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leclerc-hs · 10 months ago

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73 Questions with Mrs. Leclerc - cl16

pairing: husband!charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which you do a 73 questions interview with Vogue OR charles can't help but third wheel your interview warnings: none??? just cute fluff basically, NOT PROOFREAD word count: 2.1k author's note: I actually got a request by someone to do this and thought it was such a CUTE idea and concept. I obviously didn't do ALL 73 questions cause that would've taken forever. But thought this was a cute little piece to do. I hope you enjoy and don't forget to let me know what you think don't be shy !! xoxo

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THE DELICATE FOLDS of the pale pink sundress fluttered like petals in a gentle breeze, framing your figure with a soft, ethereal elegance. As the front door yielded to the push, the fabric danced around your legs, caressing the tender skin of your thighs with a whisper of touch. Your radiant smile illuminated the scene, a beacon of joy amidst the fluttering fabric and nervous flutter of butterflies in your stomach.

“Hey!” The male voice chimed brightly, his tone cheerful as a songbird greeting the dawn, echoing through the air with an infectious energy that mirrored your own bright smile.

“Hey!” You respond with effervescent warmth, your smile stretching across your face like a sunbeam breaking through clouds. With a graceful gesture, you swing the door open wider, revealing the inviting warmth of your home’s foyer. The soft light spills in, casting a golden glow over the polished floors and elegant furnishing. The first thing to notice is the giant painting of a Ferrari Formula One car, hung high above the entry way table.

“Look who we have here! It’s Mrs. Leclerc!” A delicate blush warms your cheeks, a subtle reminder of the tender affection that tingles within you whenever you’re addressed as such. Though you and Charles have been together for many years, your marriage has infused your relationship with a fresh sense of intimacy and closeness. And despite that it’s been almost five years, the title of “wife” feels forever new and unfamiliar.

“On a scale of 1-10, how excited are you about life right now?”

“I would say 8, so I’m super excited!” With a gentle click, you shut the front door behind you, enveloping the foyer in a tranquility as you made your way down the hallway to the kitchen. Along the way, you stooped to pick up a scattering of children’s toys that lay scattered like confetti on the polished wooden floors, offering a quick apology for the perceived “mess.” However, you couldn’t help but inwardly smile at the orchestrated chaos around you. While the house was meticulously maintained by the cleaning company before the video shoot, every detail was carefully curated to strike the perfect balance between lived-in warmth and elegance, ensuring a setting that felt both inviting and authentic to you and the viewers.

“Any reason for that?”

In the heart of the home lies a kitchen adorned with a stunning green cabinet motif. The cabinets, painted in a rich emerald hue, exude an air of sophistication and charm, perfectly complemented by gleaming brass hardware. Sunlight filters through the vast array of windows, casting a warm glow over the polished marble countertops.

“You mean other than the fact that the kids go back to school soon?” You and the interviewer let out a soft laugh as you made your way behind the kitchen island, opening the fridge in a smooth motion to pull out a water bottle. “Want one?”

“No, but thanks though!” His voice is light-hearted.

As the fridge door remains open, a tantalizing glimpse is offered to the audience of its well-stocked interior. A colorful array of fresh produce fills the shelves, showing an abundance of vibrant fruits and crisp vegetables. Among the healthy offerings, assortment of juice boxes catches the eye, adding a playful touch to the wholesome scene.

“That’s a lot of juice boxes you have in there.” He makes a comment, it’s not a question, but you take it as one.

“Two kids and a husband,” You start, your tone light and casual before lowering your voice into a conspiratorial whisper for the camera, “who practically is also a kid, results in a lot of juice boxes.” With a playful wink directed at the lens, you punctuate the statement, adding a touch of humor to the scene. Setting the water bottle down on the expansive kitchen counter, you resume your easy demeanor, effortlessly blending candor and charm for your audience.

“Hey!” Your head shoots over, the camera seamlessly following your gaze to where Charles, your husband,sits on the floor of the living room, two of your kids, aged two and three, beside him with an abundance of toys strewn about. “I heard that!” Charles retorts with mock offense, a playful grin lighting up his face as he joins in the banter.

The living room exudes a chic sophistication with a distinct Formula One flair. Charcoal-gray walls provide a sleek backdrop, accentuating the mounted flat-screen television. A striking statement piece dominates one corner—a display of artwork showcasing all of the racetracks Charles has conquered – infusing the room with a sense of triumph and energy. A plush white sofa, adorned with an array of vibrant red pillows, invites relaxation and style. Across the room, a sizable shelf proudly showcases a collection of racing helmets, some belonging to Charles and others gathered over time, adding a personal touch to the space. Below the television, was a long console table that was adorned in various plants and photos of your family. You couldn’t help but smile as you glanced at them.

With a casual wave of your hand, you dismiss Charles’s playful interruption, maintaining your position at the kitchen island as the camera refocuses on you. The gesture carries an air of affectionate familiarity, a gentle reminder of the dynamic energy that permeates your bustling household.

“If you could do a love scene with anyone, who would it be?”

“Definitely Austin Butler.” You answer almost immediately, no hesitance in your voice.

“Hey!” Charles’s playful yelp echoes through the room once more, accompanied by the joyful laughter of your children. One nestled in his lap, the other engrossed in a picture book, their presence adding warmth and vitality to the room. You share a knowing smile with Charles, the affectionate banter a familiar melody to your family life.

The laughter of the interviewer joins the playful exchange. The camera effortlessly captures the dynamic interaction between all of you with ease.

You roll your eyes playfully, “Restez en dehors de ça.” Stay out of this!

“Arrête de faire semblant de vouloir faire l’amour avec quelqu’un d’autre que moi!” Stop pretending you want to make love with anybody but me!

With a mischievous gleam in your eye, you turn back to the camera, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Can I change my answer?” You inquire, injecting a hint of playful anticipation into your tone.

“Sure,” the interviewer replies.

“You’re supposed to say no,” You quip with a chuckle.

“Oh, um no?”

With a playful pout, you glance over at Charles who is already staring at the interaction. A smile adorned on his face like he is in complete awe of you, regardless of what you are saying. “Sorry honey!” You wave your hand around. “Answers are final!”

Leaving the kitchen behind, you make your way towards the backyard, where the promise of relaxation and leisure awaits. Stepping through the door, you’re greeted by the sight of a large pool shimmering under the sunlight, its crystal-clear waters beckoning for a refreshing dip. Surrounding the pool, lounge chairs are strategically place, some on the pool’s ledge, inciting you to bask in the sun while enjoying the cool water. A wide arrangement of pool floaties from unicorns to racecars litter the pool as well.

It’s a breathtaking sight: a vast expanse of bright blue skies stretching overhead, adorned with barely a wisp of cloud in sight. The warm rays of sun dance upon your skin. With a stylish flourish, you slip on a pair of your favorite Ray-Bans, a subtle nod to your husband’s sunglass collection.

“Vintage or new?”

You ponder for a moment as you stand in the backyard, a breeze blowing your hair behind your shoulders. “Depends, but definitely vintage.”

“Window or aisle seat?”

“Aisle, although Charles likes to take the aisle more.”

“What are three things you can’t live without?”

“Wait, do my children count as two of the three?”

“Up to you.”

“Okay, so my two children. And my lip gloss.” You laugh, pausing for effect. “Kidding! My two kids, and my lip gloss…” You pause, jokingly. “And my husband of course.” The light-hearted remark reflects the joyful chaos of humor and love in your life. “He’s really the sweetest man. I’m so lucky.”

The glass door slides open with a whisper, and into the frame steps Charles, his presence incessant. With a carefree demeanor, he approaches you clad in a pair of baggy jeans and a plain white t-shirt that stretched at the seams from his muscles. He presses soft kisses to your cheeks, the stubble of his own rubbing against your smooth skin, his love evident in each tender kiss.

“Désolé,” Sorry. He apologizes before pecking another kiss to your cheek. “Tellement ambrassable.” Just so kissable. He places one more on your cheek, your face bright red from the camera’s catching all of this.

“Looks like he can’t be far from you for very long.”

Charles looks at the camera, a glint in his eye with a large smile, like he was the happiest man on earth, and nothing could dampen his spirits. Especially with you nearby. “Est-ce que tu la vois?” Do you see her?

The interviewer, unaware of Charles’s words, simply nods in response behind the camera lens, acknowledging the affection in his tone. Later translations will reveal the depth of Charles’s words no doubt. Elle est tellement belle. Bien sûr, je ne peux pas rester loin longtemps.” She’s so beautiful. Of course, I can’t stay far long.

Your face is bright red as Charles remains at your side.

“Where are the kids?”

“Put them down for a nap!” Charles answers, his arm slung over your shoulder as he leans on you comfortably.

As the interviewer continues the questionnaire, Charles can’t resist interjecting with playful remarks and comments on almost every question. His spontaneous interruptions add an element of humor and spontaneity to the video, turning what could have been a standard interview into an entertaining and engaging exchange.

“How do you define beauty?” “My wife.” “Charles, the questions are for me!”

"What do you love most about your body?" "That's an easy one...I think her--" Charles begins, but you swat his chest and cut him off. "I love my arms. Not because they're that nice but they give me the ability to hold my children." Charles clicks his tongue, hating that you even implied something about yourself as 'not that nice'.

"Least favorite color?" "Red." Charles lets out a large gasp with a string of phrases in French, clearly hurt by your response. "It's a joke, mon amour!" "How did you know you were in love?" You look at Charles then, his eyes already on you, a soft smile pulling on both of your lips. "I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with him. Probably when I realized I would rather be awake in the middle of the night, since he was traveling so much, just to talk to him for even a few minutes, instead of going to sleep." Charles plays with the ends of your hair, twirling the ends around his fingers as he chimes in. "We've known each other for so long. But, when I first met her, it was like meeting someone I've known my entire life. There was no awkward silences between us. We just clicked."

“Diamonds or pearls?” “Pearls.” “Mon chou, don’t lie.” “I’m not!” “The diamond on your finger says otherwise!”

“If you made a documentary, what would it be about?” “Charles’ brain. I seriously question what goes on in there sometimes.” “Hey! It’s only you…” You raise your eyebrows at him, like he’s a liar. “And racing.” “Definitely racing.”

“If you had a tattoo, where would it be?”

Charles smirks deeply, like he knows something the world doesn’t, the interviewer picks up on it. “Wait, you have a tattoo? Can we see it?”

“No! It’s for me only.”

You playfully swat at Charles’ chest, a playful blush coloring your cheeks as you both wander throughout the house, showcasing its beautiful décor. Despite your embarrassment at Charles’ antics, you can’t help but be thankful for him easing your nerves. You weren’t one for the public eye, normally. So, when you agreed to this interview it came out as quite a surprise.

“Okay final question of the day.”

You both stand by the front door, the interviewer on the front step outside of the home.

“Hugs or kisses?”

“Definitely ki—” You don’t get to finish your answer as Charles’ fingers grasp onto your neck, his fingers sprawled along your jawline as well, and tugs your face into his. He shuts the door as soon as his tongue slips into your mouth.

It’s a few seconds before you push him off you. “You’re unbelievable!”

A giant smile spreads across his face as he looks down at you. “Only for you, mon chou!”

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #f1 imagine #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc x you #f1 grid x reader #f1 one shot #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 fic

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iheartbillholden · 2 years ago

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Dining Kitchen in Atlanta Eat-in kitchen - large coastal dark wood floor and brown floor eat-in kitchen idea with an undermount sink, shaker cabinets, white cabinets, quartzite countertops, white backsplash, marble backsplash, paneled appliances, an island and white countertops

#blustar range #newport brass fixtures #frosty white #dewdrop globe sconce #design and build #rohl filter faucet #bosch microwave drawer

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ceilidho · 6 months ago

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soap developing an unhealthy attachment to his therapist post his brush with death after being shot at point blank range. he was reluctant to see a therapist at first because he didn't like what it said about him that he was being more or less strong armed into seeing a shrink (like no one trusts him anymore; they don't think his head's on straight since being shot), but as time goes on, he grows to cherish the relationship he's cultivated with his therapist because,

well,

she understands him. she listens to him. where everyone else seems to want him to just hurry up and get better (the nightmares, the mid-sentence brain fog, the erratic mood swings, the silent brooding when he can't find the words, aphasia on the tip of his tongue, the constant, constant headaches and auditory hallucinations that he can't seem to kick), she doesn't put any pressure on him to heal right away. she works with him and his medical team; gives him the space to process what happened to him, and has a seemingly bottomless wealth of patience for him.

he can talk for hours in her presence. it's a shame their time together is limited to an hour and a half every week. the dulcet sound of her voice is such a comfort to him. it's a shame she politely but firmly rejects his advances when he finally asks her out, tells him that it wouldn't even be appropriate for them to be friends outside of his sessions. that it would in some way hinder his healing journey. which pisses him off because Soap has progressed in leaps and bounds since those early days when he used to stumble over his words sitting on the couch across from her, head in his hands when the language felt beyond his grasp, a fine tremor still running through his hands that he's since managed to contain,

and

his head is throbbing again. a sharp pain above his eye that pulsates like a drum in his head and -

he thinks about her constantly. in and out of sessions. she's a frequent topic of conversation when the brass finally lets him back out in the field, Makarov finally dealt with (resting six feet deep in an unmarked grave). he ignores the looks oscillating between concern and worry that Price gives him. ignores the way Ghost barks at him to quit bothering the bird in the tight skirt and fuck someone that won't get him discharged. ignores the way Gaz pulls him to the side to ask if maybe he needs to see another therapist, y'know, mate...get some distance.

they act like this is something new. an abberation and not his very nature. like he hasn't always been the type to lock onto a scent like a hunting dog. a sniper by training. he sits and he watches and he waits; waits for the right moment that he alone knows.

it comes to him on an inauspicious day, when he's leaving the training facilities and spots his sweet thing rummaging around in the boot of her car, her ass beckoning him forward like a siren's call. now, now, now, the little itch in his head says, the voice that knows when the time is right. it's a sense acquired through conscious and unconscious observation, letting it all filter into his frontal cortex until he knows without knowing that the parking lot is empty apart from the two of them and the men at the base gates half a mile away.

it would take nothing for him to come up behind her and push her into the boot. nothing to wrestle the purse from her hands and slam the trunk shut. nothing to drive off base with a flick of his fingers to the guards that hardly ever bother to question him before he leaves (though they know what car he actually drives), made complacent by familiarity.

and he knows that it's wrong, knows that there's a line that he shouldn't cross, that choices have consequences, but,

his mouth salivates when her hips twitch, the urge to take settling over him. surely they'd forgive him one indiscretion.

#btw i know fuck all about therapy so dont come for me if i got smt wrong #ive been in the past but its been like a decade since i had a therapist #soap x reader #soap/reader #ceil writing

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ripeandsoft · 2 months ago

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Office Hours

Summary: You’ve been a star pupil in Professor Richmond’s sociology class—always willing to help others, always on time, and you do great work. So when your focus starts to slip he feels he can help you, and you can help him with a dilemma of his own.

A/n: I did make an oc for this fic because I feel awkward using “y/n”, especially in dialogue. Her name is Joya and she has short hair which is mentioned later. This is the longest thing I’ve ever written and I struggled with making the dialogue flow and not seem awkward. Please be gentle with me! 🤍

Content warnings: slight age gap, dubious (consensual!) professor/student relationship, oral, slight public play, penetrative sex, spit, a spank or two, cum eating

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You stood outside his office doors, trying to see into the frosted glass window of the door. You lifted your right hand to knock gently, knuckled rasping against the cool glass. The sound of the brass knob turning made you stand up straight, the weight of your bag straining on your shoulder. The door swung open and his wide frame took up most of the door way. His tie was loose around his neck, the first few buttons open. He pulled his right hand from the pocket of his slacks to usher you in with two fingers, closing the door behind you and flipping the lock.

“I noticed that you’ve been distracted in class recently. Is there anything that I can help you with to get you back on track?” Terry leaned his elbows on the desk, muscles flexing with movement. Your eyes moved around the room to avoid his gaze. Neutral colored clay pots, books, pens, the occasional plant, and notes were scattered around his office. Late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the window spreading warmth throughout the room. You played with the rips of your jeans, twirling the frayed edges of fabric around your finger. Realizing you’ve been quiet for a beat you open your mouth to speak but close it again when nothing comes out.

“I’ve, um, just been distracted with other classes and volunteering around campus” You said with a nod, trying to appear more out together even though you felt like you were gonna melt into your shoes. You droned on about your other classes and picking up volunteer work to help with build up your portfolio. Terry listened intently as you explained the situation, his eyes boring into yours as you spoke. It wasn’t the best excuse but it’s better than telling your professor that you’ve been dreaming of him fucking you senseless. You began to sweat, the combination of the sun and Terry’s eyes on you made you feel like you were burning up. You glanced at the clock and swallowed the spit accumulating beneath your tongue.

“I understand Joya, really I do, but this upcoming presentation is worth a good amount of your grade. I have resources that can help you, study rooms in the library to reserve, tutoring help, office hours even. I hope you haven’t been wearing yourself thin” Terry stood and walked around the front of his desk and leaned against it. Your eyes snapped up to his face, his close proximity making his scent waft up your nose. Sweet like coffee and earthy like sandalwood. “Oh no I’m fine” you shook your head as you stood up, feeling like you’re overstaying your welcome and teetering on the tightrope of danger. You snatched your bag from off the floor, slinging it haphazardly over your shoulder and starting to walk towards the door. You heard Terry huff before his steps sounded behind you. His hand was on your shoulder and pulling you back into his chest before you could reach the doorknob.

Your breath was caught in your chest. You felt the print of his dick against his slacks, starting the harden against the curve of your ass. “Sit down Joya” He spoke in your ear, his tone leaving no room for argument. When he noticed you going for the chair again he nudged it to the side to stop you in your tracks. He nodded towards the desk. You backed up slowly until your thighs felt the cold wood. You sat yourself on the cold surface, plucking a pen from under your thigh. He came to stand between your parted thighs, thick index finger lifting your chin up so your eyes meet his.

“What was our topic of discussion last Tuesday?” He asked, finger tracing down your throat and chest, a trail of goosebumps left in its wake. You left out a soft breath before speaking. “Moral and ethical dilemmas” You responded, thighs shaking as his finger continued its trail. “What was one of the examples?” He started to place kisses on your neck, lips soft and warm against you. “Age gaps in mmm relationships” You sighed through your sentence, eyes flutter closed as he sucked on the skin above where your pulse thumped. He hummed as he pulled your shirt off in one swift motion. The fat of your tits spilled from the fabric of your bra, all the more enticing for his teeth to skink into.

“Take these off” He ordered, tugging on the loop of your jeans. Terry reached for his shirt, buttons opening without resistance. You shimmied out of your jeans and panties, the fabric joining your shirt in a heap on the floor. Terry leaned down to kiss you, giving you just a few pecks at first. His hand settled on the back of your head, his fingers nestled in your short curls. His tongue massaged yours gently, tasting your day off your tongue. Your nipples found a home between his thumb and index fingers, his digits rolling and pinching them. You arched into his touch, skin on fire with need.

You were pushed to lay flat on his desk, his hand across your belly. He pulled the hood of your swollen clit up to expose you more, the throbbing bud at his mercy. Terry licked a stripe from your hole up to your clit to gather your essence on his tongue. His spit it back onto your pussy before sucking your clit into his mouth, making you squeal. Your thighs clamped around his head as he continued to eat you. Your hole clenched around nothing as he brung your hips closer to his face, burying his tongue deep inside you.

With your hands pressed flat on the desk you tried to scoot away from your professor. Hot pleasure sizzled in deep inside your belly, orgasm building with each stroke of his tongue. Your eyes rolled back as you came in Terry’s waiting mouth. He hummed against you as you flooded his tongue. He rubbed your thighs to help soothe you, gently bringing you down from your high. The clicks of his belt coming off and hitting the ground made you lean up on your elbows. You watched as he kicked his pants off and to the side.

He scooped you up into his arms and placed you on your feet, turning you around to bend you over his desk. He rubbed his leaking tip around your clit before sliding his shaft between your folds. He jerked himself with his right hand, spreading your juices and his precum all over his dick. The shuffling of feet coming down the hallway made you look up, eyes wide in fear. Terry hand came down to spank your ass two times, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth as your skin stung from the impact. “Be quiet for me, you don’t want us to get caught right?” He asked, sliding in your wet pussy inch by inch. You exhaled all the air you had as he bottomed out, balls pressed against your clit.

You both were still, pussy stretched and leaking around him. His veins pulsated along your walls. He set a slow pace, digging as deep as he could. His tip brushed against your spot just right, your mouth open in silent moans as he worked you open. Terry threw his head back as he continued to thrust, his balls full and tight. He pressed you harder onto the desk, your arch growing deeper as his pace picked up. Was it wrong to fuck your student? Yes absolutely. Did you feel better than anyone else? Yes abso-fucking-lutely.

“Where do you want me?” He asked, feeling himself about to burst. Your body was buzzing, goosebumps erupting over your skin as you start to fuck back to meet his thrusts. “Inside Professor, please” You moaned, nails scratching at the wood surface of the desk, searching for stability. His balls started to slap hard against your clit, his hand resting on your hip clutching you tighter. He gave you one more pump before he started to flood your pussy, pulsating and twitching inside you as his load leaked out of you and onto the desk. You came again once you felt him empty himself inside you, a ring of white cream wrapped around the base of him.

He pulled out of you slowly, your walls hugging him tight like they didn’t want to let him go. He watched as his cum rolled out of you, pooling under your pussy. He leaned down to lick you clean before grabbing you by the back of your neck, tilting your head back so he could spit it into you mouth.

“Swallow” He said, closing your mouth for you.

#professor!terry richmond #terry richmond #terry richmond x black female reader #terry richmond x black reader #terry richmond x reader #x black plus size reader #x black reader #x black fem reader

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anoyms · 6 months ago

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"Brass Coffee Filter: A Timeless Essential for Authentic

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morgaseus · 9 months ago

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Thinking about slow dancing with sunday…

Contains slight spoilers for the Penacony quest. Set before the nameless arrived in Penacony.

“Do you know how to dance?”

The scratching of a pen suddenly stopped, he lifted his head, pen hovering above the parchment for a moment, before finally being laid down beside it. Your voice echoed throughout his study, breaking the silence between you two.

“Oh? Where did that suddenly come from?" His gaze drifted towards you. Moonlight spilled through the windows, tracing silver lines across your face. You were always beautiful but basked in the moonlight's glow, you looked absolutely breathtaking, as delicate as the forget-me-not's in his garden.

“I was thinking” you trailed off, slowly walking towards the gramophone resting beside the bookshelf. Your fingers trailed along the smooth brass surface of the gramophone, before finally reaching for the record tucked beside it. And with a click, a slow, but familiar melody filled in the air. “How about a dance?” You turned to him with a smile.

You needn't say anymore. He rose from his chair, his leather shoes creating a soft thud along the carpet as he walked towards you. The moonlight that filtered through the window bathed him in an ethereal glow. It danced across his features, casting a faint glow to his golden halo. His dull gray hair shimmered, the moonlight painting it silver. It emphasized the sharp, yet, soft angles of his face. His feathery soft wings, pierced with golden studs. You wonder how he got that, whenever you asked, he’d always changed the subject. You let out a faint smile. Everything about him was captivating but it was his eyes that drew you in. His golden eyes, full of secrets, held a warmth that enveloped you. You could get lost in them forever. Ahhh. truly, he looked like a being that fell from the heavens. Befitting his title as “the most handsome man in Penacony.”

As he reached you, his hand extended, palm open and inviting. A soft smile present in his face, his gaze never leaving yours. “Well, then, would you care for a dance, m’lady?”

You gladly took his hand and slipped into his embrace, swaying together to the rhythm of the melody. In this moment, he could lose himself entirely. Whenever you’re with him, time seems to slow down, the world fading into a blur.

The weight of the Oak family’s legacy - the 106,366 oak family members - loomed over him like a dark cloud. And with the Charmony Festival looming, a single misstep could shatter generations of aspirations. He'd been preparing for this ever since the dreammaster whispered words of promises in his ear. Every moment led to that one, final performance.

No longer would Robin have the need to go on a “tour” and risk her life to bring harmony. No longer would everyone have to suffer and endure mortal pain. No longer would everyone have to tear down each other's throat for a mere sliver of gold. He will bring order and utopia to everyone. Yes, he will be their salvation, not a tyrant, not a conqueror, but a shepherd ushering his flock to a new dawn.

Yet, for a moment, under the soft glow of the moon, he allowed himself to forget. In your arms, the crushing weight seemed to ease.

For now, it was just you and him.

#thinking about sunday suddenly sparked something in me...#i love this man in a big amount #no one can ever make me hate you sunday #balik kana pls miss na kita at ng mga anak mo :C #hsr x reader #sunday x reader #sunday hsr #honkai star rail #hsr #sunday x you #yuna works

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alizha · 1 month ago

Text

ｈｏｌｉｄａｙｅｎｎｕｉ

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

⁀➷ 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗇 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 | 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗎

Word Count: 4.8k

Tags: SFW, no use of gendered pronouns, references to and depictions of anxiety and depression, kissing

Summary: You and Reiner have a meet cute at therapy, and you're both feeling afloat during the holidays.

❖ masterlist ❖ read on ao3

The waiting room outside Dr. Keller’s office still bears the cheerful remnants of Christmas, even though the holiday had already come and gone. You’re sitting in your usual chair near the corner, puffy coat hugged tightly around you. Truth be told, the festive decor meant to liven up the room only adds to your listlessness.

There’s nothing wrong with the place as it usually is. The corners and empty spaces of the waiting room burst with vibrant greenery, strategically placed, you suspect, by Dr. Keller herself to maximize patient contentment. You’ve been with her for two years now, so you have a sense for that sort of thing.

A tall fiddle-leaf fig tree stands proudly in the corner closest to you, its glossy leaves catching the soft light filtering in from frosted windows. Now, it’s adorned with twinkling multicolored lights that throw alternating cool and warm shadows on the sage-painted walls. They blink unwaveringly and silently, regularly changing patterns every minute or so, and you can’t help but feel sorry that they’re being wasted on someone who can’t appreciate them.

You’ve been in a bit of a rut since November, something of which Dr. Keller was well aware, of course. She assured you she’d be available through the end of the year, and you’d taken her up on that, keeping up with your weekly visits. At the beginning of the month, she asked you how your Thanksgiving went.

“It was fine,” you’d said. “Quiet. Just me and Elvira.”

“Ah,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Your cat. Still not expanding your social circle, I see.”

You’d resented that. After all, Dr. Keller had told you to to start with things that feel comfortable. And Elvira is very comfortable. Cats didn’t judge, didn’t require any special considerations. They aren’t a challenge—not like people are. People are hard.

“We’re aiming for connections that talk back and don’t require kibble,” Dr. Keller had said flatly.

A big ask, but technically, you managed that the week before Christmas. You’d seen your next door neighbor, Mrs. Leary, when she was taking out her trash. She’d said Merry Christmas, and you said it back. Given the criteria set out for you, you’d say that counts.

You glance at the two doors at the far end of the waiting area leading to the therapists’ individual offices. Dr. Keller shared a space with another doctor, Dr. Madsen, whose names glinted on the brass plates adorning each door. You can practically already hear what Dr. Keller is going to say when you tell her about Mrs. Leary.

“It’s a start, but why not challenge yourself? Go beyond polite exchanges. Did you ask her how her holiday was?”

Sighing, you flit your gaze from the miniature pine tree twinkling at the edge of the low, rectangular coffee table topped with neatly arranged magazines, all holiday editions. Fixating on the strands of tinsel catching the light, each glimmer feels oddly louder than it should in the empty waiting room as you attempt to formulate an answer.

Your desperate clawing through the recesses of your mind for something more substantial than, “It just felt like too much,” is interrupted by the soft chime of the door. You glance up just in time to see him—tall, broad-shouldered, and blond. The man you’ve seen here at the office in passing many times before. One of Dr. Madsen’s patients, you’ve gathered in the time since you started noticing him.

Today, he’s dressed more casually than you’re used to, in a red flannel sherpa over a cream cable-knit sweater. In his arms, he’s juggling a navy backpack and several—maybe four or five—mini rose-gold foil gift bags. He looks even warmer and more approachable than in his usual business professional fare. It makes your stomach twist uncomfortably, a combination of envy and a familiar pang of fear, as he approaches the front desk with apparent ease.

“Morning, Lily,” he says pleasantly.

The secretary flashes him a dazzling smile. “Reiner! So good to see you. Did you have a nice holiday?”

You fidget with the hem of your coat. She didn’t make it sound so hard to ask. Maybe, you could do it, too. Maybe.

“It was fine,” the man—Reiner, you think to yourself—says, absently pushing the small potted succulent on Lily’s desk a smidge further away from the edge. “Quiet, just the way I like it. You?”

“Not quiet at all,” Lily says with a bell-like laugh. “Family chaos. You know how it is.”

“Lucky you,” he says with a faint smile. He adjusts the bags in his arms, pulling one carefully out of the pile by dainty ribbon handles and setting it on the secretary’s desk. “Just had to run into the office for a bit, and my coworker was handing these out. Take one off my hands?”

“Gladly!” Lily exclaims, her face lighting up all over again.

You can’t help but stare at the cheerful, gold-speckled tissue paper peering over the top of tiny curling ribbons. Until you realize Reiner has been glancing around the room, and his gaze has landed on you. Immediately, you look down at your lap, twisting your fingers together awkwardly.

“Still got decorations up, huh?” you hear Reiner say. “Festive.”

“Yeah, I keep meaning to take them down, but they’re so cheerful. Why the rush?”

There’s a shuffling of feet and paper, and you catch a glimpse of red out of the corner of your eye a few moments later. You tilt your head slowly and meet the man’s gaze again. He’s sidled past the coffee table and standing a couple steps away from you—a cautious, non-threatening distance.

“Hey,” he says with a disarming smile. “You… uh, want one of these?”

Your hands instinctively clasp over your knees, breath hitching. Plenty of other patients have tried striking up conversations with you in Dr. Keller’s waiting room before, but no one’s ever tried offering you anything. And it’s not really that you mind it’s just—

You’re no good with people. People are hard.

“Oh, no. That’s okay. I don’t—,”

“They’re just leftover office gifts,” he says carefully, taking a small step closer and holding one out toward her, thumb and forefinger gingerly pinching the sheer pink handle. The gift bag looks dainty and small and oh so endearing in his hand. “One of my coworkers went a little overboard. They mean well, though. Chocolate, I think. Or maybe soap? I honestly didn’t look too closely.”

You shake your head quickly, shrinking slightly. “No, really, I couldn’t—,”

“Please,” he says, his voice softening. “You’d be doing me a favor. Everyone at the office shoved these on me because they said I looked ‘too gloomy’ this season. Guess they thought this would help, but I wouldn’t know what to do with all this.”

His eyes, warm honey hazel, look just genuine and pleading enough to make you hesitate.

“You seemed… gloomy?”

He laughs lightly, a soft rumble of self-awareness. “I guess so. Anyway, I don’t need all these. Someone would enjoy them. I’m Reiner, by the way. And you’re…?”

You murmur your name in reply, barely audible, but he repeats it warmly all the same.

“Well, maybe you could take just one bag? You don’t even have to keep it—you could re-gift it if you want,” Reiner says. “But if I go through the trouble of lugging them all the way home on the bus, they’ll just sit on my kitchen counter until I forget about them.”

His kindness (and perhaps, his admittedly attractive face) placates your nerves just enough for you to extend a tentative hand. He looks pleased, placing the handle of the back in your grip. Warm fingertips gaze across your palm, his touch light and fleeting before quickly disappearing entirely. A shiver runs down your spine.

“Thank you,” you mumble, your cheeks warming.

“No, thank you,” he says with a grin. “Saved me from carrying these around the rest of the day.”

He looks around for a moment before moving to settle into the plush taupe chair beside the fiddle-leaf fig. You try not to look at him again, staring instead at the rose gold bag in your lap, plus still racing as you wait. When Dr. Keller finally emerges from her door and calls your name, you duck into her office and burn under the inquisitive look she gives you and your glittery new acquisition.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

You’re relieved when you don’t immediately regret leaving your apartment on New Year’s Eve to walk down to the main strip. The street is in full holiday swing, bursting with life and swirling with laughter and music.

Walking at a leisurely pace, you take in the string lights crisscrossing above you, glowing in warm yellows and icy whites. The storefronts are still dressed in their seasonal finery, frosty-edged windows sparkling with fake snow and wreaths and glimmering ornaments. And up and down the walkways, food vendors lined the curb, their carts sending up fragrant plumes of spice and cocoa.

The crisp winter air bites at your cheeks, and you pull the sides of your knitted hat a bit further down over your ears as you reach the plaza at the end of the strip. A towering Christmas tree stands at its center, huge ornaments glinting under the twinkling of a thousand multicolored lights. Beneath the tree, a stage is set up for a local band playing upbeat, jazzy renditions of holiday classics.

You weave through the throng of people gathered around, your breath puffing in soft white clouds. Some of them are dancing, others simply swaying to the music or beaming as they hold hands or clutch steaming cups in their gloved grasps. Everyone seems to be in the companionship of others, though. Not like you.

You hadn’t meant to come out tonight—not really. The thought of spending New Year’s Eve surrounded by so many people had seemed suffocating in the lead up. Yet, staying home had felt equally unbearable. You’d spent hours pacing your tiny apartment, torn between the guilt of declining your family’s invitations and the overwhelming anxiety of going.

So, you’d landed here, out among strangers. Their chatter blurs into a comforting hum in your ears. For once, it doesn’t feel like you have a hundred pairs of eyes on you, watching, judging. Everyone is too busy counting down the hours until midnight to notice you. It’s unbelievably freeing.

You pause by the edge of the plaza and stuff your hands deep into your pockets. As the band starts up Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, your gaze wanders back toward the large center tree, and you squint at a tall figure with short blond hair. That’s when you realize you recognize him from the therapist’s office—Reiner.

He’s leaning against the metal railing around the tree, hands shoved into the pockets of his long camel overcoat. His stance seems relaxed, but his expression is distant, eyes staring blankly into the pavement a few feet away as groups and couples walk past.

Your heart thuds in your chest. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. He doesn’t seem like the type to spend New Year’s alone, so handsome and charming. But he looks almost miserable standing there alone, you wish you could extend some sort of comfort while he waits, at least. Keep him company until his friend (girlfriend?) gets back.

The thought of approaching him paralyzes you with fear. You consider slipping away, pretending you haven’t seen him. Then, Dr. Keller’s voice echoes in your mind.

“We’ve been working on this bit by bit,” she’d said at your last appointment. “Maybe instead of thinking about it as a huge change, we break this down into smaller, achievable goals. Maybe you set a goal to initiate one meaningful conversation—with someone at work or even a cashier at a grocery store. The important thing is that you try.”

You swallow dryly, jaw clenching. You’d promised you would try. Progress wasn’t about perfection, even if you really want it to be with Reiner. But you were being presented with the perfect chance here.

You should take it.

Your legs feel like lead, but somehow, you forced them to move. Each step toward him is like a tiny battle. By the time you reach the railing, your palms are damp despite the cold. You clear your throat, voice coming out small.

“Hi, Reiner.”

He turns, life returning to his eyes when he stutters your name. “Hey,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“I, uhm…” you hesitate, the words catching in your throat, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to see you either,” he says with a low chuckle. He glances around at the crowd before looking back at you. “Are you… alone?”

“Oh. Yeah.” The admittance tears through your gut like shrapnel.

“Me, too.”

“Oh.”

It comes out sounding surprised, which you don’t mean for it to. You wince inwardly as Reiner awkwardly lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck, the short of his blond rustling.

“Listen,” he says, shifting his weight and hesitantly meeting your gaze. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Back at Dr. Madsen’s office. Well, I guess you go there for Dr. Keller. I didn’t mean to… uh, well, I guess I had seen you around and thought maybe it would be fine.”

You blink up at him, startled. “No, no, you’re not—,” you hurry to say, but then, you stop, unsure of how to continue.

You can feel the old, familiar instinct to retreat freeing up on you, the urge to politely escape the conversation before it gets too hard. You forcefully swallow down that urge and take a deep breath.

Baby steps.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you say. “I meant it’s not easy for me to talk to people, but you’re not, uhm… scary. Not like a stranger on the street or something.”

Reiner tilts his head, his plush lips quirking into a soft smile. “Glad to hear it,” he says. “I’m not sure I could handle being called scary tonight.”

His tone is light, joking, but there’s a quiet hint of genuine relief there. You can’t help but let out a soft, nervous laugh. He really was afraid he had come off badly in front of you, and the thought that even someone like him could feel that way relaxes you in a way.

“It was a bath bomb, by the way. The office gift,” you clarify when he looks at you inquisitively. “Not chocolate or soap.”

“Right,” he says, amused. “Good thing you checked instead of taking my word for it.”

The two of you stand there for a moment, the silence between you surprisingly comfortable. You fidget with the zipper of your coat, searching for something to say. This is the part you normally dread—the moment when the conversation could slip away entirely because you can’t bring yourself to go beyond the pleasantries.

Inhaling deeply, you push out the words, letting them tumble out. “So, uhm… how’s your New Year’s Eve going?”

As soon as you ask, you regret it. Your stomach sinks when Reiner’s expression shifts. Just a slight flicker as his faint smile fades into something wistful before he plasters the cheerful mask back on.

“Well, it’s probably not going all that well if I’m wandering around alone,” he says, his dry tone all but revealing his self-deprecation. “Just came out for a walk, really, and ended up here. But then again, you did the same thing, right?”

You duck your head, cheeks heating. “Yeah,” you admit. “I was supposed to go to a big family thing. I just… I didn’t have it in me. Guess neither of us is really winning at the whole social thing tonight.”

Reiner makes a low, teasingly dismissive sound and shakes his head. “I’m not much of a party guy either. But hey, I wouldn’t count you out just yet.”

You cock your head at him questioningly, and his smile widens.

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

You’re shocked. Your jaw nearly drops. Friends? You and Reiner? “Does—does this make us friends?”

Sitting in the same therapists’ waiting room every week, seeing each other in passing once in a while there. You thought being friends required a bit more than that, but Reiner doesn’t seem to think so. Has it always been this easy, and you just stressed yourself out for no reason?

“Sure. Then, we can say we hung out with a friend for New Year’s Eve. I’d say that’s a win,” he says. “I would like to be friends. If that’s alright.”

You look up at him, a hopeful glimmer in your eye. The word—friends—bounces around in your head, thrilling and terrifying at the same time. But Dr. Keller’s been urging you to take steps toward real connection for months. This could be one of those steps.

“It’s better than alright,” you say, the corners of your mouth stretching into a smile. “Dr. Keller’s been insisting my cat doesn’t count as a friend for ages, so it’s amazing, actually.”

Reiner perks up, his brow lifting. “You have a cat?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Her name’s Elvira.”

“I like cats,” he says. He leans in just slightly, but you get a full whiff of his scent, clean soap and the masculine fragrance of some variety of men’s shampoo.

“Well,” you say, warmth spreading in your chest as you study him curiously, “we’re friends, so you should meet her.”

He looks at you with a mix of surprise and excitement when he says, “Now?”

Your lips part, pulse thrumming fast. You didn’t plan on now, but you also don’t see why not. Reiner was, in your own words, not scary. Maybe this was a good idea and not one of those ideas that landed women on primetime news for entirely the wrong reasons.

“Now,” you affirm with a nod.

Reiner practically beams. “Lead the way.”

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

About twenty minutes later, you’ve made your way back up the strip and into your neighborhood with Reiner in tow.

“Dr. Keller said what I’ve been feeling lately is actually pretty common,” you’re explaining as you fumble with your keys.

The faint tremor of nerves is making the metal jangle softly in the otherwise quiet hallway. You’re hoping Mrs. Leary is asleep and doesn’t hear you and Reiner briefly loitering in the hall.

“She called it holiday ennui. You know, that weird, in-between time after Christmas but before New Year’s where everything feels off.”

“I get that,” Reiner says as you get the door unlocked and swing it open. “It’s like you’re supposed to be celebrating, but it feels more like you’re waiting for something to end. Or start. I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” you say, stepping inside and flicking on the light to reveal your cluttered living room. “Sorry, it’s a little messy in here.”

The idea of bringing someone into your space—a near stranger, no less—is something you’d never imagined yourself doing. Not even a week ago. But here you are, walking into your apartment with Reiner. Even the sleek black cat perched on the armrest of your couch looks confused.

“Don’t worry,” Reiner says with a reassuring smile. “My apartment looks like a tornado hit it most of the time.”

You set down your back and start toeing off your boots. “That’s Elvira, by the way.”

Reiner carefully slips off his own boots and overcoat, considerately placing them next to yours on the shoe mat and hanger. Moving slowly, as if not to startle the cat, he pads across the living room and kneels to get a better look. “She’s gorgeous.”

Elvira doesn’t move, her green eyes fixed on him with an imperious stare. You bite your lip and smile.

“She can be a little standoffish, but I’m sure she’ll warm up to you.”

Reiner nods. “Sounds like most cats I’ve met. They make you earn it.”

You settle into the far end of the couch and busy yourself with folding the blanket haphazardly thrown over it, your nervous energy bubbling up. “You’re, uh, welcome to sit. I’m sure Elvira won’t mind.”

He smiles gratefully and lifts himself up just enough before sinking into the other side of the couch. Elvira watches warily as Reiner sinks into the seat cushion, shifting her small paws as if deciding whether to hop down off the couch.

“It’s rough,” Reiner sighs thoughtfully, and you gather he’s picking up where your previous conversation left off. “That limbo during the holiday season. It’s been hitting me hard this year. Well, more than usual. I’m glad Dr. Madsen’s been available through the holidays.”

You fold your limbs cross-legged on the couch. “More than usual?”

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I was diagnosed with depression last year. Started seeing Dr. Madsen about it around the same time. He’s been helpful. I mean, it’s not like a magic fix or anything, but it’s something.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly.

Of course, you’d known he was showing up at the same therapists’ office as you for a while, so there must have been a reason. When you think about the times you felt envious of the ease with which he seemed to carry himself, your first instinct is to tell him you could hardly tell he was struggling with anything, but that isn’t always what people want to hear.

Obvious or not, Reiner was getting help. That’s what was important.

“You’re… really good at masking it,” you settle on saying.

“Yeah, well. Years of practice, I guess,” he says. “It’s not like I’m trying to hide it on purpose. Just… everyone deals with it differently, right?”

You nod slowly. “Right.”

Elvira takes that moment to leap down from her perch right onto the center couch cushion between you, landing with a soft thump. You watch with interest as she leans in to sniff at Reiner’s outstretched hand.

“Looks like she approves,” you murmur, a smile touching your lips.

Reiner chuckles, turning his palm face-up to scratch under Elvira’s chin. “Just gotta give ‘em their space, you know? Can’t force anything on them, let them come to their own conclusions.”

The cat settles herself regally on the cushion, neatly curling her tail around her paws, and glances up at you. Perhaps cats didn’t judge the same way people did, but they were still good judges of character. And if Elvira had taken to Reiner, you were inclined to believe inviting him over hadn’t been a mistake after all.

You glance at the time on your phone and realize midnight isn’t far off. “Should we maybe turn on the TV for the countdown or something?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan,” Reiner says without pausing from petting Elvira. “Can’t miss the ball drop, right?”

Leaning forward, you pluck the remote from the coffee table and click on the TV, flipping through a few channels before landing on a lively New Year’s Eve broadcast.

A glittering stage fills the screen, performers decked out in sequins that throw the spotlights shining down on them in a brilliant cacophony. After turning the volume up a bit, you set down the remote and absently reach over to brush Elvira’s fur. Your fingers caress warm, unfamiliar skin instead, and you realize with a jolt that you’ve touched Reiner’s hand.

With a sharp inhale, you jerk your hand away and snap your gaze to him. Both of you stammer out your apologies at the same time.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean—,”

“No, no, I’m sorry. She’s your cat—,”

You snap your mouth shut and look down at your socks, feeling the heat rushing to your cheeks. His hand is so big and warm, your stomach flutters recalling the fleeting touch. Reiner clears his throat quietly, his eyes glued to the screen.

“Looks like we caught the last performance,” he says.

“Do you usually watch this kind of thing?” you ask, sneaking a glance at him.

“Not really,” he admits. “Usually, I don’t even bother staying up for midnight. But I’m glad I’m doing something different this year.”

He gives you a tentative smile that makes your heart skip a beat, testing the waters. Instead of resuming his petting of Elvira, he relaxes into the couch and stretches out his arm across the backrest, hand resting gently on the cushion.

You return the smile and let your hand drift toward Elvira to scratch behind her ears. The cat purrs softly, tilting her head.

“Me, too,” you say quietly.

As the countdown looms closer, the broadcast on the TV switches to shots of the massive crowd gathered in Times Square. You lean in a little closer, your stomach performing flips as you pretend to adjust your position to better reach Elvira. But really, it’s more about closing the gap between you and Reiner.

You sidle in bit by bit until you’re close enough for his forearm on the backrest to brush against the nape of your neck, and an unexpected shiver runs down your spine. This is a thrill that makes your heart race in a way wholly different from trying to ask for help at a store. This is the kind you’re somehow enjoying, the kind you want to chase.

Reiner seems to notice, his gaze flickering briefly to you before settling back on the screen. Unimpressed by the shrinking space on the couch, Elvira lifts herself up in a long stretch before leaping to the ground and padding away, leaving Reiner’s warmth, solid and steady beside you. He scoots an inch closer to you, tucking you into the crook of his arm, and your nerves ebb away.

You turn to look at him just as the crowd on TV begins changing, “Ten! Nine! Eight!” only to find he’s already looking back at you. The movement of his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip draws your eyes down, and you guiltily drag them back up, throat suddenly dry. The scant air between you feels charged with something you can’t quite name.

As the countdown continues, Reiner leans in even closer. You can see the patterns in the gold of his irises as he searches your face for some sign that he’s pushed you past your comfort zone. Unconsciously, you hold your breath, your heartbeat wild against your ribcage.

“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!”

Out of the corner of your eye, the screen erupts into a colorfully dazzling display of fireworks and lights, and a mix of cheers and music fill your small living room. But you barely notice as you close the last bit of distance between you and Reiner and press your lips firmly against his.

He kisses you slow and hazy, with lips that taste like cinnamon cider. The pleased sigh he lets out against your mouth is only a faint whisper, as delicate as the tickle of his stubble against your chin. He brings his hand up to your face, warm fingers now cool against your burning skin as he skims his knuckles down your chin.

Auld Lang Syne plays out from the TV, muffled in your ear beneath the rushing of your pulse as your every nerve alights. Reiner doesn’t rush the kiss, languidly plucking at your lips with his, as if he might scare you away otherwise. His thumb strokes along your jaw, the gesture so gentle that fondness stabs you through the chest.

You reach up to tangle your fingers into the soft of his hair—dragging him closer, slanting your head to deepen the kiss. Encouraging him to be bolder. Reiner groans.

He slides the hand on your jaw around the back of your neck, and heat ricochets through your veins. You add fuel to the fire, wrapping your arms around him, startled by your own brashness. His tongue rolls against the seam of your lips, hot and wet, and your breath hitches, opening yourself to allow him to tenderly explore your taste.

Just as you’re starting to notice the lightheadedness creeping up on you, a dizziness resulting from equal parts excitement and lack of air, Reiner parts from your lips and ducks his head to trail warm, open-mouthed kisses up the column of your neck. When he reaches your jaw, his tongue flickers out to lave at your ear.

A tiny whimper falls from your lips, and you nestle yourself into the juncture of his neck, panting into his flushed skin. The scent of his shampoo invades your senses again, leaves you fuzzy and yearning. Reiner’s fingers skate down the length of your spine to wrap his hand around your waist.

Somewhere in the far flung corner of your mind, you vaguely register that persistent, gnawing uncertainty that screams at you to flee. But the more present part of you drowns that instinct. It compels you to melt into the comfort of Reiner’s arms, hoping that he’ll let you stay pressed against him for a little while longer, even as your tongue twists into knots. You’ve been very good at asking for what you need.

“Been wanting to do that for ages,” he sighs, sounding breathless.

“Happy New Year, Reiner,” you say softly into his ear.

His lips curve into a smile against your hair. “Happy New Year.”

#reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner braun x you #reiner x you #reiner x reader #reiner aot #aot reiner #snk reiner #reiner snk #snk #aot #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #my writing

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teddiee · 6 days ago

Text

Into Each Life: Chapter 15

Summary:

He lands hard on the floor—metal ridges biting into his skin—and a new wave of adrenaline slams into him. Tony bucks wildly, thrashing. A knee pins his thigh, a forearm braces across his chest. Someone mutters a curse. For a second, it sounds like they might sedate him. Tony wonders if they’ll press a cloth soaked in chloroform over his mouth, maybe jam a needle into his neck. But no sedation comes. Instead, they force him into a corner, shoulders jammed against cold steel.

The engine rumbles to life.

Words: 11,090

Content Warning : 18+ (Explicit language)

Tony’s fingers tremble as he dials. The heavy brass rotary clicks under his touch, each number dragging out the inevitable. The dim glow of the servant’s quarters is the only thing keeping him from feeling like he’s suffocating entirely. It’s not much, but it’s enough to stop his hands from shaking too visibly.

The line crackles. One ring. Two.

Then—

“Yeah?”

Bucky’s voice is thick with exhaustion, a low rasp wrapped in the remnants of sleep. Tony almost falters, almost drops the phone back onto the receiver. But he can’t. He’s already let the moment stretch too long.

He licks his lips, forces his tone to be light, breezy, the way he does when things are spiraling out of his control.

“Guess who’s off the market?”

He immediately winces.

Silence.

A stillness so sharp it might as well be the edge of a knife pressed against his skin.

Then—

CRASH.

Tony jerks the receiver away from his ear as a deafening smash rattles through the line.

Something heavy, ceramic maybe, a plate, hits the wall on the other end. The muffled shout of Steve’s voice follows, alarmed, urgent.

“What the hell, Buck—?”

Tony breathes out a slow, unsteady exhale.

Bucky’s voice is different when it comes back. Lower. Tighter. Lethal.

“Say that again.”

Tony closes his eyes. “It’s official,” he says, voice steadier than he feels. “Howard has it all lined up. Contracts, legalities, the whole nine yards. I’m spoken for.”

Another beat of silence.

Then—

A low, guttural sound rumbles through the receiver.

Tony stiffens. He’s never heard Bucky make that sound before.

It’s not anger. Not entirely.

It’s something more. Something primordial. Something deadly.

“Who.”

Tony doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t have to.

Bucky already knows.

But he needs to hear it anyway.

Tony swallows. “Stone.”

The sharp inhale on the other end tells him everything.

Then—

“That’s not happening.”

Tony lets out a weak laugh, but it’s humorless. Wet. “Hate to break it to you, stud, but my old man’s not really one for democratic decision-making.”

Another bang. This time, something heavier. Maybe a chair against the wall.

Steve’s voice, distant and alarmed, filters through again. “Jesus, Buck, calm the hell down—”

“Tell me everything.” Bucky’s voice is so quiet, so measured, that it sends an actual chill down Tony’s spine. “Now.”

So Tony does.

He tells Bucky about the inevitable contract, the moment his father told him like it was a business transaction, the way Tiberius had stood there, smug, reveling in his victory.

He strategically leaves out the part about the press of lips against his cheek, the suffocating scent of the Alpha curling around him, the way his thumb had pressed against Tony’s scent gland like he had a claim.

He doesn’t need Bucky destroying any more of his and Steve’s meager furniture.

Tony doesn’t realize his breathing has gone shallow until he hears Bucky’s next exhale. It’s shaking.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m going to kill him.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s a promise.

Tony exhales shakily, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, well, if you could do that without landing yourself in Leavenworth, that’d be swell—”

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Tony,” Bucky snarls. “He can’t have you. He won’t. I won’t let him.”

Tony flinches, but not out of fear. Out of something else. Something deep in his chest that tightens at the possessive edge in Bucky’s voice.

Because this isn’t just about keeping Tony safe.

This is about keeping Tony.

The silence stretches thick between them, heavy with something unspoken. Then, after what feels like an eternity:

“Tell me where you are.”

Tony hesitates. “Bucky—”

“Tell me where you are, Tony. Now. Tell me he’s not—”

Tony swallows hard. “I’m safe. I’m okay, I’m with the Jarvises.”

He glances at Jarvis, who is watching with quiet, measured concern. The butler doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.

Tony inhales sharply. Then, slowly:

“I have a plan.”

Bucky’s breath is sharp. “I don’t give a damn about plans. I need you out. I need you with me.”

Tony’s chest clenches. “I know. But if I don’t do this right, I’ll never be free.”

Bucky is silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately:

“If you’re not free,” he says, voice raw, “then neither am I.”

Tony’s throat tightens.

“You are mine, Tony. Not his. Not ever.”

Tony exhales shakily, gripping the receiver tighter. He can feel it, the fire burning beneath Bucky’s words, the sheer, unwavering truth of them.

“Yours,” he whispers back, like a vow.

Tony doesn’t so much wake up as he does surface slowly from a fitful doze, the edges of sleep clinging stubbornly even as his mind alerts him to something amiss. There’s an uneasy hush in the air—a tension he can’t quite place. It takes him a long minute to register that the unusual quiet is because the Jarvises, who typically bustle about at dawn with a comforting routine, aren’t making a sound.

A pang of alarm tightens his chest. He’s still in the modest servant’s suite—tiny bed, worn nightstand, overhead light dimmed to the lowest setting. Jarvis insisted he stay here last night, away from prying eyes. For safety.

If this is safety, Tony thinks sourly, then I’m toast.

He rolls out of bed, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. The recollection of the phone call with Bucky rakes over him like a raw bruise. His pulse jumps as he remembers the crash, the rage in Bucky’s voice, the vow.

You are mine, Tony.

The echo of it warms him even as dread prickles at the base of his spine.

He slides on yesterday’s clothes—still neatly folded on a chair, courtesy of Ana—and smooths his unruly bedhead back with trembling fingers. His heart is thrumming, but he forces his face into neutrality before easing open the bedroom door.

The hallway is empty. Not a whisper of the usual morning clatter. Tony’s ears strain for any sign of the Jarvises. Nothing.

He makes his way toward the small kitchen, footsteps nearly silent. The overhead lights in the corridor are only half-lit, the gloom casting odd shadows along the walls. Outside, the sun has barely crept over the horizon, painting thin slivers of dawn across the windowsills.

When Tony steps into the kitchen, he halts.

Tiberius Stone is seated at the little wooden table at the center of the room—like he belongs there, like this is his domain. He’s alone. No father, no business associates, no staff. Just Tiberius, perched with disconcerting ease in the Jarvises’ private space.

And Tony’s heart drops to his stomach.

Tiberius sports impeccably slicked-back dark hair and a face that radiates smug confidence—traits that, in Tony’s humble view, seem overly assertive for seven in the morning. He’s wearing a crisp, tailored suit, the top few buttons undone as though to display the edge of a claim. It’s a power move—everything Tiberius does is a power move.

He looks up at Tony with a slow, appraising gaze.

“Morning, Stark,” he drawls. “You look like hell.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile that never reaches his eyes. “Cozy little hole you’ve got back here.”

Tony tucks his hands into his pockets to hide the tremor in his fingertips. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says evenly, though his throat feels tight. “This is the servants’ quarters. They’re off-limits to visitors.”

Tiberius shrugs, barely acknowledging Tony’s complaint. “Servants, guests—does it matter?” He lazily straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Once the contract is sealed, you’ll figure out how pointless those distinctions are. I go where I want.”

Tony’s stomach lurches. He edges forward, hands slipping into his pockets so Tiberius doesn’t see how his fingers clench. “Where are Ana and Jarvis?”

Tiberius’ lips twitch. “I asked them to step out. Politely, of course. I don’t think they’ll wander too far. They worry about you.” His eyes dance with mock innocence. “Such loyal employees.”

“So you threatened them until they left me alone,” Tony sighs. “How very chivalrous of you. Want to skip the niceties and tell me why you’re here?”

“Straight to business.” Tiberius sets his forearms on the table, leaning in. “I suppose it’s too early to pretend pleasantries. Let’s see...” He tilts his head, nostrils flaring—subtle, but obvious enough in Alpha body language. “You smell… off,” he remarks, distaste curling at the edges of his tone. “One could even say ‘mangy’.”

Tony’s jaw tenses. “You’d know all about it, I’m sure. You do love burying your nose where it doesn’t fucking belong.”

Tiberius’ eyes narrow with predatory interest. “Funny. My nose says you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time with that Alpha. You reek of someone strong.” There’s a purr in his voice, dangerous and amused. “Daddy still doesn’t know about this one, does he?”

Every muscle in Tony’s body goes rigid. He doesn’t respond. Can’t. Because giving Tiberius anything would be a mistake.

Tiberius interprets the silence with a flicker of triumph. “Mm. Thought so.” He slides his gaze down Tony’s frame, lingering on the faint flush at Tony’s collar. “An Alpha so potent he’s practically branded you. That’s quite the scandal in the making.”

He stands up smoothly, stepping away from the table. Tony’s eyes track the movement, every cell on high alert.

“Dunno what you’re sniffing around for, Stone,” Tony says, voice carefully bored, “but you might want to keep your fantasies on a leash. The last thing that paper-thin reputation of yours needs is another tabloid feeding frenzy.”

Tiberius lifts an eyebrow, still wearing that faint, disinterested smirk. With casual ease, he pulls the cuff of his shirt sleeve over his warped, exposed wrist. “Don’t play stupid. I can practically taste his scent on your skin. Did he knot you yet? Or did you just let him rub one out against you like a desperate pup in rut?”

Tony can’t contain the sharp flare of rage in his chest. It’s only the memory of Jarvis’s and Anna’s presence nearby—anxious, listening—that keeps Tony from lunging at Tiberius.

“Charming,” Tony says instead.

“You smell like him, Tony,” Tiberius volleys, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “And if you won’t tell me who he is, I’ll find out on my own. Not that it matters, of course.” He glances toward the doorway, and Tony can sense Jarvis hovering out of sight. “Once our contract is done, I don’t care who he is—he’ll be irrelevant. But I do like to know exactly who I’m taking from.”

Tony’s chest constricts.

Tiberius steps closer, and before Tony can flinch back, he’s grabbed Tony’s chin. His grip is firm but oddly dispassionate, his thumb brushing over Tony’s lower lip in a way that sends a wave of revulsion through Tony’s entire body.

“So,” Tiberius muses quietly, as if he’s inquiring about the weather, “did your little secret Alpha mark you yet? Did he bite right here—” Tiberius ghosts his thumb over Tony’s scent gland, where Bucky had worried a bruise into the skin mere weeks ago—“pump you full, maybe do it on his knees so he could see how pretty you look when you’re pinned?” He cocks his head. “You strike me as the type who likes it rough. But hey, maybe you prefer a gentle hand. Hard to say with that attitude.”

Tony jerks away, dizzy. “Fuck off, Stone.”

Tiberius leans in, tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Or… perhaps he hasn’t actually gotten around to knotting you, yet?” He waits, eyes boring into Tony’s. “Oh, you sweet, foolish pup. That blush on your face is very telling.”

Tony’s fists clench. “Stop—”

Tiberius continues as though Tony never spoke. “Well, he’s done… something, I can smell that much. But not everything. Tsk. So he’s a coward, is he? Or maybe he just doesn’t have the balls to see it through.” He gives a mocking shrug. “Either way, that’s good news for me.”

“I said shut up, you fucking lunatic,” Tony snaps, voice tight with anger and shame. The heat in his cheeks intensifies, exactly what Tiberius wants.

Tiberius’s grin spreads, slow and cruel. “There’s no need to be shy, darling. I’m just assessing the goods. Howard wants me to be fully informed, and let’s be honest—an Omega’s sexual experience is crucial in a contract like this.” His voice is so cold, so casually degrading, that Tony feels sick. “If you were already knotted, well… that would certainly be messy, complicated. But since you’re still unmarked—still untouched in the real sense, anyway—it’s actually quite a relief. Gives me a nice, clean slate to work with.”

“If you’re trying to woo me, jackass, maybe don’t talk about me like I’m a piece of property,” Tony snarls, taking a step forward without even realizing it. He’s so angry he can feel his heartbeat thrumming at the back of his throat.

Tiberius merely raises an eyebrow. “But that’s exactly what you are, Stark. At least, that’s what your old man’s selling. And I’m buying.” His smile turns into something wolfish, a flash of teeth. “Or do you think Daddy would have drawn up these papers if you had a real choice?”

Tony’s stomach churns. He can’t deny the truth in Tiberius’s words—this is exactly what Howard does, packaging Tony up like an investment, a bargaining chip to strengthen alliances. That doesn’t make it any less maddening.

Tiberius lets out a small, theatrical sigh. “For what it’s worth, I’m almost disappointed your Alpha friend hasn’t knotted you. I would’ve enjoyed the challenge—scrubbing his scent off you while I fucked you full of mine.” He laughs, soft and humorless, as though the idea amuses him. “But seeing as he hasn’t staked a real claim, you won’t be that hard to break in.”

Tony recoils, repulsion tightening his chest until he can barely breathe. “You’re insane.”

Tiberius’s eyebrows lift. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.” He stands, looming over the table with the kind of quiet menace that makes the hair on Tony’s arms rise. “Funny how everyone says that, yet nobody seems interested in doing a damn thing about it. Howard, least of all.”

The tension in the cramped kitchen is suffocating, thick enough to taste. Tony watches as Tiberius adjusts his cuffs, methodical and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. The knowledge that Tiberius waltzed in here—into the Jarvises’ private space—and made himself comfortable only twists the knife deeper.

Tony breathes carefully, forcing himself to think of Bucky’s voice—of that promise he made. It steadies Tony, even if just a little. “If you’re only here to threaten me, consider me underwhelmed. All bark and no bite—can’t expect much more from dad’s lapdog, I suppose.”

Tiberius’ eyes flare. For a moment, Tony wonders if he’s pushed too far. Then Tiberius laughs again, an ugly, abrasive sound. “I do so enjoy that smart mouth of yours. It’ll be fun finding ways to put it to better use.”

Tony’s stomach turns. “H romantic. These threats are becoming increasingly unoriginal, by the way.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” Tiberius says, triumphant. “Let’s not pretend otherwise. I know your father. He won’t let a little detail like your… ah… private entanglements sway his business. So if you don’t want me ratting out your indiscretion, maybe you should start acting like the good, obedient fiancé—ah, sorry.” He spreads his hands in mock apology. “Whatever the hell your father calls this arrangement. ‘Pre-bonded partner’? ‘Future acquisition?’ The terminology barely matters.”

Tony forces himself to unclench his fists, ignoring the sting in his palms where his nails have bitten into flesh. He can’t risk letting Tiberius goad him into something rash. “What do you want?”

Tiberius steps closer, crowding Tony against the edge of the counter. Tony holds his ground, refusing to back away. This close, the Alpha musk is overpowering, an oppressive weight in the air. “For now?” Tiberius murmurs, voice dropping to a private hush. “I want compliance. I want you to remember exactly who’s in charge, that you can’t wiggle your way out of this. You will present yourself as my prospective mate, as intended. No more of this sneaking off. No more midnight phone calls. If I so much as suspect you’re letting someone else sniff around your neck, I’ll make it known to your father. And I’ll make sure you regret it.”

A flicker of genuine fear churns in Tony’s gut. He hates that Tiberius can see it in his eyes, but there’s no hiding that primal surge of adrenaline in the face of an alpha’s threat.

“Did I make myself clear?” Tiberius demands, stepping close enough that their bodies almost brush, his breath hot against Tony’s cheek.

“Crystal,” Tony says, voice tight.

Tiberius’ lip curls with satisfaction. “Good.” He leans in, dangerously close, and Tony can smell the rancid sweetness of coffee on Tiberius’ breath. “We’ll keep up appearances until the contracts are finalized. Then…” His hand drifts up, just shy of grazing Tony’s mating gland. Tony stiffens, bile rising in his throat. “Then I’ll make my claim real. Permanently. And I won’t let your father’s money or your sense of self-preservation stop me from marking what’s mine.”

Tony glares at him, teeth clenched. “Quit touching me, Svengali, I swear to God—”

Tiberius smirks, letting his hand fall away. “Oh, there weill be plenty of touching, Omega. But I’ll let you cling to your illusions a little longer if that’s what keeps you docile.”

An unsteady breath escapes Tony. He can’t even summon a retort. The raw disgust in his chest makes it hard to speak.

Tiberius gives him a once-over, then steps back. “I’m done here.” He casts a derisive glance around the Jarvises’ modest kitchen. “Tell your father I stopped by, if you like. I’m sure he already knows. But do me a favor…” He turns his gaze back on Tony, eyes gleaming. “Wash off that stink. If I have to smell someone else on you again, I might not be so polite next time.”

Tony swallows, shoulders tight enough to snap, but says nothing.

With a short, humorless laugh, Tiberius saunters past him, heading for the back door. The hush seems to thicken once more, pressing against Tony’s ears until all he hears is the dull thud of his heart.

A heartbeat later, Tiberius is gone, the screen door swinging shut behind him.

Tony waits until he’s certain Tiberius isn’t coming back, then lets out a shaky exhale. His knees feel weak. He braces his palms on the counter, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.

He hears movement at the edge of the hallway. Jarvis, reluctant but stepping in now that the intruder is gone, appears at the threshold. His expression is grave, lines of concern etched across his brow.

“Are you all right, Tony?” Jarvis asks quietly.

Tony doesn’t look up. He can’t. His throat feels too tight. “I’m swell,” he forces out, voice ragged. He clears it, tries again. “Yeah, J. I’m okay.”

Neither of them believes it. But Jarvis doesn’t push. He simply crosses the room and sets a warm hand on Tony’s shoulder, silent comfort radiating in his touch.

Tony draws in a slow breath, chest aching. The memory of Bucky’s voice, fierce and protective, echoes in his mind:

He can’t have you. He won’t. I won’t let him.

Tony lets that resonance ground him. Because if he has any hope of making it out of this nightmare intact—and keeping Bucky free with him—he’s going to need every scrap of resolve he can muster.

The kitchens have always been Tony’s refuge, a small pocket of warmth and normalcy in an otherwise suffocating environment. He’s barely left since Friday, tethering himself to the space where Ana moves with practiced ease, flour dusting her sleeves, the scent of fresh bread curling through the air like a lifeline.

She doesn’t question why he’s here, why he hasn’t set foot outside these walls except to sleep. She just… lets him be. And maybe that’s why he hasn’t unraveled completely—because while the rest of the estate looms over him like a cage, Ana and her kitchen is safe.

She fusses over him like it’s a full-time job, placing warm plates in front of him every few hours, making tsk noises when he so much as looks at his coffee without touching the food. He tries to protest—because eating feels like a chore, because his stomach is in knots, because the walls are closing in and the air is too thick—but she just raises an eyebrow and levels him with that look.

The one that says you are not winning this fight, idióta, so eat.

So he does. Mostly because she’s watching him like a hawk.

At least the conversation is a welcome distraction.

“Tell me about your Alphas,” she says, slicing vegetables with quick, sure movements, her back to him but her tone deliberately light.

Tony snorts softly, poking at the eggs on his plate. Tony snorts softly, poking at the eggs on his plate. “Alpha. Singular. One very beautiful, slightly possessive, and currently homicidal Alpha. Steve’s just a friend.”

Ana hums, unimpressed, the rhythmic slice of her knife against the cutting board never faltering. “Oh, igen?” she muses, tone as dry as overbaked biscuits. “Just a friend?”

Tony waves his fork loosely, leaning back against the worn wooden chair. “A good friend. A good, small friend with violent tendencies and a chronic inability to mind his own business, sure, but that doesn’t make him my Alpha. We’ve been over this, Ana.”

Ana simply hums again, turning to toss the diced peppers into a sizzling pan. The scent of caramelizing onions and garlic thickens in the air, grounding, soothing. She moves with a quiet certainty, each movement efficient and precise, but there’s a warmth to it, a familiarity that makes the kitchen feel like a space outside of time.

Tony exhales, rolling his shoulders. “Look, if I had two Alphas by choice, don’t you think I’d be the first to admit it? Alas, I seem to have acquired one through hostile takeover, so forgive me if I’m not throwing a parade.”

Ana doesn’t look up, but he catches the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Of course, drágám.”

Tony eyes her warily. “I feel like you’re humoring me.”

“Always.”

Tony sighs, picking up his fork again. “I can’t win with you.”

“No, you cannot.” Ana slides a skillet onto the stove with a practiced flick of her wrist, setting a wooden spoon against the edge before finally turning back to him. “So, tell me about them anyway.”

Tony exhales but doesn’t protest. He knows what she’s doing—keeping him talking, keeping him here, instead of wherever his mind keeps spiraling. He lets her.

He pushes his eggs around with his fork, nudging a piece to the side like it personally offended him. “Bucky’s still boxing,” he says, voice quieter now. “He’s a YMCA welterweight champion now—ridiculous, right? Not that I’m surprised. I mean, look at him. Or—well, you can’t, but if you could, you’d get it. Not that I—” He cuts himself off, face suddenly warm, and promptly redirects his frustration toward his eggs, stabbing at them like they’re to blame.

Ana smiles, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and sitting down across from him. “And yet, you are the one he has claimed for his own.”

Tony huffs. “Yeah, well, I have many redeeming qualities.”

Ana’s brows lift. “Such as?”

“Excellent bone structure.”

She snorts but waves him on, signaling for more.

Tony shifts, tapping his fork against the edge of his plate. “Steve’s still out there trying to teach Brooklyn’s youth how to throw a proper punch,” he says. “Which is deeply ironic, considering he spends more time getting tossed into gutters than actually landing any hits. You’d think some benevolent force of the universe would’ve given him an upgrade by now, but nope—still five-foot-nothing, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and running purely on spite and righteous indignation.”

Ana’s lips twitch, watching him closely.

“He got into it with some guy last week over a stolen bicycle,” Tony goes on, shaking his head. “One second, he’s just buying milk, next thing you know, he’s nose-deep in a brawl because some punk snatched a kid’s ride.”

Ana hums. “And your Alpha?”

Tony shrugs. “Oh, Buck was furious. He’s got this whole ‘I’m the only one allowed to rough up this vigilante idiot’ thing going on. Almost decked Steve himself out of sheer principle.”

Ana shakes her head, sipping her coffee. “That one—he carries the weight of the world, doesn’t he?”

Tony huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it. And Steve sure as hell isn’t gonna stop picking fights with guys twice his size, so Bucky’s pretty much signed up for a lifetime of damage control.”

Ana hums, setting her cup down. “And what about you?”

Tony blinks. “What about me?”

She gestures vaguely at him. “Do they carry you, too?”

Tony hesitates, fork stilling against his plate. The answer is obvious.

Of course, they do. They always have. In ways he doesn’t always recognize until it’s too late—until he’s halfway drowning and they’re the ones dragging him back to shore.

But he doesn’t reply, just focuses a little too hard on breaking apart a piece of toast, crumbling the edges between his fingers. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but not quite easy either.

Ana gives him a look that says I see you, even if you don’t see yourself. But she doesn’t push, just tucks a piece of stray hair behind her ear and reaches over to pluck his fork out of his fingers, setting it back onto his plate. Then, in one smooth motion, she picks up his coffee and slides a small dish of honey-drizzled toast in its place.

Tony blinks at her. “Uh—”

“You are running on caffeine and willpower,” she says, cutting him off. “Eat something real, if you don’t want your eggs, or I will start feeding you by hand.”

Tony squints at her. “You wouldn’t.”

Ana raises an eyebrow, reaching for his plate.

Tony immediately snatches up the toast, taking a bite before she can make good on her threat.

“Okay, okay! Jesus.”

Ana smiles, satisfied, and takes a slow sip of her coffee.

He chews slowly, mechanically, as Ana returns to the stove, but the act feels distant—like he’s watching himself from somewhere just outside his own body. His limbs feel heavy, weighed down by something thick and inescapable, like wading through molasses.

He shifts in his chair, too aware of the way his skin feels too tight, his breath too shallow. There’s an ache in his chest, a pressure building under his ribs that he can’t quite shake.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

He forces himself to focus on the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread, the quiet scrape of Ana’s knife against the cutting board. It should be comforting. It is comforting. But something in him won’t settle. His hands are clammy, his pulse a dull, thrumming beat against his ribs. He can still feel the ghost of fingers on his chin, the press of a foreign Alpha’s presence suffocating the air from his lungs.

Tiberius had been in this kitchen. Had leaned against this table, spoken with that same smug certainty, left his scent behind like a warning.

Tony’s stomach churns, and he barely catches himself before he gags on the bite of toast.

He shoves his plate away, appetite completely gone.

Ana’s eyes flicker up from her work, sharp as a blade. She doesn’t speak at first, just watches.

Tony pointedly looks anywhere but at her.

The silence stretches, stretching thin and tight, until—

“Antal.”

His spine stiffens, breath catching in his throat.

Ana sets her knife down and wipes her hands on a dish towel, slow and deliberate. She moves around the counter, quiet and steady, like she’s approaching a wounded animal.

Tony forces a smirk, though it feels cracked around the edges. “If you’re about to give me a lecture on finishing my breakfast, I gotta warn you—I’m a lost cause.”

Ana doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even acknowledge the deflection. Instead, she reaches out and rests a gentle hand on his wrist.

Tony barely stops himself from flinching.

The touch is light, grounding, a counterweight to the spiraling tightness in his chest. It shouldn’t make his eyes sting, but—God—everything inside him feels frayed, pulled too tight.

Ana tilts her head, studying him with that quiet, unshakable patience that somehow makes it worse.

“You are dropping,” she murmurs.

Tony exhales through his nose, gaze flickering away. “I’m fine,” he says, too quickly, too sharp.

Ana’s grip tightens just slightly—not enough to trap him, just enough to keep him here.

“You are not fine,” she corrects, voice firm but soft, like she’s stating an undeniable fact. “Your body knows it, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Tony swallows. His throat feels thick, uncooperative.

He knows what this is. Just like after the gala.

The aftershock. The crash. The biological recoil of an Omega after an altercation with an Alpha who wasn’t supposed to be near him.

His nervous system is shot, his scent profile probably erratic, and the more he ignores it, the worse it gets.

He can feel it now, the sharp-edged restlessness clawing under his skin, the deep-seated ache in his muscles like he’s been wrung out. His throat feels tight, the air in his lungs too shallow. His body wants comfort, stability, something to anchor him, but—

No.

He clenches his jaw, shoving the feeling down with all the force he can muster.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, more stubborn this time, shaking off Ana’s hand.

Ana doesn’t look convinced.

She exhales through her nose, then—without a word—turns back to the counter and pulls out a clean dish towel. She moves with practiced ease, dipping it into a basin of warm water before wringing it out.

Tony watches, wary, as she steps back toward him and, without hesitation, presses the damp towel to the back of his neck.

The sensation is immediate.

The warmth sinks into his skin, soothing the overheated, overstimulated edges of him, and his breath stutters without permission.

He hates how effective it is.

Ana doesn’t say anything. She just keeps the towel there, firm but gentle, the way one might calm a feverish child.

Tony exhales shakily, fingers curling against his thigh. He should pull away. He should crack a joke, make some clever quip about spa treatments or overbearing housekeepers, but—

He doesn’t.

Because for the first time since Tiberius pressed his lips to Tony’s cheek, since the suffocating presence of that Alpha curled around him like a noose—

He feels like he can breathe.

His muscles unclench by inches, the tension draining so slowly it almost hurts, like a tightly wound spring finally releasing. The air in the kitchen isn’t so thick anymore, and his own pulse, erratic and jagged, starts to even out.

Ana doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

She just stays, standing beside him, the towel warm against his skin, her other hand resting lightly against his shoulder in quiet reassurance.

Tony swallows past the knot in his throat. His fingers twitch against the table.

“… It’s stupid,” he mutters after a long beat.

Ana glances down at him. “No,” she says simply.

The silence stretches between them, thick but not suffocating. Ana gives him the space to gather his thoughts. To decide what he wants to say. If he wants to say anything at all.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Tony exhales shakily. His grip on the edge of his stool tightens, then loosens, then tightens again.

His voice is quieter when he speaks. Less sure. Less armored.

“It’s worse when I’m with him,” he murmurs. “Tiberius.”

Ana doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as flinch. She just nods, waiting for him to continue.

Tony stares down at the counterop, watching the surface seemingly ripple from the slight waver of his gaze.

“The closer I get to Bucky,” he says slowly, “the worse it feels. Being around him.” His throat bobs. “Like my body knows it’s wrong.”

Ana exhales, quiet but steady. “It does know,” she murmurs. “Of course it does.”

Tony swallows. His chest feels too tight, his skin too warm, the residual pull of Alpha presence clinging to his scent receptors like something toxic. “It—it hurts to be around him,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just—not just in my head. It’s—physical.” His hands clench into fists against his lap. “Like something inside me is short-circuiting, like—like I’m being rewired wrong.” His breath falters, catching on something jagged. “Like every part of me is fighting it.”

Ana’s lips press together, and her gaze darkens, something sharp and protective flashing through her expression. But she still doesn’t interrupt. She lets him speak.

Tony lets out a shaky breath. “And it wasn’t—it wasn’t this bad, before.” He rubs at his chest like he can soothe the ache blooming beneath his sternum. “But now? Now, it feels like my entire body is rejecting him outright. The closer I get to Bucky, the worse it gets. It’s like my system is…” He trails off, voice cracking slightly.

Ana finishes for him. “Telling you to go to your Alpha instead.”

Tony’s jaw tightens.

Because she’s right.

Everything in him aches to be near Bucky. It screams for him when Tiberius gets too close, when his scent so much as lingers too long. The bond—even unfinished, even incomplete—is already pulling at him, demanding he go where he’s meant to be.

And that’s the worst part.

Because he can’t.

He can’t go to Bucky. He can’t let himself sink into that warmth, that safety. Can’t let himself be taken in the way his body is already pleading for.

Not when this contract looms over him. Not when Tiberius is circling like a vulture, waiting to sink his teeth in.

Ana moves first.

Not quickly. Not sharply. Just with that quiet, practiced ease that makes it so easy to forget she was raised in a world where softness was a liability.

She picks up the damp towel from where she left it, folding it neatly in her hands before pressing it back against the nape of his neck.

Tony stiffens—just slightly—but doesn’t pull away.

The warmth sinks into his skin, soothing the overstimulated ache beneath the surface. His breath stutters, but he lets it happen.

Ana doesn’t say anything.

She just keeps the towel there, firm but gentle, her other hand settling lightly on his shoulder.

It’s grounding.

It shouldn’t be.

But it is.

He’s always been sensitive, there.

Tony exhales, something tight in his chest unraveling just a fraction.

He still feels like he’s too close to the edge, like his own body isn’t entirely his right now, but—this helps.

The warmth. The steadiness. The presence.

Ana moves carefully, like she knows exactly how close he is to shattering, like she’s done this before. And maybe she has. Maybe not with him, but with someone else.

And maybe that’s why she doesn’t say anything.

Because she knows no words will change the fact that his body is wrong right now, that every cell is screaming for something—someone—he can’t have.

No words will change the fact that the one bond he wants is the one he’s being forced to deny.

His fingers twitch against his thigh.

He should joke. He should smile, throw something careless into the air just to fill the silence, make it easier to ignore the weight pressing against his ribs.

But he doesn’t.

Because for once—for once—he doesn’t have the energy.

Ana watches him, quiet and patient.

After a long moment, she speaks.

“You would bond with him,” she murmurs, the words careful, deliberate. “Your Brooklyn boy.” Not a question. Just a quiet, steady acknowledgment.

Tony doesn’t look at her.

His jaw clenches, throat working as he forces down the sharp, aching thing curling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he whispers. It’s not even a confession at this point. Just a tired, inevitable truth. “I would.”

The words settle between them, heavy and irreversible.

Ana’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Then that’s what we fight for,” she says.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut.

Ana’s hand stays firm on his shoulder, her presence steady, unwavering.

“You are not alone in this, Antal,” she murmurs, low and certain. “No matter how much you try to be.”

Tony exhales slowly so his breath doesn’t expose itself as a shuddering sob.

The kitchen hums around them, the soft crackle of something simmering on the stove, the rhythmic tick of the old clock on the wall. The world is still moving—uncaring, relentless—despite the storm rolling under Tony’s skin.

He lets himself lean into the moment, just for a breath. Just long enough to remember that not everything has to be a battle.

But it never lasts.

Because reality doesn’t care if he’s barely holding himself together. It doesn’t care if he’s unraveling at the seams, if every inch of him is screaming to be somewhere else—to be with someone else.

Tony lifts a hand and drags it down his face, exhaling slowly. “I should get out of your way,” he mutters, his voice rough, too raw around the edges. “You’ve got things to do. I can—”

Ana doesn’t let him finish.

She gives his shoulder the barest squeeze before releasing him, stepping away only to grab another plate. A fresh slice of warm bread, butter melting into the surface, a small dish of preserves set beside it. Nothing extravagant. Nothing overwhelming. Just enough.

She sets it in front of him without a word.

Tony stares at it.

His throat works around something thick, something unbearably fragile.

Ana doesn’t meet his eyes, just busies herself at the counter again, pouring herself another cup of coffee, moving with the same quiet ease she always does.

But the gesture is there.

The choice is there.

No force, no expectations—just something offered. A simple, unspoken stay.

Tony exhales sharply through his nose, blinking hard as he reaches for the toast. He takes a slow bite, ignoring the way his fingers shake just slightly where they curl around the edges.

Ana doesn’t comment.

She never does.

Instead, she sips her coffee, idly stirring the pan on the stove, and lets the silence settle between them like an understanding too old, too deep, to need words.

Tony doesn’t so much wake up as lurch into consciousness.

One moment, he’s tumbling through a vague, distorted nightmare of Tiberius’s voice echoing in his head—sly promises, threatening whispers, a sneering mouth pressed too close. The next, he’s wrenched from his bed by rough hands, his entire body jolting awake in a visceral rush of fear.

He yelps, and fights on instinct, half-blind in the dark, still tangled in sheets and disoriented by the abruptness of it all. His limbs flail, heart pounding a frantic tattoo in his ears. He tries to shout, to demand to know what the hell is happening, but the words die in his throat as a thick gag is shoved between his teeth. It tastes of cloth and dust and panic.

He chokes on it, a muffled curse burning in his mouth. The blindfold slams over his eyes a breath later. He barely has time to register the shape of the intruders—too many, definitely more than one or two—before everything goes black. The press of cloth against his face is suffocating, and for a moment, he’s seized by raw, animal terror: I can’t see, I can’t breathe, I can’t—

The hands grip him like a vice, manhandling him off the mattress. He’s in nothing but his thin boxer shorts and a threadbare undershirt.

If he weren’t terrified, he’d be a little mortified.

The nighttime warmth of June does little to shield him from the gooseflesh prickling across his skin.

He thrashes, wild and uncoordinated, elbows connecting with unyielding torsos, knees slamming into muscle. One of the intruders grunts sharply—Tony hopes he’s done some damage—but they don’t relent. Strong arms clamp around his shoulders, and a new surge of panic flares in Tony’s gut as he’s dragged across the room. He can’t see, can’t even get his bearings. His socks catch on the carpet, tangling around his toes.

A voice hisses, “Careful, don’t let him—”

Then Tony’s back hits a solid wall—no, a doorframe—and a burst of pain explodes across his shoulder blades. He lets out a furious, muffled scream. The gag reduces it to little more than a choked growl.

How the hell did they even get into the Stark estate?

His father’s property is patrolled by private security and guarded by enormous wrought-iron gates. And Tony can’t imagine Jarvis letting some random strangers just march upstairs to yank Tony from his bed. Unless these people wore S.I. badges… or had forged some kind of official paperwork.

Or Tiberius. Could Tiberius have bribed someone?

And if Tony could roll his eyes, he would.

Because, of course, Tiberius would bribe someone.

He tries to snarl something around the gag—an insult, a plea, a demand, he isn’t sure—when another set of hands wraps around his legs, lifting his feet from the floor. He’s bodily carried from his bedroom, pinned between two or three people like a struggling cat.

The estate’s corridors blur by in frantic half-steps and stumbles. Tony’s sense of direction is shot. He’s never been more aware of the echoes of footsteps, the shifts in the air, the temperature changes between rooms. They’re moving fast, too fast for him to count corners or guess where they’re headed. Outside? Probably. He can feel the rush of warmer air—summer night humidity clinging to his skin. Then a jarring tilt, a sudden down-step—stairs—and he almost slips from their grip. They hoist him higher, ignoring the bruises no doubt forming on his arms.

Eventually, they reach what Tony assumes is the driveway—or maybe the side parking lot? He’s not sure. Either way, he hears the slam of a heavy door, feels the shift of night air replaced by stifling, enclosed darkness. A vehicle. A van, most likely. The sting of metal against his bare ankles confirms it: he’s being shoved into a cargo area.

The engine rumbles to life.

He’s moving. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

It’s a long drive.

Could be an hour, could be three—Tony’s sense of time distorts into a haze of terror and anger. His limbs ache from being twisted in an uncomfortable position. The gag is suffocating; saliva soaks into the fabric, and breathing becomes an exercise in willpower. He’s painfully aware of every noise: the hum of the van’s tires against asphalt, the occasional hiss of static on a radio, subdued voices murmuring instructions.

He keeps trying to place them—who the hell are these people? But none of the voices are distinct enough to recognize. They don’t speak enough for him to get a real read. All he can do is nurse his fury and try to calm the wild, panicked flutter in his chest.

He realizes that everyone in the van can probably smell his panic. The thought angers him as much as it should unsettle him.

By the time his right hand is asleep, Tony’s fully convinced Tiberius is behind everything

The slimy bastard had threatened him, after all—threatened to ensure Tony couldn’t run, threatened to force the bond before Tony could do anything about it. This must be Tiberius’s next move, right?

And yet…

The way these people handle him isn’t the typical manhandling of personal goons. They feel more regimented, more disciplined—like soldiers. They keep Tony pinned with minimal force, never letting him slip free, but not breaking bones either. They haven’t battered him unconscious.

They’re rough, but they aren’t sloppy. Professional.

Besides, it doesn’t match the typical brute force Tony’s beloved betrothed would probably employ.

So… maybe Howard’s enemies? Or some other corporate sabotage? Or possibly Howard himself, pulling a twisted power play? Tony doesn’t know. He can only stew in the uncertainty as the miles roll by beneath them.

Eventually, the van stops.

There’s a jolting sense of movement as the doors slide open. The arms haul him out again, and the night air—or is it morning now?—smacks him in the face. The temperature is cooler, less humid. Maybe they’re farther north, or near a coastline. Tony can’t tell. Everything’s disorienting.

They drag him through another threshold, and the air changes again: colder, staler, artificially filtered. A building with heavy ventilation, maybe a lab or an industrial facility. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead sets his nerves on edge. The floor under his feet is concrete. His toes are cold. The blindfold is still on, pressing uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose, and every small sound—footsteps, the rustle of clothing, the echo of doors opening—is a brand-new source of panic.

They march him down a corridor—turn left, then right, then left again. Tony keeps track of corners automatically, clinging to whatever details he can glean. He tries to force himself to memorize the route, just in case an opportunity to escape arises.

At last, they halt. A door hisses open—mechanical, high-tech. Then Tony is shoved forward, stumbling blindly until he collides with the cold metal of a chair. He grips its back to steady himself. The hands on his arms don’t let go until he’s properly seated.

Then, mercifully, the blindfold slips away, undone from behind. Tony flinches at the sudden brightness, eyes watering as he blinks rapidly. The gag remains, cutting off any immediate demands he might have.

His surroundings come into focus slowly: white walls, bright overhead lights, a wide mirrored window on one side—one-way glass. Definitely an interrogation room. Stainless steel table, two chairs, minimal furnishings. No windows. No sign of Tiberius or anyone else Tony recognizes.

Tony’s chest heaves, each breath rasping past the gag. He’s about to try and speak around the cloth when when one of the men in dark suits steps forward. Without ceremony, he grabs hold of the cloth and yanks it free with a sharp tug. The burn in Tony’s mouth is immediate; the corners of his lips sting, raw from friction. He coughs, sputtering.

“What the—cough—hell—” He sucks in a deep breath. “Where am I?” His voice comes out harsh and ragged. He looks around, seeing that the people who brought him here—maybe three or four?—are stepping back toward the door. None of them answer. “Who are you working for?”

Tony demands, anger lacing every syllable. “Stone? Howard? Who?”

No one responds.

Lovely.

One by one, they file out, leaving him alone in the room with only the reflection of his disheveled self in the mirrored glass. Tony curses loudly, stands up, slams his palm against the table to anchor his swirling thoughts.

Nothing. No response.

“Hey!” Tony barks, his voice cracking slightly, raw from the gag. “This is kidnapping, you bunch of two-bit gangsters! You can’t just—just—” He slams his palm against the cold metal table, the sharp sound cutting through the room. Frustration burns hot in his chest, setting his nerves on edge. “Do you have any idea who I am? If my father doesn’t skin you alive for this, I—”

He cuts himself off, bile rising in his throat at the mention of his father.

Howard’s involvement is ambiguous, but Tony can’t imagine him orchestrating something so clandestine. Usually, Howard likes to operate in the spotlight of his own ego.

This feels too neat, too government.

Seconds tick by. Minutes, maybe. The buzzing fluorescent light overhead sets his teeth on edge.

Tony paces, every muscle wound tight, his mind racing with a thousand worst-case scenarios.

He’s being tested, or they’re waiting for him to break, or Tiberius is about to walk in with a smug grin and a twisted contract of his own.

When the door finally clicks, Tony whirls around so fast he nearly topples the chair. He braces himself, fists clenched at his sides, bracing for Tiberius or a stranger or maybe even some official he’s never met.

Instead, Abraham Erskine steps through.

Tony stands still, unmoving. Stunned.

Erskine closes the door behind him with deliberate care. He wears a utilitarian suit, tie slightly askew, as though he threw it on in a hurry.

He looks… tired.

“Stark,” Erskine says quietly, his accent unmistakable. “I do apologize. Truly, this was not how I intended to do this.”

Tony blinks, adrenaline coursing through him. “You—what—why—?” It could be the interrupted sleep, or the lack of caffeine, but he can’t seem to process the fact that it’s the German doctor in front of him, not some foreign operative or Tiberius Stone’s hired muscle.

Erskine offers a small, apologetic tilt of his head. “The dramatics were… regrettable. But it was necessary. Bringing you here discreetly was the only way we could ensure your father—and certain parties—would not interfere.”

Tony’s pulse still thrums with leftover adrenaline. His mind wrestles with contradictory impulses—run or demand answers—but his body is too exhausted to do either effectively. He slumps back against the metal chair, every nerve on high alert.

“Not how you intended to do this?” he hisses, voice shaking with residual fury and no small dose of fear. “You—what the hell is going on, Erskine? You abducted me.”

Erskine exhales heavily, stepping closer with slow, deliberate movements, as though trying not to spook a cornered animal. “It wasn’t my first choice, Anthony.” He gestures apologetically at the mirrored glass and the harsh lighting. “But we were running out of time, and it was critical that we get you away from Stark Industries—away from Howard’s estate—without drawing attention.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “This is the Strategic Scientific Reserve, isn’t it? Some secret bunker in the middle of nowhere.” He flings an arm at the sterile walls. “Could’ve just asked me to come along, you know. Maybe sent a nice letter? A singing telegram? Instead of… this.” He motions to the reddened marks on his wrists where the bindings had cut into his skin.

Erskine’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Mm, yes, I considered a formal invitation. But then I remembered your father reads your mail. Besides, we had to circumvent certain… legal entanglements. From what little you’ve told me, I understand you have… contractual obligations. And that you wish to be free of them.”

“My father reads my mail?”

Erskine continues, voice even. “The law is not in your favor, Tony. You know this. Omegas—especially those with binding contracts—have little recourse without intervention. We are that intervention.”

Tony huffs a breath, shifting his weight like he’s trying to shake off the tension crawling up his spine. “And what, you just happened to have a legal team on hand to pull an Omega out of a bonding contract? Not sure if I buy that little fairytale.”

Erskine actually smiles at that, small and wry. “No, I planned for it. I had already begun drafting the petition once you called me. I anticipated you would need an alternative to your current… situation.”

Erskine then settles into the other chair, leaning forward with his hands laced atop the metal table. There’s a studied calm to his posture, like a kindly professor about to walk a student through a complicated theorem. The fluorescent light overhead hums, painting Erskine’s face in tired lines.

“Let me explain, Tony,” he begins, voice subdued. “I plan to invoke what is known as the ‘Defense Priority Omega Provision’—an emergency wartime statute that rarely sees the light of day, even within these halls. It’s been on the books less than a year.”

Tony rubs his sore arms, wincing at the faint bruises left by the government lackeys. “But why? I didn’t even know the War Department had laws that could override standard Omega guardianship.”

“It’s a convoluted legal beast,” Erskine admits. “When war broke out, the War Department pushed for a series of emergency measures to secure any and all resources they deemed critical. Usually, they aim for materials—steel, rubber, uranium. But in theory, the same logic can apply to specialized personnel, including…” His eyes flick sympathetically to Tony. “…unbonded Omegas with key expertise. Nurses, mainly. Medical staff.”

Tony’s heart gives an unsteady thump at being referred to as a ‘key resource.’ He’s not sure whether it’s flattering or unnerving. “So you’re saying the SSR can basically step in and say, ‘We need Tony Stark for national defense,’ and that trumps my father’s guardianship? And—and the bonding contract?” He stumbles over the last phrase, Tiberius’s sneering voice a jagged echo in his mind.

Erskine offers a small, encouraging nod. “Exactly so. Under this statute, the SSR is authorized to file a federal injunction on your behalf—if I can prove that you are indispensable. It won’t sever your father’s guardianship permanently, not immediately, but it will suspend it for the duration of your involvement with our project.”

Tony frowns, lips pressing into a thin line. “So this would be… temporary?”

“For now, yes,” Erskine says gently. “But experience shows once you’ve been granted a measure of legal autonomy—especially in a high-security context—it’s difficult for anyone to reassert the old constraints. The War Department wouldn’t easily relinquish valuable personnel to a private Alpha who might hamper the war effort. You’d remain under an SSR ‘protective contract’—not so different from a civilian consultant—but with additional legal shields in place because of your Omega status. A judge’s signature would ensure neither Howard nor your intended Alpha could force you back home against your will.”

Tony’s pulse hitches at the thought of a protective contract. The last time he heard the word ‘contract,’ it involved Howard trying to brand Tony’s neck for good a mere two days ago. But this… “So I’d be… effectively on loan to the SSR,” he says slowly, processing. “As long as you need my math, you keep me safe.”

It sounds ludicrous to even say out loud.

Erskine gives a faint, wry smile. “It’s an extraordinary measure for extraordinary times. The formal petition is an ‘Emergency Guardianship Override’—coupled with a ‘Non-Compete Injunction’ that bars your father and your Alpha from interfering. We’d cite the War Powers Act of ’41, along with our own SSR statutes and this new Omega provision. It sounds complicated—because it is—but the net result is straightforward: you would answer to us, not Howard, for the duration of this work.”

Tony wants to scoff at the idea of answering to anyone, because he’s Tony, but it’s still better than being under Howard’s thumb.

He also can’t ignore the coil of real fear that tightens in his chest every time he thinks about confronting his father. “He’s not going to stand for it,” Tony mutters, knuckles going white where they grip the table. “When he finds out I’ve gone behind his back… he’s not just going to yell, Erskine. He gets—” Tony’s throat works. He can almost feel Howard’s hand clamping down, bruises blossoming. “He gets physical.”

Erskine’s expression darkens, genuine concern etched across his features. “I’m sorry, Anthony,” he says softly. “Truly. I suspected Howard’s temper was no small matter, but I didn’t realize…” He clears his throat, something like sorrow flickering behind his glasses. “Well. Under these War Department clauses, if your father tried to forcibly remove you from SSR premises or harm you, he’d be in violation of a federal injunction and could face charges as serious as treason—especially if it was deemed sabotage of essential defense personnel.”

Tony’s breath catches. “Treason? Because of me?”

“Yes,” Erskine agrees quietly. “But it means you’d be protected. Legally, physically. They’ll station guards if necessary. Your father might be powerful, Tony, but the federal government has ways of ensuring cooperation—especially during wartime.”

Tony drags a hand down his face, exhaustion settling over him like a heavy blanket. “All right. Okay. Jesus. So let’s say we do that. I get assigned to this project under SSR oversight. But how long are we talking? Because this—” He gestures at the sterile interrogation room. “This doesn’t exactly feel like a place I want to hole up in for the rest of the war. I have a… I have a life out there. I can’t just vanish for a year.”

“We don’t intend for you to live on-site permanently. The chamber construction is projected to run at least through next summer—maybe longer—but that doesn’t mean you’ll be confined here the entire time. Once we secure the injunction, you’ll be free to come and go under SSR jurisdiction. Think of it as a specialized consultancy contract. You’ll return here for major breakthroughs, tests, demonstrations. In between, you can live wherever you choose—Brooklyn, if that’s your preference.” He arches a subtle eyebrow.

Brooklyn. Just the mention of it unleashes a tumult of hope tangled with dread. Tony’s mind jumps straight to Bucky—God, he’s been picturing Bucky’s restless pacing ever since the van ride, those broad hands curled white-knuckled, ready to stand against the entire world once Monday night comes and Tony doesn’t appear at the cramped apartment like he promised.

He can practically feel his Alpha’s anxiety, that fierce protectiveness turning into a raw, furious determination. Bucky would tear through every street, every corner of the city, until he was certain Tony was safe.

Suddenly, the ache in Tony’s chest is impossible to ignore. He lowers his gaze, swallowing hard before forcing himself to speak. “I… yeah,” he manages, voice tight. “Brooklyn would be good. I—there’s someone… some people there.” It’s lame, not nearly the declaration he wants to make—I have an Alpha who’s my everything, and I need to get back to him.

Erskine nods, a fleeting smile acknowledging Tony’s unspoken admission. “There would be restrictions, of course,” he cautions gently. “You can’t publicly share anything about the project. You’ll probably have to meet with an SSR liaison regularly for status updates. But otherwise, you can maintain a private life. We’re not trying to conscript you, Tony. We just need your work.”

Tony swallows the rush of conflicting emotions—gratitude, fear, relief, disbelief. “You make it sound almost too good to be true,” he mutters. “But I guess if it keeps Howard and—” He hesitates, heart pounding at the thought of Tiberius. “—and any other Alpha from forcing a bond on me, I’ll take my chances. Speaking of which,” he says, “where the hell are we, anyway? Because I swear if we’re in some government dungeon in Manhattan, you people really took the scenic route.”

Erskine shifts, as though weighing whether to divulge that detail. Eventually, he says, “This is an SSR holding facility in New Jersey.”

Tony stares at him, deadpan. “New Jersey?” The words drip with derision. “You kidnapped me and dragged me across state lines just to plop me into the one situation that might be worse than a forced bond?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “God. If my father doesn’t kill me, the smell of this place might do it.”

Erskine hums in amusement. “I didn’t realize you held such animosity for your neighbor.”

Tony snorts. “Neighbor, schneighbor. Guess we just skip Manhattan, skip civilization, and hide in some random bunker in an East Coast armpit.” He throws his hands up. “Great. Can’t wait to sample the local… bagels.”

Erskine regards him quietly for a moment. “May I ask one thing?”

Tony tenses. “What?”

“If there is someone in Brooklyn you trust—someone you might want to inform you’re safe—” Erskine lifts a hand in a calming gesture. “We can arrange a discreet communication. No details of your location or the project, of course, but perhaps a short telegram letting them know you’re unharmed.”

Tony’s chest tightens. Bucky’s face flashes through his mind. He wants nothing more than to tell him, I’m okay, don’t do anything reckless, but the risk… “Maybe,” he says, voice rough. “Let me think about it.” The last thing he needs is a paper trail leading Howard or Tiberius to Bucky’s door.

“Of course,” Erskine says. He’s perceptive enough not to pry further. “But know that it’s an option. We don’t want your life suspended entirely.”

Tony nods, releasing a slow breath that does little to quell the racing in his veins. “All right. So… when does this all go down? The hearing, the demonstration, the whole dog-and-pony show?”

“It’s set to move swiftly,” Erskine explains, laying out the timeline with methodical care. “Colonel Phillips arrives in a few days, along with Senator Brandt. We’ll brief them on your role and demonstrate that Howard’s current blueprint is unworkable without your corrections. Once we have their backing, we’ll file the injunction in federal court—likely in Washington, if we can expedite it. Given the war climate, I expect they’ll push it through quickly.”

He folds his hands. “In the meantime, you’ll begin reviewing the existing Chamber schematics. Identify every critical flaw, start drafting solutions. If the War Department sees that you’ve already made progress—maybe even solved major issues—they won’t hesitate to sign off on your provisional independence.”

“So,” Tony says, voice rough, “I roll out the improvements on Howard’s designs, prove I’m not just some spare part, and then… the War Department grants me independence? They’ll step in and remind him he can’t keep me under lock and key?”

A faint smile touches Erskine’s lips. “That’s the essence, yes. Of course, Howard remains a powerful figure—he won’t be dismissed from the project entirely. In fact, we still need him for funding and resources, not to mention his existing contracts. The government can’t exactly throw Stark Industries out the door. But we can set legal boundaries around you. If we can show you’re vital on your own terms, the War Department won’t let him override that.”

Tony’s mouth tightens at the thought of Howard retaining any control, but he exhales through his nose, reminding himself that partial freedom is still miles better than none. “Well, it’s not a perfect solution,” he says wryly, “but I’m sure I can find a way to live with it.”

He doesn’t tell Erskine that it’s more privilege than anyone has ever promised him. That the promise of it is so tempting that Tony can almost taste it.

“Another option is to file a sworn statement about any… potential mistreatment, to emphasize the national interest in keeping you safe. The War Department could label it an anti-sabotage measure, if necessary.”

The suggestion hangs in the air, sharp as glass. Tony’s face shutters, all amusement draining away at the thought of sharing details of Howard’s cruelty—in writing, on an official document no less. His stomach churns violently. He shakes his head, words caught in his throat. “No,” he says at last, bracing his palms against the table. “I’m not—I’m not doing that.”

Erskine doesn’t press. “Understood,” he says quietly, and leaves it at that. He stands, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. His smile is subdued, but there’s gentle warmth behind it.

“Regardless, Tony, you should know you aren’t alone here. The SSR is prepared to see this through. And—if I may speak freely—I have every faith you can outshine even your father’s reputation.”

Tony’s throat works around a tangle of emotion. He thinks of Bucky again, of that quiet vows they shared in the dark of a cramped Brooklyn dorm room: We’ll figure this out. We’ll find a way. Maybe this is it.

He stands too, legs still shaky from the night’s ordeal, but he musters a ragged half-smile. “All right, Doc,” he says. “Point me to the nearest drafting table, and let’s fix your mechanical fiasco. Then we can kick my father’s guardianship all the way to Siberia. And, uh… any chance you’ve got some pants on standby?” He glances down at his bare legs with a grimace. “Or at least a bathrobe? I’m all for making a statement, but this wasn’t exactly the outfit I had in mind for my big professional debut.”

Erskine’s grin warms into something genuine. “Follow me,” he says, opening the door to the corridor. “First, we’ll get you settled in. This facility isn’t home, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable for now. And once the immediate demonstration’s done, we can talk about letting you return to Brooklyn.”

As Tony steps out into the glaring hallway lights, a quiet sense of possibility hums in his chest. It’s not a guarantee—he knows that. There’s a thousand ways this could blow up in his face, especially if Howard gets wind of it too soon, or if Tiberius angles for a final power grab. But if the government can truly shield him… maybe Tony can have a future that doesn’t end in a forced bond or a black eye.

A future that includes Bucky, openly, without fear.

Until he leaves Tony.

But that’s a problem for another day.

Tony will make it work, if only for the sake of the promise he made to himself—and, in unspoken moments, to Bucky. No more hiding. No more limping away from Howard’s fists or another Alpha’s schemes.

And so when Erskine leads him past a pair of uniformed guards who nod respectfully, Tony—with as much dignity as he can muster in his wrinkled undershirt and bare feet—straightens his spine and returns it.

He has work to do.

#winteriron #bucky barnes #tony stark #wip #ao3 #steve rogers #alpha/beta/omega au #captain america #tony stark x bucky barnes

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unholyhelbig · 1 month ago

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Caitvi Prompt: Caitlyn is head Park Ranger and deals with an unruly deputy Ranger Vi who has recently become unruly and animalistic. Caitlyn doesn’t understand the change in attitude until Vi turns up naked and injured on her cabins doorstep.

Title: Shoot to Kill

Ship: Werewolf!Vi x Park Ranger!Caitlyn

Wordcount: 5019

Summary: It's been months since a brutal attack took both Cassandra Kiramman and Powder Lane from the world. Caitlyn and Vi handle their grief differently, but something just isn't right with Vi, and things can't be ignored forever.

Warnings: Typical werewolf gore, blood, bullets, canon-typical violence, animal attack, shooting, self-sacrifice, almost nsfw but not quite there yet, horrible spelling, I don't beta read we know this.

[A/n: I went overboard here. I love arcane, I love werewolves, what were we expecting when someone sent me this prompt? Anyway. You know I bad I wanted to make this full smut? SO fucking bad but it didn't seem like the time for them to fuck. So they didn't. Do people even like my Arcane stuff? Fuck no, but this is for me.]

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Blood filled Vi’s mouth with a metallic density that was not unfamiliar but was entirely unwelcome. A low tide of a headache was pulling at her temples, her mouth a cottony type of dry that she couldn’t swallow away.

She was running late. Even in the darkness of her cabin, she knew that she was pushing it by the way the daylight filtered through the slatted blinds. Caitlyn was going to have her hide. She’d been warned twice already, pulled into the office that smelled too much like lavender and wood polish.

Vi shoved her feet unceremoniously into her boots. She swished a shot of peppermint schnapps around her mouth until it was warm and frothy before swallowing and dashing out the door. Vi didn’t’ bother to tuck her shirt in and do up her laces.

Showing up was enough. It had to be enough. There was dirt and blood under her nails and her skin was taut with sweat. She probably smelled rank with the outdoors and her body ached something fierce from the night before. Vi didn’t’ feel comfortable looking in the mirror before she hauled herself to the main cabin.

The state of her was not normal. It was not human. But she was present and that was all Ranger Kiramman was going to get on this balmy Wednesday morning.

Doubt, mixed with a decidedly solid amount of dread, swirled with a fullness in Vi’s stomach. She was full, a feeling that she did not enjoy being. She had eaten last night, something big that left a horrible nausea clinging to the inside of her stomach. A heat in the back of her throat and slicking the inside of her stomach.

She crashed unceremoniously through the door of the main cabin. The annoying brass bell gave her tardiness away as it deposited her into the gift shop. Caitlyn’s deadly oxford stare leveled her with precision, but she never faltered in her delivery.

Loris steadied her with his hulking size, taking up just as much space as the bookshelf that he stood near. He regarded her with his quiet amusement and low huff as she attempted to shove her shirt past her belt without drawing more eyes to herself.

“As I was saying.” Caitlyn’s voice was cutting, slicing through whatever resolve Vi had left. “The rest of the week and into next is a fire ban. There will be push back. In zone’s seven and eight, especially. Overton and Dunne, I want you positioned there around the clock. Do not hesitate to hand out red notices. One spark and the whole forest could go up. Am I clear?”

A murmured chorus of agreements rung out. A burn notice would draw attention away from Vi, at least for now. It worked Caitlyn’s nerves like a string instrument. Anger still simmered in the stare that moved her way.

“As for the rest of you, you know your posts, and you have your assignments. Keep your walkies on channel seven and signal if you need anything. Remember that laws are not suggestions and safety is key.” She scanned the lot of Rangers, brows furrowed and nose wrinkled in the way that Vi found oddly endearing. “Dismissed.”

Loris shoved her shoulder with enough force to shove a burp into her mouth, one that was not pleasant. She nearly vomited up whatever she had torn through last night, but luckily swallowed it back down. He wandered over to the busted coffee maker where he would linger long enough for Vi to take her verbal lashing.

If it were up to her, she’d slip into the woods and take her usual post at the North end of the park, checking permits until her fingers bled. It would be an easy day as long as she could nurse her headache. She and Loris could squeeze into the same box and answer the same questions from the same brand of tourists until it was time to go back to her cabin.

The pinching floral scent that often invaded Vi’s lungs seemed to surround her in an instant. It used to be something she enjoyed, but as of late, it was something she couldn’t’ control. It was overwhelming in a way that was too much. It made her stomach roll and her throat tighten. If she were to vomit, it would be blood and bones and bile.

“Violet, I want you to take a walk with me.”

Caitlyn’s voice was unbelievably tender for the situation at hand. She was expecting a verbal scrouge. Even her features were worked into something calm. Vi was too exhausted to fight back. After her little side quest last night, she wanted to curl into a ball under her blankets and sleep for an eternity.

“I uh, have to assist Loris with the morning rush of tourists, don’t I?”

She shook her head. “I’ve stationed Steb. You don’t look like you feel well. Follow me.”

“God, you’re taking me out back to shoot me like old yeller.”

Caitlyn snorted and held the screen door open. Vi walked through it first, taking in another lungful of Caitlyn’s floral scent. She wish it were comforting. She wished her friend, the woman she used to trust with anything in the world, brought her some degree of relief.

She hadn’t in months, and they both felt it. Bone deep.

They walked for a few minutes. Until the commotion of the other rangers dispersing faded into nothing. The forest offered nothing to Vi lately. She hadn’t noticed it at first; the lack of sound. Crickets and morning birds and small animals that created a cacophony of noise that she had always taken for granted before.

Caitlyn’s breathing had stuttered, a nervous tick she developed at a young age that Vi picked up months ago when her hearing had risen to a deafening level. She shoved her hands into her pockets and softened her gaze, dipping her head. Attempting to show submission. She’d never meant to make Caitlyn nervous.

She removed her green nightcap, working her fingers around the wide brimmed edge. Another nervous habit. Vi could smell the sweetness of her sweat, something she hadn’t been privy to since the funeral when her nose was pressed so close to the girls pulse point that the smell had coated every inch of her.

Vi was so close that she could hear the rush of her blood and the pounding of her heart. Her mouth filled with saliva so rapidly that she couldn’t keep up with swallowing. She’d nearly drooled at the thought of opening her maw and tearing Caitlyn’s jugular out with one clamp of her jaw.

Shoving her away and storming from the procession was attributed to grief. Anger at nature for having the audacity of taking them in the first place. Caitlyn and Vi must have been hurting so much that any action they committed was acceptable for a time.

Six months later and people still asked how they were doing. Caitlyn would tell them that she was fine. Vi would tell them that she felt like shit. Both would smile sadly. Caitlyn threw herself into her inherited role of Head Ranger and Vi drank on nights that she couldn’t forget and leaned into nights that she didn’t remember.

“They expect me to strip you of your title.” Caitlyn sighed out in one hot breath that splayed against Vi’s cheeks. “Those rangers in there… know I have a soft spot for you, Vi. Anyone else and I would have done far worse. They’d be out of a job.”

Caitlyn frowned and plopped down onto the pebbled shore next to a stream. Run-off from one of the glaciers at the top of the peak. The water was crisp and clear. Vi would dip her fingers into it sometimes, trying to disturb the flow and shock some sense into herself. She lowered herself carefully next to her friend. The only girl who had ever made her ache this viciously.

“I didn’t mean to put you in that position, Cupcake.”

“You’re hurting.”

“So are you.”

Vi swallowed something thick in her throat, picked up a smooth stone and dug her fingers into it as if she could shave off decades of shaping. Trout colored eyes traced the curve of Caitlyn’s side profile as she clenched and unclenched her jaw. She drew in careful breathes. The sound of the stream drowned out the silence around them.

Cassandra Kiramman’s entrails had been gnawed into paste after her stomach was torn open unceremoniously. Vi remembers the squelch of flesh and the snap of her sternum. Her screams had turned into a drowned gurgle before there was nothing.

The creature, after having gotten the taste for the richness of Kiramman blood, had gone for the throat and mercifully took Cassandra out of her misery. Vi watched the light leave her eyes. Something she’d seen slowly dim in Caitlyn’s over the months.

Now, she clenched her own eyes shut. “I can’t leave these woods, Cait. They’re all I know. I’ll try harder.”

“I know you will. I didn’t come out here to, what did you say? Shoot you like old yeller. I might be in charge of you, Violet, but I’m also your friend.” Her voice wavered on the word, stuck in her throat as much as she allowed. “I want you to talk to me.”

She gave her a sad grin “I talk to you all the time, Cupcake.”

“You know what I mean.” Cait’s eyebrow twitched. She hesitated, something she never did. Not in all the years that Vi had known her. But it was only for a moment. Her hand slipped into Vi’s, dislodging the stone she had wanted to thread into putty. “You can talk to me.”

Vi felt her throat tighten and a dampness come to her eyes that she quickly blinked away. Whatever she ate last night threatened to make a third return. She nodded, afraid to speak, but it seemed to be enough to Caitlyn. She gave her hand another reassuring squeeze. It was warm and solid.

Greif weighed heavily between them both. But the lead that welded Vi’s jaw shut was more than subconscious. If she could help it, and she could, Caitlyn would never find out about the animal that shredded her mother.

It had been closed casket for a reason.

They buried an empty one for Jinx. Vi had been in and out of consciousness through her own blinding pain. She’d gasped. It was caught in her throat along with the scent of Cassandras viscera. Long teeth had crunched through Vi’s left lumbar, the soft brawn of her giving away like it was tillable earth.

She’d looked into the creature’s eyes. They were glowing red, feral. It was frothing at the mouth, saliva mixing so deliciously with what could only be Vi’s own blood. There was nothing but hunger behind it’s actions. And for a moment, Vi could understand that want.

Only for a moment.

Jinx- Powder- she had a loud whistle that could catch the attention of a hound within a ten-mile radius. This snapping animal was no different. It whipped it’s maw up fast enough to drip saliva against Vi’s festering wounds.

“Don’t!” Vi had screamed because she was so desperate to save her little sister. But the look in her eyes was resolute. Even in the light of the full moon. It showed more than the hunger, the viciousness. Jinx was on a mission. A martyr that would die for her charge.

She had the audacity to nod at Vi that night, to grin at her in a wolfish manner before her boots kicked up gravel. Evidently, the animal enjoyed the chase more than the prey it had pinned under it’s large paws. Claws dug sharply into Vi’s chest and stomach, tearing like soft butter into her stomach and chest.

Vi remembers screaming. She remembers the warmth of her own blood and the pale light of the moon overhead. She thinks she remembers her sisters maniacal howl combined with that of her own.

No… She would spare Caitlyn Kiramman the pain that her mother had endured. Some things are better left unlearned.

The smell of gunpowder, sulfurous and smokey, brought up a helping of vomit that Vi couldn’t swallow down. She thought it was vomit but couldn’t quite tell. It could have been nothing more than blood surfacing from the wound that had torn through the wound in her sternum.

The head ranger herself had fired off what was supposed to be a warning shot, but even with her immense fear clouding her aim, she had managed to land a slug in Violet. Silver. It burned viciously, sizzled like acid. Maybe it had been bile that splattered onto the forest floor in a stringy mess.

Vi’s vision was blurry with tears, cheek pressed to the earth as she watched Caitlyn on the front porch of her cabin, clutching her rifle. She released vapor with each breath, eyes methodically scanning the tree line.

Her bones were morphing into something human, something much more becoming. The bullet lodged within her was making it nearly impossible. Her nails were long, her ears tipped with red fur akin to her own hair. Her pointed teeth digging so painfully into her bottom lip to stifle her pained growls.

She was far from wolf, but far from mortal.

When the moon rose this high, she lost herself in the pain and the hunger that had led to her original demise. Vi preferred it this way. She separated the beast that tore through her once a month from the human that kept it at bay the rest of the time. She didn’t know what the wolf did. Did not want to.

Anger surged through her now.

The National Park was endless, and yet… yet… she was at Caitlyn Kiramman’s doorstep. There was a sinking feeling within her that the creature she’d buried deep had been stalking the woman. The disease that had transferred through bite, through blood, couldn’t get enough. Wouldn’t unclamp it’s greedy jaws.

Violet craved Caitlyn’s touch. Preened under her approval. The creature must do the same. Had to, if it had gotten close enough for a shot to be fired. For a bullet to hit.

She rolled over onto her back and started clawing desperately with her sharpened nails at the shot. She clipped down on her tongue to swallow her scream, digging around the wound. She couldn’t grasp it, only pushed it further down. She swore she would drown in her own blood. It threatened to heal around her fingers, causing nothing but undeniable agony.

Cait had lowered the muzzle of her gun, squinting directly where she lay, as if she could see directly into Vi’s soul. Frosty eyes watched her, and she’d be damned if they didn’t send a chill down her spine, regardless of the thin line of blood that dripped down the corner of her mouth.

This was about more than swallowing her pride. Caitlyn was her only lifeline here. She wouldn’t blame the girl for taking one look at her and firing a second shot that wasn’t a warning right between her eyebrows.

Another tweak of horrible pain and her decision was made. Vi dug her slowly receding nails into the soft soil and dragged herself to the edge of the head rangers property. She was trembling, weak. The pale moonlight hitting her tattooed marred skin. She stiffened, feeling an odd rush counter her pain.

Caitlyn sucked in a sharp breath and repositioned her weapon, steeling her stance. Vi lazily dug her chin into the earth and stared at the woman with stars in her eyes. She used to lounge on Cait’s bed with the same disposition. Albeit in less throbbing pain.

“Violet?”

The safety was switched off and the rifle was propped up against the door. Caitlyn was dashing across the lawn, barefoot despite the many times she had warned her own rangers against the dangers of doing so. Goosebumps prickled against her skin and undeniable worry etched onto her beautiful features.

She dropped to her knees, despite the dampness of the grass. Vi Stiffened, attempted to press her face into the grass but Caitlyn’s hands were quicker to cup her face. She could see the reflection of the golden glow in the blue of the woman’s gaze.

Vi stifled a whimper at the hold. She was naked and could feel her muscles stiffening. It was getting harder to move, to breathe without feeling the burn in her lungs. They crackled uncomfortably. The hands that cradled her face were warm. If she were to die at this moment, this would be enough.

“Darling, did I…” her voice was choked “I’ve shot you.”

“You never miss, Cupcake.”

“I thought you were an animal.” She swiped both thumbs across Vi’s cheeks, wiping away tears and dirt and sweat, and maybe a little bit of blood.

“I think I might be.”

“Oh.”

The conversation was far too casual, Vi decided. She wavered in the cold, coughed up another mouthful of mucus and blood. This changed the worry in Caitlyn’s eyes to something harder that resembled the training that both of them had.

She scooped Vi up with strength that lingered fruitfully under her soft cotton t-shirt sleep clothes. The smaller woman opened her mouth to protest but the words died as her vision fluttered at the edges and her head slotted so easily into the small of Caitlyn’s throat.

It would be so easy her wolf howled to taste her.

Vi whined to drown out the thought, clutched the fabric that she clung to like a life raft. If Loris or Steb or even the orange-haired receptionist that glowered at her with contempt from behind the gift shop desk saw her now she would blanch. Never admit had content she felt in Caitlyn Kiramman’s arms.

And, God, was she content.

Caitlyn kicked the door to her cabin open and Vi breathed in a mix of spices from an earlier dinner untouched. She knew the layout of the cabin well, could hear the low crackle of a fire and could feel the heat of it as she was set down on the sofa that mirrored the hearth.

“I don’t understand it. I’ve nailed you with a shot right in the chest. You should be dead, or at the very least on it’s doorstep, not mine. You’re regarding me with discontent like I tasered you, or stunned you. Not like I took a Winchester and fired off a round. I rightly should take the stat phone and call the proper authority to get you to the emergency room and me to the psych ward.”

Caitlyn rambled in an adorably infuriating way when she was flustered. Even if Vi could get past the dryness in her throat she wouldn’t stop her. She enjoyed the way her cheeks would grow pink and she’d work the impassable problems out by her own accord.

She was flitting around, grabbing antiseptic, and medical kits that she had stashed, because she knew exactly what to do. Vi hadn’t realized she opened her eyes, or that she was watching her with a lazy content, but that’s exactly what she was doing, hand resting above her wound to subconsciously protect herself, breathing stuttered.

Her nails had retracted and so had her ears, thankfully. But her teeth still felt crowded in her mouth and she couldn’t calm her heart. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, if her eyes still shown a dangerous golden yellow. Caitlyn, her Caitlyn, had seen them either way. She balked at the fact.

“Cait,” Vi eventually stuttered out, clinging onto that floral scent that surrounded her so diligently. The Ranger was at her side in just a moment, crouching next to the sofa, grasping at her flexed and unflexed bicep. It was coated in a sheen of cold sweat. “I need you to get the bullet out. Please.”

That flicker of doubt was there again. It was brief but startling all the same. The Kiramman’s did not falter. She stared openly at Vi’s bare chest. At the pierced, pert nipples and the marred flesh in between them. In any other situation she would make a crude comment to cover her embarrassment, but this was not any other situation and Vi needed this bullet out now.

She gently grabbed the side of Caitlyn’s face, directing her attention, leading that deadly Cambridge stare to her own. “I understand that I am the last… I am the last… I didn’t…”

Vi was going about this wrong. She didn’t know how to get the words out. She didn’t know how to say that the same monster that had torn Caitlyn’s mother to shreds had taken up residence in her bones. Had changed her. They weren’t the same teeth, the same claws, but they had the same intention, could shed the same blood.

A sob tore through her, one that reminded Vi much of ones last. A death rattle. Caitlyn’s hot hand was holding her down in a moment, splayed against taut muscle. She was digging through an open first aide kit and searching for titanium prongs, a crease formed between her eyebrows.

“Hold this.”

Caitlyn barked the demand, and a wad of gauze was suddenly shoved into Vi’s mouth, catching on her chapped lips. She bit down so she wouldn’t choke on it. Caitlyn didn’t give a count down. It wasn’t her style. She didn’t coddle, or nurse you through pain that was known to be excruciating.

Instead, she dug the pointed prongs into the wound that was desperate to heal. Vi moaned around the gag, nails slashing even lines into the nearest throw pillow. Her claws were quick to come out, spilling stuffing as tears clouded her vision. Her back arched from the sofa as drool frothed from the corners of her mouth.

Caitlyn had the audacity to shush her like a petulant child. She plowed through the recesses of her injury, the layers of tissue and tendons. The gauze became damp and sticky with pink saliva. The heel of Caitlyn’s free hand was digging painfully into Vi’s shoulder to pin her down.

If Vi hadn’t been blinded by pain, she would relish in the way Caitlyn’s body was slotted against her own, having shifted. A sure knee in between her legs, pressed against her center. They were in a compromising position. Caitlyn’s breath was warm as it splayed across her chest. Vi’s rapid and building.

After a few agonizing moments, the prongs were pulled away and the bullet dropped to the floor with a clatter. Nothing could be heard but the punctuated panting of both women and the crackling of fire eating through logs. They were still. Vi’s teeth clenched and Cait’s hands still splayed near the wound that slowly began to seal itself in front of her disbelieving eyes.

Vi was filled with unrest. Dissatisfaction. Her hands were pinned and her throat was slick with blood. Her skin was buzzing and clarify had hit her like a truck now that the damned bullet had been pulled out. She was naked, vulnerable. And Caitlyn fucking Kiramman was on top of her.

Vi was saying something. Her stupid mouth was saying something, but it was muffled by the gauze, and Caitlyn lifted a shaky hand, pulling it from her lips with blood-soaked hands. “what?”

“Can you get off of me?” her words cracked. “I’m naked, cupcake.”

Caitlyn drew in a sharp breath, flicking her gaze down for an agonizing moment before shifting her weight off Vi. The sensation was immediately missed. A whimper quelled, swallowed along with the metallic taste that lingered on her tongue. Vi scrambled herself, pulling the throw blanket on the back of the sofa around her shoulders and making her hulking frame as small as she possibly could as she curled under the scratchy material.

She reveled in the scent of Caitlyn. Something that had been so oppressing the month before when they spoke in the woods. Now she swam in it. Hell, she wanted to drown in it. The Ranger busied herself with grabbing alcohol wipes from the first aide kit.

When she settled, she did so next to Vi. Their knees touching, as if any type of distance would make her perish. The gesture made her heart pound. It still ached, still fought to heal, but she didn’t’ mind. Caitlyn wordlessly asked for her hand and used her teeth to tear away the paper of the antiseptic wipe.

Vi always had larger hands than Caitlyn. But Caitlyn was nimble and methodic where Vi was clunky and impulsive. Despite the blood that had dried around her nailbeds, Caitlyn started the heavy task of cleaning the dirt and muck away from Vi’s knuckles. Neither of them speaking for a good, long while. She was waiting for Vi to speak, and she would wait for however long it took. She would always wait.

“I black out a lot.”

Caitlyn’s movement’s stilled for a moment. She had cleared most of the blood away from Vi’s left hand and moved on the right. There was a tiny mountain of wipes on the coffee table and the chemical scent was burning both of their lungs. She resumed her work with a committal hum.

“I think it’s a small mercy, really. I don’t want to remember. After that night, I knew something was different about me, but I wanted to attribute it to the grief, to the drinking. To anything other than what I knew was sitting in front of me all along.”

Caitlyn was scrubbing particularly hard at a spot of blood that refused to release itself from Vi’s skin at the base of her palm. Vi gently took the woman’s hands, giving them a squeeze, drawing her attention from the task. Her eyes were red around the edges from exhaustion. From emotion. She sniffed, glowered dangerously at Vi.

“The thing that… took your mother and Powder away from us it” Vi’s voice shattered. She grimaced and looked towards the fire. Tried to clear the emotion from her chest, but couldn’t quick staunch it. Never really could when it came to Caitlyn, so she embraced it instead, stared directly into the eye of the storm as it swirled. “When it bit me, it changed me. I don’t think it had a choice in what it was and I don’t think I have a choice in what I am now.

“This forest needs something to harbor it’s pain, and it breaks my heart more and more every single day that we crossed it’s path that night.” Vi’s head dropped, tears falling into her lap. Her shoulders convulsed. She was shaking, she knew. Too tired to fight them off. “You can hate me, Cait. I’m begging you to hate me. I would hate me.”

Hands were quick to find her cheeks and franticly wipe away at heated tears before patting at her collarbone until she looked up with confusion in her stare. Vi met an expression that was nothing more than stark tenderness, a flat line of a mouth. Caitlyn was calculating. She was exasperated. The look she often carried for Vi.

“Hate you? Why on earth would I hate you Vi?”

“I… I couldn’t stop it. I became it.”

“Darling,”

It was the subtle shake of her head, the gentleness of the single word, the quiet acceptance in her eyes. Everything combined. Vi crumbled. She fell forward and into Caitlyn’s arms. The Ranger let out a huff of air but accepted her all the same. She did not hesitate to pull her close, Vi’s ear pressed against Caitlyn’s stomach as she buried her head into the woman’s lap.

“None of this is your fault.” Caitlyn soothed, working her fingers through the mess of pink hair. “You hear me?”

Vi continued to sob, tightening her grip around Caitlyn’s center. She cried until her throat was sore. Breathing the woman in, relishing in the way her fingers felt as they gently pressed against her scalp. She whispered soothing words to her. Held her tightly, ran a hand over her bare spine and the scar of a bite that had never quite healed.

When the fire had turned into nothing but a dull flicker of orange, Caitlyn still harboring all the warmth either of them would ever need, Vi turned and stared up at her. There was a fondness in the woman’s stare. A curiosity there that she knew she’d have to atone for when she wouldn’t need to grip so hard to keep herself grounded.

“I need you to promise me something.”

Caitlyn knit her brows, swallowing hard. She brushed a strand of hair from Vi’s red-rimmed eyes. Her hand was trembling. Vi never wanted to move from this spot, from the warm comfort of the rangers lap, her nose pushed into her stomach where she could make sure she was breathing with ease.

“If you ever see me with a certain look in my eyes Cait, I need you to fire more than a warning shot. I need you to shoot to kill. I know you can.”

She opened and closed her mouth, teeth clanging together in a noise that should have been painful. Her hand curled into a fist against Vi’s bare abdomen, nails scratching lightly on marred skin. She huffed, but didn’t’ say a word. She didn’t trust herself to. It wasn’t the time to ramble, and both of them knew it.

“You’ll know it when you see it.” Vi clenched her eyes shut, burying her face deeper into Cait’s embrace. “You’re an okay shot.”

Caitlyn leaned her head back, letting out an unsteady sigh, her gaze lingering on the cold hearth, the fire long-dead and the Winchester’s silhouette looming as it sat propped in it’s usual place. “I’m an excellent shot.”

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