#so much potential in that face but all said and done i think if he had to be born when he was | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

teddiee · 2 days ago

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Into Each Life: Chapter 17

Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

Words: 13,381

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

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

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

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

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

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

Howard doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stone is loyal,” Howard snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Howard’s gaze sharpens.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m sure.”

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

The words land with the force of a detonation.

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

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blow never lands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like no one else does, either.

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

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

A pause. Not long, but long enough.

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

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

But Agent Carter doesn’t yield.

She stands there, waiting. Watching.

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows. Forces his hand to drop.

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

“Are you all right?” She asks.

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

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

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

Ah. For the blood.

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

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

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

She’ll be waiting a long time.

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

He resists the urge to fidget under it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows, looking away first.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

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

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

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

Maybe his entire life.

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

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

He regrets it the instant it leaves his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hm," is all she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony freezes.

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

Carter doesn’t look convinced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony feels a pit open in his stomach.

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

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

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

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

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

And that person isn’t himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t come.

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

Tony’s throat tightens. He looks away first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carter doesn’t give it to him.

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

Tony blinks. “What?”

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

Tony swallows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turns, one brow arched in inquiry.

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

And then he waves his bloodied handkerchief for emphasis.

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

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

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

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

Tony follows.

***

A week crawls by.

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

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

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

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

Time drops out from under him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s both starved for this and viscerally terrified.

God, just open it.

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

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

T—

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

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

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

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

Just come home to me.

—B

That last line sears into Tony like a hot brand.

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky doesn’t know he’s safe.

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

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

Just come home to me.

But he can’t. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony forces down a wave of nausea.

It’s all so fucking unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony opens his mouth, but no words come out.

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

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

Except… those don’t exist for him.

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

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

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

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

The idea that a bonded separation could be worse…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Since the godforsaken gala.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because… oh.

Tiberius didn’t kill his first mate.

He drove her to kill herself.

Tony’s head swims.

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

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

It’s—

It’s unheard of.

It’s an abomination.

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

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

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

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

Not really. Not truly.

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

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

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

Because of course he had.

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

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

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

Of course Tiberius fucking Stone had killed his first mate.

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

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

But this—this is something else.

Because it means she chose it.

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

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

The bile rises in Tony’s throat.

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

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

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

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

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

Erskine’s brow furrows. “Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

That’s it. Just his name.

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

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

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

Well.

He might not stop screaming.

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

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

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

It’s warm. Throbbing.

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

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

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

Before they knew that it would be the last time.

Before everything fell apart.

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

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

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

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

He’s just… missing.

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

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

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

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

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

Like something tethered to him just out of reach.

Something calling him home.

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

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

Tony’s pen stills over the blueprint. Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But mostly, he just feels tired.

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

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

Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s done, or close enough.

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

Tony is… free.

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

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

Phillips looks unimpressed. “Stark—”

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

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

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

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

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

No, he’s not going to Manhattan.

He’s going to Brooklyn.

He’s going home.

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

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lady-dragon-rider · 2 days ago

Text

The Towers Lost Maiden Pt.4

Targaryen Fam x Hightower! Reader

With the Driftmark incident behind the Targaryen family, and tensions strained to their fullest. Reader must take drastic action to purge the rot that nips at their families heels. The threat of potential war being the consequence for failure.

Containing: both cannon divergence and cannon adherence (as necessary), protective dragons in all forms, daemon living for not being the family drama for once (for a little at least, some time skip, more sucession drama, death, blood and violence

Featuring: daeron mention (will make an appearance soon), Aemond being petty aka mild bullying offscreen (aemond milks Luce’s punishment)

Next part>

<<Previous Part

---

The next morning arrives without further incident. Now, you sit in a chair facing a weathered old maester, who sews the cut on your arm.

“You are fortunate your grace, the blade was Valyrian steel, so the cut was a clean one. It will scar, but it will heal well.”

“Thank you Maester Mordin” you mumble, wincing again as the he finishes the final stitch. Aemond and Aegon watch on silently. When Maester Mordin moves to Aemond to check on him, Aegon round the table from the other side, coming to grab your unwounded hand. The doors open and Aemma walks in quickly. Without a word she reaches you, delicately tracing the skin around the stiches.

“What is to be done with your sister?” She mutters cooly

“I will deal with it love, trust me. Ill be handling it shortly.” You speak quietly. You stand slowly. “Boys, go with your mother to breakfast, i will join you shortly.”

“But Mother-”

“Please dont argue my love. Ill be quick and then be right back at your sides.” You reassure, pressing your hands to your childrens cheeks. They both look like they want to say more to you, but they eventually leave the room with Aemma. She has her arms around them comfortingly as the door clicks behind them. You motion for the gaurd by the doors attention. “Bring my sister Alicent to me at once.”

---

“Sister-” Alicent gasps

“My decision is final.” You state coldly “it was like i didnt even know you last night. My sweet, wonderful sister, who likes reading and embroidery, attempting to attack A Child in the name of Justice? Vengeance? Against a Child? ” You sneer

“I admit it was not my finest moment. i acted in a moment of weakness… know i regret my actions. That my love for you and your children is what makes me so protective, you have always done so much for me… always shown restraint and wisdom… please, know this and forgive me.” Her voice cracks. For a split moment you can see her; that young girl from all those years ago, clinging to your skirts and crying during thunder storms… who came to you to read her stories before bed…. and the girl who came to you in the middle of the night because she didnt want to marry the king.

“This IS mercy” You murmur strongly “But… i may find it in my heart to give you leniency if you answer this question”

“Of course-”

“Were you the one to spread the rumors of Luce and Jace?”

Alicent stops mid answer. The air choked from her lungs. She looks at you with a shocked expression. Your eyes stare through hers with a cold stormy expression,

“If you cant answer that, then were you the one who told Aemond these lies?” Again, your question is met with silence, alicent looking away, the picking her nails indicating all you need. You heave a sigh, now knowing the truth.

“Then the decision still stands; you are to prepare yourself for the journey back to Oldtown. Ill arrange to have your posessions from your chamber sent there to meet you.”

“And if i said i did?” She interjects “that i did because their very existence is an insult to everything that you have gone through? Everything you sacrificed to save me? So that i wouldnt have to betray someone i thought a firend? That she uses your love for her to protect her from her misdeeds?”

“Then i would say that i didnt think you would be so vindictive and spiteful. That you, of all people, after all the lessons i tried to teach you, could be so short-sighted. Do you know the danger such slander holds for my children? That by putting such things to question you threaten their safety with the threat of civil war. Such that would burn everything away and leave everything i did for you naught.”

“How can you not see they arent true born?” She pleads “you cant be blind to the truth!”

“They are my grandsons. With Targaryen dragons to show their lineage” You affirm “the only thing i was ‘blind’ to was not seeing my sister straying from my side… who let darkness and lies into her heart. No doubt from the heartbreak of losing her friend and having no true comfort of her own. For that i am sorry… i never meant to leave you alone”

“(Name)…”

“You will go back home to Oldtown. You will speak no more on these fictitious rumors. And hopefully finding a suitable match and some time away will help soothe you.” You take Alicents hands gently, squeezing and rubbing her knuckles with you thumbs. You both smile sadly at each other. kissing her temple you mutter “please find happiness, this is all i wish for you. We will be with each other soon, i promise.”

You then motion for the guard to escort her back to her rooms, and head to the hall for breakfast.

---

“I still cant believe you talked to her. After all she did, you have a much better temperament that i your grace” Rheanyra sighs. You both watch as the dragons fly over head; back home to kings landing. “I wouldve had her head…”

“Nyra, darling you dont mean that…” you scold gently

“But i do!” She barks voice wavering. “She hurt you… she tired to hurt my son.” Her tone turns cold when she finishes her statement. Delicately, she rolls the sleeve to judge the wound. You can hear her harshly suck in a breath as she traces around the wound; like Aemma had done ealier. She speaks quietly in High Valyrian, with a scowl permeating her face.

“Fret not dear, she is on her way back to Old Town, and she wont be back unless i allow it.” You reassure. Rheanyra huffs childishly, and holds your hands tightly. “That matter is settled. Now, we will need to look to the future, i doubt itll be the last time we will need to discuss the boys succession… now that the seeds have been planted.” You grumble. You loved Alicent truly, but she sometimes made things so difficult. You both look out towards the sea again, the figures of dragons now a little smaller against the horizon.

---

You were right when you said it wouldnt be the last time youd need to discuss Driftmarks succession. You stand next to Aemma, who sits on the iron throne in place of Viserys, weary expressions on your faces as you listen to Vaemond drone on again; with yet another petition for driftmark, claiming Rheanyra’s children illegitimate and him the rightful successor. With Corlys on his rumoured death bed and with the death of Leanor, Vaemond had wasted no time in calling forth a meeting of the court.

As either side said their piece; Vaemond with his 'My blood is of true Velaryon descent’ and Rheanyra again stating that the matter had already been discussed at length years earlier, the silence with so deafening that you would be able to hear a pin drop.

“I would get a blade and show you princess but im afraid it would look unfamiliar to you.” He snarls.

“That is enough Lord Vaemond, this is the second attempt you have made to undermine your uncle Corlys’s verdict on Driftmarks succession. The only person here who would know his wishes most intimately would be the princess Rheanys.” Aemma states, the wrinkles around her eyes showcasing her tiredness at this debate. She, along with Viserys, had seemed to aged rapidly, almost as if the throne itself had finally succeeded in saping their strength. It was either that or the constant in-fighting between rambunctious relatives.

Rheanys steps forward and with little emotion on her face, cooly adresses the room. “It was ever my husbands wish to have Driftmark pass through his son Ser Leanor to his tureborn grandson Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. The Princess Rheanyra has also informed me of her desire to wed her grandson Luce with Corlys’s granddaughter Rheana, a proposal in which i heartily agree.”

“Then the matter is settled… again. In my husbands name, i affirm that Lucerys Velaryon remains heir of driftmark, heir to the driftwood throne and the next lord of the tides.” Aemma sighs with a furrowing brow. Just as your about to assist the queen regent, you hear Vaemond scoff.

“You break law and centuries of tradtion naming your daughter as heir… and you dare tell me who gets to inherit the name Velaryon… No. I will not allow it” he grunts

“Allow it? You foget yourself” you scowl “Last time i checked Lord Vaemond, the Kings word IS law. And, by the word of King Jaehaerys himself, the princess Rheanyra’s right to the throne is protected by the widowers law. Or have you and the rest of the realm forgotten that piece of history? Along with bowing to her nearly 20 years ago.” You make no attempt to hide the bite in your tone, your eyes flaring in a protective rage. Out the corner of your eye you can see Aemma and Rheanyra smirk at your display. Aemma out of pride, and Rheanyra from vindication of your backing.

Vaemond chews his lips and with a clench fist, directs his anger to Luce again. “THAT! Is no true Velaryon… i will not see my line end at the hands of this…”

“Say it.” You hear Daemon whisper.

Please dont say it Vaemond. Dont do it

“Her children are BASTARDS… and she is… a whore” he finishes, his voice booming.

You pull out the knife on your hip, a gift from Rheanyra (and allegedly Daemon too) after the Driftmark incident. With a face of thunder, you begin the descent down the stairs.

“You will lose your tongue for those slanders.” You hiss.

Before you can get to him however his head swiftly meets the floor; his body falling neatly at your feet near the bottom of the stairs. Behind him stands Daemon, who wipes the blood from his sword.

“He can keep his tongue.” The look he gives you just as he turns to walk back to your step-daughters side, is one you cant quite read. Somewhere between a begrudging respect at your stepping in and a 'i protect this family… not you.’

Well that hopefully means he no longer hates you. Its a step. You guess. Sheathing the blade you glide back up the stairs to help Aemma. She is a bit shaky going down, your son Aegon is quick to grab her other side. Aemond stands vigil behind Helaena, his remaining eye alert and never straying to far from Daemon’s posistion. He guides the both of them to your side and you all make your way out of the hall. When you reach the Queens chamber, you help Aemma into a chair and then sit down yourself. Amid the silence you begin to writing your letters to your sister, brother and your son.

In you letter to Daeron you mention that he should most definitely come and visit, as 'the best part of being a prince with a dragon is that he need not seek permission in order to see family. He can simply do so as he wishes. And that if he ever wished to come and then stay, her could do that too.’

Writing to Gwayne was a joy to you. You enjoyed reading of the joyous moments he had with Daeron. If your song wasnt telling you directly through letters, then it would be read through his uncles boasting. You subtly write to him that your worried about Alicent, and to make sure she is being treated well.

Alicents letter… is a bit more vague. You try to overlook your nerves over what she has been getting up to as you keep her 'updated’ with the barest of details. You get the sense she may not fully realise the extent of the distance between through your writings, as she still writes so animatedly about the goings on in OldTown, even going so far as to ask for a visit. Its your hope you can keep it that way though you are mostly thankful that she seems a tad happier out of the suffocating air of Kingslanding. The thought of a visit sounds wonderful… but with the teetering health of your partners you find it hard to think of stepping away… the shadows that nip at the edges of court being ever fickle.

“Why the long face my love?” You hear the quiet voice of Aemma say “more letters from that infernal sister of yours?”

“Dearest please… but yes, she writes asking for a visit… saying she misses our time togther. The thought of visiting home would be wonderful… if things here didnt threaten to fall apart in my absence. Besides, i couldnt leave either of you to the jaws of that court and council.” You explain wearily. A touch of the hand stirs you from you spiral. Your wife smiles knowingly.

---

“Some letters have arrived your grace.” A messager announces as they hand you several neatly rolled scrolls of parchment. Responses from Alicent, Gwayne and Daeron. All of them hold the typical pleasantries, though your sons letter informs that he shall be returning home for a short time, wishing to see his siblings and mothers. You smile and go about your day, telling all who need to know of his return.

Later in the council chamber you sit in the position to Viserys left, opposite you is Rheanyra. You both eye each other tiredly as the lords try to make subtle attempts to weasel more power for themselves. Just as the meeting is to be concluded, Rheanyra coughs and call herself to attention. “I wish to say something quickly before we conclude”

Viserys grunts and nods tiredly “remain seated everyone.”

Rheanyra clears her throat before looking at you directly. “In light of recent discourse within our family… i would like to apologise for the roles mine played in it. And for the harm that has befallen the wounded parties…” you can see the way she spares a glance down at your arm; where the scar, now beginning to fade slightly, lay hidden beneath the sleeve. “i know no amount of apologies can fix it… but i wish to try and mend the rift between us once and for all. Jacerys will inherit the throne after me, i propose a marriage between him and your daughter Helaena. With it i hope we can finally, firmly unite our two sides for the times ahead.”

You nod and smile. “I think that is a wonderful idea. What say you dear?” You turn to Viserys, he smiles and nods in agreement. He takes your hand and Rheanyra’s as firmly as he can manage.

“A wonderful idea indeed, daughter.” He calls the meeting to an end and some maids help him stagger out of the chamber and back to his rooms. You round the table and subtly place your shawl over Rheanyra’s shoulders. She looks at you in confusion before you whisper quietly in her ear of the issue. She flushes a little but thanks you for the discretion. You both walk the halls arm in arm as you go to the Queen’s chambers for lunch. Where you mention to both that your son Daeron is on his way up for a visit.

---

“Mother you cant be serious!” Aegon gasps. Aemond too looks both shocked and mildly betrayed at the news.

“I am. You father has also approved so there is not going back on it.” You say firmly “from memory aegon i remember you saying 'so long as i dont have to marry her, she is weird’ when i brought up Helaena’s marriage prospects. I didnt realise you held such an interest now”

“I dont” he huffs, arms folded “she IS weird, but as fate would have it she is MY weird sister. And im not particularly fond of the idea of handing her off to Jace” he explains

“I thought you liked him, you were both quite close, with Luce as well. Close enough to tease one another and have fun in the training yard.”

“That was before driftmark” he snarks, eyes dark with rage. The room falls deadly silent.

“Is that because i got hurt? Or because Aemond did?” Aegon makes no move to reply, but you can see the way his fists clench and he fails to meet your eyes. You sigh and motion for both of your sons to come closer.

“I know this might seem like im rewarding them and punishing you. But im not, i promise. I want our family whole, if either of you sat in councils with me and your father you would see plainly how some of these lords try to rangle the reigns from our grasp because of the illness that renders the king; and therefore the crown, weak. Ive done my best to keep everything stable until your sister, the heir i remind you, can take the throne. In order for that to happen this family MUST remain as whole as it can be. I dont like the idea of pushing Helaena into a political marriage, but Jace will take his role seriously and will look after her, this much i know for fact.”

“I still dont like it” aegon pouts, his eyes distant as he stares into the fireplace

“I dont often agree with him mother… but i dont like it either. You have always been wise and made good decisions for the good of others and the realm… but i cant see it in this.” Aemond agrees

You squeeze their hands and stand to match their heights. “I understand you might not like it because you still hold some resentment in you for you eye my love, but Luce faithfully served his punishment to you… and if rumors are to be believed, and not all are, i have heard tell that you may have been a bit cruel to him during that period.” Aemond doesnt meet you eye with his. “They are your nephews. For all their faults and for all of yours, we are family. And when it comes to family we do our best to look out for and support one another. We can agree on this at least right?”

They both nod. You send them off with kisses and tell them that their younger brother will be here soon for a visit. That seems to brighten them a little when they leave your rooms for the night. you try and settle for the night but find the yourself unable to. You leave your chambers to cross the hall, feeling incredibly childish as you slip into Aemma’s chamber. She doesnt stir much as you gently lift the covers, and pull yourself in. Though she does turn over and in her dreamy-sleep filled state moves over to hold your arm. It eases you a tad, but the faint heaviness still sits in your gut as you both eagerly and anxiously wait to see how things unfold.

---

Taglist @your-favorite-god @juliette2

#hotd x reader #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon

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hinamie · 5 months ago

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congrats on your recovery n all yuuji but unfortunately for you I thought the scars were cool >:/

#my art #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #yuji itadori #jjk fanart #jujutsu kaisen fanart #jjk art #jjk spoilers #jjk manga spoilers #jjk leaks #these took so long i kept getting distracted cries #but they r done and this is yuuji's post canon scar map to me. argue with a wall we should have had this #looks at canon this sign won't stop me bc i cant read >:(#smh robbed!!!!!! the potential!!!!! the aesthetic!!!!! th angst the symbolism!!!!!!#gege i respect u i do not want beef after u let my boys live #but u rly couldnt have scuffed him up a LITTLE more.....there were so many to choose from didnt u have a favourite.....#all he has to show fr all that r two little scratches. rly.#((not counting the ear n fingers thank god i get That much))#anyway i made a whole post abt why i think yuuji should have kept the scars n what it would have stood for symbolically #its along th same lines as the yuuji Big Face Scar agenda hh i just care a lot abt character design n visual storytelling ok #anyway fine he can keep the eye but in this house it grew back wrong it's lighter and foggy and now his prescription is stronger #as fr the rest #megumi has dibs on the upper right eye apparently so yuuji can have the bottom half #i would have doubled down on the scars on his left but a. the right side is the symbolic one #b. he healed an entire eye so it makes sense tht he'd heal other more minor injuries as well #c. tbh it's mostly based on what looked good i think this arrangement guides the eye across his face nicely #gave him a lil nose nick bc smth smth sukuna idk it's just there to balance things out #also as i said. the jaw and neck scar are there for kissing purposes i make the rules im salty and i do what i want smile #in other news thank u past hina fr doing those hair render studies im very happy with my yuuji hair as of late

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spaghett-onaplate · 9 months ago

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kinda wish this one guy was gay

#he's my least politically correct friend but he has a good heart #like today one of our classmates said he's improved a lot since becoming friends with me and is so much nicer now #bc his old friendgroup was fucking nasty bro they still are idk #it's all 'jokes' until it's not apparently they were pretty racist to him #and obv i'm not racist so being around i and a few other different nicer people has done wonders for him #and like he initiated friendship with me straight away like he wanted to do better and can do better and has been doing better #he still has a few off jokes but i just don't humour them #and it's all just from a place of insecurity that so many teenage boys have #and he really does have a good heart i think he can continue to grow and improve #and we are just friends and becoming closer friends but like. dayum sometimes i am struck by his beautiful face #embarrassing but it's fine to have a little crush on all of your friends i think #and we played basketball today (i mostly watched) and he's so good at it like bro idk #i hope he doesn't move schools like he might (he lives really far away) bc i wanna see where this goes #friendship wise. bc i believe in him he can become a very nice person he has great potential #i can fix him guys (he has made choices to better himself and really i have little impact but i think i am helping and i'm glad)#and yeah he's just HOT my gawd #and i like breaking bad and he started watching breaking bad !!#oscar.exe

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pennyserenade · 1 year ago

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david duchovny in chaplin tells me all i need to know abt his face and what it would’ve done in old hollywood (lots even with that stupid hat)

#misc.#i’ve seen SO many old hollywood films to know the man was meant to be in a noir #i think the 90s really leaned into his boyishness and i love that sm #he plays charming boyish characters well #but i think he was meant to play a tragic detective character with the heart of gold #who falls in love with the doomed beauty #like in laura for example #he also could’ve been SO many pretty boy characters #like cary grant in alfred hitchcock’s suspicion !#so much potential in that face but all said and done i think if he had to be born when he was #x files is the closest you could get to it

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atrwriting · 1 year ago

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future problems — coriolanus snow x fem!wife!reader

hi everyone :) jumping on the bandwagon

this man is so fine i couldn’t help myself. i hope everyone had an amazing holiday if they celebrate — i celebrate christmas, so here is my almost 10k word christmas gift to all of you xoxo love u all v much thank you for reading !!

as always, warnings: corio-lame-o is a fucking warning holy fuck, smuuuuut, arranged marriage (i think this counts?), coriolanus is a distrustful evil fuck (but he’s super hot), fem!reader, reader is married to this dickhead (i say as if i wouldn’t want to be lmao), angst, sexism and misogyny is def in here, p in v penetration, m receiving oral, choking, dom!corio, asshole!corio, sub!reader, subspace kinda

informal warnings: bro what the fuck was i on this is literally 10.2k words and i refuse to edit because im super lazy anyway we die like men you've been warned

anyways… here is future problems:

he never wanted to get married.

he saw it as a potential problem, one that would most definitely lead to loose ends — and he hated loose ends.

despised them.

however, his innate need to maintain an image was far more important to him. he weighed the costs and benefits in his head like an algorithm — check, check, check. coriolanus’ mind left no stone unturned, especially when future problems were to be squashed before they could ever be wiped from memory. in the end… he decided he would marry.

and it would be you.

he never allowed himself to be naive — so he would never allow himself to marry someone he already loved. lucy gray? a child’s want for something they can’t have, and something they wouldn’t realize until later that it was a walking regret. no — he could never marry someone that would harm him. absolutely not. out of the question. therefore, it had to be you.

it had to be you because what harm would you cause him? you were shy, quiet, of satisfactory social standing, and uncontroversial. everything a patriarch of the snow family would want. deserved. be entitled to.

he needed someone that wouldn’t be a problem — a loose end in the future. he had conquered so much — he refused to let anything else, especially as irrelevant as a significant other, stand in his way.

however… it did not aid him in his stone-cold lack of a love affair conquest that you were absolutely breathtaking.

at first, it was just an ego boost. he simply couldn’t stop his thoughts from voicing, of course she’s perfect. the snow legacy can only have perfect.

but then… oh, then…

then he saw your smile.

oh, your smile.

your fucking smile.

the first time he caught himself enjoying it — he scolded himself. he refused to see you for a week. a punishment of sorts. more so for him than for you. after, he refused to let his eyes wander on the pretty features of your face for him to witness a reaction to something someone had said or done. he didn’t want to be reminded of what it was like to experience joy or peace because someone else was experiencing it — that was what almost costed him everything he had built.

no one would ever tear that down. not again, not ever.

no one.

when the day of your marriage came, it was business as usual. he refused to meet eye contact, and did not partake in more conversations with you than he had to. he could tell you felt uncomfortable — but he forced himself not to care. he drove it down, down, down like a miner drilling for more coal — hoping, one day, it would be worth it.

and it was… until he was sick.

it was a minor ailment — nothing major, but he was on bedrest for about a week or two. he had employed enough adequate members to his staff to feel that things would at least be taken care of until then. he also found comfort in the fact that two weeks was not long enough for something irreversible to occur. if a problem had taken placed, he would be able to rectify it once he was well and able and… set aside the responsible party.

however, he did not expect one problem.

and that would be you.

he knew you were asking to see him. he knew, he knew, he knew, but he refused to let you in. you were not disrespectful — you had only asked once a day, which happened to be every day in the afternoon. he had picked you specifically because you were too quiet to be annoying. however, his own perfect, pristine, and proper plan had stabbed him in the back. he had never considered that the perfect, pristine, and proper wife would be this dutiful to him, checking in once a day on his condition and to speak with him. despite his illness, he laughed at himself — leave it to him to not expect the expected: the hand-selected dutiful wife would, in fact, be dutiful.

he had to put an end to it. he couldn’t keep saying no for another week. how was he expected to get better if you kept bothering him?

so he let you in. this once. just this once. he reasoned that if he let you in this once, you would be less persistent. just this once — and another problem would cease to plague his mind.

just this once, he chanted in his head. just this once.

he sat up straighter, and attempted to shape his hair so it wasn’t terribly unkept. he reasoned that if you saw him appearing to be healthy, you wouldn’t feel the need to come back. he thought —

but he couldn’t finish the thought.

because you walked in.

smelling like fucking lilacs.

lilacs, of all things. lilacs! not roses, not anything else — lilacs. he did not hate lilacs, but he despised the actual flower. only beautiful for so long before it died and the stench was intolerable. an inconvenience. a nuisance. a guaranteed future problem.

however, when you gifted him with a small smile — you realized why small shows of beauty were so valuable in this world. no one else saw your smile — except for those closest to you. people he hand selected to be around you to prevent future problems. he realized then — he had more control and ownership over your smile than either of you thought.

he was so stunned by your smile he didn’t even notice the tray of tea and cakes in your hand. you took a few steps towards him and he shifted in place.

“i brought your favorites,” you spoke softly. “i know you should rest — i just wanted to ask if there was anything i could do to make your recovery easier.”

“no, thank you,” he replied, voice raspy. “i should be well in a few days.”

you nodded and offered an uneasy smile. his eyes flickered over to how once you had set down the tray on his beside, you slowly wiped the palm of your hands down the front of your dress. your eyes were cast absentmindedly in front of you, on the wall — and he could tell something was plaguing your thoughts.

he then also realized there was a book on the tray, much to his dismay.

“someone had mentioned that this was your favorite author. this was published a few days ago,” you began. “i understand that you have been experiencing headaches, and may find it difficult to read… so i wanted to offer to read aloud for you, in case you found these walls dull.”

you smiled — it was an attempt at a joke. he smiled back, but only to be polite. “today i find myself wanting to sleep. i appreciate your offer.”

you smoothed your hands over your dress once more before nodding and forcing a smile. “i’ll leave you to it, then.”

you did not bid him farewell — and he found himself wondering if he was annoyed or grateful. you simply exited the room, and let the door shut softly behind you.

he scrunched his eyes at the door, swallowing hard.

however, he didn’t understand why.

he had wanted this. the perfect wife — knowing when to take a hint and frankly, fuck off. you had done that, perfectly well — so why was he pissed?

he then found himself glaring angrily at his favorite tea cakes. the swap of sugar for honey, another one of his favorites. his favorite author, a book he was excited to read when he was better. he knew that you hadn’t asked about him — he employed people with the requirement to let him know when you were asking questions. he knew your every outward thought and concern, and sometimes even the ones that weren’t shared aloud because they were so evident on your face.

and then he realized: you noticed things like he noticed things.

however, he knew why he went out of his way to notice things, but why did you?

his jaw clenched as he glared angrily at the wall in front of him. he picked up a tea cake and chewed it aggressively, swallowing it half-intact. he coughed at the barely there food, anger rising further to his flushed cheeks.

he needed to understand how, and he most certainly needed to understand why.

he never went out of his way to get to know you, because he thought he already did. he thought he had you boiled down to one thing, and one thing only: passive. incapable of proving to be any sort of roadblock that was capable of getting in his way. now that he knew you shared something with him, what else was shared? was there something he had to look out for? was there something he missed? was he wrong about you?!

he had to know. he had to.

to do that… he called you back that evening. it was two hours before midnight, and he knew you were awake. despite having separate chambers, he knew your daily schedule. you would be reading at this moment, and he would ask you to read for him.

as if on cue, he heard a soft rapping on the wood of the door. he beckoned you in, and you entered the room. you were clad in a night dress with a matching robe over it, all pink silk. this time, he returned your smile.

"i apologize for the late hour," he spoke. "i hope you had not retired for the night."

you shook your head, your tendrils of perfect hair shaking slightly. "i was reading. i am glad you sent for me — can i get you anything?"

"i was hoping the offer to read for me was still on the table," he rasped. "i find myself unable to sleep."

you blinked once, staring at him. in an instant, a small smile was threatening to overtake your face into a large one. you cast your eyes down to a blushing manner, but his eyes narrowed slightly on your face. what would you get out of reading for him? what we he not seeing? what did he miss?

"of course," you responded. "i have not had a chance to read anything by this author. i am glad i have the chance now."

why. why. why.

he did not show his discontent. he simply rested back against the pillows as you reached for the book on his bedside table. you sat down on a chair on his side, and you crossed your legs. he eyed the small portion of the exposed, soft skin of your legs and wondered if your new ploy would be to try and seduce him. however, you quickly covered your skin with the extra material over your robe and placed the book in your lap. once opened, you read for him.

he was not listening to what you were saying, but he was listening to how you said it. the tone, the enunciation, the pauses, and the speed. he wanted to find some clue as to why you had made it a point to be at his beck and call, and he wanted to see how long the act would last until it dropped.

the act would drop. it always did.

the hour would approach midnight before he found that he could not discern anything from how you were reading aloud. his plan did not yield the results intended, as you had not broken from fulfilling his task for two hours. two hours. you had not stopped out of boredom or exhaustion, nor to talk to him. you were poised, soft, and he hated to admit it... but sweet. he found your voice sweet, and he hated it.

and he fucking hated himself for it.

he needed this to end so he could plan further. out of necessity, he yawned. if you were to apt at picking up clues, then hopefully you would believe that he was finally tired. you had succeeded in his given task, and you were free to go.

but you had kept reading for him.

he grew angry.

when you had paused to breathe, he spoke up. "I think i am able to sleep now. thank you, sweetheart, for indulging me."

your eyeline raised with your eyebrows, almost out of surprise. you either were not expecting him to ask you to stop, or you did not want to stop. he wondered which, and if that would answer his ultimate question.

"my apologies, i should've inquired sooner," you replied. "he is a very talented writer... i found myself enjoying his perspective."

you grabbed a piece or scrap paper from his bedside table, and tucked it in between the pages where you left off.

"most people would fold the corner," he remarked, eyes drifting closed — a show.

you smiled. "i didn't want to ruin the integrity of your book. goodnight, coriolanus."

she left with another smile — and all he was left with was confusion, and rage.

the next morning, he found himself wanting to call you back in for a further rouse interview. he would have if he had a plan in place.

that was the second thing about you that annoyed him: you annoyed him to the point where he wanted to act without a plan in place. a loss of control —which he was highly against.

that would have to be righted immediately.

he spent the morning reading the pages that you had already read to brief himself as if he was listening last night. he reasoned with himself that the best course of action would be to ask you to read to him again to see if you had grown comfortable enough to let a few of your true colors slip.

they always slip.

the sudden task that was presented to him gave him a new bout of energy that he needed to inch closer to recovery. it gave him the push he needed to be closer to walking out of this room and continue to run panem, and he was lost grateful to you for giving it to him — almost. at the moment, you were a problem — and that needed to be corrected. immediately.

he found comfort in control, so he was very content with routines. he had grown accustomed to bracing himself for your check-in in the afternoon. however, it did not come until the approaching hours of the evening had almost descended upon the capitol. he waited, and waited, and waited — so long that he considered asking you to come for himself. the hour would approach dinnertime when you had finally asked about his well-being, and he sent for you.

how dare you ask so late in the day, as if you didn't care? he allowed you access to his life that he had denied you for so long, and you return his kindness with carelessness? this would not do. this most certainly would not do.

you had knocked on his door, and he had to stop himself from sounding to eager. he permitted you entry, and you entered with the same soft smile.

"good evening," you greeted.

"hello," he replied, voice still raspy from his sickness.

"I wanted to ask if you need anything," you announced.

he offered a small smile. "i enjoyed our time last night. perhaps you would read for me, again?"

your eyes fell to the floor in a blush. "of course. I was hoping to read more of the book eventually. i found it intriguing."

you sat down in the chair and pulled the book in your lap. as you were opening it, he spoke, "i thought when you had not checked-in in the early afternoon you found the book dull — afraid i would ask for you to read it for me again."

you shook your head as you smiled. "i like his writing very much — i was concerned as to whether i had prevented you from sleeping the night prior, and didn't want to disturb you further."

he swallowed. "why would you have disturbed me?"

your eyes glanced upwards from the pages to rest on his face. coriolanus stared back as slight concern washed over your features, making your lips part and your eyes widen. your tongue darted out from between your lips, and smoothed over the skin of your bottom lip. you responded, "before you fell ill, we hadn't spent much time together and i understand that is because of your position — but, to be frank, i wanted to respect your space.”

your answer perplexed coriolanus. he wanted to find out what type of person you were — and your answers were not yielding the expected results. there was no obvious form of manipulation in your words, which then worried him. were you smarter than he believed you to be? were you as cunning as him? more so?

so he went with what was natural: manipulation.

“i apologize my station has not granted us the freedom to get to know each other further,” he replied, holding your gaze. “it is a regret of mine.”

you smiled in an affirmative manner, like you didn’t believe him but accepted his answer anyway. this expression arose the same feelings he now detested your presence for: he acted without calculating his actions and the outcome they would produce.

“what troubles you?” he asked.

your lips parted and slightly quivered. you were not expecting him to ask.

“i-i was worried that i may not… please you,” you admitted. “that… you may regret our union.”

“you have been a kind and dutiful wife,” coriolanus spoke, eyes holding yours. “there is no regret.”

there was that affirmative smile again. he found himself hating it — wishing it would be replaced by the warm, soft one.

“i guess i was hoping that, when i was married, the marriage would be more than… a union.”

your candor shocked coriolanus. he would never have expected you to say something… so out of turn.

“please, forgive me,” you spoke, slightly laughing and waving your hand in the air. “the hour is almost late and i was hoping to read more. do you still wish me to?”

“please,” he answered and nodded.

you gave him a quick, thankful smile, and began reading.

this would be the second night coriolanus had not listened to a word you had said.

he had gotten his answer, and it was possibly as bad as the one he was actually afraid for.

you were good. pure, innocent, and your outlook on the world untainted. you were not striving to find a loose screw and let the empire fall. you wanted… to support the man who built and kept the empire together. it was worse than anything he could’ve ever imagined — you actually cared for him.

you cared for him, and now coriolanus snow was fucking terrified.

and yet... he had asked you to return to his chambers every night after that.

for research purposes, of course. only research purposes,

to read to him, but his goal was to learn more about you rather than the text.

you would sit there and read until he asked you to stop. when he did, you would close the book, smile at him, place it back on his nightstand, and bid him goodnight.

after, he would wrestle with the blankets and pillows in order to find out how to deal with this.

how had he not expected this?

his only fault was that he neglected to realize how far your shyness would go. you had grown comfortable with him — and you admitted that you wanted something more, something he always felt he could not give. you weren’t shy — you just weren’t open with people you weren’t comfortable with.

he should’ve known. he should’ve. fucking. known.

he didn’t know how to deal with this, if he was being honest with himself.

he told himself that he asked for you every evening to get to know you better, for his own sanity and safety; but then he began to realize he had found out everything he needed to know.

good and honest. how fucking unfortunate.

he saw a part of you, but now he needed to know more.

so what did he do? he sent you flowers. flowers. an arrangement of red roses and lilacs.

he hated himself for the lilacs.

he got somewhere with you when he had made the first move before — maybe this would yield more promising results.

however, it didn’t.

all he received in return was an extra tray of food that had arrived in the afternoon. his favorite tea cakes, and a handwritten thank-you note detailed in your appreciation for the beautiful flowers. you signed your name, and that was it.

she doesn’t make first moves, he thought. she responds to them.

he knew what he had to do.

he found himself feeling better that day — well enough to end his sick leave and return to his matters. dinner was approaching, and he sent for you to join him for a private dinner this evening.

he was washed, dressed, and coiffed within the hour.

he found you in the dining parlor waiting for him, inspecting his large bookcase. you were trying to reach a book a bit above where your height would allow, extending yourself onto your toes. coriolanus walked up behind you, towering over you, and retrieved the book for you.

you glanced up at him with wide eyes. “thank you, coriolanus.”

“what intrigued you?” he asked, grinning softly.

“first one i couldn’t reach. i was working my way up.” you smiled at him, and then the book. “please — you must be hungry. let us eat.”

you sat down at the table across from him. dinner manners were rather stiff and uncomfortable, but your upbringing that was similar to coriolanus’ prevented you from straying from them. you ate in silence for a few moments before you spoke.

“how do you like his new book?” you asked.

coriolanus cleared his throat. “i find it riveting. i wouldn’t have been able to read it for some time if it hadn’t been for you.”

you smiled at your plate, blushing. “his points are very interesting. i was never very interested in politics — so the insight of someone so heavily involved with them is very informative. do you find that your opinions align with his? or does he not share your perspective?”

he appreciated your willingness to engage with him about topics you weren’t very fond of. an underrated trait, not found very often — he had to admit.

“a bit of both,” he responded. “the one thing he does not discuss is how important it is to have a certain type of person or persons in your regime that allows the flow of success to continue.”

you nodded. “you have built a strong administration — i’m sure he would admire what you have to say.”

“what do you believe?” he asked. “about partnerships?”

you swallowed, contemplating your answer. “i think… a successful partnership is where everyone is complimented by another. for instance, someone is better at briefing documents rather than the presentation of them, and another is the opposite.”

“which one are you?” coriolanus inquired.

you paused once more, folding your lip under. he realized that was a sign you were uncomfortable — unaware of how to proceed. after a moment, you answered, “i feel the most confident under a strong leader. i prefer to be behind the scenes. minute details are easier to be taken care of that way. while you and i are different, i respect you for being the strong leader panem needed. i am sure the majority would agree with me.”

now was the time.

“it is easy to be strong when one’s wife makes sure they are well,” he replied, eyes resting on your face. “i hope you know i appreciate your willingness to accept change and make sure needs are met.”

you smiled at him once more, then turned back to your food.

damn, he thought. didnt bite.

“and for being the companion i… didn’t think i would come to enjoy the company of,” he added.

you glanced up at him then, astonishment written in your eyes as plain as the words on the paper you read for him every night. “may i ask you… a question?”

he nodded.

“did you believe you wouldn’t enjoy my company before, or after you had first met me?”

“i don’t understand.”

you swallowed, clearing your throat. “were you… wary of the idea of marriage, or wary of me?”

your gaze did not break from his. you were braver than he thought.

“marriage,” he answered honestly, hoping to witness your reaction.

there was the affirmative smile — the one he hated. “thank you for — for being honest.”

your eyes didn’t wait for a response. you turned back to your food, and left him dumbstruck.

“i hope i have not displeased you,” he stated.

“no, coriolanus,” you spoke. “if i am being honest… i was wary i would not be suitable for you. if i have not displeased you, then i am well.”

“but you stated you wanted more,” he countered, tone even.

“i hoped we would… spend time together,” you answered. “and we have.”

it was coriolanus’ turn to be at a loss for words. what would this admission relay? it only solidified what he was afraid of — you wanted a marriage filled of love, and he was not prepared for that. ever.

“the flowers were beautiful,” you spoke, interrupting his thoughts. “thank you for sending them.”

“your lilac perfume is a wonderful addition to the capitol,” he spoke, unsure where this had come from. “i wanted you to know that.”

you weren't supposed to say that you weren't supposed to tell the truth you weren't supposed

you smiled at him appreciatively, that accompanied a slight twinkle in your eye. you were quick to return to eating, but coriolanus couldn’t stop staring at your face. he realized then that was his new favorite smile.

there was a moment, a small moment, where he wondered whether it would be such a crime if he did allow himself to enjoy your company more than he had. in that moment, he couldn’t think of how it would go wrong. for that moment, you were a simple, low-maintenance, beautiful woman on the other side of the table with him that just liked spending time with him — and he enjoyed that you weren’t a problem. would it so bad if he entertained the idea?

he immediately cut himself off. of course it was a bad idea.

once dinner has finished, he had requested to walk you back your chambers. if time spent together was what kept you at bay, he could manage that. he most certainly could.

when the pair of you had approached the door, you stopped for a moment and paused reaching for the handle. you spoke, “would you… like to come in?”

“not tonight,” he rasped. he gave you a polite smile. “another time.”

he watched as you blinked your eyes a few times and your lips quivered. you didn’t meet his gaze, for it fell — in what appeared to be embarrassment.

oh.

you invited him in to… to…

that he had not expected.

before you had the chance to leave, he swooped down and grabbed your chin in his thumb and forefinger. he pressed his lips to yours ever so softly, holding it there. the moment your breath caught in your throat, there was a strange feeling inside his chest that made him feel like he’d like to quell your worries by catching you off guard another time. and another. and another. and another. he couldn’t have you feeling rejected, no — not when he didn’t want to reject you. he needed heirs, sure — but they could wait. he would contemplate how long later.

once he pulled back, you smiled. inside you were bursting, and you wanted to hurry behind a closed door so he could not see your reaction. he continued to hold your chin and gaze at your face. feeling brave, you looked him in the eye as you bid him goodnight and went into your room.

you left him standing outside your door, facing its wood paneling.

what was he to do?

he wanted to keep you as emotionally far away as possible to avoid anything like this occurring. he was prepared for people who had an ulterior motive… not a young woman who only wanted to be good to her husband.

the worst part was… not every part of him wanted him to keep you away.

would it be so bad, if he had actually courted you?

you were not anyone from his past, no. you were not irresponsible and impulsive, and you could be trusted to remain within a designated role and space. you were rarely outspoken — you never strayed from your cue cards, nor did you get smart in private. you never spoke out of turn, which coriolanus always knew — this was just the first time he was more turned on than he was just grateful.

he reasoned a reward was in order.

he found his knuckles wrapping on the door before he could stop himself.

the small movements inside your apartments stalled for a moment, pulled taut like a string in an instrument. he could picture you — standing still and silent, waiting for an explanation.

then he heard footsteps approaching the door before the door handle turned. when you opened the door, the first thing he saw was your eyes.

those big, beautiful eyes that looked at him with surprise — and the slightest bit of hope. coriolanus would most likely try to convince himself that he stayed completely still to exercise a form of control over you — but deep down, he would never be able to believe that completely.

however… when you reached out with your soft, delicate hand, and pulled at his own — it didn’t matter why he did it, because he won.

he shut the door behind him, keeping your gaze.

“i would be coy and ask if we could spend time together in a... different way than usual…” you began, sighing. “but up until this moment i was convinced we would never…”

coriolanus was in no mood to quell insecurities and anxieties. he understood that words could not compare to actions, and so he would do just that.

coriolanus stepped forward, and pressed his large hands against the sides of your face. for a split moment — you almost looked terrified. he usually relished in that look from others, but with you it only made him concerned — angry, even.

“i don’t know what it is about you.” his voice was shaky. it was the first moment in your entire marriage that coriolanus had shown even a shred of weakness. “you smile, you obey, you take my transgressions like they’re fucking sweets. why?! tell me!”

your big, round eyes were blown wide as your brow was knitted together. your lips were parted in an innocent manner, and it only fueled his anger. one of your hands came up to gently lay across the back of his. “coriolanus — have you ever considered that i just wanted to get to know you?”

his eyes searched yours like they were an important document and he couldn’t believe what bullshit he was reading. his lips pursed in a manner that suggested a sour taste, and you felt your joy slipping, slipping, and slipping.

“coriolanus — if you want to go, then go.” your voice was breaking. you knew he was a cool, hard man — but this? this? it was almost too much. “you don’t have to stay if you don’t —“

he couldn’t take your nonsense anymore. he shut you up with a kiss.

he smashed your lips together like it was the first thing he should’ve done when he walked back into the room. a squeal died in your throat at the contact, but coriolanus held you there and upright. both of your hands found the firmness of his chest for balance. when he pulled away — he barely did. he kept his lips an inch away from yours as little tuffs of air pushed past. he leaned his forehead against yours, almost bonding the two of you.

“my greatest displeasure will be making you regret this,” he rasped, eyes screwed shut.

your breathing began to hasten as you contemplated your next words. you began to stroke coriolanus’ hands with your thumbs, hoping to coax him. “you say that like it’s inevitable.”

“it is not far from,” he choked through anger and sadness.

you couldn’t help but stare back at him as he almost glared at you — but then you realized that wasn’t the case. he wasn’t glaring at you — he was glaring through you. whatever traumatized him, whatever made him so distrustful of the world around him and the people in it… you realized then that you represented all of that to him. you had to be different. you had to show him that you were different than all of that.

“i’ve trusted you,” you whispered, almost pleading. “i would like for you to try and trust me. please, coriolanus… i’ve never asked you for anything — just this once —“

coriolanus shook his head, dismissing you. “it’s corio.”

he slammed his lips to yours. his kiss was that of a fight; burning with every cut of anger, frustration, desperation, and sadness in his soul. you weren’t sure if he accounted for your inexperience, but you let him lead as you swallowed all of his suffering. you knew you may never be everything you wanted to be for him — but for this moment, or for whatever he would allow — you could be his escape, and he could be yours.

just this once, you both thought. just this once.

his hands were on both sides of your face, caging you in as you were at the mercy of his bittersweet affection. you tried to keep up with him, almost afraid that you wouldn’t be enough for him — but corio didn’t care. he couldn’t have cared less as he backed you into the foot of the bed. he didn’t stop kissing you as the back of your legs hit your soft mattress, and you were forced to sit down.

with his tongue tangling with yours, you managed to lift your hands to the top buttons of his shirt. he batted your hands away and went to work on his own buttons. you reached behind for your zipper to your dress and attempted to undue it.

corio then pushed your hands away with that too — ripping the zipper down its track and pushing the sleeves down your shoulders.

“corio —“ you gasped through the kiss, struggling to keep up with him.

he pulled away for a short moment, staring into your eyes. “i have denied myself being with you for so long — nothing is stopping me now.”

he held the glare, and you could only stare back at him in fright. however, that was when you realized that he had felt the same way, or at least similar — you both wanted each other, and had been scared to approach the other. your heart filled with warmth, threatening to explode, but all you could do was nod.

he seemed to calm down then, glancing down towards your lips where he prodded your bottom lip with the tip of his numb. “i have wondered for so long what it would be like to kiss my perfect wife — and now that i know, i don’t think i’ll ever give it up.”

you smiled at that. “can i tell you what i have been wondering?”

his eyes met yours once more, almost a warning. you didn’t falter, though. he replied, “yes?”

“i’ve wondered what it would be like to please you,” you spoke softly, a pink hue rising to your cheeks.

his flat look broke then, softening. a smirk greeted his features and you could see his confidence in himself rise. “my lovely wife wants to please me?”

“yes,” you spoke, holding your breath. “if you’ll let me.”

bright and striking, flames of mischief came to light in his irises. emotions of excitement and fear rose within you, and you weren’t sure which was stronger. all you could do was watch as your strong, powerful, larger than life husband stood over you, chin raised, looking down his nose at you, as he unbuckled his belt. his pants and briefs, once around his ankles, were discarded — but you didn’t see that. you couldn’t look away from his eyes — holding you, and your gaze, in place.

it was like you were an enemy he was testing. you didn’t know what he expected, let alone what would make him happy — but you hoped his expectations were slightly lower in light of your inexperience. you swallowed the hard rock of nervousness in your throat, stood up, and gestured for him to sit down on the edge of the bed. he raised an eyebrow at you, but complied. you sat down on your knees in between his, and waited patiently for direction.

“can you…” you began. “can you teach me?”

he smirked once more. “take me in your hand.”

you bent your head lower, and grabbed him by the base. he was hard and warm in your hand as you saw him trying to fight the twitching feeling in his limbs. his muscles were tight, afraid to show weakness. you grew uncomfortable — you didn’t want him weak, but you did want him to feel comfortable enough with you to enjoy a fucking blowjob.

holding his muscle upright, you stuck your tongue out and licked around the tip of his cock. he was salty, but smelled so masculine after a long day. his scent infiltrated all of your senses and had captured your attention. it made you hungry, greedy — so much so that you closed your lips around his cock and began to suck.

he jumped then. “teeth,” he spat.

you paled in embarrassment and fright — but didn’t allow your fear to show for long. you adjusted your tongue and lips — so that your top lip was folded under your top set, and your outstretched tongue covered your bottom set. hollowing out your cheeks, you took him into your mouth once more.

a low hum filled his chest.

you couldn’t see him, and could barely hear him — corio was being a selfish lover and not letting you know whether or not he was enjoying himself. he told you once before you were doing something wrong, so you tried to trust that he would tell you.

that was easier said than done, frankly. with your free hand, you reached up and began to massage his sack in the soft skin of your palm. the hum in his chest turned deeper and louder, and you felt his hips twitch once.

maybe it shouldn't have mattered that he wasn't vocal — but it wasn't like he was shy. you would not fault him for not doing something he didn't want to do, but it was like he was denying you that. if you were making him feel good, and he was fighting the volume of his moans — how fucking dare he deny you of that! there you were, constantly at his beck and call, and he couldn't even freely moan with you? you were obedient, quiet, grateful, everything he wanted — but this? this? too much. absolutely too much of an ask.

you had to do something.

"mr. president," you cooed, twisting your soft tongue around the tip of his cock. "you're awfully quiet above me."

he let out a laugh as he struggled to keep his composure. one of hands found the back of your head as his fingers struggled to tangle themselves in between your strands. they were tugging and pulling, but there was no strength in his grip. his grip — wouldn't catch. couldn't catch. corio, you husband — struggled day in and day out to keep the control in the capital and inside his castle. there was a part of you that believed he just needed to let go, let someone else be in control — but you were his pretty little wife after all. you had until death to try everything. losing control could wait, because tonight... tonight was about making corio the grateful one for once.

you let your loose grip run circles up and down the length of his cock. his shaft was wet and thick, begging the attention of the light from above so the skin was able to glisten. the tip of his cock, red and angry, almost neglected — never had you seen something so delicious, nor deserving of affection. your lips, swollen, wrapped themselves around the tip of his cock as you sucked. notes of salt and sweat mixed together on your tongue, and you hummed at the taste.

"taste sweet, mrs. snow?" you heard from above you. your eyes glanced up to find corio's eyes glazed over with pleasure. his eyelids were drooping over, and all you could think about how badly you wanted to make him close his eyes in bliss. your eyes watched his eyes, but his eyes watched the way your mouth sucked him in. "being so good for me. let your husband see what else you can do."

your ears perked in interest. you didn't know what he meant, but you were intrigued to see if he would teach you.

"please... show me what you like," you spoke, extending your neck as he lowered his face to yours.

"so eager to please..." he spoke, staring down at you in awe. his hand slid down for your scalp to cup your cheek. he looked into your eyes like he was studying you — searching for something surface level. a flaw, or something good... you weren't sure. "i suppose some would say i'm lucky."

you didn't like the sound of that... but you didn't let it show. you gave him a hint of a smile. "i don't think it matters what anyone else thinks. i think what matters is you telling me what you like... so you can decide if you're lucky or not."

he chuckled at that, but his laugh was reserved. always holding back, your husband. "you really want to be a good little wife for me... don't you?"

you fell into the strength behind the hand on your face and keened into his touch. his hand was warm against your skin. "please, corio... please let me."

he stood then, and your gaze raised with his body. you gazed up at him as he stared down at you. there his eyes went again — searching yours. he stood closer to you then, bending down slightly. "it would please me if, at any point, you told me to stop because of the pain. i don't want to hurt you." his voice was low and soft then, immediately striking you. "can i trust you to do that? hmm?"

"i'll tell you," you replied, nodding your head. "i promise."

"never break a promise you make to me," he warned.

you nodded your head once more, unsure how to proceed. he led you over to the side of the bed where he gestured for your to lie down. with the passing of time, you became more and more aware of how bare you both were in front of each other. you were ready to let down every fence of insecurity for the man before you... but there were still walls of his that threatened to come down. he was hot and cold every other moment, it seemed... and you weren’t even sure where to begin.

“husband,” you spoke, unsteadily, as he found his place between his legs. “you seem so… distrustful of me. what can i do? please, corio, i just want this moment to be special for us — for you.”

there his eyes went — searching yours again. it was like he was rereading a page in a book over and over, hoping to find the hidden message in the black and white scripture. his eyes, going back and forth, appeared to be looking over unclear smudges and scribbles as his lips began to purse. you almost said something — stopped him from withdrawing into himself, but he moved before you could.

he sat back against the pillows, which faced a mirror across your bed. you rose curiously, hoping that he would finally give you some direction. he simply took your hand in his, and gestured for you to come closer. “come,” he spoke.

in his lap, maybe? you thought curiously. you went to throw your leg over his, before he stopped you. with a furrowed brow, you watched as he adjusted you so your back laid against his chest.

“do as i say,” he whispered against your ear, sending shivers up and down your spine.

your eyes were cast to the side, his outline in your peripheral vision. you nodded, letting your lips fall apart. you felt one of his hands on the soft skin of your thigh, grazing upwards towards your hips. you almost let your eyes fall closed, hoping to lose yourself in the sensations, before corio stopped you.

with that same hand, he reached upwards and grasped your chin between his fingers. your eyes shot open as he moved your head to now face the mirror, and the pair of you in it.

shallow breaths were pushing past your lips as you stared into the mirror. your cheeks were flushed, your hair in a slight disarray, and your lips were swollen. with a flutter of your eyelashes, your gaze flickered towards corio’s reflection. your husband was always perfect — so even the slight persuasion from tidiness was a remarkable sight to you. his eyes were focused — unable to remain cool, calm, and collected as usual.

his eyes, you thought. his eyes will always tell me.

“you will watch,” corio spoke suddenly, voice hard. “you will keep your eyes on my hands. you stray, and i leave. understand?”

you nodded, looking into his eyes through the mirror.

he cocked an eyebrow.

“yes,” you spoke, almost breathless. “i understand.”

corio’s hand then found its way to your center. the tips of his finger tips, soft and hot, lightly drew a line up and down your slit. your eyes wouldn’t leave the mirror — focused on his fingertips. it was like your skin knew every correct button to tap, tap, tap. every part of you was so sensitive, so keen to his touch that you were embarrassed. you felt so pathetic against his chest, bent to his will — but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. the voice in your head was whining and hoping you would give in, just give in, let down your guard, give in, forget manners. you wanted to keep your composure as long as possible, but when corio’s middle finger found your clit…

oh… you were done for.

one of your hands immediately snapped up to find corio’s bicep and clutch onto whatever foundation he could give. you didn’t dare let your eyes meet his, even in the mirror — what if he stopped? what, huh? what then? when you were the closest you had been ever? you couldn’t allow yourself to be greedy, not when he was being oh, so selfless.

the circles he was drawing taunted your ability remain calm. he rolled your tiny clit underneath the weight of the tip of his finger and pressed down with every circle. it pushed, and pulled, and fucking pried at every fiber of your being. you could only force yourself up and back against corio, whining like a pathetic mess.

“running away from me, my sweet?” he whispered in your ear. “when i’m being so kind?”

his words bit at your ear, reminding you of your position in his world. your eyes were threatening to drift closed, hoping, praying, that corio would let you slip this once from your responsibilities. naive, you were, to believe that.

“remember our deal, wife,” he darkly cooed in your ear. “one request was all i had. i refuse to be denied it.”

“i know, i know…” you whined, rolling your hips with his hand. “it just feels so good, corio… i’ve never… no one’s ever…”

“i can tell you never knew how bad your body would crave it,” he spoke, nipping at your earlobe. “even your pussy obeys me, drenching my fingers. too sweet for this world, aren’t you?”

“just wanna be sweet for you, corio,” you whined as your vision began to blur.

the approaching orgasm was anything but a warm and fuzzy feeling around you. it was hot and jagged — making your muscles jerk, yet force your hips to roll into every movement of corio’s. the cloud over your brain felt like a warm haze of the finest whisky or tobacco the capital could offer. you were numb, drunk, and unable to process the world around you unless it was corio. his touch, his taste, his scent, his look, his orders… everything was setting you off and keeping you in place all at once. your body was hot to the touch, feverish as it tried to fight your sophistication and just fucking —

“that’s it, sweetheart. so focused on the mirror you can’t even find the strength to let go for me,” he spat, pressing a kiss to your cheek and breathing in your scent. “ride my hand like the good girl you are. you wanted to show me, remember?”

tears were brimming your eyes and blurring your vision. your teeth were gritted and bared for him. one of his hands came up to loosely grasp your throat as your hips began to spasm. it was so much, too much, so much —

“corio, please —“ you cried. “please let me look away. i can’t — i have to cry, i can’t —“

there was no softness in his movements against your aching clit. corio had now employed two fingers to dip into your core, collect your slick, and rub it along your sensitive bud in harsh circles. it sent your mind through a suffocating tube and gasping for air. you were begging, pleading — unsure what would happen if you were denied the ability to finish in peace. you began to cry in frustration and fear, so sensitive to the touch and his approval.

“corio…” you whimpered. “please, please let me…”

“do it,” he spat, holding your throat and kissing your face. “show your husband how fucking messy you can be for him.”

you grasped onto him and threw yourself back.

it was like a rollercoaster. twists and turns, yanking your body every which way. corio’s body rocked with yours as the sensations climbed and fit into every single one of your limbs. your lungs, burning, were screaming for air as you tried to fight for consciousness. the world was white, milky, foggy — unable to navigate, let alone exist in. all you could feel was corio’s body moving with yours and coaxing you through the most insane moment of your entire life.

tears fell down your face, and you struggled to conceal it. corio refused to let you hide from him. he bent his face low to yours and pressed the side of his face against the side of yours.

his breaths were heavy, similar to yours.

“corio…” you whimpered, almost whining.

“i know, sweetheart,” he cooed. “so good for me, weren’t you? asking so obediently and politely.”

you nodded, pressing your forehead against his. “i’m sorry that i was —“

“what’re you sorry for?” he demanded.

you clenched your jaw. “i was — i am — i’m worried i was too much — i was so — out of control —“

he shut you up with a kiss. coriolanus snow refused to allow you to continue, or else he knew he would be offended if he had let you finished.

“i wanted that,” he stated. “every bit of that. what, you don’t find it agonizing to be prim and fucking proper every day?”

you laughed uneasily, a bit spooked by his outburst of aggression. “i thought you — i thought that was what you wanted from me.”

he shook his head. “out there — it’s necessary. in here, when it’s only the two of us? don’t ever hide yourself from me. you must promise.”

you swallowed as your haze began to disappear. “only if you promise the same."

you saw his jaw pulse from the corner of your eye. “i promise.”

“i promise,” you returned.

you quickly reconnected your lips. you couldn't let the moment slip away. you needed to seize him while he was there — trusting you for the first time in your entire relationship. you found both of your hands on the side of his face and held him to you. corio fought for control, but you gave in immediately. the need for him to need you was stronger and more satisfying that anything else you could've experienced in that moment. you turned around, straddling his lap and pushing him down to the bed.

everything you were doing was improper: grabbing your husband, forcibly kissing him, sitting in his lap, pushing him down... you almost stopped. you almost gave into the insecurity and made friends with with meekness and shyness once more. however, you made a promise — and you intended to keep it.

"i want you inside me, corio," you whispered against his lips. "please, i want to feel you —"

"again, sweetheart?" he ripped himself from your lips to grunt out his teasing. "one taste, and you're addicted?"

you hummed approval against his lips, tangling your tongue with his. with one hand on the back of your head, holding your face to his, corio's other hand fished between the pair of you and grasped his leaking cock in his hand. the tip was red and swollen, aching for some stimulation or attention. he spread his precum over his tip and with a firm hand, corio slid his cock inside of you.

you arched your back away from corio. the feeling of him being fully sheathed inside of you bent your attention in every which was. both of your hands cradled the back of his head into your chest, where he found himself nestled between your breasts. his breaths were hot and heavy, moist against your skin. his swollen lips found one of your perky nipples and sucked it into his mouth, caving to his primal urges. coriolanus snow wanted every part of you for himself, and needed to place that claim on every part of your body. he wanted your thighs to shake and ache from being locked around him, your fingers to tremble from your hard grip, and he wanted your lips to be bruised from how hard he made you bite them. and, most of all, he wanted every loud moan to rip itself from your aching throat and fill the perfectly painted walls of this damned room.

he cursed you when you threw a hand over your mouth, and he immediately ripped it away. "don't you fucking dare," he spat.

you ignored him. he was your husband, and he was the scariest man you would ever meet, and yet you ignored him. most of all, your hips ignored him. they began to roll against his own the best they could for their inexperience. up, down, and grinding down was the best they could manage before corio grabbed you by the flesh of your hips and moved you to his liking. and when your mouth parted and a loud cry made your throat shake when he twisted your hips forward, he knew he found the spot.

"do not ever deny me what i am owed," he spat, fucking into that spot that wrapped a tight band around your abdomen. "i want to hear how good i am making you feel, and i will. i get to hear. those are mine. i am owed those."

again, you ignored him. what did he expect when your eyes began to roll back into your head and you began to match his pace? you were close, you were so, so close...

that was when corio grabbed you by the chin, refusing to let up his pace. his eyes were full of darkness, yet focus. like he had found his prey. you tried to focus, tried to give him the respect the deserved... but you couldn't. your mind was swimming, and your arching cunt was dripping down his length and onto the skin of his pelvis. you were lost. so fucking lost.

"yours, corio!" you whined. "all yours. only yours."

his voice was gruff against your lips as his thrust became rougher. "say it again."

your eyes began to drift closed as you leaned your head into the crook of his neck, rolling your hips against his. his cock had found its way to the most sensitive and purest part of you and ripped down every wall you had. you sobbed, "yours, corio. only yours."

corio threw you off of him and your back hit the bed. he was on top of you in an instant. he threw your legs up and pressed them against your chest. with your ankles on his shoulders, he pushed himself inside of you and began to relentlessly punish your perfect fucking pussy.

"mine, you got that?" he spat against your ear. "i have watched you, day after day, put on this fucking act! perfect and proper — but i made a proper whore out of the most desirable woman in the capital, didn't i? and now she's mine — forever warming my bed."

"forever, corio," you whined. your sobs were music to his ears, going straight to his cock. your cunt was raw from the friction and slick, unsure if corio should stop or keep going — but you didn't let him guess. "inside me, corio, please... want it to bad. been so good for you..."

his hand was around your throat and demanding your attention. "as if i'd waste a drop when every man in the capital would be able to see you round with my child. you want that wife? my seed, my child? you want to be fully claimed by me?"

"yes," you cried, tears falling down your cheeks. "give it to me, husband, please —"

corio reached down in between your hips and rubbed your clit with whatever energy he had left. his thrust were growing sloppy, but his movements against your swollen bud were worse. he was hissing in your ear as he continued the assault against you. your moans were loud as they escaped your lips and filled the room, setting corio's skin on fire. sweat dripped down from his brow and down his neck to mingle with yours as your second orgasm of the evening began to approach. it snapped the rubber band in your lower belly and you immediately sobbed into corio's neck. his hips continued to rut in you, forcing you down onto the bed as he swallowed all of your sobs for himself. your nails dug into his back and down his spine, hoping to rip parts from him that he had taken from you.

when corio came, you were in a stupor. cock drunk with your mouth hanging open, dazed. when corio came, one of his hands grabbed your messy pile of hair, wrenching at the roots. he pulled you to the side to suck on the sensitive skin of your neck as he pumped your cunt full of his cum. your walls were hot and sticky, full of him, but it only caused the most sickeningly warm feeling to spread throughout you. every primal need of yours was satisfied, and corio could see every bit of it on your face. the pride that welled within your husband... shameful. no man should be in possession of such an ego boost like making the prettiest, more desired woman in all of panem break from all bounds of social etiquette. you were warm, and wet, and craving every bit of his touch, so he couldn't deny you... not anymore. not when he felt the same. with each sob that left your mouth, he felt a kick in the pit of his stomach as his balls throbbed. never in his life had a woman ripped from him what he had taken from her, cheeks hot and muscles worn out.

he would regret it in the morning, maybe, but not now. no — not now.

"husband, forgive me, but..." you spoke. "my mind is a mess. i don't think i can read to you this evening."

corio rolled his eyes and laughed. "that good?"

you pressed a kiss to his lips as you hummed in approval. "never wait that long to bed your wife again."

he chuckled darkly. "watch it, sweetheart."

---

love u guys sm sorry it was so long ty for reading love u love u love u

-L xooxoxooxox

#corio smut #coriolanus smut #coriolanus snow smut #corio snow smut #corio fic #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x you #corio snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus fic #coriolanus imagine #corio imagine #the hunger games #lucy gray #sejanus plinth #young coriolanus snow

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sutorus · 1 year ago

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THE GRUDGE PROFESSOR!GETO for KINKTOBER 2023!

DESCRIPTION: everybody loves professor geto, and judging by the thousands of viewers you get on every live, a lot of people love you, too. but you and professor geto hate each other. you’ve had enough of his humiliation rituals, and decide to do something about it.

PAIRING: mean professor!geto x student!reader

WC: 5.3k i am an unstoppable beast

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. fem reader, afab reader, teacher/student dynamic! adult age gap! (reader is in college, unspecified age), sw/camgirl!reader (don’t like don’t read! no shaming 😤), strong language, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, darling), reader calling geto "sir", unprotected relations, creampie, afab reader and terms

A/N: this switches between povs a lot so i hope that’s okay or at least readable lol! also i set out to write him so much meaner but he’s just kind of a simp... enjoy?

reblogs are very much appreciated i'll uwu for u :pleading eyes emoji:

it is said that those who cannot do, teach.

geto suguru could have done many things. he had the brains, the muscles, the features, the traits. the ambition to succeed in any field he desired. satoru says in a world ruled by the strong there is no place for humility.

but humility is not why suguru became a teacher. neither is ineptitude. no, he’d become a teacher because it was the right thing to do.

to use his gifts to help shape new generations, help unlock potentials long dorment and buried deep under years of a lackluster schooling system. geto suguru prided himself, above all, in being a righteous man.

but japan’s most upstanding citizen for 28 years in a row held a shameful secret. a secret in the shape of you.

he saw the darkest sides of himself on your face (eyebrows scrunched, eyes shut tightly, jaw slack as you—), your voice (higher in pitch with desperate moans that sound almost scared on the brink of your—), your body (taut and plump in all the right places, glistening with sweat, bouncing up and down on a—).

when you walked into his classroom that fateful day, the world tilted on its axis. his first thought was, fuck, then, it can’t be, then, most embarrassing of all, i’ll finally find out what she smells like.

(he did, when you went up to his desk to hand over your test. a whiff of vanilla, argon oil shampoo. too sweet, too youthful. and he’d watched you leave, tennis skirt flowing like a water lily, dick already chubby in his pants.)

it was slowly starting to consume him.

the first time you spoke in class, he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. it was really you. the cute, slutty girl he’d been milking his cock to for the better part of a year.

god, when you finally said his name. you would never in your wildest dreams think that he’d been imagining those words coming out of your mouth, of him coming out of your mouth, dripping out of you, all over you—

he was losing it. this was not like him. this was never supposed to happen, and he has to put an end to it.

everybody knew of geto suguru, the prodigy professor. already getting a phd despite not even being 30, handling the administrative slack for the department while managing office hours every day of the week, promoting student events, helping organize spirit weeks and charity drives.

everything he did, he did for others. those not as capable as him — which was most people. in other words, it was really, really hard to hate him.

but you damn well managed to.

and to think you were excited to take his class. everybody told you to run, not walk, to sign up for his twentieth-century Japanese philosophy chair.

“oh, professor geto is just the best,” they’d said. “he makes it sound so interesting and engaging, he gives the most life changing assignments, he really cares about us.”

bullshit.

the first time you stepped into that classroom, suspiciously full for a philosophy class, you felt a shift in the air almost immediately.

and sure enough, professor geto suguru was eyeing you down like he’d just seen a ghost. it made you self conscious, like he’d taken one look at you and decided right then and there you were too dumb for the class.

it made your blood boil. sure, you stood out a little bit from the actual philosophy majors, but that doesn’t mean he gets to judge you. he literally doesn’t know you!

but fine, first impressions are tricky like that. for all you knew, you could’ve been misjudging him right there.

however, with each passing day, you grew more and more assured in your suspicions.

you knew the man had it out for you, always calling on you to answer when he knew you weren’t paying attention, never grading your papers above a B even though you did everything right, somehow managing to fucking avoid you during his excessive office hours.

his looks were almost the most infuriating part of it.

his beautiful face constantly set in that nonchalant look, his big veiny hands always gesticulating, his huge fucking arms straining the fabric of those dress shirts, his ear gauges and man bun contrasting the prim and proper image the rest of him conveyed.

under different circumstances, he’d make your mouth water. under different circumstances, you’d imagine him going down on you all night long, singing praise about how good you taste and how tight you are.

but in this timeline, you absolutely loathed him. and he loathed you too. why? you didn’t know.

but you knew for a fact that it was personal.

“i don’t care,” megumi said around a mouthful of meatball, cutting your monologue short. “i’m not doing it.”

you sigh, melting into your chair. “megumi. please. i am literally begging you, i just need some hard evidence so i can go report his ass.”

he eyes you curiously. “report him for what?”

“i don’t know. bullying? sexism? whatever the hell his problem is,” you pick at your food, huffing in annoyance.

“you’re overthinking it,” megumi replies, dismissively.

“okay, how about this,” you lean forward, putting an elbow on the table. “if you write the assignment for me, i’ll get your dog that expensive halloween costume you’ve been wanting.”

megumi lifts an eyebrow.

“you need to get one for each,” he says simply.

you grin. “deal.”

suguru really does give it his all to make your life with him a living hell. pulls out all the stops, years of friendship with gojo satoru paying off as he comes up with ploy after ploy to get you to drop his class.

it feels bad, being mean to you. but for the hidden, twisted parts of him, it feels delicious.

watching you huff and puff, all hot and bothered when he corrects your answers on the spot. watching you nibble on your pen at the increasingly difficult exams he hands out. letting himself wonder if you missed a stream this week because you were too busy cramming for a make up test.

he knows he’s pushing you to your limit, and even if there’s some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing you so agitated at his hands when it’s usually the other way around, he doesn’t enjoy upsetting you.

the problem is, suguru knows it’s either he gets his shit together or he continues tormenting you, and, well.

the spirit is willing but the flesh is so, so weak.

he knows it’s getting worse, too, because he’s not infatuated by you only when you’re undressing on his screen, or all dolled up in class.

when you tie your hair up in a ponytail, when you suck on a hangnail, when you lick your thumb to erase a smudge on your paper… all of it drives him wild.

he can’t teach with a permanent half chub anymore. this has to end, one way or another.

you sit down in front of your computer, adjusting the camera before turning it on. soon, viewers start trickling in, little dings notifying you of their messages.

you smile, waving at the screen.

“hi everyone! i know i’m a little bit late today, i hope you can forgive me…” your eyes scan the chat, giggling at the compliments. “‘you look tired, sad face’, ah. i’m sorry. i guess i’ve been a little stressed lately.”

your robe falls over your shoulder as you readjust your position. a few donations come in, accompanied by supportive messages.

“you guys are so nice. it’s not a big deal, it’s just this dude giving me a hard time at college.”

you absentmindedly trace your collarbones, reading what your viewers are saying.

“you’ll kill him for me? that’s so sweet,” you joke. “nah, it’s not a student. it’s a professor. exactly, ynlover444, a grown ass man picking on me!”

you sigh deeply, allowing your body to finally unwind and relax on your chair. you prop a knee up against the armrest, giving your viewers a little peek in between your legs. you’re wearing one of your favorite sets, trying to get in the mood after the week you’ve had.

“ugh, sometimes i wish i could just…” you suck in a breath, clenching your hand into a fist before releasing it. “sit on his face and get him to shut up, you know?”

you laugh at the countless me firsts that flood the chat, bringing a finger to your lip.

“anyway! enough about that horrible man,” you reach beside you to grab a box your viewers know all too well by now. “let’s get to the fun stuff, shall we?”

as always, satoru is no help.

“why don’t you just fuck her?” he asks, eyebrows arching above his sunglasses. “ya gotta just fuck her.”

suguru clears his throat before taking a drag of his cigarette. “i’m not fucking a student.”

satoru shrugs. “everybody does it. besides, you basically already do.”

suguru wonders, not for the first time, why he ever told his friend about his situation. about your streams, that he’d stumbled upon randomly and innocently and had gotten instantly hooked, about you barging into his classroom like an angel at hell’s gates, about you you you you, everything about you.

“that won’t fix anything.”

satoru clicks his tongue, swirling his soda inside the can.

“poor, naive suguru. did you not just tell me about what she said on her stream?" and yes, regrettably, suguru had told him. "it’ll fix everything.”

suguru doesn’t even let himself consider it, except he does.

at this point it’s no secret that he’s thought about being inside you, but now that you’re here it’s just too real and too risky and completely fucking wrong.

it goes against the entire life he’s built for himself.

he’s lost. he wants you so fucking bad, wants you close, wants you so far away, wants to ravage you and never have to see you again.

it’s fight or flight. if he got you alone, it could go either way, he realizes that.

suguru wonders what part of him will win by the end of all of this.

your heels clack on the linoleum floor of the hallway as you approach professor geto’s classroom, megumi’s graded paper clutched tightly against your chest.

the thing about megumi is that he's a star student. he’s never gotten anything below an A on any of his essays, makes the dean’s list every year, tutors his seniors. so the big, bright B- on the page tells you everything you need to know.

damn right it’s personal.

you don’t even bother knocking, slamming the door open while still trying to contain your indignation.

geto is sitting at his desk, piles of papers sprawled on top. he has his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a surprised look on his face that would be cute if you didn’t want to slap it right off.

he says your last name like he’d been expecting you all his life.

“to what do i owe the pleasure?”

your jaw clenches as you take a few loud steps towards him. you slam megumi’s paper down on his desk, leaning over.

“professor geto, i demand an explanation. a real one, this time.”

the man takes a deep breath, lips twisting disapprovingly. he smoothes the paper over.

“as i already explained in my notes right here, the structure is fine, but i couldn’t help but miss a more in-depth analysis of the four nodal concerns of philosophy that we talked about in class, such as—“

“no,” you interrupt. “just no. you know you’re bullshitting me and i’m sick of it. this paper deserved an A!”

“miss—“

“what’s your problem with me?” you spit out. your eyes finally meet and there’s nothing in geto’s that could answer your question. your chest is heaving, lips wobbling and hands shaking, trying to contain your anger.

geto clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “like i said, your paper could’ve used a bit more—“

“no it fucking couldn’t have, because it’s not my fucking paper, it’s fushiguro’s fucking paper and the only reason you gave it a B is because i was the one who handed it in!”

he sits up, straightening his posture.

geto sounds austere when he asks, “do you realize how much trouble this could be for both of you if i reported it?”

you can’t believe this man. he’s been picking on you the entire semester and when you finally confront him about it this is what he chooses to focus on.

“are you fucking kidding me?” that earns you a stern look from him, eyebrow raising taller than that fucking high horse he sits on. “professor geto. what did i ever do to you?”

there must be something earnest in your voice because geto sighs, getting up from his chair.

he walks until he’s standing in front of you, leaning against his desk and crossing his feet.

“do i bother you?” is all he says. it surprises you.

you jut your chin out. “as a matter of fact, you do.”

the man hums.

“i bet that’s really difficult for you,” he speaks like he’s sympathetic, like he understands. he sounds almost sheepish when he says, “i bet sometimes you wish i would just shut up.”

you blink rapidly. “no, it’s not like that. it might shock you but i genuinely do enjoy your class, it’s just that—“

“or maybe you wish you could shut me up,” he continues, ignoring you. “maybe going as far as to say that you could… sit on my face to get me to shut up.”

your mouth goes dry.

before your brain can fully process the shift in the atmosphere or the fact that your professor is maybe possibly hitting on you, you realize where those words are coming from.

it’s what you said. about him. on stream. right before fucking yourself on your hot pink dildo.

you can’t speak, can barely even look in his general direction.

you had really thought things couldn’t get any worse. had barged into his office with nothing to lose, almost hoping he would cordially invite you to remove yourself from his class permanently.

but now? now you have no idea what’s going to happen to you.

“i…” you start, the words dying in your throat. geto chuckles, crossing his fat fucking muscly arms across his chest.

he says your name, low and syrupy. “is it true? you’d like to?”

you can feel your face flush hot in embarrassment, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing desperately that you’d never walked into his classroom.

you have half the mind to apologize to him, right now.

“it’s just a figure of speech,” you try. geto clicks his tongue.

“what a shame.”

your wide eyes shoot up and meet his. “w-what?”

he smiles sweetly.

“it’s a peace offering. you can take it, or we can forget you ever said anything,” and isn’t he just so slimey, actually, when he’s the one who brought it up. he had said it, and now…

now you can finally allow yourself to look at him.

those delicious, broad shoulders, the ever-present bored look, the stubborn fringe that falls out of his bun.

you could so easily forget what you came here for.

“so, like, a truce?” you ask, taking a daring step forward. geto nods, uncrossing his arms. “and you stop treating me like i’m fucking dumb?”

he tilts his head. “i think you’re a very smart young lady. determined. entrepreneurial…”

“geto—“

“professor geto,” he corrects you, hands reaching out to graze your hips. “you’re intelligent. i just like to push my students.”

you both know that’s a lie, but it’s okay, because now you know exactly why you got under his skin and it makes your own burn.

you run a hand down the line of buttons on the front of his shirt, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“then… push me, professor.”

it’s so incredibly lame, the porn line you hit him with, but to your surprise it works, a low groan rumbling deep in geto’s chest.

he swiftly closes the distance between the two of you, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing your lips together.

it’s ravenous, the way geto dips his tongue inside when you gasp in surprise. you moan against his mouth, slipping a leg in between his two.

he’s half hard already when he rubs up against your thigh.

geto picks you up with ease and sets you down on his desk, and it’s so fucking cliché, the papers crinkling under your weight, the pens clattering to the floor. but it turns you on beyond belief.

you share a few open mouthed kisses, an exchange of tongue and moans and hot breaths between your lips.

if you were honest with yourself, you'd admit that you've fantasized about it before. a silly idea, at first, something you'd just blurted out mid-stream.

but that little seed had been planted, and when you got yourself off that night, you might've imagined for a moment that it was your mean professor's cock squeezed tight inside you, making you come undone.

geto slips his hands under your skirt, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer to him. you line up your crotch with his, moving your hips in tight little circles that make the both of you groan.

his fingers are tugging your underwear down, down, the soft patch sticking to your gooey cunt. he lets the soaked fabric dangle from your ankle, grazing the back of his knuckles on your core.

“mmm, fuck,” geto breaks the kiss, swallowing. his pretty lips are flushed and shiny, parted around his panted breaths. “you always get this wet or am i special?”

he’s smirking, the bastard, leaning back in to kiss your neck.

god, you smell so good, like lotion and perfume and sunshine and sin.

“shouldn’t you know?” you sneak your fingers up into his bun, pushing your chest against him. he works his lips expertly on your skin, using just the right amount of teeth, of pressure.

geto hums against your neck, kissing a line up to your jaw. he snakes a hand under your skirt, thumb pressing down hard to rub on your clit, two fingers slipping inside.

you immediately clench, a soft, drawn out mewl leaving your lips.

the slide of his fingers against your walls send a chill down your spine, filling you up so perfectly. you feel the thin skin at your opening stretch around him, burning at the friction as his fingers plunge in and out of you.

“god, look at that,” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and pulls the hem of your skirt up. “do you hear that, baby? so fucking wet for me.”

you whine, hands cupping his jaw so you can kiss him again.

“please…” you mumble against his lips. “more…”

you wonder how much of what you can say he's heard before, which exact words have left your lips and sent him over the edge. it makes you self conscious, oddly, like he can see right through you.

not-so-kindly ignoring your request, geto removes his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth.

you watch as his eyelids flutter in pleasure, a hum rumbling low in his throat.

he looks so good like this, just edible.

you pull him in for a kiss before he can, relishing in the surprised little noise he lets out. your knees are wobbling, feet dangling from your seat as you taste yourself on his tongue.

he swallows your moan hungrily, forearms trembling with the need to hold back.

geto knows this is wrong, so wrong on so many levels, puts both your positions in jeopardy, it makes him feel perverted and primal and so fucking alive.

he’s been watching you fuck yourself on those silly toys for god knows how long now, knows every spot that makes your hips buck, knows exactly how to make you cream like a debased slut around a cock.

it should feel unfair, how easy it’s going to be for him to make you cum, only if it weren’t for the fact that your mere presence is enough to get him hard as fucking diamonds.

“tastes good, huh?” he whispers, thumb caressing your chin. you nod, smiling devilishly.

“tastes better on your tongue, prof.”

geto groans low like a starved animal, holding your throat in his hand with a loose grip. he’s overwhelmed, that much shows, not knowing what to do with you or where to start. but there’s one thing he’s sure of.

he presses one last kiss to your spit-slick lips before dropping to his knees.

you can hardly believe it. sulky, big bad bully professor geto suguru on his knees for you. you prop a foot up on his desk, your sole skidding on a piece of paper.

“scoot closer, please,” he asks, cordial even like this. you bring your ass to the edge of the desk, your dripping pussy hovering over his face.

he looks so good under you, hair already disheveled, a delicious tent in his tailored pants.

you tuck the hem of your skirt into the waistline so you can watch as he sucks your clit into his mouth, moaning like he’s fucking relieved.

you throw your head back, fingers buried in his silky hair as geto’s fingers find their way back inside.

he fucks them in and out of you lazily, pushing out strings of slick. geto slurps it all up, spreading your wetness all over your clit and sucking it back in his mouth.

god, his cock is straining in his pants but he doesn’t dare touch it, can’t until he’s inside you. you taste like fucking heaven, like all his fantasies, like he always knew you would.

you’re whining softly, bucking your hips into his face almost shyly, as to disrupt his pace.

you sound so much better in person, although he can’t wait to have you moaning into his ear without needing the headphones.

“god, this perfect pussy,” geto mumbles into you, his breathing labored. he runs a thumb all over your cunt, gliding it over your soaked lips. “been dreaming about it for so long.”

“yeah?” you ask. “tell me. tell me how you stroke your cock to me every night.”

and every night might be overselling it. geto is a busy man.

but your words do make him realize that no girl he’s had since he found your stream has satisfied him quite like you do. your flirty smile, your moans, the way they sometimes turn into uncontained giggles as you stuff your pretty cunt with a dildo.

so he tells you, blush spreading across his cheeks.

“fuck, i do,” he tongues your clit, tracing lazy circles. “i do. just look what you do to me.“

and there it is, that cheeky, slutty giggle, directed at something he said this time.

he takes his fingers out, spreading your opening with both thumbs as he licks you all over.

geto gulps, tongue dipping inside of you, sucking your clit into his mouth, sliding down to your entrance, every clench of your pussy pushing out more and more slick for him. no one's ever eaten you out as thoroughly as this.

“oh, fuck, sir,” it slips out casually, the way it would were you talking to any other professor. but given the circumstances, you revel in the deep moan geto buries into your cunt.

you trap your lips between your teeth to keep anything else from tumbling out, but it’s useless.

“please, sir, i’m so close—so close just keep doing that, yeah just like that—“

“fuck,” he mumbles, pulling away to suck in a desperate breath. then, “fuck,” sultrier, right into your core.

you grind against his face, finding purchase in his hair as a final few flicks of his tongue push you right into the crest of a mind-numbing orgasm.

it’s so good, so much better than when you're alone. the friction so perfect, his long, thick fingers plugging you up last minute to viciously fuck into you.

“god…,” you breathe out, legs trembling as he runs his hands up your thighs.

his chin is glistening, bubbles of spit and cum gathering in the corner of his mouth. he looks so good like this, like he was meant to please you and nothing else.

geto feels like a fucking teenager, so goddamn close to busting in his pants at the sight of you. his dick hurts, balls tight and the head throbbing where it’s tucked into his underwear.

“please, sweetheart,” he can’t hold himself back any longer, slick fingers already undoing his belt.

you get to work on his zipper, pulling his pants down along with his underwear and damn.

you figured he was big. he was a tall man, broad shoulders, shoes the size of a yacht, and the bulge in his trousers was a pretty good indication. but it couldn’t have prepared you for the sheer size of him.

longer than it is thick, cleanly shaven, pretty veins and ridges and standing angry red in attention. god, you want it inside you.

he notices you looking.

“do you need more prep? i can—“

“no, fuck no, suguru, need it inside me now,” you wrap a hand around him and he hisses, caging you in with his arms on the desk.

he huffs out a laugh, blowing the fringe framing his face. “what happened to sir?”

you kiss down his jaw, squeezing right below his tip.

“sorry, sir,” you say against his ear. “are you going to punish me for my slip up?”

geto groans, pulling on your hair hard and making you face him.

“take your shirt off for me,” he instructs, and you obey, maneuvering around his tight grip on the back of your head.

his spirit is so unbreakable.

here you are, teasing him, coaxing him to rough you up, push you around, relieve both your frustrations properly once and for all, but he’s just so… adoring, and hungry, and just so irrevocably into you, and you find out that’s so much better.

geto relents his hold on you to unclasp your bra, cupping your breasts and sucking a nipple into his mouth. you whine, caressing his hair.

“so fucking perfect,” he massages your tits, looking mesmerized.

“yeah? they haven’t gotten old to you yet?”

he laughs, so cute, and you can barely remember that just hours ago you hated the sight of him. you stroke his cock up and down, squeezing harder at the tip trying to milk all that delicious pre he’s been wasting on the inside of his boxers.

“no, f-fuck—never gonna get old,” he pushes your boobs against each other, imagining his cock sliding in between them, his balls nestled underneath, his load blown all over your pretty face—

fuck, he’s gonna cum if he keeps going like this.

he rips your hand away from him, ignoring your knowing smirk and pushing his tongue into your mouth.

“i’m gonna fuck you now, okay, sweetheart?” you moan, nodding, shimmying your hips so he can have the perfect angle.

a big hand clasps your thigh to wrap your leg around his hips as his tip pokes around your entrance.

you’re whining in anticipation, clenching around nothing, nails clawing his clothed back.

when he slips in, it feels like coming home. you’re like warm honey around him, cunt pushing him out but clinging to him at the same time, with every stroke. it’s fucking maddening.

“ahh, g-god, sir, ‘s too big—“ you swallow around the lump in your throat, feeling the tip of his cock in your guts.

he’s huffing, concentrated, bullying his cock into you inch by inch with shallow thrusts until he finally bottoms out.

“fuuuuck, angel,” he grips your waist with both hands, like he could just fuck you up and down his length if he wanted to. “took me so well, look at that.”

you do, dropping your heavy head to look at where you’re connected. you clench around him and he whines, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in.

the metal legs of the desk skid on the floor, papers and pens raining down to the floor as geto starts roughly plunging in and out of you.

you let out little ah, ah, ahs in time with his strokes, the ache deep in your stomach finally starting to fade.

“f-fuck, you’re gonna—topple us over, suguru, go easy—“

“can’t,” he chokes out, wheezing as he pushes his cock in as far as it can go.

he gives shallow little thrusts, his length straining the fine skin at your entrance so good, hitting a spot inside you over and over that makes your head spin.

your fingers twist into the back of his shirt, pulling him in to whine right into his ear.

he’s so big, stretching you out so thin that you feel every ridge and vein, can feel both your heartbeats inside your cunt.

“ohhhhh fuck, fuck sir, please please touch me—“

he grabs your ass before you can even finish your sentence and presses you flush against his hips.

geto’s tip is kissing your cervix now, his balls sticky and creamy against your ass, your clit grinding against his pubic bone as his thrusts violently shake the both of you.

“fuck, wanna do it so fucking loud but i can’t, we can’t, what if someone walks in—“

you moan wantonly at his words, expecting to be chided, but geto seems to love it despite his worries because his cock kicks deliciously inside of you.

“look how loud you’re being, listen to yourself,” he grunts out, the belt pooled around his feet clanging with every stroke, the absolutely lewd squelches from your pussy resonating in the entire classroom.

you two sound so good together, better than you’ve ever had, better than he could’ve ever imagined.

“so loud, so wet on this cock,” he spits out, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “do those toys make you feel this good? this full? answer me.”

“hahh, n-no, no one but you,” you can’t think straight, head thrown back in pleasure and eyes squeezed shut. “only you, sir.”

geto whines like he’s aching, pounding into you mercilessly and making a mess under the two of you.

“fuck yeah, that’s right. i’m making you feel good, baby?”

“mm-hm,” you mumble, tongue lolling out. geto's going so hard now, has you pressed up so tight against him, body caging you in, fucking every breath and thought right out of you. “close.”

“yeah?” he speeds up his effort slightly, and you’re sure he’s going to have desk-edge shaped bruises on his thighs tomorrow. “gonna cum on my cock? cream all over me?”

you let out a long, drawn out whine, tits bouncing up and down with the force of geto’s thrusts.

“let me see your face when you cum, darling,” he cups the back of your neck, breathing hard through his nose. “keep your eyes on me. that’s right, sweetie, so good, you’re doing so good.”

you preen at the praise, feeling suddenly self conscious with the man's laser focus attention on you.

you coo out little noises, growing in desperation, holding onto his biceps for dear life as his hips piston in and out of you.

your pull him into you closer and rub your clit against him, grinding helplessly as your orgasm creeps closer and closer.

the moment you open your eyes and meet his hungry ones, you’re cumming. your walls spasm around him, making the glide of his dick impossibly wetter with your release.

geto chokes on a sound, his cock hostage of your pussy’s vice-like grip as your greedy cunt milks him for all he's got.

“f-fuck, baby, look so pretty when you cum, always look so fucking sexy so fucking perfect that you’re gonna make me bust, i’m gonna cum for you god gonna cum inside, gonna blow my load all deep inside this pussy—“

it’s the most desperate he’s ever sounded, speaking through clenched teeth and a soaked mouth. you moan in return, letting him use you.

he slams his forehead down your shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times and cums, his balls drawing up so tight that it hurts. he fucks it into you with shallow thrusts, panting, almost wheezing in pleasure.

it feels like it lasts forever, his orgasm. like all of the blood in his body goes straight to his balls to push out the thickest, most satisfying nut of his life into the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

you feel it fill you up so good, hear it, too, squelching and sticking to both of you.

geto’s body slumps against yours and you stay like that for a while, catching your breaths. there’s cum sliding out of you, down his balls, onto some poor student’s essay you have your ass on top of.

when he pulls out of you, he takes a beat to watch it spill out of you some more, his face and chest red, his smile groggy.

“god, this,” geto has to fight the urge to say thank you for letting him fuck your brains out. he swallows.

“yeah,” you blink away the haze, feeling sore and fucked out. “this.”

“…is probably going to happen again, right?”

he knows it shouldn’t. he knows it will.

maybe both parts of geto can learn to coexist.

you grin, touching the tip of your tongue to his lips.

“well, i still haven’t made good on that promise of sitting on your face, have i?”

the next morning, in class, the students erupt in happiness at the news that professor geto had an accident that ended up ruining most of last week’s graded papers he had in his possession.

so he decided to give everyone an A for their troubles.

and finally, finally, there was peace in the world.

12K notes · View notes

yamujiburo · 6 months ago

Text

Here's an arc I thought about doing but won't do because, it'd be a bit too sad and also it's too similar to the Turing Point Arc I already did and also it would be long. But I'll write it here for you angst enjoyers. This ended up being longer than I thought.

Despite getting the "okay" from Ash to date Jessie, Delia still worries that she's not doing the right thing or being a bad mom. Up until now she'd convinced herself that she had the right to be selfish for once after knowing only sacrifice and putting herself last.

Jessie and Ash, while not as antagonistic towards each other, still go at it. A Pikachu zap here, an angry "twerp" being uttered there. The guilt settles in for Delia and figures that it's best to just cut things off before things potentially get worse or before she gets too attached to Jessie. Her son comes first after all. That's what she signed up for when becoming a parent.

She sits Jessie down, eyes watery (it's the first time Jessie's ever seen Delia come close to crying). Delia says she thinks they should end things. Jessie is stunned but accepts it quickly. She sucks it up in the moment, puts a resigned smile on her face and tells Delia she'll leave immediately and not to worry about her. Delia's also broken up about it but promised herself she'd never cry over a goodbye and she wasn't gonna start now.

Jessie goes to James and Meowth's place greeted similarly to this, lightly teasing her about blowing it with Delia, and she breaks down sobbing. Oops it's real this time. James and Meowth do everything in their power to make her feel better. They let her know that things like this happen and they're ready to go wherever she wants to go (knowing that it'd likely be to painful for her to stay in Pallet). As much as she wants to leave, she doesn't want James and Meowth to lose the good thing they have going. She's not in the right headspace to make any decisions so she'll get to it later.

Ash returns home after doing a little training at Oak's lab. He notices Jessie's not around and asks his mom where she is. Delia is about to tell him but can't quite bring herself to say the truth out loud yet. She simply says "I don't know". Ash looks disappointed. "Aw man, I wanted to see if she wanted to battle. She makes a good battle buddy for all of my newer, baby Pokémon." Delia perks up that this. As quickly as he came, he leaves again to go train his Pokémon.

Later, Delia approaches Ash, asking him if he really meant that what he said about Jessie being a good battle partner. He gives her an enthusiastic "yeah!" and tells her that it's been nice having another battle ready trainer around since there's not many in Pallet. Delia starts to pry a little more. "I thought you and Jessie didn't get along?" Ash is confused, and tells Delia they get along great! "Jessie doesn't steal anymore! And she's getting better at battling which is cool." Delia brings up that she's head them argue before. "Oh... well I guess that's just how we are. I'd be weirded out if she was suddenly too nice to me all the time. Jessie's actually a lot like Misty. But taller!" This gives Delia a lot to think about but what's done is done and it's no use pressing on. It's easier this way.

The next morning Delia's getting ready for work. She must not have noticed that she was acting weird but Ash picks up on it. "What's wrong mom?" Delia's shocked he noticed (he's not usually this perceptive). She tells him it's nothing and that she just slept bad. "Hm. But Jessie says that when you're upset you get really quiet and intense." Delia notices that she was pretty intensely mixing the pancake batter. "Jessie told you that?" Ash nods. "Hey speaking of, where is Jessie? Haven't seen her since yesterday." Delia stops mixing and tells Ash that she and Jessie aren't together anymore. Ash is confused and upset at the idea of Jessie doing something that would hurt his mom enough for them to break up. Delia lets him know that Jessie didn't do anything like that and that them breaking up was just for the best. But Ash questions this, pointing out that he's never seen Delia as happy as she was when Jessie was there and also how Delia looks really sad now. Delia can't argue with that but then tells him that it's complicated. Ash, to Delia's surprise, looks a bit disappointed. He's bummed he wasn't able to say goodbye first and asks if she thinks Jessie would still be willing to come by and train with him sometimes. Delia asks him once more if he was really okay with her and Jessie dating. "Yeah I thought I said that already? Jessie's pretty cool when she's not being evil. And she really likes Pokémon which is a plus!" Such simple criteria. Delia's now worried that she might've made a mistake. She finishes making breakfast and heads to work.

At the restaurant she's met by James. She can feel an awkwardness hanging in the air. She knows that James knows. Before she can say anything James tells Delia thank you for employing him and helping him, Meowth and Jessie get back on their feet but that he's going to quit working at the restaurant and that they'll likely be leaving Pallet soon. Delia's heart sinks. There's now a ticking clock and she has to decide what she wants to do SOON. She asks James where Jessie is. James hesitantly tells her that she's at his and Meowth's place. Delia pleads with James to work the restaurant for one more day at least and to cover this shift. She has to go talk to Jessie. He agrees, hoping that this is a good thing.

Delia runs to James and Meowth's place. She knocks on the door upon arrival and waits. It takes a moment but she hears the door unlock. Jessie opens the door, disheveled, tears and snot all over her face, draped in a blanket. Jessie notices it's Delia and, frightened, slams the door. Delia's stunned for a moment and goes to knock on the door again but before she can the door opens. This time Jessie's tears are gone, her hair's fixed and she ditched the blanket. "Oh hey, Delia! What brings you here?" Delia can't help but be charmed. But this is serious. She shakes it off and asks if they could talk. Jessie invites her in. They get to the couch and Jessie starts frantically cleaning up all the crumpled tissues and dirty dishes off the ground. "Heh I caught a cold yesterday. A one day cold. I'm fine now." Delia doesn't call out the obvious lie and gets straight to the point.

She tells Jessie that she's worried she made a mistake. She made a panicked decision that she was hoping would protect Ash and her future self. But now realizes that she was afraid of the idea that she'd made a selfish decision by dating her. It was a selfish decision but that didn't mean it was a bad one. She was the happiest she'd been, Jessie and Ash were learning to get along and were getting along much better than she'd though. She acknowledges that Jessie has been there for Ash in a way that she can't quite be and is also grateful to her for managing to keep Ash home a little longer. She asks if Jessie would be willing to take her back (despite the distress she caused). Jessie starts sobbing with happy tears. She tearfully says she'll try even harder to get along with Ash and be a better person. Delia reassures her that she's doing just fine.

They kiss passionately but then realize it's weird that they're making out in James in Meowth's place and say they'll continue later. Delia tells Jessie to head back home and that Ash is looking forward to battling with her (and she also needs to let James and Meowth not to quit their jobs).

The end~

#long post

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bee-wg · 6 months ago

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Year 1:

“I’m telling you, man. You just need to drink the protein shakes Dad and I have. Don’t worry about the taste, they’re banana chocolate flavoured. It’s actually quite delicious when you get used to the texture. Then you’ll just need to go to the gyms a few times a week to get these bad boys.” I said, flexing my 16-inch arms.

“Oh, and I can make protein pancakes! Maybe I can add it to other pastries too. It’ll be healthy, useful and delicious. I bet your mom could never have thought of that.” He said smugly.

“Dude, focus. Why does everything have to be cooking with you?”

“Sorry, I got too excited there. It’s just that I haven’t made breakfast you guys liked, it’s completely her territory. For now. Maybe If I make this, you guys will eat it.”

”You know we’ll have to finish whatever you both end up cooking anyway, right?”

“Yeah, that doesn’t count. I want you to eat it because you like it.” The man said, just when I thought he was sane.

”Well that’s irrelevant. Don’t you think it’s a great idea?” He asked.

Even though he’s a maniac, I have to admit.

“I guess it’s not bad, I don’t have to drink and eat at the same time. Just don’t make too much, you get easily full with those things.”

“Don’t worry about it man. Don’t you have morning football practice to burn off the calories?”

“Alright, just don’t put raisins in there. I heard somewhere that they make you dehydrated.”

I shoo him out of the door and start undressing. Contemplating on a compression shirt or an oversized Tee, my head starts running. I am objectively muscular, but compared to the guys at the gym, I’m nothing. I don’t think I’m big enough yet. Oversized Tee it is then.

Grabbing my duffle, I ran downstairs. Then, the scent of banana chocolate sweets blasted my face.

“Morning Jay, come try it out. This is really good.” Dad called out with his mouth half full.

I picked up the buttered pancake. It smells nice, with some cherry scent in there too.

“Dang, this is not bad, Pumpkin,” I shouted to him in the kitchen.

“Right? And with more space in the stomach for drinks, you can try Chloe’s fruit smoothie.” Dad said.

“Don’t worry sweetie, the fruits are from the farmers market so it’s healthy.” Mom yelled from the kitchen.

Looking back at the breakfast, it’s a bit more bulky than usual, but I’m gonna work it off in the morning drill anyway.

Without more hesitation, I dug into the full plate of pancakes and blueberry whipped cream.

“Sweetie, you’re already done? I have more in the back.” Mom said

“She really stepped up her game, right?” Dad chimed in.

“It was awesome mom. Thank you, and help me thank Theo too. But I really need to go now. The practice starts in 30.”

“Alright sweetie, stay safe and don’t be late. I’ll have David finish off the rest.”

“Wait, me? But there’s so much!” Dad whined.

“Love you Mom, love you dad, gotta go.”

I rushed out of the house with the faint sound of their replies.

I felt bad for Dad, since school started, I’ve been leaving the leftovers to him because of school. More often than not, Theo and Mom would overcook and we would be left with more food than we know how to deal with. So Dad would take his usual time for morning runs to finish it before going to work. I need to make it up to him somehow. I guess I could offload his burden by eating more on the weekends.

The practice went as well as it could with my stomach full of pancakes; although Coach thought I had a lot of potential with all the fumbles. Probably because Dad was a star quarterback here back in his days.

“You just need to get used to the team dynamic here, then it will all be fine, Jacob. Don’t sweat it,” Coach said.

It was easier said than done. Someone literally asked me how long my dick was, then groped my pec. At least in high school, people had the decency of being embarrassed.

Maybe I do need to chill off. Go to the club like they said. I do have the biggest pecs out of everyone after all. And I heard people like big glutes, so maybe someone would want me.

It took me a month to search up a club. I was not stalling. Then, another month to put the address into Google Maps. I was busy. Homework has been rough, the professor hates me and Theo needs me to restock. Nonetheless, I finally have time now.

Yay.

Putting on Dad’s old Beige Polo, I look pretty good. The shirt hugs my muscles too much for comfort, but it’s the one day of the month I’m supposed to look like a slut. The light is going to be dimmed anyway.

Fishing for the keys, my hand found some candied fruit on the stand. The guy even knows how to make candies from leftover fruits, who even does that? I grabbed some to put it in my mouth.

On my way out I caught a glimpse of my father in the kitchen. He’s been starting to brew homemade beers with steady progress.

“Oh, Jay! You’re going out? You got a date, yeah?”

He turned back, revealing the newly grown beer belly.

“What?! Of course not. It’s the shirt right? I look like a try hard.”

”Haha, be careful whose shirt you’re insulting. That was my lucky shirt.”

He misunderstood, I just thought I would look half as in place as he looks if I wear this. I really shouldn’t go.

”You’ll be alright son, you’re a charming young man. People will see that.”

My eardrums are fucking gushing blood.

The Club sound rattled through my bones as random guy number six and random chick number four came.

Dad was right. I was quite charming, TOO charming, even.

“Oh my gosh look at those arms,” running her hand, Random chick number four said.

“He probably has killer abs too. Wanna come home with me tonight, Jock boy?” Random guy number six said.

“Sorry man, I’m straight. I also have a friend waiting for me in the car.” I replied.

“Aww man, too bad. I wanted a dumb jock to rail me tonight.” He said while walking off. Seriously, what is up with people these days?

At least I still have my 16 dollar margarita with me in the corner.

Lost in my head, a potential random guy number seven approaches.

“Hey, what’s a hot guy like you doing in the corner?” Number seven asked.

“Sorry, I’m straight.”

“Ahh, my bad. Worth a shot,” He said.

“Man, why is every Dad bod fuck boys straight? Gay people are too obsessed with their bodies to have the look,” he added.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I have a thing for guys who look like you. Not really a jock anymore, but still attracts everyone.”

My 16 dollar margarita was spilt.

“Oh, Shit. Sorry I don’t know what to do.” I’m glad to not have a friend in my car waiting to see me embarrass myself.

“Don’t worry man, I’ll handle it.” Number seven said.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s not like I have a Dad bod, is a fuck boy, or even gay. But the guy he described is the kind of masculine, wild man I aspire to be. Not a shit given to what people think. Maybe I can be that guy tonight.

“Sorry I’m not the Dad bod fuck boy you thought I was.”

I already butchered it. Why the hell did I say that? That’s not what a guy without a care in the world would say.

“What if you are.” He reached under my polo and grabbed my abs. Or softer abs, cause he’s clearly grabbing something.

“But I’ve never done this before,” Holy shit, I need to shut the fuck up.

“No worries, you just need to sit back and enjoy.”

I look back at the rotting toilet. Maybe not sit.

“We’re gonna make this quick, alright?” He said. Then gave my stomach a quick squeeze.

I’m telling Mom and Theo to cut back on the food tonight.

He slid down the zipper and tugged on my dick.

“You’re not who I imagined to be, but I like pathetic boys like you too.” He said.

“Wait, what? I - fuuuck.”

He uses his thumb to twirl around my cock head; then the freak proceeds to lick my stomach pudge.

“Fuuuuuuck,” I involuntarily groaned.

“Hahaha, seems like it would be quicker than I thought.”

He laughed. Fucking laughed at me. And my dick is harder than ever before.

Then, out of nowhere. He grabbed my ass and sucked half of my length in.

“Holy sh-“ I yelped

He covered his left hand on my mouth and said hushly. “Jesus, fuck boy! Do you want everyone to hear? I mean it’s hot, but we’ll get kicked out.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve just ohhhhhh.”

He sucked the entire length in as I got into his throat. It’s cold for a second with the air being sucked, then it warms up my dick as I get closer to the edge. And, wait, did I just moan out loud?

Didn’t give me a chance to breathe, he repeated the motion again and again.

I’m really close.

“Not yet fuck boy.” He said as he guided my hand to my pec.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Twist your nipples and do not stop until we’re done.”

Strange request, but it seemed like there was a lot I didn’t know, so I complied.

“I thought only women like this?” I asked as I squeezed my nipples.

He immediately got back to work as if telling me to shut the fuck up.

Then, I feel it.

It might be the cold air conditioning or the fact that I have my cock in someone’s fucking mouth, but my nipples perked up and got sensitive all of a sudden.

He starts to squeeze and rub my stomach as my senses overload.

Once in a while, he would come up with a remark or two.

“I bet you’re the kind of guy that likes to sit around, munch all day, let other people take charge and fuck you,” He said.

”I bet your bubble butt will grow twice as big by the end of the year because you hate the gym deep down,” He said.

It all doesn’t make sense. I only have five, ten tops of weight added, but my dick gets even harder.

“Come on, fuck boy. Twist those fat tits for me,” he said as the sucking picks up the pace.

“Fuck yeah, my fat tits.” It’s all too much for me to form a thought.

“Fuck my fat ass too.”

“Yeah, faster!”

He gave my slight belly a final squeeze as I cummed harder than I’d ever experienced.

I can feel my dick still shooting out cum as I blacked out.

Someone is wiping me.

Oh, right.

“Great, you’re up.” Random man said.

”Huh?”

“It got real messy, eh?” He continues.

“Sorry, I got carried away earlier. You’re just so hot.”

It seems like he’s not going to stop talking.

“You’re obviously still a jock, but hey. A man can dream,” he said

“You’ve got some real potential, kid.” He patted my apparently now-existing belly and said.

I don’t get it. I’ve been eating more than usual lately, and Theo’s snacks don't help, but mom got the ingredients from the farmers market, so they were definitely healthy. Maybe I am missing something else.

“Here,” he hands me a small piece of paper.

“Call me if you want to do this again.”

Then just like that, the strange man leaves.

I didn’t give a second glance at the piece of paper before throwing it in the trash can.

Against my better judgment, I put my hand back in the disgusting trash can.

No harm in keeping it.

The stranger’s words ring in my head as I put an undisclosed sum of money on margaritas.

Maybe I do like being taken care of.

***

My phone vibrated for the thousandth time today, almost causing an earthquake.

“Aggggah, leave me aloneeee. Help me baby Jesus.”

The alcohol from last night, plus the vibration is enough to kill a bear.

Opening the over-lit phone, I see Theo’s happy ginger face.

Theo: Hey Jay, could you help me buy a cookbook I want at the mall, asap?

Me: kys❤️

Mom: Jacob, could you explain the language?

Shit, it's the family chat!

Me: It means keeping yourself safe, mom. I'll go to the mall in a bit!

Theo, the little bastard, replied with a laughing emoji.

Brushing my teeth, I saw myself in the mirror.

Definitely can’t unsee it now. I still have some abs definitions, it’s just pushing out now.

I hesitated, looking at the protein ice cream sandwich mom prepared for me.

Well, I do need something to settle my stomach from the alcohol. Plus, protein is always healthy.

Grabbing a few more ice cream sandwiches, I made my way to the bus.

The mall is located in the middle of nowhere. Nobody comes here except for Costco. Apparently there’s a chain book store too.

Finding the book has been proven difficult. Half the store sells stationery, and the other half sells boring books nobody wants. There is no reason for the store to be this huge.

By the time Theo, the brat, had confirmed the book, it was already past two.

“Hello, excuse me. Is there no restaurant here whatsoever?” I asked the book nerd from the counter.

“Ahhhhh, there’s ahh fast food down the lane, to um, the right?”

“Alright, thanks.” Looks like I’m going to starve myself until I get back.

Going to the bus station, I pass the fast food place. They must have had a rebranding these couple of years. They used to smell like kids puke. Now… it smells like some sweet apple pie, fries, or chicken nuggets? Yeah, definitely some chicken nuggets. Haven’t had them in years.

No. I must not get carried away.

Dad said fast foods are not real food. Ever since he watched the Super Size Me documentary, he banned the whole family from eating fast food, and I thank him for it every day.

Today will be an exception. This will be my reward for going through everything that happened this week.

“So, we have a discount for everyone who uses our app. You can also get points for a free meal in the app.” The fat ass cashier asked.

“Yeah, why not. I could save a few.” Not like I’m going to use it after this.

My hands end up with a combo of fries, burger, nuggets and a medium soda.

While enjoying the smell of garbage goods, I catch a glimpse of an obese guy sitting in the corner.

He looks. Wait, it’s Avery Lancaster.

Holy shit it’s true. He did gain 70 pounds and some more. Looks like he’s in his 300s now.

The image of his fat ass hanging off the seat brought me back to reality.

I will not eat at this restaurant ever again after this meal, so I won’t end up like him.

Except for the fries. The fries are too good to pass.

For The rest of the semester, things went as well as they could.

Homework has been piling up, the professor still hates me, so I have less time to hit the gym.

Sports are enough for me so stay fit anyway. At least until next year’s spring season starts.

Coach has been supportive of my decision to bulk up. He just gave me an ominous warning about off-season athletes bulking too much.

When the Thanksgiving holiday came, I was ready to go on a diet.

After the holidays.

Because mom has seriously improved her skills, and, as much as I don’t wanna say it, Theo’s food is basically tailored made to my taste. They might just be.

I have a sneaking suspicion that they are using Dad and I as testing metrics for their little competitions. Just a suspicion. Because recently Theo started focusing on making food for me, Mom began to make food primarily for Dad.

The suspicious duo seem to have the belief that weight equals love. If that is the case, I am truly screwed. There is no one but dead people who can resist Theo’s cooking. I’ve even been brainwashed to think Theo’s food rants are interesting, that’s how powerful he is.

By the end of the Christmas dinner, I could tell that Theo had probably lost in their competition by the look on his face. I almost felt bad for not eating enough.

It's not like the food wasn’t good; my opponent is Dad. His appetite is unmatched. At the beginning of the year, he barely eats anything for breakfast while keeping his plant-based diet. Now he’s an absolute beast, he can inhale 15 pancakes at the speed of sound. Whatever I’ve gained this year, Dad probably has gained twice as much. He also grew out his beard and body hair which I struggle to do. There is literally no better definition of man than him.

After the Christmas dinner, I went up to assess the damage.

Twenty-two pounds of flabby fat gained this year.

Why don’t I at least look like Dad with a firm, rounded gut? Instead, mine grows around the underbelly, looking like a soft fanny pack.

I need to stop thinking about this. I’m still muscular after all. 215 is nothing compared to the guys on the team.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I have a thing for guys who look like you. Not really a jock anymore, but still attracts everyone.” His voice echoed in my head.

Deleting the notifications from the fast food app, I opened the phone and dialled the number for Random Guy number 7.

Chapter 2 ->

#male weight gain #exjock #fit to fat

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tititilani · 8 months ago

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I can't stop thinking about if Simon had taken Edwin's offer

Like Charles finds Edwin in the hallway as ever but this time there's another boy there too, cowering against the wall next to him. Maybe the dollhead spider doesn't care about Simon, too busy focusing on its favorite target, so Charles is left standing in the hallway with Simon when Edwin is taken.

They get out of hell, but Edwin doesn't confess due to Simon hovering behind his elbow. He doesn't want to confess his emotions in front of his killer, who he probably hasn't even properly figured out how he's feeling towards yet.

The Night Nurse is pissed they came out with an extra soul but Niko's same loophole still applies and Simon stays.

"This is Simon," Edwin says when it's all said and done, finally introducing the boy that's been hiding behind him since the door closed. "He was a...classmate of mine."

"He saved me," Simon says, looking up at Edwin moony-eyed and Charles knows that look and something settles heavy in his stomach.

"Glad to have ya, mate," he tells him even though the words taste sour. This other boy knew Edwin when he was alive, the thought is slightly terrifying to him.

Simon settles in fine with the agency even if the agency feels a little crowded now with five people in it but he continues to moon over Edwin and Edwin just...never tells anyone how they actually knew each other. He reasons it just doesn't matter, that he can't find the right time, whatever.

Charles never really warms up to him, though he tries to hide it, but he sees the looks Simon gives Edwin, a soppy smitten look that is somehow worse than anything Monty or the Cat King ever tried with Edwin because of all of them, Simon arguably knows the most about like Edwardian courting. That, like Edwin, Simon has also survived hell. Charles hates the idea that someone could potentially understand Edwin more than he does.

He hates it so much that nothing further happens between him and Crystal because the idea of Edwin being left alone with Simon bothers him so much. He sees Simon adjusting Edwin's collar one (1) time and it makes him feel sick.

And then there's the fortune-teller.

They only go to her sometimes for cases because she never fails to freak Charles out but her prophecies tend to be accurate like 60% of the time which is pretty good for a fortune teller. She looks at the two of them at the end, because it is just the two of them for once, and then looks just at Edwin.

"How kind you are," she says, the words a compliment but the tone snide. "To house your killer. Pray tell it doesn't come back to you."

"What." Charles says. "The fuck."

Charles is furious, of course, and it takes Edwin a long time to talk him out of smashing Simon's face in with the new cricket bat.

"He's like me," he insists in that quiet but firm voice. Charles wants to scream that Simon is nothing like Edwin - that he doesn't have a fraction of Edwin's kindness or pissiness, that his blue eyes are not nearly as beautiful as Edwin's green - but before he can even open his mouth, Edwin continues. "He...He likes boys, Charles. He likes me."

Oh. Oh.

Charles stares at Edwin who is looking back at him, trying and failing to hide the fact he's terrified, and Charles doesn't give one shit that Edwin likes boys because he's his best mate forever. He's still pissed that Simon is apparently staying but he has to hug Edwin at that. "I'm still pissed you didn't tell me about him," is all he says, swallowing back the other words he wants to say.

Charles grows even more paranoid about Simon being around, who has to get used to the fact that Charles takes to swinging his cricket bat ominously every time he comes within ten feet of Edwin. He finds out that adjusting clothing was an Edwardian courting thing and wants to break something. The very idea the very person who killed his best mate is now trying to put the moves on said best mate pisses him off.

It also makes him think of numerous times Edwin had readjusted his collar or jacket in the past and it makes his non-existent stomach flip.

Eventually, Simon decides he's ready to move on to his after-life and Charles keeps his hands from fisting when he looks at Edwin with that same soppy look. He knows Edwin has forgiven Simon by now but Charles has always been better at holding a grudge and he knows what is going to come out of Simon's mouth before he even asks. He knows that if Edwin says yes, he won't stop him.

Charles also knows that if Edwin does, there is no way he is going to find any kind of his own afterlife.

"You could come with me," Simon says hopefully and the moment after is the longest in Charles' life.

"Thank you, Simon," Edwin says kindly and Charles has to keep himself from crying. "But I have no interest in going anywhere without Charles."

He steps back - away from Simon and back towards Charles. Ears suspiciously pink, Edwin links their hands and they watch as Simon follows the Night Nurse.

#dead boy detectives #edwin payne #charles rowland #paineland #my writing #fanfiction #i have been wanting to write this so bad #but it's like minimum 5-10k in my head and i just don't have the TIME for it #but i got hit with the idea that edwin getting courted by someone from the same era #also charles confesses first like 0.00005 seconds after simon leaves #and they smooch right after #and simon WAS actually trying to put the moves on edwin but edwin actually realizes bc he at least knows these moves #but he didn't care bc he was too busy mooning over charles and wishing he'd been able to confess on the staircase after all #dbda

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linkcharacter · 2 months ago

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I feel like many people are too focused on what Curly could've 'done' instead of what he 'thought' about it, how he saw and processed it in his head. As I see it, the point isn't that he did nothing, it's that he keeps shoving away and downplaying Jimmy's bullshit in his perception, which would then lead to inaction from Curly's side. That if he could've, we don't know if he would've. Action is very much needed in cases like Anya's, though it wouldn't make things better in the Tulpar situation, BUT that's just the horror of it and it doesn't remove Curly's faults outside of that. The point is that Curly is human and isn't exempt from trying to avoid the issue at hand in his head because of who he is as a person and the environment they're in, the condition Curly's in. He knows it's BAD with Jimmy, yet due to either or both, prolonged conditioning of their toxic friendship and Curly's stunted mental state, it doesn't click in his head properly.

If Anya didn't end up pregnant, if Jimmy didn't crash the ship, would Curly have seriously contemplated about Jimmy or rethought their friendship after finding out he's a rapist? Would anything have changed between them? I would imagine if Curly want half-delirious half-conscious and not going through an existential crisis, then I would give it a very stretched "maybe", and it still would've taken time to detach yourself from a close friend (with possible emotional abuse benefits). But we don't know what COULD'VE been, we just know he DIDN'T. And that is behavior of an enabler, not ill-willed or inconsiderate, but it's human to be afraid of change and be attached. Still ended in upkeeping his friend's harmful behaviors, not due to lack of wanting him to change but that's just how things are. It's realistic, there's no inherent 'morality' attached to Curly's actions, they were simply actions, what matters is the result. Good intentions don't mean much in face of a horrific outcome.

Would Curly keep attempting to give Jimmy help to be better, in vain like he was suggested to have done before? Very possible. "We said tomorrow will be different. Today would be the last day."

Would Curly report Jimmy to the authorities if he could? We don't know (I'm leaning towards a no though). It's not a bad thing to want your friends to be better and believe in them, nor do I think cutting them off is always the best course of action. Rehabilitation is a good thing (though we don't know exactly how Curly tried to help Jim) and having a support system as friends can make it more effective especially if it's a person struggling financially and mentally in life like Jimmy. Yet Jimmy still has to take accountability and be handled in a proper manner for what he did, not just be let go off the hook, only hoping he will improve like Curly does. At some point Curly had to stop making Jimmy's actions his responsibility but never did, until the end.

The conditions of the Tulpar themselves are very lackluster, the system is unfair and harsh with what we know about Mouthwashing's world. The companies are uncaring and scummy as they are in real life, Pony Express especially being cheap and has no regard for the safety and well being of their employees. It all creates a systematic environment for the worst human traits to fester in unchecked, no one single individual could've "fixed it".

So realistically I don't see much that could've been done in the environment they were in and no matter what Curly did, the outcome would never be good. In any course of action Curly could've gone with, the situation isn't changing, Anya was assaulted, Jimmy is the Co-pilot, the duration of the flight is more than the pregnancy term, conflict within the crew will be punished financially by the HR, they were fired. It's horrible and irreparable no matter what. That is the situation.

But

Curly still downplayed it, that's the point. It's not about the potential actions we imagine he could've taken, it's about all the things he didn't take into account and lacked proper judgement towards his friend, which ended up festering a destructive parasite called Jimmy.

Not to mention that Mouthwashing is such a multifaceted game in terms of its themes, it cannot be defined by ONLY this one Curly idea. There's so much more to the story.

#this is just a point about curly i wanted to talk about #I just see this belief i don't agree with that just because he 'couldn't' do something then Curly is suddenly removed of his misjudgement #just my opinion and analysis obviously #mouthwashing #mouthwashing game #curly mouthwashing #mouthwashing curly #jimmy mouthwashing #linkch yaps

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inconveniently-discorporated · 2 years ago

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I think I have a potentially controversial opinion on Aziraphale and the ending.

So one of the things that made me smile so, SO much, was THIS:

That PURE ABSOLUTE UTTER JOY.

We have not seen ANYTHING like that from demon Crowley. We've seen him be drunk and silly, we've seen him be amused, but we've not seen this.

Now, let's consider what we know about Heaven:

It's never fully populated. ALL of the shots are completely devoid of angels, except for a few, who are almost always just getting somewhere and never really talking to each other.

Where I thought the archangels were a tight clan, it really looks like they're super catty and prone to jealousy. No doubt they would stab each other in the back happily if it came down to it. How much of Heaven is like that, if even the archangels all hate each other?

Aziraphale already has a nervous disposition when he meets Crowley. Is he perhaps an angel that NEVER fit in? Is he familiar with being ostracized by his peers? Just how lonely IS Heaven? Crowley seems to be a pretty powerful angel, and HE doesn't even know that it's all getting shut down in 6000 years -- it's like no one talks to anyone.

Aziraphale, during their whole meeting, looks absolutely smitten. At one point, Crowley goes, "Look at you! You're gorgeous!" and Aziraphale looks over with happy surprise, just before realizing he's not looking at him but rather at what he's created. And then, when Crowley starts going on about making suggestions and asking questions, Aziraphale is IMMEDIATELY concerned and doesn't want him to get into trouble.

Aziraphale is hooked on this angel, and I cannot help but think that this is perhaps the first angel who has ever WELCOMED Aziraphale into his company.

He is hooked on this angel, and the way Crowley smiles is with the light of all the stars he's just created, and it's infectious and it brings a smile to Aziraphale's face as well. And then this angel shields him from the oncoming falling stars.

He is hooked on this angel, and then this angel goes and joins the Great Rebellion, and becomes fallen himself.

"You were an angel once," Aziraphale said, softly, at the bandstand. He remembers.

I think it's reasonable to guess that Heaven has never felt so warm as it did in the presence of millions of exploding stars, next to the (arch?)angel that may perhaps be one of the few (only?) to pay him any positive attention.

I think it's reasonable to assume that Heaven was not the same after Crowley fell. I wouldn't be surprised to find out Aziraphale had wondered about the angel, wondered if he was okay. I would imagine that Aziraphale keeps that picture of pure, angelic, unbridled joy somewhere inside of him.

So, really, is it any surprise that threaded throughout EVERY interaction, Aziraphale has this deep-down feeling that Crowley is good? Would it be any surprise that Aziraphale, an angel who goes along with Heaven as far as he can (which isn't always), feels that if HE is still an angel, then what was done to Crowley was a great injustice?

I think it would make sense that we are shown "before the beginning" not just because it is fun, but because THIS is the foundational context for everything Aziraphale thinks Crowley is, everything Crowley enjoys. I think he remembers this moment and wishes he could live there forever. With Crowley. The two of them with this happiness, forever.

But nothing lasts forever, as much as he wishes it did.

I'm not saying Aziraphale was right with what he did to Crowley at the end of s2. There is a lot I think he did wrong. I think he held onto this picture so tightly, he didn't realize that Crowley had long since let it go, and painted a new one with Aziraphale with all the shades of grey he picked up as he sauntered (or plummeted) vaguely downward (into a pool of boiling sulfur).

I don't think he was right, but I do think he is understandable. I think there was a lot of selfishness, but also some misguided selflessness too. I watched that first scene with angelic Crowley and my heart actually broke a little, because I thought, "What a shame this joy was taken away from him."

I think Aziraphale is trying to right the injustice he feels has been done. But I also think Aziraphale doesn't realize that Crowley can never go back. The concept of falling never crossed Crowley's mind when he suggested that he ask a few questions, and he will NEVER get that kind of innocence back. And Aziraphale doesn't understand, because Heaven has clearly always just been that way for him (he is already aware of the danger of asking questions).

Crowley does not want to go back because he can never go back. He can never be the same angel he was when he thought he could build a universal machine that would crank out stars for eons and eons. He can never be the same angel he was when he thought he could make some suggestions and ask some questions and co-create with THE Creator.

Crowley understands that, and Aziraphale doesn't. But I can understand why Aziraphale would want to try. And I think it's all because of this:

#good omens #gos2 spoilers #good omens meta #aziraphale analysis

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seokgyuu · 3 months ago

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Running a little witch store in a small town, recently the only exciting thing has been Jake visiting your store every other day. While he doesn’t buy anything, his looks are enough to make your days a little less boring. And when he comes in one day, mixing up his offered tea with a very, very powerful aphrodisiac… it is about to get a lot more than just a little less boring.

Pairing: Neighbor!Jake x Witch!Reader Genre: Porn with almost no plot, Supernatural (as reader is a witch, duh) Warnings: Jake is a bit of an idiot but hot, reader is very sarcastic… are those even warnings? Reader has female anatomy and is described as a woman, pure filth basically, MINORS DNI!!! Smut tags under the cut Word Count: 6k A/N: Well hello! Happy Halloween everyone! My little last minute Halloween Project is done! First up, thanks to @aaagustd for the AMAZING banner!!! And my lovely @heechwe for betaing! This work was very, highly, extremely inspired by a clears throat spicy audio that was uploaded literally last night. Could not stop imagining it to be Jake who this happens to… so here we are. The creator’s name is AugustInTheWinter, check out his Patreon or Reddit, I swear it is SO worth it if you’re into audios!! Anyway, thanks August for this inspo and thank you guys for reading! tagging my beloved @yvnempire because she's so excited about this hehe. Please leave comments and/or reblog, it would mean the absolute world! Wanna support me? Here's my Ko-Fi!

Smut Tags: Big dick!Jake, Jake starts nervous and a bit subby, but turns into a beast, handjob, blowjob, face-fucking, facial, p in v sex, unprotected sex (stay safe kids!!), multiple orgasms, loads of cum (like really… so much), dirty talk, degradation (words used: whore, slut, hole, fucktoy etc.) cumplay, cum eating, tell me if i missed anything!

Everything about this town was boring.

The scenery was boring. The activities were boring. The people were boring.

Just… everything.

Your coven had sent you here because of the apparent magical aura you so, as they said, “desperately needed to achieve your full potential”. Bullshit, for all you cared. The magical aura might have been strong, but it was so deeply rooted into the earth, you had trouble reaching it even after hours of channeling your own powers. Of course, you didn’t tell them that. All they knew was that you were having a blast in this shithole of a town and had already made tons of friends.

So far no one had questioned your answers and so you just lived your life, hoping you would soon succeed in attaining the magical power of this place and go back to your normal life.

Recently, though, you at least had something a little less boring gracing you every other day. Jake Sim - the neighbor from across the street. He was handsome and a little shy and very obviously did not believe magic existed. Not that you cared much about that, no, you had been exposed to many people who didn’t believe in you and your kind, not to mention all the other supernatural beings walking on the face of earth.

Jake was a non-believer and wonderful to look at and you were fine with that. Content. More than happy.

As you were brewing some potions a few of the older women around town had ordered (while they also didn’t exactly believe in magic, they at least believed in your ability to brew things that were extremely efficient in their gardens), you found yourself thinking about the pretty man again. About his laugh and his eyes, about the way his shirt would rise up and show a bit of his happy trail leading down to something you could only wish to see fully exposed one day.

Truthfully, the last time you got laid had been ages ago. So long that you couldn’t even really remember who it was with and where. It was a curse, this town, and seeing a young attractive man stalking into your store a few weeks back had suddenly brought back the desire you had managed to suppress for who knows how long.

Just then, as you were deep in thought, cutting up some lavender, the door opened and the little bell above it rang, bringing you back to the present.

“Hi Y/N!”

Jake had his puppy smile on, hair blown out of his face and a thick coat hanging off his shoulders. He walked over to the counter and you smiled up at him, catching yourself finding his flushed cheeks extremely endearing.

“Jake, welcome. Anything I can do for you today or are just here for another chat about how magic can’t be real?” You tilted your head and gave him a playful smile that he answered with a little laugh.

“Actually, I did come for something today. Mrs. Bloodstean said you have some great tonics for flowers?”

Ah, yes, Mrs, Bloodstean, the woman three houses down who had trouble with her roses. You had helped her and now her roses bloomed all year round.

“I do indeed, Mr. Sim. What can I get for you?”

“Well, I’ve been having some troubles with my Mandevillas… they don’t seem to wanna bloom as much as, uh, I would like them to.”

His sheepish grin would have made your knees weak if you’d been standing. You nodded and got up, checking the shelves behind you for the potion he’d need to get his flowers to grow and bloom as much as he liked. Eyes roaming over the different bottles, you soon came to the realization you were out and clicked your tongue.

“Seems like I’ll have to brew one. That’s gonna take a couple minutes, do you want some tea while you wait?”

Jake nodded yes and smiled, turning around to do this usual routine through the rows of shelves in your store. From a safe distance, he began to watch you do your thing, cutting up ingredients and throwing them into a miniature cauldron Jake couldn’t help but be amused by. A witch store in the middle of this small town, run by one of the most attractive women Jake had ever laid his eyes on.

When he had first stumbled in here, he had mistaken it for an alternative medicine shop. While he wasn’t totally wrong, he also wasn’t fully correct. You did offer some remedies and lotions, some potions and tonics, but you also had crystals and salts and books in your many high rising wooden shelves. The first day, he had spent hours just browsing through the books, not thinking of actually buying anything, but somehow being immersed into this world of magic he was so sure could only exist in fiction.

He hadn’t even noticed someone working at the front behind the counter until he turned to leave, almost stumbling over his feet when he spotted you. You concentrated on a page in an old looking book, biting down onto your tongue that was slightly sticking out of your mouth. You with the prettiest face he had ever seen, that made it so hard to look away.

After that, he came back every other day, hoping to talk to you, get to know you and maybe ask you out on a date. Of course, he never did because if Jake was anything it was a coward. It didn’t matter that he somehow happened to be handsome, his charisma was in the trenches.

It was obvious he didn’t see the effect he had on you, which made it even more fun to have him around in your store. You could sense that this man did not have one indecent thought about you while in the store, even when you wore low cut shirts or skirts with slits almost as high as your hip. No, he was a good boy, a sweet boy. The contrast of the two of you was almost comical - you thinking about what it would be like to feel him, to taste him, to push him against a bookshelf and have your way with him and Jake just wanting to man up to ask you out.

Circling back to the front, Jake saw you hard at work and decided to fill his tea cup by himself, the steaming blue teapot on the right side of the counter. Smiling, he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip, his eyes widening at the sweet taste.

God, that’s delicious!

The hotness of the drink seemed to fade into the background as the taste spread on his tongue, so sweet and wonderful his eyes almost rolled back, the liquid making his whole body feel warm and fuzzy, and without even noticing he finished the whole cup in one go.

“Wow, that tea is amazing! What kind is it? I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.” Jake put the cup back down and beamed at you.

Blinking, you looked up at the brown-haired man, your mind a little slow at catching up with what Jake said.

“What do you mean?” You asked, brows furrowing slightly.

“The tea you made me, what kind is it?” He repeated, pointing at the teapot next to him.

Your eyes widened for a brief moment, then you slowly got up.

“How much did you drink of that?” You asked calmly.

“A whole cup, it’s like so, so good, how-,”

“A whole cup?!” The volume of your voice surprised both of you and Jake’s eyes widened in surprise, his mouth dropping open a little.

“Was that- was I not supposed to? I- I’m sorry, you seemed busy, so I just helped myself.”

You stayed silent for a few seconds. Watching Jake’s confused face, trying to read his thoughts. He had absolutely no idea what he just drank. But you did.

A grin found its way onto your lips, a grin so diabolical it made Jake’s stomach turn.

“That’s not your tea, Jakey,” you said, pointing at the teapot he drank from, “your tea is over here.”

Jake followed where your finger pointed next, a small black teapot standing to your left, all done with a cute little pink cup next to it. He blinked a few times.

“Then- then what is this?” He asked, nervousness beginning to spread through his body. Your grin deepened.

“Oh, that? That’s just the very, very powerful aphrodisiac for Mrs. Brown’s husband. See, he can’t really get it up anymore.”

Silence. Jake felt like the whole world had suddenly gone silent at your words. But then he remembered where he was, who you were and how incredibly unlikely it was that this really worked. So, he snorted.

“Right. An aphrodisiac in the form of tea, I’m sure that’s gonna work wonders with Mr. Brown.”

“Not just him, but you too, you know,” you began to walk around the counter, stopping when you reached the other side, leaning against it with crossed arms, “and you’re only supposed to drink one sip of it. You, dear Jakey, drank a whole fucking cup.”

Honestly, Jake still didn’t believe you. Or at least he thought he didn’t. But something about the way you looked at him almost made him falter. He laughed and shook his head.

“Come on, Y/N, I’m not an idiot. This obviously isn’t going to work, it’s a hoax, we all know it’s a hoax.”

“Is it though, Jake? Is it really a hoax?”

“What? Of course it is! Magic isn’t real, can’t be real, this tea surely won’t help Mr. Brown get an erection and I, my friend, more than anything, will not get aroused by some fake viag-,”

Oh shit. Jake couldn’t help the deep moan escaping his throat when he suddenly felt the hardest wave of pleasure hit his body. He almost dropped to his knees, his cock growing harder by the second, pressing against the seam of his jeans, making them uncomfortably tight.

“You won’t get aroused, Jake? Yes? Is that right?” You were having the time of your life. This was better than anything you could have ever predicted. By Mystra, how could you have forgotten about the tea for Mrs. Brown? And how lucky were you for Jake to mistake it as his own? You couldn’t believe your luck.

“What the fuck is going on?” Jake groaned now, his chest heaving and you tilted your head again, watching sweat form on the handsome man’s forehead. His pupils were blown and his face flushed and, fuck, did he look good.

“I would say the potion is kicking in. How does it feel?” You bit your lip, watching Jake struggle to find words for what was happening inside… and outside of him.

“I- well, oh fuck, it, uhm, it feels… it feels like, like I’ve never- like it’s so.. it’s so h-hard, you know?”

“Hm, I don’t think I do. Perhaps you can show me, just so I can check if it all looks normal?”

Jake’s cock twitched at that. You wanted to see? Check if it looked normal? Another moan made its way through his lips and it sounded so utterly pathetic you felt yourself drip into your panties.

“Wh- what do you mean “normal”? C-Could it look, like, n-not normal?” He was sweating. A part of him really wanted you to see, to check, to maybe even touch him, but another felt shy, didn’t want this to happen before taking you out to a nice dinner, maybe even a movie and-

Fuck, who was he kidding?

“I don’t know, that’s why I wanna check. Will you show me, Jakey?”

“F-fine, b-but only to check!” His cheeks were on fire at this point. His cheeks on fire and his cock hard as a rock, aching and throbbing and probably aggressively red at the tip.

That last prediction proved to be correct when he pulled down his pants and briefs at once, his cock springing free, standing harder and prouder than he had ever seen it. He whimpered at the sight.

And you? You almost fell to your knees, itching to touch him, to lick over the tip that was already leaking so, so miserably. Oh good lord. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip again and you swallowed hard, eyes glued to the huge cock Jake had been hiding from you.

“Is it- is it always this big?” You asked, not even looking into Jake’s face anymore.

“Well, n-not when it’s not, uhm, you know… h-hard.”

“So it’s this size even when no potion is involved?” You wanted to know.

“Y-yeah, that didn’t change.”

“Holy fuck,” you mumbled, your hand wanting to grab around him so badly, but you contained yourself.

“What- what can we do? Like is there an antidote? Can I- can I drink another potion? Or maybe there is, uhm, fuck, a spell or something?”

You chuckled.

“Now you believe in spells, Jakey? Funny timing,” finally, you raised your head to look at him again, “but no, there is no antidote. Like I said, it’s made to help get it up and given in a specific dose. But you, my dear, drank probably thrice as much as necessary.”

“So what does that mean? I- I can’t just go home like this!”

He was right about that. Everyone would see him sporting the largest boner known to mankind. And right now, you decided, this was only for your eyes.

“I think the best way to deal with it is to, frankly speaking, empty it.”

Stars seemed to dance around Jake’s head when you spoke, the image of you rubbing his cock, sucking on it or even bouncing on it to empty him of all his cum… he twitched aggressively.

“S-so, wh-what are you sug-suggesting?” His heart was speeding in chest and he was trying his hardest not to jump to conclusions.

Yet another devilish grin spread on your lips as you raised your hand and snapped your fingers, closing the blinds of the storefront window and locking the door all at once. In any other situation, Jake would have been freaked out, but right now all he could concentrate on was the way you pushed yourself off the counter and looked at him from head to, well, problem.

“I am suggesting, Jake, that it would only be right of me to help you out.”

Jake swallowed hard, glued to where he was standing, his cock still so unbelievably hard, still aching and throbbing and in desperate need of attention.

As you lowered yourself, knees soon hitting the wooden floor, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“Do you want me to help you out?”

“God, yes, please.”

And there it was. All that you needed to finally bring your hand to his cock. He immediately moaned, head falling back as his hips moved forward, thrusting into your grip. You chuckled as you slowly began to move, bringing your thumb to his tip, gathering all of the already leaking precum to use as lubricant.

It already brought you immense pleasure, jerking him off. Staring up at him, seeing nothing but pure lust and desperation on his face. You were throbbing between your legs, wetness building up more every passing moment.

“Fuuuuuck, yeah, j-just like that, oh wow.”

Jake felt like he had never been touched like this before. Every bit of friction against his skin was like the first time. Every inch you touched with your hand was burning, sparkling with something he could only describe as magic. He couldn’t stop the desperate moans even if he tried, couldn’t stop his hips chasing your hand, thrusting into it like a mad man.

“Faster, please!” He cried out and you obeyed, speeding up your hand. Your eyes were glued to his cockhead then, watching how precum kept leaking, drips landing on your floor or the briefs that were hanging around his ankles with his jeans.

You worked your hand faster, having trouble closing it around his big shaft and finally adding the second, working him at double speed with his cockhead still peaking out.

God, how would he feel inside you?

Two hands around his cock and Jake could sense a first orgasm approaching. He thrusted his hips, fucking both of your hands, eyes rolled back into his skull, the pleasure completely taking over.

“Yeah, yeah, just like that, fuck, fuck, I am fucking your hands so good, shit!” He didn’t know where to put his energy, switching between moaning and whining and saying his incoherent thoughts out loud, feeling himself leak onto your hands. He wondered what you’d do when he came, if you’d just let him come right onto you or if you’d point it elsewhere.

“Feel good, Jakey? You look so hot, so, so good for me.” You stared up at him, batting your eyelashes and finally Jake looked down at you, his spit catching in his throat. You looked insane with his cock in your hands, your face wild and determined, a small grin on your lips that made his cock twitch once more. The whimper escaping him must have been the single most arousing thing you had ever heard.

“I’m gonna come, I’m s-so close,” he cried and you nodded, licking over your lips.

“Yeah, come for me, wanna see you come, Jakey.”

When he had said yes to you helping him out, he sure as hell had not expected dirty talk to be involved and, shit, was he happy it was. His mouth fell open wider, eyes glossy and focused on your face. He knew it was going to be a lot, knew he’s going to shoot the biggest load of his life onto you in a few heartbeats.

“C-Coming, oh- shit!”

When he came, he came. Cum spurted out his cock, and you didn’t even think about letting a drop go to waste. The first load landed on your neck and collarbones, dripped down your cleavage and over your breasts, the second you managed to catch with your tongue slurping it down like a five-star meal. The third landed on your cheeks and chin, some on your neck, joining his already left mark.

Jake truly couldn’t believe his eyes. You, the woman he had been thinking about asking out for weeks now, covered in and eating his cum. Another little bit of cum dribbled out his cock and you caught it perfectly with the tip of your tongue, causing Jake to groan desperately.

He was still so fucking hard. Still desperate for more.

“I need more, I’m still so hard, please.” His pleasing eyes and slightly trembling lips made the picture in front of you perfect. Jake, big cock full on display, still hard from the potion he had drank by pure accident, his first orgasm so powerful he had shot three loads onto you, was now begging you for more.

And you were more than eager to make every wish of his come true.

“Since you said please…,” you grinned, leaning forward, not giving a damn about the seed currently drying on your skin, and flicking your tongue against his tip, his hand almost immediately moving to grip the back of your head. “God, yes, yes, please take it into your mouth, fuck, please!”

His wish was your command.

Your lips closed around his tip, sucking on it just slightly, tongue gliding over his sensitive slit, tasting his bittersweet taste, wondering if maybe the potion had altered something about it. Next, you moved your head forward, taking more of him into your mouth, feeling the veins of his cock press against your tongue. A moan erupted through you, the arousal almost too much to bear at this point.

“Ohhhh, god, yes, take it, take it deeper, shit.” His hips moved, pushing more of him into your mouth. He seemed to vibrate, seemed to fit perfectly into your wet heat, tip hitting the back of your throat and causing you to gag, spit dripping from his shaft down to the floor. Your hands grabbed the back of his thighs, steading yourself as he began to thrust down your throat.

“Holy fuck, that’s right, gag on my cock, gag on it, fuck.”

It must have been the potion speaking because he wasn’t usually this vocal. But then again, he had never had anyone take his cock down their throat as well as you were doing right now. Gagging and spitting and tearing up, but nothing in your face showed discomfort. No, you were thriving on this and Jake felt your arousal in the air, felt it mixing with his and he sped up his hips, both hands now holding your head in place as he let out the most beautiful moan you had ever heard.

He shoved you down his cock completely now, his balls hitting your chin as he fucked your mouth like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Drool mixed with his precum dribbled down your chin, tears began to stream down your face, your eyes rapidly blinking as you watched him lose all of his composure. You wished to keep this memory engraved into your brain for all of your life.

Jake was in a rush, in a complete trance, fucking down your throat, feeling your tongue against his shaft, your throat restricting around him, your gags and chokes turning him on even more. Somehow, with every thrust closer to his release, he felt the tension rise up more.

What the fuck even was in that potion?

It hit him then, his second orgasm, thrusts becoming sloppier, quicker, accompanied by desperate moans, whimpers and groans.

You managed to swallow it all, the load just as huge as during his first orgasm, shot after shot down your throat, your eyes growing wide while you sucked him dry, or at least attempted to.

“Swallow it all, yes, yes, fuck, come on, come on! Take it all, I know you want to, fuck!”

There was no control left in his body, the potions effect taking over completely.

He emptied his cock into your mouth and pulled out when he at least thought it was over, only for another wave to hit him and land on your skin again. He felt like an artist painting an already perfect canvas with his own visions.

“S-sorry, fuck,” He breathed hard, watching you slowly get up, your face wild and stained with his seed as well as your own tears. Your eyes were red, pupils blown and with every gaze you shared, he knew you wanted him as much as he wanted you. He swallowed and looked down, seeing his cock still hard, still throbbing and aching. Would this ever end?

“I need more, need more,” he mumbled, stumbling forward and grabbing your hips roughly. You moaned at his touch, your fingers gliding over your chest to pick up some of his cum and shove it into your mouth, sucking them clean. He swore under his breath.

“Do you want to fuck me, Jakey?” You asked then, voice sweet like honey, but body looking so breathtakingly filthy.

“Want to, need to, have to,” he replied, moving to lick some of his own cum off your neck. You moaned at that surprising action, pussy throbbing and dripping. Without another thought, you dipped forward, pressing your lips against his. He kissed you back right away, tongue shoving into your mouth and he could taste himself even more on your tongue. His hands ripped open the corset-dress you were wearing, freeing your tits from their prison and immediately moving to grab them.

You hopped onto the counter then, pulling him closer, legs hooking around his waist. He kissed you hungrily, tongue and teeth and spit and hotness all mixed together. You shoved his coat off his shoulders and opened the buttons of his shirt, but he stopped you.

“No time, need to be inside you now.” He basically growled, fingers simultaneously finding your panties and ripping them off of you just like he had your dress. You spread your legs further, ready for him, more ready than you had ever been.

Jake knew he had reached heaven right then. Grabbing his cock and bringing it to your drenched pussy, pushing into your awaiting entrance and feeling you grip him, pulling him closer. He cried out, whimpered into your ear and continued to suck on your skin, cleaning you off of his seed all while working to bottom out.

And when he was finally buried to the hilt, he only paused for a second to take it all in, before beginning to fuck into you at a brutal pace. Your fingers clawed into his shoulders, mouth dropping open as your head tipped back and high pitched moans crawled out of your throat over and over.

“So fucking tight, taking me so fucking well, such a dirty fucking slut.” Jake bit your neck and you cried out once more, your whole body shaking with pleasure as he continued to fuck you. There was nothing you could compare to what was happening right now. No one had ever fucked you as good, as hard and as fulfilling as Jake.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better than this, Jake pulled out of you and grabbed your waist, heaving you off the counter only to spin your around and push you down onto it, your ass up in the air.

“Sorry, need to fuck you like this.”

Back in he went - full speed, full force. The counter shook under you and you gasped when he began to thrust. His cock dragged against your walls, split you open so beautifully it felt like you were going to burst. You threw your ass back at him, clawing at the edge of the counter, eyes falling shut as you let yourself enjoy the way he drilled into you.

There was a high chance Jake was going to grow addicted to this feeling. Never had he ever had sex as good as this and perhaps this was courtesy of the potion - or maybe it was just you. You with the perfect pussy, the perfect mouth, the perfect hands. Everything about you seemed to heighten his arousal, seemed to get him closer from the edge all while pushing him even further away from it.

He could do this for hours, fuck you until he came, spill his seed in you over and over, watch how it spilled out. God, he wanted to see your pussy stuffed with his cum so bad. Watching his cock slip in and out of you, hearing the noises you made, it was almost too much.

“You’re my perfect little hole, aren’t you? Just made to be fucked like this,” he couldn’t help himself, grabbing your hips even rougher and spitting down to make it even wetter. Not that that was really necessary. You were dripping down his cock as well as your own thighs and Jake swore he would never recover.

“Fuck, Jake!” You cried out, hip trying desperately to move while he held you, eyes opening only to roll back as your orgasm hit you like a brutal wave.

“Shit, are you gonna come on my cock, slut?” Jake saw red as he felt your pussy spasm around him, pulling him even deeper, squeezing him for all he had, wanting to milk him dry of his load.

And who was he to deny such a request?

“Come inside me, Jake, please, please, please!”

You had sensed his orgasm and he let out a growl, finally filling your pussy with his load just as you hit your second high right after the first. Once again, it didn’t stop, it just kept on coming, his cum landing inside you and already dripping out as he fucked both of you through your orgasms, filthy sounds filling the air next to both of your moans and groans and pleads for more.

Jake had expected to be done after three, but no, he was still hard, and so he grabbed your wrists and held them behind your back, standing up straighter as he picked up the speed once more.

“Need another one, baby, just one more, fuck, m-maybe two, I just- fuck, I am so hard, I need to fuck you more, wanna fuck you all night, need to fuck your pussy.”

There was nothing left in his brain except for the need to come, for the need to fuck you. He was like an animal during heat, felt like he was going to explode. His cock was so incredibly sensitive, hurting even at this point, but it was addictive, you were addictive. Just the thought of not being inside of you anymore filled him with something close to agony.

“Y-yes, fu-fuck me Jake, your cock feels so good, s-so big!”

At this point you could have taken the potion yourself judging by how you were feeling and talking. Normally, you were the one in charge, the one on top. But with Jake? You enjoyed being in his hands like this, enjoyed being used by him for his pleasure. You wanted him to fill you up, to split you open, to do with you whatever the hell he wanted.

“God, yes, like my big cock fucking you open like that? Such a good behaved little whore, isn’t that right?” He found himself slapping your ass, and judging by your reaction that had been the exactly right thing to do. He groaned when he felt you squeeze him again, both hands back to holding your hands in place.

He lost himself in you. Lost himself in the pleasure. And you lost yourself in him and the need to have him fill you up again and again.

His fourth orgasm made his cock soften a little. He filled you to the brim, watched the majority drip down your legs, forming a little puddle to your feet and he licked his lips, letting go of your hands and pulling out of you, turning you back around and placing you back on top of the counter.

“Lean back,” he ordered and you did as wanted, eyes wide and pussy throbbing from the last orgasm a few seconds ago.

You leaned back on your elbows, watching him position himself between your legs. He grabbed his cock and placed it in between your lips - to thrust in between them, cockhead repeatedly hitting your clit. You gasped, body jerking forward.

“Wanna paint your whole body with my cum, stay still.” His big hands grabbed your hips, pinning you to the counter as he began to thrust his cock over your pussy, the friction already enough to almost make him come again.

“Mhmm, y-yes, f-feels good!” You cried and he grinned, continuing his spiel like a madman.

“You’re so sexy, so fucking sexy, baby.” He breathed out, his brain slowly but surely coming back to him. And when he heard that little noise you apparently always made before you came (if he could trust the two orgasms from earlier), he felt himself reach the edge as well.

Your head fell back when you felt the next orgasm hit and your pussy ached for more when his next load landed all over your stomach, even reaching as far as your tits, painting you just like he had wanted.

The canvas was finished.

But Jake wasn’t.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, so sorry, I need to-,” his head was fuming red, and he moved back a little, just to dip his cock back into your spent pussy and you fell flat onto your back, your head hanging over the counter.

He fucked you like a ragdoll, like a toy, like he didn’t even really acknowledge you were still there. He pressed down onto your stomach and sped up, tried to fuck you deeper. He imagined he could feel his cock through your skin, imagined he could see himself fucking you just like that.

“S-so deep!” You cried out and he looked at you, at your body, and nodded, watching now how your tits jumped at every thrust. They were stained with his cum as well and he hoped he would never forget this image.

“One more, promise, just one more, my perfect little fucktoy, yeah?”

His words were so filthy, so desperate and full of need, they made your pussy spasm again, made you grip him hard over and over again.

“That’s it, fuck! Gonna come, gonna come, shit, sh-shit! Take my cum, take it, yes, yes!” He was in a spiral downwards, then back up and back down - his last orgasm hitting him like a fucking brick, yet another load landing inside your pussy - one, two, three. His cock twitched and twitched and finally began to soften.

When he pulled out, he fell backwards, landing on the floor, his eyes wide and his ass hurting.

The potion slowly lost its grip on him, his normal, coherent thoughts coming back all while he was getting down from his many, many highs.

You pulled yourself up in exhaustion, your chest heaving. When you sat up straight again, you couldn’t help but chuckle at Jake on the floor.

“Need a hand?” You asked, carefully jumping off the counter and finding that your legs were nothing but mere jelly. Quickly, you grabbed onto the edges of the surface and found your balance again.

“I- I-,” Jake began to stutter, his eyes probably the size of saucers by now. You grinned.

“You?” You raised a brow. Jake’s face turned crimson.

“I- I’m sorry, I-,”

“You’re apologizing? For what? The best sex I’ve ever had?” You snorted, “No, Jakey, no need to apologize.”

Jake bit the inside of his cheeks. Best sex you’ve ever had? While he wanted to feel proud, he wasn’t so sure if that really had been him having sex with you or if the potion had a mind of its own.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” you moved forward now, stretching your hand out for Jake to take, “the potion only strengthens what’s already there. It doesn’t change your personality, it just makes you give less fucks.”

Had you read his mind? Jake cleared his throat and nodded slowly, before taking your hand and letting you help him up.

Only then, when he was standing so close to you again, did he realize you were still covered in his seed. He turned even redder.

“Oh, right.” You giggled, closing your eyes and once again snapping your fingers.

Immediately, you were clean of his cum and back in your dress - which had also magically repaired itself. Jake also found himself back in his briefs and jeans, his coat safely hanging over the counter. His mouth dropped.

“You-,”

“Are an actual witch, correct, Sherlock.” You winked at him and walked back to the other side of the counter, “Now, do you still need that potion?”

Jake stared at you for a second.

“Y-yes,” he mumbled, watching as you quickly finished the preparations. He didn’t dare say anything, his heart beating at triple speed and his brain working overtime. He had just fucked you. For like… a good while. And he didn’t even have your phone number.

“There you go,” you smiled and carefully shoved the bottle with the potion over the counter, “just pour a few drops over your flowers tonight. You should already see some results in the morning.”

“Th-thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, Jakey. You already paid me enough.” You said cheekily and Jake found himself choking on his own spit.

When he walked out he regretted not asking you for your number. Or if you wanted to go on a date.

But that night, when he got ready to put the potion to its use, he saw a little note stuck to the label he hadn’t seen before.

Tomorrow, 8 o’clock at your place. I promise I’ll bring wine that won’t make you wanna fuck me for hours. It’s a date! Also here’s my number: xxx-xxx-xxx. See you tomorrow, loverboy!

Jake found himself laughing out loud.

And while he did his work in the garden, he thought that just because the wine wouldn’t be the reason, he sure as hell would not mind fucking you for hours at least twice every day for the rest of his life.

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