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xveenusx · 1 year ago

Text

Enough

Pairing(s): Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: Realizing that no matter what you do, no matter how much you love someone, you are still not enough.

Author’s note: I’ve had a severe case of writer’s block so please don’t hate my disappearance.

Rating: Pure brutal angst

Warnings: fucking painful

__________________________

I think I may have made a small miscalculation.

My eyes trailed over the mass of muscle currently spread out on my bed.

Rafe Cameron.

Kook King, heir to Ward's real estate empire, and asshole extrodinare was sleeping soundly in my bed. It was almost laughable if I wasn't so fucking terrified.

The sunlight danced across his tan skin, the sheets bunched up at his hips leaving little to imagination. My breath caught as my eyes followed the small happy trail causing memories of last night to assualt me.

Sitting on the chaise lounge chair, I curl up against the pillows humming softly to myself. Bringing the mug up to my lips, I bite back a smile at the utter relaxtaion on his face.

When Rafe told me to pack a bag, my stomach flipped with nerves. Being the maid of the infamous Cameron family wasn't exactly ideal in the eyes of his family let alone being a pogue. So we kept our relationship a secret at his request. He had too much to lose if his family reacted poorly.

People wouldn't understand. Ward wouldn't understand. That's what he always told me.

Yet, as much as I tried to understand his reasoning, a small part of me ached at the thought of it being much simpler: I just wasn't enough.

It was exahusting to say the least. Always having to hide and watch as other women with more social status and money than me throw themselves at him. It didn't help that Rafe had a tendency to flirt back causing the green monster known as jealousy to rear its ugly head in my face.

So I stuck with what I knew how to do: clean.

And just as I begin to fall off the deep end, straight over a cliff into overthinking, Rafe always manages to pull me back out. This time he did it by offering a small getaway.

The Cameron's weren't set to use their beach house for another month or so, leaving this entire property for Rafe and I to simply enjoy each other's company. Something we rarely get to do.

There was no need to pretend here.

A groan pulled me out of my thoughts directing my eyes to the bed. A cool salty breeze swept in from the open balcony doors, the sounds of waves crashing agaisnt the shore soothed me.

Rafe peered at me from under his arm with a frown marring his features.

"What's with that face?"

"I don't like waking up alone." He complained, staring at me expectantly.

Giddiness singes every nerve in my body as I set down my mug and scurry over to the bed. The moment my knees hit the bed, strong arms envelope me and tug me into a warm prison.

"Mmmmh." Rafe hums, burying his face into the nape of my neck while his hand slowly tugs my leg over his hip. A small giggle slips from my lips at his softness.

"Are you laughing at me?" His voice rumbled with sleep.

"Yes, you’re a very simple man to please."

"I didn't have you, and now I do. There, it's simple."

My heart melted at his words. For someone who struggled wiht expressing how he felt, Rafe always managed to knock me on my ass.

"What did you wanna do today?" I asked, trailing my fingertips along his face, placing every freckle, every spot to memory.

Blue crytsalized eyes follow me every move. "You. In every room in this house. Then outside."

Blushing at his words, I huffed in fake annoyance and playfully shoved his face away from me. "Rafe, I'm being serious."

"I'm being dead serious, baby." He nipped at my fingers before rolling over onto his back, dragging me directly on top.

I rest my chin on the tops of my hands that laid on his chest and stare at the beautiful man below me. Rafe's fingers thread themselves into my hair brushing it softly, alomst lulling me to sleep.

I wanted to capture this moment forever. The sound of the seagulls chirping, the smell of the salty breeze, the warmth of his body under mine, and the utter adortion that dances in his eyes as he looks at me. It was intimate and real. And for a moment, I allowed myself to dream about the possibility of this becoming a reality.

The abilty to hold his hand in public and kiss his body in private. Being able to go on dates and be on his arm for events and dinners. Hanging out with his friends and his family because I knew what they meant to him. Being able to wake up in his bed rather than sneaking out in the middle of the night. I wanted it all.

Our picture perfect bubble. And consider me naive, but I thought this moment would last forever. But the thing about bubbles is they always pop in the end.

"Guess what?" Rafe asked, his cerulean orbs intense and sincere.

A beaming smile stretched across my lips at the familiar phrase he always used. "What?"

"I love-"

"I love you." I beat him to it, making him let out a deep bellyed laugh. I was memoriezed, enamoured by every little thing he did. I wanted to hear it again and again.

Opening my mouth, "No take backs-"

A knock on the door interrupts me.

That's when our bubble pops.

"Rafe? Open up." Sarah Cameron's voice fillters in from the other side of the door.

My eyes dart to Rafe, only for his face to be painted with sheer panic. In seconds, I'm shoved off the side of the bed and fall onto the floor in a heap of sheets.

My mind took a moment to catch up with my body. But when it did, the flood of emotions that crashed into me were nothing short of excruciating. An immediate lump formed in my throat at his actions as I try to make quick excuses for him but nothing came to mind.

"Just stay down, please." The sound of his request has me closing my eyes, his words hitting me deep, knifelike in the size of the wounds that they left.

I nodded softly. I remain still on my side on the cold floor as I numbly stare at the wall.

"Sarah, what the fuck are you doing here? I had the beach house for the weekend." His words were low and sharp, nothing like how he spoke to me mere seconds ago.

"Chill out. My friends and I wanted to get away a little, plus I figured you were already here, so. "

"You brought those fucking pogues here?"

I hear her scoff. "Your friends are worse."

"Just make sure they don't steal anything. I know it's hard for them considering they wouldn't see this type of money in a life time." His words were cruel, twisting the knife deeper into my chest.

I couldn't help but wonder if there was a double meaning behind his words. I was a pogue, just like Sarah's friends, and it would take me years to afford even a fraction of what's in this beach house.

Was that how he saw me? Was this the reason why we couldn't be public?

"Have you seen her? She wasn't at the house when I left." Sarah's question drew me back to the present.

I held my breath as I waited for him to answer about my whereabouts. I couldn't take another hit.

"I know you have about two brain cells, but please tell me why you would think I know where the help is?"

All my breath left my body and I fought the urge to scream. A heavy weight sat on my chest as I blankly stared at the floor, my eyeballs burning in absolute mortification.

"God, you're such an asshole."

"I aim to please. Now leave me alone." With that, Rafe slammed the door shut but I refused to move a muscle.

Instead, I tried to focus on my breath. It was the only thing that would keep me from having a panic attack. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs but it's like my body forgot how to breathe.

Tears finally began to fall silently as I gasped for breath, clutching the sheet closer to my chest. Humilation pricked my very being as his words play on repeat in my mind.

Rafe was the best part of my day. He made me want things I didn't even know I wanted. And yet, this was how he viewed me. So small and insiginifcant.

Footsteps move in my direction but I paid them no mind. Moving was impossible, so I just stayed in the spot where Rafe thought I belonged— on the cold hard floor.

"I know how it looks, just give me a chance to explain." I felt him kneel beside me, his hand reaching to cup my face. I jerked my face away from him and return my attention to the wall.

"Can you please get off the floor?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"This is where you wanted me, right?" The words left a stale taste in my mouth.

My heart pounded in my throat as a hot flush filled my cheeks.

"Look at me." He demanded.

I couldn't. It hurt too much.

"Baby, please. Look at me." He touched my chin and I felt my body shudder.

"Don't touch me." The words tore out of my chest as I wrenched myself away from him.

Rafe's eyes tracked my movement and his face became very still as if contemplating his next move.

The level of betrayal I felt must have been painted on my face, because his expression shifted to one of regret.

"I made a mistake-"

"Stop." I snapped, lifting my hand to cut him off. "Get out. I need to change and leave before Sarah see's me."

"I drove you, where are you going to go when you don't have a car?"

My eyes narrow at his tone. Once again he was painting me as this helpless girl that was nothing without him.

"I have two legs that work perfetly fine."

Rafe crossed his bulging arms against his toned chest. "You're not leaving until we talk."

A fake laugh past my lips. "We're done, there's nothing left to talk about."

He let out a growl of frustation. "We're not breaking up."

Was he delusional?

"This is me breaking up with you. We are done, Rafe."

Rafe's icey blue eyes narrowed into slits. "Stop trying to break up with me."

"You threw me off the bed!" I shouted, my hands pointing to the floor where I laid moments ago, the shame still fresh as an open wound.

"You threw me off the bed." I repeated softer, my voice breaking at the end. "The bed, Rafe. Just so Sarah didn't see you with me."

"I shouldn't have done that-"

"It happened. It's done. Just let me leave."

Protecting what little self respect I had left was my only goal. No matter how much I loved him, it wasn't worth this constant stream of self doubt and humiliation that seemed to follow us like a plague.

Rafe stared at me for a moment before he jumped into action. Heading towards my suitcase, I watch frozen as he goes through my clothes, picking an outfit for me.

Taking several strides to me, Rafe shoved the clothes into my arms, his breath heavy. "Put these on."

"Rafe, what the hell are you doing-"

"I made a mistake. One that I'm going to fix right now. So stop fighting with me and put these on."

Unease filled me chest as my eyes dart to the clothes.

"How?"

"No more hiding. You and me, okay?"

I stared into his hopeful gaze, looking for even a flash of insincerity or deceit, but only found sheer determination. "Rafe, you can get out of this. I'm giving you an out-"

He shakes his head roughly, strands of golden hair falling on his forehead. "I don't want an out, I want you. So put the clothes on so I can go tell the world I love you."

I snorted, "Seems a bit melodramatic. Let's start small, yeah?"

Pushing his hair back, a sexy smile pulled at his lips. "Small."

I made my decision. Turning around, I grabbed the clothes and began to dress.

I wiped my sweaty hands against my mini white sundress as nerves begin to prick every bit of my skin. Rafe stood in front of me, his glacial eyes soft, with his hand held out for mine. "Ready, baby?"

Hope inflated my lungs as I placed my trembling hand in his, the cool feel of his rings brining a familiar type of comfort.

Rafe leads us out of the room and towards the staircase where voices floated up from downstairs. I was nervous. Extremely nervous. He was going to do it. Rafe was going to introduce me as his girlfriend to his sister and her friends, no less.

The sound of our footsteps echoed against the giant house causing the voices to slowly die away.

Coming into view, Sarah and the pogues are all perched in the living room wearing beach attire. An open bottle of tequila and shot glasses are spread along the table.

All eyes zone in on us before they zoom in on our clased hands. Sarah's eyes widened and I fought the urge to pull my hand from Rafe's grasp. As if sensing my thoughts, Rafe squeezed my hand reassuringly and moved me slightly in front of him.

He cleard his throat. "I uh-"

His eyes shot to mine. I let my fingers brush against his arm in encouragement, a proud smile gracing my lips.

This was the first step in the right direction. Once we told Sarah, it would be easier with each passing person.

Butterflies swarmed my stomach like a zoo. I knew how hard this was for him, but he was still doing this for me, for us. Rafe was finally making us a priority. The unattainble future now felt like it was within my reach.

"Sarah, there's something I want to tell you. I've um-well I've been seeing-"

The front door slammed.

"Looks like we're missing all the fun." Ward Cameron walked in, hand in hand with Rose. A loose linen shirt with thin pants dress his body with a hat and an expensive pair of sungalsses cover his face.

I felt Rafe's grip slowly loosen on my hand. Panic clawed at my throat as I turn my head to look at him. Rafe stared directly ahead with his jaw clenched. He refused to even look at me.

In a last ditch effort to cling onto the invisible string that held us together, I tightened my grip on his hand but Rafe jerked his hand away.

I felt the pressure in my chest finally pop and the string that once tethered us together finally tear. Dread sat in my stomach like lead and bile traveled up my throat.

He made his decision and once again, it wasn't me.

Heat rushed up my neck as I left my arms hang limply at my side. I didn't know what to do, I couldn't think. My shoulders slumped as I bit down on my tongue hard enought to draw blood.

It kept me from screaming.

"Rafe, thank god you brought the help. Though it looks like she hasn't been doing much cleaning." Rose tsked as she looked at the littered table in distaste. "Honey, be a dear and make us new drinks. Then when you have a minute, our bags are out front. Go ahead and put them in our room."

With a wave of a hand she dismissed me, as her and Ward walk passed me with no other acknowlegment.

My mouth went dry as I clenched my shaky shands together. I could feel Sarah's gaze drilling into the side of my head, but I couldn't look at her. Instead, I once again looked at the bane of my existance. The source of this crippling pain the crushes every inch of my soul.

"Rafe..." My voice trembled as I begged him, pleaded, for him to look at me. Just once.

I wanted him to see my face. He refused, the only hint of his turmoil was the bob of his adam's apple.

Swallowing my pride, I put my head down and do what I do best: clean.

____________________

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me alive. I spent the rest of the day doing every little thing Rose asked. I kept my head down and said not one word.

Rafe made my place in his life very clear so I was going to be exactly what he wanted me to be. The perfect little maid.

The entire Cameron family sat at the table for dinner, John B included, as I gently set each of their plates down in front of them. I held my breath once I reached Rafe, knowing that one hint of his expensive musky cologne would send me into a fit of tears.

"Thank you." The timber of his voice caused me to close my eyes briefly in pain.

A familiar touch to my wrist made me jerk away and clear my throat. I continue serving dinner, forcing myself to ignore the gravity that's pulling me towards him.

"That'll be all, you can go relax for a bit. We'll need you back to clean up, of course."

"Of course." My smile was brittle. I allowed myself only a glance. Rafe glared down at his plate, hands clenched into fists at his side.

My feet moved on their own accord and soon I found myself outside, standing beside the pool that overlooked the shore. Taking in gulps of air, I placed my head in my hands.

Starting over was never something I planned. Once I met Rafe, everything else shifted into perspective. All I ever thought about was moving forward with him and starting a life together. One that he would be proud of. One where I didn't have to hide.

"I'm sorry." The words came from behind me and burned a whole straight through my chest.

I choked back on my tears that threatened to drown me and stare down at the rag in my hands.

"Baby." He moved closer now, his heat pressing into my side.

A small shake of my head was all I could muster. The armour I placed around my delicate heart was getting weaker with each passing second.

"I said, I'm sorry." His hand reaches for my waist, turning me to face my destruction.

A light blue linen shirt paired with white six inch seamed shorts don his body. A large gold watch decorated his wrist to match the shiny gold necklace that rested on his chest.

Looking down at myself, a simple tee and leggings, the contrast was so striking it was laughable. In what world had I fooled myself into thinking Rafe Cameron was mine.

Deciding to proctect my sanity, I moved back towards the house with every intention of cleaning up before grabbing my bag and leaving when Rafe blocked my escape.

"Did you hear me? I'm so fucking sorry, for all of it."

"I heard you." Indifference lacing every word.

Rafe gowled, running his hands through his hair in frustation at my lack of emotion. "Stop acting like you don't care and just talk to me."

"I don't care what your family thinks of me and I don't care what you think of me. I dont care anymore, Rafe."

Rafe gripped my chin and his irate gaze burned me. "Tell me what to do to fix it."

There was nothing left of me for him to fix.

The sound of Ward calling out my name is enough to distract Rafe. Pulling my face from his grasp, I promplty turned around and headed towards the house.

"Stop fucking walking." He barked out harshly.

Ignoring his words, I continue to head in the direction of the house. Only a few more hours and I can leave with my head held high despite the gaping hole in my chest.

"I swear to God, stop walking." I could hear his footsteps behind me causing a rush of adrenaline to spread like wildfire through my veins.

"Last time I checked, you work for my family. My last name is fucking Cameron so if I tell you to stop walking, you stop fucking walking." The words are cruel and dark and they have their desired effect because I stop immediately in my tracks.

My eyes began to burn as I pivoted on my heel and slwoly turned to face him. His gaze hardened and I can see him contemplating something before a vicious smirk decorates the face I love.

A glass tumblr was in his hand and I watched in absolute shock as he tilted the cup, spilling the dark liquid onto the floor. The rag in my hand suddenly weighed eight tons as I realized his intent.

"Clean it up."

My blood turned ice cold and a sound a disbelief left my lips.

"I said, Clean. It. Up." He gestured to the floor.

I searched his eyes for anything, for everything, but there's nothing there. Looking back down at the mess, I nodded my head and slowly dropped to my knees.

Tears blurred my vision as I scrubbed the floor clean, wanting nothing more than to disappear. Our fate was finally sealed in that moment.

Leaning back on the heels of my feet, I swallowed. Tears clung to my lashes but the damage was already done. The trails the tears left in their wake burned into my skin as a reminder of his cruelty.

His cold mask finally cracked at the sight of my tears. Rafe took a step in my direction but something in my face made him halt.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Cameron?” I averted my eyes from his.

A harsh noise escaped his lips then he reached out and grabbed my shoulders. I closed my eyes at the heat of his touch and my lips began to quiver.

“I just wanted you to talk to me….” Rafe spoke softly, his words pained.

I wiped my tears harshly and forced myself to look at him for the last time. His hard glacial eyes study my face.

The memory from this morning continued to fade out of my reach. Pain filled me as I realized that was the last time we would ever be together.

“Am I free to go, Mr. Cameron?”

His face crumbled. For a second, one second, a twisted sense of happiness hit me at the sight of his pain. Rafe did this to us. Not his family, not his friends, but him.

Rafe’s face became very still. He nodded slightly and relief filled me. I stared into his eyes, hoping he could see all the love I had been so willing to shower him with, but it was now too late.

Giving him my back, I allowed the dirty rag in my hand drop. 20 more steps. That’s all that stood between me and the next chapter of my story. One that didn’t include him.

Each step seemed to get heavier the farther I walked away from Rafe. I was wrapped around a haze of heartbreak that almost made my movements mechanical.

I entered the house, numb to the bone, and gathered all my things. Everything around me was out of focus as I dragged my suitcase towards the front door.

I could see Rose from the corner of my eye, her mouth moving, but the ringing in my ears only seemed to get louder. Pushing past her, I headed straight for the door and forced myself not to look back.

Everything was different now. In a way, so was I.

One foot in front of the other, I walked down the drive way. The ringing in my ears and the adrenaline that pumped through my veins was suddenly dulled at the sound of the door slamming open behind me.

Loud footsteps echoed behind me before my arms are grabbed and I’m forced to turn around.

Rafe’s eyes were wild with panic as he panted in front of me. His entire appearance was disheveled with his hair sticking out in all directions.

“Don’t go.”

I was so close to being out of his grasp and being free of this agony that gripped me so tightly it made it hard to breathe.

“You were never mine. Were you?” The question slipped past my lips before I knew it.

“I love you. I do, please just come back inside and I’ll do what you want. I’ll tell Ward and Rose right now.” His blue eyes held so much hope, but it wasn’t enough. The magic was all gone, replaced with this cruel torment.

“I was yours, in every way possible. But, it didn’t matter what I did. I still wasn’t enough for you. I’m never going to be good enough, am I?” My voice cracked, but the words were out along with the realization of how painfully accurate they were.

Warm hands cradled my face pulling me towards his. Rafe rested his forehead on mine, his eyes boring into mine. I could feel the slight tremble in his hands.

“That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

“How could I possibly know that? You never do anything that says otherwise.”

“I love a man who can’t even hold my hand in public.” He couldn’t hold me gaze, instead he turned it to the floor with his jaw clenched.

“You knew who I was when we started this. You knew what came with being with a Cameron. Our situation is much more complicated than you’re making it fucking seem. So I didn’t hold your hand, now you’re going to leave me?”

His logic was horribly flawed.

“Our situation is not complicated. All you had to do was love me the way I loved you.”

“Whether you like it or not, you’re a fucking maid,” Rafe said through gritted teeth,” The maid to my family, no less, and you expect to be welcomed in with open arms? This isn’t a fairytale, wake up.”

”Then what was the point of all of this? Of me loving you and you loving me, if it was never going to go anywhere.”

“The point was that we were together and we were happy.” Rafe let out a frustrated noise and shook his head. But it was clear, he wasn’t getting it. I knew nothing I’d say would ever get through to him.

“Were we? Together, I mean. Because I was always at your beck and call. Literally and figuratively. Where were you for my college graduation? Where were you when my dad died? I’ll tell you where you were,” I pressed my finger into his chest, “You. Weren’t. There. Instead, you chose to love me from afar because you care more about the opinion of sheep than you do me.”

I couldn’t stop talking. It was as though a wall cracked and suddenly every emotion I held in was flooding through.

“Look at me.” I shouted, grabbing his chin and forcing him to stare. “I want you to look me in the fucking eye. Look at the damage you caused. You did this to us. ”

“Stop being cruel.”

“Cruel? You threw your drink on the floor and made me clean it up. Did seeing me on my knees make you feel big and strong?”

He tilted his head, his expression darkening. “Enough. Come back inside, now.”

“I wanted everything for you.” I laughed at how incredibly stupid and blind I had been. “And you can’t even hold my fucking hand.”

Race’s eyes softened marginally. “Tell me what to do. How can I fix this?”

My stomach tightened. Steeling myself, I swallowed the lump in my throat and pushed out the next words. “You can’t.”

“I can, but you’re not give me a fucking chance here.” His words came out as a plea.

“Being with you was a choice I made every day. One that you clearly couldn’t make, so I’m making it for you. We’re done.

His jaw ticked. ”Try and fucking leave me.”

I wanted nothing more than to run back into his arms and comfort him, despite it all. But I knew, if I was going to survive this at all, I couldn’t be with him.

“I’m always running behind you, trying to keep up. Trying to be everything you want and everything you need, but I’m all out of breath. I have nothing left to give you. But it’s still more than you ever gave me.” With those being my parting words, I clutched onto the handle of my suitcase in a death grip and force myself to walk away from him.

My shoulders jump at the sound of something shattering behind me.

“I love you.” Rafe screamed at the top of his lungs from behind me. His voice was brutal and laced with pain.

Not enough.

_________________

Side note: pls let me know what you think! I’ve been gone for several months so I’m a bit rusty:) I am working on the second part of Hate as promised!

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reverseexorcist · 11 months ago

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★ 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬 ★

Wow just realised this entire time my asks have been off woopsie ●_● Should be fixed now.

Anyway, since y'all went feral over this dynamic (and I can't blame you), here's more of Carmilla with her adopted fallen angel child.

I know I said part 2, but I'm honestly considering making this a sort've slice-of-life series seeing as I absolutely love this dyanmic and I'm having some serious brainrot over these two.

Part 1 ↫ Right Here

➲ 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 Carmine + !Fallen Angel!Reader

➲ Romantic ☐, Platonic ☒

➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 3,662 Words

➲ Warnings/notes; Female reader, somewhat depressed reader, minor mentions of gore, sleep deprived writing, potential ooc Carmilla, mother mode Carmilla increased

Getting used to your new life required more effort than you ever thought was ever needed. Getting used to living in hell was a chore in of itself, and quite a tedious one, and getting used to the new family you now found yourself surrounded by only piled on a tad more stress.

Unlike heaven, the land below was almost always swathed in some sort've darkness - There was literally no day night cycle at all and it was fucking with your head. Your poor circadian rhythm was completely thrown all over the place when three in the morning was just as bright at two in the afternoon. Not to mention the smoke ever present in the air. You weren't sure which you hated more between the two.

(Probably the air. You actually liked it when you breathed and didn't hack up a lung.)

It was a lot, especially when you were getting used to your new wingless life.

(Which sucked, by the way. Every time your fight or flight response kicked in, you found yourself straining your back muscles trying to lift off with nothing to support you and it made you want to cry every single time it happened.)

However, all of this was way better than what could've happened had Carmilla not saved your life. Your back still ached and the phantom pain still tortured you at night, the feather-fluff nubs of your old wings only served as a painful reminder. As much as you hated to admit it, often times you'd spend the entire night longing for the newly comforting touch of your adopted mother figure…

Wow. That felt weird to admit. That and a whole lot of other repressed emotions and memories.

You groaned and sighed, clutching your head and threading your fingers through your tussled bedhair. Your back muscles flexed, the sound of rustling feathers muffled by the mattress. The sensation was weird enough to make you 'gwak', roll on to your stomach and faceplant into your pillow. It was more natural that way, anyway - When one has wings it was rather difficult to sleep on your back, afterall, at least after your first growth spurt. You never thought you would miss the feeling, but you fought to find any silver lining in your new life. And in a world that was mostly shades of red, silver was quite a luxury.

Your somewhat depressing quiet time was broken by the gentle tapping of steel carefully approaching your room.

"Mi peque?" You didn't have the energy to jump, already having heard the delicate 'tink' of Carmilla's pointed shoes against the hardword floor of your new home. Her silhouette took up most of the doorway, the faint light spilling in from the hallway making the angelic steel decorating her body glow, much like the warm lull of her crimson eyes. Your head tiltied to the side to stare at her, but otherwise you made no movement.

She blinked once and ducked her head to step into your room. If you were, well, you from about a week ago, you probably would've been shitting bricks at the sight. It was lowkey terrifying, mostly because Carmilla was so much taller than you and had the expression of a constantly pissed off commander or something. However, it didn't scare you - Mostly because your worst nightmare had already come true.

"Can't sleep?" Her voice was soft, something that completely contrasted her outward exterior. It was soothing, though, and you found yourself not caring when she settled herself on the end of your bed.

(Your new bed. Your new bed that you could, for once, comfortably stretch out on.)

"Something like that," You mumbled, practically whispered. Your eyes glowed much like Carmilla's, like a mischevious cat from your spot hidden under your multiple blankets. "It's, mm, weird. Sleeping by myself."

Her eyebrow quirked, a silent invitation to continue if you wanted to. Maybe? Emotions were still hard to read for you.

"Well, because I'm used to sleeping in the barracks with the rest of my platoon. It's apparently really comforting, seeing as I haven't had a good sleep since I got here," You grappled your blankets a little tighter, as if doing so would provide you with some sort've phantom comfort that you secretly longed for.

A breath of silence hung steadily in the air, as if both your minds were churning on what to say next.

"I'm sorry."

"M'sorry."

You both said at the same time, which seemed just a little cliche. Slinking out from underneath your covers, you couldn't help by eye the demon across from you warily.

"Why're you sorry?"

"Because, I'll admit, I'm a little rusty," She reached up and untied her buns, letting her hair loosen and tumble down her back. "It's been a while since my girls were young like you-" You scoffed, which prompted an amused smirk "And it's not like I know anything about taking care of an angel."

"Well, you're doing better than what they were doing up there," You blankly motioned upwards where the pearly gates shone brightly in the sky like a constant sun. "Plus, I'd say you're dealing with me as gracefully as you can."

"Elaborate?" Carmila carded her fingers through her hair, tilting her head curiously. The mountain on your shoulders threatened to stumble, and by god you were ready to let it fall.

"Well, it's not like any heaven-born has parents. Heaven was always all about equality and shit, and every single child was raised by the community. And yeah, it was all rainbows and crap because everyone was loved mostly equally, but it sucked because I was always just another nestling that someone had to keep an eye on," You brought your knees up to your chest. "That's why, when the lieutenant gave me her offer I didn't refuse, cause I thought 'wow, someone noticed me!' and it was a feeling I chased ever since."

It felt nice to let it all out for once. Not like anyone else around you back then really cared, cause they all went through the same thing.

Beside you, the covers rustled. Carmilla opened her arms wordlessly, minutely enough that if you didn't want to, you could probably brush the motion off as stretching. But, the warmth the she radiated was sorely tempting, and your little serotonin deprived brain was severly touch-starved.

Wow, four days into your new life, and you found yourself snuggling into the arms of one of Hell's overlords. And, sullying the lord's name, by god you loved it.

Not a single word had to be uttered between the two of you, not as long as you didn't want it. That was the silent message that you both clearly understood.

It kind've made you want to cry, if you were being honest with yourself. In a place that had seemingly been perfect, you found your life lacking, and in the burning pits of eternal damnation, you'd found yourself feeling loved for the first time since you could remember. The way Carmilla's hold around you grew tighter, just ever so slightly - A comforting weight draped across your shoulders as you leaned into her warmth. That, along with her mellow breathing, it felt homely and nostalgic.

Tugging your blankets a little tighter around yourself, you didn't even fight the way your eyelids drooped.

Two weeks.

It felt like a lot longer, but you'd been living in hell for fourteen days, and it already felt like you'd been living here for months.

Well, it certainly didn't help that you never really left the main house. Like, ever. And you, for one, weren't complaining. The burning pits of Hell left much to be desired, and as a little angel who hadn't even had her first adult moult yet, you didn't really fancy going galavanting off around Hell, even if Carmilla was hovering over your shoulder like a helicopter parent.

Still, after the first week where you'd discovered and explored all the places that you were allowed to (the allure of the armory was great, but the potential wrath of an angry demon was greater), there wasn't really anything to do around the house. Sure, it was probably one of the safest places in the eternal firepit, but neither Carmilla nor Clara and Odette were ever really around, and it left you bored out of your mind.

Sprawled out across a rather decadent couch, soaking up the hellfire from outside, you found yourself wishing that something would happen that would hopefully prevent your mind from rotting further. But, if the big man from upstairs was paying attention, he surely must've hated you, because literally nothing was happening.

Unless…

You sat up, straining your ears.

Nope. Absolutely nothing.

You flopped backwards dramatically, back of your hand against your forehead and all.

Maybe, if you still had your weapon, you could've spent your time training or practicing or something. There was a training room somewhere in the house, and you weren't explicitly banned from using it, and it wasn't exactly a useless way to spend your time.

(At least that way you'd be able to get some reasonable exercise in rather than just moping around all day.)

Maybe that was something you could ask Carmilla later. She wasn't the type to be against learning self defense, however you had no idea if even she deemed yourself too young to learn how to fight. She certainly was not happy when she found out about how you were sent to fight with baby feathers still warming your wings, that was for sure.

At least you had something to talk about when she got home.

…

"You want to learn how to fight?" As expected, Carmilla didn't seem entirely thrilled at your idea.

"Not necessarily. Just, how to use weapons?" It was more of a question than an answer, but it seemed to ease the tenseness in her shoulders.

"What type of weapons? Swords? Spears? Firearms?" She fixed you with a look. "If you want to get started, the first thing you could do is be a little more specific."

Which was certainly not the answer you were expecting, so you took a few moments to blue screen.

"Well, I wasn't too fond of using spears… Swords don't sound to appealing either…" Your eyes started drifting, and soon you found that your real answer was right in front of you.

"If possible," You wrung your hands nervously, "could I use shoes like you do?"

Honestly, Carmilla's unique fighitng style had piqued your interest ever since your head became clear enough to notice. Having your hands free sounded more appealing than lugging around a heavy blade.

The demoness paused for a moment, completely silent as she studied you with a stern gaze. It wasn't negative or positive, if anything it was most likely calculative. You weren't entirely stupid, even if you were young, and you weren't naive. Carmilla was weighing the pros and cons of teaching you her trade.

"Why? They aren't exactly easy to use," That wasn't a no, at least.

"I don't like melee weapons, not hand-held ones at least," There was more to your answer that Carmilla already knew. Months of cycling through weapons till you landed on one you could somewhat use you realised that you absolutely hated using hand-held weapons.

Carmilla sighed, a small smile appearing on her face.

"Okay, but it's not like I have spare angelic steel laying around. We'll have to wait till I can melt more down," She mused, almost seeming excited about crafting you your own weapon. But her words only confused you more.

"But, we do, don't we?" You furrowed your brows.

"The steel in the armory is meant for prepaid orders-"

"I was talking about my old helmet," You hoped that didn't sound too rude, interupting her. "I mean, the entire thing is is technically angelic. I don't know if it's steel exactly, but I know for a fact it's just as solid!" Now you were the one musing.

Like mother like daughter, almost.

"We could certainly try…" The two of you shared a look.

"Like… Right now?" You prodded almost mischeviously.

Tired as she was, Carmilla couldn't help but falter and smile, your enthusiasm almost contagious.

"Well, we can have a look."

After that it was only a matter of days. Carmilla was far more invested in your new project than you had expected, and even Clara and Odette had briefly joined in, if only to get a sneak peak at the workings behind an exorcists helmet. For the briefest of moments, with all four of you crowded around a table with tidy plans sprawled all over its surface, it almost felt like you were a family. Which, did prompt a stray thought in your head.

After gently pulling the threads of angelic steel from the rivets in the helmet's horns, you couldn't help but bundle them to your chest. They weren't exactly big, nothing compared to the horns of a full fledged exorcist, but they were still something.

So, while your mo-… Carmilla was busy melting down the odd, almost obsidian material of your old helmet in preparation of your new shoes, you were busy tinkering away with your own little side project. Of course, it was hard to explain the various little burns marks littered across your palms that had started appearing, but that didn't deter you one bit.

In fact, during this time, you found yourself shyly approaching the taller of Carmilla's other daughters, Odette.

One thing about her that confused you was the fact that her horns were fake, merely attatched to the band that held her hair up. But right now, that was exactly what you needed.

It was a sweet sight, honestly, at least to Carmilla.

You were huddled against Odette, listening with rapt attention as she explained something to you, finger brushing against what was most likely some sort've plan.

With a smile, Carmilla got back to work.

At the end of it all, you were left with a pair of shoes similar to the overlord's. Pointed and shiny. Sharp and deadly, yet oddly comfortable. The only key difference was the colour - Forged from the scrapped glass of your old helmet, the shoes were jet black inlaid with threads of silver, trailing all the way up the ballet ribbons.

And with your shoes, a matching set of your own horns. Odette seemed proud at the sight of you with small, obsidian horns branching from your head, unable to stand still as you clutched your new weapons to your chest gleefully.

There was a massive learning curve to your new weapons, but at least you weren't bored around the house anymore. Most of your time over the next month had been dedicated to learning how to move around in your new shoes, building both the strength and balance so you could walk, let alone run. So many bruises had been blemished into your skin, but in the end you were able to walk almost as easily as Carmilla did.

(Of course, the demoness had way more experience under her belt, but you were still doing pretty damn well.)

And during that time, the bond between you, Clara and Odette had only grown. Sure, they were only around as much as their mother, but after donning your horns, it seemed whatever barrier that had been built between you and the sisters had been torn down. Seeing as the two could also walk en pointe like their mother, many a helpful tip had been shared from them which served to get you walking faster.

It was endearing as it was funny to watch.

But, being couped up inside all day everyday was starting to wear you down, which was certainly starting to show with the way your pep had slowed down significantly.

With a heavy heart, Carmilla finally unleashed you on the world outside, accompanied by Clara and Odette.

In reality, you were just tailing behind the sisters on one of their usual deliveries. This way you could stretch your legs and practice on terrain other than the smooth floors of your home, which, while it was more difficult, was learnt within no time.

As dreary as the place looked, there were certainly sights to see around ever different corner. You'd found yourself tempted to wander off every five minutes or so, especially when you passed by a rather bright looking… hotel? The entire vibe seemed friendly and inviting, unlike the rest of Hell, but you really didn't fancy getting lost, so sticking close by Clara and Odette was the most sane option in the moment.

Or, at least that was the plan.

Really, with your head on a swivel trying to grasp every sight and sound (which you regretted not a moment later) you'd lost sight of the sisters and found yourself completely by your lonesome.

Which… Fuck.

That wasn't the most ideal position, especially when you really couldn't do more than walk in your new shoes, but they couldn't have gotten far, right?

You were wrong. Turning either corners of the street yielded no Clara or Odette, which only made your heart sink further into your stomach because you really didn't fancy getting cornered in an alley.

Backtracking, you tried your hardest to think. Perhaps, if you could find your way back to the hotel, someone there could help you? It was wishful thinking, because this was Hell after all, but the aura was so different compared to the rest of the ring of wrath that maybe, just this once, luck would be on your side.

But of course, since this was you, luck was mercilessly right out of your reach. Not a moment later, a rambunctious howl pierced the air and a group - a pack? Of hellhounds started approaching you. Which, y'know, wasn't good, especially with the way their ears were pinned back and grins plastered across their faces.

Oh shit.

You started speed walking away, or your best attempt at it, in what you hoped was the direction of the hotel. Down in the streets without either of your guides, it all seemed like one continuous labarynth of red, LEDs and very questionable stores. And, as it turned out, lots of dead ends that you could easily get cornered in.

With the blood thrumming in your ears, heart pumping in your chest loud enough that it shook your head and just the general sense of 'oh shit I am so fucked', you really didn't pay attention to whatever the hounds were spouting off about. Lots of snapping of teeth and snarls, some crude gestures that made your gut twist anxiously and your feathers rustle nervously.

(You were seriously considering using a shoe as a knife. It wasn't like it was impossible with how sharp they were.)

At least, that was your train of thought. Until a resounding bang pretty much deafended you, echoing a chorus of ringing in your ears as the middlemost hound collapsed, head exploding with the force of the bullet that lodged itself firmly within the back of his disintegrated skull.

With dramatic timing, the others peered over their shoulders, only to be met with the towering, thoroughly pissed off form of Carmilla Carmine.

The barrel of her rifle was tinted with holy silver, but she seemed perfectly happy and prepared to behead them with a well placed kick. Whichever worked, you knew Carmilla prioritised your safety over the method of execution in the end. And in the end, the alley was scattered with various corpses in various states of limb loss, and you were carefully toted away in the arms of Carmilla.

She was furious. Probably. Maybe. You couldn't really tell. her face was completely stoney, and you were still awful when it came to identifying emotions. You assumed most of the anger had been taken out on the unsuspecting assholes that had cornered you. And for some reason, that only made you more anxious.

Not being able to tell what she was thinking was off. Back in Heaven, you could tell when Lute was pissed off, or proud, or indifferent, or whatever other emotion she was feeling at the time because she didn't really give two shits about what the recruits thought of her. And at least that way you could prepare on how to react. If she was angry, you knew to stay out of her way. If she looked indifferent, you knew you had to work harder in training. If she was proud, well, also best to stay out of her way so you didn't ruin her mood.

You whimpered and huddled a little closer. Carmilla clutched you a little tighter.

"Are you alright?" She finally asked once you were close enough to home that is was mostly just her employees around the two of you.

"Please don't be mad at Clara or Odette. It was my fault for getting lost," Was what you went with anyway. Carmilla shushed you gently.

"I'm not mad, I just want to know if you're okay."

Which completely threw you off. But you just went with it.

"M'fine. You got there before they could do anything," Those words seem to put her mind at ease, her shoulders visibly untensing as she exhaled a long sigh.

She hugged you, closer and tighter to her chest as if scared you were about to disappear from her hold. And you could only return the gesture, sinking into her comforting warmth. It made you feel small, almost like a little nestling on her first trip out of the nursery, but you found that you didn't really give two shits in the moment because you felt completely, wholly safe right where you were.

"Mi peque, mi querida, mi corazón," She uttered softly, "never wander from your siblings again."

Despite the firm tone, you could feel the care dripping from her words. You sighed and relaxed.

"Of course, mother."

Rules + Info,

Masterlist,

#carmilla carmine x reader #carmilla x reader #platonic #hazbin #hazbin carmilla carmine #hazbin hotel carmilla carmine #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x female reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel

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14thgalerie · 1 year ago

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i peeled my orange today

• pairing: james potter x reader

• now playing:

• word count: 1.3k

• genre: angst

— a short one that i did last night. peeling fruits had always been something that shows the tenderness of humans to me. that one poetry reading about oranges made my heart clench at the thought that came to me of best friend!reader who has always pined for james and the bittersweetness of being too late.

There he was standing by the edge of the lake, his slender silhouette illuminated by the pale blue moonlight. At the crunch of stray leaves, he turns to look at you, his expression containing surprise.

In hushed communion, you stood in silence beside him, opting to fix your gaze on the languid current of the water before you. Capturing a mental photograph of the delicate interplay of the light as it hits the dancing small waves deep into your mind, ingraining the image to a corner that you could visit now and then when you forget the laughter that bounced against the corridors.

For a while, you chose to linger in the sound of the rusting trees surrounding the castle that casts a melody for you. You were in no rush to speak your mind, not when there was a clear understanding that he would stand sentinel for a thousand years should you want to.

17 years of friendship told you that. Threads of shared laughter and silent conversations. Tales that were shared with no urgency.

And so, in the fragile and sacred lull of the moment, you reveled in the comfortable silence. If the years it took to be freed from your heart was to be likened, it would be a while before he could fathom to be in the same space as you.

“James.” You call. Slowly, you turn your head to face him, only to discover that his attention is transfixed on you already.

Finding that gaze studying you; flickering ever so slightly across the features that painted your face— perhaps he already knew the words that were poised to slip out of you. After all, he did know the twists and turns of your soul much more intimately than any other. Those pretty eyes mirrored the waters in front of you with the light hitting the silvers on his waterline.

The 15-year-old kid within you felt enraged to see the swarm of emotions that drowned you in those eyes.

A tempest of desire, and longing, woven with heaps of frustration, and guilt. It was something that held you captive and consumed you for longer than you dare admit, threatening to swallow you whole. As you stand before him, your brain struggles to recall how exactly you escaped it.

Reaching out the hand closest to him to grab his warm hands, missing the way it enveloped your shivering ones. You couldn’t help the fluster of memories that came rushing back and the instinctive way your tear ducts activated.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, a tremor infused in the last syllable.

“For what?” You ask, brushing aside tears with a subtle flutter of your lashes. Thumbs caressing the skin on the back of his hand, moving with a patterned path. You didn’t notice it but he did and that realisation added to the weight to the lump that blocked his airways.

“I just stand here and yet I still manage to upset you.” He says, a hesitant exhale lingering between the words.

“What made you think that?” You press.

“If the past year wasn’t enough proof of that, then I don’t think I even know you as well as I would like.”

The words hung in the air like a storm cloud threatening to explode. His lungs relax as he realises how he held his breath when you moved your eyes away.

The combination of his emotions, adding the ones he still couldn’t pinpoint, left him staggering in his stance. If it weren’t for the way his knees locked from his many years of quidditch, he would be beside you on his knees.

Every second that passed felt like a sharp blade. The pain was hollow yet deep, striking the centre of his heart and reaching throughout every nerve in his body. And it was only a deep, and unending sense of devastation left in him.

He knew what was coming, a somber revelation that loomed over his head for several weeks already. Yet, he resisted the need to acknowledge it, not when your own countenance showed no obvious indication of it. Thus he indulged himself in this false pretense, allowing himself that at least. Alas, the days kept getting shorter, and the hours were swift in their passage and he was left gripped by a sinking fear as you kept getting further and further away from him even though your physical body remained next to him.

As you always did from the ungraceful encounter on the path to the Hogwarts Express when he was 11, your faces meeting the stone cold ground with a huff.

He couldn’t accept that this would be the culmination of a slow, painful unravelling and elimination of all he knew that defined his every day.

His soul was incredibly and seamlessly intertwined with yours, so intimately bound that he trembled at the thought of the scissors you wield, deadly afraid that they would sever it when he least expected it, leaving behind a scorching mark upon his very essence.

“I peeled my orange today.”

In the hushed atmosphere, your words hung in the air, an admission that crushed you to admit out loud. But from the anguished expression of the man opposite you, you could easily surmise that his emotions far surpassed yours and were nowhere near the ones that hit him at such a mundane divulgence.

The lake’s tranquil waves lapped against the shore in a rhythmic pattern. The serene waters played a soothing contrast to the tempestuous tide swirling in the recesses of his mind. He didn’t say anything for a while, the silence between you was heavy with unspoken shared vulnerability.

However, for you, surprising as it was, it was nothing but a statement now. The words transcended meaning except for a mere reflection of a newfound learning. Something you were proud of enough that you shared the thought with him.

At last, he spoke, his voice filled with subtle remorse that is obscured by a quirk of tenderness that he kept reserved for you. “You did? You didn’t spill the juice all over your hands?”

James was surprised at himself for the unexpected eloquence that flowed from within him, a symphony of words that were likened to a normal conversation between the two of you. Astonished at the way his voice remained unnervingly steady and held no tremors. It seemed as if the invincible, vice-like grip that threatened to crush his vocal chords vanished.

You cast your gaze upon him again, your eyes directly looking at his own. In that silent exchange, his vulnerability was laid bare, accompanied by a sense of helplessness in them.

Because unlike you, that sentence meant a lot more to him. Because for him, it meant that he could no longer tell you how much he loved you when he couldn’t peel oranges for you anymore.

Your impatient self wouldn’t be hovering next to him as his hands tenderly tore apart the tough skin of the citrus until the soft flesh of the fruit was revealed. The scent of sweet citrus filling the air and the twinkle in your eyes at the pleasing aroma as he splits it apart. The calloused flesh on his fingers that were a stark contrast to the way the figures were so gentle in separating each slice.

It meant that he could no longer ignore the pout that formed when you noticed how he gave you the better half.

James’ heart ached and throbbed in the worst ways possible at that bitter realisation.

“I love you.”

So despite knowing it was too late, he summoned the courage to tell you in the way you’ve always yearned for in the sidelines.

In reply, you whispered “I love you too.” accompanied by a genuine smile that felt natural.

He just didn’t expect your hurt to feel like this.

masterlist

#harry potter #marauders #james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter angst #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #the marauders

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teddiee · 28 days ago

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Into Each Life: Chapter 12

Summary:

“Tony,” Bucky says carefully.

Tony doesn’t answer immediately, too busy trying to breathe through the sudden, searing cramp in his lower abdomen. The sharp tang of his own scent—sweet and ripe—tickles his nose, and the realization hits him like a freight train.

“Oh, no,” Tony moans.

Words: 13,933

Explicit Content: 18+

The world outside the window is still wrapped in the deep indigo of pre-dawn when Tony wakes.

He stirs. His lashes flutter as he blinks blearily, his vision hazy from sleep. His mind is foggy—caught in the delicate space between sleep and wakefulness—but it takes two slow, orienting breaths to realize his cheek is pressed against the warm, golden plane of Bucky’s bare stomach.

Tony feels like he’s moving through molasses, his limbs sluggish and weighted. Even the simple act of opening his eyes feels like a monumental feat until the faint tick of the clock on the bedside table anchors him in the present.

5:54 a.m.

He takes a brief, necessary moment to acclimate to his surroundings.

A thin blanket is pushed low on his hips, his own chest bare and his skin warm. His scent lingers in the sheets, stronger in places where he and Bucky had tangled together during the night—reminders of the hours that passed in a blur of sweat, whispered promises, and Bucky’s soothing, hypnotizing drawl.

It’s like a thunderclap in his chest. The memory of it rushes in with a startling clarity that makes his breath hitch.

The hazy fragments of the night stitch themselves together—the way Bucky had touched him, the way his hands had soothed and coaxed and held.

Color floods Tony’s cheeks as he remembers how he’d melted into Bucky’s touch. How he had whimpered and begged in a way that felt both alien and horrifically inevitable.

The fragmented flashes of memory send his heart pounding.

The sound of his own voice, desperate and needy, crying out for Bucky; the feel of Bucky’s hands steadying his hips, guiding him through the waves of intensity; the rasp of Bucky’s voice murmuring in his ear, “You’re so good for me, Tony. So perfect.”

He cuts the traitorous thought off with a sharp inhale, clenching his teeth on his bottom lip to steady himself and suppress the strangled, muffled groan that rises in his chest.

So much for remaining calm, cool, and collected.

Tony barely suppresses a flinch as Bucky stirs beneath him. The Alpha’s hand slides up from his bare back, fingers curling into the mussed strands of Tony’s hair. The touch is slow, almost absent-minded, sending an involuntary shudder down Tony’s spine.

“You’re thinkin’ too hard,” Bucky murmurs, words rough with sleep. His eyes are still closed. When Tony blinks up at him, his lips quirk faintly like he’s caught Tony in the middle of something. “I can hear you from here.”

Tony freezes, his face burning hot, though he doesn’t know whether it’s from embarrassment or the warmth blooming low in his stomach.

“I’m not—” he starts, his voice cracking awkwardly—Christ—but Bucky cuts him off with a soft hum, his fingers working gently through Tony’s disheveled locks.

“Sure you’re not,” Bucky drawls, his tone teasing but warm, a quiet rumble that seems to settle right under Tony’s skin. His hand pauses to scratch lightly at Tony’s scalp, the lazy rhythm as soothing as it is disarming. “You always get that little crease right here—” His thumb grazes Tony’s forehead, just above his brow. “—when your brain’s spinnin’ too fast. Relax, sweetheart. Stop panicking. You don’t gotta figure it all out right now.”

“I’m not panicking,” Tony says stupidly, though Bucky's solid, delectable torso muffles his words. The resulting small puffs of air cause the Alpha’s abdominal muscles to jump and twitch beneath him.

Bucky doesn’t push, just keeps threading his fingers through Tony’s hair like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he’s not purposefully lulling Tony back into a soft, pliant headspace. “You don’t have to think so hard about last night, either,” he says after a beat, softer now, almost raspy. “We were good, weren’t we? You and me? That’s all that matters.”

Tony’s mind feels woolly, slow to piece itself together, and his body aches faintly in the way it always does at the tail end of his heat. He doesn’t answer, not right away, his chest tight with the weight of his chaotic, spiraling thoughts. He rests against the smooth expanse of Bucky’s bare skin, his cheek pressed close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of the Alpha’s breathing.

“Yeah, we were good,” Tony says quietly.

His voice is small and still raspy from sleep, but there’s a lingering edge to it that betrays his unease.

Even now, when Bucky’s hands are gentle and unhurried. Even now, when everything is quiet and safe, and the thought of what happened still twists his gut in a way he can’t quite shake off.

Bucky’s hand drifts from Tony’s hair, fingertips trailing lightly down his neck to rest at the base of his skull.

The contact is gentle, deliberate, like Bucky’s trying to coax him into something, though Tony’s sluggish brain hasn’t quite figured out what.

Either way, it’s grounding. Like always.

Tony sinks into the steady warmth of Bucky’s hand on the back of his neck, and he feels a jolt of tension dissipate as Bucky’s thumb starts to massage small circles there, just above his shoulder blades. He swallows down his moan.

Tony doesn’t know how long he stays there, pressed against Bucky’s body, but it feels like a small eternity. His heart is still racing, his body a live wire, and he’s hyper-aware of every shift of muscle beneath him.

But then Bucky’s hand slides up and down his back, broad and sure, his thumb brushing in soothing arcs along Tony’s spine.

“You know,” Bucky says, low and easy, “if you keep fidgetin’ like that, a fella’s gonna get the wrong idea.”

Tony lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh, burying his face into Bucky’s toned stomach. “Don’t encourage me,” he mumbles.

“Encouragin’ you is my favorite thing,” Bucky counters smoothly. His fingers drift back to Tony’s neck, tracing idle patterns that somehow make Tony feel lightheaded and more flustered all at once.

Bucky’s still in his underwear. Tony is too, if the familiar touch of damp fabric clinging to his thighs is any indication. The thin white cotton of Bucky’s boxers does little to conceal his erection—not having softened once since dragging a heat-fueled Tony into his bedroom after supper last night.

Tony peers down at the tented fabric—erect, imposing, a small wet patch where the tip strains against cotton—and conspicuously squirms under the blanket. He licks his lips and rubs his own thighs together.

That warm, tight feeling still lingers. Unmistakable as it pulses low in his belly,

Sure, it’s noticeably muted compared to the inferno that had consumed him just days ago. His skin doesn’t feel like it’s on fire, and he’s not choking on the overwhelming sweetness of his own scent. This isn’t the all-consuming demand for an Alpha’s presence that had left him clinging to his bed sheets, dizzy and desperate.

But still, it’s heightened in a way that makes his breath hitch and his pulse stutter. There’s a new edge to his constant state of fluctuating arousal—something sharper, more focused.

It’s not just his heat. It’s heat and Bucky.

A spark in his veins that only exists after experiencing the press of strong hands against his hips. After shuddering under the low rasp of Bucky’s voice, coaxing his body through mind-blowing relief at an Alpha’s hands for the very first time.

Tony's chest hitches slightly, the flutter in his belly spreading outward, warmth pooling deep in his core. It’s a slow flare, but it’s there, building as Bucky’s fingers continue to work at the sensitive spot on the back of his neck, sending electricity down his spine.

He shifts slightly, trying to ease the ache blooming low in his stomach, and the friction sends a small, unbidden whine tumbling from his lips. He swallows hard, feeling his flush creep down his neck, his body betraying him in the most inconvenient fucking way possible.

He was just starting to find a sliver of calm, too, but his blood spikes and reacts to Bucky’s touch like it’s still in the crux of his heat. To his scent, thick and earthy in the air around them; to his voice, still rough with sleep as it curls into Tony’s ear; to the way his hands never stop their soothing rhythm, even though Tony knows he can feel the minute shift in pressure as Tony’s scent swells.

Bucky stiffens beneath him, the hand in Tony’s hair faltering for the briefest second before resuming its slow, soothing rhythm.

“Tony,” Bucky says carefully.

“Oh, no,” Tony moans.

Bucky hums low in his throat—a sound that might have been reassurance if it weren’t for the way his other hand comes to rest on Tony’s lower back, fingers flexing slightly. Like he’s grounding himself as much as Tony.

“You still feeling it?” Bucky asks gently. His own scent deepens. Cedar and smoke, rich and heady, curling around Tony like a protective cocoon.

Tony shakes his head against Bucky’s abdomen, his breath hitching as another wave of heat surges through him, leaving his skin flushed and damp. “It’s… manageable,” he grits through his teeth, though the way he squirms against Bucky betrays the truth.

Bucky lets out a deep, rumbling chuckle. “It’s got a funny way of sneakin’ back up on you.” His thumb on Tony’s spine moves in slow, grounding circles. “You’re okay, Tony. I’ve got you.”

The Alpha’s scent has sharpened, his body impossibly warm beneath Tony’s, and there’s a tension in his muscles now. Coiled and ready.

But he doesn’t move, doesn’t press, just keeps stroking Tony’s skin like he’s got all the time in the world.

“You with me?” Bucky asks quietly. The question is a low rumble, reverberating in his stomach and vibrating against Tony’s temple.

Tony nods jerkily, though he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

He’s with Bucky. He hasn’t stopped being with Bucky since last night, when he sobbed and spilled into the Alpha’s fist.

Historically, Tony has coaxed himself to a—frankly countless—number of orgasms.

Since presenting at sixteen, he’s undergone a handful of heats. Entirely alone, except for the company of his own hand. Enough to get the job done, maybe, but never enough to fully extinguish the flames licking at his veins. Never enough to dull the throbbing, empty ache between his legs. Never enough to satisfy his body’s biological urge to bask in Alpha pheromones and succumb.

So after years of unfulfilling self-gratification, Bucky’s hand on his dick felt almost synonymous with the closest thing Tony had ever experienced to a religious experience.

Warm. Tight. The Alpha’s scent glands occasionally brushing against the sensitive underside of delicate skin. Tony’s face pressed to his neck, gulping down lungfuls of a scent tailor-made to light up his nerve endings.

Bucky’s molten praises caressing his ear. His own stiff, clothed, pulsing erection pushing against the bare skin of Tony’s thigh.

It wasn’t sex, not fully. It wasn’t the stretch of a knot in his ass; it wasn’t a complete claiming where his body ached for it most. But it was enough.

Enough to convince his body that he was being cared for, that he was being guided through his hormonal frenzy by an Alpha.

You know. Finally.

Tony doesn’t remember much after the first orgasm. The immediate, toe-curling relief had been staggering—almost debilitating—and the quick surge of hormones that flooded his body had rendered him useless.

He can vaguely recall fragments of Bucky’s fingers gliding through his hair. Soft, soothing praise whispered against his temple. Gentle hands coaxing between his legs with a warm washcloth.

He remembers being poured into Bucky’s bed, drifting into a deep and immediate sleep. And Bucky joining him later—damp from his shower, strong arms pulling Tony back against his bare chest and curling around him. Nosing at his scent gland.

He was satisfied. Satiated. Blissful.

Until he wasn’t.

Until he awoke a few short hours later to a bedroom cloaked in darkness, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting soft silver streaks across the walls. Eyes flying open, lungs hitching sharply as the heat in his body clawed its way to the surface. Sharp and pulsing.

12:14 A.M.

Tony can’t stop the small, choked whimper that escapes his throat as he pushes himself up on his elbows. His skin is feverish, a sheen of sweat prickling along his brow, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He curls in on himself, trying to ride out the sudden wave of tremors coursing through his veins, but the ache—the need—is sharp. It gnaws at him from the inside out.

His skin feels too tight, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated as he rotates against Bucky’s chest. He moans—a strangled, needy sound that rushes out of his throat as he buries his face against the Alpha’s skin, desperate for the comfort of his scent.

“Tony?”

Bucky’s voice is low, thick with sleep, but instantly alert. His hand finds Tony’s neck, warm and steady, its weight grounding in a way that cuts through the worst of the haze.“Hey, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Tony quivers under the gentle press of Bucky’s palm, his throat too tight to answer. He tries to take a deep breath, but it breaks halfway through, trembling.

“’M fine,” he croaks.

Bucky huffs. “Yeah, and I’m the Pope.”

He slides closer. The mattress dips under his weight and a second hand joins the first, this one grabbing Tony’s hip. Bucky’s thumb brushes against his skin in soothing arcs, his touch careful, deliberate. He pulls Tony closer into his neck, coaxing the Omega to breathe in where Bucky’s scent bleeds strong.“You’re burnin’ up again.”

Tony nods jerkily, his eyes squeezing shut as he wills his body to calm down. “I—I don’t know why it’s worse now,” he mumbles. “It was getting better, wasn’t it? Thought it was over.”

Bucky laughs into his hair. “It’s just a spike. Bound to happen. Your body’s still sorting itself out. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”

“I didn’t want t’wake you,” Tony slurs. Still, he clings tighter to Bucky. His hips shift instinctively, chasing relief he can’t name. Slick leaks into his clean underwear. “Hurts.”

That makes Bucky’s hand pause, his fingers pressing into Tony’s hip just firm enough to draw his attention. “Yeah,” he drawls, rich and warm, “because it’s such a chore, takin’ care of you.”

Tony doesn’t know what he needs. His dick throbs, and the pressure in his stomach coils tight. Clenching and unclenching.

But Bucky does.

��You’re okay,” Bucky coos. He shifts them, suddenly. Kicks the blanket off their legs. Pulls Tony up by his armpits until he’s seated between Bucky’s thighs, his back flush with Bucky’s chest. The Alpha leans against the headboard and spreads Tony’s knees with his own. Tony shudders, legs parting like water, arching into Bucky’s hold. “I’ve got you. Sweet boy, I’ve got you.”

Tony melts back against him, his head lolling onto Bucky’s shoulder. Every nerve in his body feels frayed, exposed, and he can’t help the way his hips shift, seeking relief from the ache that’s consuming him. Bucky’s cock is hard against his back, straining against the fabric of his boxers, and the Alpha hisses when Tony pushes against it. His hands drop to grip Tony’s waist, steadying him.

“Bucky,” he whines. His hands grip weakly at Bucky’s thighs, trying to hold onto something solid. “I— I don’t—” The words stick in his throat, his mind too foggy to string them together.

Bucky’s arm lifts to wrap securely around Tony’s shoulders, his chest warm and solid against Tony’s back. His other hand grazes the bare skin of Tony’s thigh.“You don’t have to know, sweetheart,” he says, raspy. “That’s what I’m here for. Let me do the thinkin’ for you.”

The scent of Bucky is everywhere now, heavy and potent, and Tony can’t breathe without it, can’t think past the burn building deep in his gut.

And then Bucky’s hand skims past his stomach and finally dips past the waistband of his briefs.

“God, Tony,” Bucky chokes, his voice thick with approval as he feels the wetness gathering at the inside of Tony’s thighs. His fingertips glide over the slickness, and Tony shakes, feeling a jolt of electricity shoot through him at the light touch to such a sensitive spot.

Bucky’s breath hitches, and Tony can feel the low growl in his chest, the shift in his scent deepening. Pine and smoke fill the air, mingling with the sharp sweetness of Tony’s own, creating a heady, intoxicating blend. Bucky can’t help himself. “You’re so wet for me, baby. So fucking perfect.” His voice is rough, hungry, and when his strong, callused palm finally wraps around Tony’s leaking cock, Tony keens.

They both moan. Tony’s dick, now forty-eight hours past a comfortable soreness, is approaching painful after days of unfulfilling stimulation instigated by Tony’s own hand. Bucky’s touch burns hot, like a brand, and Tony exhales a hiss through his teeth.

Bucky’s movements falters immediately, feeling the tension coil tighter in Tony’s body.

“Tony…” His voice is low, rough with an edge of worry and something headier. His fingers spasm from their grip on Tony’s shoulder. Still, he doesn’t fully let go. Keeps his grip on Tony gentle but firm.“You’re sore, aren’t you?”

Tony’s own fingers tighten their grip on Bucky’s thighs, pulling himself closer as if trying to push through the discomfort. His mind is clouded, thoughts scattered, but the aching pull in his core is the only thing that keeps him tethered to the moment.

“Don’ stop," Tony’s voice breaks, a quiet, ragged whisper as he presses himself closer to Bucky. His hips thrust up of their own volition, seeking more, and Bucky’s grip tightens imperceptibly. He doesn’t care if it’s messy, doesn’t care if it’s too much—he needs it, needs him.“Please.”

The plea is raw and desperate, and it doesn’t even feel his own. It comes from a place deeper than logic, from the heart of the heat that scorches through his veins.

But Bucky’s fist—steady, grounding—tightens, just enough to make Tony feel every tiny nuance of touch.

Tony sags, collapsing back into Bucky’s embrace. The breath leaves his lungs in a whine.

“You sure, sweetheart? You don’t have to take more than you can handle.” His words are soft, almost reverent, but there’s something underneath it—something darker. Intoxicating.

“So sure,” Tony exhales. “Fuck, don’t stop. Bucky. Alpha.” His voice falters but then steadies, the desperation in it clear. “Don’t care. I can take it. Just—don’t stop.” The pleasure will outlive the pain, he’s certain. And he craves it. Craves Bucky’s touch like he’s drowning in it.

He shivers as Bucky shifts behind him. The Alpha’s hand moves again, his grip on Tony’s cock slow but sure, and Tony’s resounding moan is so loud that Bucky’s hand shoots up to cover his mouth. Gripping Tony’s jaw.

“Oh, you sweet thing. I’ll give you exactly what you need. But we don’t wanna wake Stevie, do we?” Bucky murmurs into his ear, pure gravel.

Tony freezes, eyes wide, his hot breath huffing against Bucky’s hand. His body stills for a moment, processing the words. And then, in the next breath, the sound of his desperation is muffled, but still there—caught in his throat, vibrating through Bucky’s palm. His eyes roll back into his head.

“Good boy,” Bucky praises roughly. “I’ll help you, baby. I’ll take away the ache. Just need you to keep it quiet, yeah? Just be good and take it.”

Tony’s breath hitches in response, a wail escaping his muffled lips before he can stop it. The pressure in his core flares again, sharper, more intense, and his fingers dig into Bucky’s skin as if trying to anchor himself.

“Fuck, Tony...” Bucky murmurs, his voice thick with a hunger that makes Tony’s fuzzy, syrupy head spin.

Tony’s always drippy during heats. He’s practically leaking into Bucky’s hand, aided by pre-cum and the slick pooling between his thighs, and the only sounds in the room are the wet, squelching noises of Bucky jacking Tony off and their combined belabored breathing.

Tony squirms. He moans. His hands shoot up to grip Bucky’s arm, back bowing, and Bucky has to wrap his ankles around Tony’s to keep the Omega’s hips anchored where he needs them.

Bucky starts babbling. The rise and fall of his chest echoes against Tony’s back. He can feel the Alpha’s strained breaths. The words tumble out of his mouth, seemingly unwittingly.

"You’re so fucking soaked, doll,” he husks. His words are low, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest as he feels the slickness on Tony’s skin. As Tony drips shamelessly into his lap. “All this for me? You can't even help it, can you?”

His thumb brushes over Tony’s cockhead, smearing pre-cum against Tony’s sensitive slit, and Tony sobs and bites down on the flesh of Bucky’s palm. “So fucking needy," Bucky continues, reverent, his lips brushing the side of Tony’s neck. Tasting his pulsing scent gland. ”Can’t even stand it, huh? Need your Alpha to fix you. I’m the only one who can, Tony. You know that, don’t you?”

Tony’s response is a low, strangled groan, stifled by Bucky’s hand, but it’s enough for Bucky. He feels the way Tony’s body arches, the way he shifts under him, dizzy and desperate for more.

“Look at you,” Bucky whispers. “You can’t even control yourself. Just a fucking mess for me, aren’t you? So perfect, so beautiful like this.”

There’s pain—pressure, oversensitivity, the sharp sting of contact against Tony’s delicate flesh. But the pleasure is blinding, and the combination of sensations has Tony writhing. Panting and pleading.

Bucky alternates pace and pressure, gauging all of Tony’s smallest, most subtle tells—the slightest hitch of his lungs, the barest flex of his fingers around Bucky’s forearm—to work his body like a finely tuned instrument.

He speeds his hand when Tony’s hips stutter, arching to chase the delectable heat pooling in his belly. He eases up when Tony’s pleasure bleeds into something sharp, something a little more pointed, subduing the Omega and bringing him back to that sweet spot that has him moaning unabashedly like a feral animal.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky,” Tony warbles. He pumps his hips to meet Bucky’s thrusts, and when Bucky grinds his own cock against the small of Tony’s back, seeking friction, it pulls a shocked, helpless noise from his lungs.

Bucky chuckles darkly, rolling his hips in time with his hand. A crude imitation of Tony’s deepest, headiest desire.

“Sweetheart,” he croons. His pace quickens, hand stripping Tony’s cock with barely-restrained urgency. The obscene sound of wet skin echoes through the room. He lets out another laugh when Tony quakes, this one tinged with disbelief. Awe. “You can feel it, can’t you? How much I want you? How much I need you?”

Bucky’s breathing is becoming heavier, more labored, and Tony feels it like a pulse in the air, like the rhythm of a storm about to break. Each exhale from Bucky is a low, brutal sound that vibrates against Tony’s back, and he can feel the slight tremor in Bucky’s muscles as his hand strokes firmly over Tony’s weeping dick, as his arm tightens across Tony’s chest, fingers flexing against his mouth. Holding himself back, trying to give Tony exactly what he needs without breaking.

“I could—fuck—I could come like this. Just from this, you rockin’ in my lap like a goddamn dream. Whimperin’ and cryin’, lettin’ you Alpha know how good he makes you feel.”

Tony’s hands tear Bucky’s palm from his mouth. He sucks in a gasping breath, lungs burning.

“Please,” he begs. His voice cracks. He doesn’t care. “Please, please—want it. Oh—my, fu—Alpha.”

Bucky curses. His hand travels to Tony’s throat. Not gripping, but holding. Tony’s brain immediately goes a little woozy, a little lightheaded.

“But this ain’t about me,” Bucky grits. “I want you. I wanna be inside you more than I want my next breath. It’s all I think about. You’re mine, Tony. You fucking belong to me.”

The words are magic to Tony’s heat-fogged existence. His spine bows, ribs expanding. He feels like he’s floating.

With the hand to his throat, Bucky tilts Tony’s head back, just far enough to press a kiss to Tony’s temple. Tony moves like a puppet. Bucky lingers there for a moment, lips pressed to Tony’s damp skin.

A sweet, striking contrast to the filthy reactions he’s pulling from Tony’s body.

“B–Bucky,” Tony chokes. Sobs, really. “M’gonna, I’m so… ohhh. You’re—”

“Yours,” Bucky interrupts, his tone rough and sure. “Every piece of me, Tony. Yours. Come for me, doll.”

Tony’s body sings at the command, his submissive instincts surging in a way he so desperately works to suppress when he’s clear-headed. He comes so hard his scream breaks off halfway through it. He finds himself once again choking on Bucky’s palm.

“There you go, honey. That’s right, let it go. Let your Alpha have it.” Bucky can’t seem to shut up as he works Tony through the aftershocks, Tony trembling and shaking in his lap with the force of his release. It lasts forever, his thighs vibrating with released tension as he wets up his stomach with come, coating his dick and Bucky’s hand.

“Baby doll. Pretty Omega. Fuck. That’s it.” He strokes Tony through it until Tony is crying out from the overstimulation, squirming against his grip. It’s perfect, it’s endless—the release floods his veins like euphoria. His spine goes soft.

“C’mere”, Bucky breathes once Tony is left a limp, wheezing shell of an Omega. He pulls Tony back into his arms, tucking his head under his chin. He’s still hard underneath Tony, pulsing hot enough for Tony to feel between their thin layers of clothing. Tony whines, dropping his check to Bucky’s chest. Wet with his own spit. He shudders, and Bucky’s arms tighten.

“Feel better?” Bucky asks, and Tony—despite everything—snorts.

Bucky grins against the crown of his head. “There he is.”

“I think you killed me,” Tony says. He rubs at his nose, his limbs leaden.“I might be dead.” He can hardly move his tongue to form the words. The base of his spine thrums pleasantly. He’s pliant and sweaty in Bucky’s arms, overwhelmed with the aftershocks of his pleasure.

“You’ll live,” Bucky replies, lips twitching. “Now, shut up and let me hold you.”

As the fog of need clears, Tony sinks into something warmer. Something safer. With Bucky’s erection pressing into the small of his back, he slips back into unconsciousness, covered in his own spend.

3:46 A.M.

“Jesus Christ. It’s been over three days. I should be… ugh. Done.”

Bucky laughs, his body curved toward Tony’s. His chest is flushed down to his stomach, heated from the steady, blooming aroma of Tony’s growing arousal. Even in the dark, Tony can make out the size of his pupils. Glittering, blown.

“It’s not a race, doll. There’s no prize for getting to the finish line faster. You’re finally just gettin’ the attention you deserve. You know it; your body knows it.”

“Yeah, well, my dick knows it, too,” Tony grouses. “And I think if anyone touches it again, it might fall off.”

The tight, coiling feeling is back. Softer, less urgent than before, but no less persistent. Every flicker of warmth in Bucky’s gaze draws attention to the need pooling at his spine, every pull of desire amplified in ways that make Tony feel like he’s coming apart at the seams.

He fights through the fog. Tries to ground his syrupy, sluggish brain to the present.

“What do you need, baby?”

Tony rolls onto his back, swallowing thickly. He brings his palms to his eyes and exhales toward the ceiling.

“Dunno,” he admits. His voice sounds small, even to his own ears. Feeble. “Might just wait for this wave to pass.”

Something he used to do often, after his body had been wrecked by overstimulation. Now—familiar with the touch of Bucky’s hands on his body, familiar with an Alpha’s presence guiding him through his pleasure—it sounds like torture.

Bucky makes a low, thoughtful sound.

“Or,” he says,“we can get creative.”

Tony tenses. “I thought we weren’t… you said you weren’t going to—” he trails off, the unspoken ‘fuck me’ forming on the tip of his tongue.

Bucky’s lip twitch again, infuriating. Perfect. Tony wants to kiss him.

“There are plenty of things we can do,” Bucky says easily, “that don’t involve me getting my cock inside you, sweetheart.”

Tony’s feeling a little bratty. A little petulant—his skin is too warm, his body teetering somewhere on the confusing precipice of agitation, arousal, and exhaustion. His perpetual state of desire evokes a vulnerability that summons endless frustration, both physically and mentally. His dick aches, despite its constant persistence. It rubs against his underwear in a way that has him gritting his teeth.

And still, none of this negates the side effects of his lingering heat. It clouds his judgment, clinging stubbornly as Tony tosses and turns in the arms of his Alpha. In sheets that smell like his Alpha. As he inhales lungfuls of Bucky’s glorious, rich scent, as Bucky trails his hands along all of Tony’s most sensitive spots, fingers constantly sweeping across his glands, his neck, his hips.

Turns out he drops pretty easy, under the right circumstances.

Especially when he’s half-naked in his Alpha’s bed, dragging through his heat, listening to said Alpha drawl about fucking Tony on his cock.

Like clockwork, Tony’s brain goes a little soft. A little spacey. The fight zaps out of his bones.

The orgasms are nice. Perfect. The pleasure that Bucky so easily pulls out of his body is intense enough to instill immense amounts of humility inside a teenage boy overly familiar with jerking off. He’s starting to think there may never have been pleasure before Bucky—true pleasure, the kind that seeps into his bones and renders him useless. Needy. Complete.

It’s a type of relief he’s never been able to provide for himself, not truly. Not the way his body and his biology require.

But even this—coming with a hand on his cock (however perfect Bucky’s grip, no matter how unwaveringly devoted his attention to Tony’s body may be)—merely begins to scratch the itch of his repressed, earth-shattering craving to be knotted.

It’s easier to hunger for it, when he’s like this. Fucked out, soft and loose and pliant in the grip of his heat-addled submission. When his deep-seated fears and insecurities seem to be nothing more than mindless afterthoughts; memories of a past self.

Still on his back, still staring at the ceiling, his heart pounds against his ribs as he chews on his lip, suppressing the innate whine crawling up the tunnel of his throat.

He’s too busy knuckling at the corners of his eyes, caught in the undertow of sensation, to catch the Alpha’s expression. It shifts from something smug to something softer, like worship, and his scent morphs with it, washing over Tony like the tide.

Bucky’s hands roam with a practiced ease, pulling Tony’s hands from his face by his wrists and hovering over him like he was made to fit there. Slotting his thigh seamlessly between Tony’s legs. “Don’t hide from me. You’ve got no idea what you do to me, do you?” he continues, quiet. He pushes Tony’s wrists up above his head, and Tony goes willingly. Easily. Fingers flexing in his Alpha’s grip.“The way you look at me when you’re all dazed like this... makes me wanna wreck you and put you back together a hundred times over. Make sure you never forget how good you can have it, now that you’re with me.”

Tony pushes out a rushed laugh. He feels manic.

With his free hand, Bucky tilts Tony’s head back slightly, just enough to press a firm kiss to the hinge of his jaw. “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. I’d move heaven and earth for you. Hell, I’d rip ‘em both apart if it’d make you feel even an ounce better.”

It’s nonsense. It’s indulgence. Ridiculous and perfect. The exact kind of absurd sweet-talking that sends Tony under, as quick as anything.

Bucky’s lips find Tony’s jaw again, lingering this time, the press of his mouth deliberate and firm.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t let the heat of the moment pull him out of his rhythm. His lips are slightly chapped, but warm, leaving a trail of kisses down the curve of Tony’s jawline. Each touch feels heavier than the last, sinking into Tony’s skin like a brand.

When Bucky kisses just beneath Tony’s ear, Tony shudders and gasps, his fingers clenching weakly at nothing. His wrists still pressed firmly into the mattress. “Right here,” Bucky murmurs. He tilts Tony’s head slightly, angling him so that he can press his mouth more firmly against the soft curve of Tony’s throat. Teasing the edge of his mating gland.“Can’t get enough of you, gorgeous. Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He kisses down the column of Tony’s throat, slow and savoring. His lips mold perfectly to each dip and curve, the slight scrape of his teeth dragging just enough to make Tony arch against him. Bucky hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating through both of them as he presses a firmer kiss just above Tony’s collarbone, lingering there like he doesn’t want to leave.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes, the words barely audible against Tony’s skin. He pulls back just far enough to cradle Tony’s cheek in his hand, tilting him up, their foreheads almost touching. “You feel it too, don’t you? How good this is?”

He doesn’t let Tony answer. He just kisses him again, this time on the mouth.

It’s slower than Tony expects, like Bucky’s savoring every second. He presses in close, coaxing Tony’s lips apart with gentle insistence, his tongue brushing softly against Tony’s lower lip. The kiss deepens naturally, their mouths sliding together with an ease that makes Tony’s head spin.

Tony feels a frantic, kinetic energy pulsing inside him. He whimpers and tries to deepen the kiss, trembling against the bed, but Bucky gentles it each time Tony’s urgency bleeds through. Unhurried and deliberate. Coaxing Tony into a dizzying, boneless headspace.

When Bucky pulls away, Tony’s vision feels spotty.

“Look at me.” Bucky’s hands move to frame Tony’s face, propping himself up on his elbows. Tony’s arms obediently stay stretched up by his ears. He blinks rapidly into focus. Bucky’s lips brush Tony’s temple, then his cheek, soft and grounding. The faint rasp of stubble catches on Tony’s overheated skin, the sensation somehow soothing. Bucky's voice, low and deliberate, breaks through the haze.

“Everything we do is supposed to feel good, Tony,” he says, the words careful but firm, like he’s staking a claim against some ghost of doubt. “That’s how it’s meant to be. If it doesn’t feel good, we stop. Doesn’t matter how close you are or what you think you’re supposed to do. Got it?”

Tony blinks sluggishly, the fog in his mind too thick to navigate. Bucky’s words swirl in his head, heavy and meaningful, familiar, but they don’t quite land.

He glances up at Bucky, his brow furrowed. “Was this… is this about Arnie?”

Bucky stills for a moment. His lips part and he exhales slowly, choosing his next words carefully.

“You don’t have to think about that right now, doll,” he says, his voice laced with a kind of tenderness that only makes Tony more confused. “Everything I’m doin’ is to make you feel nice. Nothing else matters. Not me, not anyone else—just you. So if it… hurts, if it feels like too much, you tell me. No one gets to tell you what’s normal except you.

Tony huffs, the sound more desperate than frustrated. “No, I—” He shakes his head, trying to find clarity in the haze of heat and exhaustion. “I remember… what he said. And you got mad?” His words tumble out in fragments, disjointed and uncertain, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that’s missing half the pieces.

And then he tenses.

“Oh. He… he said I lied to him,” Tony whispers. “That I told him it wouldn’t hurt.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. “He was upset,” he says carefully, tone measured. “And maybe he had a right to be, in his own way. But that doesn’t mean he was right to put that on you.”

Tony frowns, the weight of Arnie’s words pressing down on him again, mingling with the persistent heat thrumming in his veins. “But I did tell him that. And I knew—” He swallows, his throat tight. “I knew I was lying.”

Bucky’s hands spasm, the smallest movement, and Tony watches the Alpha’s chin raise, his lips brushing Tony’s hairline. “You weren’t, baby,” Bucky says gently, but there’s a firmness in his voice that leaves no room for argument. “You told him what you thought was true. What you wanted to believe for him—and for yourself.”

His mind is still too clouded with need to form a coherent response, but Bucky doesn’t give him the chance to speak.

“Listen to me,” Bucky says, his voice low and unyielding, and Tony feels it vibrate through his chest. “It’s only ever supposed to feel good. Every damn time. No matter what. I know you’ve been through shit, Tony. I know you’ve got these scars inside of you,” Each word is clipped, each syllable dripping with intensity. “But that ain’t your fault. And I’m not gonna let you forget that this?” He pushes his own hard, straining cock against Tony’s hipbone. “It’s supposed to be good, sweet boy. So good—every damn moment of it. You hear me? If it doesn’t feel good, we’re doin’ it wrong.”

Tony stares up at him, a little wet around the eyes. Stunned and speechless.

“You don’t owe anyone anything. Not Arnie, not anyone. You deserve to feel good. To feel safe. And I will always take care of you, Tony. Always.” Bucky presses a kiss to the side of his head. “You trust me?”

Tony nods before he can stop himself. The haze is still there, dense and thick, but Bucky’s warmth cuts through it. His touch grounds him.

“Say it,” Bucky urges, his voice a little rougher now. “Tell me you trust me.”

“Yeah, always,” Tony finally whispers, his voice barely a breath. “Always, Buck. I trust you.”

Bucky’s entire demeanor shifts. The tension in his shoulders eases, and the edge in his voice softens, though a hint of raw vulnerability lurks behind it. He lets out a deep, rumbling breath, like a weight has been lifted, and he moves his hands gently over Tony’s body, brushing the stray strands of hair from his forehead.

“Good,” he says.“That’s all I needed to hear.” He kisses Tony’s nose. “Now that we’re on the same page,” he flashes Tony that same roguish smile, the one that always makes Tony’s heart skip in his chest. “I wanna try somethin’. I think you’ll like it.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, feeling a thrill of uncertainty roll through him. “What are you—” he starts, but the words die in his throat as he yelps, Bucky’s deft hands flipping him onto his stomach.

“Oof.”

Bucky presses his smile into Tony’s shoulder blade. He grazes his teeth along the skin when Tony shivers beneath him.

“Relax for me, baby.”

“Easier said than done,” Tony grumbles into his pillow. His heart is beating in his throat.

Bucky’s hand slides over Tony’s back, tracing the curve of his spine with gentle fingers. Just like that, Tony sinks into the mattress.

“That’s it,” Bucky croons. “Still with me, doll?”

Tony, eyes half-lidded, nods, but the haze of arousal makes it hard for him to form any coherent thoughts. “Yeah, m’fine,” he mumbles, voice hoarse.

Bucky’s thumb brushes against the back of Tony’s neck before he leans in, kissing the back of Tony’s ear softly. “Say the word, and we stop. Got it?”

“Which word?”

“Go ahead, honey, crack all the jokes you want. I’ve got you pegged. Smart mouth and all.”

Tony is Tony, and he tries for a clever retort, but all that escapes is a high, shocked sound as Bucky tugs his briefs over the curve of his ass, down to his knees.

He can’t move, can’t speak as Bucky shifts behind him, fingers tracing up the inside of his thighs. Gliding through rivulets of slick.

“Still burning for me,” Bucky muses. “Even after I’ve made you come twice. You don’t know how much I love seeing you like this, darlin’. So needy. Trusting me to take care of you.” He nudges Tony’s hips up, urging a pillow between him and the mattress, and Tony moves easily. Boneless.

“I think about this a lot,” the Alpha continues. Easy, casual. As if he and Tony are discussing the weather. He palms the flesh of Tony’s ass, and Tony moans, scrubbing his forehead into the mattress below. His fingers fist the sheets on either side of his head. “Oh, darlin’. Have you ever touched yourself here?”

Tony nods, more than a bit desperate. His skin is flushed from his hairline to his toes.

“Uh, huh,” he admits. “In heat.”

Bucky makes a cooing, sympathetic sound behind him. His thumb presses into the give of his flesh, barely brushing along the rim of Tony’s wet, aching hole. Tony’s lungs collapse into his ribs. The whine he releases is loud, unhinged.

He truly, desperately hopes Steve Rogers is a heavy sleeper.

“Poor Omega. You touched yourself here this weekend, didn’t you? When you were all alone? Cryin’ for something bigger? Something to fill you up?”

Tony’s shocked laugh morphs into a choked hiccup. “Jesus, Buck.” He squirms against the Alpha’s touch. “Yeah. Yeah.”

He might die like this, he thinks.

“Did you think about me?”

Correction, he will die like this.

“Bucky,” he gasps. Color floods his cheeks. If he grips the sheets any harder in anticipation, he’ll tear them.

“Tell me, Tony.” Bucky’s voice has a sharper edge, now. Something darker, richer. “Did you think about me when you were fucking yourself with your fingers? When you were achin’ and wigglin’ to reach that soft spot inside you? Did you imagine it was me?” Bucky’s thumb hooks into the rim of his hole, and a gush of slick pours out. The Alpha’s scent blooms. “My fingers inside of you? My cock? My knot?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Tony wails. He pushes his hips back to meet Bucky’s touch, desperate, but Bucky’s hand on his hip stills him. “Thought about you. Always—oh!—Always thinking ‘bout you.”

Bucky makes a low, pleased noise, leans over to kiss the dip of Tony’s spine, and then sinks his pointer finger inside Tony to the second knuckle.

Both boys curse.

Despite his nerves, Tony’s body is warm, willing. Pliant and softened by his heat. Bucky’s finger sinks into him like a stone in water, aided by the copious slick gushing out of his body.

“Baby doll. Jesus. So tight, so perfect.” Bucky sounds like he’s speaking through clenched teeth. Tony can’t do anything but bite down on his pillow and take it.

Bucky works his finger into Tony slowly, praises spilling from his lips as Tony adjusts to the stretch of the unfamiliar digit. Longer and thicker than his own. Pushing into him at an unfamiliar, dizzying angle. Tony clenches around it greedily, his body adjusting so easily to the stretch that it craves.

It’s everything.

His resilient dick is rock hard against his stomach, grinding lazily into the mattress with each careful thrust of Bucky’s hand, but Tony doesn’t even register it. All of his focus, his entire existence is narrowed down to a fine point—to Bucky’s dexterous, practiced finger dragging in and out of him, his hole sucking in the intrusion greedily.

Tony can feel every nerve ending in his body. When Bucky’s finger finally pushes in all the way, nudging past the easy resistance of tight muscle up to the third knuckle, stars explode behind his eyelids.

“Ohhh,” Tony groans. “Oh my God. More. Alpha, More.”

Bucky laughs behind him, the sound tinged with disbelief. “How many have you had before, baby?”

The slow-moving cogs in Tony’s brain work to dissect Bucky’s question.

“Two,” Tony gasps. “Jus’ two.”

Bucky rewards him with a curl of his finger, and Tony’s back arches so much that Bucky has to use his own hips to hold Tony to the bed.

Tony can hear Bucky’s smug triumph. It pours into his scent.

“Two’s perfect. Two’s all we need.”

A second finger begins toying at his rim. Tony cries out in ecstasy.

“Easy. Easy. Just like that. Nice and relaxed for me, doll.”

Time becomes fluid, ebbing and flowing. Tony doesn’t know how long Bucky pumps a lone finger into him—unhurried, unrushed, letting the mewling Omega underneath him squirm and shake under the sensation as he continues to whisper filth into his mouth.

“I fucked my fist in the shower, thinking about this.” Bucky licks the sweat-dampened shell of Tony’s ear. “You were asleep, poor thing, all worn out from spilling all over my hand. I got myself off with you still on me, drippin’ all over my fingers. So fucking beautiful, sweetheart. I closed my eyes and pictured this—stretching out this poor, aching hole on my fingers. Making you come again, just from strokin’ inside you, all nice-like.”

Tony’s nodding frantically. He might be crying. He can’t tell if his face is wet from tears or drool.

“You’re better than a dream. So good for me like this, Tony. So sweet and perfect. You ready for another?”

“Please,” Tony begs. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

“Good boy,” Bucky husks, and then he’s biting into the skin at the crook of Tony’s shoulder the exact moment a second finger breaches Tony’s body. Tony jolts, and then lets out a keening wail.

“Fuck, Tony. You’re tight.”

He is, he knows it. But the stretch is wonderful; it’s exactly what he needs, exactly what he’s never able to give himself.

What his body is made for. Just for Bucky.

Desperate pleas spill from Tony’s lips—a warbled mixture of “Bucky” and “Alpha”—as Bucky works diligently to scissor his fingers inside of Tony as much as the tight space allows. Tony can only hear his breathing, can only feel the press of Bucky’s chest against his own sweat-slick back, but his Alpha sounds wrecked.

“Feelin’ good, honey?”

Tony makes an unintelligible noise, but thrusts his arm out beside him. Gives the Alpha a thumbs up.

Bucky barks out a laugh. Fond.

“Atta boy,” he praises. “Hang tight, doll.” He twists his wrist and thrusts deep. Crooks his fingers downward.

“Fuck!”

And then Bucky is cooing something about a sweet spot, assaulting it with the pads of his fingers with practiced aim and flawless pressure until Tony is writhing and sobbing and vibrating against the bed.

“Oh my god, Alpha, oh my god…”

“You sweet fucking thing, bet you didn’t even know how much you’d enjoy that.”

Tony is a man of science. He knows biology. He knows, in theory, about the existence of his prostate.

It doesn’t stop Tony from screaming out as Bucky fucks his fingers in and out, aiming for that soft spot each time and building Tony’s pleasure up to a speeding, frenzied crest.

He’s never been able to reach it himself. Has never known any pleasure as overwhelming that hasn’t derived from a hand on dick.

But this—Bucky’s fingers inside him, buried in the most intimate part of his body—he can’t help but preen. Revel. Succumb to the nature of his body, his designation. He ruts against the mattress and grinds subconsciously back into the force of Bucky’s fingers, making quiet “unh, unh, unh” sounds as the warm, indulgent feeling in his belly drags him further into that fuzzy headspace.

And Bucky gives it to him. The grip on his hip is ironclad as Bucky pumps his fingers with purpose, pulling choked-off, pathetic noises from Tony’s throat with each wet slide. And Bucky keeps cooing and murmuring sweet nonsense into the pheromone-rich air while he watches it all.

“Right there, right there. That’s it, that’s perfect. So good, so good for me. My gorgeous boy.”

Bucky tugs Tony’s hips upward and reaches underneath with his hand, presumably to assist in stroking Tony over the edge, but Tony whines and pulls away.

“Don’ need it,” he grits out. “Can—just like this.” He’s so, so close.

Bucky groans like he’s been shot.

“Fuck. Yeah, okay. Just like this, baby. You’ll feel so much better when you come on your Alpha’s fingers. Come on, sweetheart, give it to me.”

And Tony is nothing if not obedient in heat. He listens to his Alpha.

A few more well-aimed thrusts and the whisper of a hand on the nape of his neck and he’s falling apart, coming untouched as the pressure in his gut snaps. Dick spitting white onto the sheets beneath him. Whimpering and mewling pathetically into the mattress, mouth gaping, tears spilling out of his eyes.

“Christ,” Bucky whispers, fucking him through it. His resolve sounds shaky. “Fucking hell, Tony.”

It just keeps going. Bucky rubs and rubs and rubs over that spot inside him that lights his nerve endings on fire, and Tony’s hole flutters greedily around his fingers, clenching like a vice. Luxuriating in the indulgence his body was made for. His orgasm drags out of him, come dribbling out the tip of his cockhead one last time as Bucky pushes his fingers in and presses.

Tony blacks out, after that.

6:11 A.M.

“What do you need?” Bucky asks, selfless and perfect. Dragging his hand through Tony’s curls.

Ready to provide again at the drop of a hat. Sounding genuinely pleased—God bless him—at the very notion, no less.

The echo of Bucky’s touch lingers everywhere. Tony glances up at his Alpha.

He’s leaning back against the headboard, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. Entirely at odds with the visible tension thrumming through his body.

The hand not touching Tony rests on his thigh, clenched into a tight fist. Like he’s willing himself into control.

Tony’s gaze drifts lower again, back to the unmistakable strain in Bucky’s boxers, the sharp curve of arousal that makes Tony’s mouth go dry.

The Alpha hasn’t let Tony touch him once.

A new kind of yearning pulls at the thread in Tony’s stomach.

“Enough about me. What do you need?” Tony asks, his voice hoarse but tinged with something light. “You’re killing yourself over here, pal.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, but he shakes his head. “I’ll live,” he murmurs, his voice steady but noticeably rough around the edges.

Tony props himself up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, but will you? Because, uh—” He gestures vaguely toward Bucky’s lap, his tone turning shy. “You look like you’re one stiff breeze from a happy ending.”

Bucky snorts, shaking his head again, but he doesn’t move.

Tony’s brow furrows. The teasing edge in his voice gives way to something quieter, a little more uncertain. “I can help. Why won’t you let me… you know, return the favor?” His cheeks blaze red at the thought.

Realistically, Tony wouldn’t even know where to start. He’s never seen Bucky’s cock, not unclothed, but he’s felt it. He’s pressed and moaned and writhed against it. He knows there’s a lot to work with—perhaps, even, close to double what Tony has to work with.

In length and girth.

He swallows thickly.

Bucky exhales slowly, his head tipping back against the headboard. “It’s not about that.”

Tony sits up fully now, the blanket pooling around his waist. He crosses his legs beneath him, momentarily forgetting his own roiling, turbulent need. “Okay. Then what’s it about?”

Bucky’s gaze flicks to him, his eyes flickering with something unidentifiable as he reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Tony’s face. “It’s about you,” he says simply.

Tony’s stomach twists, the warmth from moments ago giving way to something colder, heavier.

“Me,” he echoes dully. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, his hand shifting to cup Tony’s cheek, his thumb stroking over the delicate, paper-thin skin beneath his eye. “Don’t do that. Don’t twist it into something it’s not.”

Tony huffs a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m not twisting anything, Eagle Scout. Just seems pretty clear you don’t want—”

“I want,” Bucky interrupts, his voice sharp enough to make Tony stop mid-sentence. “Jesus, Tony, I want so bad it hurts.”

Tony blinks, caught off guard by the rawness in Bucky’s voice.

Bucky lets out a slow breath, his arm lifting to prop behind his head. “But this isn’t about what I want. It’s about you. You’re still coming down from your heat, still raw, still figuring out how to let someone be here for you without feeling like you have to give something back.”

Tony’s lips part, but no words come out. He chokes on air.

Bucky’s gaze holds his, steady and unrelenting. “You’re not a transaction, sweetheart. You don’t have to earn this. You don’t have to earn me.”

Tony deflates.

“Stupid, noble Alphas,” he grouses, and before he can second-guess himself, he’s pushing the rest of the blanket away to clamor into Bucky’s lap.

Bucky lifts a brow but doesn’t say anything as Tony situates himself on top of him, ass pressing firmly into the intimidating splendor of his stubborn erection. Only separated by thin layers of flannel and cotton. He catches Tony easily, strong hands settling instinctively at his slim waist as if they were made to hold him.

“Tony, what are you—”

“Just… shut up for a second,” Tony says with no bite. He tucks himself into the Alpha’s chest, inhaling. Centering himself. He doesn’t say anything for several moments, just burrowing closer, his forehead resting against the curve of Bucky’s neck. The scent of him is stabilizing, and Tony lets himself get lost in it for a moment.

Bucky trails his fingers along his spine, patient.

“I know you just want me to feel good, baby,” Bucky whispers into the crown of his head, breaking the silence after a few short minutes. “And I do. I swear it. Helping you makes me feel good.”

Tony rolls his eyes and nips at Bucky’s collarbone. “You’re allowed to want an orgasm. It won’t traumatize me.”

“Honey, I have no clue what’s goin’ to traumatize you on any given day.”

“Fair.” Tony wiggles in his lap, prompting a hiss from Bucky. His fingers tighten around Tony’s waist. Tony grins, close-mouthed and sheepish. “I want to watch.”

Bucky freezes.

“Tony,” he says slowly. A warning.

“M’serious. Your steadfast virtue is duly noted. But I’ve come three times since getting dragged into your bedroom. If you try to get me off again, I might slip into a hormonally-induced coma.”

“Doubt it,” Bucky retorts. He’s smirking again. “You’re easy, honey. All I need to do is whisper a couple a’ sweet things at you and you’re putty in my hands. You’re forgettin’ that I can smell how much you need me. Bet I could get you over the edge again in two minutes, flat.”

Tony knows, albeit reluctantly, that this is likely true.

“Not the point,” he says diplomatically. He clears his throat.“As an Omega, I’m essentially biologically wired to want to please my Alpha. It’s basic science, actually.”

Bucky scoffs. “Yeah, that’s you alright. Textbook Omega.”

“I’m vulnerable right now. Super sensitive. If you deny me this, I might weep.”

Bucky tilts his head back, a bemused expression on his face. “You’re definitely something, ya brat.”

Tony grins, unabashed. “I prefer ‘resolute’. Emphasizes my convictions. S’much more flattering.”

“It’s not.” Bucky gives him a pointed look. “This is… a bad idea, Tony.”

“Oh, come on,” Tony says, swatting lightly at Bucky’s warm, olive-toned arm. “You’re acting like I’m gonna collect your sperm and sell it to the highest bidder. I just want to watch.”

Bucky snorts, his hands tightening on Tony’s waist. Composing himself. “You don’t see how this might be... unnecessary?” His voice lowers, his brow furrowing. “I don’t need this, Tony. You’ve already given me everything.”

Tony shrugs, all faux nonchalance. Inside, he’s buzzing. “We’re way past necessary, Buck. You laid siege to my prostate until I passed out. Watching is, like, a logical next step.”

Bucky’s jaw works, the conflict flickering in his eyes as he searches for the right words. “It’s not about whether I want it or not,” he finally says. “’Cause believe me doll, I do. God, I do. But this… chasing my own pleasure like that, when you’re still—” He cuts himself off, his throat bobbing. “It’s different for me. It’s… instinct. It’s raw. And I never want you to think that’s all I’m after.”

Tony’s teasing expression dissolves completely, but he doesn’t drop the subject. Instead, he leans forward, his nose nuzzling the hollow of Bucky’s throat. “I know that, Bucky,” he says quietly. “I do. But this? This isn’t about proving anything. It’s about… I dunno, being close to you. Letting me see you. Knowing I’m the one who makes you feel like that.”

His own honesty shocks him. He attributes it to pheromones and post-orgasmic glow. Making his tongue loose and aiding substantially in vocalizing his desires.

Bucky tips his head forward to rest against Tony’s shoulder. “You’re impossible, y’know that?”

“Impossible and curious,” Tony quips. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “Come on, Sergeant. Show me what you’re working with. Purely for science.”

Bucky groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. You win. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tony’s beam is wicked. “I’ll make it worth your while. Pose all pretty.” He twists gracefully out of Bucky’s lap and launches himself back onto the Alpha’s pillow, feeling entirely too pleased with himself. “And I promise to be very professional about this.”

Bucky huffs. “That’s one word for it.”

As the quiet moment stretches between them, Tony feels a tiny flicker of unease creep into his chest. He replays the conversation in his mind, wondering if he pushed too hard—if Bucky’s softening isn’t him giving in, but him giving up. The thought makes his stomach churn, a sudden pang of guilt knotting his insides.

“I—” Tony starts, bravado dissipating, the words tangling in his throat. He doesn’t even know what he’s about to say, just that he feels the sudden need to backpedal, to give Bucky an out, a way to say no.

But then Bucky is shifting, pushing up from his reclined position, and before Tony can blink, the Alpha is looming over him. The bed dips under his weight as Bucky settles his broad frame over Tony, bracketing him between solid arms. The heat of him is overwhelming, and Tony freezes beneath the intensity of his presence.

“Hey,” Bucky says, nudging Tony’s nose with his own. His steel grey eyes find Tony’s, and everything Tony sees in them makes his panic dissolve like mist under the sun. Bucky’s gaze isn’t strained or reluctant. It isn’t even hesitant.

It’s burning.

There’s a hunger there, deep and consuming, but tempered with the same steady warmth and vigilance the Alpha constantly radiates. There isn’t a single ounce of reluctance in the way Bucky looks at him, only need and affection so strong it almost steals Tony’s breath.

“Hey,” Tony says back. Barely a whisper.

Bucky’s breathing is heavy, shallow, but Tony can see the gleam in his pupils—the edge of something dangerous and beautiful.

He doesn’t have time to say anything, to question or analyze. Bucky’s mouth drops to his, deep and bruising and urgent, lacking the usual tenderness Tony’s come to expect. His lips press into Tony’s with the same force that radiates from every inch of him—muscles tense, chest heaving, the heat of his body engulfing Tony’s. It’s the kind of kiss that consumes, leaving no space for anything else in the world but the two of them.

Tony melts into it and moans.

His lungs spasm as Bucky's hand tangles in his hair, tugging him to the right angle, and Tony’s legs part instinctively. The bed creaks beneath them as Bucky shifts, the weight of him settling over Tony like a furnace.

“Open,” Bucky commands roughly, dragging his thumb across Tony’s bottom lip. He dives back in and Tony succumbs easily, shivering as he feels Bucky’s tongue plunge deep and take. He can’t fight the way his own body responds with an instinctive desperation that mirrors Bucky’s. Every touch feels like it’s been building for days, every movement between them drenched in the heavy, suffocating pressure of desire.

Through all of it, Bucky’s eyes—when they finally break away—glitter with something unspoken.

“Gonna touch myself, sweetheart,” Bucky says against Tony’s lips, voice ragged and raw. “Gonna show you what you do to me. How you make me feel, every damn minute of the day.”

Tony nods eagerly, chasing Bucky’s lips. Bright, cherry red and shiny with spit. Bucky pulls away, and he whines.

Bucky smiles, but it’s almost feral, a flash of teeth that sends a thrill coursing through Tony’s veins. “Desperate for it, huh?” His fingers run along Tony’s jawline, tracing the outline of his lips before brushing back through his hair to hold him still, a reminder of how easily he can take control. “To see your Alpha’s cock? His knot?”

If anyone knew just how desperate Tony was, they’d probably have him committed to the nearest mental institution.

“Tell me you want it, Tony,” Bucky breathes, pulling back just enough to look into Tony’s eyes. “Tell me you want this.”

Tony’s heart thunders in his chest, and it’s impossible to keep his voice steady. “Yeah, Buck. Yeah, God, I want it.”

Bucky groans. “Good.” He pulls back, sitting back on his heels. He’s painfully hard, a noticeable wet patch staining the fabric of his boxers where his cockhead strains. His hair falls into his eyes and his chest heaves, perfect expanses of smooth, sweetly tanned skin.

Tony’s never wanted anything more than he wants him.

He wets his lips. Drags his eyes to his Alpha’s crotch and clenches his thighs together.

And then waves a hand in the air for loose emphasis.

“Proceed,” he says, though it comes out like a wheeze.

Bucky gazes at him from under his eyelashes, the corners of his mouth twitching into a crooked smile. Tony’s favorite smile. He places his left hand on Tony’s knee, thumb caressing the skin, and dips the other hand into his boxers.

“This is what you do to me, Tony,” he rasps. He pushes the fabric past his hips, down to his knees, and Tony suddenly wishes the sunlight dipping through the window was softer. His eyes go wide, wide, his jaw dropping open to suck in a strong gasp.

He knew Bucky was going to be large. He’s felt it by now—straining through layers of fabric, mostly—but clearly imposing, nonetheless.

And it’s not like Tony has endless frames of reference. He’s seen his own dick, obviously—normal, average, if not a little on the smaller side due to his presentation. He hasn’t had time to be insecure about it, not with Bucky’s hands sending him to orbit every time he gets a decent grip on it.

He’s seen crude drawings in textbooks.

But Bucky’s cock is massive. Frames of reference be damned.

It curves against his stomach, shining at the tip, and when Bucky drags his fist down the length of it, the Alpha’s own long fingers hardly wrap around the circumference.

“Bucky,” he whispers, reverent. He squirms against the bed, and Bucky’s fingers tighten on his knee.

Be good.

Bucky doesn’t seem shocked by Tony’s stunned, awestruck gaze. Instead, his chin falls to his chest, hiding his smile. He gives himself another long, smooth stroke, and the tension bleeds from his shoulders.

Tony gapes. He wants to touch him. He wants to lick him.

Bucky’s cock is red. Angry from hours of neglect without release. Pre-cum gathers at the tip and Bucky swipes his thumb over the mess to ease the slide of his fist, shuddering at the sensation. His eyes, when they peer down at Tony, are black.

Tony lays immobile. Raptured.

Bucky lets go of Tony’s knee to press a thumb under Tony’s chin. Urging his mouth closed.

Something dark flashes across the Alpha’s weighted gaze, then. Something predatory.

His hand doesn’t drop. Instead, he cups Tony’s face near his jaw. Presses his thumb to Tony’s bottom lip until it gives.

The digit slips into his mouth. Bucky growls.

Tony knows they’re on the cusp of something dangerous. The air in the room, a mixture of their combined pheromones, suddenly feels electric. Charged.

“Before you, I hadn’t popped a knot since my last rut.” Bucky speaks in an octave Tony didn’t know he was capable of. A deep, throaty baritone. His fingers flex around himself as he increases the speed of his strokes, the tip of his cock leaking as it pushes past the ring of his fingers. Clear fluid gathers and spills down his knuckles.

Tony says nothing. Inhibited by the warm, salty pressure of Bucky’s thumb on his tongue.

“Then I met you. The most beautiful boy. Smelling—fuck—like a goddamn dream. I was done for, after that. I’ve popped a knot every time I’ve thought about you with my hand on my dick since.”

Tony’s own dick stirs in his underwear. He ignores it.

“Never knew I could do that before. Had only popped a knot when I—” The Alpha breaks off, hissing through his teeth as he squeezes around the base of his length. He tips his head up toward the ceiling, mouth parting in pleasure. Breaths ragged.

The implication is clear—Bucky had only been able to produce a knot during sex.

For whatever reason, this particular revelation doesn’t sour Tony’s snug and cozy headspace. Doesn’t pull him out of his rapt mesmerization.

His eyes widen, his breathing becoming shallow around Bucky’s thumb as Bucky groans and trembles, the Alpha’s lip tucking into his teeth as the skin of his flushed, leaking cock starts to swell at the base.

It’s obscene. Decadent. Bucky ignores the rapidly expanding knot, fingers gliding up and down the slick shaft as lewd noises fill the space between them. Bucky’s eyes snap to Tony’s, gaze ravenous, and Tony quakes when Bucky edges his thumb further into Tony’s mouth.

He doesn’t choke, but it’s a close thing. It takes superhuman levels of restraint to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head, Bucky’s thumb pressing heavily onto the back of his tongue. His hand gripping Tony’s jaw and keeping his mouth pried open.

If Tony drools a little, well. That’s between him and his salivary glands.

Bucky’s knot swells at the base, the size of a small fist, and the fleeting expression of panic that reveals itself in Tony’s expression (for the sake of his asshole, truly,) has Bucky smirking. He pulls his thumb out of Tony’s mouth, a line of spit dragging from Tony’s lip.

“You’re gonna break me in half,” Tony coughs out once his mouth is free.

Bucky laughs. Hoarse and rough. He wraps his fingers around the engorged flesh and moans, louder than Tony’s heard him so far, and the sound of it rattles something inside Tony’s bones.

“It’ll—oh—it’ll fit, doll. We’ll make it fit. You’ll take me so good, sweetheart. Fuck. I know it.”

And, well. Tony, with his mile-wide competitive streak, has certainly never shied away from a challenge.

So he nods, and whines, and sinks blissfully under the delicious weight of Bucky’s filthy assurances. “Want you to come,” he whispers, a little shy and still a little heat-stunned.

Bucky’s responding exhale is slow, controlled. His tongue darts out to wet his lip and his brow furrows. If Tony could move his limbs, he would smooth out the wrinkle with his thumb.

The Alpha leans down, his face so close that Tony can feel the heat of his breath. His knuckles drag across Tony’s belly as he drags his fist up and down. “Oh, you want me to come, huh?” His voice is a low, gravelly purr, and the sound sends a shiver down Tony’s spine. “Sweetheart, you gotta know—every time I come now, it’s for you. Always for you.”

Tony gulps. His face burns, but he doesn’t look away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“You have no idea, do you?” Bucky continues, his thumb circling the swollen knot, a strangled sound breaking from his throat. “This—God—this is yours, Tony. Everything I am, everything I got, it’s yours. You’re the only one who gets me like this.”

Tony’s lips part, but no sound comes out. He can only watch, utterly captivated as Bucky moves, deltoids flexing, dragging out his own pleasure like he’s savoring it.

The Alpha’s breath hitches, and he swears under his breath, his free hand bracing against the bed next to Tony’s head. “Christ, you’re so fucking pretty,” he rasps. “Just layin’ there, lookin’ at me like that. You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me, do you?”

Tony swallows hard, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “Not my fault you’re a sucker for a pretty face,” he says shakily.

Bucky’s smirk widens, lazy and confident. The only sign of his dissolving composure is the flush on his cheeks, the steady increase of his breathing as he works his cock harder. Faster. “Pretty face, gorgeous everything else. I’ve told you, baby, you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

Tony’s stomach does a weird little twist at the words. It’s a fluttery, almost nauseating feeling, and for a moment, he has to fight the urge to deflect with a quip. He’s saved from having to respond when Bucky’s moving again, sitting back, his fingers brushing against Tony’s thigh as he fucks his fist, slow and deliberate.

“God,” Bucky murmurs, his head tipping back just slightly, exposing the column of his throat. “You’re so good to me, you know that? Just sittin’ there, bein’ mine, lookin’ at me like you’re starvin’ for it. You make it so easy, Tony. So damn easy to lose my mind over you.”

The confession hits Tony like a lightning bolt, his breath catching in his throat as the raw, unfiltered emotion in Bucky’s voice wraps around him and holds him tight. There’s a flicker of something in Bucky’s tone—something unspoken, something neither of them is quite ready to say.

Tony simply squirms, his hands finding their way to Bucky’s thighs, grounding himself in the solid warmth beneath his fingers.

“Alpha” he manages, begging a little, though his voice cracks on the word.

Bucky chuckles, low and warm. “Patience, doll. You’ll get your show. Can’t blame me for wantin’ to drag it out a little.” He bites his bottom lip, groaning as he picks up his pace, his hips jerking slightly in time with his hand.

The sight has Tony’s head spinning. Bucky, all broad shoulders and rippling muscles, flushed and wrecked in the best way. And all for him. The thought sends an electrifying shiver through him.

“You like watchin’ me, darlin’?” Bucky rasps, his voice thick with heat and amusement. His eyes, half-lidded but still sharp, find Tony’s. The intensity in them is magnetic, pulling Tony further into the spell of the moment.

Tony swallows hard. “Uh-huh.”

Bucky’s laugh is low and guttural. “Uh-huh,” he mimics, teasing. “Look at you, sweetheart. Always so eager for me. Even when you’re too wrecked to move.”

Tony nods faster. Eager, near-delirious.

Bucky must be able to see it, clear as day in his spellbound expression. His lips curve into a softer smile, and he lets out a shaky exhale. “That’s my boy,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Tony. And then he’s leaning back. Basking fully in his own pleasure.

He’s… ethereal. Lean muscle and a shimmering sheen of sweat. Bathed in the soft morning sunlight, he resembles something carved by Michelangelo himself.

He shudders, his entire frame taut and trembling like a bowstring pulled to its limit. His hand moves faster now, more insistent, the slick sound of his strokes drowning out his ragged breathing. His pupils are blown wide, the stormy grey of his eyes swallowed by a darkness that burns with desire, and his flushed skin glistens.

“Fuck, Tony,” Bucky groans, his voice guttural and broken, every syllable drenched in raw need. His gaze remains locked on Tony’s as if he’s drawing every ounce of strength and urgency from the Omega sprawled beneath him. “You do this to me. Every—fuckin’—time.”

Tony’s breath punches out of his lungs, utterly transfixed. He can feel the heat rolling off Bucky in waves, each one igniting something deep and primal in his chest. Every flex of Bucky’s forearm, every roll of his hips, every hitch in his breath—it’s all for him. Because of him.

Bucky’s movements become erratic, his chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven rhythms. His head tilts back again, exposing the thick line of his throat, and Tony can see his pulse thrumming wildly beneath the skin. His jaw clenches as a sharp, savage moan tears free, and his entire body tenses, muscles locking in place like he’s bracing for impact.

And then it hits.

“Shit—Tony—”

Bucky’s hips jerk forward, his breath catching in a low, broken sound as the first thick pulse of his release hits his chin. His hand slows but doesn’t stop, purposefully avoiding his knot, dragging every ounce of sensation from his body as his chest heaves with the force of it. The flush on his skin deepens, spreading across his neck and up to his cheeks as he groans Tony’s name, reverent and wrecked.

Tony’s eyes widen as he takes it all in, his gaze flickering between the blissed-out expression on Bucky’s face and the way his muscles ripple with every aftershock. It’s mesmerizing, watching the Alpha unravel like this, so open and unguarded in a way that feels almost sacred.

Bucky’s free hand digs into Tony’s thigh, his grip bruising as he comes, and comes, and it goes on seemingly forever as copious amounts of release jet across his chest, his stomach, dripping down past his navel and pooling to his thighs. He rides it out, moaning Tony’s name like a prayer.

When his hand finally falls away after what feels like minutes, his body sags slightly as he catches his breath. His eyes flutter open, and the warmth in his gaze when it meets Tony’s is enough to send a fresh wave of heat pooling in Tony’s chest.

“Fuck, baby, look at that,” he slurs, glancing down at the mess he’s made of himself. “All for you.”

Tony doesn’t think, doesn’t pause, doesn’t wait for the haze of the moment to clear. Scorching, he just reaches out, his palms sliding up Bucky’s bare chest, the muscles still shuddering with aftershocks, and hooks his arms around the Alpha’s neck. With a tug that feels more instinct than thought, he pulls Bucky down.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and Bucky barely has time to brace himself before Tony’s lips are on his.

The kiss is messy, heated, and entirely uncoordinated. Tony can still taste the ragged breaths Bucky is fighting to catch, can still feel the lingering tremor in his Alpha’s frame as their mouths move together. It’s not perfect—Bucky is too unsteady, too drained—but there’s a raw, open tenderness in the way his lips slide against Tony’s, a kind of devotion that makes Tony feel like he’s being lit on fire from the inside out.

Bucky groans into it, low and throaty, his weight settling over Tony in a way that’s almost overwhelming. His chest presses against Tony’s, warm and sticky from the aftermath, but Tony doesn’t care. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, holding him there, deepening the kiss until it feels like the only thing tethering him to reality.

“Doll,” Bucky rasps, breaking away just long enough to catch his breath, his forehead dropping against Tony’s. His hands, broad and steady, cup Tony’s jaw, his thumbs brushing reverently over his cheekbones. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Pretty sure you’ve got it backwards, after that performance art.”

Bucky chuckles, a low, satisfied sound that vibrates through his whole body. His head dips, and he presses a softer kiss to the corner of Tony’s mouth, lingering. There’s something unbearably gentle in the way his lips move there, as if he’s savoring every second, every inch of skin.

“You make me crazy,” Bucky murmurs, quieter now, as if the words aren’t meant to fill the space between them. His forehead presses against Tony’s, the bridge of his nose brushing Tony’s in a fleeting, tender gesture.

Tony swallows hard, his fingers threading through the damp strands of hair at Bucky’s nape, holding him close. The heat between them is still electric, still charged, but there’s something softer now, something that makes Tony’s chest ache. “Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I know.”

For a moment, they just stay like that—Bucky above him, Tony wrapped around him, the Alpha’s spend cooling between them as their breaths mingle in the heavy quiet of the room. It feels grounding, like the world has narrowed down to just this—just them. When Bucky finally tilts his head and kisses him again, slow and deep and consuming, it feels like a promise neither of them is quite ready to say out loud.

Bucky has to go to work.

It’s almost seven in the morning, and Tony would quite literally rather die than untangle himself from the Alpha.

Bucky shifts above him, his weight easing off slightly, and Tony tightens his arms around his neck in protest.

“Nope,” Tony says, muffled against the crook of Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re staying right here. Work’s canceled. World’s canceled. It’s you, me, and this bed until further notice.”

Bucky chuckles, his hand smoothing down Tony’s side in a slow, deliberate sweep. “Wish it worked like that, kid. Believe me, I do.”

“It does,” Tony argues, leaning back just enough to shoot Bucky a pointed look. “I’ve decided. Executive heat decision.”

“Is that right?” Bucky grins, his thumb tracing lazy circles against Tony’s hip. “Well, hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but my boss doesn’t exactly take orders from Omegas. Not even ones as cute as you.”

Tony groans, tucking his face back into the Alpha’s neck. “I’m devastatingly cute. I could charm a rock. Your boss wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Tony doesn’t need to return to school until Tuesday, officially, so it doesn’t require much arm-twisting from Bucky to convince him to remain in the apartment while he and Steve are gone.

Bucky sneaks out into the kitchen and returns with a warm washcloth, and Tony blushes profusely when the Alpha gently wipes them both clean.

“Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now, gorgeous.”

Tony’s body feels heavy in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant, like he’s been melted down and poured into the mattress. Every limb hums faintly, the echoes of his heat simmering just beneath the surface, but the overwhelming fire has cooled to something manageable. He feels warm, almost boneless, as if he’s finally surfacing from days spent at the mercy of his own biology.

The ache is still there—a dull, persistent reminder that his body’s instincts haven’t fully let go yet—but it’s bearable now. His muscles are tired, stretched in ways they haven’t been in a long time, but they feel used in the best way. Thorough. Satisfied.

His skin tingles faintly where Bucky’s hands had lingered—his jaw, his waist, his thighs—like the Alpha’s touch has left a permanent mark on him. Even now, with Bucky moving around the room, gathering his things, Tony feels the absence of his warmth like a chill he can’t quite shake.

He watches Bucky with half-lidded eyes, too lazy to move but too entranced to look away. The Alpha is dressed from the waist down now, but his shirtless torso gleams faintly in the early morning light. His movements are efficient but reluctant, his jaw tight as he sets a glass of water down on the nightstand. Tony can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands linger over every task: Bucky doesn’t want to go.

The thought makes Tony’s chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with his heat.

“You sure you’re okay?” Bucky’s asks, rough with hesitation. He’s standing at the edge of the bed now, his cool-grey eyes scanning Tony like he might fall apart any second.

Tony snorts, letting his head loll to the side as he gives Bucky an easy smile. “I’m good, Buck. Seriously. Just tired. Go to work, contribute to society.”

The words are true—he is okay. The worst of it is over, and he’s coherent enough to take care of himself for a few hours. But there’s a part of him, buried deep, that wishes he wasn’t okay. That wishes he could use his lingering heat as an excuse to make Bucky stay, to keep him here just a little longer.

Tony doesn’t voice it, though. He knows Bucky would stay if he asked. Knows the Alpha would drop everything without hesitation to keep him company, to see him through every last second of this.

Still, when Bucky fusses—fills the glass after making Tony drink the whole thing, sets him up with a (third) pair of clean underwear—Tony doesn’t stop him. It’s sweet, in that achingly Bucky way, and Tony lets it happen because he likes it. Likes knowing that even when Bucky has to leave, he’s leaving a part of himself behind, a little piece of care that Tony can hold onto.

“You eat something while I’m gone, yeah? Kitchen is yours. Try not to set anything on fire.”

“Is that supposed t’be a joke about my cooking?”

Bucky lingers, his hands twitching like they don’t know where to go, and for a moment, Tony almost calls him back. Almost asks him to crawl into bed, to wrap his arms around him, to hold him just a little longer.

Instead, he reaches out, fingers brushing Bucky’s wrist as the Alpha turns to leave. “I’m fine, Buck,” he says, his voice gentler now. “I’ll go bother Steve until he has to leave. Go, I’ll be here when you get back.”

Bucky kisses him as he’s heading out the door. “Be good.”

“Sure. Always.”

Steve finds Tony shortly after that, sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in Bucky’s clothes and Bucky’s quilt.

Screwdriver in hand. Fixing the toaster.

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

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oepionie · 2 years ago

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—"THAT'S MY LULLABY" leona kingscholar

SYNOPSIS: While putting your cub (and husband) to sleep, you decide to sing her a traditional yet slightly…spiteful lullaby.

⊹ [ cw ] — children(?), talks about political lineage, slight mention of leona's trauma ◞

⊹ [ tags ] — female reader! fluff! angst if you squint, girl-dad leona brainrots, reader sings zira's lullaby◞

⊹ [ w.c ] — 0.8k◞ | 🦇masterlist◞

"Now, Zahra, it's best if you don't run so quickly."

As you make your way to the enormous king-sized bed in the room, the drapes of your cream robes glide across the polished stone floors. A tumble of long dark braided locks and adorably round ears bounce as your itty-bitty daughter jumps onto the mattress, scrambling over to the enormous figure laying in the middle.

As Zahra moves closer to the blanket-clad body, her tail flutters joyfully in the air. With a loud, high-pitched roar, she pounces on her prey—landing atop Leona's stomach and knocking the air out of her father's lungs.

"Pap?" she calls out, pawing at your husband's cheek until he drowsily blinks awake. A low growl bubbles from Leona's throat, hoarse and dry from having been woken up by the small beast scaling him like a mountain while he was sleeping.

"Are you awake?" she asks, tugging at his ears. The lion let out a grunt in response, drowsily opening his arms up and allowing the girl to wiggle into his warm embrace. He gives her tangled mop of hair a tender kiss, then buries his face in it, sighing heavily.

"Where's your mother?" he murmurs.

"There!" Zahra beams, pointing to you with her tiny hands. Leona moves to turn to you, jade green eyes drinking in the sight of your figure dressed in a sleeping robe that looked far from modest.

All of a sudden, his tail coils up and tightens around your waist, tugging you forward until your noses and lips brushed dangerously near each other. Tutting, you smack his chest, glowering at his arrogant and smug expression. "Leona!"

"Yeah, yeah. Just c'mere." Without missing a beat, he dragged you into his bed, engulfing both you and Zahra in his firm arms.

The two of you, mother and daughter, giggle as the lion plants warm kisses on each of your cheeks, arms protectively wrapped around your bodies. Soon enough, his affections dissipate your anger, replacing it with something warm and loving.

"Mmph!" Zahra suddenly hums, stretching her arms up as she tosses and turns in between you both. Her cheek then rests on Leona's chest, big doe eyes darting between you both, unable to focus on just one. "I'd like a lullaby."

"A lullaby?" you repeated as you sat up to pinch the cub's cheek between your pointer finger and thumb. "You want a lullaby?"

Zahra nods her head excitedly, glossy eyes practically begging for you to sing her a song.

A memory then roused, faint through the veil of your teenage years long since abandoned, but just barely there. Memories of your fingers threading through Leona's hair as he lay in the botanical gardens, being lulled to sleep by the lullaby that moved from your lips.

Those memories seem like so long ago, now.

"All right," you say, smiling, "hush now, my little one; you must be exhausted." The two lions were now staring at you silently, both eagerly awaiting the soft song you promised.

As a low hum spills from your tongue, Leona's eyes momentarily widen when he recognizes the tune, a pleased smirk playing on his lips.

Threading your finger into Zahra's knotted hair, you can barely remember the words but…you begin to sing.

"Sleep, my little Zahra. Let your dreams take wing." The cub was already fluttering her green eyes close, cheek pressed to her father’s sharp collarbone as her legs sway to the beat. "One day, when you're big and strong, you will be a king."

Zahra let out nonsensical babbles into his skin, trying to sing along as she buries her face farther against his collarbone. Leona feels his lips crack up into a fond smile and you, too, grin, continuing the song.

"The melody of angry growls," your hand trails up Zahra's back, raking into her hair as you brush the loose strands away from her face. "A counterpoint of painful howls."

"A symphony of death, oh my~" Voice a tad bit breathless, you looked down at the drowsy cub in your husband's embrace. By this time, Zahra had fallen asleep, and Leona could feel her tiny, quiet puffs of breath on the side of his neck.

Pressing a lithe kiss atop her forehead, you hum out the final line, finally easing her into dreamland. "That's my lullaby."

As your song ended, the second-born prince gazed upon his child and saw all the years of his own suppressed pain and agony reflected in her.

In his chest, an uneasy and unpleasant sensation arose. He was all too aware of the influence and upheaval that the politics surrounding royal lineages had.

Zahra, though, unlike him, had a chance.

And Leona was going to make sure that it doesn't slip away from her grasp.

"It's okay," The prince murmurs, his voice as gentle and soothing as possible so as not to disturb her. "You'll be a king soon enough."

"I'll make sure of it."

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #twst leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x mc

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madaqueue · 7 months ago

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eternally, yours

chapter 6 | innocence

synopsis: 'forever' is a peculiar concept - how can something persist, unchanged, throughout time? when our bodies halt their aging, do our minds continue to evolve? do our hearts? choso was comfortable with his version of forever, one of solitary loneliness; that is, until he meets you. forced to confront the harsh realities of being human, the fragility of life, his definition of 'forever' changes as he stares down the barrel of eternity.

pairing: vampire!choso kamo x f!reader

themes/content: non-curse modern au. fluff, smut. language, religious imagery, mentions of parental loss. degradation (slut, whore), fingering, p in v (doggy). 18+, MDNI

word count: 5.6k

a/n: GUYS I FINISHED THE SEMESTER YAYYY !!!! i can finally pour all of my thoughts into silly little writing instead of memorizing medication names lmao

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

In the winter, Choso came alive. The darkness that falls allows his own light to shine, at peace in the cold air encompassing his skin, chilling the world to its core - but not him.

After your conversation about his true nature, you feel even more comfortable with him, bridging the gap between you with trust, a path you now dare to walk; things have changed, but you couldn’t imagine going back to how they were before. In his honesty you uncovered a new piece of his soul, slowly working to complete the patched-together mosaic of his past.

He easily weaves his way into your life, the golden thread of his presence in every moment, every memory. When the first snow falls, you and Choso pull Megumi and Yuji out of school, taking them through town. The serenity of winter falls over the four of you as you walk in silence through the white-coated sidewalks. Both boys sip their hot chocolate, the heat warming their bodies as their small hands grip the cups. When Megumi’s whines of, “I’m tiredddd,” fill the air, Choso picks him up, carrying him the rest of the walk on his back.

A warm comfort fills you, a pleasant calmness within your soul, as you watch the pair before you. Your life - and certainly Megumi’s - hadn’t been easy. The loss of your parents spiraled you into instability, a constant earthquake beneath you as you both struggled to find your footing in the world. The moment the chaos seemed to lull there was another shockwave, sending you both reeling. But now, with Choso’s firm grasp around Megumi’s legs as he rests against him, it seems like things have finally settled into place.

Small fingers return your thoughts to the present as Yuji tugs at your coat. “Hey,” he whispers, a devilish smile pushing up his rosy cheeks, “throw this.”

Cold ice is suddenly shoved into your hand as he passes you a loosely formed snowball. Mischief crackles between the two of you as you grin, fingers closing around the snow. Flashing a wink at the boy, you plant your feet, readying your throw.

“Hey, Cho,” you call coyly.

The moment he turns around, your arm swings, launching the snowball at him, hitting him square in the chest. Before he can even react, Megumi squeals in excitement, a new energy bubbling inside him as his arms wrap around Choso’s neck.

“Oh no you didn’t,” Choso laughs in shock, tightening his grasp on your brother as he runs to a snowbank on the opposite side of the road. Ducking behind it for cover, he releases Megumi onto the ground. “Okay buddy, we gotta get them back,” he states. “How’s your aim?”

Megumi beams, any hint of tiredness behind his green eyes dissipated as his hands form the nearby snow into a rough sphere. “It’s amazing,” he giggles.

While Choso and Megumi hide behind the pile of snow, you and Yuji take the opportunity to build up your arsenal, preforming icy grenades and stockpiling them beside you. In unison, Choso and Megumi appear from behind their hiding spot, a flurry of white being suddenly hurled in your direction.

“Yuji, now!” you yell through giggles as you return fire, an onslaught of snowballs tossed at the two across the street.

“Truce, truce!” Choso finally proclaims, stepping out from their protective shelter with his hands raised, Megumi standing behind him with a grin plastered on his face as he matches the older man’s motions, his palms held in the air.

Laughs echo through the otherwise empty streets, leaving the four of you soaked and cold as the heat of battle dies down. Continuing your path towards home, Megumi returns to his place on Choso’s back as Yuji tightly holds your hand. Despite the cool winter air, your heart is warm.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

As winter settles, Choso’s presence continues to grow, settling into the roots of your life. Which is why it’s no surprise that as Megumi’s birthday approaches, your brother absolutely insists on inviting Yuji and Choso, his pleas more of a demand than a request as he scribbles out a handwritten invitation addressed to both of them.

When the day of his celebration arrives, Choso finds himself in your apartment as you prepare to entertain twenty children. He’s busy in the kitchen, whipping up the cake Megumi requested to be “the most chocolatey chocolate with even more chocolate” while you tack streamers to the wall.

He maneuvers around your space easily, having grown familiar with it over the past few months - you’ve seen each other at least weekly, sneaking in visits between his work, even if it meant he’d come over just to hold you while you slept before he had to quietly sneak out to make another shift in the morning. He’s truly grateful for his body’s lack of a need for sleep despite the drawbacks intertwined in his vampirism, namely the ever-increasing frequency at which he consumes blood bags. Yet, it’s a trade he willingly makes if it means he’s graced with your presence. So, he takes all the time with you he can get. Every moment with him becomes cherished, a slowly growing gallery of your memories together. From the first day you met you felt at ease in his presence, your comfort only growing as the seconds together turned to hours, days, weeks, to months.

“Hey, could you c’mere for a second?” His deep voice tugs you back to the present as he beckons you to the kitchen.

In front of him lies a glass bowl, currently housing a chocolatey concoction. He takes the whisk he had been mixing with, gathering some of the batter and holding it out to you. Collecting some of the liquid on your finger you place it onto your tongue, sweetness immediately overtaking your senses.

“Holy shit, this is delicious, Cho,” you murmur in awe, licking your lips.

Immediately you poke your finger into the mixture, grabbing another glob before you shove it between your lips.

A smile graces his lips before he smacks your hand away as you reach back towards the bowl. “Thank you,” he chuckles, “but save some for the cake.”

You can’t help but laugh as he continues swatting away your attempts to maneuver your hands around his, ultimately forfeiting as you reach your hands around his waist and pull him into a hug. “I didn’t know you knew how to bake,” you hum, leaning up to place a kiss to his lips.

A hint of chocolate lingers on your tongue as you lean into him, his palms finding your back as he pulls you closer.

“You think I lived this long without picking up a few skills?” he smirks, amusement lacing his tone before pressing his lips back to yours.

Upon your confirmation that his work was sufficiently appetizing, he pours the dark batter into a pan and slides it into the oven. Gliding into the living room, Choso assists you in hanging up the remaining decorations, his height easily granting him access to nail the hand-made ‘Happy Birthday Megumi’ sign you two constructed the night prior into the wall.

Plopping down on your couch, you both alternate blowing up and tying balloons until they cover your floor. By the time you’ve finished, your apartment certainly looks festive, covered in various shades of green, Megumi’s favorite color, along with printed posters of his chosen dinosaurs.

There’s a certain innocence to it, a childlike wonder that fills your chest in warmth. When you were his age, your mom was trying to take care of you by herself - you knew she worked hard, that she’d give anything for you. And sure, that knowledge helps ease you now, but as a seven-year-old it felt impossible to grasp, like she was always just out of your reach. So it was no surprise you never had parties, never were celebrated like this; she felt ashamed of the life she provided you, an implicit knowledge that her work wasn’t enough.

She never asked you to care for yourself, but how could you not? When she’d come home late, exhausted, of course you learned to cook dinner; when she’d have to pick up extra shifts on the weekends, of course you learned to entertain yourself; and when she got called in on your birthday, despite the card she left on the table, despite the love she meant to shower you in, of course you learned to celebrate yourself.

It wasn’t her fault, really. She wanted a better life for you than the one you were granted, and you couldn’t fault her for that. You certainly couldn’t fault her for giving into the promises your father whispered to her when he returned to your life, promises of protection, prosperity, family. She craved it as much as you did, the safety of being cared for by another. And you couldn’t fault her when he left, again, the day she found out she was pregnant with Megumi.

Maybe it was too much for him, maybe he didn’t feel like he was ready, like he could provide what you needed, fill the hole that was left in your life where innocence should be. All you could hope is that Megumi never felt that; he deserved a childhood, he deserved the love you had to learn to give yourself.

As you stand back to admire the work you and Choso completed, banners coating the ceiling, balloons covering the floor, the scent of chocolate wafting through the kitchen, you can’t help but smile.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

Children’s laughter fills the air, Megumi’s the brightest of all. He bounces between friends, smiling wide enough his cheeks hurt as he converses and plays. Every so often he runs up to you, face flushed in excitement, chanting “thank you, thank you, thank you!” as he throws his arms around you before returning to the chorus of his name from where his classmates sit on the floor.

Seated on one of the chairs surrounding your dining room table, a smile rests on Choso’s face seeing you interact with your brother, seeing how you care for him. Yuji is obviously ecstatic to be spending the party with his best friend, Megumi’s excitement similarly bouncing off him as he unwraps his presents. Choso hasn’t seen Yuji this happy - shit, ever? He can’t even remember the last time he’s seen him laugh like this, with such ease. Yuji had always been energetic, his happiness infectious, but he often seemed preoccupied with the emotions of others, worrying about what he could do to make them happy. At times Choso found himself thinking he was almost too mature for a child, too aware of the pain of the world, as though he was born with the duty to alleviate it. Which is why, as he watches his younger brother throw his head back in laughter, his pink hair catching the sunlight filtering in through the blinds as his cheeks blush a similar hue from the warmth of his joy, he admires the pure happiness in it, an untainted innocence.

When it comes time to sing ‘happy birthday,’ Megumi manages to blow out all seven candles in one sweeping breath, cheers erupting from his friends. Locking eyes with Choso, you exchange grins from across the room.

There’s a certain tenderness behind his gaze, one that makes your heart flutter. Something in your soul draws you to him, taking every opportunity for the rest of the afternoon to saunter past him, fingertips gently gracing his collarbone or the back of his neck. At every touch his eyelashes flutter, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips - your motions come second-nature, easy, as though being near him was your natural state of being. When the kids are off in the other room as they play with some new game Megumi got, you can’t stop yourself from caressing him, your lips leaving gentle kisses along his neck as you whisper how grateful you are he’s here, how lucky you are to have him, how stunning he is, how handsome, how sweet.

When your palms linger, your breath grazing his neck, a new flame ignites within him. In your flowy pink sundress, a reminder of the warmth of summer despite the flurries of snow falling outside, you look absolutely perfect, your movements so fluid, your skin so soft. Each stroke of your fingers along his arm makes him long for more, his adoration threatening to overflow, his love for you nearly enough to drown him.

Eventually, the party begins to dwindle. Yuji and Megumi leave together, taking Sukuna up on his offer to host the boys for a sleepover. Standing in the kitchen, you begin to clean up the mess left behind by the dozens of children that have finally cleared out from your apartment, a comfortable silence settling in. Suddenly you feel Choso’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his warm breath hitting your skin as he nuzzles into your neck.

“Hi, Cho,” you purr, reaching a hand up to ruffle his hair.

“Been thinkin’ about you all night,” he hums, never lifting his head from between your shoulder.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, beginning to trail wet kisses up your neck. He’s not sure what comes over him, normally proud of his self-control, but something in watching you with Megumi has his heart swelling; beyond that, your lingering touches throughout the night, the sly smiles, the sweet nothings you whispered when nobody was listening, has had his mind fuzzy for hours. “Been thinkin’ about how bad I need you…” he trails off before he leans forward, his words carrying a certain desperation.

You giggle as his hands slowly make their way over your body, your heart beating in excitement at just how hot and bothered you had managed to get him. “Is that all, baby?” you taunt through a devious grin.

Slightly arching your back, your hips grind against him, evoking a low groan from his throat. The words are spilling out before he can stop himself. “Was thinkin’ about how much of a fuckin’ tease you are.”

A shiver runs up your spine at the gruffness in his voice, desire beginning to build in your chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you smirk, tilting your head to give him more space as he continues working his lips across your skin.

“I think you do.” His palms snake around your body, brushing under your dress as his fingertips drag along the outline of your clothed pussy. Even through your panties, the coolness of his skin makes you shiver, leaning back further into his touch. His lips curl into a smirk against your neck as he feels just how wet you are. “Because you can lie to me, but this cunt can’t.”

Heat floods your cheeks - he never acts like this, the unabashed directness - and hearing his crude words only emphasizes how absolutely and utterly desperate he is for you right now. He can feel it too, his standard eloquence gone as he falls deeper into the trance of his lust, one you had been slowly lulling him into over the past few hours.

A soft moan leaves your lips as his thumb brushes over your clit through your now-soaked panties, your knuckles turning white as your grip on the counter stiffens. His free hand tightens its hold on your hip, allowing him to press his growing erection against you through his jeans.

“I think you’re just needy,” you weakly hum as his thumb picks up its pace, rubbing agonizingly slow circles over your bud.

A low chuckle rumbles through Choso’s throat, a certain darkness to it you can’t see but can certainly feel. “Oh, I’m needy?”

The moment you open your mouth to reply, any sound dies in your throat as he suddenly pulls your panties to the side and inserts his middle finger into you. A choked “a-ah mmm” falls from your lips as he languidly pumps his hand in and out of your heat.

Grinding down onto his palm, desperate for any additional friction, your body knows that it’s not enough. “M-more,” you whimper, mindlessly circling your hips in an attempt to drive him deeper.

All Choso does is laugh, a breathy deepness to it that has knots forming in your stomach. Every motion is too slow, as though he’s purposely avoiding grazing his fingertips against the one spot that would have your legs shaking. “More?” he taunts, clearly taking pleasure from seeing you squirm. “I thought I was the one being needy, hm?”

“Cho, please,” you pant, eyes screwed shut. It’s nearly tortuous the way he moves, some cosmic retribution for how you had tempted him throughout the night, the universal scale finally tipping in his favor.

“Please what, darling? If you’re going to be so demanding, at least use your words.”

“I-I want your cock in me, please,” you stammer - you intended it to come out much more commanding, more in control, but the words end up breathy and desperate.

Again, Choso chuckles from behind you. Before you can process it, the sound of his zipper being undone lands on your ears as cold air hits your heat, your panties ripped down to your knees. The tip of his cock slides against your wet folds, making your hips rut backwards reflexively, a carnal plea.

“Tch, needy little thing,” he mutters to himself as you writhe under his grasp, your body now pressed between his chest and the counter from where you still stand in the kitchen.

After what feels like an eternity he finally slides into you, an involuntary moan leaving your lips as he stretches your walls so sinfully. His palms hold you firmly in place, preventing any movement as he bottoms out. But instead of moving, he stills, returning his lips to your neck and gently sucking on the space above your collarbone.

“C-Cho?”

“Mhm?” he hums, not bothering to lift his head from where he rests against your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” The words sound pitifully close to a whimper as they leave your throat.

“I’m doing what you asked, love, remember?”

Electricity courses through your body, your breathing picking up as desperation threatens to consume you. You can barely think straight with his cock inside you like this, his hips pressed against your ass; it’s so close to what you need, your salvation, yet for some reason he refuses.

Your feeble attempt at grinding your hips backwards fails as his hold on your hips tightens. “Sorry baby, but I wouldn’t want to risk doing anything else, since I was being so needy earlier,” he muses sarcastically.

A whine leaves your lips, your skin hot in lust. He’s punishing you, he has to be, pulling you from the heights of heaven into the ground until you feel dirtied in sin, left begging for more.

“Please, Cho, just move,” you breathe. “Move, fuck me, anything, please.”

“Aw, how sweet,” he coos, trailing kisses up your jaw. Your cheeks burn red beneath his cool lips, yet his breath is hot as it fans across your face. “Didn’t know this was all it took to have you begging like a needy slut.”

A wave of heat courses through your body, pussy clenching around his cock as the words hit your ears. Something in them has your mind dizzy, tension already building in your core.

“Holy shit,” Choso chuckles in awe as he feels the way your body automatically reacts, “you like that, huh?” His mind races, words spilling out. “Like being fucked in the kitchen like a whore? Couldn’t even make it to the bedroom, y’had to get dicked down out here?”

Another tsunami of pleasure crashes over you, your thoughts clouding and legs beginning to shake. A weak “mhm,” the sound already close to a whimper, is the only response you can muster.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, “you’re clenchin’ around me like you’re gonna cum already.” He suddenly adjusts, moving one hand up to grab your jaw and turn you to face him over your shoulder. Slowly your gaze manages to focus on him, the sight of your glassy eyes enough to make his cock twitch inside you. “Don’t worry, I know a depraved slut like you can take it.”

He can’t hold back any longer, finally pulling his hips back before roughly thrusting into you. After so long of teasing you, when his length finally prods against your walls, your eyes roll into your skull, a weak moan vibrating past your parted lips.

As he repeats the motion he tightens his hold on your jaw, pulling you into a rough kiss. His tongue swipes against yours fervently as his pelvis smacks against your ass. Gone is his precision, his reservations - all he knows is a feral need for you.

Moaning into each other’s mouths, he pumps into you. If it wasn’t for his tight grasp around your waist your legs surely would have given out by now, the ecstasy overcoming every muscle, every cell, within your body.

Pulling away for a moment a string of saliva connects your lips as he gazes into your eyes, their normal hue now nearly black through blown-out pupils. He looks equally fucked out, his bangs sticking to his sweat-coated forehead, cheeks flushed a soft pink.

A rough hand reaches over to your neck, the other trailing down your back, pushing you into a sinfully deep arch with your forearms braced against the cool marble of the counter. “C’mon baby, I know - hah - I know you can do better than that,” he breathes. Rising your hips slightly further off the ground, a guttural groan vibrates his throat. “Uh huh, juuuust like that.”

“S-so deep, Cho,” you whine out, overtaken at the sensation brought on by the new angle, his length absolutely ravishing your insides.

“Know it’s deep, baby,” he coos, “but y’can take it, yeah?” Bring a palm to your stomach, he finds the spot where his tip presses through your skin. “Feel me right here?”

All you can do is loosely nod, knees buckling under the pleasure, immensely grateful for the tight hold of his other hand on your hip and the table for providing a shred of stability.

His actions are greedy, thighs clenching with each pump into you. Grasping at the path to heaven, he claws his way up the stairs until the gates stand before him. Each thrust another step towards salvation, each choked moan a call for redemption. He’s never felt such electric desire, an insatiable need to consume every ounce of you.

The lewd sound of skin on skin fills your otherwise empty kitchen before being broken by Choso’s deep rasp. “You’re all mine, y’know that?”

Your thoughts are slow, too focused on the burning pleasure to give a more coherent response than a weak, “mhm.”

It’s enough for him, though, the affirmation sending waves of warmth through his body. As your bodies meld into one, he knows it: you are his, and he is yours.

His motions become increasingly erratic as he pulls you both closer and closer into the height of ecstasy. Faint little repeats of ‘ah, ah’ leave your throat with each thrust, knocking the air from your lungs each time his cock hits deeper. Your chest heaves with each forceful breath, unable to move your gaze from his.

He can tell you’re getting close as he leans forward, angling his cock somehow further into you. His words slur together, his standard clarity muddied. “Y’gonna make a mess? Y’gonna cum f’me?”

You whine a soft “mmm”, his voice making it harder and harder to form full sentences. All of your nerves are on fire, heat building and building within your chest as your walls begin to clench around him.

A smirk plays across his face as he murmurs, “Gonna let me finish inside you? Let me fill up this filthy cunt?”

All you can choke out is a weak cry of “p-please,” the combination of his words and actions enough to throw you over the edge. Tidal waves of bliss wash over you again and again and again, your legs shaking beneath you - certainly they’ve now given out as Choso takes over carrying your body weight. As your cunt flutters along his length he loses himself, pumping thick ropes of seed into you as he buries his head into your neck to muffle his whines.

Both of you are left panting, your head falling forward in exhaustion as his arms wrap around your torso to hold you up. In contrast to the roughness of his body just moments prior, he peppers gentle kisses along neck, your collarbone, any inch of skin he can find.

His breathing finally slows enough to speak. “Y’know I don’t actually think you’re a slut or anything, right?” he asks hesitantly.

A soft giggle bubbles from your lips into the now still air of your apartment. “I know, Cho.” Turning to face him, you see an earnestness behind his gaze, full of endearment. Leaning up you place a peck to his cheek as you ruffle his now-messy hair, your fingertips trailing over the contours of his jawline. “And for the record,” you slowly kiss him before pulling away, “there’s nothing wrong with being a little needy.”

“I know,” he blushes, a bashful grin tugging at the corners of his lips, “I just…sometimes I feel like I don’t know what to do with all the love I have for you. It feels like it’s eating me from the inside but I just keep feeding it more and more and more until there’s nothing left of me in there. But honestly, I don’t even mind - I’d happily give myself to you every day until the end of time if it means you’ll be happy.” Pausing, he shifts uncomfortably before sighing. “See? Like that, I didn’t mean to ramble, or get so serious, I just-”

Cutting off his nervousness, you press your lips to his, hands cupping his firm jaw. Warmth blankets your skin as you melt into his touch. Pulling you in closer, your body melds to his, souls blending.

“I love you,” you murmur into his parted mouth, “so much.”

“I love you too,” he whispers.

Pulling away you lean back against the counter, a soft smile plastered across your features as he gingerly lifts your panties back into place. “Now, will you help me actually clean up from the party?”

Choso grins, reaching down to pick you up as your legs wrap around his torso through a surprised squeal. “Of course,” he laughs as he spins you around, “just let me clean up my beautiful girl first.” Carrying you down the hallway, your shared giggles echo through your apartment.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

Days continue to shorten as the cold bite of winter settles, now a familiar gnawing inside your chest whenever you find yourself outside in the darkness of late December. Choso, of course, remains unbothered by the cold, consistently offering you jackets or mittens or anything he can think of to share warmth with you during your limited outings. Instead, the two of you find yourselves inside more and more, spending nearly every free moment together wrapped in blankets on your couch. Since Yuji and Megumi began their winter break from school, you take the opportunity to celebrate the close of the prior year with the four of you in your apartment.

New Years celebrations were never something you thought much of, often brushed aside as an afterthought. What is there to celebrate, anyways? The passage of time? The chronic aging? The loss, pain, and sadness of the past twelve months? The idea never made sense to you until now, when you finally have others to share the moment with.

Which is why, on December 31st, you find yourself drumming with excitement. Megumi and Yuji’s shared energy certainly has something to do with it, you think, as the duo runs from room to room, verbally reporting how many hours, minutes, and seconds remain until midnight.

Choso tries to follow them before their unending enthusiasm becomes too much for even him, opting to lay on the couch next to you until the boys tire themselves out. When they finally return to you, panting through grins, Choso takes the opportunity to share the New Year’s traditions he has collected over his lifetime (one he never explicitly specifies the duration of in front of Megumi and Yuji, of course).

He details superstitions, their corresponding tales captivating you and the boys as his eyes glimmer in recollection. The four of you attentively eat your soba, giggling under your kitchen counter as you pop grapes into your mouths, and silently wrap coins in tinfoil before placing them outside on your balcony. The magic behind the motions fills you with glee, a shared belief that your behavior can finally be doing something good.

Around 9:50 p.m., you find yourself on the couch, Choso sprawled on the opposite side with Yuji and Megumi lying between you. The boys’ eyes grow tired, slow blinks growing increasingly longer as a New Year’s Eve countdown plays softly from the television. The announcers are preparing for the actual countdown, one that replays every hour to account for audiences from various time zones. Your gaze meets Choso’s, an idea silently shared between you. Glancing around quickly, you confirm the absence of any visible clocks from the couch before enacting your plan.

Yawning dramatically, you stretch your arms out, garnering the attention of Yuji and Megumi. “Wow, I can’t believe it’s already almost midnight,” you muse, allowing the words to hit the air.

Megumi and Yuji almost immediately perk up, a brief burst of energy as they turn excitedly towards you. “No way, already?” Yuji squeals excitedly before grabbing Megumi’s shoulders. “We made it, we stayed up!”

Megumi giggles, overjoyed at their shared accomplishment.

“You sure did,” Choso’s deep voice fills your apartment as he smiles. “Look, they’re about to start counting down,” he observes as his gaze falls to the TV.

The boys cheer in excitement, Megumi’s hands clapping joyously as they attentively watch the numbers flashing across the screen. “Ten, nine, eight,” they begin.

You and Choso join in, chanting with them. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!”

Cheerful laughter erupts from the four of you as Megumi runs to you, wrapping his small arms around your body in the tightest hug he can manage. Yuji follows similarly, launching himself at Choso as he catches him on his lap.

“Happy new year,” Megumi murmurs into you through a soft grin, his futile fight against sleep becoming increasingly challenging with each passing second.

“Happy new year, buddy,” you smile, reaching down to ruffle his hair. “Now, let’s get you guys to bed, hm?”

“Okay,” he hums, resting his head against you as his eyes flutter closed. Looking across the couch, you see Yuji out cold against Choso. As his eyes meet yours, you both smile contentedly.

Tucking the boys into their makeshift beds on the couch, you and Choso retire to your bedroom. Illuminated by warm lamplight, his dark eyes seem to sparkle as they flit across your face. Cool fingers trace small patterns along your back as his other hand absentmindedly plays with your hair, the comforter soft beneath your skin.

The remaining hours to midnight pass easily, and before you know it the sound of fireworks breaks the tranquil silence you found yourselves in. Glancing to the clock resting upon your bedside table, a bright “12:00” shines into the darkness of your room.

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Under the flashing lights of fireworks you seem to glow, absolutely radiating beauty. Choso similarly had never understood the point of celebrating the closure of a year, the date one that primarily signified nothing more than the passage of time. Throughout his extended life he had been forced to watch those he loved pass away, plagued with the finality of senescence. Each year more lights went out, in spite of his best efforts to keep them illuminated, to prolong their flames; yet, every time, his attempts remained futile.

Over time, he detached himself, as though ignorance could protect him from the unrelenting march of time. He willingly purged his mind of dates that served to remind him, forgetting his own birthday, the anniversary of his family’s death, anything that recalled the tortured memories of his past. Maybe if he could remove himself from his own existence it wouldn’t be as painful when he was forced to confront the loss of others’.

Yet, as your eyelashes flutter, your cheeks pushed up as you softly grin, the smooth skin of your fingertips tracing his collarbone, he’s overcome with the notion that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong. Every moment with you seems to slow, the seconds stretching as he silently gazes at you. In all his years he had never felt like this, this alive. Finally, he found something worth looking forward to, the fire of his love bright enough to warm you both.

The crackle of fireworks returns his attention to the present, adoration flowing from his very soul. “Happy new year,” he whispers.

“Happy new year, my love,” you hum.

Placing your lips to his, he kisses you gently, a newfound tenderness in his actions. He’s unhurried, patient, allowing every second to slowly pass you by.

Falling into a comfortable sleep, your thoughts wander to all the things the future holds, the moments you have yet to experience. All the time you’ll get to spend with Choso. Yet, you can’t seem to shake the nagging fear in the back of your mind, the whisper of darkness clouding your peace. How many more years do you have left? When will your flame go out?

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pedroshotwifey · 9 months ago

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To the Flame chapter fourteen

Series masterlist

Pairing: Dark!Javier Peña x afab!reader

Chapter w/c: 2.7k

Chapter warnings: physical abuse, manipulation, mental abuse, Javi being a dick, toxic relationship, alcohol consumption, mild description of injury, mentions of noncon, emotional distress, anxiety attacks, this is fucked, please just go in with caution

Chapter Summary: Is this the beginning of the end?

A/N: hey, y’all! Another chapter that hits pretty close to home for me, as I’m sure a lot of the upcoming ones will. A lot of emotions in this one! Please always remember that I am here for anyone who would like to talk ❤️

*****

You don’t get out of bed for the majority of the next day.

When you first wake, you feel like you’re being crushed by an overwhelming weight of emotion. It pushes you down and strips you until you’re bare and gasping for air, making you writhe and whimper in pain. And then it just stops. And you don’t feel sad, or scared, or anything else. Just void and numb. Like your body isn’t yours and your mind is in a far away place that you don’t dare attempt to reach.

The curtains are down, leaving the bedroom a dark and quiet place. Perfect to lay in bed, unfeeling and alone. It gives you nothing to focus on, so you instead hone in on the stickiness of your wet cheeks and the throbbing of your sore eyes. The sensation of your crumbling heart, though, you push it far, far away and leave it to rest.

It’s Monday, so you know Javi’s gone to work, but you have no idea what time it is. You don’t want to get up to look, and you don’t want to think about your husband. Fuck, your husband. Tears sting your eyes and start to overflow, but you’re not consciously doing it. It’s like your very soul is confused and is causing your body to react in every way you wish it wouldn’t. At the thought of him, the uncomfortable ache between your legs makes itself known. It fucking hurts and it makes you feel pathetic, though you don’t understand why. You just know that there's an underlying feeling of shame crawling uncomfortably beneath your skin.

You want to wash it away—all the shame and hurt and confusion you won’t allow to surface. You want to get in the shower and scrub your skin until it burns. You want to drown his scent, his touch, the memory of his hands, his body on top of yours. But you don’t, you can’t. You can’t move from the place you’re already drowning in.

You lay in the dark and silently sob, not doing anything to wipe the tears as they run down into your hairline because you know that there will just be more. You cry until your eyes hurt and your breathing starts to smooth out again, until you’re lulled back asleep by the wracks of your body. It feels like a cruel trick from the darkness, but you let it take you willingly. Anything to escape this nightmarish reality.

It’s probably only a couple of hours later when you wake up again to the silence. But this time, the first thing out of your mouth is a frustrated and strangled sob. Anger warms your entire body as you throw the blanket off without thinking. You’re not really sure where the aggression comes from or what it’s directed to, so you just blame it on yourself for being weak. For waking up and crying and giving up. You want to kick yourself and tell yourself to just suck it the fuck up.

But you can’t, so you instead slam the bedroom door open and stomp into the kitchen. Another heave leaves your lips as you enter the threshold, this one closer to a scream as tears escape you and your stomach twists painfully at the reminder of last night. Your knees give out, leaving you to sink down onto the freshly tiled floor. You soak in your anger and your hatred, and it’s unlike anything you’ve felt before. It fully consumes you, making you tremble with the force of it and your teeth grind as you try and fail to bite it down.

Your hands come up and thread through your hair, pulling tightly and close to the base, but more to ground you than to pull any strands out. You can’t fall into a panic attack here, you may not come out. Javi’s the only one who can save you from that, and he’s not here. You give yourself two minutes to collect yourself, though you’re still not all the way there as you force yourself up and push toward the medicine drawer.

With rough movements, you pull it open, snatch up the melatonin, and shakily pour four tablets into your palm. You shove them into your mouth and swallow them dry, wanting them to kick in as soon as possible. You start to screw the lid back on, but it doesn’t thread right, and you make a sound of frustration again as you say ‘fuck it’ and just shove it back onto the counter, pills spilling all over the place. You go straight back to bed, pulling the blanket up and letting yourself cry back to sleep.

The third time, you wake in a panic, your body shaking in an aggressive and unnatural way. Your eyes snap open and find that the light is turned on, and it’s only once you feel a harsh grip on both of your arms that you comprehend someone shaking you awake. Your first instinct is to push back on the bed, struggling to get away, but the hold gets tighter as the person yells something that you can’t understand yet in your current state.

“How many did you fucking take?” Javi demands, his face coming close to yours. Tears are already leaking from your eyes as you meet his gaze, your voice stuck in your throat. You wish they would go away. It seems like it’s impossible to be awake without them accompanying you.

“W-What?” you manage to squeeze out. He’s stopped shaking you, but he looks angry. No, not just angry, you realize as your heart contracts painfully in your chest. He looks scared.

“The pills, how many did you fucking take?”

Your head just shakes as you try to catch up.

“How fucking many?” He does jolt you this time, bringing you even closer. He starts to drag you off of the bed, and his fingers dig in so hard that they hurt. You yelp and jump up, trying to ease the strain. It only hits you once your feet hit the ground, what he could possibly be talking about.

“F-Four!” you spit. “I took four!”

He stops talking but his jaw stays set as he looks you up and down like he’s both assessing your well-being and deciding something detrimental. Your lip trembles as he looks into your eyes, and you know that the only reason you’re standing right now is because of the support of his rough hands. But you still try to back away as he brings you closer and embraces you. But it doesn’t feel right. Whereas your body used to fit together with his, it’s now like something chipped away, leaving a jagged gap. It feels so fucking wrong.

You let him hold you for a moment before you speak. And when you do, you’re not quite sure where it comes from. You think that the words were bouncing around in your head, but you didn’t want to actually say them, you didn’t try. But they come out—quiet and trembling—but they do.

“Let me go.” It’s spoken almost incoherently into his chest, but he goes still all the same. He doesn’t attempt to loosen his grip.

“Javi,” you say, more confident than you figured it would be. You think it might be the anger coming forward and holding you up, lifting your voice higher. “Let me go.”

He loosens up slowly, but keeps you in his grasp as he steps back just enough to look into your wet eyes. “What did you just say to me?”

Anger bubbles up even more, causing you to boil over.

“I said let me the fuck go,” you seethe, matching his firey gaze. You pull one arm away from him and he snatches you back quicker than you can blink. You’re flipped onto your stomach and your front half is pinned to the bed in a flash.

“Let me fucking go!” you yell and thrash, fear creeping up alongside your fury. Javi’s heavy body covers yours, his grunt spilling into your ear as he uses all his weight to keep you between him and the mattress, defenseless and unable to move. The more you squirm, the tighter he holds you, his grip crushing to the point where you cry out in pain.

He doesn’t relent until you stop struggling, and instead lay there and pant like a feral dog being forced down for a shot. His chest heaves against your back from his efforts as his hot breath fans across the side of your face. You smell a faint tinge of alcohol, but you don’t think it’s much. He must have not been home for too long. Maybe just enough for one or two beers before he saw the pills or grew curious about your absence.

“There’s something you need to understand, sweetheart,” he says quietly and so calmly that it sends a shiver down your sweaty spine. He waits to make sure you don’t have anything to say before he continues. “I’m in charge here, and you need to get that inside your dumb little head.”

Your stomach drops with dread, your eyelids fluttering as you resist the urge to close them. Whatever part of your heart that hadn’t cracked and bruised within the last few weeks, just fell apart. You’re overcome by a sudden surge of grief, the only thing racing through your mind just keeps repeating to you that your husband is gone, lost for good. You’re alone and you’ll never see him again. Your body trembles, and Javi must recognize it as submission.

“Everything I do is for you, whether you like it or not,” he growls. “You need to start showing some fucking respect about it.”

You both lay there for a while, and it’s like you’re seeing it from the outside. A scared woman being pulled apart from the inside by the shell of the man who once gave her everything. She doesn’t know where he went, nor what happened for him to leave, but she knows that she’ll, too, never be the same.

When Javi gets back up, you stay exactly where he left you. You’re not crying anymore, but you think it’s because you’re finally out of tears. Come to think of it, you don’t remember the last time you drank something. Your body is probably incredibly dehydrated.

“I’m going to make dinner,” Javi tells you from the doorway. “Get yourself together and be at the table in half an hour.”

You nod shallowly into the mattress, not looking at him, not looking at anything as he walks away. You don’t wait long before you numbly drag yourself into the shower, locking the bathroom door for the first time since you’ve been living with Javi. You strip, avoiding the mirror, and then crawl into the shower and just sit in the hot stream for a moment. It’s almost a little too hot, but you don’t pay too much attention to it.

All of your energy goes into clearing your mind. You don’t want to fucking think, you just want it to stop. You let the water wash it all away; the grief, the fear, the ache, the sadness, the pain, the lingering hope and happiness that doesn’t seem to get the hint that it’s no longer welcome here.

The next thing you now, you’re back out of the shower, your hair and body scrubbed clean. You’re towelling your wet breasts off, trying not to think about anybody else's hands on them. You never want to be touched again, now that your body has been tainted and defiled. You feel broken and disgusting.

You jump when the doorknob rattles, your heart racing as you clutch the towel close to you. There’s a quiet sigh and then a gentle knock from the other side.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Your legs wobble as your vision blurs. He sounds so normal that it fucking kills you. He sounds like your husband, caring and concerned. You forget to answer, stuck all alone inside your head.

“Sweetheart?” No response comes from your lips. “I’m coming in,” he tells you. And you don’t protest, because that hope that you’d tried so hard to scrub away has somehow lingered and clung to your battered heart.

The door starts to unlock and slowly open, and you take a step back to make room. When it’s open all the way, you catch the eyes of your husband standing in the doorway. He watches you with sympathy and something you clock as regret. He opens his arms and gives you a barely-there smile. It doesn’t reach his sad eyes, but it conveys what he’s trying to say. I’m sorry, please forgive me.

You bolt forward, immediately sobbing into his chest as he wraps his arms around you. You want to hate yourself for how quickly you give in, but you can’t. A different person, you tell yourself. You soak up the attention he’s giving you, relief flooding your very bones as you accept his embrace. His chin comes down to rest on your head as he holds you tightly and shushes you.

“I know, baby,” he whispers. “I know.”

He pets your hair and brings you into the bedroom, helping you sit down on the bed as you sniffle and attempt to dry your tears. He goes to the dresser and then comes back with one of his T-shirts and a pair of your underwear and pajama shorts. You calm down as you stand and let him dress you, savoring the calmness that’s filled the air.

When you’re dressed, he leads you into the kitchen, where he has what smells like chicken noodle soup warming on the stovetop. You sit down at the table as he makes you a bowl and brings it over to you along with a glass of water, of which you quickly gulp down half of. Your mouth waters at the smell, your empty stomach grumbling. He hands you your spoon, places a kiss to the top of your head, and takes the seat across from you.

You eat in silence, allowing yourself to sink back into your body. The soup warms you and you find it easier to relax. The meal is spent in a comfortable silence, and Javi waits for you to finish your bowl before he talks again.

“I invited Steve and Connie for dinner one weekend sometime next month.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You’d thought he didn’t like them.

“Do you think you could make dinner for that? I can pick something up, but I think they’d both be lucky to try your cooking,” he winks at you, a smile playing at his lips. "Still gotta pick out a date and hammer out some details, but I'll let you know."

Your cheeks heat slightly and you avoid his gaze as you smile as well, pride swelling in your chest. “Yeah, I can do that,” you tell him. “What would you like?”

“Whatever you feel like, sweetheart.”

You nod and get up to get another small bowl of soup. When you turn back to the table, he motions for you to come toward him.

“C’mere, baby,” he pleads, pushing his chair out so you have room to sit on his lap. Your heart jumps to your throat out of reflex, but you walk toward him anyway, trying to quell your anxiety as you lower yourself on to him. He waits for you to get comfortable, your legs dangling off of one side of his lap. He nuzzles his face into your cheek as his hand grips your waist, and your breath hitches.

“I hope you forgive me for earlier, baby,” he whispers. “I know I was rough. I was just so scared.”

You lean back slightly to look at him, at the vulnerability in his eyes. You don’t even think about what happened in the bedroom as you tell him, “It’s okay, Javi. I forgive you.” You give him a weak smile and cup one side of his jaw, stroking the light stubble there.

“I meant it, though,” he says gently. “I’ll always do what’s best for you, and I’m sorry if you don’t like that sometimes.”

You swallow, ignoring the lump in your throat as you nod. “It’s okay,” you assure him, though your voice is barely even a whisper. You hold as still as you can as Javi leans forward and presses a barely-there kiss to your lips. He doesn’t linger, and a part of you is extremely thankful for that.

“Alright, baby,” he says, his lips tickling your jaw. “Go ahead and finish your soup.”

You nod and pick up your spoon.

******

Lmk if anyone would like to be added or taken off of the taglist!

Series taglist: @corazondebeskar @yorksgirl @nerdieforpedro @axshadows @melaninmommy @survivingandenduring @kewwrites @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @callachloe @missladym1981 @sofiparallel @koshkaj-blog @sheepdogchick3 @movievillainess721 @jessie8605 @casa-boiardi @justlulu @iamsherlocked-1998 @hjzghi-blog @glitterymanboy @letstalkaboutshtufff

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ken-dom · 1 month ago

Note

I would love to read any kind of blurb about Colt smitten with his lover, whether it be Jody or the reader. Colt is a big comfort character for me and I just want to be embraced by him....

I hope this short, snuggly fluff will suffice, anon 💖

Comfort

Colt Seavers x gn!reader

∘₊✧ 600 words

∘₊✧ Fluff, sleepy making out, work related tiredness

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

Leaving Colt in the morning came hand in hand with a little tug of sadness in your chest; he always looked so soft and peaceful, so warm and safe with his mussed sunkissed hair, dumb sleepy smile, muttered words from somewhere deep within his dream, and strong arms wrapped tight around you, that there was a small part of you longing to ignore responsibility and stay put.

Logically, you knew that in another ten minutes or so, Colt would wake up and need to face reality too, and so your daydream of lounging in bed, whispering sweet nothings between chaste kisses that became heated make outs became just that; a dream.

Today, you had too much work to do. So much so, you hadn’t been able to sleep soundly for the thought of it, even with Colt’s steady breath as a soundtrack and the soothing rise and fall of his chest against your back lulling you. So you didn’t look back at him when you slipped out of his embrace and into the cold of day.

A prickle of disappointment at not kissing him good morning and basking in his arms stung at your gut as you pulled on your jeans and splashed your face with lukewarm water, but you persisted with a small mental note – the promise of snuggling Colt tonight, when today had turned into nothing but a memory.

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

Colt wasn’t there when you returned home. There were little signs of him everywhere; the empty coffee cup in the sink, the sprinkling of crumbs on the counter, his sunglasses forgotten on the sofa, the unmade bed that you longed to crawl back into.

Kicking off your sneakers and shedding today’s clothes had never felt so refreshing when you collapsed into the mess of sheets, nestled into his pillow and began drifting comfortably, feeling the day’s responsibilities lift from your body one by one until you were weightless.

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

The clock on your nightstand must have malfunctioned. When your eyes opened the display clearly showed 21:00. Drowsy with sleep, you pushed your body back against his, threaded your fingers through the much thicker ones resting by your heart.

‘There you are,’ Colt smiled, leaning up as you turned, so he could still hold you while you talked. ‘M’sorry if I woke you, I just wanted to cuddle.’

‘No, you didn’t wake me,’ you smiled back, breaking for a yawn. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Is it really only nine?’

‘Yeah, but an early night never hurt anyone. Especially not when it feels as nice as this,’ he said softly, leaning down to ghost his lips over yours. ‘What time do you have to be out in the morning?’

‘Seven,’ you groaned, not wanting to think about how you’d wasted an entire evening of your own free time asleep, and would now have to go back to sleep in an attempt not to fuck up your schedule too much.

‘Ok, so if you go back to sleep at ten, that means you’ll get… at least a solid eight hours,’ Colt said proudly, having quickly flicked eight individual fingers against your arm as a counting aid.

‘But it’s nine-’

‘So we have an hour free,’ he drawled, his words dripping into your ears like warm honey.

‘An hour free for what?’

‘This-’

Colt leant down to kiss you again, but with heat this time, his tongue slipping between your lips, soft and wet and warm until he pulled back again. Colt always found something else to say, regardless of whether the moment called for it.

‘God, I missed you to-’ he started, interrupted by your arms around his neck, pulling him back down as he mumbled out the rest of the sentence into your mouth.

#colt seavers x reader #colt seavers #colt seavers fluff #colt seavers fic #the fall guy #colt seavers imagines #ken-dom answers

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meowzfordayz · 11 months ago

Text

just a little

Tomioka Giyuu x Reader

Word Count: ~500

CW: none

Emergency Request Fulfilled: Hey, I wanted to request an emergency request? School today was really bad, context I go to an art school, and a student in my department passed away. I didn’t know them personally, I just really shook everything, it was unexpected, and yeah. So, I wanted to ask if I could get a comfort hc if Giyuu comforting his so? Sorry I this doesn’t make any sense. Have a nice day.

“G’morning handsome.”

“G’morning gorgeous.”

Mornings like these remind you why you’re here. Why you breathe, taste of late night and murmured ramblings coating your lips. Why you feel, goosebumps of not close enough and to devour you whole marking your skin in a pattern of adoration, as warm as it is trembling. Why you listen, steady rhythm of lulling off to sleep in your lover’s arms rooting you by the tender stem of your own pulse, dreams flitting in and out of your peripheral.

“Did you actually sleep?” you ask fondly, teasing lilt in your voice as you prop your chin into the plush of Giyuu’s chest.

“I did,” he grins, a lazy, unguarded expression of release — of complete trust in you and your willingness to guide him through till morning, “Did you?”

“Definitely.” Your fingers dance across the firmness of his stomach, eyelids drooping in the faint light of curtains drawn, “I had some whacky dreams.”

Eyebrow raising, his hand traverses from the curve of your hip to the dip of your waist, mussed strands of hair framing the amusement in his mouth. You can almost discern the flecks of deeper blue in his gaze, years of yearning and fulfillment etching their placement into your memory, sunlight nearly at the right angle to slip into the room and caress their endeared softness.

“Oh?”

You nod, the movement stirring its usual reaction in his lungs, a long breath held precise and perfect to the timing of your heartbeat.

“I can’t remember any of them,” you admit, nose scrunching irritatedly, “But they were weird!”

“I’m sure they were,” he chuckles now, a soothing, reassuring sound of belief.

Belief in you, in the weight of you in his embrace, in the promise of getting to spend yet another day knowing you’ve chosen him again and again and again.

“What’s on today’s agenda?”

You readjust your position, knee nudging itself between his thighs, neck stretching to press a light kiss to his chin while your fingers trace their favorite path up from his bellybutton to the hollow of his throat.

“Nothing.”

Everything. Breakfast. Watching you subconsciously rise onto your tiptoes when your bread pops from the toaster. Snorting when you struggle to butter aforementioned toast. Chores. Folding laundry, the silky, scratchy, lovingly worn threads of fabric shaped deftly into piles of Can you put those in the top drawer? and Here, more towels for the bathroom and Where is the other sock?! Lunch. A mishmash of leftovers, marinading in the coolness of the fridge, in previous endeavors of affection and utmost effort. Not much talking, mostly just staring, a familiar quiet enveloping the sunbathed kitchen island. Writing. Words flowing from your fingertips as naturally as music flows from his, accompaniment of melancholy and In love with you, only you inspiring an exchange of creative gratitude. Thank you for getting me a glass of water nestled between double spaced lines of angst and forgiveness. Thank you for making me smile scintillated between scales and Moonlight Sonata.

“I love you,” you say, truth ringing bright and vital in his ears.

As it always does.

“I love you,” he says, squeezing just a little tighter, holding his breath just a little longer.

As he always will.

#giyuu tomioka #tomioka giyuu #giyuu x reader #tomioka x reader #water hashira #drabble #modern au #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer

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missmonsters2 · 2 years ago

Note

hey Van!! Im kind of going through it right now. My parents are divorcing, which is hilarious given that I’m twenty years old and still have major problems and issues with them. I mention this because I’m here for the drabbles and could really use some fictional disappearing for a bit. I would appreciate it if you could do Tara as fluffy and comforting as you can please. With prompts 🧠🫂🤝💕. Thanks for this Van!! I really appreciate it.

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader/OFC

Warnings: them kisses are very urgent and emotionally charged 👀

Library Blog | AO3

Note: I am so sorry that's happening to you bby!!! D: don't worry, tara will make it all better <3

Count: 0.6k

Reminder there's no taglist but you can follow my library blog for notifications 💘

Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work anywhere else.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷🗡⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"Hey, hey—" Tara places her hand on your shoulder and softly squeezes. "Baby—"

You jerk awake, sitting up frantically and nearly knocking your head into her nose. Your chest rises and falls in harsh breaths, and tears rapidly well up in your eyes.

A choked sob has Tara pulling you into a tight hug, almost crushing, but you hug her just as tight back.

"Shh...shh...it's okay..." she coos at you, but her heart is pulsating rapidly too. "It was just a bad dream, that's all."

But it wasn't.

It wasn't just a bad dream.

What you were dreaming—it was real. You suppose it'd be more accurate to call it a memory.

"I can't stop thinking about that moment—they got Sam and then you—I couldn't save you—" You choke, and she hushes you some more before gathering some pillows at the headboard. She scoots until she leans back against the pillow, pulling you on top of her.

"They didn't—" Tara says fiercely. "They didn't get us because you were so brave." Tara rubs your back soothingly, pulling the blanket up to cover you.

Your body wracks with sobs as you cling to her.

"But your hand—"

"Is fine," Tara tells you sharply. "It'll...just take some extra time to get back to how it was."

Tara can feel your tears staining her shirt.

"It's better than being dead," she combs her fingers through your hair before she cups your cheek. Her fingers are warm and soft, the tips of them brushing against your ear.

Eventually, your sobs subside, and your grip on her relaxes, but you don't let her go. You can't ever let her go.

"I'm scared," you mutter into her chest. "Everytime I close my eyes, I'm scared about my dreams, or that someone's breaking in—it's not over."

"It is," Tara cuts in. "We killed them, and they're not coming back. Even if it's not over," Tara hesitates for a moment before she admits, "I'd do anything to keep you safe. There are no lines I wouldn't cross to make sure I don't lose you. I need you with me."

The words lull you into a calm. It's strange how Tara manages to do that. Just earlier this year, she wanted to forget any of this craziness existed, and she wanted to move on with you and just enjoy her college life blissfully.

And when that beautiful dream was shattered, you think something in Tara did too. The moment Tara thought she was going to lose you, Tara let those shattered pieces remake her.

"I love you," you mumble, the words garbled as you press a kiss to her collarbone.

Tara shifts, lifting her hips and rolling you over onto your back. Her body pressed against you feels so comforting. The weight of Tara Carpenter is probably the only thing that keeps you anchored to this world.

Tara's hand caresses the inside of your arm as it strokes its way across until her fingers thread through yours tightly against the mattress. Goosebumps form from her touch; the feeling is an icy hot as Tara presses kisses against your jaw.

"I love you," she presses the words onto your skin. "I'll keep you safe."

Tara's other hand slides across your back until her hand grips your shoulder, keeping you locked against her. Her palm against yours, skin against yours, and lips against yours feel grounding.

"It was just a bad dream, baby," her lips brushes against yours before kissing you, her tongue stroking your bottom lip.

You can't hear anything except the blood pounding in your ears and Tara's breaths. You can't feel anything except Tara's fingers, lips, and tongue. And when you close your eyes, you don't see Ghostface anymore. It's just nothing, allowing you to focus on your girlfriend.

When Tara's tongue grazes the tip of yours, you tremble.

"I'll make it go away."

#tara carpenter x reader #jenna ortega angst #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x fem reader #jenna ortega imagine #jenna ortega #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x fem reader #mm: my fics #mm.drabble.tara

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rinefox · 9 months ago

Text

Over time it becomes quite safe.

Warm, when Neil smoothes the knuckles of Andrew's brushes, distracting himself from watching another melodrama on movie nights. Touching the delicate skin is knocked on the heart, smoothing scratches and bruises before Minyard connects their palms into a lock, not breaking away to the very credits.

Cute, when they play with their paws, imperceptibly for others, alternately covering each other's socks under the table, relaxed listening to the conversations of the Foxes nearby.

Grateful, when Andrew lowers one palm from the steering wheel to the armrest, feeling Neil's nervous breath nearby, allowing him to gently draw patterns on his skin and asking to concentrate on caring touches and the living road ahead.

Confused, when they sit in the locker room, awkwardly touching their little fingers, hiding their palms behind the bench and losing the thread of the coach's monologue. The corners of the lips are led by a modest smile, and Neil fitters on the spot when Andrew slowly circles the line of his hands.

Relatives, when one demandingly touches the palm of the other's forehead, seriously measuring the temperature, noticing the red eyes and nose of his beloved. With excitement, stroking hot skin, putting it to bed under disgruntled grumbling.

In love, when Andrew, gently touching the tips of his pinkish ears, covers Neil's cheek, warmly lulling with his native gaze. The guy blinks in love, sticks his nose, pressing against his warm palm, and sighs very quietly, falling asleep with amber reflections in his memory.

Beloved, when they warm their hands frozen from the frost in a single breath, returning tactibility in each other's native touches.

Intimate, when Neil weaves his palms into Andrew's soft hair for careful kisses, sending impatient goosebumps on his skin. Seizing all disturbing thoughts with sensitive touches.

Over time it becomes too necessary.

#aftg #aftg fandom #aftg headcanon #aftg thoughts #aftg trilogy #neil josten #aftg neil #aftg andrew #andrew minyard #aftg andreil #andreil

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dent-de-leon · 3 months ago

Text

Caleb sits upon an ornate throne, the Plank King kneeling on the cold hard floor at his feet. The dull ache of it is good, grounding, keeps him anchored when he starts drifting away. "Are...are you sure about this Tealeaf? You really want this?" "Only if it's you, Magic Man." "And...you are certain?"

"Please."

The Plank King doesn't beg, but it's a near thing.

A gentle hand alights on his cheek, soft and sweet.

Caleb's spell is a welcome reprieve; Kingsley sighs as he sinks boneless into waiting arms, enveloped in his Magician's warm embrace. Surrender on his own terms. Caleb weaves his spell with a delicate hand, binding Tealeaf with but the lightest, faintest touch.

He still remembers the very first touch of Caleb's magic, adrift and fading in the Astral Sea. Like a kiss or a soft caress, being enveloped in another's warmth. A stranger so achingly familiar, breathing life back into him at the edge of oblivion. "Live," that spark of magic begs, igniting a fire deep inside him, setting his shattered soul alight. A dying star burning in the darkness.

Gentle hands comb through his hair, sweep back dark wavy curls from sweat sheened skin, coaxing him to lie still and rest.

The first time he'd asked for this, Caleb just stared at him in disbelief. Too damn noble, too soft, too good. "You...want to be charmed?"

King tried to parse the words, heart heavy as a stone. "Not what they did to you," he chokes out in a rush, throat closing up. "Not like that. I...I'd never ask you for that, I swear. But I...I have all this stuff mixed up in my head, these pretty dreams and fucked up nightmares, and all these little fragments that could be memories, but it's not me, and...I just want it to be quiet, sometimes. It's killing me."

He doesn't say the rest--that his first true memory, his first real feeling, is that gentle brush of Caleb's magic, warm and tingling, binding to his very soul. How he still longs for it, aches for it, the only thing to ever keep him anchored in the vast, endless Astral Sea.

It's easy to submit when he feels that first brush of magic--ghosting on his skin, dizzyingly warm and tantalizing, molten heat and desire, the threadbare longing for more. And it's Caleb's touch, Caleb's will, that takes him apart so well.

It's not being strung up like a puppet, not...feeling something else in his skin, moving with his limbs, hollowing him inside out. It makes him feel safe. Whole.

Caleb reaches for that thread of fading consciousness and pulls, tugs at his heartstrings until he comes undone, unravelling like a soul shattered into stardust so long ago. "Like so much confetti," Lucien had said--as if that was all his mortal soul was worth, scattered leaves blown away in the wind.

All the noise and static of too many lives began to fade, all of it starting to flow and ebb away, a tide of tumultuous memories and distant dreams. Faces flickering one after another, phantom images, ghosts still haunting a soul long dead. Places, faded and forgotten, just the barest sketches and inkblots of impressions. All the voices from his dreams drowned out.

It's good--it's quiet, more peace than he's ever known. He lets himself fall back into that sunken place, lulled by gentle touches and hushed whispers. His limbs are heavy, sluggish, eyes starting to flutter closed.

Vaguely, he's aware of his Magician's softly lilting, soothing cadence. He doesn't know what was asked, not really, but he knows his answer all the same.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Kingsley whispers, head bowed. “I'm all yours."

He has to say the words, to give Caleb all of himself, or it won't mean a thing. The man risked everything before, laid his whole heart and soul bare for Lucien to rake his claws through. He can still feel the blood on hands that weren't his, throat scraped raw from his own anguished scream. He wants Caleb to do the same. An eye for an eye--"blood of mine for blood of yours." A prayer on his lips in the Sanguine Chapel, where he once knelt as he kneels now, and offers up his hollow heart.

But the bastard won't--won't let him repay that blood debt, won't take the only thing he has left to give.

I'm yours.

"Nein," Caleb whispers fiercely, fingertips trembling as he strokes King's cheek. "You belong to no one but yourself, Mr. Tealeaf. Do not give yourself away so freely--not after we fought so hard to save your immortal soul. You are...dear to us. To me. Never forget that. Please."

It's only cause you make it so easy, he thinks. You always had me.

"'m sorry, love," he mumbles blearily, tail curling idly as he turns to nuzzle his cheek into Caleb's palm, burrowing closer with a warm purr.

The gentle fingertips grazing his cheek feels like contrition, the light brush of a thumb over his lips tastes like forgiveness. He sighs, soft and sated, lets his eyes flutter shut as he focuses on the singular sensation of his magician’s tender touch.

"How I've longed to hold you like this, since you last went out to sea," Caleb sighs softly. His pretty blue eyes are glassy, watery, and Kingsley aches to bush his tears away.

One moment King is lying on the floor, the next he's on the throne, sprawled on Caleb's lap, tail curling to wind around him. Caleb pulls him closer still, lets Kingsley nestle into the crook of his neck, breathe in his familiar scent.

"Sleep," Caleb murmurs, a final order--a breathless plea. "Fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. No nightmares will find you here."

#widomauk #kingsley #mollymauk #caleb widowgast #i am. nervous about putting this one here a bit but #i really miss tealeaf so time for self indulgent circus man and magic man thoughts--

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blitzwhore · 1 year ago

Note

29 (stolas) stolitz

Thanks! :3

Prompt 29: giggling while kissing.

1k words | Mature | morning after, cuddles, kissing, pining, angst, Blitzø is bad at feelings. Takes place between Truth Seekers and Ozzie's.

AO3

Everything was warm: the fine bedsheets draped loosely over his naked skin, the soft, royal pillow under his cheek.

The feathered body pressed snugly against his own.

The blurry memories of Blitzø's bizarre dream drifted quickly into nothingness as he took stock of his body's sensations. The warmth of the morning light that poured in through the window, kissing his shoulder lightly. The way he felt heavy and well-rested, curled on his side and sinking into the mattress. The way his hand was buried in the soft back of Stolas’ head, holding him unconsciously close to himself. And Stolas’ soft, hooting breaths filling the silence of an otherwise quiet morning.

Blitzø focused on keeping his breathing steady and his muscles relaxed even as the calm washing over him slowly seeped away. He didn't want Stolas to wake up. Not yet.

He wasn't ready to face the fact that all of this—Stolas’ leg slotted between his own, Blitzø's heartbeat lulling Stolas in his sleep, and all the vulnerability, the tenderness, the softness—meant nothing. That this was nothing but a monthly illusion—a trick of the light, one that felt so viscerally real in moments like this, but that inevitably slipped through his fingers when he opened his eyes. Just mere, stupid, play-pretend intimacy.

Blitzø could do nothing to stop the familiar, uncomfortable ache from trickling down his chest, making it painfully hard to breathe.

Satan's taint, how had he gotten himself into this mess?

Way sooner than Blitzø would've liked it, Stolas shifted his posture. Sighed. Nuzzled Blitzø's chest, and then hummed contentedly, his hand trailing up to cup the nape of Blitzø's neck and play with the spines at the back of his head.

Blitzø's nerves spiked, the ticking clock inside his chest quickly approaching the moment their stupid little bubble would finally burst.

Stolas curled closer to him with a grumble, and Blitzø tightened his hold of him before he could hold back the impulse. A moment later, a small kiss was pressed to his stomach. Then another, longer one. More purposeful. Wetter.

Blitzø's breath hitched. Stolas held the back of his head with one hand, his lower back with the other, and kissed his way slowly up—up to his shoulder, his clavicle, his neck. Suckling and licking and breathing hotly on his skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He was so fucking hard for this stupid owl already. It was embarrassing how good just a few touches from Stolas’ mouth could make him feel.

Stolas pulled back to look at Blitzø, and he was, of course, smirking, the asshole. He knew the effect he had on Blitzø, and he loved taking advantage of it every chance he got. The horny fucker seemed dead-set on making him lose his last thread of sanity.

Blitzø rolled his eyes at him with a grumble and tried to roll onto his back, but Stolas’ hand on his cheek kept him in place.

When Stolas leaned in for a kiss, Blitzø allowed it—allowed himself to melt a little bit into it, and kissed back, curling his fingers around thick feathers and trying to get the ache in his chest to fuck off for a little longer.

Somehow, even Stolas’ morning breath tasted too good to be true. Too good for Blitzø.

When they pulled back slightly to catch their breaths, Stolas giggled against his lips, a tiny, breathless little thing. Blitzø angled his head back to raise an eyebrow at him, and found Stolas was smiling, his eyes shining mischievously and his cheeks slightly flushed.

Was the obnoxious owl laughing at him, or just piss-drunk on their amazing after-sex sleep?

“What's so funny, huh?” Blitzø asked, determined not to find the fucker cute despite what the butterflies in his stomach had to say about it.

Stolas lowered his gaze a little.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice still croaky with sleep. He cleared his throat, thumbing nervously at Blitzø's cheek. “I'm sorry. It wasn't conscious. I… I suppose I'm just not used to feeling happy upon waking up.”

The silence that followed that confession felt heavy and uncomfortable. Stolas probably felt it too, because he shrugged it off, smirked, and buried his head in Blitzø's chest again, pulling him close, breathing him in. Kissing his way up his sternum softly.

Blitzø wanted so badly to brush off Stolas’ comment. To believe that Stolas hadn't really just confessed to waking up every morning feeling unhappy. To convince himself that Stolas hadn't just suggested that waking up next to Blitzø made him happy.

Now that last bit was laughably easy to believe. It obviously wasn't Blitzø’s presence he enjoyed, but how amazing of a fuck he was. Even now, as he kissed and lapped at Blitzø's neck, it was clear Stolas was just thrilled to have his impish toy in bed with him, ready and willing to pound his bird puss one more time before he left.

Ugh, and there it was again. The sinking feeling in his gut. Blitzø clenched his jaw. It was fine. This was fine. He didn't need anything more from Stolas than what they already had, and Stolas definitely didn't need anything more from him. He could take care of himself. Blitzø didn't need to start worrying about the pompous owl's well-being just because he'd made some stupid comment in passing.

Not even if Stolas’ face had seemed vulnerable and small for a split second.

Not even if, through all the pictures hanging from the palace's walls, Stolas only ever smiled in the ones he was in with his daughter.

Not even if the bottle of pills in his bedside table seemed to empty out faster with every passing month.

Stolas’ mouth found his, and Blitzø kissed him fiercely—harshly enough to push the spiralling thoughts away. He pushed Stolas onto his back and straddled his hips, taking control. Always taking control. Desperate to suffocate the anger, the confusion, the fear, before they burned him from the inside out.

Desperate to grasp the vulnerability constricting his chest and crush it to dust.

Desperate to stop his misbehaving heart from wishing for something he could never have.

#helluva boss #Stolitz #Blitzwhore writes #blitz helluva boss #helluva boss blitz #stolas helluva boss #helluva boss stolas #helluva boss fanfiction #stolitz fanfic #stolas x blitz #blitz x stolas

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little-peril-stories · 1 year ago

Text

The Queen of Lies: The Mark of Thieves

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: blood/injury leftover from the previous chapter, angst bc I just can't help myself

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 3350 || Approx reading time: 14 mins

The Mark of Thieves

Teaser: As the rest of her body awakened, Bree turned over to face the man who had come to her rescue the night before. Who had bandaged her arm with shaking, unconfident, but staunchly determined fingers. Who she had kissed, and who had kissed her back. A man who had fallen asleep with his limbs draped over her, holding on with a tightness both impossibly gentle and impossibly fierce.

Honeycomb sunlight gushed through a warped glass window framed by haphazardly pulled curtains. The lacy panels must have been pristinely white at one time, but now they hung yellow in the morning sun, dust coating the finely woven, delicately patterned mesh. A pillow lay beneath Bree’s head, faintly musty but soft and downy nonetheless.

Throbbing pain pulsed up her arm beneath a clumsily tied bandage that, against all odds, had remained in place and unsoaked with new blood through the night.

For a moment, Bree could not recall why her arm hurt.

But there was another arm curled around her, someone else’s, warm and soft and solid.

As the rest of her body awakened, Bree turned over to face the man who had come to her rescue the night before. Who had bandaged her arm with shaking, unconfident, but staunchly determined fingers. Who she had kissed, and who had kissed her back. A man who had fallen asleep with his limbs draped over her, holding on with a tightness both impossibly gentle and impossibly fierce.

He roused slightly when she moved, letting loose a quiet “Hmm?” Although he still seemed asleep, or at least just barely awake, the sound made her heart flutter with its near-childlike vulnerability.

Will.

Her fingertips tingled in memory of drawing over the table’s rough surface, of each clumsy, scrawling movement that had revealed the letters of his name. Will. He was Will, and she was Bree, and the story they were writing together seemed infinitely more remarkable than the separate, lonely ones through which they’d staggered before the threads of their lives entwined.

Perhaps she said something; perhaps she whispered his name or pressed closer against him than she intended. He opened his eyes.

In greeting, she said softly, “I feel like Alice, waking up in the looking glass world.”

Those sleep-misted eyes misted just a little more with confusion. “What’s that mean?” After a moment, he mumbled, “Your…friend…Alice?”

“No—no. Not Alice Wright.” Reluctant to giggle at his endearing literary ignorance, she merely said, “It means everything is different today than it was yesterday.”

“Yeah?” A smile, slow and still-sleepy, crossed his face. “How so?”

“Well,” she said, unable to resist smoothing down a shock of his hair that was nearly standing on end, “I had the strangest dream.”

“Mmm hmm?” For a moment, his eyes closed again, as if she could lull him back to sleep with the sound of her voice and the brush of her fingers through his hair. “What was it about?”

She pretended to think back. “I dreamt… I dreamt that a wicked man with lovely eyes and a bad attitude gave me a kiss.”

This description, into which she prided herself on having imbued both great hyperbole and great understatement, seemed to wake him up. “Wicked? Bad attitude?” He huffed. “I don’t know anyone like that.”

“What a pity,” said Bree. “It was rather nice, actually.”

He choked. “‘Rather nice’?”

“A shame it was only a dream.”

He sat up a little, leaned closer. “Want me to give you a kiss?”

“Well,” she said, “I suppose you could try.”

“You might like it.”

“Perhaps.”

Will brushed his lips against hers, hardly close enough to bring with it a hint of warmth.

“Hmm,” she said. “That was nice, but not as nice as…”

Closer he pressed against her, one hand coming to rest on her collarbone, his lips parting hers.

“Better,” she murmured. “But…”

He kissed her again, but did not stop at her lips, rather trailing down her neck, teasing as he went, the stubble along his jaw pricking into her skin and making her shiver.

She knew her face was deeply flushed when he looked up again. “Well?” he asked. “Was that rather nice?”

Unable to keep up the facade of apathy, she told him mock-sternly, “You’re far too good at that,” and he smirked.

“What? You don’t like it?”

“Hush,” she said. “I like it very much.”

For a moment, Bree imagined living the rest of her days like this—warm and safe, cocooned in the arms of someone whose kisses felt like more than chaste obligation.

“This isn’t a dream, though, is it?” Her voice drifted out breathier and quieter than she meant it to. “It’s real?”

His answer made her laugh. “It better be. If it’s not, who the hell have I been kissing?”

“You have no excuse for not knowing,” she chided. “You’ve known my name for weeks.” As she spoke, however, she faltered, wondering if she shouldn’t have made such a joke. Hadn’t she hidden her name from him once, too?

But he just shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Who are you, again?”

“Will!” She reached out to flick him on his arm, only to wince as the cut stretched and pain flared over her skin. With a grimace, she drew back.

Just like that, the spell was broken. The vivid colours of the realm beyond the looking glass faded around them, dimming to the muted hues of the real world, and to the pains and fears that came with it.

The light in his eyes dulled, too, as his gaze fell upon her arm. “That hurt a lot?”

“No,” she said. “I just moved too quickly, that’s all. I…I forgot.”

But his worry didn’t dissipate. “If I ever see that bastard again, I’ll kill him.”

“No, you won’t.” She reached for his hand. “You’re not that kind of person.”

“He hurt you.”

“And I’m fine.”

He was quiet. Thinking, perhaps, or recalling the night before, his gaze distant now. “You know…” He spoke again quite suddenly. “I wouldn’t blame you. If you…if you wished you hadn’t.”

Bree blinked. “Hadn’t done what?”

“Helped me.” He swallowed. “I wouldn’t blame you. If you…if you regretted it. Wished you didn’t do it.”

“I am in the looking glass world,” she said incredulously. “You’re talking utter nonsense. Why on earth would I regret it?”

He glared pointedly at her bandaged arm. “Uh, everything?”

For a moment, impatience and a touch of hurt flared inside her, for how could he earnestly believe she might regret liberating him from Baden’s clutches? It guttered out, however, as quickly as it had come. Didn’t she, too, know the weight of constant fear, of splintering self-doubt? Hadn’t she spent far longer than a mere four years in the company of men, first her father and then Baden, who’d reminded her again and again that she was not good enough no matter what she did? Could she really blame him for feeling guilty the day after their mission to find his friends had landed her with a sliced-up arm?

“Do you think I’m doing this for a lark?” she asked, trying to keep her voice soft. “For a laugh? Why would I have stayed here if I didn’t want to?”

“You don’t want this kind of life.” He ran his fingers down the bandage, the pressure light enough that it did not sting. “You could have died last night.”

“I know.” She caught his hand again, lacing their fingers. This time, she would not let go. “As I could have the night we ran away. Or I could have been burned. Or hurt. Or arrested. But I did it anyway.” Her fingers wrapped more tightly around his. “I did it anyway. Because I wanted to. And I’m still here because I want to be. And I don’t regret it.”

He was silent. Bree watched his chest rise and fall, perhaps just a touch too fast, as if those cruel voices inside his head were still feeding him some wicked falsehood, insisting that the single cut on her arm, an injury which in the grand scheme of her entire life hurt far less than the ones inflicted by people who were supposed to have loved and protected her, must mean that she regretted ever laying eyes on him.

“Will.”

He looked at her, still worried—but listening.

“All my life,” she said quietly, “everyone else has told me what to wear and say and think and believe and do. And always, always, I did what I thought I was supposed to. I knew what Baden was like before I married him—” Will flinched, more darkness pouring into his stare at this confession. “I knew, and I married him anyway. Because my father had promised I would, and even though he was dead, I felt like I had to, and because…and also because I was so afraid that if I ran away, my life would be even worse.” She wiped away her burgeoning tears and wondered if she didn’t see an unexpected sheen in his eyes, too. “So I married a man I didn’t love, and I knew—no, I know he doesn’t love me, because if he did, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t be how he is. And I’ll never know what would have happened if I had run away, and maybe—I guess it doesn’t even matter, because I didn’t. I stayed.”

“Bree…” His voice, too, was quiet. “I’m…”

Now that she had begun, however, it seemed she could not stop. “But then there was you.” The ache to be, somehow, even closer to him, to melt her body into his even more, burned—an impossible fancy upon which she could not act yet desperately wished she could. “And for the first time in my life, I did something that I wanted to do and that I thought was right. And even though last night was—it was so frightening, and I was—and well, my arm hurts, yes, but—I still don’t regret anything. Anything.” She leaned closer. The sunlight danced off his eyes, turning the green hue almost gold. “Every choice led me here. To you. And every one was my choice. I did it for myself—and I also did it for you, because I—because I—”

She stopped, and in wordless answer, Will laid his hand on her cheek, brushing away her tears that had fallen.

“So don’t you dare,” she whispered, “tell me what I do or don’t want. I want to be here. With all my heart. I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

He laughed, short and a little breathless, as she fell silent, the outpouring of emotion ceasing as quickly as it had begun. He pressed his lips against her hair.

When he pulled away, he was grinning.

“Well,” he murmured, “I don’t know what to say other than…uh… Yes, ma’am.” He kissed her again. “You’re the boss, princess. If you say it, then it’s true.”

***

How wonderfully absurd it was to be in Will’s home—the headquarters of Iustitia aecum. Oh, what Baden would give to know what she knew.

Bree found she no longer cared.

The house was small, only a touch larger, really, than the apartment where she’d been living when her father died in poverty and disgrace. Yet there was a coziness to each tiny room, a sense of home in each well-worn floorboard, hole-ridden curtain, and scratched-up surface, that had never pervaded any of the places she had lived before, save perhaps the fleeting and far-between moments when she was very young, nestled in her mother’s arms and far from the red-faced wrath of her father.

She thanked Will when he inspected and re-bandaged her arm with her with gentle, calloused fingers. Thanked him for how fastidiously he tried to care for the wound, even when he was not sure what to do. Told him about her parents, and the life she’d known before she was Mrs. Breanna Hatchett, the constable’s wife. About her mother and the awful way she’d died, from a cut on her finger even smaller than this one, and how by the time they’d realized what was making her so sick, it had been too late.

“You’re not going to die like that,” he told her firmly.

“How do you know?”

“Because. I won’t let you.” He ran his fingers over her palm. “I’m sorry about your ma.”

“It was years ago now,” she said, though her heart twinged in memory of the old grief.

“Your dad?” he asked. “Dead, too?”

“A few years later,” she said bitterly. “Not soon enough.” Will gritted his teeth at this; she needed to say no more about the man Silas Cooper had been.

He drifted toward the oven, where the fire had fallen and was close to burning out. “I was fourteen when my ma died. It was… Yeah. It was awful. She got sick.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bree softly. What an awful thing for the two of them to share.

With a shrug, he merely said, “Life’s hard. Always has been.” Through the distant sadness the topic had brought to his features, a lightness broke through. “When you got good people around you, it ends up not so bad.”

At these words, Bree’s gaze fell to the tattoo on his arm. It was beautiful, captivating in a way she would have never believed a gang’s sigil could be. When he was done adding to the fire and had settled by the window, gazing through the glass at the cloudy sky above, she joined him, unable to resist running her fingers over the ink. “What does it mean?”

He glanced down, catching her eye for a moment before she went back to inspecting the tattoo. “Iustitia aecum? I don’t know. Spider suggested it.”

“Spider?” Bree blinked, wondering who would name themselves after a creature with eight legs. “And…you have friends who can speak Latin?”

He burst into a laugh. “Well, one, I guess. She—Spider—learned some. Must’ve. We just trusted her, that she was giving us the right translation or whatever. Something about justice, I think.”

“Yes, justice, I knew,” Bree murmured. “Justice for…um…for men? I think. Something like that.”

Snorting, he said, “Men? I doubt she meant that. I hope I get to bust her balls about getting it wrong.”

Will’s words sank in belatedly, drawing her attention to one in particular. “She? You’ve got a woman in your group?”

“Yeah, and don’t tell her I said this, but we’d all be fucking lost without her.”

Once again, Bree found her idea of what his life had been like before they met being challenged to its core. “Really?”

“Mmm hmm. But I’ll be real mad if you tell her that.”

“I promise I won’t,” she said, laughing, though something shuddered a little inside her at the awe and esteem in his voice, behind the teasing quality to it. “If I ever get the chance to meet her.”

This other girl, this “Spider,” had he… Had they…

“But I really meant the picture,” she said quickly, pushing the question from her mind. “Does it mean anything?”

Will shifted his arm to peer down at the image inked onto his skin. “I mean…I’m sure the others could probably say it better.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

He took her hand, guiding her fingers to the letters I.A., tracing over them as he had when he revealed his name. “Justice for everyone. All folks, rich or poor.” He moved her hand to the tree and its swirling roots. Beneath Bree’s fingertips, the leaves seemed to come alive, unfurling in full health and bright colour through some magic born of their clasped hands. “Life and, uh, people, and the world we’re in. Growth and new beginnings.” Finally, he let her fingers trace the ring around the roots. “Everything, everyone, we’re all connected.”

Bree blinked back sudden tears. “It’s even more beautiful now that I know that.”

Studying her for a few long moments, Will smiled, and he pulled away without a word. Crossing over to the desk that had been tidy when they arrived and was now strewn with detritus, he rummaged around until he’d retrieved a pen.

When he turned to her again, he said simply, “Want one?”

“One…one what?”

He held up his arm, and Bree gaped at the tattoo he was showing off and suggesting she don.

“Not for real,” he said, laughing. “It’s just a pen. I don’t know how to do the real thing. All I know is that it hurts like a bitch.”

It seemed so absurd, so infantile, so downright silly to consider letting him draw in her arm. Like playing pretend. Like a little girl dressing up in her mother’s wedding dress. “Um…”

Something lifted its head inside her, a creature newly roused from dormancy that she had not known was there. It suddenly burned, more than she was, perhaps, comfortable admitting, with the desire to wear the Iustitia aecum tattoo.

“Yes,” she said, beaming, and she followed him across the room.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, snickering as he brandished the pen. “You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Why?”

“I’m an awful artist.”

Indeed, his skill at wielding the pen to draw a tree on her arm seemed at least about the same as his skill at handwriting, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to resent the crooked, hesitant lines. “It’s not that bad,” she said, deciding as he made it to the roots of the tree that it wasn’t as hideous as he had foretold. “I like it.”

“You’re too nice,” he said, but he was laughing, apparently unembarrassed. “The others made the picture. I did the coins, though.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Carved them.” He stuck his tongue out and fell silent as he concentrated on drawing the circle around the roots. Bree held back a giggle.

“There,” he said, blowing lightly on the drying ink, the coolness of his breath sending gooseflesh up Bree’s arm. “That’s as good as it’s gonna get.”

Bree felt inexplicably warm as she peered down at her tattoo, and no matter what he said, it was the most beautiful mark anyone had made on her skin in her entire life. “I think it’s perfect.” The lopsided circle, the few spots of smeared ink, the roots that ran into one another, the slightly distorted I. and A. She wouldn’t have wanted anything else. “Thank you.”

Looking down at her arms made Bree feel as if they belonged to someone else. On the one, a bandage, hiding a war wound dealt by a rival gang member while she was out at night doing IA business. In the other, the sign of criminals, of Iustitia aecum—as if she really were part of them now.

“It’s perfect,” she said again, touching her fingertips to the ink to see if it had dried. It had.

When she looked up, there he was, watching her with something that seemed almost like awe. “What?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, going red, “just thinking of how I was so fucking wrong about you at the start.”

She shrugged. “Well. You know better now.” Glancing sideways at him, she asked, “Do you remember calling me a whore? That was the first thing you ever said to me.”

Instead of looking guilty, Will burst into a laugh. “I did, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

“You had better be.”

“Oh, yeah? What you gonna do about it if I’m not?”

Well. Now she was stuck, and he was giving her a look that was full of challenge—not just challenge but open flirtation, and what was she supposed to say back? “I’m going to…”

Higher went that obnoxious eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Laughing, knowing she had to be blushing, she gave him a playful push. “Stop teasing me.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

She couldn’t think of anything to say that, because she didn’t want him to stop teasing her, ever—didn’t want to envision a future where he wasn’t next to her to rib her and run his fingers over her skin and bandage her wounds and give her play-pretend tattoos and press his lips to hers.

So she kissed him instead, and he kissed her back, and although that wasn’t quite an answer to the question he had asked, it was answer enough.

Optionally, this scene continues on ao3 (this links to ao3). if you know what I mean (this links to a video).

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