#but keep framing it in the language of debt

[micamicster]

My favorite thing in the untamed is how at their core all of the relationship conflicts are about fighting for the right to care about each other

[kamiversee]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 9 || The Professor and His Student

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 3.9k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——WITHIN THRITY MINUTES, you're back in Gojo's company. Shoko wasn't home when you got to your apartment so there was no one for you to rant to and you were left still pissed off because of Gojo.

Actually, even if Shoko was home, it's not like she knows anything about the list. And you're not sure if you even want her to know anything about the list. It'd be too embarrassing to explain to her how you got yourself in this position so, you really have no plans on doing so.

The most your roommate knows is that last night you went out on a date. She doesn't know that it's Geto you went on a date with, or that you've slept with both of her friends and you'd like to keep it that way for the time being. There's way too much to explain for you to talk to her.

So ultimately, that leaves you alone in your situation. You have no one to talk to about this, no one to cry to about how Gojo is nothing more than a manipulative dickhead, and no one to release the buildup of emotions he's just given you.

The worst part of it all is that you were starting to put the blackmailing aside. You were starting to even like the idea of playing this little game with Gojo where you have to sleep with some hot guys and get paid for it. But when Gojo reminds you that you don't have the luxury of being comfortable in your situation, you just go right back to disliking him.

When the man showed up at your door to take you with him to his class, you barely exchanged any words. Gojo carefully explained the things his professor was attracted to, saying how he seemed like the kinda guy to be into a woman who looks like she needs help but is actually smart.

You asked Gojo what kinda clothes you should wear, resulting in you wearing a short skirt with stockings that hugged your thighs nicely. You felt a little uncomfortable in it, especially with Gojo's eyes all over you as if he you and him didn't just argue with one another minutes ago.

"Stop staring, you don't have that privilege anymore." You spat out to him as you adjusted the buttons on the shirt you wore.

Gojo's at your room door, leaning against the frame like always. "Come stop me from staring." He blurts out.

He's so used to flirting with you that he couldn't even help himself.

You send him a glare, "You're making things worse, y'know."

He knows. But he doesn't know how to fix it and still get what he wants at the same time. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't." You say simply.

Gojo falls quiet, watching as you move away from the mirror and over to your dresser to spray perfume on yourself. The scent makes its way into his nose and he has to bite back the compliment he nearly gives you.

After that, you put some shoes on and walked over to Gojo, looking up at the man with distaste in your eyes. For a minute, he simply peers down at you.

"...Can you please move?" You sigh tiredly.

Gojo doesn't budge. "Can you hear me out for a minute?"

You can't even believe the audacity of this man. "No."

"Please?"

"What is there to hear out? If I don't do this, you'll expose me. What else is there for you to say?" You ask.

He doesn't even know the answer to that question himself. "It's not what you think it is," Gojo says in the softest voice he can manage.

"Yeah?" You scoff, moving to fold your arms at him. "So what is it then, Gojo?"

"I just..." He trails off for a long moment.

You watch as he glances back and forth between your eyes, clearly having no words for you. You can see the clear regret in his eyes but you ignore it completely-- refusing to let yourself be manipulated by any of his looks.

Slowly, you lean closer to him. "You just what? Spit it out." You urge.

He swallows but remains silent, which leads you to roll your eyes at him. You then shake your head and move him to the side, stepping past him and exiting your bedroom.

"That's what the hell I thought. Now let's go." You say with a sigh.

Gojo's behind you cursing at himself for being unable to tell you the truth.

He's so scared that you'll never help him without the blackmail and, well, he has every right to be because you're pretty sure that if it weren't for those videos he has over your head, you wouldn't be doing any of this.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

The walk to his class isn't long once the two of you get onto campus. It was on the third floor, in a section of the school you don't typically go down. You're not sure if you imagine it but you swear that every person you pass in the halls is insanely attractive.

The men, the women, literally all of them. For a moment you wonder if you're in the fashion department of your school based on the looks of those around you. It makes you wonder what Gojo's major is for a second, realizing you never actually asked him.

Your lips part to do so but... what's the point? You no longer care about getting to know the man anymore. Knowing his major won't help you complete this list any faster so, you end up closing your mouth and keeping quiet as you follow him.

When you get to the class, you notice that most of the room is full and Gojo is within the last group of people to arrive.

You're behind the white-haired man so, his professor lays eyes on him before you. You try to appear as inconspicuous as possible and thanks to the department of attractive and well-put-together people surrounding you, you don't stand out much.

Gojo makes a left to head up the stairs toward, what you assume to be, his seat, and you make sudden and direct eye contact with a tall, overly muscular man you swear isn't the professor.

Oh, there's no way in hell that this dark-haired man with a scar on the right corner of his lips is teaching this class. You refuse to believe that the man standing not too far away from you in a button up shirt that looks like it's seconds away from popping off him, is the damn professor.

Surely, you'd expected the blond man you saw in those pictures Gojo showed you to be a teacher. Definitely not this guy.

Those brown, maybe green, eyes of his skim over your entire body in one quick motion, an eyebrow raising the very second he realizes he's never seen you in his class before. In your hands are a binder and a book that you keep pressed against your chest, slightly fidgeting where you stand with the male's eyes all over you.

You wonder if you should say anything but when the large man looks back down at the papers scattered on his desk in front of him, you get the idea that he doesn't care too much about you being there.

With a sigh, you turn and follow after Gojo, quickly arriving at his seat and sitting beside him. Luckily for you, he's in the very back of the room so you get to sit in the corner with him.

You hadn't planned on learning anything today but, here you are, having no idea what you're getting yourself into.

"Gojo," You whisper and he turns to you. "What subject even is this...?"

"Uh, economics." He hums.

You freeze. "You're joking right?"

"I'm not."

"How the hell am I supposed to explain why I'm here?!" You whisper shout at him.

He shrugs casually, "I dunno."

You scowl. "Of course you don't."

Gojo grimaces at himself for his words, "Okay, well maybe-"

"Nope, save it. I'll figure it out myself." You cut off as you organize the few items you brought with you.

He sighs heavily beside you but you ignore the sound.

The class is steady to begin and your heart increases tenfold in nervousness when the deep baritone voice of the professor hits your ears. It was nothing but a lazy 'afternoon everyone' to greet his students as he went to shut the door but for some reason, it made your nerves spike.

As the professor, whose name you end up figuring out is Mr. Fushiguro, began his lecture, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The room was filled with students who so obviously belonged there. You, a psychology major, genuinely have no excuse to be here right now.

Okay, sure, you may have taken an economics class in high school but, that was high school and it was a required course for you at the time. Now, it'll be a bit difficult to explain why you're there.

Luckily for you, you've been in a similar position before. Except, the last time you were in a situation like this, there were real reasons behind it. You had slipped into one of Shoko's classes and attended that class with her for about three weeks straight-- having needed to use the interactions of her class for a report you were working on.

So in this case, you hope you'll be able to do the same thing and pull this off.

With that in mind, you made sure to actually pay attention to the lecture to ensure that you had something to talk about if or when Mr. Fushiguro questions you.

As you did that, Gojo sat beside you unable to pay attention to anything aside from the woman attentively taking notes beside him. He couldn't help but stare at you with his cheek resting against his knuckles, watching the way you were taking real notes on the class.

He gazed at the side of your face, getting lost in his mind as he tried to think of ways to fix things. He wondered if the two of you could just brush over the argument. It's not like he didn't blackmail you before and you guys didn't move on from that.

Or maybe it was just him who'd moved on. Perhaps you're still worried about the situation you were in. It'd only been a few days since it started, not even a full week yet.

Gojo's so busy thinking that he hasn't realized he's still staring at you. When he does realize it though, he doesn't stop. Instead, the male goes on to admire you. This is probably one of the only times he'll get to be near you going forward.

I hate you, the words still echo in his mind. He's so pissed at himself for it. He should've never even done this. Maybe he could've found someone else to go and seduce these people for him, not you-- Gojo likes you.

Wait, he... likes you? Gojo blinks at his own thoughts, wondering if that's what's wrong with him. Maybe that's why he felt these urges to kiss you or be around you or even make you smile and laugh...

He finds himself replaying the events of that morning over and over. It was perfect. To wake up to you kissing him so softly, to have you in his arms all night, and to even bond a little with you without it being about the list.

It was-

"Gojo," You hummed, breaking him out of his mind entirely. Your gaze was down on the paper in front of you as you spoke, "Do you like your eyes?"

His brows pinch together and you hear him scoff a little bit, "Yeah...?"

"Wanna keep 'em?" You question sarcastically.

He blinks, "Uh, yes...?"

You turn your head to him and your voice is low and an agitated whisper, "Then stop fucking staring at me."

Gojo doesn't even look away yet. His eyes remain on yours and the eye contact is intense for a second. He hates to think about it but, you're rather hot when you're mad, as toxic as it is to think about...

The way you're eyes are all narrow and the tenseness of your face is oddly attractive to the man. Under different circumstances, Gojo would've teased you about it like he normally does but, right now, you look like you might stab his eyes out with the pencil in your hands.

Instead of taking the warning you have him seriously, Gojo only grins at you, "Make me." He whispers back, voice teasing.

You glare for a moment, and then you start shaking your head in utter disbelief. "You're an ass."

"An ass?" Gojo chuckles quietly, "What happened to asshole?"

"I might change it to a piece of shit." You say with a shrug as you turn your head away and multi-focus on both him and the lecture.

Gojo tilts his head, "Doesn't that take too long to say?"

"Dickhead." You say simply.

He frowns, "Ehh, doesn't have a nice ring to it."

With a sigh, you glance at him through the corner of your eye, "I'm not gonna play this little game with you."

"Nono, keep going," Gojo pleads, now smiling at you as if he isn't aware that he's only annoying you even more. "I like hearing all the mean names you can come up with."

You roll your eyes at him, "I hope you fail this class."

"Woahh, I need this class to graduate, sweets." He argues, pouting a little bit at your sudden words.

"Enough with the pet names," You sigh. "Hearing anything affectionate coming from you is revolting."

"You liked it this morning."

"That was before you pissed me off."

Gojo smirks, "I do that quite often though, don't I?"

"Yeah, you do."

He hums and inches a little closer to you, "And yet you still hung around me."

"I was forced to." You reply, trying to take notes on the subject ahead at the same time.

"Were you forced to kiss me this morning too?" Gojo says.

That question made you scoff. He definitely pushed all the right buttons with that one, "Were you forced to be born as an insufferable asshole who likes manipulating women into clearing your debt for you?" You question, anger embedded into your tone.

He pauses. The worst part of what you said was that you weren't even looking at him. You said that without batting an eyelash. And it came out your mouth faster than he expected.

Gojo opens his mouth slowly, almost carefully, "I-"

Before he gets the chance to say anything, the abrupt sound of his professor speaking louder is heard. "Gojo Satoru," The professor calls out with an annoyed sigh.

You think you see the hairs on the back of Gojo's neck stand up and you watch as he grits his teeth and turns his head to face his teacher.

"Plan on talkin' through my whole class?" Mr. Fushiguro questions.

Gojo looks immediately annoyed as he shakes his head, the sight of him shut up so quickly almost satisfying to you.

That earns a nod from his professor, "That's what I thought." He hummed, his eyes snapping over to you right afterward.

You swear you were shrinking under the man's gaze, even though he was on the other side of the damn room. It was so intimidating that you just knew he was about to say something to you.

But, he doesn't. It was nothing more than a quick glance, maybe even a warning glance.

You sigh and then peek over to Gojo beside you, noticing how he looks upset now. A smile graces your face as you see the man in distress, it was quite the satisfying sight to behold-- especially given the hell he's putting you through.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

The lecture was a full three hours long, something you surprisingly were able to stay awake for and focus on the entire time.

You have a feeling it was the way Mr. Fushiguro taught the class or maybe it was the way he looks. With a face and body like that, you think you could stay awake and stare for hours unprovoked. That has to be the only plus side to the list you're going through-- the fact that everyone is stupidly hot.

As the class finished, you grabbed all the notes you'd taken and wondered if you should just approach the professor yourself. Gojo waited for you to get your stuff together and then you followed behind him to leave the class.

The halls seemed to be pretty busy with how long it took for students to actually leave the classroom and you ended up waiting for people to walk out. This placed you in the back of the group of people, being one of the last to actually exit.

"You," A deep voice suddenly called from behind.

Your head turns back and you meet the professor's stern eyes. He raises two fingers and beckons you to come to him. With a swallow, you nudged Gojo on the back of his arm, silently letting him know that you were staying behind before you turned and made your way over to the teacher.

As you approached the desk, the man stool on the other side of it, eyes daunting and presence overwhelming. He was far too attractive to be a professor.

"Sir," You greeted calmly, "You called me...?"

His eyes scan all of you in front of his desk. Not in a way that seemed like he was checking you out but, more in the sense that he was confirming he's never seen you before.

He nodded toward a nearby seat, "Sit."

You don't know why your spine goes rigid at his sudden command. Perhaps it was the authority in his voice? Or the deep undeniably attractive tone of it?

Slowly, you move to sit down in the seat he's told you to. After that, you quietly watch as he awaits all the students to leave. Once the classroom is clear, the professor takes a seat at his desk and all of his tension-filled focus goes to you.

You were nervous. Ridiculously so.

And it wasn't even because of the situation itself but because of the sexy-ass man staring at you. Okay, maybe this list isn't that bad... especially if you get to interact with people you normally wouldn't.

The man leans forward, moving to rest his arms on the desk in front of him and clasping his hands together. "Well?" He asks, clearly expecting you to just explain yourself.

You instantly look down to your lap, "Uh..."

When you take too long, in his eyes, to answer, you hear the man sigh heavily. "You gonna tell me why you're in my class?" He questions.

You look up at him and take a deep breath, "Yeah, sorry. I'm a uh, psychology major and I have this project coming up soon where I have to analyze large groups of people, preferably in different classrooms, to see how different goals and aspirations differ the actions of people."

That was by far the best and cleanest lie you think you've ever given in your entire life. It's usually not hard to explain just a little bit of your major to people, the explanation alone always brings confusion.

The man blinks slowly, kinda like he didn't understand what the hell you just said. "Okay." He sighs, "Two things. One, what does that have to do with you being here without permission, and two, can you explain that in simpler terms?"

A light smile grows on your face, "Well, I meant to come here before the class started and ask if I could sit through a couple of your lectures to study everyone but uh, I forgot... A-And, in simpler terms, I'm just here to see how certain subjects affect certain people."

Mr. Fushiguro nods his head, pausing to think about what you just told him. He has no reason not to believe you, he's actually had plenty of students do this in the past.

"Psych major, huh?" He asks.

"Yes sir."

"That's uh," He clicks his tongue, "Surprising."

"How so?" You scoff, quick to take a bit of offense.

The man shrugs, "I don't usually get Psych majors in my class, you're the first."

"Oh." You chuckle, "Well, I was also curious about how the economy specifically would alter people's way of thinking."

"Yeah?" You think you see him grinning at you. He appears to be intrigued, "Why?"

"I mean, when you're talking about the economy, you're talking about money and, well," You shrug, "Who doesn't like money? I just wanted to see if that made any difference in the way people think and act in terms of education."

"Right," He nods again, "And what class is this for?"

Shit. "Uhm, sociology." You manage to say.

The male opens his mouth to comment something but he's cut off by a light knock on his open classroom door, prompting both of you to turn your head. Your eyes go wide at the man you see standing there.

Blond, tall, neutral facial expression, and, above all, mouth-wateringly sexy. Good god, where the hell does Gojo find these men? The male at the door is someone you recognize from the pictures.

"Mr. Fushiguro," The blond calls, voice stoic.

"Nanami." The professor in front of you replies, "How can I help ya?"

The man at the door takes a few steps into the classroom, "I had a few questions on the assignment from last week."

Your mind is all over the place at this point. Is this who Gojo was talking about when he said there are two people on the list in the class?

"I might have a few answers," Mr. Fushiguro, whose first name you notice is Toji based on the nearby nameplate sitting on his desk, responds playfully.

You then watch as he stands and walks over to Nanami, your heart spiraling out of control. Spotting two people from the list in one day? It's nerve-wracking.

The two stand not too far away from you and quietly go over something. You pick up on tidbits of their conversation but it's all about an assignment you know nothing about so, there's not much you can do with the information you hear.

Nanami's glance strays over to you for only a second, long enough for you two to make eye contact, and long enough for him to look away. It was a glance of simply acknowledging the fact that you're there-- not even the kinda glance where he's checking you out.

The look he gave you and the one you initially received from Toji are similar, it's like neither of them was even interested in you-

Holy shit.

You think you know why too. The way they look at you is nothing compared to Geto's first glances at you, even though the situation and setting are much different.

That's when you realize...

That asshole Gojo never told you what level of difficulty these men are considered to be.

GOJO SATORU ✔︎

GETO SUGURU ✔︎

TOJI FUSHIGURO ☐

NANAMI KENTO ☐

mlist || previous chapt || next chpt

[mangoshorthand]

A Hargreeves Christmas Carol | Five Hargreeves/ F Reader | Ch. 1

SUMMARY: Luther is the sort of idiot who goes around with a 'Merry Christmas' and a goofy smile on his lips. In your opinion, he should be roasted with his own turkey and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. Who better to teach you the error of your ways than Luther's brother, the man who holds the power of Christmases Past, Present, and Yet to Come in the palm of his hand? Info/Announcement Post

Chapter One (Rated G-T, 3.4k words)

Marley's Ghost

Luther was annoying to begin with, there was no doubt whatsoever about that. Despite this, you developed a grudging friendship with him over the years, based mainly on the fact he was impossible to spurn. 

He was a regular in your little bar, and his good moods were completely unflappable. No matter how surly and taciturn you might be with him on a bad day, he always greeted you like his best friend the next time you saw him. In this fashion, his company became gradually bearable to you over the years you knew him, and you learned to welcome his bright-eyed, towering figure with no bad grace.

“Hey!” he said, cheerfully, as he bounced through the door early on Christmas Eve, bringing with him a blast of cold air from the slush-filled streets outside. 

You looked up at him and nodded, suppressing a roll of your eyes at his appearance. He was wearing a luxuriant velvet Santa hat and an obnoxious Christmas sweater depicting gingerbread houses, elves, and snowflakes in lurid colors particularly offensive to the eye.

Long ago, you’d concluded that the holidays were for idiots, and, although you liked him, Luther more than qualified. 

Yes, you’d decorated the bar, but as sparsely as it was possible to get away with: few coloured lights here and there and some limp tinsel around the window frames, but that was it. When your employee Robbie tried timidly to introduce a Christmas tree, that bullshit was in the dumpster out back before a half hour had passed.

“Merry Christmas,” Luther said, beaming, “happy holidays, and happy New Year!”

“Merry Christmas, Luther.” Robbie replied, looking up from serving another customer to give him a wave, which Luther returned gleefully. 

“Enough with that bullshit already,” you grumbled, filling him a glass of his usual beer/

“Christmas?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief, “Bullshit? Surely you don’t mean that?”

“Sure I do,” you said, setting his beer down on the bar in front of him and holding out your hand expectantly, “I don’t see what’s particularly ‘merry’ about it. It’s just some commercialised holiday. Idiots going into debt just to buy their kid the latest trash.”

Luther frowned and pulled out a bill.

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be merry.” he said, though sounding a little disquieted, “You own this place, right? You must see people coming in to celebrate all the time. That sort of happiness is infectious. It must at least make you happy to see other people happy?”

You just scoffed and turned away, busying yourself about the bar taps. 

“Come on,” Luther called after you, in a conciliatory tone, “are you annoyed with me?”

You were, but when you turned back to him, you tried to keep your tone light. 

“Do you have any idea how shit it is working a bar at Christmas? The only thing that makes it worth it is the extra money. People make a mess, they make a lot of noise, they get drunk and they sing. They fuck you up the ass with a candy cane, shove a holly jolly dick in your mouth and expect you to just smile through it.”

There was a moment of silence while Luther absorbed this colorful language, and then he spoke again. 

“I guess you got a point. Customer service at Christmas has gotta be hard. But the day itself is fun, right? It’s a time for family. It’s a time to show people that you care about them”

You let out a loud “pfft.”

“If I’m anywhere on Christmas day, it’s as far away from my family as it’s possible to be. I’ll be at home alone, thank god.”

Luther looked at you, and you found yourself even more irritated by the expression of sympathy in his blue eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, genuinely, “everyone should be with someone they care about on Christmas, even if they don’t celebrate.”

You let out another sound of derision, and Luther looked briefly down at the bar.

“Christmas can make people kinder,” he said, quietly, “and I know they should be kind all year round, but it reminds people to be more open hearted. Peace and goodwill to all men, y'know? And so, yeah, Christmas is commercialised and stuff, but it’s a reminder to love one another and appreciate the people around us. And in this world, I think that’s important.”

As he gave this speech, his voice became more confident, and by the end he was sitting up straighter on his bar stool, looking at you with earnestness that did nothing to improve your mood. 

“Well said Luther,” piped up Robbie, enthusiastically, giving him a little round of applause. 

You shot him a look, and he quickly stopped and went back to cleaning the bar. 

“Bullshit,” you said again, dismissing his sickly speech.

But Luther was undeterred.

“Listen,” he continued, gently, “I’m spending Christmas with my family. It’s low key, and we all bring guests. I’m cooking, and there’s enough to feed twenty. The way I see it, the more the merrier.”

Your nostrils flared. Was he really doing what you thought he was doing?

“I like you,” he said, “you remind me of Five. You remember Five, right?”

You nodded tightly. You more than remembered Five. Over the years he visited the bar with Luther and occasionally alone. You had to admit you found him…intriguing. You’d decided some time ago that you were done with men, but that didn’t mean you didn’t occasionally stop to enjoy the view. 

You and he shared the same cynical sense of humor, and though he wasn’t exactly friendly, he was polite, tipped well, flirted like a pro, and was easy enough on the eye that his occasional acerbic comments were interesting rather than irritating. 

“Five’s a grumpy asshole too,” Luther continued, “but he and I both know what it’s like to be alone. It can break you, and I don’t want to see that happen to you. Why don’t you drop in on us tomorrow?”

He paused here, smiling winningly and giving you time to answer. He looked so much like a gleeful puppy that you half expected him to let his tongue loll out and start panting with excitement. 

But your just-restrained anger had broken its bounds; your face felt flushed, and his canine expression did nothing but prod the angry hound inside of you, raising your hackles.

“Come over,” he said, cajolingly, a hopeful expression starting on his face, “We won’t sing until we get really drunk, and I promise nobody will threaten to sodomise you with a candy cane.” 

He paused and then amended his last statement:

“I can almost promise you nobody will threaten to sodomise you with a candy cane. But come anyway.”

Your lips tightened. You weren’t some charity case. When you finally got the words out, you spoke with low, dangerous emphasis. 

“I think I’d rather see you in hell than see you for Christmas.”

Luther looked hurt, but you didn’t care. Who was he to come into your bar, and lecture you about family and kindness and all that sentimental bullshit. He had no idea. You felt your fists clenching at your sides, and when you continued, your shaking voice got louder with every word:

“What makes you think I want to spend time with you and your weird-ass family?”

“I was just trying to be a friend to you.” Luther said, crestfallen.

“I don’t need friends!” you cried, furious now, “You seriously have to grow up, Luther. Grown-ups don’t believe in Santa Claus, and grown-ups don’t think one day playing nice around a Christmas tree means jack shit. So why not keep all your Christmas shit to yourself and mind your own goddamn business?”

Luther blinked, cut to the quick, and you began to polish the bar in a determined sort of way. 

“Why are you pushing me away?” he asked.

You didn’t answer, so Luther stood, leaving half his beer on the bar.

“I’m sorry I upset you,” he said, wounded, but dignified, “I can see now that Christmas doesn’t mean to you what it means to me. But still, I hope you have a good day, whether you celebrate or not.”

You didn’t answer him, pretending to be intent on your work, and his hulking figure retreated, leaving the bar with a quick, sad wave to Robbie. 

You ignored Robbie’s reproachful looks and continued about your business, counting down the hours to closing time when you could get home and get away from all the idiot revellers. 

Meanwhile, the snow thickened outside, and the sky darkened rapidly. It was already a cold day, with thick, portentous clouds, but the evening was bitter, and the night even more so; harsh and biting. 

The Christmas eve party goers were wrapped in layers upon layers of clothing, but even the most stout of them thinned out as the night wore on, scared off by the wind and snowstorm, no doubt fearful of getting stranded in the city if the bad weather persisted.

By the time you closed up, there was nobody there to throw out. All was quiet and still but for the wilting tinsel shifting minutely in the tiny draft at the window frame. The bar was deserted - as dead as a doornail, you might say.

Robbie left as soon as you gave him the nod, head bowed, holding onto his scarf for dear life as it whirled and bucked in the wind that threatened at every moment to tear it from his neck. 

When the door blew closed behind him with an abrupt, wall-shaking slam, you were totally alone. 

The bar was part of an old city block, and thus odd noises were audible in your apartment above at the best of times. As bad as the weather was that night, you could hear strange grindings and creakings as soon as you mounted the stairs. 

The back of your neck prickled, warning you of who knew what, even as you told yourself firmly not to be so ridiculous. 

You shivered, wishing very much that you’d gotten around to changing the light bulb in the windowless stairwell, meaning that you were in full dark as you made your way haltingly up the stairs. 

The stairs were old too: wooden, uneven and whining in protest with every step. Though you weren’t usually one for superstition or hyperbole, your mind couldn’t help but dwell upon the sounds: they sounded increasingly like the wails of desperate, neglected children as you progressed higher and higher towards the top landing. 

At that moment, with your hand at last on the doorknob, there was a strange frisson in the air, something that was half sound and half sensation. 

And your blood ran cold.

This sound was unlike any that could be the result of bad weather on an old building. It was a zap and a crack, and it made all the hairs on your arms stand on end, like the few seconds of eerie anticipation before a lightning strike. 

You froze, suddenly wary of what might be inside. Very slowly, you pressed your ear to the door and listened, yet heard nothing but the wind’s ambient noise.

“Pull yourself together,” you chided yourself under your breath. 

You unlocked and opened the door quietly and hurriedly, not daring to flick on lights in case it alerted an intruder to your presence. Indeed, you found the living space within quiet and empty to the eye, lit slightly by the street lamps outside.

You even checked behind the door, just to reassure yourself that there was nobody lurking behind it.There was nobody there, of course: no sound but for the rushing wind whistling down the street, and no sign that anything might be amiss. 

No sign but that creeping sensation on the back of your neck, of course. 

You sighed, frustrated with your own silliness. 

Still, unable to shake that feeling, you carefully, soundlessly picked up the baseball bat you kept behind your coat stand and crept from living room, to bathroom, to bedroom, just to prove to yourself that you were just being foolish. You even looked behind the couch, behind the shower curtain and under the bed, just for good measure. 

At one point, you gave a violent start at what sounded like an electric whoosh as you stood in front of the wardrobe, but when you opened the door with the bat raised, there was nothing inside that shouldn’t be there.

But there was a smell, you thought. A whiff of something vaguely familiar, and then it was gone. The smell of mint or eucalyptus lingering in the air. 

Again, there was that creeping sensation at the back of your neck, flesh needling, as if you were being…

As if you were being watched.

You whirled around, but again the room and doorway were perfectly empty, and no sound suggested the presence of anybody but yourself and the ceaseless wind outside. 

“It’s nothing but the smell of bullshit,” you muttered to yourself, dismissively. 

When you were finally satisfied that your apartment was indeed quiet and still, you double locked the front door, even putting it on the chain, a precaution you didn’t usually take.

Slightly comforted by this, you moved into the living room to unwind before bed, sat down on the couch, and turned on the TV, reaching likewise to turn on a lamp beside you. 

And then, in the glow from the TV, you saw him.

As large as life, there was a man sitting in the darkest corner of your living room. 

He was well dressed, wearing a three piece suit and a grim expression. But for his very solid appearance, you might have believed he was a ghost, lit as he was in an unearthly hue by the TV’s blue light, throwing his face into a strange distortion of light and shadow. 

You opened your mouth to scream, but before sound could come out, he vanished and reappeared above you, clapping one hand over your mouth with one hand and grabbing your wrists with the other, looking down at you from beneath heavy brows, his strong jaw working with the effort of keeping your flailing hands contained. 

It was then that you recognised him. 

“Fiph?” you cried, muffled from behind his hand, “whadafu?”

It was Five himself. 

He raised his eyebrows, handsome jaw angled upwards. It was an unspoken question: can you be quiet?”

You nodded, and he took his hand away from your mouth. 

“What the fuck, Five?”

And there it was: a waft of mint and eucalyptus that at once explained why it smelled familiar, as well as the noise from your wardrobe. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” you shrieked, panicked again, and he quickly clamped his hand back over your mouth.

“I’m here to talk. Keep your goddamn voice down and turn on that lamp. I can’t see for shit.”

Your whole arm trembling, you turned on the lamp beside you, and Five’s face was lit in a more natural glow.

As always when confronted with Five, you couldn’t help but notice his appearance: his clear, smooth skin; his noble, expressive brow; his intelligent green eyes, shaded by hair and reflecting the lamplight. His long fingers were hooked around your jaw, and you could feel the warmth of his palm against your lips. 

It was this that made you stop trembling.

Sensing this, he removed his hand again, and when you didn’t scream, he sat down on the other end of the couch. Before he settled, he reached back to the armchair he’d just vacated to pull a briefcase across the carpet so that it rested against his feet. 

“What do you want with me?” you asked, half anger, half fear.

“Much,” Five said, simply. 

You stared at him.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, surveying you with those eyes, holding yours with quiet authority. 

“You might say I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” he said, “You’ve fucked up.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, half angry, half afraid.

“Well,” he said, settling his hands on his top leg, “I never told you this, but I work for an organization that handles the timeline, and its raison d'être is to make sure that everything happens as it’s supposed to. That’s why I have this briefcase,” he said, tapping it with his foot, “it allows me to travel back and forth in time, and fix fuck ups like yours. 

“I thought you could already travel in time,” you said, “isn’t that, like, your whole thing?”

There was a flicker of annoyance on his face then, and you were glad to see it: it was evidence that you’d pricked his ego, and it was enough to make him seem a little less intimidating.

“I do have natural time travel ability,” he said, carefully, struggling to maintain the almost professional air he’d adopted, “but the briefcase allows me to be precise.”

“So, basically, you suck at time travel without your security blanket?” you said, pressing your advantage. 

Nobody broke into your home and got away without being taken down a peg or two. 

Five scowled, and you felt a brief sense of triumph as he continued. 

“Oh, because you’re so good at time travel?” he snapped, sarcasm dripping from his words.

“No,” you said, causticly, “I own a bar. It’s not exactly in the job description. But if I couldn't make you decent Manhattan without clinging to a recipe book, you might start to think I’m under-qualified.”

Five’s scowl deepened, and even though this should theoretically make him more frightening, it didn’t: it further levelled the playing field.

“As pleasant as this little back and forth is,” he said with a hint of his old flirtation, we’re getting off the point. Little actions can have far-reaching consequences. For example, you spoil one manchild’s Christmas spirit, and then boom, we could have nuclear armageddon on our hands.”

“What?” you asked, taken aback.

“Yep,” he said, seriously, “you’d be amazed how even the most insignificant events can fuck the future beyond all recognition. And, that’s exactly what happened with your angry little diatribe to my brother.”

As you took a couple of seconds to absorb this, Five leaned towards you fractionally, his eyes regaining more of that lost authority.  

You looked back at him, and the air grew heavy at the moment your eyes connected. You felt like a fish on a hook in the pull of his gaze, the sound of wind outside coming into greater prominence in that single, suspended moment. 

There was another bolt of electricity, another raising of the hairs on the back of your neck. Though this time it wasn’t caused by you sensing Five’s power. 

Well, not his superpower, at least. 

Five glanced away and cleared his throat, and the spell was broken. Your mind became a fraction less cloudy and, in doing so, butted against a roadblock in his credibility.

“This is bullshit!” you cried, incredulously “Seriously, an armageddon?”

 Five shrugged.

“I don’t know what to tell you. Actions have consequences, and they snowball. Time is chaos, and one wrong move can fuck up everything.”

You shook your head in denial.

“Do you really expect me to believe that not playing at some sickly, cloying, Christmas with your clown car of a family causes nuclear armageddon?”

Five sighed exasperatedly. 

“Why is it so hard for you to just play nice?” he said, voice betraying annoyance for the first time, “why the hell have you got your panties in such a bunch around Christmas, anyway?”

And then his mouth twitched, and he let out a little chuckle.

“Though I admit that ‘clown car’ is a good description.”

You ignored this, as well as his prying questions and folded your arms defiantly. 

“Fine,” he said, with a hint of smugness, “you don’t have to tell me.”

He reached down to the floor and fiddled with his briefcase, and then grabbed your elbow before you could protest.

 “I guess we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

His hand tightened on your arm and, in a fizz of static, you were both gone, leaving no trace but the echo of your scream in the empty apartment.

Read Chapter Two >> I FEED OFF COMMENTS AND REBLOGS YUM YUM YUM

Marley's Ghost (left) and The Ghosts of Departed Usurers, or, The Phantoms. (right) Both by John Leech, 1843 in Dickens's A Christmas Carol, first edition (1843).

Dickens' A Christmas Carol full text available here.

Read it! It's a much better than this, and you can see how many lines I stole verbatim or clumsily referenced. If you haven't guessed, 'bullshit' is this Scrooge!Reader's 'bah humbug'.😊 Dividers used in this series by @bernardsbendystraws (garland) and @strangergraphics (lights)

Taglist: @nevbrooke-555, @fiannee, @abeeabee6969, @chalametabingbong, @lolawassad, @icantpickanamefromonefandom @thebearmage, @kaybreezy3000 (comment to be added or removed)

Megalist

Request info + rules

I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See request info + rules for request status and more.

[hellyeahsickaf]

You know how you look back at past shitty connections, friends, family dynamics, and relationships and you're like "I can't believe I let them treat me that way"? I think it hits differently with disability because when you're disabled you don't always even know that you're being mistreated and/or abused in regards to it.

I know statistically disabled people are more likely to be abused but sometimes there's an additional type of abuse that's hard to identify even in hindsight because no one tells you how abusive it is.

But ableist abuse relating to your disability can look like:

Pushing you to do things beyond your limitations despite their awareness of them.

Blaming you for the "inconveniences" brought on by things beyond your control (ex: missing a movie because you had to wait for your pain meds to kick in).

Not allowing you to take breaks or antagonizing you when you do.

Bullying or making fun of things you can't help like gait, a lisp, an embarrassing symptom.

Trying to "cure" or "fix" you, often framing it as "helping" you. Sometimes they look similar and you might be able to tell by their reaction towards lack of improvement.

Holding over you the things they have to do for you (cooking, cleaning, driving, working, etc).

Giving ultimatums that demand things of you that you can't do (getting a job, keeping up with multiple chores).

Using insulting terms, language, and/or slurs that you have not permitted them to or in a context where there is intent to harm you.

Interrogating you about your disability or trying to find discrepancies between your experiences and what they've heard/read/seen about it.

Implying or saying anything along the lines of you faking, being lazy, or exaggerating. Reducing you to a hypochondriac, saying you enjoy being disabled because you seem to like having things done for you, or that you're lazy or abusing them by depending on them for things.

Asking you about it not to learn more, but to use it against you in some way.

Having a martyr complex, acting as if they're a hero for giving you the support you deserve.

Calling you a burden, implying you to be one, or treating you like one.

Acting like you owe them a debt, sometimes even demanding some kind of repayment. Keeping track of money they spend on you that you won't be able to pay back, feeling entitled to things like control, sex, a portion of government benefits, etc.

Self victimizing. They act like you being disabled causes more suffering to themselves than you.

Accusing you of being addicted to your medication. If you genuinely develop an addiction a normal response is concern not rage, finger pointing, etc. if you don't have one baseless claims are very harmful

Trying to force you to stop "depending" on things you need like medication and disability aids

Comparing you to others that are doing "better" than you. Maybe showing you inspiration porn of someone with no legs for example doing incredible things- which is great for them but the "I don't let my disability stop me so you can do anything" shit is harmful. Some of us will get very unwell if we try, and some just can't.

Trying to make others also see you as dramatic, faking, or lazy. Often embarrassing and mocking you as well.

Withholding things you need like medication or disability aids as a punishment

Saying your disability is karma or something inflicted by a divine entity/religious figure. Maybe as punishment for not praying, being queer, or something else they disagree with.

Saying that it's a result of being "promiscuous"/LGBT. For instance if you have HIV or ME/CFS that was a result of something like mononucleosis ("kissing disease").

Shaming you for things related to your disability beyond your control or expressing embarrassment over these things. including but not limited to: appearance (general but also things like say a lupus butterfly rash or weight gain/loss), having to lay down in public (ex: with POTS), inability to keep up with hygiene, etc.

Lacking boundaries and acting as if they are entitled to information or intrusion of your space/belongings due to the power they hold over you and assistance they may provide.

Implying/saying you're living an extended vacation. Maybe one they say they wish they had because they have to do x y z while you "sit around"

Abandoning you solely for your disability (ex: because you can't hang out, they don't want a disabled partner, think you're faking, etc)

Note that someone doing one or two of these things a few times doesn't always mean they're abusing you (also depends on which). It's about the patterns and frequency of this behavior as well as refusal to improve once aware that they're hurting you. People who care about you don't want to hurt you and the normal response is to do their best not to repeat the action that negatively affected you

There are more examples and you can feel free to list some

✨This is about physical illnesses and disabilities, please don't derail✨

[mychlapci]

okay ❤️

yay ❤️

Barbarian AU where Ostaros is banished from the esteemed kingdom of Praxus after he’s discovered to be the bastard child of the Praxian guard captain and a barbarian warlord from a neighboring tribe… 

Ostaros slowly learns to fend for himself in the badlands; Hunting petrorabbits, crudely treating his own wounds, and finding shelters to keep him safe from the elements… Which is how he eventually stumbles upon a barbarian clan.

After a sudden downpour that lasts for days on end, Ostaros has no choice but to seek refuge in the mountains. Freezing, feverish, and exhausted, he barely makes it past the maw of a cave before collapsing… As his vision swims in and out of focus, a figure emerges from the darkness, heavy peds coming to a stop in front of his helm…

Ostaros wakes up in a warm bed of furs, the scent of smoke and strange herbs thick in the air as he gradually comes to his senses.

The cave, as it turns out, is the entrance to a massive cavern occupied by a clan of barbarians… Ostaros finds himself in the leader’s tent, an imposing hook-handed mech with a permanent frown etched on his face… Impactor.

Still disoriented and running a high fever, Ostaros is in no shape to run away as the warlord starts rebuking him in a language he can’t understand… The ‘conversation’ that ensues is one-sided and tense, with the barbarian becoming more and more frustrated as Ostaros fails to understand a word he says. 

One thing is clear though, he doesn’t plan to kill Ostaros. At least, not yet. 

For some time, Ostaros recovers from his fever in the warlord’s tent… All the while, more and more members of Impactor’s clansmen come to meet him. Some bring medicine and herbs, others bring offerings of furs and energon.

An elder, Kup, spends hours by Ostaros’s side; rambling stories in his native tongue, often with hunting trophies and scars to show for them. From him, Ostaros begins to learn their language, starting with their names. 

One night, when Impactor returns from a hunt, Ostaros greets him in his language with a bright, proud grin on his face. His pronunciation is poor, but the gesture alone is almost enough to make Impactor smile. Almost.

Weeks pass, and Ostaros finally fully recovers. In hopes of repaying his debt to the clan, he cleans and sharpens their weapons, forages for them, and continues to learn their language. 

Eventually, Impactor takes it upon himself to teach Ostaros how to hunt properly, leading him on his first foxhunt; together, the pair track and kill a pair of turbofoxes. 

Ostaros watches wide-eyed as Impactor bites into the throat of his fresh kill, drinking the still-hot fuel from its lines like an animal. Pulling away and wiping his bloody mouth with his hand, Impactor turns to Ostaros. The warlord watches, pleased, as his mentee follows his example unprompted.

That night, Ostaros is officially accepted into the clan. A feast is held, at the end of which Kup proudly renames Ostaros as Springer.

Springer spends the night drinking, dancing, and exchanging stories with his new family.

Drunk and having the time of his life, Springer hardly registers Impactor grabbing him by the arm before he’s suddenly dragged off and roughly shoved into the center of the sparring pit. He staggers forward, clumsily turning to face Impactor as the warlord steps into the pit behind him. 

For the first time since Springer met him, there's a fierce grin on Impactor's face as he lowers himself into a fighting stance. Springer has only seconds to do the same before the other mech lunges at him. The other tribesmen gather around the ring as Springer and Impactor tumble to the ground in a filthy, sweaty mess of writhing limbs… wildly swinging and scratching at one another in a savage battle. 

Impactor buries his hook in Springer's midsection, and in turn, Springer sinks his teeth into Impactor's throat. The longer they wrestle, the more grime and energon gets smeared across their frames, until the colors of their plating are almost indistinguishable through the filth.

The crowd hollers and leers as Impactor finally pins the smaller mech to the ground, holding Springer's face down in the bloody muck as he pries open his panel. Springer’s optics widen in shock and panic,  he claws wildly at the ground for purchase as he hears Impactor's spike panel depressurize with a quiet hiss... His thick, hard cock springing free against Springer's aft a moment later. 

More mechs tumble into the arena as Impactor sheathes himself in Springer's virgin valve with one deep, hard thrust. Lubricant laced energon drips down Springer's thighs as Impactor immediately sets a punishing pace. Springer’s cries are lost in a cacophony of screams, growls, and moans as the other clansmen fight and frag around them. 

Impactor’s hand stays on the back of Springer’s helm, holding his face down as he relentlessly pounds him into the mud. The sharp barbs of his spike drag against every one of the smaller mech's internal callipers, drawing more blood as he tears the delicate lining of Springer's valve. A low growl rumbles from Impactor's chassis as he curses beneath his breath, uttering crude taunts and praise that Springer only half understands.

Springer’s head swims with pain, shock, and despite himself, arousal. Low, loud moans rip from his vocalizer as he arches his back to meet Impactor's thrusts, clumsily grinding back against the bigger mech's hips as he loses himself in a haze of pain and pleasure.

A low, harsh laugh echos from behind him. Impactor's hand leaves his helm, only to smack against his flank hard enough to dent the metal. Springer yelps at the sudden sharp impact, valve clamping down around Impactor's spike and gushing lubricant around it. Seeming to like that reaction, Impactor does it again and again, leaving Springer’s aft and thighs hot and throbbing with pain. 

Without Impactor's hand on his helm, Springer’s finally able to raise his head, only to be met with the sight of Kup looming over him.

The elder grins down at him as he grabs Springer by the mandibles of his helm, holding onto them as he forces his spike between the younger mech’s lips. Springer has no choice but to take it, moaning around Kup’s cock as each of Impactor's thrusts send him lurching forward onto it. He gags when it hits the back of his throat, tears welling in his optics as he sloppily swallows around it.

It doesn't take long for Springer to overload as he's bounced between Impactor and Kup... vision whiting out as he squirts against the former’s front, tears and drool dripping down his filthy face as his optics roll back. 

After a click, Kup pulls out, taking his spike in his servo and pumping it until he shoots his load across Springer's muddy, bloody face. Impactor shortly follows suit, hilting himself in Springer's sloppy cunt and and biting down hard on his shoulder as he cums deep inside. 

The violent, bloody orgy around them continues as the trio take a moment to catch their breaths.

Sore, exhausted, and filthy… surrounded by his clansmen fighting and fucking each other into the mud, Springer’s never felt more at home in his life <3

oh god, everything about this is perfect…. i’m too horny for this to say anything. augh. they kicked Springer out for being an impure barbarian, well then fine, he’ll find his own tribe :)

They’re sooo nasty, they should’ve told him that part of his becoming one of their tribe was to have his virginity taken, poor thing must have been so surprised :)

[pluppsauthor]

Character Profile Tag

Thanks to @finickyfelix for the open tag :) (this took a while, but I really wanted to do another one of these when I saw your post.)

For this one, I'm going to do my second favourite character, Jesse Graves from my WIP 534ft.

-----

Full name: Jesse Graves

Age: 19

Gender: Transgender Male

Type of Being: Human

Appearance: Jesse stands at 165cm (or 5'5") and has a generally small frame that he covers up with layers of loose cloth draped over him.

His face is soft, though it shows restlessness. He has subtle bags under his brown coloured eyes. His hair, a similar shade of brown as his eyes, is short and unkempt, hidden by his hat. And he has a light, mostly unkempt, beard over most of his chin.

He wears a cowboy hat to cover his eyes from the suns, basic leather and cloth travelling clothes, layers of cloth draped over his shoulders to mask his frame, plain leather boots, fingerless marksmen gloves, a backpack, and a holstered silver revolver on the right side of his hip.

Way of speaking: Jesse speaks slowly, seriously, and with thought behind every word he uses. He goes as deep as his voice allows and shows as little emotion as possible. His natural voice/cadence is something he very rarely shows to other people unless he feels safe around them.

Physical characteristics: Jesse's body language is purposefully reserved, presenting himself as someone serious and not to be messed with. In truth, he just doesn't want to be bothered.

What he cannot hide, however, is his gloomy disposition. He is filled with guilt and regret, and this is evident in how he walks, talks, and acts. No matter how reserved his actions and words are, this part of him still seeps through.

He also doesn't show nervousness, fear, or other strong emotions. He bottles it up and stuffs it down under this mask of unflinching seriousness. When alone, these bottled emotions burst forth in fits of anger, crying, and self-loathing.

Occupation: N/A

Family: Jesse has no surviving family.

Best friend: At the beginning of the story, Jesse is more or less alone. However, during the story he becomes friends with a changeling woman named Claire. The two of them eventually become best friends who would die for each other if needed.

Pets: His horse, Biscuit. Though, he doesn't consider her a pet, but rather a companion.

Relationships: Jesse, mostly due to fear and past trauma, struggles to make lasting relationships. As a result, he only ever has three throughout the story. The rest evaporate as soon as he and them stop interacting.

Claire: Best friends, struggle through similar issues and lift each other up because of it.

Nolan: Is wary of him because of his use of alchemy and infusions of magic, but is on generally friendly terms.

Death: Due to his past, Jesse has a close relationship to Death. He is one of the few who can see Death, outside of their dying moments. Death took pity on Jesse and the two of them have a somewhat friendly relationship. Death wants to see Jesse forgive himself, only helping him because of a "debt".

Describe their room: Jesse never tends to stay in one place longer than a few nights. When he does need to stay in a place overnight, he keeps all of his stuff together directly next to where he sleeps.

Items in their bag/purse: Jesse carries the same few items on him at all times.

A stack of bounties who have the faces of people he's looking for (those connected to his past)

A small bit of mire (name of currency)

Preserved food and water for biscuit (and sometimes himself)

A notebook with the names of everyone he has killed/buried (accidentally or otherwise)

Spare revolver parts, ammunition, and cleaning/polishing supplies

And a fire starter

Hobbies: Tending to Biscuit, carving, polishing his revolver.

Favourite sport: Jesse doesn't really have a favourite sport, but if he did it would be horse-racing, as a racer.

Abilities/talents/powers: Jesse, innately, has no special qualities about him. However, he was given a boon from Death.

This boon grants him endless vitality, or stamina, and prevents him from dying from a few common deaths. This includes dehydration, starvation, exhaustion, heat stroke, and blood loss depending on where the wound is.

He also has the ability to give this boon to someone, at the cost of taking on their vitality instead. He typically does this exclusively with his horse Biscuit so she can ride at full speed near-endlessly.

Fears: Forming relationships, getting close to people, magic, people recognising him (from his past).

Faults: Thinks little of himself, guilt stricken, unsure of himself and his identity, has trouble expressing himself.

Good points: Strong-willed, dead-set determination, friendly.

What they want more than anything else: To be forgiven for his sins.

------

That's Jesse for ya! He's my favourite trans cowboy... by default since he's the only one I have. But he is my seconds favourite character I've ever made so...

Np tagging @creatrackers, @paeliae-occasionally, @sm-writes-chaos, and open tag :)

---copy/past questions---

Full name: Age: Gender: Type of Being: Appearance: Way of speaking: Physical characteristics: Occupation: Family: Best friend: Pets: Relationships: Describe their room: Items in their bag/purse: Hobbies: Favourite sport: Abilities/talents/powers: Fears: Faults: Good points: What they want more than anything else:

[mosmorem]

Blondie and the Toad (part 1)

The damage was worse this time. Not in a, the fire spread to the whole neighborhood, sense. As usual, the work was precise, kept to one building. But this time, this one... burnt to the ground, down to the foundations, traces of melted glass from the windows... The fire was raising in temperature. This was not technology. I was clearly magic.

The man, tall, dark, really fitting with the style of, well, arson in the city, had been standing in the cold for at least fifteen minutes, which he would have considered a short time if it wasn't for that crippling mid-January cold. He hated winter. His breath was fucking visible.

He wasn't even supposed to be coming here to inspect the damage, but—the one ought to was busy puking his guts out (again, fucking winter), and he had sent all of the others to deal with that cargo thief from last week. So... his fault really.

"Uh, excuse me..."

Surprised, he lifted his eyes. A boy, in his twenties, blond, eyes blue like a damn angel and framed with equally blond lashes, which he really wouldn't have been able to see if said eyes weren't so big and round and looking really lost. The boy's arms were folded against him, clutching a phone and a crumbled piece of paper. No gun, non-aggressive body language.

He wore blue jeans and a violently orange shirt. Too visible, and also, why the fuck wasn't he dying from the frost?? He wasn't even shivering.

But that wasn't the weirdest thing. These streets were empty for a reason—few people came here by choice, with all the fires lately. Arson, newspapers said, but who knew for sure. So, a lost boy, no doubt.

"Yes?" he answered, admittedly a bit curious, trying to keep his annoyance out of his tone because, well. The boy was cute.

In fact, he matched his type so well he might also totally be a spy. Damn.

"I'm looking for a, uh..."

Why the fuck was he blushing now.

"...Pickled Toad?"

Oh. That stupid name. Only one person really calls his that, and still it's been a while since he heard it last. Mostly because he thought that person was dead. Who was this boy ? His curiosity grew. Actually yes doubt, because he wasn't so lost after all.

"What do you want with the Toad?", he said, in a totally normal voice like this was a normal name. Normal conversation. Normal fires.

"My sister gave me this for him." And he unclutched his hand to show the crumbled paper, which turned out to be a crumbled envelope. "I'm supposed to give him directly".

He got this little fierce look like you'd have to kill him to get the thing, and the man smiled. Cute. Too bad his sister was a damn fucking witch, and a psychopath. She had a brother like this? No wonder she hid him all this time.

"I'm who you're looking for, blondie, that's me."

The boy hesitated.

"How can I know for sure?"

He snickered and threw him a look. "Cause Betty Greenland's the only fucker to call me The Pickled Toad."

He spit the 'name' like the insult i was, and that made the boy blush like a tomato and give him the envelope without a word. Inside was a slightly less crumbled message.

Hi pickled toad, I'm calling out your life debt. This is my brother, he needs :

And the bitch made a fucking list:

...shelter, food, to learn how to get his magic under control, protection, ideally a new phone, really anything he asks.

Okay this was definitely from Betty; he could recognize that mix of weird and shameless. He lifted his eyes without moving. The boy—the brother—was looking around, eyes wandering amongst the ashes and remains of a burned building...

Was that... guilt in them? Oh, he did not like the picture that was coming to mind.

Don't worry, I didn't teach him to bite. Actually yes, you should worry, because he wouldn't need teeth to hurt you. Don't hurt him. See you when I can (which could be in some time, won't lie), Betty. P.S.: don't ask question but don't make dumb assumptions either.

That... was actually a little reassuring. Still. What the fuck.

"Blondie do you know what this says?"

"I actually don't, but I know I'm supposed to go live with this uh, toad, so you I guess. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. And, well, sorry to be the bad news itself... I guess. Sorry."

His voice had gradually gotten lower and lower, until his last sorry was mumbled. The man softened against his will. Whoever this guy was, his sister's horrible personality definitely hadn't rubbed off on him. He sighted, folded the whole thing together and put it in a pocked inside his jacket, containing the wrecking shivers that threatened to get him before he closed it again. Then he lifted his hand in front of him. The boy, a bit late, shook it hesitantly. That's when he noticed markings on his forearms and hands; very light, lighter than his skin, and just lines and curves following each other.

"Well I guess you're coming with me then. What's your name?"

"I'ts Sael... but what do I call you then? The Toad?"

Cheeky. He started walking away and he followed him.

"Call me, uh, Teddy. It's similar enough."

Sael seemed to gather that it wasn't his really name, either, and made a face but dropped it.

"Where are we going?"

"Well Sal-"

"Sael..."

"-your sister put me in a pretty bad predicament. See, I deal in dangerous business, but I am now obligated to keep you safe and happy. The two won't go hand in hand I fear."

"Do you work for dangerous people?" Sael asked, before tripping on a stone and catching himself last second.

He laughed. "No, blondie. I am the dangerous people. Now come on, we're going home."

[dhampiravidi]

modern royalty - Naela

BASIC DESCRIPTION

Legal Name - Naela Asinia Vesune Antaryos, Princess of Braavos (Heir Apparent) Age - (plot-dependent) 15 to 30 Gender - Cisgender Woman Sexuality - Bisexual (Biromantic) Ethnicity - Arab, Berber, French, Italian Religion - Fuck Around & Find Out :) Family - Ferrego Cogite Saevin Antaryos (father; Lord of Braavos), Ashara Antaryos née Djabou (mother; Lady of Braavos) Languages - Standard Italian, (Moroccan/Darija) Arabic, Braavosi, some (British) English, some (European) French

APPEARANCE (FC is Tristin Mays)

Naela stands at 5'5" (1.65 m). Like the typical celebrity forced into the public frame, she has a healthy build, which is somewhat toned thanks to her athletics. Visually, Naela takes after her mother, inheriting her near-lavender irises, light brown skin tone, & facial features. She wears her dark, slightly wavy hair in a braided updo for formal occasions but prefers to wear it free, resting just below her shoulders.

PERSONALITY

It’s rare that she’s ever truly still or sad. The exceptions to this are when she’s learning history (which keeps her still) or longing for an adventure. Otherwise, she's playing sports (horseback riding or fencing), attending state events, or hanging out with her friends. She’s a hopeless romantic at heart, partly due to the fact that her parents fell in love at first sight. This quality ties into her main weakness–her naivety. Though admirably loyal, optimistic & true, Naela is often warned that her heart will be her undoing if someone with ill intentions tries to lead her astray. Naela likes reasonably spicy or tart foods, horses, furry animals, daydreaming, reading, making people laugh & playing with kids.

COUNTRY

Braavos is a Mediterranean country located between Algeria & Tunisia in North Africa. It overlooks Italy, which it has participated in several cultural & demographic exchanges with over the centuries. It was founded during the High Middle Ages, just after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, by people fleeing Western Europe, chiefly among them, escaped slaves. As such, the country has a long history of having civil rights protections. Braavos is wealthy because of its status as an important European port (which exports oil, electronics & fish) & because it commonly lends money to foreign nations (this always leads to a debt that accrues interest over time). Its national language, Braavosi, is similar to Latin; it is only spoken by 6% of the population, while 97% is fluent in Italian or Arabic. Unlike most countries, Braavos has a monarch who actively participates in politics. Theirs, the Lord of Braavos, has partial legislative & full executive powers. There is no official state religion. Still, there are a decent number of Judeo-Christian Gnosticists (who believe that the goal is to transcend our flawed material existence by reaching enlightenment & reconnecting with the benevolent god who opposes evil) in Braavos. There is also a large group of Sunni Muslims living there. Because Naela's father has not converted to Islam, his marriage to Naela's mother is not legally recognized in Morocco. The flag of Braavos features five small silver stars in a v-shape, all sitting on a navy blue background.

[infowindtech09]

Enhancing Business Security: Exploring flutter's Role in Building Secure Business Software

The market economy has also expanded significantly. In the next four years, marketplace sales will surpass Business Software revenues. By 2027, it's expected that internet markets will be worth $600 billion. Amazon and eBay's rising profits indicate the marketplace industry's general upward trend. Marketplaces are convenient because they allow clients to care for everything in one spot.

These options help customers whether they want to purchase or choose a rental. Choosing the right technology stack is crucial when developing a marketplace app. To provide competent and trustworthy apps, you need a solid foundation to back you up. This tutorial will use Flutter to create, test, and release a market app. We'll consider every facet of Flutter development so you can ship flawless apps.

Flutter Google's Flutter is an open-source programming language and framework. A Security Software streamlines the process of making native mobile applications for both iOS and Android using the same set of tools and code.

With Flutter, programmers can use the DART language to create applications that look and behave like their native counterparts. It has a rendering engine, widgets, application programming interfaces, and command-line utilities. Flutter, developed by Google, is quickly becoming a formidable rival to Xamarin and React Native.

App For Family Finances Many individuals need help keeping track of their daily costs and managing their household budgets. Although there are now several budgeting applications available, there is an opportunity for apps with advanced capabilities that may be tailored to the individual user's needs. You can assist your customers in managing their finances by including tools like a debt payment calculator, a vacation cost tracker, and a financial guide in your app. Users might be given the option of establishing a recurring budget. Your app may incentivize users to rack up loyalty points while striving to go beyond. To maximize their loyalty points, apps might incentivize users to spend less than their predetermined restrictions. Loyalty points may be redeemed for freebies by users.

Web-Based Magazine Reader The popularity of digital readers is skyrocketing. From 2016 to 2020, an annual survey showed that the number of people who read digital magazines in the United States alone was 220 million. The proliferation of online newspapers and e-book readers like Kitaboo and the Amazon Kindle has further popularised digital reading. A unique digital magazine mobile app is a worthy investment in this sector. It will facilitate users' access to magazines through mobile devices and expand the readership for magazine authors.

Mobile App For Language Study One of the most promising app concepts for 2022 is a language-learning app that provides users with a foundation for learning other tongues. The app's complexity may be adjusted from the straightforward (alphabets and basic letters) to the challenging (full-fledged discussions). The software has a voice function that may demonstrate proper pronunciation to the students. People have difficulty communicating with natives and navigating foreign environments due to linguistic barriers.

Online Educational Software Although many local teachers are accessible, pupils would benefit significantly from centralized software that connects them all. App developers may find success by creating a learning platform with a built-in instructor search function. Tutors may be sorted in several ways, including by region, speciality, years of experience, hourly rate, availability, and whether they prefer to teach in person or online. Tutors who meet the needs of the students might be selected from a shortlist.

You may tailor the app to your teaching needs by adding video lectures and virtual study rooms where students can compare and discuss their notes.

Conclusion The capabilities of the Flutter framework are expanding over time. The framework is packed with tools that help build applications for the market. The most recent release of Flutter is optimized for use in building websites. Flutter is a reliable framework for creating apps and guarantees constant improvement. The widget tree may have seen some changes recently. The process of developing an aesthetically pleasing interface is shown.

There is a growing need for frameworks that improve the interface components of specialized and vertical markets. These requirements are entirely within Flutter's capabilities.

You can get a lot more mileage out of your Flutter market app with the help of AI. The Flutter framework's pre-made components and templates make this feasible. Flutter also makes it simple to connect your app to other services. Use proper testing, deployment, and maintenance procedures while creating apps using the Flutter framework. Equally crucial to a successful build is adhering to recommended practices for development.

[infinitelistofcreations]

Alexander Pine

Basics: Age: 24 Sexuality: bi-curious; no preference Current Residence: Russia Height: 6′1″ (185 cm) Nationality: Canadian Face Claim: Rin Matsuoka (Free! Iwatobi Swim Club) Occupation: unemployed

Personality: A bit wary of others, but not cynical of them, either. He isn’t the kind to allow himself to overthink things or stress about unnecessary things. Having used books as a way to escape his former trapped life, he now enjoys reading more than he once had, leaning toward historical mysteries and thriller more than other genres. His temper isn’t easy to set off; it takes quite a lot of disrespect and purposeful ignorance from others to set him off. Overall, he’s got the typical anger triggers as most people, and his hobbies are similar to most others as well.

Appearance: Muscular frame due to his active swimming routines; messy auburn red hair and dark eyes. His attire typically consists of casual opened zipper sweaters over fitted tees, and dark wash jeans and sneakers.  He doesn’t like more formal clothes like tuxes, but when he does wear them for any reason… he makes them look good.

Background: Born in Canada with a younger sister, his father controlled a Canadian branch of a Russia-based international company. His early life was like any other- spending time with his family, going on trips every few years, entertaining his various hobbies both alone and with his friends. However, things changed shortly after Xander’s 20th birthday. He discovered his father had accrued a rather large debt to the founder of the company, who lived in Russia at the company’s home base.

Without any consultation with him, his father and the company’s founder wound up making a deal- the debt would be forgiven and forgotten entirely in exchange for bringing Alexander to Russia and live as a sort of pet for the founder’s son. It wasn’t long after that he was then flown to Russia, despite his protests and clear refusal to cooperate. Since he didn’t know anything about the Russian language, he was basically forced to stay in the home with the founder’s son, who treated him terribly and for his own pleasure and amusement for several years.

The more time he spent with the man intended to be his owner, the more Alexander began to understand the man and the struggles he has of his own- developing a degree of Stockholm syndrome, although he still resented the man for his choice o keep Alexander as his toy at the end of the day. It wasn’t until he was given more freedom and help to learn Russian in order to enjoy said new freedom, and his master started treating him more kindly and sincerely apologetic for his former actions- that allowed them to form a genuine bond and connection to one another, which eventually resulted in their relationship turning more open and trusting and leading to them becoming a proper couple.

While Alexander obviously misses his family in Canada and still has mixed, conflicting feelings toward his father for what he’d done to him, he also is finally enjoying his new life in his new home with his partner, spending his spare time that isn’t used with his boyfriend to basically sightsee the city they were in and rebuild his previous lifestyle.

Relationships: Gavriil Polyak - Boyfriend Julia Pine - Younger Sister

Tag

[soulsuckrrs]

Basic Information

Full Name: Callum Franklin Monroe Nickname: typically goes by his last name Monroe. Cal is also acceptable. Age: 40-44 | several centuries old Date of Birth: December 21st Species: Fae. Body-Jumper. Powers: Callum can possess dead bodies of any kind no matter the degree of decay but the length he can inhabit them lessens the more decayed they are. When this happens he leaves his own body & it is vulnerable so often he’ll hide himself somewhere before transferring from body to body. While possessing a body he has prenatural strength & senses, Callum can also commune with the dead (is considered a medium) but it always depends on how corroborative the dead are. He can absorb any information, skill, or knowledge a person had prior to death while in their body & take it back to his own for future reference. While in his own body Callum’s reflexes & senses are heightened beyond that of a normal human's but only slightly so, nothing compared to some other supernaturals. Hometown: was left somewhere in the UK as an infant, has never been to the Fae realm where he was born Current Location: States | Thread dependent Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him/His Orientation: Demiromantic, Bisexual, & Polyamorous Religion: n/a Occupation: debt collector & bounty hunter Living Arrangements: he has a permanent address in New Orleans under an alias but typically stays on the move, going from room to room, hotel to hotel. Language(s) Spoken: polyglot but doesn’t let many people know that

Physical Appearance

Face Claim: Dominic Cooper Hair Color: Dark brown Eye Color: Brown Height: 5’10 Weight: 163 lbs Build: muscular, strong, rough. Tattoos: tbd Piercings: none Clothing Style: comfortable, clean, easy to move in. Doesn’t really care about the current fashion but does love himself a good suit & button up shirts, Callum does like to look nice. Usual Expression: bored & disinterested. He makes it a point to make people think he is just constantly not in the mood for anything & that he hates life.

Health

Sleeping Habits: he usually crashes for a few hours, 2 to 6 hours a night if he can get it. Struggles with insomnia. When in a body that is not his own/dead, Callum doesn’t require sleep. Eating Habits: he loves food & will eat whenever he gets the chance. Want a deal to go in your favor? Give him candy, Callum has quite the sweet tooth & often is sucking on sweet things like Jolly Ranchers, suckers, & sour candy. Exercise Habits: he’s by no means a professional athlete or anything but Callum is in very good shape, doesn’t necessarily exercise regularly to keep up his shape but gets into situations that are physically strenuous enough to keep him active & toned. Emotional Stability: he’s prone to angry outbursts but usually needs a good deal of prodding & goating before he strikes out at anyone, otherwise, Callum would say he has a great emptiness inside, when reacting to most things he’s bored or disinterested initially & rarely feels any certain way about things but that is not to say he is completely incapable of feeling something it just takes him a while to feel anything but apathy & disgust usually. Sociability: he hates people, would rather be hunkered down at a bar in the corner or sleeping somewhere. Definitely an introvert & prefers to keep to himself but makes connections for work & the undeniable human need for companionship. Body Temperature: when he’s in his own body he’s warm, sometimes even a little above average body heat. However, when in the body of someone deceased, he’s cold to the touch. Drug Use: he typically sticks weed & cigarettes, a little cocaine here & there but goes on benders where he does a ton of drugs & drinking. Alcohol Use: Callum has had on again off again issues with alcohol since he was a teen. He drinks often & doesn’t keep it to any specific time frame just whenever he wants a drink. Scent: cigarettes, dirt, posies, & ashes.

Personality

Label: The Undertaker Positive Traits: intelligent, quick-thinker, adaptable, curious, & resourceful Negative Traits: nihilistic, apathetic, aloof, callous, & violent Fears: losing his real body or being unable to return to it. Hobbies: reading, listening to music (mostly jazz & blues), Habits: smokes a lot & oftentimes doesn’t care where he lights up, fidgets when he’s bored or anxious or agitated.

Favorites

Weather: cold, snowy, rainy. Color: black & gold Music: rock, punk, grunge Movies: horror, thrillers, scifi Sport: none Beverage: liquor, beer, coffee. Food: has a sweet tooth & enjoys breakfast foods a lot though. Animal: butterfly. moth. rat.

Family

Father: unknown Mother: Aileen Clarke, deceased. Sibling(s): none Children: none Pet(s): none Financial Status: lives paycheck to paycheck but has always been able to make things work out.

Extra

Zodiac Sign: Sagittarius MBTI: ISTP-A (the Virtuoso) Enneagram: the Challenger Temperament: Choleric Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Primary Vice: Wrath Primary Virtue: Patience Element: Fire Kinks: biting/scratching/marking, oral/cunninglingus, bondage, grinding, being handsy, hand jobs/fingering, public, passion/desperation, hair pulling/grabbing, multiple partners, breath play/choking, fingers in the mouth, anal/ass play, being pegged, pain play, wax play. Position: Switch, top/dom leaning.

[beachbabey]

some 1800's Stable Boy!Rhett headcanons

- Rhett's everyday life is quite repetitive, but he likes the structure it gives him. He wakes up at sunrise and sleeps at the same time every night. His meals are as regular as he can make them and so are his hobbies and anything else he decides to do.

- But, when he's with you there's always a tender undertone to everything he does, that only you notice. Whether he's tending to the horses, fixing fences or the stables - you always know where to find him.

- He struggles with his self-worth very often, being born into a low-status household and working for people that are so shitty and disrespectful, yet despite this, could still buy his family's house and land causes him to doubt himself a lot.

- He cannot take gifts at all, in his mind, he’s now in your debt and needs to give you something back in return as quickly as he can to feel ‘even’

- That being said, For his 18th birthday you got him a pair of boots and a new hat, he'd worn the same brown leather cowboy boots since he started working for your father and they had seen better days

- You handed them to him and he just stood there, frozen in shock, after he stuttered out a thank you and you left the barn, He cried for hours.

- They were the first items he owned that weren’t hand-me-downs, they were his and entirely his

- His love language is, unsurprisingly, acts of service, he knows he can't buy you jewellery or even a bouquet with his paycheck or write you the most eloquent and dreamy letters that would make you blush bright red. But he can give you his hands and body, he can fix things, and make things. He can run errands and let you hold onto his arm when it gets dark and you're walking back home.

- He's been riding horses ever since he could walk and you laugh at how he talks to them.

- "Rhett you know they can't understand you right?"

"Sure they can Darlin'. Why do you think she listens to me and none of the other boys?"

"It's because she knows you'll give her an extra apple if she does what she's told"

"See? She understands me"

- Despite the work he does. He's naturally very dominant (in more ways than one😌 ) and is used to being the backbone of his household and being depended on. As a result of this, there are times when you've needed to force him to sit back and take a break. even if it's just for a couple of minutes.

- He is also one of the most affectionate people you know. You'd never expect him to be so gentle and loving with you. His large and brooding frame is enough to keep everyone out of his personal space, but for you, he gives a side of himself that only you would ever see.

[thecameronchronicles]

The Debt~Part Five

TW: Edging, smut, language, and sexual themes throughout. I do not own any of the characters but ask that you do not publish this fanfiction without my permission on any other platform. Please and thank you. 

Summary: You wake up the morning after your bachelorette party beside a familiar torso and a pair of missing panties, your bedfellow all too willing to torment you for what you can’t seem to remember…

Words: 3500

The Debt: Part Five

This was actually the first and only event in the slew of wedding preparations that you didn’t absolutely detest; your bachelorette party. But it wasn’t for the perverted excitement of phallus shaped everything that your friends seemed to harbor, but for the freedom of one night without Rafe, Ward, or the circumstances that held onto you like a vice. You could drink without your fiance’s critique to ‘pace yourself’ and even sway your hips without the judgemental eye of your mother expecting you to exhibit more demure behavior. It was a night in which you could truly release your inhibitions and tension-something you found necessary due to the last few weeks.

But flash forward just shy of twenty-four hours later as the hot pink sash you had wrapped around your torso the night before was now a mere decoration on the chair welcomed first by your gaze meeting with the harsh daylight. The pounding in your head acting as a result of drinking to excess, that you hadn’t felt since six months prior on the morning of your twenty-first birthday as you had sore off alcohol in abundance, left you making that empty promise once again as you pulled yourself upwards to begin your day. But as you attempted to ground your steps, the weight of your head feeling impossibly heavy as your hands came to smooth the unruly hair, the sudden shift of a motion at your back left you to view a familiar set of broad shoulders marked with the evidence of your nails drawing red lines along his sun kissed skin. 

At that same instant that you deduced the identity of your bedfellow to have been none other than your fiance, you realized your own dismantled attire; a bra whose right strap was set under your arm and the absence of panties that left you with the understanding that you had given in to him. But the details of your temporary amnesia made you question if you were more disappointed that it had happened or that you couldn’t remember that it had. You wouldn’t be allowed a moment’s analysis, however, as the bitter twist within your stomach informed you of the coming bile. 

Managing to catch the contents of your last meal in the nick of time, you used the back of your hand to wipe the clammy sweat collecting at your brow. Pulling back to rest against the wall directly across from the toilet, your peripheral vision made note of Rafe standing proudly within the frame of the door; seemingly indifferent to your vomit or current state of dishevelment-almost humored by it. And you hated everything about him in this moment. The way he stood with such arrogance in knowing he had ‘gotten’ you, wielding the memories in which you were deprived-but the one detail you loathed the most had been how badly you wanted an encore of what you couldn’t remember as he was mouthwatering in only his boxers and the seductive lines of his waist pulling your gaze even lower.

“What-what are you doing here?” You inquired, hoping there would be some alternative explanation to the evidence laid before you. But he only seemed to be amused by your question, raising his arms across his chest. He was a jackass to be sure, but you couldn’t deny how handsome he was beneath that dry sarcasm and dominating audacity. 

“You need some coffee…” Before you could object, he was set into the direction of the small kitchenette within the hotel room, as you managed to climb to your feet and follow him until finding solace on the bar stool-having collected a blanket around you to keep from remaining exposed to him. 

“What…uh…exactly happened?” He turned, playing the role of a dramatic thespian by drawing a hand to his chest as if your words caused him pain, only to smirk to showcase his playful nature. 

“I’m insulted…Was I not that memorable for you? I mean YOU were…after all the things you said….” His eyes suddenly darkened. “The things you did…” He sucked in his cheeks, eyes lowering, furthering your torment as you narrowed your own eyes into a glare. 

“I mean…I’m surprised you can even walk…” Your stomach twisted into knots to the supposed actions that he held in strong recollection. 

“Do you always have to be an ass?” You charged, frustrated and losing whatever patience you had beneath each throb of your rising blood pressure and therefore aching temples. 

“Maybe we should start with what you DO remember…” He seemed compassionate to this, but wearing a continued smile of harboring some sense of power. 

“You can’t just tell me?” He leaned forward on his elbows to your question, sliding you a steaming cup of coffee, widening his grin, as if the offer to assist in jogging your memory was enough to keep the scowl you were already giving him, at bay. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” You rolled your eyes as he pulled his own mug beyond his lips. “So?” You wracked your brain for the last memory, finding that cloud of missing time beyond irritating before your mind came to a clear recollection. 

“Getting ready…” You came to the memory of standing before the bathroom mirror, that pink sash set across your torso as a gift from your bridal party, before turning to face them. With the collection of half a dozen girls all dressed in similar glitter eyeshadow and ‘bride tribe’ tattoos on their cheeks, you would stand out for the ‘bride-to-be’ crown set atop your curled locks. But as you were led to the car, the coming relief of a night without the masculine energy of the ’Cameron men’, the younger of the two would summon for you to remain. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, yeah?” Rafe inquired, his eyes taking in your ensemble; half aroused and half amused. 

“That doesn’t leave a lot I can’t do…” You teased, offering a wink and rising just enough to brush your lips past his, without making actual contact. 

“I mean it.” He warned just as you crossed the threshold of the house and joined your friends in the lavish car assigned to you for the night. 

“And then?” He questioned in modern time, as you stalled, uncertain to which bar you arrived at first, before remembering how your maid of honor produced a to-do list of requests that had to be completed by midnight for the full ‘bachelorette experience’. 

“Get a guy to sign your boob, get a guy to give you a condom, drink the dirtiest sounding cocktail at every bar-” The list went on as you felt your phone buzz softly at your side, altering your attention to a text from your betrothed. 

“Behave yourself, sweetheart.” Your breath hitched for a moment as you could imagine his voice speaking those words in a sweltering exhale against your ear. And yet, the chills on your skin did not cause the sinister smirk to fade over your expression as you had already prepared a response in your mind before your fingers were even able to tap the screen. 

“It’s no fun if I do…Besides, you seem to like me better when I don’t.”. The moment the message was sent and read, your phone was collected by your friend. 

“No phone’s-too much to do!” She pulled your focus elsewhere as you basked in how he must be coming undone at your flirtatious teasing now turned into radio silence. 

The blur of bar hopping the night before began to fix itself into more of a mosaic of memories as you recalled the items on the list being knocked off one-by-one. But of the more sultry tasks, you couldn’t bring yourself to act on them; at least not without imagining Rafe on the receiving end. Specific tasks included; ‘let someone take a body shot off of you’, ‘grind on someone for an entire song’, and ‘convince a guy to give you a pair of his boxers’-all tasks you watched your friends complete with success, all while you couldn’t do so without longing for Rafe instead. It was infuriating.

This is what made you take your first shot; the way he managed to occupy your thoughts out of pure desperation of a touch you already knew to be pleasurable-but one that only tormented you as he seemed to be in control of your orgasms. You decided on Tequila because you knew it would affect you rather quickly, continuing shot-after-shot until you became brazen enough to finish the tasks remaining on that list. 

“Everything else is foggy…” You exhaled to him with a breath of frustration, all while he watched you in continued amusement. 

“You texted me…” He offered a clue to your mental block as your eyes came into a narrow of pensive silence before he slipped his phone from the counter for you to witness what you had sent him. In the first seconds of reading the cringe-worthy texts, you remembered stealing your phone from your friend’s purse as even Jose Quervo couldn’t keep your mind off of him for too long. 

“It isn’t nice to tease, you know?”, “Are you behaving?”, “I don’t like waiting…”, “I’m getting impatient..!” All missed messages made you glow with fulfillment in believing this rebellion against offering a response had left you somehow victorious. 

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to want some attention…”

“You have mine…”

“No thanks…” You wrote back, reading the text that next morning, rather impressed how he managed to decipher your drunk texts full of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. 

“You need to stop drinking. You might do something you’ll regret…Something I’ll make you regret…”

“Promises, promises…”

“I mean it-nobody touches what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours. I’ll prove it.” Annoyed at how you knew these words weren’t true as you were consumed by him mind, body, and soul, the ability to refrain from his advances wearing thin, you decided on something reckless and dangerous for your target on the other edge of the bar. Striking up a pleasant conversation, you pulled out all of the stops to gain his temporary interest, long enough to take a picture with him before sending it to Rafe for ‘proof’. 

“Yours? I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll be his for tonight…Maybe longer…” 

In seconds, your phone illuminated once more, but you ignored it, already imagining the misogynistic response awaiting you. And yet now, the morning after, you would read the responses you left unread. 

“The only one you’ll misbehave with is ME, understand?!” “Dammit,-” He wrote your name in all caps, a series of following messages demanding a response, bringing his anger through each correspondence until they silenced. 

“So how did I end up HERE?” To this question, he grinned widely, almost sporting a cheshire smile. 

“Well…when you didn’t write back…I went down and got you…” You suddenly remembered a string of events that returned to you like flashes of lightning. The nameless guy you had wrapped around you, swaying to some muffled version of a recent radio hit, was pulled from you in a violent force, knocked to the ground, and bloodied in seconds. Rafe expressed his intent to keep you from ‘making any more trouble’ to your bridal party, who were too drunk to care or question him, before taking you back to his truck. 

“Is THIS what I have to look forward to being married to you?” You charged at him as he pulled the car into the recess of a driveway before pulling you with little care into the bridal suite rented specifically for this night, before tossing you onto the couch. 

“You represent the ‘Cameron’ name, now…You can’t act like that-” But something inside of you brought your care for his words to a place of nonexistence. Instead of feeling the heat of the threat behind his words, you focused on the pooling heat between your thighs. Days, weeks, and even months of reserved passion keeping you behaved, pulled for you to act out…

“Like this?” You challenged, allowing your fingers to descend the lines of your legs until they disappeared between your thighs, his eyes following every inching decline of your touch as you expelled a simple moan that affected him just as you had hoped. For a moment, he licked his lips in the imagery you offered him, continuing to pleasure yourself in soft circles quickening at the thoughts allowed in your mind. HIS hands. HIS touch. HIM…

“I don’t want to think about you…” You confessed across the small space that now seemed suddenly too vast between the two of you. You allowed your head to rest in the recess of the couch behind you, rising on the balls of your toes while remaining seated, as a twinge of pleasure teased your wet core as you lifted your free hand to your breast, kneading the soft skin beneath your touch, moaning in abrupt gasps and satisfied groans. 

“But I want YOU to think about me…” You continued, your lips pulling open to a stretched oval as you acted as if he simply wasn’t observing you with the silent awe that he was. “Oh God-” At the desperation of your religious plea, you suddenly felt your wrist captured by him as he pulled you to your feet and into the bedroom. A wide smile crept across your face as you imagined the months of tension finally offering some sense of payoff. 

“Get your ass in bed.” He ordered, carrying his heavy palm to your cheek as you turned to face him, a large smile developing on your face, as your fingers teased his shirt. 

“Think of all the ways you could have me, Rafe…” You teased, speaking these words in nearly a whine as he tensed beneath your touch, endorsing you to descend your fingers even further. 

“Not drunk.” His words made you step back for a moment in surprise. 

“YOU’RE turning me DOWN?!”

“I haven’t put up with your smart little comments just to have you not remember the methods in which I finally used to shut you up…” As he spoke, you could feel a sourness rise from your abdomen, travel higher up, and tease the expulsion eventually prompted in your attempt to conceal it; covering you both in your sickness. Your hand came immediately over your mouth in regret, as he let out an exhale before sitting you on the edge of the bed. 

“Here…” He offered you a shirt from your bag set disorganized on the floor beside the bed, as you turned away from him before feeling the urge arrive once again. In his attempt to try and assist you, you fought him, not wanting to feel him touch you unless it was to relieve your tensions. Because of this, you would scar his back-leaving the evidence you would witness the next day. 

“You stayed in the bathroom for about two hours, throwing up everything you ate in the last two days before I took you to bed…” He explained, all humor now drained from his face as he placed his now empty mug in the sink, and moved to the direction of the living room. 

“You shouldn’t drink like that. Especially if you can’t handle it…”

“How else am I supposed to handle all of ‘this’?” You inquired aloud before thinking of the weight of your words, hoping it would be enough for him to forget the events of the night before.

“Maybe NOT throwing yourself at other guys when you’re engaged would be a start-”

“Please! I’m just property-”

“Yeah. But you’re MY property-” You glared at his clarification, shaking your head in disbelief. 

“You don’t agree? I guess I’d be surprised if you did-maybe even disappointed.” To this, your arms crossed over your chest. 

“All you do is play games…give empty promises…you like the chase but never the commitment…” He cocked his jaw, allowing a moment’s rest with his elbows on idle at his knees, before rising to tower you. 

“If this is about last night…I want you to remember when I’d fuck you-” But to your scoff, his expression twisted in temporary confusion. 

“I’m starting to think you’re defective…” You berated. “After all, you’ve had chance after chance to make good on your empty threats…but that’s all they are…” You took a step closer to him. “Empty…” You casted a wicked smile of victory before pushing him one inch closer to the madness rising behind his eyes. 

“I guess it’s not a loss…as it is only a ‘little’ disappointment-” Your eyes shifted to the bulge forming behind the fabric of his boxers, tenting at your teasing words. “And I do mean ‘little’-” In your attempt to leave the room with the final word, a grip to your hair suddenly brought you to sit on the couch, where he pinned you into the corner-all sense of reservation absent from his face. 

“The only reason I haven’t fucked you quiet is because that was the ONE stipulation my dad had me make-no sex before marriage-just in case…” His eyes motioned to your stomach to hint at a pregnancy as you scowled at the idea. 

“But there are other things I can make you do…Get on your knees.” Your brows shot up as he retracted just far enough for you to make out the details of him undressing before you, teasing his Adonis belt so close to your eager lips, parting in anticipation to his taste-his width-him. 

“I’ve been wanting to shut you up with my cock the second you told me off on our first date.” He now altered from one thought to another. “Little disappointment-” He scoffed. “I’ll show you, ‘little’…” His grip returned to your hair, pulling you to the edge of the couch as his second hand lowered his boxers until he was suddenly naked before you. Even though you had felt him within your palm before, he was somehow more intimidating before you now, your doe eyes looking up to him with uncertainty of his impressive erection. 

“Nuh uh…You want to act like a slut for a stranger like that asshole last night? You’re going to be a whore for me…” He teased your mouth with the tip of his leaking head, endorsing your lips to part as whatever came over you when you were in his presence had done so tenfold. That desire to prove yourself, to bring him to his edge and have him dependent on the release only you could give…

Your hand wrapped around the base of his impressive anatomy, stroking the remainder of what you could not press beyond your throat, twisting as he would grunt to your experience. But he would allow only a moment of adjustment before suddenly taking command and forcing you to take the extent of his length, making you desperate for breath as he taunted you from above. 

“Look at you…choking on my ‘little’ cock…My ‘little cock’ making you tear up, huh?” You struggled to respond in any format, but were able to dig your nails into his skin in response, as he would only push you further, leaving you gasping when offering a break. 

“You’re gonna be a good girl and make me come…right? Show me how sorry you are-choke me…” He lowered to you just enough to maintain eye contact, basking in the way tears now stained your cheeks from his length, as you nodded, hoping your acquiescence would act as a reward for the very near future. And so, you returned to him, tongue running the length of his shaft before he would comand control once again, fucking himself into your throat. 

“Fuck!” He grunted through clenched teeth, eyes becoming heavy to the rush of pleasure allowed by your mix of eagerness and acceptance to his depraved thoughts allowed into reality by your consent. 

“You’re only ever going to be on your knees for me, you understand?! You’re taking me so fucking good! UGH!” He groaned through his order, tightening his grip on your hair as you focused on his pleasure in opposition to a response. Feeling this painful pull, you would bob your head as he released an agreeable chuckle. 

Your name left his lips in a mix of curses and groans as he bucked harder into you, allowing you to breathe in the most inopportune of times that left the thrill of near asphyxia making you almost dizzy against him until his hand suddenly drove your heaving focus to him. 

“Swallow.” He commanded as he bucked the final thrusts into you, the ribbons of his release cascading down your throat in spurts as you took in a deep breath following the completion of his orders. And yet, that grip he held would remain in your hair, taking your eyes to him. 

“There are only two weeks until we’re out of excuses…Especially now since I know how beautiful you look with my cock making your eyes water…” He lowered close to you, taking in the gloriousness of your breathlessness caused by his arousal. 

“I’m never letting you go now…” And you realized as scary of a reality these words may be…you never wanted him to, as even in the abandonment of another moment left unsatisfied as his release brought your own sex sopping in anticipation, you were exhilerated for what was next…

Part 6 Coming soon! Be Sure to let me know what you think. Let me know if you want to be put on the taglist! <3 

Taglist: @hopebaker​

[wolferine]

Squid Game - Part 8

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Squid Game AU. The reader joins a deadly game to save themselves from debt and reunites with an old flame…

Warnings: Graphic violence, blood, language, death. Spoilers for Squid Game.

Word count: 2764

Part 7

AN: Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story. Enjoy the final part.

Natasha wakes up half-naked on the sidewalk, her hands and feet tied behind her back. Her stomach hurts in the position she’s twisted in, and she sees the black line of stitches across her abdomen where you had stabbed her a week ago. She coughs, her whole body trembling in pain, and a gold debit card goes flying out of her mouth.

She eventually wriggles herself free of the ties, and a kind homeless man comes by and gives her one of his oversized, raggedy jackets to wear. She takes it gratefully, covering herself up, and stumbles over to the nearest ATM, shoving the card into the slot. 

It asks for a four-digit PIN number.

Slowly, Natasha presses 0-1-9-0, her number in the competition. The machine accepts and she chooses to withdraw $10 dollars. The machine spits out the bill, and says she has $453,999,990 left in her account.

***********************************************************************

The first thing Natasha does with her newfound wealth, as disgusting as it is for her to use it, is hire a private investigator. Within a day, he locates your address, and she heads there immediately.

It’s in a terrible area of the city and the main doors don’t even have locks on them. There’s a large blue truck advertising junk removal outside the complex, and men carry furniture and other appliances from inside to dump in the back. Natasha walks in and sees a door open on the first floor, where the junk removal team are entering and exiting.

She prays it’s not your apartment, but she already knows better.

As she goes down the cramped hallway, one of the men bumps into her shoulder with the edge of his box. The contents spill to the floor and he cusses loudly. Natasha automatically bends over to help him and turns over a picture frame. The glass is cracked, but the intact picture makes her heart stop.

It’s you and her, back on the first date you ever went on together. Natasha’s face is frozen in laughter as you kiss her cheek shyly.

“Ahem.” The junk removal man holds out his hand. “I’ll take that.” 

“No.” Natasha’s finger close tightly over the frame. “I’m keeping this.”

He narrows his eyes at her.

“Here.” She fishes in her pocket and pulls out the smallest dollar bill she’s carrying—a hundred—and gives it to him. His eyes widen as he accepts it.

“You want anything else?” He lowers the box so she can see what else is inside, but she shakes her head. Natasha tucks the frame under her arm and keeps moving.

“Just take it all, boys. I don’t want any memories of these tenants.” A tall, stooping man with a receding hairline and a thick Russian accent directs the junk removal team from the doorway.

“Um, excuse me?” Natasha approaches him with uncharacteristic hesitance. A strange, fishy smell lingers near the doorway of your apartment.

“I’m busy.” The man waves her away.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Natasha is still weak from the injuries she suffered during the final game and is in no mood to argue with him. “I’m looking for someone who lives here. Mrs…Y/L/N?”

“Why?” the man barks, crossing his arms. “Are you here to finally pay the rent? Because it’s too late for that.”

“How much?” Natasha asks, reaching in her jacket pocket, her fingers circling the wad of 100-dollar bills.

The man chuckles and shakes his head. “I said it’s too late,” he repeats. 

“What do you mean? Did you already kick her out?” Natasha’s stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought of your mother being treated so terribly.

“I was on my way to do that yesterday actually, and when I finally knocked the door down, I found her dead on the floor,” the man says.

“…Dead?” Bile rises in the back of Natasha’s throat.

“Yep. And the other tenant—her kid or whatever—never picked up the phone.” Natasha chokes up when she’s reminded of the reason why you wouldn’t answer. “Anyway, I’m done with this damn family. I’m the one who had to call to get the old lady carted off to the morgue, and now I have to pay for junk removal and cleaning services.”

But Natasha’s not listening to him anymore as she backs away with tears in her eyes. Your mother was dead, her last connection to you. Not only that, but the whole reason you had played those games and unspeakable things was for her.

All that for nothing.

Natasha bolts from the apartment complex with the picture frame and doesn’t look back.

***********************************************************************

The next heartbreak comes with Clint’s son, Cooper. Natasha’s private investigator locates the hospital he’s staying in, and Natasha anonymously pays for every surgery and treatment available, but no amount of money can save him from cancer.

He dies one month later.

Natasha hovers in the background at his funeral. She watches Clint’s wife and daughter cry into each other’s arms and shares their pain from afar. She wants to tell them the truth of what happened to Clint, but knows she can’t bring attention to herself like that.

She just wants to move on.

After paying out Bucky’s crew and attempting to right any other wrong she had caused, Natasha locks her account and doesn’t touch another dime she won from the games.

***********************************************************************

One year later…

Natasha sits on a bench in an empty park. It’s almost midnight and she’s freezing, but the cold numbs the pain in her soul. She’s wrapped in layers of old clothing, refusing to spend money on new ones. She had found a part-time job at a diner, which was barely enough to pay the bills. She didn’t indulge in luxuries, even with almost half a billion dollars sitting in a separate account.

There was nothing she wanted that could be bought.

“Hi, there, Miss.” An older man shuffles up to her. “For you. Merry Christmas.” He offers her a single rose.

Natasha nods and takes the flower. She notices a card tied around the stem. There’s a stamp of a circle, triangle, and square on one side of the card. The other side reads:

Stark Tower Top floor December 24, 11:30 P.M.

From, 001

Her blood runs cold when she sees the signing on the card.

***********************************************************************

Natasha’s surprised that Stark Tower is even open on the holiday, but there’s no one in the lobby to greet her. With some difficulty, she locates the elevator and presses the button for the top floor, floor 7. Her stomach starts hurting again, but this time she knows it’s from the sheer anxiety. 

The seventh floor is just one giant room, the wall-to-wall windows offering a spectacular view of the city. Especially for this time of year, nearby businesses went through the extra effort of decorating their buildings with festive lights, inflatable snowmen, and Santa Claus statues. 

In the farthest corner of the room, a tiny light glows over a hospital bed. Natasha approaches it with some hesitance. When she sees a person lying in the bed, her heart beats faster.

It’s Tony, Player 001, alive in the flesh.

He’s even thinner and paler than when he had been during the games. But as far as she can see, there is no gunshot wound to show that he had even been shot during the marble game.

“Hello, Natasha,” Tony whispers, reaching out to her with a trembling hand.

“Who the hell are you?” Natasha whispers, unable to believe what she’s seeing. How did he survive? Why did he wait almost a year to make his presence known? Why had he called her here?

“My name is Anthony Stark.”

Natasha realizes immediately why he had seemed so familiar from their first encounter. The Starks were self-made billionaires, and Anthony/Tony had made a name for himself within the family as an infamous playboy. Now that she thought about it, she even remembered hearing about the factory accident that sent shrapnel through his chest, almost destroying his heart and removing him from the work field. 

If he came from one of the wealthiest families in America, why had he chosen to play the games? He had money. He had everything that most people could only dream of.

Then it hits Natasha, especially with the things he revealed to her over the course of the games.

“You…You were…” she chokes on her words. “You were the one behind the games this entire time.”

Tony doesn’t answer, staring at the ceiling with dull eyes.

“Why?” she says, barely able to contain her anger. She grabs his collar and chokes him. “Why?” she repeats, shaking him roughly.

“If you kill me,” Tony grunts weakly, “You’ll never get your answer.”

She backs off.

“How come you stopped spending your money?” he asks.

“I can do whatever I want with it,” Natasha responds. “And if that means not spending it, then that’s my choice.”

Tony adjusts his head on a pillow. “But the things you did to earn it—” 

“I didn’t do anything!” she protests. “Y/N…Y/N’s the one…” She bows her head, unable to finish her sentence. You were the one who had made the ultimate sacrifice in the end. She was just the unlucky one forced to live with the memory of it all.

“Y/N wasn’t the one who walked away with the money. You were,” Tony points out. “You earned it fair and square, Natasha.”

“But I have no use for it,” she argues, looking out the window.

“That’s not what you thought going into the game.” Tony sighs. “You asked me why I created the games. People are so obsessed with money, but once they get more than they know what to do with, they realize that’s not what they really wanted in the end. They want friends, they want a family, they want love, they want meaning.

“Take me for example. I grew up with everything I could have ever wanted. Everything was given to me on a silver platter. I worked for my dad’s company all my life—in a job I never had to interview for—but no amount of money made me feel the way that belonging on a team, being relied on by others, did,” Tony explains. “But after the factory accident, the company cut me loose, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had all the money I could ever spend, but I didn’t have a purpose.”

Natasha can hardly wrap her head around his reasoning.

“The winners of my games fought and killed for money that most of them would later never even spend. They’re no different than you,” Tony says. “You had nothing before you entered the game, Natasha. And you emerged a multi-millionaire. So, tell me why you’re still unhappy,” Tony says.

Natasha feels sick to her stomach. “Because I lost things money could never replace.”

“Like what?” Tony turns his head to stare at her tauntingly.

She narrows her eyes and presses her mouth into a hard line. “You know what.”

“You were the one who cheated on Y/N, right? You probably thought you would never even see each other again. My game brought you back together. How are you not grateful for that in the very least?” 

Because the games turned you into a completely different person than who she fell in love with, Natasha thinks.

“My game makes people realize what’s truly important to them and who they really are,” Tony says. “Were you not happy with how Y/N turned out?”

Natasha suddenly remembers your last living moments. “Y/N forgave me,” she says, almost to herself.

“What?” Tony asks.

Natasha repeats herself louder.

“Is that so?” He smirks. “Did that give you peace of mind?”

“A little,” she admits. Natasha wants to focus on the good, not the bad, as difficult as it is.

“Do you know why I called you here?” Tony asks. 

She shrugs. “To prove to me that you’re not really dead and that you’re a sick motherfucker who’s responsible for the deaths of thousands?”

Tony ignores her last comment. “I have something for you, Natasha.” He coughs, and it’s a raspy, painful noise that even makes her wince.

“What? More money?” Natasha dismisses. “Because if it is, you can shove it up your—”

“No, it’s…” Tony continues coughing, bringing his fist up to his mouth. He spits blood on his knuckles and his whole body convulses with each of his coughs. Natasha looks around the room for a phone or a button to call for help. But there’s nothing. So instead, she watches him die, utterly numb to the loss of life.

Tony flops onto his pillows, clutching his throat. The heart monitor screams in panic. He lets out a final cough and slumps back, his body going still. Natasha steps up to his side, pressing her fingers to his neck. She feels no pulse.

***********************************************************************

It feels strange to leave Tony like that, but Natasha can’t risk being caught. She walks down the street to the train station, hoping to catch the last one. As she’s waiting on the platform, poorly bundled up against the cold, she looks across the platform and sees one person standing on the other side. 

She rubs her eyes, unable to process what she’s seeing. 

It’s you.

You’re wearing an eyepatch over your right eye and Natasha can see the scar trailing over your eyebrow where she slashed you with the knife. There is also a gruesome scar on your neck from where you had stabbed yourself so she could win. But despite the sacrifice, you were still alive. 

Were you Tony’s present to her? Had he actually saved you after she thought you had killed yourself?

***********************************************************************

One year earlier

You were certain you would die in Natasha’s arms. Blood leaks from your throat, trickling down your chest. You want to tell her to take care of your mother, but nothing but blood bubbles out of your mouth. You try reaching up to touch Natasha’s face, but you’re too weak and your arm falls back to the ground.

You feel yourself torn away from Natasha. She screams for you, but is suddenly silenced. You’re placed in a box and carried out of the arena. No one even realizes you’re still alive until Tony himself opens the lid.

Wait, isn’t Tony supposed to be dead? Natasha had beat him in the marble game. 

Tony reaches into your box and presses his fingers against your neck before barking orders to the pink jumpsuits.

Instead of taking you to the furnace to be burned, you’re taken to some semblance of a medical facility. The doctors are good enough to keep you alive, but they can’t save your eye and your voice is permanently ruined.

Tony joins you for “dinner” one night, sitting by your side as you’re fed an unappealing gray paste through a tube in your nose. You pick up your little whiteboard and scrawl the words “Why” on it.

“For Natasha,” he says.

You point again at your “Why.”

“You gave her a second chance, so now I’m giving you yours,” Tony says.

“I want my mom,” you write.

Tony looks you in your surviving eye. “Your mom is dead.”

You shake your head. 

“Yes. She’s dead.”

You won’t believe him; you can’t. The only reason you played the games was for her, and if she was really dead, then it was all for nothing. And you didn’t even have the chance to say good-bye to her.

During your slow, painful recovery, the only human interaction you receive is from your doctors, nurses, and Tony. You’re given old books to read and a notebook to write in. But it’s not enough stimulation for you and you want to leave (or die, you couldn’t really be picky).

When Tony makes his next visit to you, you write on your whiteboard, “Can I see Nat?”

“Not yet.” 

“When?”

“When I’m ready.”

You don’t know what he means by that, but you have no choice but to be patient.

You wait almost a year in Tony’s captivity. As you grow stronger, Tony weakens, and you know his end is coming. He sends a nurse to bring you a new jacket and a debit card, and you know it’s time.

*********************************************************************** 

You stare at Natasha across the platform. Slowly, you raise your hand and wave to her. A train on your side of the platform rolls by and you board, still watching Natasha from the inside.

She finally waves to you as the train takes you away.

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

Tags: @dumpaccdontmindme @zombies1ayea @marrymemcgrath @percabethsolangelo929 @sarahthegod @marie45019 @korekiyosredrose @upsidedowndanvers @3and30aresoultwins @norwaynatasharomanoff @rosha-raj @lovelyy-moonlight @caroldanvers2 @diaryoflife @ic-4u @wandaswifeyforlifey @simpfornatasharomanoff @magically-queer-stuff @thewidowsghost @sillyroadstudentflower @when-wolves-howl @alianovnam

AN: The end! I tried to put a hopeful little twist on the ending, as angsty as the rest of the story is. Whether or not you think Nat and R will get back together is completely up to you. 

Thanks for reading, and until next time...

[travelling-on-the-octopath]

S Plays 'Golden Wildfire' - Part 1

I tried to play with the Japanese voices and English dialogue, but it looks like changing the language does both? So that's. Irritating lol. I love Claude's JP!VA

We've all caught up with the demo, yes? No? I'll give you the rundown if not

Almyra launched an attack on Leicester back in the Academy days.

Shahid, Claude's brother, led the attack; likely the only reason they didn't succeed was because Nader didn't want to launch an attack on Claude. He wants the crown, and successful application of militaristic force seems to be the way to do it.

Hm. We'll see if that comes up in correlation to the leaks I've seen.

Holst is around; doesn't seem to bear the Crest of Goneril, despite Hilda claiming Freikugel was his birthright in Houses (she says he tried to pawn off his whole inheritance and only settled for giving her the Relic).

This will set the tone for all the infuriating retcons to come <3

Claude implies he's toyed with the idea of consolidating power in the Alliance because a multi-faceted higher power does not suit wartime. (Shez C-support)

Almyra seems to have stayed their hand for now.

Shez was left kicking around and unemployed for two years. Good for the Alliance, indicative of Claude's leadership, bad for Shez.

And now we're in it, folks! Get ready <3

The Defence of the Great Bridge

Claude's already talking about abandoning the Bridge if it really comes down to it. He's framing it in a way that talks about saving lives, but, uh . . . he manages to do it just fine in Houses? Aside from CF? So . . . hm!

I should say: That's me being nitpicky because I know where this goes, but also . . . Hopes!Claude has another full game of his character to stand as contradiction, so he has to get good.

All right so I have to go save Count DILF--I mean Count Gloucester's ass.

Regarding gameplay--OH FUCK OH LINHARDT BABY I'M COMING FOR YOU

Regarding gameplay: You can pre-pick strategies that are executed in battle. Picking of strongholds, recruiting people, etc etc.

AGAIN he mentions surrendering the bridge. I'm fucked.

Count Gloucester very much prioritizes the safety of his men :') what a guy

Acheron being a slime-spined bitch as always.

Oh DAMN Shez can warp-warp.

Okay so because Acheron was a bitch they have to forfeit the bridge. Sigh. Fucking hate this guy.

CASPAR???????

Linhardt warped Caspar to safety. That's so

They're being so cute. I do feel a little bad about taking Linhardt from him but oh well.

"YOU WERE NEVER THE TYPE TO FIGHT TO THE DEATH ANYWAY :( IF ANYTHING, I'M RELIEVED" CASPAR I'M SORRY OKAY

FERDINAND BABY NO I CAN'T RECRUIT YOU PLEASE LEAVE :(

Oh yikes, Gloucester surrendered.

Uh oh. "It's time to redraw the battle lines." Claude honey baby think about what you're doing here--

Okay so we skipped over the attack on Garreg Mach. Wonder when those lord cutscenes are gonna come into play?

DIMI DIMA DIMITRI LION MAN I LOVE YOU HELLO

It should be said: Rhea believes the church to now be in the Kingdom's debt for offering them asylum. Seteth offers the knights to be commanded as Faerghan troops. This is not at all a one-sided relationship. (Keeping note of this in case the writers get any Ideas)

Oh? Count Rowe is the Empire's problem child? Deserved. Asshole.

Hubert hates the obligation to help their vassal territories glkgjdflgj fucking love how awful this guy is.

NEXT CHAPTER

[scripttorture]

You mention in posts how torture doesn’t make people obedient and usually makes them spiteful (which obviously makes sense), but isn’t it realistic for someone to comply out of fear rather than loyalty? Whether that was giving up information or obeying orders or something else entirely. I imagine it depends on the person, and they would probably still be willing to turn on their torturers if given the chance, but would it be possible for them to obey orders in hopes of avoiding more pain?

This is a much more nuanced and complicated topic then we’re taught to assume.

 When it comes to giving up information it’s pretty clear cut. No, torture can’t lead to accurate information for a lot of interconnected reasons. I have about six separate masterposts covering the reasons for this.

 One of those is the antagonism torture produces. Another is the memory problems torture causes. Another is the effect that the use of torture has on organisations and the chain of command. Another is the effect torture has on torturers.

 Torture drastically increases the chances of memory loss and it also increases the chances of inaccurate memories. So not only is a torture victim less likely to talk, they’re more likely to be wrong if they do talk.

 But the effects on victims aren’t the main reason torture doesn’t work as a way of getting information. You’re assuming that torturers have access to people who have information.

 The reality is that torture destroys an organisation’s ability to gather accurate information. Most information comes from volunteers: when torture comes into play less people volunteer information. This means that an organisation which tortures is more likely to be questioning someone who knows nothing. That person is then abused until they start making things up.

 Because there’s less access to volunteered information and because humans are very bad at telling when someone is lying, a lot of these made up stories are believed. And this then effects who else the organisation arrests and tortures. This creates a sort of spiral, with lies leading to more lies.

 Additionally the torturers themselves make things worse. There’s less quality research on them, but the research and anecdotal accounts create a pretty clear picture of their behaviour. They undermine the chain of command, they lose the skills the originally had as they turn to torture, they’re aggressive, incredibly competitive and they have a… fracturing effect on their organisation.

 Basically they’re incredibly difficult to work with and totally convinced of their own importance. And this effects their colleagues. It totally divides organisations. The worst case I’ve read about involved members of the same organisation killing each other over access to prisoners.

 That’s a short run through of the main factors. Torture, in the legally defined sense, means all of these factors are in play. Plus a few more I’ve omitted to keep this shorter.

 With all of that together you just can’t get accurate information.

 If you want longer posts I’ve made on the subject I suggest looking for the ‘torture doesn’t work’ tag and the ‘torture as interrogation’ tag. You can also read the masterposts. If you want a much more in depth look at why torture consistently fails as a way of getting information I recommend O’Mara’s Why Torture Doesn’t Work and Rejali’s Torture and Democracy.

 O’Mara is a neuroscientist and goes through the effects torture has on the brain in a way that’s accessible, explaining the damage torture causes and how that destroys the evidence torturers claim to be seeking. Rejali’s book is a breeze block but it’s really a must, it is the textbook on torture in a broad sense. He ties together information from across the globe creating a broader picture of what torture does, not just to victims but to societies.

 The question of compliance under threat and pain… is more complicated.

 People can be forced to do some things. That much is obvious from a brief glance at human history and things like slavery. But it’s important to listen to what people in these scenarios say.

 And my opinion, based on what I’ve read, is that what these people say doesn’t support the idea that humans will easily obey instructions when they’re hurt or threatened. I think instead these people are making hard headed, rational choices in absolutely awful situations. I think when we don’t have these experiences of torture or slavery, it’s easy to look at the surface of the situation and assume that pain alone assures obedience. I think that happens because it’s hard for use to understand the rationale when we don’t have that lived experience.

 Let me give some examples. So it probably goes without saying that slavery goes hand in hand with physical abuse. One of the major researchers on slavery, whose data I quote pretty regularly, assumes throughout his writings that pain is the deciding factor which ‘makes’ people obey.

 But he also describes a couple of very obvious consistent patterns in the ways slavers behave. Slavers almost universally do the following things as well as using physical abuse:

Separate enslaved people from their community

Bar enslaved people from other forms of support

Make enslaved people financially/materially reliant on the slavers

Tell enslaved people that going to the police/authorities will lead to the enslaved person being arrested

Try to convince enslaved people that they will be better off if they comply, usually by framing it as a debt to be worked off with promises of riches after a period of time

 Now here’s the thing: we know from studies on cults and studies on ICURE techniques that a lot of these strategies will result in obedience when there is no violence or physical abuse.

 Given that I don’t think we can assume that violence is the deciding factor. In fact I think the evidence we have from forced confessions under torture suggests the violence may lead to less obedience and a lower ‘success’ rate then a set up that used emotional abuse or other exploitative techniques without violence.

 We have two sources of historical data that are used for statistical studies on forced confessions. One is from historical France. We think that this data set only involved torture to force a confession; no other method of coercion just violence. The rate of forced confessions varied a little in different areas but over all it’s about 10%. The second data set is from the ‘London Cage’ a British prison during the second world war. Here we know that torture was combined with blackmail, bribery and other kinds of coercion. The rate of forced confessions there was about 30%.

 And while this is just two studies, while the data is lacking… That is one hell of a jump.

 Let’s circle back to ICURE. ICURE stands for Isolation, Control information, create Uncertainty, Repetition and Emotive responses. It’s a set of techniques which can, sometimes, change someone’s beliefs when it’s applied consistently over a long time.

 Notice the effort slavers put in to isolating their victims. Notice that the behaviour pattern I’m describing means the slavers are creating uncertainty over seeking help and repeating those messages as well as messages that the victims will be better off if they just go along with it.

 Slavers will generally also try to control the information their victims have access to, taking phones and blocking access to news sources and other resources. Now a lot of slavers will transport their victims to other states or countries putting a language barrier in place. They sometimes also use emotive responses in attempts to persuade victims to comply.

 I’ve read multiple accounts where survivors of modern slavery described slavers telling them that the money they were making was being sent to the victim’s family and without it the family would not survive. (Sometimes the slavers do send small amounts to the families of their victims, sometimes they pocket everything.) I’ve also read accounts where gangs of slavers used religion and oaths taken in a religious setting to persuade their victims they’d be punished by God for not complying.

 Even with all of this, all these techniques we know can sometimes ‘work’- lots of people refuse. Lots of people disobey. Lots of people escape. Lots of people actively sabotage the operations the slavers put together.

 And if you look at that same history of slavery, that shows us people can sometimes be forced to work, you’ll see that this has always been true.

 We have records of historic enslaved people attacking slavers, forming organised militias, forming parallel societies, sacking towns, taking over an entire Caribbean island and beating off four European armies in the process. We also have records of smaller acts. Sabotage, worship of banned deities, speaking banned languages, destruction of property, aiding in the escape of others.

 What I’m saying is: this isn’t black and white. The evidence, modern and historical does not paint a clear picture of violence leading to obedience.

 Instead I believe that it shows humans are resilient, stubborn, adaptable creatures. People can survive all kinds of horrible situations. It is more accurate, more human, to assume that people make rational choices.

 Sometimes those choices involve short term compliance while looking for a better option or a way out. But we tend to hear less stories about the people who completely refuse to comply. We tend to treat that as an impossible fiction when it is a recorded historical and modern reality.

 Bringing this back to writing as a general rule the more complicated the act the less likely you can force someone to do it. Because the more complicated it is the more opportunities they’ll have to sabotage it or use it against their abuser.

 I recommend reading up on the history of Haiti pet. Then Brazil via Palmares.

 I’ll end this by bringing it back to those statistics on forced confessions in historical France. Imagine the conditions with me for a moment. Unsanitary, cramped cells. Dehydration, starvation and disease. Plus the kinds of scarring torture that are conjured up in the minds of most Western people when the word ‘torture’ comes up; thumb screws, leg irons that tighten until the bone snaps, whips.

 Picture it. Try to imagine the pain those people went through.

 And remember that 90% of them did not comply long enough to sign their name.

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