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missmonsters2 · 1 year

Text

Your Touch is My Shelter

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: 6 months later, Natasha returns from the dead. It's a tightly kept secret as it's unknown how she returned, but everyone claws and fights about who will keep watch over her like savages. You're far down the list of people who should protect her, but you find yourself unable to leave her be.

Warnings/Tags: hurt/comfort. undisclosed trauma. physical and mental signs of trauma. angst. somber assisted bath time. sad hair braiding. emphasis on hurt AND comfort.

Note: This takes place after endgame :-) the dates might be inaccurate idk i did my best 🥲 ha-ha enjoy 👁️👁️

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Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work anywhere else.

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You heard the news through Bruce.

Well, it was through Bruce telling Pepper, and you just happened to be at the coffee machine getting shitty coffee. The quality drastically dropped since Tony was gone, and you've been putting off telling Pepper she needed to literally buy anything else.

You didn't really know how long was the appropriate time for someone to grieve before you could ask if they could buy another brand of coffee.

Tony was gone.

A part of you thinks you keep putting off telling Pepper because then you'd have to face—really face—he was gone.

Steve was gone.

What did it matter, really, in the grand scheme of things? Coffee was just coffee, and it'd probably taste fine if you just put a shitload of sugar and creamer in it.

Vision was gone.

Honestly, you only really noticed because it was the same brand as whatever was stocked up at the Avengers Compound.

Natasha was gone.

But perhaps the coffee always tasted bad at the Compound and it had nothing to do with Tony being gone. Natasha used to bring coffee into the office most days for people, and Clint filled in the other days.

Maybe Tony Stark just liked shitty coffee, and you were only now just noticing it.

Natasha was back.

Your hand faltered at the coffee machine, spilling a little of it on your hand, and the burn stung immediately.

"Are you okay?" Bruce asked as he noticed you inhale a sharp breath.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You smiled awkwardly at him before looking at Pepper. "Morgan's fine. She just has the flu and her fever's gone down. Make sure she gets plenty of rest and fluids. I'm going to set up a humidifier for her and help her settle into bed with a movie and wait for her to fall asleep before I head out."

Pepper let out a heavy breath, putting her hand over her chest in relief. "Oh, perfect. Thank you so much for coming suddenly. I just—Morgan doesn't really like going to the hospital, and suddenly she started throwing up and having a fever—"

"It's fine, Pepper," you waved off her ramblings after you wiped what you spilled on the counter. "You can always call me if you need me."

"Seriously, I think I might just employ you full-time as a live-in doctor if you say that," Pepper joked, and you laughed.

"I am already your live-in doctor, just for one of your research labs. instead."

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You don't think about Natasha—at least, you try not to.

You heard things here and there about it through Pepper. Apparently, she's being held in a government facility similar to The Raft, detained like some criminal they needed to study instead of the war hero who sacrificed everything to save the world.

It made you sick to your stomach.

But you hear that Clint, Bruce, and Nick Fury have been fighting to get custody of her, so you don't think about it. There were people who knew Natasha far better than you did and were way closer to her than you were.

She was in good hands.

So, you continue on with your daily routine to pass your monotonous days, unaware you're waiting for some kind of update.

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The next time you heard about Natasha Romanoff, it was Clint and Bruce cornering you at your lab.

"What?" You panicked, tensing up. "Why me?"

"You're the only person Natasha ever sought out to treat her," Clint answered, and you felt even more lost at the fact he knew. "Natasha allows medical professionals onsite to help her, but there were times she left to go see you. That has to mean something."

But, of course, he knew. He was Natasha's...best friend. And Clint was an incredibly nosy person, even if Natasha didn't tell him.

"I've only treated her a handful of times—literally only five times. I don't know her that well," you shook your head, trying to walk around them. "I didn't even know she had a sister until you told me."

"Please," Clint begged. "I'm fighting to get her out, and the doctors they have looking after her are shady and callous with her. I can only visit her with Nick's influence, but it's not enough to get her out of there."

"And what do you suppose I can do?"

"You're a renowned cellular biologist," Bruce cut in. "If they're holding her for research, we want someone on our side who will at least treat her like a human being. The faster we get answers, the faster we can get her out."

"Please," Clint begged again. "Natasha needs help. She's...different. And it's only going to get worse if she remains in there. She's not talking, and they won't let her go until they can find some answers."

It felt wrong.

You don't want to study Natasha Romanoff like an animal. Despite being a scientist with an inquisitive mind, you don't care about how she returned.

But it sounded like Natasha would be researched whether you liked it or not. And if that was the case, you do wonder how the other doctors may be treating her.

"Fine, we're going first thing in the morning," you gritted out, unable to block out the handful of memories of times you've treated her.

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June 2012

"Oo, that looks painful," you hissed in sympathy as a redhead with a busted lip and nasty gash on her temple entered the med bay.

There was a snort that sounded like a half-grunt. "It looks worse than it feels. I hope I'm not intruding, but Tony said I should see you to be treated."

"Natasha, right?" You asked slowly, gesturing to a seat for her to take as you grabbed some medical supplies.

"Yes," Natasha replied, equally slow with caution.

"Tony talks about you a lot," you tried to reassure her of whatever paranoia she might have. It probably didn't help that Natasha was still in her catsuit and probably would've preferred to be called by her alias.

"Well, don't believe everything he says," Natasha gives a light but somewhat tight smile.

"Oh, so you aren't a unique woman with high intellect, sneaky, and rightfully smug?" You teased, and it was flattering that you could make a superhero laugh.

You began treating Natasha's wound carefully.

"You're pretty good at this, doc," Natasha commented as you blew on her brow, even if it didn't sting. "You're pretty gentle. Must be why Tony says you're his personal doctor."

You chuckled. "I'm actually a cellular biologist. Tony is funding my research and pretty much my lifestyle. With the money he's paying me, he can come crying about his boo-boos anytime. Although, he doesn't really come to me for serious stuff. It's usually if he has something ridiculous like a papercut."

"But you can treat wounds and other medical things?"

"I was on my way to becoming a medical doctor before I decided to go into research instead."

"Huh," Natasha hummed, raising her brow at you. "Smart cookie."

"I'd like to think so," you finished cleaning Natasha's wound and putting a bandaid over it. "Feel free to come see me if you need any other basic medical aid. For a pretty redhead, it's free of charge."

"And if I come back blonde?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," you smiled, and Natasha smirked back at you.

"Smart and funny. Tony has it too good."

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April 2014

"This is the worst bandage job I've ever seen. Who did you go to see for this? A grocery clerk?"

Natasha grunted. "Hi, to you too, doc."

You looked at Natasha, noticing how different her hair is now. But it's been about two years since you have seen her. Despite your offer for her to come to you anytime she needed help, she never did. Or she rarely did, you supposed.

You could only deduce that Natasha was used to caring for her wounds on her own. That, or she didn't trust you.

"Alright, let's go to my office," you sighed.

"Am I interrupting?"

"Not really, kind of hit a brick wall."

"Oh, me too."

You looked over at Natasha, who had a straight face, but you noticed the bruise on her temple outside the obvious gun wound on her shoulder.

You pursed your lips. "Will you hate me if I laugh?"

"Not at all. On the contrary, I may like you less if you don't."

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June 2015

"You know, when I told you that you could come for me for basic medical aid, I feel like you didn't understand the meaning of basic."

"Is this too complicated for you?"

"No."

"Then am I unwelcomed?"

You pursed your lips at the redhead, who stared at you with a tiny upward quirk on her lip. "No," you sighed. "Just not sure why you'd want to see me for such serious wounds. There are other more experienced doctors."

You lift Natasha's shirt up, looking at the long gash on the side of her stomach. "We're gonna need to stitch this up. I've been doing research with Dr. Cho, and we have a new machine that can help with cell tissue generation. It would be faster than me manually stitching—"

"It's fine," Natasha declined. "I'd prefer if you manually did it."

You frown lightly at the fact but relent to the redhead's wishes. Another year passes, and Natasha's hair has changed again.

You worked silently on cleaning Natasha's wound, and she also declined the anesthetic. You focus on stitching up the wound with precision and care.

"I like to go to you for some things because your touch is gentle," Natasha said quietly, but it felt so loud in the silent room. "It makes me feel human when I can feel your touch."

You looked over at her face briefly, but Natasha wasn't looking at you. You don't take any deeper meaning into it. She's someone who's probably felt dehumanized most of her life. The machines that can heal her twice as fast would be fine for life-threatening injuries, but it probably all feels clinical.

You looked back down at the stitch. "Well, as long as you're a redhead, it's free of charge."

"Don't kid yourself, I would look perfect blonde."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

September 2016

"What are you doing here?" You hissed as you pulled Natasha in quickly, peering outside before shutting the door.

"Why? Am I unwelcomed now?" Natasha's tone sounded a little hurt, and you scan her body. She didn't seem to be bleeding anywhere that required immediate attention, but you did notice crusted blood at the edge of her nostrils.

"No, but you could get caught here," you shook your head at her. "They're looking for you and the rest of team cap everywhere."

Natasha shrugged. "I highly doubt Tony has your place under surveillance. We don't meet enough for anyone to consider looking for me through you."

You sighed, not sure what to feel about the statement. "I suppose. I don't work for Tony anymore, anyway."

Natasha's brows furrowed.

"Why?"

"I don't agree with what he's doing."

"So you're on Steve's side?"

"No, I think Steve was obstinate too. They're both stupid. Men are stupid."

Natasha laughed before wincing as she held her nose.

"What happened?" You brought her over to your couch before finding your first aid kit.

"I broke my nose," Natasha shrugged. "Can you believe breaking my nose saved millions of girls?"

"With you? Yes." You smirked as you tilted her head to look at the injury closer. "Lucky you. Looks like you don't need surgery. Do you always come here immediately after you save the world?"

"Yep."

"Couldn't even clean your nose before you did?"

"And deprive you of giving me care? I wouldn't dare."

You snorted, carefully cleaning the blood in and around her nose. It was silent again before Natasha spoke up.

"So, what happened with your research stuff now that Tony's not sponsoring your work?"

"Pepper is funding it, even though she knows I won't share anything with Stark Industries at the moment. She doesn't want me to sell my research or provide any data to other companies."

"Smart cookie."

"And a really hot blonde."

"This feels targeted. It's like you know I might dye my hair blonde soon."

"You're still a redhead; I have no idea what you mean. I like your hair, though. Braids look good on you."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

June 2018

Natasha showed up at your front step, holding her rib. There's a look of genuine relief at seeing you.

"You're still here," her voice sounds empty and hollow. "You're still here."

You pulled her inside gently. You're still in shock yourself. You were on a walk when people started disappearing left and right. The sheer panic on the streets was chaos as you were dialing Pepper frantically, almost crying when she picked up the phone. Then there were actual tears when you called other people in your life, and half of them didn't pick up...and they weren't going to.

"I'm here," you swallowed. "What happened to your rib?"

"I don't know." Natasha looked so lost. There was the look of failure and self-blame all over her face.

"Does it hurt?"

"I don't know."

You grasp her wrist, carefully moving her hand away from her rib before gently putting your fingertips against them. Your fingers trail up, down, and around.

Suddenly, Natasha broke into tears.

"Does it hurt?" You asked, panicked.

"You're still here," was all Natasha choked through her tears.

You didn't know what to do other than treat her wounds more gently than ever before while reassuring her you hadn't disappeared. You were one of the many people on this planet still here. And when she was better, she'd get the rest of them back.

It was a long and exhausting night, and Natasha fell asleep in your bed, and you made sure she was comfortable before leaving to sleep on the couch.

Natasha's hair has changed again.

"You look good blonde."

That was the last time you saw her.

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Natasha's hair has changed again. She's gone back to being a redhead with blonde tips. Her hair was a mess, barely brushed, and looked knotted.

The room was big and had padded walls, a singular bed in one corner, and a toilet and sink in another. There were lights in parts of the cell but also areas of darkness. It looked like a fucking prison cell.

You were looking through an unbreakable glass window, the middle holding up a microphone you assumed was linked to the speaker in the room.

Natasha stood in the middle of the room under the light in a hospital gown falling off her shoulder. Her hands were covered in scars, and her lips were so chapped, you were sure they'd split even if Natasha breathed the wrong way.

Natasha was only a few feet away from you, but it felt like she was a million miles away.

They let you see her alone under the guise of privacy as you saw her.

You felt you weren't supposed to see this—see her like this.

A sense of dread filled you at the blank expression on Natasha's face at what she'd gone through—what she was still going through.

She was a hero, and this was how they were treating her? This was someone who had fought wars repeatedly for this stupid country and the rest of the world, and they had her locked up like a mental ward patient from the 1600s.

You thought the government had gotten better. There were reforms and peace after people came back from the snap. This wasn't how they were supposed to treat someone who'd given up their life to ensure everyone got theirs.

It shouldn't matter that she came back; she had still given it up in the first place for them.

Natasha didn't even seem to recognize you through the glass as you stepped closer to the microphone. She looked past you as if she could tell the exit was somewhere behind you.

"Natasha?" You said into the mic, and it bellowed into the room.

Nothing.

"Nat?"

Natasha's eyes were listless. She was a broken, empty shell that seemed more like an animated corpse than actually being alive.

You swallowed, trying one more time. "You're still a redhead. Looks like it's still free of charge."

Natasha's eyes flickered this time, her head tilts towards you as she blinked with focus. It was just a spark, but it was something, and relief spreads through you.

"Not completely." You could barely hear her voice, but it was coarse. Cold.

There should've been a joke about some kind of discount, but Natasha didn't make it. You were speechless.

You didn't know what to say. Don't worry, you're trapped in here, but I'm going to help with the research, and hopefully, we'll get you out soon?

It was like prolonging a death sentence. You were horrified.

"Just—wait for me," the words flew out of your mouth so fast but you meant them with every ounce of your being. "You're gonna go home with me today."

Natasha's eyes sparked at the words but just as quick as you saw it, they died out, falling back into listlessness. She turned, stepping into a darkened corner away from your view and prying eyes of the cameras as she said, "No, I'm not."

You realized she's probably spent weeks watching Clint, Bruce, and Fury try to get her out unsuccessfully.

The resignation made something lurch in your throat and eyes sting with desperation and rage.

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"So, we can send you a contract—"

"You're going to release her to my custody," you cut off some government official. He was old, wearing some kind of toupee that was slicked back to hide his balding head.

He looked at you in disbelief, almost laughing like you were some stupid, naive young girl.

He looks at Clint and Bruce, who are also just looking at you in shock.

"As I've told your friends and Nick Fury, this is out of their hands. The Accords are still intact as of right now, therefore—"

"I don't care about the Accords. You will release her into my care. I'm more than qualified and I have the resources to find the inane answers you're looking for while rehabilitating Agent Romanoff," you cut him off again, able to tell that it was irking him.

"That won't be necessary as you can see we have the resources here," the government official raised his brow at you.

"Your resources can't compete with Stark's resources."

It was no secret that Tony had left a very sizable fortune to you in his will, outside of everything he gave to Pepper and Morgan. And it was also no secret how close you were with the surviving Starks.

"Doctor," the government official sighed, obviously making it sound like you were a nuisance. "If you're not here to join our research team, I suggest you go on your way and remember the NDA you signed."

You glared at him even more. "I'm not leaving without Agent Romanoff. You will hand her over to me, or you will regret it."

"And exactly how will I regret it?" The government official looked smug, and you smirked back at him.

"I'm still in talks with the government regarding my research, and I will pull out and sell that information outside of this country as I'm free to do so. I know Dr. Cho is in talks between the US and South Korea about her nano-technology. One word from me, and America can fall behind on those advancements as well." You pulled out your cell phone in a threatening manner. "Pepper and I will pull out all of our money from the very same banks and company investments that you're supporting and make you watch as they collapse one after another."

"You'd ruin our entire economy—our country by doing so!" The official was red in the face. "You'd put your entire country into chaos?" He sneered at you.

"I will if you don't give me Agent Romanoff!" You sneered back at him. "It's not like you won't eventually get your research and answers if she's in my custody. It works in both our favor."

The official is staring at you, glaring and seething.

"I imagine your colleagues and superiors will pin the blame on you if this entire economy and country goes into ruin because if I have to do that, I will say that it's the government's fault. The NDA said I can't specifically talk about Natasha and this place, which I won't. But I'm sure some journalist will discover the truth and plaster all over the news what you're doing to a war hero," your voice was so vindictive; you're not sure if you've ever been so cold before.

"So," your voice was flat, devoid of emotion now. "What will it be?"

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It was agreed that Natasha would stay in a cabin that Pepper owned out in the countryside. You were to provide monthly updates on your research and rehabilitation progress. And while this was in headway, neither you nor Natasha was free to leave the country or this planet.

Clint initially wanted you and Natasha to stay with him and his family, but you declined. You pointed out that it would be hard for him and his family—his children, especially—to see Natasha like this.

Pepper had everything prepared while you gingerly collected Natasha.

"We're going home, Natasha," you said softly, shrugging off your jacket to wrap around her shoulders. But Natasha still didn't react, even if she let you take her hand and drag her out of the facility.

During the car ride, you mentally planned what you needed to do. Natasha needed to eat, take a bath, and rest.

"Have you eaten yet?" You asked the redhead, sitting stoically in the car, straight as a rod.

There was no answer. Natasha was peering out the windshield, her hands perfectly on both thighs. Clint looked worried as he looked at you.

"Natasha?" You gently placed her hand over hers. You could feel the bumps of the white scars over her hand. A part of you is too frightened to ask where she got these from.

Natasha looked down at your hand over hers before looking at you. Her eyes were so empty. Such a dull green like dying grass.

"Did you eat?"

Natasha nodded once before looking back outside the windshield.

You looked at Clint, trying to give him a reassuring smile, but deep down, you were afraid you had no idea what the fuck you were doing.

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"Pepper says you've been here before, but let me know if you need help finding anything," you brought her into the house where Natasha just stood, looking at nothing in particular.

"Um," you took a shaky breath. "How about a bath? I'm sure it'll be good to get the grime and stale air off of you."

Natasha didn't move on her own, so you began to lead her up the stairs to the bathroom.

It was a detached tub near the high window to get plenty of sunlight without anyone being able to peer in.

"I'll just get this started for you," you offered. Turning on the tap and pouring in a liquid that formed into bubbles. "Just make sure to check the temperature and adjust. Pepper says that sometimes that faucet can be a little finicky."

You turned to Natasha, who stood there, staring at the wall. She was unmoving, making no gesture if she was waiting for you to get out or to start undressing.

"Do you, um, need help?" You asked, but there was no answer.

Maybe it would wake her up a little once she was in the water.

"I'm—" you took a long breath in. "I'm gonna help you undress and get into the tub. If you get uncomfortable at any point, let me know and I can stop or do something else."

It wasn't like you've never seen a naked body before. You've seen plenty both in your sex life and field of work. You've even seen parts of Natasha's body when you've treated her. You just never thought you'd see Natasha fully naked.

You slid your jacket off her shoulders, letting out a puff of breath. You looked past her as you undid the string of her hospital gown. You looked up when you slid down her underwear before guiding her towards the tub. Your gentle guiding seemed to spark Natasha into mechanically climbing into it herself the rest of the way.

"Okay, cool. Um," you stuttered. "I'm sure you've been through a lot. Once you're done, we can get you into bed and if you're hungry later, I can make you something."

You were getting used to the lack of answers, but it didn't make your stomach drop any less. "Just let me know if you need anything."

You don't wait for a response this time, leaving without shutting the door fully. Down the hall, you leaned against the wall, swallowing harshly.

It feels like you brought a lifeless shell home. A part of you wonders if Natasha really did return or if this was just some lifeless doll.

You didn't want to think about it anymore, so you pushed yourself off the wall and into a bedroom with a suitcase and unzipped it open to grab some clothes.

When you were heading back, you heard the water still running and frowned.

"Natasha?" You called as you opened the door. The tub was overfilling, and you rushed to turn off the faucet, trying to not slip.

Natasha was sitting how you left her, staring ahead at the running water but not really looking at it.

You sighed, relieved that the bathroom floor was designed with wood and curved so that any water would naturally run towards a drain in the floor.

You go to check the temperature of the water and find that while it was initially fine when you turned it on, Natasha hadn't attempted to adjust it, and the finicky faucet ran nearly scalding water.

"Jesus, Natasha, you're going to hurt yourself," you yelped. You braced through it and stuck your hand in to drain the tub halfway.

You inwardly sighed, knowing you would have to help Natasha through the entire process. You began to refill the tub, monitoring the temperature and shut it off when it was filled adequately.

"I'm going to help wash you if that's okay," you muttered. "Just let me know if you prefer to do it yourself at any point."

You grabbed a nearby stool and sat on it before grabbing the loofa. You began with Natasha's shoulders and arms, trying to wash parts of her that were easy to access.

Natasha tensed as you washed her, so you tried to be more slow and careful.

"It's just me," you said softly, trying to reassure the redhead. "I've always taken care of you."

Natasha said nothing, but her shoulders relaxed slightly as you continued. There wasn't much dirt on her, but the stale air that was surrounding her began to fade away.

Her knees were propped up, folded to her chest, and you washed down her thighs and legs, trying to not think of anything too much as you did it. You tried not to think about the scars on her hands and feet.

Readjusting your stool, you went to sit behind her. You used a cup to wet Natasha's hair, trying to detangle some of it gently first. It was then you discovered a shaven spot in the back of her head, where there was a large scar. You realized that was where Natasha's head hit the ground when she—

You swallowed, trying to suppress the anger that they shaved her head to get a look at something so private.

You squeezed a considerable amount of shampoo in your hands and gently rubbed it into her scalp. Natasha tensed at first before your fingers massaging her scalp made her relax, her body leaning back against the tub and her head into your hands.

It was quiet as you did this. You shampooed her hair twice before slathering it up in conditioner and finally getting out the rest of the knots. You drained the tub, grabbing the shower head to rinse her down once more before you grabbed a towel and helped her out.

You helped put a bathrobe around her to help dry her as you didn't think you had the gall to fully dry every part of her by hand. Grabbing her clothes, you led her to her bedroom, setting her down on the bed.

Natasha sat silently as you towel-dried her hair with gentle hands. Her eyes fell closed as you began to blow dry it. Your soft fingers tousling her hair.

So delicate.

When it was dry, you set the blow dryer aside.

"Hm, your hair is pretty sensitive and might be for the next week. It might be better to braid it so it doesn't tangle and break when you're sleeping," you commented, mostly to yourself.

You took sections of her hair, delicately beginning to put her hair into a french braid.

"You've always had beautiful hair, red or blonde," you complimented Natasha as you finished. You moved to sit in front of her to check if you did okay from the front. There wasn't a response, but Natasha opened her eyes. They focused on you, looking at you as they traced over the features of your face. She was studying you apprehensively.

Natasha lifted a hand, slowly reaching up as her fingers brushed the side of your face. It felt bumpy from the scars, but it made the back of your throat burn.

"Am I really here?" Natasha mumbled as she then traced your cheek before your lips. "Am I really here with you?"

Your eyes were burning now. You couldn't even answer right away because you were afraid your lips would start trembling.

You lifted your hand, hesitating at first, before you held her hand against your face. "Yeah, you're really here."

The edges of Natasha's eyes began to brim with tears.

"When I jumped, I didn't die right away," Natasha whispered. "There was a feeling that something bad was going to happen. It didn't get me yet, but it was going to."

You couldn't help the tears that began to fall over the edge of your eyes when they overfilled.

"Something bad happened to me," Natasha's lip trembled. "It's still happening to me."

You gripped her hand tighter unintentionally, but it was like it grounded Natasha.

"I was scared," Natasha admitted. "I was scared that even if you came to me, it wouldn't go away."

Then, Natasha grabbed your hand and placed it against her cheek. It was still warm from the bath and blow dryer.

"But I can feel your touch," Natasha sighed like it was a relief. "It's gentle and I feel human. I'm scared I'm not really here."

"You are."

Your throat felt clogged with raw emotions, and you didn't know what to do with it. You've only seen Natasha a handful of times, and maybe it's because the more you do, the more emotionally charged you both feel.

"You're really here," you told Natasha, using your thumb to caress her cheek. You didn't know what else to say.

All you can do is offer her shelter under your touch.

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flowercrowngods · 8 months

Text

felt like letting mike and steve work through some shit again

cw: descriptions and imagery of them being lost and self-sacrificing, left alone with trauma they have no means to work through, could read as suicidal tendencies or intrusive thoughts

🤍 also on ao3

“What do you want?” Mike asks when Steve sits down beside him, gravel crunching, their feet dangling over the dark and endless abyss that is the quarry at night.

Steve doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t really know what to say now that he’s here, now that he found him. He looks so small, now more than ever, and it reminds Steve so painfully that he’s still just a child. He was always just a child, and children shouldn’t—

It feels like they got their rights at a childhood revoked years ago, and then they were just… supposed to be okay with it. It was expected, it was implied when nobody came to talk to them after.

When all they got was one NDA after another. When none of the professionally trained adults took one look at the children that they were, and asked, Are you okay? What do you need to be okay? I will talk to you once a week and make sure you learn how to be okay again.

Steve feels like a big brother to most of the kids now, sure, but he’s not their shrink, and he sucks when it comes to actually talking about shit. He can be there to drive them anywhere, can provide an evening of distractions and as much of a sanctuary as a house as haunted as his can be.

With everything else, though, he’s helplessly lost. So he says nothing, weighs his words to make sure they come out right — especially for Mike, who’s always just waiting for him to say something wrong and throw it back in his face with the sunny disposition of a feral, rabid cat.

“Hey,” Mike says then, irritated again; but his voice is hoarse, too. Tired. No heat behind it after that stupid fight with Dustin and Lucas earlier tonight that made him snap and leave Steve’s house in a frenzy. “I said, What do you want?”

Steve shrugs, looking ahead into the darkness that feels endless and alluring and deeply terrifying.

I miss my friend! My best friend, Mike!

“Making sure you’re okay.”

You’ve changed, you know that? You’re not the guy who would jump off a cliff for me anymore, I don’t think I even know you anymore!

Dustin’s voice echoes in Steve’s mind as it undoubtedly does in Mike’s, too, and he can only imagine how much that hurts, especially if he’s shivering like that even though the night is warm for early September.

“I’m okay,” Mike says, sounding endlessly annoyed about the fact. Steve almost huffs out a humourless laugh. Yeah, right.

“Sure you are,” Steve says, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over Mike’s shoulders without a comment, half-expecting him to just throw it into the darkness below. But Mike doesn’t move, is eerily still beside him, pretending not to notice that Steve’s watching him.

“But you know it’s, like,” he starts again and trails off, looking for the right words because this is unfamiliar terrain and the ground beneath his feet is quite literally nonexistent. “It’s fine if you’re not, right? It’s actually really fucking normal to be more than a little fucked up after everything, all that crazy shit. Or just… in general.”

You were twelve, he wants to say. You were twelve and you jumped off from here. You were twelve and you were going to die. And not because of those monsters, not yet. Just because… you were twelve.

Mike doesn’t say anything, but the gravel crunches once more as he reaches for a handful of stones to throw them into the darkness one by one, the void beneath them so enormous that they don’t even hear the noise of impact.

You jumped.

The longer Mike remains silent, the more Steve wants to scream, wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, wants to make him see and understand that Steve knows about the scars a decision like that leaves, especially when you live to deal with the consequences.

He gets seizures to deal with the consequences. His ear is fucky, his eye is twitchy, his head is aching constantly, he gets migraines that knock him out for a day or two, all because he wanted to protect his friends. All because he did protect his friends. It worked. They’re safe.

But they’re also unaware of… of everything. Of the horrible stillness as clarity dawns and all signs point to the one way that always seems to work. The one easy way out, and still the hardest of them all when the plan goes wrong and he makes it out alive. When It’s gotta be me is the only thing to say, but later turns into an angry It never should have been me because the world looks different when it’s smeared with your blood.

And it’s always the lost boys who make decisions like that. Steve wonders, some nights in cold sweat, what happens if he makes these decisions without immediate danger. What happens if he just… decides to jump. Decides to run. To give the world more of his blood. Without saving anyone.

It’s not like he wants to — but he’s terrified that it’s just who he is. Who he’s turned into, terrified that his friends will forever expect him to.

And he’s even more terrified knowing that Mike jumped before he learned about monsters. Before he learned about fighting and surviving.

You were a kid, he wants to say again, but his throat is closing up on him.

“I don’t think that’s okay actually,” Mike says after a while, tearing Steve away from his fears. They’re still both looking ahead rather than at each other, but it’s fine. They’re still here. “Like, people say it is, but it feels so empty when they do, you know? Like, sure, yeah, I’m not fucking okay, but what the hell do we do about that now? Oh, right, I know! Let’s throw it in my face that I’m not good enough for you anymore now that there’s no monsters to kill anymore. Now that I’m just Mike, who’s not even enough to be that anymore, sure. Right. Yeah. Let’s pretend it’s all fine, Steve, let’s pretend it’s okay to hurt all the fucking time!”

Mike is shaking now, violent tremors running through his body, and Steve’s first instinct is to reach out and pull him close, to keep him from that edge and take him to his car; turn on the heating and talk there. But Mike seems to need the darkness, seems to need to be faced with endless depth to give voice to his thoughts.

“What Dustin said was messed up. He shouldn’t have said that.”

Mike shrugs, throwing more pebbles into the darkness, though his motions have lost their vigour. “He’s right, though.”

Steve sighs, though not unkindly. “No, he’s not. Hey, listen to me.” He waits until Mike turns to meet his eyes, and he leans forward. “It’s not okay. It’s not right what he said. You don’t deserve to have that shit thrown in your face just because Dustin is a tactless little douche bag.”

Taking a bullet for someone is not the baseline for friendship, he wants to say, and it occurs to him once again how fucked up their perception and idea of friendship must be, now that they’ve all bonded over the most horrific shit and actual grief they never learned how to work through.

It’s not even Dustin’s fault, not really. They’re all just collateral damage to something Bigger, and all they have is each other, leaving them in a vicious cycle that is so, so fucked up.

“Why’d you jump?” he asks eventually, quiet in case the darkness tries to listen in. “Back then, why did you jump?” And do you wish El had let you? Do you sometimes wish that? When your room is quiet and it’s only you living with all those silent, terrible decisions?

Mike shrugs again, but there’s not much fight left in him, Steve can see that, can feel it in the air between them.

“Will was gone,” he says like it explains everything— and it sort of does. Steve has seen the way these boys look at each other when the other’s not looking, he has seen the hurt and the anger and the gentleness stored there, the words unspoken and the fear that, despite interdimensional monsters, kinda goes unmatched.

Because they have each other. They only have each other. And if someone’s suddenly different than what they thought they knew, if someone’s suddenly different, then… Everything might just fall apart.

And Steve wants to grab him again; wants to pull him close and say, I’m the same. We have the same scars. We have the same!

Slowly, carefully, he does lean over now, weaving an arm around Mike’s shoulders and pulling him into his side.

“I get that.”

Mike swallows heavily and exhales shakily. “I don’t think you do.”

“No. I think I really, really do. But it’s okay, Mike. You won’t be alone with this, okay. I’m on your side, you little shit.”

A pause, a beat, a moment’s respite. Then, “Why?”

“Because,” his heart is racing, his mouth trembling around forming the words for the first time, but he knows it’s the right thing to do. Knows it’s important.

Knows it might just save a life.

“Because I fell harder for Eddie Munson than I ever thought possible, and once i found out what was happening, I kind of wanted to jump off a cliff, too. But I didn’t, because I had someone with the same fears as me, and instead of stupid shit we just… Cried together sometimes. Screamed into our pillows. Laughed with and at each other, calling ourselves hopeless, and— I don’t know. It’s really fucking scary, and that doesn’t go away just because you have someone to talk to. But it‘s… better. It’s so much better.”

He huffs, swallowing around the lump in his throat, smiling into the darkness.

“So I’ve got you, okay? Whatever it is, whatever makes you feel like it’s not fucking okay, I’ve got you. You come to me, yeah? Lucas does, Dustin does, even Max does. This is your official, standing invitation and whatever, okay, dickhead?”

Mike shoves at him lightly, still not parting from the rather awkward side-hug they’ve got going on, and Steve is glad for it.

“Okay, okay, geez,” the little shithead says, rolling his eyes which Steve can see even in the dark, and it feels like the edge has moved away from them, like they have solid ground beneath their feet again.

Steve doesn’t say anything more after that, just waiting for Mike to stir to lead him back to the car, load in his bike and take him wherever he feels like spending the night.

But Mike doesn’t move for another long while, and it makes Steve feel like something big has just happened between them. Like they finally have found the common ground that Steve’s been suspecting they had for months now, even years.

Eventually, as they make their way to the car and Mike goes to grab his bike, he speaks up again, but more subdued now.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“Does… Does Eddie know?”

“About what?” My tendencies to take a leap off the edge?

“You. Being…”

“Oh!” A smile as he unlocks his car and opens the back door to squeeze Mike’s old bike in there with minimal smears of dirt. “I’d hope so, we’ve been dating for months.”

“You’re dating?! You? Eddie’s dating you?”

“Yeah, listen, do you want me to just leave you here or would you rather be thrown out in the middle of nowhere?”

Mike grumbles something unintelligible as he climbs into the front seat, waiting for Steve to start the engine before he speaks up again.

“It’s just, you’re so… How did you even do that?”

Steve laughs at that, disbelieving and all, because, “Trust me, I have no idea. Must have been the ol’ Harrington charm and all that.”

Mike rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in front of his chest, sinking lower in the seats to pout. “You’re so lame.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over how much I have a boyfriend and you don’t.”

If his heart skips a beat because it still feels like a forbidden truth saying the word out loud despite the playful banter, then he’s ignoring that in favour of revving the engine.

“Asshole.”

“Dickhead.”

“Grow up,” Mike says, but Steve can see the smile he’s not even trying to hide, and he mirrors it with his own as he turns on the radio catching the final tunes of Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark.

They’re not okay, none of them. But the car is warm, the cliff’s edge is behind them, and they’re not listening to the same ten songs anymore.

They’re getting better, step by tiny step.

#stranger things fanfic #steve & mike #steve harrington #mike wheeler #steddie #<- mentioned but established #byler #<- implied & yearning #i am projecting HARD with this one #i’m so so convinced steve and mike are directly juxtaposed in their development with very similar trauma #this probably makes sense to no one but me but alas #let them be fucked up while life continues and let them be unable to handle it #i feel like it’s all over the place but if you’ve ever had a single vulnerable conversation then you’ll know this is how they can go #dio words

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uyuartik · 4 months

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bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader) part iii

tags: angst, fluff, arguments, period typical misogyny (of course not from obi wan), just overall wealthy pricks being little shits, the trope of THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, but not really, do you believe in second chances (i don't) (💀), little smut compared to the rest because originally there was no smut in this (but i HAD TO use that idea), REPOST because i fucked up in the first place

a/n: welcome back for the finale!

well, i can't think of anything to say except this has been a blast for me, and i'm so happy that there are those who enjoys this madness as much as i do. hope you like the ending too. thank you all!

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can’t wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

part one | part two | part three

enjoy!!!

word count: 8.3K

chapter three: fuck it it's fine!

You don’t board that ship. A slight sickness you excuse, then spend your days sulking at home, still covered by the expanse of your lies. It is not totally untrue, though. You did really wake up with a swollen throat, and that put the integrity of your health during the journey at risk, thus with great grief, canceled the plans. Nobody knew that you’d not even mention the symptom on any other day, just requesting some honey tea and hardly noticing it disappear in the morrow. And it exactly worked out as predicted, more so, without leaving its discomfort for remorse. But after that, the hours stretched out each day, like you were living in a different plane where you were not welcomed. Perhaps you actually weren’t, for if you followed your fate, you’d be eating different foods, and walking foreign corridors. In an attempt to run away from that feeling, you try to socialize just a little, attending even the most dull tea parties. Also, your preference of company has to be specialized now, and that proves difficult sometimes.

So, that’s exactly why you indeed sulk at home, even though all your efforts.

But not tonight.

Then again, perhaps you should've.

His presence has nothing to do with it, to be perfectly clear. On the contrary, he makes it a little endurable. The forced small talk and empty eyes you once feared dearly are not the case, even after your last encounter. Of course, there's a little awkwardness, an uncertainty about where the line of intimacy now stands, shadows of anger and disappointment still darkening the atmosphere, but the overall sensation comes down to longing. You both lost a great friendship, cast it aside in a blink, but your souls don't accept this new arrangement that quickly, trying to fall into the familiar rhythm once more each time you feel your walls break. You don't allow it, neither does he. Yet, it is about the only thing that turns this night into a not complete waste of time. Even a pleasant one, you'd dare say.

If it weren't for literally everything else except this.

The hushed little uninformed jokes start during the dinner. It is the lord of the house that says them, to his close circle, barely hanging onto etiquette he had glimpses of. As minutes tick and glasses of wine roll, that glimpse is gone, and even in your seat at the end of the table, you hear him clearly. The pressed lips and masked mimics pretending not to be aware of it soon become apparent on every face, excluding you and Lord Kenobi. You glower the first time another of the guests feels confident enough to make his dirty contribution to the subject. Typical, you try to stay calm, tapping your fingers on the table. The world is filled with the likes of him, and the last thing they deserve is your attention. The reflex doesn’t go unnoticed by him, and he sends a sympathetic smile, showing that you’re not alone and accepting this invitation was a most regretful choice. He uses a few retorts to close the deal, let the dinner continue in different matters- or in silence, that would be fantastic indeed, but his smart wit and slight intimidation work only for a couple of minutes. Now it’s your turn to reflect that sad smile, and you do.

The sadness doesn’t come from the circumstances around you all, though. Your heart feels heavy, for not trying better ways to handle that morning. That guilt will haunt you, drag you into the gloomy pit you’ve been in, and maybe, you should stay there for some time, a penance for your mistakes.

After dinner, when the ladies and gentlemen huddle around different interests, you get a chance to cool off. The soft peals of laughter and giggles fill the room, a much more pleasant sound than the roar of men. You get to entertain others with your stories of other cities you’ve been to, and they tell their interesting incidents, and make fun of their husbands, people who deserve, as their commotion spills out of the walls. The topic of their conversation, marriage, diffuses out into your circle in such a way, that once again, you’re restraining yourself, trying to listen to the problems one of the ladies is complaining of, and not to hear the crude comments going on on the other side. You’re stopped from rushing out of your armchair simply out of respect you have for the woman speaking when you pick up your name passing in their remarks. Plus, Kenobi’s words, you don’t flatter me by offending the lady, reach every ear in the room, sharper than a knife. Your cheeks burn with anger, then with gratitude, and at last, out of embarrassment, because how are you going to explain he’s just doing an honorable thing, that it’s his character to defy ill minds when he sees one, and this has little to do with his “pursuit” of you? Your breaths are shallow and quick as you focus on the discourse, and dodge every attempt to pull the subject towards your relations.

Though, the snake doesn’t give up on eating, even his own tail, it seems.

In less than half an hour, a joke about abduction is whispered, and you surge from your armchair, the screeching sound echoing. You murmur what resembles to be an excuse (you’re still deciding whether they are worthy of one), and send one glaring gaze at the group, enough to make one flinch, and walk out.

Out of the entire house.

Lucky for you, this is a night in which you carpooled with another guest, meaning you only have your own feet to carry you away in this pouring rain.

But of course, that’s not enough to deter you.

You take big steps, enforced by your fury. Thus, the house leaves your sight in no time, but not their audacity, still ringing in your ears. Implications about your freedom. Complaints of wive-hood. Humor about how perfectly reasonable is to get rich, by kidnapping a young woman… (Honestly, after all that, you don’t have mercy for them of the panic they might experience when they realize their guest is not refreshing in another room, and have left the estate altogether. Alas, that guest is you.) You string curses at them, the only form of thinking you have in regard, and feel the bulk of emotions resonate with every stomp, even spilling out of your tear ducts. Your dampening body, and the length of the road don’t make it any easier, feeding your frustration. Your only anchor is your self worth, the reason you began this path in the first place, and you desperately hope it will turn the tide in a while.

Though now, the picture you paint with those foul words and wet clothes isn’t exactly the brightest.

It is still among these moods, that Obi Wan catches up to you. You’re not exactly surprised to see him, his carriage closing the twenty minute distance you put between yourself and that damned house with a speed that you think can’t be that good for the horses in the long run. They stop abruptly at your side, and you have all those insults readied if it turns out to be that fucked up man or polite declines if it is indeed Obi Wan.

But, you can’t speak them. The world feels like it freezes, the raindrops slowing down, and carrying away your burdens as they fall to the soil. The small door opens, and Obi Wan rushes out of it, with an expression that is so honest and raw. His fright vanishes at the sight of you, that scared gaze dissolving, eyebrows relaxing… You can actually see his lips move, Thank God. He is totally undisturbed by the downpour, already making his strands stick to his forehead. His hands find yours, and pull you close, almost like an embrace. You look into his eyes, how focused they are on you, as if they could burn you from the inside with their intensity. You have an undeniable urge to kiss him right now, and that has nothing to do with lust, but your wish to undo the last couple of weeks, uphold that strong connection once the two you had. Of course, you don’t, you can’t, thus, you let him lead you inside, and continue towards whatever destination.

Funny, how you feel much calmer doing the thing you thought you wouldn’t. Moreso, you have no woes about it either.

The silence is deafening, but nobody dares to open their mouth, the greatness of the storm of emotions you both are having too heavy on your tongues. He puts his less soggy jacket around your shoulders, you welcome it with a nod. That’s the moment you realize the redness on his knuckles. It’s not hard to guess the scene, and that has your head turned to the floor, processing the entire night. It is also at this moment that you become aware of your fresh tears, still sliding over your cheeks. Even if he notices them, he doesn’t do a thing about it, an indifference you’re grateful for. He just looks out of the window, and contemplates, same as you.

===

The tub filled with hot water doesn’t make you any wetter, but it helps with the temperature. You’re sorry that you exhausted the owners of the inn you had to stay in, (for it was getting impossible to travel in that rain) with this request, but a voice tells you that Obi Wan wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re unbelievably silent as he sorts it all out, staying in your bubble, unintentionally playing the part of the damsel in distress. You listen to his list of requests, for the horses, for three rooms (the best reserved for the lady, he insists), a tub to be prepared for you, and some tea-

“No need.” Your voice is weak, but it is clear. He would’ve protested this answer, but it is the first time you’ve talked after leaving the house, how ironic, and the realization sets deep in both of you. After that, you feel the words pile up on your tongue, but in a blink, you find yourself in a room. Alone.

“So sorry, I thought they gave me this room.” He stands at the door, holding it half open, face turned in the opposite direction.

“Obi Wan.” His gaze hesitantly finds your way again. God, he’s about to kill you with that blues… “Can we talk for a second?”

You name yourself a hypocrite for asking that, in this state, but you can’t breathe with all that untold things if you spend another second without explaining yourself to him, and apologize for all the trouble you’ve caused. And, isn’t this already proof of the trust you have for him, how vulnerable you can be in his presence?

And, there’s nothing he’s not seen before, after all.

He gingerly closes the door, locking it in a swift motion, and makes his way to you. You pull yourself together, and reach for his hand for him to help you out.

“No, stay. Your fingers are still cold.”

You can’t hide the small smile forming on your face as you settle back, careful to keep most of your body underwater. He, ever noble, keeps his eyes straight on your face, which somehow doesn’t help. There’s something about his rolled-up sleeves, the matching three-piece suit down to two for the damp jacket sits behind the chair in your back against the fireplace. His hair is drying up in all defiant shapes, and you have to stop imagining that morning he woke up next to you.

“I just wanted to say thank you. For everything. I- I never intended to cause this big of a mess, and make someone clean up after me. Certainly, not you, of all people. You shouldn’t have tired yourself this much, and I’m sorry for it.”

“You can’t expect me to do nothing.” The sentence begs for a dear to be added in the end, and he has to fight his throat to silence himself. Instead, there’s a kind tug at the corners of his lips.

“You’re right.” You nod. “But the truth is, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I needed to get out, I just couldn’t sit there pretend I didn’t hear all those nasty comments.”

His fist clenches at the reminder, and you once again spot the bruises settling in on his knuckles, filling with the desire to mention them, but you inevitably decide not to. “That asshole-“

”He was obnoxious since the first hour, and loud, but that doesn't scare me, for thus he has proven himself to be just a foul mouthed man. But, that title started not to cover the extent of it- it was too much and I couldn’t take it anymore. You may say it was obvious from the start, but I tried my best to not evolve this into a thing I would regret afterward. And I succeeded.”

“So you don't even regret ever setting foot in that house?”

A tinge of disgust seizes your face, but only for a moment. Even with all those words echoing in your ear, you don't have hatred in your heart, or any remorse. You're not so quite sure about its reason, nor do you wish to be, avoiding all analysis. Like you don't know the basics already. But the sudden change in your expression tells everything. “I don’t think I can ever regret it. At least, not in its entirety.” You say, hugging your knees and lowering your head. Hot steam no longer hits your skin, you realize in your attempts of distraction.

There's a second of silence in the room, despite the thunderstorm raging outside. You are as cold as in the beginning because of it, and you almost contemplate how good of an idea this conversation was, especially under these circumstances.

“I’d say the same.” Obi Wan speaks, and that's when goosebumps rise on your skin. Your eyes meet his, then flutter away quickly, overwhelmed. Does he mean-

Why is him meaning that any different than yours, huh? Why is it any worse when he says it?

“You should get out of there.” He reaches for a towel, and you shyly stand up, turning your back and pressing your arms around yourself. Nothing he hasn't seen before, right? As the coarse fabric is draped around your shoulders, you can’t help but feel afire, the imprint of his hand around your shoulders for a second lingering way more than it should, creating a tingling sensation.

“Thank you.”

“Well, I must return to my room now.” He folds his hands together, like trying to preserve where they’ve touched, and his eyes still stay respectfully up, causing your heart to lose its rhythm. There has never been a scenario that involved nakedness without… sexual intentions, and clearly, it’s not even crossing your minds right now. Your awareness of it takes up all the space in your mind, tosses every other idea out, and leaves you at the mercy of your soul.

“Obi Wan.” Fuck, the way you call his name, it is bound to weaken him every time. “Can you-” Oh, haven't you demanded enough from him? “I- I would like it if you stayed.”

His mouth hangs open for a second, with a subtle sharp inhale. His fingers tighten around each other, then relax all together, hanging free by his side. “Of course.” For all the words that come to his lips, it’s a most simple answer.

Not that you have any complaints.

You’re filled with another kind of thrill, being this open with your wishes, but having no clue whether they’ll take the night, having no clue where you want the night to go, or how to act in this very moment, half covered. You just know that you prefer him, being in the same chamber as you. You’d prefer to listen to his idle talk or slow breaths, than the silence of the room. You’d prefer him to snore in your bed than to picture him in his own, lying awake. (Because let’s face it, it’d take a while for him to surrender to sleep, if left to his own devices.)

He takes a step towards the armchair, unbuttoning his vest and you come back to your senses, stepping out of the tub in the opposite direction, towards the nightgown the innkeeper gracefully lent to you. It’s slightly large for your body, definitely not tailored for someone close to your size, but if Obi Wan ever heard you commenting on the fact, he’d wholeheartedly claim you still looked like an angel. Since you don’t, he doesn’t too, but it’s obvious in the way he takes in your form, a battle of excess fabric against your movements. He has to bury a groan when your sleeve falls down your shoulder, a simple accident. He knows that shouldn’t have been seen by him, or you didn’t do it on purpose, that tonight is not meant for those activities, and it shouldn’t get him so bothered up, but it fucking does. Does it also make him want to slap himself? Yes.

Walking near the fireplace, you wring the excess water from your hair and run your fingers through the strands before rubbing that towel aggressively, for the fact that it is already soggy enough, and is not gonna do much. You despise sleeping with wet hair, it is an invitation for you to get sick, not to mention that you’ll be sharing the bed, leaving frustrating streaks of wetness on the sheets for them.

“Hey, hey, let me help you.” Is he a little bit scared? The answer is another yes. But he’s not gonna stand there and watch you fight with your hair. He takes the fabric, locating the most usable spots, and slowly massages your strands with them. Objectively, it’s not a lot different in terms of overall results, but it does more than that anyway. Despite the forbidden intimacy, despite the question of “How is he so good at it?”, you’re lulled by the constant movements, the tension in your muscles easing off. He keeps you by the fire longer than you would’ve stayed, and that achievement belongs solely to him. Frankly, he too is not sure how long the two of you could stand like that, or put an end to it. All that matters is that your hair is pleasantly damp, less bothersome, and he did that.

To be honest, with each minute he is in your presence; the task of holding onto his manners, respecting his broken heart, and following your lead is getting harder to manage.

“Thank you.” You murmur, eyelids barely held open, and he feels like a juggler, suddenly losing his sense of balance, and dropping one of his props.

“You’re welcome.” Perhaps he was the one to thank, for the pleasure. That’s the second prop, falling down.

Still, it’s obvious how that sentence misses a darling thrown out after it.

You climb the bed, and he follows suit. You both favor the edges of the mattress, and there’s a ridiculous distance between both of your bodies, but you’re both too timid to use it, even at the risk of tumbling down.

Only after the urge to find a better position kicks in that you move, and end up just a little closer, face turned to his side.

He’s already turned to you, eyes closed but definitely not trying to sleep, or relax if nothing. He opens them of course, after you rustled the sheets that hard.

“What if I get sick tomorrow?” Admittedly, that’s a silly question, but the scenario occupies your mind. All the elemental factors are present, and you only have a formal dress on your back. Also, the fact that it would be all your fault, yet you are the one to complain? You hate yourself for saying it out loud.

“Then we would stay ‘til you got better.” His point-of-fact words, softened with his bedtime voice, must be annoying. Must be. It is not. It is the raw truth, straight from his core. You won’t disrespect it, (again). “I would take care of you.”

(Doesn’t he, always?)

A shiver runs down your spine.

(He’d name this place heaven, if it allowed you two to stay together a little longer.)

“Obi Wan.” Whispering, trying your best to break that ugly silence, not to crush under the weight of his words, but more importantly to let him know your truths, the alignment of your soul. “I- I never told you how much I appreciated you. Now just today, but especially today.”

He’s trying so hard not to sound rude, or leave you unanswered, but none of them are good enough. Thankfully, you are not expecting one. Your fingers ghost over his knuckles, afraid to hurt him. he’s not even sure you’re doing that, ‘til you hunch over, and press a small kiss over them.

That’s all the acknowledgment he needs, ever. It wasn’t becoming of a gentleman, obviously, but the situation didn’t require gentleman-cy, too. He has no recollection of how his fist ended up in that man’s eye, except for the exact second it happened, feeling his shirt slide from his other hand as the impact sizzled through his bones, and sent the man to the floor. He found himself in the middle of saying God knows what- he still doesn’t have a single clue, and thinks about the possibility of how they’ll resonate, ‘til it reaches his ears once again.

Though, he has no fear regarding that, or the altercation before it. Nor regret.

“I am honored that our names are spoken together, a testament of our likeness.”

The third prop.

It falls, most obviously, but he doesn’t show it. Not under these circumstances. No matter how you try to avoid the subject of love, or a future, he’s burning for it, burning for you. In that moment, it is settled that it’ll always be that way, forever. You’re absolutely crushing his heart, and maybe even crush yours in the process (for which reasons, he’s never sure), regardless of your intentions pointing otherwise, because he knows you’re pushing through your struggles to speak up, select the appropriate expressions, to honor your past. He’s touched by your effort, as well as your words, oh, your words… This is the only compliment he’ll ever accept, and it’s not even meant to be a compliment. Your voice is already etched into his brain, and there will not go a single day he’s not reminiscing about it.

Thus, with such strong emotions, his every muscle twitched with the desire to pull you closer, wrap his arm around your waist, card his fingers through your cool hair as your lips meet. He wants to kiss you slowly, savor your taste and caress your tongue with his, for the sole purpose of being close to you. You, throwing one leg over him… You, falling asleep in his arms as he gets to bathe in your enchanting scent… The feeling of your warm breath against his neck as you take refuge in there… He’s surprised he doesn’t have to chain himself not to act on any of these images.

(Oh, it very much feels like he has done that anyway)

Yet, it is probably the worst night to do so. It has all been too much, and all this on top of that is a recipe for disaster. A disaster he’s been struck with nonetheless, though, perhaps he can spare you from.

When it comes to you, he has always put his heart before his mind, (but never disregarding the latter part. It is the essential element to keep both of you safe, to never compromise your social statuses, to create the optimum atmosphere for your relationship to flourish (by your own unusual standards)). For the first time, he’s not following that code. Even he can’t imagine the consequences if he doesn’t.

You’re glad that nothing has changed. No response from him, no action. His relaxed expression tells you enough; the calmness of his eyes, his slow breaths and the slight curve of his lips… To be honest, you’re relieved to see your words reach their destination but also set with the urge to prove them. To press down your mouth on his, from which you hope for an answer; to hold his hand without causing any discomfort, or simply hug him for a second, eliminating all space between your bodies like your souls.

Alas, the role of the hypocrite is a part you no longer wish to play, and you’re perfectly willing to hurt yourself by not succumbing to your wishes, and refrain him from further confusion.

“Good night, Obi Wan.” You say, fingers grazing over his for the last time, and curl yourself into a ball.

“Good night, my dearest.”

===

The morning is unlike the previous example.

You wake up to him getting up, so there’s no way for you to know if your bodies drifted closer during the night, but considering the position of your arm, extended way beyond the middle, it is quite possible to assume some physical contact was present.

Considering you two are not facing each other, thus acknowledgment of the situation is not a matter, your embarrassment is half of what it should be.

Though, your cheeks burn brighter each second you can’t peel your eyes off of him, filling up the rest of that cup. Watching him walk around, the movement of each chiseled muscle on his back as he puts his shirt and trousers on quickly highlights another impropriety. He is perfection, even in that drowsy state of the human condition, there’s harmony to his every motion, the slow steps he takes, the way the fabric glides against his skin, the subtle fine arrangements of his fingers to make sure it looks decent, even how he breathes causes him to blend into the room, but also bedazzle it in his grace, make him stand out like a crown jewel, a masterpiece of arts that name the place.

You can only stop your ogling once he leans in and stirs the flames, which were already going strong since they were last fed before you went to sleep- wait, that doesn’t seem possible, did he actually sever his sleep to tend to it?

Is there any other explanation you need?

Your heart may flutter out of your chest after this realization, so you skirt out of the blankets. Of course, the sound draws his attention, and you’re caught, forced to react.

Yet, the unstoppable smile forming on his lips inspires a similar response on yours so easily, so naturally that you don’t feel obligated at all. On the quite contrary, that simple mimic banishes any pretense, showering you with reassurance and bravery, the motivation to act on your own true terms, not society’s or the ones you pressured onto yourself.

“Good morning.” The simultaneous greeting pulls a giggle from both of you, and it is all so small, yet so much. You sway away from his direction, casually reaching for your clothes, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor of your legs when you shed the nightwear and put the chemise on. Because you know, he’s watching you. Divine justice, perhaps.

“Be careful, Obi Wan, I might start to think you enjoy watching me get dressed too much.” The snarky comment, fighting its way out of your mouth further softens the atmosphere, and it is like the first days of spring after a harsh winter, soothing your souls with relief.

“Guilty as charged.”

You shake your head, consumed by his usual forward banter. A scene taken straight out of your past. You shimmy into your dress instead of coming up with a cleverer response.

“You don’t sound sick.” He says, indicating that he’s been paying attention.

Biting your lip, you turn away. “Actually…”

“Is there something wrong?” He ends up right beside you in a blink, as if the world changed by your unfinished sentence.

Your heart picks up a different rhythm, hands raised in position to tie your ribbon but frozen. “It’s nothing, my throat just feels-”

“Do you want me to call a doctor?”

That was the exact reason why you started with it’s nothing. Alas… “No, it’s probably just my overthinking and coming up with strange sensations.” And if not, it depends on how well you spend tonight, so there’s not much room for intervention. Definitely not in medical terms.

“Pity.” His comment makes you scoff. After that, you can’t reward him with your concerns, can you? It is funny, ugh.

“Let me help.”

Your heart can’t get any rest as the tension simply changes garbs, his fingers trailing over yours and leading a 180° turn, leaving a blazing line along your skin, to tie the ends of your ribbon together. Your arms tentatively fall to your sides, not sure what to do with their freedom. His breaths lick your neck while he attentively, slowly smooths his creation, and you’d probably freak out if you weren’t so focused on the sheer range of his skills.

(Also the mystery of how he comes to acquire it, but it’s only the deep, dark parts of your mind speaking. Moreover, you do not pride yourself in a position to be jealous. You absolutely are, on that tiny level, and no, you’ll never admit it.)

Though, you’re not gonna comment on that, not when your heart threatens to fly out of its cage. The sacredness of the action brings back the echoes of your concerns, not a single one strong enough to overtake you, but the cacophony of them loud enough to occupy the entirety of your capacity.

All that talk of past times… Coupled with a little hesitancy, and how the tables turn…

“T- thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Like he just didn’t flip the dynamic, he carries on with his outfit, tying his cravat. His beautiful hands work expertly, effortlessly, and the result is perfect, even without a mirror, eyes on you the entire time.

“Is it looking fine?”

“Yes.” You meekly answer. It is decent, like he always is. Somehow witnessing that feels as sensual as the previous scene, pulling you further down the whirlpool.

Embarrassed enough already, you busy yourself with your hair, accepting the mess that it is, and decide on a simple bun, as much as possible. The practiced moves bring you some sense of calmness and control, even if the result isn’t perfect. The silence helps too, along with his occupancy of tidying up the room.

“Do you want to have some breakfast?” He asks. God, how does he still sound that cheery?

“No, thank you.” You don’t want to keep your father worrying any longer, and it’s not like you’re going to faint. The memory of your last food in the most unpleasant company is still strong enough to expel any thought of hunger.

That answer may be the clearest thought you’ve ever had this morning, yet it is the one that whispers doubt into his heart. You are silent, turned away from him, and far too engrossed in whatever unnecessary thing you’re doing. Because now, he fears that if the two of you leave this room, this building, all your lives in it will be a part of the history, never to be repeated or worse, mentioned again, lost in the torn pages. The joke about residing here for however long- seems awfully bitter, perfectly demonstrating he’d rather hold on to the possibility than put an end to this.

How could that be love?

Perhaps you were right, accusing him of madness.

That’s the only reason he walks out of the room to prepare the carriages, instead of cocooning the both of you in.

===

“Father!” You wrap your arms around him, who’s standing by the main entrance to your estate, waiting anxiously. He does the same, unaffected by the eyes that watch, the staff, and a mere acquaintance, Lord Kenobi.

Now Obi Wan knows who you got your bravery from.

He stands quietly, hands folded in front of him, not sure what to do but damn sure not to leave. He had plenty of time to think about his madness on the road, and decided it was not anything pathological- it was pure love and desperation for you. Isn’t that the nature of most of your meet-ups? Consoling each other in the positively dreadful situations, and utilizing everything to spend a second more together?

He hears you reassuring him of your well-being, and summarize the thing in pretty understated phrases. Even that makes him stutter over his words in a fit of rage. Obi Wan agrees. You distract him by speaking of the help you’ve gotten from a valiant friend, and that’s how he enters the conversation.

“Good morning, Sir.”

How he keeps it all cool, sharing and shaping his anger, silencing any doubt that may arise in him is a surprise, though he’s called a great negotiator for a reason, right? His work in various cases in court has earned him the title. He’s not overtly a fan of flaunting it. Though, it helps him a great deal in this instance.

At least, enough to have a pleasant exchange in these unpleasant circumstances, and secure permission to talk to you again.

Alone.

It is weird enough as it is already, you and him spending the night at some inn, him casually chatting with your father like his clothes haven’t benefitted from the merits of ironing, not to mention his hair being on the wild side after a slight treatment of rain, and now he is requesting your attention? Not only yours, but your father’s too in extent?

His plans have never been so crystal clear.

“No.” You declare your objection so clearly, in one word as the door closes behind him, giving you the privacy of the room. “No, no, no, no.”

“I haven’t even opened my mouth!” He objects, though it is more of a principal thing, than an actual defense. He knows you’ve worked it all out already. God, could he expect anything less from you? Your watery eyes and trembling hands break his heart into a million pieces, reactions so strong even before he has a chance to utter their cause. He caresses his beard, reevaluating if he should continue-

He can’t live with the consequences if he dares not. He can’t live with what-ifs, or not knowing the reason why you are so repulsed by the idea or would you still feel the same, if he told you about his love for you. Of course, that would require some magic, considering the magnitude and intricacy of it. How is he supposed to put the purest feelings he’s ever had to mere words, the origin of the butterflies caged up in his chest, the wires of his brain getting tangled up whenever you’re not around, and the constant intoxication from the strongest liquor he’s ever consumed? He’d rather die than sober up, and a part of him already recognizes that it’s not a possibility. It is his poison and antidote. There’s not a moment that passes without either of them.

And surely, he has no complaints about it. Never will. It is a brave choice, but what’s braver is this moment.

“No.” You repeat, hands clasped together to stop them from shaking. Your voice is low albeit steady, as much as it can be.

Because you do not lift your eyes to meet him. “You can’t propose to me, because I can’t refuse it. But I will. Then the whole country will wonder what is so wrong with you, and me, and they will talk about it all the time, for years to come. The whispers will be the first thing that you hear in every room you enter, and you’ll see the mischievous glint in the eyes of every person you meet, them scrutinizing whether those rumors are true. Our reputations will be tarnished forever, and we will hate each other for it.” And you can’t stand that.

You don’t sound like this is the first time you’re putting these words together. In all your distressed state, you sound awfully logical in your own way, so focused on one improbable, insane possibility (damn those reputations, he can never hate you), but devising every little detail.

“Why?” He basically hollers, running a hand through his hair. Why does that potential is the one you envision? “Why can’t you marry me?”

One can only dream that someone outside isn’t listening.

“Because- I don’t know!” You take a desperate step closer, showing him your honesty. You truly can’t quite name your aversions, and isn’t that already enough of a reason to stay away, spare the person you’re facing? “I don’t know how to be a wife! And I am scared. All my life I alienated myself from the idea of a marriage, I methodically dismissed every chance claiming it wasn’t the time, all the way ‘til I would say it was too late. I was content with that idea. Because I love- loved my life the way it is; I get more than I need from my father, and that is to remain unchanged when my brother takes over, and I am free as a bird, unbound by society’s expectations, traveling wherever, wherever and trying new things. I was, I am so happy about it that anything that may alter it I shun from immediately. And now I find myself in a place I never imagined, and I am scared. I don’t know what happens now. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what that future looks like for us.”

He moves towards you, his head tilted sideways in understanding, arms reaching for yours. Finally, finally hearing your justifications, the basis of your attitude, fills him with pride and compassion, and most importantly, gives him an opportunity to help you solve those problems, together. But, you hush him, squeezing his wrists in gentle guidance, with tears streaking across your cheeks. “I just know that I love you. I love you so much that my heart will always feel like a weight in my chest when I’m not with you, like a ship sinking, but never reaching the bottom. And I will continue to love you even if you stop loving me back, but I would rather lose you on my terms than by the burdens a marriage brings.”

“Why do you so believe that a mere contract would change my feelings? Do you think my affections for you are that fragile?”

You frantically shake your head, causing the drops to fall faster. “No, I’m not saying that-“

“Then what?” He snaps, though not because he’s angry. He wants to learn every single reason that’s keeping you away.

“You don’t know what that will do to us.”

“No, I don’t! And I don’t care! It will never change my feelings.” This, he can shout freely. This is the simplest truth for all his remaining days on this earth.

You don’t know that, you want to object. “Obi Wan…” Is the response that comes out of your mouth. “I am not a good bride.”

“No.”There’s acceptance in his tone, a punch to your guts. “You’re the love of life, my companion, my everything.” When he pulls you even closer, and cups your cheeks, you let him. “Haven’t we been through all the struggles a couple could share already? Haven’t I seen all of you, and let you see all of me? Haven’t you claimed my entire soul, and occupied my every single thought? You made me break my rules, and painted a picture I never thought was suited for me- and I came to like that picture very much. In fact, it’s all I ever want my future to look like, with you in it. You, exactly in the way you already are, with all your unsusceptibility to the norms and striking habits. I know that can be scary. I am afraid too. But, anything worth doing starts like this, I know it. And we’ll be the biggest idiots in the world if we let our fear rule us.”

You can’t help but laugh a little, the joyful sound making his breath hitch. It is reflected on his face too, and it is something you’ll hold on to, alongside the tears that begin to form on his eyes. Fortunately, they sit there, despite him kneeling in front of you, his fingers never leaving the bend of your arm, only to follow the route they create, and hold onto both of your hands. “Please, marry me.”

You’re convinced, but your tongue is still tied, so you nod. Your entire upper body shakes with the gesture in seconds, making you look like an overexcited child, on the verge of losing their balance with the restlessness of their legs. You barely feel him kissing your knuckles before he stands up and embraces you, stabilizing both of you in both physical and emotional terms. Let’s be real, if he kissed you instead as he desperately wished to, you’d fall on the floor (and continue there- ‘til somebody discovered the two of you in very indecent terms). His chuckles quickly become your favorite song, you feel blessed as they delight your ears, and make your chest vibrate like his. He revels in the newfound proximity, despite the fact that you’ve been much, much closer in the past. This is new. This is raw love, uncombined with other emotions, strengthened by the absolute truth that you two are meant for each other, and with the promise of you’ll do something about it. He holds you ‘til your sense of balance is restored, for he now has urgent matters he has to attend to. He’ll get to hold you forever soon, and that revelation doesn’t change the herculean feat of letting you go now. He can’t help but wipe the streaks of wetness on your face, though it forms again. He solely doesn’t repeat himself because of the widest grin on your lips. You press yourself to his palm, eyelids closing for a moment, then place a small peck on it.

“I- I’m now gonna go and talk to your father, get the papers right- and find a-” oh, that’s not “a”, he is going to require many others even if he keeps everything minimal, “I’ll be back in three, fuck, four hours, okay?”

“What? No!” You exclaim, almost giving him a heart attack.

“What’s wrong?” His fingers tighten, a slight tremble taking over them. You have to smile to get him to relax once again, and raise your eyebrows wittily, as if he is a fool for not imagining it already, reminding him of your nature.

“I’m only doing this once. I want everything to be right.”

He squints his eyes, grasping your chin. There’s a few seconds of silence, the time it takes for his nerves to settle. When it does, you’re struck by the intensity of his blue irises, the condensed calm before the storm. “So you want to stay as my fiance ‘til the next season starts, in eight months, succumbing to waiting as we get no freedom to ourselves, always in the center stage, enjoying the last of our bachelor states, the lonely nights and beds bigger than you can ever occupy.”

His other hand, wandering across your waist tells you exactly what he implies. While you actually weren’t planning on such a thing, it causes a surge of rush to overtake you, burning you from the inside. Pursing your lips as you free your face from his grip, with a contradicting shaky breath, you say. “I was always fond of winter weddings…”

To this, he laughs, echoing in the room, and you join him.

One can only hope whoever outside listens to this too, this moment of pure joy preserved in one more mind.

===

“I couldn’t be happier to be married to you.” Obi Wan whispers, but the sentence is loud and clear to you, etched into where he takes nest in the crook of your neck, hot breaths burning your skin.

“We’re still not- ngh“ Yes, this is supposed to be the rehearsal, the night before the main event. You two should be at the reception downstairs, among your many relatives and friends and other members of the society, all gathered for tomorrow morning, when these words of yours will be invalid.

Of course, you are further making a hypocrite of yourself by the way you hold onto him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders as he burrows his cock into you. It was impossible to wait any further, as you were separated by the whole ordeal of preparations and the watchful eyes. The moment you found a clearing, you two slipped away, cue to now, where your back on the wall as he supports you against it. You didn’t even get one meter away from the door, you could basically reach the knob with a simple extension of your elbow, but in the end, who cares? Who cares when he fills you so deliciously, scratching the itch that has been building for some time, peppering you with all the love in his heart?

Still, your sentence is cut abruptly as he drives his hips faster, rougher- very much an act of pedantry, advising not to get lost in the details. It works, the correction dies on your tongue, though a quite loud moan takes its place. His hand flies to cover your mouth, and your eyes pop open, meeting his. The pressure of his palm against your face almost forces another sound out of you. Fuck, you adore those blue storms, even when they are focused elsewhere, turned to the door as if it can see past behind it, scanning for intruders. You do actually whimper when the danger dissolves, the vibrations running among his bones, and he keeps up his pace, hitting that sweet spot over and over again.

However, it is getting harder in terms of balance as he now has one hand to stabilize you, and despite your best efforts, it is quite hard not to slide off of the smooth fabric of his clothes. Remorsefully, you push on his shoulders, and he understands, pulling his cock out of you and burying his mouth on your skin. He stifles a sob in there, the frustration getting the best of him.

“Oh, you definitely had too much wine.” Look at who’s talking, you with those wobbly legs and bitten lips…

“No, I just had too little of you.”

Your heart flaps its wings out of your chest, as it does after his every cheesy compliment. You still cannot figure out how he makes you blush harder with those words, even as he ravages you in the meantime.

You reach for a kiss, it is always a good idea. He hums contently at the touch, grateful at the most basic form of contact. Obi Wan rocks against you unintentionally, and that’s how the unsatiated desire wages war, with desperate groans and roaming hands.

Then, his fingers tighten around your waist, and you find yourself supported against the vanity with your open palms, depositing most of your weight there (thank God, because you couldn’t trust your feet much longer). He pulls your hips back to his. Your back arches in a way that is most complementary to his chest, and fuck, it is a vision.

It literally is.

Fluttering your eyes open for only a second (that was your intention at least), you’re struck down with the image of the two of you in the mirror, faces contorted in the prettiest way that is possible in this dirty position, heavy lids and open mouths, fingertips whitened by the strong grasp you have on each other, the matching colors of your outfits…

Yes, even with that detail, you’re still on his side, agreeing you’d be idiots if you weren’t doing this.

Deciding to take the sight from its direct source, you turn your head to the side a little, looking at the adonis of a man you’ll soon call your husband, with his neatly trimmed beard and prominent cheekbones and long eyelashes you are slightly jealous of and so much more…

He meets your gaze, breathless with similar thoughts, that little tug on the corner of his mouth telling you all you need to know, but then he nudges your face to its previous state by a small clasp of your chin, and you’re watching him through the reflection, leaning forward when he starts to fumble with your skirt once again.

The moan that leaves you is totally incapable of being unobscured as he enters you anew. The change in the angle along with the visual stimulation has you teetering on the edge quite easily, like him, but he denies it, maintaining slow movements and choking out any noise that dares to leave him.

Of course, all is impeded when the door is knocked-

“Occupied!”

Your voices are synchronized, high and tight. The clock stops for a moment for your bodies, as if the stationary status makes it any less scandalous, and both of you fixated on the doorknob.

It never turns. Never.

Still, the dilated pupils remain a little longer, joined over the mirror, with big puffs of breath and shaking hands.

“Do you think they-“ There’s not an exact word that you can find to explain what has just occurred, but the sentiment is clear.

“Probably.” And the answer too is just as clear.

Well, the only thing lost is the trivial achievement of never being discovered before the wedding.

A wedding which is hours away.

So, you push back, wiggling your hips. His unrestricted sound is all you need to regain your spirits back, and you do it once more. Just like that, the wheels are turning.

“You realize there’s a bed behind us, right?” He asks as he slowly thrusts into you.

“Yes, but I like the view better here.”

#star wars imagine #star wars fanfiction #obi wan kenobi imagine #obi wan imagine #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan x reader #obi wan kenobi smut #obi wan kenobi fluff #obi wan kenobi angst

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farfromstrange · 6 months

Text

Do No Harm

CHAPTER TWO: Imposter Syndrome

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You've been trying your hardest to focus on your work, but there is something else that is bothering you. Claire decides to give you a call and check up on you. It seems like both of you are keeping secrets of your own, and then there is this handsome lawyer who refuses to leave your mind after he quite literally burst your little bubble of solitude...

Warnings for this chapter: Slight angst, mentions of domestic violence, Reader's POV, use of reader's fake name

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: It took me a few tries to finish this chapter because I couldn't, for the life of me, settle on a plot, but I think I've got it figured out now. I didn't do the classic "this scene from another POV", I switched it up a bit, so what happened in chapter one isn't repeated word for word. I think it flows better like this. I hope you guys like it, and thank you for your support so far! I really appreciate it.

Read Chapter 2: Imposter Syndrome on AO3.

The human body holds up to six liters of blood. Without saline or a blood transfusion, losing more than two liters can be fatal—and every drop lost after that decreases your chance of survival. A paper cut won’t kill you, but a gunshot wound might. It’s a simple equation that doesn’t require a medical degree to solve.

If the human body experiences trauma though, everything is on the line. A nicked vessel or artery can lead to a bloodbath. Trauma to any of the major organs can lead to internal bleeding and cause the body to suffer fatal consequences. You could lose too much blood too fast, or the blood could travel to your brain, and you could herniate.

Depending on the place of injury, trauma can lead to a large number of complications that are therefore a threat to life. But it’s not just blood that the human body needs to survive; oxygen is another vital player in the game against time. Without it, the brain dies, and if the brain is dead, there is nothing anyone can do to bring you back.

Many things could kill a human being, and many complications could occur in a split second, and that makes trauma an unpredictable event.

Your fingers instantly stop moving over the keys of your computer when the black phone on your desk starts screaming. At first, your eyes switch to your phone, but you have any non-emergent calls silenced. That explains it.

You flinch. You suddenly become painfully aware of the city’s lights shining on you from behind, the blue light of your laptop illuminating your face and causing your pupils to shrink, and the bulb in your desk lamp that is flickering every so often, reminding you that you need to switch it sometime soon.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, then press the acceptance button. You answer the phone. “This is Doctor Clarke at Metro General,” you say. “How can I help you?”

“Jesus,” the familiar voice reaches your ears, and you let out an almost annoyed sigh. “You sound like hell,” Claire answers.

“And you don’t sound sick,” you retort.

You aren’t sure what to make of her sudden mystery illness, or why she didn’t tell you and you had to find out from the hospital administrator who was losing it over the fact that her favorite nurse called out sick that morning.

The phone goes silent for a short moment before she says, “It’s complicated.”

“Hey, we all need sick days sometimes,” you shrug. “Just took us all by surprise, is all.”

“Are you trying to turn this around on me so we won’t have to talk about you?”

Your lips part in a dry chuckle. “Is this about me?” you ask, even though you know very well that it is. You’re the one trying to deflect.

“You silenced your phone.”

With another sigh, you push the stack of papers you’ve been working on aside and take the next folder from the pile. “I’m fine.” You hold the X-ray picture up to the light, squinting your eyes. “Just... splendid, yeah. You want me to do a psych eval? Urine sample? My social security number?”

You can physically hear her roll her eyes at your comment. “Can’t I just be worried about you without you taking it like a personal attack?”

It’s a loaded, rhetorical question asked in a tone that you are more than familiar with. It is a train wreck waiting to happen, but Claire is your friend—a very caring friend, too—and she hardly ever lets loose when she wants to know something.

She knows you better than anyone, after all. She knows everything, even the parts you swore to never talk about again—parts you swore you would take to the grave.

That is the purpose of a new life, isn’t it? Forgetting the past ever happened, then moving on? If that could actually heal trauma, life would be so much easier. Unfortunately, denial tends to make the wounds bleed faster. You will die faster if you keep it all bottled up, but it’s easier said than done when it comes to reality. Sometimes, denial is the only luxury you can afford for yourself, even if it slowly kills you.

You have seen your fair share of traumatic injuries pass in and out of the emergency room over the years. Not just physically but mentally as well. There is only a small margin of error in an even smaller time frame in which traumatic injuries can be treated without lifelong consequences. The scars though, they remain forever.

“Look,” Claire continues softly, “I’m worried about you. I know you hate talking about yourself, but every once in a while, I have to make sure you’re alright and not... falling apart or something.”

You swallow thickly, the lump slowly starting to hurt your esophagus. “Why would I be falling apart?” you question, but your voice no longer has the same level of conviction in it.

Feigned confidence doesn’t go a very long way, you’ve noticed. You can’t stand your ground when you don’t believe in where you’re standing.

“A little birdy told me you had a bad day. That’s why.”

In the halls of a hospital—any hospital—word travels faster than lightning. You roll your eyes, but you don’t know what to say. She isn’t wrong. You did have a bad day. Your blood is still boiling. Everything in you feels a hundred pounds heavier. You may not be falling apart because there is not much of a foundation left to fall apart, but the feeling is eerily similar.

You used to be a beloved surgeon at a prestigious hospital for all five years of your residency, but with each year that passed, what had once been just a spark turned into gigantic flames that slowly began torching your skin. They burned your flesh and dragged it down to your fragile bones. Your body went into shock over the years. You became septic. And it almost killed you, too.

Your heart froze in place before it miserably cracked. It didn’t take long before the inferno took over every last crevice of your life. It burnt out everything that was remotely good for you. You were so dependent on something—someone—that was slowly poisoning you.

You ran for months. You moved from State to State, you changed your name and your whole identity twice. You tried everything to get away, but your demons kept haunting you. The distance between you and your old life grew bigger until eventually, you reached the other side of the country, hundreds of miles from the hell you escaped from. There was nothing left in your past to exist for, so you became someone else. You lost yourself and gained a stranger’s identity in return. Someone who wasn’t scarred from a battle that she almost fully lost.

You thought it would be easy to pretend to be someone else, someone without the same wounds that have been inflicted on you, but that turned out to be the wrong thing to believe.

Claire’s voice rings out again. “What’s going on with you, Liv?” she asks.

You’re not really present at the moment, but this time, you hear her.

You shake your head. “Nothing.” It’s a blatant lie, but it rolls over your tongue so easily, you are tempted to believe it yourself before your friend even can.

“You keep zoning out,” she says. “You’re not helping your case.”

“It’s been a long day, that’s all. What’s going on with you?”

Her lips part in a soft exhale. You hit the nail right on the head. “Nothing’s going on with me. I just had to take a sick day. Migraines, you know? I get them sometimes.”

You don’t buy it. Her voice sounds strained, but more like she is forcing herself to sound sicker than she is. Not that you are allowed to judge, it simply strikes you as odd, considering that she isn’t usually like this, and it makes you wonder what else she is keeping from you.

A pregnant pause follows. “I heard about the girl,” Claire says then, changing the subject. You’re both way too good at that. You’re hypocrites.

“Annie,” you cut her off. “Her name’s—was Annie.”

You keep replaying it over and over in your mind. From the moment you received the page to the ER to the little girl landing on your operating table, you retrace all of your steps. You rethink every decision you made, every uttered order, every cut, and every stitch. Every time you do, you come up empty.

Annie was six years old. She got hit by an oncoming car. It was a gruesome sight, but you kept telling yourself that it could have been worse. She was stabilizing when you took her to the operating room. All the tests suggested that controlling the damage could buy some valuable time for the specialists to do their jobs. In your mind, the path was clear to a full recovery.

Everything you did to save her life ended up doing absolutely nothing.

It elicited a feeling that you are more than used to—inadequacy. You know that it is utterly selfish to think that way; this isn’t even about you. The feeling wraps like a noose around your heart, but you can’t allow yourself to make this about you. You’re not that type of person.

Claire takes your silence as an answer. “I logged into the hospital server and took a look at the X-rays,” she says. “That aortic tear was irreparable, as much for you as it would’ve been for the world’s best cardiothoracic surgeon. This wasn’t your fault.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know that,” you argue. “I could have caught it earlier. I could’ve… I could’ve done something.”

“No, Liv, you couldn’t have. But I think you know that.”

You search the depths of your mind for the right words to say, but you come up with none. “Who blabbed, anyway?” you ask.

In this case, though, the question is, who didn’t? Everyone must have heard about Annie by now, and the people around you care too much. It was bound to reach Claire’s ears eventually. You just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

Claire holds off on her answer for a moment. “Doesn’t matter,” she answers. It’s the kindest choice. “What matters is that you can’t beat yourself up for something that wasn’t your fault.” Her voice suggests that she’s smiling.

“I…I’m fine,” you lie.

“I know you’re not.”

“You’re the one who called in sick but clearly isn’t. You don’t see me bugging you about it.”

That shuts her up for a moment. “This isn’t about me,” Claire tries to talk herself out of it, but you see right through her.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

“I—” She sighs. “I promise you, if there was something going on, I’d tell you.”

You should return the sentiment. You should tell her what you’re really thinking, but you’re mute. When it comes to your own feelings, all words in the English dictionary elude you.

Still, the feeling that Claire is lying to you keeps eating away at you. She has no reason to. Or maybe she has, but it’s none of your business. You’re curious, maybe a little worried, but you can’t expect her to tell you every little thing about her life and then refuse to do the same because you can’t possibly ask for help with something you don’t even understand yourself.

You’re miserable enough as it is. You would rather suffer through it alone than bother her with your chronic overthinking and the fear of failure.

“I’m still cat-sitting for Jenny,” she breaks you out of your thoughts.

You chuckle slightly. “But you’re allergic to cats,” you say.

“I know, but…” She stops herself. “The point is, I still have an almost full bottle of white wine in the fridge and there’s this deliciously cheap pizza place around the corner. Their breadsticks are to die for, trust me. You could come over after your shift and we could look after that stupid cat together. Maybe. Just until we both feel better.”

Until you both feel better. You feel like it would take more than wine and pizza to make you feel better.

You need to sulk. You need to marinate in your misery. That way, you can suck it up and be better next time. Everything else seems like too much of a waste of time.

You shatter what little hope she had about you agreeing to her offer like a full wine glass on a white cloth, sure to leave stains. Your hand momentarily motions toward the stack of paperwork, but then you remember that she can’t see over the phone. “I wish I could,” you say, “but I have to finish my surgical reports by tomorrow.”

Claire nods slowly. “Are you sure it’s the paperwork?”

“I promise.”

She accepts defeat. She can’t change your mind. You’re stubborn, determined, and a pain in the ass most of the time. She still loves you, but she has long given up on forcing you out of your shell.

Sometimes, which is more often than not, you prefer to be miserable because you have no idea how to be anything else.

“Well, I tried. So… at least call me if you need anything,” she says.

You offer her a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re tired. Your heart is pounding from all the caffeine and the frustration of the unknown. You have paperwork. As long as you have paperwork, you’re occupied. It’s as good a reason to avoid talking about anything that could be considered even remotely personal.

“Thank you, Claire. For everything,” your voice is barely above a whisper. “Take care of yourself. I’ll talk to you later.”

You hate that you’re like this, but you can’t change who you are now or what all those years of suffering have made out of you. You can’t change the fact that underneath Olivia Clarke, it is not who you are. And it will never be who you are because her identity is a fraud.

You may have escaped the worst time of your life and traded it for a fresh start, but that doesn’t take away the paralyzing fear that still sits deep in your bones, making it impossible for you to sleep at night. It may be a fresh start to a new life, but the slate is far from clean. There are bloodstains that you can’t get out. Stains that will haunt you forever.

Every day and every night that you spend at the hospital, you’re reminded of the terrible past that threatens to overshadow your future whenever you set foot outside. Your name may be Olivia Clarke, but that will never be your real name, no matter how badly you try to pretend it to be. And on some days, it breaks you just a little more when you fail at the one thing you have always excelled at. The one thing you have dedicated your life to. To do something good, to be worth something, and to prove the cruel monsters in your mind wrong about their assessment of you.

You don’t want to be a coward. You don’t want to be weak. You don’t want to be dependent on anything or anyone ever again. You forgot how to be happy. You became someone you’re not because the person you used to be was broken by someone she thought she could trust.

He took everything from you, and he took all that you are. Olivia was never taken advantage of.

Claire saved your life. She knows the truth, but facts aren’t enough. She’s your only support system, the only one who knows who you truly are, deep down, and yet she knows nothing at all.

Long after you’ve hung up the phone, you start wandering the halls of Metro General. You haven’t quite figured out what you’re looking for yet. You want to be alone. You want to be not needed. You want to exist somewhere that isn’t here. And you don’t want to be found, just for a little while.

When you get settled on an empty bed in one of internal medicine’s abandoned hallways that had to be emptied after severe budget cuts affected the hospital, the tears start pouring out without warning. You barely manage to stifle the sobs that slip past your lips. You hate crying. You used to believe that it was a sign of weakness, but tears have become as much of a partner in crime to you as the pain has.

It’s not as easy as it used to be to hold all of those treacherous feelings in—feelings you don’t even understand yourself—and that makes you hate yourself enough to cry even harder. Because you try, try, and you try even harder as you give all of yourself over and over again to be someone you never thought you would turn into, and still, you find yourself failing more times than you could possibly count.

Your life ended when you met the man who ruined you; ever since then, you have only been a shell of the person you used to be, and there is seemingly nothing you can do about it other than accept that Olivia Clarke is who you are now, and she is all you can be.

You didn’t expect another lonely soul in need of an escape to find his way to your little haven. This hallway isn’t even on the hospital map anymore, but he still somehow found his way here.

Your eyes switch to his cane, the red glasses, and the way he so awkwardly carries himself when he seems to realize that he, in fact, isn’t alone. You know that feeling of instant disappointment all too well, and he just caught you crying, which only makes matters worse.

After the initial awkwardness has dissipated and you get to talking, you take a moment to appreciate him. His name is Matthew. He is a defense attorney. He is unlike any man you’ve ever met before. You’re cautious when it comes to new people, but there is something almost calm about him. He’s funny, charming, and he’s respectful. He made you feel comfortable from the start.

There is a mystery surrounding him. You know all about mysteries. They draw you in. They make you feel less alone in a way. He is the biggest one you have encountered so far.

People tend to consider you an enigma, too. Most of them are wary of you because you barely share anything about yourself. You’re still learning, even after two years, to be someone new. You’re constantly reinventing yourself because all you were before is gone now. You lost yourself in the fire. So, most people you meet don’t talk much when they do; you’ve gotten used to having only one friend. It keeps your identity safe, as guarded as you are. It’s the safest bet for everyone involved—or everyone not involved.

Matthew is different. He seems genuinely curious, but he doesn’t pry. And that makes you open yourself up to him, even if it is just your body language. He’s sitting right next to you, his calm voice like a gentle symphony in your ear. He serenades you every time he speaks. That is a dangerous quality. He’s an attractive man, and you can’t keep your eyes off of him. You can’t stop listening. He’s like a work of art—a damaged work of art.

The man before you is broken and bruised. That’s what makes him so mysterious. The hesitation you showed when he introduced himself, indirectly asking for a piece of you in return, shows when you ask about his injuries.

You have seen all kinds of injuries, including those on a blind man who fell down the stairs. Matthew doesn’t fit the profile, and that only makes him more mysterious and therefore more interesting to you.

You have to stop yourself before you ask too many questions. You don’t want to push him away, but you also can’t draw him in. You can be nice, but that is as far as you are willing to go. You hold your walls so high that no one can break through them, no matter how fascinating or attractive they are.

Matthew is a dangerous man because he makes you feel things that you have long told yourself never to feel again. But it’s hard when he makes it so easy to like him.

You patch him up. It’s not just professional courtesy; he seems like he desperately needs someone to look after him. You are being nice to him, that is all. You keep telling yourself the same thing.

You’re still disappointed when you get paged to the emergency room and you have to leave him behind. The chances that you will see him again are low, and they shrink to zero when you return to the hallway four hours later and find it dark and empty again. The plastic packaging of the bandages you used on him is still lying around, but that is all that is left of him. All you have is a memory of a very unexpected encounter that will probably never occur again.

But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing, after all. At least like this, you can’t make the mistake of falling for a guy claiming to be nice. At least like this, you can keep your fragile and already broken heart safe from enduring the same kind of pain ever again.

You pass the nurse’s station in the emergency room on your way out. Dropping the chart of your last patient on the counter, you wish everyone a good night.

“Liv, before you leave–” One of the senior nurses stops you dead in your tracks, “Someone left a card for you,” she says.

You turn around, frowning at her. “A card?” you ask. “Who did?”

Her lips curl into a mischievous smile. “Handsome fella. And he had good manners.”

Your mind reels. There are only a handful of people that would fit that description. Every time someone leaves something behind for you, your first response is to panic. Your blood pressure spikes. You can feel your heart beating up to your throat and your vision blurs. You’re not a fan of the suspense or knowing grins, and it’s obvious.

The nurse’s smile fades and she rummages through the stack of papers next to the computer. “He only knew your first name and his blindness made it a bit harder to figure out who he was talking about, but thankfully we only have one excellent trauma surgeon named Olivia,” she says, her eyes still twinkling. She can’t help it.

You let out an audible exhale. Your body relaxes. Your heart rate slows down. You can finally see her clearly again, and she slides the card across the counter for you to take. You want to apologize for the hostility, but her face tells you that she understands.

The next time your heart starts beating faster, it isn’t out of panic. You look down at the names on the card and the distinctive number on the back, and your brain releases a sudden rush of dopamine. It’s late, you’re tired, but somehow this little gesture puts a surprising smile on your face.

You shouldn’t be as excited as you are. Your plan for this evening has been tossed far out of the window in an instant.

“So,” the nurse asks, “who is he? A patient? A friend?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “A guy from Hinge?”

You shake your head. “Just… a guy I met,” you answer.

If he were an official patient, this would be highly unethical and you would have to toss his number into the nearest trash can.

The blood has permanently settled into your cheeks. You’re not usually the kind of person who blushes. It’s infuriating.

With a chuckle, she leans over. “Well, either way, the guy was smoking. Said you should give him a call. I hope for your sake that you do.”

You keep twisting and turning the card. “What else did he say?”

“Not much. Just said that I should give this to you and that you should call him if you want. You must’ve made quite the impression.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip. You would’ve never suspected this. You are essentially still a stranger to him, and he still left you his number. He wants you to call him.

It makes no sense, and yet it flatters you like nothing has in quite a while.

You let out a soft sigh before stuffing the card into the pocket of your coat. Looking up, you meet the nurse’s curious eyes.

Your mind is taking its time to process your thoughts and the feelings connected to your thoughts.

She chuckles at the bewildered look in your eyes. You must look like a fool. “Where does one meet a specimen like that anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?” she says. “‘Cause I desperately need me one of those.”

A beat of silence follows. Then, you wet your lips and answer, “Abandoned hallways. Way more effective than Hinge, apparently.”

The subtle joke makes her laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You put in the effort to fake a smile with your nod. “Well, thank you,” you say. “You guys have a good shift. If you need anything, page me.”

“Will do,” she says. The other nurses nod. Of course, they listened in on your conversation.

With another small wave in their general direction, you make your way outside into the cool night air. You retrieve the business card from your coat, your eyes roaming over the names carefully printed on it, and the Braille that has been added for obvious reasons.

Nelson & Murdock. Attorneys at law.

From what he told you, this is probably the only somewhat expensive thing he and his partner afforded for a semi-successful marketing plan for their practice. It almost makes you chuckle.

Matt Murdock is a very fascinating man, though as you stare at the card and the number on the back you can’t help but feel a slight hint of unease bubble up in your chest, and you ask yourself, what did you get yourself into?

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock angst #daredevil #matt murdock x you #daredevil x reader #matt murdock fluff #reader insert #matt murdock fic #doctor!reader #medical drama #matt murdock imagines #charlie cox #do no harm

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try-set-me-on-fire · 1 year

Note

In the hopes of getting more material to melt over, I'm sending you the soft prompt "shoulder kisses"

Send me soft prompts! Find the finished ones on ao3!

"You make me wanna, like, mow the lawn."

"What?" Eddie glances up from the old flashlight he’s trying to screw back together after replacing the busted bulb because this one’s always worked fine, Buck, what do I need a new one for? Whatever. Buck is going to hide a nice newer model in the truck somewhere. “Does the lawn need mowing?”

“What?” Buck cranes up in his seat at the kitchen table to see what he can of the backyard. “Eh. I’ll do it this weekend.”

“You know you don’t have to,” Eddie says down to the plastic and metal in his palms, frowning when the pieces refuse to come together right.

“No, I know, but I want to. Didn’t I just say that?”

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, finally solving the flashlight puzzle and blinking it directly into Buck’s eyes a few times. “But it kind of seemed like you were talking about something else.”

“I guess I kinda was.” Buck leans back in the chair, crossing his arms behind his head. "You make me wanna… do laundry and go grocery shopping and mop the floor.

Eddie raises an eyebrow with a little smile, leaning back in his own chair. “You saying we’re getting too domestic? Need to spice things up?”

“No,” Buck huffs a laugh. “I’d mow your lawn any day.”

“Well now it sounds like a sex thing,” Eddie teases, and his foot bumps into Buck’s under the table.

Buck laughs again, louder. “I mean,” he wiggles his eyebrows. “We could figure something out.”

Eddie’s eyes crinkle up in his grin as he shakes his head and gathers up the tools on the table. He snaps them into their case with satisfying plastic clicks and goes to store them back in their place under the sink. When he comes back to the table he takes slow steps, past his own chair to stand in front of Buck and run a hand through his hair. "Why do I make you want to do chores?"

"It’s like…" Buck leans into the warmth of his palm. “Being alive.” Eddie raises an eyebrow and Buck rests his hands on his belly to feel him breathing. “I mean… having a life? Sharing- I mean, we skipped right to it.”

“To what?” Eddie kind of hums the question, fingers still moving through Buck’s hair in a way that makes his eyes want to drift shut.

“I mean, even before we were-“ Buck gestures between the two of them. “We shared everything already. I think I literally actually did mow your lawn like two weeks after I met you.”

Eddie laughs, low, and Buck’s hands on his torso shake with it. “You did. I’m not sure I even knew I had a lawnmower.”

“Yeah, it looked pretty sad out there.” Eddie tugs on his hair for the comment, but only very gently. “So I guess… we skipped all the other things. Getting to know you, pretending to be somebody you’d like.”

Eddie’s eyes are soft. “Buck, I like you plenty.”

“I know,” Buck says, quiet through the smile spread over his face. “You make me feel real.”

Eddie’s eyes are even softer, and his fingers stop moving, his hand just resting against Buck’s skull. “You’re plenty real.”

“I know. It’s… I don’t have to impress you. I don’t have to be anything. I just get to live real, everyday life with you. I want to do all those things not because I think I have to, to make you stay. I want to mow your lawn because it’s my lawn.”

Eddie inhales and exhales a few times, just looking down at him, and then ducks down to press a slow kiss into the skin revealed by Buck’s old ratty sweatshirt sliding down his trapezius. When he pulls back he only goes far enough to look Buck in the eyes. “I want to do your laundry,” he whispers, mouth pulling into a little smile. “I wanna mow your lawn.”

Buck eyes drift down to his lips. “That does sound like a sex thing.”

Eddie’s small smile grows into an easy grin. “I’m sure we could figure something out.”

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #short one this time and theres just barely a shoulder kiss in it #i just had buck saying i wanna like mow your lawn in my head for some reason #had to figure out why he’d say it #i think Eddie finds the new flashlight Buck hides and then he starts leaving notes for him in little hidden spaces #hello buck i hope youre having a good day #hello buck i love you #hello buck i dont need a new flashlight but thank you anyway #my writing

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magnus-the-maqnificent · 4 months

Note

prompt: malec and the gang having korean bbq, everyone look in puzzled as magnus the one who do the grilling and then just put everything in alec plate

Anh? Actually sending a decent prompt for once? More likely than you think 😳

Read on ao3

****

Maybe it was the six glasses of soju, maybe it was the atmosphere - the restaurant lit like a 90’s bar, the blue aquariums lining the walls full of colourful fish (a sight that made Alec miss his children - Max and Rafael would’ve adored them), the music playing through the speakers of the restaurant and the smell of hot sizzling meat - but Alec was feeling especially smitten today.

Or maybe it was the love of his life looking particularly sexy today, wearing a powder blue silk shirt with the top few buttons left undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a little looser than usual, a few stray locks falling in front of his face. His eyeliner was sleek and sharp, and lips pursed in intense concentration as he flipped some shrimp on the grill.

Alec was just content to watch him for now, chin propped up on a palm, hearts in his eyes.

They had come out for Korean barbecue - him and Magnus, and Jace and Clary and Isabelle and Simon - because it was the weekend, and because Isabelle thought it’d be fun to go out on a ‘triple date’, and because Jace and Magnus had clashed on what kind of food they wanted and Korean barbecue ultimately met both their needs.

Alec could hear the chatter of conversation between the others, but his eyes were only on Magnus, who was now busy rolling a piece of shrimp and some pickled garlic in lettuce, which he then dipped in some chilli oil and held out to Alec.

“Say ahhh.”

Alec rolled his eyes but complied anyway, letting Magnus feed him. The taste of crisp lettuce hit him first, and then the chilli and the shrimp and everything else, the flavour while literally bursting into Alec’s mouth.

Magnus smiled, no doubt enjoying what he called Alec’s “foodgasm face”.

“Good?”

“Mmhmm,” Alec nodded, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as he chewed. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but smile a little.

Magnus feeding him had become something of a habit between them. It was a result of Alec’s long work days that blended into nights in an extra office Magnus had summoned up for him inside their apartment, plus Magnus’s persistent desire for himself and everyone around him to eat well, particularly a minimum of three meals a day minimum.

So, these days, when Alec tended to answer ‘you should eat something’ with some variation of ‘later’ more than three times in a row, Magnus would simply sigh and summon up a plate of food and a stool next to Alec’s chair. He’d feed Alec until the plate was left empty, sometimes with chopsticks, sometimes with a fork or spoon, sometimes with his fingers, carefully wiping away any excess left on Alec’s lips afterwards.

It was probably not something to get used to, and Alec might have to put a stop to it sooner or later, but screw him - he had a repressed childhood and loved being pampered.

Right now, Magnus was feeding him a second helping of a lettuce roll with shrimp, when someone cleared their throat from across the table.

“Are we going to get some, too, or are you just going to feed Alec everything?” Jace pouted.

Alec snorted, “I’m pretty sure you can assemble your own rolls, Jace.”

“Okay, one,” Jace protested, “you can assemble your own too, and two, I’d be doing it right now if Magnus hadn’t dumped all the cooked shrimp onto your plate.”

Alec looked down at his plate, and - yep, there was a heap of shrimp on there.

Magnus sighed, looking long-suffering. “I put on another batch for you guys, they’ll be cooked soon.”

“What if you’re too busy cooing over Alec and they burn?” Jace narrowed his eyes.

“I keep telling you I can grill-“ Isabelle butt in.

“Oh, it’s fine- I mean- Magnus has way more experience so-“ Clary interrupted, steering the evening clear of disaster.

Isabelle sighed and leaned back in her chair. “When will the world appreciate my talent?”

“I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with any of this,” Simon muttered to no one in particular. The waitstaff had kindly procured pre-grilled vegetarian alternatives for him, which included grilled mushrooms, tofu and pineapple slices.

Simon hadn’t touched the pineapples so far. Alec didn’t think he was planning on doing so either.

Magnus sighed, “I won’t let them burn. Also, you can have the first serving of brisket.”

Jace seemed satisfied with that offer, and busied himself with the glass noodles they had served as a side.

Magnus paused to flip the shrimp on the grill, and then turned his attention back to Alec, assembling another roll and holding it out for him.

Alec shook his head. “You should eat too, love.”

“You first, babygirl,” Magnus grinned.

Alec rolled his eyes again, but how could he ever refuse?

#send me prompts!#malec #alec lightwood #magnus bane

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wikiangela · 7 months

Text

fuck it friday

tagged by @daffi-990 @giddyupbuck @spotsandsocks

hi!! i'm back lol - well, the craziness at work is done and I'm slowly getting back to writing bc I haven't written in like a week and it's killing me lol (this is gonna sound dramatic but I literally don't feel like myself if I don't write for too long haha) I don't have anything new to share rn, but I figured since it's already december and since some of y'all are sharing Christmas fics, and knowing I likely won't write one this year, I'm gonna shamelessly plug my holiday fake dating fic with 4 Christmases and 6 Christmas chapters actually 😂 (Christmas was a very important time for Buck and Eddie's relationship in this lol) - there's obvi more holidays in this but anyway, here's a snippet of their first Christmas together also, it's been a year since I posted the first chapter and I'm feeling nostalgic lol, this fic is my baby and I love it so much (tho there's so many things I'd change now lol)

[read on Ao3]

___

Turns out, Buck is very much serious about the whole thing, and Christopher finds it hilarious and is eager to play along. Eddie doesn’t have valid arguments not to do it, and it’s not like he doesn’t want to. After another snide comment when talking to his parents, he made his decision. And he already felt this exciting feeling of satisfaction when he told them he’d be bringing someone for Christmas this year – miraculously, Buck and Eddie don’t work on Christmas, and they took an additional day off, so their schedules allow for a three-day trip to Texas.

So now, it’s Christmas Eve and they’re on their way from the airport to Eddie’s childhood home, and he’s nervous, doubts just starting to seep in. What on earth possessed him to do this? He can’t lie to his family. He can’t pretend to be in love with Buck. What if he really does fall in love with him? What if everything goes to shit? He’s watched enough movies to know it’s a bad idea, but he couldn’t and still can’t bring himself to stop it.

“So.” Eddie says, his voice shaking slightly, as they sit in a cab. “We’re doing this.”

“Yep.” he can hear Buck grin next to him. “Unless you still wanna back out?” he adds quickly. They could still say Buck’s just a friend. No big deal. But Eddie does have this petty desire to stir something up, and this seems perfect.

“No. It’ll be fine.” he smiles at Buck, and then feels hot when Buck grabs his hand and interlaces their fingers, winking at him. Christopher laughs.

“You’d make a great couple.” he comments. He’s been unusually happy about all of this. He also asked Eddie a few days ago if Eddie loves Buck, which prompted a conversation, but he thinks Chris knows what’s going on now. Eddie doesn’t really know what to think about that.

“Thanks, buddy.” Buck responds excitedly, squeezing Eddie’s hand, and he can’t contain a smile. If not anything else, at least all three of them are going to have a lot of fun.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @diazblunt @911onabc @spagheddiediaz @housewifebuck @gayhoediaz @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @monsterrae1 @honestlydarkprincess @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @exhuastedpigeon @weewootruck @loserdiaz @evanbegins @steadfastsaturnsrings @ladydorian05 @malewifediaz @pirrusstuff @theotherbuckley @911-on-abc @hoodie-buck @wildlife4life @fortheloveofbuddie @nmcggg @diazpatcher @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @thewolvesof1998 @lover-of-mine @hippolotamus @disasterbuckdiaz @jamespearce9-1-1

#fuck it friday #the holiday fic #wikiangela writes #for a holiday (and forevermore)#some shameless self promo #it's done and 95k and it's fake dating and it's fluffy and cute and I love it haha #also there's quite a bit of eddie and his sisters and it was my fave thing to write (abc give us some big brother eddie pls im begging lol)#and just recently this fic got my first ever 1k kudos which is just mindblowing and i get overwhelmed if i think about it too long lol #so perfect time to share it again haha #buddie fic #buddie #my writing #fic snippet #this post got long and rambling lmao sorry and if you read it all ily <3 hahaha

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blissfulip · 5 months

Text

Dopamine

on AO3

Viktor x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, dubious science, mostly canon compliant, no use of y/n, chemist!reader, eventual smut.

Cw: mentions of sexual themes, alcohol consumption

Words: 2k

[A/N: tags and content warnings to be updated in each chapter, updates weekly. (also, let me know if you want to be tagged in fic updates!)]

Previous Next

Chapter 3: Between rage and something else

You’d be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t nervous. Nervous didn’t even cut it at this point, you were dreading this meeting, and not even a pep talk from Moira (and her pep talks were known to be incredibly effective) helped get your usual confidence back. You scolded yourself the entirety of your walk there; how can you let someone as non threatening as Viktor shake your grounds so easily? It’s not like he would ever ‘win’ any of your fights, it’s not like…shake it off, you idiot. The voice in your head was correct, though. You never allowed him to make you flustered or visibly annoyed, but this recent excessive and prolonged contact with him had been proving to be much more than you could handle.

Nevertheless, the matter being official Academy business gave you no choice but to withstand his many attempts at slandering your work and being simply vexatious and arrogant. Many a deep breath later, you entered the café. He was sitting on a table near the farthest wall and did not seem to have noticed your entrance until you approached him.

“You are late.”

“It’s 1:07”

“You said 1:00, my time is valuable.”

“I apologize, I’m sure you have many things to do at the lab,” you said, making sure the sarcasm in your voice came through.

He was unable to retort since, before you could even sit on the chair opposite him, a waitress was already standing next to the table with a wide grin.

“Welcome! How are you two doing today?”

“I’m wonderful, thank you.” You tried as hard as you could to let go of the frown you’d been carrying and be as nice as possible to her, Viktor answering with a polite smile as well.

“That is so great to hear! Can I get you something to start?”

“Just drip coffee and sweet milk for him.” Viktor was initially annoyed that you had spoken over him, but his feelings soon changed into unfiltered confusion.

“Sure thing! I'll be back with those in a minute, let me know if you need anything else.” She said and then disappeared among the group of people at the counter who were taking their orders to go.

“How did you know?”

“What?”

“What I wanted to order”

“What do you mean? It’s literally all you drink,” You said in a dismissive tone that just made him even more puzzled. You would’ve dropped the matter there if his expression wasn’t so utterly perplexed. “Viktor, just because I don’t like you, it doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

“Right, eh, I got the notebook, where would you like to start?” He said, trying to deflect.

“Why can’t I write?”

“I got the notebook first, I write. And my handwriting is better anyway.”

“Fine, I asked Heimerdinger how many days we were allotted for the conference, and he said we needed to have it all on the same day, but we could get two different venues in the same place to split the different disciplines.”

“Why is that necessary?”

“I doubt the people who attend to see the chemistry presentations will be interested in sticking around for the arts talk, so rather than having people stand up and leave, we can split the disciplines into two different venues”

“Hm, sure.” He said, opening the notebook to start scribbling down, “Chemistry, engineering and biology on one venue, arts, history and language on the other.”

"Exactly,” You started to say before being gracefully interrupted by the sweet waitress with your drinks.

“Here’s yours, and here’s the drip coffee, are we all good?”

“Yes, everything is perfect, thank you so much”

“No problem at all! And can I just say you two are such a lovely couple? I haven’t seen a couple go out with matching outfits in so long, it makes me so giddy to see!”

“We are not—” Viktor was quick to answer, but you were quicker.

“—matching, this is our work uniform. Maybe we should go out with matching outfits one day, though, that sounds so fun! Right, my love?”

Shock is not a strong enough word to describe what Viktor was going through at the moment, his ears red with embarrassment and his silence deafening.

“Don’t mind him; he’s shy,” you said, shooting her a warm smile as she did the same and turned to leave once again.

There was another minute of muted annoyance in Viktor's eyes, contrasting with the smug chuckle you let out.

“Are you out of your mind? What was that about?”

“What? That was hilarious,” You said, shrugging.

“Why do you always do that? What is so fun about being a mythomaniac?”

“I don’t always do that, only to get out of uncomfortable situations. Can you imagine how awkward she would’ve felt if we had corrected her? She’s happy, and I got to see you flustered, so I’m happy; everyone wins!”

“I’m not— Whatever. Stop doing that."

“So, about scheduling, we need to decide the order of the speakers.” You said, still with a smirk on your lips. Viktor nearly sighed in relief.

“For venue number one, I think it should be me, biology second and you third.”

“There is no way I’m going last; I want to leave as early as possible, not to mention the bio students are probably going to be the largest crowd, so if anything, he should go last to retain the audience for as long as possible.”

“There’s the same amount of students in all disciplines.”

“I’m talking about the turnout on the day of, more people are going to show up for him.”

“How can you be so sure of that? You don’t even remember his name.”

“First of all, neither do you, and second of all, he is hot; all the students swoon over him.”

“That’s preposterous.” There was a tinge of more annoyance in his eyes.

“If you paid attention to anything other than those little blue crystals, you would’ve noticed.”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s not a good enough reason to change the schedule”

“Why can’t it be me, him, and you, then? You can close off the show, rock star!”

“We can both write out proposals for the order and present them to the others at our next group meeting; the best one wins.”

“Ugh, everything is a competition for you, isn’t it?” You said now visibly annoyed.

This comment seemed to irk him differently than usual; perhaps he felt you were right, or perhaps he felt hurt by your comment, but either way, it seemed to have worn him down. A sigh of resignation and a massage on his temples later, and he was apparently ready to give up.

“Have it your way then, princess.”

_____________________________________

This had an effect on you, but definitely not the one he intended. After writing the order of the schedule down and ironing out some other details, you offered to take this information to Lara so she could design the material for advertising. You would’ve gone to the art labs (more like studios, but they all called them labs since every researcher workspace was in the same wing of the Academy), but for obvious reasons you couldn’t, so you made plans to meet up at her dorm that very night.

Lara was as fun as you expected. Moira had been your only friend at the Academy for years. You always preferred to keep to yourself, and although Jayce was your friend too, technically, his proximity to Viktor made it difficult for you to hang around his work space without starting any fights, so hanging out with someone new felt refreshing.

The work meeting was quick. After you had settled into one of the comfortable puff chairs scattered throughout the small room, she began to offer you drinks and food. One gossip session later, she offered you one of her tiny nightgowns, and before you noticed, you were having a full-on slumber party.

It felt good to relax like this. You chastised Viktor a lot for being too obsessed with his work, but you weren’t too far off from that yourself, not having had a night to wind down with friends in at least a year. She made cocktails that tasted like sweet nectar and fruit too, so it was so easy for the both of you to be way over tipsy when you heard a knock on the door that she went to answer.

“Guess what, sweetheart! It's your worst enemy!” You heard her scream from over at the door and then come over, slightly tumbling, with a very confused Viktor on one arm. "Come, come, come, err... want a drink? Some chips? We’re havin’ some chips, aren’t we, hun? Here, have some chips..."

“Eh, no, thank you; I just came over to correct a mistake I made on the notes I sent her with. It should’ve said 6:00 pm instead of 8 p.m. on the first time slo— “

"Yeah, yeah, tell me again tomorrow, though I won’t remember,” Lara said again in between giggles as she let go of his arm and sat down on the bed.

Throughout all of this, you stayed silent, looking up at him as you sank into one of the puffs. He blushed for a second time that day, as you noticed, and he made it a point to look at the floor every time Lara spoke. When he looked at you, even though you tried to repress it, you smiled in amusement.

“Can you at least write it down?” He told you.

“I’ll write it down, yeah,” You said, crossing your legs.

“Now?”

“Are you in a rush, Vik?” You said standing up lazily.

There’s a kind of blushing that bares the soul— Not the kind where one’s embarrassed; you’ve seen that on Viktor plenty of times as it settled on his ears—the kind where you could see pink and peach and red all mix to boil over his cheeks. You didn’t know for sure, but the crinkle of his nose and the long but broken-up breath he took showed something beyond simple timidness, something darker.

Perhaps it was the scanty lace of your nightgown and your own spirit-induced rosy cheeks, or maybe you had unlocked in him a new level of rage. You wanted to see it again, that was for sure, whatever the cause was.

“You two seem to be having a lot of fun; write down the correct time, and I’ll be on my way”

And that you did, you had a lot more time to figure this out in your next meetings. He turned and left through the door as soon as he made sure the information was recorded, and you were left to silently ponder what you had just seen while you continued to have fun with Lara.

----------------------------------------------------------

Viktor heel-and-toe raced all the way back to his dorm as fast as his legs allowed him. From the outside, it would seem he was trying to run away from something, and in a way he was. He thought maybe leaving the place was good enough to leave that feeling behind, but alas, it wasn't.

Only when the door handle did not turn did he notice his palms were sweating, and it went downhill from there. Every step he took inside his room came with a new realization. He sat in the dark for a while; his skin felt a little too much like skin, his heart was incredibly squeezed and restricted sitting in his throat, and his face was hot enough to boil the sweat dripping down his forehead. He would’ve mistaken this for unbridled rage in any other circumstance, he could have, if it hadn’t been for the uncomfortable feeling of tightness in his pants.

The line was so blurry, he thought, between rampant fury and arousal, they shared the same place in the brain and produced some of the same hormones. But this was not supposed to happen. There was so much more about you to loathe than to like, or at least that’s what he had always believed.

Perhaps this is why it feels so good to hate her, Viktor thought.

However, this felt like letting you win. And if you were right about something, it was that Viktor was competitive. A cold shower should do it.

#viktor #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #arcane fanfic

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loveinhawkins · 1 year

Text

Part 1 ao3

A series of notes passed during private study periods in Hawkins High School Library, circa January—May, 1985.

A sheet of paper hastily ripped from its notebook, folded over with a crease down the middle.

—Harrington, did you just turn down that girl?

—What are you talking about?

—Hey, you can’t blame a guy for being nosy. You were the one deciding to TALK in a SACRED LIBRARY.

—If you heard us, why are you asking?

—Okay, sound doesn’t travel that far.

—Why don’t YOU tell me what happened considering you know everything?

—Wow. Touchy.

—Fuck off.

—Sorry. Thought we were just joking around. Didn’t mean to be a dick.

—It’s fine.

—You sure?

—I wasn’t ‘turning her down.’ She’s on the Yearbook Committee. Asking for photos.

—Too many pin-ups to choose from?

—Baby photos.

—What’s the problem? Did you come out the womb holding hairspray?

—No.

—Table it or ditch it?

—?

—It’s something my uncle says. If he asks me about stuff I don’t wanna talk about, I can either table it for later or ditch it completely. But if something keeps coming up and I keep saying to ditch it, then it automatically becomes a table it for later.

—That’s smart.

—Yup.

—Table it.

—Okay.

—? Why do you keep scoring out stuff?

—Sorry sorry. I can only think of baby photos now.

—Not against them in general. Feel free to talk about yourself, Munson.

—Uh-huh. I could hear the sarcasm in how you wrote that.

—Ha. No, really. I don’t mind.

—Well, lucky for you, talking about myself is my favorite subject.

—Lucky me.

—I thought I’d lost literally all of my baby photos. When I lived with my dad, the house got flooded and all of them were hit. Water damage. I had to get my books spread out on a radiator so the pages would dry, and that kinda worked for some of them. Photos were goners, though.

—That’s awful.

—Hold your horses, cowboy. But then when I moved to my uncle’s—we’re at the trailer park in Forest Hills—I saw he had all these photos stacked on a bookcase, and I thought they were all really old, like from when he was a kid and stuff, and some of them were, but he had whole entire ALBUMS of me. Way more than my dad ever had.

—That’s cool.

—You’re so verbose, Harrington.

—I meant it. It’s just. I was just thinking.

—About?

—That’s not why I—I HAVE baby photos, that’s not the problem.

—Don’t sweat it, dude, you don’t need to tell me.

—It’s just. Rebecca, that’s who was talking to me, she kept going on about how everyone else has already sent in a baby photo or, you know, a photo from when they were a kid, and she was excited about it, it’s a whole new thing they’re doing for this year. They’re gonna do a special layout, old photos next to current ones, you know what I mean?

—Afraid I’ve never been privy to the wondrous goings-on of the Yearbook Committee.

—She said it’ll look weird if I’m the only one not doing it. But it’s—I don’t know. I know I could just pick any damn photo and send it in, it’d get the whole Committee off my back. But I think I’d feel weird at the thought of the whole year getting to see—god, this doesn’t even make sense, like I don’t mind them seeing at a photo of me NOW, but I don’t. I don’t like looking at old photos, I never have. I don’t know why. Guess I just don’t like looking back.

—Fuck what everyone else is doing. They’re YOUR photos. Forget the precious ‘layout.’

—Yeah, that’s sorta what I told her, minus the ‘fuck.’

—If it’ll shut them all up, you could send in one of mine. See who actually notices.

—No way.

—Yeah, I was just being stupid.

—No. Those are YOUR photos. Save them for your own Yearbook. Sounds like your uncle could fill the whole thing with pictures.

—Wouldn’t put it past him.

—Shit, is that the time? The bell’s gonna ring in five minutes. I’ve done NOTHING.

—The horror!

—I’m blaming you.

—Honored to be considered a distraction, Harrington.

A scrap of paper, hastily dropped into the pencil case of an unknowing Eddie Munson as the bell rang.

—Thanks.

#notes from hawkins high school library #epistolary fic #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie #eddie and wayne munson #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #pre steddie

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oakantony · 1 month

Text

Yes, Chef

A completely uncalled for Hisoillu Chick-Fil-A AU. I honestly have no idea. Maybe I'll put it on AO3 one day idek. (It's in progress. Enjoy the rough draft.)

tws for this part include: neglect, financial abuse, verbal abuse, homophobia, ableism

future tws for this story will eventually include: canon-typical violence, explicit sex, possibly the raunchiest handjob i've ever written in my life

Enjoy!

It didn’t matter how accurately Illumi wrote the quarterly reports, how perfectly he arranged the weekly schedules, or how precisely he ordered supplies--his father would always fuck it up and leave Illumi there, alone, to clean up the mess.

In this case, literally.

His 15-year-old brother, Killua--middle child of the family and now shortest-lasting employee of their fast-food empire--had completely trashed the kitchen before giving his father, and Illumi, the middle-finger. “I quit,” he said as he stormed away. “Don’t expect to see me at home, either. I’m quitting this bullshit family, too.”

For some reason, Illumi believed him this time. Maybe it was the enormous backpack he carried with all his essentials--packed like he truly meant to move away. Maybe it was the new friend he’d found last month, whom he claimed had a bed big enough for the two of them to share. Maybe it was because Illumi, deep down, understood the sentiment.

Hm, no. Not that last part. Never that last part.

Illumi was loyal to his family until the end. How else was he meant to live? The vast fortune belonging to the Zoldyck family awaited him--so long as he continued to manage the business.

“He’ll come around,” said Silva in a gravelly, too-certain tone. He adjusted his suit jacket, looking perfect and statuesque despite everything. “He’s just in those hellish teen years.” He placed an enormous hand upon Illumi’s shoulder as a farewell and started to walk away, his long white hair swaying in a braid.

“Wait,” said Illumi. He swept a hand over the overturned prep station, the spilled jugs of peanut oil, and the broken dish sprayer dripping water down the side of the stainless steel cabinets. “We open in twenty minutes, do not have our pre-prep, and now we are down a cook.”

Silva raised one silver eyebrow. “I’ve trained all of my children to handle this. So handle it.”

He departed, checking his phone almost idly, utterly unconcerned. The pink sky of dawn winked through the door’s gap briefly before it sealed shut. Click.

Illumi hadn’t worked a fryer in almost six years. He took a deep breath and tied his long, straight, black hair into a high ponytail at the top of his head. He would have to net it before cooking, but this was fine for now. He’d debated cutting it many times previously--

But his father had long hair, and there seemed to be some sort of unwritten pride in maintaining hair like this even in a setting that would make short hair…simpler. And Illumi would do whatever it took to make his father proud.

Perhaps working the kitchen today will feel nostalgic, like back when I was a teen, he thought as he began to clean the kitchen. Quickly, efficiently, and well enough that most wouldn’t even be able to tell it’d been nearly destroyed. His first employee came in whistling, oblivious to the issues.

“Good morning, Canary,” said Illumi.

“Hi, boss,” she replied, bowing her head in greeting. She looked at the mop he held and across the kitchen, which was back to square zero--almost.

“Will you prep?”

“Oh no. Did the evening guys forget?”

“No,” said Illumi. “My little brother was meant to start his first ever shift this morning. Instead, he destroyed the kitchen.”

“Killua?” she asked, head tilted.

“That is correct.”

She hissed through her teeth in sympathy. “Yeah, I’ll get on that. Does that mean we’re down a man?”

“Do not worry. I will work the fryer today so that Amane will help take orders.” His watch trilled in warning. Sixty seconds before the doors open for the morning. He began to list off the things they needed: “Onions, tomatoes--lettuce is already shredded, but we need it pulled out from the walk-in--”

“Yes, yes. I got it, Mr. Zoldyck. You go check the front of house.” She held her hand out to take the mop. “I’ve done pre-prep at least a hundred times. I got the list memorized.”

The tightness Illumi didn’t even realize he had between his ribs began to loosen, allowing him to breathe in deep. Relieved. “Thank you. I appreciate you.” He would have to remember this moment when it came time for promotions next month--Canary was more than deserving of the assistant manager role. By the time he thought to say as much to her, however, a line of SUVs materialized very suddenly around the brown brick building, and several parents were standing at the doors.

Later, he noted to himself. He would tell her later.

He unlocked the door, held it open, and greeted, “Welcome to Chick-Fil-A.”

“Thanks,” said a particularly harried-looking mother as she stepped inside, holding the hand of a toddler covered in what Illumi hoped was dried chocolate.

“My pleasure,” he replied.

“It’s too bad you’re usually stuck at the front with customers, because you’re really good at this, actually,” said Gotoh. “I forget sometimes that you worked in the kitchen for years before taking over as manager.”

The timer chimed, alerting him that the chicken breasts were done cooking. “Father starts all of his children off as fry cooks,” said Illumi, deftly lifting the basket out of the pressure fryer. “This is a much simpler job than balancing books.”

Gotoh chuckled as he placed another tray of battered breasts aside Illumi, ready for the basket and fryer. “And you prefer cooking?”

Illumi watched the cooked chicken tumble into the shiny silver container and pondered the question. “No,” he said. “I prefer strategizing. My ideas are better than my food.”

“We don’t ever really use original ideas,” Gotoh pointed out. They had a set menu of items with some seasonal pulls and, on occasion, test products that came down from corporate. No one manager would have power enough to exact real change.

He knew as much. It didn’t stop him from scribbling restaurant concepts in the office after business closed, considering the popularity of certain items, the cost of ingredients--it was almost like a puzzle, but a creative and original one. “It is just idle thinking. Nothing I would ever do in reality.”

Silva had made that abundantly clear during their last conversation on the topic. Illumi glanced up to the dented stainless cabinet door to the left of Gotoh, fist-shaped. It almost seemed to wink at him in cruel memory. Illumi still needed to get someone to come out to do that repair. City inspectors pointed it out on their last sweep; technically a dent didn’t break any laws, but visible damage in the building did pull their ranking from A+ to simply A.

Illumi changed into a new pair of gloves and began to prepare the next batch of chicken breasts. “After I drop these, will you wait for the timer? I need to check our applications.”

“Of course,” said Gotoh. “You managed to fill in on the fryer and post a job listing already?” He turned to look at the big digital clock over the kitchen door. “It’s not even one PM yet. You’re damn efficient.”

“That is what I am paid to do. Be efficient.” He lowered the basket into the fryer and made quick work of fastening the latch.

Gotoh chuckled. “You know, there’re rumors you and Milluki don’t even get paid for working at your father’s restaurants.”

“That would be ridiculous,” said Illumi. “And illegal.”

“Oh, I know,” said Gotoh. “Your father wouldn’t do something so disrespectful anyway.”

“Indeed.” Illumi got paid biweekly, just like everyone else. His checks were directly deposited into the family’s shared account. While he didn’t have his own card to use, his mother made sure to give him a handful of twenties each week as "spending money." It seemed fair enough; the rest of his income was likely used to pay the family's many bills. The allowance he was given was generous, really, considering he got to stay in his childhood bedroom rent-free. Not that he had much choice. He'd talked briefly about moving out a few years back and his mother burst into tears almost immediately--

He was going to be thirty next year. He would broach the topic then. Probably.

He pulled off his gloves and headed towards the manager’s office. “I will be back in twenty.”

“Take your time,” Gotoh called back without turning around.

His feet ached, his stomach growled in hunger, and sweat covered him head to toe, but Illumi nonetheless arrived at the isolated booth at exactly the correct time to interview the only real candidate he’d been able to find for the fry position in the last twelve hours. Already the qualified stranger sat, eating a complimentary order of fries.

Illumi took a minute to catch his breath, appreciating the soft plastic cushion beneath his seat. He actually had yet to sit today. He’d just hauled an enormous bag of trash to the dumpster, alone, and he’d nearly been crushed under the weight of used paper trays and styrofoam cups as exhaustion made his arms twinge and shake. “Hello,” he said, only slightly winded. “I am Illumi Zoldyck. Manager.”

“Hello. Long day, I see,” came the low, teasing voice of--?

Illumi looked down at the paperwork he snagged. Hisoka Morow. “My day has been fine,” he said, nearly believing it. “Busy. But fine.”

“Funny,” said Hisoka. “Mine has been exactly the opposite. Slow, but terrible. I’ve never been so bored in my life. Please hire me, if only to give me something to do.”

Illumi looked up, surprised, and took in Hisoka for the first time.

He was severe-looking, but unusually handsome still, with an angular face, doll-like smooth skin, and vividly pink hair. “We do not employ cooks with unnatural hair colors.” He took his pen, slashed through Hisoka’s name, and began to stand up. “Thank you for coming in.”

“That’s no problem,” Hisoka said, holding out a hand to stop Illumi from departing too quickly. “I read the rules linked in the listing. I wouldn’t’ve come here to waste your time, I assure you. I’m happy to wear a hat.” He shrugged. “I’ll cut it, too, if you insist.”

Illumi narrowed his eyes at Hisoka, giving him another once-over. He was clean-shaven--and clean in general, which counted in his favor. In fact, as Illumi lowered back into his seat, he realized Hisoka smelled very good. Fresh, warm, and a little sweet. It was a subtle scent--he’d not bathed in cologne like some interviewees of the past. “Very well. Your resume says you have extensive experience on the line at Revere.”

“An understatement made purely for legal reasons,” Hisoka said. “I was the sous.”

Illumi slowly lowered his pen to the paper, glaring at Hisoka in complete disbelief.

“It’s true,” said Hisoka. “I’m not allowed to include it in my credentials because of some, hm… issues with the chef there.”

Illumi tilted his head in thought. “Chrollo Lucilfer.”

“Oh, you know him.”

“K City is not that big. I know all the restaurateurs. They are our competitors.”

Hisoka laughed, and loudly.

Illumi bristled and said, “I do not know what is so funny.”

“The idea of corporate--industrial--large scale fast food fried chicken considering itself in competition against one of the most elite Italian fine dining restaurants in the country is--” Hisoka’s smile turned catty. Sharp. “Quite unfair. It has a Michelin Star.”

Illumi was silent, mostly in shock, for a moment. And then he said, coolly, “Our business serves an average of 2,491 customers per day and earns upwards of eight million dollars per year. At this location alone.” Illumi tapped Hisoka’s resume with the end of his pen. “By my estimations, Revere earned a profit of under 1.2 million last year, and is slated for even less by the end of this one, and Lucilfer works in his kitchen every single night, 365 days per year, and has done so for thirty months so far. If you add the other stores in our portfolio, the Zoldyck business nets profit at almost ten million total without my father ever having to step foot inside these four walls. And we’re closed on Sundays.”

Hisoka blinked in a way that made it apparent he was tallying the numbers Illumi just shared. “You’ve done your research.”

Illumi continued, undisturbed, “You are right. It is rather unfair for me to compare Chick-Fil-A to Revere. We are not in competition.”

Hisoka slowly sank in his seat, a smirk growing on his face. He placed his chin into his hand and glanced Illumi up and down, as if reading the blue-striped polo uniform. “Interesting. Tell me--are you forced to wear the khakis, or is that something you’ve opted to do for yourself?”

Illumi stood up and wasn’t interrupted this time. He ripped the resume in two as he backed away from the table, words like ice. “This interview is over. You will not be offered the position. Thank you for your time.”

Hisoka called after him, voice a suggestive purr, “My pleasure, Illumi.”

Illumi stood in the doorway of his room, staring. Numb. The smell of burnt oil, of salt, of car exhaust lingered in his hair, under his nails; permeating him so entirely that he felt inhuman. He was, instead, a piece of sentient furniture from Chick-Fil-A. And he was so tired that he contemplated skipping the shower just to pass out (and clean his sheets the next day).

But there was a problem with that plan. With any plan.

His door was gone.

“You’re going to stand there for how long, exactly?” said Milluki, his younger brother. Second oldest of the kids. Manager of the Byren neighborhood Chick-Fil-A--an under-performing, but still meticulously maintained, store. “You’re gonna have to go talk to them eventually.”

“You say, ‘them.’” Illumi turned to look at Milluki, all too aware that his dark circles and pale-sweaty skin made him look nearly sick. He had been awake for close to twenty two hours and pulled a double shift. “Mother and father both removed the door?”

“Maybe. I heard them talking.” Milluki took a slow sip of the iced tea he’d brought home from the shop. “Said they were mad you didn’t already have a replacement fry cook, or something.” He shrugged. “Really, they’re just mad about Killua, but he’s not here to be mad at.”

Illumi looked at his empty doorway. Half a hinge hung off the corner, bent from when his father must have wrenched the door away earlier. This wasn’t a rare punishment in their household. If a child behaved poorly, they got their door taken away. No privacy, at least until they served time for their crime. “I am to be punished for not posting a listing, finding a replacement, and placing him on the schedule by closing time.”

“Sounds like it,” said Milluki. “You really couldn’t find someone?”

Hisoka’s hot pink hair flashed in his mind, and then his feline smile, and his--wait, what color were his eyes? Illumi couldn’t recall. Eventually, he said, “No.”

“I don’t think you’re gonna have a door until you hire the role. Or until Killua comes back.”

Illumi took a deep, steadying breath, and headed to his parents’ bedroom to listen to their complaints. And while his father berated him, shouting insults about his lack of focus--his patience being mistaken for fear--his affection for his staff being mistaken for condescension--his beautiful appearance being mistaken for vanity--

Illumi stared at his door, propped up on the far wall of his parents’ bedroom. It covered one of their windows, but they had several more in this wing of the fancy “McMansion” they had built after Illumi was born.

“I won’t stand for your distraction,” Silva said with an air of finality. “Today’s failure is about your attraction to men. Isn’t it?”

Illumi blinked wide-eyed at his father. “I am sorry?”

“You’re gay, aren’t you?” his mother asked from the bed where she was tucked beneath the covers. “We’ve been discussing it. You’ve never liked a girl. Not ever. It’s because you’re gay.”

“And now your preferences are getting in the way of your judgment.”

This was so far out of left field that it took Illumi a moment to gather himself enough to say, “I am not gay.”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

“I am not,” he repeated. “I simply have not had time to pursue a relationship.”

His father threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “Oh, so now it’s my fault you’ve never gotten laid. I’m a monster, giving you a good job, at a good establishment, making good food. Yes, I’m a fucking nightmare parent.” He pointed one large, well-manicured finger into Illumi’s face, and hissed, “You have no idea how lucky you are that you were born into this family. That your whole life has been served to you on a silver fucking platter.”

“I know,” Illumi said. “I am very grateful.”

“So don’t bullshit me on your utter lack of a social life.”

Illumi looked over at his mother and saw her flexing her jaw impatiently. Eventually, the connection between today’s failures and his sexual preferences bloomed, fully-formed, in his mind. “Oh. This is because Killua moved in with his best friend.” Pause. “His gay, male best friend.”

“No. This is about you,” Silva said.

“You are wondering about all of your children, now. Whether or not we’re also gay. Did you inquire with Milluki?”

“Milluki has a girlfriend,” his mother said, shrilly. “Online. He’s our only son that we know, for certain, isn’t queer.”

She wasn’t using the word the proper way, Illumi thought. It wasn’t a reclaimed term representing a community of different people. She meant it as an insult. “I do not have time to date,” Illumi repeated. And immediately amended, “I have not made time.”

“Well, I’ll tell you this,” Silva said, stalking closer. “If you ever bring a man anywhere close to this house, you’ll lose more than your door. Do you understand?”

Illumi lowered his head. “Yessir.”

“And hire a fucking fry cook by the end of the week. Don’t make me ask again.”

Inside the kitchen, a timer chimed from above and below. The roar of voices--chatting, taking orders, requesting items--pressed in from all sides. Distantly, two car horns honked.

Illumi pulled the fry basket and dumped the cooked chicken into the container and hissed as a splatter of hot grease grabbed him around the wrist. The handle to the fryer slipped from his fingers and clattered to the brown tiled floor, hand spasming in pain.

Another timer. More voices. Another honk.

“Mr. Zoldyck? Hey--Mr. Zoldyck?” He ignored the burning, pulsing pain and kneeled down to scoop the handle from beneath the cabinet where it’d slid away. “Illumi!”

He stood up, hair falling free of its net, and came face-to-face with Amane. “Yes.”

“We’ve got a complaint. She wants to speak with the manager.”

Illumi looked at the fryer, the alarm continuing to chime. “It will be a minute--”

“She’s throwing quite the fit, sir--”

There was a loud clatter--the sound of a tray hitting the tiled floors in the dining room--and an ear-piercing scream that Illumi knew, as the eldest of five children, belonged to an infant.

Amane reached out to take the fryer basket handle. “I’ll take care of the food. Go ahead.”

Illumi shook his head to clear it--he felt dazed, still. Foggy from a lack of decent sleep. The real issue with not having a door was that his enormous family’s sleep schedules all varied, so he was shocked awake only an hour or two after he finally was able to fall asleep last night.

“Mr. Zoldyck, your hair--” Amane said.

Illumi reached up and found the hair net caught around his left ear. He tugged it free and threw it, and his gloves, in the trash. He strode through the kitchen, to the dining room, and was able to find the offending woman very easily.

“It’s an allergy!” she shrieked. “An allergy! I told you she had an allergy and now my child has puked, and if you fucking retards think I’m cleaning that up, you have another thing coming!”

The infant, Illumi noticed, was wailing alone several feet away. Red-faced and trembling in her little red mary janes. "Mamamama," she sobbed.

Illumi approached the woman with one hand outstretched, directing her away from the cashiers. “I am very, very sorry for your experience.”

The mother's rant stopped as she found herself surrounded by Illumi’s tall, unusual presence. “What?”

Without missing a beat, Illumi also managed to scoop the child up, off the floor, and into his embrace. She was small enough that he could hold her with one arm. Her child’s shrieking stopped--almost immediately. The tension inside the restaurant broke, finally. Several patrons breathed out in relief.

Illumi patted the baby sweetly upon her leg and she stared at him with a wet face, frozen in childlike awe. She sniffed and Illumi produced a napkin--branded, of course, with the iconic chicken silhouette--and wiped her nose with the practiced ease of a five-time big-brother. He said to her mom, “I will comp your meal while you have a seat.” He gestured to the only available booth, walked her there, and handed the child into her arms.

“Well, I’m not cleaning that mess.” The woman stiffly pointed to a watery pile of debris that had already been blocked off by a caution sign.

“We would not expect you to,” Illumi said.

“Oh. Well. Good.”

While the restaurant went back to normal, Illumi felt truly exhausted. “In addition to your refund, you have received a ban. We will take your image from security footage and if you enter this establishment again, you will be escorted out. And if necessary, I will press charges for trespassing.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are not allowed to call my employees fucking retards without consequence.” He looked at her daughter. “Your baby is welcome whenever she would like--as soon as she is old enough to come without you.”

He escorted her to her bright red SUV and when she sarcastically said, “Thanks a lot,” he responded very sincerely in return.

“My pleasure.”

His back twinged in pain as he sat in the manager’s seat in the office--closet, really, with a desk--and scrolled through security footage to find a clear image of the newly banned patron. He found her, easily--and something else he hadn’t been looking for.

A flash of hot pink hair, a fanged grin, and a handshake.

With Gotoh?

Illumi watched as Hisoka walked with Gotoh out the far side door of the restaurant. He took a deep breath, printed off the saved image of the woman, and stormed out to the parking lot where Gotoh parked every day.

He sat in the front seat, sipping a shake, tapping away at his iPhone. He didn’t even notice Illumi until he opened the passenger side door and said, “Why were you meeting with Hisoka Morow during your lunch, Gotoh.”

Gotoh jumped in surprise and relaxed immediately when he realized it was Illumi bursting into his car. He placed the shake into his cup holder and gestured for Illumi to sit. “It was a request from your father. You know him?”

“He was the candidate I interviewed yesterday. And rejected.”

Gotoh’s face turned grave. “I had no idea.”

“And you met with him because my father said to do so.”

“He didn’t say you’d already interviewed him. He just said it was the only qualified candidate our location received and that I should court him--do whatever it took to get him on board--so I did.”

“Do whatever,” Illumi echoed. “And what does this mean.”

“He can keep his pink hair, as long as it’s under a hat, and he’s starting at twenty per hour. He also requested to work your same shifts, which I told him would be no problem, since you’re here every day. He begins tomorrow morning.” Gotoh lifted his phone. “Should I call and fire him?”

Yes, Illumi almost said. He frowned in thought. “You did not find him to be an unattractive candidate?” Gotoh seemed to relax, marginally, and Illumi realized he had been speaking clipped--angrily--before. He had an intensity about himself, he knew. He’d been told many times that his ‘vibes’ were, occasionally, ‘haunting.’ (Amane’s exact words.) Illumi softened a bit as he said, “I am sorry. I thought, briefly, that you were working for the enemy.”

Gotoh gave Illumi a thin-lipped smile. “I’m loyal to the last. If I’d known this was the same guy, I would have pretended to not have seen your father’s text about it.”

“You found Hisoka to be an acceptable candidate?” he leaned forward in the seat. “I found him to be abrasive, hostile, and ignorant about the industry.”

Gotoh clicked his tongue. “My impression is quite different. He seems too qualified, if anything. He’s definitely weird, but that’s why he’s gonna be in the back.”

“He did not like me,” Illumi said. “I do not think he will respect me as manager.”

Gotoh’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Again--my impression is…different.”

“Explain.”

“That was one of his stipulations, I said. He will only work shifts with you.”

“Why?”

“He has aspirations to run a restaurant of his own one day, he said. He wanted to learn from the Zoldycks themselves. I figured you’d enjoy having another employee with bigger aspirations within the company--when you’ll likely graduate to regional manager next month, you’ll need good minds here.” Gotoh rocked his phone back and forth midair. “But we can tell him ‘nevermind'. I’ll call him now.”

“No. It is fine.”

Gotoh hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Well, your shift is over, Lumi. You want me to drive you home?”

Illumi shook his head. “I need the walk.”

Gotoh scoffed. “Do you? You’ve been up since, what, five? It’s nearly three in the afternoon.”

No. He was very tired. Illumi gave Gotoh a small, slightly strained, smile. “Thank you, Gotoh. I will enjoy the walk. See you tomorrow morning.”

“Along with Hisoka,” said Gotoh.

Illumi left the car and ignored the way his back twinged, yet again.

#hisoillu #au fanfiction #my writing

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irondad-defensesquad · 2 months

Text

You're all I need to get by

Also on AO3! FINALLY!!! I FINISHED THIS!!! I can't believe this was meant for Sicktember of last year, I feel so ashamed 😭 Anyway, the original prompt was "But if you stay, you'll get sick too". Just a fluffy sickfic with some tiny bit of angst :)

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony feels like he has just returned to reality. Was he sleeping? Was he awake? Was he not even here?

Either way, Peter is shyly appearing in his room.

“Oh, hey kiddo,” Tony sniffs, unable to move without everything aching and burning. He checks his phone on the bedside table. “Shoot, sorry I’m late. I’ll get ready and we’ll fix your suit.”

“Actually… I brought you hot chocolate.”

Tony freezes, right when he’s about to remove his blanket. Peter is gently holding a customized Spider-Man cup that the kid made for him. Hopefully, Peter won’t know that it’s Tony’s most treasured cup.

“I noticed you weren’t feeling well yesterday,” the teen explains. “So… I thought it might make your day a little better.”

The man feels like he could cry. Peter is so shy. So adorable. It doesn’t help that he's wearing one of Tony’s old MIT hoodies.

“Gee, thanks, bud,” Tony smiles, taking the hot chocolate like it’s a precious invention. Anything Peter Parker creates is indeed revolutionary.

Peter grabs his chair and puts it next to the bed, sitting next to Tony.

“Wait, you’re staying?” The latter questions.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

“If you stay, you’re gonna catch whatever gross thing I have.”

“I’m not gonna get sick, I’ll be fine.”

“Peter…”

“I mean,” the teen suddenly grows nervous, “do you want me to stay? Because it’s okay if you wanna be alone.”

Peter is already standing up.

“No, no,” Tony stops him, “you can stay if you want.”

The other is sitting again. He stays quiet for a moment, watching the sick man.

“You don’t usually get sick, do you?” Peter asks.

Tony shrugs, muttering, “I’m just good at hiding it.”

Peter obviously hears it and doubts him, even if he doesn’t verbally say it.

“Did you take any medicine?” The boy asks instead.

“Yeah. I’m still feeling like shit, though.”

Peter hums. “Can I help with anything else?”

“I dunno.” Tony takes a sip of the hot chocolate. “I miss my lab,” he whines.

“Maaaaaybe I could bring DUM-E here?”

“And have him fire extinguish me to help with my fever? No thanks.”

Peter blinks. “Did- Did that happen?”

“Yeah, when I was doing the first flight tests for my armor. I wasn’t even on fire.”

The kid snorts, wanting to laugh really badly. Tony glares at him.

“Oh, you think that’s funny?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, you little shit.”

“Jesus, Mr. Stark. You’re so grumpy when you’re sick.” Peter then lowers his voice, “More than usual.”

Tony’s glare becomes a face of betrayal. “Well, why wouldn’t I be grumpy when literally everything hurts?”

Peter smirks, “Okay, that’s fair. Sorry.”

Tony sighs.

“But you know DUM-E loves you, right?” The teenager reminds him.

Tony’s face softens. “Yeah,” he says. Like a liar.

He briefly faces the hot chocolate before taking another sip, feeling it warming his soul, before he gazes at the sun again. The brightest smile of all. It’s impossible not to smile back.

“Yeah.” This time, Tony sounds a little more confident.

Peter’s grin becomes brighter, somehow. The man doesn’t hide his eyes behind his loyal sunglasses, instead welcoming the warmth.

They share this moment in silence, but a comfortable one. Tony finishes the hot chocolate, taking a relieved, deep breath. There’s still too much snot inside him, but it helped, a lot.

He wishes he didn’t get sick, because he’s the one who should look out for the kid, and he misses working to keep his active mind busy. Still, Peter convinces him to relax and stay in bed with delicious hot chocolates and those big puppy eyes.

“I think I’ll have one more, please,” Tony requests, handing the empty cup to Peter.

“Wow, really? I didn’t think you’d like it that much. I mean, the chocolate is super fancy, but…”

“It’s because you made it, Pete. It’s special.”

Peter blushes. “Um… thanks. I-I’ll be right back.”

Tony smiles and watches him leave, waiting patiently.

It’s a quiet, easy day today. Things haven’t gone as planned, but that’s not all that bad.

Peter is eating now mostly due to Tony’s insistence. He’s checking social media in the meantime, and with his spider-powers, he makes sure Tony is doing okay even from afar.

That’s how he realizes his mentor has fallen asleep, judging by the loud snores coming from his room. They might sound a little stuffed, but it shows that it’s a heavy sleep.

He smiles to himself, glad to know that Tony is finally getting some rest. The hero is the kind of person who can’t stand still, not even when he’s sick. He didn’t stop working last night and Peter didn’t mean to pry. Knowing how stubborn he is, Peter admits he’s a little surprised that Tony is complying.

The teen decides to go there and check on him, doing as little noise as possible. Tony doesn’t seem to have noticed him. Peter then realizes three things: one, Tony drank all the hot chocolate given the empty cup on the bedside table. Two, there are many dirty tissues around the cup. Three, the blanket is on the floor. Peter throws the tissues in the small trash bin near the desk, then he uses the tiny hand sanitizer to quickly and carefully tuck Tony in again, hoping he’s not feverish. To confirm that, Peter lightly touches the older man’s forehead. It’s mild. That’s a good sign, he thinks.

Tony quiets down at the touch, like he’s relaxed.

Peter grins.

He bends down…

He doesn’t really notice what he’s doing until Tony lets out confused noises.

“Hm…? Wha?”

Peter is…

He’s kissing Tony’s forehead.

Shit.

Peter doesn’t know what came over him. It was completely automatic.

He, unfortunately, is not quick enough to run away before Tony catches him on the doorstep.

“Pete?” His mentor calls, sniffing.

“H-Hey, Mr. Stark! I just came to get your cup, nothing important!” Peter can’t contain the nervousness in his voice. “Sorry for waking you up, y-you can go back to sleep! Okay, bye!”

He leaves before the conversation goes any further, and he runs to his bedroom with the empty Spider-Man cup. Leaving it on his bedside table, Peter takes his pillow and screams in it, still not wanting to be too loud.

“Why did you do that?! You stupid idiot! That was so creepy!” He curses at himself.

Uggghhhh. He can only hope that Tony wasn’t too conscious when it happened.

Why? Why is he like this?

Walking on tiptoes, looking behind to see if he’ll get caught, Peter approaches the bed and the stuffed breaths in the half dark room.

“... Uncle Ben,” Peter whispers. “Hey, Uncle Ben!”

“Eh?” Ben moves around, smiling when he sees the boy. “Ah, hey sport. You shouldn’t be near me, or you’ll catch my bug.”

“It’s okay, Uncle Ben, I don’t mind. I just wanted to give you hot chocolate.”

“Aww, thanks, Pete. You can leave it here, I’ll drink it soon.” Ben grins like his nephew is the whole world to him. “You’re an angel.”

Peter grins and puts the cup next to him, but he’s quickly busted when the door opens behind him.

“Peter, I told you to let your uncle rest,” Aunt May scolds him. “And you’re going to get late for school!”

“Ah, it’s alright, May. He just wanted to look out for me,” Ben argues. “But really now, you should get going. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. I hope you get better soon, Uncle Ben.” Peter approaches and plants a little kiss on the man’s forehead. “I’ll see you later!”

“Alright, kiddo. I love you.”

“Love you too!”

Peter, already in school uniform, is walking away to follow his aunt, who despite being initially stern, seems to have softened.

But before he leaves…

“Pete?”

Except it’s not Uncle Ben calling for him.

… Peter has been staring at the Spider-Man cup for what probably feels like hours, when he sees that his door is open wide (though it was never actually closed), and Tony is gazing at him with his big concerned eyes. Peter has been sitting miserably at his bed this entire time.

Apparently it’s dark out.

Tony looks a little better now, no longer pale or dead-looking. He still sniffs every now and then.

“Are you okay?” The man asks.

Peter puts the cup aside, on his bedside table, and completely ignores Tony’s question.

“You look so much better, Mr. Stark!” He comments, forcing a smile. “Do you want anything? You’re probably hungry, right? I could make more hot chocolate too–”

He’s on his way to the door when Tony goes in, not allowing him to leave.

“Kid, you’ve been looking after me all day. Obviously, I’m glad you’re here with me, but you don’t have to push yourself aside to take care of me.”

Peter looks down, not sure what to say.

(He keeps wondering if Tony remembers the forehead kiss. He’s scared of bringing it up.)

“... I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Oh, that wasn’t supposed to come out.

“I mean…” Peter sighs. “I-It was automatic, y’know. I can tell when someone isn’t doing great, a-and I- I have to help them. I want to help! And I know you don’t rest a lot, so that’s why I thought…”

He’s kind of rambling, not really knowing where he’s going with this.

“But what about you, Peter? Did you eat? Did you rest?”

“Well, I ate breakfast.”

“But not lunch?”

“I wasn’t hungry–”

“Peter–”

“Look, I’m sorry! I’m sorry I did- anything, and I’m sorry I kissed your forehead!”

Truly he understands why everyone else tells him to shut up.

“... oh.”

Tony doesn’t actually sound surprised, but maybe he thought he had imagined it. He was half-asleep, after all.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Peter says, when he knows what did. “It was stupid and probably creepy and- and maybe we shouldn’t bring that up again–”

“Hey, kid, I’m not mad about that.”

Peter covers his eyes with his hands. “Ugh, it was so dumb.”

Tony sighs.

Defeated, the teenager sits on the bed again, glancing at the cup watching them.

Suddenly, Tony is kneeling down in front of him.

“Peter,” he begins, “you have a big heart. You have so much love to give, it’s no wonder why you’re a hero. And I’m glad to know I’m worthy of your love.”

The boy sees the hidden tears in his mentor’s eyes.

“I don’t want you to feel that I don’t want you here,” Tony insists, “I just don’t want you throwing away your needs to focus on me or anyone else. Sure, you have responsibilities… but you’re still a kid.”

He doesn’t mean that pejoratively.

“Seriously, thank you for everything. But you’re important too. You’re important to me, kid,” Tony affirms, smiling sadly.

He gently cups Peter’s face with both hands, gazing at him for a few seconds before Tony stands high enough to kiss the teen’s forehead.

“Sorry for getting my germs on your head,” the man jokes. Still, he looks at Peter like he’s Tony’s whole universe.

Peter can’t even react properly. He thought he ruined everything between them, and here is the man he’s admired for years acknowledging and praising him, and reminding Peter that he’s worthy of love.

Tony is not outright saying he loves Peter… but does he have to?

The boy wraps his arms around Tony, who hesitates, probably because he doesn’t want to get Peter sick. Then his mind must say “screw it”, because Tony is hugging him back.

Peter never imagined he needed to hear Tony’s words this badly.

They stay there for a while, before Peter’s stomach rumbles, and Tony decides to do something about it.

“Wanna order something?” He suggests.

“Oh, that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, you choose, kid.”

“Okay.”

They order burgers and fries. Part of it is because Tony loves them, but Peter has been craving some all day.

They watch some TV, and this time DUM-E is here. The bot is happy to join them.

Tony mostly keeps some space between him and Peter, though he eventually wraps an arm around him to lightly squeeze him.

“Nothing better than spending time with your kids at home, right?” Tony smirks.

Peter blushes and smiles. “Yeah.”

DUM-E agrees.

#lotus speaks #irondad #fics #my fics #sickfic #anti starker

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satancopilotsmytardis · 3 months

Note

Oral fixation / 16

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: E

Prompt: "You taste so good."

Contents: Succubus!Dabi, legalized sex work, supernatural AU, lingerie, aphrodisiacs, oral fixation, blowjobs, face-fucking, implied marathon sex, multiple orgasms mentioned, anal sex, cannibalism

You can also read on AO3!

The thing about burning was that it took him from mortal with a few drops of demon blood somewhere in his family line, to a full-blooded demon. He woke up from his coma starving, covered in scars, older, and with horns, wings, and a tail. Best guess the creepy doctor had been able to make is that in a fight to preserve itself, or maybe because his flames reminded that bit of blood in him about the place his ancestor was from, had turned it on and over-ridden his human genes.

It was just his bad fucking luck that, on top of everything else, the demon in the Todoroki line was apparently one that fed off sex. On the bright side, he figured that out pretty fast, an incubus woman finding him on the streets not long after he'd run away from home for the second time and took him to the place she and a few other sex demons lived in the city. He was too young to start feeding himself, even if he'd wanted to try, his body wouldn't be able to absorb it. But they were able to feed him by harvesting some of the energy from their partners, bottling the crackling lightning in whatever they had around, and bringing that to him to eat. And that really helped. He has a sneaking suspicion the reason it had taken him years to wake up from the coma was because he was healing and starving at the same time. Once he starts getting regular food, he heals up a lot faster, hits his next growth spurt, and starts to feel stronger. His quirk still hurts if he uses it for too long, but he can heal up a little more from it than he used to be able to, so he's happy enough with that.

He sticks around quietly, taking arson jobs to pay for his room and board, even if the other demons hadn't asked for it, until he reaches maturity. Then they start teaching him how to attract his own meals, how to make sure he rides the fine line between taking too much and killing his partner, or taking too little and needing to find food again in only a day or two. A good session, he learns, will fill his stomach for a week. He can probably survive two on nothing, but it won't be pleasant, and anything after that risks him going completely feral and could have him indulging in the flesh in a far more literal manner than is common for sex demons.

He also learns, after another two months as his wings pull in tight to his back and get covered in some strange fleshy sacks that he thinks are gross as fuck, that he is a succubus apparently. And succubi get a second growth and shedding as their bat-like wings turn into feathered ones that help to make them seem softer and more alluring to their prey than the bat-wings make incubi to theirs. He has to wait a week and a half for the gross water balloons to deflate and turn itchy and brittle, and then he spends a whole night scratching away the sink with his talons until his new wings are exposed. They're big and black, his feathers softer than anything else he's ever touched, and shimmering the same blue as his flames when the light catches them just right. They're beautiful, and after he takes his first meal once they're free, he's... beautiful too.

He hadn't given much thought to his appearance before he burned. He knew that he had his mother's soft face and features and his father's bright eyes, but that wasn't really important to him. When he'd woken up he'd been disturbed by how much he changed in his sleep, but he moved on. Once he finishes his transition to maturity, it's different. His eyes nearly glow, his lashes are full and thick, even though they're still pale, and his skin is luminous. He'd always heard that sex demons had skin like gemstones, but he gets it now. The unblemished portions of his flesh seem to have an internal glow that reminds him of moonstone, and the darker sections of his scars are the color of pale amethyst. They don't look piecemealed together even with the staples separating the sections. They look like they belong like that. And with his shiny dark wings, long thin black tail with a heart-shaped spade at the tip, and the more traditional smooth medium-sized devil horns curving up from the top of his head that flash like onyx, he looks like a proper born demon. He doubts that anyone will be able to recognize him like this, but he still dyes his hair black, just in case, before he thanks the demons who'd taken care of him for the past few years, and heads out to make his own way.

It's not as easy as he thought it would be. Feathered wings means that people, villains, other demons, don't take him as seriously as they would an incubus because they're certain that if they find the right combination of words, he'll roll over for them and beg. He goes eight times past two weeks without food to make sure that whatever crew he was running with at the time, wouldn't get the wrong idea about why he was rolling with them. It's miserable each time, but if it's what he has to do to make sure that no one thinks he's just a pet looking to be leashed, then that's what he has to do. And he manages it for a long time before the Hero Killer goes viral.

///

The League of Villains is a mess of... 'personality'. There's the Stain cosplayer lizard who has startlingly worse socialization skills that even himself, a psycho schoolgirl with a vampire quirk and enough demon blood in her to make her more vampire-like than he thinks a normal person would be, a fucking magician, a man whose sanity is literally held together by a paper bag, a guy who wears human hands on his body as an accessory, and Magne. She's got a hell of a temper when someone misgenders her, understandably, but she's definitely the most normal and well-adjusted of the bunch, and honestly a breath of fresh air compared to the rest of their antics.

And they have definitely not been around demons aside from in vague passing because none of them know how to act around him. There is a constant air of discomfort for the first few days and Dabi steadfastly ignores it. Magne makes a pass at him, but she definitely doesn't know enough about sex demons because she seems to think that because he's a guy he must be an incubus and he has to tell her,

"No, it's not based on gender, it's based on preference. I'm a succubus." And that seems to surprise all of them. No one else asks any uncomfortable questions about it for three days, not until Shigaraki corners him with Kurogiri, who is definitely not a demon no matter what the others seem to think. Dabi doesn't know what the fuck he is, but he's not a demon.

"Dabi,"

"What, handjob?" He's a little snappier than he probably should be given their already rocky start, but he's hungry god dammit. He wants to find something to eat and he hasn't tasted the interest that he's looking for in any of the others yet.

He doesn't get dusted for his tone though, and Shigaraki goes on. "If you need to go elsewhere and find food, Kurogiri will teleport you. When you're finished, you can text him and he'll bring you back, just make sure that no one catches you using his portals."

Dabi blinks. "Wait, really?" He was pretty sure that he was gonna have to beg one of the others to fuck him if this kept going on.

Shigaraki isn't wearing the hand over his face for once and frowns slightly, his nails biting into his neck. "Unless you have a way to make sure that no one spots you as you come and go? You didn't expect us to just let you starve, did you?"

Kinda, yeah. Never had a crew before that was willing to make accommodations for his demonic heritage that weren't just interested in having a toy they could pass around like he couldn't say 'no'. But he doesn't need to tell Shigaraki that. "...Thanks, boss."

Duster shrugs and turns to head back upstairs. "Just don't get caught."

///

For a while after that, Dabi doesn't have any issues taking his meals regularly again. Lots of people are excited by the prospect of sleeping with a sex demon now that so few of them end up dead afterwards. There was a big shift in how sex work was handled and legalized in the wake of the Great Ascension world-wide, so having sex clubs where mortals and demons can negotiate pay and find safe spaces to indulge are relatively common. With the money that he's getting from the League, Dabi manages to actually book a room at La Vénus, one of the nicest of these types of establishments outside of Tokyo, for three days. The League is going to have to be very on their game starting next week, with the last of their preparations being made to go hit the UA summer camp, but in preparation for that, Dabi wants to be well-fed, and Duster and AFO want them all to be well-rested. So he plans on gorging himself and getting a solid chunk of cash for his time.

The first night he spends pinned between a couple who were eager to try a third, and who the husband didn't think he had to be worried about showing him up. Dabi is still certain that he did from his piercings to how many times he got his wife off with his mouth alone, but Dabi didn't really care much. They were a good meal and they paid well for his time. The second night he ends up with three different people, one girl, two guys, and he ends up feeling buzzed from how much he's had to eat and from the pleasure that's still sitting beneath his skin. He's flush with so much cash that the next day he orders room service to indulge in human food for the first time in... fuck, it's gotta be years now. Not only that, but this is enough cash that if this job falls through for some reason, he'll be able to get the fuck out of Kamino and set up halfway across the country.

He also goes out to one of the boutiques that is nearby and clearly used to catering to his kind and picks up an obnoxious set of deep red pleather lingerie. The club has a no full nudity rule in the open areas, but he's seen people and demons in pasties and thongs, and he wants to really grab attention tonight, maybe find himself a high roller who wants something exotic. The tiny thong, strappy bra that's almost more of a chest harness, and high stockings pair perfectly with a set of black heels that are as glossy as his wings after he finishes preening them for the night. Dabi is well aware of how edible he looks by the time he's ready to go into the main area.

It's even nicer, then, when he is barely in the room for five minutes before he's starting to get people approaching him. He hears a few offers, but he wants something that is going to make the night memorable, and sends them on their way. For once in his life, he is spoiled for choice, he can choose to be a little picky tonight.

When he smells someone's arousal crackling through the air like a summer storm his mouth starts to water, so distracted by the smell he fully turns away from the woman who was talking to him. He wants that on his tongue tonight. His nose is sharp, especially when it comes to locating someone who's arousal is calling to him, and he's turned for about two seconds before he finds the source and his face goes hot, his feathers fluffing with his embarrassment.

He really, really didn't expect to find Shigaraki, dress shirt, blazer, dark dress pants, and no gross dead hands in sight, blinking at him from across the club. Shit. He turns back to the woman and apologizes, saying that he needs to go check in on a friend, and excuses himself. It's humiliating to have Shigaraki see him dressed like this, but he knew from the start what kind of demon he was. This doesn't make him any less effective at his job. He moves across the room to Duster, moving in close and hooking his arm through his, pressing into his side at the bar. Makes sure that it looks like he's schmoozing a potential meal, but whispers, only just loud enough to be heard over the thrum of the music,

"What are you doing here? Did something happen?" And as if this night couldn't get any fucking weirder, color just barely starts to rise to Duster's cheeks before he quickly turns his attention back to the bar and the drink that's been set down in front of him.

"No, everything's fine. Everyone is still set to go back to base next week."

Dabi blinks. "So why are you here then?" A flicker of something bitter pulses through him and he quickly drops the other man's arm. He's wearing his gloves for once, which at least means that there's no risk of him getting hurt when he does it. "Did you follow me?" Wouldn't be the first time someone did, hoping he would be desperate enough to take them into his bed. And Duster still smells really good, definitely interested in him in a way that he's never smelled like before.

Shigaraki flinches, "No, I had no idea that you would be here-- you never have been before--" Which has Dabi blinking. "I wouldn't have come if I knew you were hunting here."

"This is my first time here, but it sounds like you're a... regular?" He doesn't necessarily have room to judge. He would have a much harder time finding willing meals if it weren't for places like these, but he would have put a lot of money on Shigaraki being a bumbling virgin.

Duster looks as uncomfortable with this conversation as he is, not letting his eyes stray from his face. "I like to blow off steam on the rare occasion that I can get away."

Which, okay, yeah, if he had the self-proclaimed Demon King breathing down his neck constantly, Dabi would be looking for somewhere else to go on his nights off too. "Right."

"I can leave if it makes you uncomfortable, Dabi. You need this. I don't."

He is really starting to get annoyed about how quickly Shigaraki can put him on his back foot when it comes to shit like this. He isn't supposed to be nice, or god forbid, understanding. None of his other bosses ever have been before. He opens his mouth without really knowing what he's even planning on saying.

"Tomura," the voice is falsely high and sugar-sweet, a succubus with skin the glimmering luster of labradorite with a shock of long lavender hair, the bright soft wings of a violet-backed starling, and in a nearly see-through slip of a nightie flouncing over to the bar. He's not sure of the speaker's gender from a glance, and barely manages not to hiss when they step right into Shigaraki's space and press their front against his chest. "It's been ages, are you still looking for a partner?"

"Reo, it's good to see you-- I'm in the middle--"

The other succubus flares their feathers slightly, puffing up to try and be bigger when they're a good eight centimeters shorter than both he and Duster. A clear sign of marking their territory that should not make Dabi so ready to snarl back and stake his claim on Shigaraki's arousal. "Who's this?"

"A work friend." He snaps instead. It wasn't like he was really going to proposition Duster anyway. "I'll see you on Monday?"

"Of course. Dabi--" he doesn't give Shigaraki the chance to finish his sentence. He doesn't want to hear it. If Shig wants to have some fun with some other succubus, then that's his business. His wings shift with his annoyance, flapping slightly, and he nearly turns right back around when that sends a flash of his ass in the direction of the bar and another wave of that rolling thunderstorm smell pulses out of his boss. Fuck. That would have been such a good meal, too bad it's attached to Duster. Whatever. Plenty of other scents to follow tonight.

///

He talks to no less than two dozen people. Two dozen people who are looking at him with their veins drenched in their arousal and not a single one of them makes him hungry. He's never been so apathetic to the option of so many different meals, and he can't even pretend it's because of how gluttonous he's been for the past two days. He knows that he could eat like this every night if he wanted and still never be full. He would just be stronger. But none of these meals are appetizing tonight.

He's lounging on one of the alcoves pushed off to the side of the lounge, letting people seek him out if they want to try their luck, letting more people send drinks to his table, indulging again and again knowing that the alcohol won't affect him for ages longer than it would take a mortal, and twice as long as it would a demon as he burns it off in his stomach before it can hit his bloodstream. It's shaping up to be a night of nothing instead of one of debauchery, but whatever. He made a killing and is actually well-fed for the time being. He can spend his night alone in the lush bed with his wings spread wide instead of curled up on the tiny cot back at headquarters for one more night of luxury before heading back.

Is thinking that he's going to head back to his room soon when he catches a whiff of that thunderstorm smell again that sends his stomach growling petulantly. He hasn't smelled Duster since shortly after leaving him at the bar, and it's embarrassing how fast his head snaps up to find him now. Dabi had assumed that he'd gone off with that other succubus earlier when his smell faded, but as he looks up he finds the mortal making his way over to his table, holding two glasses and looking as unrumpled as he had before Dabi departed.

"You're still here?" Duster's question is tinged with enough genuine confusion that Dabi doesn't tell him to fuck off.

"So are you," and he reaches for one of the glasses unceremoniously. Shigaraki hands it over, scotch on the rocks, the same thing he usually drinks at base and a far cry from the array of fruity drinks that have been sent to his table over and over throughout the night. "I don't get tired, you know that too much of a good thing can kill you, right?"

Duster frowns at him slightly. "I'm well-aware, Dabi. I didn't stay before. I figured that you would probably have your evening booked soon and decided to go back home for a few hours so that you could find your meal in peace."

"You cannot keep being so well-adjusted about this, or I'm going to set you on fire." The words leap out of his throat before he can do anything to stop them.

Shig blinks at him. "You want me to be... more racist about your heritage?"

His face burns and he takes a drink to stall as he tries to get a grip on himself. It's so hard to do when Shigaraki is sitting right there and he smells so good. Fuck it. He finishes the drink and then closes the space between them on the bench, checking to make sure he's still wearing his gloves, before climbing right into his lap. He flares and flutters his wings invitingly, wrapping his tail around Duster's ankle and sliding up a little, pushing the spade beneath the hem as he wraps one hand over his shoulder and runs the other up his chest slowly as he speaks.

"I want you," he purrs, half distracted because there is definitely lean muscle under the shirt that he didn't really expect to feel there, "To stop being so professional and tell me why you bothered to come back over here." He leans in even closer, breathing in his scent as it pulses out from him even hotter and makes his mouth water. Fuck, if he stays like this for too long he's going to start to drip. He can't remember the last time that someone's scent alone could provoke that reaction from him. "Does the lingerie really do it for you that much? Never smelled you like this back at base."

There's a pause, and for a second he's pretty sure that he's going to get pushed out of his lap or just straight up dusted, but instead, after a moment, Shigaraki's mostly covered hands wrap around his hips and pull him closer. "I'll have to tell the doctor that the scent blockers in my costume work perfectly if you don't already know how much I want you." He pulls him closer and Dabi sucks in a sharper breath as their pelvises go flush. Didn't realize that he was already starting to get hard, and feeling Duster's cock starting to harden against him as well has him trying to bite back a purr. "But you're my subordinate, Dabi. Where you eat, and who, isn't for me to know unless you want me to."

He doesn't back down now that he can feel how much the other man wants him too. Starts to press kisses along his cheek, trailing down with each word until he's a hair's breadth away from his lips. "What if I want to eat you tonight?"

The hands around his hips tighten, "What are your rates?"

He couldn't care less about being paid for his time if it means that he has Shigaraki's cock in him and his thunderstorm arousal behind his teeth for the rest of the night. "Double whatever that other one asks for, and you have to tell Kurogiri to stop hiding the scotch from me."

"More than worth triple, and if you manage to pull off the summer camp job I'll show you where he hides the stuff he saves for my teacher." Duster wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him into a hard kiss that immediately has Dabi melting against him. Fuck, fuck. His skin may look like gemstones, but Shigaraki's feels like shattered marble against him, cooler than his body as his arousal creeps his temperature higher. It's broken and physically colder than anyone that he's had before, but he's never had a kiss make his venom glands pulse with the need to make sure that his partner will be able to satisfy him again and again. He has to pull away as soon as Duster's tongue flicks over his lips, doing his best to swallow away the bitter, citrusy venom.

"Do you want--"

"I want anything you'll give me, Dabi." His mouth moving to press kisses along the staples cutting over his cheek. "Tell me if there's anything you don't like?"

He nods breathlessly, "C'mon, take me to bed." The words are hot, but the truth is he's scared if he tastes Shigaraki's arousal on his breath, if it gets any more overwhelming when he doses him, then his cock will get harder and the outfit barely covers him as it is. He really doesn't want to get kicked out if he can't fit in it anymore.

Shigaraki gives him a chaste kiss against his lips before he lets him get out of his lap. Dabi wraps his tail around his wrist, pulling him along towards the exit, to the elevator. He doesn't care if he's being too needy, he feels like he's starving in a way he never has before, especially not since he's been gorging himself for the past few days. As soon as they are in the relative privacy of the elevator, Shigaraki has his hands back on his hips, pushing him up against the wall and capturing his mouth again. Dabi can't help the whiny moan that escapes him as his mouth immediately fills with venom, spilling bitter across both of their tongues. Duster doesn't care, licks inside anyway, swallows it away, and shivers as it starts to work its way into his system. Then his tongue is moving against his, along the sharp points of his fangs, along every place that he can like he's trying to find more of that taste or memorize every place that makes him squirm.

They nearly miss their floor, but Shigaraki manages to extract himself for long enough to pull him out of the elevator. "Just have to get to your room, baby, and then I promise to give you your fill."

He is very, very glad the room is spelled to open for him because if he'd had to fumble with a key car, let alone fit one somewhere into his outfit, he would have been screwed. Instead he drags Shigaraki along and all but yanks him inside. But as soon as they are, as soon as all the other sounds of the club are blocked out, he doesn't want to be in charge of anything else. He presses into Shig's chest, nearly whimpering,

"Hungry-- Shig, please." Moans when that makes the human's scent go so, so much hotter. Dabi's cock is straining against his thong now, slick starting to drip down his thighs as his wings quiver.

"You can use my first name, sweetheart." Tomura tells him, hands catching his hips, and directing him back towards the bed. "Fuck, you're so beautiful all flushed and needy in my color, Dabi."

He's been called beautiful a million times before by people high on his venom. But he believes it a lot more when Duster says it as he scrambles to try and get the other man out of his clothes. The jacket is shed easily enough, but Dabi can't be bothered with the buttons, his talons tearing through the fabric instead and reaching for his belt immediately after. Tomura catches his wrist in a hard grip.

"If you do that again you're going to have to be punished, baby boy. I'm going to make you wait." And even knowing that his venom is making Tomura want it as badly as he does, the tone, the hardness in his eyes, assures him that he really will make good on the threat. His whole body feels feverish with his need. It's been so long since his instincts have felt satisfied like this. Knowing it's Shigaraki, that he really does have power over him, it's making his hunger ravenous.

"I'll be good--" he leaves his belt alone for the moment, chasing more of that dynamic, trying to find a heady helplessness that he's never been able to give himself over to because he's never... trusted anyone else he's ever made a meal out of like this. He hooks two fingers under the edge of Duster's glove. "Do you have to wear these?" It's been three months of being at base together. He's never seen him slip, but sex is different. He doesn't know if that control carries over here.

The smell of his arousal nearly makes Dabi collapse. "You want them off, precious?"

He's going to cum completely untouched at his rate, his body so desperate to give the other another, more potent, dose of venom through his seed if he doesn't actually start to feed him soon. "Tomura, please," he begs like he hasn't eaten in weeks.

"Show me that you can be a good boy first. On your knees, baby."

His wings automatically fluttering is the only reason he doesn't hit the ground hard enough to jar his knees, immediately nuzzling into the bulge his clothed cock is making against his pants. It's a big bulge, and his arousal smells so, so good that he can't help opening his mouth and licking at him hungrily through the fabric before his hands are even back to fumbling for his belt. He hears Duster breathe a curse before his hand is in his hair, stroking and toying with the locks between his horns. Normally people grab at those like handles to get him here or there, but Shigaraki ignores them as Dabi manages to get his pants open and finally, finally gets his fingers around his thick, heavy cock.

He's nearly drooling, but forces his eyes back up to find Tomura's nearly black his pupils have blown so wide from his venom. "Please, sir?" Tries that, has a few that he filters through to see what makes his partners hottest. This one definitely works for Shigaraki if the smell of his arousal is anything to go by.

"That's it, sweetheart. Come on, I know you're hungry."

Starving. Is moaning as soon as his tongue flicks over his flushed skin, still cool compared to his overwhelming heat. Ravenous as his venom floods his mouth again and he smears it all along his length, a little thicker and more slick than his saliva, coating his skin and making it so much easier for him to wrap his lips around the thick head of him. He'll need whatever help he can get trying to get him into his mouth. And he wants him all the way inside, into his throat if he can, bound and determined to show the other man why succubi are credited with the origin of the phrase 'sucking the soul' out of their victims.

The hand in his hair never goes sharper, never grabs onto his horns and forces him to take him faster, it just keeps stroking, letting him go at his own pace so long as he stays right where he is. Dabi can't even taste his skin, too much venom on his tongue and the crackle of his arousal sitting just beneath assaulting his senses, all he can do is go hazy with how good it feels to have someone so big on his tongue. Stretching his mouth so wide that he's tempted to pop out a few staples so that they don't tear, but he can't force himself to pull off for long enough to do that. Instead, he just goes as slowly as he can force himself to, taking him in inch by inch until he's finally, finally feeding him into his throat. Takes him in and swallows him until his nose is brushing his pelvis and only stops then, just keeping the heady weight of him there, choking away his breath deliciously, until Tomura does finally knot his hand into his hair and give it a light tug. Just enough that he’s blinking hazily up at the mortal.

He's never seen anyone's face be that soft with affection when they're dosed with his venom, when he has their cock buried in his throat, but Shigaraki is looking at him like he's the most amazing thing in the world. "You feel so good, baby boy. But I need to know if you want to take it slow or if you want me to be rough with you."

He couldn't do slow right now even if he wanted to, and his tail wraps around Tomura's thigh to try and pull him even closer as if he can even get his cock any deeper in his throat.

"Tap my thigh if you need me to stop, precious." Never heard his voice like that before, but Dabi can barely pay attention, because the next second his hips are moving. One hand keeps him in place, but the other moves to one of his fluttering wings and then he starts to fuck his throat properly and Dabi is gone.

He's never been able to give himself over to his instincts entirely. Never had someone who he recognized in that primal part of him that made him a succubus instead of an incubus, as being someone worthy of giving over his pleasure, his hunger, his sanity to while he was taking his meals. But Dabi is floating beyond words when he lets Tomura take control. By the time his cum is spilling down his throat, Dabi has never felt like he was both further and more deeply rooted in his skin than he does right now. As soon as Dabi has swallowed up all of his cum, Tomura is pulling him off of the floor, getting one bare hand in the front of his chest piece and turning it to dust even as he pulls him closer so that he can kiss him, breathing the crackling lightning that his orgasm tore out of his life force directly into Dabi's mouth and that has him squirming as he aches with how empty he is.

"You taste so good," he whimpers, needing more, desperate for it. He's never had someone who he's ever wanted seconds of, but he thinks that he could indulge in Tomura every day for the rest of his life and never tire of him. It earns him another hot kiss as he's pushed down onto the bed, his panties going the same way as his shirt before Tomura's deadly hands are wrapping around his thighs to spread them even wider. He holds onto him as his eyes drag over every exposed line of him, the smell of his arousal going even thicker as he sees his hole flushed and dripping his need all down his thighs, his cock achingly hard and drooling against his stomach now that it isn't being restrained in the confines of his thong. "More, Tomura, more, please," he begs, his wings spread, opening as invitingly as they can in this position against the mattress, his tail pressing up along his back to make sure it's out of the way, his head tilting back against the bed to expose his throat. He needs it. Needs him. Needs to be nothing but a receptacle for his mate's pleasure.

Tomura gives him every inch of it so many times that Dabi passes out right alongside him when neither of their bodies have anything left to give.

///

It's not often that he wakes up with his meal still in his bed, but in the morning he's curled up against something nice and cool, his wings splayed out loosely across both of their bodies, relaxed and open in a way he's never let himself do before. He shifts slightly and feels Shigaraki's hand along his spine. His whole hand, but clearly he'd put his gloves back on at some point before they'd passed out. He's careful to not gore the other man on his horns as he looks up and finds the mortal already awake and there is an ocean of words building in the few inches between them that he doesn't want to acknowledge.

"That was a brand new set." Is what falls clumsily off of his tongue.

"You can add it to my tab." Not expecting his hand to cup the back of his neck and draw him in, a lazy, subtle curl of arousal in the air before he kisses him languidly. Takes his breath away again. "What now, Dabi?"

"Wave last night's fee if you extend the room and order enough to eat so that I can have seconds today."

It makes the scent of his arousal a little more intense and Duster wraps an arm around his waist so that he can roll Dabi onto his back and settle between his legs again. He leans in to capture his lips again but Dabi twists his mouth away. Doesn't stop Tomura, kissing along his jaw instead, down his neck, teeth skimming over his pulse point tantalizingly. He wants nothing more than to let Shigaraki make him fall apart like he did last night, but--

"Stop it, if I accidentally kill you with sex, AFO will have me hunted down and castrated."

Duster hums in the back of his throat. "He would probably take your wings too." The confirmation of that is horrifying, but he does just give him one more kiss before getting off of him and reaching for the menu that's on the nightstand. "Anything in particular I should eat to make sure that doesn't happen?"

He presses along his back to look at the menu over his shoulder and doesn't let his thoughts linger on that. He has more important things to focus on.

///

They go back to work on Monday and everything is the same as it was before. Except that when Dabi gets peckish he goes and slips into Duster's room, and every time, as soon as those gross hands and his uniform come off, he envelops him in the thunderstorm of his arousal. He never treats him any differently afterwards during their meetings, but it's very, very nice to have someone ready to feed him. He is feeling stronger than he ever has before the Summer Camp job. He is stronger than before. He sets the entire forest ablaze and has complete control over it as it happens. He doesn't even make his seams ache over it. He doesn't see even the barest flicker of recognition in Shoto's eyes when they see each other, and they get the kid. Dabi is planning on seeing if he can steal Shig away for a celebratory meal after they finish making their offer, because they won whether the kid accepts the offer or not, but they don't get that far. He should have known they wouldn't, nothing ever goes well for him for this long.

///

Two months. He thinks it's been two months since he ate. After Kamino and the clusterfuck of the fallout with that, and the Overhaul job, and then Duster going off to train against the baby, too much time has passed. He didn't even notice it at first. He had been so well-fed leading up to the disaster that he wasn't even starting to feel hungry until about three weeks in. Shigaraki and he aren't exclusive, he doesn't think. They haven't really talked about it. It's just been three months since he's had anyone else. Whatever, not important.

Not until he tries to find someone else to eat and he's struggling. Too many of the potential meals have a tang to their arousal that speaks of worse intentions. He can't trust them now that he's one of Japan's most wanted. He can't go to any reputable, or even any skeevy establishments for demons like him because everyone in the country knows he's a succubus. There will be heroes or cops waiting around looking for him. He manages a back alley blowjob like a hooker from half a century ago, but even then the guy tries to pin him down for the reward money while he's off-balance. He burns him to cinders and manages to get out, but it was barely anything. Not nearly enough. It just makes him hungrier.

When he gets the call to make his way to Deika he's nearly out of his mind. He barely notices the others, doesn't hear anything even as there are frantic words spoken around him, as he goes straight over to Shigaraki who looks practically dead on his feet and kisses him. He presses the whole length of his body against Tomura's with a needy moan, his hands immediately pushing under his coat to try and get to his waistband to drag their hips in even closer. His mouth is full of his venom and he tries to lick into Tomura's mouth, needing it so badly--

Duster catches him firmly by the chin and keeps the kiss chaste before he pulls away and Dabi nearly whines. "Not yet, firefly. You just have to wait a little longer, can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

He's so hungry, but the command rolls through him and makes his wings quiver. "...yes, sir."

He wipes away the venom from his lips, and goes right back to addressing the others, "We'll need to make our way through the city to the tower at the center. That's where they're holding Giran."

"Oh, so we're just gonna pretend that didn't happen? Cool, cool," Spinner mumbles, blushing right through his scales.

"You didn't know?" Toga sounds genuinely flabbergasted. "They've been in love for months!" He can't even take umbrage with that when he's so deliriously hungry. When her words help him come to the distant conclusion that the reason no one tasted good was definitely in part because he didn't want any of those people to be his mate the way he wants Tomura to be.

///

Maybe that realization is what has him fighting so hard in Deika. There are so many of the MLA trying to get to them and he wants to make sure that his potential mate is safe and this stupid fucking ice user is getting in his way.

"Mister? Are you still being useless?"

"I am only half-armed!"

"Fucking whatever, your mask doesn't have a respirator does it?"

"No--"

"Scram then." and he sends up another wall of flame against the ice freak and then cups his hands beneath his mouth. This is not a particularly well-practiced move of his, but it's worked on a smaller scale before, and he's never been this starved before. Hopefully it will be more potent like this. He bites at the inside of his cheeks until his venom glands are pouring their contents into his mouth, into his open palms. It takes an embarrassingly short time before he has a large pool of the slightly purplish-tinted liquid in his hands. He throws it out into the air in the direction of the popsicle and as many of the MLA as he can and then lights up his hands, vaporizing it mid air and blasting it towards them.

In the past it wasn't incredibly effective. It made people a little feverish and more inclined towards sex, but his venom this time is so potent from his need that it's like a fountain has been opened. The tantalizing scent of arousal starts to pulse around the city street. People try to stay focused on the fight, but women are starting to squeeze their thighs tight around their dripping arousal, men pulling at their rapidly tenting pants, and even the ice user is on his knees on top of his mount. It's only one street worth of goons, but it's enough of a distraction that Dabi is able to turn and start to move towards the tower again, towards his mate.

Compress moves up alongside him. "That was disgusting, but effective. Have you always been able to do that?"

"Mostly."

"I wish you had told me, we could have made a few marbles with that."

"Later."

He doesn't normally use his wings to actually fly, it's definitely more of a noticeable mode of transportation, but he does not want any more grunts trying to get at him. Dabi takes to the sky and watches as Twices start to spill out across the streets as he tries to track down Tomura.

He manages to catch him and stop him from breaking a leg or neck in the altercation between he and Re-Destro, but it doesn't do much to keep him from being battered to hell and back when Tomura is nearly crazed, lost in some haze of memories, exhaustion, and adrenaline. And by the time he's standing, bloody and victorious, his quirk awakened, and his new empire of resources started, he, Toga, and Twice are in dire need of medical attention.

They rush him to the doctor, and Dabi stays hungry.

///

Another week and a half passes and Dabi manages to do everything he needs to help ensure that the PLF rebranding will go over as smoothly as possible with as little input from Duster as possible. He wants him rested and healed as much as he can with the doctor's freaky procedures, because he needs Tomura healed enough to be able to sate his appetite.

They do the fucking announcement and he hears Ujiko trying to goad him into going back for a fresh round of experiments instead of treatments and Dabi pulls the comm from his ear and crushes it into little plastic bits with a growl.

"Alright, firefly, you've been so patient, come on, let's take care of you."

He all but latches onto his arm, his tail even coiling tightly around his wrist as he pulls him along towards his room, ignoring everyone else who wants to talk to either of them. He might actually snarl and flare his wings and quirk along his horns and feathers to make people scatter. As soon as they're behind a closed door he's in Duster's face, barely able to stop himself from wrenching his mouth open to get his venom down his throat, but thankfully, Tomura doesn't make him wait any longer. His hands are around his hips, even with the bandages, and he pulls him in, swallows away the bitterness all over Dabi's tongue without a complaint.

His arousal spikes sharply and Duster gasps against his mouth. Dabi doesn't know if his venom has ever been this potent in his life and he doesn't bother to worry about any of their new clothes, shredding through Shigaraki's belt and his one in a rush to get his cock inside of him as quickly as possible. The venom is doing a lot of the heavy lifting getting Shigaraki as needy as he is, because he helps with the rest of their clothes, both of them kicking out of their shoes, their coats, and Dabi's claws catching on the bandages corded around his chest as they go. He manages to climb onto the bed, laying back and spreading his legs as slick immediately starts to make a puddle on the blankets, as he begs with short chirpy purrs and guttural sounds that are in a language so old that mortal scholars can't makes sense of it and demon ones can't even translate it properly anymore.

Tomura moves between his legs and doesn't make him wait. He presses inside his body and Dabi's tail coils tight around his thigh to pull him in faster as he arches and moans, his whole body trembling with his need, his hunger so aching and high that he can't even feel the pleasure of being filled because he's not full. He is empty. His stomach is completely hollow with it and he needs food, energy, life. He wraps one hand tight around the back of Tomura's neck, his other clawing bloody lines over his shoulder. He needs more, he needs to eat--

His teeth sink into the junction between Tomura's neck and shoulder, breaking through fragile human skin easily and filling his mouth with life. The blood gushes over his teeth and tongue as he sinks them in deep, cutting through muscle and sinew and taking away a chunk of his flesh, swallowing it away and then opening his mouth to lean in and get more because that is finally, finally something in his stomach--

Tomura shoves two of his metal fingers between his teeth and Dabi can't help it, he gives a weak sob, blood bubbling up from his ruined tear ducts and the seams beneath his eyes. He's so hungry, and he feels helpless to it, to being beneath the mortal in a way he never has before, even as his blood spills across his skin and drips onto Dabi's, he isn't getting what he needs and he's going to die without more of the human. But he keeps his fingers shoved between his teeth, one deadly hand curled around his throat, one finger just barely raised from his skin, and keeps fucking his cock deep into his desperate, hungry body. Even with his venom, it takes longer than he wants it to before he feels Tomura's cock twitch and spill inside of him with a gasp. The ball of lightning that crackles up out of his throat is bigger than any he's gotten out of the other before, and Tomura finally takes his fingers from his lips so that Dabi can devour it with another broken sob.

Tomura has always been the best tasting meal he's ever had, but the way his thunderstorm arousal spills across his tongue now is intoxicating, and he is leaning forward again to try and get more of his blood between his teeth too as he swallows it up.

"No, baby boy, no more biting," He's not expecting the other to sound so soft and sweet as he restrains him with four fingers around his chin. Dabi whimpers.

"Hungry, Tomu, please," out of his mind with it. He just needs him. Just wants this.

"I'm going to give you your fill baby, but I can't do that if I'm dead," He murmurs, holding him still so that he can press kisses to the tracks of blood streaming across his temples as he cries. His hips roll into Dabi's deliberately, letting him feel every inch of his still-hard cock deep inside of him, how drenched Dabi is with his slick and his mate's cum already, and lighting up those nerves again. A little spark of pleasure that is fighting through the gnawing ache in his stomach. "Just keep holding on for me, firefly."

And he goes right back to fucking him. He keeps Dabi restrained for the next two orgasms, until Dabi stops licking at the blood over his mouth and trying to arch up to get more between the spill of lightning from the mortal's lips, and is instead a writhing, moaning mess on the bed as his hole is fucked so roughly, filled so deeply that he can't keep his cum inside, more and more of it leaking out of him with each thrust. It takes until the fifth or sixth of Tomura's orgasms for him to manage even one of his own with his cock, and what spills across their stomachs is more venom than cum, gone lavender from how much comes out at once. The splash of that against their skin has them both moving harder, faster, shifting their position to make sure that Tomura's cock is going deeper, so that he can wrap his hands around Dabi's tail and wings, and bring his pleasure higher and higher, until there's no room for the hunger in him anymore and his brain feels like it's floated away.

///

He has no idea what time it is when he feels Tomura trying to shift out from the circle of his arms and wings, his tail tangled tightly around his leg. Dabi does immediately start to growl though, his claws pricking at Tomura's skin to try and keep him right there. Not going away again. Not abandoning him to starve again.

"Firefly," his voice is gentle, and he presses a kiss carefully between his horns. "I need to check on how deep the bite went and bandage it."

Only then manages to activate the intelligent part of his brain that isn't just a tangle of his instincts and he shoots upright, nearly taking out Shigaraki's eye and reaching for his shoulder with a distressed cry, "Fuck, god, I'm sorry--" Can't believe he got so hungry he ate Tomura's flesh alongside his lifeforce. Would have kept doing it if he hadn't stopped him.

Really not expecting the human to cup his cheek in his hand and pull him in for a kiss to silence his panic. "Shh, firefly, you don't have anything to apologize for. I made you wait so long, I'm sorry. I didn't think," he hesitates, thumb stroking over his cheek, eyes searching his questioningly. "I didn't think that you were only relying on me for your meals."

And maybe if he hadn't taken a literal bite out of him last night, Dabi would have tried to play that off, but now his wings tighten nervously to his back and he forces himself to answer the question the other didn't quite ask. "I tried, but... none of them were as good as you. I thought I could just wait. I didn't realize how out of hand it got."

"Dabi, this can't happen again." His heart turns to dust as surely as it would have if Shigaraki had put his whole hand against his chest. Of course it can't. Of course he wouldn't want to ever be in bed with him again after he ate his skin. The bite is a jagged, deep, awful thing crusted over so thickly with blood that it looks black. It must hurt. He must have bled even more than that. It was lucky he hadn't bitten any higher or he might have killed him. He could have killed him-- "I need to know how often you should be eating, so I can be sure that I'm around to take care of you."

"What?" He doesn't know if his voice has ever been so soft, so scared, so confused.

Tomura strokes his thumb over his cheek again. "I'll have to talk to the doctor-- if he can't get the treatments done without needing me to be away for weeks at a time, then I'll tell him that I don't want them."

"But you do."

Duster frowns at him a bit. "I want you more, firefly. I want you to be strong and healthy. I don't want you to be hurting like you were last night." The arm around him goes a little tighter and he pulls him in close enough he can rest his forehead on Dabi's shoulder, other hand shifting to the back of his neck to hug him close. "I'm so sorry that I put you through that, Dabi."

He tangles his hands in Tomura's hair and tugs, forcing his head back up and kissing him. No venom this time, he doesn't want this muddied, wants to know that the other man fully understands him when he gasps into the space between breaths, "Mate me. Be mine. Own me, please, Tomura."

Duster kisses him back but catches his chin to hold him in place long enough for him to look at him, brow furrowed, "...I didn't think that was something succubi still did."

Of course he knows. His father was the 'Demon King'. Of course he knows that succubi used to be summoned and forced into contracts, owned by a mortal so that they couldn't feed any other way, so that the human could harvest functional immortality and youth, their body kept at its prime until the succubus escaped their chains or were killed. Of course he knows that after the ascension, bound succubi were tracked down and their keepers killed to try and bury that secret so that no one would be able to force them into servitude again. They worked so hard to have the ability to choose the way they do now. He would give it all up if it means that Tomura won't die unless he does once he's extended his life past a human lifespan. He would stay alive for eternity if it meant he got to stay at his side.

"I love you." He didn't even know he was capable of that, but he doesn't know if any words he's ever said felt so true. He didn't even realize that was what this is, but he's certain of it. Somewhere between trying to kill each other to being one of the only people in the world he trusts with his life, he fell in love.

Tomura pulls him into another kiss, this one hot with his emotions, with the starting threads of arousal and there is nothing sour or bitter in it to speak of manipulation. He knew that Dabi could give him immortality and he never cared. Would give up being a nomu, getting access to all of All For One, to make sure he stays fed. He kisses him and there's an aching complex sweetness layered in the taste of his storm.

"I love you too, firefly." And he means it. "But are you sure you want that? It's dangerous--"

"Only if... the human uses me. You won't. You would let me leave if I wanted, wouldn't you?" Even if that's not for another century, even if it would kill him.

"Dabi, I will never make you do anything that you don't want to." He kisses him again, holding on tight, both of their arousal surging through their veins, seems very invested in having his mouth against his skin, breathing the words against his lips and nearly smothering away his answer as he starts to move his hands along Dabi's back. "How does this work?"

"I," he whines as a hand goes to the base of his tail and curls around it, stroking deliberately and making his whole body tremble with pleasure. "I have to invite you-- Fuck, Tomura, wait. Your shoulder--"

"It's fine," definitely not what he said earlier. "I'd let you eat me whole if I knew that it made you happy, firefly."

He is going to turn into a puddle, he is dangerously close to starting to make one as his arousal grows and his body starts to produce his venom-ladened slick. "Tomura, you have to eat. Can't until you do, not going to kill you by accident."

"Only on purpose then?"

"Tomura,"

"Alright, come on, baby boy. We'll go clean up and then I'll eat whatever you want me to. And when I'm finished, I'll do whatever you need me to to make sure you know that I'm going to take care of you for the rest of my life."

It's very, very hard for him to get out of bed after that, but it ends up being more than worth the wait.

Thanks for reading!

#ask #asks #shigadabi #my writing #mha fanfiction #fanfiction #prompt response #dialog smut prompt #smut prompts

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wolfiemcwolferson · 1 month

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Helllllooooo, I was tagged by @duquesademiel and also @vicsy and I feel a bit deranged but here we go.

1. How many works do you have on ao3

I have 73 fics up on my f1 ao3 account.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

Please do not judge me for this, god, oh my god - 1,331,441

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I currently write for F1.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

well we can settle down (Maxiel)

I remember when I met you just before September (Carlando)

so take it from me (Carlando)

I will wait for you at the end love (Maxiel)

I feel your body call on me (Piarles)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do not respond to comments and it makes me feel really horribly guilty. To be honest, I did not do it when I first joined the fandom because I was overwhelmed and then I wanted to and it was too long and I think one of the things I want to do is start...responding to comments...I just never know what to say.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I think it's this Carlando. But you just have to read it. Trust me.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I don't think I can answer that because I am a certified happy ending writer. I have a few fics that I desperately want to write that I won't because they're not happy endings, but if I have to pick...it's got to be the Blue Neighbourhood series. That's a complete circle ending.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

no one has ever left me explicit hate on my fics. some of y'all get wild in my inbox which is why I don't have anon on

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes. Uh. I don't know how to answer that.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not a big fan of crossovers <- Vicsy is right

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No and I made a Wattpad account after Briony had one of her Maxiel fics posted to there for the second time and now I religiously check because I am deranged

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not to my knowledge - wait, once Sol said for exam practice she was translating bits of my fic and I had a little cry about it but it's not posted anywhere.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

HAVE I EVER. I genuinely have too many to individually tag, but I have written with @river-ocean in the past and I am currently posting the Alphabet Dating Season fic with @chaesonghwas and @duquesademiel - and we all know that Sol and I are always always always writing fic together. I have something in the works with someone else and I think it's a secret, so I won't say anything about that. And then @miamierre and I are literally putting the finishing touches on the promised insane fic we cooked up together and I cannot wait for you all to see it. This is the year of collabs for me and I'm loving it tbh

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Despite the stats on my fics

Piarles

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I have a fic for an old fandom that is languishing away and I feel guilty about it because it was good

16. What are your writing strengths?

I write fast.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I suffer from "can't shut up" and sometimes my fics don't need to be a long fic.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I am so so so nervous about it. everything that I write I double and triple check and I still get it wrong a lot of the time. I think it's fine and people should do whatever the fuck they want.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter because of course

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

This answer literally changes every single day. Today it's the sugarbaby fic that I wrote for Phoebe because I am very very proud of that fic and I think if you hold it against the stuff I was writing two years ago, you really see how far I've come as a writer.

Everyone tagged in this that hasn't already done it should do it, but I'm also going to tag @gaynfl

#tag thingy

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broodybuck · 5 months

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Slow Dancing in a Burning Room | Series Part 1

Series Summary: At a strip club, Steve figures out one of the dancers is homeless. He offers him the guest room in his home along with anything else he wants. He offers to take care of Bucky. Even though Bucky can't understand why.

Series Tags: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes | Rated E | Tags: 18+ explicit smut, sugar daddy Steve Rogers, stripper Bucky Barnes, age difference, no powers AU, daddy kink, dom Steve Rogers, sub Bucky Barnes

[Masterpost] // [ao3 link]

Steve isn't a strip club kind of guy, usually. But his friend Tony drags Steve with him tonight.

Steve can admit, he is enjoying himself. Tony chose a men's strip club knowing Steve's taste. Tony's into everything anyway so it didn't slow him down. He has a line of strippers waiting to dance for him since he pulled out a literal bucket of money.

Steve isn't that flashy with his money. He's honestly only tipping the strippers because he assumes they need it. And also, the men are stunning, ripped. Yeah, they're nice to look at.

But it makes Steve's chest hurt looking at these men selling their bodies for money, parading around in their underwear as a necessity. No one should have to do that. But all Steve can do is tip them as much as he can.

Most of them have spotted Tony's bucket of money and are making their way over to him. So Steve's left to watch the stage and tip the dancers as they come and go.

That's when he sees him. By far, the youngest and smallest model the club has. God, he looks fresh out of high school. His skin is smooth and pale. He's fit, Steve can tell, but he only has half the muscles of his coworkers. He needs a little more meat on his bones to work up to them.

Beyond the model's body, his eyes catch Steve's attention. They're a piercing blue that digs into Steve's soul. The boy's hair is long and wavy, brushing across those blue eyes every time he moves his body around the pole.

Steve's mouth waters. He beckons the stripper over for a dance, takes out a hundred-dollar bill. The younger brunet's eyes widen. He straddles Steve's lap seductively and leans in close to his ear.

"You could pay for a private room with that," the boy breathes, digs his hips in circles and rocks a bit. "Or you could save the big bucks and take me home tonight... for free."

The offer is tempting, of course it is, but Steve doesn't want to just bed the boy for a night. He wants him off this stage and into his bed permanently. He doesn't want just sex.

"Just a dance is fine, thank you," Steve says, tucking the money into the waistband of the dancer's booty shorts.

The model shoots him a look, then rushes to the end of the dance. The boy proceeds to avoid Steve the rest of the night, he must be mad Steve declined his offer.

It doesn't surprise Steve in the slightest when he leaves the club later on and finds the same beautiful boy linking arms with an older man, walking toward the parking lot.

Steve returns to the club the next few nights. He watches the young man dance on stage every evening. Then at the end of the night, he watches the brunet go home with a different customer each time.

It's the end of the week and the boy walks out for the first time with no one on his arm, alone. It's the first time he notices Steve lingering by the door.

"It's you," the boy says cautiously, narrowing his eyes at Steve.

"I'm Steve," Steve puts out his hand but the boy only lets out a long breath.

"Bucky," he grits, looking around, refusing to shake Steve's hand.

"You need a ride somewhere?"

"Only if you're inviting me to your place."

"I have the room."

Steve notices the blush spreading into the boy's plump cheeks. Their eyes meet.

"If you're serious... um, yeah."

Steve nods, not looking surprised in the slightest.

"This way," he says clicking his car fob. His car beeps, the headlights flashing.

Steve drives the boy to his home. The younger man doesn't look stunned by the size of Steve's place. Or the decor once they get inside. He seems unfazed, distant even.

Steve fears this is what Bucky's done with every man. He does it because he has to. Because he has nowhere else to go, to sleep. He's homeless, Steve confirms for himself. It's exactly what he feared.

"So, the guest room is up the stairs," Steve says and takes the first couple of steps.

"The guest room?"

When Steve turns around he sees Bucky hasn't moved from his place in the foyer.

"Yes, there's an attached bathroom you're free to use as well."

"What?" Bucky says, shaking his head in confusion.

"I thought you needed a place to crash."

Bucky looks embarrassed, his face is turning that pretty pink color again. And it's beautiful, Steve gets distracted momentarily.

"You were at the strip club," Bucky counters. Steve only nods. "And you..."

He's at a loss for words.

"I offered you a room to stay. It's no trouble, really. It's just up these stairs," Steve motions to him.

Slowly, Bucky begins to step forward and follows Steve up the staircase. When they reach the guest room, Steve opens the door.

"I can offer you some spare clothes although they might be a bit big on you," Steve says, casting a glance up and down the smaller boy.

Bucky notices and arches an eyebrow but he decides to accept the offer.

"If you don't mind, just a t-shirt and sweats would be great."

"Of course, I'll leave them outside the door. There are clean towels in the bathroom. Kitchen is also available. Let me know if you need anything."

"Um, okay…" Bucky says, his hands fidgeting. "Thanks."

"Goodnight," Steve says.

He shuts the door and leaves Bucky inside. He places the pile of spare clothes outside the door and heads back to the master bedroom for the night.

The next morning, Steve has a few hours to himself before Bucky rises. He gets a workout, run, and shower in before he's in the kitchen cooking breakfast.

Bucky comes down in the clothes Steve left for him. They are loose on him, they hang from his small frame and god, it makes Steve want to slip them right off, pick the boy up in his arms, and taste every inch of him.

Steve blinks the thought away.

"Morning," he says. "There's coffee. Breakfast'll be ready in a minute."

"Uh, I can head out if you'd rather," Bucky says.

"If you need to be somewhere otherwise I'd be happy to have your company a little longer."

Bucky stands there silently and in that time, Steve finishes the eggs and turns off the stove. He fills two plates with food and brings them to the table.

Bucky stares at the food as Steve carries his coffee mug over and sits. He motions to Bucky to sit across from him where the second plate is waiting.

Bucky moves slowly like he did last night. Like he's unsure of his every move, but eventually he sits and starts carefully eating. Steve smiles.

"I don't get what you're doing," Bucky mumbles through a bite.

"I'm offering you a place to stay," Steve says.

"For how long?"

"As long as you'd like."

"I can't pay rent."

"I'm not asking."

"What?" Bucky stops eating, his gaze snaps to Steve's in shock.

"You don't have to pay a dime. And you're welcome to stay."

Bucky's brows knit together, his eyes narrow.

"Sex then?"

"No."

"I don't get it."

"I've seen you go home with a different man every night this week," Steve begins to explain, but Bucky cuts him off.

"Why do you care who I fuck?"

"I don't care. I only care if you're using your body to find a place to sleep at night."

Bucky gulps and tries to hide it.

"Were you stalking me?"

"No," Steve laughs this time. "It's simple, really. I live in a big house alone, I have a lot of money I can't spend all on myself. I'd like some company."

"For sex," Bucky repeats again.

"No. I can't make that more clear. You're completely free to go and do as you please. The only catch is, if you live here you have to quit stripping. And if you do, I'll finance all your expenses. Food, clothes, outings."

"So what do I do while I live here?"

"Whatever you want."

"But I'd have to go on outings with you?"

"I'd like you to but nothing's required."

"So I can live here and sit in my room all day and eat all your food and spend all your money and you wouldn't care?"

"That would be fine."

Bucky stares at him for a long moment then blinks in disbelief.

"What?"

Steve continues eating as if to let him process the idea.

"What if I fuck someone else?" Bucky tries.

Steve simply shrugs.

"You wouldn't care?" Bucky balks.

"Why should I?"

"Cause I'd be living in your house, you'd be paying for everything. Why would you do that?"

"I like to take care of people. What I want is to take care of you, Bucky. I don't need anything more in return."

Bucky pulls at his hair, running his hands frustratingly down his face.

"You're so fucking confusing. I thought you were into me. Why would you pick me up at a fucking strip club?"

"Because you needed help. You had no life there."

"This can't be for nothing. No one is that nice."

Steve sighs. "Okay, look. Am I attracted to you? Yes. But that doesn't matter. I'm never going to force you to repay me, especially with your body. I genuinely like taking care of people. I've heard some call it a sugar daddy. That sounds a little weird to me. So I just call it helping you financially so you're not obligated to sell your body in that way."

Bucky stares at him.

"So what, we just co-exist under the same roof fucking other people while you pay for everything?"

"If that's what you want, sure. If one day, you want something else just tell me."

Bucky narrows his eyes, trying to figure out Steve's angle. The angle he doesn't have.

"And what if I want to fuck you?"

"If you truly want that. Not to repay me but because you want me in that way... then we can talk about it."

"Talk about it?" Bucky scoffs. "Jesus, what are you some fifty-year-old prude."

"I'm not a prude and I'm not fifty. I'm forty-three."

"Whatever," Bucky rolls his eyes.

"I will ask one thing. I would appreciate it if you would curb that kind of language. All those foul words don't sound very nice coming out of such a pretty mouth."

Bucky blinks wide. "You're flirting with me. Ha!"

Steve shrugs. "I'm allowed to flirt in my own home. And all I'm asking is you clean up your language if you're going to live here too."

"And if I don't?" Bucky crosses his arms.

"I can't force you. It's about respect. If I decide I don't like this arrangement, I'll discuss with you the terms of ending it."

Bucky stares at Steve for an elongated beat. Like he's trying to figure this out. Like he swears he's being tricked.

"Fine, whatever," Bucky agrees. "No cursing."

"Good. Now let's finish breakfast."

#stucky #stucky fic #stucky fanfiction #stucky series #series part 1

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