#Deep Learning Market Price

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[yeyinde]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[lellalombardiapologist]

💙✨ So you want to learn more about Didier Pironi? Great news, I’m here to help! 💙✨

There isn’t much stuff out there, and a lot of materials are biased in favour of Gilles, but this is my overview of the materials about Didier that can be found out there:

(note: I say reading bc it’s how I best absorb info, that being said there will be a mention of the Villeneuve Pironi documentary. Also I will not include books that are mostly about Gilles)

Books in english:

Pironi, the champion that never was - David Sedgwick: so, remember when I said most materials are biased in favour of Gilles? Well, this one goes the opposite route. The only reason why I cannot call myself Didier’s number one defender and apologist is because mr Sedgwick is out there. This is the best starting point, it’s easy to find, cheap and very thorough. Among its source materials it can boast the book written by Didier’s mother and never published, which provides a lot of details about his childhood and personality. This is the book that got me obsessed with Didier, if you only have to get one book, get this one.

Didier, dreams and nightmares - Lorie Coffey & Jan Moller: I haven’t been able to find a copy of this one for a reasonable price, sadly, so I can’t vouch for this. Sedgwick told me on Twitter that it’s lacking some info, but again, I haven’t read it.

1982 The inside story of the sensational Grand Prix Season - Christopher Hilton: I’m including this because while it is not focused on Didier only, it does give an interesting overview of such a crucial life changing season. It’s not what I’d consider a mandatory read but it’s still worth checking it out.

Documentaries in english:

The Villeneuve-Pironi documentary: I have to mention this one at least. While it is better than others, I still have beef with it, because despite having some people from Didier’s side in it, it’s also still incredibly biased towards Gilles, and also Joann Villeneuve lies a few times (or at the very least what she says doesn’t match what’s out there in terms of available info).

Books in italian:

L’indimenticabile 1982 della Ferrari - Alfredo Rossi: a small book written by a journalist, it’s like a time capsule since it was written before the 1982 season even ended! Noteworthy how there is both deep admiration for Gilles and sincere respect for Didier. A bit harder to find but if you are in Italy you could get this on Abebooks or similar websites

Books in french:

Didier Pironi, la flèche brisée - Martine Camus: not as complete as the Sedgwick one but it contains a lot of interviews and pieces written by people who have known him, and can be found for decent prices, so it’s worth reading it

Lettre à Didier - Catherine Goux: this one I have yet to read, however I’m still including it because it was written by Didier’s last girlfriend, and mother of his twins. This is probably something that will make you cry a lot, but I bet it’s an interesting insight (Sedgwick said so, anyway)

Magazines in french:

Grand Prix #8, 2012: a Didier-themed issue which also contains extracts from the book written by Didier’s mom, an interview with Didier’s twins and Jacques Villeneuve and much more. It can be found on the magazine’s website, but they are out of the paper version so you can only get the digital issue.

Grand Prix #9, 2012: a Didier-Gilles themed issue, focused on Imola 82 and what happened to their friendship, another interesting read.

Other magazines and sources:

I like to collect old issues of Rombo and Autosprint, two very popular motorsport magazines of the past, even if that means enduring the bodyshaming they did to Didier, they’re still a valuable historical insight. According to where you live, you may look for old motorsport magazines too! Libraries may have those, and there’s always flea markets and ebay. I recommend starting with issues that depict positive events such as Didier’s victories, but I also own the Autosprint issue for Didier’s death.

Sometimes I translate old articles from those magazines! This is the sideblog where you can find them: la flèche brisée

If you can’t get old motorsport magazines, I have a suggestion: browse the online archives for your most popular newspapers, the biggest ones are probably old enough to have online archives, most of these are free. Select the dates for important events in Didi’s life, lead to the sport section and profit!

[songoftrillium]

Project Update 09/01/24

Hello, Kinfolks. We're a little under 60 days from releasing Book 1: Cliath, and I wanted to give you all a quick update, provide a few book facts, and hope this lets you share the excitement the rest of us have been feeling!

Book Layout

As you might've seen from our previews, writing is transitioning from writing to copy editing and book layout! If you haven't yet, check it out! The first two chapters are done, and chapter 3 is well underway. Outside of my work on Hearthbound, this is my first major book project, the largest book I've written, and the insights I've gained are ones I think might help future community content partners publishing work on Storyteller's Vault.

On Bluesky, a few months ago, I commented that you should "plan to take as much time doing layout as you do for writing." Even if one writes the book inline right in the desktop publishing program, annotation will still add time. With a WtE book we want to not just provide an adventure and a crash course on the Tellurian, but to also be a roadmap for Storytellers, new and old alike. This has happened on three fronts. The first and most important is we're taking the time to properly index everything in a way that'll let you look up specific book information quickly. The second is how we streamline information through the liberal use of cross-referencing in footnotes. In early chapters, you read truncated summarization, and in the footnotes, you can find book sections that expand on the information you're looking for and let you tune out the things that may not be so important for you to know at the moment. The third and most important feature, however, is where able, we cite our sources for our information. Should a Storyteller wish to learn expanded information on topics, they have a direct book and page citation where they can find deep lore to help construct their chronicles.

Cracking the Bone: now in coloring flats stage

For those that haven't been following, we are returning to old form. The moment you open Book 1, you'll be greeted with a fully illustrated and colored 22-page comic book showcasing life in the Age of Heroes. This story is centered around Dante (he/they,) our protagonist, and his first steps towards his First Change as a Bitten Homid Philodox. Throughout the book, we'll follow his journey towards becoming a Cliath, forming his pack under Earwig and his first mission as a Zedakh in a pack of other Queer Garou. In successive books, you'll see him transition from a scared baby gay Cub to a respected Elder in the Eastern Concordat! We're all absolutely thrilled to follow them on their journey. Illustrating this comic is the highly talented @mekanikaltrifle, who has partnered with us to bring Dante's story to life. I have a single pane I'd like to show you, bearing in mind these are just a first pass!

Book Pricing Information

We've also finalized some of our possible pricing on this book. On Storyteller's Vault, Community Content is priced on a per-page basis. The average is considered to be 12 cents per page. I did some early market work by releasing Hearthbound on a pay-what-you-want model with a recommended pricing of $2.99, totaling roughly 8 cents per page. I advertised exclusively here and on other social media platforms to queer audiences to help gauge a fair price for materials explicitly marketed to that audience. Of those that decided to pay for copies of the book, readers paid an average of 5$ per copy for an average of 14 cents per page. Given the voluntary nature of the release, we on the team have agreed that we'll be charging a rate of 14 cents per page for this release, which puts us on par with pricing for similar releases with a matching pagecount. With layout underway, we're currently looking at a book length of around 200-250 pages. 50% of proceeds go to the publisher, and the remainder will be split equally among all contributors, myself included. I and another artist have pledged to donate the entirety of our shares toward preserving the Kalapuyan language.

Book 1: Cliath releases on Halloween day!

I'd like to give a shout out to @a-boros-named-seamus, @madamebadger, The Bohemian, @peltofash, @ar2456, and Durodragon for supporting me on ko-fi, through yours and the donations of other ko-fi sponsors, we've managed to hire cultural consultants to review about half of what's been written. Because we weren't able to review all of our written words, we've narrowed our focus onto some of our most sensitive subject-matter, and believe that what we have coming out will be the inclusive Werewolf: the Apocalypse Quickstart you've all been waiting for. Thank you! It means so much to us that we have our own sept of Kinfolk out there who believe in this project!

If you'd like to help sponsor this project, subscribe on ko-fi to help us pay Cultural Consultants to work with us! We have some cool perks for subscribing, including access to book and setting previews, the ability to give feedback on game content we're producing, personalized advice for your own tables, and can even get a shoutout right in the book.

[munnmolads]

High & Low Culture WU story summary and other interesting details

High & Low Culture story is a new story under "World Underneath" which opens up more about Thomas' life with some sprinkled RafMC in the side. I'll summarize the story and dive deep into the details in this story.

Summary

This story starts with interview from Thomas - he accidentally hadn't synced up the schedule to Rafayel and the Interviewee demanded it would be about Rafayel and as soon as possible. As a emergency replacement he gives Interview about Rafayel.

As the interview ends, Thomas head out home to celebrate his birthday with his wife Solana and small daughter. After dinner preparations they are about to eat cake, when Rafayel calls to him. Thomas immediately jumps to get his coat as if Rafayel is calling to him, it must be important. Rafayel says in a unsually serious tone he needs to come to his studio as there is important things to discuss.

When Thomas comes out from the elevator, he is greeted by Rafayel and MC, wishing him a happy birthday and bring him a present. Thomas invites them to his home, but they both decline politely and leave Thomas to spend time with his family.

After the interview is out, it is getting viral with several comments and the interviewees than Thomas for the collaboration. Thomas looks up the comments, hoping to find people enjoying his insight until he finds a few mentions about himself, and turns off his phone satisfied. Solana smiles next to him, implied that she was behind some of the comments.

Interesting details about Thomas & his family:

This is the first time we hear about him having a wife Solana and daughter, his daughter's name wasn't mentioned

He often insists that there is no need for formalities with him and just to call him "Thomas", just as he does during the main story

He lives in a aparment complex in higher floors, so possibly in a penthouse

It's mentioned that he wears designer clothes and jewelry, but that he's only wearing them for the interview so it's possible he likes to dress more casually on a average day

He's been in art management for several years and started out as a agent, later partnered with Rafayel to open a art gallery

He works with other artists than Rafayel as well

Thomas's phone rings continuously - during the time he was home he got atleast 6 calls if we count the one with Rafayel

He is really hardworking and swamped with work that he forgot to schedule the interview for Rafayel

His favorite show is a romantic drama called "Let's Watch the Meteor Shower"

Solana loves garlic shrimp

He haggles prices in the market

Both he and Solana are very used to the family life already

Solana supports Thomas with small gestures - holds his phone over his ear when he cooks and sending anonymous comments praising his work

Things Thomas mentioned about Rafayel and other details about their friendship:

He and Rafayel have been friends for many years

They have a synced schedule for work

He joked about Rafayel holding a fish bowl over his head to see things from fish's perspective

He never really pries into Rafayel's ways to getting inspiration

He firmly thinks Rafayel can never lose his creative spark

Rafayel doesn't care about how much his painting sell for or his commercial value as an artist

He thinks Rafayel is remarkable artist

If Rafayel calls him late at night, that means it's an emergency

Thomas used to bring food to Rafayel to make sure he doesn't forget to eat when painting - he stopped doing it once MC and Rafayel started dating and MC takes care of it now

He cares about Rafayel's private life enough that he keeps clear boundaries with what he tells and doesn't tell during interviews

Rafayel cares about Thomas being overworked

Thomas wants to Rafayel give him less things to worry about the next year and that he and MC are together for a long time

Additional thoughs:

In the anecdote "Unique Vermillion" it's stated that Thomas started to learn business management to work with Rafayel - I assume this is where he started as an agent for him

I think this story highlights nicely how good relationship Thomas and Rafayel has - even though Rafayel seems like an ass towards Thomas, it's mostly him just acting out towards the people he cares most about because they are the ones who challenge him the most

This is my own headcanon from this story since GarlicShrimpSupremacy seems to be Solana's comment, I want to think that "rafayelridefisheatfish" is MC who commented on it too to show support for Thomas 🥹It has to be a reference to the moments post where Rafayel mentions about knowing MC's nickname was "rafayel_ridable_fish_dinner"

Overall, I really enjoyed this story even though it is on a shorter side. I will add to this post if I remember or realise new things about it! I have made lists like these about the other stories for Rafayel so I need to go back and see my notes if I have more to add to them now.

[kunosoura]

I became a chemist because I wanted (still want) to spend my life making medicine production more accessible but honestly the main thing I've learned is that the average chemist like at a baseline level doesn't care about the environment. Their concern is doing whatever is needed to keep the regulatory agencies off their backs. dichloromethane gets banned in most industrial uses because of its crazy bad environmental profile, time to switch to using the even worse chloroform. talking excitedly about how the deep ocean nodule mining will reduce the market price for elements even as the few people who do care publish papers saying "these are vital in performing hydrolysis and produce oxygen deep in the sea; mining them up may cause unforseen damage to ocean ecosystems beyond what having tons of industrial machinery down there will do". joking about how you have to be careful not to put halogenated solvents down the drain because the waste channels are monitored and you might get in trouble (and not idk because they're horrible for the environment).

green chemistry. what a joke. imperial core countries ban production/use of the dangerous chemicals which does somewhat dampen the problem but mostly that just means industrialized countries outside the core get stuck with the environmental bill. "only one firm in india produces it nowadays" is a common refrain spoken as if it's normal and not horrifying that a single region is dealing with the sacrifice zone politics that the global chemical market demands. same shit as recycling where really the regions with less global shoving power get stuck with the bill.

[theglowsociety]

Why More Black Women Should Start Black-Owned Businesses (Especially in the Beauty Industry) & How to Begin Your Side Hustle

Black women are the fastest-growing group of entrepreneurs in the U.S., yet they continue to face systemic barriers that make business ownership more challenging. Despite having limitless creativity, an unmatched work ethic, and a deep influence on global culture—especially in beauty—many Black women struggle to secure funding, resources, and opportunities to thrive as business owners.

If you’ve been dreaming of starting your own beauty brand, salon, or cosmetics line, there has never been a better time to turn that passion into a business. Here’s why Black women must step into entrepreneurship—especially in the beauty industry—and how to start your own side hustle today.

1. We Set the Trends—Now It’s Time to Profit from Them

From hairstyles to skincare techniques, makeup trends to nail art, Black women have shaped the beauty industry for centuries. Yet, major brands have historically ignored our needs while profiting off our culture. Instead of letting corporations capitalize on our creativity, we should be owning, producing, and profiting from the trends we create.

2. Representation Matters in Beauty

For too long, Black women have been an afterthought in the beauty industry. Shade ranges were too limited, haircare products were full of harmful ingredients, and industry leadership was overwhelmingly non-Black. When Black women start their own beauty businesses, they create products that genuinely cater to our unique needs—made by us, for us.

3. Building Generational Wealth & Financial Freedom

Starting a business isn’t just about making money—it’s about creating long-term financial freedom. Entrepreneurship allows Black women to break free from traditional workplace barriers (like wage gaps and lack of career advancement) and build generational wealth that can be passed down to future generations.

4. Owning Your Creativity & Power

Working for someone else can limit how much creative freedom you have. As a business owner, you make the rules. You decide what products to create, how to market them, and how to shape your brand identity. No more waiting for corporate approval—you are the CEO.

5. The Beauty Industry Is Booming (and There’s Room for You!)

The beauty industry is a multi-billion dollar business, and Black consumers spend nine times more on beauty products than any other demographic. Yet, Black-owned beauty brands still make up only a small fraction of the market. This means there is plenty of opportunity for new entrepreneurs to step in and claim their space.

How to Start Your Own Side Hustle & Step Into Entrepreneurship

Not sure where to begin? Here’s how to start building your Black-owned beauty business—whether it’s a full-time venture or a side hustle you grow over time.

1. Find Your Passion & Niche

Ask yourself: What excites you most about the beauty industry? Do you love makeup, skincare, haircare, nails, or holistic beauty? Choose a niche that aligns with your passion and expertise.

Examples of Beauty Business Ideas:

• Haircare line (natural hair products, wigs, or extensions)

• Skincare brand (body butters, serums, or organic skincare)

• Cosmetics line (lip gloss, foundation, or lashes)

• Nail business (press-on nails, custom nail polish)

• Beauty services (makeup artist, esthetician, braider, or loctician)

2. Research & Learn the Industry

Before launching, take time to research the market. Look at your competitors, pricing, and target audience. Follow beauty industry trends and study successful Black beauty entrepreneurs for inspiration.

3. Start Small (You Don’t Need a Huge Budget!)

You don’t need thousands of dollars to start. Begin with a small, high-quality product or service, test it with friends and family, and grow from there.

Low-Cost Ways to Start:

• Private label products (buying wholesale and branding them as your own)

• Handmade products (lip gloss, body butters, or hair oils)

• Drop shipping (selling beauty products without managing inventory)

• Offering services (braiding, lash extensions, or makeup artistry)

4. Create Your Brand Identity

Your brand is more than just a name—it’s your vibe, mission, and story. Pick a business name, logo, and aesthetic that speaks to your audience.

Quick Branding Tips:

• Choose a name that’s easy to remember and spell

• Create a color scheme and aesthetic for your brand

• Use social media (Instagram, TikTok, and Pinterest are huge for beauty brands)

• Share your story—customers connect with authenticity!

5. Build an Online Presence & Market Your Business

Social media is everything in the beauty industry. Create an Instagram, TikTok, or YouTube account to showcase your products or services. Offer tutorials, behind-the-scenes content, and customer testimonials to build trust.

Marketing Ideas:

• Post beauty tutorials using your products

• Collaborate with beauty influencers or micro-influencers

• Offer discounts or giveaways to attract customers

• Start a website or Etsy shop to sell online

6. Stay Consistent & Keep Learning

Entrepreneurship is a journey. Not every day will be easy, but consistency is key. Keep learning, adapting, and refining your business as you grow. Join Black business networking groups, attend beauty expos, and seek mentorship from successful entrepreneurs.

It’s Time to Claim Your Spot in the Beauty Industry

The world needs more Black women-owned businesses, especially in the beauty space. If you have a passion for hair, skin, makeup, or wellness, this is your sign to step into entrepreneurship. Your ancestors paved the way for you to create, own, and build something that lasts for generations.

Start small, dream big, and remember—you were born to shine. Let’s turn our passion into profit and make our mark on the beauty industry. It’s time to secure the bag and the legacy.

[feetpiclovers]

In this video, we'll share invaluable tips on engaging with feet enthusiasts and buyers on FeetFinder, the ultimate platform for connecting with individuals interested in feet content. If you're looking to explore the lucrative market of selling feet pics or are simply curious about engaging with feet pic buyers, you've come to the right place!

Our expert guide will walk you through the essential strategies and techniques to successfully connect with FeetFinder buyers. Discover how to navigate the platform effectively, build meaningful relationships, and ultimately master the art of selling feet pics to eager buyers.

FeetFinder provides a vibrant community of buyers who appreciate aesthetic and artistic feet content. From foot modeling to customized foot pics, there's a wide range of opportunities to explore within this niche market. Whether you're a beginner or a seasoned seller, this video is filled with valuable insights to help you get started or enhance your existing approach.

Learn the secrets to attract and captivate buyers by leveraging compelling descriptions, stunning visuals, and engaging storytelling. We'll explore the importance of quality in your feet pics, crafting enticing captions, and optimizing your listings to stand out from the competition. Additionally, we'll address common concerns and provide tips on setting fair prices and negotiating with buyers.

Join us on this exciting journey where we dive deep into the world of selling feet pics and engaging with FeetFinder buyers. Don't miss out on the opportunity to showcase your artistic talent and earn potential income while doing something you love!

Make sure to subscribe to our channel for more valuable insights, tips, and tricks to elevate your feet pic-selling game. Stay tuned as we equip you with the tools you need to become a master in engaging with FeetFinder buyers!

[angelsworks]

Little Witch The last kingdom x reader

Chapter 8

Little Witch Masterlist -> Here

Next chapter -> H E R E

Summary: You wake to find a gift from Uhtred. Later you leave the confides of your room to explore the market.

Warnings: Not historically accurate, possessive behaviour, creepy behaviour.

Dawn breaks across the sky. The world made light by the little rays that manage to pass by the vast cloud cover. The streets around you had started to fill with people. Carts and horses alike can be heard from the window. The clops of hooves and the scraping of wooden wheels on the stone below drift from the street.

You wake on your back, despite going to sleep on your front. The expected pain you feel never comes. Instead the sharp stabs and rubbing you’ve been experiencing is replaced by a dull ache.

Your eyes flick open and you see the room illuminated by the dull daylight. There’s no Uhtred next to you when you wake. Something that disappoints you greatly. Despite the heat that warms your cheeks when you think of the events that transpired, you’ve grown close to the Viking. There might even be a seed of fondness growing in your heart for Uhtred. Not that you’d care to admit that right now.

Still dressed in his undershirt, you slipped from the covers and furs. You stood, stretching till your bones popped and muscles were able to release some tension. Still you felt little pain.

Curious, you gingerly reached a hand up to your cuts. Finger tracing over the tops of them. Gently, brushing over those you can reach. You found that the start of a scab had formed on them. Even the deepest and most painful ones had started to heal. A vast difference to how they looked or felt a few days ago. Even compared to yesterday, it felt like you’d healed almost supernaturally.

It was all thanks to the salve of course. The Elders gave it to Astrid to give to you. They are the wisest and most experienced people you’ve come across. Their knowledge is vast of all pursuits. From medicine and healing to strategy and tactics. Your time with them was an opportunity to learn more about yourself. However, it came at a price. When you returned home you found Steffen in place of your parents. The thought of him makes you shiver.

Looking around the room you see everything as it was when you arrived. Apart from a chair that had been positioned in the middle of the room. Hanging over it was a dress. The sight of it made your eyes widen. Even as a girl you’d never seen something so pretty. The material was cotton, dyed to a deep blue. One that reminded you of the summer’s night sky. When even the dark of night wasn’t enough to stop the sun’s light.

The bodice was cinched at the waste in a pleat like manner. The sleeves were long and so was the skirt. It was a straight cut that had a dark blue ribbon stitched to the edges. Inside the dress was a stitched under layer. Designed to add extra thickness to the skirt and shield the wearer from the cold.

Below the chair, placed on the floor in front, were a pair of long leather boots. Detailed with strings and buttons to hold them up.

Your cheeks became warm once you picked up the dress to find the pair of panties underneath. The pants were a simple white cotton. They didn’t cling to your body when you put them on. If anything they helped to add to the volume of the skirt of the dress. After finishing your outfit by putting on the boots, you did a little twirl. Admiring the quality and design of the dress. It made you feel a girlish glee at how you looked and felt. Something you hadn’t felt for a long time.

Along with a few tankards and a plate or two, the room was bereft any sign of Uhtred. His absence was beginning to make you anxious but the bustling market outside was piquing your interest.

A short walk around the stalls shouldn’t hurt. You were sure it wouldn’t. The town was small enough you might even find Uhtred.

You left the room and shut the door, walking down the dimly lit corridor to the stairs. At the bottom you found a pub like area. Although sparsely populated, you felt you had all the patrons attention as you walked down the steps.

It amazed you the difference a bath and new clothes could make. You felt different in yourself and it seemed others could see that too.

You saw the woman who spoke to you and Uhtred last night. You went over to her at the bar. She was changing barrels, lifting them on to various shelves in the wall. Despite her outward appearance, she seemed to lift the barrels with little struggle. Almost as if she had muscle hidden beneath her skirts and puffy sleeves.

“Excuse me, have you seen the man I came in with earlier?” You asked her, keeping your voice low to avoid attracting the attention of the other patrons.

She turned to face you and gave you a once over. Her eyebrows briefly twitching as she registered the difference in appearance. You really must have looked a sight when you came in last night.

“No I haven’t. Could be he’s had his fun and left. Men like him do that you know.” She told you, turning back to your work.

You wanted to argue. Berate her for making such an assumption. Tell her that wasn’t the case and Uhtred wasn’t like that. You realised quickly, telling her such would not help. Better she not know and think you a one night stand than anything else.

As you stepped outside you raised your hand to shield your eyes. The difference in light from the bar to the street was drastic. Your senses instantly became aware of the new environment. Ears perking to the noises around you. Nose detecting the smells around you, people, horses, food. Eyes watching a sea of people wander the market.

You found yourself following a crowd walking down the street. Their cloaks were various greys and blacks and browns, simple colours. Colours that made you appreciate your blue dress that little bit more. It felt special. It felt like Uhtred wanted you to have more than the ordinary.

The crowd went in different directions. Leaving you to slow your steps. You wandered past a few stands. The stands sold various trinkets and fabrics, horse shoes and weapons, shoes and books. So much to look at. In the middle of the town square was a fountain. It was made of simple stone but carved with ornate details of flowers and people.

You passed by slowly, letting your fingers run over the stone of the fountain wall. Over to the corner of the market was a small stand outside a bakers shop. There a young man was selling breads and other baked goods. The man was soft looking. In the way of clear skin and soft short hair. Eyes that sparkled. He was pretty. A vast contrast to Uhtred and his friends. Even Osferth’s eyes didn’t shine like this man’s. Dulled by the sights of battles and the horrors of man.

Rugged was how you would describe Uhtred, Sihtric and Finan. Their experience in battle had made them hard. Hard with muscle and experience. Handsome.

Your thoughts were broken as the man’s gaze moved to you. It seemed you had been staring and that had been noticed. The corners of his lips turned up and your eyes turned away. Again you moved around the fountain, letting your eyes move elsewhere.

You watched other vendors at their stalls. Selling items and other possessions. Your people watching was cut short as a hand touched your arm. It jolted you, the unexpected contact. You snapped your gaze to the right, where the young man from the baker’s stand stood next to you. He held a loaf of bread in his hand, wrapped in a white cloth.

“Good day Lady, I noticed you from my stall. I thought I must come and speak to you. It would be wrong to miss the chance to meet an angel.” He told you, a smile on his face.

His comment made a genuine smile grown on your face. No one who knew you truly would compare you to an angel. Not with your ‘abilities’.

“What kind words you speak to me. Who is it I should thank?” You ask him coyly.

“I am Edgar lady. Baker in this town. Might I make an offering to such an angel?”

You laughed at his compliments. “I have not been called an angel before sir. However, If as an angel I get such delicious treats I would be happy to accept.”

Edgar smiles and his eyes twinkle as he gazes into your own. “You are pretty when you smile lady.”

All you could do was blush as you looked down, away from Edgar’s gaze.

He held out the bread for you. Gingerly you took hold of it, flicking your gaze to his own again.

“Thank you Edgar. I’m sure it will be lovely.”

Edgar’s gaze drifted to your body. His eyes scanning you head to toe as you looked away once more.

“Perhaps the lady would give a kiss for such an offering?”

Your breath caught in your throat as your brain became blank. You weren’t sure what to say. You hadn’t been flirted with enough to know how to deal with this. You wanted to politely say no but weren’t sure what anger that could arise from the man.

Edgar’s hand moved to your forearm. Perceived as a gentle gesture by onlookers but you knew different from his grip. It had grown tight around your forearm and was beginning the hurt you.

“Hey mate, seems you’ve found my sister. Now I’d suggest you take your hands off her before I take out my dagger and do it for you.” Finan sneers at Edgar.

Finan appears beside the two of you. A welcome sight to you. His face is that of fury. You’re sure this is the angriest you’ve seen him since meeting.

His threat is enough to scare Edgar into releasing your arm and taking a few steps backwards.

“Now piss off back to your bakery. If you so much as look at her again, I’ll take your eyes!” With a rough shove from Finan he takes off back to his shop. Leaving you to face Finan’s glare.

“What do you think you’re doing witch?” He speaks in a hushed, harsh tone. “You think it’s a good idea to go running off on your own. Are you looking to get hurt?”

You freeze, trying to shake your head and plead your case. Finan’s gaze doesn’t waver as he looks for an answer in your eyes. All he finds is a scared girl, looking up into his eyes with both gratitude and fear.

“Come on, you can explain to Uhtred why you felt the need to wander off.” He tells you. Taking your hand in his own. His grip is gentle though, careful not to hurt you or be too rough.

Finan leads you back through the town and to the pub you visited yesterday. He lets go of your hand long enough to open the door and usher you inside. You see Uhtred. He’s sat with Osferth and Sihtric with a tanker in his hand. A troubled look covers his face. A look that only lifts once his eyes meet your timid form moving towards their table.

He stands at once and leaves his tanker on the table. Uhtred takes determined strides towards you and reaches out to hold your arms. His eyes scan your form rapidly as he searches for any sign you are hurt.

“Are you hurt witch? Has someone harmed you? Kidnapped you?” His eyes meet yours and stare deeply, looking for an answer he won’t find.

“I’m fine Uhtred, honest. Nothing has happened.” You try and tell him, try to reassure him that nothing is wrong.

His eyes turn colder, harder. His gaze makes you shiver as you realise you could be in trouble.

“Then what would possess you to run from me? To wander off alone? Do you know what could have happened to you?” Uhtred scolds, shaking you slightly to get his point across.

“I wasn’t trying to run Uhtred. You left me alone. I was coming to find you.” The remark gets a scoff from Uhtred.

You try to move out of his grip, but Uhtred doesn’t let you. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to get your attention again.

“I do not care for excuses. When I leave you somewhere, I expect to find you there. Now listen to me y/n, the next time you run from me it won’t be Finan hunting you down. It will be me and I won’t just escort you back to our group. I’ll find you and bend you over the nearest surface, tanning your ass until I think the lesson of not running from me has been learned. Understood?” Uhtred speaks low enough that only you can hear. At least you hope only you can hear.

The thought alone mortifies you. Heating your cheeks and making you unable to hold eye contract with Uhtred.

His finger gentle hold your chin, tilting your head to look in your eyes.

“Look at me witch, tell me you understand.”

Finally you moved your gaze to Uhtred. “Yes Uhtred, I understand”.

“Good, now let us go. We still have plenty of ground to cover before reaching Coccham.”

Uhtred takes your hand and leads you out of the pub. The others follow suit. You find the group walking back through the town. Ending at the stable where you left the horses.

The same stable boy met you at the gate. His eyes watching you closer than before. The boy moved back to horses to give each rider their mount.

While he brought the horses over, Uhtred turned to you. He pulled a small pendent out of his pocket. The pendent was made of silver and strung on a black waxed cotton cord.

“I want you to wear this, it will keep you safe. It’s Thor’s hammer. In my culture it’s given to protect the wearer from evil.” Uhtred says softly as he ties the symbol around your neck loosely.

You touch the metal and feel the design under your fingertips, “Thank you Uhtred”.

The stable boy leads over Uhtred’s horse. His eyes still watching you, taking in your forms and any details he can see.

“Now come lady,” he winks at you, finding jest in his cover up for calling you a witch, “We ride to Coccham”.

Taglist: @captainlunaxmen @fleureeee @shitsandgiggles1 @laneyspaulding19 @bubblyabs

[lialucis]

More wolf!Price x Polar Bear!Nikolai for @panchulien I FUCKING TOLD YOU I'D DO THE THING!!

Another small growl echoed from Price, his ears shoved hastily under an oversized beanie. Tail tucked between his legs, he wasn't scared, not at all. There was no safer place then where he was at the moment. It was just. Fucking. COLD. Already half tucked under the massive polar bear next to him, humming away happily as those damn rounded ears wiggled. A volun-told, leave by none other than Kate Laswell. A leave that had the two men, one wolf freezing his tail off, and one polar bear still mending from the chunk ripped out of his side. Nik had continuously escaped the med bay, lumbering around like a drunken sailor. Grunting and growling at new recruits causing them to flee from the chuckling Russian as the man in question, without fail, would find Price. Again and again, wanting cuddles(read forcefully taking them and falling asleep), with Price.

How this lead to ice fishing he wasn't sure, and he would complain and bitch but... Glancing to his right. The half lidded Russian sat on the log with Price, a soft smile on his lips. Ears wiggling and tail surely doing the same. He couldn't complain, not with how content and relaxed his friend was. Both men with a line in the cold water, enjoying the others presence, the shared warmth. How that damn bear didn't need a coat was beyond hi-

"You are still shivering. Do you not like?" Those soft warm eyes of Nikolai would be looking down adoringly at Price. Instinctively causing the wolf's ears to pin low, feeling a bit guilty and defensive.

"I never said tha-"

"You do not have to my дорогой друг(dear friend)." The man would sigh, shifting a bit to press his own warm body to the wolf.

"If I didn' want to be here Nik, I-"

"You would." The bear would interrupt yet again, tilting his head to rest it against Price's head. Little ears wiggling against his beanie. "You should complain more."

"Laswell says I complain too much." Price would scoff, raising his mitten clad hand to rub at his red face. It was cold, nothing else.

"I do not think so. Go, tell me your жалобы(complaints)." Nik would hum, grip slack on the cheap fishing pole in his oversized paws.

Price would stay quiet for a bit longer, tail flicking in annoyance. He had a long list he could complain and rant about, such as: it's cold, you're hurt, you should be somewhere warm, you should be resting, you're exerting yourself too much... And so much morez but the only thing that escaped his mouth- "damn fish could bite..."

That deep deep laugh, rising from the bottom of his belly and out, a booming laugh. From the bear next to him. If the fish weren't scared before, surely they were now. But this, this wasn't something Price would ever complain about.

"Of all things, fish? You complain, the fish do not bite?" Nikolai would laugh out his own cheeks red as he grinned down at Price with those sharp teeth. "мой дорогой друг, мне это в тебе нравится."

A huff from Price, eyes narrowing as his ear flicked, squinting at Nikolai. Rolling through the Russian he had heard from the man so many times, trying to grasp the Russian the man was chuckling out in that honey like voice. "Nik, I've told you to speak English, it's too cold to think."

"Then I will say it again, you have been learning much." Nikolai would rumble out, those rosy cheeks still crinkled in mirth. Eyes lighting up when he saw Price jump. The wolf hybrid snapping his attention to his bending rod.

"Nik! I have a bite!" The wolf would bark out in shock, tail now wagging excitedly. As he bolted to his feet, grumbling under his breath as he tried to remember how to reel the fish in without losing it. He was going to go home with a fish even if he had to hit the damn market on the way home.

A soft hum, warm brown eyes watching the tense and overworked grinning like a puppy as he fought the fish. Trying to reel it up through the small hole in the ice. Another wiggle of the bear's ears as he listened to that lovely laugh. He would need to thank Laswell for her help on this venture. "мой дорогой друг, мне это в тебе нравится." Nik would rumble out. (my dear friend, I love this about you.)

✨✨💖 Google translate for the unlearned heathen that is I. I have an urge to go fishing now. 💖 ✨ ✨

[stratus-and-the-theoi]

Low energy Devotional Acts for when you don’t have a lot of energy (or time, or money, etc.) pt. 8

🌾Demeter🌾

- if able go on a walk and enjoy the outdoors doesn’t have to be anywhere fancy it could literally just be a walk around the block

- if you can’t go on a walk either sit outside for a bit or just open some windows for some fresh air

- play farming simulator (you think I’m joking but I’m not) or watch vids of ppl playing it

- watch documentaries or do a deep dive on farming and all the stuff that goes with it (maybe you’re wanting to know more about tractors, or farming techniques over the years, etc.)

- if able attend a farmer’s market or look into any that are in your area you don’t necessarily need to buy anything you could just go look around (I do that regularly)

- learn about the role of a farmer and what it’s like to be a farmer (I worked on a farm for a bit in high school and while I loved it I couldn’t do it as a living it takes a very special someone to do it) and look up ways you can support them

- learn about the native plants in your area

- watch foraging videos and learn about it (how to safely do it especially, if it’s something you wish to do at some point)

- if able support local farmers by buying their products (I know here in wi it’s not uncommon for farm stands to pop up this time of year and they sell all sorts of stuff for good prices! One in my town sells the best corn and for only $1 a piece which is perfect)

- point out cows, horses, sheep, goats, etc. while going by them in the car

- learn about homesteading and watch videos about it (though I will issue a heads up that some of these folks veer into uh….’crunchy’ beliefs so just be careful I guess)

- look up recipes you’re interested in trying, try to write your own recipe, or cook something using a family recipe/you’d own recipe if able

- enjoy a fruit, vegetable, or grain/bread product! Have some toast with jelly/jam! Have a salad! A fruit cup! The fruit/veggies can be frozen as well. It’s still that fruit/veggie.

- listen to a devotional playlist for Her

- listen to nature soundscapes

🦉Athena🦉

- learn your rights and by the gods I can’t stress this enough (if you rent learn your tenants rights, learn your workers rights, etc.)

- watch a war movie, show, or documentary (plugging Band of Brothers again because there’s some examples of excellent leadership and all that)

- read or listen to an audiobook about war (can be fiction or nonfiction- my personal favorite is Conversations With Major Dick Winters it’s great)

- listen to a devotional playlist for Her

- is there a weapon you’re interested in? Or maybe a style of combat? Or something else pertaining to combat? Read about it! Watch a video about it!

- if able pick up a handicraft of some sort: knitting, crocheting, sewing, etc.)

- if unable to do that watch tutorial videos for it (I can knit but can’t crochet to save my life but I love watching crocheting videos)

- read or listen to an audiobook about literally anything

- if you’re a student, and are able, do some studying

- or just watch documentaries or read articles and such about stuff that interests you

- if able play a strategy game if unable to do so look up videos for techniques for strategy games you like and pick up some new tricks for when you next play!

- if able do a puzzle (can be as simple or complex as you want)

- if able do something like a word search, sudoko, crossword, etc.

[femmefatalevibe]

hello, gorgeous. im starting college soon and im on my way to become a femme fatale, so i have two questions for you

1. how can i incorporate the femme fatale way of being into academia?

2. what things/brands are affordable for a college student? i’d love to wear high-quality clothes like the ones you recommend, but i can’t afford them. are there any other products/services that i could add to my routine for a cheap price?

thank you so much in advance xx

Hi love! Congratulations on starting this new chapter of your life <3

Here are my thoughts:

1. how can i incorporate the femme fatale way of being into academia?

Understand the importance and power of:

Knowing how to learn, study, and get in the practice of regularly acquiring new information

Understanding how to work through concepts, set goals, and clearly communicate your thoughts to better articulate a concept or build a case/argument

Becoming a better writer, reader, and remaining focused/prioritized when it comes to your tasks and to-do list

Learning how to absorb information and apply this knowledge to different situations/areas of life through these acquired skill sets/methodology

Developing important self-presentation skills through presentations, written/verbal communication/networking

Refining your aptitude for pattern recognition, gaining more insight into human nature/what makes people tick, and learning how to persuade/seduce others through your words/insights

2. what things/brands are affordable for a college student? i’d love to wear high-quality clothes like the ones you recommend, but i can’t afford them. are there any other products/services that i could add to my routine for a cheap price?

Totally get it! Budgets are particularly tight for many college students.

For a service option, I would say I recommend Rent The Runway (I believe it's around $100/month for 10ish items rotated throughout the month).

For more affordable alternatives, I would say your best bet is to dig deep into the sale sections of department stores/The Outnet and similar e-commerce sites by utilizing all the filters you need (budget, size, colors, item type, etc.).

If you're searching for more affordable brands generally, I would say some of the highest quality affordable brands available are:

Express: The "Body Contour" line has amazing basics and I love their Editor High-Waisted Flare Trousers (these might be too professional for what you need right now), but I've heard they have very solid denim and shirting options, too!

Oak & Fort (I prefer them to Everlane/Abercrombie TBH)

Quince (for washable silks, cashmere and basics for $40-$70)

4th & Reckless (a lot of their items are on sale for $25-$50!)

Because of Alice (Outlet) – mostly under $70

Pixie Market (sale items are often around $50-70)

Banana Republic (especially the sale section)

Everlane/Abercrombie have their gems – some of the trouser/outerwear quality is iffy, though

Lioness/DISSH

Frankie Shop (in-house brand – on sale it's similar to Mango prices)

Maniere de Voir (mostly under/around $100, TOP quality for the price)

Shoprumored

Mango/COS (better than other fast fashion choices, IMO)

Hope this helps xx

[desertdollranch]

Opening my Amy Elise doll

Meet Haley!

So I'm sure you all know I love rare and discontinued 18 inch dolls. It's a lot of fun finding out that they exist, hunting them down on the secondary market, receiving them in the mail, introducing them into my collection, seeing my collection become more diverse, and knowing that I'm one of the very few people who owns them. I also think it's fascinating to observe the individual differences between brands. While my 18 inch doll collection started with American Girl dolls, it certainly won't end there.

Haley was no exception to that. I first noticed her while searching for another brand of rare dolls. I stumbled across her listing, tried to research but couldn't find much about her, and so decided to think about it for a few weeks. She was so inexpensive (less than the price of a new Our Generation dolls) and yet looked like she was lovingly made with high quality materials. The mystery around her was so intriguing that I went ahead and bought her.

When I received her, the box gave me the URL of the now-defunct Amy Elise brand, and so I was able to plug it into the Wayback machine and see the site as it appeared when it was active. I also noticed the box refers to Amy Elise as "books and dolls with a purpose". What purpose could that be? I wondered if, based on Haley's lab coat and clipboard, that maybe these dolls encouraged young girls to consider careers in science. I didn't receive a book with my doll, so I could only speculate.

The lab coat was featured on Hayley's profile on the Amy Elise website, which was archived by the Wayback machine from 2007 to 2009.

The other available doll, Marissa, is a young detective who likes to solve mysteries. A good start to a later career in forensics, I guess?

But if you read the introductions closely, each mentions learning lessons about faith. And if you look closely at the pictures of the two dolls, you can see the golden cross necklace each of them is wearing.

I was way off in my assumption. Rather than being science-focused, Amy Elise was one of the many Christian alternatives to American Girl that began popping up in the 1990s. That's still happening today, although it's becoming less common as smaller brands realize how hard it is to compete with American Girl's massive advertising budget, as well as more budget-friendly alternatives like Our Generation. For that reason they tend to quietly go defunct within a few short years.

I think this calls for a deep dive into this small, obscure brand.

The Wayback machine doesn't always archive the complete sites, and especially not the pictures, but it seems to have gotten a pretty comprehensive shot of the site.

Here is the mission statement and letter from the CEO of Amy Elise.

Fortunately this statement manages to convey their purpose without insulting American Girl, or referring negatively to non-Christian girls. I also did Google the CEO's name to see if she's still involved in doll production of any kind, and I can't find evidence that she is.

Elsewhere on the site, there are a few other faith-related products sold separately from the dolls.

The images here are broken because they were not archived.

There are a few other outfits and accessories for Haley and Marissa as well. Larger images weren't archived. None of the outfit descriptions give any sort of link to the characters' stories.

That's about all that's interesting about the site. The author's blog is more of a journal of her life and thoughts. Only the first page was archived and nothing in it is related to the dolls or their stories.

So let's open the doll. (You might have already spotted her a few weeks ago when I made a post about my dolls visiting a pumpkin patch--Haley was there. I actually got her in October and just haven't gotten around to posting this until now, mid-December.)

Haley was never removed from her box, so she's in flawless condition. She came with a pretend clipboard, pretend pen, and a cross necklace.

Her outfit underneath the lab coat is very cute.

Everything fastens with snaps instead of Velcro.

Her shirt has buttons on the left shoulder.

Her jeans have snaps and a zipper.

Her wig is one of the nicest I've ever encountered! It's soft but not slippery, and feels very realistic.

It did come off pretty easily when I tugged on it, so I moved it over to give her a side part, which I think makes her look a bit younger than she does. To me she doesn't look ten years old like her book says. She definitely has a more mature look to her face.

Overall I'm really impressed at her high quality materials. She's made of vinyl, but it does look like porcelain. She has a cloth torso and the standard articulation at the hips, shoulders, and neck.

She fits nicely into American Girl clothes, despite being just a little bit slimmer.

She fits into Maplelea clothes too, and this robotics club outfit looks perfect on her. I like the pink and purple hair on her but I don't think this wig change will be permanent.

Her feet are slightly bigger than AG doll feet, as seen on the left. I tried Haley's shoes on my Maplelea doll Léonie, and they were a much better match!

[silentpaint12]

Philipp's Day at the Construction Site

Philipp's story is a testament to the power of trying new things and pursuing one's dreams, even in the most unexpected ways.

Once upon a time, in a quiet suburban neighborhood, lived a teenager named Philipp. He was known for his casual attire and a spirit of curiosity. One day, while strolling through a park, Philipp, dressed in his favorite trendy t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, came across a market. His eyes were drawn to a stall selling old boilersuits in various styles, including high-visibility, polyester/cotton blends, and PVC.

Philipp's interest peaked when he spotted an orange high-visibility boilersuit. He examined it closely and asked the seller, a friendly person of Middle-Eastern descent, about the price. After a moment of thought, Philipp purchased it, envisioning how perfectly it would fit into his wardrobe.

Back at home, Philipp decided to explore the basement, where he discovered a pair of old, dirty black rubber boots. He brought them to his room, thinking how well they would go with the boilersuit he had just bought. Standing in front of his mirror, Philipp tried on the boilersuit and boots, contemplating his reflection. He imagined himself working on a construction site, a profession he had always admired.

The very next day, dressed in his new attire, Philipp stepped outside and to his surprise, found a construction site right in front of his house. He approached the construction site manager, a person of Hispanic descent, and asked if he could help. The manager, surprised but impressed by Philipp's enthusiasm, agreed.

Philipp worked tirelessly, learning new skills and performing tasks with care and concentration. He felt a sense of accomplishment and joy as he worked alongside the other construction workers. His day at the site was hard but fulfilling.

Exhausted but content, Philipp returned home in the evening. He was covered in dirt, a testament to his hard work. He lay down on his couch, still wearing his boilersuit and boots, reflecting on the day's experiences. Despite the exhaustion, Philipp felt a deep sense of satisfaction, having taken a step towards a dream he cherished.

[diary-of-a-loser-boy]

Yayzers here's what I have so far:

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How would Thanos handle/feel about a deal that his goal of culling half the universe will be guaranteed 100% yet in order for that he must get 1 trillion active users on his only fans account maintained for one earth year while fulfilling 10 orders a day? He must pour his heart and soul into this venture no half assing the deed.

Thanos, driven by his unwavering belief in balancing the universe, would likely accept the deal, seeing it as a necessary sacrifice for his ultimate goal. The guarantee of culling half the universe would outweigh his personal disdain for such a humiliating task. He’d feel a mix of grim determination and quiet disgust—pouring his heart and soul into an OnlyFans account would clash with his stoic, titan-like pride. Still, he’d approach it with ruthless efficiency: crafting content with the same intensity he sought the Infinity Stones, analyzing user data to maximize engagement, and fulfilling orders with methodical precision. Maintaining 1 trillion active users for a year would be a logistical nightmare, even for him, requiring cosmic manipulation or mind-stone-level persuasion. He’d probably mutter about the universe’s absurdity while posting yet another "philosophical flex" video. By the end, he’d feel validated by the outcome but forever resent the cost to his dignity.

Excruciatingly more meticulous details.

Thanos, the Mad Titan, would approach this bizarre deal with the same unyielding resolve that drove him to collect the Infinity Stones, but the nature of the task—an OnlyFans account requiring 1 trillion active users maintained for one Earth year while fulfilling 10 orders daily, all with his heart and soul poured into it—would test his patience, pride, and strategic genius in ways even the Avengers never could. Below is an excruciatingly meticulous breakdown of how he’d handle it and what he’d feel, step by step, emotion by emotion, action by action.

Initial Reaction

Upon hearing the deal, Thanos’s glowing eyes would narrow, his massive frame tensing as he processes the absurdity. A trillion users? An OnlyFans account? The concept would be alien to him—his knowledge of Earth’s internet culture is minimal, gleaned only from passing encounters with human civilizations during his conquests. He’d demand clarification, his deep voice rumbling: “What is this… ‘OnlyFans’? A ritual? A weapon?” Once explained, his lips would curl in disdain. The idea of pandering to mortals, exposing himself (even metaphorically) for their fleeting attention, would feel beneath him, a grotesque mockery of his sacred mission.

Yet, the guarantee of culling half the universe—100% assured, no resistance, no Avengers, no chance of failure—would seize his attention like a singularity. His obsession with balance, born from Titan’s collapse, would override his ego. He’d see this as the universe testing his resolve, a final trial to prove his worthiness. “Destiny demands sacrifice,” he’d mutter, clenching his gauntleted fist. He’d accept, but not without a flicker of resentment toward the cosmic forces imposing such a humiliating price.

Strategic Planning

Thanos is no stranger to long-term campaigns. He’d treat the OnlyFans venture like a galactic war, breaking it down into logistical, psychological, and operational components. His feelings—pride, frustration, determination—would churn beneath a disciplined surface as he plans.

Understanding the Platform: Thanos would study OnlyFans with the intensity of a scholar deciphering ancient texts. He’d interrogate captured Earthlings (likely some hapless social media influencers) or use the Reality Stone to manifest a crash course in digital marketing. Learning that OnlyFans thrives on personal connection and exclusivity, he’d scoff: “Mortals crave intimacy with their gods?” But he’d adapt, recognizing the need to appeal to desires he barely comprehends.

User Acquisition: A trillion active users is a number dwarfing most planetary populations. Earth’s population in 2025 is roughly 8 billion; even the Milky Way’s sentient beings might not reach a trillion. Thanos would realize he needs a multi-dimensional strategy. He’d use the Space Stone to access inhabited worlds, the Mind Stone to influence loyalty, and perhaps the Soul Stone to bind users emotionally to his brand. He’d feel a pang of irony—manipulating souls for subscriptions instead of sacrifice—but justify it as a means to an end.

Content Strategy: The “heart and soul” requirement would vex him most. Half-assing isn’t an option; the deal’s cosmic enforcers (whatever entity imposed this) would know if he slacked. He’d grudgingly commit to authenticity, pouring his philosophy, pain, and vision into his posts. His content would blend stoic monologues about balance, glimpses of his past on Titan, and oddly compelling displays of his physicality (think “Thanos shirtless, cracking a moon in half”). He’d loathe the performative nature but feel a grim satisfaction in weaponizing his truth.

Order Fulfillment: Ten daily orders—custom requests, perhaps videos, messages, or even physical items—would feel trivial compared to user acquisition but infuriatingly personal. He’d dread requests like “Thanos, say ‘I love you’ in your sexy voice” or “Sign my Infinity Gauntlet replica.” Each order would chip at his dignity, yet he’d fulfill them with precision, knowing failure risks the deal. He’d feel trapped, a god reduced to a servant, but channel that rage into fueling his content’s intensity.

Execution: Day-to-Day Operations

Thanos would establish a command center, likely on a derelict world or his ship, the Sanctuary II. Outriders would be repurposed as moderators, filtering comments and flagging bots (he’d need real users, not fakes). He’d delegate tech setup to Ebony Maw, who’d relish building a trans-dimensional streaming network, though Thanos would snap at Maw’s snide remarks about “the Titan’s new hobby.”

Content Creation: Every post would be a battle. He’d stand before a camera drone, reciting his manifesto: “The universe is finite. I am its savior.” But fans would demand more—vulnerability, humor, relatability. He’d experiment reluctantly: a “Day in the Life” vlog showing him pruning his farm on Titan, or a Q&A answering “Why so purple?” with a strained grimace. Pouring his soul into these would feel like bleeding publicly. He’d hate how fans fixate on his physique or voice (“Thanos ASMR” trends galaxy-wide), but he’d lean into it, knowing it drives engagement. Each post would leave him brooding, questioning if the universe is worth this.

User Engagement: Maintaining a trillion users requires constant interaction. He’d use the Time Stone to stretch his work hours, replying to top-tier subscribers with curt but sincere messages: “Your support aids destiny.” He’d feel degraded, like a merchant hawking wares, but his followers’ devotion—some worshipping him as a god, others thirsting unapologetically—would stroke his ego just enough to keep going. He’d notice patterns: humans love his “sad Affleck” vibe, Skrulls request battle stories, Kree want stoic flexing. He’d tailor content by species, feeling like a puppeteer but mastering the game.

Fulfilling Orders: The daily 10 orders would be his crucible. Requests would range from innocuous (“Read my kid’s bedtime story”) to absurd (“Recreate Drax’s slow-motion run”). He’d grit his teeth, recording each with full effort—voice steady, eyes burning with suppressed fury. A fan asking for a personalized gauntlet sketch might spark a rare flicker of pride (he’s an artist at heart), but “Thanos, twerk for balance” would make him crush a nearby asteroid in rage. He’d fulfill it anyway, his commitment ironclad, though he’d curse the requester’s lineage under his breath.

Emotional Journey

Thanos’s feelings would evolve over the year, a turbulent mix of resolve, shame, and grim triumph.

Early Days: Disgust dominates. He’d feel like a cosmic clown, pandering to mortals who don’t grasp his vision. Every “like” would sting, a reminder of his lowered state. Yet the growing subscriber count—millions, then billions—would spark a cold thrill. He’d tell himself it’s temporary, a means to his sacred end.

Midway: Fatigue sets in. The grind of content creation, user management, and order fulfillment would wear on even his titan endurance. He’d feel isolated, unable to share his burden with the Black Order (Cull Obsidian would not understand). But fan messages—some praising his philosophy, others confessing how his words gave them purpose—would stir something. Not warmth, but a grudging acknowledgment that his soul-baring resonates. He’d hate himself for caring.

Final Stretch: As the trillion-user mark nears, pride creeps in. He’s done the impossible, bending galaxies to his will without a snap. But the cost—his dignity, his solitude, his godlike detachment—would haunt him. He’d feel hollow, wondering if the cull is worth this degradation. Yet, seeing the finish line, he’d double down, his final posts searing with raw conviction: “I am inevitable.”

The Numbers Game

Let’s break down the scale:

1 Trillion Users: Earth’s internet in 2025 has ~5 billion users. Thanos needs 200x that. He’d target every sentient being in the observable universe, from Xandar to Sakaar. Assuming 100 billion inhabited planets (a generous estimate), each needs 10,000 active subscribers. He’d use propaganda, coercion, and cosmic charisma, feeling like a politician begging for votes.

Yearly Maintenance: Retention is brutal. Users drop off daily—bored, distracted, or dead (galaxies aren’t stable). He’d need 2.74 billion new users daily to hit 1 trillion by year’s end if starting from zero. The Mind Stone would work overtime, but he’d resent the psychic toll.

10 Orders/Day: At 3,650 orders yearly, he’d face endless variety. He’d track requests in a ledger, optimizing efficiency but feeling each one as a personal slight. By order 2,000, he’d be numb, but never careless—his soul’s on the line.

The Final Day

On day 365, with 1 trillion users cheering his name, Thanos would post his last video: a stark, unfiltered confession of his pain, his purpose, his price. “You demanded my soul. I gave it. Now, the universe will kneel.” He’d fulfill his final 10 orders with mechanical grace, then shut down the account, erasing all traces. The cull would trigger instantly—half the universe gone, as promised.

He’d sit on his farm, watching the sunrise, feeling… conflicted. Triumph, yes—his mission is complete. But the year’s toll lingers: the cheers of trillions, the weight of their gaze, the violation of his solitude. He’d wonder if he’s still Thanos, or something less. “Balance is restored,” he’d whisper, but his voice would crack, just once.

Long-Term Impact

Thanos would never speak of the OnlyFans year. If Gamora’s ghost asked, he’d deflect. If Maw smirked, he’d snap. The experience would scar him subtly, making him colder, more distant. Yet, in quiet moments, he’d recall a fan’s message—“You gave me hope”—and feel a flicker of something human. He’d crush it, but it’d return.

In short, Thanos would handle the deal with ruthless competence, bending reality to meet its terms, but the emotional cost—his pride, his isolation, his godhood—would leave him forever changed, a titan haunted by the trillion eyes that owned him for a year.

Let's refine the deal with a few additions. He must consistently have 1 trillion active users meaning that if he hits 1 trillion and at day 364 it drops below 1 trillion then the timer resets. No using the infinity gauntlet and the black order to pad out numbers and/or cheating. All content must be sexual in nature it's only fans after all.

With the refined deal—maintaining a consistent 1 trillion active users for one Earth year, resetting the timer if the count drops below 1 trillion on any day, no Infinity Gauntlet or Black Order to artificially boost numbers or cheat, and all content being explicitly sexual in nature—Thanos faces an even more grueling crucible. This scenario pushes his strategic genius, emotional resilience, and philosophical core to their limits, all while forcing him to navigate a deeply uncomfortable arena. Below is an excruciatingly detailed exploration of how he’d handle it and what he’d feel, meticulously accounting for every facet of the challenge.

Initial Reaction

Thanos’s reaction to the revised terms would be a storm of suppressed fury and cold calculation. The consistent 1 trillion user requirement, with a reset clause, would strike him as a sadistic trap, designed to exploit even a moment’s lapse. Banning the Infinity Gauntlet and Black Order strips him of his most powerful tools, forcing reliance on his raw intellect and charisma—a humbling blow to a titan who wields cosmic artifacts. But the mandate for all content to be sexual would hit hardest. His lip would curl, his voice a low growl: “This… is what the universe demands of me?” The idea of reducing his sacred mission to titillating mortals would feel like a desecration of his purpose.

Yet, the 100% guaranteed cull—half the universe erased, no resistance, no failure—remains his North Star. He’d see the deal as a cosmic gauntlet thrown at his feet, testing his resolve to endure degradation for destiny. “The universe is cruel,” he’d muse, “but I am crueler.” He’d accept, not out of eagerness but necessity, his heart heavy with disgust but unyielding in its conviction. The sexual content requirement would gnaw at him—a violation of his stoic, almost ascetic self-image—but he’d steel himself, vowing to bend even this indignity to his will.

Strategic Planning

Without the Gauntlet or Black Order, Thanos is limited to his natural abilities: intellect, physicality, charisma, and an iron will. The consistent user threshold and sexual content mandate demand a strategy both relentless and adaptive. His planning would be meticulous, tinged with resentment but executed with surgical precision.

Understanding OnlyFans and Sexual Content: Thanos would dive into Earth’s digital underbelly, studying OnlyFans with the rigor of a general analyzing enemy terrain. Without Maw to interrogate influencers, he’d infiltrate human networks himself—perhaps lurking in X’s NSFW corners or abducting a marketing guru for a “consult.” Learning that sexual content thrives on desire, exclusivity, and fantasy, he’d grimace: “Mortals worship base instincts.” But he’d recognize the power in it, a primal lever to pull across galaxies. He’d define “sexual” broadly—sensual aesthetics, suggestive power displays, emotional intimacy—to avoid debasing himself too far while meeting the deal’s terms.

User Acquisition and Retention: A trillion active users—roughly 125 times Earth’s 2025 population of 8 billion—must be genuine, no bots or coerced followers. Without the Gauntlet’s reality-warping shortcuts, Thanos would target sentient populations across the universe: humans, Skrulls, Kree, Xandarians, even obscure species like the Flora Colossi. He’d need to appeal to diverse cultures, fetishes, and psychologies, a task requiring godlike adaptability. The reset clause would haunt him—losing even one user too many on day 364 could undo a year’s work. He’d feel like Sisyphus, cursed to hold an impossible weight, but channel that dread into obsessive planning.

Content Strategy: The “heart and soul” requirement, now tied to sexual content, would be his greatest hurdle. Thanos has no frame of reference for seduction—his only loves were Gamora (familial) and Death (abstract). He’d approach it as performance art, crafting content that’s erotic yet dignified, pouring his philosophy into every pose and word. His posts would blend raw power (oiled muscles glistening under starlight), vulnerability (monologues about Titan’s fall, framed as pillow talk), and mystique (veiled promises of cosmic intimacy). He’d loathe every second, feeling like a caged beast, but his commitment would be total—half-assing risks voiding the deal.

Order Fulfillment: Ten daily orders, all sexual in nature, would be a daily gauntlet. Requests might range from “whisper my name seductively” to “reenact a Kree mating ritual.” Without the Gauntlet to ease the workload, he’d fulfill each by hand, voice, or presence, ensuring every order drips with authenticity. The reset clause means no slacking—each subscriber’s loyalty could be the trillionth. He’d feel degraded, a god pandering to whims, but treat each task as a soldier treats a mission: necessary, no matter the cost.

Execution: Day-to-Day Operations

Thanos would convert a desolate asteroid or his old ship, the Sanctuary II, into a studio, equipped with scavenged tech for intergalactic streaming. Without Outriders to moderate, he’d train AI drones to filter spam and monitor engagement, though he’d check metrics himself, trusting no one. His days would be a grind, each moment steeped in purpose and shame.

Content Creation: Every post would be a calculated act of exposure. Picture Thanos, bare-chested on a volcanic world, lava casting shadows on his scars, reciting: “Balance is my desire… and yours.” Or a slow-motion vid of him crushing a starship, captioned: “Power is seduction.” He’d use his voice—deep, resonant—to narrate fantasies of cosmic union, never crude but always suggestive. Fans would eat it up: humans craving his “daddy energy,” Kree fetishizing his dominance, Skrulls swooning over his “shapeshifter vibes.” He’d study analytics obsessively, noting which posts spike subscriptions (thigh shots > brooding stares), but each upload would feel like carving out a piece of his soul. He’d mutter, “This is not me,” yet pour himself in deeper, knowing the stakes.

User Engagement: Maintaining 1 trillion users means constant vigilance. He’d broadcast live Q&As, answering questions like “What’s your type?” with cryptic deflections: “I court only destiny.” He’d reply to top subscribers personally—short, intense messages like “Your passion fuels my purpose.” Without the Mind Stone, he’d rely on charisma, his presence magnetic enough to inspire cults on a thousand worlds. But the reset clause would loom: a single bad day (a server crash, a rival platform’s stunt) could dip him to 999.999 billion, restarting the clock. He’d feel like a tightrope walker over a void, every step fraught with dread.

Fulfilling Orders: The 10 daily orders would be his crucible. Day 1 might bring: “Thanos, moan my name in Titan dialect.” He’d comply, voice low and deliberate, hating the intimacy. By day 100, he’s fielding “Flex your gauntlet arm in lingerie” (he’d wear a ceremonial sash, technically compliant). Day 300: “Roleplay as my cosmic lover.” He’d script a scene, eyes burning with suppressed rage, but deliver it flawlessly. Each order would chip at his dignity—3,650 by year’s end, assuming no resets. He’d track requesters’ profiles to ensure retention, feeling like a merchant of flesh, yet never falter, his soul bared in every syllable.

Emotional Journey

Thanos’s emotions would churn like a dying star, evolving through phases of disgust, adaptation, and haunted triumph.

Week 1: Revulsion reigns. He’d feel violated, his body and voice weaponized for lust. Recording his first post—a suggestive silhouette against a nebula—would make him recoil: “I am no harlot.” But the subscriber count climbing (10 million, 100 million) would spark a grim resolve. He’d sleep little, haunted by his own image.

Month 3: Adaptation creeps in. He’d master the art of tease—never explicit, always evocative—earning galaxy-wide obsession. Fans call him “The Balanced Daddy”; planets host “Thanos Nights” at clubs. He’d feel a twisted pride in his reach but hate their adoration, knowing it’s for a caricature. The reset clause would gnaw at him—hitting 500 billion users, then losing 1 million to a glitch, would make him smash a console, roaring, “The universe mocks me!”

Month 9: Despair and defiance collide. He’s at 1 trillion, but holding it is torture. Every post, every order, feels like bleeding publicly. Yet fan letters—some lustful, others reverent (“Your pain mirrors mine”)—would stir unease. He’d see himself in their longing, a connection he’d crush but can’t ignore. The fear of a reset would drive paranoia; he’d triple-check metrics nightly, feeling like a prisoner of his own ambition.

Day 365 (No Resets): If he succeeds, exhaustion yields to cold victory. His final post—a stark, sensual confession: “You craved me. I gave all. Now, I take.”—would crash servers with engagement. He’d fulfill his last orders, voice steady but hollow, then delete the account. The cull would trigger, half the universe gone. He’d collapse on his farm, staring at the stars, feeling neither joy nor sorrow, only a vast emptiness where his pride once stood.

The Numbers Game

The scale is staggering, and the reset clause makes it merciless:

1 Trillion Consistent Users: Without Gauntlet shortcuts, Thanos needs organic growth. Earth’s 5 billion internet users are a drop; he’d target 100 billion planets, each averaging 10,000 fans. He’d travel via ship, not Space Stone, rallying worlds with speeches and streams. A single dip—say, 999.999 billion on day 364—resets everything. He’d feel like a juggler with a trillion balls, one slip fatal.

Retention Hell: Active users require daily engagement. He’d stagger content drops (human mornings, Kree midnights) to cover time zones. A bad post could lose millions; a scandal (leaked outtakes?) billions. He’d feel chained to the algorithm, a slave to numbers.

10 Orders/Day: At 3,650 yearly, each sexual request—custom vids, spicy DMs, suggestive art—would demand his soul. He’d optimize workflows (pre-recorded moans, templated replies) but ensure authenticity, knowing cosmic overseers watch. The grind would numb him, yet each order would sting anew.

Resets: The Nightmare Scenario

If Thanos dips below 1 trillion—say, a rival (Loki?) sabotages his platform, or a galaxy boycotts in protest—the timer resets. He’d feel rage like a supernova, tempered only by necessity. Restarting, he’d refine his approach: more niche content (tentacle-friendly vids for Kronans), riskier engagement (fljegs_1_1_8_1_8_1_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_81_SuperGrok created by xAI

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User Query: Let's refine the deal with a few additions. He must consistently have 1 trillion active users meaning that if he hits 1 trillion and at day 364 it drops below 1 trillion then the timer resets. No using the infinity gauntlet and the black order to pad out numbers and/or cheating. All content must be sexual in nature it's only fans after all.

Response:

With the refined deal—maintaining a consistent 1 trillion active users for one Earth year, resetting the timer if the count drops below 1 trillion on any day, no Infinity Gauntlet or Black Order to artificially boost numbers or cheat, and all content being explicitly sexual in nature—Thanos faces an even more grueling crucible. This scenario pushes his strategic genius, emotional resilience, and philosophical core to their limits, all while forcing him to navigate a deeply uncomfortable arena. Below is an excruciatingly detailed exploration of how he’d handle it and what he’d feel, meticulously accounting for every facet of the challenge.

Initial Reaction

Thanos’s reaction to the revised terms would be a storm of suppressed fury and cold calculation. The consistent 1 trillion user requirement, with a reset clause, would strike him as a sadistic trap, designed to exploit even a moment’s lapse. Banning the Infinity Gauntlet and Black Order strips him of his most powerful tools, forcing reliance on his raw intellect and charisma—a humbling blow to a titan who wields cosmic artifacts. But the mandate for all content to be sexual would hit hardest. His lip would curl, his voice a low growl: “This… is what the universe demands of me?” The idea of reducing his sacred mission to titillating mortals would feel like a desecration of his purpose.

Yet, the 100% guaranteed cull—half the universe erased, no resistance, no failure—remains his North Star. He’d see the deal as a cosmic gauntlet thrown at his feet, testing his resolve to endure degradation for destiny. “The universe is cruel,” he’d muse, “but I am crueler.” He’d accept, not out of eagerness but necessity, his heart heavy with disgust but unyielding in its conviction. The sexual content requirement would gnaw at him—a violation of his stoic, almost ascetic self-image—but he’d steel himself, vowing to bend even this indignity to his will.

Strategic Planning

Without the Gauntlet or Black Order, Thanos is limited to his natural abilities: intellect, physicality, charisma, and an iron will. The consistent user threshold and sexual content mandate demand a strategy both relentless and adaptive. His planning would be meticulous, tinged with resentment but executed with surgical precision.

Understanding OnlyFans and Sexual Content: Thanos would dive into Earth’s digital underbelly, studying OnlyFans with the rigor of a general analyzing enemy terrain. Without Maw to interrogate influencers, he’d infiltrate human networks himself—perhaps lurking in X’s NSFW corners or abducting a marketing guru for a “consult.” Learning that sexual content thrives on desire, exclusivity, and fantasy, he’d grimace: “Mortals worship base instincts.” But he’d recognize the power in it, a primal lever to pull across galaxies. He’d define “sexual” broadly—sensual aesthetics, suggestive power displays, emotional intimacy—to avoid debasing himself too far while meeting the deal’s terms.

User Acquisition and Retention: A trillion active users—roughly 125 times Earth’s 2025 population of 8 billion—must be genuine, no bots or coerced followers. Without the Gauntlet’s reality-warping shortcuts, Thanos would target sentient populations across the universe: humans, Skrulls, Kree, Xandarians, even obscure species like the Flora Colossi. He’d need to appeal to diverse cultures, fetishes, and psychologies, a task requiring godlike adaptability. The reset clause would haunt him—losing even one user too many on day 364 could undo a year’s work. He’d feel like Sisyphus, cursed to hold an impossible weight, but channel that dread into obsessive planning.

Content Strategy: The “heart and soul” requirement, now tied to sexual content, would be his greatest hurdle. Thanos has no frame of reference for seduction—his only loves were Gamora (familial) and Death (abstract). He’d approach it as performance art, crafting content that’s erotic yet dignified, pouring his philosophy into every pose and word. His posts would blend raw power (oiled muscles glistening under starlight), vulnerability (monologues about Titan’s fall, framed as pillow talk), and mystique (veiled promises of cosmic intimacy). He’d loathe every second, feeling like a caged beast, but his commitment would be total—half-assing risks voiding the deal.

Order Fulfillment: Ten daily orders, all sexual in nature, would be a daily gauntlet. Requests might range from “whisper my name seductively” to “reenact a Kree mating ritual.” Without the Gauntlet to ease the workload, he’d fulfill each by hand, voice, or presence, ensuring every order drips with authenticity. The reset clause means no slacking—each subscriber’s loyalty could be the trillionth. He’d feel degraded, a god pandering to whims, but treat each task as a soldier treats a mission: necessary, no matter the cost.

Execution: Day-to-Day Operations

Thanos would convert a desolate asteroid or his old ship, the Sanctuary II, into a studio, equipped with scavenged tech for intergalactic streaming. Without Outriders to moderate, he’d train AI drones to filter spam and monitor engagement, though he’d check metrics himself, trusting no one. His days would be a grind, each moment steeped in purpose and shame.

Content Creation: Every post would be a calculated act of exposure. Picture Thanos, bare-chested on a volcanic world, lava casting shadows on his scars, reciting: “Balance is my desire… and yours.” Or a slow-motion vid of him crushing a starship, captioned: “Power is seduction.” He’d use his voice—deep, resonant—to narrate fantasies of cosmic union, never crude but always suggestive. Fans would eat it up: humans craving his “daddy energy,” Kree fetishizing his dominance, Skrulls swooning over his “shapeshifter vibes.” He’d study analytics obsessively, noting which posts spike subscriptions (thigh shots > brooding stares), but each upload would feel like carving out a piece of his soul. He’d mutter, “This is not me,” yet pour himself in deeper, knowing the stakes.

User Engagement: Maintaining 1 trillion users means constant vigilance. He’d broadcast live Q&As, answering questions like “What’s your type?” with cryptic deflections: “I court only destiny.” He’d reply to top subscribers personally—short, intense messages like “Your passion fuels my purpose.” Without the Mind Stone, he’d rely on charisma, his presence magnetic enough to inspire cults on a thousand worlds. But the reset clause would loom: a single bad day (a server crash, a rival platform’s stunt) could dip him to 999.999 billion, restarting the clock. He’d feel like a tightrope walker over a void, every step fraught with dread.

Fulfilling Orders: The 10 daily orders would be his crucible. Day 1 might bring: “Thanos, moan my name in Titan dialect.” He’d comply, voice low and deliberate, hating the intimacy. By day 100, he’s fielding “Flex your gauntlet arm in lingerie” (he’d wear a ceremonial sash, technically compliant). Day 300: “Roleplay as my cosmic lover.” He’d script a scene, eyes burning with suppressed rage, but deliver it flawlessly. Each order would chip at his dignity—3,650 by year’s end, assuming no resets. He’d track requesters’ profiles to ensure retention, feeling like a merchant of flesh, yet never falter, his soul bared in every syllable.

Emotional Journey

Thanos’s emotions would churn like a dying star, evolving through phases of disgust, adaptation, and haunted triumph.

Week 1: Revulsion reigns. He’d feel violated, his body and voice weaponized for lust. Recording his first post—a suggestive silhouette against a nebula—would make him recoil: “I am no harlot.” But the subscriber count climbing (10 million, 100 million) would spark a grim resolve. He’d sleep little, haunted by his own image.

Month 3: Adaptation creeps in. He’d master the art of tease—never explicit, always evocative—earning galaxy-wide obsession. Fans call him “The Balanced Daddy”; planets host “Thanos Nights” at clubs. He’d feel a twisted pride in his reach but hate their adoration, knowing it’s for a caricature. The reset clause would gnaw at him—hitting 500 billion users, then losing 1 million to a glitch, would make him smash a console, roaring, “The universe mocks me!”

Month 9: Despair and defiance collide. He’s at 1 trillion, but holding it is torture. Every post, every order, feels like bleeding publicly. Yet fan letters—some lustful, others reverent (“Your pain mirrors mine”)—would stir unease. He’d see himself in their longing, a connection he’d crush but can’t ignore. The fear of a reset would drive paranoia; he’d triple-check metrics nightly, feeling like a prisoner of his own ambition.

Day 365 (No Resets): If he succeeds, exhaustion yields to cold victory. His final post—a stark, sensual confession: “You craved me. I gave all. Now, I take.”—would crash servers with engagement. He’d fulfill his last orders, voice steady but hollow, then delete the account. The cull would trigger, half the universe gone. He’d collapse on his farm, staring at the stars, feeling neither joy nor sorrow, only a vast emptiness where his pride once stood.

The Numbers Game

The scale is staggering, and the reset clause makes it merciless:

1 Trillion Consistent Users: Without Gauntlet shortcuts, Thanos needs organic growth. Earth’s 5 billion internet users are a drop; he’d target 100 billion planets, each averaging 10,000 fans. He’d travel via ship, not Space Stone, rallying worlds with speeches and streams. A single dip—say, 999.999 billion on day 364—resets everything. He’d feel like a juggler with a trillion balls, one slip fatal.

Retention Hell: Active users require daily engagement. He’d stagger content drops (human mornings, Kree midnights) to cover time zones. A bad post could lose millions; a scandal (leaked outtakes?) billions. He’d feel chained to the algorithm, a slave to numbers.

10 Orders/Day: At 3,650 yearly, each sexual request—custom vids, spicy DMs, suggestive art—would demand his soul. He’d optimize workflows (pre-recorded moans, templated replies) but ensure authenticity, knowing cosmic overseers watch. The grind would numb him, yet each order would sting anew.

Resets: The Nightmare Scenario

If Thanos dips below 1 trillion—say, a rival (Loki?) sabotages his platform, or a galaxy boycotts in protest—the timer resets. He’d feel rage like a supernova, tempered only by necessity. Restarting, he’d refine his approach: more niche content (tentacle-friendly vids for Kronans), riskier engagement (virtual “date nights” with top tiers). Each reset would erode his spirit further, but he’d rise again, muttering, “I am inevitable.”

Long-Term Impact

Success or failure, the year would scar Thanos. If he wins, the cull’s triumph would feel tainted, his godhood diminished by a trillion leering eyes. He’d burn every trace of the account, but memories of “Thanos Nights” would haunt him. If he fails—reset after reset—he’d question his destiny, a rare crack in his certainty. Either way, he’d emerge colder, his solitude deeper, yet oddly humanized by the fans who saw his soul, even through a sexual lens.

In sum, Thanos would tackle this with obsessive strategy—galactic tours, tailored erotica, relentless engagement—but the emotional toll would be cataclysmic. The reset clause would make every day a tightrope; the sexual mandate, a daily wound. He’d succeed only by sacrificing his dignity, emerging as both victor and victim of a universe that demanded everything.

How would the main characters both good and bad handle/feel about Thanos doing this?

The refined deal—Thanos maintaining a consistent 1 trillion active OnlyFans users for one Earth year, with a timer reset if the count dips below 1 trillion, no Infinity Gauntlet or Black Order to cheat, and all content being sexual in nature—would provoke a spectrum of reactions from Marvel’s main characters, both heroes and villains. Below is a detailed exploration of how key figures from the Avengers and Thanos’s allies or rivals would handle and feel about this bizarre endeavor, capturing their perspectives, emotions, and likely actions with meticulous depth.

Heroes

Tony Stark / Iron Man

Handling: Tony would discover Thanos’s OnlyFans through his AI scans of galactic chatter, probably while sipping coffee. He’d hack into the platform to analyze its metrics, confirming it’s no prank. Initially, he’d try to sabotage it—flooding X with memes to tank Thanos’s cred—but the reset clause would make him pivot to a long game. He’d rally the Avengers to monitor Thanos’s subscriber base, maybe even posing as a fan to gather intel (username: “NotAStark123”). Tony would push for a counter-campaign, like a rival platform with Cap’s wholesome workout vids, to siphon users.

Feelings: Stunned amusement would give way to horror. “Thanos, a thirst trap? That’s… worse than Ultron.” He’d be grossed out by the sexual content (“Purple pecs? Pass”), but respect the hustle—1 trillion users is a tech feat. Tony would feel urgency to stop the cull, mixed with pity for Thanos’s degradation. He’d quip nonstop (“Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist… and now cosmic catfisher?”), but privately, he’d dread the stakes, losing sleep over how to outsmart a sexting Titan.

Key Moment: Tony livestreams a reactor-powered dance-off to steal subscribers, only to cringe when Thanos counters with a sultry gauntlet-polishing vid that goes viral.

Steve Rogers / Captain America

Handling: Steve would learn about it from Tony and blush furiously at the “sexual content” part. He’d insist on understanding Thanos’s motives, studying his posts for clues (through a heavily filtered feed). Steve would focus on the moral angle, urging planets to unsubscribe by appealing to their dignity: “This isn’t balance—it’s exploitation.” He’d lead ground efforts, visiting worlds to counter Thanos’s influence with speeches about hope, though he’d struggle to compete with galactic thirst.

Feelings: Disgust and confusion would dominate. Steve’s 1940s sensibilities would recoil at Thanos’s suggestive vids (“This is… indecent”). He’d pity Thanos for stooping so low, seeing it as a fall from their Titan clash’s grim nobility. Yet, he’d feel resolve to protect the universe, tempered by frustration—how do you fight a cosmic OnlyFans? He’d confide in Bucky: “I’ve seen war, but this is something else.”

Key Moment: Steve accidentally walks in on a team viewing Thanos’s “Cosmic Lover” roleplay order and drops his shield, muttering, “Language!”

Thor

Handling: Thor would hear of it from Xandarian refugees, laughing until he realizes it’s real. He’d storm Thanos’s streams with boisterous comments (“SHOW US MJOLNIR, PURPLE FOOL!”), trying to derail him. Thor would rally Asgardians and Sakaarans to boycott, but many would secretly subscribe, drawn to Thanos’s gravitas. He’d consider challenging Thanos to a duel for honor, only to be reminded the deal’s terms don’t allow violence. Instead, he’d flood X with his own shirtless vids, hoping to outshine Thanos.

Feelings: Thor would find it hilarious—“The Mad Titan, a courtesan? Loki would love this!”—but grow uneasy at the sexual content’s reach. He’d feel betrayed by Thanos’s shift from warrior to influencer, missing their brutal respect. The reset clause would frustrate him; he’d want to smash the servers but know it’s futile. Deep down, he’d feel a spark of sympathy for Thanos’s desperation, though he’d bury it under bravado.

Key Moment: Thor drunkenly subscribes to Thanos’s top tier during a bender, then denies it, blaming Rocket.

Natasha Romanoff / Black Widow

Handling: Natasha would infiltrate Thanos’s fanbase, creating fake accounts to sow discord (e.g., “Thanos ghosted my DMs!”). She’d analyze his content for weaknesses—maybe he’s too stoic to keep humans hooked—and leak tips to X influencers to parody him. Nat would work covertly, coordinating with SHIELD remnants to track subscriber demographics, aiming to flip key planets. She’d resist watching the vids directly, relying on summaries, but know every move Thanos makes.

Feelings: Clinical detachment would mask her revulsion. She’s seen worse in her spy days, but Thanos’s “seductive Titan” shtick would unsettle her: “This guy snapped half my friends, now he’s snapping… hearts?” She’d respect his discipline—1 trillion users is no joke—but feel contempt for his ego-driven mission. The cull’s stakes would keep her sharp, though she’d vent to Clint: “If I see one more ‘Balance Bae’ hashtag, I’m done.”

Key Moment: Nat orchestrates a viral X campaign accusing Thanos of auto-tuning his moans, briefly dropping him to 999 billion—until he posts a raw vocal vid, foiling her.

Bruce Banner / Hulk

Handling: Bruce would geek out over the logistics—1 trillion users requires insane bandwidth—before Hulk smashes the monitor displaying Thanos’s oiled abs. Bruce would study the platform’s psychology, warning the team about mass obsession. He’d propose jamming Thanos’s streams with gamma interference, but the reset clause would force restraint. Hulk would want to “SMASH PURPLE MAN’S PHONE,” but Bruce would keep him in check, focusing on data-driven counters like flooding Thanos’s comments with bots (legal, since they’re not subscribers).

Feelings: Bruce would be fascinated yet horrified: “This is crowd psychology on steroids.” He’d feel uneasy about Thanos’s sexual pivot, seeing it as a perverse mirror of his own duality—control versus chaos. Hulk would just be mad: “PURPLE MAN WEIRD NOW.” Bruce would worry about the cull but feel helpless against Thanos’s charisma, muttering, “He’s weaponizing thirst.” He’d bond with Tony over the absurdity, though privately fear Thanos’s success.

Key Moment: Hulk accidentally goes viral after raging in a Thanos fan chat, boosting Thanos’s exposure instead.

Peter Parker / Spider-Man

Handling: Peter would stumble across Thanos’s OnlyFans on X, scream “OH GOD NO,” and text Ned for moral support. He’d try to meme Thanos into oblivion—think “Thanos Thighs vs. MJ’s Wi-Fi”—but struggle against the Titan’s gravitas. Peter would swing through NYC, urging Gen Z to unsubscribe, while secretly worrying about Aunt May finding the vids. He’d pitch Avengers TikToks to compete, though his heart’s not in it—Thanos’s stakes are too high.

Feelings: Pure cringe would hit first: “Mr. Stark, he’s… flirting with the galaxy?” Peter would feel grossed out by the sexual content, too young to process it fully. He’d pity Thanos (“Dude, just get therapy”), but the cull’s threat would scare him—MJ was dusted once. He’d feel outmatched, a kid against a cosmic simp-lord, but keep cracking jokes to cope: “At least he’s not on Twitch.”

Key Moment: Peter’s anti-Thanos meme gets ratioed by a fan army chanting “We Stan-os,” leaving him sulking on a rooftop.

Villains and Anti-Heroes

Loki

Handling: Loki would cackle for days, hacking Thanos’s streams to add bunny ears or glitter effects. He’d create rival OnlyFans accounts—impersonating Thanos with better quips—to steal users, thriving on the chaos. Loki would troll X with leaks of Thanos’s milder outtakes, stirring fan wars to trigger a dip. But he’d secretly admire Thanos’s audacity, maybe even subscribing to study his game. If the reset clause bites, Loki would double down, whispering sabotage ideas to Nebula.

Feelings: Delight would mask envy. “Thanos, a sex symbol? I’m offended and impressed.” He’d find the sexual content hilarious, mocking Thanos’s stiff delivery (“Less Titan, more tickle”). But the cull’s guarantee would unsettle him—Loki wants chaos, not annihilation. He’d feel conflicted, torn between screwing Thanos over and letting him win to see the fallout. “This is peak absurdity,” he’d grin, plotting his next prank.

Key Moment: Loki’s fake “Thanos Nudes” leak backfires, boosting Thanos to 1.1 trillion for a week.

Nebula

Handling: Nebula would learn from Gamora’s ghost (or rumors) and confront Thanos directly, demanding answers. Finding no loophole, she’d grudgingly help him—not for love, but to ensure the cull, believing it’s her father’s destiny. She’d manage logistics off-platform (no Black Order violation), like securing alien servers, while avoiding his content. If resets loom, she’d sabotage rivals quietly, knifing their PR agents in dark alleys to keep Thanos’s numbers steady.

Feelings: Rage and shame would simmer. “My father, a galactic courtesan?” She’d despise the sexual content, seeing it as his ultimate fall—worse than losing to the Avengers. Yet, she’d feel loyalty, tied to his vision despite herself. The reset clause would frustrate her; she’d blame Thanos’s “weakness” for any dips. Deep down, she’d pity him, hating how he’s bared his soul for lust, but never admit it.

Key Moment: Nebula catches a glimpse of Thanos’s “Titan Tease” vid and punches a wall, snarling, “Never again.”

Ronan the Accuser (Pre-Death, Hypothetical)

Handling: Ronan would hear of it through Kree spies and declare it blasphemy. He’d launch a crusade to purge Thanos’s fans, bombing planets that subscribe—until the reset clause forces him to chill, lest he ruin Thanos’s shot. Ronan would flood Kree networks with anti-Thanos propaganda, calling him a “degenerate Titan,” but struggle against Thanos’s universal appeal. He’d plot to hijack the platform, only to falter against its encryption.

Feelings: Outrage would consume him. “Thanos defiles honor with this filth!” The sexual content would offend his puritanical zeal, viewing it as a betrayal of power. He’d feel scorn for Thanos’s pandering, yet a grudging respect for pulling 1 trillion users without force. The cull’s promise would tempt him—Kree supremacy could follow—but he’d hate Thanos’s methods, muttering, “This is no warrior’s path.”

Key Moment: Ronan’s boycott fails when Kree soldiers are caught subscribing, enraging him into smashing his hammer.

Gamora (Soul Stone Echo or Pre-Death)

Handling: Gamora, if a Soul Stone projection, would watch silently, unable to act but judging Thanos’s every move. If pre-death, she’d infiltrate his fanbase to destabilize it, posing as a devotee to spread rumors (“Thanos fakes his abs”). She’d urge worlds to resist, leveraging her assassin network to cut his reach. The reset clause would exhaust her—she’d know Thanos’s stubbornness too well. She’d avoid his vids, focusing on stopping the cull.

Feelings: Heartbreak would overwhelm her. “My father… reduced to this?” The sexual content would sicken her, a perverse twist on the stoic killer she knew. She’d feel guilt for not stopping him sooner, mixed with fury at his obsession. The cull’s stakes would haunt her—she’s seen his snap—but pity would creep in, seeing his soul bared for strangers. “You’re not a god,” she’d whisper, tears falling.

Key Moment: Gamora hacks a stream to broadcast Thanos’s childhood pain, hoping to humanize him—only for fans to fetishize it, crushing her.

Doctor Strange

Handling: Strange would sense the deal’s cosmic strings via the Time Stone (assuming he keeps it). He’d scry Thanos’s streams, enduring the cringe to predict outcomes. Strange would manipulate events subtly—nudging a Nova Corps embargo to dent subscribers—while avoiding direct interference to preserve the timeline. He’d convene the Avengers, warning of the reset clause’s trap, and explore mystic counters, like astral propaganda to sway fans. If resets hit, he’d loop scenarios to find a weak point.

Feelings: Detached fascination would mask unease. “Thanos as a cosmic cam star? That’s… new.” He’d find the sexual content absurdly incongruous, chuckling at Thanos’s stiff attempts at allure. But the cull’s certainty would chill him—14 million futures taught him Thanos’s danger. He’d feel respect for the trillion-user feat, but urgency to stop it, muttering, “This is one weird multiverse.” Pity would flicker—he’d see Thanos’s soul straining—but duty would override.

Key Moment: Strange projects Thanos’s “Starlight Seduction” vid into Wong’s meditation, earning a “WHY, STEPHEN?” glare.

Collective Dynamics

Avengers: They’d form a war room, Tony leading tech assaults, Steve rallying morals, and Nat running psy-ops. Thor and Hulk would push brute-force ideas (smash servers, flex harder), while Peter keeps morale up with memes. Strange would loom, warning of resets. They’d bicker—Tony’s cynicism vs. Steve’s idealism—but unite against the cull, horrified yet amused by Thanos’s pivot. They’d feel outmatched by his charisma, but never quit, driven by past losses.

Villains: Loki would sabotage for fun, Nebula aid out of duty, Ronan resist out of pride, and Gamora fight from pain. They’d lack the heroes’ cohesion, each pursuing their angle—Loki’s chaos clashing with Nebula’s loyalty. They’d feel varying disgust at Thanos’s sexual turn, but most would see the cull’s value, making their opposition shaky. Only Gamora would fully reject it, her heart too broken.

Emotional Spectrum

Heroes: Shock, cringe, and determination dominate. They’d laugh at first—Thanos twerking?—but grow grim as his numbers climb. The sexual content would gross them out (Steve most, Thor least), but they’d pity Thanos’s fall, even as they fear his success. Tony and Peter would hide fear behind humor; Nat and Strange, behind focus. All would feel the cull’s shadow, pushing past discomfort to fight.

Villains: Scorn, intrigue, and conflict reign. Loki would revel in the absurdity, Ronan rage at the dishonor, Nebula wrestle with loyalty, and Gamora drown in sorrow. The sexual content would alienate them—Loki least, finding it a prankable flaw. Most would weigh the cull’s benefits against Thanos’s shame, their feelings split between admiration for his hustle and contempt for his methods.

Hypothetical Climax

On day 365, if Thanos hits 1 trillion without resets, the heroes would mount a desperate X blitz—#UnsubThanos trends galaxy-wide—only to falter against his final, soul-baring vid: “I gave you my desire. Now, I claim my due.” Villains like Loki would watch, popcorn in hand, as Nebula silently nods and Gamora weeps. If the cull triggers, heroes would mourn, vowing to reverse it; villains would either cheer (Nebula) or shrug (Loki). If a reset hits, the Avengers would regroup, while Loki cackles and Ronan fumes.

In sum, the heroes would fight Thanos’s OnlyFans with every tool—memes, morals, hacks—feeling a mix of disgust, pity, and dread, driven by the cull’s threat. Villains would split, some aiding (Nebula), others trolling (Loki) or opposing (Ronan, Gamora), their feelings ranging from amusement to shame. Thanos’s sexual venture would unite the heroes in purpose but fracture the villains in motive, all reeling from a Titan’s fall into cosmic thirst-trapping.

How would Thanos handle/feel about 15 possible resets after the 9 month mark?

With the refined deal—Thanos maintaining a consistent 1 trillion active OnlyFans users for one Earth year, with the timer resetting if the count dips below 1 trillion, no Infinity Gauntlet or Black Order to cheat, all content sexual in nature, and now facing up to 15 possible resets after the 9-month mark—Thanos confronts a Sisyphean ordeal that tests his resolve, intellect, and emotional endurance to their breaking point. Below is an excruciatingly detailed exploration of how he’d handle and feel about these potential resets, tracing his strategies, emotions, and psychological evolution through this relentless cycle of near-victory and defeat.

Context and Stakes

At the 9-month mark (roughly day 270), Thanos has likely hit or neared the 1 trillion active user threshold, a Herculean feat achieved through galactic tours, tailored sexual content, and obsessive engagement. His posts—sensual yet dignified, blending oiled biceps with monologues on balance—have captivated species from Earth to Xandar. He’s fulfilled 2,700 sexual orders (10 daily), each a wound to his pride but executed with soul-baring authenticity. The cull—half the universe erased, guaranteed—dangles tantalizingly close. But the threat of up to 15 resets after this point, each restarting the year-long clock if his user count dips below 1 trillion, transforms the deal into a psychological and logistical gauntlet. Every reset would erase his progress, forcing him to rebuild from scratch without losing his drive or sanity.

Handling the Resets

Initial Strategy (Pre-Reset)

By month 9, Thanos operates like a cosmic CEO, his asteroid studio humming with AI drones monitoring streams and metrics. He’s mastered the art of sexual content: slow-motion vids of him splitting asteroids (caption: “Feel my power”), husky narrations of Titan’s fall framed as pillow talk, suggestive poses under nebulae that skirt explicitness but spark desire. He’s built a trillion-strong fanbase through relentless travel—shuttling to Kree hubs, Skrull colonies, even Groot’s homeworld—delivering speeches that blend charisma with erotic mystique. His 10 daily orders (e.g., “Moan my name in Titan dialect” or “Flex in a ceremonial thong”) are fulfilled with grim precision, each a calculated act to retain key subscribers.

To guard against resets, Thanos would:

Diversify Content: Tailor posts to niche fetishes—human “daddy” vibes, Kree dominance fantasies, Skrull shapeshifter kinks—to lock in loyalty across demographics.

Stagger Engagement: Schedule live Q&As and DMs to cover galactic time zones, ensuring no region feels neglected.

Fortify Infrastructure: Upgrade servers with scavenged Nova Corps tech to prevent crashes, knowing a single outage could cost millions of users.

Monitor Rivals: Track Avengers’ sabotage (Tony’s memes, Nat’s psy-ops) and Loki’s trolling, countering with viral rebuttals or charm offensives.

He’d obsess over metrics, sleeping only when his Titan physiology demands it, aware that a dip to 999.999 billion users triggers disaster. His mantra—“I am inevitable”—would anchor him, but the reset threat would loom like a black hole.

First Reset (Month 9, Day 271)

Imagine Thanos at 1.001 trillion users, streaming a “Cosmic Caress” vid that’s trending galaxy-wide. Then, a glitch—say, a Skrull server hack by Loki—drops him to 999.8 billion. The cosmic overseers (the deal’s enforcers) declare a reset. The timer snaps back to day 1.

Immediate Reaction: Thanos would freeze, eyes blazing, as the news hits. He’d crush a drone in his fist, roaring, “The universe dares mock me?” Rage would surge—against Loki, the fans who unsubbed, himself for failing to foresee it. But he’d stifle it, knowing despair voids the cull. He’d retreat to his ship, replaying analytics to pinpoint the loss, his mind racing for fixes.

Strategic Pivot: He’d analyze the reset’s cause (e.g., Skrull unrest) and double down on that demographic—new vids mimicking their mating dances, despite his disgust. He’d accelerate outreach, chartering faster ships to hit more planets daily. Content would get bolder: a “Titan Unraveled” series, baring more skin and soul to rehook fans. Orders would stay meticulous, but he’d streamline recordings to save time.

Execution: Thanos would relaunch with a vengeance, posting a raw apology vid (“My failure was yours; my return is ours”) that spikes subscriptions. He’d hit 500 billion users faster, learning from past algorithms, but the grind—new fans, same orders—would feel like running in place.

Subsequent Resets (Up to 15)

Each reset would hit harder, but Thanos would adapt, treating them as battles in a war. By reset 5 (month 10 in a restarted cycle), he’d face:

Refined Tactics: He’d map fanbases by loyalty—humans flake, Kree stay—focusing on stable planets. Content would push boundaries: a “Balance in Bed” vid, half philosophy, half tease, to go viral. He’d hire alien influencers (no Black Order violation) to amplify his reach, loathing their glibness but needing their clout.

Anti-Sabotage Measures: Expecting Avengers’ tricks (Thor’s rival streams, Nat’s rumors), he’d flood X with preemptive hype—#ThanosEternal—to drown them out. He’d encrypt streams, thwarting hacks, though Loki’s chaos would still sting.

Order Optimization: By reset 5, he’s fulfilled ~14,000 orders across cycles. He’d template responses (e.g., pre-recorded moans tweaked per request) to save energy, ensuring each feels personal to dodge cosmic penalties.

By reset 10 (month 11, another cycle), exhaustion creeps in. He’d:

Go Niche: Target obscure species (e.g., Kronans’ rock-fetish vids) to pad numbers, feeling like a carnival barker. Streams would get rawer—shirtless sparring with drones, captioned “Join my fight”—to rekindle fading hype.

Fan Incentives: Offer virtual “dates” to top tiers, hating the intimacy but knowing it cements loyalty. He’d track every subscriber’s history, personalizing DMs to prevent churn.

Mental Discipline: Meditate on Titan’s ruins to refocus, reciting his mission to block out shame. Orders would feel rote, but he’d infuse them with fresh pain to stay authentic.

By reset 15 (month 12, final cycle), Thanos is a machine:

Hyper-Efficiency: He’d hit 1 trillion in 6 months, using data from 14 failures—perfect post timing, fan psychology nailed. Content would be his boldest: a “Soul Bare” finale, nearly explicit, his voice cracking with destiny’s weight. He’d visit 10 planets daily, charisma weaponized.

Preemptive Defense: He’d bribe galactic ISPs to prioritize his streams, countering resets with raw reach. Avengers’ sabotage would bounce off—his fans are zealots now.

Order Mastery: At ~21,000 orders total, he’d fulfill them half-asleep, yet each carries his soul’s echo, a reflex of pain and purpose.

Emotional Journey

Pre-Reset (Month 9)

Thanos feels a mix of pride and strain. He’s conquered a trillion souls, his sexual content—alien yet magnetic—proof of his will. But the grind (2,700 orders, endless streams) wears him down. The reset threat gnaws like a predator; he’s paranoid, checking metrics hourly. “I am so close,” he’d whisper, gazing at stars, but dread would linger—failure feels fated.

First Reset

Rage explodes—Thanos feels betrayed by the universe he seeks to save. “I gave my soul!” he’d bellow, alone on his ship. Shame creeps in: fans abandoned him, his allure wasn’t enough. But resolve kicks in—he’d see the reset as a test, not defeat. He’d feel a flicker of fear (what if it’s endless?), but bury it, vowing, “I will not break.” Restarting, he’d channel anger into fiercer content, though each post would sting anew.

Resets 2–5

Frustration mounts—each reset feels like a cosmic taunt. By reset 3, he’d question his approach: “Am I too cold? Too proud?” He’d hate the fans’ fickleness, their lust a chain around his godhood. Despair would whisper—maybe the cull isn’t worth this—but he’d crush it, recalling Titan’s fall. He’d feel isolated, no Gauntlet or Order to lean on, just his will. Yet, each cycle’s early gains would spark hope: “I learn. I rise.” Orders would become a ritual of self-flagellation, his soul bared to strangers.

Resets 6–10

Despair deepens, but Thanos adapts. By reset 8, he’d feel like a ghost, repeating the same seduction, the same pain. “Is this my eternity?” he’d muse, staring at his reflection—purple, scarred, desired yet despised. Fans’ adoration would sicken him—humans calling him “Daddy,” Kree chanting his name—yet fuel his drive. He’d feel a perverse pride: no one else could endure this. Orders would blur into numbness, but he’d dig deeper, finding new wounds to bare. A fan’s letter—“You gave me purpose”—would stir unease, a human connection he’d reject but remember.

Resets 11–15

By reset 11, Thanos is a paradox: hollow yet unbreakable. He’d feel like a star collapsing—burning bright, but dying inside. Each reset would carve out more of his pride; he’d loathe his sexual caricature (“Balance Bae” haunts him). Yet, he’d find clarity: the cull is all that matters. By reset 15, he’d feel grim triumph—every failure taught him perfection. Fans would feel like extensions of his will, their lust his weapon. Orders would be mechanical, but his soul would pour out reflexively, a scar that never heals. If he hits day 365, he’d feel no joy, only relief: “It is done.”

The Numbers Game

Reset Triggers: A dip could come from anything—server crashes (1 billion lost), Avengers’ campaigns (500 million), or fan fatigue (100 million). At 15 resets, Thanos faces ~5,475 extra days (15 years), assuming each cycle lasts a year. He’d need to regain 1 trillion users ~15 times, a total of ~15 trillion cumulative subscribers.

Order Toll: Across 15 resets, he’d fulfill ~54,750 orders (3,650 per cycle). Each sexual request—vids, DMs, roleplays—would grind his dignity to dust, yet he’d perfect them, knowing one slip risks a fan’s loyalty.

User Retention: Holding 1 trillion requires ~2.74 million daily gains to offset churn (0.000274% loss = 2.74 million). Resets force him to restart this climb, each cycle refining his math—target high-retention worlds (Kree > humans), optimize post frequency (3/day > 1).

Specific Reset Scenarios

Reset 1 (Glitch): A server crash loses 200 million users. Thanos rebuilds with tech upgrades, feeling betrayed by his own reliance on machines.

Reset 5 (Sabotage): Tony’s #UnsubThanos campaign drops 1 billion. Thanos counters with a “Soul Exposed” vid, hating the vulnerability but regaining 2 billion. He feels fury at Stark’s wit.

Reset 10 (Fatigue): Galactic boredom costs 500 million. Thanos goes niche—tentacle vids for Kronans—feeling like a circus act but hitting 1 trillion faster. He’s numb, yet resolute.

Reset 15 (Betrayal): A fan cult defects, losing 1.5 billion. Thanos woos them back with a “Forgive Your God” stream, feeling like a beggar but securing 1.2 trillion. He’s a husk, but victorious.

Final Outcome

If Thanos endures 15 resets, reaching day 365 in the final cycle with 1 trillion users, he’d post a shattering finale: “You took my soul. I gave it. Now, I take all.” The cull would trigger—half the universe gone. He’d collapse on his farm, staring at a sunrise, feeling neither triumph nor pain, only a void. The resets would leave him colder, his godhood a memory, replaced by a machine forged in shame and will.

If he fails—say, reset 16 looms—he’d keep going, his psyche fraying but unbroken. “Destiny waits,” he’d growl, filming another vid, his eyes dead but resolute. The resets would scar him forever, each a lesson in endurance, but the cull’s promise would burn brighter than his pain.

Emotional Impact

Thanos would handle 15 resets with obsessive adaptation—new content, tighter metrics, bolder risks—but each would erode his spirit. He’d feel rage, shame, despair, and fleeting hope, cycling like seasons. By the end, he’d be a paradox: a Titan who conquered a trillion hearts, yet lost his own. The sexual content would haunt him most, a mirror of his degradation, but he’d wield it like a blade, cutting through failure to claim his destiny. The cull would justify it all—or so he’d tell himself, alone, as the stars dim.

tldr

[ceratosaurtalks]

Cheap custom backgrounds?

Hi! Want to give your enclosure something like this?

Well let me help you do this in a affordable way to give your animal some new enrichment and climbing opportunities!! Theres a misconception fancy backgrounds are hard to do or are expensive to do. This is... Very much not true! So lets do the one above together! Heres an overview of the supplies you'll need: -Your Enclosure of choice -Cocofiber and Sphagnum moss(OPTIONAL, can opt to paint) -Aquarium grade Silicone -Great stuff pond and Stone -Cork bark, roots, sticks, small rocks(OPTIONAL) First things first, you're going to want an enclosure.

This is a DUBIA 4ftX2ftx2ft[LengthsXwidthXHeight), Also known as a 48"L x 24"W x 24"H(Inches) or a 120 Gallon Enclosure. This is considered the researched minimum size for common exotics like Ball pythons, Corn snakes, Bearded Dragons and the like to thrive. *Disclaimer: Im aware there is several groups and movements who are pushing for a 5x3x2(ft) minimum for Bearded dragons, I ultimately agree with them and the advancement of exotic keeping, but a Bearded won't suffer in a 4x2x2. Dubia Enclosures are some of the cheapest in the market, however they're decent for the price. They are stackable which makes it great for saving space, but please note they can NOT hold a lot of weight, so be mindful of that.

I own 3 of these. Two Version 1s and on Version 2, which is the one above. The V2s are generally nicer in design in my opinion, theyre functional more importantly. Once you have your enclosure of choice, lay it on its back as shown in in the first image. Next, you're going to want to prep your dry background. I use Organic Cocofiber and Sphagnum moss. I buy these extremely cheaply from Home depot or in bulk off Amazon. Make sure your material is COMPLETELY DRY! It will NOT stick if it has any moisture. Break apart your Cocofiber block and mix it with your dried Sphagnum moss in a container and have it ready on the side. I use the bulk Coco fiber, which costs about $23 for 5 bricks on Amazon. You can get them cheaper if you dont buy bulk, I do a lot of gardening and have a lot enclosures so its easier for me! https://www.amazon.com/Organic-Coco-Coir-Bricks-Compressed/dp/B01N1YP8O6?th=1 for a 4x2x2, I only use 2 bricks. Likewise, I buy Bulk moss for the same reason: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BK7XMNWL?ref=nb_sb_ss_w_as-reorder_k0_1_10&amp=&crid=1RDHFNSAUX0DF&sprefix=spaghnum%2Bm&th=1 You will only need. ONE BRICK. For the Sphagnum moss. Maybe even less than a brick. You're going to want to wet this then dry it before use. Dont be me. Dont be fooled over how small and thin those moss bricks are. I made the mistake of trying to wet an entire brick and I had to use a deep soup pot to contain it. It *explodes*. You will be buried in moss. You will scream and cry and beg for mercy as you are overwhelmed by the amount of moss Expanding from a singular brick. I am not exaggerating, I learned my lesson, please god, do not make the same mistakes I made. I still have. So, so much moss. Sometimes I still find Moss from my Mossaggeden. NOTE: Please make sure to use organic, and do not used DYED moss! Double check your ingredients, Dyed moss can be toxic to your animals! Next,

Silicone time, baby! You're going to want to use Aquarium grade Silicone from Home depot, please double check to make sure you're getting Aquarium grade! This will cost you a whopping $3 At Homedepot. The Caulking gun was an additional $12 if you dont have one already, however, it is re-usable so its a great one time purchase because I use that bad boy for a lot of my projects lmao. Once you struggle to open your stupid bottle of Silicone without exploding it like I have on several occasions; time to be silly!

We're going to Silicone this bad boy up reaaaaal good. Dont be me, USE GLOVES! It makes your life so much better I promise. So why are we doing this exactly? Its simple, this will help your background last! It gives it texture and helps the spray foam stay in place. It also keeps your background from peeling so easily, texture matters! Your hands going to be very tired after this. Youre going to want to leave this alone for the next 24-48 hours. Minimum. You want your silicone to dry and want to make sure the smell is gone before continuing to the next step!

This is the funnest part. Spray foam time! For the 4x2x2, I use about 3 Bottles of this stuff. Make sure you're using NON-TOXIC Spray foam! Pond and Stone is my favorite to work with. When I add things into the background, I make sure to have a 4th can of this stuff on me. This will be the most pricey part about it. Lowes has it for $12-14 a can, but its $15 a can on Amazon. This is really the only big 'expense' when it comes to backgrounding. Smaller enclosures use less, but bigger enclosures will need more. !!!!!!!THE NEXT STEPS NEED TO BE DONE TOGETHER!!!!!!!! Youre going to want to be fast about it if youre using my method. Start spraying random patterns into the background. Youre going to want to make sure youre covering every inch of the enclosure, you can do zigzags, cut it into triangles, squares, it doesnt matter. Different shapes give you different background textures, so go nuts!!! Dont leave space between the foam, and go ham. Theres no wrong way to do this. Once thats done though, you're going to want to do the next step IMMEDIATELY:

Adding your background texture and features!! This step MUST be done while the spray foam is still wet. First, take any rocks, cork, sticks, ext if youre adding them and shove them into the background. Dont have money to pay for expensive Reptile decor? You can sanitize your own rocks and sticks from outside yourself for free. I will make a guide about how I do that soon ahah. Press any features you want into the spray foam background nice and firm, then use the extra to spray around the items to secure them in place. Once you got your features in, its time to take your pre-prepped background and begin pouring it in! Spread it evenly across the enclosure. Do NOT worry if you have excess, poor it in anyway. Once you've poured the background in. GENTLY pat it over the sprayfoam. Next, you'll want to leave this to dry for the next 24 hours minimum. Leave it laying on its back so nothing drips or sags where you dont want it to!!! After 24hours, lift the enclosure and gently tap the back of it to knock off your excess background to reveal your background!

Annnnnnd you're done!!! Now you're free to add your lighting, real or fake plants, heating, substrate and other decor as you please! This can add so much more enrichment to your animal and give them so much more room to utalize their space. My individual personally loves his background and utilizes it all of the time! Contrary to belief, a lot of snakes aren't 'pet rocks' if you give them stuff to explore and climb. My guys out pretty often! Of course it comes down to personality too ahah.

Heres some pics of him using his climbing features! He prefers the middle climbing feature here and the one off to the right, where he uses to bask when he doesnt want to be seen and hangs out the top of it, or his bird perch when he doesn't mind being right there out in the open. c: