#and even if he’s not he STILL doesn’t deserve any of it

[innerfare]

Fingering You - Part 1 

Summary: you already know from the title

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

Genre: pure smut

CW: NSFW // fingering, bondage, mentions of oral sex, penetrative sex, and slight anal, mentions of creampies, dirty talk, Daddy Zoro, Mean Dom Kid

——— 

Luffy: 

The hardest part about fingering you is not going down on you. It’s quite rare that he sticks his fingers between your legs without lapping at your folds mere seconds later. But on the occasions he does simply finger you, it’s to tease you. There’s a part of you that’s always hoping this side of Luffy doesn’t come out, and there’s another part of you that’s always hoping it does, the side that throws you on the bed, ties you up face down, and slides his finger up and down your aching cunt, from clit to ass, telling you how his favorite thing in the world is when you cum but refusing to let you do so, only ever slipping one finger inside you at a time and always pulling it out when you start to clench around him. When Luffy decides to finger you, it’s a long night. 

Zoro: 

Daddy Zoro fingers you for your own good. At least, that’s what he tells you. He’ll never admit that sticking just his pinky finger into your little hole and feeling the tightness around his smallest digit makes his cock throb harder than it ever has before. He’ll never admit it’s the first thing he thinks about in the morning, before even thinking about getting himself off. He’ll definitely never admit that he now gets hard when he eats and gets sauce on his fingers because it reminds him of your desperate princess cunt. He’ll only ever tell you it’s for your own good. How else is his fat cock going to fit inside you? And if his cock is inside of you, his fingers might just wind up in your mouth. Probably his favorite thing about fingering you is the way he can use his fingers to push his bodily fluids, be it spit or semen, inside of you. 

Sanji: 

He’s the absolute best at fingering you, hands down. He’s almost religious in the way he goes about it, too. After all, his hands are precious to him, and so is your pussy. Putting the two together is a spiritual experience as far as he’s concerned. He takes it very seriously, always making sure whatever door the two of you are behind is locked, and taking plenty of time to kiss you like you deserve and worshipping your tits. He can work you to the brink of orgasm just by playing with your nipples, though he’s never content just to do that. The first time he slipped his hand into your panties, he came in his pants, and though he’s managed to build up a resistance since then, there’s still nothing better than sliding his fingers into your cunt and feeling you melt into him, especially considering he can focus solely on your pleasure when he does. 

Ace: 

Fire Fist Ace has one filthy mouth. Everyone knows it. Even for a pirate, he’s notorious. When the Whitebeard Pirates make port, the girls are always gossiping about what the handsome young pirate said to them after a bottle of sake and some heavy kisses. But only you know the true depths of it. He’s always throwing his weight around, pinning you against a wall or down on the mattress, crowing you with those broad shoulders and that big chest, pushing your legs apart and shoving first one, then two long, thick fingers into your tight pussy, his hot lips on your ear the entire time telling you that your pussy is his, that he’s the only one who gets to touch your cute little clit, that when he makes you cum (and he most certainly will), you’re going to get on your knees and thank him properly. And that you do, night after night, the two of you always fucking for the final round (or two). 

Sabo: 

How many times has he slipped his hands under your skirt and gotten you off when there’s someone nearby or within earshot? Neither of you have any idea because it happens so often. He pushes two fingers right into you and thumbs your clit every time, working an orgasm out of you like it’s nothing, biting his lip as he studies the flush that appears on your face and often brushing you off if you try to reciprocate the pleasure. He always grins when you give him that panicked look that says you’re about to cum and you’re worried someone might hear, his favorite part being the way you hang onto him as you do as if he’s going to protect you. The way you cling to him afterwards as you recover from your orgasm only makes it so much better for him. He’ll never stop doing it. 

Law: 

He actually didn’t have a lot of experience when you two first started fooling around, but he his hands were always one area where he felt exceedingly confident. It came naturally to him, rubbing you through your panties until your wetness was soaking through, pushing the fabric to the side to stroke your warm folds, sliding his fingers into your tight hole and promising it’ll be his cock next. It’s like second nature to him, to the point he’ll start doing it without fully realizing. If you sit in his lap, his hands will start creeping up your thighs, and the next thing you know, you’re tossing your head back and holding on for dear life while he fingers you with one hand and squeezes your tits with the other. He gets off to the sense of control it gives him, relishing how he can make you squirm with just a stroke of his thumb and the way you squeal when he jams a finger up your ass. 

Kid: 

Honestly, you need to stop whining. He’s doing you a favor. Yes, somebody might see you completely naked and exposed (he’s still completely clothed, of course) on the deck of the Victoria Punk in broad daylight. And yeah, it’s embarrassing how wet you are, so embarrassing he doesn’t even stop you from hiding your face. But he’s doing you a favor by stuffing his thick fingers in your cunt, stretching you like a cock (a regular sized cock, at least, not a Eustass Kid sized one). He doesn’t even touch your clit until you’re on the brink, and then he thumbs it mercilessly. And don’t think for a second your mean dom boyfriend won’t laugh at you when he pulls his fingers out and finds them coated in your cream, telling you that if you’re that desperate you should follow him back to his cabin to get fucked properly. You don’t hesitate to do it, trailing after him like a puppy. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[gay-dorito-dust]

hopefully tumblr doesnt eat this up again 😭

i was wondering how the batfam would reacted to getting caught watching edits of celebrity!reader

I’m just going to put them in a relationship with Celeb! reader just to make things easier for myself.

Dick doesn’t give a fuck if he’s caught watching edits of you! You’re his spouse of course he’s going to save each and every edit there was of you because it’s be a crime if he didn’t.

He’ll even show you the ones where he thinks you’re the hottest in shamelessly with a smile. He honestly can’t get enough of the edits that his FYP is filled with them and snippets of interviews that transition to the edits as well.

Dick has no shame in being caught because why would he? You deserve to have a thousand of edits in your name and Dick has one too many edits saved in his phone, so much so that your surprised his phone still somehow has storage for the next wave of edits that he’ll be saving should he deem them worthy.

‘Babe come look at this edit of you! You look hot!’ Is the most often used when Dick is showing off an edit of yourself to you in hopes of getting your opinions on it. You don’t mind people making edits, especially didn’t mind them now when Dick would shout ‘my spouse is fucking gorgeous! God damn’ out of seemingly nowhere.

You’re not even surprised when his Lock Screen is a live wallpaper of the edit itself, dick really didn’t have any problems showing you off in any capacity at all.

Jason is either calm with being caught or he’s wanting to strangle Roy because who else is going to rat him out to you about watching edits of you other than him?

‘Chipmunk I can explain-‘ Jason would start.

‘There’s no need, I know you watch edits of me sweetheart there’s nothing to be ashamed of at all.’ You tell him as you cuddle up to his chest. ‘It’s complete fine I’m not going to shame you in watching them, I think it’s flattering that you do.’ You add and Jason couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief as he held onto you, kissing your forehead.

‘It’s not my fault you’re perfect and the edits happen to capture that beauty sweetheart.’ Jason replied and you couldn’t help but chuckle as you looked at him sweetly, not knowing how much more you could possibly love this beautiful man as much as you could, especially when his cheeks flush with a red colour while he scratched his nose sheepishly.

You didn’t mind that he was watching edits and while he was glad about that he was more than certain to watch them elsewhere, more specifically away from Roy before he can rat on him…again.

Tim is terrified the moment you catch him watching edits of you, so much so that he completely forgot to pause the edit as you stare at each other, accompanied by music playing in the background.

It’s hilarious to you but embarrassing to poor Tim who believes that you’d see him as a weirdo for watching them, but all you do is laugh and kiss the side of his head before fiddling his hair affectionately. ‘Watching edits of me are you? And here I thought you couldn’t get more adorable Timmy.’ You tease as you kiss his cheek.

‘You’re not weirded out?’ He’d ask, holding his phone to his shirt, not wanting you to know that he was more or less the one making them rather than watching them. He’s literally got several usb drives worth of edit material to make, no joke.

‘Nope just flattered.’ You replied before leaving Tim be before he passes out from embarrassment. Little did you know he’s making about ten more edits as we speak, all of which have to be perfect and he’ll watch them ten times over if he must, for no specific reason at all.

Bruce is just admiring his beautiful/ handsome spouse. That is all.

Alfred would’ve most likely told you that he’s been watching edits of you when you’re away. It’s adorable and you couldn’t help but smile at how your handsome boy has an hidden file on the bar computer dedicated to your edits. (Dick and Tim found it by pure accident and dick couldn’t hope but tell you about it.)

Needless to say you won’t see him watch the edits but you’ll hear from everyone else that he watches them and that about the closest you’ll get to catching him in the act of watching edits honestly. However don’t be surprised when you see a video from Stephanie of her filing Bruce somewhere as he watched the edits of you on the big screen of the bat computer, his eyes filled with pride and awe of his pretty/ charming spouse looking so effortlessly ethereal.

While you might not have caught him in the act yourself, you still found yourself smiling at Bruce smiling up at the edits of you -and sometimes him because you’re a power couple- as a warmth encased your whole being, buts that’s more than enough for you as it can act as your own little secret.

Damian is good at keeping his little secret safe, so you seeing him watch edits of you were slim to none, and even if you did you catch him in the act you would have to have been blessed by Lady Luck herself.

He’s a little embarrassed that you caught him in the act, mainly because he thought he was better than this to let his guard down to be caught in an act like this, then he’ll become irritated at the fact that you had came into his own room just to catch him watching edits of you.

‘You’re watching edits of me.’ You said.

‘And? Did you seriously come into my room to tell me that? What happened to respecting my privacy?’ He retorts, arms cross over his chest. He didn’t care that you caught him, he’s just more or less annoyed with his privacy being violated.

‘Sorry my sweet I should’ve knocked, but you haven’t answered my question.’ You apologised with a little hug and a kiss to his forehead and Damian found himself forgiving you in an instant as he brought you back into a short lived hug, hiding his flustered face in the depths of your neck, tightening his grip on you.

‘Tim hacked my phone.’ He says in response and you just let it slide, knowing that he’ll admit to it sooner or later and not when he’s being cornered into talking. You knew he watched the edits because he’s totally infatuated with his spouse and Damian knew it too, but wouldn’t dare tell you until this moment has passed you both by.

So until then he’ll watch the edits in secret because he can’t get enough of how gorgeous you looked in them.

[dashing-disaster]

Bad Beer and Naked Rodents

Thank you @xmidhel for beta reading!

also on AO3

“You know,” Sal drawls, twisting the cap off another beer and handing it over, “for someone with an above average IQ, you’re dense as fuck.”

Tommy glares but accepts the bottle without protest. It’s his third. He takes a long sip and shudders. Bud Light. Why did Sal have to be such a fucking stereotype? But he was too tired to complain. He was too tired to do much of anything right now.

“He’s not wrong,” Lucy said to his left and Tommy directed his glare towards her instead. Like Sal, she wasn’t impressed.

“What? You know it’s true. There you are, genuinely happy for the first time in…” she pauses to think, “for the first time since I met you, actually.”

“Ever” Tommy supplies miserably, sinking further into the couch cushions. Something pokes into his right kidney and he reaches underneath himself, pulling out a small doll with messy blue hair, a pink ruffled dress and a … horn?

“Unicorn Barbie,” Sal exclaims and snags the doll from his hand. “Thanks man, you just saved this household a lot of sweat and tears. Look, babe, he found her!”

“Uncle Tommy to the rescue,” Gina says dryly, without even looking up from her laptop where she’s furiously typing some email that’s probably important and Tommy feels a pang of guilt at intruding on her peace and quiet unannounced at 9pm on a week day, Lucy in tow. He’s unable to dwell on it, however, because Lucy pipes up again.

“Let’s circle back here for a moment, your life was going great, you were happy, your hair was even starting to look good-“

“Hey!”

“Don’t interrupt me, Thomas. My point is, you got scared of commitment for three seconds and tell Evan Buckley, Evan Buckley, to go off to frolic on Grindr? I’m sorry, but do you know how stupid that is? Do you have any idea what happens to guys like Evan Buckley on Grindr?”

“Say his name like that one more time and I swear to God.” It comes out with far more venom than intended and he cringes internally. Why does he have to be such a bitch? It’s a credit to their love for him that none of his friends even bat an eye.

They’re not gentle either, and Tommy’s kind of glad about it. He doesn’t deserve gentle. Not now, maybe not ever again.

“What happens to guys like him on Grindr,” Sal asks curiously and then frowns. “And what do you know about Grindr?”

“My cousin wanted to try it out but he’s super paranoid about technology stealing his data, man’s still got a Nokia. So we set up his profile on my phone. He decided it wasn’t for him 10 minutes in but I kept the app and sometimes I go window shopping when downtime gets too long.”

“Why am I not surprised in the slightest,” Tommy mutters into his beer. Lucy is undeterred.

“Anyway, Gabe’s no hag either and similarly baby-faced as Buck so every time I open the app they’re on him in minutes. Seriously, it’s like The Walking Dead and some of the messages I get are borderline illegal. And don’t get me started on the dick pics. They’re not even nice-looking dicks most of the time.”

“Is there such a thing as a nice-looking dick? I’ve always found they all look a little like mole-rats.”

Sal, who’s been fiddling with Unicorn Barbie’s hair in a futile attempt to get out some of the knots pauses and makes a pitiful little sound staring wide-eyed at his wife who’s still neither looking up from her screen, nor is she pausing her aggressive typing, and Tommy’s both impressed and a little scared of that level of multi-tasking.

“Don’t worry, bud, Gi loves your dick. You’ve got three little monsters to prove it.”

Sal shoots Lucy a look so dirty Tommy almost laughs.

“I love the man attached to it. It’s still a mole-rat, though.” A beat of silence, then Gina looks up from her laptop for the first time in two hours, finding her husband’s eyes across the coffee table. “I love mole-rats.”

Lucy snorts, but Sal looks so pleased even Tommy has to smile.

“Still, though,” Lucy picks up the previous topic again, “are we sure it’s a good idea to throw Buck into a world of mole-rats and creepy old dudes wanting him to call them ‘daddy’?”

Tommy decidedly does not look in Sal’s direction. He loves Lucy and Gina but this is a topic one only discusses with one’s very best of friends.

“A world of disappointment, more like. Buck’s had Tommy now, anything else will just be a let-down.” The dirty grin spreading on Sal’s face tells Tommy he’s about to be in trouble. And he’s right.

“We didn’t call my boy here Nine-Inch-Nail in high school for nothin’.”

“Okay, first of all, that is such a lie,” the grin goes impossibly wider, “and second, I am not 9 inches, okay?”

Three sets of eyes wander down to his crotch and if it wasn’t these exact three people, Tommy would be so uncomfortable right now. As it is, he simply huffs and shoves a throw pillow into his lap, crossing his arms like a petulant toddler.

“I’m 8.6.”

Silence.

Then all three of them burst out laughing. He tries to hold on to his petulance, but he only lasts about ten seconds before the corners of his mouth begin to twitch and he finds himself joining in against all odds.

“As I was saying,” Sal hiccups after they’ve all calmed down again, “Buck doesn’t need any other mens’ mole-rats. He only needs Tommy’s giant mole-rat.”

Tommy groans.

“God, I hate you.”

Half past midnight Gina pulls the plug and throws them out. Sal tries to offer him the guest room, but he declines. As much as he loves his best friend’s daughters, he doubts he’ll can be Fun Uncle Tommy in the morning and he hates disappointing them.

As they wait for their Uber to pull up, Tommy feels strong fingers wrap around his wrist and a moment later he’s pulled into a tight hug.

“Don’t fuck up your life like that, Tom, not again. You were finally so happy. And I like you happy. ” Sal’s voice is quiet next to his ear, but there’s a softness to it that is usually reserved for his daughters. Tommy feels his throat close up and he buries his face into Sal’s shoulder.

“I just don’t know how not to, Sallie,” he admits and hates how forlorn it sounds.

How forlorn he feels.

“You trust him. I know it’s the most terrifying thing to do, believe me I do. But you gotta.”

Sal pulls back to catch his eyes, but keeps hold of Tommy’s shoulders.

“This man is the best thing that’s ever happened to you, Tom, and if you give up on what you have now, you will regret it for the rest of your life. But in order to keep it, you need to let him in and you need to trust him to know what he wants. It’s not your place to decide that for him.

And I know you want to let him set the pace, but you can only do that as long as you’re able to keep up. This relationship is about the both of you and if things are moving too fast, you have to tell him that. It’s not fair to either of you if you don’t.

And Tommy, you have to talk to him about your shit.”

Tommy opens his mouth to protest but Sal shuts him up with a shake of his head.

“No buts. Buck isn’t stupid. Do you really think he hasn’t clocked by now that you have trauma? I’m not saying you gotta tell him all of it at once. But you need to start somewhere.”

Sal pulls him back in roughly and presses a kiss to his temple.

 “I’ve seen the way that boy looks at you. He wants to take care of your heart so badly. Let him. Let him love you. All of you.

And if it all goes to shit anyway, you know that I’ll be right here. I always will be.”

Tommy bursts into tears.

It’s 3am when he finally finds himself knocking at the same door he closed behind himself for what he thought would be the last time less than ten hours ago.

It’s telling that it takes Evan just under half a minute to open it. It’s more telling that his eyes are red-rimmed, and he’s still wearing the same clothes.

Evan’s terrible at hiding his emotions, doesn’t even try to most of the time. It’s one of the many things Tommy loves about him.

Right now, he seems to experience all of them at the same time.

Hope, when he opens the door. Relief, when his eyes fall on Tommy in the hallway.

Hurt, anger, fear, concern, fondness, and finally back to hope.

He’s silent. Waiting.

Tommy takes a breath.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

They look at each other, the insecurity and fear hanging between them like a cloud of vapor, so thick Tommy can almost taste it.

But there’s something else, too. Smaller, more fragile, and yet persistent like a moth chasing the light.

It’s the same thing Tommy’s seen in Evan’s eyes earlier.

Hope.

For a time, neither of them moves, as if they’re scared, that if they do it’ll spook and leave them alone in the dark again.

A minute passes. Two.

Somewhere in the building a baby begins to cry.

Evan steps aside.

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ 𝕒 𝕘𝕚𝕣𝕝 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕞𝕖 ♡

♡ Pairing: boyfriend!jeongin x girlfriend!chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: fluff/comfort

♡ Summary: Jeongin's the type of boyfriend who never makes you question how much he cares for you. Still, there's one nagging insecurity you haven't been able to move past: Letting him see you naked. Sick of letting your fear get the best of you, you decide that tonight's the night to finally open up to him and it turns out you might've been afraid of nothing all along.

♡ Word Count: 2.1k-ish

♡ Warnings: body insecurities, nudity, a lil making out, mentions of sex, jeongin loves to touch your body, praise, and just all around fluffiness otherwise

♡ A/N: This started out as an anon request but I lost the post for that request (brb crying) so now we have a lil I.N comfort fic that will hopefully make my chubby Jeongin biased babes feel good in their skin cause you totally deserve to.

Moments like these Jeongin wishes could last forever. Between touring, appearances, and studio sessions his schedule’s been brutal lately, leaving him with little to no time to spend with the one girl he treasures most in the world—you. But tonight none of that matters. The world beyond the walls of his apartment doesn’t exist. There’s only him cozied up under a blanket on the couch with you cuddled against his body, your head resting on his chest as you lazily play with the strings of his hoodie.

The room’s dark except for the glow of the television. A movie’s playing but neither of you are truly watching it. His eyes are glued to you, committing to memory how beautiful you are from this angle. You seem so comfortable in his arms, so at peace, and the feeling’s infinitely mutual. 

Your own gaze is fixed on the screen but every image and sound you take in is passive. What you’re truly focused on is a thought that’s been cycling through your brain all night. Before you left to head over here you told your roommate not to wait up, you’d be spending the night at Jeongin’s place. Never one to pass up the opportunity to tease you, she asked if you needed to borrow a sweater or something to sleep in. You instantly regretted admitting to her over drinks that Jeongin has yet to see you naked, even after months of being together.

Whenever you have sex you keep the lights off and throw your clothes back on immediately after. If you shower and he’s around you always make sure to bring your clothes with you into the bathroom. Even Jeongin, who never wears anything to bed, always has something on when you sleep over to make you more comfortable. 

It’s nothing he’s ever complained about or tried to make you feel guilty for. More than anything he just seems happy to be with you, accepting your boundaries without hesitation. It’s one of a million reasons you’ve come to love him as much as you do. Still, you know that hiding from him isn’t something you can do forever. It isn’t something that you want to do forever.

“Baby” he says sweetly, petting your cheek, “You ready for bed?”

You take a deep breath, making up your mind that tonight’s the night. Your stomach sinks at the thought of how he might feel when he sees your body but at least you’ll know now before you fall for him any harder.

“Mmhmm” you nod, nuzzling your cheek against his chest one last time before sitting up. 

Jeongin hops up and gets to work clearing the snacks from the coffee table. With full hands, he leans down to plant the softest kiss on your lips. “You can go ahead. I’ll meet you in there in a second, okay?” 

You agree and gather the blanket in your arms, trembling as you shuffle down the hall towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk but it feels eternal. You’ve stepped through this threshold a dozen times by now but somehow this feels like your first. Suddenly the oversized hoodie and baggy sweatpants that once shielded your insecurities have you sweating like a sinner in church. It’s suffocating.

Tossing the blanket onto the bed, you tug your hoodie off to feel the fresh air kiss your skin. The coolness eases the tension in your body, leaving your hands a bit less shaky as you slip your sweatpants down and kick them aside. You stare down at your body, taking in the sight of your bare legs and your fluffy thighs that are just barely visible in the long t-shirt you’re wearing.

Your chest tightens as you pinch the bottom of your shirt, lifting the fabric little by little. It slides above your thighs, around the contours of your hips, revealing the panties you chose specifically for tonight. They’re silk, rose pink, with a lace trim and a delicate bow in the back and they’re the prettiest panties Jeongin’s ever seen simply because you’re wearing them. 

“Did I, uh, miss something?” Jeongin asks, frozen in the doorway.

Usually when he walks into the room you’re already under the covers waiting for cuddles he’s beyond eager to give you. Being met with this is something new entirely and he can’t help the way his heart races at the sight of it. You turn to find him staring at you wide eyed, shock painting his face. 

“Well, uh, I…” you stutter, fidgeting with the trim of your shirt, “I know you don’t really like sleeping with your clothes on and the weather’s really nice tonight so I thought, maybe, it’d be nice if we did that.” 

Jeongin closes the distance between you, his shock melting into concern. He brings an arm around your waist, stroking your side as he studies your expression.

“Baby, I already told you I’m cool with our clothes being on. I never want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

You rest your hand on his, soaking in the warmth of his touch. “It’s okay” you insist, immediately picking up on his skepticism. He doesn’t believe you for a second. You stare into his eyes, finding comfort in them even as they narrow in your direction. “I want you to see me, all of me, I don’t wanna be afraid anymore.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what? Did I…”

You cut him off before he can finish, refusing to let him believe for a second that there’s anything he did wrong. “No, Innie, you’re so good to me. It's just…I’m not the smallest girl. Feeling me is one thing but seeing me it’s…it’s…”

Your breath hitches at the sensation of Jeongin’s hands massaging your body. He smooths the plushness of your figure beneath his palms, stopping to squeeze your love handles, your belly, your thighs.

“Seeing you would be a gift” he whispers, his lips hovering near yours. “I’ve felt your body in the dark and I’m already addicted to how beautiful it is. If you take your clothes off or not, nothing will change. I promise.”

There’s no denying the rush that you get from being touched by him. You feel it every time, the impulse to let him tear your clothes off. The longing to feel his gaze dance over your naked body the way his hands do. Typically you fight it, your fears dulling your urges, but tonight you don’t. Instead you sweep him into a kiss laced with passion, guiding his hands to grip the fabric of your shirt. 

“Help me take it off, please” you beg, too cute to deny.

Jeongin nibbles at your bottom lip, “Only if you help me too.”

“Deal” you giggle as he steals your breath away, hungrily pulling you back into the kiss.

Your clothes are shed gently and slowly like the petals of a flower. One after the other, his and then yours. All the while Jeongin’s lips are drawn to yours like magnets. Every break he has to take is a small form of torture. You could kiss him every second of every day and it wouldn’t be enough. He needs to drown in it.

He can only bring himself to stop when he feels skin to skin contact. Your naked body’s pressed to his in the bright lighting of his room. He could see you if he wanted to, glance down and delight in the pleasure of something he’s only experienced in his imagination, but instead he focuses on your gorgeous face, his heart set on making sure this is what you really want.

“Can I look?” he asks, fingertips lightly trailing up and down your spine. 

You pause, pacing yourself for a decision you know you can’t turn back from, “It’s okay. You can look.” 

Time seems to stand still as Jeongin takes a step back and his gaze falls below your shoulders where your naked body awaits in all its vulnerability. His is the smooth, toned body that you already know it to be. You’ve caught glimpses of it here and there when he’s changed in front of you. And yours is beyond what he’d imagined during those long nights spent blindly exploring your form beneath the sheets.

At first he says nothing, does nothing. He only stares straight ahead, scanning you from head to toe. But just as the nervousness threatens to return he cracks a smile, his face lighting up, stars twinkling in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful.” He exhales the words as naturally as he breathes. 

You blush, a giggle escaping your lips, “Oh my gosh, stop it.”

“Stop it? How can I? Look at you.” 

Your self doubt wants to tell you that he’s lying—that these words you never imagined you’d hear couldn’t possibly be true—but you can’t deny the way Jeongin’s looking at you or the butterflies swarming your stomach. You try to bring your arms around yourself, a thoughtless attempt at hiding away again, but he grabs your hands, lacing his fingers between yours. 

“I mean it” he whispers, thumbs lightly grazing your skin, “Your body’s gorgeous and I feel lucky that you let me lay eyes on it. Thank you.” 

Your cheeks heat up and you dip your head down, too flustered by his words to maintain eye contact. Jeongin cups your cheek, tilting your head back up. He’s stubborn as always, refusing to let you escape his affection. 

“You think so too, don't you?” he asks, his lips floating back to yours. He almost kisses you, just almost, but lets his lips dance there, teasing you with their warmth. 

“Think what? I don’t…” you begin to speak but the feeling of his hands making contact with your belly steals away what was coming next. You let out the softest breath, bordering on a hushed moan. His touch always sets your soul on fire but this time there’s something different about it. Some new aspect of it that has your head all fuzzy and your knees going weak. 

“Think that I should feel lucky that I get to see you” he says, massaging the plush of your belly, “And grateful that I get to touch you.” 

He glides his palms down to your hips, taking indulgent handfuls of your curves as your body gives into his touch. Your fingertips run up his arm, feeling the ridges of his muscles as they flex with every breath. His body shivers, your quiet praise doing to him exactly what his does to you.

“You can’t say things like that, Innie.” 

“Why can’t I?”

“Because I might start believing it.”

Jeongin flashes you that dimpled smile, “Good. I want you to.” 

His lips collide with yours again and it feels like the whole room’s spinning because it is. He closes his arms around your waist, kissing you lovingly as he twirls you towards the bed. Before you know it your head’s resting on a pillow as your body sinks into the softness of the mattress. You can’t tell if it’s the mattress or the euphoria of Jeongin’s tongue tangled with yours but it’s like you’re floating on a cloud.

Jeongin kisses you like it’s the last time your lips will ever meet. His hands explore your body like they’re terrified to forget even the tiniest detail of what you feel like. The affection he pours into you is overwhelming yet you wouldn’t dare ask him to stop.

He saw you, everything about you, and the only place he ran to was your arms. You feel special, cherished in every way for exactly who you are. All your worries seem like nothing more than silly little things in the presence of his adoration. 

Finally breaking from the kiss, the necessity for air forcing your lips apart, Jeongin curls up beside you, keeping you in his arms as he slips a blanket over your naked bodies. You rest your head on his chest the same way you did on the couch, only now your mind isn’t wandering off somewhere far away. It’s right here with him, basking in the moment. 

“Promise not to hide from me anymore” he sighs, planting the sweetest kiss on your forehead. 

You relax into his arms, smiling as your heavy lids fall shut, “I promise.” 

You thought you’d feel more vulnerable lying beside him with your clothes in a pile on the floor but being like this with him is the safest you’ve ever felt, the most comfortable you’ve ever felt, in your own skin. Hide from him? And miss out on a feeling like this? Never again.

[lucygraysboy]

“looked like seven when you woke up, too,” he agrees with a chuckle but then begins to pout, clutching his side and rubbing the very spot she just poked. he would be lying if he said that he didn’t like it, though, engaging in this familiar, playful banter with his childhood sweetheart. it’s like coming home after a long day. she’s his safe haven, his favorite person. “no proof ‘cause you disposed of all evidence. smart,” he laughs, but deep down wonders if she’d had more before the show, if it’s a habit now — they play and then she gets drunk and goes home with strangers. he’s not one to judge, but he’s concerned about her safety. “you look so beautiful, that’s why they’re lookin’ at you. they’re tryin’ to figure out what this disney princess is doin’ in nashville,” he whispers, leaning closer to her ear with a smile. their fingers remain laced as he refuses to let go. “alright, i’ll only ride it occasionally.” seeing how worried she is about him, he feels all warm and fluttery inside because it must mean that she still cares very deeply for him. he doesn’t know how easy changing his lifestyle will be, but he’ll do his best to choose other forms of transportation, especially once she’s living with him. “horses are beautiful, but they can be dangerous, too. then again, i could be walkin’ down the street, slip on a puddle and break my neck. accidents happen.” traffic in new york city is so bad that having a motorcycle can be life-saving. “i know, lucy gray. you’re the sweetest person in the world.” she’s proven time and time again that money doesn’t matter. he could own nothing but the shirt on his back, heat up a TV dinner and she’d still be grateful. she deserves a lot more, though. and now that he finally can, he wants to give her the world. “ladies first,” he muses sweetly, letting lucy gray step off the elevator first, his finger still clinging onto hers for dear life. maybe it’s childish, but he likes the little reminder that it’s all happening for real, that there’s still room for reconciliation. 

“whoa, it really is.” his eyes flickering to the floor-to-ceiling windows, mesmerized by the world outside. still, his gaze quickly falls back to lucy gray, more interested in taking in her reaction than anything else. she’s way more beautiful than any city, and her childlike wonderment is so infectious, so heart-melting. “we have to stay for dessert ‘cause imagine how breathtakingly beautiful all the city lights must look from up here.” the size of the restaurant is impressive, the air filled with mouthwatering scents that make billy’s stomach growl in anticipation. “good evening, we have a reservation. william h. bonney. a table for two.” the host smiles politely at them, notes something down and leads them to their table, wishing them a lovely time. billy catches a glimpse of the high ceiling, lined with gold and ornately painted. there’s a large, modern bar off the side. they get seated near one of the windows facing the west side, which gives them the perfect view of the leisurely setting sun. billy thanks the host and pulls out a chair for lucy gray to sit on. “secret hang outs are our kind of thing, right?”

“my bad, it felt like seven when i first woke up.” grumpily retorting, deciding to jab him in his side with her pointer finger as they mosey on through the lobby, “no proof anyway.” on how many she downed. catching a few of the heavy stares weighing down on them, the songstress stares back and gives strangers a big friendly smile. something they probably didn’t expect. but like her mama always said, don’t meet people with weird stares back— surprise ‘em and you might just make their day smiling back. something most people in this world have forgotten to do. “that’s interestin’. my mama’s a chatterbox too, so maybe they’ll become friends from that.” a soft laugh sounds from her, pinky still clinging to his. “alright, i’ll show you some more pictures later.” when they wrap up their dinner… that’s currently making her empty belly growl even hungrier now that her mind thinks about all the food she’s getting ready to be able to choose from. “well, you can’t always be in control of that no matter how good you are at it, billy. it’s just— those things are more dangerous than bein’ on a horse, in a car, in a plane. maybe don’t ride it very often.” she still worries, hating the idea of it— feeling scared something bad could happen to him when she’s seen too many motorcycle fatalities. “alrighty, then. i don’t mind waffle house or even a gas station— but i’m excited to try out a fancy meal with you. thanks for comin’ up with this idea and invitin’ me to it.” a happy grin has her face coming alive like a ball of sun, feeling grateful she is getting to be cordial with him again. thinking of how the scenario could be different, he could still be that person who doesn’t talk to her. it just annoys herself because she begins to wonder if there’s ulterior motives — like him just being lonely because him and his girlfriend isn’t working out. before she can sour her own mood with her worries, she counts down the floor numbers instead of dwelling. eyes occasionally flickering up on his rosy cheeks, then back on the numbers, stifling a laugh at why in the world he’s shying up. finally a ding! the doors open up and she steps out first… eager to see this place from way up high like he said. the windows are everywhere so immediately she sees parts of the city before they’ve even reached the host and guest check in. “wow, look at all that… that’s an amazin’ sight to see,” doe eyes lighting up, in awe and completely wowed, “and it’s all like a hidden gem. a secret hang out.”

[sunfyrisms]

one of the best things about transformers one is, to me, is how we were shown how genuinely close d-16 and orion were, and how their relationship is genuinely destroyed. there’s no coming back from the line they crossed, optimus himself openly states this. sentinel still influences the narrative. even in death, even after being ripped in half, he still influences megatron and optimus, in a way. because he is exactly what megatron and optimus think the other is. megatron thinks optimus is a false prime, that he is everything sentinel embodies. optimus thinks megatron used his powers to betray cybertron, chose his own desires over the people, just like sentinel. did optimus see sentinel’s corpse, ripped apart, and think to the vision where sentinel decapitated megatronous? very likely. did megatron see optimus looking down at him after his defeat, just like sentinel did, physically and figuratively, his whole life? mocking him while standing tall with a power, in megatron’s mind, optimus doesn’t deserve? yeah, probably. they both think the other is like the mech who betrayed them, their people, and their planet. and it’s so fucking tragic because sentinel didn’t even try to do any of that! he didn’t even have to try to erode their relationship. it just happened, and now, whenever they’ll see each other, they’ll just see him staring back at them.

also, while we’re here, i think it’s really cool that they made orion and d-16 equals in this. not a middle-class archivist and a miner turned gladiator who originally share the same vision, but true, genuine equals. they’ll always be equals, each will be the only equal the other has in terms of physical prowess. however, they kept orion’s love and interest for archives, and d-16’s violent tendencies. the latter was really interesting to see. said violent tendencies were brushed off as jokes, because he did not have the power to manifest those tendencies physically. not toward his superiors, at least. so you see him, on some level, subconsciously or not, directing that anger and violence onto orion, because they’re equals. but as soon as he gets that physical power, as soon as he learns the truth, he immediately becomes far more violent and confrontational and angry. he’s never had this power, he learns he was physically deprived of it by the mech he worshipped, it’s like he’s on an adrenaline rush. but he very quickly allows that anger to manifest in more violent and deliberate ways because he, finally, has the power to back it up. he doesn’t see how his anger is blinding him and directly hindering him (via his declaration to kill sentinel and shooting into the sky alerting arachnid of his presence, and the presence of his friends and the mech he nearly killed in a blind rage). it’s genuinely just so fascinating and tragic to see because they loved each other so deeply. but now they’re enemies and and a

[itsnotbird]

On the Run

Civil War! Bucky x Fem! Reader

Non-canon imagine

Warnings: Language, acts of violence, mentions of Winter Soldier Bucky.

Summary: Your domestic life was good with Bucky, that’s because the two of you were skilled in knowing when it was time to move on. Now, Steve Rogers is here to ‘save the day’, and it isn’t what you two needed.

You used lay awake for hours on end at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to any faint noises in the distance.

That was different now.

Your body knew rest, it knew a sense of comfort. Though it took you awhile to achieve it, and though it wasn’t perfect, the peace was all you needed.

Well, peace and him by your side.

The mattress wasn’t necessarily something to rave about, it was small and springy, but it was a bed and it was suitable. The sheets weren’t pillow soft, but none of those small things mattered when you’re twisted together with a man who made you feel secure no matter what.

You wake to the sun shining in from the kitchen window and the sound of the street of Bucharest outside. Eyes opening, you’re face to face with the picture in front of you. He’s painted golden by the sunlight, face relaxed. No night terrors came for neither you nor him so rest was the only thing in the air.

Hair falling across his forehead, you reach to push it back, then trace the bridge of his nose with the tip of your finger. You gently smile, your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“James.” You whisper, trying to softly stir him. “Bucky, the sun’s up.”

You’ve learned that there has to be a gentle approach to how you wake him, anything too hasty sends him into a panic. So that’s why you whisper to him before pressing your kiss to his face.

It’s a gentle kind of love, one that both of you have never experienced before. And after everything, all the things the two of you endured, it still makes Bucky wonder how it could be so easy for you to be so soft with him, to him. In his corrupted mind, he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve to be roused by you nuzzling against him. But you reassure him every single time that he will never know violence from your touch if you never have to know cruelty from his. Maybe that’s why the two of you are so content in the way you are. You spent your life under the thumb of abusers, now the slice of freedom you have feels like cool water.

Refreshing.

Bucky stirs awake, letting out a soft groan as you kiss the corner of his lips before pushing the covers off yourself.

Those blue eyes open to watch you stand from the bed and stretch your arms over your head, causing the hem of the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, to ride up past your thighs and flash your underwear to him.

He smiles to himself.

“I have a job to get to in thirty minutes.” You tell him, wandering off into the bathroom. “Nothing illegal this time…I think.”

Bucky rolls onto his back and chuckles to himself.

“It’s still illegal even if no one gets hurt doing it” He reminds, voice groggy.

You lean against the door frame as you brush your teeth, the toothpaste is foaming in your mouth as you mutter.

“I’m simply an undercover…intel associate who makes her living off of knowing things.” You say before going back to the sink to wash your mouth.

“You’re a spy for hire.” He states as he sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“So are you.” You argue, washing your face. “Don’t be the pot to my kettle, James.”

He rolls his eyes and comes to join you in the small bathroom, pulling sweatpants on as he does so. “To be fair…it’s not like you could go work at the coffee shop.” He says, grabbing your hips as he slides you out of the way so he can grab his own toothbrush.

You hum and pout as you reach for the hairbrush, the one the two of you share because that’s how life is now, sharing things.

“I did apply for the barista position, they rejected me because of my lack of people skills.” You joke.

Bucky looks at you in the mirror, giving you a shrug. “You win some, you lose some.”

You study his expression, then turn to face him with a small, hopeful smile.

“Good day or bad day?” You ask, making him stop and face you.

Bucky nods. “Good day.”

One thing you’ve come to learn is bad days for Bucky are common, more common than bad days for you. Every day, the two of you ask each other the same question just to gauge each other’s mood.

And if Bucky said it’s a good day for him, then it’s a great day for you.

You kiss his cheek, making him give you a sideways grin before you go search for clothes of your own. Buttoning your dark cargo pants, you tie up your boots and go to the dresser drawer that should be housing socks and underwear.

Instead, multiple weapons look back at you as you open it.

You place a pistol in your concealed holster, then pull a jean jacket on.

“It’ll take an hour, two at most.” You say, coming over to Bucky as he watches you.

Reaching for his watch on the counter, you set a timer for how long the job should take and then hand it to him. It’s something the two of you learned to do when separating from each other, something that eases anxiety.

Bucky takes the watch and fastens it to his wrist, then tilts your chin up to meet his eye.

“Don’t get hurt.” He states.

“I promise.” You say, searching his nervous look.

“Don’t…lose control.” He adds.

You swallow the scared feeling.

“Never again.”

With that, he kisses you meaningfully.

Intimacy was something the two of you took a painfully long time to get used to. The idea of letting someone that close was a nightmare, and it took weeks and months after the two of you got away for you to determine what feelings were what. So nothing was ever casual, not when the only relationship you have was each other. In Bucky’s mind, once he figured out how to function it, you were the only thing in life that mattered. He can’t express fear or worry or love in words properly, but he knows if he locks his fingers with yours or kisses you a certain way, you’ll understand.

You always understand.

It makes things easy, you do the talking when he can’t and he expresses feelings in ways you aren’t too sure how to sometimes.

“Be smart.” He says when you finally pull away.

At that, you scoff. “I’m always smart.”

- - - -

He’s found that people watching is calming, like it helps reconnect wires in his brain by learning strangers habits.

Walking through street vendors, he enjoys the fact that his mind has taken the day off on torturing him.

As he goes through the produce section, he stops at a kind man’s booth and looks at fruit in front of him.

Plums.

Your favorite.

He remembers all the stories you used to tell him to get him to fall asleep, how you grew up on an orchard, how you spent days wandering through the plum trees, picking the fruit and laying in the sun while sucking the juice.

He has a brief conversation with the kind man and purchases four plums, just because he knows you’ll look at him in adoration when he presents them to you.

Today was a good day, he slept dreamlessly, he woke up to you, he’s out in public and doesn’t feel on edge-

There.

Just there.

Across the street at the news stand.

Bucky sees the man running the stand look at him a certain way, a way he shouldn’t be looked at. Crossing the street, Bucky approaches the news stand in confusion, and just as he makes a few moves forward, the man flees.

The headline on the papers instantly ruins the previous good mood.

The Winter Soldier, accused of a major bombing.

As he rereads the paper over and over in disbelief, the watch on his wrist beeps.

You should be arriving home.

He heads for that direction.

- - - -

You shut the door behind you and toss the keys onto the counter, walking into the bathroom with the intention of taking a hot shower to wash away the stressful job you just completed.

It all went okay in the end, and a wad of cash is in your pocket, making you feel successful, but it was a harder job than anticipated.

You pull the shower curtain back and just as you reach to turn the water on, the energy around you shifts.

Immediately, you pause, holding your breath and trying to listen carefully.

There’s the sound of boots in the kitchen, and you would claim them to belong to Bucky but you know the sound of his footstep, you know the way his energy feels, you know the feeling you’d have if he were on the other side of the door, and it’s a feeling you do not have.

Steve Rogers looks around the small space.

It’s minimal, a hideout he’s imagined in his head with newspaper on the windows and a serious lack of personal touch. He looks at the made bed, then reaches to pick up something that confuses him a little.

Once he realizes it’s a woman’s bra, he instantly drops it in shock.

He moves into the kitchen, and picks up a notebook laying on a shelf next to vanilla wafers you eat when you’re overcome with nauseating headaches and can’t seem to eat anything else.

Just another lasting side effect from HYDRA.

He opens the notebook and immediately notices Bucky’s handwriting. Flipping through pages, he finds a photo taped to a page free of journal entries.

It’s of a woman.

You.

It’s from when the two of you first found the apartment, you’re taping news papers to the glass, looking rather unamused as your picture is taken when you’re just in a pair of boxer shorts and a band t shirt that falls off your shoulder.

You’re effortlessly gorgeous.

Your name is inked under the photo with the date, almost like he put it there to ensure he doesn’t forget you.

A common fear of Bucky’s.

Steve shuts the book with the intention of taking it back to Sam so they can look into who you are and why you’re in the journal. Sam warns him through the earpiece that german special forces were soon approaching, and he responds, saying that he understood.

You pull the gun from your belt and take a deep breath, slowly twisting the door knob to peer out of the bathroom.

Steve hears a sort of rustle, though it doesn’t come from the bathroom, it comes from behind him wear Bucky has joined the scene.

Standing silently, he looks at Steve with an unsure eye, then looks to the keys on the counter and knows that you are hiding out somewhere.

Steve turns to face his once best friend and lets out a shaky breath.

“Do you know me?” He asks him.

Bucky’s heart pounds in his ears as he pushes through brain fog and tries to run through plans in his head. If Steve Rogers was standing in his kitchen, and the headlines say The Winter Soldier bombed the UN, that means he had to flee fast.

“You’re Steve.” Bucky says. “I read about you in the museum.”

You listen closely to the conversation, trying to run through your own plan.

“I know you’re nervous. You have every reason to be…but you’re lying.” Steve says, still grasping the journal in his hand.

That’s making Bucky twitch.

“I wasn’t in Vienna, I don’t do that anymore.” He says, and out of his peripheral vision, he sees you open the bathroom door just a crack more.

“Well the people who think you did are coming here, and they aren’t going to take you alive.” Steve says in a serious tone, taking a step closer.

“That’s smart, a good strategy.” Bucky agrees, making Steve roll his eyes.

“Where’s the girl?” He asks.

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “What girl?”

Steve shakes his head at the lie, then rips open the journal and points to your picture. “This girl, Buck. Be smart about this, I can help you.”

Breathe.

He has to remind himself.

“It would be helpful if you left right now before it’s too late.” He says, setting his things down and taking off his gloves, flexing his metal hand.

Above you, you can hear heavy boots and your heart stops. You push the door open wider, sneaking your way behind the soldier that’s telling Bucky it doesn’t have to end in a fight, that he could leave with him right now and everything would be fine.

That’s when Steve hears the defining click of a gun being loaded.

“Did someone fail to tell you that this isn’t a task for Captain fucking America?” You say lowly, aiming the gun right at the man. Your heart pounds in your ears, adrenaline and anxiety make you feel sick.

Steve gives Bucky a look, then sighs.

“You had to pick a crazy one?”

Bucky shrugs.

You circle Steve, coming to his front to let him see the angry look in your eye. “You want to see crazy?”

Bucky hooks a finger around your back belt loop and pulls you to him, muttering something in Russian that Steve doesn’t understand. Whatever is asked of you, you look up at him with a slightly scared look. Bucky just stares back at you, giving you a slight head nod, encouraging you silently. That’s the only reason you turn your back on Steve and rush to the closet, grabbing your back pack.

“Buck, I came here to help.” Steve reasons once he’s recovered his shock.

“Leading special forces here doesn’t seem like helping.” Bucky states.

“It wasn’t me who did that.” Steve reasons.

That’s when agents invade the apartment.

It’s a fight, rough and seemingly never ending, and the entire time that you’re trying to escape, Steve is there, trying to reason with Bucky.

“James.” You shout as you’re struggling to hold your own against the three officers you keep dodging.

Immediately, he finds you, ripping the men away from you. Once free, you’re trying to make it down the stairs of the apartment building, but there’s no escape from the troops that are after you.

Barely processing what’s happening as Bucky breaks the glass of the stairwell window, he’s gripping your hand tightly and coaxing you to jump, falling a very far distance to a rooftop. It probably would hurt a whole lot more if Bucky didn’t break your fall.

Eyes squeezed shut as you roll off of him, you pant with gritted teeth. “This is going to bruise.”

“Walk it off.” He says, helping you up.

As the two of you start running, Bucky suddenly falls behind. You look over at him, only to see him battling a…

Cat?

Panicking, you shoot just above the figure, startling it enough to refrain from clawing Bucky’s throat out.

Jaguar hero? Panther man?

“Here kitty kitty.” You call, gaining the enemy’s attention, drawing it to you instead.

“Jesus, who is this chick?” Sam asks Steve as they start to join the scene.

Steve jumps from the window you did moments before. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out!”

Adrenaline is pumping through you, blocking out the crippling fear that this could end badly. There’s a sliver of hope that this would be like the times before on the run, where you find some place new to be from. You and Bucky dodge all the threats, having a shared mindset on just keeping the other alive.

You’ve been in bad situations, but as the two of you end up surrounded by agents and police on the freeway, you think this is far by the worst ending to come of things.

So much for a good day.

And now everyone is being handcuffed, including Steve and the man-bird he has as a sidekick.

Why are all the jungle animals after you today?

Your knees are kicked out from behind you, a man grips your hair and shoves you to the ground, causing you to yell out.

“Let her go!” Bucky shouts from beside you as he himself gets detained. “She had nothing to do with this.” He argues, desperately trying to get them away from you.

“James, what did you do?” You grunt, cheek pressed to the ground, looking at him in the same position.

“Nothing!” He argues. “Just do what they say, it’ll be okay, baby.”

“He bombed the UN.” An officer says, tone angry.

“He can’t even make toast without burning it- ow! I’m really not into hair pulling.” You seethe.

The adrenaline that was once keeping you going has worn down and you’re shaking on the inside as you’re shoved into the back of a military truck.

Your leg bounces up and down, and if his hands were free, he’d stop the motion.

It’s silent, the two officers sitting in front of the two of you stare.

“You still having a good day?” You ask Bucky.

He looks over at you with an irritated look, not irritated with you of course, just in general. “No. This is a very bad day.”

“Don’t speak to the prisoner, ma’am. He’s a threat.” The younger officer says to you.

“This guy’s a threat? He puts spiders outside instead of killing them.” You say with a tone of disbelief.

Bucky says your name as if to tell you to not waste your breath.

You don’t listen of course.

“Hey, why am I not a threat?” You ask.

“You didn’t bomb the UN.” The man reasons.

They’re still stuck on that.

“Maybe I did. You’re not an expert, you weren’t there. Now, I’m not gonna admit it because I know how you narcs work, but I’m going to make you wonder.”

Bucky starts to laugh before the second officer orders the both of you to be quiet.

- - - -

Of course they separate you.

Of course they lock Bucky in some kind of inhuman looking box to make sure he can’t escape and of course they throw you into a room with nothing but a table, two chairs and a surveillance camera.

You try to get out of a good twenty minutes, then scream at the camera for answers, shouting questions.

Steve stands in the office and watches the monitor, eyes flickering back between your live meltdown to Bucky who sits still in his confinement and doesn’t do anything.

“Who’s she?” Stark asks, curious at the scene.

“That would be the side kick.” Sam answers, chuckling as you lunge one of the chairs at the camera.

Natasha joins the men with a file in her hand.

“This is all I could find on her.” She says, handing the folder to Steve.

He reads the information, then gets some sort of clarity.

“I want to talk to her.” He says.

“Absolutely not.” Shannon immediately says.

“She’s how we get through to him.” He argues.

There’s a moment of uncertainty, because the last thing they need is to get into more trouble.

But they do it anyway.

You’re sat in the corner, head in your hands, trying to keep your thoughts straight.

You weren’t a huge fan of being locked in small rooms, probably because a life of confinement is pretty much all you knew.

There’s a sound of the doors electronic lock being opened, and in comes the man you’d rather not see.

Immediately, you stand with your guard up.

“You going to try and shoot me?” Steve asks.

“You took my guns.” You simply say.

Shanon stands guard as Steve comes closer.

“I know we got off on the wrong foot, but believe me when I say I just want to help.”

You laugh, looking at the floor as he continues to talk.

“Is there anything you can tell us that will help his case? Where was he today? Yesterday?” Steve asks, and you glare.

“You want the play by play? Seriously?” You scoff. “Fine. I woke up at eight o’clock, I went to work and left him in the apartment that your guys ruined-”

“They aren’t my guys.” He clarifies.

“-and my guess is he went into the city. I came home and found you rudely invaded my home.” You say sharply, taking a step away when he comes another foot forward.

“I came to warn you that they were after him. To be fair, I didn’t know you existed.” Steve tries to reason, but you just laugh.

“He must’ve forgot to include it in his letters to you, sorry, he’s been a little busy trying to piece his mind back together.” You spit. “The entire point of laying low, is to not let people know you exist, and we were doing a pretty good job at it.” Your anger rises, and your eyes keep flickering back to the woman at the door and wondering if it’s locked.

You could take her, she’d be easy.

Steve grunts in frustration. “Clearly not well enough that special forces found you.”

You lash out. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been found, but we could’ve had a plan if you didn’t butt in. We could’ve already been on a train in the time it took you to try and reason with him.”

Steve huffs and rubs his temples. “If you would’ve come with me, you wouldn’t have had to run. I could’ve helped you.”

“That’s what you don’t get!” You shout. “We have been fine for two years, we had a life, we had a plan for every situation and we didn’t need you. Now look what you’ve done! He’s getting psychologically evaluated, when everyone knows he’s not going to pass whatever test they have for him.”

Your chest heaves as you try to not let your voice crack.

You’re deathly afraid. All the images of lazy mornings and creative dinners flash before you and there’s that overwhelming thought that you’ll never know that peace again.

“I know you’re scared.” Steve says a little softer now. “But if you cooperate-"

The power goes out.

Just like that.

Emergency lighting flickers on lowly, and there’s a moment of silence before the walkie Shanon wears goes off.

“Everybody, get eyes on Barnes, now!”

Wordlessly, Shanon turns out of the room, causing Steve to follow. Though they shut the door behind them, they fail to realize the lock mechanism isn’t going to work now that everything’s fried.

“Idiots.” You huff, flinging the door open.

You run down the halls until you come across the office where they took any belongings you and Bucky had.

You were going to find him and the two of you were going to find a way to get out of this hell. Grabbing both back packs, you try to go towards the direction everyone is fleeing from, knowing that’s where he’ll be.

Maybe that’s the same agenda Bucky has, or more like the agenda the winter soldier has as he’s triggered to take over. He should have known better, that man claiming to be good knew all the right words to get his brain to switch over into some kind of kill mode. He fights his way past everyone who tries to stop him, overwhelmed by a feeling of loss, like he’s supposed to be searching and finding someone. You. That’s it, that’s what he needs to do next.

He stops anyone who comes after him, on a mission to retrieve you.

You burst out of a door, looking around for any signs of him.

There’s many bruised people on the ground, trying to get up and recover.

He had to be close.

Your heart beats loudly in your ears, backing up, you go to turn and run, but his large figure stops you.

“Bucky.” You gasp in relief, immediately handing him his pack. “We have to go, I think we can-”

He grips your wrist, not tight enough to harm, but tighter than he would ever grab you.

You meet his dark eyes and your face pales.

No.

This can’t be happening.

“James.” You speak, though he doesn’t answer, just stares right back at you.

The word is hot on your tongue and it tastes like anguish as you say it. “солдат?”

Soldat.

That, he answers to. With a tug of your arm, he tells you to follow, giving you no time to process anything. Though Bucky has told you many times that he isn’t to be trusted like this, you can’t help but feel like he isn’t going to harm you, not when he’s shoving anyone out of the way and guides you to the roof top helicopter pad.

He sits you in the passenger seat of the air craft.

“пребывание.” He orders, then goes to the other side and somehow manages to get the helicopter roaring up.

You watch Steve rush onto the pad just as the two of you pull away, he runs after you, trying and failing to stop you.

You look down as you get higher and higher, and no time is wasted, you’re being flown far far away.

He doesn’t utter one word, and you aren’t sure if you should either. Trusting him is all you can do.

About an hour later, when you’re far enough away from city limits, the helicopter is being landed in a clearing.

Even as you’re being pulled out of your seat and he grabs his backpack, he doesn’t talk. Walking fast to keep up with him, you follow him for a mile until you stumble upon a bus stop.

He sits you down, then tells you to stay.

He stands and sweeps over the surroundings.

“Soldat.” You say, clenching your hands at the odd place you are put in.

You didn’t think you’d have to experience this version of Bucky again.

Now you have to figure out how to make it go away.

He turns to look at you, blankly.

With a calming breath, you command him to sit. When he does, you try to ignore the ill feeling it gives you, a cruel remembrance of how perfectly trained they had him.

“You have to go away.” You say and it confuses him.

“I will stay with you.” He says.

“You don’t need to.” You reassure.

His brows furrow. “You are my mission.”

“Your mission is complete, well done.” You encourage, grabbing his hand in yours.

He looks at the contact like it’s so foreign, and your heart aches.

“Do you understand? Your mission is complete, your service is no longer needed.” You say, searching his eyes for the light that slowly returns as this soldier sinks back into hiding.

He takes a large breath and shudders.

Then his eyes are frantic and a little confused.

“James.” You speak, reaching to hold his face in your palms. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“What- what happened? Did I- what?” He frantically says, trying to process everything.

“You didn’t do anything extreme.”

He tries to manage his breathing, then examines you fully, making sure there are no cuts or bruises on your skin.

“Hey.” You coo softly, hand on his cheek. “I’m alright, you didn’t hurt me.”

There’s a sense of relief in his eyes, that’s when he pushes his forehead to yours in a painfully human embrace. You push his hair behind his ears, breathing in when he breathes out.

“I’m sorry.” You say, meaning it. “I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

He tucks his hand under your hair, bracing on the base of your skull.

“This isn’t on you…we just have really bad luck.”

You laugh, nuzzling your nose against his. “I guess we really aren’t done with being on the run.”

The two of you sit just like this until the bus pulls up beside you. Then you find a seat in the back and lean against the window while Bucky leans against you and keeps a watchful eye of the bus.

“What about the Netherlands?” You offer into the silence, twisting your fingers into his.

“You’re wanted all over the country.” He reminds.

Sometimes the world just wasn’t big enough when your face is on ‘be on the lookout’ posters.

“Norway?” He suggests.

“You really want to go back there?” You raise a brow at him.

“…Scotland?”

You think for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, Scotland will do.”

[seikkoi]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰɪᴠᴇ [1, 2, 3, 4] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 9.8k

There isn’t any conversation surrounding Pepper’s visit, or the divorce, but it’s all around you regardless.

Random items disappear from the penthouse–a Pollock (your present takes its place), some throw pillows from the study, and a few Turkish ceramics you never knew existed. The phone rings far more than you care for. Tony has far more meetings than you care for. A bespeckled lawyer and his blonde associate nearly become housemates, spending hours behind the frosted glass door. Natasha makes a few appearances as well, which confuses you the most. You find the spice in her perfume too bold.

On her third exit in as many weeks, you question Tony on it. He absently traces patterns on your calves, seemingly not paying attention to you or the film on screen. 

“Should I be worried?” you hide your sincerity behind a glass of wine, twirling the stem between your fingers. The red liquid mirrors the motion inside, spidering against the walls.

“About Natasha?” he asks incredulously. 

“Yes,” you draw out, “and you–all of it, really.” 

“Now why on Earth would you be worrying about me?” 

You would love to point out the obvious and address the building-sized elephant in the room that says  ‘you’re recently sober and just got a divorce’ but the look on his face tells you it’s unnecessary. 

Tony finds a way to answer the unasked anyways. 

“It’s a shit ton of paperwork, and signing things, so it’s annoying, yes but I am fine. Scouts honor.” 

He kisses your hand and grins with all the confidence in the world. It’s so fucking arcane each time–close to magic in how it undos every worry and mirrors his gleam. 

You wished it had more permanent effects. Something long-lasting and memorable. Easy to spread over the evening and into the early morning hours, when he’s inconsolable in your arms. You could turn it back into magic words. Banish whatever miasma racked his body and go back to peaceful nights (because you had those at some point, right?).

Being able to ask the hard questions doesn’t mean shit if the answer’s always a dismissive work of fiction. You never learned what caused their separation, or sent ‘everything to shit’ as Tony put it. Not because you didn’t ask, no that question came the same night Pepper did.  Apparently it’s the same driver of every modern American divorce–money. Tony summarizes the event as a fatal disagreement over corporate shares, though like always you feel you’re being told an official story. Clean cut with all messy details chopped away. 

“You don’t have a signature stamp at this point?” you joke.

“Oh no,” Tony’s hands brace your ankles to pull you closer, “ every squiggle needs to be authentic and fresh.”

“Right, how could I assume anything less.” Your eyes roll but you let your legs drape over his lap. 

“Seriously, I’m doing fine–things will calm back down soon.” A gentle squeeze drives the point home. 

A thought crosses your mind. An insecurity, really, but one you haven’t let go since meeting Pepper.

“If it’s like, I don’t know,” you hesitate under Tony’s raised eyebrow, “–I can head back to my apartment if it’s too much.”

Stark Industries was still footing the bill even though you spent less than 10 hours there in the last two months. There’s a fear in overstaying your welcome, or whatever it is you were doing here. Either way, you figured it was less than ideal to have your girlfriend around during a divorce. 

“If what’s too much?” 

“I don’t know, if you need your space right now or–” you answer exasperatedly.

“Honey,” he gives a hearty laugh, “if I ever start asking for space, call a doctor.”

All resistance becomes futile.

You keep your apartment (for unnecessary security), but more time lapses between visits. You issue a long overdue farewell to bartending. Even being driven, the commute to that side of town is hellish and the whole thing got more pointless with each day. You drank in the fruits of this life, but not without a tiny bit of unease. It’s unease that you bury down under all the other feelings. The affection, the simplicity, the serenity. So you swap mixers for paintbrushes and solitude for the man you love. 

Other subtle changes require a quicker adjustment, but you’re getting dangerously good at adapting. With Tony’s birthday past, you recognize a pattern to Harley’s visits. Every three months like clockwork. You begin to anticipate them well enough, and start appreciating his occasional presence during your early morning tea. By his third appearance, you brew two cups.

On the first visit he barely utters a word. You were ready for some witty insult that never came, and offered him a cup in silence. You want to ask why he arrives so early just to sit in his father’s kitchen, but opt for peace instead. 

Once Pepper’s placard is gone in the parking garage and Natasha stops showing up (at all hours of the day, atleast), he’s there a second time. 

“How he’s doing with the,” he trails off, peering at you over an empty mug as the sun starts to break. He doesn’t need to motion at the empty space for you to pick up his meaning.

The official story is dancing on your tongue. The one you’ve told two times over at this point (Jarvis, Natasha). He's perfectly fine, better even. It was a piece of cake then, but now you can’t seem to look Harvey in the eye and speak in half-truths. 

“Honestly,” you sigh, “Good–not good, I don’t know.”  You were dying under  the irony of it all. Consoling Tony in the darkness of morning and then watching him make million dollar deals by noon. You don’t know how he’s managing any of it, and if any of this qualifies as okay. 

Green eyes blink slowly through an overgrown fringe. Barbers were clearly scarce in the last three months, wherever he spent them. Exhaustion forces a yawn before he speaks again, pinching his nose. 

“Figured as much.” Harley stands for the sink.

He goes through the labor of washing the ebony cup, a rare quirk amongst the obscenely rich. You’d learned they are very reliant upon their quiet servants. You wondered if he did it out of modesty or good manners.  

“Do you know why they separated?” If he was in the mood to talk about Tony, you weren’t going to pass up the chance.

“Uh, something with the company, her share or whatever. Always about the money with them.” he answers casually, tossing a look over his shoulder. 

It’s genuine enough, but all too similar to the rehearsed lines. You half-expected him to call you nosy. 

“No real loss there.” Harley adds, a hint of disdain in his voice

“Not a fan I take it?” The flimsy tag finally crumbling under your ministrations.

He chortles as he slumps back into the bar stool. 

“Pepper can be, uh,” A yawn and an eye rub take precedence, “overbearing, yeah that’s a good word for it.”

“Yeah, can’t imagine that worked well for Tony.” You murmur into your tea.

“Oh it most definitely did not.” Harley laughs again. “Not for a guy that does the opposite of whatever you tell him.”

His laugh is infectious (like father like son), and you smirk even though instead the mental picture makes you cringe. A lull passes between you. Outside, morning traffic begins, trickling upwards to interrupt the quiet. It cues Harley to get back to whatever it is he comes here to do, while you move on with the day. 

As an advantage of all the free time, you get to invest more time in your estranged friendships. Being around old friends turned out to be surprisingly good. You had anticipated more awkwardness, but there was something comforting about not having to wear a mask for once around someone besides your boyfriend. 

At this point, you slowly filled in a few close ones about your relationship with Tony. Clearly you were in this for the long haul, and keeping things under wraps was becoming futile. The general consensus was positive, thankfully. Obviously, that’s due to a great deal of details being omitted. The act left a sour taste in your mouth. Not from the content–how easy it was. You hated to repeat such behaviors, but it was less complicated this way. You wouldn’t have to labor through justifying your relationship, or hear concerns you didn’t already have. 

Tony’s reception was, oddly, less positive. He didn’t care much for your old ‘starving artist’ clique. He thought you should take advantage of his access to New York’s greatest–the real pioneers. It took little arguing from you for him to drop that thought entirely, and he conceded to just be happy to see you happy. 

Like good friends, they tease about your newfound love. One asks when they’ll get to meet ‘Mr. CEO’ and you have to brush it off casually. You like your worlds better separate. 

A sweltering autumn soon becomes frostbitten winter. This gives you less light to work with, resorting to find shuddering shoulders in complete darkness. You don’t think it’s worth searching for warmer pastures or a simpler life. No, you order a cashmere robe and get used to seeing by touch. 

Late nights in the tower turn out to be a great place to hone such skills. The halls are narrow and void of any windows, so you ghost the pads of your fingers around for customary shapes. A cushioned nook and a neglected book lull you into a nap one evening and you wake past the sunset. If you were able to sleep so late undisturbed, Tony must be preoccupied. You planned to tiptoe into the kitchen without a sound, but your ears catch words murmured behind the glass. The door is cracked slightly, just enough to let a streak of light breaks across the hardwood floor

“–fifteen, ten, maybe if we’re lucky.” 

The bespeckled man’s words are measured, precise as usual. You can almost picture his lips barely parting to utter syllables behind round-trim frames. 

“Jesus christ–the fuck am I paying you for? Because I am paying you, like a metric shit ton” 

At Tony’s voice, you press closer. 

“I’m not the idiot getting a divorce.”

“Okay, okay, let’s just stay focused here.” Natasha raises her voice above the two men, and you hear a chair drag across the office.

“Uh-uh, don’t think you’re getting off scot free–we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you did your job a tad better too.” 

“I will say it was ‘lot easier to spread the financials between two people.” 

Social norms concerning privacy start to get to you, urging your feet to pivot and take you back upstairs. Your escape goes undetected, and you seek refuge in the shower. 

You wash the day away under warm jetstreams. Part of your mind is stuck replaying everything, wondering how he was handling it all, trying not to indulge in the urge to check the sink drawer. In a flash, you toss the thought away. It’s easy to not overthink at this hour. Especially when coconut vanilla soap tugs you back towards exhaustion. You make it back out to the bedroom, where you find Tony removing his shoes at the end of the bed.

He smiles at the crack of light from the bathroom. Tony’s days were getting longer while the rest of the hemisphere’s got shorter. He would say he missed when life was simple, but he can’t remember such a time. Life growing up was anything but simple, then the older he got the more it sucked out every ounce of his energy. Everything after became, well, everything after.

Picturing a new future keeps him going. One in a coastal city, something global like New York but much, much warmer. He fights the urge to picture your silhouette amongst the waves. It’s not guaranteed. He might find himself in this dreaded cycle all over again. Then his coconut scented fantasy would be tarnished. 

No, it’s better to cherish the present with you. Like right now, watching coconut scented water droplets descended down your legs and shoulders. Even though he knows he won’t be here long. Truly, he’d wish you weren’t awake,  knowing he’d have to leave soon.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You teased, abandoning your towel as you pulled the dresser open.

He’s easy to rile up, and you know exactly what you’re doing–bending over slowly to pull your panties above your hips. You can’t help it when he stares like it’s his first time seeing you, every time. 

“Please don’t tempt me.” 

Tony’s voice is low, barely above a whisper. He’s unmoving on the edge of the bed, hands braced beside his thighs as his eyes follow the movements of your hands around lacy black fabric. Truly he’s perplexed. Who knew watching someone get dressed would be just as much of a turn-on. Or maybe it’s just you.

You toss one of his faded band tees on, and he thinks this might actually be better than any sun-soaked dream (it’s definitely just you). 

You cross the bedroom, the loose cotton brushing against your skin with each step. As you approach, you snake your arms around Tony's neck and straddle his lap. His large hands ghost up the smooth skin of your thighs, leaving a trail of warmth as they make their way to your back. The moment your skin touches his, Tony’s eyes lock onto yours, but you can tell his focus is elsewhere.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask softly, raking your hands through brown coils.

You assume his mind is still on the conversation downstairs, but the grin spreading on his face says otherwise. His lips move to pepper your exposed neck with kisses, still smiling.

“Really wanna know?” 

“Sure, hit me.”

The ghosts across your veins turn into full blown grazes. 

“You, in a bikini, drinking margaritas somewhere with no extradition laws.” 

You chuckle at the notion and swat his shoulder when his teeth find your pulse point. 

“Hey, you asked,” he laughs into your skin, gripping your hips tighter, “besides it’s your fault–’smell like I’m damn near there already.” 

Tony’s mouth turns hungrier and hungrier, moving feverishly across every exposed inch until the flesh is tender and you're panting in his lap. It’s just encouragement, so he doesn’t pause for a moment as his fingers slip behind your lace. They work at the wetness already ruining the fabric, dragging it across your length and making your shiver. 

Okay, sure, maybe another period of minimal alone time was getting to you, maybe. Sue me, you thought. Honestly, Tony should be more grateful to have such a willing partner–and you told him as much. Unfortunately, this elicited a need for Tony to instill a sense of gratitude in you.

In the next second, you're tossed onto your back, wrists pinned tightly above your head. His other hand pulls your panties down your legs and you try not to make a joke about the futility in getting dressed. Instead, you soak his weight against you, the roaming hand between your thighs and teeth on your neck. 

Marking you is the obvious goal-sucking harder with each breathy whimper. He wasn’t kidding earlier, either. You smelled good enough to devour and he intended on doing so. His danced along your folds, a cufflink scratching the supple skin at the top of your thigh.  They are never anywhere long enough to give you any real pleasure. Just to take more breath from your lungs and feeling from your legs. 

You squirm against vicuna dress pants, trying to gain more friction on his hand. Instead of catering to your needs, he stops all together and the noise you make is almost pathetic. Who are you kidding, it’s fully pathetic–it couldn’t have been over two weeks, and pleas can hardly form on your tongue for more. 

Tony reels back with a smirk that flips your stomach. A scheme is brewing behind darkened pupils. His eyes stay on you as his hand returns to your center, slow and heavy over your clit. 

He doesn’t relent when your wrists strain and hips buck against him. No, a tighter grip and knee over your hip hold you steady enough for his fingers to work faster. You want to chastise yourself for how much you missed this–then two fingers slide into you and there isn’t room to think of much else.

He moves quickly and silent, like a serpent, finding that perfect rhythm that makes your eyes flutter. Your soft moans fill the quiet space. He’s too steady, not changing a muscle as your peak comes closer. The most desperate you get, writing against his palm to get even one extra inch of depth, the slower he moves. 

“Did you have fun sneaking around?” 

Your eyes flutter open in the dim bedroom, Tony’s sly grin shining above you. It cuts straight through the fog of pleasure taking you over. 

“I don’t know what you’re–” you start to bluff. 

“You’re not very sneaky, you know? Or a good liar. That’s a particular skill set that you, my dear, sorely lack.”  Slow and teasing, he slides two fingers back into you.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I was eavesdropping a little.” He finally moves with purpose again, but of course not enough.

“A little? Let’s not start underrepresenting things, hm?” 

Before you can debate him further, he withdraws and you think you might honestly cry if this continues.

“Okay, point taken, would you please stop torturing me now?” 

“Now, why would I reward bad behavior?” he asked, lowering his gaze.

“If it helps, I wasn’t trying to.”

“It doesn’t.” 

His palms grip your hips, flipping you onto your stomach and lifting your waist upwards. The sudden movement leaves you breathless, searching for balance on your forearms until they’re pulled behind your back. 

“You know exactly which nerve to press, don’t you?” he breathes into the base of your neck, chest flush to your back as he hands work at his zipper.

How ironic, considering he spends the next hour tuning your body like an instrument. Knowing exactly where to press, where to ease off, until you finally unlock, bare and moaning into the mattress.

Afterwards, you fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart. 

You’re half way to sleep when Tony slinks out of your arms. At first, you don’t bother stirring. Then, the soft draw of the dresser catches your ear. 

You flip over onto your stomach to get a better view. You watch Tony’s shadowy figure attempt to quietly dress. For a rare sight, he abandons the tailored suit for dark Levis and a t-shirt. It hardly looks like him, in the best way possible (ignoring the obvious question of where the hell he planned on going in that. Less larger-than-life, more real. This, now this was someone you can imagine running into at the grocery store. The sharp edges of his suits always added a degree of gravitas to everything.

“Where are you off to?”

“Going to see a man about a horse.” 

He leans down for a bright smile and a quick kiss before he leaves, and you let sleep suppress any thoughts about what that could possibly mean.

You awake to a sun that has long outran the horizon. The sheer curtains were already pulled back, with the smell telling you Jarvis made a feast for breakfast. Tony’s side is empty. Which is no surprise there, but you don’t expect him at the kitchen table. 

He grins behind a newspaper as you approach. Jarvis is busy with the espresso machine, muttering curses under his breath. 

“Tell me, what are your thoughts on cyclamen–oo, or actually, narcissus, yeah, that’s better.” Tony asks like you've been having some sort of conversation before five seconds ago.

Jarvis clicks the tamper in with a satisfied click as you stare back confused. You’re two blinks away from falling back asleep and desperately craving something stronger than green tea. 

“What are you-Is-Are those restaurants?” 

“Oh, morning ma’am. Shall I prepare you a tea, perhaps breakfast?” Jarvis turns at the sound of your voice, wiping damp grounds from his hands.

“Good morning, but no, just some coffee, please.” You try to sound natural. It’s weird giving someone else orders. 

“Nope, flowers. We could do something simple like a peony but I don’t think that matches the whole vibe with the satin garlands.” Tony continues. 

“Tony, hon, I have no idea what you’re on about right now.” you groggily slouch in the chair beside him. 

“We, my dear,” the newspaper is folded and plopped onto the table for dramatic effect, “are having a Christmas party. The proverbial ‘we’ in this situation being the company, of course.” 

“A Christmas party?” you muse with a laugh.

“For tax purposes, a gala. For my purposes, and therefore to make it fun, it is indeed a party, yes.” 

Espresso warms your veins as you listen to Tony ramble through plans for catering, guests, decanters and a whole bunch of other shit you can hardly keep up with. Good thing that responsibility falls to Jarvis, who jots away on a worn notepad. Once your eyes fully open, the thought starts to excite you. Your yearly festivities normally boiled down to a bottle of chardonnay and some loosely Christmas film like Die Hard. “Plus, if I auction some art, it works out even more.” He punctuates his brilliant plan with a bite of a muffin. 

“That’s not like a massive trigger for you?” 

High-volume social events dropped off the radar recently, for good reason, you assumed (not that you minded a break from fake smiles and cold handshakes) . Instead, Tony dragged you along to more intimate dinners with whatever broker or councilwoman he needed to charm. Your role as plus-one never went anywhere, but doing so at Tony’s your home would give you more confidence. 

“What are you, my sponsor?” he teases but you're less amused at the thought. 

“You don’t even have a sponsor.” You know so, because Tony believes Narcotics Anonymous is a, quote, ‘sad-ass glorified tea party’. 

“I have Jarvis.” He’s completely serious, and Jarvis hides his laughter behind a stack of plates.  

You don’t want to point out the obvious cognitive dissonance. That a man who spends his nights in petrified somnolence might crack under the pressure of dozens of inebriated colleagues. Not now, in a moment of peace. Not in front of Jarvis. You’re not sure how much sound slips out into the hall.

Tony watches the worry creep over your face from the edge of his newspaper. With a sigh, he abandons it again.

“Look, all you have to do is look pretty–which is no sweat for you, maybe drink a few apple cider cocktails, and relax. I’ve got everything else perfectly handled.”

He gives you a look, both reassuring and decisive. It’s a simple message meant to be taken without debate, ‘trust me’. 

You get one more peaceful morning drinking tea in the dark with Harley before the holiday season.

The event overtakes your life from Thanksgiving onward. You really don’t know how this sudden festive fervor spawns, but it slowly creeps into everything. From the elevator music, to miniature elves by the door, to candy canes everywhere, and more Christmas ties than days in December (you can’t be sure he’s not switching them multiple times a day). 

You weren’t a total Grinch, not by a long shot. Tony just so happened to be creeping into that weird overly festive zone reserved for suburban moms and kindergarten teachers. 

“Tony, what’s all of this?”

Vivaldi plays faintly on the record player. There’s a delicately placed mistletoe just off of the elevator, accompanied with a haphazard trail of roses leading out onto the balcony. You navigate through a candlelight kitchen juggling a heavy box of resin. 

“Tony?” you call out again once the box makes contact with the counter,

“Out here!” 

You follow the voice and rose trail to the balcony. Unsurprisingly, he’s donning a god awful Christmas sweater, grinning and pointing to the wool like it’s runway fashion. A small table holds two covered silver platters, and a tall bottle of champagne rests in a bucket of ice. It’s the kind of overtly romantic display you’d gotten since night one, but it never fails to sink your breath straight in your heart. Something about the way he’s standing there, beaming like a nervous, lovestruck fool, tells you this isn’t just a normal gesture of affection.

Still, your lips part to thank him, but he stops you instantly. 

“Just wait–” he pleads, “I got like thirty minutes of practice into saying this and I can’t fuck it up.” 

His voice is rushed enough that you believe. Clearly the words were threatening to jump out of him. It sets you a bit on edge, trying to anticipate what this was about. You indulge him anyway and nod. 

Tony crosses the balcony to take your hands in his, thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“Okay, I know things haven’t been copacetic around here. And I know I’ve asked for a lot–more than I ever thought I would–and you know sometimes it feels like I’ll never be able to return what you’ve given to me, but I swear I’m going to make this worth it.” 

He squeezes your palm, tired brown eyes searching yours for something, any sign that his words meant a single thing. It’s a fast-winded speech that makes you wanna laugh at the irony. Tony, the man who’d move the stars if they had a price tag, somehow feeling the need to repay you.  Yet his voice is raw like a frayed nerve. Exposed to the cold winds whipping against the tower glass. 

“Tony, you’ve made it more than worth it, everyday.” You smile, though it’s worth wondering what’s driving him to say all this. The words ring true regardless.

“Not nearly enough,” he says softly, “but I’m going to–I’m going to give you the world.”

In that moment, you see it: the weight of everything he’s been carrying. Your ribs seem to tighten inside your chest. That unspoken fear you’ve both been trying to avoid–it was far easier twenty seconds ago when you thought it was yours alone. You realize now that the fearless man you saw in fact was scared of something (losing you, primarily). Yeah, you comforted him through nightmares, but even then he managed to carry an aura of control.  

This wasn't about  holding onto the life you’ve built together, the one that’s felt so fragile lately. And for the first time, you see how much that matters to him, too.

He starts to say something else, dropping your hands. His fingers fiddle behind his back, seemingly nestled in his back pocket. He stares like he intended to say something else, lips parting and closing right back. In the next second, he seems to shift gears, pulling you into a hug. 

You welcome the warm embrace, as the chill has started to gnaw at your bones. He plants a kiss to the top of your head, and you want to stay in that feeling for the rest of your life.

Sadly, he does eventually pull away to admit dinner on the balcony would be quite miserable, and the two of you move inside. 

You could spend the rest of the evening overthinking about what all that meant, but you don’t bother. Why go through that mental labor, when instead you could drink $500 champagne, carefree while your handsome boyfriend flirts with you like it’s the first date. 

You don’t think about it then, or later in the night when your legs are pressed to your chest and you can’t recall a single thing he said. You focus on what he’s saying then–filthy words about who you belong to, and exactly where you belong–a whimpering mess underneath him.

Even when it turns possessive (more so than usual), when your throat is littered with marks and his hand stands to leave another on his hip, you don’t think of it. But it’s the only thing on Tony’s mind. When another orgasm rips through you, all he can think about is how much he needs you. He whispers ‘you’re mine’ over and over and over as you fall apart just so your broken moans can still echo–so he can hear just how true it is. How could you, with such a dutiful guide at the helm?

Afterwards, when you’re drained of every ounce of life, it still doesn't bother you. You don’t wonder if tonight might be another night he slips into plain clothes and disappears until sunrise. You can’t muster a single thought as his arm slinks around your waist to pull you closer. 

You simply close your eyes, and let sleep take you. 

Eventually the days tick by to the gala, and you’re somewhere between impressed and overstimulated with all the ensuing holiday glamor. 

Though, you can’t say he doesn’t go all out. 

The first floor of Stark Industries is transformed from a cold minimalist space to Ebenezer Scrooge's worst nightmare. A makeshift stage sits at one end, complete with enough tinsel to suffocate a horse and twinkling garlands. Piles of fake snow anoint the corners, and a particularly large one sits beneath a 12-foot tall Christmas tree in the middle of the lobby. The open bar even serves drinks in frosted holiday glasses. He even has the guards wearing reindeer ears. 

By ten p.m. the vast floor seems smaller than a shoebox, packed with guests in evening gowns and tailored tuxedos. Initially, you’d planned on wearing a new piece for the gala–something to make the overwhelming festivity Tony demanded. Once it came time to get dressed, your eyes caught the sanguine dress. You hadn’t gotten the chance to wear it since your first date. It had felt too exquisite for any other occasion, but for some reason you were drawn to wear it tonight. 

You wish you could say Tony had a good reaction–or a reaction at all. From sunrise until the doors opened, he’s caught up in planning and preparations. Matter of fact, you were two hours into the gala and had only seen glimpses of him shaking hands in the crowd. It takes away from the expected familiarity. You imagined this night to be simple, easy for you to blend it with Tony on your arm, in his home your home. Instead, you wander like a lost gazelle, feeling every pair of eyes on you. You want to blame the dress. Revealing and bright red.

In the blurry swarm of faces, bright auburn stands out. Natasha wouldn’t be your first pick, but she’s the only familiar face and you need a respite.

You squeeze in next to her at one of the corner tables. The spice of her perfume permeates your nose but you can look past it for the moment. She pays you no mind at first, legs crossed and head turned to the crowd. You don’t mind one bit. It’s quieter towards the back, and you have no issue with it staying that way. 

Natasha sighs deeply, almost in boredom, maybe annoyance, but not with you. 

“I don’t know how you stand him.”

“How do you figure?” you respond absently, picking apart at a stray piece of tinsel.

“One of the richest men on Earth-I know he’s got the ego to match it.”

“You’d know better than I would, wouldn’t you?” you answer. You’d gotten the sense Natasha and Tony back way further than him and Pepper a while ago,

“Touche, but I’m not dating him.” she shifts to take another sip from her glass, “though, I’m not really sure why you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you really love him, or are you just after a family fortune?” Emerald eyes points like knives, her tone blending from casualty to scorn.

“W-what,” you stammer, “Of course I love him–Tony pursued me.”

“Please, he’d pursue anything with a pulse,” Natasha chuckles, “and relax, I’m just finally getting around to doing my due diligence.” 

“Your ‘due diligence’ is being a cunt?”

“Ooh! I see you’re a feisty one–you did sit here after all, you know.” she muses.

“Just needed a break from the crowd,” you mummer, rising. 

“Stay then–relax, like I said.” she gestures towards your now-empty seat. When you sigh and retake your place, she smiles. “I like you, you know.”

“We’ve barely spoken.” you declare, a dry chuckle spewing alongside. 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know a smart person when I see one.” 

“Smart?”

“Smart decisions, going out with Tony, not screwing that up, though I’ve been told you’ve come close a few times.”

“Who–”

“This isn’t an interrogation, like I said, I like you–I don’t really care what happens between you two.”

“Then what is this?” you flag the nerdy tuxedoed waiter for a glass of water. 

“You said it yourself, we’ve barely spoken. My job is to keep Tony’s business running smoothly, and that’s become a lot harder since he won’t make a single decision without considering the ‘y/n’ of it all.” 

You scoff, unimpressed. “We don’t talk about his business.”

“Oh, I know,” Natasha remarks, “A bartender has no idea how to run a billion dollar corporation, and even less of an idea how to advise one.” 

“This is the part where you tell me I have no business being with him, right?” The waiter drops off a tall pitcher of water for you both. Once your glass is full, he passes along a message that Tony’s speech starts soon. 

“Dear god no,” Natasha laughs, “I imagine you’ve heard that enough–and he’s much more pleasant since you came around. Besides, you’re living the dream.” 

“Is that so?” You have to give a laugh of your own (considering you had a bit of jealousy buried for her). 

“Oh yes, filthy rich, live in a penthouse, never work another day in your life, loving husband–maybe not my dream, but still a dream.” 

You don’t know if she’s trying to be funny but your next laugh is genuine, and she joins in.

“What is your dream, then?” you question.

Natasha’s grin stiffens, surprised. Contemplation passes for a second and you worry that you’ve underdone the last three minutes of camaraderie. 

“Ballet teacher–but that stays at this table.” She gives you a matching pointed look.

“My lips are sealed.” You do try not to giggle, but it’s odd to imagine her frigidity in a warm lit studio surrounded by tutus. 

“Did you mean it, what you said about Tony? That things are...okay?” Natasha asks, referring to Tony’s sobriety. It’s weird how everyone dances around it, especially someone so usually straightforward as her. 

It was weeks ago when you parroted that claim. And you only call it that because the question annoys the fuck out of you. It’s entirely subjective, and you give in to the optimistic look in their eye and tell them what they want to hear. He’s fine, better even.

Maybe it’s because she’s being nice, or because you already gave up this facade with Harley, but you can’t be bothered to pretend you know what’s going on with him all the time. Besides, clearly you weren’t doing a good enough job for her to ask you about it again

“I want to say yes, but I don’t know, I guess?” you admit, staring into the crowd. 

Natasha’s mouth parts to speak again, only to have the microphone’s feedback interrupt her. The host–some Nobel prize winning chemist Tony invited to pull donors–clears his throat before starting his introduction, and the noise draws to a lull. Natasha excuses herself, presumably to find Tony before his speech. You decide to stay at the back of the lobby, with a good enough view of the stage. 

Supposedly this entire sordidly festive affair had a true business purpose, some big announcement Tony was making on the ‘future of the company’. He didn’t explain much more than that, and you’re certain the technical logistics were beyond you anyway. 

After a long, boring welcome, the mic is passed off to Tony. It’s the first time today you’ve been able to see him fully–draped in a jet black tuxedo and bright red bowtie. 

It whines again in his grip, and Tony pauses once the cheers die down, glancing at the expectant faces below. Thick cards press into his palm, each written meticulously inked by Natasha last night He clears his throat, glancing out past the lights into the crowd. He hopes they can’t see how heavy the stillness starts to weigh on him like before. The sudden quiet, all that attention. Including yours, somewhere out there. His heart stalls at how must look to you up here. Larger than life probably, or maybe you weren’t looking at all (he hopes you aren’t). A hundred odd pairs of eyeballs, and he hides from yours. 

Tony knew what he had to do, and was quite confident in his choice. But he can’t risk looking you in the eye while he does it. Ironically, his decision had very little to do with you, and everything to do with Pepper. The edge of his mouth still twitches. 

“Tonight…” he starts, turning the twitch into a warm smile, “…I’ve asked you all to be here in celebration, to celebrate Stark Industries, and talk about the future of the company,” He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders as if trying to loosen some unseen knot.

There’s a small, brief ripple of confusion among the front of the room, murmurs. Something shifts in his expression—just a flash—before his eyes catch something and harden. A gesture is made to the guard at the end of the stage. His hand tightens around the mic.

“To keep things transparent,” he says, stuffing the cards into his pocket, “the real reason I threw this party, asked you all to be here, is because I want everyone to see how much this means to be.”

Your ears perk up. Natasha swears under her breath, glancing at you before sharply leaving the table, tapping away at her phone. Tony can’t hide from your gaze anymore, and he finds your confused face in the back corner. Before you think about a path to escape, the crowd follows his attention, taking their eyes from the billionaire to the nobody fiddling with tinsel alone.

“I want to celebrate the love I have for this woman, and take this opportunity to share it with everyone.” 

What the hell is he doing?, you think. He can't be doing this here, like this. 

“The truth is,” he pauses, feeling his phone buzz off the hook (most certainly Natasha telling him to stop), “I’m getting married, and Stark Industries will be welcoming a new partner in its operations.”

The room erupts in a chorus of oos and awes, all to the tune of your racing heart. It takes you a second to process. He means getting married to you. You never even talked about marriage, the future, anything like that. Yeah, maybe in passing the idea came up, but at no point did you accept a marriage proposal. 

Everything feels nauseatingly blurry after. Random individuals come over with their congratulations, while half the crowd stares and the other half still bothers to listen to the rest of Tony’s speech. It’s a bunch of nonsense about restructuring and profits, and you’re too confused, pissed, and too fed up with fake smiles to bother standing around to listen. 

You suffer through two more superficial conversations about the marriage you were only made privy a few minutes ago. Finally, you escape to the restroom. You find an empty stall to hide in, trying to process what was going through Tony’s mind.

He couldn’t be serious, could he? This wasn’t real–it was some ploy or tactic. He didn’t genuinely intend to marry you. You didn’t like to think of the long-term for the same reasons you didn’t think about the short-term. This was unpredictable, you learned that. You learned to be okay with that. You could soak in the pleasures indefinitely without ever worrying about how it might all end. This, this brought it into a sharp focus you weren’t ready for. 

You’re not even certain he’s fully divorced yet. 

Once your palms finally dry, and the threat of a panic attack fades, you step out of the restroom. You don’t even know what to think, and the sterile walls weren’t helping. Glancing back toward the gala, you spot Tony scanning the room—until his eyes find yours. You don't hold his gaze long; instead, you turn sharply toward the elevator. You hear your name faintly called from somewhere behind, but you keep moving down the hall, ignoring it.

He breaks into an awkward jog to catch you. You keep your eyes forward.

“[Y/N], look I know this wasn’t what you were expecting, and I can explain I just need–” he starts,

“You’ve lost your fucking mind, Stark,” Natasha heels stomp angrily down the hall, stepping in front you to point her finger in Tony’s face, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Alright, alright, not you right now–cut it out!” He smacks her hand away flippantly, “I’m not entirely sure you and Matt haven’t been drinking the kool-aid either.” 

Tony huffs and straightens his bowtie and you step back from Natasha’s heat. Behind the three of you, someone gets their hands on a karaoke machine and a terrible rendition of Santa Baby follows.

“The whole point of this bullshit was to go public and get out of this shit so explain to me how this gets us anywhere closer to that?” She grits.

Tony throws his hands in the air, “Maybe it doesn’t, but your dumbass plan wasn’t any better.”

“You think marrying her is going to help you? You know I was joking when I said that, right?” 

Suddenly, a spotlight seems to beam over you. Neither party stops their death glare to fully acknowledge you. That wasn’t a proposal–you were just some pawn in their game.

You don’t even know what the hell they’re playing for.

“This is a great time to remind you who signs your checks.” 

Only then do her eyes bother to glance at you. 

“This isn’t gonna end well, and you know it.” She concedes, still stern. After that, she stomps back off into the crowd. 

Tony turns towards you, but you're already back at the elevator, watching the buttons finally reach L.

“[Y/N], please–” 

The doors ding open and you don’t stop to hear anymore. Despite your feverous attempt to close the doors, Tony makes his way inside. The door just barely misses his coattail, to your annoyance.   

Even worse, and completely on par for the evening, the jingle bells elevator music plays the moment the doors shut. 

A hard, awkward beat passes. You’re pinching the bridge of your nose, sparsely emptied of any more energy for this night (mentally or otherwise). 

“You look fucking stellar, by the way, love that dress–”

“Tony.”

“Right, you’re right, sorry.”

Neither of you spare another word from the elevator to the bedroom. Tony follows behind, closing the door softly as you toss your earring onto the dresser. You’re waiting for him to speak again. Explain, deflect–hopefully just explain, but he doesn’t. He sits at the end of the bed, eyes trained to you in the mirror. 

“Why didn’t you ask me? Alone? Before today?” you sigh, “

“I wanted to, I was going to, the other night on the balcony I just–” he answers quickly, but trails off in a way that has you turning to face him instantly.

You don’t doubt that for a second. Truthfully, the level of effort and random heartfeltness of the night gave you some clue. But, when it never came you just chalked it up to Tony being Tony. Painfully romantic in most conditions. 

“You just what, didn’t want to?” There’s anger, though you know it's hypocritical. 

“No I just,” he exhales, dragging his fingers through slicked back hair, “I knew you’d say yes.”

“You knew I’d say yes? What the hell does that mean?” Your necklace joins the rest of your jewelry with a loud clink. 

“This is coming out all wrong–”

“You think?” The six inch heels are the next thing to go, throwing haphazardly in the closet. Tony rises to cut you off in front of the door, eyes pleading for understanding you’re not sure you have. 

“I saw the look in your eye, I’d done so much to make sure you’d say yes in that moment because I needed you to–not because I wanted it and that wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.”

“You don’t know that I’d say yes.”

“You would,” he says with that practiced charm, all sunny but hollow. A trademark Stark move—confidence teetering on arrogance. When you hesitate, he’s ready with another word, a gaze intense enough to hypnotize. “You know you would.”

You laugh, looking away as if it’s absurd. “Are you really so sure?”

His hand slips into yours, gentle but firm, thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that makes it seem like he’s talking to you, only you, and not the thousand voices in his head screaming at him to get this done. 

“I know you’re scared, but” he says, leaning into your warmth. “Don’t leave me hanging here, please.”

“You sound so desperate, it’s kind of sad.” 

But there’s a softness to your voice now, a hint that he might be getting through. For a moment he was worried he wouldn’t be able to get away with this again, that you’d learned all his tricks since the boutique. 

It’s enough of a crack in your resolve for him to keep pushing. He slips closer, voice low. 

“Look, I know I keep asking a lot of you, but, There’s a pause, just long enough to let the ache in his voice sit, before he adds, “this could fix everything, everything can be okay.”

There’s a sliver of doubt in your eyes, and that’s what he clings to. 

“And when was the last time everything was okay, Tony?” You watch him in the bureau’s mirror. 

 “It could be. All I need for you to do is say yes, so I can fix this,” He squeezes your hand, the hint of desperation all but veiled now. 

And when you finally exhale, when that flicker of sympathy slips in, he knows he’s won.

It’s good enough. Better than he hoped, honestly. The relief slides into him like a tonic, loosening the tight lines in his jaw. He keeps his hand on yours, knowing the warmth of it will serve to distract from the creeping dread, from the hollow pit that’s been widening ever since the stakes got so high he couldn't see the top of them.

For Tony, this is all still just a means to an end. One step closer to true liberty and the life he was supposed to have. If he had to lie and disappoint–cheat and charm, then he’d do it. It would be worth it. In the end, the sum of his achievements would outweigh his sins.

He reminded himself of that a month ago, the night before he decided to have the gala. When the bedroom door closes, a sigh of relief escapes. He was lucky that you didn’t catch the conversation with Matt and Natasha in full. What he had in the works was sensitive, and he couldn’t have that ruined by anyone knowing the details in advance. He couldn’t lose you again, not when he needed you most. 

There is a shred of guilt as the elevator whirs down to the garage. You’re probably thinking the worst, understandably, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Only to pray his love was enough to placate you for now. 

Especially when he doesn’t even want to fucking do this. Each day seems to come at the loss of his autonomy, another suit on his payroll telling him what’s best for his life. It’s more deplorable when the people closest to him come up with the shittiest ideas to fix this. He can truly thank Pepper for his recent migraines (and a bunch of old ones). Filing for divorce was quite a move to try to get what she wanted, and throw him to the mercy of the Securities and Exchange Commission at the same time. If you listen to Matt, Tony’s mere minutes away from a cold cell. If you listen to Nat, Tony’s plummeting stock will be the sealer of his fate. And as of right now, two of the smartest people he knows can’t come up with anything that doesn’t come at the cost of you or his company. And he can’t live with either. 

Since, both their solutions arguably suck, he tells a lie or lack thereof to find a third opinion. Or a hail mary. However it’s called, it’s a long shot that he can’t be certain won't jeopardize him even more. 

The drive to Hudson Valley is peaceful, to the point he forgets his world is on fire. It’s late, or early, depending on who you ask. Few cars grace the road and he finds solace in the solitude. The radio is ignored for the repetitive rumble of the tires, until paved tar turns into rough gravel. 

When Pepper sent over the address, he wasn’t too surprised. She always rambled about moving out of the city, dreaming of cabins in the woods and sprawling hills. Tony could never wrap his head around living anywhere else. In retrospect, that was another early omen. They never even shared the same dream. 

He can’t say it doesn’t look impressive. A dark a-frame that strikes beautifully against the earthen spruce. Maybe that is why she had him drive all the way out here and not somewhere in the city. Part of masterplan to show him what she presumes he’s missing out on. 

The porch lights flicker on once he parks, and he makes his way up the stone path to find Pepper sitting just outside the door. She’s preoccupied with a thick novel, acknowledging Tony with the raise of a finger. 

It’s strange, being alone with her for the first time in years. She’s not dressed in Valentino but tattered college sweats he had forgotten about. Seeing her at the penthouse all those months ago was troubling, but this was different. Here, it’s too quiet. Even though he’s a few paces away from the table, he can hear the tension of her nails against the pages–the swirl of wind through her hair. Sure, she can’t control the environment but he knows this is a calculated move too. To make him wait, make him uncomfortable. Every other sense sharpens in the absence of constant noise. Norway spruce and duplicity. 

He’s losing his nerve and he needs this over. 

“Why the hell’d you make me drive this far out anyway?” He tries to keep a level voice, knowing she wouldn’t hesitate to use his irritation against him. 

“It’s the one place I’m certain your little spy hasn’t found yet.” she murmurs.

Okay, fine, so he’d used his son to spy on his ex-wife. Big deal, he couldn’t be certain she wasn’t doing the same. Plus, Harley had offered to keep an eye on her. It was a matter of security, not personal (mostly). 

“Can we get on with this?”

“I suppose,” she sighs, tossing the book onto the table. The thud reverberates, stark against the stillness of the valley. “But I’m not sure what it is you want from me–you did call me after all.”

“I did.” And he’s regretting it every second.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“You can start by accepting the deal Murdock sent, and let this be over.” 

Pepper chuckled, crossing her legs. “What are you playing at, Tony?”

“I’m not playing at anything–this needs to be over, you need to move on.”

“Oh please, don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs, “this is all very rich considering you’ve held me in litigation for months, you rejected my offers over and over, so why the sudden change of heart?”

A cold chill and burning annoyance pull him closer to the table. 

“Yes, because I should just give you forty-five percent of my company–I can get it gift-wrapped too if that makes it all the better.”  

“That’s right, your ego won’t let you admit I’m the only reason you have a company to speak of.”

“Can’t you find an ounce of compassion in that gaping pit you call a soul, for me?”

“Such harsh words from someone who needs something from me.” Pepper smirks and stands once the heat recedes from Tony’s face. 

“Take the twenty percent, finalize the papers, and end this, or else there won’t be anything for either of us.”

She circles the table to stop in his view. Tony wishes he had a time machine.

“Let me guess, someone’s under a little heat.” she muses, voice high and dripping in sugary venom.

“Little is an understatement.” He steps back, hands tight in her pockets.

“And why would I give up my shares to help you?”

“This entire thing started with you, and the second it wasn’t convenient you ran. The least you could fucking do is help me out of it.” Tony snapped. 

“Right, and if I don’t?” 

She still laughs, because it’s all a good game to her. Entertaining to see him against the ropes–desperate enough to reach out to her. For once though, it’s calming. It soothes his anger and reminds him why he agreed to this at all. This time, he had an ace up his sleeve.

“Then I’ll tell just that to whoever needs to know–you know I have the evidence. You’ll go down right alongside me.”

In the quiet solace, for a moment, she’s outplayed. Her smile falters and brows crinkle. Truthfully, as much as he’d love to, he could never sell her out. But she had a terrible tendency of assuming the worst of him, and he was banking on that. 

“Please do, I’m sure they’d love to hear what I know about Obadiah.” 

Oh, so that was her ace.

A soft buzz vibrates his back pocket. He doesn’t need omniscience to know it’s you. He can picture it clearly–you, traipsing around the penthouse looking for signs of life. He knows you hate that feeling, and he hates to cause it. 

There’s a more pressing issue; not giving Pepper the emotional reaction she wants.

“You wouldn’t do that.” Spare words from some forgotten bin. 

“Not if you don’t force my hand.” 

A painful pause ensues. The valley’s fauna recognize the tension, silencing out of respect for the sound of Tony’s plan shattering. A true stalemate. Not what he came for, but his throat swells thinking about the aftermath from a war of attrition. 

He can’t let that get out, above all else. That’d be his dissolution. Stark Industries, everything he worked for would vanish. You, without question. You never see him the same again. The crafted image he sought, the life he was creating with you for you, it’d be wasted effort. 

“What’s it gonna take for you to help me?”

After another migraine-causing conversation, Tony slumps into the driver seat, shoulders heavy and eyelids even heavier. Fifteen minutes have passed since your text, and he wonders if it's better not to answer at all. 

[ everything okay?  ]

[ be home soon ]

Ignore. Deflect. Move on.  

The drive back to the city is less pleasant. Actually, it’s a nightmare that he disassociated through the moment he entered the garage. He was, tragically, fucked. There was no telling if he had the capital to replace whatever Pepper took, and he certainly couldn’t risk everything by going public. And if he didn't give Pepper what she wanted, he might be looking at a depressing future behind bars. And that was not an option. 

So he’s at the mercy of the ginger Judas who put him on the path in the first place. Go figure. There’s self-blame for entertaining this option at all. For not guessing she’d snake her way into the upperhand like always. This wasn’t a beast he could defeat with regular tactician and planning. No, he needed to surprise her–usurp her. Piss her off the way she pissed him off. Go against the grain and act in a way that she couldn't predict. Something she couldn’t maneuver around. 

So, when the mic graced his hands, and the coached words on his marriage, the marriage  he never asked you about. The marriage he couldn’t ask you about because he wasn’t ready either. 

He said fuck it, and did it anyway. 

He knew you would’ve said yes then, so you obviously would answer the same afterwards. Even if you were predictably, and understandably pissed, you loved him, and he intended to use that. Grand gestures were his thing after all. A huge public soiree was more on brand than some private dinner. And, he was Tony Stark. The man who got everything he wanted. Why would your hand be any different? Certainly it fell under the same bracket (and really, an argument could be made that he had your loyalty regardless–this was just a title). 

It was justified in his mind the moment the words hit the mic. It just sounds right– Y/N Stark. Like he should have made it that way a long time ago. For a second, the ceaseless pit of vengeance is taken over by something more. 

It;s even easier to justify when he gets a wave of childlike excitement over it. Imagining the ring on your finger, the life he could have with you. Palm trees and salt waves on a remote coast. No more Stark Industries, no more nightmares about cold federal prisons, just you and him. 

Then, in the crowd, he spots what must be Pepper’s lookout. A short, brayish man stays still while dozen roar in congratulatory apologize. Pepper should’ve coached him better, a clear sore loser in a room full of winners. 

The real reason he’s doing this comes back. Tony makes a quick signal to the guard behind him, and moments later the man is escorted upstairs. He used to hate doing this. But he soon learned that humanity gets you nowhere in this business. Still, he almost tells his team to go easy. Then he remembers the cold look on Pepper’s face at the valley while he plead for mercy like a sad dog. 

Fuck that. The man knew the risks. It’s not Tony’s fault they didn’t play in his favor. 

Out of whatever kindness was left, he makes a note to have his body dumped somewhere nice. 

PART SIX SOON

[malk1ns]

november 8 2024 @ capitals, 4-2 win

the next part in my soulbond series (1, 2, 3, 4). hope you like it!

Sid can feel this season rapidly slipping out of his grasp.

He’d had a lot of talks with Kyle over the summer. Kyle was up-front about his plans for the year, honest and forthright about what he realistically thought the team could do. Their final conversation before Sid signed his extension ended with Kyle telling him, the Penguins are your team, Sidney, but if the direction we’re headed isn’t how you want to finish your career, I understand. It’s up to you.

He’d signed. He’s staying. It wasn’t ever really a choice.

Sid thinks there’s still a part of him that hoped, though. He’s never going to give up on winning, never going to stop chasing the ultimate goal, and the part of his brain that asks his barber to shave down the hair on his temples until the gray is less visible is the same part that clung to the idea of contending.

And, well, anything’s possible. They’re not even a quarter of the way through the season. But.

Worse than the team, though, Sid can feel Geno slipping away.

Geno’s been avoiding him since the Islanders game. After the hellish Carolina blowout, Sid tried to pin him down for a conversation, to actually talk about this bond and how they can fix it, but Geno slipped away, insulated from Sid on the plane by the poker game group and practically running up to his hotel room when they landed in DC.

For a moment Sid even considered going to morning skate to corner him, but Geno’s gameday routine is even more rigid than Sid’s own, and Sid can’t bring himself to mess up Geno’s rhythm, not on a day like today.

Games against Washington always have a little extra importance. Sid takes every game seriously, of course he does, but he won’t lie and say that the Capitals don’t stand out on the calendar more than the rest. Especially now, with records in sight and careers coming to an end.

It’s why he loses his temper and screams on the bench when they blow another lead again in the second.

Losing to an opponent because they’re just better than you is one thing. But what Sid can’t abide, won’t tolerate, is a lack of effort, sloppy play and ignoring the details and fundamentals, making careless mistakes that lead to chances against.

His line is playing well. He can’t say the same for anyone else.

At intermission, Sully stays out of the room at first, and Sid lets loose all his frustrations with the year so far, his anger at the losing streaks and his own struggles, and shouts the team down until they’re properly cowed. And when the coaching staff comes in again, Sid marches up to Sully and tells him to take Geno off the top line.

He says it loud enough for most of the guys to hear, but he doesn’t look over to see what face Geno’s making.

Geno’s been on his wing because of a bond he clearly doesn’t want, and Sid’s been taking advantage of it. If Sid can’t score with the wingers he has, he deserves any failures coming his way.

He spares a thought for his parents, somewhere up in the stands because Sid’s getting close to yet another milestone. Maybe he should tell them to go home.

It was the right decision. Partway through the third, Geno reads a rebound like only he can, breaks the tie, and the Penguins don’t look back.

Winning in Washington always means a lot, but even watching Alex smash his stick and yell at himself on the Capitals’ bench as time ticks down doesn’t make Sid feel better. He keeps his head down when he strips out of his gear, spends entirely too much time on a cooldown bike, and is the last one on the bus, barely making it before Sully would have started yelling about him being late.

At least they have the weekend off.

Sid can feel Geno watching him on the plane. Normally after a road trip like this, Geno would commandeer the window seat next to him, sprawl out and get his legs in Sid’s space, jostling him until Sid relaxed enough to laugh and poke back, the two of them picking at each other until they settled enough to get some sleep.

Nobody takes the empty seat next to Sid this time. He tugs his hat over his eyes and purposely thinks about nothing. At least it’s a short flight.

When they’re deboarding in Pittsburgh, for the first time ever Sid reaches out with the bond on purpose.

The recoil he gets from Geno is enough to send him practically running to his car, racing through the quiet streets to Sewickley faster than he’d normally drive. He feels sick.

Geno might hate him. It was Sid’s lagging production that pulled him into this bond, after all, chained Geno to his side for a week until Sid stopped being selfish and forced them apart again. Geno had been sick, Geno hadn’t been producing, and the second Sid let him free he scored, so… Sid can’t say with confidence that he wouldn’t be furious if their roles were reversed.

He’s so wrapped up in his own self-recriminations that he doesn’t realize Geno’s coming over until he hears a key in his lock, and suddenly Geno’s presence in the back of his mind is inescapable.

“Sid?” Geno calls, and Sid, sitting at his island in his dark kitchen, drops his head into his hands and waits.

When Geno finds him, he swears long and low, a tumble of Russian that Sid would have gotten the gist of even without the bond pulsing concern and guilt his way.

He flinches when Geno flicks the lights on, blinking up at where Geno’s suddenly looming over him.

“We need to talk,” Geno says, and Sid stares at him helplessly, because what is there to say?

Geno shakes his head and sits on the stool next to him, pressing their knees together. Sid feels a wash of relief at the contact so powerful he has to blink away dizzy darkness from the corners of his vision. Geno frowns, the downturned corners of his mouth digging lines into his face. In the harsh overhead lights, he looks haggard, skin pale under the remnants of his summer tan and the bags under his eyes dark and pronounced.

“My fault,” Geno says, holding up one big hand when Sid opens his mouth. “It’s me who starts this, like, after Sochi. I’m think probably I know it’s there and we’re ignore for so long it’s say, no more, has to happen. We have to fix or we’re sick for season.”

Sid shakes his head. “It’s me who made it…whatever,” he says, gesturing. He doesn’t know the right words for what’s happening to them, never read up on bonds because he never expected to have one. “Like, I needed you and made it…this.”

“You needed me,” Geno repeats, and his voice is toneless, but Sid feels a soft bloom of…something in the bond, something that makes him want to reach out and touch.

“I always need you,” Sid mutters, staring at his hands instead of Geno’s face. Almost twenty years together on this team and it shouldn’t feel so strange to admit, of course they need each other, but something about saying it now, out loud…the way he’s feeling, the way he can tell Geno is feeling, makes the words feel fraught.

There’s a long silence, and when Sid looks up, Geno’s biting his lip. “Don’t know what to do,” he admits, and Sid shouldn’t feel relief there, but at least he’s not alone in feeling totally lost.

There’s no real literature for this, not really. They haven’t even been able to have more than a few quick consults with bond specialists since they’ve been on the road.

Sid startles a little when Geno reaches out and covers Sid’s hands with one of his own. His palm is a little damp, but he’s warm, and his hand is big enough to cover both of Sid’s where they’re twisting in his lap.

It’s late. They both should get sleep, even with two full days off from games.

They sit in Sid’s kitchen in silence as night deepens outside.

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

Okay here we go

Does Stanfraud's eye still bleeds, like when Bill was possessing Ford or doesn't because of his bigger connection to Ford's body?

Is Stanfraud an uncle/big brother figure to Soos, like Stanley is his dad figure? Does Bill even care about him even a little😢

I know that the main focus of this au is on Bill, but since Stanley didn't try to pretend to be Ford, how did Stanley's and Filbrick's first meeting went after the whole "getting kicked out" thing"? Especially since both Stan and Ford were definitely broke at the time

You mentioned that Bill still has access to a little portion of his powers, what are they exactly?

Anyway your au is genuinely awesome and seeing it on my dash is always a huge treat 💛💛💛

Okay the first question I really want to answer because I’ve been thinking about this:

— His eye definitely bleeds on occasion. Even though he is far more connected to Ford’s body here, he’s still a demon possessing a host. He shouldn’t be there. There’s some outer force keeping him trapped. So I have thought about the fact there would probably be some lasting impacts on the body due to possession exposure for so long, such as the eye bleeding becoming a regular problem and gradual loss of vision in that eye. There may also be other physical impacts, but I’ll work on those when I manage to get down an official design for him.

— Great News! He is like Soos’ weird uncle! That may be where he learned to be somewhat decent around kids, honestly. He absolutely tried to mess with him at first, make jabs, tell him the date of his death, attempt to drive him to madness just a little (this is why Stan had to get rid of the last handyman), but Soos proved to be incorruptible and took all of Stanfraud’s weirdness in stride. Bill does end up caring about him. He goes as far as to liking their conversations. Soos keeps up with his chaos! Even Bill isn’t sure what’s going on in that head of his (when he gets his own body back he’s going to find out).

— Though Bill is the main focus of the plot-change, the other aspects are equally as important and so I’m glad they also have people’s interest! Their first meeting is… tense, to say the least. If Filbrick has any regrets, which I think I’ll leave up to interpretation, he’s far too stubborn a man to show them, and would rather dig himself further into a hole than admit he made a mistake. Stan desperately just wants to ignore all the scathing comments and get this little reunion over with, until Filbrick makes a comment about Ford, then Stan snaps. You can insult him, he probably deserves it, but not his brother. Sure, they may not be his brother right now, but the intent is there, and that’s what counts.

It cuts everything short, with Stan grabbing Fraud and telling him they’re leaving (He doesn’t complain).

With Filbrick, I do kind of want to explore their dynamic over the years while he’s still alive, especially with Stan, but also with how he’d treat ‘Ford’ and his odder behaviour. I don’t want to just make Filbrick a one-dimensional character though, as I think there’s a lot to be said about the cycle of abuse and parental projection so. While the AU may be based around the question ‘what if Bill got stuck possessing Ford?’ The answers it has lead me down a lot of different paths to explore — such as this!

— The powers he has access too lessen over time, but currently he is somewhat capable of seeing potential future outcomes (ciphervoyance), pyrokinesis, telekinesis, faster healing factor and teleportation. Note that all of these are in a much weaker state and drain Ford’s body and by extension Bill heavily — especially teleportation. Doing that once can cause him to pass out, so it’s more of an emergency thing, most his abilities are honestly. Too much focus is required.

And I’m so happy to be a little treat on your dash!! I hope you enjoy all this just as much!

[leavemurph]

sometimes i get so upset thinking what if hotch wants to come back cuz like jack’s in college and he’s home all the time, he’d need something to do?? and the fact that the writers still didn’t use this one excuse to bring him back to emily is just… ugh.

a few comments here and there about his life while he was gone, laughing with old friends who are still friends no matter what, teasing him cuz he tries to call his son and gets constantly ignored with the “dad, please, i’m busy”. then jj’s like, oh yeah, i get it, teenagers gonna be teenagers, and emily’s kinda feeling left out? but it’s cool. it’s just that time’s passing and she doesn’t have that for herself, which is strange, since she always thought she would. but then again, time sucks, this job takes so much, and yeah, maybe it’s too late.

no kids, nope, well, she’s busy. really busy. this thought keeps looping in her head, and a few situations end up making her rethink it, over and over—did i do this on purpose? did i avoid making any decisions that could’ve taken me down that path because, deep down, i felt like i didn’t deserve it?

hotch finds her in her office, asks if she’s okay because she seems so distracted all the time. of course, she doesn’t say anything, she’s not big on venting, but she does ask him if he ever thought about what it’d be like if they’d made it differently all those years ago.

he’s… confused at first, mostly because he’s not sure if this is her way of allowing them to talk about all the stuff they never said, couldn’t say, or were too scared to. so he asks, what do you mean? emily’s tired of dancing around it, they’re older now, more mature, there’s not much left to lose, so she just says, “you knew how i felt about you. that’s fine. i know how you felt about me.” hotch gives her a small smile, and she gets it. she really gets it. “i can’t believe i even considered going with you. like, a part of me really wanted to, so badly. i talked to you about work every day, told you things you didn’t even want to hear, didn’t care. and i kept hoping, hoping that one day you’d ask me to, or even just… i don’t know, say you missed me. my god, i would’ve dropped everything, run off into witness protection. with you. with jack.”

“emily.” hotch looks genuinely surprised, and maybe it’s because she’s holding back tears. “you had all these things here, things you built for yourself. look at you now.”

“right,” she mutters, waving it off with a comment about their previous case, because why get into that now? it’s a waste of time.

aaand…

they kiss for the first time on new year’s, in their natural habitat—at work, of course. everyone but emily is ready to party, but at midnight, hotch brings her a glass of champagne while she’s scribbling reports. she looks up and says, “are you guys going out? i’m gonna have to pass this time, i’m so busy,”

and he laughs because, “you sound like me ten years ago,” while gently coaxing her out of her chair. she tries not to freak out, laughing nervously, rolling her neck to release the tension from hours of sitting and staring at fine print. hotch brushes her hair back, studying her face, and she lets out a deep sigh, touching her tongue to the corner of her mouth. “a little nervous?” he asks, a smile tugging at his lips. “still the same tell, huh? some things never change.”

“i really can’t go with you guys,” she insists, eying his lips, almost on the edge of feeling butterflies for the first time in over a decade.

“heard you the first time. so i’ll be your first new year’s kiss, and then i’ll get out of your hair.” okay, butterflies all the way down to her toes. she barely nods, just a slight movement, before he leans in and kisses her. it’s the best kiss she’s ever had, hands down. my god, she can’t stop thinking about it.

he literally left her to do her job and went out partying with the others. he’s learned to live more than she has over these years, and honestly, it’s not bad. it’s not terrible. it’s nice.

their relationship grows through little moments scattered throughout the season—tender touches, good morning kisses, emily jumping out of bed late, the looks they share. they talk about the moments they’ve lived, the times they wanted to say something and didn’t, or do something and held back. “do you remember that time we…?”

the first time emily faces any life-threatening situation, hotch’s immediate reaction when he sees her getting her cheek stitched up is: “that was really brave of you to do.”

“hotch,” she winces, frowning through the pain as the stitch hurts. “really?”

“okay, what, are you out of your mind? didn’t you wait for backup?”

“that’s much better, thank you. and, no, it’d be too late.”

“almost died,” he crosses his arms, and emily is doing everything she can not to bite her nails. “i’m gonna need you to marry me. is that okay with you?”

and emily’s like, “what?”

“you heard me right. i want you, and i want to do this, all of it. you’ve always wanted kids, and you’ve been thinking about it, don’t lie to me, and it’s not too late. and we’re gonna do it, you and i. there’s surrogacy, adoption… we can—”

yeahh…. so.

gimme gimme.

bye.

[fictionalcharactersaremypassion]

An Unwelcomed Conversation

Sequel to the drabble where Iggy finds Mickey and Ian sleeping/cuddling

---

When Mickey wakes up, it’s evening. The room is darker than it was when he laid down. 

He blinks his bleary eyes, feels something firm under his cheek and remembers that he’s on top of Ian. His face flushes even though there’s no one there to see it. 

Ian’s still holding onto him too. His grip is looser now that he’s asleep but it’s still keeping him in place. 

It’s so fucking gay but it’s also warm and fucking relaxing so he doesn’t immediately move off of his boyfriend. Mickey closes his eyes, breathes out through his nose and lets himself bask in whatever the hell this is. 

It doesn’t last much longer. Ian stirs; he groans softly, kisses Mickey’s hair, tightening his hold on him. “Hey,” he mutters, his voice deeper from sleep. “What time is it?” 

“Don’t know. It’s dark.” 

“We should get up,” Ian mumbles. 

“Think again, Firecrotch. I’m fucking comfortable.” 

“I’m hungry, Mick.” 

“Boo fucking hoo. Ain’t like there’s anything in this shithole to eat,” Mickey yawns, turning his head to do it in Ian’s chest. 

“I’ll buy pizza,” Ian negotiates. It’s unfortunate timing that Mickey’s stomach growls. 

“Fuckin’ fine,” he knows he’s gone fucking soft which he blames all on Gallagher. Ain’t no other explanation why he wants to keep laying there. Now that he’s a little more awake, his ears catch onto some noise outside of their bedroom.“Fuck. The shitheads are back now. Don’t go buyin’ for them too. They don’t deserve any.” 

“They’re probably hungry too,” Ian yawns. 

“So fucking what? Let ‘em fend for themselves.” 

Ian swats him on the ass. “No.”

Mickey grumbles as he lifts himself off his ginger asshole. Ian stretches his arms on their way out. His brothers and Mandy are out in the living room, they’ve got beers in their hands and probably talking about something fucking stupid. “Ay.” 

He’s immediately suspicious by the smirks sent his way. 

“Hey,” Mandy goes for nonchalance, and brings her bottle up to her lips. 

Ian, of course, is none the wiser. “Hey, guys,” he chirps like a damn bird. “You want pizza?”

“Fuck yes,” Iggy agrees. 

“I want one just for me, Gallagher,” Colin instructs. “I ain’t sharing with these losers.” 

Mandy shoots him a dirty look. “Jesus, Col. Don’t be so fucking rude. Ian’s not fucking rich.” 

“Fuck off. He asked.” 

Mickey doesn't let the discussion of pizza distract him. He knows something’s up. And he's gonna find out what it is. But for now, he shoves his sister’s legs outta the way so he and Ian can sit down on the damn couch. “Move, bitch.” 

“Ugh- fuck off, Mickey!” Mandy scoots to the end, glaring. 

Ian joins him, phone in hand so he can order. He’s got one hand on Mickey’s knee, rubbing circles on the skin. 

It’s quiet, but he knows it won’t last long. He’s proven right when Iggy speaks up, his voice sly and it sends Mickey on alert. “The fuck were you doin’ in there so long, huh?” 

“None of your damn business,” Mickey answers instantly. 

Iggy and Colin share a smirk. 

“You sure about that?” His second oldest brother asks. It’s too casual to be genuine. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” He’s not getting any answers and it’s starting to piss him off. 

“It means Ig caught you doin’ some homo shit,” Colin slouches some more in the chair. He’s got a devilish grin on his face and it makes Mickey want to punch it right off him. 

“What?” Mickey barks. 

“Mickey...” Ian says cautiously, like he’s prepared to grab him to hold him back. 

“You wanna see?” Iggy pulls up the picture on his phone to show it off. Mickey thinks he’s about to see one of their bare asses or some shit. He doesn’t expect it to be from today when he was in Ian’s arms. 

His face burns like it’s on fucking fire. Why the fuck does he even have a picture of them? 

Ian leans forward to get a better look at it. “Can you send that to me?”

“Since fucking when do you have my brother’s number?” Mickey says in disbelief. 

His boyfriend shrugs. “I have Colin and Mandy’s too.”

“Sounds like Gallagher’s about to have a new wallpaper,” Colin comments. 

“Damn right,” Ian says. 

In the midst of all this, Mandy complains to Ian, “You’ve never cuddled with me like that.” 

“I would, but your brother’s a jealous asshole,” Ian says, feigning mournfulness. 

Mickey ignores the fuckin’ idiots, shoving the phone out of Iggy’s hand because the bastard is still holding it up. 

“Ay!” His brother says loudly when it falls to the floor. 

“Go fuck yourself and delete the damn picture.” 

“Too late,” Colin drawls. “He already sent it to me.” 

“And me,” Mandy says. 

“You Motherfucker!” Mickey nearly leaps at Iggy but Ian’s fast and he’s too damn strong for him to escape. 

His brothers are unimpressed and quite frankly, unbothered. Iggy just leans back in his chair, grinning slyly. 

“Didn’t know you liked being held like that, Mick.” 

“I don’t-” Mickey blusters. 

“Cut the shit, assface,” Mandy snorts. “You’re not fooling anybody.”

 He gets ready to raise hell because so fucking what if he liked it? That doesn’t make him some bitch. 

“Is Mick clingy?” Colin asks Ian. Nosy ass. 

“Didn’t you see the way he was laying on him?” Mandy interjects. “He’s definitely clingy. I don’t know how Ian stands it.” 

“I don’t mind,” Ian says. Mickey doesn’t even have to look at him to know that he’s got that sappy look to him. He’s used to it and for the most part, stopped rolling his eyes when he sees it. 

“Course you don’t,” Colin mutters. “You’ve got a hardon for him.” 

“Guess we know who’s taking it up the ass,” Iggy teases. 

“You’re not wrong,” Ian pipes up, and Mickey’s head whirls around so fast like he’s some fucking haunted doll head. He doesn’t know who he’s gonna kill first but somehow, someway, somebody is gonna fucking die. 

“Go to hell, all of ya!”

“Sounds like somebody needs a hug,” Mandy takes advantage of the fact that he can’t move like he wants to, and slaps the back of his head. 

“Ay, yeah. Go hug him, Gallagher,” Iggy calls.

Mickey really shoulda kept Ian and his brothers apart. Nothing good came from all three of them plus Mandy ganging up on him. 

Ian grins, gives him a noisy kiss on the cheek despite Mickey’s scowl. “Do you need a hug, baby?” 

“I’m gonna fucking murder you,” Mickey whispers through grit teeth. 

“That’s his way of saying I love you,” Ian announces. 

“Damn,” Iggy’s gotta be high. Than again, there’s not many times he isn’t. He looks surprised like he believes this shit. “He must really love us.” 

Dumbass. 

“Not as much as Gallagher,” Colin says with a sneer. It’s unlike the kind of look Mickey assumes he would've gotten from his brother after the fag bashing he received from Terry. It’s playful and probably woulda meant more to Mickey if he wasn’t pissed. 

“Of course not,” Ian’s proud of that, of course. 

“You two make me sick,” Mandy sighs. She crosses her legs. “I think we should send that picture to Sandy. She’ll get a kick out of it.” 

“No!” Mickey snaps just as their brothers agree. 

“Who’s Sandy?” Ian asks. 

“Our cousin. She’s a lesbian so she won’t care,” Mandy shrugs. 

“Can you all just shut the fuck up?” Mickey feels his face flushing again and it’s really starting to get fucking annoying. 

“What’s wrong, Mick? Don’t want us to talk about you cuddlin’ anymore?” Colin snickers. 

“What else does Gallagher do for ya?” Iggy says. “Does he give you his jacket when you get cold?” 

“Has he ever swept you off your feet?” Mandy smirks. “Literally?” 

The questions are coming rapidly. Mickey’s torn between anger and embarrassment. Ian doesn’t even try to stop them. He’s enjoying it, the fucker. 

“That’s it,” Mickey shoves Ian’s arms away and stands. “I ain’t listening to anymore of you fuckers. So fucking what if that’s what we were doing? Not like any of you are getting anything so shut the fuck up and leave me the hell alone.” 

His outburst quiet's them. But then Iggy opens his damn mouth again. 

“Ay, Mick. I forgot to ask earlier. You got any smokes I can use?” 

“No I don’t have fucking smokes!” Mickey bellows, turning on his heel and slams his bedroom door shut. 

“....Guess you didn’t cuddle him enough,” Iggy says to Ian. 

[ladycrimsonandblack]

(sorry if I have sent this to you earlier, I didn't know if it went through cuz my laptop bugged out haha. Feel free to ignore this if so-)

Idk if your still open for TCF prompts, but if soooo: Everyone in the group knows that Cale is aromantic, or at least knows he doesn't want a romantic partner. However the public doesn't know this, and assumptions and rumors begins to fly as they see Young Master Cale interact with some members of his group. (Basically Cale is in a QPR, or has something similar to that, with those of your choosing! People makes assumptions but it's eventually revealed what is really going on)

AO3

There are a lot of rumors about Commander Cale Henituse, the esteemed hero Silver Shield and the savior of both continents. Ranging from ridiculous (saying that Cale Henituse is related to the White Star and that’s why he was able to defeat him will get you laughed out of a tavern, with a few good kicks added for emphasis), to actually plausible (the current raging theory that the Commander is on his path to godhood is usually met with agreeing nods), the rumors fly from kingdom to kingdom and from continent to continent at unprecedented speed. Thanks to his many great and varied public deeds, Cale Henituse’s life is an excellent fodder for imaginations of nobles and commoners alike. 

However, the current rumor is a bit different. 

It seems that Commander Cale Henituse actually has a harem. 

It started innocuously, in a small tavern in Rain City, the patrons imbibing large quantities of alcohol and listening to even larger quantities of gossip.

“I heard he attended a ball with Princess Rosalyn, from the Breck Kingdom! Did you know that she’s building a new Magic Tower? Only someone as capable as that is worthy of the Commander!” 

“Didn’t he attend a ball with Knight Choi Han a few weeks back?” A couple of nods and a rumble of murmurs answer the question. “Did they break up?”

“No, they weren’t even together. Going to the ball at the same time doesn’t mean they’re dating.”

“You’re the one that said that the Commander is dating Princess Rosalyn!”

“They just fit! I saw them once on the street in the shopping district and they were very close! And the picture they make— ah, they look so beautiful together!”

“Well, Knight Choi Han always follows the Commander, so I guess they might be dating too!”

“Uhhh, guys,” a timid voice interrupts them as one of the gate guards raises his hand like he’s in a classroom. “Doesn’t Knight Choi Han live together with the Commander? I heard they have a villa near Harris Village.”

A thoughtful silence follows this sentence. Then a series of considering nods and whispers, as the patrons catch each other’s eyes. 

“It’s not so strange? A knight should live with his lord, right?” 

“But, uh, isn’t Choi Han from Harris Village? Did the Commander build a villa there just to have Choi Han live closer to home?”

“That seems like something the Commander would do. He’s so kind!” 

Everyone drinks to that, and then there’s shouting for a new round. 

“But doesn’t that mean that Choi Han is more than just a knight?” 

“He’s a hero too, he deserves that much,” someone refutes. 

“A whole villa where they live together? I think that’s a bit too much for any hero. The Commander didn’t need to move into Choi Han’s villa.”

This time, the murmurs lean more toward Choi Han. 

The man who first talked about Princess Rosalyn and the Commander frowns. “But Princess Rosalyn is also living together with them. Didn’t she move in during the war?”

The following moment of silence is full of consideration. 

“Does that mean he’s dating both of them?”

The room explodes. The evening ends with a bar fight so nasty that two people end up in the hospital and the rumors about what started it only grow with retelling. As does Commander Cale’s harem. 

Eventually, the rumors reach Huiss City and the ears of royal spies therein. When Tasha hears them, she bursts out laughing, doesn’t stop for good ten minutes, and then immediately goes to inform her nephew. 

“So there are rumors that my dongsaeng is dating Choi Han.” At Tasha’s nod, Alberu frowns in confusion. “There have always been rumors like that. Why is this important?”

“There are also rumors saying Young Master Cale is dating Princess Rosalyn...”

Alberu sighs. “Well, those will have more immediate political consequences, but it’s nothing we haven’t heard before.”

“... At the same time as he’s dating Choi Han,” Tasha finishes, her pearly white teeth stark against her face as she grins. 

“...What?” Alberu chokes out. 

The thought of Cale dating two people at once is so strange that Alberu needs to take a moment to recover. As if Cale would want to be in a romantic relationship with even one person!

Tasha’s grin becomes outright mean. “There are even some rumors that the two of you are having an affair.”

“He’s my younger brother!” Alberu bursts out, more indignant than he remembers himself ever being in his life. 

“And then there is Mary.”

“Surely people don’t think there is something going on between Cale and Mary?”

“Oh, they do, and there’s a lot of them.”

Alberu feels a headache oncoming. He rubs his temples and reaches into a tin can on his desk for some cookies to comfort him. “He treats her like she’s his kid.” Never mind that Mary is physically older than Cale. Cale has mentally slotted her into the same category as Raon, On, and Hong very early on, and now Mary gets an extravagant monthly allowance on Cale’s dime. 

It’s telling that nobody has actually commented on this, or thought it strange. Their whole family accepted it as just another one of Cale’s eccentricities.  

“And of course,” Tasha says, apparently not finished. “There is also Eruhaben.”

“He treats Cale as his kid!” 

“Well, it’s not like people on the street know that,” Tasha points out, very reasonably. “But they do think that Young Master Cale is dating all of you. At the same time.”

“So they think that Cale… has a harem?” Alberu tries to wrap his head around this. There is not a person less likely to have a harem than Cale Henituse. 

“Yes,” Tasha says, and smiles like this is the funniest thing she’s heard the whole year. 

“Why?” Alberu wonders, for once not being able to guess what people are thinking. Cale is just so… Cale. Alberu can’t even imagine him wanting to date someone. 

“Nephew,” Tasha gives him an arch look, and Alberu feels like he’s thirteen again, and is caught sneaking out for more practice with his sword. “You forget that not many people know Young Master Cale as well as you do. And when looking from outside, our family’s situation is a little strange.” 

Alberu tries to think about this objectively. 

“Our whole family lives together, even though most others have their own homes.”

“That is one part of it,” Tasha agrees. “It is especially strange for Princess Rosalyn, who is a royal from another kingdom, and Eruhaben-nim, who is known to be a Dragon.”

Alberu nods. “And whenever Cale goes somewhere, at least one member of our family accompanies him.”

“And the Young Master always buys everyone extravagant gifts.”

With each sentence, Alberu frowns even more. 

“This is nuts,” he says. 

Because, looking from outside perspective, it does seem like Cale has a harem. 

…

He decides not to talk to Cale. Instead, he gathers Choi Han, Rosalyn, Eruhaben and Mary for a private talk, with the children averaging nine years old dragging Cale off to shop in the city (On takes one look at Alberu’s face before suggesting the trip; she is growing up to be terrifyingly perceptive). 

When Alberu tells them the latest rumor, Eruhaben is the first to react. He sighs. “Unlucky bastard. And now he’s dragging me down with him.”

Choi Han is so red that his ears appear to be steaming. “How can they— why would anyone even think that?!”

“Because Cale provides for all of us,” Rosalyn says, laughing in delight. “And most people can’t imagine us being family. Not like this.” 

“But this is so strange! Cale’s not… he is not—”

Interested. Cale is simply not interested. 

It hadn’t taken them long to figure it out. Cale’s lack of interest in anything approaching romance or romantic relationships is so obvious to those close to him, that even the few of them that might have quietly considered it as an option chose to discard it immediately. Cale loves them, but it will never be romantic, and doesn’t have to be. They’re a family. That’s all there is to it, in the end.

Alberu smiles pleasantly, none of his previous confusion visible. “Of course, not many people know my dongsaeng well, so they would come to their own conclusions. However, I called you here today to discuss what to do next.”

“We have to stop them from saying it!” Choi Han burst out. “Cale-nim would be upset.”

“We don’t need to let Cale know,” Eruhaben points out reasonably. “He doesn’t need to worry about this too, and it’s not really a big problem.”

Alberu nods. “Eruhaben-nim is right. There is really no way to stop the rumors, but they’re not doing any real harm.”

“Why can’t we just say that none of us are involved with Young Master?” Mary asks. “Won’t people stop talking after that?”

“That won’t work,” Rosalyn shakes her head. “Denying something like this never works. It just makes it look like you have something to hide.”

“Exactly, Princess-nim is right,” Alberu agrees. “Our best official course of action would be to ignore the rumors completely. I wanted you to know about them so that you wouldn’t be surprised if you heard someone talk about it in a public setting.” Choi Han frowns at that answer, but Alberu only aims a bright smile in his direction. “Of course, if anyone approaches you privately to ask about any kind of rumors about my precious dongsaeng, feel free to respond as you wish.”

Choi Han’s answering smile appears innocent. Everyone in the room knows better than to trust it.

…

In the end, the gossip is stopped by the most unlikely person of them all. 

During the couple of weeks the rumors have been rampaging around without any checks, no one has actually been brave enough to ask for clarification from any of the people involved. Alberu, Cale and Rosalyn’s high positions stop everyone from commenting on it in their hearing, even obliquely, and Eruhaben… Well. Eruhaben is a Dragon. No one dares. 

There are a couple of people who try to broach the subject with Choi Han, thinking that the famously noble knight would not take offense. Those people end up in infirmary after Choi Han, somehow, convinces them to spar against him. 

That leaves only Mary. 

The thing about Mary is that she has a very clear, very even voice. So when she says, “I am not dating Young Master Cale-nim,” in a very crowded ballroom filled with Roan nobility, her voice carries despite the fact that she is not any louder than usual.

The nearby conversations immediately taper off as everyone strains their ears to listen. 

“Oh?” asks the madam that had had enough courage to approach Mary in her little corner. “Does someone else have the luck to be the recipient the Commander’s affection?”

“Of course not,” Mary answers, apparently not noticing that she has the attention of half the crowd. “Young Master-nim is very busy. He does not have any time nor inclination for romantic attachments.”

The crowd murmurs in agreement. The madam lifts a hand to her mouth, looking stricken. “Of course, I completely forgot.” Eyes misting over, she says, “It’s admirable that the Commander is willing to deny himself so much just to keep our kingdom safe.”

Mary nods. “Cale-nim is very dedicated to his goal.”

Everyone feels very moved, but also very curious about the Commander’s goal. They haven’t heard anything about that, beyond Cale Henituse’s well-known wish to keep everyone in the kingdom safe and happy. 

“His goal?” the madam asks, curiosity rising. 

“Yes,” Mary confirms. “It will be very difficult and very hard to accomplish, but Cale-nim will surely succeed.”

“Of course he will!” the madam exclaims. “Who would ever doubt the Commander?”

Nevertheless, people are very eager to talk about his goal. 

Very difficult and hard to accomplish? Perhaps it has something to do with his latest battles? The Commander had informed the public that he has been battling the organization behind the White Star’s power in other worlds. That is surely a feat that would bring him divine attention, and he has been seen visiting the Temple of the God of Death. 

Perhaps… perhaps those rumors about Cale Henituse ascending to the path of legend and godhood are not so far off. Everyone has heard about them, and some even believed them, but this is the first time someone from the Commander’s inner circle confirmed that there is a bigger personal goal for him in all this. 

The next day, there is some new gossip going around the taverns of Huiss City. This time, there are no bar fights, or even small brawls. 

Everyone agrees that Cale Henituse is deserving of godhood anyway. Why would they fight about it?

[pinkandpurple360]

Trying to analyse apology tour just feels like sorting through slop

The opening is bizarre. A silent treatment has blitz crawling back to be listened to, his personality has done a large backflip from the angry pained person he was the day before. To a grinning idiot trying to make his first fan like him again.

He is used in the same way now as he was in the stupid opening song of the previous - for “mean” careless sex jokes, to be contrasted against the overly sensitive weepy, whiny, half self pitying half self aggrandising “woe is me” Prince. Who is just so above that sort of thing because he’s a deep, generous, kind, occasionally naive and silly innocent romantic precious baby boi with sad backstory. Oh brother. Bring out the violins.

This type of bias from the solo author, Medrano, is just embarrassingly obvious. She gives stolas every win, all of his points are framed as right, she only lets the other character argue if he incriminates himself by warped facts, in a way that can contribute to stolas being right. She doesn’t even try and write this as an “argument.” It’s a case of her favourite OC evar educating and schooling the OC she is less fond of right now, with his superior mind and superior super deep beautiful emotions always put in a background of stars and constellations. Feelings that in truth, don’t go beyond “I want you around cause I’m lonely.”

In between making him cry and weep for our pity, she adds in moments of unfounded indignant behaviour, rage that his privilege dare be questioned, moments of malicious torment, and shaming. Copious amounts of shame. All to pleasure her audience with the satisfaction of stolas winning.

He is just enraged that his ‘feelings’ of attachement that define his identity at this point, are not being returned adequately with acts of servitude, praise, flattery, and gratitude. And while this biased scene is bad enough, Verosika has to be inserted to enable stolas and build him up as if Vivziepop isn’t doing it enough herself with this writing. Because as we probably all know, stolas doesn’t have any friends of his own. He only has Blitzøs adversaries to join with, or a loved one who Blitz is arguing with, to back him up because doing that makes blitz pissed off.

Nobody can defend stolas without just projecting their own feelings about something else, onto him. Or regurgitating his frankly irrelevant tragic backstory. Because this writer knows this is a very bare bones argument she’s trying to make. You have to squint terribly hard and erase a lot of events to make the owl look good and most importantly, look right. Because he isn’t. He’s a creep who believes he fell in love with his object and has never stopped treating him as just an object to throw gifts at in exchange for his loyalty.

He speaks in this whimpery, shaky but loud and overpowering voice, commanding the whole situation. But is given tears in his eyes between each breath enough that you don’t question it. It’s very hard to watch.

The party. What ensues is vivziepop having a slightly worrying fixation with torturing blitz and wishing death on him, using countless nameless voiceless characters as props. And all of them exist, of course, to be enablers of stolas and make him look morally good and correct. But they’re also made into such filthy commoners that the dear pretty clean beautiful prince is terrified of their barbaric rituals. Verosika while rich, is still his emotional support poor.

“He is better than him, he is better than all of them, he is better than everyone. He cries, he gives gifts, he sings songs about his lovely love. Stinky blitz only talks about penises and cloaca’s and says fuck. Stol’s is just so silly, he is baby. Poor baby. Speak from your heart baby.He deserves so much. He sings so fantastic. If you don’t think so, kill yourself.”

.

.

Definition of trying too hard. If you’re a writer and one of your OCs takes this much of an emotional hold over you, you need to stop writing and re-evaluate.

[plagueprince]

Gallows:

[ crota ] - what is your muse’s greatest failure? Gallows, on the surface, believes that he should have gotten what he deserved. Death wasn’t what he deserved, no, but what Corvus had. Attention, praise, love. He thought that if he let the Darkness in, then he could do better. Rise higher than Corvus. Bring back what was taken from him. Of course, it all failed spectacularly. He only hurt the people he so desperately wanted approval from. He failed himself, his Ghost, and Corvus, all by just demanding more than he had. Gallows just wanted more. He always wanted more. More attention. More love. More strength. More power.

[ nezarec ] - what plagues your muse's nightmares? Ice. It is cold and frigid in Gallows’ head. He is forever on Europa. The claw marks that rip the glaciers apart mirror the ones that peel the metal on his face. He walks endlessly, his boots becoming heavier and heavier with frost until he can’t move any more. Standing there, trapped in forever, he looks to the slow white sky and sees the one thing he was moving towards. The edge of a dark horizon, forever swallowing the light.

[ aksis ] - what corrupts your muse, physically or metaphorically? Physically, Stasis, if you want to get technical. Corvus has an injury from when a Stasis shard was embedded and exploded in his chest, an unhealable Darkness scar. He permanently feels cold to the touch because of this. Mentally, guilt. There's so many things he could've done or changed or fixed… but he lives with it. He doesn't let it consume him, per say, but there's reminders. Cold air on the back of his neck. A hand always resting on his knife’s sheath. Looking twice when he thinks he sees a familiar face. Constant flickers in his memory, telling him that nothing will be the same.

Corvus:

[ argos ] - what does your muse use as a shield? anger? agreeability? something else? Violence. It's what Corvus was made to do. His claws, his teeth, his speed and accuracy — all things he was built with, and all things he uses to hide the fact that he is scared to be like everyone else. He doesn't want to feel like people should, he wants to hunt as a Hunter should. But sometimes he hesitates. Sometimes he sees the fear in their eyes before it ends. Sometimes he doesn't pull the trigger.

[ nezarec ] - what plagues your muse's nightmares? Corvus doesn’t sleep, at least not often. His “sleep” is more so a meditative state. He can never fully turn his senses off, so a lot of things still filter through and bother him. If he were to sleep properly, it would not be restful. His nightmares would be so vivid due to his near-perfect memory that he would be afraid to sleep, wanting to avoid reliving bad experiences.

[ riven ] - if your muse could wish for anything, would they? what would it be? what would the consequence of wishing for it be? Corvus would wish to be harmless. He would think it would just change him physically — reform his body to an Exo standard, maybe. This would fall apart fairly quickly, though. His frame would change, yes, but painfully so, his plating warping and breaking to reshape itself into what he thought he wanted. He would then watch as Snipe stuttered in the air, his iris flickering and going dark. The light would be sapped from him as Snipe fell, crashing and splintering into a thousand pieces, like a glass toppled from a countertop. Afterwards he’d be permanently too weak to throw a punch or to hold a gun, and too scared to even try. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be harmless.

Raid Boss OC Development Questions

Questions for OCs centred around the primary bosses of each raid!

[ atheon ] - if your muse could change anything in their past, what would they change? would they change anything?

[ crota ] - what is your muse's greatest failure?

[ oryx ] - who matters most in your muse's life? does your muse let them know that?

[ aksis ] - what corrupts your muse, physically or metaphorically?

[ calus ] - is your muse a good leader?

[ argos ] - what does your muse use as a shield? anger? agreeability? something else?

[ gahlran ] - what was the first major conflict or event in your muse's life that still sticks with them?

[ val ca'uor ] - when is a moment that your muse has rebelled, whether it be for small reasons, or against something greater?

[ riven ] - if your muse could wish for anything, would they? what would it be? what would the consequence of wishing for it be?

[ insurrection prime ] - does your muse spend much time in the last city?

[ sanctified mind ] - what flower represents your muse best?

[ taniks ] - what is your muse's legacy? what will people remember them for? what do they want to be remembered for?

[ rhulk ] - what, or who, would your muse devote themself to unquestioningly? would they die for that cause, or is there nothing?

[ nezarec ] - what plagues your muse's nightmares?

[ the witness ] - what is one of your muse's main driving forces or beliefs? would anything shatter that belief?

[yelena-bellova]

Controversial opinion: I feel really bad for Joe Alwyn.