#caviar being stuffed down peoples pants

[otrtbs]

the dinne fic sounds so freaking cool!!! can u share anything else?

how many chapters, title. i loved the table drawing and the notes!!

ahh thank you!! ☺️☺️

no clue how many chapters it’ll be tbh ! or the title haha i’ll have to write more so that the title can come to me in a dream

but i will share that lily and remus are political adversaries, dorcas is a famous cellist playing w the symphony orchestra, james is world famous novelist working on his next book, and regulus owns and runs a very successful art gallery (i had to im sorry agdhfjsj)

the dinner takes place at lily’s and there’s at least 12 courses she has planned 😌😋

reinventing the catholic act of confession for airing out all ur sins and purifying your soul but there’s no priest just a bunch of asshole friends who all think they’re god, too much red wine, and some bread

also its little gone girl-esque where everything is all a carefully curated and maintained illusion and everyone is acting out their parts but when they stop,,, all hell breaks loose ,,,

[steviespanties]

Special Treats For Good Cat Boys on AO3 for full tags. 2.6k, Rated E. Unapologetic smutty fluff with a chubby catboy!Steve in panties, pregnancy kink (without mpreg) and a very successful Valentine’s Day date night~ Fitting for the @harringroveheart-on prompts Lingerie, Champagne and Date Night and a belated b-day present for @rvspberryjvm 😊💗💗

It’s the second week of snow coming down on the city, covering houses and streets in sheets of white over and over again until all sound is muffled when Steve walks outside. Even with his sharp hearing, face wrapped in his favorite scarf, he has to strain his ears to not get surprised by people coming around corners.

Icy wind bites into his cheeks and once again he’s grateful for the incredibly fluffy knit hat Robin sent him for Christmas. It’s got holes for his ears to poke out in perfectly placed spots- something Billy sneakily helped figure out for her, she’d admitted on the phone.

“Good thing I convinced you to buy the more expensive winter coat, huh?” Next to him, wrapped in said coat, a blood red scarf, his hat and mittens, Billy looks a lot less grumpy when he doesn’t have to complain about freezing his ass off. Steve snickers at the glare thrown in his direction.

“How could I’ve known that winter in Michigan is even worse than Indiana?”

Steve laughs. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe someone tried to warn you in advance and you turned deaf all of a sudden?” He gets an adorable pout in response that Billy will deny up and down ever showing. He wants to reach out and kiss the corner of Billy’s pouty lips till he can’t help but react with a grin.

Bags full of groceries swing between them as they bicker back and forth. At a street crossing Billy reaches out and carefully brushes snow off Steve’s ear. He smiles back in thanks.

Steve’s ears have become extra fluffy this winter, with a thick undercoat that keeps the snow from melting and seeping into his skin. It’s like his body knew it had to prepare for the more serious cold. Billy can’t keep his hands from petting the new softness of Steve’s fur, taking every opportunity to brush his equally floofed up tail and give him head scratches. Steve’s started to feel very spoiled lately.

They arrive home to a warm apartment and close the door with relieved groans behind them, both glad to have escaped the cold. As they peel off their many layers of clothes, Steve sneaks a glance at Billy. He looks so beautiful when he’s flushed, his tan faded, but his freckles even more visible due to the winter sun. It’s not like Billy isn’t aware that he’s beautiful. Despite getting a bit soft around the middle, he’s still proud of maintaining his muscles. Gives himself finger guns and winks at the mirror when he’s all primped. But he’s also pretty. Long lashes and soft lips, a shimmery fuzz of golden hair on his body that Steve constantly wants to rub himself against. In the dark grey henley he reveals under his coat, he looks effortlessly stunning.

Of course, he catches Steve staring and throws him a smug grin.

“Ready for some food?” Steve nods and grabs his share of grocery bags to follow Billy into the kitchen.

“Starving,” he says. As they unpack, their limited counter space soon overflows with the clutter of their united assembly of their dinner: A spread of baguette slices with cream cheese, topped with caviar or smoked salmon. Cucumber salad, dark grapes and strawberries. Sliced-open croissants stuffed with bacon and scrambled eggs. Ice cream waiting in the freezer. And, of course, two bottles of champagne, already cooled in the fridge and now fizzing enchantingly in two glasses. Steve’s tail swishes excitedly at the mouth-watering smells and it takes a lot of self control not to sneak a bite. Still, Billy seems to have a sixth sense for Steve getting too riled up, because soon enough he bumps their shoulders together. “Why don’t you go ahead and get settled. Put on some music for us while I clean up.”

Steve bumps right back into him. Enjoys the way Billy barely even moves, unbothered and rooted firmly in place. “That sounds good. Thanks.” He can’t resist placing at least a quick kiss to Billy’s shoulder. This close, he can catch a good whiff of Billy’s scent, warm and a little woody because of his perfume. Billy playfully swats at him, which Steve evades in a fluid motion and a with laugh before he slips into the living room.

They’ve spent all afternoon working on a blanket fort that looks even more cozy and inviting than when they left to go grocery shopping. All the lights in the room are covered in red cloth, bathing the place in muted, warm light. Where their sofa usually stands, they’ve turned the entire thing around, thrown a futon in front and surrounded it with pillows and cushions. The cushy interior is flanked by chairs they’ve thrown a massive white sheet on top on, which trails over the back of the sofa and is illuminated by fairy lights on the inside. The mountain of blankets Steve insisted on adding might be a bit overkill, but his stomach gets all fluttery with elation when he looks at it. Like they’ve built their own little nest that calls for him to curl up between soft blankets where he can wait for Billy to join him.

So he hastily selects something sappy to softly play in the background: A REO Speedwagon album that Billy would never admit to liking, but that he has also never protested listening to when Steve's put it on or insisted on turning off either. Steve slips out of his pants, places them behind a cushion where he’s also snuck a bottle of lube and then quickly dives under a blanket when he hears Billy’s approaching footsteps.

“Hey there, kitty cat.” Billy comes into view holding a whole tray with their food, cleverly arranged so he can carry everything in one trip while an ice bucket with their champagne bottles dangles on his arm.

“Here, let me get that.” Steve leans up, careful not to let the blanket slip to reveal his surprise. He takes the tray off Billy’s hands and carefully lowers it to the ground. No snacks directly in the blanket fort if they want to sleep in here tonight. Billy huffs as he puts the bucket down. Lifts his head to make eye contact with Steve, just long enough to notice the mischievous glint in his eyes- and then he leaps forward with a whoop.

Steve yelps at a sudden armful of heavy, cackling boyfriend on top of him. Billy's happiness is infectious and he quickly feels himself join in on the laughter. It's Billy's turn to kiss him, just a lightning-fast peck on the lips that makes Steve wish he'd linger just a bit longer.

They share their first glasses of champagne that tingles on Steve’s sensitive tongue, making him chase its lightness into Billy’s slick mouth. There’s the explosion of briny, salty caviar and mild cream cheese in Steve’s mouth, more sips of champagne followed by cool, smoked salmon. The sensation of the tips of Billy’s fingers against his lips when he feeds him a bite. Holding a strawberry against Billy's lips in turn, he's enthralled by watching sharp teeth pierce the red flesh. Each sip of champagne slips down his throat easily, a perfect, decadent balance to all the different flavors that have danced over his tongue- none quite as addictive as the taste of Billy, though.

And suddenly, their tray is shoved to the side. Shirts are thrown off and Billy’s pants shoved down. The second champagne bottle is halfway empty and Steve’s belly is pleasantly full and warm in satisfaction, making him wriggle in satisfaction. Next to him, Billy inches closer. Crowds into his space until Steve leans back into soft pillows, ears standing up at attention. There’s a different kind of hunger in his eyes, now.

“I got a surprise for you,” he confesses in a hushed voice and slips the blanket down to reveal his present.

“Is that for me?” Billy’s words are smooth whiskey. Sweet and sharp and running over Steve’s body in an intoxicating caress that makes him squirm in place and his tail swish in gleeful anticipation. Billy’s hands close around his soft hips and tug him closer. Thumbs dig into the recently added softness of Steve’s tummy, all plumped up for the winter. He really feels like a spoiled and pampered housecat now, all drunk on treats and alcohol and skin contact.

Billy’s eyes are dark with want when his gaze catches on soft pink lace panties that finally show in all their glory when he fully slips the blanket off.

“You take such good care of me,” Steve says quietly. He wraps his arms around Billy to pull him in and feels a thrill run through him when Billy’s erection brushes against his leg. Clearly, the surprise is a success. “I figured this would be a nice gift.” A tender kiss to his neck.

With a teasing smirk, Billy looks down at the panties. “Oh, I’m very happy.” He snaps the waistband against Steve’s side, making a shocked mew slip out at the sting and his dick respond with a twitch. “But don’t pretend you’re being all altruistic here, babe.” A finger runs over the rapidly hardening outline of his dick and comes to rest right at the head. He pushes down, enough to give a tiny drop of pressure that makes Steve writhe in place, unable to open his mouth and ask for more. There’s just Billy’s warm hand on his hip and that unrelenting point of not-enough-contact. Steve moans.

“Ah, so- so what, not like we can’t both enjoy me dressing up for you!” For a moment, the pressure lets up.

An agreeable hum. “True. You sure enjoy being my pretty boy, though, huh?” And the pressure is back again, just at the sensitive underside of the head of Steve’s dick. That place is like a switch where he’s quickly set on fire just by Billy’s fingers and knowing eyes drinking him up. A small wet spot starts to form where a splash of precome gets trapped between his dick and the fabric of his panties.

“Yeah,” Steve admits as he rolls his hips up. Seeks the pressure and attention as another drop of precome pushes out. “Would enjoy it even more if you fucked me.” That gets him a small laugh.

“Someone’s been getting too spoiled.” Billy sounds positively delighted at Steve’s whining. He can’t help it! He’s spent most of the day opening himself up as sneakily as possible whenever he could get away with it, has made himself drip with lube until his hole has felt open and tender for way too long. Especially now, with Billy hovering above him, he feels himself want a reward for putting in all this extra preparation. He blindly gropes for the lube. Smacks Billy’s hand off his dick and the bottle into his palm and then pulls the fabric of his panties to the side to reveal his twitching, loose hole.

The frown he throws at Billy’s wide-eyed expression might be more of a pout than an intimidating glare. At least there's no protest from Billy, just a determined set to his jaw as he slicks up his fingers in a practiced motion. He shifts from confusion to palpable excitement when first one, then two fingers sink inside Steve with almost no resistance.

“Oh baby,” he croons and leans even further into Steve’s space. Kisses him slow and deep as he presses his fingers in and out in a pleasant drag that finally comes close to what Steve’s been craving all day. He grabs Billy’s arms and luxuriates in the indulgent slide of their tongues against each other and the sting of Billy’s teeth at his lip. He undulates his hips to meet Billy’s movement inside him, chasing the elusive need for more.

When they separate to breathe, he groans a desperate “Come on, I’m ready” into Billy’s ear. No matter how much of a hardass Billy likes to think he is, the strung-out tone of Steve’s voice never fails to give him a palpable full-body shudder that Steve triumphantly notices.

“Fuck, fine.” Billy looks flushed, all gold and pink and glowing in the soft light surrounding them.

The panties are stretched taut over Steve’s dick. Divine, almost too much pressure that makes him squirm as he watches Billy slick himself up. Being trapped drives him a little crazy and makes it impossible to fully hold still, even as Billy clearly tries to go slow while he savoring the sight of Steve all laid out in front of him. He doesn’t want to wait anymore till Billy finally decides they’re ready and shoves his hips down. Pops the thick cockhead inside and makes them both moan at the way Steve hole flutters around it.

“You’re so goddamn hungry for my cock, huh?” Billy thrusts deeper, clearly losing composure. “Pretty princess gagging to be filled up.” Steve helplessly moans as heat pools at the base of his spine and in his belly. He desperately meets Billy’s hips and lets out a long, drawn-out whine. “Bet you can’t wait to get pumped full to carry a whole litter of kittens for me.”

It’s like Billy has found the string he needed to tug on to open the floodgates to fill Steve with an overwhelming, fierce need. To open himself up even more for Billy to claim him inside and out, deeper even than Billy’s cock thrusting into him where it drags at his insides. “Billy,” he sobs, barely coherent, and clings to his back. Digs his fingers into skin and feels strong back muscles shift underneath his hands.

A rising pressure of something primal, inexplicable pulses through him. He drinks in the sensations- of Billy’s body heat and sweat-slick skin rubbing against Steve’s. Billy’s scent that makes Steve salivate for a taste of him. His hair falls down in soft, wavy strands that frame his face and tickle Steve's skin gently. A hand lands on his soft belly, above his trapped dick steadily pulsing hot precome into tight fabric. Billy's claiming where he’s warm and soft and still desperate for more of his touch.

“Or maybe,” Billy breathes against his ear, makes his breath ghost over the sensitive fur. His hand presses down a little harder. “Maybe you’re already carrying.”

He can’t breathe. He’s blinded by the fireworks going off behind his eyelids, unable to keep them open any longer.

There’s just Billy. Inside and out. And the thought of Steve's belly, carrying a small piece of both of them.

It’s too much. He comes, orgasm rolling over him relentlessly. He cries. Scratches at Billy’s back and pushes himself into Billy’s hand, consumed by his cock spreading him wide open, lost in the thought of more. His panties are filled with pulse after pulse of warm, sticky come, trapped mess turning into a feedback loop of shivery, delightful aftershocks.

There’s the most feather-light kisses on his eyelids. Billy’s thrusts slow to an intense, shuddering grind as he empties himself deep into Steve, all satisfied moans and grunts. Finally, there’s air in Steve's lungs again. He fills his nose with deep inhales of their satisfied scents all mixed together.

They rest. Clean up a little. Put on The Breakfast Club while they wrap around each other as they trade kisses and sips of leftover Champagne. Steve’s tail is curled around the arm Billy has thrown over his hips and he purrs in sleepy contentment while his ears are being pet. “You’re gonna be such a good parent” Billy teases at some point and earns himself a light smack to the shoulder that makes him hiss in mock-hurt. Steve places a kiss where he hit to ease the light sting anyways.

[greyhavensking]

Blackout (MCU Fanfic)

So this is me trying to hype up my own fanfiction, which I have posted on AO3 and am currently working on. It’s an OC story, featuring most of New York’s small-time heroes, like Daredevil and pre-Civil War Spider-Man. Any feedback would be appreciated, either here or on AO3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20239192/chapters/47966818#main 

prologue | shocking beginnings 

The static shock is new.

Michaela isn’t an idiot (most days); static shock as a concept isn’t new. She’s been terrorizing the neighborhood with it since she was seven and her grandma knitted her a pair of incredibly ugly wool socks that she refused to take off, which were then forcibly removed after she’d gone two days without a bath. And she’s hardly a stranger to grabbing onto a pole on the subway and zapping the hell out of herself.

But this is… more. 

Tuesday morning dawns, presumably, bright and bitterly cold, though Michaela doesn’t open her eyes until 8:53, approximately seven minutes before her first class. The only comment she has about the weather is to declare it was too fucking cold as she hurriedly threw on a seasonally-inappropriate jacket on her way out of her apartment. Late as she is, she can’t grab breakfast from the cafe on campus, or even a coffee, which doesn’t bode well for her attitude for the rest of the day.

She snaps at a professor or two. Her next paper is probably going to get tanked. Oh fucking well.

The point is, though, that she wasn’t in any state of mind to notice it until well into the afternoon when she’s holed up behind the register at Cody’s, mindlessly greeting customers and desperately hoping none of them choose to mention her smudged makeup or the unavoidable stains under her arms. This wasn’t a clean shirt by any means, hadn’t been clean when she wore it last, either. Is it her fault that the washers in her apartment complex ate quarters like they were fucking caviar? 

A few regulars pass through — Diego and Carla, Tommy and Riley, Mr. Yang — but they don’t linger today like they might have otherwise. The shop isn’t busy, really, there are only a handful of people browsing, so apparently she’s giving off pretty strong don’t-engage-with-me-I’m-not-human-today vibes, which suits her fine. For the most part. 

The absence of friendly conversation is starting to wear on her the longer her shift drags on. Her leg shakes, knee bobbing against the row of drawers behind the register; she worries at a hangnail on her thumb, too chicken just to rip it off; the copper on her tongue comes from having her teeth planted a little viciously in her lower lip. God, she has so much homework for this week, and then finals are coming up, she’ll be swamped, how the hell is she going to come into work when she already knows she has three papers, two projects, and an oral presentation due in a few weeks—

Someone steps up to the register and Michaela straightens instinctively, whacking her knee against the drawers in her haste. She hisses out a strangled breath, fighting the urge to crouch down and cradle her leg; instead, she forces a brittle smile at the man in front of her and says, “Hope you found everything alright. Want me to ring you up?”

The man smiles in sympathy, his brows drawn together behind his red-tinted glasses. “Yeah, that’d be great.” He loads his things onto the counter and Michaela dutifully ignores them; she’s learned not to make assumptions based on what people bought, and more to the point, she doesn’t care to make a guessing game out of it, not when she has better things to waste brainpower on. She’s already started working his purchases into the register when he says, with a smidge of hesitation, “Are you alright? I heard a bang and it, uh, didn’t sound great.”

Michaela pauses, biting again at her lip. She doesn’t normally take notice of customers, aside from the ones that turn up on a daily basis, but — the guy smiles at her, sheepish but charming, and she drops her gaze to give him an absent once-over and—

Ah. Fuck.

His suit is nice, though she doesn’t really have an eye for expensive tastes. For all she knows he’d nicked it from a Good Will bin and it’s really thirty years old. But it looks good on him; charcoal jacket and pants, crisp white shirt, maroon tie that she thinks maybe matches his glasses? Short, dark-brown hair, stubble on his cheeks and chin. Cute, overall. And then there’s the cane.

She’d thought his phrasing had been a little odd. He’d heard her, didn’t mention the pained grimace that had undoubtedly flashed across her face before she schooled her features into reluctant professionalism. 

So. Cute and blind, if she isn’t being too presumptuous. Huh.

“I’m…” She waves a hand, mentally curses herself, then says, “You know. Banged my knee a little. Nothing to complain to HR about.” What HR? She works at a convenience store. Michaela squeezes her eyes shut, breathes out slowly, embarrassingly grateful he can’t see just how much of a fool she is. Awkward as fuck and caffeine-deficient, she isn’t at her best today, or. Well. She can’t remember the last time she’d been at her best. “I’m fine, really, but thanks for asking. This all for today?” she asks, grabbing at a subject change with both hands and yanking for all she was worth.

He probably sees— or, not sees, hell. He can probably tell what she was doing, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just gives an easy shrug and taps his cane lightly against the floor. “That’s all. I’m just on a snack run for my partner. We’ve been at the office all day, and he likes to remind me when I’ve gone too long without getting some fresh air.”

Aw, nice guy. Michaela could use someone like that, if she’s being honest with herself. Which she isn’t, not today anyway. Today is not a day for honesty. She needs more sleep for that, and like, at least one espresso. 

She grins, another reflex, and bags his snacks. “Not sure if the air here qualifies. Especially not after last week.”

The man’s brows twitch upwards, just a little. “Were you around for the attack?”

“Uh.” Way to go, Michaela. That’s a pleasant topic, very casual. “Yes? Technically?” Stop making everything a question, Jesus! “The, um, the blast, or whatever, I wasn’t all that close to it, but I got caught by the cloud of…” 

She trails off. Fuck if she knew what tragic-backstory-of-the-week exposed them to. The doctors at the hospital she’d woken up at didn’t know what it was, either, but they’d collectively decided that it hadn’t been toxic, so. Death isn’t on the horizon, apparently. 

What a pity. 

“I mean, I’m fine, obviously. Got kinda scraped up when I fell and all, but nothing serious.” That’s when she clocks the bandage wrapped around the guy’s hand, and since she’d already stuck her foot in her mouth, she might as well go for broke. “Did you… What about you?”

That gives him pause, only for a moment, before his injured hand flexes and then cinches tighter around the handle of his cane. He laughs, shakes his head. “Oh, no, I got lucky. I was visiting a friend when it happened, so I wasn’t in town.” Another smile. “But I’m glad to hear you’re alright.”

Right. Sure. This isn’t just two people exchanging niceties for a (nearly) awkward length of time. Michaela abruptly ducks her head and pushes his bag closer to the edge of the counter. “Yeah, good news for me,” she says, refusing to acknowledge her flushed cheeks. When is her shift over again? Not soon enough. “Here you go. That’ll be $8.37.”

He passes her a twenty, insists she keep the change (which is absurd, she doesn’t get tips, and she can’t be rude—) but when she makes  to press the bill back into his hands she yelps at the shock of their skin meeting. And for once she isn’t being dramatic, there was a literal shock, she could’ve sworn she’d seen a spark—

Glasses frowns as his hand spasms, then shakes out his fingers and tips his head, looking at her just a bit off-center, his gaze seemingly focused over her left shoulder. “That was…”

“Static,” she mutters, staring at her own hand. It doesn’t look— she doesn’t know, burned? She’s pale as ever, though, no blemishes or marks that she can see. “My fault, probably. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says graciously, like there was nothing out of the ordinary about what had just happened. And maybe there wasn’t anything strange there, maybe Michaela just needs someone to knock her the fuck out so she can move on from today. “Have a nice day!”

It takes her a solid fifteen minutes once he’s left to realize she hadn’t given him his change.

“Motherfucker.”

__________

She’d write it off as another product of her shitty, shitty day and care not at all about the significance of it, but it… keeps happening. 

Two more customers brush hands with her and two more times they both got shocked. Then, when she’s on her way out, so, so ready to bury her head in a pillow and possibly never emerge into the light of day again, she closes her hand around the door handle and — her whole hand this time, a bright burst of pain, electricity crackling over her skin, but now it isn’t quite pain. Or, it’s not as painful as before, like the shock has diffused across her hand, up her forearm, dissipating quicker. 

She doesn’t have the chance to dwell on it, because Emmett’s taking over her position at the register and she does not want to get sucked into a conversation with him, well-meaning as he is. (He’s in college, too, which he likes to remind her about whenever possible, but he can’t seem to grasp that he’s eighteen and she’s twenty-four and that their experiences weren’t really the same at all). So she shoves aside the prickle of worry at the back of her neck, decides very promptly that she’s imagining things and slips out onto the street, hands stuffed deep into her pockets and her breath crystallizing in the air as she makes her way home.

Then she’s inhaling a cup of ramen, speed reading (i.e., skimming) through an article for her modern graphics class tomorrow, and internally freaking out about no less than five separate and completely unrelated problems. It’s her greatest talent, and also the reason she averages four hours of sleep a night. Why had she wanted to go back to college again?

By the time Michaela is ready to start on the logo project that’s due Friday, it’s eleven at night and she’s drained three cups of absolutely disgusting coffee, so she’s looking at little to no sleep. Again. Hurray for her impulsive nature and inability to course-correct even when she knows she’s fucking herself over and careening right into a terrible decision. She’d always heard her twenties would be the best time of her life, and wow, so many people had lied to her, it’s not even funny.

Michaela drops heavily into her armchair (which she’d stolen off the sidewalk and felt no shame whatsoever about), dragging her laptop off the coffee table and into her lap. She’s buzzing, her skin too tight. Her mouth’s gone dry despite the coffee and she feels like the absolute last thing she should be doing is sitting down, but she isn’t going to go for a run at eleven o’clock at night in Hell’s Kitchen. Her brain betrays her on a nearly daily basis and she’s failed more tests than she can count, but she isn’t that stupid. Taking one year of karate when she was eight does not mean she has any business defending herself, so she isn’t going to stick her neck out just to run off the jitters, thanks. She’ll distract herself with schoolwork and maybe take a couple of laps around her tiny shithole of an apartment. 

That’s the plan, at least, until she sets her fingers down on the keyboard and the laptop abruptly goes up in smoke.

Michaela shrieks, her hands tingling as she tosses the laptop onto the ground, watching wide-eyed as it spits out sparks like she’d dumped a bucket of water over it. That… is not normal. Neither is whatever the hell is going on with her hands because they’re tingling, yeah, but it’s more than pins and needles; they feel charged, staticky in a way that’s far from the harmless zaps you prank people with. 

What the fucking fuck? 

The smoking laptop is a lost cause, or not one worth pursuing right now, anyway. And her hands, well — she could, uh, go to the emergency room? Would they even take her in for something like this, whatever this was? Does she need a therapist?

That’s a stupid question. Who doesn’t need a therapist? Michaela doesn’t want to meet that person, honestly.

Why is she daydreaming about the emergency room, anyway? She doesn’t have health insurance. Hell, she’d nearly had a panic attack when she woke up in the hospital in the wake of the Avengers bagging another bad guy; not because she was in a hospital, but because she’d have to pay for being in a hospital. Which was a nightmare worse than death, really, and god, can’t Tony Start just cover everyone who ends up bruised and broken after they save the day? She’s grateful the Avengers are around, she is, New York wouldn’t exist without them, but the man has literal billions of dollars. Hospital fees won’t even make a dent in his gold-plated wallet, or whatever. 

Focus, Michaela. Weird electrical shenanigans take precedence over lingering bitterness towards Tony Fucking Stark. 

Yeah, there would always be time for that. Just not right now.

Michaela jabs a toe at the laptop, which responds by coughing up another round of sparks, so she draws  her legs hastily onto the chair and cowers there for a minute, then flings her hands out away from her body. The tightness in her chest is a warning she doesn’t need, and she forces herself to breathe as evenly as she can, hoping to stave off the inevitable anxiety attack for a little while longer. 

She flips her hands over, fingers splayed wide. Her careful breathing hitches. She’s always been pale despite her more colorful heritage, but not to the point where her veins stand out glacial blue against her skin. And she’s kidding herself if she labels the blue, arcing lights beneath her skin as veins — that’s electricity, or something like it. Something almost… alive, right there, writhing even as she watches, snaking through her palms, and when it reaches her fingertips, sparks fizzle in the air just beyond her bitten-off nails.

That’s about when her panic hits the wall, too big for her chest, and she lets out a sharp, broken breath that coincidentally coincides with all of the lights in her apartment — and, she’ll learn later, her entire complex — blanking out with a high-pitched whine.

Somehow her awkward failure of an encounter with the cute office worker doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.