#i wear it when this one needs to be washed

[kaiyunsim]

best lover —

pairing : bf!taesan x gn!reader

summary : after taesan works hard for the newest comeback you wanted to get him a gift... something perfect. but you don't know what exactly to get him so you get help from his roommate.

warnings : fluff, angst (just a little bit), tense confrontation, some music references, taesan gets kinda jealous, kind of a continuation of this fic

a/n : this lowkey made me relapse into the emo/punk genre and now i'm actively listening to them again ! taesan so silly here.

queueing : best lover - bibi, and july - heize + dean

[requested]

— wc : 4.8k — not proof read —

you’ve always known taesan was cool.

not in the tryhard way, not in the way people force an image to seem untouchable. no, he’s effortlessly cool. the kind of cool that comes from simply existing, from being so unapologetically himself that it draws people in.

his aesthetic is proof of that—dark clothes, silver rings, an ever-growing collection of band tees that he claims aren’t a collection but still seem to multiply every time you see him. his playlists are filled with gritty guitar riffs and melancholic lyrics, songs that feel like they belong in a coming-of-age film.

you love it. you love the way he leans against walls like a movie character, the way his fingers tap out drum beats on tables when he’s lost in thought. the way his voice gets softer when he talks about music, when he lets his guard down just enough for you to see the warmth underneath.

so, when their comeback is finally announced, when you see the hours of training, late-night rehearsals, and exhaustion culminate into something incredible, you know you need to do something. something that says, i see you. i see how hard you’ve worked, and i’m proud of you.

but what do you get someone like taesan?

he’s never been the type to want extravagant gifts. he shrugs off praise, mumbles “it’s nothing” when people tell him he’s done well. but you know he keeps every little note fans give him, that he still has the random trinkets the members bought him over the years.

so it has to be something personal. something that actually means something.

you think about it for days, running through ideas in your head. clothes? no, too easy. he already has everything he likes. accessories? maybe, but he’s picky, and you don’t trust yourself to pick out something he’d actually wear.

and then it hits you.

vinyls.

taesan loves music in a way that’s deeper than just listening. he collects records, always talking about how certain albums sound different on vinyl, how the warmth and crackle make it feel more alive. you’ve seen the way he runs his fingers over the covers, the way he carefully places them on his turntable like he’s handling something sacred.

but you don’t know enough about it.

you know the bands he listens to, sure, but not the specific pressings, not which editions are worth having, not which ones he’s been searching for. you need help.

so, you text the only person who would know and would be the most help.

sungho.

—

you: hey, random question, but do you think you could help me with something?

he replies almost immediately.

sungho: depends. am i gonna regret saying yes?

you snort. typical.

you: no, it’s for taesan. i wanna get him some vinyls, but i don’t know which ones he’d actually want.

a pause. then—

sungho: oh. you’re going ot make him a happy boyfriend for sure. sungho: yeah, i can help. you free tomorrow?

relief washes over you.

you: yeah. thanks, sungho. seriously.

sungho: don’t thank me yet. wait till we actually find something good.

you smile, pocketing your phone.

this is a good plan. a perfect plan.

now, you just have to keep it a secret.

the next morning, you wake up with a nervous excitement buzzing under your skin.

taesan is still half-asleep when you see him, his hair messy from sleep, the collar of his oversized shirt slipping down one shoulder. he looks soft like this, different from his usual sharp edges and guarded expressions.

“morning,” you say, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before he can grumble in protest.

he mumbles something incoherent, eyes still closed, before reaching out and lazily wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

you laugh, poking his side. “i have to go out for a bit.”

that wakes him up a little. his eyes blink open, groggy but alert. “where?”

you freeze for half a second before forcing yourself to play it cool. “just running errands.”

his brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t question it. instead, he just tightens his grip around you for a moment before letting go.

“be safe,” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

your heart squeezes at that.

you brush his hair out of his face, letting your fingers linger for a second longer than necessary. “always.”

—

meeting up with sungho feels like a mission.

he’s already waiting outside the taesan's dorm room, dressed casually but still effortlessly put together, a stark contrast to the slightly chaotic energy you’re bringing with you.

“you look nervous,” he says, amused.

“because i am.”

he raises an eyebrow. “it’s just vinyl shopping.”

“yeah, but it’s for taesan,” you stress. “i can’t mess this up. i need to find something perfect.”

sungho rolls his eyes but leads the way inside the vinyl store, hidden in the corners of the busy streets.

the moment you step in, you’re overwhelmed.

rows and rows of records stretch out in front of you, organized into sections you barely understand. the store smells like old paper and something nostalgic, a quiet hum of music playing from the speakers.

sungho glances at you. “you know what bands he likes, right?”

you nod. “yeah, but i don’t know what he already has.”

“then we start with the basics.”

he guides you through the aisles, pointing out albums that fit taesan’s taste. some are obvious bands you’ve seen on his playlists, artists you recognize from the posters in his room. others, not so much.

“this one’s a classic,” sungho says, pulling out a worn-looking album. “he’s mentioned it before, i think he even has a t-shirt of them.”

it was the black parade by my chemical romance

you take it from him, running your fingers over the cover. “do you think he already has the vinyl?”

sungho shakes his head. “nah, he would’ve bragged about it if he did.”

you smile at that. taesan isn’t the bragging type, not really, but when it comes to things he loves, he can’t help but share them with you. you can already picture the way his eyes will light up when he sees the gift, the way he’ll trace the album cover with careful fingers before hugging you in that quiet, deliberate way of his.

this is good. this is exactly what you wanted.

you glance at sungho. “i think we’re on the right track.”

he smirks. “told you.”

you roll your eyes but can’t hide your grin.

this is going to be perfect.

if you can keep it a secret long enough.

you flip through the stacks carefully, the plastic sleeves crinkling under your fingertips as you skim the selection. rows of album covers stare back at you, some bold and vibrant, others muted and mysterious, each one a different piece of someone’s story.

sungho stands beside you, already pulling out records with ease, flipping them over to check editions and pressings like it’s second nature.

“how do you even know all this?” you ask, watching as he inspects a black-and-white cover, his eyes narrowing slightly before he shakes his head and puts it back.

he smirks. “taesan’s not the only one with taste, you know.”

you roll your eyes. “yeah, but you act like this is your second home.”

he hums, running his fingers along the edge of a shelf. “it kinda is. when i first moved into the dorms, i’d come to places like this just to kill time. got to know a lot about music that way.”

that makes sense. sungho has that effortless, older-brother energy, the kind that makes you feel like he’s always been one step ahead of everyone else. but even so, you know there’s more to it. something about the way he says it, like music was a comfort rather than just a hobby.

you glance down at the album in your hands. the artwork is dramatic, painted in deep reds and blacks, the kind of thing you could easily imagine taesan leaving out on his desk just because it looks cool. it was titled a fever you can’t sweat out this time, by panic at the disco

you hesitate. “what about this one?”

sungho looks over, and to your relief, he nods in approval. “solid pick. taesan likes them. they have that whole raw, gritty sound he’s into.”

you exhale, setting it aside in the growing pile of vinyls you’ve picked out. “good. i was kinda guessing.”

sungho snickers. “if you were completely guessing, you would’ve picked something embarrassing.”

you give him a flat look. “i wouldn’t do that.”

“you sure? no boyband vinyls hidden in that stack?”

“why are you acting like that would be a crime?”

he laughs, shaking his head. “nah, but taesan would probably combust.”

you grin at the thought. he probably would. his whole tough, brooding image crumbling the second someone dared to associate him with anything remotely bright and upbeat. you’ve teased him about it before, played pop songs in his presence just to watch him pretend he wasn’t listening.

but this isn’t about teasing him. this is about him.

you glance around the store, taking in the dim lighting, the faint sound of a record spinning in the background. a few other customers linger nearby, flipping through vinyls with the same careful reverence, but none of them seem rushed. it’s the kind of place taesan would get lost in, taking his time with every shelf, soaking in the atmosphere.

you wish he was here.

you shake the thought away before it can settle too deep.

“okay,” you say, straightening up. “i think i need at least one more.”

sungho scans the shelves before reaching over and pulling out a record without hesitation.

“this.”

you take it from him, studying the cover. it’s striking… american idiot by greenday.

“he’s been looking for this one,” sungho explains. “i remember him complaining about how it’s always out of stock.”

your chest warms. “then that’s perfect.”

sungho grins. “congrats, you officially have a good gift… or multiple”

you roll your eyes but can’t help but smile. “thanks for the approval.”

“anytime.”

you head to the counter, placing the records down carefully as the cashier rings them up. the prices make you wince a little. vinyl collecting is not cheap. but you don’t hesitate. taesan is worth it.

when you step back outside, the air feels cooler, a slight breeze brushing against your skin. sungho stretches beside you, squinting up at the sky.

“so,” he says. “how are you planning to give it to him?”

you blink. “uh. just... give it to him?”

he gives you a flat look. “you’re really bad at this.”

“excuse me?”

“c’mon,” he says. “you go through all this trouble, sneak around just to surprise him, and you’re just gonna hand it to him like it’s a bag of chips?”

you frown. “what am i supposed to do? make a scavenger hunt?”

“i mean, that would be funny.”

“sungho.”

he chuckles. “fine, fine. but at least make it a moment, you know? like, put them in a nice box or something. set the mood a little.”

you consider that. he’s right. you don’t just want this to be a casual exchange. you want taesan to feel how much this means.

“okay,” you say slowly. “i’ll think of something.”

sungho pats your shoulder. “good. because if you don’t, i’m telling him i helped.”

you gasp. “you wouldn’t.”

his grin is downright evil. “try me.”

you groan, shoving him lightly as he laughs.

but despite the teasing, there’s a warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before. because for all the effort, all the second-guessing, all the overthinking. you know this is the right thing to do.

you just hope taesan sees it that way, too.

you and sungho are now wandering the streets, bags in hand, the weight of them a constant reminder of what you're keeping from taesan. there's a knot in your stomach, anxiety creeping in at the thought of what will happen once you return to the dorm.

sungho notices you fidgeting with your phone, eyes flicking between your screen and the road ahead. "you've been checking your messages like every two seconds," he says with a knowing smile. "taesan giving you trouble?"

"i... i don’t know," you mutter, glancing at your phone again. "he hasn’t texted yet. i think he’s mad."

sungho snorts. "he’s always mad."

you roll your eyes but can't help the tension building inside you. it's not like taesan to be suspicious like this. sure, he's possessive at times, but you’ve always been upfront with him. today, though, everything feels off. you know he’s probably wondering where you are, especially after leaving so abruptly.

after a few more moments of walking, your phone buzzes in your hand. it’s a message from taesan.

you open it quickly, your heart dropping when you read the text.

taesan: where are you?

you can almost hear the frustration in his words, even though they’re so short. you hesitate for a moment, trying to figure out how to respond. the last thing you want is to reveal anything.

“everything okay?” sungho asks, glancing at you with a raised eyebrow.

“yeah,” you say quickly, typing back a response. "just... running… errands…"

you: just out. why?

you hit send and try to push the worry away. but it doesn’t help when your phone buzzes again, another message from taesan.

taesan: are you by yourself?

your stomach tightens. it feels like he’s fishing for something, trying to confirm his suspicions. you swallow hard. taesan doesn’t know you’re out with sungho. he probably thinks you’re just alone, maybe out with someone else. the thought of him jumping to conclusions makes you tense up.

“you need to tell him the truth, man,” sungho says, half-joking but still serious. “it’s gonna be hard to keep it up much longer.”

you bite your lip, looking at the text again. taesan doesn’t like being kept in the dark. but if you tell him you're out with sungho, there's no way you can keep the surprise a secret.

you: yeah, just me. out by myself.

you send the message quickly, almost immediately regretting it. the lie feels wrong in your gut, but you can’t risk ruining the surprise.

as soon as you hit send, another text from taesan comes through.

taesan: you didn’t tell me where you went. it’s weird, you know. don’t lie to me.

your heart sinks. this is exactly what you were afraid of. you can feel his frustration radiating through the words, even though they’re brief. taesan might not say it outright, but you know he’s pissed.

“is he mad?” sungho asks, eyes narrowing as he watches you.

“yeah,” you say quietly, looking at the screen again. “he thinks i’m lying.”

sungho tilts his head, his expression softening. “well, you kind of are...”

you groan, feeling guilty. “yeah, but if i tell him the truth, he’ll know what we’re really doing.”

sungho sighs but doesn’t press. “you’ve got to be careful, though. taesan can’t stand being lied to. he might feel like you’re hiding something else.”

you take a deep breath, trying to push the anxiety aside. “he’s just overthinking it. i’ll deal with it when we get back.”

you walk in silence for a bit longer, and the weight of the lie is starting to feel unbearable. but then your phone buzzes again. it’s from taesan.

taesan: riwoo just told me you’re out with sungho. why didn’t you say that?

your heart stops. it feels like everything is crashing down around you. of course, taesan would hear from riwoo. he always does. but you didn’t think it would happen so soon.

sungho laughs lightly, though it’s more nervous than anything else. “i mean, it’s not like you didn’t want him to find out.”

you stare at the message, feeling a mix of guilt and frustration. “he’s so mad now...”

“you better fix it,” sungho says with a small chuckle. “he’s gonna blow up on you if you keep avoiding the truth.”

you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “i don’t know how to fix it. i’ve already lied twice.”

“well,” sungho says, “maybe you just gotta... tell him the truth at this point. no more hiding.”

but you’re not ready to do that. not yet. the surprise is too important to mess up now.

you type out a message, your hands shaking a little as you try to keep it steady.

you: i’m sorry. we just bumped into eachothee

you press send, waiting for taesan’s response with bated breath.

it takes a while, but finally, your phone buzzes.

taesan: it was a coincidence?

you let out a sigh of relief. it's not as bad as it could have been, but you still feel like you’ve messed up.

you: yeah, i went out to grab some stuff, and boom, sungho was there getting some stuff for the dorm too

you wait for a reply, and when it comes, it’s still not as angry as you expected, but you can hear the frustration in taesan’s words.

taesan: you know, you could’ve just told me. i don’t like when you hide stuff from me.

your heart drops, and you feel guilty again. you want to explain yourself, but you’re afraid it’ll make everything worse.

“he’s really pissed now,” you say quietly to sungho, who nods sympathetically.

“you should’ve just told him earlier,” he says, though his tone is more playful than critical. “now you gotta go back and fix it.”

you take a deep breath, realizing sungho’s right. you’re going to have to deal with the fallout when you get back to the dorm.

you decide on sungho’s dorm since taesan is rooming with woonhak and jaehyun so it would be perfect to wrap his gift all together and put final touched on it.

but once you open the door, you stand frozen at the door of sungho’s dorm, heart hammering in your chest. the moment taesan walks in, everything about the room shifts. his presence fills the space, and even though he’s not saying anything yet, you feel the weight of his gaze.

“so, this is where you’ve been?” taesan’s voice cuts through the silence. it’s sharper than usual, colder too. he looks at you, then at sungho, his eyes narrowing. “i thought you said you were by yourself.”

you feel your breath catch in your throat. his words hit harder than expected, but you force a smile, trying to keep your cool. “i was… i mean, i am.”

taesan tilts his head, his eyes scanning you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying. you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “i just bumped into sungho, we were talking, and i guess riwoo saw us leave together.” you’re already regretting how this sounds, but you can’t back down now. you have to keep the lie intact.

“bumped into sungho?” taesan’s voice drips with suspicion. “so it’s just a coincidence you were both out together?”

you nod quickly, hoping he buys it. “yeah, we were just… talking, you know? nothing serious. i just didn’t want to bother you while you were busy.”

taesan crosses his arms, studying you with a sharp gaze. “that doesn’t sound right.”

the air between you two feels like it’s crackling with tension. you swallow hard, knowing you can’t let him get too suspicious. “it’s really nothing, taesan. you know i wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

“you wouldn’t, huh?” taesan says slowly, his tone soft but with a dangerous edge. “then why didn’t you just tell me? why go through all this just to cover up some… coincidence?”

you flinch slightly at his words, the guilt gnawing at you. but you won’t break. you can’t spoil the surprise now. not when everything is so close to being perfect.

“i didn’t want to bother you with the details,” you say, hoping he buys it. “i just figured i’d spend some time with sungho, that’s all.” you glance at sungho for a moment, but he’s standing still, like he’s unsure whether to step in.

taesan watches you for a long beat, and you can see the wheels turning in his mind. his expression hardens. “so you thought it’d be better to lie to me, to sneak around?”

your chest tightens, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than you expected. “taesan, it’s not like that.”

“really?” taesan’s voice rises, a hint of frustration creeping in. “because that’s exactly what it sounds like. i don’t know, it’s just hard to believe that you’re not hiding something. are you trying to cover something up?”

you feel your heart race. this is spiraling out of control, and you don’t know how to stop it. the last thing you want is for him to think you’re doing something behind his back.

“taesan, please,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “you’re overthinking this. i didn’t want to tell you because i didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.” you force yourself to look him in the eye, trying to convey sincerity. “it’s nothing, really.”

taesan doesn’t respond right away. he’s still standing there, arms crossed, eyes cold as he studies you. you feel like he’s dissecting every word you’ve said, trying to figure out if you’re being honest or not.

“so what, this is all just some coincidence?” taesan asks again, voice dripping with doubt. “you just happened to be with sungho, and riwoo just happened to see you leaving together?”

you nod quickly, trying to sound convincing. “yeah, that’s it. it’s just a coincidence, taesan.”

taesan lets out a long breath, his frustration simmering just under the surface. he doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t push further. yet.

“you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” you say, trying to change the subject. “it’s nothing. seriously.”

taesan stays quiet, his eyes narrowing, still unconvinced. “i don’t know if i believe you, but fine. if you say so.”

there’s a moment of silence between you two, and you can almost feel the distance growing between you. you want to tell him the truth, but you can’t risk it. not yet.

“you didn’t need to lie to me, you know,” taesan says softly, his gaze softer but still guarded. “you could’ve just told me where you were. there wouldn’t have been any problem.”

“i know,” you say, your heart sinking. “but i didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

the moment you say it, you regret it. taesan’s eyes flash with confusion, but he doesn’t say anything. he just watches you, waiting.

“what surprise?” taesan asks, the suspicion back in his voice.

you hesitate, panic rising. you can’t tell him, not yet. not when you’re this close.

“it’s nothing,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “i just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

taesan’s gaze sharpens again. “you’re lying. i can tell.”

you want to scream, to tell him the truth, but you stay silent, your heart heavy with the pressure of it all.

“you’ve been hiding something from me, haven’t you?” taesan asks, his voice quiet now, as if he’s piecing everything together.

you look away, unable to meet his eyes. you can’t keep lying, but you can’t give in either. not yet.

“taesan, please,” you whisper. “just trust me. i don’t want to hurt you.”

he sighs, his expression softening just a little. “i trust you, but it’s hard when you keep lying to me. i just don’t get why you couldn’t tell me what was going on.”

you open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. your throat feels tight, and your mind is racing, trying to figure out how to get yourself out of this mess.

“i’m sorry,” you finally say, your voice barely audible. “i didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

taesan looks at you for a long moment, his face softening a bit. “it’s fine,” he says quietly. “but next time, just tell me. no more lies.”

you nod, relieved but still filled with guilt.

there’s a long silence, and then you finally reach into your bag and pull out the vinyl and the trinkets you picked out for him. you hold them out to him, your hands shaking.

“here,” you say softly, voice full of apology. “i got these for you. i… i thought you’d like them.”

taesan takes the items slowly, his expression unreadable. after a few moments, he looks up at you. “you didn’t have to do this,” he says, his voice softening. “but… thanks.”

you smile weakly, still feeling the weight of everything. “i’m sorry for making you mad.”

taesan sighs, stepping closer to you. “it’s okay. just promise me no more lies, alright?”

“promise,” you say quietly.

and for the first time in what feels like forever, the tension begins to melt away. taesan pulls you into a hug, and you let yourself relax, knowing that you’ll have to make things right.

but for now, you’re just grateful that he’s still here.

taesan is silent for a long time, just staring at the vinyls in his hands. his fingers trace over the covers, his expression unreadable.

you shift nervously, waiting for some kind of reaction. was this too much? was this not what he would’ve liked? sungho had assured you it was a good choice, but now, standing here with taesan’s gaze locked onto the gift, doubt creeps in.

“you really did all this for me?” taesan finally asks, voice quieter now.

you nod quickly. “of course i did. you just had a comeback, and i wanted to get you something that actually fit your taste. something you’d really like.”

he exhales slowly, his grip tightening around the vinyls for a second before he looks up at you. his expression has softened completely, the cold edge gone. instead, there’s something else… something warmer.

“you’re an idiot,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words. in fact, his lips twitch slightly, like he’s trying not to smile. “you could’ve just told me.”

“and ruin the surprise?” you huff, crossing your arms. “not a chance.”

taesan sighs, shaking his head. “you made me worry for nothing.”

“i didn’t mean to,” you mumble, guilt creeping back in.

he looks at you for another long second before stepping forward, wrapping his arms around you. his hold is firm, secure, like he’s grounding himself in your presence.

you blink, surprised at the sudden affection, but quickly melt into the embrace. his scent is familiar, and the warmth of his body makes all the stress from earlier fade.

“don’t do that again,” he mutters into your hair. “just tell me next time.”

you nod against his chest. “okay. i promise.”

he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his dark eyes still holding a bit of lingering frustration. but it’s different now. less about suspicion, more about the fact that you worried him.

his eyes flicker to sungho, and his warmth disappears just slightly as he levels a glare at him. “and you,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

sungho raises his hands defensively. “hey, don’t look at me like that. i was just helping.”

“helping,” taesan repeats, clearly not convinced. “spending hours alone with y/n, keeping secrets, sneaking around.”

sungho rolls his eyes. “yeah, yeah, i get it. i’d be mad too. but it’s not like that.”

“doesn’t matter,” taesan grumbles, still glaring. “you still got too comfortable.”

you groan, tugging at his sleeve. “taesan, please. it’s not like we were on a date or something.”

taesan clicks his tongue but lets it go, instead looking back at the items in his hands. now that he’s actually processing it, his expression shifts, like he’s finally realizing what you got him, without the worry of why you were lying.

“wait,” he mutters, flipping it over. “this album… where did you find this?”

you grin. “special store sungho knew about. he helped me find the best ones.”

taesan pauses for a moment, then looks at you again, softer this time. “you really went through all this trouble just to get me something i’d like?”

you scoff. “of course i did. i love you, you idiot.”

his ears turn red. it’s subtle, but you notice it. he looks away, clearing his throat. “you’re the idiot,” he mumbles, gripping the vinyls like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “but… thanks.”

he pulls you into another hug, holding you tight, like he doesn’t want to let go.

and just like that, everything feels right again.

[sukioyakio]

Part two to the Drabble

CoolbfSukuna x losergfreader

He won’t ever admit it but after dating you but he now cant stand the quiet.You really did something to him.Your words,your sounds;your voice was like his podcast.

And so when he came home to a ln eerie quiet place.He opened the door; taking off his shoes and placed them near the door entrance.And usually he would see you in the couch or walking right up to him.Or in the bedroom playing one of your greeky games.But no it was just silence.

”hello. . .”

A furrow creased his brow of confusion.

Then he called out your name, "Hello", he waited, a second passed by, nothing, a minute passed by, and still, no sound. He walked the hallway, looking for you, "Hello?!" He called out again. Maybe your in a deep sleep right now.As he opened the bedroom in hope of seeing you there but he was face with a clean neatly room.Making him stern face completely flashed with Confusion.As he looked around every corner thinking your trying to scare him.Which in case you were scaring him with possibility of something happening to you.

But after 20 minutes running and checking each room.One he found you had left your phone and two he hates these emotions he was feeling.

He approached your phone, wondering what you had been up to, but as he looked through it, all of your chats seemed normal. No unusual messages, no secret contacts. In fact, everything seemed normal.

He glanced at your photos and see’s many pictures of him and you and then your social media profiles, anything that could give him a hint of your whereabouts, but there were no clues. Frustrated, he threw the phone on the bed and ran a hand through his hair.

‘I need to relax before i go do something stupid’ he thinks as he walks through his bedroom and onto the bathroom. He needed a shower to stay calm. As he undress his clothes and steps in the lukewarm shower.

Meanwhile you were actually at the mall with sukuna younger brother ( not little anymore his 18) yuji. In the afternoon,You two were having a blast.Strolling through each store that had something anime related. But as you were buying stuff for you but also for sukuna. But already knowing the stuff you bought were stuff he wasn’t going to wear anywhere else.

At least you bought him some accessories that you two wear.

So you went into your purse to grab your phone to see what time it was and always the stuff sukuna was waiting for to release but you search and you found nothing. . .

The realization that your phone was missing hit you like a freight train, the anxiety that washed over you was almost overwhelming.

Yuji's concern voice, however, did little to calm your panic. The thought of losing all those precious pictures and memories was almost too much to bear.

"How did it happen? Have you looked in your bag again? Maybe it just slipped out somewhere," Yuji suggested, trying to stay calm.

Your mind raced with questions, 'What if it got stolen? What about your contact list? What about your pictures?'. You couldn't help but feel vulnerable without your phone.

"Yeah, I checked my bag, and it's not there," you managed to reply, your voice trembling slightly. The anxiety was palpable.

“okay come on,get go check out in the stores,we went!” Yuji respond gently placing back your glasses to your nose roots. And giving you a trustful smile.That helps ease the anxiety.

“o-okay” you replied with a weak smile. As you and yuji retraced your steps throughout the mall.Yuji asking to every employee in the stores for your phone. After a literal two hours of goong everywhere. Your face filled with overwhelming anxious.As you gave up on it. “It o-okay, let just go back home.I promise ill buy you a phone” Yuji announces; pity filled his eyes. As you forces back those tears. As tell yourself that the real thing is better.

‘Who cares about a device when-‘ You think with a proud smile that. ‘Omg i had everything There!!!’ You mentally screamed,Your smile turn into a frown- a sad frown. Yuji pat your shoulders through the uber drive back home.

A heavy silence fell over the car as you drove back home. Yuji fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, his concern for you palpable in the air.

"Don't worry too much about the phone," he finally said, his voice breaking the silence. "We'll figure it out."

As the car approached the house, he glanced over at you, his eyes taking in your sullen expression. "Hey, we're almost there," he said gently.

When you both arrive at your apartment;Yuji is helping you with getting your bags upstairs.Making sure you got there safely.While making you laugh at his stupidity jokes. The air around you was now calm down. You reach your destination , with a relaxed smile.

looking at yuji with a smile. “You could come over,after all i made you go out with to a mall” you chuckled awkwardly. As you see him chuckled back shaking his head. “No it alright! Trust me i pretty much enjoyed my time with you.Your ten time better than sukuna” he says with a playful voice. Making your lips appear a soft smile.And cheeks warm up at the compliment.

As yuji says his final goodbyes and walks away.You stare at his pink disappearing from your view before turning your attention towards the door. you reach out the keys in your purse to open the door and automatically announce your presence in the cold house.

“Im home-“You take the bags into the house and closing the door behind,your head turning around to be reminded of your tall tattooed boyfriend.As his red orbs creates holes in your frame.His greek like jaw clenched with veins visibly showing. His arms crossed straining his muscles against his shirt. And he’s face was something that makes you stop in your tracks. But right now it wasn’t his casual expression more like a angry cat being mad at it owner. And that owner is you,and you dont know why the cat mad.

“hey. . Babe!” You said with a awkward smile,pushing up your glasses up. Your docky eyes staring up at him before retreating to staring his eyes.Scratching your neck.Flustered with how intense his glaze was on your frame. “where were you?” his deep and low voice echoes through the rooms,like a king with authority. You stand still like a kid in trouble but you weren’t. He walks up close to you.His frame creating a shadow surrounding you. Red orbs glowing in his shadows. And he repeated himself.

“Where. were. You?” His voice eerie calm,as a low hmm could be heard from his chest.Yet there was an edge towards his voice.

Taken a back a bit;blinking at him before speaking.“I went out with yuji and we went to the mall i told this to you.Last night but i guess you were too sleepy to hear me.And i think while shopping i forgot my phone-no i loss my phone”. You explain quickly.Pushing up your glasses.

”And I completely forgot to tell you today.Sorry baby!I should’ve used Yuji phone- You rapidly rumble on, without stop.As you constantly push back up your glasses. Sukuna stops you from rumbling on by interrupting you. ”Yea you should’ve” Voice lanced with annoyance.

“I-i” you stamped on your words,trying to reason with him.

“I came here home,to a silent home and when i saw your phone.”He eyes narrowed slightly.His hand run through his pink salamander hair in frustration. “No text,no calls,no annoying voice nagging me,nothing”

Your heart brokes out in peices as you hear him speak his pain.Your eyes widen in guilt. Mind screaming for your own actions. “S-sorry, i-i clearly” you exhaled a breath before. “Please forgive me baby kuna” your eyes plead. his blood crimisons eyes glance at you and scoffed.He didnt answered right away and instead look away.Jaw clenched.As one of his ironic frowns appears on his face.

You got this man worry for nothing. . .he wont admit it, but his mind and body felt like a lot more relaxed. Seeing your docky eyes staring at him and your presence makes his quiet life more interesting.

“Next time,if your loser ass forget the phone again,just dont”he mutters as his glaze on you moves to the kitchen.A Bit of blush spread on upon his frowned face. A smile tugged on your lips as you nodded.”Mhm” you cheerfully said.You walked up to him as you embrace his large frame.Wrapping your small frame around him.Instinctively noticing his body going stiff.As you bury yourself in his chest.

“Got you something. . .” You mumbled in his chest.As His lips parted to say something but scoffed out loud.Awkwardly patting your back.Which you never minded.His eyes soften up. He mumbled back.

“Do i even want to know how they look?” He asked his voice more softer than before. You chuckled at his response shaking your head.Removing your head from his chest to look up at him with greeky smile. “Probably not”.

He rolls his eyes.As the hand he was patting your back came to the top of your head and ruffled your hair. Muttering with a smirk on his lips. “Of course,punk”

Sukuna does not do karaoke. In matter of fact he hates them. The horrifying voices he had to endure.

But god knew you lived with it. In fact, he doesn’t even know why you brought Yuji along.

And now he’s in a karaoke booth;agasinst his right basically. Sitting down in the small couch in the karaoke booth.His legs speard out,hands spayed onto the couch surfaces.Annoyance spreads across his face.As the LED lights hit him with it their colorful glow.

This was not how he wanted to spend his day off at all.

Meanwhile, you and Yuji were practically vibrating with excitement, scrolling through the song selection. It was honestly disgusting how much energy the two of you had. If he had to compare you to animals, you’d both be golden retrievers,overly friendly, overly excitable, and cringey.

‘Loser’ He mutter underneath his lips.His eyes stayed on your frame.

“A-alright Yet get this started” You Announce with a slight stutter.Pointing at sukuna with a smile.“YURR!LET GET IT”Yuji Joined along. As you grab the mic and pass one to yuji. Checking it easliy. As the beats started to take place.The Tv screen showing the song they chosen.

Ocean saga,epic the muiscal by Jorge Rivera.

“ THESE WAVES AND TIDES HAVE Grown in strength and size!!” Your voice singing every words but in his head not the melody.Walking around with over-the top hand gestures.

“IS IT NATURE OR DIVINE OR A BLESSING IN DISGUISE?! OUR HOME’s in sight, This storm’s Our final FIGHT THERE’s no time to die,comrades!!”

Yuji interrupted. “But Sir!” yuji clenching his fist.You turn with your hand up in air. Head down. “EMBRACE FOR A STORMS”Your lips in a full grin as you point a finger out sukuna. As you and yuji doing rolling gestures.

“This has be the worst thing ive ever had the misfortune of listening to” Sukuna sighs rubbing his temples off.As your both performances continued.

“Captain, we will capsize with thesе waves, our fleet will fail” Yuji voice rages out as you approach with your mic close to your mouth to Sukuna. Giving him an small wave and quirky smile. “Have them follow my ship, I'll ensure that we prevail,STORM ,STORM!!”

God please bless him with the patience of listening to you sing-actually to both of you.BOTH of y’all voices weren’t never meant to be in Broadway.

"Idiots" he muttered under his breath "Absolute idiots... singing like that."

And then you have the audacity to ask him to sing play with you and Yuji for one song. “PLEASE!!” You begged

“PLEASEE UNC!!” Another plead from his annoying brother.

“No” he stated flaty; Arm crossed like a wall of Stubbornness. Before continuing. “Andfor the last time—IM Not A UNC!” He roared.

Yuji pouted like a kicked puppy.

You, however, were determined. With a sudden thud, you dropped to your knees, hands clasped together in an act of pure, shameless desperation.

“P-please, babe!! I-i’ll let you do all the chores in the house!!” you stammered, voice trembling with exaggerated sincerity.

Yuji, who had also dropped to his knees beside you, immediately turned to stare at you in abject horror. “What the hell?! You just offered yourself up to a literal CYCLOPS!”

Sukuna hearing-no watching this absurd exchange with mild amusement. Boy was he humor by this. Clicking his tounge against the wall of his mouth. Shaking his head. “What on earth are you two losers talking about ”

Yuji answered first ;his puppy eyes staring into his red orbs.“WE JUST NEED SOMEONE TO PLAY THE ROLE OF POSEIDON PLEASE”His voice full with dramatic urgency.

“PLEASE YOUR LIKE PERFECT FOR HIM!” You followed behind.

Sukuna Stared at yall with unimpressed eyes. Oh,hell no he wasn't going to get dragged by yall.

Right. . .

Nope-You got him singing as Poseidon in the end.At least he gonna gain some reward from you doing a chores. But he know deep down; you weren’t gonna do shit.But hey seeing that smile glowing because of him is worth it.

Hope you like this as well. Hope yall have a wonderful day.Please forgive the grammar errors.

Mutual taglist: @ciggrx @ukininayu @scoobysnakz @lynxslokley @mononijikayu

Your welcome to always comment or reblog as well. I always appreciate your feedback.

Made by @sukioyakio 2025

[rafesweetie]

track iv. THE MAN! (feat. ceo!rafe cameron and indepedent!reader)

“i’m so sick of them coming at me again, ‘cause if i was a man, then i’d be the man”

your boss was simply insufferable. rude, strict, slimy, arrogant, and worst of all? handsome. and you had absolutely no issue telling him that — the bad things, anyway. every time he’d offer help for such a simple task, you’d push him away with a glare or a ‘get out of here, mr. cameron!’ thinking he was simply being condescending. but my god, he thought your attitude was hot.

the day he asked you if you needed help cleaning your coffee mug was when you snapped. you’d already had an awful day, and you couldn’t take him and his demeaning behaviour anymore.

“mr. cameron, it’s a fucking mug! do you think i’m that stupid just because i’m a woman? is that it? i wear skirts to work so i can’t wash my own mug!? you’re a condesending asshole!”

he takes a breath as to not yell back. “woah, hey, hey. uh, i’m gonna need to see you in my office. ten minutes, give you time to fuckin’ chill out. is it that time of the month?”

you go to lose it at him and he cuts you off. “don’t say any more shit unless you wanna lose everything, hm?”

ten minutes later, you hesitantly enter his office, admittedly a bit nervous. “mr. cameron, i just wanna say—“

“no, no. too late now for an apology.”

“but i’m really sorry—“

“show me that.”

you furrow your eyebrows. “what do you mean? how?”

he stands up and grabs your shoulders gently, then his hands slide down your arms and to your wrists. you blink, confused and having your boundaries violated.

“uh— so you don’t get me fuckin fired, let me ask you something, a little formality,” he starts. “do you consent?”

“to what?”

“not an answer. do you consent?”

having a strange burst of butterflies in your stomach, you know what’s coming. “mhm,”

“yeah, that’s what i thought,” a ghost of a smirk as he smiles and guides you by your wrists to the wall. with no hesitation, his hand is going under your skirt. “mhm. fuckin’ soaked, makes sense,”

“you’re so arrogant, it’s insufferable.”

“i’m just stating a fact baby,”

“don’t call me that, m’not your ‘baby’,”

he breaths out a laugh. “yeah, whatever you say. starting to think you’re more arrogant than me,”

“not arrogant, just don’t like you,”

“tell that to this pussy,” he cups it and you squeak, suddenly feeling extremely powerless against your man child of a boss.

“don’t wanna do this like this,” you say fastly, stopping it. “lemme— lemme do it,” he stops, hands in the air in mock surrender, taking a step back.

he certainly isn’t expecting you to drop to your knees in front of him. in his mind, a blowjob is a surrender, letting him take control. you fiddle with his fly. he goes to help and you paw him off. “don’t need help for something so fucking simple, get your slimy hands away,”

you undo it and waste no time taking his dick out of his pants. you hate the way your mouth waters. “oh.” you try to keep your composure. “thought it would be small. you give that energy,”

“gee, thanks,” he huffs. “c’mon, get going.”

“ask nicer,”

“jesus,” he sighs. “i’ll pay you extra to get going, huh? that nice enough?”

“you’re gross. talking about a ‘please.’”

he scoffs. “no fuckin’ way, you kidding me? not begging to get off, i’m not a woma—“ he cuts himself off.

all you do is harshly pinch his tip with your long acrylics, making him gasp in pain, before standing up, scoffing. “good one, really funny. sure your friends will get a kick out of it,” you dust yourself off. “you’re disgusting,”

as you walk away, you can hear him silently begging for you to come back and suck him off.

for once, you feel like the man.

[leviathansmistress]

A Little Help

Mom's Girlfriend!Natasha Romanoff x Innocent Daughter!Female Reader

Tags/warnings: +18 AMAB Natasha, top!Nat, bottom!r, blowjob, handjob, cum swallowing (r), petnames, cheating (r has no idea about the extent of the actions she did)

In which you started helping the girlfriend of your mother.

࣪𓏲ּ  ♰  ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

"Baby, mom's gonna be on a business trip for two weeks. Don't worry, Dada will be there for you. Help her with what she needs, okay baby? And help her with what needs to be done at home, don't give her a hard time. I love you, moonpie."

That's what your mom told you, it was actually a voice message she left you when she tried to call you from the airport since you were sleeping when she left. You typed something telling her to take care and go shopping for you, then, you fixed your bed and changed your sleeping clothes to go downstairs where the live-in girlfriend of your mom has been waiting.

"Hi Da." It was a nickname your mom made to call Natasha and you have been used to calling her the same. Daddy your mom always teases her, then it turns to something more domestically sweet—Dada.

"Hi, princess. I already had my breakfast. But I prepared yours."

"Thank you," you tiptoed your way to your dining seat and started eating the food Natasha made you.

Natasha excused herself in the bathroom, there's something she cannot handle lately every time you were around. Wearing thin tops, painfully short shorts that are barely covering your ass and stretch marks on your upper thighs that she found cute and hot.

She let out a shaky breath before slipping her hand on her boxers, pulling her length and started rubbing it. It was so wrong to have such perverted thoughts on the daughter of the woman she has a relationship with but she can't help it now, besides, your mother isn't there to help her with what she needs, she actually barely helped her.

"F-fuck…" Natasha was sweating in guilt as she continued to rub her cock.

You placed your plates in the sink, ready to clean them together with the dishes that were left. But you heard some sounds in the bathroom where Natasha excused herself, it was a loud breathing, a shaky one. When you tried to take a peek, you saw half of her body, her right hand working on something between her legs.

You can hear her loud and clear now, she sounded in pain.

"Help her with what she needs, okay baby?"

"Natty?" You called, you didn't entirely step inside the bathroom not wanting to invade her space. Natasha jolted, pulling the shower curtains so whatever she's doing will be hidden—you already, innocently invaded her space and you already saw what she was doing.

"Honey, wh-what are you doing here? Are you done eating?" Natasha asked in a hurry, her mind making up excuses in case you ask what she was doing.

"Y-yeah…" you muttered, "are you okay? You sounded in pain."

"What? N-no, sweetheart. I am fine alright?" Natasha's hand never left the curtain, pushing it towards the wall, her cock still springing out but long forgotten.

"Can I help you out?"

God, the way she wanted your hands and mouth to ease her pain right now. Natasha cursed herself, this is so wrong. Before she could even tell you to go wash the dishes you were already pushing the other end of the curtains.

"F-fu—please go, Y/N." She did not look at you but you walked to her side.

"Where do you need help?" You innocently asked. "Is it hurting?" You pointed at her length, taking note of the liquid that is coming out on the tip of it.

"Please…" She mumbled, she could feel her heart jumping inside her ribs.

"How do I do it?" You innocently asked as you slowly kneel in front of her. Your small hand took a hold of her cock, slowly stroking it. You giggled when you felt it slightly twitch on your hand.

Your innocence is already making Natasha damn hard, but you actually touching her would definitely make her cum anytime soon. You watched with your mouth agape as you stroke Natasha's cock with your right hand, her moans and the slick sounds of her wet cock was filling the bathroom. You didn't know if you were doing it right but Natasha continuously saying "Just like that" reassures you that you are helping her just right.

"You're so good baby…yes."

You watched the tip of it taunting you to suck it, that's what your intrusive thoughts were telling you as well and it won. Natasha let out a loud moan when she felt something wet and soft swirling on the tip of her cock when she looked down at you, your mouth is already trying to swallow her entire length.

"Fu-fuck, baby." She groaned. "Gonna cum!" Her hand instinctively went grab a handful of your hair. She cannot fight it anymore, she pulled your head towards her, her cock pushing up to the back of your throat, your nose touching her pubic region.

You felt a warm liquid travel straight to the stretch of your throat. Then, you let out a gagging sound as she pushed you away from her cock. Your saliva and her cum connecting her cock to your tongue. She stepped forward and jerked herself and spurted her white cum on your face.

You gasped about how good and hot it felt on your skin. You adjusted your kneeling self, something uncomfortable started to knot in between your legs but it doesn't matter, your Dada needs more than you. Your face was coated with her hot cum, you pushed the liquid to your mouth and sucked your fingers. You eagerly met her eyes with an innocent smile as you wasted none of her cum, tasting and eating it all—that cracked something inside Natasha. A twisted, dark, hidden side of her that she has been trying to bury since the day she met the daughter of her girlfriend.

"You can't tell mom about this, alright?"

Your brows creased in confusion and innocence, "Why?"

Natasha took a deep breath, she knew she had to explain it to you without wanting to freak you out. You're now in college, a strict Catholic college. You grew up in a very strict household with your father, but when he died you finally got to live with your mother. You had requested to be enrolled in the same school you grew up studying in even though your mother wanted you to have a different environment since she noticed that you had adapted the traditionality of your father's family which your mom hated the most. Resulting for you to be so frail, innocent and naive.

"Because…mom can only help me like this." She said softly. "And she would be very mad if she knew you've been helping Dada like this. Do you want mom to be mad at you?"

"No. I don't want mom to be mad at me." You said in almost a whisper, your eyes started to sting.

"Oh hush bunny, don't cry. Just don't tell her about this alright? Mom knows how good you have been to me and that's already enough." Her reassurance and the soft kiss she planted on your forehead started to soothe you. You nodded eagerly, biting your inner lip to suppress your tears.

All you want is nothing but to help your Dada.

[danrifics]

here’s the difference in print/ quality of the merch i got in antwerp and the merch i got in london..

everything on the left is antwerp (the tshirt is the replacement for the defective shirt i got) and everything on the right is london

(i also need to preface this with the fact that the tit hoodie is well worn, like it’s my main hoodie i wear almost every day)

so yeah let’s start with the shirts.. i don’t even think i need to say much cos you can literally see how bad the og shirt is, the text is different, the colour is ugly and the print is not very detailed, the one from london is such a better colour and looks and feel better in general. If id got the london one in the first place i would have absolutely no complaints. but here we are with me owning 3 of this shirt, one i cant wear cos the print is coming off, the replacement that i do wear but hate and one that i will wear and i love

now the hoodies.

like i said i’ve worn the antwerp one a lot so i will not be commenting much on the dullness of the print cos it’s been washed a few time (and my dad put it in the dryer when i told him not to)

the first thing that’s so noticeable is the difference in size in the prints, the original has a much smaller print on front and back while the new london one has a huge print which i actually like so much better and it looks better when i wear it. the other noticeable difference is the quality. while i love my antwerp one it is not as comfy as the new one is (and it was never as soft as the new one so that’s not from the wear) this is definitely because they’re different companies. the antwerp one is Gildan and the new one is from “just hoods” and man is it soft i absolutely love it.

also side note: both t-shirts are from the company Canvas but they’re printed at different places the new one is printed where most dnp merch you get from online is printed while the antwerp one is from a company in europe)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

compos mentis 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, chronic health issues, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a long court case, your mother stays attached to her lawyer, bringing even more contention into your life.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: my head is fucked

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Andy brings you breakfast in bed. You can't help but feel the guilt rippling off him. All of this is penance on his part. 

It's as close to vindication as you'll get. You're mother would never admit what she did, let alone apologise. That's when you see her again. You're not so sure you ever want to. 

The world is distant. It doesn't feel quite real. It's like a dream. The edges aren't quite sharp enough and the colours are cloudy. 

You look down at the plate and your stomach grumbles out of basic need. You don't have much appetite but your biology is at a constant battle with your mind. You shouldn't be able to breathe but you are, you should take your meds but you don't feel all that different.  

A poached egg, whole wheat toast, turkey bacons, and thick greek yogurt with fruit. It's all very healthy but a bit more than you would eat, when you feel up to it. Your breakfasts are a hard-boiled egg or a small cup of hot oats and milk. 

"I hope it's okay," he hovers at the foot of the bed. He's dressed already. You're less than put together. You're still groggy from a grief-laden sleep and the hangover of the bitter revelation. You wear his borrowed shirt and gym shorts, your messy hair untamed despite your efforts.  

"I called in to the office. I don't think I could focus of I tried," he explains. "And there's too much to be done here." 

"There is?" You nibble the toast. 

You'd hoped for some time alone. Not to think, just to be. You're still lost in all of this. The anger, the hurt, the regret, the confusion, and shame... 

"Sweetie, you don't have any clothes. I have a spare toothbrush for you but it's a travel one from a hotel. And you'll need everything else, right? Soaps and whatever." 

"Oh, I... I don't... my mom has all my money..." you utter and deflate again. You put down the toast. Your stomach is roaring but you just want to puke again.  

"I'll deal with that. Don't worry. She's not as clever as she thinks." He puts his hands on his hips. He does that when he's upset. He used to argue with your mom and stand like that. "Please, eat. Your clothes should be dry soon." 

"My clothes?" 

"I threw them in the wash for you--" his sentence is punctured by the doorbell. His jaw ticks. "I'll deal with that. Probably Mrs. Potter trying to give me more casserole." 

He leaves and you put your focus on the plate. You shouldn't just eat because you're hungry, you should eat because he went to all this effort. You pick up a slice of toast and break through the soft yolk. 

You eat deliberately. Chewing slowly, methodically. A shrill yowl tightens your throat around a swallow. You know that shriek. 

You carefully slide the tray forward and balance it on the legs as you angle out from beneath. You go to the window and try to see past the eaves and awning. You can't. Only the police cruiser and a familiar car... 

You listen. The noise wafts in from the bedroom door. You follow it and peer down at the front door. It's muffled but clearly coming from the porch. 

You twist the handle nervously and open the door a crack. You can't see past Andy as he stands staunchly on the mat, arms crossed. You glance an officer's belt with the radio attached and your mother's snarl lashes you like a barb. 

"He has my daughter. She's sick--" 

"She's an adult," Andy insists. "I'm not holding her against her will." 

"She can't-- I am her legal guardian. She can't be here on free will, genius." 

"Ma'am," a stern female voice warns. "Sir, where is the daughter?" 

"She's sleeping." He lies. 

You let the door fall inward. You don't want to be in trouble. No one seems to notice. You stall and shiver on the threshold. It isn't cold, you're just scared. 

You make yourself step out. There's not much room. As Andy stands like a wall. You peek around him. 

"Hi," you murmur. 

"My baby," your mother throws her hands up and comes forward. Andy moves to block her. "You can't keep me from my girl-- where is her oxygen? Officers, she needs air!" 

“No, I don’t,” you say, quiet but firm. 

Your mother flinches but doesn’t relent, “he’s manipulated her. I can call the doctor right now and you’ll see. She hasn’t been without her tank in years. She could die--” 

“That’s not true,” you murmur. 

“Ma’am,” the female officer warns. “Let her speak.” 

You look around with wide eyes, taking in the full scene. Andy stands just behind you, you can hear him exhale. A male officer is on the other side of your mother. You open your mouth then shut it. 

“Sweetie,” your mother reaches for you and you shy away. 

“Alright, Jackson, you stay here, I’m going to talk to her. Alone,” the female officer says. She reaches out and waves you to her delicately. “You wanna come with me? We can talk. Just you and me.” 

You gulp and look at Andy. His blue eyes blaze as he meets your gaze. He dips his chin slightly. You turn back and nod. As you cross the porch, your mother tries to latch onto you. The other officer, Jackson, pulls her back. 

You sidle past her and follow the woman. She takes you to the curb. You look down at your bare feet then at her. 

“I’m Officer Patel. What’s your name?” She asks. 

You answer and she shifts so you can’t see the house. “Me and my partner came because we got a call about a possible abduction. We’re just here to hear the full story. What’s going on here?” 

You rub your neck and fidget. You can’t tell her the truth. Not the full truth. You can’t tell her your mom lied to you. Not even that she hit you. You don’t want to go back to court. You don’t want to tell everyone how stupid and pathetic you are. 

“I’m here.... because I want to be,” you shrug. 

“Your mother says there was an argument.” 

You chew your lip, “she couldn’t find her pills. She left. I don't know... I don’t know why she came back.” Your chin trembles and you clasp your hands on your shirt hem. You sway back and forth. “She doesn’t love me.” 

You hang your head. That’s it. What you always knew deep down. What’s so clear now that she’s ground you into dust. You’re nothing to her so she made you into nothing at all. 

“She’s your mom, I’m sure you two will work this out. Me and my partner are just making sure you’re safe. We were told that man is keeping you here without consent.” 

You flinch and shake your head furiously. You wave your hands, “no, no. Andy... Andy helped me and... I shouldn’t be here because... because... because I’m a loser and.... my mom... my mom...” you stutter. “She doesn’t want me.” 

“She says you’re sick? You need oxygen?” She prompts. 

You twiddle your fingers. “No, not really. Not... all the time. I can breathe, see?” 

She watches you, “right. How old are you, miss?” 

“Twenty-four.” 

She nods. “You’re not a minor?” 

“No,” you blurt out. Many assume as much, especially with you always hiding behind your mom. “No, I’m an... adult.” 

“Do you want to press charges against anyone?” 

“Charges? For what?” You wonder. 

She sighs. “You’re free to go. You’re grown up and you can make your own choices without mom.” She tuts and turns to look across the lawn, “Jackson, come on.” 

You peer over. Andy stands, arms crossed, staring at you. Your mother rears like a snake, muttering under her breath. You head back up the walk and Officer Patel speaks again. 

“You have to leave, Ma’am.” 

You stop and peek over your shoulder. Patel points to your mother, “we will escort you if need be.” 

Jackson looks at her. She snarls and stomps her foot, “oh don’t you even think of touching me.” She huffs and storms past him. She comes down the steps and you think for an instant, she might push you. She stops beside you. “I took care of you, sweetie. Do you think he will for long? After he figures out what you are?” 

She continues past you. You continue up the paved squares and past Officer Jackson as he follows. As you come up to the steps, you hear the engines turn over. You’re suddenly very tired. 

“Andy,” you drag your feet over the mat. “I want to lay down.” 

“Alright, honey. We’ll sort everything out later,” he turns and stretches his arm across the door frame as you enter.  

He shuts the door as you stagger on, eyes hazy with tears. Your own mother despises you. She’s right about him too. He’ll hate you one day but you don’t know what to do to change any of this. 

💙

Andy makes you finish breakfast before you lay down. He’s right. It’s good for you to eat and you haven’t been doing a lot of that. 

You lay down for an hour before you sense him getting restless. You can hear him downstairs. You can’t be lazy. You don’t have any excuses anymore. You’re not sick, just weak. 

You make yourself get up and venture downstairs. He’s in the kitchen, flicking through his phone as it rests on the counter. You clear your throat and wring your hands as you enter. 

“I’m sorry. I was upset. It’s really stupid but sometimes I just... can’t do anything. Even if I try. I’m sorry, Andy. I’m... so sorry.” 

He faces you and his face contorts in a spectrum of emotion, “oh, honey, you don’t need to be sorry. I put your clothes on the couch for you. Just waiting. Take your time.” 

“Waiting for me,” you frown and look at the floor. “My mom lied. A lot. But I don’t think she was wrong about everything.” 

“What do you mean?” He shifts closer. 

You shrug, “me. I’m... I’m useless.” 

“No,” his voice hardens. “No, take it back.” 

“What?” You pout and bat your eyes as you peek up at him. 

“You’re not going to talk about yourself like that. Not with me. So take it back.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry--” 

“Apologise to yourself,” he insists staunchly. “Honey, don’t let her control you. She’s gone.” 

“But... but...” 

“You’re adjusting. I understand that. I’m not expecting you to be okay right now. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with me. We’re both... figuring this out.” 

You nod and your lips twitch. You could cry. 

“Thanks, er, I’ll... change then. Um, Andy... are we going somewhere?” 

“Sure, sweetheart. I mentioned earlier, didn’t I? About clothes? I tried to get the officers to agree to an escort to go to your mom’s but you saw her. She’s not in her right mind,” he explains. 

“Yeah, that makes sense,” you flutter your fingers nervously and he looks down at them. You clasp them over your chest to make them stop. “I’ll hurry up then.” 

You turn and scurry out. You go into the front room and grab the neatly folded clothes. He keeps everything so tidy and in its place. You go to the bathroom and set it on the counter. 

As you take your panties from between the jeans and tee shirt, you hesitate. It’s a bit embarrassing to think of him washing your underwear. You could’ve done it if he showed you where the machines are. 

You shrug it off. You’re just happy he helped. It’s a nice feeling when people do things for you. 

You change and bring out the borrowed clothes. Andy is still in the kitchen. You stand in the doorway. 

“Where do I put these?” You ask. 

He pops his head up and tucks away his phone, “oh, I can take care of them.” 

“Thanks, Andy, but uh, could I see? I’d like to know where everything is so I can help.” 

“Help?” He approaches and takes the clothes, his hands brushing over yours. “With what?” 

“I don’t know, everything?” You say. “You helped me so much and I want to do the same. I want to be useful. I want to be... better.” 

The tension leaves his shoulder and he smiles. “Alright, sure, that’s nice of you.” He goes to step past you then stops. “Sweetheart, you know, your mom is wrong. About everything. You’re an amazing girl. Really, you’re wonderful. And today, I want you to try as much as you can to forget. I want you to feel good about you, because you should. Because you deserve it.” 

You swallow and bounce nervously on your feet, “Andy, you’re so nice.” 

“I’m just being honest. Should’ve tried that a lot sooner,” he says. 

[babyblankyerror]

On the Stanley hit man thing(please note 1: prices are at least semi accurate to the 70s and 2: I have no idea how hitmen work and there’s only so many google searches I’m willing to have in my history. Also the name of The Guy is a reference to an actual person who was related to an actual big US government fuck up):

Rubbing soap and water into well-worn gloves in some gas station bathroom in the middle of the night was, at this point, a new normal for Stanley. There were better ways to do this, he knew that, but patience and a horrifying amount of soap did the job just fine. Better than leaving the gloves on the ground where someone might stumble across them and realise there are small dried splatters on them.

The best way to get blood out of fabric was to wash it out quickly. Flood it with water, then scrub soap into it and try to wear through it with paper towel after paper towel until the water runs clear. It was a similar method to removing paint from a roller or shirt. That meant that Stan could just pretend he’d messed up on some project, for an art class or something. Or was messing around with his brother's paints. There was only so well that could work after years of the same routine, but it still worked so there was no reason to change it.

As he ran the gloves under the faucet again, the water flowed only carrying suds. No more damning pinkish hue. Now he just had to dry them, and that could be done back in the Stanley-Mobile.

First he’d have to leave the gas station. Then call the number given to him last week when he got the job and tell them it was done. He’d learn where to meet them to get the back half of his payment, then he could see how to split it. Enough to keep going went to him, a little bit went towards saving in case of an emergency, and the rest went to his dork of a brother.

The first step, out of all of them, was always the hardest. There are only so many ways you can hide sopping wet gloves, especially when it’s warm enough out that you can’t just wear a bulky jacket with inner pockets.

He folded them in half, longways, and put one in each of his pant pockets. It was as inconspicuous as he could get.

Stan hurried to the door of the bathroom, before opening it at a much more reasonable speed and meandered out of the gas station store. He took special care to walk in plain view on his way out. As much as he’d love to skirt around the edge of the store to keep out of view, that would only look suspicious and risk drawing attention.

As the store door closed behind him he let his shoulders drop slightly and fished his gloves out of his pocket as well as his keys. His car was parked right outside so there was no need to separate the actions.

Unlocking the door he sat down in the driver’s seat. He already had a small towel on the passenger side of the bench seats. He dropped the gloves on the towel before swinging his door shut, sticking his key in the ignition, and starting the engine. There was a pay phone a few blocks down, but having just left the store he should still move his car.

It was funny how despite about… three years, he wants to say, he still was always on edge after a job. It made sense, considering that the jobs he took consisted of killing people, but it was still a lot of time to adjust to it. At least the pay was good, and he had ways to get through the actual murder part.

Just line up the shot, and count to three. If you make it to three you might chicken out and fail, or if you aren’t sure of aim you might panic since they keep breathing after the shot. Not to mention you leave a distinctive trace of who’s done it with the bullet. But guns left less room for regret and letting them live than knives or fists. It helped that he pulled the trigger on two, before his mind could catch up to what he was doing. By the time he was weighing whether or not he should do it, he was already checking to see if any blood was on him. Usually just his hands if he got close, but on occasion a drop or two would land elsewhere on him.

Shoes he filed the treads off left no recognizable prints as he would walk away.

The drive to the pay phone was silent beyond the low rattling of the engine. Shifting gears and parking the car was so automatic that if he was asked if he’d done it or not he genuinely wouldn’t know the answer. He took a few coins out of the cup holder and a note from where it was tucked into his front visor.

The air had the everpresent heat of summer, only cut through by a slight wind. He vaguely wondered if it was similar weather where Ford was. Sure Indiana was northeast of Arkansas, but it couldn’t account for that great of a change in weather. Especially since there would be enough plants to keep the heat in at night as opposed to if Ford was in the desert out West. Ford should have been in the desert out West, or at least just near it. He’d driven through the west coast once, it went from desert to a small bit of forest by the coast.

He slotted a coin into the phone and punched in the numbers written on the little sheet of paper. It rang for a few moments before someone answered with a tired ‘hello’. Made sense, it was probably around midnight.

“Is this S Higgins?” Stanley asked, staring up at the sky. The town was big enough that the lights faded some of the stars out. Probably for the best, Ford always liked the stars and it was best to not think about Ford when on the call with a client. His voice got too soft, and when your voice gets soft suddenly everything is up for negotiation.

“It is. I take it, you've done it?” The voice on the other end of the line replies. Always with euphemisms and never saying what they asked for. They wanted someone dead and now they’re dead, and he’s the only one that has to face it.

“Yup. You can check; Kelly on York street- dead center of Warren.” Stan says. He knows they won’t check, but it’s always best to give the information so there’s never any doubt he’s done it. It’ll be in the headlines anyways, Warren doesn’t seem like a place where a double homicide goes unreported on. A lovey dovey couple who just so happened to know a few details problematic to an ongoing political career.

“Is Ray’s in Monticello in three days good for you?” Came from the phone, crackly and disconnected. Three days, enough time for news and an investigation to start. Also enough time to plan out where to go next. There were certain people who talked, and it was through that grapevine his name got spread around. Or more accurately his license plate and car’s description did, it was not exactly inconspicuous, and with that ways to contact him. He just had to go wherever people who knew people that might want someone dead were. So pretty much anywhere, but he’d been thinking about seeing New Orleans so maybe he’d head there. And if nothing came up he was certain to find something in Mobile.

“Around lunch?” He asked. The least suspicious time of day. You could openly talk about his work at lunch and it would be taken as a joke. Because it’s the middle of the day and no actual plots could ever take place in the middle of the day.

“See you then.” The words came out and were quickly followed by a clack and silence. He set the phone up and made his way back to the Stanley-Mobile.

Monticello was less than twenty miles away. He could get there and get a motel room that night. But Warren was a small town and the newcomer disappearing the night of two murders would put the cops on his tail, so he swung around and headed back towards the motel he’d gotten a room at here.

The fact he didn’t immediately collapse meant he must have been running on adrenaline, and so rather than fight it for sleep he got his things packed. He’d sleep in and leave at a reasonable time in the morning before heading to Monticello. That seemed ideal.

———

Over the next couple days the only notable occurrences were the headlines about what he’d done, and him visiting the Allen House. From murder to the suicide house tourist trap. Way to go him!

Stanley had to admit though, while the ‘hauntedness’ of the Allen House left something to be desired he enjoyed the fun romp. He could do it better if he wanted to, but that would mean getting a house which would probably require legal documents that were left back in the apartment on top of a pawn shop in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey. Or he could do it illegally, which was much more likely, but at this point too much of a hassle when his current gig worked just fine.

Noon was approaching though so he turned on the Stanley-Mobile and headed towards Ray’s.

The diner was somewhat cosy despite having a metal back wall that looked like that of a storage container. Probably the warm lighting, benches, and soft music playing from a radio on the counter. He grabbed a table by a window, staring out of it to wait.

After a few dozen minutes of nothing he decided to go ahead and order some fries and a burger, making sure it wasn’t enough he could reasonably eat. He got a to-go bag after picking at them for what he deemed a good amount of time.

It was maybe another half hour or a bit longer when he watched a slightly too-clean Pacer roll up. A man who looked like he’d just been told what ‘casual’ meant last night stepped out and headed towards the diner. That was, without a doubt, Higgins then.

When he walked in the door Stanley waved him over, calling his name with a slight cheer as the man came over.

“You did… the job.” Higgins muttered, pulling a chair opposite Stanley’s spot on a padded bench and shuffling to sit down.

“I did. It’s on the news if you need to check.” Stanley said, leaning back slightly.

“I… I already saw the news. I have the money.” Higgins said, pausing to hum and haw before continuing, “Three thousand, right? Here, in cash.” Higgins said, reaching into a pocket on the inside of his clearly not weather appropriate jacket. And right. Stanley really should remember to get checks and not cash. Checks were easy to hide, especially since he went about being a contract killer in the dumbest way. Instead of just getting in with one group and staying there with a consistent pay and a good public facing business set up for him, he traveled around and essentially worked commission. Granted he got his start making enemies, so maybe staying in one place wasn’t the best. Especially when he could then work for just about anyone he deemed not an immediate risk, instead of just one organization. No matter what though, he should get better about checks instead of cash. Too late now though. Stanley held his palm out and felt a small stack of hundred dollar bills hit his hand, with no small amount of worry. He clutched the bills and tilted his palm down, hiding them from any quick glances.

Stanley dropped the bills into the to go bag as he reached in, and pulled out a small container with the fries.

“I have extra if you want.” He said, opening the lid and turning them towards Higgins. The man seemed to writhe in his chair, face morphing into a performance of guilt. He was certainly new to this. Higgins got up with a rushed apology and excuse of having to get back home. Stanley watched him go and placed the fries back in the bag. Well, to the bank then. He should deposit the cash slowly, he knows this, but he’s fairly certain that the new semester is starting m at Backupsmore which means Ford will need to be spending his money on textbooks. Which means Stanley is going to be extra sure to pay for his tuition.

Stanley’s pretty sure he caught an article about Ford and some other guy proving something or other about the universe, and a few more campus newspapers mentioning the two of them spending time together. So his brother finally made a friend! He’d drive up and hug the nerd out of pride if he weren’t certain Ford wouldn’t be too willing to speak to him. He did figure though, that he had enough saved for an emergency that what he’d usually cut out of his pay for à ‘just in case’ could go to Ford’s friend instead. A brief line of phone books and library visits, as well as word of mouth, made it clear that the guy was also the first of his family to go to college. And was riding on a couple scholarships in order to just cover tuition, but probably still had to take out a loan or two. He wasn’t going to risk Ford’s friend having to drop out and leave him alone due to finances.

The face of the bank teller was of mild confusion when he went to deposit five hundred dollars. Just because he wasn’t waiting to deposit the money didn’t mean he was an idiot. He was just going to spend the day hopping between a few banks to do it in chunks. Stil suspicious on paper but he has a current guise of being ‘an artist’ so sudden large deposits because he ‘sold a painting’ at least didn’t get too many questions.

At the end of it all he ended up sending one thousand five hundred to Ford’s annual tuition, so he should be set for a while longer. Though the idiot of a genius was taking twelve different full courses and each individual course has its own lesser tuition so it wasn’t the full semester it would have been if his brother knew how to stop. Frankly that had been the main reason he’d stepped in, Ford probably could have managed the tuition for one or even two or three courses on his own but somewhere in his mind he’d decided that taking twelve was a good idea. Stanley’s sure Ford could have figured it out, but that’s his brother and he didn’t want Ford to have to figure it out.

He sent seven hundred to Ford's friends’ tuition after some double checking names, and so the apparent Fiddleford McGucket had one less thing to worry about.

That meant he had eight thousand remaining, he wouldn’t have to take another job for a while. A long while. Maybe he just goes to New Orleans as a vacation.

~~~~~~

Ford and Fiddleford were staring at the Backupsmore administrator. They’d gone to check up on what they had to pay for tuition, only to find out that not only had Ford’s gotten a significant amount paid(which was becoming an odd yet consistent occurrence) but Fiddleford’s as well.

The money had been wired in, which meant whoever sent it had a known bank account, but had apparently mandated anonymity. As far as the school administrators were aware, it could have been the king of England sending the money.

The walk back to their dorm was shared in stunned silence. It wasn’t until Ford was sitting on his bed that Fiddleford stopped pacing and stared out the window before gripping his hair and yelling, in the whisper yell mandates by shared walls, cried out.

“WHAT in the world is GOIN’ ON.”

Fiddleford turned to Ford, lowering his hands to gesture in confused annoyance.

“Well, we know whoever is sending this must have a lot of money on hand. And we have been covering a lot of neuroscience, and specifically how to alter brains- right? It’s probably some larger entity with stakes in our current research.” Ford posed, though his voice still tilted with unsureness.

“True, but you started getting the payments before the whole tie thing. So there must have been some sort of investment before then.” Fiddleford argued. Ford shrugged.

“I mean, I suppose the sheer number of courses I was taking may have been noteworthy?” He offered.

Fiddleford began to pace muttering to himself, before an idea seemed to strike him.

“Hey, if we can get into the school records and figure out what bank the money has been being wired from, maybe we can call them and ask for information?” Fiddleford suggested. Ford took a moment to think through the idea, before grinning and jumping up.

“Exactly! Even if we can’t get a name, we’ll still get a rough area and we can go through phone books until we find someone who has a ridiculous amount of disposable cash and a vested interest in both of us!” He exclaimed.

They were probably going to have to break into an office or something, hopefully childhood shenanigans with… his childhood shenanigans would help with that.

Bro you need to publish this on ao3 or post it on tumblr or SOMETHING because HOLY SHIT?!??!?!

THIS is exactly what I was imagining for the Au!!! This is fuckkng great!!! I LOVE LOVE THIS AND YOU AND AAAAAAAA

I imagine Fiddleford doesn't really worry about the random money Ford gets until HE starts getting it too. Then yeah he's freaking out because WHAT THE HECK??

I love this you wrote this so well, so nice and omg??? You did research??? That's more than I'd ever do XD

[moonblossom7]

Baby Daddy!Logan thoughts

Wolverine x AFAB! reader

a/n: go into all of my x-men fics n stuff with canon as a mere suggestion :) this one's pretty ok,but yk. For future reference.

contents: fluff, girl dad!Logan,a kid b4 marriage(accidental but wanted),slight angst sprinkled in,lightly suggestive in one bit but it's not full nsfw or anything

🌸 Logan didn't mean to get you pregnant and he was honestly upset when you first found out. He was happy for you,bc you wanted kids but he didn't think he deserved to be a father.

🌸 Once he decided he was sticking around (because let's be honest,there was some part of him that thought leaving so you could find someone better was the move) he's very attentive.

🌸and I'm not just talking "oh,he goes to every check up and rubs your feet" I'm talking he will hike ten miles in the snow at 2 a.m if you're craving something specific and will return with a smile on his face because yeah,that was tough but you're growing a kid,which is harder.

🌸really wanted you to have a home birth,mainly because he doesn't trust medical situations,especially if you and the baby are also mutants. (and if you still do it at the hospital,he is fucking VIGILANT. He's watching every fucking thing that happens like a hawk.)

🌸you have a girl ofc

🌸he's never really been around kids this little,so for a long time he doesn't know what to do with her.

🌸he uses Jean's Facebook to look at parenting tips(he later learns this is not the greatest source),and consequentially ends up buying a ton of stuff that your daughter is too young to even need off Marketplace (bikes,clothes meant for much older kids,rain boots,jungle gym,etc.)

🌸he hates!! Hates!! those little tutus that seem to be on every little girl onesie, he thinks the tulle is scratchy and how on earth could someone subject their baby to that?

🌸a lot of the clothes your daughter winds up wearing are pretty gender neutral and frequently thrifted or bought from small businesses. Logan says this is because modern,mainstream baby clothes are "Down right fucking hideous,who designs this shit?"

🌸he makes some of her toys. A small set of wooden blocks here, a patchy ugly teddy bear there. He just doesn't love the unnaturally bright colors and loud noises that most baby toys come with,plus,he's got a lot of affection he doesn't know what to do with.

🌸hates late night diaper changes with a passion. He only just started sleeping without nightmares,and the baby won't even let him get a full 8 hours?? He takes all of them though,because "you do the more important stuff"

🌸big fan of the way your appearance changed,btw. I personally think he's always been the type to find stretch marks and some squish attractive,but the fact that these are from you growing his little girl makes it all the more beautiful.

🌸he is not,however,a fan of having to wait until you're healed up for bedroom stuff. He can do it, he's not an animal,but you're just so fucking gorgeous and he's so fucking happy. But,your health comes first, and he's not so stupid as to think he knows better than you on this.

🌸he doesn't quit smoking,but does at least start going outside and wearing a different jacket when he does it. He always washes his hands and face after he's done before he does anything near the baby.

🌸since this is *my* personal x-men canon, we're going to say that Laura is around the mansion somewhere and is not overly hyped about the baby sister. She's a little possessive over her dad,as some little girls are. (She'll get over it soon,especially once the baby is old enough to play with)

🌸Logan takes the baby on adventures once she's old enough to not get sick over everything. He'll pack a bag and disappear with Laura and the baby for a few hours,with very little explanation, and come back with a snoring toddler and a 10 year old covered in mud.

🌸he's happy that this kid has his mutation in it's organic form,instead of being injected with metal. however,it does make her stick out a bit visually. (she begins to display it at around age 11,with claws that aren't super sharp at all compared to Logan and Laura)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

ok so that's it lolsies. Lmk if you want anything else with this idea or any specific scenarios.

[staryscorner]

When they see that you've been Sh

Warning: Mention of blood and self h@rm/cvtt!ng

Characters: Gyeong seok, Jung bae, Jun ho, The Salesman, Sae byeok- 

Pt1 | Pt2 | PT3 (In the works)

Gyeong seok- 

Since moving in with Gyeong seok life has gotten a bit tougher for you; having way more responsibilities than what you’re used to, especially now since you have a cute step daughter who you love with all your heart, but it was something completely new and you thought you were doing a bad job. So to relieve some of the worries you began to sh. The pain washed the worries away. Then one day when you were playing with Na-Yeon your sleeves went up a bit and she had notices come red marks on your skin.

“Mama what’s that?” she said pointing at your arms.

You put your hands behind your back 

“It's nothing sweetheart I just got a little boo boo just dont tell daddy ok?”

She just nodded and continued to play with her toys.

The next day it was Gyeong seok’s turn to take Na-Yeon to school. 

While he was in a small conversation with her a cat appeared in front of her and she began to pet it and said.

“Papa, Mama said to keep this a secret but imma tell you. She had red marks on her arms. It looked like a kitty gave her a boo boo.

After hearing those words Gyeong seok knew that something was wrong. After dropping his daughter off he ran home to see if what he thought was true.

You were cooking dinner and suddenly someone barged into the front door.

“Let me see your arms”

“Why do you need to see my arms”

“Just show them to me.” He said in a stern voice.

You had no other choice but to show him

“Why are you doing this!?”

“Well I thought you might not want to be with me anymore if I was a bad mother so to cope I began to do this” You said almost whispering

“Why would I ever leave you for that reason? I married you for a reason because you're perfect in my eyes. I'm also learning to be a father and loving husband everyday so don't think you're going through all of this alone.” He said as he held you in a long embrace.

You were in his arms crying like a baby 

“I love you” He whispered in your ear

“I love you too”

Jung bae- 

Although he’s always bubbly there's a serious side that would show at times and that time was now. He accidentally came into to the room as you were getting dressed and saw your bruised body 

“Y/N! WHO HIT YOU”

You looked at him standing at the door and realized that you forgot to lock it. He came in and sat next to you as he asked to see the bruises on your body.

“I did this to myself” you looked down feeling ashamed of saying it out loud.

He looked at you the brave person he had met was now a shell of their former self

“I want to help you so please don't do this to yourself because when you hurt yourself you hurt me as well.

He then helped you finish getting dressed and soon made you dinner before you both cuddled to sleep.

Jun ho- 

He knew something was wrong (he’s literally a cop) so when you started to wear long baggy shirts he had to find out what was going on.

So he asked you one day out of nowhere if you wanted to go on a vacation. He never told you where but he did say it would be a surprise. So after the long car ride you woke to the smell of the ocean and the sun beaming on you. You used to love the beach but now It was your worst fear.

He led you to the beach house that his family owned and after bringing all the louage in it was finally time to head to the beach. As he was waiting for you to come out of the bathroom he wondered if he was maybe overthinking things. When he heard the door creak you still had a baggy shirt over your bathing suit.

“Aren't you going to go into the water?” 

“Well um maybe not this time.” you said

“But you love going into the beach just take you have your bathing suit under right so just take it off”

As he was playfully lifting up your shirt he saw multiple cuts on from your stomach to your chest. You quickly pulled it down and just looked down.

“Is that the reason why you didn't want to go in… Babe, why didn't you tell me sooner.”

“Well…. because you have work and you seem to be busy”

“But I always have time for you. You mean everything to me and I want you to rely on me.”

“How about we get those bandaged up and later we can go out and have a dinner date near the beach.” He said wanting to make it up to you.

“I’d love that” You said giving him a kiss”

The Salesman- 

He loves to see the blood of his enemies fall, but not you he cares so much for you. He noticed that there would be blood drops on the bathroom floor which made him install hidden cameras in the house. When he would go back to check them he would see you enter the bathroom and come out after a few minutes with bandages all over your legs and arms. 

So on the day’s that you're not home he looks all over the house finding all the hidden blades and would slowly start removing them one by one until there was none. He even removed anything else that could be used. He even came home sooner so he could keep you company in the evening.

“What are you doing so early here”

“I just wanted to spend more time with you honey~” 

Without you realizing it you had stopped and it was now a thing of the past.

Sae byeok- 

She took it the hardest. Having someone that she loved dearly being in pain hurt her so much.

When she first saw the cuts and scars on your body she was mad, not at you but at herself for not knowing sooner. 

“I’m so sorry babe, how can I even call myself your girlfriend if I can't even protect you”

She kept apologizing non stop. You didn't want to see her like this. She was such a fearless woman and she was blaming herself for something that you did to yourself, it felt like a dagger to the heart.

You kneeled down and cupped her face with your hands

“Hey! Please don't blame yourself for this.”

After saying that you got up and went to your shared bedroom and grabbed all the blades and brought them to where she is and you just threw them straight into the trash can. I don't want you to suffer for something that I did so please stop apologizing.”

You then went down and kissed her forehead. “I promise I'll stop this…for you.”

Hear is pt2!!! =^▿^= If you have any other characters you guys want please suggest them!! :3 ALSO let me know if you want to be tagged in PT3!!

[peachbibi]

the one in which you got sick and Spencer took care of you

genre: pure unadultareted fluff

warnings: nope

a/n: i was very sick for a couple of days and that was one of my fever dreams

Was it the crop top you wore in the middle of January when you went to an art gallery with Spencer? Was it the rain that caught you by surprise and left you all soaked and shivering? Or was it the window you left open after the shower before going to bed? 

Frankly enough, you will never know. You do know that you’ve been feverish all night coughing your lungs out. Unfortunately, Spencer has been gone on the case for the last four days and you have no idea when he is coming back.

You rummage through the cupboards helplessly looking for medicine. A fruitless attempt since Spencer has a system you are not aware of. He always took care of you and it never crossed your mind to figure out where was the help coming from. It is your second year of living together and you are taking your time to figure it all out.

You give up. You are sweaty and dizzy and can’t stand on your feet for too long. As you crawl back into your bed, every muscle in your weak body starts shivering. You pull the thick duvet over your head and force yourself to fall asleep. Sleeping helps right? You are not a doctor and your limbs and eyes are too tired to google home remedies – sleep must do for now. The pillow smells like Spencer and you imagine him being in the bed with you.

A sound coming from the living room wakes you up. You slowly flutter your eyes open and do your best to sit up. The room is dark and only the street lights help your vision. Your head is heavy and it takes you a minute to realise that Spencer is here.

Spencer is here. He is standing in the doorway and you are sick and sweaty and wearing nothing but his old Caltech t-shirt and your underwear. His big brown eyes are searching your face before he drops his duffel bag to the floor and crouches next to your bed.

“Hey, are you okay?”

His big hand is like a compress on your burning forehead. You moan something in response. You hate how gorgeous he looks after a long way home.

“You should have called me. Or-or texted me. Anything! God, you are burning.” His big hand gently pushes you to lie back down.

“You should stay in bed. I take it you didn’t take any medicine”

You mumble something incoherent back. Spencers huffs and quickly disappears from your line of vision. You miss him. Tears burn your eyes because you already miss him so much. You close your eyes for a second and when you open them again he is back. There is something cool and soft pressed to your forehead. Spencer is holding a bowl of something that smells like chicken soup.

“Dearest, you need to eat something before taking any pills.”

He helps you to sit up straight and moves your hair out of your face. You sip on the chicken soup that taste like heaven.

“I made you some ginger tea with lemon and honey. And don’t scrunch your nose at me like that. I know you hate ginger but it will help to reduce inflammation and ease swelling in the respiratory tract.”

You set the empty soup bowl aside and started sipping on the tea Spencer made for you. His eyes are taking in your fragile state. You want to hug him and kiss him and take him to bed with you as if he is your teddy bear but – whether it is your weak body or you successfully fought the urge to do so – you don’t. You can’t risk getting your boy-genius sick as well.

“Take these pills and get some rest”

He offeres you two yellow tablets and you wash them down with a glass of warm water. Spencer tucks you in and kisses your forehead.

“Dont..” your voice thin and croaky.

“You will get sick” you cough as you try to explain yourself.

Spencer smiles softly and kisses you again.

“I have been in this room for more than three hours and I definitely inhaled millions of your germs. Kissing your forehead will hardly change anything now”

You cough again as you apologise.

“Please don’t. I just want you to get better. Get some rest”

With that Spencer leaves the room. Through the night you have woken up by your boyfriend who was trying to measure your temperature and make you take some medicine. Fortunately, his efforts paid off because you wake up feeling much better. Obviously, you are still sick and coughing but you can move your body without feeling like a puppet on strings.

“I’m glad you are better” Spencer smiles when you find him sitting on the edge of your bed. His hair is ruffled and he looks so homey and warm in his cotton pyjamas and glasses on.

“You should have some breakfast. I can make porridge”

He stands up but you pull him by the hand. Spencer almost falls on top of you which makes him giggle a little bit.

“I want to shower first”

He lookes at you for a second before he gives a nod with a sheepish smile

“Great, I will help you shower. A hot shower can generally provide comfort by relaxing your muscles and the steam can help soothe irritated airways and moisturize your throat and nasal passages-”

“Spencer, I am sweaty and I smell. I am so disgusting right now. I don’t think it’s a good idea”

You interrupt him all embarrassed.

“Sweetheart, you are not disgusting. There is no universe in which I find you disgusting. Plus, I don’t want to risk you passing out or slipping in the shower while you are still very sick”

He pulls you up from the bed. The sun paints his locks golden when he places his hands on your waist. Spencer smiles at you widely and nuzzles into your neck. You squeak as you try to recoil.

“You are disgusting” you joked

“Maybe I am. So, what? Shower or breakfast?”

“I will let you shower with me if you make pancakes instead”

You give him your puppy eyes and Spencer laughs

“Deal”

He kisses the tip of your nose and leads you to the bathroom by your waist.

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 16

Summary:

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

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

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

The room falls quiet.

Words: 14,345

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s chest seizes at the thought.

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

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

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

B—

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

He needs Bucky to know he’s okay.

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

But he can’t.

And he’s no poet.

So he forces himself to continue.

B—,

I hope—

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

What can he say?

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

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

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

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

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

He forces his gaze back to the page.

B—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not giving them the satisfaction.

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

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

I miss you. More than I can say here.

Stay safe. Both of you.

Yours,

Tony

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s the best Tony can do.

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

Still… Tony has to try.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unbonded. No mating mark.

Male.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spied on. Same difference.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony tenses, adjusting the angle of his flashlight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three days.

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

That he’s indispensable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Howard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has to be brilliant today.

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

And he will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony gulps audibly.

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

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

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

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

A pause. The silence stretches. No one answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room falls quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Semantics.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Howard scoffs, turning to the two officials.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erskine speaks up, firm but unruffled.

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

Senator Brandt clears his throat, glancing at Howard.

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

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

They’re desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

Phillips’s bushy brow arches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s not done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room explodes with noise.

Howard’s chair screeches as he half-rises. “Excuse me?!” he roars, fists slamming onto the tabletop with a loud thud. Colonel Phillips jerks upright, mouth agape, while the rest of the committee erupts into frantic whispers and half-shouted protests. The hiss of shifting chairs, rustling papers, and outbursts of “Impossible!” or “He can’t do that!” fill the air.

Erskine, for his part, stands perfectly still, hands folded, letting the pandemonium wash over him. Tony’s heart spikes with a volatile mix of shock, gratitude, and fear. He knows Erskine wields significant power here, but actually watching the entire War Department quake at his ultimatum is… staggering.

Phillips recovers first, glowering at Erskine with all the intimidation a seasoned colonel can muster. “That’s blackmail, Doctor.”

Erskine inclines his head. “An ugly word for what is, at its heart, a pragmatic solution, Colonel. The SSR wants working super-soldiers. I want to ensure we do not kill the test subject or waste years and resources on meltdown after meltdown. Tony can provide that solution, or no one can. If you refuse him, you refuse me.”

Howard stabs a finger in Erskine’s direction. “The War Department owns your formula. We have contracts—”

“You have partial notes, incomplete processes,” Erskine corrects smoothly. “And you know it. Even your best scientists cannot replicate my serum without my final approval. So either we do this my way—Tony’s way—or we do not do it at all.”

The uproar intensifies, half the men in the room talking at once. Tony hears disjointed snatches: “A teenage Omega can’t command a federal project!” … “We’ll have a lawsuit on our hands!” … “Erskine’s gone mad.”

Senator Brandt tries to restore order, rapping a knuckle on the table. “Quiet!” But it’s no use; the cacophony roars on.

In the midst of the chaos, Tony stands there, heart a pounding blur of disbelief. He’d known Erskine supported him—but this? It’s like Erskine is burning every bridge behind them, forcing the War Department to accept Tony or let the entire project sink.

Howard whirls on Tony, eyes blazing. “You orchestrated this, didn’t you? You and Erskine, plotting behind my back—”

Tony bristles, but he can barely form words in the face of so much swirling argument. “I didn’t ask for this, I—”

Howard surges closer, as if he might yank Tony out of the room by force. But Colonel Phillips slams a hand down on the table, bellowing with the authority of a man used to commanding armies, “Enough!”

Slowly, the din falters. Brandt seizes the chance to speak again, voice low but urgent. “Doctor, we cannot simply place an Omega child in charge of a major military project. It’s— it’s unthinkable.”

Erskine’s eyes are tired, but resolute. “Then you cannot have my serum. Because I will not see it wasted on faulty machinery. Or see an innocent volunteer killed by meltdown. Tony’s designs are the only path to a stable Rebirth Chamber.”

Phillips glances uneasily at Brandt. The Senator’s face is twisted in an expression of profound discomfort—he knows exactly how big this bombshell is. If Erskine really walks away, the project is dead. All the money, all the time, all the political capital gone.

“You can’t be serious,” Brandt says at last, voice hushed.

Erskine shrugs. “I am quite serious, Senator. Tony either leads, or I go.”

A long moment passes. The hush now is even heavier than before, as if the entire room is holding its breath. Tony can’t tell whose side Colonel Phillips will take, or whether Senator Brandt can muster the guts to override Howard. Every cell in Tony’s body feels pulled taut, as though a single misstep might tear him open.

Howard, breathing raggedly, finally swings his gaze to Phillips. “This is insanity, Colonel,” he rasps, trying to keep his voice controlled. “We can’t let a male Omega—my son, no less—overstep every protocol we have. He has no legal freedoms. He’s—”

“He’s the only one who’s got the meltdown solution,” Phillips says curtly, echoing Erskine’s words. He scowls, leaning forward to glare at Tony. “But be damned if I let him gallivant around with full authority.”

Brandt exhales a shaky breath, color high in his cheeks. “Perhaps… a compromise,” he says, voice wavering. “Tony can provide his schematics and direct an engineering sub-division, under Erskine’s supervision. We’ll keep things quiet. Off the official record, if we must. This is a secret project anyway.”

Howard’s fist pounds the table. “Absolutely not.”

But Phillips rubs a hand over his face. “You really want to kill Rebirth over pride, Stark? Because that’s what you’ll do if Erskine pulls out. The War Department won’t have your back then, I can promise you that.”

Howard scowls, fury radiating off him in waves. But he falls silent, pinned by the Colonel’s unyielding stare.

Then, at last, Brandt forces a tight smile that is anything but happy. “We have an obligation to the war effort. We cannot afford to lose Dr. Erskine’s work. So I say we do it—quietly, discreetly. Tony… your meltdown modifications will be implemented. You’ll oversee them, at least until we have a viable prototype.”

He turns to Erskine, and his tone is clipped: “Doctor, you’ll be personally responsible for controlling the boy’s involvement. You answer to Colonel Phillips and me, and you keep him on a short leash. We can’t have the entire base gossiping about an unbonded Omega running advanced war tech. Understood?”

Erskine’s eyes flick to Tony, relief flooding them, but he merely nods, all professional calm. “Understood, Senator.”

Howard looks murderously at everyone, but even he can see that the tide has turned. He flexes his jaw once, seething. “Fine,” he chokes out, the word tasting like acid. “But if this fails—if one screw is loose—” His eyes pin Tony with lethal clarity. “You’re done. And I’ll make damn sure no one ever hears your name again.”

A charged quiet settles, as though the room itself is holding its breath. The War Department has spoken, but all Tony can feel is a cold spike of dread. The solution they’re proposing—that he hide behind Erskine’s authority, quietly enacting his meltdown fix—leaves him exactly where he’s always been: under Howard’s shadow, never truly safe. He can almost feel Tiberius’s contract tightening around his neck like a leash.

His heart pounds, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, summoning every scrap of nerve he has left. Because if he steps back now, he’ll just be trading one cage for another.

When he looks up, the gathered men see something in his face—something sharper than an Omega ought to have.

“Then I have terms,” Tony says quietly.

His voice slices through the stale air like a gunshot, and every head swivels. Eyes narrow in fresh alarm. Howard’s mouth twists into a sneer, but Tony doesn’t give him time to speak.

His voice is low, but it cuts across the stale air like a gunshot. Every head swivels, eyes narrowing in fresh alarm. Howard’s mouth twists in a sneer, but Tony doesn’t give him time to speak.

“I’m not asking for money or recognition,” Tony continues, and there’s a soft scoff from some War Department official near the back. Typical Omega, that expression says. Of course he isn’t in it for money. But Tony’s next words twist the room into a stunned hush.

“What I am asking for,” Tony says, letting the weight of it resonate, “is legal emancipation—from Howard’s guardianship and from the bonding contract he arranged with Tiberius Stone. I want it formally documented, notarized, and recognized by the SSR. And I want them—” his gaze snaps to Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt “—to enforce it.”

A ripple of incredulity passes through the assembly, shifting chairs, widened eyes. Even Agent Carter arches a brow in a flicker of surprise—though not disapproval. Howard practically sputters, red staining his cheeks.

“That’s impossible,” Howard snarls. “You can’t— there’s no mechanism— an Omega can’t just—”

Tony sets his jaw, forcing every ounce of resolve into his voice. “I don’t care if there’s ‘no mechanism.’ You all want my meltdown fix. Dr. Erskine refuses to proceed without me at the helm. So you’ll make it possible. Or we walk.”

Senator Brandt’s throat bobs as he swallows, struggling to regain composure. “Son,” he begins carefully, “emancipating an Omega from his legal guardian—especially a father of your… standing—” He casts a nervous glance at Howard, who simmers with malice. “That’s unprecedented. It would set off a firestorm of controversy if it got out.”

Colonel Phillips grimaces, muscles ticking in his jaw. “You’re talking about a direct challenge to both your father’s rights and your Alpha’s contract, Stark. That contract is recognized under state and federal codes. Nullifying it… There’s no precedent. None.”

Tony lifts his chin. He can feel his heart skidding against his ribs, every nerve screaming this is insane. But he plows onward anyway—because if he doesn’t, Tiberius Stone will own him in a matter of weeks, and Howard might do worse in retaliation.

“Then we find a workaround,” Tony says, each syllable ringing with a steadiness he doesn’t quite feel. “You label me an essential wartime consultant—like Dr. Erskine. A special exemption—something. Tie it to a hush-hush classification so no one can protest publicly. Keep me under SSR protection, if that’s what it takes. But I’m not stepping foot in your labs without legal assurances that neither Howard nor Tiberius can force me back.”

A murmur ripples among the men gathered—a swirl of shock, grudging admiration, outright horror. Tony spots more than one officer exchanging glances that say This Omega is barking mad… but maybe we can’t risk losing him.

Howard, for his part, looks like he’s on the verge of lunging at Tony. His fists tremble at his sides, eyes blazing. “You ungrateful—”

“Mr. Stark,” Erskine interrupts with chilling calm, “I suggest you let the Senator and Colonel decide. After all, if you truly care about Rebirth—and your own reputation, might I add—you won’t want word getting around that you let the entire project collapse over your personal vendetta.”

Howard’s mouth snaps shut, though his nostrils flare in rage. His stare bores into Tony, promising retribution if Tony so much as blinks.

Senator Brandt glances at Phillips with open anxiety. The Colonel blows out a measured breath, then turns to Tony. “We can’t just rewrite the law, kid. But…” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Given this is an SSR operation, off the public record, maybe we can file a special injunction. A restricted guardianship override, or something akin to a protective detail. We’re at war—there are emergency statutes. If we prove you’re vital to national defense…” He trails off, clearly wrestling with the implications.

Brandt’s lips press into a thin line. “We’d have to handle it quietly, beneath the War Department’s radar. You’d be bound to the SSR for the duration—no public disclosure, strict confidentiality. We’d keep official recognition of you to a minimum, which means no public appearances tied to the project and limited discussion with outside parties. You’ll be free to live off-base, if that’s what you want, but you must abide by strict security protocols. No unauthorized communication about Rebirth, and any travel will need SSR clearance. Is that acceptable?”

Tony’s chest feels too tight—he can’t tell if it’s fear or relief welling up. “That’s fine,” he manages. “As long as it keeps me out of Tiberius’s reach.”

“And out of your father’s,” Erskine adds pointedly.

For a beat, no one speaks. Then Howard’s voice, frosted with contempt, cuts through the hush. “Unbelievable,” he hisses. “You’d betray your own blood, defy every code we live by, just to—”

“It’s not betrayal,” Tony snaps. “It’s survival.”

Howard’s glare could set the room ablaze, but Colonel Phillips interrupts with the air of a man who’s made a reluctant decision. “Senator,” he says quietly, “I’ll need you to coordinate with War Department legal counsel—covertly. We’ll draft the paperwork under emergency provisions. If we do this, we do it fast.”

Brandt nods, sweat beading at his temple. “I’ll see what I can arrange.” His gaze skitters to Tony. “But you realize, young man, once we make you SSR property—pardon the phrasing—there’s no going back. You’ll be expected to deliver results. No second chances.”

Tony’s stomach churns, but he forces a small nod. “Understood. It’s a better fate than what’s waiting for me otherwise.”

A strained silence follows. All eyes fall on Howard, whose fury practically vibrates the table. But with Phillips and Brandt aligned, plus Erskine’s ultimatum, he’s locked into a corner.

He forces out a sneer, each syllable dripping venom. “Fine. Sign your precious injunction, or whatever damned nonsense you come up with. But don’t you think, for one second, you’ll win.” His gaze lands on Tony, making him feel pinned. “Because when this fails—and it will fail—I’ll be sure no one ever touches your so-called ‘emancipation’ with a ten-foot pole. I’ll bury you.”

Tony swallows hard, refusing to look away. “Then I’ll just have to make it work, won’t I?”

An ugly pause stretches, thick with the promise of war—of personal war, overshadowed by the real war raging overseas. But slowly, Colonel Phillips snaps the tension. He raps the table, voice harsh: “All right. That’s enough. Brandt, coordinate with legal. Stark—” He nods at Tony, an expression akin to grudging respect flitting across his features. “Get your meltdown fix ready for the next test. Doctor Erskine, you’re in charge of containing this mess until the paperwork is done. Nobody breathes a word outside this room. Understood?”

A collective murmur of assent rises, though it’s half-choked by Howard’s silent wrath and the swirl of shock among the staffers. Tony takes a shaky breath, forcibly unclenching his fists.

He came here hoping only to salvage a chance at freedom, or at least some measure of control. Now, somehow, he’s got the War Department dancing around an Omega emancipation. It’s dizzying.

Erskine gives Tony’s shoulder a fleeting, supportive squeeze. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—my associate needs to gather his notes and prepare the labs. Come. We should—”

“Tony,” a voice says.

The tension at the back of Tony’s neck coils like a striking snake. Slowly, he turns to find Howard, jaw clenched tight. Their gazes lock, and Tony’s pulse hiccups in raw, reflexive fear.

Erskine starts to step between them. “Mr. Stark, perhaps we can discuss—”

“I need a word with my son,” Howard announces. “Alone.” He doesn’t look at Erskine. Doesn’t look at Brandt or Phillips either. He only has eyes for Tony.

Tony feels the weight of every bruise, every insult, every threat that’s passed between them. The thought of being alone in a room with Howard sets his nerves aflame—he can practically feel the ghost of past violence prickling along his skin. But he meets his father’s stare anyway.

In the corner of his vision, Colonel Phillips steps closer, clearly uneasy at the request. “This may not be the time, Howard. We have a schedule and—”

But Tony draws a breath, something steadier than he expects. “It’s fine,” he says, voice surprisingly even. “Let him talk.”

He senses Erskine’s apprehension radiating beside him, but he can’t look the doctor in the eye right now. Instead, Tony squares his shoulders, forcing himself to swallow the knot of fear stuck in his throat.

“All right, Dad,” Tony sighs. “Let’s talk.”

Howard’s mouth twists, and without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the far door leading into a private corridor—one not cluttered with SSR personnel. Tony follows, ignoring the sidelong looks, ignoring the tension coiling in his own gut.

The last thing Tony sees before the door slides shut behind them is Erskine, brow furrowed, and Colonel Phillips rubbing the bridge of his nose like he already regrets letting the Starks vanish from sight.

What’s a few more regrets, anyway? Tony thinks, the door’s latch sealing with a soft click.

[thoma-nari]

Navi

Albedo - He smells like acrylic paint, mixed with shampoo mainly elderly people use... Like the really floral ones. It's nice, and smells like a regular overpriced art store.

Amber - Gingerbread... She just does despite never eating them unless its Christmas. Her shampoo is subtle, so no one knows where the gingerbread scent is from.

Barabara - She is subtle, she's not getting any attention from smelling too bad or too good, you'd have to take a six second dog whiff to even realize she uses some floral shampoo.

Bennett - Gun powder, or fire in general. He mainly just feels a bit lucky that his bad luck doesn't lead to him constantly smelling like BO or crap. It isn't great, but there could be worse.

Diluc - Freshly Ironed suits, champagne, and some subtle cedar wood cologne. You'd have to corner him with a gun to ever get him to confess he wears cologne, let alone admit which type he wears.

Diona - She can wear as much perfume, or brush her teeth as much as she wants. But a cat simply escape the fishy smell, it's practically a given for any feline. But it's not overpowering luckily.

Eula - This is specific... But you know those perfumes made for kids that have Disney princesses on it and are like 'Berry blast' or 'Apple sparkles'. She smells like those, artificial fruit scents.

Fischl - Really nice oddly enough, an odd scent but a nice one nonetheless. Like blackberry cobbler or cherry cheesecake, it's uncommon but not unwelcome.

Jean - You know this woman got some perfume bottle she is religious to, only one bottle, specific brand and scent, no others. Miss Dior 'Rose N Roses', gifted to her from Lisa.

Kaeya - Old Kaeya wore axe body spray, but realized he got no babes with axe... So switched to a much nicer cologne. Switches between different Christian Dior depending on which is cheaper.

Klee - A literal child, but if an answer is needed so desperately. Fireplaces and cheap Easter chocolates. Jean makes sure Klee stays clean and smells good.

Lisa - Fresh books and sultry perfume, like the type that is really nice to smell and makes you want to steal a sample. Probably some type of luxury vanilla or cherry perfume.

Mika - Sweet boy, he doesn't really have a strong scent. But if if he's close enough, it odly smells like a clothing store. Like he straight smells like an Old Navy store.

Mona - She smells like an Old library, not in a bad way, it's cozy and comforting. On the rare times she has actual Mora on her, she smells like any salad she ordered bulks off.

Noelle - My girl, my first wish. She smells like croissants and vanilla, some may say roses... But I know she smells like a five star bakery. Just off of vibes alone.

Razor - I adore Razor, I really do. But you can't tell me he doesn't smell like mud and fresh grass... On the good times. Of BO and wet dog... On the bad times. It's 50/50.

Rosaria - Cigarettes, wine, and weed during Mondstadt events she was dragged to and really doesn't want to be there. Overall the scent of a sexy but very dead inside baddie.

Sucrose - Anxiety... Kidding. She likely smells a bit like Albedo since she's always with him, so a mix of acrylic paint, and some lavender from the body wash she uses.

Venti - ALCOHOL AND DEPRESSION. Kidding... Sort of. Very much alcohol, but can cover it up with the scent of baked goods and when sober he can smell like a nice summer day.

[f1cflcfic]

Just Because I Called You (Carlos Sainz)

Well, sometimes the muse outruns your earlier plans. I wasn't going to write a Carlos fic, but here we are :) This one is fully written and only has three parts, hope to update every 5 days!

pairing: carlos sainz jr x fem!reader

summary: y/n knows there's a reason for his contact details to be saved under 'do not interact', but one call does not mean you miss him.

genre: 1.6k words, written au, brief 18+ content, angst

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

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Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just the sheer exhaustion that’s keeping you from finding your house keys after a night out with your friends.

You curse out loud, digging your hand back into your purse, even though you know it’ll be another futile attempt.

It’s not there.

Dread settles in, as you consider your options. You’d been the last one in the Uber, so all your friends have undoubtedly already crashed out. You could book a hotel, but that seems very excessive, expensive, and also just incredibly inopportune. Everything you need, your contact solution, your glasses, your pyjamas – it’s all just on the other side of the door.

With a sigh, you lean your clammy forehead against the front door.

“Fuck,” you whisper, as realisation sets in. You’re going to need a spare key. And it just so happens there’s only two other people who might have one, of which one is currently on holiday in Thailand.

Which leaves you with the worst option of all. With a sigh, you grab your phone and scroll through your contacts. “x do not interact x ”

“Needs must,” you mutter to yourself, then press the green call button. It’s well past midnight, and you feel bad about calling – but you also know that if anyone’s going to answer, it’s him.

The line rings once, twice, three times, before it comes to life with a little crackle.

“Hello?” You close your eyes almost on instinct, as his rough voice washes over you. It doesn’t hurt as much as it once did, but the ache still lingers.

“I know it’s late, and I know we’re not supposed to talk, but I’m drunk and dumb, and I can’t find my key,” you rush out all at once.

There’s faint rustling on the other end of the line, but then he comes back. “I got it. Just eh – wait? I’ll be there in 10.”

For seven minutes, you pace up and down the hallway in your apartment building – desperately convincing yourself of the fact that this won’t end badly.

You’re broken up. Have been broken up for a month. It’s the sole reason why your friends took you out, to celebrate that it’d been a month of going no contact with your ex.

Because you deserved better. You deserved someone who’d say “I love you” back, who’d buy you flowers, who’d take you out on dates that weren’t just sponsor events, and holidays that were just the two of you.

You deserve to be someone’s priority. So you’d told him it was over, and it had somehow made you even more mad that he’d just accepted it.

“Hi,” a voice says softly, and you immediately feel tears burn behind your eyes.

“Hi Carlos,” you reply meekly, waiting and watching as he approaches slowly. He’s wearing soft grey sweatpants, and a hoodie you once bought him in your favourite colour.

It’s uncomfortable and weird, the way in which neither of you really knows how to greet each other beyond that. Initiating any type of bodily contact seems like a bad decision, not when you know it's never going to satisfy the itch. It'd only make you crave his touch more, in ways you can't have it. Not anymore.

He awkwardly lifts his hand and shows you the spare key you’d once given him. The one he hadn’t given back yet. Your stomach lurches as you catch sight of the tiny sparkly chilli keychain dangling in the air.

“Shall I?” He asks, motioning at the door that you’d unconsciously been blocking with your body.

“Right, sorry,” you mutter, and quickly take a step back to give him some room.

Belatedly, you realise you should’ve just taken the key from him altogether right then and there.

But he's here now.

So instead, you thank him for coming out to you at 3AM in the morning. “Do you want to come in? Have something to drink before you leave again?”

You regret it the moment the words come out your mouth, as you can see Carlos visibly flinch. “I didn’t mean – no, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I think you did, though. And you’d be right. I was pretty good at leaving, wasn’t I?” He rubs his face with his hand, your eyes following the movement.

It drops back down, then pushes the door open a little further. Your eyes trail up his arm, lingering briefly on his neck. It’s lost some of its thickness, signalling the off-season. He’s handsome either way, but it just makes you hurt over lost time and moments together.

Your need to catalogue all the ways in which his appearance has changed is distracting, and you’ve inched closer to him – closer than strictly necessary, before you realise.

You shuffle past him, carefully knocking into his arm just so. You kick off your heels, and hang your bag on the coatrack.

You look back over your shoulder, then point at the basket neatly situated on the side table in your hallway. “Look. Keys are right there.”

“Cariño,” he warns, but against what, you’re not entirely sure.

He should probably leave, you think. He could have left. If he’d wanted to.

“You could just drop those keys off there as well,” you add, coaxing him to make a choice.

To finally step foot inside your apartment for the first time in 6 weeks. Or to never see it again.

He exhales, dark brown eyes zeroing in on yours as he makes his way in. He doesn’t drop the keys in the basket, but instead closes the door behind him, then takes off his shoes. Clearly he remembers how much you hate dirty shoes inside. “Don’t you think tonight proves it’s probably good if I held onto these?”

“I think it proves I need someone to have spare keys. It doesn’t need to be you,” you counter, then turn around and walk to the kitchen. He follows wordlessly, gaze never straying from you as you pour the two of you a glass of wine.

“Where are you staying, anyways? Ten minutes isn’t far off,” you ask, softly this time.

“Alex’ place,” he explains. “Our – the apartment flooded.” He’s quiet for a second, then takes the glass of wine as you hand it to him. “This keychain is a chilli. It’s mine.”

You study him across the top of your wine glass, follow the way he takes a sip and lets the red wine slide down his throat. It makes your cheeks flush, although you’re fairly certain you can hide behind the alcohol you’d already consumed earlier this evening.

“Mi favorito,” Carlos murmurs appreciatively. You know he’s talking about the wine, but for a millisecond, you deliberately let yourself misunderstand. Let yourself forget and fantasise.

Silence wraps around the two of you as you offer him a piece of leftover tiramisu that you pull from the fridge. He grabs the spoon from you, and takes a bite. It shouldn’t look as sinful as it does. But it’s Carlos, and it’s you. Habits die hard.

Sure, maybe it is the alcohol, maybe it is your exhaustion, you reason with yourself. Or maybe it’s the charged air that surrounds you two – even now you’re no longer together.

“Why’d you answer when I called?” You blurt out, the alcohol making you a little bolder than you’d normally be.

His hand stills from where it had been swirling the glass. He looks up at you again, and you feel your knees go weak. There’s a devastating vulnerability in those eyes, one that’s hard to ignore. “Tu sabes. Do you wish I hadn’t answered?”

You set your wineglass down again, now empty, then lean over the countertop. Close enough to count his eyelashes, and the tiny freckles he’s acquired from being out in the sun with his family. It hurts not having seen them develop in real time.

“I wish a lot of things, Carlos.”

His eyes rove your face, then linger on your lips for a second longer. “Me, too.”

Your gaze drops, too. And even though your heart is smashed to smithereens in your chest, your memories are telling you not to do it, and you know your friends will crucify you before picking up the pieces - it’s the lust and love-addled part of your brain that handles purely on emotion that wins out.

On reflex, you’ll justify later, you find yourself kissing Carlos in your kitchen at 3AM in the morning.

On reflex, you don’t even register how your own fingers roam around his body, and peel off the hoodie you’d gotten him.

On reflex, he hauls you into your bedroom, and teases you with his tongue while his lashes flutter against the apex of your thighs.

It’s not on reflex, when he asks if he needs to use a condom. It breaks the lust-fuelled haze, and instead it’s got you on the brink of crying in the blink of an eye. But you’re so close now, can almost taste the way in which this is going to both ruin and complete you at the same time.

You know this is exactly why you shouldn’t have called him, but it’s also exactly why you’re not going to stop this now. Even when you know you should.

So instead, you let the anger course through your body, scratching his back with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. “You tell me,” you pant in his neck, before sucking a bruise into his skin. You can feel his jaw tick, but he refrains from grabbing a condom nonetheless.

It shouldn’t make you feel the things it does.

Then again, Carlos shouldn’t be in your bed, buried balls deep inside of you, making you come three times in a row either.

Not when you’d been doing so well at the no contact rule.

You guess, then, that you deserve the feeling of hot shame and embarrassment rushing over you the next morning. It’s your punishment for being foolish, as you realise you shouldn’t have been surprised at the fact that he’s no longer next to you.

The only evidence he was ever there, is the stupid fucking hoodie left on your bedroom floor, and the sticky feeling between your legs.  

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Let me know what you think <3 Likes, comments, reblogs, asks are all appreciated.

[no-goodbyes-no-regrets]

Day 1: Non sexual intimacy @bucktommyfluffebruary

I'm already a day behind and it's only day 2 🤦‍♀️ But I'm still planning on doing the full 28 days.

(whether or not they'll be posted within the next 27 days however remains to be seen)

A lover's touch (AO3)

Tommy takes care of Buck after he gets discharged from hospital in 8x05

---

"You don't have to do all this." Buck insisted as Tommy helped him into his truck. He'd just gotten discharged from hospital, with a prescription for painkillers and doctor's orders to take it easy for at least a few days.

One of the nurses had given him scrubs to wear after Tommy had insisted he couldn't put his uniform back on "It's covered in pumpkin guts, Evan.", and he'd reluctantly agreed, and carefully gotten changed in a bathroom, despite Tommy reminding him it wasn't like he'd never seen him in his underwear before.

"And how would you get home if I didn't?" Tommy asked, pulling Buck from his thoughts.

"I could've just gotten an Uber..."

"Oh, sure. You want me to just... leave you here, go home, wait for you to get home with your paid ride, then drive over to your place to see how you're doing - wait, would I be allowed to come over? Or would you just text me to tell me you're fine?" Tommy deadpanned.

Buck rolled his eyes and let Tommy fasten his seatbelt while mumbling something under his breath that sounded a lot like "bitch"

Tommy ignored him and gave his knee a quick squeeze, before closing the door and jogging to the other side of his truck and getting behind the wheel.

"Your place or mine?" He asked as he started the engine.

"Mine." Buck sighed. "I want to get out of these scrubs and I don't have old sweats and hoodies at yours. I only bring my sexy clothes when I'm staying over." he said, trying to sound less like a petulant child and more like the hot sexy man he wanted Tommy to see him as.

"Alright, yours it is." Tommy laughed a little and pulled out of the hospital parking lot. "Do you mind if we stop for food or did you want to attempt to cook with that shoulder?" he quickly glanced at his boyfriend, eyebrow raised, daring him to deny that wasn't exactly what he was planning.

"Only if we can get a greasy burger and fries. I'm done being healthy for today."

"Deal."

By the time they got to Buck's loft and had something to eat, he was feeling more and more grimy and restless in the uncomfortable scrubs.

How medical staff could wear those all day every day he'd never know.

Tommy was clearing up after their meal and had started a load of laundry, and had been waiting on Buck's hand and foot since the moment they'd walked through the door.

It was sweet but also a bit frustrating. Buck was used to taking care of himself, he hadn't had anyone fluff his pillow or adjust his blanket since he was a kid and Maddie used to read him a story before bed.

"Are you comfortable enough in that chair? Do you want an extra pillow? I think you can have more painkillers in about half an hour if you need them."

"No, no I'm ok. I just... kinda feel gross. I think I’m just going to take a shower. I feel like I'm still covered in pumpkin guts."

"I can assure you, you're not. You look just like you did when we woke up this morning." Tommy told him.

"oh great, so I look like I just woke up." Buck complained.

Tommy smiled but decided not to take the bait.

"Yep. Cute, a little pouty, and very kissable." he said and kissed Buck to prove his point. "Do you need any help with that shower?"

"I can wash myself, Tommy, I'm not an invalid."

"No, but you currently only have one fully functioning arm, and the doctor said not to lift it above your head for at least a few days."

"I'll be fine." Buck said a little too harshly, and immediately felt bad. "I'll let you know if I need help."

Tommy nodded.

"Sure. You know where to find me."

He went upstairs to find something more comfortable to wear, and smiled at the sight of one of Tommy's cut off hoodies and his spare charger on what had become his side of the bed.

They were going on six months together and things were going well. He was happy and settled in a way he hadn't felt since... pretty much ever, and he hoped Tommy felt the same.

He debated stealing Tommy's hoodie, but decided to go for something that would keep his shoulder somewhat warm. Warm and cold compresses is what he vaguely remembered the doctor saying. He'd been slightly preoccupied with the curse, as well as wanting to look good for Tommy, and hoping Eddie wouldn't rat him out for practically yanking off the hospital gown when Tommy texted to ask what room he was in.

Suddenly noises from the TV drifted up to the bedroom and it made him happy to know Tommy felt comfortable enough in his space to make himself at home, and doing something as mundane as switching on the TV.

He grabbed some clean clothes and made his way to the downstairs bathroom, pausing to press a kiss to the top of his boyfriend's head as a way of apology for snapping at him earlier.

He'd planned to quickly undress and wash the day off of himself, only the quick part, he realised once he'd turned on the water and tried to get the scrub top off without hurting his shoulder more, would not be happening.

He spent a good fifteen minutes twisting himself into crazy positions and jumping around his bathroom until he'd finally managed to get the top off. He was red in the face and slightly out of breath, but he figured at least the water would be warm and relaxing.

He stepped under the spray, tipped his head back against the shower wall to let the warm water run over his face, and felt himself relax. His prickly mood from before as well as the embarrassment of getting hurt on the job in such a stupid way washing off him and disappearing down the drain.

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and moved the wet hair off his face, grabbing the shampoo from the little shelf in the corner. He squirted some in his hand on auto pilot, only to then realise he couldn't lift his arm high enough to actually rub it into his hair.

He awkwardly moved it to his good hand, but then quickly found out washing your hair with one hand was no easy feat. He bent down so he could use his injured arm too, but the movement tugged on his sore shoulder too much and when stars appeared in front of his eyes, he stood up and gave up.

He rinsed the shampoo off his hands and out of his hair as best he could, and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist.

"Tom?" he said softly after opening the bathroom door. "Tommy?"

The other man was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone, while some sitcom played on the TV. He looked up at the sound of his name.

"Evan? Are you alright?"

"I uh... think I might need some help after all... i-if you don't mind..."

"Of course not. Tell me what you need." Tommy replied, dropping his phone on the table and walking over to him.

"I uh... tried to wash my hair... b-but it's not going so well with one hand."

"Good thing I have two then." Tommy smiled and gently steered him back into the bathroom. "Give me two seconds. You go ahead and get in the shower."

Buck did as he was told and got back under the warm water and watched his boyfriend quickly strip before joining him.

It was somewhat of a tight fit for two men of their size, but neither exactly hated being close to each other.

"This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I thought of showering with you." Buck joked, trying to distract himself from feeling completely helpless.

"Next time." Tommy promised and pressed a small kiss to his lips. "Just relax and let me take care of you." he said while squirting some shampoo in his hands and gently massaging it into Buck's hair.

As much as he'd hated asking for help, having Tommy take care of him like this felt like heaven.

He'd known Tommy's hands were magic and could make him feel amazing, but never like this, never outside the bedroom.

"I wish I had one of those stools for the shower" Buck mused as Tommy gently started washing his body. "I'd never leave this bathroom."

"I have one at my place. I got it a few years ago after I sprained my ankle getting out of the chopper."

"You mean you fell out?" Buck teased. He'd gotten to know Tommy's crew over the past few months, and they loved sharing embarrassing stories from Tommy's probie days at Harbor.

"It had been raining! Everything was wet and slippery!" Tommy protested.

"And you tripped over your own feet trying to get back into the hangar."

"Who told you that? Melton? Tess? O'Neil? Donato wasn't there yet, so it wasn't her."

"I have my sources."

"It was Sal wasn't it? I should never have introduced you. He's banned from ever talking to you again." Tommy said, only half joking. He turned off the water and quickly wrapped a towel around himself, before doing the same to Buck and gently drying him off.

"Maybe it wasn't Sal, maybe it was someone else."

Tommy stopped what he was doing and narrowed his eyes at his boyfriend.

"Maybe I should ban all of them from ever speaking to you again. Or monitor the conversation so they won't spread lies about me."

"It's not a lie if it's true." Buck teased, sore shoulder forgotten.

"Yeah, yeah, see if I fly you into a hurricane again." Tommy mock threatened. "You can get Donato to do it next time."

"Hopefully there will never be a next time." Buck said, letting Tommy push him to lean back against the sink and helping him put a pair of sweats on. "But maybe we can take a trip together? We could go to Vegas. It's not really fair that you flew Eddie there but you've never taken me."

"You don't like MMA." Tommy argued, mildly distracted trying to find a way to get Evan's hoodie on without hurting his shoulder.

"There are other things we could do in Vegas, aren't there? We could go to a casino... or see a show... or... go see Elvis."

Tommy frowned.

"Graceland? That's not in Vegas..." he trailed off as confusion made way for realisation. "Oh... you mean... Elvis. A chapel."

"Well... Maybe not just yet... but... eventually... maybe? Would that be something... you... would like... one day?"

Tommy tugged Buck's hoodie over his head and gently guided his arms through the sleeves.

"Get married? By Elvis? In Vegas?"

"Y-yeah?"

"I don't know about the Elvis part... but the rest..." He paused and bit his lip, looking almost shy and as un-Tommy as Buck had ever seen him. "Yeah... yeah that sounds pretty good."

[venturelovebot]

Fluffy February Day Two: That One Time...

A/N: Prompts by @fluffyfebruary, written in headcanon format. Comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated but not necessary!

Warnings: None! Pure fluff!

🩷 "Do you remember that one time you tried to buy me chocolate, but you tripped and fell on the way to meet me?" You ask them.

❤️ Sloan smiles when they recall it now. At the time, it was not so funny.

💄 "Yes! I cried for an entire hour." They sigh. "How could I forget?"

💋 You nuzzle them affectionately in an attempt to dampen the negative feelings from the memory.

🪽 "You're so sweet. You know that?" You compliment them.

🌹 "Aww, shucks. You're making me blush!" They joke.

🍫 You nestle into them further and place kisses to their adorable face. Giggles bubble up from their chest from the affection.

💒 "You know what we should do? We should make our own chocolate." You suggest.

🧸 Once they're finally allowed a breath of air, they look down at you with soft eyes.

🩷 "How do we do that, though? Isn't chocolate making hard?" They wonder.

❤️ "I'm pretty sure they sell kits." You tell them. "I know that for a fact because I happen to buy one!"

💄 A smile crosses your expression as you lean into them again.

💋 "I thought it would be fun to try!" You add.

🪽 "Oooh! Why didn't you tell me sooner?" They jump up from the couch.

🌹 You chuckle at their giddiness.

🍫 "Because I wanted it to be a surprise!" You explain.

💒 They tug at your arm in excitement.

🧸 "Well, c'mon! Let's get started!" They exclaim.

🩷 They practically drag you into the kitchen behind them.

❤️ You prepare the counter for everything you're going to need: the cacao butter, cacao powder, powdered sugar and powdered milk. That's a lot of powder!

💄 "So, we'll need a double boiler for this." You mention.

💋 "What's that?" They ask.

🪽 You place a saucepan atop the stove and fill it with water. You patiently wait for it to begin boiling, and you place a smaller heat proof pan inside.

🌹 "Oh! I've seen that before!" They remember.

🍫 "Care to do the honors?" You place a knife in their hand, gesturing to the uncut cacao butter.

💒 You watch as they carefully cut everything down into bite sized pieces. Then, it slides into the pot and to melt.

🧸 "Cacao powder!" You add in a heaping helping of it.

🩷 Next goes in the powdered sugar alongside the powdered milk.

❤️ After a couple minutes of stirring, a pinch of sea salt goes into the melty mixture for an extra dash of flavor.

💄 You pour it all into a heart shaped mold to let it freeze and take form.

💋 "Wow. That was a lot easier than I expected!" They note.

🪽 "Mhm." You reach out to lovingly pinch their cheek. "Especially with my little helper."

🌹 They smile from your affection, reaching to cup your hand with theirs.

🍫 Now, it's just a matter of waiting.

💒 The two of you consistently check the progress of the freezing chocolate to test if it's ready for consumption.

🧸 And, finally, after your patience seems to wear thin...

🩷 "It's so good!" They shout.

❤️ They stuff their mouth with more heart shaped chocolate pieces, but making sure to leave some for you as well.

💄 You understand the enthusiasm as soon as you taste it. The waiting had certainly paid off.

💋 "Don't make your tummy upset!" You chide them.

🪽 They never, ever seem to listen when it comes to sweets, though.

🌹 "I won't, I won't!" They brush you off.

🍫 It's only when you forcibly remove the treats in front of them do they realize how narrowly they avoided pain this time.

💒 "I told you!" You sigh. "Now go wash your hands, let's make dinner together."

🧸 A bead of sweat forms on their forehead. Even if they avoided the pain of a stomach ache, they still ruined their appetite for the rest of the day. Good going, Sloan.

🩷 "Yes, cariño..." They nervously smile.

[wtf-is-sleep-even]

I wrote a little somethin

---

The blazing sun wasn't Jedediah’s favorite thing, far from it, but he supposed that it's better than the freezing cold, both you can die in, but one is more death defying than the other, the endless desert seemed to stretched on, not a good thing, even in the near-setting sun he could die quickly if he didn't find shelter or water soon. Thankfully, there seemed to be just that a while away “alright boy” Jedediah muttered to his horse, Jericho, “we'll be alright, just a little longer” the stallion huffed, trotting faster, getting there before the sun dipped below the tree lines. Jedediah led him to the water, sighing.

He untied his pack as Jericho drank, moving quickly to set up a tent and fire. He secured Jericho and laid on the ground, it wasnt comfortable, at all, but it was better than sand. Getting up once more he moved to boil some water, the sun and fire light casting a soft glow. What caught his eye, was a glint in the water, he wasn't quite the curious type, better to be content with reality than die over what could have been, but for some odd reason, he felt compelled to reach out, and reach out he did. Prying it out of the mud and shaking it to wash it off, fogging the water with the action, he pulled up.

It was….not what he expected, a double edged blade, like something you would find in one of his little siblings fairy tale stories about knights or whatnot, the engravings on the blade were in a language he couldn't understand, the pattern on the handle worn and faded with weathering. Jedediah felt an odd surge of paranoia, panic, something he could name all at once, he looked around, yet nothing was there, he chalked it up to the handle breaking off the blade, shattering the worn, aged thing into several pieces as it hit the ground “well that was stupid” he muttered, throwing the handle back into the pond with a huff, sitting back over to his boiling water. He heard a noise, figuring it was some type of animal “barbarians! I swear, never treating anything with the respect it deserves”

That….was no animal

He snapped his head up, seeing a figure, he was sat cross-legged, back straight with his arms crossed, he was dressed extremely oddly, a chest plate and armor coverings but wearing a skirt as well, an odd helmet with eccentric feathers on the top, he had brown eyes and tanned skin, marked with scars not unlike his own.

“Wh- who the hell are ya?! How'd you get here?!” The figure jumped in surprise, looking around as if he wasn't the one that the traveler was talking to, he then pointed to himself, Jedediah rolled his eyes “yes, you! Who else would I be talkin' to?!” The figure stood up, walking over to him, almost scrutinizing “you…can see me?” Jedediah scoffed “of course I can see ya’, ya' overgrown rooster!” the figure looked slightly offended but more awestruck than anything else “you can see me….” He whispered, holding his hand out carefully, almost touching the other only for Jedediah to scramble away “hey, personal space, guy!” the figure pulled his hand to himself “my apologies” he said

The figure looked at him more curiously, walking and sitting next to the broken shards of the sword “is this better?” He asked, Jedediah rolled his eyes, moving to stir the water, pouring it into his canteen “yeah, that's fine” he hummed, watching his movements. Jedediah pulled out some food, dried meat, it lasts longer, he held out a piece to the other “oh, no, I don't need it” Jedediah raised an eyebrow but shrugged “what kind is it?” he asked “venison” Jedediah asked, the other looked confused “deer, elk, things like that” the other hummed

“I've never had it, fish was much easier to find where I'm from” Jedediah nodded “where ya from?” The figure fidgeted with his skirt “Rome, but I haven't returned in a long, long time” that surprised Jedediah, Rome? That's that big place over in Europe, isn't it? Italy he thinks. “When was the last time you went back?” The other hummed “what year is it?” Jedediah scoffed, but he seemed serious “1827” he answered

“2,000 years, give or take” the traveler choked, coughing up what he tried to swallow, drinking down some of the water that had cooled down a bit by now, he looked wide-eyed at the other “what- how?!” the figure looked at him, shrugged “I died, pretty simple”

A shiver went down his spine, died, dead, he was talking with a dead man, he didn't know why or how but he was talking with a dead man. “You- no- nonono, that can't be true! How am I talkin' to you then?!” The figure glared “why did you think I was so surprised that you could see me?” He didn't know, he didn't have an answer “y-your name, what's your name?” The other sighed heavily “Gaius Augustus Julius Caesar Octavian, Legion of the Roman army”

“What is yours?” The traveler swallowed his nerves, and the urge to throw up. “Uh- J-jedediah, Jedediah Strong Smith…..Jr…” he hummed “Jedediah, that's an….odd name” the traveler gasped, offended “better than you! Octogon or whatever”

“It's Octavian, you can call me Octavius if you need”

“Alright Octopus”

“Octavius”

“Octave”

“Octavius!”

“Ockie”

“You are insufferable!”

Jedediah laughed, a tinge of malice in his tone. When the night fell, he went to bed and got up, packing his things, attempting to ignore the ghost at all chances, pushing Jericho onwards and back into the restless waves of sand. He just told himself that his eyes were seeing things when a flash of red tinted his peripheral vision. But he looked over “what are you doing?!” He muttered as if someone could hear him, Octavius huffed, crossing his arms “I don't like this anymore than you do! Watch” he did as he trotted forward, a good 4 yards away only to get pulled like he was roped in with a lasso, getting sat down before standing up and brushing himself off “I can't get away even if I tried and trust me, I tried”

Jedediah sighed, keeping a steady pace.

Maybe he should just quit.

Jedtavius Fic idea that i can’t get out of my head so maybe if i post it ill find the motivation (prob not)

Au set in the old wild west where jedediah lives a lonely life where he travels around. One day, he stumbles upon an old looking sword, and when he touches it, he starts to see the ghost of a Roman soldier. He thinks he's going crazy and tries to ignore the other man, but they keep on arguing with each other but slowly jed realises that the nights suddenly aren't as lonely anymore.

A slow burn, enemies to lovers ahh story