#obfs

[wildworldmp3]

favourite shots from each orphan black episode 1.01: natural selection

[poke-lov]

Gloom OBF 198 Illustration Rare by Masako Tomii from Scarlet & Violet—Obsidian Flames

[johnpricelover2011]

OBF!Price

IM BACK FROM THE DEAD (My spelling isn't, I misspelled back 7 times) so here's more obf!Price but a bit nsfw <3

CW: NSFW, MDNI, age gap, older Price, Price being lowkey a sugar daddy.

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☆ Price who's a veteran at this point and you who's probably in your third year of university.

☆ Imagine meeting him at a bar while you're drowning your sorrows because you can't pay your tuition anymore, and Price uses this as an excuse to get closer to you over a few months.

☆ You're a few thousand short on cash for your tuition? That's okay! That's what friends are for :)

☆ You just went through a break up? Don't worry! He's here to fuck comfort you back into your happy state!

☆ Man's SET on eventually putting a pretty diamond on your pretty fingers. Maybe even giving you a kid or two... Okay, maybe four or five.. Or six.. Maybe seven.. Listen, he just wants you to have his babies okay?

☆ After you start dating, he's buying you pretty lingerie sets only for him to see (and to rip off within a few hours), paying for your whole tuition at this point, even buying you your dream wardrobe..! And a car.. And maybe a penthouse for you to share.. And he's already picked out a pretty diamond ring for you, he's just waiting <3

☆ After a long day of him tending to things around the house while you use your pretty little head, he's so pent up :( Sit still and let him cum in your mouth a few times, okay?

☆ Eventually when he proposes after you graduate, he's already working hard to knock you up. But he's a little older, and he swears he's fertile! Just hold still with your legs up to your ears, and he swears he'll give you a baby!

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I need him so bad it's not funny anymore.

Tags: @koolforthesummer

[hippopopotas]

0915. Lechonk

[wontune]

♡ seung jun ꒰ onf ꒱ lockscreens

[dogboyklug]

more southern lights silliness

happy w this new style of coloring tbh.......

[odinsblog]

Andrew was entering his third month of unemployment when he sat down at his computer and opened the inbox of his LinkedIn account. He’d received a response to a query he’d sent off four days after his friend-turned-manager walked him into a conference room swimming with sunlight, smelling of cologne and the faintest hint of perfume left behind by a group of attorneys who’d recently vacated the space after a five-hour meeting.

“I’m sorry, man,” Colin Perkins had said. Andrew’s eyes glided to the glass conference table, landing on the silver tray holding a molehill of bagels. He imagined they must be stale by now, having been left there uncovered in the icy office air.

Someone had planted the pointed end of a white plastic knife in an open container of chive-and-jalapeño cream cheese. It brought to mind the moon landing; all that was missing was a tiny American flag. A laugh trudged up his throat, but he disguised it as a cough.

“I told you,” Colin continued, raking his hands over his manicured Afro, “that the last to hire would be the first to go.”

A month earlier, seventeen women and two men had accused the CEO of the company of sexual misconduct. That news had plummeted the stock. The layoffs followed. Andrew had witnessed dozens of employees being escorted by security from the building like criminals. Now it was his turn.

Andrew nodded, placed a comforting hand on Daniel’s shoulder, and squeezed. The crisp cotton of Daniel’s shirt felt cool beneath his palm. “It’s okay, man, I understand. Don’t sweat it.”

He’d spent that first week revamping his résumé, calling friends and old colleagues, people who might know of a job opportunity at their own place of employment or elsewhere. He’d never had a LinkedIn account, but took the time to set one up. To conserve the little bit of savings he had, Andrew dropped his gym membership and went back to drinking tap water instead of the bottled Evian he loved. He gave up Starbucks coffee and the expensive cabernet sauvignon he purchased by the case.

By week three, he was spending his days on the couch, dressed in boxer shorts and sweat socks. He’d stopped opening the blinds and only went outside to empty the garbage. He whiled away the hours playing video games, and watching Netflix and Pornhub. Oftentimes, he went days without brushing his teeth.

When his mother called to check on him, Andrew lied, claiming he had several interviews lined up. When his father took the phone into another room to ask if he needed money, Andrew assured him that he was fine on the financial front, even though he wasn’t. He’d made up his mind to sell his Shelby Mustang before he took a dime from his parents. That was a big decision because he loved that car more than he’d ever loved any woman.

The day he opened the e-mail, the panic had just started to set in. He could feel it creeping along the back of his neck, like the soft scuttle of caterpillar legs.

From: OBF, INC.

To: Andrew Jamison

Dear Mr. Jamison,

We found your resume to be very interesting and believe that you would be the perfect addition to our dynamic team of Client Liaisons.

PAID TRAINING!

Affordable benefits for you, your spouse, and/or children after 90 days!

Opportunities to advance within!

Hourly, overtime, and tremendous bonus opportunities!

If you love helping others, then you will love working for OBF, INC.

OBF, INC. wants to talk to you now! To set up an interview TEXT OBF51893.

Liaison was just a fancy French word for customer service agent. Well, that was his skill set. Andrew was an expert at assisting people.

He texted the number and received an instant response that directed him to call a telephone number and enter his personal code: 1032.

An automated voice offered him two available interview dates. He was instructed to press 1 for the first date and 2 for the second. The mechanical voice told him that he would receive a call advising him where the interview would take place.

It all seemed very clandestine. Andrew was cynical, but his desperation outweighed his skepticism.

A day later, he received a call from a woman with a Southern drawl . . . Georgia, Alabama, Texas? He couldn’t quite pinpoint where she hailed from, but listening to her speak conjured visions of sweet tea and fireflies. She asked for his full government name and the code he’d received via text message. There was a pause, two clicks, and then the syrupy voice asked if he had a pen available. He did. After she’d rattled off the address, she wished him good luck. There were a few more clicks and then the line went dead.

He walked into the lobby of the forty-story office building and was struck by the contemporary opulence of the space. Marble floors, potted palms that towered eight feet into the air, white leather sofas, and a slick-looking Louboutin-red reception desk.

Andrew presented his license to the security guard and was given a name tag, which he clipped to the lapel of his ash-gray jacket. He was told to go to the eighteenth floor.

While waiting for the elevator, he perused the list of companies listed on a plaque mounted to the wall. OBF, Inc. was nowhere to be found.

He smirked, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped into the elevator. On the eighteenth floor, smack outside of the elevator door, was a sheet of lined legal paper taped haphazardly to the wall. Scrawled on its face in black marker was: This Way to OBF, INC. Below that was an arrow.

He started down the hall. A man the color of cedar and as tall as an NBA player speed-walked past him, mumbling to himself. Andrew thought he looked dazed, as if he’d just received news that a loved one had passed away.

“Good morning,” Andrew murmured.

The man turned eyes as wide as saucers on Andrew. He opened his mouth and muttered something that Andrew wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The elevator doors slid open just as Andrew leaned in and asked, “Uhm, sorry, brother, but did you say run?”

The man leaped into the elevator, pressed his spine against the back wall, and fixed his eyes on the glass numbers above the closing doors.

Andrew stood blinking at his reflection in the chrome elevator doors. After a moment, he shrugged and continued down the hallway where he came upon a second handwritten sign directing him to turn left at the women’s bathroom. He rounded a corner and found himself staring at eleven men seated in folding chairs. They all looked up from their iPhones and Androids. Andrew nodded and headed toward the pretty blonde seated behind a metal desk.

“Good morning,” she smiled. “Name?”

“Andrew Jamison.”

“Okay, Mr. Jamison, please take a seat. Mrs. Americus will be with you shortly.”

He scrutinized his fellow applicants. They were all black men save for the one white guy with a man-bun who was called in as soon as Andrew sat down. Man-bun wasn’t in there long. In less than five minutes, cheeks flushed and cursing under his breath, he stormed across the reception area and out of sight.

Andrew clenched his jaw and made eye contact with another man across the room from him. He imagined the unease in the man’s eyes mirrored his own uncertainty.

“Andrew Jamison, Mrs. Americus will see you now. Just through that door.”

The door opened to a large office filled with cubicles and desks, manned by women tapping away on typewriters or murmuring into the handsets of—

Andrew slowed his gait.

Are those rotary telephones and, wait, Royal typewriters?

As Andrew gawked, a large man with a mustache as thick has a shoe brush appeared before him. Andrew glanced up and then quickly shifted his gaze away from the brawny man’s left eyelid, which was weighed down with a sty the size of a dime.

“In there,” the man huffed, aiming a chubby finger at a closed door not more than five feet from where they stood.

The office was as small as a janitor’s closet. And dark.

The lone window on the far left wall faced the shadowy back of a department store. Metal file cabinets lined the walls; some of the drawers were open, revealing manila folders bulging with papers. He could see, even in the muddy darkness of the room, a layer of dust atop the cabinets. Hanging on the walls were at least twenty framed photographs of people, all of whom were black.

The air was rife with the scent of cigarette smoke.

Andrew remembered people smoking at their desks when he went to visit his mother at her office job when he was young. Once, on a flight to Detroit with his grandmother, he stood at the back of the plane waiting to use the bathroom, and found himself engulfed in a cloud of smoke billowing from the cigarettes of three passengers.

He couldn’t recall the exact year cities around the country began banning smoking in bars and restaurants, but he was supremely aware that smokers had to be at least four hundred feet away from the entrance of any building if they wanted to light up.

Yet here was this woman, puffing away like it was 1975. Andrew eyed the near-empty box of Winstons and then the woman. She was robust—a meat-and-potatoes sort of gal, with doughy cheeks and large blue eyes. Her sun-bleached blond hair fanned back from her face—a style made famous by the eighties icon Farrah Fawcett. Her lips were slathered in tangerine-colored lipstick. The same color rung the filters of a dozen long-dead Winston butts heaped in the black ceramic ashtray. Andrew thought, If she’s going for clown instead of glamour, well, bull’s-eye!

Ornate rings twinkled on seven of her ten fingers, the rose-gold chain she wore around her neck dribbled down her chest and disappeared into her cleavage. She looked to be in her midfifties.

“Good morning, Mr. Jamison. Please have a seat.” Her eyes remained glued to the sheet of paper clutched in her hands. Andrew assumed it was his résumé.

He sat down.

“You graduated from Brown University?”

“Y-yes, I did. I graduated summa cum laude in 1990.”

Her desk was cluttered with newspaper clippings; stacks of aging yellowed papers, and dated fashion magazines. Andrew’s eyebrows climbed. Was that Marcia from the seventies sitcom The Brady Bunch on the cover of that Glamour magazine?

Andrew chuckled to himself. This had to be an elaborate joke. Someone was putting him on. His eyes ranged around the office in search of a concealed camera.

“Impressive,” she said finally, looking him directly in the eye. “Do you have a wife?”

“S-sorry?”

“Are you married, Mr. Jamison?”

“No, I’m not.”

She searched his face. “Are you gay?”

Andrew bristled. “Mrs. Americus, I don’t think you’re legally allowed to ask me that question.”

She smirked.

“It’s a yes-or-no question, Mr. Jamison. I know it’s unusual, but believe me, for this position I would need to know.”

His rent was due tomorrow and then again in thirty more days. His savings were dwindling. “No, I’m not gay.”

“Do you have children?”

“One daughter, she’s twenty-two years old.”

“Do you have a good relationship with your daughter? With the mother?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Americus glanced at his résumé. “Perfect.” She reached for the dying cigarette and brought it to her lips. “And according to your application, you’ve never been arrested. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we will be doing a background check.”

“Understood.”

“Do you have any bad habits? Do you use narcotics?”

“No ma’am.”

“Any . . . um . . . undesirable recreational activities?”

“Undesirable?”

“Porn? Well, not just porn. Kiddie porn.”

Andrew’s mouth fell open.

“No judgment, Mr. Jamison. Again, I just need to know.”

“No, I do not watch kiddie porn,” Andrew spat.

“Good!” she exclaimed, drumming her fingers on the desk. “Let me tell you the specifics of the job . . .”

Some of the faces behind the glass frames looked familiar. Again Andrew found himself squinting. Was that Omarosa? He pitched forward in his chair.

Mrs. Americus stopped talking and followed his gaze. “Um, yes,” she spouted. “That is who you think it is. She’s been one of our best recruits.”

Andrew swallowed.

Mrs. Americus stubbed out her cigarette and laced her fingers under her chin. “Some of our liaisons work directly with government agencies. That’s a promotion of sorts. Of course, before you can be assigned to the big house—I mean the White House—you’d first have to prove yourself out in the field.” She giggled. “In the field. You get it? It’s a double entendre.”

Andrew’s mouth went dry.

She twisted around in the chair and pointed to a photograph of a pair of middle-aged women standing shoulder to shoulder, each holding a red MAGA baseball cap. “Those ladies are Diamond and Silk. Do you know them?”

Andrew shot out up from the chair. For a moment, he thought his knees would buckle. “What does OBF stand for?”

Mrs. Americus reached for the pack of cigarettes. “OBF stands for One Black Friend.”

“One Black Friend?”

“Yes. You see, in these troubling times, times where so many people are labeling white people as racist, we need black people to stand up for us—to have our backs, as your people are fond of saying. Sometimes, Mr. Jamison, a God-fearing, good white person may be accused of a crime or some other offense perpetrated against a person of color, and when the accused does not have a person of color in his circle, it looks bad. The public may see him . . . or her, as a racist simply because their circle is . . . white. Lily.

“And that’s wrong. Not having black friends does not make a white person racist by default. Anyway,” she waved her hand, “that’s where OBF comes in. We provide that one black friend. That one black friend introduces doubt, and more often than not, that doubt diminishes a large percentage of the negative impact our clients might face.”

Andrew just stared.

“Oh, Mr. Jamison, don’t look so shocked. This practice has been around for centuries.” She pointed to the far wall near the window. “You see that guy there? He was actually the inspiration for this company.”

Andrew peered at the photograph. “Who is he?”

“Joe Oliver.”

“Joe Oliver?”

“Yeah, Joe Oliver. You don’t remember him? Joe Oliver, George Zimmerman’s one black friend.” Mrs. Americus raised a black ceramic coffee mug to her lips and sipped. The red decal on the side of the mug read: Black Tears.

Andrew’s stomach lurched, perspiration beading across his forehead. “This is some kind of joke, right?”

“Oh, I assure you this is not a joke and I am very serious. As serious as a heart attack. Is that how the saying goes? As serious as a heart attack?”

Andrew started toward the door.

“Wait, Mr. Jamison. Look here.” She pointed at a photograph hanging above the row of filing cabinets. “This is another one of our liaisons. Since he’s been working for us, he’s paid off his student loans and I understand that he’s just recently purchased a Cadillac.”

Andrew followed her index finger to the photo of a grinning black man holding a Blacks for Trump sign above his head like a trophy.

“Shall we talk about salary?”

The lights flickered.

He thought, Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is a nightmare.

“Andrew? I can see you’re having a hard time processing all of this. But really, it’s not as uncommon as you might think. We live in America, this is a capitalist country, and we monetize everything. Everything.”

Andrew couldn’t remember reaching for the doorknob, but suddenly he was stumbling through the reception area.

He fled down the corridor, rounded the first corner and then the next. A slight man the color of honeyed milk stepped from the elevator. He wore a yellow dress shirt with a red bow tie. His dark-blue khakis were flooded just enough to offer a wink of his orange-and-navy argyle socks.

Upon Andrew’s frantic approach, the startled stranger stepped swiftly out of his path. Andrew didn’t make eye contact. He jabbed at the elevator button until the doors slid open.

Weeks later, Andrew was seated in a truck-stop diner with his fork poised over a plate of scrambled eggs and corned beef hash.

The mounted television was tuned to Fox News. The anchor reported that yet another young black man had been gunned down by a vigilante, another Good Samaritan, named Christopher Parks.

Christopher Parks was heading home from his job as a sanitation man when he spotted young Daniel Latham sitting in Starbucks, dozing over his law textbooks. Parks entered the establishment, woke Latham with a tap to his shoulder, and asked if he lived in the area. According to eyewitnesses, Latham replied that he did in fact live in the neighborhood. Parks demanded to see Latham’s ID and was met with laughter. The law student gathered his belongings and stood to leave—rather menacingly, one eyewitness reported.

That was when Christopher Parks pulled his weapon and fired. The stunned Latham, still laughing, crumpled into his chair and pressed his hand over the whole in his heart. It wasn’t until he saw the blood that the smile slipped from his lips and he began to cry.

The cops were called, but not an ambulance. Well, not immediately.

The police shackled Latham to the chair and took Parks to the police station for questioning. The woman behind the counter gave Parks a high five and a tall Caffè Mocha to go.

By the time an ambulance arrived, Daniel Latham was dead, having bled out all over his take-home final exam.

In the days that followed, it was revealed that Daniel Latham had several unpaid parking tickets and was thrice fined for not scooping his dog’s poop. Not only that—he was also a practicing Buddhist who supported a woman’s right to choose.

A search of Latham’s apartment unearthed a well-worn copy of Alex Haley’s The Autobiography of Malcolm X, which was on his nightstand alongside Jay-Z’s Decoded. This discovery was further evidence that Latham was no angel.

Laura Ingraham looked directly into the camera and told her viewers that Christopher Parks was a hero, a polite and well-spoken man who had been raised by his father after his mother died from breast cancer when he was just three years old. Yes, as a youth, Christopher had been suspended from school for fighting, and as a young man he’d beaten a girlfriend with a pipe. Later, when he was in his early thirties, he’d threatened to castrate his boss—a black man old enough to be his grandfather. All of that behavior, Laura Ingraham said, was directly connected to the trauma of losing a mother at such a tender age.

She paused, and in that moment her entire face pulsed with empathy. “That said,” she continued, “Al Sharpton, along with the Black Lives Matter terrorist organization, have labeled Christopher Parks a racist and are calling for his arrest.” She shook her head and chuckled. “Earlier today, I had the pleasure of speaking with Christopher’s longtime best friend, Andrew Jamison . . .”

Andrew lowered his fork, reached for his shades, and slipped them onto his face.

—OBF, Inc., a short story by Bernice L. McFadden

[minnesotadruids]

The Order of Bradán Feasa (OBF)

Unit One of an RDNA Druid training program is finally in its first draft! I started writing this in 2020, and wrote a majority of it (114 pages) that year because I wanted to have created something before the feared perception of probably contracting Covid and dying therefrom. Then once I was vaccinated, I got complacent and set the draft aside, coming back to it perhaps once a month, re-reading and revising, not really adding any new content.

In an attempt to push forward with my list of proposed topics, I started to realize I was not qualified to create content for many of them, and that I needed to do a lot more reading and learning for my own sake before continuing. Thus 2021, 2022, and much of 2023 were dedicated to reading my stack of purchased but unread books, annotating, highlighting, and cross-referencing for veracity.

I still have a lot of reading and learning ahead of me, but much of that will align with Unit Three, which hasn't been started yet. Unit Two has actually been in a draft form since 2017, and there will be an exam to go with it. This will probably be the first modern Druid training program with an exam, and it will require a 90% score or higher to pass.

What is the OBF?

The Order of Bradán Feasa is a non-clerical side order made for the Reformed Druids of North America. The name means the "Salmon of Knowledge" in Irish Gaelic, and is a reference to the myth of Finn McCool gaining all the world's knowledge when he burns himself while cooking the salmon. Any person who completes Units One and Two will be inducted to OBF and given a digital certificate indicating completion of said training program. Units One and Two would be considered sufficient training for in-person candidates to be invited to Second Order initiation in the RDNA. The optional Unit Three is the RDNA Clergy Prep Course and Grove Governance Guide (GGG), and would be considered prerequisite to ordination to the Third Order: the RDNA priesthood, in addition to existing customary requirements such as the supervised All-Night Vigil.

Completing the First Draft

While some people write novels during November for N.A.N.O.M.I.R.O. or whatever, I was suddenly inspired to get Unit One done. Over the month of November I wrote 55 new pages and revised existing content again. No, that's no novel, but writing something of (hopefully) academic quality with APA citations is a bit more meticulous, especially with this being my first "college level" type of project in about 16 years.

Members of Oakdale Grove are in the process of reviewing and annotating the first draft already. I find it easier to spot needed revisions or typos when something is in print, plus I love writing directly on drafts with an ink pen because I'm an older millennial (roars in dinosaur, lol). And I get to review and mark it up for editing with a bit of a Dark Academia aesthetic. I'm a bit shocked that Unit 1 is 169 pages, and likely to grow. We've already identified some sections that don't exist yet that need to be here. Unit 2 is much smaller. I expect Unit 3 to be smaller, as well.

The goal is for Unit 1 to go live before Beltane 2024, for Unit 2 to go live by the Autumnal Equinox of 2024, and for Unit 3 to go live by the end of 2024. That last one has the greatest uncertainty though, because I still have two important books to read, and possibly more that I haven't found yet.

See also: OBF Program Syllabus

[classicsubliminalbo]

A Mindless Valentine

Originally published Feb 15, 2017

"Did you want to do anything special tonight?" Brad asked, almost like an afterthought, as he brushed his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror.

Inches behind him on the toilet, Sam looked up from her phone to catch a face-full of her boyfriend's boxer briefs. Though many couples never even get to the point where they're comfortable enough to share the bathroom together, Sam and Brad were way over those kinds of insecurities. "Dunno," She shrugged. "After almost two years of dating, they were over Valentine's Day too. Things just lose their meanings after a while. One day you're waiting politely outside while you're girlfriend does her business, and the next you're brushing your teeth while she takes a shit. It was pretty small bathroom too. Sam continued scrolling through facebook on her phone and she said, "Becca's holding a rally at the union this afternoon, I might stop by after class."

"Students Against Obedience?" Brad asked.

"Yep," Sam sighed. Ever since Emily had come along with her stories as a brainwashed pledge in the Alpha Delta Theta sorority, SAO's president Becca had been a thousand times more dedicated to the cause. She wouldn't stop until all Victoria's Secret products were banned on campus, but first she was setting her sights on ousting Cunningham Pierce, Carpenter State's dean of education. It wasn't that Sam had lost faith in the group's cause. Of course, given her recent rendezvous with Lacey Stafford her opinion on Obedience by Victoria lingerie had shifted a bit, but she still didn't believe that any woman should be forced into wearing the mind-altering lingerie. Where Sam really objected to Becca's latest movement was that she was changing the course of the organization, a group that Samantha had originally put together. She may have lost the title of president to Becca, but she was still the reason that it existed. Becca's crusade against the dean was tiring, and every day they were losing more and more members.

"When do you think you'll get back?" Brad asked, his toothbrush hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. "I was thinking maybe we could cuddle up and watch some Netflix or something."

"If it's anything like her last rally, campus police will break it up before it hits the hour mark. I won't be home too late," Sam added a smile to that last part.

That evening, Samantha met up with the girls at the union where she was chewed out by Becca for not bringing a sign. "What's this all about again?" Sam asked contemptuously, though she was such a sweet person that no one would have suspected she was anything but genuine. Becca grunted, "Pierce has got to go, Sammy. Look, just make yourself useful. Work the flyers with Emily," she pointed to a table set up just off of the sidewalk where Emily was passing out flyers to pedestrians. As the girls all began to march around the terrace of the student unions with their signs, Samantha settled in next to Emily.

Samantha felt uneasy in the presence of Emily. She kept the fact that she'd begun to wear Obedience from the other girls in SAO, but she always felt like Emily could tell. She was the only other girl in the group with real experience wearing the lingerie, and now that Sam had surrendered more than a couple of times to its mind-numbing stimulations, she found it easier to spot the girls in public who were under that same influence. Emily knew. She had to know.

They stood there in silence, speaking only to the students and staff who passed by. Thanking them as they took their flyers. And then Emily spoke.

"I'm supposed to say that I miss it," she said meagerly. "That's what Becca wants me to say at least." Sam offered her an encouraging nod and replied, "But you don't." "I don't miss...Madison. I don't miss the things that she made me do. I don't miss...the taste of her..." If Samantha blinked, she would have missed the subtle movement of Emily's lower lip as her tongue glided lightly over it. "But I miss the feeling. It's like sinking. But it's not hostile. It embraces you. And then you begin to feel things that you'd never imagined. Like—"

"An orgasm that never ends," now Samantha was the one licking her lips. She felt a familiar, trembling need to be under. The more Emily spoke of her experience, the more Samantha wanted to be on her knees taking orders from Brad. From Master.

Emily hugged herself, but it was too late for defenses. She'd already told her story to the girls. Every night, every time the Students Against Obedience would meet, Becca made sure to wrangle some new sordid detail of the sorority from Emily's memory.

"The truth is that when pledge week was over, she gave us all the option of staying her slaves. We were glad to be free, yeah but...most of us chose to stay. It felt so good, Sam." "I know," Samantha frowned. "I know you know," Emily whispered. "I've seen that look in your eyes. The hunger." "It's okay, you know," Samantha said, dropping her eyes from Emily's face to the flyer in her hand. "As long as you have rules, as long as you're practicing with someone who you love and everyone consents, it doesn't have to be a bad thing." "She doesn't know," Emily glanced toward the crowd, where Becca was shouting "dump Pierce" through a megaphone. "She's never tried it. She doesn't know." "But we do," Sam replied. "Tell me," Emily said, taking hold of Samantha's hands. She had a desperate look in her eyes, one that many women got when they were starving for Obedience. "Tell me what it feels like to obey!"

"It feel so..." the words from the video that had first brainwashed Samantha echoed in her mind. "It feels so good," she said. "To just give in." Emily repeated, "Just give in," her face as empty and emotionless as Samantha's. And without a word to their friends, the two women wandered from their table, entranced by their shared desire.

Brad hoped when he returned home that night that he could talk Samantha into starting Luke Cage, but when he was greeted by a half naked stranger in his living room, Brad knew that the night was going to be more than cuddles and Netflix. "Sam?" he asked.

The girl giggled and said, "Emily." "Yeah..." Brad said, though he didn't have much of a followup. "Did you wander in the wrong apartment?"

"Don't be silly!" Samantha laughed as she sneaked up on her boyfriend. "Emily's a friend from my group!" "Yeah, but...what's she doing here?" "Present yourself, Emily." Sam commanded.

Emily stepped up, dropping the sweater that covered her naked body, and she droned, "Emily Chen is ready for you, Master. Please command me as you wish."

Brad dropped back a bit, shocked. "What?"

"What's the matter?" Samantha frowned. "Don't you wish to play with us, Master?"

As soon as the first syllable of that magic word "master" left Samantha's lips, Brad's eyes began to glaze over, falling into a trance as deep as his female companions. But this trance was only brief, long enough to remember Lacey's instructions. Brad blinked, and when he opened his eyes he was himself again. Or at least, he was something like himself. Now he smiled at the sight of naked, mindless Emily. He glanced disapprovingly at the still-dressed mindless Sam, but she didn't need to wait for a verbal command. She dropped her clothes in a pile next to Emily's and approached her Master. "Happy Valentine's Day, Master," Samantha said. "Tonight is all for you."

[giggledome]

i think i really love being ugly and lopsided honestly. i want that to be what people see in me

[wolpattinger]

Hello, I love your art and I specially specially am very interested in your AU! The mix of historical and fantasy aesthetics with the boys is just so fascinating! I wonder if you'd ever post your fic publicly in ficbook or AO3 or somewhere, or if you plan for it to remain for the drawer forever?

Hello!

Thank you so much, I am so glad to know that your are interested in my AU😭💖

First time I'd started writing my AU, I posted it on the ficbook chapter by chapter. Then I realized that I desperate to rewrite many details that would be really important in future stories....

Therefore, I've decided to finish everything at once and start sharing it as I'll have finished the whole story.

the problem is it's A LOT to do and takes time, but as soon as everything is ready, I will definitely post it (somewhere... I should think about it... because I am still not sure about the format😅) and let everyone know!

[wildworldmp3]

favourite shots from each orphan black episode 1.10: endless forms most beautiful

[poke-lov]

Cleffa OBF 202 Illustration Rare by HYOGONOSUKE from Scarlet & Violet—Obsidian Flames

[johnpricelover2011]

Here's some older boyfriend!Price

I need to get this off my mind and hand this over to you guys while I write Blue Collar!Price <33

Warnings: Fluff, Gender neutral reader, OBF!Price, Mentions of smoking, Non-Canon Price (Veteran most likely)

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☆ John Price who's your older boyfriend <3

☆ John Price who loves you to bits because you're so different from him

☆ John Price who loves cooking for you while you sleep so you have a delicious meal to wake up to

☆ John Price who doesn't smoke around you to keep your lungs all healthy

☆ John Price who's slowly cutting down on his cigars to be better for you. So he's more focused, energetic, and so you don't constantly taste cigars when you kiss him <3

☆ John Price who loves showering or bathing with you. Not even sexual, just loves spending time with you, washing you up and helping you both distress from your day

☆ John Price who loves when you fall asleep before him, it gives him comfort knowing you feel comfortable enough to fall asleep so easily around him

☆ John Price who never lets you got to bed sad or with a heavy heart knowing it's the worst feeling

☆ John Price who never thought he'd find someone like you <3

☆ John Price who goes to bed knowing exactly that the velvet box in his bedside drawer had your name on it the moment he met you <3

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Guys I need him.

[hippopopotas]

0952. Scovillain

[indianschool-blog1]

How Non-profits Are Embracing OBF for Sustainable Funding

Discover how nonprofits are embracing Outcome-Based Financing (OBF) to drive transparency, accountability, and long-term impact. Explore key insights from CIFSI's report on OBF.