#this took too long but i loved doing it too much to stop

[arkhamsbrat]

even before he met you jason knew he loved you. the little box hidden under the floorboards at Wayne manor was proof enough. the sheets were folded neatly, stacked in the order he wrote them in an old sneaker box. letter upon letter upon letter to his future spouse that were long forgotten after his death.

when he was younger, he hoped he’d be able to to give it to someone one day. sat and prayed for the day that the right person would come along that he could make happy.

when he came back, he still dreamed about it. jason just didn’t think he deserved it. a love worth those letters would never be in his cards.

then you came along, with your bright smile, sweet words, and patience. god, your patience had to be strong dealing with all of his baggage. he didn’t think he deserved it, but you refused to give him anything else.

was it patience or were you just too stubborn to let go of him? jason didn’t really care about the difference.

he spent nights with you, tangled in the sheets just letting you love him. his mind calms, slowly, with all of your words, your touches- you. it takes nearly a year for him to even believe you really do care about him, without any ulterior motives. he’d found himself too attached to you to worry if there were any, anyways. if he was going to die again, he’d hoped it would be you that killed him.

jason realized he loved you when he woke up to your fingers pressed gently against the pulse points on his neck. sweat beaded along your hairline, eyes wide. “what the-” he couldn’t help the twinge of fear in his gut. what the fuck were you doing?

his hands wrapped around your wrists rougher than he probably should have as he sat up, heart beating against his ribs. he took a deep breath, fighting off every single thought of how you could kill him so easily right now. there was no reason for him to think you’d hurt him, you would never.

your breathing was just as uneven, heart stuttering with every half second. “i-just… had a dream.” you whispered , barely audible against the buzzing of the ceiling fan. “you died. i needed to… make suure.” your eyes flickered away from him as your tears started to fall. the nightmares that plagued your mind normally stopped around jason, but they broke through your safe space tonight.

the look of shock he was giving you made your skin crawl. jason was normally so sweet to you. did you overestimate how much he could handle? you took a deep breath and wiped your cheeks. “i didnt mean to wake you up, i’ll-” jason shook his head and let your wrists go, pulling you to his chest.

he steadied his breathing and shut his eyes tight , chin resting against your head as you sobbed against him, apologizing over and over again because you might lose him now. the fear in your eyes wasn’t because you got caught. it was because you loved him. this was somehow his first realization that it was real for you too. your whispered apologies slowed as he soothed you to sleep “not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart.” he whispered before you fully dozed off. “who’s gonna take care’a you if im gone?”

things between you two felt… different after that. better, but different. it wasn’t until two weeks later that it solidified. Alfred had called him to grab lunch together, and came with a beat up box. jason didn’t recognize it at all until Alfred opened it and pushed it towards him. “I thought it was Master Bruce’s at first, but…” jason scanned over the top letter, eying his old chicken scratch. he shut the box and pulled it close to his chest, wondering if you’d be home before him. “thank you, Alfred..” the old man nodded with a smile. jason knew you were it for him, no questions asked. the letters had always belonged to you.

the minute you were home he sat you down and set the box in front of you. “read them. please…” you eyed the box carefully before reaching out and grabbing the first letter. barely halfway through it and tears were streaming down your cheeks. before he even knew you, he wrote letter on letter on letter about how much he dreamed about being with you. how deep in his soul, he knew he’d find you no matter how long it took. it wasnt chance that these letters found their way to you- it was fate. everything in them perfectly described you, how you spoke to him, acted around him. everything about you is exactly what he’d always wanted.

he eyed you carefully from the opposite end of the couch, fiddling with the edge of his shirt. “so?” he mumbled once you finished. “so!?” you sniffled, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “do you… like them?” you nodded once, fighting back the shock of it all. “jayce, these are…” he let out a nervous laugh. “cheesy? yeah. just thought the person i wanna spend the rest’a my life with should have ‘em.”

reading that was one thing, but jason saying it out loud? “are you sure?” you asked, scooting closer to him. he cupped your cheeks and smiled at you like you hung the stars just for him. “never been so sure about anything else.”

[onceinablueberrymoon]

I don’t know if you’re doing smut, but if you do, how about the reader is a recruiter like the salesman and there together and how would he be with you in the Bed! (He’s a total psycho for me hehe)

salesman x recruiter!reader headcanons (sfw + nsfw)

sorry for the super long wait! i did headcanons for this one since i’m not the most comfortable w hardcore smut. if you’ve read my stories, you probably already know i’m a sucker for soft and domestic salesman lmao

notes: gender-neutral!reader; the recruiter is called salesman here since reader is also a recruiter here

warnings, just in case: mentions of whips, guns, slight exhibitionism

minors dni! there’s smut in this one, folks

(also pls send me requests! i’m working on the ones i’ve already received, but more are always welcome♡ not just for the salesman either, i am begging anything sangwoo too) 

sfw

if the reader is also a recruiter, you’d have probably met the salesman just after becoming a recruiter yourself. 

while the salesman’s game of choice was ddakji, yours was tic-tac-toe. 

similar to the salesman who carried ddakji tiles and various bills of won, your briefcase contained a simple wooden frame and wooden ‘x’ and ‘o’ pieces. 

when you first met, he was polite and courteous towards you.

as time went on though, you felt as if you were being followed after work hours. one morning however, you’d caught him following you and confronted him, saying that his assigned location wasn’t anywhere near yours.

stunned that you had discovered him, he offered to have lunch together, which you accepted. the two of you started to grow closer, with both of you checking in on each other via text throughout the day. 

even though you and the salesman would rarely cross paths during work, you always made time for each other after work. 

this man can be soft when he wants to be. from cutely pouting when he loses at board games to snuggling in bed after a long day of slapping people, he’s capable of being a loving partner when he feels like it. he just didn’t have someone to share that side of him until you came along.

that’s not to say he doesn’t have a dark side. of course he does! that’s what we’re all here for, right?

nsfw

you always knew the salesman had interesting… tendencies. 

although you also played games while seeking out prospective players, you didn’t bring that part of your life home. that is, until you met the salesman.

you quickly learned that he loved games. so much so that he’d incorporated them into your sex life.

what game haven’t you played by this point? 

tag, where he chased you around his apartment until he eventually pinned you down and had his way with you.

marco polo, where he shouted “marco!”, to which you replied “polo!” from your hiding spot. he’d then crack his whip in the direction in which you called.

tug of war, where you’d both tug on a special rope he’d bought just for the occasion. he’d usually win, unless he took it easy on you. the winner would use the rope to tie the loser’s hands to the bedpost.

and of course, when he was feeling spicy, his favourite: russian roulette. while he rarely loaded the gun with a live bullet, he thrived on the fear in your eyes when he pressed the gun against your chin and clicked the trigger. 

of course, he’d do it to himself too, even going so far as to deepthroat the gun. even though you were scared out of your mind, you had to admit it was a huge turn-on.

contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t always the one in charge.

you also had your fun, like when you would play with one of those paper fortune-tellers you made when you were a kid.

depending on what “fortune” he had chosen, you’d do different things to him.

for example, if he chose “slow”, “teasing”, and “cockwarming,” you’d do exactly that. you’d tie him to the bedpost, then teasingly grind down on him for as long as you wanted. no amount of frustrated groans or the rare whine would get you to stop your actions. of course, you’d capture his lips to muffle his moans. while he loved making sure that your neighbours could hear you through the walls, you preferred not to have an audience.

finally, he’d take the utmost care in helping you clean up afterwards. as much as he would love to show your ruined state off to the world, you had to be presentable for your job.

you’d try your best to care for him as well, buying expensive lotions for his calloused hands. 

all in all, you made a great team, both in the streets and in the sheets.

i am very proud of that last line ngl

[wtfaniii]

My boy only breaks and repairs

Summary: When he found you, you were drowning in debt and sadness, he took your heart and made sure to put it together piece by piece until one day… that same man breaks it once again

Warning: age difference, not much, death, I wanted to write something sad, sorry, I was listening to the night we met while doing this.

Hwang In-ho x fem reader Sang-Woo's daughter

He promised you to come back, that he would not do anything reckless, but he never did, you knew that your father loved you despite the hard life he led, you knew that despite his firm and indifferent attitude he cared about you.

That's why your heart broke into pieces when a small black box with a pink ribbon appeared at your door that August morning. It was a bitter presentation for what that box contained, inside were your father's broken glasses, the glass was smashed and one of its supports was broken in half.

It was easy for you to deduce that something bad had happened to him, that he would probably never come back.

You were right.

That morning you collapsed hugging the broken glasses to your chest, trying to hold on to a vague memory where you were still happy with him, when you were still four years old and he carried you on his shoulders while you ate ice cream.

Your world fell apart that day, your grandmother couldn't talk to you again because you couldn't look her in the face knowing that her son was dead and not being able to tell her just so she wouldn't go through the same pain as you.

Despite your deep pain, the same people who followed Sang-Woo so that he would pay them what he owed them did not stop, they followed you for weeks so that you would pay, they did not believe you when you told them that he was dead, they thought that you were helping him hide, so all their threats and warnings fell on you.

A year later you were just as desperate as your father, his debts accumulated and your life was in danger, you were going to give up, you wanted to end the suffering you were going through so without having a completely clear mind you stood on the edge of a bridge in the middle of the night.

But just when you wanted to push yourself forward someone came from behind you and pulled your hand to the opposite side, making you fall onto the cold and wet pavement.

You quickly stood up, believing it was one of those thugs following you, but as soon as you looked up you saw a man completely unknown to you.

But you were not a stranger to him.

After the games in which player 456 was the winner, In-ho was curious about player 218, the most intelligent and cunning man he had seen in years. ¿How was it possible that when he was about to win, he decided to redeem himself?

he thought him was stupid.

But after having done extensive research on him, he came to the conclusion that he was not stupid, he was just a poor man desperate to survive but also motivated by his daughter who was waiting for him at home, Sang-Woo knew that if you found out the horrible way in which he obtained money, betraying and killing his friends and innocent people, you would never forgive him ¿What kind of example was he going to give you? That's why in his last breath he asked Gi-hun to take care of you, unfortunately the winner was also too traumatized and hurt to keep that specific promise.

So In-ho decided take the promise, something he had never done, he investigated you and reached out to you, he believed that giving you a memory of your father would be enough to calm your anguish, that's why he left you the glasses, but seeing that this caused your descent into sadness even more he decided to take a more drastic measure.

—¿Who are you? —You asked, looking at him carefully, he could see the mix of emotions you were experiencing through your tired eyes.

—I met your father

In-ho took a step closer to you and extended his hand, waiting for you to take it.

It was a small gesture but significant, no one had given you a hand to help you stand up in a long time, you hesitantly accepted the gesture and took his hand to get up but as soon as you did the tears escaped your eyes and that was when In-ho realized how broken you were.

You realized what you were about to do, the weight of your own actions fell on your shoulders and you realized how much your father missed you.

—I miss him a lot... —You murmured through tears as this man held you in his arms.

In-ho's heart squeezed in his chest when he saw you like that, it was strange, he barely knew you but inevitably the memories of his own pain after the death of his wife settled in his mind, he knew that feeling that the world was falling apart, as if millions of blades were stuck in his body every day, each memory and the impotence of not being able to do anything to end that feeling.

He didn't say anything, he knew you didn't want to hear encouraging words, you just wanted comfort and a shoulder to cry on, he connected with you through that pain, he silently hugged you and let you vent until you were tired of crying.

He told you his name, he gave you comfort, security and help, you were in a vulnerable moment and somehow that felt like the greatest gift anyone could give you.

He gained your trust and when you least realized it, you already loved this man who could be the same age as your father.

In-ho knew that seeing you in the city was dangerous, his brother knew who he was and what he did, if he found him it would be the end of an entire empire, so he asked you to accompany him to the island.

You hesitated a little but you finally accepted, you had nothing to lose and you definitely didn't want to be alone again, you hated the simple idea, your brain and all your instincts told you to oppose that request but your heart made the affirmative decision, you accompanied him.

You didn't know what he did, In-ho made sure to keep that part of his life a secret and told you that his job was a small organization that raised money funds to donate to those in need, what a bullshit lie.

Soon you began to smile more often, an expression on your face that you thought was dead, for In-ho your smile became a small ray of light that illuminated his dark life.

One day like any other you entered him office with a radiant smile and a yellow spring dress decorating your body.

—Well… ¿What do you think? —You asked, spinning on your heels in front of him, letting the bottom of your outfit rise a little in the air.

—You look beautiful —He admitted, looking away from the paperwork that filled his desk, documents about upcoming games but that you ignored —Yellow is your color.

You smiled happily at him and walked towards his desk, cautiously he hid some papers under others and let you hug him from behind as you usually did, your arms were warm and this way he could smell your wonderful perfume.

—¿Why can't you come with me? —You asked, leaving a kiss on his neck and hugging him closer to you, as if you never wanted to let him go and it was partly true, you clung to him as if he were your support for this life.

—I have a lot of work but I promise to go next time.

It was your father's birthday and you wanted to go visit him at the cemetery, although you put an empty box it was a way to honor and remember him, In-ho was the one who motivated you to do this because it also gave you a certain peace knowing that wherever your father was were sure that he knew how much you missed him.

—I'll be back in a few hours —You responded by leaving a warm kiss on him cheek.

Even though In-ho wanted to send some guards to take care of you, he knew that would be a risk, you could ask and discover the whole truth and that was the last thing he wanted, he believed that keeping you in ignorance was the best to protect your hurting heart.

You took a boat to leave the island and when you reached the mainland millions of memories hit your mind like a huge wave during a storm, you needed In-ho by your side but you recognized that you couldn't depend on him at all times, you also had to learn to manage these complex emotions that still threatened to sink you.

You bought a couple of flowers and headed to the cemetery where a tombstone was waiting for you on top of an empty place, deep down that still tormented your soul, not being able to find him to give him a dignified burial, not being able to hug him one last time or see him to say goodbye in person.

When you arrived at the sacred place you gave him a small bow and sat down in front of him.

—Hey… Sorry I didn't come earlier… —You said seeing the name "Cho Sang-Woo" written in stone —I just wasn't ready to come yet… Now I'm fine, I'm trying to move forward… In-ho, a friend of yours arrived at the moment when I needed someone the most, as if you had sent him.

A small smile appeared on your lips at that idea, a completely wrong idea of ​​what reality was.

—Happy Birthday… —You murmured with teary eyes, leaving the flowers on the tombstone, you sat there for a few more minutes talking to him to relieve your heart, somehow you managed to feel accompanied but you also constantly wondered what happened to him.

You said goodbye to him and walked through the cemetery until you reached the columbarium where the memorial of In-ho's previous wife was, he told you about her, he showed you that side of his life that had suffered a great loss just like you.

You respectfully approached the space where her name was carved in stone and you also left her a white flower that you had bought specifically for her, you didn't know why In-ho hadn't visited her in years, he told you himself and you didn't ask because you thought it was a wound that hadn't completely healed yet, however, the real reason was more than just pain.

Suddenly a male voice made you jump a little in your place.

—Excuse me… ¿Are you familiar? —When you turned your head you found a young man with straight black hair who looked at you curiously.

—Ohh no... I just... I heard about her —you explained with a soft smile, stepping aside to see him better and allow him to approach the niche —¿Did you know her?

—She was my brother's wife.

Him response caught you off guard, In-ho hadn't told you about any brother but you didn't question either, instead you smiled kindly and greeted him with a small polite bow.

—¡Oh! You are In-ho's brother —You said after introducing yourself with your name and ends with "In-ho and me are close"

Jun-ho looked at you with surprise, as if naming him had made some 'click' in his head, his silent gaze intimidated you so you bowed a little again to say goodbye and leave there but before you could take any steps him hand on your arm stopped you, making you even more tense.

—You should stay away from him, it's not safe for you.

—¿What? ¿Why?

—¿Do you know where he is now? ¿Where do you know him from? —The questions he asked you mixed with the firm grip on your arm raised some kind of alert so you pushed him to let go.

You didn't know him, you didn't know why he said that to you and you didn't trust him, so you left there walking as fast as could but behind you heard a "Stay away from him"

While you returned to the island on the boat you laughed internally at that strange encounter but as the minutes passed and you analyzed him words better in your head, doubt settled in your body, you trusted In-ho, you believed all the things he told you so blindly that you were sure that your father would be disappointed, he taught you to be intelligent and not let yourself be guided by anyone who speaks to you with nice words.

You never investigated him supposed organization further and you hadn't realized until now how much security he had on the island for it to just be a charity.

It was strange, even the time he saved you on that bridge, ¿how did he arrive just in time? It was almost one in the morning and few cars were passing through that area ¿Was he following you? he said he knew your father ¿how come he didn't even know your last name?

Your mind began to turn and turn the situation, your stomach turned and once again that feeling of anguish that had not been in you after a long time was present, meanwhile In-ho took advantage of the time you were gone to organize the next games quickly and safely, with you on the island it was difficult to do it without you discovering it but one of the many advantages it had was that you rarely questioned what they were really doing there.

Maybe it was because for you he was a hero, a ray of hope that came to take you out of your misery and without realizing it «or maybe he was too coward to admit it out loud» he took advantage of that to have you right where he wanted, like a good girl who didn't ask dangerous questions, you stayed right where he allowed you and went out whenever he wanted you to.

It was incredibly easy how could take a person drowning in their suffering and mold them into own world.

But now that you had doubts you weren't going to stay still, thanks to Jun-ho you would now start questioning everything he did.

Something that started to be a problem.

Until one day you finally discovered it, you woke up in the middle of the night and walked in silence to him office where you found a folder full of photographs and data of people who were just as drowned in debt as Sang-Woo was, but you did not stop there in your investigation, it was night, him guards in pink overalls that at some point you saw as security you now saw as hunters from whom you had to hide, cautiously, you moved through all the corridors until you reach a floor with golden and gray tones.

You walked in silence through each of the rooms and inspected every thing and compartment there without knowing that In-ho had already woken up when he did not feel your presence by his side.

You watched without stopping and the further you advanced your heart squeezed in your chest, this was not a charity, it was a slaughterhouse.

And the worst of all was that the man you trusted, the man you slept with, kissed and touched with love was the one who pulled the strings in this place.

You arrived at a dark room full of documents perfectly arranged by year and number on shelves, each sheet contained data about the previous people who arrived on this island and they were forced to play children's games with the promise that if they got out of there alive they would win a lot of money.

Your hands were shaking and you could practically feel your heartbeat in your throat.

Until you reached the section about the year your father disappeared, your heart stopped for a fraction of a second and your hands could barely hold the page you were reading in silence.

"Cho Sang-Woo, player 218, removed"

A painful moan escaped your throat as you looked at the photo of your father along with his information with eyes full of tears, you tried to remain silent and to drown your tears you bit your hand until felt the characteristic metallic taste on your tongue.

Your body shook and your breathing began to fail, you were scared, disappointed, overwhelmed and angry, In-ho had lied to you, he knew perfectly well what happened to your father and he pretended to be another friend in your life.

Once again your heart broke into millions of pieces.

In-ho had become vital in your life, you didn't know whether to hate him or love him, he hugged you every night when you woke up crying because of the pain of loss, he motivated you to get up and not let the suffering consume you, he even opened up to you and told you about his deceased wife.

You wanted to scream but instead you just stayed on the ground, biting your hand to suppress your cry, with your body shaking and breathing failing, you felt like you had been stabbed in the back.

You didn't even notice when In-ho walked up behind you with a loaded gun in him hand and a mental battle in his head.

You thought you knew him but in reality you had no idea what he was capable of doing.

[fizzing-imagines]

hiiii! I would love to see your thoughts on the NSFW alphabet for either Eddie or Jonathan?? Maybe both if you feel so inclined to do both!! I loved the one for Steve :)

smooches!! <3

Thank you for the request!! I did Eddie for this ask because Jonathan is going to take me a bit since writing him is still new to me. I hope you enjoy! I'll tag you in the Jonathan one once it's up 🫶🏻

‼️MDNI‼️

NSFW Alphabet - Eddie Munson

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Very needy. All over you, kissing, hugging, making sure you're okay. But Eddie loves when you take him in your arms and play with his hair

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

BOOB MAN! He shamelessly takes peeks whenever he can. But they don't only look good, he likes to use them as pillows as well. Eddie loves listening to your heartbeat come steady again after he roughed you up

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Loves when you swallow, especially when you show him afterwards that you did by sticking your tongue out

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Enjoys being dominated, even if he won't admit to that

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He canonically has a bit of experience, but most of his experience happens with you. Honestly, he didn't know what he was doing in the beginning but with some patience and instruction Eddie now makes you sing like a bird

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Cowgirl and Missionary.

Cowgirl because that plays into him enjoying being dominated. Plus, your boobs bounce so beautifully.

Missionary because he gets to see your face and kiss you. Especially when Eddie is feeling needy, it's his go-to.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He makes jokes in between, but when you're exploring kinks together he's a bit more serious. But that won't stop Eddie from making fun of himself if he falls off the bed.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I feel like he just let's it grow. Once you two started having sex regularly, he trimms it whenever he was time

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Likes being romantic, but doesn't need it all the time. But he does see the way your face lits up when he's mid-thrusts and an "I love you." comes out. He loves it.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

His sex-drive is high, so he jacks off a LOT. Once he got with you, it wasn't that much anymore, but he still does it when you're not around to help him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Bondage. Those handcuffs above his bed? They're for you.

He's also into light spanking, especially when your hands are tied behind your back and you're bend over his bed.

Occasionally, he's into spitting in your mouth but that only happens when the bondage and spanking is already involved.

Overall, he likes powerplay.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

The back of his van has become a favourite for the both of you. It's convenient, and his uncle can't just barge in. Although he's never been opposed to doing it in his bedroom as long as he knows he'll be alone for a while.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Not even Eddie himself can pinpoint it. It's just you that turns him on. The way you walk, your smile, your laugh, everything. He loves you as a whole, and is attracted to you as a whole.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Hard spanking. You could beg him for it, but he could never hurt you too much. A red handprint doesn't bother him, but a bruise is too much. It already took you months to have him try out choking, and he's careful with that as well.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Wouldn't admit it because he loves diving face-first into your pussy, but he prefers receiving just a bit more. It plays into how he loves cuming in your mouth.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Usually, he's fast. In the beginning, Eddie was fast to a point where it was too fast, but he eventually found a good pace that both of you enjoyed.

He's very capable of going slow and sensual. Especially when he's being a big softie. That's always paired with soft kisses and lots of "I love you." 's.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Doesn't mind them, that's why he has a blanket in the back of his van. He prefers having more time with you, but he's still a fan of quickies.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Contrary to popular belief, he doesn't really like anything public. His van is the furthest he'd go. Only he gets to see you like that, and he'd prefer it to stay that way.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

After learning with you, he can go for a good 2 rounds and extensive foreplay. But he's dead-tired after that.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Most of the toys are bondage toys. You two tried dildos out on you before, and while he enjoyed that it's not a stable in the bedroom.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He does enjoy teasing you a lot. Hand on your thighs, on your butt, whispered comments on what he'd do to you. Likes seeing you riled up before giving you your release.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Very vocal. He'll tell you how good you feel, that you're beautiful while getting pounded or how tight you feel around him. Eddie thinks it's important for you to know that you're doing a good job.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Would live to try out roleplay, in which he'd get dominated. Like a cop-thief fantasy, for example.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

I think Eddie is pretty average, both in lenght and thickness. There's a curve to it, and he knows how to make you see stars with it. Pretty veiny as well, especially when he's hard.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. Very, very high. If he could, he'd do it all the time. When you're home alone and it's the weekend, you two barely leave the bedroom.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Very fast. After a few minutes of kisses and cuddles, he falls asleep with his head on your chest (clothes or not)

[maaaariii]

'I carry.'

overview ig: you accidentally find hanmas gun oopsies.(kinda 18+ if u squint)

Hanmas lifestyle was never a complete mystery to you.

Gambling and combat fighting soon turned into money laundering, expensive cars and bougie meeting rooms. And while you know its not the best thing in the world- and certainly not the safest, you know him. So you choose to stay. Thats why its almost 2 am and youre sat at tipsy (probably drunk, possibly wasted-who knows how much he drank while you were in the bathroom) shuji's side on his fancy ass couch. Looking around the lavish drawing room youre in- its hard to believe it all belongs to him.Not in a mean way- Hes a messy guy, leaving his shit everywhere and stuff. He just didnt seem like the type of guy to want such materialistic things- just a bit of fun.

Anyways rant over, youre brought back to reality as he tugs on your wrist, bringing your attention onto him- just how he likes. 'cmere'

he grunts ,as he slides his hand behind your neck-not quite fervorous yet, but hes getting there fast at this rate. You chuckle at his dizzy state, pushing a long bleached strand of hair out of his face. 'slow down, if you move too fast youll faint or something y'know..' you joke- he doesnt let you tease him when hes sober. He grunts in annoyance.

'Faint?? girl i only took like 2 shots-' He cuts himself off, pulling you forward so fast that you have to steady yourself with your hands on his thighs so you don't topple over. He presses his lips to yours, quickly prying your mouth open with his tongue as his arm slides down to your back, right over your ass- holding you in place. After a few moments his breathing deepens and you pull away the tiniest bit, ghosting his lips and pulling back every time he gets closer. You cant help but chuckle as he continues his attempts for kisses like a thirsty dog.

'stop it...' he mutters, digging his fingers into your waist which only makes you squirm more. You chuckle and maintain about an inch distance between your lips and his. Staring into his golden eyes, hanma pants slightly- years of cigarettes seem to be catching up with him. Hes only 24. You hold his cheek in your palm, the rugged unmoisturised (ew) skin is warm and slightly clammy from the inevitable asian flush he gets from large amounts of alcohol. One peck onto his lips, followed by another as you slide your hand onto his shoulder

'cmon..do it like you mean it...' he mutters in annoyance. 'i do mean it you ass.'

He scowls at you half playfully.

'Dont feel like it....kiss me harder or you dont love me anymore.' He tries to hide the dumb smirk on his lips. 'im not feeling the love aura vibe thingy tonight babe-' he chortles and you can see the glint of pearly whites under the dim light. You roll your eyes, hanma always makes fun of your vocabulary- he says its so 'chronically online'. Whatever.

You shake your head in mock disappointment as you slowly slide your hand down his torso- despite his shirt you can feel the groove of his abs- a satisfying feeling. He hums, tired and gruff, just needing a good nights sleep and just cant get enough of how warm he is-every inch of his skin lower and lower until..your fingertips graze something solid?..

It takes you a moment to register…there’s no way his dick is this hard…and cold? He’s in his own world, head thrown back and eyes shut..it’s not like you both had boundaries, so you lift the shirt up a little and your chest tightens just a tiny bit. A pistol. Right in the waistband of his pants. It’s black and sleek, but simultaneously old looking. A world of violence and crime is something you were introduced to by your boyfriend, but he bubble wrapped you, putting his hands over your pretty eyes so they don’t tarnish. A gun wasn’t something you’ve ever saw in real life…you reach to grab it but his head jerks up and hand grabs yours fast as hell..his instincts are sharp.

“the fuck are you doin’? Huh?” He seems more offended than angry..

“nothing..don’t yell at me..” you pull your hand away..trying to gauge if you’re disturbed or curious about the weapon as you stare back at him, mirroring his offended face.

“I ain’t yellin’-“

He has a little voice crack at the end-he shuts his mouth to avoid any more..normally you’d both laugh at his little mistakes and trip ups..but there was a slight struggle in finding the humour right now..

“why do you have that..?”

“I’m grown..why can’t I? You ain’t my mom..”

“I know but..”

He shakes his head at you, leaning back to increase the distance between you both..why was he so mad? He’s not the type to get mad over nothing, you could probably accidentally hit him with your shiny car and he’d get up just to ruffle your hair.

“Why do you think? You ain’t stupid y/n.”*

suddenly you feel more sober and real. If there wasn’t a gun between you both you’d probably take that comment as a compliment..

“…”

“Don’t look at me like that…”

for once he breaks eye contact. You never really realised how..intimidating he looked when he didn’t have a shit eating grin on his face-probably because he always had one with you. And now the little voice in his head is scolding him because you’re upset with him.

“c’mon y/n don’t cry..I thought you’d just know. I have a gun so what..” he’s almost stammering, hoping you don’t burst into tears and ask for a birkin as an apology gift (true story, you have the bag in your closet)

“I ain’t gonna use it on you…” he’s rambling now.

“it’s just for safety ‘kay? It’s a big scary world out there-“

“I’m not crying…and stop talking to me like that..” your attention is suddenly diverted to his rather..condescending tone.

He wants to roll his eyes, But he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Just..don’t worry your pretty head okay?…’m tired let’s go to bed..”

🥲sorry guys I couldn’t be bothered to finish (I have no ideas)

[scary-grace]

#3 for roommates to lovers!! :D

Hi! Thank you so much for this prompt! As I alluded to, I went through two other versions of this fic before settling on this one, so if this ends up not being your speed, that's okay -- let me know and I'll post one of the others.

Prompt: “i’m guessing that the fact you’re already home will tell me everything i need to know about how your date went.” No quirks AU, female reader, Shigaraki and the reader are roommates, approximately 3k. ANGST. But with a happy ending.

CASUAL

You hear the key in the lock on the front door and try to scramble up off the couch, at which point the four shots of vodka you’ve taken announce their presence. The first thing to go is your balance, and you bump into the coffee table before tipping backwards onto the couch again. The next is your dignity, when you realize that your roommate and his Valentine’s Day date are about to walk in and see you, on the couch in your pajamas and totally trashed. The third is your control over your emotions. Your face heats up and your throat goes tight and your eyes start to sting, and that’s all before Tomura even opens the door.

Tomura snagged himself a date for Valentine’s Day. A really hot date, Spinner took pains to tell you, like it was something for you to be excited about. Some cosplayer whose DMs he slid into, who dresses up as the slutty version of all his favorite video game characters, who flirts with guys and girls alike but never seems to settle down. Tomura’s friends are all amazed that he was able to pull it off, but you aren’t. You’ve been roommates with Tomura long enough to know that there’s more to him than meets the eye.

And you know he’s got some degree of game. You’d have to, since it worked pretty well on you.

Or maybe your game, as weird and offbeat as it is, worked pretty well on him. However it happened, you’ve been fucking him for the last six months. It started as hooking up to blow off steam, because neither of you had been on a date in forever and you were both too lazy or bad at dating apps to find a booty call. Just a roommates-with-benefits thing. A little recreation. Casual.

You’re not sure where it went off the rails, but over the past six months, you’ve slid from not hanging out except when you’re fucking to hanging out all the time, from bitching about your friends and their love lives to trading loaded glances when it comes up, from texting each other hey you up from your rooms to sleeping in the same bed. It started out as casual, but it’s not casual anymore. At least not to you. You were trying to think of how to raise the subject with Tomura, and thinking maybe of doing it tonight, until he announced out of nowhere that he’s got this date.

You didn’t find out until a couple days ago, and since then you’ve been seething, or at least you tell yourself that the throbbing ache in your chest is seething instead of heartbreak. You’ve played it cool around Tomura, razzing him over the restaurant he picked, offering to let him borrow your hair products if he wants to do something special with it – except then he took you up on it, the bastard, and he left for his date smelling like your leave-in conditioner. Part of you is pleased by that, by the thought that his date might catch the scent and wonder if she really is the only one he’s into. The rest of you thinks about her getting close enough to smell his hair and decides to throw up about it.

You lock your jaw and swallow hard. As terrible as this is going to be, the only thing worse than them walking in on you in the midst of a single-woman cringefest is if they walk in on you throwing up. What’s taking them so long to walk in on you, anyway? Tomura’s still trying to unlock the fucking door. You picture his date pressed back against the door, the two of them unwilling to stop kissing long enough to get into the apartment, and a surge of disgust and anger and hurt hits you harder than the vodka did. Fuck this. You’ve had enough.

This time you’re more careful as you get off the couch, and you’re steady enough on your feet as you cross the room to the front door. Deadbolt off, latch turned, two seconds to brace yourself, and you wrench open the door. You’re expecting the two of them to fall over onto you, so wrapped up in each other that they barely notice the shift from vertical to horizontal. But you don’t see any cosplayer in the hallway, or smell anyone’s perfume. The only person there is Tomura, still dressed for his date, trying to unlock the door with the wrong key.

The two of you look at each other for a moment. You can’t speak for him, but your mind’s gone totally blank. Except for one thing. “That’s the laundry-room key. Not the apartment key.”

Tomura keeps staring at you for another few seconds, then looks down at the key like he’s never seen it before. “They look the same.”

“Yeah. And you’ve lived her for two years. When are you going to suck it up and label them?” Your frustration is starting to spill over, and it gets worse with every second Tomura spends looking at you. Why is he looking at you like that? Like he’s hurt – like you’re being mean to him for no reason, when you’re not even being that mean. You could be meaner. He’s the one who went out and got a hot date without even telling you, when – “Wait, what time is it?”

Tomura glances at his watch, then holds it out to show you. Seven-thirty. Huh. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah.” Tomura takes off his watch and drops it into his coat pocket. “Are you going to let me in or what?”

You stand aside, the wheels turning in your head with painful slowness. Tomura’s date was supposed to start at six. He’s back at seven-thirty. He’s back alone. That’s not what happens with a Valentine’s Day date where things go according to plan, and everything about the way Tomura’s acting right now says that things went off the rails. The last three days, you’ve been proceeding under the assumption that Tomura’s Valentine’s Day would be fuck-on-the-first-date good. It never crossed your mind that it might go badly.

“Are you going to close the door or just stand there like that all night?” Tomura sounds tired, but there’s an edge to his voice. “I guess I don’t have to ask what you’ve been doing. You can’t hold your liquor for shit.”

“And I guess since you’re back already, I don’t have to ask about how your date went,” you return fire without thinking. You shut the door, maybe harder than you meant to, and turn to face Tomura with your arms crossed over your chest, doing everything in your power not to cry. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Do you care?” Tomura picks up the vodka bottle, uncaps it, and takes a long sip. “I don’t think you give a shit.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” you snap on autopilot, but the longer you think about it, the more confused you get. “What have I ever done to make you think I don’t care about you?”

Tomura doesn’t answer. He’s too busy drinking half your vodka in a single swallow, unnerving you even more. “Hey. Stop. Whatever happened on your date, it’s not worth a hangover. I’ll help you, but –”

“Don’t worry about that. You’re off the hook.”

“What?” You’ve always helped Tomura with hangovers, way before you started sleeping together. His body reacts to alcohol like it’s actual poison, and there’s no point since you met him that you’ve ignored him when he needs help. “I’m not on the hook, Tomura. I do that stuff because I want to.”

“So stop wanting to,” Tomura says, but at least he puts the bottle down. “It shouldn’t be that hard for you. You’re good at not doing things you don’t want.”

“What are you talking about?” You can’t wrap your head around it. Tomura’s pissed at you. He’s the one who went on the date. Even if it didn’t go well, he still went on the date, so where does he get off being mad at you? “If you’re going to do this, say what you mean. It’ll be a lot faster, and after what you put me through –”

“What I put you through?” Tomura’s laughter goes jagged. “What do you tell your friends about me?”

“Nothing –”

“Right. Because it’s casual,” Tomura sneers. You’d believe it a lot more if you didn’t see his shoulders go tense, see the tendons in his neck stand out, hear the catch in his breathing. “Because I’m just some loser who’s still hanging around.”

“Because I don’t want to hear them tell me it’s a bad idea!” Your voice pitches upwards, fraying at the edges in a way you hate. “I don’t want to let them take something that makes me happy and ruin it. But maybe I should have, because I hate that I let this drag on so long, and if they’d told me it was a bad idea and I’d listened, then I wouldn’t be –”

“If it’s such a bad idea, then –”

All at once you’re fed up with this. Tired of pretending it’s fine. Tired of listening to him tear into you over something that isn’t even close to true. “I wouldn’t be losing my shit because you went out with someone else on fucking Valentine’s Day!”

Tomura blinks. “What?”

“You heard me.” You can’t look at him right now. You slump back against the door, your arms crossed over your chest, eyes averted. “Don’t come after me when you’re the one being casual. I’m not the one who went out and got a hot date.”

“That’s what you’re mad about?” Tomura demands. You nod, your eyes stinging. “Were you ever going to say that?”

“And out myself as the one who caught feelings? Are you joking?”

“No!” Tomura explodes. You look at him and find him scratching at his neck, hard. “That’s what I wanted you to do!”

It’s your turn to stare blankly, and Tomura’s the one who can’t meet your gaze. He spins away from you, still scratching. “I haven’t slept in my own bed in a month and a half. I can’t fall asleep without you anymore. You make tea for me if you’re the one who wakes up first and I kiss you goodbye if I leave before you do and even the stuff I hate doing is fun if you’re doing it with me. Except it feels like that because I’m in love with you. And you’re only doing it to blow off steam.”

The stinging in your eyes hits fever pitch. You blink and tears slip down your cheeks. “Tomura –”

“I thought if I told you I had a date, you’d say something. So I’d know one way or the other.” Tomura’s scratching slows, from frantic scrabbles to hard digs. “But you acted like you didn’t care at all. So I went on the date and she could tell I wasn’t into it and she gave me a hard time for leading her on –”

You hated his date on principle up until a few seconds ago. Now you’re actually starting to feel bad for her. Being on the other end of Tomura’s disinterest feels awful. “If you liked me, why didn’t you just say it?”

“I didn’t want to out myself, either.”

You both caught feelings. Neither of you wanted to admit it, but now you both have, which would be really nice except for how you got here. “So we’ve been yelling at each other over nothing.”

“I guess.” Tomura’s hand slows still further, the scratches lightening again. “Now what?”

“Uh –” You try to think, but you’re coming up sort of empty. “We just ruined our first Valentine’s Day together. Should we have make-up sex or something?”

Tomura snorts. “There’s not anything to make up. We were both stupid and we both hurt each other. We’re even.”

“That’s not exactly a no on the make-up sex.” You lever yourself off the door and cross the room to him, reaching up to pull his hand away from the side of his neck. The first time you ever tried that, he got mad at you, but ever since he’s let you do it. He lets you do it today, and you kiss his hand. “I just want us to feel better. It doesn’t matter how we do it.”

Tomura’s fingers curl and uncurl, like he can’t decide whether he wants to hold on. “I said I love you. Do you love me, or did you just catch feelings?”

You had that one coming, probably. “I love you,” you admit, and his grip on your hand tightens. “I should probably have warned you before we started hooking up, but I’m kind of shit at this casual thing.”

“Same.” Tomura leans back against you ever so slightly and you plant your feet in a hurry. “What movie were you watching?”

“Something dumb. We can watch something else.”

“Yeah. When we get back.”

“When we get back?” you ask. “From where?”

“It’s still Valentine’s Day,” Tomura says. “And you’re my girlfriend, so I should probably take you out.”

You’re his girlfriend. You’ve never had a shorter define-the-relationship talk in your life, and part of you can’t think past what a relief it is. But you and Tomura have never gone out, anywhere – whatever’s going on with you has stayed here in your apartment, barely even referenced when you’re outside of it. And you’re not exactly at your best. “I’m in my pajamas,” you start, only to realize how dumb it sounds. “I can change. It won’t take long, and I’ll be ready to go.”

Tomura’s grip on your hand tightens for a brief second before he lets you go. “Wait here.”

He disappears into his room, and you take the opportunity to cap the bottle of vodka and wipe your eyes. You never really got into it with the crying, and you can feel it lurking somewhere in the background, ready to ambush you when you least expect it. It’s been a hard night. Maybe it’s okay if you cry a little bit. Crying in front of your roommate-with-benefits is one thing. It’s probably okay to cry in front of your boyfriend.

The door to Tomura’s room opens. “Okay,” Tomura says, and your jaw drops at the sight of him. “Now we can go.”

You didn’t think much about what he was doing in there, but you assumed he was changing out of his fancy date clothes into something more casual. But Tomura’s skipped straight over casual. He’s wearing pajama pants and the League of Legends hoodie you got him for his birthday last year, and you can see the hem of a comically oversized t-shirt sticking out beneath it. As you watch in shock, he tucks his keys and his phone into the front pocket of the hoodie and heads for the door. “Are you coming?”

“Um, yes.” You find your own phone and wallet, detouring to your room to grab a sweater. “Tomura –”

“You look good like that,” Tomura says. He looks you up and down in a way that makes you think that make-up sex might not be entirely off the table. “I was just getting on your level. Where do you want to go?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit. “Let’s figure it out on the way.”

There are other things to figure out on the way, too. Like whose room is going to be your room together, and what you’re going to do with the other one. Like what you’re going to tell your friends, or how Tomura’s going to explain blowing his date with an objectively hot cosplayer so he can go out with you. Like holding hands – which way you like better, and how tight is too tight to hold on, and how fast is it acceptable to grab each other’s hands back after you have to let go.

“This is what got me in trouble,” Tomura says, inspecting your laced fingers as the two of you wait for the train. “Holding hands.”

“How did it get you in trouble?” you ask. “We never really do that at home, except –”

You trail off, your face flushing, and Tomura elaborates. “It was like the third time we hooked up or something. You probably don’t remember.”

You do. It was the fourth time you hooked up, the first time it was spontaneous instead of planned, and you were blowing him on the couch, whichever movie you’d been watching completely forgotten. Tomura was being himself about it, twitching and squirming and making all kinds of pretty sounds that he kept trying to hide, and you glanced sideways at one point and saw his hand, scrabbling desperately at the couch cushions. You had a free hand, so you reached out and held it. You remember being startled at how tightly Tomura held on, surprised at how quickly he stopped trying to be quiet, and when you finally drew back, you were surprised again at how reluctant he was to let you go.

It was weird, but you wrote it off, until the next time you hooked up with him and he went for your hand while he was eating you out. Then it was your turn to hold on too tight.

“I was probably reading into it,” Tomura continues, snapping you out of a set of memories that you’d really rather not be wandering through on a train, “but you doing that – it didn’t seem all that casual to me.”

“Maybe it was never that casual,” you admit. You don’t think you’d have started hooking up with him in the first place if you hadn’t already liked him at least a little bit. “I think I’ll be fine if I never hear the word ‘casual’ again.”

“Casual.”

“Shut up.”

“Casual,” Tomura says again, and you nudge him with your shoulder a little harder than necessary. You’d elbow him, but you’d have to let go of his hand. “We’re going out on Valentine’s Day. Is it casual now?”

He’s joking – mostly. You can tell by the way his grip on your hand tightens, the way his red eyes search your face with a little more urgency than before. “No,” you say, and you kiss him, feeling his lips curve into a smile against yours. “It’s not casual at all.”

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 16

Summary:

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

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

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

The room falls quiet.

Words: 14,345

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s chest seizes at the thought.

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

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

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

B—

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

He needs Bucky to know he’s okay.

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

But he can’t.

And he’s no poet.

So he forces himself to continue.

B—,

I hope—

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

What can he say?

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

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

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

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

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

He forces his gaze back to the page.

B—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not giving them the satisfaction.

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

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

I miss you. More than I can say here.

Stay safe. Both of you.

Yours,

Tony

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s the best Tony can do.

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

Still… Tony has to try.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unbonded. No mating mark.

Male.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spied on. Same difference.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony tenses, adjusting the angle of his flashlight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three days.

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

That he’s indispensable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Howard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has to be brilliant today.

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

And he will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony gulps audibly.

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

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

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

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

A pause. The silence stretches. No one answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room falls quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Semantics.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Howard scoffs, turning to the two officials.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s cheeks flare hot at the pointed jab, and he notices Colonel Phillips shift in discomfort, possibly catching the faint whiff of Tony’s anxious scent. Tony clenches his hands under the table, nails pressing into his palms, trying to steady his breathing. He hates that in a room of Alphas and Betas, they can track every nuance of stress in his smell. Hates feeling exposed.

Erskine speaks up, firm but unruffled.

“He’s not incompetent. He’s gifted. The meltdown equation was something Howard’s own teams could not resolve.” He swings his gaze to Colonel Phillips, face resolute. “And if Tony is correct, you’ll have a stable chamber that can finally handle the formula.”

Senator Brandt clears his throat, glancing at Howard.

“Mr. Stark Senior, I understand your reservations. But if Dr. Erskine—and, by extension, the War Department—deems this meltdown fix crucial, it may be time to set aside… tradition.”

He almost chokes on the word, as if the notion of ignoring the Omega stigma is personally painful. But the undercurrent is clear: the SSR might be willing to ignore an Omega’s legal contract if it means winning the war. 

They’re desperate.

Colonel Phillips, looking every bit the weathered commander under the humming fluorescents, leans back in his chair with a weary sigh. His arms cross over his barrel chest, a deep scowl etched into his face.

“Look,” he growls, “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether this kid should be in an Omega home economics class, or knitting doilies in the Hamptons with the rest of his boarding school classmates. What I do care about is whether someone—anyone—in this damn room can get that contraption operational before we’re all speaking German.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escapes Howard like a razor slicing through the tension. Leaning forward, he clasps his hands under his chin in a parody of deep reflection.

“There’s nothing wrong with the machine,” he says. “Whatever hiccups we’ve had? They aren’t in the engineering. If Erskine’s magical formula can’t handle the rig, well,” he spreads his fingers, “maybe the problem is the serum. Not my design.”

Tony blinks, half-disbelieving Howard’s audacity. A conspiracy? Seriously?

Phillips’s bushy brow arches.

“So you’re saying Dr. Erskine and your own kid are staging some big sabotage just to tank your invention? For… fun? That’s a new one, even for me.”

Howard’s jaw tenses. Undeterred, he presses on, voice dripping condescension.

“I’m saying the Rebirth Chamber works exactly as I built it. If Erskine’s serum isn’t responding, it’s his problem, not the hardware’s.” His eyes flick to Erskine, accusation crackling. “He’d like to shift the blame onto my engineering, so he brought my son into this. Kid’s got too much time on his hands, apparently.”

Erskine adjusts his glasses in that precise, deliberate way of his, refusing to be drawn into a shouting match.

“The chamber functions, yes—but nowhere near efficiently enough. Not for the timetable we face, nor for the level of power the serum requires at peak activation. Mr. Stark Senior,” he says, calm but firm, “the meltdown logs are real. Even you can’t ignore them. And if your son is correct about the conduction error…”

Howard’s glare intensifies at the mention of Tony’s theories.

“Oh, Tony said so, did he?” His sneer is lethal. “The boy who can’t even keep his grades up in a glorified Omega prep school suddenly thinks he’s an expert on advanced war machinery?”

Tony fights the urge to recoil. Instead, he gives a tight shrug. “Well, guess all that time not doing my homework freed up some brain cells to fix your mistakes.”

It’s a calculated jab—he can see the moment it lands, see how Howard’s eyes darken with the kind of fury that usually precedes broken glass or bruised ribs. Tony braces himself for the worst. But before Howard can lunge across the table and throttle him, the tension snaps under the calm, clipped voice of a newcomer.

“Well,” comes Agent Margaret Carter’s distinctly British accent, “since we’re all so attentive—” she aims a level gaze around the table “—perhaps we’d like to hear more specifics about these so-called inconsistencies, Mr. Stark.”

She’s not looking at Howard. Her focus is on Tony instead, and the entire room seems to pivot on that subtle shift—gazes snapping to the unbonded Omega at the head of the table, the one who’s apparently holding all the cards. Tony’s heart hammers so hard he half-expects everyone to hear it, but he takes a measured breath, lifting his chin just enough to feign steadiness.

“Sure,” Tony says flatly. “Let’s start with the basics.”

He pushes his chair back a fraction, just enough to free his hands so he can gesture. His tone is clinical, cool—even a bit condescending, as if he’s explaining a tired math puzzle to people who stubbornly refuse to grasp it.

“The vita radiation chamber Howard designed has a critical efficiency problem. The coolant regulation is inconsistent, which leads to thermal hotspots along the chamber walls.” He pauses, letting his gaze skim over the table until it lands squarely on Howard. “In plain terms? The machine overheats. And when you’re dealing with vita radiation, uneven heat isn’t just a design flaw—it’s a death sentence.”

A few of the committee members shift, clearly unsettled by that blunt warning, but Tony presses on, tapping his fingers softly against the table’s edge.

“Then there’s the neutron flux. It’s oscillating above safe thresholds, so the system can’t handle the serum’s activation process. Once you push power beyond seventy percent saturation, the chamber’s structural integrity fails.” He clicks his tongue. “Which means anyone inside is taking a one-way trip to kingdom come.”

He catches the flicker of unease that ripples through the group, sees Senator Brandt stiffen in alarm. But Tony doesn’t slow down.

“And let’s not forget coil alignment,” he continues, leaning in, voice low and urgent. “The current design uses symmetrical windings, but the discharge in this setup is exponential, not linear. You need to angle the coils inward by at least two degrees to stabilize the energy flow. Otherwise, you get cascading failure in under five minutes of operation.”

An ugly screech pierces the stillness as Howard shoves his chair back against the floor. The sound sets everyone’s teeth on edge, but Howard doesn’t care. He’s livid—eyes hard, mouth compressed into a furious line.

“That’s bullshit,” Howard snarls, voice brimming with disbelief and condescension. “We’ve tested and retested the coolant system. The neutron flux is within acceptable parameters, and the coil alignment follows the standard specs for this energy type. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Tony sees it: that glint of uncertainty lurking in Howard’s gaze, almost too quick to catch. He’s struck a nerve.

“Really?” Tony says, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. “If everything’s so perfect, then humor me this, Dad: what’s the resonance frequency of vita radiation at seventy percent saturation? And how does it interact with the structural integrity of the chamber’s injection ports?”

Silence. Thick as concrete. Howard’s jaw shifts like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. Tony can almost see the gears in his father’s mind spinning—scrounging for the data that just isn’t there. Because this is the math Tony spent sleepless nights confirming, the math Howard overlooked.

“The—the resonance—” Howard starts, then stalls.

Tony lets the moment stretch, letting everyone feel the weight of that unspoken answer. His heartbeat roars in his ears, adrenaline sizzling under his skin. Don’t back down, he tells himself. If you flinch now, you lose.

Slowly, he leans back in his chair, reaching into the worn leather satchel at his side. The quiet snap of the clasp seems to reverberate in the tension-charged air. He can feel every eye follow his movements, the hush so thick it’s like the room itself is holding its breath.

He withdraws a stuffed manila folder, edges frayed and crumpled from frantic handling. The entire thing lands on the table with a dull, resounding thump.

“This,” Tony announces, voice level but loud enough to carry, “is everything you’re missing.”

He flips the folder open with a flick of his wrist, scattering a stack of meticulously drawn blueprints, schematics, and pages of mathematical equations across the polished surface of the table. The neat, angular scrawl of his handwriting fills every inch of the paper—corrections, adjustments, innovations that no one else in this room could’ve seen, let alone understood.

He lets the men around the table stare at the chaos for a beat before he continues, his voice gaining momentum, riding the adrenaline that’s roaring in his veins.

“This is three days of non-stop work,” Tony says, gesturing to the papers like he’s presenting evidence in a trial. “In just seventy-two hours, I’ve managed to fix the fundamental flaws in Howard’s design. The coolant regulation? I’ve recalibrated it to disperse heat evenly across the chamber, eliminating the hotspots that would’ve turned your test subject into a human torch.” He flips to another page, jabbing a finger at the detailed diagram of the neutron flux regulator. “The neutron oscillation? Stabilized. I adjusted the frequency parameters so the energy input doesn’t just spike past safe thresholds—it flows, exactly as the serum requires for safe absorption.”

Tony pauses, letting his gaze sweep across the room, meeting the skeptical eyes of the committee members, the military brass, the engineers who are still pretending they aren’t impressed.

But he’s not done.

“And the coil alignment?” He picks up the blueprint, holding it up for everyone to see. “Two degrees inward, precisely calculated to account for the exponential energy discharge pattern. Without this adjustment, your precious vita-ray chamber would’ve lasted maybe five minutes before a catastrophic failure.” He drops the paper back onto the table with a sharp slap. “But with my corrections? It’ll run as long as you need it to.”

Tony takes a breath, his chest rising and falling in sharp, quick bursts. His pulse is still a roaring drumbeat in his ears, but he presses on, letting the bravado carry him, even if it feels like his legs are about to give out beneath the table.

“This project doesn’t work without me,” Tony says, his voice dropping into a low, fierce rhythm. “You need me.” He leans forward now, his eyes burning with the weight of every insult, every dismissal, every blow he’s ever taken from his father or anyone else who’s tried to diminish him. “I’m the only person in this room who can see the math behind the machine. The only one who understands how the serum and the radiation interact on a molecular level. You want to inject that serum into a living subject and have them live to tell the tale?” His gaze swings around the room, daring anyone to challenge him. “Then I’m the one who’s going to make sure it happens.”

Silence stretches like a taut wire in the wake of Tony’s words, heavy and electric. It’s the kind of hush where everyone in the room is bracing for the fallout, for one person—anyone—to decide which way this is going to tip. Dust motes drift through the sterile light overhead, and Tony can hear his own blood pounding in his ears.

Finally, a cough rattles from Senator Brandt’s throat. He’s clearly uncomfortable, tapping a pen restlessly against the tabletop. Colonel Phillips, arms folded tight, lets out a long, measured exhale. He’s wearing an expression that hovers between grim and impressed—and something else, a lingering wariness.

“You’ve got some brass ones, kid, I’ll give you that,” Phillips mutters, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are hard, skeptical, and they rake over Tony like he’s trying to find the catch in all of this. “But what you’re asking is for us to let an untrained, unbonded Omega effectively run the show here. This is the United States Army we’re talking about, not some private workshop.”

Around the table, half a dozen staffers from the War Department exchange uneasy glances. They’re scanning the blueprint pages, eyeing Tony’s notes, and while some look quietly impressed, others look torn—like they’d rather fight an army than defy a social norm so deeply ingrained.

Howard shifts in his seat, ice in his gaze. “I don’t recall the Army giving you the power to make that call, Colonel,” he says in a clipped voice. “And if you’re really entertaining the idea of letting my Omega son lead a federally funded operation, I suggest you think again.”

Tony forces his expression to remain neutral, though a knot of fear coils under his ribcage. He knows what that voice promises if they leave here without locking in Tony’s position. Howard will bury him, one way or another.

There’s a heavy scrape of chair legs as Senator Brandt stands, smoothing his immaculate suit jacket. He clears his throat, eyes flicking between Tony and Howard. “Tony,” he begins carefully, “your… modifications are compelling, I won’t deny that. But Colonel Phillips has a point—this is an unprecedented step. And we do have your father’s entire engineering division at our disposal. An entire team of men with formal degrees and—”

“And none of them saw the meltdown issue,” Dr. Erskine interrupts softly, his accent coiling around each word. Beneath his mild demeanor, there’s a steely edge. “They wouldn’t even acknowledge it until near-disastrous incidents occurred. Now Tony has handed you not only the proof but the solution.”

Brandt bristles, tapping a finger against the polished tabletop. “Even so, it’s… questionable, from a legal standpoint, to put a teenage Omega in charge—”

“Then put me next to whoever you want,” Tony fires back before he can stop himself. His voice echoes strangely in the hush. “Call it a consultancy. I don’t care about the title. I only care that these changes get implemented, correctly, so we stop risking catastrophe. If your entire staff can’t handle the math, I’ll stand by to walk them through it.”

Colonel Phillips’s jaw flexes, not quite a scowl but something close. “You think they can’t handle it, son?”

Tony stiffens. “I know they can’t. Because if they could, we wouldn’t be here right now, would we?”

Howard exhales a derisive noise, something between a scoff and a growl. “Oh, so we’re all idiots except for you, is that it? You can fix a multi-million-dollar machine in three days, no background, no training, just—”

“Yes.” The word bursts from Tony, surprising even himself. “Because I did.” He throws a hand out, indicating the scattered papers. “You can read it. Check it. Test it. But you can’t deny it.”

A storm brews in Howard’s eyes. “And who the hell do you think you are, telling this entire room you can do what Stark Industries couldn’t?”

Tony’s gaze flickers, but he forces himself not to look away. “I’m the only reason your negligent data hasn’t killed your project, Dad.”

He spits the last word, voice tight, heart thundering like it might punch through his chest at any second.

Before the tension can snap into full-blown conflict, Erskine quietly steps forward, placing both hands on the table. “I believe there’s a simpler path,” he says in that calm, professorial tone that seems to diffuse edges wherever he goes. He turns to Colonel Phillips, then Senator Brandt. “The War Department needs Project Rebirth operational, ja? You want my serum, my research—without which, the rest is worthless machinery.”

Brandt narrows his eyes. “We’re all aware of that, Doctor.”

“Good.” Erskine’s expression remains mild, but Tony recognizes the flicker of steel behind his eyes. “Then I will be equally plain. Unless Tony Stark oversees these modifications—personally—I shall withdraw my formula. Entirely. I am, after all, the only one who truly understands it.”

The room explodes with noise.

Howard’s chair screeches as he half-rises. “Excuse me?!” he roars, fists slamming onto the tabletop with a loud thud. Colonel Phillips jerks upright, mouth agape, while the rest of the committee erupts into frantic whispers and half-shouted protests. The hiss of shifting chairs, rustling papers, and outbursts of “Impossible!” or “He can’t do that!” fill the air.

Erskine, for his part, stands perfectly still, hands folded, letting the pandemonium wash over him. Tony’s heart spikes with a volatile mix of shock, gratitude, and fear. He knows Erskine wields significant power here, but actually watching the entire War Department quake at his ultimatum is… staggering.

Phillips recovers first, glowering at Erskine with all the intimidation a seasoned colonel can muster. “That’s blackmail, Doctor.”

Erskine inclines his head. “An ugly word for what is, at its heart, a pragmatic solution, Colonel. The SSR wants working super-soldiers. I want to ensure we do not kill the test subject or waste years and resources on meltdown after meltdown. Tony can provide that solution, or no one can. If you refuse him, you refuse me.”

Howard stabs a finger in Erskine’s direction. “The War Department owns your formula. We have contracts—”

“You have partial notes, incomplete processes,” Erskine corrects smoothly. “And you know it. Even your best scientists cannot replicate my serum without my final approval. So either we do this my way—Tony’s way—or we do not do it at all.”

The uproar intensifies, half the men in the room talking at once. Tony hears disjointed snatches: “A teenage Omega can’t command a federal project!” … “We’ll have a lawsuit on our hands!” … “Erskine’s gone mad.”

Senator Brandt tries to restore order, rapping a knuckle on the table. “Quiet!” But it’s no use; the cacophony roars on.

In the midst of the chaos, Tony stands there, heart a pounding blur of disbelief. He’d known Erskine supported him—but this? It’s like Erskine is burning every bridge behind them, forcing the War Department to accept Tony or let the entire project sink.

Howard whirls on Tony, eyes blazing. “You orchestrated this, didn’t you? You and Erskine, plotting behind my back—”

Tony bristles, but he can barely form words in the face of so much swirling argument. “I didn’t ask for this, I—”

Howard surges closer, as if he might yank Tony out of the room by force. But Colonel Phillips slams a hand down on the table, bellowing with the authority of a man used to commanding armies, “Enough!”

Slowly, the din falters. Brandt seizes the chance to speak again, voice low but urgent. “Doctor, we cannot simply place an Omega child in charge of a major military project. It’s— it’s unthinkable.”

Erskine’s eyes are tired, but resolute. “Then you cannot have my serum. Because I will not see it wasted on faulty machinery. Or see an innocent volunteer killed by meltdown. Tony’s designs are the only path to a stable Rebirth Chamber.”

Phillips glances uneasily at Brandt. The Senator’s face is twisted in an expression of profound discomfort—he knows exactly how big this bombshell is. If Erskine really walks away, the project is dead. All the money, all the time, all the political capital gone.

“You can’t be serious,” Brandt says at last, voice hushed.

Erskine shrugs. “I am quite serious, Senator. Tony either leads, or I go.”

A long moment passes. The hush now is even heavier than before, as if the entire room is holding its breath. Tony can’t tell whose side Colonel Phillips will take, or whether Senator Brandt can muster the guts to override Howard. Every cell in Tony’s body feels pulled taut, as though a single misstep might tear him open.

Howard, breathing raggedly, finally swings his gaze to Phillips. “This is insanity, Colonel,” he rasps, trying to keep his voice controlled. “We can’t let a male Omega—my son, no less—overstep every protocol we have. He has no legal freedoms. He’s—”

“He’s the only one who’s got the meltdown solution,” Phillips says curtly, echoing Erskine’s words. He scowls, leaning forward to glare at Tony. “But be damned if I let him gallivant around with full authority.”

Brandt exhales a shaky breath, color high in his cheeks. “Perhaps… a compromise,” he says, voice wavering. “Tony can provide his schematics and direct an engineering sub-division, under Erskine’s supervision. We’ll keep things quiet. Off the official record, if we must. This is a secret project anyway.”

Howard’s fist pounds the table. “Absolutely not.”

But Phillips rubs a hand over his face. “You really want to kill Rebirth over pride, Stark? Because that’s what you’ll do if Erskine pulls out. The War Department won’t have your back then, I can promise you that.”

Howard scowls, fury radiating off him in waves. But he falls silent, pinned by the Colonel’s unyielding stare.

Then, at last, Brandt forces a tight smile that is anything but happy. “We have an obligation to the war effort. We cannot afford to lose Dr. Erskine’s work. So I say we do it—quietly, discreetly. Tony… your meltdown modifications will be implemented. You’ll oversee them, at least until we have a viable prototype.”

He turns to Erskine, and his tone is clipped: “Doctor, you’ll be personally responsible for controlling the boy’s involvement. You answer to Colonel Phillips and me, and you keep him on a short leash. We can’t have the entire base gossiping about an unbonded Omega running advanced war tech. Understood?”

Erskine’s eyes flick to Tony, relief flooding them, but he merely nods, all professional calm. “Understood, Senator.”

Howard looks murderously at everyone, but even he can see that the tide has turned. He flexes his jaw once, seething. “Fine,” he chokes out, the word tasting like acid. “But if this fails—if one screw is loose—” His eyes pin Tony with lethal clarity. “You’re done. And I’ll make damn sure no one ever hears your name again.”

A charged quiet settles, as though the room itself is holding its breath. The War Department has spoken, but all Tony can feel is a cold spike of dread. The solution they’re proposing—that he hide behind Erskine’s authority, quietly enacting his meltdown fix—leaves him exactly where he’s always been: under Howard’s shadow, never truly safe. He can almost feel Tiberius’s contract tightening around his neck like a leash.

His heart pounds, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, summoning every scrap of nerve he has left. Because if he steps back now, he’ll just be trading one cage for another.

When he looks up, the gathered men see something in his face—something sharper than an Omega ought to have.

“Then I have terms,” Tony says quietly.

His voice slices through the stale air like a gunshot, and every head swivels. Eyes narrow in fresh alarm. Howard’s mouth twists into a sneer, but Tony doesn’t give him time to speak.

His voice is low, but it cuts across the stale air like a gunshot. Every head swivels, eyes narrowing in fresh alarm. Howard’s mouth twists in a sneer, but Tony doesn’t give him time to speak.

“I’m not asking for money or recognition,” Tony continues, and there’s a soft scoff from some War Department official near the back. Typical Omega, that expression says. Of course he isn’t in it for money. But Tony’s next words twist the room into a stunned hush.

“What I am asking for,” Tony says, letting the weight of it resonate, “is legal emancipation—from Howard’s guardianship and from the bonding contract he arranged with Tiberius Stone. I want it formally documented, notarized, and recognized by the SSR. And I want them—” his gaze snaps to Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt “—to enforce it.”

A ripple of incredulity passes through the assembly, shifting chairs, widened eyes. Even Agent Carter arches a brow in a flicker of surprise—though not disapproval. Howard practically sputters, red staining his cheeks.

“That’s impossible,” Howard snarls. “You can’t— there’s no mechanism— an Omega can’t just—”

Tony sets his jaw, forcing every ounce of resolve into his voice. “I don’t care if there’s ‘no mechanism.’ You all want my meltdown fix. Dr. Erskine refuses to proceed without me at the helm. So you’ll make it possible. Or we walk.”

Senator Brandt’s throat bobs as he swallows, struggling to regain composure. “Son,” he begins carefully, “emancipating an Omega from his legal guardian—especially a father of your… standing—” He casts a nervous glance at Howard, who simmers with malice. “That’s unprecedented. It would set off a firestorm of controversy if it got out.”

Colonel Phillips grimaces, muscles ticking in his jaw. “You’re talking about a direct challenge to both your father’s rights and your Alpha’s contract, Stark. That contract is recognized under state and federal codes. Nullifying it… There’s no precedent. None.”

Tony lifts his chin. He can feel his heart skidding against his ribs, every nerve screaming this is insane. But he plows onward anyway—because if he doesn’t, Tiberius Stone will own him in a matter of weeks, and Howard might do worse in retaliation.

“Then we find a workaround,” Tony says, each syllable ringing with a steadiness he doesn’t quite feel. “You label me an essential wartime consultant—like Dr. Erskine. A special exemption—something. Tie it to a hush-hush classification so no one can protest publicly. Keep me under SSR protection, if that’s what it takes. But I’m not stepping foot in your labs without legal assurances that neither Howard nor Tiberius can force me back.”

A murmur ripples among the men gathered—a swirl of shock, grudging admiration, outright horror. Tony spots more than one officer exchanging glances that say This Omega is barking mad… but maybe we can’t risk losing him.

Howard, for his part, looks like he’s on the verge of lunging at Tony. His fists tremble at his sides, eyes blazing. “You ungrateful—”

“Mr. Stark,” Erskine interrupts with chilling calm, “I suggest you let the Senator and Colonel decide. After all, if you truly care about Rebirth—and your own reputation, might I add—you won’t want word getting around that you let the entire project collapse over your personal vendetta.”

Howard’s mouth snaps shut, though his nostrils flare in rage. His stare bores into Tony, promising retribution if Tony so much as blinks.

Senator Brandt glances at Phillips with open anxiety. The Colonel blows out a measured breath, then turns to Tony. “We can’t just rewrite the law, kid. But…” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Given this is an SSR operation, off the public record, maybe we can file a special injunction. A restricted guardianship override, or something akin to a protective detail. We’re at war—there are emergency statutes. If we prove you’re vital to national defense…” He trails off, clearly wrestling with the implications.

Brandt’s lips press into a thin line. “We’d have to handle it quietly, beneath the War Department’s radar. You’d be bound to the SSR for the duration—no public disclosure, strict confidentiality. We’d keep official recognition of you to a minimum, which means no public appearances tied to the project and limited discussion with outside parties. You’ll be free to live off-base, if that’s what you want, but you must abide by strict security protocols. No unauthorized communication about Rebirth, and any travel will need SSR clearance. Is that acceptable?”

Tony’s chest feels too tight—he can’t tell if it’s fear or relief welling up. “That’s fine,” he manages. “As long as it keeps me out of Tiberius’s reach.”

“And out of your father’s,” Erskine adds pointedly.

For a beat, no one speaks. Then Howard’s voice, frosted with contempt, cuts through the hush. “Unbelievable,” he hisses. “You’d betray your own blood, defy every code we live by, just to—”

“It’s not betrayal,” Tony snaps. “It’s survival.”

Howard’s glare could set the room ablaze, but Colonel Phillips interrupts with the air of a man who’s made a reluctant decision. “Senator,” he says quietly, “I’ll need you to coordinate with War Department legal counsel—covertly. We’ll draft the paperwork under emergency provisions. If we do this, we do it fast.”

Brandt nods, sweat beading at his temple. “I’ll see what I can arrange.” His gaze skitters to Tony. “But you realize, young man, once we make you SSR property—pardon the phrasing—there’s no going back. You’ll be expected to deliver results. No second chances.”

Tony’s stomach churns, but he forces a small nod. “Understood. It’s a better fate than what’s waiting for me otherwise.”

A strained silence follows. All eyes fall on Howard, whose fury practically vibrates the table. But with Phillips and Brandt aligned, plus Erskine’s ultimatum, he’s locked into a corner.

He forces out a sneer, each syllable dripping venom. “Fine. Sign your precious injunction, or whatever damned nonsense you come up with. But don’t you think, for one second, you’ll win.” His gaze lands on Tony, making him feel pinned. “Because when this fails—and it will fail—I’ll be sure no one ever touches your so-called ‘emancipation’ with a ten-foot pole. I’ll bury you.”

Tony swallows hard, refusing to look away. “Then I’ll just have to make it work, won’t I?”

An ugly pause stretches, thick with the promise of war—of personal war, overshadowed by the real war raging overseas. But slowly, Colonel Phillips snaps the tension. He raps the table, voice harsh: “All right. That’s enough. Brandt, coordinate with legal. Stark—” He nods at Tony, an expression akin to grudging respect flitting across his features. “Get your meltdown fix ready for the next test. Doctor Erskine, you’re in charge of containing this mess until the paperwork is done. Nobody breathes a word outside this room. Understood?”

A collective murmur of assent rises, though it’s half-choked by Howard’s silent wrath and the swirl of shock among the staffers. Tony takes a shaky breath, forcibly unclenching his fists.

He came here hoping only to salvage a chance at freedom, or at least some measure of control. Now, somehow, he’s got the War Department dancing around an Omega emancipation. It’s dizzying.

Erskine gives Tony’s shoulder a fleeting, supportive squeeze. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—my associate needs to gather his notes and prepare the labs. Come. We should—”

“Tony,” a voice says.

The tension at the back of Tony’s neck coils like a striking snake. Slowly, he turns to find Howard, jaw clenched tight. Their gazes lock, and Tony’s pulse hiccups in raw, reflexive fear.

Erskine starts to step between them. “Mr. Stark, perhaps we can discuss—”

“I need a word with my son,” Howard announces. “Alone.” He doesn’t look at Erskine. Doesn’t look at Brandt or Phillips either. He only has eyes for Tony.

Tony feels the weight of every bruise, every insult, every threat that’s passed between them. The thought of being alone in a room with Howard sets his nerves aflame—he can practically feel the ghost of past violence prickling along his skin. But he meets his father’s stare anyway.

In the corner of his vision, Colonel Phillips steps closer, clearly uneasy at the request. “This may not be the time, Howard. We have a schedule and—”

But Tony draws a breath, something steadier than he expects. “It’s fine,” he says, voice surprisingly even. “Let him talk.”

He senses Erskine’s apprehension radiating beside him, but he can’t look the doctor in the eye right now. Instead, Tony squares his shoulders, forcing himself to swallow the knot of fear stuck in his throat.

“All right, Dad,” Tony sighs. “Let’s talk.”

Howard’s mouth twists, and without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the far door leading into a private corridor—one not cluttered with SSR personnel. Tony follows, ignoring the sidelong looks, ignoring the tension coiling in his own gut.

The last thing Tony sees before the door slides shut behind them is Erskine, brow furrowed, and Colonel Phillips rubbing the bridge of his nose like he already regrets letting the Starks vanish from sight.

What’s a few more regrets, anyway? Tony thinks, the door’s latch sealing with a soft click.

[syndrossi]

Hello! I feel like I’ve been away for so long. I just got a big project, and it’s been so busy that I barely have time to chat with anyone. I’m still busy, but I miss everyone, so I just wanted to stop by and say hi. I hope you’re doing well!

Also, I have a little request—could you write me a short piece about Maegor’s son or Aemon’s son? Lol. Thank you so much! ❤️

I know the busy/big project struggle. Fingers crossed you're not stuck in that hell for too long!

Here's a little Maegor's sons AU (which I have officially named the Regicide AU).

x~x~x

“I shall have him rent limb from limb and tossed to the pigs!”

Maegor’s spells of fury were a near nightly occurrence, and Rhaena’s fear for her own safety had subsided over time as it became clear that he saw her, in some twisted manner, as a confidant. Perhaps he even believed that she must love him, as his wife. It should not surprise her; his previous queens had doubtless simpered and expressed their own undying adoration to swell his ego.

His threats tonight were particularly heated, and she guessed that Lord Butterwell had struck a nerve. Briefly, she considered sending for the boys—the one surefire way she knew to calm his ire—but she had no great love for her husband’s master of coin and she was curious.

“What precisely did Lord Butterwell do?”

“He dared suggest that my succession was unstable.” Maegor’s face took on an even redder hue in his fury. “My succession! I have two sons destined for greatness, and doubtless more to come, and he questions the realm’s stability!”

“Perhaps he merely seeks to understand what the succession is,” Rhaena said, unable to help her bitterness.

Maegor, who had been pacing, arms barred behind his back, halted in place to fix her with a heavy scowl. “Do you mean to be obtuse?”

“It is a fair question,” she said, refusing to balk at his clear displeasure. “My brother Aegon was my father’s heir, and yet you proclaimed yourself king over him. Should Aerion fall while still in his prime, who succeeds him? Rhaegar, or Aerion’s sons?”

“Your father was a kind man,” Maegor said, seeking perhaps to be generous, “and a weak king. His sons would have fared the realm no better.”

“We shall never know,” Rhaena said, folding her hands in her lap to dissuade the sudden fantasy that rose in her to drive a sewing needle through his eyes. “You intend for Rhaegar to fight for the crown, then, against his nephews?”

Maegor’s scowl deepened, her husband ever sensitive to any suggestion that their sons were anything less than perfect. “Then let it be a Valyrian marriage between my sons and your daughters. If they perform their marital duties, there will be no way of knowing son from nephew.”

It is not the same, she considered pointing out. Why should a father cede rule to nephew or son? But already Maegor’s dark mood seemed to have cleared, his enthusiasm for his solution growing. 

“I shall announce it to the realm at the tourney for their third name day,” Maegor declared.

Behold, the superior king, Rhaena thought, twisting her sneer into the smile he expected for his cleverness. It was not Maegor who had prevented the realm from being plunged deep into crippling debt after years of war and reckless spending. Rather it had been her advice to flex their power outward, at the uneasy Free Cities watching from across the Narrow Sea, who had been all too willing to pay to make the threat of dragons go away.

That and the suspiciously lop-sided trade agreements Volantis had offered and her husband had blithely accepted. They had played to Maegor’s pride in his sons, proclaiming them heralds of greatness, chosen by the gods of old Valyria.

Those same gods of old Valyria had brought their ancient homeland only Doom. Her sons could do without such a blessing.

[witchygagirlwrites]

Together

Jay Halstead x Reader

You push people away. It's how you cope. Only a chosen few has managed to stick around. Jay is going to prove he's not going anywhere.

You were pulling away. You could feel it and knew Jay could too. The problem? You didn’t know how to not pull away. That little voice in your head that was so damn sure and strong when it came to work was so damn quiet and uncertain when it came to yourself. You loved Jay. You knew that with every fiber of your being but that damn little voice kept whispering “He can do better than you and he's going to figure it out”

As much as you didn't want to lose him as your lover, the thought of losing him as your friend hurt worse. He'd always been there as a cornerstone when you needed him.

When Voight suggested changing partners around you'd seen the fact that Jay wanted to argue written plainly in his eyes but you spoke up and said “I agree Sarge. It's good to switch it up every now and then”

You were partnered with Adam, Kim with Jay and Hailey with Kevin. It was a big change from the usual team but all of you worked well enough together, had for years.

While you were all gearing up to roll out you saw Jay move towards you so you turned towards Hailey “Upton, check that rear strap for me?” She smiled “Of course” and readjusted it slightly then asked you to check hers too. At least by her asking you it didn't just look like you were avoiding Jay, even if he looked like a kicked puppy when you met his eyes.

“Everyone knows what you should be doing. Come home in one piece” Voight said looking around at all of you. You each nodded in turn. You grabbed your long gun then winked at Kim “Don't worry babe. I got your fella’s back” she grinned “I know you do. I got Jay's”

You smiled slightly and Kevin cleared his throat “and Hailey’s got mine if yall care” your smile turned into a full grin as you cut your eyes at him “You know I care Atwater. Anything happen to you I'm fighting the ferrymen to bring you back myself” he grinned “My girl” and bumped his shoulder against yours.

Voight shook his head but you saw a small grin “Do your damn jobs” with that he dismissed you so you rolled out. It was a quick snatch and grab. You wouldn't say nothing should go wrong because you knew your job, anything could go wrong but it should be fairly easy.

The snatch and grab went down just as planned thankfully. Six arrests were successfully made.

You were walking out of the precinct when you heard Jay call your name so you stopped and turned to see him walking towards you with one of those smiles that always made your heart flip “Hey baby. You want to go get a drink or some food or something?”

You shrugged “I'm kinda tired honestly. I was going to just go home and crash” he nodded “I can bring takeout?” He looked so damn hopeful but that voice in your head wouldn't shut up for two fucking seconds screaming about how bad it's gonna hurt if you let yourself love him as deeply as you wanted to just for him to walk away.

“It's fine honey. Um raincheck for tomorrow?” He nodded, his face falling slightly. “Ok, did I do something?” You shook your head “No, why?” he motioned back to the precinct “I've seen you stand toe to toe with Voight over trying to make you partner with anyone else and today you agreed. You haven't wanted to go out or let me come over in days. Baby is there someone else?”

Your eyes widened slightly “What?” He shrugged “I don't know here. I mean we were doing good, I thought. Is it because we had sex? Are you pulling away because of that?” You shook your head, trying not to let your eyes tear up “No Jay, of course not. Sex with you is fucking amazing”

He grinned slightly “Then why have you barely let me kiss you all week?” You shrugged and opened your mouth to say something then clamped it back “I don't want to talk here. Can you grab the takeout?” He nodded “I'll be over in a few ok?” “Ok” he took a step closer and when you didn't pull away he pressed a kiss to your temple.

You sat on your couch, waiting for Jay to knock. When he did you were up and on your feet without thinking. You opened the door to let him in and he walked in carrying the takeout bags “I got Chinese”

He walked into your kitchen as you closed and locked the front door and you heard him putting the take out trays across the counter and throwing the plastic bag into your recycling bin before he walked back into the living room, shedding his jacket and walking over to you.

He stopped just shy of you and raised one eyebrow, silently asking permission. You stepped closer to him, slipping your arms around his waist and he pulled you against his chest “There's my girl. I was wondering where she went”

You cut your eyes up at him “I'm sorry I pushed you away Jay. It's just I think I realized I was falling in love with you and I freaked out because I don't even know why you're with me and…” you were cut off by him kissing you like he was a drowning man and you were the last taste of air.

You moaned lightly against his lips and when he finally pulled away both of you were breathing a little harder “You love me?” He asked and you nodded “I do” he grinned “Good, because I love you but get it straight from here on there will be no pushing me away. You try to push me? I'll grab you and pin you to a wall. We're in this together” you chuckled lightly “You just used you pinning me to a wall as a threat. That is a fantasy Halstead”

He smirked “Oh yeah? Well baby I can make that reality right now. Just tell me you love me one more time” you smiled “I love you Jay” he groaned lightly and leaned down far enough to pick you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist “I've went the last week and a half barely touching you. I'm making up for it tonight”

[egrets-not-regrets]

Saint Valentine

You watch as your Word Bearer, Aziel, and his group go down to the basement for their regular ritual. Little did you know they were planning to summon someone to ask for some odd advice.

Author’s Note: I have a Word Bearer OC now!

Tagged: @shadowfirecat , @kit-williams , @bleedingichorhearts , @barn-anon , @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@sleepyfan-blog , @bispecsual , @c-u-c-koo-4-40k , @ms--lobotomy

@gra93fruit-blog , @i-am-a-dragon34 , @felinisnoctis, @thevoidscreams, @yurihasurunbara

God love him, Aziel is very helpful and loyal (daresay a somewhat like a dog), and is a wonderful hype-man, but sometimes he can get a bit absurd and uncomfortably zealous about it. Not to mention him trying to convert you to believing the Four, whoever they are. You’re not particularly religious, but you’re of the opinion people can believe whatever they want to so as long as it doesn’t hurt others. You can take only so much chatter of worship of you and his gods after all. It got to the point you had to tell him to cut down the words of praise and worship lest you think he is being insincere. He was rather insulted by the fact that you questioned his sincerity for you, but he made an effort to not do that as much. His nicknames, however, never stopped.

You figured all this may be due to his loneliness and the lack of company of his peers, so you were relieved when Aziel found a group of Word Bearers to hang out with. Better for him to go out and socialize rather than pour all his focus on you. It wouldn’t do him much good to have too much of a codependent relationship with you.

Them together were an odd bunch, they all seem to look so different! Some seem to be living armor, while others, like Aziel, have more human like forms but with horns protruding from their head, looking the living embodiments of demons or monsters. They visited weekly, typically to discuss their own theological literature from what little you can understand in gothic, pray, and chant. It seemed no different than the Sunday worship that your christian friend took you to once. Sometimes listening to their chanting puts you to sleep at night.

Today’s visit was the same. The Word Bearers passed by with a nod or a wave as they made their way down to the basement as usual. You looked at your own Astartes carrying a box in his arms. Curious, you asked him, “What do you have in there?”

“Items for our ritual, my darling goddess.”

You couldn’t help but blush at his pet names, but frown at the mention of a ritual, “Please tell me that a half-decomposed animal carcass is not part of it.” the memory of a decomposing deer carcass that stunk up the house for several days made you want to wretch. Where did Aziel acquire such a thing any way? You wonder.

Aziel nuzzled you and reassuringly replied, “I promise it is nothing of that sort.”

Your shoulders sagged with relief and turned to start filling the kettle, “The usual for you guys?”

“Yes. Thank you, my radiant light.” The Word Bearer leaned down and kissed your temple. You giggled and smiled at him, “You’re welcome. You go ahead, tea and mocha will be ready up here when you’re done.”

Aziel purred as he nuzzled you again then left. You started to brew very strong coffee. You stuffed the massive tea strainer full with rooibos tea mixture, set out honey, a large tin of powder hot chocolate, and a jar of dried chili flakes. They had a preference for sweet and strongly flavored drinks given how much they enjoyed the mocha you made. Aziel and his friends would take a while and when they start their ending chants, it would be the perfect time to boil water.

You were reading a novel on your tablet when a cloying smoky scent filled your nostrils as if something was baked way too long. Was something burning? Smoke billowed out when you opened the door to the basement.

“Aziel?” You called out worriedly.

You coughed and waved the smoke away from your face. Concerned and forgetting that your Astartes could withstand a lot more than the average human, you rushed downstairs.

“We summon you, St. Valentine!”

You paused when you heard them say the name “St. Valentine”, catching on that they were trying to summon something or someone. When the smoke cleared, you were left standing awkwardly on the stairs, the group of Word Bearers staring at you, all positioned around a summoning circle drawn with what you hope was red paint. Three of them were kneeling in prayer, one was holding a book aloft, and another one was swinging an incense burner pouring with smoke. Aziel stood in front of them as if directing the entire ritual. A heart shaped box of chocolates and a bouquet of red roses laid in the middle. It was clear the St. Valentine they were trying to summon was the St. Valentine of Valentine’s Day. Not that it did anything.

“Sorry… Aziel. I… I thought… something was burning.” You stuttered in embarrassment, quickly turning to go back upstairs, “I’ll go, sorry I interrupted you.”

Suddenly, you felt yourself falling forward into an armoured embrace.

“Don’t leave. Please, my guiding star.” Aziel rubbed his face against your hair like a cat seeking affection.

“But don’t you have to finish the ritual?”

His grip tightened, scared that you would disappear if he let go, “We are finished, but the ritual was not successful.” He mumbled.

You felt bad for breaking their focus at such a critical moment thus contributing to their failure, “I’m sorry…” you started.

As if he knew already what you’re going to say, Aziel reassured you, “You have no fault in this. It is much more difficult to summon anything in ancient Terra. Do not fret.”

His fire-patterned eyes held a glimmer of humour and something else as you looked at him, “We summoned you after all.” he chuckled.

You snorted and laughed, “I don’t think that counts. Why are you guys trying to summon St. Valentine?”

“We wish to ask for his wisdom in properly courting our bonded.” Aziel replied earnestly.

Your mouth dropped open. Heat spread across your face and your heart skipped a few beats. You stammered, “You… I… um… you want to court me?” Aziel was very devoted to you and at times a little too devoted, but you thought it was just the way he was as a Word Bearer. Never in your wildest imagination did you think that Aziel had feelings for you to the point he would try to summon St. Valentine to ask for advice. It was a lot to take in. Perhaps you’ll take the lead and rein back Aziel a bit, knowing how gungho he could get

The fact that his buddies went along with him to do so just made the situation even more ridiculous. You laughed and reached to rubbed the smudge of dirt off the base of one of his horns. Purring loudly, Aziel leaned into your touch. You then cupped his face with your hands stroking the scarified mark on his left cheek, “I am very flattered. But…”

Aziel’s face fell.

His face brightened once again when you pecked his nose with a quick kiss, “You silly man. I was about to say let’s talk about how I want to be courted and we can go from there.”

If your Word Bearer had a tail, he would be wagging it in happy excitement, “You are saying ‘Yes’?” he asked.

“Yes. Now, go clean up and bring the chocolate and flowers up with you. Then we’ll chat. I’m sure it will help your brothers as well.”

Aziel gently pressed his lips against yours, “Of course, my lovely moon lily.” before releasing you from his grasp.

[butterflywingswrites]

reposting all my anon fics in one place. enjoy 🤗

(running out of fics, send asks)

revenge sex with caitlin part 2

you made out with caitlin and ran your fingers through her soft hair

“does your boyfriend kiss you like this?”

“no” she whimpered out between kisses “you’re better”

“i’ll show you how much better i can be” you kissed down her neck, biting and leaving marks to show how good you were making her feel. you grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it off over her head. you raised your eyes at caitlin’s lacy bra underneath

“cait were you planning this?”

“well i wore it just in case” she said shyly “i wanted to be pretty for you”

“you’re always pretty” you put your hands under her bra and started massaging her tits, making sure her nipples were getting the attention they clearly weren’t getting before. with your hands still in her bra, you started kissing down her abs. you always loved when she showed off her abs and now you got the privilege to kiss them. you moved your hands out of her bra to pull her pants off

“matching set? damn caitlin you really did plan this” she looked absolutely stunning in her lacy set, but she covered her face as if she were embarrassed

“i just wanted to be prepared” she squeaked out

“babygirl don’t be shy. i love it. you look so sexy. but i want them off now” you tugged her underwear off her hips. you paused for a bit, potentially a second too long

“what’s wrong? do you not want me? we can stop—“

“you’re gorgeous and i want you” it was your turn to cut her off “i’m just thinking about how i want you. do you want my fingers or my tongue?”

“mhmm both” she moaned out. clearly she’s been deprived of the sexual attention she needs

“whatever you want my pretty girl” you rubbed two fingers on her clit, gently testing out how she wanted to be touched. she responded well to that so you continued while moving her bra cup to the side. you placed a gentle kiss on her hard nipple then flicked it with your tongue. caitlin let out a soft whimper

“more” you flicked her nipple with your tongue again

“do you want me to suck on your pretty nipples?” instead of answering, caitlin just pushed your head against her chest. you gently sucked on her nipple while continuing to rub circles on her clit. the sexy moans and whimpers that left her mouth were leaving you soaked. caitlin tugged on your hair aggressively, signaling that she was close

“feels so good don’t stop” her begging turned you on even more. you kept going until she came on your fingers

“that’s it, let go babygirl” you let her ride out her orgasm on your fingers and kissed her

“fuck that was so good” caitlin said breathlessly

“i’m not done with you yet” you kissed her again “i still need to taste you” you moved your head down her body so you could eat her out properly. the way she deserves

you placed her thighs over your shoulders and moaned when you saw how wet she was. you took your time kissing her pretty thighs, enjoying the moment. when you got to her pussy you gave her a slow lick up her entrance

“fuck caitlin”

“what’s wrong? do i not taste good?” caitlin confused your words of pleasure for distaste

“no babygirl. he never tells you, does he? you taste so fucking good. i can’t wait to eat that pretty pussy” you started to lick her slowly, trying to build anticipation for her and savor the taste for yourself

“i need more” caitlin put her hands in your hair and tugged. you quickened your tongue to try and give her what she wanted. the soft moans that left her mouth told you she was getting it. you brought your thumb to her clit, already sensitive from the first orgasm you gave her. when your thumb made contact, her thighs tightened around your head. her moans got louder and you knew she was close. with a loud moan and a tug at your hair, caitlin came on your tongue. you lapped gently at her pussy, cleaning her up while trying to memorize her taste

“i bet he doesn’t make you cum like that” you smirked. caitlin was totally fucked out

“no. he doesn’t make me cum even half as good as that. not even a quarter as good” she admitted

“don’t worry babygirl, i’ll always be here to make you feel good”

[nameless-jamie]

Blush part 2

Masterlist - Blush part 1

Jamie Tartt x fem! shy receptionist reader

TW: cursing, kissing

It had been a couple of weeks since that kiss, and things had only gotten better between them. Every day, Y/N felt more at ease around Jamie, though the playful teasing and the flirting never seemed to stop. He was always making her laugh or turning her insides into a chaotic mess of nerves, but now, it didn’t feel so intimidating. Instead, it felt comforting in its own way.

Y/N had never been the type to do anything out of her comfort zone, but with Jamie, she found herself trying new things, letting go of the tight hold she’d kept on her shyness. He made it feel easy, in a way that no one else had.

It was a Friday afternoon, and the team had just finished training. Y/N was wrapping up some last-minute tasks at the front desk when Jamie appeared at the reception. He leaned against the counter with that familiar smirk on his face.

“Got time for a coffee, love?”

She glanced at the clock. “I should probably finish up here and then go home—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted, his voice teasing. “It’s just coffee. I promise I won’t keep you too long.”

Y/N smiled at his insistence. “You’re really hard to say no to, aren’t you?”

Jamie’s eyes sparkled. “Only when I’m asking for something important.”

“Like a coffee?”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Laughing, Y/N grabbed her jacket and followed him out the door. The two of them walked to the nearby café, a quiet spot just outside the stadium, where they could sit and talk without the usual distractions.

They settled into a cozy corner booth, and Jamie immediately ordered for both of them, knowing her favorite drink by now. It was a small thing, but it made her heart flutter every time.

“So,” Jamie started, leaning across the table toward her. “How’s life been treating you outside of work? Any fun plans this weekend?”

Y/N shook her head, her fingers nervously tapping on the coffee cup. “Honestly, I’m not much of a planner. I usually just stay in, catch up on podcasts, or watch a few movies. Nothing too exciting.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you need a change of pace, then.”

“I’m good,” she replied, though her voice was soft. She liked the quiet. She liked her space.

But Jamie didn’t let it slide. “How about we do something fun together this weekend? Just you and me. I’ll promise to keep it low-key, I swear. Maybe a walk in the park or a trip to that movie you’ve been meaning to see?”

Y/N looked at him, a little stunned by how easy it was to just be around him. A few weeks ago, she would’ve never considered doing something spontaneous. But now, with Jamie sitting across from her, smiling like he always did, it didn’t seem so scary.

“I’d like that,” she said quietly.

Jamie grinned, reaching across the table to gently squeeze her hand. “Good. It’s a date, then.”

The words felt like a promise, and she couldn’t help but feel her heart flutter at the thought. Another date. With Jamie Tartt.

As they finished their coffee, they talked about everything and nothing. Jamie teased her about being too quiet sometimes, while she pointed out that he never stopped talking. It was a comfortable banter, the kind that made her laugh without feeling self-conscious.

When they left the café, it was already starting to get dark. They stood outside for a moment, the air crisp and cool as the city around them buzzed with life.

Jamie’s gaze softened as he looked at her, his hand brushing against hers once more. “I’m really glad we did this, you know. You’re…” He trailed off, his voice almost shy for a moment. “You’re different, love. In a good way.”

Y/N felt her face heat up at the unexpected compliment, but instead of shying away, she smiled. “Thanks, Jamie.”

He looked at her for a long moment, before leaning in slightly. Y/N was unsure whether to take another step. But Jamie, took the lead this time, leaned forward first, giving her a quick but sweet peck.

She froze, eyes wide in surprise.

Jamie laughed. “I thought I should give it a go this time."”

Y/N grinned a real, genuine smile that made her eyes light up.

Jamie laughed softly. “I really like you, Y/N.”

Deep down, she knew that this was just the beginning of something real between them. Something worth exploring.

And for once, she wasn’t scared of it.

It had been a couple of weeks since their sweet, spontaneous second kiss, and things between Jamie and Y/N had been moving at a comfortable pace. They spent more time together outside of work, sneaking away for coffee dates or quiet walks, sometimes talking for hours about everything and nothing. It felt like they were both in their own little world, a bubble of their own making.

But Jamie had been thinking about one thing for a while now: He wanted to make things official.

He wasn’t the type to be shy about his feelings, but with Y/N, everything felt different. He’d seen the way she blushed when he called her "love" or how she’d duck her head when he complimented her. He didn’t want to push her too hard, but at the same time, he couldn’t stop thinking about how right it felt whenever they were together.

One evening, after the team had finished training, Jamie had been sitting in the locker room, waiting for everyone else to leave. He had his mind set on one thing: He was going to ask Y/N to be his girlfriend.

It didn’t take long for Y/N to finish up her work at the front desk. She stepped into the locker room, looking as cute and shy as always.

“Hey, you,” Jamie called, his voice soft but filled with warmth.

Y/N turned, her heart skipping a beat at the sound of his voice. “Hey, Jamie. Everything okay? You're all alone in here.”

Jamie stood, walking toward her with purpose. There was a glint of something different in his eyes, something tender. “Yeah, just waiting for you.”

Y/N blinked, confused. “For me?”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand brushing a lock of hair from her face. “I wanted to talk to you.”

The warmth in his voice made Y/N’s heart race. “What’s going on?”

Jamie looked at her seriously for a moment, before breaking into a smile. “I want you to be my girl, Y/N. No more teasing, no more games. I want everyone to know. Want to kiss you every day from now on.”

Y/N’s face flushed a deep red. She wasn’t used to this kind of attention, especially not from men. But as Jamie pulled her closer, her nerves seemed to fade away. She felt safe in his arms.

"I would love that, Jamie."

Jamie leaned in, slowly, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that felt like it could stop time. It wasn’t rushed or filled with passion—it was soft, intimate, a promise of more to come. For a moment, Y/N lost herself in it, her hands gripping the sides of his shirt as she tried to process everything.

When they finally pulled away, Jamie gave her a gentle, affectionate smile. “You’re mine, now. Can't get rid of me.”

Y/N smiled shyly, feeling her cheeks heat up. “I’m yours,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The next day, when Y/N walked into work, she couldn’t shake the memory of the kiss. She had barely been able to look at Jamie without blushing. It wasn’t just the kiss, though. It was everything—the way he made her feel, the way he looked at her like she was the only one that mattered. She had never experienced anything like it before, and it left her feeling like she was walking on air.

As she was sitting at the reception desk, typing up some emails, she heard a familiar voice.

“Good morning, babe.”

Y/N looked up to see Jamie leaning against the counter, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Morning, Jamie,” she said quietly, unable to hide her blush. She quickly turned her attention back to her computer screen, feeling her pulse spike as he stood there, watching her.

He leaned in a little closer, his voice low. “You alright, love? You seem a little... flustered.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m fine, just... working.”

“Yeah, but you’re blushing, babe.” he teased, his smile widening.

Y/N’s face went crimson as she looked up at him, but she didn’t have the words to respond. Instead, she ducked her head, trying to hide her embarrassment.

Before she could say anything, Jamie moved around the counter, his hand gently lifting her chin so she had no choice but to meet his eyes. “You’re so cute when you blush, you know that?”

Y/N swallowed, feeling like her entire body was on fire. “Jamie, please…”

But he didn’t stop there. With one smooth motion, he leaned down and kissed her—right there, in front of the reception desk, in front of anyone who might walk by. His lips were soft, teasing her with a gentle pressure that made her pulse race.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Jamie, not here,” she mumbled, trying to put her focus back on the paperwork in front of her, but the warmth on her cheeks was impossible to ignore.

“Why not? You’re my girl now. I can’t wait to tell the whole team,” he said with a wink.

She dropped her pen, flustered, trying to recover from the rush of emotions his words triggered. “Jamie, seriously—”

But he was already grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I’m not shy about it, love. We’re official now, yeah?”

Y/N looked around, hoping no one else was listening, but the team was starting to trickle in. The last thing she wanted was for everyone to know she was the center of Jamie Tartt’s teasing attention.

“Yeah,” she muttered, looking up at him with a sheepish smile. “We’re official.”

Jamie’s grin grew wider, and he leaned in closer. “Damn right. And everyone’s gonna know about it.” He placed a hand on the counter, propping himself up like it was the most natural thing in the world. “My girl, right here.”

Y/N could feel the heat rising in her face. “Jamie, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started.” Jamie didn’t seem at all sorry, though. He was practically glowing with pride. “Hey, everyone!” he called out, not caring who heard. “Y/N’s my girlfriend now! Can you believe it?”

Y/N’s eyes widened in panic and she slapped his leg a little. “Jamie, stop!”

“Don’t worry, love,” Jamie whispered, his lips brushing against her ear as he leaned down. “Just proud to show you off.”

Y/N felt like she might melt right into the floor. “Jamie...” she murmured her voice barely a whisper.

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying how flustered he’d made her. “You’re too fucking pretty, you know that?"

By now, the entire team had entered, and a few of the players, including Roy, Keeley, and some of the others, had overheard.

“Uuuuuuh Jamie’s got a girlfriend!” Colin teased from the side, grinning widely as he shot a wink at Jamie.

“Yup, this beautiful girl right here,” Jamie said, turning toward Y/N with a grin that could melt anyone.

Roy, who had been pretending to look busy with his coffee, raised an eyebrow at the two of them. “You two are something else.”

“I’m just letting everyone know I’m off the market,” Jamie shot back, nudging Y/N with his shoulder as he grinned.

Y/N could feel her whole face burning as she looked down at the desk, trying to hide behind it. “I’m not ready for all this attention, Jamie.”

But Jamie wasn’t about to let it go. He jumped off the reception and came up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her into his side in a way that was both possessive and comforting. “Gotta deal with it, love,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear it.

“I don’t know how you manage to make everything so embarrassing,” she muttered, though there was a trace of affection in her voice.

“Guess that’s part of the charm,” Jamie replied, his grin never faltering.

As the day went on, the teasing from Jamie continued, and Y/N was constantly aware of his presence. He’d flash her a smile across the room, call her "his girl" in front of the team, and make her cheeks burn every time. Despite the teasing, though, she could tell he wasn’t trying to make her uncomfortable—he was just proud.

When it was time to leave for the day, Jamie stood by the front desk again, waiting for Y/N.

“Ready to go, love?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

Y/N gave him a shy smile, still trying to keep her cool despite the way her heart fluttered. “Yeah, let’s go.”

As they walked out of the building, Jamie couldn’t resist one last teasing remark. “Next time, I’ll be introducing you to the world, Y/N. Can’t hide my beautiful girl from anyone anymore.”

Y/N shook her head, but inside, she couldn’t help but feel a warm rush of affection.

Deep down, she knew one thing for sure: she was falling for him, and there was no turning back now. Jamie wasn’t just AFC Richmond's best striker, or the guy she’d had a crush on for months—he was her boyfriend now. And she was his.

[inkyrainstorms]

The Martian Stan AU - The Apology - Excerpt

Ford was working as he always was nowadays, half listening to the radio behind him and trying to stop his heart from jumping in his throat every time that Stan stopped speaking for more than 10 minutes and nothing but static filled the room again. Ford wasn’t sure what exactly his brother was talking about anymore, as he welded a set of support bolts into place, but he nearly dropped the welding gun on his foot when Stan suddenly spoke after a long stretch of silence.

“Ford?”

Ford fumbled for a moment before shoving a stack of loose paper aside and  setting the welding gun down on the table beside him. He put his hands on either side of the radio on the same cluttered table and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart.

“Yes, Stanley?” He asked softly.

Stan, of course, didn’t hear him, but had paused as if waiting for a response before continuing anyway.

“I know, I know damn well you’re probably never gonna hear this, but I need to say it anyway before… Well. I don’t need to eat as often and shit and I know you’d love to figure out why but… I’m not sure how long I’m gonna last out here either way.”

Ford didn’t say anything, staring down at the wooden grain of the table like he could burn a hole clean through it with his thoughts alone. His palms ached from where he’d dug in his fingernails, and his shoulders mangled to hunch even further.

Stan laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound.

“Ah, damnit. This isn’t about me. Can’t even do this right, you idiot” His brother took a deep breath. “ But Ford… I think I need to apologize.”

Some old, fossilized hurt in Ford’s heart snarked ‘you think?’, but Ford nearly gagged as he suffocated the thought before it could take root anew. He felt sick.

Oblivious to Ford’s turmoil —and of course he was, because he didn’t know Ford was right here, that Ford wasn’t going to let one of the last things he ever said to Stan be that he thought Stan was worthless— Stan continued.

“I don’t think I ever got to, back when… you know. What I said that night is a bit of a blur to me to be honest, but I know I was spouting nonsense and saying all the wrong shit and… Moses, Ford. I know it’s too late now but I’m sorry. I really am.”

Something in Ford simultaneously healed and broke in his chest at Stan’s words, but he didn’t get the chance to process it because Stan wasn’t quite done yet.

“And I need you to know it wasn’t on purpose. I’d never do that to you. Never. Why would I ever want to hurt you like that, poindexter? I just… I was scared and I didn’t want to be alone in Glass Shard Beach scraping barnacles off the Taffy shop for the rest of my miserable life and I wasn’t. Thinking.” Stanley’s voice had been rising in a steady crescendo, but suddenly got so quiet that Ford had to strain to catch the words in the buzzing static. “I’d… I shouldn’t have gone into the gym. I shouldn’t have even gone near your friggin project. I didn’t go there to break it, I would never—“ his voice broke. “I thought you knew that. I’m your brother, you dingbat, why would I ever want to hurt you?When did I ever not support you, man?”

“Then why did you do it?” Ford whispered back, just as quiet. That old anger he’d tried to push down rose up again, simmering. Stan knew he’d poured months of his life into the perpetual motion machine, that he’s shed more than a few tears and more than a little blood and sweat over it. And then he’d thrown it all away?

“I’d only hit the table, ya know. Didn’t think the grate’d pop off or anything like that. I tried to fix it. I know I should’ve told you, I know and I’m sorry, just…” I was scared, goes unspoken. Ford’s legs were shaking, and he tried to steadily himself by leaning further on the table. “I know I should’ve told you. I know. I messed up fuckin’ good, Sixer.” Ford flinched.

“I’m. I know you’re never gonna get the apology you deserve cause I was too much of a coward to actually call you and say something.” Stan’s voice was shaking. And I’m sorry for that too. And I’m sorry for not listening to you about your stupid book, and I’m sorry— ugh. We’ll be here all day trying to name my fuckups. That’s the last sorry you’ll ever hear from me you nerdy, uh, nerd.”

Stan sighed loud enough for the radio to crackle and screech. “Good going, Stan,” he muttered, his voice getting quieter as he evidently walked away, done.

And all that was left was static.

Ford pushed himself away from the table and sank into the rolling chair nearby, putting his face in his hands and trying to breathe as the chair was pushed back several feet from his momentum.

“He’s lying,” Ford tried to say, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. “He’s trying to make it so… so.” He faltered. “He’s obviously trying to deceive me.”

Trust no one.

But he had trusted Stan. And Stan got hurled into a Dimension of Nightmares for it.

Stan has no reason to lie, Fords mind whispered, because it was always against him no matter what stance he took. He doesn’t think you’re coming to save him. Why wouldn’t he try to explain the worst mistake of his life in a fit of guilt and complete loss of hope?

“Shut up,” Ford said intelligently, and he didn’t dare pry his face away from his hands, heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets and pushing up his glasses to his hairline

Stan had no reason to lie.

Stan came to help him at the drop of a hat after ten years of being too afraid to even call him. 

Stan… Stan didn’t mean to break his project. It was a stupid accident, done by a stupid teenager too afraid to admit his own failings. Stan didn’t betray Ford. Not like he thought his twin had, for all these years.

Ford was wrong. About everything. He was wrong about Stan and Bill and Fiddleford and, Moses, had he ever done anything right in his entire, miserable life? Ford didn’t know. 

The empty bunk bed beneath his own  for those last few fateful months before Backupsmore, the tears and screaming at a boat that never even left the shore, the years of resentment and refusing to believe he missed his own twin, what was it all for? Because Ford suddenly felt the sharp sting of grief all over again, throbbing with a ferocity he’d refused to acknowledge for the past few weeks. Years. 

It was like he was 17 years old again, mourning for all the wrong reasons and all the right ones too. For his brother. For his chance to become someone worthy of recognition, of love. For pushing away the ones who’d already loved him.

For the first time since the day Stan fell into the portal all those weeks ago, Ford pulled his knees up to his chest on the seat and, in the safety of his own arms, he wept.

The static crackled on, steady and unchanging. Unforgiving.

———————

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face @littlelilliana15 (if anyone else wants to be tagged pls let me know! I’m going to probably be posting more for this au sometime this week)

I have ideas for a mini comic and a whole animatic using Space Oddity so I’ll just have to see how far I get, really

[moosesarecute]

Chapter 11: The Shadow to my Flame

Series masterlist

Masterlist

“That’s insane, Az,” Cassian was the first to speak.

As if Azriel didn’t already know that it was insane. He couldn’t be mated to a Vanserra.

Ashe Vanserra.

He only stood and waited for his brothers to continue the conversation. He felt speechless. He needed them to tell him that he was wrong. He was in total denial.

“Why do you think she’s a Vanserra?” Rhys was the next to speak. His voice was a lot calmer than Cassian’s. Hearing him call her a Vanserra made Azriel shiver.

“I have a few different theories.”

“Okay,” Rhys said with a few nods. “Let’s not jump to conclusion. Take a few deep breaths and explain.”

Azriel did what his brother suggested and started talking.

“First of all. I found this document,” he picked it up from his bag and gave it to his brother.

“You stole documents from Autumn?”

Azriel ignored the comment and continued speaking.

“It says that the Lady of Autumn had a still birth 160 years ago. Ashe is 160 years. Second of all, she got taught together with Lucian. Why else  would a servant get education with a High Lord’s son? And she’s good friends with Eris. He protects her. What if he does it because she is his…you know.”

He had to stop and take a few more breaths. This felt so wrong. He needed them to tell him that he was wrong. He couldn’t even say aloud that she was Eris’ sister.

His mate. He just wanted her to be as kind and lovely he had experienced her so far.

“Thirdly,” he then picked up the book he stole from Ashe and the red hair. “There is a law that says that all servants with red hair must colour their hair. If you look at the date of the law, it is from 160 years ago. I found this in Ashe’s cabin. She has red hair.”

And then came the reason that made him want to throw up. He hated to know that they had hurt his mate so badly, without reason.

“I told you guys about Thord, right? Well, the soldiers found out Thord got away and Samli, his mate, was going to be punished because of it. Ashe refused to see her friend get hurt because of something she did, so she volunteered to take the punishment.”

Azriel then picked up the last document and handed it to his brothers. He got an overwhelming feeling of anger as he continued.

“Samli was sentenced to ten lashes,” he struggled to continue talking. Both fear and anger took too much space. Why was he suddenly feeling so much? “Ashe had to drink faebane and got thirty-one lashes, where the last six was given by Beron himself. And he sat the whip on fire. He wants her dead, so we have to get her out.”

Azriel then sat down. Cauldron, he felt overwhelmed. Rhys and Cass were both visibly thinking. For a long time. They were as speechless as Azriel.

“Beron didn’t want us to see him beside her for such a long time,” Rhys muttered. “That’s why he made her leave during the dinner that day...”

Azriel only nodded. That was what made Azriel look into Ashe’s heritage in the first place.

“Well, I think you’re right,” Rhys said and Azriel’s heart sunk.

No!

He wasn’t supposed to be right. He was supposed to be insane. He wanted nothing more than to be insane.

Azriel struggled to breathe. He felt so terrified. His shadows engulfed him completely, and his brother’s voices muffled.

His sweet, kind and wonderful mate was the daughter of the most terrifying male in Prythian.

His head was spinning. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was tightened. He was dying. He was sure of it. Terror spread through his body. His heartrate got so much quicker than it should. And then he felt immense pain on his back and legs.

Wait?

Why were his legs hurting?

 “Azriel?” he heard his brother’s voice a lot clearer.

Cauldron, he was burning. He was being set on fire. He was sure of it.

He abruptly stood up and had to look at his legs and over his shoulders. There was no fire.

Which only meant one thing.

“She’s burning,” he said aloud as he realized.

His brothers started asking him what he was talking about, but Azriel had already left.

He didn’t care. If his mate was a traitor, he would deal with it later. If she had known about her heritage all along and lied to him, he would deal with it when they got to the night court. He would not risk her being innocent in all of this and being hurt, again, because of it.

He felt himself praying. He needed her to be okay. Even tears pressed at his eyes. He couldn’t find out what was his feelings and what was hers.

He needed to get to his Ashe. And for the moment, he let himself forget about all the difficult dilemmas he had to figure out later. He was going to save his mate.

And no one.

No one, no matter what felony they had committed, deserved to be burned.

“Walk with me,” he said.

Ashe almost threw up from fear only at his command. She wore no shoes, and she was in her nightgown, but the High Lord didn’t care.

He stood tall with his hands on his back and started to walk slowly down the corridor.

Ashe wasn’t stupid. She knew that they knew. They must somehow have figured out that she was helping the night court. There was no other reason to why the High Lord would command her out off her room in the middle of the night.

She was getting killed.

Ashe was terrified, but at the same time, she was proud of her work. She had saved Thord. She was helped preventing one of the bigger attacks and she had helped the Night Court knowing what they would have to do to stop the High Lord.

And she had met a very wonderful male.

It was now getting her killed, but she had lived so much only in the last couple of weeks, so it was fine.

Ashe walked beside the High Lord until they reached the balcony. It was warm outside, but with a clod breeze. It was typical that the weather would be nice when Ashe was dying.

“Do you know why I have brought you here?”

His voice brought shivers down her back once more. She took a few deep breaths to at least not shake from her terror. She was going to stay strong, even in her last moments.

“I don’t, my lord.”

She most definitely did, but just in case she was wrong, she chose not to say anything.

“Some very important documents have disappeared from my office. I have a suspicion the Shadowsinger is the one that took them.”

Yep, she was definitely dead.

“Maria told me something quite interesting recently. That when the Shadowsinger escaped from his cell, you were nowhere to be seen.”

Maria?

Maria had told on her? What? Maria was her friend! She wouldn’t have! Right?

“She also told me that you asked for a night leave at a very late time on the exact day your friend, the lesser one, got out of Autumn. And my spies tell me that he was delivered to the Shadowsinger. It would be a pitty for nobody to protect the mate of the lesser fae any longer.”

Oh no.

Cauldron no.

He was not going to hurt Samli.

“160 years,” he continued. “I have waited 160 years to have a reason to do this.”

Ashe froze. He had waited all her life to do it? To kill her? Why did he want to kill her? Ashe hadn’t even known he knew about her until recently.

She had almost no time to think before she felt the fire. She screamed her lunges out as it wrapped around her legs and up to her back.

She tried her best to use her own, safe fire to set herself on fire. To use her fire to stop his, but he was too strong. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blackened. It was so hot. It was burning her. She smelled her skin burning.

She fell to the ground and the coldness was comfortable for a few seconds before the fire again got hold of her.

She would wake everyone. Everyone in the Forest House would hear her die. That’s probably what he wanted. To make an example out of her one last time.

She no longer had enough breath to scream. She could only let out whimpers.

Ashe fought to keep her eyes open. She refused to give up.

Somehow, she had the hope that someone would save her. Someone would come and give her a second chance at life.

So she tried to breathe and think cold thoughts. She tried to keep her eyes open, but the heat soon made it harder and harder.

She screamed the last she could. That was is. She was dying, she was now gone and soon forgotten. She was-

“Get your hands off my daughter.”

The voice was close, but distant at the same time. But Ashe didn’t care. Relief. She felt so much relief as multiple buckets off water made the fire around and on her disappear.

Ashe heard a loud bang and then heard a body fall to the ground. She almost didn’t dare to move. Please say that was the High Lord falling to the ground and not her saviour.

“You need to leave, my dear,” the voice told her. Ashe felt hands on her back and shoulders and whimpered at the pain from the touch. “I’m so sorry, my little one. Please, you need to leave.”

It was first then that Ashe realized who was speaking.

The Lady of Autumn.

Ashe turned and saw the tears and burn-mark on the Lady’s face. She looked further and saw the High Lord knocked out, but stirring a little.

“You got to leave,” the Lady said again, now Ashe heard enough to notice the pain and sobs in her voice.

Get your hands off my daughter.

She must have heard wrong.

“Daughter?” she whispered with a whimper.

The Lady lifted her up on her feet and gave her the gentlest hug. Ashe just wanted to sink into her. The Lady’s hands held her head and brushed carefully through her burned hair.

“Yes, my dearest,” she answered and wrapped a thick blanket around Ashe. Her nightgown was burned, so she needed to wear something. “We don’t have time to explain, you have to get out.”

Ashe didn’t even have time to start her existential crisis before they heard another voice.

“Traitor.”

The High Lord suddenly stood right behind Ashe and the Lady. The Lady pushed Ashe inside and closed the door to the balcony. She stood like a human wall and tried to prevent the High Lord getting to Ashe.

Ashe had blisters everywhere and cried for every step she took, but she walked as fast as she could.

Get out, get out, get out, get out.

“There you are!”

Ashe didn’t even turn to see who had found her before she almost fell through the door of the closest cupboard.

Of course it was the one where Azriel had kissed her.

She tried to keep her hisses and whimpers of pain quiet as she waited for people to pass.

“I’ve got you now, princess.”

Ashe had to force herself to think about anything else. She could not think about what the Lady had revealed. She was just a normal servant.

Azriel.

She would think about Azriel.

His soft mouth and pretty eyes.

She heard the steps getting closer.

His comforting smell and cool shadows.

“You can’t get away this time.”

The small smile he wore when it was only the two of them.

How hot he looked in his suit.

“I’m got you-” the sentenced ended with gurgling. Ashe realized it was gurgling of blood. Someone had cut his throat.

“Ashe, we need to leave,” Eris told her. Ashe have never been so relived and at the same time furious at hearing his voice.

“How am I supposed to trust you after what I have just learned?”

Eris realized immediately what she was talking about.

“I don’t expect you to trust me, but I know you’re smart enough to know that if we don’t go now, you’ll be dead within the hour.”

Ashe hated that he was right. She opened the door, and Eris immediately grabbed her by the wrist.

One second, they stood in the Forest House, the next, they were on the border to Summer.

Ashe ripped her hand out of Eris’ grip.

“You have to leave,” Eris said. “As long as you’re over the border you’ll be safe. I’ll explain everything, I promise you Ashe, but for now, you need to leave.”

His eyes were big. He was terrified. Her brother…

Eris had done this before, Ashe remembered. He had gotten Lucian to Spring. And now, he was helping her to Summer.

“Please, Ashe,” he said and gave her a small push towards the border.

“I’m not leaving without Samli,” she answered and got almost confused at the sound of her voice. It was so weak, rough and shaky.

“Wait here,” Eris said with a slightly annoyed sigh.

Eris was done within a second.

Ashe stood and waited. She struggled to stand, so she eventually started to lean further and further backwards. Her feet followed, and she felt herself crash into a tree.

She was ready to fall down to the ground, when the arms of the tree caught her.

Wait, what?

“I got you.”

She burst out crying at his voice. The shadows spread all around her body to cool down her blisters and burn-marks.

“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” he whispered.

Ashe had no longer any energy to stay up by herself. All the adrenalines left the second he touched her.

He kissed her head and Ashe cried even more.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered again and kissed her forehead so tenderly.

“Wait,” was the only word Ashe managed to get out.

Azriel was going to ask her what they were waiting for, when Eris arrived back with Samli.

“Of course it’s you,” Eris said.

Samli was immediately over at Ashe’s side and helped holding her up.

“It’s over now,” she said and hearing her voice made Ashe cry even more.

It was too much. The pain, the thoughts, the feeling of safety. She was going to pass out.

And then she did.

Taglist: @tele86 @demon-master-zero @kbear8863 @atluky @mis-lil-red @rcarbo1

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Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

[prismaticpichu]

Sephzack prompt: Degradation

Shehshshshdhdh ONE OF MY FAV AUs!!!! 💖💖💖

~

"I..."

Zack shook his head, unable to stop the tears from boiling, unable to bear the pulsing ache in his chest any longer. The gray-beaded tips of his spikes seemed to be accentuated by the training room's glow; unescapable, unexorable. A part of him now. More and more of the black was being swallowed by that rotting color, its leechlike silver blanching the youth and life out of his hair—his eyes, his skin, his spirit. He could feel all of it slipping, bleeding away. He could feel its deadly venom seeping into his soul, infecting it, blighting the brightest parts and tainting them with its rage, vitriol, and hatred. How much longer could he even control it? How many more loved ones did have to snap at, demean? How many more horrible, ruthless, bladed things did he have to say to—?

"Zack..." Sephiroth reached out, sensing his friend's turmoil, Masamune long thrown aside and relinquished.

A bead of blood dribbled off his cheek.

The Buster Sword sat at Zack's feet, reddened.

"...It's not your fault, Zack. None of this is y—"

Zack slapped his hand away, lips pulling into an anguished snarl, taking a defensive step back.

His eyes were veiled with tears.

"Don't... don't touch me!" he choked, almost rattled. "I'm... I'm dangerous, okay? I'm... I'ma..." Another fierce, hate-fueled shake of his head, the sapphires ablaze as he then added, laden with hot terror, "I almost killed you...!"

Even with the words echoing jaggedly around them, Sephiroth only rubbed his hand, refusing to raise his voice. He wouldn't dare fan the flames—not when the disease was in-control, growing stronger.

"...You didn't," was all Sephiroth said, his voice a delicate calm. "You stopped yourself."

Zack's fists clenched, his teeth gnashing, serrated tears crawing down his cheeks.

...Why didn't you fight BACK? he wanted to scream, snarl. "Why wouldn't you defend yourself? Do you WANT me to hurt you? Are you too afraid to fight, just like when you made me...—

But he stopped himself there, tightening his fists, straining against the roaring thoughts like a man bracing a hurricane, trying to divert the violent winds.

No... That wasn't true...

Teardrops plunked onto his blade, diluting the blood.

It...!

"Zack," Sephiroth ventured again, taking a step closer, sounding so helpless and so pained. "Please, take a breath. Recollect yourself. It's going to be—"

"SHUT UP...!" Zack screamed, the volcano in his throat bursting forth, spewing its draconic heat. His fists were cement chunks now; his breath was knifelike, erractic. "You think it's going to be okay? You think everything's going to be fine?! How stupid do you think I am? How NAIVE do you think you are...?"

He took a step closer, stomping.

Sephiroth didn't move.

"You think you can magically make everything better? You think you can understand? You think you are so Strong, staying so aloof? What kind of person do you think you—?"

Nor did Sephiroth let him finish, refusing to let this tainted facsimile speak any longer, refusing to fight back or counter or spit even the faintest trace of gasoline into the fire, making more of a rift…

Thump, thump, thump~

So he simply reached out, warmly yet desperately, closing the space between them…

Thump, thump, thump~

And pulled Zack into an embrace.

Thump, thump, thump…

Thump, thump….

Thump….

Zack’s entire world seemed to freeze, his eyes widening, his chest pressed against the frantic rhythm of his friend’s heartbeat, against its familiar pulses. Its song. Its warmth. Familiar notes and familiar comfort—a melody that sang to the storm in his soul, calming it down, placating it with its gentle beats.

Thump…. Thump…. Thump…

He sucked in his breath, listened.

Sephiroth rested his head against his shoulder, holding him tighter.

The world around them ceased to exist.

“…Zack,” he murmured, sealing the cracks in own voice, drawing him closer into his chest. “I’m here… I’m right here. Come back to me now…”

It was like watching a flame be snuffed out, its angry light ebbing into harmless, tiny cinders; extinguished, smothered. Harmless little ashes that trickled off Zack’s shoulders as he slumped, melting into his friend’s arms, solaced by those simple, medicinal, balmlike words…

I’m not going to abandon you…

I’m not going to fight you…

I’m never going to give up on you…

Tears swamped the leather coat, free and flooding.

“S-Seph…”

Strong arms only held him tighter, anchoring his friend with his previous promises, enveloping him in a shelter he would never let crumble, never let fall. A bond he would never let be tainted—no matter how hard this vile disease tried to tear them apart. He would never leave Zack to rot, to struggle and suffer on his own. He knew better this time. He would do better this time, no matter the circumstances. No matter how many times he had to bring him back. Zack had showed him nothing but unconditional, unwavering love in the past, and he was going to reciprocate it. Wings or gray hair or venomous arguments… It didn’t matter: it was still Zack underneath it all, and he would fight for him with his life.

“I… I didn’t mean…”

“Shh, I know… It’s not your, fault.”

“I… I love you so much, bud… “I-I’m so…”

“Shh… It’s alright…”

“I… don’t want to hurt you…”

“I know, I know… You would never…”

“…I’m… I’m scared, Seph…”

And on and on, a rally of warm whispers and emotions, two friends clinging to each other for dear life.

[eddiediazismyhusband]

Ok so how are we feeling about the Diaz parents

(Full disclosure I don’t like them. I mean you see your son and he tells you he was with the exact doppelgänger of his wife and you don’t stop and think: “Wait this actually might be a cry for help maybe we should stay here and help OUR SON and his son” )

oh i absolutely fucking despise them both as people and as characters

(get ready this is gonna be a long reply

for context, i have to talk about the bts of it all

the way the show handled the whole situation w gavin’s restricted filming schedule due to his family moving really pisses me off as a whole because like- he barely showed up in s7 anyway and no one questioned why we were getting fewer chris scenes bc we as a fandom understood that gavin is getting older and his family moved and thus that creates some scheduling conflicts; so the logical solution would be to just give him less screentime like may and harry as he gets older (even though yeah, it sucks but it’s better than the alternative we got)

but instead of just doing that, they chose to have eddie go off the deep end (and not even for a good reason because nothing about this plot has furthered his character in my honest opinion- 806 did absolutely nothing for him that wasn’t already done in previous arcs and it just felt like “oh we have to give eddie something after hyping him up all season” so they shoe-horned that arc in and it fell completely flat for me.) just to give them an excuse to send christopher away on screen rather than just giving him less screentime to work with gavin’s schedule.

but as far as the diaz parents of it all; it honestly ruins the quality of their characters within the story bc now they’be gone from bad parents who stick their noses into their son’s business a little too much and don’t understand him to now being complete comic book super villains who are hellbent on making their son miserable for their own gain and it’s like… for what reason?

bc before this happened, even though i think the diazes are awful parents, i do think they genuinely love their children (hell we even had that whole plot in s5 w eddie and ramon coming to a little bit of a reconciliation) but tim minear has been using this philosophy of “shock value and drama are more important in this show than the actual storytelling” so he just completely threw out the love that they do have for eddie to replace them with these evil heartless characatures of themselves looming over the narrative.

like i personally have a rocky relationship w my own mother- she’s a super conservative christian woman and im a socialist nonbinary gay person, but at the end of the day no matter how rocky pur relationship is she still loves me and would never do anything to intentionally harm me for her own benefit.

so yeah- i hated the diazes as parents before but they at least were decent characters in eddie’s story, but unfortunately s7/8 have just made me completely hate them even as characters bc tim and the writers have just ruined the dynamic they had going bc they would much rather infuse shock value and cheap, unearned drama into the show to grab people’s attention rather than take the time to create a meaningful story that would in and of itself provide sufficient room for drama within an actually enjoyable narrative.

overall… im super disappointed with how all the diazes have been written since 707… even eddie. it feels like they took a character who has so much potential for interesting storylines snd turned him into a narrative punching bag, snd have kinda turned him into a watered down version of who he used to be all in the sake of cheap tv show drama- and as an (obviously) eddie diaz stan, it disappoints me that my favorite character and his arc are being treated so poorly by the writers to the extent that a story and character dynamic i used to relate to so well has been destroyed in favor of hamming up the plot purely for shock factor purposes (if any of that made sense i’ll be shocked by im literally typing this w one eye open im so tired)

i’m sorry this may not be the exact kind of answer you were looking for but your ask hit me right while i was actually thinking about all of this and i just had to share my whole thought process lol 😭 thank you for the ask bestie <3