#(Tony doesn't appear here

[infiniteeight8]

Could we get a sequel to "who bound your magic?" (And if you've already written a sequel and I just haven't seen it yet since I usually read your fic on AO3 instead of here, could we get ANOTHER sequel? :-D ) Sequel could be what happens next, or one of the other characters' POV of what's already happened.

I have not yet done a sequel to this one!

The original ficlet is here: who bound your magic?

And now onto the sequel! Uh, quick warning that my knowledge of Teen Wolf druids is a bit fuzzy and largely remembered from fic, so if anything here is super wrong… just consider it a casualty of merging the MCU and Teen Wolf magic systems. LOL

-

Doctor Strange—talk about a kick ass name for a magic user—takes Stiles and Peter to his home base by portal. Just… puts on a ring, waves his hand, and steps through a hole in space time and into a completely different place.

“Welcome to the Sanctum Sanctorum,” Doctor Strange says, and Stiles can’t help turning in a circle, taking in the space with wide eyes. Now this is what a wizard’s home ought to look like! Deaton had always been so… mundane. “Wong!” 

Stiles jumps when Doctor Strange shouts. He glances at Peter, who just shrugs, though he’s on high alert.

After a moment, another man appears at the top of the staircase. He’s Asian, dressed in robes similar to Doctor Strange’s but in darker colors. “There’s no need to shout,” he says, descending the stairs. “If I am here, the Sanctum will alert me. If I am not, I won’t hear you.”

“I think you’ll be interested to examine Stiles here,” Doctor Strange says, gesturing at Stiles.

Wong reaches the bottom of the stairs and approaches Stiles. “With your permission?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says, nodding.

Wong waves his hands around, and suddenly there’s a glowing pattern floating in the air between them. He examines it, and Stiles through it, with a frown. Eventually he waves it away. “Someone did not want you doing magic,” Wong says.

Stiles blows out a breath. “That’s what Doctor Strange said. I’ve only met a few people who knew about magic at all. Most of them were bad guys, so I guess it could have been one of them…” he trails off and looks over at Peter.

“But?” Doctor Strange prompts. 

“There’s a druid who’s supposed to be helping us,” Peter says, “and he’s never mentioned any problem with Stiles’ magic.”

“A ‘druid’?” Doctor Strange raises his eyebrows and turns to Wong.

“Hmm. A minor sect of sorcerers that broke off from the order in Ancient Greece,” Wong says. “I’m surprised they’re still around; they’re focus was… narrow.”

Stiles snorts. “They’re not only around, they act like they’re the final authority on all things magic. They say it’s their job to ‘keep the balance.’”

“Balance?” Wong huffs. “There’s no such thing. Not magically, anyway.”

“There is a price to pay for magic,” Stephen points out. “That might be where they got the idea.”

“Possibly,” Wong allows. To Stiles, he says, “I can remove the block on your magic, but you will require immediate training. Despite the block, you have clearly been reaching for your power. To do so without training is dangerous, for you and for the fabric of reality.”

“I am totally down for training,” Stiles says, bouncing a little on his toes. 

“I’m staying,” Peter says flatly.

“Of course,” Doctor Strange says. Both he and Wong look surprised. “We’d never ask you to leave your bonded, especially not with the energies he’ll be handling.”

“Bonded?” Stiles squeaks. Peter looks just as startled.

Wong sighs deeply. “Druids.”

[fandoms--fluff]

Hideout

Wife reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: your husband and a bunch of strangers show up at your house in the middle of the night.

Warnings: John walker, swearing

A/n: The car they have is a mini van instead of the van they had in the movie, so with actual seats and that stuff - so minor change, that's all.

^the car seating plan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where are we going?" Ava asks, being the third person in the last ten minutes to ask Bucky this. "We'll be there shortly" He grounds out, the same response he's given the last two times.

John is about to say something but is quickly stopped by the glare wielded his way from Yelena. From the past three days of knowing him, she's gotten used to knowing that whenever he opens his mouth, something stupid comes out. Every. Time. And every time, it looks like Bucky is that much closer to pummeling him.

Another fifteen minutes later and Bucky pulls the van into a dirt road leading away from any civilization. Ava and Yelena look out the rear window as the main road is getting further and further away.

The two women glance at each other in concern of where they're heading and how Bucky isn't telling them anything about it. "This seems more like a kidnapping than staying under the radar" Ava finally says when Bucky continues driving deeper into the forest.

"I'm sure the winter soldier knows where we're going and what he's doing. We're fine." Alexei says with a hefty laugh as he's watching from the window beside him.

Bucky meanwhile lets out an aggravated sigh to himself, but he doesn't say anything since in just mere minutes, they'll arrive at the location. The location of which feels like he hasn't been to in way too long for his liking.

And that location is a cabin. A cabin that Tony had set up for his wife during the blip so she wouldn't have to put on any kind of act by being around others all the time. That woman just so happened yo be you, Y/n Barnes.

You're an ex. shield agent that helped Steve with finding Bucky after the events of Pierce and Hydra still being active, as well as the whole project insight fail. Bucky and you caught feelings for each other after some time of finding him again and through the events of the team splitting up and fighting against Thanos, both times. After the second time and all the tragedy, you guys decided to get married. Not that it didn't come with hardships, like the whole therapy thing and having to forgive himself and make amends, and the flagsmashers. But all in all, you love each other.

Which is how you find your eyebrows furrowing as you hear a rusty sound of a car driving along the path towards the cabin. That wasn't normal. Your husband always comes home on his bike, only a car a few times, but those times he alerted you. This time though, you got no communication from him that says not to worry.

So, you immediately turn the light off in the living room and grab your gun from the holster on your thigh. Yes, you may be alone out here, but it doesn't mean danger can't find you. Plus, this is what you were trained for.

You silently move through the pitch black house, the only light coming from the headlights of the car illuminating the halls from through the windows. Sticking to the shadows, you make your way outside through a hidden door at the side of the house.

The gun with your finger on the trigger is held firmly down to your right side as you trek silently to the corner to get a glimpse at who's in the car.

"What is this place?" Yelena asks when Bucky turns off the ignition and pulls the keys out. Instead of answering, Bucky just gets out of the car and puts his hands up after closing the door.

"I know you're there. It's me." He calls out to, appearance wise, no one. This makes everyone still in the van look at each other with confused gazes before unbuckling their seatbelts and getting out of the mini van as well. Except for Yelena right away, she stays to wake Bob up. He had nodded off an hour ago in the drive, his head rested against the small window to his left.

You come out of your hiding spot behind the corner of the house with your gun held in front of you, your legs spread in a fighting stance. That is until it's confirmed that it's in fact your husband and no trick.

Paying no mind to the other people coming out of the car, you holster your gun and go over to him. Bucky quickly wraps his arms around you and holds you close to him. He rests his head on your shoulder as he breathes in the light scent of your shampoo that's still lingering from the shower you took this morning.

As Yelena and Bob emerge from the beat up mini van, you and bucky pull apart from one another to face the group of them who are now acting as though they weren't just watching what happened.

You scan over everyone and the last person, your face twists in something someone can only call as disgust. John Walker. "Hey, Y/n, long time no see?" The man at least has the decency to be weary and nervous, scratching the back of his neck. "Could be longer" You say sharply before taking your eyes off him, and just stare at the group as a whole instead.

"Wait, who is this?" Yelena is the one to speak up. "This is Y/n. My wife." Bucky smiles softly, the most genuine look on his face they've seen on him as he looks at you.

"You have a wife?" Several versions of this questions rise from the group, but get off from a glare he sends their way.

"Hey. Nice to meet you guys, I guess" You look back up at your husband before to them again. "Who are you exactly and why do you look like you just went ten rounds with a tornado?" You ask with a raised eyebrow as you take in how disheveled they all look.

"It's best we explain inside." Bucky says. You let out a puff of air before nodding after a moment and taking a key out of your boot. You head to the front door and unlock it, your husband by your side as the rest of them follow inside.

You turn the lights on as Bucky closes and locks the door and enacts the security system that runs through the house and property. "This way" You say and lead them to the living room. As they take a seat, all basically bursting with confusion still, you go over to your husband.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you were coming, Buck!?" You exclaim in a hushed whisper. "I didn't have any way of communicating you. And I was a little pre-occupied" He glances at the people in the next room over. "I was worried about you" you finally say. "I didn't know what was happening. All I knew was how you bailed on your congressman meetings and had apparently gone rogue."

"I know, and I'm so sorry, darling. But I promise, I'm alright, and we'll tell you everything that happened" Bucky says and presses a kiss to your lips. You melt into it for a second before remembering about the occupants in the next room over.

"Come on, mind as well get this over with." He says quietly into your ear and wraps your hand in his. He leads you to the living room and to in front of the fireplace to face everyone.

"Alright, this is Alexei, Ava, Yelena, and Bob." Bucky introduces them to you. "And him as well," he quickly nods over to John, not wanting to draw too much of your attention to the man that you loath. And boy, does Bucky understand, but nows not the time.

Yelena does a little awkward wave. "Alright. Would someone like to inform me what the hell exactly happened?" You cross your arms and lean against the fireplace mantle.

They all glance at each other before Yelena sighs and sits up straighter, starting to summarize everything that happened to them up to when Bucky met them and blew up Alexie's limo. At that you look at your husband with a raised brow before Yelena continues, the others popping in at times as well.

Once everyone was finished explaining the events leading up to them arriving here, you pinch the bridge of your nose and quietly groan. "Valentina? As in the same woman from three years ago, is behind this whole thing?"

You get multiple nods and 'yeah's from the group. "Wonderful. Well, next time you plan to see her, bring me with. I have a thing or two to say...or do" the ex spy in you is coming out.

"Does he usually fall asleep like that" you're attention is drawn to Bob who is asleep with his head resting on the back couch cushioning. "Uh, he's been through a lot." Ava says.

"Okay, yeah," you sigh, "Well, down the hall are some bedrooms. You guys look like you need to clean up and some sleep yourselves." You point down the hall to your right.

"Thank you" Yelena nods, the rest of them saying thanks as well before standing and going down the hall. Though John goes over to lift Bob. "Don't bother, he can stay in the couch, he seems peaceful" you tell him, trying to fight off the growl even though technically the man was doing something sweet (ish).

He relents and nods, not wanting to get into a fight with you at this time, knowing he won't win. You go over to the younger man and have him lay down more comfortably on the couch with a pillow, as well as draping one of the throw blankets over him.

"Though if you break anything, I will personally come after you" you call down the hallway before going upstairs to your bedroom with Bucky.

"You're very authoritative. It's good, they actually listened to you" he says once you guys get to your shared room.

"That's cause I'm such an amazing person" you smirk. But a moment later, you smack your husband upside the head. "What was that for?" He asks, surprised at the action, not like it hurt that much anyways.

"For worrying me. And for the stupid shit you did" you say before kissing him softly.

[amarriageoftrueminds]

TL;DR: It's not true that Tony didn't have any involvement with weapons at the time. The Maximoffs were killed in 1999. By that point, Tony had already been "merchant of death" and CEO of Stark Industries for 8 years.

Long answer:

IM1 specifically said of that period:

"...at age 21, the prodigal son returns and is anointed the new CEO of Stark Industries. With the keys to the kingdom, Tony usher[ed] in a new era for his father's legacy, creating smarter weapons, advanced robotics, satellite targeting. Today, Tony Stark has changed the face of the weapons industry..."

In other words, Tony's presence is framed as the thing which triggered the creation of smarter weapons (among other things, too). There's no indication that he started on the weapons part later on.

(In fact, he is personally credited with having changed the weapons industry. Not his father, not the company generally: Tony. And not the robotics or satellite industries, either.)

As Pepper said in IM3, Stark Industries profited off military contracts.

At the end of 1999, the year the Maximoffs were killed, Tony was in Bern, Switzerland for New Years Eve, famous enough to be delivering a lecture on integrated circuits at Bern 2000, while drunk. And important enough in the weapons industry for A.I.M founder Aldrich Killian and Extremis-inventor Maya Hansen to be trying to give him elevator pitches.

So he's a famous weapons designer, canonically- what, 800 miles away? -from Sokovia, doing science stuff, publicly, in the same year... but he's got nothing to do with his company's missiles being there? 🤨

By the time Tony was 40 in IM1, eleven years after the Maximoffs died, he had already designed the Jericho missile, was making personal pitches to the US Army, had a long-time buddy in the US Air Force, and was beloved of American soldiers (why? what's he done for them? obvious answer: designed weapons). And he was not acting as if any of this was a new or recent development for him.

Tony was building circuit boards when he was 4, engines when he was 6, robots when he was 16, graduated early from MIT at 17, and was CEO at 21. The implication of Tony being a wunderkind is that he was capable of making people-killing designs for a lot longer / from a much earlier age than you'd think.

In both IM1 and IM3 he was shown capable of making weapons from scratch by hand, with limited resources and without a computer's help (and weapons were his first idea; not, say, robots. He describes himself as a mechanic... but he doesn't make a machine. He makes improvised bombs and guns.)

He also had a pocket-sized "very powerful weapon" on him, for his personal use (which he gives to a child). Where'd that come from? It's antithetical to Tony's ego to be carrying something he didn't design himself, given the way he sneers at other weapons designers. So chances are that's a weapon Tony designed... years after claiming to be out of the weapons designing industry.

It's similar to the one Obadiah Stane used on Tony in IM1. And Stane said "you remember this one?" as he deployed it on Tony. So chances are… that thing was Tony's design too. (We don't know for sure. But we do know for sure that it was designed by Tony's company, that he was in charge of). Yet Tony still had something similar by the time of IM3: his weapons producing habits didn't alter outside the timeline of the movies; only his sales habits.

Also relevant: Stane described Tony as the goose that laid the golden eggs (viz. weapons designs) and that killing him would cause a fall off in designs. Because he wanted control over sales of weapons that Tony designed, including the ones government didn't approve. So Tony didn't just design weapons, he designed unethical weapons, and continued to do so even after falling victim to said weapons himself and (therefore) claiming to be out of the weapons designing business.

Sidenote: Unlike his daddy, who only "helped give us the atomic bomb" with US government backing. Howard made weapons with government backing, whereas post-IM1 Tony believes he's doing it outside of government control / believes he's not an arms dealer just because he's only dealing arms to Americans. But... he gives his designs to the USAF free of charge... and to daddy's corrupt American alphabet agency... despite already finding out they were hiding things from him way back in Avengers1... and then he signed the Sokovia Accords. 🤦‍♀️ (And this isn't even including his work on Project Insight and Insight 2.0, aka E.D.I.T.H.)! You can really see where the writing failed to point out the delusion and hypocrisy, here!

Ergo: Tony has always been a weapons designer and truly never stopped, so designing and selling a missile that killed the Maximoffs is totally within his wheelhouse. He didn't for some reason suddenly become inept / unconnected to weapons design, during the period of the Maximoff's death, just because it's icky and he was in his 20s at the time. 🤷‍♀️

(And I don't think it's a coincidence either that Tony's baby Ultron is obsessed with "peace", and tells Wanda "men of peace create engines of war," War Machines if you will, when Tony specifically keeps framing himself as creating a "peacekeeping initiative", having "privatized world peace" etc. right before the scene where Pietro describes how their parents were killed by one. You are meant to see the connection to Tony, not just the Stark company.)

However: what we don't know is whether that specific missile that killed the Maximoffs... was one of Tony's designs, or Howards, and/or when it was bought.

In AOU (2015) Strucker's Hydra base fired missiles on the nearby Sokovian city, and the locals reacted with hostility to the appearance of Iron Legion bots (Tony's proprietary tech). If the same base deployed the Stark missiles that killed the Maximoffs in 1999, then you could interpret that as showing the connection between the Starks and SHIELDra. (Though it makes the idea that the twins would then volunteer to work at that base... completely baffling?? 😵)

The missile that killed their parents could've been one of Howard Stark's designs from the 19?0s, kept in storage for years before it was deployed in 1999. But it's equally possible that it was a brand new design of wunderkind Tony's, recently sold to SHIELDra.

But that is irrelevant.

Because either way Tony did still get the profits from that missile sale. He was an active part of Stark Industries weapons designs already, on the same continent, and made money off the thing that killed the twins' parents. He still should have apologised; or at least paid compensation or something (what did he profit from those missile sales, I wonder? How much does one cost?)

The fact that Tony may or may not have personally designed and sold that specific missile (or if he didn't personally assemble it, with his own bare hands) is immaterial when he was the one who reaped the rewards. It'd be like claiming Elon Musk isn't to blame if someone was killed in the emerald mine he inherited from his father, when he also happens to run a 'making things that kill people in emerald mines' company.

The real problem is the double standard of protagonist-centered morality.

Wanting to kill the person responsible for your family's death is framed as villain/antagonist behaviour when Wanda, Pietro, Vanko, T'Challa, Zemo, various Spidey characters, etc. do it. But Tony is allowed to want to kill someone actually innocent of voluntarily killing his parents (which Tony admits to knowing, mid-fight) and still be regarded as a hero.

Everyone else is made to either nobly give up their desire for revenge (as a sign of their heroic nature), realise they were targeting the wrong person (as a sign of acquired wisdom), or both... or remain a villain. But not Tony. 😕 Tony tries to kill the wrong person and someone extra just out of spite, and he gets apologised to!

And so far from personally apologising to Wanda, they never have scenes together (ditto Bucky), and CACW has Tony shifting the blame off himself and mansplaining to Wanda & the gang how they don't care about civilian casualties like he does... after yet another Stark design murdered her twin brother! And by EG, he's back to claiming that Ultron (indistinguishable from Hydra's Project Insight, and what Baron Strucker was working on) was a great idea anyway!

The one thing that frustrates me about Wanda hating Tony and blaming him for what happened to her parents was that he didn’t have any real involvement with weapons at the time and he didn’t have any change to apologize or clear up anything about it and we can all blame the writers instead of blaming Wanda or Tony

[randomshyperson]

I'll Keep You Warm - Wanda Maximoff Oneshots

summary: During a mission, Wanda needs to keep warm, and there's no one better suited for the job than a demigod with fire powers.

words: 2.701k | warnings: this is not explicit at all but there's undressing and some innuendos, actually super fluff, friends (rivals) with mutual pining, attempt at humor (sometimes I think I'm funny), takes place after civil war, reader actually have the same personality as johnny storm because he's the only fire powered character I could think of while writing.

A/N-> Honestly, this was entirely based on the scene of Jacob warming up Bella in Twilight. It was requested as a challenge by @abimess about three years ago, and it's finally here. Never stop believing your request will see the light of the day guys (does this expression exist in English as well?)

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad |

-&-

Stake out missions are always a pain, but there's a code among the Avengers, and that's why instead of relaxing on some paradise island, you're in Siberia, collecting evidence for Natasha Romanoff.

To be fair, this was more of a favor to Nat than an Avengers duty, since the team was currently on a political tightrope, with half the people here and half somewhere else, with government contracts between them and councils all over the world. In the midst of all this mess, Natasha had discovered that the Red Room was not only operational, but also had a hundred thousand widows out there. The operation to locate and rescue these women was understaffed, and well, that's how you ended up in the Siberian winter with a grumpy witch and a synthezoid.

It turns out that the revelation that the Red Room was still operating was the exact kind of argument that the Avengers could use to exist, only super spies like Nat or Clint could find the widows, and well, only people like you, and the other Avengers could deal with that kind of power and influence. So while Natasha took care of the bureaucratic part, you and the others helped with everything else.

Stark and Cap were somewhere in Peru, and you envied a little the reconnaissance pictures that Tony sent to the group that contained the most beautiful tourist landscapes he visited with the justification of 'you never know where a black widow might be hiding' while you froze your ass with the people who liked you the least on the team.

Well, Vision didn't like you. In the same quantity as you hated him.

Wanda is a special case. You like to annoy her because she's really cute when she's mad, and she, although she's probably the most powerful person on the team and has full capacity to do so, has never put a definitive end to any of your torments towards her.

It was more of a game of teasing and friendly rivalry than mutual hatred.

The only thing you really disagreed on was the strange relationship she had with Vision, which always made you cross some line and say something stupid that would make her angry for weeks.

And it was also the reason you had offered to keep watch in the snow outside the hideout, while the two of them were safe and warm inside.

But only a few hours into the mission - Steve had already confirmed his status, as had Sam, who was in France, also having a great time as a tourist - when your slumber was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Vision, making you jump a little from the wooden chair.

"I wasn't sleeping!" You exclaimed immediately, to which the robot only sighed in reprimand, without comment. As you adjusted your posture and forced the sleep away, he stepped away from the canvas of the tent he had just crossed and cleared his throat.

"I require your assistance, Miss L/N." He begins, making you look at him in surprise.

The formal way Vision speaks always seems strange to you. You laugh shortly, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Do you now, huh?"

That damn proud robot doesn't lose his composure under your irony. 

"As you may have noticed, the temperature has dropped considerably." 

You hum at his words, shrugging.  "I didn't, actually. Perks of being a demigod, I guess."

Vision sighs impatiently. "Well, the human in the group is cold." He explains grumpily, and you laugh in confusion.

"Sorry, I thought you were the one taking care of that, microwave." You retort, remembering well how Wanda, who must have been wearing three different coats the last time you two talked, grumbled the whole way about the snow, and how Vision seemed so pleased with himself when he offered to keep her warm with the heating function of his metal body.

So it was strange to see him standing there, begrudgingly asking for help.

"I was." He grumbles. "But my body... well, it overheated. I can't keep it that high heat for too long without damaging myself. Unlike you, of course. So I thought-"

"That I would save the day?" You interrupt, feigning some disinterest and then sighing. "Well, I don't know, I don't feel like a hero tonight." You sigh again, glazing him through the corner of your eye. "Maybe if you say please."

He chuckles incredulously. "You want me to beg you to save a teammate's life?" He retorts indignantly. "Maybe I should just report on your attitude. I'm sure Miss Romanoff will be happy to know what we've been wasting our energy on instead of the mission. Ridiculous arguments and-"

You burst out laughing, gesturing. "Dude, you need to lighten up. I'm obviously joking." You cut him off, standing up. "Take my watch. I'll keep your girlfriend warm."

If Vision could blush with anger, he probably would. He huffs, giving you room to get inside the tent.

"Just so you know, Miss Maximoff and I don't have that kind of relationship," he grudgingly clarifies, and you almost get the impression that this is something Wanda has asked him to do whenever someone - you - assumes differently.

You laugh, irony dripping onto your tongue as you retort, "I'm so sorry to hear that." And you imitate the sounds of fireworks and cheering, escaping a push from Vision to slip into the tent.

Even with your powers, it was easy to see how cold and damp it was in there. The tent, while spacious, didn't have much ability to accumulate heat from the fire pit outside or the small wood heater in the corner of the room, and almost all of your attitude disappeared when you caught a glimpse of the shivering figure on the camping mat.

Almost.

"Fear no more, Maximoff, your knight in shining armor is here." You teased, earning a small laugh from her.

Wanda adjusted herself to make room for you on the mattress. "Shut up, and get over here already."

Despite moving immediately, you retort, “Bossy,” which only makes her hide a smile against the pillow.

It should have been awkward, cuddling with a teammate, but as you adjusted and hugged her, it was only hard to ignore how Wanda seemed to have been molded for you. She fit perfectly against your body, and you tried not to blush at the sigh of relief she let out as she snuggled into your warmth.

“Thank you.” She sighed, eyes closed, hands moving inside your jacket. 

Your arms were around her, legs intertwined beneath the blanket that was no longer needed, and you didn’t trust your voice much to say more than a hoarse:  “Don’t mention it.”

A moment of silence passes, and then another. Your thoughts wander between Wanda, the Avengers, and what Natasha would say about how you’ve chosen to spend your time. Maybe Vis is right, and you’ve wasted enough moments that being used as a human heater is your only way to keep Wanda close. Maybe it’s too late to be anything else.

The silence stretches longer, and you almost think Wanda has fallen asleep, and you’re almost considering doing the same, when she groans.

“You’re being loud.”

Opening your mouth to defend yourself because you’re sure you haven’t said a word in the last few minutes, you shut yourself up before you do, as you realize the telepath snuggled against your chest was surely talking about another kind of noise. You snort lightly, folding your arms behind your head. The lack, even a little, of the warmth of one of them on her shoulders makes her groan in protest.

“If you weren’t nosy, you wouldn’t hear a thing.”

You snap back rudely, but Wanda chuckles, quite comfortable moving one of her hands inside your shirt. Your skin is considerably warmer without a fabric between you two, and it makes her hum in satisfaction.

"Yes, that's better." She whispers sleepily, hiding her face in the crook of your neck. The position becomes less and less platonic with each adjustment Wanda makes, but you would never complain.

You try to relax with so much contact - it's especially difficult now that you can smell Wanda's shampoo so directly, almost intoxicating all your senses with it. - And you're almost getting used to the sensation, when she grumbles dissatisfied.

"Why am I still cold?" There's a soft scratch of her nails against your lower back that makes you clear your throat and think of anything other than the sensation, in scenarios very different from this one.

You consider mumbling something about it being too cold outside for her to warm up in five minutes, and telling her to stop moving and wait a bit, but Wanda tries to repeat the skin-to-skin idea from before by adjusting herself so that she's practically all over you, both hands under your shirt. And that makes you jump in fright.

"Wow, slow down there, tigress." You scoff, really embarrassed now, and Wanda raises an eyebrow at the color in your cheeks - which increases considerably when she sits against your hips, hovering over you.

She looks at you with some curiosity, a smile playing on her lips. You have the impression that her eyes glow red for a second before she retorts:

"Don't act like this isn't your dream come true." She teases, half-joking and half-serious, you can only swallow hard as you stare into her eyes.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." You retort, well aware that a quick peek into your mind would tell Wanda that you know exactly what she's talking about.

But despite her skills, she's either too tired or too cold to do nothing more than let out a short laugh and roll her eyes.

"Can you stop thinking about dirty things for a second and help me out?" She grumbles, and you'll probably agree with anything this woman says while she's on top of you. She starts to take off her sweatshirt, and you forget how to breathe. Your expression brings a blush to her cheeks, but she doesn't lose her composure. "Stop it."

Yep, she can definitely hear your thoughts.

You clear your throat, adjusting yourself to cover your face with your arm, and block that sinful image before you.

"You stop." Is your answering grunt, to which Wanda gives a tense chuckle. "What the hell is this now? Undressing on my lap."

Wanda, who has already discarded all her sweaters on the floor, rolls her eyes. You're not looking, but she seems to be having a great time.

"You don't pay attention to anything, do you?" She retorts, and sighs to herself when she realizes that with all the movement, she now can see part of your abs exposed by the shirt. The anatomy of the gods was something really unfair and hard to ignore and Wanda is grateful that you are covering your eyes, because she can hide her own reaction from you.

"I pay attention to too many things if you ask me." You mumble, but Wanda ignores your answer, busy removing her shirt. With a sports bra being the only thing covering her torso now, she moves her hands to the edge of your jacket. With the gentle tug, you startle again, and stare at her in shock when you realize her lack of clothes. "F-for Odin, what the hell-"

"I need skin-to-skin warmth, you perv." She retorts firmly, even though her face is burning. You stammer in amazement, unable to look away from the cleavage in front of you—which is too close when Wanda pushes your jacket off. “You didn’t pay attention in any of those survival classes they organized for us, did you?” She insists on making conversation, but you’re mumbling sincerely:

“I don’t think I’d know my name right now if you asked me.” Wanda chuckles, rolling her eyes. Your jacket falls down your back, and she reaches for the hem of your shirt. 

“Take it off.” 

“Won't even take me to dinner first, Maximoff?” You scoff, even though you’re complying. Wanda loses a bit of confidence at your exposure, clearing her throat when she realizes she’s staring.

She ignores her own reaction, looking away as she explains; “You probably don’t understand this because you’re not entirely human, but it’s really cold right now. I just need a little more warmth.” 

You smile at her, moving your hands to her hips, making Wanda sigh as you start to play with the knot of her sweatpants. “Are you really going to take it all off, Maximoff? I knew you were hardcore, but damn…” 

She groans in embarrassment, for the first time that night. Covering her face with her hands, you laugh at the sight. “This would be so much easier if you didn’t keep thinking the things you’re thinking.” She mutters. “It’s so annoying.” 

You laugh, tugging at the knot so it comes loose. The slight slack in her sweatpants that allows you to see more of her hips makes you sigh. “Well, I’m still fifty percent human. No one is ironclad against a pretty girl on their lap. Oh, wait, your boyfriend is.”

Wanda takes her hands away from her face to hold your wrists away from her hips but still in your lap. "Vision isn't my boyfriend." 

You narrow your eyes at her suspiciously. "But he's something." She hesitates, letting go of your wrists. 

"Yeah, just like you are." She murmurs, taking you by surprise. She sighs then, adjusting her hair. "Friends, roommates, teammates. It doesn't matter what you call it."

You smile. "How about... personal heater?"

She laughs, shaking her head. "Shut up and take off your pants."

Despite the raised eyebrow, you don't say anything else. There's a pull apart, so that the two of you can strip down to your underwear. You do that fairly quickly, because even with your powers, you can feel how cold Wanda's skin is now.

But once you're settled under the covers again, Wanda can breathe a sigh of relief. She resists the urge to dig her nails into your back, feeling your body covering hers, and now skin to skin, the temperature rises much more quickly.

You’re also kind enough to emit more heat, and Wanda can’t resist hiding her face against your neck when your arms wrap around her completely. 

It’s a very tender moment between you. Wanda doesn’t want to think about how vulnerable she is, trusting you completely to keep her alive. And she also doesn’t want to think about how much better this feels than anything she’s ever felt. The safety inside your arms leaves her breathless. Suddenly, she finds herself asking; “Did you really mean all the things you were thinking?” 

You laugh shortly, your fingers moving to caress her hair and Wanda can’t help the gasp that escapes her lips at the sensation. “I don’t want to have this conversation while you’re having a hypothermia episode, Maximoff.” 

“I’m not—” 

“I paid attention in survival classes.” You interrupt her. "One of the most common signs of hypothermia is confusion, and one of the desperate actions people tend to have is to remove all clothing. You're lucky I can warm you up so quickly."  She says nothing to that, finally realizing that she's stopped shivering, and her thoughts are much clearer than before. She's no longer desperate to get warm, because she's not cold at all now. Wanda is ready to thank you, when you add, "Of course, there are still ways to warm you up even more..."

You move your head, and playfully bite her cheek, making her squirm with laughter before pinching you on the corners. You're still laughing when she turns inside your embrace, pouting but not pulling away from you.

With your arms firmly around her, you adjust your mouth to her ear.

“Go to sleep, you need to.” You whisper, smiling at the way she tries to hide her body’s reactions from you. “I’ll keep you warm through the night.”

She reaches out to intertwine her hand with yours, and rest it on top of her stomach. When you two finally fall asleep, you have matching smiles on your faces.

[variousqueerthings]

i do think that specifically david tennant being very openly supportive of the trans community has had an interesting effect -- because usually im kinda like "it is nice to know that people whose work i enjoy don't want me dead" and that's kinda my level of (at this point) quite cynical engagement with what a celebrity or artist does or does not think about transness, because these days it feels like it's almost fashionable for well-known (or post-well-known) people to come out of the wordwork and say what they think about trans people, which can get very stressful in its own way (the amount of headlines that try to be misleading or just plain don't say and so you're just like "ok i guess this week i have to find out if [spins wheel] thinks i deserve rights")

but david tennant has a different feeling to it. and to be fair, there are plenty of people with skin in the game, who absolutely deserve to and ought to speak out on behalf of their children/partners/community/friends/family/etc. and im always happy to see these people speak, and dt is included in that list as well

but david tennant is veeery specific in this here country of terf island, in which the labour party will openly state that it will allow certain book writers to affect their policies on trans people, and that's partly because of the effect above in which "having opinions on trans rights seems to be a celebrity game that keeps you relevant, which includes ex prime minister tony blair making his opinion known (hint, it wasn't a good one)" but also because david tennant is known as a national icon to rival that of whatsherface

he was the main actor on doctor who, in the top three, if not very top of british broadcasting iconography that exists. he's one of this generation's most famous shakespearian actors, the other thing that this country-as-culture is most proud of. he's a mainstay in children's film and tv, a standout in modern british crime drama (broadchurch, des), and that's not mentioning things like jessica jones, good omens, and star wars

this guy has no social media, and some of the biggest cultural capital in the uk today -- labour i believe it was made a twitter joke about him ousting the current prime minister as the doctor ahead of this week's election, because that's an iconic scene from doctor who

which means that when he openly calls transphobes whingy and asks them to shut up, there's a bit of a ripple... i mean what are you gonna do, get angry with the doctor? from doctor who??? the man who played a definitive hamlet????? the man who's just done rave reviewed performances of macbeth???? scrooge mcduck????????? this man who occasionally guests on cbeebies???????????

said prime minister and his party and hosts of transphobes go absolutely crazy every time he makes an appearance wearing new trans ally apparel, as if a. he sees any of that and b. it's a dignified response to a man saying, in essence, "i would like my kid to be safe and happy"

david tennant constantly making these statements, again and again, is a powerful voice in the modern fight for trans rights in the UK, in some ways unfortunately, because you wish trans people could have been heard before it got to this state and that it wasn't about being famous, but to be fair, he's also making that point again and again

it kind of feels like the first time in a long time that there's been proper pushback against transphobia in this country from a perspective that the transphobes can't dismiss so easily -- they can try but like. again, one side is a bunch of raving nonsense-spouters on a joke website who mostly belong to a party that's about to get decidedly ousted from the political scene, the other is beloved national icon and star of stage and screen, mr david tennant

of course, it doesn't hurt that the three main actors of harry potter and everyone else who's majorly involved in doctor who, past and present, is also supportive of trans rights, which maybe there's a separate point to be made about the strangeness of a mainstream tv show becoming a cultural battleground for peoples opinions on equal rights, especially now with ncuti gatwa at the helm, because i think some of what ive seen in relation to dw is more extreme than any piece of cultural media ive been alive to witness bigoted reactions to (including star trek), and ncuti gatwa as a black queer man is taking a hell of a lot of flack that is racist and homophobic

but labour... if you're inviting random artists to give you opinions on trans rights, david tennant is right there, and you know he'd make sure to bring along trans rights activists and professionals to get the space in the room they ought to have had all along

[mapis-putellas]

I’ll keep you warm

Pairing: Natasha x reader

Words: 731 (blurb)

Request: “I have a request for Nat and g!n reader with the prompts, “I’ll keep you warm.” and “Are you blushing?”

Warnings: mentions of guns

Summary: Natasha Romanoff does not blush.

Notes: Thank you to the anon who requested this <3

"You know, being Russian doesn't stop you from freezing to death. Which, you know, you will, if you insist on wearing that." You cross your arms against your chest as you stare down at Natasha.

She was sat on the bottom step of the stairs tugging on a pair a boots, her body clad in nothing but jeans and a t shirt which looked strange considering your own attire which consisted of sweatpants, a hoodie and a jacket.

"Detka, seriously. You worry too much. I'll be fine, okay? Now let's go." She rises to her feet and reaches for your hand, firmly interlocking it with her own. Knowing it would be pointless even trying to fight her on the subject, you allow her to pull you out of the house, watching as she makes quick work of locking up behind you before pulling you down the street.

You were currently hiding out at a safe house after a mission gone wrong, but due to lack of preparation on Tony's end, there was absolutely no food available for you to eat. You hadn't minded initially due to the fact you were used to not eating for long periods of time -thank you foster homes- but the second you'd heard Natasha's stomach grumble, you'd been insistent on going out and at least trying to get something to eat.

She'd fought you, but you'd been stubborn.

It wasn't ideal, leaving the safe house. You knew that, and so did Natasha. But it wasn't like you had any other options. Anyway, you had a gun tucked into the waistband of your sweats should anything go wrong, and if the holster just visible peeking out from Natasha's jeans was anything to go by, she was more than prepared too.

But no one knew you were here. The location was hidden. So you figured a trip to the nearest store would be okay.

"I guess I'll keep you warm then." You mumble, releasing her hand and throwing your arm over her shoulder instead. Natasha doesn't respond verbally, but the way her cheeks flush a light shade of red doesn't go amiss. "Wait," you gently tug her to a stop, a teasing grin already on your lips. "Are you blushing?"

"What? No! Of course I'm not." Natasha scoffs, averting her eyes away from your own. Your smile widens as you pull her body flush against your own, clasped hands resting just above her rear end. Her own arms rise to cling to the material of your shirt, but she pointedly avoids meeting your eyes.

"Oh, so these red cheeks must be because you're cold, huh?" You reach up and brush the backs of your fingers across cool skin. Natasha doesn't want to admit that you were correct about her blushing, so she does with the next best option. Lying about being cold.

"Yeah. Totally. I'm freezing." She forces herself to shiver as she leans properly onto your arms. Her voice suggests she was telling the truth, but her skin was still warm to the touch telling you that she was very much lying.

Amused more than anything, you press your lips against her forehead before letting out a quiet sigh and shrugging off your hoodie.

Her eyes widen. "What? No. Put that back on, right now." She all but demands, grabbing a fistful of the material and attempting to pull it back onto your body. You smirk and shake your head, successfully managing to pull the hoodie off before yanking the head hole over her head.

"Baby. Seriously. I'm fine! I wasn't actually being se- is that my shirt?" Green eyes meet your own as they appear over your hoodie, and you immediately look down and see that you were, in fact, wearing her shirt.

Figuring she was distracted enough, you guide her arms through their respective holes in the hoodie before pulling it properly down her body.

"Yes. It is." You reach forward and pull her hair out of the neck hole. "Ready to go?"

Knowing it would be pointless trying to give the hoodie back considering you could give her stubbornness a run for its money, Natasha sighs and begrudgingly nods her head before tucking an arm around your waist.

"Sure am."

You throw your own over her shoulder and press a kiss to her forehead. "I'm craving pizza."

Natasha rolls her eyes. Of course you were.

[boypied]

pairings: steve rodgers x male reader

request: Tony stark walks in on Steve Rogers getting his huge cock ridden by his big butty fem boy boyfriend in the living room at stark tower.

warnings: SMUT ! , swearing, anal sex, kissing sweating, voyeurism.

MDNI + FDNI !

Steve holds onto your hips as you slowly and cautiously lower yourself onto his thick shaft, your walls separate to make room for his size.

You gasp, taking him in whole. You wince in pain that gets over come with pleasure as his dick presses against your sweet spot. Steve's grip on your waist tightens as he begins using you like a fleshlight.

Steve uses his strength to take over your body. He bounces your hips up and down, causing your ass to smack down on his groin. "Are you sure we should be fucking here baby?" You moan out, "If we get caught, just let them watch. Show them who owns you" Steve grunts out as he continues to fuck you hard.

Steve thrusts his hips up into your hole, his cock attacking your entrance. "Your hole is so tight for Daddy" He groans out as your hole grips onto his cock, milking him.

You lean yourself forward and begin bouncing yourself onto his thick shaft, Steve's hands spank against your ass. He admires the jiggles.

Your eyes continue to dart around the room making sure no one is secretly watching you bounce on your boyfriends juicy cock. "D-Daddy!" You shout out, as his cock rubs against your sweet spot.

Tony walks out into the living room of stark towers, completely oblivious to what is happening until he hears the moans and slapping.

Tony doesn't stop making eye contact with you as you bounce on Steve's cock, a smirk appears on his face. Steve also smirks as you ride faster to try and impress Tony.

Tony smirks, "Looks like you're taking him so well, boy." You blush and ride faster, his cock rubbing against your g-spot causing you to release hands-free, your cum squriting across the floor.

Steve's balls tighten as your ride non-stop even after your release. His cock spurts cum out, painting your walls white with his super soilder cum.

You don't stop making eye contact with Tony. He smirks as you watch him leave the room, Steve leans up. "You started riding me faster when Tony walked in. Maybe he should join us soon".

You blush slightly while nodding your head.

p.s , sorry that it's short, but I hope you still enjoy it all !

taglist - @starboye @mailmango @addictedtomalepits

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"YOU'RE WELCOME, BABY"

I WROTE ANOTHER FIC WITH BUCKY

I was planning on adding smut to this fic, but it ended up being adorable and sweet in every way (I'm ovulating guys, my mood swings are crazy right now)

Hope you like it!

POV: You're in those days of the month, and Bucky doesn't hesitate to give you the support and comfort he knows you need

Bucky paced in front of you every few minutes in his black leather suit and bright, clear eyes, making your ovaries physically ache from how much you needed him.

It was that time of the month, so you were much more sensitive than usual, and him pacing around like that didn't help at all.

You were alone in Avengers Tower.

Steve knew about your condition, and since Tony asked him to go with him on a quick mission, he asked his best friend to keep an eye on you.

You didn't know if he did it on purpose or if it was just his way of moving, but when he pulled a water bottle out of the fridge and leaned against it, making the metal of his arm squeak slightly, you thought you might faint right there.

He noticed your scrutiny, and a soft smile spread across his face.

"Do you want some?" —he asked, raising the bottle. You shook your head.

“I can’t drink water that cold,” you replied. “It’s not good for my…” You blushed violently.

You had no idea why you were talking about it openly with everyone and why you were embarrassed with him.

“…ovaries,” he finished for you. “I can make you something else if you want,” he offered. “Are you hungry? Wanda taught me a couple of recipes, both without paprika.” He laughed. “I know you don’t like spices.”

The fact that he’d paid enough attention to let him know that about you made you squeal internally.

“Thanks, Bucky, but I’m fine for now,” you added. “I mean, I could be worse.”

“I’m glad you’re not.” He smiled, sitting down on the couch, leaving a little distance between you. “What do you want to do?”

“God, why does everything he says have to sound so sexual?” You thought, shaking your head and shrugging your shoulders.

"I don't know," you murmured. "What do you want to do?"

He watched you intently for a few moments. He lifted his metallic hand to trace the curve of your cheek with his index finger, making you shudder at his touch.

"I can think of a few things we could do, doll," he whispered, his voice lower than before.

His presence, his touch, his smell, that damn leather suit, and the tone he used made your ovaries ache more than before. You needed that man, you needed him NOW

"Oh yeah?" you asked playfully. "What were you thinking about?"

Bucky smiled when he saw you playing along. His hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb running over your lower lip.

"I was thinking about how much I'd love to feel your lips around my cock," he blurted out, getting straight to the point, making you let out a stifled gasp. "I was thinking about how much I need to taste you and make you cum in my mouth." He continued, slowly slipping his hands under your shirt to rest them on the skin of your hips, making slow, tortuous circles there. "But above all else, I was thinking about how beautiful you are," he whispered, looking at you with equal parts tenderness and intensity. "God, you have no idea, do you, baby?"

Bucky, my face is covered in pimples from my period. I'm not pretty, especially right now.

"You're wrong about that," he whispered, holding your face in his hands. "You've always been beautiful, especially right now." He smiled. "I don't care about your physical appearance. If you have pimples, wear sweats, or if you suddenly have gray hair, I don't care," he listed. "What really matters is what you look like here." He placed the palm of his hand on your torso. "And here." He pointed at your head with his index finger

"Oh, Buck," you blurted out. "You're going to make me cry." You complained, feeling the tears threatening to come out.

"That's the last thing I want, honey," he replied. "I just want you to be okay, and above all, to show you how precious and special you are." He whispered, opening his arms on either side of him. "Come here, doll."

You snuggled up against his chest, and before you fell asleep, you called out to him:

"Buck?"

"Hmmm?"

"Thanks for everything you said, I…" you swallowed hard, "needed it."

"You're welcome, baby," he murmured, placing a loving kiss on top of your head, "go to sleep."

And that's what you did.

Within seconds, you fell asleep because, let's be honest, who wouldn't fall asleep in Bucky Barnes's arms?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

I've Got You Under My Skin 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, marital troubles, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Steve Rogers

Summary: your husband is a very demanding man.

Note: I can't help myself with the super soldiers.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The doorbell rings and you flinch. You pop your head up as Steve keeps his heavy arm across you. You wriggle and check the time on the small clock on his side of the bed. 

"Shoot!" You struggle to break free of him. "I forgot!"

"Forgot," he turns onto his side, keeping his hand on your hip. "What's going on?"

"I invited the girls over for movie night!"

"Movie night?" He echoes.

"Yes," you move his hand off of you, your chest bouncing as you hop out of bed. "We rented Nosferatu! I'm too afraid to watch it alone so..."

"You coulda waited for me," he sits up and shakes out his matted hair.

"I know but... oh, Bucky's wife can't make it. She's working on her comic," you explain as you search for your bra. The doorbell goes again.

"You didn't tell me you were having them over."

"I forgot."

"But you planned it... you could've said something when I called the other day." He scolds.

You know how he is about the house. He's so overly cautious, he would've seen them on the security app anyhow. Plus, they're his friends as much as yours.

"It's just Wanda and Nat," you say. He stares at you unflinching. "I'm sorry, Stevie--"

"Don't Stevie me with those kitten eyes," he warns as he sits up and wags his finger. "I just... like to know."

"I know," you look at your toes. "I won't do it again."

"Mm," he hums, obviously not happy. You hurry to pull on a fresh dress, not creased or stained by his suddenness. You pull you a pair of panties and he sighs, "really?"

"Steve, the girls are here."

"So what?" He tilts his head and smirks, "kinda hot thinking of you hanging out with nothing underneath. Just waiting til they're gone so you can get back on me."

You give a bashful smile, "Stevie."

The doorbell rings several times in quick succession.

"Hurry up," he rolls his eyes. "Nat can never..."

He trails off and you hurry out, trying desperately to tame your mussed appearance. You flit down the stairs, your skirt letting the air flow over your pelvis. You shiver and hurry to the door, opening it up with a smile.

"There you are. We brought wine and you leave us out in the cold," Natasha snips and shoves the bottle at you.

"Sorry, Steve got back early."

"Ew, please, we don't need details," she snickers.

"Vis got back too," Wanda says. "But Tony kept him late. I swear sometimes I think I'm the other woman."

You shake your head and accept the wine.

"As usual, Bucky's not here and ruining it all," Nat sneers. "She'd come if he wasn't such a hard ass."

"I thought she was working," you frown.

"Oh, sweet child," she purrs. "Sometimes I think that's why he chose you, you are too trusting."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Wanda pinches your chin. "You're just precious."

You back up to let them in. You don't argue. You don't like conflict. Not at all. You don't know how Steve does it.

Yet, you're irked. Everyone treats you like a child. You know you're a bit younger than all of them, a bit less experienced, but you're not stupid.

"So, pizza?" Nat asks.

Usually, you'd say no. The grease makes your chest burn and Steve doesn't like all that processed cheese. Unfortunately you didn't have enough time to make the food you were planning on.

"You two go ahead and order. I'll get some snacks ready," you wave them into the living room.

Before Steve got back, you had a plan. You were supposed to add some ambiance; dark scarfs over the lamps, pillows on the floor.... Oh, but you did do one thing.

You take out the medieval looking goblets filled with goodies; black nail polish, edible vampire teeth, red gummies of every flavour. You set them aside and start on the snacks.

Hummus and spinach dip, whole wheat crackers, veggies, and some fruits. You bring it out as Nat and Wanda set up a nest on the floor. Natasha grimaces at the tray.

"Really?"

"Well, you know..."

"We know. Mighty Captain America doesn't allow real American food in his house." Natasha sniffs.

"I got a surprise, wait," you put it down and wave off her chagrin. "One sec."

You go back out to the kitchen and grab the goblets. You bring them out with a proud smile. Wanda oohs and ahs as she nears.

"Adorable," she praises. "Oh, Natty, there's candy."

"Is it vegan? Sugar-free? All organic?"

"It's real," you assure her. "Just for tonight."

"For tonight or just for us?"

"Well, they're... presents."

"Hmm," Nat plucks out a gummy. "You should join in on the fun."

"It's okay, really. I'm not very hungry right now."

"It's one candy," she nears and holds it between her talon-like nails.

"You girls and your vampires," Steve startles you as he appears in the archway. You glance over. 

"Whatever, scaredy pants," Nat shoves the candy towards you. "It's girls' night and you're jealous."

"You're stealing my wife. Damn right I'm jealous." He scoffs.

"Mhmm," Nat hums and pushes the candy through your lips. You widen your eyes as she pulls her thumb free. You bite into it and look at Steve. He doesn't look impressed.

"Just try not to get her in any trouble," he says.

"In your living room?" Wanda giggles.

"You two have a way," Steve chides.

"Says Steve Rogers," Nat shakes her head.

"Says her husband," he tisks.

"Fucking Christ," Nat mutters. "Think a vampire would be a better husband."

"I can hear you," he retorts. "Language."

He marches off and you give a guilty look as you chew. You wish they didn't argue so much. You just want to have a nice movie night.

[spider-mancan]

Tony can't finish dressing by himself.

Broken arms fuck up a lot more than he expects. No matter how often he fucks up his arm or his shoulder or his elbow, it always surprises him. Buttons? He's lucky he's had a lot of practice undressing one-handed. Zippers? 50-50 shot towards manageable but he has been traumatized from the last time Pepper had to detangle him from his slacks. Now he's a little gunshy.

Ties, though. There's no hope without a second set of hands.

He doesn't wear many ties these days. He's semi-retired, after the whole death thing. The charming romp that resulted in his broken arm was an unexpected exception involving a set of French doors, some ill-advised molotov cocktails, and ten sets of stairs. And also an assassination attempt, once Tony finished laughing his ass off. It was immediate karma, although Tony maintains he didn't deserve it.

Pepper has begged him to show his face in public more. They think he faked his resurrection, which is funny because they thought he faked his death, too, and the resurrection was, like, three years ago -- Tony doesn't have the kind of patience for a long con.

Speaking of patience: "Hey, Pete?" Tony gives up trying to strangle himself with the silk monstrosity Pepper set out on his bed this afternoon. "Mind helping out an invalid?"

"One sec!" Peter's voice bubbles from down the hallway. He's excited in a way one can only be when they haven't been to too many fancy events in their life. Pepper was smart about sending Peter as his plus one. At least then,some of Peter's enthusiasm might rub off. "Let me wash my hands. This shit gets everywhere, every time."

It'll be a fun event, as much as it could be. Not black tie, and the invitations swing a little camp. Tony is wearing a crimson red suit, clean cut but bright as all hell, with gold embroidery. He tends to prefer classic ensembles (although he has fond memories of the 90s) but he can't deny the chance to dress up. Peter hadn't even let Tony buy him a suit. He said he'd rather do something more fun, and had begrudgingly taken Tony's credit card and promised to buy something pretty.

That's what he'd said, once his protests had died. Okay, Mr. Stark. I'll use this to buy something pretty, if that's what you want.

God, Tony is a bad man. He doesn't think about lace or leather at all. He doesn't. Isn't.

"Are you in here trying to end it all? Give the tie a break, mister." Tony startles as hands magically appear before him, pulling the tie out of his grip. To be fair, it looks less like a tie and more like a knot, now. Peter snorts, fingers picking at the mess. "Tell me you have a steamer or something. Can you use steam on silk?"

Tony opens his mouth, blinks, and then shuts it.

There's gold on Peter's eyelids.

Gold. Eyeshadow. Probably. Tony's worn makeup before. Peter has gold eyeshadow, and some dark liner smudged around his eyes. A little concealer. His browns are darker. His lips are glossy, maybe just a balm. Glossy. His lips are glossy. His eyes are gold.

"Yeah." Tony doesn't remember what he was saying, but Peter is just looping the tie around Tony's neck and getting to work.

Tony is the one who taught Peter how to tie a tie. May tried, but Tony is particular. He taught Peter how he likes his ties tied. Not to have Peter tie his ties or anything, but because everyone should know how to dress slick and easy. That's all.

Something pretty. Peter is wearing dark red shot through with gold thread pinstripe and a sheer shirt. Sheer. There isn't much skin to show, with the jacket, but if Tony took his good hand and used all those years of unbuttoning, pushed aside the lapel, he'd see Peter's bare nipple.

Peter smells like Tony's cologne. He probably borrowed some, since Tony's collection is huge. When he tilts his head, Tony smells it on his skin, hot. It's heavier around the cooler, which is open and very visible. Lots of skin. And cologne. Is it hot in here? Where is he right now.

Peter crosses the knot a bit too tight and it jolts Tony back to earth. "You're staring," he says, eyes focused on his hands as they work silk around Tony's neck. His eyes are shiny and gold. Gold. His lashes are long, too. Did he use makeup on them or has Tony just not noticed before.

Tony clears his throat. "No."

Peter makes a small sound of agreement, even though his mouth quirks in that way he does when he doesn't believe a thing a Tony says. "Okay." Over, under, tighten the know. Smooth the silk down the front of Tony's chest.

Tony swallows thickly. "If I was staring, you'd know."

"Okay," Peter says again, slipping the tie into the clip and smoothing it down again. "I wonder if I'd even notice." Tilts his head, even though his eyes are still focused on his hands. Tony is also focused on Peter's hands, because they have stilled and are still on Tony's chest. "You staring, I mean."

"Like I said, you'd know."

"Maybe I'd even mention it to you." Peter looks up now with a secret little smile. "And you'd tell me you weren't, and then where would we be?"

Tony's good hand wants to press Peter in close, but he can't, so he doesn't. Why can't he? He keeps forgetting. It settles on Peter's elbow instead, light and teasing through the jacket. Unintentional, probably. His fingers flit over the seam. Peter doesn't move away. Tony keeps forgetting that he should.

"Are you ready to go?" Peter asks, changing gears, and Tony slumps with either relief or disappointment. Either way, it's the first breath he's taken in a year. "It's almost time for us to be fashionably late."

"Right." Tony wipes a hand over his face and grabs his jacket from the bed. Peter steps close again, helping him drape it nicely over his sling. "Wouldn't want to disappoint anyone."

"You could never. Oh! By the way." Peter is setting the shoulders straight, but then he's pressing closer -- his body a firm line against Tony's back -- and slipping his hands over Tony's chest. "Thanks for something pretty." He kisses Tony's cheek, all mischief, even though his cheeks are blushing red. There's a smear on Tony's skin. Definitely gloss.

When Tony recovers, Peter is already out the door. Tony finds his credit card in his breast pocket when he's hurriedly shoving in the pocket square and trying to follow him out the door.

[jimblejamblewritings]

Pet Soldier | 1

Summary: Bucky's past catches up to him, unlocking painful memories of his time as the winter soldier. The only thing that could make it worse was having to be on a team with a captured HYDRA soldier he wants to see dead. But her healing power is simply too invaluable to let go.

THIS IS A DARK FIC!

Warnings for the Series: 18+ only. Heavy Angst (eventual hurt comfort). Violence. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con and Dub-Con. Psychological Trauma. Not Canon Compliant. Manipulation. Hydra.

Important Warnings for this Part: Non-Con.

Pairing: eventual Stucky x reader, Stucky x hydra!reader

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: the title is pending. I had a strong desire to write for Marvel and specifically Bucky again. Idek dude. But enjoy!

A/N 2: I don't really know if anything about reader's race will be brought up but I like to always note that at the beginning because black readers deserve stories too so if hair or culture does start to get brought up, it doesn't just come out of nowhere.

Series Masterlist

Despite all the fronts he put up, deep down Bucky is grateful. Grateful that Steve doesn’t ever give up on him, that Sam took a leap of faith to help save him, that Tony had a change of heart, that the UN agreed to work with SHIELD instead of forcing SHIELD under them, and for a host of other things that would take him too long to name. He is grateful for his freedom back, a chance at normalcy. 

Of course, it isn’t without conditions. He has to be an Avenger. He had to go through deprogramming in Wakanda to at least eliminate his triggers — the Winter Soldier still makes spontaneous appearances albeit less deadly and usually from nightmares. And he has to help them with cases on HYDRA to the best of his abilities. Bucky considers those conditions to be easy. At least until the morning the team find themselves on the quinjet and heading back to Siberia. 

Zemo’s Sokovian cover story had been almost airtight but he slipped up eventually. He knew too much about HYDRA operations. It became hard for anyone to believe he acquired all the knowledge through research alone. Not that it mattered, whether he was HYDRA or not he had to be found. Only, now Bucky was added to the team in charge of finding their man just in case he was a part of that damned organization. 

“You good?” A voice shakes Bucky from his thoughts. 

Sam sits down next to him, having finally been released from pilot duty while Clint takes over. The man next to him nods stiffly. It had been a long time since Bucky was in Siberia. The last of his Winter Soldier years had found him at the base in D.C. while he was used to take out SHIELD. He had occasionally flown back to Siberia every now and then. It was technically his home while at HYDRA. But still, it had been months. 

“The last time I was here… They said they were bringing something to D.C. for me.” 

“You’re worried it’s still at this facility?” 

“I’m worried whatever it is might kill us or what use Zemo might have made of it.” 

The entire quinjet falls silent at his confession. It had already been decided that with the information he gave them about other winter soldiers, Bucky would be leading the mission. He knows the base, tries to prepare them all.

But steeling their nerves to fight unstable super soldiers is one thing. Trying to anticipate all the random death traps in a hopefully relatively abandoned facility — including something specifically for Bucky — is another thing entirely. 

With precision, the team seamlessly moves through the base. Steve is the first to pause when he sees it. The chambers holding the other winter soldiers are full like Bucky said. But each and every one of them simply stays in place despite the open doors of their cryo units. They watch the Avengers’ every movement. Only their eyes ever move. On the back wall of the room sits Zemo in a safe bunker. 

“If it’s any consolation, they will die quickly after this. A single bullet each. Self-inflicted. They’ve already been commanded to do so,” Zemo mutters. 

“Why are you doing this?” Steve’s questioning is firm. 

Part of him wants to know, the other part is just buying time for the others to assess how to get Zemo out of the containment unit. SHIELD wants the man alive. The Avengers feel obligated to try and deliver. 

“Because I never cared for the enhanced. Reckless, unstable, none of them righteous. No one should have ever continued after Captain Rogers. I thought the lot of them were corrupt. Although, I have found one who I may have a different opinion of yet. Soldiers, attack.”  

Despite the fact that he was no longer triggered by the words, a darkness flashed over Bucky as he watched the chamber closest to Zemo finally open. It had been the first thing he noticed when they originally entered the room. How the chamber door was closed despite all the other ones being open. He braced himself for whatever beast was going to come through. 

The team hadn’t seen Barnes in a rampage like this since his deprogramming. Even a nightmare fueled Winter Soldier was not as bad as what they witnessed right now. He didn’t hold back any punches, only using his metal arm. Despite the plethora of weapons on his body, Bucky didn’t use a single one. It was like he wanted the soldier underneath him to feel every ounce of anger in his fight. Like he wanted her to suffer. 

Bucky didn’t register the shouts of his name. The only sound to reach his ears was the sick crunch of your nose under his fist. It took Steve, Tony, and Thor to pull him off of you. Bucky only relented after realizing all the other winter soldiers were dead. You were the only one that could be convinced to surrender and there was a use to you being alive. They could finally have another source on HYDRA besides just him.

✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭

There were no bars around your cell. That was the first thing you noticed about your new prison. Avengers Tower, you were sure one of the people said as they threw you into this so called interrogation room. You had immediately noted that there were no bars anywhere around your cell. Simply glass that you suspected was a two-way mirror around the whole perimeter of the room. 

On the other side of the glass, Bucky just glared at your seated form. They were interrogating Zemo in the other room and he didn’t care one bit. You were here. Reluctantly, Bucky pulled himself away from watching your figure when Everett Ross called his name.

The last thing he wanted to do was sit through a meeting where he had to explain that he was fully in control of his actions as James Barnes and not the winter soldier in Siberia. Unfortunately, Bucky didn’t get his way. He was given all of one minute to settle himself before they started demanding answers. 

“Y/N L/N. She’s not a winter soldier,” Bucky stated numbly. 

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Barnes, are you telling me that you as you and not that freaky soldier thing harmed a civilian? 

“She was my primary handler.” 

Everyone’s mouths dropped open in shock. The only thing Bucky could muster was a dry laugh. 

“You picked the right one to save. She was there for all of it. Almost every torturous minute I spent in their clutches was thanks to her. If anyone knows anything about all of HYDRA’s sick plans then it would be her. Karpov’s right hand. Pierce’s left. The worst handler I’ve ever had.” 

“Was she there since you were taken?” 

For once, Natasha was hesitant to ask about his past. Bucky had gotten used to the jokes. He actually sort of liked them. It made him feel like a normal member of the team. But from the way he almost killed you earlier and this sudden confession, it left Nat concerned for her friend. 

Bucky shook his head. “Around the seventies, I think. Maybe a bit earlier or later. I don’t quite remember but she wasn’t there in the beginning.” 

“She looks a bit young then.” 

“She insisted on going into cryo every time I was put back under.” 

Ross’ eyes nearly bulged out his head. “I’m sorry, she willingly went into cryo? Barnes, if you don’t want to be here anymore then you don’t have to. But L/N might be the most valuable prisoner we’ve gotten from these missions. We can’t let you kill her yet and we can’t risk her escape without us at least having a chance to get her back. She’s staying at the tower for now. Just until her and Zemo are of no use anymore.” 

“As long as I’m not one of her guard dogs.” 

“Never,” Steve answered without hesitation. 

As if it pained him, Bucky stood from the table and walked back to the residents’ area of the tower. He’d watch your interrogation another day. But right now, he needed a lot of space. He didn’t want to even hear about what you discussed, telling the team such when he only asked about Zemo. It was a boundary they tried to respect. Unfortunately, the line had to be crossed a few weeks later. Fury stood in front of the Avengers trying to enjoy their breakfast.

“She refuses to talk. Zemo is willing to provide the location of HYDRA documents stored at the Siberian base and we have agents going there now. But he will only let them know if Bucky agrees to view the evidence with everyone else. It’s a fairly obvious ploy to ruin your recovery process but, for once, we don’t have the upper hand. He knows that and he knows he doesn’t have to be subtle.” 

“Fine,” Bucky said with a sharp voice.  

“I have to say, he already gave us one very important document as a sign of trust so to speak.” 

“And?” Steve asked. 

“The room she stayed in was a nice one for the higher ups. Dr. Myers believes it would be best to either gain her trust or make her think she has the upper hand.” 

Everyone noticed how Bucky tensed up at the mention of his therapist’s name. You couldn’t give him anything sacred to just himself. You had to take everything from him. Dr. Myers had been the best therapist he’s gotten so far. The first to truly help Bucky find coping methods that were healthy but also effective for him. He tried to take deep, slow breaths. 

“What does that entail?” 

“That she be allowed in the residence area. I’ve already agreed.” 

“Nick!” the entire team screamed at once. 

“We need whatever information she can give. We’re talking a potential end to HYDRA. I’ll put her far away from Barnes if needed. Almost everything can be restricted from her at first. She’ll have an ankle monitor or whatever tracking device you want on her. Hell, you can even give her a schedule so she never crosses Bucky’s path. But we need this inform—” 

“I want her room between Sam and ours.” Bucky looked over at his boyfriend, watching for a change in Steve’s face. “If that’s okay with you?” 

“Forget what I want. Are you okay to have her that close, Buck?” 

He nodded. “I’d feel better if I’m aware of her at every moment if she’s going to be up here.” 

“Thank you, Barnes,” Nick said with a nod. “Seriously.” 

“Just get what you need from her and then get her as far from my home as possible.” 

“It won’t be a few simple days.” 

“I’ve spent decades with that monster. As long as this takes less than that, I don’t care. Get what you need and then I want her to pay for what she’s done to me.” 

✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭✭

You stared down as Tony fitted an ankle monitor on you. Everyone decided that now was the best time to let you move into the resident area. They’d be reviewing the Zemo documents retrieved by intel while you had a chance to get used to your new space. While the team understood it needed to be done, they weren’t happy about the changes to their space.

Anything dangerous had locks that could only be opened through fingerprints or FRIDAY’s voice commands so you couldn’t have access. They now had to wait for the elevator’s facial recognition to light up all the buttons for them because you only had access to about four floors in total at the moment. And cameras were everywhere that you were allowed to be. Small inconveniences for the information they were about to uncover but annoyances nonetheless. 

You listened intently as Tony explained the new rules to you. He expected a sneer or rude response but you still said nothing. You simply left your cell and finally tested the elevator. The first button you pressed took you straight to the living room. The place was nice. Although, with a billionaire footing the bill, you expected such. The kitchen was nice and big. Better than any of your previous apartments at HYDRA.

You’d enjoy cooking there, already making plans for a nice dinner. You didn’t even care that you could only open about half the drawers. You were basically told that you could get food whenever you wanted, sleep for as long or as little as you wanted, and take all the hot showers in the world. The least amount of work you’ve ever had to do in your life and the only caveats were strangers for roommates and eventually having to drip feed information. A trade you could reason with for now.  

In one of the meeting rooms downstairs, the Avengers and important players in SHIELD passed out cups of coffee while FRIDAY sorted through the videos they recovered thanks to Zemo. The AI was attempting to put them in chronological order and focus on just you and Bucky’s moments. They expected it to be a long day and a meeting that might have to take place over several. 

Zemo, handcuffed to the table, thanked Sharon for the cup of tea. Her face of disgust didn’t deter him one bit. Not when he was about to revel in the potential destruction of the winter soldier. He had seen every soldier’s tapes. He knew all of their handlers, their weaknesses, their documented missions. And Zemo knew that your interactions were some of the worst in his opinion. HYDRA had a talent for cruelty, he’d give them that. 

Steve looked over at his boyfriend, grabbing Bucky’s metal hand after he clenched and unclenched it for the fifth time in a row. Everyone knew that the nightmares were only a fragment of his memory and for the most part he had blocked everything else out. It wasn’t exactly as comforting as Bucky thought to get those bits of him back. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Buck.” 

“Just play the damn tapes. You’ll probably need subtitles. There was always a lot of Russian, French, and German.” 

“I will provide whatever subtitles may be needed, Sergeant,” FRIDAY responded before starting the first bit of footage: 

Bucky was pushed back into the mind wiping machine. You sat in a very nice chair, just off to the side so the scientists could do their work. It was frightening how unmoved you were by his screams. You simply continued to read out loud, asking every now and then if Bucky knew who he was. 

“Bucky Barnes,” he gritted out. 

Your eyes casted downward as you flipped the page. You began reading again while the machine went for a fifth time. Sweat clung to Bucky’s skin as the machine slowly quieted down. You grabbed the bookmark from your lap and tucked it into the book, closing it before looking the man across from you in the eye. 

“Who are you?” 

“Sergeant Barnes.” 

Karpov’s hand appeared on your shoulder. “That’s good enough for now. You may take him.”  

Various bits of cctv footage popped up on the screen, showing you leading Bucky through all the hallways of the facility. He stiffly walked behind you. You walked with determination to the garage. Without a second thought, you slipped into the passenger seat of a car that looked like it came from the 40s. Bucky closed your door before getting into the driver’s seat. It wasn’t a long drive. And the cctv never stopped, not even when they reached your apartment. 

“When you comply, you can stay with me, Sergeant.” You unlocked the door to a very nice apartment. “This is much nicer than your cell, isn’t it?” 

Wanda swallowed uncomfortably as you took off the soldier’s boots and directed him to the dining room. “Was she always this nice?” 

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “It was the game she liked to play. If I complied then she was kind. Even a simple mistake would earn her other side.” 

“For once, I’ll make dinner,” you told him. “But you know I hate cooking, Sergeant. You’re lucky the day has been hard on you. Otherwise, we’d both be eating sandwiches.” 

Dinner was a quiet affair. Without needing to be told, Bucky did the dishes while you enjoyed your evening in front of the television. It was a practiced routine, something expected of him. 

✭✭

You scowled as you leaned against the guard rails of your apartment balcony. It was a different apartment than the last videos, on a lower floor but with a bigger porch. The heavy rain soaked through the dress you wore. 

“It’s getting rusty.” 

Bucky looked down at his metal arm.

“If I have to replace it, you will get another punishment.” 

Bucky ran a finger over the plates and you just sighed. 

“Let’s go inside and I’ll work on you instead of Karpov.” 

That seemed to wake the soldier up. Like the guard dog he was trained to be, he opened the door for you and waited patiently for you to come inside. You weren’t the one to work on him despite your promise. The moment you reached the HYDRA base, Bucky was taken by guards and beaten before being returned to his cryo chamber. You continued past his cell until you reached Karpov’s office. 

“May I have a few days off?” 

Karpov chuckled. “The Asset is giving you trouble? I heard you put him back in cryo.” 

“I’m tired from all the healing. I cannot wield my powers effectively with constant use. If he is truly hurt and I am weak then I cannot heal him. He can’t keep coming to me for every cut or scrape without some time off.” 

“You’re right. We’ll grant you use of the chamber. You get a week. He is needed in Budapest in ten days.” 

You nodded before returning to Bucky’s cell. A second cryo chamber sat next to his. The scientists gave you all the necessary pills and prep work needed before guiding you into the cryo chamber. 

Fury sat up straighter. “She’s a mutant?” 

“Best healer in HYDRA. I think that’s why she was assigned to me. If the serum took two days to patch me up, she could get it done in ten hours. I was more effective because of her, had more work and missions that I could go on.” 

✭✭

Karpov stood in front of a board room, other HYDRA officials waiting eagerly for him to start. 

“L/N is perfect for the Asset in all forms. He is more efficient. The rampages have severely diminished. He’s scared when he can’t see her or doesn’t know of her whereabouts. The constant waiting for the worst case scenario only to be brought to her with a book in hand resets his mind better than a mind wipe and a week in cryo. I believe under L/N’s hold, he will only need to be on ice as a matter of life extension.” 

Smiles spread amongst the crowd. 

✭✭

Bucky was allowed a hot shower. Although, with the vastness of the shower rooms, an occasional chill still swiped at his skin. But still, the shower was hot and he had the room to himself. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of heels clicking against the tile. 

“If I want to admire you, soldier, I can,” you said as you leaned against one of the shower dividers. 

The cctv cut back to the one focused intently on Bucky’s shower. He said nothing, going back to washing the shampoo out of his hair. He looked down when two hands wrapped around him, tracing up and down his abs. 

“You’ve been holding out on me, Sarge.” 

Your right hand drifted lower and lower with a gentle touch. Bucky stiffened up slightly when you wrapped your hand around his cock. He paid you no mind, continuing to stare at the shower wall. You began moving your hand up and down his length, face and body mostly concealed by his broad shoulders and back. Little grunts came from Bucky as you pumped him faster.

“Maybe they should send you on more of these hard missions so I can come see you. I didn’t know you were so well endowed. I shall make myself more acquainted with this endowment tonight. I think I’ll enjoy it.”    

Bucky stood up abruptly, needing fresh air. Zemo be damned, he couldn’t relive it. Not memories like those. No one tried to stop him or Steve who followed him out. 

“Are you alright?” Steve tentatively asked his boyfriend. 

A soft grunt escaped his lips when Bucky didn’t say anything but merely crashed into his arms and silently begged for a hug. He and Steve stayed out in the hall until the first meeting ended. Pity wasn’t something Bucky handled well. Yet, every single person gave him a pitiful glance as they exited. Even Zemo couldn’t help but give him a look as he was escorted back to his cell. 

You sat on the kitchen counter, legs crossed and sipping someone’s premade smoothie that you weren’t sure what the flavor was. But you were hungry and the potato soup you were making needed time on the stove to cook some more.

It was demeaning that you only had access to baby knives and your potatoes took way longer to cut than necessary but you were going to get that soup you wanted. In the meantime, the smoothie that read property of Bucky on the side of the cup would satisfy you. 

The elevator dinged, alerting you of a new presence. One by one, the Avengers filed out, staring at the ankle monitor dangling on your ankle as you bobbed one leg up and down before meeting your eyes with a glare. All Natasha could see was red when you brought the straw back to your lips. They all could see the writing on the side of it. Yet, you still obnoxiously slurped up the drink that you’re sure had some raspberry in it. 

Before she could be stopped, Natasha’s hand struck you clear across the face. The little bit of smoothie left hit the floor before you could grab it.  

“Stay the fuck away from Barnes. Don’t you ever touch him again.” 

You stopped focusing on her to stare at the one person you knew in the tower. Bucky’s glare was worse than whatever Nat or the rest of the team could muster up. The timer ringing shook you from your impromptu staring contest. Without a second thought, you pushed past Nat to fix the bowl of potato soup you were craving. The Avengers watched you prepare your food without a care in the world. Your back wasn’t even tense. It’s like they didn’t exist. You set the bowl on the kitchen island. 

“If you’re going to hit me, please do it when I don’t have food in my hand. Those little baby knives add a lot of minutes to my prep time and I wouldn’t appreciate the effort being wasted. Otherwise, I will continue to steal what you’ve made like that smoothie.”  

You nodded when Natasha actually did take you up on the offer, grimacing a bit as you felt some blood trickle down your face. Your nose wasn’t broken despite the sound it made when Bucky had hit it, but it was still fairly bruised and a single slap had it hurting again. Carefully, you wiped away the blood with the back of your hand before grabbing your soup. 

“Sergeant Barnes, you have a new arm. The other one suited you better,” you said after lots of consideration. “They said I was on your floor. Lead the way.” 

Steve pushed the other man behind him, getting dangerously close to your face as he did. “He isn’t your guard dog. You don’t make demands of him. I will be escorting you.” 

“Carry on then.” 

The rest of the team watched as you followed Steve. It was almost like you were unaware that you were a prisoner. You followed behind him in the same manner that they watched you lead Bucky through the halls of the HYDRA facility.  

✭

part 2

✿✿✿

Hey guys! I am starting the journey of becoming a traditionally published author. It would mean the world that if you like my fics (or even just this one), please consider following me on my new social medias for support! 

Bluesky: @thegildedlilynook

Instagram: thegildedlilynook

Threads:thegildedlilynook

[because of the nature of this being a dark fic and the fact that I haven't written for this fandom in so long, I won't automatically put my usual taglist. Let me know if you would like to be tagged in the future]

[scoutofmymind]

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

[starlightz4mj]

It’s Our Anniversary

Summary: Michael, once again, fails to show up for an important event you had plans for–this time, your anniversary. Tangled in a web of uncertainty, disappointment, and intoxication, how will his untimely arrival unravel the suppressed feelings and unspoken words you’ve both kept hidden?

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Era: Bad

Setting: Encino, California. Spring of 1987.

Category: angst, fluff, smut, oral (f! receiving), sexual intercourse (p in v) 

Word Count: 10,472

Note: For plot's sake, you'll have to pretend that the Havenhurst house wasn’t inhabited by the whole Jackson clan. Sorry if there’s any grammatical errors, btw. Also, I was listening to Anniversary by Tony! Toni! Toné! when the idea for this popped up, hence the title. I think using songs for my imagines might be a recurring feature. Anyway, enjoy! R.I.P. to D’Wayne Wiggins <3

Do you know what today is?

It's our anniversary

Made for you and me

Appareled in a Prussian Blue Valentino gown, you sit in the lavish dining room of the Havenhurst home designed with warm, Victorian elements. The intricately paneled walls display expensive oil canvases from the Romanticism and Renaissance periods. It was your boyfriend’s taste, not yours in particular, but still a stunning sight to take in. A pair of French antique chandeliers, adorned with crystals and bronze candlesticks, dimly light the space—accompanied by the silky notes of Jazz Noir drifting from a record player—blending together to set a mood of intimacy and relaxation.

Yet, as your dolled-up reflection looks back at you in discontent through the polished wood of the mahogany table, you are anything but relaxed. The loud dong of the grandfather clock adjacent to your right tolls aggravatingly for a third time, marking the three hours ago that Michael was supposed to be here. Unsurprisingly to you by now, he is not. That doesn't make the ache of disappointment any less painful.

For nearly the last year of the two you have been a couple, Michael’s packed schedule has been a constant interference to the increasingly rare occasions you spend with each other. Around when you had met him, he had concluded his activities for the Victory Tour, taking on less strenuous pursuits in his career after the success of Thriller. There were the infrequent appearances or interviews here and there, but overall, it was the least busy he had been for most of his life. And in that time, he and you had plenty of it to build a connection.

Being an attorney and starting out on a semi-business basis, you assisted in some of the proceedings he and your colleague took in purchasing the ATV Music Catalogue. There were a few times they came to you for advice on matters of intellectual property, that aspect of law being your area of expertise. Yet, unusually, despite Michael hiring nothing but the best for his legal selection, he hadn’t given any indication that he wanted to have a fiduciary relationship with you, even though you were the top IP lawyer at your firm. Your initial reaction was to be offended. After all the guidance he seeked, what could he possibly have against hiring you? 

“Well, Mr. Jackson, I don’t quite understand why you’d request my help, but decide to not appoint me to a position on your team. Is there some reason you think I’m unqualified for the job?” Voicing your potentially out-of-line assumption, you still maintain a courteous tone, even though your pride was slightly wounded. However, he simply lets out a giggle at the question.

“It’s the opposite, actually. I’d love for you to be a part of my team, but… it would conflict with another interest I have.” His aviator-shielded eyes cast downward toward the ground as he smiled coyly.

“And what might that be?” Your arms folded across your chest as your intrigue was piqued by the ambiguous statement, waiting for him to provide clarity.

“Taking you out to dinner on Saturday night. If you're up for it, of course.”

Your face donned with pleasant surprise as his words registered—a bold approach to make with such a shy demeanour. Though you wouldn’t say it aloud due to professional conduct, you had been an admirer of him since you were a girl in pigtails, starstruck by his strong voice and cherubic charm during that monumental premiere of The Jackson 5 on American Bandstand. 

Having a celebrity crush as a youth was nothing uncommon, but actually being presented with the opportunity to pursue a romantic gesture from them as an adult was inconceivable. The part of you that subdued the adolescent fancy you held for him felt as if it had been sparked again.

And with indignation replaced by delight, previous aggrievance long forgotten, you happily accepted his offer. From that point on, you and Michael went on numerous dates. You remember the more intimate ones—taking walks at night on the beach in Malibu or going to high-end establishments, such as opera houses and fine dining restaurants. The fun ones like going to the movie theater or to arcades in whatever crazy disguise he threw together. Most of them made you erupt into fits of laughter. 

You always voiced the theory that the zany costumes were more of an attention grabber than if people actually saw him in his normal attire, to which he proved otherwise. Long story short, on one of your many visits to Disneyland, you both, along with the Mickey Mouse mascot you were being photographed with, were swarmed by a herd of hysterical fans in the blink of an eye. You’re still not even sure how the limousine managed to get through the crowd as his security guards threw all three of you into the backseat. 

“Holy fucking shit! What the hell is going on?!” The heavily muffled shout of the man beneath the cartoonish mouse head would have been comical, if not for the overly excited group enveloping the vehicle, packed in close and trying to get a glimpse at the King of Pop. You yourself were staggered at the mob and attempting to calm your jittery disposition. All the while, you looked over to find Michael simply smiling and greeting the rowdy bunch, as if this were an average day for him.

Realizing that it was just that, you acknowledged the grace and composer he held himself with as an extremely admirable trait. You couldn’t fathom handling this lack of privacy and fanaticism since childhood. It was moments like this that made it click for you that being Michael Jackson, the popstar, came at a great price. To the world, he was this magical entity to marvel at—a wizard of entertainment. Before, due to the lack of familiar proximity, you used to hold that same image of him to some extent. But now, he was just Michael to you.

Michael, who had an affinity for Peter Pan and old Hollywood and Tchiakovsky. He always approached learning opportunities with eager curiosity, whether it was the sudden interest he’d taken in anatomy in recent months, or his humility in seeking mentorship from those he collaborated with in the industry, despite being a master himself. Michael, who was susceptible to internal struggles like anyone else and oftentimes wore himself down with his own expectations, but only because he believed in himself so fiercely. Michael, who was a beautiful fusion of contrasting energies—childlike spirit and wise, old soul, both wrapped in one. And the more of him you got to experience personally, the more profound and loving your relationship blossomed.

It carried on like this for a while, leisure time filled with frequent rendezvous, until his life started to pick up pace again. With the many filming projects he starred in, paired with countless hours of recording for his upcoming album, the days where you hardly saw him were steadily growing. You were able to distract yourself from his absence by getting lost in your own taxing work of large files riddled with dense jargon. Still, that only served as a temporary solution. 

“I miss you, Michael. We never see eachother anymore.” You utter into the phone while absentmindedly twirling the coil cord around your finger. You were bundled up in Michael’s bed, relaxing on your day off. But for him, he was busy in the studio, perfecting his sound for this new era of artistry. 

An exhaustion-filled sigh is let out into the receiver. “I know. I miss you too. I keep running into all these problems with the tracks. And Quincy-–he wants to go in a completely different direction with the sound than I do. It’s like, I can’t get anything worked out right today… Maybe I should just drop all of this and come home to you.” 

“Well, as much as I’d love that, I wouldn’t let you do it. I know how much this album means to you, to your fans… I want you to give it your all. You’ll get where you need to be. I know it. Just keep trying.”

He’s deeply appreciative of your encouraging words, grateful to have someone so supportive in his corner, even though he’s aware his hectic schedule no doubt takes a toll on you as well. “Yeah… I guess you're right. But still, I wish we had as much time together like we used to.” 

You think for a moment. “Well, how about we try our best to set some time aside out of the holidays for ourselves?” The suggestion was favorable enough, given the circumstances. And although there was some lingering resistance to practices outside of his past religion, such as festivities, he had opened himself generously to trying new things with you—some, more willingly than others…

So, that was the arrangement you both agreed upon. For a brief period, while still new, it was upheld fairly well-–until it wasn’t. The more activities Michael started to be bombarded with, the less he was able to keep his end of the agreement, and many of the days you had reserved for yourselves were cut into or entirely canceled by his heightened workload. But each time, you were understanding.

Like when he missed Valentine’s Day due to a conference he had for a potential brand deal with a fragrance line, which, by the way, ended up falling through, leaving the meeting pointless. Or when he got held back to reshoot some scenes for the Captain EO short film on your birthday, even though he was supposed to wrap up earlier to celebrate with you.

He would always return home with a peace offering, profusely apologizing for not being able to make it. And taking into account the extent of relentless demands in his career, it felt juvenile to be upset. So, you never truly expressed how much it bothered you, keeping it inside in favor of savouring the few moments you did have with each other. 

However, tonight is a different case. It’s your anniversary. And with each of the many reminders you gave over the last few weeks, he promised that no matter what, he would make it here by eight this evening. Instead, you found yourself alone, staring into the porcelain plate of chicken piccata you prepared, which has gone cold by now, with the hands of the clock moving farther and farther away from that designated time. As the minutes dragged on into hours, there wasn’t a single call sent as a courtesy to explain his nonappearance.

For him to not only be a complete no-show but also fail to at least leave you with prior warning—you were nothing less than seething at this point. The fretful bounce of your stilettoed foot carries on as you take a large swig of Chardonnay to ease the perturbance, waiting for the telltale sound of loafers padding down the marbled floors of the corridor. 

Meanwhile, the fluorescent lights of Los Angeles pass by in a blur as Michael heavily steps down on the accelerator of his Mercedes-Benz. Rush hour has long since been over, leaving the roads relatively uncrowded, thankfully making his race home quicker than usual. As the traffic light turns red, wheels halting in place, his right hand rummages around in his pocket to pull out a velvet box. How could I have forgotten? He inspects the small item, twirling it around with his fingers. 

What happened today was nothing short of chaos. Yet again, he and Quincy spent what felt like forever clashing over creative differences. Quincy, favoring the music production, wanted Al Capone to be on the album. Michael, on the other hand, preferred Smooth Criminal. Although both had the same thematic origins, with this song, he had a clearer, conceptualized idea of how it would look and feel in a movie short—the 1920s speakeasy scene, gangster suits and some influences of jazz in the dance style. After much discussion and weighing the pros and cons, Michael's decision ultimately prevailed.

The real trouble began when they actually started recording. From too much echo and reverberation polluting the sound of the tracks to Michael’s vocals not landing where they needed to, he found himself stuck in a continuous loop of scrapping various sections of his work just to start all over again. The constant mishaps couldn’t easily be pinpointed to one thing.

The stress of the ever-nearing approach of deadlines for this album, from music videos to preparations for the upcoming tour. Fatigue from rehearsal-filled days and sudden bursts of inspiration at night—lyrics, harmonies, choreography—that left him sleep-deprived. Or the nervousness from the much more immediate cause that, somehow, amidst all the madness, had completely slipped his mind.

As he returned to the sound booth from a restroom break, fully intending to keep recording until he felt the song he’d been working on was perfected, his eyes caught the red numbers on the digital clock hanging above the entrance—10:39 PM. Panic set in as the realization dawned on him: he was supposed to be home three hours ago for his anniversary. And though being so late to this very important event that you both had greatly anticipated did nothing to ease his anxiety, it was not the primary reason for it.

Michael had planned to turn this celebration of two years together into something even grander—a marriage proposal, but the potentially disastrous outcomes he had conjured up loomed over him like a dark cloud for weeks. As result, this entire studio session ended up in no meaningful progress, and astonishingly, he’d forgotten the one thing he promised he wouldn’t. Quickly pivoting on his foot, he scrambled towards the rack where his leather jacket hung, clumsily throwing it on.

“Smelly, what’s gotten into you all of a sudden?” The quizzical tone of Quincy’s voice doesn’t falter his rushed escape out of the room.

“I’m sorry, but I really gotta go! I’ll explain it tomorrow!” He hastily offers to wrap up their session before rushing towards the elevator. After impatiently waiting for the platform to ascend and dashing in upon its arrival, he soon reaches the first floor of the main lobby, booking it towards the exit of revolving doors. 

His attention is snapped from the burgundy colored cube in his hand as out of his peripheral, the stoplight turns green, putting the vehicle back in motion. As he carries on with his journey of about ten minutes left until he reaches home, his mind wanders back to the day you first met.

“There’s some parts of this document that are vague. You think you could come over and take a look?” John, Michael’s entertainment lawyer, had just had a brief exchange over the phone with someone moments ago before three loud knocks were heard at the closed door of his workspace. When it opened, in pranced a stunning woman, clad in a form-fitting red skirt suit, instantly drawing in Michael’s intrigue.

“Good afternoon. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jackson,” you chime in a genial tone, approaching with a beaming smile and extended hand, which he enveloped gently to shake—a fluttering giddiness erupts at the touch. As the two attorneys began to delve into the content of the forms, their words hardly registered to Michael. He was too focused on the concentrated gaze with which you scanned the documents, the shape of your rouged lips curving over vowels.

His eyes wandered to your accentuated curves as you leaned over the desk to examine the papers—voluptuous and alluring. And as you closed your revision of the material with an ‘I’m here if you need anything else,’ he couldn’t stop himself from watching the sway of your hips as you made a swift exit from the room.

You frequented over the next week, offering advice and providing context when needed. Sometimes, he would feign confusion with some parts of the text just so you could stay a little longer. Realizing that this was not the most practical way to prolong your being, nor considerate of your actual work duties, Michael finally decided to voice an inquiry.

“Hey, John, what’s your policy on dating clients?” The brunette man sipping on a latte pauses mid-drink with a puzzled look before lowering the mug.

“I’m flattered, but I don’t go that way.” 

“Not you, silly. I’m talking about her.” Michael waves in the direction of your office, lightly chuckling at John’s humorous remark. “Lawyers and clients aren’t allowed to be romantically involved, right?” He had done some research of his own about the situation, but wanted further confirmation just to be sure.

“Correct. But technically, you aren't an official client of hers, so you could still go for it.” And with that answer, he was asking you out later that very same day. 

Michael had been relatively green to the world of dating by the time you two had met. The seldom flings he had with women, kept under the radar, never developed into anything serious. With the way most of them soured, he wasn’t exactly sure that he would ever find what he was looking for. He often encountered people who were more enamored with his status and what luxuries it could offer than with him.

And though he was more than happy to shower his lady companions with anything they desired, he mostly did so out of the fear of being alone rather than the rapture of being in love, yearning to experience the joys of having a significant other. But little did he know, a certain lively attorney would be the end to his string of unfulfilling situationships.

Of course, he hadn’t initially come in with much expectation that the dynamic between you would deviate from the usual—gifts and opulence in exchange for company. Yet, surprisingly, when he did make such gestures, there was often protest and reluctance from you to accept them. You let it be known that while you were appreciative, he should never feel as if your affection needed to be bought, emphasising that just being together was enough.

And in the time he’s got to share with you, you’d become both his best friend and the light of his life. Mirroring his childlike tendencies, you enjoyed the likes of practical jokes, whimsical films, amusement parks. You both gave each other an equal dose of mischief and excitement—a temporary escape from the pressures of adult life.

On the other hand, the womanly side of you was self-assured and sophisticated. Despite the stipulations that came with his public persona, you weren’t one to crease under the weight. With poise and level-headedness, you managed to navigate both the harsh anatomization and glitzy display of his idol life. And though the expectations and prying scrutiny were unrelenting, your devotion to him never faltered.

As the demands of the day faded and it was just the two of you, your tenderness was given space to flourish in the sacred confines of one another. In the sentimental conversations you found yourselves getting lost in late into the night—confidences, dreams, worries—you had become a part of him he didn’t know he needed.

You possessed the ability to truly see and understand him, even when he tried to mask the parts of himself he feared would make you grow tired and flee. The solitude of his stardom, the sadness from past traumas, which he had believed for so long was impossible to escape, were eased away by the comfort of your unwavering presence and acceptance.

While these gloomy moods burdened Michael at times, he still held a great love and optimism about life. When it came to his craft, he was fiercely passionate and hopeful about all the possibilities he envisioned for himself, even when others thought he may have been overachieving or setting his expectations too high.

But you never doubted or dissuaded him from his aspirations. You were his biggest supporter. Always uplifting, always giving your undivided attention to his enthusiastic ideas about the next big thing he was going to do, eager to get a glimpse into the innovative makings of his mind. And when the work was tiring, your love and support motivated him to keep going.

As your endearments were reified through these saccharine partakings, he was certain that he wanted forever with you. He found refuge in your affections, your embrace—your peace sheltered him from the harsher aspects of his success and internal pains that, at times, would well up so much he thought he could drown. When he felt as if he would lose himself to those turbulent waters, you were the gentle wave beckoning him back to shore.

And in all these things, his resolution to ask for your hand in marriage was absolute. However, there was an additional reason why he decided an engagement was fitting—to convey that his adoration had not been swayed or dulled for you. He was aware that the requirements of his work agendas held great potential to cause a rift in your relationship. 

Consequently, he flipped between confidence that your feelings for him were so strong that you couldn't possibly reject him, to doubts clawing from the darkest corners of his mind, trying to convince him that his fame, his tireless routine, and himself, were still too much for you. As the in-house security guard granted him access through the ornamental gates of his estate, he began to feel that unease bubbling to the surface again.

Easing down the herringbone pavement leading to the main entrance of the house, he sees your car in its usual parking spot and places his directly behind it. With a sturdy twist of the metal key in the ignition, the rumble of the engine dies down, leaving him to collect himself in the still silence.

He gets out of the car, taking calculated steps as he approaches the double doors of the entry, apprehension swirling around him as he suspects that his untimely arrival will not go over well with you. His ears catch the faint rise and fall of music as he steps inside, quietly sealing the door shut. Slowly carrying on down the hallway, timidly walking past the threshold of the dining room, he is greeted by the upward flick of your gaze over the rim of a glass of wine—cold and distant. Without breaking eye contact, you chug the last remnants of the intoxicating potion before firmly setting the glass down.

“Happy anniversary. Glad you could join me.” Between your sarcastic remark and the displeased expression, he’s wary that he might not be able to recover easily from this one tonight.

“Baby, please don’t be like that. I’m really sorry. I ran into some trouble at the studio and lost track of time.” He offers his regret as he takes in the elegant layout you put effort into, left abandoned by his lack of show for the event. A twinge of guilt twists inside him.

“Save it. I’m really not in the mood to hear any excuses. You swore you’d make it, and you didn’t. Again. Simple as that,” you mutter with contempt as you move to grab the plates of untouched food, your heels clicking briskly as you make your way towards the kitchen.

From the wine you had been downing these past hours, to finally hitting a breaking point from the repeated absences from Michael, you let your frustrations flow freely for the first time. He’s taken aback by the bluntness of it, and although his contrition is strong, he feels a growing urge to defend himself as he trails behind you.

"Yes, I know I promised, and I wanted to be here with you today more than anything. But with everything I’ve had to do to get this album ready, I have a lot on my plate. I don’t think you’re being fair to me. It's not like I did this on purpose.”

His response only irks you more as you scrape the wasted meal into the trash bin. From his attempt to justify his actions to the fruits of your labor being overlooked, your tip-toe around full on confrontation has come to an end. With a heavy toss of the plates into the sink, not caring if they broke from the force, you sharply turned around, vitriol, tinted with liquid courage, pouring from your lips.

“No, what’s not fair is for you to leave me sitting here like a damn fool for three hours, and on top of that, not even call me to let me know where the hell you are!” 

Michael has never heard you yell like this before. In fact, during this whole two-year relationship, you’ve never once had a serious argument. Small disagreements that were resolved so fast you both hardly remembered what you were upset over? Yes. But full-blown, furious disputes had never found their way between you. However, there’s a first time for everything. 

"Look, honestly, it just slipped my mind, okay?! You have no idea how bad my day has been. Can’t you just hear me out? I don’t know why you’re giving me such a hard time all of a sudden.”

He finds himself gradually raising his volume as well. Despite his plea, his fortified reflex drives his actions, clouding the more rational approach of trying to wind down this heated energy between you instead of fanning its flames. And you’re ready to throw back just as much fire.

“Because I’m fed up with you not being here! I have been for a while now. And I’m busy too, Michael. My job is high maintenance, but I still show up for us. It feels like you're not even trying to do that!” 

Deep down, you knew that wasn't a fair or honest stance to take. Yes, you put in many more hours than most, plus the mental muscle necessary for your job was hefty. But Michael’s career required even more of him to succeed. Truthfully, you just wanted him to feel the same hurt you were feeling. And as the anger in his gaze momentarily wavers into something dejected, you were certain it worked.

“I am trying! If I wasn’t, I’d still be working instead of standing here right now.” There’s a slight quiver in his exasperation as he feels his worst suspicions coming true—he had let you in, and finally, it had become too much for you to bear.

“Well, what do you expect me to make of it, huh?! I’ve been very lenient all the times you’ve failed to show up—a full year, Michael. And now, this one time I desperately ask you to be here, you can't even do it!” You exclaim as you feel the familiar sting of tears threatening to spill. Somehow, you are able to uphold an unshaken demeanor of hostility.

You don’t know exactly where this shouting match is taking you, but you weren’t betting on the cruel grin that takes over Michael’s face as he lets out a bitter cackle. Though, it’s quickly replaced by a scowl that shoots daggers through you. 

“Right. So, I’m just a terrible boyfriend who always forgets about you? When we got together, you knew how demanding my life was. I can’t change that. And you said you understood, but it doesn’t seem like that anymore. If it’s not something you can handle, what are you still here for?!”

There's an uncomfortable silence that settles in the air before the unmistakable sound of a sniffle breaks it. He immediately wishes he could take his words back as he watches the tears brimming your eyes begin to trickle down your face.

“You know what?! Fine! Maybe I’ll leave then!” Your voice cracks as you exit the kitchen with a hurried stride, heading toward your shared bedroom—more accurately, your shared suite—to retrieve what you’ll need for your departure.

Hot on your tail, he’s following you up the path winding stairs, shame and dread brewing in his conscience as he takes your declaration as an act of permanence. Contrarily, you were just heading back to your apartment in the city for a while to cool off. He feels foolish for ruining the evening and the proposal he had planned, sullied by his own vexations and rash need to have the last word. And the thought of this possibly being the end of your relationship has sent him spiraling.

“Wait, that’s—that’s not what I meant.” A desperate attempt at an explanation to backtrack your decision comes tumbling from his mouth, but you are done listening as you barge through the door, determined to get away from him.

“Well you certainly said it, so you must have meant it.” Your vacant tone pulls at his heart, knowing that you’re shutting him out now. Still, with an earnest plea as he watches you shuffle around inside the dresser trying to locate something, he attempts to get through to you.

“No, I just—can you stop and listen to me for a second?!” He soon finds out what you were looking for—the silver glare of your car keys dangles from your manicured fingers. No, no, no. This is not how the night was supposed to go. 

“I’ve already heard enough from you.” Your assertion leaves no space for bargaining as you turn to exit the bedroom, but Michael is towering over you with brooding eyes before you can take another step. Swiftly, he yanks the keys right out of your hand.

“You’re not leaving me.” He can’t lose you. Not like this. With firm conviction, he is hell-bent on not letting you set foot outside of this room. Aggravated by his antics, you try to grab the keys, but he just moves them farther from your reach. Like a childish game, he extends his arm higher and higher away from you as you stand on your tiptoes, pressed flush against him and struggling to retrieve the metal object.

“Michael, give me my keys back! Now!” You exclaim with heightened annoyance, slightly stumbling over your feet as he roughly pulls away from you, walking towards the glass doors of the balcony. He wouldn’t dare…

“I said you’re not leaving, dammit!” You watch, mortified, as he twists the golden handle to open the door before tossing the keys two stories down to get lost in the flower bed beneath, not even bothering to close it before he turns back around. Both breathing heavily from the exertion of your previous scuffle, you exchange a hard stare down from a distance.

“What…THE FUCK is your problem?!” You shriek incredulously as he just stands there, glowering and not saying a word. Shaking your head in disbelief, you once again move to exit the suite—this time, to search for your keys—but startlingly, Michael makes fast strides in your direction. Before you can register what’s happening, he seizes your wrists tightly, pushing you until your back is pressed to the mural-painted surface of the wall.

Both puzzled and shaken by the impact of it, you’re ready to protest this strange action, but are quickly interrupted as the sudden crash of his lips to yours cuts you off. Wide-eyed with surprise and unable to break free from his vice-like grip, the vigorous motions of his mouth forces yours to do the same.

As your eyelids reluctantly start to flutter shut, getting lost in the sensation, Michael abruptly tears from the kiss before you fully cave in. Curiously, you watch as he walks over to the bedroom door and shuts it—the snap of the lock setting in place rings through the hushed space.

His eyes are darkened with a new aura as he prowls back toward you—something fervent and burning. Suspense looms over you once he fully approaches, simply standing with his intense gaze sauntering over your flustered form. Clearly consumed by his thoughts, his close inspection leaves you wondering what’s about to happen. That uncertainty is shattered by a low command that has heat stirring inside of you.

“Take your panties off.”

“Are you seriously trying to-” stunned at the vulgar statement, you start to question him, but are silenced by the sharp slap of his hand on your behind.

“Do it right now. Don’t make me repeat myself.” The gruff command leaves no room for debate as he moves back, giving you just enough space to maneuver out of them. Though it takes you a moment to adjust from the initial shock of his harsh touch, you timidly do as he says.

The lacey undergarment slides down your legs with ease, briefly snagging on the rhinestone accents of your blue heels before laying crumpled on the floor. Slightly kicking them out of the way, you watch with anticipation as Michael hastily unzips his leather jacket, casting it aside without concern for where it landed.

He pounces back on you, meshing your lips together with fluid, eager movements that make your heart race. With just as much longing, your fingers tangle into the loose locks of his hair as your tongues become entwined through desperate pants into each other’s mouths. His usual note of cinnamon, warm and sweet, dances on your taste buds, drawing you in more. With excitement heightened by this carnal entanglement, you can feel the slickness of it starting to build in your nether regions.

His kisses trace downward to the unblemished expanse of your neck where he begins to etch dark bruises, causing soft whimpers to fall from your lips. At the same time, his hands deftly shift the sparkly fabric of your dress up higher until the skirt crumples around your waist.

“Hold this up for me.” He whispers softly, pulling away from the marks he’s painted into your skin—a canvas stained with burning desire. Obediently, your hands clumsily bunch up the coarse, lurex material as your core aches with need and expectation.

Once he’s sure your grip is secure, he impatiently falls to his knees, draping your right leg over his shoulder and grabbing hold of your hip to keep you steady. You gasp as his mouth now sears welts into your thigh, sucking and biting at the flesh with urgency as he inches closer and closer to where you crave him most.

His breath fans hotly over you wet folds before you feel him take a broad, firm lick over the surface. He prods farther, parting your lips to swipe directly at your slit, languidly moving his tongue up and down to collect your honeyed nectar. Carrying on like this for a while, muscle deliberately stroking along the strip of your womanhood, the erotic mixture of his saliva and your arousal making the movements smoother, he soon hones his attention onto your throbbing pearl.

Your breath deepens as he flicks and circles it at a steady pace, only using the tip of his tongue for the assault. And while the feeling is wonderful, it doesn’t do enough to soothe the pain deep within you. With hips canting upward, you try to get more of him, but he pulls back to deliver another hard smack to your backside. With a yelp, you jolt at the sting, looking down at him with longing and frustration.

“You’re only getting what I decide to give you. Understand?” He questions with blown out eyes. You’re both intimidated and thrilled by the wild intensity in them. You nod your head stiffly, swallowing to alleviate the dryness in your throat, but you take that’s not the response he was looking for as he slaps your behind again, much more powerful than the last. With eyes clenched, you grit your teeth from the lingering bite of it.

“I wanna hear you say it.” His stern declaration sizzles in the space between you, thick with tension, waiting for you to give a proper answer. Slightly quivering at the weighted feel of the atmosphere, you utter with avid compliance;

“Yes, I understand.” Although quiet, it is satisfactory enough for Michael as he delves back into your warmth, resuming his manipulations. The pressure continues to leave you just teetering on the precipice of what you seek. You have to concentrate to restrain yourself from moving your hips again. Sensing your struggle to hold back, the rigidity in your limbs is obvious as you now release more constrained breaths, he fully envelops your bud into his mouth in an act of mercy.

As he builds the intensity of his motions with harder laps of his tongue and the harsher suction of his lips, he is practically making out with the drenched bundle of nerves. Finally getting what you yearned for, wanton moans climb from your throat freely as your body begins to slacken against the wall, swept away in this pleasant feeling.

Your soft, pleasured utterances fall upon Michael’s ears like a sweet symphony—high and melodious. His length is straining in the tight confinement of his pants, begging to be freed as the sugared and earthy scent and taste of your sex fills his senses.

With eyes peering up, he hungrily takes in the state of your form: the rapid rise and fall of your chest with each inhale you take, eyes shut, furrowed brows and mouth agape in blissed-out desire. The elegant bun your hair was neatly pulled back into has somehow come undone in the midst of this interaction, now flowing over your shoulders. God, you’re so beautiful like this. The salacious sight sets him ablaze, making him more zealous in having you fall apart for him.

The plush skin of your thighs curve over his fingers, grip squeezing firmer and opening you more as the fluctuations of his mouth become more vigorous, devouring you until he’s drooling on your sopped and weeping petals. In embarrassment and sweltering lust, heat rises to your cheeks at the slick and tacky sounds of his mouth passionately unwinding you.

The ravenous motions of his tongue against your clit causes your walls to deeply throb, sending a new wave of your essence to mix with the messy concoction between your legs. As Michael can feel the dribble of it streaming down his chin, he moves his thumb to continue the work on your button while shifting his head to take greedy laps at the dripping source, reveling in the taste of you.

As his tongue swirls and plunges deeper inside of you, he comes to the delightful realization that he would die happily here—face basking in the warm paradise of your love, drinking down the sweet waters of your orchid. Getting lost in these elysian pleasures through tender ministrations and fervid caresses.

“Michael, I’m so close!” You wail through needy cries as you feel the muscles in your pelvis beginning to be pulled taut. There’s hot pressure growing in your lower belly with the wish for release. The fibrous cloth of your dress itches your skin as your clammy hands struggle to hold it up, trembling as you can feel the force in you, building unbearably.

Michael groans enthusiastically into your core at the gratifying revelation, gripping your hips even tighter, intent on making you come undone on his tongue. The rumble of it vibrates deliciously against your lady bits, bringing you even closer to your peak when instantly, his mouth is surrounding your whole mound with loud, eager slurps, loosening his jaw to take more of you in.

And as he hotly consumes your sensitive parts, you’re finally granted that explosive release you’ve been waiting for. Uncontrollably, ardent moans tumble over your lips as the tension in your walls spasms without reserve, sending bright tingles of pleasure radiating throughout your entire body.

Michael drinks your pleasured sounds and the sap of your orgasm with elation as he can feel his own organ twitching with excitement behind the barrier of his briefs. Slowly, as you come down from the rush of it, gasping for air, he pulls away to examine the results of his work—you’re enticingly engorged and soaking. With a more delicate touch, he brushes featherlight kisses to the inflamed hues on your thigh before gingerly removing it from its place on his shoulder.

Rising eagerly, he brings you into another searing kiss. Although, the movements are slow and relaxed as he takes his time letting you taste yourself on his mouth. As his lips flow languidly against yours, sinking into the warmth of your embrace as you let go of your gown to wrap your arms around him, you both have a quiet understanding that you’re attempting to make amends for the hurtful things said and expressed during your earlier clash.

When you both slowly part from the kiss, the amorous, yet reverent stare he fixates on you with those deep, soulful eyes sets your heart aglow with a tender longing. Delicately, you lift your hand to cradle the side of his face, stroking the smooth skin with affection. His eyelids close in comfort, nuzzling into it as his lips gently peck at your palm.

Softly grabbing your wrist to break the contact, he sets your arm down, quietly stepping back while maintaining his gaze. His hands move downward to unbutton his shirt, fingers tactfully untangling the brass knobs from the red article of clothing. His expectant stare calls for you to follow his lead.

The plunge back making of your dress causes the sleeves to glide down your shoulders with little to no resistance, unveiling your bare chest to the cool, night air the open window lets in, causing your nipples to stiffen up. The textile plummets to your feet where you shuffle it aside, kicking your heels along after. With added effort, Michael eventually disrobes himself entirely of his leather and buckled garments, leaving him nude and just as exposed as you are.

Your pupils dilate as you take in the gorgeous sight of your boyfriend. The olive contours of his lean physique are illuminated by the pale glow of the moon. Your vision moves along the faintly defined muscles of his chest and torso, down to the neat trimming of his pubes, until they land on his impressive member, hanging proudly between his toned thighs and scattered with a constellation of vitiligo markings.

With hands trembling in inclination, you reach out to pull him back to you. This time, you’re the one to initiate the passionate dance of your lips. You feel him shudder, whimpering into your mouth as you firmly grasp his thick appendage, stroking it with purposeful motions. Pushing the skin back to circle your finger around his slit, a dribble of precum glides down, smoothly aiding the up and down caress of your hand to the velvety surface of his length.

Once stiffened to full capacity, he moves your hand to take hold of himself, placing the tip between your drenched lower lips, dragging it through the slick blendings of your previous foreplay. Leisurely, he rubs through your folds at a steady pace to liberally lubricate his girth before you feel the head gently breaching your entrance.

With breath fluttering into your neck as his head rests on your shoulder, he’s slowly inching into your awaiting canal. You feel slight discomfort at the burn of his width stretching you tremendously, but you do your best to relax the muscles, inviting him deeper into you. Finally, you’re stuffed full of him with his pelvis pressed flush to yours.

He peppers light kisses onto your throat, lifting your left leg up with a secure hold to cozily lay on his hip. And then, he begins to move with a slow, steady rhythm, pulling out all the way to the tip before delving back into you. By the slight grimace on your face, he can tell that you need more time to adjust to his size. But the slick, warm grip of your tight walls has him biting his lip in resistance, struggling to hold back the need to thoroughly ravage you.

Finally, he hears it. You let out small, pleasured sounds as he’s succeeded in fully loosening you up for him. The pain has been ebbed away into dazzling sparks of pleasure as you angle yourself upward to take him in deeper. With that queue, Michael gradually breaks from the slow tempo until he is rapidly driving into you, no longer able to contain himself.

Losing yourself in the feeling, desperate moans begin to fall from your lips in staccato with each powerful thrust he delivers to your watering core. Panting and groaning just as loudly, his nails dig crescent-shaped imprints where he grips your thigh, stroking into you relentlessly. Your own carve long, red scratches into his back, being overwhelmed by the sensations taking over your body as he hits your walls in just the right way.

“Damn, you feel amazing.” He speaks lowly through shallow breaths against your collarbone, hips continuing at a dizzying rate as he gets sucked farther into your wet and fleshy opening.

“S-So do you.” You barely are able to get the words out. The dizzying way he pummels your walls has heat stirring beneath your bladder. Blood rushes to all of your erogenous zones, heightening their sensitivity, begging to be touched. One hand rises to the aching buds of your breast while the other heads down to rub at the one between your legs, but Michael pulls back to quickly swat them away.

“Baby, please! It’s not enough.” You let out in agony, desperate to have those extra flares of stimulation. Discontented at being prohibited from it, you feel tears of frustration stinging your eyes. She’s so needy. Michael thinks to himself with amusement as he takes in your expression.

“Yeah? You want more?” The teasing tone of his question, paired with the lazy smile his lips are curved into screams of devious intentions. You’re unsure of what he has up his sleeve, but you hope it’s something that puts an end to your suffering.

“Yes!” You gasp out as he has now decreased his speed to deliver slow, long thrusts, stimulating you in a new and electrifying way as you can more distinctly feel him brushing against every ridge inside of you.

“Okay, I’ll give you more.” He stops his movements entirely to hoist your other leg around his hip, suspending you in the air. Quickly, you scramble to wrap your arms around his neck and lock your ankles to keep from falling. Just as soon as you are situated, once he’s certain his hold on you won’t slip, his hips begin to snap upward rapidly, hitting deeper and pressing right to that spot that has you keening with ecstasy. 

“Oh, fuck!” The hammering force of his strokes are so powerful that it has you roughly sliding up and down the wall. Your brace your legs tighter around his waist, unintentionally pulling him deeper into you. The lewd slaps of skin on skin, paired with the untamed moans and groans of rapture that rise from within your chests, echo pornographically off the walls of this ample suite.

His lips travel from your neck, down the swell of your breast where he takes your nipple into his mouth, suckling and nibbling it with fervor. While not fully sure if he means to or not, his pelvis rubs delightfully against your clit from the way he grinds you, giving you the relief you were after. He drifts his oral manipulations to the other breast, making sure it receives the same treatment.

With a wet pop, your tit falls from his mouth as he lifts up to press his forehead to yours. And then, he does something that has you nearly floundering out of his hold, not knowing how to handle this heightened pleasure that has jolts of electricity shooting up your spine.

Lightly undoing the lock you have around his waist, his arms allow the back of your kneecaps to rest on either side of him, causing you feet to dangle freely. In tandem, his arms mount you up to the tip of his erection, before dropping you back down all the way to the hilt with smooth thrusts meeting the falling motion. He does this over and over again until the stimulation of it buzzes in your nerves like static.

As wanton cries spill from your lips, back arching to take in more of his wild loving, he offers a smug question; “You like that?” 

“Oh God, yes!” It breathily rushes out as his hips are angled just perfectly to abuse the sensitive, spongy bump that lies on the upper part of your walls. 

“I know you do. No one else can do your body like this, baby. Only I can.” He seduces huskily, breath fanning warmly against your mouth as he pulls you into a brief, yet searing kiss before moving to lick and bite at your neck.

Everything is steamy, slick and wet between you. A thin sheen of sweat coats your bodies, causing a light glisten to waver off of your gyrating forms. The mixture of your heady arousals strings off of him like gooey webs when he pulls out, acting as a glue that sticks you together as he slides all the way back in. It pools around where you two are joined, dripping onto the ground as more from each of you overflows.

And as he melts back into you, over and over again, you let out sounds that gradually expand in octave as the friction of him rubs you in a blissfully disorienting way. That hot and familiar coil in your gut is starting to wind tight, waiting to be snapped free. He lets out his own pleasured noises against the shell of your ear as he feels his own release building, eager to spill out. And from the way you clench around him, he can tell that you’re nearing your climax as well.

But somewhere beneath these carnal sensations, lies an inkling of distress in Michael that once this is over, it may also be the end of you two. The worry has vulnerability pouring through his words as he says;

“Tell me you won’t go anywhere.” The tone pulls at your heartstrings as you feel him press a delicate kiss just below your jaw—a silent request for compromise. You lean into the mild touch as your arms squeeze tighter around his neck. You feel his heart beating sporadically as his chest lies atop of yours.

“I won’t go anywhere, Michael. Ever.” Full of devotion, the words pass your lips, holding him closer to you as he litters more affectionate kisses to your skin. 

“Tell me you love me.” He whispers against your cheek, hopefully awaiting your response. Much like the storm of passionate emotions raging within him, he rolls into you with frenzy as he can feel an orgasm steadily approaching, setting his loins aflame.

“I do… I love you so much.” The declaration comes out in a desperate sigh, spoken against his lips resting on the corner of yours. He delivers a delicate kiss to it—a stark contrast to the wild way he works your body.

“You gonna cum?” Michael’s question rings in the air with eager expectation, wanting to feel you come apart on him. And from the way you’re constricting around him, he knows you're getting ready to.

“Yes, yes, yes…” You chant in a daze as you feel the simmer of your release starting to bloom with heat deep within your walls. 

“Go on, girl. Give it to me.” The raspy command has you gripping him tighter, crying out as your canal overflows, showering Michael’s groin with the rains of your earth-shattering crest. The waves ride out within you, currents of electricity shooting up from your pelvis, to your chest and spreading outward to every extremity of your body. You lean back limply against the wall, basking in the feeling.

As you descend from euphoria, Michael’s thrusts continue, rubbing you into overstimulation. However, you make no complaints as his hips start to stutter their movements, signifying that he is on the cusp of his own climax.

And as he struggles to maintain his composure, the warm and gummy grip of your cunt tempting him to let go inside of you, he musters a moment of strength to pull all the way out, carefully letting you down to your feet as his hand takes over to replace your walls. 

Your ears are doused in the shlick sounds he creates with fast and smooth tugs along his length. With eyes closed and face furled up in concentrated bliss, his mouth hangs ajar, emitting high, breathy moans as sweat beads down his brow. You don’t think you’ve ever witnessed something so beautiful, yet so erotic in all of your life. 

Finally, with back bowed and fist clenched beside your head, his load shoots out of him in heavy spurts, coating his fingers and landing on your lower abdomen. He continues to stroke himself until every last drop has been squeezed out and his erection has died down before collapsing into your chest, wrapping his arms around your waist.

As you both use this moment to catch your breaths, your hands lift to gently stroke his head, curling the locks around your fingers, as he places a faint, yet lingering kiss over your heart, shifting the atmosphere into something soft and affectionate. You remain this way for a while, silently marinating in the calm of each other’s presence, before Michael rises from your chest to lay a light peck on your cheek.

“Wait right here.” He whispers it into your skin, pulling away to disappear into the bathroom, switching the lights on. It sends rays of yellow beaming across the floor, bringing some brightness to your dim surroundings. Your ears pick up the distant downpour of water from the shower running as Michael emerges back into view, walking over to carefully scoop you into his arms, taking you both to get cleaned up.

The calming scent of lavender permeates through the humid space, refreshing waters cascading down your bodies as your hands tactfully assist each other in washing away the remnants of your love making. Though you don’t speak as you go through the motions of bathing, the quiet between you is peaceful. The care with which you attend to each other conveys the love you are feeling.

Soon, you both find yourselves half dressed, Michael in his standard pair of briefs and you clad in a pale night slip, laying in the plush and spacious comfort of his king size bed. Your fingers idly twiddle with each other as you lie face to face, not having said a word yet, though there is a growing urge for someone to do so. Coincidentally, you both break the silence with an uttered ‘I’m sorry,’ at the same time. Staring at each other, you wait for one of you to carry on with what you want to say.

“Let me start.” You take the initiative to speak first, the satin sheets sliding off of you as you sit up to gather your thoughts.

“I’m sorry for how I acted tonight. I’ve always admired how dedicated you are to your career. It’s just that, I’ve been so lonely without you this past year… I guess I just lost my cool from not saying anything about it for so long.” You say in a small voice, now feeling embarrassed for your earlier outburst. Michael holds a solemn expression as you reveal to him what you’ve been holding back on, his thumb ghosting over the back of your hand in a soothing manner.

“No, I should have been here to celebrate with you. I know it’s been a lot to deal with, me being gone all the time, but I never knew you were struggling with it this much. Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?” He questions with a tone full of concern. Weighing on him like a great failure, he feels upset with himself for not truly knowing the extent of the suffering you’d been dealing with.

“Your work means so much to you, Michael… I didn’t want to get in the way of that.” You mumble the last part so small that he almost didn’t hear it, but when it registers, his fingers delicately grip your chin, turning you head upwards to be eye to eye with him.

“You could never do that, angel. You’re important to me too, and I want you to let me know when things are difficult for you. Don’t ever feel like your worries are a burden to me.” He proclaims in a soft, yet vehement manner, lighting your heart aglow with adoration.

Internally, Michael feels a deep settling nervousness as he decides whether or not to state his next words. But in keeping his troubles from you, that would be hypocritical to his previous declaration. With that reasoning, albeit a murmur, he’s saying them before he loses the strength to.

“When you told me you were leaving, I couldn’t handle it. I never wanted you to know, but I think it’s best you do… I get scared sometime. Scared that you won’t stay with me. That what I do, who I am—it’ll be too much for you and one of these days, I’ll come home and you won’t be here.” 

As a lone tear rolls down his cheek from the forlorn statement, you swiftly pull him into a tight embrace. Rubbing gentle circles on his back while he quietly weeps into your neck, regret fills you as you realize that you failed to even consider that he was being tormented by such doubtful beliefs.

“Oh, Michael… After all this time, don’t you understand that I’m not going anywhere?” You say as you move him to face you once again, wiping away the wet streaks that stain his face.

“You should know by now that you can’t get rid of me that easily.” It’s spoken with a light lilt of mirth to lift the mood, to which Michael offers a weak smile that fades just as quickly.

“Well, what about what you said tonight?” Raking through your brain, you scan to recall what he is talking about. It finally hits you that he mistook your ‘I’m leaving’ as an ‘I’m leaving for good.’

“Wait, did you think I was talking about forever?” It shouldn’t be funny, but the fact that he had such a big reaction over a minor misinterpretation of words has you stifling a laugh.

 “...Weren’t you?” He asks with genuine confusion, looking at you with a pouty expression that you find so adorable, you can’t help but crack, giggling at the hilarity of it.

“Hahaha! No, baby. I just needed to clear my head for a bit… I’ll always come back to you.” Your laughter gradually fades into a tender utterance as you lovingly gaze into his gentle eyes while caressing his face. A bashful grin stretches across his lips, also finding humor in what transpired due to the misunderstanding. Still, there is a crucial, unresolved aspect of the night that keeps him on edge.

“I can’t believe the night turned out so bad.” He mutters, thinking about how the sole thing he wanted to accomplish this evening was squandered by the fight.

“Well, I’d say we definitely made up for it with something else...” You lightly muse, but it’s hardly noticed as Michael seems to be intensely absorbed in his thoughts.

“No, it wasn’t just the anniversary…” Contemplation pulls at his mind like a match of tug-of-war. Should he seize the moment and go forth with his plan right now, before he loses the courage to, or wait for another day to prepare more and make the event better thought out and more special?

“I’m…not catching on. What are you talking about?” There’s something unreadable in his stare that has you growing puzzled. It only increases as Michael gets up from the bed, going to where his clothes are strewn on the floor, fishing out his leather jacket before removing something from one of the unzipped pockets. What’s he up to? 

Michael takes one last look at the velvet box, mind set on going through with the proposal, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he treks back to you, each step seeming to span for an eternity with all the overwhelming emotions swirling inside of him. He comes around to your side of the bed, gently shifting your legs over the edge so you can see him better.

Much to your confusion, you’re about to ask him what’s going on, but the words quickly get trapped in your throat with astonishment as he drops down to one knee. Is he getting ready to do what I think he is? Your wonder is confirmed by what he nervously verbalizes next;

“In the two years you’ve been in my life, you’ve become my everything. I never knew it was possible to be so in tune, so connected with another person, until I met you. Now, I can’t imagine spending a single day without you by my side. My love for you is infinite, and I want to share that infinity with you. So… would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

He pops open the box, revealing a beautiful, gold Art Deco-style ring adorned with white and emerald diamonds. Heart pounding in your chest with joy, you’re so excited and in disbelief that you almost can’t speak. Somehow, you manage to rush out a small whispered ‘yes,’ as your answer.

“You will?” Michael’s eyes lighten up as you start to nod exuberantly with a radiant smile on your face, dropping down to join him on the floor.

“Yes, Michael! Of course I will!” You warble out, being overcome by exhilaration as his own hand shakily slides the shimmering jewelry onto your finger, wrapping his arms securely around you for a hug full of relief. And now, you're crying again, but for an entirely different reason this time.

“I just got you that Mickey Mouse watch you’ve been raving about. I guess it kind of pales in comparison to your gift,” you let out a watery laugh as joyful tears flow freely. Giggling at your remark and just as elated, he eases his firm hold on you to pull you into a swooning kiss.

Giddily, Michael starts to plant smooches all over your face, which you giggle at and try to bat away the ticklish feeling. Though, he abruptly pauses his affections to give voice to something you had almost forgotten.

“Oh! And, uh… sorry about your keys, by the way.” He offers sheepishly, feeling that the earlier action was a bit theatrical.

“That’s okay, sweetie. You’re definitely looking for them by yourself tomorrow, though,” you lightly jest, not even really concerned about it. And as you nuzzle back into Michael, squeezing him tightly, those terms are more than fine with him.

Note: Credits to @cafekitsune for the divider. Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, likes and reblogs would be appreciated :)

mentions: @mjfavgirlie2006 @h4rtz-f0r-lm @thatoneliberiangirl

@tsunderesheepme @st4rwild @local-she-wolf @kenzie2cool4u @kpopfan-03 @joyboxx88 @marionnas-world @dollika2w8 @margeoww @xgrisleyx @callingallbaddies @moonwalkerdiana

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[hatchetmanofficial]

Hi I just played this game recently but I'm curious about the lore and idk where to find it i see a lot of people mentioning boss stu (I keep reading stfu) and idk who those are do i have to read all the asked questions to get the lore going on or I can find it somewhere else? (Anyway here's a squished alan holding a red flag)

MDHM LORE (no spoilers for the actual game):

This is only going to cover the backstories/extra details and the world of MDHM but does not touch what is going to happen in the game. Some TW for the lore, will contain stuff like substance abuse, suicide, toxic relationships, gore and child abuse.

Alan is the main love interest of the game. He is an assassin who lives in the woods in the town that set in the game, far from society but occasionally visits when he has "important" stuff to do. He is the second youngest of four brothers. Claude, Jules, and James. Alan has a pretty strained relationship with them especially after their mother passed away from suicide. Alan ran away during high school and has no connections to the current culture in the modern world.

Erika is a new college friend/classmate you encounter in your English class. She is the only adopted child of two dads with whom she is currently keeping secrets to not disappoint them. She works as an employee in the local skater rink and volunteers at the rescue cat shelter. Erika is very fashion-forward and is pretty smart when it comes to problem-solving and has a hobby of solving mysteries. She has a six-legged cat named Loki and lives with her roommate Rosie.

Stu is a child friend who harbors feelings for the player. He hasn't been in contact with them since they left for college as he stayed in their old town behind. He has an older sister named Toni who also left for university, his mom, and his dad who had a pretty unhealthy and dysfunctional relationship until he moved out. Stu lives in a frat house on school grounds and is a part of a band called the Critters of Wreckage (CoW). Stu struggles with pornography addiction as well as drinking as he became very isolated after not talking with the player.

Carver is Alan's coworker. I have not revealed much about him, other than he has the most trauma, especially during childhood, out of everyone. He has an estranged past he can't quite remember after being hired as an assassin. He is missing pupils but is still able to see. He has a fascination for experimenting and dissecting his victims, even though he really isn't allowed to. I would love to point out that Carver doesn't call the player "Guinea Pig". That name is for his OWN person of interest who he has yet to find. He still calls the player "Doe-Eyes" simply because Alan calls them that. His real name is Calvin and he is 31 years old.

Stitches is another coworker of Alan and Carver. Not much is known about him. He isn't human although he appears to be. Stitches, is in fact, made up of three different body parts from three different people. His head, the torso, and his legs. Stitches was created by Boss.

Boss is, obviously, the boss of Alan. No, he doesn't have a name as he simply just goes by "Boss". He is older than the town, older than time actually. He doesn't have much of a physical form but used roadsigns as a body for him to use. He communicates through images or texts from the signs.

Buck is Alan's dad. He doesn't know that Ophelia has passed away since their separation and is still in love with her. He hasn't seen Alan either but still wants to connect with his son.

[ninguitar]

꣑ৎ　────　𝓟OP THE HOOD , DA 　　　　　lovin' you long takes the pain away 𓈒𓈒

───﹙⚙️﹚𝓢. ｡｡　a trip to the froyo shop ends up leaving daniela with a broken-down car, but hey—at least she got a pretty girl to fix it!

𝓹airing. daniela avanzini x mechanic!f!r 𝓰enre. fluff wc. 1.9k notes. haiaiaiaiia idk anyt abt cars so take everything that is said abt cars w/ a grain of salt 😛 also thinking ab a part2 but idk !! lmk how yall feel or wtv (MASTERLIST)

now playing ⋆ ballad of a badman by tory lanez

MAYBE IT WAS DUMB LUCK.

daniela just wanted to get froyo on her way home; it shouldn't have to be such a big deal, and it sure didn't need to turn into a shit-show. her mustang was starting fine at first—jamming her keys into the ignition, a grin adorning her face as the engine roared lively. she drove safely, but not even an hour later, she stood at the side of the road, smoke coming out the cabin, and her eyebrows knitted together.

though, maybe her luck wasn't so bad, because barely a block away stood an automechanic shop, flashing the words, "tony's wheels & tires." and when she finally arrived at the shop from pushing her car all the way there, it appeared to be a big open garage with a couple cars parked in the slots—full of grease and strewn equipment, the faint smell of smoke and fuel lingered in the air. the bell above the door chimed every few seconds, the sound of engines running accompanying it.

and the sight of a disheveled you underneath a car, fiddling around with the bottom of it, welcomes daniela. a weary, heavy sigh escapes from your throat, as you mutter curses under your breath, before sliding out from beneath the car. shaking your hand in pain, you grunt, and your other hand jots down words on a yellow notepad frantically with a pen. while you were too immersed in writing down the cost of some repair, the latina slowly walks up to you, and you barely raise your head up—though not enough to spot her clearly.

interrupting your dazed, concentrated expression, daniela clears her throat, and your head shoots up, your expression falling into embarrassment. your eyes wander to the girl above you, and for a second, you stare palpably for a fleeting moment. with heat curling at your cheeks, you begin to fumble your words, "shit—didn't see you come in, sorry. hi, welcome to tony's."

the latina meekly flashes a soft, reassuring smile at you, and god do you look at her like she was the one who put the stars in the sky. "it's fine, i just got here," she murmurs, laughing lightly, as her gaze flickers to the navy blue mechanic's button-up that hugged your frame, her eyes fixating on your bright red name patch. and before you could respond back, a beagle appears at daniela's feet, its ears comically perking up, "hey, move along," you groan, gently shooing it away.

"sorry, 's just the owner's dog—she's usually a recluse, but i guess she just likes you or somethin'," you shake your head, a gentle smile painted on your face, before you raise your eyebrows, "so what can i do for you?" you tilt your head, fixing your gaze at eye-level, as you clutch your hand, sliding your notepad and pen into your pockets.

"my car—it broke down, and it wouldn't start. i tried to pop the hood open, but it started smoking, so i pushed it to the slot over there," she explains meekly, her hands clasped together, before she pointed out to her mustang. your eyebrows furrow, confusion washing over your features.

"you- you pushed it here?" you ask, laughing breathlessly, "christ, you know you could've called us, and we would've towed it, right?" you shake your head, a grin curbing your lips, as a playful glint remains in your eyes.

"i- fuck, you guys do that?" a sigh drifts from daniela's lips at your words, warmth spreading around her cheeks, as she wishes the ground could just swallow her up right now. god, she was embarrassing herself in front of you—an insanely, drop-dead gorgeous girl.

and really, she doesn't think it could get worse until you reassure her, your voice dulcet and coaxing, "yeah, but don't worry 'bout it. i think it's cute that you pushed it all the way here." the unbridled sincerity in your words accompanied by the series of giggles escaping your breath makes her knees buck, her self-restraint crumbling bit by bit. "anyway, i'll take a look at your car. 's the red one, right?"

once she nods, you brush past her, the plethora of keys cluttering your carabiner ringing through the lot. and while you were out there, checking out her car, daniela's gaze wanders around the place—random trinkets of spiderman, portraits, and posters crowd the back of the front desk. a bright red clock sat above the posters, ticking each second, and accompanying it was a sign that read "please ring the bell for service," with the words "don't" scribbled above it. and before she knew it, the door jingles a second time, the bells chiming, as you enter back inside.

your navy blue button-up was completely discarded, now swung over your shoulder, and instead, you had a grease-stained mickey mouse graphic shirt on. a thin line presses onto your lips, and reaching for your notepad in your back pocket, you pop the pen cap off. "your car isn't in such bad shape," you start, trying to alleviate her worries, before writing down on the notepad hurriedly, "your fuel pump's a lil' faulty, and you have a coolant leak." your eyes flicker to the latina, watching her profusely nod, trying to process your words. and continuing, you explain the time it'd take to finish the repair and the cost—the only words, 'not gonna be finished until at least next week,' registering in her head.

daniela huffs in defeat, crossing her arms against her chest, "next week? fuck, that's gonna be awhile," she mutters under her breath, worry lines creasing her forehead. you lean against the counter, shrugging, "i know, i really can't do that much—there's still a lot of cars that need to be fixed before yours," you murmur, a frown jutting at your lips, as you look back at her.

and with your eyes tracing her features, you blink, noticing the latina's tense posture, her fists clenched; you could tell she was visibly nervous. you teeter, as you cock your head, a resigned expression on your face, sighing, "i- i mean, if you wanna stick around for a little, i could, maybe pull some strings. just this once though." at your words, daniela's eyes light up, a fox-bright gleam in her eyes, and the corner of her lips quirking up, as she crosses her arms loosely against her chest, "really? you would do that for me?"

you hum lowly in your throat, nodding your head slowly, and scribbling over words on your notepad, trying to keep your eyes glued to your paper. you nearly go into anaphylactic shock at her smile, as your eyes flicker to her features, "yeah—'course, i'll see what i can do." a toothy smile curbs your lips, and you're so sure you look like an idiot trying to win her over—with a simple repair job at that—but you're just desperate.

you shrug, grabbing your toolbox that had random stickers stuck onto it, from under the counter, as you stroll back out into the lot, the curly-headed girl following you shortly. and noticing your stickers, daniela chuckles, "you must really like spider and mickey mouse, huh?" a teasing smile plays on her lips, as she watches you freeze in your movements, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly.

"you could tell?" you murmur, as you lean over the car hood, pulling the handle up, and popping the hood. you softly hum under your breath, before you look back, the girl standing gingerly while watching you, "you- you can pull up a chair from there if you'd like," you mumble, your hand pointing to the stack of chairs by the window. your eyes darts around the different fuses, biting the inside of your cheek to suppress a.

"what's your name anyway? never got it," you ask, as you check the clogged fuel filter again, your hands moving around meticulously. "daniela," she answers flatly, her eyes shamelessly trailing down your body. your face scowls at the blockages, too lost in looking at every fuse of the car to even notice the latina mindlessly watching you intently.

"you're a lifesaver, you know that?" she cracks up, chuckling, as she watches you concentrate with your eyes all narrowed. you roll your eyes, shaking your head, "been called stuff here and there but never a lifesaver." you tilt your head, a shit-eating grin curling on your lips. she scoffs, shaking her head in response, "i'm sure you're just exaggerating to make me feel special." her gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes.

and for the rest of the repair, silence falls, leaving daniela with her thoughts. while you scrutinize her car, replacing a few things here and there, daniela couldn't help but notice the way your muscles flexed while your chest rose and fell, exasperated grunts escaping your lips every few seconds. synonymously, she couldn't help but chastise herself for gushing over you—a girl she barely knew but a sweet one at that. your eyebrows furrow, the tightness blooming in your chest, as you toss the girl a look over your shoulder, checking up on her, before brushing away a feeble string of sweat on your forehead.

after a good hour, you screw the hood closed, as you turn your head over to look at daniela—the girl practically knocked out on the small chair beside you. a chuckle escapes your breath, before you tap her shoulder, waking her up. "it's all good now. sorry for uh, keeping you out for awhile," you profusely apologize, dropping her keys onto her lap, as you wipe your hands on your rag, leaving your hands awkwardly clinging to your belt loops. a look of pity washes over your features. your heart knocks and knocks out of your chest, as you try to discern her expression, hoping she wasn't too bored.

daniela shakes her head, and with her voice smooth and calm, she drawls out, "it's fine, at least it's done earlier than in a week." it felt as though you were gonna drop dead at her reassuring tone, and in response, you hum, trying to dismiss the heat spreading at the tip of your ears. you lean against the car before fumbling over your words, "you- you can try out the car, see if it works y'know."

the latina nods slowly, "yeah, i'll definitely try that," as she enters the car, twisting her keys with a quick flick into the ignition, and finally does the engine actually rumble to life. you couldn't help but let a smile dance along your features, your arms crossed against your chest, as she rolls down the window.

"how much do i owe you?" she asks in a hushed tone, and you think for a fleeting moment before murmuring in between your teeth, "$30's fine," hoping nobody else could hear—especially when you lowered the bill by more than half of its original price. and in response, daniela furrows her eyebrows, clearly confused at how the price was now suddenly lower, but she nonetheless shook it off, handing you the money.

and before daniela takes off, she winks at you, a grin plastering her face, and you swear your heart squeezes ever-so-tightly that you could combust, melt, and ascend to the heavens. with your cheeks flushed, you take a few steps back, watching the curly-headed drive away from the lot. before you could wave, your coworker—kazuha—teases, "you know you have a fuck ton of cars to fix, and you need to pay the rest of her bill," as she nudges your shoulder.

you huff, sauntering over to the cash register inside, "shut up, it was worth it," you murmur, as you open the register, pulling out your wallet. you narrow your eyes, as you notice words written sloppily with a black marker on one of the bills daniela handed you.

call me, pretty (###)-####-#### - daniela

"can't believe a girl as gorgeous as her wants… whatever you are," kazuha snickers, raising her eyebrow, as the japanese girl flicks your forehead, making you push her playfully in return. you huff, a scowl on your face, before you slip the written bill into your pocket, shoving bills from your own wallet to pay off the rest of daniela's tab. and maybe you did have to work extra shifts to repair the rest of the cars, but you got daniela's number, and that was all that mattered to you right now.

so when you look me in my eyes

will you take some time?

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[night-night-stories-before-bed]

‘Cause you are mine

Warning ⚠️; slight smut, Tony being his own warning (alcoholism, suicidal, depression.) Alcohol, blood, fluff 🔞

Pairing; Yandere!Tony Stark/Male!Reader

Summary; Tony can't take it any longer. He doesn't feel appreciated by his friends, feels like a burden to them and that the whole world is against him. That is until he meets you. You shine as bright as the sun and he is Icarus flying too close. But you are the one whose wings burn and melt.

Note; Tony is my Pookie, so be ready to have a lot of stories about him. And again, sorry for the mountain that is this story. ⛰️ And I was hungry for some Yandere Tony

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gala was boring as always and you wondered how long it would take for something interesting to happen. Your eyes scanned the room, searching for someone to catch your attention. Your gaze fell on Tony Stark. The man was alone in a corner, sipping at his drink. The hero seemed lonely, lost and somewhat sad.

Tony Stark, a man who had done so much for the world without ever being thanked. What a sad fate. Trying your best but people keep bringing back your mistakes.

Finishing your own drink, you left the empty glass on the bar before walking up toward the genius. Tony didn't even turn to you before asking you to leave. His voice was low, a dim whisper as if he didn't want to be heard.

- “Why? This Gala is so boring and you are the only interesting person around.” You said, grabbing a drink as a server passed. “I've been impressed with your latest work in medical engineering. That going to help our surgeons save more lives.”

Tony eyed you, suspicious of your intentions and you understood why. So many people only saw him as Iron Man or a drunk, not as another human with feelings. But Stark was so much more. He was a genius and his mind worked like no one else. You wondered why people thought so little of him after everything he had been through and did for others.

You raised your hands, showing you weren't a threat.

- “Hey, easy. I ain't trying to suck your dick, just talking about your latest achievement. Not everyone look at you and see Iron Man.”

You chuckled as Tony rolled his eyes and swallowed his drink in one go.

- “No one ever hears me talk about all that, they all want to speak to Iron Man, curse me or want something from me. So yeah, let me doubt you here princess.” There is an edge to Stark’s voice and you easily see it for what it is; a way to protect himself.

- “Well then, I guess I will have to prove myself to you, won't I?” You replied, getting a smirk from Tony.

And its the best thing you ever did.

For the rest of the gala you both stayed in your corner drinking glass after glass and talking about everything and anything Tony created and made in recent years. You don't understand everything, so you ask question after question just to see some light and passion appear in Tony’s eyes.

Neither of you saw the time pass until you were among the last ones standing. Barely. Drunk the both of you, you had to support each other just to walk outside while jiggling like two idiots as you tried to pronounce some scientific word and Tony tried to help you.

You expected to go your separate way, not thinking Tony would want to spend more time with you. After all, you were both wasted and morning promised to come with one hell of a hangover. But to your surprise and joy, the genius almost forced you into his car.

Tony’s mansion is all you imagined. Enormous, luxurious and extravagant just like its owner, you didn't expected to feel so empty and lifeless. Even wasted you wonder if his home reflect Tony’s entirely. Does inside he also feel that way?

You two crash somewhere in what you can only call a mix between a living room and a bar. Tony, who's the most sober between you, got in his head to pour more drink and you can't refuse. Sitting almost on each other lap the conversation continued with you asking questions and Tony explaining everything, even getting his hand on his tablet to give you a visual.

Before the first light of morning comes Tony and you already finished a full bottle and a half. The conversation isn't clear and it is mostly you two giggling as you struggle to pronounce any complicated words. Stark isn't better. Head resting in the crook of your shoulder, one leg across your lap, the genius looks somehow happy and content in his drunken state. You got your arms around him, making sure he doesn't fall and hurt himself.

But when the sun finally rose and filled the room with golden light, there was only a comfortable silence between you and Tony. Your head resting on top of his, your hand grabbing one of his arms as your thumb drew circles on his skin you both felt content. There is no sleepiness, no need to pass out, just the desire to keep the moment going and hoping it'll never stop.

But of course, every good thing must come to an end.

At first, you heard footsteps coming closer as you were slowly drifting to sleep. In your arms, you felt Tony move, which woke you up fully. Then the door opened as a woman talked. Mind still in the mist, you didn't really understand what she was saying other than she was going to show you out.

- “He isn't going anywhere, Pepper. My new friend is staying right there with me.” Tony said, his voice so close to your ear that you shivered.

- “Tony, you got meetings today and they are important so up and get ready.”

You grunted and groaned, barely listening to the two bickering. Your arm stayed around Tony’s waist, making sure he didn't fall down as he trashed around, arguing with the named Pepper.

- “It's fine Tony. You are a busy man with a lot on your shoulders and I don't want to steal more of your time. We had a lot of fun last night and I hope we can do that again, but for now, your duties await you.” You said, petting his back and you turned your head to look at Pepper. “Alright miss. Show the way, but slowly please.”

Pepper looked at you and nodded as you got up. Tony wasn't happy about it, but you ignored him, not wanting to cause Tony more problems. You followed Pepper, head heavy and feeling like you would never drink again when you felt someone grab your hand. Before you could utter a word, you were forced to run as Tony pulled you behind him.

You heard Pepper screaming Tony's name while the genius just laughed. Lost, you followed the genius. Tony took you down in his workshop and lab. He showed you around, smiling proudly as you admired everything, wondering how a single man could do and create such incredible things.

Having prevented Pepper from following, Tony relaxed and told you he didn't want to leave. Not anytime soon. It both surprised and worried you. Why was your new friend so determined to keep you close? Was he that lonely?

In the following days, Stark was everywhere with you. If you had to go somewhere, he accompanied you and even drove you around. You didn't have a second of peace and yet it only felt normal, natural. Tony fitted perfectly in your life like the piece you didn't know you were missing.

If you weren't sleeping at his place, Tony would join you at yours or you would stop at a hotel or motel. You could tell his friends, especially Pepper were getting tired of it. But not you. Having someone's full attention on you was something exciting, especially Tony who wasn’t one to trust easily.

Even after a few weeks, you didn't get bored with it. Every day brought something new in your relationship with Tony. Some of it was a story from Tony’s past, sometimes he took you to his workshop and you worked with him on some project or he opened up about what was going on in his head.

You couldn't remember when was the first night you shared a bed, but it was at Tony’s place after drinking way too much again. The genius was nuzzled against you, your arms wrapped around him when you woke up. Tony was trashing around, sweaty and whimpering. You could immediately tell he was having a nightmare. As gently as you could, you nudged him until he woke up.

Tony jerked awake, hitting you in the chest as he tried to get away. You had to pin him down against the mattress and ask Friday to turn on the light for Tony to calm down. You were shocked by how scared and broken Tony looked and wondered how no one saw it sooner. You passed the rest of the night cuddling and pampering him until he was calm once more.

As time passed you met each member of the Avengers and each time you were disappointed. Not by the fact they were human but by how little they seemed to care about Tony. They never really listened to him or rolled their eyes as he rambled about some scientific things. It was hard for you to appreciate them when they didn't appreciate your dearest friend.

You pointed it out to Tony who simply scoffed.

- “Tell me something I don't know, Princess.” He told you, voice tired and done.

- “Well I don't like them.” You grunted and he laughed.

- “Again, I know that.”

You kept an eye out on Tony and saw how down he often was after each mission or meeting with the team. You took it upon yourself to make him feel better; getting his favourite food and coffee or drinks and he would smile at you, thankful.

It is sooner than later that your relationship evolved from friends to more.

Again, it all happened after you drank way too much and ended up having a passionate night with Tony. When you wake up naked, you feared you had destroyed your friendship, only for Tony to be happy to now be your lover.

Not just your lover but also your boyfriend.

The news quickly found its way into every magazine and soon enough everyone knew Iron Man was seeing someone, a man. You didn't care about being the target of the cameras, as long as Tony was by your side. After all, you had nothing to be ashamed of.

However, you never imagined how possessive and protective Tony would be toward you. To your surprise, Tony hated seeing your names on the news or on magazines and would snap after any journalist trying to talk to you.

You weren't the only one shocked; his whole team and friends didn't recognize him. Tension began to build up between Tony and the rest of the Avengers. You could only feel guilty, thinking you were the cause and yet not understanding what was going on with Tony.

But with you, Tony was gentle and caring, even overloving sometimes. He would ask for forgiveness each time you pointed out how he acted and would forgive him. You couldn't stay angry for long.

But as the tension and conflicts grew, Tony and the Avengers grew apart. Soon enough, Tony announced he was leaving not only the team but also would stop providing funds to them and the S.H.I.L.D. But after tragedy comes happiness and Tony proposed to you.

As happy as you felt being engaged, the ring strangely felt like handcuffs or a leash. In the back of your mind you wondered if you were doing the right thing. But it was too late to back down, and now that Tony wasn't part of the Avengers anymore he was even more often with you. He was always there, even when you thought you were alone.

After all, he could access any and every camera in the country. There was nowhere where he wouldn't find you.