#finally I can let the weight of this off my chest | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

teddiee · 3 days ago

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Into Each Life: Chapter 17

Summary:

Because how? How does she move through the very same halls Tony does and never once seem to be drowning in it?

Because he still can’t step foot in a briefing room without someone questioning his competence, his fucking biology—like being an Omega automatically makes him a liability.

Carter watches him for a long moment, face giving away nothing. Then, in that same infuriatingly even voice, she says, “I don’t ask permission.”

Tony huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, see, I also don’t ask permission, and yet, somehow, that’s never stopped anyone from trying to drag me around by the scruff of my neck.”

Carter’s lips twitch, just slightly. “I never said it was fair.”

Words: 13,381

Warnings: canon-typical violence/bad parenting/howard stark is the worst dad ever (what's new)

Tony swallows. The dryness in his mouth tastes like old pennies, something metallic and sour.

This part is always the worst—standing here, waiting for Howard to say the first word, never quite sure if it’ll be a yell or a whisper or something in between. The quiet is worse, somehow.

His father turns, gaze tracing over Tony with a kind of predatory calm. His shoulders stay perfectly level, not a single muscle twitching. It strikes Tony as unnatural, sometimes, the way a Beta’s rage can stay so contained.

Bucky could be a whole room away and Tony would still know the exact moment his temper started to fray, the second something in the Alpha’s demeanor twisted into irritation, or concern, or quiet, watchful protectiveness. Steve, for all his restraint, has never been much different—he leaks frustration and fierce, stubborn will like an open wound, his scent spiking whenever he’s gearing up for a fight.

Because Alphas, like Omegas, announce their emotions. Their grief. Their worry. Even when they think they’re hiding it. It rolls off of them in waves, unavoidable, like thunder before a storm.

Howard doesn’t.

His anger has never flared—it lurks. It doesn’t spill into the air the way Bucky’s does, thick with warning and heat and weight. It slithers under the surface, quiet, restrained in a way Tony has never been able to predict or prepare for.

It’s always kind of reminded him of a sealed pressure valve, waiting to blow.

Tony forces a breath. “So, um. Surprise?”

Howard doesn’t respond right away—only lets out a slow exhale, like he’s testing the weight of each molecule around them. Then, finally, he steps forward.

“I’ll keep this brief,” he says, tone clipped. “You’ve done quite enough posturing in front of the Reserve. I won’t have you do any more damage.”

Tony’s pulse batters inside his chest. “Wait a second. This isn’t about me—”

“It’s about your misplaced belief that you hold the upper hand,” Howard interrupts, smooth. Practiced. “You’re claiming to be indispensable. Demanding emancipation. Bargaining with Erskine like it’s your birthright.” He pauses. “But let me remind you who’s kept this entire operation running. Who has the resources, the factories, the staff to build it. If I pull out, you’re left with empty pockets.”

Tony’s stomach clenches at the threat. “You really think you can walk away from a war project like this? The potential PR alone—my God, you’d never risk it. The scandal would blow up in your face. Stark Industries refusing to support the war effort because you’re, what, offended by the presence of your son? The person who was once your heir?”

The words taste bitter, but he keeps going, forging each syllable like hammer strikes. “You’d lose everything you’ve been chasing—government contracts, endorsements. Public favor. They’d chew you up and spit you out.”

Howard’s lip twitches. Not exactly a smile, not a snarl. Something in between, a ghost at the corners of his mouth. “And you’re willing to bet your entire future on that, are you? Seems like a pretty steep gamble just to wriggle out of some bonding contract. You know what? You’re lucky that someone like Stone even agreed to mate you in the first place.”

Tony blinks, then lets out a ragged breath. It saws at his lungs, choppy and staggered. “Believe it or not, Dad, I wasn’t particularly thrilled at the prospect of legally and biologically hinging myself to the unhinged rapist who wants to usurp your company.”

“Stone is loyal,” Howard snaps.

“He’s playing you right under your nose.” Tony’s voice feels hoarse, but he doesn’t look away. “And you’re too arrogant or too drunk off his relentless, second-rate ass-kissing to pick up on the signs.”

For a moment they both just stand there, the overhead light buzzing like it might cut out any second. Tony tries to remember how to breathe in a regular pattern—inhale, exhale, keep the panic from flaring.

It doesn’t come naturally. It never has. Because years of gut instinct have him bracing to expect a slap across the face, a shove into the wall. An ancient reflex he can’t quite kill.

Howard’s jaw flexes. “Look, son, you have no leg to stand on. In the eyes of the law, you’re still my property. An Omega child under my guardianship who thinks a few fancy equations make him indispensable. I’ve seen your notes, heard the committee swoon over them. But let me tell you something: brilliance doesn’t give you power. Resources and connections do. And I’ll remind you, Tony, that only one man in this room has plenty of both.”

Every conversation with Howard has always felt like a boot pressing down hard on Tony’s windpipe. His body reacts before his mind can catch up—muscles locking, throat tightening, the instinct to yield rising in him like a tide.

His biology knows what to do. Knows what’s expected. Knows that when a person in a position of power stands over him like this—voice cold, unyielding, like a verdict—it’s supposed to bend.

For years, he had. Not because Howard was an Alpha—he wasn’t and never would be—but because power never had to be biological to be absolute. Because conditioning was stronger than instinct, and Howard had spent a lifetime training him to fold at the first sign of pressure.

Tony can feel it clawing at him now, the ingrained, gut-deep response to lower his gaze, bare his throat, submit. To show deference.

Deference to a man who has never deserved it, who would take his compliance and turn it into another steel link in the chain binding him down.

His muscles twitch with the urge to drop—to make himself smaller, to shrink the way he’s always been taught to when Howard gets like this.

Instead, he locks his knees and forces himself to stay standing. He clenches his fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He keeps his tone even, though it feels like forcing shards of glass through his throat.

“You really think,” he says quietly, “that I don’t know how the world works by now?”

Howard’s gaze sharpens.

“You think I don’t know what power is?” Tony continues, jaw tight. “That I don’t know exactly how many strings you had to pull just to try and keep me under your thumb?” He lets out a short, humorless breath. “I know what leverage looks like, Dad. And I know how badly it burns when you realize you don’t have it anymore. Because sure. I mean, this is all interesting in theory, but the SSR sure looked a lot more fascinated in my meltdown fix than the depths of your pockets, or the capabilities of your entire second-rate engineering team.”

He can hear the dryness in his own voice, feel the words drag. God, he’s tired. Tired of pretending he isn’t scared. Tired of dealing with paternal sabotage like it’s some unavoidable law of physics. “You want to bail? Fine. Go ahead. But I’ll make sure everyone here knows it’s because you couldn’t handle your Omega son outqualifying you.”

A flicker of pure, seething anger flashes in Howard’s eyes. But he doesn’t lash out, just inhales slowly, as though forcing composure into every breath. “You’re gambling with forces you can’t control,” he snaps, each syllable methodical. “You’re used to scribbling out solutions in your notebooks, manipulating data from textbooks you steal from my library. You think I don’t know about that, by the way? The War Department won’t coddle you once they’ve got what they need. And once they’re done, I’ll make damned sure Tiberius reclaims every right he has to you.”

Tony’s gut twists, a sickening churn that he forces down like it’s nothing. His face slips into the familiar blankness, the mask he’s spent years perfecting.

“I’m with you… If that means we take the risk—look into the bond, or… or figure out another way, I’m in.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m sure.”

Tony’s mouth tastes like acid, each word scraping against the dryness in his throat. But he holds Howard’s gaze. “Tiberius can go fuck himself. And you can take that bullshit contract and shove it—hell, set it on fire while you’re at it, see if I care. If I’m already bonded, it’s void. You won’t have a legal claim. Not you, not Stone, not whatever leech comes sniffing around next, hoping to sweet-talk you into selling off what’s left of your company.”

The words land with the force of a detonation.

Howard’s eyes narrow, surprise sparking for just a second before that frozen anger sets in again.

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

Something shifts in his father’s expression, then—doubt, or maybe shock. For a moment, he just stares, as though Tony’s grown a second head. The moment drags, tension pressing in from all sides.

Then Howard exhales, a slow, controlled breath through his nose.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Howard says at last, voice low and cold. “You have no one. You have nothing. You might think Erskine’s your protector, but once you’re no longer useful—”

“Maybe I don’t have to rely on the SSR,” Tony cuts in, pulse thudding so hard it almost hurts. His voice is frantic, thready. His panic feels like a tangible, visceral thing, and despite his best efforts, it spikes the air. “Maybe there’s… someone else. Another Alpha. So don’t bother trying to lock me to Tiberius. I’ll—”

He doesn’t see the blow coming. One second, he’s talking—spitting out the words in a rush, hardly even aware he’s doing it. The next, Howard’s hand lashes out in a violent, uncoiled arc, the sharp crack of his knuckles slicing through the air before Tony even registers the movement.

The backhand lands hard, jarring, a brutal collision of bone against flesh.

Pain detonates across Tony’s cheekbone like an explosive, snapping his head sideways with the force of it. A blinding burst of white floods his vision, and for a second, everything inside him lurches—his breath, his balance, his ability to even comprehend what just happened. His ears ring, sharp and shrill, drowning out everything but the high-pitched whine of his own nervous system scrambling to catch up.

The sting spreads in a violent bloom, radiating from the point of impact like fire licking under his skin. His jaw throbs, a deep, aching pulse that crawls up into his temple, down the hinge of his neck. His lip stings, swelling fast—maybe split, maybe not. His mouth fills with the thick, bitter taste of copper.

For a moment, Tony just stands there, stunned, his body locked in the kind of rigid stillness that only comes from shock. The whole room blurs at the edges, nausea creeping in at the base of his throat.

Howard, still rigid with fury, breathes hard through his nose. His hand is frozen midair, fingers curled slightly, like even he hadn’t expected to do it. Like the sheer force of his own anger had startled him.

Then his fingers flex, and the tension in his arm unwinds with a slow, deliberate shake. He exhales, the sound barely more than a tremor, but whatever moment of hesitation lingers is gone as quickly as it came.

Tony staggers back a step, one hand flying to his cheek, pressing against the bruising heat searing under his skin. The world tilts slightly—just a fraction, but enough to make him feel unsteady, his balance thrown.

His breath comes short and tight, lungs seizing around the phantom imprint of Howard’s hand. His pulse hammers against his ribs, sharp and erratic, but he forces himself to breathe through it, to tamp down the instinctive nausea curling in his stomach.

For a single, suspended moment, neither of them speak.

Then Howard’s arm falls stiffly to his side, and he inhales again—slow, controlled.

Any trace of regret vanishes beneath the steel of his fury.

His father drags in a breath, glare slicing through Tony like a scalpel. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Deadly. “Who?”

Tony feels his pulse trip over itself. A quiet voice in Tony’s head warns him to stay calm, to say nothing. So he doesn’t move, pressing his lips together to keep the details locked tight.

Howard’s gaze flicks over Tony’s reddening cheek, then dips down Tony’s tense form as if scanning for weakness. His own face is eerily composed, but behind it, Tony can smell the rage seething, held only by a thread. “Don’t even think about lying to me. I want a name, Tony. What kind of Alpha do you think is going to mate you?" he sneers. "Some gutter-feeding, low-class knothead looking for a warm body to leash up now that his first bond’s already rotted out?”

Tony’s stomach twists. He clenches his fists at his sides, nails biting hard into his palms. He suppresses his whimper.

“Well?” he sneers when Tony doesn’t answer. “You cry about Stone being a ‘rapist’ and a ‘monster,’ but tell me, how exactly are you any different? You’re just another desperate little Omega spreading your legs for the first Alpha who sniffs in your direction. You have no pedigree, no discipline, and certainly no purity worth bartering for,” he continues, his disgust coiling between them like a living thing. “I had at least hoped you’d have the decency to keep your legs shut until the contract was finalized. But, well—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Guess I gave you too much credit.”

A tremor runs through Tony’s body. He’s so close to snapping back— to spitting in Howard’s face, telling him exactly what he thinks. But the sting of the blow, radiating down his jaw in a sharp, pulsing heat, makes him hesitate. He steels himself instead, shutting down every flicker of emotion that tries to claw its way out.

He lifts his chin, slowly, refusing to break eye contact. “I’m not telling you anything,” Tony manages. His voice wobbles on the last syllable, but he keeps it as steady as he can. His lip throbs where it split, the coppery tang of blood thick on his tongue. “And you can’t make me.”

Howard’s fury crackles, radiating off him in waves. For an instant, Tony’s sure he’s about to be struck again—he can see the shift in Howard’s weight, the tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his gaze snaps up as if calculating an angle. Tony braces, breath locked in his chest. If Howard swings again, he’ll taste blood and dust and everything he’s choked on for years.

The blow never lands.

The door to the conference room creaks open, its hinges protesting under the weight of the silence between them. Tony doesn’t move—his body too locked in the expectation of pain. But Howard startles, his head snapping toward the doorway, his arm still half-raised in the air.

And standing there, poised in the threshold like she’s been here all along, is Agent Carter.

She doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just steps inside, her expression perfectly composed, betraying nothing. Cool eyes scan the room in a single sweep—Howard’s tense posture, the angle of his body turned toward Tony, the way Tony has instinctively curled inward, one hand still cupped over the blooming red mark on his cheek.

Tony barely knows her. They’ve never really spoken—just exchanged the occasional glance in the dining room of his family’s estate, a few passing nods of recognition. She’s an anomaly to him, another Omega, yet not like any he’s ever met before.

She’s striking in a way that most people aren’t—sharp, deliberate. Not beautiful in the delicate, wilting way Omegas are often expected to be, but in the way of something carefully, powerfully composed. Dark, polished curls frame her face, pinned just-so at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place despite the long hours she must work. The deep navy of her uniform contrasts against her fair skin, the crisp lines of her pressed blouse immaculate. She’s poised, unruffled, the very picture of confidence.

But it’s not just the way she looks that unsettles Tony—it’s the way she scents.

Even as harried and exhausted as he is, Tony can pick up on it. Her scent isn’t soft or cloying, not the delicate, faint florals of bonded Omegas who are carefully tempered to suit their Alphas.

No, Carter’s scent is cool, clean, with a sharper undercurrent—something that reminds Tony of fresh linen pressed crisp, of the faintest trace of bergamot, of something precise and disciplined. It’s controlled, carefully restrained, not the sweet, inviting pull of an Omega softened for an Alpha’s comfort, but something steadier, more deliberate. It doesn’t cling or spill into the room like an unspoken plea—it stays close, honed and measured, a quiet warning rather than an invitation.

A scent wielded not as a lure, but as a boundary.

She’s the only other Omega he’s ever seen on SSR premises, moving through its halls like she belongs, like she’s never once questioned her place.

Like no one else does, either.

And she sure as hell isn’t flinching at Howard Stark.

"Mr. Stark," she says smoothly. "Colonel Phillips is looking for you. Something about a last-minute adjustment to the energy displacement model.”

A pause. Not long, but long enough.

"You’ll want to be quick about it," she adds, voice even. "He seemed rather… impatient.”

Howard hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second, but Tony sees it—sees the flicker of uncertainty in the way his fingers twitch, sees the slight hitch in his breath as he recalculates. A man used to dominance, to control, to rooms that move around him, not the other way around.

But Agent Carter doesn’t yield.

She stands there, waiting. Watching.

Howard exhales sharply, lowering his arm. "Of course he does," he mutters. His voice is clipped, but there’s an edge of something else there. A barely veiled frustration that he’s been interrupted. That he can’t finish what he started.

He doesn’t look at Tony again. Just straightens his cuffs with sharp, practiced efficiency, rolling his shoulders back like shaking off an unpleasant conversation. Then he brushes past her, striding out into the hall without another word.

Agent Carter doesn’t move until the door hisses shut behind him.

And then—only then—does she turn her gaze back to Tony.

For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. She just looks at him, eyes unreadable, cool and assessing. Tony shifts, suddenly aware of the way his body is still half-curled inward, how his fingers are trembling slightly where they press against his cheek.

He swallows. Forces his hand to drop.

Carter doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t acknowledge the mark at all, doesn’t acknowledge the overpowering scent of his distress. But she doesn’t ignore it, either. She simply steps into the room fully, the door clicking shut behind her with an air of finality.

“Are you all right?” She asks.

Tony doesn’t answer. Not because he can’t, but mostly because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

She reaches into the pocket of her pressed blazer, retrieves a neatly folded handkerchief, and holds it out between two fingers.

Tony stares at it for a second, brain sluggish, like he’s forgotten how social interaction works. Then it clicks.

Ah. For the blood.

He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth first, just to be stubborn, but the coppery taste lingers, thick and unpleasant. Eventually, he takes the handkerchief from her, begrudgingly, dabbing at his split lip with slow, careful pressure.

"Swell," he mumbles around the sting. “Thanks.”

Carter doesn’t respond, doesn’t move to sit, just watches him, composed and unreadable. He’s not sure what she expects. An explanation? An argument? An embarrassing display of Omega vulnerability?

She’ll be waiting a long time.

The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of the overhead fluorescents. Tony keeps his head tilted down, dabbing carefully, but he can still feel her gaze on him, steady and unflinching.

He resists the urge to fidget under it.

"You don’t like me very much, do you?" he says eventually, voice dry, muffled slightly by the fabric pressed to his mouth.

That earns him a faint arch of her brow, but little else. "I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion," she replies, voice as measured as ever.

Tony lets out a short, humorless breath. "Yeah, well. That hasn’t ever stopped anyone else.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the bitter lilt in his tone. Just tips her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the door Howard had stormed out of. “He’s never going to let you go through with this willingly," she says.

It’s not a question. Not even a warning. Just a fact.

Tony presses the handkerchief harder against his lip, wincing slightly at the sting. "Yeah," he mutters. “Figured that one out on my own, thanks.”

Another pause. Then, finally, Carter moves, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate purpose. She doesn’t sit, but she does place her hands flat against the edge of the table, leaning just slightly into Tony’s space.

“What he wants is irrelevant,” she says, voice quiet but firm. “Not if you want something else more.”

Tony lifts his gaze to her, studying the way she says it. The surety in her posture, the way there’s not a single flicker of doubt in her expression. She says it like she believes it, completely, and Tony wonders what it must be like to move through the world like that. To be an Omega and still hold your own like it’s your right, like it’s not something you have to fight for tooth and nail every damn day.

He swallows, looking away first.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

Carter exhales through her nose. “It never is.”

For a moment, Tony just stares at the table between them. He’s exhausted, every nerve in his body still frayed from the confrontation, from the unrelenting pressure that’s been closing in from all sides.

Tony exhales sharply, tilting his head back against the chair with an edge of frustration that’s been simmering beneath his skin for weeks now. Maybe longer.

Maybe his entire life.

He can feel Agent Carter’s eyes on him still, steady and unblinking, and it makes him prickle with something akin to—bitterness, maybe. Unfair, really; she’s done nothing but help. But he can’t shake the notion that somehow she’s managed to bend this whole damn organization to her will, while he has to fight just to be allowed in a briefing room.

“It must be nice,” Tony says at last, voice coming out sharper than he intends. “Having half the U.S. Army and every high-ranking Alpha government bigwig hanging on your every word. Meanwhile, I can’t walk down the hallway without people staring at my throat or my… whatever. I can’t walk into a single meeting without someone questioning my emotional stability or my competence because, oh dear, I’m an Omega, and might cry if the big, scary men in ugly polyester uniforms raise their voices.”

He regrets it the instant it leaves his mouth.

He pinches his eyes shut and sighs. “Sorry. God, ignore me. I’m an asshole. I’m just—” His lip throbs, stinging each time he speaks. “I’m not in the greatest mood.”

Carter doesn’t even blink. “Apology accepted,” she says mildly.

“I just… I have to ask. How the hell do you do it?”

Carter doesn’t so much as blink. “Do what?”

Tony gestures vaguely in her direction. “This. All of this.” His hand sweeps toward her, toward the closed door, toward the space where Howard had stood just minutes ago, seconds away from putting another mark on Tony’s face. “The whole walking-around-the-secret-government-bunker-like-you-own-the-place thing. And the commanding-the-attention-of-a-bunch-of-insecure-Alphas-without-them-making-vague-threats-about-trying-to-bite-you thing. The part where you’re—clearly—the most intelligent person in the room, by the way, and somehow, no one’s questioning it.”

Because how? How does she move through the very same halls Tony does and never once seem to be drowning in it?

Because he still can’t step foot in a briefing room without someone questioning his competence, his fucking biology—like being an Omega automatically makes him a liability.

Carter watches him for a long moment, face giving away nothing. Then, in that same infuriatingly even voice, she says, “I don’t ask permission.”

Tony huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, see, I also don’t ask permission, and yet, somehow, that’s never stopped anyone from trying to drag me around by the scruff of my neck.”

Carter’s lips twitch, just slightly. “I never said it was fair.”

“No kidding,” Tony mutters, dabbing at his lip again. The damn thing won’t stop bleeding. He sighs, mostly to himself, shifting the cloth away and grimacing at the fresh smear of red. “This is great. Can’t wait to go home with another unexplainable injury; my Alpha’s gonna commit manslaughter.”

He’s not even thinking when he says it, the words slipping out on exasperated autopilot. Just another offhand complaint, another small grievance on an ever-growing list. It takes a second for him to realize what he’s just admitted, but by then, Carter’s already arching an eyebrow.

“I thought you were trying to get out of your bonding contract with your Alpha,” she says mildly.

For a heartbeat, Tony just stares, the question rattling around in his head. Then he snorts a humorless laugh, pressing the handkerchief back to his mouth to staunch the new trickle of blood.

“Right. Not… ugh. Not that Alpha.” He drops his gaze, exhaustion weighing on every word. “I meant my Alpha. I have one. A… different one. Not the Count Zaroff-wannabe my father’s trying to legally bind me to.”

Carter's expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a shift—something in the way her focus sharpens, like the fine-tuning of a radio dial. She takes in the words, dissects them, files them away into whatever neat, orderly categories she keeps in her head. And for the first time in this entire conversation, Tony gets the distinct impression that she’s actually interested.

"Hm," is all she says.

Tony lets out a short, incredulous laugh, wiping at the corner of his mouth again. “Can’t say I don’t appreciate your nonchalance. That grand reveal just got me smacked in the mouth, by the way.”

Carter tilts her head, still watching him like she’s figuring something out. “I was under the impression that every action you’ve taken in the last few months was about securing your freedom.”

“Yeah, and?” Tony shrugs, huffing out a breath. “That doesn’t change anything.”

"Doesn’t it?" she muses. "Because I was under the impression that you were fighting to be free. But you’re not, are you?"

Tony stiffens, bristling. “I’m fighting not to be sold off like a damn prize horse, which, call me crazy, seems like a pretty reasonable goal.”

Carter makes another contemplative noise, and it’s just the slightest bit infuriating. Like she knows exactly what he’s not saying but is waiting for him to figure it out on his own.

Tony groans, tilting his head back, pressing his knuckles into his eye sockets. “Okay, fine. Enlighten me, your majesty.”

She doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t so much as crack a smirk at his sarcasm. “You’re not trying to be free,” she says plainly. “You’re trying to be with someone else.”

Tony freezes.

“Technically,” he says breezily, “I am fighting to be free so that I can choose to be with someone else. Which, by the way, is completely different.” God forbid one more person in this damn facility tries to strip him of his autonomy.

Carter doesn’t look convinced.

“That’s a very delicate distinction,” she says mildly. “But at the end of the day, it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? You’re not looking for freedom in the broad sense. You’re looking for a way out of one legally-binding prison and into a completely distinct, emotional obligation.”

Tony scoffs, crossing his arms, then immediately uncrosses them because his ribs still hold a phantom ache from the last time he mouthed off at the wrong moment. “Okay, let’s all just pick apart my brain today, huh? First my dad, now you. You wanna call in a psychiatrist? Maybe get me on a couch, talk about my ‘deep-seated abandonment issues’? Maybe draw some ink blots and ask me what I see?”

Carter remains unmoved. “I don’t need ink blots to see the obvious.”

Tony throws his hands up. “Fantastic! Feel free to share with the class.”

She meets his gaze head-on. “You are not a man who is trying to exist in the world on your own. You’ve already made your choice, Stark. Whether or not you want to admit it.”

The words land like a punch to the gut, though Carter delivers them with all the precision of a scalpel. No unnecessary force, no gloating, just cold, clinical accuracy.

Tony feels a pit open in his stomach.

Because she’s right. Of course, she’s right. He’s already made his choice. He made it the moment he whispered “Yours” into the telephone, the moment he let himself believe there was another way out of this hell that didn’t involve sacrificing himself to it.

He rubs a hand down his face. “God, you’re annoying perceptive.”

Carter’s lips twitch just slightly. “So I’ve been told.”

Tony exhales sharply, his breath shaky, his ribs aching from the tension coiled tight in his body. He can’t decide if he’s angry or just tired. Probably both. Maybe mostly at himself.

Because it doesn’t matter how she says it or how carefully she avoids outright accusing him—Carter is right. He’s not fighting for some grand, noble idea of freedom. He’s fighting for one person.

And that person isn’t himself.

Tony swallows around the knot in his throat. His voice comes out rougher than he means when he says, “You must think I’m pretty pathetic, huh?”

Carter blinks at him, the barest flicker of surprise crossing her features before she smooths it away. “I don’t recall saying anything of the sort.”

“You didn’t have to.” Tony lets out a short, humorless laugh, tilting his head back towards the ceiling. “You’re a real modern woman, Carter. Progressive. Independent. You don’t take shit from anyone, and you sure as hell don’t let anyone claim you. And then here I am, fighting tooth and nail to get out of one contract, just to try and throw myself headfirst into another bond.” He lets his eyes slide toward her, jaw tight. “Bet y’think that’s pretty pitiful.”

Carter doesn’t look away, doesn’t shift, doesn’t so much as blink. “I think you’re misunderstanding me entirely.”

Tony huffs, shaking his head. He’s so tired. Sore. “Right. Sure. Whatever you say.”

Carter exhales through her nose, slow and measured, like she’s deciding whether or not this conversation is worth having. But in the end, she doesn’t let it go. “I don’t think you’re weak for choosing someone,” she says plainly. “I think you’re human.”

Tony glances at her sharply, caught off guard by the sheer lack of judgment in her voice.

She continues, steady and unfazed. “I think it’s easy for people like us to pretend we have no attachments. That we can carve our way through the world on our own. That we don’t need anyone.” A pause, brief but weighted. “It’s easy to believe that. But it’s not true.”

Tony stares at her, waiting for the inevitable ‘but.’ Waiting for the part where she tells him he’s being foolish, reckless, naive.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, she just gives him a long, searching look, like she’s weighing something in her mind. Then, finally, she says, “And I think you’ve risked far too much to be accused of cowardice now.”

Tony’s throat tightens. He looks away first.

The handkerchief in his grip is stained red now, streaked with the evidence of his father’s temper, of his own failure to hold his tongue. He folds it over in his fingers, covering the worst of it.

“I didn’t do this for the war,” he says suddenly. The words leave him before he can stop them. He stares down at the cloth in his hands, watching the way his fingers curl into the fabric, gripping it too tight. “I mean—” He swallows, forcing himself to breathe past the lump forming in his throat. “I never thought twice about winning this thing until him. Until… my Alpha. I don’t give a damn about the cause, Agent. I just want to keep him out of it. I want to keep him alive.”

He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “I mean, God, can you imagine? I threw myself into designing the SSR’s golden goose because I figured if I made the war end faster, maybe he wouldn’t die in it. If I put my brain to good use, maybe he wouldn’t be one of the bodies they ship home in a nondescript coffin.” His breath shudders. “Maybe he’d actually make it back to me.”

Tony exhales sharply, shaking his head at himself. “I should want to help for the right reasons. I should be doing this for the people out there getting slaughtered. For the soldiers who don’t have a choice. Like… I’ve got this friend, right? He’s not even over there. They won’t take him. Too small, too sick, too everything. But he keeps trying, keeps enlisting under fake names—don’t tell anyone I said that—because he believes in it. In the cause. In what’s right.”

He swallows, throat tight. "I don’t." The confession comes quiet, barely more than a breath. “I never have. I just—” He shakes his head. "I want this war over before it can take him away from me."

There. He’s said it. He waits for the judgment.

Carter doesn’t give it to him.

Instead, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes locked onto his, sharp and unreadable. “And what, exactly, is wrong with fighting for the people you love?”

Tony blinks. “What?”

She exhales through her nose, slow and deliberate. “Do you think war is won by selflessness, Stark? That everyone out there, every soldier, every scientist, every strategist fighting to end this war is doing it out of some moral obligation?” She shakes her head. “People don’t fight for causes. They fight for their families. Their lovers. Their friends. They fight to protect the people they care about.”

Tony swallows.

Carter’s expression is unreadable, but her voice is firm. “You think your friend fights to enlist because he believes in war? In violence?” she asks. “Or do you think he fights because he believes in something worth protecting?”

Tony stares at her, lips parted, but no words come out.

Carter straightens, smoothing a hand down her sleeve. “You’re not selfish, Stark. You’re human. And if your work ends this war faster, if it saves lives—even if the only life you’re thinking about is his—then that’s more than enough.”

Tony’s throat feels tight, his breath shallow as he presses his lips together and stares down at his hands. The handkerchief between his fingers is stiff with drying blood, its fabric crumpled where he’s been gripping it too hard. He swallows against the knot in his throat, lets Carter’s words settle in the spaces between the bruises, the ache of his ribs, the raw sting of his split lip.

Finally, he clears his throat. “Look,” he starts, voice hoarse. He doesn’t lift his gaze to her, not yet. “I’m not running from one contract just to jump into another because I’m incapable of standing on my own two feet. That’s not—” He hesitates, frustrated by the way the words tangle, by how impossible it is to explain something so visceral. “It’s not that I need an Alpha. I don’t. I know how to be on my own. Lord knows I’ve had plenty of practice.”

He exhales sharply, staring at his hands. “But I’ve spent my whole life being told what to do. Where to go, who to speak to, what I’m allowed to study—did they have Omega boarding schools in England? God, I hope not. Absolutely useless. Worst experience of my life. Anyway, as if that wasn’t enough, then Dad decides my bond for me, ties my future to his skeevy business associate who’s useless to do anything except make vague threats pertaining to fantasies he pictures with my mouth.”

Carter doesn’t interrupt. She just waits, silent and watchful.

Tony swallows again, voice dropping lower. “But B—my Alpha… He’s different. He’s the first thing I’ve ever really chosen for myself. The first decision I made that wasn’t dictated by someone else’s plan.” A flicker of a smile ghosts across his face, there and gone in a breath. “He gave me a choice, you know? Didn’t look at me like some prize, or a burden, or a little tool to be bartered for political favors. He just… he sees me as me.”

The silence in the room feels heavier somehow, charged with the quiet hum of overhead lights and all the unspoken words hovering in the space between them.

Tony forces a small laugh that comes out more like a wheeze. “And for some insane reason, he chose me back. Don’t ask me why—haven’t figured that out for myself. Maybe he’s got terrible taste. Hell, maybe he doesn’t know any better yet.”

Carter’s gaze never wavers, but Tony can’t bring himself to meet it. “And I don’t know if it’ll last,” he admits. “If I get out of… all this, if I’m not bound to Stone or forced into another sham contract, I don’t even know if he’ll still—” He trails off, swallowing. “Sometimes I think I’m just waiting to wake up and find out he’s realized how much of a mess I am. That I’m not worth it.”

He finally dares to glance up. Carter’s expression remains unreadable, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze—assessing, measured, like she’s weighing his words rather than offering him comfort.

“And yet you’re fighting anyway,” she says, tone calm, matter-of-fact. “Because that possibility—that choice you made—is worth it to you.”

Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “He’s… worth it.”

A beat passes. Carter inclines her head slowly, the faintest hint of an approving tilt to her mouth. “Then I’d say you’re braver than you give yourself credit for,” she says. “Bond or no bond.”

Tony can’t help the tiny laugh that pushes past his lips. “Brave. Right,” he says, voice edged with lingering self-deprecation. “I feel real brave with my father’s fingerprints swelling into my face.”

Carter regards him levelly. “Bravery isn’t about never getting hurt, Stark. It’s about refusing to stay hurt.” She lets those words hang for a moment, then smooths a hand over her sleeve, as though tidying some invisible wrinkle. “Remember that.”

Tony nods, quiet, not sure what else to say. There’s a warmth curling in his chest—a hesitant spark that might be hope. Or gratitude. Or both.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Carter straightens, gaze shifting toward the door. “We’ve been gone long enough. Colonel Phillips will start asking questions if we linger.” A small, wry smile tugs at her lips. “Let’s keep your secrets your own, shall we?”

Tony nods, pushing himself up from the chair. He’s sore, exhausted, and his face feels like it’s been dragged over sandpaper, but at least this conversation is over—he’s never been any good at these soul-searching, feelings-laden exchanges.

“Agent Carter,” he says quietly, just before she can open the door.

She turns, one brow arched in inquiry.

He wets his cracked lips, doesn’t know quite how to phrase it, so he just says, “Thanks.”

And then he waves his bloodied handkerchief for emphasis.

Carter’s expression doesn’t change much, but there’s the barest hint of something softer in her eyes. A flicker of acknowledgment, maybe. She tilts her head, regarding him for a moment.

Then, with the kind of effortless poise that Tony envies, she says, “Call me Peggy.”

Something about that catches him off guard—knocks him off balance just a little, but in a way that isn’t unpleasant. He exhales a small, surprised huff of laughter. “Call me Tony,” he returns, his lips quirking in what might actually be a semblance of a genuine smile.

Peggy Carter holds his gaze for a beat longer, then, without another word, turns and opens the door, stepping smoothly into the corridor.

Tony follows.

***

A week crawls by.

Tony loses himself in the hum of the labs, in half-finished sketches, in the sterile glow of overhead fluorescents. It’s easier to bury his anxiety in the Rebirth Chamber’s schematics than to stare at the gray walls of his makeshift quarters, counting the minutes he’s been cut off from everyone who matters. He’s sleeping worse—nights of fitful dozing on the rickety cot, jerking awake from fragmented dreams of Bucky’s voice calling for him through a haze of radio static.

He’s halfway through re-checking the newest coil alignment calculations when the same guard from before—Bentley? Ballentine?—clears his throat at the lab door.

“Mr. Stark,” the guard says with an odd note in his voice, “communications desk asked me to bring this to you.”

He holds out a single envelope. Plain, unadorned. Tony’s name is scrawled in familiar handwriting across the front.

Time drops out from under him.

The lab noise around him fades: the low whir of machines, the clatter of engineering tools, Reynolds’s distant conversation with a technician. Tony can only stare at the envelope in the guard’s hand.

It takes a moment before his fingers remember how to move. He grabs it, trying to pretend his pulse isn’t hammering in his throat. “Th—thank you,” he manages, voice rasping.

The guard nods curtly. “I’ll, uh, give you a moment.”

Tony nods, not really paying attention as the man steps away. The envelope feels impossibly heavy in his grip, like it weighs more than the entire Rebirth Chamber. Like it might sink him through the polished linoleum if he doesn’t open it soon.

He wants to tear it open here and now, but his nerves flutter, chest constricting with a sudden spike of fear. What if Bucky’s furious? What if he’s written Tony off, if he’s decided he can’t be bothered with an Omega too mired in secrets and chaos?

Tony swallows hard. Carefully, he tucks the letter into the folder of half-sketched design notes, ignoring the curious glance from a passing engineer. “I’m going to—uh—take a short break,” he mumbles to no one in particular. Then, before Reynolds or any other engineer can question him, Tony slips out of the lab and down the corridor, making for the nearest empty storeroom.

The SSR complex is a maze, but he’s memorized enough of it to find a sliver of privacy.

Eventually, he locates a supply closet, partially open, housing shelves of metal parts and rolled blueprints. Tony ducks inside, flicks on the single overhead bulb, and slides the door shut behind him.

Breathing hard, he fishes the envelope from his folder. The handwriting on the front—it’s definitely Bucky’s. Tony’s eyes burn at the sight of each looped letter, the smudge of ink where Bucky’s pen likely paused.

He’s both starved for this and viscerally terrified.

God, just open it.

His throat is dry. With trembling fingers, he slides one nail under the flap, breaking the seal. Inside is a single sheet of paper, folded into thirds. He takes a shaky breath and unfolds it.

He almost can’t read at first, eyes blurring with panic. Then the words come into focus—short, sparse, too few:

T—

I got your letter. I’m glad you’re okay.

Steve’s fine. (Even if I did have to bail him out of another fight—next time, I’m charging interest.)

I don’t know what’s happening over there. I don’t know if it’s Tiberius. But if you think for one second that I’m just going to sit tight and wait for news while you’re tangled up in some goddamn contract you don’t want, you’re out of your mind.

Whatever mess you’re dealing with, you’re not dealing with it alone. I don’t care what it takes, or how long—I’ll find a way.

Just come home to me.

—B

That last line sears into Tony like a hot brand.

His eyes sting. Slowly, he sinks onto a nearby crate, letter clutched tight in his hands, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

He grips the letter like a lifeline, his pulse roaring in his ears. Come home to me. He reads the words over and over, tracing the ink with his eyes until they blur, until he has to blink rapidly to keep from breaking.

His fingers clench tighter. He bites his lip so hard it splits anew. He wants to go home. God, he wants to go home.

But he can’t—not yet. He doesn’t even know how much longer he’ll be here. Two weeks? A month? As long as it takes for Phillips and Brandt to sign off on his legal emancipation, for Erskine to declare the chamber temporarily viable, for them to finally unchain him from this cold, fluorescent prison.

But Bucky’s waiting for him. Bucky’s looking for him.

Bucky doesn’t know he’s safe.

A low sound escapes Tony’s throat, barely more than a breath. He presses the letter against his chest, curling over it like it might somehow anchor him.

He re-reads it over and over, letting each sentence burrow into the hollow ache in his chest. Bucky’s words are sparse, but the fierce protectiveness bleeds through. Bucky’s no poet either, but that final line—

Just come home to me.

But he can’t. Not yet.

Quietly, Tony folds Bucky’s letter, fingers lingering on the words. He can’t answer—he already used up his one precious missive. The idea of Bucky pacing the apartment, waiting for a response that won’t come, makes Tony’s stomach twist. I’m sorry, Tony thinks, cramming the letter into his pocket like a lifeline. Just a little longer.

Swallowing thickly, Tony forces himself upright. He can’t break down here. Not now. There’s still too much to do—calculations, design checks, binding legalities—and no one else is going to secure his freedom for him.

He straightens his shoulders, tucks the letter securely into his pocket, and heads back into the corridor. Another day, another test, another step toward the life he wants.

Because eventually, he’ll be able to slip out of this place for good. And when he does, he’ll go straight to Bucky, slip his arms around that stubborn, reckless Alpha, and maybe this time, he’ll even say the words he’s never said out loud.

Tony’s halfway to the lab when he spots Dr. Erskine, emerging from a side office with a stack of notes clutched in one hand. The older man looks tired—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders drooping under the weight of too many secrets. But at the sight of Tony, he manages a small, weary smile.

“Ah, Tony,” Erskine says softly, adjusting his glasses. “I was hoping to find you. I have a question about the latest meltdown logs—”

“Doc,” Tony interrupts, voice rough. He doesn’t mean to be abrupt, but the turmoil inside him is threatening to boil over. He glances around, making sure no one’s loitering within earshot. The corridor is mostly empty, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly. “Can we… talk somewhere? Privately?”

Erskine’s brow wrinkles in mild concern. “Of course.” He gestures toward a nearby alcove—a small storage nook they sometimes use for impromptu meetings when the rest of the lab is too crowded. “Shall we?”

Tony nods, following him in. It’s not the grandest space—just a cramped corner with a battered metal table and a couple of stools—but it’s private enough. Erskine sets his notes down, then perches on one of the stools, folding his hands in his lap and looking at Tony with kind patience.

Tony stands for a moment, arms folded tight across his chest. He takes a steadying breath, heart thudding. The question that’s been gnawing at him for days is right on the tip of his tongue, but saying it feels like a risk he can’t afford. What if Erskine says no?

But… he has to ask. Because if there’s one man in the SSR who might have the leverage—and the empathy—to help, it’s the quirky German in front of him.

“Doc,” Tony begins, voice hoarse. “I know you— you’ve pulled off a lotta strings already. The legal manipulations, the hush-hush contract amendments, my bonding contract being sidelined…” He trails off, mouth dry.

Erskine watches him with a gentle curiosity. “Yes?”

Tony presses his lips together. “This war,” he says heavily. “It’s… it’s going to keep going. Right? Even if we’re somehow successful in creating a magical team of biologically enhanced soldiers, or whatever, it’s not like all this just ends tomorrow.”

Erskine sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sadly, no. Even with this chamber—assuming we are successful—it will not end the war overnight. There are many battles yet to come.”

Tony nods, looking down, knuckles white as he grips the back of the spare stool. “Right. And… and that means more drafts, more call-ups, more men shipped off to fight. My—” His voice catches; he swallows. “My Alpha might… get caught up in that. He will. He’s eligible. He’s not the type to run, either.”

Erskine’s expression shifts into one of understanding. "Ah, I see.”

Tony rubs the heel of his palm against his temple, feeling a headache lurking. “You’ve got so many connections. You made the War Department jump through hoops to get me emancipated—thank you, for that, by the way, seriously—you’re basically bending entire military protocols to give me a shot at finishing this meltdown fix.” He bites his lip, summoning the courage to ask. “So, maybe… maybe you could help me with this, too? Could you keep him from being drafted?”

He doesn’t say Bucky’s name—he never has, not to Erskine, not to anyone here—but he can’t hide the desperation in his voice. “I mean, if the SSR can overrule state guardianship laws, can’t you do something about a local draft board? Delay his deployment, or… or relocate him, or give him some exemption? He’s not—I can’t—”

He breaks off, heart hammering in his chest. Don’t beg, some prideful part of him warns.

For a long moment, Erskine just looks at him, brow creased in sympathy.

“Tony,” he says at last, quietly. “I wish I could say yes. That I could move a few chess pieces around and keep your Alpha safe from this war.”

Tony’s stomach twists with dread. “But…?”

Erskine sighs. “But it’s not so simple. Project Rebirth— this is a research division, primarily, under the Strategic Scientific Reserve umbrella. We do not have broad authority over the general conscription process. We have some influence—enough to secure you an emancipation, because that was tied directly to our project’s secrecy and our immediate need for your specialized skill. It was a national security matter.” He taps his fingertips together, expression pensive. “Delaying or denying a draft notice for an Alpha soldier is… a far bigger matter. It would raise red flags at the War Department. People would ask questions we can’t answer.”

“But you can push the War Department around for me,” Tony insists, voice cracking. “Why not for— for him?”

Erskine shakes his head gently. “We only pushed them because losing you to your Alpha contract, in this case, would have meant losing our chamber progress. And that, in their eyes, was catastrophic enough to justify rewriting certain rules.” He gives Tony a sad, apologetic look. “I do not have unlimited power, my boy. Nor do I have the authority to reorder draft protocols for personal reasons—especially not without revealing certain SSR confidences that must remain secret.”

Tony stands there, reeling. His fingers clench the stool’s metal edge so hard it digs into his palms. His ribs feel like they’re closing in on his lungs. “But… we found those loopholes for me. We rewrote entire sections of federal guardianship code. You’re telling me that we can’t just—”

Erskine sets his notes down, folding his hands atop them. The small lines around his eyes deepen in sympathetic regret. “We did not rewrite the code for you, Tony—only for the project. The War Department didn’t care about you because they admired your independence.” He sighs, adjusting his glasses. “They only cared that losing you meant losing a vital piece of technological construction. That was sufficient leverage for me to plead your case. It was essential to national security, so they indulged my demands.”

Tony’s jaw works soundlessly for a moment, like a fish out of water. “Right,” he manages. “And… my Alpha wouldn’t matter to them.”

Erskine’s shoulders sag at Tony’s weary tone. “I’m truly sorry,” he says softly. “But in their eyes, I’ll remind you, your Alpha simply does not exist. Not legally. And even if he did, he would not be an asset to this project. Therefore, he’s just another potential draftee under the War Department’s purview.”

Tony presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, breathing through the dizzy tangle of frustration and despair. “What if—” He breaks off, licking his lips. “What if I… if we bonded, actually. Like, fully bonded.” The last words come out in a low rush, voice trembling with a desperation he can’t fully conceal. “I mean, there’s no worry of someone else claiming me if I’m already bonded, right? Couldn’t it be the same principle? The SSR wants me, needs me, so they—”

Erskine raises a calming hand. “Ah, Tony. I fear it doesn’t work like that. The special clauses we invoked to nullify your father’s arrangement hinged on your essential role, plus the unique vulnerability of an unbonded Omega engineer in a top-secret project. The War Department was… let’s say, uniquely motivated to ensure you remained unclaimed by a hostile contract. But your Alpha—whoever he is—would remain a separate entity under the standard military system. He’d have no immunity from the draft. Bond or no bond.”

The words strike Tony’s heart like a physical blow. He stares at the floor, knuckles going white where they grip the edge of a dingy metal shelf. “So… there’s nothing we can do?”

Erskine’s voice softens. “Nothing within the SSR’s scope. Not without drawing the exact kind of scrutiny we’ve fought to avoid. If I tried to keep an unknown Alpha off the front lines, the War Department would demand to know why. And unless you wish to reveal his name, or the nature of your arrangement, it would unravel everything.”

Tony forces down a wave of nausea.

It’s all so fucking unfair.

They’ve manipulated half a dozen obscure laws to free him from Tiberius’s claws, but they can’t—or won’t—save Bucky from the same war they’re all trying to end.

He inhales sharply, voice tight. “So that’s it.”

Erskine’s gaze flicks over Tony’s tense posture. “I wish I had better news, Tony,” he says sincerely. “But your Alpha is not part of this project. The SSR has no reason—or authority—to interfere with his deployment, short of enlisting him into our ranks. Which, from the sound of it, would be precisely the opposite of what you want.”

Tony huffs a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Fuck. Definitely not that.”

For a long moment, neither speaks. Tony’s throat bobs as he swallows, mind churning.

He’s going to go… he’ll be drafted, shipped overseas to God knows where…

Erskine clears his throat, softening his tone further. “There’s something else you should consider. If you and this Alpha were to… consummate a bond before he ships out, I’m afraid that would compound your difficulties, not lessen them.”

Tony frowns, looking up in confusion. “Compound how? I mean, Tiberius would be locked out, right? That’s… good?”

A shadow crosses Erskine’s face, something grave. “Yes, Stone could never claim you then. Legally or biologically. But, Tony, once you truly bond—once the physical and chemical link is established—your system will respond quite drastically if your Alpha is absent for long periods. Especially if he’s stationed overseas, with no prospect of returning during your heats.”

Tony opens his mouth, but no words come out.

At the Institute, he had heard whisperings of plenty of previous female classmates forced to endure separation from their Alphas who had been sent off to war, but they had specialized suppressants, courtesy of the government’s interest in preserving a stable breeding population.

Tony knows from gossip and rumor that female Omegas might still struggle, but the meds help dull the cycle, stave off the worst.

Except… those don’t exist for him.

Erskine seems to read his thoughts on his face. “Male Omegas,” he says gently, “are an unfortunately small demographic. The government invests in female suppressants for the sake of fertility control, but they’ve never bothered to develop a counterpart for your physiology in any widespread capacity. I’ve heard rumors of experimental formulas, but nothing… safe or accessible. And certainly not in time for your next heat.”

A hollow dread creeps into Tony’s chest, mixing with old shame. “So what… I just suffer every heat without him? And hope it doesn’t wreck me?”

Erskine meets Tony’s gaze, compassion etched into the lines of his face. “Bonded separation is far harsher on the body than an unbonded heat, especially if it’s your first bond. The withdrawal symptoms can be quite severe if your Alpha can’t return to you or send some measure of relief. I’ve seen it—” He cuts himself off, brow furrowing as though recalling something painful. Then he finishes softly, “It can be dangerous.”

Tony’s throat tightens. He thinks of the nights he’s already spent trembling and feverish, alone in a dorm room or holed up in his childhood bedroom, riding out a miserable heat with no biological alleviation.

The idea that a bonded separation could be worse…

Tony has to laugh, though it comes out more like a strangled sob. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “So, let me get this straight—I spend days here clawing my way out of being forcibly bonded to some sadistic bastard, just for you to tell me that if I do bond—willingly, in theory—it might actually, what. Kill me?”

Erskine doesn’t smile, doesn’t so much as flinch at Tony’s forced levity. “Tony,” he says, voice low and gentle, “I know this isn’t the answer you want to hear. And I am… deeply sorry. But if your Alpha is being deployed, I just urge you to consider the ramifications.” He pauses, watching Tony closely. “If your attachment is strong now, it will be tenfold once the bond is complete. And without him present to support you through your cycles, it will not simply be painful—it will be debilitating. Potentially even—”

“Dangerous,” Tony finishes flatly, not looking at him. “Yeah, yeah, I caught that part.” His fingers tighten into fists against his thighs, knuckles aching from the strain.

The air between them is heavy, thick with the weight of all the unchangeable things. Tony presses his lips together, swallowing the rising sting in his throat.

This is what you fought for, some voice in his head mocks. You wanted to be free. You wanted independence.

But he doesn’t want it. Not indefinitely. Not like this. Not when it means standing by and watching Bucky—his Alpha—get shipped off to hell without so much as a tether to pull him home.

Tony hesitates, mouth suddenly dry. It feels naive—and slightly grotesque—to even say it out loud, but the question’s been gnawing at him for weeks.

Since the godforsaken gala.

“If… if we bond anyway—not saying we will, by the way, this is purely theoretical—and, God forbid, he—” Tony’s voice cracks. “If h-he—dies in the war… would my mark… would it, you know, turn black? Rot?”

Erskine, for once, looks genuinely taken aback by one of Tony’s questions, as if the Omega finally managed to lob a genuine curveball in his direction. “Rot?” he echoes, confusion etched across his usually calm features. “Tony, why would you think—?”

Tony presses his lips together, heart pounding. “Look. I— I’m not exactly well-read on, you know, Alpha biology. Or… or any bond mechanics. I went to a shitty boarding school that force-fed us sterilized propaganda. Lots of questionable textbooks. But I’ve—the Alpha my dad tried bonding me to, Tiberius Stone; he has a wrist bite, and… it’s black. Twisted. Like it’s rotted away.” He drags a shaky breath. “I always assumed it was because he… his first mate died. I mean, that’s what everyone says. There are… rumors. That he, y’know. Killed her. Severed their bond, left it to rot. But then—” He forces himself to hold Erskine’s gaze. “They also say, theoretically, that death doesn’t fully sever a bond. Which is why second bonds for Alphas aren’t as strong.”

Which is why they usually save second Alpha bonds for infertile, second-class male Omegas.

As Tony speaks, Erskine’s expression twists—first with confusion, then dawning realization, before finally settling into something heavier, something wary and deeply apprehensive.

“Black scarring on an Alpha’s bond mark—indicates an intentional sever.” He sighs heavily, clearly troubled. “Tony, if your Alpha were to die in the line of duty, or from any cause not of his own choosing, your bond would… linger. It wouldn’t rot. The scar wouldn’t twist black. That sort of decay only occurs when a mate forcibly and willingly drives the bond to destruction—most often, by one partner ending their own life to break the tie.”

The words settle like lead in Tony’s gut. He can feel them sinking, twisting, pressing against something deep and fundamental inside him, something he’s not sure he has the stomach to face.

Because… oh.

Tiberius didn’t kill his first mate.

He drove her to kill herself.

Tony’s head swims.

Because he knows this, deep down—that severing a bond isn’t something you do. It isn’t a choice, some mistake, an unfortunate accident.

It’s never been some inconvenience a person can just opt out of when it no longer serves them.

It’s—

It’s unheard of.

It’s an abomination.

Even thinking about it feels like trespassing onto cursed ground, like uttering something so forbidden that the universe itself should recoil.

There’s a reason people don’t talk about it. A reason no one even wants to talk about it.

Because a bond is more than a contract, more than a name scrawled on some outdated marriage document. It’s biological. It’s written into the blood, carved into the marrow of a person’s being. To take a mate is to entwine two bodies, two minds, two entire selves so thoroughly that their scents change, their chemistry shifts, their very instincts rearrange themselves around each other.

It’s why bonded pairs don’t survive the loss of their mate.

Not really. Not truly.

The bond itself never fully disappears—it dwells, in fragments, until there is no mated partner left to sustain it.

Tony swallows hard, stomach twisting and coiling. He thinks of Tiberius, of the scar on his wrist—blackened, twisted, something unnatural in a world where everything about mating bonds is meant to be absolute. Permanent.

He had always figured Tiberius had killed her. It wasn’t exactly a leap in logic.

Because of course he had.

It wasn’t a question of if, really—just a matter of when and how.

Of whether it had been quick or if Tiberius had drawn it out just to watch her squirm. Whether it had been a moment of temper, or something calculated, something drawn up like a business plan, signed and sealed with all the precision of a man who had never once made a decision without thinking about how it would benefit him.

Tony had assumed it with the same certainty he assumed the sky was blue, that gravity pulled downward.

Of course Tiberius fucking Stone had killed his first mate.

It hadn’t even mattered to Tony, really—not in the way it probably should have. Not in the way a normal, stable, grounded person would have reacted to that knowledge.

Because the second he had met Tiberius, the second he had looked into those cold, calculating eyes, Tony had known. He had recognized the kind of man he was dealing with.

But this—this is something else.

Because it means she chose it.

It means she had to wake up every day in that bond, trapped with a man like that, and realize—again and again and again—that there was only one way out.

This means she looked at death and saw something softer than the alternative.

The bile rises in Tony’s throat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, throat tight, barely even aware that he’s said it out loud.

Erskine exhales, slow and measured. “It is a terrible thing, yes.”

Tony shakes his head, laughter bubbling up in his chest in a way that doesn’t feel remotely sane. “Shit,” he breathes again. “Oh, well, that’s fucking fantastic. Poetic, even,” he says, voice scraping raw. “Good to know the universe has a built-in failsafe for getting rid of shitty Alphas.”

Erskine’s gaze remains steady. “It’s quite barbaric.”

Tony huffs out another breathless, half-mad chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, silver lining with voiding this contract, I guess—at least I don’t have to send him an ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ letter.” He drops his hand, mouth quirking in something that barely resembles a smile. “Talk about dodging a bullet. Though, gotta say—kinda makes me wonder how he planned to get me there.”

Erskine’s brow furrows. “Pardon?”

Tony gestures vaguely, his fingers twitching with restless energy. “You know. To that point. The point where checking out starts to seem like the only viable option.” His voice is distant, detached, like he’s discussing someone else’s tragic fate instead of narrowly avoiding it himself. “I mean, let’s be real—our grand romance was dead on arrival. So what d’you figure his approach would’ve been? Slow suffocation? Mind games? Isolation?” He tilts his head, expression going thoughtful. “Ooh—maybe just sheer, unrelenting boredom. The man loves the sound of his own voice—could’ve droned me straight into an early grave. Probably figured I’d off myself just to escape another monologue.”

Erskine doesn’t react, but something in his expression tightens.

Tony shrugs, a careless thing, like his insides aren’t crawling with something thick and ugly. “Real shame, huh? Guess we’ll never know.”

For a long moment, there’s silence. Then Erskine sighs, long and weary. “Tony.”

That’s it. Just his name.

Because Tony won’t let himself think about what it means—what it really, truly means—that his father had every intention of handing him over to a man who had done this before.

That Howard had known, or at the very least, hadn’t cared. That this was very close to being his future.

Because if he does think about it too hard, if he lets himself actually sit with the horror of it—

Well.

He might not stop screaming.

Erskine exhales, watching him for a moment longer before leaning back slightly. “Come,” he says gently, standing from his chair. “We should return to the lab.”

Tony nods again, but he doesn’t move right away. He takes one more deep breath, pressing a hand over the spot where his own mating gland lies, untouched, unmarked.

Because despite everything Erskine has just laid out—despite the horrors that hover like a miasma around Tiberius Stone—Tony’s fingers linger over the side of his neck. At the base of his throat, where his mating gland rests, still unbitten.

It’s warm. Throbbing.

He can practically feel the rush of his pulse under his skin, like a low-level fever he can’t shake. He doesn’t need Erskine to tell him what it means. He knows this ache, the restless burn that’s been gnawing at him for days, ever since Bucky had kissed him goodnight against the frame of his dorm room door—casual, fleeting, the kind of kiss exchanged a hundred times before without ceremony, without second thought.

Ever since Bucky’s hand had curled at the nape of Tony’s neck, warm and steady, a gentle press of his thumb against the edge of his jaw like he always did, like it was instinct. Ever since Bucky had murmured something soft—sleep tight, sweetheart—before pulling away, the ghost of his breath still warm against Tony’s skin.

Ever since that moment—so unremarkable in its simplicity, so devastating in hindsight—before either of them realized that it wouldn’t just be a weekend apart. That it wouldn’t just be another weekend of separate schedules, of late-night phone calls and rescheduled plans.

Before they knew that it would be the last time.

Before everything fell apart.

And now Tony can feel the absence of that kiss like a missing limb. The restless twinge that’s been gnawing at him for days, ever since he woke up in the SSR with no contact, no scent, no anchor.

Bucky had called it bonding sickness, once. Back when they had first met and they were trying to put words to the physical connection that felt stronger than a name—it feels like a lifetime ago.

But Tony still feels it. The phantom ache that spreads whenever they have to spend a night apart.

Tony, missing an Alpha he can’t even touch, heat swirling under his skin as if he were in a heat cycle, but he isn’t.

He’s just… missing.

He presses his palm more firmly over the gland as though he can quell the steady pulse. It hurts, but in a dull, muffled sort of way—like an echo of a wound that hasn’t happened yet.

Tony forces a tight swallow. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about how Bucky’s the only reason he dared fight off Tiberius at all, the only reason he’s able to stay upright when every cell in his body screams for rest, for relief, for that smell of cedar and smoke and snowfall and warmth.

He exhales sharply and forces his feet to move, falling into step behind Erskine.

They walk in silence through the corridors, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the muted hum of the SSR complex pressing in from all sides.

And still, under it all, under the hum of machines and the distant murmur of voices—Tony feels the pull.

Like something tethered to him just out of reach.

Something calling him home.

A couple of days drift by after Tony’s tense conversation with Erskine, melting into a blur of lab work, restless nights, and silent meals under the hum of flickering lights. He’s lost count of how many times he’s run the meltdown calculations in his head, how many times he’s woken up from half-formed dreams about Tiberius and Bucky and unbreakable bonds.

He’s reviewing yet another coil alignment schematic—barely seeing the lines on the page—when a different stiff-backed guard appears in the lab doorway. “Mr. Stark,” the man says, tone clipped. “Colonel Phillips has requested your presence. Immediately.”

Tony’s pen stills over the blueprint. Finally.

He follows in silence, letting the guard lead him through the twisting corridors. Thirteen days he’s been trapped in this bunker, waiting for the War Department to hammer out the last details of his emancipation, waiting for someone—anyone—to grant him a sliver of normalcy.

The guard stops at a heavy steel door and raps twice. When it swings open, Tony steps inside, pulse skittering.

The room is cramped, no windows, the overhead light casting everything in a harsh, clinical glow. Colonel Phillips stands behind a metal desk, hands braced on either side of a thick stack of papers. Next to him, Senator Brandt waits with folded arms and an impatient line to his mouth. A handful of SSR brass linger at the edges: a couple of faceless staffers, an officer whose name Tony perpetually forgets, and, off to the side, Dr. Erskine—looking tired but faintly relieved.

Tony’s gaze flickers around, half expecting Howard to be there too, lurking with that quiet, coiled anger. But his father is conspicuously absent.

“Stark,” Phillips growls, beckoning Tony forward. “Sit.” He points to a metal chair across from the desk, next to a mountainous stack of documents that look so classified, they might combust at any second.

Tony swallows, nerves twisting.“You know, Colonel, you really have a way of making a guy feel welcome. Ever thought about a career in hospitality?”

Senator Brandt lifts an officious brow. “Stark, we’ve expended a great deal of effort ensuring your… unique circumstances were properly addressed. This—” He gestures at the formidable stack of papers. “—is the outcome.”

Tony eyes the mass of documents. “You’d think you’d at least supply a decent fountain pen,” he mutters. “Or a lawyer.”

Phillips’s mouth tightens. “Just sign, Stark.”

Tony huffs, settling onto the chair. Fine. He flicks open the first sheaf of papers, skimming the headings: Strategic Scientific Reserve—Project Rebirth—Confidential Terms and Nondisclosure. Next: Omega Emancipation Contract—Anthony Edward Stark. Another: Bond Nullification Agreement—Stark / Stone.

It’s all so formal, so heavily notated with legal jargon, cross-references, stamps, and disclaimers. He feels like he’s reading a small country’s constitution.

He glances up, about to crack another wise remark, but stops short at Phillips’s stern glare. “Shut up and sign, Stark,” the Colonel repeats, more slowly. “We don’t have all day.”

Tony bites back a retort—no sense picking a fight now—and flips through the pages. The first sections revolve around the standard hush-hush clauses: how he can’t breathe a word about Project Rebirth to anyone outside SSR approval, what he’s responsible for if there’s a security leak, the standard threats about espionage charges that would land him in federal prison for life.

Joy.

He scribbles his signature (still shaky from exhaustion) where indicated, ignoring Brandt’s impatient tapping. Next come the official forms that sever Howard’s guardianship: disclaimers referencing obscure wartime statutes, half a dozen references to Tony’s “unique strategic importance.”

Tony’s chest tightens with something akin to satisfaction as he scrawls his name across the lines that declare I am no longer property of Howard Stark. The SSR official on the side steps in to notarize each signature with brisk efficiency.

And then Tony turns the page and sees Contract for Nullification of Omega Bond, Tiberius Stone / Anthony Stark.

He stills, pulse picking up. The words blur for a second: Void ab initio… invalidated under special circumstances… rendered non-binding.

There’s a signature line for Tony Stark, a signature line for Tiberius Stone, and another for Howard Stark.

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, is this gonna be an issue?” He taps the names with his pen, glancing around. “I assume Stone’s exactly doing handsprings over our breakup.”

Senator Brandt clears his throat. “We, ah, reached out to Mr. Stone through official channels—without divulging anything sensitive about your position here, of course. As far as he’s concerned, you’ve become indispensable to the war effort, and thus, your contract with him has been deemed a liability.”

Phillips grunts in confirmation. “We might’ve implied you’re under indefinite protective custody. He can’t forcibly claim you if the War Department itself says you’re not available.” The Colonel’s lip curls in something like disdain. “I doubt he’s pleased, but he’s not stupid. He doesn’t want to cross the U.S. Army.”

Tony snorts softly. He can imagine Tiberius’s reaction—rage tempered only by self-preservation. “I take it he didn’t take the news well.”

Brandt’s mouth twists. “If the vitriolic telegram he sent is any indication, no. He did not.”

A hollow satisfaction blooms in Tony’s chest. Good. The bastard deserves to choke on every ounce of frustration.

Still, the lines requiring Tiberius’s signature stand out like black stains on the page. Tony wonders if Tiberius will sign them voluntarily, or if he’ll stall. But from the look on Phillips’s face, the War Department has ways of making him cooperate—likely involving threats of espionage or sabotage charges.

“Right,” Tony mutters, leaning forward to scrawl his signature in the designated spot. His breath catches as the pen scratches across paper, effectively severing the final tie that bound him to Tiberius Stone.

He sets the pen down, half-expecting something—a rush of triumph, a wave of relief.

But mostly, he just feels tired.

Brandt snatches the pages back, scanning them with a pinched expression. Another official (some SSR adjutant, presumably) steps up to notarize, stamping each page with a metallic seal.

“Congratulations,” Brandt says drily, handing the documents to the adjutant for safekeeping. “You are no longer under Mr. Stone’s contract, nor under your father’s guardianship. As of this moment, the War Department recognizes you as an emancipated Omega.”

Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. Finally.

“There’s more,” Phillips grumbles, picking up another stack from the desk. “Nondisclosure agreements, property disclaimers, details of your continued obligations to Project Rebirth, including any future meltdown fixes. You’ll remain on file as a civilian consultant, subject to recall if we have further questions. Sign here, and here, and—”

Tony nods absently, flipping through the pages. It’s all boilerplate: hush-hush about everything, SSR retains the right to rope him back in if meltdown issues resurface, etc., etc. He snatches the pen again, scrawling his signature at the bottom of each form.

His hand aches by the time he finishes. He sets the pen down with a click, rolling the tension from his neck, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on him. Erskine’s included.

Brandt leans in, swiftly checking each signature. Satisfied, he tucks them away into a thick dossier. “That should do it.”

Phillips nods once, curt. “Welcome to the rest of your life, Stark. Don’t screw it up.”

Tony huffs a tired laugh. “I’ll do my best, Colonel.”

He glances at Erskine, who offers him a subtle, approving nod. The other SSR staffers look relieved—one or two might actually be happy for him, though Tony’s not sure. The rest probably just want their meltdown expert to be done with personal drama so he can finalize the Rebirth Chamber.

The door creaks open, admitting a uniformed aide who steps in to retrieve the stack of completed forms from Brandt. Tony tries to ignore the wave of vulnerability that hits him as he watches them vanish from sight—all that paperwork, the keys to my future, in someone else’s hands.

But it’s done, or close enough.

No more Tiberius Stone. No more forced contract. No more guardianship from Howard.

Tony is… free.

Phillips exhales, flipping through the last of the pages with a grunt of finality. “That’s it, Stark,” he mutters. “We’ll arrange a car to send you back to Manhattan.”

Tony leans back in his chair, pressing his fingertips to his temples like he’s staving off the world’s worst headache. “Oh, no. No, no, absolutely not.” He waves a dismissive hand in the air. “With all due respect, Colonel—and I mean this with every ounce of sincerity in my body—the last time your men ‘transported’ me anywhere, I was abducted, blindfolded, and thrown into the back of a government utility vehicle with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Just let me call my butler.”

Phillips looks unimpressed. “Stark—”

“No, no, I insist,” Tony says, standing up and stretching his aching limbs. “I’ll spare your boys the hassle. Trust me, they’ve done enough damage to my trust issues—and my kidneys—for one lifetime.”

Phillips glares at him but doesn’t argue. It’s clear he doesn’t give a damn how Tony gets out of the bunker—only that he does.

They’re on the same page there, at least.

Tony, for his part, has no intention of going back to Manhattan. Maybe ever again, if he can fucking help it.

Not like Howard’s going to let him set foot on the property anyway.

No, he’s not going to Manhattan.

He’s going to Brooklyn.

He’s going home.

#winteriron #bucky barnes #tony stark #wip #ao3 #steve rogers #alpha/beta/omega au #captain america #tony stark x bucky barnes #ao3fic

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ivyues · 23 hours ago

Text

Chasing Yesterday | 5 | - Bang Chan

Bang Chan x lost connection trainee friend

Years after splitting paths, Bang Chan didn't expect a simple text to bring an old friend – and old feelings – back into his life.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

After countless late nights together, the song was finally complete. Now, as you sat at your desk, gazing at the finished track on your laptop, a smile tugged at your lips – reflecting on the journey that had brought you here.

Here, where your relationship with Chris had deepened to the point where you could proudly call yourself his girlfriend. If his bandmates had their way, though, you were already more than that; they jokingly referred to you as their "mother" behind your back. You knew it was only a matter of time before they let it slip in your presence. The more you got to know them, the clearer it became – they would seize any opportunity to tease your dear boyfriend. After all, that was just their way of showing love.

Your phone buzzed, breaking your thoughts. His name flashed across the screen, and without hesitation, you answered.

“Hey,” you greeted, already knowing why he was calling.

“Hey baby,” Chris’ voice came through, warm and familiar. “Did you finish it?”

“Just exported the final mix,” you confirmed, leaning back in your chair. “I’ll send it over now.”

There was a beat of silence before he asked, “Are you sure?”

You frowned slightly. “Of course. I mean, you put in just as much work as I did. If you want to use it for the group, go ahead. I don’t even need credit if it’ll keep things from getting messy.” You tried to keep your tone light, teasing. “As long as you know that I also gave birth to this song.”

Chris chuckled, but there was something thoughtful in the sound. “I know,” he murmured. “But… I wasn’t planning on releasing it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? But why? I thought you guys did some special songs for one of your concerts? It’s a great song after all, Chris. And you worked so hard on it, we both did—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “But some things don’t need to be seen by the whole world.”

Something in the way he said it made your heart stutter.

You swallowed, warmth spreading through your chest. “So you want to keep it just for us?”

“Yeah.” His voice was soft, sincere. “It can be just ours.”

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment before Chris hesitated. You could hear the way he inhaled, slow and measured, as if he were preparing himself for something.

“Speaking of the concerts…” he sighed, the weight of his thoughts heavy in his voice. “I don’t want you feeling like you have to… but how would you feel about coming to one of ours? You don’t have to, it’s totally okay if you don’t. I just don’t want to not ask you in case you wanted—”

You cut him off before he could spiral further. “Chris, I don’t want to think about what could have been. I just want to support you and enjoy it.”

He was quiet for a moment before he exhaled, a mix of relief and something more complicated. “I just… I don’t want to show you what you could have had, even though it was never something you could have.”

You understood what he meant – understood the way his heart worked, always worrying, always caring too much. And yet, you had already made peace with the past.

-----

The concert was electrifying. You had seen Chris perform before, but never like this. He commanded the stage effortlessly, pouring raw energy into every lyric. It was mesmerizing. The bass thrummed through your chest, and every time his gaze flickered to your spot in the crowd, a secret smile tugged at your lips.

As you made your way towards the exit, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Meet me backstage? 😉

You rolled your eyes fondly and typed back a quick On my way.

Security let you through without question – Chris had clearly made arrangements. Weaving past the crew packing up equipment, you found a quiet spot near the wall, pulling out your phone while you waited. The adrenaline from the concert still hummed in your veins, but you were content, scrolling idly through your notifications.

A sudden presence slid up beside you, too close, too fast.

“Heeey.”

A firm nudge against your shoulder sent you jolting forward with a startled yelp, your phone nearly slipping from your grasp. Heart racing, you turned sharply – only to find Chris grinning like a mischievous kid.

“You—” You smacked his arm, half-gasping, half-laughing. “I hate you.”

“Liar.”

His eyes twinkled as he nudged you again, softer this time. He was practically vibrating with post-concert energy, the rush of the performance still coursing through him. His skin glowed with sweat, his hair a tousled mess, but he had never looked happier.

From a few meters away, a familiar voice cut through your flustered silence.

“Smooth move, man. Scare her—solid strategy.”

Chris only grinned wider, shameless. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You groaned, while he laughed, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. The warmth of his hold, the lingering thrill of the night, and the teasing lilt in his voice made it impossible to stay mad.

He leaned in, his voice quieter now – just for you. “I’m glad you came.”

You sighed, relenting, and let yourself melt into his embrace. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”

Before you could say more, Chris’s gaze flicked toward the stage area, his expression shifting.

“Oh—JYP’s here.”

You frowned. “What?”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Yeah, I just found out. They called me to film something with him real quick.”

Your breath hitched. Your eyes widened slightly before you quickly schooled your expression.

Chris noticed. “Wanna say hi?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “He’s never gonna remember me.”

Before he could argue, movement in your periphery caught your attention. A group – including said person himself, some members, a manager, and a few staff – was on their way to pass by where you were standing, presumably for better lighting.

Your stomach twisted slightly. The last time you saw that person, you were told that you didn't make it, that you weren't enough.

At first, he barely glanced at you. But then, as you greeted him casually, his gaze snapped back, his expression shifting. Recognition flickered across his face before his eyes widened.

“Wait… Do I know you?”

Chris looked between you, intrigued.

You smiled politely. “I’m Y/N. We used to train together," you said gesturing towards Chris.

He exhaled, still looking stunned.

After a few moments of catching up, he turned to Chris and the others. “We were just about to go eat. You should come.” Then, his gaze flicked to you. “You too.”

You hesitated. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

Chris nudged you. “Come on.”

You sighed, already knowing you’d lost. “Fine.”

His grin widened.

-----

The dinner was lively, filled with conversations that bounced between lighthearted jokes and deep discussions about the industry. You mostly listened, enjoying the energy of it all – until a music executive you showed your songs to when you were a trainee turned to you, his expression thoughtful.

"Are you still writing?"

You blinked, caught off guard. Across the table, Chris looked at you curiously.

You hesitated before answering. "A little. Just for myself."

He nodded, as if considering something. Then, casually, he said, "We’re always looking for new songwriters. If you have anything, send it in. No pressure, of course."

For a moment, the conversation around you blurred.

Chris' gaze flickered toward you, but he didn’t say anything. He knew – better than anyone – what this offer meant. What it stirred in you.

Your fingers curled around your glass. Once, an opportunity like this would’ve been everything to you. Once, you might have said yes without hesitation.

But now…

You liked your life. You liked music being yours – something you could love without the weight of deadlines, industry expectations, and the pressure to create for others. Your world was full of music already, but on your terms.

And you didn’t want to step back into an industry that had once drained the joy out of something you loved.

You exhaled, slowly. Then, with a small smile, you shook your head.

"I appreciate it," you said honestly. "But I’m happy where I am."

He studied you for a moment before nodding in understanding. "That’s good to hear."

Chris nudged your knee under the table, a quiet gesture, but when you met his eyes, there was nothing but pride there.

And just like that, the night moved on. No big moment, no regret.

masterlist

#bang chan imagines #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #bang chan scenarios #stray kids scenarios #bang chan #stray kids #skz #skz scenarios #skz x reader #skz x you #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #skz fluff #bang chan fluff #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #stray kids fluff

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jackactuallywrites · 21 hours ago

Text

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 19

Warnings: Ghost makes you get out of bed when you’re hungover

Summary: 2

Notes: My grammarly broke and deleted a bunch of text and I’m too salty to rewrite so ENJOY xoxo

Word Count: 1,751

ao3 link

When you awoke again, you were alone.

Sunlight was beginning to filter through the curtains, not that you appreciated it in your hungover state, and when you shifted away from it, purring immediately started. Soap had noticed you were awake, and had now decided you needed a head massage, his claws digging into your scalp. You rolled away from him, searching for your phone and finding it on charge on your bedside table, alongside a pint of water, a pack of ibuprofen, and your mini whiteboard. Clearly, Ghost had been busy.

‘Gone to shops. Be back soon. Drink water. - S’

Soap walked onto your chest, demanding your attention, and you grumbled, shuffling to sit up in bed, wrapping the duvet around yourself as you grabbed the water and chugged it, desperate for hydration, following it with two ibuprofen. God, you hoped it kicked in soon. It felt like someone had put a vice on your head. You settled back down in bed, letting Soap nestle by your side as you got your phone, lazily scrolling through it as you fussed Soap’s head.

A short while later, you heard the front door go. That would be Ghost back, you imagined. How he’d managed to get up and go shopping after a night out like that was beyond you. You should have gotten up to help him put things away, but you had no desire to get out of bed while your head still throbbed. After a minute, he came to you anyway, peering his head around the door and then coming in once he realised you were awake.

“How you feeling?”

In the daylight, you could see that he didn’t look quite as chipper as he had the night before, a certain pale quality to his skin making him look sickly, the bruising on his face only adding to the effect, complimenting the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t changed his outfit, still wearing his jeans and t-shirt. At least you weren’t the only one who was hungover.

“Like shit. You?”

“Been better.”

“The almighty Ghost finally brought down to the level of the rest of us?”

He snorted at you, “Could still take you down in a flash, darlin’.”

You yawned and spread out on the pillows, “You should come back to bed. Sleep it off.”

“You’re getting up.”

“Like hell I am.”

“Either you get up, or I get you up.”

God, you could really see the Lieutenant in him. No doubt he was a complete hardass to the soldiers unlucky enough to be underneath him. You folded your arms across your chest, “I’m not one of your little underlings. My house, my rules.”

Clearly, that had been a mistake. In one fluid motion, Ghost had reached forward to grab the bottom of the duvet and then whipped it off the bed, rudely interrupting Soap’s snooze, who went running into the living room and leaving you exposed in just your knickers. You grabbed a pillow to hide your chest, scowling at Ghost, “You prick!”

“You getting up?”

“No!”

“You gonna make me come over there?”

“Try it!”

You’d been betting on his being hungover to deter him, but that had clearly been a poor choice. He reached out to grab your ankles, pulling you down the bed with ease until your ass was at the very edge, your feet on the floor either side of his. There was no real point in resisting, but you were too stubborn not to, clutching the pillow tightly to your chest as you scowled up at him. He reached out to grab your wrists, pulling you slowly upright into a sitting position as you did your best to be a dead weight. Ghost looked down at you. “You have two options. You can get up and get dressed, or you’re having breakfast in your knickers.” The second you took to consider your options was apparently your answer, and he lifted you from the bed, holding your wrists up above your head and letting the pillow drop to the floor as he turned you around, pressing your back to his chest and then marching you into the living room. There was nothing you could do in protest, so you just stumbled forward at his insistence, letting him lead you to the sofa.

Ghost had laid out a full buffet for you on the coffee table; there were bacon butties from Greggs, and two mugs of tea, alongside several bottles, a milkshake, a green smoothie, a pink smoothie, a lucozade and a Powerade. It was a hungover paradise. It was almost enough for you to forgive him for dragging you out of bed. Almost. As you reached the front of the sofa, Ghost dropped your arms, letting you cover your chest, and he pointed to the sofa, “Sit.” You did as you were told, sinking down into the cushions, glaring up at him. He was entirely unbothered by your fiery gaze, sitting on the other end of the sofa, “Nobody likes losing. Pick a fight you can win next time.”

There was no way you could comfortably eat and cover your chest at the same time, so you gestured at him, “I’m not eating breakfast with my tits out. Give me your top.”

“What do I get out of this?” He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back on the sofa as he looked you over appreciatively, “I quite like the view as it is.”

What would Ghost want?

“I’ll give you the keys to my apartment.”

“Don’t need ‘em.”

Of course he didn’t.

“I’ll let you pick the film tonight.”

“Pass.”

You scowled at him, and he grinned back at you, clearly enjoying the little game he was playing.

“Please.”

“Took you that long to remember your manners?”

It had been that easy, apparently. Ghost reached down to grab the bottom of his top, pulling it up over his head in one fluid motion. You could see his torso now, purple and green bruises dappling his skin in the same way they were spread across his face, as well as several healing scabs spattered across his ribs. The burn scar you’d seen on his thigh clearly continued up over his hip to his waist, the skin taut and shiny. You’d never seen such a battered body before; someone clearly had an issue with him. Several somebodies, by the look of it. Battered, and yet undeniably beautiful. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a ‘slutty rugby men’ calendar, his chest well built, biceps huge, and the ridges of his abs clear on his stomach. It was all entirely too distracting. You held your hand out for his top, but he kept it in his hand, dangling it out of your reach. “You have to come and get it.”

“Seriously?”

He simply grinned in response.

It was bait; you knew it, but you still took it, hook, line and sinker. You shifted across the sofa toward him, and as soon as you were close enough to snatch the top from his hand, his hand flashed upward, holding it high in the air above his head. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he just tilted his head and smiled. He was having too much fun. Still, you played along, shifting one leg over his so you were straddling his lap, keeping one arm pressed tight over your chest as you reached up to try and grab the T-shirt from him. As you stretched up, his other hand reached out to steady you, holding your hip, his thumb skating over your hipbone. Your fingers were so close, fingertips brushing against the fabric, and Ghost’s hand moved from your hip to your lower back, his trailing fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You did your best to ignore him as you finally grabbed the top. At the slightest tug, he let it go, and you looked down to give him a very sarcastic thanks.

Your face was too close to his. His nose was inches away from yours, his lips parted, letting you feel his warm breath fanning out over yours. At this distance, you could see every detail, the myriad of green and grey shades in his eyes, the scar on his eyebrow, the bump of his nose, the gentle curve of his eyelashes. If you leant forward, you could kiss him. Your brain couldn’t seem to think of anything else in that moment, utterly transfixed.

“Food’s gonna go cold.”

The haze that had crept around your mind slowed your response, and you blinked a couple times as you tried to think. How could he think of food at a time like this? He didn’t give you time to respond, taking the top from your hands and quickly yanking it down over your head, breaking the connection between you. You shoved your arms through the holes, and he picked you up, shifting you to the side so he could lean over and unzip what must have been an overnight bag, taking out a fresh t-shirt and pulling it over his head, covering himself back up. He leaned forward to grab his mug of tea and a bacon butty, leaning back against the sofa as he took a sip, looking at you over the rim of his mug. Again, he gestured at the food.

“Eat.”

You were beginning to realise some things about Ghost. For one, he really was quite strict. Probably the soldier in him. Secondly, he cared, and he cared a lot. He could have just brought you tea in bed, but he’d gone out and gotten every drink a hungover person could possibly want, even when he was clearly suffering himself. Yet, the most interesting discovery was how adept he actually was at avoiding intimacy. Sure, he’d flirted with you, teased you, felt you up a little, but he didn’t let you touch him in the same way. Any second there was a chance for real intimacy, he would back off, using some convenient excuse to play off his avoidance. He watched you as you took your tea off the coffee table, clearly noticing the way you were looking at him.

“Fantasise about me later, darlin’. Eat.”

You did as you were told, grabbing your bacon butty off the table and tucking in, the salt and grease an absolute balm to your troubled stomach, but you continued to quietly plot in your head. Payback was a bitch, and so were you.

#jack writes #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cod #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #cod fic #simon ghost x reader

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skribbledarker · 3 days ago

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VAMP SANJI WIP UPDATE!1!1!1 i finally got off my ass and started writing ts so. have a snippet. context is that Sanji’s germa genes are starting to take effect OHHH hes not gonna have anything good happen to him from here on out sorry yall…enjoy

—

“I missed you.”

“Wh—” Sanji completely forgot he wasn’t alone. He jumps and the knife slips; Sanji registers a sharp pain in his thumb before he really has the chance to process what the hell Zoro just said. “Ow, shit—”

“Cook?”

“Ugh, fucking nicked myself,” Sanji hisses. he sticks the tip of his finger in his mouth, sucking on the pad of his thumb to stave the bleeding off when the coppery taste of way more blood than there should be fills his mouth.

Sanji lets the knife clatter to the counter as he scans the sink area for a dish towel, the pain from the cut throbbing dully as he grabs one and quickly bunches it over the digit. Zoro shifts from his perch on the couch, the bottle he was holding clinking on the wood as he puts it down. “You sure?”

“Yeah, m’fine, just—“ Sanji scans the counter for any stains, and oh, that is a good chunk of flesh with a fingernail sticking out of it just sitting on the table. That is a quarter of his thumb. on the table. What the fuck. Sanji feels panic well up inside him, because he just sliced off half of his fucking finger.“—Oh.”

“What the hell are you doing over there?”

The words go in one ear and out of the other. Carefully, very carefully, Sanji removes the towel from over his thumb (Chopper would be fucking screaming at him for not putting pressure on the wound, but he needs to see the damage) and…

…It’s fine. His thumb looks fine, whole. Once he frantically wipes the rest of the blood off, there’s barely even a cut. Again, what the fuck, because Sanji knows he just chopped off a good portion of that digit and it’s laying right next to him.

And then Sanji watches, breath tight in his chest, as the remaining wound on his thumb starts knitting itself together. The cut fully closes, leaving nothing but pink, tender, skin behind, and everything seems to grind to a halt as Sanji realizes exactly what this means.

“Do you need a bandage?” Zoro is somehow behind him now, looking over Sanji’s shoulder, and he scrambles to throw the dish towel over the incriminating chunk of his finger still on the counter before the swordsman can see.

Sanji barely spares enough focus to bat him away with his other hand, still reeling from the revelation. “Go– fucking sit down, it’s not even bleeding anymore.”

“Whatever. You’re being weird.” Zoro throws his arms up in defeat.

“Your face is weird!”

“I’ll gut you.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Fine,” Zoro tromps back his perch on the galley’s couch while Sanji struggles to keep his breathing in check.

It was stupid, really, for Sanji to think that he was in the clear. To believe that everything would all suddenly be over after he’d finally gotten rid of the last of the influence Judge had on him. Or, well, thought he’d finally gotten rid of– Even in its absence, Germa still manages to be ever-present in everything he does. Sanji really should’ve known better.

He pulls a breath in, oblivious to the eyes (eye, really) on his back, wrapping up the offending piece of finger in the towel and chucking the entire thing into the garbage can. Sanji will finish up here, go to sleep, and pray that he’s still him in the morning, because what else is there to do in this fucking situation?

The galley is blissfully silent as Sanji picks up the knife again, finishing off the rest of Franky’s potatoes quickly and carefully; Zoro doesn’t comment on what just happened, or what he said earlier, and Sanji is quietly very glad for that. The entire time, the knowledge of what’s happening in his body sits in the back of the blonde’s mind like a stone. Heavy, threatening to bowl him over with the weight. It stifles him, even as he moves deftly to clean the kitchen and not-so-nicely give the marimo a boot to the ass.

when Sanji falls asleep that night, he dreams of his name: whispered on faceless lips while a sword plunges gently into his chest.

—

ugh i have a slur to say. the two of them are homo leve 100 thousand and Sanji is about to start having a BAD TIME. oka

#zosan #one piece #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #sanzo #fanfic #sanji #ao3 #vamp sanji au stuff #skribble stop starting new project and focus on writing your vamp au challenge #level impossible #wip weekend

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maretinelli · 22 hours ago

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Oiiioii vidoca, vim te pedir algo bem foffinho com o Ollie

To meio pra baixo esses dias pq não consegui entrar na faculdade e eu só queria o Ollie aqui me consolando, mas como não temos, eu me contento lendo o que você escreve perfeitamente

Beijocas❤️

Oii, querida!!! Sinto muito por não ter conseguido, espero que essa história conforte seu coraçãozinho❤️

DAWN WITH SNACKS

Ollie Bearman X Academic!fem!reader

Summary: When they are both exhausted from the day and forget to eat dinner, what makes Ollie take his girlfriend for a late-night stroll with snacks.

Words: 2.8K+

Warnings: Mentions of fast food stores, cute couple, childhood best friends to lovers, mentions of songs and romantic.

Author: English is not my first language, so apologies for any spelling, grammar and slang mistakes that may be in the story. And you can request stories on my profile. ❤️🇧🇷

MASTERLIST

The day had been tiring for both of them. Y/n spent hours at college, dealing with tests, activities and demanding practical training for the Physical Education course. Every muscle in her body seemed to protest with every step she took towards the apartment.

On the other hand, Ollie had an equally exhausting day, spending hours with his fitness trainer, dedicating himself to the maximum to be ready for the return of racing.

When Y/n finally opened the front door, it was already night. The apartment was silent, lit only by the soft light of the television. Ollie was already on the couch, showered, wearing a comfortable sweatshirt. As soon as he saw her, he gave a tired smile.

"Finally home." He commented, extending his hand to her.

Yin dropped her backpack near the door and walked over to him, throwing herself onto the couch and laying on her boyfriend's lap, letting out a long sigh. Ollie chuckled softly, running his hand through her hair, giving it a light caress.

"Tough day?" He asked, his voice calm.

"You have no idea." Y/n murmured, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the affection. "Biomechanics test first thing in the morning, then a group project that almost made me pull my hair out, and to top it off, practical weightlifting training. I swear my arms will never work again."

Ollie let out a low chuckle, his fingers sliding gently across her scalp.

"So at least now you understand how I feel after resistance training." He joked.

"I don't know... I think I'd still rather run than lift weights for hours." Y/n grumbled, snuggling deeper into his lap. "What about you? How was your day?"

"Basically being tortured by my fitness coach," Ollie said, feigning drama. "Sprints, weight training, reaction drills... and all this with him saying, 'You'll thank me for this at the next race.'"

Y/n opened one eye, looking at him with a lazy smile. "And you will?"

"Maybe." Ollie laughed. "But right now I just want to be like this with you."

They stayed there for a while, talking and enjoying each other's company. Ollie's caress of her hair almost made her fall asleep right there. But eventually, Y/n forced herself to get up.

"I'm going to take a shower before I fall asleep here." She said, stretching.

"Good idea." Ollie agreed, though his expression made it clear he didn't want her to leave his side.

Y/n chuckled softly and headed to her room, grabbing a comfortable pair of sweatpants before heading to the shower. The hot water helped relax her tired muscles, and when she returned to the living room, with her hair down and dressed in her sweatsuit, she found Ollie still on the couch, now holding the TV remote.

"Come here." He called, making room beside him and pulling back the blanket.

Y/n smiled and settled next to her boyfriend, laying her head on his chest and hugging his waist. He wrapped one arm around her, while his other hand browsed through the movies on the screen.

"How about The Princess Diaries?" He suggested, already knowing the answer.

"Again?" Y/n looked up at him with an arched eyebrow, but a smile played on her lips.

"It's your favorite." Ollie shrugged. "And I like seeing you happy."

She laughed, squeezing him into a hug. "You're such a cute boyfriend, Bearman."

"I know." He replied, smugly, which made Y/n roll her eyes.

The film began, and at first, they watched it attentively, commenting on the scenes they already knew by heart. But as time passed, the story on the screen took a back seat and the conversation between them took over.

"So, what are we going to do the weekend before the race?" Y/n asked, playing with the hem of his hoodie.

"We could go out to dinner somewhere special," Ollie suggested. "Or maybe we could make it a day just for us, no commitments, no schedules... just relaxing."

"I like that idea." She murmured. "Maybe a picnic? I'll bring the snacks, you bring your date."

"Deal." He smiled. "But only if you promise not to complain when I steal your dessert."

"No way!" Y/n laughed. "If you touch my chocolate, I revoke your right to pet me."

Ollie feigned a shocked look. "That would be cruel."

"Exactly." She said, smiling mischievously.

He chuckled, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head. "Okay, no stealing your chocolate. But only because I like you so much."

"Great choice." Y/n replied, snuggling closer to him.

Hours had passed, and they were still on the couch, snuggled up against each other, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. The movie had already ended minutes ago, but neither of them bothered to turn off the TV.

"Did you know that otters hold hands while they sleep so they don't get lost in the water?" Ollie suddenly said, his voice calm as his fingers gently slid through Y/n's hair.

Y/n lifted her head to look at him with a smile. "Really? That's so cute."

"Yes," he confirmed. "And if an otter loses its mate, it grieves much like humans do."

She frowned, feigning a hurt look. "Why do you tell me such sad things before bed?"

Ollie laughed. "You're the one who started asking random trivia questions!"

She rolled her eyes, but smiled and snuggled back into him. A comfortable silence filled the room until Y/n murmured,

"I am hungry."

Ollie sighed, seeming to realize that he was too. "Now that you mention it... me too."

Y/n stood up slowly, grabbing her cell phone from the coffee table in the living room. "We can order something, like pizza or a burger."

Ollie raised an eyebrow, looking at the clock on the wall. "At this time? I think our favorite restaurants are already closed."

Y/n frowned and looked at her phone screen. "Oh, shit, it's late anyway..." She sighed and threw her phone on the couch. "But I don't have the energy to cook either."

Ollie thought for a second before shrugging. "We can go out and try to find an open drive-thru."

Y/n laughed at the suggestion. "Do you have any idea what you're talking about? Two athletes, one of whom is a health student, going out in the middle of the night to buy fast food? It seems wrong."

Ollie rolled his eyes playfully. "Okay, if you want I can drop you off at home and eat alone."

"No way." She replied, laughing.

He then held out his hand to her. "Then come on, let's go before I change my mind."

Y/n smiled and put on her slippers, heading to the door. "I'll wear sweatpants."

Ollie laughed. "I'll just put a sweatshirt over my pajamas."

Y/n laughed as he disappeared down the hallway, heading to his room. When he came back, he was wearing a dark green hoodie and plaid sweatpants, clearly something he would wear to bed.

She looked at him and let out a low laugh. “You really didn’t put any effort into looking presentable.”

Ollie held up the car keys with a smile. "And do you mind?"

"Not at all." She replied, still laughing.

With that, they left the apartment, ready for their little nighttime adventure in search of food.

Ollie held Y/n's hand as they walked through the building's parking lot, their steps slow and carefree. The night air was cool, and the city around them seemed to be asleep, the silence broken only by the distant sound of a few cars in the distance.

"Okay, we need to decide what we're going to eat before we go driving around aimlessly." Ollie said, shaking her hand lightly.

"Hmm... burger and fries sound like a great idea." Y/n suggested.

"I agree. But what if we find a place that has milkshakes too?" He arched an eyebrow.

"Perfect!" She smiled. "But only if you don't let me mix strawberry milkshake with chicken nuggets again. Bad experience."

Ollie laughed. "I warned you, but you wouldn't listen. Now you've learned your lesson."

She rolled her eyes, laughing, as he unlocked the car with the button on the key fob. They each got in on their own side, and Ollie started the engine, pulling out of the parking lot with no clear destination in mind, hoping to find an open drive-thru.

The city streets were quiet at that time. The streetlights illuminated the dark asphalt, and few people walked along the sidewalks. There was almost no movement, which made the walk even more pleasant. The silence of the early morning brought a sense of calm, contrasting with the hustle and bustle of the day they had.

Y/n was talking about something when suddenly the car radio started playing Wannabe by the Spice Girls.

Her eyes widened and without hesitation, she turned up the volume.

"Oh, not that song!!" Ollie exclaimed, laughing.

"That song YES!" Y/n replied excitedly.

He shook his head, still laughing. "I can't believe this song haunts me. You've embarrassed me enough with it."

"It wasn't embarrassment, it was free entertainment!" Y/n replied, laughing. "Have you already forgotten when I played that song on the speaker in the garage?"

Ollie let out a loud laugh, remembering the scene. "How could I forget? I was trying to concentrate and all of a sudden I hear 'IF YOU WANNA BE MY LOVER' blasting through the speakers!"

Y/n laughed.

"I was trying to get you excited for the race!"

Then, she started singing the song loudly, acting it out exaggeratedly while looking at him and making dramatic gestures.

"I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want" Y/n sings loudly. "Now it's your turn, sing, love!"

Ollie laughed and shook his head. "No way. This moment is all yours."

"Coward." She joked, but continued singing enthusiastically until the song ended. When another song came on the radio, Y/n turned the volume down and turned to him with a mischievous smile.

"I want this song at our wedding. Instead of the bride and groom's waltz, we'll dance Wannabe at the reception."

Ollie laughed out loud, nearly missing the turn. "Do you really want our wedding to be remembered like this?"

"Obviously! It's going to be iconic!"

He looked at her with a smile and shook his head. "Okay, but only if I can wear a plaid suit to go with this madness."

Y/n laughed, throwing her head back. "Deal!"

The love between the two was evident in every look, in every joke and even in the silliest moments. Since childhood, they had loved each other purely and truly, and they would continue to do so until the end of time.

After driving aimlessly for a few minutes, Ollie finally spotted an open McDonald's. He immediately turned the car into the drive-thru and smiled in satisfaction.

"I should get a prize for finding food at this hour," he joked as he stopped in line.

"Congratulations, Bearman, your trophy will be... a snack and chips." Y/n laughed, clapping exaggeratedly.

When it was their turn to order, Y/n stared at the illuminated menu for a few seconds, undecided.

"Hmm... I think I'll have a Big Mac... or a McChicken... no, wait, maybe nuggets..."

Ollie lightly banged his head on the steering wheel, laughing. "For God's sake, Y/n, are you choosing your last meal of your life?"

"This takes some thought, okay?" She countered, still studying the menu.

"Reflection?! It's McDonald's, not a five-star restaurant!"

"Do you want nuggets? Because I can change to nuggets." Y/n asked, completely ignoring his impatient tone.

"I want you to decide before morning!" Ollie joked, rolling his eyes.

She laughed and finally made the request. Ollie ordered his soon after, and within minutes they had bags of food in hand. He drove into the parking lot and parked in a quiet corner, while soft music played from the playlist they had created together.

Y/n opened the bag of fries and, without hesitation, began stealing from Ollie's tray.

"Hey!" The pilot glared at her, feigning indignation. "That's theft of private property!"

She shrugged, popping another potato into her mouth. "You should know that sharing food with me is a lifetime contract."

Ollie grabbed a potato from her tray in response. "So that's how it is? Taking justice into your own hands?"

"Exactly."

Ollie laughed and took some more of her potatoes, teasing her.

"That's not exactly an athlete's diet." Y/n commented, looking at the snack in his hands.

"We burn it all tomorrow in training, so technically this is... strategic refueling."

She laughed and they continued eating, while the conversation flowed naturally.

"Have you ever stopped to think that maybe penguins see humans as strange beings who can't swim well?" Y/n said suddenly.

Ollie stared at her for a moment and then laughed. "Is that what goes through your head while eating a burger?"

"Yes. And another thing, how do fish drink water?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Y/n, for God's sake..."

"No, seriously! They're already in the water, but do they need to drink?"

Ollie thought for a moment and shrugged. "I don't know... maybe they do? Or maybe they absorb it through the skin?"

"That makes sense... wait, do you have dehydrated fish?"

He laughed. "If they do, I hope they find a water McDonald's to solve the problem."

They continued talking about random theories, mixed with childhood memories and inside jokes. Time passed without them noticing, and soon the snacks were gone.

Now, with the empty packages, they sat there in the car, enjoying the calm of the night. The comfortable silence between them was filled only by the soft music from the playlist, as they exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles.

They didn't need big moments to feel happy together. Just each other's company was enough.

When the next song started playing, Ollie recognized the first few chords immediately. Talking To The Moon, by Bruno Mars. A smile appeared on his face, and he raised the volume a little, turning to Y/n.

"You know... that song made me realize that I was in love with you years ago." He said, his voice soft, full of affection. "Every time I heard it, I remembered you..."

Y/n blinked a few times in surprise before smiling. "Why that song?"

Ollie sighed lightly, as if he was reliving that moment.

"Because whenever I was away, traveling to races, you found a way to text me, to ask how I was doing, even with the time difference and your crazy schedule. You always made sure to be there, to support me, even when the whole world seemed too busy to care."

Y/n blushed slightly, lowering her head and playing with the hem of her sweatshirt.

"I'm so lucky to have you in my life." Ollie continued, his eyes fixed on her. "And dating my childhood best friend? That's the best gift I could ever ask for."

Y/n looked up at him, her eyes shining with tenderness. Without saying anything, she smiled and leaned in slightly, her lips meeting his in a sweet, lingering kiss. Ollie brought a hand to her face, deepening the kiss with affection, feeling the comfortable warmth of that moment.

When they pulled away, he smiled and placed a kiss on her cheek, while Y/n leaned back against the car seat again, letting out a yawn.

"See? You're too old to be out this late." Ollie laughed.

"Hey, I'm only 20!" She retorted, rolling her eyes but laughing.

On the way back, the atmosphere in the car was calm, a comfortable silence filled with low music and the good tiredness after a fun night.

Y/n put her feet up on the dashboard and sighed. "That was one of the simplest, but also one of the most wonderful moments we've ever had together."

Ollie smiled, agreeing. "Sometimes impromptu nights are the best."

As soon as they entered the apartment, Y/n let out another yawn and practically threw herself on the couch.

"I could sleep easy here right now," she murmured, burying her face in the pillow.

Ollie locked the door and laughed, approaching her. Without warning, he lay on top of her back, making Y/n let out a little cry of protest.

"OLIVER! Get off me!" She laughed, trying to push him away.

"No, it's comfortable here." He teased, but soon rolled to the side, pulling her into a hug.

Y/n snuggled against his chest, feeling the warmth of Ollie's body.

"You know what? I could sleep here easily too," he said, his voice already a little sleepy.

"So that's what we're going to do." Y/n muttered, closing her eyes for a moment.

Ollie got up quickly, turned off the lights in the apartment and went back to the couch, arranging the blankets for the two of them. As soon as they lay down again, he hugged her from behind, fitting his face in the crook of her neck.

"Good night, my walking insomnia." He whispered, smiling.

Y/n chuckled softly. "Good evening, my favorite pilot."

Little by little, the silence of the night enveloped them both, until they finally fell asleep, cuddled together on the couch, as if that moment were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was. After all, they didn't need anything other than each other to feel at home.

#fanfiction #y/n #romance #imagines #lovers #one shot #formula 1 #formula one #fem reader #ollie bearman x female reader #ollie bearman x y/n #ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman #imagines ollie bearman

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catdiarie · 1 day ago

Text

☥ ˖ִ ࣪ 🦇 memory wave.　⠀s. rogers & b. barnes . . .

( ♱ ) … the winter soldier is coming back to himself. what now? (tw for emetophobia, panic attacks, and general mental instability)

777 。。masterlist

“Maybe if I’d fucked you more and loved you less I could have left this battlefield wearing just bruises and teeth, but I’m sure that even the cavalry knows that there’s a crack in my heart and it’s been leaking your name ever since we stopped fighting this fight. What I’m trying to say is: you win. It’s all yours. I’m tired and I tried. I’m tired and I love you. I’m tired and I didn’t mean to.”

— Azra T.

—

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Bucky says lowly. His head is tilted down, away from Steve’s intense eyes, dark hair likely a tangled mess around his head. He hasn’t moved from the bed yet. Hasn’t looked up or shifted or switched positions. It doesn’t feel right to do so—the bed’s too soft and unfamiliar. He twists his fingers in the stretched hair tie around his wrist again, the elastic pulling further.

“I know,” Steve responds. “And I tried to argue it, but Tony won’t budge. You stay here with someone or not at all. And I thought if I couldn’t convince him of that, I could at least let you have this.”

This: a bedroom across the hall from Steve’s, with Steve as his babysitter/guard. The whole floor is Steve’s, his presence bleeding through the walls.

“You were always too stubborn for your own damn good,” Bucky mutters. His voice rasps in his throat, aching and rough from disuse. “Guess you finally met your match, huh?”

“I guess,” Steve responds. Bucky can almost feel Steve’s apprehension; he’s waiting for something Bucky doesn’t know how to give. His hair tie snaps, the elastic caught in the twisted fabric.

The silence drags, thick and heavy. Bucky can feel nothing but the weight of Steve’s stare and the bitter cold of the room. His skin itches uncomfortably, but the feeling doesn’t leave as he drags his nails over his forearm. It’s deeper than his skin, settled too far beneath the surface for outside touches to have any effect.

Steve is still staring—waiting, watching. Bucky’s skin starts to crawl.

“I’ll bring some food,” Steve says abruptly. Bucky swallows down an instinctual urge he can’t put a name to.

Steve turns sharply, and Bucky raises his head just enough to see Steve past the curtain of his hair. Steve pauses before he opens the door, hand on the handle. He shakes his head and tugs it open.

Steve is gone, and Bucky still can’t breathe.

An hour later when he returns, Bucky has moved to sitting on the floor across the room from the bed. Dusty footprints streak the floor between the two spaces. Bucky hears Steve sigh—something tired and sad.

“I brought soup, a sandwich, carrots, apples, chips, and chocolate,” Steve murmurs. He sets the tray beside Bucky on the floor and lowers himself down beside it.

For a long, heavy moment, Bucky waits. His fingers twitch against his knees—drawn to his chest; always protect the heart—but Steve doesn’t move.

“Aren’t you going to—” Bucky breaks off, swallowing nervously. He’s not sure what to say now. Anything he does say will probably prompt one of those mournful noises Steve lets out whenever he hears about Bucky and—and HYDRA.

“The food is yours, Buck,” Steve murmurs patiently. It’s streaked through with tinges of sadness he either can’t hide well or doesn’t try to hide. “You can eat it. Not poisoned, not altered in any way. Unless you count adding salt.”

It’s a weak attempt at humor—reaching out with clawed hands in hopes of grasping something strong enough to pull yourself up from the edge with. But it falls flat, and Bucky doesn’t smile. He doesn’t think Steve does either.

But Bucky does as Steve says, and pulls the tray closer to eat. The sandwich first—simple turkey and cheese, something Bucky devours within seconds. He sets aside half the chocolate bar and the chips (something in his head rings Steve Steve Steve) and begins gulping down hot mouthfuls of chicken and noodles.

When Bucky finishes all the food that he hadn’t set aside, he’s still a little hungry, but the gnawing ache is gone. He pushes the tray back towards Steve.

“For you,” he mutters roughly.

This, if nothing else, is familiar. Memories have been coming back in fragmented stops and starts, but Bucky remembers saving the best of his meals (when he got them free or away from home) for Steve. ‘Best’ sometimes meant sweets (relentlessly rare and always immediately devoured) and things like blueberries, which Steve loved, or meats and butters, because they got less of those when Steve needed them most. Thin, sickly Steve who Bucky gave the best of nearly everything to.

There’s a brief, hesitant silence before Steve says, “I’m not hungry.” His voice cracks slightly.

Too much thunders through Bucky’s head and he stumbles to his feet and lurches unsteadily out of the room and down the hall. He collapses at the foot of the toilet, heaving back up everything he just ate until his stomach is empty.

Sometime during the ordeal Steve knelt behind him, clumsily clutching Bucky’s hair in his hands, pulling it back. He’s not really touching Bucky’s skin, but Bucky can feel the burning heat of Steve with how close they are. He yanks away from it—away from the soft glide of Steve’s skin and the heat burned along his nape from the nearness of the touch.

He sees Steve’s lips purse before his vision flickers—again, not the first time—everything rapidly going from blurry to clear and back again. He doesn’t process the sweat stinging along his skin until Steve presses a cool, damp towel into his hands. Unsteadily, Bucky wipes at his mouth and his temples, hands wracked with tremors.

“Bucky.”

Bucky groans and tilts his head back against the wall. He’s nearly panting—breaths escaping too fast, tongue lolling like a dog’s. His eyes latch onto a crack in the wall paint, near where it meets the ceiling.

“Bucky.”

“Steve,” Bucky groans. “Steve, Steve, I can’t—”

“Shh, shh,” Steve shushes him. His worried face wobbles in Bucky’s sight. He always draws his eyebrows together, putting a crease between them. “Just breathe. You need to breathe, Buck.”

Bucky groans again, long and low. His skin feels tacky with sweat. Breathing is a hitching, broken affair. Time passes syrupy-slow, everything aching as Bucky regains his breath.

“That’s it, keep doing that,” Steve murmurs as Bucky draws in breaths slowly.

When he feels well enough to (read: like he won’t throw up again), Bucky hangs his head, hiding his face from Steve. He squeezes his eyes shut to ward off the pain of an impending headache. They always come in moments like this—his mind is a porcelain jar, and sharp memories from before crack the surface until light shines onto the inside, dust flying through the air.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky grates out, “about the food.”

“We have more,” Steve responds. Bucky winces at the softness of his tone. He’s just thrown up what Steve gave him and Steve should be angry. But since Bucky got here Steve hasn’t been responding to anything like Bucky anticipates he will. He responds like Steve and somehow that’s more terrifying than the familiarity of anger.

Bucky picks at a stray string along the seam of his pants. Steve is saying something; Bucky’s not listening. He tugs the string harder and a little hole opens up.

“Bucky,” Steve stresses.

“What?”

Steve gapes like a fish and Bucky is just able to see the expression through his hair.

“You just threw up and nearly had a panic attack and you’re fucking—” Steve groans and tugs at his hair. Bucky laughs. It’s broken and gutted and far from happy.

“You didn’t have to bring me here,” Bucky says. “You chose to do that. No one made you. And now—” Bucky gestures at himself “—you get to deal with the mess that comes with it.”

“You’re not a mess,” Steve says firmly. “You’re hurt and that’s not the same.”

Bucky shrugs and drags himself to his feet. He wobbles unsteadily for a moment before brushing past Steve and out of the bathroom, careful to not let their arms touch. A headache has started now. Pressure between his eyebrows, his temples, at the curve of his neck.

The hall lights are blinding. Bucky staggers into his room and slams the door shut in Steve’s face.

Throughout the entire night, Bucky doesn’t sleep. His body trembles with bone-deep cold and his mind paces like a restless wolf.

Steve never comes to the door.

—

The days melt into gusty winds and pounding rains. There’s nothing between him and the slams of thunder across the sky, nothing between insanity and the clutches of humanity curling at the edges of his mind. Nothing but a weak, easily shatterable barrier.

Bucky spends his days curled in a thin blanket on the floor. He stares at the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Empty spaces of nothing but dust.

He hears Steve in the apartment. Steve leaves plates of food outside his door. Sometimes Bucky eats it. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he throws up.

His room is warm. He always pulls a blanket tight around his body, especially across his shoulders and back. It feels like protection—a poor imitation of armor.

It storms that afternoon. Steve is home—Bucky heard him come in earlier. Bucky’s window doesn’t open, something about Tony believing him dumb enough to jump rather than face the Avengers/Steve, but he can see the dark clouds and pouring rain gathering over the city.

Bucky shudders violently as new memory slips into his head, jagged around the edges.

Before the war, Steve hated this weather. It always meant stuffy noses and, in the colder months, the possibilities of sickness heavy in his lungs. Bucky grew to hate it too, because he hated everything that hurt Steve.

Now that means he hates himself.

There’s a knock on Bucky’s door and he turns his unseeing gaze towards the white painted wood.

From behind the door, Steve says, “Uhm, this is—it’s dinner? Lunch? I don’t really know, sorry. If you’re hungry later, let me know and I can make something. Or—you can. Doesn’t have to be me. Anyways, I think it’ll be easier on your stomach, it’s supposed to be good for that.”

Bucky waits until he hears Steve’s footsteps disappear to crack open his door. It creaks wildly and Steve can surely hear it, but by now he knows it’s better to leave Bucky be. Easier for both of them.

He tugs the plate in—bowl of soup, slice of sourdough bread (a delicacy always too expensive for them during the war) with butter, cup of steaming tea.

He’s angry. He wants to hate it—dump the soup and tea down the toilet and throw the bread to the birds. Scream to Steve that everything is different and he’s different and that Steve needs to let go already. Steve doesn’t cook—that’s Bucky’s job. Nothing is right or the same and Bucky is angry.

Instead of any of that, he curls up in the corner of the room and hates himself as he downs spoonfuls of creamy leek soup.

It goes down easy, and his stomach settles.

He doesn’t throw it up.

—

Bucky takes a bath. Not for a while. Not in those first few tentative weeks at the start. But when he decides to take one, single-mindedly focused on this to stave off the twisting pains in his gut and chest, he realizes he doesn’t know how to work Steve’s fancy tub.

He asks Steve, in the end.

(Human connection is exhausting. Bucky rarely talks to Steve—takes it upon himself to stay away for the benefit of both of them—but when he approaches him about a food he’d like Steve to make more or something he hated, he comes back to his room with a pounding heart and layers of exhaustion.

All that matters is trying, Bucky used to tell Steve after another rejection from a nice-looking dame. Now he’s not so sure.)

Steve jumps on the bath idea like an overeager puppy. He has Bucky sit on the closed toilet lid while the water runs, so he can show everything he’s adding to the tub. Bucky just wanted hot water.

“This is bath oatmeal,” Steve murmurs as he pours it in. “And these are some bath salts.”

Bucky stays resolutely silent as Steve explains what each thing does. Steve looks so different, and Bucky still can’t get over it. He looks like he fits in his skin. Somewhere along the line, when Bucky wasn’t there, Steve shifted to fit the muscles and the height and the new weight. It’s disconcerting.

Somehow, though, he’s still Steve. Still doesn’t know when to stop fighting or stop running his mouth. Still hates rules and authority. Still doesn’t know how to be anything but true to his beliefs.

Sometimes Bucky thinks he hates Steve. Other times he thinks he really just hates himself.

Steve declares the bath ready with a grin. Bucky’s eyes trail after him as he walks out of the bathroom. The door closes and Bucky is alone again. Somehow, despite his purposeful self-seclusion, being left alone stings.

Bucky undresses slowly, pulling off his numerous layers with care for his aching shoulders. (A pain that, recently, is ever-present.) He ties his hair up with a rubber band from a jar on the counter, something Steve said about doing for relaxation before washing. When he sinks down into the hot, sweet-smelling water, it feels like coming home. Like when Bucky first walked onto Steve’s floor after Steve had unlocked the door. The brief, hesitant moment where he could pretend. Pretend that it was 1945 and they’d just won the war and were coming home to their small, shared apartment. Pretend that they’d eat supper together on the couch and curl up together in bed high on excitement and trading kisses—

Bucky jerks up with a violent gasp, clutching at the edges of the tub as water sloshes wildly onto the floor. A gasping half-sob is wrenched from his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut to ward off the tears as his chest heaves.

“Bucky? Bucky, are you alright?” Steve calls worriedly from somewhere deeper in the apartment. Bucky trembles, lips moving but unable to formulate a response. He opens his eyes, able to see only the bath’s faucet and the ripples splashing against the tub’s porcelain. Steve’s footsteps, rushed and panicked, move closer until he’s just outside the door. “Bucky, I’m gonna come in, okay?”

A piece of hair slips loose from his bun and hangs down, catching on his eyelashes. Another heaving breath catches in his chest and he coughs, eyes blurring with tears. The door creaks open and Bucky lifts his head enough to see Steve, still dressed in his ridiculous white shirt and jeans. Concern paints every crease on his face and Bucky tries to take another breath.

It breaks into a sob instead.

And then he’s crying, loud and heavy and ugly, and Steve is kneeling beside the tub and cursing it as he tries to pull Bucky close.

The bath is still hot. The air still smells like vanilla bath salt. The year is 2014 and the last time someone held him like this was the night before Bucky got shipped off to war, Steve’s rail-thin frame curled around his as if to shield him from the world, just for a little.

“I remember,” Bucky forces out, choking on the words. “I remember.”

Steve shushes him and holds him close, Bucky’s head tucked underneath his chin, skin dripping water across Steve’s shirt. They rock side to side, just a little, Steve humming under his breath. Bucky feels like a baby—raw and new and crying. Goosebumps have broken out all across his body at the contact, despite the heated water he’s still partially submerged in.

They sit there for a long time, until Bucky can breathe again, but not so long that the water has gone cool. When Steve finally pulls back, he gazes at Bucky softly, like there’s something to protect behind Bucky’s broken eyes and cracked soul.

“Let me get you a towel,” Steve says.

He brings one, white and fluffy, to the edge of the tub so Bucky can dry his face before it gets hung up on a hook. Steve goes to leave and Bucky, desperate and shaky, shoots a hand out to grab his wrist.

“Don’t—don’t leave,” Bucky stutters. His throat feels ripped raw. “Please.”

Steve smiles, and Bucky feels like he just crashed into the ocean.

That’s what Steve is, Bucky realizes. An ocean. Big and loud, doing whatever he wants whenever he wants with no care of the consequences while also being home to so many, a protector of those inside from the natural horrors of the human race.

Steve sits in the bathroom while Bucky washes his body, he lathers shampoo and conditioner in Bucky’s hair as a gentle massage when he asks. Steve pops the tub’s drain and bundles Bucky in the towel, helping him exit the tub and stand on newborn-doe legs.

Bucky sits, passive and quiet, on the edge of his bed, while Steve picks him out pants and a soft shirt to wear. He sits stock-still, scared to even breathe, as Steve runs a brush through his hair.

Everything is intimate and hushed—even his room feels small, lamp glowing golden on the nightstand.

Bucky closes his eyes and dreams that it’s 1945 and he and Steve are still young and in love.

—

It’s still raining outside and gusts of wind are Bucky’s new lullaby. He’s sleeping in his bed now. Fully clothed and with shoes on, because needing to run can occur any time, but in his bed nonetheless.

Sometimes he thinks about Steve. Or—seeing Steve, rather. About leaving his room for more than brief stints, enough to have a conversation or at least tell Steve good morning.

After his confusing, muddled bath from a week ago, Bucky isn’t sure if he can. He couldn’t leave his room for three days after that, confined to it with exhaustion and frustrated tears.

Mostly he thinks about Before. Flashes of memories, however brief, of him and Steve. Bucky learning to cook because Steve was always sick. Teaching Steve to ride a bike in their twenties because he never learned young. Ducking down for a private, chaste kiss from Steve before Bucky had to leave for work. Watching Steve draw and marveling at his luck to have him there.

Watching Steve get frustrated and scream and cry because Bucky was going out with another girl and of course Steve understood the want to be normal but Steve was halfway to dead anyways and Bucky was the only one who ever wanted him and couldn’t Bucky be okay with just him?

When Bucky falls asleep well into the night, he has violent nightmares about Steve. Steve dying, Steve dead—from asthma, pneumonia, his heart giving up. Nightmares of Steve and Bucky making love while Steve whispers into Bucky’s ear every terrible thing he’s ever done and why Steve can never love him.

But Steve brings him breakfast at 8 am on the dot the next morning and smiles softly when Bucky says good morning, so Bucky buries the dreams deep in his subconscious.

Bucky can hear the living room TV playing. Steve likes to do this—prop his feet up at the end of the day and relax watching a movie. Bucky usually falls asleep to it, letting the domestic background sounds relax him. Tonight, though, he has a plan.

His bedroom door creaks as he edges it open. He hears the TV pause.

“Bucky?” Steve calls out. “You need something?”

Bucky pads down the hallway and tries to remember to breathe. When he emerges into the living room, he’s greeted with the sight of Steve half-turned to look at him, arm across the back of the couch.

Bucky takes a deep breath. “Uhm. Can I watch? With you?”

Steve grins. Bucky’s heart pounds.

“Of course. There’s plenty of room.”

So Bucky sits at the opposite end of the couch to Steve with a blanket thrown over his lap. He tries to focus on the movie, really. But he ends up asleep halfway through, head tilted against the armrest.

It becomes a regular thing, the movies. Most of the time, Bucky is too exhausted to make it far through. Steve never seems to mind, always pleased just to have Bucky next to him.

—

They’re eating dinner at the kitchen island. Crispy, boneless chicken and carrots and sourdough and little cups of miso soup. It’s getting colder outside, fall melting into winter.

When they’ve finished eating and Steve is done washing their dishes, drying his hands on a checkered tea towel, Bucky asks before he can lose his nerve.

“Can I have a hug?” He nearly blurts it out. Steve pauses before dropping the towel on the counter. He rounds the island and smiles at Bucky—always smiling, like he’s happy just to look.

“Of course.”

His arms go around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky leans into it, pressing their chests together with his arms around Steve’s middle and his head tucked beneath Steve’s chin. He lets out a shuddering sigh and trembles as he tries to relax in Steve’s hold. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and Bucky will die if Steve pulls away.

“I’ve got you,” Steve murmurs. His hand, big and hot, comes up to cradle the back of Bucky’s head. “I’ve got you.”

Bucky cried. He isn’t sure when it started or ended, only that when he stands before his mirror he has tear tracks streaked on his cheeks.

—

Bucky takes a lot of baths. Hot ones, where his always-cold feet and hands sting beneath the water. The steam turns his face pink and curls the hairs at his temples. Sometimes he lets Steve wash his hair. Steve’s hands are gentle—he’s always careful to keep the soap and water off Bucky’s face. His hands feel safe.

One night, Bucky almost falls asleep in the bath underneath Steve’s hands. The next night, Bucky falls asleep on Steve’s chest on the couch.

It feels like the ice is melting.

—

It’s snowing outside—light and fluffy flakes that will never stick to New York’s hot pavement. The heat is running in their apartment, and Bucky still bundles up in thick sweaters. Steve, sometimes, goes shirtless. He claims the apartment to be “the perfect temperature for it” even as Bucky argues that it’s not even seventy degrees. It’s nice, though, as much as Bucky grumbles about it. Sometimes, on really good days. Bucky will pull off his top layers and snuggle up with Steve, shivers wracking his body as he gets used to the feeling of someone else’s skin pressed against his.

“Steve?” Bucky asks on one such night. The heat is blasting and it’s perfectly warm. Bucky is tucked up against Steve’s chest, both of them shirtless, Steve laid back against the armrest of the couch.

“Hm?” Steve’s eyes are closed and Bucky thinks he might be half-asleep. His hand starts stroking slowly up and down Bucky’s spine.

Bucky pauses, his lips parted. He swallows thickly and settles back down against Steve’s chest. Steve runs hot and Bucky cold—exact flips of their younger selves. Bucky likes to imagine they’re meant to be. Broken, shattered; Bucky a shell of his past self and Steve fuller than he’s ever been, yet they still fit together like they did as kids and teenagers and new adults.

“I forgot,” Bucky lies softly. Steve hums in understanding and everything is good.

—

The nightmares come back. Violent, twisting beasts that lurk along the edges of Bucky’s mind. A lot of them are flashes, things he can’t make out—

The bright lights of Coney Island. The smell of eggs and soft background chatter. Creaking floorboards. Rustling sheets, Steve’s soft laugh.

—and usually, they start out innocent. Bucky’s worst nightmares begin with his favorite memories.

Steve is drawing. He’s sitting at their small, lopsided desk underneath the window. He’s shirtless—just woke up. The early morning light streaming in halos around him, highlighting his wiry frame. Sloping light and shadows create soft and sharp edges—the gentle fall of his shoulders, the jut of his elbows—and Bucky thinks this must be how Steve experiences the entire world.

“You’re staring,” Steve accuses. He doesn’t even turn around. Bucky grins and props himself up on his bent arm, elbow sinking into the mattress of their creaky bed.

“Got a real nice view to stare at,” he replies. Steve groans and turns in the wooden chair. His fair skin is flushed from the top of his chest to the tips of his ears, putting his scattered freckles on display. As casually as he can manage, Bucky stretches out to put his own skin on display—completely naked, the thin sheets tangled around his hips—all lean muscle and long lines. Steve rolls his eyes at the display.

“Come on, doll,” Bucky goads. “Come back to bed. I miss you—you’re so far away.”

“Them dames know you talk like that?” Steve says, fumbling for an excuse.

“Don’t care about them right now.” Bucky tilts his head and smiles. “Come on, just one kiss?”

“It’s never just one,” Steve mutters, but he pushes his chair back and pads across the floor to the bed. He climbs onto it and Bucky pulls him down with an arm around his waist.

“Mm. Maybe stop lookin’ the way you do then,” Bucky returns. He presses their lips together, taking the opportunity of Steve’s lips parting to dip his tongue into Steve’s mouth.

Everything melts around him, becoming a flurry of sound and movement. When everything is clear again, Steve’s on his back in front of Bucky, completely naked with skin flushed and damp. Bucky leans down to kiss him again, letting his lips hit the edge of Steve’s mouth.

Steve takes them both in hand and Bucky exhales shakily against Steve’s cheek. He kisses Steve’s cheekbone, the hinge of his jaw, the spot below his ear.

“I hate you,” Steve whispers, lips brushing against the shell of Bucky’s ear. Bucky tenses, but doesn’t move. “You think I could ever love you? You’re fucking disgusting.” Steve spits the words out. Bucky tries to pull away but Steve holds him tight.

“Their blood is one your hands,” Steve hisses. “Every last one. Everyone you killed, everything you did—it can never be forgiven. You are a monster. You deserve nothing—”

Bucky jerks awake panting and gasping. His body is covered in a sheen layer of cold sweat. His hands tremble and slip as he yanks at the sheets tangled around him, desperately trying to get them off. A desperate pull has them ripping along a seam and Bucky nearly falling off the bed in his panic.

He’s down the hall before he realizes it. His chest heaves and his vision blurs as he knocks on Steve’s door—probably too hard, too loud.

Steve opens it, eyes wide and hair ruffled with an obvious urgency to his movements. He stops dead when he processes Bucky—breaths wheezing in his chest, legs trembling as they barely hold his weight—standing before him. Bucky stumbles forward until he collapses against Steve, whose arms come up to wrap tightly around his waist and shoulders.

“Shh, shh,” Steve whispers as Bucky’s breaths hitch and stutter. “You’re okay, you’re safe, it was just a dream.”

Bucky shudders. “You—it was you and you said…said that you hated me—”

“Oh, Buck,” Steve says, his voice cracking.

Steve moves them into his room and onto his bed. Bucky curls again his chest, shaking like a wet cat. He tucks his head beneath Steve’s chin and tries not to flinch when Steve’s hand starts stroking his back.

“Shh. I’ve got you.” Steve presses a gentle, barely-there kiss to Bucky’s temple. “Whatever I said in your dreams—it wasn’t real or true. Okay, Buck? None of it. I could never, ever hate you.”

Bucky grasps the front of Steve’s shirt in his shaky fingers. “You said I was a monster.”

“Never,” Steve swears instantly. “Bucky, you’re more human than anyone else I’ve ever met. Everything that happened—it was against your will. None of it was Bucky.”

Bucky sniffles as a few tears trail their way lazily down his face. “I don’t know if I’m worthy of you,” Bucky whispers.

“That’s not your decision to make,” Steve replies firmly. Bucky swallows past the lump in his throat and closes his eyes, trying to get through the frothing waves of emotion washing through him. Steve’s hand runs up and down his back, heavy and soothing, with enough pressure to keep Bucky in his body.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Bucky admits. His voice cracks horribly.

“Bucky…”

“No,” Bucky insists. “I am. Okay? I remember…I remember Brooklyn. Before the war. I remember you.”

Steve presses a lingering kiss to the top of Bucky’s head. The room is silent for a long, long time. There is nothing but the gentle winds outside and the rushes of their breaths in the air.

It’s a long time before Bucky realizes Steve is crying.

“I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry,” Bucky fumbles. “I can—”

Bucky starts to pull away, but Steve holds him tight in place.

“Don’t go,” Steve murmurs, his voice rough from crying. “It’s not your fault. I just didn’t think you remembered any of that stuff.”

“Oh,” Bucky says uncomfortably. “I remember a lot, I think. Mostly all the time I spent looking at you. Especially in those dance halls—I always wanted to teach you how. Guess I blew my chance, huh?”

It’s more than that. The real confession lies heavy beneath the surface, buried by a twisted past of seventy years they spent apart. More than a lost chance, it’s a cry of the ache of forgetting.

“I’d love to dance with you,” Steve replies softly. “You always shined. Were always the best dancer on the floor. Knew all the girls were infatuated with you; I certainly was.”

Bucky lets out a rush of breath in a gentle exhale that ruffles the collar of Steve’s shirt. “I didn’t—don’t—know if you still felt that way. Peggy…she made me think that you’d finally ‘became normal’ in the way I never could. Spent so many damn nights out with girls and I always came back home to you. Never could let go, even when you hated me because you thought you were just a way for me to get what I wanted when I couldn’t have a dame.”

“I love you,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s hair. “I have for a very long time.”

He pulls back and tilts Bucky’s chin up, resting their foreheads together. Their noses brush, and Bucky feels the wet glide of tears.

“I love you,” Bucky repeats, words barely more than a whisper of breath. He tucks his head back beneath Steve’s chin. He hears Steve laugh softly and his hand comes up to wind through Bucky’s hair at his nape.

“I love you,” Bucky whispers again, just to make sure this is real.

“I love you,” Steve murmurs back as he pulls Bucky closer.

#indelible 𝜗𝜚 #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #stevebucky #captain america #the winter soldier #winter soldier #writing #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #fanfic #feveruary #feveruary 2025

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sirius-blacks-eyeliner · 20 hours ago

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Hi! How about some George Weasley (post Wizard War) finally takes the courage to ask reader out (she would be some sort of assistant to one of the Professors from Hogwarts). Don't know if her house is relevant but she's a former Hufflepuff. Thanks!

My heart blooms

A/N: Hi love! I hope this is what you expected from me! As a fellow Hufflepuff I absolutely love this.

(Fred and George call you Petal to reference to you being a Hufflepuff and Sprouts assistant)

A little short, but I hope you still like it!

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

Although windows were broken, tables splintered and rubble filled the entire place, the great hall was lighter than it had been a few hours ago, when The Chosen One fought against Lord Voldemort himself.

Friends were lost, families were torn apart, and hearts were shattered to pieces. Many were broken, but the world was now on a path to start healing itself.

The Weasleys all sat huddled together. They had come so close to losing their son and brother, Fred, but you and Professor Sprout had managed to pull him back with your magic potions just in time.

Ginny Weasley sat underneath her older brother's arm, with her back to you, holding him tight around his waist, as if he would fall through the pale vale of death if she let go. George Weasley, one of your best friends and Fred's twin, sat on his other side. They spoke in soft voices, occasionally having to stifle laughter, trying to prevent waking a dozing Ginny.

Hermione Granger and Harry Potter sat close by the Weasleys, chatting happily with their youngest son Ron. Harry seemed so much lighter, his face glowing with the weight that was now off his back. He could finally rest, not having to worry about the looming threat that hung over him and his loved ones. He often glanced lovingly towards Ginny, as if unable to believe she was sitting across from him, within arms reach.

Then, as you approached, muddy shoes thudding softly against the ground, the twins turned towards you, in sync as always.

"Hello, Petal." Fred grinned while trying to move the least he could because of Ginny, who was well asleep already.

"Hi, boys," You grinned while stepping closer, "How're you feeling, Fred?"

"Well, you saved me, so couldn't be better." Fred fondly smiled.

"Hey, Petal, could we maybe speak for a minute?" George suddenly asked. His freckled cheeks and ears flushed a soft shade of red as he fiddled with his hands.

"You're gonna...?" Fred mysteriously asked, wiggling his eyebrows not so mysteriously.

"Shut up, Fred." George rolled his eyes while rising from his seat.

"Can we-?" He gestured towards a quieter corner in the great hall.

"Of course, Georgie." You grinned and let him lead you by the hand towards the other side. Behind you you could hear Bill Weasley let out a suggestive whistle followed by a scolding by both Molly and Fleur Weasley.

"What did you want to ask, Georgie?" You curiously asked as he stood before you, his chest close to yours.

"Thank you, Petal. You saved my brother. If it hadn't been for you he would've been dead." said George, unexpectedly engulfing you in a tight hug. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, his fingers flexing there as yours wrapped around his waist, pulling him as close as possible to you.

"I love you, Flower Petal. I've loved you for years ever since I saw you on the train at the beginning of fourth year. I have always been too scared to say anything, I didn't want to ruin our friendship. I was afraid that when you rejected me that we would seize being friends, but seeing how close Fred was to dying and how you saved him so effortlessly. Petal, I don't think I could ever even think of attempting to love someone else. This is it. You are it for me. You make my heart bloom like those amazing plants you love and care for. I have realized it long ago, but today it dawned to me. I love you."

He stared deeply into your eyes, barely pulling away to do so, even if he towered over you. His arms were still holding you locked in, unable to move even though you never wanted to.

"Oh, George," you whispered softly, "you have no idea how long I have waited for you to tell me that. I love you, too, I-"

But before you could finish the sentence, George had already pressed his lips down on yours, slow, soft and tentative.

His hand slid up to your cheek, caressing his thumb on your collarbone. His lips were so soft, like no one you had ever kissed before. His other hands busied itself on your waist, squeezing softly when he noticed you reciprocating eagerly.

You pulled him closer towards you, now standing chest-to-chest with no air between you. You felt his tongue slide over your bottom lip carefully, silently asking permission to enter.

You pulled back slightly, lips still ghosting over each other. When you spoke you could feel his lips bump into yours.

"You not even gonna let me finish my sentence?"

"Kissing you seemed funner."

#george weasley #harry potter #wizarding world #golden era #george weasley x reader #fred weasley #fanfiction #x reader #george weasley x you

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chessariusrex · 1 year ago

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Thoughts of apex lex invaded my brain, I have only lex luthor : year of the villain, his design compels me...

tO DRaW ShITE liKe tHiS!

#clex #lex luthor #clark kent #superman #excuse me #finally I can let the weight of this off my chest #twas suffocating #me #something about bald men in skin tight suits compels me #am I sexualizing bald men?????#yes #maybe #i dont know #hm ...#how to translate feeling to words?#i just think he's neat

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screampied · 3 months ago

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𝜗𝜚 BIG BOOOYS!

☆ sum. it's cuffin’ seasooon, and now you’ve got a reasooon to get…stuffed? toji, sukuna, choso, geto, nanami, gojo.

warnings. fem! reader, BIG BOYSSSS like the sza skit song, unprotected, manhandling, dad bods (toji / nanami), size kinks, tf! sukuna, boxer! geto, spīt, full nelson, mating press, dp (sukuna), overstim, dirty talk, praise, marathons, p spanks, hair pulling, breedīng, this got kinda … long LOL sry.

an. will t*mblr let me post thisss …. ¯\_(ᵕ—ᴗ—)_/¯

✩ ˛˚ . NANAMI KENTO.

“honey,” nanami warmly purrs, his body weight hovering right over yours. you’re met with the most softhearted eyes, watching cloudy puffy pants leave his mouth. you’d just rode nanami for countless hours nonstop, and with ruffled blond strands sticking to his face, he looked oh so feral for you. your eyes rover down toward his abdomen - so plump ‘n round, and you felt yourself throb the more you gawked at the vertical strip of his blond happy trail that ran down his chest. “hah- you want me to . . fold you like a chair? that sounds kind of painful, no?”

“ken, ‘s okay,” you reassure him, a hand sensually rubbing down his cushiony soft-padded abs. nanami was as soft as an oversized teddy bear, and he was always gentle with you during intimacy. you moan, feeling his split reddish tip gently smear a sloppy slope down your sopping entrance before he pauses to let you finish speaking. “y.. you can be a little rough. i can take it.”

nanami combs a hand through his hair before a coy simper tug at both corners of his thin pink lips. “okay, if that’s what my pretty wife wants- then. .” and you let off a jittery whimper once you feel his big hands start to gingerly shove both of your knees to your chest. his touch was forevermore tender, and nanami hoarsely groans as he watches your limbs gradually extend back. “i’ll . . stretch you,” he grumbles, a sandy brow of his furrowing once he starts to align his leaky cockhead once more. you’re throbbing, salivating from the mouth once the pointed crowns of your knees meet against your bare squishy breasts. leaning in, nanami’s just a few sultry centimeters apart before he sensually licks near your bottom lip. “hold onto me, sweetheart. ‘s gonna get a bit . . bumpy.”

once you’re laid flat on your back, nanami’s tubby tummy hovers over your entire frame. murky huffs of air shoot past his lips once he grabs ahold of your wobbly ankles. you’d already had your pretty laced panties shoved to the side, and oh how soaked you were. “naughty girl,” he huskily grunts, casually starting to rub his wedding ring against your folds. slow. . romantic strokes were all you felt. it lasts for a long few seconds, and he’s just smearing the frigid cold band of the ring around your bawling cunt before he finally gets to the real thing.

nanami grabs ahold of your legs—softly shoving them further into your chest. they meet against your bouncy tits and you moan, feeling the plump head of his cock greet your slobbering cunt with wet, slimy kisses of its own. the noises . . they were so damn loud, and you were already throbbing the more he teased you from just his full-sized tip alone. “ngh, ‘ken. don’t tease me. f.. fuck me,” you whine, another moan leaving from your parted lips the second he’s fully enclosed between your legs. you’re met with his rounded tummy that’s sooo perfect ‘n plump, and nanami’s just inches apart from the button of your nose. time stands still once he finishes aligning his thick cock, unhurriedly inserting himself inside.

oh fuck-

those same two words that ripped out of your whiny larynx repeated past your lips right as he started to ease his way inside. it didn’t take him long to quickly bottom out—and you were folded up like a chair. “s- sooo gorgeous for me,” he lowly groans, blond brows crimping together in needy want. your brief tightness that only lasts for a good three seconds makes nanami suck his teeth. so … damn … good, once he bottoms out all the way, you then hear the bubbly resounding ‘pop!’ that alerted you both that he was fit reaaaal nice ‘n snug. “god, the things you do to me, sweetheart.”

nanami tended to ramble mid-fuck, just spouting a bunch of nonsense against the shell of your ear. with barred, bare hands, he’s making sure your legs stay at the folded position you’re at. his cock’s just so fat though, and your eyes were almost cartoonish—widening like saucers at the precise moment he curves his way through that exact pathway of your cunt that makes you squeal. nanami’s sculptured hips drill into you ferociously, and his body that pounded on top of you after each impactful stroke was just so soft. you’d never get over it—he was like an actual plushie teddy bear.

sluggish arms of yours wrap around him, filling his entire ear canal with your continuous whimpers before he groans. “kento, fuuuckk- fuck!” you’d moan, feeling the bed frailly dip from both pounds of jerking weight.

pap after pap after pap, nanami’s stuffing you full with each mouth-watering inch, and your pussy constantly decided to torture you with its dramatic spasms and fluttering. filled to the very hilt, nanami’s making sure your insides got every single part of him.

he’s groaning, trying his hardest not to crush you with his weight. every few seconds, he’d cup your face with two sweaty palms before slowing down with a timid cunt-drunk grin. whispering out a shaky, “hah- you okay, sweetheart? ‘m not crushin’ my sweet girl, am i?” he’d lovingly caress a thumb across your face, acting as if he wasn’t currently fucking you stupid.

“ ‘m okay,” you’d breathlessly croon out in a sweet throaty tune, almost as if your sweet moans were high notes. nanami was hitting you deep, and with a sloppy pivot of his hips, the angle got even deeper. you’re filling up the four paper-thin walls of the bedroom with your trilling whines, purely engulfed by his loud manly musk. your cunt’s already starting to soak with dewy globs of your juices, even dribbling down your folds and oh it’s comin’ . .

“ken, kentoo—oooh!”

nanami felt his dick twitch inside of you at your dragged-out moan of his name.. but - it wasn’t just a moan—it was a pretty, elongated orgasm that caught you by surprise. his blushing tip was messily kissing your pulsating g-spot, circling all around it while casually feeding your grippy, wet walls. you clung onto him tight with your arms and also your insides. before you knew it though, your high was slowly but surely creepin’ up on you.

“i know- i knowww,” he murmured out of breath, and you could feel him starting to slow down. nanami’s rickety hips were passionate. they were steady, and as you were creaming down his weighty shaft, he planted a kiss on your temple. “thaaat’s it, let go. ‘m right here, kento’s here. i’ll clean you right up, sweetheart.”

his words warmed their way into the key of your heart . . slowly traveling between your legs also to make you throb. you’re whimpering the same repeated chant of his name as your arms were now wrapped around his sweat-glossed waist. nanami chuckles into your neck, and he can feel your arms pull his plump body closer. “mhmm, touch my body all you want, honey,” and you moan, feeling him release the grip on your numb legs. nanami brings his wedding ring toward your teary cunt after he pulled out, giving it one more loving rub. “ ‘m all yours,” he kisses near your lips. “always.”

✩ ˛˚ . SUKUNA RYOMEN.

“keh, you make me laugh, woman,” sukuna grouses, slouching back against his notorious throne as you straddle him. eager ‘n all, you try to align yourself and he grabs your hips firmly with a smug scoff. “you can barely handle one, what makes you think you can handle both of me, hm?”

“ ‘kuna, don’t tease me,” you huff, and he hums once he sees the frustration marinating across your face. cute, sukuna knew you didn’t like being teased but he still enjoyed getting underneath your skin. after all, you were his favorite, and maybe just for tonight . . he’d oblige with your carnal desire to get double stuffed. sukuna folds two of hefty arms behind his broad neck, his other arms occupied by gripping your waist. oh, he looked so priggish. a wolffish grin remains plastered on his lips as he watches you wrap a hand around one of his cocks. they were fuckin’ big, both stacked on top of each other and you moan. “stop lookin’ at me like that.”

sukuna snickers. “heh. my apologies, little one. i’ll look away while you struggle, i guess,” and a fang pops underneath his sinister curled lips once your wet entrances start to slowly kiss against his tips. you’re weeping wet, and you moan with your other arm abruptly tossing around his broad shoulders. you felt your heart’s irregular beats pick up whilst you’re perfectly aligned with both of his thick twinned cocks. with a squelching ‘pop!’ the first one starts to delve inside of your cunt, driving its way past the loose ring of your dripping entrance. “fuuuck, atta girl.” sukuna gravelly grunts, his smugness starting to falter just a bit. as he’s bottoming out, his grip on your hips tighten more. your warmth catches him by surprise—but once you’re taking in his second cock, he smacks together his lips in awe. pink slit brows of his form together into a vexed arch once he growls.

“ ‘s fuckin’ big,” you moan, slightly turning your head to stare at your grinding perked ass. as a few seconds pass, you’re starting to writhe your ass against his lap. successfully, both fat cocks were filled inside each of your gummy orifices. the concise feeling of tightness makes you mewl, feeling sukuna’s overgrown nails gently dig into the plush flesh of your ass cheek. “god, so full ‘kuna, fuuuuck,” you continue to babble, and you already could feel your fluttering tummy starting to giggle with hoards of impatient butterflies. you can’t help but part your lips into a cute ‘o’, nearly drooling once he spanks your ass — his way of encouraging you to ride him faster.

sukuna’s big, and it’s not even about both of his lengthy dicks anymore. he’s a demon, an unruly one that could probably crush you if he wanted. but no . . he had a soft spot for you, an even more softer spot for your sweet, weak pussy. as he sits back against the creaking throne, you gulp, taking in just how big he is compared to you. bloody, ruddy eyes bore back into you as he started to break a cold sweat. “hng, good,” he groans, and you watch as his head gradually starts to fall back.

oh- you’ve got him whipped. once you started up your rocky pace, it was game over.

each towering cock plummets into both of your holes filthy, and the repeated dampened sloshes of your cunt resounded through the walls of his echoey domain. over and over and over. your rhythm starts to get more and more hectic as you progress—and you’re whimpering, continuously feeling one of his swollen tip’s french kiss near your pretty puckering rim. the other one’s messily making out with your g-spot, rudely thrashing its way against that same pulsating target like it was a dart aiming straight for the bullseye. “o- ohhh, fuck. ‘kuna, ‘m not gonna last, ohmygodddd.”

you’re just so full…too full- and before you knew it, you could already feeling your legs preparing to violently snap.

mewling out a sweet, exaggerated ‘oh!’, you end up spraying out a pretty streaming geyser right between your legs. your glossed lips quiver as your awaited high finally comes, whining as you try to continue to swerve your weak hips in gradual arcs. it felt so so good, being plugged full with each of his girthy cocks. fuck, it felt too good that you could almost taste your sudden overwhelming releases on your tastebuds. “fuck, fuuuck,” you whine out in tiny puffs of air, glancing back through fuzzy peripherals to stare back at your ass. honed, sharp fingernails bury into the fat of your bouncy flesh and sukuna snarls at the tasteful friction. “ ‘s good, ‘kuna, ngh!”

“h- heh,” the curse jibes, but even he’s starting to slow down. as your rhythm starts to finally come to a slowing stop, you sheathe your head near his broad chest. sukuna holds you close, quietly snickering at the size difference. you—a mere human, straddling him. it was almost laughable. “you humans are so weak . . so fragile,” he huskily groans, leaning in to pierce his fangs into your neck softly. as if marking his territory, sukuna then licks a stripe up your neck. you’re still stuffed to the very brim, and that’s when he makes you sit up straight. with a disapproving tsk, sukuna crosses all of his arms with a pout like he’s judging you. “cunt’s still too weak though.”

you’re just a babbling mess, the pit of your tummy was in knots as it's still taking in both thickset cursed lengths. from your quavery thighs, it’s a shimmering sap of your precious slick that slithers down between the sprawled crevices of your legs. it’s pretty - and sukuna can’t help but swipe a fat thumb down, getting a taste all for himself. “mhm,” he brings his finger up to his wry compressed lips, savoring your fresh flavor on his spiked tongue. you’re still trying to recollect breaths when the demon softly grabs your chin, boring his cold, scarlet eyes right into yours. “open.”

an overgrown black nail gives the corner of your lips a soft tap and compliantly, you pry open your mouth. sukuna leans in before . . spat! he spits right on the flatness of your pink tongue, hearing you lewdly moan in response. with your flapping lashes nearly blinding your entire view, you could spot that same wolfish grin from an early start to creep against his lips one final time.

“how filthy. my good girl,” and you moan yet again, feeling him press a hand against your tummy — a wee reminder of how stuffed you currently were. “let’s try that again. this time though, i’ll let you ride my stomach tongue, heh.”

✩ ˛˚ . TOJI FUSHIGURO.

“kinkiest shit i’ve ever heard you say, mama,” toji guffaws as his tense shoulders bounce up and down. you couldn’t help but notice the way toji was slowly growing a dad bod, especially after the two of you had another child. he’s still in good shape—and he continued to maintain his usual workouts but fuck, you’d always fawn over his cute round tummy. he’s like a bear, shaggy, chunky, and incredibly soft. every time he’d pound on top of you, his weight would gingerly press into you, rubbing back ‘n forth against your body and you’d just wrap your arms around him. “full nelson, eh? you sure this isn’t the baby fever talkin’ again?”

“tojiii,” you pout, and you watch as he groans the moment you’re aligning yourself on his maddened cream-covered tip. it’s fat - leaking from the top with buttery white droplets of pre. toji reclines back against the couch that sucks his heavy body in as his legs start to spread. once he gets comfy, he looks at you with a sly grin while zeroing his verdant eyes all over your body. “ ‘m sure, i want it,” and you playfully start to run a palm down his bushy hairy chest, stopping at his cute rounded tummy. “want you.”

toji lets out a smoky chortle before pinching a grip near your ass. “alriiight, babygirl. but ‘m not gonna go easy. better hold on tight.”

and oh- toji and full nelson was a deadly combo within itself.

saying he had you stuffed to the max was purely an understatement. one minute you’re on his lap and the next, he’s got you pressed up against his woolly chest with his burly arms pinned up underneath your legs. he’s fucking you silly, plummeting such thick inches inside of your hungry cunt that it makes you see stars. not just stars but the whole damn galaxy. “f- fuuuck, fuck!” you’d gasp, feeling your cunt eagerly twitch at his sudden elastic-like stretch.

toji was strong, and he had no problem lifting you. each time he did, you’d bounce back on his lap, getting stuffed with even more mighty inches of his dick. it’s so wide, he’s merrily caressing through your gummy inner walls before rudely smacking his flushed crownhead against your tender needy cervix. that spot right there makes you shriek, and you can hear toji’s husky laughter from behind the shell of your ear.

“heh- yeah, baby. let me fuckin’ hear ya, take this . . hah, dick like a champ—fuuuck,” and he groans, a single smack of your ass making him briefly bite the inside of his hollow cheek. it’s a lot of weight that’s jerking back against him from you, and toji’s heaving breaths start to get heavier the more your cunt swallows him in wholly..

his virility was unmatched, and toji gave your pretty pussy addictively mean slams until it was squelching out his name. all syllables of it too—

you were loud, especially between your legs which were always toji’s favorite part. “t- tojiii,” you’d whine out his name again, continuously feeling that same caving dip arises near the middle part of your tummy. he’s in so deep, and your back remains to rub against his furry-covered chest. toji’s plump belly was so soft behind you, and the saltiness that started to coat your buds from your incoming release was almost too much to bare. “harder, f- fuck me. ooh! that spot, that f- fuckin’ sp—”

“if i wanted to hear my wife speak i’d ask her talkative pussy instead,” toji grunts, and you let off a bleating whine the second your bare wet cunt’s met with a spank. slap! and the entire sound makes your folds twitch. you moaned, desperately wanting him to do it again. not just once or twice—hell, even thrice. you ached for more of toji’s touch, and he knew that. he knew his wife. you watch as his scarred lips form into a smile, and he spanks your pussy again. “mhm, kinky girl. that turns you on, yeah? ‘course it does. bet if i fuckin’ spat on it you’d go crazy too, hm?”

“tojiii-‘m-gonna-cum,” you whimper out in a quick single second, trying to talk over his rant. you were a bobble head toy, bouncin’ up and down his fat cock. his long girthy inches had you hungry - slobbering from the mouth like a dog for more as he filled you to the very fuckin’ brim. easily, toji’s invading all through your spongy cunt with his thick thighs resting underneath you. your nails cling to his skin like velcro with your mewling whines only pitching louder. “tojiiiii, gonna cu— fuuuck!”

“yeah, i know baby,” he grunts, feeling his balls starting to tighten. toji’s head throws back at the sharp slams of your hips. each time you fall back into his vast lap, his guttural voice drops even deeper. every time it does—you end up throbbing. a cute ‘lil pulse that he always pokes fun at you for. “heh- there’s that cute throb, she’s so fuckin’ needy,” and as your pussy’s squelches cry out even louder, toji growls. “fuck. gonna milk me, s- so good, ‘s that what y’er tryna do?” and you moan, feeling the pad of his thumb ghost down your throat. “want me ‘ta make you a pretty mommy again?”

a whiny, “y-yesss,” slurs out from your glossed lips, and toji snickers. of course. you wanted him to fill you all the way up like always. plug the top until your cunt was just flooded with his hot thick ropes of cum.

and that’s just what he does—toji lets out a gruff groan once he feels himself reaching his limit. with his hips nudging quicker, he grunts at the final punctuating thrust. “f- fuck, take it then. take it like a hah- good girl,” and toji’s plush body underneath you starts to rumble. finally, your legs collapse down from the position they were in once he’s starting to paint the pasty walls of your cunt his whitish color. it’s a lot, ribbons of slick cum that splatter its way throughout the layout of your mottled-covered entrance. “shit,” he swears against your neck, growing quiet to hear the sloppy sounds.

you start to ooze between your thighs, and you moan once toji lifts your leg once more. the bush that glues against his chest hair continued to tickle against your back before you whine. “mhn, atta fuckin’ girl,” he huffs, smearing a thumb down your cunt that’s spitting out any remnants of his gooey seed. it’s hot, drooling down the cracks of your folds that he ends up giving your pussy one more final spank.

“heh, best we start thinkin’ of names again then,” and he nips a soft bite near your ear. “mommy.”

✩ ˛˚ . SATORU GOJO.

he’s the strongest, which also means the strongest in bed.

and satoru’s favorite thing to do was to have you being fucked senseless with your legs gracefully thrown over your head. you’d tease him constantly, saying how since he’s ‘the strongest’, surely, he can’t be the strongest in bed too… right?

wrong,

because that smug ‘lil grin of yours gets wiped off your face almost instantly the second he’s pushing your cute, weak legs over your shoulders. oh- he’d show just how strong he could be, especially underneath the sheets. satoru had stamina for miles, rarely running out of gas and he’d easily steal orgasm after orgasm out of you. after a plethora of pliable positions, you now found yourself laid flat on your back with your legs pinned right behind your head.

“aw! c’mooon, sweets. wanna see how flexible my wife’s pussy can get,” he hoarsely coos, and his playful demeanor slowly vanishes. satoru’s now feral - and he was always feral with you. especially whenever he was stuffed inches deep inside of your sloppy bear-hugging cunt.

you whine, staring up at the white-haired man and he’s still got his blindfold on. it’s halfway on, sexily showing a bit of his right eye as he runs a hand through his tangled frosty strands. satoru’s favorite thing was to manhandle you, toss you around the room ‘n treat your body like a rag doll.

“ ‘toru, fuuuuck,” you’d sob out, the inner pit of your tummy letting off a deep exhale once he’s buried in. the head of his dick’s now thwacking near the hilt, and you’ll never forget the feeling of his long, bulky cock sneakily massaging its way toward your gummy cervix. it’s repetitive, and you’re chewing on your inaudible whimpers at each luscious stroke he gives you. he’s an animal, and each merciless pound makes you trill out his name over ‘n over until your poor, poor vocal chords strain. “don’t stop, p- please. fuck me, fuh— fuuuck.”

“awwwh, my pretty wifey’s so talkative today, especially her too,” he whispers, and you moan once he’s practically laid flat against your bare chest. satoru snakes a hand between your legs, rubbing messy circles against your leaking pussy. a sly grin creases at each corner of his lips as he rubs near your full abdomen. satoru groans, moving his hand toward the middle part of your tummy before softly pressing down - feeling a prodding ‘lil bulge that he knew all too well. “mhm, that’s all me, baby. alllll fuckin’ me.”

your cunt was indeed loud, each sloppy thrust of satoru’s hips whacking into you at full collision makes you gush.

you couldn’t help but soak a portion of his cock with masses of your syrupy slick and it makes him hum. how cute, satoru could even feel your dripping pussy fluttering around his length. he’s thick—and more importantly, he’s fuckin’ big.

satoru’s sweating, and as he continues to hold your legs up over your head, you spot the spasming veins bulging in his arms. beefy, is the perfect word to describe him. every muscle within him flexed whilst he was pounding into you rawly, making sure your greedy cunt always remembered exactly who it belonged to. “mhm, such a pretty girl. gushin’ all on me, think i oughta train thisss—” and he pauses, giving your soddened entrance a playful pat. “—pussy jus’ a bit more, hm? could be a ‘lil stronger, especially since y’r dealin’ with me, baby,” and as he’s talking, he starts to lick near your neck. “fuuuck, ooh i love that fuckin’ grip. nasty girl. mmm, make me just as messy as you, uh huh.”

“fuh— ‘m gonna cum!” you squeak, the intense throbbing between your legs only increases whilst he’s giving you his all with his ragged strokes. into. each hit was more and more ruthless, your head’s spinning, and the beats of your heart only got quicker. you were sure that your pretty glistening slick had his entire cock to the base covered by now. needless to say, you were drenched. satoru even leans upright to your face, snickering once he feels your hands try to pull his blindfold off. “sato—ruuu, cum, ‘m gonna cum.”

“yes, princess i heard you the first time,” he coos, his tone full of smug arrogance. oh, how you wanted to wipe that cocky smirk right off his naturally glossed lips. his appetizing thrusts against you were the definition of straight insanity, and as his hips kept championing at such speedy strokes, you squealed. riiiight there, the mushroomy crown of his cock scraped against the target of your cervix and you nearly go crazy. “ooooh, there it is. there—she—fuckin’ is,” and as his voice grits lower, pausing each stroke to enunciate his sloppy hits against your cunt, it’s almost like he’s talking down to you. but in this case—satoru’s talking down to your cunt, because it’s the only thing he’s staring at.

openly, he snatches his blindfold off and his sparkly eyelashes flap thrice once he makes loving eye contact with your weeping pussy.

“mm, give it to me then, pretty girl. make a fuckin’ mess on me,” and you moan once he pulls your legs up even higher over your head. bringing his sheeny-coated lips up to your ear, he whispers hoarsely, giving your drenched cunt a doubting squeeze. “i dare ya.”

✩ ˛˚ . CHOSO KAMO.

“that?” choso’s eyes widen, hearty irises glued to your phone. you’re showing him some one-minute-long video of a woman getting passionately hammered in what you told him was ‘mating press.’ choso wasn’t new to intimacy, and whenever you recommended new positions for him to try, he’d always get excited. maybe even a bit . . aroused. “o- oh,” and his voice lowly husks, watching at the deeply intimate angles. the woman lay underneath the man and his weight pressed all on her. he was giving her deep and thorough strokes, occasionally giving her sloppy hot kisses in between. choso could feel his heart race as he started to imagine himself doing that exact position to no one other than you.

and he did, because the moment he’s cutely staring at your exposed, nude body underneath him, he can’t help but moan. you’re so pretty, and as he’s feebly trying to align himself, he whimpers.

“mngh, b- baby, ‘s this okay?” and his darkened eyes flicker toward your face. he’s leisurely placing his weight on your body, bringing your legs up to go over his shoulders. glossy, pink lips of his quiver as he feels the weeping wetness of your pussy twitch and drench around his cock. “don’t wanna hah- hurt you, tell me if ‘m too heavy, ‘kay?”

“promise, ‘cho,” you softly coo, your voice as smooth as silk. indeed choso was a tad bit heavy, especially compared to you. he was around a staggering height that’s damn near over feet of six inches tall and he was just looking at you like he was ready to pounce. a needy pout stretches across the thin corners of his lips as he moans, watching openly as your cunt starts to swallow his stoutly pinkish tip. “mmh, that’s it, baby. nice ‘n slow- whenever you’re ready.”

your voice- choso got off from it alone. every sentence that came out of your mouth had him weak. as your legs remained hauled over his droopy shoulders, he’s slowly inserting his cock into your greedy walls. seconds past and it doesn’t take long before wanton whimpers slither their way past your lips. “f- fuck, ‘s fuckin’ warm for me,” choso shudders out a breath, the feeling of your gripping cunt hugging his length tightly sends him shivers. it’s an indescribable feeling that makes his sable-colored brows curl into an arch and within just a few simple thrusts, choso loses it.

within a few rigid beginning thrusts—he gradually starts to get the hang of it. pumpin’ his lanky cock in and out of you as labored breaths snatch from his lungs, he whines yet again. this time though, it’s far louder. you’ve got to cup his face whilst he’s pounding into you rigorously. nearly crushing you with his hefty weight, choso tries to hover a bit over your wet cunt, moaning for the grip as he’s casually rocking back ‘n forth into your warm, welcoming body.

“good boy, f- fuck me, choso- riiight there, mhm!” you’d whine, feeling your eyes starting to dramatically roll and flicker from just his sheer size alone. choso’s cock had such length that it expands allll through you, reading out every area of your cunt like a map. it knows the exact layout, all the secret crevices, and angles to locate and once he reaches there . . you’re fucked.

between you and choso—you honestly don’t even know who’s louder. the moment you call him a ‘good boy’, you can almost feel him melting in your hands like putty. choso’s bumpy hips start to accelerate quicker and you whine every time you feel one of his veins pulse down his cock. “f- fuck, think ‘m gonna hah- cum jus’ from lookin’ at you,” he cutely rambles, each thrust becoming more sloppy. his hips have such power that it makes the entire bed groan out whiny creaks of its own. “you’re so pretty baby, s- so pretty with your legs all over my shoulders like this- heh.”

choso’s fucking you with his pace never slowing, trying to remember how the guy in the video did it. slow and steady, deep but thorough strokes, massage the clit . . and as he’s stretching you out with the swollen head of his cock—you let off a soft shriek. ‘pop!’ and you felt his plump shaft slip out of you immediately.

choso’s pussy-drunken grin falters as he notices his dick fell out of you- but not only that, he’s cumming for real. .

it was so sudden, and as his entire body’s spasming above you, he whimpers whilst struggling to align his milky-covered tip back between the opening of your glistening folds. “f- fuck, ‘s no fair, came too early,” he whines, and you moan once he buries his face into the crook of your neck. he’s embarrassed. your legs were still raised in the air as he’s holding them both firmly, groaning against your skin. a fresh hot batter of oozing cum leaves out of choso’s blushing slit — splattering out lewdly on your puffed pussy folds. choso’s so frustrated that he even tries fucking his cum in between your flaps with the cutest unsatisfied scowl on his lips. “s- sorry, ‘m bein’ a little messy. ‘m sorry, sorry.”

“ ‘s okay, baby,” you let off a quiet moan, your body already starting to feel numb. already, you were starting to miss the gaping outline of his cock driving through your insides but he makes it up by smacking his tip against your cunt. with a wet ‘splash!’ choso ends up smearing his sweltering hot cum all over your entrance, panting the entirety of your twitching sex right his ivory-white color. as he leans in for a kiss, choso clumsily misses your mouth with his lips pressing on your chin instead.

it’s cute, and you had to guide his face with your own hands just to have him shove his tongue into your mouth. choso’s body weight was now starting to grind against you again—but by now, he was straight up jumping you. he wants more, and you could tell as he was moaning into your mouth, grunting from his drooling cock that was rubbing up and down between your pasty entrance.

still swapping cobwebs of spit as the both of you smashed lips on each other—choso’s continues to spank his aching cockhead against your cunt whilst his lips desperately crash against yours. it turns him on, a lot more than he thought- and choso thinks he may have just found out his new favorite kink.

you.

✩ ˛˚ . SUGURU GETO.

being in a relationship with a boxer had its perks.

suguru geto—he was known for his fights, but more importantly his flexible positions. you’d always tease him about it, pokin’ fun at how you wish he’d fold you like his opponents one time for once. but oh, you’re taken aback once he takes you up on that offer.

“nuh uh, don’t tap out now, baby. let’s see that cute form,” geto grunts, pressing a wet kiss near the inside of your neck. the two of you were in his private gym, specifically his private ring where he’d always train. today though, you were needy, teasing him at how you wanted him to be put in a chokehold like he did to his opponents. but, the moment he’s got you straddling his lap as you’re cockwarming him, you’re nothing but a wet babbling mess. you moan, letting off a breathy gasp once the top part of his boxing glove rubs against your sobbing cunt. you were soaked, making a mess on the mat and a soft gasp creeps out the back of your throat once he wraps a beefy arm around your throat.

safely, geto’s got you in a firm chokehold — the exact one you’d usually see him perform on his other opponents. embarrassingly enough, your cunt twitches almost instantly, and you were trying to grind your hips back into him. “hngh, suguru- fuuuck,” you purr out, letting off a weeping mewling whimper as you felt his fat pointed dick ream a path through your insides. the entire gym was quiet. the only sounds that could’ve been heard were the wet sloshing sounds of geto’s glove gently smacking against your sprawled open pussy. psh after pshh and it only gets louder as you squirm, your thighs parting.

he’s big, manhandling you like this while you’re in a mere chokehold. once you’re starting to sloppily bounce on his lap, you can hear him hiss from the enticing friction. the electric sting of both mounds of flesh slamming on each other ends up giving you both whiplash. “h- hah, fuck, good girl. ride it—move those hips, fuck me back- mmph,” he starts to groan, the weight of your ass getting more and more impactful. geto’s meaty thighs glue against yours and you moan, feeling the curve of his cock rummaging through your squashy insides.

he’s so thick, that his plump tip runs through your tremulous walls before it frantically jackhammers its way to your cervix. letting off a squalling ‘ah!’ of a squeak, your back ends up falling into his broad chest. geto’s sweaty, bare skin rubs off against your skin and he groans. the sly dark-haired boxer wore nothing but his thinly made everlast boxing shorts. “suguruuuu,” you cutely drag out his name, moaning at the way his beefy bicep still wrapped around your neck. you’re bouncin’ up and down repeatedly and it’s almost comical at how your eyes were bulging out of their holes. your tongue was fully lolled, and you’ve never felt more stuffed. hit after hit, by this point, you were sure geto’s cock was gonna give your pretty pussy a solid, fair K.O.

but oh, geto ends up fucking you round after round - literally. he went from having you ride him to him pounding you into his squishy, red mat. your face vigorously presses into the cushion as you’re moaning, desperately whining out his name while he’s ‘practicing’ his special techniques on your cunt. the entire scene was lewd, and as you continued to whine out pathetic cacophonies of, ‘suguruuu,’ — ‘riiight there,’ — or his personal favorite, ‘ooooh, hit it there baby!’ ‘s, he’d feel his dick twitch inside you every time.

your ass raises the second he grabs ahold of your hip, and he’s madly drilling into you raw. each sloppy stroke and twist of his hips makes your toes curl and the bittersweet taste of your saliva ends up trickling down the side of your mouth, landing face-first on the vermillion-colored boxing mat. “fuckin’ shiiit, ‘m gonna cum, sweetheart,” he huffs, resting his free hand on your arched spine. so pretty - the way your ass tries to thrust back into his sharp hips was oh-so-cute. your pussy only got more sloppy, and as he’s feeling his cock preparing to release itself, you could almost hear a whimper snarl out from his throat. “ah, tell me where, f- fuck. talk to me, pretty.”

“i- insiiiide,” you squeal out with short breaths, his cock merrily kneading through your walls. it’s almost filthy at how loud your cunt was. just drooling such molasses of sheeny slick on his length, making an even bigger mess between your legs and on the fighting mat too. as he’s giving you his final, victorious thrusts that make your mouth snap open — a fairly lewd K. O., geto grunts, losing the match with his opponent being nothing more than your sweet, slippery cunt.

instantaneously, wads of thin bubbly ropes mesh with your slick juices, a pretty white ring foamin’ around his base. your release slams into you like a semi-truck, and your eyes crossed almost instantly.

with his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, he’s pouring in such slimy amounts that end up tearing straight down your pulsing bare slit. geto groans, hazed and all as his darkened eyes glance at how you were perfectly arched for him. this position was perfect for you in his eyes.

ass up — face down, “goddamn,” he grumbles through pearly gritted teeth and a slack jaw. mewing satisfied coos purr out of your spit-slicked lips as you feel him plugging you up to the brim, hearing the wet plops ‘n paps of his hot, sticky cum dripping onto the mat. you only imagined what it looked like, how much of a fuckin’ mess you were. “hah- aren’t you a champ,” he pants, and you moan once geto smacks your ass.

speedily, he now makes you flip over with a swift toss of a single brawny arm before picking you up. “mmhn, sweetheart. you did ‘s good for me,” and as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, geto gives you a chaste kiss. a few loose strands of hair stick against your forehead as his tongue curls its way inside of your hot mouth before he snickers, pulling away. “ah, there’s one more position i wanna try though.”

“w- what?” you heave, pouting the second his lips depart from yours.

geto re-aligns himself between your leaking cunt that’s still profusely spurting out clods of milky clumps of his cum before he lifts you just a bit higher against his chest. “hm, oh- i just fuck you while standing up,” and you moan, wrapping your arms around his broad neck. ravened, feral eyes meet yours one more time and geto lets off a husky grunt, his boxing glove sneaking between your legs. “you’re my big girl though, yeahh?”

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