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winterarmyy · 1 year

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Welcome Home, Daddy

The aftermath of when Bucky accidentally relapsed into the Winter Soldier.

Summary: Bucky was over the moon when he discovered that Y/N was pregnant with his child. But, when the danger that lurks in dark threatened to steal his family away, a fellow soldier decided to come home.

Note: Highly recommend to read 《 Welcome Home... Soldat? 》 for backstory. But, you can also read this as a stand alone (though you might miss some call backs on the soldat's behaviour if you skip)

Pairing: winter soldier!bucky x female!reader

Words: 7.1k++ (bare with me, please)

Warnings: graphic violence, torture, blood, gore, deaths, dark undertones, sudden fluff, tiny bit of angst, google translated russian, and just so much detained anger exploding around, soldat is just deadly yet adorable in this one (i can't even handle it, and i'm the author), this event takes place far in the future after what happened in 《 Welcome Home...Soldat? 》

A/N: Looks like we have the winner for the poll 👀 Who's ready for our lovely soldat to make his appearance again? I know I'm not, but here we are. So, strap in and let's do this!

P/S: Also, I might as well make this as my submission for the seven writing event hosted by @nickfowlerrr 💌 Check out the event masterlist and support the writers by reading and reblogging their stories!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

They say the wrath of a fighter may threatened a heinous war but the wrath of a lover will let the earth drenched in bloody gore. And if a fool was daft enough to tore a lover from his other half, then they might just court themselves right into the hands of death.

And this couldn't be more true, especially if we consider the crime that the soldat was currently committing. Surely, the blood pooling on the floor will forever leave a grim mark that'll haunt the people who ever witness it.

"Where is she?" the soldat prompted the frail woman, limping on the chained chair. Despite the horrid situation, he sounded rather calm when he spoke.

How unfortunate it was for Elle to be associated with Hydra yet to also be so exposed to the dangers of the ghost himself, the Winter Soldier. Hydra may have their suspicion about the soldat making a move, but she didn't expect that she would be involved in the mess of this ordeal.

The cold metal of the soldat's vibranium fingers, particularly his index and thumb, latched themselves on another one of her nails. Her mouth slacked open but no sound was able to be formed when the soldat mercilessly ripped her nail right off her finger.

And oh, the pain was beyond any kind of injury that she had ever experienced, not a even a bullet through her flesh could be compared to this agony of a torture.

He harshly grabbed Elle by the back of her neck, forcing her to watch the blood leaking from the reddened flesh of her fingers, "I asked you a simple question, су́ка (bitch). Where the fuck is she?" The soldat's patience had been running thin and rage had clouded his judgements.

He needed to find her. His precious Родная (darling).

No matter whose neck he needed to slay or whose blood that have to be shed dry. He had to bring his darling home; no matter what it takes.

Unfortunately, it had been almost a month since he lost her.

And no one saw it coming.

Who would've thought that the old Hydra compound that the team raided were meant to be a part of a plan to weaken the Avengers. It was just a distraction filled with unexpected traps and triggers. By the time they flew home, the team were already tired and injured as the result of the raid.

So imagine the desperate struggle and utter panic that Bucky had to go through the moment he stepped his foot into the comfort of their home and had to witness Y/N's exhausted figure fighting for her life.

Hers and the baby's inside.

After hitting the 2 months mark of pregnancy, Bucky decided that Y/N shouldn't be involved in any high stake mission anymore. At first, she only laughed to his statement, thinking he was surely joking but when his stern expression didn't flatter, that was when she reliazed Bucky was not open for negotiation.

Y/N knew it was way too early to settle into her maternal leave but after having a long conversation with Bucky, they both agreed to keep her missions strictly on low-risk stakeouts and desk works at the tower.

It was supposedly be some kind of a precaution for her, to keep her and the baby safe, away from any type harm that might come their way. But, that certainly back fired.

When Bucky's burning anger had pumped him full with high stream of adrenaline, it was as if he went into an auto pilot; a murderous one at that. And soon enough he managed to take down half of Hydra's best agents that joined the mission of collecting Y/N from the tower.

For a moment, it seemed like luck was on their side, at least it felt like it.

It lasted only until Bucky saw how harsh the kick of the enemy landed on Y/N's hip, and how she managed to shield her stomach seconds before her body slammed down to the ground.

That was when fear crawled into his pumping nerves and the roots of it ran extremely cold.

And that was all it takes for Hydra to distract Bucky then immobilize him on the spot with a replica of the Sonic Taser developed by Stark Industries a few years back.

Bucky grunted painfully in protest of the high pitched sonic frequency from the device that overloads his nervous system. His body couldn't help but to slowly paralyzed its movements as his skin turned pale and the strain in his blood vessels became visible.

On the opposite side, Y/N could be seen being forcefully dragged away by a few of the Hydra agents that was left. There were couple of nasty injuries torn all over her body yet she was still stubborn on fighting back.

While she was being pulled farther away from him, she shouted his name loud and desprete, "Bucky!" Hot tears broke from the corner of her eyes as she desperately reach out her hand.

It felt as if she was right there when Bucky's hand was reaching back towards her. Like, a little bit of a push would've been enough to catch her but alas fate was not planning to be merciful.

Bucky's menancing eyes never left her wavering ones as Hydra tortured Bucky by stealing a part of his soul from him; and no one really knew how his heart clenched and torn to the fact that he was helplessly useless when Y/N needed him the most.

And when he only managed to scream back Y/N's name, he was forced to watch her wailed as she was unwillingly being taken away.

The moment when Bucky drowned himself in regret and rage, that was when the Winter Soldier took over his consciousness.

Unfortunately for the soldat, his mortal body was already worn out from all the intense fight that happened prior; he was knocked out right after he took over the body.

But in those few seconds before the darkness consumed him, the soldat managed to catch a glimpse of his darling. He saw the image of her; teary and bruised in the hands of those who created him. The very same monsters who uses him for despicable things.

That was all that he needed to see in order to break those chains around the dark pandora residing deep within his being.

The team was absolutely not ready to deal with the soldat again, this time without Y/N to tame him. Especially when his demands were unrealistic for them to fulfill.

It's been nearly 3 weeks since the incident and they had failed to locate Y/N; repeatedly. Even if they did manage to get some kind of an intel, all the of bases they had raided were basically bunch of abandoned spaces that Hydra used to occupy.

So of course the soldat was agitated. He had every right to be, more so when he thought of the increasing risk of his darling getting hurt in the hands of Hydra. And at this point, those scumbags were just messing with their minds. Especially with his.

"Listen, we're doing our best here, soldat." Steve tried to reason with him but it only fueled the burning flames within the soldat, "ты делаешь недостаточно! (You're not doing enough!)" He spat harshly that he didn't even noticed that he uses Russian language. It seemed like the unkempt irritation had conquered the chaos of his mind.

So that very night, the soldat decided to do this on his own; thus he ran away from the tower in search for his darling. He had to. Especially when he knew precisely why the Avenger was not able to find Y/N as quickly as they should be.

It was because they were the good guys. They were the heros, they were the light. And the soldat was not. In fact, he was the very opposite.

Unlike the Avengers, the soldat was not planning to play nice and soon enough he managed to find a lead.

Which bring us to this very moment in which he successfully snuck into a Hydra agent's home to interrogate her.

But, in contrast of those Hydra troops that attack the Avengers Tower a few weeks ago, Elle was not even involved in the mission of retrieving Y/N. She was actually on a solo mission to infiltrate a certain high school to collect informations on Peter Parker. Hydra suspected that he might be involved with the new hero appearing in Queens.

However, even if she was not a part of the team mission, she knew bits and pieces of the overall plan, especially the whereabout of the main character herself, Y/N.

However, the appearance of the Winter Soldier in her temporary house was completely unexpected.

It felt like it was just few moments ago that the intel on Y/N's location reached her ears. Then, she distinctly remember the glimpse of those murderous eyes glaring into her soul. Next thing she knew was everything went pitch black.

Even if it was temporary, however it felt so surreal.

The darkness surrounding her.

The bone rattling cold.

It felt like death itself.

But unfortunately for her, the soldat was far from stopping.

Elle was fraying at the edges while the soldat crouch to her level. Even if she could barely reconstruct the unclear and blurry images through her dazed eyes, however, that didn't stop the soldat from maiming the dying woman's soul through his unforgiving gaze.

"Wake up..." he growled as he yanked her face upwards, "...we're not done yet."

It took a while for Elle to finally adjust to the light, after being in the dark for – how she felt like – so long.

After the light hits her vision, the striking pain came next. The pulsing pain surrounding of her right eye, her broken nose, her busted lips, her bleeding skin; neck, chest, arms, and almost every part of her limbs.

Everything were – slowly but surely, in each cuts and bruises on her skin – blooming its pain into existence.

How can she skipped all of this when she lost her consciousness?

Perhaps that was how she managed to stay alive as long as she had. By running away from the misery; from her reality.

Elle whined in pain but her voice suggested that she might already torn her throat apart when it sounded more like a broken grunt. Her disoriented gaze fell into her aching fingers, each were missing its nail; the tips of them was where the icky blood trickled from and had shaped a pool of blood on the floor where she rested.

The dim lighting from the room reflected on the surface of the deep-red puddle, revealing the resemblance of it to a mirror. And the blurry image looking back, was the soldat, with a sinister expression on his face.

This game, that they're playing.

It hardly seems fair to one of them. To be tortured if not speaking the truth? That's simply unjust; but if we're talking about fairness, then none of those injuries could ever be compared to the pain Y/N might be going through at this very moment. Every second of Elle's useless stubbornness was costing Y/N's safety.

And the soldat didn't like that. Not one bit.

"You mentioned Spain? Where exactly?" In one swift, harsh motion, the soldat thrust his knife through her thighs, "FUCK!"

The loud scream of pain that tore from Elle's throat was probably the last coherent word that she uttered as the torture continued.

The soldat pulled the knife out and stabbing it into the open wound, he listened to Elle's gasp for a moment, relishing her breathless pleading and the tears now openly streaming down her face.

He stabbed again, twice, each was quick and deep, not caring about the blood that spurted out across his face.

At this point Elle was just a puddle of blabbering mess; streams of saliva pouring out her mouth, sobbing, gasping for air; mixture of grunts, moans and whispers of curses and pleas were all spouted incoherently.

Anger.

Frustration.

Rage.

Wrath.

Even hatred.

The soldat was feeling it all.

It was consuming him, devouring any sanity that was left of Bucky's moral values. The eerie glint in the soldat eyes suggested that he was not planning to stop until she gave him what he wants.

God, if it wasn't for chilling atmosphere around her, Elle might just mistook that she was actually in hell.

"Pyrenees!" She cried out. The soldat instantly stopped when she confessed. He waited for an answer and right on cue, she spoke again, breathless and almost silent as the fear that engulfed her prior refused to release her from its haunting grip. And truthfully she doubt that it will ever let her go, "T-there a secret base n-near the Irati forest."

She exhaled a shaky breath as she pleaded, "S-so please. Please stop this." The was tired of the pain and the numbness that came after. And the soldat knows it.

The room was left silent momentarily, as if he was actually considering her plea but alas he already had plans for her all along, "Shame. You should've killed yourself before I came here."

As he finished the last word, the soldat viciously plunged his knife deep into her neck, digging the sharpness of it through the delicate flesh until it reach the base of the blade.

Elle gasped in response, her hands scrabbling around in effort to break free, to stop all of this. But considering the situation she was in, there was nothing she could do about it other than to take it as it was given to her.

When the motion finally stopped, the soldat simply walked away from the scene as if it was a complete norm for him to behave as he was. He didn't even thought of cleaning the mess he left behind. Or hide the corpse somewhere.

Isn't he afraid that he might leave his tracks for the police to find?

Why would he?

This has been his life for decades on end. His sole purpose of living was to kill. So best believe that the authorities will never be able to link the soldat or Bucky to this crime.

Not today, not ever.

Through the days that Y/N was locked deep within Hydra's base, she hadn't been treated the worst. In fact, the sick and twisted agents and residents in the facility was more than willing to care for her.

This was all because they wanted her baby.

It was always sickening to hear them referring her child as merely a tool for their success. And the way they worship Y/N like she was a gift from God to fulfill their purpose, was beyond insanity.

"Oh, to have the privilage of bearing the offspring of the Winter Soldier. To be able to create the perfect weapon, unlike the father. It is just honorable."

It made her stomach churned with pure disgust whenever she heard those types of comments floating around her.

Besides the eerily digusting behaviour of the agents, there was also the regular check-ups and the lab tests that she needed to attend. Out of all the things she had to endure these past few weeks, the medical check-up has always dreaded her the most.

There was this constant debate within her troubled mind; of the possibility of Hydra manipulating her baby's health and genes by inserting unknown substance into her.

"Come on, mama. On the bed." The doctor said as he patted his rubber gloved hand on the surface of the rigid single bed.

She always found it vile that the people here calling her by that nickname. It tickled her throat in a way that she wanted to puke all the tasteless gunk that they had fed her with.

As she laid on the bed and let the process went on as it usually do, the doctor suddenly stopped everything that he was doing. At first she was weirded out by the irregular act of the man, but when she felt the vibration on the ground and the rushing footsteps from the floor above her, she knew exactly why the doctor suddenly froze on his spot.

And the emergency siren that shortly blared after, had only confirmed her speculation.

But mostly, it was the panic in the doctor's eyes that gave him away; then when Y/N noticed the man scrambled to search the drawers from one of the cabinet, she knew that he was up to no good.

The second that the doctor's hurried his steps towards her with a syringe in his hand, Y/N's body immediately recoiled. She quickly stopped him by grabbing his wrist and twisted it back until the syringe dropped from his hold.

The man cursed under his breath and decided to take her by force when he grabbed a handful of her hair, almost dragging her out of the bed. Y/N shrieked painfully while her hands blindly grabbing the silver tray by the bed next to her.

She then slammed it hard against his head, and watched the contents on the tray fell and scatter onto her. She took quick skim over all the tools and saw a potential weapon for her defence; a scissor.

"Stay still, mama. Or the baby will get hurt." The doctor foolishly threatened.

Maybe it was her defence mechanism or maybe it was just her motherly instinct kicking in but something just snapped inside of her when he said those words. There was this incredibly strong urge to either fight or take flight.

Of course she could easily slipped away and make a run for it but she just couldn't risk it. Especially when her baby's life was currently at stake. So, after a short moment of hesitation, she swiftly grabbed the scissors and surge it through his ribs. The man wailed in pain as he staggered off the bed and fell onto the floor.

You'd thought a single yet firm stab through the guts was enough to quench Y/N's need of fighting back but no. Apparently, the haywire of her nerves had drove her feral and she needed him to be soulless by the time she walk out the room.

That had forced her to nearly jumped on him like a predator pinning on a meek prey and the lack of struggling on the victim's side had only gave her full control to dominate him.

Then all of the sudden, the doctor felt another strike of the pain, digging into the flesh of his chest.

He woefully cried in extreme pain while Y/N did not utter a single word or let out any sound, she stayed silent as she thrusts the scissor in and out his flesh.

Each surge was vicious than the previous. Each stab was gradually speeding up as the motion increases it's number of repetition.

She completely let her emotions took over her sanity.

Until what's left in the room was only the sloshing and splashing sound of blood seeping through every thrust, as she continued to violate the body of the corpse.

Until the calm puddle of blood on floor rippled as the tears that broke from her eyes dropped on it's surface.

And when she realized that the doctor was long dead, that broke Y/N out from her feral state. Realizing what she had done; she shakily loosen her grip on the scissors and scrambled off from the lifeless body.

Her breath was near erratic; it was a chaos of unsteady rhythm as her words was lost at the tip of her tongue. She jolted in shock when the commotion in the facility got louder than before, reminding her that Bucky was there to save her.

Y/N felt a sob choking in her throat as her hands searched her stomach to coax the child in her womb, "It's okay sweet bean, daddy's here for us."

Have you ever heard how ear-ringingly loud it is when it's hailing? How the sounds of the frozen raindrops hitting – the top of your car or the roof of the shades of an outdoor café table – can completely mute your words for anyone to hear?

That has nothing compared to the thundering sounds that echoed throughout the whole facility. The shots were fired from multiple range of stolen guns, all were coming from one moving figure.

The once clean grey and white painted walls of the hallways, were now stained and splattered with the color of crimson. The usually empty hallways, were occupied by the dead bodies of fallen Hydra agents. And the distinct scent of well-kept lair, were effortlessly replaced by the unpleasant and pungent smell; a mixture of blood and sweat.

It was a clear trail of the Winter Soldier's deeds.

This place was supposed to be pristine, but now feels more like how it should be; hell.

While the enemies were roaring into their death, the soldat on the other hand was very much the opposite.

Unlike his foe, it took him very little work from the tips of his tongue and much more on the tips of his gun. When the enemies barked like a dog, the soldat pounced like a wolf; silent and resilient.

By nature, the soldat had never been a patient man, especially when it comes to people harming his darling.

Sure, maybe he can tolerate and play along with people who messed with him, but if one were to touch even a strand of hair of his beloved, then they practically reserving themselves a first class ticket of a one-way trip to hell.

And that unhinged tendencies of his only worsen when wrath was the one reigning his mind while hatred was its ruler. His mind was nothing but a chaos of rampage and vengeance. Seeking nothing but blood and death of his foolish foe.

At this point of time, with the amount of life he had taken from the moment he step foot into the gate of the base, to the very stairs he was currently climbing, one could probably matched his heart rate with the rhythm of the shots formed by the bullets he shot.

Magazine upon magazine he reloaded his gun and waste no less than zero bullet as every shot made was accurately deadly and terrifying fatal to his prey.

As the soldat's feet reached half way up the stairs, a Hydra agent's voice spoke from the lower level, "She's on the LG2, we need a team to come and collect her as soon as poss--" A bullet went straight through the top of his head before he could finish his sentence.

And that was the soldat's last ammo.

While he mentally took note on the intel, his feet was quick to jumped into action and made his way down to LG2. As he entered the hallway, his wild eyes wondered around to steal another gun from a dead man's body.

But he rose into a stand, he felt a tip of a cold steel nudged at the back of his head.

Some would call out the soldat's mistake for letting his guard down in the middle of a battle, but another would definitely ridicule the stupidity of that fool's guts for even thinking that the soldat couldn't counter-attack his weak threats.

However, none of the two man managed to made any move towards each other when there was a faster, more accurate trigger was pulled from someone else, from across the hallway.

And that action left an aftermath of the fool's body to drop flat on the floor, quickly finding it's perfect spot with between the other pile of corpses scattered around.

When the soldat turned around, the sharp of his gaze softened almost immediately.

There she was standing there, in the pastel blue of her 'prison' attire. Her hair was a bit messy even if it was tied, and her complexion looked slightly pale with fatigue but to the soldat, she was glowing like angel; despite the blood on her clothes or the gun in her hand.

She was right there.

His heart.

His love.

His darling.

Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she had been crying for days. Her pouty lips trembled when the soldat stepped closer and closer towards her, tears threatening to fall as if she haven't done that during all the weeks that she had been here.

The soldat's steps grew faster.

So does Y/N's.

Tap taping until they were almost running towards each other.

Until the moment they reunited in the middle.

Catching each other's lips in a desperate and insatiable kiss, the soldat pulled her body tight around the waist as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Both whimpered in a yearning moan, both still had their guns hanging on one of their hands.

So many feelings at once, relief and grief, with each of them had a different story to tell.

The couple kept breaking and mending the kiss ever-so-passionately as if they weren't in the middle of the grave-less cemetery; as if they weren't in the center of the piling corpses.

Briefly opening his eyes, the soldat could see a shadow running towards them. When Y/N heard the footsteps from her back, she knew they need to pull away, but the soldat was firm and stubborn with his hold.

So instead of letting her break the kiss, he groaned in disapproval and pulled her lips back to his. An angry growl vibrated against her lips as he continued to explore her wet and warm mouth.

Caught off-guard she melted to his silent demand, almost forgot that the enemy was right behind her. But, she should've know better when the soldat loosen one of his arms from the embrace and pointed his gun towards the target.

His finger pulled the trigger almost as easily as his teeth tugging into the bottom of her lips. And suddenly the sound of a body collapsing behind didn't matter anymore.

When the soldat felt that he had enough of the sweetness of her kiss, he finally pulled away, at least for now. He whispered dearly, "Родная (darling)..." he cupped her face in his large hands and rested his forehead on hers.

She thought she heard it wrong, but did he just called her darling? It took her a few second to piece it together and realized that this man was not Bucky, that he had relapsed into the Winter Soldier again, "Soldat?"

The soldat smiled and leaned forward to steal a chaste kiss on her lips, "Yes, it's me, мое Родная (my darling)" he cooed as he swept her by her feet, off the bloody ground and carried her in his arm, "I got you, Куколка (little one). You can rest now."

"We're just wanted make sure she's alright."

"You can follow us if you want so just please--"

"Soldat! You're going to hurt her."

The familiar voices leaked through Y/N's ears as she was drifting through her dreamless slumber. Soon enough, the loud commotion of her surrounding woke her up from the deep sleep.

The words that the Avengers were yelling out became clearer as she gained her consciousness, and the ever-changing movements of the soldat, evading every step the Avengers made to get closer to him, made her aware of the way she was resting in his arms; perfectly cocooned in a form of a bridal carry style.

The soldat halted on his spot when Y/N opened her eyes to see what was going on, "Soldat?" She blinked multiple times as she adjusted to the lights. The menacing frown of the soldat melted into a much softer expression, "Родная(darling), you shouldn't be awake yet." He craddled her closer to him as he cooed.

Where is she? How long was she out? When did she changed her clothes?

"What is happening?" She asked as she peered over his shoulder to see Natasha sighing in relief, "Sweetheart, thank god you're awake."

Y/N then looked over to Steve, "You've been gone for weeks, y/n. We got news about your rescue yesterday, and you guys just arrived home. Now, if we could just to take you to the medbay and get you check-up, that'll be great." He briefly explained.

"Yeah, that's all we want isn't it? But, someone just had to be sappy and refuse to let anyone touch you. You know, how it is with the soldier." Tony quickly intercepted.

The soldat didn't pay them any attention now that his darling was awake. He was merely focusing on whispering the sweetest things as he traces delicate trails of kisses on her forehead, her nose, her cheek, basically all over her face.

Sam took it as opportunity to get closer when the soldat was distracted on suffocating Y/N with kisses. But he should learn by now how alert and agile the soldat can be, especially when he have Y/N close to his proximity.

So, when Sam took a step closer, the soldat recoiled almost immediately, putting quite of a distance between them.

"Man, if Bucky has a staring problem, then the winter soldier over here has a hogging problem." Sam accusingly pointed at the soldat, only getting grunts as a reply.

Looking at the current situation, Y/N pondered for awhile. As much as she wanted to get herself check-up, it was also wise to not pressure the soldat to give her away.

Considering what she witnessed at the Hydra base, Y/N knew the risk that comes when we let the soldat dwell in anger for too long.

So she consulted the rest of the team to back down for now, and let the soldat do what he wants. Y/N promised them that she will conviced the soldat to let her get a check-up as soon as possible. But for now, they really need to trust her words.

At first every one of them was reluctant to let her go but in the end they agreed to her suggestion.

When the team spread out and gave some space for the soldat, he didn't waste any time and marched straight to where their bedroom supposed to be. As soon as they arrived at their safe space, the soldat almost threw Y/N onto the bed and swiftly drew a knife from the holster of his thigh as his predatory eyes searched the room.

He refused to move even an inch away from where he stood and remained close to Y/N; shielding her figure with his own.

It was very faint, but the soldat could sensed that they weren't the only ones in the room.

Y/N eyed him curiously, wondering why the soldat was still on edge when he wasn't supposed to. So, she hopped off from the bed and stood on her feet before reaching out to hug the soldat from behind.

"You can put the knife down, soldat. It's just us here." She coaxed but the soldat refused to believe her. He pulled her by the arms, breaking her hug in the process and hold her close to his chest, "There's someone else here."

His actions was rather rougher than he intended it to be; even Y/N was startled by the sudden movement, "Oooff, careful there, soldat. You might give the little one a fright." She chuckled softly as she give her belly a loving rub.

And suddenly his attention was completely focused on Y/N now. Usually his frown symbolized irritation, but this time there was a clear confusion in his eyes. The amount of appalled blinking of his eyes increases when the puzzle pieces in his head started to merge.

The soldat knew that he heard a third heartbeat in the room; that was why he was on alert for threats but apparently he had been closer to the source than he thought was.

In fact, it was right his arms. Or maybe a little bit lower, somewhere around his torso.

Y/N didn't say anything, she simply nodded and smiled up to him as she continued to rub her belly.

When the conclusion finally hits him, the soldat dropped the knife in his hand at the same time he fell on his knees. His gaze never broke from hers, not even a split second, until he was face to face with her tummy.

The soldat leaned one side of his ear closer to her and the thumping sound of the third heartbeat got louder. The discovery had caused him to jolt away as shock decorated his features. He titled his head upwards to Y/N with the same wide, confused look in his blue eyes.

"It's okay, love." She giggled amusingly when the soldat repeated his previous actions. He leaned in and jolted back again as if he couldn't believe what he just heard was real, "Is it... his?" The soldat asked as he implied his existance to be separated from Bucky.

There was a hint of sadness in Y/N's expression when he said it like that. There's been many long conversations that she and Bucky had about the soldat after his first relapse.

Though Bucky was still unsure of his own dissociating self, Y/N on other hand believed that the soldat, this particular man whose drenched the earth with blood just to save her, the same man whose currently on his knees to hear a heartbeat of an unborn child; he deserved a little kindness in his life.

"Yes..." Y/N answered truthfully before she continued, "...and he's yours too."

And that surely knocked the air out of the soldat's lungs, he couldn't tell if she was telling him the truth or was just trying to kill him; either way the butterflies in his chest was suffocating him from the inside.

The soldat couldn't speak a single word; because he didn't know what to say. But there was this beam on his features, light in his eyes, softness on his smile when he dreamily stared at her growing belly.

Y/N took him by his flesh hand and place his palm on her stomach, then she spoke tenderly to the baby inside her, "Wanna say hi to daddy, sweet bean? Say, 'Welcome home, daddy.' "

She knew it was silly, because obviously the child in her womb shouldn't be able to speak, and he was not yet developed enough to be kicking his feet. Hell, they don't even know his gender yet.

But how could she not say it when the soldat looked so damn happy when she did. He looked so peaceful and has this daze and some of those twinkling hearts in those steel-blue eyes of. The soldat sighed in pure joy before he leaned to kiss her stomach.

And as it turns out that was all she needed to do to persuade the soldat to letting her see the doctors. He was there through the whole process, refusing to let go of her hand. It was such a good news to hear that the baby was healthy and there wasn't any foreign substance that might contaminated her during her times in Hydra.

After getting proper medical care and some food in her system, the soldat immediately carry her back to their room to settle down. While she laid on the bed, making up for the lost time to finally get the mental rest she desperately needed, the soldat on the other hand, had made himself comfortable by lying his head on her stomach.

He just couldn't stop; as if he was hypnotised by the melody of the baby's heartbeat. His hand snuck under her shirt, lifting the fabric up to reveal the belly where their miracle resides.

Y/N's droopy eyes followed his actions as she watched how carefully the soldat approached her. Out of habit, her hands absentmindedly rake through the softness of his hair as she held him by the head.

The soldat dotingly caressed the child's sleeping chambers as he leaned closer to it, "...Hi there, little one." he greeted with a quiet and loving whisper.

Immediately, a smile beamed brightly on Y/N's face when the soldat proceed to pamper her belly with countless of tender kisses, "...it's daddy." he introduced himself, as if the baby was able to understand him.

The silence that came after was so sweet and comfortable. And Y/N knew she wouldn't be able to have this without the soldat. She tucked a piece of his loose strand of hair behind his ear when she spoke gently, "Thank you for saving me, soldat."

He briefly lifted his head and smiled up at her, "You know I can't live without you Родная (darling). I will always need you." He declared a truthful confession before turning his attention away. His lips grazed on the skin of her belly as he mumbled against it, "And you too, little one."

Y/N could burst into tears just from this interaction alone but she try not to. She doesn't want to look back at this moment and remember how much she wept, so she blinked her tears away while she watched the soldat spoiled the little buddle of joy inside her with so much endearments.

Even though it was always a happy memory for the soldat when he spend time with his darling, but this... this was rare. And he wanted to cherish it for as long as he could.

The soldat laid on his ears again when he peered from where he had his head rested, his deep gaze captured her attention, "Has he been taking care of you good, darling?" He asked.

The soldat probably had no idea how Bucky adored her; if anyone paid enough attention they might even caught him worshipping the very ground she stepped on.

A breathy chuckle escaped from her mouth as nodded with a drunken grin, "He's the best." She hummed approvingly, "Best husband, and best daddy too." She exclaimed brightly as she glanced at the ring on her finger; it was barely visible through the thick of the soldat's hair.

Surprisingly, the soldat didn't react negatively to her remarks, instead, a proud smile curved on his lips as the pride in his chest overflowed and leaked all through his very being, "Good." He simply said.

The smile lines on the corner of his eyes didn't flatten even when he closed his eyes. For a moment, he tried to silenced everything else around him and focused on the fluttering sounds of the baby's tiny heart.

It might have been the thick haze of lavender smoke in their head or the swarming butterflies in their chest, that they didn't even notice the fatigue that had been slowly taking over them, until the tenderness of their caresses were barely moving.

When the heaviness of her eyes weighted the lids, she sleepily asked the soldat, "Will you still be here when I wake up?" Truth to be told, she was afraid that all of this was just a dream; an escape from reality of the cruel captivity.

The soldat briefly opened his own tired eyes and cooed softly, "I'm always with you, Родная (darling)." And Y/N took it as a promise for her desprete soul to cling on; a ray of hope for her to hold onto, if she ever wakes up in that cell again.

Not long after, both of them lost to the lure of somnolent and their soul quickly drifted into the peaceful dreamland. Soft snores were filling the quiet of the room as their mortal body continued to entangled themselves with each other.

It was safe to say that if Steve would ever barge into the room, he'd probably maxed the storage of his phone with photos of the soldat smushing his face on Y/N's belly as she perfectly curled around him.

Maybe it was the sunlight leaking through the window or maybe it was the intense gaze she felt burning on the skin of her face. Eitherway, it certainly disturbed her from her sleep.

When her body stirred, Y/N realized that she didn't need to open her eyes to know that last night was not a dream, especially when she can feel a pair of familiar arms wrapping around her waist under her shirt.

Y/N slowly peeled her eyes open to see a recognizable ceiling. Her eyes then trailed to her side and met a pair of blue of eyes staring back at her. Her gaze searched for the soul within him and found the semblance of Bucky reflected in his eyes.

Still dazed from sleep, she continued to watch him blinking at her, slowly and silently, like a cat declaring their love to their human. But even then, he couldn't hide the afterglow of the tears on his face.

"Bucky, honey. Have you been crying?" Her voice rasped from lack of use, yet her tender fingers find themselves crawling across his wet cheeks.

It was as if her voice was a trigger, and tears quickly reformed in Bucky's eyes again. Y/N gently pulled him to her chest, one hand threading his hair and another rubbing his back as he sobbed in her arms, "It's okay, Bucky. We're okay." She continued to coax him lovingly.

They spend most of the early morning holding each other close and dear. Then when the tears started to lessen, Bucky finally pulled himself away from her. Y/N wiped the excess tears on his cheeks but he caught her hand underneath his; he relished in the relief of her presence when he sighed to her touch.

Bucky's gaze wobbled in the pool of tears in his eyes but he was still determined to speak his mind "I'm so sorry, doll." He apologized, "I couldn't stop them. Even with this damned serum in me, I still couldn't protect you; both of you." If his defeated voice didn't convey his truth, then the tremble of his touch should be enough.

And Y/N's heart simply shattered for him; what did he meant by that? He did save her though. The winter soldier or Bucky. It didn't matter who but she was here now because of him. She was safe; they both were, "But you saved me, did you not?"

"But, I didn't. The sol--" Before Bucky could even finish his sentence, Y/N quickly cuts in, "The soldat is always going to be a part of you, Bucky. And if he saved me, that means you saved me too." She reassured him.

Seeing the hesitation in his eyes, she continued to persuade him, "And if I could speak for our child, which I absolutely can because I'm his mother, then he would say that he is proud that his strong daddy managed to beat the absolute shit out of those bad guys."

Bucky blurted out a hearty laugh, "I don't think it's good to teach our baby to curse when he is still in your womb, mama." His laugh gradually reduced to a chuckle when he wiped the remaining tears from his eyes.

Y/N simply shrugged to his suggestion, "It's not like he wouldn remember this anyway." She smirked playfully.

Another chuckle managed to slip through Bucky's lips before he lowered his face to her tummy, "And you? How's your play date with Winter, hmm sweet bean?" He mumbled as his lips planted on her skin.

Besides the heartbeat of his child, he could also hear the tiny twitching of the baby's limbs moving ever-so-slightly, "Yeah, I bet he spoiled you with lots of kisses and cuddles, huh? Like he did your mommy?" He continued to coo against her belly, unaware of the shock on his wife's face.

"Winter?" A small smile cracked from the corner of her lips. Yes, she was shocked but that doesn't mean she wasn't pleasantly surprised by it.

Bucky didn't even bother to look up at Y/N's face as he was busy blowing raspberries on her stomach, "If he's going to keep popping up in our lives then we might as well call him something else other than 'soldat', don't you think?" He simply said, marking one last kiss on the small growing bulge on her belly, before working his way back up to her face.

Y/N's heart swelled to his gesture and when he laid his head next to hers, she carefully took him by his cheeks, pulling him in for a gentle kiss, "I think he'd love that, Bucky." She whispered against his lips, feeling his smile in return.

Bucky nudges forward to catch her lips again; kissing her slow and sweet as if his whole world has been waiting for this moment. And when the kiss naturally broke, he tempted her with something he knew she couldn't resist, "Now, how about we grab you both something to bite, hmm?"

End.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: The use of the title in the fic is suprisingly wholesome despite the insinuation of it, don't you think? Lol. Btw, thank you so much for stopping by and read my work. Leave your thoughts behind for me, I'd love to hear from you!

#winterarmyyfics #welcome home soldat au #the seven writing event #nickfowlerrr’s writing event #winter soldier!bucky #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #winter soldier x you #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier fluff #bucky fluff #nickfowlerrr's writing event

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seikkoi · 5 months

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ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰᴏᴜʀ [1, 2, 3] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 10k

“I have not been meeting with Steve.” you scowled behind gritted teeth. Balled fists return to your side. Pin-point daggers shoot back, unphased.

It’s an absurd notion on its own, that you betray him in the slightest. You also know you’ve had sneezes last longer than that conversation–how the hell did Tony know about it?

“Try again.” He doesn’t return your heat in his voice, leaving that to be felt through his grasp.

“Fine, I ran into Steve, but come on, you seriously think I would–”

“Not sure what to think given how easy it just was for you to lie to me.”

“You’ve been lying to me from the start!”

You pulled yourself from his grasp, tossing the bag onto the island. Cream marble and translucency make for wonderful camouflage, almost losing itself in the light entirely.

“I’d hardly call my personal habits comparable to sneaking around.”

Adrenaline does what it knows best, keeping you pliant and pissed. Two things that erode rationalism like rust. The iron spreads to whatever argument you would’ve made had there been more time to prepare. Or sense to see the mosaic pattern here. Time stills for no more than a few seconds–and that’s all Tony needs.

“So, go ahead, please. Tell me more about what I should think .”

He says it so permissively, you might have obliged if his jaw loosened even a bit to do so. That tiny breadth of space is stalked through by shiny leather oxfords. You’re given a not so pleasant reminder of his stature when he's in front of you again, more overwhelming than before. The cool stone island digs into your back.

“Here I was actually worried something could have happened to you–turn’s out you’re searching for, what , exactly?”

The reversal almost worked, really. The reminiscent guilt came back as it always does. You felt the same way for wanting to leave back in California months ago. Even all that time ago in that dimly lit boutique. Tony showed you time and time again how much he loved you– wanted you, and here you were, finding another reason to push him away.

You were so close to giving in. The marble’s nearly swallowed the powdery bag whole by now, for it takes you longer to see the plastic outline bouncing back at you.

Tony waits, hands tucked into the pocket of his suit pants (in a very deliberate attempt to hide his own unease). His eyes still bore back into you like a hawk, and you wanted to surrender to them until their pin-point, reddened nature dawned on you. Then, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the tempo beating fast your own. The shake in his hands when he held you in place.

To Tony, you meet his eyes with something far more heart-piercing than anger, and he gets a sick feeling of deja vu. You wouldn’t know–his face stone cold from years of practice. But this close, you can see something worse.

“You’re wasted right now .”

You don’t bother making it a question (it’s a quiet scoff). Nor do you bother to wait for the response he’s struggling to muster. Decades of life yet he lacked a great deal of experience in getting called on his shit. All the air seems to leave the room, saving just the few breaths you have remaining in your lungs.

“We’re done.”

You use them wisely, calmly , even, to head for the elevator and as far away from this as possible. Despite the fact your ears are ringing. Don’t ask where you find the willpower. You push past him, rather easily because Tony moves for the sanctity of his shoulder and knee.

Your fingers go to grace the brass buttons, but Tony crosses the threshold with far fewer steps and positions himself between you and the opening door.

“ Move , Tony.” you say sternly, though it feels ridiculous raising your voice at someone whose gaze you have to look up to meet.

“Don’t want to keep Mr. America waiting, of course.”

“Seriously?” you scoff, eyes rolling. “You’re still on that?”

“I don’t know, you still wanna lie to me?”

“How many times do I need to tell you–”

“I know you were with him, so you can cut the bullshit.”

“I told you, I ran into Steve. That’s . It. ” you respond, making another move for the button just for Tony to shift an inch to the left.

“You two looked very cozy outside that bar. Let me guess, he ordered a Manhattan and you just couldn’t say no.”

“For god’s sake, no . He came out while I was waiting and asked me not to tell you–end of story.” You’d hoped that added details would be enough to assuage him–at least to move out of your way.

“So, you decided all on your own to rummage through the bathroom?”

As many of his questions tend to be, he already knows the answer. Even still, the look you give is telling on its own.

“I mean, really–” he chuckles dryly, “Please tell me what is so special about him that you keep trusting him over me.”

“He, for one, isn’t controlling or watching my every move–out of the way, Tony.” you repeat, exhausted.

Tony’s eyes dart down to the elevator panel he’d done such a phenomenal job of blocking, before glancing back at your pleading face. That seems to do the trick, because he presses the call button himself and gestures open arms into the small space.

“By all means, knock yourself out.”

Shocked, but without another word, you enter. As you turn and press L for the lobby, you expect Tony’s irate face staring back at you.

Instead, you catch the patterned fabric lining the back of his suit vest as he walks away.

Once the elevator doors shut, Tony loses his last semblance of composure.

A sheer crystal serving tray by the stove behind him, topped with an array of ornate glasses, is thrown straight across the kitchen where it crashes to a million pieces at the plush living room rug.

He truly does not enjoy your penchant for storming off today or any other day.

Today is the worst, though, for two reasons. One, he’s not certain that letting you leave was the best move in the long-term. Two, you promised never to do this in the first place–you fucking promised.

Another innocent bystander (this time a glass pitcher) joins the pile in the living room.

Stuttery hands brace the counter. It’s of little effort for him to keep a hardened facade in the face of anger, but now that you’re not here to see it, the stone mask cracks. Shame, guilt, anger and that sneaky trickster known as self-righteousness blend up into something new entirely. There’s no pride in this for him, truly.

The billionaire was so certain when he saw the photos. You and fucking Rogers of all people, talking so close. Paranoia and a lack of reasonable perspective means his first thoughts are not pleasant in any shape or form. He wasn’t controlling , everything he did was preventative. This was self-confirmation (and a shit ton of jealousy). You’d simply done the thing he was most afraid of.

Or it was the thing he was most afraid of.

The counter stays tight under his grasp until his hands sport two fresh indentations, cursing himself and trying not to think about how breakable the chandelier is.

Just as he was sure of the photos, he was sure of you . You wouldn’t leave him, you were here to stay, you wanted him–right?

Only now under the cool touch of marble does he realize those ideas could never possibly co-exist.

No one as good to him as you would betray him, you wouldn’t. But you could reach the breaking point he sought so heavily to avoid in the beginning.

All alone in his tower built atop money and bad habits, the chandelier is spared as the great Tony Stark starts to break instead.

That is until he remembers he isn’t alone.

“Jarvis.” he calls out, and the older man emerges from the hallway no louder than a mouse.

Don’t feel embarrassed, the walls and loyal ears have certainly heard worse. Discretion is 90% of his job after all. In fact, right now he’s pretending not to notice the tears running down Tony’s face.

“Find out where she went.”

Tony keeps his head trained to the countertop anyway, just in case. Jarvis turns to follow through his instructions, but stops as soon as he starts. Decades of serving the Stark family is enough to know he’s probably better off holding his tongue. He speaks for your sake.

“Sir, I suspect she went home.”

At this, the wetness is dried by his shirt sleeve, already grabbing his coat to follow you.

“Sir,” Jarvis quickly interjects, Tony’s fingers on the call button. “Might I suggest…waiting until the morning?”

He doesn’t need to say why. Tony can guess well enough.

You actually had no destination in mind. The thought of home felt disgustingly empty, and the reminder that you only still had it because of Tony would definitely stay persistent. You couldn’t bear to think about what you might've done to pay for it otherwise. Going to a friend’s would require an explanation you absolutely could not give. For a while, you wander just as before. You must look insane to the people passing by–makeup definitely stained and running.

A rudimentary pros and cons list is drafted, revised, deleted, and drafted once more. Sure, you didn’t have a slew of loves to compare it to, but you knew the one you had for Tony was irreplaceable. No one ever made you feel this wanted , this loved , this special . No ex of yours left a dozen roses by your door–or waited in the car for hours while you slept. They didn’t fill their lacquer kitchen cabinets with herbal teas just because you mentioned liking them once . Hibiscus and rooibos flooded Tony’s kitchen so long as it kept you happy . Every other relationship was a caustic whirlpool. Tony was a dizzying fantasia. You gleefully closed your eyes so many times that the thought of opening them made you nauseous.

You swallow stale bile and keep walking.

The dusky hue in the sky grows to a fine oceanic blue above you until you gain enough sense to go home. Out of spite (and totally not because you have no other way), you take the subway home, cheeks raw from the night’s sharp wind on your tears.

Your heels clank awkwardly on the metal descent, echoing on the platform. It’s empty, sharply different from the vamping nightlife outside. It’s not long before your train hustles down the track, stepping on to an disturbingly, equally empty train car.

You slump into the first empty seat you see. In a calmer mood, you might’ve bothered with your phone, instead staring into your reflection on the glass pane. The gentle rocking starts soon after, and you work on putting your mind somewhere besides bergamot and red.

Tony does not like waiting.

He would be working, if he could find even a shadow of concentration. All he can think about is you– the grit in your voice.

At some point in his marathon around the penthouse, the small pile of glass is quietly cleaned away. Out of sheer boredom (and latent regrets), he considers creating a new one.

Why would you leave him– how could you leave him?

In the idle night hours, pacing from room to room, Tony almost wishes you had cheated on him. Then, he could be right. He could skip past silly little thought pieces over his vices addiction and fly straight to indignity. It wouldn’t be his fault, would it? He wouldn’t have to explain a damn thing to a world that didn’t care for him.

Everyone betrayed him in the end, even you.

With enough clarity, he might be able to see the shame hiding under all that self-righteousness, but alas. Years of practice and all.

The best he can do for now is scalding admonishment.

And a pinch of paranoia that his own actions caused Steve to seek you out–again. Tony knew the soldier was stupid, but that would be moronic . He made himself perfectly clear this morning, no shot Steve chose this as the method for exacting his revenge. It wasn’t a well-guarded secret amongst Tony’s circle that you were to be left ignorant, you weren’t like them . Really, he’d purposefully (and harshly) informed this as much. If Steve wanted to embarrass him then he failed succeeded miserably. The fact he would even attempt such a thing is the greater offense.

Tony’s self-indulgent, not an idiot. Even under watered layers of complexes, he knows the greatest offense lies ten feet away on his kitchen counter. In fact, it’s what keeps him awake through the night. Awake and thinking–thinking about how fucking flawlessly he was keeping everything under wraps. This infallible image he crafted for you was gone. No longer could he hide behind a glass barrier of false separation. Foolish Tony–believing a second chance would come so freely.

He made the same mistake twice. The odds he’d get a third chance were slim to none. At the time, he felt lucky to even have Pepper. Clearly he’s doing something worth rewarding on this Earth, because then he found you. Or, alternatively, God realized what a disservice he’d done by walking missile Tony’s way in the first place.

You were invaluable. Nothing like his playboy flings or one-night stands. From the moment he laid eyes on you he knew his life would never be the same without you.

You promised , and he intends to make good on it even if you won’t.

Tony can’t recall the last time he waited for a damn thing in his adult life (much less to sober up), and he doesn’t care much for starting something new today. Then, he remembers just how much patience he has for you. He waits for you patiently as you oggle every mural, piece of street art, or weird boutique. He waits as quietly as can be while you sleep, and he waited months for you to feel comfortable enough to spend consecutive nights at his home.

There’s a pit growing in his chest–one screaming that his hard work might be swirling down the drain. How stupid he was for letting you storm off. With each passing second, you were sinking further from his grasp.

To hell with waiting.

After all, he’s Tony Stark –he’d deny himself of nothing he desired. He didn’t work this hard to settle for less than that.

In his defense, he does attempt to do the courteous thing of calling before showing up randomly in the middle of the night. Your phone, hopelessly abandoned deep in your purse, rings to no answer. It totally doesn’t make him more irate.

One extremely lonely, and infuriating train ride later, you make it home. You jump when a knock vibrates through your apartment–though you know there’s only one person who’d show up in the middle of the night. Still, you tiptoe across the living to peer through the peephole anyway. While you were not super enthusiastic about seeing him outside your door this soon, the defeated slump in his shoulders gives you some satisfaction.

A very brief, stereotypical through-the-door conversation ensues. You shout for him to leave, to which Tony provides the usual platitudes to just open the door and you respond further with a stout fuck no . You roll your eyes at his continued pleas, and turn for your bedroom. He could sit out there and talk to the door all night like a madman if it suited him, but you weren’t going to spend a precious second on this earth listening to it.

You don’t even make it past your couch before you hear what you swear to god cannot be your lock turning. God, Buddha, and everything else divine must have been busy, because Tony stands in the entryway, illuminated by the kitchen stove light.

“Have you lost your mind ? Where the hell did you get a key?”

He shrugs and looks around like it’s obvious.

“The lease holder is usually given a key, especially if they’re paying.”

The aghast scoff can’t wait to leap from your throat.

“You know what, fuck you .” you spat, flying past him to the door. “No good deed , huh?”

Somewhere between you storming out earlier in the night and his decision to come here (or maybe walking up the creaking stairs) he seems to have gotten the impression you were in a joking mood. There’s nothing but sweetness in his voice now, yet you still can’t trust that you know where his head’s at. Your night had been tumultuous enough without him showing up.

Your fingers just barely wrap around a cool metal knob, the hall light leaving a thin warm line on your face. Tony braces a heavy palm above your head the second it does, closing it shut with a frame wobbling thud .

“A bit rude to run out on me twice, don’t ya think?” he smirks, looking down at you.

“A bit rude to force your dirty money on someone then hold it over their head, don’t you think?” you mock, stupidly trying to pull the handle open a second time, unbudging against Tony’s palm, biceps testing the elasticity of his silk shirt. You were getting tired of constantly feeling trapped.

You wish you’d stay far away, in the safety of the living room where citrus didn’t take you over. Where that hopeless little part of your brain could stay quiet and not scream to wrap your arms around his torso. Also because the door doesn’t move a fucking centimeter, so it was a waste of energy regardless.

“If you wanted someone who’d let you work yourself to death or end up on the street, you should’ve called that guy from your high school reunion back. You know–the real handsy one with the mohawk.”

“I’ll get right on that if you move out of the fucking way.”

“Please, like I’d ever allow that.” Tony laughs, and you’re wondering why you appear as some sort of one-woman comedy act by every man in this city.

“What the hell do you want? I told you–I’m done with this.”

He ends his chuckle with a tsk , leaving you in the living room to sit at your kitchen table. The feet of the metal chair make a discordant screech across the linoleum and he turns the seat towards you before sitting.

“You don’t mean that, honey.” Tony smiles, tapping his shoes against the floor.

“I meant it.”

He gestures back towards the entryway.

“Nothing but space and opportunity to run away again, what’s stopping you?”

“You just said you wouldn’t let me.” You’re giving it your all not to shout, to scream at him for how insane this is. If you were still at the tower, you might not have bothered–far away from neighbors with loose lips and thin walls.

“I’d never allow you to waste your time with someone else. Storm off as much as you like–that won’t keep you from me.”

It’s all cool words and charisma, with a sickeningly violet weight that flips your stomach. He’s far across the space, and the door is still within inches of your grasp.

“Find literally anyone else to sit here and play this game with you.”

“What part of ‘ I want you, and only you ’ do you not understand?”

The kitchen stove light still illuminates his figure, casting a dim shadow over his back to shadow his figure across the floor. His feet continue to tap idly, head resting on his palms as if confused to why such a statement even needed to be told to you (again).

“You were getting along just fine before you met me, go back to that–I don’t want any part of whatever the hell else it is you’ve been lying about–”

“I’m not letting you go.”

That sweetness is his voice is pushed out to make room for pure desperation. The words waiver as they leave him, clearly fighting against whatever instinct wanted to hold it in, though you can’t help wondering if that’s all that caused the shake. An air of silence falls, where he watches you from the kitchen with stabbing eyes. Walking away is logical, but something unnatural freezes you in place. Plus, you’re not certain he wouldn’t fly to the door again the moment you touch it.

“Why me?”

Another short silence and this time you’re the one to take advantage of it, louder than you needed to be.

“And why accuse me of sneaking around? I barely even spoke to him how the hell did you know–”

“Were you not?”

Your nostrils flare, nails digging into tight wound palms. Water droplets leave the kitchen faucet in out of time drips. This is why your fingers shook and bore a million typos to correct. Lying to Tony Stark was one of the stupidest riskiest things you could do.

“I just needed time to think–”

“To play Nancy Drew..” He corrects. It’s not tempered, just matter-of-factly–like a lawyer pointing out bad evidence.

“I needed to see for myself–”

“ Asking totally wasn’t an option.” Tony meets your volume with too much ease.

“Like you would have told me the truth !”

“I’ve never lied to you–”

“Oh, right , you only speak in half-truths, or say it’s nothing to ‘concern myself with ’!” Your anger pulls you across the creaky floors of the entryway, feet tethering on the wood boundary lining off the tile of the kitchen.

“You’re not–”

“That’s the real reason Pepper left you, isn’t it? Not any of that bullshit you tried to sell me L.A–she left because you play like some larger-than-life billionaire and not the shady piece of shit you are.”

You don’t have to continue your slow stampede into the kitchen, as the chair makes another unsettling screech on the tile when Tony suddenly stands. An indignation only complimentary to your own is expected, but it isn’t what you get.

“I didn’t come here to be judged by you.” His mouth barely moves to say it–as even the slightest parting would cause him to shout back and have the fight you seem to be dying to have.

“Why the hell are you here?” A better phrased, more favored question in your opinion would have been ‘ why did you break into my apartment after I dumped you? ’, but the answer’s surely the same.

Tony can glare down lasers at you as much as he likes, he’s not getting his way (for once)–you aren’t crumbling (for once).

“I need you.”

That disgusting, heart-string tugging desperation comes back and it turns out you still haven’t built your defense strong enough. You’re taken aback, because you had prepped for a full blown argument. You had enough ammo loaded up to keep this going all night. But somehow, it’s a heavier three-word declaration than I love you . It’s not a murmur or with a racing chest.

And it is wholly true. Life had him placed on a giant, constant stage. Where he needed to be someone else–someone stronger and with rougher edges. It kept him enclosed. Where everything he hated about himself was reflected in everyone and everything around him. That kind of cycle is self-feeding. A snake gnawing at its exhausted tail for eternity. It was a spur of the moment decision to stop for a drink that night. Truthfully, he had more than enough already coursing through his veins, but the tower felt emptier than usual in his mind, and this career warrants you very few friends.

Maybe it was the flickering neon signs–glowing brand names across the sidewalk. The bustling noise flooded the rest of the quiet street like an overflowing bucket. It was a grimy, crowded hole in the wall–small, and cut away from the sprawling residential neighborhood around it. It reminded him of his life before he fucked it up. When no one knew his name or where he came from.

You were just an added bonus. He had planned to relish in the chaos of everyone around as he drank for inebriation instead of taste for once. But dark red nails pass him the glass, and he finds himself stuck watching them for the rest of the night. Despite the man Tony was, he wasn't anyone to you, and a woman like you shouldn’t have been anything to him.

He comes back simply out of craving. That anonymity , that freedom. From responsibility, from judgment. Tony realizes he’s befriended the snake too long. He accepted everything around him as a product of fate and piss-poor luck.You changed that. You made him remember a long forgotten fact–that everything he wanted was within arms reach.

Suddenly, your eyes take great interest in grout speckling the tile below. There wasn’t enough room for disbelief in the quaint walls of your apartment.

“You’re the only person who doesn’t see me, as–I don’t know, me?” he exhales, running over his face as he re-takes his seat.

“You,” you trail off, shoulders loosening just to earn a small tremble. “--actually mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You’re gathering the bravado to say something along the lines of ‘ well asshole you were high as a kite when you told me you loved me and never said it again ’. Maybe without the asshole part. A difficult act indeed.

"I didn’t sign up for any of this." you murmur, trying to quench any further questions and avoid a very stern ‘ I told you so ’. But Tony's gaze remains fixed on your arm, making your nerves spike. “–if I had known everything, your work–”

“You wouldn't have agreed to see me, really ?” Tony grins and cocks an eyebrow that you miss in your deep inspection of the tile. “You weren’t clueless when we met.”

“I wasn’t but–”

“But what?” He sharply interjects. He can’t stand how your eyes land anywhere but him. This conversation is giving him deja vu, and not the whimsical kind. It’s the kind that wraps around the body and stops the flow of blood. “All of sudden you wanna have a ‘ come to Jesus ’ moment and find some moral high ground?”

Tony’s, unsurprisingly, not wrong. You had good enough sense the moment he slipped into that barstool, asking for a whiskey list as if the knife-shaped tear in the cushion couldn’t tell him that was pointless. A brief glance and finger of Jack Daniels was all he got from you. You spent the rest of the hour catering to the usual Friday night crowd of drunks, only thinking of him again when the shiny green bills made a funny reflection underneath his empty glass.

Honestly, you were more surprised no one took it for themselves.

It’s when he shows up a second night that you bother with conversation (purely out of gratitude and nothing else, right?). It’s the second night when you stay so, so much later than you should have, talking to someone you knew you shouldn’t be. You ignored it all then, just as you have for the last eight months. Burying your worries under a mountain of attachment and clouds of insecurity.

You were lucky. Shit, you feel that same gratuitous pang right now. Grateful that he still wanted you. Actually, to put it in his words– needed you. You’re not certain how much longer you could’ve kept it buried if you hadn’t asked Steve directly. You didn’t want him to be right, but all he did was validate every worry and order a swift excavation of everything you hoped wasn’t true.

“I kept telling myself that it was nothing, but–”” you trail off quietly.

“ But ?” he repeats.

You definitely can’t meet his gaze now, waiting for him to call you naive or tell you that this is somehow some huge misunderstanding. He doesn’t speak, though, and you can’t stop your mouth from opening under the weight of everything spinning in your head.

“But Steve says you’ve been doing this since you were in college.”

“That’s how Steve tells that story?” He scoffs.

“Come on, what else? Lay it on me, doll.” You watch a misshapen shadow stretch the length of the kitchen as Tony makes a dramatic beckoning of the hand.

“Why? So you can figure out what you don’t have to admit to?”

He takes a deep sigh that shifts into a short chuckle.

“You’ve been told a very half-cocked story, my apologies for trying to fix that. Trust me, Steve’s had it out for me for a while now.”

“I trust him a lot more than you right now.”

“That would be a bad choice.”

You snap your head up at the scorn. Where you gained this inclination to shoot back at everything with fire–you don’t know. You swear it’s just Tony, where sometimes you just want to match his arrogance tenfold.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that? I’ve learned more about you from him and so far, he hasn’t been wrong.”

“You know more about me than anyone, without running around behind my back.”

“Yeah, there's just the woman you’re still married to, the cocaine in your bathroom, your company, whatever the hell it is you do while I’m sleeping because you surely aren’t–”

“Alright, alright, okay,” he interrupts, tossing his hands up in defeat and leaning back. “Would you just sit down for a sec–humor me, will you?”

Sullenly, you pull out the matching metal chair across from him. As you sit, folding your arms over your chest, you wonder how fate has aligned that you’ve met such an infuriating and intoxicating person. And why you were even giving this hail mary display the time of day.

“Let me tell you a story, it’s a good one, swear.” Tony flashes a diamond grin and it takes everything in you not to return it. It does cool your nerves somewhat.

“Better be a good one.” you respond, and Tony promises it’s worth hearing.

“I’m in my last year at MIT taking this exam for this real stick-up-his-ass professor–I’m talking this guy doesn’t have the muscles required to smile, just all nonsense. It’s my last godforsaken test before winter break and I’ve gotta pass this to be done with this soul-sucking school–”

“You? Stressing about school? Already this story’s got holes in it.”

“Did you miss the part about this guy being a hardass? Because I could’ve sworn I mentioned it.”

“The test was all about theory and it didn’t matter how much you knew, you had to answer it the way he would. I actually had to focus for once and I’m on this question about integrating quantum computing with electrical grid systems, you know how the ions might–”

“Totally, right.” you remark once you realize a science lecture is inbound. Tony’s ramblings often came late and always flew completely over your head. Tonight, you’re just finding it hard to care.

“You are a really bad listener, you know that?”

That earns an instinctive smirk from you, but you sigh and let him continue.

“I’m ten equations and at least five paragraphs into this question and my pager starts going off. I don’t even bother checking what it is–I just hit silence and keep going.” he tells it like it’s a true epic, the sort you swap at tailgates or weddings to try to one-up someone else’s, but you get the sense it’s not.

“An hour later with like, the worst cramp in my hand and 500% certainty I failed, no big deal, I finally check the message–call Jarvis back and he tells me my parents were in an accident. The weirdest thing was I didn’t even think they were dead–”

“Tony–” you start, though you weren’t even sure what to say.

“Honestly,” he chuckles dryly, the bravado in his voice silking away. “I was kinda relieved, for a second. The old man would’ve ripped me a new one for failing that test and I just thought he was a little banged up–too busy nursing a broken arm or something to check my grades.”

Tony’s laugh fades off into a somber sigh, shifting in the wobbling chair. The count of drips in the sink to your right tells you it’s been silent too long. You still don’t have the words to fill it. What kind of words would they even be? Of comfort? Humor to dispel his sadness? If he even was , that is. You gave up on trying to read him.

“Anyway, my point is . I wasn’t ready to do this– I was 21, getting an electrical engineering degree, notice how that has nothing to do with medicine or biotech. So I did the cowardly thing–let someone else take the wheel and I’m still paying for it twenty years later. Believe me, I’m not loving this either.”

“Then why don’t you stop? I mean you still have a legitimate company, stop using it to make things you don’t want to make.”

“It sounds so incredibly simple when you put it like that. Gee, wonder why I didn’t think of that earlier.” He makes an exaggerated face of amazement. “Look, I didn’t want you to know because I don’t need someone else telling me how to handle things–it’s my company, it’s my job to sort this out.”

“Does your job require you to test the product yourself?” It’s a lot ruder than you mean it to be, but it’s the real issue corroding your mind.

“That’s one of the benefits we offer at Stark Industries.” he laughs.

You still aren’t feeling humorous, scoffing and standing the moment you realize he isn’t taking a word you say seriously. Tony’s fast behind you, stepping between you and the arch into the living room.

“Okay, okay. But you’re worrying yourself over nothing, doll. I’ve got it handled.” he assures you (poorly), bracing your shoulders with his hands.

“Yeah, from here it looks totally handled.”

Contrary to the snare in your words, you weren’t a heartless monster. You weren’t playing moral adjudicator like Tony might think. You can recognize this as one of his rare moments of emotional theater, but you can’t be bothered to care knowing what comes after if you fall for it. Especially when you can tell from how not-serious he’s taking this that there’s not a chance he’d stop using anytime soon. You were just tired of being lied to. And you weren’t going to keep watching him self-destruct. All you needed right now was your bed and hot, long shower to put this day behind you.

Tony sighs, abandoning your shoulders to pinch his nose.

“It’s just…You experience things and then they're over and you still can't explain 'em. This business, Pepper, things I can’t even put into words. I...I'm just trying to make sense of it all. The only reason I haven't cracked up is probably because you’re around a lot more. Which is great. I do love you, I'm lucky. But, honey, I can't sleep, not when there's so much to be done to get out of this.”

You’re stunned into silence again. Because Tony speaks a thousand miles a minute and you’re still getting used to hearing ‘ I love you ’ from a sober mouth.

“Tony, this isn’t–” you stammer.

“I know, I know, you’re gonna say this doesn’t change anything but I can’t do that without you, I won’t.”

Calloused hands brace your sides instead. Warm and loose instead of strict and holding. You can feel the static though. There’s an electric heat jumping between fingertips and white fabric that wants to hold you tight until you can’t tell the difference between his skin and yours. You’ll never see it another time so clearly, but the glaze in Tony’s eyes is desperate– unyielding . You’re scared to give in and only slightly less worried about what it means if you don’t.

You were pissed that he kept something from you– again . You still were. The whole world seemed privy to exactly who Tony Stark was, except you. You were an outsider looking in through frosted window panes. Like the new kid watching everyone else giggle at an inside joke you couldn't possibly understand.

But you couldn’t say he didn’t care for you. The most damning part was that you loved him . Whether it was truly reciprocated was another question, but you couldn’t think of any other reason he’s standing in your kitchen at three in the morning, letting the stained brown walls wash out the blue details in his suit vest.

So, you rather than blindly submit, you place a wager.

“Then promise me you’ll get help.” You force your voice to be stable, confident. You meet his eyes with the same bravado, stepping back from his grasp. If done properly, and he needed you as much as he so claimed, then you win your self-made bet.

You notice he doesn’t reach out to hold you close, instead staring pensively into you for a moment longer than you would like.

“Okay, done.” he answers, shrugging nonchalantly. “That all?”

“Really? That simple?” you ask, baffled

Tony shrugs again, the crisp folds of his vest giving way to a stout laugh then a sigh.

“If that’s what it takes.”

Afterwards, you’re able to easily separate your life into three segments. There’s life before you started dating billionaire Anthony Edward Stark, life after, and life when you started dating Tony . They are too separate individuals, afterall. You learn that in due time.

Anthony Edward Stark is a wealthy businessman, arrogant, withholding, charming, and a few notches above dedicated to you. He hates vegan food and wasting time.He's utterly hopeless in the kitchen, with a preference for iron red and a penchant for dry martinis (always dry, you learned this from serving him a classic out of habit on night two). There’s a collection of Black Sabbath albums hiding under his office desk, and there’s a slightly larger collection of ballpoint pens in the trash can nearby–caps gnawed to uselessness in one too many spirals of concentration.

Tony is much the same, in all respects. Eeeeexcept there’s that ex-wife he seemingly abhors. And the designer powdered death he proliferates through the city. And the addiction he promises to hold at bay. He keeps his end of the bargain, though and vicariously becomes someone new once he sleeps a whole lot more. Okay, okay so there's a lot. Overall, he is calmer. The fiery temper is dulled, replaced with an occasional unwarranted annoyance at the most mundane of things. At first, it’s concerning to you–watching his face screw at tailgating cars or broken zippers. Then, you find it pretty amusing, seeing someone so perfectly sewn together furrow their brows at long lines instead of losing it altogether at moments of chaos. Though you quickly figure out why he avoided sleep in the first place.

It doesn’t happen until your third night back at the tower. A drizzle coats the high windows of the bedroom, the moonlight barely enough to see the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You’re deep into sleep, curled into Tony when you’re jolted awake by a sudden movement. Your eyes flicker open, confused and scanning the silk sheets before he twitches again, muttering in his sleep.

Barely awake, you shifted onto your side, planting a hand on his chest. With his arms no longer wrapped around your side, another twitch sends them flying to his chest. His skin was warm, damp, mutterings continuing to fall from his lips–angry broken pleas for someone or something to stop. You’d think the windows were open with how bad he shivered.

“Tony,” you called out softly, rocking his shoulder. “Wake up.”

It takes a few more attempts, each shake growing stronger as you gain more clarity. One of them must have woken him, arms leaving his chest to push your arms away. Fresh off a nightmare and no more awake than you were, he used much more force than needed, completely overshooting your hands to inadvertently strike your cheek.

You winced at the unexpected blow, your hand instinctively flying to your slight sting. Swearing softly, you met his wide-eyed gaze. He moves away from you in the same instant, breathing heavily at the edge of the bed

“Shit–I’m sorry– Fuck,” His hands ran across his face and through his hair more times than you can count, still struggling to catch his breath. “I didn’t know you–”

“It’s okay-Are you okay?” you interrupted, far more concerned about the way how terrified he sounded in his sleep and barely feeling it anymore regardless.

“Yeah, all good, bad dream.” Tony swung his legs over the edge, head resting in his hands. “Shit, that shouldn’t have happened.”

You wanted to press him about it, but decided against it while his voice is this shaky.

Instead, you move to sit behind him and run a hand over the soft skin of his back until his breath returns to normal. You don’t say anything when the shakes turn to muffled sobs. Instead, you move to sit behind him and run a hand over the soft skin of his back until his breath returns to normal.

Neither of you speak about it. Not then, the next morning, or ever again. It just becomes a new part of reality. Anthony Edward Stark doesn’t sleep. Tony has nightmares that can turn into full panic attacks and render him a tremoring mess. Afterwards, he takes a cold shower and returns to bed without a word. Not that you know what to say anyway.

This is somehow harder. To watch him lose control. You were, as most lovers are, impeccably biased. Tony’s life was enviable to anyone with a brain, and yet he was as fractured as anyone.

“Honey, you plan on eating?” he asks, tapping the rim of your porcelain plate with his fork.

You’re brought out of your deep thoughts and back into the present where roasted lemon fills your nostrils from the salmon below. You blame the restaurant–far too quiet to keep from drifting off. The candlelight flickers gently over the small table, creating small dancing shadows of you and Tony on the white linen.

You met his inquisitive brown eyes, giving a small apology before grabbing the cold metal fork. Despite its mouth-watering smell, the taste is anything but. You attempt to hide your displeasure, but such an act is useless this close.

“What’s wrong?” Tony abandons his own meal to question you.

"Nothing, it's just... a little overcooked for my taste," you reply, trying to sound lighthearted. You were never the kind of person to send a meal back, and certainly weren't about to start at a place with a Michelin star.

“Could have sworn you ordered medium.” His posture stiffens, eyebrows raised.

“Simple mistake, it happens.” you shrugged, preparing for a second attempt.

You don’t get the chance, as Tony stands abruptly, grabbing the plate before your fork could make an impression.

“Be right back." he assures you, a cold detachment in his voice.

Without waiting for a response, he strides away from the table, towards the back of the restaurant, leaving you confused.

After a few moments of waiting, a sense of unease begins to gnaw at you. You rise from your seat and, with hesitant steps, vaguely follow the path he took to a set of wide swinging doors. The soft glow of the overhead lights illuminates the narrow hallway, casting long shadows against the walls.

As you approach the kitchen, a waiter hurriedly scurries out, giving you a glimpse of Tony inside, one hand typing away idly at his phone and the other resting on a prep table, wrapped tightly in a blue rag.

Blood stains the pristine white of the chef's uniform, his nose crimson and dripping onto his graying beard as he flips a fresh piece of salmon. He spares you a brief timid glance when the doors swing. One hand dabs poorly at the splotches while the other white-knuckles a metal spatula. With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you step cautiously into the kitchen, abandoning the warm lights of the hallway for the fluorescent kitchen overheads.

"Oh, hey there," Tony says casually, an icy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“He’s remaking your salmon.” he explains enthusiastically, returning his attention to his phone.

You stand frozen, watching crimson bleed through the rag. You guessed the chef didn’t take too kindly to criticism, and you know Tony doesn’t take no for an answer.

Maybe you didn’t know what calm looked on Tony after all.

You assume you should be grateful. Grateful that he did as you asked and stopped hiding behind his own layers. You got exactly what you wanted after, Tony, wholly and entirely bare for you to see. No more paranoia that you weren’t enough or that this would all come crashing you both down into murky waters. Well, there was still a chance of that. Only now the waves are crystal clear, revealing everything you begged to see.

At least he got more sleep this way.

You relished in waking up next to him–when it wasn’t from night tremors, of course. You could watch the sun streak through the curtains and glow around his features, calm and peaceful. It’s a moment of absolute solitude you look forward to each night. Listening to nothing but the faint calls of birds and muffled rumblings as the city woke up 93 floors. You bide the time hill wakes by running your fingers along his chest and shoulder, memorizing scars by feeling alone.

This morning you awake too early, daybreak barely starting and an inability to fall back asleep. Quietly, you pull yourself from Tony’s tight embrace and tiptoe your way downstairs for a cup of tea. You forgo bothering with the lights, getting enough light from the shy horizon to make your way around. You open the kitchen fridge in the hopes of finding a lemon, only to jump nearly out of your skin when a sound comes from the island behind you.

“ Christ !” you yelped, slamming the door shut and turning to the source.

Harley laughs and takes another bite of his apple, making the same loud crunch as a moment ago. “Aw, did I scare you?”

“What is with you people and sitting in the damn dark?” you question rhetorically, walking to the end of the kitchen to turn on the lights. You tighten the short silk robe around your pajamas, standing across from him. “I was trying to surprise the old man for his birthday, which you are ruining, by the way.” he remarks, pointing a wagging finger.

“Tony’s birthday?” you ask, confused. “I didn’t know–”

The young man interrupts with a dismissive wave as he swallows another bite. “He doesn’t like to make a ‘ thing ’ of it, don’t sweat.” He gives complimentary air quotes, sitting back in the barstool.

“Fair enough.” You turn back to the cabinets to complete your original task. Behind you, Harley’s teeth piercing the fruit fills the early morning silence, interrupted by the flicker of the stove as you heat the kettle. You feel him eyeing you the entire time but decide not to feed into this time for your own peace.

“Thanks, by the way.” Hot water is making its way into a lilac mug when he speaks again.

“For, y’know.” he adds when you pivot with a puzzled face.

“No, I don’t know.” you respond exasperatedly, feeling a dig coming your way. You dip the tea bag into the water, stirring as he just stares back at you. You roll your eyes and head towards the stairs, deciding for certain that conversation with that kid was pointless.

“Were you not the one who got him clean?” He waits until your feet touch the first step to say it, forcing you to pivot.

“I’m not taking credit for his life choices.”

“Fair enough.” he mimics your tone from earlier with a gentle shrug.

With that, you leave and retreat back upstairs.

The lukewarm tea slides down your throat with better ease in the bedroom. Tony continues to sleep beside you as the sun greets the sky, until you're drifting off too..

When you rise again, the chaotic rumbling of the city drifts up and through the windows in full force. You stretch out slowly, tuning into the sound of Tony’s voice and staticky music from the bathroom. You flip over to the source, seeing Tony at the sink fixing a slender graphite tie to his neck. Quiet as a mouse and far too comfortable to leave the silk sheets, you simply observe through the open door. Unaware to his spectator, he continues half-singing half-muttering verse after verse of Back in Black . You have to stifle a giggle–not in judgment but in adoration. You didn’t think Tony Stark would belt rock lyrics as he cursed his hair for not blow drying exactly how he wanted.

Eventually, he spots your watchful eyes, after he secures chrome cufflinks and stoops down to straighten his pants. You smile when you realize you're caught.

“Hopefully you’re enjoying the show.” he grins, exiting the bathroom as he loops a thick leather belt around his waist.

“It’s alright, could have better acoustics.” you taunt.

Tony feigns offense as he kneels on the bed beside you. The soft mattress doesn’t make a sound for his weight to settle over top of you. Suddenly beneath him, cypress aftershave and evergreen shampoo drown out your senses. You know he’s not doing this to turn you on, it’s a byproduct of his nature–but now you just want to ruin the hair you watched him spend five minutes perfecting.

“Anyone else would be appreciative to AC/DC , or is that beyond your generation?” Tony asks, bracing an arm beside your head to fiddle with a free strand of hair.

“I worked in a dive bar–think I know dad rock when I hear it.”

“Ouch.” he winces, a short chuckle following after.

“Hey, never said it was bad.” you add, and he gives you a questionable hmm in response.

You’re fixated on the way his body compresses your own–the texture of his thumb on your face.

“Happy birthday, by the way.” you say after a moment of silence. To this he stiffens, his gentle expression changing in the same way.

“Hmm, guess that is today.” he muses.

“I take it you haven’t been downstairs yet, then.” you say, thinking of Harley. Tony groans you curse the loss of his weight as he stands.

“Nope, and I already know the kid’s down there raiding my refrigerator and getting crumbs everywhere.” There’s a strong disdain in his voice, reminding you of the phone call a few weeks ago.

He disappears back to the bathroom, swiping a watch from the granite sink. You stay silent in the airy cloud of sheets, tongue dancing behind your teeth. Clearly, a moment of silence is too telling for Tony. While you're fixated on the ceiling, he creeps back into the room, startling you when he hits the bed once more.

“You want him gone, say the word.” he declares, playfully. You’re barely listening, or really even bothered to think about Harley. It’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the fact that he’s just hovering over you and not crushing you into the mattress or kissing you or –

Your train of thought is derailed when a hand laces behind your neck, fingers settling at your nape and a thumb below your chin. Tony smirks when your eyes flicker to his, increasing the pressure with his thumb until your lips part for air.

“I believe I asked you a question, doll.” He relents for a moment, only enough for your throat to strain as you answer.

“I don’t mind.” you whisper, letting your legs graze his suit pants. There was a small hope the cool fabric would soothe the warmth breaking out on your skin, but the itch just drives you insane.

“Good.” Tony releases his grip to plant a kiss on your forehead. In the next breath, his feet touch the floor again and you contemplate if the lost pride is worth begging him to touch you.

You don’t get a chance to decide, as he gives some short winded promise about returning before the afternoon and exits the bedroom.

After a frustrating shower, and against both Harley and Jarvis’ better judgment (and very stern insistences), you decide to do something nice for Tony’s birthday. Well, as nice as you can without spending his own money.

It takes the better half of the day, and you have to ban a persistently nosy frat kid from the studio the entire time. You feel guilty about not knowing sooner. Then, you maybe would’ve pulled off something more his style. And then maybe like the finished product. It feels, and honestly, looks rushed (because it is), but in the end you feel worse about giving him nothing after all he’s done for you.

It’s a small canvas–easy enough for you to carry down the spiral stairs without breaking an ankle. It’s a quarter to three when you make the final stroke. Once you’ve managed to get the stained ink from your fingers, voices start to flood from downstairs. You manage to do a half-decent job wrapping, which gets you way too excited to gift it. Sure, you’d given art as presents to friends before, but not since you were 10 and those were C-tier cards at best. This wasn’t your best work, though it still gave you the same sense of love.

You call out Tony’s name as you head downstairs, hearing his and Harley’s voices echo from the living room. The muffled words are sharp and tense. You don’t notice the third voice over theirs, or the thud of the feet. You don’t even see her until you enter the space.

“Well, who do we have here, Tone’?” Two rows of perfect porcelain teeth gleam at you over Tony’s shoulder.

He turns to you the moment she speaks, brows tighter than a steel drum and fists tight by his side. Harley stifles his chuckle behind the kitchen island.

Silence pulls new red heat to your cheeks. The living embodiment of every insecurity you’d forgotten stood ten feet away in Louboutin heels. Tony’s stories painted enough of a picture of a flawless woman. Actually seeing her, now that was new territory. Her strawberry blonde locks were meticulously curled, in a mauve dress without a single wrinkle in sight. You felt embarrassed with your undone hair, in stained clothes and matching ink-ridden hands.

You start an equally embarrassing stammer of your name, to which Tony interrupts.

“Nope, not a chance.” He meets your eyes with fire before turning back to Pepper. “How the hell did you get up here–Actually, I don’t even want to know. Leave now.”

Pepper grins like they're old friends catching up. You feel like you shouldn’t be witness to whatever this is, awkwardly holding the canvas.

“Aw, Tony ,” she drags out with a click of her tongue. A slender hand reaches down into a thin leather briefcase, placing an envelope on the island. “Just thought I’d give you your present in person.”

“An email would have sufficed.” He grits.

“Well that wouldn’t be very polite, hm?” She cocks her head like it’s a serious question.

“Exit is directly behind you.”

Some quippy remark brews and dies on her tongue. A small glance is spared your way again, before she leaves.

Tony doesn’t move until the whir of the elevator starts. Harley clears his throat and retreats to the back hallway without another word.

“Tony–” you call out as he passes you for the stairs. He grants you a dismissive wave that cuts you short and swells your throat. All but stomping he makes his way up the stairs, leaving you alone with all the tension they left behind.

The white envelope goes unattended. Tony didn’t bother with it, but you do. Setting your gift against the stair railing, you tiptoe over to it. It’s unsealed–a solitary white letter tucked away. The ornate New York State emblem is a pale distraction for the words below.

ᴜɴᴄᴏɴᴛᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴇᴛɪᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ

An agreement for complete dissolution separation of any and all assets for both parties.

Signed by Pepper Potts in midnight ink.

#tony stark #mcu fanfiction #tony stark x reader #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark smut #marvel fanfiction #seikkoiwrites

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liskantope · 8 days

Note

I of course agree about disliking this thing where people go "X political opponent of mine is weird and awkward, haha", including when it comes from Democrats. In addition to it simply being ableist and hurtful to people who have struggled with social skills - I'm certainly no fan of J. D. Vance, and I imagine you aren't either. But I think there are lots of very intelligent, thoughtful people who would make great policy decisions but aren't especially socially charismatic. (1/2)

(2/2) I really don't think it's a good idea for liberals to reinforce a norm that such people should be disqualified from office.

(This is regarding this post from 10 days ago -- I've been really busy with the new academic semester and so am struggling to find time and the right mindspace to respond to stuff on Tumblr.)

You're right that I'm no fan of Vance: his book that made him famous might have some merits for all I know (I haven't read it), but at least since then he seems to be a completely phony chameleon, and, worst of all, he's chosen to run on a ticket with Trump, which is pretty automatically disqualifying for my respect. That, and all his vitriol towards childless people and cat ladies and so on is much worse than any of the specific examples of ableist undertones I see from the other side.

I'll also say that all the ridicule of Walz's son for standing up and tearfully shouting "That's my dad!" a bit non-neurotypically after Walz's words of love for his children (ugh! God forbid! actual exemplary family values are just dumb and cringey, at least if they come from Democrats!) made me far angrier than any kind of ableism that would come from David Pakman. The only reason I didn't go on a rant about it here is that I already got it out of my system on Facebook. And there's plenty of other garbage coming from the Trump/Vance side about Harris laughing a little strangely (supposedly? her laugh seems pretty normal to me) which makes her intolerable and so forth.

Still, two wrongs don't make a right.

And anyway, I agree that social skills shouldn't be considered such a huge factor in what makes for a qualified politician -- it does need to be somewhat of a factor, but I wish we didn't live in a world where most public support for politicians is based on vibes and most vibes come from superficial mannerisms. It wasn't true 150 years ago and is an unfortunate product of our modern technological world.

Also, if Pakman and his ilk want to point out that Vance was very awkward in the donut shop by typical politician standards and this doesn't bode too well for him because that's how politics works, I wouldn't really have a problem with that. (That's essentially the treatment they gave deSantis.) It's the "ha ha ha, nyah nyah nyah" -flavored mockery, which comes across as being independent of the context of politicians being held to extremely high standards of charisma, that gets to me.

I also might as well mention (though this is less in response to your ask) that this came somewhat in the wake of an earlier Pakman clip that I mentioned in the other post that I was even more annoyed by, didn't bother to post about it at the time, but I just recovered it. Seriously, Pakman, in an uncharacteristically halting way, says the following in anticipation of showing Vance issuing a few kind of evasive and sub-par answers at an event and being a little awkward by politician standards but still less awkward than most ordinary people in their everyday lives:

The only -- uh -- how can I even say this?... The only people I know personally who are this uncharismatic-seeming... Man, it's just so hard to say this without sounding so offensive. There's, like, some explanation, um, that sometimes is... medical in nature... uh, it just sounds so horrible to say... I-I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's... it's a personality that he seems to have that is really an edge case. It's a fringe personality of some way to be this unappealing as a person, some traits of which sometimes connect to medical explanations -- I don't believe they do with JD Vance -- I think he's just really a horrible person, is what I'm trying to say. I hope I'm being kinda like sensitive and not offending anybody.

He can worry as much as he wants about coming across ableist, but, well, what he says is still what he says.

#ableism #politics #jd vance #tim walz #david pakman #who prob genuinely sort of means well #but yeah #a medical diagnosis to him is an excuse #without which certain non-hyper-NT-coded behavior #is a “fringe personality” / “horrible person”#geez

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black-rabbit-razumikhin · 19 days

Text

Raz Reads Les Mis (XI)

Cosette - Fulfillment of the Promise to the Departed

Cosette, at her scrawny, underfed 8 years old has to walk through the woods alone to get water for the tavern

This is going to get confusing if I keep saying foster family, so foster father Thenardier and foster mother Thenardiess

Their dynamic is described as him being a mouse and her being an elephant

Hugo goes on far too long of a time explaining her appearance to tell is how horrible she is

And I know that was The Thing back then, but it made me see Thenardiess in a far more sympathetic light

Right up until she starts interacting with Cosette

A man wants water for his horse

But there is no water!

So Cosette is given a bucket which she is able to sit down comfortably inside and told to fetch water

It's dark, it's cold, it's dangerous, my little Cosette has nothing on her but a dress of cotton rags

On her way to get water she stops and looks in at a shop selling dolls, thinking about this beautiful doll she calls The Lady

But Thenardiess screams at her to hurry up and Cosette races off

She's conflicted, and considers not getting water at all, as terrified as she is of both her home life and the forest in the night

But eventually the fear of the Thenardiess and her punishment wins

Cosette fills the bucket with water but can barely carry it

She stumbles and falls and the bucket is about to tumble when it is taken from her by a large hand

... Jean Valjean?

Or is it the Boulatruelle we met earlier?

Regardless, man and girl walk back to the tavern

And Cosette asks to carry the bucket in so she won't get beaten

Cosette! This is not the childhood you should have had

She brings in the water, he asks for board

Thenardiess and Thernardier both think he's a poor begger so charge him exorbitant prices

He pays them easily

Strong, rich, hiding his name...

Surely this is Valjean right?

The nigtt goes on and he treats Cosette with kindness, buying the stockings she's knitting so she is able to play, buying her The Lady, who she is so scared of that she can barely believe the doll is for her, putting a large amount of money in her shoe while she is asleep

While this is happening, the foster sisters are dressing up a kitten and it's screaming and crying and the whole thing feels so cruel

Hugo says all of society is represented in the three girls

And it's got some heavy Christian undertones, but it's also written that I can't not side with the pious, spiritually rich but materially poor Cosette

The next day the mystery man buys Cosette from her foster family

Though not without a struggle

And not without Thernardier running after him and Cosette after they leave

He pauses in his pursuit only to think to himself that he should have brought his gun

And Hugo literally says that Satan could learn a thing or two from Thernardier's character

I mean he's horrible and a villain, but demonic?

I'm sure there will be worse people in this book

But Thernardier catches up to them and demands Cosette back

"She's not mine to give, I'm keeping her for her mother."

To which the mystery man hands over a letter

The letter signed by Fantine granting custody of Cosette to the letter's bearer

Fantine I miss you

But that answers definitively that it is Valjean fulfilling his promise to find Cosette

The end of the chapter explains that Valjean swam away and bought himself new clothes etc., everything we can expect from how someone would escape

I've read too much of this book now to realistically hope for anything good, but this chapter makes me want to hope. I want Valjean to raise Cosette in the way that Fantine should have. I want him not to be pursued anymore; I want her to know what genuine love and care feels like.

I forgot to mention above, but the Thenardiess has a son and she dotes over him until his crying gets too much and then she neglects him because she's bored? It's as if she has no acknowledgement of human life outside of where she chooses to see it. The whole situation with the foster family made me so mad, please let Cosette be out of that forever now.

#raz reads les mis #les mis #les miz #les miserables #les mis book #victor hugo #literature #classic literature #french literature #The Brick #books #reading #books and reading #booklr

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silvysartfulness · 1 year

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1, 2, 12, 16 and 22 for the ask game! No particular fandom, up to you.

the character everyone gets wrong

Gonna say a toss-up between Xiao Xingchen and Xue Yang here.Guess it depends on whether you mean in fic or just in The Discourse in general?

I see so so many bad takes on Xue Yang, especially people utterly glossing over his trauma, and... I'm happy for you guys, I guess, who've apparently never known trauma and what it does to a person? It's not a matter of Xue Yang deciding to be a murderous asshole because he broke a finger once. It's that his entire personality and the way his mind works were brutally shaped by severe abuse and trauma at a very young age. You don't have to like him or at all condone his actions, but have a little compassion, for fuck's sake.

As for Xiao Xingchen... I don't know which rubs me the wrong way the most, the "lol XXC can't do math" crowd claiming he's outright stupid, or the "lol XXC was raised by hippies" who utterly disregard his whole cultural context. Personally not at all a fan of mean (dom) Xiao Xingchen either, I just can't see it work with his canon personality, but to each their own, I guess. I won't read it, though.

2. a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

Hmmm. That's actually a tough one, because I hc Xue Yang (And Xiao Xingchen for that matter) as rather fluid switches without particular preference as long as things are sexy and feel good.

I guess you could argue that Xue Yang would be wary about who he'd let top him because of his rough and precarious childhood and how badly the world's hurt him, but then, the boy also has a self-destructive high-risk-behaviour streak a mile wide, so.

I guess the closest I can get is that I don't think Song Lan enjoys the idea of bottoming, partly because of his more ingrained ideas of masculinity and femininity and the power roles he feels are inherent in topping/bottoming, but more importantly because he already struggles with physical touch, and the idea of being held down, touched and "trapped" in any way during sex is a bit scary. Not to say he wouldn't come around to it, but it'd take a lot more mulling over - and gentle experimentation. 😏

I already answered 12, so moving on to 16. you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

Oh man, is this my cue to mutter about mean dom Xiao Xingchen again? Like, I get the appeal of exploring characters far outside their canon constraints, I really do, and if mean dom Xiao Xingchen tickles your metaphorical pickle, by all means, have fun! I just personal really dislike it. (I am super grateful to all writers out there who have started tagging for it, though! It makes it easier to avoid - and find, for those who are into it. Everyone wins!)

As for pairings, I just don't like SangCheng or XiCheng, they both feel very pair-the-spares to me, and are just... Mm. Not for me. Honestly, funnily enough, SongXiao goes here, too, 95% of the time. I pretty much only like these two as part of SXX - I don't know if it is because of many SongXiao shippers' way of treating Xue Yang like dirt, or just because the two characters on their own don't interest me much, but yeah. On the whole, I won't read fic for just SongXiao unless recommended by people I trust, and I'll only like/reblog art if it's very pretty and doesn't imply dead Xue Yang.

I also really don't like most modern au BDSM fic? So much of it reads like a wholesome manual - and I'm sure for people in that scene, it's really hot! It just doesn't do anything at all for me, except give me secondhand embarrassment. If sex is going to be a bit painful and having undertones of dominance and submission, i want it to be very, very real, borderline dangerous and not done for play or politely negotiated beforehand. Gimme the hot mess or nothing.

(Mandatory disclaimer that these are just my personal squicks and mehs, not passing any judgment on anyone who does like them! My Kink Is Not Your Kink And That's Okay, and ship and let ship. ✌)

I already answered 22, too, but... Hm. I'm sure I can think of more if I try...

22. your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

I think Xue Yang's and a-Qing's relationship is a lot more complicated than a lot of people seem to want to think! Especially for those who've only watched CQL, where a lot of the Yi City arc was either cut or angled to make it into more of a psychological thriller - but they were a family! All three of them, and in the text there is such clear evidence that they all really cared about each other! Even Xue Yang.

A-Qing stole his candy without fear, asked him "why were you like that when you were little??" when he told the first half of the story of his childhood trauma. When she claimed to have been bullied to the point of crying, he protectively told her how to defend herself and made her apple bunnies to cheer her up. Even after Xiao Xingchen's death (and he must have known by then that she was the one who sold him out) one of the things he did while cleaning the house was to make her bed, waiting for her to come back home.

Not least of all, Wang Haoxuan said in his in-character farewell note that Xue Yang would have protected a-Qing as long as their happy 'dream' in Yi City lasted.

They ended horribly, yes, causing each others' deaths, but there was a time where they cared deeply about each other and looked out for each other, and that still matters.

#violence ask game #asksilvy #untamed artfulness #thank you for asking!#♥

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thedarkmistress16 · 2 years

Text

Yan!RPF Headcanons: RDJ Edition (1/2)

This entire thing is just sexual content so consenting adults only here. That's all I got. And apparently it's a lot because I crossed the word limit for Tumblr. Change the she to whomever you desire! Part 2 Link.

Yandere!Robert Downey Junior (Insp. from Iron Man)

He sucks as a yan honestly, lol.

Gets attracted to anyone that looks or holds herself better than he does. Tight, fitting clothes on any body that accentuates appealing features is his downfall. And accessories; he loves it yet has no fashion sense himself.

He knows he’s hot shit and people flock toward him for attention and whatnot. Ergo, he expects you to come crawling to him when he sets his sights on you and makes his move. Welcomes the arousing challenge if you play hard-to-get more than he thought. Though quite impatient about it, he knows you’ll be his in the end.

If you have similar hobbies as him or work in the same field, he’ll not only be more interested in you, but will absolutely use this knowledge to his advantage.

Will act like the idea of you visiting him during his filming would be a nice surprise as he leaves you an open-ended ticket before departing, but honestly prefers to just bring you with him to stay in his trailer and/or a hotel closeby without even asking. Just wants you to have an illusion of a choice and make it seem like the offer isn’t a big deal. If you’re resistant enough, he’ll just bring you with him without so much as a warning. He either packs your bags in advance, or completely forgets and buys you more clothes in the new town, nonchalant about your already filled wardrobe.

Doesn't really need cameras when he leaves because typically you're with him, but at the times you’re both apart, he'll keep texting and calling you to relay constant updates on his journey and to hear your voice. Would install a tracker just so he doesn't worry about you so much, especially when there are wifi issues.

Honestly, if you willingly accept him, he won't find any flaw in you and lets you live your life to the fullest with the only thing you need to give is yourself- to be tied to him for the rest of your life. Seriously. You're his goddamn angel that fell from the sky and his happy ending to his shitty past. Give into him completely and accept his attention and he'll put you in the highest regard.

The only way he’s going to let you live independently for a time is if you entertain him with sex- constantly. He wants you to consider moving in with him so you’re not so far away. Don’t be surprised when he moves in right next to you if you refuse living together but still wanna keep the benefits of being friends.

If you start being actual friends with him, he’ll tone down the perviness in favor of friendly charm with constant undertones of flirtiness to make you feel wanted and coming back for more of his praise. If you reject going steady and emphasize you want to stay platonic, he’ll be put off but tries having a relationship with you on your terms. He gets frustrated at your frustration caused by his endless flirting and lack of space, so he decides the best way to solve both of your problems is to just accept your new role as his girlfriend and follow him everywhere.

A huge pervert and has a high libido. Even if you aren’t into sex, he’ll still be very suggestive about it and almost try to guilt you into sleeping with him or iniciating a sloppier makeout most of the time. Oh look, he’s grown hard from all the struggling you did against him. Why don’t you come a little closer and fix what you caused~?

Will absolutely kidnap you and make the whole thing kinky with the restraints and touches and explanations laced with quirky innuendos. It’s a tactic to minimize the severity of the situation and let your guard down. It also shows you how you make him feel physically, as well as testing what your turn ons are. You’re his everything who’s finally here with him and he wants to show you how good he can make you feel.

Uses sex to placate you from any negative emotion or distract you, but it's mainly to wear you out so he can feel assured knowing he could be gone for an hour or two and you'll still be right where he left you. The marking you on the inside part is a bonus, too.

Has no shame to speak of being caught in the act. Will keep pounding into you with the new audience, despite your reaction. Walk in on him jerking it so he has an excuse to ravish you out of horniness, even though it was his fault for not locking the door. If he walks in on you, however, he won't leave until he knows you're too sore to touch yourself again without pain.

Expects you to sleep naked together in a spooning position. Claims you’re the one making it naughty when his hard-on is painfully pressing into your skin.

Will tease you about sharing a bed with another if you’re not up for it at the time, but is lying through his teeth. Really just wants to see how you react, hoping you’ll pounce on him with possessive jealousy. Would never actually cheat on you, but still shamelessly flirts with everyone.

Part 2 Link.

#moi writing #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere rdj #yandere rdj x reader #cannot believe i have to part two this damn my love for gifs #thank god im cross-posting XD #rpf x reader #rpf headcanons #yandere rpf #yandere rpf x reader #yandere rpf headcanons #rob

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nateezfics · 2 years

Text

WIP [ HONGJOONG ]

title — the frozen king

genre — fantasy, royalty au, king!hongjoong, romance

current word count — 0 / still in brainstorming stage

warnings — none as of yet; will potentially contain some smut

this is a fic idea i’ve had rolling around in the back of my mind since october of last year; i’d made this post about it, and haven’t really worked on it since. it’s been in the brainstorming stage for almost a year now. below i’ll list some bullet points of what i’ve brainstormed thus far; and keep in mind, i still only have a vague idea of how i want the plot to unfold, so any of this could be subject to change.

• essentially, hongjoong is a powerful king who rules a kingdom within a vast land of ice and snow, named auroria.

• he harbors an intimidating power of ice, which allows him to create or wield ice at will, hence his nickname “the frozen king”. he has had this power since birth due to coming from a lineage of fae who used to rule the land; making him not completely human, but not completely fae.

• due to his power, his blood is cold, making him cool to the touch. he is also immune to the frigid weather of auroria. he has stark white hair, dark eyes, and rich skin that has a slight cool undertone. his eyes turn bright blue when yielding a substantial amount of his power.

• his powers and his unusual appearance intimidate his people and foreigners alike, but he combats this with a gentle and kind personality. he leads his kingdom with care, and over time has earned the trust and respect of his people. he is highly favored amongst the village children, whom he lets wander the castle grounds to play. he likes to build snowmen with the children and collect snowflakes, which just makes them love him even more. they’re enraptured by his icy power.

• he does have a dark past, though. terrified of the manifestation of his fae genetics, hongjoong’s parents — the king and queen — banished him when he was a young boy to perish in the icy terrain that lied between auroria and the neighboring kingdom, called the frigid plains. the king and queen lied to the kingdom, saying some tragic illness had taken the young prince.

• hongjoong’s natural immunity to the cold helped him to stay alive longer than he expected, but he hungered and thirst, which almost lead to his demise. he was rescued by a fae, who lived hidden within the frigid plains. he helped hongjoong survive and grow and conquer his power.

• his parents never produced another heir to replace him, and the king and queen perish during a terrible blizzard that plagues the kingdom of auroria. hongoong, much older, comes to restore his place on the throne, and after his parents death, does just that and quells the icy storm and saves his kingdom. there aurorians and foreigners who believe hongjoong caused the blizzard that ultimately took his parents’ lives, and those rumors cast a shadow on hongjoong’s rein, causing fear to still linger despite his kindness.

and this where i’m unsure of how to continue…

• reader is a princess of a struggling kingdom, who has been tasked with marrying the frozen king of auroria in hopes of saving her kingdom. she is scared to do so, as she’s always heard the stories of his power and fae heritage; the story of his parents’ death and his rise to the throne, while not proven, has spread amongst all the lands and caused people to despise and fear hongjoong.

• auroria is the last resort for reader’s kingdom to obtain a substantial ally. reader does what is asked.

i’m thinking of writing this out as a typical arranged marriage au where they fall in love in the end, but i’m considering changing the reader’s background entirely. idk. this is very much a work in progress. i hope you like the idea so far, and can maybe look forward to it being posted in the future!!

#ateez fanfiction #hongjoong fanfiction #ateez smut #hongjoong smut #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #hongjoong x reader #ateez fanfiction wip #hongjoong fanfiction wip

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takes1 · 3 years

Note

Hii!! Could you do a Bakugou gets horny while you’re cuddling?? Fem or gender neutral is totally fine w me! If not then thats okay, hope you have a great day :))

FUCK YES i love this i was literally just thinking about writing something like this today !! hope i interpreted this right! tysm for requesting :)

warnings. nsfw, scary grandpa sneeze, academic deadlines, some light grinding, groping, light scratching, friends with benefits, kissy-kissy, minors stay off my lawn!!

details. gn!reader, aged up kats, 1.5k words

scenario series. k. bakugou, hawks is next ;)

links. my ao3 / p.2 + more bakugou / requests open

11:30 p.m

You took what felt like your first real breath in hours and hit submit on your Powerpoint with 29 minutes to spare.

A strangled "Fuck," fell from your lips as you leaned almost too far back in your desk chair and waited for your eyes to adjust to everything that was not a computer screen.

Aizawa really needed to let up on those mixed-media projects. How the hell was knowing how to format part of the Hero-Course curriculum? Were villains going to quiz you on text files in the heat of a fight?

You reached for your phone and cringed at the many missed group texts of the class struggling as a whole to finish their projects, asking for help, sending mass prayers. Not feeling particularly saintly after your three-hour frenzy, you decided to knock the 52 notifications off of your lock screen and decided they'd have to suffer together.

As you were cleaning out more unnecessary notifications, one from 11:12 sent a small surge of panic through you. You missed a text from Bakugou.

KB: Can't sleep.

That was bullshit, of course, he could sleep. He slept more and better than anyone you knew. But as with most things he said, it was code for something he didn't want to say straight up.

It was difficult trying to be quiet when the door to his dorm needed about 37 gallons WD40-- you flinched with every screech it filled the room with and had to stop to catch your breath after you locked it.

A figure was stomach-down on his bed, clutching the pillow under his head like a vice so hard you couldn't be convinced he was actually sleeping. Unlike many nights that he so humbly requested your presence, this time he was without his tanktop.

Every inch of his room was actively working against you. The hardwood floor also tried its damndest to alert him of your presence as you resorted to a goofy, Grinch-like tiptoe towards his twin mattress, your shadow on the wall a simultaneously humbling thing to witness and one more flag to stir him.

Too bad he was already awake.

"About time," He spat, grumpy, but raised his arm to invite you into his bed.

The motion gave you a full view of his impressive build. You couldn't spare to think about it for long, though. You didn't want to make this weird.

"20 minutes was that bad, huh?"

To express his supreme frustration and play hard to get, he rolled his eyes and turned his back to you. It did not work. It was through his invitation that you were here, so all it succeeded in doing was make him seem like an even bigger softie.

Your friendship was hard to explain, and these weird undertones were even harder to justify. But the general rule was that a relationship wasn't beneficial to either of you right now with school, work, and social pressures. For now, late-night cuddles, poorly-timed and rushed make-outs, vague texts, loaded stares, and slightly too much touching during training were enough.

He wouldn't budge unless you gave in a tiny bit. So, you scooted closer, shoved your bottom arm around his tiny waist, and wrapped your top arm around his chest with a hand gripping his shoulder.

"I was doing homework, if you must know," Your lips brushed his ear briefly before you set your head on the pillow behind his, talking into his unruly hair, "Not everyone can go to bed at 9:00, like you, Star Student."

A small grunt. Rough palms slid up your softer arms and rested there with a quiet exhale.

Your hands automatically started scratching light circles on the space between his neck and shoulder, noting how his muscle slowly, hesitantly, loosened as he relaxed.

Bakugou smelled so sweet. His hair, his pillows, his skin, his room. It was a borderline aphrodisiac for you. And god, did it stick. After some suspicious stares and cryptic questions from Kirishima the one time you didn't shower after a cuddle session, you made sure to scrub extra hard, throw the clothes you wore in the hamper immediately, and overcompensate with lotions and perfumes to get the caramel scent off. Anything to avoid getting discovered.

You must've been more burnt-out than you thought because exhaustion was starting to lull you into premature sleep fast. Bakugou was too warm and comfortable; you briefly worried you might not wake up to get to your room in the morning before everyone else was roaming the halls.

Some part of your brain ruled that it didn't matter, this was far too perfect and you let yourself drift off.

"AAAAAAH-TCH!"

Startled out of your wits, you found yourself wide awake in an upright position, hands retracted to protect yourself from danger with a pitifully scared yelp.

Bakugou was sniffling underneath you, eyes barely open even after that heart-stopping sneeze.

"Nice, Bakugou," You muttered with a bite.

Defensive of his devastating volume, he scoffed, "I sneezed! What, I'm not allowed to sneeze?"

There was no telling how late it was now, and you had class in the morning. You flumped back down, defeated but still bitter, with your hands wrapped around yourself this time.

You yawned, "Gonna wake up the whole damn building..."

"Shut up," He barked, head turned expectedly to your huddled form, expecting snuggles. When they were not provided, he huffed in an even harsher tone, "Come here."

Tired, you were too fed up to dance around him like usual --funny how a sneeze could do that-- and ignored him. If his allergies were the reason you flunk your presentation of that Powerpoint tomorrow morning, he will never hear the end of it.

He turned over. Bakugou did not like that, because Bakugou was the only person who was allowed to be difficult.

He sucked his teeth at you, pulled you into his chest forcefully, and kicked a heavy leg over your hips, head resting on top of yours as you were given no other choice than to be squished or wrap your arms around him. It was impossible to be grumpy when he was so unique and intense in his affection. You pressed your head into the soft muscle of his pec and gave a content sigh through your nose.

With so much surface area to touch, you enjoyed running your nails freely over the width of his upper back. He was so well-built. It made you think of how much of a shame his attitude was because he'd have so many options as arguably the hottest guy in 1-A.

Your palm ran over the warm lines you created in his skin and dove to his mid-back, where you could better feel his muscle anticipate your feather-light touches. The strong arms around you adjusted to tighten and his tummy flexed.

"Sorry," You mumbled, mistakenly thinking that he was uncomfortable and wanted you to stop.

Before you could take your hands any remarkable distance away, though, there was a budding pressure against your front that made your heart drop in confused arousal.

Maybe it was naive to be so surprised by it, but Bakugou, in all the times you cuddled, never got noticeably hard. The both of you were typically careful to not touch hips, really. Now you were awake.

You continued your scratching and gentle massage against his lower back. The heartbeat in your ear and on your hips was fast enough to convince you he didn't plan on going to sleep anytime soon. You wondered if he could feel yours, too, and grew nervous at the idea. Would this...change things?

There was little time to roll this idea over in your head, because he suddenly decided he was tired of this position and muttered against your hair, "Turn around."

The space between your legs was on fire. You wanted to look at his face, but before you knew it, you were nestled deep into him and his leg was thrown over your hips again.

To test it, you pushed back into him and received a strong, suffocating squeeze in return as he shifted half of his weight forward through his arm and hips, practically crushing you. He cleared his throat and wrapped an arm around your waist, the other toying with your hair. No mistake, he knew what he was doing.

He moved on quickly to cup your face, rubbing your cheek with the hard pad of his thumb, and huffed, amused, at how flustered you were. A big, messy kiss on your exposed neck made you swallow a sigh.

"Bakugou--"

"Katsuki," He corrected.

That made this exponentially harder.

"We have class in the morning," You whispered, torn between your desire to sleep and desire to continue whatever this was.

He only hummed against your ear, unfazed by this fact. His top hand lowered to your side and sent your tummy in a buzzing frenzy to resist his temptations. He chose to do this on a Thursday night? The presentation was worth 20% of your final grade.

But his cock felt so good through your shorts, and his hand was prying open your legs to feel how hot you were for him. Your fingers clawed on his bicep, but they didn't try to stop him. You could hear the shit-eating grin in his voice between the noisy sucking, "Mm, I can be quick."

#mha bakugou #bakugou x reader #my hero academia #mha scenarios #bakugou scenarios #takesone #bakugou katsuki #gn reader

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gavin-plz-call-me · 3 years

Text

Trust in Him

TW: Depictions of sexual harassment and sexual assault

You love your job, so when one of your coworkers begins to harass you, you're scared that you'll have to choose between your job and your safety. Luckily, Artem is here to support you.

This is my first time writing about sexual harassment/assault, so I apologize in advance if it's not a perfectly accurate portrayal.

AO3

Word Count: 3.3k

You needed this job, those words alone were all that kept you from doing something rash, but your resolve was growing thinner and thinner by the day. Every day you worked in the office, which, luckily for you, grew less frequent after becoming partners with Artem and joining NXX, one of your co-workers in particular was bound to come speak with you. This wouldn't be an issue if he were speaking to you about work issues, or a case, hell, even the weather but he, Julius, never came over for any productive reasons. The two of you had worked a case together a few months ago, but other than that, you should be complete strangers.

You could see Julius approaching from the corner of your eye, a nasty smirk plastered on his, and you hated to admit this, conventionally attractive face. While others might swoon at his good looks, you had to hold back a gag as he placed his hand firmly on your shoulder, enveloping your senses in his stale scent. He then slowly leaned down, his lips almost touching your ear, and whispered "That shirt makes your tits look great," his disgustingly wet breath sent shivers through your body as he gave your shoulder a squeeze and headed off like nothing happened.

As far as you knew, you were his only victim. The other ladies in the office swooned over him, speaking highly of his good looks and "great" skills as a lawyer. A few who had witnessed his advances towards you and misinterpreted your blush as shy interest complained of how envious they were that such a handsome, successful man was interested in you, and you kept quiet. You had heard enough horror stories of women who had come out about work-place harassment who were fired, never given or even considered for promotions, and even sued for slander, and you couldn't let any of that happen to you, you had to tolerate it. A job at Themis law firm is a dream for many law students, you included, and you wouldn't let that slip away. Even if you had to endure harassment, even if you had to leave your desk to escape to the bathroom some days because you couldn't keep the tears out of your eyes, even if you couldn't fall asleep some nights because images of what he's done to you and what he's capable of doing to you infect your mind, even if you had to start wearing ill-fitting clothes to hide your figure in an attempt to get him to leave you alone, and even if you were terrified to be in a room alone with him, lest he become bolder, you had to persevere. If everything in your life went right, you'd become his boss one day, and when that day came, you could fire his ass.

Of course, though, you weren't the boss, and you had to listen to what yours said. So, when your manager approached you a few days after Julius's latest incident telling you you'd be assisting him in a case, there wasn't much you could do to get out of it. Artem and you weren't working on any urgent cases at the moment, so he gave them permission to steal you away for the case. You were very skilled in working the case type Julius was "stuck on" so your manager said you the obvious choice for the job. There was no way out.

Julius invited you into his office with a sickly-sweet smirk and an almost impermeable wink as a knot settled in your stomach. Something in you screamed at you, don't go in there, it yelled, anywhere else. Just not his office.

"Well, I wouldn't want to intrude in your personal space," You said, trying to keep an aura of professionalism while also trying to protect yourself. There were still others around, if you start to show your discomfort, you'd be found out. You felt like you were lying, in a way, maybe you were? Guilt ran up and down your spine, and you hoped the feeling didn't translate to your expression.

"Oh, MC." His voice was outwardly cheery with an undertone of something, though you couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was, "You could never be an intrusion to me. Let's use my office, I insist."

No, no no, the voice within you screamed again, you felt your breath hitch slightly, but you forced your breaths to be normal, despite how badly your lungs wanted you to gasp for air. "I would prefer it if we worked somewhere else, Julius." His name tasted disgusting on your tongue, "My desk for example," the two of you squeezed together, trying to work at the same small desk, his smell surrounding you, "or an empty conference room," still alone in a room together, his hands reaching out to touch your body, "or-"

"Mc, this would all be much simpler if we just worked in my office, I promise you, I don't mind." There was a hint of aggravation in Julius's voice, but it disappeared the longer he spoke. "There won't be any meeting halls open, now come on, let's go to my office."

You stood still for half a second, debating just running away, job be damned, but you didn't have time to start walking. You hadn't even decided which way to go, towards Julius's office or towards the main exit, when a voice rang out, "Mc, Julius, conference room six is open." You turned around, eyes meeting the bright sapphire eyes belonging to Artem. His brows were slightly furrowed, looking you up and down.

"Great," You said before Julius could say a word, "thank you Artem." You turned back to Julius, his eyes were much less kind than Artem's, and all you wanted to do was turn back to face the man with the beautiful eyes and put Julius in the depths of your memories, but you plaster on a fake smile as you say, "conference room six it is, then!" You quickly passed Julius, feeling two sets of eyes burning into you as you walked away. Julius's office was past conference room six, so as you entered the room Julius walked towards his own office instead, muttering something about needing to grab his case files.

You were glad that you didn't end up in his office, but the conference room wasn't much better, panic began building up in your chest again. There were large windows leading out into the hallway, which you sat right in the middle of giving anyone who walked by a perfect view of you and whatever you were doing. Conference room six was the most open of the conference rooms, but the hallway around here was never too busy. The windows also left a few blind spots, places he could back you into if he really wanted to. With slightly shaky hands you opened your laptop, opening an audio recording app. There weren't any security cameras in this conference room, and even though your gut stopped you from telling anyone about Julius, something within you told you to record.

The door to the conference room quickly opened and shut. You minimized the recording app, the pulsing red dot indicating that it’s recording disappears along with it. Julius throws a few case files onto the conference table before walking around to sit directly next to you. You rolled your chair away from him slightly, trying to escape his revolting stench. You began speaking about the case, reading the case files, and making comments about the stranger details, details you could use to defend your client.

The two of you continued to talk about the case for a while, the anxiety that had grown so high before began to dwindle, maybe you were wrong. Maybe Julius wasn’t going to take this chance to do something horrible to you, maybe he never was going to do anything to you. Had you just imagined his threats? “Mr. Johnson’s embezzlement of the school’s funds could be grounds for-”

"Tease," Julius interrupted you, his voice much darker, almost an inhumane growl, than what it was when you were surrounded by your coworkers. Darker than it was even a few seconds before when you were talking about the case.

"E-excuse me?" you asked, your professional front slipping, anxiety raising in your stomach once again.

Julius inched closer to you, holding the back of your chair to prevent you from rolling further away from him, "I said, you're a fucking tease Mc. Making me go back and forth like that." The undertone you couldn't pinpoint from before was back, but it was much more pronounced now. Anger mixed with desire, his unkempt nails dug into the skin of your thigh as he pushed himself onto you, "but you're not gonna tease me anymore."

Desperately, you pushed your feet against the floor as hard as you could, propelling your chair into the one behind you, allowing you to stand up and try to make it to the door. Julius's hand violently grabbed your wrist, yanking you back towards him. “Come on, Mc,” he growled in your ear, “everyone in the office knows you’re whoring around to get to the top. You can’t refuse me.”

You struggled against his grip, but every movement you made had him tightening his hold around your wrist, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Julius.” you gasped as the pain of his hand on you became too much.

This seemed to enrage Julius, who suddenly stood up from his chair, forcing you against the wall furthest from the door. Your head smacked violently into the wall sending sparks of pain through your vision. “Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Everyone knows you’re putting out for Artem. Why else would he choose some sub-par slut of a lawyer to be his partner?”

“I-I didn’t-” Julius put more pressure on you as you tried to speak, stopping your words completely.

“Let’s put it this way, Mc,” Julius's hands snaked in opposite directions, one reaching your throat, putting suffocating pressure on it, the other gripping your ass, pulling you unwillingly closer to his body, “You put out for Artem to advance your career, and if you’re a good little slut for me, you can keep your career.” He pulled you somehow tighter into him, his mouth ghosting your ear before delivering a harsh bite into its flesh. “If not, you can kiss being a lawyer goodbye.”

The knot in your stomach twisted, the job you were passionate about, the coworkers you loved, Artem, your senior partner who had already taught you so much, could he really take all of that away from you? Was it really worth it to lose all that to him? Maybe you should just let him have you, once to save your job. But, as Julius’s hand moved from your ass forward, threatening to touch you in a much more intimate place, something in you broke. No. You wouldn’t let him take your career away, but you also wouldn’t let him have you. Throughout your career as a lawyer, you fought and fought and fought for your clients, day in and day out so they could find justice, and it was time for you to fight for yourself.

You thrust your knee upwards into Julius’s groin, and in the split second where he was caught off guard, you used all your strength to push him off of you. You ran for your laptop, his angered cries of pain filling the room as he stood motionless in the spot you left him in, grasping at his groin, trying to ease the pain. You took the opportunity to haphazardly grab your laptop and head for the door. Julius’s hand grazed your arm again as he regained some of his movement, but you were too far away from him at this point. He couldn’t reach you.

Escaping the suffocating air of that conference room could have been the happiest moment of your life. You saw Julius staring at you from the corner of your eye, still standing in the conference room, slightly doubled over. He wouldn’t dare chase you through the office, and he was out of sight before you could figure out what his next move would be. Adrenaline pumping through your body, you made your way across the office. You weren’t sure where your legs were taking you until you were already knocking at the door you sought out, Artem’s office.

The moment you saw Artem as he opened the door, his face going from stoic as always, then softening at the sight of you, and finally, his eyebrows furrowing in concern as he got a better look at you all in a matter of seconds, the emotions you had kept hidden for months suddenly broke free. Tears threatened to escape your eyes, so you broke your gaze away from Artem, opting to look down at your own shoes instead. You really didn’t want to cry in front of Artem. You so desperately wanted to be a great lawyer like him, famous for winning countless cases. He wouldn’t be so vulnerable as to cry in front of a coworker, and you wanted to follow in his footsteps. You tried to push them back, but they refused.

Artem put a gentle hand on your upper back as he led you into his office, closing the door behind him, and placing his jacket on you. It smelt strongly of him. You could detect hints of vanilla from his cologne which made you want to envelop yourself further into the cloth. He led you to the sofa in his office, Artem himself sitting down on the coffee table in front of you. His kind, gentle movements, so contrasting from Julius’s threats, made the tears stream down your face harder. You began to shake from the loss of adrenaline, and you buried your face in your hands.

Artem was at a loss for what to do. He’d never seen you cry before, he felt helpless as he watched you heave from your tears. One thing was certain in his mind, however: Julius had something to do with this. He could sense your discomfort earlier when he’d suggested the two of you use conference room six to discuss business. He could tell you were trying your hardest to suppress the feelings, but they were prevalent enough on your person for him to detect, but his actions had failed to protect you further. A part of him wanted to leave the office immediately, find Julius, and beat him to a pulp wherever he stood, but a more sensible part of him knew you needed him right now. Julius could be dealt with later.

Slowly, Artem stood up from his place on the coffee table and sat down on the couch, a good few feet away from you in order to give you space. You finally looked up at him when you felt his weight on the couch. Your eyes were red and irritated from the tears, makeup running down your face in light gray streaks. You desperately wiped away at them, but it didn’t make a difference. Artem’s soft voice finally broke the silence between the two of you, “Mc, can I hug you?” The hysterical part of your brain was surprised by his words. In your emotional state, you expected him to reject you, and act disgusted by your emotions. You nodded slightly, desperately wanting his comfort.

Before you knew it, Artem had slid closer to you on the couch, taking you in his arms, and gently pressing you into his chest. This simple action started your tears anew. You began crying harder than before, gasping for breath. Clumsy words spilled out of your mouth as you tried to tell Artem what had happened. You thought he deserved to know why you came to his office crying, but Artem simply gently shushed you, rubbing comforting circles into your back. “You don’t need to say anything yet, Mc,” he whispered

The two of you stayed like that for a long time until your tears eventually slowed to a stop. At that point, you pulled away from Artem, desperately missing his warmth as soon as you did so. Artem slid his hand in yours, giving it a gentle, supportive, squeeze before speaking again, “If you’d like to tell me what happened, I’ll be here for you, okay?” Artem’s comforting words, his warm hand in yours, and his beautiful blue eyes made everything that’s happened with you in relation to Julius spill. You couldn’t look at him as you told him about everything: the case you worked on together, how he’d continue to go to your desk even when the case was over, how that escalated to the harassment you had to endure, what just happened in the conference room, and the audio recording of the incident.

When your gaze finally settled back on Artem, he was wearing an expression you had never seen on him before. It was anger, it was concern, it was... it was something else you couldn’t quite place. Artem pushed himself up from the couch, his eyes on the door to the office. You tightly grasped his arm, stopping him from moving towards the door. The door meant he’d tell, the door meant all your fears would come to fruition, the door meant you’d have to face the world outside Artem’s warm embrace again, and you didn’t want that. “Please don’t,” you whimpered, new tears stinging your eyes, “don’t tell anyone, please.” A sob escaped your throat, making Artem sit back on the couch next to you. “I love my job here, I love working with you and Kiki. I love being your partner and working on NXX cases with you. I don’t want to lose it all.”

Artem was back to rubbing circles into your skin, this time at the base of your shoulder. “You won’t lose your job, I promise.”

“B-But, so many people have b-been fired because they r-report assault, I-I can’t l-let that happen.”

“Mc,” Artem said, his voice slightly stern, but still gentler than you’d ever heard it before, “please look at me.” Your eyes trailed up his body, which was still holding you, and finally met his eyes. “I won’t let that happen, okay?” His hand found your hair, gently combing through it with his fingers, “I promise you that you’ll be okay, that your job will be okay. I’ll put Julias in jail if it’s the last case I ever take, just please, please let me help you.” Before that day, you could never imagine Artem crying, but you knew the sight of his eyes filled with tears was real. He allowed you to see his emotions just as you’d allowed him to see yours. He wasn’t some emotionless lawyer who would allow his coworker to be fired because they told the truth. He was a man who’d openly share your emotions with you, even if that meant sharing your tears. You could trust him, you knew that now.

“Okay,” you let the word with a shaky breath, “I trust you, Artem.”

Artem stood up from his place next to you, not letting your hand go quite yet. He leaned over you, giving your forehead a gentle kiss, before looking into your eyes, determination filling his own sapphire ones. Your body slightly tensed when Artem finally removed his hand from yours, you quickly grew cold at the lack of his warmth, but you let him go. You watched his figure as he reached the door, taking one more glance behind him towards you, and left, shutting the door behind him. Eventually, you knew, everything would be okay again.

#tears of themis #tears of themis fic #tears of themis fanfic #tears of themis artem #artem x reader #artem wing #angst #hurt/comfort #tw sex assault #tw sa #tw sex harrasment #artem wing x reader

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hollyhomburg · 3 years

Text

Before I Leave You (Sneak Peak)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Someone always has to leave first; They just didn’t expect Yoongi to come back with a new omega (who's clearly been through some shit).

Pairing: Beta! Yoongi, Omega! Reader, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Hoseok, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Jimin,

Tags: Polyamory, groupsex, sexual and non-sexual Dom/sub undertones, heat sex, praise kink, brief humiliation, Spanking, knotting, breeding kink, emotional abuse, physical abuse, forced mating marks, graphic murder scenes, negative self-talk, self-esteem issues, non-verbal characters, abandonment, PTSD, hurt/comfort, gluttonous fluff, agoraphobia, implied/referenced self-harm, suicidal thoughts and brief desperate suicide attempt, unreliable narrators. Gender dysphoria, transgender characters, internalized homophobia, internalized transphobia, internalized misogyny, unintended outings, epilepsy,

W/c: 100k+ (87k completed so far)

A/n: long time no see~ this is what I’ve been working on for the last few months! I hope everyone will like it. Updates will be once a week on fridays or saturdays at 5pm EST. This will also be cross posted on Archive of our own.

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“You shouldn’t be out here- you’ll get cold.”

Your hands play on the bannister. In the fountain, something trickles though it’s not full. It’s too early in spring and the flowers in the garden are reluctant to burst through the ground for fear of frost. Yoongi wonders how you’re not shivering. “It’s not the 1800’s Yoongi- people don’t die just from being cold” your revealing dress is probably something that your husband chose for you. it makes Yoongi’s blood boil.

You look a little bit better tonight, though Yoongi can't tell if the color in your face is actually real or from the thick layer of makeup that hides the bruises. The haze in your eyes, like you’re dissociating from everything, isn’t there anymore. Tonight, You’ve got a clarity that Yoongi savors. The scar is healing well, pink and hardly notable under the line of your jaw. Yoongi wouldn’t know it was there if he wasn’t looking for it.

Yoongi searches your face. “You misunderstand me, I said that I don’t want you to be cold, but maybe if you caught a cold- I could help you get better.”

He knows his words don’t make sense- but still you recognize what he wants to say but can’t. I could love you, I could make it better, I could care for you and only treat you with the gentleness you deserve. But Yoongi doesn’t say any of that- no- he only leans forward and offers his hands. “One dance? Before I take you home?”

Yoongi will drive you away from here- will take you and go to some gritty fast food place and get you full of however many calories your husband has made you skip. And he’ll spend the whole drive thinking about leaning across the console to kiss you. He could do it- quick. You’re not wearing lipstick and no one would know. Maybe he can’t help you yet- so starved of love that you look like a ghost. But tonight, he can surely make sure your stomach and your heart is full with the careful care that Yoongi knows he’s good at giving.

You keep Yoongi at an arm's length as he leads you in the waltz, day dreaming of a hypothetical illness, some sickness that can be fixed by a few days rest and some warm soup that Yoongi could provide. The two of you pulled together in a bed however big or small- you wouldn’t mind as long as you got to be this close. His hand on your forehead crooning, “you’ve got a fever lovely.”

It’s a beautiful day dream, but not better than reality as he pulls you in tighter against him in your skimpy gown. It’s only to keep you warm- he justifies. And you melt into his hold. His hands are wide, warm, and better than any jacket as they cup your sides and the small of your back. You stumble on the uneven cobblestones of the garden and Yoongi heaves you up so that you’re balanced on his toes.

He spins you, going faster in the practices steps, making you giggle- a sound that he’s never heard from you and wants to hear again and again. You slow to a more gentle pace, Swaying softly from side to side. You rest your whole body against him and Yoongi holds you up.

For the first time he can smell your real scent, you smell sweet and bready, like a freshly baked cake, something warm inside on a day that the rain pours outside. You smell like cozy lazy Sundays and cupcakes. Yoongi wants to bury his face in your neck but won’t without asking.

He wonders if you like his scent just as much as he likes yours.

Before he can ask, you pipe up. “You just had to take all the good didn’t you?” its not said bitterly, but musing. Out of two brothers, why would one have so much more softness than the other? One gentle and kind while the other is bloodthirsty and violently selfish. Why did you have to choose wrong?

“What would it be like Yoongi? If you took me away from here what would it be like?” you’re crying, barely daring to utter the words. The two of you both know from experience that tempting fate never ends well but you’ve never wanted anything so badly.

Yoongi struggles to hold onto your happy scent. You know how much wanting something you can’t have can hurt you. Reaching out like you’re prepared to grasp the future he’ll paint for you, holding onto the lapels of his coat as you cry. Yoongi just runs his hands up and down your back to comfort you through the longing.

Like this garden aches for rain, Yoongi aches to give, anything and everything, his heart on a platter if that’s what you wanted.

“We’d get takeout every few nights and play rock paper scissors to decide who gets to be the little spoon, we’d have a rule of no yelling in the house, I’d take you out to the ocean and make you s’mores whenever you wanted. You could steal my clothes and I’d never ever say a word about It.”

You laugh at that- somehow, Yoongi just knows that’s something you’d do. He’s known enough omegas, he knows that courting one means you voluntarily give up half of your sweatshirt collection. He keeps speaking softer, like to whisper his wishes out loud is like trying to hold onto a shooting star.

“And-” Yoongi takes a deep breath, tilting his face forward so that your foreheads are aligned. So close. This is the closest Yoongi has ever let himself get to you. “-I’d love you until we’d both had our last breath. I’d leave you sticky notes on the refrigerator telling you that I love you every time I had to leave. I’d never- ever let you be cold. And I’d show you my pack”

Yoongi can feel you swallow thickly at his promises- and he hopes- hopes more than anything else that they’re not empty ones. You always forget that he has someone else- that there are several someone-else’s who have Yoongi’s attention the way you do. He is the moon and you’re just something he orbits around. There are other celestial objects caught in his orbit. “What are they like? What’s it like to have a pack?”

Yoongi tries not to let himself get misty eyed, “it’s everything, it’s love and having everyone there all around you but it’s also so much fun, you’re never alone- you always have someone to be around and it’s not even- it doesn’t even feel tiring. Even when you want to sleep you’d rather stay up with them.” Yoongi slides his finger underneath one of the straps of your dress, playing with it. “Telling you what they’re like- well- that would take me hours”

Your laugh is pretty, and it slips through yoongi’s fingers like smoke “That sounds beautiful.” Yoongi holds you like you might be a piece of that- a piece of his pack that he hadn’t known he’d been missing. That's probably why your next words hit him so hard.

“I wish I could have seen it. Get back to them safe alright? Do me a favor and love them like you would have loved me.”

*Part 1 Coming Friday April 9th @ 5pm EST*

#bts fanfic #bts mafia au #bts omegaverse au #bts polyamory au #bts x reader #bts poly au #bts werewolf fic #bts fluff #bts angst #bts hurt/comfort #min yoongi fic #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #min yoongi #omega! reader #bts a/b/o au

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bibbykins · 3 years

Text

Insufferable

A/N: The long-awaited flashback is here! It's short, but it is here! I hope this can really show the turning point in Jungkook's and MC's relationship and I would love to hear everyone's thoughts. As usual, tips are not required but greatly appreciate. Hope you all enjoy and have a wonderful day/night!

Note: This is a part (specifically a flashback) of The Household's Bunny series, so I recommend reading at least the Prologue before this one

Word count: 3.6k

Pairing: Soft Yandere! Jungkook x Chubby! Reader

Summary: Roommates are bound to have arguments, especially when one of them is as temperamental as Jungkook, but you didn't expect the first argument to get so unbelievably personal.

Warnings: abandonment issues, mommy issues, allusions to past abuse, family issues, crying, yelling, vomiting, panic attack, exhaustion, some soft yandere thoughts, some possessiveness, jungkook is mean and the MC gets a little mean too

There was something so constricting about memories of a shitty childhood. There were times when looking in the mirror felt like searching for the child in you so you could give her the hug she desperately needed. There were times when waking up felt like a check to make sure you were no longer in the home you had to grow up in far too quickly. However, the comfort of being in a different home only came so far when you didn't have anyone beside you or even emotionally available enough to talk to.

You stayed in bed for hours before it felt like a good idea to move, almost waiting for the mirage of change to fade before it brought you back to the gym with your mom or your uncle's apartment littered with whiskey bottles and leaky tear ducts.

Sometimes putting your best foot forward each day felt so hard with all-consuming loneliness clinging to your heels.

You had started your day going through your memory box. Hindsight said that was a poor idea. The box was a sure way to get you into a bad mood. You liked to think you breezed past all the stages of grief, but just because you accepted reality didn't make it hurt any less. The box was a strong reminder of that much as it sat with a melancholic aura. The creme color faded and the thorned vines connected to roses only added to the malicious undertones of its existence to your mental health. It was full of childhood photos, your birth certificate, school achievements, and the last known address your mom had.

Ah, your mom. What a way to bring clouds to your sunny day. You don’t know why you put yourself through the turmoil of the memory box. Maybe you were hoping it would be easier by now. You were always wrong. Looking through childhood photos and finding no love in the eyes of your mother when she looked at you and watching the love in your uncle’s eyes fade with your mother’s presence. You got to the fated birthday card, thumb rubbing over the defunct address longingly. You held the envelope in your hand, inspecting the birthday card she sent you. Three words in the repetitive note written on the inside caught your eye, and not the ones you so desperately wanted from her.

Feeling a familiar pressure behind your eyes, you tossed the card aside and stood. It was time to eat, go on a walk, do anything other than this. You found your way to the kitchen and came across a silent and solemn Jungkook. His jaw was clenched, but it felt like it always was around you.

Your relationship with Jungkook so far was not very complicated, in the way it was nonexistent. He either didn’t care about talking to you or he actively didn’t want to, you really couldn’t tell. This didn’t stop you from trying, though. Like an idiot.

“I’m making food, did you want any?” You asked from your place seated on the couch, and the silence that was his response for deafening, “Okaaaay.” You sang awkwardly, “I just know that you usually don’t eat throughout the day and-”

“And what do you know?!” He snapped, blinded by his pure and unbridled, but most important unprovoked, rage of you. Your eyes widened and your body jumped. Holy shit, you had never heard him yell like this, “You don’t know anything about me, or in general, so just stop trying so fucking hard!” He was harsh in his tone and it lit your whole nervous system on fire. What the hell did you do to him?

You shook your head, not sure why he was yelling about, but it made your throat feel like it was going to close, “Look, I was just trying to be polite, but you don’t need to talk about me like you understand-”

“Understand?! What’s there to understand?” He challenged, eyes wide like he was expecting you to say something but he continued, “You’re some spoiled girl living here rent-free because your precious dad doesn’t want to take care of you.”

Your heart caught in your throat as it shattered. He was right, your dad didn't want to take care of you, but not in the way he thought. Why was he doing this? Has he genuinely felt this way all along? Was he just holding in his anger until you poked the bear a little too hard? “You don’t need to yell at me.” You stated firmly and it seemed to only make things worse.

“And you don’t need to fucking be here in the first place!” He spoke, temper long lost and you could hear his voice mix in with Jungyoon’s, all he needed was a bottle of whisky and a set of calloused hands, “You didn’t need to fucking live here-”

“You don’t know anything about me.” You spat out. Now, you were losing your temper. You could take a beating, but for only so long, especially as an adult, "And it's not like you're paying rent either, so what do you know about me or my living arrangements?" You hissed and you watched his eyes flare, making you nearly regret your provocation.

“No, but I know how you look naked-”

“Fuck you.” You spit the word out at him, something you haven’t done to another person for a while “Don’t weaponize my work or play a game that you absolutely will lose.” You warned, “I know all about you, and I can use that, because you’ve been a star since you were 15, and that sucks, that makes you mad, doesn’t it?” Your temper effectively lost as you ripped into the rage-filled man before you, “Yet you don’t know anything about me, and that must piss you the fuck off, huh?” You stood from the couch, tears building in your eyes before you could stop it.

“I know enough, spoiled rich girl.” He seethed and you laughed humorlessly at this worldwide pop star calling you spoiled and rich.

“Not only are you wrong, but you’re also a poor listener.” You shot back, “I’ve told you all before Jungyoon isn’t my fucking dad, he’s my uncle.” His mouth opened but you cut him off before he could start, “He can’t stand the sight of me so he travels for work.” Your tears are undoubtedly falling, but you can’t stop, “And you’re talking to me like this because what? You had a scandal or something?” You gave him his chance to talk and boy, he took it.

“Mona told me you know your mom.” His voice was like venom, “So, why the fuck are you here? You have your blood relatives.” He exaggerated the word like it meant anything to you, “Why are you here, disrupting our lives, acting like an innocent orphan girl around actual fucking orphans-”

“I never said I was or acted like an orphan!” You exclaimed incredulously before scoffing, “That’s why you’re mad? Because you never knew your mom and I did? Because I know who my blood family is?” You could laugh at how ridiculous that was, “I know them, so what? Where does that get me?” You looked at him expectantly but he didn’t talk, “I knew my mom, and guess what? She just didn’t fucking want me.” He was silent, but you still couldn’t stop, “I’m sure if your mom could’ve got to know you, she would’ve kept you, because you’re not insufferable to be around, you’re just a fucking asshole.” You wiped at your cheeks furiously, “But me? I had 15 years to prove myself and it still wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t enough. Jungyoon never wanted me either, he got stuck with me and had to cope.” Your voice began to break and you had to take a breath, “I was the insufferable one, so-” You stopped, finally as you regained your sense of reality and watched Jungkook who had an unreadable expression and the realization of the word vomit you spilled out to him hit you like a train as you exhaled quickly, rage in your voice quickly replaced with soft melancholy “I am the insufferable one here, so there.” You shrugged, face a wet mess, “Hope that brings you peace.” Your stomach was churning as you turned on your heel, unable to hold in your sobs. You couldn’t bear the awkwardness of waiting for the elevator so you opted to take the stairs.

You sobbed louder as the door slammed shut behind you, but you didn’t want to linger so you bolted down the stairs, the bile in your stomach signaling that you needed to find the nearest trashcan and quickly. You made it to the ground floor and spilled your guts into the small trashcan. Yelling always made you unbelievably ill, whether it was getting yelled at or yelling, the sickness it made you feel overflowed. The yelling only reminded you of-

You vomited again at the mere thought. You cried harder when you finally finished, breathing becoming staggered as you began to panic.

Fuck, they’re gonna kick you out, and then you’ll be alone again. You lost your temper, people don’t like other people who lose their temper. Why couldn’t you just mind your own fucking business and leave him be? You’re stupid. Why do you think you’ve been alone all your life? It’s because people don’t want to be near you. You’re-

“Insufferable.” You mumbled, numb, even if for only a moment.

Sure, Jungkook provoked you, but you knew better. You didn't go to therapist after therapist throughout your adolescence for nothing. You felt as if you set yourself back eons after that outburst. He didn't need to know all that about you, ever. He probably didn't even care to know, and you said it anyway, like you were gunning for gold in the trauma Olympics. You didn't want to minimize his struggles, you just wanted him to shut up and stop yelling at you. You let your eyes flutter closed as you cried. How can you complain about being alone when you're like this?

You don’t know how long you stayed there, sitting next to a trash can full of your vomit as you wallowed in your self-hatred. The all-consuming loneliness the boisterous house subdued returning with full force. Jungkook was right. You didn’t need to be here. You were only disrupting their routine.

You blew out a sigh as you staggered to the elevator, fully set on going up to your room and crying yourself to sleep after you clean up. You brought the trashcan with you, not having the heart to just leave your puke down there. You thanked your lucky stars when Jungkook was no longer on the second floor as you went to the kitchen and rinsed your mouth before going to take out the trash and take out your burnt oven pizza. Finally, you were headed back up to your floor. You watched the numbers tick by with tired eyes. You glared at the empty trashcan, electing to take it with you instead of making the trip back down to put it back. Surely, they wouldn’t need it for a few hours.

The elevator dinged as you grabbed the black plastic bin and then you were met with Jungkook. Relief flashed across his face before irritation settled on it, “Where the fuck were you?!” He asked hurriedly as you trudged past him, too exhausted to fight. You were running on autopilot the whole way up here, and you couldn’t bear another spat.

“I was on the first floor.” Your voice was low, trying to communicate you were done arguing as you lifted the bin as proof. You then set it down and went to your bathroom and began brushing your teeth.

He scoffed, “You were on the first floor for 30 minutes?” He asked as if he caught you in a lie but you nodded as you rinsed your mouth.

You were down there for thirty minutes? No wonder you felt so tired.

“Yep.” You popped the last letter before correcting yourself, “Well, I spent like 10 minutes cleaning up that bin, so not exactly.”

“Why?” He asked as if you were being ridiculous, as if he wasn’t the one on your floor demanding answers.

“I vomited.” You spoke simply and before he could ask, “Yelling makes me puke.” You were so blase about it he sighed in frustration.

You walked to your room and froze when you saw your memory box strewn about, and it was like a dam broke all over again. You looked at the photos, at the eager little girl looking for love in places she would never find it.

Old habits die hard.

Before you could even stop yourself, you sunk to your knees in garbled sobs and broken cries, “Hey, hey, wait.” Jungkook’s shaky voice did nothing to bring you back to reality as you cried. His hands placed themselves on your shoulder, making you flinch violently, much to his horror.

Fuck, he didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know why you were crying, but he knew it was his fault, at least in part. Even if at this moment it wasn’t, his outburst surely didn’t help. Fuck, he’s so dumb. Fuck, he shouldn’t have talked to Mona just moments before seeing you.

The envy of even seeing your own mother’s face ate up at him and he took it out on you. Not to mention that he made you vomit from the yelling. He suddenly felt more like an arrogant asshole than he did before as his hands now hovered over your form and he took a moment to look at your room.

Scattered on the floor were childhood photos and ribbons from competitions. Things Mona kept in her own house, having a whole wall filled with every one of their achievements. Even Jin had a photo album of their things. And you, you kept all these for yourself. You were the only one who cared enough to save these things and he wondered how much you threw away to maintain space in the small empty box. Fuck, he didn’t know how to do this.

You sighed shakily, “You can just go.” You cried, “You don’t have to be here.” You don��t know what he could possibly gain from watching you cry.

“I know.” His voice was calm, even, “Can I help you up?” He asked and you wanted to look up at him in confusion but you didn't want him to see your tears.

You both had just ripped into each other, and here he was, wanting to help you. Why would he do that? Why would he stay when he doesn't have to? Why would he want to help you up after a fight?

Too tired to even think about questioning him and no longer angry at him, you simply scoffed, “Can you?” You sighed, not having the energy to stroke his ego and stand up without his help.

You never let people bear your dead weight, not wanting the awkwardness if they couldn’t carry you, but right now, you just wanted to lay down.

He snorted lightly, happy to hear anything other than a sob for you, “Don’t worry about me, you just cry and mind your business.” He spoke lightly, and the comment made you fight a smile. Then, he lifted you with so much ease, you figured he was trying to show off as he placed you on the bed. He looked at you after he sat on the floor before his eyes caught onto the gold foil of a 16th birthday card. You were wiping at your face as he read the card against his better judgment.

I know you must be confused, and I can’t help that. I wish I could pretend to be a mom, but I can’t. I can’t be your mom, and I never should have tried. It would be best if we forgot each other. I just can’t keep pretending, and I know you can see it, even if you don’t want to.

I’m so tired.

-Mom

Now, he felt even more like an asshole. He also felt a little bit angry that your mother could just leave you behind without so much as saying sorry. She wrote like she was a teenager and you were her mother. She obviously didn't put much thought into the seemingly last message to her daughter and it made his heartbreak for you, “That was the last I heard of her.” You snapped him from his thoughts and he looked at your puffy face, “She had left months earlier, and then I got that, but she moved before I could try to see her one more time.” There was a distant ache in your words as you looked at Jungkook sitting amongst your memories.

“Is she… still alive?” He asked, not sure why he felt the need to know.

“Not sure, but it doesn’t make much of a difference, I guess.” You blew out a sigh, before looking at your papers and folded posterboards, “I was cleaning out my memory box, and I’m not sure why I do it when I know it just upsets me.” You could still feel tears leaking from your eyes as Jungkook picked up a photo of you on your 14th birthday, posed between Jungyoon and your mom. You had a bright smile on your face and they looked at the camera with a tight expression, “You can really see how much they didn’t want to be there, but that's the happiest they look in all of the photos.”

He wanted to say you were wrong, but he could see it. He could see the happy little girl trying to make up for the unhappy adults around her. He knew he should’ve asked Mona why Jungyoon didn’t try to call or visit or why she was so eager to take you in if you knew your family. He should’ve just known better. Yeah, he understood how it felt to be alone growing up, they all did, but by the time they were all 17 they had a home that wanted them. You were going to graduate from college soon and you still felt unwanted.

No thanks to him.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted and you looked at him with wide eyes, “For being an asshole, I’m sorry- and for making you cry. I just…” He shrugged, “You’re right. I was jealous you knew your mom and I already was suspicious of you and I- I’m dumb, and I’m sorry.” He looked at you, eyes a bit glossy and you wondered when was the last time someone apologized for making you cry.

“It’s okay.” You smiled weakly, “You are dumb, but that’s okay.” You chuckled when he frowned, but eventually, he also broke into a short laugh, “I think… we’ve felt a lot of the same things in different ways, so I can’t blame you.” He wondered how you could be so forgiving, and he was scared of how many times that has gotten you hurt, “I like living here and I like all of you, so I hope I can get you all to like me too, even if just a little.”

“Don’t accept less than you deserve.” He spoke firmly before he started picking up your memory box, putting things neatly back in.

“Wh-”

He waved his hands nonchalantly, “You, sleep, I’ll clean this up and order some food.” He didn’t look at you as he said this, mostly to hide his blush, "If...If you want, I can give this to Jin. He has a whole place he keeps our stuff like this… he's really sentimental." He stumbled, still refusing to look at you.

However, he jumped when he heard you hiccup a cry. Ready to apologize, Jungkook was just about to turn to look at you until he heard you speak, "That… That sounds very sweet of you to do." You wiped a sentimental tear away as the blushing boy remained frozen.

"It's Jin's hobby, not mine." He deflected before waving his hand at you, "Sleep, I said." He frantically demanded.

You could see his ears getting red and you smiled, “Yes, sir.” You mocked in your work voice and made him freeze for a moment as you erupted into giggles while he whined, “Okay, okay, I’ll sleep.”

Eventually, you surrendered to your exhaustion as he delicately put away your papers and photos. He hummed lightly, smiling as he came across your debate team awards. No wonder he lost the fight before it even started. He turned around after lifting the box and sighed almost dreamily as he watched your sleeping face. You were beautiful, delicate, and puffy from the tears. He had the urge to keep apologizing for being such an asshole, but after looking through your achievements and your photos, he resolved to just keep proving it.

He wouldn’t let you get hurt again. Not by him or anyone, especially your mother, even Jungyoon was on thin ice.

His blood boiled at the thought of your mother for a reason he couldn’t understand. His hand extended shakily as he pulled the covers up to your shoulder and you hummed contently, making his heart melt a bit at the little smile you had. He wouldn’t fuck up with you again, not like this. He would be nice, at least a little, and first and foremost, he would order food you liked.

He froze.

Fuck, what food do you like?

He relaxed. Well, he could just ask the guys.

Fuck, they’re gonna ask questions.

Fuck, they’re gonna kill him when they found out he made you cry.

He looked back at your sleeping form, not having the heart to wake you up. He sighed, looks like he’ll just have to bite the bullet. He dreaded each moment as he quickly made an untitled group chat with the guys since you were added to their original one. He could only hope Taehyung wouldn’t change the group chat name to something stupid.

Tip Jar

#yandere bts #soft yandere bts #bts fanfic #bts series #yandere jungkook #bts angst #bts fluff #poly bts au

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danniburgh · 3 years

Text

Sins of the Flesh (priest!Dave York x f!reader)

Pairing: priest!Dave York x f!reader

Summary: His mind shouldn’t be on the new catechesis teacher as he cleaned the chalice after handing communion. His thoughts shouldn’t be on the young girl he knew for so long as he blessed the congregation and finished mass.

But you were different now. Something in you had changed. “Lord, have mercy on me.”

Word count: +10.9k

Warnings: religion! catholic religion to be precise, a lot A LOT of religious references and undertones (shot every time you find one lmao), age gap (around 15 years, reader is legal), smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex, breaking of celibacy vows!, catholic guilt, me making divine metaphors... i think thats it.

A/N: first of all this is all @asta-lily’s fault, she asked why no one had turned this man into a priest and i said “ok ill do it” so i did it, she is to blame. also i wanna say thanks to the pocket wives that encouraged this creation, sorry my loves, this isnt as slutty as yall thought lmao, and thanks to @alliterative-albatross who gave me all the bible verses that shaped this story as well. and i wanna thank the creator of this playlist that i listened over and over while writing this, and yeah, sorry for this monstrosity, love you <3

Masterlist // Read on ao3 // ko-fi

comments and reblogs are eternally appreciated 💓

moodboard by @asta-lily

“So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.”–James 4:12.

Sunday 1.

Like a piece in a puzzle.

That’s how you fit in.

There, sitting in the middle of a ten people polished wood bench, eyes on the four feet tall crucified Jesus on the wall above the altar, ready for the first sermon you were to hear after coming back home.

Home. That was the name.

That church felt like home.

You were enjoying sitting there, among the children you met a couple of hours earlier when you were introduced to them as their new catechesis teacher, breathing in and out the myrrh incense burning and invading the navel and your lungs, filling them with new energy, getting them ready to feel the love that you were sure was about to pour over you.

You heard your name behind you and you turned around to see Mrs. Stevens, one of your mother’s friends waving at you from two rows behind.

“Hi, honey!” she smiled at you and immediately you reciprocated “I heard you were in town, are you staying this time?”

You drowned a chuckle inside your chest and bit your lip, nodding. Just realizing you even had missed the venomous messages hidden behind the kind words mouthed by old catholic moms.

“Yes, Mrs. Stevens, I’m staying this time.” you replied, the woman lifted her hand a bit to the sky and you smirked to her.

“God bless, I bet your mom is delighted you’re here!” she muttered “I know she missed you terribly all those years you were in that school.”

“It’s called college, Mrs. Stevens,” you reminded the woman, and she rolled her eyes, making you chuckle softly again “but do not worry for my mama anymore, I graduated, I’m staying for good.” you told her, amused at the way she acted as if you staying at home was some godsend blessing.

The organ began to play on the upper balcony behind everyone and you saw two altar boys, carbon copy of each other, almost rushing their way to the altar, and behind them… Father Dave.

You smiled softly at the sight of him as he walked solemnly to the altar, his green chasuble flowing with the air and the movement, there was a thought you had all those years you were away from home because of school, always coming back to Father Dave York: the young priest that decided to stay in the first congregation he was sent to, the one that became a pillar to the community, the holy man that held the direct link to God and that gave you your first communion, the one you missed when you went to attend mass at the church near campus because no one gave the sermons like he did. For some reason, whenever you least expected, you thought of him.

You saw him putting his bible on top of the pressed cloth over the altar, kneel and kiss the center of it and cross himself. And then, after he closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to himself and to God, he opened his deep brown eyes and he looked at you.

“Let us pray.”

Your mouth dried when his deep timbered voice, with the help of a small microphone on his altar, wrapped the entire navel and you with it, he looked at you as he cleared his throat and he opened his arms to the sky, breaking eye contact with you.

“Lord, have mercy.” he murmured, and the congregation replied to his prayer as you struggled to find the air that had escaped your lungs.

As Father Dave guided the congregation through the sermon and through the prayers, all you could see was him.

In some way, there was something different about him you hadn’t noticed the last time you were there; you didn’t know if it was something about his deep voice as he recited the credo by muscle memory, the way he walked from one side of the sanctuarium to the other as he talked about the scripture or the way his hands wrapped around the chalice when one of the altar boys handed it to him as the organ echoed all around the navel, announcing the communion.

You stood up and walked to the back of the line and sighed as he lifted the wafer to the sky, and your eyes closed by themselves when he lifted the chalice and took a sip from the sacramental wine and locked your eyes on him as the line moved.

As soon as you were in front of him your lips parted and he smiled at you softly.

“The body of Christ.” he murmured, his deep brown eyes on yours as they filled with tears.

“Amen” and you opened your mouth.

He put the wined wafer between your lips and his thumb brushed with your chin, making your skin burn as you brought it inside of your mouth with your tongue and forced yourself to walk away from him.

As you returned to your seat with the gold cross that hung from your neck between your fingers and kneeled to pray for the forgiving of your sins, all you could think of was brown, deep eyes, and a soft, brief touch on your chin that burned more than the wax of a burning taper.

Dave felt it.

The way you looked at him throughout the entire service.

And it made him feel different.

When you rose from your seat to walk to the communion line, he saw the way your body moved, almost as if you were floating instead of walking.

He knew you were back, and his heart was happy you were finally home.

But he didn’t expect to see you so changed.

And he didn’t expect the way your eyes had made him feel.

Then you were in front of him, and he smiled because he remembered the first time he handed the body of Christ to you, years and years before.

And your eyes filled with tears as his breath hitched when your lips parted for him as he fed you the sacred soul of the savior.

God, have mercy.

His mind shouldn’t be on the new catechesis teacher as he cleaned the chalice after handing communion. His thoughts shouldn’t be on the young girl he knew for so long as he blessed the congregation and finished mass.

But you were different now. Something in you had changed.

Lord, have mercy on me. He thought as he entered the sacristy.

“Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.”–Proverbs 28:13.

Sunday 2.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” Dave heard your voice next to him and felt the air leave from his lungs. Not you, please God, not you.

You had been avoiding Father Dave for almost the entire week.

And you felt guilty about it.

You couldn’t even look at him in the eyes and not think about those dreams you were having about him.

If God was all love and perfection, why was he tempting you with dreams of Father Dave, his own servant, touching you in places you got shivers from, warming your body with his own, putting his mouth on your skin as you repeated his name like it was the sanctus?

Holy, holy, holy.

Why was God putting inside your head the sins of the flesh you had already asked forgiveness for? Why was he making you desire a forbidden man? A man that was not to be perceived as a man but as the representation of him on earth.

That morning, when you walked into the church to impart the catechesis class, you saw Jesus on the cross and you saw him look at you. And you knew he knew.

All omnipresent, all omniscient, all omnipotent.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Almighty God why were you thinking about him so much?

And the resolution in your mind was asking for forgiveness, you needed to pay penitence for those thoughts you knew you did.

But were you really about to confess to the man you had been dreaming about that he was invading your every thought?

“It has been two weeks since my last confession.” you mumbled, playing with your cross over your neck, Dave breathed in deeply and intertwined his hands on his lap.

“What are your sins?” he asked, closing his eyes as he remembered his own.

Dave was always a man of faith. It was in him from birth. He had been taught and trained to not fall into any temptations and so far his life had been devoted and dedicated to God and only to God.

But your eyes and the way you saw him, and the way your eyes made him feel when they locked on his, had him spiraling down into decadence.

Sometimes, dedicating his life to the word of the Lord made him forget he was still a human, he was still a man.

He had needs.

And he was alright before your eyes. Before your holy eyes were on him.

He had dreamed of them; he had thought of them; he had imagined them when he was in the limbo between sleep and awakeness.

He had dreamed of your lips, of your lips on his skin, he had thought of those lips that just looked like they needed someone to wet them and bring them back to life; he had imagined those lips of yours in places of his body he swore never to use.

He had prayed for them to disappear; he had begged to his God to erase those thoughts of his mind and free them from the temptation that was incarnated in you, in your body, in your eyes that denied to see him when you were in the same room, in your hands as you moved them to teach the children, in your legs trapped in the tight denim of your jeans, in your lips as you smiled to everyone but him, in your entire being, just by existing.

But they had increased, like a tamed flame sprayed with gasoline. He had a fire in his chest, one that was spreading through him as he was closer to you.

He needed them gone; he had sworn to never look at a woman as an object of desire; he had sworn on his life and he had vowed his commitment.

But you were there, kneeling next to him, separated by the thinnest patterned panel, holding the matches and the fuel.

“I’ve been having… improper thoughts, father,” you whispered, closing your eyes and left your necklace alone, clutching your hands together as tight as you could, you felt the aura change and the air grow thicker between him and you, “about a man.”

Dave opened his eyes at your confession and frowned. A man?

He knew you could tell him whatever you wanted; he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask in for details; he knew he was only there functioning as a link for you to get absolved from your sins and you were a young woman granted of free will and enough time to ask for absolution but he wanted to know; he needed to know who that man was.

“He is ol–older than me,” he heard you mumble and his hands tightened their grip on each other “and I can’t have him, father, I–I’ve been having these thoughts about a forbidden man.”

Dave’s mind went reeling, and he didn’t understand why. He didn’t like to assume about the life of his congregation members, he never did, but you were talking to him, after he had been dreaming about you for days, after you two shared something about desiring another man. And he was angry. He wanted to know who. He wanted to know who was keeping your mind the same way you were keeping his.

“He keeps me up at night, thinking of him, that is,” you whispered “I’ve–Jesus,” you let out the air of your lungs and Dave breathed in deeply once more “I’ve touched myself thinking of him.” you said under your breath and Dave felt his chest tug and turn.

“Does this man… know what he is causing in you?” he muttered with a frown and heard you sigh.

“No, I don’t want him to.”

“Alright, child,” he replied after a few seconds, and made a grimace of disgust at the pet name. It felt wrong, and he felt dirty with the word on his mouth, “do you repent these sins?”

“Yes, father, I do.” you closed your eyes at his words and wanted, for once, to be brave and tell him he was the one roaming around your mind. But it wasn’t fair.

“Please, recite in silence the act of contrition,” he muttered to you and you obeyed, feeling your eyes fill with tears.

As he waited for you to finish, he did the same on his side of the confession box

I’m choosing to sin and failing to do good.

“Amen.” you said, and he murmured the word to the ceiling.

“I think the word you do for the church,” he started, and you wrinkled your nose at the thought of him knowing it was you “the devotion you have, and how you repent, you don’t need to pay penance,” he muttered separating his hands and putting two fingers on the edge of the patterned panel that separated the two of you “through the ministry of the church,” your breath hitched as he whispered the words to you, and you saw with teary eyes the shadow of his fingers on the panel “man God give you pardon and peace,” you bit your lip and unclutched your hands, lifting your fingers and pressing it to his as two heavy tears fell from your eyes.

Dave felt the pressure of your touch and felt his hand tremble.

“And I ab–absolve you from your sin.” he said under his breath, pressing back.

“Thank you, father.” you whispered, not moving your fingers. You could feel the warmth of his through it and for a few seconds, you could also feel his eyes on your face.

Dave was the one to break the contact first. Absentmindedly brushing his fingers on his stole as he saw the shadow of you move and get out of the confession box.

He sat there, thankful you were the only one that morning and thinking about what you had told him.

A man of God, a man of hope. He had hoped, even if it was a sin and even if it was forbidden by pure creed and vow, that you were feeling the same as he was.

For a moment, he wondered about those thoughts… Were you thinking about that lucky old man touching you? Were you thinking about that man kissing you? What did that man look like? He wanted to be that man; he wanted to be the one whose touch you desired; he wanted to be that man you thought of as you sneaked your hand inside your underwear at night and brought yourself to pleasure. He wanted to be the one whose kiss you yearned for as your sex ached for attention; he wanted to be the one whose fingers you imagined as your own were buried deep inside you.

He fisted the flesh of his thigh over his dress pants and forced himself to stop thinking of you like that.

Dave stayed inside the confession box for twenty minutes more, praying for forgiveness, as he had done every night since you had been back.

At service, he saw you further back on the benches and he tried not to sneak glances at you as you sat there with your precious eyes on the crucifix above him, avoiding him at all costs.

And at communion, he tried not to brush your soft skin with his fingers as he fed you the wined wafer, failing when his knuckle brushed your cheek, his chest deflating when he noticed the way your face quirked in pain when you muttered Amen at him. Dave tried not to make anything of the fact that you kneeled more time than anyone else on the congregation after receiving the communion.

And when the service was over and he was alone in the sacristy, he tried and failed to not think about your skin, your eyes, your hands and your lips all over his neglected body.

That sunday night Father Dave masturbated in the shower thinking about you with your fingers deep inside you as his mind imagined it was him you thought of when you touched yourself in the darkness of the night and prayed for forgiveness.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you like that.

“Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul.”–1 Peter 2:11.

Sunday 3.

“Father, sh–shit,” you bit your lip to stop yourself from moaning as your pointer and middle fingers circled your wet clit under the covers of your bed, your legs spread open, the soft cotton of the sheets grazing softly at your inner thighs as you imagined your fingers being one of Father Dave’s, as you imagined him next to you, with his arm above your head as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear and nibbled at your neck while his other hand played your clit like a master pianist. You imagined the hardness of his erection pressing patiently on the skin of your hip, wetting it with pre-semen, making your body burn with the feeling of his warm naked body beside you.

As your other hand played with your nipple you imagined his eyes taking you in, you imagined his lips on your skin, were they soft? you bet they were, and you bet as well his hand would be surprisingly rough for a priest.

“Jesus, fu–fuck.” the knot inside your lower belly exploded with the thought of him and his hand and his body and his lips and his priesthood and you came with a silent scream that made your ears ring for a few seconds and your legs tremble on the bed.

As you hazed out, ready to fall asleep again before your alarm went off to go to work at the church, you felt that familiar guilt cripple inside you and settle in your chest, warming up and leaning against your heart.

Dave was panting, he fisted his hand as he leaned on the tiled wall of his shower and his other hand moved desperately on his cock. The water was still warm, and he closed his eyes shut as he imagined it was your hand on him, giving him the pleasure he was seeking, as he imagined you were behind him, your lips brushing against the wet skin of his back, your free hand around his chest, gliding softly at his skin, making him whimper with your touch.

It was so early for him to be so hot over you again; it wasn’t good for him to give into these desires he had and had been praying so hard and so much to get rid of.

He didn't want to keep doing it and he surely didn’t feel good after it, but his body ached for you, his chest turned every time he thought about you, every time he saw you around the church, he felt the deepest, hottest desire for you and your hands and your body and he just couldn’t help it.

His hand gripped and pumped as fast as he could and he came with a silent groan, opening his eyes as he finished milking every drop of his seed and watched it mix with the shower water and go down the drain. Along with the decency and morality that was left inside him.

You heard your name being said, and you turned around as you finished picking up your things from the small desk you used to teach the catechism; you saw Mrs. Vega, the church custodian, a small, old lady that had known you forever, walking towards you.

“I’m sorry dear, but I want to ask you for something.” she said when you smiled at her.

“Of course, Mrs. Vega, what is it?” you put your small book inside your bag and hung it from your shoulders.

“You see, the little twins that help Father Dave are sick today,” you frowned at the mention of Father’s Dave name but let out a sad sigh at her statement, “and they can’t come help with the service, you’re the youngest of the teachers, could you do it?”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise and felt your stomach churn inside you at the thought of standing next to the altar for a whole service.

“Me?” you asked, your voice in a high pitch as Mrs. Vega reached for your arm and tugged you to walk out of the chapel and into the navel of the church.

“Yes, dear, remember only the youngest get to do it.” she obviated, pulling you with her to the transept and up two steps to the sanctuarium “you only need to hand him the communion things and the holy water, I will prepare everything for you.”

“Why don’t you do it?” you asked in a whisper, not daring to take a step further closer to the altar. Mrs. Vega turned to look at you, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Since when are you shy, girl?” she asked with a teasing smile “I remember you singing in that kiddie choir we used to have and doing it terribly,” you chuckled at the memory and bit your lip “it’s only until the boys get that bug they got out of them.” she palmed your arm, and you breathed in deeply.

You looked up at the crucified Jesus above the altar and silently begged him for anticipated forgiveness.

Dave almost cursed when he saw you standing next to the altar as he walked across the navel.

The thought of who would replace Bobby and Chris on their altar duties didn’t even cross his mind as he was more worried about praying for the boys and sending them some sweets and pleading for the cleansing of his soul after the incident on his shower earlier that morning.

As he stepped up to the sanctuarium your eyes locked on his and he noticed you lips parting when he nodded his chin once at you, he noticed the way you swallowed as you nodded back and for a brief second, his imagination ran wild and made him believe you felt the same way as he did about you.

Even if it was the wrongest thing to think about.

It was like torture.

An hour of torture.

You got to see him kneel behind the altar and kiss the white pressed cloth softly as he stood, as you wanted and wished to be the altar’s cloth he pressed his plump lips on, he crossed himself and you mimicked his movements. And for a brief fraction of a second, as he opened his arms to the sky, you saw him looking at you out of the corner of his eye. And his eyes burned in your skin, they made you feel like your chest was aflame.

The communion time arrived, and he turned to you as you grabbed the chalice with the wine, his eyes locked with yours and you felt them weigh heavy on your body.

Dave couldn't concentrate, he felt on his side the way you were looking at him. It was heavily distracting for him to have you there, in his space, so close to him.

His hands brushed yours when he took the chalice from you and he stood there for less than a second, his fingers on yours. His soft touch and warm skin made your lips tremble with the emotion that touching him gave you. You felt a shiver go up and down your spine and the small hairs of your nape rose as his hands trapped yours.

You caught your lip between your teeth as he broke the contact and you knew he noticed; he looked at your lip as you bit it, and you blushed under his and God’s gaze.

You watched him and he felt you observing him as he prepared the wafers and wined them inside the chalice.

Your throat knotted when he lifted the cup to the sky and you felt your mouth dry as he brought the rim to his lip and his neck strained while he took a sip of the sacramental wine.

Because of the closeness you could see the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed the wine, you noticed a small drop of the crimson red liquid escape from his lips and the way he trapped it with his tongue settled deep inside your belly and leaked through your sex.

The pain of the greatest guilt you’ve ever felt in your short life appeared again and clawed its way inside your chest and to its now usual spot right next to your heart, you were struggling to keep your thoughts at bay; you were looking at Father Dave, right in front of you, doing what he dedicated his life to, and you were imagining him using his hands on your body instead of handling the instruments of the church.

Would he touch you like that? would he treat you with the same delicacy as he treated the body of Christ? would he caress you as softly as he did the chalice? would his mouth be warmed with your taste as it was by the wine he drank?

Dave turned to you and he saw you clutching your hands together, you walked towards him slowly, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you moved, almost as if air went through you, as if instead of giving steps your feet barely touched the floor because you were floating.

Everything slowed down, the music of the organ in the balcony, the prayers of the congregation, even the way he moved slowed down so he could focus on your face; on your sweet eyes, those that had brought into him the feeling of humanity, on your soft skin that had scorched his hand when he dared brushed his fingers on it, on your lips, those lips that he couldn’t pray out of his head.

He lifted his hand with the wined wafer, and even the way those holy lips of yours parted was slowed down.

Your eyes connected with his and Dave felt it in his body, deep inside his stomach, the temptation, the whispers of his mortal body as it reacted to your actions; he put the wafer between your lips delicately and pushed it inside your mouth, and then, as if by the grace of God in the heavens, you closed your mouth while he did it, and your lips wrapped softly around the pad of his finger as he pulled them away from you.

And just like that, the world started moving at its usual pace.

His skin tasted sweet. And you spent the rest of the service thinking about what other parts of him would taste like that.

Would his neck taste the same if you kissed it? would his chest feel like that if you nibbled on it? would his lips be that warm or would they be warmer?

Dave’s finger was burning.

He wanted to chop it off his hand just to stop feeling that flesh-eating guilt of enjoying your lips, your soft, warm lips around it, touching his skin, wetting it with the slick of your mouth.

After the service ended and Dave blessed the congregation, he saw you rush to the exit and he felt the sting of the guilt and the sadness. He wanted to talk to you and offer his apologies before you went home.

Sunday 4.

You weren’t there.

And Dave missed your eyes on him.

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.”–Romans 12:1.

Sunday 5.

As soon as you walked into the church you felt the eyes of all omnipresent beings on your body. As if the desire that burned deep inside your body left marks all over your skin, that could be visible for all those that looked carefully enough.

You heard your name behind you and jumped slightly, startled. You turned around and felt your blood fall to your feet.

“Father Dave,�� you muttered, more to help yourself acknowledge the fact that there he was, standing in front of you, out of habit, his white tab collar was the only piece of his attire that hinted the fact that he was a priest. You tried to control your body as you felt instantly that flame inside your chest beginning to spread.

“You weren’t here last week,” he said, hesitating to step closer to you “are you okay?”

You nodded a few times and bit your lip to stop it from trembling.

“Are you sure?” Father Dave asked, and you dropped your eyes to the floor and saw him give a couple of steps towards you, your breath hitched and your entire body began to shiver when you felt his hand on your arm “I’m sorry.” he whispered.

“What?” you looked up to see him and you could notice his pained quirk, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed and his lips… those lips you had spent all but two weeks imagining printing themselves and making marks on your skin, on a sad, downwards line.

“Can I please talk to you?” he said again in a whisper and you opened your mouth to reply, but only air came out, “please?”

His deep brown eyes were on yours and you felt your chest turn by the feeling of having him so close. You nodded, and he turned to the sides, as if he was making sure there was no one there, and guided you to the sacristy.

“What are you doing?” you asked, a bit altered when he opened the door and let you in first, followed you and closed the door behind him.

“I just needed to be alone with you for a minute,” he clarified, you let your eyes wander around the small space where he got ready every day for the services instead of letting them settle on him, because you knew being that close to him wouldn’t help your situation at all “I wanted to apologize.”

You frowned and looked at him. He had his back almost glued to the door and his hands together, his thumbs fidgeting with each other.

“Apologize for what?” you muttered, and he sighed.

“I’m–I make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry.”

Dave felt stupid telling you that, but it was his truth; he spent every free moment of his days when you weren’t near him thinking maybe it was because of him. It would make sense, that you didn’t want to be there because you didn’t like his closeness, that you didn’t want to be there because he was taking advantage of his position to steal glances and give furtive touches.

He understood, but you were an excellent woman, devoted and committed to the congregation, and he knew he needed to stop or you would leave and he would never see you again. And he couldn’t have that.

“You aren–you…” you babbled, and then the look he gave you made you lose your words.

His eyes were all over you. And you could feel them on your skin, how they took you in, how they navigated through your body and every inch of you was immediately on fire.

Then he looked at your face and you swore you could see in his brown eyes the deepest form of devotion there was. And your mouth was agape and your eyes filled with tears and suddenly he was in front of you and his hands were orbiting your face.

“Can I touch you?” he said, and you nodded.

He cupped your face, and you felt his warm, rough hands scorching your skin as you closed your eyes. His warmth started mixing with your own and you could feel him inside you already. It was as if everything you needed in life was already there.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” you whispered, closing your eyes as his fingers started caressing the skin of your face, tracing your features “I swear you don’t”

Dave let out a sigh when his thumb traced the edge of your lips and he so wanted to lean down and take them in his. There had been so long since he last kissed someone and he, for a split second, forgot everything about him and the only thought in his mind was you.

“I don’t?” he asked under his breath as a tear rolled down your cheek and he brushed it off with his knuckles, you shook your head and opened your eyes and he felt his heart fill with the purest love he had ever felt in his life “you swear?” you curled your lips up and nodded twice.

“Can I tell you something?” you muttered, looking up at him and losing yourself in the depths of his brown eyes.

“Always.”

You allowed your hands to slide to his shoulders and you let out a relieved sigh. They fit perfectly.

“Yo–you are…” he nodded his chin, his hands still cupping your face softly as his eyes studied your face, you let out a trembling sigh and grabbed as much courage as you had left within you “you are the man I’ve been thinking of all this time.”

Dave widened his eyes and the movements of his hands stopped, he looked at you, searching for any hint of mischief or lie, searching for something that could tell him you were lying, that you were playing with him. But there was none.

“That’s why I wasn’t here last week,” he heard you say as he felt his heart burn with the flames of his desire and love “I was embarrassed after what happened at the communion.”

You looked at him for a second, waiting for the rejection, waiting for him to tell you what you already know, that he can’t for you what you wanted him to be, that he can’t give you what you wanted as his duty was with God and not with the mortals, let alone with a woman.

Father Dave had resigned to the pleasures of the mundane world; you knew that, but you also knew he deserved to know, even if nothing would happen.

“Am I?” he asked you, bewildered after such confession, you nodded and moved your hands to cup his face, a gesture that made him close his eyes. You wondered when was the last time, if ever, he had been touched like that “we can’t” he replied, opening his eyes and leaning in to you.

You could feel his breathing mixing with yours as the implications of his words fell on you.

“We can’t” he repeated, pushing his forehead to yours as you trembled under his touch.

“You want to?” you asked him and Dave asked for guidance in his mind as you started crying and wetting his hands. He nodded, and you sobbed.

“I can’t” he whispered, and you shook your head as he looked at you pouring your feelings from your eyes.

“Kiss me.” you pleaded, looking into his brown, deep eyes. Making him frown.

“What?”

“If you’re not gonna give me anything, at least kiss me.”

His face quirked from confusion to pain in an instant, and you gripped the hold on his face.

“Please, Dave.”

Dave sighed at the way you whispered his name without calling him a father, and deep inside him he was grateful. With you he didn’t feel like a man of god, with you, letting him touch you and touching him back, he only felt like a man. Like the man he never got the chance to be.

“I–I” he started, and you shook your head. Dave looked into your eyes and all the air he had stored in his lungs left his body in a hurry, you were the most precious being he had ever seen, and for a second, he wanted nothing but to make worth the fact he had you in his hands “shit.” he said under his breath.

Dave brought your face up to him and printed his lips on yours, stealing the little air and the close to no coherence you still had in you. You let out a soft moan out of the surprise and out of the feeling of your entire body warming up to his temperature.

His lips were as soft and as wars and better than you had imagined, they were a bit dry and hesitant on yours, but the contact of them with yours made you feel like you were floating away from the realm of the living.

Dave didn’t want to stop kissing you. He didn’t remember the last time he had kissed a woman, and in that moment he wasn’t kissing any woman he was kissing you; the precious being that had been in his mind for weeks and that had never left.

Unsure of his movements, he let you take control of the contact and soon enough you were sliding the tip of your tongue along the seam of his lips, Dave let out a surprised grunt and opened his mouth slightly of you, and you took his lower lip with your mouth. And he let you kiss him all you wanted, enjoying the contact of your slow, wet, warm lips on his less experienced ones until he was sure his lungs were screaming from the lack of air.

When he broke the kiss, he left a small one on your forehead and pressed his lips there and you closed your eyes to feel him settle inside you

“I’m sorry.” you whispered to his neck. And he nodded slightly.

“Me too.”

“But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”–Matthew 5:28.

Sunday 6.

Your knuckles grazed softly with the sacristy door and you heard the muffled noise of the latch and the door opened.

“Hi,” you smiled and Dave looked at you up and down “got your text.”

“Come in.” he motioned his hand for you to hurry and you turned your head to both sides and walked into the sacristy, closed the door behind you and slid the latch.

Immediately after the door was locked, you felt his hands on your waist and his chin on your shoulder.

“This is why you texted me?” you teased and he moved to let a kiss on your jaw.

“I missed you.” he muttered and turned your body around for you to face him.

“You didn’t.” you smiled at him and wrapped your hands around his neck, grateful for the apparently deliberate choice of him to take off his tab collar.

“Yes, I did, I missed you all day.” Dave leaned towards you and took your lips in his, already knowing, after less than a week’s practice, how you loved being kissed.

His lips were as warm as they always were, his tongue barely present if not just to taste the sweetness of your lipstick, his hands always steady on your waist, and at the end, his forehead on yours, just taking in your breaths with his.

“Mass starts soon.” you said, and he nodded, sliding his hands to your middle back to wrap you closer to him.

“I know.” he left another brief kiss on your lips.

“You gotta get dressed.” you murmured against his lips.

“I know.” he muttered back and kissed you again.

“Want me to help?” you asked under your breath, just for him, as if you saying it as low as you could would stop God from listening.

“Yes, I would love that.” Dave replied and gave into another deep kiss that stole both your breath and made you want to stop the time so you could kiss until your lips fused together.

“C’mon you need to get ready.” you broke the kiss and stepped away from him, making him smile. You wandered around the sacristy and found his tab collar. You sighed and took it in your hands.

Dave looked at you and noticed the way you looked at the soft plastic piece, he walked towards you and raised his hand to grab yours. As you felt his hand on yours; you turned your head to look at him and smiled softly, and you moved your hands, raising them to carefully lift the collar of his shirt and clasp the piece around his neck.

“You okay?” he asked in a whisper, you nodded and bit your lip at the sight of him in front of you.

Dave moved and walked to the small table against a wall with a large bowl of water and you gazed at him as he washed his hands and whispered a few words. You leaned onto the wall just looking at him go to a small cabinet near the opposite corner and took a white, folded linen garment, which he unfolded and you recognized as the long robe he used under all his attire.

He slid it off and whispered another prayer again as he let it fall and graze his ankles. His eyes went to you and you smiled at him, he next grabbed a green square that you also recognized and you walked to him and took it out of his hands.

“Let me do it” you whispered, and he nodded, you unfolded the long stripe that was the stole and found its middle, Dave crouched a bit to help you and you let it fall around his neck over his shoulders.

“Return to me the stole of immortality,” he whispered, looking at your eyes, your throat dried at the deepness of his voice “which I have lost in the sin of my first parent and although I, unworthy,” he continued and took your hand in his “approach thy sacred mystery grant to me everlasting joy.”

You gripped his hands and felt your throat knotting around itself.

“Why are you praying to me?” you asked under your breath. He cupped your chin with one hand and brought you close to his face.

“You’re holy.” he whispered and left a soft kiss on your lips.

“Stop it.” you chastised him and he shook his head, giving you a soft smile that you reciprocated immediately.

You turned to the table and saw a long, golden cord and you took it.

“Not that one.” he muttered, and you frowned.

“Why not?” you saw him taking a deep breath as he took it from your hand and left it back on the table.

“The cincture… it means chastity and continence.” he replied under his breath and you let out all the air of your lungs as he took his chasuble and put it on without looking at you.

“Dave.” you called, and he lifted a hand to you as he said the last prayer. When he finished, he looked at you and as if he read your mind, he smiled at you and shook his head.

“Don’t,” he whispered, taking you again in his hands and pulling softly so your head rested on his shoulders “don’t apologize please.”

“I need to,” you mumbled against the light fabric of the green chasuble “I’m keeping you from your vow.”

Dave grabbed your shoulders and pulled you away from his body, his hands slid to your face and you gripped his wrists as he brought your face to his.

“You’re not doing anything, my love,” he muttered the last words directly on your lips as he stole a few kisses from your trembling mouth “you’re perfect,” he panted out and you shook your head “I’m doing this because I want to, please understand it,” he kissed you again, a bit more desperately “you’re the most divine creation I’ve ever laid my eyes and hands upon,” he whispered rapidly on your lips “and I want you to be mine.”

You gasped as the words left his mouth, and he gazed at you.

“Dave...” you started, but he didn’t let you finish, he wrapped his arms around you and brought your body to his, tightening the embrace as he thought of the implications of what he just asked.

Dave lifted his eyes to the ceiling and for the first time in years, with you slowly wrapping your arms around his waist, exactly over the place the cincture was supposed to go around, and the sweet aroma of your perfume inundating his senses, he felt really close to heaven.

“I want you to be mine too.” you whispered into his ear, and he smiled, leaving a kiss on top of your head.

“How beautiful and pleasant you are, O loved one, with all your delights!”–Song of Solomon 7:6.

Sunday 7.

You stirred on your seat again, the organ was playing the latest song before Dave would bless the congregation and wrap up the service and you were nervous.

You glanced at the crucified Jesus above him and you felt his eyes on yours; you felt him shove his holy hand on your chest and as the last notes of the song inundated the navel, you felt your throat sting with the green tint of your deep guilt, but at the same time, the rest of your body drown with the red warmth of your love and desire for Dave.

Is it worth it? you heard inside your head and your immediate response was yes.

Eternal damnation in exchange for a few hours of love. It was condemnedly worth it.

The service was over and you stood up with the rest of the congregation; you talked with a few people on your way out of the church and slowly and patiently you waited for everyone to disperse.

You walked around the gardens outside the church and slid between the gate that marked the beginning of Dave’s small house inside the church grounds. You rummaged around your small bag and pulled out the key he had given you earlier and with nervousness and the familiar guilt settled next to your heart; you let yourself into his house.

You turned on the lights. The space wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small and everything around smelled like him. For a priest’s home, the place lacked religious imagery, and you automatically chastised yourself for thinking about his priesthood again.

You sat on the loveseat next to the door as you waited for him and got dragged inside your head again; you talked about doing that throughout the week and you had agreed it was something you both wanted. But your head sent you through an unwanted train of thought and you sat there, thinking about the future. Something you hadn’t talked about.

After all, he would still be a priest and you would still be a young member of his congregation. You could spend time with him and let you love him and let him love you as much as you two wanted, but in the future… what else was there for you?

You could never ask him to leave his habit for you, you could never ask him to leave his life for you, you could never do something like that to him. But you were unsure if something like that had any other path but failure.

The door opened and there he was, unclasping his tab collar and dropping it on the end table as you rose from your seat and walked to him. He smiled at you and his hands found his place on your waist.

“You’re here.” he said, not surprised but relieved.

As he took off his attire in the sacristy and walked to his house from the church, he had a few minutes to think about what he was about to do. He didn’t allow himself to overthink it because if there was something he knew was that he wanted it; he wanted it more than he had wanted anything in his life. He couldn’t explain it even if he tried, but he knew there was something about you that made him feel human, there was something about you that made him feel like he belonged somewhere, maybe the way you talked to him, maybe the way you kissed him, maybe the way you always seemed to understand the moral and spiritual dilemma he was in. He didn’t know, but he knew that he loved you, even if he wasn’t supposed to, even when he wasn’t allowed.

And as he thought of it, love was one of the laws of the God he represented, and he felt it deeply.

“I’m here.” he pulled you to him as you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded.

“Thank you.” you closed your eyes and bit your lip, shaking your head at him.

You felt his lips on yours as they re-discovered your kisses and his hands roamed to your middle back to press your chest to his.

You were amazed by how fast he had learned how you liked to be touched, how you liked to be kissed and caressed, as if he was just trying to commit to memory everything you ever wanted and he wanted to do it to you to please you.

Dave slid his hands from your back down to your hips and moved you softly to the side, without breaking the kiss he snaked his hands to the back of your thighs and lifted you. You smiled in his mouth and wrapped your legs around his waist as he walked to his bedroom.

When you crossed the doorframe you started leaving small kisses on the skin of his neck and he sat on the edge of his bed with you in his lap, you were already feeling the hardness growing inside his pants and his hands started grazing up and down your thighs as he let you taste his neck how you best pleased.

Dave was in a haze. He understood then the power of physical touch combined with deep love; it enhanced the sensations, the flame inside his chest was burning him from the inside out with a deep desire he was sure he had never felt before, and you were there, moving slowly on his lap as you devoured the skin of his neck and kissed slowly around his jaw.

“Dave,” you whispered as you licked his earlobe and pulled out a shiver from him, he hummed in question “touch me.”

He didn’t hesitate on questioning where, his hands roamed all around your body, they were big and warm and they were rough; you cupped his jaw with both hands and took his lips in yours with a wet, open-mouthed kiss that he followed as his hands snuck inside your shirt and you moaned softly at the feeling of skin to skin.

You moved out of his lap and stood up in front of him, Dave let out a soft whine at the sudden loss of your weight on his body but stopped when you moved his legs open and stood between them.

“Take off my shirt, please.” you told him, not in an order but he obeyed, he grabbed the hem of it and lifted it, you raised your arms and felt his lips on your rib side as you finished taking it off and dropped it on the floor behind you.

Dave put his hands around your torso and licked your skin experimentally, which made you gasp at the feeling of his wet tongue against your skin and he smiled to himself, doing it again and nibbling on the same spot softly.

His hands slid to your waist and without being told to he unbuttoned your jeans and dragged them down slowly, his eyes directly on yours. You smiled at him with your reddened, kiss-swollen lips and he felt your smile settling inside his lower belly, his cock twitching inside his pants.

You put your hands on his shoulders as he helped you out of your shoes and jeans and when you were there, standing in front of him only in your underwear, he swore there wasn’t anything more divine than your body.

You sank on your knees and your hands landed on his thighs, Dave’s throat clutched and his chest turned as you smiled at him and your hands slid to his belt, you raised your eyebrows as if asking for permission and he nodded a few times, leaning backward into his hands to give you space for you to do whatever you wanted to him.

You unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, his breath hitched when your fingers hooked to the hem of both his pants and his boxers, and then he lifted his hips for you to pull them off him. Dave smiled when he saw you bite your lip at the sight of his hard cock resting on his abdomen. It did something unexpected on what he thought was his dead ego, but he loved the way you looked at it.

“Take off your shirt.” you said and again, without it being an order, he obeyed. Unbuttoned it as quickly as he could and slid it off his shoulders as you leaned over his lap and took his erection on your hand, your thumb grazing softly the tip and he threw his head back between his shoulders.

“Oh, my love.” he sighed out as you started pumping slowly and when he closed his eyes, you licked the underside and wrapped your lips around the tip, making him gasp.

You took it slowly, enjoying the taste of his pre-cum as it came out of him, pumping the rest you couldn’t fit inside your mouth with your hand.

Dave forced his eyes open and moved his head down to watch you, he shivered when he found you already looking at him; he moved his hand to your face and with his knuckles caressed your cheek, making you smile with his cock inside your mouth.

For him, looking at you on your knees between his legs was like looking at a sacrosanct painting; your lips around him taking as much of his length as you could, your saliva dripping from his dick to your hand, bobbing your head up and down as your eyes, those holy eyes that never left his, it was a pleasure he never thought he would get in his earthly life.

He felt himself close to cumming, and he pushed your head softly upwards, you rose from your knees and clashed your messy lips onto his and he wrapped his arms around your waist, his large hands roaming around the skin of your back. His fingers played with the back of your bra and he broke the kiss for a few seconds to unhook it and help you slide it off, you smiled when he sighed at the sight of your breasts in front of his face and he pulled you flush against his head, taking a nipple in his mouth.

The warmth of his mouth and the wetness of his tongue around the soft skin of your nipple made you cry out his name softly and arousal gathered between your legs. One of his hands rested on your other boob and kneaded delicately as you fisted his hair in your hand. Dave moved his mouth to your other nipple and lapped at it before trapping it inside his mouth, you pressed his head to your chest and let out a moan when his teeth grazed your nipple as he released it.

“I wanna taste you.” he muttered against your boob and you smiled at him, nodding.

He moved you softly to lie down on the bed; the sheets were cool and soft and he stood on the edge, taking you in again, studying your body.

He leaned down to you and you opened your legs to make space for him; he hovered over your body and kissed you again, softly, as if you were back in time to the first kiss he gave you in the sacristy, as if he wasn’t about to devour your body.

His kisses traveled from your mouth to your neck and your chest, he left one in each nipple, making you laugh, he left a trail of them over your belly and one over your belly button. As he kissed your abdomen and your thighs, you looked at the ceiling and you smiled at whoever was watching.

Dave took the hem of your panties on his fingers and you lifted your hips for him to slip them off you, you lifted your legs and he unhooked them from your ankles, grabbing your calves and opening your legs again. He gulped when he saw your wet, expectant pussy right in front of him and looked at your flushed face. He leaned down and left kisses around your thighs without breaking eye contact.

“Guide me.” he whispered and left a kiss right over the hood of your clit, making you moan.

You nodded once, and he looked at your pussy, opened the lips gently with his fingers and blew on your slick folds, making you shiver. He flattened his tongue and licked from your slit to your clit, tasting your arousal, moaning at the richness of it.

You slid your hand to your clit and looked at him.

“Here.” you mumbled, circling a few times to show him how. He had told you he had sex before his ordination, because he didn’t want to go into his holy orders without having experienced it and wondering for the rest of his life what he had missed, but he said it wasn’t as good as he thought it would be and before you, he thought he would never know. So you had to show him what you wanted and what you liked because his experience wasn’t vast.

Dave did as you showed and you moaned out loud, the pads of his fingers were warmer and bigger than yours and he was handling you so delicately you were already on edge.

He kept licking and circling your clit and then, without a second thought, he moved his fingers away and started circling your clit with his tongue.

“Oh m–my god,” you fisted his hair, pushing his face into your pussy and he pressed your hips onto the mattress, looking at your face with your mouth opened in pleasure and your eyes closed shut “Dave ke–keep doing that baby,” you pleaded and he did it, and started playing the pad of one of his fingers on your slit, making your hips buck slightly he saw you pant and smiled when you slid your free hand to play with your nipple so he added a second one to play with your entrance “inside, put them inside.” you said under your breath and he pushed his fingers slowly inside your cunt, making you let out a long moan of his name, he started pumping and curling his fingers inside as he had imagined you doing it all those weeks ago while touching himself in the shower and closed his eyes to hear you moan his name as he brought you closer and closer to pleasure.

He moved his fingers faster inside of you and hand fisted and pulled his hair as your moans became tamed screams and he thought of them as the most pious symphony that he and only him had the sacred pleasure to hear.

You wrapped a leg around his shoulders as you felt the knot inside your belly explode from his ministrations and you chanted his name over and over as he worked you through your orgasm. You panted for a few seconds and opened your eyes to the sight of Dave licking his fingers clean. You smiled at him and released his hair to motion him to come to you; he hovered over your body again and you put your hand on his nape to bring him to you; you moaned softly at your own taste and you felt it smile on your lips.

“What?” you asked in a whisper.

“Did you like it?” he asked back on your lips, you nodded and cupped his clean-shaven jaw, leaving a deep kiss on his lips.

“I loved it,” he smiled, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and felt his cock brushing lightly against your folds. “make love to me, Dave.”

You saw his smile widen, and it was his turn to nod to you, he kissed you again while his hand worked on aligning himself to you; he slid the tip through your folds and you gasped on his mouth when he found your entrance and started pushing in.

He did it slowly, no rush; he wanted to feel you in every inch of his cock; he wanted you to feel him and every ridge and vein of him as he found his home in you.

You nipped at his lip as he bottomed up and smiled when he stayed there, inside you, enjoying the wait for your body to acclimate to his, you looked into his eyes and you felt it.

You felt how you two fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

As if his body was made for you and your body was made for him.

It felt right.

It felt sacred.

Dave started moving at a calmed pace and you with him, quickly finding a rhythm where your hips moved almost in unison and he thrusted into you deeply every time he moved. He was supporting his weight on one arm next to you while the other gripped your hip and helped you with the tantalizing dance you both were having.

He hid his face in the crook of your neck when your hands moved to his back and you pulled his body down to yours, his chest gliding yours and his hips circling as he thrusted faster into you.

Dave moaned into your neck when you scratched his back as his thrusts became pounds.

“Harder, please, baby, harder.” you whispered into his ear and he listened, driving into you as fast as his body allowed, the noise of his skin clashing with yours and the wetness of you leaking around his cock flooded the room and his moans grew louder and you dug your nails into his skin chanting his name as you got closer and closer to your second release.

“Yo–you’re a goddess,” he muttered into the skin of your neck as his cock grazed your cervix, his hand wrapped around your hips and he lifted your ass for him to thrust deeper, making you moan his name loudly “you’re m–my go–goddess.”

You slid your hands to his ass and fisted his buttcheeks, pushing him further into you.

Dave felt his orgasm closer and closer every time he drove into you and your warm walls started to clench around him with the closeness of your orgasm, he nibbled the skin of your neck and clutched his eyes shut tighter when his body started to stiffen as he pounded into you; he muttered your name a few times like a prayer he never knew he needed to make, and it sounded right, your name in his voice as he drove himself and you to climax, his own name on your sweet voice as you begged him for everything he had in himself, it was all right, it was all correct, there was nothing wrong, how could he had felt so guilty about it when it was the most perfect, most righteous, most sacred, most heavenly action he could do.

You in his arms, your hands on his body, his cock inside your cunt, you wrapped around him begging him to cum inside you, everything about it was all he could have asked for to feel like he was in heaven. He had almost said no to feel it, and he bursted inside you at the same time as you broke in pieces around him, thinking that he would rather live his life with you around him than his afterlife in heaven.

“I love you.” he muttered against the skin of your neck and you opened your eyes after riding the high of your orgasm and looked at the ceiling.

You frowned when you heard his words and when you remembered what he said to you before he came, and as you turned to the side to see him that red warmth you had felt earlier disappeared almost completely and the bright green taint of the deep guilt inside you washed over your body and your soul.

He looked at you and narrowed his eyes. His expression changed as he realized you weren’t going to answer his confession.

“Dave,” you whispered and his face changed, his brow furrowed and you saw his jaw tighten “what did we just do?”

pedrito's perma list: @queenofthefaceless @northernpunk @pascalesque @sleep-tight1 @cheekygeek05 @bii-aan-ckaa @letaliabane @starlightmornings @mouthymandalorianalso @supernaturalgirl @metalarmsandmanbuns @purplepascal042 @asta-lily @greeneyedblondie44 @missswriter @pedro-pastel

Dave York pit neighbors: @pascalslittlebrat @mypedrom @mothandpidgeon @rebelliouscat @hnt-escape @maharani-radha @hylliamoon

#dave york #dave york fanfiction #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york pit #dave york the equalizer #the equalizer #the equalizer 2 #the equalizer fanfic #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #Jose Pedro Balmaceda Pascal #pedro pascal characters #priest dave york

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fanfic-chan · 3 years

Note

Ooh how about;

“Kid, stop being so hard on yourself, you did great out there!”

With Ler Fatgum and Lee Tamaki? 🥺💕

Ahhh! I loved this prompt so much! I'm really sorry it took so long to finish, but this one gave me the perfect opportunity to bring up the importance of setting boundaries as well as talk about the struggle of insecurities, which I relate to a lot sometimes, and I wanted to make it as perfect as possible. Anyways, I really hope you like it!^^

Cheer Up Suneater!

Ler: Dadgum

Lee: Amajiki

"Kid, stop being so hard on yourself, you did great out there!"

Taishiro sighed in fond exasperation when the teen just shrugged in response, shoulders hunched and face hidden beneath the hood of his costume.

The two of them had just made their way back to the agency after patrol after he and his shy intern had stopped a small group of villains from robbing a local convenience store. Tamaki had managed to capture two of the thugs all by himself while Fatgum had been busy with the leader, but one of them had managed to escape him, and the boy had been beating himself up over it ever since, even though the criminal had been recaptured again only fifteen minutes later anyway. He'd been trying to cheer the kid up ever since with little luck so far.

"Come on kiddo, I'm serious! It could have happened to anyone, and no one got hurt, so it's fine alright? You did your best and in the end that's all that matters. You still caught one of them, so give yourself some credit, okay?" He insisted, poking him in the side for emphasis when he didn't get a response.

"Eheheep! O-Okay!" The boy squeeked out, jolting a little. The BMI hero paused for a moment before grinning mischievously, an idea suddenly popping into his mind of how he could convince the kid to listen to him and get him to cheer up at the same time. "Tamaki? What was that?" He asked, almost casually, but with a slight undertone of playfulness that he knew the kid would pick up on.

Tamaki froze at his mentor's change in tone, hood slipping down to his shoulders as he whipped his head around to face him. Oh no. He knew that tone. "Uh, um, n-nohohothing?" He tried, taking a cautious step backwards, a wobbly nervous grin already beginning to take form on his face.

"Are you suuure~?" The pro continued his act, tapping his chin as if in deep thought, "Because it certainly didn't sound like nothing. In fact, I think that might have been a laugh, so tell me Suneater, what's so funny?" He asked, feigning ignorance even as he slowly brought his hands up to form two claws. Tamaki took this as his signal to run, and immediately booked it in the opposite direction of the hallway, his mentor in hot pursuit.

See, every so often, whenever he got into one of his 'moods' as Fatgum liked to call them, sometimes they would end up playing some sort of game together to help him out of his funk. One of these games was a slightly altered version of tag that Fatgum had come up with when they were discussing ways to help him with his anxiety. At the time, Tamaki had bashfully admitted that tickling was one the things he found to be affective, and that Mirio had started the technique back when they were little kids, so, after a long talk about boundaries and setting up safewords, tickle tag was born. It was pretty much just normal tag really, the only real difference being that instead of being made the dreaded 'It' when Fat eventually caught him, instead he would-

"AIEEEEHEHE! W-Wait! Fat! Nohoho!" He cried out in surprise when he was suddenly scooped up around his middle and held against the man's chest, already giggling in anticipation of what he knew to be the inevitable.

"Gotcha kiddo!" Taishiro stated triumphantly, unable to suppress a few of his own chuckles at the kid's frankly adorable attempts to curl into a ball. "Now, you still haven't answered my question, so tell me. What's. So. Funny?" With each word, he poked the kid lightly in the stomach, delighted in the joyful squeal that his usually quiet intern let out when he did so, and the young hero immediately started scrambling for an answer, stuttering perfusely and clearly flustered.

"You're gonna tic- t-tic-"

Now, Tamaki would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy this. He did. After all, being tickled was one of the few things that worked when it came to overriding his often crippling self depreciation spells. He knew that, Fat knew that, and he knew that Fat knew that. He also knew that he trusted his mentor to respect his boundaries, he wouldn't have told him about the technique in the first place if he didn't.

Even so, it didn't make it any less embarrassing when he was giggling like a little kid in his mentor's arms from something so childish, which is why he was currently struggling so much to spit it out already. But Fat was patient with him, as always, and eventually he did manage to answer, albeit very quietly.

"You're gonna… t-tickle me.."

"Hmm? What was that last part now? Speak up please Tamaki! I'm gonna what?"

Oh for the love of-

"TICKLE ME!"

"Oh! You want me to tickle you? Well ok then! If that's what you want!"

"What?! No wait! Fat! T-that's not what I- pfftahahaha! Eeep! Oh nohohohohoho!" Tamaki immediately burst into frantic giggles when the hero finally stopped teasing him and started to tickle him for real, skittering his fingertips up and down his sides lightly but effectively, while simultaneously keeping him in place by encompassing him in a firm yet gentle hug. The technique seemed to be working pretty well, and it didn't take long at all for the young hero to break.

"AHAhahahahah! Plehehease! STAHAHA- Stohohop it!" He begged frantically despite knowing it was pointless. He knew what he had to do to make him stop. The deal was that instead of using a codeword like 'red' or something similar to signal that he was really done, instead he had to say something nice about himself. Every. Single. Time. He hated it, but that was the agreement they'd come up with, and he had to admit it was pretty affective for the most part. He always came out of these little cheer up sessions feeling just a bit more positive about himself than before. He didn't admit this though, obviously.

"OKAY! OKAHAHAY! I- Ihihi dihihid a goohood johohob!! I dihihihid! YOUHOU'RE RIGHT! I WAS WROHOHONG! NOW PLEHEHEASE!!" He relented after a few more minutes, gulping in mouthfuls of sweet, sweet oxygen as it all came to a stop, just like that.

"You good kiddo?" He heard Fatgum ask from behind him, arms still wrapped around his waist while he calmed down just to make sure he wouldn't collapse to the floor while he recovered. Tamaki nodded through his excess giggles, feeling much better now even though his face hurt from laughing and the embarrassing realization that he was no doubt blushing bright red. He pulled his hood back over his head at the thought, and his mentor chuckled as he carefully set him back on his feet.

"Alright alright! Let's go get something to eat and drink now yeah? I'm sure you're probably hungry after all that. And no more saying mean things to yourself, or else. Sound good?"

"Hehe, y-yeah. Sounds good."

His mentor really was the best.

#ler!fatgum #lee!amajiki #dadgum #platonic #sfw tickles #bnha+tickling #sfw

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morganaspendragonss · 3 years

Note

Hello, fic request coming through if you are still doing them! Okay, Carlos has not been feeling well so he stays in and doesn't go to his shift. TK still has his shift, so he wants to stay with Carlos to keep an eye on him but Carlos says he is fine. TK is uneasy at work just wants to go back home, he calls Carlos but he is not answering. Tommy says TK can go check up on Carlos, while he is at home, he finds Carlos in bed and when he goes closer, Carlos is not breathing. Paramedic!TK coming through. Super angst ensues but Carlos makes it in the end after some time in a coma.

holly's august extravaganza day 25: heaving through corrupted lungs

thank you for the prompt!

thanks also to @noxsoulmate for the beta! 💚

ao3 | 2.9k | major character illness, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, brief references to past, canonical character death

“Strand, I know we’re not on a call right now, but you could at least pretend to be focused.”

TK flushes as Tommy’s somewhat less-than amused voice reaches him from the back of the ambulance. He hurriedly locks his phone and shoves it in the glove compartment, though not before checking every messaging app he has for word from Carlos.

There’s none, of course, just like it’s been all day. Logically, he knows Carlos is probably sleeping—god knows he needs it—but that isn’t going to stop him from worrying, or from sending check-up texts every ten minutes. It does, however, stop Carlos from answering, which isn’t very conducive to TK’s ability to concentrate on work today.

“Sorry, Cap,” he says. “It’s just—”

“Carlos is sick and you’re being paranoid, as usual,” Nancy chimes in, audibly rolling her eyes from the driver’s seat. “Look, dude, if he said he’s fine, then he’s probably fine.”

“Well, I’m the paramedic in the relationship, and I say he’s not fine.” TK sighs and forces himself to resist the urge to pull out his phone again. “Carlos likes to lecture me about hiding injuries, but he’s exactly the same when he’s ill; he could be on death’s door and still saying he’s okay. But he hasn’t said anything today, so I’m worried.”

“You’re always worried about him.”

“Welcome to relationships,” Tommy comments. “Seriously though, TK, are you going to be okay to finish this shift? There’s still ten hours to go and we cannot afford for you to be distracted out there.”

TK doesn’t answer right away; on one hand, he’s itching to go home and check on Carlos, to make sure he’s still breathing and actually resting like he’s supposed to be. On the other hand, Carlos would probably kill him if he left work, illness be damned. It’s just… Carlos had looked so ill that morning, skin ashen and voice all but gone, and it had taken a lot of convincing for TK to still go to his own shift. He’d insisted on making sure Carlos had all the blankets and water and snacks and anything else he could possibly want, but even so, he’s still uneasy.

His gut is telling him that something’s wrong, and TK doesn’t think he can ignore it for much longer.

He’s staring out the window, considering his options, when he realises that he knows these streets. Like, actually knows them. They’re right around the corner from his and Carlos’s home, and an idea strikes TK like a lightning bolt.

“Hey, Cap?” he asks, twisting around in his seat to look at her. “How about we take a lunch break now instead of driving all the way back to the station? There’s a great place nearby, and it’s less likely that we’ll be interrupted by a call before we get food.”

Tommy eyes him suspiciously, clearly not buying his innocent act. “What are you talking about, TK?”

“Mine and Carlos’s place is literally two streets away; we could drop by and I could check in on him and make sure he’s okay. Plus,” he continues, already spotting the argument on Tommy’s face, “I’m not lying about the food. Carlos cooks in bulk, so we’ve got loads of leftover casserole in the freezer.”

Tommy pauses, indecision clear in her expression. She narrows her eyes at TK, scrutinising him. “Will this mean you’ll stop being so distracted?”

“Absolutely.”

“Alright.” She sighs and nods, and Nancy switches directions to head towards their home. “I’m holding you to that, Strand.”

TK spends the entire drive, short as it is, drumming his fingers on his knees and trying to keep the ever-growing panic at bay. Carlos is going to be fine.

He has to be.

He jumps out the ambulance before Nancy’s even fully stopped it, cursing himself as he fumbles with his keys. Tommy pats his shoulder soothingly; it doesn’t really calm him down, but TK appreciates the effort and her unconditional support. When he gets inside, he simply waves a hand in the general direction of the freezer, hoping Tommy and Nancy get the message, and barrels upstairs, Carlos’s name bursting from his lips.

“Carlos, babe, you here?” It’s a stupid question; TK had seen the Camaro in the driveway and Carlos is far too ill to want to walk anywhere—or so TK hopes—so he has to be home. But the silence draws out, and TK’s heart is pounding a mile a minute by the time he reaches the door to their bedroom.

“Carlos?” He pushes open the door, sighing in relief when he sees his fiancé sprawled across the bed, dead to the world. It’s a little weird that he hasn’t woken up yet given how loud TK was shouting, but it’s probably just because his body needs the rest. TK would bet that the apocalypse could happen outside the window and Carlos wouldn’t so much as stir.

He tip-toes towards the bed, a soft smile spreading across his lips as anxiety gives way to fondness and love. It’s not until he’s within touching distance of Carlos that he registers just how still he is; just how silent the room is.

This morning, Carlos’s breathing was loud and harsh, punctuated with periodic sniffs and coughs.

Now, he’s not making a sound.

And, as TK drops to his knees and bends over his fiancé’s body, he realises that his chest isn’t moving.

Carlos isn’t breathing.

The panic is back in full force as TK frantically presses his fingers to Carlos’s pulse point, praying for something—a flutter, anything—to indicate that Carlos isn’t… That he’s not…

There’s nothing.

Instinct takes over, TK linking his hands on Carlos’s chest and starting compressions even as his vision blurs with tears and he chokes on the sobs building in his throat.

“Cap!” he yells, not taking his eyes off Carlos. “Cap, up here!”

A minute later, Tommy and Nancy burst into the room, both halting in shock for a moment before jumping into action. Nancy moves to the other side of the bed, already pulling out the ambu bag, while Tommy comes to stand by TK.

“What do we have?” she asks, professional as ever, though there’s a clear worried undertone to her voice.

“No pulse, no respiration,” he manages, voice thick. “Skin is warm to the touch. No clear cause, but patient was congested and moderately feverish during the past few days.”

Tommy nods and gently pushes at TK’s shoulder. “Alright, you did good, TK, but you should let us take over now,” she says gently. “Come on, Nancy and I can handle this.”

TK ignores her, continuing compressions with renewed force. “I have to help him, Cap. I have to.”

“And you have, but now—”

“No!” Later, TK will be ashamed of the way he lost control like that, and he’ll have to apologise to Tommy, but the only thing he can really, truly focus on now is Carlos. He keeps pushing, feeling Carlos’s ribs give under his hands, and forces himself to keep going even though his stomach turns at the idea of causing him any pain. “Come on, baby,” he mutters. “Come on, Carlos, please.”

Time is running out; TK can tell by the way the silence is starting to feel heavier and heavier, by the looks he knows Tommy and Nancy must be exchanging over his head. Carlos’s time is running out, and TK is staring down a future he doesn’t know he can survive, and—

“I have a pulse!” Nancy shouts, and the words don’t register in TK’s head until Tommy’s hands are forcibly pulling him back and Carlos’s chest is moving and his eyelids start to flutter.

Tommy slides into the space left by TK, practiced hands checking Carlos’s vitals. “Carlos, can you hear me?”

She gets no response save for a weak groan, then Carlos’s body goes slack again and his head lolls limply on the pillow. TK takes a panicked step forward, but he’s just as quickly pushed back as Tommy secures an oxygen mask over Carlos’s face.

“Nancy, get the backboard and the gurney ready. Heart rate is arrhythmic and respiration is laboured; radio Austin Memorial and get their cardiac unit on standby.”

Nancy dashes out of the bedroom, and Tommy grabs her own radio. “Dispatch, this is RA 126 responding to a cardiac event at 2204 Allred Drive. Patient is unconscious and breathing, however at the time of arrival, he was in cardiac arrest. Duration unknown.”

“Copy that, RA 126.”

Nancy arrives with the backboard, and TK feels like an invisible observer as he watches his two teammates work. He’s stuck, barely breathing, as he watches Carlos struggle and fight for his life; he doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he dies, here and now.

TK moves as if in a nightmare as they get Carlos down the stairs and into the ambulance, eyes constantly locked on his fiancé. He thinks Tommy might say something to him, but he doesn’t hear it and he doesn’t bother to ask—terrible as it is to admit, he doesn’t care right now. He can’t care; there’s no more room inside him for anything else but Carlos.

He wraps a hand around Carlos’s wrist, two fingers resting on his pulse point, and prays that he’ll never have to feel that absence again.

Tommy sits beside him in the waiting room, a silent show of support while they wait for news on Carlos. Or until they catch another call; whichever comes first. Nancy is…somewhere. TK thinks she might have gone to grab some coffee or a snack, but he honestly has no idea. He’s kind of lost track of things, the hospital’s plain white walls turning time into water as they wait, and wait, and wait.

“I know how you feel, you know,” Tommy says, unprompted. “The night that Charles died, I… I spent so long blaming myself. I wasn’t there, you know? And I just kept thinking that if I had been there, if I hadn’t stayed out at Grace and Judd’s, then I might have been able to do something to save him.” She levels him with a firm, yet motherly look, and TK drops his gaze to the floor. “I know now that there was nothing. It kills me to admit it, but what happened would have happened either way, and it’s the same here. Carlos is young, healthy—there was no reason to suspect anything might happen. Certainly nothing like this. You did everything that you could, TK, and you have to hold onto that, no matter what the outcome.”

TK squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, giving up on keeping the tears at bay. Tommy reaches out to wrap one arm around him, but he jerks away, curling in on himself. “It’s not the same,” he whispers, voice thick. “It’s not— I knew, Cap. I knew he was ill and I still left him.”

“You said you guys thought it was just a bad cold.”

“No, I knew. I’m a paramedic, how could I have missed this?”

“These things happen, TK,” she says softly. “It’s cruel, and it’s senseless, and, more than anything, it’s unavoidable. We can go in circles blaming ourselves for it—and I know it’s worse for us; we think we should be able to see everything because it’s our job, right?

“The thing is, we’re the most blind when it comes to the people we love. We think we see everything and we always worry over them, but ultimately we just want to believe that everything’s going to be okay. That they’re going to be okay. It’s hard to accept when they’re not.”

“I should have done more.”

“You did all you cou—”

“No, I didn’t.” He lets out a sob, twisting away from Tommy’s touch once more when she tries to comfort him. “I should have insisted on staying home; I should have thought about going to check on him earlier. We have no idea how long he was lying there, dead—he was dead, Tommy—before we arrived, but if I had been there then I could have gotten him help.”

TK takes a shuddering breath and looks up at his captain, meeting her eyes for the first time since they were in the ambulance. “Tommy, if he dies, then I swear I’ll never forgive myself. Never.”

Tommy looks like she wants to say more, but just as she opens her mouth, her radio crackles to life. She sighs regretfully but stands, clasping TK’s shoulder gently.

“He’ll be okay, TK. Believe in that.”

Looking at Carlos, TK has never believed in anything less. He’s so still and pale on the bed and TK keeps having to check that his chest is still moving, despite the steady beep of the heart monitor and the constant thrum against his fingertips. He hasn’t let go of Carlos’s wrist since he was allowed into the room, and he doesn’t intend to let go until Carlos is back with him, awake and alive and okay.

He’s trying to believe in that outcome as a certainty, but he knows better than that. Carlos might be young and healthy, but the fact still remains that his heart stopped—coming back from that is far from guaranteed.

It’s been three days since the incident, and Carlos’s parents have been in and out, always bringing TK food and trying to engage him in conversation. He tries, for them, but it’s not easy and the attempts always fizzle out before long; TK just doesn’t have it in him anymore to talk and pretend to be positive. Any hope he ever had has abandoned him, the only thing keeping him afloat his grip around Carlos’s wrist.

A tupperware container drops into his lap, and TK looks up to see Andrea standing over him. She reaches across to caress Carlos’s cheek, then sinks into the chair beside TK, giving him a pointed look.

He sighs, attempting a weak smile for her. “I appreciate it, Andrea, but—”

“No,” she interrupts, shaking her head firmly. “No more buts; I won’t hear them. My son might not be able to make sure you take care of yourself, but I am more than capable of taking over for him. I am very strict about food, ask any of his sisters.” Her stern look softens and she pats his arm gently. “Venga, mijo. You’ll feel better for it.”

TK looks down at the dish in his lap, doing his best to keep a grimace off his face. It looks and smells delicious, like all of Andrea’s cooking, but the sight of it makes his stomach turn, his gag reflex activating at the very thought of putting any in his mouth.

“Andrea, I…” He shakes his head and picks the container up with his free hand, handing it back to her. “I can’t.”

And it’s not just that TK can’t handle any food at the moment, though that certainly plays into it.

But they’re tamales.

The Reyes family recipe tamales, passed down through generations, which Carlos has been slowly attempting to teach TK. Which Carlos always makes on special occasions, and sometimes just for the hell of it.

Which Carlos made the night he proposed.

Andrea looks set to argue, but TK forces an end to the conversation by making her take the container and turning back to Carlos.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, knowing he’s disappointed her. “It’s just hard.”

She sighs and rubs his back. “I know. Just don’t come to me when Carlos wakes up and realises you haven’t been taking care of yourself.”

That almost gets a laugh out of him, and TK looks over to smile at Andrea. It’s a brittle thing, but it’s a smile all the same, which is more than he’s managed in three days. She smiles back at him, and it helps him feel not so alone in all this.

A weak groan is all the warning he gets before, “Are you turning down my mother’s cooking?” reaches his ears, and TK gasps, whipping around to stare at the bed.

Right into Carlos’s eyes.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, tears springing to his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“Hey, baby.” Carlos’s voice is rough and rasping, his eyes fluttering closed again a second later, though TK can tell that he’s still awake. He reaches to the table and pours a cup of water, encouraging Carlos to lift his head and drink through the straw.

“Slow sips, that’s it,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb gently along Carlos’s wrist, still holding on tightly.

Once Carlos has drunk his fill, he opens his eyes again and looks up at TK, gaze searching his face. “I love you,” he rasps, smiling gently, “but did you really just say no to my mom’s tamales?”

TK splutters, but he can’t keep the smile off his own face, shaking his head fondly at Carlos. “I love you too, idiot,” he says. “And tamales don’t taste the same without you there to eat them with me.”

“Good thing I’m here now, then.”

TK hums. “Guess it is.”

(Later, after the nurses and doctors have come and gone, TK will pick up the tub of tamales, left behind by Andrea when she went to tell everyone the good news.

He and Carlos will split one, pressed close together in the bed to avoid getting crumbs on the sheets. Carlos will be smiling at him the entire time, and TK will kiss him over and over, relishing the sensation of Carlos kissing him back.

And it’ll be the best damn tamale TK has ever eaten.)

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mintjamsblog · 3 years

Note

Does Alfie ever demand that Tommy calls him Sir?

Okay, this is so late, (I'm sorry, I have sat on this answer for literally weeks). It also answers another ask I seem to have lost/deleted, which simply said 'sub-drop?' So, here you go, it turned into 1600 words of smut, I'm afraid. (Set in my Mistakes AU, but can be read without that background).

Subdrop

"How many fingers Tommy?"

Tommy lifts his head but it drops back immediately.

"Tommy, love, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Ten," Tommy says, without even looking. "Everyone has ten."

"Alright, love, up we come."

It's no wonder, really, Alfie has toyed with him mercilessly for — he checks his watch — fuck, well over two hours, has brought him to the brink of orgasm over and over again, watched his face flush and his thighs tremble and his stomach contract in anticipation of the release he's repeatedly been denied.

Tommy's so fucking pretty when he lets himself go (when he's made to let go) and Alfie, well, he's always been a sucker for pretty things, ain't he? Beautiful things.

Tommy finds it so hard to relax that once Alfie gets him loose, persuades him into handcuffs or a spreader-bar or, immobilises him somehow, his inclination is to make the most of the situation, to wring him out like a wet towel, count every last drop of resistance as it splashes onto the floor — a puddle to be licked up and savoured (metaphorically speaking, of course, there's no way Tommy's licking anything off any floors with his arms and legs fastened securely to the straps of a leather sling).

The silly boy still approaches these scenes as if they're a test of his fortitude rather than a willing exchange of power and trust. And that's fine, mostly. A click of his fingers or a safeword could end it all, but Tommy'd far rather grit his teeth and pretend he don't want this at all. Alfie can allow that for a while, can give him something to bite down on until he's too far gone to care about giving a voice to his plight.

Usually it takes some impact to get Tommy to give up his sounds. He needs to be pushed past some physical threshold. A firm hand, a paddle, a whip — they each make him sing different notes, eventually, but always the same fuckin' undertone. Anger. Whether Tommy's angry at Alfie (likely) or at himself for needing this (even more likely) is neither here nor there. Tommy has plenty to be angry at; the world ain't always been kind to him and he's even less kind to himself.

But anger, well, it's corrosive innit? Useful when controlled, maybe, when mastered effectively and released into the world in small bursts that serve a purpose; to warn or threaten or reinforce the hierarchy. But not when it seethes in your blood, pumps through your heart and into each artery like slow-acting poison that seeps through veins and capillaries, reaches the tip of every extremity, hides beneath every thought. That sort of anger, the sort Tommy lives with, that anger needs to be let. Like blood.

Not that Alfie's some antiquated physician restoring balance to the humors. Nah, he fancies his particular form of therapy's far more effective, even if his tools are barely less crude than the old-timers' scalpels and leeches. Alfie prefers to mix things up, to intersperse the blows of a bullwhip with the soft, wet heat of his tongue; to lash Tommy with a folded belt, then hold his cock like a delicate creature he's trying to stroke back to life. He'll pinch and tease and whip and probe until Tommy rails and rages, fists balled, teeth bared, every muscle pulled taut as tension wire. Eventually he'll scream at Alfie, at himself, at the universe, then let the breath shudder out in increasingly shaky increments, like he's tumbling down the stairs.

The journey to that point is best travelled slow. Given time, Tommy's tight grunts and growls always soften into something looser, gentler, pain still evident in the pitch of his voice, but threaded through with desire and resignation and something else entirely ... an underlying need to give up or give in. To please, Alfie flatters himself.

That medley of sounds, the unwinding trajectory of 'em, awakens some possessive creature in Alfie. He can feel it uncoiling inside him, muscles sliding and flexing as he drives Tommy towards an apex neither of 'em can see — a pinnacle of endurance or restraint beyond which Tommy simply is. Or maybe isn't. Beyond which he is merely a consciousness, untethered from any worldly woes and oblivious to the sensations of his own flesh. Or perhaps oblivious to anything but the sensations of his own flesh. Either way, Alfie knows to watch when the sounds turn animalistic, when the groans are so low and feral that they peter out into breaths. Into nothing. Into rolled-back eyes and gaping mouth and climaxes so molten they look more like pain than pleasure.

"Come on love, that's it, down we come."

It's a struggle getting Tommy out of the sling, he's too exhausted to cooperate, to untangle his own limbs from the leather, so Alfie releases the two lower straps and pours him out like water. Like water he slips through Alfie's waiting arms and pools at his feet on the floor.

"Up you get," Alfie says, hoisting him under the arms, and up Tommy comes, unsteady but obedient in his altered state of mind. Alfie braces him for a moment, waits for Tommy's body to harden, for a flicker of conceit to return to those down-cast eyes. Now is when Tommy should swipe a hand down his face, curse under his breath and huff an almost laugh, a poor disguise for self-consciousness, but a sign he's aware at least.

But Tommy offers no such reassurance, regains none of the control that usually washes back as soon as he's up on his feet. He's deep, Alfie realises. Deeper than usual.

He whispers into Tommy's ear, small praises that have no place in any moment other than one such as this. His fingers run down Tommy's back, tracing small paths through sweat that's turned cold, an attempt to distract and reassure, but already he knows it's too late. He's left it too late. He can feel the distant vibrations and knows they'll soon take Tommy's legs.

By the time Alfie gets him onto the bed, onto his side, the trembling has tipped into shivering, a violent reflex that even the finest goose-down duvet fails to subdue. Alfie curses himself for missing the cues, for pushing Tommy too hard. "S'okay," he whispers, "you were beautiful."

But Tommy is straining against the hold, against Alfie's leg wrapped over his own. "I need ... I'm gonna be sick," he says, and throws himself into a sitting position with a violent retching sound. The purge that follows isn't from his stomach, it pours down his face in scalding tears that drench Alfie's waiting hands. Tommy throws his arm up and buries his eyes in the crook of his elbow, taking frightening gasps after every few breaths.

"Come on, now," Alfie says, entirely at a loss. Sure, he pushed Tommy hard tonight, but it seemed like what they both wanted. Needed. "Please, don't," he whispers, hands searching beneath Tommy's forearm to thumb away some of the tears. He wants to tell Tommy he doesn't mind, he can cry as much as he likes. Alfie don't see this as victory; Alfie's not him. But he says nothing, afraid of dredging up ghosts as he coaxes Tommy back down to the mattress, runs fingers through his hair, holds him tight against his chest and lets him cry himself out till the tap runs mercifully dry.

"Why?" Tommy says, eventually.

Fucks sake, why what? Why anything? Why do they do what they do to each other? Why does Tommy allow it? Allow Alfie to pull the meat from his preverbial bones? Alfie's asked himself the same question often enough. Not why does he do this, exactly, he's well past shame over that, but why did he get this lucky? Why does he get to do this with Tommy? To see what no one else sees? Why did he push him so hard tonight? Why did he think Tommy could take it?

"Why did you spend so long ... you know ..." Tommy sniffs, "when there's nothing in it for you?"

Alfie pulls Tommy out from his chest enough to look him in the eye. "Nothing in it for me? Are you fucking kidding me, Tommy?"

"You didn't even come," Tommy says.

At that, Alfie grabs Tommy's arm, fumbling to open the top button of his jeans and force Tommy's hand inside. "There," he says, in his sternest voice. "Nothing in it for me, hmm?"

"Oh!" Tommy says in surprise.

"Yeah, oh, you blithering idiot. Twice. No fuckin' hands."

He watches Tommy swallow, feels fingers flex through the undeniable evidence soaked right through Alfie's boxers.

"Why?" Tommy asks again.

"Why what Tommy? Why does God allow famine and pestilence? Why do good people die? Why didn't I meet you ten years ago, hmm?"

"Why did you fucking come?"

"Because you’re sexy as all burning hell, aren't you? Turn me on like a switch."

Tommy curls into him tighter, buries his face again, and it dawns on Alfie that he really and truly doesn't get it, does he?

"The first time, right, you wouldn't lay back." He keeps his voice low, strokes Tommy's perfect little ear. "I'd fingered you till you were leaking all over your stomach, all over the marks I'd left with the flogger. You should've been way past defiance by then, but you just kept trying to sit up ... your mouth hanging open, like you were trying to fuckin' kiss me." Tommy burrows further still. "So I slapped you," Alfie continues. Maybe that was a bit cruel. "And you only tried even harder. Lay your sinful tongue on your lower lip and strained up out of the sling." Alfie's hardening again at the recollection, at the way he'd thought Tommy was acting, playing the little minx, struggling to reach forward with his wrists and ankles bound to the straps above him. Only Tommy'd never appear so needy, not in his rightful mind, wouldn't chase Alfie's mouth like a newborn pup seeking out its mother's teet. And he'd gazed at Alfie through half-lidded eyes, in that way he had no right to do, like Alfie was the only face he knew in the entire unholy world, like Alfie could fuckin' save him, reach inside his body and take all the pain away, maybe, or make it ten times worse. Like whichever option Alfie chose Tommy'd fucking let 'im.

"And?" Tommy says, when Alfie falls silent. God, he really doesn’t remember, does he?

"And I leant down and kissed you, you silly boy. And I came in my pants, like a teenager."

Tommy makes a wet sound that could be a huff, or could just as easily be more tears.

"Weren't my fault," Alfie adds, defensively. "Your mouth was so fuckin' soft, despite what I'd done to you. And you. You mewled like a Siamese kitten..."

Tommy squeezes him, through his pants, seemingly soothed by the hard line he's holding, proof, perhaps, that Alfie is part of this.

"And the second time ... the second time ... fucking hell. Right at the very end. The last time you came. You looked so fucking fucked-out, love," Alfie's hands are roaming now, sliding over the marks he's left all over Tommy's skin. He seeks out the curve of Tommy's throat, presses kisses there. "All the fight gone out of you. Covered in sweat and welts and come, so exhausted you were trembling ... and please, you kept saying please." He cups the back of Tommy’s head, pulls him closer still. "And I didn't know what for. And I kept asking you, please, what, Tom? but you wouldn't answer. Couldn't, maybe. Too far gone to know." He bites gently on Tommy's ear, at the little crease where it joins his jaw, the tiniest sign of age on his otherwise youthful face.

Tommy's hand is working now, struggling to find its way beneath the fabric of Alfie's underwear. "Then what?" he breathes into Alfie's ear.

"And then you said please, Sir."

Tommy's hand stops dead at that.

"I ... I didn't--"

"S'alright, love, you were under, weren’t you? Too fuckin' deep to know." And there might be a tiny part of Alfie that wishes that weren't the case, that would like to hear that word on Tommy's lips again, but not at the risk of a drop. Hurts too much to see Tommy so upset.

He removes Tommy's hand from his trousers and laces their fingers together, pulls them up high enough he can kiss every sticky knuckle.

"You want me to clean you up, love? Tommy barely shakes his head; his fingers clench around Alfie's hip. "Okay, in a little while then."

Ain't right to feel so tender about being stuck to someone with come. To like the smell of their sweat so much you don't wanna wash it off. Hell, he'd sleep like this all night, in jeans and boots an'all, if it gives Tommy the reassurance he'll so surely claim he don't need.

#asks #anon #sub-drop #tommy x alfie #my fic #mistakes #tofie #tomfie #writing

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