#call me an asshole but you can’t just cut off contact with a woman JUST because she isn’t your girlfriend

[autuboho]

pisses me off beyond the level, do you devalue friendships that much? partner culture is another reason why men can’t build deep friendships unless for conjugal purpose. It enhances the idea that all relationships in particular romantic ones are linked with the road of partnership. If you want a partner just say it on the face. Plain and simple.

[yourlocaltrashcan657]

Long Distance Lovers

Reiner Braun x Female Reader

Sweat. That’s what Porco felt trickling his forehead and down his back as he shot up and sat against the bed frame. Rays of sunlight lit the room as he put on his shoes and walked to the warriors kitchen to see Reiner standing in front of the sink.

‘Great. This is probably the last person I want to see as of right now. Especially after that memory.’ Porco thought as opened the pantry.

“Morning.” Reiner said as he closed the tap and dried his hands.

“Hey.” Porco mumbled back as he pulled out snack bars, trying his best not to make eye contact. The two awkwardly sat at the table, waiting for others to arrive so they could start eating.

“You’re only gonna eat that?” Reiner asked, attempting to break the tension.

“Thanks for asking, shouldn’t you be worrying about your Devil Girlfriend.” Porco said mockingly as Reiner froze in his spot.

“I.. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Reiner replied as he kept a his head down.

“Cut the shit, Reiner! I should’ve known you’d betray Marley once you’d get to that Island.” Porco yelled aggressively. “I saw everything in that bitches memory. Filthy Devils the reason we live like this-“

Suddenly, Porco was being lifted into air as Reiner gripped his collar. Anger was clearly evident on Reiners face as his features stiffened.

“Now you listen here you, bastard. I allowed it the first time but if you call her a devil again, so help me I’ll rip out your vocal cords until you can’t regenerate anymore.” Reiner threatened quietly. “That woman was probably the best thing that appeared in my life and I don’t care if she was born on that Island, she’ll always be an angel compared to the rest of this shitty world.”

Porco breathed heavily as they maintained eye contact before Reiners eyes widened and suddenly dropped Porco gently so he’d stand nicely.

“Sorry.” Reiner said as he held his head in one hand.

“Tch. You’re crazy you are. Falling in love like that.” Porco mumbled as they sat back down.

“I don’t care if you tell the officals.” Reiner mumbled as he looked up at Porco. “If anything it’s the last thing I care about now-“

“Relax asshole. I’m not gonna have them pass down the armoured titan because of.. that.” Porco interrupted as he reassured the blonde. “Let’s just keep this between us.”

“Yeah.” Reiner replied. “Did you by any chance hear what we said?” Porco scoffed at his question as he leaned back and crossed his arm over his chest.

“Yeah, you damn hopeless romantic.” Porco mumbled before speaking up. “From what I saw, you gave her a rose before embracing her.” It stayed silent for a good few seconds before Reiner smiled and chuckled at the response.

“I remember that. That rose must’ve been thrown out after I revealed myself.” Reiner mumbled as Porco nodded silently. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away on Paradis, Armin sat next to a flustered (h/c) girl as he looked at her in shock.

“I didn’t expect you to see those memories, Armin.” Y/N mumbled embarrassed of what he saw. “I think Bertolt was the only guy who knew about me and Reiner.”

“Y-yeah.” Armin said, not wanting to reveal Ymir being present in the memory.

“What exactly did you see, Armin?” Y/N asked nervously as she looked up at him. “What memory did you see?”

“It was when he gave you a rose and uhh… showed you his love your physical touch.” Armin answered embarrassed as he recalled the hug and kiss in the memory.

“I remember that.” Y/N chuckled as she got up and walked to the window. “You dont mind if we keep this between us, right?”

“O-of course Y/N! I came to you first since I just thought I’d let you know.. I don’t know if it was right though. I feel like it’s made you uncomfortable with me.” Armin said.

“I’m not uncomfortable with you, Armin. It just caught me off guard.” Y/N reassured. “If anything I’m glad you came to me first.” Opening the window, Y/N grabbed a watering can and tipped it to put over the plants attached to the window. “If anything I feel bad that you kept it to yourself for a while.”

“I didn’t even realise you had flowers out near the window.” Armin mumbled as he got up and walked over to see a lot of roses.

“I’ve been growing them for 4 years.” Y/N said as a smile grew on her face before pointing at the biggest one in the middle. “That one. That one means the most to me.”

“Is it..?” Armin asked with yet another shocked look as Y/N nodded.

“That’s the same one that handsome idiot gave me.” Y/N said as she stared at the blooming flowers.

[wannab-urs]

Build Me Up Buttercup | Ch. 6

But I love you still

Summary: Morning. Breakfast. The talk. Hot Steamy Sex. 

Warnings: MDNI | 18+ | This is actually a soft sweet chapter with very little angst. Mentions of Joel’s past trauma but nothing in depth at all. Sexy sex with accidental creampie oopsie. 

Word Count: 2.7k - i did not mean to write this much lol.

A/N: I’m really sorry it took me this long to get this out. That work trip was brutal in so many ways. Thanks for sticking around and for reading this series, it really means the world to me. I love seeing your reactions! I am so eternally grateful to @mishasminion360 for encouraging me to write in the first place, @beskarandblasters for being there every step of the way, and the entire whore home chat for listening to me bitch and moan and reading my silly little stories and everything else. Love y’all <3

You wake up to early morning sun streaming through the window, which is weird because you have blackout curtains. And there’s an arm thrown over your waist and a scruffy beard tickling your shoulder. 

You’re in Dr. Joel Miller’s bed. And you’re not even naked. 

Last night, you’d accused him of cheating on his wife with you, and in doing so, you’d brought up a 20 year old trauma that likely cut him to the bone. Sure you’d been harboring a secret crush on the guy for the whole semester, but in reality you barely knew each other. 

He owed you absolutely nothing and yet he’d bared his soul to you last night. Well, in a very Joel Miller way of doing it. Man of few words and all that. But you’d yelled at him after he rescued you from some frat boy dickhole and cuddled with you all night. Maybe you’re the asshole in this relationship… situationship… whatever it was. 

“Morning, pretty girl,” his sleep-rough voice shocks you out of your thought spiral. You roll in his arms and look into his gorgeous brown eyes. He looks content. Happy even. Not the slightest bit upset. He should be upset.

“Are you mad at me?” You ask him, still searching his face for any traces of anger, and finding none. 

“No, sweetheart, ‘m not mad at you,” he chuckles like you’re silly for asking. Joel Miller is not the asshole you thought he was… he’s a fucking saint. 

“Good morning…” you press your face into his chest, unable to make eye contact. “I feel like the biggest dick on the planet,” you mumble against him, words muffled. 

Joel slides the hand resting on your hip up your body and tucks a finger under your chin, lifting your eyes to his, “I’m not mad at you, darlin’. You didn’t know.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. He presses his lips to your forehead and then grumbles out, “Well, I’m a little upset with you, but not about our conversation last night.”

“I don’t understand.” Your brows furrow and your mouth sets into a little pout. 

“You went to a frat party, wandered off by yourself, and then had to call me to rescue you.”

You stare at him in disbelief before pushing yourself out of his arms to sit up. “I am a grown ass woman, Miller. I can go out if I want to.” Okay maybe not a saint. He’s still irritating. 

“You are. You can. But not by yourself. And don’t call me that,” he says sternly, sitting up and pressing his back against the headboard. 

“I wasn’t by myself I- actually, why the fuck do you think you have any right to tell me what I can and can’t do?” The audacity of this man. Seriously. 

“I’m not sayin’ you can’t! Just don’t like it, is all. ‘S not safe,” his stern voice takes on a note of sincerity and you can see the worry in his eyes. He’s completely right, and you don’t really want to admit that. 

“Yeah?” You climb into his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Well fuck you, Miller."

“That can be arranged, darlin’,” Joel grips your waist in his hands and jerks you toward him, your breath hitching as you feel his hard length against your clothed crotch. You grind against him, drawing a grunt from his lips. “But we’re gonna eat breakfast first.” 

He wraps his arms around your body and rolls so that you’re under him. You pout at him and he nips your protruding lower lip before getting off the bed and slinking out of the room. You stare at his retreating form in disbelief. Asshole.

“Can I take a shower?” You yell.

 “Course darlin’!”

You hear faint music start to drift through the house as you head into the bathroom, but you can’t make out the song. 

When you get out of the shower, you put Joel’s sweatpants and t-shirt back on, leaving your panties in the pile of your clothes from the party last night. You make your way to the kitchen, but you’re brought to an abrupt halt in the doorway.

Joel Miller, grumpiest man you know, has a spatula in his hand and is swaying his (admittedly cute) butt side to side to the music, quietly singing along to Baby, I’m Yours by Barbara Lewis. You stand in the doorway, not wanting him to stop singing. His voice is rough, but pleasant. He has absolutely adorable bed head, the morning light streaking through it and making the silver strands in his unruly curls shine. The old band t-shirt stretched across his broad form. God damn he’s gorgeous.

Joel flips a pancake out of the pan onto a plate already piled high with them and glances over his shoulder. “You just gonna stand there lookin’ pretty, or are you gonna come eat?” 

Your face flushes at having been caught gawking at him. “I was just enjoying the show.”

You walk over to his kitchen table and sit down in the same place you had last night. “Coffee or tea?” He asks you.

“Coffee please.” He brings you a mug and a plate with a couple pancakes stacked on it. He goes back into the kitchen to grab the syrup and you suddenly remember you need to text your friends. They probably think you got kidnapped. “Joel, where’s my phone? I need to tell Coop and Em I’m not dead.” 

He walks back to the table and sets down the syrup, dropping a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s on charge in the bedroom. Cooper called while you were in the shower, so I answered. Hope that’s okay.” 

“You answered my phone? And like spoke to Coop? Did they know who you were?” 

“Yeah. Is that okay?” He suddenly looks worried and you realize it sounds like you’re upset.

“No yeah it’s totally fine. I just know they’re actin’ a fool in the group chat with Em right now.” You’ll cross the hurdle of explaining how you got into this situation later. For now, a very pretty man made you breakfast and you’re really hungry. 

You pour some syrup onto your pancakes and take a bite. They’re the perfect amount of sweet and fluffy. “Holy shit, Joel, these are amazing! I didn’t know you could cook.” 

“Thanks. They’re Ashley’s mom’s recipe…” he gets a wistful, nostalgic look in his eye, the hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “I’m glad you like them, doll.”

As you eat, you ask him random questions. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Green.”

“Dark green or light green?”

“Dark green.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“One. Tommy. He lives in Wyoming.”

“That’s really far away. Do you have any friends?”

“Not really. Bill and Frank are alright, I guess.”

“Wait. Bill and Frank like the Bill and Frank? The weirdo history professor who thinks Bush did 9/11 and the super hot and super not conservative art professor who are somehow together?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just weird that of all the people to be friends with you pick the extremely crotchety old man and his lovely husband. Actually, never mind that makes sense. Do you think Bush did 9/11?”

“No.”

Once you’re both finished with breakfast, you help Joel clear the table and take the dishes to the sink. You take a deep breath and ask the question you’ve been meaning to ask all morning. You don’t want to be a what are we are girl, but he’s your professor. You lean against the little island in the center of his kitchen, folding your arms around yourself, while Joel washes the dishes. 

“Joel?” 

“Yeah, darlin’?” 

“If we’re gonna do this… whatever this is…” You trail off and take a deep breath. “How does this work, with you being my professor?” There. You did it. Now he’s going to tell you that you can’t do this and this isn’t anything. 

Joel sighs and grabs a dish towel to dry his hands. He steps into your space, grabbing your hands and wrapping your arms around his waist before bringing his hands to cup your cheeks. “Baby doll, I don’t know about you, but I’m startin’ to think this could be something. And if you feel the same way…”

“I do!” You give him a reassuring squeeze. “I want this. Us.”

“Then we’ll keep it quiet for a few more weeks, you’ll graduate, and we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it. How’s that sound?” You giggle at his phrasing and bury your face in his chest, squeezing him tight. He envelops you in his arms and you stand in his kitchen, hugging each other and soaking in the warm feeling.

“Darlin?”

You look up at Joel and he kisses you.You part your lips and he deepens the kiss, licking into your mouth. Joel’s kisses are all consuming. You’re getting addicted to the feeling of his mouth on yours - the way his lips are slightly chapped, the way his beard and mustache tickle your face, the way it feels like he’s pouring a piece of his soul into you for safe keeping. Your heart swells with it. You dig your fingers into his shoulder blades, pulling him closer to you. You can’t get him close enough to you.

He grabs your waist with his hands and lifts you onto the countertop without breaking the kiss, stepping into the space between your thighs. You tangle the hair at the nape of his neck in your fingers and he groans into your mouth. 

His hands slide to the waistband of your borrowed sweats and he slides them down your legs, finally breaking away from your lips to toss them on the ground behind him. “No underwear? Dirty girl.” He slips back between your legs and your shirt quickly joins your sweatpants. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Joel pants into your ear. He presses his lips to yours again and pulls you to the very edge of the counter top. “Lay back, darlin’. I’ve been dying to get my mouth on you.” 

You lean back onto your forearms and your breath hitches as he digs his fingertips into your thighs, spreading them apart. He presses his nose into your clit and inhales deeply. “You smell sweeter than maple syrup, baby doll.” He buries his tongue in your opening, swirling it around before licking a stripe up to your clit. “Taste better too.” He sucks your clit into his mouth, nudging it over and over with his tongue and drawing a deep moan from your throat. 

“Fuck, Joel, feels so good.” Your head drops back and you grind against his face as you feel yourself getting close. “Gonna come, Joel,” you whimper. He speeds up his tongue on your clit and slips a finger inside your tight heat. The combination of him pressing against the soft, sensitive spot inside you and a hard suck on your clit sends you over the edge. You cry out his name as you come, walls fluttering around his finger rapidly.

Before you’ve even come down from your world shattering orgasm, he’s wrapping your thighs around his waist and picking you up off the counter. He locks his mouth with yours and you taste yourself on him, smell yourself on his facial hair, and fuck that’s hot. He makes it as far as the hallway before he’s pressing you up against the wall and kissing you stupid again. You suck his bottom lip into your mouth and lightly graze it with your teeth. He groans and tightens his grip on you, heading to the bedroom again. 

“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me baby,” he says, laying you gently on the bed and crawling on top of you, settling his still sweatpants covered but very visible cock against your dripping pussy and grinding into you. You whimper at the contact on your over stimulated clit.

“You’re gonna kill me if you don’t take your - fuck,” grinds down into you again “your fucking clothes off and fuck me, Miller,” you get out through gritted teeth. 

“Can’t have that now, darlin’,” Joel chuckles and stands up, finally stripping his pants and shirt off. And holy shit. You hadn’t exactly forgotten how big he is, that would be hard to forget. But it’s just as stunning the second time as the first. He really is beautiful. His skin is golden and lightly freckled. His broad chest and big arms are slightly contrasted with a cute little belly. A trail of dark hair runs from his navel down into soft curls around the base of his gorgeously flushed cock. God damn you want that cock inside you. 

“Please,” you whine. 

“Of course, darlin’,” Joel settles back on top of you and nestles the head of his cock against your entrance. “Oh, and don’t call me Miller.” He thrusts inside of you in one long, slow stroke, making you scream out in pleasure and the smallest bit of pain at the stretch.

“Joel, you’re so fucking big oh my god,” your walls flutter around him, trying to get used to the way he fills you up so completely. 

“I know baby, you can take it.” He waits until he sees no more traces of comfort in your face, then he retreats and pushes forward at that same slow pace. “You’re so fucking tight, baby. Squeezing my cock so good. You’re fucking perfect, baby, so fucking good for me.”

You keen at the praise, lifting your hips to meet him as he thrusts into you. No one has ever filled you up so completely before. No one has ever hit that spot deep inside you that makes you choke on your own moans. 

“Please, Joel,” you beg him. You want more of him, somehow. He is everything and you need more. 

“Please what darlin’?” Joel rolls his hips into you harder on the second word and you realize what you want.

“Harder, Joel. Fuck me harder!” He complies immediately, sitting back on his haunches and grabbing your hips for leverage. He thrusts into you hard and fast, pulling you into him. Your body goes limp and you can’t do anything but take him. You think he’s hitting your cervix. You can’t really think anymore. A stream of choked moans and half sobs fall from your lips. 

Joel looks like a god above you. His powerful biceps flex with every pull of your body into him. A sheen of sweat on his body makes him glow in the mid morning sun. His curls are damp, a few pressed to his forehead. His face is set in determined focus. You’re going to come again. You can feel the coil of pleasure in your stomach about to snap and he hasn’t even touched your clit. 

Like he can read your mind, he starts rolling his hips at the end of each thrust, grinding into your clit.

“Joel! Fuck! I’m com- I-” You can’t get the words out as your cunt clenches around him hard. All your senses black out except for touch. You feel him inside you, all around you, running through your veins, making your whole body shake as you come harder than you ever have in your life. 

“That’s a good girl. Come on my cock, pretty girl. So good for me. Fuck!” Joel’s praise washes over you and you feel absolutely euphoric. He buries himself deep inside you and you feel him twitch inside you over and over, cum leaking out around him and down your thighs. Joel falls forward, catching himself on his forearms and dropping his forehead to yours. You both take several deep shuddering breaths, coming down from your highs. 

“Fuck. Fuck baby I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop,” Joel half whispers. He slips out of you and climbs off the bed and you whimper pathetically at the loss of him. He’s back moments later, wiping you clean with his t-shirt. 

“IUD,” you murmur, still too fucked out for full sentences. Joel looks confused for a second before he lays down beside you and pulls you into his arms. 

“You have an IUD?” You nod and snuggle even closer to him. “Thank fuck.”

You giggle at him and press a kiss to his chest before drifting off to sleep in his arms.

A/N2: I have an idea floating in my head for an epilogue so that may come along at some point, but I’m not gonna promise anything lol. They live happily ever after, though, obviously. 

Tag List: @beskarandblasters, @cutesyscreenname, @atinylittlepain, @wednesdayday, @whoiscaroline, @goldenhxurs, @northernwindd, @djarinxore, @worhols, @amanitacowboy, @silkiers, @4ueijos, @livinxdeadxgrl, @chknikkbxss, @thepriceofpepper, @lexic-22, @sunshinebtrfly, @ccelinea, @harriedandharassed, @leeeesahhh, @suzmagine, @strang3lov3, @thereaperisabitch

[poetoflawed]

Family Man

Part 1 Word count: 947 Ok so this post is based on this previous idea I had Pls do not plagiarize Beware of Google Translate lol

3rd POV Rafeal and Y/n make their way through the airport. Y/n turns to Rafeal, “Do you really have to go?” She knows the answer. They’ve talked about this extensively. “Mi amor que estás haciendo ahora? You know I have to. This is for both of us.” He holds her face in his hands, “I have to become someone, someone worthy of you. Someone who makes a difference. Por favor entiende mi amor.” She pulls her face away, “But por qué? I know this is what you want, what you need. But why can’t you stay. Stay here with me. I’m sorry, I know i’m being selfish, but i love you.” “Don’t worry. We got this. te amo completamente.” He looks in her eyes reassuringly, picks up his duffle and moves towards the gate.

13 years later … Rafeal is a lawyer. The esteemed A.D.A Rafael Barba. The A.D.A who works with NYPD’s SVU unit. He lives a somewhat glamorous life of suits and ties. He is a man known to be notorious for being so busy his personal life is almost non existent. He is a bachelor, living a high stress busy life. One so full, relationships past the occasional hook up, are not likely. A recent case having pulled him resulted in him ordering an emergency meeting on Christmas Day, with the NYPD detectives. As the holidays progress, while going over case notes, he gets a message to contact Y/n, but, even though he remembers her, he ignores it and does not return her call.

Rafael’s POV

This case is gonna be the death of me. Hijo de puta, I’m late. My mind is full and racing. This case needs to go well, this woman, this victim. This never should have happened, and I need to help. I barely notice when I make it to the little convenience store near my building. Needing to pick up some milk I make my way inside, as I'm looking through the aisles I hear a commotion at the cash.

“I'm not gonna cash it man. It's fake!” “NO it Ain’t! Cash the fuckin ticked asshole!” “NO” “Oh yeah?” the man pulls out a handgun and my eyes widen a little “Wait!” The fuck are you doing i think to myself as the man turns to me gun at his side, “How much is the ticket worth-” I notice his face getting more irritated, “I-I’lll buy it off you.” I show the three hundred dollar bills in my hand, “Seriously, take it and cut your losses man. This isn't worth a record.” He stashes his gun back in his coat, grabs the bills from my hand, and throws the ticket on the counter as he turns out of the store. I stood there for a minute and let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. I make my way outside catching up to the man from before, “Here,” I hand him a prepackaged sandwich, “I have a feeling you might want this. Do you have anywhere to go?” “I'm fine man. Leave me alone.” “Are you sure?” I might be a cynic but I still wanna help people. “Lemme ask you something man,what's missing from your life! Think about that!” “I have everything I need already.” I say, baffled. The man looks at me, annoyed and just turns on his heel and starts stalking away down the street. Baffled, I return to my penthouse and sleep.

The golden rays of sunshine hit my eyes suddenly, and then i realize its Christmas day again. I realize there's breathing coming from next to me. I roll over and am met with the (still) beautiful sleeping face of Y/n. My eyes widen and I sit up, as i'm sitting in bed confused, with my breath picking up, I see a child, a young girl, staring at me from the door to the room.

“Papi, can you make me some food please?”

I sit there baffled, Y/n slowly wakes up, “Mmmhmmm what's up baby?” she's asking, slowly waking up. As she slowly sits up in bed my confusion intensifies as I look at her, the girl I left my first year at Harvard, sitting in a bed I've never seen, pregnant. With what appears to be the second child. I look from the woman to the girl, throwing myself from the bed, “Raf?” “Papi?” As I sprint downstairs, I search for some keys as my head swims.

What the actual fuck is happening right now????

As I run outside I realize i'm not in New york anymore but rather suburban New Jersey. As I drive frantically back to the precinct I make my way inside, desperate and only in my pajamas and winter coat, I walk up to the front desk. “Jenny, I need benson.” i’m panting and confusion flashes in my eye when she frowns at me, “And who are you sir?” “Jenny… what… you know me…” my brows crease. “Sir how do you know my name?” she asks nervously. My confusion turns to anger now, “Jenny i was at your baby shower a year ago, your sons name is Grant, he went through a phase where he only ate cheese. Please, PLEASE. You know me!” Her eyes are wide now, fear evident. Slowly she reaches for the phone on her desk “Ok sir,” She nods over to a uniform and nudges my way “this is officer Kapal, he’ll show you to a room where you can wait for the detective.” “Thank you, finally” i let out a breath of air, and follow the officer to one of the rooms.

[ihateapbiology]

the first page

It was hard to balance- a coffee from the bookstore’s cafe, two books, your phone and your car keys but you were making it work. That was until you turned too sharp of a corner and collided head on with this brunette woman. “Shit I’m sorry” you both say at the time.

She smiles up at you as she goes to pick up the books you dropped “no it was totally my bad.”

You smile back “nah I’m just so clumsy and overestimated how much was practical to carry.”

She looks at your book selection and you suddenly feel self conscious about your selections.

“Big into philosophy?” She asks raising an eyebrow.

“Well ok I don’t, I’m not one of those like pretentious assholes” you start to stutter as you take the books from her.

”No no I was just gonna say I love philosophy, and I love Camus I haven’t read The Stranger yet so you’ll have to tell me how it is” she says

“Oh cool yeah I haven’t read much of his besides Myth of Si-

You don’t even get the chance to finish before her face lights up “that book quite literally is one of my favorites ever” she beams.

By now you two have been just walking around the bookstore- she still has a hold on your keys from when she picked them up from the collision.

“So did you major in philosophy?” you ask.

She shakes her head “no no audio engineering and then uh lit I just find philosophy super interesting.”

You can’t help but notice her beautiful big eyes and how expressive her face is- but you quickly toss aside the idea that she’s into girls. “woah audio engineering that’s sick.”

This sentence is a catalyst for her speaking passionately about it for the next 10 minutes with you only briefly cutting in. Most of the things go over your head but the way she speaks is so captivating it makes you want to keep listening. Finally she smiles “sorry I just talked your ear off what’d you major in?”

You grin and open the door to the bookstore holding it for her as you walk out to the parking lot “no it was fun to listen to and I majored in engineering.”

She smirks “wow women in STEM-sexy.”

You blush and just laugh while internally freaking out.

She stops at a red pick up truck- “this is me.”

You smile to yourself about the truck “you are just full of surprises- oh wait! I think you still have my keys.”

She laughs “oh shit I totally forget here are yours” she hands them to you and then pulls out hers from her jeans pocket “and here are mine.”

You blink twice plainly seeing the lesbian flag colors on the lanyard. You laugh to yourself and think “well I’ll be damned.”

She catches it “whatcha laughin at.”

You take a deep breath you had been working on actually not letting opportunities right in front of you fly away. And this was certainly an opportunity. “Well it’s just..I…your lanyard I like it..”

She grins like a fool catching what you meant. “Oh do you now?”

You smirk “yeah the colors are quite nice.”

She nods “yeah I think that way too- you know I would love to see you again why don’t you give me your number and we can grab lunch soon.”

Your jaw drops at her straightforwardness “yes yeah me too” you give her your number.

She smiles and types it in “what should the contact name be for you?”

You realize yall hadn’t even exchanged names “oh uh y/n and you?”

“Julien.”

You nod and walk to your car before calling “see ya soon Julien.”

[roguetiger-ao3]

As a writer I have had the most bizarre couple of weeks… that aren’t over yet.

First of all, apart from one story (which this includes) I write fanfiction. There is such a huge joy in writing for characters we know and love that not even the shame that some would like for us to feel from doing it can quench by treating us as the ‘redheaded-stepchild’ of fandom spaces.

Sigh, as you can probably guess by that, I am going to rant and ramble… move on if you need to. I understand.

The other week I had family visiting. Family that know I write but they don’t know what I write or that I belong to the B in LGBT (they’re right wing when it comes to politics). As usual I was getting ‘advice’ on publishing my stories. Sure, it’s all done from a place of love but having to explain that publishing fanfiction is a huge NO is one thing, going into the wlw part of it is another (no sis, I don’t want your husband reading about two women getting down and dirty with a strap).

I don’t know what I searched for on my phone exactly… sometimes I just like to make sure that my stories aren’t too easily found, Anyway. To my surprise and downright shock, one of my stories came up on a search and it wasn’t Tumblr or AO3 related… is was a app that I had never heard of… Webnovel.

I clicked on the link and after a short search found one of my biggest (in popularity and thickness at 177 chapters) was on the app along with my original character story (published under a name that wasn’t mine).

Over the next couple of days I looked into it further and found that the person that had stolen my original story… and yes, I am going to call it stolen… had taken other peoples work from the original works section of AO3 and started to post them to Webnovel before adding comments to say they were now posting exclusively to another app called Goodnovel.

I reported the theft on both apps and to my delight, Goodnovel took my story down within a day.

Webnovel… those I am still fighting over it.

And that is probably the worst of it.

Their web version and the mobile app have a different reporting system which makes it difficult enough. What makes it harder is that I am a simple, uneducated Brit who has never had to do anything like this. I don’t know what a fucking DMCA report should look like so giving them the links to my stories on AO3 wasn’t enough and neither was sending them photos of the original files on my laptop with dates that match up to the publishing of them on AO3 back in 2017 wasn’t enough.

I contacted their help chat where I was told that the email I’d gotten of the site wasn’t used and that I needed to report it through the app as the site also didn’t have a option to report plagiarism. I did that and still it stayed up. I contacted them again where I was put of the chat version of hold for so long I ended up being cut off and having to start again. Finally I was told I needed to fill in a DMCA but that the email I’d used was okay, it was apparently getting blocked because I hadn’t sent in the right thing.

BUT THEY NEVER TOLD ME WHAT A DMCA SHOULD LOOK LIKE! ALL THEY HAD WAS A VAGUE, COMPLICATED HINT ON THEIR SIGHT THAT STILL GOT ME NOWHERE WITH THEM!

I contacted them the other day (just to make sure they had got it) and got the same person as I did the first time. Once more they told me I could only do it through the app but I was ready with a screen shot of what the last one had said about the email being okay so now I just have to wait 2-3 days.

I am an older (aka stubborn) woman with time on my hands to fight. I can’t imagine how confusing and discouraging it would be for someone younger to have to go through all that (and I still don’t know if they will fix it yet).

And all because so asshole decided that they would try to make money off what someone else has written. Cause that is what they can do with the original stories. They just copy and paste and get paid for it.

I really don’t know where this rant is going.

If you can, try and educate yourselves about DMCA’s, maybe keep a copy of one available just in case… don’t fall for sites that say they will do them for a fee when there are sample forms online.

It is sickening and disheartening to live in a time where the things we create are taken and stripped down by AI for others to profit from, and can be flat out stolen and posted for money by someone else.

I never thought anything like this would happen to me. Those stories took me years to write but I know I am nowhere near good enough to be published or make money off them and still someone stole them.

I’m hating all this waiting to find out if I finally got the right kind of DMCA to satisfy them. And the nightmares I’m getting about what to do if for some reason they decided I didn’t write my stories, are putting a dampener on muses that have been silence by health problems for a year are insane.

FINALLY… If you are someone that gets it into their head to steal someone else’s creations. Be it stories, art… ANYTHING… DON’T!

Something being on the internet does NOT mean that it is yours to take.

But! Fandom is different! Whaaaa! NO IT ISN’T! The characters are copyright, that is why we can’t profit from them but the stories belong to the authors. DO NOT STEAL!

As a PS… Webnovel… Go fuck yourselves! Make a fucking DMCA form available if that is the only fucking form you will look at!

GOD DAMN! I’M PISSED!

[trentsgirl]

— 🖤🤍 ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ (1.4k)

⟡ summary: months after breaking up, jude drunkenly decides to call you.

⟡ content: pure angst, sad ending, depressed asf jude, mentions of alcohol.

⟡ notes(1): writing this fanfic took so damn long, i can’t even. it’s my first time writing heavy angst, so i’m unsure about this.

⟡ notes(2): it would be wonderful if you’d shared your thoughts, and let me know if i’d made any mistakes. thank you:))

⟡ streaming: i miss you, i’m sorry by gracie abrams

⟡ masterlist.

the heavy rain outside mirrored the turmoil within you.

it had been months since the breakup, yet the pain persisted, clinging to you like an unwelcome layer as jude’s voice echoed through the phone.

“i miss you.”

you were aware of the risks of engaging with jude again, especially when he was intoxicated, evident from his slurred speech.

however, you also desired some closure, a final farewell to put an end to this torment.

“is that what you woke me up for?” you asked, your distress evident as you adjusted yourself against the bed's headboard.

jude held a bottle of beer in his hand, surrounded by a collection of empty ones on the kitchen table. guilt consumed him as he realized that calling you was a mistake—a mistake that would cause only pain to the two of you.

however, he couldn’t resist the urge.

“i’m sorry... i just wanted to hear your voice.”

a soft sigh escaped your lips as you leaned your head back, your gaze fixated on the stars strewn across the night sky outside the window.

as much as you longed to admit missing jude, you couldn’t shake the thought of the other woman in his life.

“aren’t you seeing someone else?”

it didn’t take much for jude to move on and start dating another girl. the first time you’d seen her was at his game, cheering for him alongside his family.

just like you used to do.

the realization that jude could easily replace you felt like a painful dose of acid.

“no, not anymore. we just ended it.” jude admitted.

he couldn’t be with someone else while still harboring strong feelings for you. every time she kissed or hugged him, he wished it was you instead.

jude acknowledged that using someone else to try and forget about you made him an A class asshole, but he felt lost, unsure of what else to do.

you continued to haunt his troubled mind.

“and your first thought was to call me?” you questioned, feeling offended by jude’s approach.

did he expect you to provide emotional support? was that the purpose of his call, to unload his feelings onto you?

“yeah.” jude confirmed.

“wow… i should really hang up.” you stated firmly.

jude panicked, pleading, “wait... y/n, please. i understand that we haven't spoken in a while, but-”

interrupting him with annoyance, you cut off his sentence. “you never made an effort to contact me after we ended our relationship, and now you suddenly want to talk?”

“i… i just wanted to know how you’re doing, if you’re okay…” jude stammered, his words filled with uncertainty.

you scoffed dismissively, running your fingers through your hair. “do you really care?”

“yes, y/n, i do. i always have.” jude replied without hesitation.

although he may not have been the best boyfriend, his concern for you never wavered.

you closed your eyes tightly, struggling to hold back the tears that were on the brink of spilling over.

after a few seconds of silence, jude asked, his voice quivering, “what did you mean when you said that thing?”

“what thing?” you responded, your voice filled with confusion.

“you know,” jude replied, his voice carrying a strong emotional undertone. “‘you only love when it’s convenient for you. i always felt like an inconvenience to you.’”

a heavy silence enveloped the call as the weight of your words, spoken months ago, lingered in the air.

“it meant you never loved me, jude. you didn’t want to try, either.”

jude tightened his grip on the bottle, your words resonating painfully in his mind.

he had reached out to you, driven by the influence of alcohol and desperate optimism, only to be met with your harsh and distant response.

“that’s not true, i loved you so much.” he retorted, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest.

you recognized that engaging in a conversation with him would only lead to a painful argument, and that wasn't what you desired at the moment.

“you’re slurring your words, jude. stop drinking and go to bed. i’m ending the call.”

jude stared into the dimly lit kitchen, overwhelmed with shame. he had attempted to apologize, to offer an explanation, but the alcohol had distorted his words into an incoherent jumble.

the rain intensified, each droplet feeling like a silent accusation. he recalled the disappointment and pain reflected in your eyes, emotions he couldn’t erase or undo.

he loved you, more than words could convey, but his struggles had driven you away.

he drained the last of his drink, the bitterness reflecting his regret.

“she left me because i kept seeing you in her.” jude admitted, causing you to stop your thumb from stopping the call.

“what?” you were at a loss for words, struggling to understand jude’s confession.

“i… i wanted another chance.” jude rushed to say, the words stumbling out.

your expression turned solemn as you responded, “you can’t just treat other people as chances for redemption.”

the impact of your words hit him hard, as if he had been physically struck. he finally acknowledged the truth in what you said.

he had been so self-centered, using other relationships as a means to cope with the pain of losing you.

“so am i doing something wrong?” jude’s voice barely came out as a whisper. “neither of you loved me. am i just that unloveable?”

“that’s not true.” you quickly reassured him, heart aching for jude.

“then why?” jude choked out. “why do i keep losing the important people in my life? why can’t i just be happy?”

your chest tightened as the weight of his sorrow overwhelmed you. despite your desire to provide answers, all you had were empty words.

“not everything always works out,” you responded, offering consolation despite your initial intention not to. “i’m sorry.”

Lnothing ever goes right for me,” jude’s voice cracked. “you wouldn’t understand. i don’t know how much longer i can continue like this.”

you felt a surge of concern. you were aware that jude was going through a difficult time, but this moment felt more urgent.

“hey, hey, jude, take it easy,” you said, your voice steady yet compassionate. “take a deep breath for me.”

he followed your guidance, taking a slow, deep breath in an attempt to regain composure. he hadn’t anticipated becoming so emotional, but the influence of alcohol in his system was affecting him.

“i’m so dumb,” jude sniffled, his voice choked with emotion. “i shouldn’t be crying. i didn’t even cry when we broke up, but i just...”

his voice trailed off, overwhelmed by the intense emotions consuming him.

“do you really miss me?” you eventually inquired, a solitary tear slipping down your cheek. it pained you deeply to hear jude, who rarely shed tears, in such anguish.

and to not be there to hold and comfort him hurt even more.

a prolonged silence ensued before jude managed to choke out, “yes.”

the words lingered heavily in the air, carrying with them a multitude of unexpressed emotions.

“you know i moved countries, right?” you continued, your tone tender. “there is a possibility that we may never see each other again.”

“i know...”

another moment of quietness enveloped them, punctuated solely by the sound of your uneven breaths. then, you spoke once more, your voice as gentle as the rain outside.

“then i’ll say this as a person who cares deeply for you,” you started. “i know how scared you are about letting someone into your life. i could tell you were scared to love me, but that's not a bad thing. you’re just figuring stuff out, and you'll get there someday.”

your words resonated deeply within jude. you were right. he had always been guarded, keeping his heart protected within the walls of his emotional fortress, rarely granting anyone access.

you had managed to breach those defenses, but his fear of vulnerability had caused him to push you away, despite his love for you.

“hello? are you still there? did you pass you?” a heavy silence enveloped the phone call as your words were met with nothing.

you let out a sigh, colored with a mixture of regret and longing.

“i’m.. sorry. for everything. you probably won’t even remember what i said.” you mumbled apologetically.

another moment of silence ensued, interrupted only by a soft sniffle from the other end that went unheard by you.

“goodbye, jude.”

the dial tone reverberated in your ear, a chilly and stark reminder of the physical and emotional distance between the two of you.

as the call disconnected and jude’s phone turned off, a whispered confession escaped his lips.

“i still love you.”

[sacredsorceress]

Green || Bucky Barnes

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader

summary: three times bucky realized you were more than a friend and the one time he finally admitted it (based on events from tfatws)

a/n: finishing this in time for the season finale tomorrow! reblogs and/or replies are super appreciated!!

word count: 3.1k

warnings: mentions of reader wearing a short dress, jealous bucky

masterlist || request || taglist

#1

“Nice of you guys to call me.”

Your hands in your jacket pockets, you announced your presence as you strolled up to the group of four men standing outside of the police station. You could basically feel the tension in the air as each man had a resolute expression written on all over their faces.

“What’s going on here?” You asked, slipping your hands out of your pockets and gesturing towards the group.

“What are you doing here?” Sam asked.

You might have been nicer about the situation if you weren’t utterly pissed that the two men hadn’t informed you about the mission that they had gone on.

“Incase you forgot, Sam, you’re not the only one who’s had to pick up where someone else left off. It’s my job to keep track of you guys.” You said. “... Also I’m Bucky’s emergency contact.”

“Well,” The blonde man leaning against the police cruiser said. “You’re a little late. I handled it.”

Looking up at the man in front of you, you gave him no inclination of defeat.

“You must be John Walker.” You said.

“So you’ve heard of me?” He smirked.

You crossed your arms, stepping away from the man who you had seen on television playing the role of Captain America. You had heard about the decision moments before the government had first displayed the impersonator on screen, but it had been too late for you to do anything about it or to inform Sam or Bucky in time for his appearance.

“I’ve heard of everyone.” You deadpanned.

“Yeah?” He asked, standing up straighter. “And who are you?”

Just as you were about to open your mouth, you felt Bucky’s hand land on your shoulder. Turning to glance at him, you watched as he shook his head, giving you a serious look. Despite the fact that you were now tasked with keeping track of the former members of the group of Avengers and were one yourself, you had been able to keep your identity a secret. Although to the world you were “Sorceress”- the Avenger with magical powers similar to those of Wanda Maximoff- to members of the team such as Bucky you were Y/n Y/l/n.

He didn’t trust John Walker and he didn’t want to bring you into their own mess. Although Bucky had been avoiding Sam’s text messages, Bucky had kept in constant touch with you since you first met him after he had come back from the Blip six months ago- even going as far as spending time together multiple times a week in person- not because you had to keep track of him, but because the two of you genuinely enjoyed spending time together. 

You were the closest thing he had to normalcy and he didn’t want the knockoff version of his best friend messing it up not only for himself, but for you too.

However, you didn’t see much of a way out of it. You weren’t going to just leave Bucky and Sam to handle the situation on their own, but you also didn’t see a way that you could work alongside them and not have John and Lemar figure out your identity sooner or later.

Gently taking Bucky’s hand off of your shoulder, squeezing it lightly before dropping it, you reached out your hand to John Walker.

“Y/n Y/l/n.” You told him. “Sorceress... and I guess the current caretaker of the Falcon and the Winter Soldier.”

Later, after the group had dispersed and you followed Sam and Bucky as they walked in the opposite direction, you were surprised when you heard Bucky’s tone of voice when he finally spoke up again.

“You shouldn’t have given him your name, Y/n.” He said.

You shrugged, hands tucked into your pockets once again. “It’s fine, Buck.” You assured him. “There wasn’t much else I could do. He was going to find out eventually-”

“Don’t act so casual about it. This is your identity- your life- and you’re just going to share it with some asshole like John Walker?”

“Woah!” You exclaimed, stopping in your spot. “What’s your problem, Buck? Why do you care so much?”

Noticing how both you and Sam were staring at him with furrowed eyebrows, trying to comprehend why he was making such a “big deal” about it, Bucky grew embarrassed, not understanding himself why he cared so much. Rather than admitting defeat however, Bucky threw up his hands, scoffing.

“Forget it, Y/n. I don’t care. Do what you want.”

And with that he picked up the pace, walking in the opposite direction of where you and Sam stood confused in your spots.

#2

“I couldn’t have worn something- I don’t know- a bit longer?” You called to the three men ahead of you, following them into the club as you tugged on the hem of your short dress.

“This a club in Madripoor, Y/n.” You heard Zemo say. “If you wore anything else you would be giving us away.”

Groaning you steadied yourself in your heels following behind Zemo and Sam. You slowed your pace to walk besides Bucky who had insisted on being at the back of the line behind you- telling everyone that it would be safer for everyone if he kept their backs covered.

“How are you feeling?” You asked as quietly as you could in the loud club.

“What?” He asked.

“How are you feeling? With the while Winter Soldier thing? If you don’t think you can handle it we can find another way-”

“It’s fine, Y/n.” He said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Instead of letting it go, you gently placed your hand on his exposed, vibranium arm, causing him to stop in his spot, looking at you.

“Bucky, I’m serious.” You said. “You matter too. If you can’t handle it, I’ll find a way to get the information without all of this, okay? I care about you, Buck. Just say the word.”

He almost couldn't focus on the words coming out of your mouth as he tried to keep his eyes focused on your face, rather than trailing down your body, finally noticing just how short the dress that was adorning your body was. As good as you looked in green, he swore he would kill Zemo once he got what he needed from him for dressing you in that.

As gorgeous as you were, however, your words meant everything to him and he hung on to every single one- no matter what you were saying. Hearing the sentiment that you had for him and that you would stick your neck out for him of all people made him speechless.

Just as he was about to open his mouth however, the two of you began to feel the eyes of other partygoers staring the two of you down. As soon as you noticed, you quickly snatched your hand away from his arm and continued your pace in front of him, Bucky quickly following behind.

“Distracted?” Zemo asked as Bucky stopped beside him at the bar.

Rather than answering, Bucky remained silent, falling into character with the thought of your shared interaction still playing over and over in his mind.

#3

Coughing on his hands and knees, trying to process what had just happened, all Bucky could hear was the obnoxious sound of the alarm blaring. When he opened his eyes again he saw the shipping container now consumed with flames and illuminated with a daunting red light. Recalling what had just occurred, he scrambled to his feet, calling out for you.

“Y/n?” He called. “Y/n!”

When he didn't immediately hear your voice, he began to feel his heart race in his chest. What if something happened to you? What if you were too close to the explosion? He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if something had happened to you. Just as he was beginning to start hyperventilating, the smoke catching in his chest causing him to double over and heave, he felt your hands wrap around either of his biceps.

“Buck?” You asked. “I’m- I’m so sorry. It happened so fast I couldn’t get a forcefield around everyone. Thank God you’re okay. I was so afraid something happened-”

Cutting you off, Bucky shook your hands off of his arms, instead pulling you into his arms. Although you and the super soldier had spent more quality time than you could count together prior to starting this mission, you had never hugged before, but being in his arms you couldn’t find a single complaint, instead silently wrapping your arms tightly around his torso, running your hands up and down his back.

“Hey it’s okay, Buck. I’m okay.” You said. “Let’s go, okay? Before this thing collapses on us.”

After that the two of you had followed Sam and Sharon into the area of shipping containers, taking out hitman by hitman along the way, when you had finally gotten through all of them, you watched as Zemo pulled up in a car besides the four of you.

“Nice ride.” You said as Bucky slipped into the front seat of the vehicle, yourself sliding into one of the seats in the back row.

“Thank you, Y/n.” Zemo replied, patting Bucky on the chest. “She’s a woman of taste.”

Bucky swore to himself for the second time within the past 12 hours that when given the chance he was going to kill the man beside him- with or without his therapist’s approval.

“You’re not going to move your seat up are you?” Sam asked.

“Nope.” Bucky said.

“That’s fine.” Sam conceded. “I guess I’ll just chill back here with Y/n.”

You laughed as Sam laid his arm against headrest of the backseats of the car.

“I’m fine with that.” You said. “Just me and my favorite person.”

Now Bucky knew that you were kidding, only teasing him to get a rise out of him, but glancing at the backseat and seeing Sam’s arm practically around your shoulders and you calling him your favorite person... just didn’t sit right with Bucky. Just as Zemo’s foot was about to hit the gas, Bucky shifted the car into park, swinging the door open and stepping out of the vehicle.

“What-”

“You can have the front.” Bucky said, swinging Sam’s door open.

“It’s really okay, Buck-”

“You said you wanted more space so you can have the front.” He said. “Go sit in the front.”

You watched as Sam turned to you, quirking his eyebrows before shrugging and stepping out of the car, switching to the passenger seat. You almost wanted to laugh as you watched Bucky squeeze into the backseat behind the passenger seat, his knees practically up against his chest.

“You good?” You asked.

Despite the groan that had involuntarily escaped his mouth from the discomfort of the front seat digging into his knees, Bucky nodded, stretching his arm out across the backseat, behind your shoulders.

“I’m great.” He assured you. “Now drive, Zemo.”

Although you didn’t catch it, the two men sitting in the front seat- despite their differences- couldn’t help but throw each other a knowing look before the car took off for their next destination.

#4

“Hey!” Torres called. “I see you got your sleeve back!”

You chuckled as you turned to glance at the man stood beside you. Despite it being a joke, not a single hint of a smile cracked the man’s hard exterior. The only reason he didn’t walk out of the room on the spot was because you were standing beside him.

“He’s just in a bad mood today.” You said, reaching your hand out to shake Torres’. “I’m Y/n.”

Taking your hand and shaking it in his, he furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you doing hanging around these guys?” He asked. “...Not that you can’t handle yourself! Sam just won’t even invite me on these things.”

Pulling your hand away from his, you smiled. “Think you can keep a secret?”

As soon as you asked the question you watched as the confusion written all over his face grew even more and you could hear Sam chuckling in the background.

“I’m Sorceress.” You said. “Like the Avenger? I just try to keep my identity pretty secret, you know?”

As soon as you revealed your identity to him, you watched as the man’s face dropped and he turned to look at Sam who was standing behind him.

“Wait- she’s-” Torres stuttered.

Sam nodded, laughing.

“Yep.” Sam said. “She’s the one you’ve been hounding me about setting you up with.”

Although you weren’t paying attention to him, Bucky had already disliked how the conversation was going- finding Torres to be a little too friendly for his liking and not loving that you exposed your identity to him immediately- but when he heard Sam’s confession, he stiffened in his spot, hands balling into fists at his side.

“What? Dude!” Torres exclaimed, glancing back and forth between you and Sam before finally turning back to you, chuckling nervously. “He's just kidding! I would never have a crush on you- wait! That came out wrong! Not that you’re not pretty because you are- I just think you’re cool-”

You continued laughing as the man stumbling over his words in front of you, finding it endearing until you heard the super soldier scoff beside you. You glanced at him only to see him cross his arms while rolling his eyes before making his way out of the room.

Turning back to Torres you gave him a quick smile, pulling a card out of your pocket. “I have to go, but it was nice to meet you Torres. If these boys get in trouble again, make sure to call me first thing, okay?”

He took the card from your hand, nodding. “Uh yeah- yeah! Of course!”

With that you waved to both him and Sam before following the path Bucky had taken out of the room seconds before.

Seeing his figure pacing across the room, you threw your arms up in the air.

“What’s your problem?” You asked.

Stopping in his spot he turned to face you.

“What?” He said. “I don’t have a problem.”

You couldn’t help but scoff, crossing your arms. 

“Uh yeah. You do.” You said. “Did I do something to piss you off or something? Are you mad at me for coming on the mission? Because I’m sorry if I wanted to help save the world and make sure you guys didn’t get killed in the process.”

Bucky just stopped and stared at you standing across from him with your arms crossed. He hated to admit it, but you look pissed at him. It hurt knowing that you were upset with him, but it hurt a little more knowing that you felt as though he was mad at you when in actuality that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Y/n.” He said, stepping closer to you. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Then why did you just storm out of the room?” You asked.

He couldn’t think of a reason besides the truth. He could lie and say that he was   mad at you, but that wouldn’t solve the situation for anyone and could possibly strain your relationship farther- and that was the last thing he could possibly want.

The two of you stood there in silence, staring at one another as Bucky attempted to find the words in his head to ease your concern without exposing himself in the process.

But you were never one to back down with him.

“Bucky,” You said. “What’s the problem? What did I do? Why are you so angry-”

“Because I don’t like the way that guy was talking to you!” He exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air.

“What?” You asked. “What are you talking about?”

Bucky realized he was in it now. He couldn’t see a way out of it.

For the past week, Bucky couldn’t help but notice that he cared for you a bit more than friends should. Maybe he always did. He thought back to the times he would eagerly await your weekly lunches or the comfort he felt when you took him furniture shopping after seeing his empty apartment for the first time. He thought back to the times you would show up outside of his door when he was upset because you were the only person he trusted there with him in those intimate moments- he knew that you were more than just his colleague, but he realized now that you were more than his friend.

Recently it became more obvious, the burning in his chest he felt when others became a little too comfortable with you- he attempted to mask it with just wanting to protect you, but he knew you could handle yourself. He was protective over you so he wouldn’t lose you.

Just when you opened your mouth to speak again, he cupped your face in his hands. He watched as your eyes widened, but didn’t make any move to stop him. When he caught your eyes trailing from his eyes to his lips, he pulled you towards him, meeting your lips in the middle.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t kissed anyone in eighty years, but he had never felt the way he had in that moment before. He was so utterly consumed in you- the feeling of your hands reaching for his jacket, tugging him closer as you deepened the kiss, your soft lips against his, your warm breath against his face- he was lost in it.

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t want to let go, but leaned back anyway, staring at his world- you- that he now held in his hands.

“Buck...”

“I think I like you more than a friend.” He confessed.

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face at his words. You had always cared for Bucky as more than just your former fellow Avenger, but knowing that he felt the same as you was something you could hardly believe.

“I think I do too.” You laughed, then recalled what you had come in there for in the first place. “James, were you... were you jealous?”

Thinking back over the past week the two of you had spent together on the mission, he could almost laugh at the question you had just asked.

“You’re joking, right?” He chuckled. “Yeah. You could say I was a little bit jealous.”

[raineydays411]

My fathers daughter

prologue

Tony Stark x daughter! reader

Summary: By all definitions you were a daddy’s girl. It’s been you and him since your mom left you both. But what happens when your both forced to face your past?

a/n: y’all know i can’t resist a good crossover

If there had to be a face for daddys girl, you’d be the poster child. 

Ever since you came into Tony’s life, you and him have been attached by the hip.

You were with him through everything.

When he became Iron Man, when he joined the avengers, and even during civil war. Even though it hurt you to see your family be torn apart, you could never betray your father. Then again, you have to admit that you were happy that the avengers compromised and were able to get back together. Earning you a new family member in Bucky. You were happy. Happy with the life you have with your dad and avengers. 

Which is why your mother suddenly reappearing and demanding to be in your life kinda of peeved you off. 

Let’s start from the beginning. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started off with a gala. 

Some bougie charity event that rich assholes attend to donate large sums of money, not out of kindness, but only to show just how rich they are. You hated these types of events.  You hated the fake smiles and false interest in your life. All they wanted was to get close to your dad. They even try to set you up with their snobby stuck up kids. You hated it. 

And here you were, trying to find a way to get out of this boring conversation with some snob from Beverly hills. You can see your dad laughing at you from across the room. 

“You know, you look a lot like Mrs. Wayne.” He suddenly says, looking at you.

“Who?” You ask, suddenly paying attention.

“Mrs. Wayne, you know, Bruce Wayne's wife.”

You know who Bruce Wayne was. Your dad absolutely detestes the man. He never really told you why. He just said to never trust a Wayne. You also know that he’s Batman and his army of children are/were Robin. It was pretty obvious and rather easy to figure out. Then again, you were able to hack into the Bat computers main systems. They really need to update their firewalls. 

“Um no I didn’t know that he had a wife to be honest.” You reply, not really interested.

“You can pass as her daughter you know? She is very beautiful. As are you.” He says in a flirty tone. 

You roll your eyes, seeing your father finishing up a conversation and make your move, but then you hear 

“Oh look, there's the Wayne family right there.” 

Causing the attention to turn to the main entrance. There you saw Bruce Wayne. Tall, handsome, and charismatic. He was smiling, waving at the host. Next to him, his oldest son Dick. Another very handsome man, Tall with blue eyes and raven hair. Sending charming smiles to the crowds of women. Then Tim Drake, too focused on his phone to pay attention to the crowds, and finally Damian Wayne. A small boy with a sharp scowl. To his left, you can barely make out the form of his wife and his daughter, Cassandra Cain. You can also see Stephanie Brown chatting excitedly to Mrs. Wayne, who you still couldn’t see.

“Jeez, they brought the whole cavalry.” You mutter, looking at the star struck boy you were talking to.

You roll your eyes. The way people worship this family is strange. They act as if they are royalty or gods. You look at your father, expecting him to be making a sarcastic face or something. But that’s not what you saw. No, you saw a look on his face that you haven’t seen on his face ever. That’s when you walked up to him.

“Daddy...are you okay?” You asked cautiously.  He turned to you, shocked.

“Y/n!” He practically shouts, “ I’m okay, are you okay? We can leave right now if you’re not okay?” 

You frown in confusion, “ Umm yeah, I’m fine...”

“Good, Good. We’re going to leave now, this gala kinda blows. DOn’t you think?”

You can see his eyes dart to the Waynes to you. He looks...panicked. It was weird to you. Usually he keeps his cool during events like these. 

“Um sure..I just need to go to the restroom first” You say, seeing him nod. You walk off, shaking off the concern you have for your father. As you push through the crowds, you can hear them whisper as you passed. Something about Mrs. Wayne. 

You shake your head, “Can’t they talk about anything else??” 

Then you finally find the bathroom. You walk in, expecting it to be empty, only to be faced with Cassandra Cain and Stephanie Brown. They were chatting near the sinks as you walking into the stall. After doing your business, you walked out to the sink, going to wash your hands, but you saw Stephanie freeze, then nudge Cassandra. They both stared at you as you washed your hands and went to dry them. You give them a side eye, wondering why they were staring at you so hard. 

“Um hi?” You say carefully, the jump not expecting you to speak.

“Oh! Hello Im Stephanie and this is Cass” Stephanie says with a smile. “ You’re Y/n Stark right?”

“Uh yeah...Its nice to meet you dudes” You say quickly, already ready to walk out the restroom. 

“I’m sorry for staring, it’s just that...you look a lot like her mother” She says gesturing to Cassandra. 

You chuckle, “ Uh yeah so I’ve heard...hey I gotta go...”

“Oh right! Sorry heh” Stephanie laughs nervously, “It was great to meet you”

“Yeah” You agree half heartedly, “ You too”

And with that you go to find your father. You pass by the Wayne sons, only to see them take a double take when you pass them. 

“God that family is weird.” You mumble seeing your father talking to Bruce and his wife. He looked distressed and angry. You speed up, wanting to make sure your father doesn’t punch Bruce Wayne the way he looks like he's going to.

“Hey dad...um I’m ready to go.” You says with your back turned on the Waynes.

“Y/n..” Your dad says panic exploding on his face, “ Y/n sweetheart um...”

“Yn?” You hear a woman whisper.  You turn to see Bruce Wayne and...your mother. 

You remember the day she left. It was a sunny day. The kind of days that usually are in good memories and have happy endings. She was supposed to take you to the park so you can meet your dad there. You hardly saw her over the years, just every three months when she would come to the then Stark Tower to visit. But that say...that day was different. She had gotten a call, from who you don’t know, nut it seemed important. Because she left at that very moment and never came back. She never reached out, never called, texted or anything. Just radio silence. Your dad was heart broken.  He had hoped that one day she would move in with you and him, and you could be a family. He loved her with his whole heart, but she just didn’t love you both enough to stay. He was a mess after she left, and you picked up the pieces.

You were nine.

If it wasn’t for Pepper stepping in after witnessing one of his breakdowns, you don’t know what would’ve happened.

You stare at the woman who left you, who broke your fathers heart. Who broke your heart.

“Ms. Wayne.” you say curtly, taking pleasure in the way her face fell, “ Mr. Wayne, it’s lovely to see you again. If you’ll excuse me and my father, it seems like he’s not feeling too well.”

You weren’t lying, Tony looked like he was about to puke. His face was pale and he was kinda sweaty. So you wrapped your arm around him and lead him to the entrance, starting to pull out your phone to call Happy.

“Y/n wait!” Your mother cried out, pulling her arm away from Bruce and placing a hand in your shoulder. You jerked your shoulder out of her grasp.

“ Y/n, I know you’re mad at me” she starts, cringing when she hears you scoff, “ But wait a second. Let me look at you...my petal you’re so big.”

You turn and glare at her, “ Don’t call me that.”

“Oh Y/n, please—“You cut her off again.

“Hey i’m just going along with what you want. This is what you wanted right? No contact with us?”

You can see a crowd start to form around you, and you see the scattered Wayne’s push through it. They look at each other in confusion trying to understand how you seem to know their mother.

“ Of course that’s not what I wanted, oh petal I meant to call I just...” She trailed off

“Couldn’t be bothered?” you say harshly, “ I couldn’t care less. Just leave us alone. That should be easy for you.”

You feel your dad tug on your hand, and you turn to him. Eyes softening when you see the expression on his face.

“ Happys here kiddo.” He says softly. You nod and start to walk away. And you hear your mother protest, but you cut her off with a venomous,

“It was nice seeing you again Mom.”

and then you were gone. This time, leaving your mother behind and her confused husband and children.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Please please please can we see Joanne reacting to the Chris saves himself au???

The Chris Saves Himself AU: One | Two | Three

CW: Whumper POV, abusive family member, ableist, ableism, pet whump universe

Jo's sitting at an outdoor cafe, sipping a hot cup of fresh coffee while the ocean beats against the Hawaiian sand. She's waiting on her breakfast and has a book open in front of her she has yet to read.

The sky and the water are nearly the same blue. It's dazzling. She can't take her eyes off it.

She's here for work, helping with getting a newly-opened WRU Facility off the ground. There have been protests, of course - Hawaiians have protested WRU making inroads pretty viciously, and Jo is glad for the secret employee entrance she uses so that the residents of this place don't know who she works for. Still, WRU is paying for the extended-stay hotel and three meals a day, and her nephew's inheritance pays for the drinks.

She cuts the thought before his face can enter her mind.

She dreams about him slumped over, mumbling about how tired he was, sometimes. Once the sedatives kicked in, anyway. She'd been irritated the first round didn't seem to work, and then worried she'd accidentally overdosed him after the second.

But no. No, the Acquisitions team had assured her he would be considered in perfect condition. And her finder's fee and bonus had really emphasized that he was.

Whatever. That problem is solved.

Joanne sighs, wistful. There are already people in the water, even at dawn. She can hear laughter filtering up from the beach.

It's beautiful.

Ronnie would have loved Hawaii. They had always planned to go together, before their falling-out.

Too bad her fucking husband and stupid brat dragged her down with them. Too bad the husband was a shitheel Irish mob asshole, too bad Ronnie's son was a piece of fucking work, too bad the stupid bastard couldn't stay hidden the one time it counted...

Joanne sniffs and wipes at the corner of her eye. Grief is hard - it comes and goes. But at least Tristan isn't her problem any longer.

He's probably happy as a clam doing someone's fucking gardening somewhere. Joanne simply refuses to admit that isn't at all what he is likely to be used for. It doesn't matter.

What she doesn't know, she isn't legally responsible for.

Lost in her thoughts, Joanne doesn't notice the uniformed officers who enter the cafe behind her. She takes a photo of the morning sun as an officer holds up a photocopied piece of paper to the server behind the counter. She posts the phot to her Instagram with #islandliving is the life for me! as the server points her direction and the officer nods and thanks them for their help.

She has missed calls and texts on her phone, but she'll check those later. Jo never looks at her phone before 8 am anymore. It makes everything much more peaceful.

She sees the first couple likes trickle in as the officer speaks to his partner and the two of them head her direction.

"Joanne Botham?"

She's startled out of her thoughts by the officer's voice and looks up to blink at the woman, her straight black hair in a low ponytail and expression stern. Jo feels an instinctive beat of apprehension. "Yes, that's me. Can I help you, officer?"

The officer has an odd look to her. Not hostile, but... not friendly. "Joanne Botham, resides at 435 Janus Way, in Berras, California? Employed by WRU?"

Her heart beats faster and Jo sets her phone down. Then picks up her coffee. "Yes. Is something wrong with my house?"

"No. Do you recognize this individual?"

The officer holds up another printed out photo and Jo's stomach falls to her knees and firmly lodges there. She drops her coffee, mug shattering on the floor, ceramics and liquid everywhere. The officer doesn't even flinch.

It's her fucking nephew.

It's Tristan in a hospital bed, looks like, staring at the camera with wide uncomprehending eyes. His hair is shorter than it used to be, and there is a ring of bruising around his neck, more bruises littered over his collarbone and shoulders.

She has a sudden wild urge to say she's never seen him before. Instead, she swallows and repeats the story she's practiced over and over until she's sure she can pass any lie detector test. "Yes. That's my late sister's son, Tristan. He ran away after their deaths. I thought he was dead."

The officer doesn't argue, just nods. "I see. Well, Ms. Botham, what would you say if I told you that your nephew is alive?"

Jo looks carefully, believably surprised. "He is? Where did you find him? I looked everywhere I could think of!"

"Did you?" The way the officer asks the question tells Jo there is a piece of the puzzle she hasn't seen yet... and it won't be something she likes. "Well, you'll be relieved to hear he was found alive."

"Yes... yes, I am. Relieved."

She's furious.

That little shit is going to ruin her life all over again, isn't he? She'll set his inheritance on fire before she lets him see a dollar. WRU was supposed to make it so she never saw him again.

She should have kept him locked in his room and left him there.

"I'll fly back home right away to see him," She says, a distant ringing filling her mind. "Where is he?"

"Your nephew is receiving medical care. Let's head down to the station. I'll fill you in on the details when we get there."

"Well-... Of course, officer, but I need to call my workplace-"

"We are already in contact with WRU, Ms. Botham. They are aware that you will not be in to work today. A WRU representative will be at the station."

Joanne takes in a breath and slowly lets it out. "I... I need a lawyer, don't I?"

"That's up to you, ma'am. All we want to do is talk. Please come with me." The officer steps back and gestures. Joanne stands, and the beauty of the day is suddenly lost on her entirely.

"Am I being charged with something?" Her voice is faint, suddenly. She swallows hard. "Am I being-"

"The only charged so far are laid against Governor Oliver Branch, ma'am."

"Against who?"

"Ma'am. Please come with me." There's a hand on her elbow and Joanne stumbles along. At the counter, the server is taping this, streaming it live. Jo glances up at the television over in the corner ceiling to see a news anchor talking about a WRU-branded human pet falling out of a balcony at the California governor's mansion and the resulting scandal.

Joanne thinks of all those missed calls on her phone.

"They're blaming me, aren't they?" She asks, coming to a sudden stop on the sidewalk outside. "They're blaming me! I'm going to be the fall guy, right?"

"Get in the car, Ms. Botham," The officer says firmly. One hand moves to her hip. "We can discuss this at the station."

Joanne sees the server with their phone out, following. The stupid little ass is smiling. They think this is funny.

It occurs to Jo they knew who she worked for all along.

She turns and with wild eyes yells, "WRU knew! I did nothing wrong! They knew!"

She's going to need one hell of a lawyer.

She's going to need a miracle.

She suddenly wishes she hadn't spent so much of Tristan's money. She could've used it for her legal fees.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @what-a-whump @whumptywhumpdump @downriver914 @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @whumpfessional

[after-witch]

Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you. 

Word Count: 7,592

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, humiliation, degradation, mentions of eating disorder behavior, improper use of household cleaning products, Overhaul is a mean man 90% of this fic is just Overhaul being an asshole to you

There are going to be bruises on your shoulders. Fingerprint shaped bruises from the men holding you steady, afraid that you'll try to sprint off--maybe afraid that you'll try to spring at their boss, disobedient, unruly possession that you are.

You know that Overhaul won't like it when he eventually sees those black-and-blue fingerprints marring your skin--he might kill them for it, or worse. They're digging in too hard, but you don't warn them to ease up lest they find themselves on the wrong end of Overhaul's hands; they brought you back to this place, after all, and they deserve nothing but your hot, raw contempt.

You could run. You could slip out of their grip, if you put your mind to it. Your clothes are wet and the medical table that you're sitting on is slippery from the rainwater that's dripped out from your soaked clothes. But Chisaki Kai--no, Overhaul, you remind yourself, for the energy he’s exuding now is very much that of a foreboding boss--is standing in front of you, and you'd never make it to the doorway.

"Leave us," Overhaul says, not bothering to move as the men gripping your shoulders release their painful hold and swiftly leave the room. He tears off a sanitizing wipe from the ever-present canister on his desk and wipes down the doorknobs that they touched, before locking the door. An unnecessary precaution, given your nerves, given your state, given your realization that your escape attempt was a massive fluke that would never be allowed to happen again.

You numbly watch as he gathers up supplies from around the makeshift clinic he'd created in the small suite of rooms he allowed you to exist in. The canister of disinfectant. Medical-grade soaps. Sponges. A bucket. Needles, needles, needles... you remember the feel of the syringe you'd stolen in your hand and distract yourself from the fear of what he's going to do to you by retracing the steps of the past day.

**

You got farther than you thought you would--really, you did. At every stage of your plan, you expected Chisaki to suddenly reveal that he knew every step you'd taken so far. That he'd catalogued every act of false obedience to lure him into relaxing the rules, that he saw you swipe the syringe of tranquilizer from the clinic when he'd left for a moment to grab a fresh pair of clothes for you, that he knew you asked to sit with him at his desk only to sneak a glance at his calendar, so you could sweetly plead for an afternoon in the garden when he would be busy, when he would surely ask a highly trusted subordinate to watch over you.

A highly trusted subordinate who knew all about your weeks of good, sweet behavior and who was none the wiser when you'd jabbed him with the syringe, plunging the medicine, the same kind your captor once used to 'calm you down' when you were having fits, right into the man’s thigh. 

You didn't hesitate: you'd dipped your hands into the man's pockets, pulled out his wallet and ran. You barely remember anything until you were in the forest--you vaguely remember using the key card to open the gates surrounding the base, you remember the fear that at any moment you would hear an alarm sound; but from there, everything was a blur as you sped into the forest wearing only the soft day shoes you'd been given to go outside.

You made it through the forest, though not without bumps and cuts and sore feet and a dimly throbbing ankle that was thankfully only turned. You ran until you reached a small town, one you'd never been in before. You buried your first instinct deep, deep, deep: do not contact the authorities. Who knows what connections Overhaul had, especially in a town so close to where he operated? So instead you waltzed into a little corner shop and made a beeline for the bathroom--where you promptly vomited out your breakfast as all of the anxiety and fear and adrenaline caught up with you in an instant.

You remember staring into the bathroom mirror afterwards, your face cold with splashed water. It was then, staring into your pale and anxious face, a face you hadn’t been allowed to see in a mirror for ages, that you felt freedom slamming back into you. You could do what you wanted, now. You were going to get your life back. You could make your own schedule and have your own hobbies back and eat what you wanted and--your stomach had gurgled, as if on cue. You had to get something to eat. But how would you pay?

The wallet you'd pilfered felt heavy in your pocket, and you opened it without a second thought. No cash. But a credit card. It would do, until you were able to get some cash of your own. You wandered back into the shop and even now, you can still feel how struck you were by how cozy, how nice, how different it felt. Just a small general store with big open windows and soft music in the background, and an old woman behind the register who immediately asked you if you needed any help finding this or that.

You smiled--a real smile, how nice that felt--and shook your head and loaded up a basket. A first-aid kit, a large water bottle, a toothbrush and toothpaste... then came the snacks. Candy. Chips. Soda. Things you hadn't tasted in so long. You even grabbed a pointless fashion magazine. The old woman had glanced at the name on the card and you offered a sheepish smile, a fake one that made you feel a pang of guilt for lying to her: "My boyfriend sent me to do the shopping. He's no good at this stuff." She'd smiled and nodded, oh I understand dear, before packing up your order.

You stepped out into the sunshine--you can't pretend like you remember how it feels, right now, shivering from the damp rain on this table--and took a deep breath of fresh air. It smelled crisp and sweet and clean. Not the sterile cleanliness of your captor's clinic, but truly pure--real. There was a slight tinge to the air, and you spotted grey clouds on the horizon. Not an omen, no: just another sign that you were outside, you were in nature, you were free. The smell was the promise of thunder, of electricity, of cool rain.

It also smelled like... well, lunch. Or more precisely, you smelled the vague scents of the little pizza shop a few shops down.

And here is where you made, looking back, your biggest mistake. You should have headed to a bus station. Or called for a taxi. You should have gotten the hell out of there right that second. But your mind flashed back to Overhaul's little calendar, the words printed neatly in the little square for today: he would be away until the evening, which meant you (surely, surely) had a few more hours before he came back and discovered your escape.

He’d ordered no one to bother you and your now-unconscious guard in the garden, so if no one saw you run out, then an alarm certainly wouldn’t raised for a while. You had time, didn't you? Time to grab a meal? You could always get it to go, and you could even ask an employee inside about buses or taxes. Yes, it was fine--you would get a few slices to go and hop on a bus and leave forever. More than that, it was practical. You needed energy, and the junk in your bag--while undoubtedly delicious--wasn't going to be enough to sustain you for long.

The door to the pizza place dinged when you entered, and you almost teared up at the normality of it. It was a buffet style place, with rows of pizzas under yellow-cast lights and rows of red booths and people lifting slices onto their plates with shared tongs. Unusual for a small town, but maybe it was a remnant from a more bustling time, when American-style pizza places were all the rage. For a moment, your thoughts had turned back to your captivity: Overhaul would have never set foot into a place like this--nor would he have let you. Germs, germs, everywhere. And you loved it.

You paid with the card, but there was no need for excuses this time--the young man behind the register didn't even check for a name or signature, much less ask for identification. You asked about a to-go box and he'd shrugged, mumbled out an apology--they didn't do that here. You have to eat inside.

For a moment, the rational part of your mind screamed: get the hell out of here, then! But your stomach growled, and hunger beckoned, and damn if that row of glistening pizza slices didn't make you want to eat. And eat.  And… eat. You shoved repressed thoughts deep down, your heart hammering all the while, and took a tentative step towards the buffet. Thunder rumbled as you debated. You could be out of here in... 30 minutes? Enough time to eat--to binge, your mind whispered, you can now--and maybe get it out after? Yes, it would be fine. (It would not. Future you, the one sitting on the table and watching in increasing anxiety as Overhaul finishes up his tasks, wishes she could tell you.)

You should have seen the start of the rain, sudden and relentless, as a bad sign. Instead you ignored it and filled up a large cup with diet soda that spilled a little when you forgot to let go of the button. You ate without thinking, not even really enjoying the taste of the first greasy pizza slices you’d had in ages.

You were on your fifth slice when the restaurant doors dinged, but the sense of small town charm was overrun by the immediate realization that you were caught. You were fucked. The air thickened--were you the only one to notice?--as two men in slim suits entered the restaurant with an air of immediacy. You were spotted in a second, if that. You thought about running.

But then you thought about the bored teenager behind the register and the old man cutting up his wife's pizza slices because she had trouble chewing and the little girl stacking up pepperonis while her mom chatted on the phone and you resigned yourself. You didn’t want anyone else to get hurt…even if it meant giving in. You didn't struggle, couldn't struggle, and let them lead you swiftly outside where the torrent of rain soaked you immediately  as they pushed you down the block, where an unmarked car waited. You glanced up helplessly as the cloudy sky and rain streamed down your face before you were unceremoniously pushed into the backseat.

Overhaul was sitting inside, staring at you with an intensity you've never seen before.

**

Your backpack drops with a thump next to you and you flinch out of your memories.

"Let's see what you bought with that stolen card during your little adventure."  His voice is deceptively calm. He must be furious with you, you think. And you can't believe you didn't think about credit fraud alerts before you used the damn card.

The noise of the zipper is thunderous and you scoot yourself back on the exam table, pressing against the wall to put a little more room--even if it's only inches--between you and your captor. He begins to pull everything out of the bag, one by one, and seeing it all lined up makes it clear what type of lecture is coming.

A few bags of chips, a bottle of soda, bars of chocolate, all junk, junk, junk. All food he would never permit you to eat, and certainly not in such quantities.

"Disgusting," he murmurs, before tossing each item into a trash bin kept against the wall, one by one. You cringe at the sound of each bag, each bottle, hitting the bottom of the trash. You didn't even get to taste them. He stares at the trash, eyes narrowed, as if the food itself was worthy of his venom. "Full of unnecessary sugars and fats and oils. Eating so much of this will make you sick. We've talked about this."

You say nothing. You press your lips together. You won't give him the satisfaction of argument. You won't let him pretend like he has any right to lecture you on what you eat, and certainly not what you eat after you've escaped (however briefly) from his clutches.

"At least you didn't have time to ingest them during your ill-planned escape, hm?" He replaces his previous gloves--tainted with the thought of germs on the junk food bags, no doubt--and your stomach flips at the sound of the medical gloves he's snapped on in their place. "Which is more than I can say for the pizza." You never knew someone could say pizza with such a ridiculously nasty tone, but you've learned a lot of things during your captivity.

"You weren't content with this junk hoard," he says, gesturing towards the trash while keeping his eyes firmly on you. "You had to gorge yourself on greasy pizza from a dirty buffet, too? We are going to clean your mouth out, by the way.”

You hate the way he says gorge--you hate the way he says greasy--you hate the anxiety that comes with wondering what he’ll do to ‘clean’ your mouth. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. The hate makes you answer defensively, despite your earlier resolution to stay quiet. You can't help yourself, in a lot of ways.

"I was hungry," you say, still feeling defiant.

"No one working on their fifth slice of pizza is hungry," he answers, simply. You feel diminished, but not enough to shut you up.

"So? It's not your business what I eat anyway.” A familiar tightness is springing to your throat. You don't want to cry in front of him ever again, so you clip the words out, fighting to retain control.

He presses a fist to his forehead in a sudden, rather surprising show of frustration. "Not my business? Not my business? It's my business to take care of you. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?"

The fullness in your stomach, the cold rain soaking you, the remembrance of the wind and branches lashing at you as you ran hours before, all these freedoms have made you feel bold. Or maybe you're succumbing to the effects of an adrenaline crash and you just can't control your mouth.

"I could have been free. You can’t--you can't just keep me here. You can't just kidnap someone and decide you know what's best for them."

There's a long, steady pause as he stares at you. His expression--what you can see from his eyes--is blank, and you almost wonder if perhaps you've stumped him.

"I can," he says, lightly. Easily.

Fucker.

He sighs, and you get the distinct impression that you’re a nuisance, something to deal with, something he’s having to deal with instead of doing far more important things. "You’re showing a severe lack of appreciation for all the work I do to take care of you."

You don't know how to respond to that. "You kidnapped me.” It’s all you can think of--the bare truth.

He doesn't speak at first. Then he lifts something from the supply tray he's set up--a blue hospital gown, thin and short, and tosses it towards you. You catch it instinctively, feeling the thin, feather-light material in your fingers. He tosses a towel, next, and you hold it against your damp chest. He turns around.

"Change."

You don't want to. You don't want to. But you've never pressed your luck on what would happen if you refused to get dressed before, afraid that he might do it himself, and that fear overrides any thoughts of outright rebellion. For now. You slide off your wet clothes and push them towards the end of the table, then use the towel to dry off your skin. There are scratches and bruises, including a nasty looking one that's already turning green on your ankle. Your feet are swollen from running on the hard forest floor with your thin day shoes.

When you're finished, you clear your throat, and he turns back around. He tosses your wet clothes right into the trash--damn, you liked that shirt--and wipes off the table with a separate towel. You sit, legs dangling off the table, and wish he'd just get the punishment or examination or whatever it is he has planned over with. You can feel the coldness of the table through the medical gown, and its thinness makes you feel even more helpless. Weak. You want to retain that feeling of freedom that you had earlier in the day. Even choosing to return without a fight, choosing to avoid hurting the innocent people in that town, made you feel bold.

He stands in front of you until you force yourself to look up, to get it over with. He's swapped out his mask for a medical one.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

You hate this.

"No," you admit, voice tight. "Not physically," you add spitefully, because fuck him for trying to make himself sound like a decent person because he kidnapped you but didn't happen to hit you.

"Do I take care of you?" His tone is firm, commanding. It leaves no room for silences. Instead, it makes your stomach feel light, makes your heart feel like it wants to race.

"I can do that on my own," you counter.

"Can you?" He says, voice dripping in condescension.

"Yes," you spite, bile rising into your throat. "I can take care of myself."

He reaches back and grabs the little stool he keeps in this room, rolling it up to rest in front of the table and in front of you. He sits down and cups his hands together, resting them on his thigh. He leans forward. An easy gesture. Like he wants to have a conversation. But something about his movements sends out warning signals. Big, glaring, flashing warning lights that scream DANGER.

“You can take care of yourself.” It’s a statement, yet the way he says it is brutally mocking.

“I can,” you insist, your voice cracking just the slightest bit under his gaze.

"So, where would you live?" He watches you intently and it takes a moment for you to realize what he just asked you. He isn't offering you freedom, no. But maybe you can win an argument, just this once, and forcibly stop his delusions that he's "taking care of you."

"Anywhere," you say, but he looks unimpressed. "An apartment," you correct. "Like my old one. Doesn't have to be big." Your heart pangs with nostalgia for your old place, for your independence, for your life.

"Ah." Overhaul brings a gloved finger up to his chin and rests is there, nodding, as if he's seriously considering your words. "And how will you pay for rent at this apartment?"

You can't resist the snarky tone. "A job."

He rests both hands on his thighs. "Tell me, how much did you make at your last job, again? No--tell me, how long did you hold your last job?" You cross your arms defensively around your waist as he continues. "If I recall correctly, you were fired rather quickly from that one... and the one before."

You squeeze your waist, hoping for the tiniest bit of comfort from the gesture. "I... it wasn’t my fault.” You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass. “The first time. And the second, well, I was looking for something better, anyway."

He raises his eyebrows, curious. "Looking where? At the bottom of a bottle?"

Your entire body tenses.

"After all," he continues, voice almost taking on a syrupy sweet tone. "Your fridge was so well-stocked with them. Hmm. Do you think it's responsible to spend so much money on alcohol when you're behind on rent payments?"

"No," you say, voice tighter, "But--"

He doesn't give you a chance to finish. He stands, and you immediately squeeze your arms again. "And how much were you spending on other luxuries? Those clothes you kept carelessly shoved in your closet... they were a name brand, weren't they?"

Your throat is dry and your mouth is dry and you lick your lips. "There were sales," you insist.

"Ohh," he says, his voice lifting in mockery. "And I bet there were sales on the jewelry, the trinkets, the--" his eyes drift upwards, an implication of his disdain, "--figurines."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I'm allowed to buy things that I like."

He begins to pace. Not aimlessly, no, nothing with him is ever aimless. He paces until he stops in front of you, turning to face you for effect.

"What happens if you're late on three rent payments? Remind me of the policy that decrepit building you called an apartment complex had."

You squirm on the table. "I was only behind on two--"

"What happens?" His voice is firm. You can't avoid it.

There's a pause before you murmur, unwillingly. "You get evicted."

"So." He takes another step, and turns back towards you. "Do you think it's responsible to spend money you don't have on luxuries, when you're behind on rent?"

You want to run. Maybe you should have run at him earlier. Getting tossed into a solitary room after attacking him might be better than this interrogation.

"No," you admit. You swallow, dry and thick and a bit painful. "Okay. I'm not great with money. I bought things to make me happy because I was stressed out about---life. It's not that big a deal. I--I didn't get kicked out, anyway."

He sits again, but keeps himself upright, the air of faux casualness replaced with an air of command. "How did you catch up on your rent? Tell me."

You hate him. You stare at him, hoping he'll end this, but he simply stares at you until you blurt out the words. "You paid my landlord. Anonymously." You stare down at the floor, at the drops of water still there from earlier. "I didn't ask you to. I would have figured something out."

"I'm sure."

He stands, and you stare at the wall until you hear him roll the tray of supplies towards the table. Your body trembles of its own accord when he grabs your arm firmly and wraps a blood pressure cuff around the top. You sit in silence as the cuff gets tighter then mercifully deflates.

He tsks at the number, and jots it down on the pad resting on the table. For once, you're not tempted to peek.

"I need to take some blood," he says, and you stick out your arm in automatic, habitual compliance before your brain even realizes it. He grips your wrist firmly while he swipes your arm with an anti-bacterial agent.

"How much do you weigh?" He asks suddenly, voice nonchalant.

You stare at him, incredulous. He's never brought up weight before. He’s always been careful to avoid details about weight, nutrition--calories. The most he would do is point out that you need a well-rounded diet with the right vitamins and nutrients, and ignore your questions about sauces and cooking oils and grams, all attempts to find out something that could give you an ounce of control over what’s going into your body.

"I--I don't know.  You don't let me look at the scale when I step on it." He knows this. He knows that he's forbidden you from seeing the number, because he knows about your past, knows your tendency to get obsessive and strict and focus on food and weight and worth.

"Why don't I let you look at the scale?"

Your stomach feels like it's twisting.

"I don't know." The lie is bitter on your tongue.

The casual tone in his voice when he replies is far more biting than any cruel insult. "Yes, you do." 

His words are punctuated by the harsh medicinal smell of the next wipe. But you're in no mood to appreciate that he's still choosing to numb your skin despite your earlier transgressions.

The tears you felt building earlier begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. You don't want to cry, you don't want to cry, you don't want to cry.

“Why don’t I let you look at the scale?” He repeats, firmer, more insisting. He winds a band around your arm and taps at your veins.

Your arm looks fatter, like this. You swear it does. You look away to avoid your arm and the needle and his gaze.

“Because, um, I sometimes have problems with food. Or weight. Or whatever.”

“You have an eating disorder,” he tells you, all business as he plunges the needle into your skin; there’s only the ghost of a sting as he begins to slowly draw your blood. But you barely feel it, you can only feel the impact of his words, blunt and hateful.

"You were going to throw up in that germ-infested hovel. Eat until your stomach was distended, then head into a bathroom--which I'm sure the staff hadn't cleaned in ages--and stick your unwashed, greasy fingers down your throat until it all came back up. Am I correct?"

You can't tell if you feel woozy because of the needle or the way that your heart is racing at his words. Throw up. Greasy. Disgusting. You're disgusting.

"Stop it," you say, voice muddled with humiliation and anger.

He pulls the needle out, and quickly presses a bandage to your skin. He keeps a finger there, firm and pressing. He looks up at you, now, as he continues his onslaught.

"And then what? Let me make an educated guess. You were going to get on some filthy bus and open up all the junk you bought earlier? Perhaps," he muses, as he rips off a piece of tape to keep the gauze in place, "you could have asked the bus driver to stop at a public bathroom for a vomit break. And you'd probably make sure that whatever flea-ridden hotel you found along the way had a scale in the bathroom so you could keep track. And another one of your delightful," he practically spits the word out, "cycles would have started, hm?"

"Stop it," you repeat, voice breaking. "I wasn't--I wouldn't have--"

"You were going to," he says simply, interrupting. "Thankfully, we got there in time. Although I'm sure now you will endure a stomach ache after your reckless indulgence. A lesson, perhaps, though not the exact one I would inflict myself."

As if on cue, your stomach rolls and clenches. You’re keenly aware that you’re going to have digestive problems tonight, and the thought of being at his mercy while you’re dealing with them threatens to send you over the edge.  Could you get even more disgusting? The thought of how you look right now, stomach no doubt bulging, hair disheveled and damp, covered in ugly bruises and cuts--combined with the fear of spending the night on a toilet sends you over the edge.

You press your knuckles against your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut and try to force the sobs down. Your body begins to tremble, even more so as he lifts your leg. Without warning, he begins to unceremoniously scrub it down with a sponge dipped in disinfectant.

It stings and your eyes feel like they might pop at the sudden pain. You hiss at the feeling of the liquid on your cuts and try to pull away, to no avail. Your legs feel like jelly in his grip.

“That hurts,” you whine. 

“It can’t be helped,” he tells you, holding your leg firmly as he scrubs the sore bottom of your feet. Any sensitivity you had there is overruled by the soreness and pain from running, from the stinging aches that remain in your cuts. “I have to clean every cut or you may get an infection.”

He sets your leg down and lifts up the other, and you cringe before he even begins to move. You can’t help but whimper as he scrubs your leg, and the helpless stings of pain only increase when he moves on to your arms.

“Please,” you say, feeling low, nearly flattened. “I can’t… I can’t take this.”

He pauses, and the seemingly genuine concern in his eyes (it’s not, you remind yourself, it’s not--you think of the shop and the pizza place and the old man cutting his wife’s food, that was concern, that was care) has you feeling sorry for yourself.

“The stinging will go away in a few minutes. You chose to run away, you can certainly deal with this minor consequence.” He retains his grip on your upper arm and he swipes the sponge across your shoulders, briefly pushing the fabric aside as he does so. He pauses when he sees the blooming fingerprints on your shoulders, but says nothing.  You wonder if those men will survive the night.

There’s a a cut, thin and long, dragging from your collarbone down across your chest. He dips unceremoniously below the gown, touching you in a spot he normally avoids. The feeling of him so close, touching you--not quite on your chest, but close enough--only intensifies your humiliation. You whimper again and try to pull away, but his grip offers no room to move.

“I can’t--” You don’t finish. Your throat is so tight and you hate it, you hate that you can never talk about anything with him, never argue with him without clamming up with tears and a thick throat.

You bring your hands up to your hair, tugging on it until it prickles. Your breath starts to come in short bursts, your chest having as you pull on your hair and will yourself to be anywhere but here. For a flashing moment, you wish you’d never tried to escape. If you didn’t, you’d be getting ready for bed right now. Things would be--not okay. Never okay. But you wouldn’t be here, on this table, cold and stinging and in pain and utterly despondent from having your failures shoved in your face. But then you remember that if he’d never kidnapped you, you wouldn’t have had to try to escape in the first place, and the wish fades.

He remains silent, and instead simply keeps a steady, firm grip on your upper arm until your breath slows, until you can control yourself. Your skin feels at once numb and prickling in anxiety and adrenaline and emotions coursing through you.

Overhaul gives your arm a squeeze that is, perhaps, meant to be reassuring. “Are you suitably recovered?

You nod. Your stomach feels sour. You want to ask if you’re done, if you can just go sleep or get sent (you dread the idea) to solitary confinement or whatever it is he has planned in the wake of your escape. Anything would be better than this room and this soft, thin gown and his bright blue surgical gloves and your failure hanging in the air.

He extends his arm out and you pause for a moment before you grasp it, holding tight as you get off the table and stand on wobbly legs. You’re loathe to touch him, but you’re even more loathe to fall flat on your face on the hard floor.

He speaks before you get a chance to ask if you can change out of the medical gown.

“Now, we’ll go to the bathroom.”

Your knees suddenly feel like they might drop out from under you. “The bathroom?”

He nods, and pulls himself away from your weak grip as he begins walking towards the door. You follow without thinking, pausing when he stops to slide his medical gloves into the trash before slipping on another pair.

“We’re not finished here,” he tells you, and you swear his voice is almost giddy as he turns his head to meet your questioning face. “I told you earlier, we’re going to clean your mouth out.”

He can’t mean--

You take a step back, and your knee buckles. He’s quick--he catches you before you fall, but doesn’t let go. His pulls you upright and pulls you along. Your legs have no choice to walk--walk or be dragged--and you struggle for words as he leads you out of the clinic. Before you know it, you’re back in your room (familiar, warm, the same as it ways this morning) and led swiftly into the attached bathroom.

He pulls you in far enough that he’s able to shut the door behind him, trapping you inside. As if you wouldn’t be trapped by his mere presence. For a moment you wonder if he was bluffing, trying to scare you into submission, but by the time you take another breath he’s running the sink water and tearing into a new box of bar soap.

Your voice catches as you finally speak up. “You--you can’t be serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?” He doesn’t even face you as he speaks. Instead, he turns on the tap and fills a paper cup with water before setting it on the sink’s edge. Next comes the bar of white soap, which grows slick underneath the water. He turns off the tap and lets the excess water drip off, before turning to you, soap bar in hand.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips press together automatically, and you shake your head. No, no, and no. This isn’t happening.

He sighs, and again the feeling that you’re annoying him creeps under your skin. Why does it bother you that you’re annoying him? It shouldn’t bother you at all, but somehow you feel a pang of regret at how much has changed in less than 24 hours. 

“If you don’t open your mouth willingly, I will open it for you.” He takes a step closer, but your legs feel heavy now, rooted to the spot. It isn’t like there’s anywhere you could run, anyway. “I don’t want to do that,” he continues, voice slightly softened. “Cooperate and open your mouth.”

What choice do you have? You could protest, you could argue, you could leap into the bathtub and make him fight for what he wants. You could keep your mouth shut tight and force him to find a solution. But he is stronger than you, in more ways than one, and he would get his way in the end.

So you make the only choice available to you. Your entire mouth shakes and seems to fight against you as you slowly open your lips in compliance. You feel stupid, standing here with your mouth hanging open.

You can’t reflect on the feeling for long, as he wastes no time in shoving the bar inside your open lips. You can’t help but whimper at the intrusion, but he doesn’t let up and begins methodically scrubbing at your tongue. At first, there’s no taste--then the built-up slick of clinical soap makes itself known, and you take advantage of the soap slipping out of your lips to press them together again, denying him entry.

“Open,” he orders, soft and firm.

And you do, heaving your shoulders in an unreleased whimper. What else can you do but listen? He continues to scrub, this time moving the bar into the side of your mouth to scrub at your teeth. The clammy, greasy feeling of soap coating your teeth makes you curl your wide open lips downward. You must look ridiculous, in all respects, lips gaping in an unpleasant frown as your captor mercilessly soaps the inside of your mouth.

“Do you not like the taste?” His eyes glance over at your frown, and the mockery in his tone is more than blatant. 

“Uhh-uhh,” you mumble, open-mouthed, shaking your head. The position you’re in--Overhaul scrubbing into your mouth, your shaking body, the dim feeling of your bruises and cuts from earlier--makes you feel so painfully exposed. So painfully helpless.

He hums and rests the soap against your tongue. Before you can attempt to move your tongue, lessen the feeling of the taste of the soap against it, he gives you a command.

“Bite down.”

Your teeth sink into the soft bar, keeping it in place, and your whimpers grow stronger at the humiliating order you’ve just obeyed. Could you sink any lower?

You watch him through tear-brimmed eyes as he moves to stand in front of you. You know what’s coming before he even speaks and when he does, it’s no surprise.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Back to this, again.

You shake your head, mumble around the soap: “No.”

“Are you capable of being on your own?”

You hesitate, and he merely jumps to another question, one far more pointed.

“Have you held a single job for longer than a year?”

You want to protest, but any attempt at complicated speech is marred by the soap--the weight of it, the taste, and your need to keep it steady in your mouth.

“No,” you admit, hating the feel of the bar as your lips press against it with the effort of speech.

“Would you have been evicted if I didn’t pay off your debts?”

“Yes.” Tears sting at your eyes. You want to wipe them away but you’re afraid you’ll get soap in them, somehow.

“Are you responsible enough with money to hold a job, maintain an apartment, and buy yourself the necessities for life without someone else stepping in?”

The soap somehow tastes even more bitter. “No, I can’t.” Your tongue pushes up against the soap at this, and you resolve to keep it to one-word answers only.

“If we didn’t intercept your little outing, would you have attempted to throw up at that restaurant today?”

You shake your head, but it’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie--and he knows it’s a lie. So you nod, weakly. “Mm-hmm.”

“Have I been feeding you healthy meals? Have I been ensuring that you don’t engage in disgusting self-destructive behaviors?”

He has, but that’s not--your mind wants to argue, but you’re so tired and sick and your stomach hurts and the taste of the soap is too much. So you nod, instead.

He nods in response, and you pray that he’ll take the soap out and end this. Instead, he lifts your chin with a single finger, making you keep eye contact as he speaks.

“Do I take care of you?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your words garbled around the wet soap bar. He releases your chin and it’s these words, this final question, that make you break entirely. Your shoulders ache from bruises as you cry, hunching over slightly and watching as some drool-laden soap droplets fall on the floor. “Yes, yes, yes,” you repeat, mechanically, crying around the bitter soap that’s digging into your front teeth.

Satisfied, he takes hold of the bar and waits for you to release it, then tosses it with ease into the trash. You blubber and spit, only succeeding in releasing a trail of soapy drool down your chin. Your tears are hot and stinging as they roll down your cheeks. You open your mouth, you try to say something, but all that comes out is soft cries punctuated by your attempts to spit out the soapy film.  

“Look at you,” he murmurs, bringing a gloved hand up to your cheek and wiping at the tears. “My poor thing. You can’t even speak. You can’t even articulate yourself. How could you ever hope to make it on your own?” His words are soft and cruel and you merely cry harder, humiliated and helpless.

Your throat is sore. Your stomach hurts. You want your warm nightgown on. You want to be in bed. You wish your stomach didn’t hurt so much from eating junk. You wish you weren’t covered in cuts and bruises. You wish you’d just enjoyed the garden and went back inside. You wish you’d never done this at all. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid.

And you finally say so, all of it, blubbering, bits of soapy drool dribbling out of your mouth as you cry and admit your faults out loud.

After your wrought-out apology dissolves into meaningless whimpers, Overhaul finally grabs the glass of water he set on the edge of the sink, and you gratefully swish the lukewarm liquid with earnest. You lean over the sink and spit, body trembling, then fill the cup again and repeat the gesture again and again to get rid of every bit of white soap stuck in your mouth. Even as you spit, you realize that the taste isn’t going to be completely gone anytime soon--it’s stuck in your mouth like a bad memory.

You jerk when his hands are suddenly on your back, rubber gloves sliding up and down the thin medical gown covering your cold, helpless body. But he merely keeps rubbing, gentle and soothing, while you swish and spit, and cry and cry.

His hands leave your back only to grab a washcloth from the built-in shelves across from the toilet. You watch as he wets the cloth and you stand silently, allowing him to wipe up the drool and soap from your chin, your neck, even a bit on your chest where it dribble-dropped downward.

When you’re all cleaned up, he fills up a cup with mouth wash and silently hands it to you. You gratefully swish it for as long as possible before spitting it into the sink. The soap taste is still there, but lessened somewhat by the overpowering mint of the mouthwash. He gestures to your toothbrush and you pick it up, and begin mechanically brushing your teeth, stopping when the 2-minute timer flashes on the bottom. You instinctively grab your floss without having to be told and make quick work of that, too.

He opens the door to the bathroom, but gestures for you to wait. You do, standing numbly, wishing that he let you have a mirror so you could see your own state. But he doesn’t, and you can’t, and so you wait until he returns with a bundle in his arms.

It’s your pajamas. A soft, pink nightgown--he didn’t pick the soft blue one, tonight, and you’re grateful to avoid any reminders of the medical gown you have on--with matching socks and underwear. You nod and accept the bundle meekly. He turns around and you make quick work of the medical gown, tossing it in the trash yourself before you get dressed for bed.

“M’done,” you mumble, though you quickly realize speaking makes the lingering soap taste stronger. You follow him silently out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, which is just as you left it that morning. The only thing different is you. Subdued, humiliated, helpless.

Overhaul pulls the cover on your bed and you sit down, numb and chastened. You pull your legs up and tuck them under the soft comforter. You’re forcing yourself into the routine you’ve been following for the past few weeks, but the secret thrill you once had of obeying with ulterior movies is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a heavy stillness, the knowledge that you failed in more ways than one. The occasional roll of your stomach reminds you that the night may not be over, bedtime routine be damned.

But you ignore it for now, and you lean your head back on your pillow as he pulls the comforter towards your shoulders, tucking you in. Rather than leave immediately, he sits next to you on the bed, looking down at you with an obsessive, possessive expression in his eyes.

You force down an instinctive flinch when he suddenly begins to stroke the top of your forehead, moving up to pet your hair softly. His gloves are gone. While not completely new, it’s rare--rare enough that the feeling of his bare fingers is still an unusual sensation.

You close your eyes. It usually makes him leave faster. Your heart begins to pound as you hear him stand, as you sense him leaning in, as you feel the ghost of his breath against your face.

“Sweet dreams. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

What a silly thing to say, you think. Your dreams are never sweet anymore.

[usercelestial]

In the early hours of the morning, while the golden sun streams through their apartment window, Mickey stirs at a knock on the door. 

He shakes Ian, whose limbs are wrapped tight around him, his drool pooling on his chest. Ian grumbles something but doesn’t move. 

“Someone’s at the door, shithead, go get it,” Mickey shakes him again. 

Ian yawns and stretches his arms, laying flat on his back now, “Who the fuck is here this early?” Ian turns back to Mickey, smiling, “You know what day it is?” 

Mickey scrunches his eyebrows, trying to remember, “Uh, shit, a Tuesday?” He searches his brain for the date but he doesn’t get very far before Ian jumps on him, pressing kisses to his face. 

“It’s your birthday!” Ian says, far too loudly in Mickey’s opinion, in between kisses. 

Oh. 

Mickey knew Ian would want to celebrate. He’s been getting better at the whole self-love thing. Instead of sulking in their room, remembering all the times he was punished for his excitement until he figured out his existence isn’t something to celebrate, they would go out and get dinner and come home drunk on both alcohol and love. Though he can’t help but feel an ache in his chest for his forlorn upbringing. 

“Christ. I forgot,” Mickey places his hands on Ian’s hips, “I’m getting old.” 

Ian scoffs, “Don’t say that. You’re still in your twenties, doofus.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and pushes Ian off his lap, “Go get the door.” 

Ian complies, leaving one last kiss on his cheek. 

He overhears a soft conversation, hushed and excited. 

He barely makes out what sounds like a woman’s voice paired with Ian’s. Mickey rubs his eyes, trying to rack his brain for any neighbor they might have pissed off last night who would come over to complain. He quickly throws on clothes and walks out to the living room to see Ian standing in the kitchen with Tami. 

She makes eye contact with him, “Fucking finally.” 

“What the hell do you mean ‘finally.’ It’s nine in the fucking morning.” 

“For normal people with healthy sleep schedules, it’s late,” she cocks her hips out, “Came to drop off your present, asshole, say thank you.” 

He punches her shoulder lightly, “Thanks, dick.” 

She holds out a small box, wrapped neatly in green wrapping paper. He haphazardly rips it off and opens it.  

There's an assortment of gifts. The first thing he pulls out is a Mickey Mouse plushie with a card taped to the front. The writing is messy, scribbled crayon, it reads: 

“hapy birth day, uncle mickey

freddie.” 

“Cool,” Mickey’s voice breaks, Tami and Ian snicker. 

“Lip helped pick out the toy,” Tami adds. 

“Fucker,” Mickey gently places the gift on the countertop. 

He goes back in and grabs a package wrapped in plastic. He realizes it’s soap and shampoo, a certain kind he told Tami he wanted a while ago, “How the fuck did you remember this?” 

Tami shrugs, “You’re my friend, stupid. There’s also a cookbook, Lip got that for both of you since Ian’s getting into growing his own food.”  

Mickey grabs the book that’s sitting on the bottom of the box, glancing at it before tossing it to Ian, “Thank you,” he nods and before he realizes it, she’s hugging him and pulling away. 

“Happy birthday, Mick. Love you guys,” Tami kisses Ian’s cheek, “I gotta go, see ya.” 

“Bye, Tami,” Ian waves, turning back to Mickey, who’s still standing, staring at the gifts that Tami dropped off. 

“Hey,” Ian says softly, rubbing his shoulders, “You good, baby?” 

Mickey nods, “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just-you know-” 

Ian does know. Not only because Mickey told him how weird it is, how uncomfortable he gets when people do things like this for him-nice things-but also because Ian experiences it himself. Maybe not to the same degree as Mickey, but he’s seen the way Ian malfunctions when one of his friends gets him something nice. He knows he has the same sort of wary confusion when they get to have good things. 

Mickey leans into Ian’s touch, “Wanna go back to sleep.” 

Ian rests his chin in the crook of Mickey’s neck, turning his face to plant a kiss on his cheek, “We can do that, baby.” 

They go back to sleep until one, Ian wakes him again gently, whispering in his ear that they have to get up because Kev and Vee need help in the Alibi. 

“It’s my fucking birthday, they should helping me!” Mickey yelped as Ian poked his side. 

“Come on. The minute they’re done, we’ll come back here and sleep to your heart's content.” 

“So forever?” Mickey asked from underneath a pillow. 

Ian made an alarmed sound from the back of his throat, Mickey threw a pillow at his head, “Not like that, asswipe. Just tired today.” 

Ian nods, sympathetic despite Mickey’s attack, “I know, honey. I promised them we would both go. So get your birthday ass up.” 

Mickey does in fact get his ass up. After thirty more minutes of complaining, they’re off to the Alibi. 

Ian pulls up to the bar and parks right in front of the doors. Mickey’s about to get out when Ian grabs his arm, “Okay, cards on the table, we planned a surprise party for you.” 

Mickey tilts in his head, perplexed by Ian’s definition of surprise, “I don’t think you know how surprises work, lover.” 

Ian picks at the skin of his lip, his eyes narrowed at the hollow of Mickey’s throat, “I just know you don’t like surprises.” 

Mickey sits back in his seat, watching as Ian nervously gnaws at his chapped lips. They’ve had this talk before, mainly about Mickey’s sleeping. Ian’s learned from experience after sleeping in the same bed with him for five plus years that no one should ever shake Mickey awake. Or yell to wake him up. Or sneak up on him. Mickey’s always been hyper aware of his surroundings, it was never something he concerned himself with, ignoring the panic that reached up his throat with surprises. Though recently, Ian told him he has symptoms of PTSD rather than just being cautious. 

“Alright,” Mickey nods, “How many people?” 

“Just my family. I called Mandy but-” 

“She’s working, I know.” 

“She said happy birthday. Kev and Vee obviously. Tami,” Ian squirms in his seat like he’s nervous. 

“Right, well, can’t sit out here forever.” 

The minute they step into the bar, everyone screams surprise. 

Ian was right, that wouldn’t have been good for anyone had Mickey not known. 

“Uncle Mickey!” Franny screams and hugs his legs, “I made you a card!” She presents a card covered in glitter, depicting two stick figures holding guns and bags of money. 

For the second time today, Mickey has to stop himself from crying. Bending down to hug her, he pats her hair and tells her he loves it. 

“Uncle Ian helped!” 

“Did he now?” Mickey raises an eyebrow at his husband, who nods proudly at his niece. 

“Happy birthday, Mick!” Tami calls out, rocking Freddie in her arms. 

Mickey nods and immediately gravitates to the bar, sitting down next to Lip, who’s playing with Freddie’s fingers. 

Kev sets down a beer, “On the house for family, dude.” 

Mickey takes it, trying not to show his unease, he grumbles, “Thanks,” before turning his attention to Ian who’s bending down and talking to Franny and Liam. 

“Hey, Mickey,” Lip greets, distracted. 

“Yo,” Mickey’s about ready to comfortably sit in silence, just enjoying watching on the outskirts as his in-laws mingle. 

“Ian tell you about the party?” Lip asks nonchalantly. 

“Uh, yeah. Right before.” 

“Knew he would. While we were fucking putting it together, he-” 

“Wait, hold on,” Mickey interrupted him, “You helped plan this shit?” 

Lip deadpans, “Uh, yeah. Well, obviously Ian said he wanted to do something for your birthday but I figured we should have it here, you know. With family.” 

Family. 

He remembers the kitchen conversation, it feels like it happened so long ago. The sinking feeling in his stomach when Lip told him he wasn’t family. To a degree, he understood what he meant, but he still felt the words hit his chest like a bullet. 

“Thought I wasn’t family,” Mickey teases, watching as the realization dawns on Lip, recognition enveloping his eyes. 

“Shit, Mickey, that wasn’t-” Mickey cuts him off by waving a hand. 

“It’s alright, shithead. Don’t give a shit,” Mickey lies, he does give shit, many in fact, but he doesn’t need Lip knowing that. 

“Sure, but you are family, you know that, right?” Lip doesn’t make eye contact with him, just continues playing with his son's fingers.  

Mickey sits on the bar stool, trying to cope with the knowledge that all of these people-these stupid fucking Gallaghers and Balls and Tamiettis-care about him enough to throw him a surprise birthday party. 

His fucking family. 

Ian apparently takes notice of his discomfort and walks over to him, Franny on his hip, “Hey, you good?” With the hand that isn’t holding up a six year-old, he rubs his back, eventually resting his palm on the nape of his neck. 

Mickey nods, “It’s just a lot, man.” 

Ian nods, “I know. Do you wanna go?” 

Mickey shakes his head, staring at the sleepy Franny who buries her head into Ian’s shoulder, her cheek squished on his collarbone. 

“Nah, I’m good,” Mickey says as Franny stretches out her arms, opening and closing her fists. 

“You wanna go with Uncle Mickey instead?” Ian asks her. 

When she nods, he kisses the top of her head and passes her to Mickey. Ian giggles as Mickey’s eyes go wide then soften, his shoulders relaxing as Franny peacefully transitions from one Uncle to the next, blissfully unaware of Mickey’s internal panic. 

“Happy birthday, Mickey,” Ian kisses his cheek and leans into his side, sliding an arm around his torso. 

“I think it might be.”

[fuckyeah-dragrace]

The Interrogation

So here’s the awaited Camden talking some sense into Daya with a little something… extra in the end. And don’t worry, a Camsco first date will be on its way!

————

To say Daya was nervous would be a severe understatement.  Suddenly she gets a text from Camden just saying, “let’s talk” ,Daya nearly throws herself out the window.  She walked quickly down the sidewalk, the shop signs blurring.  Daya was rightfully terrified of Camden.  She remembers the day she saw Jasmine in the coffee shop and how fiercely the redhead glared at her. 

“Slow down you giant!”  Bosco called.  They were a few feet behind Daya and desperately trying to keep up.  Daya stopped and waited for Bosco to catch up.  They eventually caught up to the blonde and tried to catch their breath. Daya chuckled quietly before tapping as Bosco stepped on her toes. 

“Ow!”

“That’s what ya get you asshole.”  Bosco huffed. They flipped Daya off before beginning to walk again. “So why do I need to be here for this?”

“In case my body goes missing.”  Bosco rolled their eyes.  They looked at how fidgety Daya was, hands in her jean pockets with her thumbs through the belt loops. 

“Come on Daya,” Bosco said, pulling Daya into the coffee shop.  “She can’t be that bad.”  Bosco opened the door and went wide-eyed at seeing Camden in front of her.  Daya held her breath as she felt Camdens eyes rake over her.  Daya was too nervous to see how Camdens eyes bounced from Daya to Bosco and how her cheeks seemed to dust with a light pink. 

“Hey Camden.”  Daya said awkwardly.

“Sit.”  The redhead spoke firmly.  Daya nodded, subconsciously making their posture better, quickly finding the vacant table.  Bosco followed behind, still wide eyed at the sight of the redhead.  Daya didn’t how Camden and Bosco seemed to stare at each other, both looking wide eyed and like they were at a lost for words.

They slipped into the booth quickly as Camden watched them sit before going to the opposite side.  Now was one of the times Daya wished the tiny coffee shop was busy instead of dead silent.  All she could and had to focus on was the incredibly angry British woman across from her and her trusty partner in crime looking just as terrified as her.  Daya gulped.  

Great, just great. 

“So-“

“I’ll be doing the talking.”  Camden cut off quickly, eyes trained on Daya as if she were a plentiful treasure.  She quickly closed her mouth.  Camden sighed and rested her hands on the table. 

“You are a piece of garbage human being; do you know that?”  Yup, Daya thought, here it comes.  “Do you realize just how amazing the woman you left is because I don’t think you do.  She loves you Daya, and you just left her because what?  You got scared?  That is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard!  She’s been inconsolable for a week.  Just yesterday for example, she quite literally cried herself to sleep in my arms because she missed you so badly.”  Camden ranted.  Her words slipped out faster and faster as Daya sat and listened.  She bites the inside of her cheeks and tries not to imagine Jasmine. 

Jasmine's perfect green eyes were red and puffy from crying so hard.  Jasmine’s beautiful skin damp from the tear tracks running down her face.  The quiet sobs while she’s trying to sleep or when Avas napping.  The silent tears while holding Ava.  Daya shakes her head and pinches her thigh to bring herself back from the mind warping fantasies.  Her jaw is tight from clenching so as to not cry, her head is bowed low, not making eye contact with Camden as she continues to rave.  Bosco is stiff as a board next to her, but their hand is resting on Dayas knee and squeezing tightly.  

“I know.”

Camden stops, her cheeks rosy with anger.  Her eyes are mere slits as she glared at Daya with such audacity.  “Excuse me?”

“I know.”  Daya says, her voice barely louder than before.  She inhaled shakily before bringing her head up to face Camden, her eyes now blinking back tears. “I know I’m a piece of shit for what I’ve done, and I know there’s no way to go back in time and erase that stupid mistake.  There is no excuse for what I did.  I was just being a coward.”  Bosco nodded slightly and watched as Camden set her jaw, still staring Daya down. 

“I got scared that I wasn’t enough for Jas and Ava because how could I ever be good enough for them?  Like, those two people gave me the greatest months of my life.  I have never smiled or laughed more than when I was with them, and I took that all away because of my own insecurities.  I hurt the two most important people I love because I was scared and that’s haunted my every waking moment ever since I walked out of her apartment.”  Daya says, her voice breaking and the tears trickling down her face.  Camden's glare softens slightly but Bosco wraps an arm around her friend. 

“Daya…”

“I know I shouldn’t expect or even dream of Jas wanting to get back with me because she is just the greatest, sweetest and loveliest woman in the entire world who could be with anyone at any moment.  And Ava-“ Daya chuckled and wiped her eyes. 

“She means the entire world to me.  Like fuck, it scared me how much I loved her, how much I wanted to be there for her and just love her.  She’s going to be the brightest and kindest little soul in this world, and I wish I could be there to see it.”

Camden opened her mouth to speak but Daya continued on.  “Fuck I just, I miss them.  So goddamn much it makes me sick and-”

“Daya!”  Camden finally speaks up, pulling Daya out of her catharsis.  She brings her hands across the table, like a peace offering as Daya hesitantly brings her hands to the redheads.  Dayas piercing eyes find Camdens soft ones and let her begin. 

“You’ve said all I needed to hear.”  Camden's pink lips making a gentle smile.  “I was always going to help get you back with Jas.  Just needed to make you sweat.”  The Brit giggles.  Daya can feel her jaw go slack and drop.  Bosco huffs and laughs, bringing her hand to cover her mouth. 

“You bastard!”

“Oh, come now,” Camden sighs, bringing her hands away from Dayas and up defensively.  “It was quite a treat to see the Daya Betty confess all her love.”

“Camden Wheeler, you sly fox.”  Bosco mumbled.  Daya, still reeling from the emotional torment she just experienced, misses how Camdens eyes widen at Bosco’s suggestion and how her breath seems to hitch as Bosco smiles their devilish smile.“So, you want me with Jas?”  Daya finally asked as the laughter died down.  Camden nodded, her head snapping away from Bosco’s nervous glare. 

“Of course, I do!  Granted I still hate your guts for leaving her, but I know you’re the only one who’s made her this happy and who’s genuinely loved her back.”  Daya felt a wave of confidence flood her senses knowing Jasmine's closest friend is on her side.

“Yeah, that sounds great and all,” Bosco interrupted, one arm leaning against the table with her head resting in her hand.  “But does anyone have a plan for Operation Get Jasmine and Daya back together?”   Camden rolled her eyes. 

“Fantastic question Bosco.”  Camden dropped her hands from Dayas and reached into her purse, slipping out an envelope with Dayas name written on it in a loopy script.  Daya accepted the envelope and felt it in her palm, the paper feeling expensive and almost regal. 

“That is a ticket to Jasmine’s showcase.”  Camden stated.  Daya's eyes widened.  She’d completely forgotten about Jasmine's showcase, the big dance show that she’s been practicing for months.

“Showing up to your ex’s dance recital?  How hallmark of you Wheeler.”  Bosco quipped as they watched how delicately Daya handled the envelope. Daya is also too entranced with the envelope to notice how Bosco mouthed to Camden, “We have a lot to talk about.”

“Camden I don’t know what to say.”  Daya said, her eyes brimming with tears again, but tears Daya would welcome into her life.  She placed the envelope into her pocket and couldn’t contain the smile she had from ear to ear. She had a chance to see Jas again, she was going to make this right. 

“Oh please it’s nothing, but you could say that I’m the greatest wingwoman of all time.”  The redhead boasted, flipping their barely shoulder length curls. 

“Excuse you gingy, greatest wingwoman right here.”  Bosco countered.  The table erupted into laughter as time went on.  “Not the greatest Tindr bio writer though.”  Thats what finally got Camden to blush a deep crimson.  Daya whipped her head to look at the two of them, both now incredibly interested in the flooring of the shop.

“Wait... your date was Camden?”  Daya asked, shoving Bosco’s shoulder.  “And you didn’t think she was Jasmine’s friend?”

“Her profile was very...  different.”

“Well, I’m so sorry I didn’t think to put ‘Jasmines one British friend’ after how I loved blondes and a good time.”  The table burst into laughter, making the large cafe smaller and much warmer.  Daya could feel her cheeks get sore and her stomach hurt as Bosco’s giggles echoed as Camden did her best to cover her face. 

As Bosco was beginning to tell a story, Daya felt her phone buzz in her pocket.  She was very tempted to ignore it, but something pulled her towards answering it.  She reached for it as Bosco and Camden chatted and looked at the caller.  It was a foreign number to Daya but something inside her told her to answer it, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.  She accepted the call and slipped the phone to her ear. 

“Hello?”

“Hi is this the number of Ms. Daya Betty?”  A woman asked on the opposite line.  Daya furrowed her brow as the couple watched her. 

“Yeah that’s me.  Is something wrong?”

“We’re calling in concerns to your child, Ava Kennedie.”

Daya felt her heart drop.  Her hands were clammy, and her hands started shaking.  Camden and Bosco looked at each other in confusion, wondering why Daya had paled so quickly. 

“Did Jasmine not answer?”

“We couldn’t get ahold of Ms. Kennedie so we called the listed emergency contact.”  If Daya was in a much clearer state of mind, her heart would have fluttered in hope hearing that she was still Avas contact but instead she could only hear the loud thumping of her heart against her ribs, her stomach tying itself into a knot. 

“We suggest you come meet us at the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Daya asks, her throat drying like a desert as her heart sinks further and further. Now Bosco and Camden are fully listening to Daya, both looking like wide eyed children.

“Yes Ava fell and hit head but she lost consciousness after.” Daya nearly drops her phone and gasps. Her mind immediately makes the darkest of images of the her little bug, crying or screaming or lying lifeless in some hospital and she could feel bile rise in her throat.

“We understand if you’ll need a mome-“

“Im on my way.” Daya cuts her off. She ends the calm swiftly and takes a deep breath, her world spinning as she tries to make sense of it. Ava, Ava was hurt and needed her. She had to get to her, to Ava.

“Daya?  What’s wrong?”  Camden asked, growing anxious seeing how Daya almost crumbled after bringing her phone to her lap.  Bosco nudged Dayas shoulder, genuinely frightened at the sight of her friend so distraught. Daya tried to speak but a lump blocked her throat.

Fear fully sets in as her entire world crumbles before her. If she speaks it out loud, it’s real, and is hoping and praying to whatever exists that this nightmare is just that.

“Somethings wrong with Ava.”

[sithsecrets]

rumors | din djarin x reader

A bit of gossip gets under your skin, but Din shows you that it's all a bunch of lies.

---

4k words

mentions: VERY EXPLICIT SMUT, fem!reader, a bit of harassment at the beginning, self-doubt, establishing a relationship, discussions about relationship dynamics, din tells reader his name

---

You know you’re in for trouble the minute two Guild Members sidle up next to you at the bar, shit-eating grins plastered on both of their faces.

They greet you and the baby with a kind of fake friendliness that makes your skin crawl, and not for the first time do you wonder what’s taking Mando and Greef so fucking long. The two men usually do business in under ten minutes, five if Mando can manage it, but of course today is the one day they decide to shoot the shit and pal around like old friends.

“So you’re Mando’s crew member, huh?” asks one of the bounty hunters, light eyes glinting mischievously as he leans in. “What’s he paying you these days anyway? Because I’d be happy to double his rate if it meant getting to have something as pretty as you around me all the time.”

“Ten percent,” you answer, choosing to ignore that last little comment, “and I’m perfectly okay with that.”

“That’s not bad,” Blue Eyes’ friend answers, brushing back a lock of his greasy hair with a smirk. “But what does that fee cover? You just a nanny for whatever the fuck that is,” he gestures to the Child in your lap, “or do you provide Mando with other services as well?”

On your left, Blue Eyes lets out a snicker, and Stringy Hair seems pleased with himself. You huff and roll your eyes, not at all in the mood for this shit.

“I take care of the baby and the ship, and I pilot the Crest from time to time.”

“You hear that, man? She’s a pilot and a maid!”

“Three guesses as to what she gives a good spit shine every night,” and then the two of them are absolutely cracking up, snickering behind their glasses as they toss back a round. They’re just mocking you now, so desperately trying to get a reaction, and you’re horrified by how it’s almost working. You don’t want to give them the satisfaction, but if they so much as—

“Everything alright over here?”

Mando’s voice is like a bucket of cold water down your back, startling you so badly that you almost fall off your barstool. The baby lets out a shriek of surprise, and you rush to make sure he’s secure in your arms before you turn around.

“Just fine,” you lie, rushing to get up. “We were just talking about your latest bounty.”

Stringy Hair and Blue Eyes don’t move to correct you, much more subdued now that Mando’s arrived on the scene. They greet him with respect, but he hardly gives the two dickheads a passing glance.

“We need to get back,” Mando tells you, and you’ve never been so glad to hear those words.

You nod, and then the three of you are trekking back to the Crest in silence. Mando goes up the cockpit immediately once you arrive, off to punch in the coordinates for his next quarry. Apparently Greef’s given him some kind of special assignment, so they journey to the next planet will be a long one.

The Crest lurches into hyperspace within minutes of takeoff, and you try to settle in for the evening, putting the baby down for the night, getting ready for bed yourself. The Child sleeps like a rock, but you aren’t so fortunate, tossing and turning in your little bed. It’s the conversation with those two assholes from earlier that’s got you so restless, their words playing over and over again in your head on loop. You don’t know why what they said bothers you, but it does. It bothers you a lot, in fact, mostly because they weren’t entirely wrong.

Everything you told Blue Eyes and Stringy Hair is true— Mando cuts you in ten percent on his bounties, and in exchange, you take care of the baby, maintain the ship (its living spaces and its mechanics, thank you very much), and you pilot the Crest from time to time when asked. But… But you’ve also fucked Mando before. Twice. Three times if you count the blowjob you gave him last week, but you’re not entirely sure that fits under the definition of “fucking.” Regardless of the details, you’ve had sexual contact with the Mandalorian— this is a fact. Mando’s never directly offered you money in return for sex, but it’s not like he didn’t just pay you your cut of his bounty less than an hour ago. And if those two pigs from the cantina could peg you at fifty yards, Maker knows what everybody else is thinking. Greef, Cara, even Peli on Tatooine— all of them must think you’re just Mando’s whore, right along with the rest of the Guild.

The idea of this weighs heavy on your mind, two parts of you waging an internal war. Your rational side says that you shouldn’t care what other people think of you— you’re a grown woman approaching thirty, and what you do with your body and your time is no one’s business but your own. The side of you that yearns to be accepted, however, worries that everyone’s secretly laughing at your behind your back, that they all think very little of you because of what you’ve done. And how could you blame them? You’ve let your employer fuck you twice, and all without him showing you an ounce of affection otherwise. Just thinking about it makes you feel remorseful, anxiety twisting in your stomach as you toss and turn in bed. And to make things worse, a third voice emerges in your mind, one that’s small and timid and raw. This little part of you wonders what Mando thinks of all this— it wonders what Mando thinks of you. You feel sick the minute it occurs to you, the notion that Mando could think nothing of you as well. Everyone else can say whatever they want, you suppose, if Mando still respects you at the end of the day. If he still cares for you at the end of the day…

After a whole hour, you decide that you won’t be sleeping until you get all of this sorted out. You’re almost shaking with anxiety as you approach the ladder, but you climb up to the cockpit anyway, calling out Mando’s name with a wavering voice. He says you can come in, and so you do, padding into the little space on socked feet.

“Everything okay?” Mando asks, vaguely distracted as he looks through holoimages on the display before him. You catch snatches of the same alien being in each one— Mando’s next quarry, no doubt.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “The baby’s asleep. He went down well tonight.”

Mando hums. “Good.”

“I, um. I’m having trouble sleeping, though, and I was hoping we could talk.”

Mando doesn’t look away from the holoimages as he speaks to you. “What about?”

You balk for a moment, gathering courage. “Us.”

Finally, it would seem you have Mando’s full attention. He shuts off the display and turns his chair until it faces you, the blue light of hyperspace reflecting off his armor and helmet. You grow shy under Mando’s gaze as you so often do, but you force yourself to be brave anyway. You can’t go on like this— you have to know.

“Us?” Mando echoes, titling his helmet just the slightest bit forward. You nod, and he straightens up again, regarding you. “What about us?”

“The sex,” you say slowly, “or, more specifically, why we had sex in the first place.”

“We had sex because we wanted to,” Mando says at once, and you just want to scream. He won’t make this easy on you, will he?

“Right, of course, but… but what made you want to come at me like that? Do you just like my body and how I look, or is it because you pay me—?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mando cuts, losing all semblance of cool indifference in one fell swoop, “you don’t— Please don’t tell me that you think having sex with me is part of your job.”

“I don’t, I don’t!” you declare, rushing to prevent a miscommunication before it happens. “I just— I just wasn’t sure why you wanted me of all people, and I met some people today that thought you hired me just so you could fuck me or whatever. They—”

“Was it those two fuckheads from the cantina?” Mando asks, tone absolutely murderous, and all you can do is nod. “What exactly did they say?”

“They asked me about my pay and about what’s ‘included in my fee,’” you reply, face burning at the thought of what Stringy Hair and Blue Eyes said at the bar. “They said you were probably paying me for sex the way you pay me to take care of the ship and the baby. It just… It made me self-conscious because we have had sex, and I wasn’t sure what that meant. I know they’re just assholes, but now I’m afraid everybody thinks that of me, especially Cara and Greef and your other friends.”

Mando lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Come here,” he says, beckoning you over with an outstretched hand. You hesitate to move, shocked by the gesture, and the Mandalorian repeats himself. “Come here, cyar’ika, please.”

The beskar is cold against the back of your thighs, but you settle in Mando’s lap anyway, sure you must be dreaming at this point. He fingers the hem of your long, baggy sleepshirt, one arm holding you securely.

“None of my friends think you’re fucking me for money,” Mando begins, “I promise. Those guys from the Guild you met today, they’re assholes just like you said. They might treat their women that way, but that’s not me. It never will be. Understand?”

You nod shyly, relishing in the way Mando begins drawing little circles at the base of your spine.

“Good. Now to answer your question… I had sex with you because I wanted to, yes, but it wasn’t just to get off. The baby likes you, and you do a good job taking care of the ship. People like you wherever we go… Ilike being around you.”

You’re smart enough to know that that’s a big statement coming from a man like Mando, and you reward him for this display of vulnerability with a soft smile.

“I like being around you too, Mando.”

The helmet tilts just the slightest bit, and you wonder what his expression looks like under the beskar.

“I like being around you,” Mando repeats, speaking slowly, “and… and I’m sorry. For starting like that, I mean.”

Your brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”

Mando readjusts his grip on your, and the way his hand settles over the curve of your thigh is enough to make you shiver. “I should have taken my time with you. Fucking you against the wall, bending you over those crates in the back— that’s fine sometimes, but you deserve more.”

“If that’s how you like it, I don’t—”

He cuts you off then, a gloved thumb brushing against your bottom lip.

“I don’t care about me right now,” Mando says evenly, the tone of his voice picking at something deep in your stomach. “What do you want?”

It dawns on you then that this is foreplay— Mando’s decided he wants to fuck you again— and that makes your face hotter than fire itself. You know he’s waiting for an answer, so you decide to speak freely, the consequences of your words be damned.

“I want you to fuck me in bed,” you say slowly, whispering more than you’re talking. “With your gloves off. That’s not against the rules, right? You took them off the other day in front of me and Cara—”

“It’s not, mesh’la,” Mando affirms, the strange word dripping off his tongue like honey. You wonder what it means, though you don’t have the nerve to ask. “Go down to the hull and make us a space on the floor. I’ll be there in a minute.”

---

The darkness is disorienting, the blackness so black that you couldn’t see your own hand if it was two inches in front of your face. That’s by design, though, because none of this would be okay if you couldsee.

You had exactly two conditions earlier in the cockpit: in bed, no gloves. But it would seem that Mando had so much more in mind when he told you to come down here, and it’s anything beyond what you could have ever dreamed of. You’ve imagined this situation before, thought about what it might be like to know Mando this way, but to have it happen…

The beskar clangs softly as Mando lays it down, the sound letting you know that he’s somewhere off to your right. You’re sure he’s having no trouble seeing in the dark, given how many settings there on in his visor, but you can’t see a fucking thing. Not him, not his discarded armor, not even your own hand in front of you face. Under any other circumstance, you’d be afraid of the dark, but not now. No, now you simply tremble with anxiety, naked skin prickling with chills as you wait for Mando to undress himself. He stripped you first, of course, when the lights were still on, took his time and peeled your clothes off of you almost with reverence. You wish you could do the same to him, but something about that would be wrong you think— it would be crossing a line.

“Are you sure this is allowed?” you ask, almost whispering. The baby’s upstairs in the cockpit, dead to the world and tucked safely in his pram, and yet you still feel like you’re being too loud. Hyperspace is always so quiet, and the silence sets your teeth on edge even after all this time.

“Can you see me?” Mando asks, voice still filtered and staticky.

“I can’t even see myself,” you counter.

“Then it’s allowed.”

No more words pass between either of you for a moment, the space filled with the sound of clothes rustling. You hear a belt buckle and a zipper, can trace out the sounds of pants being kicked to the floor… Three short, bare footsteps, and then you aren’t alone on your little pallet anymore, Mando presence warm and undeniable close on the other side of the cushions.

“Cyar’ika.”

You aren’t sure if it’s the circumstances, or the fact that Mando speaks to you with a raw, unfiltered voice, but this one word picks at something inside you, gets you hot and needy where it counts. How many people has he laid down with like this? How many of them have heard Mando’s voice, his real voice, if any at all? You don’t know the answer to either of those questions, but you also don’t care, not right now.

“Can I touch you?” you ask softly, mustering all your strength and bravery. Mando doesn’t response, doesn’t so much as let out a breath, and so you jump when you feel his hand on your own. He guides you across the blankets, pulling you in closer, laying your palm on the warm, solid expanse of his forearm. Your fingers curl around it, squeezing the muscle, admiring the way Mando simply feels under your hands. He’s had so much of you— practically your whole body— and yet all you’ve been blessed with until tonight is the warmth of his hands, the feeling of his cock in you and on you. To feel his bare skin like this is strange, the fact that Mando is really and truly human coming into sharp focus as your fingers run along a scar, the hair on his arms…

“You’re handsome,” you declare, awed by feeling of Mando under your palms. He shudders when you lay your hand on the side of his face, the movement almost flinch-like in nature, but you’re quick to soothe his nerves with a gentle stroke of your thumb. You can’t imagine what this is like for Mando, can’t fathom what it must feel like to be touched when you hide yourself from everyone all the time. It’s in this moment that you realize he knows nothing of the sun or the wind, and your heart breaks for him.

“You wouldn’t say that if the lights were on.”

Mando sounds vaguely nervous now himself, voice more subdued than it was before. You have so much you want to say, want to shout out that you love everything about him and his body and your life together, but you that would be too much. No, doing something like that could ruin all of this in one fell swoop, and so you swallow those words down, replacing them with something else instead.

“If I ever get to see you one day,” you tell him, “I know for a fact that I’ll say the same thing. I promise.”

There’s a strange weight in that, a certain trust and understanding that you can’t put your finger on, but the pressure isn’t uncomfortable as it settles in the atmosphere, pressing you and Mando even closer. He pulls you under him without a word, holding you, twining your arms and legs and hands together until you aren’t sure where yours end and his begin. His kisses are tentative and unpracticed, but you feel the passion regardless, sighing as the press of Mando’s mouth tells you all the things he can’t say out loud. You don’t know how you ever got things twisted, aren’t sure how you could have possibly thought that Mando didn’t care for you because these aren’t the kisses and caresses of a man who sees you as little more than something to fuck. No, this is something else entirely, something better than you ever could have hoped for, and the rush of endorphins as your head swimming.

Your entire body arches when Mando begins to crawl down your body, his lips trailing over your neck and chest, your stomach and even the curve of your hip. “Mesh’la,” he says to you, murmuring into the spaces between your fingers. Mando’s paying particular attention to your hands now, kissing them delicately. “Listen to me, please.”

“Yes?” you say, half moaning as he drops your hand in favor of propping your legs open. The anticipation has you dizzy, brain fogged over completely as you wait, as you feel him line up your bodies—

Mando doesn’t say anything, not for several seconds, too distracted by the feel of you to speak. You’re fine with that, already too far gone to care after what, two, three thrusts? You couldn’t keep count if you wanted to, the haze in your brain too thick for any tedious mental activity to penetrate. Still, you try to listen like he asked, try to understand the words coming out of his mouth.

Mando’s voice is strained and low, but you catch everything regardless. “My name is Din,” he says to you, groaning shortly when you wind your fingers in his hair. “You can’t— You can’t say that in front of anyone, only to me and the baby. But that’s my name. I want you to call me by my name.”

“Anything you want, Din,” you say at once, and Maker does that have him swearing. Din does something with your body— opens your legs or lifts up your hips, something— and you see stars, whining brokenly. Not for the first time do you wish you could see his face or the plane of his back as he fucks you, but you have to admit that you’re glad that Din’s blind in all of this as well. You don’t even want to think about what you look like, how ruined and desperate your face must be. The pace is relentless now, and you find yourself struggling to keep up, keening and moaning and taking it until Din’s talking to you again.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, and you don’t understand.

“What?” you ask, breathless yourself. He hasn’t let up once since the two of you began, and even though you haven’t cum once, you already feel like you’re on another plane of existence.

“I’m sorry I never—” Din groans, adjusting his grip on your body. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at all of this shit. Talking and letting go and all the other stuff normal people do. I shouldn’t— You deserve more than that. I’m so sorry, cyar’ika.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” you tell him, holding fast to his shoulders, his arms, anything you can get your hands on. You don’t know how to tell him that all this is more than enough to make up for everything, that there’s hardly anything to make up for as it is.

“Yes, there is,” Din presses, and you know he wants to say more, but you cut him off before he can continue.

“Make me cum and kiss me while you do it,” you say to him, “and we’ll call it even.”

And Din seems more than happy to accept the deal, his fingers on your clit not three seconds after you’re done talking. You cum almost too fast, blindsided by your orgasm despite the fact that it’s been building for what feels like years now. Din’s not far behind you, asking whether or not he can cum inside you, and you tell him no, not this time. You have a long-term implant, but you it hasn’t been looked at by a medic in well over a year. It’s probably fine, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. And anyway, it’s not like the feeling of Din’s cum painting your stomach and chest isn’t incredibly hot, so you’re by no means complaining as you lie there and listen to him jerk himself off, your name falling from his lips.

“Stay here,” Din tells you, speaking gently even as he works to catch his breath. You miss him the second he’s gone, your ears straining to track his movements in the dark. Careful footsteps, the shuffling of blankets, the click of the light in the ‘fresher— you can’t see Din, not from this angle, but the idea that he even trusts you enough to cut a light on at a time like this has your heart pounding. He’s completely exposed in there, helmet still sitting next to his armor across the hull, and you almost close your eyes on reflex as you listen to the water run. But it’s all for nothing because Din tells you to do it anyway, turning off the faucet and stepping out into the hull again after you say that you’ve done as he asked.

The washcloth Din cleans you with is warm, a fact that’s not lost on you as you lie there in the semi-darkness. He’s quiet, but the delicate, precise nature of Din’s work speaks volumes. You want to ask him if this is something he does for everyone he sleeps with, but you keep your mouth shut, thinking a question like that might ruin the mood. He goes away from you again once your stomach’s clean, cutting off the light in the ‘fresher and discarding the rag all while you keep your eyes closed. It’s not until Din’s back in bed beside you that you dare to so much as crack them open, afraid you might glimpse too much if you move any sooner.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You’re not sure if you’re thanking Din for the sex or for cleaning you up, but it’s probably a bit of both.

“You’re welcome, cyar’ika,” he replies, pulling you in close. “Are you tired?”

You don’t speak for a moment, thinking of how hard it is to keep your eyes open now, how your thighs ache and your body yearns for rest. “Yeah.”

“Sleep, then,” Din tells you, and you almost feel pathetic for clinging to him like a child. Almost.

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You aren’t sure why you’re asking— it’s not like Din has anywhere else to go— but his answer is important to you regardless.

“Right here, mesh’la,” he tells you, sounding tired now himself. “I promise.”

[4stars-uswnt]

You Take My Heart Away [Kelley O’Hara x Reader]

requested by anon: Kelley O’Hara x reader where reader gets into a fist fight but she’s like I won’t throw the first punch bc I’ll finish it and like she gets teased by the team but Kelley is mad at reader for it bc R could’ve gotten hurt but it was still cool

requested by anon: Can we get another Kelley O’Hara x reader doesn’t have to be anything specific just maybe along the lines of them both being crazy and maybe oblivious

A/N: i decided to combine these two prompts! hope y’all enjoy it. also bonus points to anybody who gets the title reference (there’s a lil connection to a reference within the story)

warnings: homophobic and sexist language, violence, and swearing

Conversation was flowing and music was playing in the background of the bar, as the USWNT finished up their first round of drinks and appetizers. The team had pushed together a couple of tables, where you all were now sitting, laughing at each other’s jokes.

The air was light, victory and celebration filling the atmosphere. Megan and Ashlyn had been the ones to suggest a night out after your win against Japan, not only to celebrate the 2-0 victory but also to celebrate Lindsey’s birthday that was in the next couple of days.

You were currently sitting next to your best friend, Kelley O’Hara, bridging the gap between the veterans and the youngsters.

“Anybody want another drink?” Alex asks, pushing her chair back, as she moves to get up.

A chorus of yeses ring out, the team’s orders ringing out.

“I’ll help you with that, Al.” You stand up from your seat, giving the other woman a warm smile.

Once the two of you had left for the bar, the rest of the team began interrogating Kelley, who let her eyes follow you as you moved through the crowd.

“Kel,” Ash calls out over the noise of the music. “When are you gonna admit to (Y/N) that you’re hopelessly in love with her?”

“What?” Kelley sputters, flustered.

Megan rolls her eyes at the defender. “It’s so obvious that you’ve had a crush on her for the past like six years, and a blind person can see that she likes you too.”

“I- I’m not in love with (Y/N).” Kelley’s face flushes, as she rubs the back of her neck nervously. “She’s my best friend.”

“Kelley,” Christen softly chimes in,, hoping to talk some sense in her friend she’s known since college. “You guys obviously have feelings for each other that go beyond friendship, and you’ve been dancing around them for years. We just want you two to be happy.”

Many of the women nod and voice their agreement.

“But what if it ruins our friendship and I lose her forever?” The freckled defender bites her lip nervously.

“That’s not gonna happen.” Christen gives her a knowing look. “Even if she didn’t reciprocate those feelings, she’s not gonna cut you out of her life.”

“And Kel,” Tobin adds on. “You never know until you ask her. And who knows? The risk of putting your heart out there may be worth it. But you’re just gonna live in the dark haunted by the unknown and what ifs unless you tell her how you feel.”

“I hate that you’re philosophical insights are usually right,” Kelley huffs.

Meanwhile, as the team holds their intervention for your best friend, you and Alex were at the bar ordering another round of drinks.

As you were waiting for the bartender, you and Alex were engaged in your own conversation, when you hear a boisterous voice interrupt you.

“Hey! It’s Alex Morgan!” A large man approaches the two of you, holding a half-full cup of beer in his hand, and you have a feeling he’s downed a couple pints already.

You sense Alex tense up next to you, as she gives the stranger a tight smile. “Hello.”

“Oh, and who’s this?” He turns to you, a leering grin on his face, making your insides turn. You reach for Alex’s hand in search of comfort but also as a protective gesture.

“Is she your girlfriend?” The man looks back at the star forward. “I hear your entire team is full of d*kes, but I didn’t think you were one. You’re way too hot to be a d*ke.”

Alex’s grip on your hand tightens, as anger radiates off of her. “I’m actually happily married.” She raises her left hand to show off her ring.

“Woah.” The stranger lets out a low whistle, his eyes slowly widening before he squinting to get a better look, as his movements impaired by the alcohol. “That is quite the rock. How’d you afford that with your pay? I’ve heard all about your team’s fight for equal pay and all that. I personally think it’s a load of crap. You guys aren’t even that good at soccer, and it’s so boring. The only thing that makes your games interesting is your smoking hot bodies.”

You scrunch your nose in disgust at this man’s blatant misogyny. “I’m surprised you know about our equal pay fight. I’d think it’d be too complicated for your thick skull,” you quip, throwing the insult right in his face.

“Ooooo feisty, are we?” He raises his eyebrows at you. “And where do you get off calling me dumb?”

“I’m just calling them as I see them,” you simply state, letting go of Alex’s hand, as you move to stand in front of her protectively. “Where do you get off disrespecting women and being a bigot?”

“(Y/N/N), it’s not worth it,” Alex whispers in your ear.

“I’d listen to your friend,” the man sneers and stands up straighter, slightly sobering up. “Because I’m not afraid to hit a girl, especially a mouthy one like you. Women like you deserve to be put in your place.”

“Go on then,” you challenge, probably a stupid decision on your part, but the adrenaline is rushing and you are at your wits end with this man in front of you. “I dare you.”

You thank all the gods in the universe that the stupid stranger was actually stupid enough to try and throw a punch with his blood-alcohol level because you can see his punch coming from a mile away.

Before his fist can make contact with your face, you grab his hand and twist his arm, leaning in closely to his face. “Is that all you got? My mom hits better than you.” You smirk.

“Let go of me, you bitch,” he growls, snatching his arm out of your grasp.

“Wait, I have one more thing,” you call out.

“What the hell are you talk-”

Before he can finish, you cut him off, rather your fist cuts him off. The man in front of you had been testing your patience and had used up all your grace, which, in your opinion, warranted a punch in the face.

You can’t help but wince at the sharp pain shooting through your hand upon the contact, but the cracking sound of his nose eases some of your discomfort.

By now, the rest of the team had become worried by your prolonged absence and then had noticed the commotion this stranger was stirring. Hearing the raised voices coming from your direction, many of the veterans, including Kelley, Christen, Tobin, Ash, Ali, and Megan, made their way over to where Alex was currently holding you back from unleashing your anger on this drunk man.

“What is going on here?” Becky asks, surveying the situation in front of her.

“This asshole was insulting Al and then had the audacity to continue being a sexist pig,” you spit out, directing your words at the man, who was still holding his bloody nose, while Alex was doing her best to keep you under wraps.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Ashlyn states firmly.

As the goalie, along with Becky, Megan, and Ali, coax the stranger into leaving you alone, and hopefully leaving the club, Alex, Christen, Tobin, and Kelley try and calm you down.

“(Y/N/N),” Christen soothes, cupping your face. “I need you to calm down. Take a deep breath.” The curly-haired forward inhales and exhales, motioning for you to mimic her actions.

You take a deep breath, and upon exhaling, you feel the tension, along with the adrenaline, leave your body.

“Shit,” you sigh. “My hand.”

You lift your right hand, revealing your split knuckles on which bruises were starting to form.

“Come on, Sylvester.” Tobin claps your shoulder, letting out an amused chuckle. “Let’s get you back to the hotel, and on the way, you can tell us all about your heroics.”

You amusedly roll your eyes and lean into the other woman’s side.

As the team gathers their things, ready to call it a night after the turn of events, Megan approaches you, holding out a bag of ice.

“Here, (Y/N), the bartender gave me this for your hand.”

“Thanks, P.” You place the cool ice on your knuckles, hissing at the temperature shock.

On the way back to the hotel, many of your teammates were interrogating you about what had happened back at the bar. After telling the entire story, you received many hoots and hollers from the rest of the team.

“Damn (Y/N)!” Ash whistles. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Way to protect our honor,” Rose gushes, as many of the women nod along.

“Thank you, (Y/N), for defending me,” Alex says sincerely.

“Of course, Al. Anytime.” You give the forward a warm smile.

“Who knew (Y/N) could be such a badass?!” Emily exclaims with an impressed look on her face. “Kel, did you know that your best friend was a secret badass?”

While the rest of the girls had been teasing you about your heroic actions, your best friend had been oddly quiet.

“News to me.” Kelley answers shortly, her face hard and distant. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, wondering if the defender was mad at you. You thought she would’ve been proud of you for standing up for the team and putting a sexist douchebag in his place.

Before going back to entertaining your teammates’s jokes and questions, you make a mental note to talk to her once you get back to the hotel, silently thanking Vlatko for rooming the two of you together this camp.

You would never in a million years admit it, but you were harboring a huge crush for your best friend, had been for the past six years, ever since you’d joined the national team. Not only did you not want to ruin your friendship and end up losing Kelley, but you knew she would never return your feelings.

Over the past several years that you’d been friends with the defender, you’d seen Kelley go in and out of relationships, and comparing yourself to her other girlfriend’s, you had a feeling you weren’t her type.

You also had reservations due to the fact that Kelley was your teammate, and you didn’t want to change the team dynamic, especially if the two of you didn’t work out.

Thoughts of Kelley clouded your mind all the way back to the hotel, only further exacerbated by her deafening silence.

Upon arriving to the hotel lobby, before you all disperse to your rooms, Alex gives you another hug and thanks you again, and Becky, ever the mother of the group, gives you a warning.

“Make sure to ice on and off. 20 minutes. You know the drill, (Y/L/N). Kelley, make sure she takes care of that hand.”

“Don’t worry about me, Becks. I got it,” you reassure the veteran defender, giving her a mock salute.

Following Kelley, you cautiously enter the hotel room. You nervously watch the other women move around the room, as she silently goes about her usual nighttime routine. Taking the hint that she wasn’t going to talk to you anytime soon, you go about your own routine and get ready for bed.

After about twenty minutes later, after both of you had showered, you were finishing wrapping your hand and were about to get into bed, when you noticed Kelley discretely staring at your bandaged hand.

Unable to tolerate the silence anymore, you break the tension. “Okay, what is up with you?”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“Kel,” you sigh, plopping down on the side of her bed. “You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder ever since what happened at the bar. Are you mad at me?”

“Nope. Not mad,” Kelley hums slightly passive aggressively, still not looking up from her book.

You roll your eyes, frustrated by your best friend’s childish behavior. “Kelley, I know when you’re lying, and I know that you’re mad at me right now, so would you please just look at me?!”

Sensing the exasperation and frustration in your voice, Kelley closes and sets down her book. “Fine, you’re right. I am mad at you.”

You thought you’d feel relieved, hearing her confirm your suspicions, but instead, the pressure in your chest increases.

“Why? What did I do?” You practically beg, scooting up the bed, so you’re closer to the other woman.

“As if you don’t know,” she scoffs.

Confused, you tilt your head. “I clearly don’t. Kel, please talk to me, tell me what I did.”

“You literally punched a dude in the face!”

“Yeah, but he deserved it, Kel! You heard the things he was saying,” you defend. “I couldn’t just let him get away with talking about our team like that. I thought you’d be proud of me for standing up to a sexist asshole like him.”

“I am proud, sort of. I mean that was completely badass and totally warranted, not that I necessarily expected that from you, and I’m glad you put him in his place,” Kelley babbles. “But that’s not the point, (Y/N/N). You were reckless tonight. You could’ve gotten hurt!”

Your face softens at her outburst. Taking a deep breath, Kelley confesses, “I love you, (Y/N). I’m in love with you, and I just can’t stand the idea of you getting hurt, especially by some drunk idiot who doesn’t know shit about football or respecting women.”

Your eyes widen and your heart practically stop, when you process the words that have come out of your best friend’s mouth.

“(Y/N), please say something,” Kelley begs.

“You’re in love with me?” You test the words on your mouth.

“Yeah,” she sighs contently, giving you a soft smile. “Have been for the past eight years.”

“Gosh, we really are idiots.” You let out a wet chuckle, shaking your head.

“What?”

“I’m in love with you, too, Kel,” you rasped, your voice laced with pure emotion. “I’ve loved you since my first camp.”

“Wow,” Kelley scoffs, an amused grin playing on her face. “Are we really that oblivious?”

“Apparently so.” You shrug. “But we’re here now.”

“Yeah, we are.” The freckled woman softens. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod eagerly, leaning in to meat the other woman’s lips. The kiss is nothing like you’d dreamed of; it’s better. It’s soft and tender, full of love and passion. You melt into each other, as your lips move together in harmony.

Not wanting things to get too heated, especially not before you’ve talked about what this meant for the future of your relationship, you pull away, resting your forehead against hers.

“Hi,” you whisper, smiling like a fool.

“Hey,” Kelley murmurs softly, returning your smile.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She takes your hand, kissing your wrapped knuckles. “But please don’t be getting into any more bar fights.”

“Hey! I would never start a fight, however I have no problem finishing them.” You smirk, boasting slightly triumphantly.

Kelley rolls her eyes playfully, but then looks into your eyes. “I mean it, (Y/N). I can’t stand the idea of you getting hurt. So no more fights alright?”

“I promise, Kel.” You give her a chaste kiss.

“Good.”

That night, you stay in Kelley’s bed, cuddling into her side. As you slowly drift into a peaceful sleep, you notice the woman next to you is already fast asleep.

You sigh contently, and you can’t help but feel extremely lucky that even after all these years, and everything that’s happened, life still led you to this woman and a love worth fighting for.

[mosswillow]

Your Mask - (Dark!Tony Stark x Reader).

Warnings! 18+ adult content, Non Con/dub con, kidnapping, smut, Dark!, blackmail.

AN - If you’re new here this is for a collection of Dark!Avenger one shots where the avengers one by one manipulate/kidnap the reader. You can read this fic alone or with the others. I think it’s best to read them in order if you want to read all of them but you do you. Here’s the masterlist for that.

...ok yeah also I said I was going to do bucky but as I started planning out his story I realized it needs to go after most of the others. I have outlines for everyone now and (as long as I don’t change anything) It will go Natasha, Sam, Thor, Bucky, Loki.

word count: 2.7k

Strength. It’s been a theme throughout your life. You had to be strong growing up when your parents divorced and your father left. You were strong in school, graduating top of your class while working nights and weekends to help support you and your mother. You had to be strong when your mother died and you were left alone freshman year of college.You were strong when you landed a high level position in finance after graduation. You’ve been strong every day since, being a leader, someone whose confidence radiates through their entire  being.

Sometimes though when it’s quiet and you’re alone in your thoughts you get tired. Tired of being strong, of fighting every second of every day to make it in a world that wants to pull you down. You’re tired of pretending because you know that underneath it all you’re not strong at all. You’ve put on this mask of strength and it’s carried your farther than you could ever dream. You know though that one day it will carry you too far and the mask will be knocked off, showing who you really are, just a scared little girl pretending to be someone she isn’t

---

You look at the dresses your assistant pulled for you, picking out a long red one with a slit up the thigh. You pair it with a red lipstick and simple diamond jewelry. It’s perfect, you’re perfect you think looking at yourself in the mirror. You tell yourself that you’re everything you need before heading out the door and to your waiting car.

Stark tower is decorated from top to bottom with beautiful icicle themed displays. While magnificent the decor feels formidable, almost a warning not to walk in. You can’t stay on top without attending things like this. You take a breath before walking through the crowd, making your way to the bar, and ordering a red wine. A little liquid courage always helps in these environments. You find an acquaintance and smile, reaching your hand out.

“John.”

“Y/N, fancy seeing you here,” he says sarcastically

“Hey now, I show up to these things sometimes,” You joke.

“It has been a long time, which reminds me that we need to get together and talk business. I won’t let you get out of it this time,” you continue.

“You got me, I’ll have my assistant contact yours to set up a meeting.” John laughs and waves his hand before walking away.

You keep up a cheerful disposition as you make your way through the crowd, networking. It’s what you’re best at and how you came out on top after graduation. You have a way about you, always able to lure people in to get what you want. You head to the bar to refill your wine not looking as you turn back to the crowd. You bump into someone and spill a drop of wine on their suit.

“Oh I’m sorry.”

The man turns and you immediately recognize him.

“Mr. Stark. I swear it was an accident.” You turn back to the bar and get a napkin, dabbing the small spot of wine. You don’t want to think about how much his suit cost.

He gives a genuine smile and reaches out, gently stroking your arm before grabbing the napkin from your hand.

“It’s ok, I don’t think we’ve met?”

“Oh yeah, I’m Y/N.”

“I’ve heard of you.” He says.

You’ve heard that Mr. Stark is a flirt but as you talk it feels like more than that. There’s a look in his eyes that screams sex and you can’t look away. You feel like he could swallow you whole just with a look. You want nothing more in this moment for that to happen. You want him and you’re accustomed to getting what you want.

Tony reaches out his hand and you mirror him, ready to follow him to his room when a cough comes from beside you. Captain America smiles wide at you and you drop your hand smiling back at him. To his right is a smiling woman, hanging on his arm.

“And who is this?”

“This is Y/N. She’s caught my attention,” Tony says, giving a small nod as he says your name.

“You can call me Steve,” Steve says, smiling even bigger.

The woman slowly loses her smile, looking back and forth between you and Tony.

“No, Tony don’t.”

Tony clenches his jaw and Steve Leans over and whispers something in the woman's ear.

“My wife is tired. I think we’re going to head up now,” Steve says abruptly.

You make eye contact with the woman and she gives you a sad smile before turning away. They walk off together hand and hand and you make a face at Tony.

“Is she ok?”

Tony shrugs.

“She’s always been super weird. Steve loves her though so I let it be.”

You nod and look at your watch.  

“Hey?” Tony says, pulling your attention back to him.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to see my room?”

“What are you implying?” you smile and he leans in.

“Sex?”

You laugh and follow him up to his room. He undoes his tie pulling it off and you slip your dress over your head and throw it on the floor, kicking your heels off. You pull Tony in for a kiss before knocking him onto the bed, peppering soft kisses over his chest. You move your hand down to his hardening cock, stroking it as it starts to throb. He pulls your face up and kisses you back. He nips at your shoulder as you line his dick up at your entrance and slide your body down slowly. You ride him, taking what you want. You feel an orgasm building, you’re so close. Tony slaps your thigh hard, bringing you out of the moment and you let out a whine, opening your eyes.  He flips you over and thrusts deep and hard into you. You push against him and him against you, rolling around the bed.  it’s the most passionate sex you’ve ever had and when it’s over you can’t help but spend several minutes repeating ‘what the fuck’ over and over again in your head. Finally, you get up and make your way to his bathroom, coming out several minutes later with an empty bladder and clean thighs. You pull your dress on and loof for The discarded red thong you had been wearing, ultimately deciding to just leave it, you can buy more.

“Where are you going?” Tony asks.

“Home,” you reply.

Tony’s face goes hard and he sits up in bed, crossing his arms.

“Oh, the sex was great sweety but that’s all it was. I’m not looking for anything serious.”

You watch something happen in Tony, the gears in his brain twist and turn. A sinister smile washes over his face and he lounges back in his bed.

“Have a good evening Y/N, I’ll see you soon.” He says casually.

You leave quickly, calling a car to meet you on the street.

On monday you arrive to a stoic office. Everyone looks at you like you have two heads. Your chest tightens and you start feeling nauseous. You don’t even sit down before your assistant shows up in your office telling you of an emergency board meeting that you’re required to attend. You sit in the meeting as the board explains that they have to let you go.

“I just don’t understand, is it something I did?” you ask.

“We just want to go a different direction.” the CEO answers.

You pack your things and head home, spending no time feeling sorry for yourself. You prepare your resume and start calling all of your many contacts from all over the globe. Nobody wants to hire you or even give an interview. Some won’t even take your calls and you start getting frustrated.

“Stark blackballed you, I’m sorry.” Finally someone tells you.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Yeah, just don’t tell anyone I told you ok?”

“Yeah of course.”

You hang up the phone and narrow your eyes. What an absolute asshole, you think. He ruined someones career because of sex. You stand up and storm over to Stark Tower demanding to be seen. Tony is obviously expecting you. He sits in his big office chair looking at you all smug and offers you a coffee. You don’t have the patience for whatever he’s doing and cut right to the chase.

“You blackballed me?”

Tony shrugs.

“I could go to the police,” you say.

“And say what? They won’t do anything to me, I’m a superhero and my wealth and influence is more than you could imagine.”

You want to punch him in the face, or maybe strangle him. If you had a pack of dogs you would definitely let them loose on him right now. Instead you raise your middle finger up and shout a very hostile string of vulgar insults before turning on your heel to storm out.

“I have a position available for you.” Tony says as you reach the door.

You turn back and cross your arms.

“Same salary you had before. Work here for a year and I’ll get you a job anywhere.”

“Why are you doing this? I don’t get your motivation.”

Tony taps his finger on his desk.

“I’ll send over the contract.”

It’s no use trying to get anything out of him and you know it. You go home and steam, pacing anxiously around your apartment and drinking. The contract arrives later in the evening and you look over it. The job is legitimate and good, actually better than your previous position. If he had just offered you the job you would have taken it but now, you shake your head,  Now there’s nowhere else for you to go. You sign the contract and send it back.

---

You arrive at work on monday and organize your desk. It’s a nice office with a big window and private bathroom. You can do one year, you’ve certainly done worse.

Tony wastes no time visiting your office. He drops off flowers and chocolates and sends you dirty messages. You ignore it, knowing that anything you do will just spur him on more. It all becomes worse when you’re forced to start bringing files to Tony's personal quarters. You take a breath and knock on his door. When he opens you shove the files at him and start walking away. Tony follows you out and stops you, shoving you against the wall. You make yourself tall, shoving him back.

“This is not ok Tony, you need to stop this weird obsessive behavior.”

“You like it, I know you do.”

He shoves you again and your head hits the wall. You cry out and a woman you don’t recognize appears from behind a corner. She wears an apron and carries a duster so you assume she’s a housekeeper.

“Is everything ok?” She asks.

“We’re fine, you can leave for the night.”

The woman looks back and forth between you and Tony. You give her a small nod and a big customer service smile and she nods back before disappearing around the corner.

“Seriously, this needs to stop or I walk.”

“You won’t find another job if you walk.”

“I have savings.”

Tony looks away and runs his hand through his hair.

“You win this round, I’ll stay away.”

He runs a finger down your cheek before stepping away.

“I’m patient.”

You visibly cringe. He’s patient? You don’t know what he even means by that. Does he think you’ll change your mind and come to him? You should walk right now. You can find a little house in the countryside and live a simple life. Your rational brain reminds you that he would follow you. There’s nowhere you can go outside of his influence. You glare at him and retreat, not looking back.

---

The next several weeks are quiet. Despite everything, you like your job. The people who

work for Stark are well paid and happy. If it wasn’t for Tony you would stay in the company indefinitely.

There’s no way you could anticipate what’s in the letter you get, so sweetly wrapped up like a present. You open it expecting the same sort of stuff Tony always sends. Maybe it’s tickets to a basketball game or a gift certificate for a massage with a flashy and inappropriate message attached, always with the inappropriate messages.

It’s not what you expect at all. You start shaking as you read every last bit and at the end you pick your phone up and call Tony.

“Come on up,” He says.

You stand at the elevator. You could turn around right now and leave, get all of your money and flee the country. You turn around and see a security guard looking at you. He holds a walky talky up to his mouth and waits. With a sigh, you press the button and go up. Tony waits for you on an empty floor, smiling wide.

“Don’t the avengers live here?”

“They’re out right now, it’s just you and me.”

He walks toward you and you back away a step for every one he takes. You eye the elevator.

“You won’t be leaving this floor for some time. If you behave we’ll see about you going back to work.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” you whisper.

“Watching Steve with his girl just… I want that.”

“So ask someone on a date?”

“I want you.”

“Why?”

Tony finally reaches you, taking your chin and pulling it up.

“At first it was like a game that I wanted desperately to win. Now It’s love.”

You want to throw up. You look back at the papers in your hand. He thought of everything. He has a detailed background check and list of every single friend and family member. He knows all of your passwords. He has a month worth of pictures of the two of you that he’s already started leaking to the press. To everyone else it looks like you’ve already been in a relationship. Worst of all he has video of you in your office holding files and carrying them out of the office. He has an intricate outline of how he’s able to frame you and send you to prison if he wants.

“It wouldn’t be a very fun game if I didn’t give you at least a chance to win. In one year I’ll ask you if you want to leave and if you say yes I’ll let you go.”

He raises his arm up and lands a slap across your face.

“You’ll break in a week though.”

Tears fall from your eyes for the first time since your mother died. Tony gestures for you to come with him and you do, following him without argument. He pushes you onto his bed and removes your underwear, lifting your skirt up.

“Open up baby,” He says pushing against your legs.

Your legs shake as you open them. He gives your pussy a small slap before climbing on top of you and thrusting in. He holds you down as he takes you, eyeing your tear stained face posessively.

“Hey, don’t be sad princess.”

He reaches down to your clit and starts circling it, forcing your body to betray you. You cling to him as your orgasm washes over you and he in turn comes, filling you with so much cum it starts dripping out. You try to go to the bathroom but he grabs your hand and pulls you back to the bed.

“This time you’ll stay.”  

---

You’ve always been strong, you had to be. Your strength is what got you into this mess and you realize now, crying alone in Tony’s room, that your strength is not enough to get you out. The mask you wore for so long was just that, a mask, and now it’s been stolen and worn like a trophy by someone else. You know you’ll never get it back, that in one year Tony will ask you if you want to leave and you won’t have the strength to say yes.