#How TOR Works

[hackeocafe]

How TOR Works

[2005noroithecurse]

⎙ — 𝐉𝐎𝐘𝐓𝐎𝐘.𝐓𝐎𝐑

› WELCOME TO THE RED ROOM... RESERVED FOR GUESTS OF PARTICULAR TASTES

› toji x f!reader

› word count : 2k+

- ̗̀໒ warnings : sex work, on camera, choking, my spit kink shining thru again, biting, backshots, (1) ass smack, fingering, cervix fucking, reader has hair long enough to pull, squirting, rough sex, full nelson, creampie

You take a drag of your cigarette, bleary sleep deprived eyes doing their best to focus on the obnoxious flashing neon sign. WE'VE GOT A DOLL FOR EVERY TASTE. It makes you scoff as you grind the but out beneath your scuffed shoe, that's all they think of you all as, dolls. Props that just so happen to moan and squirt.

For the most part you keep your complaints to yourself, money is money. Not that this was what you ever pictured you'd land on as a career but it could always be worse.

Exhaling the last of the crisp night air from your lungs you pull open the sleek silver backdoor to Cloud Nine. The back hallways are made up of dim, twisting corridors. Some lead to the back offices, to security, but as you hook a left to brush past a tinkling bead curtain you're met with the large open dressing room you all share.

You prefer to spend as little time back here as possible, doing the bulk of your prep at your apartment before you're on for the night. You can't stand their mindless, giddy chatter. It also prevents you from getting attached to any of them, or taking on a puppy so to speak.

Before you can finish tucking your bag and coat away in the dingy locker your floor manager is waving a piece of paper in your face.

It makes your stomach flip.

"You got swapped, Angel can't do the red room and you're the only other experienced girl in tonight."

The red room was only ever offered on nights an experienced doll was on the floor, since the people reserving red rooms always have a... particular taste in mind. Newer girls wouldn't be able to handle it. As much of an annoyance as it is to be switched with so little notice, you don't mind. It can get dull shaking your ass for run of the mill patrons all night, plus the red room is where the real money is.

"One or-?" You ask vaguely.

"One guy, don't keep him waiting alright?" She says dismissively.

You grab the piece of paper, the list of what you will and strictly won't do for a red room service. It was standard fare: creampie, light sadism, degradation, ect. Since it wasn't too extreme you didn't bother filling it out, it's easier to just tell the guy.

It's not far to the private rooms, and part of you is more than a little eager to see just who reserved one of these eye wateringly expensive sessions.

Even bathed in the dim red lights you could tell he was attractive, dark hair and eyes that held something elusive even though he kept contact with your own.

"I didn't bother filling this out, nothing you requested is off limits for me." You smile as you let the paper flutter to the floor, taking the seat beside him on the plush lounge.

Out of the corner of your eye you see the blinking light on the camera, he already set it up to record. It makes you quirk a brow at him, usually even the most gutsy ones are a little camera shy.

He smirks at you. "I'll be gentle."

With the way he says it you know it's a lie.

With a grin you lay back, propping a pillow under your head and trying not to focus on that little green recording light in your peripheral. The worst part is being filmed, but that's part of the rooms appeal. These guys pay for the ability to record the entire session not just for being able to fuck someone with no holds bared, but the catch is the club also gets to upload it.

The feeling of his skin brushing against yours cracks your train of thought. His fingertips are calloused, hands rough but he doesn't have the look of a working man. As those fingertips caress a trail down your inner thighs you shiver, letting out a quiet gasp.

"Puttin' on a show?" He purrs.

You give a breathy giggle, winding your arms around his muscles back as he leans over you between your legs. "Isn't that what you paid for?"

He pushes against you, lips brushing experimentally against yours, and deepens it to something harsh and hungry when he feels you start to squirm beneath him. His touch feels like fire, scorching a path across your skin with every grope and fondle of your body. You feel a familiar sensation of dizziness, of lightheadedness; every movement is skilled and purposeful, a deliberate attempt to steal the breath from your lungs and leave you choking on your own spit.

His lips begin to make their way down your neck, sucking hard against the delicate skin and making you groan with every nip of his teeth. In a daze you help him undo the straps of your barely there top, head tipping back when his mouth finds one of your nipples. They get the same rough treatment as your throat, and he gives a particularly sharp graze of his teeth clearly just to hear you yelp.

Your hands cup your breasts, kneading them, as his mouth dips marks a path down your stomach. Caught up in your own eagerness you wiggle your hips slightly, anticipating what's coming only to feel him grip your legs and yank you down further. The suddenness makes you wince, propping on your elbows to see just what he has in mind.

The way he's looking at you, with such debauched hunger it sends butterflies off in your chest. You don't even know his name but you know this is the kind of man a red room was designed for. As he leans forward again between your legs you feel his erection press hard against you, making the fabric of your panties slide against your clit with delicious friction.

Before you can ask, beg, for more his thick fingers glide up the column of your throat and press hard against the sides. Squeezing against your carotid artery and making your mouth drop open. As soon as your lips part you see the shimmer against his bottom lip, watch in fascination as a thick clear string of spit comes down to meet your tongue.

Sucking his lip he brings his face barely an inch from yours, through the fuzz of your restricted blood supply you notice a scar on the corner of his mouth.

"I didn't pay for you to look at the fuckin' camera." His voice is low, gutteral.

The second he lets go your body is automatically sucking air into your lungs, hard and sputtering as you lift your hips up to grind against him. In one smooth movement, before you can even process it properly, he's got you flipped on your stomach and pulling your ass up and back.

Your cheek presses against the plush fabric, eyes squeezed shut feeling his fingers run over your damp panties. There's not even enough time to relish in the contact before two fingers have the fabric pulled to the side, his knuckles sliding past the ring of muscle makes you moan against the lounge seat.

Hearing the soft shuffling of clothes you know he's undressing, even while his other hand is occupied with keeping his fingers scissoring against your slick walls. The sudden emptiness of his fingers withdrawing was quickly replaced by the head of his cock sliding through your arousal, making you suck in a sharp breath.

Just from that little contact you can feel he's got girth and heft, excitement makes you dig your nails into the lounge and press your chest down against it, keeping your ass higher.

You hear him scoff and the sting of his hand coming down hard against your skin makes you cry out, but it's nothing compared to the biting pain as the swollen head pushes against your soaked hole. The stretch is agonizing, you're not sure any amount of prep would've been sufficient. You groan, bottom lip caught in your teeth as you feel the fabric against your face getting wet with the spit seeping from the corners of your mouth.

He doesn't wait for you to adjust before slamming his hips against your ass, hard enough to make your breathing hitch in your throat, and you can feel him brushing against your cervix. The pace is brutal, making your body jostle and shake with each thrust.

Slick squelching mingles with the sound of skin smacking skin to form a perverse melody that only heightens the tension building in your gut. Frantically you slide one hand down to rub you neglected, aching clit but before you can make contact he's got you pulled up by a fistful of your hair. The sting of pain makes tears prick in your waterline as blubbering moans spill from your lips.

The way your body rocks forward with every brush of his cock against your cervix, the way his girth makes your cunt feel overstuffed, it all makes your head spin. His grunts join the obscene cacophony of sounds along with your whines when he lets go of your hair to support your body with one arm while his other hand catches your jaw in a bruising grip.

You squirm, feeling the hot tracks of tears slipping down your cheeks but his hold is steadfast. If you had more presence of mind you'd swear you could feel your heartbeat not just through your entire body but in your cunt too.

As you dissolve in his hold, a crying whimpering mess, he pushes you back down face first into the lounge, holding you by the scruff as he repositions to hit deeper. Your moans fracture into gasps and hiccups as you clench down around him, finally able to rub frenzied circles around your clit and feel that compressed coil snap inside you.

The lounge becomes incredibly damp around your knees and your brain feels as if it's coated in sticky, thick honey.

You whimper pathetically as he yanks you up again, never breaking his pace, forces you to look straight into that ever blinking green light.

"Not all you can take is it?" He sneers, hooking fingers into your mouth and whatever reply you had gets lost in the garbled sounds you choke out around them.

When he suddenly pulls out you groan, body feeling exhausted and boneless on the comedown from your orgasm but he isn't done with you yet. He lays on his back, supporting you on top of him as he makes sure your pussy faces the cameras lens and slips back inside you.

Your eyes roll back as you struggle to help support your own weight. It catches you off guard when pulls you down so your back is pressed against his chest, both of your bodies slick with sweat and various other fluids. His arms loop beneath yours and his fingers lock together behind your neck, making your breaths come in wheezed yelps and your legs automatically rise up.

The muscles in your thighs are screaming from the strain and your lungs burn again, you feel yourself camping around him, walls throbbing and sucking his cock back in with every thrust.

You can't help but sob and blubber hoarsely, begging to cum again with every sharp upswing of his hips. His pace breaks up quickly the tighter you squeeze him, devolving into sloppy thrusts until you feel his cock throb inside you. Warm, sticky heat spreads inside you and you sigh brokenly in his hold.

The cameras unfeeling, fish eye lens catches the creamy white rings forming on his cock, the way his cum drips out of your sore pussy when he slides out of you with a throaty, satisfied groan.

You grin, slow and lazy up at the ceiling. Red room sessions aren't just about the money, they're the most... fulfilling.

[eleonorpiteira]

Happy to show the Cover Illustration I did of 'When Among Crows', an upcoming novella by Veronica Roth, for @torbooks!! 😊

The amazing design is by Katie Klimowic! :D

[sneezarify]

I’ve got the flu :c I’m so gross and in and out of sleep and each time I wake up I get these sneeze fits - exclusively triples, then a break then a triple etc

[sharenadraculea]

Also Sevatarion is kind of a really fucking weird name for a Night Lord. The only similar /nostraman NL name I‘ve encountered so far is Malcharion, and in my opinion the only one that stands out worse in my opinion is Decimus. Which like, that‘s canonically not really a name, that‘s just a number.

I could (and probally will) worldbuild something around this but the idea that Sevatar has a Tragedeigh-name is very funny too

[arttsuka]

post oc lore king/queen !!

😭 I don't really have lore tbh, mostly vibes. Everything is too underdeveloped for lore

I have vague ideas of what I want my ocs to be.

For example, I want to put these guys in a 'time travel' kinda situation, where a murder takes place (that phone guy, who was the only one who knew how to help them get back in their time).

The only thing worse than their designs are the names

[arcann]

bioware never truly made something endearing to ME specifically but it showed me a repertoire of men (and honestly a couple of women) that i fear actually exist in canada. that would make me start panicking if they moved too fast around me.

[cienie-isengardu]

Sources: Jango Fett sold into slavery

Jango Fett: Open Seasons, #3

Count Dooku: "We were forced to hand him over to the governor of Galidraan. He bacame a slave."

Jango Fett: Open Seasons, #4

Jango Fett: "After you Jedi turned me over to the governor of Galidraan... he sold me to slavers."

Bounty Hunter (Game Guide)

"[...] the Mandalorians ran afoul of the Jedi Knights, who wiped out most of the mercenary army and delivered the survivors to the governor of Galidraan. Jango became a slave [...]"

Fact Files v.3 #14 (Jango Fett entry)

"Sold into slavery by the corrupt governor, a burning desire for vengeance on Tor Vizsla kept Jango Fett alive for long years until the transport he was on was attacked. Fett freed himself, killed his slave master and escaped."

Fact Files #124 (Tor Vizsla entry)

"Fett was captured and handed over to the Governor of Galidraan. Vizsla toyed with him for a while before selling him into slavery."

The Complete Star Wars Encyclopedia

"Half of the Jedi task force was killed while the Mandalorians were wiped out - except for Jango Fett, who was turned over to the governor. After years of serving as a slave, Fett escaped and returned to Galidraan to claim the armor of the Mandalorians and enact revenge on Vizsla."

The Clone Wars (Novel)

The snow had melted; the dead were buried. But he couldn't erase Jango Fett's face, the face of a man back from the living death of a slavery that Dooku had delivered him into, etched with all the bitter lines of surviving only to have his moment of justice.

[sunnixsunshine]

Redoing my Zoro reference sheet from age 18-60 because I feel like I've improved slightly on drawing body fat specifically on the belly plus I also wanted to pin point his most significant scars (outside of the canon ones) especially the ones I normally skip over and only think about :)

[mariocki]

Deported (1950)

"Signor Smith, do all of you Americans treat women so, uh... so directly?"

"I wouldn't know. Maybe."

"But why? Have you so little time to spare?"

[tormentum-ab-intra]

augusnippets day 3

Prompt: Heat wave Word count: 487 Content warnings: none really! Unless you count the beginning stages of heat stroke :)

---

The worst of it isn’t the heat. It isn’t the burns on his soles from walking barefoot on the packed and blistering dirt. It isn’t the stinging in his eyes as sweat trickles down his forehead. It isn’t even the fact that his waterskin’s nearly empty. No, the worst of it is that he wouldn’t even be in this spot if not for Dochibo.

She’s lucky his people and hers share ancestors. She’s lucky his people and hers are friends, and that he honors those ties. He’d let her find her own way back, if not for that.

Scanning his surroundings with baleful eyes, Na Deng wets cracking lips with his tongue and raises his hand, whistling sharply between his fingers. The sound worsens the throbbing of his head, echoing off the sides of the gorge. Na Deng pauses, listens, whistles again, listens again.

Silence.

How Dochibo even managed to get this far in such a short amount of time is beyond him. Maybe she’s just hiding. Maybe he passed her an hour ago. The idea of her wedged beneath a rock somewhere like a lizard hiding from wild dogs would be funny, if he were picturing it from the cold and comfort of the underground inn.

As it is, he’s out here slow-roasting like a rack of lamb, and he fails to see the humor in it.

Thinking, not watching where he’s stepping, Na Deng doesn’t see the sharp stone embedded in the dirt until it’s slicing into his foot. With a hiss, he trips to a stop. Momentum carries him forward another few hopping steps, working with rising nausea to send him off-balance. He rights himself, sort of, and stumbles over to the side of the gorge. The rough stone burns when he leans his hand against it for balance.

A brief inspection of his raised foot shows blood enough for leaving footprints and a cut that will need stitching later. Angrily, Na Deng whips off the strip of cloth holding his hair out of his eyes and sits to tie it around his foot instead.

Now that he isn’t moving, it occurs to him that his leg is cramping. Funny how that sort of thing slips the mind when it’s focused on other things. That, or he’s just too sun-addled to pay attention.

It takes a moment before Na Deng can convince himself to stand back up, but he reasons to himself that the sooner he finds Dochibo, the sooner he can head back and cool off.

Could go back without her, part of him thinks, as he pushes to his feet and tests his weight on his injured foot. Could skip the inn and go home. Say the ghouls got her.

Nonetheless, he limps forward, not back.

Raising clammy fingers to parched lips, Na Deng whistles shrilly, and listens for an answer.

He wishes he’d brought his spear along for a walking stick.

[dodomingo]

Is there like 'become a human being' intensive career therapy or smth like that or is that something Ronald Raegan un-invented

[hearty-an0n]

my bracket (stole the graphic from sportsnet twitter)

[shinkai-kaiju]

i genuinely hate any wave of human history that has us like. Breed an animal to do a Job for us and then we just go "ok now I want them all dead" and it's always for some goddamned arbitrary reason that is inherently our fault and not at all the fault of the animal

[wetdeadroses]

tell me why all the prompts i wrote for myself to come back to derailed from 200-word concepts into vague one-word notes like “muscles” and “rain”

[lepidopterium]

~