#and was that extricating to type? possibly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amethystarachnid · 3 months ago

Note

Now that you have finished the Holiday Special, I would like to request a part two of "Second Chance", please. I would love to see more of their love 🥺 living together, getting married, kids, all the cuteness possible! Thank you

SECOND CHANCE - part II

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 11k ( I can't believe the either)

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said <3

ᯓ★ Part I

ᯓ★ TW(s): none I think (?)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The mornings in the Stark Tower penthouse always start the same: sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, soft music humming in the background (Tony insists on curating daily playlists because "waking up deserves a soundtrack"), and the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen.

Your life has settled into a rhythm, an odd but comforting blend of luxury, chaos, and unfiltered love. It’s been over a year since you moved in, and even though the world now knows you as Tony Stark’s girlfriend—a title that comes with its fair share of public scrutiny—it still feels a little surreal when you wake up next to him.

This morning, you’re the first to wake, your cheek pressed against his chest. His arm is draped lazily around you, his breathing steady, a slight snore rumbling now and then. You stifle a laugh as you carefully extricate yourself from his hold, but before you can fully escape, his fingers tighten around your wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is thick with sleep, and his eyes are barely open.

“To get coffee,” you reply, smiling. “Unless you’re planning to hold me hostage all morning.”

He pulls you back against him, burying his face in your hair. “Tempting. But if you’re making coffee, I might let you go.”

You laugh, wriggling free and padding toward the kitchen. By the time the coffee is ready, Tony has shuffled out of bed, his hair a mess and his Stark Industries-branded pajama pants slightly askew. He leans against the counter, watching you with a sleepy grin as you pour two mugs.

“This is why I keep you around,” he says, taking the mug you hand him.

“Oh, really? Not for my sparkling personality or my unparalleled charm?”

He smirks, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “That too. But mostly the coffee.”

Living with Tony means life is never boring. Between his work at Stark Industries, his time with the Avengers, and his natural tendency to attract chaos, there’s always something happening.

Take last week, for example. You came home to find a half-assembled Iron Man suit sprawled across the living room, with Tony perched on the couch, wearing the gauntlet and testing out some new tech.

“Tony, why is there a missile launcher on my side of the couch?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked up, completely unbothered. “Oh, that’s not a missile launcher. It’s a miniaturized EMP. Totally harmless unless you’re an evil robot.”

You sighed, stepping over a piece of armor. “And what about this?”

“That’s a missile launcher,” he admitted, grinning sheepishly. “But don’t worry, it’s deactivated. Probably.”

Despite the chaos, there’s a sweetness to your everyday life. The little moments, like when he sneaks up behind you while you’re cooking, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing kisses to your neck. Or the nights when you curl up on the couch together, a bowl of popcorn between you, as he insists on watching “classic cinema” (which, in Tony’s mind, includes Die Hard and Back to the Future).

And then there are the spicy moments. Tony has a knack for turning the most mundane situations into opportunities for seduction.

Like the time you were trying to reorganize the pantry, and he walked in, shirtless and smirking.

“Need a hand?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorway.

“I’m fine,” you replied, reaching for a high shelf.

But then his hands were on your waist, lifting you effortlessly so you could grab the jar you were reaching for. When he set you down, his hands didn’t move, and you found yourself pressed against the counter, his lips brushing your ear.

“Are you sure you don’t need help with anything else?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Needless to say, the pantry didn’t get reorganized that day.

Of course, being Tony Stark’s girlfriend also means attending more fancy events than you ever thought possible. Charity galas, board meetings, tech expos—you’ve seen it all.

The prep for these events is almost as much fun as the events themselves. Tony insists on helping you pick out your dress, claiming he has an eye for fashion (which, annoyingly, he kind of does).

“What about this one?” you ask, holding up a sleek black gown.

He tilts his head, considering. “It’s nice. But I think something with a little more… drama.”

“Drama?”

He grins, pulling a shimmering gold dress from the rack. “Now this says ‘I’m with Tony Stark.’”

“You mean it says ‘I’m a disco ball.’”

“Exactly.”

In the end, you settle on a dress that’s somewhere between glamorous and understated—enough to make you feel confident but not so flashy that you’ll blend in with Tony’s usual flair.

When the night of the event arrives, he’s already dressed in one of his custom suits, complete with a matching pocket square. He watches you as you get ready, leaning against the doorway with a look that’s equal parts admiration and mischief.

“Are you going to stare at me all night?” you tease as you apply your lipstick.

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “Have you seen yourself?”

By the time you arrive at the event, the cameras are already flashing, reporters shouting questions as you step onto the red carpet. Tony slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close as he waves to the crowd, his confidence as effortless as ever.

“Smile, sweetheart,” he murmurs in your ear. “We’re the hottest couple in the room.”

Inside, the atmosphere is just as dazzling—chandeliers, champagne, and a sea of well-dressed guests. Tony works the room like the natural showman he is, introducing you to CEOs, celebrities, and politicians as if you’ve been a part of this world forever.

But even in the midst of the crowd, his attention is never far from you. He’ll brush his hand against yours as you pass each other, steal a kiss when no one’s looking, or whisper a sarcastic comment about someone’s over-the-top outfit, making you stifle a laugh.

And when the night finally winds down and you’re back home, kicking off your heels and collapsing onto the couch, he pulls you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you as he kisses you like he’s been waiting all night to do it.

“You were amazing tonight,” he says, his voice low and sincere.

“So were you,” you reply, smiling against his lips.

Your life with Tony isn’t perfect—no relationship is. There are arguments, moments when his work takes over, or when the pressure of being in the spotlight feels overwhelming. But through it all, there’s an unshakable bond between you, a sense that no matter what comes your way, you’ll face it together.

Like the time you had a fight over him missing dinner—again—because he was working on a new suit. You stormed out of the lab, fuming, and didn’t speak to him for the rest of the night. But the next morning, you woke up to the smell of pancakes, Tony standing in the kitchen wearing an apron that read “Genius, Billionaire, Pancake Enthusiast.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding up a plate of slightly burnt pancakes. “I suck at balancing work and life sometimes. But I’m trying. For you.”

You couldn’t stay mad at him after that.

And then there was the time he got you your own lab space in the tower, complete with every piece of equipment you could ever want.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said, your voice soft with awe as you took it all in.

“I wanted to,” he replied, his hands in his pockets as he watched your reaction. “You deserve to have your own space. Somewhere to build, create, do whatever you want.”

You turned to him, tears in your eyes, and he just shrugged, trying to play it off. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for you.”

The sun is setting, and the sky outside the penthouse windows glows in a palette of oranges, pinks, and purples that melt into one another like watercolors. New York sprawls out below, the city alive with its usual energy—traffic buzzing, lights flickering on, and the faint hum of life that never seems to rest. But up here, in the warmth of Tony’s bedroom, the world feels far away, like it belongs to someone else.

You’re standing at the window, your arms crossed lightly over your chest, wearing nothing but one of Tony’s old Black Sabbath shirts. It’s oversized and soft from years of wear, falling just enough to graze the tops of your thighs. Your hair is slightly messy from the day’s lazy lounging, and your bare feet sink into the plush rug beneath you. The scene feels like something out of a dream, the city sparkling in the distance and the man you love moving behind you.

Tony’s voice breaks the silence, a quiet rumble that makes you smile without even turning to look. “You know, you’re ruining the view.”

You glance back at him, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I said what I said,” he replies, lounging on the bed with a lazy smirk. His head is propped up on one hand, his shirt unbuttoned and his tie hanging loose from earlier in the day. He looks like he’s stepped out of a photo shoot for Genius, Billionaire, and Dangerously Handsome Quarterly. “I mean, who’s going to look at a city when you’re standing there looking like that?”

You roll your eyes, fighting the grin that tugs at your lips as you turn back to the window. “That was smooth, Stark. Really. Ten out of ten.”

“Only ten?”

You don’t answer, just shake your head with a soft laugh, and you hear him shift behind you, the mattress creaking slightly as he gets up.

A moment later, his arms slip around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. You relax into him instinctively, your hands coming to rest over his. The warmth of his touch seeps into you, grounding you in a way that only he can.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” you ask softly, your eyes still on the view.

“Tired of what?”

“This.” You gesture out at the city. “The attention. The pressure. Being… Tony Stark.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you feel him press a kiss to the curve of your neck before he answers. “Honestly? Sometimes. But it’s easier now. Because I have you.”

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, and your heart swells in your chest. You turn in his arms to face him, your hands resting lightly on his chest.

“Is that your way of saying I make your life easier?” you tease, your voice soft.

“Among other things,” he replies, his lips quirking into a smirk. But there’s something in his eyes—something vulnerable, raw, and unguarded—that makes your teasing falter.

“Tony…”

He steps back, his hands slipping from your waist as he reaches into his pocket. You furrow your brow, your curiosity piqued, but before you can ask what he’s doing, he lowers himself to one knee.

Your breath catches, your hand flying to your mouth as the realization hits you.

“Wait. Are you—?”

“Shh,” he says, holding up a finger, though his grin gives away his own nervous excitement. “Let me do this, okay? I’ve been working on my speech all week.”

You can’t help but laugh, your heart pounding as you watch him pull a small velvet box from his pocket. He opens it, revealing a stunning ring that catches the fading sunlight, its brilliance almost as dazzling as the man holding it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he begins, his voice warm and playful. “‘Tony Stark, on one knee? Is this an elaborate ploy to market a new Stark tech product?’ And honestly, fair question. But no, this isn’t a ploy. This is me—just me—asking you to let me be the luckiest bastard on the planet for the rest of my life.”

Tears well in your eyes as he continues, his usual cockiness tempered by a sincerity that takes your breath away.

“You’ve seen me at my worst,” he says, his voice softening. “And for some insane reason, you stayed. You saw the man under the suit, the flaws, the baggage, all of it, and you still chose me. I don’t know how or why, but you did. And I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

You laugh through your tears, shaking your head as he grins up at you.

“So,” he says, tilting his head slightly, “I figured, why waste any more time? Let’s make this official. What do you say?” He pauses, his grin widening. “And just so you know, the ring is fully customizable. You hate it, we’ll get a new one. We’ll get a dozen. Whatever you want.”

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head as you kneel down in front of him, your hands cupping his face.

“You are ridiculous,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Yeah, but you love it,” he replies, his grin softening into something more tender.

“I do,” you say, nodding as tears spill down your cheeks. “I love you, Tony Stark. And yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

His eyes light up, and before you know it, he’s pulling you into a kiss, his arms wrapping tightly around you as if he’s afraid to let go. You laugh against his lips, the sound mingling with his own as he holds you close.

When he finally pulls back, he slips the ring onto your finger with a precision that makes you laugh again.

“Look at that,” he says, holding your hand up to admire the ring. “Perfect fit. Must be fate.”

“Or really good measurements,” you tease, your smile so wide it hurts.

“Hey, don’t ruin my moment,” he says, feigning offense. But his grin gives him away, and he pulls you into another kiss, the world outside forgotten as the two of you bask in the quiet, overwhelming joy of the moment.

Later, as the city lights twinkle beyond the windows and the stars begin to dot the night sky, you find yourselves tangled together in bed, the ring still sparkling on your finger.

“Did you really practice that speech all week?” you ask, tracing patterns on his chest.

“Absolutely,” he replies without hesitation. “You think I just pull that kind of romance out of thin air?”

You laugh, your hand resting over his heart. “Well, it worked. So, congratulations, Mr. Stark. You’re officially stuck with me.”

He smirks, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”

And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, the city a distant hum beyond the glass, you can’t help but think that he’s right. This—this love, this life, this man—is the best decision you’ve ever made, too.

The decision to get married in Italy happens almost instantly, and of course, it’s Tony who suggests it. One evening, just a week after the proposal, you’re both curled up on the couch, sharing a pizza and brainstorming wedding ideas. You suggest something small and simple, maybe even local, but Tony scoffs so dramatically that you almost choke on your bite.

“Small and simple? Sweetheart, this is a Stark wedding,” he says, gesturing grandly like he’s unveiling a master plan. “We can’t just have a backyard barbecue and call it a day.”

“I wasn’t suggesting a barbecue,” you argue, laughing. “Just… something intimate. Lowkey.”

Tony narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to comprehend an entirely foreign concept. “Intimate, sure. But lowkey? Where’s the drama? The pizzazz? The flair?” He stands abruptly, grabbing his tablet off the coffee table and pulling up images of sprawling Italian villas, sparkling lakes, and rolling hills. “Italy. Lake Como. Picture it: sunset ceremony, wine that’ll make you cry tears of joy, and a backdrop so gorgeous it’ll make even me look like an afterthought.”

You lean over the tablet, your fingers brushing his as you swipe through the photos. You hate to admit it, but it does look incredible.

“Lake Como, huh?” you say, tilting your head.

“Trust me,” he replies, already beaming like he’s won. “You’ll love it.”

And just like that, you’re planning a destination wedding.

The next few months are a whirlwind of activity, full of laughter, occasional bickering, and more spreadsheets than you ever thought possible. Tony hires an elite team of wedding planners, but true to form, he insists on being involved in every detail, much to their dismay.

One morning, as you’re going over the guest list, Tony lounges across the couch, sipping an espresso and scrolling through his tablet.

“Okay, so I’ve narrowed down the guest list to 150 people,” you say, looking up from your notebook.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Only 150? What about the Stark Industries board? Or the press?”

You groan, throwing a pillow at him. “Tony, this isn’t a corporate launch party. It’s our wedding. We’re not inviting the press.”

He dodges the pillow with a laugh, setting down his tablet to pull you into his lap. “Fine, fine. No press.”

Moments like this—when it’s just the two of you, teasing and laughing—make the chaos of planning worthwhile.

The dress becomes a point of contention about halfway through the process.

Tony insists on knowing every single detail of the wedding, from the floral arrangements (white roses with touches of blush pink) to the menu (a five-course Italian feast that he swears will ruin you for all other food). But when it comes to your wedding dress, you refuse to budge.

“You’re not seeing it until I walk down the aisle,” you say firmly one afternoon as you finalize plans for your first fitting.

Tony stares at you like you’ve just announced you’re canceling the wedding altogether. “Wait, what? Why not? I’m paying for it!”

“And it’s going to be a surprise,” you say sweetly, patting his cheek.

“Surprises are overrated,” he grumbles, crossing his arms.

“Not this one,” you reply, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

Despite his protests, you stick to your guns, and Tony spends the next few months sulking every time the dress is mentioned. You catch him trying to bribe your best friend for details once (“Come on, just tell me if it’s got sparkles”), but she doesn’t crack, much to your delight.

Planning a wedding with Tony Stark also means dealing with the occasional unexpected distraction.

Like the time he accidentally blew up part of his workshop while testing a new prototype. You were on a video call with the wedding planner, discussing seating arrangements, when the explosion rattled the entire tower.

“Tony!” you shouted, rushing down to the lab.

When you got there, he was covered in soot, grinning sheepishly as Dum-E sprayed him with a fire extinguisher.

“Don’t worry,” he said, coughing. “It’s under control. Mostly.”

“You’re going to be late to the cake tasting,” you scolded, dragging him upstairs.

He laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You love me even when I’m a disaster.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, though you couldn’t hide your smile.

Before you know it, the big day arrives.

The villa on Lake Como is even more stunning than you imagined. The ceremony is set up on a sprawling terrace overlooking the water, with rows of chairs draped in white fabric and flowers adorning every surface. The air is warm and fragrant, the sound of the lake gently lapping against the shore creating a serene backdrop.

As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in shades of gold and lavender, you stand in a quiet room with your best friend, your dress perfectly fitted, your heart pounding.

“You ready?” she asks, smiling as she adjusts your veil.

You nod, taking a deep breath. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”

Meanwhile, Tony waits at the altar, looking dashing in his custom tuxedo. But for all his usual confidence, there’s a nervous energy about him as he glances toward the entrance. Rhodey nudges him, grinning.

“Relax,” Rhodey says. “She’s not going to stand you up.”

“Shut up,” Tony mutters, though he can’t help but smile.

When the music starts, and the doors open, everything else fades.

You step into view, and for a moment, Tony forgets how to breathe. You’re radiant, your dress a perfect blend of elegance and simplicity, and the look in your eyes as you meet his gaze is enough to make his knees weak.

As you walk down the aisle, your heart swells with love and anticipation. When you reach Tony, he takes your hands, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“You’re stunning,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you reply, smiling through your tears.

The ceremony is beautiful, filled with laughter and heartfelt vows that make everyone in attendance misty-eyed. Tony’s vow, in true Stark fashion, is equal parts romantic and funny.

“I never thought I’d find someone who could put up with my nonsense,” he says, his voice warm. “But then you came along and not only put up with it, but somehow made me better. You’re my partner, my equal, and the love of my life. And I promise to spend the rest of my days loving you—flaws, genius, and all.”

Your vows are just as heartfelt, and by the time you exchange rings, there’s not a dry eye in the house.

The reception is a blur of joy and celebration. Guests dance under strings of twinkling lights, the food is every bit as incredible as Tony promised, and the speeches are both hilarious and touching.

But for you and Tony, the highlight of the night is the quiet moment you steal away from the crowd. You find yourselves on a balcony overlooking the lake, the stars reflected in the water below.

Tony wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“So,” he says softly, his voice filled with wonder. “We did it.”

“We did,” you reply, leaning back against him.

He turns you around, his hands framing your face as he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world. “Mrs. Stark,” he murmurs, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

You smile, your hands resting on his chest. “I like the sound of that.”

He kisses you then, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. And as the stars shine above and the world falls away, you know that this—this love, this life, this man—is everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more.

The first days of being married feel like a dream you never want to wake up from. The wedding was magical, but the aftermath—the quiet moments where it’s just the two of you—is even better. You wake up the morning after the wedding in Tony’s arms, sunlight spilling through the villa’s curtains. His hair is an endearing mess, his face softened by sleep. When he finally stirs, the first thing he does is pull you closer, murmuring a sleepy “Good morning, Mrs. Stark.” The words make your heart skip a beat every time he says them, and he takes full advantage of that, slipping the phrase into every conversation for the next several days.

“Mrs. Stark, do you want pancakes or waffles?” “Mrs. Stark, are you aware of how incredible you look in my shirt?” “Mrs. Stark, could you pass me that screwdriver? Thanks, you’re the best wife ever.”

You let him have his fun because, truthfully, you love it.

The honeymoon in Italy stretches on for a few more days, spent exploring charming lakeside towns, indulging in decadent food, and stealing kisses in picturesque corners like a couple from a movie. Tony insists on spoiling you at every turn, booking private tours and surprise candlelit dinners. He claims it’s to celebrate “locking down the deal of a lifetime,” but you know it’s because he can’t resist going all out when it comes to you.

When you finally return to New York, reality hits in the form of a media frenzy. The press had already been obsessed with your relationship before, but your wedding—Tony Stark marrying the woman who tamed him—has become the headline of the year. Paparazzi swarm the tower, headlines range from heartfelt to ridiculous (“Genius Billionaire Finally Meets His Match” and “Mrs. Stark: Who Is She, and How Did She Do It?”), and fans on social media dissect every detail of the wedding pictures that somehow made their way online.

Tony, of course, takes it all in stride, basking in the attention like it’s his natural habitat. He gives you a cheeky grin one morning as he reads an article aloud, his feet propped up on the kitchen counter. “‘Tony Stark’s wedding sets new standard for billionaire romance.’ Sounds about right, don’t you think, Mrs. Stark?”

You roll your eyes, stealing his coffee cup and taking a sip. “Are you going to call me that forever?”

“Forever,” he replies, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “Get used to it.”

Despite the chaos outside, life inside the tower settles into a new rhythm. You fall into a comfortable routine with Tony, your days filled with work, laughter, and the kind of love that feels almost too good to be true. The other Avengers quickly adapt to your new title as well, with Clint jokingly saluting you as “the boss’s boss” and Natasha subtly slipping “Mrs. Stark” into conversation whenever she can just to see you smile.

The real surprise comes a few months later. You’re in the middle of a particularly lazy afternoon, curled up on the couch with a book while Tony tinkers with something in the lab, when you start to notice a pattern. You’ve been unusually tired lately, your emotions swinging wildly between laughter and tears, and then there’s the morning sickness that hit you out of nowhere. At first, you chalked it up to stress or maybe a lingering flu, but now… you have a feeling there’s something more.

The thought sends a jolt of excitement and nervousness through you, and the next morning, you quietly sneak out to buy a test. When the results come back positive, you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the little plastic stick in disbelief.

You’re pregnant.

The realization hits you like a tidal wave. You and Tony are going to have a baby. The thought fills you with so much joy you can hardly contain it, but it’s mixed with a flutter of nerves. How do you tell the man who built a suit of armor to protect himself that he’s about to become a dad?

That evening, after mulling over a dozen ideas, you settle on something simple but quintessentially Stark. You order a tiny baby onesie online and have it customized with the words, Iron Baby No. 1 on the way, ETA nine months. When it arrives a few days later, you hide it in a gift box and wait for the perfect moment.

The moment comes one evening when Tony’s in the kitchen, making what he calls his “famous” grilled cheese. He’s in a relaxed mood, humming along to the playlist he’s put on, and you decide this is it.

“Hey,” you say casually, walking over with the box behind your back.

He glances up from the stove, his face lighting up when he sees you. “Hey, gorgeous. What’s up?”

“I got you a present,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

Tony raises an eyebrow, setting down the spatula. “A present? For me? What’s the occasion?”

“Just open it,” you say, handing him the box.

He grins, clearly intrigued, and tears into the wrapping paper like a kid on Christmas morning. When he lifts the lid and sees the tiny onesie, his expression shifts from confusion to realization, his eyes widening as he reads the words.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at the onesie like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen. Then he looks up at you, his eyes shimmering with tears.

“Are you serious?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, tears welling in your own eyes. “I’m serious. We’re having a baby.”

Tony sets the box down carefully on the counter before pulling you into his arms. His embrace is so tight it nearly takes your breath away, but you don’t mind. You can feel him trembling slightly as he buries his face in your neck, his emotions pouring out in a way that’s so rare for him.

“I’m going to be a dad,” he says, his voice cracking. “Holy shit. I’m going to be a dad.”

“You are,” you whisper, your hands running soothingly over his back.

When he finally pulls back, his face is wet with tears, but his smile is brighter than you’ve ever seen it. He cups your face in his hands, kissing you deeply before resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he says, his voice full of awe. “I love you so much. And I love…” He places a hand gently on your stomach, his touch reverent. “I love this little one already.”

You laugh softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “I had a feeling you’d be happy.”

“Happy? Are you kidding?” He laughs, though his voice is still thick with emotion. “This is… this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. To us.”

Over the next few weeks, Tony shifts into full-on protective mode. He insists on accompanying you to every doctor’s appointment, interrogates the OB-GYN like they’re a candidate for a top-secret Stark Industries position, and starts researching the best baby gear money can buy. You come home one day to find him in the nursery he’s set up, designing what he calls “baby-safe tech” to keep the little one entertained and protected.

“Tony,” you say, laughing as you lean against the doorframe. “You do realize we’re not raising a baby genius in a lab, right?”

“Speak for yourself,” he replies, not looking up from his holographic blueprint. “This kid’s going to be the smartest, safest, most spoiled little Stark in history.”

You shake your head, your heart swelling with love. Seeing him like this—so invested, so excited—makes you fall for him all over again.

As the weeks turn into months, the excitement grows, both inside the tower and out. The press catches wind of the pregnancy, and the news spreads like wildfire. Headlines range from adoring to absurd, but you and Tony take it all in stride, focusing on the joy of building your family together.

One night, as you’re lying in bed, Tony rests his hand on your growing bump, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin.

“You know,” he says softly, his voice laced with wonder, “I used to think I’d never have this. A family. Someone to love me for who I am, not what I can give them.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over his stubble. “And now?”

“Now I know I was wrong,” he replies, leaning down to kiss you.

The idea for the gender reveal is Tony’s, though it surprises you because he’s usually one for grand gestures. But as he gently suggests the idea of keeping it just the two of you, something in his voice—soft, hopeful—makes your heart melt.

“You’re sure?” you ask one evening, resting your hands on your growing belly as you sit on the couch. “No big party? No fireworks shaped like an Iron Man suit?”

Tony grins, sitting beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Sweetheart, I’ve done the fireworks. I’ve done the parties. But this… this is different. This is us.” He pauses, glancing at your belly with a tenderness that still catches you off guard. “I want it to be about you and me and the peanut.”

“Peanut?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, peanut for now. Until they grow into something more Stark-like. Maybe ‘genius’ or ‘CEO.’”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays how much you love him. “Fine. Let’s do something just for us.”

A week later, you’re in the kitchen with Tony, standing before a modest but beautiful cake. The frosting is plain white, with delicate swirls along the edges. Inside, the baker promised, is either blue or pink to reveal the baby’s gender.

Tony’s practically buzzing with excitement as he hands you the knife. “You do the honors, Mrs. Stark.”

You take the knife, your hand trembling slightly, but before you can cut, he places his hand over yours.

“Wait,” he says, his voice softer now. He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. “No matter what, this kid’s going to have the best parents in the world. Okay?”

Tears sting your eyes, and you nod, smiling up at him. “Okay.”

Together, you press the knife into the cake and lift the first slice, your breath catching as the color is revealed.

“It’s a girl,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

Tony stares at the pink cake, his mouth slightly open. Then his face breaks into the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen. “A girl,” he repeats, as if testing the words. He looks at you, his eyes shining. “We’re having a little Starkette.”

You laugh through your tears, setting the knife down to wrap your arms around him. He holds you tightly, his hand gently cradling the back of your head.

“I hope she’s just like you,” he murmurs against your hair.

“And I hope she’s just like you,” you reply, pulling back to meet his gaze.

“God, I hope not,” he jokes, though his voice is thick with emotion. “The world can barely handle one of me.”

In the weeks that follow, Tony becomes even more attached to your growing belly. Every evening, without fail, he rests his head against it and talks to the baby.

“Hey, Starkette,” he says one night as you lie in bed, his hand gently rubbing circles on your belly. “It’s me, your dad. I just want you to know that you’re already smarter than half the people I’ve ever worked with. And that’s saying something.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “Tony, she’s not even born yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, pressing a soft kiss to your belly. “She’s already a Stark. Genius is in her DNA.”

Sometimes, he sings to her—soft, off-key renditions of songs that make you laugh until your sides hurt. Other times, he reads aloud from baby books, though he always adds his own commentary.

“Oh, look at this,” he says one evening, flipping through a parenting book. “‘Babies cry to communicate their needs.’ Really? That’s groundbreaking information. Did we pay for this book?”

Despite his jokes, you can see how deeply he’s invested in this new chapter of your lives. The sight of him doting on you and the baby makes you fall in love with him all over again.

Choosing a name becomes an adventure in itself.

Tony suggests everything from obscure historical figures to names of constellations. At one point, he even suggests “Arc,” claiming it’s a nod to his arc reactor and “totally cool.”

“Tony,” you say, barely suppressing your laughter. “We are not naming our daughter after a piece of tech.”

“Fine,” he replies, pretending to sulk. “But don’t come crying to me when she asks why she doesn’t have a cool name.”

After weeks of debate, you finally settle on a name that feels perfect: Morgan.

“Why Morgan?” Tony asks one evening as you lie together on the couch.

You shrug, smiling softly. “It’s strong but sweet. And it feels… right.”

Tony repeats the name under his breath, testing it out. Then he smiles, nodding. “Morgan Stark. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

The day Morgan arrives starts like any other. You wake up to the sound of Tony tinkering in the lab, but by mid-morning, the first contractions hit.

“Tony!” you shout from the living room, clutching the back of the couch.

He appears within seconds, his eyes wide. “What? What is it? Is the tower on fire again?”

You glare at him, though the pain is already making you wince. “No, you idiot. The baby’s coming.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his face going pale. Then he snaps into action, grabbing your hospital bag and practically carrying you to the car.

The ride to the hospital is a blur of Tony panicking and you trying not to laugh between contractions.

“Do we have everything?” he asks, his voice frantic. “The bag? The paperwork? Did we forget anything? Oh God, what if we—”

“Tony,” you interrupt, reaching for his hand. “It’s fine. I promise. Just focus on driving.”

When you arrive at the hospital, Tony is a mix of nerves and excitement. He holds your hand through every contraction, whispering words of encouragement and pressing kisses to your forehead.

“You’re amazing,” he says as you breathe through the pain. “You’ve got this. You’re a freaking superhero.”

The delivery is intense, and at one point, you think you might actually break Tony’s hand with how tightly you’re gripping it. But he doesn’t complain, just keeps murmuring reassurances and brushing your hair back from your face.

And then, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the first cry.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor announces, holding up your squirming, pink-faced baby.

Tears stream down your face as they place her on your chest. Tony stares in awe, his eyes glassy as he leans down to kiss your forehead.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, your heart overflowing as you gaze down at your daughter. “Hi, Morgan,” you murmur, your voice trembling.

In the hours that follow, Tony can hardly take his eyes off Morgan. He holds her like she’s the most precious thing in the world, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he cradles her tiny form.

“She’s so small,” he marvels, staring down at her. “How can something so tiny have such a big impact?”

You smile, resting your head against his shoulder. “That’s what love does.”

Tony looks at you then, his eyes full of gratitude and adoration. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For her. For us.”

Over the next few days, the tower becomes a hub of celebration. The Avengers take turns visiting, each one fawning over Morgan in their own way. Even Clint, who jokes about having enough kids of his own, is smitten.

But at the end of the day, it’s the quiet moments with just the three of you that mean the most.

One evening, as you sit in the nursery, watching Tony rock Morgan to sleep, you feel an overwhelming sense of peace.

“Welcome to the world, Morgan Stark,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her tiny forehead.

The first days at the hospital are a whirlwind of exhaustion, joy, and learning curves that neither you nor Tony could have anticipated. You’re still lying in the hospital bed, Morgan nestled in your arms, when the nurse comes in with a soft smile and an armful of pamphlets. She explains everything from feeding to burping, swaddling to diaper changing. You listen attentively, but Tony’s focus is entirely on Morgan. His hands are gentle but a little awkward as he cradles her tiny head, his face full of wonder.

When the nurse shows him how to hold Morgan correctly, Tony nods along seriously, but the second she leaves, he looks at you with mock indignation. “I think she thought I didn’t know how to hold a baby,” he says, feigning offense.

You laugh softly, your body still sore but your heart full. “Do you?”

“I’m a genius, remember?” he says, lifting Morgan a little higher, though he holds her like she’s made of glass. “But… okay, I might have needed a little help.”

It becomes clear quickly that while Tony can invent world-changing technology, mastering baby care is a completely different challenge. He spends fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to swaddle Morgan properly, only for her to immediately kick her legs free. “It’s a conspiracy,” he mutters, trying again as you laugh from the bed. “I’m telling you, she’s already smarter than me.”

Feeding Morgan proves to be a team effort. The nurses show you how to breastfeed while Tony hovers nearby, asking a million questions that make the staff chuckle. “Is she getting enough? How do we know? What if she’s still hungry?”

“Tony,” you say gently, placing a hand on his arm. “She’s fine. Trust me.”

He sighs but nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Later, when it’s time to bottle feed, Tony insists on being the one to do it. He sits in the chair beside your bed, Morgan nestled in his arms, and looks up at you with a proud grin. “I think she likes me,” he says as she sucks greedily on the bottle.

“She’s a Stark,” you reply with a smile. “Of course, she likes you.”

The nurses come in periodically to check on you and the baby, and each time, they offer more advice. By the end of your stay, your head is swimming with information, but Tony’s enthusiasm makes it easier. He takes notes—actual notes—and even sketches out diagrams for things like diaper changes.

“Who knew being a parent involved so much engineering?” he jokes, but there’s a genuine determination in his eyes.

Finally, after a few days, you’re cleared to go home. The excitement of leaving the hospital is quickly tempered by the reality of the paparazzi camped outside. News of Morgan’s birth had leaked almost immediately, and now the world is desperate for the first glimpse of Tony Stark’s baby girl.

You sit in the hospital room, holding Morgan close, while Tony stands by the window, peering through the blinds. “It’s like a circus out there,” he mutters, turning to look at you. “They’re not getting a single shot of her face. Not until we decide.”

You nod, your protective instincts flaring. “How do we get past them?”

Tony smirks, his confidence returning. “I’ve got a plan.”

The plan involves Happy pulling up to the hospital’s front entrance in a decoy car while you, Tony, and Morgan slip out through a back exit. Wrapped in a soft pink blanket and nestled securely in your arms, Morgan is hidden from view as you rush to an unmarked SUV waiting in the alley. Tony shields you both, his arm around your shoulders, and Happy drives like a man on a mission once you’re inside.

By the time you arrive at the tower, the paparazzi are still circling the hospital, none the wiser. Tony grins as he steps out of the car, glancing at you. “Mission accomplished, Mrs. Stark.”

Inside the tower, the chaos of the outside world melts away. The nursery is ready, every detail meticulously planned by Tony. The walls are painted a soft, calming gray, accented with touches of pink and gold. A custom crib sits in the corner, along with shelves stocked with books and toys.

You place Morgan in her crib for the first time, your heart swelling as you watch her tiny chest rise and fall. Tony stands beside you, his hand resting on your lower back.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice full of awe.

The first night at home is… an adventure. Morgan wakes up every two hours, her cries piercing through the quiet of the penthouse. You take turns getting up with her, though Tony insists on doing most of the work.

“You just gave birth,” he says, gently taking Morgan from your arms when she cries again at three in the morning. “I’ve got this. You sleep.”

You don’t argue, though you can’t resist peeking into the nursery an hour later. You find Tony sitting in the rocking chair, Morgan cradled against his chest as he hums softly. It’s a sight that makes your heart ache with love.

In the days that follow, you and Tony fall into a rhythm. It’s far from perfect—there are diaper disasters, sleepless nights, and moments where you both feel completely overwhelmed—but there’s also so much joy.

One afternoon, you walk into the nursery to find Tony lying on the floor beside Morgan’s playmat, his finger grasped tightly in her tiny hand. He looks up at you with a goofy grin. “She’s got a strong grip,” he says. “She’s going to be an inventor. Or maybe a pilot.”

You laugh, sitting down beside him. “Or maybe she’ll be an artist. Or a writer.”

“Whatever she wants,” Tony agrees, leaning over to kiss your temple.

Mealtimes become a highlight of your days. Tony insists on taking charge of the bottle feeds, claiming it’s “bonding time” with his daughter. He talks to her as she eats, telling her stories about his adventures as Iron Man and the time he built a robot that accidentally tried to take over the world.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his tone light. “We’ll teach you to build better robots.”

When Morgan isn’t eating or sleeping, she’s the center of attention. Tony spends hours playing with her, making silly faces and inventing little gadgets to keep her entertained. One evening, he proudly unveils a tiny Stark-branded mobile that lights up and plays lullabies.

“Look at that,” he says as he hangs it over her crib. “Custom-made for the best baby in the world.”

You smile, leaning against him as you watch Morgan’s eyes widen at the softly glowing lights. “You’re going to spoil her rotten.”

“Absolutely,” he replies without hesitation, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

Despite the exhaustion, these first days are some of the happiest of your life. There’s a quiet magic in the way your little family is coming together, in the small moments that remind you of how much love surrounds you.

One night, as you sit on the couch with Morgan asleep in your arms, Tony comes over and sits beside you. He leans down to kiss Morgan’s forehead, then rests his head against your shoulder.

“We did good,” he murmurs, his voice soft.

You smile, your heart full. “Yeah, we did.”

And as you sit there, with your daughter in your arms and your husband by your side, you know that this is just the beginning of a beautiful journey.

Morgan’s first year is a series of milestones that come at you faster than you’re ready for. One morning, as you’re feeding her in the kitchen, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the high chair, you notice something new. She’s gnawing relentlessly on one of her teething rings, a tiny scowl of determination on her face.

“Tony,” you call over your shoulder. He’s tinkering with some gadget at the counter, but he looks up immediately.

“What’s up?”

You motion toward Morgan, who has abandoned her teething ring and is now attempting to bite the tray of her high chair. “I think we’re entering teething territory.”

Tony sets down his tools and comes over, crouching to her eye level. “What’s going on, little Starkette? You trying to eat your way to freedom?”

Morgan responds with a high-pitched squeal that makes both of you laugh.

Teething quickly becomes a challenging phase, and Morgan is not shy about letting the world know how much she dislikes it. She chews on everything—her toys, your fingers, Tony’s hoodie strings. One night, as you’re watching a movie together, she grabs the edge of Tony’s expensive leather belt and shoves it into her mouth.

“Hey, hey!” Tony says, gently pulling it away. “That’s Italian leather, kiddo!”

You laugh, handing her a proper teething toy. “Welcome to parenthood. Nothing is safe.”

Tony takes the challenge of teething head-on, dedicating hours to researching remedies. He orders every teething toy imaginable and even develops a custom one that vibrates slightly to soothe her gums. When he proudly presents it to you, you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Only our child would have a high-tech teething toy,” you tease.

“Hey,” Tony says, holding up a hand. “If she’s going to chew on something, it might as well be Stark-approved.”

Despite the sleepless nights and the constant need for gum-soothing gel, there are sweet moments too. Like the way Morgan clings to you when she’s particularly cranky, her tiny hands fisting your shirt as she nuzzles into your chest. Or the way Tony sings softly to her as he rocks her in his arms, his voice low and soothing even when he’s dead tired.

One morning, as you’re sitting on the living room floor with Morgan in your lap, she surprises you by letting out a string of sounds that almost—almost—sound like words.

“Ba-ba-da-da,” she babbles, her little fists waving excitedly.

You gasp, looking over at Tony, who’s lounging on the couch with a cup of coffee. “Did you hear that?”

Tony grins, setting his mug down. “Of course I did. That’s pure Stark genius right there.”

“She’s just babbling,” you say, though your heart swells with pride.

“Don’t sell her short,” Tony replies, scooping her up and lifting her high in the air. Morgan squeals with delight, her chubby arms reaching for him. “She’s probably already working out her first patent.”

As the weeks pass, Morgan’s babbling becomes more frequent and animated. She talks to her toys, to you, to Tony, and even to Dum-E, who dutifully beeps in response. One day, as Tony is feeding her, she looks up at him with her big brown eyes and says something that sounds suspiciously like “Dada.”

Tony freezes, the spoon halfway to her mouth. “Did you just… did you just call me Dada?”

You’re watching from the doorway, and you can’t help but laugh. “I think she did.”

Tony’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. He sets the spoon down and pulls Morgan into his arms, holding her close. “That’s right, baby girl,” he says, his voice full of emotion. “I’m Dada.”

Not long after, Morgan starts to show signs that she’s ready to crawl. She spends hours on her belly, wiggling and rocking back and forth as she tries to figure it out. Tony, ever the innovator, decides to “help” her by building a tiny baby-sized robot that moves just out of her reach, encouraging her to chase it.

“Tony,” you say, crossing your arms as you watch him test it in the living room. “You can’t engineer her milestones.”

“I’m not engineering,” he insists, though his grin betrays him. “I’m motivating.”

Morgan seems to agree because within a few days, she’s crawling across the floor with surprising speed, determined to catch the little robot. You cheer her on, clapping and laughing as she finally grabs it and lets out a triumphant giggle.

From that point on, nothing in the penthouse is safe. Morgan is everywhere, pulling herself up on furniture, opening cabinets, and exploring every nook and cranny she can reach. Tony installs baby-proofing measures at an alarming rate, though he still insists on letting her “experiment” within reason.

“She’s curious,” he says one evening as Morgan pulls herself up on the edge of the coffee table. “That’s a good thing.”

“It is,” you agree, though you keep a close eye on her as she wobbles precariously.

The day Morgan takes her first steps is one you’ll never forget. She’s standing near the couch, holding onto the edge for support, when suddenly she lets go. You and Tony are sitting on the floor, a few feet away, watching her with wide eyes.

“Come on, Morgan,” Tony coaxes, holding out his hands. “You can do it.”

She wobbles, her little legs unsteady, but then she takes one step. And then another.

“Tony,” you whisper, your hands flying to your mouth.

“I see it,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

Morgan takes three more steps before tumbling into Tony’s arms, giggling as he scoops her up and spins her around.

“You did it!” he exclaims, pressing kisses all over her face. “That’s my girl!”

You’re crying by the time he looks at you, and he grins, holding Morgan out toward you. “Your turn, Mom.”

You pull her into your arms, kissing her forehead and whispering how proud you are. It’s a moment that feels almost too perfect to be real.

As Morgan grows, her vocabulary starts to expand. Her first word, unsurprisingly, is “Dada,” which Tony proudly declares is the best thing he’s ever heard. But her second word, “Mama,” quickly follows, and you feel an overwhelming surge of love when she says it for the first time.

She picks up other words too—“up,” “no,” and “cookie” become favorites—but her babbling remains a constant source of entertainment. She has long, animated “conversations” with you and Tony, complete with hand gestures and facial expressions.

“She’s definitely your daughter,” you tease Tony one evening as Morgan waves her arms dramatically, babbling at the top of her lungs.

“She’s got your sass,” he counters, smirking.

Through it all, the two of you marvel at how quickly she’s growing and changing. Every milestone feels like a little miracle, a reminder of just how much love and joy she’s brought into your lives.

And as you watch her toddle across the living room one evening, her tiny feet padding against the floor, you realize that this is what happiness truly looks like. A life full of love, laughter, and the sweetest little girl in the world.

Life with toddler Morgan is a delightful mix of chaos, laughter, and the kind of exhaustion you wouldn’t trade for anything. She’s a whirlwind of energy, always exploring, always asking questions—or rather, yelling, “Why?” in her tiny voice as she points to every object she can find. You and Tony quickly learn that raising a toddler is a whole new kind of challenge, but also, it’s endlessly rewarding.

From the moment Morgan wakes up in the morning, she’s a ball of energy. She’s in the phase where she wants to do everything “by herself,” which means you often find her trying to pull on her socks upside-down or insisting on pouring her own juice, resulting in small floods on the kitchen counter.

“Did we adopt a tiny Tony Stark?” you ask one morning, watching her stubbornly refuse your help as she attempts to zip up her jacket.

“Excuse me,” Tony replies, sipping his coffee while lounging against the counter. “She’s a perfect blend of your determination and my brilliance.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, arching an eyebrow as Morgan gives up on the zipper and stomps her foot in frustration. “Your brilliance is why we now have a child who insists on building towers out of every item in the living room, including the remote and your sunglasses.”

Tony grins, crouching beside Morgan to help her with the zipper. “Don’t crush her creativity, babe.”

The penthouse is now toddler-proofed to a degree that feels both excessive and still somehow inadequate. Every corner has been padded, every sharp object locked away. Still, Morgan manages to find ways to keep you both on your toes. She’s discovered the joy of climbing, which means nothing is out of reach—not even the countertop.

One afternoon, as you’re folding laundry, you hear a crash from the kitchen, followed by Tony’s panicked voice.

“Morgan! No! You can’t—oh, my God, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You rush in to find Morgan perched precariously on a stool, reaching for the cookie jar on the highest shelf. Tony is holding the stool steady, looking both impressed and horrified.

“She’s got determination,” he says, glancing at you with a sheepish grin.

“She’s going to give me a heart attack,” you reply, scooping her up and giving her a stern look. “No more climbing, little miss.”

Morgan giggles, clearly unbothered by the reprimand. “Cookies!” she declares, pointing at the jar.

“She’s definitely your kid,” Tony mutters, earning a playful swat on the arm from you.

Despite the chaos, you and Tony try your best to find moments of intimacy. It’s not always easy with a toddler running around, but you both know how important it is to keep your connection strong.

Late at night, after Morgan has gone to bed, you often find yourselves curled up on the couch together, sharing a bottle of wine and talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes, Tony pulls you into his lap and kisses you like it’s the first time all over again, his hands sliding over your back as if he can’t get enough of you.

One night, as you’re lying in bed together, Tony turns to you with that mischievous glint in his eye.

“You know,” he says, trailing his fingers along your arm, “we make pretty amazing kids.”

You smile, already knowing where this is going. “Oh, do we?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “Morgan’s a genius in the making. Imagine if we had another one.”

You laugh softly, turning to face him. “Are you suggesting we try for baby number two?”

“Maybe,” he replies, his voice low and teasing. “I mean, why stop at one when we’re so good at this?”

His hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer, and you roll your eyes even as your heart flutters. “You just want an excuse to keep me barefoot and pregnant, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” he says, feigning offense. “I want an excuse to have more of you.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and before you know it, he’s kissing you deeply, his hands roaming your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

“Tony,” you murmur against his lips, but he silences you with another kiss, his intentions clear.

Needless to say, the idea of a second baby becomes a topic of serious discussion—and action.

Meanwhile, Morgan keeps you both busy during the day. She’s entered the “why” phase with a vengeance, questioning everything from why the sky is blue to why Tony’s suit can fly. Tony, ever the teacher, takes her questions as opportunities to explain science in the simplest terms possible.

“Because, kiddo,” he says one afternoon, crouching beside her as she pokes at one of his gauntlets, “when air moves faster, pressure drops, and that helps create lift. That’s how planes—and my suit—stay in the air.”

Morgan looks at him with wide eyes, nodding solemnly before asking, “Why?”

You laugh from the couch, watching Tony try to answer her endless stream of questions. “You’re in for it now,” you tease.

“Don’t worry,” he replies, winking at you. “She’s a quick learner, just like her mom.”

One of your favorite moments comes when Morgan starts to show an interest in music. She’s discovered Tony’s collection of old records and insists on playing them every evening. Watching her dance around the living room, her little feet stomping to the beat, fills your heart with a joy you didn’t know was possible.

“She’s got moves,” Tony says one night, pulling you into his arms as Morgan twirls around in her pajamas.

“She gets that from me,” you reply, grinning.

Tony laughs, spinning you around as the music plays. “Sure she does.”

Despite the busyness of raising a toddler, you and Tony make time for yourselves as a couple. You sneak away for date nights when Happy or Pepper can babysit, though you always end up talking about Morgan within the first ten minutes.

One evening, after putting Morgan to bed, Tony surprises you with a romantic setup on the balcony—candles, champagne, the works.

“What’s the occasion?” you ask, leaning against him as you gaze out at the city lights.

“Do I need an occasion to spoil my wife?” he replies, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Moments like these remind you of how lucky you are to have him—not just as a partner, but as the most incredible father to your daughter.

As the weeks go by, you find yourself wondering if maybe, just maybe, another little Stark would be the perfect addition to your family. And judging by the way Tony looks at you every time Morgan does something adorable, he’s thinking the same thing.

It’s one of those mornings where the world feels calm, rare moments of peace in the Stark household. The sun is streaming through the windows, and Morgan is sitting at the kitchen table, coloring in her book with her usual level of intensity. Tony is at the counter, making what he swears is “the best pancakes you’ve ever had,” wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt that Morgan insisted he wear because it matches hers—bright pink with a cartoon unicorn on it.

You’re leaning against the counter, holding a mug of tea, trying to figure out the best way to tell Tony the news that’s been buzzing inside you for the past week. You’ve been keeping the pregnancy test hidden in your nightstand, waiting for the right moment to share it. And now, as you watch Tony flip pancakes with Morgan’s enthusiastic commentary in the background, you know the moment is here.

“Hey, Tony?” you say, setting your mug down and crossing the kitchen.

“Yeah, babe?” he answers, not looking up from the griddle.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against his back. “I need to tell you something.”

“Hmm?” he hums, turning his head slightly to glance at you over his shoulder.

You pause for a moment, your heart pounding with both excitement and nerves. Then, you step back and pull the small onesie you’ve been hiding out from your pocket. It’s white, with the words “Iron Baby No. 2 ETA: 9 Months” printed on it in bold letters.

Tony turns fully to look at you, his brow furrowed. His eyes fall on the onesie, and it takes a second for the meaning to click. When it does, his jaw drops.

“Wait. Are you—?!”

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. “We’re having another baby.”

Tony stares at you, completely still for a beat, before his face lights up with that signature Stark grin. He lets out a laugh of pure joy and scoops you into his arms, spinning you around right there in the middle of the kitchen.

“Another Stark genius on the way!” he exclaims, his voice brimming with pride and excitement. “Oh my God, babe, this is—wow. Just wow.”

Morgan, still at the table, looks up from her coloring book, her little face scrunching in confusion. “Daddy, why you spinning Mommy?”

Tony sets you down gently, his hands still on your waist, and crouches down to Morgan’s level. “Well, peanut, we’ve got some big news to share with you.”

Morgan blinks, her crayon poised midair. “Big news?”

You kneel beside Tony, taking her tiny hand in yours. “You’re going to be a big sister, sweetheart. Mommy’s going to have a baby.”

Morgan’s eyes go wide, and she looks between the two of you. “A baby?!” she squeals, her face lighting up with excitement.

“That’s right,” Tony says, pulling her onto his lap. “There’s a baby growing in Mommy’s tummy right now.”

Morgan stares at your stomach like she’s expecting to see the baby immediately. “Right now?” she asks, her little hands gently pressing against your belly.

“Right now,” you confirm, smiling at her curiosity.

Her expression shifts into something thoughtful, and then she asks, “Can I share my toys with the baby?”

Your heart melts, and Tony lets out a laugh, hugging her tightly. “That’s a great idea, peanut. You’re going to be the best big sister ever.”

Over the next few weeks, Morgan becomes completely obsessed with the idea of the baby. She asks a million questions—“How does the baby get in there?” (to which Tony coughs and quickly changes the subject), “When will the baby come out?” and, most frequently, “Is the baby going to like me?”

Tony takes every opportunity to reassure her. “Of course the baby’s going to love you,” he tells her one evening as they’re building a block tower together. “You’re going to be their favorite person.”

When you find out the baby is a boy, Morgan’s excitement reaches new heights. “A baby brother!” she exclaims, jumping up and down. “I’m going to teach him how to color and how to play with Dum-E and how to eat pancakes!”

Tony grins, pulling her into a hug. “That’s my girl. He’s going to be one lucky little guy.”

As the months pass, the preparations for the baby kick into high gear. Tony insists on designing the nursery himself, turning one of the spare rooms in the penthouse into a space that’s both practical and beautiful. Morgan helps as much as she can, picking out toys and decorations and offering unsolicited advice.

“I think the baby would like stars on the ceiling,” she says one afternoon as Tony is painting the walls.

“Stars it is,” Tony replies, pulling up a design on his tablet and letting her help choose the layout.

You spend hours together as a family, getting everything ready. Morgan loves to help fold tiny clothes and stack diapers, even if her “help” usually results in more work for you later.

When the day of the birth finally arrives, it happens in the middle of the night. You wake up to contractions and gently nudge Tony awake.

“Tony,” you whisper. “It’s time.”

His eyes snap open, and he immediately jumps into action. “Time? Time for—oh my God, it’s time!” He stumbles out of bed, pulling on clothes and grabbing the hospital bag you packed weeks ago.

Morgan wakes up in the commotion, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “What’s happening?”

“You’re about to meet your baby brother,” you tell her, smoothing her hair.

Tony calls Pepper, who comes to stay with Morgan while you head to the hospital. As you’re leaving, Morgan gives you a big hug and whispers, “Tell the baby I love him, okay?”

Labor is intense but thankfully not too long, and soon enough, baby Jake Stark makes his grand entrance into the world. He’s a perfect mix of you and Tony, with a head of dark hair and big, curious eyes that already seem to be taking everything in.

When Tony holds him for the first time, he’s completely overcome. Tears fill his eyes as he stares down at the tiny baby in his arms. “Hey there, little guy,” he says softly. “I’m your dad. And you’ve got the coolest mom and the best big sister waiting to meet you.”

When you return home the next day, Morgan is practically bouncing with excitement. The moment she sees Jake, her face lights up, and she immediately runs over to you.

“Can I hold him?” she asks, her voice filled with awe.

You settle on the couch with her, placing Jake carefully in her lap. Her small hands gently cradle him, and she stares at him with wide eyes.

“Hi, baby brother,” she whispers. “I’m your big sister Morgan.”

Tony sits beside her, his arm around her shoulders, watching the two of them with a smile that’s equal parts pride and pure love.

Jake lets out a little coo, and Morgan gasps. “He likes me!”

“Of course he does,” you say, brushing a tear from your cheek.

From that moment on, Morgan takes her role as big sister very seriously. She insists on helping with everything, from feeding Jake to picking out his clothes. And while life with two kids is undeniably hectic, it’s also more wonderful than you ever could have imagined.

Watching Tony with your children, the way he adores them and you, makes your heart feel like it could burst. Your family is complete, and every day feels like the greatest adventure yet.

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baphometsss · 2 months ago

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The attitudes of people who just flatly ignore what we're told by canon are kind of wild to me. Don't get me wrong, I get that this is the point of fanworks (to play with canon) but there's often this contempt towards people who like to work with what we've got over ignoring established lore for whatever reason.

Like... this is just one example, but the people who insist that Solas and Mythal were lovers tend to totally ignore the fact that it's very clearly stated, unequivocally, that he was not in love with her. That if he had known what falling in love was going to do to him and his plans, he never would've entertained the idea of a romance with Lavellan. You can also infer, based on what we're told about other ancient elves, that if they had been lovers, they wouldn't have been shy about telling us. When the possibility is suggested, it's framed as the immature perspective to take (Taash). I know people like to pretend that this is the solavellan game but it's really not, and I don't honestly think they would've shied away from stating it explicitly just to avoid the wrath of a small group of fans. Solas and Lavellan get more content than the other DAI romances, but that's because it was the only one left unresolved. Everyone else is off doing the happily ever after with theirs, as evidenced in the in game letters.

The really uncomfortable truth is that they probably just didn't give it enough thought to properly define it. They know that fans will invent their own fanon anyway, which is why they lean into the vagueness. It works in their favour. The only things we're told is that they had a friendship that became abusive, that Mythal enslaved him and used her powerful charisma to exert her influence over the elves and Solas in particular. They fell out after he finally rebelled and refused to do her bidding any longer, but became overwhelmed with guilt and grief when she was murdered. That pathological bond is the most powerful one of all, and I think this is the message that comes through more than any other. The scariest thing about these bonds is that they don't have to be more than one type of relationship. It doesn't need to be more than a friendship to be abusive. It doesn't need to be more than a family bond to be abusive. Reading it this way makes it hit much harder imo.

Yet... there's this contempt from some that you're just a jealous child if you have a different perspective, as if my reasons for being into this franchise are solely linked to Solas and Lavellan, which they're not. I love this world for all kinds of reasons, and I am an unabashed Zevranmancer, Fenrismancer and Dorianmancer too. I personally find the attitude of forcing romance into every relationship more frustrating, because the main reason I got into Dragon Age is because of my own admittedly unique perspective, not because of the romances.

I'm a Pagan, which for me means that I find divinity through nature and I have some more... unusual beliefs regarding spirituality and personhood. Divinity is something that is explored in Dragon Age in a way that I find really fascinating. It's one of the only games/books/whatever I've played that allows me to explore that through the lore. Divinity makes you a part of it, to the point that you can't tell where you end and the divine begins. Likewise, the spirits can't be fully extricated from each other, because they're made from the same essence. When I tell you how excited I was when the bonds of spirits and the elvhen (Solas and Mythal in particular) were described as being beyond mortal understanding... my heart sped up, no joke. I also love the fact that the Inquisitor is described as having a spirit that is different to most. I particularly love that their romance causes this powerful god-like spirit (Solas) to experience 'true love' for the first time, to the point that it makes him want to be an elf and not a spirit for the first time, specifically to be with them.

I wrote this with the intent of describing my point of view as a Pagan, but I can't fully explain to you what my bond with the divine (and other entities) is actually like. I can't even fully explain what they are, or what I am. It's beyond explanation. It's beautiful enough on its own and I can personally understand why a bond with another being like that would be so important. Especially if you've devoted yourself to them as a follower does to a god. Especially if personhood and all its complexity doesn't come naturally to you. (Hi.)

To have people see all that we're given and treat anyone that doesn't agree with a frankly oversimplified perspective as merely being jealous is annoying, I won't lie to you, but it does say more about them. It says that there's a layer of understanding missing for them.

My point is that I like working with the lore we have in game and this isn't a bad thing, or inferior to people who cut and paste a lot more. There is definitely a subset of fans who are here for romance and romance drama in particular, which... whatever floats your boat, I guess, but that doesn't interest everyone. It doesn't all have to come down to romance and it says more about the person accusing you of disliking things for whatever shallow reason makes the most sense to them. I mainly take umbrage with the ones who ignorantly throw around incest takes, which I talked about here.

This is not unique to Dragon Age fandom at all but exists in every fandom I've been in. I guess it just hits a bit closer to home because this world is closer to my heart than most.

Tl;dr not everyone is here for romance and cutting and pasting everything in game for your fanwork collage doesn't mean you have any kind of highground. It just means you're going to come up against people who aren't cutting and pasting, or not doing it as much. It doesn't mean their reasonings are less valid. That's really all there is to it.

#solas #solavellan #I honestly do believe that these people have no hobbies or interests outside of fandom and they think everyone else is the same

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clexa-surrogacy-au · 17 days ago

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Little sneak peek of the next chapter of BOL…

Lexa’s eyes snap open as she jolts awake to a flash of blinding light, the whole house shaking as thunder crashes in the night and her heart crashes in her chest. She sits up in bed, blankets pooling around her. It’s storming hard outside, rain pelting the roof, tree branches scratching at the window as the wind howls. A glance at the alarm clock shows it’s a quarter past four in the morning.

Lexa calms just seconds later, when soft hands smooth over the skin of her stomach. Then her heart stutters again, as she realizes those hands are on the bare skin of her stomach.

Clarke is clearly half asleep, instinctively reaching out to soothe her. Lexa relaxes, exhaling as she settles back onto the mattress, lifting an arm so Clarke is free to shift closer. She nuzzles her head onto Lexa’s chest, throwing a leg over Lexa’s. The hard swell of her belly presses into the side of Lexa’s, and her hand remains just under the hem of Lexa’s shirt, fingers drifting over skin in a mindless pattern.

Lexa swallows thickly as her eyes flutter closed, arms gentle but snug around Clarke, and absently strokes Clarke’s forearm that’s slung across her waist. There’s an ache, simmering in the pit of her stomach. A type of longing that’s been mostly hibernating for months.

Just the storm, she dismisses in her head. They’ve always had this effect on her. Something about them just wakes her up— literally and figuratively. It’s fine.

She releases a shaky breath and tries to let the sleepy, gentle touches on her hip carry her back to slumber, but it’s not working. She is, unfortunately, wide awake, even long after Clarke’s hand has stilled and she’s slipped into deep, steady breaths barely short of a snore. Another glance at the clock shows Lexa has been lying awake for over forty minutes. She bites back a groan. This is not how she wanted to start the day, but she might as well get on with it, because clearly she’s not going to be falling back asleep anytime soon.

As carefully as possible, she extricates herself from Clarke’s arms—pressing her lips together when Clarke’s hand drags across her stomach, fingers grazing the strip of skin just above the waistband of her sleep shorts—and gently tucking the blanket up around her. Clarke turns in her sleep, curling around Lexa’s pillow. Lexa takes a second to just look at her, at how her hair is lit up white gold when lightning flashes and the light spills in through the window, to illuminate half of the room. Lexa’s stomach turns with the sound of thunder.

You know what? She needs to do the safest thing possible to work off this energy.

Time to hit the gym.

#clexa #bol #clexa surrogacy au #clarke x lexa #clexa fic #BOL sneak peek #BOL snippet #BOL scene

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omarolluks · 7 months ago

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My Boy Builds Coffins:

this is by no means coherent or complete or worth much of anything necessarily but my mind has been ensnared by that sad and deeply fuckable little vampiric elf...

explicit (18+), 2300 words, edited blearily / blood [mild], allusions to trauma and abuse, masturbation, existentialism below:

“…Shit.” You looked up at him beneath heavy eyelids, but your gaze lacked any type of grogginess. Instead, a frenetic flicker of movement, so quick it gave off a fuzzy distortion of almost-stillness, flooded your eyes. It vibrated with that wild magic he’d seen from you maybe twice before in the midst of battle: woven steadiness cracking into fissures and bursting forth a strangely compelling chaos. As you registered it was him above you, those eyes stilled as if they perceived no threat before them. The realization made his mouth dip even further into dryness and his tongue prickle: you didn’t see him, with bared fangs uninvited above the pulsing arteries of your neck and hand hovering over the light and delicate broken sword tattooed on the center of your throat, as a threat? He was torn between barking out an offended laugh and cowering away in confusion. Your tent felt as if you both had transported to the middle of a primeval forest, surrounded on all sides by stones more lichen than rock and damp undergrowth.

“It’s not what it looks like” burst forth from his mouth to try to dissipate some of the heady air. Fuck his stupid tongue: what else could it possibly be? “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just needed, well… blood” Perfect, absolutely splendid, entirely assuring Astarion, no directorial notes in the slightest… the voice in his head spat out with bitter derision. He tried not to think of the slick and regally vampiric accent that complimented the words, so different from his own pattern of speech. You were still looking at him, in that way you did, the judgement which should’ve bloomed in your irises absent and instead replaced with cavernous curiosity. It extricated words from his mouth unbidden and less bridled: “I don’t normally feast on people, as animals usually suffice for my lifestyle in the city. But what with all the Illithid kidnappings, brain-eating tadpole harboring, and gallivanting around the wilderness, they simply aren’t… cutting it at the moment” and the depths of those eyes in front of him plunged impossibly further, with a look of what he might call sympathy or concern if he believed someone possible of feeling such things as those for the abject creature he just revealed himself to be. “I hoped that thinking blood would help me be stronger, more capable of fighting and helping the group when needed.” The last sentence wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t the whole of it. A wall between his mind and his mouth prevented admission of the fact the conversation between the two of you earlier, your vulnerability, had caused a scent so enticing to emanate from your person, like the slow cooking of a meal over a fire made of juniper wood—hot and simmering—flooding him and exacerbating his deep-bellied hunger. Your response carried up toward him, gravelly from exiting the heavy not-quite slumber of elven meditation: “That’s alright, Astarion. But why didn’t you tell… me.” He noted the way you seemed to interrupt yourself from asking why he didn’t tell the group as a whole before responding: “I… well, most people don’t respond with a welcoming invitation to come inside and stay a while, do they? I wanted to be safe, and I wanted you to trust me.” Your eyes widened delicately at the mention of safety and trust, and you responded, “I do. I believe you.” The plainness of your phrasing, complimented by the still-lingering husk of exhaustion in your voice would’ve had him exhaling a sharp breath if he hadn’t spent two-hundred odd years conditioning away indications of weakness. “Thank you,” and his mouth blossomed again with exsanguination. Pushing his luck, he asked: “Do you think you can trust me a little further? I only need a taste, I swear.” It felt like an eternity from when the words left his lips, and your head nodded gently in acquiescence. Anticipation seeped through his extremities: “Well then… let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

You rolled your strong shoulders back to rest flush against your bedroll, and his eyes drifted momentarily to the way your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. He lowered himself above you, keeping his movement measured and smooth as if he might startle you into realization of what you were offering: open access to your neck and the roiling life barely contained beneath your skin. You blinked steadily and showed no sign of objection, so he maneuvered himself almost perpendicular to your body. His lower half rested away from your flesh, knees and hips hovering above the floor of your tent in an attempt to make you feel less caged. With no rebuke presented, he steeled himself as the tip of his nose grazed the curvature of your throat. Scent and heat drew him inward and his lips retracting without conscious effort to reveal the inhuman point of his fangs. The air pulled tight like the string of a short bow and then snapped. He punctured your flesh and thick rivulets of blood sprung fresh and willing into his mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut and he was grateful; he was unsure he possessed the level of deception he would need to undercut the way his pupils blew black and eyes rolled back into his skull. You inhaled a shaky sigh that he felt flush your blood cool. The moan that rumbled from him was animalistic and he tried to muffle it by further pressing into your neck, an unexpectedly totalizing decision. Gods the fucking taste of you: a branch plucked from a blackberry bush, taken in its entirety from root to tip between his eager lips as his teeth scraped wet soil and wood and greenery and plump fruit into his waiting mouth—peppery and humid and earthy and dry and salty and vegetal and tart and faintly sweet and fuck he wanted to be subsumed by it. Years of rats and bugs and a constant gnawing of a never-quite sated thirst dissipated at the beckoning of your honey-hot blood down his throat. He hadn’t even known he was parched until this moment: it addled his brain with a sensation that could only be described as consumptive. Through the fog of satiation, arousal clawed petulantly to the surface, intermingling with hunger and thirst and he felt himself swell and firm like molten iron reconstituting its hardened shell. The feeling drove him to slake a long pull of blood from you. In the murky cloud of his hedonism, he felt your arms tense under him, seemingly fisting into the earth below in an attempt to brace yourself. Uninvited panic overtook him: what if you pulled away, what if you took this salve from him before he was healed? The thought drove his fangs further into you and a hand flew to his head, wrapping in his curls and tugging firmly. He nearly moaned again, willing the motion to be an invitation rather than revoke. But a second tug and a weakened whimper of his name paired with the stuttering skip of your pulse cut to the core of his thinking mind. The panic reemerged stronger and more insistent: if he drained you now, he would never taste you again.

The release of his mouth from your flesh produced an obscene sound. It caused his cock to twitch violently and he nearly growled with a desire to lunge back to the place he so clearly wasn’t meant to leave. His addled mind produced an uncharacteristically honest tongue: “That was… amazing” voice blissed out and dipping breathily at the end. Sense came back in fits and bursts, and he became acutely aware of the state of him: a sheen of sweat seemed to cover every inch of his skin, his shirt askew and soil stained, and his cock was almost painfully hard resting against the hypersensitive flesh of his lower torso. And then there was you. He could hardly stand to look at you: your eyes closed as if even the faint moonlight might blind you, your soft and moist lips parted with gulping breaths, your dirt coated fingers, and a strange combination of pallor and flush all at once. He stood and angled himself away from your line of sight in case the strength and will to move returned to your eyelids. “Are you alright?” he asked, the low pitch of his voice startling against his ears. A gentle ghost of a smile settled against your pretty mouth, and you gave him another soft nod, lashes still grazing the darkened flesh of your under-eyes: “Fine… I promise.” The rocky whisper, strangely gentle, stuck a chord that seemed to reverberate deep in his core. You still hadn’t opened your eyes, but you seemed to be steadying. He chanced a look over you one more time and the way your body opened up in dazed and relaxed lethargy unbalanced the stability he had regained. He had to leave now or he’d be back at your throat: “As invigorating as you are, I need something more… filling.” You rolled to your side and curled easily in on yourself and the gentle mundanity of the motion pushed one last admission from his usually unwilling mouth. “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

Despite his roguish affinities for silent and undetected retreat, leaving camp without alerting any others was proving almost insurmountable. Every synapse of his brain fired off intense pings of electricity, his pleasure center a lightning rod. Thinking blood heightened his senses, to be sure, but tuning into such sensitivities was another beast entirely. Rather, they all collided in a distracting cacophony: the taste of you on his tongue, your blood roaring in his ears, the lingering feeling of you twitching and letting out soft breaths on his neck, his body more alive than it had felt in centuries. You. By some greater power he found himself in the woods far enough away from camp, surrounded by quiet. He had hoped it would lull him, calm him down enough to hunt; instead, the absence around him exacerbated his sensitivity. He could still smell you on him and he felt the weight of his erection and the phantom of your hands grasping into the ground and into him. Without conscious thought he thrust his own hand into his trousers, hissing at the wrought sensitivity and the eager moisture leaking from his cock. Gods, he couldn’t think straight, sanguine flares of you crackling inside him with undiluted feeling.

In all the events since being abducted, this was the strangest. The heavy cloud of need, of desire, of yearning for fucking release. It made his head spin: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually wanted. But gods did he want, the coil of him wound tight and eager. He began to stroke his cock, gathering up the liquid that spilled in eager and anticipatory bursts and shuddering violently. The sensation radiated from between his in hips low rolling pulses. This was foreign. He didn’t perform pleasure for his own means or fulfillment. Pleasure was a set of thieves’ tools in his hands, manipulated with assurance and without second thought. It was a weapon and over time it began to harm him more than any target it was directed at. But this was like coming up from air after being numbed in an ice-cold river. The thought of you—with your blood and your hands and your eyes and your breath—wrapped around him like a woolen blanket warmed by a fireplace and he felt… the words alluded him. He simply felt. Tremors ran through his tautly wound musculature, each one thrumming and causing him to twitch. He wanted to run from the feeling. He wanted to run toward it. He was prone from the totality of it all. Gods he had missed this, how was it possible it’d been near two centuries since he felt so alive in his body. And what if it’s taken away, what if it all vanishes and he goes stone cold again, dulled to any sort of… anything. The anxiety of potentially losing this, losing the self he was only just starting to find traces and fragments of, swirled inside him. Amidst shakily drawn breaths, one particularly firm pull on the head of his cock steeled his resolve: if this was all he would get, if he were to awake back in the kennel, the tadpole and the nautilus and your kindness at his knife against your neck a dream, he wanted to have this instant. A stolen moment, pocketed for no one but himself. All he could do was piston his hand aggressively up and down the length of himself: he felt like steel under his pale fingertips. From his tightly pulled base through to the tip, each movement licked him with building and building and building pressure. He worried he might snap. What would be left of him if he did? But gods, his eyes slammed shut as the pressure peaked. Burned on the inside of his eyelids was your face. Open and so very willing. Unafraid of the creature above you and bared without hesitance to his hunger. Twisting near painfully on the head of his dick, he bit out a primal growl and spilled hot across his hands and the forest floor. It was painful. It was delicious. It was nothing. It was everything. After several harsh clenches of his abdominal muscles, he slouched against the cold mossy boulder behind him. His mind and body stilled excepting a few muscles not yet resolved to the vibration of it all. The bliss surrendered to a sort of tired mania: He had broken a rule. He had broken the first rule. Your blood on his tongue was stigmata. And it had made him feel… good. Alive.

#bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #tav is coded as feminine in my head but im pretty sure all descriptions are gender neutral #fic

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variousqueerthings · 7 months ago

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omg dude (gn) you got into due south? I've followed you for a long time bc mash, I love it when people I know from other fandoms get into my most beloved stuff <3 check out @ds30below btw if you're interested, it's an anniversary fest I run with a lof of fun stuff etc etc! and have funnnnn it's such a great show!

helloooooooo

yes, a bunch of mutuals have been going wild over it for a hot sec and it was Time!

I'm on episode 3 (not counting the pilot) and I have a lot of initial Thoughts to bring over from the discord onto this illustrious site, so i will use this ask as An Excuse:

Frasier is really introduced as an Archetype of masculinity, which is almost immediately subverted by his being completely without machismo -- his machismo is so in the negative that he goes around and becomes this Ideal of masculinity instead

the fact that his ethos is kindness, but it's not necessarily guileless. it is selfless in that he's not necessarily expecting to get returns on it all the time, but it's also -- to him -- often truly the most effective means to an end: if you're kind to others, people will often become kinder. this can be useful in the shortterm (if you give this kid a nice sandwich and don't threaten him with jail time and help him out a bit, he'll try to help with a case...) and in the longterm (this kid will stay in school and have a better future ahead of him, hopefully)

(i will get to ray btw, need to just get all the frasier thoughts out first)

frasier really embodies autistic swag. he takes things incredibly literally, he follows scripts (in this case, The Mountie Script, and also within that some kinda Code Of Gallantry), he's an incredible people-reader of the "autistic savant" type arguably (except there's more to him so the savant trope doesn't quite hold, which is good), his relationship with his dog Diefenbaker, the fact that although he is nigh-effortlessly kind of charming (because he's clark kent vibes!!! he's charming in a way as if he stepped out of a novel set 100 years ago in which kissing women's hands was the norm) he doesn't really make close friendships easily, because there's an Otherness to him that keeps him at a distance to others (except ray. WE WILL GET TO RAY STAY TUNED)

speaking of Distance, a lot of the aroaceness i've read into him so far (and we're literally only three episodes in!!!) really does feel like his autism is triggered by come-ons in the "this is not in my script!" kind of way. his charm is tripped up by the obvious step of "charming man is charming, I will shoot my shot," it's happened several times and every time he tries to extricate himself in the most awkward way possible. can't go on a date, you see. i have.. a dog. and no phone. um. ok. bye.

lot of thoughts on his hero-worship of his absent father and how much of his script comes from wanting to make his father proud

frasier also tastes things a lot of the time and ray thinks it's gross and i think that's something too. the doctor (doctor who) autism coded

OKAY TIME FOR RAY

he reminds me. of gonzo. he has the same transmasc swag. as gonzo. his shirts. his ties. that fuckn. OVERSIZED SO OVERSIZED MASSIVE STUPID JACKET. he's transmasc swag/fail coded in the same way as gonzo. he is gonzo

ray spends so much time in the beginning admonishing frasier for his consistent kindness to others, and the thing is. The Thing Is. he met frasier and (barring the immediate impression) decided to nearly immediately invite him to a massive family dinner. then he saved him from a bomb and got himself hospitalised. then he followed him to canada to help him. and that's only in the pilot! ray is so kind to frasier constantly. he's such an abrasive man to pretty much everyone except to frasier from day one

when frasier asked him to get a special pass for his wolf and at the end of the episode he did, and frasier was like: "i only asked you once and you got it 🥺" "of course i did, you asked me for it 😍"

just. nigh. constantly. kind. to. him. currently frasier's in hospital because he got stabbed and we had ray running to see him, forcing his way into his room, comforting him, sir you make fun of the way all the girls fall at his feet (and how frasier never notices) I think you are one of the girls!

MY MAN GOT HIM FLOWERS WHILE HE WAS IN HOSPITAL JUST BECAUSE??????? SIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (he also makes him take aspirin, he's giving real caretaker in this episode)

so far we know less about ray than about frasier, but im glad the show has him be mouthy, sarcastic, pessimistic, but he's not cruel or callous -- arguably he wants frasier in his life in order to challenge him on his cynical worldview, he's nourished and inspired by frasier's approach towards the world as much as everyone else

misc: I really like that the world being presented isn't necessarily kind, but the main characters (ray learning to be softer via frasier) are kind as a response. it's got some Coolness Factor Shorthand stuff going on ofc, but it is fundamentally a story about facing a relatively realistic world with kindness in order to make it better

I'm sad eric schweig was only in the pilot but the main thrust of the show does take place in chicago i guuuuuuuesss. his role in that pilot was great though, a lot of interesting stuff about taking away frasier's rose-coloured lens of the world, and especially canada, but he also gets what's his at the end, so he's not just there to "offer advice" (although there is a bit of that trope for sure, especially as he doesn't seem to have a name). great character, if I write fic where they go to canada he's definitely gonna be in there!

me and @gjdraws were talking about how ray clearly likes spoiling frasier -- he's the one with the money, he gets him the wolf licence, brings him flowers in hospital, carries aspirin for him.... I'm just saying we were robbed of a "ray takes frasier shopping and there's a montage" bit, considering how frasier only has two fuckn outfits in the first few episodes. who took him shopping??? there's no way he went on his own steam. that was ray all the way! private runway show

#due south #im watching due south #im watching tv

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aziraphales-library · 2 months ago

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I’ve been in the fandom for a couple months now and most of the fics I’ve read are from you. They’re all great and you do great work!!

I was wondering if you have any fics surrounding Egypt, Wessex, or fics where crowley gets hurt for helping or saving Aziraphale (like “Let the scars tell the story” by shatteredwriters)

Preferably no smut since I’m not really into that (Acesexual) although non-explicit sex is fine. I’m fine with any type of gore/whump so that’s fine

Thank you! We have #through the ages, #protective crowley, and #hurt crowley tags you may be interested in. Here are a couple of Egypt fics and a couple of Wessex fics...

Perfectly Angelic by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

Despite their recent argument in Wessex, Crowley rescues Aziraphale from an ambush. Aziraphale finds himself totally smitten, but his positive feelings evaporate when Crowley collapses. What’s wrong with him?

Thus Saith The Lord by kittygirl2210 (T)

Aziraphale is sent to Egypt to help prepare for the final plague. While assisting in this duty, he comes across a familiar face. Warning: This fic contains child death, as depicted during the 10th plague of Egypt. Crowley/Crawley uses they/he pronouns during this time period!

Nine Crimes by xzombiexkittenx (G)

Aziraphale and Crowley during the plagues of Egypt. “Anyways,” Crawly says. “If you ask me, starting with the blood water seems a bit like…" She makes a rude gesture with her hand. "Shot the proverbial load early." Aziraphale grimaces. "Please," he says. "It is though." "I suspect," Aziraphale says in the tones of someone who has no idea what he's talking about but is gamely making something up, "the first one ought to have done the trick. Once water is turned to blood, everyone sees the Almighty's power, and the Pharaoh lets the chosen people go. What kind of lunatic sees the Nile turned to blood and says, 'bring it on'?"

A Warrior in a Garden by Snarky_Synesthete (T)

Aziraphale knows that King Arthur is frustrated with him: bringing home his enemies as allies should be a good thing, but somehow Aziraphale isn't performing knighthood in the expected manner. When Crowley shows up at Camelot to sow discord as Morgana la Fey, Aziraphale thinks he's seen the worst...until Arthur goes on a crusade against a Pagan community and Aziraphale is expected to actually wield his sword.

The Pharaoh's Son by Writer_of_Words88 (T)

Crowley and Aziraphale have known each other for a little while, just a few millennia. But, something is coming, something that has Aziraphale very, very worried. Crowley can't just up and leave no matter if the angel begs and pleads, probably. This is the demon and the angel's first big falling out that will change their lives forever. --- "And, why exactly would I do that?" "Because I," the angel paused. He seemed unsure himself, but it didn't seem to stop his resolve. "Please, it really is frightfully important that you leave. I really do wish I could say what is going on, but if word got out that I'd warned you, well, let's just say it would mean a lot of trouble, possibly for us both." "This wouldn't have anything to do with the pharaoh's second son, would it?"

Le Morte D’Aziraphale by Ultramarine316 (T)

During his time with King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, Aziraphale winds up in an awkward situation and asks for Crowley’s help extricating himself, but the other Knights don’t respond well to The Black Knight suddenly appearing and carrying off their (Fair Damsel) Sir Aziraphale. Hijinks ensue.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #through the ages #mod d

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feralwritings · 6 months ago

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dissonance

part four

words: 5.7k

It’s so perfect it's stupid, so perfectly tailored to Nancy and Robin as a couple that it's true serendipity that they ended up here, tonight, walking around Vegas together and finding this hidden gem, and there’s a part of it all, something that sticks in Reader’s mind as she runs to them once the ceremony is over, throwing herself into their arms, that despite her hesitancy about this tour, her reservations, her anxiety, that no matter what has happened, or what will, it was worth it to be here, now, with them.

masterpost

taglist: @cam-peggio @mewchiili

Las Vegas

When Eddie sees her and Chrissy power walking through the casino, obviously having come from their rooms, looking perturbed, clad in only their pajamas, he’s immediately worried. They’ve only been here for a few days, the show is this weekend, there is no possible way that something went wrong already.

“Fold,” he says to the dealer at the poker table, and without a second thought to his chips or what may happen to them, he gets up to follow them.

Once he catches up to them, Reader’s bent over her phone, thumbs typing rapidly across the screen as Chrissy watches anxiously. It’s clear that she was interrupted during her skincare routine, with a fluffy headband still on her head and a few streaks of a face mask on her jaw.

“What’s going on?” He asks, and they startle so bad that they nearly jump out of their slippers.

“Jesus Christ!” Reader squeaks, hand flying to press against her chest, “Fuck, warn me next time.”

“Sorry,” He amends quickly, searching her face, “What’s going on, though? You look worried.”

She fixes him with a long look before extricating her phone, showing it to him, “Robin and Nance dropped a pin and told me to come get them, which is, like, really terrifying considering they stopped responding ten minutes ago. So, we’re heading out now.”

Eddie nods, “I’ll go with you-”

Chrissy stiffens, “Oh, you don’t have to do that, I’m sure everything’s fine-”

Eddie looks at her, “I’m not letting you go alone.”

Reader rolls her eyes, “We don’t have time to argue about this. I’ve already called the Uber, it's out front.”

Together, the three of them march out of the casino doors, searching wildly for a black sedan driven by a guy named Tony. The problem is, there’s nothing but black sedans in front of the casino, and so they jog to several in turn before finding Tony, a white guy in his 80s whose car smells like lemons.

One after another, they pile in, Reader squished between Eddie and Chrissy, leaning forward to talk to Tony.

“Hi,” She holds out her phone, “Do you know where this is?”

Tony leans back from the phone, looking at it through the bottom of his bifocals, before having to pull out his readers.

“Oh, yes, I know where that is. Just send the address to the app, I’ll get ya there, Sugar, no problem.”

Reader sighs in relief, typing the info into the app and resting back against the seat, “Okay, thank you so much.”

She’s texting Robin again, all caps lock WHERE ARE YOU ARE YOU OKAY WHAT’S GOING ON and her leg is bouncing so rapidly that the entire car shakes with it. Chrissy’s in conversation with Tony, and Eddie’s looking out of the window, hoping to ascertain any sort of information based solely on landmarks.

They’re about a mile off the strip when the ride comes to an end, Tony stopping the car near some nondescript curb.

Eddie sees it first, and the knot in his chest dissipates entirely.

“Oh, my God,” He laughs, the neon lights from the building reflecting off of his face, bathing it in hues of rainbow.

“What?” Reader asks, leaning across him to look out of the window. She sees it too, she lets her head fall against the window, closing her eyes and shaking with relief.

It’s a chapel.

Robin and Nancy are standing in the ornate walkway, holding hands and giggling madly as everyone disembarks the car.

“Surprise!” Robin giggles, “Sorry, but we wanted it to be a surprise so we couldn’t give you much information-”

“You bitches,” Reader sighs, throwing her arms around them both, “I thought you guys were being kidnapped or trafficked or held hostage or something.”

Chrissy has joined the hug, and all four girls have descended into giggles and conversation, while Eddie stands awkwardly off to the side, waiting to be noticed. Tony hasn’t even left yet, his window is rolled down and he’s watching the entire exchange rather warmly.

Robin finally spots Eddie, and raises an eyebrow, “Oh, hi.”

Eddie waves, and Reader glances over her shoulder, “It’s cool, he came with us to be the macho protective man of the situation in case shit was going south.”

Nancy snorts, “The more the merrier. The rest of the guys can come, if you want. We should probably get our money’s worth, since we…spent a lot of it.”

“How much?” Chrissy asks, glancing at the chapel. It’s not huge but isn’t too little, a nice little area for outdoor weddings off to the side of the building, several rows of chairs on either side of the aisle. The building itself is decked out in pride decor, various gay icons etched in colorful chalk on the brick that faces towards the street.

“Well, we sprung for the deluxe package,” Robin says, whipping out a little pamphlet and explaining the various amenities to everyone.

Eddie’s already texted the rest of the boys and Steve, but soon enough Chrissy’s got him by the hand and is tugging him inside with everyone else.

He’s really the only guest that’s dressed appropriately, black blazer over top of a black mesh top, his black nice jeans and his nicest pair of boots, the Panaroot Dunes that he spent several pretty pennies on when he last went shopping with the band’s stylist.

This fact becomes obvious in a second when Chrissy and Reader look at each other, horrorstruck.

Chrissy could pass - she’s in a silk nighty that flares out prettily around her thighs, but it’s white, and despite Robin and Nancy’s repeated assurances that Chrissy can indeed wear white to their wedding, she emphatically disagrees.

Reader, however, is really in the shit, flannel pajama shorts and an old band tee, fluffy slippers, hair a complete mess.

Hearing this commotion, several drag queens descend upon them.

“Come on, baby,” Tina Turner says to Reader, taking her hand and leading her to somewhere in the back, “We’ll get ya fixed up.”

Cher takes Chrissy’s hand and whisks her away as well, leaving Eddie standing with Robin and Nancy.

“So,” Eddie tries hesitantly, “Getting hitched, huh?”

Things are still a touch awkward. Eddie’s going to have to earn their trust and respect, something that he’s been needing more and more, not really sure as to why.

Nancy smiles at Robin affectionately, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “Yeah, we’ve been together forever, figured that now was as good a time as any.”

Robin nods, “Plus, we were just walking and saw this place and it just…felt right?”

Nancy nods, waving the rest of Corroded Coffin over as they walk into the chapel.

They’ve cleaned up reasonably well on such short notice, though Eddie cringes to think about the state of their hotel rooms when they return, knowing that the ‘nice clothes’ were at the bottom of everyone’s suitcases. Joey’s gone all out, dressed in his tux, complete with his bowtie, taking Eddie’s instruction of ‘meet us here and dress nice’ a little too seriously. Gareth’s shed his usual flannel for a white button up and his dress pants, and Jeff’s tying his tie as he walks in.

“So,” Gareth glances all around the room, vague interest on his face, “What’s happening?”

Eddie jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Nancy and Robin, who are in the process of doing some paperwork, pom-poms swaying to and fro on top of their pens, “They’re getting married.”

“Oh shit!” Joey exclaims, before clapping a hand over his mouth, “Wait, am I allowed to swear? Is this holy ground?”

“I don’t think they care, dude. If it was truly holy ground each one of us would’ve burst into flames the second we crossed the threshold, on account of our various sins.”

Joey nods, “Gay,” he points to himself, “Whore,” he points at Eddie, “Crypto-bro,” he points at Jeff, “Short.” He points at Gareth, who smacks him on the back of the head, even if he has to stand on tiptoe to do it.

Just as Eddie’s about to retort, he feels a gentle tap on his shoulder, and turns.

At first, he’s face to face with a pair of huge fake breasts - actual fake breasts - he can just barely see the seam of the chest piece where it’s blended into the queen’s skin, and he adjusts his gaze, tilting his head back to look into her face.

Dolly Parton stares down at him, “Excuse me, darlin’,” She says, in what is a very close impression of Dolly’s voice, though the accent drops away for a half second when the queen’s eyes widen underneath her lashes, and a distinctly New Jersey accent slips out as she says “Jesus Christ, you’re gorgeous-” She clears her throat, adopting Dolly’s twang once more, “I need your jacket.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, but he’s already shucking it off and handing it to her.

“I just need it,” She says again, dropping Dolly’s accent again. She takes it and scurries away, heels clicking against the floor as she does, muttering something about oh my god he’s so hot I’m going to die.

Eddie smiles to himself, glancing towards where Nancy and Robin were, but they’re gone too, so he supposes that they went to change as well.

A few more minutes pass in comfortable silence, the buzz of the chapel around them, music playing from somewhere.

Then, Eddie hears a smattering of female voices, and turns.

Chrissy’s coming down the hallway to the left, hair in loose waves, all remnants of the face mask gone. She’s in a pink baby doll dress, sleeves puffing out around her shoulders. She looks incredibly adorable, and a quick glance in Gareth’s direction tells Eddie all he needs to know about what he’d been suspecting since San Diego.

Reader is not far behind, and it’s Eddie’s turn to blush.

She’s got his blazer on, unbuttoned, with nothing underneath, a wide strip of her chest and tummy exposed. She’s wearing a pair of tight black leather slacks that cling to her like a second skin, smoothing along the contours of her body in a way that makes his mouth water.

He can’t speak. Can’t think.

There’s a delicate silver body chain glittering between the insides of her breasts, which are tucked apart underneath the blazer. Her hair is in a low, slicked back ponytail, and it makes the angles of her face all sharp and with the smoky wings of black eyeliner, she looks almost cat-like, regal, her eyes shining beneath her lashes as she looks up at him.

“This okay? Dolly came back with this and they all thought that it looked pretty good?”

Eddie just stares, because that’s all he can do, and she cocks an eyebrow at him, “I mean, I can find something else if you want your jacket back-”

“No,” Eddie squeaks, clearing his throat to rid his voice of that noise that just came out of it, “No, don’t, it’s fine. You look good.”

She nods slowly, still looking confused, and seems as though she’s about to say something, but as she opens her mouth, they’re beckoned by a drag queen in front of a pair of double doors, and they all hurry to take their seats. By sheer coincidence, Eddie and Reader end up next to one another.

Robin’s standing at the altar, decked out in a poorly fitted imitation of an old mobster suit. It’s too big in certain ways, and the very tips of her fingers poke out from the sleeves of the jacket. The dress shirt underneath fits, the tie is a bit too loose and the slacks lead down to a set of shiny Doc Martens, which is the only part of the ensemble that actually belongs to her. Regardless of the fit, she looks good, radiant in a way that brides usually are, all anxiety wiping from her face the moment the music starts, the lights dim, and the guests (all seven of them, including Tony) are instructed to stand.

They turn their attention towards the back of the aisle, where Nancy is standing, clad in a white flapper dress.

Reader giggles a little, the last minute outfit coordination has done the job and everyone starts to laugh along with her, at the sweetness of it all, and at the speed and accuracy of which Robin and Nancy were able to pull this all together.

Eddie can’t quite place the song that Nancy’s walking down the aisle to, too busy watching the adoring, tearful expression on Reader’s face as she watches Nancy. She’s got her hands clasped in front of her mouth, covering her trembling lips, and as Eddie stares, a single, glistening tear courses its way down her cheek.

Without thinking, he reaches up to brush it away.

The feeling of love in the air has clearly had an effect on her, all manner of vitriol gone as she looks up at him and smiles, bumping his shoulder with hers when they’re instructed to sit down.

The music dims, and so do the lights, and a door behind the ornate altar splits open, and everyone watches in fascination (and maybe a little bit of fear) as fog billows through it, backlit by a blue-white light from beyond the door. Then, a shadow steps into the fog, and Eddie thinks he can tell, by the spiky hair, the general silhouette, who it might be.

There’s a sharp whine of an electric guitar that comes through the speakers, and a drag queen dressed as Joan Jett steps into the light, the fog billowing around her, licking up the curves of her body and twisting around the spikes in her hair.

Everyone starts nudging each other, excited laughter moving through the guests as Robin and Nancy barely keep it together on the altar, Robin is staring up at Joan, starstruck and Nancy is giggling wildly behind her hands.

Joan spreads her arms wide, and begins the ceremony.

It all dissolves into a party after that, Steve shows up fashionably to congratulate the girls, dances with Chrissy and Reader and Joey, and generally seems happier than he has this whole tour. He doesn’t fold into himself at all, sinking into the shadows like he does these days.

He’s dancing with Reader again, hands wound around her waist as she looks up at him, analytical, “Are you okay?”

He studies her for a moment before shrugging, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

She narrows her eyes at him, not in a knowing way but in a genuinely suspicious way, “You’ve just- you’re not-”

She struggles to find the words for a few moments, “You hear rumors, you hear stories in this industry, and I guess you’re not what I expected.”

He purses his lips, eyebrow cocking, “Oh, I can’t wait to hear the rest of this.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes, “There’s stories about how…involved you are, with the tours. How much you go out and you have fun… I think this is the first time that we’ve all been together on an outing, and I just wonder…is it because of me? Because of what happened between Daisy Chain and Corroded Coffin?”

Steve’s eyes grow wide, and he becomes instantly apologetic, pulling her into a hug, “No! No, it’s not you at all. You or Eddie, you’re both fine, it’s just-”

He pulls back, looking into her face again, “It’s just…I guess some things change over time. People change. I can’t party the way I used to, I guess.”

Reader nods, “I understand. It can get overstimulating.”

Steve nods, and heaves a deep sigh, “You have no idea.”

Robin and Nancy cut in shortly after that, and it’s a blur of laughter, lots of hugging, queens half out of drag as everyone sinks sleepily onto couches and chairs around the three am mark as Dolly hands out Tylenol and mini bottles of water.

They don’t mean to crash out, all arguing about who’s going to order the uber to get them back to the hotel, but one pair of eyes closes, then another, then another, and soon the chapel has a pile of rockstars sleeping on top of each other. Nancy and Robin are curled around each other on a loveseat, Chrissy has dozed off on Gareth’s shoulder as his head lolls onto the back of the couch, Joey and Jeff are spooning, Eddie’s head is in Steve’s lap and Reader has her cheek smushed against Eddie’s chest, with Steve’s hand draped across the whole of her face, so when the sun shines through the window a few hours later and burns into her eyelids, she sputters and flaps wildly at her face until his hand is gone, and tries to sit up but finds that she can’t.

Eddie’s arms are wrapped around her, tightly enough that it would definitely rouse him if she moved. She is able to lift her head to look around, confusion muddling its way to the surface through her gnarly hangover, blinking rapidly to clear her vision, and as her surroundings swim into focus, she becomes aware of many things, all at once.

One, her cheek kinda hurts, and when she raises the hand that’s pinned between hers and Eddie’s chests, she feels the impression of the mesh from his top is pressed into the flesh there. Two, there’s coffee brewing somewhere, and three, she’s not in her hotel room.

The panic dissipates as soon as it starts, as soon as her eyes land on Nancy and Robin and the memories start rushing back like rapidly flipping through a stack of polaroids, a hand at the small of her waist as she dips back, hair slipping past her shoulders and cascading into open air, the hand that holds hers against her chest tightening when she’s pulled back up, her eyes meeting a pair of onyx ones, soft, curly black hair framing them before she’s twirled, back to his chest as he sings softly along with the music against the shell of her ear.

Aching feet from the high heeled boots that are still strapped to her, peals of laughter and the taste of cheap champagne bubbling across her taste buds, strawberry lip gloss sticky and shiny on her cheek, being tossed over a tall shoulder, feet kicking wildly as laughter burns through her, fingers scraping bluntly across the starchy fabric of a suit jacket that needs to be washed, the glow of a cigarette in the inky blue night before her lips slot around the dent made in the filter made by his lips, the inhale throwing an orange flash across her face that his eyes track with a hunger that sends goosebumps careening across her flesh.

She squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of memories, tries and fails to push down the swell of affection in her chest when she remembers whose arms she’s in.

Skillfully, she maneuvers herself off of him, slipping from underneath his arms and crawling off of the couch, stepping over the bodies before her feet hit open floor, looking around the quiet chapel, looking hide or hair or leather or fur of one of the queens that were here last night.

She finds a little kitchen, with a man sitting quietly at a wooden table, sipping green tea and reading a newspaper. He’s bald, small silver earrings hanging delicately from his lobes, remnants of makeup still on his face, black on his waterline and a distinct red stain on his plump lips.

He looks up when she pads in, smiling gently at her, “Hi.”

“Hi,” she croaks, “I’m so sorry we fell asleep here - this is a chapel and not a hotel, and I’m totally willing to pay extra for us and our -”

He holds up a hand, “It’s fine, sweetie, we don’t mind. We’re just glad y’all had fun.”

She nods, arms folding around herself, she’s a bit cold without the warmth of Eddie around her, and she sighs, “Thanks, we’re probably still gonna cut y’all a check, for, ya know, room and board.”

He shrugs noncommittally, a warm smile crossing his face before he stands and pours her a cup of tea, glancing at her over his shoulder, “How do you take it?”

“Couple spoons of sugar. Honey, usually, but I dunno if you have it.”

He produces a jar of it from somewhere, and she watches as it drips into the cup, twirling and melting into the heat.

“Thanks,” She says as she takes a sip, sore throat soothed by the herbs, and she closes her eyes, sighing through her nose.

Everyone stirs soon after that, voices traveling down the hall in search of her, before they’re all crowding around the doorway, eight pairs of eyes looking at her apologetically, and she remembers in an instant that they have a show tonight.

The clock on the microwave reads just past nine, and so they say their goodbyes, a stack of Instax pictures being shoved into their hands, blown out and blurry, Steve and Reader both writing individual checks, and soon, they’re back in the oppressive heat of Las Vegas, squinting against the harsh sunlight as they pile into a couple of Ubers.

On the drive back to the casino, it’s quiet, everyone too sleepy and too nauseous to talk too much, and she becomes aware of the pile of pictures still clutched in one of her hands, and she slowly starts to sort through them, Robin and Nancy in one hand, everyone else in the other, and she finds one that makes her heart stop in her chest, and as she stares a little longer, her throat feels like it's closing.

Eddie’s got her in his arms, chin hooked over her shoulder as his hands rest on top of hers where they cross over her stomach. Their figures are blurry from the motion, but this is concrete evidence that the clearest memory she has from last night actually happened, and it wasn’t some fantasy her sleep-addled brain had concocted while she slept in his arms, breathing in the scent of his cologne, in deep, slow, consuming breaths. She stows it away from the prying eyes of others and tries to justify it in her mind.

She was drunk. He was drunk, they were drunk and so she can sit here, look pretty and pretend it never happened. Unless he remembers it too, which is a looming possibility that casts her into a chilly shadow. It’s not like anything more happened, but the tenderness of it is what gets her, something that she’s not used to, something that is so foreign that her body, once cognisant, completely rejects.

It was the setting, she thinks, the setting. A wedding, a declaration of love between two people that seeped across the floor like water and brushed the toes of everyone there, a contagion that is affecting no one else but maybe Chrissy and Gareth, but that’s for another day.

She rests her forehead against the cool window, the air conditioning blowing directly on her face from a vent above, and she breathes away the feelings until she feels numb again, until her toes are securely on baseline.

***

The arena glitters at her as she laughs into the microphone, “So,” she says, lips brushing against the mesh, “Something pretty cool happened last night.”

She can hear Robin laughing from upstage as a photo flashes across the screens on either side of the stage, poorly taken from an iPhone camera, but nevertheless showing the moment that Nancy and Robin had sealed their union with a kiss, a corny graphic of pink bubble letters announcing their marriage glinting at the bottom of the screen.

“So, in honor of this most special occasion,” Reader grins at Nancy, “I’m going to perform the first song that Nancy ever learned to play, which, well…you’ll see.”

She switches guitars with Danny, who takes her electric and gives her the acoustic, and as Robin descends from her platform to stand next to Nancy, arms twisting around each other as Gareth takes Robin’s place at the drums, and Eddie is slinging Nancy’s bass around his shoulders, with Joey, Jeff and Steve coming out to spectate, to raucous applause from the crowd.

She tunes the strings a bit, and then is plucking out a tune on the strings that no one seems to recognize at first, but as soon as she’s sidling up to the microphone and crooning out the first few lyrics, Nancy claps a hand over her mouth.

“Please baby, can't you see, my mind’s a burning hell. I’ve got razors a rippin’ and tearin’ and strippin’ my heart apart as well.”

As people start to recognize and sing along, she can feel the vibration of the bass in her feet and takes a glance over at Eddie, teeth worrying into his bottom lip as he plucks out the bassline, shining rings catching the stage lights every so often and blinding her as she watches, and it’s with a great effort that she tears her eyes away, eyes landing back on Nancy and Robin as she moves into the second verse. She’s split in two, hyper aware of Eddie moving on the stage next to her, hyper aware of Nancy and Robin in front of her, glowing, laughing faces and when she focuses solely on them, the ache eases, but it comes right back around when the final chorus comes.

“It’s only fear that makes you run, the demons that you’re hiding from,” She sings, eyes meeting Eddie’s for a half second before she’s turning away again, strumming out a flourish on the acoustic as the song concludes.

She feels a bit breathless as Danny comes back out to give her the electric, and she turns to find Eddie’s eyes on hers as he presses a chaste kiss to both Robin and Nancy’s cheeks, quietly congratulating them before waving to the crowd as he exits stage right.

***

Syrupy air fills her lungs with each breath. She meanders through the crowd, sweating glass in one hand, the other hanging limply at her side.

Her head feels light on her shoulders, her constantly stiff muscles finally relaxing a little bit. She moves to the music, slowly, allowing herself to move with the ebb and flow of the crowd.

She’s drunk enough not to care about the way her head is starting to hurt, how her eardrums rattle from the impact of the bass. She closes her eyes against the multicolored lights, tilting her head upward towards the ceiling.

She doesn’t know where her bandmates are. She doesn’t really know where she is, entirely. She knows she’s in Vegas, she knows she’s at a club, with the pounding music and the many bodies pressed up against her, but the finer details fall away.

When she opens her eyes, her vision tunnels to a familiar face. Eddie, standing some ten feet away, hands on a girl's hips as she presses her back against his chest, blissed out expression lolling along the contours of his shoulder as he bends to press his face into the sweaty column of her neck.

There’s a strip of skin exposed just above her belly button, and that’s where Eddie’s hands lay, perilously close to several places where she might want him later.

Something stirs within Reader. It’s not jealousy, it’s fascination. As she watches, she can’t quite figure out why she can’t look away. There is a tiny tinge of envy, but she doesn’t know who it’s for - Eddie, or the girl.

She’s beautiful, curvy, dark skin absorbing the lights and turning them rich against her body. Her hair is auburn, a soft curly cloud that haloes the fine contours of her face, her full lips shining with gloss, her slender hand coming up to run through Eddie’s hair as he presses closer.

The stark contrast of her deep brown skin against his pale, tattooed visage is something that makes the whole scene even harder to look away from, his hands flexing against the flesh of her waist, his nose pressed against her cheek as he says something into her ear.

Reader would have gladly stood there, swaying a little on her feet as she watched them, but soon, there was another body pressing against hers and she was whisked away, hands on her hips, breasts that brush against hers, strong hands and broad shoulders, a confusing mix of bodies, of people, of skin, until minutes or hours pass and she finds herself face to face, chest to chest, with Eddie.

It doesn’t immediately register. How could it? She’s spent an indeterminate amount of time with hands that aren’t his holding hers, eyes that aren’t his looking down into her face, lips that aren’t his pressing into the shell of her ear, the side of her neck, against her own, moving clumsily and fervently, in and out of beat with the music, in and out of waves of needless, misplaced desire.

She sobers a little, taking in his appearance. About three different shades of lipstick are smeared across his mouth, his hair is an absolute mess, half up, half down, curly ringlets dissipating from the sweat, eyes dark, so dark, so-

The glass in her hand is dripping with condensation, the drink gone and the ice almost gone with it, so there’s no use in her holding it anymore. Yet she clings, the coolness, the smoothness of the glass and the steady weight of it in her palm, because it’s really the only thing she’s sure of.

Everything else swirls around her. She’s far too drunk, and there’s a distant ping in the back of her head about this, and all at once, under Eddie’s gaze, in the muggy air of the club, she wants to go back to the hotel.

She mumbles something of the sort, the music too loud, swallowing her words, but Eddie seems to understand anyway, plucking the glass from her hand and setting it who knows where, before replacing it with his cold fingers, and by the hand, he leads her out of the club and back onto the strip.

September in Vegas doesn’t adhere to typical fall weather, so it’s still oppressively warm, but she sucks in lungfuls of the fresh air as Eddie leads her back to the hotel. The grip on her hand is so gentle, barely there, but for each of his long strides she has to take a couple, so soon enough, she’s tugging him back beside her.

So, he falls into step next to her, allowing her to wind her arms around his bicep, her head slumping sleepily onto his shoulder. He ignores the heat that rises to his cheeks, looking down at her fondly. To anyone else, they’d look like a normal couple in Vegas, maybe a tad too drunk, but in love all the same.

Except they’re not in love. The only reason she’s even acting this way is because she’s drunk and overstimulated, both things sapping her of her usual spunk and all of her energy. Even so, Eddie revels in the moment, knowing that it’ll be the last.

When they get back to the casino they’re staying in, she flinches a little from the loud noise in the confined space, so he leads her to the elevators.

“Where’s your room?” He asks her, waiting to press the button on the elevator.

“305,” She tells him through a yawn.

He presses the corresponding button on the elevator. The doors slide to a close, and she suddenly seems to become very aware of her body and what it’s doing. She pulls her arms away from his and stands as straight as she can, though she sways a bit with the movement of the elevator.

Eddie wonders why she keeps doing that. Pulling away from him, constantly. On stage in Phoenix, in the green room in Santa Fe, even on the road, when both buses were at the rest stop and when he’d brush against her accidentally in the aisles of a convenience store, not even trying to be in her space. He’d think it was something else, something he did, something genuinely wrong but he would find her looking at him, the performative distaste falling from her face for a moment, replaced by something he can’t decipher, can’t name.

It’s driving him crazy. How unreadable she is. How she’s okay with him near one moment and then is shrinking away the next, like she’s trying to not exist too much, or too loudly.

The elevator door opens and she starts through it, fishing in her pocket for the room key. He knows that she shares this room with Chrissy, having given the bigger one to the newlyweds, and despite knowing that the journey from the elevator to her room won’t be treacherous, he follows her anyway, bending to catch her when she slumps against the wall.

“‘M fine,” She mutters, standing a little straighter, checking all of her pockets for the key, “Just can’t find this damn key.”

Eventually, she finds it in her bra, holding it triumphantly over her head as she starts towards her room again.

He knows that she’ll be okay, yet he falls into step next to her, until the silver numbers 305 glitter at him from her hotel room door.

She’s halfway inside before she turns, looking up at him. Her eyes are impossibly soft, and somehow he knows it’s not from the liquor. She runs a nervous hand through her hair, a tick that she’s picked up from being around him, before she steps back over the threshold to stand on tiptoe and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks,” She says, face lingering in front of his for half a second before she disappears behind the door, leaving him leaning into open air, arm braced against the door frame, staring at silver numbers.

#Eddie munson x reader #oh this one was so fun to write yall #my fic: dissonance #bandfic #Eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #if you can't tell by the everything about this chapter I am deeply bisexual and love queer culture with my entire soul #but this was so fucking fun to write UGH I wish it was a movie or a show #the next chapter...yall...hoo...boy....#reader is fighting against every natural instinct contained in her body if you can't tell #she wants to like him SO BAD DUDE #and he's already down bad crying at the gym teenage petulance fuck it if I can't have her type beat

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slightlyartist · 6 months ago

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I have a dumb story from my Aussie childhood that feels way too Backle not to share. When I was lil, maybe three or four, my family went to this lil zoo sanctuary thing where you could handfeed the kangaroos. NOT A PETTING ZOO DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. My mum looked away for two seconds to focus on my brother, looked back, and was terrified to find me laying down and cuddling on a big buck kangaroo's stomach. Straight up having a snuggle with an animal known for disembowling people with their kicks and drowning dogs for a laugh. She very calmly asked me to SLOWLY come back over and I kept insisting that the roo was so soft and fluffy as she extricated me from the mostly-wild animal.

Anyway Backle would take a nap on the (non-mechanical) Gobblewonker send tweet.

Hey quick question are you Backle in real life because HE WOULD TOTALLY DO THAT. Backle is the type who would pet animals who SHOULD NOT be pet, and would also kiss really ugly and possibly venomous fish <3

AND YES, he would love to meet the Gobblewonker, he was very disappointed when he discovered it was McGucket's invention but he still has hopes that he'll be a real Gobblewonker (he has no idea the real thing is still in that lake, Tate insisted it was all just crazy stories from McGucket)!!

#judtalks #gravity falls backle

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eirinstiva · 7 months ago

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“These dreamer types do live, don’t they?”

What ho!!! Bertie is still suffering a hungover.

In the stress of my emotions, I had clean forgotten about having taken Gussie’s interests in hand. It altered things. One can’t give the raspberry to a client. I mean, you didn’t find Sherlock Holmes refusing to see clients just because he had been out late the night before at Doctor Watson’s birthday party.

But Holmes has Watson to bicker a bit and be a drama queen, just read the first chapter of The Valley of Fear (I'm doing that at Letters from Watson). Well, you have Jeeves at your side, but roasting Jeeves' mind is impossible.

After a pick-me-up from Jeeves (that concoction with egg yolk, red pepper, Worcester sauce...) Bertie feels ready to help Gussie.

However, too late to worry about that now. Tell me of Gussie. How did he make out at the fancy-dress ball?” “He did not arrive at the fancy-dress ball, sir.”

So Gussie forgot the invitation, his keys, his wallet, arrived to a different place and scared a cabman...

“That is the policy which appears to have commended itself to Mr. Fink-Nottle. He darted rapidly away, and the cabman, endeavouring to detain him, snatched at his overcoat. Mr. Fink-Nottle contrived to extricate himself from the coat, and it would seem that his appearance in the masquerade costume beneath it came as something of a shock to the cabman. Mr. Fink-Nottle informs me that he heard a species of whistling gasp, and, looking round, observed the man crouching against the railings with his hands over his face. Mr. Fink-Nottle thinks he was praying. No doubt an uneducated, superstitious fellow, sir. Possibly a drinker.”

Now this cover makes a lot of sense!

Thanks, Sippy, for helping a devil in distress <3

The fact that Gussie is so... unique (?) that even Bertie, the we-Woosters-always-help-a-friend-in-distress Wooster wants to give up means that this really could be a lost cause, but sometimes Bertie is fueled by spite and he doesn't want to give up his fashion choices and that's enough to continue with this problem.

Sir, I suggest to give up and ask Jeeves for help.

Pip-pip!

#letters regarding jeeves #jeeves and wooster #reginald jeeves #gussie fink nottle #bertie wooster #bertram wooster #right ho jeeves #letters in the underground

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bodybeyondstories · 2 years ago

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Just ignore it - 2

David schemes with his friend Lee over how to deal with whatever or whoever is bringing about these big booty changes. Things heat up, in the waking and unconscious worlds, and David finally confronts Logan (and his new friend).

1 (Previous) | 3 (Next)

maletf // ass expansion // dick growth // growth // nsfw

4471 words

---

“I can only imagine the teaching reviews at the end of the semester. ‘Dr. Palmer had great hands-on pedagogy but a reality-warper gave a bunch of us comically fat asses and he said to just be chill about it.’”

“Well we’ve both seen worse,” said Lee, nursing a gin and tonic across from me.

Lee was my closest friend and colleague at the Center, he specialized more in the ‘lab’ side of things. A few times a week, we would do happy hour at a gay bar a comfortable distance from campus, allegedly to strategize around whatever problems we were currently trying to solve but mostly just to vent over a few rounds of overly strong and suspiciously cheap drinks.

I had changed into some stretchy leisure shorts that looked painted on over the hemispheres of my ass cheeks, hoping they could handle any ‘aftershocks’ of growth that may arise. Still thinking about the incident during class, I wondered who else may have noted and identified it as such. While I felt bad for not having alerted my students yet, word getting out or someone taking action would not help the situation. At least not until I had more info.

Noah was a creative writing MFA whose skinny arms and svelte torso flared out into jiggly, wide hips. He had seemed to be adjusting himself to sit up straighter at first, but I surmised that it was actually his butt inflating enough to lift him up in his seat. As class ended, he had trouble extricating himself from his desk, his ballooning backside drawing more than a few stares as it nearly sent him off balance. Blake, by contrast, was one of the forest guys, a rectangle of muscle and one of the leg day enthusiast types that I mentioned earlier. Hiis khaki shorts, already stuffed to capacity, split along the side seams as his glutes and quads expanded with muscle, thankfully not reaching catastrophic failure. He definitely noticed, but didn’t seem to mention it, at least not during class, instead opting to power walk his way out of the room right after we wrapped up, his squat butt bouncing ludicrously in his shorts.

“The thing is,” I began, “shifting the threads of time and genetics to retcon someone into a fantastical, juicy derriere is a delicate process. It takes a lot of training, precision, and skill. But matter manipulation in real time? It’s powerful, brute force, carefully controlled chaos magic. And this guy can not only do both, but he’s getting clumsy. This is worrying, right?”

“It’s exciting!” exclaimed Lee. “Imagine the implications if we could study this, it would push the Center’s research agenda years forward.” He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, focusing on the space between his hands as if trying to materialize a slideshow. “And yes, yes, we should be very concerned,” he added, noticing my stern look. “But you have to admit, right now it just seems like this guy’s staying in the realm of erotic fantasy.”

“Yeah, but until when? Then what does he move on to? And how long is this going to continue?” I asked, grabbing a handful of my left butt cheek.

“Hmm, you said you’re the most serious case, right? I mean, the others who have been changed are still within the realm of possibility?”

“They’re starting to push at the edges,” I said, rolling my eyes in frustration. “They’ve noticed but I don’t think they’ve noticed. See for yourself,” I added, nodding towards the door.

As if on cue, Blake walked in and sat at the bar, drawing surreptitious glances and outright stares. And who could blame them with those globes of muscle perched on top of a barstool, spilling out of a pair of workout shorts which were pulled taut against his tree trunk quads. I guessed he had actually gone to the gym after class by the looks of the sweat running down his back to his deep ass crack. I couldn’t imagine the show he must’ve put on doing deadlifts with that recently enhanced posterior. Were the magical changes just visible, or could he lift more? What could I squat with this wagon? Maybe not the most pressing questions, but ones that needed answers nonetheless.

“Okay, well, not not inside the realm of possibility,” said Lee, looking visibly pained to avert his gaze back to me, maybe remembering that my bubble booty was somehow even better.

We went through our respective repertoires of spells, spirits, and metaphysical conceptual formations, and nothing seemed to quite make sense for the situation. While we don’t usually talk shop this deeply after hours, this was a pernicious problem with no easy solution, and if I didn’t address it soon, the higher ups would inevitably catch wind of it and step in. And who knows where that would lead. As we talked, things began heating up at our little corner booth. Partially because of the subject matter and partially because with my recent changes, I was rendered acutely horny easily and often. I could feel a deep, yawning need gathering around my pelvis, a yearning. I was practically squirming in my seat, feeling a growing vortex of hunger. Eventually, Lee finally broke the tension.

“Do you feel that, too?” he asked. Any magic sensitive person in the establishment could probably tell that my hole needed a good thrashing, but I really keep forgetting that Lee’s senses are often more sharply attuned than mine.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, and before you knew it we were closing out and heading back to my place.

Lee could barely keep his hands off my bubble butt as we speed walked through the crisp night air. We almost caused a scene on the way up to my apartment as he stopped me on the stairs, bending me over slightly to bury his face in my crack, his hands gripping the flesh of my cheeks like he might fall off the face of the earth. When we made it to my bedroom, I turned around and held his eager hands at his sides, taking a moment to relish in his hungry, impatient gaze as I towered over him before leaning in for an indulgent kiss, our tongues urgently searching each other’s mouths.

With a flourish, I whipped his shirt off, revealing his trim torso and hairy chest. While I thought he was about to return the favor, he instead spun me around, looping his thumbs into the waistband of my overstuffed shorts and beginning to pull. What began as an over-dramatic act became a real struggle as he started to put some elbow grease into it, fighting to peel the fabric over my monster booty. Eventually I joined in, willing my shorts over the curve of my ass and ignoring the small pops of fabric tearing. Aftershocks, I said to myself sarcastically. When the pants finally came off, he let out a sigh of disbelief, caressing my glutes with something like reverence, before pushing me onto the bed and burying his face all the way down to my waiting hole.

He was an expert ass eater and was sending me into waves of pleasure, but I needed something else. Something deeper. Reaching into the nightstand I pulled out a dildo of blended blues and greens that had to be no less than fifteen inches. A toy that, at least in this timeline, I was very familiar with. And apparently so was he. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, at least in this version of events. Lee, ever the reliable friend, had come through on a regular basis to help scratch my unrelenting itch. After we lubed up the toy, I began working it farther and farther inside of me as I got to work on Lee’s juicy cock, which would have been impressive had it not paled in comparison to my recent enhancements.

Afterward, Lee cuddled into my chest as I lay on my side, tracing lazy figure eights across his back and planting small kisses on his forehead.

“I guess whatever this is has its perks,” I offered with a wry smile, reveling in the afterglow of yet another powerful orgasm.

Lee perked up at this, that familiar look on his face reminding me that the gears are always turning. “That might be it, actually,” he said. “Like these erotic changes might not be a byproduct or any sort of trickery. They might themselves be the point. They might be leading to some sort of goal.”

“A goal for what?” I asked, imagining everything from a bubble butted harem to world domination.

“That’s the question,” said Lee, pursing his lips in thought. “More research is still needed on this, but extra-dimensional beings don’t really move through or perceive spacetime in anything resembling the way we do. So all they need is a conduit in this dimension to work through. Either way,” he continued, giving my ass an indulgent caress, “this thing really is something else. Just excellent work. And even if it might be a curse doesn’t mean you can't still treat it like a blessing.”

—

That night I had a dream that may have offered some clues. Being trained in lucid dreaming is one of the introductory facets of this work, and it can be an effective tool for receiving and processing sensitive information as well as exploring things hidden in your personal corner of the astral plane. But it was especially useful as a liminal space in which one could encounter beings on the edges of our realm, like our primary suspect.

I was walking into the paranormal artifacts collection, the archive that Logan works in, hoping no one was there yet because I had finally figured out the delicate matter of confronting Logan about the situation, and needed to make sure the meeting was one-on-one. What my strategy was was unclear, but in the dream I felt confident. As I approached the entryway, I noticed that the double doors had been removed, yet something else seemed off. My eyes were level with the top of the frame, which was disorienting enough, but as I ducked my head through I realized that I was already in a full crouch. In fact, I was crawling through the entryway on hands and knees, my shoulders bumping lightly against the edges of the frame. Thankfully, it was just Logan in the collection, standing over a table of ancient tomes, scrolls, and even a hologram, all arranged around some object that I couldn’t look directly at. He glanced toward me with chromatic rainbow pattern glasses, a noted difference from his usual look, but otherwise nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

He looked…lonely? No, solitary, he was missing something. I was about to call to him, but was stopped in my tracks by someone holding me back, gripping my waist to keep me from progressing farther into the room. I initially registered this as a warning or some sort of invisible barrier, but when I turned around, I didn’t see anything or anyone. I tried again, still stuck by some unknown force. With mild annoyance, I realized that not only did my hips and butt take up the entire doorway, they were too big to fit through. As I continued trying to squeeze the flesh of my colossal backside into the room, I could hear the frame audibly straining, but still had no luck.

Then came a familiar force pushing from behind. What felt like massive hands were digging into the underside of my glutes, eagerly kneading and squeezing my cheeks to massage them through. As I glanced back at Logan, still patiently watching, I realized why he seemed so alone. Whatever power had been seeping into my life wasn’t doing it through him in this instance, it was right behind me. I guess in the liminal dreamspace, this being had less need of a human gateway. With a final shove, I cleared the doorway, my giant form tumbling into the room, trying to get my bearings without starting a chain reaction by knocking over shelves and shelves of magical artifacts. Before I could get a clear look at whatever, whoever that was behind me, I felt those hands again, parting my ass cheeks and slipping in a tongue that felt nothing short of massive, even at these proportions. As they hungrily tossed my salad I was driven to higher and higher levels of ecstasy, my body following suit by expanding with every wave of pleasure. Getting back through the door frame was a lost cause as I became more worried about the approaching ceiling, my gargantuan hands and feet pushing aside bookcases, tables, and crates of identified ephemera as I grew relentlessly, looming over Logan as he tried to move his carefully arranged spread out of the way, eventually giving up and staring at the sight of my behemoth cock rising taller than his entire body, pulsing with the coming release–before I lazily woke up in the early morning sun.

I really felt like with more time I could’ve gotten some answers, if not for the loud creak of Lee padding his huge feet to the bathroom to relieve himself. He had an earlier day than I did, so whenever he stayed over, I just had to deal with the hustle and bustle while still bleary eyed and emerging from a REM cycle. While he’s one of few people who would fully believe me if I told him I was just being eaten out by an ancient deity–and would feel especially bad for waking me–I had left the world of dreams with a sufficient amount of useful data. How could I even complain? I thought, as Lee re-entered the room, shooting me a sleepy wink as he ducked his head back through the doorway, absentmindedly petting the semisoft schlong that swung back and forth around his knees. He’s really the only one who can satisfy me, it’s like we’re made for each–

Ah. Interesting. While this was definitely the body I ‘remembered,’ and definitely the dick that had brought unending pleasure like few else could, I had a sneaking suspicion that this was not his form last night. At least not in this timeline. All you need is a conduit, his words echoed in my head. Whatever this being was had managed to link me and Logan through the astral plane, using me as a temporary conduit for its erotic power. And the results were towering next to my bed, stretching almost to the ceiling, all long graceful lines and sinewy muscle, trying to finagle a beautiful, golden brown, unbelievably long dick into some chinos.

—

Slowly becoming the manifestation of someone’s wildly fantastical wet dream didn’t mean I still didn’t have work to do. After another go round with my favorite silicone monster cock–the best I could do following Lee’s departure–I threw together a quick breakfast and hauled my big butt to the office, settling into a morning of paperwork and emails that I had been neglecting in light of this recent case.

Before long, I could feel the pressure building down below, and tried less and less effectively to stay focused and get some work done, convincing myself that once I found a good stopping point, I could run to the bathroom, whip out my extra long dick, and suck myself off as a late morning pick me up. The feeling was similar to the phenomenon during class, a rolling crescendo of erotic energy in desperate need of release. Except it just kept building, the pressure getting more and more intense, like some deep gravitational presence moving closer and closer. Then in walks Logan, placing himself slowly, carefully in the chair opposite my desk.

“I…need your help,” he said.

I decided to play it cool. I had surmised that Logan wasn’t fully aware that he–or more accurately his dick–was the source of all this foolishness, but if he was coming to that realization, I had to handle the situation with care.

“Yeah, what’s wrong?” I asked with genuine concern, though I was fairly certain he also had a dream of me growing to monstrous proportions and having my salad tossed by a higher dimensional being.

“I don’t quite know how to explain it, but I think you might be able to offer some clarification. There’s something I need you to see,” he said, pulling out what looked like a polished stone phallus with glittery lavender streaks, and a few cracks here and there. It looked to be about eight inches tall standing upright, the base composed of two concave bowls that resembled, of course, a ballsack.

“We received this at the museum before the start of the semester. It was lost in the mix of boxes of stuff from a smaller archive that had shut down recently–budget cuts, ya know, and there weren’t many details to go on. So it seemed like some sort of ancient fertility artifact and I was doing some analysis to get an idea of where and when it came from and there was this…energy that I could feel around it, like it was calling to me, and…well…”

Don’t tell me, I thought with an internal groan.

“I, um…” he continued.

“You fucked the ancient dildo, didn’t you?” I asked, figuring it would be easier if we just cut to the chase.

He lowered his head slightly in affirmation, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

“You fucked the ancient dildo,” I repeated, pinching the bridge of my nose with two fingers, “and now you’re cursed by some fertility god or related deity or supernatural being.”

“...Yeah.”

“One whose name we don’t know.”

“Correct.”

“Who may have been hidden in that thing for millennia until very recently.”

“Very likely.”

“And who is now, through you, trying to run amok.”

“Mmhm.”

“Okay. Alright. At least we’ve figured that out.”

“I was really hoping you could help me,” Logan jumped in, his voice rising in pitch, “I don’t know how to control it and it’s so strong. And I’m sorry for the changes to everyone, but it keeps like, demanding to be released, but I don’t really know what it’s saying and with what it already did to my boyfriend–”

“Hey,” I interjected, my voice becoming slow and deliberate. As Logan was talking, his hand wandered to the artifact sitting on my desk, touching it absentmindedly, and being this close I could feel this being trying to ooze their way into the plane of our existence. As Logan got more visibly worried, I felt my bubble butt pushing against the arms of my chair, my feet and legs slowly lengthening, my shoulders stretching wider as my torso extended, my clothes becoming snug. Meanwhile, Logan’s adorable twinkish visage became more acute, the bouncing curls of his hair increasing in volume, his lips plumping amongst his scruff, his body shrinking slightly as an astounding bulge in his pants lengthened even further.

“Deep breaths,” I continued. “Deep, deep breaths. We got this, you’re in the right place.”

He relaxed his grip on the artifact as I took his hands in mine, intentionally ignoring the fact that my mitts looked massive compared to his. We were reaching that energetic threshold, but I was confident that I could handle it.

“What changes do you remember?” I asked. “With you specifically.”

“Well,” he started, “my boyfriend always liked being the bigger one in the relationship, and I…think that before I found this I was around average height, but I’m not sure. But I’m pretty sure I’ve shrunk several inches, which he’s loved, and he can’t keep his hands off my butt, he keeps commenting on how perky it is. And then there’s…this.”

With a sigh of resignation, he rose from his chair and dropped his pants in one swift motion. He wasn’t wearing underwear, because what would even be the point with a schlong that came straight from someone’s hyperdick fantasy. Revealed to the air, his cock felt like a metaphysical locus of energy in the room, a gravity well pulling everything toward it as it stretched over my desk, and, before I could intervene, dropped a thick glob of precum into one of the bowls of the artifact.

I felt a heavy pulse of energy reverberate through the room which would probably have been felt over this whole section of campus. While this power was too ancient for our contemporary defenses, it likely set off alarms with every magic sensitive person in the area.

“What…was that?” he asked.

“You gave it an offering,” I said, staring intently at the artifact for any changes on any plane that I had access to.

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not good,” I responded curtly.

The dissipation of that energetic burst wasn’t followed by a feeling of relief, but dreadful anticipation. My stomach sank as I imagined the ocean flowing away from the beach before a tsunami. Whatever being this was was on its way, and it was tired of dealing with Logan as a conduit.

We had to act fast and I had an idea. A completely unhinged one, but the only one I could maintain amidst the torrent of hormones, pent up jizz, and the deep hunger of my hole.

The erotic is a powerful force, one that with training and knowhow, can be a useful facet of any mage’s skillset. But more importantly, orgasms are, for lack of a better term, portals. Brief openings between dimensions, moments of energetic possibility. Whoever this being was, they were coming, and I had a sneaking suspicion that they were powerful enough to enter our world through brute force, a tear in the fabric of reality that could have ramifications far beyond ripped pants seams and donkey dicks. But if I opened a door in a controlled way I could set the terms of engagement and minimize destruction. I hoped.

“I know this is less than professional, but I need you to fuck me,” I said. “This curse seemingly works through erotic energy and orgasms are powerful focal points. If you fuck me, I may be able to redirect it, at least temporarily.”

Logan didn’t have to be told twice. His member looked ridiculous on his slight frame, still leaking precum as it rose fully to attention, defying gravity as it bobbed in the air between us. I briefly wondered how I was going to take all that before realizing it looked mighty familiar, very much like a certain dildo of slightly smaller size, but very similar shape, even with that curve. Of course, I thought.

Logan didn’t waste time, and soon I found myself bent over my own desk, my monumental bubble butt arched in the air as Logan’s mushroom head slowly pushed my hole wider and wider before slipping in.

Logan slid in and out with agonizing slowness, his prodigious cock working its way farther and farther with each stroke, the pleasure of his thrusts simply unreal. He had seemingly lost the capacity for words, his hands gripping the flesh of my fat ass as he was lost in cosmic orgasmic pleasure. Getting inch after inch of his dick into me could only be accomplished with magical assistance, yet I was still filled to the brim, feeling his mammoth cock pulsing against my walls with every one of his heartbeats. His precum mixed with sweat produced a loud squelch with every thrust, and as more and more of him entered me, I was rendered speechless by this never ending, all encompassing cock, in disbelief that there could possibly be more. It felt like a fantasy, because in a sense it was.

Finally, somehow, he bottomed out, and as I felt his pubes press against my overstretched hole, I took my chance, positioning my own cock over the second small bowl of the artifact as a glob of precum slid up my long shaft and oozed out, dropping into place. Although no sound was made on this plane of existence, I sensed something like a bell tolling in the far off distance, as if the circuit had been completed, and Logan’s dick pumped up as he began shooting volleys of cum deep inside of me, my own dick following suit.

As we were brought over the edge of oblivion, time slowed to a crawl, and through my other sight I could finally see the being that had been causing all this trouble, straining against the threads of our reality and oozing through with chaotic, erotic possibility.

But orgasms are a portal. And I opened the door, pushing aside the beaded curtains of our world to meet our new–and very old–guest. Usually, in situations like these, one might whip out some sort of binding or banishment spell, but this was a being of deep magic, old magic, and it would burn even the best of us to a crisp. So there were no tricks or complicated grammars here, just my outstretched hand, fingers splayed and palm up. An invitation to a being who hadn’t yet figured out how to communicate in any recognizable modern language, apparently opting to manifest through erotic fantasy. And a recognition in return.

—

The sun was much lower in the sky when I came to, painting the sky from my window in the streaks of pink and purple of waning afternoon.

Logan had fallen back into the chair and passed out, visibly exhausted yet also relieved, the mushroom head of his soft dick drooling as it hung just over the chair’s edge. As he realized I had finally regained consciousness, he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on my right cheek in thanks, letting out an overdramatic Oof as I fell back into his lap.

“Let me know if you need help explaining this to your boyfriend,” I said.

“He’s open minded, I think he’ll get it. It’s not my first time encountering a magical artifact.”

After we awkwardly cleaned up and got dressed–I really was enjoying the skirt look– Logan turned to me and said, “Thanks so much for this. I guess I’ll…see you next week.”

“No problem,” I replied. “It’s literally my job, and the skirts are admittedly a nice touch. I’ll see about taking care of this before getting it back to the archive,” I added, gingerly placing the artifact in a drawer of my desk.

It was a partial truth. What Logan had thought to be a curse was actually a collaborator, and it had found someone more capable to play with. In the recesses of the metaphysical plane of my mind, I felt a newcomer making themself comfortable, finally finding the words to express themself in this world.

I’m not a linguist, but it sounded something like…Let’s have some fun.

#male tf #ass growth #butt growth #dick growth #growth #Just Ignore It

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