#just the concept that people have been moving forward in his name since the moment he died

[electroniccollectiondonut]

Thinking of Feanor being reembodied and finding that Formenos, his home, has spent so many thousands of years stewing in Feanorian Fanaticism that he can no longer recognize this place he built.

psst ask me about my Feanorian Culture headcanons

[arlertdarling]

❥ WRONG PLACE, RIGHT TIME — levi ackerman x gn!reader, swearing, death, loss, mourning, modern au, angst, hurt/comfort, maybe slightly ooc levi, this is kinda sad but it has a good ending i prommy<3 PLS read the warnings and enjoy!

The columbarium looks even more miserable than usual, soaked in rain and grey under the clouded daylight. You’re standing in front of it, one hand tightly gripping your umbrella, the other gripping your late spouse’s favourite flowers even tighter. You’re wondering if it ever gets easier and holding back hysterical laughter at the same time. Of course it had to be raining on the day of the month that you’re visiting their urn, like a scene from some depressing drama.

You always knew that death is a part of life, the conclusion we’ve all had pre-written for us since the opening paragraph. And you knew it was hard. You’ve had distant relatives pass, and felt some of the weight that comes with grief and accepting death; you’ve seen and been told your fair share of how loss changes people, both temporarily and permanently. But it’s clearer now more than ever that knowing something is not the same as being prepared for it. You knew it was hard, but no amount of knowledge could ever make you understand just how hard it really was.

You know now though. When someone dies, they freeze in place and time, into a forever still-life image of what was and will never be again; a catalogue of memories that lasts for as long as you can remember them. They become a concept, an imaginary something whose existence can only be proven by what they left behind in the physical world. A name — and the anecdotes and personality traits others think of when you say it. Preserved in your mind like a pocket of air in ice, they’ll stay; never moving forward, only back to the moments and memories that make up what’s left of them.

You’ve had the same moments and memories playing on loop for weeks. Not really on purpose, they’re just kind of there. There when you wake up, when you check the fridge with an empty belly and no appetite, when you decide to put off showering for another day, when you’re alone, when you’re with friends, when you’re trying to sleep away the feelings in your chest. You feel as ghostly as the images of them that flash behind your eyes, comforting yet haunting all the same.

Wet footsteps pull you out of your thoughts. There’s sweat between your fingers where they’re still clinging to the plastic-wrapped bouquet. You tilt your head in the direction of the footsteps. A man stops some feet away from you, face concealed under his umbrella and one hand tucked into the pocket of his dress pants. If he notices your presence or stare, he doesn’t show it.

You’ve been coming here every few weeks, and every time without fail, this man is here too. At first, you thought he was a stalker, but he never approached you or stood closer than three feet, let alone looked at you, so that feeling was short-lived. He asked you for a light once, but other than that, you’ve never interacted.

You often wonder which one he is there for, who the person was, what his relationship was to them — but you never bother to entertain that thought for more than a few seconds. He never brings anything with him either, aside from the occasional lighter and cigarette packet, and tends to stay longer than you. You’re only really here to soothe a healing wound and replace the flowers once they start drooping. The ones from last month droop more than normal under the weight of their wet petals, and you hope that the heavy rainfall won’t do more harm than good to the fresh bouquet you just put up.

A month later, the sky has just a few clouds dotted across it. The weather has been hectic, so as you’re approaching the columbarium, you’re curious to see how the flowers have been holding up. Before that though, you notice him first, standing in that specific spot that’s all his own by now. He’s dressed in the usual: a long-sleeved shirt, a blazer and matching trousers, all well-ironed and spotless, and a pair of polished Oxfords. You’ve always imagined him as a lawyer or office-worker of some kind; he certainly looks the part, especially with his tired face and perfect posture. There’s so much you don’t know about him, you can’t help pondering over things like what he eats for breakfast or if he has any pets or allergies, and imagining him in scenarios like typing away on a computer at a tidy desk or yelling ‘Objection, hearsay!’ across a courtroom. You’ll never know if any of those things exist beyond your imagination, and you have no way of knowing for certain either, but you like to think about it from time to time.

Two months after that, you notice he’s had a haircut. You can never tell when his undercut starts to get thicker, but once it’s trimmed, it becomes so obvious that it was overgrown before. It’s clear that it’s done professionally, and that he must be particular about his hair in general, if the perfectly combed middle-part and licks of gel are anything to go by. He looks good, you think, but as with most thoughts about him, you drop it before anything else can follow. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he lights the cigarette between his lips, then pockets the lighter and takes in a drag. His form is slanted and controlled in an effortless kind of way. He looks good, even in your peripheral vision.

The following month, you’re switching out the flowers with a different kind than normal since your florist didn’t have your usual. You think it’s the first time he ever looks at you, at least with any sort of interest in his eyes. It seems like a trick of the light at first, the way his silver eyes dart away when you glance at him. In fact, you’re still not really sure it actually happened, but you like to think it did, if it means he’s at all as curious about you as you are about him.

Three months later is the one year anniversary of your spouse’s death. For once, you’re not on your own; their family and close friends hover near their niche, paying their respects and exchanging embraces. You’re off to one side, not feeling particularly talkative or social, which is no surprise given the occasion. He arrives as he always does, but stands further away than usual, and with a more guarded expression. You wonder if the number of people intimidates him or makes him uncomfortable, or if there’s just something on his mind. After a short while, everyone starts to head off for the memorial service. You’re the last to take your leave, looking over your shoulder at him and hoping for a second of eye contact that never comes.

The month after that, he is nowhere to be found. You don’t think much of it initially — he’s never late but sometimes you’re earlier than he is — but he never arrives. You stay embarrassingly longer than you normally would to see if he shows up. He doesn’t, and you chalk it up to some minor thing, like a change of plans or a visit cut short. It isn’t until two months later, when he still doesn’t show, that you start to worry. You’re not sure what exactly you’re worried about, or if it’s something to even worry about in the first place. You start to visit every week and convince yourself that the only reason for it is that you’re just missing your lover more these days.

The relief you feel when you see him four weeks later is monumental. You’re practically buzzing as you walk up to him and you don’t even know you’re smiling until you feel your mouth corners drop at the sight of him. He’s always had faint shadows under his eyes, but you’ve never seen them this dark before, and his gaze is so heavy that it’s akin to a dead man’s. You wonder how much sleep he’s had, if any, and if it has anything to do with why he hasn’t visited these last few months. You wonder and you wonder but none of it leaves the confines of your mind. You’re just strangers, after all; two strangers who regularly see each other, but strangers nonetheless. All you can do is sigh, the joy of seeing him subsiding, and go to switch out the flowers.

“You’re later than usual today,” he says so quietly that you almost think it’s just a voice on the wind that you hallucinated in your desperation to speak to him. You stare at him, waiting for any sign that his low, hoarse words weren’t just a figment of your imagination. He just stares back at you, one eyebrow arched and his eyes expectant.

“Um, yeah,” you say, slowly, just in case you imagined the look on his face too. “I missed my bus so…” You trail off, tempted to smile at the fact that you’re actually, finally speaking to him. The swarm of unanswered questions that you’ve been trying to avoid suddenly floods you all at once. “It’s been a while since I last saw you here,” you say on impulse, but nothing else makes it past your lips. Lingers of why is that? and where have you been? and are you doing okay? die on your tongue.

He sighs. “Shit happens, I guess,” he mutters. His tone is void of all emotion, apart from maybe the exhaustion of someone who has been carrying too much for too long. You’re not sure what to say, about to opt for a hum of agreement when he speaks again. “I just needed some time away. Got two of these to take care of now, after all.”

You swallow nervously, trying to think of how, if at all, you should respond. How could he say that so casually? Like a comment on the weather or an arbitrary greeting? Your stomach hollows at the thought alone. Two urns; two whole people. That’s two names, two different faces and personalities, two lifetimes full of memories and smiles and tears, two amounts of habits and mannerisms, two lists of likes and dislikes and hobbies and pet peeves, of favourite films and colours and animals. That’s two whole people that he knew and he’s standing here like he hasn’t lost them both.

“Spare me,” he says, the flame of his lighter dancing over the tip of his cigarette. “My mother died when I was just a kid, so I don’t remember her. And that old bastard’s lived long enough, if you ask me. It was about time he kicked the bucket.” He tucks his lighter away and exhales some smoke, staring at the cigarette between his fingers. “Besides, it gets pretty tiring hearing the same shit the second time around, let alone the first.” His lips purse as he breathes in and pulls out the cigarette again, along with a slow trail of smoke. His eyes are on you as he says, “You, of all people, should know what I mean.”

Your gaze gravitates toward the flowers beside your partner’s urn. He’s right. It’s comforting the first few times — the condolences, the ‘sorry for your loss’s, the sympathetic glances — but after a while, it loses its warm touch. It starts to feel like an awkward finger, prodding at a bruise to point it out, even though you know it’s there, and all you wish is for it to heal already.

“Levi,” he says next, and all you can do is look back at him, puzzled.

“What?”

“My name,” he says through another trail of slithering smoke. “It’s Levi.”

You smile at this break in character, this rare show of warmth. You might not really know this Levi guy, but you get the impression that he doesn’t do things like this — whatever ‘this’ is — very often.

“I’m (Name),” you say, and that’s all it takes for the rest to pour out. “It’s good to officially meet you, by the way. I know we’ve technically known each other for over a year now but, also not, I guess…” You chuckle awkwardly. “Since this is the first time we’ve properly spoken to each other and… I don’t know. I suppose it’s just nice, is what I’m trying to say? If that makes any sense?”

Levi just takes another drag of his cigarette and for a second you think this is it — you’ve fucked it up by being weird, you could not have made it more obvious how deprived you were of human interaction if you tried — but then he turns to face you. You get a good look at his eyes, almost appearing sunken in by the dark shade of purple under them, and the dips in the hollows of his cheeks that make themselves known in the change of lighting. Then you spot the creases in his suit and shirt, his loose, ungelled hair, the scuff marks on his shoes. And that’s when you think: who am I kidding? This is a man who is mourning a second person before he could understand how to mourn the first. He is just as deprived and sad and lonely as you are; if anyone is to understand you, it’s him.

“The feeling is mutual,” he says. Then he smiles, faint and fatigued, and it feels like a shift. Right then, you feel your heart nudge forward. For the first time since your partner’s death, you feel really, truly present; like all this time you’ve been on autopilot with your consciousness trapped in the memories of your lost love, stuck in moments long gone. You know the deceased are chained to who they were, unmoving and silent and still, but somehow you’ve only now realised that you don’t have to be. You’re allowed to move on.

So you decide to take the leap. “Do you…” you start, and figure it’s too late to go back now. “Do you want to go get a coffee or something?”

Levi lowers his head as if thinking. “Well, I’m more of a tea guy myself,” he says before dropping his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. He smiles again, and your heart nudges forward some more. “But sure. Let’s go get coffee. Or something.”

After that, the rest is history.

Sometimes you wonder if he ever would have spoken to you at all, if not for you being late because of that bus, or if the entanglement of your lives was inevitable from the beginning; pre-written since the opening paragraph. You were two lost people whose paths happened to cross — and maybe it was the wrong place, but God, was it the right time.

[caffernnn]

Knock knock bestie have we talked about the goldfish but in the mookverse 👀

OKAY HI HELLO I’ve been spinning this in my mind since you’ve sent it (you’re a visionary, truly) and I’m READY NOW !!! 🛁✨🧡

(… putting a readmore bc this got long lmao)

Sooo, we see goldfish come up quite a few times within the show, most often in relation to Makoto. Whether it’s the literal goldfish he’s taken care of (first fish from childhood, plus the ones gifted later by Haru) or the striking visuals of swarms of goldfish that show up within his shrine vision and stress dream in FS/FS2, they’re looming. In my mind, when we get a Makoto scene where goldfish are involved in some fashion, it’s a surefire signal for me to pay attention to how that moment comments on Makoto’s supportive caretaking abilities — do others trust he can take care of the things and the people he holds dear; does he trust that his efforts will be enough to convey everything he wants to before it’s too late? It’s interesting to think about the implications of goldfish imagery, especially the more abstract/interpretive ones seen later on, because it creates this fascinating opening for the mh mookverse to be tied into that collection. Before even jumping into the universe itself, I’m drawn to its conception — how it’s built in a dream that can be read to be from either Makoto or Haru’s head (if not both), and how many points in the story are these call-response moments crafted from fears and reassurances during the ES era. Seeing how goldfish have brought attention to Makoto’s worry and Haru’s responding reassurance in the show, how might they also find their way into this shared dreamverse, where Makoto’s ability to take care of and protect others is a prevailing theme? (theme, right? Lit nerds don’t come for me rn okay I think I’m using that term right)

There were a couple moments that stood out to me with Big Goldfish Energy when I last read through the story, so let me just tack those up on the conspiracy pinboard really quick 📌

There’s… something about Haru showing up, being declared as specifically half-fish, revealing that he doesn’t have a home or people (or particularly strong conviction) to return to, and revealing he “doesn’t care” about whether he has any of those bonds or aspirations or not (okay, parallel to that fight with Rin in the locker room, I see you~). There’s something to Makoto immediately extending care to this version of Haru: someone who is a practical stranger (and creature) in his eyes, yet has a disposition that he takes personally. The suddenness of Makoto imposing this all-important “power of friendship” on himself, then proceeding to open up his home and his downtime and his life to Haru… it’s an echo to the deep bond they have in the waking world, yes, but it also feels connected to Makoto’s ever-present desire to take care of something/someone. Being a pet owner, being a big brother, being a team captain, being a swim coach, being a firefighter — there is a core part of Makoto that’s not begrudgingly bound to responsibility, but craves and almost chases whatever heartfelt pursuit he can to feel useful. So much of Makoto’s character and his dream (as we understand it throughout ES and beyond) is spurred on by this desire to help. Whether he’s trusted with fish from a fair named after his friends, or presented with a half-fish in his home that wears the face of one of those same treasured friends, of course he pounces and takes on that task with pride.

Now, onto that quality of care:

This moment feels particularly telling about how Makoto’s perception of his role in Haru’s life (both in the mook and definitely outside of it) is shifting as time moves forward. He sees Haru comfortable enough, integrating himself into a shared normalcy with Makoto, but he’s noticing how… limiting, this all might be. His efforts in supporting and caring for Haru now orient towards building hope and curiosity. What would it look like for his fish friend to move to a bigger tank, or be released completely? Beyond this also lies a question Makoto refuses to voice to himself, but still makes its presence known in how this whole “trip to the sea” arc proceeds: how much will it hurt if in all of his pushes forward, Haru finds a beautiful life that’s outside of his own line of vision? He wants what’s best for Haru, he wants him to dream, he wants him to be able to do all of this for himself… but there’s also that part of him that will always hope beyond hope that they both find ways forward where they get to stay by each other’s sides. How much is at risk in letting that glittering goldfish grow beyond its small bowl?

This is all skittering off into a general love letter to the mh mook, but I adore the little details that show that shared care they both have for each other. Like, it means something that Makoto insists that they go to the sea together. It means something that he openly wants to be by Haru’s side when he explores the world again beyond the safe bathtub he’s become so familiar with. If you still think about this as a dream, it clears up one of the ongoing points of contention in the ES time period that Makoto struggles to communicate to Haru when everything blows up: he’s not trying to make demands that push Haru towards one specific goal or away from everything he knows. He wants Haru to find a purpose through knowing his options, and he hopes he can be by his side through it all. God, it just makes me think about their fight and why Makoto couldn’t bring himself tell Haru about Tokyo earlier than he did! He’s scared! He’s attached and scared and trying to be hopeful with all of the change and transition laying ahead of him, but homie doesn’t want to lose his best friend and the life they’ve shared for so long together in the process, and it’s agonizing for him to see Haru so openly dig his claws into a beautiful past and normalcy when Makoto knows they both have to keep moving. MAKOTO CARES SO MUCH!!

Ok, back to the mook: I’m obsessed with the moments where it’s made so clear that Haru cares for Makoto and consciously chooses to find his way back to him. Haru isn’t just a passive roommate or pet, but someone who entangles himself into Makoto’s life (shared lunch breaks, walking home, evenings together, etc etc). When given the chance to go anywhere when in the sea, he swims around and then comes back to Makoto. When we get to the fire, where he’s completely out of his element, he actively puts himself in harm’s way to find Makoto (he can’t let his tether to his now beloved constancy and normal burn, right?) to his own demise. He does the scary thing of going somewhere Makoto can’t reach him (bro you 🫧DIED🫧), going through an intense cycle of change (Australia trip could neverrr), and when he pops out on the other side of that cycle with another chance at life, he finds home with Makoto once again. This is our airport reunion, this is our mhtokyo realized — Haru has found a dream, and a crucial piece of that all-encompassing vision is treasuring his most important bonds that pushed him to care about anything. In these moments of Makoto being scared that he failed to care enough to save anyone (the kid from the fire, Haru from the fire, Haru from his ES spiral and breakdown), Haru does his best to convince him otherwise by coming back, sending out a resounding message of not only wanting to be by his side, but trusting Makoto enough to try and build a new path forward with, again and again.

So uhh… the goldfish. Right.

In the story that exists now, there’s a lot to be found in viewing half-fish Haru as a variation or stand-in for the goldfish. It’s an interesting spin in that we see Makoto have a multitude of hopes and fears attached to his abilities to support others through his emerging aspirations, but slapping Haru’s face on a fish reeeally draws our eye to what his subconscious stirs up when focused on his ability to support and take care of Haru specifically. Beyond that, though, if we were to specifically throw visible goldfish into the mookverse, there could be a cute epilogue spin where they have fish in their home together. I love the idea of mook mh getting comfortable enough in their ‘happily ever after’ that they choose to take care of fish together. It’d be cute if it was a surprise gift from one of them to echo back to Haru gifting fish, but establishing growth and security through getting to be the shared caretakers of others? That’s tasty; that’s a nice nod to the domestic mundane security mh get to have in DttF and Tokyo (FS era notwithstanding. She only exists when she’s useful to me) and how they get to focus on helping out their friends for a bit. A lot of soft headcanon or fic potential there tbh.

Oh no, I hope you weren’t originally asking for just a lil hc of them taking care of the goldfish, because if so I 🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️

[telomeke]

15 people, 15 questions

I got tagged by @colourme-feral (at this link here), @pandasmagorica (at this link here), @wen-kexing-apologist (at this link here), @dribs-and-drabbles (at this link here), @belladonna-and-the-sweetpeas (at this link here) and @airenyah (at this link here). Thanks for tagging me guys! 🥰 Hope you're all having a wonderful holiday season. 💖🎄

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1. Are you named after anyone?

Not anyone in particular; Mom's dad set out the names for the children of his sons but not his daughters. So Mom gave me a name that incorporates the concepts bright and strong. I sometimes like to think I was named after a laundry detergent. 🤣

2. When was the last time you cried?

I can't remember exactly… I never used to cry, not at stories or movies, unless they involved dogs dying (because that was my first exposure to grief, when my little furry boy died on me during my teen years). After more family members passed away though, I felt my core shift and now know what it is like to be moved to tears by a more human-centric grief and loss (I think I wasn't allowing myself to feel that before, as part of that armor you put on when out in the world as an adult).

And ever since I learnt my lessons I've cried a lot more often, sharing heartfelt moments with characters on the page or on the screen because I'm less afraid of showing emotion (as in, I no longer think of it as some kind of weakness). I think the last time I cried may have been watching Last Twilight? When I watched tough guy Mhok shedding his hard protective shell to love Day unconditionally, with the motivations behind his acts of love going mostly unnoticed and unseen by the object of his affections – e.g., the sunflower just before August turns up late, setting up Day's surprise birthday party and basically giving him away to others when you know his heart is telling him to keep Day for himself. 😢 (I've not watched Ep.7 yet, so I don't know if the meaning of any of this will change moving forward, or if there are more tears in store though.) And yes, I think the last tear I shed was when Mhok grabbed Day to kiss him at the end of Ep.6, to prove that he was loving him truly for his own sake, not plying him with secondhand emotion out of pity as Day had been led to expect from the world.

I may write more about Last Twilight in the future… It's easy to think of romantic love as a gift to be received, but Mhok really does exemplify that the human nature of love is rather more tied to wanting to give of oneself, and (for romantic love at least) that experience only achieves its fullest completion when it is met with the recipient giving you their love in return (or crushing your heart with rejection or indifference instead). And I do see the parallels between love rejected and grief; "grief is just love with no place to go" rings so very true.

3. Do you have kids?

No I don't, and it is maybe the one regret in life I will allow myself. "No regrets" is a great motto to live by, but if I could do things over again I might choose to have kids (whether my own biological kids or my own adopted ones; I'm a little too far gone and set in my ways to consider this now though). Never wanted kids before (noisy, troublesome, a dampener holding you back I told my younger self) – but when my nephew came along it was like somebody flicked a switch and I realized it was OK to feel that kind of unconditional love for another human being, for no other reason than the privilege of loving them. And I think being a parent (unlike a romantic partner) allows you to love truly unconditionally, without expecting anything in return.

4. What sports do you play/have you played?

Used to like playing soccer/basketball/badminton as a kid, but only unseriously and very badly. Nowadays I swim a lot and the gym is my second home (but I'm not at all some bulked-up gorilla; I don't have the genetics nor the inclination to abuse my body with steroids, which is the only way to look like the bodybuilders and fitness models IMO). But exercise does wonders for your mental health in addition to your physical fitness; it's been my refuge whenever things got horrifyingly stressful in life by providing an outlet for stress, plus endorphins to make you feel better. It just doesn't feel like it would be any good when you're going through it, but you can sense it after. Which is also part of why it's so hard to get yourself up and exercising when you're down; the hardest part is overcoming the inertia that is doubly weighted whenever life is stressing you out. I always have to remind myself that the more I don't want to go to the gym, the more it is I probably need to go.

5. Do you use sarcasm?

Sarcasm? What, ✨MOI✨? (Yes I'm being sarcastic here. I can be a bit too barbed with people I know, so I've learnt to pare it back, but my propensity for sarcasm has done me no favors in the workplace. It's also why I understand people putting up hard-shell defenses – shoutout to Pran in Bad Buddy and Mhok in Last Twilight.)

6. What’s the first thing you notice about people?

I think their general demeanour and what their overall body language is conveying.

7. What’s your eye color?

Darkest, darkest brown; so dark it looks black in all but the brightest light. You can't see where my pupils end and my irises begin.

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings all the way. Don't like horror movies and I won't pay to watch them.

9. Any talents?

I have a number of interests, but whether or not I have any talent in them is for others to judge because – even though I'm proud of some of the things I've done – my ever-critical perfectionist's eye can never fail to see flaws and things I could've done better. Everything is always falling short in some way. So my interests are: languages and linguistics (I can handle a few languages, but only a couple have acceptable fluency while the rest are still in pretty rough shape, IMO). Love to write (in English only, more focused on fact than fiction, but even then the inspiration doesn't always flow). I have an ear (but not an abiding love) for music, so I will often be singing if I'm alone and need more than silence around me. I'm interested in biological sciences (wanted to be a palaentologist as a little boy; isn’t that every kid's dream at some point?) – animals, plants, and nature fascinate me. I used to like dabbling in visual arts, but that's been deadened a bit by having to work with some of that in my job (maybe that's why the visual aspects of BL will always fascinate me though). And I think I do have a knack for research, looking things up and putting facts together so that they can convey some kind of message or bigger truth.

10. Where were you born?

In the delivery room of a maternity ward. My roots are in Asia though, if that's what this question is getting at. 😆

11. What are your hobbies?

Scrolling through Tumblr takes up way too much of my time, but yes that is one of my hobbies. I watch BLs now and then, and from that I go on to do the odd write-up about aspects that interest me (especially culture, linguistics and BL visuals). Another current obsession is baking up fruitcake variations (part of the culinary landscape of the season) and this will continue as a hobby until I've baked it out of my system. I love to watch cooking shows, but I do this more to pick up tips on how to make my meals quicker, easier and tasty enough for me (I don't love cooking, but I cook a lot, to get around dietary intolerances more than anything else). Also – gym and swimming a few times a week.

12. Do you have any pets?

None at the moment. We had dogs growing up and I am an avowed dog lover. But when you're a working adult it wouldn't be fair to leave a dog alone for most of the day while you're out at the office, so I never got one after I began working. Plus dogs don't last long (15 years is already geriatric for a pooch) and I'm not ready to face the shattering grief when they have to leave you. But never say never... Maybe I'll get a kitty for a change? 🤔💖

13. How tall are you?

I'm tallish; tall in some countries, average in others. Taller than Singto, shorter than Ohm. 😆

14. Favorite subject in school?

Art and art history? We had a dream lecturer who made the subject come alive. Also a psychology elective that I took, for all its insights into the human mind. In school school it was a mix depending on my mood and the topic of the day: English, geography, biology, chemistry, mathematics, or art. Didn't like physics or economics at all.

15. Dream job

Something in research and analysis backing up the boys in The Sign. 😆 Or maybe volunteering at a charity to help with food/housing (but I can probably only think about doing this after securing my own retirement).

Onward tagging (I can't count so don't expect this to be 15): @7nessasaryevils, @crzshaly437, @faillen, @dimplesandfierceeyes, @neuroticbookworm, @greenreflections, @recentadultburnout, @thecleopatrawannabe, @nihilisticcondensedmilk, @allthegoodusernamesaretakenhuh, @lamonnaie, @non-binarypal7, @twig-tea, @williamrikers, @gillianthecat, @hughungrybear, @solitaryandwandering, @starryalpacasstuff, @rane-ab, @serafyne, @silvercrystal1, @tsukitsuki077, @5raccoonsinatrenchcoat, @vegasandhishedgehog, @reformedcharacter, @writerwithoutsound, @bengiyo, @gelofhellyeah, @shortpplfedup, @dc-alves, @zhaagdewin, @chickenstrangers, @ranchthoughts and anybody else who wants to play! As always no pressure if you don't wish to play either.

If you've already played do tag me with a link so I can read your 15 answers too! 🥰 (And I left out some mutuals because I see you've already been tagged; let me know too if you've already played so I can head on out to read your post as well! 😍)

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[dinosaursatemymom]

I just saw your post about Nancy kinda not having relevance to the plot, and I never saw it that way, but it's kinda true.

She never grows as a character, and her plots are not really that important when it comes to the overall storyline. (At least in s1-3, in s4 her getting the info out of Wayne Munson helped the group move forward, but Robin is the one who found the rest and figured out the music theory).

Anyway, like you said in s1, Barb didn't have to die in order for her to be involved? She could have helped Jonathan because Will is Mike's friend, however the writers made her such a bitch about Wills disappearance they had to kill her best friend in order for her to care. And even then Jonathan could have figured out that there was a monster based on the photos he took he could have go straight to his mom who already told him about it. He didn't necessarily need Nancy.

In s2, her plot was so stupid, and it did nothing in the end. It was an interesting concept, dealing with grief, but omg. First of all the lab doesn't play around they would have found the recorder and second seeing the fucking gate should have put the entire thing down. She endangered the whole town of Hawkins in the name of revenge. Both, her and Jonathan didn't know El was alive getting the lab shut down was stupid because they were the only people who seemingly knew how to deal with the vines. It would have been much more interesting if Jonathan and Nancy were captured and there were consequences (like Steve, who was scared of getting murdered if they broke the NDAs). Getting revenge on Barb did nothing for her character as well, and the show never explores it further, or they rehash it. Shutting the lab down did more harm than good because it meant for s3 that the Russians could just do whatever thanks to Nancy. (I hate that storyline so much in general, but if you think about it, it only happened because the lab shut down)

S3 again, Nancy's rat story could have been cut out because the party figured it out themselves they didn't need her. El was the one doing all the work here (getting into Billy's mind and fighting the Mindflayer since Nancy can't aim for shit)

In s4 like I mentioned, Nancy was useful for once by getting them to Victor Creel, but Robin really was the one getting it together.

Overall, her plans always kinda fail or endanger people (s2, s4), and her using a gun also does nothing because the monsters are immune to it. Fire is the thing that works and I hate how Stobin were cut short in s4 for essentially doing the part just so Nancy gets her shot (metaphorically and literally) even tho it does fucking nothing. Give her a flamethrower like Murray.

Anyway, idk people always shit on Steve being considered a main character, but he had literally more important moments than Nancy.

Without him in s1, Jancy would be dead. Nancy's gun did not work, and Jonathan couldn't use the bat in the right way. If Steve didn't come back, the Demogorgon would have killed them. Dustin meeting Steve in s2 is such an important moment because without him there, Billy could have gotten to Lucas and Max, even tho he lost the fight. He was also important in the tunnles because he helped them getting out there fast. Even tho he was concussed, he did everything to ensure they were save. Lucas would have been seriously hurt. S3 Steve drove his car into Billy's (after Nancy couldn't stop it with her useless gun), saved Jancy and the party there. In s4, he was the one who found the gate because of his experiences as a life guard, he also was the one along with Robin who did the most damage to Vecna. Steve literally has more moments that are important to the plot because without him there, other characters would be hurt or killed. He's important to the plot because of his athletic skills and survival instincts. He was also one or one of the few (if not the only one idk I only watched s4 vol once bc I hated it sm) characters that protested Nancy's insane plan because he has common sense lol. I wish the show would use his leader abilities (being the captain of the basketball team and a lifeguard) more instead of dumbing him down for the sake of it. He should be actively involved in planning bc he knows how to play as a team, and idk the party is book smart, but they have no regard for any danger they need someone like him more.

Yessss

The only thing I have to disagree with is that Nancy was helpful in s4, literally anyone else could've been told about Victor Creel, they didn't even need Wayne munson for that tbf, Eddie could've been living on his own(he's old enough) or just not a character at all tbh. Steve or Robin could've been talking to a customer at the video store who lived in the trailer Park and got a glimpse of Chrissy's body and Robin and Steve could've gone to the library while the Dustin and Max went to the counselor.

I definitely agree about Steve, he is honestly being underutilized, he clearly has team building, athletic, and problem solving skills but he's constantly being reduced to dumb hot himbo and it's really frustrating.

I didn't love the s2 storyline but I didn't hate it, but wow you're right, she really just made everything worse and endangered everyone for her own selfish reasons. I understand she was working through trauma but so was Steve and he didn't decide to put people lives in danger.

Her entire s3 plot just pissed me off so much, what was the reason? Feminism? Because honestly it just made her look like a classist dick to jon.

Nancy really doesn't do shit but nearly always ends up getting credit for things other people have done, both from the writers and the fandom.

[morphaeus]

— MORPHAEUS writeblr reintroduction

— about the author;

hello! I've recently had an unexpected break from tumblr, but as I'm finally back, I thought I'd write a new intro post. My name is Micah; I'm 32, non-binary, and my pronouns are they/them. I'm a caffeine addict, a vegetarian, a college student, a gamer, and a writer. I live in the midwest, and I'm neurodivergent and disabled.

I write mostly speculative fiction, and my protagonist are typically queer. At the moment I'm not posting my stories anywhere, but I'm exploring several options to do so eventually. I'm also in the process of writing and coding two interactive stories. You can find out more on my development blog, @morpheusfiction.

I'm always looking for more writeblrs to follow and more new authors to read, so please interact with this post so I can check out your blog!

— find me elsewhere;

about // wips // instagram // twitter // spotify

— works in progress;

saltmate;

Sadie Nelson's summer is off to an awful start.

Her first year in high school has been a disaster, with failed classes and more detentions than she'd care to admit. With summer school the only thing to look forward to, she doesn't think it can get worse - until her parents sit down and tell her they're getting a divorce. The news comes as a devastating kind of relief. She can't wait for the fighting to come to an end, even if it means split holidays.

So when her parents send her off to her aunt's house in Newfoundland for the rest of the summer, she figures things can't get much worse. Her Aunt Claire is content to leave her alone while she works on her art, and Sadie spends most of her days by the seaside, wandering or drawing boats, and lost in thought.

When she finds a strange girl on an abandoned cove, far from town, Sadie is quick to try and make her first friend in St. Brenden's Bay. But her new friend is stranger than she realizes - and what does her Aunt have to do with her appearance?

empyrean eclipse;

Dr. Hazel Hartley-Pryce is what most people refer to as a genius. The leading cybioengineer in the paradisaical city of New Eden, she’s revolutionizing the very concept of prosthetics. At least, that’s her day job. Most of the time, she’s just Zelle Pryce, awkward and unknown heir of an oil empire trying to make up for her family’s myriad sins.

Lark Donaghue lost their arm and their memory in an accident five years ago — or, at least, they think it was an accident. Ever since, they’ve been doing their best to recover in both mind and body. As one of the recipients of the Hartley-Zimmer prosthesis, they spend most of their time in the labs having their new arm calibrated, or in physical therapy, getting used to having a left arm for the first time.

When they bump into each other in the hospital café, Zelle has no idea that Lark is one of her test subjects. Likewise, Lark doesn’t associate the cute young doctor he meets with Dr. H. Hartley, the mysterious billionaire scientist who invented their prosthesis. Each are determined to keep their past a secret, eager to have something normal in their lives.

But when Zelle is attacked, everything changes. The mystery behind Lark’s amnesia might finally be solved — but at what cost?

wrong witch;

born into a family of witches, morgan has never shown a drop of magical power - no matter how much his mothers insist he has the inherent potential. he’s ready to give up on magic altogether, when, on his seventeenth birthday, he wakes up covered in blood, having sleepwalked into the nearby woods. suddenly, he has more power than he knows what to do with, and all of his dreams are coming true - but at what cost?

and why?

gabriel graves is a warlock, having traded his eternal soul for magic. when his family moves from bustling new york city to a small town in the midwest, he’s taken from his circle of power — his true family — and left alone. the citizens of ashborough, mi, are perfectly normal, and perfectly boring.

except, of course, for the mysterious delacroix family.

morgan and gabriel’s lives collide in the ashborough woods, as morgan seeks to discover the source of his newfound powers, and gabriel searches for a place to call his own.

[searingenvy]

a mother's love

a tharja meta.

It is not an unknown fact to those who have played Awakening (or at the very least has seen the way Noire is as a character,) that Tharja is a...complicated character when it comes to the subject of motherhood. In this meta I'll be going over Tharja's view of the concept, both past and present.

It is important to note that I'm not trying to defend Tharja as a mother, but rather I'm trying to explain where she's coming from and how she plans on moving forward in the future.

This will include mentions of other people's characters to some degree, namely Donnel and Noire (who we do not have at this very moment), and any mentions of the former have been discussed with the current mun beforehand! As for Noire, I will only be using information pulled from the scripts (both ENG and JP, with distinctions listed).

Not everything said in this will be 100% in game facts but rather headcanons, but I will try and use in game text in order to back up the idea.

First and foremost, we have to understand how exactly Tharja views her family. Not the one she brought with her to the Academy, but her mother and father from Plegia specifically. We know they exist, and we know they're alive...and that's pretty much it. They're brought up in her C support with Kellam, where she sends them a letter back home. In his B support she expresses concern-- so over all Tharja does care for her family, even if she's reluctant to show it.

As for the type of people her parents are...we can't say for sure. This part is purely headcanon, but I like to believe that though they were not terrible people, they were much like Tharja herself-- closed off and unwilling to outwardly show their affection. This is mostly just backed up by the fact that her parents are also spellcaster and are most likely dark mages. I'm mostly backing up this idea with the line below.

Tharja: I come from a family of powerful mages. They can usually take care of themselves.

Obviously she could just mean in terms of their pure raw strength, but with how Tharja acts, I feel like it would make sense for her parents to also be the type who keep to themselves and taught her that the person you should always rely on is yourself.

They also seemed more preoccupied with teaching her dark arts as well. In her supports with Noire Tharja states that she was taught how to perform dark magic since she was just a baby. Something that will also come back later

Tharja: Hardly a problem. I was instructed in the dark arts from infancy. Even my umbilical cord was cut with a curse.

TL;DR: Tharja grew up in an environment where relying on yourself was the most important lesson. She was cared for, but never shown the love and care that is typical between a parent and child. They also taught her dark magic at a very young age.

With that...Noire. She's a touchy subject. For starters, Tharja finds the idea of her even wanting a child to be ridiculous-- but post game, especially after marrying Donnel, the idea of having a family becomes more and more appealing to the point where I headcanon that she likely asked about children first.

Where things get complicated is that future Tharja's motives are weird. Really weird. We know that Tharja didn't want Noire learning dark magic or curses. Below is an English translation of the Japanese script! Credit here!

Tharja: I didn’t want to teach my daughter… who was so innocent and trusted her mother without a doubt in her mind… anything like curses. Curses are… very dangerous. My future self… surely must have thought the same way as well.

Future Tharja was not a good mother-- and even in game Tharja still performs curses and hexes on Noire...I don't even really have an explanation for that besides the fact that Tharja does it to pretty much everyone in the army. I'd like to personally believe that her supports with Noire take place after her supports with her father (which is where mentions of the cursing her as a child take places) where she would eventually stop when realizing her future self's motives for not teaching Noire magic...but I have no proof of this. At all. Just a personal thought.

She also is a grieving widow for a lot of the future it sounds like-- and when losing the love of your life (especially for someone like Tharja who barely even knew what love was before the events of Awakening,) it gets hard to think logically. I imagine a lot of those hexes and curses post Donnel's death were for the sake of keeping Noire safe or growing stronger as to not lose her as well.

But we aren't really here to defend future Tharja or explain her 100%-- rather, I want to look at how Noire coming to the past and telling Tharja about her future self shapes how she views her role as a mother.

Tharja, for the first time in her life, is experiencing what a true family feels like. Donnel isn't exactly one to hide his feelings, and he loves his wife above all else-- and with the young Noire also existing, Tharja is determined to not allow the same fate to happen to her daughter. There will be no talisman, no curses or hexes (unless to help ig), and she will admittedly be a bit more protective of her. She is opening up to the idea of love and family, just

If either Donnel or Noire were to die there's no telling if things would end up any differently-- but for now all she can do is do her best as a mother, even if she doesn't exactly know what it means to be a good one. She's lucky to know what mistakes need to be fixed, and if she were to ever meet the future Noire again...she would want to make things right once more, even if she still has a hard time outwardly showing love to her.

[felixcloud6288]

Fullmetal Alchemist Chapter 78

10 days have passed after the last chapter.

I'm absolutely certain Mustang's crew were all sent away to be killed. Every single one of them is in a hotbed location for the national transmutation circle. Looks like Falman passed the information about the circle to Breda and Fuery.

And Sloth has finished the tunnel. It's been about two weeks since he was put back into the tunnel so I'm going to guess the tunnel was started very close to Briggs. Maybe the passage Kimblee found last chapter was near the starting point?

We're back in Reole. About 4 months prior, Ed revealed the Leto church to be a sham and reported it to East HQ. Eastern Troops came in to keep the area from falling into a riot. But then Central troops were deployed and the Eastern forces were dismissed. That's when the riots turned violent. That was roughly a week or two later. About a month later, the riots were under control, but many lives were lost.

No explanation is given why the riots stopped. Maybe all the Leto supporters were killed or maybe everyone just were tired of fighting. The Homunculi got what they wanted so there was no need to continue riling people up. Now, everyone's coming together to fix the damage that's been done and move forward.

Rose managed to take Ed's words to heart. Last we saw her, she was on the floor crying because she'd discovered everything she believed was a lie.

But now she's managing to smile despite everything that's happened and she's doing what she can to rebuild and move forward.

There must have been a need for multiple access points to the tunnel for moving refuse and to just get Sloth back on task quickly when he wandered off.

Remember how I mentioned the tunnel was being dug counterclockwise and Sloth had come from the East when he reached Briggs? Do you know where you'd end up if you traveled along a circlular arc traveling southeast from Briggs? You'd reach Reole.

Pride's shadow is large, but it's not infinitely large. Hohenheim said it can move freely within the tunnel, not that it is everywhere. So Pride has likely been hanging around the east part of the tunnel to overlook the processes to remove rubble and guard the newer entry points from any potential intruders.

The survey team Pride killed had probably gotten too close to Reole and Pride ended up discovering them on its patrols.

Hohenheim and Pride's discussion implies the concept of the seven deadly sins exists in the FMA verse. It doesn't seem to be a concept in Amestris though since no one connected the dots over the naming scheme. I'm going to say that in-universe, it was specific to Cselkcess culture and religion.

And Hohenheim is calling Father out. He's surprised Father put in the effort to make Pride look like his old form, and he calls Father arrogant and pompous. Hohenheim knows Father is a hack.

10 days is too short to deploy a military force like the one from Drachma. We also need to remove additional days to account for Kimblee traveling to the country and informing them about Major General Armstrong being recalled.

Al hasn't put his legs back on. Is he still blacking out? Are they worried he might fall over?

And once again, Arakawa is being a coward cause we're not seeing the buttcheek part of that leg.

We also now know Jelso is the frog chimera and Zanpano is the porcupine(?) chimera.

And Zanpano is making a call to the President. Since he was working with Kimblee, he probably had the President's number. I just want to know why Envy is answering the line.

Wrath: Hello President's office. Fuhrer President King Bradley speaking. Zanpano: I'm here to report the whereabouts of Marcoh. Wrath: One moment. *Shouting* Envy, it's for you! Envy: *Excitedly runs into the room and grabs the phone* Hello? You said something about Dr. Marcoh?

back

[cevans-is-classic]

18+ only! The name Ethan Hawke used far too often. Panic attacks, language, sexual content

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Masterlist

This was written with @coulsons-fullmetal-cellist both of us used the same concept in our own ways 😄😄 I'll link her story at the bottom!

“So,” You leaned against the door frame, “How was it?” 

Dieter wiped his face, looking up at himself before turning to you. “I wish you had been there.” 

“Yeah, sorry, baby. Did you have fun, though?” He checked his face over one more time, wiping at his lips, then stepped towards you. 

His arms went around your waist. “It was fun. Got to meet some interesting people and-” His eyes went wide, mouth opening in surprise, “Oh My God-” 

You leaned back, “You good?”

“I got to meet Ethan Hawke.” 

That turned up a smile, your cheeks splitting into a grin. “Holy shit? Yeah?” 

His cheeks flushed. “I did. Oh My God it just set it — I — I got to meet Ethan Hawke.” His whole body relaxed before he stepped back. “I met Ethan Hawke.” 

You laughed, the excitement bleeding into his eyes. Dieter moved around you, hands waving as he talked, rambled, “Oh My God. I was in shock. I kept thinking. I met Ethan Hawke. I met Ethan Hawke. Baby, Sugar,-” He turned on his heel, “I have his number in my phone. He asked me to have lunch. We’re going —” 

Dieter made a noise like a deflated balloon before falling face forward onto the mattress, mumbling something. 

You laughed, sliding onto the bed beside him and carding your fingers through his hair. “You’re going to lunch with him?” 

Dieter nodded his head, then mumbled again. 

“I’m going to need to see your mouth to understand what you said.” 

He turned enough to peek one eye at you. “I was going to tell you as soon as I got home. Then you were wearing my shirt and-” His eyes went wide, “I met Ethan Hawke.” 

He sounded gleeful, child-like, “He sat at my table!” Dieter rolled until he was on his back, throwing his hands out before covering his face. “He asked me about The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent and I asked about First Reformed. We talked about the ending — how the script changed as the director moved through the story. Listening to him talk? He talked of movies the way I feel.” 

“Hmm,” Your fingers reach for him, moving your fingers through his hair, behind his ears. Dieter closed his eyes. “Tell me more.”

“We talked about music. He likes the same bands I do — he knows who Fleet Foxes are. Oh! We talked about western movies. I asked him about the latest one he’d been in; I can’t think of the name right now. After about two or three hours, when they were calling the party to an end he asked about lunch. I was in shock. Stunned. Ethan Hawke asked me to have lunch.” 

You kissed his forehead. “You have a date.” 

Dieter shook his head. “His eyes.” He looked at you, his own eyes round and shining. “His eyes are so blue, Baby.” 

The way he looked, how excited his voice was it made heat curl in your stomach. The reminder of Dieter’s lips on your skin when he’d come home. He looked alive, joyful, a happiness in him you hadn’t seen since his last stint in rehab. 

That look was there again — lighting up his eyes beaming a smile at you.

“What?” He swallows. “What if he’s willing to collaborate?” His voice turned into a whisper. His body vibrated as he held himself back, his hands clenched and you saw his chest rise and drop. 

“I could work with Ethan Hawke.” The smile turned into a panicked grimace; hyperventilating. “I’m not good enough to work with him. He’s — he’s an Indie movie king — I'm a D-rated star with six rehab visits under my belt. He’ll never - he won’t-“ 

“Dieter.” You moved towards him, reaching for his hand. He went with you as you pulled him forward. “Come on. Breathe okay.” Your forehead touched his. 

He kept sucking in air with choked gasps, “Here. With me. Two breaths in, one breath out.” You took two quick breaths through your nose and let them out through your mouth. It took him a few moments, but Dieter caught on. His breathing slowed down; the glint of panic receding from his eyes. 

He’s still shaking, forehead rocking back and forth against yours. You close your eyes, thinking for a second, trying to remember everything you’ve learned. “Okay,” You look at him again, pulling back to give him space, “Name 5 things that you can see, hear, taste, feel and smell.” 

He shook his head harder. 

“Alright, I’ll start. I can hear the air conditioning, I can feel the brush of my sleeves on my arms, the taste of toothpaste.” You had to think for a second, “I can see your brown eyes and smell your shampoo.” You smiled at him, soft, careful, “I can also feel you. Your knee pressed against mine and see the way your hair curls.” That makes him smile, its small and disappears quick but it’s there.

“I can hear the cars outside.” He starts, his hands reaching for you and tangling your fingers together, “I can feel the blanket against my leg, taste the inside of my mouth, I smell your shampoo.” You chuckle and he smiles, “I see — well I’m going to be honest — I see your smile, but behind my eyelids, it’s Ethan Hawke’s blue eyes.” 

There he is.

“That man is gorgeous.” 

Dieter pulls you towards him, tipping you forward until you're resting on his chest. “I feel you pressed against me.” He said, “Thank you.” 

You kissed his chest. “No need to thank me.” 

Dieter squeezed you tight. “I had a panic attack thinking about Ethan Hawke. There is a bit of need for a thank you.”

You kissed his chest again and Dieter hummed, rubbing his hand up and down your back, “The man is a work of art. I would have a panic attack, too.” 

“Maybe you two could meet one day?” You jerked your head up. “What?” 

“That man is married.” You stated. 

Dieter raised a brow. “That he is.” 

It was your turn to flush. “I don’t think I should meet him. I’m pretty sure I would have one of two reactions. Either I’d faint on sight or-” 

“Ask him for a threesome?” 

The image flashed through your mind all at once. Dieter on his front, face buried in a pillow, his little whimpers quivering his body. Ethan moving behind him, hand tracing the curve of his back as he’s buried deep inside. You would watch, kneel on the edge of the bed and brush a finger where the man was fucking into your partner. 

“Look at you.” You heard yourself saying, “made to take him.”

Dieter shook you, pulling you back to the here and now. “What was that?” 

“Uh,” there was Ethan again, pushing into him, folded over his back to press kisses against his neck as he praised him, “Well-”

Dieter’s interest piqued. “You were thinking about him fucking me weren’t you?” He shifted beneath you until you moved your leg over his waist and straddled him. Dieter’s hands moved up and down, over your shoulders, down your spine, across your ass and back. 

You nodded, “I know that’s not something that will happen, but-” 

“It’d be wonderful.” He himself got a faraway look in his eyes. “He’d be soft. Attentive.” 

You lifted, sitting up to move over his lap. Dieter grabbed your hips, your hands smoothing over his chest, brushing his nipples. “He’d be good to you.” 

“Yeah?” His voice dropped, a heat taking over. “What would you be doing while Ethan Hawke fucks me, sugar?” 

He jerks his hips, his cock brushing your ass. It makes you hum. Close your eyes at the feeling. The switch of emotion is a bit much for a beat, your head spinning at the reminder of Dieter’s panic. Then he reaches for you, sliding his hand up your side dragging your shirt with it until he can pull it over your head. His fingers warm along your skin, the pads of them rough as he touches your chest and mimics your actions. 

“I’d be watching. Praising you. You’d look amazing taking him, feeling him. I want to see the way your mouth would stretch around him.” Dieter moaned. You scraped your nails over his ribs and he jolts under you. You shift back, dragging over his cock until a slow rhythm picks up.

Dieter closes his eyes. “I could have him inside me while you ride my face.” 

A sharp jolt of want zips down your spine and you groaned, head tilted back. Dieter lifts, pulling you closer until he could capture your mouth in a kiss. His tongue danced with yours, licking the inside of your mouth before he moved to your jaw. He nipped along the line of it, back to your ear where his lips rested against you. “Say his name.” 

You pushed him back down, his back hitting the mattress with a bounce. Dieter hissed as you drag your teeth over his left nipple, lapping at it, moving your heat off him as he fucks against you. The hot press of him is addicting, heady, you want him inside you, but the desperate whine he does makes you wait. 

“Ethan.” You murmur against his skin, moving to the next nipple, “Ethan Hawke.” Dieter makes another noise, high pitched, broken, his hands spasm over your body. You see him throw his head back, gulp, try to gain his bearings. 

“Would you want me to fuck you, huh? Slam into you from behind as you choke on his cock? Would you want him to whisper how good you are, De? Huh?” You kiss up his chest, over his collar, the hollow of his neck. When you lick his jaw Dieter shivers under you and fucks up harder. It makes you yelp in surprise, jumping with the movement, and Dieter laughs. 

“Too much?” He smiles at you. 

“No, De, never too much.” He snaps his hips against and the friction makes you gasp, your own eyes sliding shut for a beat until you rise again, “Answer me.” 

“Yes!” He cries out. You reach for his hands, drag him to you, moving with him. “Please. I want him. I want him.” 

You hold his hands, keep them pinned to the mattress at his sides. Dieter’s stomach strains to hold himself up. When you let go, he keeps his hands right there, arms flexed, fists curled into the blanket. 

Dragging him into another kiss. You lick into his mouth this time, thinking about him crying for you, mixing your name with Ethan’s as he tips over the edge and falls apart. Dieter is a sight to behold when he lets go. The man is beautiful every day of his life, but in those moments, with his eyes screwed shut, mouth slack, skin shining with sweat — you could write songs about him. 

A flash of Ethan Hawke’s pale skin against Dieter’s makes you moan. Dieter’s fingers running over the other man’s tattoos, tracing the inked lines over his arms, down to his wrists where he’d pull the man’s hand to his lips. You could see him licking at his fingers, sucking them into his mouth. You’d whisper in his ear to get them good and wet as you jerk his cock. 

“Baby,” Dieter moans, “I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.” 

“You are.” You kiss his nose, the corner of his eyes, “You’re going to sit across the table from him thinking about his cock in your mouth. Would you look at those blue eyes and remember wanting them looking down at you?” 

Dieter lets out a breathy laugh, “How did I go from panicking to using him as dirty talk?”

“Compartmentalizing.” Another laugh and he wraps his arm around your waist to move you faster against him. 

“I won’t be able to look him in the eyes after this.” His breath is picking up, quickening, his mouth dropping open when you grind into him. Fuck, fuck you need more, but this moment — this teasing — is damn sexy. 

“We’re doing it with the utmost respect. The man is a legend, an incredible actor, writer, singer — his plays are wonderful. I loved him in Maudie and cried when we watched Adopt A Highway.” You were moving in sync, up down, over and over, fucking without fucking. 

Dieter presses his face into your neck. “When he played in Juliet, Naked? Ungh.” 

“Maybe he’ll play with you one day.” Dieter was slowing down, rolling his hips deeper, biting at your collar. “You could play guitar with him.” 

He rolls pressed his nose into your jaw, “I’m not that good.”

“Beg to differ.” He moves to your chest, nipping at your nipples, back and forth, back and forth. You forgot you were shirtless. 

“Say his name again.” He murmurs into your chest, reaching up to cup you and bury his face against you. 

You chuckle, “Why don’t you say his name?” 

“I can’t,” He whines, “I’ll come.” 

“Oh,” You smile, tilting his face up to look down at him. “We wouldn’t want that.” 

You both pause, going still, his brown eyes captured with yours as both of you breathe. In, out, in, out, both your hearts pounding together. Dieter’s skin feels wonderful against yours, his hands holding you, lips swollen from kissing. You wish there was a way to keep him like this — this drop dead gorgeous man. 

“Say it.” You order. 

“Ethan Hawke.” He moans, “Ethan,” You slide your hand to this throat to feel him talk, “Hawke.”

“I want you to say it as you come.” God, you want him to scream it. 

Dieter goes tense beneath you before he wraps his arm around your waist. He moves forward for a eat then spins you around until you're on his back and he pulls at your shorts. “Fuck me, Sugar, fuck me the way you want him to.”

Those Blue Eyes

[lesfeldickbiblestudy]

  Through the Bible with Les Feldick LESSON 1 * PART 4 * BOOK 74 CONNECTING THE DOTS OF SCRIPTURE – PART 4 Genesis through Revelation Okay, good to see everybody back for our number four program this afternoon. Again, we want to welcome our television audience.  And we just trust you will, as so many have written, take your Bible and your pen in hand and study with us, because we’re not going to be preaching at you, hopefully.  I think I’ve only done that once or twice in thirty years where somebody came up and said, “Les, you did everything but the invitation.”  But I normally claim to just be a teacher.  I’m not going to preach at people. I just want folks to see what the Book really says.  And it’s not that difficult.  That’s what we’re trying to do, even in this series of programs. It is to show how everything fits from Genesis through Revelation.  It’s not that difficult. All right, we’re going to take this program, now, and continue on the concept that Israel is looking forward to a coming earthly kingdom, because that’s what God promised Moses on Mount Sinai back in Exodus 19: that Israel would be a “kingdom of priests.”  And, you remember, I made the point (I think it was on the program) that in order to have a viable kingdom, you need two entities.  What is it?  The king and his subjects.  All right, so now we’re going to look at the king aspect.  And the ideal kingship of Israel, of course, was King David.  He was a man after God’s own heart, and, I think, the apple of God’s eye!  So, we’re going to jump from Exodus to II Samuel chapter 7, and we’re going to look at God dealing with King David. Now on our timeline, remember, Abraham appears at 2,000 B.C.  Then we’ve got almost 500 years between Moses and Mount Sinai and King David, who rules and reigns about 1,000 B.C.  You can pick that up on the timeline.  It’s not up there yet, but it will be in a moment.   Okay, II Samuel chapter 7 and let’s drop down to verse 8 where God is speaking to David through the prophet Nathan. II Samuel 7:8-10a “Now therefore so shalt thou say unto my servant David, Thus saith the LORD of hosts, I took thee from the sheepcote, from following the sheep, to be ruler over my people, over Israel: 9. And I was with thee whithersoever thou wentest, and have cut off all thine enemies out of thy sight, and have made thee a great name, like unto the name of the great men that are in the earth. 10. Moreover (on top of all that) I will appoint a place for my people Israel, and will plant them, that they may dwell in a place of their own,…”  Now, as you read this, think back that since 1948 this has all been fulfilled.  They’re there.  By divine appointment.  God said it.  God promised it.  And these preachers and theologians can pooh-pooh this all they want. They’re lying through their teeth, because God cannot lie.  Man can, but God can’t.  And God has said He’s going to “bring them back and plant them,” and you and I have seen it. II Samuel 7:10b “…I will plant them, that they may dwell in a place of their own, and move no more; neither shall the children of wickedness afflict them anymore, as beforetime,” Now, keep that right between your ears, because we’re going to jump up to Luke in just a little bit, and you’ll see the same thing repeated. That’s what I like to do by connecting Scriptures.  All right, now verse 11: II Samuel 7:11 “And as since the time that I commanded judges to be over my people Israel, and have caused thee to rest from all thine enemies.  Also, the LORD telleth thee that he will make thee an house.” Now, I have to stop.  The first impression you get of “a house” is a building, right?  So I suppose the first thought is that we’re talking about Israel’s Temple.  No.  We’re going to talk about a different house.  When you have a royal family anywhere in history, it’s always called The House of such and such.  The House of Togarmah.  The House of Windsor in England.  The House of Orange in Holland.  The House of Hapsburg’s in Austria.

  It was called a house, because it’s a royal bloodline.  Out of that family is where the kings and queens always come. So, the “house” that God is promising David is not a physical building of wood and stone and rock, it’s a royal bloodline.  It’s the family of David.   And we call it the House of David.  Okay?  Now read on in verse 12. II Samuel 7:12 “And when thy days be fulfilled, (In other words, he’s going to die physically like everybody else.) and thou shalt sleep with thy fathers, I will (Now watch the I wills that God speaks in the Old Testament.  If they haven’t happened, they will.  God’s Word will never fail.  So, after you’ve died--) I will set up thy seed after thee, (in other words, other sons and so forth) who shall proceed out of thy bowels, (Inner-most being—in other words, they will be genetically children of David.) and I (God says) will establish his kingdom.”  That is, this coming son of David. II Samuel 7:13-14 “He shall build an house for my name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom for ever.” (Who are we talking about?  Messiah Jesus – who’s going to be this King of Israel.) 14. I will be his father, and he shall be my son. (Now we come back in the language to the Nation of Israel itself.) If he commit iniquity, (We know God the Son never will, so now we’re talking about the Nation.) I will chasten him (or punish) with the rod of men, and with the stripes of the children of men:” In other words, God did that, you remember, with the Babylonian invasion.  He did it with the A.D. 70 Roman invasion.  He’s going to do it once more in the Tribulation, but the final end will be Israel’s glorious blessing. II Samuel 7:15-16 “But (in spite of all the chastisement) my mercy shall not depart away from him, as I took it from Saul, whom I put away before thee. 16. And thine house (This royal family starting with King David and ending with King Jesus when He returns to set up His kingdom.) and thy kingdom shall be established forever before thee: (Not just for a thousand years, it’s going to slip right on up into eternity.) thy throne shall be established forever.” All right, now let’s jump all the way up to Luke chapter 1.  And here we’re dealing with Zacharias, the father of John the Baptist.  If you know the account, John the Baptist’s father was stricken dumb, unable to speak, at the very conception of John in the mother Elizabeth.  For nine months Zacharias had to labor as a priest at the Temple unable to audibly speak.  All right, let’s jump in at verse 57.  We’re going to take our time so that there are no gaps for questions. Luke 1:57-58 “Now Elizabeth’s (That’s John the Baptist’s mother, the wife of Zacharias the priest.) full time came that she should be delivered; and she brought forth a son. 58.  And her neighbors and her cousins heard how the Lord had showed great mercy upon her; (Because she was beyond childbearing age, remember.) and they rejoiced with her.  Luke 1:59-62 “And it came to pass, that on the eighth day they came to circumcise the child; and they called him Zacharias, after the name of his father. 60. And his mother answered and said, Not so; but he shall be called John. 61. And they said unto her, There is none of thy kindred that is called by this name.  62. And they made signs to his father, (See, he couldn’t speak.) how he would have him called.” Luke 1:63-65a “And he asked for a writing tablet, and wrote, saying, His name is John.  And they all marveled. (That he and Elizabeth were in full accord that this unusual name would be used for this child.) 64. And his mouth was opened immediately, (The minute he wrote John, he got his speech back.) and his tongue was loosed, and he spake, and praised God. 65. And fear came on all that dwelt round about them: and all these sayings…” In other words, here is this elderly couple that has had a special child, evidently.  It’s been miraculously declared by his losing his speech and gaining it back. Luke 1:65b-67a “…and all these sayings were noised abroad throughout all the hill country of Judea.

  66. And all they that heard them laid them up in their hearts, saying, What manner of child shall this be!  And the hand of the Lord was with him. (That is, the child.) 67. And his father Zacharias was filled with the Holy Spirit,…”  Now, that’s the key, because of the things he’s going to say.  He doesn’t speak, as I’ve said over and over before, he doesn’t speak as a well-meaning Jew, or somebody who was sort of exaggerating.  Everything he says is directed by the Holy Spirit. Luke 1:67b “…Zacharias was filled with the Holy Spirit, and prophesied, saying,” Or spoke forth.  It doesn’t mean that he’s telling future events, as much as he is speaking forth the Word of God.  Now you’ve got to remember, how long has it been since anybody has written anything to the Nation of Israel?  Four hundred years.  From Malachi to the appearance of all this was four hundred years.  We call it the four hundred years of silence, where God never spoke a word to Israel through prophets or through miraculous appearances – nothing.  Four hundred years of silence.  And I suppose that was one reason that this caught Israel so off guard.   Now, let’s read on. Luke 1:68a “Blessed be the Lord God of (The human race?  Who?) Israel;…”  See how Jewish this is.  That’s what I want to emphasize now.  This is all Jewish.  This is God dealing with Israel.  This isn’t the beginning of Christianity, for heaven’s sake. This is the fulfilling of the Old Testament.  Most have got it all wrong, and they teach it wrong.   They’ve got it all wrong, because this is not the beginning of the Church Age.  This isn’t Christianity.  This is just an extension of the Old Testament promises.  And that’s what he’s referring to. Luke 1:68-69 “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel; for he hath visited and redeemed his people, (Israel) 69. And hath raised up an horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant (Who now?) David;” See how we’re connecting it?  David is the one that began this whole genealogical line that led us up to the appearance of the Messiah.  All right, now as I emphasize the Jewishness of all this, I know there are going to be questions out there in television. Now wait a minute, you mean He didn’t have anything to do with the Gentiles?  Not a thing! All right, now I’m going to use Scripture to back that up.  Keep your hand in Luke. We’re going to jump all the way up to Ephesians chapter 2.  And I’ll make statements, coming up in the next few programs, that Jesus, nor the Old Testament prophets ever had anything to do with the Gentiles, with the exception of a few.  Precious few exceptions – Jonah went to Nineveh, the Syrian general Naaman, and Rahab on the wall of Jericho; and then in Christ’s earthly ministry, only two – the Canaanite woman and the Roman centurion.  That’s all. He never had any evangelical contact with Gentiles.  Now, they may have come, and they may have eaten all of the free food that He gave out, because even the politicians know that if you want to get a crowd, offer free food.  They all like a free lunch.  So, there may have been some Gentiles at the feeding of the 5,000 and the feeding of the 4,000.  I won’t deny that.  But there was no spiritual contact.  None, except those two. Now look why.  In Ephesians chapter 2 verses 11 and 12, and this is as plain as language can make it.  And why can’t people read it?  Ephesians 2:11 and 12 – this is from the pen of the Apostle Paul writing to his Ephesian believers at the city of Ephesus. Ephesians 2:11a “Wherefore remember, that ye (Gentiles) being in time past Gentiles in the flesh, who are called Uncircumcision by those who are called the Circumcision…” In other words, Jews referred to Gentiles as Uncircumcised.  See that?  Now verse 12: Ephesians 2:12a “That at that time…” While God was dealing with His covenant people Israel, from Abraham in 2,000 B.C. all the way up to the time of Paul’s conversion, the Gentiles had no access to God’s saving grace.  Except the very few exceptions I mentioned.

Ephesians 2:12a “That at that time ye were without Christ, (What’s the other word for Christ?  Messiah.  They didn’t have the hope of a coming Messiah.  They didn’t even know what the word meant.) being aliens (or non-citizens) from the commonwealth of Israel,…” Now, of course, we’ve gone against that in this country.  We give just as much rights to the non-citizen as we do to the citizen, if not more.  But that’s not the norm.  In any other nation on earth, the illegal immigrant doesn’t have any rights.  He’s not a citizen.  And it certainly was true with Israel.  The non-citizen had no rights. Ephesians 2:12b “…you were aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers (In other words, they were not participants.) from the covenants of promise,…”  Now, we have taught the covenants in days gone by: the Abrahamic Covenant, the Mosaic Covenant, the Palestinian Covenant, the Davidic Covenant, and the New Covenant. They were all between God and Israel, in which the Gentiles had not one smidgen of rights. All right, here it is. Ephesians 2:12c “…you were strangers from the covenants of promise, having no hope, and without God in the world:” Now, some bleeding-heart liberal will say, well, God was unfair.  No!  How long did God deal with the Gentile world before this kicked in?  Two thousand years. From Adam to Abraham God tried to deal with the whole human race.  He made salvation available to anybody that would just follow His instructions.  For 2,000 years He dealt with them.  What did they do with it?  Walked it under foot.  They scorned it.  All right, so that’s when God set them aside, and said, okay, I’ll bring out another little nation, and I’ll deal with them.  All right, so for 2,000 years God did.  He let the Gentile world go, as Paul writes, and He dealt only with His covenant people. All right, then when the Covenant people rejected everything, He turned, once again, to the Gentiles.  Now for 2,000 years, again, He’s been bringing salvation to the whole world.  God’s never unfair!  Don’t ever even think it.  He’s always fair.  In this Age of Grace that we’re in today, as the Body of Christ is being filled, one can be saved by believing in our heart for salvation, “that Jesus died for our sins, was buried, and rose again.”  God calls that a free gift.  We find those instructions in I Corinthians 15:1-4 and in several other Scriptures of the Apostle Paul. All right, coming back to Luke, now, this is why it’s all Jewish.  God is still on covenant ground with His covenant people, and the Gentiles have no part of it.  All right, back to Luke chapter 1, and we left off at verse 69. Luke 1:69-71a “And hath raised up an horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David; (And that’s Jew only.) 70. As he spake by the mouth of his holy prophets, who have been with us since the world began: 71. That we (the Nation of Israel) should be saved from our (Not our sins, yet, but what?) enemies,…” Now, do you remember what God told David back there in II Samuel?  The very same thing.  That they were spared from all their enemies because of God blessing King David.  They didn’t have to worry about the Philistines and what-have-you when David was ruling.  He was in control of that part of the world. All right, then they lost it all.  Now, here comes the possibility that they can enjoy that same thing once again, where they wouldn’t have to worry about invading armies of the Babylonians or the Syrians or the Egyptians or anybody else, because this coming king would save them. Luke 1:71b “…from our enemies, and from the hand of all that (What?) hate us;” Now, you’ve got to remember, the whole Middle East has hated the Jews since day one.  And we wonder—how long are they going to get away with it?  Well, now a verse just comes to mind.  We’ve got time.  Let’s go back and look at it.  I hope I’ve got the right one. I think I want to go to Ezekiel 35.  Some of these come to mind, and I’m not always sure where it is.  But here it is, Ezekiel 35, lest you wonder: is God always going to let the Arabs get away with it?  Huh-un.

  No, their day is coming, and I don’t think it’s all that far off.  All right, Ezekiel 35, now this is written almost 600 years before Christ, and we’re seeing it get ripe for fulfillment.  Oh, it’s getting ripe.  Their day is coming. Ezekiel 35:1-3 “Moreover the word of the LORD came unto me, saying, 2. Son of man, set thy face against Mount Seir, and prophesy against it, (Who was Mount Seir?  Esau.   And in the scheme of things, who is Esau?  One of the fathers of the Arab world—Ishmael, Esau, the sons of Keturah, and so forth.  All right, so this is a prophecy against the offspring of Esau.) 3. And say unto it, (That is, the kingdom of the offspring of Esau, the Arab world.) Thus saith the Lord GOD; Behold, O Mount Seir, I am against thee, and I will stretch out mine hand against thee, and I will make thee most desolate.” Ezekiel 35:4-5 “I will lay thy cities waste, and thou shalt be desolate, and thou shalt know that I am the LORD. (Now, look at the next verse) 5. Because (Not because God is unfair.  Not because God is hateful, but because of the opposite.  He’s just.) thou (Remember who we’re talking about now, the Arab world.) hast had a perpetual hatred, and hast shed the blood of the children of Israel by the force of the sword in the time of their calamity, (or their problems) in the time that their iniquity had an end:” Now, you want to remember, Israel would have to be chastised from time to time by their enemies. And this is one of the things I always had a hard time comprehending. He used the Babylonians to chastise Israel, and then He comes back and He blasts the Babylonians.  The only conclusion I can come to is because they overdid it.  Instead of just simply defeating Israel, they tortured them and murdered them by the millions.  They overdid it, and then God had to come back and punish them.  So anyway, I think it’s the same way today.  There are times when God uses instruments to punish God’s people, and then He has to come back and punish the punisher, because they take advantage of the situation. All right, back to Luke chapter 1.  Reading on, goodness, we’ve only got two minutes left.  Okay, verse 71, again, repeating it. Luke 1:71-73 “That we should be saved from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us: (In other words, God’s going to utterly destroy them.) 72. To perform the mercy promised to our fathers, (The patriarchs: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and the Twelve Sons; the beginning of the Nation of Israel all had these promises given to them.) and to remember his holy covenant; 73. The oath which he swear to our father Abraham,” That’s why I’m always going back to Genesis 12.  Everything rests on that Abrahamic Covenant, because out of that covenant came the Nation of Israel.  Out the Nation of Israel came the Word of God.  Out of the Nation of Israel came the Messiah, who went to the cross for the sins of the world.  This is all part of that Abrahamic Covenant.  All right, but Israel is only looking at the Kingdom aspect.  They’re not looking at the Cross.  They’re looking at the King.  All right, come back to Luke 1, verse 74. Luke 1:74 “That he (this God of Abraham) would grant unto us, that we (the Nation of Israel) being delivered out of the hand of our enemies might serve him without fear,” In other words, living in the midst of peace and material prosperity, but it’s also going to include the spiritual. Luke 1:75-77 “In holiness and righteousness before him, all the days of our life. (And now he comes back to his own son, John the Baptist.) 76. And thou, child, shall be called the prophet (or the foreteller) of the Highest: (The Son of God, who will be appearing some 30 years after all this is announced.) for thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways; 77. To give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the remission of their sins,” To whom?  His people – Israel.

[comfortbucky]

Hey! If requests are still open I was wondering if I could request a fluffy fic where reader is having a bad day and Bucky notices and cheers them up? 💗💗

HELL YEAH!!!

REQUESTS!!! ARE!!! OPEN!!!

𝘀𝗲𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗲𝘁 ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ｡˚ ☁︎ ˚

pairing: bodyguard!bucky x fem!reader

warnings: anxiety, anxiety attack

tags: grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, fluffy bucky!!!

A/N: okay i have never written bodyguard!bucky before but i just thought it would be such a sweet concept to see him being soft🥺

sorry if the ending is kind of bad😭 i didn’t know how to quite wrap it all up, but i hope u enjoy!!!!!!!! <3 i had so much fun writing about bodyguard!bucky!!!!!

word count: 2.9k

my masterlist!

completed requests!

Y/N groaned as her phone alarm went off and hit snooze for the fifth time. She reached her hand out, head facing away and resting on her pillow, fumbling for her phone to turn off the incessant sound. Before she could shut it off, the noise stopped. Y/N turned her head slightly to see a large, dark figure in the corner of her eye. She turned her head fully to see her bodyguard with a frown on his face as he shut her alarm off.

“Your alarm, it’s annoying,” Bucky grumbled. “You should get up anyways, busy schedule today.” He walked out of the room before she could respond. Super soldier hearing was no joke if he was able to hear her alarm from his bedroom down the hall. Y/N sighed as her face planted into the pillow.

She was not looking forward to the events planned out for the day. During the day, there was a slew of interviews she had, back to back, and at night, a gala she was being forced to attend by her father.

Being the daughter of a wealthy tech tycoon had its perks for sure, but Y/N did not consider all of the press she did as a part of them. She never liked being in the spotlight but was forced to be, a birthright she had. Growing up with her dad, she’d developed a fascination for tinkering with computers, game consoles, and everything in-between. She spent a lot, practically all of her free time, with her dad when her mom had passed away. Her dad ended up throwing himself into his life’s work and she worked with him closely in the beginning, but slowly started to drift apart from him as she started to make a name for herself.

Earlier that week, her dad had sent her a text, informing her that a big announcement would be made at the gala. Big parties and large crowds weren’t really her thing, but it seemed like she didn’t have the option to avoid this one.

She got ready for the day, walking down to her kitchen to see her bodyguard, Bucky, sitting at the table, reading a book. As soon as he heard her come down the steps, he stood up and put his book away.

“C’mon, we’re already running late,” he mumbled, making his way to the door. Y/N rolled her eyes in response, grabbing a granola bar as she briskly followed behind him.

When her dad became a big name in the world of tech, the last thing Y/N thought she needed was a bodyguard, but her dad felt otherwise. It took one, very close call, of her almost getting mugged for her dad to immediately assign a personal bodyguard for her. She insisted that it was unnecessary, seeing that she was a fully grown adult, but her dad refused, as he was the one paying for Bucky’s salary.

Bucky had always been rather closed off since the beginning, and not much had changed since he was first assigned to her a little over a year ago. He kept their relationship very professional, only speaking when necessary and leaving the room whenever he wasn’t needed. She had tried to get him to open up more, learn about his past, but he always shut her questions down by either ignoring her or changing the topic to discussing something work-related. He was an enigma to her, which only left her wanting to solve the mystery that was James Bucky Barnes but couldn’t seem to crack the code.

Her first two interviews went smoothly, exactly what she was used to. A couple of questions about her current projects at work, some about her dad sprinkled in, and what she had planned for the future. It was a format she was used to and had come to appreciate, not exactly enjoying being the center of attention. During her last interview, however, she was caught off guard by one of the last questions she was asked.

“I know this might be an awkward question to ask, but I just have to! The people want to know: do you think your dad’s ever going to return to the dating pool?”

Y/N choked on her saliva. She knew her dad was an attractive man, seeing posts on social media of people fawning over him. Although she found it to be very weird and uncomfortable, she just brushed it all aside, not wanting to think about it as it only led to her thinking about the loss of her mom, a sore spot for her.

Y/N cleared her throat and forced out a chuckle. “I think that’s a question only he can answer, I don’t always know what’s going on in that crazy head of his.”

The interviewer laughed and proceeded to transition into the next segment. Y/N quickly thanked the interviewer and left, Bucky swiftly following behind. He had a feeling that something was off, as Y/N would typically stay behind to chat with the interviewer, crew members, even the service staff, whenever she finished an interview. It was always something he admired about her, how down to earth she remained, despite all of the privileges she had. She went out of her way to thank everyone on set, no matter how small their role might seem. He always told the drivers to pull the car up a little later than originally planned, just so she would have the extra time to talk.

Y/N pushed the doors open, only to find an empty street. She turned around and gave Bucky a curious look.

“Sorry, the driver just texted me,” he said, as he sent a text to the driver, telling him to come now. “He’s running late.”

Y/N nodded and leaned against the wall, looking down to fiddle with her hands. Bucky leaned against the opposite wall, facing her, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You okay?”

Y/N looked up at Bucky to find a gentle look in his eyes, slightly taken aback at the sight. She always found herself drawn to his piercing blue eyes, but they usually had a colder glint to them. This was a look she’d never seen before.

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” she replied, averting her gaze down as she felt her cheeks flush at the sight of Bucky’s soft gaze.

The car arrived, cutting off Bucky’s train of thought as he was thinking of what to say to her. For a moment he debated on continuing the conversation in the car but figured she already had a long night ahead of her and didn’t want to push any further.

After a quick pit stop back to Y/N’s place, allowing her to change into an evening gown, the car headed to the venue of the gala. Bucky got out of the car before her, walking around to the other side to open her door. Before she stepped out, Y/N took a deep breath in and exhaled, plastering a fake smile on her face as a surge of flashing lights from cameras greeted her. Bucky watched, seeing her seamlessly transform from Y/N, the girl who needed to set a million alarms before actually waking up, to Y/N, tech extraordinaire, one of the most powerful people in the tech world.

Once they were inside the venue, Bucky stuck to his usual routine. Scope out the exits, look for any potential threats, and make sure Y/N was in his eyesight. Bucky kept close by but also kept his distance. He wanted to make sure that he gave her enough space whenever they were out, knowing that having him around was her dad’s idea and that she wasn’t too fond of having security detail in the first place. So he did everything he could to make himself blend in with the crowd, allowing her to roam freely, only following her when she moved out of his line of vision.

Y/N walked around, not knowing a single soul but making polite small talk with the rest of the guests. She became accustomed to knowing how to act at these types of events over the span of her adult life. Food, drinks, more food, home. Crowds made her uneasy, but she always felt calmer when she saw Bucky in her peripheral vision. Y/N would never admit it out loud, but over the last year, he had become a constant source of relief at these public events. Just knowing that he was there if she felt uncomfortable, unsafe, or wanted to leave early made her public outings much more bearable.

“Hey, sweetie! I’m so glad you made it.” Y/N turned around at the sound of her dad’s voice and smiled, moving in to hug him.

“Yeah well, you said you had a big announcement, so I figured I’d stop by,” she joked, eliciting a chuckle from her dad as they pulled away from each other.

“I’m about to make it now,” he started, placing his hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “And I was wondering if you could join me on stage for it? I know that’s not your thing, but it would mean so much to me, Y/N.”

While she absolutely hated the idea of having to stand in front of thousands of people, she reluctantly nodded. Y/N and her dad had slowly grown apart the past several years, only talking a couple times a month to catch up. With both of their busy schedules, they always seemed to miss each other. Despite their growing apart, she would do anything for her dad, especially if it meant so much to him.

Bucky slowly followed behind, as Y/N and her dad walked up to the stage. Y/N glanced behind her to give a slight smile to Bucky, to which he nodded back. He stood backstage, watching them from behind the curtains.

“Hi everyone, thanks so much for coming out tonight,” Y/N’s dad spoke into the mic. She was standing beside him, hands clasped in front of her, trying to look calm and not totally anxious.

“Since the success of my brand, people have said that I am a man who has everything. And I definitely have a lot to be thankful for, my company, my friends, and most importantly, my daughter.” Her dad extended a hand out to point to Y/N and the crowd cheered. Bucky couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips. Despite his brooding attitude, he had come to grow fond of Y/N, being able to see her for who she truly was. She was smart, witty, and had a heart of gold.

“The only thing I’ve been missing,” her dad looks down at the ground for a second, before looking back out at the crowd. “Is someone to share it all with.” Y/N’s smile faltered and felt her stomach drop. She couldn’t fully register the words coming out of her dad’s mouth.

“After Sarah, my wife had passed, I didn’t think I would be able to love again. Until I met Alyssa.” Y/N was frozen in place upon hearing her dad’s confession. She’d never heard of anyone named Alyssa during any of their catch-up calls and now he was saying he loved her? Y/N quickly turned as a woman walked out on stage. The woman walked over to her dad and he wrapped one of his arms around her waist before speaking.

“Now I feel complete, now I have everything.” He pulled Y/N to him and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders, smiling for the cameras ahead. There were a lot of strategies Y/N had devised over the years to deal with potential unexpected and uncomfortable situations in a composed manner to avoid having a PR nightmare.

She didn’t have one for this.

Tearing herself from her dad’s hold, she ran off stage, heading towards the exit that led to the outside. Y/N took in the fresh air, trying to stop her hyperventilating. It wasn’t working. Her chest felt tight as she began gasping for air, struggling to take in oxygen.

She was having a panic attack. It was nothing she hadn’t experienced before, but it had been so long since she’d had one. The last time she remembered, was at her mom’s funeral.

Her mom. Her dad. Alyssa.

Her thoughts were pushed aside as her vision blurred, her eyes swelling up with tears. Y/N felt like she had no control over her body and shut her eyes, allowing the panic to consume her.

Then, a firm, but gentle, warm feeling in her hands.

Y/N blinked her eyes open to reveal Bucky, standing in front of her. She looked down and saw that it was his hands in hers, holding them tight.

“Can you breathe for me, honey?”

His voice came out in a soft whisper, accompanied by the warmest and welcoming smile. She shook her head, unable to control her quick and rapid breaths. Bucky squeezed her hands a little tighter, rubbing his thumb in small circles on the back of her hand.

“Yes you can, just breathe with me, okay?”

He started to breathe in and out slowly and eventually, she was able to follow his lead, deciding to focus on his eyes. There was that look from before the ride to the gala, the gentle look in his eyes. She’d always felt that his blue eyes reminded her of stormy seas, but now, now they made her think of the calmness of the ocean in the early morning, waves crashing softly on the shores.

As she regained her composure, she realized she’d been staring into Bucky’s eyes for, probably, far too long. Bucky felt her tight grip on his hands loosen and reluctantly let go of her hands. He immediately missed the softness of her hands and how small they were in comparison to his much larger, calloused, hands.

“T- Thank you,” she stuttered out, her gaze locked on the ground, as she placed her hands to her sides.

“It’s no problem. I get them too,” he replied. She looked up at him as he clarified. “Panic attacks. PTSD from serving overseas.”

Y/N face drops, her stomach churning at the thought that Bucky had ever experienced panic like she had. She returned her gaze to the ground as a silence washed over them.

“He didn’t tell me about her,” she spoke in a quiet voice. “Never brought her up once. But I guess she must be pretty special for him to do all of this.”

Bucky stood a couple steps in front of her, seeing teardrops fall from her face. She lifted her head up to wipe away her tears, her hands shaking from anxiety. Y/N placed her hands on her face and started to sob.

She was slightly hurt by the idea of her dad loving any other woman than her mom but knew that he’d have to move on eventually. What hurt her the most was the fact that he didn’t tell her, not until they were on stage, standing before a crowd of people. It was too much for her to handle and she reached her breaking point.

Bucky’s heart dropped at the sight. He cautiously stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her tightly. Something his PTSD had taught him was how pressure from a hug could help relax the nervous system and calm him down. He held her firmly in his arms until he felt her breathing slow. She looked up at him, remaining in his embrace, her eyes glassy from crying, nose red and sniffly. Bucky felt his heart skip a beat and immediately pushed the thought away.

“You wanna leave, honey?”

She nodded in response, staying in his arms for just a second longer before pulling away. Y/N longed for his warm touch, feeling like a child who had their security blanket taken away. It didn’t help that it was also cold outside, sending a chill down her spine.

Bucky noticed and shrugged his suit jacket off to wrap around her shoulders. She beamed a smile at him and he smiled back.

The pair walked around the outside of the venue to find the car when they ran into a mob of paparazzi, shouting questions at Y/N about her sudden exit. Like a reflex, she grabbed hold of Bucky’s hand and he gave her a comforting squeeze as he cleared a path towards the car.

Bucky and Y/N were sat next to each other in the car, which was not the typical seating arrangement they usually had, usually sitting on opposite ends of the car. But Y/N hadn’t let go of his hand, not quite ready to separate herself from his warmth. Bucky had absolutely no problem with that, mindlessly rubbing his thumb against the back of her hand. She felt safe. She always felt safe with Bucky around.

Y/N felt her eyelids become heavy, struggling to keep them open. She was exhausted from her long day, and her panic attack had taken most of her energy away.

Bucky felt a weight on his shoulder and turned his head slightly to see Y/N’s head resting there. He felt a warmth rush to his cheeks and smiled, resting his head on top of hers.

“Thank you for tonight, Bucky,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes closed. “You always make me feel so safe.”

Bucky felt a surge of tenderness rush through him. That was all he ever wanted to do. He wanted to keep her safe. He kissed her forehead, causing her to snuggle closer to him.

“Of course, honey. I’m here, always.”

[hotwings0203]

HOWDY!! how are u doing?? Its that person who asked if you would write something for that deku imagine that @candy-hime wrote, about you and deku forced to live together and you corrupting him it could be you or reader but I just love that concept of corrupted! Deku 😩🙏🏾💕💕

Thank you, have a nice day/night!! 😪💜

OH HI HAHAHA MASSIVE BET, I think I’ll do a little bit of both. This will probably be a little self indulgent but I’ll still put it as an “x reader”!

Tw:noncon, misogyny, the reader is a bitch, vouyerism

It was a dare by your friends to live with Izuku Midorkya for a month if you really could handle any type of man.

You’ve dealt with Hawks’ cocky nature, Shoto’s bland comebacks, Bakugo’s constant state of rage- you’ve done it all. Any type of scummy or tiring man a girl has to date you’ve seen in all of these men. They’re practically walking red flags.

Until you’re forced to room with Deku for a whole freaking month.

You just don’t get him! Why is he always so cheery? What the fuck is he smiling about? And who the hell is he baking for? There’s only two of you in the house, it’s not like you’re his girlfriend or anything.

You don’t buy it. There has to be some kind of catch to all this facade of a gentleman.

“Hey, Y/N?” He knocks on your ajar door and peeks his cute little face in. “Did you have dinner yet? I was gonna eat but then I thought I’d have some ramen with you-“

“Did I say you could enter?” You slowly lift your head up from your laptop and glare at him. “Are you some kind of pervert? What if I was changing?”

“N-no! I’m so sorry, I should’ve let you answer first, I just wanted to see if you were hungry-“

“God, what are you, my dad? Is that what you want? For me to call you Daddy?” Sneering, you jump up from your bed and stall towards the door.

Deku stumbles over his feet to retreat after seeing the look on your face. “No! Not at all, what? Come on, I didn’t mean any harm-“

“Yeah? Then knock before you enter closet perv.” And with that, you slam the door mere inches away from his startled face as hard as you can, uncaring if the low this on the other side of the wood was his connection to it swinging shut.

“What a fucking brown-noser,” you mutter loud enough for him to hear.

It’s odd how long you wait behind the door before you can hear his footsteps retreat.

A week later you decide to amp it up a notch. There’s no way he’s so fucking green, there’s gotta be some twisted thing inside him that makes him tick.

And so on the day of his turn to do laundry, you decide to dump your fanciest and sluttiest undergarments into the laundry basket.

He’s in some dorky apron when you catch him kneeling over the bag, ruffling through clothes and spraying them with detergent like the good little boy he is.

You perch on the couch behind the laundry room and wait. He doesn’t hear a thing with his headphones blasting some stupid happy-go-lucky songs in his ears.

Eventually he pulls out your lace g-string, and stares at the crumpled mass in confusion. He unravels the lace and stares at it for a good minute or two in surprise you think.

But nonetheless, like the chivalrous man he is, he shakes his head and slaps his reddening cheeks to get over the shock before reaching for the spray.

This was your cue.

You make sure to sound out of breath and extra irritated when you flounce over to his kneeling form and snatch the garment out of his hands.

He jumps a bit and takes his headphones off when he sees your hand descending.

“Oh, it’s just you. You scared me for a sec’ there,” he laughs sheepishly and rubs his neck. “I was just doing the laundry, sorry if that looked weird.”

“Looked weird? You’re fucking disgusting, Dick-u. I’ve been looking for these for days now, and where do I find them? In your grubby little hands.”

His jaw drops open.

“Huh? No, you’ve got it all wrong! It was in the basket, I swear! You must have misplaced it by accident or something.”

“Oh, so now you’re calling me a liar? You think I’m crazy or something? Im not the one sniffing girls’ panties!”

He frantically waves his hands to negate your accusation but you merely spit on the floor next to him.

“Don’t touch my shit again you fucking freak. Go buy a pocket pussy or something since you can’t keep it in your pants.”

At this, he pinches his eyebrows together and starts getting up.

“Hold on, what’re you being so aggressive for? I told you, they were just in here, I’m not that kind of guy.”

He steps towards but you don’t back down. Rather, you jab a finger in his toned chest and bring yourself face-to-face with him.

“Dont fucking walk up to me like that you douche. You’re the one in the wrong here, so I wouldn’t be so aggressive, like you said. Come at me like that again and I’ll fuck you up.”

With the lace in hand, you barely contain your smirk as you storm back into your room, relishing in how Izuku stands like a statue in the same place as you left him, his hands curiously curling into fists and his nostrils inflated.

But behind the safety of your door, he doesn’t continue any shenanigans.

He stays relatively quiet and out of sight for a couple of days, and you start to get bored again.

So this time, you put all your cards on the table and do a double whammy.

One night you call Katsuki, a fuck buddy of yours for a while and use him to help you get off.

You’re not really horny, but the blond side does have a way of getting you there. Luckily, your room is right next to Deku’s so your plan is executed to the best extent.

“Katsuki, oh Katsuki, please. Fuck, fuck yeah, ‘wanna hear you cum for me baby, I want you to bruise my cervix,” you babble loudly as you shove two fingers in your pussy and use your thumb to press on your clit.

“Yeah, you fucking whore, you like that? You like knowing that a shitty nerd like him’s prolly getting off to you calling my name like a slut? I bet you do, keep fucking yourself to my voice, do it otherwise I’ll bruise your ass black and blue when this month’s over.”

“Kat-Katsuki please fuck meeee dadddyyyyy oh fuck-Kacchan!” You cry out and cum violently around squelching fingers.

You put the phone down for a moment to catch your breath, but hear nothing from the other room.

Your face falls as Bakugo rambles on the other end. You hang up with him mid-sentence and remove your fingers from your legs, licking it off absentmindedly and thinking of your next move.

The next morning, you don the tiniest pairs of shorts you have in your closet that accentuates the shape of your ass and the skimpiest bra you can find that shows a peek of the top of your nipples.

You tie your hair up and amble out into the kitchen where he already is, reading something on his his phone and sipping form a black mug.

He barely darts his eyes and lifts the corners of his mouth in a hesitant greeting when he sees what you’re wearing.

He chokes on his drink and does a massive double take, juice spilling from his open mouth.

You raise an eyebrow and smooth your baby hairs, rolling your eyes and walking behind him to grab your own cup.

“See something you like?” Water trickling is the only sound in the room apart from your quip.

“Uh, n-no. Just swallowed wrong I guess.”

“Wonder why,” you drawl with a bored voice and edge closer to his back.

He’s hunched over, mindlessly scrolling too-fast on his phone to be deemed as actually reading anything. You recognize this form of coping from people like yourself who try to find distractions at parties where you don’t know people, just flipping through tabs to look like you’re actually doing something.

As you walk around him again, you make sure to train your eyes on his own, hounding he out for the moment he slips.

And slip he does, but only after you pretend to stretch and lift your self on your tippy toes in front of him, your shorts hiking up to show some cheek.

It’s only for a moment, but while the cup is against his mouth and his phone in his hand, his eyes dart to the exposed skin, then back up to your triumphant eyes.

“I knew it.”

He sighs and puts his cup down. “Knew what?”

“That you were a sick little virgin who gets off on staring at girls.”

“Y/N, I wasn’t-“

“I also know,” you raise your voice above his and slowly walk over to the table on the other side across from him, leaning forward and making sure that your tits squish together as you drop them on the countertop, “that last night you were totally listening to me on the phone with Bakugo. I heard your grunts and disgusting fapping noises. You don’t have to make it so obvious that you don’t get any.”

And this time, regardless of his indignation and frustration, he can’t stop himself from watching your hands trail up the sides of your bra and slowly drag the material down, down, down until your perfect breasts spill out and embrace the cold granite.

You honestly have no idea if he jacked off to last night’s call or not, but he doesn’t seem to be denying anything.

His mouth opens the widest you’ve even seen it. His face is beet red, and he visibly starts to perspire.

Your hands mold the soft skin and squeeze until your nipples swell and peek out from between your ruthless fingers, but you still look as bored and slightly curious as ever.

“This is all you’re ever gonna get, you sad incel. Take a good long look at them since I know this is what you’ve been wanting this entire time now.”

His mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out.

When he groans and starts to bring his down down between his legs, you strike.

“I guess I really was right. You’re not some nice guy, it was all a facade. Can’t wait to tell everyone how fucked in the head you are.” His vision starts to clear as you sneer at him again and start packing your tits back where they belong.

As you turn around, you call out over your shoulder, “Oh, and by the way? You whimper like a little bitch.”

It’s silent as you walk with your head held high back to your room, sure that you had broken him and that he was going to take his loss with his own held low.

You don’t really expect to hear the thunderous sounds of someone dragging their chair away and positively sprinting towards you.

You turn halfway and your eyes widen as you see him barreling towards you with the most terrifying expression you’ve ever seen on him.

“What the fu-“

But you don’t get a chance to finish your exclamation, because Deku body slams you onto your bed and immediately seized your wrists above your head. You can feel his hard-on rub against your mound as he straddles your flailing body and keeps you pinned between his muscles calves.

“Get off of me, are you fucking crazy?” You scream and toss your head side to side, trying to arch your back to throw him off of you-which only succeeds in pressing your mound against his.

“You teasing slut. All I’ve done is try to play nice with you, but you just had to fucking push it, didn’t you?” He rages quietly, his arms shaking in effort not to snap your wrists in half. You still as his jaw clenches and trembles, his green hair hanging over his eyes that reflect nothing but malice and hate.

You’re scared. For the first time this entire month with him, you want him away from you and off of you.

“Look, I-I messed up, I know, I’m sorry-“

“-You’re sorry?” He laughs high pitched and you cringe when he thrusts his face towards yours, practically brushing noses and seeing his bloodshot crazed eyes.

“Yeah, you will be sorry. After today, you won’t ever fuck with me again. Or at least want to. I’ll do whatever the hell I want with you though since that’s what you’ve been so hellbent on achieving, right?”

His scarred hands waste no time in yanking down your bra the same way you did before, except much less gentler than you did by yourself.

“No, no, Deku please, I’m really sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.” You whimper and struggle again beneath him, which is promptly stopped with a loud squeal when he pinches your nipple.

“Shut up. Wanton bitches like you don’t get to beg for mercy.”

He smirks and lets his tongue flop onto your strained neck, slobbering like a dog all over you.

“This is what you wanted right? For me to put you in your place and fuck your needy hole? And you had the audacity to call me disgusting,” he laughs and draws back, mocking your wobbling lips.

“Oh, oh baby don’t cry,” he holds both your wrists in one hand and uses the other to caress your cheek, slapping it hard when you turn away from his touch. “You’re just gonna get what’s coming to you.”

He indicates what he means by grinding his hips against the front of your shorts, snickering as you whimper and dipping his fingers below the hem, teasing you cruelly.

“Whose whimpering like the bitch now, huh?”

[shotorozu]

hello !! I'd rlly like to request Monoma if that's alright! I've had a huge soft spot for him for a while now and I'd love to see more content of him ;v;

anyway! we all know that superiority complex of his is definitely hiding some insecurities, but I also feel like he'd be quite touchstarved too bc of his peers seldom physically interacting with him due to his quirk, yknow?

with that in mind, I'd love to see how he'd handle an s/o who has "physical touch" as their main love language. they can give verbal praise/comfort, but they always get so shy abt it that they prefer giving physical affection to show their love. and maybe combining that with "quality time" being their second love language, they love to just cuddle him or toy with his hands/hair during quiet moments uwu

if you wanna do multiple characters, I'd love to request Shinsou, Midoriya, and Amajiki (separately) for the same idea, but if you'd rather do this with just Monoma then I'm okay with that !! no worries if you don't wanna do all four ♡

thank you if you do this request, and make sure to take care of yourself !! ♡

physically affectionate s/o

character(s) : monoma neito, shinsou hitoshi, midoriya izuku (i cut out tamaki for this one, sorry :[ but i’ll do another part if anyone wants it)

legend : [Y/N = your name] they/them pronouns used, strong quirk but the details aren’t specific, reader is a part of 1-A

headcanon type : fluff (and if you squint, then crack)

note(s) : yes i do agree :,) monoma should be getting a little bit more content, and i’m sorry that this came out so late! i was multitasking with other requests (because i took a 2 day absence,,) but this doesn’t mean i don’t read people’s requests

»»————-　♡　————-««

monoma neito

monoma 🤝 bakugou “the pros at sending mixed signals”

if there’s one thing he’s known for— then it’s for the persistent teasing, and his quite obnoxious attitude (especially at 1-A)

but he’s not a terrible person, he sure does have his reasons. and by now, people either choose to ignore him, or they simply knock the wind out of him

so, he was not prepared to encounter someone that was tolerant of him, AND also his type— like.. huh. that’s.. odd

and he was even more surprised when they accepted his wild love confession. there must be some catch to it, right?

so like i’ve said— monoma sends a lot of mixed signals. it’s either he’s complimenting your existence, or teasing you in various ways.

so— it’s just another normal day of monoma mouthing off to you, teasing you in a playful way, while you guys are hanging out this is way of making you remember him

but then, you just.. leaned forward and placed your hand on his head— not exchanging any words at all.

monoma’s first reaction is (・・?) because what?? someone is touching him right now.. wait.. someone is touching him!

honestly really shook, and at a lost for words— because everyone has refrained from coming into any physical contact with him? what a surprise! what even is this?

after said incident, you decide to speak “you had something in your hair.” and for once, monoma is the one that’s sitting in silence

“R-REALLY, Y/N? DID YOU REALLY THINK THAT WAS GOING TO W-WORK ON ME OR SOMETHING?” he questions in his usual mocking tone, but his cheeks are accompanied in a flushed red

he’d only experience field day when he realized that touch was basically your love language, with quality time in the second lead

so whenever you guys are spending time together, you’d,, actually go closer to him! this has never happened before, let him be

he doesn’t really like the idea of getting his hair touched, so you usually choose to fiddle with his hands— sometimes observing his details, and other times you’ll be comparing hand sizes

he’ll ridicule you for being so touchy— but he’ll ask if he’s “that irresistable?” while also moving you closer to him. he loves it a lot, okay?

don’t let class 1-b see this, he will flex on them because when he starts getting annoying again, they’ll use you as blackmail.

“monoma, i swear— if you do that, we’ll tell Y/N-”

“HAHA— ok, i’m sorry.”

shinsou hitoshi

he probably has the most chill reaction out of the bunch

again— another person that has been antagonized because of their quirk. he’s been perceived as villanious ever since his middle school days

kids have been told to keep their distance away from him at a young age so.. you’d bet that he’d be really touch starved

he never had any serious experiences with dating, and he never had any real friends— that weren’t cautious of his quirk

that was until he met you, which he just assumed you were another highkey stuck up person in the hero course

but, you were basically the opposite, and you were a real pleasure to have around. one thing lead to another, and now you guys are dating

he thought it was really cute whenever you got too shy to just sit in silence during dates, or to even give out words of affirmations

but hitoshi was surprised at first when he felt you pull yourself closer to him— resting your head on his shoulder. the concept of someone wanting to be in his presence is still sinking in for him

lucky for you! shinsou knows how to adapt to situations quickly, immediately slinging an arm around your shoulder, as he listens to you talk

he’ll be surprised when you start touching his hair, because golly!! are you guys close

but do it more pls, he loves it a lot— it sometimes makes him really drowsy.

if you play with his hands omg, his heart will do somersaults. he’s lucky that he’s able to keep himself composed.

loves watching you choosing to cuddle him, after briefly giving up on trying to form coherent words of affirmations.

it’s something he brings up quite often, but not in a teasing manner!

sometimes he’ll pat the free spot beside him, basically begging you to come closer to him.

eventually, denki notices on how touchy he’ll get whenever you’re around— but hitoshi will just shrug it off

“it’s always been that way.” he simply says, but he’ll turn around with this big ass grin on his face 💀

he’s whipped for your touch. so please, do it more

midoriya izuku

he’s also touchstarved. actually, all of them are really touchstarved, and for different reasons 💀

well.. it’s not like he had a choice from the getgo. he was born quirkless, and that lead to him becoming an outcase— and also the victim of bullying i wanna hug him

and being told constantly that he won’t ever be enough, or he won’t ever be a hero— it’s obvious that he doesn’t have any dating experience

but he didn’t think he’d be dating anytime soon— especially since he was ‘just’ pinning over you. he was convinced it was going nowhere

until you confessed. he’s surprised that he didn’t pass out

ever since you guys started dating, he noticed that you’ve been a little timid— not in the way that you feel awkward, more like,, you wanted to say something

or do something, because when you guys were studying together, you just suddenly sat closer to him— and started counting his freckles

he short circuited for a second.

he was reduced to a stuttering, and blushy mess— and you just laughed, telling him “you should continue what you’re doing!” as you ran your other hand across his shoulders

that night, he was wide awake in his bed— recalling your gentle and loving touch, running his hands along the parts of his hair, that you’ve touched

he loves quality time, because while he does like to ramble a lot— he does enjoy spending time with you in silence, but it’s the touches that makes him flustered

despite him being quite shy to initiate any sort of touch, you— on the other hand, were shy with saying praises. so you coped with physical touch, and quality time

man, izuku never gets used to it. no matter how much he tries to— he’s just.. needy, touchstarved.

he doesn’t realize how lost he looks when you’re sitting beside him, and not touching his hair or hands for once. please feel free to do so

oh, and since we’re on the topic of hands— he’ll tear up if you start playing/fiddling with his hands, and especially when you start tracing his scars. it makes him feel so warm.

okay but,, please give him a heads up if you’re going to act touchy in public. he’ll start stammering and blushing hard you might have to put him in rice or smth

the dekusquad talks about that quite a lot, especially when they accidentally witnessed it in the common room (for the first time)

in short— he adores it. sometimes he’ll initiate it, by asking you if you want to sit beside him, to play with his hair. he’s so inlove

»»————-　♡　————-««

likes and reblogs are appreciated, thanks for reading!

i do not own bnha/mha and it’s characters. boku no hero academia/my hero academia belongs to horikoshi kohei. i only own the writing, and i do not profit off of my hobby

do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or use my works for audio readings without my permission :))

[ahtsumu]

long shots ; miya osamu

pairing: miya osamu x f!reader

synopsis: miya osamu is the teacher’s assistant for food chemistry i. you can’t stop thinking about him.

tag(s): college!au, slow burn, TA!miya osamu, grad student!reader, fluff, reader is a go-getter!! ; warning(s): profanity, suggestive themes, talk of insecurities and imposter syndrome ; wc: 5.6k

a/n: happy birthday to @starrysamu​! i love u. pls excuse any errors. i’ll weed them out later! btw this fic is not a sugar daddy au LOL

HIS NAME IS Miya Osamu and he always looks like he has it all figured out. Comes in every class with his black hair perfectly tousled, the sleeves of his dark button-up rolled to his elbows, a cup of coffee in one hand and the strap of that black messenger bag in another.

“He drives a BMW, did ya know?” Isla says in your ear one morning. Your only friend in Food Chemistry I gives you a pointed look before sitting back in her chair in the lecture hall with a smirk on her face. “Saw it this morning. Bet he’s loaded.” The two of you watch the subject in question walk across the classroom and settle in his seat at the table in the corner.

“Shut up,” you whisper with wide eyes. A grin–– far from innocent–– makes its way onto your face. “Imagine being Miya Osamu’s sugar baby.”

“He’s not old enough to be a sugar daddy.” Isla looks at her nails disinterestedly. “And that’s too many AUs in one. He’s already the TA, for god’s sake. This isn’t some shitty Wattpad novel.”

A light giggle slips out of your lips. “I can see the title already. My Sugar Daddy is the TA?!”

Now, if anyone had been listening in on your conversation, they would’ve assumed many things about you. The first being that you’re both gold-diggers. This is untrue–– at least, in your case. Isla, you’re not so sure about, given how your friendship only goes back about one month. But she tags you in memes on Instagram so maybe it’s as real as real gets. Their second assumption would be that you have a big fat crush on your TA. That one’s complicated, mostly because it’s true, but only kinda. It all started in the second week of school when Isla caught you staring at Osamu and slipped you a post-it note with both your initials encircled in a heart. And, because you’re shameless with a good sense of humour, you made a show of kissing it while she was looking. And thus began your meaningless but incredibly entertaining, satirical, co-written fantasy about Miya Osamu.

It also didn’t help that on the first essay you got back, Isla’s paper had been marked up with “are you sure?”s and “this is a jump”s, while yours had “excellent reasoning” and “insightful analysis”. You’d even gotten a little comment at the bottom: y/n, fantastic work. you should speak up in class more often. –– OM

But Miya Osamu doesn’t play favourites because the next week you’d gotten another essay back, this time with another comment at the bottom: y/n, not your best work. you could’ve done better by connecting your first paragraph with the second using grant’s reading. conclusion lacked punch, too. all the best. –– OM

Every time you’d read the words scrawled in blue ink, you’d felt a pair of eyes on you. But you chalk it up to Osamu being a careful grader. A good TA. Someone who cares about his students.

Isla calls bullshit on that. You’re not really sure how to feel about her stance.

The classroom door opens and shuts again. You don’t have to look at your phone to know that it’s nine on the dot. Instead, you and Isla straighten your backs, pull out your notebooks, and focus. Your no-nonsense professor says “good morning” in her usual perky manner before jumping right into her keynote presentation.

“Did you all find the reading okay?” Professor Lee asks an hour into the lecture.

A chorus of “yes”s fill the air. You bite your lip, wondering if revealing that you didn’t understand shit will out you as the class idiot. Or maybe your silence is telling enough–– maybe the people in the seats beside you have noticed the grimace on your face and are having thoughts like ‘gee whiz, am I glad I’m not dumb like her’. Heat rushes to your cheeks. Sometimes you really wonder if you’re smart enough to be here. Occurrences like these do nothing to dispel your insecurities.

You vaguely hear her ask something like, “Any thoughts about the reading?” It’s not that you’re actually dumb. It’s just that this class is ridiculously hard for an introductory course, even for a graduate programme. From the start of the semester til now, fifteen people have dropped the class. There’s just twenty of you left. Guess a ridiculously hot TA can’t save a course’s drop-rate.

Before you can make your mind up on what to say, your professor moves on from her question.

As you look off to the side of the room for a break from your thoughts, you find a pair of blue-grey eyes pointed in your direction.

Everything about you, from the expression on your face to the way your muscles tense, makes you look like a deer caught in headlights–– even though he was the one caught staring in the first place. So maybe your shamelessness works on a scale.

Miya Osamu lifts one corner of his mouth.

And as if the exchange hadn’t happened at all, he looks back down at his laptop and continues typing.

The rest of the lecture goes through one ear and out the other.

“Everyone, I believe Osamu has something he wants to say,” Professor Lee says as everyone begins packing their bags.

The raven-haired TA slides out of his seat and sits on top of his desk. “Yeah.” Osamu clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. You notice how the muscles in his arms bulge from the movement.

“Whipped,” Isla mutters, grinning mischievously.

“Him for me,” you whisper back, though your eyes do travel back to his face where they should’ve been all along. Osamu catches your gaze and holds it. And then he looks away again.

“Now, I know you’re all Nobel prizewinners in the making,” he begins, garnering a round of snickers and giggles from your classmates. Most people say that cliques dissolve in college. That there’s no such thing as popularity amongst graduate students. That much, you agree with. But no one ever said anything about popular teacher’s assistants. Especially smart, attractive, witty teacher’s assistants like Miya Osamu. “But in case you didn’t understand the reading or would like to develop a deeper understanding of it, don’t hesitate to email me. I’ll try to host a review session all of us can attend.”

Professor Lee smiles appreciatively at Osamu, adding, “That’s a wonderful idea, Osamu. Guys, please take this opportunity if you struggled with the reading. I know eighty pages is a lot, but our next three classes are structured around the concepts in the reading and the mid-term next week will almost exclusively be about it, too.”

Well, shit.

To: m.osamu@hqu.edu

Hi Osamu,

I was wondering if I could get some help with the reading from last class. To be frank, I couldn’t make it past page 15 and I’m lost like a snot-faced five-year-old in a shopping mall on Black Friday. Sorry. Thanks in advance!

Regretfully,

Y/N

MS Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

From: m.osamu@hqu.edu

no problem. is 5 pm tomorrow at jack’s okay? we start on the concepts from the reading next class so i want to get you up to speed asap. let me know. thanks.

OM

PhD Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

It’s five minutes to five when you pull into the parking lot of Jack’s Diner. The shiny, retrofuturistic eatery is a university favourite but the empty parking lot tells you it’s completely deserted right now (and rightfully so–– who eats dinner before six?). The black BMW parked a few spots from your car, however, says that you’re not alone.

Osamu’s figure comes into view as you reach for the handle to the front door of Jack’s. The twenty-six-year-old sits by himself at one of the bright red tables in the back, typing away on his dark grey laptop.

His head lifts up at the sound of the opening door. Osamu calls out your name and waves you over.

“Hi,” you greet with a smile, sitting down across from him.

“Hey.”

You look around before leaning forward on the table. “Is anyone else coming?”

“No.” Osamu sits back in his seat. “I thought about hosting one big group, but then I realised that it’d probably be stressful for the staff here.” He nods his head in the direction of the kitchen. “And I had a hunch that everyone would have different questions. Forcing everyone to review concepts they already know is a waste of time.”

At first, you nod. That makes sense. But then you furrow your brows. “So how long have you been here?”

Osamu blinks. He hadn’t expected you to ask about him. “Hmm? Oh.” He taps his phone to check the time. “Just a while.”

Quirking a brow, you ask, “And how long is ‘a while’ to you?”

“Seven hours,” he admits, chuckling lightly when he sees your jaw drop. “A lot of people had questions. They just don’t act like they do. Anyway, time flies. Really, it does.” Quickly, he clears his throat and sits forward. “So, about your email.” He grins. “Not sure if you meant it to be funny, but it was.”

“I’m glad my distress was entertaining for you. Do you TA just to watch grad students suffer?”

“Perks of the job,” Osamu says. His grin widens when you giggle. He’s never heard you laugh before and he realises at that moment that it’s really nice. And then that same grin falters. Gracefully, of course, and imperceptibly to you. But not to him. Is it okay for him to be… thinking things like that? About a student? But you’re not really his student since he’s just the TA. Right? Osamu ignores the weird feeling that comes over him and clasps his hands together at the edge of his laptop. “Back to your email. Can ya tell me what you’re confused about?”

Three hours and two Impossible Burgers later, you suddenly understand everything about food molecules so well that you wonder why you’d even been confused in the first place. But besides that, you’ve also picked up things about Osamu. As a person and not an idea. Not that you’d been actively searching for fun facts about your TA. But they’d stuck to your brain like gum at the bottom of a desk. He likes to slip sarcastic quips into a conversation every now and then. Eats burgers upside down (“The right way,” as he’d said, smirking). Is friendlier than he looks.

“You’re really good at explaining things,” you comment as Osamu shuts his laptop closed.

“Well, I kinda have to be,” he says. And maybe it’s the mental fatigue catching up on him or the fact that he’s real fond of the reason why he can break big concepts down into morsels but suddenly, the rest of his thoughts spill out his mouth like wine. “I have a twin brother with potato salad for brains.”

“Oh?”

And before he can stop himself, he tells you about Miya Atsumu, the pro-athlete you’ve definitely heard of but never gave too much thought. And then you hold onto the fact that they were both on the volleyball team and you ask of which school, so then he tells you about Inarizaki, the high school he attended, and then his decision not to go pro to go to college, and then––

“Sorry,” he laughs, cheeks turning pink. “You probably didn’t need to hear all that.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say–– and you mean it. “Your life is interesting.”

Osamu leans back in his chair. “Well, I’m sure yours is, too.” He holds your gaze like it’s the key to your presence. It’s an invitation. The kind that comes from people who don’t really know if they want you around but also don’t want you gone.

You take it.

Osamu shouldn’t–– he really shouldn’t–– but he wonders about the things you didn’t tell him the entire drive home.

Isla laughs when you tell her about what happened at Jack’s. You lay in bed with your phone next to you on speaker, your face turned on your pillow so that you’re staring out the window at the city below.

“He wants you,” she sings.

“Or he was just being nice.”

“Methinks not!” Isla giggles. “He’s intrigued, girl! You’re like that cute little new mystery in his life and he just wants to get to know you.”

“I think he was just being polite.”

“Or he’s crushing on you!”

“In your dreams.”

“You mean yours? Boo, you’re no fun today. Usually, you go along with the jokes.” Isla’s tone is playful on the surface but full of implications.

A few silent seconds pass. Yeah, you think, agreeing. I do.

“Girl,” Isla drags out the word in a high pitch, saying it like a scientist says ‘eureka’. “You’re not playing along anymore because it’s real now. You're actually catching feelings!”

“Am not!” you laugh.

“The Y/N I knew would’ve said ‘nah, bitch, he’s catching feelings’ and I think that says all there is to say.”

“Okay, I think he’s cute but it’s not a crush,” you concede, grinning. “And he’s the TA, Isles. It’d never happen.”

“Not while he’s still a TA in a class you take.”

“Isla.”

“Ask him out once this semester ends! Unless you’re chicken.”

“I’m not asking him out.”

“Knew you were––”

“Have you seen me? He’s asking me out.”

Miya Osamu walks through the door at eight-fifty as usual that next morning, dressed in his usual button-up, holding his usual cup of coffee. But this time, as the rest of his tall frame passes through the doorway, Osamu’s eyes subtly scan the faces in the lecture hall, lingering for just a while over yours. The corners of your lips turn up. You hope he saw that.

“Bitch!” Isla whisper-screams. The students sitting around you turn around at the noise and grin at each other when they realise it’s just Isla being… well, Isla. She shoos them away jokingly.

“What?” you whisper back.

“Care to explain why our TA was literally eye-fucking you?”

“That was hardly eye-fucking,” you retort. “Maybe like an eye-handshake.”

“Yeah, a naked eye-handshake where his thang is handshaking your––”

He does it again the next class.

And the next.

And then he doesn’t. Miya Osamu walks through the door to Food Chemistry I at eight-fifty in the morning in a navy blue button-up with a cup of coffee in his hand and looks through the rows of seats in the lecture hall for your face, only to find it missing.

He debates pressing the matter.

To: m.osamu@hqu.edu

hey osamu,

i wasn’t in class today because i’ve been sick with the flu (no big deal, just feel like i’m dying). a classmate sent me pictures of the slides from today so i think i should be fine, but is it okay if i email you with any questions? thank you very much!

miserably,

Y/N

MS Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

From: m.osamu@hqu.edu

y/n,

of course. sorry to hear that you’re sick. let me know if i can do anything to help you. the midterm is next week. get well soon.

OM

PhD Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

“You writing that the midterm is next week did not offer me any peace of mind, by the way,” you say, spinning around in your chair as Miya Osamu enters your pod in the library.

He offers you a wry grin. “Hello to ya, too.”

“Was that an accent?” You thought you’d heard one at Jack’s, but you couldn’t be sure because it’d been so spotty.

Osamu slips into the seat beside yours and pulls out the laptop in his messenger bag. You catch a whiff of his cologne–– something spicy and woody, but clean. It suits him. “Nice catch. Yeah, I speak a regional dialect. Took me a while to smooth it over but it still resurfaces every now and then.”

“Why?”

“It just didn’t seem fitting for a PhD candidate, I guess,” Osamu explains, opening the slides from the class you missed. A day after your initial exchange, you’d emailed him again (with a much clearer mind) and asked if he could go over the slides with you in person.

i literally feel like i’ve been given the homework from russian lit, you’d written. except the russian has been translated to hieroglyphs and my task is to choreograph an interpretive dance based on the hieroglyphs.

Osamu had snickered when he saw your email. that doesn’t even make sense. must be the fever talking, he’d been tempted to write. But that strange feeling had come over him again, the one that’d screamed at him to keep it professional, goddamnit, so he’d played it safe instead and sent is eight pm at the main library okay? He hates that you’re getting a watered-down version of his personality. Osamu swears he’s a lot more interesting when he’s not, well, a TA.

“I think it’s fine,” you say, smiling. “I like it. It’s you.” And suddenly, you’re wondering if it’s okay to be complimenting your TA. If it’s okay to say that you like things about him, or if that crosses some grey, unclear line. Is it weird to treat your TAs like they’re your friends? It’s not like TAs are real teachers. Right?

A grin–– wide and genuine and almost excited–– grows on Osamu’s face. He rubs the back of his neck as his eyes flit over to the laptop screen. “Thanks. Really.”

You nod. But you feel like there’s more that he might want to say, so you wait.

“I got a lot of shit for it when I came here for my master’s, y’know. Not to my face, of course, but people would refer to me as ‘the guy with the accent’. A professor once said it made me seem crass. Said it’d hold me back in my career.”

“So you changed.”

“Adapted,” Osamu corrects. “It’s hard to admit but conforming is sometimes all you can do when you don’t have the power to change the system. Can’t really make everyone suddenly respect a dialect.”

“And after you’re finished with your PhD, you’ll go back to speaking in that dialect?”

Osamu looks out the window and smiles, probably imagining the plans he’s already made about the future. “Yeah.”

“What if you have to speak the standard language at your job? Like, your boss is all, ‘hey man, if you don’t speak––”’

“I’ll be the boss.”

“Oh?”

And with a little more prodding, Miya Osamu tells you about the restaurant chain he plans on opening after graduation, the slides about food additives left completely untouched.

The librarian knocks on your pod a few minutes before eleven to tell you they’re closing.

“Shit,” Osamu murmurs, running his hands through his hair. You’re still laughing about something he’d said before the librarian interrupted him–– one of his stories from high school–– and he thinks that you’ve completely forgotten that the reason you came to the library was to catch up on the material you were already behind on. And now you’re behind on that. But you look so carefree right now and, actually, you’re very pretty and you’ve got such a good heart and it’s a lot for him to process but he knows he just wants to see you happy a while longer. So Osamu just slumps back in his chair and laughs along with you.

He says your name as his chuckles grow softer. “It’s pretty late. How’re you getting home?”

“I’ve a bike,” you reply. It’s good for the environment and is a pretty solid form of exercise if you do say so yourself. Sometimes you just don’t feel like driving. 

Osamu presses his lips in a thin line. Would it be too much to offer you a ride? “I can drive you home. It’s really not safe for you to be alone outside, especially near midnight. You can get your bike tomorrow. Or I’ll get it for you.”

He drives fast. Not the unsafe fast that speed demons drive at, but the kind of fast where you know he’s got some edge to his character. You bring it up to him–– especially since it’s nighttime, for god’s sake, he could hit something–– and all he does is remind you how there are lamps as bright as the sun lining the entire road to your dorm. And the fact that you live in the least accessible dorm on campus.

“A twenty-minute drive?” he’d exclaimed when he saw the GPS monitor.

“A bunch of roads are closed for construction. It’s a ten-minute bike-ride because I can cut through campus.” And suddenly feeling a little burdensome, you’d added, “Sorry. I can still bike––”

“No.” He’d held his hand out in front of you, gesturing for you to stay in the passenger’s seat. “It’s not a bother at all.” Because it wasn’t. Osamu was… happy. Not that he’d admit that.

“So this BMW,” you start in a teasing tone.

Osamu smirks. “A gift.”

“Can I guess from who?”

“Sure.”

“Atsumu.”

His brows rise. “Colour me impressed.” He hadn’t expected you to remember anything he’d said about Atsumu. Or maybe he had but told himself otherwise to lower his hopes.

“I’m smart like that.”

He snorts. “Not if you keep distracting me and using your review time to…” hang out with me, get to know me, tell me things about you… “…goof off.”

You grimace. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Osamu makes a turn down a familiar street. It dawns upon you that you're ten minutes away from your dorm and suddenly you wish he’d just make the wrong turn at the next intersection so that you could talk to him some more. It can even be about the health benefits of fish or the molecular makeup of kale–– you don’t mind. You just want to be around him longer.

“I think you’re really smart,” Osamu says quietly. “I think you’re not processing the readings because you’re distracted, or just not fully applying yourself. Obviously, last class’s slides are a different thing, since you were absent. But you really are smart. I’ve seen your papers.”

You bite your lip to hide your grin, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. “Thank you.” You look out the window, too jacked on dopamine to think straight. “I think I still need you, though.”

And that innocuous little sentence floats right out your mouth into the air, settling between you like a little wedge before either of you even realise it. Neither of you says anything. You marinate in the awkwardness before stuttering out a clarification. “To, um, to explain things. Y’know, since you’re, uh, so good at… explaining things.”

Osamu clears his throat and chuckles stiffly. There’s a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he says, looking straight ahead. He can’t even look at you. Fuck. It’s so awkward. “I’ll try to keep… explaining things.” Fuck. What does that even mean?

A few uncomfortable minutes pass in silence. The night can’t end like this, you think. It can’t when everything else had gone so well. You still have to see him for a few more months. “Did you know,” you start, catching Osamu’s attention, “that Jack’s Diner has a location in Italy?”

“Oh?” he asks, making the final turn to the street where your dorm is. He actually hadn’t.

“Yeah. I asked the owner about the chain a while back. Have you ever been to Italy?”

Osamu shakes his head. “I’ve been to Paris, though. To see a friend. He’s a chocolatier.”

Now, if Osamu had been your friend, you would’ve said something like well, let’s go to Italy together, except he’s not. He’s your TA and you’ve been reminded that enough tonight. So instead, you say, “When you open that restaurant of yours in Italy, let me know.”

“That’s gonna take a while,” he laughs. He appreciates how you said ‘when’, though. And he tucks that little bit of confidence you have in him somewhere deep in his mind so that it doesn’t get lost.

“Isn’t that just seven hours?” you shrug, grinning. Osamu’s BMW pulls up outside your dorm and parks as he marvels at what you just said. You’re amazing. You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face your driver.

“Thank you for driving me,” you say, offering him a smile.

“Yeah,” he replies.

You stretch out your hand. With a puzzled look on his face, Osamu grabs it and shakes it. Firmly. You can’t help but notice how nice his hands are. Calloused for sure, but they feel nice.

“Goodnight, Osamu.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He watches you jog into the building before driving away. And it’s like you’ve possessed his car or something because the smell of your shampoo and perfume is everywhere and it’s too much but it’s also not enough at the same time and he can feel your palm against his as he spins the steering wheel to make a turn and for the first time in his life he doesn’t turn on the radio to fill the silence in his car. Osamu replays everything you said in his head.

But he especially thinks about that part where you said you need him.

Weeks melt into months. You turn in essays after essays for Food Chemistry I, each coming back with detailed commentary in an all-too-familiar blue scrawl. All your other classes go well–– extremely well, actually. You might just end the semester with a 4.0 if Food Chem doesn’t fuck you over. Isla still tags you in memes on Instagram. You still tell her about everything that happens with Osamu.

Speaking of.

“That’s the wrong equation,” he says behind your ear as he settles in the seat beside you. The sound of his low voice so close to your ear sends a small shiver down your spine. “You gotta switch the hydrogens.” Osamu knocks on your skull lightly. “What’s goin’ on up in there? Ya got somethin’ on your mind?”

You laugh and elbow him in the side. “Shut up, ‘Samu.” He’d told you during one of his office hours that he’d gone by that nickname because he had a teammate with a foreign name in high school. It sounded so cool, he’d said, grinning.

I think Osamu sounds pretty cool already, you’d teased.

And he’d replied, Let’s trade. I like yours, you like mine, why not share?

You teeter on the line between friends and less-than-friends and, oddly enough, more-than-friends. Sometimes you still play it safe. Sometimes he pauses between texts and real-time conversations, no doubt to scrap an instinctive reply for something more “professional”. Sometimes you say things that make him look at you with the ghost of a smile at the corners of his lips. Sometimes he calls Atsumu to scream about you.

“S’not a no,” Osamu points out. He’s dressed in a black sweater and grey trousers today. You’re suddenly reminded of how the weather’s been getting colder when someone opens the door to the university café and lets in a gust of chilly autumn air.

“Okay,” you admit, setting down the pencil. “I just… don’t really feel prepared for this next test.”

Osamu frowns and looks down at your worksheet. “Your process is correct, though.”

“Right, but… I don’t know. I’ve just not been feeling great about myself lately,” you laugh, looking down at your feet. “Food Chem’s the toughest class I’ve ever taken. And remember how I completely embarrassed myself in that class discussion last week? It’s not really making me feel like I belong here.”

“Imposter syndrome,” Osamu remarks.

“Correct-o.”

He says your name softly and puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Maybe you’re not the smartest, but you’re definitely smart. And you belong here. I’ve seen your papers. They’re just as great as anyone else’s and I don’t hand out compliments for nothin’. You’re gonna do some great things but ya can’t improve if you ever give up.” Osamu searches your eyes for a sign of your understanding.

There’re a lot of things you want to say but you don’t know how to put them into words. “Can I hug you?” you finally ask.

Osamu doesn’t even think about it. “Of course.”

He feels you smile against his chest and wonders if you can feel his heart beat faster.

Isla camps out in your dorm as finals come around the corner.

“I don’t understand shit!” she wails, throwing her notebook into the air.

“Isles, it’s okay,” you laugh, slipping out of your chair and walking over to her nest in the corner. “You gotta chill, dude.”

“Not fair! I didn’t have a hunk holding my hand through this course all semester,” she retorts, humour glittering in her dark eyes. “I had the Organic Chemistry Tutor and his accent’s cute enough but, girl, you had Miya Fucking Osamu!”

“You’re literally the worst.” You giggle and sit down beside her. “Tell me what you’re confused about. I’ll try to explain it to you.” The way Osamu does.

You text him that you’d channelled his brains later that night.

His reply comes seconds later. all you, einstein.

From: osamu

good luck on the exam

you’re going to kill it

To: osamu

would u like to divulge any… information about it? 😏 😏 😏

From: osamu

bye

To: osamu

i was kidding :(

From: osamu

fine. tip #1: write your name

To: osamu

not very helpful. 0/10

From: osamu

keep running your mouth and 0/10 is what your score’s going to be

i’m kidding

you got this, y/n

“Holy fuck,” Isla groans as you cross the street to head to lunch at Jack’s. “If you don’t see me next semester it’s because I’ve gotten my grade back and decided to drop out.”

“What would you do?” you ask, amused.

“Maybe move to New Zealand. Raise some sheep. Marry a hot, blond shepherd and fuck off to a cliffside cottage.”

“Solid plan.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“What about me?”

“Remember that conversation we had at the start of the year? About your man?” The two of you reach another red light for pedestrians.

“We’re friends. He’s not my man,” you laugh. Though it pains you to. Something about being Miya Osamu’s friend doesn’t really sit right with you, but you don’t know how to not be his friend. You don’t know how to move out of the corner you’ve backed yourself into.

“But you wish he were! And now you can finally hit him with that ‘Hey, Osamu, I’ve been madly in love with you since the start of the semester, wanna fuck like rabbits and then open that store in Italy?’ and he’ll be all––”

A throat clears behind you. With wide eyes, the two of you turn around.

Holy fuck.

Miya Osamu stands behind you with his hands in his pockets and an enormous smirk on his face.

“He’ll be all what?” he asks, eyes fixed on you.

Isla murmurs an excuse and starts walking on her own to Jack’s.

“Um.” You swallow nervously and shrink in your coat. “You heard all of that, right?”

“Yep.” Osamu grins. He grins. He’s grinning. He’s smiling like he’s won the fucking lottery and you honestly don’t know what to do with that information.

“So, like,” you look down at the sidewalk and kick at a pebble, “what are your thoughts about that?” God, you could die. “‘Cause I know you’re a TA and it’d probably look pretty bad and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you because I like you and it’s cool if we just…”

Osamu interrupts you with a laugh. “My thoughts,” he says, “are that I want to kiss you.” His fingers lift your chin up. “What are your thoughts about that?”

Well, shit. “I think that’s pretty cool, yeah,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut as his face comes closer to yours.

He tastes like mint. And his lips move softly, slowly against yours like he’s savouring the moment. And then you feel his hands snake around your waist to pull you closer–– closer because you both are tired of forcing the distance between bodies that want to be near each other, closer because he’s thought about kissing you just like this for so long, closer because you remember the last time he’d touched you was three days ago and it was just a brush of his fingers against your arm and that feeling of wanting more haunted you for the entire night. But holy shit, Miya Osamu is kissing you. He’s kissing you.

And then he pulls away. His dark eyes flit over yours. “I,” he breathes, “I need your course load next semester.”

“What?” you ask, disbelief written all over your features, chest rising and falling as you try to steady your breathing. You just kissed, for God's sake, and he's––

“I need to know which courses not to apply to TA for,” he grins, cupping your face in his hands. “Can’t be teachin’ in a class with my girlfriend as a student.”

“So we’re official?” you ask, beaming.

“If you want,” Osamu replies with a smirk.

You grab the front of his coat and tug him down for another kiss. “Hell yeah, I want to be official.”

[idy-ll-ique]

One And Only.

Pairing: Mob Boss!Steve Rogers x F!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Smut

Warnings: s*x

Requested: nope

Summary: Their marriage is for business purposes only but they fall in love. Until Y/N starts having a doubt... does Steve Rogers have a mistress? It's all a misunderstanding...

Author's Note: Hiya peeps, iw!Steve in this one. Enjoy!

---

"Hey, you doing okay?" Y/N turned away from the mirror and smiled at Natasha and Wanda. "As well as a bride could be minutes before her wedding," she jabbed, making the ladies chuckle. "It's going to be fine, Y/N, Steve will treat you well. We've been friends with him for years, one thing we know about him is that he never treats women wrong."

"I don't doubt that, it's just that— I met him a week ago. One time. I don't even know him, anything about him, other than the fact that he leads the most feared crime gang in the entire country," Y/N muttered, tugging at the sapphire necklace she was wearing. Something blue. "You will get to know him soon enough, though. Come on now, everyone is waiting."

Her father stood outside the door, a soft smile on his face. "You look lovely, honey," he cooed, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as the two ladies sauntered past them into the Hall with their partners. "Thank you, papa." The two people walked into the Hall and everyone stood up to greet the bride. At the end of the aisle stood Steve, tall and proud, a huge smile on his face.

Y/N couldn't help but smile back. As soon as she reached near him her father let go, but not before pressing a kiss to her cheek. Steve took her hand and brought it to his lips when she stood in front of him. The priest standing next to them began his usual recitations; Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today… Y/N didn't really pay attention to his speech.

She was busy staring at Steve, who looked magnificent in an all black suit, his dirty blond hair and full beard making her feel all sorts of things. His smile softened a bit, also not listening to the priest. He was observing her. It was supposed to be purely transactional, the marriage, but he knew it wasn't gonna end like one. It would be a proper marriage.

Happily married.

She looked wonderful. He met her a week ago; a bit wary at the concept of merging two mobs by marriage but the moment he saw her, he knew he had to have her. She was his, no one else's. The two quickly exchanged their vows as the ring bearers came forward with the rings. The bride and the groom took the rings with smiles and turned to face each other.

"Steve Rogers, do you take Y/N Y/L/N to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to her, for as long as you both shall live?" The priest turned to Steve expectantly.

"I do," Steve spoke, loud and clear, as he slipped the ring on Y/N's finger. Y/N had to admit, she felt a bit giddy when those words left his mouth.

"Y/N Y/L/N, do you take Steve Rogers to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?" Y/N smiled shyly at Steve. "I do."

Steve grinned widely when she neatly placed the ring on his finger. "You may now kiss the bride." And the whole room erupted into stentorian cheering as Steve gathered his wife in his arms, pressing his lips to hers in a deep kiss. Only when he heard a wolf-whistle coming from the crowd did Steve stop, pulling away to look at his out-of-breath wife.

"Mrs Rogers," he spoke fondly and she giggled. "Mr Rogers," she teased as they turned to the crowd, Y/N clutching Steve's arm as they smiled widely. Not many people had attended the impromptu wedding; just Steve's close friends and Y/N's father. Her bridesmaids were Natasha and Sharon, with Wanda being her maid-of-honor.

Steve's groomsmen were Sam and Tony, with Bucky being his best man. "Well, the first dance goes to the bride and her father, I'd say," Clint called out, already helping himself to a bottle of beer as music started playing. Steve reluctantly handed his wife over to her father, bidding her with a sweet kiss on her cheek.

"I hope you know why I had to do this, honey," her father sighed as they danced in the middle of the Hall. "I know, papa. Don't feel bad, I think I'm starting to like Steve. He seems friendly enough and Nat and Wan told me he's good to women." Her dad chuckled. "Well, he doesn't have the label of promiscuity that other leaders do." He was right.

Steve Rogers never really had time for dating, too busy leading the salient mafia. Also, the thought of having women just for a night or two didn't sit right with him, so he never went in that direction. "Can I have this dance now?" As soon as the song changed Steve appeared on her side, holding his hand out. She smiled and took his hand.

He easily slid an arm around her waist as the music slowed. One hand around her waist and the other holding her hand in classic ballroom dancing position, he pulled her closer. She rested her head on his chest, the arm which was around his neck lowering to his middle. "I'll treat you well," Steve whispered as they languidly swayed in the middle of the room.

"I know. If it's not much, um, I think I'd like to take things slow…" she hinted, hoping he'd notice. And he did. "Of course, of course, we can do that. I don't want to make you uncomfortable in any way," he assured her. "Thank you, Mr Rogers," she mumbled. "My pleasure, Mrs Rogers." The rest of the ceremony was enjoyable to say the least.

---

10 months had passed since the wedding.

Steve and Y/N were still taking things slow, against their own wishes.

It was a misunderstanding.

They loved each other; they really did, but they couldn't bring themselves to say the words to the other. Steve was purposely not making the first move, in fear that his wife would think he was rushing things. Y/N, on the other hand, had started severely doubting herself because 10 months have passed, does he not want to be with me anymore?

She was expecting him to make the first move, and he was expecting her to give him the permission first. It was annoying, to say the least. They were still friendly with each other, so Steve didn't pay much attention to the anxiety his wife was feeling. Y/N was beside herself with worry that had increased tenfold since... well, 15 minutes ago. She had overheard a conversation.

"So, how's Smith treating ya?"

"Same old, ya know. He has like 3 bitches as mistresses, thinks I don't know about 'em. Which mob man doesn't have a mistress in today's world, ha?"

"Preach, sister. I'd think even Rogers has one, heard somewhere that he and his little wife haven't even consummated their marriage. Probably doesn't even wanna be with her, he did marry her for the business."

"Mmhm, I agree. What about you, Lin?"

"Oh, Danny? Probably out there sleeping with Denise."

She didn't mean to eavesdrop on their personal conversation, but she couldn't help it. Mistress? She was familiar with the term, but what she was not familiar with was the fact that nearly all married mobsters had one. And when they mentioned Steve, she was done for. Crying, she had gone back to her room, collapsing on the bed, sobbing.

In her crying state, she failed to notice Steve also in the room as she raked her brain, thinking about all the times Steve had come home from work. He had given her no reason to believe that he had another woman, but what if he was just that good at hiding it? "Sweetheart? My love, why are you crying?" The bed dipped next to her.

Steve had just stepped out of the shower when his wife had thrown the door of their shared suite open, falling on the bed with a nerve-wracking sob. Why was she crying? "S-Steve…" she stammered and he pulled her on his lap, rocking her back and forth, getting her to calm down. It worked as Y/N's heart rate slowed down.

"Y/N, tell me, what happened? Who hurt you, tell me their names." Steve suddenly saw red at the prospect of someone hurting his wife. "N-No one hurt me, I just… I accidentally overheard a conversation I shouldn't have and—" She trailed off when her breath hitched. Steve soothingly rubbed her back, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

"What were they talking about?"

"Mistresses. One of the ladies said that nearly all mob men had mistresses and I— We haven't even consummated our marriage, haven't done anything besides kissing so I just thought— Do you have a mistress?" Her question shocked him. Him? Keeping a mistress when he had a wife he was head-over-heels for? "My darling, I love you."

She looked up at his words. "You do?" she mumbled, taking a deep breath. "Of course I do. The only reason I didn't say anything was because you told me, on the day of our wedding, that you wanted to take things slow. Before doing something, I needed your permission and that's why I haven't made a move on you." Y/N felt very silly all of a sudden.

"I'm so sorry for accusing you—"

He chuckled and shook his head. "Don't apologize to me, princess. Come here." He hugged her tightly, cradling the back of her head as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. "Do you know how many of my colleagues have asked me the same question?" She gently shook her head. "One too many. Do you know what I say to them each time?"

"No…"

"I say, why would I have a mistress when my wife makes me the happiest person on the planet? Why would I have a mistress when my wife is an angel personified? You guys are just jealous that she's mine and not yours." Y/N's skin burnt at his praise and she burrowed closer to him. "Steve," she muttered bashfully and felt him chuckle underneath her.

"Will you allow me to show you just how much I love you?"

"Yes."

He gently lowered her on the bed and hovered above her, one large hand coming to rest on her cheek. Then he made quick work of their clothes until they were bare in front of each other; Steve's eyes went wide with awe when he saw her body. "You are perfect," he declared, his warm hands grabbing every bit of skin it came in contact with as his lips touched her neck.

Y/N mewled underneath him when he shamelessly groped both her breasts, groaning. "So perfect. So beautiful. Only mine, my one and only," he whispered, pressing his lips to hers in a chaste kiss as he felt his shaft harden. "I love you," she blurted out as one of his hands found her core, his fingers scissoring her open, getting her ready for penetration.

"I love you too, my sweet," he smiled at her before lining his shaft against her core. He pushed in inch-by-inch, giving her some time to adjust to his size. He was bigger than anyone she had previously been with, much bigger. Y/N bit her lip to stifle a moan as he bottomed out inside her, grunting. "None of that," he rasped, "I want to hear you."

Y/N groaned when he lazily rotated his hips, not holding back, just like he asked. "That's it, baby girl. Just like that." He sped up inside her, grabbing the headboard of the bed, each snap of his hips sending waves of pleasure washing over Y/N. "Oh, Steve," she whimpered, her hands balling into fists around the bedsheets she was clutching, moving weightlessly against him.

"Are you close, my dear?" he growled when her walls clenched around him. She meekly nodded, throwing her head back as she tried to hold in. "Only one moment, love, I'm close too." His thrusts soon got sloppier. "Cum with me," he ground out before letting go, shooting his load inside her. Y/N came just moments later, her arms wrapping around Steve's shoulders when he slumped on her.

"There we go, our marriage is sealed," he joked and she laughed tiredly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Steve rolled off of her, smiling gently when he saw her drifting in and out of consciousness. "Go to sleep, I'm right here. I'll take care of you." He got up and walked to the closet, taking out a spare towel. Running it under some hot water, he sat next to her and cleaned her up.

Then he cleaned himself up, put on a pair of pyjama pants and lay down next to his sleeping wife, an automatic smile blooming on his face. He'd dreamed that their first time would be unforgettable, and it was, but he also wished it was… longer. God knew he was an insatiable man; but he also didn't want to pressure the woman he had grown to love.

There's always a next time, anyway.

"Sleep tight, my dear."

---

A/N: Leave a like if you enjoyed, thanks for reading!

[jackrrabbit]

Spoiled Rotten /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Request: What if Overhaul fucks spoiled rich reader because her dad owes the yakuza money and in exchange Kai takes the daughter as a form of payment using her as his personal stress doll whenever and wherever he wants making her into his perfect little doll

A/N: While I was writing this my roommate asked if I was okay bc cause I kept stopping to fan myself and blush lmaooooo god I’m such a brat. I did change the concept up a bit, hope that’s fine!

This is dedicated not only to the OG requester but also to everyone who read the excerpt I posted a while back and told me they couldn’t wait to see the finished product!! Love you guys ❤️

Tags/warnings: threats, dubcon/coercion, dom/sub, brat taming, degradation, exhibitionism, restraints, mentions of forced prostitution, verbal & physical harassment, kidnapping, kinda breath play?, long

The first thing you notice when you come to are voices. Multiple people talking to each other, speech overlapping in patterns you can’t make out. They’re quiet—not whispering for your sake, but quiet because you’re still half knocked-out and you can barely hear.

The second thing you notice is the pounding in your head and the lingering smell of something sweet spread over your nose and mouth.

The third thing you notice is the fact that when you try to blink your eyes open, your lashes brush against something soft and dark. You’re blindfolded…and gagged, and your hands feel like they’re cuffed behind your back. From what you can sense around you, it seems like you’re hunched in a kneeling position with your cheek flattened against the floor and your bare feet tucked under your backside.

At least you’re still in your nightgown. You can feel the frilly silk of it, a useless barrier between your skin and the cool air, and it reminds you of how you got here in the first place.

A loud noise in the night. Your father’s voice pleading. A heavy thump. The door to your bedroom banging open and a strange man holding you down to your bed…lifting a sweet-smelling rag to your mouth…telling you to “take a deeeeep breath, princess.”

“Hey, I think she’s waking up.”

An invisible hand fists itself in your hair and you whine in pain as your upper body is lifted off the floor. Once you’re properly upright, you hear squeaking, shoes against concrete, and the heat and breath and presence of someone behind you. Something rustles at the back of your head—you’re too scared to move so you stay still—and then the blindfold is being lifted off your face.

Once it’s gone, you have to blink for a moment even despite the low light of the dingy room where you’ve…apparently…been kidnapped. By the freaking yakuza. And for some reason, they’re all wearing bird-beak masks.

You close your eyes, almost wishing they hadn’t taken the blindfold off. You’d prefer to live in blissful ignorance of how decidedly unclean the floor is. How dare they let your face touch it? What happened to honor among thieves?

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Against your will, your eyes flick up to the speaker. He’s the only one sitting, and somehow that gives him a position of power among the others. The leader?

Unsettling golden eyes rest on yours, and you realize he’s waiting for your answer, so you slowly move your head from side to side.

“Didn’t know about daddy’s bad habits, huh?” This time the person speaking is behind you, the one who untied your blindfold, a thin man with lank, greasy blond hair. He’s the one who drugged me, you remember in a surge of panic, and you try to stand up away from him only for him to step on the chain that connects your handcuffs, jerking you back and pinning you—painfully—to the floor.

“Careful, Setsuno. I told you not to leave marks. Let her talk.”

“Got it, boss.” The blond—Setsuno—fumbles at the back of your head and then he’s pulling the gag out of your mouth.

You open and close your mouth a few times to stretch out the stiff muscles. “Oh. My. God. Was that polyester you just took out of my mouth? Do you have any idea how bad synthetics are for sensitive skin? I’m totally going to break out.”

A hush falls over the little room. You could hear a pin drop.

“…Are you complaining about the quality of the fabric we gagged you with?” the leader asks after a second.

“You may be yakuza, but you don’t have to act like savages,” you reply primly, aligning your knees together and sending a proud look off to the side.

“Ohh…little princess deserves better, does she?” Setsuno coos. He edges closer to rub his cheek against yours and laughs when you cringe away from him. “Boss, you shoulda seen her bedroom. All pink and frilly, looked like royalty lived there. Bet they treat you like a real princess at home, huh? No wonder your daddy’s in debt.”

“Daddy isn’t—“

“Your father…took out loans from my gang. My men came last night to collect,” the leader says, drumming his fingers over the armrest of his chair impatiently.

He’s wearing plastic gloves. Why is he wearing plastic gloves? Immediately your mind is spinning, imagining all the different gruesome possibilities of what they’re going to do to you. “That’s ridiculous. My daddy doesn’t need to borrow money—“

“Clearly he does, because it looks like he pissed it all away on his daughter.” The leader’s eyes are cold enough to make you shiver—although maybe that’s just the icy temperature of the floor soaking through your nightgown.

“He had a couple payments overdue, so we stopped by to ask nicely for him to pay up,” Setsuno says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Didn’t find too many valuables in your house, but then we got our hands on a real treasure.”

“Don’t touch me—“

“You don’t seem to understand the position you’re in,” the leader says. “When I made my contract with your father, he understood that obligations like these are inherited. Since he can’t pay his debt, you’re going to be working it off in his place.”

Working it off? You swallow. Somehow you don’t think he’s talking about your little part-time job as a receptionist at your daddy’s company. “You can’t make me do that.”

“I’m not sure you’re getting the gist, princess,” Setsuno hums. “What we’re gonna do is we’re gonna put you in a room, and then men are gonna give us money, and then we’ll let those men fuck you. All that money’s gonna go toward paying what your daddy borrowed. Sound good?”

For the first time since you can remember, you’re shocked speechless. They’re going to…what? But you’re a quick thinker, and instead of letting these filthy, awful gangters boss you around, you raise your chin haughtily to look directly into the leader’s eyes. “I don’t think so. If Daddy’s the one who got himself in debt, you can make him whore himself out to pay it back. You can’t hold me responsible for something he’s done.”

Another brief silence, and then you hear a whistle echo out from the corner of the room (and you try not to look toward it, reminding yourself that this can only get worse if they know how scared you are). “She’s got a mouth on her, Overhaul,” someone says.

Overhaul. So the leader’s name is Overhaul. How ridiculous; it sounds like a villain’s name.

“Aww, princess,” Setsuno says, and once again his voice is too close for your comfort. “Little spoiled princess doesn’t know how to shut her mouth and suck it up when things don’t go her way? Well…you’ll learn.”

You don’t want to know what he’s talking about, although if you thought about it for more than a second it’d be obvious. You suck in a harsh breath and the cool, damp air stings against your dry throat. “You can’t just make me—“

“Ohh, I think we can. See, if your daddy’s been spending all of the Shie Hassaikai’s money on his precious daughter, don’t you think you owe a little too? Like, this dress—“ you jump as Setsuno’s hand tugs on the thin, floaty silk— “was bought with Overhaul’s money, so it belongs to him, right?”

You keep quiet, not wanting to prompt him to go further, but when his hands stroke up over your waist to grope your breasts in full view of everyone else in the room, you don’t really have to guess.

“And, y’know, your daddy’s been keeping you nice and healthy with Overhaul’s cash, making sure you grow up into such a pretty girl…” Setsuno’s voice is a purr in your ear as his hands squeeze your tits almost lovingly, then pinch your nipples through the fabric. “So hey—if you think about it, this tight little body…belongs to Overhaul too. Isn’t that right, sir?”

You squirm in place as best you can but with the metal cuffs digging into your wrists, there’s nothing you can do to get away from his touch. You’re desperate enough to shoot a terrified glance up at the leader—surely there are rules about treating an innocent girl like this, even for the yakuza—but he looks as unmoved as before. “Get her out of my sight. We’ll give her a rest for the next few days, and then…”

“No!” you yelp, too panicked to keep up the pretense of confidence. “I won’t, I can’t do that, please don’t make me—“

“Shhh. You’ll get used to it, princess. And if you don’t…” Setsuno’s hand combs though your hair and then trails down your neck, tracing the path of your spine between your shoulder blades. “…well, you won’t really have much of a choice, will you?”

And then he’s tugging on your cuffed hands, pulling you to a standing position, but you wriggle away from him and do everything you can to stay planted on the ground so they can’t take you away from here, away from the only man who is capable of stopping this. Overhaul. “Please! I’m— I can work it off another way! I’ll be useful— I’ll—“

Overhaul leans forward a fraction in his chair, and you wonder if you’ve caught his interest. “What, exactly? How do you think you can be useful to me?”

You bite your lip and wrack your brains, not knowing whether the question is rhetorical. What skills do you have that would be valuable to them? Suddenly all the knowledge you’ve gained in your short life seems so meaningless. You’re a decent receptionist (well, decent is a stretch), but if Overhaul wanted someone to answer calls for him you’re pretty sure he would’ve asked.

Why did you spend your life learning such impractical skills? The four-year weekend course you took on horseback riding jumps to mind and you want to hit your head against the wall. Why didn’t you ask your father to sponsor a class in something that would actually matter in the long run? And what would even be useful to these people? Accounting? Bookkeeping? Extortion?

There’s nothing valuable you can offer. You’ve wasted your life, and now you’re going to pay for it. Seriously, the only thing you’re actually good at is keeping your boyfriends (or, rather, the men you cycle through once a month) happy until the novelty wears off and you get bored and move on to the next lovesick target—

—wait. Keeping your boyfriends happy. That’s a skill, isn’t it?

Once, a little bit after you turned eighteen, you’d had a rather illicit conversation with one of your more sexually adventurous friends about being a sugar baby. Your friend had just secured a very generous benefactor, and you’d been so intrigued by all the designer purses and vacations to Cabo that you’d almost considered trying it for yourself. She’d even helped you set up a profile on Seeking Arrangements that listed your physical features and interests, but you’d blanched when it came time to post photos.

“But why do men even like this?” you'd asked your friend after your picture-less profile received its dozenth unsolicited offer. “Rich, successful guys shouldn’t have so much trouble finding girlfriends that they have to resort to paying for sex.”

“It’s a power trip,” she’d replied. “Most men never get the chance to have a woman who’s willing to do and be whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. You’re his ideal girlfriend, his therapist, his wife, and his stress relief all in one.”

At the time, you’d decided against it, deleting your profile and telling your friend you’d rather just keep taking advantage of your real father doting on you than have to fake orgasms for rich men in their 50’s. But back then, you’d had a choice; now that you’ve been kidnapped by a gang who wants you to get fucked by a bevy of strangers to pay off a debt you’ve never even heard of, you no longer have the privilege of a way out. Or, at least, the options are a lot less appealing than before.

You tilt your head back to Overhaul, eyeing him for the first time with real scrutiny instead of prideful disgust. Judging from what you can see of his face under the ornate bird mask (and again, what is with the freaking bird masks?), he’s fairly young, mid-twenties at the oldest. Short, sort of wavy dark hair (you’ve always had a thing for dark hair), a trim suit and tie, and those eyes. Like he can read your mind just looking at you.

He’s…handsome enough, you have to admit to yourself. But it’s not just that. There’s something pristine about him, something untouchable that commands discipline. He’s clean. You and him are probably the only clean things in this hovel of a room.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Overhaul says.

And now that you’ve got the idea in your head, it’s almost too embarrassing to meet his gaze. But you can do this; you have to do this. At least it’ll be your choice, and—you’re hoping—it’ll be better than the alternative.

“I could be yours,” you tell him, taking pride in the fact that your voice isn’t breaking.

His eyes narrow and you think god, his eyelashes are long. It’s not fair. Men never appreciate having long eyelashes. What is he thinking? Is he going to kill you for even suggesting it? But it’s too late now…you have to dig yourself a little deeper if you don’t want to go through with their original plan for debt fulfillment.

You force your muscles to relax, knowing this’ll be impossible to pull off if you’re tense and biting down on the words like they’re going to choke you. If you’re going to make him believe it, you have to make yourself believe it too. “You… This job must be hard. Even for a—a powerful man like you, it has to be stressful, right? Always looking out for the interests of the gang instead of your own…needs.”

Overhaul doesn’t move, but you’re so focused on him it would be impossible for you to miss the way a single muscle in his neck flexes. You’ve hit a nerve.

You take a cautious step toward him, trying to channel the sexually-liberated vixen you consider yourself when you’re not in your nightgown surrounded by men who could murder you with their bare hands and not miss a minute of sleep. “You’re always giving, aren’t you? Looking toward the future of the gang? Doesn’t it get frustrating when—when a pretty thing is in front of you and you don’t even get…a little taste of her?”

Oh god, you can feel the humiliated heat rushing to your cheeks. How can you be saying this? You’ve played the role of seductress plenty of times before, but never in such a risky situation. You just have to keep moving toward him and hope it feels authentic enough to convince him.

“You’ve worked hard. And…like he said, my—my body belongs to you.” Now you’re close enough to Overhaul and he hasn’t stopped you, so you lower yourself onto the floor, knees bumping softly into the cold surface. Kneeling between his legs.

Overhaul stares down at you, gaze as sharp and cold as before—and you’re sick with anxiety, so scared you can feel your hairs raising up on end—but if he wanted you to stop, he would have said something, right? So you shuffle a little closer and nuzzle your cheek over the inside of his clothed thigh like a kitten, then raise your head up to him to give him your best bedroom look, the one that says, I want you. I need you. No one but you. The look no man has ever been able to resist.

“…You deserve something to yourself, sir,” you murmur.

There’s a collective intake of breath as every person in the room simultaneously realizes what you’re offering. Overhaul’s expression doesn’t change, but once again, a tendon jumps out white under the skin of his throat and there’s a creak of latex on leather as his grip on the arm of the chair tightens.

“Damn,” Setsuno says under his breath from behind you. Someone whistles. You’re pretty sure you hear the word ‘slut’ being tossed around, but there’s reverence behind it.

“And what makes you think you’re so valuable?” Overhaul asks.

You close your eyes to ground yourself for a second. He’s interested, you know that much. You’ve never really had to convince someone to want you, but there’s a first time for everything. Besides, you only have to look at him for a second to know he does want you, which isn’t a surprise. Who wouldn’t?

“I’ll do anything you want, be anything you want,” you tell him, echoing your conversation with your friend back then. “Take out your anger on me if that’s what you’re into. When you’re tired of me, you can consider my debt paid and let me go.”

“And?” he prompts.

‘And’? And what? You’re offering yourself to him, your body and your mind—what more can he possibly ask from you? You cast your thoughts around, wondering what else you have to give him. “And…and I’ll do it willingly. You, um—you look like a man who appreciates obedience.”

And that’s it. Your last shred of pride is gone. Not only are you offering yourself up to a man to use as his personal stress doll, you’re saying you’ll be compliant every step of the way. Knowing yourself, you’re pretty sure that’s impossible, but you just need to make him believe it long enough for you to find a way out of here. You can pretend to enjoy getting fucked by a gangster a few times. You’ll live.

But you’re naive. And with the stream of thoughts pushing through your head, you never really consider one thing, one essential thing: how you look pleading up at him in that pale pink nightdress—soft, pure, immaculate against the filth of the underworld, the only clean body that Overhaul’s seen in a long time.

And you’re right. He is a man who appreciates obedience.

“Willingly…so you’d be willing to prove it.”

Your head jerks up and down in response. Yes! He’s taking the bait, now I just have to get him alone and—

“Then demonstrate.”

When a moment passes and you don’t move, Overhaul tips his head to the side, gaze still locked on you, and gestures vaguely at his lap. You blink and then shy back, shrinking under the hungry gazes of the onlookers. “You can’t mean—in front of them?”

“And here I thought you were going to be obedient.” There’s no mercy, no amusement in his voice. No hint of humanity.

So he’s serious. He wants you to give him a blowjob in front of—how many? one, two three, four—four other men!? Your first instinct is to jump back away from him and your next is to slap him for even suggesting it; you can actually hear the jingle of your cuffs as you attempt to raise your hand. You’ve gotten a little kinky before—blindfolds, vibrators, maybe a hand tied to the bedpost with a Hermès scarf once or twice, but this is a whole different level. And the way they’re all looking at you…like they’re itching to see you brought down. How absolutely disgusting.

But Overhaul’s waiting for your answer, and you know full well that you’re not going to deny him.

“O-Of course.” You lean forward over the seat of the chair so your face is just inches from his lap. “Um. My hands...?”

They’re still cuffed behind you, but it seems like they’re going to stay that way when Overhaul gives a curt shake of his head. “Use your mouth.”

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. How are you supposed to—? Without your hands? It doesn’t even seem like he’s going to undo his pants for you. It’s like he wants to humiliate you…oh, wait. As soon as the thought crosses your mind, it’s clear that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

You give him another doe-eyed glance, bidding him to at least undo his belt, but he remains unmoved. Bastard.

After aiming another glare at him (because as obedient as you’re attempting to be, you’ve never been good at concealing your emotions) you lean deeper in and take the stiff leather of his belt between your teeth, gently easing it out of the buckle and trying to ignore the mixture of earthy and metallic tastes it leaves on your tongue. It takes a few tries, but eventually you’ve got the tail of the belt out of the buckle and you pull your head back to guide the metal down until the belt is hanging open from its loops.

A rush of accomplishment surges through you when you get it open, and then you want to slap yourself. Accomplishment? From doing this with your mouth like an animal—like a dog? You can hear laughter and mocking encouragement from the men watching, but you steel yourself and dip back in to get Overhaul’s pants undone. The button is tricky, especially with your face nudging into the hard muscle of his abdomen through his shirt, but somehow you manage to tug the fabric slit over the button and then—delicately, delicately—clamp the zipper between your teeth and peel it downward.

“Oh, she’s good,” someone says from the background. Setsuno. You look up warily, but Overhaul’s eyes haven’t moved from you.

Now that you’ve got his pants open, you’re face to face (literally) with what you’re going to have to deal with. The outline of his cock is bulging the fabric of his boxers outward, and he’s not even half erect. You snatch a look back up at him—and damn it, you have to stop doing that, because every time you look into those golden eyes and that stupid bird mask you feel like a lamb looking at a bird of prey right before it snatches you from your safe little lamb-house in the meadow and—fuck, you just have to get on with it.

So you dip down and mouth over him through the fabric, spreading the flat of your tongue over the length of his thick cock. Your mouth feels like you’ve been eating cotton (probably because they drugged you earlier) but you force yourself to salivate, letting drool spill over your tongue and dampen his boxers. When you duck and spread your lips down on the place you can feel the tip stretching out, you know the friction must feel good, because despite the lack of even so much of a deep breath from the man above you, his cock is getting harder.

You nudge your mouth over the tent between Overhaul’s legs again, letting the heat of your breath wash over him—but when he doesn’t do anything, you pull back and blink up at his face. Does he expect you to get him off through his underwear? You could, but most of your moves depend on skin-to-skin contact. There’s no way you can get his cock out with your mouth like you undid his pants, so…what? “Are—are you going to take it out?”

Overhaul brings a gloved hand to his face to rub absently at one of the straps on his mask. “…Beg,” he tells you.

Your mouth drops open and you reel back from his lap like he asked you to lick the dirt off the floor. What!? He can’t seriously expect you to—to beg him to put his dick in your mouth when you’re clearly disgusted at the whole situation. When he doesn’t give any indication of retracting the statement, you can’t help the mocking sneer that forms over your face. “Please, sir,” you spit, and a deaf man could hear the spite in your voice.

Now, that gets a reaction. Overhaul’s eyes flash and you take a certain degree of pride back at the anger you’ve clearly inspired in him. But it’s extinguished as soon as you see it, and then he’s reaching down to cup your chin, tilting your head back and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip.

“I think you can do better than that, princess,” he says, and you can hear your own mocking tone reflected back in his voice. “Unless you’d like me to give my men a turn?”

This, more than anything, scares you. He must be able to feel the way your spine goes stiff, adrenaline rushing, your fight-or-flight instinct kicking in at the prospect of what he’s threatening.

“Each of them, one by one. Between the four of them, I think they could cure that smart mouth…although they might just break you in the process,” he continues, and then his thumb is pressing into your lip, into your mouth, and you loosen your jaw to let him in. You can taste the rubbery latex of his gloves and the other men mutter agreement, encouraging their leader to turn you over to them, and you want to cry.

But you hold the tears back. “Please, sir! Please, please may I s-suck your cock sir? Please!” Your voice is more terrified than obedient, but that’s probably what he’s into anyway. When he doesn’t say anything, you babble on, unwilling to let yourself get gangbanged by a group of men who could probably wreck your pussy in a single round. “Please, please, Mr.—Mr. Overhaul, um, boss? M-Master?”

“Sir will do just fine,” Overhaul says, apparently satisfied, and he pulls his hand away from your face to free his cock from his boxers.

You let out a hot sigh of relief and angle yourself back toward his lap so you can zero in on his cock (and, hopefully, do a little to block out how sickeningly degrading all of this is: how easy it is for him to threaten you; how he has all the power and you have none; how the men around you are goading you, taunting you and calling you things that should get their mouths washed out with soap). You can focus on this, and this, at least, you’re good at. You’ve always been good with your mouth.

It’s a nice dick, too, you have to admit to yourself as you stare at it. Perfect length, girth, and a thick, cut head that you know just by looking that you’re going to have to stretch your jaw to get around. All his hair is neatly trimmed and groomed, and he even smells good, clean and fresh like soap. You’ve never been in front of a dick that didn’t smell like day-old ball sweat, so this is a first. It’s got a nice upward curve, too, and there’s a bead of pearly precum oozing out of the tip. The kind of cock that’s made for penetrative orgasms—

No. Fuck. You cannot be thinking this. You cannot allow yourself to lust after a gang leader who thinks of you as little more than an interactive sex doll. A tingle of blood rushes to your cheeks as you feel wetness pool in your panties and you adjust your stance, shuffling your thighs apart under the pretense of getting closer and hoping Overhaul doesn’t notice.

If he notices, he does the merciful thing and keeps quiet (which makes you think he has no idea you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, because he’s probably never chosen to do the merciful thing in his life). He does, however, shift one of his knees farther apart to accommodate you as you crawl close enough to him to get your head all the way between his legs.

So now you’re staring up at that unfairly pretty cock and wondering how the fuck this is supposed to start, but—best just get on with it. Pretend it’s not him, pretend it’s…no, wait, pretend it is him, it is Overhaul, the same bastard who’s looking down at you like you’re trash, except pretend you’re in control. Because no matter how many orders he gives, once you��ve got his cock in his mouth he’ll have to be the weak one. Right?

Lightly, slowly, you trace the tip of your tongue in a wet path up the underside of his cock, sliding up from the hilt to caress every bulging vein with all the delicacy and accuracy of a surgeon. When you reach the tip, you flatten your tongue to curve it around that bulbous head and then slip it off, the suction providing a wet smacking sound as your skin leaves his.

The breath of his barely-heavier exhale ruffles your hair and you relish the knowledge that he’s getting impatient. Yes. The bastard can wait.

You kiss the tip of his cock, barely moving your lips around the slit, only enough to let your tongue flick out against the precum and gather the bitter liquid up in your mouth. And then—right when he’s getting annoyed, when you can tell by the tension in his body that he’s five seconds away from shoving your head down to fuck your face—you duck closer, relax your throat, and swallow.

Like a fucking python. Or so you’ve been told.

The exhale that escapes him isn’t light this time. You can almost hear the barest hint of a groan under his breath, but you’re more focused on holding down your gag reflex as you let that heavy cock hit the back of your throat. Once he’s all the way down (or at least as far as you can get him), you rock yourself back an inch and then take him deeper, forcing yourself to hold still so he can feel the walls of your throat convulse around him, sucking him in, dry-gagging on the mass that’s filling you up.

“Fuuuuck,” you hear someone whine, and it’s not even Overhaul. It’s one of the men watching, and you feel a perverse mixture of hatred and arrogance rise up in you.

Overhaul’s cock is too big for you to properly moan around it, but you give it a go anyway so he can feel the vibration of your voice through his skin. You’re rewarded with a tangible twitch with it sitting on your tongue, and—oh—your mouth is watering out of where you’re clenching down on him at the back of your throat.

Spittle slips out over your lower lip and onto your chin, but you ignore it in favor of jerking your head up and down in fractional strokes, trying your absolute best to get yourself down to his base but knowing that he probably doesn’t give a shit anyway, not with how good your throat feels around what you’re capable of stuffing in.

What were you saying about ‘valuable’, sir? you think, and then you pull your head off his cock, so slow it’s almost cruel, sucking your cheeks in and hollowing out so those wet walls are rubbing up on every millimeter of his skin. When you reach the tip, you savor it, letting your tongue do the dirty work and looking up at him through your lash extensions before you release him with a nasty wet pop.

“Holy fuck, can I have her next?” one of the other men says, but you and Overhaul are too focused on each other to even look and see who’s talking.

His gaze is trained firmly down at you, and—no way, damn it—he looks bored, like he could be waiting in line at the DMV instead of getting sucked off by you, a girl who’s been complimented by every man she’s ever been with (including her first) on her bj technique. You know he’s feeling it—he can fake calm, but he can’t fake the way his cock’s throbbing under your tongue as you lick up the shaft. Still, now that you’ve got it in your head that Overhaul’s not going to make a sound, all you can think about is forcing him to moan. Let him look weak in front of all his little lackeys.

With renewed vigor, you lap up the length of Overhaul’s cock in sloppy dabs, leaving strings of saliva dripping off your mouth and his cock only to slurp them up, audibly, wiggling your tongue over the tip when you reach it. And that, that gets him, because you feel more than see the buck of his hips into your face as he hisses out a curse.

And—oh dear, maybe you shouldn’t have done that—because the next thing you feel is Overhaul looming forward over you, hand gripping the back of your head, and is he going to force you down? You hate that—so you take the initiative, tilting forward to take him into your mouth again, head bobbing up and down so quickly that your hair is falling all over your face, but it’s okay, because he’s got you, he’s got you, got his hands combed through your hair holding it out of your face, pulling so lightly it barely even hurts, but it does hurt, and he’s guiding you up and down on his cock and it’s hitting the back of your throat every time, and—and it hurts.

You really shouldn’t have done that.

“Take it deeper,” Overhaul instructs, almost encouraging, although you’re not given the option to pull off because he’s holding you down, pushing you firmly toward the base of his cock. You sputter around it, gagging, and you’re almost fucking choking, and he won’t let you up.

God, you’re not—not breathing, you can feel your throat choking down on him—“breathe through your nose,” he says, and this man, this villain has no idea what he’s fucking talking about, because you’re trying, eyes stinging and then you can feel tears down your cheeks. You try to squirm back on your knees, but somehow the combined force of every muscle in your body is outmatched by his single hand on the back of your head—and—and—you squeeze your eyes shut, relax, open your throat as much as you can and—

Overhaul forces your mouth down to the hilt.

Fuck, is he going to keep you there? You can’t, you can’t—if you could move, you’d be shaking your head and begging him to let you stop and as it is you’re whimpering around his cock. Your throat is making gagging noises and you’re crying, actually crying, actually fucking crying on a man’s dick. So this is what it feels like to be used?

“Good.” There’s something lower and darker in Overhaul’s voice, a husky undertone from the growl he’s trying to suppress. “Hold still…remember, you asked for this.”

You did. You asked for it. Begged for it. Pleaded.

“Want me to forgive your father’s debt…? You’re going to have to earn it.” He pulls out an inch just to ram himself back in. You make a weak attempt to move your tongue around his shaft and you can feel the shudder all the way through him, his cock twitching where it’s locked in your throat. “Mm…good girl. Just a little—little longer—“

His fingers are tightening in your hair, curling around the strands and tugging instead of just applying pressure to your head. He’s close, you think, and then you struggle back, not wanting him to cum down your throat, what if you choke on it? Like, really choke? You don’t want it, don’t want his cum in your stomach, but then he sighs and tells you again that you’re a good girl, and ohfuckohfuck you must be so scared you’re desperate for praise because you feel heat rush into your cheeks and your cunt when he says it and you try to move your tongue like you did earlier and his hips jerk forward and—he cums. In your mouth.

It’s salty, you think. The next thing you think is that you want to gag, because you’ve never had cum in your mouth before. For all your sexual experimentation, you’ve never let a man cum down your throat like this, always telling them it shoot it on your tits or whatever because you are not a person who should have semen in her mouth, much less ingest it.

But right now, with Overhaul lazily dragging your head up and down for a last couple pumps on his softening dick, your choice isn’t spit or swallow. It’s swallow or choke.

Hot. Thick. The texture is slimy, so viscous you can feel it going down your throat in strings. Part of you wants to throw up. It’s repulsive. Filthy. You hate this.

Part of you has to shift your position again so you don’t have to feel your own wetness slicking up the insides of your thighs.

How. Is. This. Possible. You may have just had to swallow your pride (and not just that), but what about your dignity? You’re a good person…okay, well, even if you’re not a ‘good person’ per se, you don’t hurt anyone with your selfishness. You don’t deserve to be kept as a pet by a sadistic bastard who gets off on watching you almost pass out on his cock, and you certainly don’t deserve the humiliation of finding that you’re turned on by it.

And yet. Here you are. Still held securely in place until Overhaul slides you off him. As soon as your mouth is free you suck in a dizzyingly deep breath, but even that is too much for your battered throat and the breath turns into a cough; you instinctively fold down away from Overhaul so the mixed saliva and cum you’re hacking out spatters in cloudy white flecks across the floor instead of on his clothing.

“Stop that,” Overhaul scolds, hauling you back up by your hair and forcing your mouth closed with a hand on your jaw. “If you make a mess, you’ll be cleaning it up.”

Considering what he just made you do to him, there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s implying you’ll have to lick it off the floor. You clench your jaw, holding back the convulsions of your throat as best you can, and hope he doesn’t press the issue.

Now that you’ve got your coughing under control, you can start to sense things that you had been tuning out before: the men hooting and wolf-whistling and applauding your performance, the traitorously persistent throb of your clit pulsing under your panties, and Overhaul’s hand releasing your chin to pet down your neck. “Now. What do you say when someone gives you a meal?”

Just you wait, bastard. I’m going to tie you to your bed and set fire to it. But you’ve got the sense that that answer won’t go over well, so you take a deep breath and look up at him again, meeting those piercing gold eyes with your own. “Thank you, sir,” you say in a soft whisper because it’s all your abused throat can manage.

“That’s right.” His hands feel colder than the concrete under your legs as he spreads his hand down your neck, only to toy with one of the lacy pink straps of your nightdress. “Stand up.”

You stand shakily, too cowed to even consider stepping back from him. Without warning (much less permission), Overhaul lifts the hem of your stupidly short dress up past your thighs, exposing your panties and lower belly to view.

“Hold this in your mouth,” he says, and after only a few seconds of hesitation you open up and bite down on the fabric so you’re effectively holding up the skirt for him. Overhaul skims gloved hands down the sides of your hips and comes to a rest when he reaches your panties—and why did you have to wear these today? Shiny red satin in the front; the back is just flowers worked in crimson lace. You know exactly how good you look in these panties, and judging by the things Overhaul’s men are saying, they’re more than appreciative of the view.

But Overhaul ignores them in favor of hooking his fingers under the elastic and pulling the panties down until they’re resting stretched between your upper thighs. You don’t have to see them to know there’s a string of slick connecting the lips of your cunt to the fabric, betraying in full technicolor detail how turned on you’ve gotten just from sucking him off. He gazes down at your pussy and then up to you as if waiting for you to admit it, but you stay silent.

“Well, well. What a nicely-trained slut I’ve found myself.” He gracelessly pulls the panties the rest of the way down your legs and lets them fall to the ground. “Do you always get this wet when you let your boyfriends fuck that smart mouth?”

It takes you a second to comprehend that he’s expecting an answer. “N-No, sir,” you reply, voice muffled by the fabric you’re still holding between your teeth.

“I suppose I can’t leave you like this, not after you took me so nicely.”

Does he mean he’s going to get you off? No freaking way. You drop the hem of your dress, let it flutter down over your thighs, try to scramble back, but his hand on your waist keeps you from moving. “I— It’s okay, I don’t need—“

“No, I think you do. I think I’m going to reward my pet for a job well done.” He leans back, eyeing you without sympathy. “I’d have you touch yourself, but—“

The mere possibility that he might remove the handcuffs has you straining against them again, and the sound of metal against metal rings out from behind you.

“—but, I think it’s best to keep the cuffs on for a few days…until you’ve settled down.”

Days? He can’t leave you in chains for days, helpless and powerless, so easy to take advantage of. “You can’t,” you whimper, and even though you mean for it to be a decisive statement, with your throat ravaged and hoarse it’s downright pathetic. Overhaul doesn’t even bother reprimanding you for talking back.

“My men have been patient,” he muses, and an enthusiastic wave of agreement wells up from the others. “Any of them would be happy to do it.”

You may have been through a lot in the past hour alone, but there is no way you’re going to let those rowdy criminals have their way with you. You send a nervous glance around the room and as predicted, not a single one of them looks like they have the slightest shred of control over themselves.

None of them…except Overhaul.

Still eased back in his chair, he looks just as relaxed and unaffected as he did when he was explaining your father’s debts to you. But there’s something flickering in his eyes, something he isn’t going to say to you, isn’t going to say out loud. A challenge.

Maybe, once again, he’s waiting for you to ask for it yourself. And if it’s a choice between him and one of the grimy ruffians who’ve been looking at you like dogs look at meat, you know what you’d prefer. Well—really, you’d prefer option C: none of the above (your current state might be uncomfortable, but you’re not so wanton that you’d rather cum in front of strangers than keep your legs together). Unfortunately, you’re starting to come to terms with the fact that ‘no’ is no longer an option.

Overhaul’s stare flicks from you to an unseen figure behind you, and you can tell he’s about to summon one of them over so you force yourself to move, lurching forward and climbing into his lap to straddle one of his thighs with all the grace you’re capable of. You feel the stir in the air when he inhales sharply, surprised, and his masked face is so close to your neck that you wonder if he can smell the lotion you put on before you went to bed last night.

It’s one of your favorite scents: vanilla, lilac, orange blossoms. You bought it because it smelled pure.

“Please, sir, I don’t want them,” you breathe next to his ear, injecting every ounce of sexual frustration you’re feeling into the needy tones of your voice. “I’m yours. I belong to you, just you. No one else—please, sir…Overhaul.”

He’s quiet for a long, tense moment, and you think he’s going to hit you, or maybe even kill you for your disobedience. Push you off his lap at least. But just when you’re teetering on the edge of jumping back from him and begging for forgiveness for talking out of turn, you feel it—a low rumble of laughter from deep in his chest.

Big, cold hands wrap around the sides of your ribcage under your breasts and his fingernails dig into you through the layers of latex and fabric. He tilts forward, forcing you to arch away and all you can think about is how horribly weak you are compared to him. Are you trembling? Will he be angry if you feels how afraid you are?

“You know, I guess I’ll keep you after all,” he hums, stroking his fingers through your hair and down your neck. “How does that sound, princess? I think you’d like that very much, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The response comes all too easily, even if the words taste bitter in your mouth. You’ve never said the word ‘sir’ so much in your life…but as he repositions you on his lap and slides a single hand up the inside of your thigh under your dress, you bite your lip and decide to hold back your protest.

If you’re going to have to learn manners, you’d better do it sooner rather than later. Something tells you Overhaul’s not going to accept any less than your best behavior if you want to pay off your debt.