#Howard Blank | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeysorwell · 2 months ago

Text

all of it (all of you)

Pairing: Melissa Schemmenti x fem!Reader

Prompt by anon + Idea for reader's nationality by anon

Synopsis: After more than 10 years with the same hairdresser, Melissa Schemmenti must change salons.

Tag list: (Since this is my first time writing for this character, I thought it best not to tag anyone. So if you want to be tagged just let me know.)

Warning: MELISSA AND Y/N ARE MAaaaD *in Ava's voice*

Words: 4k

Synopsis of the story + Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

Enjoy!

Link on AO3

Chapter 1 - Changes

Barbara Howard's friendship had a transformative impact on Melissa Schemmenti's personal life from the beginning.

The religious woman's friendship at the beginning of the redhead's career made the Italian woman rethink many things about herself. Regardless of their moral differences, how their individual relationships with religion are almost opposite, or even their small disagreements, one thing right at the beginning turned Melissa's world upside down.

The once chaotic and disorganized woman discovered the calming practicality of being hostage to well-established standards with a Christmas gift from her black coworker in her second year working at Abbott Elementary.

A schedule with a small calendar.

The year she received that gift, the redhead was furious with what was left written between the lines.

Disorganization.

After all, Melissa had absolutely everything under control.

She always had.

In her own way.

And Melissa also thought it was stupid to waste precious time that could be spent working by just planning to work, but after a terribly inconsistent semester (with more art, music and physical education teachers being fired than she can count on one hand), the redhead decided to give it a try.

So, 22 years ago Melissa started to use a schedule and a calendar every year faithfully and never looked back.

As she got older, the certainty of her upcoming appointments and how easy was to change what was needed on that sheet of paper to make better use of her time kept Melissa calm even during all the chaos that continued to live in her head and in her classroom every day. But everything changed when the spaces on pages that were reserved especially for her monthly visits to her family's hairdresser were now blank.

Rationally, the redhead knew that the hairdresser who had taken care of her grandmother's hair for the last twenty years of her life, two of her aunts out of town, washed and cared for her mother's hair every week, and three of her sisters periodically couldn't last long. But Melissa couldn't help but feel fooled and betrayed when Andrea Rossi announced her retirement.

The redhead hadn't been Andrea's client for her entire life, after all, the older hairdresser's regular clients had always been her priority. However, Melissa began to be part of the select group of Schemmenti women helped by Andrea when her former hairdresser (the one who had a Greek accent and many opinions that she hated but didn't discuss because he was her brother-in-law's friend), decided to call her Melinda, even after having her as a client for over three years.

Melinda.

Even though it was seventeen years ago, Barb still remembers the angry redheaded hurricane that entered the teachers’ lounge that week and still manages to make jokes about it whenever she gets the chance.

Monthly visits to the older woman had started with a simple hair color, but unlike her old hairdresser, Andrea had become much more than that for Melissa.

It was a ritual, a moment of care that for a long time brought her joy and confidence. It was talking animatedly with an Italian woman who showed her affection and care, something neither of them would admit out loud but was lacking in the Schemmenti family when it came to recognizing Melissa’s efforts and personal victories.

And now it was over.

“Ragazza (girl), don’t be like that… I’m old now, my hands hurt more than I can handle after a busy weekend,” Andrea tried to justify, stroking Melissa’s head with a tender smile as she finished coloring her hair that day, but which did not hide the weight of the decision.

“And what am I going to do now? Let the gray hair give me another 30 years in less than 6 months?”

“Don’t be silly! I’ve already transferred all my clients to hairdressers that I trust. You included! So stop it now!”

“I don’t want someone new.” Turning uncertainty into resistance is like armor for the redhead, even though she knows she has no choice, her brain still tries to break the meaning of Andrea’s retirement, “It’s going to mess up my entire schedule, Andrea! Two classes and now with you gone? I almost went crazy with the first semester of the year alone, now I know I’ll as soon as classes start after winter break!”

“I know that, Melissa. That’s why I talked to the hairdressers I know, and the best choice for you is Y/N, my last trainee. She’s great, hard-working, very talented and was willing to easily change her own clients’ schedule to see you at the same time I see you every month, she also works just five minutes away from here. You’ll like her.”

“But I don’t know her.” Even though she didn’t admit it, the idea of a stranger touching her hair disturbed Melissa deeply, and the murmur that left her mouth made a point of emphasizing this.

The change came too quickly, and with it, a wave of anxiety took over Melissa's heart. This feeling was temporarily drowned out by her more than exhausting end-of-year routine. She was the hostess of the Schemmenti family's Thanksgiving dinner, and this, along with the end of the year, drained her ability to think about her other problems. But when the following month arrived, and along with the return to school after winter break, her colorless hair also started to show again, so Melissa swallowed her pride and went to the salon that Andrea had recommended to her.

Riverfront Roots.

The name was silly, a clear reference to the Delaware River that Melissa preferred not to think about too much as she looked at the large letters printed on the facade of the place. As soon as she entered the new salon, the smell of hair products and the sound of blow dryers buzzing caught her attention. The place was modern and well-decorated, but Melissa couldn't feel completely at ease. The smell was different, the decor was different, the voices were different, and the redhead hated each of these things.

She wasn't so reluctant to little changes in her daily life, but that week was so exhausting. The two classes together made a point of actively getting on her nerves, Gary also changed some of the lemonade brands in the vending machine and none of the new ones lived up to the taste of the old ones. The man made a point of telling the redhead that it wasn't done on purpose, thanks to the end of their relationship, and she genuinely believed him, but even so, such a change in such a tiring week only made the teacher's discomfort that Saturday morning turn into a gratuitous and deep antipathy towards the new place.

The woman of Italian descent approached the counter, where a receptionist graced her with a friendly smile.

"Hello, how can I help you today?", was the question that greeted Melissa, with a kindness that, in the redhead's mind, was completely unnecessary.

The teacher hesitated for a moment before answering sharply, ignoring the hello offered to her.

"Schemmenti. Melissa Schemmenti, please. I have a coloring booked here. A recommendation from Andrea Rossi." While the receptionist checked her information, Melissa looked around, trying to get used to the new habitat, but she barely had time to do so because, in less than thirty seconds, the receptionist escorted Melissa to a chair in front of one of the largest mirrors in the salon.

The chair that was chosen for the redhead was a little isolated from the other people present, who were laughing and talking without worrying about the noise, but if the redhead was being honest with herself, she actually preferred it that way.

“Hello, Melissa. My name is Y/N and it’s wonderful to meet you. I hope you fell welcome and comfortable here with me. Andrea has told me wonderful things about you and I have her notes in my hand to make sure you leave here satisfied.”, a younger woman with a thick accent appeared out of nowhere, vomiting the words at Melissa with a smile and a sweet voice that were already starting to give the redhead a headache.

The speech seemed rehearsed, still genuine, but her voice seemed too practiced to instill comfort in the redhead. And if that wasn't enough, the younger woman was enthusiastically waving a note in her hand like a triumph, making Melissa even more insecure about Y/N's talent than she already was.

The teacher knows she's not an idiot but… This hairdresser wasn't even thirty years old. This Y/N was clearly in her early twenties, with rich hair and a quick smile that probably lit up the room more than those stupid ringlights that surrounded the chairs in that place.

Not to mention that she was beautiful. Very beautiful.

A part of Melissa, hyper-aware of her own age, felt the bitter taste of envy take over her tongue as she looked at the younger woman's reflection in the mirror in front of her, but another part, even more recklessly, awakened a dormant desire in her mind.

However, even with that spark hidden behind Melissa's eyes, their initial interaction couldn't have been worse.

Y/N seemed excited, first asking Melissa for permission to touch her hair – something the redhead almost said no to, just to see if that smile would die on her lips – but quickly the hairdresser started discussing ideas for Melissa's hair, something that forced the redhead's voice to sound cutting:

"I just dyed my hair red for years.", Melissa made sure her voice sounded as sharp as she intended, "Get those ideas out of ya head and just do what Andrea used to."

The lack of niceness caused Y/N to feel strange, but the hairdresser tried to remain calm despite the discomfort.

New clients were always a little insecure, so the Brazilian woman would just prove to the one in front of her that she had talent.

Y/N always had magical hands. When she was still a girl, on the hot afternoons in her hometown, she would have fun braiding the hair of her school friends. Long locks of hair shiny thanks to the summer sun and strands yellowed by the chemicals of several women in the city often passed through Y/N's hands as if she were an artist molding a sculpture.

Her friends loved the hairstyles she did. At first, they were not at all sophisticated due to her young age, but they were done with so much love and dedication that they always seemed to transform any hair into something unique. For Y/N, it was more than just fun.

It was a passion.

When she reached her teen years, that passion became something more serious. Y/N was not satisfied with just doing the hair of her friends and family. The Brazilian woman wanted to learn, she wanted to master the art of transforming people's hair into something even more special.

That's why when she graduated from high school, Y/N started studying, and within a few months, she was already working professionally at a salon in her city. It didn't take long for her to be recognized for the quality of her work. Her skill with scissors and dye made her quickly stand out among other professionals. She knew what she was doing, she knew how to transform people into more beautiful versions of themselves, she knew what her clients wanted and, most importantly, she knew how to make them feel good.

Little by little, Y/N began to stand out even more and her life began to change.

She knew that her talent could not be limited, and so, when some close friends who had already moved to the United States began to encourage her to try her luck in Philadelphia, Y/N was scared at first. But if the chance to start over in another country meant more opportunities, she couldn't let this pass, even if the exciting idea had the power to scare her. But even though she was frightened, she was soon embarking on a new chapter in her life in a plane.

It was hard to save money for the travel, it was hard to get all the necessary documents to enter the USA legally, it was hard to leave loyal clients behind, and it was even harder to leave her country and its traditions. But the youthfulness of her soul and the hope of a new life embraced her heart and the hairdresser decided to give herself this chance.

Wen she arrived in Philadelphia, Y/N felt, at the same time, small and full of possibilities. The city was big, the competition was powerful, and she was seen as just another foolish immigrant.

But she was determined.

The Brazilian woman knew that her skill could be the key to a promising future. She just didn’t expect that her future would be shaped by Andrea Rossi, an older and more experienced Italian hairdresser who worked at a well-known salon nearby.

The story happened by chance. One of Andrea’s regular clients mentioned that her son had gotten a haircut from a really new Brazilian hairdresser.

“It was something very different… Like those stupid things we see on TikTok, but it was exactly what James wanted, and we had never found anyone willing to do it. What this young woman did perfectly and without thinking twice, and my son loved it!”, the woman commented in admiration before giving the older woman an idea, “You should meet her!”

Andrea was curious and, figuring she had nothing to lose, asked for more information about the Brazilian woman. The client was enthusiastic and told the Italian one everything she knew and, even though she was skeptical, Andrea let her curiosity get the best of her and decided to see it for herself.

The next day, she went to the salon where Y/N was working and, observing closely, immediately noticed the young woman’s skill. The Brazilian woman had the touch of someone who knew what she was doing, an eye for beauty trends, and the needs of her clients, but she also had more than that.

Y/N had a natural connection with people, a charisma that, combined with her smile and strong accent, made any client feel at ease, and Andrea saw that.

So the Italian woman wasted no time. She called Y/N for a chat at the end of her shift and, soon, took her on as her last pupil before announcing her retirement.

Normally, hearing Andrea Rissi's name made Y/N happy. All the advice, recommendations, affection, and wisdom shared by the older woman were a pleasant memory for the Brazilian woman.

But there, while she tried in vain to be nice to what was Andrea's transfer, having her work compared to the older woman's began to annoy her.

First, the owner of those pretty green eyes began to verbalize her dissatisfaction with the work tools Y/N used, telling her how much she preferred Andrea's work tools, which were always on display for her clients to see. Then the redhead started rolling her eyes at Y/N's coworkers, who, since they had no clients, were chatting spiritedly while planning to get their nails done at the end of the day, muttering how much she would appreciate some peace and quiet.

But the first sign Y/N gave that she was definitely not the type of person who would just ignore or shrink from Melissa's bad mood was when the redhead made a point of directly comparing her work to Andrea's before Y/N even started dyeing her hair.

"Andrea, don't part my hair like that. You'll leave my hair full of spots!"

Trying to preserve the good mood she had woken up in that morning, the hairdresser chose to be sneaky and ironic. Y/N looked around theatrically and curiously, as if she was searching for something important, and Melissa, unable to contain her fear and confusion, made her voice present.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just looking for Andrea Rossi since you want to talk about her so badly.”

Receiving only silence as an answer, and thinking that the unhappy attitude of that client was over, the hairdresser continues her journey. Y/N measures the dye with all the care in the world, making sure to double-check on the scale in front of her that the weight is correct when compared to what Andrea gave her over the phone before applying the dye accurately, fearing giving Melissa another reason to complain. The Brazilian woman divides Melissa’s hair locks with the focus of a professional with much more experience, doing everything she can to not lose a single gray hair, and when she goes to wash it, she does so with a gentleness that surprises Melissa.

But the teacher doesn’t want to admit it, so she continues to stare sullenly at the mirror, even while Y/N gently untangles her wet hair.

When the redhead’s hair is nice and completely ready to be dried, Y/N looks at her hair curiously before turning once more to Melissa’s reflection in the mirror.

“I usually do this before dyeing, but what do you think about maybe cutting a few inches? The ends are starting to lose their shape.”

“I don’t want to cut anything.”, the words are said low enough for no one but the hairdresser to hear but Y/N, but with a hint of anger that surprised the young woman, “And stop talking, your voice is too annoying for the kind of mediocre work ya deliver, kid.”

It was insensitive. Even to Melissa.

The redhead knows that Andrea would never send her to a bad hairdresser. She knows she is being harsh and critical to someone who gave her no reason to do so, but before she realizes it the words have already escaped her mouth.

But the teacher simply has no idea what was coming.

The hairdresser’s eyes widened, large pupils full of rage meeting the teacher’s gaze through the mirror, shocked by the words said by Melissa. And, before Melissa's mind can even work on instigating any remorseful reflexes, Y/N grabs a large chunk of hair from the redhead's bangs and takes a pair of scissors out of her pocket with her free hand, quickly placing them right on Melissa's forehead, exactly where her hair grows, like a more than concrete threat.

“Listen to me Philadelphia's beauty, I don't know what kind of hairdresser you expected when Andrea transferred you to me but as long as you sit in my chair you will respect my work and listen to my fucking suggestions.”, it is said as a whisper, but the hairdresser's anger and her thick accent along with the slight pull she gives the redhead's hair make the whole interaction sound indescribably scary, even to Melissa, “I've been nothing but polite and respectful to you, but I'm starting to regret accepting someone so unfortunate in my char that they think they can criticize my work without even knowing me.”

There, locking eyes with Y/N in the salon mirror, Melissa understood how much she had crossed the line.

Melissa took a deep breath, filled with adrenaline at the thought of losing the top part of her hair, before nodding her head, causing Y/N to put down the scissors and let go of her bangs as she returned to work normally.

And then silence.

Dead silence.

The silence between the two women was so thick that it seemed to fill every corner of the room, making the sound of the dryer and the conversations around them sound muffled and filling the air with a corrosive feeling.

The scene from minutes ago was still boiling in Melissa's mind, repeating itself like a scratched record. Now, as if Melissa had finally come to her senses, the redhead wanted to disappear. She wanted to jump out of the chair and run away from the mirror which reflected her own guilt and shame. But she couldn't. Her anxiety combined with the idea of leaving now, before the end of her service (something that could be even more disrespectful than her words), did a magnificent job holding her body in place, like an invisible chain that kept her feet on the floor and her mouth gagged.

With her fingers drumming on her apron-covered leg as the Brazilian woman prepared to style her hair, the teacher wanted to believe that it hadn't been so bad, that maybe Y/N had already forgotten what was said. But she knew that wasn't true. The weight of the moment still hung between them, thick and uncomfortable.

Y/N doesn't cut her hair or even mention the idea once again. The hairdresser just dries her red hair perfectly, but now with a serious gaze and a hurt look on her face. The Brazilian woman vehemently ignores Melissa's green eyes throughout the entire process, and the teacher stupidly decides too late that she prefers the incessant smile that remained on the hairdresser's lips minutes ago.

Melissa thought about apologizing, but the idea of speaking made her breathing quick and shallow, along with the fear of seeming too desperate.

It was then that her eyes fell on the small ceramic jar in the corner of the counter next to her chair. It was decorated with hand-painted flowers and had, in crooked but legible letters, the words: "Tips for Y/N" next to a QR code. Even with the virtual possibility of compensation, the jar was open and with a significant amount of dollars, coins, and two lollipops, which Melissa just knew had been left there by a child.

And so, an idea formed, hesitant but clear in the teacher's mind.

A good tip seemed perfect, silent, indirect, but still meaningful. As the minutes passed, anxiety whispered again in Melissa's mind, wondering if Y/N would believe that she was doing this because of the guilt she felt at that very moment and not because of the regret that was now eating her mind. But the alternative of doing nothing was simply unbearable for Melissa.

The redhead knew she couldn't leave without at least trying, even if in her own way, to make amends.

When Y/N finished applying a light-smelling oil to the teacher's hair and walked away, silently letting her know that her work was done, Melissa tried to meet the hairdresser's eyes and give her a small smile, which she knew would be nervous, but which could give her an idea of what was going on in Y/N's head.

But Y/N didn't look at Melissa.

When Melissa got up from the salon chair, her racing heart didn't stop her from taking two generous bills from her wallet — much more than she would usually give for just an appointment to dye her hair— and walking over to the pot. Her fingers were shaking slightly, but before anything could be done, she was interrupted:

“I don’t want your tip.” Before the two hundred dollars could enter the ceramic pot with the Brazilian’s name written on it, Y/N placed her own hand over the top to the object, successfully blocking Melissa from doing what she intended.

“M'kay. Now you’re being ridiculous!”

With those words, the hairdresser's eyes finally focus on the green ones again, still filled with an anger that Melissa rarely sees in people who have a disagreement with her (too used to the regretful and submissive ones) and the redhead was shocked by this when Y/N actively chooses to ignore her accusation by saying:

"I'm willing to give you the exact coloring mixture that Andrea developed for your hair so you can find a hairdresser who is like the silent imitation of Andrea that you are looking for.", and before the redhead even has a chance to answer her with an apology that would apparently be necessary, the hairdresser quickly collects everything that was used in the teacher's service and directs Melissa a few more words before walking away without looking back, "Call the salon when you want the measurements and the receptionist will share them with you with pleasure. Have a good rest of your day."

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti imagine #abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfics #lisa ann walter #lisa ann walter x reader #lisa ann walter imagine

184 notes · View notes

anyaharveyii · 11 months ago

Text

headcanon that peter kept jumping back and forth between wanting to open up to tony and wanting to keep him at arms length when they first started to get their mentor-mentee relationship off the ground.

so things like how when tony put a hand on his shoulder, he'd lean into the touch before sharply moving away.

or how he'd get really excited when tony invited him to help with a project before his face would suddenly freeze and shutter closed into this emotionless, blank slate.

and internally, peter was like, "shit, Mr. Stark must think I'm either bipolar or clinically insane."

but what peter forgot was that tony went through the same thing with people like pepper and rhodey after howard died, so he very quickly recognized what was going on.

and it was honestly kind of flattering to see the signs that peter held him to the same standard as his dad or his uncle ben. so rather than commenting on any of it, he just sent the kid a warm smile and reminded himself to be patient and wait for peter to come to him.

#peter parker #spiderman #spider son #tony stark #iron man #iron dad #irondad and spiderson #headcannon #marvel #mcu

719 notes · View notes

sunflowersandsapphires · 2 months ago

Text

Self-Indulgent Matt Comfort

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

summary: Matt has a trick or two up his sleeve when you are exhausted in the workplace.

warnings: None, this is the fluffiest fluff

a/n: I was absolutely exhausted today but I still wanted to write, so... here!

w/c: 1.1k

You weren’t going to yawn again. You weren’t.

After the second yawn in the last ten minutes, Karen was already eyeing you from her desk, her gaze raising the hair on the back of your neck as you clenched your jaw against the sensation.

You didn’t need to yawn. You were fine, just a little tired.

Maybe more than a little.

Weeks of strenuous, back-to-back cases and increasingly tumultuous periods of sleep had begun to weigh on you. Fatigue draped over your shoulders like ribbons of cement, urging you to slump forward until you were propped on one fist, practically faceplanted on your desk. The pile of paperwork you were slogging through wobbled in your line of sight, text sprawling off the page as your vision blurred. With a measured breath, you let your eyes flutter shut, your body rejoicing in the darkness for a moment before you forced them to open again.

You were used to this. Exhaustion was an old friend of yours, a constant presence in the back of your mind. This wasn’t a new struggle. So why was staying awake so remarkably difficult today?

Gnawing at the inside of your cheek, you shoved the thought aside. Given how much brain power you were using just staying conscious, you couldn’t exactly spare the time it would take to crack open that can of worms. A handful of hours and you’d be free to trudge home and collapse into bed. But first, paperwork.

Using two fingers to separate the top page from the remainder of the stack, you held it in front of your face, your lips moving mechanically as you read the bold letters. ‘MOTION FOR PARTIAL SUMMARY JUDGEMENT’ Motion for..what case was this? Oh right, Miss Owens. Her ex-boyfriend was claiming she misappropriated child support. Or was that the Howard case…

Completely lost in a jumble of names and case numbers, you didn’t hear Karen calling for you until it was accompanied by a tap on your back. The abrupt heat of physical contact made you flinch, a tiny shriek flying from your mouth before you could effectively silence it. Hands flying up to your rapidly heating face, you whirled around.

“I thought you heard me, I’m sorry–” Karen rushed to apologize, drawing her hand away from you as you cut her off.

“No, I’m sorry, I should’ve been paying attention. What did you say?” The words tumbled out of your mouth almost incoherently.

Before Karen could repeat herself, a door opened behind you, a head of dark hair popping around the frame.

“What happened? Are you ok?” In his haste to respond to your embarrassing outburst, Matt’s crimson lenses had been forgotten, his vehement concern on full display. Blank eyes darting between you and Karen, he crossed the short distance to your desk, focusing solely on you.

“I’m fine, I just..zoned out and got startled.” You explained feebly, reaching for one of Matt’s outstretched hands. The dip between his brows only grew in ferocity at your lame excuse.

“Uh huh. Well, I had a question for you anyway so,” Nodding to you, Matt’s gaze flickered in Karen’s direction. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?”

“She’s all yours.” Karen smirked, holding her hands up and retreating to her own desk.

Confusion bloomed in your stomach as Matt and Karen somehow exchanged a look. “What am I missing?”

“Nothing. Got a minute to talk about the Owens case?” Something about the pacing of Matt’s response seemed..off, but your sluggish thoughts weren’t quick enough to discern exactly what was afoot.

“I, uh, haven’t finished prepping that motion for filing.” You admitted sheepishly, staggering to your feet with Matt’s help.

“That’s alright, sweetheart. We have another two weeks to respond to their newest complaint. I actually wanted your opinion on his testimony from the last hearing.” Drawing you into his office with effortless strength, Matt’s hand dropped yours and coasted over the small of your back. He clutched your waist gently, shutting the door with a swift tap of his foot.

“Oh.” A coil of anxiety you hadn’t noticed before began to unwind in your chest, your posture sagging until you were draped against Matt’s side. You’d expected him to scold you, to remind you how important it was to keep your full attention on the task at hand. “Yah, I can try to help.”

“Great, why don’t you sit, I’ll pull up the segment I’m thinking of.” Squeezing the flesh of your hip, Matt gracefully slipped from your partial embrace, rounding the large wooden desk in the center of the room.

Nodding absently, your fingers grazed the top of the chair in front of his computer, tilting it back before Matt stopped you. “On the couch, love. Much more comfortable.”

Something was definitely up. You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing at the smug lawyer. “And that matters because?”

��Because you’re my girlfriend and I want you to be comfortable?” Matt laughed brightly, arms snaking over themselves in a haphazard imitation of your own stance.

With a doubtful grumble, you settled onto the couch cushions behind you. The true reason for Matt’s actions was just beyond your grasp, one fired synapse away from clicking into place. Until you solved that mystery, you could handle a little forced comfort.

Balancing his computer on one broad palm, Matt chuckled as you remained stiff, refusing to give in to the inviting squishiness of the worn fabric. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re up to something.” You mumbled, scowling at him as he slid onto the couch beside you, throwing a sculpted arm over your shoulders.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart. Here,” Passing you an earbud, Matt’s fingers flew over his keyboard, queueing up the testimony in question. “His phrasing is…interesting. And I think he might’ve contradicted his statement from the original custody battle, but you’re more familiar with that case than I am.”

Placing the tiny speaker inside your ear, you tucked yourself into Matt’s side. As always, his heat encompassed you first, warmth radiating from him like rays of pure sun. Touch quickly followed, his left thigh sliding against yours, denim scratching over cotton. Positioning the laptop atop both of your legs, Matt’s thumb caressed your shoulder as he started the recording.

A smatter of voices prickled through the static, lawyers, clerks, and–eventually–the adverse. The monotonous call and response crashed over you in waves, threatening to siphon your dwindling awareness and lead you straight into slumber. You nudged Matt’s upper arm with your forehead, eyes fluttering shut against your will. “You tricked me. Wanted me to sleep.”

“You caught me.” Matt murmured, shifting to pull something from the back of the couch and tuck it around you. “You’ve been running on fumes this week. Rest for a bit.”

“Hypocrite.” Your scathing comment was hindered by the slurred edge to your speech as you drifted off.

A rumbling laugh shook Matt’s chest. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

Taglist: @marytheweefrenchie @cheshirecat484 @siampie @xxdrixx @gracethyomen @ignore-mp3 @silas-aeiou @screechingphantommaker @spiderstyles04 @paradox-brody-chase @msjb2002 @blue-devil-of-the-lord @pigeonmama @daisy-arien0 @yarrystyleeza @silas-aeiou @harleycao @for-hearthand-home @chwlogy @valhallavalkyrie9

367 notes · View notes

chaniceroses · 9 months ago

Text

Bad Boys Ride or Die (Armando x Reader) Part ELEVEN

(!! I made this one short because I wanted the last part to be good and long for the readers!! Thank you so much for your patience and support!!!! I will begin working on the Last Part tomorrow!! :) )

ENJOY:

Y/N POV

“I’m so sorry y/n…”, Howard whispered, sitting on the chair next to your hospital bed. He grabbed your hand and held it. His eyes were searching your face for answers but couldn’t find one. The room was cold and although Howard was right by your side while you had heavy security outside of your hospital room.You still felt alone. Tears began to run down your face, they were warm and sharp. It almost felt as if it had hurt your eyes to cry.

“I…I can’t have kids anymore Captain…I can’t—”

“No, no…he said that it would be a miracle, that’s never a no. You just need to heal and allow time to take its time y/n.”, he interrupted.

“We will find McGrath and make sure that you get the justice that you deserve, this isn’t your fault y/n.”

Your heart felt empty, your eyes were swollen and slightly pink from all of the crying that you were doing so in response you just stared at Howard and nodded your head.

“I’m going to go talk to the doctor about your stay. I will be right back, okay.”,

You watched as Howard got up and walked out of your room. Slowly taking your attention from the door to your stomach, you began to rub it and could feel the stitches that were left from the surgery. Until you started hearing gunshots, throwing your head back towards the door, you could see people running and screaming.

“What the hell?”, you whispered, flipping the covers while trying to slowly lift your body up from the bed.

“Y/N, MCGRA—”, before Howard could finish his sentence, you watched as he was shot several times from somebody behind him. You felt your heart drop and screamed in horror when…..

“Y/N!!! WAKE UP!!”, Armando yelled, climbing on top of you while softly shaking you.

You opened your eyes to be met by Armando's intense stare, he was examining your trying to figure out what you were dreaming about to have you screaming as if you were being tortured.

Sweat ran down your face while your breathing became heavy, you slightly pushed Armando off of you and sat up in your bed. It had been forever since you’ve had one of those kinds of dreams, especially about losing you and McGrath’s baby. You buried your head in your hands when suddenly, your hotel door flew open while being greeted by hard footsteps. You looked up to see Mike and Marcus standing there while aiming their guns around.

“FREEZEEE…oh”, Marcus yelled, before looking over to you and Armando.

You were confused at why he looked at you and Armando with a blank and awkward facial expression until you looked back at Armando to see him standing, while covering his member with his hands.

You looked down to see that you were also still naked from you and Armando sexual games last night.

So you quickly grabbed the sheets that were on the floor and wrapped it around your body.

“This is so embarrassing…”, you whispered, getting up while looking at Armando and then at Mike.

You observed as Mike stared at you and Armando. You weren’t sure what was going through his mind but hoped that it was nothing.

“You owe me a hundred dollars!”Marcus laughed, while leaving your hotel room.

“I’m going to go…go take a shower.”, You awkwardly whispered, grabbing a towel and running to the bathroom.

ARMANDO POV

We watched as y/n ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. I wanted to take one with her but by the looks of it, I could see that not happening.

“Like Father, like son huh.”, I sarcastically replied. Grabbing the covers that were on the bed and wrapping it around my waist.

“I’m going to go and get you guys a bag that has clothes in them. Put them on and come to Marcus’s and I room.”, he sighed, walking towards the door.

“Mike, y/n and I are together now.”, I hurriedly responded while walking up to him.

I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to say that to him but I did.

“I know Armando, I saw it coming a couple days ago.”

“It's a good thing right? She liked me and I liked her and she—”, before I could finish my sentence, I watched as he turned around and looked at me.

“Look, I knew that you guys liked each other but I didn’t think that you guys would take it this far, Armando. With what you’ve both been through, you guys need to think about it.”, he interrupted, looking at the bed and then back at me.

I was lost, y/n was the one who said that he told her not to play with my emotions however now he’s feeling the opposite.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Armando, what do you think is going to happen once we’re done with McGrath? Huh? You guys are going to run off into the sunset while holding hands?”

I had no response.

“I want you guys together, I do. Even if you hearing this from me, don’t mean shit to you but once this ends…You will still be a fugitive while y/n will be free. So it’ll be hard for the both of you to work that out.”

“Wait, you said that you were going to help me Mike?”, I replied. I knew that what he was saying was the truth however, there has to be a different route. I watched as he searched the room for answers. At first there wasn’t a thought behind his eyes, until his eyes suddenly focused back on me.

“Armando, I have an idea but I need you to trust me.”, he answered, putting his hand on my right shoulder. I couldn’t help but to look at him weirdly. The way he was looking at me, had me oddly uncomfortable. However, I couldn’t help but to be curious.

“What is it?”

“...You’re going to have to take it back…it may not make sense right now but—” “Hell no Mike, are you crazy. Y/n and I just had sex and made it official last night, she’s going to think I used her for her body!”, I loudly whispered, throwing his hand off of my shoulder. Horrible timing Mike. Horrible timing.

“I know but you have to trust me, it’ll work out in the end for the both of you, I promise you that. You have to do it, Armando or I can’t help you!”, he demanded. Before I could respond, I could hear a door shut behind me.

“Mike…Armando, is everything okay?”, Y/n said walking towards the both of us.

I looked back at y/n and then back at Mike and watched as he stared at y/n.

“Yeah y/n, everything is fine. Just son and father things, you know.”, he laughed. Leaning past me to grab the door knob. I watched as he shut the door while I just stared at it.

A part of me didn’t want to do it, however the other half felt that Mike knew what he was talking about. Shit Armando.

Y/N POV

You stood behind Armando, examining the muscles that swam across his back. You were about to touch his back, when he suddenly turned around. His breathing was short and slow. He was avoiding eye-contact with you and was looking out towards the balcony. Something was wrong.

“Armando, seriously what’s wrong? What was that conversation between you and Mike about?”, you were looking into his eyes for a response. An answer. However, he kept his glare towards the balcony.

So you grabbed his hand and guided him towards the bed. The both of you sat down and you watched as he rubbed the back of his neck. Something was bothering him, you just didn’t know what.

“I love you y/n…so much.”, he suddenly replied, turning his head to look at you while smiling.

“I love you too Armando…you know last night was—”

“But I can’t do this.”, he interrupted, now looking away.

Suddenly the room went silent, you could hear your thoughts and everything that you were feeling now being said out loud. What the hell did he mean that he can’t “do this”?

“I mean..I want to do this, us but with what’s going on I—” “Are you fucking serious, Armando?”, you sighed. You were disappointed. You finally told him how you felt. You poured your heart out to him last night as he did the same but now, he can’t “do” this. Us? You turned to look at him and could see worry across his face.

“Is it..does it have to do with McGrath?”, you whispered looking at him. You watched as he turned to look at you. His mouth was saying one thing, while his eyes were saying another. So you swallowed the lump that had slowly built up in your throat and threw how you felt out the door. Nothing was going to get in the way between you two and you were sure of that.

“We don’t know what the outcome may be today and I feel that we may be moving too fast.”, he explained, throwing his hand out to you. You knew that he was lying. You could feel it and the way he was holding himself told you that he was. That’s when you thought about Mike.

“Well, I pray that this isn’t one of those “using me for my body” situations and I know that I just caught you and Mike talking about something which led to you acting the way you are now—”, you responded, grabbing his hand and caressing it.

“No, I would never do that”, he interrupted, grabbing your hand and holding it a little tighter.

“Mike said that this would be best. With everything that is happening.”, he continued, looking at you.

You were confused. Mike?

“What the hell do you mean Armando, since when did you start listening to Mike?”

“I listen to him y/n when he makes sense. He said that it’ll be best for us not to be together, just for right now. Since i’m a fugitive and you know with your life and this McGrath shit. There’s just no balance.”, he explained, shrugging his shoulders.

You knew that what Mike was saying wasn’t entirely wrong; however, you were still confused.

“He also said that he’ll help us out because he does want to see us together. Now he didn’t explain how or when but he just said to trust him. And for some odd reason, I do. Me just saying this, doesn’t mean I mean it y/n. Because I sure as hell doesn’t.”, he continued, standing up.

You stood up also and grabbed his hand while looking up at him. Although you were against what Mike said, you knew that you could trust his word.

“Okay Armando, I trust you guys so we will just “play” as if we’re not together around them, at least until all of this shit clears.”, you laughed while caressing his cheek. You could see a small smirk come across his face as he looked down at you.

“I like the way you think.”, he smiled, picking you up. You watched as he leaned in towards you to give you a kiss, which made you respond to it. His lips were soft and smooth. You could feel his goatee mustache run smooth across your face. You found yourself deep into the moment, until you opened your eyes and noticed that he was walking towards the bathroom.

“What are you doing?”, you questioned

“We’re about to take a shower.”

“Yeah but I just took one.”

“Yeah but it was without me.”, he mocked, carrying you inside the bathroom and shutting the door.

You and Armando took a shower then quickly got dressed to head to Mike’s and Marcus’s hotel room. There was a bag filled with black clothes and police attire for you and Armando to put on once you guys were finished so after you were done, the both of you helped each other get dressed, straightened the room and then headed towards Mike’s room.

You watched as Armando walked up to the door and knocked. After a couple knocks the door finally opens to the two of you being greeted by a crowded room.

“What the hell.”, Armando whispered

“What is it?”, you replied moving from behind him to see Dorn, Kelly, Rita and her husband, Lockwood in the room with Mike and Marcus.

“Took you two forever…”, Mike sighed, signaling for you and Armando to enter.

You followed behind Armando and examined as the energy in the room shifted. Maybe it could be because it is early in the morning and everyone wants to still be in bed or because of Armando’s intimidating presence.

“Why is he here?”, you asked, pointing at Lockwood and Rita.

You felt that it was odd for him to be there, knowing that he didn’t say anything about proving Howard’s innocence and with the election coming up. He had nothing to do with this operation.

“He is a part of McGraths bullshit”, Mike answered, walking over to the group and sitting down.

“Yeah, Rita found the messages between him and McGrath. He’s behind the files…”

“And the money being transported…”

“And how McGrath found out where everyone lives.”, the group explained while looking at you.

You could feel disappointment,confusion and anger fill your body.

“So, you’re telling me…this motherfucker sitting across from me is the reason why LadyBug is dead?! THE REASON WHY THAT DUMBASS FOUND OUT WHERE I LIVED!”, you yelled now standing up. You were livid. This whole time you had been blaming yourself for Ladybug’s death, when it could’ve been avoided if Lockwood would’ve been a true politician and reported McGrath instead of working with him and allowing innocent people like Ladybug and Fletcher, to lose their lives.

You watched as Lockwood stood up and threw his hands up in defense.

“Look y/n, I don’t know what—” Before Lockwood could finish his sentence, you quickly grabbed the gun that was on the table, jumped over it and held it to his head.

“YO! Y/N CALM DOWN! —”Mike yelled, walking over towards you.

“FOR WHAT!! HE DESERVES TO DIE!!!”, you yelled looking at Mike and then back at Lockwood. Fear was written all over his face and you loved that it was.

“You shoot him, I’ll have no choice but to shoot you.”, Rita replied, pointing her gun at you. You kept your finger on the trigger and pushed the gun even more towards Lockwood's head.

“Like hell you will…”, Armando whispered. You turned to see him standing behind Rita while having two guns in his hands. One pointing at the back of Rita’s head and the other at Lockwood’s.

“You guys are married right? Till death do you part? Sounds about right…you’re call y/n.”, Armando scoffed. You couldn’t help but to squeeze the gun, you wanted to see his brain be splatted everywhere in front of you. The way McGrath did LadyBug’s.

“Just wait y/n ... .I have something for you.”, Marcus whispered, walking towards the closet that was next to the bathroom.

“What Marcus?”, you replied, keeping your eyes on Lockwood. You could see sweat forming on his forehead. He was nervous and afraid. You quickly shifted your eyes to see Marcus walking up to you while holding something in his hand.

“What the hell is that Marcus because I don’t have time for these games…”

“Here.”, he whispered, pushing his hands out to you.

You turned to see glasses in his hand.

“Marcus, what the hell am I supposed to do with glasses?”

“There Ladybug’s.”, he mumbled. “Look at them.” You took a glance and stared at them, they were black glasses with thick lenses. You looked up at Marcus, then at the glasses and then back at Lockwood.

“Those could be anyone’s Marcus, I’m not stupid!”, you yelled. You grabbed Lockwood’s head and held him down. Now pointing the gun at the back of his head.

“Take a step closer to her and I'll kill you instantly.”, Armando whispered, stepping closer to Rita while keeping his eyes on you.

“Y/n just read the arms, they have his initials on it. “L.B” C’mon y/n. We’ll make sure he goes to jail. I promise.”, Marcus reassured, now trying to hand you the glasses.

You sat the gun down while keeping a tight grip of Lockwood’s hair in your other hand and grabbed the glasses. How in the hell did he get these? You moved one of the arms of the glasses and could see Ladybug’s initials clear as day.

“How did you—”

“That night when we found you on the ground…Mike picked you up and took you to the car while I stayed behind and put him on the couch. The way you were crying over him, told me that he meant something to you and I wanted to make sure that you had something in remembrance so I took his glasses to give to you at some point. Once you heal, you know.”, he explained, stepping closer to you.

“Let him go y/n…”, Mike whispered, looking at you and then back at Marcus.

You looked down at the glasses and then at Lockwood.

“Okay..”, you sighed, setting down the glasses and the gun.

“Thank God.”, Lockwood whispered, grunting in pain. Before you knew it, you threw a punch in the back of his head and watched as his body went limp.

You looked up to see everyone shockingly looking at you as if you killed someone.

“He’s not dead, he’s just knocked out. Give him thirty minutes.”, you scoffed, grabbing your gun and glasses, climbing back over the table and sitting back in the seat that you and Armando were on.

“Lucky girl.”, Armando whispered into Rita’s ear, lowering his gun and walking to sit back next to you. You loved the fact that you didn’t have to say anything for Armando to jump and support your actions, even if others were against it. He was there. Supporting and protecting.

“Well while he’s half dead can we please discuss a plan about how we're going to get McGrath.”, Dorn sighed, walking over to pick up the papers that fell off the table.

“We don’t need a plan, we know where he is since we were able to track him from Lockwood’s phone. So let’s just go to him.”, Mike replied, grabbing some guns out of a bag and strapping them onto his leg.

“I agree, no plan, just action. That’s how we roll.”Marcus supported, folding his arms.

“And that’s how we get killed.”, Rita sighed, rolling her eyes.

“McGrath just plans on leaving the country after he kills us and receives the money…”, you added, pointing at Marcus, Mike, Armando and yourself. “So really, we just need to be in hiding and meet him at whatever transportation he plans on leaving on.” You stood up and walked over to the bags filled with weapons.

“No time needs to be wasted so we should probably be heading out in the next ten minutes.”, Kelly replied, gathering all of the information.

Everyone nodded and began to get ready. Strapping up, making sure their hollister were on good and that their bulletproof vests were on tight. You could sense Armando looking at you; however, you ignored him.

“Something happened between the two of you?”, Mike asked, looking at you and then back at Armando.

“Nope, he just doesn’t think we should be moving so quick.”, you whispered looking over at him. You watched as he looked at Armando and then back at you again. You gave a small smile, hinting to him that you knew about their conversation from earlier but by the looks of it, he was lost.

“Oh well, I'm sure it’s for the best with that being said… I know that killing McGrath is important for you as it is for me so I want the both of us to be the ones going after him. That way we know that he won’t be spared.”, he whispered. Putting the bag across his shoulders and turning to face you. You finished getting ready and tied your hair back that way it wouldn’t be in your face. You were happy that Mike was on the same page that you were on.

“For sure.”, you agreed, looking over to the group. You watched as Mike grabbed the keys that were on the counter and signaled to everyone to start heading out.

“This should be fun.”, Dorn mumbled, picking up Lockwood and throwing him across his shoulders. You watched as he walked past you, allowing Lockwood’s head to be slightly thrown everywhere. You couldn’t help but to chuckle until Armando walked up to you.

“You ready.”, he smiled looking down at you.

“Yeah lets go—” Before you could finish you were interrupted by Kelly walking up to you.

“Y/n, do you remember that video that I told you Howard left for you. The personal video.”, she whispered, looking back at Rita and then back at you. At first you were lost but after a while of allowing your thoughts to catch up, you were able to recall the conversation between the two of you.

“Yeah I remember, you were going to send it to me.”, you replied

“Yeah, I decided to not send it to you but to put it on a disc…I couldn’t help it, I felt that what he said was extremely personal and that you would need to hear it maybe alone. Nothing bad just very, heartwarming you know.”, she smiled, handing out the disc to give to you.

You grabbed it and then looked at it. You were very curious about what was on here however, you wanted your mind to be sat on today’s operation.

“Give it to me after the operation, so that I can have something to look forward to watching.”, you smiled, handing it back to her. You watched as she grabbed it and nodded her head in response. Walking back towards Rita and sparking a conversation with her while she helped her finish packing.

“What was that about?”, Armando asked, turning around to follow you out of the room.

“Some video Howard left for me to watch by myself, I don’t really know.”, you replied as the both of you walked down the long hallway.

“Well, What I do know is that…whatever happens today, I want you to be—”

“Tell me after the operation Armando.”, you interrupted, keeping your focus on the elevator.

“Huh?”, he asked as the both of you stood in front of the elevator doors waiting for it to open.

“Tell me once we kill McGrath and we both make it out alive, not now.”, you whispered, walking onto the elevator.

You watched as he followed behind you onto the elevator. There was a weird presence in the room, it wasn’t tense, but it was soft. Accepting. Danger was slowly creeping towards you while you were running towards it. This was a suicide mission, and you knew it and so did everyone else. You must’ve gotten lost into your thoughts because you suddenly felt Armando’s hand slowly hold yours. You looked down at it and then up at Armando to see him looking at you. Although a word wasn’t said, his eyes were having a conversation of its own and you understood every bit of it. You turned your head back towards the doors, held his hand tighter and let go of the breath that you didn’t know that you were holding. Allowing the silence to consume the both of you and for time to slowly reach its ending point.

#armando x reader #jacob scipio #armando armas #bad boys armando #bad boys ride or die armando #bad boys ride or die #x reader #bad boys #armando aretas #armando aretas x reader

269 notes · View notes

usetheeauthor · 6 months ago

Text

Kinktober Day 3: Brainwashing/Reprograming

Pre-War!Ghoul-ish!Cooper Howard x Reader

Summary: Cooper sure loves you; his little vaultie wife. Too bad you have no clue that you’re actually not the only two people left in the world.

Warnings: 18+ , non con mind control, implied age gap, gaslighting, manipulation, dub con kissing

A/N: I imagine Cooper in this in between his ghoul form and human form and the ghoul form is slowly corrupting his mind.

You don’t remember what life was like before “the blank” or the period in which your vault had been attacked. But by the time you came to, everyone in your vault was long gone. Dead? Alive? You aren’t sure. Not a single corpse or evidence of their existence has been recovered. All you remember was a bright flash of light and suddenly you were alone in the arms of a man you hardly knew.

He says he’s your husband who’s been searching for you for years. He says he loves you. That he’ll protect you. And you surely do believe those things but…something about him just feels like he’s hiding something. But all he’s gotta do is say a couple magic words and suddenly you don’t care to question him. Maybe you just love him all that much that nothing he’s hiding matters.

It is much better when you aren’t questioning things anyway. He’s much more affectionate when you don’t resist.

“Little wifey,” Cooper calls out as he comes through the doorway of the little pod home you shared. You rush into his arms, beautiful blue and white sundress flowing behind you. “There ya are, sugar. Missed me?”

“Of course, I did.” You say, holding him tight. “I was so lonely. Every time you walk out that door, I worry you’ll never come back and that I’ll be alone again.”

“Not a chance,” He says kissing you on the forehead. “I’ve searched all this way for ya darlin’. Nothing can keep me away from you. It’s just you and me against the world.”

“What’d you get this time?” You beam.

“I got you this purdy little necklace you can wear.” He holds up the chain with a small ruby pendant on it.

The souvenir looks familiar and the moment you touch it, flooding memories of a woman in authority washes over. You clutch your head in pain.

“You alright, darlin’?” Cooper asks. He touches your forehead with the back of his hand, checking the temperature.

“W-where’d you get this?” You ask fearfully while cowering away. “Why does it look so familiar? Like it belonged to someone I—ow!”

You hold your head once again, squatting as you buckle under the weight of your rapid thoughts. Cooper snaps his fingers and you instantly tense, looking up at him as your mind suddenly goes empty.

“Evergreen,” He says and your body loosens. It’s that magic word. The one that makes you feel at ease and then everything goes back to normal. But little did he know there’s a resistance within you this time, one that fights for you to seek the truth in your situation. “I’ll be putting this necklace around you, sugar. You’ll behave, won’t you?”

You nod mindlessly.

“Good girl,” He coos. “Up on ya feet.”

You obey, waiting on his next command. He does a spin gesture with his pointer finger and you oblige, back facing him. He pushes your hair out of the way, draping the necklace around your throat then clasping it closed.

“When I count to three and yours eyes are on mine again,” Cooper begins, whispering in your ear. “You’ll be my sweet little wifey again. 3…2…1.”

He snaps again. You blink rapidly looking around the room in confusion then down at your necklace with a smile. You spin on your heels to face him. “It’s beautiful, Coop!”

You kiss him and he cradles your face so gently in his large hands. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too, sweet pea.” He smiles.

He’d been a little risky offering you something that could have easily reminded you of your overseer. That would have been two years of properly training you as his good girl down the drain, if he hadn’t thought quickly on his feet.

But he can tell you’re succumbing to his love slowly but surely . Soon there would be no remembering the past and no more questioning things. Just you and him as it should be.

You pull away from kissing his full lips, caressing a hand over the ghoulish half of his face. It looks as if it’s spreading more and more as the days go by. Cooper doesn’t show it much but he’s insecure about his fading human form and in the back of his mind he fears you’ll find him repulsive and leave. And sure he could just make you fall in love with just the snap of his fingers. But if there’s a chance you could love him naturally without all the extra steps, he’d be more than overjoyed.

His breath hitches when your lips delicately graze web-like textured skin, showering him in soft kisses.

“Could I go to the storage area for some cake? I’d like to have some before bed.” You say, fingers interlocked behind the back of his neck.

“Too much sugar ain’t enough for mine, I guess,” He chuckles. “Long as you come back to me, you can eat all the cake ya want.”

“Yes, my husband.” You say as the dutiful, doting wife you are. Satisfied with your answer, he releases you.

Once you’re out of his grasp, you quickly scurry out and try to locate your nearest exits. You’ve been planning this escape for a long time: training yourself to resist his words, drawing and mapping out the facility’s square footage whenever you could, and finally waiting for him to come home so you could sneak the key fob from his pockets.

There were just too many clues. The blood on his shirt despite not having any wounds and the items he gifted you from time to time; you two weren’t actually the only ones on earth and you needed to get away from this man or who knows what he plans to do to you.

You stumble upon a locked room somewhere down a dark corridor, darting your eyes around to ensure Cooper isn’t around. Breaking the handle with a nearby fire extinguisher, you enter what looks to be an office.

From the information you’ve gathered based on the scattered paperwork, you were one of the scientists of this specific vault. A vault specialized with retaining war information from former war veterans. You gasp once you stumble upon Cooper’s file and the missing pieces of your memory slowly assemble accordingly. Your vault has conducted inhumane experiments on him and the other veterans from injecting them with radiation to test the effects on them to brainwashing.

Things came to a head when Cooper Howard set out of a pressurized blast within the vault that knocked you out as you were the only one furthest away from the site while the remaining of your crew got completely vaporized. The vault opening allowed for the traumatized veterans to eventually escape though Cooper stayed behind.

“I-I was the monster,” You whisper to yourself, tears streaming from your eyes. “No…I am a monster.”

“You’re nothing of the sort, sweet pea.” Cooper says from behind you. “You couldn’t help what you’d done. You were only doing your job. I never wanted revenge when it came to you. I just wanted to show you real love.”

“Is that why you’ve been hiding this from me? You wanted to protect my feelings?” You cry into his arms.

“I can make it stop hurting, ya know. We can go back to being just you and me. Forget the world out there.” He whispers.

“I’d like that. Please make me forget.” You plead.

“Of course, darlin’. Anything for you.”

Cooper cups the back of your head, his biggest ring digging into your scalp as he plants a passionate kiss on your lips. He lowers you on your back against the desk behind you. You surrender happily, smiling into the kiss and feeling safe.

You’ll never again part from him and Cooper’s, oh so, glad that you finally understand this. Maybe he hadn’t told you the exact truth you were searching for but he’d set things up just nicely for you to feel as if it were that way. The room was staged. Everything was staged, in fact, and there were no such things as the veteran experiments. But you don’t need to know any of that. He wouldn’t even begin to tell you the crazy things he’d done just to have you. All you needed to know was that Cooper would do anything to ensure that you remain by his side.

And, well, if you didn’t stay beside him, luckily he’ll always have a way to track you down.

#the ghoul x reader #the ghoul #cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x reader smut #cooper howard x you #fallout au #fallout prime #fallout fanfiction #the ghoul x you #the ghoul x reader smut #cooper howard/the ghoul x reader #walton goggins #walton ghoulgins #tw: brainwashing #tw: dubcon #kinktober #kinktober 2024

161 notes · View notes

softearz · 10 months ago

Text

𝑁𝐼𝑁𝐸𝑇𝐸𝐸𝑁 𝐸𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝑌 𝑁𝐼𝑁𝐸. — the anthology! ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

— work in progress ౨ৎ return to masterlist —

— WELCOME TO NEW YORK ౨ৎ joey tribbiani. chandler's sister didn't except anything from new york, maybe a job — but not love.

— BLANK SPACE ౨ৎ billy loomis. a romance of a girl who thinks she can change him, and a boy who has no intention of doing so.

— STYLE ౨ৎ eddie munson. don't we say that opposites attract? nobody would've expect hawkins' sweetheart to find love in the freak.

— OUT OF THE WOODS ౨ৎ draco malfoy. the story of a boy who can't seem to stay away from problems ; and a girl who's tired of fixing his mistakes.

— ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS STAY ౨ৎ tom ryder. he fucked up; he wants you back.

— SHAKE IT OFF ౨ৎ chrissy cunningham. you and your best friends decide that you don't need men anymore.

— I WISH YOU WOULD ౨ৎ steve harrington. you and steve broke up after an argument ; the thing is, neither of you want to stay away from the other.

— BAD BLOOD ౨ৎ hermione granger. academic rivals with the best two students in howgarts.

— WILDEST DREAMS ౨ৎ eliot. you think eliot is gonna leave you after sleeping with you ; he proves you otherwise.

— HOW YOU GET THE GIRL ౨ৎ eddie munson. when eddie comes knocking at his best friend's door to ask you advices about a girl he likes, you don't understand he talks about you.

— THIS LOVE ౨ৎ luna lovegood. after looking love everywhere, you realize it's been in front of you all this time.

— I KNOW PLACES ౨ৎ tom!peter parker. fame when you're a superhero is heavy ; sometimes, you just need a little break from it.

— CLEAN ౨ৎ jake peralta. getting out of a toxic relationship, an unlikely friendship forms between you and a police officer.

— WONDERLAND ౨ৎ quinn bailey. giving your trust is hard ; being betrayed once again feels too heavy.

— YOU ARE IN LOVE ౨ৎ chandler bing. two best friends (idiots) in love.

— NEW ROMANTICS ౨ৎ loki laufeyson. you should've known dating the infamous god of mischief would've turned into a betrayal ; once again.

— SLUT! ౨ৎ cassie howard. when two of the most popular girls — who also happen to be friends — start dating, the rumors go hard; good thing you don't care what people say.

— SAY DON'T GO ౨ৎ stu macher. you knew your boyfriend was ghostface; you weren't sure why you didn't say anything to the police. what you didn't knew was that he didn't plan on keeping you alive.

— NOW THAT WE DON'T TALK ౨ৎ peter quill. after your childhood best friends left to join a new group, you decide to forget him ; but it's hard when he suddenly comes back into your life.

— SUBURBAN LEGENDS ౨ৎ robin buckley. you've been cheated on by your now ex-boyfriend ; good thing you have your friend to cheer you up.

— IS IT OVER NOW? ౨ৎ scott lang. scott lang just wante to spend a nice sunday afternoon with his daughter ; he didn't expect you to knock at his door in tears after a bad breakup.

309 notes · View notes

queenxxxsupreme · 11 months ago

Text

At the End of the World (Cooper Howard x reader)

(Part 2)

A/N: So I don’t know how much I like this, but I think after this piece I’m going to try to follow some of the show but just add my own little twists into it :) I hope you guys like it! Enjoy!!

Warning: nothing outside of canon, mentions of bad dreams and of child loss, a twisted ankle

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Sometimes Lucy doesn’t know when to stop asking questions. Here is Part 1 in case anyone missed it :)

You jolted awake, eyes opening wide and lips parting with a soft gasp. Your heart beat so hard against your chest that it actually hurt.

“Easy, doll.”

You furrowed your brows as you looked up at Cooper. Your head rested in his lap, his hand gently brushing over your hair.

You pushed yourself into a sitting position, rubbing your hands over your face.

“Shit.” You cursed.

”Everything alright?”

”Yeah. Yeah, um…. Just a bad dream, I guess.” You looked over your shoulder to him. You moved to sit against your backpack, your leg brushing against Cooper’s. You bent your knees slightly, bringing your hands up to rub your face. “Do you have my smokes?”

He reached into the pocket on his jacket for the carton of cigarettes and a lighter. You took the carton and pulled out a cigarette. His eyes watched you put the stick between your lips. With a flick of his thumb, a flame appeared over the lighter. You leaned over to light the cigarette, taking a small breath.

“Heart’s racin’.” He commented.

You leaned back, blowing a cloud of smoke out of your mouth.

Your hand falls down to your lap, the cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers.

You try to fight the feeling, to fight the scratchy lump forming in your throat. Your right eye stings with tears and your chest tightened as if you were being suffocated.

“I miss her so much, Coop.” Though your voice was weak, he could hear your words just fine.

“I know ya do, doll.”

You hastily brushed the tears off of your cheek. Your gaze fell upon the Vault Dweller that laid fast asleep just a few feet away from you.

You raised the cigarette to your lips, the stick trembling just slightly in your grip.

“My Gracie would be about her age now.”

Wordlessly, Cooper reached over to place his hand on your knee. He didn’t know how to comfort you, how to make you feel better. As a parent himself, he knew what it was like to lose a child. Though for him, there was the smallest chance that his girl was still alive. He just wasn’t sure.

”Finish that cigarette, doll, then you need to try to go to sleep.”

You stiffly shook your head.

“I don’t want to sleep. If-If I have to see her again….” You trailed off.

Cooper let out a soft sigh. You were one stubborn lady.

Silence fell between the two of you. Your eyes seemed glued to Lucy but your gaze was blank. Even though you sat right next to him, you were a thousand miles away.

***

When the sun came up, you, Lucy, and Cooper were back to trudging across the Wasteland. You walked a few feet ahead of Lucy and behind her was Cooper. His eyes continuously scanned the Wasteland for any signs of danger, one hand resting on a handgun on his hip. He had bound Lucy’s hands before the three of you started your journey. He didn’t trust her.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.” Lucy spoke as she jogged to catch up to you. You glanced over to her for a few moments before looking back to the path ahead.

“I’m not feeling too chatty today. Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

”Are you okay?”

”Yes, I’m fine.”

”I’ve been having a lot of bad dreams lately too.” Lucy sighed out. “There’s just…. There’s so much death and-and blood. I don’t know how people do it.”

”We don’t have any other choice.”

”Yeah, I guess.” The vault dweller shrugged her shoulders.

“Some of us have had to go through so much that the thought of giving up now seems…. It seems pointless. We just….” You paused for a moment. “We just have to keep finding the next thing to keep us going.”

”Like what?” She looked over to you. “Icy, I-I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. You had a family, a whole family and-and now…. I wouldn’t be able to keep going.”

You pressed your lips together. You wanted to be angry with her, to be upset with her. If she thought that everything that had happened to her in the short time she’s been on the surface was bad, she was in for a nasty surprise.

“Sometimes after such loss…. It takes finding someone else who has been through similar things to keep you going.”

Lucy glanced over her shoulder to the Ghoul that traveled a little ways behind them.

The vaultie followed you down a slight incline, but she stepped the wrong way and twisted her ankle. Immediately, she fell to the ground from the pain.

“Ah! Ow! Ow, ow ow!”

”Quiet down, girly.” You knelt down beside her. She clutched at her ankle, groaning in pain. With your cybernetic left eye, you could see that she had overstretched the ligaments.

”What the hell happened, Vaultie?�� Cooper looked down at the two of you.

“She sprained her ankle.” You sighed, untying her boot.

“Course she did.”

“Wait, what-what are you doing?” Lucy furrowed her brows.

”Your ankle is going to swell and if you leave it in your boot, it’ll only do you more damage.”

”Oh. O-Okay. Yeah, that makes sense. I guess.” Lucy breathed. “Are-Are you a doctor?”

You looked at her for a couple moments. Sometimes you weren’t sure if she was being serious or joking with you.

You put the boot into your backpack and stood up.

“She’s not going to be able to walk much longer, Coop.”

”Well she don’t got much of a choice, does she?”

You looked to the west where the sun was beginning to set.

“We’re about four hours out from Alma’s.” You looked to Cooper. His jaw went slack as he brought his hand up to rub his brow.

“Damn it.”

”Who’s Alma?” Lucy started to try to stand up. You held your hand out for her to help her to her feet, then you cut off the rope binding her hands together. It would make it easier to help her walk with her hands not stuck together. “Thanks.”

”She’s a friend.”

”A friend ain’t what I’d call her. She tried to kill me last time I saw her.”

”Well she isn’t exactly your biggest fan, Cooper.”

The Ghoul held your gaze. He didn’t want to go all the way to Alma’s. It was out of the way and would just tack more time on to the trip. Not to mention, he didn’t want Alma involved. But with Lucy’s new injury, you really didn’t have a choice.

”I reckon we’re goin’ to Alma’s.”

”Come on, Lucy.” You moved to stand on her right side to provide her support while she walked.

***

Six Hours Later

It was dark by the time you arrived at your destination. It was in what used to be a suburban neighborhood but many of the houses had long since been abandoned. You passed by one derelict house after another, eyes carefully scanning broken windows and rubble for any signs of danger. You knew the danger would be limited as Alma was in charge of most of the raiders in the area, but sometimes the raiders were a little rowdy and eager to attack.

There was one house that stood a little better than those around it. Its windows were mostly boarded up and there was a barbed wire fence around it. The siding of the house had long since lost its original color, instead taking on a more rusty brown color. The right side of the roof to the front porch had fallen in and it made the house appear unsafe to enter.

You stopped at the fence and let Lucy go.

“You two stay out here for just a moment.” Your eyes flickered back to Cooper. He nodded once in acknowledgement.

You slipped between the barbed fencing and then climbed the creaky wooden stairs. Just as you were about to knock on the door, it was pulled open.

An older woman stood in the doorway, a shotgun by her side. Her dark but graying hair was put up in some sort of high mess atop her head. Behind large lensed wire framed glasses were two big brown eyes.

“Icy May. Ain’t no way in hell I thought I’d be seein’ you again.” The shotgun in her hand was leaned against the wall on the inside of the house.

“Hello, Alma.” You smiled, embracing her tightly. “It’s good to see you.”

”You too, dear. So good to see such a pretty face.” She pulled away to get a better look at you. “You look all in one piece. What brings you all the way out this way, darlin?”

”I have a huge favor to ask you.” You stepped aside so that Alma could see the two who traveled with you.

Alma leaned forward, eyes squinting as she struggled to see whoever it was even with her glasses on.

“Oh hell, Icy May.” She shook her head, adjusting the old cardigan that she wore.

“Well ain’t it my favorite old maid.” Cooper spoke, giving Lucy a nudge to go through the fence. Lucy slipped between two of the barbed wires and nervously started for the stairs.

“Shut the hell up, you old bastard. I still haven’t gotten over what you did last time you was here.” Alma nodded her head to the side of the porch that had fallen in.

“I happen to think it made this place look better. More welcomin’.”

”Well I ain’t trying to be more welcomin’.” Alma put her hands on her hips. Her eyes followed Lucy as she struggled to get up the stairs. “What in the hell is this, Icy? A vault dweller?”

”It’s a long story, Alma.” You shook your head. “We just need to rest for the night.”

Her eyes flickered up to you, hesitating. A vault dweller could mean big trouble.

”Aw, what the hell.” She threw her hands in the air and turned to go into her house. She picked up the shotgun she had left by the door.

You offered Lucy your shoulder once again and walked with her to the living room.

The house wasn’t as bad on the inside as it was on the outside. Wallpaper was peeling off of the walls and in some places, it was missing all together. There was a fireplace that had been filled up with rocks. A sofa, which had definitely seen better days, was in the living room. Beside it was a rocking chair and a little end table. It appeared as though the end table was a combination of two different tables put together.

“You have a lovely home.” Lucy complimented.

Alma shook her head, swatting a hand at the Vaultie.

“There’s food in the pantry and water in the washroom down the hall. You’d better get cleaned up and settled for the night. It’s already late.”

”Thank you, Alma.” You offered her a little smile. “We’ll be gone when the sun rises.”

”Better be. Don’t want Howard fuckin’ anything up anymore than he got to.”

“Missed you too, ya old bat.” Cooper muttered.

You took Lucy to the washroom and left her there, then you went to the kitchen. Cooper was already helping himself to the pantry. He sat at the kitchen table with a can of some sort of nonperishable food.

“There’s the couch in the living room and there’s two rooms with mattresses.” Alma told you. She moved around the kitchen, gathering up a canteen and a pack of cigarettes.

”Where are you scurryin’ off to?” Cooper asked her.

”I ain’t scurryin’ nowhere, asshole. It’s past my bedtime and you bunch look worse than the backside of a feral hog.” Alma stopped at you to give you a one armed hug. “We’ll talk in the mornin’, honey.”

”Good night, Alma.”

”Night, girly.”

You watched her leave the kitchen then listened to the floorboards creak as she disappeared down the hallway.

“You should eat somethin’.” Cooper spoke. You rubbed his shoulder before moving to pull a chair up beside him.

“I will.”

It felt nice to finally be able to sit down. Your feet hurt and you were exhausted.

Cooper leaned forward to give your knee a squeeze. Your eyes flickered up to meet his gaze.

***

A little while later, Lucy had retired to the room she was going to be staying in. You and Cooper would be sharing the other mattress in the room across the hall from Lucy.

You made your way down the hallway, doing your best to be as quiet as possible. You didn’t want to disturb Alma.

You came to a stop in the doorway of Lucy’s room, watching her as she sat on the edge of the mattress . She was in the process of eating a can of peaches when she noticed you were standing in the door.

“Oh, um…” She quickly swallowed a peach and held the can out towards you. “Do you want a peach?”

”No, thank you.” You shook your head. “Alma is a good friend of mine.”

”Oh, yeah! She’s incredible. Super nice person.”

”Can I trust you to be here, Lucy?”

She stopped eating the peaches and directed her attention to you.

“She’s taking a big risk letting us stay here for the night. If anything happened to her while we were here….” You trailed off. “Alma’s one of the last few good people out here.”

She nodded her head softly, understanding what you were telling her.

”So do I have to keep an eye on you or can I trust you?”

”You can trust me.”

You weren’t sure you completely believed her.

“Good.” You turned to leave but she stopped you.

“Thank you, Icy. For…. For everything.”

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms.

“You need to stop thanking me.”

“You’ve practically saved my life by showing up. Who knows what that man would’ve done with me if you hadn’t come along.”

You gazed at her for a few moments, her bright blue eyes still filled with some sort of kindness. It wasn’t often that you came across those kinds of people.

“Good night, Lucy.”

“Oh, uh good night, Icy.” Lucy was confused with your sudden ending of the conversation. That seemed to be a trait of yours.

You moved down the hallway, your quiet footsteps still making the floorboards squeak.

Cooper was in the room the two of you would be sharing. He had taken off his bandolier, holster belt, and duster coat. All items had been placed in a pile at the foot of the mattress. The ghoul was lounging across the mattress with his breather in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and his shoulders leaning up against your backpack. One knee was bent and that was where his hat rested.

His eyes watched as you took off most of your layers. First it was your jacket, then the old flannel, and tattered sweatshirt. You were left in cargo pants, boots, and a thin brown tank top that had definitely seen better days. You pulled your hair out of the ponytail it was in to fix it up for the night.

“My, my, my. Ain’t you a sight fit for kings.”

I tried to bite back the smile that crept across your face but it was no use.

“Keep the charming to yourself, old man. We need to get some sleep.” You sat down on the mattress facing the ghoul. You leaned your torso against his bent leg, picking up his hat and placing it on your head.

He offered you the cigarette, which you gladly took. His breather was discarded on the floor beside the mattress.

You inhaled and held the chemicals in your lungs for a few moments. As you exhaled, Cooper brought his hand up to cup your face. His thumb, calloused and rough, traced your bottom lip.

You let him do so, your eyes steadily watching his face.

He traced the curve of your bottom lip, then used his fingertips to trail along your cheekbone and your temple. He brushed a few pieces of hair back out of your face.

”So what’s your big plan once we get to Hank MacLean?”

The ghoul paused for a moment, pulling his hand away from your face to rest it on his chest. You passed the cigarette back to him and he took it.

”I want to know what happened to them.” He was quiet as to not let his voice carry throughout the otherwise silent house.

You nodded your head. Cooper waited for you to speak. He waited, and waited, and waited. But you said nothing. All you could do was gaze down at one of the buttons on his shirt. The original button, which had been a light shade of brown, was torn off some time ago but you recall sewing a dark green button in its place.

“Say somethin’, doll.” He urged you, tapping the side of your leg gently.

You bit the inside of your cheek, finishing off the cigarette with a deep inhale.

“I hope you find the answers you’re looking for, sweetheart.” You put the cigarette out on the soul of your boot and started to move, wanting to reposition yourself. Cooper stopped you from moving, his hand grabbing yours.

“I just…. I have to find out, Icy.”

”I know.” You murmured softly with a nod of your head. “I’d want to know too, if I was in your place.”

It wasn’t like the two of you were in a full fledged relationship where one of you had asked the other to commit to you, but it also wasn’t casual. Cooper Howard didn’t do casual. It was far too hard to trust someone enough for that sort of thing.

”Haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it.” He put his head back, his hand steadily rubbing your leg as he directed his eyes to the ceiling. “I mean, if MacLean has been able to live this long, then there’s a chance…. even the smallest of one…. that they could be out there.”

You smiled a little, though it was sad and didn’t reach your eyes. If you believed in a higher power, you would pray to them to make it all true, to make his hopes and desires a reality. It was what he deserved after all that he had been through.

Though you wanted to be happy for him, your chest tightened a little with the idea of him finding his family. What would happen to you if he found his wife and his daughter?

You reached out to take his hand away from your leg, clasping your fingers together tightly.

“I hope they are.” You brought his hand up to kiss the inside of his wrist.

Cooper watched you kiss his wrist once, then twice before holding his hand in your lap. He didn’t let you linger in your thoughts for too long. He pulled you down towards him, making you lay down beside him.

“It’s nothin’ but wishful thinking.” He thought out loud.

“Sometimes that’s all that keeps us going.”

***

The Next Morning

Lucy made her way out of her room, using the wall for support as she limped down the hallway. She peered into the living room and found it empty. Her next stop was the kitchen.

The Ghoul sat at the kitchen table, which was covered in an assortment of junk. He was wiping off one of his hand guns.

Lucy looked around the kitchen, hoping and praying she’d find you or Alma.

Cooper glanced up at the vault dweller, very briefly meeting her gaze before looking back down at his weapons.

“Oh, um…. Good morning.” Lucy greeted him in an attempt to be friendly, but friendly wasn’t Cooper Howard’s thing.

He stayed silent.

Lucy leaned against the doorway to take her weight off of her ankle.

”Is Icy up yet?”

”She went out with Alma.” His answer was short and stiff.

“Oh, okay.” Lucy nodded her head.

She stood there for a few moments awkwardly. Should she just go back to the bedroom and hideout until you and Alma returned?

Oh, what the heck.

Lucy limped over to the table and pulled out a bulky wooden chair to sit in. She sighed in relief as she sat down. She examined the amount of junk on the table, curious as to what exactly everything was.

It wasn’t long before Lucy became bored and found herself watching the ghoul that had taken her hostage.

“So…. Is your name Cooper? Or is it Howard? Because, well, I heard Icy call you one and Alma called you another. So I guess I’m just a little confused.” She chuckled nervously.

”My name don’t matter to you, Vaultie.” He sat the handgun down on the table then picked up a shotgun.

“Well I’d like to have something to call you when I talk to you, to have a conversation like real people do.”

”Ah, but who said I wanted to have a conversation with you?”

Lucy pressed her lips together. This man was awfully hard to get along with.

”That’s fair, I guess.” She nodded.

Silence fell between the two as Cooper continued to clean the gun. Once he was finished cleaning the sawed off shotgun, he began to load it.

Lucy sighed, bored out of her mind. Cooper wasn’t entertaining at all. She messed with the cuff on her suit to try to keep herself occupied and to try to keep her mouth shut for a little bit longer.

“Do you love her?” The question kind of just came out without Lucy really realizing what she had said.

Cooper dropped the bullet that he was trying to shove into his gun. It made a loud banging noise as it hit the floor.

“What in the hell did you just say to me, Miss MacLean?” He looked at her, his eyes dark and sharpened.

The use of her name made Lucy feel on edge. He had always just called her Vaultie.

“I-I was just— I just see the way you guys are with each other. I didn’t mean it in-in a bad way, you know?”

The ghoul was silent as he held her gaze. He leaned forward to retrieve the bullet from the ground. He shoved it into the gun and placed the gun on the table.

The front door to the house creaked open. Lucy turned her head to see. You and Alma walking in.

“How’d you sleep, honey?” Alma put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder. The vault dweller opened her mouth to answer but Alma spoke over her. “Howard, if you don’t get your damn guns off my table, I’m gonna beat the piss outta you.”

Cooper didn’t offer any sort of smart comment back. He just picked up each gun and tucked them into their appropriate holster.

“I slept well, thank you. Where, uh, where did you guys go?” Lucy asked, turning her attention to you.

“Had to make a run early this morning.” You placed your backpack on the table, pushing some of the junk back so you had space. You rummaged through the bag before pulling out a stimpack. ”How’s your ankle feeling?”

”Really bad, actually. It’s super sore and looks very bruised.” Lucy eyed the giant needle at the end of the stimpack. “What’s, um, what’s that for?”

”You’re ankle. You can’t travel with a busted ankle and we can’t stay here.”

”But what is it?”

”A stimpack. It will heal your ankle up enough to get you back on your feet.”

With no warning, Cooper stood up and left the room rather hastily. Old floorboards creaked beneath the weight of his worn boots.

“What crawled up his ass?” Alma pushed her glasses back on to her head to hold her hair back out of her eyes.

“I don’t know.” You hummed. You listened to him move around in one of the back bedrooms.

He wasn’t a chatty person by any means, but surely he would’ve greeted you and Alma with some sort of witty remark. And you were very positive he would’ve given Alma an asinine remark about his guns on her table.

“What happened while we were gone?” You turned your attention to Lucy.

“I-I was just trying to talk with him.” She put her hands up, shaking her head.

“And…. Boy is he difficult to have a conversation with.”

You sighed heavily. Why couldn’t the vaultie get it through her head that sometimes she needed to shut up?

“I’ll be back in a second, Alma.” You looked over to your friend before going down the hallway to the bedroom Cooper was in.

He stood leaning against the side of the open window. He was fidgeting with his breather, replacing the empty vial with a full one.

”You leave me with that girl again, woman, and you’re gonna be scrapin’ what’s left of her brain off of Alma’s walls.” He grumbled.

You pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of your jacket.

“She’s got a way of getting under your skin.” You put the cigarette between your lips and tucked the carton away, then pulled out a lighter. “What’d she say?”

”Don’t matter.” He took a puff of the breather. You held the cigarette out to him and he gladly took it, crossing the room and closing the space between the two of you in just a few strides.

You watched as he put the cigarette in his mouth and took a deep drag from him.

“I’ll fuckin’ gut her like a pig next time she tries to talk to me.”

”You don’t mean that.” You shook your head gently.

He exhaled the cigarette smoke right into your face, then took another quick puff of it.

”Like hell I don’t.”

You took the cigarette from between his fingers.

“She means well.”

Cooper watched you, his gaze still hard and angry. You inhaled the cigarette.

“What did she say to you, Cooper?” Your voice was quiet.

He looked down at you for a while. Then let out a breath and adjusted the hat on his head, casting his eyes downward to his boots.

”We need to be leavin’.”

Without another word, the Ghoul slipped past you to go down the hallway.

taglist: @green--beanie @mack-attack420 @miniemonie2001 @eykismyfav @fallout-girl219 (I think I tagged anyone but I’m so sorry if I missed you!)

#fallout #fallout tv series #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard fallout #cooper howard fic #the ghoul cooper howard #queenxxxsupreme

394 notes · View notes

teddiee · 2 months ago

Text

Into Each Life: Chapter 16

Summary:

Howard’s expression flickers, just for a second, before his mask of controlled fury settles back into place.

Tony tastes blood in his mouth, reminiscent of that dreaded argument with his father only mere months ago.

Erskine leans forward slightly, his gaze pinning Howard in place. “Do you know what you took, Mr. Stark?” His voice is calm. “Do you truly understand? Those scribbled notes, those rough diagrams—they were never meant to be groundbreaking. They were the idle musings of a bored, brilliant, seventeen-year-old. Your son was simply playing with equations, theorizing, stretching the limits of his own mind. He never knew what he had stumbled upon.”

The room falls quiet.

Words: 14,345

Tony stares at the blank page, and the blank page stares right back—accusatory, unyielding. In the cramped, makeshift quarters the SSR arranged for him, he can’t escape it. There’s no window to gaze out of, no casual conversation with a friendly face to break the mounting pressure in his chest. The soft overhead light buzzes, washing the concrete walls in a sterile, colorless glow.

He’s supposed to be sleeping—lights out and all that—but he had convinced one of the guards (Barnett? Baxter? He can’t remember) to let him stay awake a bit longer. He’d told them it was urgent—a personal matter. He had relented eventually, albeit with suspicious glances.

Now it’s just him, a cheap fountain pen, and a single crisp sheet of SSR-approved paper. All as exciting as wallpaper paste.

The pen feels heavy between his fingers, but not as heavy as the weight of his unspoken words.

He’d insisted that if he was allowed to communicate with anyone, it had to be in writing. Phone calls were too risky—even a short phone call, even if the SSR listened in. Because that’s the problem: the SSR would listen in, and Bucky would pick up on Tony’s fumbled half-truths in an instant.

Tony doesn’t think he could keep his voice from shaking, or keep from blurting something about the project, or the new arrangement, or Tiberius.

And Bucky—God, he was probably tearing the city apart looking for Tony already.

Tony’s chest seizes at the thought.

He sets the pen to the paper—nothing but a vast expanse of white, waiting—and tries to start. His mind runs in frantic circles: Are you okay, Buck? I’m safe—sort of—there’s nothing you can do, but please, don’t do anything crazy or reckless. Hugs, Tony.

No. That’s ridiculous. He can’t say that. Too many details, too risky. Besides, the SSR censors will strike out anything that even so much as hints at their location or references Project Rebirth. And Tony really doesn’t want to risk them deciding all correspondence is too sensitive to send.

He closes his eyes and lifts the pen, pressing it carefully against the page again.

B—

He manages one letter before panic hijacks his brain. He wants to write out Bucky’s name, to see it in ink, to remind himself that it’s real, that Bucky is real, but the pen hovers, trembling. An ocean of longing wells up behind his eyes, choking him. He wonders if he could just… scrunch the page into a ball and say to hell with it. But he needs this.

He needs Bucky to know he’s okay.

He wants to say more. He wants to say: I miss the way your arms feel around me, the warm rasp of your voice in the morning, the reckless grin you wear when you’re about to do something foolish. I miss the quiet times, too—the hush of late nights when you’d trace lines on my skin, the moments you’d catch me thinking too hard and pull me close so I’d think about us instead.

But he can’t.

And he’s no poet.

So he forces himself to continue.

B—,

I hope—

His handwriting is a mess, shaky. There’s a spatter of ink where his pen digs in too hard. Tony stops, exhales, tries to slow the hammering of his pulse. This isn’t a love letter; it’s not a war bulletin either. But it might as well be both, for all the weight of it pressing on him.

What can he say?

That he’s been forcibly “escorted” to a top-secret intelligence agency’s facility in the dead of night and can’t return to Brooklyn yet? That the arrangement with Tiberius is looming over him like a noxious cloud, but said top-secret intelligence agency says they can maybe shield him?

That physically, he’s okay, but every minute that passes without hearing Bucky’s voice feels like a fresh bruise to his soul?

He can’t say any of that, at least not in a letter that will be read by a roomful of government suits before it ever reaches Bucky. And he sure as hell can’t mention Project Rebirth or the chamber or the hush-hush details Erskine explained to him. If he tries, the SSR censors will shred his words to confetti.

Keep it brief, keep it benign, Erskine had told him gently, a paternal hand on Tony’s shoulder. Tell him you’re safe. And nothing else that could compromise the project or put him in danger.

He had tried not to bristle at the word “danger,” but, well, that ship has sailed. Bucky will always be in danger as long as he’s associated with me, Tony thinks, throat tight.

He forces his gaze back to the page.

B—

I hope you’re staying safe, and that Steve is, too.

He grimaces. It’s so formal. So not them. But what else can he say that’s safe enough for SSR eyes?

Things are… complicated. I’ve had to take care of an urgent matter, and it’s going to keep me away longer than I thought. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.

He stops, re-reads it. Each sentence sounds like it’s wearing a starched collar—stiff, flavorless. But he can’t say more. He can’t say, “I’m being held here for my own good, so I don’t get slapped into a forced bond with Tiberius. I hate him, and I’m terrified, and I wish I could bury my face in your neck and just breathe you in until my lungs don’t hurt anymore.”

No, that won’t fly. Tony clenches his jaw, forcing himself to keep writing.

I’m okay, truly. These people aren’t harming me. They’re…

He debates how to phrase it. Helping me. They are—kind of. In a clandestine, bureaucratic, slightly traumatizing way. The memory of being dragged out of bed in his underwear, blindfolded, and tossed in a van is still fresh. Yet they’re also offering him his first real chance at freedom.

… they’re helping me sort out a mess. You’d be proud of me for sticking to my guns.

A watery smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. He can almost see Bucky’s response: a half-smirk, a cocked brow, the quiet ferocity in his eyes. Hell, yes, I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Always have been.

God, Tony misses him so much it leaves a raw ache under his ribs. He needs to keep it together.

I’m sorry I can’t tell you more right now. I wish I could. You know I would if it was safe. I promise, you don’t need to worry about me. Everything is under control.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Lies, lies, lies. He’s not under control. Tiberius’s looming threat, Howard’s fury, the swirl of war projects—none of that is under control. But if Tony writes the truth, that he’s in the Strategic Scientific Preserve’s protective custody, that he’s planning to use some obscure piece of wartime legislation to block Tiberius’s claim, Bucky will tear through every government building from Washington to the Atlantic. And that might ruin everything.

So he has to reassure him. Even if it’s a lie—especially because it’s a lie.

I can’t say when, but I’ll come back to you and Steve as soon as I can. I promise. Until then, please just… take care of yourself. Don’t do anything reckless. (Yes, I know that’s rich coming from me.)

He chews his lip, hearing in his mind the dull ring of Bucky’s voice the last time they spoke—I need you out, I need you with me. That vow they made in hushed, trembling breaths. Yours, Tony had whispered.

But now Tony can’t even hint that he’s being forced into the darkest corners of secrecy. Instead, he’s writing it all neat and bland, like a letter from summer camp.

He stops to rub at the sting in his eyes, refusing to let tears spill. If the SSR censors catch him bawling over a letter, they’ll definitely intervene, or try to stifle him, or, worst case scenario, chalk it up to Omega hormones.

He’s not giving them the satisfaction.

Slowly, he leans forward again, pen scraping across the paper.

Please pass on my love to Steve. Tell him I said not to pick any more fights with local meatheads unless you’re there to bail him out. (Yes, that’s an order.) And keep an eye on him for me. I know you always do.

I miss you. More than I can say here.

Stay safe. Both of you.

Yours,

Tony

His signature is shaky. He stares at the final word, Yours, and imagines how Bucky might read it. He wonders if Bucky will read between the lines, if he’ll guess all the things Tony isn’t saying. He hopes so—God, he hopes so.

Because he doesn’t know how to say, I love you. Not in a letter that may end up in a classified file. He’s never said it out loud before, not even face to face. It’s always been implied, scribbled around the margins of their lives: the brush of a hand against a cheek, a borrowed sweater on a cold morning, the protective half-snarl in Bucky’s voice whenever Tony’s cornered.

But never just… I love you. So he doesn’t. He can’t.

He lifts the page, scanning it one last time. It’s too short. Too vague. Too many black holes. But that’s the best he can do. He sets the pen down, heart thrumming with a complicated swirl of relief and dread.

It’s pitiful, stilted, a flimsy shield against Bucky’s inevitable fury. None of it captures the raw longing that’s been clawing at Tony’s insides ever since that phone call. He can’t even convey how badly he wants to see Bucky’s face, to feel his arms around him, to bury his nose in the crook of Bucky’s neck and let that sure, steady presence chase away the stench of Stone’s forced claim.

But it’s the best Tony can do.

A hollow tightness settles in his chest. He wonders if it’s worth sending at all, or if it will just incite more questions—more anger. Maybe it’ll keep Bucky from tearing Manhattan apart, but it sure won’t soothe that Alpha protectiveness that Tony knows runs bone-deep in James Barnes.

Still… Tony has to try.

Gently, he folds the letter. He tucks it in an envelope, addressing it to Bucky and Steve’s building in Brooklyn—just the apartment number, the street. No mention of a last name, no extra details. Tony hopes that’s enough.

The door clicks again, and Tony startles, turning to see the SSR guard. He’s a younger man, a Beta, maybe fresh out of some advanced training program, stands with his posture stiff.

Tony presses a quick palm over the envelope, then picks it up. “Hey,” he says softly. “If I need to send something out, how does that work?”

The guard glances at the letter, then at Tony. “I can take it to the communications officer on your behalf. All personal mail gets routed through them for screening.”

Tony’s heart thuds. Screening. There it is: that official word that means they might read every line, might black out references or withhold it entirely if they think it’s too revealing.

He licks his lips, feeling the dryness in his mouth. “Will they… open it?”

The guard shifts, looking faintly uncomfortable. “All non-classified correspondence is subject to at least some check, Mr. Stark. But if it’s cleared, we can send it through a discreet channel.”

Tony’s fingers clench around the envelope. “Right. Sure. That’s… standard procedure, I guess.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. He’s on government property, a potential asset with classified knowledge. Of course they’ll read his mail.

He casts one last glance at the folded paper inside. It’s just a few lines of reassurance, devoid of anything that might reveal SSR’s secrets. But it’s still his letter to Bucky. Intimate in a way no official eyes have the right to read.

Yet if Tony refuses to send it through official channels, he has no way of contacting Bucky at all—and Bucky will remain in the dark, probably thinking Tony’s been ambushed by Tiberius.

Or worse.

Reluctantly, he holds out the envelope. “I… need this to get to Brooklyn as soon as possible. It’s private.”

The guard nods once. “Yes, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

He takes the envelope from Tony’s hand, and Tony releases it slowly, heart twisting in his chest.

Everything in his life is out of his control right now—this letter is just another casualty.

Morning comes with little ceremony. A dull buzzer in the corridor stands in for a sunrse, telling Tony it’s time to get up, to move, to work. He’d barely slept anyway—between hammering out that painfully stilted letter to Bucky and the ceaseless hum of fluorescent lights, rest felt more like a distant memory than a biological necessity.

The overhead fluorescents hum to life on their own timer, casting a sterile glow across the small, windowless room that the SSR designates as his ‘quarters.’ Tony can’t decide whether it feels more like a military cell or a drab dormitory. The walls are bare, the furniture minimal: a metal cot with starched sheets, a narrow desk, and an unforgiving metal chair. He’s spent enough years in boarding school to be familiar with crappy accommodations, but at least there, he had a window and occasional classmates to break the monotony.

Today, as the unrelenting mechanical buzz fills the hall, Tony rouses with a soft groan. He’s already dressed—he never truly changed out of the scratchy gray SSR shirt that hangs loosely off his shoulders. It’s an awkward fit, and he’s pretty sure it’s about half a size away from falling off altogether, but it sure beats sitting around in his undershirt, feeling every draft against his skin.

When the guard finally appears—the same one as yesterday, though Tony still hasn’t caught his name—Tony is pinching the bridge of his nose, struggling to shake off the headache that’s begun to pulse behind his eyes. The guard raps a knuckle on the frame of Tony’s open door, then takes a step back. He has the stiff posture of someone who expects trouble, but can’t decide what exact brand of trouble Tony might be.

“You’re wanted in the lab, Mr. Stark,” the guard says, stepping aside so Tony can pass. “They’d like you to review the project’s design.”

Tony straightens, heart kicking up a notch.��Finally. Work he can bury himself in, if only to forget—for a few hours—how utterly stifling this place is. Where isolation presses in on him more than the stiff uniform ever could.

The guard gives Tony a brief, assessing look, as though double-checking that Tony hasn’t spontaneously grown fangs or decided to make a break for it. It’s still jarring to be measured this way—like a potential threat or a potential victim. Tony can’t decide which they see him as. Maybe both.

“Right,” Tony says. He clears his throat, forcing nonchalance. “Lead the way.”

They wind through a seemingly endless maze of hallways, each turn revealing more dull sameness: floors of unyielding concrete and walls painted that soul-sucking shade of beige that feels specifically engineered to kill any hint of optimism. Tony’s footsteps echo in the silence, and the overhead fluorescents keep up their irritating flicker, bathing everything in a harsh, morgue-like gleam.

The air smells aggressively sterilized, like someone went overboard with the industrial-grade cleaner. It’s sharp and a little sour, failing to fully cover the underlying notes of metal shavings, machine oil, and that electric, bitter tang of ozone or maybe just charred wiring.

As they go deeper, Tony’s gaze darts to the people they pass: SSR officers in crisp green uniforms, bootsteps perfectly synchronized, expressions locked on stoic. Some spare him a glance—too quick to be friendly, too slow to hide a flicker of… what? Contempt? Curiosity? Both? The scientists are no better—lab coats and hurried strides, clutching binders of data like shields. Even so, Tony feels their eyes skitter over him before they yank them away, like he’s too out of place to process.

And that’s the thing: Tony can practically feel how he doesn’t belong. It’s there in every lingering stare that says what are you doing here? He’s not just the newbie—he’s an Omega in a fortress of concrete and steel where not a single honey-scented trail or discreet collar signals the presence of any other Omegas. Nope, it’s Alphas and Betas all the way, their pheromones tangling in the air with a no-nonsense edge. Tony is the odd one out, the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit.

Erskine’s promise—that Tony’s necessary here—drums in the back of his head. He’s essential to their mission, or so they claim. That doesn’t stop the stiff shoulders or sideways steps as he passes by. Official clearance doesn’t magically erase anyone’s bias, and in these hush-hush corridors, old prejudices hang around like rust that refuses to scrub off.

Finally, their escort halts at a heavy steel door, ENGINEERING & MAINTENANCE stenciled in neat black letters across the metal. The guard taps a code into the keypad—each beep absurdly loud in the sterile quiet—until a tiny green light flares. With a pneumatic hiss, the door slides open to reveal the humming, mechanical heart of the facility.

“They’re waiting for you,” the guard says, stepping aside with a curt nod.

Tony swallows hard, forcing down the tight lump lodged in his throat. The moment he steps into the engineering bay, the air changes. The scent of metal and oil saturates the space, thick and unyielding. Machines hum in a low, rhythmic cadence, and the sheer size of the room takes him by surprise—wide, rectangular, crammed with workstations, drafting boards, and half-finished projects.

The design bay looms around him like an industrial cathedral, concrete walls draped in coils of wire and unfinished contraptions. Harsh fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the long worktables littered with blueprints, scattered notes, and abandoned coffee cups. And in the center of it all, the machine stands—a towering steel chamber with thick injection ports and an intricate harness nestled inside, cables snaking from its shell like arteries.

Tony’s gaze sharpens. Restraints. Stabilizer brackets. Injection nozzles. It’s crude, rougher than the sleek renderings Howard once flaunted. Up close, it feels more real, more dangerous.

As soon as he enters, the room stills. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. A cluster of engineers in wrinkled button-downs turn to stare, expressions flickering between confusion and disbelief. Tony knows this moment well—the weight of sudden recognition, the pause when people realize what he is.

Unbonded. No mating mark.

Male.

It takes a breath, maybe two, before hushed murmurs ripple through the room. He doesn’t catch the words, but he doesn’t need to. He can read it in their eyes.

Speculation. Curiosity. Something sharper—skepticism, maybe, or quiet disdain. The tension prickles against his skin, an invisible pressure he refuses to acknowledge. He’s used to this. The quiet scrutiny. The unspoken questions. But this time, there’s something different.

It’s the same hush-hush scrutiny he’s grown accustomed to, the undercurrent of Who let an Omega in here? But there’s something more intense this time, a sharper edge to their curiosity. He wonders how much Erskine told them—or if they were made aware of Tony's designation. Judging by their awkward, uncertain looks, probably not.

An older Beta, posture erect despite the rumpled edges of his collar, steps forward. His buzz-cut hair lends him a stern, military countenance. “Stark, right?” he ventures, voice carefully polite.

“Tony’s fine,” Tony replies, measured and even.

The man flicks a glance toward his colleagues, as if searching for backup. “Dr. Erskine mentioned you’d be overseeing the redesign. We—uh—haven’t had the opportunity to work with someone like… you before.”

Tony meets his gaze without flinching, ignoring the open curiosity and the subtext behind it. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” The massive steel contraption looming nearby catches his eye, and he motions toward it with a subtle tilt of his head. “Is this it? The Rebirth rig?”

A younger engineer, hair sticking out in all directions like he’s been yanking at it in frustration, fumbles with a sheaf of papers. “Yes, s—uh. We were making strides, but the meltdown issue keeps coming back to bite us. Dr. Erskine mentioned you might have solutions for stabilizing the serum flow.” The man’s gaze flicks—inevitably—toward the unblemished skin at Tony’s collar. “Is there… anything you need before we begin?”

“Just your data on meltdown thresholds,” Tony says, pointedly ignoring the glances. “Show me exactly where it fails, and I’ll tell you how to fix it.”

He moves toward the nearest worktable, lifting a blueprint. The quiet in the room stirs, shifting with the scrape of chair legs and shuffled feet. Some scowl, others step back, giving him space. A few move closer, watching him like something foreign, something that doesn’t quite belong.

Tony fights the urge to tense. He knows this game. He’s been inspected before—he can endure the discomfort.

His focus sharpens on the blueprint in his hands. The lines of the injection columns, the calculations scribbled in the margins—these are things he understands. The tension in his chest loosens, fraction by fraction. Because this, at least, is something he can control.

He spots the meltdown threshold logs stapled to the blueprint’s edge, nearly buried beneath a stack of dog-eared schematics and frantic notes. Sliding them free, he scans the data—temperature spikes, pressure fluctuations, sudden catastrophic failures. His eyebrows lift.

“No wonder your injection ports are frying,” he mutters, finger tracing a steep curve on the chart. “Your temperature climbs too fast—it’s torching the tubing from the inside.”

A younger engineer—lenses smudged, hands fidgeting—leans in. “We reinforced the chamber walls, but it still hits meltdown after ten seconds.”

Tony shakes his head. “Reinforcement doesn’t fix the problem if the heat spike is still there. You need to reduce friction and ease the load on the fluid pump first.”

Across the table, a tall, wiry engineer—arms folded, shirt grease-streaked—lets out a low grunt. “That’s all well and good, but we don’t have time for a full redesign.” His gaze flickers over Tony’s face, hesitating at his unmarked throat before jerking away. “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

Tony holds the man’s stare. “You don’t need a full overhaul. Just swap out key feed lines, tweak the injection angles, use an alloy that disperses heat better. That alone should cut your meltdown rate by fifty percent.”

He taps his pen against a crucial junction in the blueprint. “Trying to brute-force it with thicker walls? That’s like putting bigger tires on a car that’s leaking fuel. It might limp along, but it won’t fix the problem.”

The first engineer, an older Beta with a measured gaze, exhales slowly. “We’d have to recalibrate the coolant flow. Maybe redo the harness. That means more downtime, more resources.”

Tony shrugs. “Do you want a prototype that works, or one that keeps blowing up?”

Silence. The overhead lights hum. Distant metal clangs against metal in the adjoining workshop. Someone mutters something—Tony catches the tail end of “know-it-all.”

He doesn’t react. Instead, he flips the page, revealing the system’s cross-section. “Here.” He jabs his pen at the injection nozzles. “This is your failure point. The serum hits too fast, the temperature spikes instantly. Add a pressure gate—think throttle control. You won’t need one massive injection. You can regulate the flow in real-time.”

He sketches a rough diagram in the margin—a compact regulator valve, half the size of the current mechanism. A concept he’s refined before: controlled input means better stability.

The young engineer peers at the drawing, interest sparking behind his thick lenses. “A pressure gate? That… that might actually work.” He drags a finger over the sketch. “We’d need better sensors for the feedback loop, though.”

“Which we can do,” Tony says, firm. “I’ll draft the circuit schema. It’s not that different from the controllers used in—”

He stops himself just short of saying "Stark Industries." Clears his throat. “—in other high-precision projects I’ve worked on.”

Spied on. Same difference.

A pinched-faced Alpha in the back scoffs. “Pretty advanced work for an Omega with no formal education.”

The retort burns at the back of Tony’s throat, but he clamps down on it. Reacting only feeds that bias, and he’s got bigger things to worry about than some jerk’s barbs. So he steadies his voice. “Advanced or not, if you want the meltdown fixed, you need a dynamic approach.”

Off to Tony’s left, a Beta with neatly combed hair finally speaks up, calm and methodical. “All right. Let’s set up a preliminary test run. Partial load only, just to see if this gate concept holds. We’ll loop in the Machinists for hardware modifications.”

Relief stirs in Tony’s gut, though he keeps his face neutral. He swivels his pen, offering it out. “I’ll help prep. If you can get me a decent calibrator for temperature readings, I’ll show you the calculations I’ve been working with.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the Beta nods and waves for Tony to follow him deeper into the bay. “This way.”

Time becomes a blur of scribbled equations, half-hearted coffee cups, and a thick current of unease that never fully leaves the room. Tony finds a spare stool next to a workbench—makeshift chaos everywhere, from coiled wires to half-dismantled servo motors—and dives into the meltdown math. He blocks out the pointed stares, the occasional scornful mutter, burying himself in columns of figures. Hours slip past unnoticed as he checks, double-checks, and tears out pages to redo them faster.

Every so often, a researcher or engineer sidles over to hand him a chart or a data set, nerves transparent in their posture. Some keep glancing at Tony’s bare throat. Others hover at arm’s length, like they’re afraid of the intangible boundary that comes with his Omega status. Still, curiosity wins out. They ask questions. Tony answers.

Eventually, Tony leans over the giant contraption itself, a flashlight in one hand, checking a bracket that secures the harness. The metal is warped, telltale signs of heat stress. “If the occupant’s heavier, this bracket might tear,” he mutters, making a note in his pad. “That’d be catastrophic once you’re at full power.” He can almost see the meltdown sequence in his head—a chain reaction of structural failure culminating in an explosion.

He’s so focused he almost misses the echo of new footsteps approaching. There’s a faint shift in the air—new scents, predominantly Alpha. Tony straightens, shining his flashlight on a weld. “We’ll need to reinforce—”

A coarse chuckle interrupts him, pitched just loud enough to make sure Tony hears. “Holy hell, that’s the Omega they’re talking about?”

“Look at that neck—spotless. Didn’t think they let unclaimed ones roam around like that.”

Tony tenses, adjusting the angle of his flashlight.

A third voice: “Christ, bet he’s never even been pinned for a rut. You see how jumpy he is? Poor thing probably hides behind Daddy’s desk all day.”

Tony forces himself to breathe. The bracket jiggles loose in his hand, and he reattaches it, letting the mechanical work anchor him. But it’s hard—so hard—when all he wants to do is scream.

He’s reminded—not for the first time—that when he’s with Bucky, this part of him doesn’t feel like a flaw. How Bucky, without realizing it, makes space for Tony to be soft, to lean into those submissive pulls without feeling like he’s giving up a piece of himself. But here, surrounded by sneering Alphas with their cheap bravado, Tony’s designation a chain around his neck.

Someone laughs. “Ah, come on. I bet a sweet face like that’s just dyin’ for the right partner to sink teeth in. Maybe that’s why the bigwigs brought him here—someone’s gotta keep morale up.”

Metal squeaks under Tony’s grip as he tightens the bolt a bit too hard. There’s a rustle of movement behind him—some of the original engineers shifting uncomfortably, maybe trying to hush the new arrivals. But the newcomers keep going.

Tony bites his lip, breath shallow. Focus on the task.

One of them snickers. “Imagine it: lockin’ him up in that harness, runnin’ your hands all over—”

“Shut it,” someone else mutters, a bit of an aside, but it’s not a strong protest—just an awkward attempt to keep the harassment from turning into a fight.

“Why? It’s not like any of us can actually do anything about it. Who’s protecting him, anyway? Brandt? That’s one hell of a way to move up the chain.”

A surge of acid roils in Tony’s stomach. He can feel his face heating, and he resists every urge to spin around and hurl a wrench at the creeps behind him. But that’d only prove every nasty rumor.

How people like Tony are hysterical. How Omegas are illogical, emotional. Incapable of thinking with their heads, only with what's between their legs.

He forces himself to breathe. The bracket jiggles loose in his hand, and he reattaches it, letting the mechanical work anchor him.

Another voice, pitched just loud enough: “Maybe he’s hoping some officer’ll stake a claim soon. I’d sure love a crack at that if I got the chance.”

They laugh.

His pulse pounds in his ears. He wonders if he can pretend he didn’t hear any of it. He’s done that before—playing deaf, playing dumb. But it always leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

The mocking conversation dips back into quieter snickers. Tony hears footsteps move away. Maybe someone intervened, or maybe they just got bored. Either way, they’re no longer right behind him.

He slowly exhales, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart hammers. He stands there, half-hidden by the metal frame, wanting to scream, or punch something, but knowing it’d do no good.

Without thinking, he rubs a thumb over the unmarked place at the base of his neck. Usually, he keeps the collar of his shirt buttoned a little higher around strangers, but it’s hot in this lab, and the uniform is ill-fitted. It’s easy for anyone to see that he has no mating bite.

He swallows hard, reminding himself: They can’t actually touch you. The SSR needs you, for now.

But the words resonate in his mind—for now. Once the project is done, if Colonel Phillips changes his tune, or if Howard shows up…

A faint panic swirls in his gut. He stamps it down. Focus on your job. Build something that can’t fail.

So he does his best to tamp it down, willing his breath to stay steady, his heart to stop hammering. His chest feels too tight, but if he lets his emotions get the best of him, he’ll smell of anxious adrenaline—ripe for the taking. And he’s learned that certain people love the spike of that hot, distressed aroma.

For Alphas like Tiberius, it’s practically blood in the water.

And sure enough, over by the chamber’s open hatch, a group of new arrivals—mostly Alphas, by the way the air thickens—send glances his way. Tony hears one of them murmur, just barely audible, “Jesus. Smell that? Already a little sweet, isn’t he? Thought these government labs had stricter codes about his type wandering around unclaimed. Don’t think I’ve sniffed a ‘mega in months.”

Laughter follows, hushed but no less grating. Tony grips the edge of the table until his knuckles whiten, forcing a calm he doesn’t feel.

Because this is the part he’s always hated: that no matter how stoic he tries to be, surrounding bystanders can always track the shift in his mood through the barest change in his natural smell.

He looks down at his notes, scribbled in uneven lines, trying to bury the heat under logic.

The overhead lights buzz, casting sterile light on the long row of tables. The engineers who aren’t openly gawking at Tony are busy at drafting boards or tinkering with prototypes, occasionally exchanging glances as though waiting for the next bit of drama to unfold. His cheeks burn; he’s not about to provide them with a show.

Tucking a pencil behind his ear, Tony squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. There’s a whiff of stale coffee and lubricating oil drifting past as someone crosses behind him. Clinging to that practical, mechanical smell helps keep him grounded.

He returns to a blueprint pinned to a metal easel. It’s the chamber’s core design, complete with injection columns and a half-dozen stabilizer arms. Even though the environment is tense and borderline hostile, Tony’s mind starts to hum with possibility. Some part of him thrives on the puzzle—it’s easier to think about meltdown thresholds than scornful remarks.

Still, their words reverberate in his head, cheap insinuations about harnesses and unblemished glands. His jaw tightens. He pretends not to see a pair of eyes flick to the curve of his neck.

It’s not worth it, he tells himself. Ignore them.

The jeers quiet eventually, fading to hushed snickers and bored shuffles. Tony hears them move away, the tension in the air thinning. He rubs at the back of his neck, hyperaware of how any flush of distress might coat his scent in fear, a beacon for the creeps to swarm. Focus, he tells himself.

So he does. He fiddles with the bracket again, notes alignment angles, tries to let the mechanical puzzle anchor him. Remembers that for now, he’s vital to the SSR. They can’t touch him. Not really. But that for now bounces ominously in his mind. If Colonel Phillips or Howard decide Tony’s outlived his usefulness, these leering Alphas would pounce at the drop of a hat.

He’s on the verge of sinking deeper into that anxiety spiral when a familiar figure steps up, the Beta with a weary but earnest expression—Reynolds, from earlier. He holds out a small stack of fresh logs. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “Test results. We tried your timing tweak. Made it to cycle ten before meltdown.”

Tony’s breath stutters in relief. “That’s… progress.”

“Yeah,” Reynolds agrees. “Something’s still off, though.”

Tony grabs the logs, flipping through them. “Then we figure out what.” He sees the data—a wave building, resonance intensifying. “If we introduce a damping function, maybe at cycle eight, it might break the chain reaction…” He’s talking to himself more than to Reynolds, scrawling an equation in the margin. Numbers form a tight pattern in his mind, overshadowing the earlier harassment.

The Beta leans in, brows lifting in surprise at Tony’s speed. “So we’d divert some of the serum to a secondary reservoir between pulses?”

“Yes,” Tony confirms. “It resets the baseline, so the next pulse doesn’t stack on the previous one. We’ll need specialized tubing, but it’s better than another meltdown.”

Reynolds nods, a flicker of genuine admiration crossing his features. “No one else came up with anything like that.”

Tony manages a lopsided grin. “That’s what I’m here for.” He tries to keep his tone light, ignoring the twinge of weariness in his limbs. “Show it to the machine shop. If they can rig a sample run, I’ll help calibrate.”

“Will do.” Reynolds lingers, gaze flicking to the small knot of Alpha newcomers murmuring in the background. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “sorry about the… comments. People get stupid about designations. Ignore ’em.”

Tony’s chest tightens, a swirl of complicated feelings. He wants to appreciate the sympathy, but it also reminds him how fragile his place here is. “Thanks,” he manages. “It’s not your fault.”

Reynolds nods, sliding away. Tony exhales, setting his pencil down. The engineering bay hums with energy, half-intense design chatter, half-lurking prejudice. He can’t decide which is more suffocating.

But the small flame of accomplishment warms his chest: he’s making headway. Bucky’s face swims up in Tony’s mind—he can almost imagine Bucky’s proud smile if he saw Tony now, directing a team of wary engineers through advanced mechanics. It’s enough to keep him standing, keep him scribbling notes, keep him from storming out of the lab altogether.

Stepping back to the central blueprint, Tony runs a finger along a diagram of injection ports, mentally calculating pressure deviations. Beyond the rhythmic clang of metal and the hum of overhead lamps, he hears snatches of offhand remarks, the rustle of movement around him. But he tunes it out, drowning in the logic of meltdown thresholds.

He ignores every sideways glance, every hushed whisper about the unmarked Omega in their midst. This is where he needs to be, can be—solving problems no one else even recognized as problems. If that means enduring a few more barbs from narrow-minded Alphas, so be it.

Pen scratching across the paper, Tony outlines a new set of instructions. Another piece of the meltdown puzzle solved. He grits his teeth in a grim approximation of a smile, vision tunneled on the blueprint.

He’s here. He’s needed. And for now, that has to be enough.

Tony’s nerves twist and coil like snakes in his gut, the edges of his vision blurring as he hunches over the toilet bowl. His throat is raw from gagging—he can taste acid, sharp and bitter, clinging to the back of his tongue.

Three days.

He’s spent the last three days pouring himself into the SSR’s damn designs—barely sleeping, living on coffee and adrenaline—trying to prove that he’s vital to the Rebirth Chamber.

That he’s indispensable.

But right now, he’s just a shaky mess, palms slick with sweat, knees trembling so hard he’s not sure they’ll hold him upright.

He squeezes his eyes shut, chest tight, breath caught in that awful space between a gasp and a sob. Because if he blows it today—if he can’t convince the higher-ups his father’s math is incomplete—there’s no second chance. He can’t let them dismiss him, can’t let them toss him back to Howard’s clutches or, worse, into Tiberius’s forced bond.

A wave of nausea makes him retch again, stomach cramped and empty, and Tony can’t decide which is more painful—the heaving or the raw fear seizing his chest. Minutes tick by before he can finally straighten. His hair is damp with sweat, and he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror: pallid skin, haunted eyes, and the faint imprint of desperation in every line of his face.

The overhead light hums, too bright, too harsh. He presses cold water over his cheeks, splashing away the acidic tang on his lips, trying to wash off the dread clinging to his skin. None of it helps. But he forces a breath, mouth twisting in a shaky half-smile at his own reflection.

“Get it together,” he says, voice low and ragged. “They’re waiting.”

They: Colonel Phillips, Senator Brandt, half a dozen SSR bigwigs.

And Howard.

He can’t think about that too hard or he’ll start heaving again.

He dries his face on his sleeve, ignoring how the fabric clings to his clammy skin. He pictures Bucky, just for a second—the comforting rasp of Bucky’s voice in his ear, that warm, grounding presence that makes Tony feel more than the sum of his fears. If he can hold on to that, maybe he won’t crumple in front of everyone.

His stomach lurches at the thought anyway, but Tony sets his jaw. He’s got to do this—for himself, for Bucky, for this single shot at a future where he’s not bound to Tiberius or yoked under Howard.

He steels himself, forces his shoulders back, and faces the door. The violent flutter in his chest doesn’t disappear, but he locks his knees, one unsteady step after another. It’s all he can do to stay upright as he pushes out into the corridor.

He’s exhausted and half sick, and he can practically hear Howard’s derisive snort already. But that’s too damn bad. There’s no turning back.

Tony presses a hand over the subtle quiver in his stomach, takes one last breath, and steels his spine.

He has to be brilliant today.

He has to be everything they said he can’t be.

And he will.

“What the FUCK do you mean they haven’t been fully briefed?!”

Erskine, the picture of nonchalance in his slightly wrinkled suit, just blinks. His gray tie is a little askew like it might slide right off if someone tugged it too hard. “Colonel Phillips is aware you’ll be presenting,” he explains gently, totally unbothered. “But he and Senator Brandt may not be… entirely familiar with the finer details of your contractual status.”

Tony’s stomach does a double backflip, and not the good kind. “No. No, you see, I was under the impression you’d smoothed all that out,” he hisses, leaning in, trying—and failing—to keep his voice down. It bounces off the concrete walls and draws a curious glance from a pair of guards who are obviously not paid to mind their own business.

Erskine sighs, patting Tony’s shoulder as if Tony is a startled cat who might scratch his eyes out. “The War Department is on board with the overall concept,” he says, which is apparently scientist-speak for we’re winging this by the seat of our pants. “But Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt might be under the impression that… well, Howard gave the green light for your involvement.”

Tony nearly swallows his own tongue. “Howard? Gave the green light? Seriously?” He swipes clammy palms down the front of his borrowed slacks—which he hates, by the way, they’re a size too big, and the scratchy fabric is driving him nuts. “In case you don’t remember, Howard doesn’t want me here. Or anywhere. He doesn’t even want me alive half the time, let alone leading some classified project he thinks belongs to him.”

Erskine offers one of those placid smiles that, on anyone else, Tony might interpret as pity. “You’re forgetting that you are the only one capable of fixing the meltdown issues,” he says calmly. “Phillips and Brandt will recognize that once you show them your improvements.”

It takes all of Tony’s willpower not to scream. Instead, he presses his palms together in front of his face, reminiscent of someone desperately praying for a miracle. “And if they don’t recognize that? If they think, just like everyone else, that I’m just an unqualified Omega butting into Daddy’s big war toy? If they decide to toss me back to Howard like a used oil rag?”

A jolt of nausea twists his stomach, and for a horrifying second, he imagines having to slink back to New York in shame, Tiberius Stone’s smug grin waiting with open arms. I’m not letting that happen. I can’t. The sheer terror of it all has his scent glands pulsing with anxious adrenaline. If he’s not careful, he’s going to smell like fresh panic for the rest of the day, and that’s not the confidence he needs to radiate in front of the most powerful committee in the country, thank you very much.

Erskine’s expression softens. “That won’t happen, Anthony,” he says quietly, stepping in to lower his voice. “You’ve already proven your modifications work. Phillips is pragmatic—he wants results. Senator Brandt wants a patriotic victory he can advertise. And your father needs a working machine. You hold the key to all of it.”

Tony exhales, counting to three (it feels like a millennia). He tries, valiantly, to keep the scene of him yacking in a toilet ten minutes ago out of his mind. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll go in there and wow them with… numbers. But if this backfires, you owe me a gigantic apology, possibly in the form of a small island far, far away from my father. And the rest of the United States Army.”

Erskine’s mouth quirks like he’s fighting a smile. “I will see what I can do.”

Before Tony can summon another protest, Erskine presses a hand lightly between Tony’s shoulder blades, guiding him toward a heavy metal door at the end of the hall. It’s guarded by a pair of stoic officers who straighten as they approach, each giving Tony that once-over glance—like they’re cataloging his unmarked neck and wondering what the hell is this undignified poser doing here?

Great. As if Tony’s nerves weren’t frayed enough.

Erskine nods to the guards, they nod back, and the door slides open to reveal a modest conference room with a big wooden table. No windows, overhead fluorescents buzzing far too loudly, and a swirl of pheromones that hits Tony the second he steps over the threshold. Not as intense as a stadium crowd, but enough that his instincts flare, picking up undertones of tension. Alpha tension, specifically.

And there he is—Howard Stark, starched shirt, tie perfectly centered, mouth set in a line so grim it’s practically a slash across his face. Colonel Phillips stands next to him in crisp uniform, arms crossed over a broad chest, while Senator Brandt hovers near the front, wearing the kind of politician’s smile that Tony’s known since childhood: polite, hollow, vacant.

With Erskine’s hand gently pushing him along, Tony picks his way to the empty seat at the head of the table, every molecule in his body screaming at him to look away, hide, bolt. But he can’t, so he locks eyes with Howard, ignoring the pure panic clenching his gut.

Howard’s eyes flash with surprise, and then something like raw, unfiltered anger—like he’d love nothing more than to yank Tony out of this room by the collar, or perhaps his hair, if they’re being historically accurate.

Tony gulps audibly.

The silence is oppressive, thick enough to choke on. Tony swallows hard, his throat still raw from earlier, and forces himself to sit. His fingers tremble against the tabletop, so he presses them into his lap, willing himself to be steady.

Howard is still staring at him, mouth thin, hands folded so tight his knuckles are white. For a long moment, no one says a word, and the tension coils tighter, strangling the room. The only sound is the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents and the slow, deliberate tap of Phillips’s fingers against his forearm.

Finally, Howard speaks, voice clipped, each word edged with barely restrained fury.

“What,” he demands, “is my son doing here?”

A pause. The silence stretches. No one answers.

Howard’s gaze sweeps the room, sharp and accusing, but the committee members shift uncomfortably, none of them meeting his eyes. They don’t know, Tony realizes.

Colonel Phillips breaks the silence, arching a grizzled brow. “That’s what I’d like to know as well,” he says in a low, steady tone. His uniform is immaculate, pressed corners and polished insignia, and he regards Tony with the same clinical scrutiny one might give a malfunctioning piece of equipment. “Dr. Erskine said this meeting required every capable mind on the project, but I wasn’t aware young Stark here was part of the, ah… official personnel.”

Tony can’t help but reflect, momentarily, on the last joyful occasion he was in the Colonel's presence. Slumped at the family dining room table, sweating profusely through his suit as he struggled to combat the side effects of his early pre-heat.

Tony grimaces. So much for first (or second) impressions.

“He’s supposed to be at boarding school,” Howard continues, voice dangerously low, vibrating with a fury Tony hasn’t heard in years. “Omega boarding school. In New York. He’s just entered a bonding contract, actually. He’s supposed to be clearing out his dormitory.”

Tony’s fingers curl into the fabric of his borrowed slacks, nails digging into his palms. He keeps his expression schooled into something carefully neutral, forcing himself not to shrink under Howard’s glare. To stave off the nausea swirling in his gut.

“I can assure you that he is not every capable mind,” he snarls. “He’s a child, an Omega. Barely out of short pants, for God’s sake. He’s still contractually bound for a mating. This is outrageous.” He rounds on Erskine, rage seething behind his eyes. “Explain yourself.”

Erskine, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. He meets Howard’s glare with the same measured calm he always carries, adjusting his glasses before folding his hands neatly atop the table.

“As I have already stated to the War Department,” Erskine begins, voice even, “I believe your son to be an essential asset to this project’s completion. From the very beginning, I noticed that his original blueprints—the very ones that were later incorporated into your own—were the first to show any applicable, demonstrable promise of effectively activating my formula.”

Howard’s expression flickers, just for a second, before his mask of controlled fury settles back into place.

Tony tastes blood in his mouth, reminiscent of that dreaded argument with his father only mere months ago.

The room falls quiet.

“He had no agenda, no ambition tied to those sketches. He was not seeking power, prestige, or military dominance. He was a child experimenting with ideas for the sheer joy of creation. And yet, in those pages, in the margins of notebooks you dismissed as a boy’s distractions, lay the foundation for America’s most secret, most vital weapon.”

Erskine’s gaze sharpens, and his voice drops even lower. “Before you took them. Before you refined them. Before you built upon them. Your son had already laid the groundwork for the machine that now sits, thanks to him, on the other side of this facility.”

Silence crashes over the room like a tidal wave. Tony’s pulse pounds in his ears, but he forces himself to stay still, to keep his hands from trembling against the table.

Howard’s nostrils flare. His voice remains steady, but there’s something venomous coiling beneath it. “You mean to tell me that you abducted my son, dragged him to a government facility, and threw him into a classified project without my knowledge?”

Tony swallows hard. The tension in the room is razor-sharp, balancing on the edge of a knife. He forces his voice to remain steady. “I volunteered.”

Howard’s head snaps toward him so fast Tony almost hears the crack. “Excuse me?”

Tony swallows past the lump in his throat, straightens his spine despite the trembling in his limbs. “I volunteered,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “No one… abducted me.” Lies. “No one forced me into anything. I chose to be here.”

And, alright, he may be stretching the truth, a little.

Semantics.

Howard’s lips part, probably to argue, to call him out on the obvious bullshit, but Erskine cuts in smoothly. “Your son is here because I believe that he is invaluable to this assignment. His mind is as rare as the serum I seek to perfect. If you cannot see that, then I am afraid you are letting your pride cloud your judgment, Herr Stark.”

Howard’s hands clench atop the table, fingers twitching like he’s resisting the urge to slam his fist against the polished wood. His nostrils flare, eyes dark with something venomous.

“Let me make something abundantly clear,” Howard says, voice low and deliberate. “My son is not a soldier. He is not an asset. He is an unbonded Omega who should be finishing his education and preparing for a future with his Alpha—not being dragged into classified war efforts by men who should know better.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. Tony feels heat creeping up his neck, a fierce mixture of anger and mortification, as he’s referenced like an object to be passed off to some waiting Alpha. The small part of him that used to shrink under Howard’s stare wants to fold in on itself—wants to blurt out He didn’t drag me here; I came because I’m tired of letting you run my life. But Tony swallows, steels his spine, forces himself to speak before Erskine has to defend him.

“I’m not a child,” Tony manages, though his voice wavers under the oppressive tension. “And the only reason I’m ‘preparing for a future with an Alpha’ is because you sold me off like cattle. That contract was never my choice.”

A flicker of something savage crosses Howard’s face—outrage, maybe, at being contradicted so openly in front of Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt. His temper is a coil waiting to spring, Tony can practically see it in the taut lines around his mouth.

Erskine doesn’t flinch. He sets his shoulders with professorial calm.

“Tony volunteered,” he repeats gently, “because his input is that essential. Whatever your personal feelings on the matter, Mr. Stark, the War Department has recognized the mechnical issues. We can’t ignore a viable solution.”

Howard scoffs, turning to the two officials.

“I’m sure everyone in this room would agree that letting an untrained, unbonded Omega direct anything related to a top-secret project is unthinkable. It’s improper. A complete violation of protocol. Need I remind you both of the enormous repercussions if this were to leak? We’re in the middle of a war, for God’s sake. The public would be outraged if they knew we had an Omega—my Omega—handling vital military technology.”

Senator Brandt sets down his pen with a pointed click. His carefully blank expression doesn’t hide the flash of discomfort in his eyes.

“We are aware of the social… implications,” he concedes. “It’s quite unusual, and—frankly—a potential scandal if the press got wind. Omegas aren’t drafted, they aren’t tested for engineering roles, and they’re certainly not expected to contribute to a project of this magnitude.”

He looks almost uncomfortable as he gestures to Tony, who’s still rigid in his seat.

“But the War Department prioritizes results above all. If your son has the only existing blueprint that can safely run Dr. Erskine’s formula, it might outweigh other considerations. Even the, ah… improprieties.”

Colonel Phillips, for his part, sits like a statue of iron.

“My primary mission is to see Project Rebirth operational,” he says gruffly. “We were on the verge of scrapping the entire harness after that last meltdown. Now Dr. Erskine says young Stark here—” a faint grimace at the word “young” “—has the data to fix it.”

Howard’s lips peel back in a bitter imitation of a smile.

“Fix it. Him. A child who has no business stepping foot in a war lab, let alone rewriting my designs. He’s incompetent—he’s never finished a real engineering course in his life. And he’s an Omega who can’t go two minutes without his pheromones distracting—”

Tony’s cheeks flare hot at the pointed jab, and he notices Colonel Phillips shift in discomfort, possibly catching the faint whiff of Tony’s anxious scent. Tony clenches his hands under the table, nails pressing into his palms, trying to steady his breathing. He hates that in a room of Alphas and Betas, they can track every nuance of stress in his smell. Hates feeling exposed.

Erskine speaks up, firm but unruffled.

“He’s not incompetent. He’s gifted. The meltdown equation was something Howard’s own teams could not resolve.” He swings his gaze to Colonel Phillips, face resolute. “And if Tony is correct, you’ll have a stable chamber that can finally handle the formula.”

Senator Brandt clears his throat, glancing at Howard.

“Mr. Stark Senior, I understand your reservations. But if Dr. Erskine—and, by extension, the War Department—deems this meltdown fix crucial, it may be time to set aside… tradition.”

He almost chokes on the word, as if the notion of ignoring the Omega stigma is personally painful. But the undercurrent is clear: the SSR might be willing to ignore an Omega’s legal contract if it means winning the war.

They’re desperate.

Colonel Phillips, looking every bit the weathered commander under the humming fluorescents, leans back in his chair with a weary sigh. His arms cross over his barrel chest, a deep scowl etched into his face.

“Look,” he growls, “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether this kid should be in an Omega home economics class, or knitting doilies in the Hamptons with the rest of his boarding school classmates. What I do care about is whether someone—anyone—in this damn room can get that contraption operational before we’re all speaking German.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escapes Howard like a razor slicing through the tension. Leaning forward, he clasps his hands under his chin in a parody of deep reflection.

“There’s nothing wrong with the machine,” he says. “Whatever hiccups we’ve had? They aren’t in the engineering. If Erskine’s magical formula can’t handle the rig, well,” he spreads his fingers, “maybe the problem is the serum. Not my design.”

Tony blinks, half-disbelieving Howard’s audacity. A conspiracy? Seriously?

Phillips’s bushy brow arches.

“So you’re saying Dr. Erskine and your own kid are staging some big sabotage just to tank your invention? For… fun? That’s a new one, even for me.”

Howard’s jaw tenses. Undeterred, he presses on, voice dripping condescension.

“I’m saying the Rebirth Chamber works exactly as I built it. If Erskine’s serum isn’t responding, it’s his problem, not the hardware’s.” His eyes flick to Erskine, accusation crackling. “He’d like to shift the blame onto my engineering, so he brought my son into this. Kid’s got too much time on his hands, apparently.”

Erskine adjusts his glasses in that precise, deliberate way of his, refusing to be drawn into a shouting match.

“The chamber functions, yes—but nowhere near efficiently enough. Not for the timetable we face, nor for the level of power the serum requires at peak activation. Mr. Stark Senior,” he says, calm but firm, “the meltdown logs are real. Even you can’t ignore them. And if your son is correct about the conduction error…”

Howard’s glare intensifies at the mention of Tony’s theories.

“Oh, Tony said so, did he?” His sneer is lethal. “The boy who can’t even keep his grades up in a glorified Omega prep school suddenly thinks he’s an expert on advanced war machinery?”

Tony fights the urge to recoil. Instead, he gives a tight shrug. “Well, guess all that time not doing my homework freed up some brain cells to fix your mistakes.”

It’s a calculated jab—he can see the moment it lands, see how Howard’s eyes darken with the kind of fury that usually precedes broken glass or bruised ribs. Tony braces himself for the worst. But before Howard can lunge across the table and throttle him, the tension snaps under the calm, clipped voice of a newcomer.

“Well,” comes Agent Margaret Carter’s distinctly British accent, “since we’re all so attentive—” she aims a level gaze around the table “—perhaps we’d like to hear more specifics about these so-called inconsistencies, Mr. Stark.”

She’s not looking at Howard. Her focus is on Tony instead, and the entire room seems to pivot on that subtle shift—gazes snapping to the unbonded Omega at the head of the table, the one who’s apparently holding all the cards. Tony’s heart hammers so hard he half-expects everyone to hear it, but he takes a measured breath, lifting his chin just enough to feign steadiness.

“Sure,” Tony says flatly. “Let’s start with the basics.”

He pushes his chair back a fraction, just enough to free his hands so he can gesture. His tone is clinical, cool—even a bit condescending, as if he’s explaining a tired math puzzle to people who stubbornly refuse to grasp it.

“The vita radiation chamber Howard designed has a critical efficiency problem. The coolant regulation is inconsistent, which leads to thermal hotspots along the chamber walls.” He pauses, letting his gaze skim over the table until it lands squarely on Howard. “In plain terms? The machine overheats. And when you’re dealing with vita radiation, uneven heat isn’t just a design flaw—it’s a death sentence.”

A few of the committee members shift, clearly unsettled by that blunt warning, but Tony presses on, tapping his fingers softly against the table’s edge.

“Then there’s the neutron flux. It’s oscillating above safe thresholds, so the system can’t handle the serum’s activation process. Once you push power beyond seventy percent saturation, the chamber’s structural integrity fails.” He clicks his tongue. “Which means anyone inside is taking a one-way trip to kingdom come.”

He catches the flicker of unease that ripples through the group, sees Senator Brandt stiffen in alarm. But Tony doesn’t slow down.

“And let’s not forget coil alignment,” he continues, leaning in, voice low and urgent. “The current design uses symmetrical windings, but the discharge in this setup is exponential, not linear. You need to angle the coils inward by at least two degrees to stabilize the energy flow. Otherwise, you get cascading failure in under five minutes of operation.”

An ugly screech pierces the stillness as Howard shoves his chair back against the floor. The sound sets everyone’s teeth on edge, but Howard doesn’t care. He’s livid—eyes hard, mouth compressed into a furious line.

“That’s bullshit,” Howard snarls, voice brimming with disbelief and condescension. “We’ve tested and retested the coolant system. The neutron flux is within acceptable parameters, and the coil alignment follows the standard specs for this energy type. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Tony sees it: that glint of uncertainty lurking in Howard’s gaze, almost too quick to catch. He’s struck a nerve.

“Really?” Tony says, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. “If everything’s so perfect, then humor me this, Dad: what’s the resonance frequency of vita radiation at seventy percent saturation? And how does it interact with the structural integrity of the chamber’s injection ports?”

Silence. Thick as concrete. Howard’s jaw shifts like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. Tony can almost see the gears in his father’s mind spinning—scrounging for the data that just isn’t there. Because this is the math Tony spent sleepless nights confirming, the math Howard overlooked.

“The—the resonance—” Howard starts, then stalls.

Tony lets the moment stretch, letting everyone feel the weight of that unspoken answer. His heartbeat roars in his ears, adrenaline sizzling under his skin. Don’t back down, he tells himself. If you flinch now, you lose.

Slowly, he leans back in his chair, reaching into the worn leather satchel at his side. The quiet snap of the clasp seems to reverberate in the tension-charged air. He can feel every eye follow his movements, the hush so thick it’s like the room itself is holding its breath.

He withdraws a stuffed manila folder, edges frayed and crumpled from frantic handling. The entire thing lands on the table with a dull, resounding thump.

“This,” Tony announces, voice level but loud enough to carry, “is everything you’re missing.”

He flips the folder open with a flick of his wrist, scattering a stack of meticulously drawn blueprints, schematics, and pages of mathematical equations across the polished surface of the table. The neat, angular scrawl of his handwriting fills every inch of the paper—corrections, adjustments, innovations that no one else in this room could’ve seen, let alone understood.

He lets the men around the table stare at the chaos for a beat before he continues, his voice gaining momentum, riding the adrenaline that’s roaring in his veins.

“This is three days of non-stop work,” Tony says, gesturing to the papers like he’s presenting evidence in a trial. “In just seventy-two hours, I’ve managed to fix the fundamental flaws in Howard’s design. The coolant regulation? I’ve recalibrated it to disperse heat evenly across the chamber, eliminating the hotspots that would’ve turned your test subject into a human torch.” He flips to another page, jabbing a finger at the detailed diagram of the neutron flux regulator. “The neutron oscillation? Stabilized. I adjusted the frequency parameters so the energy input doesn’t just spike past safe thresholds—it flows, exactly as the serum requires for safe absorption.”

Tony pauses, letting his gaze sweep across the room, meeting the skeptical eyes of the committee members, the military brass, the engineers who are still pretending they aren’t impressed.

But he’s not done.

“And the coil alignment?” He picks up the blueprint, holding it up for everyone to see. “Two degrees inward, precisely calculated to account for the exponential energy discharge pattern. Without this adjustment, your precious vita-ray chamber would’ve lasted maybe five minutes before a catastrophic failure.” He drops the paper back onto the table with a sharp slap. “But with my corrections? It’ll run as long as you need it to.”

Tony takes a breath, his chest rising and falling in sharp, quick bursts. His pulse is still a roaring drumbeat in his ears, but he presses on, letting the bravado carry him, even if it feels like his legs are about to give out beneath the table.

“This project doesn’t work without me,” Tony says, his voice dropping into a low, fierce rhythm. “You need me.” He leans forward now, his eyes burning with the weight of every insult, every dismissal, every blow he’s ever taken from his father or anyone else who’s tried to diminish him. “I’m the only person in this room who can see the math behind the machine. The only one who understands how the serum and the radiation interact on a molecular level. You want to inject that serum into a living subject and have them live to tell the tale?” His gaze swings around the room, daring anyone to challenge him. “Then I’m the one who’s going to make sure it happens.”

Silence stretches like a taut wire in the wake of Tony’s words, heavy and electric. It’s the kind of hush where everyone in the room is bracing for the fallout, for one person—anyone—to decide which way this is going to tip. Dust motes drift through the sterile light overhead, and Tony can hear his own blood pounding in his ears.

Finally, a cough rattles from Senator Brandt’s throat. He’s clearly uncomfortable, tapping a pen restlessly against the tabletop. Colonel Phillips, arms folded tight, lets out a long, measured exhale. He’s wearing an expression that hovers between grim and impressed—and something else, a lingering wariness.

“You’ve got some brass ones, kid, I’ll give you that,” Phillips mutters, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are hard, skeptical, and they rake over Tony like he’s trying to find the catch in all of this. “But what you’re asking is for us to let an untrained, unbonded Omega effectively run the show here. This is the United States Army we’re talking about, not some private workshop.”

Around the table, half a dozen staffers from the War Department exchange uneasy glances. They’re scanning the blueprint pages, eyeing Tony’s notes, and while some look quietly impressed, others look torn—like they’d rather fight an army than defy a social norm so deeply ingrained.

Howard shifts in his seat, ice in his gaze. “I don’t recall the Army giving you the power to make that call, Colonel,” he says in a clipped voice. “And if you’re really entertaining the idea of letting my Omega son lead a federally funded operation, I suggest you think again.”

Tony forces his expression to remain neutral, though a knot of fear coils under his ribcage. He knows what that voice promises if they leave here without locking in Tony’s position. Howard will bury him, one way or another.

There’s a heavy scrape of chair legs as Senator Brandt stands, smoothing his immaculate suit jacket. He clears his throat, eyes flicking between Tony and Howard. “Tony,” he begins carefully, “your… modifications are compelling, I won’t deny that. But Colonel Phillips has a point—this is an unprecedented step. And we do have your father’s entire engineering division at our disposal. An entire team of men with formal degrees and—”

“And none of them saw the meltdown issue,” Dr. Erskine interrupts softly, his accent coiling around each word. Beneath his mild demeanor, there’s a steely edge. “They wouldn’t even acknowledge it until near-disastrous incidents occurred. Now Tony has handed you not only the proof but the solution.”

Brandt bristles, tapping a finger against the polished tabletop. “Even so, it’s… questionable, from a legal standpoint, to put a teenage Omega in charge—”

“Then put me next to whoever you want,” Tony fires back before he can stop himself. His voice echoes strangely in the hush. “Call it a consultancy. I don’t care about the title. I only care that these changes get implemented, correctly, so we stop risking catastrophe. If your entire staff can’t handle the math, I’ll stand by to walk them through it.”

Colonel Phillips’s jaw flexes, not quite a scowl but something close. “You think they can’t handle it, son?”

Tony stiffens. “I know they can’t. Because if they could, we wouldn’t be here right now, would we?”

Howard exhales a derisive noise, something between a scoff and a growl. “Oh, so we’re all idiots except for you, is that it? You can fix a multi-million-dollar machine in three days, no background, no training, just—”

“Yes.” The word bursts from Tony, surprising even himself. “Because I did.” He throws a hand out, indicating the scattered papers. “You can read it. Check it. Test it. But you can’t deny it.”

A storm brews in Howard’s eyes. “And who the hell do you think you are, telling this entire room you can do what Stark Industries couldn’t?”

Tony’s gaze flickers, but he forces himself not to look away. “I’m the only reason your negligent data hasn’t killed your project, Dad.”

He spits the last word, voice tight, heart thundering like it might punch through his chest at any second.

Before the tension can snap into full-blown conflict, Erskine quietly steps forward, placing both hands on the table. “I believe there’s a simpler path,” he says in that calm, professorial tone that seems to diffuse edges wherever he goes. He turns to Colonel Phillips, then Senator Brandt. “The War Department needs Project Rebirth operational, ja? You want my serum, my research—without which, the rest is worthless machinery.”

Brandt narrows his eyes. “We’re all aware of that, Doctor.”

“Good.” Erskine’s expression remains mild, but Tony recognizes the flicker of steel behind his eyes. “Then I will be equally plain. Unless Tony Stark oversees these modifications—personally—I shall withdraw my formula. Entirely. I am, after all, the only one who truly understands it.”

The room explodes with noise.

Howard’s chair screeches as he half-rises. “Excuse me?!” he roars, fists slamming onto the tabletop with a loud thud. Colonel Phillips jerks upright, mouth agape, while the rest of the committee erupts into frantic whispers and half-shouted protests. The hiss of shifting chairs, rustling papers, and outbursts of “Impossible!” or “He can’t do that!” fill the air.

Erskine, for his part, stands perfectly still, hands folded, letting the pandemonium wash over him. Tony’s heart spikes with a volatile mix of shock, gratitude, and fear. He knows Erskine wields significant power here, but actually watching the entire War Department quake at his ultimatum is… staggering.

Phillips recovers first, glowering at Erskine with all the intimidation a seasoned colonel can muster. “That’s blackmail, Doctor.”

Erskine inclines his head. “An ugly word for what is, at its heart, a pragmatic solution, Colonel. The SSR wants working super-soldiers. I want to ensure we do not kill the test subject or waste years and resources on meltdown after meltdown. Tony can provide that solution, or no one can. If you refuse him, you refuse me.”

Howard stabs a finger in Erskine’s direction. “The War Department owns your formula. We have contracts—”

“You have partial notes, incomplete processes,” Erskine corrects smoothly. “And you know it. Even your best scientists cannot replicate my serum without my final approval. So either we do this my way—Tony’s way—or we do not do it at all.”

The uproar intensifies, half the men in the room talking at once. Tony hears disjointed snatches: “A teenage Omega can’t command a federal project!” … “We’ll have a lawsuit on our hands!” … “Erskine’s gone mad.”

Senator Brandt tries to restore order, rapping a knuckle on the table. “Quiet!” But it’s no use; the cacophony roars on.

In the midst of the chaos, Tony stands there, heart a pounding blur of disbelief. He’d known Erskine supported him—but this? It’s like Erskine is burning every bridge behind them, forcing the War Department to accept Tony or let the entire project sink.

Howard whirls on Tony, eyes blazing. “You orchestrated this, didn’t you? You and Erskine, plotting behind my back—”

Tony bristles, but he can barely form words in the face of so much swirling argument. “I didn’t ask for this, I—”

Howard surges closer, as if he might yank Tony out of the room by force. But Colonel Phillips slams a hand down on the table, bellowing with the authority of a man used to commanding armies, “Enough!”

Slowly, the din falters. Brandt seizes the chance to speak again, voice low but urgent. “Doctor, we cannot simply place an Omega child in charge of a major military project. It’s— it’s unthinkable.”

Erskine’s eyes are tired, but resolute. “Then you cannot have my serum. Because I will not see it wasted on faulty machinery. Or see an innocent volunteer killed by meltdown. Tony’s designs are the only path to a stable Rebirth Chamber.”

Phillips glances uneasily at Brandt. The Senator’s face is twisted in an expression of profound discomfort—he knows exactly how big this bombshell is. If Erskine really walks away, the project is dead. All the money, all the time, all the political capital gone.

“You can’t be serious,” Brandt says at last, voice hushed.

Erskine shrugs. “I am quite serious, Senator. Tony either leads, or I go.”

A long moment passes. The hush now is even heavier than before, as if the entire room is holding its breath. Tony can’t tell whose side Colonel Phillips will take, or whether Senator Brandt can muster the guts to override Howard. Every cell in Tony’s body feels pulled taut, as though a single misstep might tear him open.

Howard, breathing raggedly, finally swings his gaze to Phillips. “This is insanity, Colonel,” he rasps, trying to keep his voice controlled. “We can’t let a male Omega—my son, no less—overstep every protocol we have. He has no legal freedoms. He’s—”

“He’s the only one who’s got the meltdown solution,” Phillips says curtly, echoing Erskine’s words. He scowls, leaning forward to glare at Tony. “But be damned if I let him gallivant around with full authority.”

Brandt exhales a shaky breath, color high in his cheeks. “Perhaps… a compromise,” he says, voice wavering. “Tony can provide his schematics and direct an engineering sub-division, under Erskine’s supervision. We’ll keep things quiet. Off the official record, if we must. This is a secret project anyway.”

Howard’s fist pounds the table. “Absolutely not.”

But Phillips rubs a hand over his face. “You really want to kill Rebirth over pride, Stark? Because that’s what you’ll do if Erskine pulls out. The War Department won’t have your back then, I can promise you that.”

Howard scowls, fury radiating off him in waves. But he falls silent, pinned by the Colonel’s unyielding stare.

Then, at last, Brandt forces a tight smile that is anything but happy. “We have an obligation to the war effort. We cannot afford to lose Dr. Erskine’s work. So I say we do it—quietly, discreetly. Tony… your meltdown modifications will be implemented. You’ll oversee them, at least until we have a viable prototype.”

He turns to Erskine, and his tone is clipped: “Doctor, you’ll be personally responsible for controlling the boy’s involvement. You answer to Colonel Phillips and me, and you keep him on a short leash. We can’t have the entire base gossiping about an unbonded Omega running advanced war tech. Understood?”

Erskine’s eyes flick to Tony, relief flooding them, but he merely nods, all professional calm. “Understood, Senator.”

Howard looks murderously at everyone, but even he can see that the tide has turned. He flexes his jaw once, seething. “Fine,” he chokes out, the word tasting like acid. “But if this fails—if one screw is loose—” His eyes pin Tony with lethal clarity. “You’re done. And I’ll make damn sure no one ever hears your name again.”

A charged quiet settles, as though the room itself is holding its breath. The War Department has spoken, but all Tony can feel is a cold spike of dread. The solution they’re proposing—that he hide behind Erskine’s authority, quietly enacting his meltdown fix—leaves him exactly where he’s always been: under Howard’s shadow, never truly safe. He can almost feel Tiberius’s contract tightening around his neck like a leash.

His heart pounds, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, summoning every scrap of nerve he has left. Because if he steps back now, he’ll just be trading one cage for another.

When he looks up, the gathered men see something in his face—something sharper than an Omega ought to have.

“Then I have terms,” Tony says quietly.

His voice slices through the stale air like a gunshot, and every head swivels. Eyes narrow in fresh alarm. Howard’s mouth twists into a sneer, but Tony doesn’t give him time to speak.

His voice is low, but it cuts across the stale air like a gunshot. Every head swivels, eyes narrowing in fresh alarm. Howard’s mouth twists in a sneer, but Tony doesn’t give him time to speak.

“I’m not asking for money or recognition,” Tony continues, and there’s a soft scoff from some War Department official near the back. Typical Omega, that expression says. Of course he isn’t in it for money. But Tony’s next words twist the room into a stunned hush.

“What I am asking for,” Tony says, letting the weight of it resonate, “is legal emancipation—from Howard’s guardianship and from the bonding contract he arranged with Tiberius Stone. I want it formally documented, notarized, and recognized by the SSR. And I want them—” his gaze snaps to Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt “—to enforce it.”

A ripple of incredulity passes through the assembly, shifting chairs, widened eyes. Even Agent Carter arches a brow in a flicker of surprise—though not disapproval. Howard practically sputters, red staining his cheeks.

“That’s impossible,” Howard snarls. “You can’t— there’s no mechanism— an Omega can’t just—”

Tony sets his jaw, forcing every ounce of resolve into his voice. “I don’t care if there’s ‘no mechanism.’ You all want my meltdown fix. Dr. Erskine refuses to proceed without me at the helm. So you’ll make it possible. Or we walk.”

Senator Brandt’s throat bobs as he swallows, struggling to regain composure. “Son,” he begins carefully, “emancipating an Omega from his legal guardian—especially a father of your… standing—” He casts a nervous glance at Howard, who simmers with malice. “That’s unprecedented. It would set off a firestorm of controversy if it got out.”

Colonel Phillips grimaces, muscles ticking in his jaw. “You’re talking about a direct challenge to both your father’s rights and your Alpha’s contract, Stark. That contract is recognized under state and federal codes. Nullifying it… There’s no precedent. None.”

Tony lifts his chin. He can feel his heart skidding against his ribs, every nerve screaming this is insane. But he plows onward anyway—because if he doesn’t, Tiberius Stone will own him in a matter of weeks, and Howard might do worse in retaliation.

“Then we find a workaround,” Tony says, each syllable ringing with a steadiness he doesn’t quite feel. “You label me an essential wartime consultant—like Dr. Erskine. A special exemption—something. Tie it to a hush-hush classification so no one can protest publicly. Keep me under SSR protection, if that’s what it takes. But I’m not stepping foot in your labs without legal assurances that neither Howard nor Tiberius can force me back.”

A murmur ripples among the men gathered—a swirl of shock, grudging admiration, outright horror. Tony spots more than one officer exchanging glances that say This Omega is barking mad… but maybe we can’t risk losing him.

Howard, for his part, looks like he’s on the verge of lunging at Tony. His fists tremble at his sides, eyes blazing. “You ungrateful—”

“Mr. Stark,” Erskine interrupts with chilling calm, “I suggest you let the Senator and Colonel decide. After all, if you truly care about Rebirth—and your own reputation, might I add—you won’t want word getting around that you let the entire project collapse over your personal vendetta.”

Howard’s mouth snaps shut, though his nostrils flare in rage. His stare bores into Tony, promising retribution if Tony so much as blinks.

Senator Brandt glances at Phillips with open anxiety. The Colonel blows out a measured breath, then turns to Tony. “We can’t just rewrite the law, kid. But…” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Given this is an SSR operation, off the public record, maybe we can file a special injunction. A restricted guardianship override, or something akin to a protective detail. We’re at war—there are emergency statutes. If we prove you’re vital to national defense…” He trails off, clearly wrestling with the implications.

Brandt’s lips press into a thin line. “We’d have to handle it quietly, beneath the War Department’s radar. You’d be bound to the SSR for the duration—no public disclosure, strict confidentiality. We’d keep official recognition of you to a minimum, which means no public appearances tied to the project and limited discussion with outside parties. You’ll be free to live off-base, if that’s what you want, but you must abide by strict security protocols. No unauthorized communication about Rebirth, and any travel will need SSR clearance. Is that acceptable?”

Tony’s chest feels too tight—he can’t tell if it’s fear or relief welling up. “That’s fine,” he manages. “As long as it keeps me out of Tiberius’s reach.”

“And out of your father’s,” Erskine adds pointedly.

For a beat, no one speaks. Then Howard’s voice, frosted with contempt, cuts through the hush. “Unbelievable,” he hisses. “You’d betray your own blood, defy every code we live by, just to—”

“It’s not betrayal,” Tony snaps. “It’s survival.”

Howard’s glare could set the room ablaze, but Colonel Phillips interrupts with the air of a man who’s made a reluctant decision. “Senator,” he says quietly, “I’ll need you to coordinate with War Department legal counsel—covertly. We’ll draft the paperwork under emergency provisions. If we do this, we do it fast.”

Brandt nods, sweat beading at his temple. “I’ll see what I can arrange.” His gaze skitters to Tony. “But you realize, young man, once we make you SSR property—pardon the phrasing—there’s no going back. You’ll be expected to deliver results. No second chances.”

Tony’s stomach churns, but he forces a small nod. “Understood. It’s a better fate than what’s waiting for me otherwise.”

A strained silence follows. All eyes fall on Howard, whose fury practically vibrates the table. But with Phillips and Brandt aligned, plus Erskine’s ultimatum, he’s locked into a corner.

He forces out a sneer, each syllable dripping venom. “Fine. Sign your precious injunction, or whatever damned nonsense you come up with. But don’t you think, for one second, you’ll win.” His gaze lands on Tony, making him feel pinned. “Because when this fails—and it will fail—I’ll be sure no one ever touches your so-called ‘emancipation’ with a ten-foot pole. I’ll bury you.”

Tony swallows hard, refusing to look away. “Then I’ll just have to make it work, won’t I?”

An ugly pause stretches, thick with the promise of war—of personal war, overshadowed by the real war raging overseas. But slowly, Colonel Phillips snaps the tension. He raps the table, voice harsh: “All right. That’s enough. Brandt, coordinate with legal. Stark—” He nods at Tony, an expression akin to grudging respect flitting across his features. “Get your meltdown fix ready for the next test. Doctor Erskine, you’re in charge of containing this mess until the paperwork is done. Nobody breathes a word outside this room. Understood?”

A collective murmur of assent rises, though it’s half-choked by Howard’s silent wrath and the swirl of shock among the staffers. Tony takes a shaky breath, forcibly unclenching his fists.

He came here hoping only to salvage a chance at freedom, or at least some measure of control. Now, somehow, he’s got the War Department dancing around an Omega emancipation. It’s dizzying.

Erskine gives Tony’s shoulder a fleeting, supportive squeeze. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—my associate needs to gather his notes and prepare the labs. Come. We should—”

“Tony,” a voice says.

The tension at the back of Tony’s neck coils like a striking snake. Slowly, he turns to find Howard, jaw clenched tight. Their gazes lock, and Tony’s pulse hiccups in raw, reflexive fear.

Erskine starts to step between them. “Mr. Stark, perhaps we can discuss—”

“I need a word with my son,” Howard announces. “Alone.” He doesn’t look at Erskine. Doesn’t look at Brandt or Phillips either. He only has eyes for Tony.

Tony feels the weight of every bruise, every insult, every threat that’s passed between them. The thought of being alone in a room with Howard sets his nerves aflame—he can practically feel the ghost of past violence prickling along his skin. But he meets his father’s stare anyway.

In the corner of his vision, Colonel Phillips steps closer, clearly uneasy at the request. “This may not be the time, Howard. We have a schedule and—”

But Tony draws a breath, something steadier than he expects. “It’s fine,” he says, voice surprisingly even. “Let him talk.”

He senses Erskine’s apprehension radiating beside him, but he can’t look the doctor in the eye right now. Instead, Tony squares his shoulders, forcing himself to swallow the knot of fear stuck in his throat.

“All right, Dad,” Tony sighs. “Let’s talk.”

Howard’s mouth twists, and without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the far door leading into a private corridor—one not cluttered with SSR personnel. Tony follows, ignoring the sidelong looks, ignoring the tension coiling in his own gut.

The last thing Tony sees before the door slides shut behind them is Erskine, brow furrowed, and Colonel Phillips rubbing the bridge of his nose like he already regrets letting the Starks vanish from sight.

What’s a few more regrets, anyway? Tony thinks, the door’s latch sealing with a soft click.

#winteriron #bucky barnes #tony stark #wip #ao3 #steve rogers #alpha/beta/omega au #captain america #tony stark x bucky barnes

70 notes · View notes

not-neverland06 · 10 months ago

Text

The End of the Beginning

Previous Part / Next Part

Cooper Howard x fem!reader A/N: I’m going to use my How About a Nuke? taglist for my Cooper Howard one shots/stories from now on. If you do not want to be on the taglist, please let me know and I will remove you immediately. I’m considering writing some more for these two, let me know what you think in the comments.

Summary: You don’t know how it starts. But you know how it ends.

There’s not a specific moment where you can pinpoint how this whole sordid affair began. Not a true affair, in your own defense. Nothing physical ever happened between the two of you, but what did happen was somehow almost worse.

Maybe it was when Bud first introduced you to him or when you began to eat dinners with his family. It could have been the times he would randomly drop by your home for a drink, you’re not sure. It doesn’t even matter, you know that no matter what it never would have ended well for either of you.

“Mr. Howard, it is a pleasure.” The man in front of Cooper is someone he should recognize, he knows he’s met him before. But his face could blend into any crowd, he’s drawing a blank and failing not to let it show.

“How’re you,” the question trails off awkwardly and the woman beside the man is clearly trying to hide a smile.

“Uh, Bud,” he offers up, his smile waning slightly, “Bud Askins. We met a couple of weeks ago.” He’s grasping at straws, eyes desperate for some sense of familiarity within Cooper’s own gaze. He would feel bad for him, but something about this man sets Cooper on edge.

“Bud,” Cooper offers him the kind of smile he gives every fan and it does the trick like usual. Bud lets out a sigh of relief and shakes Cooper’s hand with a vigor that rattles his teeth. The woman clears her throat, glaring at the back of Bud’s head.

He finally remembers himself and turns towards her. “Right, my apologies.” Bud moves back and she steps forward, her hand outstretched towards Cooper. She’s got a disarming smile which is a nice change from Bud’s overeager one.

She seems happy to have met him, but not the starstruck joy he’s used to. It’s refreshing to not have someone be eagerly shouting at him what his favorite movie of theirs is. She offers him her name and he repeats it, liking the way it feels when he says it. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

She doesn’t get offended by the brusque question. She drops his hand and glances back at Bud, “I work for Mr. Askins. I’ll be helping you in adjusting to your new Vault-Tec life.”

He frowns, brows furrowed in confusion at the way she phrases her answer. “Vault-Tec life? I thought this was just meant to be some ads, a few billboards maybe.” He chuckles, hoping to ease the tone of the conversation, but they don’t buy it. She shares a concerned look with Bud and they glance back at Cooper before whispering something to each other.

Bud listens to her speak, but his gaze stays locked on Cooper. He doesn’t look happy anymore, if anything he looks concerned. Cooper sighs and wonders, not for the first time, what Barb has gotten him into. As if summoning her, his wife pops up behind him.

She wraps an arm through his and he feels himself easing back into her touch, hoping she can provide some clarity. “I see you’ve met Bud and his assistant.” There’s an odd tone to her words when she addresses the other woman.

Her gaze snaps from Bud’s and she shoots Barb a sharp glare. “I am not Mr. Askins’ assistant.” Barb clears her throat and she winces, quickly amending her statement, “If anything, I believe I might be your husband’s.”

Cooper wraps his arm around Barb’s shoulder and draws her closer to him. She smiles and looks up at him but he can’t find it in himself to return it. With each new development in this Vault-Tec partnership he finds himself growing more and more hostile towards the company. There’s just something about this whole idea that has him unsettled.

It’s not that he doesn’t see the need for the vaults, he does. If anyone understands the dangers this war is presenting, it’s him. He’d been on the frontlines, he knows just how bad it’s getting out there. But, the way Vault-Tec is going about everything is unsettling. Capitalizing off the American people’s suffering isn’t something he’s interested in endorsing.

He’s been questioning more and more everyday if that's exactly what he’s doing.

“That’s the confusion, honey,” he glances down at Barb but she’s sharing a look with the other woman that he can’t understand. “I don’t see why I need an assistant.”

She sighs and finally looks back at him. She laces her fingers through his and gives him a comforting smile, “Let’s go talk.”

You watched as Barb dragged Cooper away from you and Bud. You knew this wasn’t going to go over well. You’re not sure why anyone at the company even listens to Bud’s asinine idea’s anymore. You give your boss a discerning look but he’s still staring after his crush, the Cooper Howard.

There must be some cunning snake under the surface of this bumbling baboon. You certainly don’t see it, but someone had to have at Vault-Tec for him to have crawled so high up the ladder. You look over your shoulder at Cooper and, not for the first time, a pang of guilt stabs through your stomach.

Same as everyone else, you idolized Mr. Howard. It was hard not to. He’d fought for your country in the Sino-American War, defending Alaska. And then he came home and instead of protecting America’s citizens, he made it his job to uplift and entertain them.

He was an incredible man, and if you weren’t so worried about protecting your own ass you’d feel bad for what Vault-Tec’s mission is going to do to him.

Barb had brought concerns to you and Bud that Cooper was… slipping. She seemed to think his priorities had shifted and he was growing suspicious of Vault-Tec, and by extension her.

He was right to be suspicious, there wasn’t a day that you weren’t disgusted with yourself for working for who you do. But you also would like to survive this coming nuclear holocaust, so you learned to live with it.

She seemed to think that giving him an assistant, one of Bud’s Buds, would help get him back on track. You’re not sure why Bud had chosen you for the job, but he seemed to think you would be charming enough to snag Cooper’s attention.

You were to bond with Mr. Howard, become his friend and gain his trust. When the time came for him to start questioning you about Vault-Tec and their true intentions, you would say something to calm him.

Essentially, befriend him and then lie to his face and make him think he wasn’t promoting the end of the world. Barb didn’t want her husband to ever learn about the truth of who was really pulling the strings of the war.

Cooper was led back to you both by Barb with a smile on his face. He seemed more open to you now, too, offering you a polite nod of his head which you returned. “Barb, here, seems to think I need myself a personal assistant.”

You laughed amicably and shrugged, “You’re a busy man, Mr. Howard. I’m just an extra set of hands.”

He shook his head and waved you off, “Call me Cooper, please, it seems like we’ll be spending a lot of time with each other anyway.”

You smiled, your gut twisting with disgust when you saw the earnest look in his eyes, “Cooper.”

“Good morning,” Cooper leaned over Barb’s shoulder, landing a quick peck on her cheek. She smiled and squeezed his arm before glancing at the clock and frowning. He already knew what she was gonna say. He was going to be late.

He smiled at her, taking a sip of his coffee. She seemed to notice the look on his face because she just sighed and shook her head. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to get away with this anymore.”

He laughed and shrugged, “Why not? It’s a part of my signature, I’m always a few minutes late.”

She glanced down at the Pip-Boy on her arm and something seems to have caught her attention. She let out a haggard breath and put Janey’s lunch box on the counter. “Don’t let her leave without this.” She ran to the front door and Cooper frowned as he watched her run around the house, frantically collecting her things.

“Where are you going?”

She was already halfway out the door when she called out a quick, “Work emergency.” He shook his head and rinsed his mug out in the sink. He’s had work emergencies before, none of them so urgent he would have left without saying goodbye to their daughter.

He sucks on his teeth, staring over at the front door. What does she do for Vault-Tec? Had she ever really told him?

Had he ever asked?

His thoughts are interrupted by a series of blaring honks outside his front door. He figures Barb had forgotten her keys in her rush to get out of the house. But when he steps onto the front lawn he sees you parked along the curb, staring expectantly at the door.

You lift your sunglasses up, your lips tilted up into an easy smile and you wave at him. “Morning, Mr. Cooper,” you shout across the driveway.

He scoffs and walks towards your convertible. You’ve got the roof tilted down, a scarf wrapped around your hair to keep the style. You light up a cigarette while he approaches. He leans into the car and stares at you with a disbelieving look on his face.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’ve got a packed schedule today, can’t be late.” Barb’s warning suddenly makes sense now. You, apparently, weren’t the type to let him be a little lazy.

He’d almost forgotten she’d forced an assistant on him. He’s still not happy with it, feeling like he’s being babysat more than anything else.

She’d made it clear, though, that there wasn’t much room for arguments when it came to you. He doesn’t understand why she was so adamant about this. Most wives would prefer their husbands didn’t spend all day with such pretty assistants.

“Barb’s just run out, I’ve got to drop Janey off at school today.” You sigh, face screwing up as he speaks. You flick the cigarette onto the pavement and fiddle with the Pip-Boy you’ve got on your passenger seat. He’s surprised not to see it on your wrist, most Vault-Tec people treat it like a fifth limb.

You screw around with it for a minute before you finally look back up at him. “We can make it, get her out here.” You toss the Pip-Boy in the back and place your hands on the wheel. You give him an expectant look and he realizes you’re not gonna let him argue with you about this.

“Aren’t I your boss, darling?”

You scoff, tone sardonic, “Sure, Mr. Howard.” He sighs and finally heads back inside. Janey is more than happy to ride along with you. Cooper less so. You seem keen on breaking every damn speeding law to get him to work on time. He’s not sure he trusts his life in your reckless hands.

You peel into Janey’s school, practically kick her out of the car, and then you’re off again. “You can slow down, you know.”

You glance over at him, a sly smirk on your lips. “I’m not making you sick, am I?”

He eases up his grip on the door handle and shakes his head. “I’ve worn a power suit, sweetheart, not much can make me carsick.”

You shrug, “Good, then I think I’ll keep going like this.” He shakes his head, slightly miffed by the insubordination, slightly impressed. It’s nice to have someone who treats him like he’s just another regular Joe.

Most of his former assistants kissed the ground he walked on and were terrified to say one word against him. It gets tiring after a while, that sort of behavior. He’s seen plenty of his costars let it get to their heads and turn into someone egotistical and vile to be around. He doesn’t want to turn out like that.

He’s never wanted the fame to twist him into something he isn’t. He has a feeling you don’t let many people walk over you. You also don’t seem to have a problem with being assertive. It’s odd, these behaviors in someone in a position of subordinance.

Makes him wonder if being an assistant is your actual job, or if Bud had demoted you for some other odd reason.

“I really don’t want to intrude.”

Cooper waves you off and shakes his head, “Not at all. I’m inviting you, honey.” You sigh and grit your teeth. You know what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to thank him and accept the invitation to dinner.

But being with him everyday for the past few weeks has made it nearly impossible to keep this up. He’s an incredible man, kind and honest to a fault. He’s got such strong principles, to be openly manipulating those against him makes you sick to your stomach.

You thought you would be able to do this. So many times in your life you’d heard never to meet your heroes. You figured Cooper would be like every other pretentious asshole in Hollywood and you would have no problem lying to his face.

But he is so much more than that. He’s so much better than the people you work with and for, so much better than you.

Still, a job is a job. You don’t do this and you’ll be kicked out of Bud’s program and left out with the rest of civilization to burn up when the fallout begins.

You reason with yourself that by doing this you’re also ensuring Cooper’s safety. As long as he believes in Vaut-Tec, in you, he’ll have a place at the end of the world.

It doesn’t make you feel any better.

“Thank you, I’d love to join you.”

He grins at you and walks off to wrap up his last scene of the day. You let out a long breath, slumping against the concession table and rubbing at your forehead. You’re losing sleep over all of this. Your nails are brittle, hair splitting, and health declining with the amount of anxiety and guilt you’ve been carrying around.

Despite your resolve mentally, you’re really not sure how much longer you can go on like this physically. You’ve always been a horrible liar, especially when you’re lying to people you care about. You should have gotten an Oscar for getting this far with him.

The drive to Cooper’s home that night is silent. To punish yourself, you don’t turn on the radio and force yourself to wallow in self hatred the whole way there. You berate yourself and come up with about five different reasons to get yourself out of being his assistant.

But when you knock on the door and see his smiling face you can’t force a word out. He’s so handsome, cleaned up and his hair slicked back. You could get lost in his eyes when he speaks to you. You force yourself to keep your mouth shut and just eat dinner with him.

Barb keeps sending you appreciative smiles all throughout dinner and you want to stab your fork through her hand. You might be a horrible person for lying to him, but she has to be the worst damn wife you’ve ever met. She claims to be in love with Cooper, to care about him, but the way she manipulates him goes against that.

You don’t get to claim to love someone and then treat them like that. She won’t even let him take Roosevelt! You know for a fact that animals can go into certain vaults, she just hates that dog.

“I have to be a good man gone bad in this one.” Cooper explains to Barb. She’d asked after the latest script changes but she didn’t seem wholly interested as she messed with her Pip-Boy. “I don’t really like it, I’m meant to be a sheriff, not a cold-blooded killer.”

Barb scoffs and shakes her head, “Even good men have to make bad decisions, Cooper.”

Cooper straightens up and glares at her. At his silence she finally looks up, her face quickly becoming guarded at the look on his. “Not all of them,” he argues, voice soft. You and Janey glance between the two of them, this goes beyond a simple script change.

“Well,” Barb goes back to cutting her steak, shaking her head at him, “that’s a very naive way of looking at the world.” She gives him a sharp smile, her eyes empty and cold.

You’re grateful when Janey passes a piece of broccoli to Roosevelt and the both of them are snapped out of their pseudo argument. Barb snaps at the dog and Cooper laughs, you shrink into your chair, wishing to be anywhere else.

When dinner is over, you clean up while Cooper and Barb put Janey to bed. You slide open the door to the backyard and tug a cigarette out of your case. You dig around in your bag for a while, nearly breaking down when you can’t find your lighter.

“Need this?” Fire sparks up before you and Cooper grins as he holds his lighter out. You smile in relief and thank him, sparking up the end and taking a deep inhale. You feel yourself relax slightly, easing off of the meltdown you were about to have.

Little things keep seeming to build and build on top of you. You’re hanging on by a very thin thread and you’re worried about what’s going to happen when it snaps. “You alright, sweetheart?” He seems genuinely concerned and you can’t even look at him anymore.

You take a seat and nod, focusing instead on the stars above you. He’s further out from civilization, he’s got a better view of the night sky than you do from your crowded apartment. “Just been a little stressed out lately.”

He sits beside you and reaches over, his hand lands on your thigh and he squeezes. It lasts less than a second, it’s clearly meant to comfort you but it sets your body on fire and you turn away from him slightly. He frowns, an apologetic look on his face and he backs off.

You can’t find it in yourself to feel guilty. You don’t need to start being attracted to him on top of lying to him. Not when you just scorned Barb for the exact same thing. “I hope I haven’t been adding to that.”

You look over at him and shake your head, “Not at all,” you’re the only reason I’m like this.

He seems to catch onto what you’re not saying. He might not know exactly why he’s stressing you out, but he’s more perceptive than others give him credit for. Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just nods and takes a swig from the glass of whiskey resting in his lap.

“Sorry about earlier.”

“What?” He sighs, giving you a look that tells you not to bother playing dumb. You shrug, “Wasn’t the worst fight I’ve ever had to watch.”

He shakes his head and runs a tired hand over his face. “It wasn’t even a fight. That’s what bothers me, she says these little things and sometimes it just goes right over my head.”

You find yourself speaking before you can stop yourself, “It’s only later that you realize she was being cruel.”

He looks over at you and nods. His head tilts in confusion, “You know what I’m talking about?”

You nod, puffing on the cigarette between your fingers before you continue. You feel yourself starting to ease up again, your shoulders finally lowering from their place next to your ears. “Yeah, I’ve got a long list of ex’s like that.” Your mouth snaps closed when you realize what you said.

You probably shouldn’t be saying ex to the man you’re trying to keep with his wife. But he doesn’t get upset, he only sighs. The sound is resigned, like you’re only confirming something he already knew to be true.

“You don’t seem very happy,” Cooper glanced over his shoulder and spotted you. You had your heels in your hand, making your way across his back deck to stand next to him at the pool. You drop the heels on one of his lawn chairs and sit down to dip your legs in the pool.

He stays standing, staring down at you. You look up and offer him a tired grin. You must have been about as sick of this as he was. After a minute he finally sat down beside you. “Can’t say I’m pleased to have all these people in my house.”

You both glanced back at the party. Dozens of Vault-Tec employees streamed in and out of his living room, their voices carrying, even back to where you and Cooper were hidden away. He hated this, feeling out of place in his home.

“None of your friend’s wanted to come?” You glance over at him, a concerned look on your face. He appreciates it, your concern for his comfort, especially considering Barb doesn't seem to care for it at all. She hadn’t asked if he was okay with this, or comfortable with this wrap party. She’d simply gone ahead with it and then sprung it on him.

“Seb was here a while ago but he left.” He scoffed and threw back the rest of his drink. “Can’t say I blame him, if it wasn’t my house I would have left hours ago.”

You shrugs, “Let’s go.” You’re staring at him, eyes wide and earnest like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

He laughs, more surprised than anything, “What?”

You stand up, tugging your heels back on and holding a hand out to him. “Let’s leave. I can’t say I’m very happy to be here either.”

He argues, “These are your coworkers, sweetheart.” But he still takes your hand, getting back to his feet and letting you lead him through his back gate. You tug your keys out of your purse, sliding into your little convertible and giving him an eager smile while you wait for him to follow.

“They're a bunch of vultures, Coop. Let’s just get out of here.” Hearing you use his nickname affects him more than he wants it too. Affection has been few and far between at the house lately, he finds himself leaning into it when you offer it more than he should.

Things are tense between Barb and himself, but he’s still a married man. He shouldn’t get so happy when you call him Coop. And he really shouldn’t be leaving his wife behind at this ridiculous fucking party and getting in your car. But he finds himself going against his better knowledge and following anyway.

He doesn't ask where you’re taking him. He doesn’t even care, he just wants to be near you. You’re kind, you don’t judge him. You leave him feeling a little weightless everytime you snap one of your witty little retorts at him. He’s charmed by you, more than he should be, but he can’t bring himself to be bothered by it.

You’re eating shitty junk food and sipping on Nuka-Cola’s in the back of your convertible. Cooper kind of feels like a teenager again. It’s been a long time since he’s had some decent greasy burgers. Barb doesn’t like bringing fast food into the house and it’s been a while since he and Janey have snuck some on the way home from school.

You’ve parked your car in the desolate parking lot of the closed shopping center. You’re both quiet, staring up at the stars or the bright flashing billboards across from you. Cooper glances over at you and curiosity gets the better of him.

“How’d you end up working for Vault-Tec?” You give him a questioning look and he shrugs, taking a sip from his bottle. “Just doesn’t seem like your sort of company.” You seem too kind for them, too compassionate.

“I, um,” you chuckle, swiping away some condensation that had dripped onto your bare thigh and Cooper follows the movement lazily. “I got swept up in the war time efforts. There were a bunch of campaigns to get women to start assisting during the war.” You rolled your eyes and laughed, “The Nuka-Cola girl roped me in with her patriotism and I found myself at a plant assembling your power suits.”

Cooper’s shoulders tense up and he has to fight off a nasty retort. You catch his gaze and flinch away from it slightly. He doesn’t blame you for all the faulty defects in those suits, but he’d watched good men and women die on the frontlines because of those damn things. It’s hard not to get angry when they’re mentioned, especially because they’d told them the suits weren’t safe. The government forced them into them anyway.

”I know, there were a lot of defects. A lot of people died because of those suits. That’s how Bud discovered me actually, I raised hell with my supervisor. I tried to get them to fix the issue or just stop manufacturing them. We were wasting good supplies on death traps.”

You shook your head and sighed, “It didn’t matter what I said. They never stopped making them. But, Bud, liked my fire. He thought it showed good leadership skills that I was so willing to stand up for what I belived in. He took me to Vault-Tec when he left the suits behind.” You took in a deep shuddering breath, for a moment Cooper could swear he saw tears in your eyes. “I always seem to work for the wrong side.”

He’d been reaching out, hoping to offer some comfort, when his hand stopped. It dropped back down to his side and he glared at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Your eyes widened and you froze, seemingly caught off guard. “What?”

“‘I always seem to work for the wrong side.’ What’s that supposed to mean, sweetheart?” Is this it? The confirmation that he’s been looking for that his fears weren’t unfounded. Had you known this whole time he’d been fighting with Barb and not told him?

He didn't want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. How twisted had his life become that he was putting more faith into you, practically a stranger, than his own wife.

You shook your head, a frown appearing on your lips and eyes boring angrily into his. “That’s not what I said.”

His mouth opened in shock, not quite sure he was hearing you properly. “What? Yes, it is.”

“Cooper,” you snapped, his name sounding harsh for the first time. You’d always spoken so sweetly to him, he couldn’t understand where this was coming from. “That’s not what I said, what is your problem?”

Could he have misheard you? You’d never gotten mad at him before. You would only be acting like this if he really was wrong. He sighed, figuring he should just drop it before he made things worse. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

Your eyes softened and you reached out, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “It’s alright. Let’s just enjoy tonight.” He nodded, leaning closer towards you while you reached forward to turn the radio on. Despite the both of you knowing it was a bad idea, you rested your head against him. Snuggled up together and watching the stars, he could get used to this.

You hear your name, rushed and bordering on a shout. You whip around, frowning when you see Cooper barreling towards you. He reaches you, grabbing you by the elbow and dragging you into an empty office.

You’re taken aback by the aggression in his actions but you’re more concerned when you notice his eyes. They’re bloodshot and his cheeks are flushed, like he’s been crying or was trying not to. You reach up before you can think, hand cupping his cheek and ignoring the minute way he leans into it.

“Cooper? What is it? What’s wrong?”

His eyes are wild, darting all around the room like he’s waiting for someone to jump out and grab him. “It’s Barb. I put a transmitter on her Pip-Boy and I heard her in her meeting. She’s talking about starting the nuclear war, she’s going to fucking kill everyone.” You step back from him, arms dropping to your sides.

“Cooper,” his name is a barely heard whisper. “Why did you have to dig?” It’s over. You knew this was coming. Cooper was too smart not to start digging on his own, even without your reassurances. You’d only delayed the inevitable and hurt yourself in the process. Hurt him.

He frowns and shakes his head, stepping back from you. His face moves through a hundred different emotions, faster than you can process, but you manage to catch a few of them. He’s betrayed, hurt, disgusted by the sight of you. “You knew?” The words are spit out with such venom you nearly flinch from him.

You can feel tears burning the back of your throat and you glare at him, “Why couldn’t you have left it alone?” It’s misplaced anger, you know. You’re mad at yourself for getting involved in this, for dragging him down with you. You’re mad at Barb and Bud and all the fucked up corporations you keep finding yourself employed by. But the anger strikes out at him and you regret it immediately.

“You knew!” It’s not a question anymore, it’s a realization. He shakes his head and he almost looks more hurt than when he discovered Barb. “You’re fucking sick, all of you!” He’s out the door and down the hall before you have a chance to stop him.

You sink back against the wall, wiping at tears that won’t stop coming. Betty finds you, she takes one look at you and then a dissapearingCooper before she’s dragging you into Barb’s office. “You need to wait here for them.”

You don’t argue, there’s no point. You’d failed in your mission and Cooper was beyond Barb’s grasp. Maybe it was for the better, that he got away from her while he could. Dying rather than being trapped in a vault with her might be a better ending for him.

You can’t get that look of his out of your mind, not even while Barb berates you. She nearly fires you, but Bud stops her. She storms out of her office and you just keep replaying that moment with Cooper. You could have played along with him, never let him know you knew about Vault-Tec and just run away with him.

But the thought of living the rest of your short life lying to him makes you sick to your stomach.

Bud calls your name for the inth time and grabs your shoulders. You snap your gaze up to his, finally noticing that he’s been kneeling in front of you this whole time. ”You have to go in early.”

You shake your head dumbly, not understanding what he’s saying. He frowns, eyes desperate and he keeps glancing over his shoulder. “Barb is livid. She wants you gone. We’re gonna have to send you down early.”

“You mean…” you trail off, mind going blank at the thought of being put into cryo months before you were prepared to. You want to argue with him and tell him you need more time. Thoughts of going after Cooper and trying to make him see reason float through your brain.

He seems to track your train of thought because he shakes his head. “We can’t delay this. You go now or you don’t go at all.”

You hadn’t realized just how much Bud seemed to care for you until this moment. The sheer determination on his face that he wouldn’t let Barb bury you would have made you sentimental were it not for the current gut wrenching feeling of heartbreak you were experiencing.

He stands up and glances over at Betty. The worry slowly disappears as a plan starts to formulate within him. “Betty will take her car and get you to the vault, I’ll have people there ready to take you in.” He grabs your arm and yanks you out of your chair. “You need to leave now, before Barb comes back with security.”

He and Betty share a look over your shoulder before she nods. She grabs your elbow from Bud and marches you down the hall. You’re barely present for the walk through the hallways of Vault-Tec. You don’t have time to take in the world around you, appreciate the beauty before it’s gone.

You’re numb. Stuck in a limbo and paralysis of your own creation. When you make it to the vault, Betty leaves you there to be taken in by the guards. They lead you to Vault 31 and march you down the long hall until you reach your cryo pod.

You don’t know when you’ll be released, what the world will be like when you come back out. But you know Cooper will be gone and there'll be nothing left for you.

You step into the pod and let your eyes slowly drift closed.

Your pod pops open with a hiss and your head lolls to the side. There’s an odd buzzing noise before you but you can’t see much of anything. “It will take a minute for your eyes to adjust.”

Your brows furrow as you place the voice, “Bud?” Your hands grope blindly through the dark for the edge of your pod. Your eyes begin to thaw, vague shapes and colors making themselves clear to you first. “If you’re here, how long have I been asleep?”

Odd, you can’t make out his form anywhere, but it sounds like he’s right in front of you. You step down and there’s a loud buzz, like wheels rolling across metal. “Watch out!” You tilt your head in confusion, blinking the rest of the frost out of your eyes and gasping when you see what’s in front of you.

A brain on a fucking vacuum. “Bud!” You shout, completely caught off guard by this new look of his.

He sighs, the sound robotic and staticky. “Yes, it’s me. It’s the only way I could stay alive to monitor the success of my vaults.” Even just as a brain, you can still hear the pride in his voice, “I am proud to say that we have been most successful these past two hundred and thirteen years.”

You can’t respond, winded by how long it’s been since you’ve been asleep. Everything you’ve ever known was gone. Officially.

Your mind drifts to Cooper but you stop it before it gets too far. Even before he found out about your role in Vault-Tec, you were never going to be in the same vault as him. No matter what, the two of you would never have seen each other again.

There’s no reason to mourn him now.

Bud rolls in front of you, leading you to the door of the vault. “Hank MacLean and Betty will be here to greet you. You’ll be a part of the Triennal trade, your official entry into vault 33.” He’s rapidly firing off information faster than you can keep up.

You know the protocols, they were drilled into you long before you came down here. For every one of Bud’s Buds they had to marry their way into the vault they were entering. You just prayed Hank was kind enough to give you someone nice to marry, maybe even tall.

The vault’s door is rolling open before you get a chance to prepare yourself. Ten smiling faces stare eagerly at you, you offer them tentative looks. You search among them for Betty and Hank, it takes you a moment to recognize them. To realize that the two old people at the front are Hank and Betty.

They’d been out much longer than you had if the wrinkles were anything to go by.

“Welcome to vault 33!” A big eyed girl shouts at you from behind Hank. You offer her a shaky smile, racking your brain for what you’re supposed to say.

“Thank you,” the words are stilted and you wince internally. “In honor of your welcoming, my vault has sent ahead supplies and crops. My overseer apologizes for not being here to greet you all, but I’m happy to be here!” The words sound scripted, more than you would like.

Betty picks up on your discomfort and ushers you forward. “Come on, you should meet your husband.” You shoot her a scared look but the face she gives you shuts you down. There’s no backing out of this, as much as you might want to. This is your reality now.

“Norm, meet your new bride.”

Well, he’s certainly not tall.

“I still can’t believe you're not pregnant.” You hand Lucy a wrench and she frowns from her place on the floor. She pauses in her repairs of the pipes for a moment to pester you further. “Have you had the doctors check my brother’s sperm count?”

“Lucy!” You admonish, glaring down at her. She shrugs, not finding any fault in the question. You don’t have the heart to tell her that in the three years you’ve been married to her brother you’ve only had sex once.

It was your wedding night, extremely awkward and unpleasant for both of you. Norm wasn’t the type to just easily trust someone he didn’t know and you were still nursing a heartbreak he could never comprehend. He wasn’t a bad husband, he was actually amazing.

You two just seemed to work better as partners rather than husband and wife. You both kept your nightly activities, or lack thereof, to yourselves. It wasn’t exactly smiled upon to not be actively trying to repopulate the earth. But the extremely personal questions about your husband’s sperm and your fertility were beyond annoying.

Still, everytime you even consider trying again with him you think of Cooper and want to cry. “His sperm count is fine. It just takes longer for some couples.” She doesn’t seem like she wants to let it go, but you force her to by shoving her back towards the broken pipe.

You know she’s only been bugging you about it because her time in the trade is coming up. She’s just worried that her relationship will be like yours and Norm’s. She wants kids in a way you can’t bring yourself to and she’s worried her fertility takes after her brother’s.

You understand the fear, but if she asks you one more damn time you’re going to clock her over the head with a hammer. Steph comes up to you both and gives you a placating smile. She must see the murder on your face because she offers to distract Lucy.

You thank her and storm off back to your housing unit. Norm, thankfully, isn’t home when you get there. He’s too perceptive for his own good sometimes. You don’t think you’re mentally there enough to try and lie to him about why you’re upset today.

You decide to just call it a day. You’ll go to bed and when you get up, it will be time for Lucy’s wedding. You can just look forward to that and ignore the issues within your own marriage.

You clutch your bleeding stomach while Norm grabs you and drags you under a picnic table. You both watch in stunned, traumatized, silence as your fellow vault dwellers are slaughtered all around you. Norm’s hand is gripping yours so tight you can feel your bones grinding together but you can’t point it out.

A raider shoots at Bob, the kind old man who would slip you extra jello, and his blood splatters into your open mouth. It’s only a shoulder shot, he could live. But the raider is pulling out his machete and charging towards him. You make to leap out from under the table but Norm yanks you back.

“Norm!” You hiss, but he just shakes his head. Your eyes widen in disbelief, you can’t believe him. Sitting here and watching your friends just die. You could help, you can’t just sit here. You yank your hand out of his and charge out from under the table.

Your arms wrap around the raider’s waist and you both go flying. He lands on top of the wedding cake, frosting smearing across his bald head. You wrestle for his machete, eventually ripping it out of his hand. You thrust it up into his chest and he falls limp on top of you.

You grunt at the impact, slipping on top of Lucy’s ruined cake while you roll him off. Lucy storms down the stairs, holding onto a wound matching yours. She offers you her hand and helps you to your feet. “Norm?” She questions, eyes watering and desperate. You point to where he still sits under the table.

Across from you Steph grabs a gun and starts mowing down raiders left and right. You’re bending over for the raider’s machete when someone knocks into you from behind. You fall forward, head snapping against the concrete and vision going black.

You don’t know how that horrible beginning with Cooper Howard started. When exactly you began to fall for him among your betrayal. But you know how it ends. It ends with you following Lucy MacLean out into the brightness of the Wastelands. It ends with his death and the Ghoul’s birth.

I’m not sure if I’ve put this in my last few posts or not. But, all of my dividers are the creation of @saradika-graphics (give her some love bc she’s amazing)

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #fallout x reader #fallout tv series #cooper howard #The ghoul #fallout x fem!reader #fallout prime #fallout #cooper howard x fem!reader #the ghoul x fem!reader #cooper howard x you #cooper howard fic #the ghoul x you #the ghoul fic

216 notes · View notes