#in like a year’s time with twice the amount of debt or whatever

[mossflower]

how many breakdowns should you have about dropping out before you seriously consider dropping out. asking for a friend teehee

#shock horror. i am not asking for a friend #turns out going to uni bc you had no idea what else to do + taking a course you’re mostly interested in bc you like space #is not necessarily a good idea. who would have thought #see the thing is if this didn’t cost money i wouldn’t be so worried. but i don’t want to keep having this breakdown and eventually drop out #in like a year’s time with twice the amount of debt or whatever #rn now i keep looking on indeed like hmm. i could totally drive trains that would be an amazing idea. driving a milk float!! so slay!! #bc i realised shortly after getting here that i do not want to do a phd which basically rules out any astrophysics jobs #my mum suggested looking at summer placements but quite frankly i need to get a job over summer if i stick with my degree bc i am ✨broke✨ #rn i’m saying shit like oh i’ll just write a book and get it published. totally feasible way to make some quick cash (delusional)(knows it) #november has been hell i do not have a draft let alone a book #and i’m tired and i haven’t had a proper meal since thursday and my room is a tip #i‘ve had like three conversations with my friends in the past fortnight and none of them lasted longer than five minutes #i was so fucking excited for uni!! it was going to be so good!! i feel bad for wanting to drop out bc i don’t hate it!! #i just don’t really like it either #god fucking damn it. this shit is worse than a sexuality crisis. at least they had zero real world impact bc i was an antisocial fucker #this is the rest of my fucking life!! the hell!!

[absowution]

Thinking of tiny Enver, following helplessly along as he's dragged through the streets by a strong, unrelenting grip. It was the middle of the night when the warlock came for him, darkening the Flymm's doorstep. The only time his mother made a fuss when they handed over their son, sparking a light of hope in Enver's heart that they might've changed their mind, was to ask the warlock if he'd counted the amount of gold correctly. After that they were right as rain.

As the trade concluded his mother never looked at him once.

The moment the door to Flymm's Cobblers closed shut behind them with a sense of finality, his fate well and truly sealed, Enver Flymm's mind was running miles a minute. Thoughts of escape had occurred to him, of course, but even if he were to manage to overpower a warlock twice his size and make a run for it, where would he go? His parents just sold him. If he went back they'd kick him right out the door again, screaming and yelling over what he'd done. He turns his options around in his head repeatedly, but he can't think well when his heart is trying to jump its way up his throat.

They're halfway through the Lower City when the grip on his arm suddenly loosens. He could barely hear a thing at first - the city uncharacteristically quiet even for such late hours. Then, there is a sickening squelch followed by a slight thud as the warlock drops dead to the ground. He sees the vague silhouette of someone on top of the body, a smaller creature dripping with blood as it tears through flesh. It's too dark to see a face, but there is something animalistic about its movements. Either it doesn't notice Enver, or it doesn't care.

Whoever or whatever wild thing it was is gone just as fast. By some God's mercy, it passed right by him.

Enver is left alone with the mangled remains of the man who bought him, whose pockets he rifles through for gold and valuables before disappearing from the scene of the crime. Without a home he has to put his mind to work living on the streets, toiling and climbing his way steadily up so as not to ever be so powerless again. It's not a way of life that comes without soiling your hands, but sometimes the messiest deeds are the cleanest, and vice versa. Stabbed backs and broken souls are left behind in the process when you need a stepping stone or two. He will rob as many people of their freedom as necessary to preserve his own because a miracle like that will never happen again. Even so he is admired. Respected. The people of Baldur's Gate support him now in a way they never would have before.

Years pass but it's impossible to forget what granted him this chance to forge connections and climb his way up to become unreachable in the first place. However oblivious it might have been back then that murderous creature freed him, and while there is little to go on in terms of finding it again he'll never forget the debt he owes.

(It grows into an obsession.)

#bg3 #enver gortash #durgetash #softer!enver because he never reached the Hells but still a fucked up enver #I am thinking about it.... #it's like a fucked up version of cinderella #maybe durge dropped something as they left. maybe enver held on to it for all these years as he searched for them :) #didn't mean for this to get long I ended up vomiting words #but boy am I thinking about this alternate way of meeting each other..... #they only met once and never so much as spoke a word to each other but durge already means the world to gort #enver calling durge 'it' at first because he's truly not sure if they're even human or not. but he MUST find them again. #from durge's perspective I'm thinking this was one of their 'lost to the urge' moments and they weren't even aware of enver standing there #a what-if gort never ended up in raphael's hands scenario. would raphael still persist? I think so #but I think gorty could come up with a few ways to stay out of his clutches without parents there to kick him under the bus #if this already exists I want the link sent to me yesterday

[lhs3020b]

Regarding the ongoing uBlock-vs-YouTube arms race, it's interesting how, in a way, it showcases Google/Doubleclick/whatever-they-call-themselves-now's slow downfall.

It's hard to remember now, but in the 2000s, people actually non-ironically liked Google. Even as late as 2014, you could still see pro-Google takes even in Leftist and semi-Left spaces. In 2014-19, for all its flaws you could still say Google services were useful, so they had that very-practical point in their favour.

Then the 2020s began and search became increasingly-useless.

(These days, I bookmark anything I need on the web, because goodness knows if I'll be able to find it twice).

YouTube's slide appears to be well under way. It's not new, certainly they've had problems for a while - crap moderation, reams of problematic content, an algorithm that pushes far-Right influencers apparently over all other videos, and then there is the sheer propensity of YT content-creators for scandal. (Just to think of a few recent examples of the latter, let's see ... there's the 8Passengers case, there's the ongoing illuminaughtii situation, and now there's the Sssniperwolf [just how many "S"'s does she need?] debacle. And they're not the only examples I can think of, just off the top of my head. If you dug, you could certainly find many, many more. Youtuber implosions aren't rare.)

Now the platform iself is going to war with its users.

That ... rarely ends well for platforms. (*cough* LiveJournal *cough*)

As to what's going on in the background, obviously I don't know for a fact, but we can take some guesses. They may involve the words "money", "managers" and possibly "venture capital". The venture capital model that supported many internet endeavours in the 2010s seems to have gone pop, likely as a side-effect of the pandemic-rebound inflation surge. Previously, with interest rates sat up against the zero lower bound for an entire decade, VC types could borrow huge amounts of money at little-to-no cost, and they would only need a handful of investments to pay off to recoup their costs elsewhere. Now, that's no longer true. Suddenly, the VC types can quickly find themselves dangerously overextended on debt, hence some of the desperation to claw back any pennies they can.

Though, it should be noted, this point perhaps doesn't fit YouTube so well. Google/Doubleclick have no shortage of money, and were apparently quite happy to run YT as a loss-leader throughout the late 2000s and all of the 2010s. Why did they suddenly panic this year?

I have a suspicion that the answer may lie in the word "management".

As for managers, both platform and business, one thing I've noticed is that managerial culture seems to have fallen off a cliff during and "after" (insofar as there is an "after") the pandemic. Lockdown seems to have messed them up; it does appear that a lot of them fear and resent the loss of minute-to-minute control over their staf that they had when everything was default-in-the-office-full-time. (One thing I've wondered about is what is the true ratio between people who go into management for the money and people who do it because actually, they don't care about the cash and are just a control freak acting out?) The authoritarian, hierarchical nature of the modern corporate internal structure means these people are incentivised to kick down at every opportunity.

Certainly, purely from personal experience, my own workplace has got a lot worse during and after the pandemic, and most of that seems to be coming down from the top.

Viewed in the light of this model, YouTube's platform dictats make slightly more sense - basically, managers seeing users doing something they don't like, and said managers then having a tantrum. Probably they're using the VC business model issue as their justification for their behaviour, and who knows, maybe some of them even believe it.

Anyway, we'll see how this all plays out, but perhaps this is a sign we all need less Google in our lives.

#LHS witters #Youtube #thoughts #idle speculation

[swiftscion]

“Think fast!” Ethlyn laughs as she tosses a bag of a plush sapphire velvet with braided gold drawstrings without giving Larcei much time to think at all. If she is tempted to peek inside, she will find the festive goodies of the typical Chalphy holiday season: roasted nuts coated in a caramelized warming spice mixture, a hand-pulled twisted peppermint stick, decadent candied orange peel, and a holiday cracker to be pulled later with little knick-knacks within. It's probably not a big deal if she drops it, right? None of that stuff is super breakable.

She's met Ayra’s daughter once before–once before as an adult anyway. It brings a smile to Ethlyn's face to see her here and know she'll be part of the celebrations. “Make sure you have a great time, alright? Well, maybe not too great. I don't need your mom hounding me if you start causing trouble!” Ethlyn offers a wink as she starts to wave down her next guest to greet.

At the sound of her voice, Larcei has her head turned. This is unmistakably the mother of Leif, the very woman who had once come to her bearing a birthday gift. It had been one that she held near and dear to her heart, using as a substitute for Ayra for however look she needed. Like her sword, like her memory--like every waking shadow of the swordsmith.

She catches it dexterously, giving the back a small rattle to show off her prize. "That's two, now," she laughs, adjusting it to fit in her hands with the rest of her belongings, "like it or not Ethlyn, I'm indebted to you now. On Isaach's honor I will pay you back for this!"

She spoils the surprise early, tugging on those drawstrings until they become a window to her own little heaven. And what she sees inside marvels her. Chalphy's traditions are far more grandiose than what she had back in Tirnanog. Roasted nuts fell outside their budget, while caramel would have been liquid gold if it flowed from the empire's fist. Instead they had to pick the flowers off of potatoes, and subsist on butcher's bread. Whatever they could grow with the scant amount of sunlight afforded in hiding, they would eat. And each kid did their part, tilling Isaach's blood-soaked soil like a crone clearing cobwebs out of the corner of her room. Market stalls had to have been run by the people, else Larcei and co. would be shopping with shawls pulled around their faces.

As she stares wide-eyed at her gift, she is reminded of all the other gifts in her life.

Edain was sweeter than any peppermint, Oifey more reliable than a ship's biscuit, and it was Shannan who fashioned toy soldiers out of Od's blood and bones. Larcei owes it all to them; to call it love would be underselling things.

A chuckle falls from under her breath. Seliph was meant to celebrate like this every year of his life. Yet Isaach couldn't make him a cake to have after dinner.

"Alright," she resolves, pulling the string on her pouch until it winds up twice as tight as what Ethlyn had thrown her, "I've decided. Your debt is bein' repaid tonight. Don't worry about me--I'll make sure I have fun!"

#IC #ASKBOX #LADYLEONSTER #toabaldrsbounty #//continuing the trend of leonster and isaach's good relations softsmile #//i care about what happens between those houses so bad

[torturedpoetemotions]

Fun fact: medical providers in the U.S. will try to bill you for shit you don't owe in the hopes that you will pay without checking first, and will use scary words like "collections agency" to force your hand.

They will sometimes do this even if the charges are illegal. This has happened to me twice now. And once you've paid, you can't get that money back, even if you didn't owe it in the first place.

The first time this happened, I paid just to stop the collections calls and out of fear of getting a bad mark on my credit score. The second time, though, I had worked in the healthcare space myself for two years and was a little better informed. I did my research and found out I had a full YEAR before any medical debt sent to collections would be allowed to appear on my credit report.

So I called my insurance agency, gave them the details...and they not only confirmed I didn't owe jack shit, THEY filed a complaint with the healthcare provider on my behalf to remove the charges from my account.

So always always always, do the following BEFORE paying medical bills:

Request an itemized bill from your healthcare provider. You can do this by phone or sometimes online, if they have a portal.

Check the date of service. Most states have some kind of limitation on how long healthcare providers have to bill for a service. This can vary widely, anywhere from one year to six years is typical. Know your state's limitations, and check whether the bill falls within them.

Compare your billing statement from the healthcare provider (hospital, clinic, whatever) to the explanation of benefits (EOB) sent by your health insurance plan. Make sure there are no discrepancies in the services charged for or the amounts charged.

If your healthcare provider's bill shows higher charges or different services, note this. Check your other EOBs to see if anything from that bill is covered in a separate EOB.

Contact your insurance company if you have questions or concerns, or if you're being billed more than your EOB says you owe. They can help clarify for you whether you actually owe anything, and may even be able to do the legwork with your healthcare provider to remove the charges.

Note down the date and time of any calls you make, the name of who you spoke to, and any confirmation numbers you receive. Get a date when any issues should be resolved. Follow up on that date if you don't hear back.

It's tedious and a little annoying, but worth it to avoid healthcare costs you shouldn't have to pay. Don't let healthcare providers scare you with collections agencies, either. You have time to make sure that unpaid bill never hits your credit score, either by getting it removed or, if you really do owe it? setting up a payment plan that works for you (medical debt can be removed from your credit report once it's paid).

It cost me $1800 to learn this lesson. I hope this helps someone else learn it for far cheaper.

I'm also considering doing some posts to talk about EOBs, common insurance terms, etc that I know a lot of people find confusing. Let me know if you'd be interested in that info!

#us healthcare #health insurance #healthcare #medical bills

[bearballing]

re: studen loans

i went to uni once at 18, dropped out after 3 months, racked up some debt, a lot of which was for the fucking flat i stayed in because they WERE going to wring the full year’s worth of rent out of me one way or another. took me 9-10 years to pay it off. still have the actual tuition fees to pay back.

went to uni a second time at 20, the same year that the tories decided the tuition fee cap was now £9000/year (before it was £3000-something). dropped out after a year.

you wouldnt think it’d be that much right. 9000 + idk 1000? since i was only at the first one for 3 months? nope it’s £25000+++ and forever increasing despite me having paid parts of it over time. they review my income every year to determine how much i pay during the next year.

making people who are just barely adults take out loans for school And cost of living is ABSOLUTE horseshit and those Cunts who made me pay the whole year’s rent got lawyers onto me and everything (the flats are owned BY the university as well so like ???). a kid who dropped out twice, both times because of severe mental health issues, having to pay back more than my family made in a year. lol.

anyway once the new pm has been decided or whatever someone should hold a gun to their head and make them forgive 10 grand of all student loan debts in the uk. yes even with us not having to pay em back until we make x amount of money yearly and yes even with them being forgiven if not paid off after 25/30 years anyway.

[elliebear666]

Started feeling kinda paranoid lately. I think it's due to stress. I feel like somehow my blog is being like... broadcasted to tons of people, including Dr. Fox, YouTube channel clinical psychologist.

I swear I feel like bro is making videos that mirror my shit and I get paranoid lol. But uh... pretty sure that's not happening and I'm just stressed out.

Tbh I guess... I've been dealing with paranoia for a while. In more like, "They're not being honest and they're being nice to get things from me," type ways. I have had auditory hallucinations w FEW times. But it's always when I'm stressed. I didn't feel I was manic or anything. And um... idk. I was hyper paranoid a while ago, thinking everyone in town was watching me and plotting against me, to kill me or send me away or whatever. I saw a black and a white car parked together and said to myself, "Oh boy. They know. I wonder if they're going to nab me and put me in one of the care." Just crazy shit I guess.

I haven't listed all the ways in which BPD symptoms have affected me since teen years and especially young adult and beyond. I wish Dr. Fox could be like, "Here's what's up. Sorry I can't treat you cuz like you live in a different state. But like you should do this to improve."

I suppose one of the most frustrating aspects is that I have been in therapy for like 10 years and I still have BPD issues.

I mean, I think my psychiatrist and therapist are right? I mean, I've pathologically expressed BPD traits since even before adulthood. And eventually was exhibiting all 9 traits.

I guess part of the thing too is... I do have unrealistic expectations of having my needs met. Because I guess? I have a lot of needs... I'm needy. And clingy. And when I inevitably fail? I spiral like a crazy person. I like... did awful shit to my ex. I split on her and said evil shit and I hate myself for what I did.

I wonder what the difference between moderate and severe BPD is tho. Like... my issues were so bad someone had to get the law involved because I was stalking them... which is absolutely valid. I'm working on being better and atoning. But um... I feel like I may have been moderate at one point, you know? But I feel like I progressed to severe. It was bad. Splitting, rage outbursts, risky behavior, constant freakouts, extreme emotional reactions to almost everything all the time, frantic efforts to avoid abandonment and spiraling to insanity and speeding and risky, dangerous behavior anytime I felt rejected or abandoned. Hurting myself all the time. Severe dissociation that has caused lapses in memory for years. Anger and rage that destroyed friendships and relationships and hurt family. Constant and overwhelming feelings of emptiness. Never knowing who I am and my identity shifting like the tides. Splitting and intense and obsessive relationships filled with fights and instability. Threatening suicide all the time. Being constantly suicidal. I got do in debt from impulsive spending that I... I had to take care if it but I was ruining my life. All this shit and more.

I feel like it was severe. I mean, it felt severe, right? It destroyed my life. Sometimes I wonder if I even have bipolar disorder at all and if it wasn't just BPD. But I'm pretty sure I do have bipolar disorder because the meds help to a degree.

But I still have had really bad BPD symptoms even on meds. But the amount that I've improved? It is astronomical. It is a massive change. I was doing therapy twice a week, and every other day at first I believe. I had no self and tried on every disorder in the book because I didn't want to have BPD tbh. I tried to convince myself I was evil because then I wouldn't feel bad and myself for what I'd done and my therapist and psychiatrist were like... "What's wrong with this diagnosis? Why is it so hard to accept?" And I was like... if I accept it, then I actually have to work on myself and problems. I can't keep lying to clinicians lmao. And... I was scared and ashamed and full of self hatred. Y'all should have seen me the first year or so with my new therapist. It was a fucking MADHOUSE. I got paranoid about her, thought she was involved in some great conspiracy against me, every crazy, paranoid, delusional thought? She became a favorite person and I'd split on her constantly. I threatened her and said I hated her and had to fight my mind's desire to lash out her or stalk her. I learned everything I could about her online... I was acting like a fucking psycho lmao. The level of unhinged shit I sent her in text? Constant all day every day.

So.... idk. I lied to my first therapist literally all the time. I don't even know why. I never told her about the severity of my real issues. I lied and lied and acted cool and fine, but eventually, as she peeled back the layers, she saw my emptiness and the void and my constant instability and rage and pain. I just... I was so guilty and ashamed and just... I didn't want anyone to know what was going on. I barely talked about abuse. I never mentioned being molested and all the horrific shit that happened.

So my BPD fucking... metastasized. I grew and spread and soon I was just a fucking disaster of a human being.

Idk.

I wish sometimes that I could have help from someone like Dr. Fox. But... again. Different state. My psychiatrist and therapist are helping immensely. But... idk.

Fuck

[sendmelove]

I haven’t written in years, like a muscle I forgot to flex, do I still remember how to do this?

I come here dangling my feet in the hole that was 2022. I’m sitting right on the edge, peering down the dark tunnel full of deceit, betrayal, loss, hurt, and just thick with haze. It stinks of alcohol, a cataclysmic amount. Enough to light fire to the remaining bits of memories that I’m ready to uncrumple and toss in the pit.

At the very bottom of the hole, the ground is murky, damp, and slimy. It covers you until you sink further and further down, as if you’re being transported through the earth itself. There is no light. Down that hole, I left one of the most important people to me- someone who was barely recognizable, covered with toxic gruel. And it was a version of me.

So while I spent 12 months climbing the hell out of a relentless pit, now I’m resting atop the surface, sitting on fresh grass, gazing at rain clouds. Nothing is perfect. And I wanted to drop in my final notes of the year, briefly. BRIEFLY- because my pain and perseverance continue to exist regardless of anyone reading about it.

January 2022: Into the pit I throw in a man that used up every ounce of love I had, used it all to his selfish gains, manipulated the shit out of me, and ran away. Sadly my investment cost me thousands of dollars in emotional debt. I became unmotivated to climb out of the little ditch I tripped into.

February 2022: I throw in the pit all the whiskey and tequila that kept me from managing any accountability. They excused all my problems and sedated me enough to not realize my ditch became deeper and deeper, and I was so comfortable there.

March 2022: I throw the fear of being a terrible pet owner in the pit. My cat died and it was not my fault. I continue to lose the closest things to me, so I continue burrowing deep in the ground.

April 2022: I throw my need to control every situation deep into the pit. I was challenged with intrapersonal relationships at work, and my anger was immense from being spun out of control for months. I left my familiar surroundings and traded them for a shovel. I continued to dig deeper, now by my own hands.

May 2022: I throw my suicidal intentions into the pit.

June 2022: I throw my suicidal intentions into the pit.

July 2022: I throw my suicidal intentions into the pit.

*Hospitalized twice. Endured 3 weeks of outpatient hospitalization. Heavily medicated. Not once was able to book an appointment with a therapist after trying for four weeks.*

August 2022: I throw my unwillingness to get out into the pit. August was full of planned and unplanned events. Every week I was out and going. Although I didn’t feel good mentally and physically, I know the only way to a better year is at least starting to look up- the direction you want to go.

September 2022: I throw my old concept of life and happiness into the pit. I learn to heal from traumas, childhood abuse, chronic depression, and maladaptive daydreaming. This is a continuous process, but I gained enough peace to realize the fleeting insignificance of it all. My humanity and happiness are up to me. I am safe, I am loved. I love and respect myself. As it all becomes less heavy, I’m able to pull myself out quicker.

October 2022: I throw my weight management expectations into the pit. I will keep getting up and keep trying every day without getting discouraged, and my results are not visible, but are notable. If I ever commit, now is the time. And I am ready to prove you all wrong.

November 2022: I throw my tendency to ditch responsibilities in the pit. Whether or not I felt ill, balancing between respiratory sickness, multiple sclerosis symptoms, and depression symptoms, I relied too much on “not feeling well” for getting to do whatever or calling out of work. While I can work on self-improvement, I can’t fix everything all at once. I realize I’m heading towards the surface of this hole, because I’m heavily invested on making big changes soon.

December 2022: I throw my hatred and hardness into the pit. I relinquish the hate and reserve the right to feel adequate emotions from time to time. I want to remain full of love, and a soft space for others to land. I realize I’m out of the hole.

Finally, I light a photograph on fire and toss it in. As expected, the whole thing bursts into flames. There’s nothing back there now. It’s time to look ahead and be better.

[adustbaginturmoil]

I think about Ashton constantly and without fail, every single time I come to some interesting conclusion, expand on an already existing conclusion, or form an opinion on other people’s opinions of Ashton and I’d like to share some of them:

-While what happened to Ashton was sad, I think a lot of people miss the way that Ashton sees it themself. He does/used to feel sad (whatever that means) about it, but he doesn’t really... almost care about that sadness. They see enough foolishness in that sadness that they have gone out of their way to acknowledge it, but move on; Earth keeps spinning, kids will keep being kids. Ashton wasn’t very old when the fall happened since it probably happened some 10 years ago, so probably late teens/early twenties on his part.

-I’ve said the sentence “Ashton probably feels they were left behind, but not abandoned,” before out loud, and it made so much sense.

-Ashton does nice things because of their convenience. He does nice things for other reasons too, but often for their convenience. Ashton gets in the way of attacks because he has a monstrous amount of hit points for lv 5 and can hit back pretty hard too; Ashton gets careful around the shade creepers, because it’s very convenient for people not to die if you ask me; They carry FCG up the stair because it’s faster that way. Again, this isn’t all the time (eg buying everybody sandwiches, though there is an argument to be made that having one person get breakfast is more convenient, though the intention behind that was far more a gift than anything else)(also talking to Laudna).

-Ashton has great discipline that people tend to overlook. Ashton has duties that were shoved onto them (like paying the debt of several people) that almost definitely wound’t have asked for otherwise, but they carry through with dealing with them anyway. Also, to support my point, I think “sometimes shit’s just fucked up, and the only thing you can do (because you didn’t do anything fucking wrong) is get the fuck back up, and do the exact same thing all over again knowing there was nothing to learn,” illustrates this wonderfully. Ashton is unafraid to work. hard.

-I mentioned this in the third one, but Ashton isn’t very self-sacrificial and it’s come up because of the talk with FCG. They do nice things if they can, but if they can’t, well they can’t. I think somebody on here mentioned they were below like some crazy number of 19 hit points only twice, and one of those times he was immediately healed (I’ve got no idea whether or not they counted the fight with Ratanish).

-I DESPERATELY want the FCG and Ashton friendship to be explored further.

                                                 --------------------

There’s definitely grammar mistakes, and sentences run together in here that don’t make sense, but I’m not proofreading my Tumblr post, you’ll just have to deal with it.

If you disagree with me or have something to add, reblog or add somethin’ in the replies!!

#for the ashton stans #ashton greymoore #ashton #cr3 #cr campaign 3 #critrole #critical role #cr #cr meta #marquet campaign

[messwriting]

Written for The Smut Pile Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

POISON AND PLEASURE

Osamu Miya (Post-Time Skip) x Mob Boss! Female Reader

“Backed into a corner, Osamu makes a deal with the devil -- you.”

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Warnings: oh boy. Dub-con (Osamu does consent, but it is coercion); MANIPULATION AND EXTORTION; slight gun play, lasts for a moment; Rough sex; Hate-fucking; Degradation/Humiliation; Spanking, also just for a moment; Oral sex, fingering; Orgasm Denial; Choking; Violence; Dash of corruption and prey/predator; Deep throat; Facial. Fucking in a kitchen/public place. Also, just in case, toxic relationship and money talk (lol). 

Word count: 9,889 (such a nice number)

A/N: Oh, this has been a ride. This is my contribution to The Smut Pile Collab, hosted by the lovelies @present-mel​, @pleasantanathema​ and @linestrider​. I’m very excited to participate, since it is my first collab and they are my (home) first server. Big, huge, gigantic thanks to Lauren (my wife) for reading this over and beta-ing for me. <3

Well, Osamu fuckers unite! :insert elmo fire: (i’ve been on discord too much)

Osamu gets up from his seat inside his small office, looking from the small window on his door inside the already closed restaurant lit only by the lights that come in through the windows, the time being well after closing. Shady deals are mostly done late at night, he thinks. Right as he’s leaving the office and closing the door behind him with a key, the movement outside catches his eye and Osamu turns just in time to watch as the black BMW sedan of the year quietly comes to a halt right in front of his store. He frowns, knowing who that means. He'd much rather deal with the soldier responsible for his loan initially than with you.

Two men emerge from the front doors of the car, one immediately heading for the passenger door while the driver checks the street; they exchange a small nod before the man on the side of the sidewalk opens the passenger door and when he does, he positions himself behind it and immediately out of the way. Osamu could be intrigued by the action if he didn't feel so represented by it - he, too, would prefer to always be out of your way.

There’s power in the way you move, ingrained in your body as you descend an expensive white heel onto the concrete beneath you on the sidewalk, the other following suit while you propel yourself out, holding the frame of the car for support. It’s late at night and the street is fairly dark, but your simple presence, clad in an impeccable white suit with a deep neckline showing immaculate skin, is enough to brighten the place. There’s an elegant, expensive-looking and equally unnecessary coat draped over your shoulders and your hair was flawlessly styled.

You draw attention as the color black absorbs light-- from all and everything. Maybe it is because of your soul, he muses.  

Once you were standing outside the car, your driver marched to the door of the onigiri restaurant, holding it open for you while you strode inside, heels clicking on the pavement, the sway of your hips something Osamu may think beautiful to watch if it weren’t you.

“Hello, Miya-san. Hope you have better news for me this week.” You state as cheerfully as you can, calmly entering the establishment in a glory of white. You shed your coat once you passed the door, the driver catching it while the second man seemed to survey the outside area a little more before entering.

"Hi." Osamu extends his hand with the brown envelope. But you go around him and walk to the counter, calmly sitting down on one of the high stools while absentmindedly looking around his small restaurant.

“I missed my lunch today, so I hope you don’t mind me grabbing a bite before I leave.” You don’t look at Osamu when he doesn’t move for his place behind the counter immediately.

“We’re closed.” He says and you turn around just momentarily, piercing eyes on his profile. One of your men is still by the door and the look he gives the twin is also very compelling. Osamu feels his teeth gritting against the pressure he makes to shut his tongue. "Sure."

One of the goons comes closer and takes the brown envelope from his hands, without you even looking back as the burly tattooed man sits in one of the booths and starts counting the money.

“So, how’s business? I’ve heard you had a hard time these last two months.” You try to make small talk while checking the menu over the counter, carefully done nails threading along the restaurant menu. You only press a long nail against what you want and slide it to him, the 18K diamonds on your small and discreet Cartier watch and matching trinity ring on your finger catching more of his attention than your watchful eyes. Your jewelry is discrete, tasteful, and still amounting enough to buy the whole building where the Onirigi’s shop is located. Osamu's throat moves around nothing in reflex.

"Isn’t it obvious?" He grumbles while working against the counter, starting once he cleans his hands on the sink. He’d like to say his eyes keep diverting to your neckline because of your shining jewelry.

"So rude, Miya." you chuckle. “And I’ve been nothing but nice to you. Didn’t you pay for your little plumbing problem with my money? Is it only dirty to you once I’m present?”

"I don’t like people like you." Osamu doesn’t beat around the bush. And once he’s done with this payment he’d be completely free of you anyway, he doesn’t feel the need to pretend.

“Like me? You mean kind? All I ever did was help you out in a time of need.”

Osamu’s snort is disrespectful. The big man by the door moves but a simple turn of your hand in the air has him standing back, carefully looking down on Osamu, but unmoving. The other’s still counting the money rather calmly, the booth he’s seated unseeable from the shop window.

“You see, disrespect won’t take you far.” You say offhand, your watchful eyes on Osamu’s every move but with no real worry. You don’t trust him, but you know he’s not stupid.

"I don’t plan on it." He answers you after a beat, finishing wrapping the Salmon onigiri, disposing it carefully on a plate, and depositing it in front of you, accompaniments arranged around. Osamu doesn't use the fact that he doesn't like you as an excuse for a half-ass job; he's not the type, which is refreshing. Is what you like about him.

“Get started on a few others. I trust your recommendations.”

Osamu chooses to work quietly, in silence. You, however, are happily chatting away at his high stool as if this is just another day of bullying patrons. Maybe, for you, it is.

“You work very diligently.” You observe, eyes trailing from his toned arms to his deft fingers diligently working on the rice ball. He’s fast and experienced, rolling the nori around the triangled shaped steamed rice after successfully filling it with whatever he chose. Osamu just grumbles out something, or tsk, even when the way you look at his fingers takes an unexpected appreciative turn. 

“Maybe I should have you working overtime more.” You muse when he finishes the new onigiris and carefully places them in front of you. Osamu eyes you nastily, clearly displeased at your comment, which makes your lips split in a bigger smile despite your teeth closing around the rice ball. Even so, you’re pleasantly surprised by their flavor. 

“See, this is why I like you, Osamu.” The man frowned at your loose use of his first name, the way it rolls off your tongue so nicely. “You always deliver good work.”

“It’s my job.” Osamu retorts, unamused. “I do it right even if it’s for…” He catches his tongue right in time, his eyes catching movement from the man seated down at one of the tables, almost biting his tongue in the process. “--people like you.” 

Osamu watches while the burly man with tattoos moves discreetly despite his size, bends down so his mouth can be on your ear level, and murmurs something to you that he doesn’t quite catch. Your steely eyes are momentarily looking down when they blink and fly back to his face, a deep, blank stare that makes Osamu’s brows furrow. His back becomes straighter, a gripping feeling in his gut that triggers his fight or flight. 

He presses the urge down - tells himself he doesn’t have anything to fear.

He’s looking down at you, but Osamu feels small under your steady glare. Which in reflex, after several years of being stupid in pair, makes him want to act up.

"Seems to me you forgot some money, Miya."

"What?" His shocked tone is harsh and his eyes dart between you to the two men behind you, looking as steady as his walls and just as broad. "I counted it twice, everythin’ I owe ya ‘s there." His accent comes out pretty hard when he’s agitated.

"You only have fifty thousand here."

“I owe ya fifty thousand.” Osamu deadpans, almost sneering. “What ’re ya sayin’?"

“No, Miya. Fifty thousand is what you owed me two weeks ago.”

"You gave me an extension." He argues, brows furrowed.

"Exactly. I never said anything about the interest.”

"What?"

"You forgot the interest." You talk to him as if he’s a child, lips turning upwards at his confusion. Osamu has the gut feeling you’re enjoying every second of this. Every little moment of his deep discomfort. “You were informed about them when you accepted the loan, you know how they work. If you don’t pay on the due date, 10 percent interest each extra week you remain in debt.”

"Are you telling me I'm missin’ over 10K in interest rates?

"Yes." You say, smiling while tilting your head sideways, analytical. "Because you are."

“I'm paying you back,” Osamu grits through his clenched teeth, almost as if he’s willing it to be true, “Everything I owed ya is there. ”

"Not quite. You’re paying me back about--” You smile and press your lips in thinking, eyebrows furrowing while you calculate on your head the exact number.  “-- 82 percent of what you owe me.”

Osamu’s fists close, veins bulging while his heart picks up with the adrenaline rush of a fit of rage. Aggression flows on his body to the point where his entire frame trembles. His teeth are clenched, tightly forced together by his pressed jaw. His brain cannot reason beyond the need to vent that outrage, and with every second he spends looking at your pretty-faced indifference sitting in front of him at the counter, his outrage slowly merges into fury. Osamu stares back at your emotionless eyes, turns, and walks two strides before burying his fist in the nearest plaster wall, the pain grounding him, soothing his nerves. 

Pain is familiar -- what Osamu doesn’t like is to feel so deranged.

"Fuck!" He exclaims loudly but still controlled, turns his broad back to you, breathes deeply a few times, and then settles. You watch in delighted silence as he moves to the freezer, grabs an iced pack of random food, and puts on his busted knuckles, his eyes on the hole he left on the wall; The twin sighs audibly, then walks back while coldly regarding you and your two watchdogs who look over to him carefully, almost startled.

You, however, didn’t even flinch.

"So how much do I still have to give you?"

“I think the better question is: Can you pay?”

“I’ll figure it out.” Osamu grumbles out, his clenched jaw working over grinding teeth.

“That’s not how this works, Miya.” You tell him, your spine regally straight on the high seat as if it is your throne. Your lips move around the next word with malice. “When.”

“I--” Osamu stops to think for a moment, coldly calculating his financial situation. He has no way to withdraw money from the main branch to try and cover the losses of this branch, that would be simply stupid. There is no way for him to borrow money from Atsumu, who doesn’t know the concept of savings; Kita can not help him with such a great amount and he can’t recur to his poor parents. He also doesn’t want to resort to a bank at all, which doesn’t leave him many options. A new extension raises interests and he doesn't think he can do it beyond the amount he would need to add. Osamu's chest slowly fills with dread - he knows what’ll come if he doesn’t pay and he refuses to let his business become a Mafia parlor.

You watch Osamu slowly and quite meticulously calculate his options while engrossed in reasoning his dreadful situation; it’s thrilling, you almost can’t hide the contentment blossoming in your chest at his desperate situation. 

His expression shifts and turns sour, before slowly building back his blank façade but it’s too late, you already know his conditions and capacities - it’s your job to know. And you pride yourself in never making bets, just assuming calculated risks, so Osamu is right where you wanted him to be.

You do suspect the black-haired male is the same, that disinterested stare in his handsome face nothing short of sharp, his aloof behavior making every second of rilling Osamu up to this manifestation of discomfort all the more delightful. His only problem is that the man plays by rules you don’t. And what you want, you take.  

“I’ll need an extension for the rest.” He finally says, so absolutely angered it’s almost a curse. Even the hostility in his tone makes a shiver run down your spine, all the hairs on your arms standing on edge while your insides slowly melt, fed by the images in your brain.

“Really?” You playfully answer, faked surprise not made to convince anyone. Osamu seethes in place, labored breathing making his chest move up and down. “See, now I can’t help you out. I told you disrespect would only take you so far.” 

You get up from your seat, a show of touching your expensive black plump Louboutin on the ground. “I can’t let you out like this, not when you did such a show of being… rude.”

“What do you want.” Osamu almost spits at you once you’re rounding his counter, entering his space, closing on him. But he holds himself in place by pressing his nails hardly against the inside of his palms.

“First, some respect.” You sultrily say at him, much as a viper luring its prey. It rolls off your scarlet lips while you look up at him from your long lashes and perfect face. It makes Osamu want to wreck it.

“I don’t respect you.” He says in undertone since you’re close, sounding much like a hiss. 

“Doesn’t seem like a smart thing to say to someone to whom you owe so much.” You purse your lips, fake pout. “And you seem like a smart man, Miya. Or am I wrong?”

Osamu blinks, brows furrowing while he looks down at you, his mind working.

“Where are you going with this?” He eyes you warily, his eyebrows furrowing, his mind trying to gauge the target of your wicked intentions. “You want something.”

 You smile, pretty red lips stretching to show a beautiful line of white teeth and he’s surprised that the poison isn’t dripping. 

“See, I knew you were smart.”

“I’m not giving you my business.” Osamu hisses, like a cornered animal, but his instance shows he’s more prone to fight than flee. 

“Don’t want it.” You’re quick to tell him, innocence so out of place that it makes even clearer that you’re being honest. “I may need… services, though.” 

Osamu’s spine shoots straight once again, his eyes sharp boring into your face with cold disdain.

“I’m not laundering your money.” 

“Money launder, Miya? That’s a federal felony.” You lean back, supporting yourself on your forearms against the balcony, vigilant eyes zooming on him. “Are you saying I’m a criminal?” 

Osamu stays silent for the first time. There’s a predatory glint in your eyes that he understands as a warning, but that doesn’t stop him from upturning his brow and tilting his head in a small challenge. Osamu is appalled at what your upturning lips do to his guts, swallowing the saliva that pools in his mouth. He must be wrong in the fucking head to feel anything else than disgust in your sight, but even so, there’s no denying the way there’s a devilish pull around you, like the temptation of a capital sin.

“What I mean is… I have a specific service for you, personally. So you could pay me in...” Your tongue snaps against the roof of your mouth with a small noise, lips turning up in vile intention, “Different goods, per se.”

Osamu refuses to accept his train of thought, eyes pressing into slits while he watches you. His tone enunciates every word of his question. 

“What do you mean?” 

Your answering smile is sordid.

“You know what I mean Miya, we’ve just established you’re not stupid.”

“I’m starting ta’ think you are, though.”

Your laugh is loud, cheerful even. It makes him look at you as if you’re insane.

“Maybe.” You chuckle, retreating your arms back and straightening your posture on the tool, your neck tilting to the side. “But when I want something, I want it. So why deny myself that? I find the whole point of self-control to be so… pedestrian.” There’s this contempt in your tone at the word, mixing into trivial once your shoulders shrug your consideration for a whole chunk of what living in a society means. “Why hold myself to it if I’m above?” Osamu chooses to ignore that question.

“And what if I say no?” 

“You’re free to do what you want, I don’t own you.” Yet, you think, smiling. “Then again you still owe me 10k in interests and with your measly weekly 5k profit and the increased interest percentage with the second extension, we know what’ll happen to you…  And I’d hate for that to happen to you.”

The silence is heavy and acidic, burning on him. And you let the seconds pass, relishing in the way he seems to grow aggravated, jaw overworking around nothing to bite, hands in fists by his side. 

Oh, you’re close to defiling the pristine white of your designer clothes, the feeling brewing inside you threatening to spill between your thighs. Osamu looks absolutely delicious while being so emotional. 

You can see the gears turning inside his pretty dark-haired head, his eyes looking around and back at you, threading down your face, to your neck to the plunging neckline of your suit - you elongate your body while he watches, pleased to have his eyes on you, especially when they're burning with unattended violence and aggression. 

Osamu’s always so detached from the events happening around him, so unshakable in that aura of apathetic tranquility that it has caused you to develop an almost macabre interest in making him desperate. And now you are continually enjoying the result, the awakening of the flames that you always knew existed inside the small business owner.

 A few minutes pass while you’re just content to watch, the knot in your stomach growing tighter as you appreciate the size of his shoulders, the strength hidden in the strong biceps, the broad, defined torso that you know exists under that simple black outfit simply by gut feeling alone. You are tempted to ask him to turn around so that you can also enjoy his backside.

“Ok.” He says in a breath that seems more like it was ripped out of his chest. Like a dead man last world. You like this analysis. But of course, he can’t have it so easy.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear. Did you say anything?”

Osamu purses his lips in discomfort, almost bites his tongue in the process of not telling you to go to hell.

 “I said,” he entones again, though his disdain is showing. “Ok”

“Ok, what?” You press. Oh, the way how his veins bulge on his forearms when his nails press on his palms have your hairs standing on end. You blink at him with a smile, all too pleased with yourself.

“Ok, I’ll do it.” Osamu squeezes out, brows furrowed in discovering your intentions. You’re leering with wicked prowess. 

“I don’t think that's how you say it, Miya.” Your brows go up in the tiniest indication of irritation. Your voice is calculated, though unable to hide the elation.

“Ok… Miss. I’ll do anything you want.” The words come out of his mouth sounding nothing like submission and much like he just cursed your whole generation, teeth grinding. Still, it makes you smile. You don’t want to break his spirit -- that’s why you chose him.

“That’s what I like to hear.” You say, pushing yourself out from the counter where you supported yourself. Coat long forgotten on top of it, you cross your arms in front of your breasts, knowing exactly how you look and very pleased at the way his eyes ever so slightly thread down your plunging neckline. “But not so fast. I didn’t tell you I’d accept it-”

“Ya just--” Osamu almost explodes, the arms he holded closed in front of him being thrown in the air as if he’d be ready to grab you. You just turn a hand up and reels at how he actually shuts up right after.

“I just told you, you could pay me in services.” You continue, one step closer to him in your expensive shoes, plump red lips dripping wicked intent. 

“But,” You start, closer to him enough that your breath is touching his heated skin and you can smell the sweat his aggression produced, your mouth salivating at the thought of tasting it on his skin. 

Your finger rests on his chest and you thread it up while speaking, looking him in the eyes, so pleased at finding so much life in his usual dead stare, “I don’t know if you’re good enough for the job yet.” 

Osamu stares back at you, hands in fists forcibly stuck next to his body, feeling the way your hot breath trails on his jaw and hating himself for what it brews in his insides. 

You stretch up in your heels, mouth dangerously close to his, which rests ajar to let his breathing out, enough that he can taste your mint breath on his tongue. 

“I think I may need a little…”  Your eyes thread down to his mouth and then back to his eyes while you speak your next words, “--taste, you know?”

Osamu flexes his fingers, swallows dry around his closed throat, stares at your face -- so close the downright devilish smile on your red lips seems to narrow his field-view -- and he blinks. 

The Miya thinks how he wants to wipe that smile off your sinful lips. How he wants to have you trembling, unattended, and disheveled. He thinks about you begging with his name on your tongue, for a release that he’ll keep denying at his disposition. Osamu thinks about leaving you sore and marked, thinks about wrapping his hands around your neck to watch as you struggle, turning purple, life evading you while he fucks you; consider this may be the only way he’d ever had the opportunity to get even close to a payback. 

Osamu wants you to experience mind-numbing pleasure you’d never before, uniquelly brought by him… and suffer through the rest of your fucking disgraceful life without being able to taste it again once he’s done paying his debt. Because Osamu swears on his fucking name and whole life, he’ll never give it to you again.

He can see your future already and in it you’re fucked - both by him and for him, while he’s the one who gets away. The twin wonders if you ever lost anything like this in your life, can feel himself growing hard at being the one to make you cry. 

“Sure.” Osamu smiles, lopsided, the devil himself being safer than him. “I’ll give ya the taste ya deserve.” 

Your eyes press slightly closer in mistrust, the wicked intention pouring from his body so close to yours impossible to miss. Either way, it's your win; that’s exactly what you’ve been bargaining for, despite your game being rigged from the start. 

You bring your face close to his as if you were going to kiss him and you are delighted when his eyes go down, although not completely closed, his pupils focusing on your lips. 

You smile and retreat, turning to your men still positioned exactly where you left them, behind the bench where you were sitting previously. They remain so observant and sharp as ever, despite looking more like gargoyles than men.

“I’ll need a moment.” You tell them in a serious tone, calm. They both look at you for a second and nod, their stances changing very little despite it. You turn back to him but walk inside his establishment as if you own the place, pushing through the doors that lead to the back and inside his small, equipped kitchen. Osamu follows in silence, briefly wondering if he’d be able to snatch a knife and bury it in your chest. 

There’s not much outside cooking paraphernalia, with two big counters and taller than normal table in the center. You stop right in front of it, your hand threading over it for a moment. 

“That’ll do.” You say while you turn around to look at him. You look so strikingly bright in the middle of his rather normal kitchen, clad in both lavish clothes and unblemished skin; he wants so much to be able to say your sight doesn’t thrill him -- but he can’t lie to himself. 

But then you pointedly eye him and then the ground in front of you, “Kneel.”

Osamu considers his previous thought about burying a knife deep in your chest but walks, stiff, to where you indicated. He kneels with even less disposition than when he walked towards you, the descent slow until the ground’s hard tile is registered against his knee. He makes a point of looking into your eyes as he lowers, hatred overflowing in waves that seem to give you a sick satisfaction, your eyes becoming slightly out of focus.

The Miya’s about to ask what you’d want him to do next, like pledge himself or some shit, when your hands move to the hidden zipper on the side of your impeccable white pants. 

It drops to the floor in one go, displaying the graceful planes of your hips, appeasing spanse of flesh, a small triangle of silk hiding your most private parts. Saliva pools in Osamu’s mouth at the sight, his teeth pressing against one another to avoid betrayal. He’s still unsure of what’s his next step until your heel digs on his shoulder painfully, using him as leverage to prop yourself up on the high table. 

His eyes snap to yours while he bite his tongue to not curse you out loud.  There’s a gun on top of his head that is a big warning for Osamu to behave -- not that he’d have the chance to escape with the watchdogs outside his only exit. If he had, you could be dead already. 

Your suit threads up when you move up and slide on the table, the white silk panties peeking in between your open thighs. You move your beretta calmly off his face and thread it slightly, almost fondly, over your naked thigh. 

You make a small show of removing your finger from the trigger and depositing it far on the table, enough to be out of his reach and almost yours too. You look back at him once you’re empty handed and just so open right there on the table for him. 

“Behave, Osamu. You know you wouldn’t make it very far.”

Osamu grits his teeth but nods, your heel still supported on his shoulder but not digging on his skin anymore. You lay slightly back against his tabletop, forearms resting on the surface carefully. Dressed in a white, stylish suit like the last trend, the skin in between so bright it feels like a taunt, the curves of your breasts so ripe he wants to taste, the closed lapels looking like his own pathway to sin. He can feel his blood boiling, aggression throbbing, and he wants to paint you in red.

“Well then,” You start, happily above him, spread like a meal, “Show me if you’re good enough to pay your debt. Consider this your warrant.”

“Don’t worry.” Osamu drawls out with dripping distaste, his hand slowly, almost bored, threading up from your ankle to your knees. “I’ll fuck ya like you want it. Within an inch of your life.”

His hands lock on the back of your knees and he parts them forcefully, while you leave a yelp followed by laughter, your head thrown back with glee. 

You smell of flowers and spice, so expensive he was surprised that you weren’t dripping fucking gold. His palms slide through the back of your thigh and the skin under his fingertips is soft and firm, all shapes of heaven despite being in sole service of the devil. 

Osamu starts slowly, the table leaving you open just at the height of his neck while he’s kneeled on the ground, at the perfect height. His thumb presses on your skin while he holds one of your legs up, brings his lips to your knee. There’s a welcoming stain on your panties, and he scoffs at you despite the way his cock responds on his trousers. 

“I haven’t even started and you’re already wet?” The way you smile at him is both infuriating and bewitching. 

“What? Didn’t you enjoy our little foreplay earlier?” You tease him, plump lips locked under a row of teeth with mirth. His skin feels prickling and Osamu decides he needs more room, roughly pushing on your thighs until he can fit between them with room to spare.

It’s not fair, how good you feel, the delicious smell of your skin, the way your taunt alights him with fire in his veins. 

Osamu knows it’s bait -- and he’s willingly falling for it.

When his lips start to thread on the inner part of your knee and up, the twin does it with the intention to mark; he sucks instead of kissing, licks instead of caressing, and bites once he finds the plush meat of your inner thighs.

It stings and you let the smallest of sounds, but Osamu feels it in his gut, brings his hot tongue to soothe over it, bask in the way you tremble under his fingertips just enough for him to sink his teeth and revel in the pain on your groan. 

His nose treads along the furthest expanse of the joining of your thighs, touches the silk of your expensive panties, senses the way you tense and watches while your pussy trembles, even while still covered by fabric.

He considers holding back his tongue, but Osamu has never been the type to be held back by the threat of punishment. And you’ve shown to clearly enjoy his fiery side.

“Such an eager pussy right here, isn't it?” He threads his nose against the wet patch in the silk, carefully breathes against the covered lips. Osamu lets one of his shoulders bear one leg and brings his thumb to pass over the growing wet patch. “Sticky.” He presses it from the wetness to the place where your clit should be, watches as you respond to his touch with aborted movement. “Such a slut.” It’s supposed to be degrading, but there’s a hint of appreciation in his words that isn’t lost on you. “Is this all it takes for my debt? It’ll be finished in a second then.”

Your mouth opens to retort but closes in time to withhold a moan before it falls through your lips. His thumb’s pressing against your clit in tight circles while the index of his other hand threads over your covered cunt. Turns out Osamu has moves to back up the big talk. 

He’s methodical, clearly good and deft with his fingers, controlled pressure applied in a way that has you writhing on the table despite your intention to make this hard on him. Your desire to make him work for it, apparently, is no match for his. 

Osamu presses the tips of his fingers on your clothed entrance, enough force that it barely breaks inside you but the teasing has you churning on the table for him, legs trying to part beyond limits, body arching where it’s been relegated. Your chest feels hot and heavy despite the little clothing. You’re hoping for the moment where he’ll tease the hard nipples pressing against the flimsy lace of your bralet and the inside of your suit with the same intensity he’s depositing on your cunt.

Osamu, on the other hand, has no rush. You did this, gave this opportunity for him to wreck you, and he plans on enjoying it to the bitter end. He’s fairly surprised at how responsive you are, how quickly you melt for him, how vocal you can be despite doing little more than grunts and sighs. A thought flashes through his mind when he feels a renewed wave of wetness blossom against the fabric where his fingers are pressing, his lips turning in a self-satisfied smirk.

“Have you been so desperate for a good cock you’ve resorted to blackmail?” Your eyes snap open at his voice, a warm wave of something that you refuse to believe in being embarrassment depositing in your cheekbones. Osamu’s fingers prod harder against your entrance, fingers spreading against the wet fabric to your outer lips while his thumb keeps drawing endless circles around your clit. “Tsk, what a dirty move from an even dirtier slut.” 

He slaps your clit once, then twice, his bulking frame preventing you from closing your legs against the sudden pain. Your body trembles on unsteady forearms. You choke on a breath and then release a moan, the sound outrageous to Osamu even as his cock throbs from it. 

“Maybe I’ll give ya what you want.” The Miya teases, his voice sounding even despite the turmoil inside him. You look up at him with such eyes he could fool himself into thinking he wanted this. 

His fingers teether on the edge of your underwear, rough fingertips just daring to cross into the emanating heat. Your hips twitch, the emptiness inside you accentuated by your muscles clenching around nothing, desire pouring out against the prodding fingertips. Osamu snorts, throws you a hard stare that is equal parts fire and contempt. 

“You’re so wet. Are you enjoying this that much?” It drips acidic from his tongue against your neck, after he bends himself over you. From so close, Osamu’s warm breath is the same as a caress, his tongue teasing you with the way it threads over his lips but doesn't extend the courtesy to your skin. “You’re rather easy to rile up, hah? Or is it that you enjoyed playin’ with me before?” His teeth flash white above your head and you swallow around the desire of having them plunging on your skin. “How was it ya said? Foreplay, hah?”

You feel weirdly wound up inside your own skin, as if there’s not enough space and still a growing void inside you waiting for him to fill. It’s insane, it’s delicious, and a loud moan breaches your throat when Osamu plunges two fingers inside you without warning. 

Your body arches in such a curve your breasts press against his chest, the relieving brush too shallow to register in your brain when you’re hyper fixated on the sensation brewing inside you. 

It doesn’t even sting, instead you feel like your hunger escalates, fed by such little push that your want becomes need and for the first time in forever you actually consider asking for something. 

Your mouth opens, and Osamu snickers. “What?” He presses his thumb over your clit fast, relinquishes in the way you groan, feels the way your insides beg him to keep going. 

Still not enough though. He wants it ruined for you. 

“Maybe I’ll just make you cum on my fingers right here.” He spreads, scissor and twists them inside you, enjoying the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him at his every move. Osamu’s skin feels on fire, body overheating, and the way your lips turn up to reveal a line of white teeth in glee has his gut twisting. 

“You have a pretty loose tongue for such a quiet guy.” You look at him with semi-closed eyes, the victorious smile of the cat who got the mouse. “Maybe you like me more than you thoug--ahhhhh!”

Osamu shoves and prods around your insides for that special place even demons like you have and his assault is nothing short of merciless. Your eyes snap open at the force of his ramming, eyebrows furrowing at the way your pleasure seems to have forgone climb to skyrocket instead. Osamu watches in begrudging enchantment while your lips fall open to suck air into your breathless lungs and your eyes grow unfocussed, shoulders falling against the table so your hands can come to hold his arms but for what he doubts even you know. 

He’s not stopping. Until he does. 

You let out a noise like a wounded animal, tethering on the edge of mind numbing pleasure he won’t give you and when your body trembles from exertion of a denied orgasm instead of bliss, Osamu’s chest swells in pride.

“Whydidyoustop?” You lament in one breath, eyes are blinking back into focus, sweat and - oh he hopes those are tears - droplets dripping from the corner of your eyes while you turn to press your face on the cold metal surface of the table. “I was so close!” This time you rage, nails pressing against his skin enough to hurt.

“Wadidya mean?” Osamu tilts his head sideways, patronizing. “You didn’t ask for it. I’m just doing what you told me: being respectful.”

You laugh, still breathless, and turn to him in disbelief. “Fucker.”

“Not yet,” He corrects you, nuzzling his hips on your thighs. “Maybe if you ask nicely enough.”

Osamu retreats while you regulate your breath, letting your useless legs fall limp while both of his hands come to help your panties down, marveling at the way they’re peeled off your wet pussy lips. His cock aches and demands, but he’s used to reining in his dick. And he’s just started, anyway.

The Miya pushes you forward on the table, opening your legs wide like a treat. Your pussy is glistening, rhythmically calling for something to fill it while you leak. He plunges a finger back inside to watch you tremble, stimulation enough to make your eyes fall closed, long black lashes against beautiful sweaty skin. 

“Look at this.” Osamu plunges a second finger inside, opening them wide enough to sting. “What a desperate whore.” 

Your mind is swirling in urge, but you refuse to spill the words on your tongue. It would give you what you want, but at what cost? Osamu looks positively ferocious above you, dark eyes focused on your every move; it sends shivers through your spine, your body trembling and blossoming for him once again. You’re in your personal heaven, in company of the devil himself.

Osamu kneels again in front of your open legs, hook one on his shoulder while he holds the other thigh forcefully up with a grip so hard your muscle aches under his fingers. But you don’t care, in fact  you sigh “more” for him right as his breath teases your folds.

“No.” He tells you, two fingers pumping at leisure. His tongue slurps at your inner thigh, teeth closing in a bite with nothing to sooth. 

“Fuck.” You breathe out in a groan and his smirk is pronounced against your skin. 

Osamu, as you’re learning, is a tease.

His moves are soft, lacking in everything but aim; his tongue moves along the sensitive parts of your body you’ve never really cared for, like the plush flesh of your thighs, underside of your ass, the juncture of your groin. He has yet to taste you but you feel wounded, body constricted under weak ministrations, feather-like teases. It sinks with a piercing revelation that you could cum like this -- in an unfulfilled manner with not-good-enough touches that somehow have made your body feel raw like an exposed nerve in which the minimum touch would be enough to warrant waves of pleasure.

When his tongue comes to thread along your slit slowly, nose caressing along his way, your body clenches and threatens to spasm around unmoving fingers. You’re so close, so close, your body is ready to burst, fraying at the seams of a control you’re not using, your hands flying to try and find your clit at the same time Osamu’s eyes flash and he holds it, presses it forcefully against your belly while his lips slurp at your folds, circle your clit, but it’s so soft, it’s fucking unfair.

“Goddammit, Osamu!” You scream, enraged at the way your second orgasm flies away from you as his fingers leave your quivering hole, his mouth doing nothing more than lap at your overflowing juices with no real worry, no urgency.

“Oh, look at that.” The Miya smirks, drawing back up to look at your disheveled state; flustered, sweating, dripping and unattended. “You wanted a taste.” His hand comes back to your cunt, fingers thread along puffy lips. “I’m giving it to you.”

“You bastard.” His fingers leave your heat just to plunge inside again, a loud gushing sound following it. “Shit.” You sigh while falling back, and Osamu feels his cock throb once more at how breathless you sound. 

Your mind works around the feeling of being spread so far you feel as if you’re paper thin. Your mind goes rushing in its last attempt at working. Osamu looks self-satisfied, almost content, so you know where to hit. You want it, so you find a way to have it. 

“Oh, poor Miya--” You coo at him with a hoarse voice in glazed eyes, but the condescending tone is clear as day. “Are you trying to hurt me?” You plant a hand on his black hair, pulling at it enough to hurt.  “‘Cause I like pain.”

Fire explodes in his eyes and you tighten around his fingers in response, but other than his frown, Osamu remains calm. 

He slams three fingers inside before you can mouth any new words, smirks down at you with mischief when you tremble and bite your lips to hold the noises in, eyes falling back closed to hide the way they turn inside your skull. His other hand is holding your thigh forcefully open once again and his palm presses with hurtful intention, fingertips buried in your flesh so hard his digitals may mark you for days.

“Let you cum on my fingers and nothing else, is that going to be enough for you?” Osamu snarls against your ear, hot breath tickling your jaw. His hips hold you open to his assault at your pussy and his hand abandons your thigh to glide over your body and close around your throat. 

Osamu squeezes hard.

“Then again I could ruin your orgasm for the third time.” He bends over you, his lips right in front of your sight; eyes looking down at you with such fire you almost wonder if they’re the cause for the burn in your lungs. “Leave you writhing on the table, empty, until you learn to have a little respect.” 

This. 

Your lips spread in a smile almost maniacal, goosebumps rising on your skin as if you’re electrified. This is what you’ve wanted all along -- passion, fearless assault of words, electrifying pleasure; and also, the detachment, the murderous intent, all merging together in one perfect Osamu Miya. Shit, you think to yourself, at this hate you may actually come from his teasing alone.

“You talk too much for someone who didn't make me cum yet.” You pour gasoline into his fire. 

Osamu pulls you up by the lapels of your suit, button flying open at the hastiness, your breasts protected by such a flimsy piece of lace you’re surprised it doesn’t turn to ash at his stare. Your hard nipples mark the white bralet, the air feeling cold at how hot they are. 

A hand covered in your juices closes on your cheeks, forcefully opening your lips at the threat of pain, his fingers with lingering heat from your insides.

“Such a big mouth, should I shut you up?” Osamu asks you, eyes boring on yours. The plea is on the point of your tongue as if he’d shoved his hand inside you to yank it himself, and it tips out when his dark eyes steal one single snippet of your smeared red lips open by his hands.

“Fuck me.” 

He nods negatively, presses hard enough that your teeth could cut your inner cheeks. He relents and your tongue grazes your lips, moistening them for his eyes.  

Osamu smiles, a tilt of his lips up but so earnestly you’re almost hopeful, then: “No.” 

Even if as he says it, it’s a lie. He knows he’ll fuck you, but right now he’s enjoying the build-up, toying with you as if you’re his plaything and not the opposite. You growl and curse, head falling back when he palms at your covered breasts, push the lace up, hears the way it strains and threatens to rip. 

It’s oddly relatable -- Osamu also feels taut, stretched around a fleeting control that he feels will slip with one dip inside you. His past sexual experiences involved partners who he cherished and few one-night stands which, for the small time his dick was inside them, he was mindful and cared for their pleasure. 

Right now, while he pinches and palm at your body, he has not a single worry about your pleasure and all the concern about his. This is for him. He bends his head over your bosom, sucks a nipple inside the hot cave of his mouth and bites. As his cock twitches and aches inside his trousers, he relishes in the pained noises you leave, even when they’re marked by breathless arousal.

“You sure are fucked up. Look how much you’re enjoying this.” His fingers force the howl of your cheeks, feeling your teeth nicking the insides of your mouth even through layers of flesh. There’s an infuriating elation in your expression, and Osamu retaliates by sucking harshly on your skin, teeth finding soft places to close on.

You moan loudly and his hand slides back onto your throat in the motion. Your hand shots up from the table to find his hard dick and your laugh makes his blood boil. “Clearly I’m not the only one.”

His heartbeat spikes at the words, even if Osamu knows it. The twin pulls the suit jacket half-down your arms and slams your body on the slight cold surface of the metal table, noise sounding thunderous but still no one comes after you. 

Your skin erupts in goosebumps at the aggression, blood flying so fast through your heart you feel lightheaded. You’re about to spit some more fire into Osamu when two of his fingers gag you, other hand descending on your ass with such force and so unexpectedly your legs give out, dangling from the table as if you’re a ragdoll.

Something remarkably close to a whine turning sob slides through your throat and dies at Osamu’s fingers, just as something big and hot surges over your ass cheeks. Something coils on your chest, the emotion makes your eyes water and for a moment you blink it away, thanking the new position doesn’t let Osamu catch that. 

Too soon. Osamu pulls your head back as his hand peels the globes of your ass apart and before you can breathe, the little air inside you is being knocked out with one thrust of Osamu’s hip.

He forces his dick inside you, tearing you open as your walls make way for his aggression, wetness dripping while Osamu fills you to the hilt, because yes, that's what you want. You want his hate, his passion, you want Osamu to tear you apart while you enjoy every second of it.

“‘Samu!” His name is on your lips as your eyes roll back, whole body tensing until you’re falling, just like that. 

Then he retreats. “Fuck! Fuck no!” This time it’s a wail, a sob as your third orgasm turns to ashes, your insides trembling with nothing to hold, empty and meager pleasure. 

“Wha--Cummin’ already? Nope.” The twin laughs above you, hands tilting your head painfully back. “So embarrassing.” Osamu mocks you and you swear you can feel a renewed wave of cream slide down your insides to greet the head of his cock, nudging along your swollen lips. Your tongue feels so heavy on your mouth, parched and breathless all at once, no way out but silence. 

“You are disgusting, you know that? Such a greedy fucking pussy doesn’t deserve to be this tight.” 

Your laugh turns into a deep moan when Osamu hits deep inside you. “God yes.” You twist one hand out of the suit’s sleeve just to pull him by the hem of his blouse, your nails digging against the skin of his neck, blooming red yelts. “Talk shit to me Osamu. I know you have better lines.”

“Fuck you.” The twin spits, his hips pistoning harder against yours until he just stops the motion, leaves you open and gapping for him to fill you again. “Of course a pig like ya has the hots for humiliation. Look at that, the slut’s pussy squeezing around my dick because she thinks I'm doing this for her pleasure.” His hand comes down on the other side of your ass, where he hasn't hit yet. It stings, but the way his palm massages and grabs at it before almost soothes the burn. “Disgusting sluts don’t get to say anything, not even begging will get you what you want. I decide what you get."

You look back from your shoulder to see his cock is standing proud and angry, swollen head shining red and dripping translucent white, as if he hadn't been wet from your juices before. Osamu’s big, especially thick and he presses inside you again without giving you time to adjust, unforgiving pace right from the start.

You curse at the way one of your hands keeps locked behind you by your suit, your nails digging on your own skin without anything else to find purchase on; the other tries to grab onto Osamu to no avail, falling on the table to help support yourself at the strength of his pounding.  Your mouth is open, divided between sucking breaths and puffs of air. Osamu’s hand has since found purchase in your neck, the way he forces it back painful, the pressure on your throat growing and ceasing as he wishes. 

Still, you can’t think. Your mind is lost in a sea of searing pleasure, your nipples pressed against the metal surface as Osamu finally fucks you as you’ve been dreaming. No, maybe even better. The past men you’ve fucked had all been afraid of hurting you, careful with retaliation. As Osamu fists your hair and forcefully presses you against the table; you think you may be having a religious experience. Your eyes water from the force of his manhandling, tears spilling while you left unbelievable noises fall from your lips. You want to scream and laugh, a hot sensation spreading from your fingertips to your core. 

The wave of the orgasm is forming quickly, your toes curling against the insides of your Louboutins enough to hurt, the incessant pounding of Osamu’s hips against your ass sounding downright pornographic. As the peak approaches, doubt gnaws at your chest for the first time in forever. 

The simple thought of Osamu robbing you of your orgasm this time is enough to make your whole body tremble and recoil, your mind too slow to catch on to his intentions. You consider biting your tongue to hold the plea in, but as you bolt into mind-blowing pleasure you’ve never even imagined before, the alternative feels like dying.

You’re tethering the edge and you feel Osamu pressing harder against you, and you break. “Please!” You cry out, “Pleasepleaseplease, don’t stop.” His movements slow down and halt, and the hand on your ass slides around you, a single finger taps repeatedly on your swollen clit. 

“Say it.” He all but howls at your ear, bites on it for good measure.

“Please, ‘samu, let me fucking cum!” You beg but you’re already falling over, whole body shuddering just from the way he nudges his hips against your ass and taps on your sensitive bundle of nerves. Panic surges in between your pleasure that he’ll ruin this one when he retreats from your quivering insides, but Osamu rams back inside you with such power that your head rattles, hips hurting from the impetus of his fucking. 

Sound rings in your ear while you drown in the thunderous waves of your pleasure for what feels like forever. It flows and flows and flows to a point you can’t tell if you’re seeing black or just closed your eyes. 

Osamu watches, enthralled, how you go completely boneless under him. Your insides have stopped squeezing him tight but his hard, aching cock still throbs inside your heat. It’s honestly unbelievable how tight you feel around him, how fantastic he feels buried balls deep inside your walls. He had to stop trying to fuck you through your orgasm in worry he’d may cum. Poison and pleasure curl in his chest at the thought. Osamu feels like spanking you, choking you, to punish you for this undeserving heaven you have between your thighs.  

But he’s not done yet.

Osamu retreats, the slide of his cock leaving your delicious walls -- cold air from outside so less welcoming -- and you sag on the table. He pulls you up on unsteady legs and smirks, proud. Your bare feet touch the ground and Osamu spins you around, swallowing on a tight throat after one look at your disheveled blissful state, but then he retreats and let’s you collapse to the ground.

The image of your legs sliding open on the cold tiled floor, unsteady hands finding purchase to hold your torso up while your head looks up at him in outrage is one he sears in his mind, a wicked satisfaction sliding over his spine at the sight alone. The wreck of you at his feet, by his hands, nothing short of perfect. 

His cock throbs and pulses in front of your eyes, dragging your attention and Osamu steps closer, poses one hand on the top of your head, ruins the rest of your styled hair by dragging fingertips in it. 

 You’re still lightheaded, shockwaves making you twitch on the cold floor and Osamu is elated at how wrecked you look, makeup smeared, hair disheveled, body holded up by unsteady arms. Your lips are open, between breathless pulls of air and heavy exhales, but Osamu doesn't care, hands forcefully tugging your hair back and angling your mouth at his swelled cockhead. He counts as a win that you don’t bite him, your tongue threading flat on the underside of his length as he buries himself on your throat. 

There’s resistance, so the Miya retreats, forcing it back a few other times until it finally slides a few inches more inside. While he maintains the force over your hair, his other hand engulfs your chin, thumb breaching your lips to hold your mouth open despite the fact you don’t make any move to close it. 

It feels his chest with acidic bitterness that you welcome his aggression, glazed, tearful eyes looking up at him as if the fact he’s using you as little more than a cocksleeve is the brightest part of your day. Still, Osamu’s skin feels close to tearing under the sheer amount of pleasure flooding his insides. His hairs are standing on end, heart beating so fast his lungs burn, every muscle on his body tensed at his mindless pursuit of his high. He buries his cock deep inside the tight space of your throat, your gurgles and groaning enhancing his sensation. It looks painful to you to hold him inside, tears ending your makeup, face turning red at the lack of air. He closes both hands behind your head, making you nuzzle his pelvis even as your nails close on his thighs threatening to break skin.

He retreats to let you breathe just as your eyes go unfocused, feels something squeezing inside as you cough and wheezes and his throat squeezes a large gulp of air when you look up at him, tongue hanging out with a wide-open mouth just offered for him.

Osamu feels like hurting you at how good you are, infuriatingly obedient and willing to be at the end of his aggression. So he buries himself back inside at one go, both hands holding your head for him. There’s too much chaos inside of him, so he decides to pour some out through words.

“You like being used like this, huh? Like little more than a fucking cocksleeve for me.”

“What is it? Does being in power make you this needy? Does being wrecked make you feel this good?” Your groan makes your throat tighter around him, your eyes rolling back from his fucking and degradation.

It’s unfair, infuriatingly so, that this might be the most unbelievable great sex he ever had. 

Osamu can’t hold back much longer, everything feeling just too good, his skin burning at the stretch of the tourbillion of emotions inside his chest, the captivating sight of tears dropping from your jaw and coating your long lashes as your face darkens by the lack of air, swollen lips stretched beyond capacity around his cock while you willingly let him go harder, faster, into your tight throat. There’s a warm sensation flowing from his limbs to his spine, melting his bones and weighing on his balls until it spreads over Osamu’s whole being.

He pulls back from your throat in time but presses his hands on your jaw and hair to keep you up and open as he coats your wrecked face with hot spurts of cum -- the final touch to the perfection of your wrecked image at his feet.

It lands haphazardly over your lips and even your eyelashes, tear-stained mess of a face marked by his essence. Osamu tells himself he could never feel anything towards you, but for a second there’s a hint of territorial pride at how you look -- and how it is all his doing. The twin is still swimming in searing pleasure as you lick over your lips, hands almost fondly landing over his as if you're assuring him that he can let go.

He does, trying to step back and slowly descending onto the ground when his knees give out. His eyes are glued to how his cum is dripping from your chin onto your chest, how you bring your fingers to sweep over it and end it by cleaning the digits with your tongue. If Osamu’s cock wasn’t so spent, he’s sure it’d swell right back up at the sight alone.

“Can’t say what’s better,” your hoarse voice is barely above a murmur, “the taste or the feeling.”

As you’re standing on unsteady legs and already fixing yourself while he sits on the floor questioning his life choices, Osamu feels as if he’d made a deal with the devil, and you’ll be coming back to collect his soul.

“Seems like the start of a nice partnership, doesn’t it?” 

-- 

#osamu miya smut #osamu miya #osamu miya hq #haikyuu smut #tw dubcon #thesmutpilecollab #hq fanfic #osamu miya x reader

[justthehiddleswrites]

Accidently Married | Tom Hiddleston x OFC | Chapter 1 |  Living Well is the Best Revenge or Just Trip Her on the Red Carpet

A/N:  Tom makes certain comments about an ex (who is unnamed).  It is a fictional girlfriend, take from it what you will.  Keep your hate to yourself.  

SERIES MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Molly Bishop)

Summary: Tom is stuck in a news cycle from hell; Molly is stuck in the dead end job of bartending with a pile of student and credit debt.  Tom has an idea to solve all their problems.  Get married, get the paparazzi off his back, divorce after a year and Tom pays off Molly’s debts.  Tom has everything figured out, that is until he sees Molly as more than a just a friend and so does someone else.  In this vying for affections who will win, the handsome Brit or the boy from Boston?

This Chapter: Tom is in Vegas to present at a music awards ceremony and what do you know his high profile ex girlfriend is nominated for two awards.  And the press are having a field day.  Molly Bishop is grateful for the awards show because it means extra tips and getting her closer to paying off her student debt.  An offhand comment by Luke coupled with an encounter with his old girlfriend has Tom’s mental wheels turning.  Perhaps he and Molly can solve each other’s problem.  All they have to do is get married.

Warnings: fake marriage, smut (vaginal sex), mentions of:  child abuse/neglect, foster care, substance abuse, cheating.

TAGLIST IS OPEN! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED!  THANK YOU FOR READING!

--

Tom dreaded turning his phone back on when the plane landed at McCarran airport. He knew what waited for him on the other side. Tom wondered if his publicist would buy the story he left his phone back at the bar in Heathrow. Probably not, he had tried that earlier in the year and Luke went ballistic until he came clean. He did not want a repeat of the earful he got back then. With a sigh, Tom switched on his mobile and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans, vibrating as messages and emails came in.

Tom never imagined the relationship would end like this. He thought he was in love. He thought she was in love. But it had all been what were the words she used “escape hatch”. Tom had been a means to an end. And the punishment for his naivete was a news cycle that would not die. And that photo.

He waited until he was in the car on his way to the Bellagio before checking his messages. There were a series of several text messages from Luke.

Call me when you get to your hotel room.

Don’t read the papers.

Don’t talk to any reporters.

Don’t do anything until you talk to me.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose underneath his sunglasses.

“Fuck!” he hissed under his breath.

This meant only one thing. Another story. Maybe more pictures. He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, she was attending the same awards show. It ventured to guess the papers would play that up. Tom slumped against the car seat for the rest of the ride.

Check in went fine at the VIP check in. One perk of not only being a celebrity, but a presenter at the awards show. The bellhop delivered Tom’s luggage and garment bag. He pulled the outfit for tomorrow and hung it up, just like Illaria told him to. It was only when he flopped onto the sectional couch, Tom called Luke.

“I’ve been waiting for your phone call.” Luke deadpanned. “I started to worry you would pull that ‘I left my phone at the airport bar’ story.”

“I did cross my mind.” Tom let his head hit the back of the sofa. “Do I want to know?”

“Not really.” Luke winced. “They used the photo again.”

“Of course they fucking did!” Tom punched a nearby pillow. “I look like a twat. Luke, I need this to stop.”

Luke sighed. “Until something comes along that is better than this, expect it to hang around for a while. Unless you are planning on getting married in the next two days.”

Tom chuckled darkly. “Not bloody likely.” He sighed again. “Thanks for everything Luke.”

“It’s my job, mate. But you’re welcome.”

After Tom hung up, he stared first at the phone in his hand and then at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure how he got here, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to get out. Tom decided instead to wallow in self-pity and eat a ridiculously expensive room service steak.

-

Weekends were always busy when there were special events over at the MGM arena. This weekend was no exception. And while it may not be good for Molly’s back, her bank account greeted every penny with a smile. Vegas may be a cheap place to live, but it still costs money. And her college did not accept IOUs for student loans. She shoved more tips into the jar behind the bar and helped the next person.

“What’ll be?”

“Whatever you have that is strong and on tap.” Tom’s smooth voice cut over the din of slot machines and video poker machines.

“Coming right up.” Molly poured him a beer, and he signed the receipt with his room number before sliding to the end of the bar.

Three hours later, Tom still sat at the end of the bar, nursing the same beer. Most of the crowd dissipated at this point. Celebrities needed their beauty sleep. Or at least most of them.

“Would you like to switch that one out for a cold one?” She leaned over, smiling. “On the house.”

“Sorry.” Tom blinked and glanced around, looking for a clock Molly imagined.

“No clocks.” she commented. “Or windows.”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “Really?”

“The whole point of casinos is to keep people inside. Clocks and windows help people realize how much time has passed.” Molly replaced his beer. “The whole place is set up like a maze.”

Tom took a long draw of the fresh beer. “You seem to know an awful lot about casinos for a bartender.”

“You seem awfully forward for a movie star.” she snapped back. Tom’s eyes met yours. She shrugged her shoulders. “I have a friend who works at Regal Cinema, they let me in for free.”

“I’m having a bad day.” Tom muttered back. “You still didn’t answer the question.” He took another long draw, leaving the glass half empty.

“Oh, so we are adding pushy to your resume. I thought Brits were supposed to be charming. If you must know, I have a Bachelor’s and Master’s in Tourism from Arizona State.”

Tom opened his mouth to comment, but Molly cut him off.

“Funny thing about the tourism industry. You need experience to get a job, but you can’t get experience without having a job. Classic catch-22. Which does not pay my bills. So I bartend until I get hired somewhere.”

Tom felt like a prize idiot moping about his problems. He cleared his throat. “Apologies for my earlier behavior. I have been in a poor mood for the last several weeks and it has made me a terrible companion and customer.”

Molly smiled at him. The first truly friendly face in a while. “It’s fine. And you are entitled to a bad day.” She filled up his glass. “Once or twice. Share your troubles with me. Unless it is about which supermodel you should date next, then I don’t want to hear it.” she joked. Tom’s face fell. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”

Tom held up a hand. “Please don’t apologize. I take it you don’t read the magazines.”

“As a matter of course, no I don’t.” Suddenly a lightbulb went off. “Oh…”

Tom twisted his face into an exaggerated expression. “‘Oh’ is right. Usually followed by the words ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’.”

“And is she…”

Tom drained the glass. “Yep. Nominated for two awards.”

“Yikes! Well, if there is anything I can do, I am here all weekend.”

Tom stood up and left several twenty-dollar bills. “I might take you up on that. Thank you again for the conversation… I didn’t catch your name.”

“Molly Bishop”. she said, clearing his glass.

Tom offered his hand, and she shook it. “Tom.”

“I know.” she leaned in, her dark brown hair falling to the sides of her face. “Remember, you’re a movie star.”

Tom laughed. A real belly laugh. So loud that it jolted the old man at the other end of the bar awake. “I needed that. Thank you again. Have a good evening, day, morning.”

“It’s evening. Goodnight, Tom. Sleep well.”

Tom headed back towards the bank of elevators. He glanced over his shoulder to watch Molly wipe down where he had been sitting, shove the twenties into a tip jar, while tucking her hair behind her ears and help an obviously drunk couple. Tom made a mental note to find her again before he flew back and leave an even bigger tip.

-

Tom woke up the next morning and headed down to the gym to run on the treadmill. He would have preferred running outside but wanted to avoid people. After running five miles, he switched the machine off, wiped it and him down and headed upstairs to shower and change for the day. Tom wandered back downstairs in search of Molly, but the bartender on duty, a guy named Seth, mentioned she wouldn’t be back until the evening. Tom thanked him and headed back upstairs.

He was restless until it was time to get ready. After dressing, he took a selfie in the mirror and sent it to Illaria who confirmed he did it right. Now came the waiting game. Tom wanted to time it to avoid having to see her at all. Finally deciding he had wanted long enough, Tom called for the car and headed downstairs. What Tom forgot to account for was his incredible bad luck.

He arrived right after her and was forced to walk the red carpet, watching her out of the corner of his eye, with her arm linked around whatever man, boy, prey she ensnared for the evening. Tom plastered a killer smile on his face and continued to repeat the mantra in his head “Living well is the best revenge” when all he wanted to do is either trip her or return to his hotel room and eat an inordinate amount of chocolate cake.

The rest of the awards show blurred together into moments of white hot rage masked by a cool exterior and numbness. Thank god for the teleprompter or else Tom wondered if he would have made it through his presentation. But he did and thought he made it through the entire event without running into her and then…

“Tom!” her voice called out.

Tom froze and stiffened. What a difference a few weeks can make.

“Darling!” He spun on his heel to face her, smile firmly in place. He leaned forward and kissed her cheeks. “It’s good to see you. You look good.” he lied through his teeth.

“You too. I thought I might miss you. I just wanted to say—”

Tom waved her off. “Water under the bridge.” Another lie. Perhaps he missed his calling as a barrister or even a publicist. “Your date seems nice.”

She smiled. That smile that once melted his heart. “Thanks. He is. Where’s your—���

“Back at the hotel.” He checked his watch. “Which reminds me, I should head back. Big plans for the night.”

She blinked, and stutter stepped back. “Oh. Right.” She composed herself. “Well, it was nice to see you again. I hope we can be friends.” She held her arms open.

Fucking friends! Tom howled inside his mind. What was she playing at? More fodder for her songs? Tom seethed on the inside. He stepped forward to awkwardly hug her, praying there was no one around to snap a photo. Knowing her, though, she probably had someone in the balcony with a zoom lens.

“Of course, love.” He squeezed her a little too tight until she let loose a small yelp of pain. Tom allowed a genuine smile to come across his face. “I won’t keep you any longer. Enjoy the after party.” He walked away before she could continue on the conversation.

He waited until he was well out of earshot. “Bitch.”

-

The crowd started waning around 9:30 as the awards show let out. Molly figured most of the attendees would hit the after parties and things would pick up around 1 or 2 a.m. Until then, it would just be the regulars. She turned around to arrange the glasses she just cleaned when a now familiar voice rang out.

“Marry me.” Tom asked, his tie loosened.

“I don’t know you.” Molly teased back. “Now what will you have?”

“You as my wife.” Tom repeated, his palm flattened against the bar.

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Are you drunk?”

Tom shook his head. “Stone cold sober. Hear me out.”

She glanced around, seeing no plausible escape. “I’m listening. But if another customer comes up, I’m walking away.”

“I need something to move the paparazzi off this current news cycle with me.”

Molly smirked. “You ran into the ex. Did she have a new boy toy on her arm?”

“Yes, but that is beside the point.”

“It is entirely the point.”

Tom slammed his hand against the bar, rattling the container of nuts nearby. “Can I continue or are you going to keep interrupting?”

Molly crossed her arms. “Go on.”

“I need something to move the press off this story. You need money. We are the solution to each other’s problems.”

“You may be gorgeous, but if you think I am sleeping with you for money…”

“I never said sex. I said marriage. The last I checked, they could be mutually exclusive.” Tom’s expression softened. “Listen, you are clearly unhappy here. I am unhappy too. If us being together could alleviate a bit of that unhappiness, why wouldn’t we seize the opportunity? We get married. Get the paparazzi off my back. I would pay off your student loans and credit cards. And then after a year of living together, we quietly divorce. No sex. Just a business relationship.”

Molly chewed over what Tom said, while chewing on her bottom lip. He wasn’t wrong, she was unhappy. Vegas was supposed to be a brand new start, but it was more of the same. Dead end job and no career prospects on the horizon.”

“Did you say live together?”

“In London, yes. I have plenty of room. Your own space. You have a passport.”

“Yes.”

Tom’s face broke out in a wide grin. He couldn’t believe this was happening. The blood pounded in his ears and adrenaline coursed through his veins. He looked up at her with his bright blue eyes.

“Will you marry me, Molly Bishop?”

“Yes.” she smiled back.

Tom leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Then let’s get going, because the licensing bureau closes at midnight.”

Molly headed over to the manager, Nick.

“I quit.” she shoved her apron at him.

“What? You can’t quit, Molly. The big rush is coming.”

“You heard the lady.” Tom called. “She quits.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“Her fiancé. Come on, darling.” Tom held out his hand. She lifted up the bar at the entrance and took his hand.

-

The two of you were full of nervous energy the entire cab ride to the licensing bureau, fitting right in with the other couples waiting to get a license. While you waited in line, Tom made some calls to several chapels until he found one open and able to squeeze the two of you in.

“Now all we need is to get you a dress and some rings.”

“Oh!” Molly dug through her purse. “My friend’s kid gave these to me.” She pulled out two plastic rings. “I think these will do in a pinch.”

Tom closed his hand over hers. “I’ll buy us proper rings tomorrow. Now a dress.”

“There’s a mall on the way. I can grab something on the way.” Tom kissed Molly’s forehead.

“You are brilliant.”

“Thank you.”

Within an hour, Molly was wearing a simple white slip dress, Tom still in his suit from the awards show, although he did straighten up the tie. She smiled like a fool, holding onto a fake bouquet and Tom’s wedding ring, complete with a plastic spider in her hand.

Tom slipped on the plastic gem ring when the minister told him to, and she did the same with the spider ring. Tom giggled and so did Molly .

“I now pronounce husband and wife, you may kiss the bride.”

Tom leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. His lips were warm and soft. It was… nice. Under other circumstances, she imagined Tom would be an excellent kisser.

Tom gazed down at her. “Hello, Mrs. Hiddleston.”

“Hello, Mr. Hiddleston.”

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston x ofc #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston fluff #tom hiddleston smut #tom hiddleston angst #accidently married

[raibebe]

Sugar and Spice

Genre: Fluff? Words: 4.390 Warnings: none for this chapter

Chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | masterlist

A/N: Sugar and Spice is a series now, I know you all probably wanted more smut but I chose to write a prequel about how Jeno ended up being a sugar baby in the first place.  Since this is going to be a longer story, I wanted to try to do it in chapters instead of writing one giant thing. Later on I will switch the POV but I felt like it was needed to start off with Jeno’s.  Do not worry, there will be smut in later chapters.

Taglist: @yutaalove​, @byunniebaekhyunnie​

Like all the bad decisions Lee Jeno had made in his life, this one started with none other than Lee Donghyuck. The two boys were sitting in the university’s cafeteria where Donghyuck watched Jeno eat the food they had served with a disgusted look on his face. “I don’t understand how you can even swallow that.” “It’s either this or instant ramen again and I am pretty sure my body consists of 60% ramen already,” Jeno whined, trying to wash down what must be the most dry piece of meat he had ever tasted his entire life with some water. “Dude you work like three jobs,” Donghyuck groaned, kicking his friend beneath the table. “Got fired from the library because they caught me sleeping,” Jeno sighed deeply. “You look like you’re ready to pass out right now.” “Hyuck, I am functioning on three hours of sleep and two redbull.” “Jeno,” Donghyuck sighed and Jeno hated it when he used that tone of voice. He didn’t need Donghyuck’s pity. He could do this. He was fine. Well mostly. Apart from the fact that he got an average amount of four hours of sleep, was barely passing his classes and got fired by one of his many part time jobs every few months his life was absolutely peachy. “I’m sure if you talk to your parents again-“ “No,” he cut Donghyuck off, “I won’t come begging at their door. I chose this path for myself and they simply don’t agree Hyuck.” “Your parents suck ass,” his friend sighed, leaning back in his chair, “Pretty sure my parents would throw a party each day for a week straight if I had told them I wanted to become a vet.” “Well mine aren’t,” Jeno sighed and raked a hand through his messy hair. It was getting too long again, his bangs hanging into his eyes. Could he ask Renjun to cut it again? Did he trust the furious Chinese man with something sharp that close to his eyes?

For a while it was quiet between the two friends while Jeno continued to stuff his face with the cafeteria food. He didn’t have much time before he had to go to his shift at a little record store not far from his dorm building. It wasn’t paying the best but the owner of the shop and no issues with him doing his readings there when no customers were around. “You know that we miss you, Jeno. Right?” Donghyuck cut the silence which made Jeno stop mid bite, “We haven’t done anything with all the boys in forever and I am not counting the times we were at the club while you were working and declining the tips we were trying to give you.” “I don’t need nor want your pity money, Hyuck,” Jeno groaned again and shoved the plate with his food away. His appetite had left him. Donghyuck and him had this conversation every other week always with the same outcome: Donghyuck explaining how he was worried about him and Jeno telling him that he was fine (which he most likely wasn’t but he managed). “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to make it to our meets ups, I really am,” Jeno tried to explain and Donghyuck’s eyes immediately went soft, “I just- I’m behind on my tuition again and haven’t paid the lease for the dorms for the last moth yet. I really need to take every minute and hour of overtime I can get and my grades aren’t getting any better either. This will all be for nothing if I fail my anatomy class again.” “Jeno,” Donghyuck tried again, “You can’t keep on like this for another three years.” “I have to Hyuck,” Jeno sighed, slouching back into his chair, “I have to.” His body had been screaming at him to stop whatever he was doing for weeks now and to be completely honest, he was aching for a full eight hours of sleep and not the usual four that were just disconnected naps throughout his day.

“I’m going to make a suggestion and I need you to promise me to not be mad at me, alright,” Donghyuck suddenly said, holding out his pinky finger. “Hyuck, I won’t take money from any of you. I don’t want Chenle to pay for my lease again. That was a one-time thing and I told him that I would pay him back,” Jeno immediately argued, shame running through him. He hated constantly being treated to meals and the thought that he had a debt with his younger friend even though the Chinese had told Jeno hundreds of times that he didn’t need to money back. “That’s not what I wanted to suggest. Now promise.” Jeno rolled his eyes before interlocking his pinky with one of his arguably best friends. “Actually this isn’t my idea. But Jaemin and Renjun brought it up last Friday at our movie night.” That alone made Jeno feel bad again. While his friends had been all cuddled up in Chenle’s apartment to watch some movies and eat popcorn while drinking cheap beer, he had been working in a sweaty club with horrible music that made his ears ring. “I’m sorry,” he muttered under his breath but Donghyuck didn’t seem to hear him. “But hear me out: Have you ever thought about becoming a sugar baby?” Jeno lost all control over his facial muscles and was pretty sure his brain had just short circuited, his open mouth free real estate for the fruit flies that were all over the cafeteria. “No, no, think about it Jeno,” Donghyuck immediately argued, “I did my research and you can get a monthly allowance for at least a thousand dollar if not more. You’d be able to quit that job at the shady bar.” “Hyuck,” Jeno cut in when his brain had successfully rebooted, “In case you haven’t noticed in all the years we’ve been friends: I’m not gay.” “So what?” “What do you mean so what? I’m not going to prostitute myself for some old man just because I need money,” Jeno hissed between his teeth. “Oh my god Jeno,” Donghyuck sighed, “You’re so 2010. There are plenty of wealthy woman out there looking for some arm candy to pass their time.” “You’re insane Donghyuck.” “Insanely brilliant that is,” his friend grinned, “This is literally the perfect solution for all your problems.” “How is fucking some old hag going to solve any of my problems?” “Oh come on, Jeno,” Donghyuck groaned, “There are plenty of sites that let you choose your preferred partner for this kind of arrangement. And don’t even try to deny that you’re into older girls.” At that Jeno flushed a deep red color. His preference about his partners was basically an open secret in their group of friends that he had confessed after a drunken round of truth or dare some time in highschool when Renjun had asked him why he had rejected the confession of a cute girl a year below them to keep crushing on the substitute teacher they had. Chenle had not let this thing die until Jeno had started to date a girl from Mark’s class and even then the boy had made some cruel comments about their age difference. “Here, Renjun found a site that seems very legit,” Donghyuck brought him back from his memories, scribbling down a link on a piece of paper, “Please just check it out.” “That’s a lot of promises I have to give today,” Jeno mused but took the paper to put it into his pocket. “We’re just trying to look out for you Jeno.” “I know,” he sighed, “And I appreciate that.” “You’re running thin Jeno.” “I know Hyuck!” He said, making his friend flinch at his outburst, “I fucking know, okay. I’m sorry I am making you all worry with how terrible my life currently is. It’s not like I am happy about it but you could really stop bitching about it.” Just when Donghyuck opened his mouth to reply something, Jeno’s eyes shot to the big clock on the wall. “Safe it Hyuck, I need to go to my shift.” With that he got up to hoist his bag that was barely holding together onto his shoulder and basically fled the cafeteria. Donghyuck could bring back his plate, that was the least he could do.  

Once outside, the student quickly plugged in his earphones into his phone and played his favorite playlist on his way to the record store, inwardly scolding himself for being so proud and not leeching off of Jaemin’s spotify anymore when what felt like the third ad in ten minutes interrupted his vibing. At the record store, he quickly unlocked the front door and put on a random record to play over the speakers before he got situated behind the counter to try to revise his notes from today that were unreadable at best. He had fallen asleep at least twice in his morning class and had to be shaken awake by one of his classmates once the lecture was over. Great. So self-study it was.

Over the course of his shift, he was only interrupted twice from reading the chapter in the book that he was pretty sure he should have brought back to the library last week. But since he really didn’t have any money to spare for the fine, he had decided to keep it a little longer until he was at a financially better place which was nowhere near in close sight now that he was fired from his job at said library. Which brought him back to what Donghyuck had said to him. But him becoming a sugar baby? Jeno really couldn’t think of himself in such a position. Sure, he wasn’t bad looking but when he thought of the word sugar baby he thought of beautiful and petite boys like Renjun or maybe even Jaemin but him? Even though he had lost quite some muscle mass since this shitshow had begun, he was still built quiet broad and had more of a masculine, handsome feel than sweet and beautiful. And wasn’t that was sugar mommies would look for? If they wanted a man, they wouldn’t search for a someone younger. Jeno sighed loudly and let his head hit his book. This was a hopeless situation.

But he guessed having a look at the site wouldn’t hurt and so Jeno ended up typing in the address of the sugar baby site into the computer at work, praying the owner didn’t know how to check which sites he had opened once he’d delete the browser history. The site itself looked clean, mainly consisting of muted pastel colors and black font and accents. If you weren’t signed in, you didn’t get much information on what exactly was going on but the site claimed that keeping their clients data safe was their main concern since very influential people were using their site. Jeno completely blamed Donghyuck and the two redbulls he had already had for clicking on the pastel blue ‘sign up’ button. He then had to fill out basic data about himself: His gender, age, profession and interests along with his sexual orientation. He hesitated for a second when the site asked if he was okay to be partnered with someone of the same sex for a strictly platonic relationship but denied it in the end. Next he was asked to choose a nickname to chat with potential benefactors as the site called the sugar mommies and daddies. Was this where he should choose something cute to attract people to his profile? Whacking his brain for any cute plays on his actual name, he came up with exactly nothing other than the No-Jam nickname he had earned in highschool which really wasn’t cute at all. The only other thing that came to mind was when Jaemin jokingly called himself Nana and Jeno Nono in that god-awful aegyo voice which never failed to make Jeno cringe. Why did he have to choose a nickname anyways? It was to protect the benefactors; he really didn’t have anything else to lose than his dignity. Sighing, Jeno quickly typed in: ‘Jenonono’ as his nickname, only cringing slightly when choosing a password and entering his email address to confirm everything. Once he had activated his account with the link he was sent, Jeno only had to choose a couple of pictures for his profile to complete it. Well this was a problem. Jeno couldn’t even remember the last time he took a selfie where he wasn’t looking like death on two legs to send them to his friends. He quickly scrolled through his camera roll in search for at least one decently attractive photo. He only stopped scrolling when he found photos from almost a year ago before he had changed his field of study and had the fall-out with his parents. His hair was bleached a bright blonde color and the sides were shaved but he was looking good, more toned than he was now and like he actually slept at night. Not even close to how he was looking right now but it was still him, so did this count as catfishing? He quickly chose two photos with his blonde hair styled up and one with his natural haircolor from before he and Jaemin had the great idea to bleach each other’s hair and send them to himself via mail so he could upload them onto the website.

When Jeno pressed the ‘complete’ button, the site showed him on overview of what his profile would look like and it wasn’t even half bad if he did say so himself. He still felt a little uneasy about the whole thing and the fact that he was basically catfishing people into thinking he still looked so bulky and put together like he had looked last year didn’t help. “Come on Jeno, you have nothing to lose,” he grumbled and pressed the ‘confirm’ button one last time. His profile disappeared and the site instead showed Jeno their actual layout for the matching. Unlike other dating sites, he couldn’t swipe through potential benefactors himself; he had to wait until someone actually message him. Great. So he had to hope that his pictures and his honestly not great profile would lure someone in who was at least mildly attractive. Maybe no one would ever contact him and he could just throw it back into Donghyuck’s face how this had been a shitty idea to begin with. Sighing, he closed the site for now and deleted the browser history just to be safe as well.

The rest of his shift went by in a blur of trying to make sense of his scribbly notes and whatever the authors of the book he was reading were trying to teach him about the anatomy of different species and Jeno didn’t even think twice about the site he had signed up for when he closed down the shop and went home to his shitty dorm. The short trip to the convenience store only made him more aware of how poor he was when he had to choose between an actual meal and food for the cat he had recently (very much illegally) saved from the streets and taken in. He’d be more than damned if the kitten he had named Bongsik would have to suffer, so it would be a delicious meal for her and more instant ramen for Jeno.

Back at his dorm room - a single one that could barely fit his bed, wardrobe and desk - the little cat immediately rubbed its tiny head against his pant leg and Jeno couldn’t help but smile and bend down to pet the little creature. He felt a little bit of tension immediately seep from his tired muscles and indulged the kitten in a little cuddle session until he felt his eyes starting to itch. His allergies be damned! Sighing the boy got up to actually shed his jacket and shoes and opened the fresh can of delicious cat food for Bongsik who immediately devoured it. If she thought it was delicious, would it taste good for Jeno as well? Chuckling he turned back to prepare his own food, all this instant ramen might have started to take a toll on his psyche. He ate his meal in silence before throwing both containers in the trash. Jeno knew he had to work on his essay for one of his classes but for a moment he just felt the need to relax for a bit, especially now that he didn’t have to rush over to his job at the library. Taking out his phone, he quickly replied to the group chat of his friends where they were animatedly planning a trip to the cinema on Friday which Jeno had to decline. Not only did he have a shift at the bar but he also didn’t really have the money for it. Sighing he locked his phone again. Well that went great, now he was stressed again. “Bongsik you love me right?” He asked and turned towards his cat again who was lounging next to him on the floor, her belly full with delicious food. Oh to be a cat...

Jeno sighed again when his cat of course didn’t answer. He really was going insane. But it was going to be worth it, he reminded himself again. Once this was all over he would be a vet and able to help all kinds of animals. He would make good money and could pay off his tuition slowly and maybe a couple of years later he could even have his own medical practice. But to have all that, he really needed to up his grades. Especially this godawful anatomy grade. Groaning Jeno got up from the floor to plop down on his desk and start his laptop that made an awful lot of noise while booting up. Knowing that it took the device a good two minutes give or take to completely be ready, he started to go through his notes again before typing them into the document where he compiled all his notes just to have them all nice and neat in one place.

By some ungodly hour in the morning, Jeno’s eyes started to close more and more often on their own accord and the letters on the screen started to blur together despite wearing his glasses. “We should probably call it a night, Bongsik,” he spoke into the silent room, his cat already fast asleep at the foot of his bed. Fondly smiling at her, he saved his progress on both his notes and his essay and shut down his laptop. Jeno didn’t really dare to look at the time, so he just quickly grabbed his stuff for the bathroom and got himself ready for bed in the vacant bathroom he shared with a couple of other students. But at this time it was almost guaranteed to be empty.

Once back in his dorm, Jeno quickly climbed under the covers and plugged his phone in to make sure his alarm would actually go off in about 4 hours. Even though he was dead tired now that his body was surrounded by the warmth of his bed, a notification caught his attention. Leeching off of the free wifi at the record store, he had downloaded the app that came with the sugar baby site praying it would work on his outdated phone which it luckily did. Maybe the programmers had actually thought about broke students with shitty phones just like him for once. Taking a deep breath, Jeno clicked on the notification that had told him that a potential benefactor wanted to text him. Well that was quick. A lot quicker than he had anticipated. When the app had finally loaded with the shitty wifi he definitely not stole from his dorm neighbor (he had set his password as 1234, he was begging to have it stolen), a profile of a woman showed up. She smiled warmly in the picture she had chosen and it seemed to be taken at some tropical place judging by the palm trees in the background. Jeno quickly skimmed through the rest of her profile that only said that she wasn’t that much older than him. Well she was but not to the extent where she could have been his mother - ew. As her job she just had just listed estate agent. Did that pay well? Jeno didn’t know. His thumb hovered over the pastel button that said ‘accept’. If he would press this, this wasn’t just a ‘I’ll take a look at this app for Donghyuck’s sake’ then he was actually invested. But even if he accepted, he was not entitled to the woman. He could still say no if she turned out to be a creep. Hell, he didn’t even have to meet her ever if he didn’t like chatting with her. Before his courage could leave him, Jeno quickly accepted the offer and a new page opened that looked just like every other messenger.

To: Jenonono You’re up late.

What a weird way to open up a conversation. But it certainly was better than perverted innuendos or a ‘hi’ like Jaemin was continuously whining over whenever he had reinstalled tinder. But what was he supposed to reply? Should he try to act cute and coy? Was that what she would be looking for? But before he could even type anything, she had sent another message.

To: Jenonono You don’t seem like the typical boy you find on here.

What was that supposed to mean?

From: Jenonono I’m not? what are those like then?

To: Jenonono They’re not as handsome as you.

At that Jeno flushed a deep red color. He wasn’t used to such blatant flirting.

To: Jenonono I really like the blonde on you but the darker color is cute as well.

From: Jenonono it’s dark right now

As soon as he hit send, Jeno wanted to hit himself. What was she supposed to answer to that message? God he was such an idiot.

To: Jenonono Cute. Are you nervous?

From: Jenonono I have never done this before and didn’t think someone would message someone like me

To: Jenonono I haven’t been doing this for long either. And what do you mean by ‘someone like me’?

From: Jenonono you said yourself that I’m not the typical boy you would find on here...

To: Jenonono Well occasionally there is a diamond between all the rocks.

Jeno wasn’t sure if this was even an actual saying but it made him feel warm nevertheless.

From: Jenonono you’re pretty forward with your flirting

To: Jenonono Am I making you shy, baby?

As if to prove her point, Jeno almost choked on his own saliva, coughing loudly which ultimately woke up Bongsik who threw him a very much not amused gaze. He hadn’t known that just reading the word baby would have such an effect on him. A voice in the back of his head that sounded a little too much like Donghyuck called him a ‘bottom bitch’. Biting his lip he contemplated whether he should flirt back. Up until now it was fun talking to her. And he still had nothing to lose.

From: Jenonono What if I maybe blushed just the smallest bit?

To: Jenonono You’re so cute. I’m glad I found you. But you should go sleep, baby. It’s late already.

From: Jenonono shouldn’t you be asleep as well then?

To: Jenonono I just came back from a long flight and my bed seems a little lonely.

Was this his chance to get a little flirtatious himself? Was she testing him?

From: Jenonono would you want me there with you? so it’s not as lonely?

To: Jenonono That does sound very tempting, baby boy. Let me take you out for a meal before I take you to bed.

Jeno’s breath caught in his throat for a little before he broke out in little giggles. He had completely forgotten how good it felt to feel wanted between all the stress that his life currently was. Maybe but just maybe Donghyuck had been right and this truly could be the solution for many of his problems.

From: Jenonono is that an invitation?

To: Jenonono How does lunch tomorrow sound like baby? I’ll treat you to something delicious.

Gnawing at his thumb, Jeno read the message over and over. He didn’t even know the woman. Meeting up with her might be a risk. For all he knew she could be a serial killer.

To: Jenonono I know this is sudden. But I want to get to know you better. Face to face. Not just over a stupid text box.

Taking a deep breath, Jeno took all his courage and replied with shaking fingers.

From: Jenonono I have a little break between my last class of the day and before I have to go to my part time job.

To: Jenonono There is a cute little bistro not too far from where I remember the main dorm buildings were. [link attached]

Clicking on the link, a website opened and showed him a French-style bistro that judging by the address was right between his dorm and the record shop. He should be able to do it. Curiously he clicked on the menu and immediately regretted it. The prices were ridiculous. For the price of a simple piece of bread, he could easily feed Bongsik and himself for two days.

From: Jenonono isn’t this a little too much?

To: Jenonono Let me spoil you, baby. Just tell me the time and I’ll make sure that I can be there.

From: Jenonono would around one work for you?

To: Jenonono I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to meeting you. Now sleep tight and have sweet dreams, baby.

From: Jenonono maybe I’ll even dream of you

Screaming into his pillow, Jeno threw his phone away. He couldn’t believe that he just send that. Quickly grabbing his kitten, he pressed his face into her soft fur while she struggled in his hold. “Bongsik I have a date,” he whispered, “An actual date. With a potentially very rich woman. I can’t believe I actually did that.”

#jeno #nct #lee jeno #kafenetwork #neosmutcollective #nct dream #jeno fluff #jeno smut #nct fluff #nct smut #jeno imagines #jeno scenarios #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct dream imagines #nct dream scenarios #nct dream fluff

[dom--minnie]

Ready

Content: historical fantasy au (eh???), non-graphic death, injuries, violence, lemme know anything else?

Word count: 1494

Unofficial sequel to ease by @fizzydrink698 ! I was just inspired by Fi’s big brain, as usual really. And read hers first of course

You stand beside the king, anticipating the next few minutes of your life. It has all been coming to this, the last few years of hard work finally coming to fruition. The king turns his head slightly in your direction, to where he knows you are standing and waiting in the shadows.

"Come forward. I want them to see the cause of their undoing."

The request doesn’t surprise you, but it does make you sigh and take an extra second before doing as you were told. A few more minutes, seconds even, by now, and then… and then you would be free. Your family would be free, finally free from the debt that had bound you here.

The last 2 years have admittedly been easier, fun even, if you will. Being around the Thunderous camps was easier than being in the tense atmosphere of the castle. With the Thunderous soldiers everything had felt more like camaraderie, and less like anyone and everyone wanted you to fail. That didn't matter. It didn't matter how badly you craved attention and friendship like that, this was what your life was like now.

The harsh kicking in of the door startles you from your thoughts. Almost reflexively, you step back before a harsh glare from the advisor stops you. Right, you are a sign of what Thunderous had lost and would lose.

Two soldiers drag Chan in and you almost wince at how bad he looks. A black eye, puffy cheeks, and a good number of cuts on his arms. Still, he doesn't look up or make a sound as they scrape his knees across the rough carpet. Not too kindly, the guards toss him onto his knees at the bottom of the throne steps. When he doesn't look up one of them kicked his side and the heavy wince told you there’s at least bruising there, knowing those two, likely much more.

His eyes, the warm, brown eyes that you got so used to looking at. Now, when they land on you it is only with disdain and betrayal. You know it’s deserved, but that doesn't stop the hurt that comes along and tugs at your heart. Still, you preserve your features in passivity, not betraying how much you still care. Caring can't put Chan back in his untouchable leader position, and caring would never free your family from that prison.

"Bang Chan. Or Chris, whatever it is you go by now."

Chan's nose wrinkles at the way the king spat out his name, not seeming to know or care about the danger he is in.

"I'd rather you keep your name out of your dirty mouth entirely, honestly."

The same guard kicks Chan's side again and the gasp followed by heavy breathing is heard by the whole room.

"Now, now, Seb. Be nice to our guest. Even if I wish that filthy dogs like him didn't have tongues to speak."

Chan scowls and rolls his eyes, keeping his head up for the king to see.

"Am I just here so you can insult me or is there a reason I was kicked about 17 times on the journey?"

You instantly know that Seb was responsible for many of his visible injuries then. Some of them may have been from the initial capturing but the bruises are an extra gift from Seb for sure. Despite that, Chan still looks strong. He has a set to his shoulders that showed his strength, and his constant back talk shows no fear. You’re impressed, honestly. Usually, by the time people get back to the castle they are silent and resigned, beaten mentally and physically.

"Of course. You are to be put to trial for many things. Would you like to know the full list or shall we just get on with throwing you into your cell? I'm sure your fellow rats will be happy to see you."

The amount of comparisons to dirty animals, this is getting boring. You may think that such a famed speaker would have more creative insults, but alas, here you are having to listen to the same thing again and again.

"I'm sure most of them are garbage so I'll pass. Though, I do wonder how many of them are your crimes just passed on to me?"

You raise an eyebrow at Chan's boldness. He has never said it outright but most people in the castle know that the king is doing less than savoury activities to try and turn people against Thunderous.

"Soldier."

Despite the number of soldiers in the room, you know he means you. With an inward sigh you step forward and kneel in front of him.

"My liege, what can I do for you?"

Your head is down and that's why you don't see the same 2 guards stepping away from Chan and grabbing hold of your shoulders.

"Now that you've done such a wonderful job completing this quest, I think you're due a reward."

They pull you up and the shock freezes your body. The king looks down upon you as they drag you away.

"Into the dungeon. That way you can be with your family again! Isn't that what you wanted after all?"

Before you can even think again the room explodes with light. When your eyes and mind recover there are stones falling from the walls and the edges of fabric are singed. Hurriedly, you put out the embers on your clothes, the flames burning with the slightest touch. Chan isn't as weak as he had appeared before and is now standing at the centre of  the flames. He is untouched and you’re slightly awed by the demonstration of his power. Not full out, he isn't well enough for that, but it’s telling as to how much you should be fearing for your life right now.

A single glance to the throne tells you that the court warlock had appeared and stolen the king away before too much damage could be done. Heavy steps start towards you and you fall to your knees, praying only that he will make it quick.

The footsteps stop and you look up at Chan when he says and does nothing. The look on his face is indecipherable to you, even with how long you've spent with him.

"Everything you did, and he still threw you to the dogs like that?"

It takes your brain a moment to catch up. The king was absolutely preparing to throw you in the dungeons. After the years of endless work that you did for him, and he was just never planning to follow through on it. The thought nearly makes you sick to your stomach. That, and what he may have told your family in the meantime. At this point, they might think you're dead or have abandoned them and moved on.

"I... Please, just don't kill me before I get them out. After that, I am yours to deal with. I wouldn't blame you for anything you do."

The words are hard to choke out and your voice ends in a whisper. Knowing that you're signing yourself off to the mercy of someone you betrayed is practically a death sentence.

You seem to forget it's Bang Chan you're dealing with.

"Do you want to come back to the Thunderous camp with me?"

What? Your confusion is more than obvious on your face and Chan laughs a little before speaking again.

"After we get your family out of those gross dungeons, of course. Do you want to come join Thunderous with me? Officially this time, not so you can plan for my kidnapping again."

You wince at his carefree way of speaking about the horrible actions that have certainly happened to him over the last week or so. The last year if you’re counting all your spying.

"So... wait. You're not killing me?" Chan shakes his head once. "And you want me to actually join you? Even though the last time that happened..." Chan nods his head twice.

"Bang Chan. You're either very kind or very stupid. I hope I'm right about which one it is."

You take one more look around the room at the people who you were often with over the last few years. It's strange to see them completely unmoving, and it'll take a while to sink in that you'll never see them again.

"Okay," you breathe out heavily. Starting to stand up your knees wobble a little, even if you thought you got over the adrenaline from before. Chan's hand shoots out to your shoulder to steady you. When you don't stop him he grabs one of your hands to help pull you up as well.

He's warm, so warm, and you immediately miss it as soon as he steps away.

"Ready?" He asks, a small smile on his face.

"Ready." You say, mirroring the smile.

You've said it to your captains a thousand times, but this time, you really mean it.

#stray kids drabbles #stray kids scenario #stray kids oneshot #bang chan imagines #bang chan x reader #bang chan scenarios #chan scenario #chan drabble #chan x reader #stray kids x reader #my writing #skz scenario #skz oneshot #skz imagine

[idga-buck]

Some and Others, 1/?

Bucky wasn’t looking for a relationship, he was looking for a good night’s sleep, but when he found you he got more than he bargained for.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 5,758

Content: swearing, soft smut (18+ only), Bucky being clueless, IW and EG just didn’t happen? idk, everyone’s alive and living in the compound #classic, also me fitting in a bunch of information that probably wasn’t necessary for the first chapter but what’s a story without a sturdy foundation?

After a mission, Bucky is some kind of way. Steve is too careful with him, but he doesn’t exactly blame the captain. Plus as an uncommissioned officer, 70 years without promotion, who is he to disagree. Maybe he isn’t ready for a life of avenging. Certainly isn’t ready for the questions that will follow another sleepless night, so Bucky didn’t stay in. He went out.

His memory wasn’t what it used to be, but Bucky recognized your street the second he’d stepped onto it. He’d parked his bike in the grassy alley on his right, gotten coffee at the Caribbean supermarket across the street when he finally left that afternoon. Technology wasn’t his strong suit, despite his depth of interest in it. There was etiquette and a way to do things that were as nuanced as they were mysterious. Bucky often wondered if people just lived by their own set of rules, leaving everyone else in the dark and only interacting with the persistent few who engaged correctly. He didn’t have the patience for that sort of thing. Shuri reminded him of that more than he cared for, but in terms of debts owed, he could smile through her jokes for a lifetime after the second chance she’d given him.

Bucky Barnes was a ladies man… at some point in his life, but more accurately, his life had been colored with women stronger than him since the day he was born. His mother was the first to hold him, followed shortly after by the older sister who tried to sell him to the milkman. Luckily Mr. Spenser wasn't in the market for a throw away babe and Bucky got to grow up in a house dominated by women. His sister, his mother, his grandmother with the accent that was just gibberish outside of their living room, the two more sisters that were welcomed in after him, though he’d never dream of bartering them away for bubble gum. They were all loud, but kind and could always bring a smile to his face. Even still. Rebecca, the most distant in age, but the closest in spirit, was still living. His baby sister was all grown up to the point of growing back down, shrinking in on herself the way old women do. Bucky made regular trips to the Alzheimer’s care center, sitting with her and loving her as only a brother could. Though her recollection of recent history was gone, Rebecca Barnes could still pinpoint the exact moment that all her girlfriends fell in love with her brother, which made Bucky shake his head and laugh. Her CNAs were worried for her mind when Rebecca introduced them to her big brother, looking closer to a man in his 30s than a man from the 30s, but he assured them that she was correct. He hadn’t changed a bit, she told him with two wrinkled hands on his cheeks. In appearance, not as much as he should have, but in all the other ways people usually mean, Bucky couldn’t feel more disconnected from the man he was when Rebecca was all bright eyes and secret kisses under the corner store awning. Bucky had no problem leveling those boys with a stare back then, but now most of them wouldn’t think twice before using their canes as a switch across his shins just for cocking an eyebrow in their direction. Talking to his mother wasn’t possible anymore and his sister wasn’t in a state to give out girl advice. Shuri was on another continent. Natasha… was Natasha and he would never ask for her help with something like this. Wanda was usually awake late at night when he was, but she was still so young.

Bucky looked up from the street, noting your second floor windows were dimly lit. Golden squares stood out against the bricks, blackened by the late hour, and through the gauzy curtains he spotted movement. Without his mother to advise against it or Shuri to give him something better to do, Bucky reached for his phone and scrolled through the recent calls. You’d called yourself before he left, but thinking that he wouldn’t see you again, Bucky hadn’t actually saved the number. Something of a bad habit, he noted, scrolling through lines and lines of unrecognized and unsaved phone numbers, hoping he’d just know it when he saw it. He didn’t.

Until one appeared on its own, presenting him a choice. Answer or reject. A simple question with unknown consequences. Rejecting the call seemed safer, so Bucky pressed the red circle and resumed his search.

“Weren’t you a spy or something?” Your voice drew Bucky’s eyes up from his phone screen to the now open window above his head. You were leaning out a bit, the posture helping your voice to carry over the surprisingly still busy street.

“Somethin’,” he grinned, pocketing the useless device. Both hands secured in his jacket, Bucky tipped back on his heels to get a better look at you. “Gonna invite me up?”

You shrugged and planted your palms against the window sill to lift yourself up. Even from that angle, Bucky was transfixed by your cleavage. Subtle under the tank top you wore, but he remembered it fondly. As if you could hear his thoughts, your arms snapped closed over your chest, bringing the colorful wings of a kimono with them, shielding yourself with floral patterns and defensive body language that made him take a step backwards. “You didn’t call…” you said and though accurate, your accusation made Bucky regret what he was about to do. After waking from the best night’s sleep of his life, he said he’d call you. No amount of self love could bring that much refreshment into his life and the feeling of waking up after a deep and dreamless sleep was enticing enough. The sex was good for a one off sort of thing, Bucky would even say great, but the sleep that came after… he hadn’t been able to replicate it yet. The lure of a good night's sleep and the softness of your body against all of his rough edges were too strong to stop him now. He was committed to this indiscretion, but before he could defend himself, you’d moved on, already smiling again. “And you just ignored my call.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed and lifted in quick succession before he pulled the phone from his pocket again. Saved. And for good measure, he pulled it up to his ear again. You frowned, turning away from the window, presumably to look for your phone. The glass slid shut behind you and Bucky bounced on the balls of his feet while he waited for the metallic purr in his ear to be replaced by something even better.

“What are you doing?” You said over the line.

“Hey, it’s Bucky-“ he heard you stifle your own laughter with a choked ‘oh my god’ in the background. “Remember me?” You hummed and Bucky waited with his eyes on your window. When you didn’t return, he kept talking. “I know it’s late, but I was just in the neighborhood-“ another quiet giggle made him smile as he spoke. “You up?”

“Is this Bucky Barnes’ first booty call?” You asked.

“I guess it is…” he said, half his mouth curving up even though you couldn’t see it. “How’m I doin’ so far?” There was a pause and Bucky started moving toward your door on instinct. It was illogical to think something had happened in those few seconds, but after the day he’d had Bucky didn’t feel confident ruling it out. “Making me nervous out here, doll.”

“You’re doing just fine,” you assured him and Bucky leaned back against the door in relief. “I was about to go to bed… but since you came all this way-“ the end of your sentence was cut off by the loud buzzing in his ear as the lock on the door disengaged from above. Bucky stepped into the first hall, street lamp making the small row of Golden mailbox fronts glitter, and leisurely took the first few steps up. “Better hurry,” you sighed and Bucky stopped, foot hovering over the next step. “Door’s unlocked and I’m already naked.” Bucky was in your apartment and snapping all three locks into their closed position before you’d had the chance to hang up from his impromptu phone call.

You fucked him slowly that night. The rush he felt taking your stairs two at a time dissipated once he was in your bedroom. It wasn’t as frantic or fumbling as it had been the first time and Bucky was happy for the change. When he’d followed you home from the bar, it seemed that both of you had an understanding. One night only, so make it count. It was hard and fast, but so so good. Even the next morning’s repeat and the finale in your shower before he finally pulled away sated had been more like back to back sprints than whatever this gentle marathon was. As if you could feel the stress that Bucky needed to let go of, you moved carefully around him. Totally bare in the bluish glow of the bathroom plug in that lit the scene before him, you took your time undressing Bucky and placing his hands back at his sides whenever he tried to help move things along. When you dropped to your knees, leaving him open and vulnerable standing naked in the middle of your bedroom, he made a sort of wounded noise that made him want to bolt, but didn’t seem to bother you. If anything it spurred you on, drawing more whispers from his rosebud lips until he couldn’t take it anymore. For the first time in his life, Bucky begged for more attention. Not the teasing he did on street corners- come on, baby, you’re breaking my heart here- when a dame tried extra hard to resist his charm. This was real pleading as if he thought he’d die frozen in place without your heat to revive him.

He’d made the right choice. Bucky decided while lying across your bed, one hand twisted up in your pillow case while the other was splayed across your bare thigh, that he’d done the right thing coming to you for this. He could have gone back to that bar or a different one and gone home with another girl just like he had with you, but then he’d be missing the view from under you. Having a new girl everytime Bucky found himself feeling restless sounded exhausting. He’d also determined that his mother would be incredibly disappointed in him if he had rows and rows of unsaved phone numbers from girls that didn’t know they were being used. Finally and maybe most importantly in that moment, Bucky didn’t want to start over with someone brand new. He liked your crumpled linen sheets, liked the smell of ink from the printing studio beneath your apartment. While you rode him to mutual satisfaction, he liked the way your hips rolled sensually over his, liked the slick grind and the dull bite of your nails against his stomach. He liked that after your first, when he asked you to slow down again and extended his hands to you, you took each of them without hesitation. Supporting your weight on outstretched arms, Bucky got to enjoy your hands in his while you gasped out a second. If it had been your first time sleeping together, you’d probably be too prideful or embarrassed to admit that you were tired. He wouldn’t have gotten to hear that whine when you asked if he was close and he replied -smugly- not at all. If it had been your first time together, he’d probably be too prideful or embarrassed to ask you how you wanted him. He wouldn’t know how sweet it felt to have your back pressed up against his chest and he wouldn’t have known to turn you onto your side so he could slip in from behind you. Bucky was so comfortable in your bed with your knee hitched up over his hip, body totally open to his roaming hands. He made the right choice coming back to you and as he finished with a grunt, both arms wrapped around you tight while your arm was bent over his head, gripping his hair with the perfect amount of tension, he’d already decided to make it again.

The next morning, Bucky was refreshed, feeling like a brand new man. That was the feeling he’d been chasing last night or rather very early that morning, but the tightening in his lower body followed by ultimate release was a fine way to get there. Just like last time, he’d woken up alone only to find you in the bathroom, washing sleep from your eyes and fixing your face. His enhanced hearing meant he could listen to the tap running and the echoing “puh” of you spitting into the sink without having to open his eyes. Comfortable and naked against your pillows letting the familiar sounds tell the story of your morning routine. He didn’t mind waiting as long as you crawled back in beside him like last time. Bucky only peeked twice before he heard the zipper of your makeup bag close and the magnet on your medicine cabinet snap shut behind the mirror. You were back with him in a moment and he turned toward your scent, aloe fresh deodorant and sharp minty breath beckoned him closer and he hummed against your lips. If he cared to move, he’d swallow down the remainder of your mouthwash then swap cool kisses until his tongue tingled against yours, but he was so comfortable. Even more so once you’d laid across his chest, bumping your nose and chin against his until he opened his eyes. Bucky dropped his arms heavily across your back, keeping you planted against him, though you hadn’t struggled or made any moves to leave him. He couldn’t have that with someone new. If he swapped your number for someone else’s, he’d have to flirt and wade through the post sex awkwardness again. He’d have to go out more and hope his charm would work on another. He’d have to perform for them the way he had for you the first two times. The third, in your shower, was messy and wet and fun despite the soap in his eyes, which you wiped away for him while his hands were occupied by holding you up. He wouldn’t have that with someone new until he made it happen and frankly he didn’t want to make it happen. Not yet. Not when you were still cute and still into him and still happy to hear from him even at 2 in the morning when he looked like a creep under your window. Why trade all that just to say he could have another then another? Sex was good. That morning stuff was good too. If it was the orgasm that made him feel alive again, then the warmth of your bed and your lips drifting lazily down his chest was what made life worth living. One gal was enough for him. You were enough.

Bucky hadn’t even noticed that he was drifting off again until you spoke. He didn’t hear you, but he sure it didn’t matter and responded with some ta sentiment of his own. “Thanks. For this.”

“Thank you,” you corrected and he smirked at that, eyes still blissfully closed. “Hey, uh— Bucky…” You sounded nervous and he had to force his eyes open at the sound of your voice shaking around his name. You must have noticed his sudden concern and placed a hand soothingly over his chest. “I just…” you bit your lip and Bucky watched the wheels churn behind downturned eyes. It was sweet, the way you could flip from bold and sexy to this. An errant curl fell out of its place and he felt the desire to pull that twisty rebel between two fingers before moving it back to follow the part you’d intended all the up to his second knuckle. Your hair was the kind he wanted to touch over and over. Not because it was your hair per se, but rather because it didn't have that acrid home perm smell or a hundred little pins holding it in place like his sisters and the other girls he ran around with. They spent hours on their waves and rolls, but you flipped a fist full to one side, fluffing it with your fingers when you wanted his attention and damn if it didn’t work everytime. Before he knew it, a vibranium finger against your temple, following the curve of your ear. Your stunned look made Bucky chuckle. He even patted your cheek in encouragement. After a beat, you were gathered again. Another breath and you spoke. “I just wanted to say, I don’t really do this sort of thing.” His eyebrow shot up at that and you scrambled to correct yourself. “Not this,” you half laughed then gestured to his naked body and yours, hardly clothed. “The bringing strangers home from bars thing. I definitely wasn’t expecting to see you again- not that I didn’t love it- I just didn’t want you to think-“

“I think you’re amazing,” he said quickly to assure you he didn’t think anything else. He wouldn’t either. Couldn’t even imagine anything else after making an ass of himself at your first meeting. He’s felt so out of place and vulnerable and ridiculous trying to take you home the night you’d met, but you hadn’t made him feel wrong or silly for it. For that alone he was grateful. For the sex that followed, even more so. You’d met him with just enough teasing to keep him engaged, but not so much that he felt like he was an unwanted addition to your night and whenever his eyes drifted away like he wanted to run and forget the whole stupid idea, you gently guided him back, eyes and words making it clear that you wanted him too. It was a mutual feeling of desire, as simple as it was complicated. Bucky wanted to keep it simple though, if for no other reason than to keep seeing your awkward smile duck into his neck at the eagerness in his voice. He touched your face again and repeated himself. “I don’t think anything… just that I’m glad I met you… and I’d like to keep seeing you.”

You smiled at him and whatever silliness he felt in his confession evaporated. It was the right thing to say. You sighed and leaned in again like you were going to kiss him, before stopping short and looking up at him through your lashes. “I don’t think I can say no to you.”

“Then don’t,” he said, but it felt like begging again as he hoisted you higher up on his chest to kiss you again. The conversation was over and if you weren’t going to say no to him, then he wanted to start his morning with as many breathy yeses as he could get.

Random serendipitous encounters became less random and serendipitous with every passing week. Bucky was feeling lighter, yet somehow more whole. Boy, did he need that. A woman’s lovin’ will do that for you. He vaguely recalls one soldier or another making similar remarks while he was in Italy. Bucky’s blue eyes belonged to the nurses back then, as his own innocence slowly died with each body dropped by his own marksmanship. This new world, new century he now had to navigate was so different. His enemies weren’t always flesh and blood, even the ones that did bleed bled out in black and blue not Nazi red. Aliens, other worldsmen, some very human psychos with eerily familiar ideologies about who was of value and who was not. Bucky fought next to his friend, spilling blood of all colors when necessary, bearing the stains that Captain America couldn’t as a paragon of justice and honor. Then when the ringing in his ears got too loud, he sought you out. Over and over again. He never showed up unannounced and you always answered his call, even when you shouldn’t. You truly didn’t know how to say no to him and he truly didn’t want you to.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bucky knew it wasn’t love, but he didn’t care. It felt good and it felt right and against his better judgment it helped him sleep at night, knowing you were only a half turn away, hugging your pillow, but content to wrap your arms around him instead as long as he asked. And he asked. When he wasn’t in your bed, it helped him stay sane, knowing that someone in the world was waiting on him, caring from a distance, maybe praying for his return. In the Big War, his mother prayed for him. His sisters too. In these mini wars, fought stealthily around the globe, he had you.

Rebecca was still blessedly alive, but his baby sister only remembered him when she saw his face. He would bet that you remembered him even as he schlepped through the mountains of Siberia for the last time. Always Siberia. Evil men must be allergic to sunlight. Sam had jokingly asked him why he always went back and Bucky had jokingly thrown the Falcon’s coffee away, leaving Sam’s hand empty and his mouth full of indignant teeth sucking. That briefing was blessedly brief and Sam didn’t need the rest of his coffee anyways. The flight via jet was longer, but not as horrible as it could have been. Steve’s sympathetic glances were unbearable. It’s the last time, Buck. Yeah, OK. The mission was a success, if you could call it a mission. Sam spun magnificently through the mouth of a cave while Bucky fired back into it, detonating the whole mountainside and leaving this particular Cold War remnant under an avalanche of snow and well kept secrets, never to be reborn. Steve dealt with the press. He had the face for it. Reputation too. Sam soaked up the due praise that came along with it, the next Captain America with his wings and his wit to carry avenging into the 21st century. Bucky, however, peeled off his heavily armed get up and peeled out of the compound without any formal announcement.

When Bucky left for long periods, most assumed he was doing what Steve Rogers would do. Ride around in his bike, traipse through the old neighborhood noting how much it changed. Captain America was the old man, the icon. He had the luxury of wandering. Bucky hadn’t gone anywhere without a mission in mind since the 40’s. He was a soldier, a weapon and while his mind could no longer be weaponized against him, Bucky was still the guy taking care of things that just wouldn’t wash out of Captain America’s shiny cowl. So when he left the compound, no one asked questions. At least not directly to him, something he was thankful for on the hour or so ride to your place. The Bronx apartment was considerably closer than a nostalgic walk through Brooklyn and he got a lot more out of it. He had no mission in Brooklyn, but you were waiting for him and that was enough.

This particular mission was no different. Steve asked him to stay on site and he declined politely as he could without actually stopping to talk to his friend. Natasha called out his hurried steps and followed him halfway to the garage before giving up at his request. It was glaringly obvious to Bucky how they got along so well. Steve and Natasha were quite the pair. Tenacious friends, like the kind of friends that never give up and definitely won’t let you give up on yourself. He saw it in her fierce allegiance and protectiveness over Clint. Now that Steve was huge and well connected in the Avenging community, Bucky supposed that made him the Barton to Steve’s Romanoff. They were insufferable do gooders too. Sure, Natasha had her fair share of red in her ledger, but once she was with the good guys, she was the best of them. Neither one would hesitate to throw themselves on a grenade or over a cliff if it meant someone else’s chance to live. They were do it or die trying people. Sam was… Sam was Sam. And when he spotted Bucky making a beeline to the exit, he just waved and shouted “have a good ride.” The wink was uncalled for and made Bucky question how much Sam really knew. He was a deadly intuitive little shit and despite Bucky’s best attempts not to even think it… one of the best people he’d ever known. Not that he felt the need to tell Sam that. He probably already knew it. Blessedly, Bucky ran into no other superheroes on his way through the compound. The garage, more like a hangar, was empty. Only the most expensive toys in Tony Stark’s arsenal and a high tech key coded workshop that Bucky felt so out of place in he kept a small tool box of his own so he wouldn’t have to wander through it. God forbid he go digging for a socket wrench and laser one of his fingers off. Anything was possible on Stark property.

Bucky zipped across the Hudson and sped toward the zoo, stopping at the deli on the corner and looking up two floors at the flat corner window. You weren’t waiting for him like usual. He’d pulled off the road once he got away from the compound and called you like he always did, giving you plenty of advance warning. It would be more gentlemanly to ask your permission before leaving home, but you hadn’t turned him down yet and if you ever did, he figured he’d keep driving anyways just to be away from everyone else for a while. Most times, when Bucky rounded the corner, slipping his bike into the space between your building and the overgrown lot next door, you found your way to that window, waving him up and putting a little something extra in his steps. You weren’t there, but you knew he was coming, so he made his way to the building’s entrance. A call, a buzz, a knock and Bucky was in your space again, taking a deep breath and inhaling the sweetness from your kitchen.

Your back was turned to him, having opened the door for him before rushing back to your place at the counter without a formal greeting, and Bucky watched curiously as you dropped little chocolate chip cookies onto a paper plate. You waved your fingers around after using your bare hands to pull them off the parchment paper and sucked your thumb between your lips to rid it of a rogue chocolate dripping. Bucky eyed the plate presented to him then looked up into your eyes.

“I googled you,” you said proudly. Bucky nodded and said okay, like he knew what that meant. It sounded sexual, but he hadn’t seen you in a week and frankly, he was more interested in googling than cookies. “It’s your birthday, Bucky! Why didn’t you say anything?” You looked delightfully scandalized and held out two cookies for him, which he accepted with a half smile. They were warm and started to fall apart between his fingers, so he shoved both into his mouth before making a gooey mess of himself. While his mouth was full, you cleaned up your tiny kitchen and dropped the plate onto the coffee table in the living area, talking about how embarrassing it was that you hadn’t thought to look him up sooner, but how lucky you felt that you’d thought about it after he called. You wished you’d had time to make a cake, but wanted to be home when he arrived, so freezer cookies were the best you could do after work.

You weren’t dating. Not really. That was why Bucky hadn’t mentioned it. Steve and Natasha wanted to make a big stink out of it, but he wanted no part of that. He just wanted to see you and get some of that good sleep he only got in your apartment after wearing you out two or three times. Sitting on the couch next to you, he took another cookie from the plate. They were better than they looked and he planned to clear the whole dang thing before taking you to bed. Maybe he’d save a few for the refractory period. You’d need sustenance too. So Bucky took his fourth cookie, which made you smile even wider and pledge to leave the rest for later.

The truth was, Bucky hadn’t celebrated a birthday in decades. The last one he could remember being awake for was in the seventies. He waited outside the governor's mansion in Bermuda for hours, watching a dinner party eventually lull and disperse. The Winter Soldier had no clue of the cruel irony watching another man’s party on one’s birthday, the asset’s only focus was quickly killing the governor and his companion once they stepped out of the house for a walk. He’d spared the dog though, a massive and beautiful beast without a single aggressive bone in its body who loped away from the scene whining. You hated that story when Bucky confessed it. He hadn’t felt the need to go into much detail regarding his time as the fist of Hydra. At first because he didn’t care for you to know. It was a fling. Fun. What pieces he did remember from those days were anything but fun. After determining that he liked you, really liked you, Bucky kept his trap shut for fear of scaring you. You knew who he was in theory, but as long as he wasn’t relaying his bloodiest days to you like he was now, maybe you wouldn’t look at him like the monster he didn’t want to be anymore. To his surprise, you hated that he sat in a tree watching people eat and drink and laugh the night away on his birthday, regardless of whether he knew it at the time. However, you zeroed in on his attempts to spare the dog, filling in the blanks that somewhere deep within the Asset, he had maintained some of his humanity. Some of his Buckyness.

“I don’t know if that helps… or if it makes everything worse…” you said, hesitating to go on, but he caught your meaning. Was it better to think that Hydra succeed in wiping him clean, using only his body and latent memories, discarding his mind all together? Or was it somehow hopeful, to think that in all their trying to eliminate Bucky Barnes in order to free their Asset, some piece of him had remained intact? Bucky wasn’t sure he could stomach the idea that any part of him had been present during grizzly assassinations, nor could he ever fully shake the idea that he wasn’t. Either way, these conversations weren’t what he came to you for.

While you were still looking shy, wondering if you should have stopped him from telling his story, Bucky kissed you. It was sweet, not just from the chocolate on his breath. “Thank you,” he said softly, thumbing a brown smudge at the corner of your mouth. “For the cookies. For listening.” His eyes passed over each of yours in turn. “Thanks for being here.”

“Of course,” you smiled. It wasn’t as obvious as you made it sound, but he liked that you felt it was. “I could be around more, you know.” Bucky didn’t know what you meant, but that became clear in a matter of moments. You sucked in your lips and started again. “I know we haven’t talked about...uh, well, what this is, but you’ve been coming over for a while now and I guess…”

“You guess?” Bucky prompted you to continue, when you trailed off.

“I didn’t expect you to still be calling me, so I guess I’m asking,” you said. “Asking what we are now?”

“Oh.” Bucky hadn’t meant to say it like that, but it came out like that and your eyes widened immediately. He scrambled, grabbing your hands quickly and holding them both in a firm pile against your thigh. “Oh, meaning, I didn’t think that’s what we were doing here, so this is unexpected.”

“Oh,” you respond and Bucky imagines you meant it exactly how it sounded. Disappointed and the single syllable precursor to his being disinvited from your apartment. And your bed. And your everything.

“But, I like the idea,” he supplies quickly, but he can see your look is hesitantly hopeful. “Of more, I mean. Seeing where… ya know.”

“Yeah,” you smile and Bucky breathed out his relief. “So we’re together…?”

“As together as we can be,” he said, having no clue what he meant by it, but it seemed to be the right thing considering how you kissed him. You pulled your hands from his to wrap behind his neck and fit yourself into his lap. Bucky’s hands went to your thighs, spread wide over his hips, and he squeezed his way up the backs to your jean pockets, slipping his hands inside to squeeze again. “Here or…” Bucky pulled away to catch his breath and nod in the direction of your bedroom.

“Take your girlfriend to bed, Bucky,” you laughed, kissing him again and he stood with you still in his arms, legs clinging to his lower back. Girlfriend. Okay, Bucky decided in a snap. He could work with that. Especially if it meant chocolate chip cookies and birthday sex. Which reminded him and you giggled as he turned back around, hoisting you higher up on his torso with the vibranium arm below your butt and stooped carefully to grab the plate of cookies with the other before taking you and your cookies to bed.

His first relationship in the 21st century had surprised him. Come out of nowhere and nothing. One moment he was standing at a bar, nursing a beer that wouldn’t affect him at all while he listened to talk about your job before not so subtly asking about his, the next it was his birthday and he had a mouthful of chocolate chip cookies while you had a mouthful of him. It’s funny how fast life changes. If only he’d known just how quickly his new relationship would fall apart.

A/N: I’ve been cooking up this series for a while now and I thought, why not post the first bit and see what happens. First time writing for this fandom, so we’re diving in head first with a feckin’ long series and some foolin’ around. I do welcome tags if you’re interested.

Masterlist

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #Bucky Barnes fanfic #idga fic #some and others

[tmp-jatp]

we keep him alive

a response to this post by @thedeathdeelers

read on AO3

“You’ll have the sorts of abilities very few other ghosts get to have, very few indeed. The kind of abilities only I have the power to grant you. You’ll get to go and complete that unfinished business you left on this earth when you died. Tie up all the loose ends, and all that. And when you finish and your time is up, you’ll come back to me. Do we have a deal?”

“Wh-what’s the catch?” Reggie’s eyes practically glow in the dim light. They’re wide. His face never looks so young as it does whenever he’s scared.

“A clever one, you. In payment for me allowing you to complete that which you never got a chance to do in your time allotted, in payment for borrowed time, you shall serve my needs for a proportional amount of time. I’ll give you enough time to complete all it is you still need to do, don’t worry about that. You’ll just return to me at the end of it.”

“Service like what?” Alex prompts.

“Oh, nevermind that, that’s for later. What you need to consider now is whether this is worth it to you. Do you want to live your dreams? Find love? Find a true, complete family, a home? More than that measly ragtag band of brothers you three formed. Something real and more? Something alive? Is it worth it for you to have all you ever wanted and more, in return for a few short years of afterlife with me? Come on, boys, it’s an offer you can’t refuse.”

Luke, Reggie, and Alex exchange nervous glances. An entire conversation elapses in a moment through their eyes.

Then Luke takes the lead. He reaches his hand out to shake. He grasps it and they shake, solidifying their deal. After Luke, so do Alex and Reggie.

Their wrists sting, and they look down to see a stain across the skin on the inside of each of their wrists: Three equal lines, arranged in a formation where they reach out from the middle to the points of an equilateral triangle. The dark marks are clearly visible even in the lacking light, etched black against their pale and suddenly clammy skin.

“One more thing, boys. When the time comes, if you are touching anyone but each other, they will be brought back as well, to help pay your debt to me. It’s a way I can get my time returned to me at a quicker rate. Because you know, time is valuable.” He laughs. “You probably know that better now than you ever did while you were alive.

“And how will we know when the time comes?” Luke asks.

“You will know.”

“You know, you don’t seem so wise, for the Wise Man. You’re just a broker for the desperate.”

“Do you want to repeat that, Alexander?”

Alex gulps. His jaw stays clenched. All three of them, probably all four of them know that even though he may just be a ‘broker for the desperate’, they were nothing if not desperate.

“You’ve already made your deal with me. Now it’s time for me to fill my part of it, before you fill yours.”

~~~

The time is coming. Luke can feel it. His mark, his stamp, tattoo, brand, whatever, has been pulsing for months, throbbing for weeks, aching for days, searing for hours. At regular intervals, the pain comes over him for an instant. He’s dealt with it the entire time he’s been here, like a second slower heartbeat in his wrist. A constant reminder that every minute they spent here was borrowed. He grimaces and grips his wrist tightly with his opposite hand. Elsewhere, Reggie and Alex surely hiss through their teeth in tandem with Luke.

Julie is there. Julie is always there. As soon as Luke’s muscles aren’t tensed anymore, he digs his nose even deeper into the skin of her neck and they hold each other tight. Neither wants to ever let go, even though they both know a goodbye is inevitable – and fast approaching.

They’re in the studio, because where else would they ever be? It’s a far cry from how it looked six years ago when they first arrived. The walls are plastered with posters advertising Julie and the Phantoms playing at various venues all across America. The plants have been changed out multiple times in the years Luke has “lived” here. Yet some things also always stayed the same: the pink dahlia curtains on the windows and the knitted throw blanket on the couch. This is home.

The others are spending their final moments with those they found during their second chance. They’ll have forever with each other, but only now with these. Willie. Ray. Carlos. Luke doesn’t blame them for spending every last second with those they’ve come to love most. Isn’t that exactly what he’s doing too?

Except-

The others don’t know yet, what Luke did.

“Please, let me take it from them. You said debts can transfer onto others, so they can transfer onto me. I’ll serve triple the time. I’ll do it.”

Luke winces again but he tries to hide it. Julie notices. Julie always notices. She squeezes her arms around his torso once and starts rubbing her hands up and down his back. She would whisper sweet nothings in his ear if only they could trick themselves into believing nothing was something.

He hears her sniffle. Luke leans back, loosening his arms around her waist. Her hair is a mess but his is even worse. Her eyes are shining but she’s doing her best to keep herself together for Luke. As if, if only she were strong enough, she could bear the weight of both their pain. He swipes away a stray tear on her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

They’re grieving prematurely, because they know there’ll be no opportunity after.

Luke’s mark pulses twice, quickly.

A warning.

Time’s almost up.

Luke pulls away from Julie, and she tries to cling to him.

“Please, Luke-”

“It’s time, Julie. I can’t- You know what’ll happen, if- if we stay like this. I can’t.”

She clings harder. “It’s worth it. To me. It’s worth it.” She’s pleading with him, and his heart shatters. She should never have to plead with anyone. She’s Julie Molina. This shouldn’t be happening to her.

“Not to me, it isn’t. I couldn’t live with myself if you came too.”

Three pulses.

“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.” Her voice breaks and her lips are curling outwards.

He takes a deep breath in and can feel his own eyes threatening to overflow. At once they pull back together in the center of the room. She digs her face into his chest and he envelopes her in his arms. They hold each other tighter than ever before, and Luke can’t bear the thought of trying to let go again.

Four pulses.

Luke buries his face in the hair on the top of her head and presses his lips to her scalp. She turns her head so her cheek is pressed against him and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Julie, I need you to listen to me,” Luke murmurs against her head. His voice is muffled, but amid only the sounds of their two hearts beating, it’s impossible to miss. “It’s going to be okay after I leave. You’re going to be okay.”

She shakes her head – whether that’s a denial that he’ll leave or a denial that she’ll be okay, he can’t tell.

Three pulses. It’s a countdown now.

“Yes, you will,” he insists. “I’ll still be here, in you. Just like your mom, Julie. She’s alive in you.”

“That’s different, Luke.”

“It’s no different at all.”

He reaches around behind his back for her hands and finds them, clutching to the fabric of his shirt. Gently he eases her fingers free and grips her hands in his. He brings them back around to be held between them, forcing space to open up between the two.

Two pulses.

“Luke, please,” she pleads again. “Please, no.”

Luke rubs his thumbs over the back of Julie’s knuckles. They’re white with how hard she’s trying to hold to him. She’s always been his anchor, but today she can’t be anymore. He won’t let it happen.

She brings him in one final time and this time they meet at their lips, in a kiss that doesn’t say nearly everything that is left to be said. Luke knows she’s trying to keep him there long enough that the deadline will pass with them together as one. He keeps one hand intertwined with hers down at their waists, but he draws her other hand up so she can caress his face one more time, the way she always liked to do. His own hand rests on top of hers there.

One pulse.

Now or never.

Luke breaks off the kiss and once again Julie has tears escaping her eyes. “Luke, no,” she makes one last bid to stop him or change his mind. “Let me come, too.”

Luke uses their joined hands to push her away as he feels heat begin to build in his wrist. She stumbles and falls backwards onto the sofa, and he takes three large steps backwards.

He meets her eyes just after she swipes at them with her sleeve. “Keep me alive, yeah?”

“Luke!” Julie calls his name in an anguished cry that haunts him from the moment he hears it. It’s worth it to keep her safe.

The heat rises and rises in his wrist, from a searing red to a white-hot all-consuming pain coursing through his every vein. A scream rips from his throat. He keeps moving away even as his vision begins tunneling, anything to keep her from reaching him before he goes.

The fire burns him up from the inside out, feeling like a constant electrocution of the highest current going through every single pore. His vision tunnels more and more, until everything is black.

And then the pain is gone, and it takes a moment for his cry to melt away, too. He opens his eyes – he didn’t know they’d been squeezed shut tight – and sees that dim dark room he hasn’t seen for six years.

“Welcome back.”

~~

The doors to the studio slam open and Julie startles from her stupor trance. Her eyes widen when they land on Reggie and Alex.

“How are you still here?”

“Where is he?” Alex demands.

Julie shakes her head. She wants the anguish back. She wants the grief back. This numbness is too much. “He- he’s gone. He left. I- I thought you two did too.”

Alex storms through the small space, checking behind large furniture and pounding the bathroom door open as if to make sure Julie wasn’t lying.

“We thought we’d be gone, too,” Reggie explains. “We don’t know what happened.”

Alex returns. “He’s not here,” he growls. “We were supposed to go back, it was supposed to be all three of us. Damn bastard took our place!” Alex slams his fist against the wall.

Julie gapes. “He could do that?”

Alex throws his hands up and paces back along the floor. With Alex’s back to them, Reggie answers.

“Maybe? We think so? I don’t know, it wasn’t really clear.”

“So is he just...gone?” Julie doesn’t like how small her voice sounds. Reggie’s face and Alex’s body say everything. Yes.

“So what are we supposed to do now?” Alex poses to the room.

Julie takes a shaky breath. “We keep him alive.”

taglist: @futurearchaeologyprof @beethovensbitxh @ace-bookworm @queenmolina @molinashimbos @star-astro @sunset-sweeerve @bluefirewrites @reggieshamster @blush-and-books @smolfangirl​ @thedeathdeelers @williexmercer @thesunsetcurvephantom @russsianspy @fanfics-she-wrote @pink-flame @angelofarts @chickwiththepurpleguitar @hey-there-juliet @tonightthestarsalign

#tmp writes #what a fun exercise to get back into writing #angst #idk what kind of au this is it's just some idea #melody and words #juke

[sachas]

TASK: CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT.

BASIC INFORMATION.

Full name: Aleksandr “Sacha” Ruslanovich Tarasov

Nickname: Sacha, Cha Cha ( taking applications for others xoxo )

Birthdate: 17th of December, 1989

Age: 32

Zodiac: Sagittarius Sun, Leo Moon, Scorpio Rising

Gender: Nonbinary

Pronouns: He/him & They/Them ( used interchangeably )

Romantic orientation: Biromantic

Sexual orientation: Bisexual

Nationality: Russian

Ethnicity: Russian

Rank: Dominion

Affiliation: Death

BACKGROUND.

Birthplace: Moscow, Russia

Hometown: Moscow, Russia

Social class: Upper class

Educational achievements: Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in Psychology from The Sorbonne ( mostly paid for with daddy’s money x )

Father: Ruslan “Lana” Yevgenovich Tarasov

Mother: Alexandra “Sanya” Pashovna Tarasova

Siblings: None

Pets: None

Previous relationships: 

Though Sacha prefers to keep his relationships loose, often leaving things without labels, there are a few notable entanglements.

- Saint Warden: The two experience a brief and heady whirlwind relationship ten years ago, one Summer in Paris bringing them close together, high off the drugs and each other. While a young Saint was fast to fall in love, Sacha cuts things off quickly, rathering to keep things casual than let someone become his weakness. Over the years, they reconnect occasionally, their affairs stretching a few days or weeks before the illusion is shattered again, sending Saint off again back home to London.

- Laura Vardhamana: Who’s chasing who here? Maybe that’s half the excitement, Laura plays hard to get with ease and Sacha knows they’ve met their match. Late night hook ups meld into something more, an uncanny amount of time spent together, their relationship developing a seriousness that Sacha’s never experienced. He gets suspicious, uses connections in Death to check out Laura’s tech from a far. There it is — bank statements, withdrawals and transactions made, Sacha’s been conned and is made quite the fool. So they blackmail her, turning the same receipts into threats of prison or Death.

Arrests: Breach of the Peace ( during a Death-staged protest )

Prison time: None

OCCUPATION & INCOME.

Current occupation: Executive Producer, Pale Horse Media / Dominion, Death

Dream occupation: He doesn’t dream about working, only having power

Past jobs: Never truly worked a day in their life x 

Spending habits: As Death’s benefactor, Sacha allocates a certain amount of money from his family funds to the cause. On top of that, their personal spending could be described as excessive, spending mostly on clothes and other impulse buys.

In debt?: Hahaha

SKILLS & ABILITIES.

Physical strength: Average

Speed: Average

Intelligence: Above average

Accuracy: Above average

Agility: Above Average

Stamina: Average

Teamwork: Because he’s so good at manipulating others to bend to his will, Sacha doesn’t mind teamwork, though he would much rather work alone if possible

Talents: Persuasion, Manipulation, making playlists and mean cocktails

Shortcomings: Detached, vain, selfish, jealous 

Languages spoken: Russian, English, French

Drive?: Yes

Jumpstart a car?: No, they have people for that 

Change a flat tire?: No, they have people for that 

Ride a bicycle?: Yes

Swim?: Yes

Play an instrument?: Piano ( strict lessons from his childhood burning scales into his brain )

Play chess?: Yes

Braid hair?: No

Tie a tie?: Yes

Pick a lock?: No, they have people for that 

Cook?: hahaha 

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS.

Face claim: Robert Pattinson my beloved

Eye color: Blue

Hair color: Dirty blonde

Hair type: Mostly straight with waves / 2a curl pattern

Glasses/contacts?: No

Dominant hand: Right

Height: 6’1″ / 185 cm

Build: Lean

Exercise habits: Combat training and the occasional run once or twice a week, Sacha’s definitely not passionate about exercise

Tattoos: General Tattoo Inspo ( x, x, x ) 

Highlights 

- Death Skull on his left shoulder close to collarbone, able to be seen from straight on

- “Тарасов” or Tarasov in Russian under left collarbone 

- a shitty stick n poke pansy on his thigh, given by Saint around ten years ago

- “Ignorant Style” tattooing, really vibe with @/bad.badtattoos on ig’s style ( here, here, here, here, here, here, here, )

Piercings: Earlobes 

Marks/scars: Freckles across skin, though none too pronounced. A few scars from drunken shenanigans gone wrong — Sacha really becomes reckless when he drinks.

Clothing style: Varied. Some days, they’re very casual, slouching on stupid graphic tee with jeans, other days are more like sleek designer boots and trendy, high waisted pants.

Jewelry: On dressed-up days, Sacha might swap his basic silver hoop earrings for something with shine, or might throw on a sleek watch to impress. His family has passed down two items of significance: a signet ring meant for each patriarch of the Tarasov family, and his grandfather’s pocket watch. Neither are worn or used on regular occasion, though might be broken out when Sacha is sent on official Tarasov Media Conglomerate business.

Allergies: None

PSYCHOLOGY.

MBTI type: INTJ - The Architect

Enneagram type:  Type eight - The Challenger  ( independent, stubborn, determined )

Moral alignment: Neutral Evil

Element: Fire

Emotional stability: Sacha keeps emotions hidden well beneath surface, often disguising one emotion as another, whatever is the most useful for the situation. Most of the time, people perceive him as detached and cold, making it hard for him to maintain regular relationships for long.

Introvert or extrovert?: Extroverted

Obsession: Finding people’s weaknesses

Phobias: Snakes! Egads! 

Drug use: Recreational, mainly drugs like ketamine, molly, acid

Alcohol use: Daily, mainly vodka

Prone to violence?: No, would rather use their snakey ways   

Prone to crying?: hahaha, no

Believe in love at first sight?: No

MANNERISMS.

Accent: With years of effort and practice, Sacha manages to disguise his natural Russian inflection with something closer to a Southern English accent, though it’s not perfect and you can hear it on occasion, especially if he’s been drinking

Hobbies: Binging shit TV, giving shitty stick-n-poke tattoos, making shitty tunes on the piano, listening to music, demanding aux privileges 

Habits: Drinking, smoking, lying their ass off

Nervous tics: Clenching jaw

Drives/motivations: Power, control, greed, attention 

Fears: Failure, losing control, submitting to others 

Sense of humor?: Kinda fucked up tbh

Do they curse often?: Tastefully

FAVORITES.

Animal: Bears

Beverage: Iced Coffee or Vodka

Book: Bret Eason Ellis’s American Psycho 

Colors: Green, Purple, Silver

Food: PIZZA! but a childhood comfort food is syrniki 

Flower: Orchids

Gem: Chalcedony

Mode of transportation: Land Rover

Scent: Vanilla, Oud, Tobacco

Weather: Cloudy, breezy

Vacation destination: Swiss Alps

ATTITUDES.

Greatest dream: Becoming bigger and more influential than his father ever was

Greatest fear: Missing a huge opportunity, becoming irrelevant, being controlled 

Most at ease when: exerting control 

Least at ease when: being forced into something

Biggest achievement: Making a name for himself outside of Russia / Becoming the benefactor of Death

Biggest regret: Not negotiating with Uriel to enter Death as a Seraphim x 

#task. #about. #drugs cw #alcohol cw #it's task day for sacha