#if you like fountain pens I want to hear your thoughts too!

[orangerosebush]

AF Fountain Pen Thoughts

Artemis will automatically include the upkeep of Butler's, his mother's, Juliet's, and Holly's fountain pens in the upkeep of his own pens.

Holly and Juliet tend not to use their pens often (which they have because Artemis gifted them the pens); Artemis will help with upkeep whenever they visit.

With Butler, Artemis helps in large part due to the man not having the habit of building 'frivolous' rituals of care into his day. Thus, Artemis will care for the pens, as Butler does (at the end of it all) adore the devices.

With Angeline, I feel Artemis is just so wholly dedicated to those kinds of small acts of care when it comes to his mother (e.g., thinking of him composing a unique ringtone for her calls), the thought of not helping Angeline with that which he has gifted her simply never crosses his mind.

Fowl Sr is more of a ballpoint pen or a pencil fellow. Artemis will sometimes include his father in the hobby by cleaning and repairing pens in his father's study while the man works (so Tim will have the experience of being included in the upkeep).

Fowl Sr. appreciates when Artemis shows off some of the special/exclusive inks he purchases; he finds the beauty of the ink a much more accessible aspect of the hobby. Artemis will sometimes do ink tests (i.e. when you get a new ink and experiment with it on good quality paper) when his father is in the room for this reason.

[longagoitwastuesday]

Going through the Utahim.e tag had me checking several times if at some point I had clicked on the G.ojo/Utahim.e one instead

[melancholyfool]

Henry and you getting married in secret, like just the two of you signing papers, and then the class being gobsmacked when there’s a big diamond on your finger and Henry has his own band.

a/n: the idea of being called 'mrs. winter' sounds thrilling...thank you for the request! 🫀🤍

...

The marriage license sat on the desk in front of you, its edges curling faintly under the weight of the fountain pen in your hand. The municipal office was impossibly quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of papers or the ticking of an old clock on the wall. The fluorescent lighting hummed faintly overhead, stark and unromantic. But despite the mundane surroundings, your heart thundered in your chest, your fingers trembling ever so slightly as you glanced up at Henry.

He stood beside you, perfectly composed in his tailored black coat, though his dark eyes betrayed a flicker of nervous excitement. His hands were tucked neatly into his pockets, but you caught the way his fingers flexed, restless.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the silence of the room.

Henry’s gaze softened, his lips quirking into a rare smile—the kind he reserved only for you. “If you’re having second thoughts, now would be the time to tell me,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, tinged with dry humor.

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping despite the nerves knotting your stomach. “Not second thoughts. Just… this is real, isn’t it?”

He leaned closer, his hand brushing yours on the desk. “As real as it gets,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “No theatrics, no audience. Just us. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you signed your name with a deliberate flourish. When you slid the pen across the desk, Henry took it without hesitation, his signature elegant and precise, as if he’d been practicing this moment his entire life.

The clerk, an older woman with a faintly bored expression, stamped the papers with an air of finality. “Congratulations,” she said flatly, sliding the documents back toward you.

Henry turned to you, his hands finding yours, his grip firm but gentle. He didn’t speak, but his eyes conveyed everything: certainty, devotion, and an unspoken promise that this was only the beginning.

When you stepped outside into the brisk afternoon air, the quiet chaos of the world felt far away. It was just the two of you now, standing on the steps of a plain municipal building, a sense of weightless disbelief settling over you.

“I thought I’d feel different,” you admitted, staring down at your left hand. The ring he’d chosen—a vintage diamond set in platinum—sparkled in the pale winter sunlight, almost too dazzling to be real.

“You are different,” Henry replied, his voice softer now, almost reverent. He reached for your hand, turning it slightly to admire the ring. Then, with a faint smile, he added, “You’re mine now.”

You rolled your eyes at his possessive tone, but the warmth spreading through your chest betrayed you. “And you’re mine,” you countered, nodding toward his left hand. The plain gold band sat snugly on his ring finger, a stark contrast to the ostentation of your diamond.

Henry tilted his head, a flicker of amusement dancing across his features. “You’ll never hear me complain.”

...

The classroom was already alive with its usual chatter when you stepped in, Henry just a pace behind you. The smell of chalk and dust mingled with the faint aroma of stale coffee someone had left on Julian’s desk. You felt the weight of the diamond on your finger like a beacon.

Bunny was mid-sentence, laughing as he gestured wildly with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The smoke curled lazily above his head, but when he caught sight of you, his laughter died mid-breath. His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open for a moment before he jabbed his cigarette toward you.

“Wait. Hold on. Stop everything.” His voice cut through the room, and everyone’s attention snapped to him. “What the hell is that on your hand?”

Your cheeks flushed under the scrutiny, but you forced a casual shrug, lifting your hand just enough to draw their eyes. The diamond caught the light, sparkling with a brilliance that felt almost vulgar under the fluorescent bulbs.

There was a collective intake of breath, like the room itself was stunned into silence.

“Oh my God,” Camilla said, her voice sharp and clear, breaking the stillness. She leaned forward in her chair, her pale hair glinting like spun gold as her eyes locked on your ring. “You’re married?”

Bunny’s chair scraped loudly as he stood up, pointing between you and Henry like a detective unraveling a conspiracy. “Married? To him?”

Henry arched an eyebrow, his expression cool but dangerous. “Do you have a problem with that, Bunny?”

Bunny ignored him, spinning toward you instead. “When did this happen? How did this happen? And more importantly, why didn’t you tell us?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but Charles cut in before you could speak, his tone low and disbelieving. “You’re not serious. This is some kind of joke, right?”

“Deadly serious,” Henry said calmly, slipping into his usual seat.

Richard stared at the two of you as though trying to wake from a dream. “You’re… married,” he repeated, his voice hollow with disbelief.

Bunny threw his hands in the air. “Married! You two—of all people—snuck off and tied the knot like some runaway couple in Vegas? This is insane!”

“It wasn’t Vegas,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, though your heart pounded against your ribcage. “Just a courthouse. Friday afternoon.”

“Friday?” Camilla echoed, leaning back in her chair. Her lips parted, but no words came out as she stared at the ring on your hand.

Bunny clutched at his chest theatrically. “You’re telling me you signed your lives away on a Friday? Without so much as a word to us? No party? No announcement? Nothing?”

Henry’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. “It was private. That’s how we wanted it.”

“Private?” Bunny let out a laugh that was more disbelief than humor. “You eloped! You—” He gestured frantically toward you. “And now you’re just sitting there like this is normal?”

Charles frowned, his brow furrowed. “It’s not normal, Bunny. That’s the point. It’s Henry. They don’t do anything the normal way.”

Richard, who hadn’t said much, finally spoke, his voice quieter than the others but no less bewildered. “But why wouldn’t you tell us?”

There was something in his tone that struck a nerve—an edge of hurt that lingered beneath the astonishment. You glanced at Henry, whose expression didn’t falter, though you could feel the tension radiating from him.

“It wasn’t about keeping it from you,” you said softly, meeting Richard’s gaze. “It was just… for us. That’s all.”

Camilla’s eyes narrowed slightly, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind her composed exterior. “For you,” she repeated, almost as if testing the words.

Bunny slumped back into his chair, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “God, you two really are something else.”

There was a heavy pause as everyone tried to process what had just been dropped in their laps. The tension in the room was almost palpable, broken only when Bunny leaned forward, pointing at Henry.

“Alright, then,” he said, his tone suddenly mischievous. “If you’re so bloody married, let’s see it. The band. You’ve got one, don’t you?”

Henry, unflinching, raised his hand, the simple silver band gleaming against his pale skin. His eyes met Bunny’s, unblinking and sharp. “Satisfied?”

Bunny let out a low whistle, shaking his head again. “God, you’re a smug bastard, aren’t you?”

“Bunny,” Charles said quietly, a warning in his tone.

But Bunny wasn’t done. He turned back to you, leaning forward with a sly grin. “So, how long do we have until the announcement of Baby Winter, huh?”

“Enough,” Henry said, his voice ice-cold.

The sharpness of his tone silenced Bunny instantly, the grin slipping from his face. The room went quiet again, the weight of Henry’s authority settling over everyone.

You reached for Henry’s hand under the table, squeezing it gently. He glanced at you, his gaze softening ever so slightly before he returned his attention to the room.

“Well,” Camilla said after a long pause, raising her water glass as though in toast. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Richard nodded slowly, though he still looked as though he hadn’t fully wrapped his mind around it. Charles sighed and reached for his cigarettes. Bunny, true to form, muttered something under his breath about “goddamn secrets” and “elopement lunacy.”

As the others slowly resumed their conversations, Henry leaned in close to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Do you regret it yet?”

You smiled, pressing your shoulder against his. “Not even for a second.”

[gyllenhaalstories]

FETISH — RUSTY SABICH

summary: something something you needed a job and raymond offered you to work at the office. something something there is a misunderstanding and you pique rusty's curiosity.

warnings: this story happens before the events of presumed innocent so rusty is still a prosecutor, includes tommy molto (with mentions of barbara, carolyn, nico & raymond), sexual harassment, cheating, smut (masturbation, underwear smelling). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 3360

gif credits: me @/gyllenhaalstories / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: raymond is the star of this fic and so is @sizzlingcloudmentality's idea that saved this story 📂 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

You were thankful for Raymond Horgan. He considered you as his niece, he had helped you more times than you could remember. He bought you the biggest dollhouse you could dream of when you were a child, he set an absurd amount of money aside for your education and now he had offered you a job most law students of Chicago could never even dream of. Most of the time, you were thankful for Raymond.

"So, let met get this right... You found the file in a recycling bin?" Tommy's voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard. The twisted grin glued to his face sent a shiver down your spine.

You were not thankful for Raymond at this precise moment. He left you all alone to answer his phone calls while everyone in the office had left to enjoy their weekend. You assumed that no one would care to call the district attorneys on a Friday afternoon. No. Evening. The sun had started setting, you did not even see the day go by. You assumed that no one would bother, but Raymond had never been more popular. "For the third time, yes, I found the documents in the bin and I thought it was important material so I grabbed it before the janitors did. If I had known, I would not have touched it. I can assure you of that, Tommy."

"Mister Molto," he rectified, he pursed his lips. "It's Mister Molto for you."

"Since when are you so passionate about recycling, Mister Molto?" You spat out his name with disgust. There was just something about Tommy. Everyone in the office had been pleasant, you had no trouble believing that Raymond knocked on each door and instructed them to treat you with the upmost respect. Everyone listened, except Tommy.

Tommy's gaze fell on your hand, he watched you tap your fountain pen on the notepad nervously. You were always so nervous in his presence, surely this must mean you liked him. You liked him but you were too shy to admit it. "What did you do with the documents?"

You grabbed your notepad, imitating your every action. Maybe, you thought, the man would understand better if you gave him the visuals. You explained how you pulled the file out of the bin and set it down exactly where Tommy had found it: on Nico Della Guardia's desk. You assumed he would know better than you what to do with it, but Tommy had the reflexes of a cat and snitched the papers before anyone else could see them. "Is it more clear now? Do you want me to tell you the whole story again for the fourth time?"

You were making an excuse to talk to him longer. He found it endearing. His thin lips curled into a smile, he shook his head. He looked down at the file he gripped on tightly, so tightly that the sweat of his palm began to warp the material. "In this office, we value being thorough..." The phone rang, cutting his lecture off. Tommy looked down again. He recognized the code written on the file, he even recognized the handwriting. It was from a case Carolyn Polhemus had worked on with Rusty Sabich.

You exhaled dramatically and let the phone ring three times before picking it up. You repeated your greeting like a robot, expecting the caller to insist you made Raymond magically appear so they could talk to him.

"It's you." A familiar voice resonated through the phone. Rusty was calling. "Hi." You could practically hear him smile. "I was just wondering if you saw my stapler anywhere. Ray always steals it, and..."

"We also value respect around here." Tommy pulled your attention back to you, annoyed that you picked up the phone without excusing yourself. "Anyway." Another grin, another wave of shivers. He rambled about how you should stick to your tasks, how you would be a better secretary if you did not go snooping around people's trash. Apparently, he could not even begin to comprehend the concept of a simple mistake.

You narrowed your eyes while he continued his monologue. You could not believe what your left ear heard, as your right ear burned against the phone while it perceived words about Raymond's kleptomaniac's tendencies regarding office supplies. You tried to breathe through your nose to calm down. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. You wanted this day to be over.

"Am I disturbing something? I'm sorry, I didn't want to bother..." Rusty frowned, trying to recognize the other voice he heard. He could not see the scene, but he started to imagine the agitation. "Who's with you?"

Tommy's expression faded into a dark one. Annoyance, perhaps. You could not read him well and you certainly did not want to. He gave you... Ick. There was something else, a spark in his eyes that made you swallow a knot of nerves stuck in your throat. "Evidence from a trial is not to be messed with. I hope you learned your lesson. Or maybe... You wanted to see me. So we could have a little talk just the two of us. And the problem is that you can't keep your hands to yourself, can you?"

You scoffed. "That's inappropriate." Tommy was not annoyed. He was aroused. There was a double meaning to his words that made you sick to your stomach. He lost no time defending himself, hiding behind his inflated ego to justify how his comment was perfectly normal.

Rusty had trouble discerning a single thing from the word vomit that fell out of his colleague's mouth. He tried to inquire about what was happening in vain. He had to pull the handset away from his ear, Tommy and you argued in full volume. However, Rusty heard one thing before you violently hung up the phone, forcing it back into the receptacle. He remained unsure of who you directed your rage-filled words to.

"Go fuck yourself!"

*~*~*

"Go fuck yourself! Go fuck yourself! Go fuck yourself!"

The sound of your voice echoed in Rusty's mind. It had been all he could think about. He was fixated. Obsessed.

He replayed the scene over and over again. By now, he understood you spat these words out at Tommy.

Rusty spat on his hand, squeezing it around his cock that he pumped to full hardness.

You sounded like a broken record in his head. By now, he still did not understand why these words had such an effect on him.

His left hand dived into the teal laundry basket, feeling around. He pulled out the towel he used after his session on the treadmill earlier. He also pulled out a bunched up piece of black fabric. The plastic basket was roughly pushed to the side before Rusty flattened the towel on the counter. His right hand moved up and down on his cock, he was desperate for some relief.

You spent so much time with Tommy. Too much time. Why? Why did you spend time with Tommy? All the small talk by the coffee machine or the elevator. Why was Tommy going down in the elevator with you? Why was it always him?

Rusty pulled his hand away from his cock that twitched. He looked down at the counter, grabbing a clothespin to fidget with. He was thankful there was a window before him and not a mirror.

A pathetic sight.

He pulled his sweatpants down below his ass, a drop of precum even left a wet stain on the front. His cock throbbed with the desire to be touched again. His thoughts fought an unfair race.

He wanted to think of you.

But he was thinking of Tommy. Of his jealousy towards Tommy. He could not see straight. Rusty was too blinded by his insatiable lust to remember all of the times he caught you grimacing after Tommy walked away, flinching when Tommy initiated physical contact with a squeeze of your shoulder or a pat on your lower back. You hated Tommy. Rusty hated Tommy.

"Go fuck yourself!"

You resisted Tommy. Why were you not resisting him? Why were you always so pleasant and nice with him? Rusty remained charming and resourceful. When it came to working his way through a case or helping you with a task Raymond gave you that seemed way above your skill set, he was the smartest guy in the room.

Rusty was stupid for wanting to think of you.

He dropped the wooden clothespin on the counter and proceeded to continue. His dominant hand wrapped around the base of his cock, his long fingers grazed over his balls. His left hand brushed over the bunched up fabric. Clumsily, he unfolded it and it revealed to be a pair of panties.

He should think of Barbara.

He brought the panties up to his nose. He brought his hand up to his tip. That would work. That usually worked. It had not worked for a long time, but... But it had to work right now.

He inhaled her scent and he moaned. "Good. Keep going." He traced his fingertip over his slit, smearing the precum over it while he relaxed. He closed his eyes, images of Barbara flashed. His face buried in the crook of her neck, his eyes blinded by the black curls of her hair, his hands squeezing on the soft flesh of her ass. He kept going. He kept thinking of Barbara.

Barbara's features started to morph with yours. He imagined your smile. He imagined your curves. He imagined the sound of your voice moaning his name.

"Fuck!" Rusty shouted. His thin upper lip curled in frustration. His face twisted with anger towards himself while his mind became a mosaic crafted with the memories he had of you.

He barely had anything. It was all office related. It was all Raymond related. It was all Tommy related. He barely had any memory alone with you. You should tell him to go fuck himself. You should push him away. You should resist him. Resist. Resist. Resist.

He needed to resist you.

He wrapped Barbara's panties around his cock and he used them to jerk off. His shoulders loosened up. The fabric dragged over his cock, a familiar sensation that used to make him climax effortlessly. Just the thought of it would make him hard.

Like a fetish. His wife's panties used to work like magic. It could work again. He needed it to work again.

He threw his head back, his eyes fluttered close. "That's it, that's it. Feels so fucking good..." He mumbled. His hand and the panties blurred together while he stroked himself hard and fast. He fought the frustration with pathetic desperation. You appeared in his mind again.

Like a fetish. He could not get rid of his thoughts of you. A fixation. An obsession.

Rusty tightened the grip on his cock. The panties got bunched up at the base, caressing his sack deliciously while he focused on his leaking tip. His breath came in short gasps. He felt so close.

His balls tightened, his orgasm imminent. He propped himself up a bit on the tip of his toes. Just high enough. Quick strokes. Tight quick strokes.

Would you jerk him off this way if he begged you to? Did you even think about jerking him off? Or would you tell him to go fuck himself?

He groaned, he fought the urge to close his eyes so he could aim at the towel.

Did you ever think about the two of you fucking? On his desk. Against the wall. On the floor. He did. He thought about it many times. A fixation. An obsession.

"Fuck yes!" He cried out when he spilled all over the towel. His entire body tensed up. Ropes of white cum painted the navy blue towel. It felt so good to cum for you. It would feel even better to cum inside of you.

He slowed the movements of his hand and squeezed the remaining of his release on the cumrag. He set his feet flat again, his chest heaved while he panted.

For a moment, a moment that did not last long enough, his mind seemed blank. No imagery, no thought. A void. It was peaceful, but volatile.

He opened the door of the washing machine and threw in his cumrag and Barbara's underwear after he wiped his cock clean with them. He added the rest of the dirty laundry and poured a generous amount of detergent with the hope it would wash away what happened.

Rusty noticed a spurt of his cum squirted on the counter top. He grabbed the small tissue box and wiped it clean. He shook his head, unsatisfied. He rummaged through the cabinet and found cleaning wipes. He dragged the wipe over the counter with force until it started to tear up.

He looked out at the window. Rained poured outside, the clouds looked menacing. A bad omen.

Later, he would tell himself this was inoffensive. He could be very convincing, very persuasive. He would make himself believe this was not harmful. He used Barbara's panties. He finished on a cumrag. How could it be harmful if he did not even touch you?

He never touched you. He needed to touch you.

He would fixate on you. He would obsess over you until you granted him the privilege to touch you.

*~*~*

Exactly a week after the incident, you returned to the office with Raymond. He handed you a box, the type of boxes they used to store files. He had already found you another place to work in a less anxiety inducing setting. He reassured you that your departure would not inconvenient you in the future. He also mumbled something about how he would like to have a word with Fuck-Thing One and Fuck-Thing Two. You figured who carried these endearing pet names.

Rusty came into work every morning this week with the hope of bumping into you. Nobody had warned him about how you had been strongly advised to quit. He could tell Raymond was grumpy and Tommy was annoyed. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You leaned the box on your hip and put in the few belongings you had brought to Raymond's office. A set of highlighters with two missing colours, a box of cookies that only had a sleeve left in it, a pad of sticky notes with a smiley face scribbled on it. It felt as though you had never even walked up those infamous stairs in front of the building. You assumed everyone would forget about your short employment, like you had never worked here at all. You gave the stuffy room one last look before you closed the door behind you.

There was nothing out of the ordinary except for the knock on his door during lunch break despite it being wide open. "Come in." He invited you after you waited patiently outside. A patience he could not reciprocate. Not around you.

"Hi, Sir." You took a couple of steps in his office while the man leaned back on his chair, spinning slowly from left to right.

"Screw that." He brushed the formalities away with his hand. "No Sir or Mister with me. Didn't I tell you this on your first day?"

And on your last day too.

His eyes glanced from your beautiful face to what you carried in your arms. "Box full of stuff. That's bad news." Rusty's enthusiastic smile faded. He had waited so long to see you and now you were going away. Bad news indeed.

"Bad? Depends for who." You chuckled dryly. "I'm happy to get away from him."

Rusty nodded, acknowledging what you referred to. "Office gossip. It goes around." You arched a curious brow. "Rumour has it he's not happy."

You laughed, this time more genuinely. You looked at the content of the box, remembering what you came here for. You set the box down on a chair across Rusty's desk and you pulled out the stapler he asked for the other day. "Better late than never."

He stretched an arm across his desk to grab it, his fingers brushed against yours. He wondered if you felt the shock that went through his hand when your skin touched his. Sparks? Probably just static electricity. Rusty tilted his head back to look at you.

"I didn't come here for the stapler... Ray definitely stole it. He always steals things. He says it's endearing, it means he loves you. In my opinion, he probably thinks everything is free real estate." You reacted to your own amusing comment.

Oh how Rusty loved the sound of your laughter. Tommy would be jealous of him if he knew how many times he heard it, how many times he made you laugh.

"You've been working with Ray for how long?" Rusty opened his mouth to tell you the number of years, but you cut him off. "A hundred years or something? And you didn't know that! Wow." You clicked your tongue, mocking him like you truly disapproved of his ignorance.

His smirk turned into a frown of confusion when you quickly switched the topic.

"I came here to apologize for lashing out at you the other day. I was yelling at Tommy, not you. But yeah, I just wanted to say sorry. And goodbye."

"Don't even worry about it." He held his hands on his thighs. "I figured you weren't talk to me. One way or another... You would have ended up telling me to fuck off anyway."

You reacted to his words, squinting your eyes while trying to figure out what he meant. While Tommy had been nothing but a pain in the ass, Rusty revealed himself as one of the nicest people you met in the office. He brought you a cup of coffee, remembered how you preferred it. He paid for yours and Raymond's lunches so he could tag along. You smiled to yourself, remembering your stressful first day and the way it took the two of you to fix the printer by getting a scrunched sheet of paper unstuck.

Rusty caught that small smile of yours and he mirrored your expression. Silence lingered in the office one moment too long. His gaze lingered on you one moment too long as well. He swallowed thickly and fixed his tie back in his vest.

"Well..." You put the lid on the almost empty box and picked it up. You turned on your heels and headed in direction of the glass door.

Rusty was not ready to watch you leave just yet. "Got anything lined up? I can write you good references if you need. Whatever you need." His voice dropped to a whisper with the last three words.

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine, but I appreciate the offer." You explained what Raymond did, The old man called up a few connections, offering a round of beers at the bar as a thank you for the special treatment. "Although I'll have to work on my language, or so I've been told." You rolled your eyes playfully.

Rusty did not understand why it had been such an issue. He would have lost his job a long time ago on the basis of telling people to fuck off one too many times.

"Whatever that new place is, I'm just happy that it's Tommy Molto-free."

"I'll... We. I mean we'll miss having you around!" Rusty slipped up, his nostrils flaring while he inhaled deeply to try and dissipate the potential awkwardness.

You answered that you had a good time, that you appreciated his help. It felt so good to hear these words of praise from you.

"You know, after a while... I'm sure you'll end up missing Tommy too."

You basically cackled at his words, now stepping out of the glass door. "Oh, fuck you, Rusty."

"Fuck me?" He raised his voice so you could hear him loud and clear.

You remained immobile to let him finish.

"Is that a threat?" He pulled his glasses off in one swift motion and let them fall on his desk covered in scattered papers. "Or a promise?"

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 14

Summary:

Still, the words don't soothe Bucky. Instead, his expression darkens with a frustration that’s almost palpable. “But what good is that?” he growls, voice rough. “I can’t just… I can’t beat my chest and keep every Alpha away from you when I’m on the other side of the bridge every damn weekend, can I? I don’t have any real claim on you—no bond, no nothin’. Just empty talk.”

Tony’s mating gland pulses and his chest splinters in half.

“They’re not empty,” Tony insists, voice wobbling. “Not to me.” Words: 11,667

Explicit Content: 18+

Tony’s room smells like pheromones and woodfire and tension and pine, so his window is cracked open.

Because he loves the smell of Bucky, craves it, but it also clogs his nostrils and makes him dizzy and lowers his inhibitions. And he needs all the cognitive ability he can summon right now.

A warm breeze filters through the gap, carrying with it the faint tang of summer rain on hot pavement, but it does little to clear the atmosphere hanging between the room’s current inhabitants.

The dorm feels small, even smaller than usual, though it’s hard to say why.

Bucky’s presence has always filled the space effortlessly—the broad lines of his frame leaning casually against Tony’s dresser as he watches the Omega pack his overnight bag. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms streaked with faint smudges of grease from whatever side job he’d been working that day. His shirt is wrinkled, untucked, the collar slightly askew—like Tony had pushed him up against the wall and kissed him senseless.

Not the case, unfortunately.

Tony stands at his bed, half-focused as he attempts to fold clothes (never his strong suit) before giving up and shoving items fruitlessly into his overnight bag.

“Tony.”

Tony’s hands still over a piece of crumpled fabric in his grasp, his fingers twitching with the urge to smooth it out. He doesn’t bother—the shirt is wrinkled beyond redemption, and frankly, it matches the tangled web of his thoughts.

He scowls and crams it into the bag with little fanfare, ignoring how the corners bulge awkwardly.

He can feel Bucky’s gaze on him, warm and weighty. Tony doesn’t look up. He keeps his head down, yanking on an uneven zipper with fixed, single-minded determination.

“Baby.”

Tony gnaws the inside of his cheek as he rubs at the back of his neck. “Have you seen my socks? Not the pairs with holes. Fuck. I think I only have, like, two pairs left without holes.”

There’s a rustle of fabric, the faint creak of the floorboards, and then Bucky’s boots come into view, worn leather scuffed at the toes.

A bundle of fabric pushed into his palm. A caress of fingertips against the inside of his wrist. A press of lips to the crown of his head—so gentle Tony might have imagined it. “Here.”

Tony swallows. He traces the edge of the wool with his thumbnail until it snags. “How d’you know this isn’t a pair with holes?”

“All of your socks have holes. Just like every pair of underwear you own is too loose on your damn hips, and every uniform shirt has some sorta grease stain. Can you look at me?”

Tony shoves the sock bundle into a side pocket of his duffle and catches his trembling bottom lip with his teeth. His stomach twists as he zips the bag shut with a final, sharp tug and leans back on his heels, staring down at the uneven bulge of fabric inside. His fingers curl at his sides, twisting tight enough that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, he pretends he didn’t hear Bucky’s request.

He doesn’t want to turn around. He doesn’t want to see the expression that he can already smell on the Alpha—concern, threaded with patience—a kind of steady, unwavering care that could probably crack him right open.

Instead, he drops to his knees with an awkward shuffle and starts rifling through the chaos under his bed.

Papers crinkle, stray fountain pens roll out of sight, and the faint scrape of his fingertips against the linoleum floor is the only sound in the room. He grabs at the first few things his fingers brush against—an old notebook with dog-eared pages, a wrinkled uniform tie, and a sticky square of graph paper scrawled with half-finished equations. All of it gets shoved unceremoniously back into the abyss as he continues his search.

His hand finally closes around what he’s been looking for—or half of it, anyway. He pulls out his battered notebook—the correct one, this time—the edges smudged with graphite. He sets it beside him and dives back under, his fingers brushing over smooth leather before tugging free Vincent Eichler’s godforsaken textbook.

Tony sits back on his heels, clutching the book like it’s a talisman against whatever the hell he’s feeling right now. His eyes flick over the faded gold lettering on the spine, his thumb tracing the imprint absently. He doesn’t open it, he just presses the weight of it against his thighs and releases a quiet breath.

Until Bucky leans over and plucks it effortlessly from his hands.

“A bit of light weekend reading, then?”

Tony turns to him and scowls.

Bucky has a hip propped against Tony’s mattress, feet crossed at the ankles, and he’s thumbing through the pages of Tony’s (Howard’s) advanced thermonuclear physics textbook like it’s some dime-store pulp magazine.

“Funny enough, sweetheart, this doesn’t look like your Home Economics textbook—”

Tony feels his cheeks flame as he pushes himself up from the floor. “Give it back,” he snaps, though there’s no real venom in his voice—just frustration, tangled with something wobblier he refuses to name.

Bucky doesn’t budge. He holds the book slightly higher, just enough to keep it out of Tony’s reach as the Omega steps closer. “What, this?” he says innocently, lifting an eyebrow. “I’m just tryin’ to expand my horizons. You wouldn’t deprive me of an education, would you?”

Tony rolls his eyes, heat prickling along his skin as he lunges for the book. He almost snags it—almost—but Bucky shifts at the last second, lifting it even higher. The movement sends Tony stumbling into the solid warmth of Bucky’s chest with an undignified “oof.”

Before Tony can regain his balance, Bucky’s free arm comes down, wrapping firmly around his waist and pulling him in. The textbook falls forgotten to the floor behind them with a dull thud as Bucky cages him in, his arms strong and unyielding but careful in their hold.

“There he is,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and warm. He rests his cheek lightly on top of Tony’s unruly mess of perpetual bedhead, his breath ghosting over the strands.

Tony stiffens automatically, his hands pressed against the solid plane of Bucky’s chest, but he doesn’t push away. Instead, he stands there, frozen in the moment, his pulse thrumming wildly against the press of Bucky’s embrace.

“Bucky,” Tony tries, but his voice cracks right down the middle of it.

Bucky’s arms tighten just slightly around Tony, a subtle shift that pulls him closer—not enough to trap him, never that, but enough to minimize the tremors that he didn’t even notice until now. Tony’s fingers twitch with the urge to push off, to create distance.

But he doesn’t. He stays, taut and hesitant, his breath shallow as he battles the instinct to fold into the embrace.

And then Bucky does it.

He dips his head slightly, his cheek brushing against Tony’s temple, and one hand slides up the Omega’s back. His fingers find the nape of Tony’s neck, calloused pads brushing lightly over the sensitive skin there in a slow, rhythmic motion before he smooths his hand over the expanse in a firm grip.

The effect is immediate.

Tony’s knees threaten to buckle, the tension bleeding out of him in an instant as his head tips forward against Bucky’s chest. His shoulders sag, the rigid set of his spine dissolving as he leans fully into the warmth surrounding him. A soft, shaky breath escapes his lips, and his fingers curl against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, clutching it like a lifeline.

“Shh,” Bucky soothes, his voice a low murmur against Tony’s hair. His hand stays steady, fingers tracing gentle, grounding circles at the base of Tony’s neck. “It’s alright, sweet thing. I’ve got you.”

Tony buries his nose into Bucky’s chest and sucks in lungfuls of Bucky’s heady, blooming scent. It dulls the sharp edges of his frayed, chaotic thoughts and leaves a warm, tingling sensation behind that drips to the base of his spine.

Tony lets himself sink into that quieter, softer space for a moment—urged on by Bucky’s attentive petting as the knot in his chest finally starts to loosen. Bucky’s pheromones seep into his lungs and linger in his bloodstream, quieting the frayed static in his mind until all he can focus on is the steady thrum of the Alpha’s heart beneath his cheek.

They stay like that for a few minutes, or maybe hours, Tony’s face pressed into Bucky’s chest, letting the warm, heady scent work its magic, softening his sharp edges. His muscles unwind, one by one, as though Bucky’s arms around him have flipped some hidden switch, coaxing his body into a quiet, reluctant surrender.

“You can’t just…” Tony mumbles, his voice muffled against the soft linen of Bucky’s shirt. He huffs a breath, the words tangling in his throat, before finally managing, “You can’t jus’ pet me into submission every time I’m bein’ a jerk, you know.”

Bucky’s chest vibrates with a soft laugh, the sound reverberating through Tony’s entire body. “Seems to be working, though, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, one large hand sliding up to the nape of Tony’s neck, his fingers brushing over the sensitive skin there in slow, deliberate circles.

Tony’s breath stutters, a helpless little shiver rippling down his spine. “Not fair,” he says weakly. His grip on Bucky’s shirt tightens briefly, as if to emphasize his point, before loosening again. “You’re cheating.”

“Not cheating,” Bucky counters, his tone teasing but soft, his hand never faltering in its soothing rhythm. “Just playin’ to my strengths. And, let’s be honest, love—you’re not exactly fightin’ me on it.”

Tony snorts faintly, the pet name firing off a synapse somewhere in his brain that fizzles out and dies before he can latch onto it with proper dexterity. “Because you’ve short-circuited my nervous system,” he mutters, tilting his head slightly to peer up at Bucky without fully pulling away. “You and your… stupid hands. And your stupid smell.”

Bucky grins, leaning down just enough to press a kiss to Tony’s unruly hair. “Stupid, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tony mutters, his voice still muffled, though now tinged with the faintest hint of a pout. “Stupidly effective.”

Bucky hums, his thumb brushing along the curve of Tony’s neck, eliciting another soft shiver. “You were dodging.”

Tony makes a disgruntled noise and buries his face back into Bucky’s chest, the warmth in his cheeks spreading down to his collarbones. “Just… don’t wanna go home this weekend.”

“Then don’t.”

Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Right, because that’ll go over well with Howard.” After a beat, he says, “Don’t answer the draft.”

Bucky snorts, exhaling a warm puff of air on top of Tony’s head. “Already tried that, once.”

“Seemed to work the first time.”

“Might’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for those pesky Axis Powers.”

“Semantics.”

Bucky goes to pull away, but Tony’s fingers tighten their hold on his shirt. The Alpha stills.

“Okay. Okay, Tony.” A kiss is dropped on his forehead, a long one. Tony pushes into it, greedily. Bucky’s lips twitch against Tony’s skin. “What do you need?”

Tony sighs. His breath feels warm in his lungs. Expansive. “You.”

Bucky’s scent swells and blooms, though Tony can’t be positive that it’s an intentional reaction. Either way, he drinks it in. Revels in it.

Because pretty soon, his weekend will undoubtedly smell like Howard’s familiar, sour dissatisfaction and—if Tony’s escalating feelings of dread are more than some gut hunch—Tiberius’s overbearing, suffocating pheromones.

Bucky’s lips linger against Tony’s forehead, the gentle pressure imprinting a warmth that slides down his cheeks and settles low in his belly. Tony keeps his face buried in the Alpha’s chest, his fingers twisted in the rumpled shirt. He’s not quite sure what he’s doing—clinging to a moment that feels too fleeting, or steeling himself for the next few days ahead—but he knows he’s not ready for the Alpha to let go.

“Tiberius is planning something,” Tony says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He inhales deeply, letting Bucky’s scent fill his lungs once more. It thrums through him like electricity, each breath crackling in the base of his spine. “He’s… manipulating my father. Or he’s trying to. He told Howard that he was the reason I went into heat. That we have some sort of rare, genetics-defying compatibility that sent my hormones haywire.”

For a moment, Bucky doesn’t say anything. His arms remain locked around Tony, holding him steady against the new weight of these revelations. Then, his fingers press a little more firmly into Tony’s back, a muted wave of tension rolling through his muscles as he exhales slowly.

It’s the only sign of the anger Tony knows is simmering right beneath the Alpha’s calm surface.

“That’s not true, though,” Bucky says, all careful and measured, like he’s trying to keep his voice steady. His free hand edges up to the back of Tony’s neck, brushing the hair there in slow, methodical circles. A claiming touch. “We both know it isn’t.”

“Course not,” Tony mutters, burying his face further against Bucky’s chest. He can’t bring himself to meet those steel-gray eyes that always see right through him. “He wasn’t anywhere near me when my heat started. You were.” The words stick in his throat, too vulnerable, but he forces them out. “But Tiberius is telling Howard otherwise.”

“What do you mean… Tony, was he there?” Bucky’s voice is low, clipped. His hand slides up Tony’s back, his fingers curling carefully around the nape of Tony’s neck, grounding him. “You never said… Christ, Tony, did he—did he do anything?”

Oops.

Tony presses his face deeper into Bucky’s chest, the linen of his shirt soft against his cheeks. He breathes in the Alpha’s scent, clinging to the reassurance it offers even though his heart hammers with a fresh wave of anxiety. “No,” he manages, voice muffled but resolute. “No. I mean… he tried. Kind of. He wanted to. But I got away, Buck. He didn’t… he couldn’t. I’m okay.”

Bucky exhales sharply, his hold going rigid for a moment before loosening again. His other hand finds Tony’s waist, fingers spreading wide against his side as though to confirm he’s whole and unhurt. Tony burrows into it selfishly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks quietly, the hurt barely suppressed beneath his attempt at calm. “After everything that happened at that damn gala—” Bucky cuts himself off with a curse. His fingers spasm on Tony’s waist. “This clearly isn’t just some creep circlin’ you dad, whisperin’ in his ear—”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Tony interrupts, a shaky laugh slipping through. It tastes bitter on his tongue. “You’ve got enough on your plate without me dumping—”

He stops himself short, realizing how stupid he sounds. Like this isn’t an argument they’ve already had a dozen times.

He feels Bucky’s fingers tense at the back of his neck, and a wave of guilt washes over him. Here he is, bracing for Bucky’s anger, and all he finds is concern, a quiet urgency in the way the Alpha keeps touching him like he’s making sure Tony’s still there.

“Tony,” Bucky says, voice soft and raw. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t.. decide what I can handle. If this Tiberius guy was there—if he even tried to lay a fucking finger on you in that state…” He trails off, his scent pulsing and cracking into something sharp and acidic, and Tony can practically feel his anger spike along with it.

“He tried,” Tony admits. “But I got out of there. Honest, Buck. I got out of there and I called you.”

Bucky’s arms don’t loosen right away; instead, his grip grows momentarily fierce, like he’s clutching at something that’s threatening to slip through his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says at last, his voice terse and low, sending a tremor through Tony’s chest. “I said—I told you I wouldn’t let him touch you.”

Tony blinks, confusion flickering across his features. “What are you—you don’t have to apologize,” he says, scandalized, though it comes out as a strangled rasp since his breathing is still uneven.  “Jesus, Bucky, you haven’t done anything.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes, muscles bunching beneath the stubble lining it. “I promised,” he grits out, eyes stormy. “Hell, I’ve been making promises since day one. Telling you I’d protect you, that nobody’d lay a hand on you, that you were—” He exhales hard, like he’s trying to keep his temper from bursting free. “I said you were mine.”

Tony’s heart twists at the feeling of plummeting headfirst into uncharted territory. It hits Tony all over again just how helpless this situation is—how tied they both are to ugly forces so much bigger than them.

“Bucky,” he says slowly, placing a hand over the Alpha’s chest, feeling the frantic thump of his heartbeat beneath his palm. “You’ve never let me down. You couldn’t if you tried.”

He’s pretty sure he means that.

Still, the words don't soothe Bucky. Instead, his expression darkens with a frustration that’s almost palpable. “But what good is that?” he growls, voice rough. “I can’t just… I can’t beat my chest and keep every Alpha away from you when I’m on the other side of the bridge every damn weekend, can I? I don’t have any real claim on you—no bond, no nothin’. Just empty talk.”

Tony’s mating gland pulses and his chest splinters in half.

“They’re not empty,” Tony insists, voice wobbling. “Not to me.”

Neither of them move for a moment. Not until Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but Tony is already pulling away, his hands falling to fists at his side. “I don’t… I’ve never blamed you for any of this, Bucky. This was always the risk. I told you that.” He feels fragile. Like cracked glass.

Bucky’s eyes meet his, fierce and almost desperate. He cups Tony’s face in his palms. “Yeah, well, I blame me. I said I’d keep you safe from that asshole, and now here he is—right up in your life. In your heat. Lying to your father about some… fucking cosmic gene match. And I’m just standing here, holding you, telling you it’s gonna be okay, when I have no idea if I can make it okay.”

Tony swallows hard, words tangling in his throat as he tries to find something reassuring to say. He blinks away his frustration. “It’s not your fault. I told you—he didn’t do anything. I got away.”

“Barely,” Bucky snaps, then closes his eyes, forcing his voice to lower. “Sorry. I just—” He drops his forehead to Tony’s, like a reflex he can’t control. “I can’t stand thinking about him touching you, or cornering you again. About me not being there to stop him.”

They linger in the quiet, hearts beating out of sync. Tony feels the faint tremor in Bucky’s arms, a tension thrumming beneath his skin that never quite settles. Something like desperation flickers in Bucky’s gaze, but it’s gone as soon as Tony tries to focus on it.

A beat passes—just long enough for Tony to register Bucky’s lingering grip at his neck, the weight of his gaze—and then Bucky shifts with a graceful economy of motion. Before Tony can guess his intent, the Alpha pivots them both, guiding Tony backwards until his calves hit the edge of the bed and they tumble onto the rumpled mattress in a tangle of limbs, Tony’s half-zipped duffel sliding off with a dull thump. The mattress squeaks in protest, but neither of them pays it any mind.

The impact is gentle. Bucky rolls fluidly on top, bracketing Tony’s hips with his knees. There’s no real force behind it, just a quiet certainty that leaves Tony reeling. The scent of woodsmoke and pine swells, and Tony’s hands wind into the fabric at Bucky’s waist, gripping without conscious thought, as though he needs the contact to keep from drifting.

Bucky’s breath brushes warm against Tony’s cheek, and his thumb finds that spot at the base of Tony’s throat—a lazy arc that skims over sensitive skin, right where an Omega’s mating gland resides. The touch is deliberate, almost reverent, and Tony’s heart seizes at the implication.

His pulse thunders, a hectic rhythm that Bucky must feel beneath his thumb. His mouth goes dry as Bucky’s scent thickens the air.

At last, Bucky dips his head, pressing the lightest of kisses just beside that telltale spot. A breath of air shivers out of Tony’s lungs, and he tilts his chin up, instinct and longing overriding the flurry in his mind.

“You told me that we deserved to take our time,” Tony says, the words tumbling out in a breathy rush. “When y’asked me to go steady. The slow build, the courting. You were so insistent on it. On me not—on us not—rushing.” He flails his hand in the arm for lame emphasis.

Bucky’s jaw twitches. His thumb brushes over the gland again, and Tony’s hips buck involuntarily. The rush of slick that spills into his underwear isn’t the most appropriate reaction, given the conversation, but Bucky’s nostrils twitch in recognition.

“You deserve it,” the Alpha says quietly. “You deserved to be courted, to be taken on dates that didn’t end in me sneaking back to your dorm two seconds before curfew.” There’s a wry twist to his mouth, but the torment in his eyes is unmistakable. “I wanted you to know you’re worth that kind of time, that you’re not just some Omega who needs to be snatched up because the world’s going to pieces.”

Tony tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat. “Well,” he says, “in case you haven’t noticed, the world is kind of going to pieces. And Tiberius is accelerating his bullshit timetable, and your deployment could come any day now—”

Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly, frustration carving lines across his brow. “I know.”

They both lapse into silence, the weight of the unspoken question settling heavily between them. Tony can practically taste it, the unasked What do we do?

Then there’s the question he avoids thinking about, the desire that resides in the deepest, most hidden corners of his most reckless impulses:

Do we bond?

Tony looks away immediately, ashamed at his own internal monologue, and fixates on the rumpled bedspread. The clutter of notes and textbooks scattered across the floor.

The idea—that forbidden idea—hovers at the edge of his mind, sending a shiver of ugly, conflicting emotions through his chest—longing, doubt.

Fear.

Does he even want that with me?

He’s never even told Bucky he loves him. Not outright. Hell, they’ve only known each other a few months, and he’s not naive about how quickly feelings can change under pressure.

You can’t just ask him to bite you, selfish bastard. Tony reminds himself. You can’t ask him to seal his life to yours.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Tony says again, a slight waver creeping into his voice. “None of this is your fault. Tiberius… Howard… the war…” His throat tightens around the words, old insecurities threatening to bubble up. Because you’re stuck with me, and maybe you only want me to keep me safe… maybe you don’t even—

Bucky’s voice breaks the silence. “I wanted to give you time,” he says, a rasp in his throat. “That’s all I wanted. But… hell, time isn’t exactly on our side anymore, is it?”

Tony’s heart kicks up at the implication. He tries to control his reaction, but Bucky’s nose is pressed to his throat and he can no doubt smell the sudden spike in his pulse. “Are you—are you saying we should…?”

One of Bucky’s hands slips beneath Tony’s shoulder, fingers curling into the rumpled fabric of his uniform shirt, while the other travels to rest on Tony’s waist. With a slow, careful sweep, Bucky shifts their legs until they’re tangled, calves and ankles brushing in a familiar, intimate dance. The contact sparks a low, thrumming awareness in Tony’s nerves, and he finds himself clutching at Bucky’s back, trying to keep their bodies as close as possible.

“I’m not sayin’ anything, unless you want to hear it.” His gaze flicks to Tony’s face, earnest and just a bit haunted. “I don’t want you to feel cornered, not by me. Never by me. But—God, Tony, if Tiberius is sniffing around for a bond, or if Howard’s gonna push you into one…” He trails off, his chest heaving with a breath he can’t quite control. “I can’t stand the idea of him claiming you.”

A prickle of heat crawls up Tony’s spine. His cheeks burn, a mixture of embarrassment and something heavier, something that makes his gut twist. “You say that like—like we can just do it. Like I can just ask you to—” He swallows, cursing how his mouth goes dry.

Bite me, claim me, keep me.

He could fucking cry,

He doesn’t.

“I’d do it,” Bucky answers before Tony can finish, his voice surprisingly steady. Low with sincerity. “You know I would. If it’s what you wanted. If it’d keep you safe.”

If that’s what you wanted.

It stings like a slap.

Tony’s mind reels. He can’t help but recall the times Bucky’s lips have lingered at the curve of his neck, how gentle his touch has always been, how he never pressed for more than Tony was ready to give. He’d do it just to protect me, Tony realizes, a pang in his chest. Even if it’s not real—

Bucky’s always made him feel so secure, so wanted, but neither of them has said those words out loud yet. Tony doesn’t even know if his mouth is capable. They’ve barely had time to figure out the shape of them, to decide if they’re real or just adrenaline from stolen kisses and whispered promises in the dark.

“I don’t want you to do it just because you feel, y’know. Obligated,” Tony mumbles, though it’s like pulling teeth to force the words out of his throat. He wonders if his scent is betraying the agony that’s seeping into his bones. “I don’t want you to regret it later. To blame me when everything gets complicated.”

“Don’t,” Bucky says sharply.

Tony stills obediently.

“Don’t go thinking I’m only offering to bond you outta pity. I want you—God, you have no idea how much I want you.” Bucky’s grip shifts, his arm sliding snugly underneath Tony’s waist, fingers splaying across his lower back as though to prove his point. “This might be shitty timing, but it doesn’t change what’s real between us.”

The tension spirals between them again, and for a second, Tony wonders if Bucky’s about to say screw it and bite him on the spot. He almost wishes the Alpha would, just to tear off the bandage.

But Bucky’s cock would have to be inside Tony for that to work—his knot—and that’s an entirely separate conversation that Tony can’t even begin to try and unravel at the moment.

Bucky must sense Tony’s flicker of panic—or smell his blooming insecurity—because the Alpha deflates slightly.

“You deserve better than a forced bond,” Bucky says, voice steady despite the raging storm in his eyes. “We both do. But if it comes down to it—” He stops, seemingly swallowing every incandescent word that wants to come out. “I don’t care what Tiberius or Howard or the Army or any goddamn bureaucracy says. When it comes to you, I—” He hesitates, swallowing whatever words threaten to crack open.

Tony’s breath catches, heart thudding so loud he wonders if Bucky can hear it. He must, if the way the Alpha’s gaze darkens is any indication. Bucky’s hand slides further around Tony’s neck, tangling in the short hair at the back of his head, as though staking a claim. Tony closes his eyes, letting the storm of sensation swirl around him—Bucky’s heat pressing down on him, their legs intertwined, the firm press of broad palms keeping him close.

“I’m with you,” Bucky says, each syllable vibrating through Tony’s chest. “If that means we take the risk—look into the bond, or… or figure out another way, I’m in. I’m not messing around, Tony. This isn’t some desperate measure just to keep you out of Tiberius’s claws. It’s because I—” He falters again, expression taut with emotion he hasn’t named.

Tony’s cheeks flush, another rush of self-doubt warring with the flutter of something dangerously hopeful. “You’re sure?” he croaks.

Bucky’s only answer is a trembling breath and the press of his lips against Tony’s temple, gentle and resolute. “Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, voice resonating with quiet certainty. “I’m sure.”

They lie there, bodies entwined on the narrow bed, the fraught hush occasionally broken by their unsteady breathing. Tony’s eyes prick with unshed tears—because that’s who he is, lately, an Omega who cries at the drop of a fucking hat.

He blames hormones.

He swallows, pulling in a deep lungful of Bucky’s scent, letting it blur the edges of his uncertainties. They’ll have to talk about it more—they always do. Sort through the legalities, because Tony can’t recall a single scenario where a male Omega bonded to a partner of his own violition that wasn’t part of some pre-existing, binding familial contract.

The emotional fallout, inevitably. Tiberius’s looming threat.

But right now, this is real: Bucky’s body pressed against his, the Alpha’s hands on his skin, the slow drag of breath they share.

Bucky shifts his weight, and it’s an unintentional adjustment more than anything, but it presses Tony more firmly into the mattress, eliciting a soft moan from the Omega. His hips buck up into the weight above him.

He can’t help it—Bucky is still perched over Tony, and Tony can feel the heat radiating off the Alpha in waves, the damp warmth of his breath ghosting over Tony’s lips. His fingertips on Tony’s ribs.

“Sweetheart.” Bucky ghosts his lips over Tony’s throat, the curve of his jaw,, half a plea, half a promise. “C’mon, let me—”

Tony’s answer is immediate. He fists a hand in Bucky’s shirt, tugging him down until their mouths crash together, a sudden, urgent meeting of lips and teeth that sends sparks ricocheting through Tony’s veins. Bucky groans into it, raw and deep, and the sound resonates in Tony’s chest like a pulse of shared hunger.

One of Bucky’s hands braces against the bed near Tony’s head while the other roams up under Tony’s shirt, skimming over warm skin and muscle with sure, deliberate strokes. Tony arches his back at the contact, a tremor rolling up his spine. His own fingers curl into the thick hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck, keeping him anchored in place, as though letting go might unravel him.

“Christ, Tony,” Bucky rasps between kisses, breath hitching when Tony’s hips shift to meet his. Tony’s face grows warmer—he’s suddenly too aware of how desperate he’s become, how the needy, responsive animal in him clamors for more contact, more friction. But for once, the clamor is matched by a surging confidence: Bucky wants this, wants him.

The Alpha’s mouth leaves Tony’s, skating across his jaw and down the column of his throat, nipping and kissing, making every nerve light up in response. Tony twists beneath him, a faint whine catching in his throat, and he can practically feel Bucky’s smile against his skin.

“You taste good, sweet boy,” Bucky murmurs, teeth scraping just shy of Tony’s mating gland. The delicate threat of it sends a pulse of liquid heat through Tony’s middle—fear and desire and something deeper twining together.

Tony’s nails dig into Bucky’s shoulder blades, and he moans, tipping his head back to give the Alpha more access. “Shut up,” he says, but there’s no heat in the words—only a breathless tremor.

Bucky chuckles, the rumble of it vibrating against Tony’s throat. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His hand slides further up Tony’s shirt, fingers spanning the ridges of Tony’s ribs before edging around to press against the small of his back, lifting him closer. It’s a gesture of possession, hungry and protective simultaneously.

Tony’s next breath stutters out, and he kisses Bucky again—hard, demanding, open-mouthed. Their tongues clash with more confidence this time, a desperate, wet slide that makes Tony’s thoughts smear into a hazy blur of yes, yes, yes. The sheets rustle beneath them, Tony’s foot accidentally kicking a textbook off the bed. He doesn’t care—nothing else matters but the feel of Bucky’s body, the slick heat pooling in his belly, and the harsh rasp of his own lungs gasping for air.

Bucky shifts, one thigh wedging firmly between Tony’s legs, sending another bolt of sensation crackling through him. Tony clutches at Bucky’s waist, breath coming in ragged bursts as the Alpha’s lips find the curve of his ear.

Bucky groans—loud, primal, gorgeous—and then he’s changing the angle, hooking an arm under Tony’s waist and rolling them with one fluid motion, the mattress dipping beneath their combined weight. Tony’s head spins as the world tilts, and suddenly he’s straddling Bucky’s hips, knees bracketing the Alpha’s sides.

It’s heady, the way Bucky’s hands find his waist, guiding him gently into the cradle of the Alpha’s body. Tony’s next breath comes out shaky, the friction making his nerves sing. Despite the flush staining his cheeks, he clings to the moment, wanting to milk every second of closeness before reality intrudes again.

“Tony,” Bucky rasps, his grip tightening. He slides one hand up Tony’s side, skimming the curve of his waist until it rests just beneath the Omega’s arm. The other remains on Tony’s hip, thumb stroking circles into the fabric of his shirt. “God, you’re gorgeous. Want you. Want your mouth.”

Tony stills. He can feel the press of Bucky beneath him—the throb of the Alpha’s cock in his lap, trapped between layers of fabric. Not an unfamiliar presence; if anything, a welcome one. He bears down—instinctual, mindless.

For a moment, he just sits there, straddling Bucky’s hips, completely motionless. The Alpha beneath him shifts, big hands sliding up Tony’s thighs in a slow, teasing motion. Each subtle squeeze and press of his fingers against Tony’s muscles sends sparks of anticipation zipping through Tony’s belly.

“Y’alright?” Bucky murmurs, his voice husky and distracted. His lips trail Tony’s jawline like he can’t bear to keep his mouth off Tony’s skin.

Tony nods, cheeks burning. “Yeah,” he breathes, swallowing the last shreds of hesitation. “Just… I want that, too.” And he does.

God, Tony wants to give. The suggestion of it thrums in his veins like a live wire, making him dizzy with the possibilities.

He tugs at the collar of Bucky’s shirt, letting the words hang in the charged air.

Bucky pulls back, his brow furrowing for a fraction of a second.

And then his expression clears. He groans—a gentle, strained noise.

“I didn’t realize,” he admits slowly. “I— If you don’t want to, we can—”

“I do,” Tony blurts, more forceful than he means, and then he softens, dropping a trembling kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “I do,” he repeats, quieter. “I just… I might not be very good at it.”

He feels more than sees the shiver that dances through Bucky’s frame. One of Bucky’s hands slips to the back of Tony’s neck, fingers sliding into his hair, almost too gentle in their hold. “Not possible.” Bucky’s voice is low, strained, like he’s reining himself in. “Are you sure, doll? I don’t ever want you to feel like—”

“I want it,” Tony cuts in softly, surprising himself with the steadiness of his tone. “Just… guide me.”

A smile ghosts over Bucky’s lips, something warm and soft and fleeting, and he exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Okay. Whatever you want, Tony,” he says, the words easy but laced with a desire that makes the Omega’s pulse pound. “I��m yours for the taking.”

There’s an unspoken agreement here, Tony knows. It hums in the air between them, pulsing in time with the heat that curls low in his belly.

This isn’t just about sex. It usually isn’t—Tony knows this, by now.

It isn’t just about the heady thrill of having Bucky sprawled beneath him, reassuring and confident as he feeds his cock into Tony’s mouth—as enticing as that idea is. It’s something deeper—something rooted in instinct and need, in the unspoken truths of their bond, incomplete as it may be.

Tony isn’t naive about his role in this. Not anymore, at least—not after finally surrendering to a few fevered nights tangled in the sheets with the Alpha beneath him, and riding out enough pheromone highs to sedate a small army.

He’s an Omega, sure, and it’s in his nature to want this, to crave the quiet assurances that come from knowing he’s pleasing an Alpha. His Alpha.

The act of giving himself over to Bucky’s need, of seeking out his pleasure and hearing the ragged sounds that spill from his throat—it soothes the restless anxiety clawing at Tony’s chest, every single time. His biology hums with satisfaction, the submission.

But this isn’t just about Tony.

It’s not just about the way Bucky’s scent surrounds him like a balm, cedar and smoke settling over his frayed edges like a blanket. It’s not just about the way his own innate, submissive instincts buzz with contentment at the press of Bucky’s hands on his skin, the grounding weight of the Alpha’s body against his.

No, this is just as much for Bucky as it is for Tony.

Because Bucky needs this, too. Tony can feel it in the tension thrumming through the Alpha’s muscles, in the way his hands cling to Tony’s hips like he’s afraid to let go. Bucky, who is about to let his Omega walk out the door for another long weekend, out of his sight and his reach.

Bucky, who knows that Tiberius—a dangerous prick with no respect for boundaries—is waiting, circling, looking for any excuse to stake a claim that isn’t his to make. Bucky, who has always been so careful, so deliberate in the way he touches Tony, in the way he worships him, suddenly has no time left for caution.

Bucky, whose dominance is as natural and inherent to his biology as Tony’s submission.

Tony’s breath shakes on the exhale, and he leans down to kiss Bucky again—slow, open-mouthed, drawing out the taste of him. Bucky meets him halfway, easily taking back control as his tongue slides over Tony’s with a languid pressure that makes Tony’s nerves sing. When he finally pulls back, Bucky’s gaze is dark with want, but he stays still, letting Tony set the pace.

“You’re gonna feel like a fuckin’ dream, sweetheart,” Bucky drawls in that voice that makes Tony’s blood sing, makes his vision feel a tad more smudged around the edges. Just what Tony needs. “No rush. Take your time. I’ll show you how I like it.”

Oh.

Tony nods stupidly.

Bucky shifts, his grip shifting from Tony’s neck to the hem of his own shirt. He tugs it up, exposing the hard planes of his stomach. It’s not a full strip, but enough that Tony can see a hint of tanned muscle, the dip of Bucky’s waist that makes him swallow thickly. Then Bucky rests his hand on Tony’s arm, giving the Omega a chance to change his mind.

Tony doesn’t. He can’t, really; doesn’t believe there’s actually a single force in this universe that could dislodge him from his current task.

He scoots further down, positioning himself between Bucky’s legs, mindful of the narrow bed. With each shift, Tony’s pulse spikes, that heady feeling of doing something for Bucky making his skin prick with anticipation. The mattress creaks under his knees, and he leans down, breath ghosting over Bucky’s navel. The Alpha’s skin jumps in anticipation.

Bucky sucks in a breath. “You don’t—”

Tony angles his face up, meeting the Alpha’s gaze. “Barnes, I swear to God,” he says. “I want to. Now, respectfully, shut up.” His determination immediately bleeds into something shyer, but he masks it by turning his attention back to the Alpha’s lower torso.

A flash of raw desire crosses Bucky’s features. He lets out a harsh exhale, all protest melting into a hot, shaky nod. One hand braces on the bed, the other threads gently in Tony’s hair.

Tony sighs, relaxing into the grip.

He knows he should be nervous, in theory. He knows that this is something that people do—he caught his classmate with the mailroom fella, after all.

And he is nervous. Kind of. He’s seen Bucky’s cock. If he’s able to fit even half of it into his mouth, he’ll be shocked.

But instead of pulling away, his mouth waters at the thought. His own scent swells, his arousal bleeding heavily into a room already thick with pheromones, and his Alpha’s pupils dilate.

Heart hammering, Tony dips his head, pressing a tentative kiss to the small expanse of bare skin just above the waistband of Bucky’s trousers. The Alpha’s muscles tense beneath his lips, and Tony hears the catch in Bucky’s breathing. It fuels him, a surge of confidence overshadowing embarrassment.

Carefully, Tony kisses lower, the flutter of Bucky’s abdominal muscles spurring him on. His mind buzzes with a thousand little worries—Am I doing this right? Is this too soon? Am I enough?—but Bucky’s low groan eases most of the doubts, reminding Tony that this is them, figuring it out together.

“Tony,” Bucky breathes, voice ragged, “That’s—yeah.”

His fingers slip more firmly into Tony’s hair, but the hold is gentle, not demanding. Tony can’t help the small smile that curves against Bucky’s skin. He slides his palms up the Alpha’s thighs, a flush burning through his entire body. With a slow, cautious tug, he works open the first button of Bucky’s trousers, then another, a tingle igniting every nerve in his arms.

The Alpha’s eyes flutter shut, a deep groan rattling his chest. Tony resumes unbuttoning, the sound of fabric sliding apart filling his ears like thunder. A mixture of nerves and excitement makes his hands shake, but Bucky’s low, encouraging noises keep him grounded.

Finally, the last button gives, revealing white cotton underneath. Tony stills for a moment, overwhelmed by the thought of actually going there—but Bucky’s soft groan of Tony’s name pushes him forward. He slides his fingers beneath the waistband of Bucky’s underwear, hooking it down just enough to free the Alpha’s length.

The sight of Bucky’s cock laid bare, his desire laid out so plainly, sends a spike of something hot and heady through Tony’s center. He lifts his gaze, seeking affirmation in Bucky’s face—sees only hunger and affection and a tremor of disbelief.

And, okay. Tony can do this.

He’s faced much more daunting endeavors.

What’s a penis in the mouth, after all, compared to his upcoming Omega Ethics final?

The Alpha is watching him, heavy-lidded but unrelentingly present; his lips parted in a quiet gasp as Tony’s fingers curl around him for the first time.

The weight in his hand is startling, the heat of it, the smooth skin under his touch. Tony swallows hard and his heart thunders in his chest, but Bucky doesn’t rush him. His grip on Tony’s hair tightens, infinitesimally, though he murmurs soft encouragements that make Tony’s stomach flip.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Bucky drawls, voice like gravel and honey. “Nice and easy. Just feel me.”

Tony nods, swallowing thickly as he gets his bearings. He’s never done this before—never touched Bucky like this—but now that he’s here, it feels less like a task and more like something he’s meant to do. He tightens his grip experimentally, sliding his hand up and down Bucky’s length, and the deep, broken moan it pulls from the Alpha is enough to send a rush of heat straight to Tony’s core.

Bucky is huge and hot and thick in Tony’s palm. Pre-cum already beads from the tip, pearly white and viscous, and Tony’s sluggish brain works off muscle memory—Christ knows he’s certainly touched his own dick enough times to amount to something useful—to slide the pads of his fingers over the glistening head of Bucky’s cock. He gathers the moisture beading there and glides his palm back down, slicking his grip.

Bucky’s head tips back against the pillow, his throat exposed, and Tony can’t tear his eyes away from the way his chest rises and falls, the way his muscles tense and relax beneath Tony’s touch. The Alpha’s scent is everywhere now, heady and rich, wrapping around Tony like a cocoon. It’s intoxicating, and it makes him want to give more.

His lips part, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before he leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of Bucky’s cock. The salty tang of him bursts across Tony’s tongue, unfamiliar but not unpleasant, and Bucky’s sharp inhale spurs him on. He licks a slow, cautious stripe along the underside, tasting and exploring, and the deep groan that rumbles through Bucky’s chest sends a shiver down Tony’s spine.

It’s not bad.

It’s kind of nice, actually. Like Bucky’s scent, intensified by a thousand.

“Fuck. Just like that,” Bucky murmurs, his fingers flexing gently in Tony’s hair. “God, Tony, baby, you’re so fuckin’—perfect.”

The praise warms Tony from the inside out. Turns his mind into a buoyant, soft space. He’s vaguely aware that his own boxers are so sticky that Bucky will probably have to peel them off his thighs later. It doesn’t matter.

He has no idea what he’s doing, if he’s being honest, and he’s aware that he might be completely floundering, but Tony has always been a quick learner. Someone driven by instinct and, when everything else has failed, by a crippling, debilitating urge to succeed.

So he lowers his mouth further, wrapping his lips around the head. He has to relax his jaw a little, working to adjust to the stretch, and the Alpha’s hips jerk slightly as if he’s fighting to stay still. Tony hollows his cheeks, taking in more of Bucky’s length with each bob of his head, his hand stroking the base in tandem.

“Slow,” Bucky commands, his voice gravelly and raw. “Go slow, baby. Don’t push yourself. Just—fuck, you feel so good.”

Tony nods as best he can, the motion making his lips brush against the underside of Bucky’s cock in a way that draws another ragged sound from the Alpha. He focuses on the rhythm, on the way Bucky’s body reacts to every movement. The weight of Bucky in his mouth feels more natural with each passing second, and the sounds spilling from the Alpha’s lips make every nerve in Tony’s body hum with satisfaction.

Time becomes slippery, ebbing and flowing without tether or anchor. Each shaky inhale, each strained exhale from above him, wraps Tony in a haze of submission that feels as warm and heady as the scent of pine and smoke thick in the room. His world narrows to the wet slide of Bucky’s cock on his tongue, the low, guttural noises spilling from the Alpha's throat, the way Bucky’s hand in his hair alternates between firm and gentle—a guiding pressure that never demands but holds him steady.

The room fades away. The open window, the piles of clothes scattered on the floor, the faint hum of Tony’s broken radiator—all of it dissolves into white noise, insignificant compared to the Alpha beneath him. Tony’s mind quiets, the constant whirlwind of thoughts and insecurities dimming to a low hum. His instincts take over, guiding his actions in a way that feels natural, instinctive.

He hardly notices how his body softens, how his shoulders relax and his breath slows, until Bucky’s hand slips to his cheek, thumb brushing in a soothing arc. Tony leans into the touch without thinking, a soft whine escaping his throat. It’s a sound he barely recognizes, long and drawn out, but he doesn’t care. The knot of tension in his chest loosens with every stroke of Bucky’s thumb, and the low, approving rumble from the Alpha above him makes his stomach bloom with something warm and heady.

Bucky’s thumb brushes over Tony’s cheek again, tracing the indent of Bucky’s cock in Tony’s mouth. “Look at me,” he says, voice hoarse. An order.

Tony flicks his eyes upward, meeting Bucky’s gaze. Bucky’s hands tug Tony’s hair until Tony is pulling off of Bucky’s cock, the Omega releasing something that sounds like a combination of a ragged breath and a desperate whine. A line of spit connects Tony’s bottom lip to the red, engorged head of Bucky’s cock. Tony wipes at his mouth.

Bucky bites out a curse. His grip strengthens around both sides of Tony’s face.

“Eyes on me, darlin’. Listen to me,” Bucky says, remarkably composed through the visible heaving of his chest. Tony blinks at him, trying to clear away the fog.

“Good boy. Pretty Omega,” Bucky murmurs, and Tony sighs. Bucky’s hand drops from Tony’s face to Tony’s own, the one still grasping Bucky’s cock, and he intertwines their fingers together. Tony swallows thickly as the Alpha drags their combined grip in a slow, downward motion.

“Feel that, honey?” Bucky rubs his thumb in a slow motion of Tony’s thumb as their joint grip settles at the base of his cock. Bucky increases the pressure of their grip, just barely, and hisses out a sigh. His hips buck into the sensation, and Tony suppresses a whimper.

“That’s my knot, baby doll. It’s gonna keep growin’—gonna swell up as your mouth keeps makin’ me feel real sweet.” Bucky’s Brooklyn accent, notably, thickens with arousal. Tony savors it every time.

And Tony feels it—the slow, deliberate press of Bucky’s fingers, the thick weight of his cock resting heavy in his palm, the growing knot pulsing just beneath their joined grip. It’s hypnotizing, the way Bucky lets him feel it, see it, dragging their hands down so Tony can press his fingers against the thickening swell at the base. Hot and solid and meant for him.

A shudder rolls through Tony so violently he whimpers, knees nearly buckling where he kneels between Bucky’s thighs. His body reacts before his brain can keep up—his mouth parting, instinct clawing up his spine, everything inside him yearning.

Bucky knows. Of course he does. He always does.

“S’right, sweetheart.” Bucky’s voice is low, thick and slurred with hunger, his Brooklyn drawl curling around the words like warm honey. His fingers tighten around Tony’s own, pushing their joined grip into another slow, torturous stroke, dragging Tony’s palm over the swollen base. His hips stutter up into their touch, barely restrained. “S’all for you. But you know that, don’t you?”

Tony nods so fast it makes him dizzy.

Bucky chuckles. Rough, indulgent, knowing. “Course you do.”

Tony barely has time to breathe before Bucky is guiding him back down, their fingers unraveling as his big, calloused hand slides to the back of Tony’s neck. Not pushing, not urging—just waiting, firm and steady, offering him control even as his body screams for more.

“That’s it, Tony,” Bucky breathes, trembling now, his cock so hard, so swollen in Tony’s grasp, the knot at the base pulsing, aching. "C’mon, darlin'. Open that pretty mouth for me.”

Tony goes eagerly, his body following instinct, his mind fogged with it, and then—

Then Bucky is pushing past his lips, and Tony is sinking down onto his cock like he was made for it.

And, hell, maybe he was.

The heat of it, the stretch of his jaw, the way Bucky’s cock slides over his tongue, thick and hot and pulsing—it makes Tony whimper, makes his fingers dig into Bucky’s thighs as he fights to breathe around it.

Bucky shudders.

"That’s it, sweetheart," he groans, his voice wrecked, his hand trembling as it strokes through Tony’s hair. His other hand drops to his own knot, squeezing the sensitive skin at the base of his cock. "Nice and slow. Yeah, yeah, that’s my good boy.”

Tony whines, his head going fuzzy, something deep inside him purring at the praise.

He wants more.

He needs more.

His thighs squeeze together as he takes Bucky deeper, his tongue pressing firm against the underside of the Alpha’s cock, feeling the heavy pulse of him, tasting the salt of his pre-come as it smears across his tongue.

"Goddamn, baby doll," Bucky gasps, his head falling back against the mattress, his fingers tightening just enough in Tony’s hair, not pushing, not forcing—just holding, just keeping Tony there, like he can’t stand to let him go.

Tony feels drunk on it.

Drunk on the weight of Bucky’s cock on his tongue, drunk on the deep, shattered moans spilling from the Alpha’s lips, drunk on the raw, aching need in Bucky’s voice when he growls—

"Fuck—gonna come, baby. Gonna fill that pretty little mouth, you ready for it?”

The words send a shockwave of heat through Tony’s body, his fingers digging into the firm muscle of Bucky’s thighs as he nods, frantic, his throat fluttering around the thick, pulsing weight of the Alpha’s cock.

Bucky’s hand tightens in his hair, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, his scent spiking thick, raw, and overwhelmingly Alpha. His hips twitch, struggling to hold back even as his body demands release.

Tony’s mouth stretches wider, his throat opening instinctively, taking him in deeper, deeper, until Bucky groans—a low, broken, wrecked sound that Tony wants to bottle and keep forever.

And then—

Bucky shakes apart.

His whole body goes tight, rigid, his fingers clenching, his head tilting back, muscles straining as a deep, guttural growl rips from his chest.

And Tony feels it.

The way Bucky’s cock throbs against his tongue, the sudden, hot spill of release, thick and endless, coating his mouth in Alpha, in want, in possession.

Bucky swears, voice cracked and wrecked beyond recognition, his hips jerking as he rides the aftershocks, lost in the heat of it, in the warm, wet clutch of Tony’s mouth, the willing submission of his Omega.

"That’s it, sweetheart," Bucky pants, his voice slurred, deep, wrecked. "Take it all—God, baby, that’s my good—oh, fuck—my good, pretty Omega—”

The praise unravels something inside Tony.

His own body trembles, the slick between his thighs pooling hot and insistent, his instincts purring, preening, thrumming with satisfaction. His fingers twitch where they grip at Bucky’s thighs, nails digging in just enough to ground himself as he swallows, moaning softly around the weight of Bucky on his tongue, taking, taking, taking.

But it’s too much.

Even as Tony tries to keep up, to take everything Bucky gives him, the Alpha is still pulsing, still spilling, his knot swollen and aching, his body trying to lock in, to claim—but with nowhere to go.

Bucky groans, his body shaking, his grip tightening just a fraction before he pulls Tony off with a slick, wet pop.

Tony gasps, dazed, wrecked, his lips red and swollen, a thin string of spit and come still connecting his mouth to Bucky’s flushed cock.

Above him, Bucky’s jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged shudders as he fists his own knot, working himself through the last, throbbing waves of his climax. His breath is harsh, unsteady, his free hand still stroking through Tony’s hair, still easing him down, grounding him.

Tony watches, transfixed, his eyes wide, heavy-lidded, utterly entranced as Bucky spills the rest of his release down his own cock, over his own fist, the Alpha groaning deep in his chest, like he’s been completely unraveled, completely undone.

It’s mesmerizing.

The sight of Bucky like this—loose-limbed and ruined, powerful and undone, shaking with the force of his own pleasure—makes something deep in Tony’s chest tighten, something hot and primal and raw.

Bucky’s grip on his hair finally loosens, and Tony sways, his body warm and pliant, floating somewhere between heady pleasure and mindless submission.

A big, warm hand cups his cheek, tilting his face up.

“That’s my good boy,” Bucky rasps, voice hoarse, affectionate, full of something thick and unspoken. “Took me so well, honey. Knew you would.”

Tony barely registers it at first—the way his body shakes, the way his breath stutters, the way his eyes burn, hot and full, the tears threatening to spill over. He swallows one last time around nothing, his throat aching, his lips slick and swollen, the taste of Bucky still thick on his tongue.

And then it hits him all at once.

A deep, overwhelming rush of emotion—too big to contain, too all-consuming to hold in. His body sags, his limbs boneless, his muscles exhausted, like something huge has just left him.

He barely notices the first tear when it falls.

But Bucky does.

Tony hears the shift of the mattress, feels strong arms wrapping around him, pulling him up, gathering him against broad, solid muscle, pressing him into warmth, into safety, into home.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bucky breathes, his voice low, soft, something deeply tender beneath the rough edges. His hands cup the sides of Tony’s damp, flushed face, wiping away the tears with slow, careful strokes. “S’okay, pretty. You’re alright.”

Tony shudders, a wrecked sob catching in his throat, his body trembling as he collapses into Bucky’s chest.

Bucky just holds him closer.

Like he knew this was coming. Like this was always going to happen.

Because of course it was.

Like Bucky had felt it the whole time—the way Tony’s body had surrendered, the way his instincts had overrun his thoughts, the way he’d given himself over so completely to the moment.

Tony is still panting, his breath shaky, uneven, his fingers clinging helplessly to Bucky’s shoulders. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying—just that he is, that his body has decided it needs to release something huge, something it’s been holding on to for too long.

And Bucky?

Bucky doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest.

Like this was the point.

To get Tony out of his own head, to pull him into the moment, to give him something too big to fight against, something that would let him let go completely.

And he did.

God, he did.

Tony feels raw, boneless, like he’s been peeled open, like something deep inside him has just been torn loose, leaving only this, only the weight of Bucky’s arms, the safety of his embrace, the slow, steady rub of his big hands up and down Tony’s back.

“B-Bucky—” Tony stammers, voice breaking, but he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.

Bucky hushes him. Gently.

“Shh, I gotcha, Tony. Just breathe.”

Tony does, or tries to, still shuddering, his chest tight, his throat raw, his breath still coming in small, gasping little hiccups.

And Bucky just keeps holding him, keeps pressing him close, like he’s making sure Tony can feel him, feel the solid weight of him, feel the reassurance of his touch, the comfort of his scent.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, kissing the side of his head, his cheek, his temple, slow, gentle presses of his lips, so unbearably soft in contrast to how filthy things had just been.

Tony whimpers, nuzzling closer, letting himself be tucked under Bucky’s chin, his breath fanning over warm, sweat-dampened skin.

Bucky hums, the sound deep, comforting, his scent thick and grounding in the air around them.

His big hands are still moving, still stroking over Tony’s back, his sides, his waist, slow, soothing passes, his touch protective, claiming, worshiping.

Tony melts.

Completely, utterly, irrevocably melts into him.

Because he feels safe here.

Safe in the circle of Bucky’s arms, safe in the slow, steady drag of his hands, safe in the way Bucky is keeping him close, not letting him go, not letting him fall apart alone.

“You did so good for me, baby doll,” Bucky murmurs, raspy and indulgent, like he’s so fucking proud of Tony.

Which, if Tony didn’t currently possess the emotional depth of a turnip, would probably make him snort.

Instead, it almost makes him start crying again.

Bucky’s lips press another kiss into his hair, his arms tightening just a fraction, squeezing like he wants to absorb Tony into him completely.

And fuck, he’s never felt like this before.

Like he’s allowed to fall apart. Like someone will be there to hold him together when he does.

Like Bucky is going to hold him forever if that’s what he needs.

And maybe he will.

Maybe he is.

Tony’s breath finally starts to steady, his body softening completely, slumping in exhaustion.

Bucky feels it, too.

The moment Tony’s weight goes fully slack against him, he lets out a soft, pleased sound, something deep in his chest vibrating with satisfaction. His scent deepens, shifting into something warm, rich, protective, something that says mine, mine, mine, Omega, mine.

Tony shudders at the feel of it, whimpering quietly, and Bucky kisses his temple again, nuzzling close, murmuring against his skin—

“That’s it, baby. That’s my good boy.”

Tony doesn’t even fight it.

Doesn’t even try.

He just closes his eyes and lets himself be held.

For the first time in his entire fucking life—

Tony lets himself rest.

***

Once again, Tony's in a room that feels too small.

It isn’t, of course. The Stark estate is a sweeping mass of marble and excess, with gilded chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling drapes that stifle the air like a noose. But right now, in this moment, with Howard standing in front of him, his mother at his side, and Tiberius Stone lounging in the background like a conquering king awaiting his spoils, it might as well be a coffin.

And Tony is certainly close to suffocating.

Because he already knew what was coming. He’s known it for weeks, since the moment Tiberius first set his sights on him at the gala, since the whispers between his father and the Alpha grew too frequent, too low, too calculated.

Since the moment he called Bucky in the middle of the night, voice trembling with something too raw to name.

And yet, the actual moment—the sentence—strikes him like a hammer to the ribs.

“You are to be bonded to Tiberius, son. The contracts are being finalized, legalities drawn up. By next month, it will be official.”

White noise.

That’s all it is. A dull, static hum that drowns out Howard’s voice, that washes over the room like ocean waves swallowing a shipwreck. Tony stares ahead, eyes unfocused, his hands clenched so tightly at his sides that his nails bite into his palms. He’s distantly aware of the slight sting, but it barely registers past the roaring emptiness expanding in his chest.

Tiberius, smug as ever, leans back against the desk, arms folded across his chest. His scent fills the space, cloying and possessive. He isn’t even touching Tony, but it doesn’t matter. His presence alone is a chokehold.

“This arrangement is in your best interest,” Howard continues, ever the businessman, ever the Beta who sees the world in figures and contracts and negotiations. “Tiberius is an established Alpha—wealthy, successful, connected. Your… unique circumstances mean this was always going to be a delicate matter, but we’ve found a solution that benefits everyone.”

His voice holds no emotion. There’s no hesitation, no lingering doubt. He believes this is what’s best. That selling off his son like a high-priced auction item is just another profitable transaction.

Maria is silent.

She stands to the side, a statue carved from fine porcelain, hands clasped in front of her as if she’s in prayer. Her eyes—so like Tony’s—are blank, devoid of the fight he needs to see in them. Say something, he wants to beg. Do something. Mother, please—

But she does nothing.

Somehow, it’s worse than if she’d been openly complicit. The absence of protest is a blade straight to the gut, sharp and deliberate.

Tiberius watches him, his lips quirking in a smirk as he steps forward, the rich, musky scent of his pheromones curling around Tony like a noose. He’s not even masking his satisfaction, the sick pleasure in this forced submission.

“Don’t look so grim, dear.” His voice is a purr, saccharine and cruel. “I promise, I’ll take good care of you.”

The bile rises so quickly that Tony has to swallow hard against it. Don’t react. Don’t show weakness.

Tiberius takes another step forward, close enough that Tony can feel the warmth radiating off of him. His smirk deepens, and then—

He leans in.

The press of lips against his cheek is soft, deceptively gentle, but Tony feels it like a brand searing into his skin. The scent of smug satisfaction clings to it, a silent declaration: Mine.

No.

No.

A visceral jolt of revulsion shoots down his spine, every instinct screaming, pushing, fleeing. He recoils before he even realizes he’s moving, his breath catching sharp in his throat.

He can’t do this.

He can’t stay here. He can’t.

Howard calls his name, annoyed, but Tony is already moving. He knows he’ll suffer for this later, knows his father won’t let this defiance slide, but the thought barely registers. His feet carry him out the door, down the hall, through the dimly lit corridors of the estate. His lungs burn with every sharp inhale, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

***

By the time he reaches the servants’ quarters, Tony’s breath is coming in short, shallow bursts, his pulse a frantic staccato against his ribs. The dim light casts elongated shadows across the narrow hall, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of old books and polished wood.

Jarvis is already there, waiting. The butler’s expression is unreadable, but his hands are steady as he presses the telephone into Tony’s grip, a silent nod of understanding passing between them.

No questions, no hesitation. Just trust.

Not Bucky.

Not yet.

Tony’s fingers tremble as he dials. The number is burned into his brain—memorized in the split second the German had slipped the slip of paper into his hand months ago, voice low and urgent: Think about it. A private number, untraceable, rerouted through foreign relays before landing at its final destination. Not easily obtained, not easily discarded.

Tony had shoved it away back then. Buried it in his desk drawer beneath blueprints and half-finished schematics, ignored it out of fear—fear of Howard, fear of exposure, fear of stepping into something far larger than himself.

But fear isn’t an option anymore.

The line clicks open after three rings.

A voice, heavy with accent and sleep, gruff with either irritation or curiosity. “Das ist Erskine.”

Tony doesn’t hesitate. Words pour from him in a frantic tumble, raw and electric, a rush of numbers and calculations, equations strung together with the urgency of a detonator’s countdown. “The vita radiation chamber is unstable. Howard’s construct is inefficient—the coolant regulation is inconsistent, and the neutron flux is oscillating past safe thresholds.” His grip tightens on the receiver, nails digging into his palm. “The heat dispersion isn’t uniform across the chamber walls, which means the entire system is susceptible to radiation pockets. If you push the power past 70% saturation, the structural integrity won’t hold.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Then, a slow, measured inhale.

Tony barrels on. “You need to redesign the inductor alignment. The current blueprints rely on symmetrical coils, but that’s the problem. The discharge is exponential, not linear. The coil winding needs to shift inward by at least two degrees to stabilize the energy distribution. Otherwise, you’re looking at a cascading failure within the first five minutes of activation.”

More silence. Tony’s breath is ragged, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. He can almost see Erskine, awake now, probably leaning forward, scribbling notes in the margins of whatever scientific journal he’d left on his desk.

Then, at last—

“Herr Stark,” Erskine murmurs, his voice edged with something Tony can’t quite place. Not skepticism. Not dismissal. “You are making quite the case for yourself.”

Tony swallows hard, every nerve in his body strung tight. “You need me,” he says, voice raw. “No one else can see it because they don’t understand the math—not like I do. Howard is too rigid, too focused on brute force mechanics. Anyone else? Chances are they would end up retrofitting outdated theories onto a process they don’t fully grasp.” He exhales sharply. “This chamber will fail without me.”

Another pause. Then, a thoughtful exhale. “You have my attention.”

Tony licks his lips, his mouth dry as dust. The words taste like steel on his tongue, bitter and sharp, but he forces them out. “I don’t want money. I don’t want a fancy lab or a title.” His voice wavers but doesn’t break. “I want out.”

Erskine doesn’t respond immediately, but Tony can hear the faint scratch of pen against paper, the subtle shift of weight as the scientist leans back in his chair. Calculating. Weighing.

“I see,” Erskine finally says, slow and deliberate. “Out from what, exactly?”

Tony’s throat tightens. He wasn’t ready to say it—not yet. Not now. But he doesn’t have a choice. If he hesitates, if he lets this slip away—

“Howard,” he forces out, barely above a whisper. “I need to be free of him.”

A beat. Then—

Erskine hums. “That is quite the proposition, Herr Stark.” A beat. “Tell me more.”

Tony exhales shakily, his entire body trembling as he clutches the phone tighter. This is it. His only chance.

And he won’t let it slip through his fingers.

[knnichs]

𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨 — 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡.

c.  scaramouche

character(s) are friends with reader, gn!reader, angsty-ish, scaramouche is still in the fatui, this is a work of fiction

      fluff     ,    love letter     .      word count : roughly 0.9k

t. @aventurne @tragedy-of-commons @yvnaology @nyoomiin

Scaramouche is not an easy man to love. He’s busy, constantly busy, awake even during the most ungodly hours of the night and constantly rubbing at his eyes from his exhaustion. It’s no surprise the Fatui are overworking him again. What’s funny is that he’s sitting at his desk, a pile of papers on the right side–all reports from his underlings–were unnoticed; all of it, even the chirping of the birds as the sun rose and showed the start of a new day, Scaramouche was stuck on a piece of paper in front of him with the words that reads, To my dearest.

There's no way he can capture your beauty on a cheap piece of parchment . He should’ve bought something expensive instead, like a new set of clothes he thinks you’ll like. But lately you’ve just seemed so distant. He needs to reach you somehow. You’ve been driven away by the lies his mouth spills and now, he’s suffering with the consequences, and not once will he ever say it to you, but he needs you to stick with him while he tries to better himself.

So here he is: a fountain pen in hand, wasting his time with something so.. childish. Who writes letters anyway, isn't it something you did as a child towards someone you liked? 

Call him a child then. Call him old-fashioned, traditional, and in love. Call him whatever you like, because in the end he’s yours, and he’s always been. 

He’s let his thoughts linger for too long and suddenly it's 7 am. His eyebags have never been worse and his mind is tired, not from his job, but from this stupid letter he’s made no progress on. To my dearest should be good enough, right? I mean, you were easy to please. He was sure that it would be more than enough for you. 

How tiring. He says, mindlessly scribbling on the paper, jet-black ink scattered all throughout and splattering around the words. Was he angry? Not at all. Frustrated, yes, but for a good reason–to think he did this just because you two were friends was infuriating. Shouldn’t you two be something more?

You were pretty, far too pretty for him to describe. Scaramouche thought his vocabulary was wide enough, but this letter alone has him searching for the words he once knew. Your eyes, leaving him feeling small in a never ending forest and your smile–god, your smile was intoxicating. It would give light to the things he’s been hiding from you this entire time. Your laugh–your voice, sweet and soft, loud and oh-so clear. How you’d bring it down to a whisper when you feel embarrassed about admitting something, how your nose scrunches up when you laugh or when your smile lines just seem so fitting for someone like you.

What was so special about you? 

You were like the sunset on the beaches, glowing. Absolutely stunning, ethereal, lighting everything in a bright orange, his eyes becoming a mix of brown and a dark blue. He’s different around you, he's a completely different person. From the color of his eyes to the racing of his heart, to the feeling that he wasn’t getting enough air whenever you hold his hand–but you’d do it in a friendly way. You don't squeeze his hand too tight, you let go when necessary and don’t leave any kind of touch lingering for far too long.

Scaramouche is not an easy man to love. He’s bad with words and he can’t tell you the things you want to hear;he can’t provide you with the touch you crave, he can’t make up his mind. One moment he’s thinking about just giving you a whole bag of mora for you to use for your next trip, the other he’s thinking about finishing this damn letter that has plagued his mind ever since you first whispered the fact you appreciate him.

There’s no way he can treat you right. There’s absolutely no way he will be perfect, that he’ll be the partner that’ll leave such a mark on you. But god, ask for the world and he will give it to you. Name one thing and when you wake up it's right at your nightstand. Choose the ring and its design, he’ll get a matching one that you yourself decided on as well. Just say the word because he is a child in love.

So here he is, an envelope in hand. Going to the nearest flower shop to buy something that will still wilt under the sun after a few days. He will not love, and can’t love the same way as you, but he will learn how to. 

Call him stupid;call him an idiot for falling for someone he knows is way too out of his league. But that’s all he is, and it's far too late to change that. He might lose you at some point, and that's really what scares him the most. 

Suddenly he’s standing at your doorstep, ringing the doorbell and you’d be confused who in the world decided to bring you a sunflower and a piece of envelope in the middle of the day–you don't recall ordering anything. 

He didn’t even get to sign it.  Maybe next time he can get it right… for his dearest.

characters belong to their respective companies. everything is written by staarri - do not steal, reupload, translate, modify or feed my work to ai.

[xxxdreamscapexxx]

I don't want to hear thoughts... Unless they're yours.

Chapter 11: Let me help you relax Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader Word count: 2.8k Warning: A lot of fluffy moments and slight teasing. Maybe some anxiety and stress, but nothing heavy. Summary: Wanda wanted to live the normal life she was never afforded, but something was always missing. Something she denied herself and buried deep inside. But watching you move next door, she quickly realizes that this may not be possible for much longer. Especially with all the interesting things she found in your thoughts. Chapter summary: After some stressful days, Wanda wants to help you relax. And what better way than flirting and meditation. Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6; Part 7; Part 8 ; Part 9; Part 10; Part 11; Series materlist                                     Masterlist of all my works

After coming home that Sunday night, Wanda was exhilarated. She had gotten a taste of you, all willing and ready for her. Your cute little moans, the needy way you scratched at her back, the way you pulled her closer, your sweet taste, the pliable, easy way in which you accepted her dominance… It was all perfect. But as the days of the week started to pass by, Wanda found herself regretting that she didn’t secure that date with you when she had the chance. Every day the two of you saw each-other, shared small conversations and sweet little moments, you talked about your days and about your plans, she learned more about you, through short afternoon conversations on her porch, where she got to hold your hand, but she couldn’t muster up the courage to ask you out and it seemed that even though you thought about it too, you felt just as nervous. It was only through your thoughts that she found comfort during that time. She was in your mind more and more often, drawn to your ideas. You saw yourself sharing meals with her at night, you sent her recipes you thought she might like, while you were at the office, you imagined cute date ideas for the two of you, that she found simply adorable, making her heart flutter with joy. You were such a romantic soul, a sweet, delicate, sensitive one and as she got lost in your ideas, she couldn’t help but think on all the little dates she wanted to take you on. She just knew that you would melt if she took you to the big bookstore on main street, the one full of Paperblanks notebooks and gorgeous ceramic tea mugs. She would let you roam the shelves, telling her about your favorite books and letting you pick new ones, perhaps even picking a few together and she’d slip in a few notebooks and a nice fountain pen for you, before you reached the cash register. She would spoil you with everything you wanted there, knowing you would probably refuse to let her pay… But she had her ways of convincing you. She’d also love to take you to the lake, just outside of town, the two of you watching the sunset together. She’d kiss you slowly to the sound of the crickets and she’ll hold your hand as you walked. She’d take you to her favorite farmers market, buying you honey and cheeses and a bag of delicious apples, and she’ll invite you over to her house, so the two of you could bake a pie together, while the boys played. She’d take you to her favorite restaurant, of course, treat you to dinner and flirting with you, while she pretended that she didn’t undress you with her eyes. Perhaps she’ll start with that one. She wanted to set the right tone. Show you that she wasn’t just homely. Yes, it was better to start with a night out. But she’ll build up to all the rest as well.

By Wednesday night, after a particularly hard day at the office, the thought of Wanda seemed to be your biggest comfort too. You liked the domestic and kind approach the two of you had with each-other, you liked the afternoons you shared, the little kisses she left on your cheeks, liked making her laugh, even if you were telling the stupidest joke. You liked her casual teasing too, the way her voice would get low, when she flirted with you shamelessly, the lingering touches, the smouldering looks. It was driving you crazy in the best way possible, but even that couldn’t save you from the stress of the day. You were late this morning, having to rush out of your house and even that didn’t help. You couldn’t stop for coffee on your way, having to drink whatever they made in the office, you were swamped with work, you had to make last minute changes to key processes, meaning you’d have to document it all and honestly, it was driving you crazy. And yes, some of it was little things, but in the end, it all piled together. You knew that new projects are like this, you expected it, but this Wednesday it bothered you and you couldn’t shake that thought away when you got home 3 hours after the end of your regulated work hours. You were exhausted, yet you couldn’t switch your brain off and even the thoughts of Wanda couldn’t quite calm you down. You were seated near the pool again, a glass of wine next to you and your fingers frantically typing on your laptop, when a voice pulled you from your thoughts and you looked towards the source to see Wanda standing near your fence, her hands resting on it gently. “Good evening, Y/N.” She smiled gently, tentatively, as if unsure if she should be here. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” She looked away for a second, her voice unusually quiet and small. “Hi Wanda.” You smiled, putting your laptop away and approaching her, your hands landing on top of hers. “Is everything ok?” You asked, concerned. “Yes.” She nodded, even if her answer didn’t seem completely sincere. She had heard your frantic thoughts when you came home, followed them throughout the night as they continued to swirl around in your head, feeling your anxiety and stress as if they were her own, yet unable to pull away from you. She couldn’t just disentangle herself from you and leave you to face your inner turmoil and she couldn’t fight the way it affected her either. It was frightening how intertwined the two of you were, how deeply she felt your emotions, as if they were her own. Perhaps that fear didn’t help the way she felt either.

“Late night working?” She asked, trying to break the tension of the moment. “Yes. I couldn’t stop thinking about work, so I thought it’s best if I just help myself and actually do the work.” You admit. “Does it help?” She asks, already knowing the answer. “No. I’m still stressed. But I’m closer to meeting my deadlines.” You admit with a small, dry chuckle. “Perhaps I can help you relax?” Wanda offers boldly and watches the thought of the double meaning behind her words flash behind your eyes for a moment. “How forward of you, Miss Maximoff!” You joke, knowing very well that it’s not what she meant. “Well, what can I say. I can’t help myself. I see something I want and I just have to go after it.” She jokes back, happy to see some of the tension drain from your shoulders and instantly feeling relieved as well. “No, but honestly, have you ever tried meditating?” She asks, changing the subject. “I have.” You nod. “It never really worked for me, though.” You admit. “Well, perhaps I can teach you.” Wanda offers. “Oh really?” You raise a brow at her. You can’t help but notice that you already feel better, simply because she is here with you. “You have so many hidden skills, I see.” You comment as you walk to the nearby door and open it, so Wanda could enter, a small smile appearing on your lips. “You have no idea.” The older woman teases, walking into your yard. She makes a small pause, looking at you, before she speaks again. “It’s good to see you smiling.” She admits, her voice gentle and soft, just like her features. “Thank you.” Her words make you blush, your smile growing wider. Wanda can’t help but think that it’s one of the most beautiful things in the world. She’s tempted to kiss you right then and there, to sweep you off your feet and carry you into the house, so she can lay you down and kiss you, until your lips are swollen and your head is empty. She supposes that it’s a form of relaxation as well. “Can I offer you something to drink?” You ask, trying to distract yourself from the intensity in her gaze. “Whatever you’re having.” Wanda smiles as she follows you.

                                 ��            *             *             * The two of you sit at the edge of the pool, feet dipped inside the warm water, a couple of glasses filled with wine near you as you talked. Wanda’s presence was enough to anchor you in the present, all your worries melting away, like they never existed. “Thank you for coming over.” You said to her, as you looked into her green eyes. “You always seem to have the best timing.” “I wanted to see you.” Wanda said with a shrug, but her attentive eyes didn’t miss the way you blushed again. “Speaking of which…” She continued. “I also want to ask you out on a proper date.” She tells you, her hand reaching out to take yours, your fingers touching playfully. “Let me take you out to dinner. I know a lovely restaurant in town.” She offers. “Let me spoil you for a night.” She continues, her voice starting to give away her hopeful eagerness. “Let me show you how well I can treat you.” “I’d like that very much.” You nodded, suddenly feeling shy at the woman’s intensity. You’d never met a woman like Wanda before. Someone so sure of themselves, someone who wanted you and wasn’t afraid to show it. “Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.” Wanda decided, hiding her smirk behind her glass as she took a small sip of the wine you had poured her. She already made plans in her head, thinking about every small detail about your date tomorrow, delighted that she’ll finally get to have what she had longed for, since you’d moved in.                                           *             *             * After the two of you finished your wine, Wanda could tell that you were feeling the pleasant buzz of alcohol, your thoughts slowing down, your eyes sparkling more, as you looked at her. She could tell that you wanted her, even without reading your thoughts and she did her best not to find out where those particular ideas were taking you, knowing that the temptation would be too great to resist. Instead, she suggested to step away from the pool, taking your hand and guiding you inside the house, so she’d finally give you that lesson on meditation that she had first offered you. You were sceptical at first, but when she sat down on the couch and spread her legs, leaving room for you to sit between them, you couldn’t help but smirk and do as you’re told. You would have to be crazy to refuse her closeness after all.

You felt a little uncomfortable to sit like that with her, but the moment you felt the warmth of her body envelop you, felt her sure hands secure you in place, all your doubts disappeared. “Close your eyes.” Wanda said softly, almost a whisper in your ear, while her hands guided you closer to her, your back pressed against her front. “Just listen to my voice.” The older woman continued, hands landing on your shoulders. “Let it carry you away, to a place where you feel safe and calm.” She said in an even tone. “Can you picture such a place for me?” Wanda asked, watching you nod slowly. Unbeknownst to you, she was slowly making her way into your mind, eyes swirling with red. She helped you to control your thoughts, breathing evening out, while she kept any of them from reaching you, allowing only that safe place to remain in your mind’s eye. “Try to hold that picture in your mind.” She instructed. Wanda could feel the tension of the day melting away, she could feel your muscles relax under her palms, she could see the image of a river, its clear water racing past you, as you lay on a field of grass, surrounded by treas. You were at peace there, she could tell and she amplified that image, making the colours brighter and more vibrant. She allowed the details to develop, until she hardly had to help you anymore, your mind settling in that place of perfect peace. You felt like you were in a dream. Your head was swimming, surrounded by thoughts, but none could reach you. Even the sounds felt distant, your senses dull. It was almost an out of body experience. A deep sense of calm had taken hold of you, the rest of the world melting away. There was only you and that beautiful place. Even Wanda’s voice felt like a far-away echo, your ears unable to distinguish the words she spoke. Once she felt that your mind had calmed, the redhead pulled away her powers as well, choosing to give you some privacy. She didn’t want to take too much advantage of the trust you placed in her, instead deciding to bask in the wonderful feeling of holding you into her arms.

                                          *             *             * You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, the warmth of her body enveloping you and your mind staying in its little paradise. You just know that the image eventually started to fade away, Wanda’s words coming into focus again as she coaxed you back into a more aware state of mind. “How are you feeling?” She asked softly, after she gave you some time to fully come back to your senses. “Really well rested.” You admitted. “Thank you, Wanda.” “Wait till you get some sleep. You’ll wake up feeling even better tomorrow.” Wanda said with a smile, her eyes wandering over your face, a look of genuine affection clearly showing in her eyes. She had allowed you to sit on your own. Barely. But she was still seated close by. She didn’t want to miss this rare chance to look at you, to touch you and admire you, without having to worry about being seen or interrupted. She wanted to soak up your presence as much as she could. “Oh, I can’t wait for the weekend!” You answered slowly, groggily, like a person half-asleep already. “Sleeping in would be just magical.” Wanda only laughed at that statement. You looked so adorable like this. All sleepy and buzzed from the wine and completely boneless after she’d helped you relax. You were too cute for your own good. At another time, in another life, she wouldn’t hesitate to take you like this. You’d cling to her helplessly, whining for her attention, begging wordlessly for her to stop teasing you and just take you. Perhaps a part of her would still find pleasure in that… “Perhaps I should let you go to bed then.” She says instead, disappointment evident in her eyes, that she has to pull away from you. “You don’t have to go straight away…” You said hopefully, not even sure what you were offering the woman. You just knew that you missed the way she had held you earlier, missed her warmth and her gentleness, missed the way she made you feel safe in her arms. “I should though. I want you well rested for tomorrow.” Wanda winked. She studied your face again at her words, amusement flashing across your face at her teasing, before it was replaced with disappointment to see her go. The evidence was in your eyes and she paused for just a moment, before she lunged forward, her lips landing on yours and giving you a brief, small kiss. A warning of sorts, before another, more sensual kiss came. This time you were prepared. Lips parting for her and kissing her fully, allowing yourself to be guided by her, without a moment of hesitation. When you parted, it took everything in Wanda not to lean back and kiss you again. You were so damn tempting to her. So irresistible. From the first day she heard your thoughts, from that day she met you at your front door, she just couldn’t get enough. “If you want me to rest, you shouldn’t tease me, Wanda.” You said playfully, a mischievous smile on your lips. “I can’t help myself.” The redhead admitted. “Are you always such a sweet-talker?” You asked, your hand reaching out to touch hers, fingers playing together softly. “I haven’t said anything that’s not true.” Wanda retorted, leaning so close she could feel your breath on her skin, she could smell your perfume… Without thinking, she kissed you again. This time she pressed her body against you too, she cradled the back of your head and tangled her fingers in your hair. She kissed you deeply, pouring her passion in every brush of her lips against yours. Each time her tongue glided against yours she felt little jolts of pleasure spreading through her, tempting her to do it again and again, until you were both breathless and panting. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days.” Wanda admitted, straightening herself, even if everything inside her told her to stay, to pull you even closer. “And is it everything you pictured?” You asked playfully. “That and so much more…” Wanda smiled, her lips spreading into a grin, before she was leaning into yet another kiss.

[hibischush]

a shipment of flowers

description; Adeline is reminded of what happened between her and the farmer the previous day.

notes; I told y'all I'd be posting. Enjoy🌺💗

word count; 878

warnings; references to The Princess Bride; minor in-game spoilers (festival)

Her head is throbbing. 

Adeline sighs as she slams her fountain pen down on her file-covered desk. Normally, the leader-in-waiting enjoys the thoroughness of official papers. With the New Year’s Eve celebration coming up, she had been busy ordering supplies for the manor and planning for small activities for the townsfolk to partake in at the party. Recently, however, she’s found it hard to focus with her slothful mind always stumbling back to the farmer. 

The farmer, for whom all they do, still finds the time to sit down and have tea with her. The farmer, despite having an endless list of arduous tasks, of which require thousands of tesserae, seemingly set aside the budget to give Adeline peaches & cream once every week to “celebrate her many accomplishments.”

They will do almost everything that she asks of them. 

And every time, speaking quietly enough for only Adeline to hear, they whisper:

“As you wish.”

It’s that very phrase that makes her knees weak. 

Maybe it’s been a while since Adeline has thought of pursuing someone romantically-- she ascertains that she pushes away the feelings as she hasn’t yet known the farmer for a year, and she’s not even certain they return said feelings. However, with the gentle sprinkling of snow against the window of her office, it reminds her that a year is coming up. And it has become much, much harder to mask her feelings.

She begrudgingly recalls the previous day when the farmer made their usual rounds to the manor, stopping by her office with the sweetest grin gracing their features. The bite of winter frost made the tips of their nose and round of their cheeks a pleasant pink. Bundled up in winter attire, Adeline didn’t think it was possible to be more endearing, but her most trusted ally had a way of surprising her.

“Lady Adeline, I’ve completed your request for the shipments of Poinsettias,” They exclaimed, unwrapping their snow-flecked scarf to reveal their face, “you just give me the signal for when you want me to ‘deck the halls’ for the party, so to speak.”

Looking up from her mass of papers, she sighed dejectedly, “I told you to call me Adeline,” she shook her head with a gentle grin. “Thank you, though. I believe they will bring some much-needed color to the foyer and ballroom.”

Even if Adeline said nothing of importance of all, the farmer permanently held a sparkle in their eyes as she talked to them. Maybe her sleep deprivation was getting to her, though. Were those snowflakes on their eyelashes?

Perhaps she was staring too long in silence, because the farmer looked down bashfully. Her face heated. Did she make it awkward?

“It would be rude if I said otherwise, Lady Adeline,” and before the baroness could scoff and repeat her wishes more firmly, the farmer continued, “I also came to gift you this…”

The farmer shyly revealed a bouquet-- jasmine, crocus, snapdragon, and even a few twigs of plum blossom, all wonderfully arranged and wrapped in a pink paper and tied together with a white ribbon. 

Adeline could feel her breath get caught in her throat as her face refused to cool down. A bouquet? Flowers, specifically a few that the farmer knew she liked? For a moment, it felt like time stopped, with only her erratic heartbeat pounding in her ears. This was a romantic gesture, was it not? A few moments had passed, but it felt like an eternity. She needed to respond.

“I--I don’t even know what to say! But in a good way. Not in a bad way! It would never be in a bad way with you-- it’s always perfect. You’re just perfect--”

Oh my god. Bad. Bad response.

She mentally slapped her forehead. Did her years of speech lessons not teach her how to speak eloquently? She didn’t even know it was possible to blush more, she thought nervously, wringing her clammy hands together to compose herself.

The farmer’s face was red as well (from the cold or from second-hand embarrassment, she wasn’t sure), but they still had a comforting smile on their face.

She cleared her throat, gently taking the bouquet in an embarrassingly robotic manner. She brought them closer to her face (totally not to hide from shame, that would be undignified), the sweet fragrance wafting in the air. 

“Thank you. They are beautiful.”

Their smile softened more, their eyes pouring into Adeline’s. “Of course. I’m glad you like them,”

They kept their gaze on her for another moment, perhaps maybe a second longer than they should have. With one last tick from the clock on her wall, they turned to leave.

“Well, it’s always a pleasure, Lady Adeline.” She shivered, and clutched the bouquet tightly.

Adeline panicked. 

“Wait!”

They looked back with a curious tilt of the head.

“You will be attending the New Year's Eve party, won’t you?” She said quietly, with a desperate amount of hope, she might add.

They took a second to formulate a response, looking to the ground for an answer. With a breath, they set their gaze confidently back on her. “Do you wish me to attend?”

She swallowed thickly. 

“I expect you to attend, dear farmer.” They grinned, “As you wish.”

I started writing this a few months ago after watching the Princess Bride. I hope y'all like it, even if this one is a bit self-indulgent lol. I just got the time to play fom yesterday and I missed it sm. Over break, I should be posting more, so stay tuned!

[opalimagines]

The Talk

You and Rick tell your father that you're dating, and he decides it's time to have The Talk

Rick Tyler/gn!reader and Dad!Richard Swift x gn!reader (BUT I wanted to make the grandpa joke so there's the implication that reader has a uterus. You can easily skip that line though)

Warnings: There is discussion of sex here in the context of a father talking to two teens about being safe but no one is actually having sex

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Yeah, of course." You stopped your fist before your knuckles could rap on the door and looked over at Rick, who had his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. "You're not?"

"I just don't want to be sent to purgatory."

Smiling, you rolled your eyes. "Come on, he wouldn't do that. He likes you."

"He might not like me anymore when he finds out we're dating," Rick pointed out matter of factly.

"It won't be like that." You reached out and gave his arm a little squeeze. "We came all this way. We have to tell him eventually, so we might as well just get it over with."

Sand had invited you to come stay in New York and spend Thanksgiving week with your father, and he was happy to extend the invitation to Rick when you asked. The two of you arrived that morning and spent the day with Sand, Jennie, Todd, and Grant, as well as your father, and while it was fun, there was another reason for bringing Rick along. So, after dinner, you made your way to The Shade's quarters to deliver the news of your relationship.

Before Rick could agree with you, the door swung open to reveal your father sitting at his desk, which was as neatly organized as the rest of the room. He didn't look up from his journal as his fountain pen scratched the paper.

"Are you two going to come in, or did you plan on standing out there all evening?"

You held your hand out to Rick, and he took it without hesitation, lacing your fingers. Stepping into the room together, you went straight to the point. "Rick and I wanted to let you know that we're dating."

Shade had an amused look on his face as he finally turned his attention from his writing. "Oh my, is that what the bickering was about? I already suspected as much."

"What do you mean?!"

"You two haven't exactly been subtle today."

Rick looked at you and you at him, and you both realized what he was talking about. Casual affection was already pretty normal at that point since the two of you had been falling into it before even going on a date, so neither of you thought much of being close to one another. Everyone else in the house already caught onto it, but you thought since he hadn't spent as much of the day with you, he probably hadn't noticed. Well, you were wrong.

"So, you're not mad?" Rick had been prepared to hear how he wasn't good enough for you at best and for a trip to the Shadowlands at worst. Not this.

"Mad, dear boy? No, I'm quite happy for you both. I noticed your fondness for each other months ago. Why do you think I invited you into our home?"

Whether it was in Opal or Blue Valley, he was quite protective of his space and his peace. You didn't really consider the significance of having Rick over until then, thinking it was because of their work to resurrect Grundy. You chuckled softly and explained. "He rarely lets other people in our home. Jack's the only other person he's invited over since I started living with him. Who even knows how long it'd been before that?"

"Decades," Shade answered as he got to his feet and came to stand in front of the two of you, clapping a hand on Rick's shoulder. "You have nothing to worry about, Rick."

He was still a little on edge because it seemed to be going too well. "You're not even going to give me the 'hurt them, and I'll kill you' speech?"

Shade smiled. "I always thought I'd have to someday, but luckily, they brought home someone who doesn't need it."

Rick relaxed considerably at those words, that last bit of nerves completely disappearing. Hearing that from your father, knowing that he didn't think his kid was dating trash, really meant something. When he looked at you, you were beaming, and you brushed your thumb over his.

"See? I told you it would be okay."

As it turned out, that particular discussion was only the beginning.

A short time later, the two of you were in your room, Rick having snuck over from his own after you both got ready for bed. You were snuggled into his side, nice and warm under the blanket, until you heard a knock on the door and your father's voice saying your name.

You shot up and threw the blanket off. And Rick? Well, he just knew he needed to be anywhere else at the moment besides in your bed.

"Get in the closet!" you whisper yelled, pulling him over by his hand and giving him a peck on the lips before practically shoving him inside. "Sorry!"

Rick couldn't exactly argue with your urgency because finding you and him in bed together, as innocent as it was, probably wouldn't go over well with your father. Still, he never thought he'd be the boyfriend hiding in the closet.

Pulling the door open, you tried your best to look and sound casual. "Everything alright, Papa?"

"Oh, yes," he answered with a smirk. "I wanted to speak with you."

Seeing your chance, you stepped out and began to close the door behind you. "Okay, let's go for a walk."

"No, no. Let's talk inside."

"Sure." You had a feeling that he knew what was going on, but you still played along for the moment and flipped on the light before letting him in. Shade shut the door and sat in the chair in the corner, and you took the bed. "So, what's up?"

He looked over at the closet, and you knew your suspicion was correct. "Come out now, Rick. You need to hear this, too."

Slowly, Rick opened the door and peeked out. You were clearly nervous, which was understandable considering the situation, but Shade didn't look even a little bit as enraged as he assumed he'd be.

Rick stepped out, and Shade gestured toward the spot next to you on the edge of the bed. "Please, sit."

He took the seat, and you placed your hand over his in support. "We were just going to sleep. We weren't doing anything–" you started, but your father stopped you.

"You don't need to explain." Shade sat forward in the chair, letting out a sigh. He'd tried to prepare for this moment before he came by, but it clearly didn't do him much good. "Oh, damnation. I thought I had a few more years before I had to do this."

You were still waiting for him to get to the point because, as quick as you were, you hadn't caught on yet. On the other hand, Rick's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. Once Shade produced a box of condoms from his coat, you also realized precisely what was happening. "Oh, no. Papa, we've only been dating for three weeks! We're not doing that."

"I was a young man once, too. I know how quickly things can happen." Shade reached out and placed the box on your bedside table, knowing that you'd only be more embarrassed to take it from his hand. "I'm not here to judge you on what you may or may not be doing together. I simply wanted to remind you to please be safe. If you ever decide to do more than sleep, please use one of those. After all, I'm far too young to be a grandfather."

"Oh my god!"

Shade stood from the chair as Rick still sat frozen, and you had your head in your hands. "If either of you need to talk about these things, you can always come to me."

"Yes, Papa." You zipped over to the door, holding it open for him to get out as quickly as possible. "We appreciate that. Thank you. Goodnight."

Once he exited and you shut the door behind him, everything came out at once. "I'm so sorry I didn't think he'd do that I mean not with you here it was humiliating I get it if you want to go back home that was too m—are you...laughing?"

Rick bit his lip to try and hold it in as you sat down next to him again. "Sorry. I just can't believe I got the facts of life talk from The Shade of all people."

You couldn't help laughing, too. "Yeah, I see your point. Still, I'm sorry. We've only been dating for three weeks, and it's not like I haven't thought about it, but–" Your eyes went wide, and you threw yourself into bed. "Okay, goodnight!"

Rick smiled as you yanked the blanket over your head to hide, and he gently pulled it back down. "If it makes you feel better, I've thought about it, too. More than once."

Your grip on the blanket loosened. "Really?"

"Yeah. But I'm not ready for that yet."

"Neither am I."

"Then we don't need to worry about those," he said, nodding towards the condoms, "until we're both ready. Whenever that is."

You smiled up at him. "That sounds good to me."

"Still want me to stay?" After everything, he could see you preferring he stay in his own room.

"Please."

Rick turned the light off and climbed back into bed with you, holding you in his arms like he was before your father appeared.

Even without your father's approval, you would've kept seeing Rick, but it was still nice to know you had it.

[lilsocksiswriting]

Academic Weapon Chapter Six

Summary:

You were like a lot of humans, born with just enough curse energy to see curses but not enough power to do anything. Your greed has helped you hold in the Jujustu Sorcery program. it is this same greed that tends to blind you to the danger you are in.

Sukuan sees you as a weak pretty thing that he can hold a conversation in his class. This is what he tells him to do he falls for you, his student because the curse refuses to believe this is love.

Oh, then there is the murder.

Characters: Reader, Ryomen Sukuna, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto,Ieiri Shoko, Iori Utahime,

Pairings: Sukuna X Fem!Reader

Tags: College AU, Professor X Student, Modern Fantasy AU, NSFW

warmings: no beta lol

Notes:

Not as much smut as I would have liked but we got to advance that plot. I feel like a broken record but I'm sorry for the inconsistency posting. It might still happen when I apply to every job under the sun. With that being said if you like my fics and want to see more of my writing as well as exclusive content you can buy or subscribe to my Patreon or leave me a tip over on my Ko-fi. Every little bit helps right now!

patreon.com/KayleySocks

Chapter Five || Chapter seven || Masterlist

You do not know if you like jerking Sukuna off or sucking him off more. On one hand, when you jerked the curse off yesterday you were so much closer to his face that you could feel and hear every grunt he made as you worked him to a release.

Now, the following Wednesday, you find yourself down on your knees gagging on the curse’s thick cock. Somewhere in the post haze from pleasuring each other yesterday, you had given Sukuna your cell phone number. The  first ever text from him was during your Curse Weaponry class telling you he expected you in his office after your classes.

And now here you are, knees red and sore from the hardwood floor between Sukuna’s legs that are spread wide enough to create a spot just for you. You are squeezing and working what you cannot fit into your mouth. Sukuan has been so graciously patient with his new plaything.

But she’s…..different.

He sits in his expensive desk chair, looking almost bored. In one hand, he twirls a fountain pen that he is supposed to be using to mark up the latest essays from his Curse Theory class. His other hand is closed into a fist that he rests his cheek against. His heated eyes bore into the top of his head.

With every little bit you take further into your mouth Sukuna swears it is the best feeling ever. Your mouth is so warm, wet, and eager to please him. When your nose presses against the coarse hairs of his groin Sukuna's eyes flutter close. He cannot believe his luck to have found someone as brilliant, eager, and enticing as you in that last place he would expect it.

“That’s it,” he purrs, setting down his pen to give you more of his precious attention.

The slight pressure he puts on your head makes you stay put. You struggle to breathe through your nose as his dick rests in the back of your throat.

“What a sight you are,” Sukuna says, “I have a hard time believing that you’ve never sucked dick before with how little of a gag-“

But just before he can finish degrading you pull back, and cough.

Sukuan frowns. He spoke too soon.

You take in a few deep breaths. You thought you had it. Your plan was to go slow and easy until you felt comfortable, then let the curse take control and fuck your throat raw. But that damn gag reflex was getting in the way. Sorry is not going to do you any good with an unforgiving being like Sukuna. So, instead, you went right back at it.

The cruse leans his head back and moans this time when you take the fat head of his cock into your mouth again.

Somewhere in the background, you hear a phone going off. It takes a second for you to recognize that it is your cell phone going off. It keeps going off as you swirl your tongue. The insistent tone is taking up more and more of your lust-muddled mind. You wish it would just go to voicemail already.

“Answer the cursed thing before I slice it in half,” He growls.

You clamber to your feet. Going without a cell phone sounds like hell. Having Sukuna upset with you sounded somehow worse.

Your book bag had been forgotten by the office door. Pulling out your phone Gojo’s goofy smile lights up your screen.

“What do you want, Gojo?”

“Ohhh she’s bitey.”

You look over your shoulder at the curse and regret doing so. Your whole face, hell your whole body goes red. Even though there is a desk obscuring your view it is obvious that Sukuna is stroking his cock in slow, even strokes as he watches you with predatory eyes.

Whipping your head back to face the door, Sukuna chuckles. Really? You had no shame gagging on his cock. But one look at him jerking himself off and your sudden bashful?

“I’m not bitey. I’m busy. I came to the –“

“The library to do class work,” he cuts you off. “Yes,yes,yes I figured. Do you want me to drive you home, I can be there in like five.”

Gojo’s tone was chipper which was usual but the offer to come pick you up was a little off. “You mean like right now?”

“Why not?”

Sukuna’s fist settles around the base of his shaft. His inhuman senses pick up the Gojo brat’s voice. He did not know that the two of you were acquaintances, or even that a weakling like you was on the sorcerer’s radar, or why this new fact about you made frustration bubbles in his chest.

“Well, I'm a  little busy…” you look back at Sukuna again. He now looks annoyed with you. Seriously what the hell did you do this time? “I’m about to have a feedback session with Professor Sukuna.”

“What? What he’s doing at the library so late?”

You knew why he was staying late tonight; to get his dick wet. But your mind flashed back to the night of that party when you left early. What was he doing on campus then?

“Y/N?”

“I don't know, I-I just saw his office light on and….”

“Ok, yeah. I’ll wait for you then.”

“What? No Gojo, you don’t have to do that. I-it may be a while and, like, aren’t you two not supposed to meet or something?”

Sukuna scoffs. It was actually that the two of them should not be on campus at the same time, but that went out the window once the brat started college. Now the two just avoided each other.

“Come on y/n let me be chivalroussssss,” Gojo wines.  Your jaw twitches. There he goes again, trying to hide something with that childish attitude. “I can just wait outside.”

“Gojo…is something' going on?”

“What,” he laughs then says,” I told ya I’m just trying to be a good friend. If you must know, the Gojo clan has oh so graciously offered up members free time for extra patrols around campus.”

“So, something is going on and you don’t think I’m smart enough to keep myself safe?.”

“Y/N  I promise it’s not like that, I'm just bored.”

A knot of anger in your chest tightens, “If you were bored you wouldn’t be so  concerned with how or when I get home.”

“That’s not true. Jeez, you ever think that you're just good company?”

“Then why haven’t you offered this to Utahime, of Shoko?”

“If you are so concerned with the woman getting home I will ensure it.” Sukuna's booming voice is picked up by your phone.

“Are you already in office?”

“…y-yea,” you look at Sukuna. To see If he was serious. The stern look tells you that he is.

“Well,will that suffice you brat?” Sukuna addresses Gojo.

You do not give the six eyes user a chance to answer. “I’ll text you when I get back to my dorm. Will that stop you from worrying?”

“Satoru are you coming?” someone calls for him in the background with a distinct accent.

Gojo sighs, “Fine,”

Hanging up you put your phone in Do Not Disturb before slipping it back in your book bag.

“Now where were we?”

“Giving you feedback,” Sukuna answers and it looks like he has forgotten about his hardened dick drooping between his legs.

“But-“

Sukuan looks up from the essay you turned in today with that stare that did not leave any room. It was so hard to tell what was going on the curse’s head. Whatever thoughts he had he hid well behind that cold face.

You tell yourself that feedback would not hurt. Especially if you can figure out how to bring your grades up to an A. That will really show people like Gojo and that one jerk in your class.

You go to take a seat across from him at the desk but Sukuna shakes his head, “No back on your knees woman.”

You pause, but then your body moves to do as told. Once you are settled back in your original place look up to the curse for further instructions.

Sukuan tsks,” Now get back to sucking and I will tell you how you can improve your grades. Little dam overachieve-erng!”

His words are cut off by a strangled groan when you take half of him into your hot mouth.

“ Fucking brat,” He mummers under an exhale.

He soon relaxes in his seat and even pets our head as you take a little more into your mouth. He waits until he can feel his spongy head squish against the back of your throat then  begins speaking, “You aren’t pushing yourself.”

You wonder if he means your essays or sucking him off. Either way, you start to experiment bobbing your head fast. You cough again but do not pull back this time.

“You are so focused on presenting your thoughts in such a perfect and complete way  that you don’t think about what you’ve written.”

Oh, so it was about your essays. Though your efforts are not all for not. Sukuna’s voice seems tighter.

You try to retain the feedback to  memory. But you do find it hard with the wetness growing between your legs is just as distracting as the dick pulsing in your mouth.

Sukuns lets out another one of the long exhale and his red eyes flutter close. The hand atop your head fists your hair.

“You-you need to stop worrying so much about making it all perfect”

Ok, maybe you could apply that feedback to your dick sucking. You pull off Sukuna’s slick cock and look up the moment he opens his eyes.

Oh god, you think. He looks so good. There is a redness in his cheeks, his pupils are dilated, mouth slighted arrest, and face contoured in annoyance. Was he annoyed that such a weakling was in control of making him feel this good? The possibility makes you want to giggle.

“Then help me make it messy.”

“Do you have any idea what you are asking brat?”  Sukuna now has a smirk across his face.

“You heard me. show me how….I’m seeing now that I've been misled.” “oh, misled by who?”

“By my sources,” you answer averting your gaze.

“And would those sources be pathetically vanilla and fake videos of humans fucking each other?”

The shameless way he describes it makes your face flush. The curse just chuckles, “ The oddest things make you blush.”

You do not have the opportunity to make an excuse for yourself because the hand in your head pushes down. Sukuna’s cock is filling your mouth again and this time you have  no control of how fast or deep it goes.  It sparks something new and hot in you.

You let Sukuna guide your mouth up and down his cock. There is plenty of gagging and coughing. Your throat constricts around the girth. There is a serious lack of air. But it is such a turn on.

You hate hate hate that you choose to wear high waisted jeans today. As Sukuna fucks your throat you have a strong need to spear your knees apart and touch yourself. Your hands are digging their short fingernails in his slacks just to have something to hang onto.

“See, “ he grunts and suddenly snaps his hips frowned.

You jump and gag more. Tears collect in the corners of your eyes which are now rolling back. You feel the hot spurt of cum splash down the back of your throat.

You try in earnest to swallow all  of the cum, really you still manage to dribble  down your chin. Sukuna pays it little mind like you do . He simply swipes it up with his thumb that he then pushes past your swollen lips.

“You did good for your first time sucking dick,” the curse praises.

“Thank you?” you say not sure of how to react to the casual compliant

“You're welcome. Now get up and get your things. I did tell the Gojo brat that I would ensure you get home. “

___

For a college campus, even at night, it is eerily empty. You expected to see more students about rather that  be grabbing something for one of university’s cafés that stay open late, coming and going to and from dorms, or the library. But you have seen only a handful of students out.

Mabey Sukuna scares them all off? You bit the inside of your cheek. Would that mean that I have scary dog privileges then?

Or maybe something happened like you originally excepted. There is an offness in the air tonight. Plus, why would Sukuan offer to walk you back? Surely he could care less of the fate of one of his students even if  that student sucks his cock. Maybe he saw potential in you and he would hate for that potential’s life to be cut short?

“I can hear your brain whirling at this point,”Sukuna remarks.

“I-“ you look up to see the stone-faced man bathed in a passing streetlamp. He is not paying you any mind, but you still look forward as well as if you had been caught staring at the curse’s sharp features . “Do you think something else has happened? Gojo’s always been a little…. over worrisome when it comes to me. But this kinda feels like a whole new level if he is putting trust in you.”

“Oh, is he afraid I might do something to you? Take advantage of you in some way,” there is a teasing lift in  his voce.

You let out a puff of air,” He treats you just like the rest of the university does, like a bomb. He thinks you’re gonna snap and go back to the Heian era when you were out  decimating villages if they didn’t throw you a festival like you were some kinda of harvest god.”

“Hmm, so you have been reading about me?”

“Don’t act as if you don’t play any significant roles in Jujutsu history,” you point out then go back to the situation possibly at hand. “So do you think something else has happened?”

“Hard to tell,” Sukuan says in a more contemplative tone. Was he mad now? This is why you do so much research on the infamous curse. “The whole university is panic over a measly death-““Murder,” you correct him.

You do not even notice that you dare to correct the King of Cures in such a carefree manner. Sukuan does, but for some reason he does not get as annoyed. If it were any other person or curse he would not think of ending their life here and now. What was it about you that made you get away with speaking to him like that? You were weak, your only saving grace was that too are just a tad bit smarter than most. Sukuna tells himself it would be such a shame to let that go to waste.

You bite your bottom lip as the silence between continues. The night is awfully quiet now that you have a moment to really listen. You can only hear the sound of your footsteps against the cement sidewalk and the occasional rustle of leaves when a gust of wind weaves through the trees. You hug yourself as a hard guest blows past.

You hate to admit that Gojo was probably right and make a note to take a sweatshirt with you tomorrow morning. Sukuan looks the least bit bothered since he grabbed a jacket off the back of his chair.

You look around once more. Not a soul in sight now. It was a new moon too. The only thing keeping the dark at bay is the passing streetlamp. If you did not have the King of Curses escorting you home you would have definitely been creeped out and cold. Well, you still are a bit chilly, but at least safe?

“Sukuna?”

“What?”

“Do you even know where I live?”

His mouth presses into a thin line before speaking, “They don’t know a thing about the culprit and they intend to keep their lips pretty sealed about the whole matter. Leaving it up to the Gojo clan to take care of this. And that clan loves to keep its secrets.“

You giggle then tell him, “I live at the student commons B. That would explain all the extra patrols.”

“And the Gojo brat’s protectiveness over you?” Sukuan inquires.

You do not miss the edge in his voice nor how he moves a bit closer to you. You do not comment on it or the warmth you can feel against your arm from having the curse’s larger body closer to you. It was nice. Even if it was just a sliver of his closeness, you relish in it.

“He’s usually not this worrisome and overprotective. His behavior is what clued me in that there’s something going on. The big clans have gotten involved too and because of that Gojo has to do stuff as head of the clan which stresses him out.“

Sukuan only hums.

You two are plunged into a brief darkness stepping out from under a streetlamp . In the darkness you admit, “honestly I really hate it.”

You two pass under another streetlamp, a few more steps closer to the student commons. Your face is more relaxed, eyes on the branches overhead blocking your view of the dark infante sky.

“You hate the brat’s attention?”

“I hate that I’m weak?” you wonder. Now that you have said just a snippet of your inner thoughts out loud you cannot stop more from spilling out into the world. “I hate that no matter how much I learn it just never feels like it’s enough. Or that in the end it might not mean anything.”

“The Jujutsu world doesn’t seem to care very much for scholars.”

“Exactly!” you say, something in the darkness sparking within you. “All they seem to want are healers and fighters. There’s no, like , want to progress forward.”

“Makes everything so boring,” The curse agrees. “Looks like we have something in common.”

You bite back a smile. The comment makes you feel pleasantly warm. You spend what little time you have left until you arrive at the front door to the lobby of your dorm building asking Sukuna other questions to see if the two of you have anything else in common. Though Sukuna sounds like he sees each and every one of the questing meaningless and annoying, he still answers.

“Well thanks for walking back,” you say once at your door.

Thaw curses only grunts, his attention seems to be drawn somewhere else, nose turned up sniffing the night air.

“Good night Professor Sukuna.”

“Y/N.”

You were digging your key card from your book bag but paused when the curse said your name.

“Yea?”

Looking at Sukuna you catch a glimpse of surprise before it is consumed with that coldness again. “There is blood in the air tonight.”

And that was all that is all the curse has to say before leaving you at the door to your dorm building confused by his ominous words.

___

You were not left confused for very long because first thing  in the morning the King of Curses seeks you out at the Cruised Collection Archive. He came there under the pretense of returning the book he ‘stole’ out from under your nose. Asshole.

The other student workers are too frozen with fear to say or do anything when the curse waltz in the library and tosses the old book down on the front desk. They then look the other way and busy themselves with anything as he strolls right up to you. So long as it is not them he is focusing his cruel attention on.

You were at one of the long tables organizing different pamphlets that needed to be foaled and given out to the other branches for an upcoming exhibit, when Sukuna’s presence consumed the place. Looking up just in time to see him walk in as if he owns the library.

“Good morning brat,” he greets standing across the table from you.

You pause your work. Looking up at the man with a from across your lips. “Good morning professor, you shouldn’t toss books like that so carelessly. They are old and easily damageable.”

Sukuna smirks at the confidence you have to scold him. He steps around the table to get closer to you. Placing a hand flat on the table next to the neat stack of printed pamphlets you lean in close. The looming presence caging you and not one person currently in the library dares not even look fearing that they may be caught by the curse’s gaze.

“Where do you get off speaking to me as if we are equals?” Sukuna asks you in a low, dangerous voice that sends a shiver down your spine, but you are not scared.

“I told you yesterday that books in these collections are fragile. They are original sources of primary information. The credibility of anything written becomes useless  as soon as those sources are lost..”

She makes a good point.

“And what has been published with that book by that mad man?” he challenges.

“I can’t think of anything off the top of my head but I can research it for you and give you an estimated number Professor. Or should I point out that you checked that book out because you seemed to find it relevant for your class?”

This brat.

Instead of continuing this argument which Sukuan would enjoy doing , he tells you in a quieter voice, “There’s been another murder.”

Your eyes grow wide in surprise. Sukuna then watches you face grow serious and analytical. “So, there was something up last night.”

“I thought I would give you a heads up since you seem to like to take these late night strolls to your dorm.”

“Thank you.”

Thank you. thank me?

Sukuan stares at you for a long moment. His face is still as cold as ever, but there is something new about his eyes. They seem less sharp, less deadly. Then he leaves, just like that

[throwaway-yandere]

A/n: ansy speaking, not her. Please. P l e a s e. Don't read ANY of the endings unless you've reached the end of the story in your own way.

Link to the fic.

Gepard Landau died on the same day you lost your leg. That was all you remembered.

His funeral was befitting a Landau. You didn't exit the car and simply watched from afar. No one knew who committed the crime, as far as everyone was concerned, you were also a victim of an aggressive assailant. Serval had done eerily good work at making you scarce. The visitors were either distracted by the fact you were just a few feet away from witnessing them lower down his casket or were too busy mourning over the loss of a great soldier.

Yet, there was someone who wasn't as convinced as the rest. 

Sampo knocked on your window that day, grating you with the happiest sounding "condolences!" he could boast. At the time, you wanted to punch his face in but feared you'd get an earful from Mrs. Landau. A no-last-name orphan like you can’t just buy a car.

You rolled the window down. Hearing him out was better than feeling whatever sinister emptiness resided inside your heart. 

Sampo cheerfully reached his hand out to shake yours forcefully. "Heyya there, friend! Long time no see, eh? Guess you can't catch me now, not with those legs, I mean."

You can't believe you laughed at such an insulting joke. 

"What do you want, Sampo…?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing special."

The shady merchant rested his elbow on the car, giving you a lopsided smile. He radiated pure confidence, a trait you lack in those defeated times.

"Say, if I told ya I can bring lil Geppie back, would you make a deal with me?"

You scoffed.

"Bring him back?"

"Uhuh."

You chuckled emptily, staring away. The words that escaped your lips did not come from the heart, but it was the only thing you could insensitively joke about in response.

"If you plan on bringing him back, you might as well make him exactly like my type. Otherwise, what's the point?"

You slowly regained consciousness, your eyes fluttering open to reveal that you were positioned on a couch inside a dimly lit room. The air was musty and the only light source was a vintage-looking fan. We have received all the intel we needed, but Kafka was nice enough to watch the rest so you should probably thank her for adding this in our data bank.

A figure materialized in front of you. He was a dirty blonde man with a soft and concerned expression plastered on his face. This man knelt beside you and asked: 

"How are you feeling? I’m… I would like to apologize for yelling at you. It was not my intent to frighten you so much. I was caught up in my selfish emotions. Please forgive me."

You took a moment to assess yourself, noting that even though you were disorientated— you don't feel any physical pain or emotional distress. His presence compelled some sort of familiarity but your memory was frustratingly blank. 

As you tried gathering your thoughts, the sound of a distant radio static buzzed your ears. It was persistent. You strained to listen, but the man was oblivious to it. His blue eyes solely focused on you.

“... Are you alright, darling?”

You gave up trying to hear the noise and focused on your surroundings, ignoring him in the process. 

The space you were in was a deserted therapy office. The wallpaper, which had formerly looked rather professional, was peeling off and fading. There were lingering odors of mold and rot. The furniture was peppered in dust and cobwebs clung to the edges of the tables, cupboards, and walls. It simply wasn't a place to be.

There were remnants of the previous doctor inside— a torn chair, a used fountain pen, and most intriguingly, rowed forgotten photographs that have likely lived past the faces depicted. You swore you could recognize a person or two in those photographs. One had stylishly long blonde hair with blue streaks. She wore thick-rimmed glasses and a contagious smile as she lovingly wrapped her arms around an embarrassed young man and someone who looked exactly like… you?

As you gazed back at the dirty blonde man, it finally clicked. Though your memory fails you, you were almost certain he was the young man in that image. 

"Gepard?"

"I'm not–" He exhaled, soundingly resigned to his fate. "Nevermind. Yes, that's me."

Did you get his name wrong? Or was he just too quick to say no?

“...Was I wrong?"

"No, I could be him if you want me to be." He smiled weakly. “And based on what just occurred, I can surmise that is the case. I won’t try to be anyone else anymore.”

The radio static continued, stealing your attention once again. You turn to Gepard, desperation was evident in your voice. "Can you hear that? The static…”

He placed his head above his fist, pondering your words. "I... I don't hear anything. But if you’re hearing static, then I can only guess that Serval is overdoing her job.”

You raised an eyebrow, speaking slowly as if you didn’t want to come off as idiotic. “Serval is here?”

Gepard shook his head. “Not in the Back Alley, no.”

“Then what was that sound–”

“Just an old doctor’s device from the Xianzhou Loufu. No need to worry, (N/n).”

Gepard cleared his throat.

“(Y/n), I’ll have to go away for a while. Can you promise not to leave? It won’t be long– I’ll merely fetch you something to eat and drink.”

“But that shouldn’t be your responsibility. Having you do such simple tasks would bring me shame,” you shook your head incessantly. “Besides, I’m not hungry!–”

“(Y/n).”

He glared at you, feigning coldness. You were unconvinced but decided it was best not to test him. Gepard had always been caring for his people.

You nodded in agreement, your voice barely a whisper. "Okay, fine... I won't leave. I'll stay here."

“Do you swear it?” You’re not the sharpest person, but you still noticed how Gepard’s eyes lingered on the locks, contemplating if he should trap you inside.

“I promise.”

He smiled. 

"Good. Stay put and don't open the door for anyone. Dangerous creatures are lurking outside."

“Wait!!!”

As he turns to leave, you reach out, your hand instinctively grasping his arm. 

You nearly didn’t speak a word after. His eyes were dilated– afraid. But that fear was gone in a blink of an eye. You immediately let go of his arm. You had a feeling something traumatic had occurred that was similar to the action you had done.

Then again, he just spoke of dangerous creatures beyond this clinic. Perhaps it had something to do with them.

“...Please, exercise caution." You continued.

His gaze softened as his hand gently covered yours. 

"I promise, I'll be careful. My priority is to protect you, always."

The sound of footsteps outside drew your attention and your heartbeat quickened, worried about the aforementioned creatures in Gepard's warnings. Thankfully, it was just the man himself. He returned with a tray containing a straightforward supper. The aroma of warm soup and freshly baked rye bread wafted in the air, creating a cozy ambiance. Once upon a time, you would’ve politely declined this offer but you didn't sense any other noble birth in the room aside from him. Most importantly, you didn't sense Mr. Landau's presence.

He set the tray down in front of you, slightly ashamed about his delivery's lack of quality and quantity. "Here, eat. It's not much, but it'll help."

“T-Thank you…” You reluctantly took the plastic spoon. “But… would you mind filling me in with what’s going on, Young Master? I can’t remember a thing.”

“Master…” Gepard tasted the formal honorific and cringed. “First– what can you recall about yourself? What’s your occupation?”

“I’m a servant of the Landau family, taken generously by Mr. Landau’s endorsement.”

That man? Generous? As if.

“And the Silvermane Guards?”

You tilted your head.

“They are one of Belobog’s last bastions. Why do you ask? Has something happened at work, master?”

In other words: you don't remember what happened. To you, what happened around 5 years ago or so never occurred if you can't recall your time as a soldier. 

Serval's new device had worked, for sure.

Gepard exhaled loudly, “confirming” your suspicions.

“I’m not your master anymore, (Y/n).”

As you look at him now, something feels different. You were inclined to believe there is a merit to his words.

"Was I fired?" You asked, terrified.

He held your hands. His hands felt unusually warm and his eyes brimmed with an emotion you can't put a finger on. Gepard looked… hesitant, yet determined. A near oxymoron.

And he decided to commit to the worst idea he had in mind.

"... D-Darling, don't you remember?” He chuckled nervously. “We're not in that household anymore. We've eloped. We left everything behind to be together."

Your heart skipped a beat. You didn't take the time to think of his words and your mouth ran on autopilot. The Landau's principles were ingrained in you as much as it did to the siblings.

"Eloped? But... why? What about your family, your responsibilities?"

The sadness that flickered in his eyes was then swiftly replaced by a reassuring smile. "Dad never understood us. S-So, we decided to escape! To build a life on our terms."

That doesn’t sound like something Gepard would do.

But, if he would do that for you, then…

Foolishly, you still found yourself swept away by his romantic fibs of leaving everything behind for these flights of fancy. The stuttering happiness in his voice is infectious, and you can't help but feel a sense of elation. It's as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. Just as Sampo would've wanted for you.

… Doesn't that mean Gepard loves you as much as you love him?

"Why can't I remember that?"

"You must've just been too tired, sweetheart," Gepard muttered sweetly. "We had quite the busy day yesterday trying to find a safe location." 

"I... I can't believe it," you stammered, undeniably disbelieved and overjoyed. "W-We're alone together, just the two of us?"

Gepard nodded solemnly, looking to his left. His eyes were looking anywhere but at you.

"Yes, (N/n). It's just you and me now. No more hiding, no more pretending. We're free to be together, forever."

The truth of your past may be hazy, but the promise of a new beginning was exhilarating enough to discard any bad histories.

Gepard asked, slightly frowning. 

"But for this to work, I need you to follow my commands, is that okay?" 

"Okay." You nodded eagerly. “What is it, Young Ma— Gepard?”

“When I tell you to close your eyes, you’ll close your eyes. If I told you to cover your ears, you’ll cover your eyes.” Gepard slightly tightened his hold. “And when I told you to not question what you see, you won’t ask or try to rummage your head for memories or information. Is that clear?”

You were used to his authoritative tone. It was the mark of a Landau, it no longer struck fear in you as much as a normal citizen would have been. Instead of intimidation, you were informed of how dire these commands were, and you accepted without doubts much like a soldier.

“Understood. I’ll follow your commands to the best of my abilities.”

Gepard smiled.

"You're so obedient for me…" Gepard caressed your cheek with the back of his palm. "Just how can I reward you for this?”

"It's okay. You don't need to do that."

"Are you sure?"

"Affirmative."

He grinned wider and buzzed with happiness. 

"You make me feel so loved."

Gepard slowly cupped your cheek, eyes slit in a lovelorn gaze. His mind raced thoughts about your lips. How soft would they be? Would your lips feel chapped? Would he grip your shoulders should he part them open with his tongue? Much more ideas in that nature flooded his head, which only fanned the flames that heated his cheeks and ears. He wasn't sure how you'd react if he indulged himself— if you would forgive him for this— but he knew that if he didn't do it now, his curiosity and drive to keep you to himself will worsen.

He looked away, eyes childishly closed shut with a slight pout.

"(Y/n)."

You pretended not to know what he was thinking to save his pride. "Yes?"

"... Would it be alright if I add another segment to that list of commands?"

Just like his favorite theatre actress, your eyes crinkled as you put on a sly smile with good-natured mischievousness. Before leaving your hand pressed on your cheek, you adjusted a strand of hair and combed it back, angling your head at your best side. Needless to say, you were having fun toying with him. 

"Yes, sir."

"... G-Good."

Gepard cleared his throat.

"If I tell you to k-kiss me, would you?"

You chuckled.

"That doesn't sound like a command—"

"Kiss me, (Y/n)." He ordered, but as soon as those forceful words escaped his lips, he froze and raised his hands, attempting to take it back and sheepishly apologize.

That didn't stop you from taking him by his collar.

You grinned.

"Much obliged."

He released a muffled yet pleased noise as you pressed your lips against his.

As Gepard's lips met yours, neither of you cared for how dusty the place was or how eerie the surroundings were– it was only the two of you, alone in a gentle embrace. His lips were soft and tender as his thumb slid up the back of your palm, wordlessly asking for permission to deepen the kiss. You obliged by slipping your fingers through his hair– and that snapped something inside him.

Gepard instantly pulled you closer.

"M-Mhmm…"

His arms were forceful yet overprotective, enveloping you as though you were delicate. The warmth of his breath and his near inaudible yet high-pitched whimpers seeped into your very being. These served to make you feel safe and cherished. He tilted your chin up, faltering to catch his jagged breath despite how feather-like his movements were.

This is what the real Gepard Landau had always wanted.

This bliss is what he failed to attain.

Time stood still as you melt into each other. Gepard was savoring every moment– every connection between you two– before he pulled away breathlessly. With eyebrows furrowed, he loathed himself for needing air, but his expression softened as he caught you heaving. 

"I-I'm s-sorry–" he breathed in. "I s-should've practiced moderation."

His cheeks flushed more as he watched the silvery saliva that linked you both disappear, sputtering apologies for being "too rough" when he was anything but.

Gepard gazed into your eyes as you snaked your hands from his nape to his arms. He returned the favor, embracing you as the most precious treasure he's ever held.

With a soft smile, he whispered against your lips. 

You’re very obedient.

You’d do every word he says, wouldn’t you?

"T-Thank you for being here, for loving me. You're everything to me."

Then, stay here.

Never leave him alone again.

The soft morning light peeked through the thick curtains, painting the room in slivers of white and gold. Having no need for human necessities such as sleep, Gepard sitting by the bedside couldn't help but smile as he watched you rest. The sight before him was nothing short of wonderful. The soothingly paced rise and fall of your chest and the way your eyelids fluttered slightly in your dreams— mesmerized his unblinking eyes. He prided himself on abstaining from holding you for the entire night to not disturb your sleep. Gepard was content with simply gazing, without looking away for a single second.

Not once.

He won’t leave you ever again.

A soft sigh escaped his lips. In the “warmth” of this morning light, he knew that he was exactly where he was meant to be—by your side, in this makeshift realm.

He then whispered to you, knowing that you wouldn't hear them but wanting to express his emotions nonetheless.

"I wonder why Gepard used to deflect your affections so much. If I obsess over you then that means he loved you just as much… But there’s no point mulling over this, is there?" Gepard muttered.

As you writhe in bed, he carefully draped your blanket further upward, worried that you’d get cold. 

"Then again, unlike me, he has always been a man of tradition. He probably did not see it right to pursue a romantic relationship with someone under his station. A true Landau." 

The man’s smile disappeared. 

He is not Gepard. Not even his ghost. He is a manifestation of how the man desperately didn’t want to follow the family’s code of conduct. The true Gepard had always secretly wanted to break free from his shackling family bloodline but his father wanted to adopt you. And he couldn't bear the thought of having his dream spouse as his sibling either.

Despite that, the real Gepard had never resorted to manipulative tactics to control your emotions and actions. Not once has he tried gaslighting or using his position of authority to influence your decisions. Gepard was obsessive, but not unkind. He thought that perhaps letting you go would be a greater act of love. 

Such a “considerate” gesture failed. No longer do those sentiments matter now.

Gepard watched you sleep silently. As he fixed your stray hairs, he couldn't help but ponder over the subtle signs that your mind was broken. You seemed unfazed by the fact that you had both your legs, despite being paraplegic in reality. Similarly, you didn't react to how you’re wearing a wedding ring that you never had nor the sight of his arm, even though he had lost it before.

This alley you shared was a twisted reality. A merely distorted version of the past and present fueled by your desires and wishes– and you were lost in a maze of your own making.

Deep down, Gepard was disappointed that you couldn't see through the facade, that you couldn't recognize the monsters that followed you both as a manifestation of your psyche that wanted you to confront the truth. 

As he sat beside you, Gepard felt a heavy weight in his heart. He wanted to shake you awake from this dream, to make you see that the person before you was not him, but merely a reflection of your deepest desires.

But he held his tongue. He was far more selfish than the real Gepard, and that selfishness kept him alive longer than he did. Instead of breaking the happiness you and Serval carved for yourself, he stayed by your side. Thankfully, Serval is too caught up in her distress, thinking that she could save you from this alley. She cannot. The only thing she’s doing is making matters worse for you with that device of hers. But that’s okay. He would be there for you, even if you couldn't recognize him for who— for WHAT he truly was.

Gepard sighed wistfully.

You won’t get to know the truth.

And it’s for the best if it meant having you all forever to himself.

For this is the only way "Gepard Landau" can atone for his sins.

[yusuke-of-valla]

Insane thoughts about non-SEES characters

You've brought up Mamoru before but I just think the fact that he ultimately drops out of high school to go work in a factory would raise a lot of question in Minato's head about what he should do in order to take care of the siblings.

The kids Yuko coaches in her Social Link are about Yusuke's age.

Hamuko misses Minato's summer track/kendo/swim meet because she's in Inaba with the volleyball/tennis team.

Maiko is everyone's friend. She can be pen pals with the younger kids after moving away.

You have the really funny opportunity to have Naoto cross paths with Rise while she's in town for the show that ultimately gets canceled due to the Hermit Shadow.

The Temperance Link is shared but the fact that Hamuko can actually make items during it and Minato can't leads me to believe that he just sucks at sewing. Hamuko makes little dolls and purses for the kids.

Bunkichi and Mitsuko give them even more snacks for the rotating cast of children that they keep bringing to the bookstore.

One of the Culture Club options - and the only option in Reload - is Art Club. Keisuke, Minato, and Fuuka can all be in Art Club. (Keisuke does show up as president of the Photography Club in Junpei's link but can be easily replaced.)

Maiko and Bunkichi are both among the people who get lost in Tartarus.

I knew about Maiko and Bunkichi! I remember thinking that's a really cool way to tie your social links into the main plot

Maiko also ends up friends with Ken I think during the Kyoto trip and while the teens are in summer school they have their own little weird adventure.

Wait hold on we can combine these Maiko getting kidnapped happens during the Kyoto trip and the kids+Koromaru stage a potentially ill-advised rescue trip (they're fine)

I love the implication that Minato just sucks at making things. There's probably a gendered analysis to be made about how Hamuko can cook and sew in her social links but Minato can't but in my heart it's just because Minato's cringe (speaking of, Sumire deserves to be the unofficial third memeber of Fuuka's cooking club)

Speaking of unofficial club members I think Yusuke hears that Minato and Fuuka are in the art club and is just fucking vibrating but doesn't say anything because he doesn't want to impose and then Minato invites him along and he is soooo excited to be able to make art with Minato and half the time no one understands what he's saying because he's been devouring art theory textbooks since he could read but he still takes the first thing Minato drew and gave him and keeps it under his pillow for good luck (idk how much of an Art Nerd Keisuke is but I feel like even without Madarame's influence Yusuke talks like an art history grad student at age 8 so he may or may not be able to follow.)

Club trip to the art museum you have never seen a child more excited outside of a candy store

Kasumi and Sumire train with Yuko even though her kids are a little older because they can keep up and Kasumi really wanted to

Naoto and Rise meeting early on would be so funny I think Naoto should do something incredibly embarassing and after Naoto is a complete badass In Persona 4 because he already has a Persona Rise is like "wait didn't you fall into the fountain at Pawlonia Mall two years ago"

I do think Minato and Hamuko being worried about not doing enough to support their siblings is a part of their arc because. You know basically being in charge at age 8 and having a really unstable home life but I have not narrowed down a vibe I like for both of them. I think Minato seeing Mamoru and thinking maybe he's been too happy to be distant and let the others do their own thing would def be interesting though

[ajshaweel]

03 || Louis’ Sleepover Plans

Louis, Harry, Liam, Zayn and Niall all got very excited about the sleepover party. They talked about it all the time at school. They spoke about it so much that their teacher Mr Cowell got cross with them.

He got especially cross with Liam because his voice was the loudest, even keeping him inside at playtime. Niall loved it though. He has a wonderful time with Zayn, the blonde even sharing his packet of chocolate fingers with the other.

Niall really liked Zayn a lot, he thought he was amazing and beautiful and gorgeous and had nice hair and pretty eyes and nice lips...

Okay. Maybe he had some thoughts sometimes that not normal people thought about their friends but Niall knew it was alright, as long as nobody found out.

After playtime, Liam was glaring at Niall "you mean pig Niall!" She yelled as it was time to go home "it was all your fault.

He pauses "You were saying something stupid about how you never been to a sleepover before so I said you can't have had any friends at your old school and then Mr Cowell got cross with me when I didn't start saying stuff, it was you"

"It wasn't really Nialls fault" said Zayn, backing the younger up

"Yes it was! He wouldn't own up. He let me take the blame. He's horrible. I don't know why why we have to have him tagging around with us all the time" Liam complained

"Don't be like that Liam" said Zayn, putting his arm around him, trying to calm him down "here, do you want a chocolate biscuit? I saved it for you"

Liam, who just holding a grudge, wouldn't take the chocolate biscuit so Harry ate it instead.

"Are you really having a chocolate cake for your birthday, Louis?" Harry asked

"Yeah, my mum's friend making it" Louis replied "and we are having egg sandwiches, sausages on sticks, cheese and pineapple, fancy ice creams and special fruity drinks with tiny umbrellas"

Louis' eyes were shining when he finished

"Like grown up cocktails" Niall mentioned

"Is Niall still coming to your sleepover?" Liam asked which made the blonde heart start thumping

Zayn was quick to defend me "of course he is, we're all coming" he then changes the topic slightly "hey, I can't wait until it's my sleepover party, if my mum lets me have one"

Niall blushed slightly at the protection but he prayed that nobody noticed and thankfully to him nobody did.

Chloe smirked "my mum will let me, she lets me do anything"

Niall was pretty sure he wasn't going to be invited to Liams sleepover party but he didn't care. He did desperately want to go to Louis' however

Louis then whispers in Nialls ear so Liam didn't hear "of course you can still come, Niall"

Greatfully, Niall gives Louis a hug and that is when he decided he liked him almost as much as he liked Zayn. There was just something about Zayn put him at number one.

Niall went shopping with his mum to buy Louis a birthday present. He thought he might buy him a grown-up fountain pen because Louis liked writing.

The boy wanted to spend a long time choosing but Greg went with them too and of course he was having a bad day, crying a lot. People started staring at them and it made Greg more overwhelmed, crying louder.

"Do hurry up and choose Louis' present" his mum encouraged

Niall couldn't decide which colour fountain pen his friend would like best. Bright red? Lime green? Sunny yellow? Sky blue? Louis liked wearing all different bright colours.

"Niall!" His mum protested "we'll have to go"

Greg was bright red in the face himself and still screaming. Just then, Niall a plastic case of special metallic roller pens all different colours: pink, orange, emerald, purple, turquoise and even gold and silver.

Niall knew that this was perfect.

"Can I these for Louis, Mum? Please?" Niall begged

They were more expensive than the fountain pens, but Maura was so keen to get out of the 'Smiths' shop – she didn't argue.

Hopefully, Louis would like the special colour pens. Niall would like a set like that himself. He did have a lovely purple metallic pen, but his brother Greg got a hold of it and spoil the tip so it could only write in splotches.

Niall debated trying the pens, just to make sure they worked alright, but as soon as they got home, their mum got Greg changed, fed and calmed down and then immediately wrapped the pen set in a piece of pink tissue paper and tied it with a old crimson hair ribbon.

The present looked beautiful, which is exactly what Niall wanted to look like for the party on Saturday. Zayn promised Niall that he was only going to be wearing casual clothes and not dressing up fancy so this made Niall wear something casual too.

Niall had serious doubts about his fancy clothes anyway. The shirt had embroidered teddy bears on it. Niall liked them but now he was sure that Liam would call him babyish.

The blonde had teddy bears on his pyjamas too, but he hoped that it wouldn't matter as they were very old pyjamas and getting a bit small. Niall liked them because they were his favourites.

Along with this, he had a teddy bear that was very little and a deep shade of navy blue. Niall had named it midnight and he felt a bit embarrassed but he couldn't get to sleep without him.. luckily he was very small small so he hoped that Liam wouldn't notice.

Niall dad drove him over to Louis' house. He felt bad for thinking this but he was glad he didn't have to walk there with his mum and his brother.

"You have a lovely time, Niall" he dad encouraged as they pulled outside the house.

Nervously, Niall didn't actually say anything. He hoped and hoped he would have a lovely time.

Masterlist

[gurokichi]

There is no need to apologize, Bon. That wasn't even a late reply! <3 My day was definitely comfy and cozy. My cats were being extra cuddly, too, so doll had 2 great cuddle buddies!

I haven't fully watched any of those suggestions through yet! Doll hasn't even heard of some of those!! I'll definitely be sure to watch DSD and check out the others, Black Butler has been on my 'list to watch' for quite some time, so hopefully, I'll get around to watching it too! Doll truly appreciates all the suggestions^^

Eep! Thank you so much for the compliments! I am both shocked and so happy to learn you've gone through my entire blog <3 I haven't been writing long, probably about a year or two. I only truly saw it as anything I could share a couple months before making my blog! I hope to keep it more of a hobby and a way to express myself, possibly publish some of my writing in the future, but I don't plan to pursue it professionally by any means!

I have many hobbies and Interests,,, recently though I've specifically into,,, Flower pressing, writing, reading, you, my dip pens and fountain pens, my pets, plants, and beading! What are some of your hobbies?

-Your Dolly 🎀

Aaa, okay, if you say so!! I just hate taking so long when I’m online to reply; I don’t wanna leave my doll waiting… I fear that you’ll become bored of me if I take too long (◞‸◟)

Comfy and cozy days are the best!! ALSO, AW, YOU HAVE CATS?? I’m so jealous… cats are adorable. What’re their names?

I’m glad that I was able to give you some suggestions; I was worried that you’d have already watched through most of them… good to hear that isn’t the case! Please let me know your thoughts on my suggestions if you ever watch any of them (＞＜)

You’re welcome, Dolly! You’re very deserving of them. How could I not go through your blog when you’re such an interesting little thing? Ah, I see… well, your writing is wonderful! I can’t wait to see more of it in the future. It’s good to have hobbies that you enjoy. I wish you luck if you ever want to publish some of your writing!

My doll seems very crafty. What do you like reading? Are there any books you’d recommend? I’ll take any recommendations. I’m trying to get back into reading books… it’s kind of overwhelming to have so many options!! You’re also into plants..? Into them as you enjoy gardening, just learning about them, or both? I like gardening. I also like learning about flower meanings, that’s always fun! Do you have a favorite flower, Doll? I’d say mine would have to be bleeding hearts.

I definitely wanna pick up more creative hobbies like you have… not sure which I’d like to do, though. As for my hobbies and interests, I enjoy space, psychology, nature, video games, collecting things that I find cute/interesting, history, writing, and drawing!

[ryuzakemo128]

Demons in my head, Angels in my eyes

(Part One) (Part II) Masterlist

Credit for Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Cello Player/ Visual Artist! You, Female Reader x Chrissy Cunningham

Content Warning: Mental Illness mentioned and embedded into it. Like Depression, Synaesthesia, and PTSD. Suicide Ideation also heavily referenced.

Words: 4717

Summary: You can’t say anything to your mother because all she ever did was “Don’t do that. Do something else.”

Your parents left over the weekend, you didn’t hear them leave out the front door, you slept too heavily to notice much of anything these days. You were determined to make the most of the rest of the weekend before returning to school on Monday morning. At three in the morning, you grabbed your journal, the one that had all your thoughts, feelings and everything in between tucked inside.

To anyone else, it’s a normal journal, to some it’s a diary. For you, it’s part of your soul, your mind, and your body. If someone were to ask for it, it would be like asking to cut off one of your limbs. Severing part of your soul as well as your body.

You wrote in cursive, much like your grandmother did, the Italian script swirling over the pages like whispers of the past. The words bled into the paper, dark and heavy with the weight of your thoughts. It was a therapeutic act, the scratch of the fountain pen on the parchment a lullaby to your restless mind. You detailed your days, the way the light danced across your cello strings as you played, the vibrant colours that filled your vision with every note. It was your escape, a place where you didn't feel so alone.

I don’t think they quite understand how I feel. How alone I am in the middle of the night. While they have friends, and I’m alone in the middle of the night. Crying myself to sleep because they don’t see me. They chose not to. I am alone in my bedroom in the middle of the night, crying my heart out as it burns to ash and cinders. How can I be truly alive if I feel so dead on the inside?

You continued to write into your journal, the sleeves of your black jumper kept rolling down like the waves of the sea and the wind in the air. Your phone rang, “(L/N residence. This is (Y/N) speaking. How can I help you?”

The voice on the other line was unfamiliar, yet it sent a chill down your spine, “Is this (Y/N)?”

“Yeah. Who is this? Where did you get this number?” You were creeped out by this. You were sure that you didn’t share your number with someone outside the people you knew. “If this is a prank call. Please leave me alone. If you are making this into a prank call. I want you to think about your life choices that led you to this point. Then I want you to leave me alone.”

“This isn’t a prank. It’s Eddie. From school?” He spoke slowly, almost nervously. It was clear he didn’t expect you to be up at this hour.

“Right, right, doesn’t answer my question about where you got my number, though. If you could answer that question before we get any further information out of the way. It would be both nice and rather creepy if you didn’t,” you replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of your voice.

Eddie sighed, “Look, I know this is weird. I found it in the yearbook, okay? I just... I couldn’t sleep either. And I remembered seeing you at the music room sometimes, playing the cello. It’s beautiful, by the way. And I just... I don’t know, I guess I wanted to talk to someone who understood. Who’s not going to judge me for being a little messed up at the moment.”

“Right. The D&D guy with the curls, leather jacket and denim vest with that D&D on the back.” You commented. “Same guy that’s been over my place twice and only just managed to get my number.”

“Well, I figured you’d be easier to talk to than the other girls in school. They don’t seem to get the whole...” he trailed off, searching for the right words, “the whole weirdness of the world we’re in.”

“Did you want to come over? You sound pretty out of it.” You went on a limb and asked him.

There was a moment of silence before Eddie spoke again, “Yeah, actually. That would be great. Do you mind if I come over?”

“If I minded, I wouldn't have asked or offered it. Also, I bought more soda on Friday.” You told him.

Eddie took a deep breath, “Alright, cool. I’ll be over in five. Just, uh, don’t let anyone know, okay?”

“Munson. It’s three in the morning. I doubt people are going to be awake at this hour. Also, who am I going to tell outside my black cat Mr. Midnight?” You asked him confused.

“Just don’t tell anyone. Okay?” He sounded desperate.

“You have my word. I will not tell another human soul.” You promised.

“Thanks, I really need this.” He said, the relief evident in his voice.

“I’ll see you when you get here.” You hung up the phone and tucked your journal under your pillow, swiping at the tears that had escaped during your cathartic writing session. You didn’t bother to change out of your pyjamas or even put on shoes. Who was going to see you at this hour? You tiptoed upstairs, avoiding the creaky third step from the top, and unlocked the front door. The chilly autumn air woke you up a bit, sending a shiver down your spine. You stepped aside as Eddie appeared, looking even more dishevelled than usual.

“You look….you look awful this morning. What the hell happened to you? Did you try to win a fight in your sleep or something?” You opened the door, stepping aside to let him inside. “You managed to look worse than I feel. The shower is upstairs if you need it.”

Eddie gave a small, sad smile, stepping into the warmth of your house. His eyes searched yours for a moment before he nodded, “Thanks, I might just do that. It’s been a rough night.”

“I’ll get something for you to change into.” You walked down to your bedroom to get an oversized shirt and a pair of sweatpants from your drawer. You also handed him a monotone-coloured beach towel. Better to be safe than sorry when it comes to covering up after a shower.

When Eddie came down, his hair was wet, and he had your clothes on. They swamped him a bit, but he had a certain charm to him, even when he looked like he’d just got out of a dumpster. He sat down on the couch, looking around nervously. The silence was awkward, so you turned on the TV, playing something random in the background to fill the void.

You handed him a can of soda and sat down beside him, your eyes on the flickering screen but your mind racing. What could have possibly brought him here at this hour? Was he in trouble? Did he need help? The curiosity was eating away at you, but you knew better than to pry. So, you decided to leave him to his own devices while you tied up your bedroom a bit more.

The emerald-green velvet couch on the other side of the television. You grabbed the remote and turned the volume down so that it was a gentle murmur in the background. You sat next to Eddie, the scent of mint and rain from his shampoo filling the surrounding space. He took a sip of the soda, his eyes focused on the TV, but you knew he wasn’t watching.

You gave him a pair of thick black winter socks to keep his feet warm. “The basement stays pretty cold. Even in summer. Better off putting them on, otherwise you’ll get sick from the cold seeping through the concrete floor.”

Eddie nodded, slipping the socks over his feet with a grateful look. He hadn’t said much since he arrived, which was unlike him. Normally, he was a ball of energy, spouting off jokes and stories about his latest D&D campaign. But tonight, he was subdued, his eyes darker than usual. You didn't mind.

The concrete floor covered in faux fur rugs in dark colours kept most of the cold from seeping in. But not all of it. You dragged out your heater in case he needed to use it.

“So, what’s been going on with you?” You finally asked, breaking the silence.

Eddie took a deep breath, his eyes still on the TV, “You remember the party?”

"Which one? It's been a while since I went to one." You answered.

"The one at the beginning of the semester. Where the music room got trashed." He replied, his voice low and tight.

“I remembered seeing the aftermath of it.” you commented as you cleared out most of the garbage from your room. Sorting it in three categories. Recycling, general waste and glass containers. “I never wanted to bleach my eyes more than I did that day. I draw horrific stuff on a daily basis. Also, I doubt it was your fault, it was more likely the fault of someone who didn’t know better or should have known better.”

Eddie nodded, his eyes never leaving the TV, “Yeah, I know. But it’s like...everyone’s looking at me differently now. Like I’m the school’s villain all of a sudden. It’s hard to deal with, you know?”

“Well, one, you’re dating Chrissy Cunningham, Jason’s ex-girlfriend. So, he’s more than likely spreading rumours or something. Secondly, I doubt they’re looking at you that way. If they are, let me know and I’ll fight them.” You replied as you looked around seeing how much you have done already.

Eddie looked at you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, “You’d do that for me?”

“Is the moon round? Is the sun white? Is the grass really greener on the other side?” You answered in a way that said. ‘No shit sherlock. Of course I would.’

Eddie looked at you cleaning your room up for him to longue around comfortably. It was a sight he wasn’t used to seeing. Normally, people avoided him, or at least didn’t go out of their way to make him feel comfortable. “Why are you doing all this?” He asked, his voice small and tired.

“I am treating you how I would want to be treated in return.” You answered. “I am depressed. I have a lot of shitty things, parents included, and do you know what? I’m still going to pamper you. So, sit there and let it happen.”

Eddie’s eyes searched yours, looking for any signs of deceit, but all he found was sincerity. He leaned back into the couch, watching as you worked tirelessly to organise the surrounding space. It was a strange feeling, to be cared for so deeply by someone who was practically a stranger. The small noises you made cleaning up, the way your eyes squinted in concentration as you sorted through the mess, it was all so...comforting.

Then your cat wandered in from his cat perch and fell asleep in the cat bed above the television. It was one of those nights where the silence was the only companion you had outside of the TV static. Eddie leaned back, the socks you gave him had helped. He could feel the warmth seeping into his bones. “You don't have to do all this for me, you know.”

“What does that have anything to do with wanting to pamper you?” You asked confused. “Don’t mind Mr. Midnight. He’ll watch you from his cat bed. He’s a people watcher.”

Eddie chuckled slightly, watching the cat sleep. “It’s just...no one’s ever done this for me before. And you don’t even know why I’m here.”

“True. You could stab me to death and hide my body in my mattress.” You shrugged. “Though, I don’t think its nice to demand things from people who are clearly distressed about something. Learned that lesson the hard way.”

Eddie looked up at you, his eyes searching your face for any hint of malice. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

You frowned at his question, “Did you expect me to let you in and just be mean to you? What kind of person did you think I am?”

Eddie’s gaze dropped to his hands, which were picking at the label of the soda can. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not used to people being...just nice without expecting anything in return. My life isn’t exactly full of rainbows and unicorns, you know?”

“I didn’t think you like unicorns or rainbows. I didn’t think you’d be the type to wear bright colours.” You said. “Though. I hate to say this. Neither is mine. My parents left to get my mother’s inheritance a few hours ago. They said they would be gone for a week or two. But I have feeling it’s going to be two or three. They’re never in a rush to get back from wherever they are.”

“Wow. That sucks. But you seem to handle it pretty well.” Eddie said, his eyes still on his hands.

“I keep myself busy. If I don’t, I usually take it out on myself. Which, according to my therapist, is not healthy.” You said, tossing a pillow into the pile of clean laundry you had made.

Eddie nodded slowly, his eyes following your movements. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to process your words. “So, what do you do to keep busy?”

“You know, I play the cello, I do realistic cosmic, contemporary body horror pictures. I do pottery to sell." You said from the top your head.

Eddie's eyes snapped to yours, "Body horror?" He said with a raised eyebrow.

You pointed to your walls, which were covered body horror that looked like it moved if you stared at it too long. You painted your roof to look like the stars at night, placing glow in the dark stars on a few of the painted stars to make them stand out.

Eddie’s eyes widened as he took in the artwork. “You did all of these?”

“Yeah. I painted the walls before I was moved down here to have more space than my parents could give me upstairs. Though I have a feeling it was more to do with the fact that it was to lock me down here sometimes.” You answered.

“Your parents lock you down here?” Eddie’s eyebrows shot up, surprise etched on his face.

“Sometimes.” You answered.

Eddie looked around the room with new eyes, taking in the artwork that adorned the walls. The cobwebs of paint stretching out from the edges of the canvas looked like they were reaching out to him, the figures within twisted and contorted in a way that was eerily beautiful. He knew the feeling of trying to escape something, the way the subjects of your art seemed to be trying to break free of their two-dimensional prisons.

A month later the demon in the back of your skull whispered, ‘They don’t want you. They would be better off had you died in your sleep.’

Sometimes you want to give in to those thoughts and end it all. Sometimes you feel like you believe the demon inside your head. You would if you were alone all the time, wouldn’t you?

You can’t say anything to your mother because all she ever did was “Don’t do that. Do something else.”

She never told you what that something else should be. Like she expected you to just know what you were supposed to do or read her mind somehow. When they returned it was like things got worse than had already. The house cleaner than it was without them, than it was whenever they were there in person. They didn’t even acknowledge your existence unless you were playing your cello. It was like the only time you weren’t invisible to them was when you were playing that damn instrument.

One afternoon you were about to head out to practice to avoid another physical altercation with your father. The cello case in your hand was a shield from his criticism and a ticket to the sanctuary of the music room. You were about to leave when your father pulled you by the hair and slammed you against the wall, his hand over your mouth to muffle your screams. The force was so strong that you felt your teeth rattle in your skull.

Hot tears went down your cheeks, as he whispered harshly into your ear, “You are fucking useless unless you are playing that stupid thing.” You felt the rage build up inside of you, but you had to keep it down. If you didn't, it would only make things worse. You nodded, your eyes squeezed shut tightly, trying to hold in the pain and fear.

You hoped it would stop, yet it continued, his grip on your hair tightened more than it had in months. Your father decided that wasn't enough, it wasn't enough for him to 'satisfy' his need to control you. So, he grabbed the cello case from your hands and smashed it onto the ground, the sound echoing through the hallway like a gunshot. The strings snapped and the wood splintered, your heart shattering along with it.

The tears fell freely now, and you couldn't hold in the whimpers that escaped your lips. Your father looked at the wreckage of your cello, his eyes filled with a twisted satisfaction. He released his grip, and you slumped to the floor, the pieces of your shattered world scattered around you. The cello was more than just an instrument; it was your voice, your escape, your reason to keep going. Now it lays in ruins, and you trudged off to see if was worth fixing or if you had to save up for a replacement again.

Eddie found you at Lover's Lake, the broken cello still with you, your eyes glazed over with a mix of anger and sadness. You had called him, your voice shaking as you spoke through the sobs, “My cello… it's gone. He….he broke it. He said I'm useless. He took it from me. He took it.” You pointed to the ruin that was your black cello, the strings snapped, and the wood cracked in half from where your father threw it onto the ground.

Eddie's eyes filled with a rage that was new to him, a rage he hadn’t felt before, a fiery determination burning inside his chest. He couldn’t do much for you now. What he wanted to do for you is both illegal and cold-blooded murder. Your father was a monster, and you were the one paying the price for his twisted sense of reality. He knew that wasn’t what you needed from him right now.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly as you wept into his shirt. “It's okay,” he murmured, “It's okay. I'm here.”

A week after that, while you waited for your new black cello, your hands were idle too idle for your own liking, and you felt like you were losing your mind. You paid for the replacement out of your emergency cash funds. The money you had been saving for college. You didn't tell anyone at school about it, not even Eddie. You didn’t want to burden him with your personal hell.

You stayed in the library during lunch from now on, studying medical journals to improve your body horror to add more grotesque details like veins bulging, flesh tearing apart, and the look of bones cracking, because that’s what you thought would make you happy. It didn’t, but it kept the demon at bay for a while. Feasting on the knowledge of the most grotesque parts of your imagination, a banquet fit for a legion of demons flooding in like a river of blood.

You continued to improve your art the more medical journals you read, but the emptiness grew within you. The music that had once filled your soul was now a silent echo, a painful reminder of what you had lost. Each night you stared at the wall, your thoughts racing faster than your heart could beat. You could almost hear the symphony of your cello playing in your mind, but it was muffled by the sobs that you tried so hard to hide from the world.

“I’m going to go into Forensics Pathology.” You said in a tone devoid of emotion to Eddie and Chrissy. Answering the question of what you were going to do after high school. “My dad does it. My grandfather did it too. Generational thing. Yeah. Munson, I told you weren’t a freak. You don’t have a family like mine. You’re far more normal.”

Chrissy looked at you with wide eyes, her grip on Eddie’s arm tightening. “That’s intense. But it sounds like it’s in your blood, you know?” She tried to sound positive, but the horror was clear in her voice.

“You’re scared of me. I understand.” You noticed. You always noticed. You attempted to head to the library when the bell rang, but your books felt too heavy to hold with trembling hands. You didn’t bother to explain why you weren’t going to the cafeteria anymore. You didn’t bother to explain why you stopped playing the cello. They wouldn’t get it anyway. They wouldn’t care in the ways that you cared.

'Oggi in figura, domani in sepoltura.' embroidered with gold and purple thread into your dark blue denim jacket, each letter painstakingly done in cursive and with a skull at the bottom of it. Though you added an embroidered skull every week as a tally to count the weeks you were still alive. It was a morbid way to count the days, but it kept you going. It was a reminder that you had survived another week, another day, another hour.

You stitched that into your jacket, feeling the thread poke your skin every time you pushed the needle through. It was a comforting pain, something that grounded you when everything else felt like it was falling apart. Eddie found you in the library stitching in another skull into the back of your jacket.

Just as you were listening to a cassette tape of your second cousin, Joseph, singing Ave Maria, the same cousin that had taken his own life at the age of 27. The irony wasn’t lost on you, but the melody was hauntingly beautiful. It was the second funeral you went to, the first being your grandmother's.

The bell in the distance rang, indicating the end of lunch. The hallways would soon be flooded with students rushing to their next class. You hadn’t eaten anything, but you weren’t hungry. Not really. You hadn’t been hungry for a while.

Eddie sat beside you, his eyes following your trembling hands as they worked the needle through the fabric. He didn’t say anything at first, just took in the sight of you, the pain in your eyes, and the stark reality of the phrase etched into your jacket. Finally, he spoke up, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“What’s that mean?” He pointed at the Italian words.

"Today in person, tomorrow in a grave." You answered finishing off the skull on your jacket.

Eddie looked at you with a mix of shock and concern. "That's... intense."

"It's about death. It's not supposed to be intense." you remarked putting your jacket back on.

Eddie nodded, looking at the new skull you had just finished sewing. "Why do you do that?"

"It's a week tally for along I've been alive." you answered dryly.

Eddie's eyes searched yours, looking for any signs of a joke, but all he found was a sad truth. "Why do you need to keep track like that?"

"My cello is broken, my hands are idle and if I don't do something I just might kill myself. So please save your honeyed words of encouragement for your cheer squad captain and girlfriend." you snapped. "Just do me a favour and continue to pretend that I don't exist."

You were tempted to ask someone out just to spite him. Just to prove that you weren’t as broken as he thought you were. But the truth was, you weren’t sure if you were or weren’t. The whispers grew louder every day, and it was getting harder to ignore them.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. You threw yourself into your music, the cello becoming your voice when words failed you. You had gotten a job at the local music store, teaching kids and repairing instruments. The cobwebs of the garage had long been swept away, replaced by the sweet smell of fresh paint and the sound of your cello echoing through the night.

You finally got a date with someone. Eddie found out you were going to go out with someone. The quote painted on your truck, 'Chi vive sperando -- muore cantando.' meaning 'He who lives with hope dies singing.'

Eddie found out through the town's grapevine, a network of whispers that seemed to stretch from the arcade to the very edges of Hawkins. His eyes narrowed when he saw the fresh coat of paint on your truck, the Italian script standing out starkly against the fresh blue. With the English translation underneath it. It was a clear declaration of your newfound resilience, a silent rejection of his own dark musings. He felt a pang of something akin to jealousy, though it was quickly doused by the cold realisation that you were moving on without him.

Eddie thought, 'I'm dating Chrissy, why do I feel jealous? She's just a girl from school, someone I've talked to a few times, but nothing more.' He shrugged it off, trying to convince himself that his feelings were trivial. But as the days grew closer to your date, he couldn't help but feel a sense of loss, like watching a favorite show come to an end without the satisfaction of a proper finale.

You had no idea of Eddie's turmoil. You were too busy preparing for your night out, choosing an outfit that didn't scream 'desperate' and practicing your smile in the mirror. The cello had become your sanctuary, a place where the outside world couldn't touch you, but now you were ready to step out of it, if only for a few hours. The date went well, filled with laughter and easy conversation. You felt alive in a way you hadn't in a long time, the kind of alive that didn't need the cello's strings to resonate with your soul.

As you returned home, the truck's headlights cutting through the night, you saw Eddie leaning against a lamppost, his silhouette cast in a pool of amber light. He looked up as you approached, his eyes meeting yours in the rearview mirror. For a moment, you felt a twinge of something, a whisper of regret maybe, but you pushed it aside. You had made your choice, and you weren't going to let his shadow fall over your newfound happiness.

"Hey," he called out as you parked the truck. You took a deep breath and stepped out, the cool evening air a stark contrast to the warmth of the date. "How was it?" His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it that you couldn't quite place.

"It went better than I thought." you commented unlocking the front door.

Eddie took a step closer, his eyes searching yours. "Really? That's great." His tone was forced, his smile tight. "Who's the lucky guy?"

You felt a rush of annoyance at his sudden interest. "It's none of your business, Eddie," you said firmly, your hand on the door handle to head inside for the night.

[andithewhumper]

Hannah (2)

Wow, finally an update! I've been sitting on this for a while and even though I'm still not happy with it, here it is. I am excited to be able to introduce all of my ocs.

Masterlist - Prev

Content: Vampire thralls, vampire carewhumper, past referenced abuse, human whumpee, nonbinary whumpee

The sound of the clock was loud in Quinn’s ears. The waiting was destroying them and they had to fight not to fidget with more than their hands. Their new Master was sitting with her back away from them, writing something with a fountain pen. The room was much like the rest of the house, scarily fancy. Quinn hoped that they wouldn’t need to touch anything. It all looked so expensive. Their old Master was fancy, sure, but Quinn never saw much more than his basement where they were kept. 

It had been quite a shock to come to this huge house, bustling with activity. Quinn had already seen six vampires, including the ones that brought them here, and several more humans walking around, all seeming too busy to spare them a second glance. Thankfully, out of all the vampires they had seen, Master’s friend had not been one of them. Everytime Quinn was around him, they were tied up. In fact, they were restrained for a lot of the time with their old Master; not that it was needed. They were always weak from lack of blood, it was weird now that they didn’t have that same lightheaded feeling. Quinn knew they would have to savor the strength for as long as they could. When their new Master chose to feed from them the feeling would come back and they would be as weak as ever again. 

They stared at the ground, finally getting the shaking under control. They forced themself into a posture they thought would be proper for a family this fancy. Their old Master never cared how they presented themself as long as their neck was easily accessible, but Quinn suspected now would be different and they didn’t want their Master thinking they were as useless as they really were. 

When they heard Master turn around they froze their fidgeting and tried not to move too much. They knew the vampire could hear their heartbeat so they tried to calm their breathing, not quite sure it was working. 

“So you were Joshua’s thrall, huh?” the vampire asked. Quinn swallowed hard and nodded, then remembered they had been told to respond verbally.

“Y-yes, Master.”

“You should be grateful, he was going to give you to Edward. That bastard goes through thralls like they are testing mice.” Their Master’s voice was filled with irritation. 

“I-I am grateful, Master. Th-thank you for taking me. I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused you.” Quinn kept their eyes on the ground. Their voice was quiet and respectful, but it still shook to their dismay. Their new Master must be so disappointed that she had to take such a useless thrall. 

“Look at me when you speak, thrall,” their Master ordered. Quinn’s eyes shot up immediately. They were ashamed that they had done yet another thing wrong. 

“I’m sorry, Master,” they forced out. Their Master didn’t look disappointed, though. In fact, she nodded in approval. 

“Good. Now what is your name, thrall.” 

“It’s Quinn, Master.” They wondered why their new Master cared about their name. Their old Master just referred to them as ‘human’ or ‘thrall’ and so had the vampire in the office. 

“Good, Quinn. Like I am sure you heard when I was speaking to my father, I do not need you for blood, but I will drink from you. I also will make use of you in my lab from time to time. Do you have education, Quinn?”

They expected it, but hearing that they would be used in the lab was terrifying. Quinn’s eyes flicked around the room before landing back on their Master. 

“I-I went to school until I was taken by my past master four years ago, Master.” 

The vampire nodded. “Then you will learn. I’ll start you out with something simple, but once you learn how to use the machines I’ll get you to do something more complicated. My father, annoyingly, is correct that I could use some help in the lab, though I have little use for a human test subject.” Quinn listened to Master’s musing with relief. They were more than willing to do whatever task was asked of them, especially if that meant they wouldn’t have to be a subject. 

Quinn wondered what Master was testing. They thought it was rare for women to be scientists, but they supposed, maybe Europeans did it differently. Master had a strange drag to her voice that Quinn couldn’t place, but they were sure it wasn’t American. 

Master stood and stepped closer to Quinn. 

“Now if I am going to deal with you, I will put you to good use. Stand up.” Her voice was smooth with authority and Quinn stood immediately. They felt strange, standing so close to their Master and they had to resist the instinct to kneel. Their old master would have struck them down if they ever dared to stand in his presence. 

“Now follow me quietly,” she ordered before turning away and walking out the door. 

---

Kairos was surprised by the thrall. They seemed to be very well behaved, though scared. She knew she shouldn’t be too surprised by that, of course. She knew that Joshua was severe to his thralls. Such cruelty quickly stamped out any resistance from humans. Their posture was atrocious for a thrall of the Orfeo household, but that could be remedied. Kairos couldn’t help feeling annoyed that she would have to be the one to teach them. Kairos learned very early in her death that it was in her best interest to stray as far away from the thralls as possible. They were all snitches and functioned only as extra eyes for her father. This thrall would be no such thing and Kairos found herself smirking at the thought that her father would not be able to squeeze any information out of the thrall that he gifted her himself. 

Quinn followed dutifully behind her. They trailed back a few steps and kept their eyes on the floor. Kairos strode quickly through the hallways, not caring if the thrall struggled to keep up with her. She held her head high and other thralls bowed and stepped aside when she passed. She was almost to her lab when she ran into her younger sister, Hannah.

“Oh, Kairos. I apologize. I didn’t see you.” Hannah’s voice was calm, but strong. Out of all three of her sisters, Kairos liked Hannah the most. It was in part because she knew Hannah the least. Hannah was turned only a decade before Kairos moved away from her father’s household. She was a dark skinned Romani woman with striking golden eyes, though whether they looked like that before she had died, Kairos was unsure. She was kind and while her two other sisters would poke Kairos with sharp, barbed words, Hannah was more gentle. Kairos wasn’t sure if it was because she genuinely liked her or that she was just too polite to act otherwise. 

“No worries, I’m just showing my new thrall to my lab.” Hannah’s eyes twinkled a bit at her sister’s words and she peered behind her to look at the thrall that had retreaded behind Kairos in a way that made her feel a bit possessive. She was glad that the thrall sought her for safety, however unconscious the action was. 

“Well they look gorgeous, Kairos. What made you take a thrall?” Hannah turned her attention back to her sister and Kairos could feel the human relax infinitesimally behind her. 

“Father didn’t want to reward Edward by giving him a thrall. This one came from that friend of his, Joshua.” 

Hannah made a face of disgust before nodding. 

“Well I agree with his judgment. Edward certainly needs no more encouragement to surround himself with those sorts of people.” Hannah smiled with a nod before slipping past her. Kairos glanced back at her thrall who looked nervous but not too overwhelmed. 

“Come now, we have things to do.” 

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