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zepskies · 3 days ago

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BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: My day tomorrow is going to be a bit packed, so I decided to release this a bit early for you guys! So here we go! The first chapter of yet another new series, my first ever 1940s AU. 🥰 I hope you have fun on this one, because I sure did. Again, very much inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker. 💜

Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: For this chapter it’s “Cry Me a River” by Ella Fitzgerald

Word Count: 3.9K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of cheating, PTSD, historical tidbits

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Part 1: Legal Grounds

November 2, 1945

Dean idly read the pamphlet stacked with others on his brother’s desk, which advertised his new and successful enterprise.

Law Offices of Winchester, Bialystock & Bloom

What do you know? His brother had his own office, his own business, and his name on a pamphlet.

Dean couldn’t help but curl a finger around a steel ball on the abacus sitting at the head of the mahogany desk, right next to Sam’s nameplate.

He let it fly. The abacus began to clack as one ball hit the other.

Sam looked up from the deposition he was writing to give his brother a wry brow raise.

“So this is what you do, huh?” Dean remarked, crossing his arms.

Without his jacket, his suspenders were on display over his shoulders. His red pinstripe tie was still in place, but his white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows. Meanwhile, his brother preferred to keep himself more presentable with his sleeves down to his wrists. Jacket on.

Dean glanced around the office, nodding at the line of bookshelves behind Sam, framing him as the bookish academic he’d always been. There was limited seating in here though, just a spare chair in front of the desk, and another to the right of it. Dean stood on the opposite side.

“If you’re bored, all you have to do is say so,” Sam said. “Which is strange, considering we’re smack dab in the middle of a city that never sleeps.”

He was right, Dean could concede. His little brother had given him a veritable list of things to do in New York City: visit the park, go to the zoo, see a picture show, visit a nightclub, or sample a host of restaurants that Sam knew Dean would probably enjoy.

He’d seen a lot of this place in the week that he’d been here visiting Sam, but a good deal of it he’d either spent alone, or with any willing young lady Dean came across, thanks to the demands of this office. If he was honest, entertaining young ladies was eating into the wallet in his trouser pocket, and the hustle and bustle was starting to be a little much for him.

“You don’t get tired of it?” Dean asked, gesturing to the out there beyond them. “The, uh…the lights, the noise, all the people?”

Sam picked his head up from his paperwork to consider the question. “No, I like it. Keeps my mind busy, and…I guess it makes me feel alive, you know?”

Dean supposed he could understand that, so he nodded.

Sam wasn’t fooled though. He thought he could tell what was running through his brother’s head, watching him fidget, and turn his head a bit sharply when a bus honked loudly outside the office’s glass doors as it thundered past.

It had only been two months since the end of the war. Two months since he and Dean met back in their family home in Lawrence, Kansas after three years fighting on two different fronts, in two different countries.

Both of them had enlisted, but Sam had spent most of his time in London while he was deployed, helping British Intelligence. Dean had clawed his way out of Normandy, and later, out of the Ardennes—the last offensive before the end.

Their experiences might as well have been worlds apart, but one thing remained the same: it had been three years in which neither brother knew if they’d see each other again.

Now, Sam saw the signs. Dean seemed a bit jumpy, overstimulated, but willing to be here to spend a little more time with Sam before he went back home. Guilt prickled in Sam’s gut.

“I’ve got some work here to finish up, but afterwards let’s go to dinner,” he suggested. “Maybe see a show?”

Dean’s lips flickered at a smile. “You’re burning both ends of the candle. You know that, right?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when there was a knock on one of the glass doors—at the entrance to the small building. Their heads turned, and through the open door of his office, they spotted you standing there in the evening light. You wore a wide-brimmed hat on your head and a scarf underneath, wrapped over your hair and under your chin to shield your face. You knocked again with a hand covered by a leather glove, more persistently.

Cocking his head in confusion, Sam stood from his desk and left the room to let you in. Dean hung back and sat on the corner of the desk to wait. He withdrew a cigarette from the pack and a lighter from his pocket as he did so, but he heard you talking with his brother by the door.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed, miss,” Sam informed you.

“It’s still two minutes until closing. At least, according to my watch.”

“…Well, I suppose you’ve got me there.”

“So can I come in? I need to speak to a lawyer.”

“You sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid it can’t, sir.” Your tone was firm, and it more than implied that you wouldn’t be moved. Sam paused then, perhaps to take a steeling breath.

“All right. Come with me, please.”

You later followed behind him through the hallway and into the office. With a lit cigarette between his fingers, his arms crossed, Dean took note of you. He subtly glanced down at your crème-colored blouse, neatly tucked into the long, burgundy skirt (with lipstick to match), your modest, classy heels, and the way you wore your hair. His brows subtly raised. He’d met quite a few girls this week, but he hadn’t seen a lady like you in quite some time.

Should’ve shaved this morning. The thought was accompanied by the way he swiped a subtle hand over his prickly chin.

You gave him a cursory glance in turn, and offered a polite, “Hello.”

He stood from the desk and switched his cigarette to his other hand, so he could shake yours.

“Hey there. Dean Winchester,” he said. He offered a smile with no small amount of charm. “Pleased to meet you…”

You dutifully gave him your first name only. He found that a little strange, but you soon slipped your hand out of his and focused on the nameplate on the desk, followed by Sam himself.

“So you’re brothers,” you realized. “Do you work together?”

Dean scoffed. “Nope, I’m just here to distract him.”

Sam tossed him a sidelong glance. There was a subtle edge of bitter truth in there somewhere, and you didn’t seem to miss it. You looked between the two men, a hint wary.

“Well, as I said, I’m here to speak to the solicitor,” you said.

“That would be me,” Sam nodded. He went to his desk and sat down behind it, gesturing for you to do the same in front of him. You obliged him, smoothing your hands down your skirt once you were seated. “How can I help you?”

You met his eyes with a directness that surprised him a little.

“I want to divorce my husband,” you said.

To say it shocked the room would be an understatement. Behind you, Dean gave his brother a pair of raised brows. Sam didn’t allow himself to react too much in order to remain professional, but he still tilted his head, blinking, before he focused on you again.

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Michael. Michael Milligan.”

“Why do you want a divorce, Mrs. Milligan?”

Here, your gaze fell to the folded hands in your lap.

“I have reason to believe he’s been unfaithful,” you quietly replied.

Once again, there was a pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. His sympathy was genuine, because he could see the way you’d hesitated to say the words, like they embarrassed you, shamed you, and saddened you all at once.

“But I have to ask,” he added, “do you have proof?”

Dean glanced his way, his brow raising once again. Sam knew what he was thinking, just as he saw how you frowned as well. But there was a reason why he asked, and it wasn’t to be unkind.

You sighed. “What kind of proof?”

“Pictures. Letters. A witness. Something of legal standing that we can use as leverage and as grounds to grant you a divorce, whether he wants it or not,” Sam said.

You let out another heavy breath through your nose. “No, I don’t have anything like that.”

“Then what makes you so sure he’s steppin’ out?” Dean chimed in. By now he was leaning against the wall, off to the side where he could smoke with the window cracked open. It let in the sounds of cars and distant honking, people traversing the sidewalks.

You turned in your seat to give him a tight look. “If you must know, there’ve been…signs. I won’t trouble you with the details, but I’m sure.”

You met Dean’s gaze, and then Sam’s firmly.

“So will you help me?” you asked him. Sam nodded.

“Yes, I’ll look into your husband and try to find some evidence of his…extracurricular affairs.”

Your lips pursed. “And how long will it take?”

Since you were being so direct, Sam levelled you with honesty.

“It may take time,” he said. “Realistically, we’re looking at months, even after I find what we need… It would be easier to legally separate.”

You had been slowly deflating the more he spoke, but now your expression became stony.

“Mr. Winchester,” you began. “I don’t want to just be separated. I don’t want to live in our apartment, let alone share his bed or wear his last name.”

Despite your best efforts, your voice began to shake. Tears welled up and stung in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from him, other than his signature on the damn papers,” you said. “The case is that I can no longer tolerate that man in my sight, much less in my life. Will you help me? Or should I look for another lawyer who will actually do his job.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. For his part, Dean couldn’t remember the last time he heard a woman curse. Despite your outburst, the tears clinging to your lashes stirred both men.

“I understand, Mrs. Milligan,” Sam said. “I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

He began to look for his handkerchief, but you retrieved one of your own from your purse and quickly dabbed at your eyes, sniffling. You were embarrassed.

“What about your fee?” you said, withdrawing your checkbook. “I, um…I have a little money stashed away. I’ve always worked, you see.”

Sam nodded and went over what his rate would be going forward. Once the two of you came to an agreement, you signed the first check right then and there, even though he felt bad for even taking it from you.

You were still sniffling, and twice you dabbed under your eyes to make sure your face was dry. When you handed over the check, your hands shook, just a little. Sam wouldn’t tell you that he discounted his usual rate.

Again, he mentioned that he would need some time first to investigate your husband and begin collecting evidence for your case. He asked you for any documents you could safely bring him of your finances, for example. You agreed to do an investigation of your own.

“Just be careful,” Dean cautioned. He was getting an idea of what kind of man your husband was, but Dean couldn’t be too sure of what the man was capable of. He’d hate to hear of a girl like you getting hurt over a few papers.

Dean put out the bud of his cigarette on the ashtray lying on the windowsill. He pushed off the wall to approach where you and Sam were getting to your feet. You gave Dean a nod of acknowledgement.

“I will,” you agreed. “Thank you both. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time, but I’ll be heading home now.”

“Did you take a bus or a taxi?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I walked,” you replied, and you checked your watch as you gathered up your purse. You headed for the coatrack, but Dean got there first, helping you into your beige wool coat. It went nicely with the burgundy you had on, namely on your painted lips.

“Thank you,” you said to him, but you still didn’t smile. You were a hint demurer now. It seemed with Sam’s promised help, the fire had dimmed behind your eyes and your tongue.

“How about I give you an escort, make sure you get home okay?” Dean found himself offering. “It’s getting pretty late on a Friday.”

Sam shot him a knowing look, but Dean ignored him, instead focusing on your face.

You hesitated. “It’s a bit far though. Out of your way, I’m sure.”

“All the more reason that you shouldn’t go it alone at this time of night,” he argued.

You considered his offer, and him, with a quick perusal. You seemed to be judging for yourself if he was trustworthy. Dean kept his posture straight, yet relaxed. Maybe he’d liked what he saw the moment he took you in, but after hearing your situation, he felt for you. It really was just an honest offer to walk you home.

“Where did you serve?” you asked. “The Army, the Navy, or the Air Forces?”

The question took him off guard for a beat, but he answered you.

“The Army,” he replied.

“Your rank?”

“I was a sergeant, ma’am.”

You looked at him a little more shrewdly, then you relaxed.

“I might’ve guessed,” you said. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s go then.”

You buttoned up your coat and turned to leave the office. Dean shot his little brother a raise of his brows and a what do ya know? kind of smile. He grabbed his dark brown jacket and hat and followed you out.

Sam’s smile was more reserved, with a shake of his head. He closed the door behind you and Dean and locked it. He still had some work he wanted to finish before tomorrow, and Dean’s little show of chivalry would give him time to do it.

Dean had his hands in his coat pockets as he walked with you down the long city sidewalk. Night had drawn into the November sky, but with all these lights, he couldn’t see many stars. It was also cold as all hell. The frigid wind slapped at him every time they turned the corner of a building, snapping right into his bones.

Still, he supposed there was a kind of attractiveness to the city at night. The stores and their signs were all lit up gold and other neon colors. Couples and families walked together, all done up nice for wherever dinner reservation or movie they were trying to get to. It begged the question of what your husband was doing right now if he didn’t notice his wife out at this time of night.

“Where’s your husband tonight, if I might ask?” said Dean.

You shot him a look, reading between his lines.

“He claims to be working late virtually every night of the weekdays,” you said, “but he usually comes home stinking of alcohol.” Your eyes dimmed, even with the pretty lights shining in them. “He was in the Army as well. A corporal. He’s had a hard time adjusting to being back home, and I know that… He doesn’t sleep very well. And do you know, he had a hard time finding work for a while too. Luckily, he has his father’s business to fall back on.”

Dean tried not to show how much your words resonated with him. He didn’t think it a good thing to have common ground with your husband, if he was the kind of man you said he was.

“Yeah? What’s his business?” he asked.

“He manages a meat production plant, of all things,” you said.

“Ah, located in the Meat Packing District, I presume?”

“You’d presume right.”

Dean nodded. “I get it. I inherited the family home back in Lawrence. I just need to figure out what’s next.”

“Lawrence?”

“Kansas.”

“Oh, the Midwest,” you inclined your head. “What’s it like there?”

Dean scoffed. “Dusty.”

You almost laughed at that. At least it earned him your first smile of the night.

“Do you have an idea of what you’ll do for work?” you asked.

Dean chuckled. “Not just yet. Didn’t plan that far, you know?”

“Why not?” you asked.

“Hmm. Guess I didn’t see the point,” he replied with a mild shrug. It hid a deeper, darker well inside him. The part of him that hadn’t thought he’d make it back home after the war.

You turned to him then, and you saw it behind his eyes. The two of you walked in silence for a little while as the neighborhood blocks began to shift and change, becoming somewhat quieter, more residential. Dean put himself between you and the sidewalk when a taxi zoomed by too close to the curb, resting a hand on the small of your back for protection.

Part of you trilled inside at the small touch, but you immediately beat that reaction down. Dean Winchester was an attractive man, to be sure. His hair was a lighter brown than his brother’s, and shorter too. He had an air of roguishness about him, even though he’d been perfectly pleasant so far.

But by the way he eyed you when you came into the law office, you had a strong feeling he was a flirt. You had no room for that in your life, and not only because you were still a married woman.

Yet, there was something about him that…well, made you curious.

“I was a nurse,” you said eventually, earning his attention. “I was there when they liberated Paris.”

Dean turned to you with newfound interest lighting his green eyes. “You were at Normandy.”

You nodded. “For a while. Almost a year before D-Day.”

Dean let out a short, if humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, that’s where I was. At that time, at least,” he said. You gave him a similar look; respect, and perhaps finding a kindred spirit.

“I did what I could do before, during, and afterwards,” you said. “I think that’s all we can do now, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean,” he said. “If you like.”

A second smile almost tugged at your lips. You nodded in agreement.

“Dean,” you said.

In another ten minutes, he was walking you up to your porch at your apartment building. You travelled up the four small steps, while Dean stopped at the second one. For the first time, you had the vantage point above him as you turned on your heel to face him. You were about to thank him when he shook his head, scoffing.

“This guy must be dumb, deaf, and blind, sweetheart,” he said.

Your face warmed in a blush, and you gave a rueful smile when you realized what he meant. He was looking up at you like someone who couldn’t understand your plight. You knew the feeling.

“That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that,” you said.

His brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“Try to make me feel better,” you said, scuffing the toe of your sensible heels against the brick platform. Dean crossed his arms.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because the fact of the matter is, Sergeant, words don’t move me anymore.” You picked up your gaze from the ground, and you met his. “Flattery is just a pretty way of lying, and I’ve grown to really, truly hate lying.”

It took him a moment, but Dean nodded.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. He had to stop himself before he proved your point with a smart word on your pretty smile. Although, it wouldn’t have been a lie. He tipped his hat up. “Goodnight then, Mrs. Milligan.”

You stopped him from leaving with just your voice.

“Please,” you said, your eyes briefly closing. “Just…call me by my name. My first name.”

Dean slowly smiled. “Perfect. I like your name better anyway.”

This time, your smile in return was genuine, if tinged with amusement.

“Goodnight, Dean,” you replied.

He gave you a charming grin and a more casual soldier’s salute. Then he stuck his hands back in his pockets, turned on his heel, and began to walk back the way he came. You couldn’t help but watch him go for a second or two. His legs were slightly bowed under his slacks, you noticed.

With a blush, you shook your head to rid yourself of those silly thoughts. You closed the door.

That night, Michael came home late, as usual—this time at two in the morning. He reeked of alcohol, also per usual, but this time when he rolled over towards you in bed to say goodnight, you stiffened. He also smelled like a woman’s perfume. Expensive stuff.

This was one of those signs you hadn’t wanted to tell Sam Winchester. Frankly, it was crude and embarrassing.

“Sorry it’s so late, darling. Got held up,” he said, kissing your shoulder through your nightgown. His fingers played with the ends of your hair while you laid facing away from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You were fighting every instinct you had inside you that wanted to recoil from his touch and bolt out of the bed. When just a few months ago, his touch was all you craved, almost desperately so.

“Where were you?” you asked. Somehow, you kept your voice steady and calm. “You weren’t at the office all this time.”

“Had a couple of drinks with the guys after,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry. The night got away from us, but, uh…I’ll be home on time for dinner tomorrow.”

With your back turned to him, you were able to roll your eyes.

“What’d you make tonight, outta curiosity?” he asked.

“Egg salad sandwiches,” you replied flatly.

“Hmm. No real loss there then.”

Your teeth clenched. “If I thought you were actually going to be home when you said you would, maybe I would make a rump roast with all the fixings.”

Michael paused, but then, he grasped your shoulder, slowly turned you around in the bed until you were facing him. His face was sterner.

“Excuse me?”

You remained quiet. Your gaze travelled downwards, avoiding his.

Michael huffed, shaking his head. “Sometimes you got a real mouth on you. One of these days, you just might regret it.”

He turned his back on you, laying on his side. You did the same while trying to stem your tears.

When did this become your life?

AN: Oof, sorry for all that angst at the end there, but I hope you liked the first chapter! Did you enjoy soldier!Dean and soldier/lawyer!Sam? Do you want to find a dark alley for Michael yet? 😅

And are you ready for what's coming up next? 😘

Next Time:

Dean both could and couldn’t believe it. He might not have been a saint himself when it came to the fairer sex, but if he went through the whole ordeal of marrying one, let alone a straight-shooting woman like you, beautiful, clever…

“Geez,” he muttered. “He could’ve at least waited until the ink dried on the certificate.”

Sam nodded in agreement. He picked up the receipt to the Cotton Club, and he shot his brother a grin.

“Wanna go to the club tonight?”

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trustmypoison · 2 days ago

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Ateez finding out that you're pregnant

Requested? Yes!

Request: Hi! <3 I loved your ATEEZ reaction with a low maintenance partner! I was wondering if I could make a request? Either: How each member prefers to sleep with you at night/whether they like to be held or do the holding/etc. I did see the sleeping positions one but I figured this one was different enough. If not that's totally fine!! Otherwise, maybe a pregnancy one, I saw the ones planned for svt and I'd love to see ateez. tysm!! <3’

TW/CW: pregnancy and baby talk. Skip if you aren’t into that.

Hongjoong

The picture of totally put together. There will be only a split second of shock before he’s holding you tight and telling you how happy he is about the news. If you were nervous about the news (which I think most people are at least a little), he’s putting your mind at ease immediately. No, it’s not too soon. No, he’s not worried about the group or the company. Yes, he can’t wait to start a family.

Seonghwa

Stunned silence. You actually think you might have broken him. Once he starts talking, it’s one half-finished question only to be interrupted by another half-finished question, but you get the picture so you explain that you realized you were late and took a test. If the shock goes on so long that you feel like this whole thing is going down the drain, he’ll snap out of it to assure you he’s thrilled, he might just need some time to wrap his head around it.

Yunho

He had a sneaking suspicion when you got a ‘stomach bug’. He doesn’t say anything right away and you’d be too busy being sick to care. So he simply takes you to the doctor. He’s totally silent when you stammer that you don’t need to take a test and the doctor assures you it’s just to eliminate potential causes. When the doctor announces your results, he’s already braced for the shock and handles it far more gracefully than you do. Please, he’d be such a steady partner, change my mind.

Yeosang

When you tell him, he just smiles and nods. You ask if he has anything to say and he smiles and says no. This sort of questioning goes on until you really aren’t convinced he even heard you. You don’t feel good and this is a tough topic if only because it’s a surprise, and the whole thing makes you impatient. “Are you even listening? I said I’m pregnant!” The frustration will double when he just smiles and says, “I know. At least I suspected.” He pulls you in for a hug as you rage, “Then why didn’t you tell me??? I didn’t know!!!” Irritatingly calm in the face of such news.

San

The gentlest of guys and you can’t convince me otherwise. After like the third bout of illness in one morning, he puts you back to bed and very carefully brings up the possibility. He hates the panic that flashes across your face at the mere mention of it and he decides now is a great time to tell you that he’d love it if you were expecting. It puts your mind at ease and the conversation is a slow buildup to you finally asking him to get the tests. Super sweet and supportive even before the tests are purchased.

Mingi

Panic. I could leave it at that but I guess I won’t. He does not know what to do with this information and might not handle it gracefully. He hates that he can see how nervous and upset you are but I envision he’d need to step away. Imagine him going to an older member in crisis mode. Also, imagine Hongjoong blowing up because he just left you like that without any comfort. After some careful coaching, his older members will demand he go and make things right. When he calms down and thinks of the future, he likes it, but a big change like that is scary.

Wooyoung

He just shows up with a couple of tests and demands that you take it. It’s so perplexing that you’re kind of waiting for the punchline (because he always has one). But he really doesn’t have one now and he’s very serious. Now, that doesn’t mean he’s not a smart ass!! He’ll say something like, “You’ve been biting my head off for weeks, you keep gagging at the food I make, and you missed your period last month. Take it so I know how offended to be.” He’s joking on that last bit because of how pale you get at the implication. He’s thrilled about the news, but he’s equally thrilled to know that you don’t just hate him!!

Jongho

Overjoyed. Like there’s not even a moment of shock. The way he holds you close and tells you how happy he is in an instant really smashes any doubts you might have had. Totally doting immediately. I’m serious, do not move, do not pick anything up, do not try to do anything for yourself. I think normally he would not baby his partner quite so much, but he’d do a complete 180 with this news. Prepare to be coddled for at least 9 months, or maybe forever, idk.

#ateez #atz #ateez x reader #atz x reader #ateez reactions #atz reactions #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #tw: pregnancy #tw pregnancy

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utopiastri · 18 hours ago

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Hi, hello!!!

May i request sleep deprivation for the fic prompt, pretty please???? To be honest I'd be so happy with any ship (bc im obsessed with ur writing), but mayhaps landoscar or maxcar???🥺🥺🥺

Hope you are having a wonderful day!<3

-💫

💫 anon!!! hi lovely! thank you for the prompt! i hope you're having a lovely day too and i hope you enjoy some maxcar!!!

Of all the people that Oscar expected to bump into whilst walking around Monaco at 5am, he wouldn’t have bet on Max Verstappen.

Or, well, he wouldn’t have bet a lot on Max Verstappen – Monaco’s tiny and Max does live here, so it’s not entirely unreasonable to run into him. But still.

5am.

“Oscar! Mate, hi!”

Oscar does his best not to wince at how cheery Max is. From the way Max’s face falls slightly, he’s guessing he doesn’t do a particularly good job of it.

“Hey, Max,” he says quietly, giving him a tired smile.

“What are you doing up so early? I wouldn't have guessed you were a morning person.”

“Just, um, going for a walk, I guess.”

Max frowns. “Hm.”

He doesn’t elaborate any further. Oscar prays that the street lighting is dim enough for the dark circles under his eyes to stay hidden.

Eventually, when it becomes clear that Max isn’t going to say anything else, Oscar says, “Right, uh, I’ll see you.”

Oscar’s barely even turned around to start walking in the opposite direction when Max calls out, “Wait! What are you doing after your walk?”

Living the Monaco high life, Oscar thinks to himself, going back to bed and tossing and turning for another six fruitless hours.

“Nothing much,” is what Oscar actually says. In fairness, it isn’t exactly a lie.

“I was just finishing up my run. You should come back to mine for some breakfast,” Max suggests.

Oscar gives Max an assessing look and notes that he looks more like a person about to go for a run than one just finishing one up. Max folds his arms and raises an eyebrow, as if daring Oscar to call his bluff.

On another day, maybe Oscar would. But he feels so tired his bones are heavy with it and giving in is the much easier thing to do.

“Yeah, ok.”

Oscar doesn’t realise that the breakfast invite is a trap until he’s blearily blinking his eyes open a few hours later. Or, maybe ‘trap’ is the wrong word. ‘Trap’ implies that there was some trickery or persuasion involved. Max didn’t exactly have to do much convincing to get Oscar to take a seat on his sofa. And Max certainly didn’t have to do much convincing to get Oscar to let his eyes flutter shut, since they were very much doing that of their own accord.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Max calls from the kitchen. Oscar slowly begins to register where is. He bolts upright when he realises that he managed to fall asleep on Max’s sofa when the poor man had only invited him in for a pastry and some coffee.

“Shit, Max, I’m so sorry,” he says, trying to stand up from the sofa and only managing to almost fall flat on his face, his legs getting twisted in a knitted blanket Max must’ve thrown over him. His face flares bright red and he refuses to look in Max’s direction.

Unfortunately, Max has other plans. He feels Max’s gaze burn into the side of his face until finally Oscar looks up and meets Max’s eyes. He’s smirking ever so slightly.

“No apologising. You needed sleep and, for whatever reason, you cannot get it at home. So you slept on my sofa.” Max says it so matter-of-factly that Oscar almost finds himself nodding along.

“No, wait,” Oscar shakes himself and reminds himself that this is ridiculous, “Max, it wasn’t fair, or, I mean, it was rude of me to fall asleep on your sofa.”

“No, it wasn’t, I didn’t mind.”

Oscar groans slightly. “Well, maybe, you should mind.”

A calculating look appears on Max's face. “To clarify," he says, "You object to the part where you fell asleep on my sofa?”

“Yes,” Oscar says firmly.

“Fine. I agree you should not fall asleep on my sofa.”

“Good.”

“You should fall asleep on my bed.”

“What?” Oscar splutters staring at Max, “Hang on.”

However, Max is too busy grabbing Oscar by the arm and frogmarching him through his flat to take heed of Oscar's request for him to hang on. Oscar’s so bewildered by this turn of events he doesn’t even fight the manhandling that much. Before he knows it, he finds himself sat down on Max’s giant bed, staring up at him.

Max is smirking again.

“There, problem solved. You can’t fall asleep on the sofa if you’re asleep in my bed.”

“Max,” Oscar starts.

Max raises an eyebrow ready to counter whatever Oscar’s next argument will be. Oscar sighs.

He knows when he’s beaten. Max smile grows even wider.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me." He turns to leave but Oscar, almost without thinking, grabs his hand before he can.

His skin starts tingling where it's touching Max's and he does his best to ignore it. Oscar swallows. “Stay?” he asks, voice nothing more than a whisper.

Oscar thinks he might have found the one thing to say that would catch Max off-guard, even if that wasn’t his intention. His expression doesn’t shift, but Oscar can just about make out two dots of pink high in Max’s cheeks.

“Are you sure?”

“Stay,” Oscar repeats, less of a request and more of a command.

Max takes a second but eventually nods and crawls into the other side of the bed. Oscar carefully arranges his body so it's not touching Max's at all and then has to do his best not to react when he feels Max reach out and gently interlock their fingers. “Sleep,” he whispers.

Oscar convinces himself the kiss he feels pressed to his forehead is purely induced by sleep deprivation.

#baby's first maxscar!!!#at one point i accidentally changed vibes halfway through and these two accidentally talked themselves into a game of gay chicken #i'll save that for a different maxcar fic perhaps #maxcar #maxoscar #💫 anon i love youuuuuuuu #you're so wonderful #💫 anon #drabbles #asks

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teddiee · 2 days ago

Text

Into Each Life: Chapter 15

Summary:

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

The engine rumbles to life.

Words: 11,090

Content Warning : 18+ (Explicit language)

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

The line crackles. One ring. Two.

Then—

“Yeah?”

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

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

“Guess who’s off the market?”

He immediately winces.

Silence.

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

Then—

CRASH.

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

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

“What the hell, Buck—?”

Tony breathes out a slow, unsteady exhale.

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

“Say that again.”

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

Another beat of silence.

Then—

A low, guttural sound rumbles through the receiver.

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

It’s not anger. Not entirely.

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

“Who.”

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

Bucky already knows.

But he needs to hear it anyway.

Tony swallows. “Stone.”

The sharp inhale on the other end tells him everything.

Then—

“That’s not happening.”

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

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

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

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

So Tony does.

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

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

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

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

Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m going to kill him.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s a promise.

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

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

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

Because this isn’t just about keeping Tony safe.

This is about keeping Tony.

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

“Tell me where you are.”

Tony hesitates. “Bucky—”

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

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

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

Tony inhales sharply. Then, slowly:

“I have a plan.”

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

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

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

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

Tony’s throat tightens.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

You are mine, Tony.

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

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

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

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

When Tony steps into the kitchen, he halts.

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

And Tony’s heart drops to his stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charming,” Tony says instead.

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

Tony’s chest constricts.

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

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

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

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

Tony’s fists clench. “Stop—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Crystal,” Tony says, voice tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

At least the conversation is a welcome distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ana’s brows lift. “Such as?”

“Excellent bone structure.”

She snorts but waves him on, signaling for more.

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

Ana’s lips twitch, watching him closely.

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

Ana hums. “And your Alpha?”

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

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

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

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

Tony blinks. “What about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Tony blinks at her. “Uh—”

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

Tony squints at her. “You wouldn’t.”

Ana raises an eyebrow, reaching for his plate.

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

“Okay, okay! Jesus.”

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

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

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

It’s fine. He’s fine.

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

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

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

He shoves his plate away, appetite completely gone.

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

Tony pointedly looks anywhere but at her.

The silence stretches, stretching thin and tight, until—

“Antal.”

His spine stiffens, breath catching in his throat.

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

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

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

Tony barely stops himself from flinching.

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

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

“You are dropping,” she murmurs.

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

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

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

Tony swallows. His throat feels thick, uncooperative.

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

Ana doesn’t look convinced.

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

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

The sensation is immediate.

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

He hates how effective it is.

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

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

He doesn’t.

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

He feels like he can breathe.

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

Ana doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s jaw tightens.

Because she’s right.

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

And that’s the worst part.

Because he can’t.

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

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

Ana moves first.

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

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

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

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

Ana doesn’t say anything.

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

It’s grounding.

It shouldn’t be.

But it is.

He’s always been sensitive, there.

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

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

The warmth. The steadiness. The presence.

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

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

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

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

His fingers twitch against his thigh.

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

But he doesn’t.

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

Ana watches him, quiet and patient.

After a long moment, she speaks.

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

Tony doesn’t look at her.

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

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

The words settle between them, heavy and irreversible.

Ana’s gaze doesn’t waver.

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

Tony squeezes his eyes shut.

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

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

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

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

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

But it never lasts.

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

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

Ana doesn’t let him finish.

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

She sets it in front of him without a word.

Tony stares at it.

His throat works around something thick, something unbearably fragile.

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

But the gesture is there.

The choice is there.

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

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

Ana doesn’t comment.

She never does.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or Tiberius. Could Tiberius have bribed someone?

And if Tony could roll his eyes, he would.

Because, of course, Tiberius would bribe someone.

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

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

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

The engine rumbles to life.

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

It’s a long drive.

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

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

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

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

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

And yet…

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

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

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

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

Eventually, the van stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one responds.

Lovely.

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

Nothing. No response.

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

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

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

This feels too neat, too government.

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

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

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

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

Instead, Abraham Erskine steps through.

Tony stands still, unmoving. Stunned.

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

He looks… tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My father reads my mail?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sounds ludicrous to even say out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony tenses. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A future that includes Bucky, openly, without fear.

Until he leaves Tony.

But that’s a problem for another day.

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

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

He has work to do.

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

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wickedsniffles · 2 days ago

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another night that i can't sleep

Summary: L/ogan is driving W/ade insane with his allergies, and being a bit of a stubborn brat about it. W/ade decides to fess up.

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: L/ogan Howlett aka W/olverine x W/ade Wilson aka D/eadpool

Tags: snz of course, kink!Wade, kink confession, smut, L/ogan being a grouchy brat, holdbacks/stuck sneezes, anal sex, top Wade/bottom Logan, fluff, spray

Word Count: 3.8k

There are fewer things more elusive than a Wolverine who doesn’t want to be disturbed.

A lesson Wade’s learned many times as they’ve cohabitated, and come to respect as they’ve become partners. Logan just needs his space sometimes. He’s not asking for it to try and get away from Wade specifically – okay, maybe he is sometimes, but everyone needs a break from one another now and then. It’s more like he just wants to be alone to think. Be somewhere quiet.

Wade’s fine with that. They both need time to chill out as individuals, a couple hours or a whole day. Logan does his drive-out-to-the-woods thing and Wade keeps himself busy with something sensory seeking that would normally drive Logan up the fucking wall.

And they get by with this little routine, this mutual understanding. When they’re together again, it pops any balloon of tension that might have formed. Logan’s always happy to see him, and Wade’s clingy enough that he’s going to melt for affection as soon as he gets it. He’d say this happens about once a month since they started living together, since that boundary was first set.

Like he said, fine by him. But the past few days haven’t fallen into the rhythm of that agreement.

Logan’s been in a less-than-cheerful mood, and Wade can guess why. Spring is staking its claim on the city, and though they’re both glad for that first warm breeze after the grasp of winter, Logan’s struggling hard. Or his nose is, anyway. Having super senses isn’t all fun and games, as Wade’s been discovering. As much as Logan might try to hide it, almost everything seems to affect his sensitive nose.

Before the pollenpocalypse hit, the main thing Wade noticed that set him off was dust. He’s guilty of putting dusting off for ages, because fuck is it tedious. But Wade definitely makes more of an effort to keep things dusted after seeing how itchy it gets Logan, trying to stifle irritated fits of sneezes whenever any amount of it gets stirred up.

Does that go directly against how fucking hot Wade finds the whole thing? Well, yes. But if he can do something to make things a little easier on Logan, he’s willing to try it. He’s not a sadist. (At least not all the time.)

Wade hasn’t exactly let Logan in on this kink just yet. Why not? Well. How would you feel if you told the hottest man you’d ever seen that you were into something kinda bizarre and he said “wow, Wade, what the fuck?” and hit the road right then and there? He’s waiting until he’s a hundred percent certain that Logan won’t laugh him out of his own apartment before spilling that kind of tea.

It doesn’t help that Logan’s been outright torturing him this early spring. First of all, he almost always acts like he’s not affected by it. Nothing gets to the Wolverine, right? Instead, he just goes about his day, sniffling and blinking back allergic tears. Temper shortened by about half. Pausing throughout the day to squint and gasp before muffling sneezes into his shirtsleeve or handkerchief or tissue.

Stupid 19th century etiquette. How dare he be so fucking polite.

If Wade pauses to bless him, or suggest that he maybe take a nap or drink some tea or something, he just gets growled at. Because Logan’s fine and it’s just the weather changing and I don’t need you to fuss over me, Wade. Leave me alone.

Touchy!

Fine, whatever. If this is what he needs to keep his ego intact, Wade’ll do his best to pretend he’s not jerking it in the shower every other day.

But he only lasts half a week before he wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. Now that’s a red alarm; as grouchy as he might have been recently, Logan’s soft in that he loves physical touch. Hold his hand, be his big spoon, pet his hair. Whenever they’re apart, he confesses that it’s hard for him to fall asleep without Wade holding him. He’s never seen Logan actively try to avoid it.

Wade walks out to the living room to find the lamp on, creating a dim circle of light around his missing partner. His partner who is curled up loosely on the couch, looking miserable. Dark circles under his eyes and his nose scrubbed red. There’s no way to know how long he’s been out here, but something tells Wade that his allergies have kept him up for quite a while.

“Hey,” Wade says, moving to sit down beside him.

“Hey.”

He bumps his shoulder against Logan’s gently.

“Why you sittin’ out here?”

“Well, I –” Logan looks down. Frowns at the floor. “I didn't wanna bother you. I guess. Thought I might keep you up.”

Wade melts. Why didn’t he just say that? Not like he’s been dying to take care of him or anything, stubborn ass. Not like being with him is a gift and a treasure.

“Aw, baby, c’mere,” he says softly, reaching out. “You're not bothering me. You don't ever bother me.”

Hesitating only for a moment, Logan sighs and leans forward into his arms. He knows he's been a bit distant, acted annoyed and snapped when it wasn’t even Wade’s fault. He’s been stupid. It's nice to just curl up into Wade and not have to put unnecessary space between them. Nestling his face into the soft material of Wade's shirt, he lets himself relax.

“That's better.”

He kisses the top of Logan's head, shifting further into the couch so that Logan can cuddle in closer under his arm. Logan doesn't say these kinds of things out loud, but he loves being held. He makes a small, contented sound when Wade starts carding a hand through his hair.

It feels so good to just lie there together like that for a while. Logan's thumb runs comforting little circles on Wade's arm for a few minutes, then drops to the side. Wade would almost think he'd fallen asleep, if not for the continued sniffling and occasional restless shifting to scrub at his face.

“Still getting to you, huh?” Wade's voice is full of sympathy, and despite the reaction that this gets out of him, he means it.

“Not a big deal,” Logan says. “Just a pain in the ass.”

He curls up tighter into Wade, resting his cheek sleepily on the other man's chest. Like he really just wants to go back to bed but his nose won't let him.

“Poor Wolverine,” Wade teases lightly, grinning even though Logan can't see him. “Don't think the comic book writers would guess your biggest weakness is just, like, trees and grass.”

That's Logan's cue to growl and snap and tell him to shut his mouth. He doesn't take it. Instead he's gone strangely still in the cradle of Wade's lap, and Wade realizes what that means as soon as it's happening.

He only hears the quietest handful of hitched breaths before Logan half-stifles two sneezes into his shoulder, each sounding desperate and irritated.

“God, bless you,” Wade all but trembles out. He's so hard, holy shit, he can't move an inch or Logan will definitely know there's something not kosher about his beef.

“Thanks,” comes Logan's reply, still breathy from sneezing. So hot. “And also, fuck you.”

There it is. His spicy little guard dog.

Wade pretends to pout. “Hey, who came out here to see if you were okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. You know I'm just messin’ around.”

Logan sighs, sniffling thickly and shifting to lie on his stomach to look up at Wade. In doing so, he rubs full force against Wade's very full, very hard cock. They freeze and look at one another.

For once, Wade has nothing clever to say.

“Um.” Logan grinds down for emphasis. Wade hisses, arching up on instinct, biting his lip. “The hell is this?”

He tries to look innocent. Innocent is not an easy look on him.

“My…my penis? My disco stick? My –”

“I know what it is, smartass,” Logan growls. “I'm asking you why you're this hard just sitting here right now.”

Of course, he says all that with such an exasperated, sneezy look on his face that Wade's cock has to be leaking in his boxers. There's no way it isn't.

Wade's never been shy – so he really doesn't need to pick tonight to start, does he? It’s probably time he confessed.

Fuck it.

“You're turning me on,” he admits. “The sneezing, it's – it's always kinda done it for me. You're looking at the reigning champion of weird and surprising kinks.”

Logan takes a second to process this.

“It – huh. I do. When I –? Oh.”

He doesn't say that in a negative way, just like he's contemplating it. There's a beat of quiet.

Wade tests the waters, his anxiety getting the better of him.

“And… what is your opinion on that?”

Logan gives him a self-conscious half-smile.

“I mean, not the weirdest thing I've heard of by a mile. And if that's what you're into –” he chuckles, “ – seems like you lucked out with me, huh?”

!!!!!!!!!!!!

His brain does a series of excited little skips and hops before registering that Logan's pulling the Bedroom Eyes on him, dark and seductive. A cute, sniffly Logan who's just learned one of his weirder kinks and is cool with it. And who just now happens to be propping himself up for better leverage, leaning pointedly into Wade's cock again. Grinding up and down, waiting for a response.

“Jesus Christ,” Wade whispers. “Did you know you're fucking perfect?”

Logan smirks. “I wouldn't go that f-far…heh…heh’ESSH!” He ducks down with the force of it, popping back up a little pink in the face. (Wade has to be dreaming, right?) Logan's expression stays stuck in a moment of pre-sneeze bleariness for a handful of seconds until “ – ESSH! huh’ESSH’ew! God.”

“Bless you, fuck,” Wade blurts out.

Grinding even harder against Wade's cock, Logan blushes deeper, but says nothing. He reaches up to take Wade gently by the jaw, closing his mouth for him.

“Do you wanna fuck me, sweetheart?”

Just a low purr of a question delivered in Logan's sexy voice, and Wade's gasping, squirming, so ready for anything.

“Please,” Wade begs at once, tears threatening to well up from how badly he wants it. “Please, Logan, I want that. Want you, baby.”

He grins.

“You're such a weirdo.”

Logan leans up to kiss him, the words coming out fond. He takes a second to wrestle out of his sweatpants and underwear. Wade's too stunned stupid to do the same at first. He just lies there still clothed as Logan kisses him, grinding into him hard and dirty. Logan's such a good kisser that it's hard to blame him, all hot, open mouth and little sounds of want. Wet allergic sniffles.

On every grind, the tip of Logan's cock rubs against Wade's stomach, slipping up under his shirt and leaving a trail of precome behind. It's tantalizing, hot, like they're teenagers doing something they shouldn't. Wade knows he's already making some pathetic sound, knows he could come like this if it goes on too long. A mess.

“Don't know how you plan to get inside me like that,” Logan pulls away to remark, considerably breathier than before the kissing had started. “C'mon, Red. Lose the pants.”

Fuck.

“Right yeah of course I was totally gonna do that –”

He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pajamas and almost dislocates a hip in the hurry to get out of them. Logan's eyes are burning on him for the second they have to break contact, and when they touch again, it's like gasoline on fire. He wants to be fucked about this newly voiced kink. Badly.

Wade moans into Logan's mouth when their bare cocks rub together, thrilled when Logan answers with a sound of his own. He whines a little when Wade's mouth travels to his neck, granting him full access. Grinding into Wade when he bites down. Like a whore. Like he's been so fucking ready all day, waiting –

“If you wanted me this bad,” Wade murmurs, fishing for the bottle of lube stuffed between the couch cushions, “why didn't you say something earlier?”

“‘Cause I'm like this,” Logan answers, gesturing vaguely at his whole face. Eyes a little watery, nose scrubbed red and irritated. “Most people don't really want to fuck someone when they're like this.”

“Lucky for you that I'm always down to clown,” Wade jokes weakly as he lubes himself up. He doesn't miss the way Logan's eyes follow his every move. “Lift up, baby, move your legs – there we go. Perfect.”

With a shaky exhale, Logan adjusts until Wade's right up against his opening.

“You ready for me?”

“So fuckin' ready,” Logan says, low and needy.

Wade pushes in slow, taking time to savor the way Logan's body takes him perfectly every time. If it were up to Logan, he'd be pressing in harder, rougher. But Wade wants to a.) tease him a little and b.) be gentle with him, at least to start. Logan deserves some gentleness in his life.

They're tangled up in a mess of limbs. Logan's legs around Wade's back. His arms around Wade's shoulders. They kiss like it's a language each is desperate to tell the other, interspersed with little moans and gasps as Wade gets closer and closer to bottoming out.

And all the while, Logan sniffs and huffs and tries to ignore the buzzing itch in his nose. All he wants to think about right now is Wade, how good he feels and how he's trying to thrust back. His face is practically buried in Wade's neck when they pull away to breathe, making him all the more aware that he's trapped. But if Wade really likes that sort of thing, then…

“Is that good, peanut?” Wade asks with his first handful of thrusts, because his answer is oh holy fucking shit this feels amazing and he's hoping they're on the same wavelength.

He feels Logan nod right away.

“Fuckin' course it's good,” he answers. “I just – if you don't move, I'm probably–” His breath hitches, interrupting what he's trying to say. “Y’know, I'm gonna – huh –”

Wade feels Logan's whole body tense, feels that delicious hitched breath in his ear. Disappointingly, he turns as much as he can and stifles four each in rapid succession – but God does he clench around Wade’s cock.

“Bless you,” Wade says, then mutters cockblock though he knows Logan can hear it.

He sniffs thickly. “Cockblock? You're inside me, asshole!”

Too true. Wade picks up the pace again, faster now, and Logan buries his face in the other man's collar with a needy moan.

“Guess I am,” Wade teases. “And if you want me to stay here, you should probably do what I say. Right?”

A stubborn look flits over Logan's face, replaced quickly with want as Wade adjusts his angle just right.

“And what are you gonna tell me to do?”

Ooh, this is just like Christmas. Better than, maybe.

“I wanna hear you. No stifling or holding back. Got it?”

Logan rolls his eyes, but he's blushing. Wade's not fooled; he knows Logan likes to be bossed around a little if he's going to be the one bottoming, and hey, Wade is more than happy to give him what he wants.

“No promises,” he says finally. “You fuckin' brat.”

Wade gives him a satisfied hum.

“We'll work with it.”

He kisses Logan on the shell of his ear, pleased to get a little shiver in response, and ups his tempo. Logan clings to him, grasping tight at his tshirt, his little moan sounding relieved as Wade fucks him deep.

Logan's never one to hold back when they're having sex, dissolving into it, a mess of pleased sounds and open expressions. Nails and teeth. Letting the animal out. So why draw the line now, just because of some pesky sneezes?

“You needed this, huh?”

It takes Logan a few seconds to answer, panting hot and open against Wade's ear.

“Y-Yeah.”

He's crushing Wade to him, body tense, his cock wedged between them. Every inhale comes with a hitched whine, eager to take everything he's given. Every few seconds he sniffles, harsh, as if that's going to help anything.

“My poor kitty cat,” Wade simpers. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me how bad you want it.”

Another long, low sound before Logan can focus enough to find the words. A few breaths. He swallows.

“It's good,” he says finally. “You always make it f-feel so fuckin' good, and you're really deep inside me and I – hh–”

Logan fucking rubs his nose against the collar of Wade's old tshirt to try and quell the itch. And yes, Wade does gasp about it.

“All I wanna think about is what we're doin’ but I cahhn’t–”

“Can't what?” Wade asks, trying to keep his tone somewhere near neutral. He feels like he's about to pass away.

“Can't think,” Logan groans. “Itches too bad, all the fuckin’ t–hih-time–”

God the suspense is too much. Wade can't concentrate on rolling his hips up into Logan with perfect timing and think about whether or not he's about to have all his kink dreams fulfilled. His rhythm falters.

Can he write it off as a power play? …Maybe. But probably not.

“What did I just say?”

Wade's tone treads the line of stern but doesn't quite get there. His voice is too gentle for it, too utterly delighted to hear Logan all tense and caught up the way he is.

Logan really can't think, poor guy. His body feels tense, breath coming in halted pants, clicking in his throat.

“Told me not to hold back,” he answers finally. “I'm not doing it on – purpose. I just can't.”

“Oh, I believe you, kitten.” He forces himself to go completely still inside Logan, prompting a disappointed huff. “You're getting all shy about it now, huh? Performance anxiety?”

Another growl as Logan thrusts up, trying to get them going again, making Wade's legs twitch. He's a lot less intimidating with all the snuffling and watery eyes.

“I don't kn–heh–” Logan breaks off in a series of hitching gasps, and Wade bites him lightly on the shoulder, groaning in anticipation. But nothing comes of it, and Logan sighs, just as frustrated. He's cute when he's irritated. “ I don't know. Can you just fuck me? Please?”

“Sneeze first,” Wade says sweetly. “Or I'm not moving. C'mon, I know you wanna.”

“What I wanna do is claw you through right now.”

Wade ignores that; they both know it's an empty threat.

“It'd feel so much better to just let it out,” he muses, teasing Logan with a handful of thrusts.

Logan arches for it, whimpering. He can't even suck in a full breath without hitching like he's about to sneeze, grappling with it. Wade keeps talking.

“I can tell when you're trying to hide it, you know. Those cute little stifles you think I don't notice. And it itches so bad, doesn't it? All the pollen and the dust. So sensitive, right? But you don't want anyone to –”

“Wade,” Logan trembles out. “F-fuck, I'm gonna – hh – hih –! HEHSSH’IEW!”

“There we go,” Wade says eagerly, sliding his cock back up into Logan deep with a groan he doesn’t even bother to contain. “And bless –”

Logan is not done. The first sneeze was wet, desperate, and loud, spray landing on Wade’s shirt and collarbone. If there’s one thing Wade’s taken away from watching him endure allergic irritation, it’s that he never sneezes just once.

“Fuck, sorry,” he manages to say before tensing up again. “I – heh’ESSH! ESSH! ESSH-uhh! God, Wade, please please don’t stop –”

The way Logan melts into a breathless whine as soon as he can stop sneezing to do it makes Wade go fucking crazy. He growls in answer and shifts one of Logan’s legs, fucking him harder, knowing he’s found that sweet spot when Logan keens so high his voice cracks. He reaches down to stroke himself, and Wade gladly lets him.

“That feel good, baby?”

“Yes, hell yes, I’m so – hh so fucking –”

Wade’s rarely heard him so undone. His own self-control is in tatters, orgasm building at a rapid pace as Logan comes apart underneath him. He can hear himself panting, ragged, open-mouthed, but can’t bring himself to care.

“ESSH’iew! ESSH! Heh’ESSH! HEHSSH’IEW! Oh god,” Logan gasps. “Wade, Red, sweetheart you’re gonna make me come –”

“Then you’d better – do it. C’mon, peanut, give it to me.”

With a broken sound, Logan keeps his promise, sinking his teeth into Wade’s t-shirt and covering it with streaks of his release. Wade’s only a few short thrusts behind, shivering through every pulse and praising Logan for being so fucking good for him.

(At least, he’s pretty sure he’s praising Logan. His mouth is moving and words are coming out, and Logan’s looking up at him all dazed and sweet.)

For the interested reader, here's the dialogue that Logan would later tell Wade was being babbled out at him: Logan. Oh my god holy fucking shit. Bless you baby bless you times like a thousand I fucking love you. You're so fucking hot. You took me so well, didn't you? Such a good boy. You're the hottest person on the fucking planet. Would it be weird if I kissed your nose right now? Yeah probably I'm not gonna do it, okay, I love you, did I say that already? You're so pretty, fuck, you're so pretty –

Eventually, Logan smiles at him, all soft edges. He reaches up and cups Wade’s face.

“Wade.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you even know what the hell you’re talkin’ about right now?”

“Uhh.” It’s a little humiliating to admit he can just ramble without having a fucking clue what’s coming out of his mouth. “No. All systems offline. Floating through dead space, captain.”

Logan huffs out a laugh. “Then float back to me, knucklehead.”

Something in his chest goes all half-baked cookie dough soft.

“Aye-aye.”

Wade leans in to kiss him, aware of how fast his heart is still beating. That got intense. And so fucking hot. To be honest? He's already raring to do it again. From the way Logan's nose has been acting up, he's certain they'll get their chance sooner rather than later.

“Hey, bub?”

“Yeah?”

Logan swallows, his eyes cutting away.

“Sorry I've been kind of a prick. Haven't felt the best, but that's no reason to get short with ya.”

Well, shit. If fucking him senseless through an allergy attack was all it took for Logan to go this soft, Wade would have done it weeks ago.

“I get it,” Wade says playfully. “You have a whole testosterone-fueled persona to maintain. But you could, you know. Let me take care of you. Help you feel less sniffly and pathetic.”

“Not tryin’ to maintain anything,” Logan argues. “Just not used to people wanting to – I dunno. Look after me.”

“Then get used to it,” Wade says. “Cause I don't plan on going anywhere.”

Logan blushes at that, smiling a little despite an effort not to. Wade kisses him one more time, a soft and purposeful thing, and they shuffle into the shower. Even Logan's sneezes sound sleepy now, and this time when they crawl into bed, he tucks close into Wade's chest and falls asleep in minutes.

That's more like it, Wade thinks.

#snz kink #snzblr #snz #sniction #snzfic #snz fic #p/oolverine #sneeze kink #l/ogan

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em-harlsnow · 2 days ago

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He’s got Joey on the phone in one ear, telling him they need him and whoever he can bring now, while he’s trying to shove on his hoodie and shoes on the same time.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get Mickey, think he’s free.”

“‘Kay, come quick.”

“Yeah, you just fuckin’ said.”

Iggy hangs up, shoving the flip phone into the pocket of his jeans and zipping up the hoodie. His struggles with his shoes for a few minutes longer, getting frustrated and nearly tripping. Eventually, though he’s ready to go and he’s already managed to stumble halfway to what is now Mickey’s room.

He bangs on it with his fist, rapping twice on the wood. Iggy’s learnt his lesson from last time.

“Yeah?” Ian’s voice sounds through the thin door.

Iggy didn’t want Ian, he wanted Mickey… but maybe Ian could work. Surely even a Gallagher can cope with a little drug run. Mickey won’t mind, if anything he’d be happy. Iggy guesses he would be, anyway, since doing drug runs is basically a Milkovich right of passage. If Ian wants to be a part of their family, he’s going to have to do at least one. He needs to get on with it, too, if he wants Iggy’s respect.

Cautiously, because he’s still scarred, Iggy swings the door open by a foot to poke his head in the door.

He opens his mouth to ask Ian where Mickey is, and if he would like to come on the run instead, but he’s interrupted by the sight of his brother sleeping soundly beside Ian. They’re not exactly cuddled up or any gay shit like that, but what Iggy sees is enough to startle. His brother - Mr. I’ll Kill You If You Touch Me - has a firm grip on Ian’s arm, like Ian’s a balloon that could float away into space. Iggy’s never seen him touch anyone willingly. He’s disgusted if Iggy so much as brushes past him too closely, yet now he’s holding onto Ian like he’d be upset if he wasn’t touching him.

Iggy hones in on the contact, unable to take his eyes off of the place where Mickey’s tattooed hand is clasping Ian’s arm. He can see silver scars shining in the light from the window, circular scars on Mickey’s hand. Iggy remembers when he got them. He’s got a matching set. They feel more like matching sibling tattoos than the knuckle tats.

It’s because of those scars, the story behind them, that Iggy hates people smoking around him. More specifically, waving lit cigarettes or joints around that are clasped between loose fingers. Smoking is one thing. Iggy has more tobacco and weed in his lungs than oxygen. It’s when people aren’t careful - and most people aren’t - that stresses Iggy out. He doesn’t like it. Mickey doesn’t like it either.

Ian’s smoking. Iggy doesn’t think he’ll drop the cigarette, but he’s not being careful. He’s smoking the way most people do; casually. If Iggy were as close to Ian as Mickey is, he’d be stressed. Mickey’s not stressed. Mickey’s sleeping. Mickey’s trusting him. Mickey isn’t worried about getting burnt by the cigarette in his hand. Mickey hardly trusts his own hands not to fuck him over, never mind another person.

Iggy can’t stop thinking about Mickey’s hand on Ian’s bicep, his restful, calm face and Ian’s cigarette.

“What?” Ian prods, reminding him of his rush.

“Uh-“ Iggy stutters, looking between Ian’s expecting face and Mickey’s comfortable sleep. “Yeah. I’m goin’ on a run with Joey. You up for it?” He won’t wake Mickey up. Not because he looks happy or anything, Iggy isn’t a pussy, but because Mickey’s an asshole when he’s woken up.

read the rest on ao3!!

i hope you enjoy!!

#shameless #gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ian x mickey #gallavich fic #shameless fanfiction #gallavich fan fiction #gallavich fanfic

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scribere-flores · 1 day ago

Text

Sabo x Reader

~Just as a hypothetical question~

Part 6. Other Parts Word count: 6,1k words (Dear God) Short summary: There's drama, there's chaos, things get a little bit serious at one point, and then, a little bit of smut sprinkled on top. Basically: Reader+Sabo+Miscommunication= solved... kinda. AN: I've risen from hell, aka first semester of law & political science courses. In all seriousness, I'm so so grateful for the wonderful support all of you have given my cheesy little fic. I really appreciate the nice and understanding comments while I've been away. I had so much fun writing this last chapter whenever I had time. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did <3 (Not proof read, will fix any spelling errors after I get some sleep)

MDNI 18+

___

Shit.

Y/N was practically sprinting through the hallways as soon as she had left the library. She must have looked insane to anyone that saw her.

She messed up, she messed up big time!

Not only did Y/N snap at the man who potentially wanted to torture her, possibly even kill her.

No, she also left the book on the table. The book that had “Outdoor Survival” spelled with bold, bright orange letters on the front!

And Sabo wasn’t stupid, she knew that. By this point he must already have figured out what she was planning, and was probably plotting some kind of sick, twisted way of making sure she couldn’t leave.

What if he locks her in a cell and throws away the key? Deprived her of ever seeing the sunlight again?

No, Sabo wouldn’t really do that. Right?

Y/N let out a nervous laughter as she felt a shiver run down her spine. This wasn’t the time for guessing, she couldn’t risk staying a day longer at this godawful base. She just needed to gather a few more things, and then she was ready to start her new life.

Preferably far far away from the sadistic blond devil that took pleasure in stalking and tormenting her.

As she pushed the front door to the base open, unwelcome thoughts sneaked into her mind.

A gorgeous, handsome, honey-voiced devil, with strong arms that could easily pin her down so he-

“NO NO NO! Stop fantasizing about him, you stupid,stupid girl! That’s insane behavior, you know it is never-” Y/N choked on her words “never going to happen...”

A loud sigh escaped her lips as her shoulders dropped forward, forehead leaning against the wall outside the building. Was this really a good idea? In truth, she felt completely unprepared to live out the rest of her days in the wilderness.

Maybe life as the Chief of Staff’s captive wouldn’t be so bad?

“Ha-ha, I must be losing my mind.” Y/N laughed nervously as she pushed herself up from her leaning position.

Staying wasn’t an option. But neither was going out into the forest unprepared. She looked around the busy town square.

“Now, where do I find something sharp…”

___

“What are those two doing today?” Koala pondered as she looked out over the town.

She was resting her head against her hand, arm leaning over the windowsill, as her eyes closely followed Jane Doe. The girl had been running around the town for the past hour, gathering one strange thing after the other.

Just as the girl slipped into another alleyway, Koala’s attention was caught by Sabo jumping out from a window, quickly moving over the rooftops with his steel pipe on his back. And she knew that could only spell trouble. Which meant, more paperwork for her.

Her so-called partner had taken his newfound hobby, stalking, to a whole other level these past few days. In a way it was kinda endearing seeing Sabo run around like a lovesick puppy. Some of the Revs had even started a pool, placing bets on how long it would take before those two finally got together… or until Jane Doe flat out rejected Sabo once and for all.

Koala found that highly unlikely though. The girl was obviously crushing hard, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. Koala even suspected that the poor girl was so nervous that she was planning on running away, which would achieve absolutely nothing since Sabo would find her straight away.

“But what do I know? Maybe this is just what happens when you have that kind of upbringing.…” Koala sighed “Still, Nobles are fucking weird.”

___

“Oh Dear God, that was a close call.” Y/N sighed as she turned the key to her bedroom door.

She had just managed to avoid Koala’s attempt to “have a talk”. Something she desperately wanted to avoid, because in her mind, “having a talk” could only mean one thing…

“I really hope Koala hasn’t found out too.” She said under her breath as she entered her bedroom.

"Find out about what?"

An audible ‘eep’ escaped Y/N mouth as she heard the familiar voice, before she quickly put her hands over her mouth and took a step back from shock, her back hitting the now closed door.

"How d-did you get in here… t-the door was locked." She said with a shaky voice as she eyed the blond man sitting on her bed.

"Window." Sabo shrugged. As if what he said wasn’t insane, or not even acknowledging that he had broken into her room!

"We're on the third floor.” Y/N stuttered, still not completely comprehending her current situation.

Why? Why was this happening now? Why was he here? She was just coming back to gather her things, and then she was supposed to leave.

She felt her heart beating faster as she glared at Sabo.

"Breathe Angel, I was just returning what I took this morning…” He chuckled as he walked over to her dresser and put her neatly folded underwear on it.

‘Okay, great! Now, please leave, please.’ she prayed quietly in her head.

“And I have a question for you, so I waited until you got back." Sabo said with a bright smile, but she saw something flicker in his eye, and that couldn’t be good.

"Q-question?" She stuttered as he started to walk towards her " Wait, don't-"

"Are you planning to run away, Y/N?" He was standing right in front of her, keeping her trapped between him and the door.

‘Wait, no-’ She felt her mind spiraling out of control. That name. Her name… No, no no no no.

"How do you-" A finger was placed over her mouth.

“Aa-aa, my question first, Y/N.”

“I don’t- that’s not-”

“It’s okay, I promise I’m not mad. But you don’t need to lie anymore Y/N.” Sabo gave her a kind, deceiving smile.

“Stop saying it!” She bursted out, trying to push him back. But he wasn’t bugging, instead he only moved closer to her.

“Oh, but it’s such a pretty name. Much better than Jane Doe. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N…” He chuckled with a dreamy expression, twirling her hair between two fingers.

Y/N could only stare at Sabo with horror as she took in the almost obsessive look in his eyes and the faint smile over his lips. He knew he had won their “game”, and now he was acting like a cat, playing with his prey.

She could feel her breath quicken, how the panic spread through her mind… And honestly, though embarrassing to admit, she felt a little bit aroused. Which was a whole other issue in itself that she really needed to deal with if she somehow got out of this situation alive.

Because, she really shouldn’t be turned on by this!

Sabo let go of her hair and grazed his gloved hand against her cheek, making her flinch. To her surprise her reaction made him take a step back, giving her much needed space to breathe. He sighed and furrowed his eyebrows, almost making it look like he was concerned.

“Please don’t worry, sweetheart. You don’t have to hide anymore. I personally made sure those people won’t come looking for you.” Sabo smiled, sounding kinda proud?

“People? Wait- What did you do?” Y/N was feeling a little confused. Had he really… He couldn’t have, right?

"It was quite easy actually, don’t know why I didn’t do this from the start. It would have saved me so. much. pent. up. frustration." His voice came out strained, almost like a moan.

"I just made a few visits to some very disgusting bugs, before the information I gathered pointed me in the right direction."

‘Disgusting bugs’ Nobles? Right direction? No-

She closely studied Sabo as he mindlessly wandered around the room, continuing his explanation.

"Your dad is a fucking coward, by the way. I barely stepped foot inside the castle before he surrendered both the country and more importantly, your name, in exchange for his own life.

You should have seen the look on his face when I introduced myself as his future son-in-law, it was fucking priceless." He laughed, wiping a tear from his eye.

Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. This man. Correction, this insane man had by himself broken into the castle of an enemy country and threatened the king of said country, just so he could learn what her name was?

For what reason? So he could torture and then execute her with good conscious that he had done a thorough investigation beforehand? And what did he mean by ‘future son-in-law’?

She let out a nervous laughter, catching Sabo’s attention and making him walk towards her again.

"Oh Angel, please don't be scared. We aren't going to meet the fuckers who put you through all of that anymore, I'll make sure of it. It will just be the two of us from now on." Sabo said with a calm tone as he tried pulling her into a hug, which she quickly dodged, so she was now standing in the middle of the room.

Holy fuck-

His statement made her realize what Sabo had been trying to do from the start. He was planning on keeping her alive. To be played with as his personal toy for the rest of her life.

And what must be a very deranged part of herself actually felt relieved over that fact. She would at least get to see his gorgeous face every day. Even if it was when he was taking pleasure in torturing her, or something…

Dear God, that was so freaking messed up!

Sabo brought his hand to her cheek, giving her that kind, deceiving smile. She flinched away when she felt the cool touch of leather on her skin. His smile dropped, a confused wrinkle appearing between his brows.

"Y/N, it isn’t me you're scared of, right?" He asked, giving her a serious look.

"No- I'm-" She took a step back, but Sabo quickly grabbed a hold of her wrist, pulling her towards him.

"Yes you are. Why?" He asked again, the grip around her wrist becoming firmer.

Y/N looked around the room in a panic, her eyes landing on the doorknob. Why the fuck didn’t she just open the door and run away when she had the chance? Why didn’t she think about that before, you know… she was trapped and unable to escape.

She needed to use what little brain capacity she had left and figure something out. Think think think!

‘If a man ever bothers you, just pretend to faint. That’s what all the other ladies your age do.’

Her mother’s words swirled through her mind. Could that really work? Y/N pondered on the crazy idea only for a second before she decided that it was probably the best she could come up with in this situation.

She saw how Sabo quirk his eyebrow and loosened his grip a little just as she closed her eyes, put her hand against her forehead, let out an audible gasp and let her body fall limp to the floor.

___

For a moment, Sabo could only stare flabbergasted at the “fainted” Angel on the floor. He certainly hadn’t expected her to do…whatever it was that she was trying to do.

But he liked that she kept surprising him with her silly little acts, even if they still really needed to have a serious conversation about her running away… and you, allegedly being scared of him? What reason could she have to be scared? Had he been a little too blunt with his explanation about how he found out what her name was?

No, he couldn’t have. He even purposely left out the bloody part, she didn’t need to know about that. And to be fair, he barely touched those disgusting bugs that had described “the princess” as some kind of mindless trophy. Sabo had just made it very clear that he couldn’t stand that kind of misogynistic thinking… with his fists.

He pondered Y/N’s reason for being scared for a few more moments, before he glanced down at her and saw how she was peeking at him through her half squinted eyes. And how she abruptly closed them when she was caught.

"She so fucking adorable" he whispers to himself.

Talking was important, but it could wait for a little bit. How could he not play along when she was acting so incredibly cute.

"Oh no, she fainted. I better put her on the bed." Sabo said in a sarcastic tone as he lifted her off the floor.

He noticed how Y/N shifted in his arms, still trying her best to keep her act up. He carefully placed her on the bed and just looked at her for a moment.

Cute.

"Hmm, what’s that thing they do in fairytales?” Sabo sighed, before he leaned down close to her ear and whispered “Right…maybe she will wake up if I kiss her?"

Within a second Y/N opened her eyes and shoved him away. A bright red blush had spread over her face, and he couldn’t help but to chuckle at her adorable reaction.

"Oh look, I didn’t even have to kiss her for it to work. Just. Like. A. Princess."

"PLEASE DON’T HURT ME!" She exclaimed as she sat straight up on the bed, putting her arms in front of her.

‘Ehm- what?’ Sabo was suddenly very confused about what was happening.

"Hurt you? Why the fuck would I do that?" He asked.

"Because you are a Revolutionary, you disdain Nobles. You enjoy torturing them for fun, before you drag them to the guillotine. And you make them read your manifesto over and over, and over. And I'm a freaking Princess, daughter of a cruel, greedy tyrant! Of course you’re going to fucking hurt me!"

Sabo stared at her with a blank face for a second, before he started to laugh hysterically, bending over with his hands on his stomach.

"Pfft, hahaha—oh my god, this is too good to be true, hahaha," he laughed, tears lining his eyes. "Fuck- I can't breathe."

It must have been a minute or two, but he finally calmed himself down after hearing her insane reasoning. God, everything made so much sense now.

"Is this why you spent the last two weeks pretending to have amnesia? You actually believe in those crazy rumors?" Sabo chuckled as he wiped a tear from his eye "Oh, but the thing about the manifesto is true though. We use it to re-educate all kinds of people that have a messed up world view."

"But mother told me-"

"Well, your mom isn’t exactly the brightest. She thought I was a noble coming over for tea when I jumped over the castle gates. That’s how I got in."

"You do kinda look like a noble." Y/N said, still visibly taken aback by his reaction.

"Yeah... But I also had a fucking metal pipe stuck to my back, which should have set some alarm bells ringing in her head. But she greeted me at the front door herself, happy to have a guest."

"Mother, dear God." she sighed "Wait- why did you have a mental pipe?"

"Uhmm... no reason. Don't worry about it." Sabo gave her a closed eyed smile.

The room fell silent.

He felt an anxious feeling growing in his chest. Whatever her reasoning was, this poor girl had still been afraid that he was going to hurt her.

God, he was such an idiot. It wouldn’t be a surprise if she never wanted to see him again, considering how he had acted these last weeks. The thought of that scared him.

No, either way he needed to apologize. Maybe there was a chance that she would forgive him. And even if she didn’t, he would accept that.

Sabo carefully walked over to the bed, and when he saw that Y/N didn’t move away, he sat down next to her.

"I’m sorry Y/N. I never want to harm you in any way. Fuck, I feel horrible for putting you through that. You must have been so anxious the entire time. And I just thought we were playing a silly game. I promise, I never wanted you to feel that." He said, clenching his fist together.

All he could do was stare down on his knees. Sabo had never felt more ashamed than how he felt right this moment.

Then, he felt a soft hand touch his forearm.

“I believe you.” Y/N’s sweet voice stated, making him look straight at her in shock.

“Why?” He stuttered, still not believing she was actually forgiving him.

“Hmmm… Because I want to.” She said, giving him a bright smile.

Sabo felt how his chest grew warm, like it did every time he saw that smile.

Did she not understand the severity of this situation? It would make sense considering how she had been treated all her life. He needed her to understand that it was okay for her to be angry. That it was okay if she never wanted to see him again. That she was free to feel whatever she wanted to feel.

“But I stalked you for two weeks. I trapped you in a supply closet. I pressured you about your name over and over. I even stole your underwear. It’s only logical if you hate me, and-”

“But I don’t hate you. And I do believe you don’t want to hurt me.” Y/N sighed, before a serious expression fell over her face. “Look, have there been times I’ve been scared that something bad was going to happen to me if any of you found out who I am? Yes. But it’s a normal feeling to have when all your life you've been told that the Revolutionary Army tortures Nobles, right?”

Sabo gave her a small nod, but stayed quiet and waited for her to continue talking.

“But for some reason, even though you have taken pleasure in tormenting me, and don’t try to deny it, there was still a part of me that believed that you never actually wanted to do me any harm. That none of the people in this base wanted to hurt me. And I was driving myself crazy trying to explain that feeling away, Stockholm Syndrome and stuff like that… But I do believe you.”

“But-” Sabo started to say, but was caught off by a finger flicking his forehead.

"Ughh, no more but! It's okay, I actually wasn’t that scared until you told me you were the Second in Command. And even after that, a part of me still didn’t believe you wanted to kill me." Y/N laughed, which was a reaction not quite fitting her statement

"You thought I wanted to kill you?!" Sabo exclaimed, feeling even more embarrassed over how delusional he had been.

She nodded in response, letting out a small giggle.

"And I followed you around like a fucking stalker. Shit, do you know how close I was to breaking into your room last night?" He asked, feeling a warm flush spread over his face.

"You were close to doing what?"

"Uh-"

“Pfft- hahaha. It’s kinda fun seeing you embarrassed for once.” Y/N snickered, making Sabo feel relieved.

This was good. By some godsent miracle, she had actually forgiven him and was somehow dealing with the whole situation surprisingly well. He had been given a second chance, and he wasn’t going to screw this up.

All he needed to do now was figure out if she had the same feelings as he did. And this time he was going with brutal honesty.

___

It felt weird. That the small hope that had been inside her during this entire time was actually true. That Sabo never wanted to hurt her. She knew that the moment she heard his sincere words. Pure relife.

And thank god for that, otherwise she would have looked pretty stupid for sticking around this place so long. Haha, wouldn’t that have been a fun ending to her story. “The naive princess who was tricked and fell in love with the cruel enemy.”

No, she liked this ending much better. The ending where she was just a person, not chained to a title, who was free to love whoever she wanted to.

Even if the love in question was directed towards an undeniably handsome man, but with a sadistic streak. Because there was no denying that fact, Y/N knew that he genuinely took pleasure in tormenting her and seeing her embarrassed. And she was slowly starting to accept that she actually enjoyed it too. Not that Sabo needed to know that.

But she wanted to tell him about the feelings she’s been keeping locked away for these past few weeks. What was she supposed to do? There’s rules and etiquette to follow when it comes to these things. She couldn’t just flat out tell him-

“I love you.” Sabo’s statement cut through her train of thoughts.

“Wha-” Y/N was taken aback. Did he just-

“No scratch that.” He said as he moved closer to her, taking hold of her hand. “What I’m feeling for you is probably closer to an obsession at this point, and I know that sounds like a bad thing, but I promise it’s not. I feel a constant urge to be near you and keep you safe and make you feel loved and cared for and-”

Sabo paused, and she believed she had never seen him look this serious. How could he just say all those things so bluntly? She felt her heart beating faster, and how a warm flush spread over her cheeks.

“And I need to know if I’m just delusional, or if you like me too. Because I was certain you did, up until the moment I realized I’ve been a complete idiot during the entire time I’ve known you. And if you don’t, then that’s okay. I promise I will stop tormenting you... But if there’s even the smallest chance that I can be with you, I need to know.” He said, almost sounding desperate.

Their faces were so close, Y/N could feel Sabo’s breath on her lips. His hand had left hers and traveled to her waist, carefully keeping it there and moving her slightly closer to him.

She put her hand against his chest, surprised to feel that his heart was beating as fast as hers. Her body felt hot and she was trying her hardest to formulate a response, and before she knew it a single word slipped past her lips.

“Yes.” She said with a shaky voice, and felt how Sabo’s grip grew firmer on her waist.

“Yes what?” He asked, an almost pleading look in his eyes.

“...I love you.” Y/N whispered, barely audible for anyone but Sabo to hear.

“Thank God, you don’t know how much I’ve carved to hear you say those words.” He said with a relieved smile, making her heart flutter.

She hardly had time to catch her breath before she felt Sabo’s hand snake to the back of her hair, pulling her into a kiss. It caught her a little off guard, but Y/N felt safe as he took the lead, guiding her down on her back.

As the hand on her waist started to rub small circles through the fabric of her shirt, the kiss grew more intense, and she felt how the now familiar knot in her stomach started to form. She wanted more, to feel more, be closer to him. Her body was moving on its own, her hand grazing over his chest, up to his jaw and gently stroking her thumb over his cheek.

Suddenly Sabo pulled away, breaking the kiss. She could see a soft pink tint over his face as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Fuck… Okay, you need to tell me now if you want to stop. Because we can, if you want to. But I’m barely keeping it together right now. So, do you want me to continue?” He asked with a heavy breath.

Y/N could only nod, making Sabo chuckle a little.

“Angel, I need to hear you say it.” He said, giving her a reassuring smile.

“...yes.” She answered quietly, growing more and more flustered.

“Hm? Yes, what?” A mischievous smile spread over Sabo’s lips as he cupped her chin and tilted her face up towards his.

“I- I want to continue.” Y/N managed to say. She didn’t want this to end now, before it even started.

“Good, that was all I needed to hear. I promise I will take really good care of you.” Sabo stated as he let go of her chin and leaned back so he was sitting on his knees in front of her.

How did he look so calm and in control? While she was barely keeping it together. Wasn’t they supposed to continue? Why did he move away?

“God, your thoughts are written all over your face. So eager, Angel.” He chuckled, as her face turned red.

She watched as Sabo took his jacket off and loosened the carvant around his neck. She could see how his eyes roamed over her body, something flickering in his gaze as they met hers. She couldn’t figure out what he wanted her to do.

“I don’t know what-” She started to say, but Sabo cut her off.

“Oh, I’m sorry sweetheart. I was just a little caught up in thoughts about how cute you look when you're flustered. Don’t worry, you don’t need to think right now, I’ll help you.” He stated. “Now, come here and help me take my gloves off.”

“Okay?” Y/N answered, a little confused about his request, but she moved closer to him and started to pull one of his gloves off, but Sabo moved his hand away.

“No, no Angel. Use your mouth.” He said with a grin over his lips.

“W-what?”

“Well, I can keep them on if you want to… But I promise it's going to feel much better without the gloves. You want it to feel nice, don’t you?” Sabo asked, and she nodded in response “Okay, so take them off, just like I told you to do it.”

Dear God, I’m about to do the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my life.

This devilish man must have some secret power over her, because why else would she be doing this. She cautiously eyed the gloved hands as she swallowed what was left of her pride, and slowly started to tug the glove off with her teeth. The taste of leather felt bitter on her lips as she somehow managed to work the first glove of his hand.

Without giving her a second to breath, a finger pushed against her mouth, waiting for her to start. Y/N glared at Sabo, but he only gave her a smirk in response. The other glove didn’t come off as easily, and truth be told, she suspected that he was making it harder for her on purpose.

“There. Happy?” She asked in a snarky tone as she tugged the glove of his hand.

“Very.” He snickered back.

“I don’t understand why you enjoy making me feel embarrassed so much.” Y/N said with a small pout.

“Because it’s fun seeing your cute reactions... And because I know you like feeling that way.” Sabo said as he leaned a little bit closer to her.

“I- I do not!” She exclaimed, moving back further up on the bed.

“No, you do.” he said in a calm tone as he started to unbutton his shirt. “I know because you always rub your thighs together when I make you flustered. And that’s usually a good sign”

Y/N tried to move further away, but suddenly felt a tug around her ankle making her fall flat on her back. She felt how Sabo’s hand started to travel up her leg, as he moved over her, one knee placed between her legs, pressing against her.

And dear god, just that little amount of much needed pressure against the right spot felt so good. An airy moan escaped her lips as the small knot in her abdomen grew.

“Fuck… you make the most angelic sounds when you’re needy.” Something dark flickered in Sabo’s eyes. “God, I’m going to have so. much. fun. with. you.”

___

If heaven made a sound, he was pretty sure that this is what it would sound like.

Sabo’s mind was clouded by his Angel’s sweet sobs as he continued to flick his tongue over her clit, moving his fingers inside of her in a steady rhythm.

He had lost count of how many times he had made her cum by this point, but seeing the effects it had on her made every orgasm worth it. Legs twitching, hair clinging to her forehead, tears lining her eyes.

It was like he was looking at a piece of art.

Sabo knew he was being cruel. But the sound of her choked out voice in between airy moans and heavy breaths were fucking intoxicating. He could probably do this for hours, if he wasn’t burning up with his own greedy need.

The need to pin her under him. The need to finally feel her clench around him. The need to put marks all over her body. Proof of how much he loved and adored her. Proof that she was his.

And although he knew that he shouldn’t be thinking it, he felt an overwhelming need to turn her into a completely broken mess.

But he also knew that it was probably time to give her a break, let her catch her breath and rest against his chest-

“Sabo- please~” Y/N whimpered, clenching around his fingers.

Fuck-

How was he supposed to ignore that? In the past hour, making her cum had become like an addiction to him. He craved to hear her cry out in pleasure as he helped her reach that high over and over again.

Just one more.

“Oh, I know it’s a lot, sweetheart. You’re being so good for me. Just one more and then we’re done, I promise.” He heard how Y/N’s voice hitched as he quickened the pace of his fingers.

Wet sounds and loud moans filled his head, melting inside every time his name slipped past her lips in small cries of pleasure. She was squirming, basically grinding against his face.

And Sabo loved every second of it. He loved that he could make her this way. That he could completely shut her brain off and make her lose herself in the pleasure he was giving her.

And as he felt his Angel’s body tense up once more, Sabo couldn’t resist the urge to gently bite her inner thigh.

He carefully pulled his fingers out and leaned back to look at the beautiful picture in front of him. A red flush over her cheeks. Puffy lips, probably from her biting down on them. Chest slowly rising and falling with every breath.

“Fucking angelic.” Sabo moaned, taking one more good look before he laid down next to her.

He gently pulled her towards him, letting her head rest on his chest as he ran his fingers through her hair, carefully untangling the mess he had created.

“How are you feeling Angel? It wasn’t too much, was it?” He asked, placing his other hand on her thigh, rubbing soft circles on her skin.

“Nice, so nice~ “ Y/N answered in a soft voice, lightly grazing over his chest with her hand.

“Nice? Maybe we should keep going then-” he felt a slap against his chest “I was just joking, sweetheart. It’s late, and I plan on keeping you trapped with me in this room for at least a few days, so you’re going to need the rest.”

“What?” she asked, already half asleep.

“Huh? Oh, nothing. Don’t worry about it, I’ll show you tomorrow.”

___

This must be the most wonderful-

Wait, no. We’re not doing that again. Last time ended in disaster.

Y/N stretched her legs out as she opened her eyes. God, she felt sore.

She mindlessly put her arms over her head to relieve the ache, but felt how her hand hit something. She looked up, horrified to see her fist pushed in right under Sabo's jaw, quickly moving it away.

“Well, good morning to you too.” Sabo said as he stroked the place she had hit. “Was I really that mean last night that I deserved being woken up by a punch?”

“I’M SO SORRY, I DIDN’T-” Y/N stopped herself a thought back on the previous night, and on how much her body ached this very moment. “You know what? You do deserve that.”

“Ouch! My poor heart.” He answered in a dramatic voice, placing his hands over his chest.

All of this was so absurd, she couldn’t help but to laugh.

Yesterday when she woke up, she had been fully prepared to run away. Almost convinced that the man now laying in her bed wanted to drag her to the guillotine. Afraid that she was going to spend the rest of her life camping out in the middle of the woods. But nothing of that had happened.

Funny how things turn out sometimes. Still, there were some things that needed to be cleared up.

“So, what happens now? I mean, didn’t you say that my so-called father basically surrendered yesterday? Doesn’t that mean that the revolution is over?” Y/N asked.

“Hmm, yeah, kinda… Now it’s just the boring administrative work left. You know, sentencing the bad guys to prison, relocating funds, drafting a new constitution, and whatnot.” Sabo said with a shrug “Oh, but don’t worry. Koala can probably handle that alone for the first few days. We’re not leaving this room unless we really, really need to.”

“You’re not keeping me trapped in here. I need food, and a bath.” She scoffed.

“But I thought you loved me?” He answered with a hurt expression. “Now that I think about it, maybe it’s better if we moved to my room instead. I have snacks we can eat, and a shower.”

“That’s not- nevermind.” Y/N sighed. “We’re getting sidetracked… I mean, what happens after all the administrative stuff is done?”

“Oh, we're going back to Baltigo. The island itself might not be so fun, but don’t worry, everyone at the main base will welcome you with open arms. And you can meet Hack, and Dragon, and all the other members. And you can of course move in with me if you want to, but we can also get you your own room if you would prefer that-”

“Wait, wait, wait. You understand that I’m staying here, right?” She stated.

“What?” Sabo asked with a dumbfounded look.

___

Koala was standing on the stern, looking back at the Island they had lived on for the past month. She thought fondly of the people they had helped liberate from the tyrannical ruler of the country. It always felt good leaving after a successful mission.

“We need to turn around.” Sabo said, suddenly standing next to her.

“FUCK- where did you come from.” She exclaimed.

“Koala, tell them to turn the ship around.” He said in a deadly serious tone.

“Why?” She asked, already knowing what this was about.

“I forgot something…”

“Mhmm, and what would that something be?” Koala said as she rolled her eyes.

“A stubborn brat who doesn’t know what’s best for her.” Sabo answered through gritted teeth.

“Ah-ah, careful there Mr. Chief of Staff for the Revolutionary Army. Kinda sounds like you want to take away someone’s free will.” She teased, earring a scoff in response. “You want Y/N to live free, right? To make her own choices?”

“...yes.”

“Exactly. So stop pouting like some spoiled rich kid. Besides, Dragon already agreed that it was safe for you to go visit her between missions. You’ll see her again in two months.”

“But what if she misses me and I’m not there?” Sabo asked in a panicked voice.

“She’ll write you a letter!”

“What if she burns the house down?”

“Dear God, have mercy and give me strength… Oh wait, strength.” Koala chuckled as she slammed her fist down at the top of Sabo’s head. “Stop being an idiot”

She glared at Sabo as he rubbed the spot on his head, before she saw him looking back towards the Island.

“Two months…Just two months.” he sighed, with a faint smile spreading over his lips.

___

Tag list: @nymeriiiia @kitsunechan707 @treelogirl @sukunas-play-thing @coffiviv @inoe-kun-blog @asura0nepiece

#one piece fanfiction #revolutionary sabo #sabo x reader #x reader #one piece

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