#these cookies are just so rich its slightly obscene

[lemongrad]

oooooof I made a giant batch of triple-chocolate cookies for my brother's birthday and as one is wont to do while baking, had a few cookies worth of dough and now tummy hurty

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #1: The Bluebird of Ishgard

Prompt: crux | Master Post | On AO3

This fill is a combination of both the FFXIV Write prompt, and a prompt from the Book Club server as posited by @pudgy-puk: “aymeric takes his date to The Fanciest ishgardian patisserie and drops an ABSURD amount of money.“

We are starting off FFXIV Write with EXACTLY MY BRAND! This takes place post 3.1 and references the events of my FFXIV Write 2019 fill, “Finally.”

Please enjoy!

--

Synnove hummed quietly to herself as she walked with Aymeric through the streets of Ishgard, her right hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. His own right hand gently covered hers, and every few moments he softly rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. A silly grin tugged at her lips every time he did, a flush of pleasure rising on her cheeks.

Aymeric had arrived at Fortemps Manor shortly after lunch, dressed down in simple leathers and that fur-lined leather coat he had worn that day not-so-long ago when she and Galette had run into him shopping along the Jeweled Crozier. He had asked for the pleasure of her company on a leisurely walk through the city—“I am not yet allowed the more strenuous exercise of the sparring ring,” he had said ruefully, a twinkle in his ice blue eyes, “but I am, thankfully, allowed to stretch my legs on daily walks.”—and after being subjected to a frantic wardrobe change by Rere (“We’re in a relationship! I don’t need to impress him! And why is this skirt in my size?” “Shush, be glad I’m always prepared on your behalf, and wear this sweater with it! Oooooh and the green shawl Heron made for you, I have the perfect pin to go with it.” “Rereha!”), she had been out the door with him, hand in hand.

Their leisurely ramble had taken them through parts of the city Synnove hadn’t visited, or had only walked through or by once or twice. Neighborhoods of the minor or vassel houses; the district where the merchants and burgeoning nouveau riche dwelled. Small parks carefully tended to preserve some green within the limits of the city; statues of minor saints and folk heroes of the Dragonsong War; a street lined on either side by greenhouses, the area bristling with dragonkillers. Aymeric had a story for each place: here was where a childhood friend had lived, before his family had moved out of the city; that was the house of his mother’s least favorite cousin, whom social propriety had declared Mama still had to entertain; there was he played at knights and dragons most often; that was the saint for whom his father—“The one who raised me.”—had been named.

She had enjoyed listening to him speak, his tone shading equally with fondness or wistfulness or, in the case of his mother’s least favorite cousin, palpable disdain. They so rarely had moments of quiet, never mind such moments together, and the opportunity to learn more about his home through his eyes had been an honor. She was sorry for the outing to end.

Except, instead of taking the turn that would lead them back the Fortemps Manor, Aymeric began to lead them in the direction of the Jeweled Crozier and all its myriad shops. Synnove made a questioning sound, looking up at him.

Aymeric grinned at her and kissed her forehead. “My lady was kind enough to accompany me about Ishgard in the cold, without complaint,” he said cheerfully, “and listen to me ramble besides. The least I can do is provide her some refreshment and something hot to drink in return.”

She laughed in delight, and pushed herself to her toes to kiss his cheek. “It was my pleasure to walk with you today,” she said, “but I’ll not refuse the offer of a treat. Lead on, my knight.”

The main thoroughfares were busier than the side streets, and the pair garnered some attention as the Lord Commander and a Warrior of Light, though blessedly no one approached them. Aymeric turned them down onto the lane that housed most of the Pillars’ cafes and bakeries, and Synnove’s stomach rumbled at the enticing aromas of coffee and bread and sugar that perfumed the air here.

He took them past the places where she and her friends often supped, past even the cafes about which Emmanellain waxed poetic. The traffic thinned as they walked, the businesses becoming more exclusive, the displays of pastries and menus becoming more elaborate and frankly obscene. Synnove looked around in growing surprise, her eyebrows rising, even as Aymeric continued to smile, secretive and mischievous.

Finally, they stopped in front of a patisserie in whose window was a display of éclairs so decadent that Synnove reflexively swallowed the saliva suddenly flooding her mouth. The choux was so fluffy it looked as if it was about to float, the chocolate icing thick and so dark is seemed to gleam black in the shop’s light. Some were left plain, but others hinted at the flavor of the cream or custard within each: candied orange peels; coffee beans; halved strawberries; roasted chestnuts. She swallowed again and glanced up at the placard over the shop’s door.

A simple bluebird in flight, holding a sprig of mint, was the only hint at the patisserie’s identity.

Synnove felt the color drain from her face. “Aymeric…”

Aymeric raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles and she turned to look at him. He was smiling, the rogue, as brilliant and joyous as when they had first kissed after retaking the Vault mere weeks ago. “Let me spoil you,” he purred.

For a few heartbeats she was absolutely torn: the tiny five-year old watching her parents and aunt count every gil to make the week’s earnings feed six people, along with the frugal adult who owned her own home, at war with the same tiny five-year old who loved sweets of all sorts and the hopeless romantic who secretly wished to have someone dote on her without reservation. “Refreshments and something hot to drink” at the most exclusive, most expensive patisserie in Ishgard. Not even Rereha, with her near bottomless trust fund interest, had wandered this far down the lane…though in fairness to Rere, that more due to being perfectly content with a coffee and croissant at the first shop that caught her eye.

Synnove chewed on her bottom lip, glancing back and forth between Aymeric and the Bluebird. Finally, sugar and romance won out. “All right,” she said, only a little bit weakly.

Her knight kissed her knuckles once more, and without further ado, led her inside.

The scent of cooking sugar sent her stomach growling again and as Aymeric helped her shrug out of her heavy winter coat, she looked around with wide eyes. Éclairs, macarons, petit fours, madeleines, opera cakes, mille-feuille, bavarois of all sorts—there were more types of cakes and cookies and tarts on display then she could name. She let Aymeric lead her to her a table—the only one in the shop—and as she took her seat, she saw one of the staff quickly dart over to the door and flip the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’ She whipped her head around to stare at Aymeric as he sat.

He reached for her hands and she let him take them, her knuckles going white as she squeezed. Raising her hands, he kissed the back of her right, and then her left, quietly murmuring, “It’s all right, my love,” he said with a wry grin. “Anyone who wants to enjoy the Bluebird’s delights on premise must make a reservation ahead of time to ensure the table will be free.”

Synnove narrowed her eyes and hissed, “How long have you been planning this?”

“Not that long,” he said cheerfully. “A fortnight, perhaps.”

They let go of one another as a server brought them cups of coffee in surprisingly plain white mugs, heavy and thick to keep the liquid hot for as long as possible. As the server stepped away to flit back behind the counter, Synnove stretched her leg beneath the table and hooked her ankle around Aymeric’s. He beamed and raised his coffee to take a sip, and she followed suit.

She purred at the first taste. It was a dark roast, rich and flavorful, and roasted so carefully there was no hint of bitterness. While she would always love the coffeehouses of Limsa Lominsa best, there were more than a few cafes in her seaside home that could stand to take a lesson from the Bluebird in coffee brewing. Without cream or sugar, it would be the perfect compliment to the sugary delights of the pastries.

Aymeric smiled at her over his mug, and that was when the first of the treats arrived.

Éclairs, four of them, cut in to make for easier sharing, and to show off the flavored fillings within: one vanilla, one chocolate, one coffee, and one strawberry.

Synnove’s eyes went wider. She had never seen a pastry so generously filled before; the sight was actually borderline obscene, and the part of her mind where a facsimile of Rereha lived was dying to make a crude joke. She raised her eyes to meet Aymeric’s and he actually waggled his eyebrows at her.

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hands to try and stifle the sound, shoulders shaking. Aymeric joined her, his own laugh slightly softer, though it came from deep in his belly.

“You took that far better than Mama ever did,” he said as they calmed. “I hadn’t the faintest idea of just what Da meant by it until I was fourteen, but Mama slapped his arm every time and turned red as a tomato.”

Synnove smiled and warmth suffused her, as it did whenever Aymeric offhandedly spoke of Rolandoix and Gwenaëlle de Borel. It was such a joy and honor to have these pieces of his past shared with her. “Did they come here often?” she said, eyes on Aymeric as she reached for a half of the vanilla éclair.

“Four times a year,” he said, eyes going distant as he reminisced. “Our birthdays, and their wedding anniversary. It was one of the few frivolities they allowed themselves, and one of the few times of year they would spoil me rotten!” He grinned, a touch sad recalling his parents, before he shook his head and gestured to her. “And here I am on the cusp of becoming maudlin, and when I wish to be spoiling you. Eat!”

She laughed, and raising the éclair to her mouth, took a bite.

Almost immediately she moaned in rapture. Oh, but the choux was as wonderfully fluffy and cloudlike as it had appeared, practically melting on her tongue. The icing was a truly sinfully dark chocolate, bittersweet and more like a ganache than she had anticipated. And the crème, oh sweet gods, the crème. She was used to vanilla being a light flavor, delicate and easily overwhelmed, but this was so intensely concentrated it was more than a match for the chocolate icing.

She opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and stared at Aymeric with wonder. His smile was equal parts delight and lasciviousness as he took a bite of the chocolate éclair. He chewed, swallowed, and drawled out, “Now, aren’t you glad you let me treat you?”

Synnove nodded frantically, finishing her bite with a swallow, and the popped remainder of her vanilla éclair into her mouth, another happy moan escaping her as she did. The chocolate, coffee, and strawberry éclairs were just as intensely flavored, exploding on her tongue in a riot of sensation, but the vanilla remained her favorite of the set.

From there they were served an entire tasting menu of the Bluebird’s finest treats. Palmiers were next, crispy and light and absolutely decadent when dipped into her coffee. Opera cake followed, the layers of buttercream, almond sponge cake soaked in coffee liqueur, and coffee ganache melding together that her toes curled in her boots and Aymeric had to laughingly fend off her fork with his own when she tried to steal a piece of his opera cake when hers was gone. Meringues were fourth, lighter than air, and slices of traditional fig bavarois fifth, the jelly bright and smooth. Then an assortment of flavored macarons, then mille-feuile, then buttery madeleines, and on and on and on, with heavy, rich desserts alternated with light, simpler fare.

Each pastry was exquisitely made, the quality of ingredients and care of the craftsmanship shining through. She didn’t bother to hide any of her appreciative hums or groans, and while Aymeric’s eyes flashed every time she did, the staff of the Bluebird, when she caught sight of them, wore large, delighted smiles of their own, rightfully proud to have a new customer so enjoy their hard work. Even better than the wonderful desserts, though, was the knowledge that it was Aymeric who had wanted to share something he considered special with her, and continue following the traditions of his family.

After all, she thought, pleasure suffusing her at the thought: it was exactly a moon today since the attack on the Vault, and the night they had confessed their feelings for one another.

The servers cleared away the last plates and refilled their coffee mugs, and Synnove sat back with a content sigh, cradling her mug in her hands. “Thank you for this, Aymeric,” she said, beaming at him. “I am well and truly spoiled.”

Aymeric smiled at her and hooked their other ankles together so that they were a tangle of limbs beneath the table. “I’m glad,” he said, voice soft. And then his smile turned cheeky. “But we’re not done quite yet…”

His gaze was somewhere behind her shoulder, and she turned to follow it. Approaching them with a tray in hand was a plump, stately elezen matron wearing the traditional garb of a culinarian, a bluebird embroidered over her heart. Synnove guessed she must be Madame Iriene, the owner and chief pastry chef of the Bluebird.

Madame Iriene stopped next to their little table and gave a half bow. “By request,” she said, a sly look in her eye, “a special finale in honor of the Lord Commander’s lady.”

Synnove blinked in shock, glancing askance at Aymeric. His smile widened.

Madame Iriene set the tray between them, revealing its contents: two plates, each with three pastries arranged in a neat row.

The first was small pudding pie, topped with a dollop of fresh whipped cream. The second was a soft bun, golden brown and delicious, smelling ever so faintly of apples. The third was a trio of three caramels, unusually darkened, and sprinkled with red flakes on top.

Synnove stared at them, mouth going dry. These—these were—

“A chocolate pudding pie, its crust made of crushed chocolate cookies,” Madame Iriene began to list, “topped with mint-infused whipped cream. A soft bread bun, stuffed with apples spiced with cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, and star anise. Caramels, infused with coffee and dragon pepper.”

Tears pricked at her eyes and Synnove set her coffee down so she could once more bring her hands to her mouth.

Galette. Tyr. Ivar.

Representations of exactly how the aether around each of their summoning foci tasted to her senses.

Aymeric made a concerned noise and Synnove looked up at him as her tears overflowed. “Synnove, are you all right?” he said gently, reaching for her. “My apologies, I overstepped—”

She lunged forward (Madame Iriene darted out of the way with the dexterity of a woman thirty years younger), grabbing Aymeric’s face between her hands, and kissed him for all she was worth. He grunted in surprise, frozen for a moment, before he brought his hands up to cup her shoulders and return her kiss with a relieved laugh.

“Thank you,” she said in between kisses and the occasional teary hiccup. “Thank you, thank you, I can’t believe you remembered, I babbled about it moons ago, I didn’t even know anyone was paying attention—”

“How could I not pay attention?” her knight said, drawing back to look at her with pure adoration. “It’s you, and something important to you.”

Synnove sniffled, overwhelmed. She had already made a claim on him, and he on her, a moon ago, but this? As far as she was concerned, he was hers, and she was his.

Forever.

[ad1thi]

part 4 of the carbonell family au

/

before you read this chapter, this is your disclaimer that this is a mob au; so tony will be a morally grey character. he wasn’t intended to be cookie cutter good for this au and i won’t write him cookie cutter good. he’s the patriarch of a crime family, not an orphanage

//

Natasha knows the minute they enter the car that he’s mad. Simmering with rage that he’s furiously tamping down on. 

The part that loves him wants to let him unleash it, let him scream himself hoarse at the injustice of the world and then cradle him in her embrace while he recuperates

The part of her that was borne out of the ashes of a broken country wants to pull out her lip a little, jut her hips, and play up her sympathy so she never has to see him mad

because for all that she loves him, there is no part of Natasha that isn’t utterly and completely terrified of Anthony Carbonell

--

In the end, she settles on nestling against his chest, letting him comb his fingers through her locks lightly. He’s uncharacteristically quiet in a way that still bristles through her skin, reminding her of when he was 16 and he pushed his knee into her 17 year old throat. 

(it was the first time she ever feared for her life)

Eventually, his hand meanders, perfunctory touches against her skin until he reaches her hip. He pulls at her shirt from where its tucked into her skirt, and brushes his thumb against her branded C, over and over and over

She lies perfectly still, matching her breathing to his and letting him work through his anger; until he stops being Anthony and starts being Antoshka

Her lips still tingle from where he sank his teeth into them not 15 minutes ago, and there’s beads of blood that she wants to reach out and lick off

but she doesn’t

because she isn’t cradled in the arms of her lover

she’s cradled in the arms of the Carbonell Patriarch, and she, more than anyone (save for Rhodey), knows just how dangerous he can be

The car pulls up at their house, and he nudges his leg twice before she lifts up and rearranges herself. She moves to give him space, to let him get out first; but he pulls her back; nails digging into her hip where the brand is- and she acquiesces, moving with him seamlessly and without contest; because its her best bet

--

--

At 29 years old, Tony is acutely aware that he is one of the most powerful men in the world, if not the most powerful

He has his finger in a lot of pies, as the americans would say; and he’s virtually untouchable

Its a luxury that he fought tooth and nail for, and it was no small feat; and its not something that he plans on giving up anytime soon

no matter what Detective Steve Rogers has planned

He keeps his hand around Natasha’s waist as they enter Stark Manor, letting her sag slightly against him once the doors close behind them and manoeuvring her slightly towards the kitchen where he’s sure James is waiting

There’s a sharp right, and sure enough, with his back to them, is James manning the grill

His black henley is stretched against his muscles, straining at the seams, and had it been an ordinary day; Tony probably would’ve curled up against his lover and licked him out of the tight fitting tshirt 

but it hasn’t been an ordinary day

and Tony’s having a hard time being their Antoshka right now

--

He releases his hold on Natasha’s waist when they near the island, and watches dispassionately as she fights the urge to bend down and look at how deep his nails have dug into the brand

His mama always said that running the Family was like essendo due persone tesoro, a volte non mi riconosco allo specchio. He never got that at 12 when he was cleaning her wounds

(now he does)

She slips off her heels and pads over to James softly, pressing her lips in between his shoulder blades to alert him of their presence

He turns instantly, tilting her chin up for a soft butterfly kiss before he looks up and latches onto Tony, who’s standing a bit away like he’s an intruder to a painful domestic scene

James extends the hand not curling Natasha, “Antoshka, won’t you join us? It’s been a long day and I’ve missed you. The food was getting cold”

Tony stiffens and pulls at the lapels of his jacket, “I’ll be in my study. Find me after”

He doesn’t bother to pretend he’s from Manhattan, letting his rich italian accent seep out, when he stops mid way to the exit and says, “Don’t be late”

--

He’s poring over their dossier on Steve when he hears a knock on the door

“Entra,” he calls out; not bothering to look up from where he’s scrutinising Steve’s military record, and he hears the door creak open- but there’s no other sound

After he thinks he’s let them stew enough, he looks up to the see -

“Jesus, Zio Obie, mi hai spaventato a morte,” he says, putting a hand to his chest instinctively

“You work too hard my boy,” Obie replies, making his way to the liquor trolley

He offers a glass to Tony, which Tony grasps but doesn’t sip, sinking back in his chair

Obie flops down in the opposite seat, taking a long sip and smacking his tongue obscenely

“Your,” his mouth moves like he’s eaten something sour, “people were flitting outside the door as I was coming in”

“I take it they’re in the doghouse?”

It’s never sat well with Tony that Zio Obie never accepted he had two lovers, but he’s let it go as long as Obie continued to run SI smoothly

Even now, he shakes the whiskey softly before turning to Obie and asking, “to what do I owe the pleasure Zio?”

(obie’s thick boston accent has never failed to remind tony he’s italian. he can’t decide if he loves or hates that)

“Can an uncle not visit his nephew?” Obie’s presence is overwhelming, his voice booming, and Tony desperately wishes he wasn’t in conflict with his lovers because he would love nothing more than James standing on his side 

“I thought we decided after last time that it was too dangerous for you to drop by unannounced,” Tony raises en eyebrow, “so I ask again: to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Predictably, mentioning the shoot-out makes Obie shudder, giving Tony the cover he needs to press the button under his desk

Obie’s pouring himself another drink when James and Natasha enter, and none of them miss the way his eyes glint slightly

Natasha shoves slightly until she can settle on his lap and James tilts his head up for a kiss, slipping the drink out of his outstretched hand and onto the floor in one fluid motion

“I see the guard dogs have arrived,” Obie says and James bares his teeth almost obligingly

Tony runs his nails against James’ inner arm pointedly before giving Obie a smile of his own, “They were going to entertain me before you decided to stop by Zio, so I must a third time- why are you here?”

He bends slightly so Natasha can rearrange herself, “Don’t make me ask again Zio”

Obie holds his hand up in surrender, “There’s no need to threaten me boy, I come in peace”

He pushes over a folder that Natasha thumbs open and holds up for Tony, “The quarter’s profits. The company is struggling ever since we made the switch to green energy boy, and I wish you would reconsider at least finishing out your militar - “

“No.”

its soft, so soft that Tony’s almost worried that Obie missed it, but his eyes flick up to where James is clutching the end of the seat

“I’m sorry?” Obie looks up at him owlishly, like he can’t believe James is speaking to him directly

“I said,” his voice is flat but firm, “no. Antoshka will not finish out his military contracts”

Obie looks at Tony despairingly, but Tony tilts his face away; burying it into the crook of Natasha’s neck and lazily sucking a bruise

There’s palpable tension in the air when Tony decides he’s had enough and resurfaces; and its at times like this that Tony is reminded of just how powerful he is

He keeps his eyes lidded, his lips wet and cocks his head just so when he says, “I don’t know what you tell you Zio. James says no.”

“Now if you don’t mind, I would like to go back to pleasuring my lover”

he nods once, dismissing his Zio and turns his attention back to Natasha, who’s palming his half hard dick through his trousers and pulls at her tanktop until it gives him access to her breasts

He doesn’t wait for his Zio to leave, instead lifting his left hand and pinching her nipple experimentally

Its only when the door close does he stop, pushing Natasha off his lap and standing so he’s facing his lovers

--

If Natasha is upset at basically being used as a common whore, she doesn’t show it; adjusting herself almost immediately before curling into James’ embrace

"The first thing I ever told you,” he says, drawing every word out, “was that you are mine.”

“You were mine then, you are mine now, and you will always be mine”

He lifts his gaze to them, “il tuo passato è morto, because you are mine and I am not interested in it following us around”

“Take there of Steve Rogers, or I will”

He forces himself to ignore the way James turns pale and crumbles against Natasha, and instead stalks out the room

--

When he reaches their bedroom, he slips off his shirt and sinks into the bed, propping his chin against his right knee and letting the left leg dangle off the bed

He lifts up his hands and pulls at his cheeks experimentally, before cocking his head and staring at his reflection

Hazel eyes bore into him as he wonders ti odi anche tu mamma? ma di sicuro non mi amano

--

tbc

//

italian translations (all off google translate):

essendo due persone tesoro, a volte non mi riconosco allo specchio: (running the family was like) being two people, I sometimes don't recognize myself in the mirror

Entra: enter

mi hai spaventato a morte: you scared me to death

il tuo passato è morto: your past is dead

ti odi anche tu mamma? ma di sicuro non mi amano: did you hate yourself too mama? because i sure as hell don’t love me

[klimtandbencbatch]

SWEET TOOTH

this is pure unadulterated nonsense i think the kids call it “crack”? idk i went for it sue me bitch

It didn’t take long for Tony Stark to uncover Stephen Strange’s deepest, darkest secret. Or one of them, probably. There were a lot of those, actually, those secret things. But Tony had picked up on at least one secret that Stephen was trying to hide.

Or, well. No. He wasn’t - trying to hide it, per se, it just wasn’t something that came up until you knew the man a little better. And by the sounds Tony had been making the night before, he would hazard that he knew Stephen Strange pretty damn well. Hence the secret. Or personality trait. Characteristic.

Tony had been with Stephen for a few months, now, after a rather heated debate and then a rather heated-er lovemaking session over one of Tony’s worktables, which left sizable bruises on Tony’s hipbones in its wake. Everything was going great. They were open, communicative, and kind. They made one another laugh, did small favors for one another, brought gifts, spent time together. Healthy, healthy, healthy. And Tony was loving it. He loved every minute of it.

Stephen was a dream. Seriously. Funny, goofy when he wanted to be, smart as all get out, and hot as fuck to boot. And although he insisted that material possessions were of little consequence to him, that he was a being of a higher plane, yaddah yaddah, he loved to be spoiled in one particular way.

Stephen Strange was a lover of desserts.

He had a sweet tooth the size of Nebraska, it turned out. Tony had taken him on a harmless little trip to a nearby coffee shop - something in the Greenwich Village neck of the woods - and had ordered Stephen a plain latte with a raspberry financier. The latte was good - Greenwich Village had sweetass coffee shops - but Stephen's face had lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree when Tony brought the pastry over on a delicate little china plate.

“Oh, I haven’t had one of these in forever,” Stephen had breathed, his tone reverent, suddenly a supplicant to a sugary pastry god. “Thank you, Tony.”

“No problem, hon,” Tony had said absently, already distracted by the taste of his own latte. “I said almond milk…”

And while Tony had been distracted slightly by the disruption in his once again dairy-free diet (“Steph, baby, look! Stark Raving Hazelnuts, but with coconut milk!”), he’d subconsciously made a note of Stephen’s love of all things sugar. Because he'd heard the shift in his voice, and he'd seen the veritable kid-in-a-candy-store look on his face.

And damn it if he didn’t want to make that happen again.

It started off small. He wanted to ease into it, not let Stephen know he was onto his little guilty pleasure (again, in no way was he keeping this a secret).

“Hey, Stephen! I’m here!” Tony called up into the sanctum, a pink and orange box in his hands. “I brought you some donuts! It was on my way over, and I wanted a cruller, so.”

Stephen’s head poked out from the top of the stairs, his eyes glinting. “Donuts?”

“Dunkin’,” Tony clarified, shaking the box slightly. “Sprinkles.”

Stephen put on his best I’m a sorcerer face and descended the stairs, coming over to take the box from Tony in shaking hands. Was that a prayer whispered under his breath? “Lovely. Thank you, Tony. I’m sure Wong will enjoy these as well.”

Wong was watching from the corridor. He didn’t look pleased.

“No problem, sugar. Now, what is it you wanted to show me?”

“Oh, right. I think I found something interesting regarding energy conservation that you might enjoy…”

Tony stopped coming empty handed. Every trip to the sanctum, he had something tagging along with him - a babka from Brooklyn, cupcakes from down the street, a box of cookies from Hell’s Kitchen. Anything iconic and sweet Tony could get his hands on ended up as a gift to his boyfriend.

Stephen, of course, gained no weight - all that yoga he did, and all that mental control over nearly all of his body’s faculties. Pity. Tony would’ve liked to see him gain just a bit more around his waist, but he was glad to see his boyfriend eating, even if it wasn't the healthiest stuff in the world.

Then came the mother of all special treats. Stephen was over at the compound, just to spend the night with Tony. Everyone else had been dismissed or sent home. It was just them, and they had the run of the place. They’d had dinner already, and made out for a bit, and now they were relaxing on the sofa, Stephen reading a floating tome in front of him as Tony leaned up against him, fiddling with an old watch Stephen had gifted him for his birthday.

Suddenly, Tony remembered what was waiting in the fridge. “Ooh. Baby. Wait right here,” he instructed, sitting up and jogging barefoot to the kitchen.

“Hm? What?” Stephen asked, looking up from his book. “Tones?”

Tony came back with a tiny delicate white box in his hands, a large blue M printed on the top. Stephen gasped quietly.

“Is that…?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tony set the box down and carefully opened it, revealing the most beautiful chocolate matcha entremet to ever grace the face of the planet Earth. He felt a tear come to his eye, quickly brushing it away.

“Oh my God,” Stephen whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

Tony smiled indulgently. “It's all yours, baby.”

Tony sat back and watched as Stephen fetched a fork, shaking only slightly as he cut into the perfect ganache glaze, revealing layer after layer of moist, soft cake and rich, flavorful cream. Every bite he took was sinful. Tony knew he was playing it up, the moaning and gasping. But he was cool with it. He had to adjust the way he was sitting a few times, but he was cool with it.

“You like it?” he asked after Stephen had finished, licking the fork obscenely like a cat.

Stephen smiled, nodding and leaning over to press a soft, sweet kiss to Tony's lips. “Mm. I much prefer this flavor.”

“And what's that?” Tony asked, chuckling quietly as he pulled Stephen down on top of him.

“The only thing that can truly satisfy my sweet tooth,” Stephen rumbled, kissing Tony again and again, licking his lips as he pulled away. “My little love muffin.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Tony laughed, accepting another tender kiss. Although he had to agree.

Stephen's kisses were sweeter than anything.

[allyinthekeyofx]

PAINTING BY NUMBERS 2/?