaven to me, love the look and feel of it, doesnt have any engravings but the material itself just is perfect, doesnt slip or move around, very nice feel overall, good choice of colours and everything important when it comes to a pick, similar tone to the big stubby but you can definetely hear the difference, i cant put my finger on it but there’s definetely something there that makes it, as well as big stubby, stand out, at least to me

also, these are just my opinions and advices, not anything paid, so let me know if u want me to do smth like this again, also all of these pictures are from goole and not mine but these are the picks i’m talking about, 1st pic is stubby, 2nd is the gator one, third is triangle ultex and 4th the fender ones

What are your fav picks/materials/brands, i would say dunlop picks are more my thing but i still love fender and their guitars

[alri-xo]

Ship of Dreams (Titanic 1997 AU) | Chapter 1

Gif not mine

A/N: Hello everrrrybodyyyy so after about twelve hours, chapter 1 is here 🎉 and like... Yeah... I hope you enjoy reading this part bc it's gonna be pretty long. (Italics are short flash backs). Made a few tweaks in how the scenes flow but still, it gets there. Don't worry bout it. And I added links below for you to easily navigate between the current parts of the story, and I'll be doing that for all the other chapters for easier access. Channelling this Bucky (thanks babe @witchymegg ) and post serum Steve in this fic, but in whatever Jack and Fabrizio wore.

Pairing: Alexander Pierce x Reader

Warnings: Age gap?, rich people being rich people, social discrimination, gambling. Swearing... I am on the app so this has no page break

The whirring of the large helicopter was heard through out a far radius, Y/N and Meg seated inside and Diamond on the old woman's lap.

As one of the submarines were being swung over to begin another mission, Jared and Baron walked over, talking. Baron was rather aggressive in his perspective on meeting lil old lady Y/N, calling her an old liar. Saying that her claims that she is Y/F/N is false as she 'died' in the Titanic.

However, Jared was too set in finding the precious jewel to listen to Baron's claims. He'd care less of his friend now that he finally has a walking diary willing to tell the tale.

Jared's Point of View

"She's dead, McKinley... Look it up. She might be another person for vanity... She's an old goddamn liar..." Baron says harshly as the loud propellers of the heli fill the ears of everyone on deck.

"Y'know what, do something you fancy right now, Martins... This is what I fancy, and if you don't want in, go some place else..." I say sternly as I walked over to help the old nutshell out the Sea Stallion.

Claiming that she's dead is rather harsh, now that she's here. In a wheelchair, frail, basically looking like time wasn't too good to her, no... She's no fine wine.

But she is definitely a fine piece of the puzzle, for my reputation and for this shipwreck. Thousands of dollars will go to nothing and will prove Baron right.

I'm his boss. I should be right...

Right?

"Good day, Mrs. Treville... Welcome to the Dal'nomer... I'm Jared McKinley..." I greeted as she was carried down the heli in her wheel chair, a young woman following her as she descended from the small door.

"Hello, Mr. McKinley... This is my granddaughter, Meg..." She greets me as Meg reaches out to shake my hand for a brief moment, following her grandmother soon after, a fish bowl with a few small fishes inside being handed to me.

Who the hell brings their entire house in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?

💎

"How's the stateroom, Mrs. Treville?"

"Lovely, Mr. McKinley... Very lovely..." she says happily as she looked around the room, "Have you met my granddaughter, Meg? She takes care of me..."

"Yes, we met a moment ago, grandma..." She smiles as I caught Baron roll his eyes and chuckle... I looked at him, making him stop.

"Oh yes..." she says remembering me meeting her granddaughter. A short pause filled the air for a moment, as I looked at the mass of picture frames on top of the bedside table.

I mean, it's pretty inconvenient and her actions are pretty different than any old lady I ever met.

"That's nice... I like to bring my pictures with me... And Diamond of course..." she says pertaining to her white Pomeranian, seated on the foot of ther bed.

Old ladies... Quite peculiar specimens.

But that's not the thing I'm after. I'm after that big juicy jewel, and the story behind it. The safe combination, how did Pierce grab hold of it, of such a controversial piece of pressurized carbon.

"Anything else you need?"

"I would like to see my drawing."

💎

Reader's Point of View

We entered the lab. The white paint prominent all around. Technicians in their white garments as they fiddled with the tech around them, like children playing with their dolls.

They lead me to a place in the lab, a rectangular dish on top of the cold, busy table. A drawing of a woman submerged in the clear water.

"Lay there... Just like that for me..." his steel blue eyes focused as he directed my form, bare flesh but a large gem on my chest, dark as the rim around his irises.

His large hands held his pad of paper as he sketched in dark grey strokes.

His dark brown locks loose on his face as he glanced at me.

His muse.

It puts a smile on my face, as I remember how I was too innocent and certain to love someone for the grade of good, not knowing any better.

Jared nears to me, holding a black and white picture in his hands, the 'Heart of the Ocean.'

"Louis the Sixteenth, wore a fabulous stone called the Blue Diamond of the Crown, it disappeared in 1792. About the same time Louis lost everything from the neck up..." Jared said as he sat beside me, showing me the picture... I just listened to him and the gem's origins.

I always knew it cost a fortune, but now I just realized a thing that I felt back then... A diamond fit for royalty on a girl like me, marrying for what good reason?

It's a gorgeous piece, truly. However, by what Jared is saying, it is one for that of the Olympic Dieties.

"... Today, it would be more expensive than a Hope Diamond," his friend Baron nodded, agreeing that such is worth a fortune.

All I could think was I was both lucky but undeserving of having to wear it. A thing worth more than my whole existence is wanted by these people for whatever reason. I wouldn't want to jump into conclusions.

"Oh, I remember how heavy this was..." I said touching the picture of the necklace and looking ay the drawing, "I only wore it this once..."

Meg looks at me reluctantly, raising an eyebrow, "Do you really believe that's you, Grandma?"

I smiled at her and chuckled, "Why yes, dear... I was quite the looker..."

Jared smiles as my granddaughter giggles behind me. All is well on my part.

However, I can sense that one of the men, Baron, is skeptical of me. I wouldn't want to think so paranoid but, a man like him looks at someone like me differently.

Jared goes on with his story, and I listen, any rational human should do the same, "We tracked in down through insurance records but it was deemed confidential... Do you know who the claimant was, Y/N?"

"I believe it may be someone with Pierce..." I say in a lively tone. But that surname irks me.

Pierce...

"Ding ding ding! The father, New York personality, worked for the Navy as one of it's top asset and next part of his story, became one of the most known socialites of his time in the US. For his son, Alexander Pierce, heir of all that cash, splurged on the necklace during his trip to France..."

He paused a little, "For his fiancee, you... One week before the Titanic set sailed from England. Claim was made after the ship sank... Meaning, it went down with the ship."

Meg looked at the date, dictating it to Jared as he snapped his fingers.

"So if your grandma is who she says she is, it means that she wore the necklace when the Titanic sank..." Baron butted in like an omniscient being, but I don't really mind. What is there to mind anyway?

I can't force someone into believing who I say I am. I have gone through enough in my 100 years of existence and that's a thing I learned along the way, before I rode that ship. I couldn't force even my mother who I think I am... When she was alive of course.

Jared smiles at me like the Cheshire cat, eyes gleaming with anticipation, "And that makes you my new bestfriend."

💎

We went forth to another part of the lab. In front of me stood a table, antiques submerged in the Atlantic laid out in front of me.

It felt as if I was travelling through time, in my younger years. My glory days. The mirror looked in shape, though faded a little and cracked, it's still the mirror I once held.

"My reflection is a little different..." I smiled as I set it down. I took another antique from the table, a hair piece this time and inspected it. It still dawns its jewel toned colors, except it has faded through the test of time.

All these items still vivid in my memory. How new they were and the materials that made up every piece on this table, were so rare and priceless. It's extraordinary how they are still in mint condition, after such a long time.

The people connected to these items however, didn't stand the test of time very well. They come and go.

"Are you ready to go back to Titanic?"

💎

Third Person Point of View

"Live from 12,000 feet," Baron begins with his lecture, a simulation of what happened to the Titanic, the video running the events that lead to the sunken disaster, now at rest in the Atlantic.

Jared thought she doesn't need to know this, but Y/N insisted. She said she was curious, despite her thoughts on this skeptic, Mr. Martins, it would be rude to decline. Men can share.

Y/N, seemed facinated with the tech around her, showing the bottom of the ocean but seemed interested at a certain part of the sunken ship, which made Jared pay attention to her expressions, to unlock memories that may lead him to a successful mission.

He simply can't let every bit of this pass. Not a damn chance.

Baron went on and on... making sounds along the visuals on screen...

"Morse code, DIT DIT DIT..."

"Sank on the bottom like junk, BOOOM..."

"Pretty cool, huh?" Baron says happily, smiling at her, ancient eyes stoic as it ended.

"Thank you for that fine forensic analysis, Mr. Martins. Of course the experience of it was far less... Scientific..." she says, her voice frail, but willing to tell what it's like. Willing to be a primary source of information, a walking book... Diary rather.

"Will you share it with us?" Jared asks, preparing the tape recorder.

Y/N stands from her chair, looking around the monitors, the sad ruins of the ship below. Algae and sea garbage on its once metal hand rails and deck.

Reader's Point of View

I looked at the ruins of the ship from the monitors. Every part of it, every set of stairs, every surface of the ship, I see people, from all walks of life. The door, now rusted and covered in debris and underwater plants.

"Good day, Ms. Y/L/N..." a man says, who works in the Titanic opens the door for me, metal tinted in gold as its windows, the varnished wood engraved with expertly made carvings.

Futher past the door, the ivory staircase on full display. Passengers of first-class in their fine garments and black suits, up and down its grand halls.

It all flashes in my head, before my eyes. All the opulence, the lush life... And how lives clinged to the metal rails for dear life.

I felt my face get hot and my eyes burn as tears ran down my face, my mouth slightly agape as I covered it and gasp in air, as it drowning in my memories and in my emotions.

Meg's face paints to worry, as she takes my wheelchair, "I'm taking her to rest."

"NO!"

My voice strong and in authority. I called Mr. McKinley, and I am here to give it to him. Not for him to aid in my old age.

I sat down with the monitors behind me as the people in the room settled down, Jared holding a tape recorder in his hands.

"It's been 84 years-"

"Just tell us what you can... Anything at all..." Jared interrupts as I began to tell of my experience. Took aback, I thought to myself...

Does he really want me to say what I have to say or he just wants something else out of me?

"Do you want to hear it or not, Mr. McKinley?" I ask sternly, he falls quiet signalling me to continue.

"It's been 84 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china has never been used. The sheets have never been slept in... Titanic was called, the 'Ship of Dreams,' and it was... It really was..."

Third Person Point of View

Everyone was smiling ear to ear, hugging each other as they boarded the large ship. People segregated, the first-class passengers need no such inspection, just by the looks of them.

Third-class however, needs to go through inspection. Health, appearance... Certain things were contagious back in the day.

In the sea of people, old fashioned automobiles honked loudly, the aristocrats. Easily distinguished as gold curls surrounded the edges of the vehicle's doors and windows, one after the other. It's contents may be people or their stack of belongings.

To these aristocrats and socialites, there is no in between when it comes to needs and wants. Every want is a need.

Reader's Point of View

So this is a ship, they say? It's but a big boat to me... Looks like any other ship. So much for taking me here when I could've lived my life on land like a normal girl.

I reached out my gloved hand to the chauffer, helping me off the vehicle. I looked through my wide brimmed hat, the Titanic in front of all the people bidding goodbye.

To these people, this is the grandest ship in their eyes and hearts. For me, who had a fair share of being on different ships, this just looks like a joke to me.

So much for bringing me here, Pierce.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about... It doesn't look bigger than the Mauretania..." I say to Alexander as he stepped down the vehicle.

"You can belittle all other things, Y/N but not the Titanic..." he pressed as if he himself already entered the ship, "It's over a hundred feet longer than Mauretania and far more luxurious... You're gonna love it..."

I walked forth a little to give space to my mother, Katherine, Karen for short. I call her that, but without her knowledge as she likes to make herself be heard and she wants it exactly how she wants it.

"Your daughter's far too hard to please, Katherine..." Alexander says as she helps her off the vehicle.

May I add, she's a feisty one.

"So this is the ship they say is unsinkable, huh?" She says looking at the ship, raising her thin eyebrow. Her hands tucked inside her hand warmers.

"Yes, it is unsinkable. God himself can't sink this ship." He beams as my mother looks at him impressed.

A small man approached Alexander, telling him that the luggage should go to the main entrance around the ship somewhere. He hands him a good tip, a more than good tip. His eyes grow large as Alexander tells him to look for Brock Rumlow, his right hand.

It's funny because his right hand man is nearer to my age than he is.

Choices.

We head off to the ship, my mother's arm linked to Alexander's, looking more like a couple than how we are meant to look the part as I walked passed the third-class passengers being inspected.

We walked on the ramp, the water under it and the people below us.

Upon entrance, Alexander made me link my arm with his. Thanks, mother for finally thinking that you set me up with this person and not you setting yourself up with him.

Although that last part sounds better to me. He's as old as someone like him should be.

It was the ship of dreams... to everyone else. To me it was a slave ship. Taking me to the the United States in chains.

Outwardly I was everything a well brought up girl should be. Inside, I was screaming.

💎

Third Person Point of View

Forget the ship for now, the focus should be inside the pub. A pub full of people from the working class, drinking liquor, good enough that their money can afford, as cheap prostitutes flirted with the men for a quick buck for a bite to eat.

Four men, playing a serious game of poker. Every last bit of coin they had, were on the table. One takes a drink of his brown liquor as he speaks in Swedish.

"Du dumma, satsar du på våra biljetter! (You dumbass, you bet our tickets!)" He says to his companion who snaps his attention to him.

"Du förlorade alla våra pengar och jag försöker få tillbaka dem. Välj nu ett jävla kort! (You lost all our money and I'm trying to get them back. Now pick a damn card!)," One of them says gritting his teeth at his friend, who was playing all he got.

One of them puffs a cigarette, his grey blue eyes focused on his cards and the man across the table. Caring less of his brunette locks getting in the way of his vision.

"Hit me again, Ivan..." he asks as one of the Swedish men slip him a card and he takes it.

His blonde companion, begins to worry a little. Thinking they bet everything and are about to lose everything and stay in Southampton for another long time before they get lucky.

He notices, his voice in a low, raspy whisper, "Don't worry buddy, we've got nothing to lose..."

"We have nothing to lose because we literally have nothing, Bucky..." he says worried, as his friend bet everything they had, except for their clothes...

The ship horn toots its mighty note, alerting the gamblers, Bucky looks around, his competition sweating seeds off his forehead.

"Moment of truth..." he begins looking up at the four other men, anticipation and worry painted their faces, "Steve..."

The blonde lays out his deck, "Nothing..."

He continues, "Ludvig..."

The man lays out his deck, "Oh, squat..." he continues to the other one, "Ivan, two pair... Hmm... Sorry, Steve..."

Steve's face pales, he begins to sweat buckets... Fear rushing over him as he feels cold, palms sweaty.

"W-we lost? I won't be able to see ma another while... Darn it, Bucky..." he begins to stammer and curse... Thinking luck was not on his side...

"Sorry, Steve... You lost and I WON! FULL HOUSE, BUDDY!" Bucky cheers as Steve stands up happily hugging him, kissing the two tickets, "We're going home!"

Profanities streamed from the lips of the two other men who bet their tickets. The poker gods not on their side.

The taller man stood up, over 6 feet tall, maybe 6 foot 7, and grabbed Bucky by the collar. Bucky closed his eyes to take the impact of the large hand balled up in a fist. Instead, he punches his companion, knocked out like a light.

"We're going home, Steve!!"

"America, here we come!!"

Their celebration came to a halt, the pub owner cutting in looking at the two men.

"You're not going to America... Titanic is, in five minutes..." he says pointing to the clock, every second wasting away.

The two men exchanged looks and rushed out the pub, all their belongings they stuffed in their bags like sacks.

They ran in the crowd chasing time, as Steve cheered excitedly as they were coming home.

They ran and ran, cutting between the crowd of people and the honking automobiles. They skipped the line for inspection and went straight to the third-class passenger entrance, Bucky waving the tickets at the guard.

"Passed through inspection?" The guard asks, like he does for every passenger.

"Don't have lice, don't worry... We're both Americans..." He says flushed and panting, waiting to get on the ship to their quarters.

The guard was testy, but there was a sliver of trust shining through, "Alright, come aboard..."

They entered the ship, but it came to a halt. The guard passed the ticket on to another guard to inspect them, to see if they are not posers.

He begins saying the names, "Eklund and... Norberg..."

He says, raising a brow... he thought, 'these don't look like Eklunds and Norbergs...'

He hands them the tickets, granting them entrance to the RMS Titanic.

"Come on, Ivan!!" They ran in the corridor, whooping in victory...

"We are the luckiest sons of bitches alive!"

They quickly run up the metal stair case, excitedly throught the crowd of people finding their way in the ship. They busted out the door as they stood along the people on the poop deck.

"BYEEEE" Bucky yells out to the crowd, as if someone important to him is in the crowd.

Steve looks at him puzzled, "You hung out with some skank?" He asks, knowing that Bucky's a smooth wolf where ever he went.

Bucky shakes his head, chuckling then looking at him in disbelief, "NO, Steve... It's a thing!!!"

Steve shrugged and started waving at the crowd as the ship moved away from the dock.

"Bye, everybodyyy!!! I may or may not forget youuuu!!" Steve yells to the crowd as the ship set sail to New York, back to their country and to their homes.

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A/N: CUUUUT so this is chapter 1 of Ship of dreams... You finally reached the bottom of this chapter... Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it 💕 keep saaafe

-Alri

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@witchymegg @underworldqueen13 @amisutcliff @luna4501 @likeit-or-leaveit @vhsbarnes @uglipotata72829