#and I’ve been with case worker after case worker and nobody can get me a fucking therapist and I’m literally just not okay

[boag]

Everything is so fucking hard I can’t even get a doctor 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[brookghaib-blog]

Whispers of the past pt.13

Pairing: Hoshina Sohiro x reader

Summary: 10 years ago, Y/N went missing after being attacked by a kaiju, now working by Gen Narumi's side as his secret weapon, she hides herself in hopes that one day she reconnects with her first love, Hoshino Soshiro.

pt.12 - pt.14

Y/N's pov:

The cool night air rustled my hair as I stood on the rooftop, the city sprawling beneath me like a glittering sea. I held my phone to my ear, waiting for Narumi to pick up. The mission had been weighing heavily on my mind, and I needed to share the details with him.

"Hey," Narumi's familiar voice crackled through the speaker. "How's it going?"

I took a deep breath. "Narumi, I've been following up on the mission you assigned me. Trying to find another human-kaiju is proving to be more difficult than we thought."

There was a pause on the other end. "What have you found so far?"

"Not much," I admitted, frustration seeping into my voice. "Whoever this kaiju is, they’re very good at staying hidden. I can’t detect them when they're in human form, just like I can’t be detected. But I’ve been keeping an eye on the new recruits."

"Anyone stand out?" Narumi asked, his tone serious.

"Yeah, actually," I replied, leaning against the railing. "There's this guy, Kafka Hibino. He’s an odd choice for the Defense Force. He's incredibly slow and seems to have no power at all. I can’t figure out why he was recruited."

Narumi sighed. "Keep an eye on him. Sometimes the least obvious suspects can be the most dangerous."

"Will do," I said, jotting down a mental note to watch Kafka more closely. "I'll keep you updated on any developments."

Narumi's voice softened slightly. "How was it facing Soshiro?"

I hesitated, the memory of our confrontation still raw. "It was...normal. He tried to talk to me, but I kept him at arm’s length. I plan to keep it that way."

"I’m sorry you have to go through this," Narumi said. "If you need to get out of the Third Division or if things get too hard, just let me know. I'll make sure you’re reassigned."

I felt a surge of gratitude. "Thank you, Narumi. I appreciate it. But I want to see this through. I need to prove to myself that I can do this."

"I know you can," Narumi said confidently. "Just remember, you’re not alone in this. We’re all here to support you."

I smiled, feeling a bit lighter. "Thanks. That means a lot."

"Narumi," I said, my voice hesitant, "do you have any updates on Mr. Orochi's murder?"

There was a pause on the other end before he replied. "Nothing concrete yet. No cameras caught anything, and no weapon has been identified. It's like he just vanished and then reappeared dead."

I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling inside me. "How can that be? There must be something."

"I know," Narumi sighed. "We've interviewed some of the workers from the bar, but nobody knows anything beyond his odd behavior toward the end. It’s like he wasn’t the same person."

"His odd behavior," I echoed, thinking back to our last conversation. "He was acting strange that day. Almost like…like he wasn’t human."

Narumi's voice softened. "I promise you, Y/N, we’ll find out who did this. But it’s a complex case. We have so little to go on."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions. "I know you’re doing everything you can. It’s just hard to accept."

"I understand," he said gently. "Mr. Orochi was important to you. But we have to be patient. These things take time."

"Yeah," I murmured, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. "I just…I want justice for him."

"And we’ll get it," Narumi assured me. "In the meantime, focus on your mission. Keep me updated on Kafka and any other leads you find."

"Will do," I said, my voice firmer. "Thanks, Narumi."

We ended the call, and I slipped my phone into my pocket, the unresolved questions about Mr. Orochi’s death swirling in my mind. As I looked out over the city, I made a silent vow to uncover the truth, no matter how long it took.

The following morning, I threw myself into my work with renewed determination. Training with the Third Division was rigorous, but it kept my mind occupied. I kept a close watch on Kafka, my suspicion growing with each passing day. His behavior, though seemingly harmless, was too ordinary—too calculated.

After an intense training session, I retreated to the rooftop once again. The solitude offered a chance to clear my mind. I dialed Narumi’s number, needing to hear his voice.

"Hey," he answered, sounding a bit more upbeat. "How’s it going?"

"Slow progress," I admitted. "But I’m not giving up. Kafka’s still the most strange out there, although, there are some pretty interesting suspects, they are very strong for beginners, but nothing that indicates that the strenght comes from a kaiju.."

"Keep at it, you're doing great" Narumi encouraged.

"Thanks," I said, appreciating his support more than he knew. "Narumi, do you think there could be others like me out there? Humans who’ve been turned into kaiju?"

There was a thoughtful pause before he replied. "It's possible. If it happened to you, it could happen to others. We need to be vigilant."

I nodded, feeling a sense of purpose. "I’ll keep that in mind."

--

Sitting in my assigned room, I stared blankly at the wall, the weight of Soshiro’s words pressing heavily on my mind. His suggestion that Narumi and I had something between us was absurd, yet it gnawed at my thoughts. How could he have seen us kissing? I had no recollection of such a thing ever happening. The confusion was overwhelming.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Narumi’s number, my heart pounding in my chest. It was late, but I needed answers.

"Hey, Y/N," Narumi answered, his voice surprisingly alert for the hour. "Everything okay?"

"Narumi, I’m sorry for calling so late, but I need to talk to you about something," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

"Sure, what’s up?" he asked, concern evident in his tone.

"I had a conversation with Soshiro when I went to ask him questions about the Kaiju" I began, taking a deep breath. "He got a little of track and he suggested that you and I have some sort of relationship. He even said he saw us kissing at the bar where I worked."

Narumi was silent for a moment, clearly processing what I had just told him. "I never spoke to Soshiro about any relationship," he finally said, confusion lacing his words. "Why would he think that?"

"I don’t know," I admitted, feeling a sense of frustration. "But he was so convinced. He said he saw us kissing. Do you remember saying anything that may habe been misunderstood?"

Narumi hesitated, a sigh escaping his lips. "There was one night," he began slowly, "after one of your performances. You got blackout drunk and…you kissed me."

I felt my heart stop. "What?" I whispered, mortified. "I…Narumi, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I basically assaulted you."

"Hey, it’s okay," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "You were drunk, and it wasn’t like that. You didn’t know what you were doing."

My face burned with embarrassment, and I could feel my eyes welling up with tears. "I’m so sorry," I repeated, feeling utterly humiliated.

Out of nowhere, Narumi’s tone shifted. "You know Y/N, you can do whatever you want with me," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice. "I’ll let you."

I blinked, completely taken aback. "What?" I stammered, my cheeks burning.

"With Soshiro out of the picture," Narumi continued, his voice dripping with a mix of seduction and playfulness, "I can show you what a real man feels like. Can you do me a favor?"

"Um, sure," I said, still trying to process the sudden change in his demeanor. "What do you need?"

"Say my name," he requested, his voice dropping to a deeper, almost husky tone.

"Narumi?" I replied, unsure of where this was going.

"No, Y/N," he corrected gently. "Come on, say my name."

Realization dawned on me, and my heart raced faster. "Gen?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

On the other end of the line, I heard Narumi almost moan. "Yes," he breathed, his voice sounding deeper and more intimate. "You make me so happy."

I felt a rush of heat flood my face, completely speechless. Before I could respond, Narumi added, "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice filled with concern. "You sound…weird."

"I’m more than okay," Narumi assured me. "You just made my night. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Y/N."

With that, he hung up, leaving me staring at my phone in disbelief. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, embarrassment, and something else I couldn’t quite identify.

I sat there for a long time, replaying the conversation in my head. What just happened?

[skyland2703]

Javi x Amelia for ships 👀

What is this a joke 😭 I just know this essay is gonna get out of hand asdfghjkasdfghfds

OKAY SO I’m gonna try keeping other ships out of this, so it’s only just taking about Javelia

If you know me, you know I’m OBSESSED with this ship. This one ship that just takes my world by storm because of how badly I got obsessed with it. I don’t even know how it happened.

So you see, we see Amelia and Javi meet for the first time at Buzzblast. That is where the story begins. The “nice harmonica, catchy tune” line— and BOOM! Instant attraction. I believe Amelia saw him as a friend, initially, but she really did care for him— “best friend” even, maybe. But nothing more than that.

Javi, on the other hand, got OBSESSED. Not the bad kind, but the “I think I have a crush on you.” Obsessed. We see him teasing her, we see him showing up in places with her, we see them AS COWORKERS— they’re literally Co-workers OH MY GAWD— and we see them as rangers and as friends.

Javi supports her in her ghost hunting, he never pulls her down. She and Javi have a “we’re both made fun of because of what we like to do” kinda bond, Javi with his music, and his father not letting him live it down, and Amelia with Ollie criticising her every move. They support each other, Amelia acts like the #1 fan of Javi’s music and Javi is always ready for helping her hunt ghosts— he makes a fucking theme song for her ghost hunting programme!!!!! They have a “at least I got you in my corner” vibe to them that drew me to their ship in the first place. This kinda support, this kinda FRIENDSHIP. WHERE DO YOU FIND THAT!!!!

But BUT we see Javi showing the “more than friends” signs, and we see Amelia friendzoning him. If you notice, Javi stops showing the signs after she starts dating Ollie. There is just one??? Two?? Scenes??? Of them??? In the last couple episodes of DF— BECAUSE of what I believe, Javi respectfully abandoning his chase, like Theo did, as I mentioned in the Theo/Lily post— when he realises that Amelia’s affections lie somewhere else.

BUT THEN WE COME TO COSMIC FURY. We come to Amelia’s heartbreak, and we SEE Javi being there for her like no other member of the team is!!!!!! Because you see, Solon and Billy were making the morphers, Aiyon was busy @ Zayto, either looking/worrying for him, or with him. Izzy was with Fern. THESE TWO. HAD NOBODY ELSE. Only each other. And I believe, the bond forged in forced intimacy is the greatest bond of all, because it reminds you of the trauma you’ve suffered, and all of the things you went through together.

Amelia was hurt. Javi was injured. And Ollie was evil. The situation works out with such perfection, that when Amelia takes the role of The Red Ranger, JAVI, automatically, becomes her second in command. Now we all know how much I like the Leader x Second in command trope. Javi pitches ideas, he follows behind her, he acts as THE support system a leader needs in case things go awry.

But that’s not where this ends, you see? Because feelings MIGHT develop between them during all of this, but Amelia still has a boyfriend(?). Javi is still “that dorky friend” of hers in her mind.

THAT changes when he loses his arm. She gets respect for him, because all of Dino fury, Javi was just the “sexy lamp” of the team, the guy who crushed on Amelia, and “Izzy’s brother.” He did not have a proper standing of his own, but the way he goes out of the way to sacrifice himself? That opens a new avenue of his personality TO HER. It makes HER realise that “oh my god, I’ve been looking at a diamond in the rough, this entire time.” Because sacrificing yourself isn’t easy. Offering yourself for sacrifice TWICE?

Yes. Yes, that’s the turning point of Javi and Amelia’s relationship. The moment in episode 9, when Javi chooses to sacrifice himself, ONCE AGAIN. When he tells her, in episode 10, that he made it through once, he can do it again? And she looks at him with that “but at what cost, Javi?” And he laughs and tells her he’ll be okay? THAT WORRY IN HER EYES?!! THAT EXPRESSION THAT SMILE?!!? That was the moment Amelia realised she had not only fallen for him, but that she had fallen SO HARD. That she not only “loved him”, now, she also respected him more than she had EVER respected him in the past.

I feel like that RESPECT formed the basis of their bond after that. That they probably never went back to being “just friends.” Because while Javi had respectfully abandoned his chase, Amelia realised she could not let him go. He wasn’t someone she could EVER let go. All because of the way he had acted when things went awry.

While she stepped up to take the leadership of the team, he stepped up to offer himself for the taking. THAT forged their bond harder than steel. They were never going back.

I still feel like after cosmic fury, it takes them a little time to figure out their feelings, but eventually, they do. The love and worry Amelia’s eyes spoke no lies at that moment, and Javi too saw it. ONCE AGAIN ITERATING the Hindi dub made Javi say HE WAS *hER* JAVI

So yes, Tl;dr, they started out as friends, but situations made themselves so that they could not remain friends. They fell in love. Their love was too strong.

I SHIP IT OKAY 😭😭😭 They’re my #1 OTP.

LOOK AT THAT SMILE. Is that how friends look at friends?!!???!!?

Send me a ship and I will explain why I do or don't ship it

[justsome-di]

Nobody Ends Up Dead in a Bathtub, Everyone Keeps Their Organs: Chapter 27

Summary: Alex is an ordinary, highly-introverted office worker. He clocks in and out and goes home to his little apartment he shares with his younger sister. He hasn’t dated in years by the time his co-workers set him up on a blind date.

The only issue is he and his date are not on the same page. At all.

While Alex thinks it’s a normal date, Damián is under the impression Alex is a client who paid to be there. No-so-quickly, they realize something is up. It’s all a prank. Damián is a sex worker Alex’s co-workers hired as a sick joke.

After reassuring that they’re both okay, Alex decides he wants revenge for both him and Damián. The plan is to use the stigma of sex work and start a 6-week, scandalous fake dating scheme with a big finale at the office Halloween party. Alex’s co-workers will be too horrified to try to prank him again. At least, that’s the plan.

You can also read this on AO3. If you don’t want to wait for new chapters, the complete story is on Patreon for only $4 with bonus stories! If you’re enjoying the story and want to support me in other ways, consider dropping me a message in my inbox or reblogging this post!

“Here we are! MoSex!”

Damián took Alex’s hand. It was sweaty, and Damián knew it wasn’t because the Uber driver kept his car boiling. He at least knew that that wasn’t totally why. He got their tickets scanned and got their pamphlets on current exhibits.

“What do you want to see first?” Damián asked, flipping through everything quickly. “They have vintage sex toys in the front.”

“Do you want to see the vintage sex toys?”

“I’ve seen them before.”

Alex smiled. “And you want to see them again, don’t you?”

Damián nodded. He loved the vintage sex toys. He loved seeing the proof that humans had always coveted heightened satisfaction. The relics that showed how deeply ingrained sexual pleasure was in all of mankind. Alex took his hand—and wow what progress that was. Damián’s tummy fluttered.

“If we go through the exhibit with the sex toys now, we can also cut through to their new installment. This says it’s on loan from a pretty big gay artist,” Damián said.

Damián waved his pamphlet stating so. Alex let him lead the way.  

It was like any other museum except all of the artifacts and paintings and sculptures were about fucking. Damián took them into a room with walls lined with glass cases. Inside each case was a different toy.

It started with an empty gourd. The label next to it said Cleopatra put bees in a hollow gourd to use as possibly the world’s first vibrator.

“It couldn’t have felt good,” Alex said. “And you’d think she’d worry the entire time about the bees getting out.”

“Maybe she was into it. Maybe it made it more exciting.”

There had to be a fetish for that, Damián insisted. Alex reasoned that a fetish for everything had to exist and bees couldn’t have been the weirdest thing that someone was into.

“It could be more like the fear of bees is what got her off,” Damián said. “Which makes sense. All that adrenaline. There are people into that. Just not so niche.”

He didn’t voice it, but he thought about how thrilling The Wicker Man would be for those people.

They looked at a steam-powered vibrator, a Victorian butt plug, and a recreation of a dildo that was supposed to be from the Ice Age.

Labels and a long timeline told them that the toys might have served other purposes in the beginning. The phallic-shaped stones could have been used for corpses while they were being prepared for funerals or could have been used to sharpen knives. There was no way of knowing for sure.

But Damián entertained the idea that they could have been used for multiple purposes. Humans were lovely curious creatures, and there was always some guy in every era that had to have looked at some everyday object and thought I want to stick that up my butt.

It was beautiful! Humans never changed.

Stepping forward closer to the present, there were more vibrators from the mid-century, clunky things with heavy batteries. Damián’s favorites were the vibrators that were sold as beauty devices in the first half of the century but were clearly being used for alternative purposes.

Alex commented on the marketing. Original packaging was displayed next to the products. There was a picture of a woman holding the device that was for “blood circulation.” It was large and had a wire that could be plugged into a wall. Alex wondered out loud if the people making it knew what it was really being used for. Damián said there had to be someone that had to have had a clue.

They hit the 1980s with the first modern-ish toys. Finally, people weren’t so prude. They accepted that women wanted vibrators and sold vibrators as vibrators. No more beauty bullshit just lovely, bulky, retro vibes.

Alex made a comment about the overlap of waves of feminism with the embracement of female pleasure. Damián thought he was so smart for making those connections.

There were newer models. The famous Rabbit of Sex and the City fame. A smaller clit stimulator that slid on your finger. Ribbed vibes that were designed for anal sex—that Damián was very pleased to know that he also owned for business purposes! After they saw their final strap-on, they hooked right.  

Standing eight feet tall in the middle of the room sat an erect dildo. It was painted with holographic glitter. The lights above it and below it made the gradient of rainbow shine.

“It’s a commentary on gay sex,” Damián said, looking at the plaque next to it. “And gay pleasure. This says, ‘The size of the dildo is intended to make the imagery of gay sex prominent and contradict its cultural taboo. The viewer is forced to notice it, representing how mainstream society cannot turn a blind eye to the growing acceptance of gay sex forever. The choice of the dildo itself is symbolic of the independence and detachment of swinging gay men.’”

“Hmm.”

Damián whispered, “It’s a bit on-the-nose. He could have added something. Like maybe some lube. Rainbow lube.”

“What’s the metaphor there?”

“The lube? There’s no pleasure in going in dry. I don’t know. I’m not a good art critic.”

Alex’s hands were shoved in his jacket. Damián tilted his head. He looked so tense and upset.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know. The detachment line. Sex for sex’s sake,” Alex said.

“Well, yeah,” Damián said. “Sex can exist on its own. It doesn’t need justified with stings attached to it. It’s a really beautiful thing that exists on its own. It’s pleasure at its most raw form.”

Alex nodded, but he didn’t look totally convinced.

“Think about the clitoris,” Damián said. “The only purpose it serves is to give sexual pleasure. It offers nothing to reproduction or the urinary tract. It exists only for orgasm. I think that’s great. I think it’s one of the greatest marvels of human anatomy.”

Damián loved the fleeting moments of orgasm, when climax was being approached, and then all of a sudden it hit. And then everything settled, and he collapsed on a pillow to gather his senses. The lingering sweat, sensitivity, the fading euphoria. It was all part of the brief greatness that was casual sex. Sex for sex’s sake. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

“But doesn’t sex also provide—I don’t know companionship?” Alex asked.

“Sometimes.”

“But isn’t your whole thing about companionship? You always say you provide companionship to people.”

“I do. But sometimes it’s not that. I also have clients who hire me just to hook up for a night. I mean. My job is very no-strings attached. I can’t go around catching feelings for everyone I sleep with. That wouldn’t be good.”

Alex’s face was twisted. He turned back to the giant dildo.

“Can we leave?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Damián said. “I promised ice cream.”

“I think I’d rather just go home.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No! If you’re ready to leave, we can leave.”

They left the dildo and wound their way past the first editions of dirty magazines and yellowed photographs of nudes. They pressed their backs against the outside wall while they waited for their Uber, not saying a word to each other.

Damián wanted to ask Alex if he was okay, if he just got overwhelmed, if he felt any differently about sex and sex work now that he had been surrounded by shrines to sex. No matter how desperate Damián was to get Alex’s thoughts, he wouldn’t ask.

They climbed into the Uber together. It was freezing. The driver had his window cracked. The air had a crisp chill to it now. Damián shivered in his seat the entire drive back to his apartment.

Damián offered a goodbye to Alex and a promise to send Eve back home safe, but it was accepted with a quiet, sorrowful, “goodnight.”

[ripley-ryan]

I haven’t ever gone to the ER for pain. Only for other forms of illness. But I can tell you even then that from infancy neither I nor my mother were taken seriously when it came to getting me treatment. I won’t get too much into her experiences with healthcare here aside from the fact that I probably wouldn’t have ever even existed had it not been for my grandmother sticking by her side during emergencies. But I will tell you about a shared experience between us. Below the cut so this doesn’t take up too much space.

When I was born, I was vastly premature. Just short of making it into the third trimester. So obviously, I spent the first few weeks of my life in NICU. I finally arrive home. That Friday afternoon, I quit breathing. It’s temporary, I resume shortly after. But this is enough to prompt my mother to take me in. Now obviously this is a Friday afternoon, nobody wants to deal with the new mother and a baby that seems fine. But she refuses to leave until I’m treated. A social worker is even sent to speak to her. She asks, “Are you afraid to be alone with your daughter?” to which my mother replies, “No, I’m not stupid.” Thankfully a few minutes later I stop breathing again in the waiting room and someone finally takes me back. We leave with a little infant sized baby monitor.

This experience, I think, really highlights this kind of issue. I was an infant. I had no way to self-advocate. I’d only just come home from my first few weeks of life in that same exact place. So the only person I had to advocate for me was my mother. A woman with her first ever infant. On a Friday night when everyone just wanted to go home. Holding a baby so small she had to wear Cabbage Patch Kid clothes for the first few months of her life. Of course any doctor or nurse would assume she was nervous about finally being alone with such a small and fragile child. But she was right, I was having problems. And so I was on a breathing monitor for the next few months.

I’ve never been withheld treatment for pain in an emergency (although I have been told I can take a third! extra! advil if the first two didn’t work for my knee pain that was borderline debilitating at the time). But I have faced similar levels of disbelief. I recently had to gather medical records for an upcoming doctors appointment. I came upon test results from a 24/48 hour set of heart monitors from a few years ago. WHITE COAT HYPERTENSION was what the title of the page said. In big bold letters in case I somehow missed anywhere else on the page it said the same thing. Simultaneously, but at the bottom of the page in a place that wouldn’t immediately catch the eye, the paper read that I experienced enough of an anomaly that it could “result in more target organ damage and a more adverse clinical outcome.” It also took the time to list every factor as NORMAL even though those same numbers were the ones that prompted my doctor to even order those tests in the first place.

Now, I can’t fault all healthcare workers for not treating women the way they do men. I know how exhausted they are. How overworked and overburdened. But I think it’s fair that I should have known when they ran a pregnancy test on me as a teenager without notifying me beforehand. That also occurred during a visit to the ER in 2020. I was 15 and in the beginning stages of an allergic reaction to something I couldn’t put my finger on. Due to the nature of a disorder I have, it could have been anywhere from a cold or bug bite to a broken bone or surgery (although the latter two were clearly not the cause that time). But the cause didn’t matter. I was 15 and female and so despite my insistence I was not pregnant, they ran tests without telling me first. In retrospect, it’s nothing in the long run. It’s pretty harmless. But I think it’s definitely interesting what I was told and not told in my many visits to the hospital. For the white coat hypertension diagnosis, I was simply told that the results were slightly different than normal but showed nothing wrong with me and that I was fine. So I never bothered to read the results for myself, because when you’re told you’re fine, what else are you going to do? And for the pregnancy test, I was just straight up never informed of a test being run. Of course it was negative so there was nothing to report back, but it’s still something I should have been notified of.

This is honestly part of why I still sometimes call my mom back with me during specialist appointments. It helps to have an advocate around. Because when you’re female and not trained in the medical field, and your doctor is much older than you and has training, you’re very likely to be intimidated by the interaction, even if you are not intimidated by the person on the other end of it.

Early on a Wednesday morning, I heard an anguished cry—then silence.

I rushed into the bedroom and watched my wife, Rachel, stumble from the bathroom, doubled over, hugging herself in pain.

“Something’s wrong,” she gasped.

This scared me. Rachel’s not the type to sound the alarm over every pinch or twinge. She cut her finger badly once, when we lived in Iowa City, and joked all the way to Mercy Hospital as the rag wrapped around the wound reddened with her blood. Once, hobbled by a training injury in the days before a marathon, she limped across the finish line anyway.

So when I saw Rachel collapse on our bed, her hands grasping and ungrasping like an infant’s, I called the ambulance. I gave the dispatcher our address, then helped my wife to the bathroom to vomit.

I don’t know how long it took for the ambulance to reach us that Wednesday morning. Pain and panic have a way of distorting time, ballooning it, then compressing it again. But when we heard the sirens wailing somewhere far away, my whole body flooded with relief.

I didn’t know our wait was just beginning.

I buzzed the EMTs into our apartment. We answered their questions: When did the pain start? That morning. Where was it on a scale of one to 10, with 10 being worst?

“Eleven,” Rachel croaked.

As we loaded into the ambulance, here’s what we didn’t know: Rachel had an ovarian cyst, a fairly common thing. But it had grown, undetected, until it was so large that it finally weighed her ovary down, twisting the fallopian tube like you’d wring out a sponge. This is called ovarian torsion, and it creates the kind of organ-failure pain few people experience and live to tell about.

“Ovarian torsion represents a true surgical emergency,” says an article in the medical journal Case Reports in Emergency Medicine. “High clinical suspicion is important. … Ramifications include ovarian loss, intra-abdominal infection, sepsis, and even death.” The best chance of salvaging a torsed ovary is surgery within eight hours of when the pain starts.

* * *

There is nothing like witnessing a loved one in deadly agony. Your muscles swell with the blood they need to fight or run. I felt like I could bend iron, tear nylon, through the 10-minute ambulance ride and as we entered the windowless basement hallways of the hospital.

And there we stopped. The intake line was long—a row of cots stretched down the darkened hall. Someone wheeled a gurney out for Rachel. Shaking, she got herself between the sheets, lay down, and officially became a patient.

We didn’t know her ovary was dying, calling out in the starkest language the body has.

Emergency-room patients are supposed to be immediately assessed and treated according to the urgency of their condition. Most hospitals use the Emergency Severity Index, a five-level system that categorizes patients on a scale from “resuscitate” (treat immediately) to “non-urgent” (treat within two to 24 hours).

I knew which end of the spectrum we were on. Rachel was nearly crucified with pain, her arms gripping the metal rails blanched-knuckle tight. I flagged down the first nurse I could.

“My wife,” I said. “I’ve never seen her like this. Something’s wrong, you have to see her.”

“She’ll have to wait her turn,” she said. Other nurses’ reactions ranged from dismissive to condescending. “You’re just feeling a little pain, honey,” one of them told Rachel, all but patting her head.

We didn’t know her ovary was dying, calling out in the starkest language the body has. I saw only the way Rachel’s whole face twisted with the pain.

Soon, I started to realize—in a kind of panic—that there was no system of triage in effect. The other patients in the line slept peacefully, or stared up at the ceiling, bored, or chatted with their loved ones. It seemed that arrival order, not symptom severity, would determine when we’d be seen.

As we neared the ward’s open door, a nurse came to take Rachel’s blood pressure. By then, Rachel was writhing so uncontrollably that the nurse couldn’t get her reading.

She sighed and put down her squeezebox.

“You’ll have to sit still, or we’ll just have to start over,” she said.

Finally, we pulled her bed inside. They strapped a plastic bracelet, like half a handcuff, around Rachel’s wrist.

* * *

From an early age we’re taught to observe basic social codes: Be polite. Ask nicely.Wait your turn. But during an emergency, established codes evaporate—this is why ambulances can run red lights and drive on the wrong side of the road. I found myself pleading, uselessly, for that kind of special treatment. I kept having the strange impulse to take out my phone and call 911, as if that might transport us back to an urgent, responsive world where emergencies exist.

The average emergency-room patient in the U.S. waits 28 minutes before seeing a doctor. I later learned that at Brooklyn Hospital Center, where we were, the average wait was nearly three times as long, an hour and 49 minutes. Our wait would be much, much longer.

Everyone we encountered worked to assure me this was not an emergency. “Stones,” one of the nurses had pronounced. That made sense. I could believe that. I knew that kidney stones caused agony but never death. She’d be fine, I convinced myself, if I could only get her something for the pain.

By 10 a.m., Rachel’s cot had moved into the “red zone” of the E.R., a square room with maybe 30 beds pushed up against three walls. She hardly noticed when the attending physician came and visited her bed; I almost missed him, too. He never touched her body. He asked a few quick questions, and then left. His visit was so brief it didn’t register that he was the person overseeing Rachel’s care.

Around 10:45, someone came with an inverted vial and began to strap a tourniquet around Rachel’s trembling arm. We didn’t know it, but the doctor had prescribed the standard pain-management treatment for patients with kidney stones: hydromorphone for the pain, followed by a CT scan.

The pain medicine started seeping in. Rachel fell into a kind of shadow consciousness, awake but silent, her mouth frozen in an awful, anguished scowl. But for the first time that morning, she rested.

* * *

Leslie Jamison’s essay “Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain” examines ways that different forms of female suffering are minimized, mocked, coaxed into silence. In an interview included in her book The Empathy Exams, she discussed the piece, saying: “Months after I wrote that essay, one of my best friends had an experience where she was in a serious amount of pain that wasn’t taken seriously at the ER.”

She was talking about Rachel.  

“Women are likely to be treated less aggressively until they prove that they are as sick as male patients.”

“That to me felt like this deeply personal and deeply upsetting embodiment of what was at stake,” she said. “Not just on the side of the medical establishment—where female pain might be perceived as constructed or exaggerated—but on the side of the woman herself: My friend has been reckoning in a sustained way about her own fears about coming across as melodramatic.”

“Female pain might be perceived as constructed or exaggerated”: We saw this from the moment we entered the hospital, as the staff downplayed Rachel’s pain, even plain ignored it. In her essay, Jamison refers back to “The Girl Who Cried Pain,” a study identifying ways gender bias tends to play out in clinical pain management. Women are  “more likely to be treated less aggressively in their initial encounters with the health-care system until they ‘prove that they are as sick as male patients,’” the study concludes—a phenomenon referred to in the medical community as “Yentl Syndrome.”

In the hospital, a lab tech made small talk, asked me how I like living in Brooklyn, while my wife struggled to hold still enough for the CT scan to take a clear shot of her abdomen.

“Lot of patients to get to, honey,” we heard, again and again, when we begged for stronger painkillers. “Don’t cry.”

I felt certain of this: The diagnosis of kidney stones—repeated by the nurses and confirmed by the attending physician’s prescribed course of treatment—was a denial of the specifically female nature of Rachel’s pain. A more careful examiner would have seen the need for gynecological evaluation; later, doctors told us that Rachel’s swollen ovary was likely palpable through the surface of her skin. But this particular ER, like many in the United States, had no attending OB-GYN. And every nurse’s shrug seemed to say, “Women cry—what can you do?”

Nationwide, men wait an average of 49 minutes before receiving an analgesic for acute abdominal pain. Women wait an average of 65 minutes for the same thing. Rachel waited somewhere between 90 minutes and two hours.

“My friend has been reckoning in a sustained way about her own fears about coming across as melodramatic.” Rachel does struggle with this, even now. How long is it appropriate to continue to process a traumatic event through language, through repeated retellings? Friends have heard the story, and still she finds herself searching for language to tell it again, again, as if the experience is a vast terrain that can never be fully circumscribed by words. Still, in the throes of debilitating pain, she tried to bite her lip, wait her turn, be good for the doctors.

For hours, nothing happened. Around 3 o’clock, we got the CT scan and came back to the ER. Otherwise, Rachel lay there, half-asleep, suffering and silent. Later, she’d tell me that the hydromorphone didn’t really stop the pain—just numbed it slightly. Mostly, it made her feel sedated, too tired to fight.

If she had been alone, with no one to agitate for her care, there’s no telling how long she might have waited.

Eventually, the doctor—the man who’d come to Rachel’s bedside briefly, and just once—packed his briefcase and left. He’d been around the ER all day, mostly staring into a computer. We only found out later he’d been the one with the power to rescue or forget us.

When a younger woman came on duty to take his place, I flagged her down. I told her we were waiting on the results of a CT scan, and I hassled her until she agreed to see if the results had come in.

When she pulled up Rachel’s file, her eyes widened.

“What is this mess?” she said. Her pupils flicked as she scanned the page, the screen reflected in her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she murmured, as though I wasn’t standing there to hear. “He never did an exam.”

The male doctor had prescribed the standard treatment for kidney stones—Dilauded for the pain, a CT scan to confirm the presence of the stones. In all the hours Rachel spent under his care, he’d never checked back after his initial visit. He was that sure. As far as he was concerned, his job was done.

If Rachel had been alone, with no one to agitate for her care, there’s no telling how long she might have waited.

It was almost another hour before we got the CT results. But when they came, they changed everything.

“She has a large mass in her abdomen,” the female doctor said. “We don’t know what it is.”

That’s when we lost it. Not just because our minds filled then with words liketumor and cancer and malignant. Not just because Rachel had gone half crazy with the waiting and the pain. It was because we’d asked to wait our turn all through the day—longer than a standard office shift—only to find out we’d been an emergency all along.

Suddenly, the world responded with the urgency we wanted. I helped a nurse push Rachel’s cot down a long hallway, and I ran beside her in a mad dash to make the ultrasound lab before it closed. It seemed impossible, but we were told that if we didn’t catch the tech before he left, Rachel’s care would have to be delayed until morning.

“Whatever happens,” Rachel told me while the tech prepared the machine, “don’t let me stay here through the night. I won’t make it. I don’t care what they tell you—I know I won’t.”

Soon, the tech was peering inside Rachel through a gray screen. I couldn’t see what he saw, so I watched his face. His features rearranged into a disbelieving grimace.

By then, Rachel and I were grasping at straws. We thought: cancer. We thought: hysterectomy. Lying there in the dim light, Rachel almost seemed relieved.

“I can live without my uterus,” she said, with a soft, weak smile. “They can take it out, and I’ll get by.”

She’d make the tradeoff gladly, if it meant the pain would stop.

After the ultrasound, we led the gurney—slowly, this time—down the long hall to the ER, which by then was  completely crammed with beds. Trying to find a spot for Rachel’s cot was like navigating rush-hour traffic.

Then came more bad news. At 8 p.m., they had to clear the floor for rounds. Anyone who was not a nurse, or lying in a bed, had to leave the premises until visiting hours began again at 9.

When they let me back in an hour later, I found Rachel alone in a side room of the ER. So much had happened. Another doctor had told her the mass was her ovary, she said. She had something called ovarian torsion—the fallopian-tube twists, cutting off blood. There was no saving it. They’d have to take it out.

Rachel seemed confident and ready.

“He’s a good doctor,” she said. “He couldn’t believe that they left me here all day. He knows how much it hurts.”

When I met the surgery team, I saw Rachel was right. Talking with them, the words we’d used all day—excruciating, emergency, eleven—registered with real and urgent meaning. They wanted to help.

By 10:30, everything was ready. Rachel and I said goodbye outside the surgery room, 14 and a half hours from when her pain had started.

* * *

Rachel’s physical scars are healing, and she can go on the long runs she loves, but she’s still grappling with the psychic toll—what she calls “the trauma of not being seen.” She has nightmares, some nights. I wake her up when her limbs start twitching.

Sometimes we inspect the scars on her body together, looking at the way the pink, raised skin starts blending into ordinary flesh. Maybe one day, they’ll become invisible. Maybe they never will.

[metamoonshots]

[ad_1] This account, posted beneath a username that has since been deleted, first appeared on Reddit: I got here again to the workplace for the primary time in per week after being sick. I care for a pair emails, after which my boss emails me and says he needs to have a gathering. We get into this assembly and he begins tearing into me about me not with the ability to do the only of duties, despite the fact that I’ve been busting my chops doing all of my reviews and any additional duties he’s thrown at me.  He informed me I can not work at home as a result of I would like to have the ability to “be taught extra from the workplace setting” and that I would like to hurry up the method of discovering a brand new job as a result of I’m one write-up away from being fired. It looks like day by day I’m being dragged into these conferences and being informed I’m silly, I’m nugatory, and that my future is in jeopardy. I really feel defeated and I truthfully don’t know what extra to do.  I’m depressed once I’m right here, and I’m consistently pressured as a result of I'm all the time being watched. I’m bored with being a punching bag. I’m depressed once I’m right here, and I’m consistently pressured as a result of I'm all the time being watched. I’m bored with being a punching bag. I've an interview at this time, and I actually hope that I get this place as a result of I'm bored with feeling like I'm in hell. Drained Associated: ‘Gaslighters have two signature moves’: Are you being gaslighted at work? Here’s how to recognize the signs.Expensive Nameless, Your expertise is harking back to the film “Horrible Bosses.” Workers are potential future leaders. Nobody has the correct to jeopardize that. HR departments are there to create a collegial, non-toxic work tradition, and foster an setting of inclusivity and — importantly — psychological security, along with their regular duties of screening, recruiting, and coaching new staff. HR professionals, whose jobs have actually been in decline regardless of a powerful labor market, are there to guard the corporate from authorized jeopardy, however additionally they exist to guard the staff. This isn't Madison Avenue in the 1960s, when liquid lunches had been frequent and alleged sexism and bullying pervaded the workplace flooring. However first, a caveat. Your employer has each proper to insist that you don't work at home, until your contract specifies distant work as a situation of employment, or if distant work was a part of a labor union’s collective-bargaining settlement, otherwise you had been offered an inexpensive lodging to take part in hybrid or distant work attributable to a incapacity. Alternatively, in case your employer insisted that you simply take a pay lower to work at home, you may argue you had “justifiable reliance” on that new association. In that case, you would need to present that you simply took a monetary hit to work at home.  Whereas bullying an worker might earn you a reprimand from administration, it's not essentially unlawful. However that doesn't imply that workplaces and manufacturing unit flooring shouldn't be a spot you are feeling protected from harassment. The Equal Employment Alternative Fee enforces laws that prohibit workplace harassment due to race; coloration; nationwide origin; intercourse, together with being pregnant, gender identification and sexual orientation; faith; incapacity; age (40 or older); or genetic data. Federal legislation additionally protects you in opposition to retaliation for complaining about such habits.A sample of abusive or harassing habits  Particular person incidents are additionally not all the time sufficient. In New York, employment legislation makes use of the “affordable individual” barometer to determine whether or not misconduct rises to the extent of unlawful harassment. “An imagined ‘affordable individual,’ not simply the sufferer, should be capable to think about the work setting intimidating, hostile, or abusive due to the misbehavior,” says Ottinger Employment Lawyers.

For instance, an insurance-company employee won $750,000 in an age-discrimination lawsuit in California after enduring feedback associated to her age: “Fuddy duddy” was deemed ageist. “To find out if misconduct is ‘sufficiently extreme or pervasive’ to warrant a hostile setting, a courtroom will take a look at the totality of the circumstances,” the legislation agency provides. “Some related components can be: the frequency of the misconduct; how harsh or distressing the offensive habits was; whether or not the actions had been bodily threatening or humiliating in comparison with an offensive utterance; whether or not the misconduct unreasonably interfered with an worker’s work efficiency; and the impact of the setting on the worker’s psychological well-being.” Identify-calling, and being repeatedly focused might not rise to the extent of unlawful harassment, however you possibly can and may take contemporaneous notes and convey the habits to the eye of your superiors and/or HR division. There have, nonetheless, been excessive circumstances the place an worker who was bullied was awarded compensation: In 2018, the Indiana Supreme Court docket reinstated a $325,000 verdict for a former medical technician who sued a colleague, a cardiovascular surgeon, for alleged assault greater than a decade earlier. In a 2002 incident, the surgeon allegedly approached the technician, yelling and brandishing clenched fists.Bosses and spouses have lots in frequent Having a nasty boss is like being in a nasty marriage. You depend on each a boss and partner in your emotional and monetary well being, so their opinions and feedback carry additional weight. In case your co-worker says, “Good job,” that’s good to listen to, however what in case your boss says it? It's possible you'll be on a excessive all day lengthy. In truth, a study released earlier this year by the Workforce Institute at UKG, which gives analysis and training on office points, discovered that 69% of employees stated their supervisor impacted their psychological well being. Right here’s what’s curious: The identical proportion of employees stated their spouses affected their psychological well being.Sad staff additionally damage productiveness. Sad staff additionally damage productiveness. The UKG social scientists interviewed 2,200 staff from 10 nations, along with 600 C-suite leaders and 600 HR executives within the U.S. “We discuss lots about psychological well being when it comes to a medical analysis or burnout. Whereas these are severe points, the day-to-day stressors we stay with — particularly these attributable to work — is what we should always discuss extra about as leaders,” Pat Wadors, the chief individuals officer at UKG, a multinational know-how firm, stated when the report was launched in January.  Being an worker is hard, and so is being a boss. Each contain a level of emotional labor. Certainly, when managers are extra open about their very own mental-health journey, it might assist create a extra inclusive and supportive setting. “Life isn’t all milk and honey, and when leaders open up about their very own struggles, they acknowledge they don't seem to be alone, and that it’s OK to not be OK,” Wadors added. “Genuine, susceptible management is the important thing to creating belonging at work and, in flip, the important thing to fixing the mental-health disaster within the office.” Your job is necessary, however so is your happiness and your psychological well being. Associated:  Want to avoid a toxic workplace? Ask these 5 questions in your job interview. ‘Gaslighters have two signature moves’: Are you being gaslighted at work? Here’s how to recognize the signs. Warning: Jobs advertised as ‘remote’ don’t always stay that way You possibly can e mail The Moneyist with any monetary and moral questions at qfottrell@marketwatch.com, and comply with Quentin Fottrell on X, the platform previously generally known as Twitter. Take a look at the Moneyist private Facebook group, the place we search for solutions to life’s thorniest cash points.

Publish your questions, inform me what you need to know extra about, or weigh in on the most recent Moneyist columns. The Moneyist regrets he can't reply to questions individually. Earlier columns by Quentin Fottrell: ‘Buy a yacht,’ he told me. My fiancé, 67, is cutting his kids out of his will — and leaving everything to me. Should I be suspicious? My uncle persuaded my ailing grandmother to cut everyone else out of the family trust. Do we have a case against him? My 8-year-old son was given $35,000 in gold bars. Do we hold onto them — or sell and invest the money? [ad_2]

[psithurista]

Slipped

pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader, secondary Marc Spector x F!Reader word count: 6.4k rating: Explicit 18+ warnings: Co-worker relationship, mentions of food and eating, fluff, angst, smut, handjobs, use of sex toys, protected PIV sex an: This is very much a case of "I wrote this for myself, but you can read it too if you want." It's a bit of a departure from the first part (tonally, stylistically, etc.) in that it's a fairly heavy-ish free-form drabble. Please be advised that this part delves just a little bit more seriously into certain psychological themes, and I've included additional notes at the end which go into more detail if you’re interested.

part one

It starts with coffee.

The morning after returning Steven’s ID, you stop by the gift shop on your way in to work. You’re late, and harried, and you don’t usually go this way; preferring to slip into the loading entrance and sneak up to the office as quickly as possible instead.

There’s a reason for this.

You shrink as a raucous tour group shoves past behind you, trainers squeaking loudly on the polished floors. The sun bounces too-bright up off the marble, into the high white ceilings, around your tired head. Nobody pays any attention to you, and you pretend to be fascinated with a stack of jigsaw puzzles while Steven serves an elderly man who appears to be inexplicably buying the gift shop’s entire stock of pens.

He’s saying something about point size and ink opacity, and your lips turn up as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You aren’t sure whether your hair looks as nice as it did when you left home, but you hope it still looks at least halfway-presentable to make up for your excruciatingly difficult wakeup. Though you’d been home well before midnight, you still hadn’t gone to sleep until the early hours of the morning.

The man shuffles out of the way, glossy paper bag clutched in his hands, and you completely lose your nerve. You’re already turning to make your escape when Steven spots you.

“G’morning!”

It is inordinately difficult not to drop both coffees in your hands all over yourself as you turn back. “Hi, Steven,” you manage, too shy to look him in the eye, staring instead at the buttoned cuff of his shirt.

“If you’re after a pen shaped like an obelisk, I’ve got some bad news.” You glance up to see he’s watching, still smiling. He looks as tired as you feel; his eyes shadowed and creased, the edge of his glasses sticking out of his jacket pocket.

You return the smile. “Yeah, I saw that. Think he knows they’re rubbish pens? The corners make them impossible to hold long enough to write anything.”

“Nah, he’s here every week. Reckon he doesn’t care. Probably selling them on eBay, yeah?”

You snort out an undignified little laugh, then swallow it back as quickly as it escaped. You don’t think you’ve ever been this self conscious in your life. You thrust one of the coffees out, and he stares blankly at it.

“I brought you this.”

“Oh, that’s great. Really, thank you.” He wraps both hands around the paper cup, briefly ducking his head to breathe in the smell.

“It’s two shots, on oat. I wasn’t sure whether you have sugar or not.” You nearly drop your own coffee again as you fumble the little paper sachets out of your jumper pocket, leaving them on the counter.

He looks a little dazed, his eyes on your face, a faint hint of silver glinting through the curls messy around his head. Then he’s scrambling for his own pockets. “Yeah, right. I should have enough to cover it if you don’t mind shrapnel.”

“Oh, no. No, seriously, please don’t.” You lay your hand over his, pausing him. “You can get me back another time. I already owe you.”

He’s staring down at your hand, a strange expression on his face, as though he’s mentally committing your fingertips to memory. “You…do?”

Sheepish, you shrug one shoulder. “So, confession, I guess, but I might’ve been sneaking a cup of your oolong from the break room here and there.”

“Oh yeah, I know,” he tells you, glancing up, his lips still parted in a shy half-smile. “That’s why I’ve kept bringing it in.”

You’re stunned into silence, your heart emptying itself painfully into your chest. Far from seeming annoyed with your petty thievery, he seems almost embarrassed to have been caught facilitating it. Like he hadn’t wanted you to know that he knew. The image of him bringing in a fresh tin of tea and leaving it on the counter, secretly knowing you’d been pilfering it from him, blankets your thoughts.

You realise belatedly that your hand is still resting on top of his and, face burning, you draw it toward yourself. “Well. Anyway. Like I said, you don’t need to pay me back.”

Someone clears their throat behind you, and Steven nods over your shoulder. “Alright?”

You hurriedly step to the side to make way for a woman attempting to wrangle three children all dashing in different directions.

“Just the bookends, please, can you gift wrap them? Thomas, if you don’t put that bloody statue down I swear I will clip you round the ears in front of every single person in this museum.”

“I’ll see you later,” you stage-whisper, inching away.

“Yeah, alright, cheers! For the coffee,” he tacks awkwardly onto the end, waving it at you.

By the time you make it to your desk, you’re far too hot. You clumsily strip off several outer layers before sitting down, letting out a held breath. It could’ve gone worse. Could’ve gone better, too, but there’s no use dwelling on that.

He’d given you absolutely no indication that he remembered spending last night between your legs.

The memory rolls fresh heat beneath your skin, and you dart a quick glance around the office, as though your thoughts are loud enough to expose you to the room.

You aren’t sure whether this confirms your current working theory, or whether it just makes things muddier. But just a little too much is lining up for it to be the latter. You stifle an exhausted yawn; your eyes still burning from hours spent scrolling through page after page of journal articles on your side in bed last night.

There’s another question, though, and this is the one sitting heavy in your stomach. He’d seemed happy enough to see you this morning. But that doesn’t mean a thing; he’s always lovely to everybody, even Donna. As always, you’d been too shy to really extend anything meaningfully searching of your own.

Steven-who-isn’t-Steven’s words drift back to you, drawled calmly through a smooth accent, clenching between your thighs.

“He doesn’t know how to show you, or tell you. But he likes you. A lot.”

There’s a little part of you that finds this terribly unfair. You don’t know how to show him, either. You’re paralysed with nerves when it comes to things like this. But you like him a lot, too.

So it becomes a ritual.

Every morning, you wake up just a little bit earlier, paying close attention to your appearance in the mirror before leaving for the day. Sometimes, he’s busy serving, or down in the store room, and you dawdle around the gift shop while you wait for him to return. Other mornings, he’s there early, tired-eyed but smiling, wearing a thick-knitted cardigan. Sometimes he isn’t there at all.

Slowly, shyly, a tiny space opens up around the two of you. He asks about your work. You ask about his. You tell him about your project accessioning a collection of fragmentary artefacts; historically significant, but deemed too small, obscure and unexciting to be publicly displayed. You’re heartened by his giddy enthusiasm. You’d never imagined anybody other than you would care this much about tiny, broken pieces of pottery.

Leaning across the counter, you listen, rapt as he describes what he’s been reading. He tells you he reads late into the night in an attempt to avoid sleep; tearing through stacks of pages faster than you’d imagined possible. You’ve never met anyone with such eclectic tastes as his; reading and re-reading ancient poetic works in every translation he can find while working on his own translations, studying language and classical mythology and archeological theory all at once, broken up in between modern literary criticism, paperback thrillers and Regency romances.

“Might be overdoing the thrillers,” he muses ruefully, scratching at the curve of his earlobe. “Dreams’ve been getting a bit weird again.”

You never know quite what to say when he describes his dreams to you. Strange, confusing, hyper-realistic dreams, occasionally lasting days, supplanting unconscious actions with real-world consequences; sometimes mundane, like ordering groceries in his sleep and waking up to find the delivery bags still jammed in his bin, and sometimes less so, waking up with split lips and bruised knuckles after dreaming of wild, panicked fights.

“Once, I managed to break my own nose in my sleep,” he tells you, laughing at himself. “Dunno if I punched myself or if I walked into a wall or what. S’just mental, my sleepwalking.”

You tactfully withhold your commentary, opting for sympathy instead. “Must be awful,” you offer quietly. “Not knowing where you’ll wake up.”

“Yeah. It is. Terrifying, to be honest.”

The take-away coffee graduates to lunch breaks spent at the cafe connected to the Boots on the corner, sitting outside when the weather’s nice, surrounded by uni students. It’s not intimate, or romantic; the tables are graffitied and buses stop directly out the front, spewing exhaust, but it is the single brightest point of your day. When he laughs, he has a wide, deep dimple on one side.

One warm day, you sit out under the sun and watch the seagulls swoop tourists for chips. He holds his hand over his mouth as he speaks, full of eggplant kofta. “Well, it just fell straight out of her hand, didn’t it? Shattered into a million pieces. Poor kid’d already started crying before it hit the floor, probably thought she’d be in trouble. Can’t blame her for being interested, anyway; Sekhmet’s one of the coolest-looking.”

You lean back to lift your face to the sky. “You didn’t need to pay for it yourself. You could’ve just written it off as accidental damage. Not even Donna could’ve blamed you for that.”

He sits half-hunched, his elbows on his knees. Something in his posture is always just a little turned-in; a protective gesture. He wrinkles his nose thoughtfully; clearly disagreeing with you, but too nice to say it. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You shake your head. “Why do you put up with her? Not like the pay’s any good.”

He smiles slightly as he answers, like he’s humouring you; like you’ve told a joke he doesn’t quite get. “Because I love my job.”

You take turns shouting the other’s lunch, and every time Steven loses track of whose turn it is, you shrug, assuring him it’s definitely yours, sliding your bank card over.

Now that you’re looking for it, you see it constantly.

The inexplicable absences. The big ones: days and weeks away from work, unanswered messages, vague excuses. And the small ones: mid-sentence, easily missed, a slipping-away, his attention flickering before returning to your face, having misstepped in the conversation and in need of re-orientation. For the most part, you can gently lead him back; prompting him to continue where he’d left off.

But once or twice, only very briefly, you catch glimpses through. All teeth and easy, smooth words; palms on the shop counter, his shoulders squared, hooded eyes sharp on your face as he ducks away, suddenly in a hurry, his jacket in his hands.

You start to become painfully conscious of the time you have with him, afraid it’s shortening as the sunlit hours shrink crawling closer to the winter.

-

“You off daylight savings already, Stevie?

Donna has had a layer of acrylic applied over her nails. She taps them against the counter; a rhythmic plastic-toy pale pink crackrackrack.

You’ve both bundled back in from lunch nearly a half-hour late; wrapped up in layers against the biting wind outside. She hasn’t seen you yet, her attention hard on Steven as he unwinds his scarf from around his neck.

He opens his mouth, but you interject before he can speak. “Sorry Donna, my fault. Steven was helping me down in storage.”

She turns, looks you up and down, then smiles. It isn’t a nice smile. “Oh. Well. Didn’t realise he was doing something important.”

You aren’t good at this. You shrink from confrontation. Disagreements make your eyes burn. Once, at the shops, you’d grabbed the last trolley seconds before a towering woman reached the bay. She didn’t even need to say anything; just the look on her face had you apologetically letting go of it, telling her it was fine, really, you were only getting a few bits anyway—a lie you’d regretted when a jar of satay sauce shattered all over the floor after slipping out of your overloaded arms.

Donna clicks her tongue, relishing your obvious nervousness. You’re about to lower your eyes, but then you catch sight of Steven. Kind, earnest, gentle Steven, under her thumb daily, crushed and remonstrated for his passion. Heat rolls up your neck. You lift your chin. “It was, actually. Important. Part of getting things organised before that internal review. Which reminds me: Alan said they’ve been talking about restructuring middle management. Cutting the fat, you know. You might want to find something important to do, yourself. Don’t want to be walking around looking dispensable.”

The smile shrinks from her eyes, though her teeth remain bared. A beat passes, and you can practically see the gears turning in her head; shifting for a response. But in that length of time, another moment has already passed by, and it’s suddenly just a little too late for her to say anything at all, so she turns jerkily away.

You stand dumb, your arms at your sides. You can’t believe you just did that.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Steven bursts out, grinning so widely you can see the tiny gap between his incisor and canine.

“Oh, God, neither can I,” you manage, feeling nauseous, grasping the edge of the counter for balance.

He steadies you, his hand on your shoulder. “It was brilliant. You alright?”

You laugh shakily. “I don’t know. I’d better get back up to my desk before I’m sick all over the stuffed hippos.”

“Let me buy you dinner after work. Please.” He blurts it out all in one breath, and then stares at you in apparent shock at his own words, as though he isn’t sure they came out of his mouth.

Your head snaps up. If you’d had any scrap of suspicion that this was no more than an extension of your companionable lunches together, it’s laid to rest immediately by the startled, cautious way he’s looking at you. Like your answer could burn him. Like you would.

Even as you accept, you can feel him slipping. “Okay.”

-

There are almost never stars in London, but on clear nights, there is the moon. Steven is looking up at it when you arrive, wearing the most subdued shirt you’ve ever seen him in; simple, black, the little Star of David at his throat glinting. The cheap jonquils in his hand are only slightly wilted.

“Are those for me?”

He stares dazedly at you for a moment, his mouth open, before a slow smile breaks over his features. “Hi. Wow. You look nice. Obviously,” he adds, scoffing nervously, making a face at himself. “You always look nice.”

You duck your head, trying to hide your stupid smile. “So do you. Shall we go in?”

The waitress is one of the most beautiful people you’ve ever seen. Floral tattoos are marked out over her shaved head, reaching all the way down her neck and peeking out of the ends of her sleeves. She brings water, then slides a plate of ziti onto the table, turning away face-first, her body following the movement like a dancer.

It’s dim and warm, and gentle music plays under the hum of voices. You’re both shy to start with; removed from the context of your familiarity and suddenly strangers. It isn’t until you show him the pictures on your phone you’d taken at work that afternoon that you tumble easily back into each other again.

“These panels weren’t even listed in the record. I probably wouldn’t have known to look if you hadn’t suggested it,” you say, your elbows on the table, chin in your hands.

He pinches the photo to squint at it. “Ah well. Not your fault, is it? Shoddy archiving from the last team. This’s dead cool, actually; looks like the first part’s about the Feast of Opet; it’s talking about Amun and—here, see, that’s about Mut, and their son being carried through Thebes.”

It seems wildly unfair that he interprets the hieroglyphs more fluently than some of the paid translators you work with. You’re so caught up in listening to him that it takes you a few seconds to register that something’s wrong. He sways, sucks in a breath, blinks down at his hands, then up around the restaurant.

“Steven?”

He frowns at you, then reaches for his water glass, distaste curling his lip. “Is that tempeh?”

You register the accent with a prickle. “Marc.”

He pauses, his eyes darting between yours, searching. “I didn’t tell you that name.”

You shake your head, feeling dizzy. “Steven did. He’s been telling me about his dreams. He thinks he’s going crazy. But it’s not that. It’s…a disorder. It’s why he keeps losing time, and has those weird dreams, and the blackouts; ends up in weird places. That’s when you…take over. Isn’t it?”

He raises his glass to you, his expression tight. “Very clinical.” He gulps a mouthful of water, swirling it around his mouth and through his teeth like mouthwash before swallowing.

You don’t smile. Someone at the table behind you laughs: a loud, grating sound. “Can I have Steven back?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to…talk to him about this?”

“Nope.”

You swallow. “I think you should. It’d help him. He’s confused. He needs to get some answers.”

He barks out a short, hard laugh. “You went home and read the fuckin’ DSM after we hooked up and now you’re gonna tell me what I’m supposed to do?”

Your cheeks feel hot. You slump back in your chair, embarrassed and crestfallen. He considers you, his thick brows furrowed. When he speaks again, his voice isn’t unkind.

“Listen, sweetheart, believe me when I tell you that I know him better than you do. This’ll stress him out. He won’t handle it well. You try to talk to him about this and you’ll trigger a panic attack. Probably just end up back with me.”

“You could try,” you whisper, your eyes welling. His hooded gaze touches on your face.

“I don’t wanna put a stop to this. I’m all he’s ever had, and I’m not exactly the best…” he cuts himself off, his mouth set in a hard line before continuing. “You’re good for him. You make him feel happy, and safe, and that’s why the second you try to start this conversation, you’re gonna freak him out. I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“You’ve been watching us?” The thought of him silently observing your awkwardness, your crippling shyness with Steven; every word, every moment, after what you did together…

“Is that a problem?” He tips back the rest of the water in one mouthful, then stands.

“Where are you going?”

“I got a few things I need to do.”

He walks out, leaving you alone in front of the barely-touched ziti. The couple at the table beside you fall silent, and pointedly avert their eyes.

He misses the rest of the week. And then comes Monday, overcast, and he’s back at the counter of the gift shop; looking newly exhausted, wincing as he reaches into a drawer.

“Feel like I finished a bloody triathlon and then got run over by a tractor. I slept the whole weekend. I’m really sorry. I can’t remember much of our dinner.”

You spent the entire weekend with his words circling in your head. You force your lips upwards as you lie. “It was lovely. Really. You were really sweet. Walked me to the bus after and everything.”

“Yeah?” He’s looking into your face for reassurance, and you give it, though you know this ultimately isn’t constructive. It doesn’t help him. But just for now, it avoids hurting him. He smiles back at you. “Well. I can walk you to the bus again tonight, if you want.”

You take it for no other reason than to gather a few more grains of his time into your day.

So, another routine.

You rarely work late anymore, always in a hurry to get down and meet him at the bottom of the steps. Some evenings, you wander about before heading to the bus stop; walking to a bookstore to run your hands over the spines, or watching Covent Garden light up with street performers. Steven drops coins in every single hat that he walks past, pointing out fire-jugglers, stopping for a one-sided conversation with a living statue he seems to knows by name. You hook your fingers through his as you walk, and you watch for flickers.

Marc doesn’t always speak to you, but you always speak to him.

The first time Steven kisses you, it’s almost an accident. It’s pouring, and freezing, and you’re huddled together laughing under the same umbrella. The wind sheets the rain against your bodies at a slant, rendering your cover useless.

You turn your face, and bump into his lips. He doesn’t move away. You shiver against the wind as he leans in, and his lips meet yours again.

He’s hesitant. His hand hovers over your skin before he touches your neck, drawing you closer. You can smell him in the rain; a sharp, rich, warm cologne you already know he’d never have bought for himself. A surprise, you imagine; an unfamiliar bottle he’d found in his bathroom cabinet one day after a blackout period.

When the bus pulls in, your shoes squelch as you dash inside, your jacket over your head. Steven waves to you from under the umbrella, and as you lurch and rattle away, you feel as though you’re leaving your heart behind with him under that rain-lit street lamp.

-

It hits midnight and neither of you want to go to the bus stop. You walk in circles around the subject, your hands in his jacket pocket for warmth.

“You could come back to my flat,” he says, quietly, shyly; his eyes sleepy, teeth showing.

You want to, desperately. “Steven. I need to tell you something.”

A flicker, but a small one. “Alright?”

You aren’t sure where to begin. “I spoke with Marc.”

He stops walking. “What d’you mean, you spoke with Marc?”

“A couple of times, actually. I wanted him to speak with you. But maybe it’s not up to him.”

He shakes your words away, his hair bouncing. “That’s…that doesn’t make any sense.”

You feel him pulling away, and he runs his hands roughly over his face. You watch him, noticing for the first time the way the bottom of his earlobe curls out; the edge of his jawline a straight line down to his neck. His eyes are red-rimmed, and you know they must be aching with exhaustion, from nights spent endlessly forcing himself to stay awake.

“I think you should get some sleep,” you say, softly.

He nods, his face still in his hands, taking the out you’re offering. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.”

You get home, and you don’t follow your own advice. You lie awake, your phone glowing in your face, anxious and longing.

The next morning, you nearly walk smack into Donna as she comes out of the gift shop’s store room. “Where’s Steven?”

She scoffs, shouldering past you with a boxful of photographic art books. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Useless sod. Least he called in sick this time, instead of just not showing up at all.”

You eat lunch alone at your desk. You can’t keep your leg still, jiggling your foot so hard it sets the air plant on your desk rattling. The afternoon drags as you watch the time, and when five o’clock finally ticks over, you practically launch yourself out of your seat. The security guard calls out after you as you dash down the stairs, asking where the fire is.

Your mind conjures a million different scenarios in the time it takes to get to his building. None of them are good. You should have listened to him. You shouldn’t have said anything. You shouldn’t have let him go home alone. You press the buzzer, hold it in for far too long; the sound aggressively loud.

“You right, love?” You turn to see a tiny old woman peering up at you, her powdery round face creased with concern, her bag clutched close to her chest.

“Hi, can you let me up, please? I’m worried about my—my friend. He missed work today. I think he might be sick.”

It might be the sheer frantic desperation in your voice, or just the fact that you’re still dressed respectably for work, but she seems to decide you’re trustworthy enough to be allowed inside. You hardly wait for the lift doors to open on his floor before you’re hurrying out, catching your toe on the edge of the landing, stumbling down the hall.

“Steven? Steven, are you in there? Hello? Marc?” You knock with the flat of your palm, smacking the painted wood, your heart in your throat.

You pause to listen, and hear nothing but the blare of a football game from the gap beneath a door farther down the hall. Every word you’ve read comes crashing back, sickly sharp.

You sit in the hall for hours, your back pressed to the door, your head on your knees. One of Steven’s neighbours passes you with a rubbish bag tied in a knot. “He’s not here,” he says, pausing, his tracksuit emblazoned with trefoils. “Funny bloke. Keeps odd hours. But he hasn’t been back today, least not that I’ve seen.”

You press the heels of your hands to your tender eyes and thank him.

When you arrive at work the next morning, there’s a pretty, smiling young woman standing at the gift shop counter; wearing a khimar the exact same shade of blue as the sky. Donna stands beside her at the till, pointing out product codes on the keypad. You feign a headache and go home.

Several days pass, and you move numbly through them. Your flat feels too close and still, so you open the windows and let the cold fumes from the street drift inside. You can’t seem to focus on one thing at a time, and it isn’t until you find yourself standing vacantly over the kitchen sink that you realise you’ve let the tap run for too long, flooding the counter.

You feel as though you’ve made a terrible mistake, accidentally given away something important you can never get back; donated a pile of old books with a secret letter tucked inside the pages.

Night falls. You’re sitting cross-legged on the sofa eating dry cereal when there’s a knock at your door. You’ve been waiting for someone to come and look at the radiator, and you’re already across the room and turning the lock before it dawns on you that it’s Saturday, and it’s late, and the building manager is in Mallorca.

He stands just outside your door, blinking drowsily. You exhale in a rush, feeling close to spilling tears. “Hi. Hi, Steven. Oh, God. Sorry, I’m a bit…hi.”

His teeth meet his lip, and he smiles nervously. “Sorry. I know this is really dodgy, but I checked the staff system for your address a while ago. Just in case.”

You laugh despite yourself, and a tear escapes hot down your cheek. “Don’t be sorry.”

He reaches a hand out toward you, then drops it. “Can I come in? Please?”

You’re too overcome with emotion to care about the mess in your flat. He steps past a table piled with unwashed mugs and a discarded bra draped over a chair’s armrest, saying nothing, looking instead at your potted plants.

“This one’s nice. S’like peas, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s called a string of pearls. I’ll give you a cutting if you want. You could put it over Gus’ tank to brighten it up.”

He slips off his shoes before he sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, laying his hands on his thighs. “Yeah. He’s been looking a bit flat. Might need to change his food.”

You stand looking at him while a silence stretches out. “He didn’t want me to tell you.”

“I know,” he says. “We’ve been talking, sort of. Figuring some things out.”

You step over a pair of your discarded shoes to sit cross-legged, facing him.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, quietly. “I should’ve told you as soon as I worked it out. I just didn’t want to upset you. I didn’t know what to do.”

��S’alright,” he says, wrapping his hands around yours, pulling them into his lap. “You were just doing what I told you, yeah?”

He’s letting you off far too easily. You take in his rumpled clothes; his chain glinting against the unshaven shadow of his throat. You can feel his eyes on your face as you look at him. His neck is beautiful. His hands are warm.

Slowly, he unwinds his fingers from yours and raises them to your face. He clumsily traces the edge of your chin, the softness of your cheek.

“I thought I dreamt it. When you came to my place, before. But…I could…I could smell you—your perfume; on my pillow, after I woke up. I sat in bed, and Googled whether you could hallucinate smells.” You turn your head, and kiss his fingertips. “Am I dreaming now?”

“No.”

He leans forward, and you hold your breath as he brushes his lips against yours. A delicate, tingling softness starts at the nape of your neck and you let your fingertip trace the side of his jaw as he breathes into you.

His hands are in your hair, gathering you close. He presses his face to your neck, unmoving, exhaling shakily. You sigh silently against him, leaning back, and he moves lower, his lips at your throat, then at the softness at the top of your breasts, his strong brows furrowed over closed eyes.

He takes his time learning your skin. You fall back, your heart beating so hard your vision closes with each fresh rush of blood through your body. He pulls your clothes away to kiss your nipples; gently sucking at your skin, his palms underneath the small of your back. When the gentle hook of his nose brushes your stomach, your skin lifts in shivers, and when he turns his face you feel the rough scrape of his unshaven cheek.

You turn to face him as he lifts himself up alongside you, his eyes heavy, lips parted. He kisses you again, his hands on your thighs, between your legs; uncertain, searching.

When you palm his cock through his pants, he breathes your name like a confession. You can feel him swelling hard as you cup the outline of him, and harder still when you slip the button free to slide your hand down against his skin. Dark hair gathers below his navel and thickens to curls at the base of his cock.

Gently, carefully, you wrap your hand around the length of him and stroke in time with his lips’ movement on yours. His cock twitches in your palm, and his fingers stroke the outer side of your labia. You don’t correct him, too concerned with the hot smoothness of him in your hand. Unconsciously, he rocks into your hold, his kiss falling out of focus; holding his open lips in a gasp against yours.

He seems unsure of his own movements, but not self-conscious—as though he knows you’ve seen enough of him, now, not to mind.

“Stop,” he breathes, his hand coming down to still yours. “Stop, I don’t want to…”

You slip your hand free as he kicks his pants off properly, pulling his shirt over his head, getting it momentarily caught around his pendant. Your own shirt is tangled below your bared breasts, and you yank it off, tossing your underwear to the side, your knees together as he crawls up over you.

“Have you got…?”

“In the drawer,” you say, and his cock hangs heavy between your bodies as he leans up and opens it. He pauses for only a moment before he’s back on his knees over you, square foil packet in one hand, your vibrator in the other.

Your face heats as he turns it around, searching for the controls. “I’m not totally sure what I’m doing,” he admits. “Can I use this, though? Would that…be good? For you?”

With anybody else, you’d probably be embarrassed with such a proposition. It would be simpler; more exciting to pretend at your own easiness, as though your body’s demands are nothing, really—you don’t want to be a bother. But not with Steven. He asks openly; just as endlessly earnest as always. You realise in that moment that you think you might love him.

“I can show you,” you offer, reaching for it, turning it on. He watches your face and you watch his as you part your legs and bring the low rumbling toy to your clit. He lays his hand over the back of yours as you hold it in place, settling into your pleasure. You gasp as he kisses your breasts, your neck, watching you.

Distantly you’re aware of the shift of movement as he rolls the condom over his cock and gently strokes his length, his attention fixed to every hot, subtle flex of your body. The sheets feel damp beneath your legs as your empty cunt squeezes, your toes curling.

“Can I…?” he breathes, and you nod, reaching up for him.

He stretches inside you slowly, with a weak groan. He’s careful not to jostle the hand still holding the toy to your clit. The pressure of his thickness fills you, and the pleasure is immediately overwhelming as he sinks deeper. You wonder whether he can feel the vibrations through his cock, as your breathing hitches.

Your free hand winds into his curls as he presses into the hot, close suck of your cunt, barely withdrawing before he’s rocking back against you. Everything about him fills your senses. He’s all you can smell, all you can see.

Your cry is muffled as your cunt squeezes him, your thighs tightening around his waist. Your orgasm melts up into your stomach, filling your entire body, dragging your eyes closed. You pull the now-too-much toy away, thumbing it off, dropping it over the bed.

He holds himself still while you clutch at him, and it isn’t until you suck in a grounding breath that he resumes his filling push-pull drag inside you. He lays his weight lower over your body now that there’s nothing between the two of you, and your hands cup his head, his neck, anchoring him close to you as his hips’ movements begin to stutter out of time.

He comes with a long, low, broken sigh. With his chest pressed to yours, you can feel the race of his heart as though from inside your own chest.

You don’t really want to move. You’d like to keep him inside you until he softens, and stay even after then; until you both slip away. But discomfort sets in, and he lifts his weight from you; your skin muggy-stuck together. He stretches out on his side next to you, his arms lifted, the dark hair beneath his arms damp with sweat as you step out of bed and pad to the toilet.

You’re splashing water on your face when he appears behind you in the mirror, knotted condom in hand, looking dazedly at himself for a moment. “Can you stay?” you ask, meeting his eyes in the reflection.

He frowns, and for a moment your heart lurches as his gaze sharpens. He takes in your bare breasts; your swollen lips and damp hair, as though only now registering what’s just happened. Then he blinks, and nods, and you lead him back to bed.

His thigh slots between your legs as you lay curled face-to-face like nesting dolls; your hands against his chest, his body around yours. Your eyes are growing heavier with every breath, but his attention doesn’t drift as his thumb traces the edge of your lower lip.

“Go to sleep, Steven,” you whisper, your eyes closing.

“I can’t,” he says, quiet. “I might not be here when I wake up.”

“I will,” you tell him. “I’ll be here. And I’ll wait. However long it takes. Until you come back again.”

-

You dream about sand dunes shifting and lifting in the wind. Enormous birds wheel in the sky, with strange silhouettes, but you can’t see them; the sun is far too bright for you to turn your face up, and they move too quickly to follow.

Pale, foggy London light beams in through the windows overhead. The bed beneath you is soft, and warm, and you breathe in the gentle smell of his skin on the linen as you stretch your hand out to curl around his.

But his side of the bed is cold. Cold enough to tell you that he’s been gone for some time. You turn over and find the covers rumpled and pulled down.

You sit up too quickly, and your head spins. His clothes are gone from the floor beside the bed, as are his shoes. The flat is empty save for you and your dirty dishes, and the undisturbed motes of dust suspended in the slant of light piercing the room.

You don’t get up straight away. There doesn’t seem much point, and movement seems impossibly heavy anyway, as though your limbs are filled with stones.

But then the door clicks open. He turns as he steps inside and hangs your key back on its hook. His dark curls are damp with rain, and he’s balancing two take-away cups in his hands. He stands strangely straight; no hunch to his shoulders. Despite the chill, his sleeves are pushed back from his forearms, and his teeth glint as he offers you a slightly-lopsided smile, his dimple standing out. “Hey.”

Draped in nothing but the sheets, your heart soars. “Hey.”

Additional notes:

While I was reading about some of the challenges commonly experienced by DID patients when entering into romantic relationships, I found quite a lot of discussion around knowing "who" to listen to in situations where alters disagree or expect different things from one another/in conjunction with their partners. Psychiatrists recommend holding the entire system to account for the actions of one alter, which I can imagine would make for some pretty difficult conversations.

Also, I've avoided using any specific terminology around the treatment-based concept of integration, and while I'm not necessarily alluding toward that direction with my ending I just thought it worth mentioning here. I've seen the writers, producers and actors involved with Moon Knight use the word numerous times in interviews when discussing Steven and Marc, to the point where I don't believe it's accidental. I understand integration is hugely sensitive and controversial for people with DID, and obviously we don't yet know for certain where the series will end up, but I've tried to leave this open-ended purely for my own sense of comfort based on whichever direction it goes (and, hopefully yours too).

Thank you so much for reading. I truly appreciate all comments, rbs and feedback, and would love to hear your thoughts x

[alloftheimagines]

bucky barnes | goodnight, sweetheart

masterlist

bucky x reader | set after the events of Endgame

words: 1.7k

warnings: references to death and the Blip, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, war, blood (reader grazes her knees) and trauma.

a/n: i haven’t posted an imagine in eons but like... if you wanna see more Bucky imagines feel free to send me prompts.

Unless he was dragged onto one of Sam’s missions, Bucky’s Fridays were usually spent with a six-pack of beers and the canned laughter of a sitcom re-run blaring from the TV. He hated them. Hated sitting alone with his thoughts in a dark apartment that didn’t feel like home. Nowhere felt like home anymore.

He propped his feet on the coffee table assembled from an Ikea flat-pack last week, turning the TV up louder to drown out that particular train of thought — but his finger paused on the volume button when he heard something in the corridor outside. A shuffling, and then a sort of whimper.

With a frown, he stood up and placed down his beer, walking slowly to the door. He used the peep hole, hackles already rising as the muffled sounds continued. Just a normal, depressing Friday night. That’s all he wanted.

There was nobody there that he could see, though. Still, his metal arm fisted just in case as he unbolted and unlocked his door. It was met with resistance, as though somebody was pushing back on the other side. 

“The fuck?” he muttered, tearing it open in the hopes it would startle whoever was messing with him. A woman tumbled into his apartment on her back, landing at his feet. The neighbour. You lived opposite and were about the only person in the complex who didn’t look at him like he was a bomb about to detonate. He didn’t know if that meant you were unaware of his past, or just didn’t want to be rude. It was selfish to hope the former, but he did.

“Y/N?” he asked, brows knitting together in confusion. 

Your eyes were watery and red-rimmed, unfocused, as you looked up at him. “Why are you in my apartment?” you slurred.

Drunk, he realised. He could smell it on you, too, the acrid stench of sweet wine all over you. He sighed, knelt, helped you into a seat. “I’m not. You live over there.” He pointed to your closed door. 

“Shit,” you mumbled, swaying even with his arm supporting your back. “Really? I could have sworn… Shit. That’s why the key didn’t work, huh?”

“You alright?” 

You didn’t look alright, and the fact caused something in his stomach to clench. He’d only ever seen you beaming, whether at the ass crack of dawn with a flask of coffee in your hand, or late in the evening, your hair mussed and rings beneath your eyes from getting in late. You were the sunshine in this miserable little corner of the world, and he wanted it back. He wanted you back, even if he didn’t know you enough to have a right to.

“I, uh…” You tried to stand up; got half an inch off the floor and then fell back on your ass again. “I think I’ve had a little too much to drink. I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I was jus’…” You kicked out your legs and huffed out a frustrated breath. The room was spinning and you were both hot and freezing cold, and the metal arm on your shoulder was doing nothing to help matters. Making an ass of yourself in front of the most handsome man in your building hadn’t been the plan — but then, nothing about tonight had been planned. 

It had been a rough fucking year, was all. Coming back from the Blip to find your father had died, your fiancé had found someone else, and your mother had moved out of your home town to somewhere that didn’t remind her of her heartache had wrecked something vital inside you, though you liked to pretend otherwise. Everyone else just seemed to come back and resume life as normal, but you… you felt like you were still spiralling into oblivion somewhere. This wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

And getting drunk with a few co-workers had taken your mind off it, so you’d downed a few too many red wines and pretended to laugh as loudly as everyone else did.

“What happened to your knees?” Bucky’s features darkened, and then he was a blur moving to sit in front of you. You hadn’t even noticed until now: you’d scraped your knees on the way up the stairs.

“Damn elevator was out o’ service again. I fell on the stairs.”

“You sure?” He looked at you as though he didn’t believe you - as though there could be another reason why you were bleeding. The Winter Soldier, people whispered was his name. You supposed that soldiers were always looking for signs of war, not just a drunk incapable of getting herself home. 

“Uh-huh.” You nodded and used his shoulder to hoist yourself up, all too aware of the stings on your skin now your attention had been drawn to it. And then there was the fact you couldn’t walk in your fucking heels, and your head was caught in some sort of tornado trying to catch up to your body, and you stumbled again.

Bucky gripped you by the forearms. “Woah. Hey. Take it easy a minute.” 

“‘M fine,” you lied. “I should go.”

“Let me check your knees first. God only knows what kind of diseases are lingering in that stairwell.” He led you carefully to his couch, and you couldn’t help but collapse, desperate for solid ground. Your stomach twisted with nausea, only settling once you could still again. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted anyway. “I really am, James.” It was the name he’d given you when you’d met, the name that made him feel most familiar to you, but he looked at you as though you had surprised him.

You had. He didn’t know why. People still called him James when they were being polite. But this wasn’t politeness. This was whispered and soft and it made him feel like he could be anyone - not the Winter Soldier or Bucky Barnes. Just James. He’d always hated the name before. He liked it now.

Heat prickled along his neck, and he cleared his throat to try to dissolve it as he searched his cupboards for something to clean and cover your wounds. Wasn’t hard, considering he bled more than he ate most days. One fight to the next. It never stopped, even when he was here, in his apartment. War was the guest who never left.

He filled a glass of water while he was at it and brought it back to you with the first aid supplies. He handed the drink to you first, noticing the goosebumps peppering your bare arms. The neckline you wore tonight was…low, but he was a gentleman once, and he tried to be one now. 

“Thanks.” You gulped down the water as though you’d been wandering the desert.

“You were out with friends tonight, then?”

“Co-workers.” You didn’t know why the correction mattered. “It was just supposed to be one drink.”

“Always is.” He smirked, all stubble and laughter lines, and god, that chin. You wanted to bury yourself in it. “You look like you’ve been crying.”

“Yeah, well, I thought my key wasn’t working. Turns out I was at the wrong door or somethin’.” You swiped your cheeks, and then did your best to clear your under-eyes of smeared mascara. “God, I’m a mess. I’m so sorry, James. I really should—“

“Sit down.” He was gentle as he nudged you back down, pulling out some alcohol wipes. If all he could do tonight was help you, he’d gladly do it. “This might sting a little.”

It stung a lot, causing a sharp intake of breath. 

He winced. “Sorry, sweetheart.” The ward slipped from him without thought, and his fingers stilled on your knee. ’Sweetheart’? Where the fuck had that come from?

Still, the word caused you to soften. You sniffled, trying to be brave when he cleaned the other knee. He smeared antiseptic cream on both gashes and then covered them with large band-aids. “I feel like a kid,” you remarked. “’S been a long time since anyone’s taken care o’ me.”

Another smile, this one all teeth. He was so fucking beautiful, you had to resist the urge to draw your finger around his lips, just to make sure you remembered it when you woke hungover tomorrow. To distract yourself, you turned your gaze to the TV. Friends was playing, the one where Chandler proposes to Monica. 

He noticed, glancing at the screen himself. “You like this show?”

You hummed, comfortable and warm and exhausted. “My favourite. My dad used to watch it with me.”

“Is he still around?” 

He was still knelt in front of you like you were some sort of goddess, and it made you uneasy. You avoided his gaze, your tear-pricked eyes falling shut involuntarily. “No. Died when I was Blipped, or whatever it is they call it. Never got to say goodbye.”

A line wrinkled between his brows. “Jesus. I’m sorry, Y/N.” 

You shrugged. “Things change. People move on. You mind if I stay here to watch the end of this?”

“No,” he whispered softly. “Not at all.” His hand found your calf; squeezed. It was the least alone you’d felt since you’d moved to the city, and you wanted it to stay — not to fill the hole in your chest, but because it was him, and you’d been drawn to him since the moment he’d helped you with your moving boxes that first day. 

A blanket was draped across your bare legs, and you were glad. The dress you’d chosen was short, and if you were sober, you might have noticed it was riding up your thighs. You kicked off your shoes and curled into yourself. 

Bucky sank beside you a moment later, sipping his beer. You could feel his eyes on you instead of the TV and pretended not to notice, though it made you hot and sweaty and real. Like you’d finally stopped floating. 

When you laughed, he laughed with you. And when you dozed off, using the arm of the couch as your pillow, he tugged the blanket over your shoulders and straightened out your legs to make sure you were comfy. The cool brush of his metal fingers was the last thing you felt, tracing a line from your temple to your cheek — softer than any metal should have been. Softer than anything you could remember. 

“Night, sweetheart,” he whispered, and then the TV went quiet and for once, so did the ache in your chest.

[spencersawkward]

omg I’m so excited you’re on here and taking requests!! do you think you could do something like baby Spence losing his virginity to a close friend & it’s like adorable, goofy, fluffy smut bc he cannot get over the fact that he’s actually having sex with someone

I’VE BEEN WAITIN FOR THIS ONE-- TURN IT UP!!!

on a serious note, i'm so glad you asked for this one bc i really wanna add a scene like this in the fic i'm working on rn. i'm v excited.

summary: when the secret of Spencer's virginity gets accidentally spilled in front of the whole team, reader goes to check on him.

word count: 5.6k

relationship: Fem!Reader/Spencer Reid

content warnings: unprotected penetrative sex, creampie, fluff.

masterlist

hanging out with the team is easily the best part of the week. after spending days in Arizona with our focus entirely on the most recent case, my mind is practically ready to snap. I feel like I've been running on fumes, and when Penelope suggested we take the evening to hit our favorite bar, I was practically already out the door.

so now I'm sandwiched between JJ and Emily as we throw back our first shots of the night. my skin is already flushed with the elation of laughter, the pleasant thrum of conversation that surrounds us.

"that's bitter." JJ makes a face when she slams the empty glass on the table. I screw up my nose.

"why did we pick vodka?" I hate vodka.

"it gets the job done." Emily laughs. I shudder at the aftertaste that sits on my tongue.

Morgan wanders over, Pen on his arm while she totes a brightly colored pink alcohol. they're flirting as usual, but she pauses in her witticisms to grab my arm.

"we're playing truth or shot in that booth over there." she says to me, then gets the attention of the other two women. I let out a disbelieving laugh.

"truth or shot? like truth or dare but without the dare?"

"Reid, is that you?" Morgan says sarcastically. I slug him in the arm with a pout.

"be nice." but I'm giggling. he loops his arm through mine and we head back to the table, Penelope already starting a new conversation with JJ and Prentiss as they follow. Spencer is sitting in the booth with an Arnold Palmer, sipping from the straw like it's his job. I slide into the spot next to him.

"hi, you." I smile. "I haven't seen you at all tonight."

he holds up his glass. "I don't really drink."

"that's fine," I wave it off. "I just meant I wanted to hang out with you."

"oh." he smiles a little. "sorry."

"no big deal. you're here now." I shrug and turn to Pen as she calls my name.

"I'm gonna order a bottle. that okay?" she points to the bar with a mischievous smile. glancing once at Spencer and his slightly awkward position between Morgan and me, I make a snap decision.

"you know what? I think I'll just have a lemonade."

"you sure? Jayge said you spent the whole plane ride back talking about getting wasted--" Penelope's words cause a blush to spread over my face. I cut her off.

"I'm sure. thanks, Penny."

she nods. "of course, sweet cheeks."

I focus back on Reid, who is looking at me gratefully. he would never say it out loud, but I know he feels a little out-of-place sometimes. it's hard enough for him to come out with us to bars; the least I can do is be a sober friend. I open my mouth to start a conversation about an article I read the other day when Prentiss speaks.

"okay, so... who's ready?" her voice, always so certain, carries over the table. all of us make enthusiastic noises of assent, and she grins as Penelope returns with an armful of glasses. Derek gets up to grab the actual alcohol, and then when we're all settled in, the game begins.

"the rules are simple: you tell the truth, or you drink!" the tech analyst explains. the stakes for Spencer and me are lower, but that doesn't really matter. I'm excited to hear the team divulge their secrets.

"I'll start." Prentiss doesn't even hesitate before she looks at Morgan. "Derek, are you still sleeping with that one woman from sex crimes?"

Morgan raises his eyebrows at the question, irises flitting between Emily and the rim of his drink. there's a slight smirk on his face; he knows what a player he is and he's okay with flaunting it.

"Ally? no." he sighs. "things didn't end well between us."

"what? why?" I ask, eyes widening before I look around at everyone. "who is this woman?"

"cool your jets, sparky." Morgan teases me. "only one question per round."

"I'll tell you later." Prentiss raises her drink in my direction and winks.

"uh, no no." Morgan attempts to stop her, but JJ interrupts him.

"speaking of things not ending well," she says loudly. "Pen, why did you and Sam break up?"

"well," Penelope sticks her tongue between her teeth as she thinks it over with a devilish smile. her lips are a ruby red tonight, bright against her pale skin and big eyes. "to be completely honest, he just wasn't... doin' it for me. you know?"

"like--?" Emily glances down at her lap. Pen nods quickly and I snicker. JJ looks awestruck.

"I thought it was going so well."

"it was, but..." Penelope seems to genuinely think this over before she speaks. "if it's right, it just clicks. and it never clicked with Sam."

"profound." I compliment, high-fiving the high-energy blonde. we giggle before she turns to me with a glint in her eye.

"oh, do I have a plan for you," she smirks. "tell me, Y/N: if you had to sleep with one person on our team, who would it be?"

"women included?" I clarify, my cheeks suddenly on fire. how come everyone got easy questions except for me? I'm really just biding time.

"of course." she nudges my shoulder. I mull this over for a minute. I could say the truth, but I don't think that would be the right thing to do. however ironic that is. given the situation, I do something which I have never been good at and which I don't enjoy doing: I lie.

"although all of you are catches," I preface. "I think I would probably pick Emily."

Prentiss almost chokes on her own spit as her head snaps to see my face.

"me?" she asks.

"low-pressure fun." I shrug, the stress of the moment rolling off my shoulders with the ensuing laughter of my team members. Spencer takes a sip of his drink and peeks at me from his spot before I focus my attention to JJ.

we go on like this for a while, our original plan of "truth or drink" really just turning into a game of "truth and drink." as our laughter gets progressively louder, our questions and answers get progressively more provocative. we get into risky territory towards the fourth round, and I can practically feel Spencer's discomfort radiating off of him. thank god everyone has been taking it easier on him with their questions.

that is, until Morgan hits about five shots and decides to throw him to the wolves.

"so, Reid," he asks. there's no malice in his tone and I'm sure he's not meaning to embarrass the boy genius, but the question makes me wince anyways. "have we made any progress on the virginity front?"

it's like a fucking pall over the table. Reid goes rigid in his spot, and JJ's protective eyes dart between him and Morgan. Penelope's jaw drops.

"wait, Reid, you're a--?" her voice is tender, not judgmental, but Spencer's cheeks turn pink and he looks at Derek with a hurt expression.

"not cool." he says, body shifting in my direction. his eyes communicate everything; without a word, I know what he wants. I scoot out of the booth, letting him slip by me to walk outside.

truly, I'm speechless. we all stare at his lanky frame push through the door, but nobody talks until at least fifteen seconds pass.

"what the hell was that, Morgan?" JJ asks.

"I thought everyone knew--" he throws his hands up. "I swear I wouldn't have said anything if--"

"why would everyone know that?" I feel myself get angry for Spencer's sake. "that's an incredibly personal thing, especially to him."

"that wasn't you, my love." Penelope's voice is soft, sobered by the incident that just occurred. the playful air at the table is officially ruined, and we keep glancing at the doorway like Reid will come back in and everything will be fine. he doesn't.

"I'm gonna go apologize." Morgan starts to get up, seemingly beginning to realize the weight of his words. it's one thing to ask about Reid's sex life in general; it's another to point out specifically the entire absence of it. Spencer doesn't seem to be bothered by most things, but this is different. my heart hurts.

we watch Morgan go, the women all looking at each other with worried expressions.

"I feel bad." Penelope says.

"y'know, Spence never told me that." JJ observes.

"he really trusts Morgan." Prentiss says what we're all thinking. Morgan has always been like a big brother to him, and being embarrassed in front of your co-workers like that can't be a pleasant feeling.

we sit in a relative silence for about five minutes until Morgan walks back into the bar. he pulls out his wallet and pays for the drinks, then walks over to us.

"I'm gonna go for a walk. do you need me to call you all cabs?" he asks. those dramatic brows are drawn low over his face, emphasizing his regret. I look between my friends and clear my throat.

"it's okay. I only had one shot about an hour and a half ago. I can drive everyone home."

"okay," Morgan sighs, his head turning briefly to the door before focusing back on us. "drive safe, ladies."

and then he's gone.

"you guys ready?" I start to shrug my jacket on. they all nod and we get ready to go.

...

sitting in my apartment later that night, my head is swimming. even though it's none of my business what happens in Spencer's sex life, I wish I could tell him that it's okay. nobody cares at all if he's a virgin or not. but I know it's still embarrassing.

I hate that I lied earlier tonight, too. I wanted to say Spencer's name when they asked who I wanted, because I meant it. we're close, and I will always love him as a friend. but I've also always wanted more.

nobody, not even any of the other BAU women, know about my crush. I didn't want it to get in the way, or for it to come out and ruin my friendship with Reid. he doesn't like me like that, and that's fine, but what's not fine is not having him as my friend.

he was the first person I really connected with when I came here, and I feel a little protective over him, too.

once the clock hits eleven, I consider calling. he’s definitely not asleep yet. Spencer is a night owl. normally at this time he'd be curled up with a huge book, reading impossibly fast.

when he picks up on the third ring, the air leaves my lungs.

"Y/N?" he asks, more surprised than anything else.

"hey, Spence--" I hesitate, suddenly not sure what to say. sorry Morgan told everyone you're a fucking virgin? “do you wanna come over?"

maybe if I see him face-to-face, I'll be able to collect my thoughts better. the words hang in the air, festering over the line until I'm just about to take them back, before he replies.

"y-yeah. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

my hands are shaking at my side when I open the door for the tall genius. he's still wearing his outfit from earlier, hair slicked back like normal. I've settled for my usual sweatpants and t-shirt winning combo. it's not like he cares.

"hey." I smile, trying to read his micro expressions. there are two possible outcomes here, knowing him: either he's going to be totally, completely over it, or he'll be able to write a War-and-Peace-length book on why he's upset.

"hi." he gives a wan smile and I let him into my apartment, closing the door behind him and gesturing to the couch.

"I missed this place." he says absently, looking around at the mess of decor and case files. I snort as I recall the last time he was here. he wanted to borrow a book that I had, and we ended up watching an entire docu-series about homing pigeons. it was surprisingly interesting; mostly because his commentary is both informative and funny.

"it missed you." I anthropomorphize my living space, but the phrase hangs heavy. I'm worried about him. I'm always worried about Spencer. he turns to look at me, opening his mouth to say something. I brush past him and walk into the kitchen. "coffee?"

"sure." he follows me like a lost puppy, leaning against the counter while I pull out two mugs and get to work.

"hey," I pause for a moment to look him in the eyes. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry-- about what happened... tonight."

"oh, that?" he scoffs, waves it off unconvincingly. "it's fine."

I raise my brows the slightest bit, never breaking eye contact. he wouldn’t have come if he didn’t want to talk about it. he cracks easily.

"it's just embarrassing, you know?" he says, staring out my kitchen window to alleviate his own nerves. I gesture for him to follow me back into the living room and I sit down criss-cross applesauce on the couch. he mirrors me, kicking off those cute black Converse.

"I don't think the fact itself is embarrassing, but I totally get why it feels that way. he shouldn't have said anything." I nod.

"like, that's personal. a-and--" he hesitates a moment, gesticulating wildly now. "and it's not like he's got any right! at least I don't go around with so many girls that I forget their names."

the thought of Reid sleeping with that many women is a little bit funny, but it also makes my stomach twist with jealousy.

"did he apologize?"

"yeah, he did. and he was drunk, I know." he rolls his eyes. "I'm overreacting."

"no, really, you're not." without thinking, I scoot closer to him and place my hand over his, which is sitting on his knee. I remember that Spencer is usually pretty averse to touch, but when I move it back to my lap, he seems a little disappointed. I wonder if he gets lonely.

"is it weird?" the question sounds raw, like he's mustering a lot to hear my response. I shake my head immediately.

"well, for one, Spence, I would never judge anyone based on their sex life, period." I chuckle. "and two, no way! if you aren't into having sex at this point in your life-- or ever-- that's totally your choice and you're entitled to it."

his eyes meet mine, pools of honeyed hazel that swim with a slightly amber shade. his face is so pretty, it's sometimes unbelievable to me that he doesn't get more action. bone structure that would make a sculpture envious.

"that's the thing," he licks his lips nervously before averting his gaze again. "I am interested-- I just don't-- well, I don't--"

"don't have someone to do it with?" I suggest with a slight smile. he nods, then clarifies.

"girls don't really seem to be interested in me."

I let out a laugh, unable to contain myself. his head jerks up to frown in confusion. I’m quick to amend myself.

"Spence, that's not true at all. you're such a catch! you're sweet and funny and way smarter than anyone I know. not to mention that you're adorable." I compliment, letting some of the thoughts I've been keeping to myself bubble to the surface. "any girl would be beyond lucky to be with you, sexually or not." Spencer blushes at my words, but the squirming in his spot tells me that it makes him feel warm inside. he smiles a little.

"you think?" it's genuine. he appreciates being praised, and it makes my heart flutter when he gives me that expression like I've made his night.

"I know." more of what I want to say rolls around my mind, unsure of whether or not I should admit it. but I think that right now, it'll only serve to make him feel better. "actually, I should tell you something."

"what?" he's curious now.

"when we were at the bar and Penelope asked who I'd be with... on the team... I lied."

"okay." he nods, somehow not connecting the dots. I guess it doesn't matter if they've got enormous IQs; boys are still clueless.

"I was gonna say you." the truth presses from the inside out, lifting a weight off my chest now that it's out there. even if he doesn't return that feeling, I'm suddenly glad that I told him.

"me?" he gestures to his narrow chest. I nod.

"yeah. I didn't wanna make you uncomfortable or embarrass you in front of our friends." I explain. he breaks into a grin.

"thanks." like I've given him something. I feel myself smiling as well, and then we're just looking at each other. tension that neither of us is willing to break. as much as I'd like to take him right here right now, he hasn't said anything about actually having sex or even about being attracted to me. for all I know, he could be completely indifferent.

"listen, Spence--"

"would you be willing to--" we speak at the same time, both of us stopping and laughing awkwardly.

"sorry, you go first." I offer, and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.

"would you want to... um..." he scratches the back of his neck before his eyes meet mine. "try it?"

"sex?" I raise my eyebrows. he nods. I try to find the right response. that’s more assertive than I expected. my pulse is fast, daring me to tell the truth. "I mean-- yes, I would love to-- but are you sure you want it to be with me, Spence? what about a girl that you like?"

"you are a girl that I like." he says this like it's matter-of-fact, like it's obvious. my heart stops in my chest before it starts to hammer.

"really?" a smile makes its way onto my face.

"I thought you knew."

"no." I laugh. my chest is full of sunlight.

"well, you are."

there's a brief silence where I try to get myself back on track. he likes me, too.

"are you sure you want to do this?" I glance at the space between our bodies, which has grown steadily smaller over the course of our conversation. Spencer is watching my every move with an intensity that tells me he's nervous.

"yes." he's unwavering.

"okay, well, you've kissed girls, right?" I inch closer. he nods.

"one."

"oh, Spencer," I sigh contentedly. "I have so much to teach you."

right after I say this, Spencer shifts uncomfortably in his seat. it's only then that I notice his hand covering his lap, the erection that's forming beneath his pants. my eyes flick up to his hungrily.

"sorry." he apologizes.

"don't be." our faces are inches apart and he's practically holding his breath. "I'm gonna kiss you. is that okay?"

"yes." he replies immediately. I place my hands gently on the side of his face, admiring the softness and sharpness of his jaw when I pull him to me, kissing him with a suppressed desire. his mouth is soft against mine, a little anxious to move. after a moment, he starts to relax.

his lips part and I deepen our contact, tilting my head and keeping it mostly mild at first. I don't want to shove my tongue down his throat. our knees are touching and his hand hesitantly finds my waist, the other going to run through my hair. I sigh into him, his fingertips a new sensation that I adore.

Spencer begins to give in a bit more to himself, asserting himself in the kiss and slipping his tongue over my bottom lip. I almost laugh at how quickly he gets the hang of it. he reads my body language effortlessly, not even skipping a beat when I climb into his lap and lace my arms around his neck.

"is this okay?" I pull away momentarily. he nods.

"you're so pretty." an unrelated response, but appreciated nonetheless. I laugh and peck his nose.

"thanks." and then we're back to making out, his hands resting on the small of my back. it's nice. I could stay like this forever, just pressed against Spencer while my fingers thread through his soft hair. he's cautious with me, and it's innocent.

I can feel his boner, can feel from the eagerness of his kisses that he's trying not to bring up the fact that he's literally just throbbing in his pants right now. in order to give him a little of what he wants, I start to rock my hips against his.

Spencer whimpers into my mouth. I stop and look down at him.

"do you want me to stop?"

"no, god, no— never stop." he's mindless in his reply, already grabbing my hips greedily and trying to regain that friction. I shake my head with a chuckle, then resume my actions. he starts to rut up against me, groaning into our embrace while his hands get more adventurous.

I withdraw, breaking the kiss to straighten up. he doesn't stop the microscopic pushes of his hips. I bite back a smile, enjoying the friction, too.

"do you wanna take my clothes off, Spence?" I ask softly.

"y-yes." he replies, gingerly taking the hem of my top and beginning to lift it over my head. when he places it on the couch beside me, his eyes immediately fall to my bra. slender fingers run up my bare waist, his watch glinting in the candlelight. when he doesn't immediately reach to unclasp my bra, I grab his wrist and guide it to the clasps myself. he moves with a surprising ease, unsnapping the thing and grazing over my skin as he slides the straps down my shoulders. I can tell that he’s shaking a tad, but it doesn’t hinder him.

the second that he's discarded the lingerie, he looks up at me with moony eyes.

"can I... kiss you?" he looks at my bare chest. "here?"

"of course, Spence." I nod. he presses his lips to the space between my ribs, drags them up to the valley between my breasts. lingers, then attaches himself to one of my nipples. I sigh, throwing my head back at the way he moves intuitively, sucking and running his tongue over the peak. he squeezes the other breast, plays with the nipple and starts to acquaint himself with the curves of my body.

the whole time, he's straining against my core, rutting helplessly in pleasure. it feels heavenly, with that sweet face of his so devoted to making me feel good, that I nearly stray from the purpose of the experience.

"Spencer..." I breathe. he moans at the sound of his name, then looks up at me from his place sucking on my tits. his teeth graze of my skin and I buck into his lap, causing him to groan appreciatively. my fingers tangle in his soft hair.

"Y/N," he pulls away from my chest, his lips making a soft popping sound. I gaze down at him, a bit lost in the fantasies running through my head. he's a natural. "can we, um-- like, expedite this process a little?"

"expedite the process?” I repeat back to him, giggling at his formality.

"what?" his voice goes up an octave, but he's smiling. "you know what I mean."

"I really do." I lean down, pressing my thumb into his jaw and angling his face up to mine to kiss. while his hands curiously move over my body, I start to push down the waistband of my sweatpants. I break contact just for a moment to peel them off, and he releases a quiet whine. it's cute.

"come back." he says softly, watching as I slide the bottoms down my legs, leaving me in my panties.

"I'm back." I peck his cheek, climb into his lap again. "can we take off your clothes, too?"

"mhmm." he nods. his lips part when my fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with a torturous slowness. I can feel his eyes on my face the whole time.

"what?" I chuckle, peeking up at him for a moment before I pull his shirt open and run my palms up his chest, over his shoulders. he nearly shudders at the sheer touch.

"I just can't believe this is actually happening." he smiles in that way of his, like he's suppressing the depth of his emotions, with his brows slightly raised. I take the opportunity to enjoy the sight of him before me, his rapidly rising and falling chest, the smoothness of his skin.

"honestly?" I start to unbutton his pants, and he jerks up into my hand, blushing once he realizes the earnestness of his actions. I smirk encouragingly. "me, neither."

before I pull down his boxers, my eyes flick to his. "is this still okay?"

"Y/N," he groans. "if you don't do something, I'm gonna cum too early." he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment when my hand moves over his clothed erection, like he's holding on. "please."

"sorry." I release him from the confines. it hits his stomach and he waits for my reaction, as if he's afraid that I'll change my mind right now. but I'm definitely not going to. "holy fuck, Spencer."

"what?" he panics slightly, sitting up more. "is it not enough?"

"not enou--" I stutter, almost laugh. "no, it's plenty. I had no idea..."

"oh." he hides the pleased smile on his face, blush spreading over his pretty throat. in the interest of "expediting the process," I wrap my hand around the base of his cock and gently pump him.

Spencer's stomach tenses and he grabs onto the cushion of the couch with a tight fist, sighing.

"mmm..." he doesn't try to word his emotions, but I know. and I like that I'm making him feel this way, sharing this experience. Spencer and I are such close friends, I never thought we'd actually have sex. my assumption was that I'd watch him grow into himself, find a nice girl and treat her like a queen.

but here I am, spitting into my hand before jerking him off to prepare for what’s next. he’s throbbing, sounds coming from his throat.

"I'm gonna sit on it, okay?" I lean down to whisper in his ear. he touches my waist, my neck, kisses a random spot on my chest in the waves of pleasure that I'm giving him.

"o-okay." he mumbles, waiting for me to actually do it. and there's a moment of tense anticipation between both of us, when I sit up and pull my panties to the side. Spencer watches like I'm the only thing in the world, saving the memory of my body on top of his for later.

I run the head of his cock along my entrance, soaking him in the wetness between my thighs. I didn't realize how turned on I'd already gotten, and he lets out a quiet whine when he feels the evidence of how much I want him.

our eyes lock when I sink down. it's a new feeling for him, and the shape of his member as it stretches my walls causes me to bite my lip to withhold moaning too loudly. he whimpers, neck tensing and fingertips digging into my hips.

"o-oh." he sucks in a breath as I reach the halfway point. he's so big, I have to go slow in order not to overwhelm myself. but it feels good, too. like... unbelievably good. I grip onto his shoulders and my head falls forward into his shoulder.

"Spencer, holy shit." I moan.

"does it feel nice?" he asks, concerned for my own pleasure. I feel my chest flutter at the thoughtfulness of the boy wonder even when he's in the midst of losing his virginity, and I lower myself onto the rest of him.

"mhmm," I rest for a moment. "how do you feel?"

"like--" his breath hitches when I begin to rock back and forth on him. "like I've been missing out."

I can't help the giggle that slips past my lips, but then it quickly turns into a longing moan when he starts to thrust up into me like a helpless thing. Spencer is brilliant, but his brain cells go out the window when he throws his head back and begs me to move more.

I nod, raising and lowering myself until we reach a special pace. it's not fast or slow, just the two of us trying to stay in the moment while we hold on tightly to each other. I can feel the cool metal of his watch when he splays his hand out over my spine, the warmth of his breath while he pants against my shoulder.

he hits my g-spot over and over. my moans are torn from my throat by the burning of my lungs. it's like I can't breathe because I'm so focused on chasing the orgasm building in my stomach. and Spencer... I can tell he's almost finished.

the erratic nature of his jerking body tells me.

"I'm gonna cum..." he moans into my neck. "do- do you want me to pull out?"

"no." I arch my back and throw myself into the friction of our bodies. he stares up at me while I ride him, the merciless grinding of my hips because I just can't help myself. "oh my god, Spencer."

he notices how close I am and, in a surprisingly deft move, slides two fingers over my pussy to find my clit. the ensuing noise from me tells him that he's found it, and he begins to rub in quick circles. it's rough and hard, but that's exactly what I need right now.

"cum for me, Spence." I breathe. his free hand grips onto my thigh and pulls me over him, his own words unintelligible within the sounds of absolute pleasure.

"please." he begs for something I don't know, spills his seed inside of my pussy and holds onto me like I'm an anchor to this world while he peers into the next. the feeling of him spreading through my stomach, along with the reckless movements of his limbs and the way he looks at me while he rides out his orgasm, sends me over the edge.

"oh my fuck!" I collapse, grabbing his shoulders tightly and rolling myself down while he removes his fingers from my body. it's jarring, the intensity, like my normal functions can't respond correctly. all I can process is the tightening of my stomach, the pleasure between my legs, vision going slightly fuzzy at the edges. he moans when my cunt flutters around him, the muscles trying desperately to hold him here with me forever. I take deep breaths and slow down, my forehead dropping again while I start to remember my own name.

neither of us speaks. I think I'm still too in shock about what just happened, but in the best way. he keeps running his hands over my skin, then wraps his arms around my torso so that I'm pulled against his chest. I smile, kissing his ear before I finally break the silence.

"hi."

"hi." he's got a satisfied tone.

"do you need anything? water?" I ask, exhausted but realizing that this is still new for Spencer and it's my job to make sure he's as comfortable as possible. he nuzzles his nose into my clavicle and squeezes me tighter.

"stay here with me." there's a slight edge to his words. he's afraid of me leaving. I snuggle down, perfectly happy to remain. heat radiates from his skin, and I like the way it feels.

"of course."

we linger in each other’s arms, both of us coming back into the real world and holding on in an attempt to soften the blow. I just had sex with Spencer.

"thank you." he whispers into my hair.

"for what?" the smile on my face is lazy.

"for doing this."

"well, I really wanted to." I laugh. "so, I guess, thank you, too."

"you're quite welcome." his response is cheerful and then we're both laughing, the sound rumbling from his chest. "can we do it again at some point?"

"I would be happy to." I beam. the contented sigh that leaves his lips, followed by a slight sinking of our bodies down the couch in collective exhaustion, fills me with a joy that's quiet but obvious.

“I’ll last longer next time, I promise.” he says. I can practically hear the blush in his cheeks.

“you did amazing, Spence. don’t worry about it.” I press a few stray kisses to him.

I'll need to go clean up, soon, but it can wait a few more minutes. this is my favorite place on earth.

[holdingforgeneralhugs]

Emmaaa❤️❤️ may I request a headcanon where the easy boys fell in love with a shy reader? Maybe with Bull, Tab, Luz, Speirs Babe and Malarkey? Thank you❤️ love you

Aaahhh Fran my dear, what a great way to start off my birthday week tysm for sending one in💓

Bull Randleman:

Bull is super protective of you, always has been.

He got 10 million times more protective when he realises he's head over ass in love with you.

He's always there, always got your back no matter what.

He likes that you're most comfortable when you're with him, makes him feel like he's special.

When he was stuck in that barn in Holland, separated from everyone, thinking about you was the only thing that kept his strength up.

Its then he decides he has to tell you how he feels.

He's pretty direct about it, he doesn't want to beat around the bush with this.

"Look darlin', I ain't gonna mess around here, because to be completely honest I'm head over heels in love with you."

You get all blushy and stuttery and he thinks it's probably the most adorable thing he's ever seen.

He can tell you're flustered, so he grabs your cheeks in his hands and rubs his thumbs over them gently.

"Can I kiss ya darlin'?" He asks softly

You can't even speak you're so surprised, so you nod and he leans in and kisses you slowly, not wanting to rush anything and ruin the perfect moment.

"Hell Bull," you giggle, "I've been hoping you'd say something for ages."

"And why didn't you say anything, huh?" He laughed.

"Because I was too scared you'd turn me down."

"Well," he sighed, kissing your forehead, "I just can't quite believe I ever gave you the impression I'd turn you down. Guess I'll just have to prove to you how much I love you from now on."

Floyd Talbert

Tab is a total flirt

He's all cheesy pickup likes at first and they make you blush like hell but you'll never give him the satisfaction of laughing at them because they're so ridiculous.

But he takes your blushing as encouragement so he keeps going for weeks until eventually he gets a giggle out of you and it makes all his efforts worthwhile because you have the most lovely laugh.

After that you start getting to know each other a little better, and you start to get closer.

He's delighted when you start to open up and share more with him.

It kind of hits him like a slap in the face that shit, he's in love love you.

He's a total softie with you

He's quite subtle about it at first. He does small nice things for you; makes you coffee, gives you half his k ration when supplies are low.

He's surprisingly reluctant to profess his feelings for you. He thinks there's no way you'll see him as anything other than a friend.

Chuck tells him he's an idiot, that you've clearly got feelings for him too and be should just tell you already.

So he does...in the most muddled way possible. It all kinda comes out like word vomit.

"So-I-Just-wanna-tell-you-I-think-you're-wonderful-and-I'm-a-little-bit-in-love-with-you."

You're dumbfounded, and you can't quite comprehend what he's just said.

"Wait," you whisper, "are you being serious right now?"

"Yeah," he laughs, "I've kinda got it really bad for you."

You giggle and blush like hell, and he grins like an idiot because he loves that giggle so much

"How about I take you out for dinner sometime?" He asks cheekily, and his grin widens when you blush harder and agree to go.

He saunters over to you and plants a quick kiss on your lips, before putting his arm around your shoulder and leading you off, pointedly ignoring Chucks wolf whistles when the two of you walk past him.

George Luz

George is the biggest flirt around, and he makes no secret in the fact he likes you.

He goes out of his way to compliment you; tells you that you make Rita Hayworth look plain, that you make sunshine look dull.

The more he makes you blush, the harder he tries. He knows he can crack your shy shell and find the gem underneath.

He's a big fan of cheesy movie quotes, which you adamantly refuse to indulge him with, but he keeps trying nonetheless.

He's tried them all, so he decides this time to pull out all the stops and be as direct about his feelings as possible.

"See that's what's wrong with you," he starts smoothly, "you should be kissed, and often. And by someone who knows how."

He pauses for a second to judge your reaction, and when he sees you smiling he sweeps you into a dramatic dip and kisses you passionately, Clarke Gable style.

He quite literally swept you off your feet, and he knows it too.

Once he knows he's successfully gotten your attention for real, he softens. He dials down the flamboyant flirting and instead he just talks to you and gets to know you for real.

He loves to cuddle you in close and have whispered conversations for hours.

He's very affectionate too, always has to be holding your hand or have his arm around you.

He brings you out of your shell, his enthusiasm and fun nature is so infectious you can't help but be swept up by it and join in on the fun.

Ronald Speirs

Ron is incredibly different when he's with you, much to everyone's surprise.

He laughs with you, like....a lot.

At first you were very cautious with him. You'd heard the stories and weren't too sure what to make of him.

But when you get to know him you realise that he is totally different to what everyone said.

You found that he is really easy to talk to, and he has a wicked sense of humour.

He liked that you were a bit more quiet than others, it made you much easier for him to talk to.

He tells the most brilliant stories, and the two of you usually end up talking for hours about all sorts; history, movies, music, anything and everything.

Its obvious to everyone but you that he has feelings for you.

He thinks you must surely know, that it was completely obvious he'd fallen in love with you. I mean he spends all his free time with you, and he never talks to anyone else the way he does with you.

Lipton eventually realises that no, you don't actually have a clue how Speirs feels about you, so he tells him that you're oblivious.

Naturally Speirs is all action and matter of fact, so he decides to just tell you how he feels and see what happens.

He's kinda nervous despite outward appearances, but he'd never admit it to himself or anyone else.

So he literally just comes out and says it one day; no frills, no fuss.

You're disarmed by his straightforwardness. You'd hoped that he might return your feelings but you'd thought there was no way.

You've never seen him smile brighter than when you told him you returned his feelings.

He wasted no time after that; he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you in to a passionate kiss, his other hand cupping your jaw.

Everyone was delighted you'd mellowed out ole Sparky a little, but of course nobody was brave enough to say it out loud in case he found out.

Babe Heffron

Babe....is a bit of a mess around you.

He tries to act all cool and smooth, but he's really a total disaster because he's so distracted staring at you.

When you first start getting to know each other he does most of the talking. He's nervous as hell around you so his mouth just keeps going.

Lucky for him though you find it endearing, and it helps you feel more comfortable with him so you start to open up too.

After that he prefers to listen instead of talk, because he's fascinated by everything you tell him.

You're two peas in a pod, and everyone thinks you're a miracle worker because you've managed to get Babe to stop talking for 5 minutes.

Its clear to everyone that the guy is totally in love with you, they're just waiting for him to do something about it.

So of course Bill is the one to tell him to get his act together.

"Get your goddamn head out of your ass Babe and stop acting like a lovesick puppy. Go tell her you love her and get the goddamn girl."

It takes him awhile, and he really has to gear himself up to do it. He's attempted to say it so many times but he keeps chickening out.

One night you two are hanging out just the two of you and he manages to get it out.

He stutters like hell, but you think it's seriously adorable, and you're grinning like an idiot by the time he's finished.

"Well, don't leave me hanging," he says nervously, "do you feel the same or...?"

You say nothing, instead leaning towards him and kissing him sweetly.

You're both blushing like two cherry tomatoes, but you're smiling so much your cheeks hurt.

Then you're even more inseparable. Bill thinks you're joined at the hip or something.

You're really cute together though, always holding hands or cuddled up.

What you don't see is that Babe rarely takes his eyes off of you, and he still looks like a lovesick puppy but honestly he couldn't care less.

Don Malarkey

Don tries to act all cool when the boys are around, but when he's alone with you he's much quieter.

It's those quiet moments alone together that you enjoy the most.

He's a great listener, and he has a gentle way of pushing you to open up and be yourself with him.

You guys grow close pretty quickly, and start spending more and more time together.

He finds himself getting lost in conversations with you, and getting distracted staring at you.

He realises one day when you're telling a funny story about your childhood and he hears your wonderful laugh that he's totally in love with you.

He doesn't say anything for awhile, thinking it all over. He contemplates if he should even tell you or not because there's a chance you'll laugh I'm his face and tell him no way in hell.

Eventually he decides to screw it and just tell you. But he's not gonna just come out and say it, he's gotta do some kinda gesture. But nothing too overly dramatic because you wouldn't like that.

So he turns up to meet you with a bunch of flowers he picked himself, and he's been trying to fix his hair for the last goddamn half hour.

He's got a speech prepared and everything, but he's pretty sure he's forgotten half of it.

"Look I...I don't know if you feel the same or anything but...I just want you to know that I am head over heels in love with you. And I don't expect you to return the feelings or anything but I'm hoping you'll give me a chance."

You could tell he was nervous about the whole thing, and it was quite possibly the most endearing thing you'd ever seen in your life.

You took the flowers from him and placed them on a side table quickly before jumping into his arms and hugging him tight.

"Woah," he chuckles, "I'm taking this as a good sign then."

You pulled back your head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes happily, nodding your agreement.

He eyes crinkled when he smiles and he leans in, pressing his lips against yours firmly.

Its clear to everyone how perfect you are for each other; you calm his wilder side and he brings out your more outgoing side.

Well there you have it! Hope you all like it and ilysm Fran thanks so much for such a fun request to kick off the birthday week fun💕

Taglist: @tvserie-s-world @geniedocroe @generousdreamlanddestiny @sunsetmando @cagzzz107 @howunexpectedlyso @alejodi0nysus @sunflowerchuck

[dragon-of-dreams]

A Debt to pay

My Masterlist

Pairing: dark!mafia!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: noncon; breading kink; threats, murder, readers parents are dead, reader getting hit across the face, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! Seariously, this is some really dark shit with some astonishingly soft sx... No idea how that happened... 18+!!!

No mentions of y/n, and reader is kinda an off because she has a back-story but no physical descriptors are used.

Summary: Your dad dies unexpectedly and you take over running the family cafè. The costs for your daddy’s funeral bring the head of the Barnes family to your doorstep as you struggle to keep up with the payments for a loan you had no idea your dad had taken out with them. You get “offered” an alternative method of payment.

a/n: this was a request by the lovely @oneoftheprettynerds

I hope I did it justice! Thank you for being the most patient person in the world, when Covid, life, exams, life and so on and so forth got in the way of your wish!

Prompt: Can I please get a dark mafia bucky or peter with noncon and breeding kink? With a side of people hitting on reader

 Wordcount: 2,800

 In all seriousness, you had to consider yourself lucky. Most people in this small city had it worse than you. Most didn’t have their own business, certainly not at your age, and most would never have enough money to even dream about that. Your town had the habit of sucking money out of people faster than they could make it and as of late that was also the case for you.

           After your dad had died unexpectedly in a car crash, money had been tight, really tight. You’d never known how fucking expensive funerals were and his drained all the savings you had, just before you’d managed to scrambled together enough for a community college education in business. Now you were left an orphan in your early twenties running a café on only the knowledge you’d learnt from your dad with no prospects of an education. Now you were as stuck as everybody else in town.

           What made matters even worse was the bill you’d gotten two weeks after the funeral. A bill from the one company in town nobody wanted one from. Rich men running successful businesses on the backs of the honest town’s people by draining their money. The mafia. Sharks in suits.

           According to the bill your dad had borrowed money from them 10 years ago. Your best guess was that he had needed it for your mother’s funeral and had never told you. Be that how it may, you didn’t know how to pay that bill. So you asked for time and put in extra hours, keeping the café open til late at night.

           You hated the extra hours. Not only because you got less sleep and had to work so much more and couldn’t afford to hire more employees but also because the later it got the more aggressively people hit on you.

           You hated them. All those men coming in once the sun set, calling you their sweetheart like you were property and grabbing at you and you having to smile and flirt because you needed their tips. Desperately. And yet it seemed to make no difference. There was just no money to be made in this town.

           Bucky Barnes, the head of the Romanov family had given you two months to come up with the next payment, and you knew that you’d end up dead in a ditch with them ceasing your café if you didn’t make it.

           So you smiled and joked with the moms coming in in the mornings and afternoons and flirted and swayed for their husbands at night. When you were in your little apartment above the café after you finally closed you usually cried yourself to sleep. And all throughout the day you would see him. See Bucky fucking Barnes watching you. At first you thought you were imagining it, but he was driving past your café in way too regular intevals, and would even occasionally take up one of your tables. You always sent other staff to serve him, you couldn’t bare to go to him, but his cold blue eyes never left you.

           Over those two month it became abundantly clear that you would never manage to come up with $2,000. And when one of Bucky’s men came in on the Wednesday before the Friday the payment was due, you thought of the 1,200 bucks you’d managed and wanted to cry.

           You knew the man, you’d gone to school with his younger brother Peter who had been a royal pain in your ass, having provided a glimpse of the harassment by the men you now faced every evening. Still you smiled at him: “Steve, hi, what can I get you?” ignoring that you had already flipped your sign to closed and where moping the floors.

           “Hi y/n, a coffee would be great, if you still got some” Steve answered while inspecting your café like he already owned the place.

           “Sure thing!” You tried to sound chipper, but the strain in you voice was audible, as you went behind the counter and got the machine going.

“Sugar? Milk?” you asked, with your back turned to Steve, hoping to draw out the inevitable.

“Just sugar, thanks.” Steve sounded gruff and distant and you knew you’d lost. He probably already knew that you wouldn’t be able to pay. He had accompanied Bucky a bunch of times, never ordered anything, just watched and listened, as Bucky drank or ate. The men had attracted stares. Not only because they were mafia, but because for personified devils, they sure looked like gods.

As you set his coffee before him he asked: “So what can I tell my boss to expect on Friday?” You stared at Steve in his perfectly tailored suit in harsh contrast to the homey but ultimately grimy café surrounding him as you decided on what to say. He looked amazing, and you hated him for it.

Steve raised an eyebrow at you. He was getting impatient. “I… I have a little over half.” You muttered and looked down at your hands, twisted tightly together. “My daddy’s funeral cost so much money, and I” you were interrupted by Steve’s fist hitting the countertop, making you flinch. His rage was pouring out of him so suddenly, taking over everything else. He seethed: “Safe your excuses, little girl. Just make sure to get the money. Bucky isn’t as lenient as I am.” With that, Steve got up from the bar, drained his coffee in one long gulp and left without giving you the chance to beg. You would have. You would do anything now if it meant saving your life. ‘Lenient’, you thought. How was any of this lenient?

           On Friday morning, you didn’t want to get up, much less open the café, but you did both. You put a notice outside that you would close earlier tonight, so Barnes and his henchmen wouldn’t scare off your customers and then you went to work.

           The entire day felt like molasses. Time didn’t move at all, it left you fidgety and nervous. You screwed up more orders than you were willing to admit and then suddenly time jumped and it was 6 p.m. and the sun was setting and you’d closed the café down, pulled all curtains closed except for the front door and were sitting there, waiting. What for, you didn’t know.

           At 6:30 a black limousine came to a stop before your café and Barnes and Peter got out. Which you decided was a good sign. Surley if they were to kill you, they would’ve brought some muscle, not lanky Peter… Bucky Barnes wouldn’t get his hands dirty with you, would he? Or was that what Peter was for? Did he still have to prove himself in the company?

           As Bucky entered you wished it would just end now. To your sheer horror, Peter stayed outside, blocking the door, leaving you all alone with the man you feared most in this world. He looked just like everytime he’d previously entered your café. His suit fit perfectly and you could see the muscle beneath. He was astonishingly beautiful. If he only were so on the inside as well, you mused.

“Hi sweetheart,” Bucky drawled as he approached you, “Steve told me you don’t have my money.” You shrunk in on yourself, but nodded, as Bucky came to tower over you.

“That’s not good, angel, not at all. Why don’t you come out from behind the counter and we sit down and talk about it, huh?”

All you could do was nod. “What happened? Cat got your tongue?” Bucky teased as he grabbed you by the elbow and led you to a boot in the corner of the café, way out of view from the front door. His touch was startingly kind. You had prepared for pain, but were met with kind support. Your brow furrowed.

“I…” You looked up at him. “I g got $1,300. I know that’s not enough, but”

“Shh.” Bucky murmured and pushed you down onto the bench, took of his suit jacket, hung it carefully over a nearby chair and then caged you in by sitting at your side. You were trapped and you were shaking with fear.

Bucky was so much taller than you and even through his perfectly tailored black dressshirt you could see his muscles bulging. You couldn’t decide weather you wanted to start sobbing into his chest or punch him in the stomach. “Steve already told me all about that, angel, don’t worry, I already came up with a new payment plan.”

“You’re not mad?” you question, to terrified to be hopeful.

“Well, I am not thrilled, but I’ve always had a softspot for this place. My pa used to take me when I was little. I watched you grow up, you know?”

Hope bloomed like desert rose in your heart. He knew you! He had a connection to you! That surely meant he wouldn’t kill you. You’d figure out the money. Suddenly you were certain that you could do it.

“really? That’s – I never knew…” Your voice was fluttering with hope.

“Well, it’s a small town.” Bucky’s voice was calm and soothing. You almost forgot that you were squished between him and the wall.

“And with me seeing you grow up, and seeing all the other women in town I decided that you would give me an heir to take here. To watch people with, so he too could choose his wife. An heir for me and forgiveness for your debt and a happy home life for you.” Your world stopped spinning. It screeched to a halt.

“What? No, Bucky, I…” Bucky wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulled you close. The arm was tight across you back and stole your words from you as fear spread from every spot he touched throughout your entire body.

“You’re a hard worker, you have a drive for better and higher things. I like that. It’ll make you a diligant mother, you know angel? And that is what I need. A good mother to the boy who will inherit this town, don’t you agree?”

You sit there frozen, unable to reply. Your brain is going a thousand miles an hour trying to find a way, any way, to get away, but before you can do anything Bucky grabs your right hand and presses it to his crotch. He’s hard. The calm demeanour falls off him suddenly as he growls: “Here is how this will go, angel,” he starts to move your hand up and down his crotch, “I will let go of your hand and you will undo my pants and get me ready and then I will have that little pussy of yours on this table. I mean it ain’t romantic, but once you are my little wife I’ll make up for that, sweetheart.”

You swallow hard, press your eyes closed and feel him move his hand over the fine cotton of his suit and his hard length underneath, then you force yourself to nod. It’s a jerking, hurtful motion, but Bucky released you hand, as he leans back on the bench, spreading his legs, opening himself up to you.

You want to thrash out, but instead you shaking hands wander to his belt. “Go on, now. we ain’t got all night, darling.” You are tearing up, but do as you’re told. You lean slightly over him and undo his belt first, then his pants. His cock strains against his boxer briefs and you gulp. Bucky lifts his hips and you push his pants and underwear down.

His cock is beautiful. Long and thick and veined and you can’t help but press your thighs together at the sight. Bucky notices and smirks down at you. “Now that’s a good girl. Keep it up and I make sure you enjoy yourself!” he whispers in your ear as he guides your hands to his dick.

As you jerk him, you realize that you underestimated his size. Your fucked. Literally. There is no way you’re gonna enjoy this. Bucky shoves his left hand up your skirt suddenly and you freeze until he clears his throat and startles you back into action, while his fingers start exloring your sex.

“You know,” Bucky explains, “I find it helps ladies to go down on a guy before actually fucking. Gets them nice and ready, you know?” One of his fingers slides into your tight chanel, “But with you it seems we don’t need that. The sight of my cock alone made you cream. I knew there was something special about you!” He grins and removes his hand. “We might still have to work on your handjob skills though…” he muses, grips your hand and removes it form his dick, as he gets up.

You shrink back but he pulls you out after him. Finally, blessedly, your panic response sets in any you try to struggle, but Bucky’s hold on your arm tightens painfully and his left hand hits you across the face before you even see it coming and it makes your world spin. “Stop it, now!” Bucky barks at you and you freeze. Your feeble attempts forgotten as Bucky lifts you onto the table and rips your panties off. You start sobbing as he bends your right leg to your shoulder and situates himself.

“Sssh,” he cooes at you softly, “I’ll make it better, baby, just one moment.” His suddenly warm voice lulls you into a false sense of security as you stare into his deep blue eyes. They are bewitching you, and you only feel him push in when it’s too late.

He sheethes himself in one agonizingly long stroke. The pain breaks you out of your reverie, you arch your back and groan. It hurts! It hurts so much, and yet you want more, so much more. “Bucky!” you plead, you sob, you whine and once more there it is, the calm voice of the devil now owning your life, rolling in like the tide washing over you, calming you. “I know my sweet pet, I know, just relax now. Just breathe.” And you do. You can’t help yourself.

Bucky lets out a pained moan as you settle around him, and once your clenched eyes flutter back open, once your back comes back down from its painful arch, the god above you starts to move. Every drag and push is better than the last. He hits home every time. His dick lights up a pathway to your pleasure, with every sharp, hard, relentlessy painful thrust, in time with his pubic hair grinding against your clit. A particularly hard thrust shifts his cock so it hits your cervix and you scream with pain and pleasure. Your arms reach up, your hands burying themselves in his thick hair as Bucky leans in closer to you, bending you in half on that table, and nuzzles at your neck as he starts to hammer into you. Every thrust is pure bliss. You want to feel ashamed, you want to push him away, but all you can feel is the drag and glide of his cock, his pelvis against your clit, his tip hitting your cervix. You are on fire and the coil in your core is ready to explode. The intensity of Bucky’s thrusts never wavers, even as you feel him swell even further as his balls draw up and that tiny change breaks you, your orgasm explodes and you cry out in ecstatic pleasure, just as Bucky falters and shoots his cum in thick long strokes into you. His warmth joing yours as he lazily pumps to stop within you.

You only come back to yourself as Bucky pulls out slowly and you can feel your combined, cooling spend trickle down your legs. He eases your leg back down and kisses you softly as you start crying. “Ssh, darling, you’re alright. You’re done. Your debt is paid and you’ll be my wife in no time, the mother to my heir. You did so good, angel!” He coos sweet nothing at you until you can control your crying enough to speak.

“Bucky, I’m not on anything! What if it really takes?” you whimper, emerging from the fantasy he built up in your head.

“That is rather the point!” He snaps harshly. The calm voice gone as quickly as it emerged. You shiver as you realize the extent of what he said before. He really meant it all… Bucky pulls up his pants. “Pack up your things, lovely, tomorrow I’ll pick you up and you are moving in with me, so I can keep an eye on you!” With that Bucky pulls on his suit jacket and heads for the door, as you struggle to sit up, shaking and crying.

At the door Bucky looks back at you, his voice a lot calmer again: “I’m real happy about our new business arrangement as it ensures you will be staying with me, little girl. If only your daddy would have agreed to let me have you, his car wouldn’t have had to end up wrapped around a tree so your little college fund would go away. Sleep tight now, Mama, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

[suginami-division]

Sazanka Zombeez Drama Track 2 - Fantasim Exorcism

Part 1

【 Alert Private Investigative Agency 】

Shuu: Is sencha* alright?

A gruff sound echoed through the Alert Agency’s office in response. Shuu could only smile and turn back to the little table set with the snacks and tea for incoming clients.

Internally, Shuu was complaining to himself like crazy. Just earlier when Shuu opened the agency’s doors, a very stern-looking elderly man barged in and made himself at home in the office’s couch. In Shuu’s mind, this could only mean one of two things: Either he was going to attempt to get Shuu to handle some petty event that the police couldn’t be bothered with or it was going to be something more personal. Messy, even.

Mentally preparing himself for whatever asinine request he was about to get, Shuu carried the tray over and set the teas down on the coffee table; One for the client and one for himself. Sitting on the couch across from the old man, Shuu politely smiled at him.

Shuu: So, what seems to be troubling you, sir?

Client: I need you to clear up some misunderstandings for me.

Shuu: (Great, here it comes…!) Really? What exactly do you mean by that?

Bracing himself for the usual cliche requests, Shuu was surprised by what the man said instead.

Client: I need you to investigate a haunting at my manor.

Shuu: S-Sorry?

Soon as Shuu asked that, the man let out an exasperated sigh. The intimidating posture of the man seemed to fade out quickly, replaced by that of a stressed individual.

Client: A rumored haunting. See, I managed to reclaim my family’s home after my grandfather lost it years ago, but I’ve been having some issues with the restoration. Workers refuse to do their job because of some spirit roaming the grounds.

Hearing this, Shuu felt more and more confused.

Shuu: Then shouldn’t you hire a paranormal investigator? I know this girl who-

Client: No, I will not let some made up story ruin this! This… Story…

With a shout, Shuu was stunned into silence by the old man’s reaction. Quietly, Shuu watched the man take a drink of the tea he had made and waited for the old man to continue.

Client: Please, I need someone who isn’t brainwashed by that nonsense to go investigate it for me. I want the truth. Not some fantasy story.

Shuu: I can do that for you, I suppose…

Grabbing a notepad and pen, the detective flipped to a page and looked expectantly at the client.

Shuu: Then, please give me the details pertaining to this haunting.

Client: So, you’ll listen to me? You’ll help me out?

Shuu: It depends on your story.

Client: Alright…Where do I start? See, I have yet to see this thing myself, but I’ve lost so many contractors to this ridiculous story. They describe it as a horned demon with glowing eyes. Nobody has ever really determined how many eyes, but they have told me it has somewhere between two to a dozen.

Already, Shuu was skeptical. It sounded like such a cliche story, albeit an interesting one to say the least. Still, he wrote down the details in bullet points the best he could without interrupting the client’s tale.

Client: These stories of it’s terrifying eyes and haunting cries just wouldn’t stop. Sure, they kept working, but it all came to a stop when one night, one of the workers was attacked.

Shuu: Wait, attacked?

Client: Yes. It was late at night and someone forgot to retrieve something from one of the rooms. That’s when something from the garden in the center of the house sped towards him and tackled him to the ground. The thing pierced the guy’s arms and leg before leaving him there. The others found him the next morning outside the manor, unconscious… But alive.

Shuu: It’s a good thing he’s alright…

Scratching the story into his notebook, the detective felt better having physical evidence on this particular case.

Client: Is my story good enough?

Shuu: Maybe… Do you happen to have more information about the victim? Something like a workplace accident report or photos? 

Client: Y-Yes. Here…

Shuffling about, the man handed Shuu a few papers. Legal papers, pertaining to the workplace injuries that the employee had suffered, with the more personal bits of information black out with marker. Everything regarding the situation, the injuries, and the witnesses that discovered the victim all written out. Photos of the manor were even attached, showing the gates outside and a very dark photo of the supposed garden.

Client: Is this enough to convince you?

Shuu: More than enough… Although I’d like to have the victim’s contact before you go, just in case.

Client: Really?! Thank you so much!

Shuu: You shouldn’t thank me quite yet. Save it for when I actually finish the job, alright?

The client makes a confused sound, but doesn’t seem to argue as Shuu stands up from the couch and walks over to his desk, placing the papers into the drawer and filing it away.

Shuu: I have to prepare myself for the investigation, so I probably won’t get to the manor until… Well, the end of the week at the latest. Plus, if there’s danger I should probably find some help-

Client: Help?

Shuu: Just one or two friends to have my back. For safety reasons, of course. You don’t mind if I…

From there, Shuu was able to discuss what to expect including the location of the manor and the time which he would go investigate the location with his own team. After they had settled on a price for Shuu’s services, the old man had departed from the office and left Shuu to hurry and work on the other cases he had to work on for the day.

ー Later, At Night ー

Finally, Shuu’s day started to slow down. The usual tailing of cheating spouses, to the visitations, to the endless piles of paperwork, Shuu was finally able to collapse onto one of the office couches, stretching his exhausted muscles out.

Shuu: Hnnngh! That was… A lot.

Recalling the morning interview, the detective started to mull over the situation. A haunted house investigation wasn’t something he typically did, but it shouldn’t be too different from dealing with a stalker. Just imagine it to be a dangerous demon, who randomly attacks construction workers at night…

With that, Shuu started to stressfully scroll through his list of contacts on his phone. So many names filled up his screen, but he wasn’t sure who to pick until he landed on a more familiar name:

Ryuko Umemoto.

Well, the contact was saved as Ryu-Ryu, but the idea still stood. From the handful of meetings they have had since they teamed together, Shuu knew him as the closest, most bravest guy in the city. So without thinking, the call button was pressed. After stumbling with the phone for a moment, Shuu jolted upright on the couch, shouting a nervous greeting into the speaker.

Shuu: H-Hey Ryuko! What’cha doing?

On the other side, a disgruntled groan came through the phone.

Ryuko: Shuu? What the fuck, it’s three in the morning…

Glancing at the clock in the office, Shuu would find that Ryuko was indeed correct. 3 A.M. exactly, the clock read. Probably was a bad idea to call at that time, but what choice was there now?

Shuu: Sorry. Hey uhm… I was wondering if you could help me?

Ryuko: Help? With what?

Shuu: And investigation. See, it’s-

Ryuko: You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?

The gravelly tone cut off Shuu. A low warning tone, that almost threatened the detective. Already, Shuu knew what Ryuko was thinking. How they met, the circumstances of their meeting, and the sort of risk Shuu had put himself in that day. It was something Shuu did his best to not repeat, although he wouldn’t be able to explain to Ryuko that he’s already been through similar, if not worse situations. Not yet, at least. With a dry laugh, Shuu could only respond in an almost joking manner.

Shuu: No, but uhm… How do you feel about haunted houses?

Ryuko: …

Shuu: Ryuko? 

Ryuko: ……

Shuu: Ryu-chan? Are you still there?

At that, there was a click, followed by a monotone beep. Startled that Ryuko had the audacity to hang up on him, Shuu slammed on the phone screen to ring up Ryuko again, which was promptly done so.

Shuu: Please, just listen to me before you hang uuuuuup!

Ryuko: I’m not losing my fucking sleep over your shitty ghost stories!

Shuu: But I’m being serious! Please, I’ll pay you a percentage of what I’m getting from this job, just please help me! I can’t do this alone!

Ryuko: How much are we talking here?

Shuu: Wow, you’re easily convinced.

Ryuko: Shut up and spit it out.

Shuu: U-Uh… Ten percent?

Ryuko: Fifty.

Shuu: Fifteen.

Ryuko: Seventy-five.

Shuu: Twenty-five!

Ryuko: A hundred percent.

Shuu: Do you know how bargaining works?

An unsure hum sounded from Ryuko’s side, eliciting a exasperated sigh from Shuu.

Shuu: You should be fine with twenty-five percent. Besides, all you’re gonna do is make sure I don’t get stabbed by a demon…

Ryuko: A demon? What the… Nevermind. I won’t ask. I just need the extra cash to make this month’s rent.

Shuu: Sounds good to me! Wanna meet up at my place… Tomorrow?

Ryuko: Define ‘tomorrow’.

Shuu: R-Right, two days from today! If you can’t take the day off, we can just do it after your work too. Late night paranormal investagation! Isn’t that fun?

Surprisingly, all Shuu had gotten was a simple grunt of approval before the line ended once last time. Pulling the phone away from his head, Shuu could only frown at the screen. Still, at least Shuu had his protection! All that was left was to wait for the day of investigation to come.

To be continued…

*Sencha is a type of green tea that is made from processed whole tea leaves as opposed to the powdered green tea that is also very common. Popular as a tea to serve to guests.

[redhairedwolfwitch]

Emergency - Hailey Upton x Wife!Reader

Request:  Hi I was wondering if you could write a Hailey Upton x reader, where no one knows they are dating because she is scared of coming out because of her abusive father and one day she gets shot and they call the reader because she is her emergancy contact? You can go from there, fluff please + Im the one that asked about the one were Hailey gets shot, maybe the reader is his wife? +  This is an idea, maybe she gets shot protecting jay?

Warning: mentions of getting shot, details of a bullet injury, mentions of  parental abuse, mentions of abusive school life, mentions of past bullying

You were at work when you got a phonecall from Gaffney Chicago Medical Centre’s ER. Your heart skipped a beat as a nurse told you that your wife had been shot in the shoulder and was going into surgery as soon as an operating room was open.

You chewed your lip as you scrawled down the details on a notepad, holding the phone to your ear as you began to pack up your bag. Your co-worker raised an eyebrow from their desk, watching you hang up the phone.

“My spouse’s hurt. They’re going into surgery as soon as they have an operating room. I’m going.” You stated, gaining a nod as your co-worker stood up, ushering you out.

“I’ll cover you, go be with them, Y/n.”

///

The sniper was aiming for Jay.

Everyone was so focussed on the suspect that was running away that nobody saw the sniper.

No-one but Hailey as she shoved Jay out of the way, the bullet lodging itself in her shoulder.

She was glad she’d updated her contact details at the hospital. She didn’t need her mother or her father turning up. She didn’t need them because she had you.

Her wife.

Her secret wife.

“Y/n...” Hailey murmured, leaving Jay to frown as he applied pressure to Hailey’s shoulder, calling for an ambulance.

“Who’s Y/n?  Hailey, stay with me!” 

CPD were pacing the waiting room as you walked in, heading straight over to the receptionist who summoned April over.

“Ah, you’re Detective Upton’s emergency contact-”

Jay and Voight exchanged looks at that, about to approach you but you had already gone to see where Hailey was, post-surgery.

“Hey, baby.” Hailey murmured, wincing as she tried to reach for you.

“Y’know if you wanted me to stay home from work today, you could have asked, you didn’t need to get shot in the shoulder.” You chuckled, taking the seat next to Hailey’s bed.

“Jay didn’t see it coming, had to push him out the way.” Hailey explained, smiling as you gently pressed a cup of water to her lips after your acknowledgement of Hailey’s raspy voice.

“I have one working arm y’know.”

“Just let me be useful for a minute. Jay.... Halstead, right? There’s a doctor with the same surname, I take it they’re related?”

“Brothers, Jay and Will.” Hailey elaborated, gaining a nod from you in response.

“I think your co-workers are chomping at the bits trying to see how you are.” You admitted, ignoring how you felt eyes on you from outside the post-op room.

Hailey chewed her lip as she noticed how you shifted in your seat, playing with her fingers of her non-damaged arm.

“They just know I’m your emergency contact, so if you don’t want to tell them about everything, then I understand.” You confessed, leaving Hailey to let out a sigh, swiping at a tear before it even left her eye.

“I’m sorry, I never wanted to keep you or our marriage a secret from everyone. I’ve always been too afraid to come out to anyone, in case they reacted how my dad did...” Hailey began to sob, leaving you to gently press the back of her hand to your lips.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Hails, I understand, baby.” You replied, letting out a sigh as a memory flickered in your mind.

“Y/n?”

“Sorry, bad, bad memory.” Hailey frowned at this, her fingers gently running down your cheek to give you a distraction.

You could feel the goosebumps on the back of your neck under Hailey’s touch.

“I saw them on the way to the hospital,” Hailey frowned as she watched you wet your lips out of nervousness, “that girl uh, I purposefully forget her name but, you know that song, uh, I kissed a girl and I liked it? 

“Yeah, I remember you told me. Turned out she did it on a dare and made your life hell for actually wanting to kiss her. You had a crappy school life; I had a crappy home life.” Hailey acknowledged, leaving you to just nod.

“I think if your co-workers can’t accept them for who you are, it’s their loss.” You stated, Hailey smirking at your stubbornness before the two of you turned to look at the door.

“Sergeant Voight... uh, this is Y/n... my wife.”

You watched as Voight did a glance over of the two of you before you stood up, Hailey holding onto one of your hands so you offered the other one.

“Hank.” 

“Nice to meet you.”

Voight shook your hand before you sat back down in your chair next to Hailey.

“How are you doing, Hailey?” Voight enquired, all three of you pausing as Dr Marcel walked in, explaining that the bullet had avoided the subclavan artery which connects to the brachial artery or main artery of the arm but the brachial plexus needed to be watched in case of loss of motor function. Hailey would most likely need to rest her arm with the possibility of a follow-up surgery and physical therapy.

“I’ll go update the others. Hailey, you alright with them coming in?” Voight asked, leaving Hailey to nod as she tightened her grip on your hand.

It was less than five minutes later that five individuals turned up at the door.

“Let’s not overwhelm them, okay?” Platt affirmed, leaving you to smile at her although you’d only met her once when Hailey had to have her emergency contact confirmed at the district.

Platt also knew who you were to Hailey but nothing else. It just said wife in brackets on the paperwork.

“Are you okay? What did Dr Marcel say?” Adam began before his eyes landed on you, “uh, hi, I don’t believe we’ve met-” Kim whacked him in the arm for that as Jay and Kevin exchanged looks.

“Guys, this is Y/n, my wife.” Hailey introduced you, leaving you to look at her with wide eyes for a moment before she smirked, bringing your hand to her mouth to kiss it.

“Hi!” You laughed, acknowledging the shock on their faces as Platt just smiled, nudging Kim to give introductions as Jay stared at Hailey and Adam and Kevin just made spluttering noises.

[kirishimaswife2819]

This is my very 1st request, I hope you won't have trouble answering it! May I ask for headcanons of Bakugou, Midoriya, Todoroki and Kirishima in a Coffee Shop!AU? I don't mind if they own coffee houses, are baristas or frequent customers! Thank you so much for heeding my petition, have a nice day and take care!

Them in a Coffee Shop AU (+Quirkless AU) || Midoriya, Bakugou, Kirishima, and Todoroki

Masterlist 1 || Masterlist 2

↠Author’s Note: Hi! I also made this a quirkless AU so it made more sense with the story. Anyway, thanks for requesting! I hope this okay and I hope you like it. -Danielle <3

↠Characters: Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugou, Eijiro Kirishima, and Shoto Todoroki x Reader

↠Summary: Coffee shop AU with Izuku, Katsuki, Eijiro, and Shoto

↠Genre: Fluff

↠Word Count: 2.1k 

↠Warnings: None

↠Notes: Idrk know how coffee shop hours work, so just pretend like they work however I said, okay?, also y/o=your order

Izuku Midoriya:

Izuku works at a fairly popular coffee shop, and he’s literally the best worker there

Unlike most of the workers, he pays a lot of attention to the customers and what they specifically ask for, and he’s also always so polite, he was only ever rude to a customer once, but that was because she was being ruder, so it was okay

He also rarely ever gets orders wrong, and when most people come there, they ask specifically for him to make their coffee, so he gets pretty overwhelmed throughout the day and rarely gets a break

Most of the time he didn’t really pay much attention to the customers that asked specifically for him, but most of them straight up flirted with him, and he’s made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t interested in getting a significant other

That was until he met you

Normally, Izuku worked afternoon shifts, so from about one in the afternoon to nine at night (this was partially because he was the only one who closed up the shop correctly), but they recently began changing the schedules up and he got stuck with six to two in the afternoon

He didn’t really have a problem with waking up early, since he normally woke up fairly early to go for a run, not as early as he was now, but still pretty early

It was his first time working that shift when you came in for your morning coffee

You were playing on your phone when he called out to the next in line, you looked up and proceeded forward and to the counter, you looked up expecting the girl that normally worked in the morning but instead it was Izuku

“Are you new here? I’ve never seen you before,” You asked, clearly confused. Izuku gave you a small smile, and his face got a little red, you were really attractive, despite obviously just waking up

“No, I’ve always worked here. I just normally have afternoon shifts but they changed it,” Izuku replied.

“Oh, are you going to be working in the mornings from now on?” You asked, and after a nod, you spoke again, “Okay, well my name’s Y/n L/n, you can call me Y/n if you want, I come in here every morning and I’ll take a y/o.”

He immediately made your order and it was the best that it ever has been

After that day, you and Izuku both got secretly excited to see each other every morning, and you took got on first name basis with each other

You two ended up developing an odd sort of bond, whenever you came in, you two acted like best friends despite only seeing each other for about fifteen minutes every day

You started drinking your morning drink while at the shop, and you always sat at the bar so you could converse with Izuku while he was working

Eventually you two ended up exchanging numbers and hanging out outside of the coffee shop, and then he asked you on a date, and then shortly after that you began dating

You still went in every morning even after you started dating, and everybody working there thought that you were the cutest couple ever

Katsuki Bakugou:

Katsuki comes to get coffee every morning, and everybody at your shop knows this, and they all play rock paper scissors the day before to see who gets to deal with him the next day because he’s a pretty tough customer

He always finds something wrong with the coffee that he gets and he will make the barista remake it until it’s perfect, and he’s made multiple baristas quit because of this

And I know what you’re thinking “why doesn’t your boss just ban him from the shop” but your boss is a bigger asshole than he is, and he has chose Bakugou’s side every time that he’s been brought into it, so the workers just stopped trying to get him to help after a while

The two of you met on your first day working there, since you had tried to defend Katsuki when you first met them, saying that he couldn’t possibly be that bad, when they tried warning you about him, so they forced you to deal with him on your first day on the job

“Good morning,” you said, smiling at the blonde that came in, as he stared at his phone, he didn’t recognize your voice so he looked up and he was pretty surprised to see how attractive you were

“Morning,” he replied, hiding the fact that he liked you, and turning his phone off, before placing it in his pocket

“What can I get for you?” You asked, still smiling at him, hoping that he really wasn’t as bad as all your co-workers said. He told you his order, before giving you his name as well

All your co-workers were listening in and were shocked when he didn’t add on a rude “And don’t forget the extra cream” or “And if you fucking add too much sugar again, I’m calling your boss and complaining”

You made his coffee, before setting it on the counter, and tapping a few things on the screen, and giving him his total price, which was around seven dollars

He took out his wallet, before placing a fifty dollar bill on the counter. This was also strange to your co-workers because Bakugou never paid before he got a sip of his coffee, in case he wanted a refund or for them to remake it/give it to him for free

You picked it up and went to give him his change, but he stopped you

"Keep the change."

"What?" You asked

"I said, keep the change, you fucking deaf or something?"

"Uh, no, but sir, you handed me a fifty."

"I fucking know what I did, do you want it or not?"

"Yeah, I want it," you said, grabbing the change and immediately putting it into your pocket, "Thank you, sir, and have a good day."

"Yeah, whatever," he replied, picking up his coffee and leaving

As soon as he was gone, all of your co-workers were around you, asking you what the hell you did and why he wasn't rude to you, and you could only answer them with a shrug because you honestly had no idea

After that day, you were the only person that ever made his coffee because he was actually nice to you, and because of you he saw how it wasn’t really that easy to do the job

He figured that they just always messed up because they weren’t trying but they were probably just stressed, and it was probably partially his fault

Eventually, he ended up asking you out on a date and you two got to know each other and then eventually you started dating

Eijiro Kirishima:

Like Izuku, Kirishima works at a coffee shop, he just isn’t the most perfect worker ever, but that’s alright because nobody expects him to be perfect

He makes his occasional mistakes, and I would probably give him a 7/10 when it came to doing his job, but he gets an 11/10 for customer service

He’s not just polite, he’s also really friendly and if you just simply have a conversation it’ll feel like you’ve known him forever

He doesn’t really notice if anybody is flirting with him, he just assumes they’re being friendly and is friendly in return, but sometimes Kirishima’s friendliness can come off as flirting, even when he doesn’t realize, so sometimes he has had to reject somebody asking him out, and apologize for not realizing what they were doing

He never specifically tried flirting with anybody, not until you at least, he purposely flirted with you, because immediately after glancing at you, he knew that you were the one

Or that’s what he assumed, you just looked like his type, and he immediately wanted you

Your old coffee shop had shut down and this was the closest one to where it was, so you started going there instead

“Hi!” He immediately greeted you, happily, despite it being seven in the morning

“Um, hi?” You asked, in return. In your last coffee shop the worker that you normally got was pretty vague, and normally talked in a monotone voice, so Kirishima’s happy and cheerful voice was a bit of a surprise

“How are you doing this morning?” He asked, tapping something on the screen

“Good,” you replied, “Do you guys have y/o?”

“Yup, what size would you like?”

“Medium,” you replied, and he tapped something on the screen, before replying

“Okay, that’ll be $5.30, but it’s on me,” he said, smiling at you, picking up a medium disposable cup, “What’s the name?”

“Wait, what?” You asked, referring the first part of what he said, not the question

“I asked what your name was,” he explained, giving you a smile

“No, why is it on you?” You asked

“Oh, I always pay for somebody’s coffee if I find them cute,” he replied, causing your face to heat up

“You find me cute?” You asked, and then he nodded, “Sir, I just woke up a little over half an hour ago. There are huge bags under my eyes, there is no way that you find me cute.”

“Sure there is! Because I do, now what’s your name?”

“Whatever, it’s Y/n,” you replied, and he used a sharpie to write the name on the cup, before going to get your order ready

And he returned with it, giving you a smile, and telling you goodbye

You thanked him for the coffee and once you returned to your car, you read the receipt and found that his number was written at the bottom along with “call me :)”

And that’s exactly what you did

Shoto Todoroki:

Like Bakugou, he’s also a frequent customer, but not every day, he normally comes in every other day, or every three days

He was normally pretty vague, not wanting to interact too much with the barista, he wanted to get in and get out in as little time as possible

He didn’t have a problem correcting the barista if his order was wrong, and he didn’t expect it for free. He just expected them to remake without him having to pay extra

He also didn’t make a big deal if there was a little too much cream or sugar, they probably just added a bit too much, and that’s pretty easy to do

Shoto never really paid much attention to the barista he got and he didn’t really care about who it was, until he walked up to the counter and you were there

“Good morning, what can I get for you?” You questioned, tapping something on the screen

“Morning,” he said, and then he proceeded to make his order

“Alright? And your name?” You questioned, holding the sharpie up to the cup

“Shoto,” he replied, surprising the barista next to you that was listening in. Shoto never used his first name and it surprised her because he normally just said either “Todoroki” or “I’ll be standing right here, just hand it to me, please”

“Alright, Shoto,” you said, using his name, “I’ll be right back with your coffee.” He nodded in acknowledgement and stood off to the side, watching you as you made his order

“Here you go,” you said, handing it to him, “Sorry if I messed it up. I’ve never made one of those before. I’m new here.”

“That’s alright,” he replied, taking a sip. He hid the fact that he didn’t like it, because you had in fact messed something up, maybe you didn’t add enough of something, either way, he faked it with a smile, “Thank you, have a good day.”

Later that day, your co-worker informed you that she was watching you while you made it, since she knew that you never made one before, and she told you that you messed it up. Then she told you a little bit about Shoto and how it was obvious that he had a crush on you

The next day he came in, you apologized to him, and he brushed it off, saying that it was alright

You made a pretty bold move and left your number on the receipt with a little note “call me sometime?”

He did just that the same night when he got home from his work, and you two agreed to go on a date

[myautisticpov]

One of the things that fucking infuriates me about trying to talk to neurotypicals about autism is that they are fully incapable of listening when you tell them what the actual problem is.

Like, that post I made on how activism/political organising could be more accessible constantly gets responses about how the solution is clearly not for groups to get better at onboarding people, but for people to get outside training/do more reading on activism first.

And I’m just like... Mates, I have done the reading. I’ve also worked in admin for years and also been self-employed since I was nineteen. If you were to turn to me tomorrow and say “hey, you need to organise something around this issue”, the literal only limit would be how many spoons I had left after work (which is often not a lot) because having to organise/develop projects from the ground up has been part of both of my jobs for years.

My problem is not a lack of knowledge/experience. My problem is that I have fucking disabilities that make communication difficult. This means that I need clear communication from other people, and it also means that if I’m organising something, co-ordinating with people I don’t know (who probably won’t communicate with me in the way I need) is the barrier/spoon-drain.

I know that this is not impossible or even hard for other people to accommodate because I’ve gotten those accommodations at work, and I had them at university before that. I literally need well-written and comprehensive onboarding guides (which I know is not impossible because I have literally written these for places I’ve worked at) and I need a single person who is designated as the point of contact that I can reach out to if I need clarification or help with anything, and I need them to actually talk to me when I start (not just an email saying “contact this person with questions”, I need to at least vaguely know the person first to feel comfortable doing that).

That’s literally it. And, like, I don’t even need to ask for this as accommodation at most jobs because that’s just normal fucking onboarding.

But it’s boring admin work and no one likes boring admin work, so nobody does it if they feel they can get away with not doing it (this is not limited to organising/activism, btw, working on the admin team means that I never encounter this, but I have worked in places where the professionals we’re providing admin support for will just straight-up not onboard people - which they ideally need to do, not us, because it’s their team that the new person needs to be introduced to - because it’s boring admin work and nobody does boring admin work if they can get around it, especially if it’s a case of accessibility and/or health and safety because people are dicks).

It’s so infuriating when the notes on posts like that are 50% neurodivergent people sharing their experiences of having the exact problems I’ve outlined and 50% neurotypicals* telling me that I just need to Git Gud.

Like, maybe you’re the ones that need to Git Gud at admin.

(Now I’m just honestly wondering if this is an outgrowth of the issue I’ve encountered where, like, everyone hates paperwork, but in more left-wing spaces, the reasons people give for refusing to do things that would improve accessibility or safety or even stuff that’s there to protect worker’s rights (like tracking hours across separate projects to make sure that no one is being overworked, or making sure that internal data collection complies with GDPR because the people who work for you deserve to have their data privacy respected) are that it’s Evil Bureaucracy that’s part of the Neo-Liberal Agenda and you’re just like... Fill out your fucking forms, Paul, I need to know that your rights as a worker aren’t being violated and that you’re not putting other people at risk. Like, a lot of people’s ideas of an anarchist utopia seems to be “I can stop caring about disabled people/putting other people at risk” and that fucking terrifies me...)

*or sometimes neurodivergent people whose neurodivergent traits show up in different ways and therefore feel free to shit on those of us who struggle with something - honestly, these people are the worst, it’s like if I said “well, I don’t have obvious stims, so clearly autistic people who do just need to shut up and stop whining”, I literally can’t stand that shit

[bxllafanficc]

Lady of mischief- Part four

Pairing: Loki x Greek!goddess f!reader

Summary: Asgard is having a change of power so there are several events Loki has to get right before he can announce victory against his brother as the next king. But one lady’s approval will change the whole outcome if the stakes are right. That lady is you, intended heir to the throne of Olympus but tied down to a marriage of convenience with one of the princes of Asgard. The prince you choose to marry will be the next king but you refuse to let yourself be a pawn in this game for power. Loki, with his intentions to take you as his queen has far greater reason to marry you than just for the reason of being king. You however, would rather cut off your left arm than exposing yourself for the fact that there’s another purpose besides Loki getting a throne to sit on.

The palace halls were crowded with workers and even aristocrats from far away staying in the palace’s guest areas. People from high ranking families and servants alike came our from their rooms. The chatting wasn’t quiet enough for you not to hear but the context was obvious. Everyone wondered why Asgard was suddenly shaking, why the ground beneath their feat suddenly became an object of death instead of the concrete safety it’s always been. The poor Asgardians had probably never experienced an earthquake before. Or a god loosing their cool and taking it out on the nature either.

Despite people making the halls hard to get past, everyone stepped aside for the prowling embodiment of fury: you, on your way to confront the man who started the nightmare.

You truly tried to make the waking earthquake to stop. It wasn’t at full force yet since you were still somewhat grounded. But every time you would try to strap the source of its boiling anger, a maid you walked past would mention prince Loki’s wellbeing and the emotions would burst off the lid again.

And you knew that you’d never make this decision in a calm collected state. After all, this was what he wanted. You’d play into his hands if you didn’t act careful.

You pounded on the wooden door and secretly hoped it would break a hole from the impact. The door stood unaffected.

“What’s the matter?” The mumble was faint and came after a brief paus.

You gave the door one last punch and regretted it immediately. How would confronting him affect the earthquake? We’re you being selfish for potentially putting the Asgardians in danger?

You were just about to turn around and leave but the door swung open with a stale-eyed Loki at the other end.

“(Y/n)? What are you doing to my poor door?”

Couldn’t he at least act like he was surprised to see you? At least give you that much satisfaction?

You crossed your arms tightly above your chest and forced yourself to stare him right in the eyes. The thought of making him stand accountable for his actions was the only thing not making the shaking worse.

“Are you the reason behind me falling every 3 seconds? The waves are especially strong here, did you know that?” You actually didn’t know about that, which only showed just how little control you had over yourself.

“Would you care to elaborate exactly what was your plan tonight? Making me look like your pretty little pawn all dolled up in that dress or locking me up here, tied to your leash for all eternity?” You tried your best to hide the emotion in your words but ended up just spitting them through your teeth instead.

He looked genuinely clueless with his furrowed eyebrows. At least he gave you that. Wrong timing though. His hand traveled up the frame of the door as a way of stealing himself for the shaking. If you lost just a little more control, he’d either fall on his rear or right over you, taking you down with him.

You stood unaffected by the shaking, however.

“What are you talking about? Why would I want to lock you up?” He raised a pointed finger at you.

You had to scoff. How could he pretend not to know when it was so obvious?

“You going off earlier to whine to my uncle wasn’t you manipulating him into getting what you wanted?”

The finger fell slightly and he formed a faint ‘oh’ with his lips. But his expression was still curious. Was he offended?

“Yes but, what does that have to do with you being ‘locked up’?”

“You don’t know?” The shaking seemed to intensify and it caught you off guard.

“If you’ll enlighten me, I’ll answer that for you when I know what we are talking about”, he said as he almost fell forwards with a soft yelp. Your noses touched just as he got a hold of the doorframe, your cheeks brushing against each other as he slumped forwards in relief. It was only a second of him being so close but you felt frozen in the moment.

“And would you stop doing that?!” He motion at the ground and the shaking actually faltered. Not because he told you to stop, but because you weren’t furious anymore. The anger seemed to have vanquished and you were too caught up in his closeness to ask yourself why.

Finally Loki seemed to realize how close you actually were and pulled away. His hair tickled your neck just like they’d done earlier.

“I’m sorry for…” He tapped his nose and cheek with a soft hand. “I know you… that you, yeah.”

Find it disgusting? ‘Despise’ his touch? But you never really meant it, though. Back then he laughed it off but now it seemed like he took your words with him ever since. It kind of made your stomach twist in guilt. Or hunger. You couldn’t tell. When was the last time you’d eaten? Wine didn’t count, that much you knew.

“(Y/n)?”

Why were you here, again? Right.

“Right… Zeus banished me from entering Olympus.” You just said it bluntly because there was actually something else you’d rather said. You lacked the guts though.

“What? Why? Does my father know about this?” His eyes turned round as if it was really bad news for him. The reaction you’d expected was nothing like what you actually got.

“I don’t know about that. But I’m forced to stay with you and Thor until… Until I’ve made up my mind.” Your arms fell flat to your sides since you were no longer angry. Back was the collected you. But you couldn’t quite remember the events leading up to you calming down.

“Haven’t you made up your mind since long ago though? And that’s not for all eternity- wait nevermind, I get it.” His expression faltered to match yours and you started looking around. At the furniture, at the walls… Without the anger giving you strength, you could no longer look him in the eyes for too long.

Lastly you peeked beside his broad frame and into his room only to find it absolutely destroyed. Chairs and what you assumed must’ve been his working desk were broken into tiny pieces across the floor along with shattered porcelain figures of different sorts. The drapes were halfway ripped off the window and stuffing from the bedsheets were still visibly dusting the air.

Loki must have seen you noticing the mess because he let out a muffled sound and moved in front of your vision.

Now forced to look at him, you saw that his hair was tangled, clothes messily arranged and his chest rising and falling rather quickly. Was that redness in his eyes as well?

“Loki, are you okay? Have you been cr-��� He immediately cut you off with a dismissive arm and avoided looking at you. The tables had turned so quickly you still had trouble figuring out how to handle the situation.

“Of course not! Now it’s time for you to go. It’s bad for your highness’ skin to be awake for this long.”

‘Your highness’?

He was already midway at closing the door when your hand snaked between and caught it. You could see him getting ready to put distance between himself and the door through the small gap you had left.

“Is there something that- is everything alright?” You didn’t really know why you were now chasing his attention like that. Didn’t you want him to stay away from you? To avoid and feel nothing but hostility from you?

Loki only wasted one second to look at you before he sighed and untangled your fingers from his door. The skin-to-skin contact was warm. Not at all despicable as you’d told him. Damn your mouth sometimes.

“Yes. Everything’s just fine. Good night, my lady.” And so you were facing a closed door. You were thinking about knocking again but somehow knew that door wouldn’t open anytime soon. You’d heard of past experiences where the prince would lock himself up in his room for days just so nobody would see just a tad of vulnerability from him.

Had you just made the maid’s work harder? You thought about how you would have to apologize later if that was the case. Maybe apologize to the entire population of Asgard for causing the ground to shake while you were at it. If you were to stay here for all eternity, you might as well make some friends. Because it would most likely be forever. Either you were trapped refusing to marry one or the brothers or trapped by the crown that would be on your head if you did end up choosing one.

The walk back to your room was quick since it wasn’t too far from the prince’s. Henna greeted you at the door and brought you inside to discuss the matter that caused your outbreak.

“So prince Loki’s room was like a scene out of a war? I heard from the maids here that outbursts like that has only occurred a few times before but the prince would always cover it up with illusion magic immediately. He’d ignore it for as long as he could until sooner or later when the servants tripped over the mess and couldn’t see the reason for them bruising an arm or knee.”

He’d cover up the destruction? Why hadn’t he done it earlier? Maybe you caught him off guard mid-rampage. And so he was to distracted to conjure the spell.

Henna had been talking nonstop ever since you came back. She insisted on babying you tonight and currently brushing your hair before bed, she had all the time in the world to talk.

“Henna?” You stared into your own reflection in the mirror and found only tired eyes met you at the other end.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Do you know if it’s usual for the prince to cry?” Henna put down the brush and went to grab your nightgown with an almost skipping walk. Why were she in such a light mood tonight? Right. Everyone had a great time at the banquet, except for you and, you assumed, Loki as well. You should be asking Henna if she danced with some handsome youngster tonight instead of hearing about gossip about the second born prince. You should mind your business. Loki was fine, as he said.

But Loki is a known liar.

“No, I don’t think so? There would definitely have been servants talking about that if it ever happened since prince Loki isn’t very popular with the maids. Why do you ask?”

If that was the case, then you were probably just imagining it. His eyes could be red out of straining the veins in his face from destroying all that furniture too. And after all, prince Loki’s wellbeing wasn’t your concern.

But you couldn’t help but wonder why he suddenly started addressing you so formally just as he wanted to get away from you, since he never usually kept up the formalities in private.

(A/N: Hi! Don’t hesitate to comment on each chapter what you thought about it/if you liked it since that keeps me motivated to keep writing. Also reblog so my story reaches a wider audience, if you really liked it! Your support is much appreciated. Also let me know if you want to be added to the tag list for this series. Have a good day, lovelies!)

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