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mrsfancyferrari · 19 days ago

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Marriage of Convenience PT2

Summary: Lewis has to get married to you for a year for his engagement in Ferrari. Who knew how much he would get sucked into your life…. pt 2

Song: Heartless · The Weeknd

Taglist: @barcelonaloverf1life, @totallynotluluu, @rageshots, @greedyjudge2

Author’s note: Hey guys! I saw some tiktok that was about tropes with F1 drivers and Lewis's one was marriage of convenience. It has stuck with me ever since! I'll be using some real results from the races so it will not always be updated every week! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Part 1 - Part 3

Word count: 22.1k

MASTERLIST - F1

@lewishamilton

liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari, georgerussell63 and 2,026,295 others

lewishamilton

Finding the right words feels impossible, but here goes. Today, I married the woman of my dreams. Five years ago, I met someone who challenged me, inspired me, and loved me in a way I never thought possible. Today, that whirlwind turned into forever with Y/N.

Looking back, those five years feel like a blink, a beautiful blur of laughter, late-night talks, and building a life together. Looking forward, I see a future even brighter, filled with adventures, shared dreams, and a whole lot of love.

We're so excited to start this new chapter. We also ask for a little privacy as we enjoy our honeymoon. We'll be back soon, ready to share all our fashion with the world. For now, just know my heart is overflowing with happiness. ❤️ #JustMarried #HusbandAndWife

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21st January 2025

You stirred beneath the heavy veil of consciousness, the weight of the world—or perhaps just last night's drinks—pressing down on your eyelids. The room spun in a lazy waltz, the kind that only a hangover could compose.

The scent of champagne and roses lingered in the air, a bouquet that seemed both hauntingly familiar and eerily out of place. Your mouth was a desert, parched and sticky with the residue of a night that seemed to have occurred in a distant realm, a realm where you didn't belong.

You tried to swallow, but it was as if your throat had been coated in the same sticky sweetness that clung to the insides of the champagne flutes that danced before your eyes.

As your vision slowly cleared, you took in the opulent surroundings. The four-poster bed you lay in was draped in velvety fabrics, the color of a moonless night. Your head pounded in rhythm with the unanswered questions that filled your mind.

You were still dressed in the wedding gown from the night before, the silk and lace a stark contrast to the tangled mess of the bed sheets. The dress clung to you like a second skin, a reminder of the vows you had exchanged with a man whose name you couldn't quite place.

Sitting up, the world swam around you as you took in the grandeur of the room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed the early morning light to stream in, painting the polished hardwood floors and antique furniture in a soft, golden glow.

Your gaze fell upon the bedside table, and there it was: a framed picture of you and Lewis kissing at the altar. The sight sent a jolt of recognition through your body.

You were married. Married to Lewis, the man you had known for a few weeks, and married for the most unromantic of reasons—his engagement in Ferrari. The cold reality of the situation was starker than the champagne-induced haze that still clung to your mind.

Looking over to the couch, you found Lewis sleeping peacefully, his baggy clothes hugging his form in a way that suggested he had bothered to change after the reception.

The soft light played with the shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the gentle slope of his nose.

His eyes were closed, and his breaths were deep and even, the picture of exhaustion. The couch, though plush and inviting, seemed too small to contain his long frame, his legs stretched out and hanging over the edge.

You felt a strange sense of protectiveness as you studied him, a feeling that was as unexpected as the wedding ring that adorned his finger.

The fabric of his shirt pulled taut against the muscles of his chest as he inhaled, and you couldn't help but admire the way his body moved with each breath, the way the shadows played across the contours of his abs and the broad expanse of his shoulders.

His hair was a wild mess, the usual coiffed perfection of a man groomed for the spotlight now a tumble of dark braids that fell onto his forehead.

The silence was a cocoon around you, a gentle hum of the air conditioner the only sound that pierced the quiet. You could almost feel the weight of his weariness, the toll of the past few weeks written in the lines etched into his face.

Yet, there was something about his vulnerability in sleep that was incredibly endearing, a stark contrast to the cool, calculated persona he donned in the public eye.

Moving closer, you whispered his name again, "Lewis," the syllables slipping off your tongue like a secret.

You watched as the muscles in his neck tightened, his head tilting towards the sound, seeking you without fully waking.

He replied, "Y/N," his voice thick with sleep, the use of your name a gentle caress in the early morning air. The pause that followed was like a heartbeat, a brief, tender silence that seemed to hold the weight of his concern.

"Did you sleep well?" he finally asked, his eyes fluttering open to reveal a gaze that searched yours with a warm sincerity. The question hung in the air, a soft inquiry into your well-being, one that seemed to hold more than just curiosity.

You nodded, your voice a croak that you hoped conveyed the truth of your restless slumber.

"I… I did," you murmured, your eyes flickering down to the ring on your finger, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat that began to build in your cheeks.

He sat up, the movement fluid and graceful despite his apparent fatigue. His eyes searched your face, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly in a knowing smile.

"I don't believe you," he said softly, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"But that's alright. I'm sure it'll take some time to get used to this." He gestured to the room, the grandiose space that was now, apparently, your shared domain.

You felt the heat in your cheeks intensify as he stood and stretched, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his broad chest. The way his muscles moved beneath the fabric made your own body respond in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling.

He paused, his gaze lingering on the couch, before speaking again. "I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable," he said, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle warmth. "So, I slept out here."

There was a hint of vulnerability in his voice, a softness that seemed to echo the quiet of the room. "You've never been to my house right?"

You nodded, the haze of last night's events slowly lifting as the reality of your new life began to seep in.

The prospect of living with him, sharing a home, was as overwhelming as the grandeur of the suite. "No," you replied, your voice still a whisper. "I… I haven't."

He studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering on the wedding gown that clung to your body like a second skin. "Well, you have a lot of time to check it out," he said with a knowing smile. "Do you wanna get out of that dress?"

The question was innocent enough, but the way his eyes raked over you sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

You nodded, the movement feeling almost foreign in the face of the new intimacy that had been thrust upon you.

He pointed to a set of double doors across the room. "The bathroom is over there," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your very core. "You can take a shower, and I'll find you something to wear. I'm sure my clothes will be a bit… oversized, but it'll be more comfortable than that gown."

The sound of scratching at the door made him stop mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly as he looked towards the noise. "One moment," he said, his voice a hushed whisper. "I'll be right back."

He padded across the floor, the soft thud of his bare feet echoing through the vastness of the room. The scratching grew more insistent, and you watched as he opened the door to reveal a large, fluffy dog, tail wagging furiously.

"Roscoe," he sighed, bending down to greet the animal with a gentle pat. "I guess it's time for breakfast."

The sight of Lewis interacting with his pet was oddly comforting. It was a glimpse into a side of him you hadn't seen yet, a side that was more domestic and less… Ferrari-driven.

Once he was out of the room, you took a deep breath and approached the double doors he had indicated. The bathroom was as grand as the rest of the suite, with marble floors and a bathtub that looked like it could comfortably fit four people.

You stepped into the shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over your body, the heat of it soothing your tense muscles and washing away the last vestiges of the wedding night.

The sensation of the water was like a gentle caress, waking your skin to life. You felt your body begin to relax, the tension from the past few weeks draining away.

Your thoughts wandered to Lewis, to the way his eyes had searched yours, the way his voice had been so tender when he offered to help you out of your dress.

Stepping out of the shower, you found a plush robe hanging on the back of the door, the fabric as soft as a whisper.

Wrapping it around yourself, you felt a sense of comfort that was as unexpected as the wedding itself. The mirror revealed your reflection, the glow of your skin standing out against the stark white fabric.

You padded back into the bedroom, the sound of Lewis's voice faint in the distance as he talked to someone—presumably about Roscoe's breakfast. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity about the conversation, about the life that you were now a part of.

As you approached the bed, the plush rug beneath your bare feet felt like a luxurious embrace. The mattress dipped slightly as you sat down, the memory foam molding to your form as if it had been waiting for you.

You reached for the phone on the nightstand, noticing the time. It was later than you usually woke up, but the events of the last twenty-four hours had thrown any semblance of routine out the window.

You picked up the device, the screen lighting up with a flurry of notifications. Congratulatory messages from friends and colleagues filled the screen, each one a reminder of the surreal turn your life had taken.

Your thumb hovered over the messages, the urge to scroll through them warring with the fear of what you might find. Instead, you set the phone back down, the digital world feeling suddenly intrusive.

Turning your gaze to the wardrobe, you took in the towering mahogany structure that dominated the space. The doors were open slightly, revealing a sea of clothes that were as unfamiliar to you as the man you had married.

You felt a sudden urge to explore, to understand this new life that had been thrust upon you.

With the softness of the robe brushing against your legs, you walked over to the wardrobe, the floor cool against your bare feet. The scent of leather and cologne filled the air, a masculine bouquet that was distinctly Lewis'.

You reached out, your fingers trailing over the fabric of his suits, feeling the luxurious textures beneath your touch. Each garment whispered a story of races won, deals closed, and a life lived in the fast lane.

Your finger stopped at a piece of clothing line +44, hanging neatly amidst the rows of designer labels.

You decided to wear that, the scent of his cologne still lingering on the fabric, a silent invitation to embrace the reality of your union. The shirt was a size too large, the fabric whispering against your skin as you pulled it over your head.

The matching trouser, however, was a different story. They hung low on your hips, the material snug in a way that accentuated the curves of your body.

You stepped into them, feeling the softness of the fabric against your bare legs. As you pulled them up, you had to tug at the waist, the tightness making you aware of every inch of your body.

Looking into the mirror, you saw a reflection that was both strange and fascinating. The oversized shirt swamped you, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, but the trousers hugged your form in a way that made you feel… powerful.

Before you had a chance to ponder further, you heard a knock at the door. "Come in," you called out, your voice a mix of anticipation and nerves.

The handle turned, and Lewis stepped back into the room, his eyes immediately finding yours in the mirror.

He paused, his gaze lingering on your reflection, his eyes tracing the lines of your body, outlined by his clothes. His expression was inscrutable, but you could feel the heat of his stare, the way it seemed to sear into your very soul.

"You look… surprisingly good," he said finally, his voice thick with something you couldn't quite place—desire, perhaps?

You turned to face him, the oversized shirt brushing against your legs with every step. His eyes followed the movement, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smoldering smile.

"Thank you," you replied, feeling both self-conscious and oddly alluring in his attire.

Lewis walked closer, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. He reached out, his hand sliding along the fabric of the shirt, ghosting over your bare skin.

His touch was light, yet it seemed to leave a trail of fire in its wake, setting your body alight with need. He stopped at the hem, his fingers lingering just above the waistband of the trousers.

"I didn't expect to see you wearing my clothes," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "It's quite a look for you."

You felt the warmth of his palm as it rested on the small of your back, his thumb making small, lazy circles on the bare skin above your waistband.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the air thick with an unspoken tension. You turned to face him fully, the heat of his body mere inches away from yours, the scent of his cologne enveloping you like a warm embrace.

"Thank you," you murmured, the words barely audible as you tried to process the sudden intimacy of the moment.

You didn't speak more as Lewis looked over at you before looked at your hand and it didn't match his. "Where's your ring?" Lewis asked, his voice a velvet caress that seemed to resonate through your very core.

The question hung in the air, thick with the scent of his cologne, and you felt your heart skip a beat as your hand reflexively curled into a fist around the empty space where your wedding band should have been.

The reality of your situation crashed down upon you—his clothes on your body, his scent surrounding you, his hand on your skin—and you realized with a start that you had left your ring on the nightstand.

Lewis' gaze followed yours to the bedside table, where the ring sat, a gleaming symbol of your marriage, of the life you had built together, and of the boundaries you were so precariously close to crossing.

He strode over with purpose, the fabric of his shirt stretching taut over the muscles of his broad back as he moved. Your eyes remained fixed on the ring as he picked it up, the gold band winking in the soft lamplight.

He turned back to you, holding it out between his thumb and forefinger, a silent question in his eyes.

You felt your heart pound in your chest as he approached, the ring glinting in the soft light. With a tremor in your hand, you reached out to take it, but Lewis was quicker. He held your hand before slowly placing it back on your finger, his touch gentle yet firm.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent an electric current up your arm, and you felt the metal of the ring cool against your finger.

For a moment, you both just stood there, the silence stretching out like a tightrope between you. Then, Lewis' thumb brushed over the back of your hand, sending a shiver down your spine, and he leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours.

"I think we both know what we're feeling," he whispered, the warmth of his breath dancing across your skin. "But we don't have to act on it."

Just as he said this, Roscoe, his bulldog, trotted into the room, tail wagging with unbridled enthusiasm. He came over to you, jumping up to place his paws on your thighs, his wet nose nuzzling into the fabric of the shirt, seeking the familiar scent of his owner.

Lewis chuckled, the tension between you momentarily easing. He took a step back, allowing you to bend down and give the dog a gentle pat on the head. "Looks like someone's happy to see you," he said, his eyes never leaving yours.

As you ruffled Roscoe's ears, the dog's enthusiasm washed over you, bringing with it a sense of comfort and familiarity that seemed to ground you in the whirlwind of emotions swirling around the room. The softness of the dog's fur contrasted with the hardness of the ring on your finger, a stark reminder of the line you had drawn.

Lewis watched the interaction with a knowing smile, his eyes warm with affection for his pet, yet tinged with something more. It was as if he could feel the magnetic pull between you, the same pull that had brought you to this point of temptation.

You knelt down to be at eye level with Roscoe, his droopy jowls framing a mouth that looked perpetually ready to give a sloppy kiss. "Hey buddy," you cooed, your voice soft and gentle. The dog's tail wagged harder, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

As you spoke to Roscoe, you felt the tension in your body begin to dissipate, his unconditional love a balm to your frazzled nerves. "You're such a good boy," you murmured, stroking his wrinkled forehead.

Roscoe's eyes closed in contentment, his tail thumping against the floorboards in a steady rhythm. The sound was comforting, a reminder of the simple joys in life that had nothing to do with the complex dance of desire and duty that you and Lewis were performing.

You spoke to Roscoe, your voice filled with genuine affection as you told him what a good boy he was, his panting breaths punctuating your words with a sweet, dog-like laughter.

Lewis watched the interaction with a soft smile, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back as he bent down beside you, his touch a silent declaration of his intentions.

"Are you ready to breakfast?" he asked, his voice a warm caress that seemed to resonate through the room, pulling you back to the present. The question was innocent enough, but the way he looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, told a different story.

You nodded, feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin as you stood, the shirt and trousers swimming around your form.

Roscoe's tail thumped a farewell as you followed Lewis out of the room, his touch lingering on your waist as he guided you through the hallway.

The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of early morning light, the aroma of cooked breakfast wafting through the air. You felt your stomach growl, the sight of the perfectly plated meal on the counter stealing your attention.

Greek yogurt with a vibrant array of berries and a drizzle of honey sat alongside a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, the vivid green of the spinach peeking through the creamy folds, all atop a bed of nutty brown rice.

Lewis's knowing smile grew as he watched you take in the spread. "I know your taste," he said, a hint of pride in his voice as he gestured to the stool beside the breakfast bar. "It's what you always have."

You couldn't help but be impressed, and a little thrilled, that he had not only remembered but had gone to the trouble of preparing your favorite meal.

It had been your go-to breakfast since college, a balanced blend of sweetness and sustenance that had seen you through countless early mornings. "How did you know?" you asked, your voice a little breathless.

Lewis's smile grew a bit wider as he leaned against the counter. "In your folder," he said, his voice low and seductive, "it tells me everything about you."

You raised an eyebrow, taking a seat and looking up at him through your lashes. "A bit creepy, don't you think?" you teased, your voice a silky purr that belied the racing of your heart.

Lewis chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as he pulled out a chair and sat down beside you. "It's all part of the service," he said, his hand brushing against your thigh, sending a thrill up your spine. "When you marry a man like me, you get the full experience."

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving yours, as he continued to speak. "Everything you like, everything you hate, all neatly cataloged and ready for me to cater to."

You couldn't help but feel a thrill at the idea of being so thoroughly known, even as a part of you rebelled at the thought of being reduced to a collection of preferences and habits.

But as he sat down in front of you, his legs spread wide, the fabric of his own pants straining against his powerful thighs, you realized that the line between knowing and owning had become increasingly blurred.

"Did you not receive a folder from me as well?" Lewis asked, settling into the chair across from you.

You felt a sudden warmth spread through you at the thought of him researching your preferences, but you couldn't help the playful smirk that curved your lips.

"Maybe I did," you replied coyly, taking a spoonful of the sweet, tart berries. "But I'm not one to read the manual."

Lewis's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Is that so?" he said, leaning forward and taking a piece of toast from the rack. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to show you, then."

He took a bite, the crunch echoing in the quiet room. You watched, transfixed, as he chewed slowly, savoring the flavors. Your gaze drifted from his full lips to the muscles of his throat as he swallowed, and you felt an unexpected jolt of want.

You took a bite of your eggs, the warmth of the food spreading through your body, mingling with the heat that seemed to radiate from Lewis.

As you ate, you couldn't help but let your gaze wander around the room, eventually landing on the oversized calendar hanging on the living room wall.

It was a stark reminder of the passing days, the months laid out in a grid, filled with various appointments and reminders.

"What's that for?" you asked after finishing the eggs, pointing to a mysterious circle drawn in red ink on one of the dates.

Lewis looked up from his plate, his gaze following your finger to the calendar. "It's a calendar that has all of our planned dates," he said, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

You took another sip of coffee, the warmth of the liquid doing little to quench the growing fire within you. "And how do you know when I'm free?" you repeated, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

Lewis leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your agency works with mine since we're married," he said simply, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in your very bones. "They coordinate our schedules to ensure we spend quality time together."

You nodded, understanding the implications of his words. Your heart raced at the thought of the intimate moments that would be shared, the private dinners and the stolen glances in the boardroom.

Your eyes drifted back to the calendar, and you looked at the closest date with the red circle. "A shooting date? Really?" you asked, shocked but excited.

"Yeah," Lewis said with a grin that was as devilish as it was charming. "You said you're quite the sharpshooter, so I figured it was time I saw it for myself."

You felt your cheeks heat up at his teasing, but you couldn't help the smug smile that played on your lips. Growing up with two older brothers had made you a master at holding your own in any kind of competition, especially one that involved firearms.

"Is that so?" you replied, your voice filled with mock challenge.

Lewis's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, you'll see," he said, his voice a dark promise. "But for now, let's focus on the task at hand."

The task at hand was indeed tantalizing. You watched as he took another bite of toast, his strong jaw working as he chewed.

"What are we focusing on?" you asked, your voice a silken thread that seemed to tie the two of you closer together.

Lewis's smile was predatory as he set down his cup. "Our marriage," he said, his eyes darkening with intent. "On our lives for this whole year."

The touch of the cold metal ring on your finger was a constant reminder of the deal you'd made, a symbol of the year of your life that was now irrevocably intertwined with his.

Lewis's eyes followed the movement of your hand as you reached for your coffee, the steam swirling around your fingers like a seductive dance.

"A year," he murmured, his voice a soft echo in the quiet of the kitchen. "It's a long time to pretend."

You took a sip, the liquid warming your throat as you met his gaze. "We're not pretending," you said, setting the cup down with a gentle click. "We're just…exploring."

Lewis leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours. "Is that what you call it?" His voice was a low murmur, the timbre of it sending shivers down your spine.

You swallowed, feeling the heat of his proximity, the way your skin seemed to sing under his gaze. "What would you call it?" you asked, your voice a barely-there whisper.

Lewis's eyes searched yours, a smoldering intensity that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world. "I'd call it…the most exciting year of our lives."

"I'll see you about that," you said, your voice a seductive purr that seemed to wrap itself around him.

The air between you crackled with an unspoken challenge, and Lewis's smile grew wicked. "Oh, I have no doubt," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the very marrow of your bones.

After breakfast, it was time to take Roscoe for a walk, and you decided to accompany Lewis. You were already dressed, the shirt and trousers clinging to your curves in a way that had him watching you like a hawk.

The cool air outside was a stark contrast to the heat that had been building in the kitchen, and you both took a moment to appreciate the serene beauty of the morning. The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting long shadows across the dew-kissed lawn as you stepped out onto the porch.

Roscoe bounced around at your feet, his tail wagging in excitement as he recognized the signs of his favorite activity. You laughed, the sound like a melody to Lewis's ears, as you clipped on his leash and stepped off the porch.

The leather of the leash felt cool and smooth in your hand as you led Roscoe down the cobblestone path that wound through the meticulously manicured garden. The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced around the two of you as you moved.

Lewis walked alongside you, his long strides easily matching your shorter ones. He was dressed in a pair of gym shorts that hugged his muscular thighs and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, tanned and lightly dusted with fine hairs.

Roscoe led the way, his nose to the ground as he snuffled and explored, tail wagging with the joy of the familiar routine. The gentle tug of the leash was a comforting reminder of the simple joys in life, the kind that didn't come with the complications of marriage contracts and hidden agendas.

Your eyes strayed to Lewis's arms as they moved rhythmically with his stride, the play of muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt an entrancing sight. The cool morning air nipped at your skin, but you felt anything but cold as the heat of his presence seemed to envelop you.

"So, what are your plans for the day?" he asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between you since the moment you stepped outside.

You took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the fresh morning air. "I have a meeting with my design team," you replied, your eyes drifting to the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to paint the sky with streaks of gold and pink. "We're finalizing the collection for Milan Fashion Week."

Lewis nodded, his gaze never leaving your face. "Ah, the glamorous life of a model," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure you'll wow them all."

You shot him a sideways glance, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a smile. "It's more work than you think," you replied, your voice filled with a hint of challenge. "But maybe I'll save some of that wow factor for you."

Lewis's eyes lit up with interest. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. "I'd love a private fashion show."

You felt a thrill at his words, a shiver of excitement that seemed to coil in your belly. "We'll see about that," you replied, the smile playing on your lips growing more pronounced.

The walk with Roscoe was a chance to breathe, to feel the earth beneath your feet and the wind in your hair. Yet, even amidst the tranquility of nature, the tension between you and Lewis was palpable, a living, pulsing entity that seemed to hum in the air.

As you approached the end of the garden path, the sun was fully risen, casting a warm glow over the landscape. The dew on the grass sparkled like a million diamonds scattered by a careless goddess.

"What about you?" you asked, turning to him, the question a soft invitation to delve into the depths of his thoughts.

Lewis's gaze was unreadable for a moment, the shadows playing across his face as the sun climbed higher. "I have a meeting with the board," he said finally. "They want to discuss the future of the Ferrari partnership."

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Ferrari, the very reason for the arrangement that had brought you both together. You felt a strange sense of pride at the thought of him fighting for your future together, even if it was based on a lie.

"And what about us?" you asked, your voice a soft caress that seemed to hang in the air between you. "What does the future hold for us?"

Lewis stopped, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back as he turned to face you fully. "Us?" he echoed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the early morning silence.

You nodded, unable to tear your gaze from his, the question hanging in the air like a delicate web of unspoken desires. "Our marriage," you clarified, your voice a soft whisper that seemed to carry on the gentle breeze.

Lewis's eyes searched yours, his hand on your back a brand that seemed to burn through the fabric of the shirt. "The future of our marriage," he began, his voice a velvet promise that seemed to wrap itself around your very soul, "is…complicated."

You felt the warmth of his palm through the thin cotton, the heat of his touch a stark contrast to the cool morning air. His thumb traced a lazy pattern against your skin, sending shivers of anticipation through your body.

"Complicated?" you echoed, your voice a soft, questioning murmur.

Lewis nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "We're both ambitious, driven people," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the early morning air. "But we're also married now, and that comes with expectations and responsibilities."

You felt the weight of his words, the gravity of the situation settling like a warm blanket over your shoulders. "I know," you murmured, your voice barely a breath. "But we can make it work."

Lewis's hand slid up to your waist, his grip firm yet gentle. "Can we?" he asked, his eyes searching yours, a challenge and a question all rolled into one.

You stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, the scent of him enveloping you. "We have to," you murmured, the words a declaration of intent that seemed to hang in the air like a promise.

Lewis's hand tightened around your waist, his gaze dropping to your mouth as if he were considering kissing you. "Do we?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very ground beneath you.

You stepped closer still, the heat of his body enveloping you like a warm embrace. "We can," you said, your voice a firm declaration that seemed to resonate in the air. "We'll make it work."

Lewis's eyes searched yours for a long moment, the tension between you tightening like a bowstring pulled to the breaking point.

But just as you thought you could lean in and capture his lips, Roscoe decided he had had enough of the seriousness. With a sudden burst of energy, the bulldog jumped up between you, knocking the air from your lungs as his paws thudded against your chest. You stumbled back with a surprised laugh, the spell of the moment broken.

Roscoe's tongue lolled out as he looked up at you both with innocent, expectant eyes. His tail wagged so hard it was a wonder it didn't come off.

"I guess he doesn't like us getting too serious," you said, your voice a little shaky with repressed desire.

Lewis chuckled, the sound a warm rumble that seemed to wrap around you like a blanket. He ruffled the dog's ears, his touch gentle despite the passion that had just been simmering between the two of you.

"Looks like he's not ready to share his humans just yet," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

The sudden interruption was a welcome one, a reminder of the life you shared beyond the confines of your agreement. You couldn't help but laugh as you regained your balance, the feel of the cool air on your flushed cheeks a refreshing contrast to the heat that had been building in the kitchen.

Lewis chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at the dog. "I guess we'll have to save our serious discussions for another time," he said, his voice a velvet rumble that seemed to echo the frustration of your thwarted kiss.

Roscoe's interruption had brought with it a burst of laughter, the tension of the moment dissipating like mist in the sun. You couldn't help but lean down to give the dog a grateful pat, his fur a soft cushion under your hand. "You always know how to lighten the mood," you said, your voice filled with affection.

Lewis's smile was a thing of beauty, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched you with the dog. "He's got good timing," he said, his voice still thick with desire despite the sudden shift in dynamics.

You nodded, unable to disagree as you ruffled Roscoe's ears. "Maybe he's smarter than we give him credit for," you said with a chuckle, the sound doing little to hide the longing that still hummed in the air between you.

Lewis's eyes searched yours for a moment longer, the promise of what almost happened still lingering in the air. "Maybe," he conceded, his hand dropping to give Roscoe a firm pat on the back. "But for now, let's get you ready for your big day."

The walk back to the house was a little more subdued than the one out, the weight of your conversation a palpable presence between you. The sun had fully risen now, casting its golden fingers through the leaves of the trees that lined the path, painting the world in a warm glow.

As you reached the back door, Lewis leaned down to unclip the leash from Roscoe's collar, the dog bounding inside with a happy grumble. You stepped in after him, the coolness of the marble floor a stark contrast to the heat outside.

The scent of your combined cologne and the lingering aroma of breakfast filled the air, a heady mix that seemed to cling to your skin. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

26th January 2025

The crack of the gunshot echoed through the cavernous shooting range, a symphony of power and precision that seemed to resonate with every beat of your heart.

Lewis, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and admiration, watched as the bullet you had just fired tore through the center of the target, leaving nothing but a gaping, flawless hole.

The smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fear filled the air, an intoxicating blend that made your blood pulse with excitement. It was your first date and it was a shooting range. America had gone through a strange way of bringing out the primal instincts in a girl, and you were eager to show Lewis just how wild you could be.

"You're a natural," he murmured, his British accent thick and alluring. His hand was tentatively placed on your lower back, guiding you to the next target.

His touch was a gentle whisper against your skin, a stark contrast to the deafening roar of the firearm in your hand. You smirked, taking a moment to appreciate the irony before turning to face him.

"It's all about control," you said, the words rolling off your tongue as smoothly as the trigger beneath your finger. "You have to know exactly when to let go, when to give in to the power."

Your eyes flickered down to his hand, and for a brief moment, the air between you was charged with something more than just the static of spent bullets.

You stepped away, loading another round. "My past, it's complicated. But shooting, it was something I picked up when I was in the military."

You took aim again, the gun feeling like an extension of your body. "I was in the special forces. We had to be ready for anything, anywhere." You spoke calmly, but the words were like bombs, dropping between you and shaking the foundation of what Lewis thought he knew about you.

The clang of the metal as the target flipped back to reveal the perfect shot was like a cymbal crash in the silence. You turned to him, the smoky haze of the range framing your face like a portrait of a warrior queen. "There's something about the concentration it takes, the way your entire being focuses on that one moment of truth. It's… liberating."

Lewis swallowed hard, the heat of desire burning a trail from his throat to his groin. He had never met anyone quite like you before, a blend of steel and silk that left him utterly captivated.

"It's like a dance," he murmured, stepping closer, his hand reaching for yours. "A dangerous one, but a dance nonetheless."

You grinned, the challenge in your eyes sparkling like the diamond ring on your finger, a stark reminder of the unorthodox arrangement that had brought you two together. "Why don't you try?"

You handed him the gun, your fingers lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary, watching as he took a deep breath and wrapped his hand around the grip. His palms were sweaty, his heart racing, and the smell of his cologne was a heady mix of sandalwood and something that was uniquely him.

Lewis took a step forward, his shoulders squared and his eyes focused on the target. He had never been one for violence, but there was something about the way you handled the weapon that made him want to try, to feel that same sense of power and control that you so clearly wielded.

He raised the gun, his arms steady as you whispered instructions into his ear, your breath tickling the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. The heat of your body against his back was a stark contrast to the cold steel of the firearm.

"Breathe," you coached, your voice low and soothing. "Find your center."

He missed. The bullet thudded into the wall beside the target, sending a shiver through the concrete. You stepped closer, your hand finding his as you corrected his grip.

Your body pressed against his, your curves fitting against his lines as if you were two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had finally found their place.

"It's okay," you whispered, your breath a gentle caress against his cheek. "Let me show you."

You guided his arms, placing your hands over his so that the gun was steady. Your fingers intertwined with his, and you felt the tremble of his pulse against your palm.

His chest was a wall of warmth against your back, and his breathing grew deeper, more erratic.

You leaned into him, your eyes locked onto the target. "Now," you instructed, your voice a siren's call, "just let it happen."

As you guided his hands, the world around you seemed to fall away. There were only the two of you, the gun, and the target that represented the obstacles in your lives.

Lewis took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of your body envelop him, the scent of your perfume an intoxicating cocktail of jasmine and danger.

He squeezed the trigger, and this time the shot rang true, the bullet tearing through the target's edge with a precision that left him dizzy. He turned to you, his eyes alight with a newfound excitement.

"Better?" you teased, your smile a knowing curve that made his stomach flip.

Lewis nodded, unable to find his voice. The feel of you against him was a heady rush, the heat of your body searing through the fabric of his shirt, making him acutely aware of every inch of skin that wasn't touching yours.

"Much," he managed to murmur, his voice a gravelly echo of its usual self-assured tone.

You stepped away, giving him a playful shove. "You're a quick learner," you said, the smoky allure of your voice making his knees feel weak.

Lewis stumbled slightly, his grip on the gun tightening, his eyes never leaving yours. He had never felt this alive, this… primal before. "It's all thanks to you," he replied, his voice a rumble that seemed to resonate in the very core of your being.

You took the gun from him, placing it back into the holster with a practiced ease that made his stomach clench. "Let's go," you said, your tone a soft command that sent a thrill down his spine. "We've got other things to shoot."

The next range was a clay pigeon shoot, the discs flying through the air like doomed birds. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the field.

You handed Lewis a shotgun, the weight of it surprising him. "It's all about timing and instinct," you explained, your eyes gleaming with a predatory light that made his pulse race.

He watched as you stepped up to the firing line, the grace in your movements belying the deadly weapon in your hands. The clay disc shot upwards, a blur against the deepening blue, and with a swift, fluid motion, you brought the gun up to your shoulder and fired.

The explosion of the disc into a million pieces was a silent symphony, and Lewis couldn't tear his eyes away from the fiery passion in your eyes as you did it again and again.

Finally, it was his turn. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins, a wild, untamed beast demanding to be unleashed. You stood beside him, your hand on his shoulder as you whispered sweet nothings of guidance into his ear.

He took aim, the weight of the shotgun heavy but reassuring in his hands. The disc took flight, and he focused on the moment, the way you had taught him. The world around them slowed down to a crawl, and he pulled the trigger.

The disc shattered, and a roar of victory tore from his throat. You turned to him, your smile wide and genuine, and he could see the fire in your eyes.

The third range was a tactical simulation, a maze of walls and barriers with pop-up targets. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of adrenaline mixing with the metallic tang of the gunpowder.

You were in your element, moving through the maze with the grace of a panther stalking its prey.

Lewis followed you, his heart hammering in his chest. You were a force of nature, a tempest that he was desperate to be swept up in.

As you rounded a corner, you paused, your hand signaling for him to wait. Your eyes locked on a target, you took a deep breath, and the gun in your hand spat fire.

The target fell, and you turned to him, your eyes gleaming with excitement. "Your turn," you whispered, a hint of challenge in your voice.

Lewis stepped into the maze, his eyes scanning the horizon for his prey. His heart was racing, but he felt a strange calm settle over him.

The target popped up, and he reacted on instinct, his body moving with a precision that surprised him. The gun roared, and the target fell. You were there, at his side, your hand on his arm, your eyes alight with something that was more than just pride.

You led him through the maze, your bodies moving in a silent dance of power and passion. Each shot he took brought him closer to you, until the last target fell and the world around them was still, save for the pounding of their hearts.

You turned to him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "You did it," you murmured, your voice a seductive caress. "You're a natural."

Lewis couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment at the praise, his chest puffing out slightly.

"Thank you," he breathed, his eyes never leaving yours. "But it's all thanks to you, really." His hand reached out, tentatively brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You're the one who's been guiding me through this… wild ride."

The small restaurant by the shooting range was a cozy little retreat, the perfect place to let the adrenaline of the day melt away into something more intimate.

The dim lights and the soft murmur of the other diners created an ambiance that was both intimate and electrifying. As you sat down at a corner booth, Lewis's hand found its way to your waist, his fingers ghosting over the soft fabric of your trousers.

You didn't mind his touch; in fact, it was surprisingly comforting. The thrill of the day had left you both on edge, and the gentle pressure of his hand was a reminder that despite the chaos of your new lives, you had found something real in the midst of the façade.

You leaned into him, a small smile playing on your lips as you picked up the menu.

The paparazzi outside the restaurant didn't bother you. They had caught you both leaving the range, Lewis's arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders, the gun in your hand still smoking.

It was a picture that would be on every tabloid cover the next day, but for now, you were just two people enjoying a meal together.

As you peruse the menu, his thumb traced lazy circles on your waist, sending shivers down your spine.

The waiter approached, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he took your orders. He was used to serving high-profile clients, and the sight of Lewis's hand casually resting on your waist was not lost on him.

He nodded discreetly and retreated, leaving the two of you in the warm embrace of the dimly lit booth.

You reached for your wine glass, the coolness of the crystal a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. Lewis's eyes never left you. You took a sip, the rich notes of the Merlot dancing on your tongue as you watched him over the rim.

His fingers tightened slightly, pulling you closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck. "You're amazing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill down your spine. "I had no idea you could shoot like that."

You set the glass down, your hand brushing against his as you did so. "It's all about control," you repeated, your voice a soft purr that sent his pulse racing.

Lewis didn't care anymore. He had a woman beside him, an angel at most. The restaurant's dim lighting cast a warm glow on your faces as you leaned in closer, the whispers of your conversation lost in the gentle clinking of silverware and the soft murmur of other diners.

His hand, which had been tentatively placed on your waist, grew bolder, sliding around to the small of your back, pulling you in until your thighs brushed against his.

You were the only one holding back.

"I didn't know you were such a good actor," you whispered into his ear, your breath hot and sweet with the scent of wine.

"I have my moments," he whispered back, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned closer, the scent of his cologne swirling around you like a seductive mist.

As you sipped at your wine, your mind wandered to the Ferrari team. It was a topic that had been a constant in your conversations since the wedding happened.

Lewis's excitement was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. He talked about the future races, the cars, the camaraderie of the team with such passion that you couldn't help but be drawn into his world.

You nodded along, your eyes never leaving his face as he spoke of the thrill of speed, the roar of the engines, and the adrenaline rush that came with pushing the limits.

Your nods grew more enthusiastic as he described the sleek lines of the Ferraris, the way the sun kissed the red paint, making it gleam like the most tempting of fruits.

You could see the yearning in his eyes, the desperation to be a part of that elite group of drivers who ruled the asphalt with a fiery passion that consumed them.

"It's like nothing else," he said, his voice filled with a reverence that was almost religious. "The wind in your hair, the engine roaring beneath you… it's pure freedom."

You leaned closer, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a blanket. "I can see it in your eyes," you murmured, your voice thick with a desire that had nothing to do with the speed of the cars and everything to do with the passion that fueled his every word.

Lewis took a deep breath, his hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck. "I'd hope so," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to resonate through your very soul.

You set your fork down, the clink of silver against porcelain seeming to echo through the restaurant. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of you in the warm embrace of the candlelit booth.

You felt his breath on your skin, his scent mingling with the aroma of the food and wine, creating a heady cocktail that made you lightheaded with desire.

"Should we go home now?" you asked, your voice a soft, sultry purr that seemed to caress his very soul.

"Yes," he murmured, the word thick with need. "Let's go home."

The drive back to your shared secluded house was silent, punctuated only by the roar of Lewis’s Ferrari. He navigated the winding roads with practiced ease, the headlights cutting through the darkness, mirroring the way he had skillfully navigated your defenses.

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. He looked every inch the Formula 1 superstar, but you knew there was more to him than the public persona.

The drive back to your secluded hilltop villa was silent, punctuated only by the roar of Lewis’s Ferrari. He navigated the winding roads with practiced ease, the headlights cutting through the darkness, mirroring the way he had skillfully navigated your defenses.

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. He looked every inch the Formula 1 superstar, but you knew there was more to him than the public persona.

As you pulled into the driveway, you felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. The charade was one thing in the public eye, but back within these walls, the line between reality and performance blurred.

He turned to you, his eyes searching. "You okay?"

You offered a small, tight smile. "Just tired."

Inside, the villa was cool and quiet. You both moved with a practiced dance, the choreography of shared space and unspoken rules. You went to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water, the clinking of the glass echoing in the stillness. Lewis leaned against the doorway, watching you.

"They really went crazy with the photos tonight," he said, his voice low. "Think it'll be a problem?"

You shrugged, taking a sip. "Doubt it. It's good publicity for Ferrari. Keeps the sponsors happy."

He pushed off the doorframe and walked towards you, his movements fluid and graceful. "Is that all this is to you, then? Publicity?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. You set down your glass, turning to face him. "What else would it be, Lewis? It's a contract. An agreement."

He stepped closer, invading your personal space. "Is it?" His voice was a soft challenge, his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yes. It has to be."

But the look in his eyes, the way he stepped closer, the heat of his body against yours, made you question everything. You had promised yourself that you would keep this arrangement strictly professional, but the way he made you feel was anything but.

"If that's what you want," Lewis said softly, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

You felt your resolve wavering like a candle flame in the wind. Roscoe, his bulldog, lay sprawled on the floor.

The glass of water in your hand trembled slightly, the condensation slipping down the side and onto your fingertips.

The coolness of the glass was a stark contrast to the heat of your palm, a reminder of the passion that had been building between you and Lewis all evening.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. The words were trapped in your throat. You took another sip, the water a refreshing balm to your dry mouth, and you tried to ignore the way his eyes had darkened, the way his breathing had changed.

Lewis reached out, brushing a droplet of water from your chin with the pad of his thumb. "We don't have to pretend here," he whispered.

Your eyes searched his, looking for any hint of the playboy persona you had been warned about, but all you saw was sincerity and something that looked suspiciously like affection.

It had only been a few days since the wedding, a whirlwind of flashing cameras and forced smiles, but somehow, in this quiet kitchen, it felt like a lifetime.

You knew this year was going to be hard. A year of playing the part of the loving wife, of smiling for the cameras, of sharing a house with a man you had only just met.

You had to stand your ground, keep the emotions at bay. This was a marriage of convenience, nothing more. . . .

1st February 2025

The roar of your hairdryer fills the opulent bathroom of your Monaco apartment, a stark contrast to the nervous flutter in your stomach.

"Are you sure I have to come?" you ask, your voice slightly muffled by the roaring appliance. You stare at your reflection, meticulously smoothing a stray strand of burgundy hair.

The life of a top model is often glamorous, filled with photoshoots in exotic locations and VIP parties.

But this… this is different. This is Ferrari and this is with Lewis.

A familiar face pops around the doorframe, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. "Yes, you have to," Lewis replies, leaning against the doorjamb.

He watches you with an amused expression, clearly enjoying your apprehension. "Think of it as a field trip. Besides," he adds with a wink, "they're dying to meet the infamous 'you'."

You roll your eyes, switching off the hairdryer. "Infamous how, exactly?" you retort, turning to face him.

He chuckles, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking towards you. "Infamously beautiful. Infamously talented. And, let's be honest, infamously… married to me."

"Don't remind me," you murmur, but there's a playful smile on your lips.

"Come on," he says, pulling away slightly. "We need to leave. The Prancing Horse awaits."

You take one last look in the mirror, adjusting the straps of your scarlet red dress. It's a bold choice, a deliberate nod to Ferrari's iconic color.

Lewis is wearing a red top and black trousers, a coordinated effort that makes you feel almost… like a real couple.

The drive to Maranello is a blur of rolling hills and picturesque Italian villages. As you approach the Ferrari factory, the air crackles with anticipation. This is hallowed ground for racing enthusiasts, a place where legends are born.

As you step out of the car, you are immediately engulfed by a wave of excitement. The air hums with the sounds of engines revving and the scent of gasoline and burning rubber.

You walk alongside Lewis, your heels clicking on the pristine asphalt. He holds your hand, his touch a reassuring anchor in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

The staff greet Lewis with enthusiasm, their faces lighting up as he shakes their hands and exchanges words of appreciation.

You try your best to smile and nod, feeling a bit like an imposter in this world of high-octane adrenaline and finely tuned machinery.

"And this is my wife, Y/N," Lewis announces with a pride that makes your heart flutter. "She's a model, and a very talented one at that."

The staff members turn their attention to you, their eyes widening with curiosity. You offer a polite smile, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. You can feel their scrutiny, their silent assessment.

You are an outsider in their world, a glamorous anomaly in a culture obsessed with speed and precision.

The highlight of the tour is undoubtedly the unveiling of Lewis's new F1 car. It's a magnificent machine, a symphony of carbon fiber and aerodynamic curves. The vibrant red paint gleams under the bright lights, and the Ferrari logo stands proudly on its nose.

"Wow," you breathe, genuinely impressed. "It's… incredible."

"Want to see what it feels like?" Lewis asks with a grin.

Before you can answer, he's already gesturing for one of the mechanics to help you get in. You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you're really cut out for this. But the excitement in Lewis's eyes is infectious, and you find yourself climbing into the cockpit.

It's surprisingly cramped, the seat molded perfectly to the driver's body. You adjust the steering wheel, marveling at the array of buttons and switches. For a moment, you feel like you're about to launch into orbit.

"Careful now," Lewis says, chuckling as he watches you. "Don't press any of the wrong buttons."

You laugh, trying to imagine yourself racing around a track at 200 miles per hour. It's a far cry from your usual world of fashion shows and photo shoots.

But then, disaster strikes. You try to get out of the car, but your leg gets stuck. You wiggle and squirm, but to no avail. You're completely wedged in, unable to move.

"Having a little trouble?" Lewis teases, but you can see the concern in his eyes.

He steps closer, reaching into the cockpit to help you. His hands brush against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He pulls gently, and with a final tug, you're free.

"Thanks," you murmur, trying to ignore the heat that has flooded your cheeks.

"Well, that was certainly… interesting," you say, trying to laugh it off.

"Don't worry," Lewis says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. "It happens to the best of us. Besides," he whispers in your ear, "it was quite entertaining to watch."

You elbow him playfully, and he laughs, the sound rich and warm. You can feel his chest vibrate against your arm, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

The rest of the evening is a whirlwind of handshakes and photo ops, but through it all, Lewis keeps you close. His hand is a constant presence on the small of your back, guiding you through the throngs of people, his thumb tracing small, comforting circles.

You manage to sneak away during a lull in the festivities, slipping into the team's merchandise store. The walls are adorned with the Ferrari emblem, red and yellow, the color of passion and fire. You scan the racks, looking for something that will truly surprise him.

Your eyes fall on a sleek Ferrari shirt, tailored to perfection, and a matching hat with the iconic prancing horse logo. The fabric feels like a second skin, and you can't resist the urge to try it on. The shirt hugs your curves in all the right places.

You make your purchase, the thrill of the secret hiding behind your innocent smile. As you slip the shirt over your dress, the fabric clings to your curves. The hat sits atop your head, the perfect finishing touch to your impromptu disguise.

"Lewis," you call out, your voice a siren's call through the bustling crowd. "I found something."

He turns, his eyes scanning the room before landing on you. The sight of you in the Ferrari shirt and hat makes his heart stumble. You look like a forbidden fruit, a temptress in the heart of his empire.

"What do you think?" you ask, spinning in a playful circle, the fabric of the shirt gliding against your skin like a lover's caress.

Lewis's eyes darken, his smile growing more predatory. "I think," he muttered, stepping closer, "that you look absolutely stunning."

His hand slides down your arm, his fingers brushing the bare skin above the shirt's sleeve. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through you, a current that lights up your entire body.

"Let's take a picture," a staff member says, a camera already in hand.

Lewis's gaze lingers on you, his eyes tracing the contours of your body in the tight Ferrari shirt.

He knows the picture will be for the press, but the idea of capturing this moment, this intimacy, feels more personal. He nods, his hand sliding down to yours, our fingers entwining.

The flash from the camera pierces the dim light of the merchandise store, freezing the moment in time. You lean into him, his arm snaking around your waist as you pose for the shot, the fabric of your dress riding up slightly. His hand feels like a brand, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

"Perfect," the staff member says, lowering the camera with a knowing smile. You both look at each other, the energy between you palpable.

You look at the picture that the staff member has just taken. In the frame, Lewis' hand is resting against the side of your butt, a gesture that seems innocent to anyone else but is loaded with a tension that makes your stomach flip.

The way his fingers curve slightly, as if he's holding onto something precious, sends a wave of heat through your body.

You force a laugh, hoping to diffuse the situation, but the way his thumb is ghosting small circles over your hip bone tells you that he's as aware of the intimacy as you are. The fabric of your dress clings to your skin, the heat of his hand branding you from the inside out.

"Well, that's definitely going to make the front page," you murmur, trying to keep your voice light. But your heart is racing, the anticipation of what's to come a delicious cocktail of excitement and nerves.

Lewis leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's make sure it's not the only thing they're talking about tomorrow," he whispers, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

The evening wears on, the air growing thick with the scent of ambition and desire. You find yourself drawn into conversations about engine specs and racing strategies, your interest piqued by the passion in the voices of those around you.

But it's Lewis's passion that truly captivates you. As he talks shop with the Ferrari engineers, you can't help but stare at his animated expressions, the way his eyes light up when he discusses his love for the sport. His enthusiasm is contagious, and you feel your own excitement building.

Later, you find yourself in a more private setting, meeting with Fred Vasseur, Ferrari's team principal. You've met him before, at various racing events to discuss the marriage, but this feels different. This is Ferrari territory, and you're here as Lewis's wife.

Fred greets you with a warm smile, shaking your hand and offering a compliment on your dress. "It's good to see you both," he says, his eyes twinkling. "You make a lovely couple."

You exchange glances with Lewis, a silent understanding passing between you. It's a game, a performance that Fred had set the two of you to do.

But sometimes, it's hard to tell where the performance ends and reality begins.

Fred leads you to his office, a spacious room filled with racing memorabilia and photographs of Ferrari legends. He offers you a glass of champagne, and you all sit down to chat.

The conversation revolves around racing, of course. Fred is clearly passionate about the sport, and he talks with enthusiasm about Lewis's potential with Ferrari. You listen politely, interjecting with the occasional question or comment.

But as the conversation progresses, you notice Fred's gaze lingering on you. He seems genuinely interested in you, not just as the woman he picked to be Lewis's wife, but as an individual.

"So, Y/N," he says, leaning forward slightly. "What do you think of all this? Are you enjoying the world of Formula 1 so far?"

You pause, considering your answer. "It's certainly… different," you say with a smile. "It's a lot more intense than I expected."

"It is," Fred agrees. "But it's also incredibly rewarding. It's a world of passion, dedication, and teamwork. And of course," he adds with a wink, "a little bit of glamour."

You laugh, feeling a sense of connection with Fred. He seems to understand the unique position you're in, the challenges and opportunities that come with being married to a Formula 1 superstar.

As the meeting draws to a close, Fred stands up and shakes your hand again. "It was a pleasure seeing you, Y/N," he says sincerely. "I hope you enjoy your time with us here at Ferrari."

"Thank you," you reply, returning his smile. "I'm sure I will."

As you leave the office, Lewis's hand finds yours, threading through your fingers. The connection feels natural, the warmth of his skin sending a comforting thrum through your body.

"You handled that well," he says, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down your spine. "Fred can be a bit intense."

You nod, sipping your champagne. "I'm getting used to it."

Lewis squeezes your hand, and the warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, making you acutely aware of the delicate balance of power between you. "Good," he says, his voice a gentle rumble. "Because there's a lot more to come."

You say goodbye to the crew with a mix of relief and apprehension. The evening had been a whirlwind of new experiences, and you can't help but feel a little overwhelmed.

The crew, a tight-knit group of mechanics and engineers, had treated you with respect, but you know that their loyalty was first and foremost to Lewis.

As you walk away from the bustling garage, the roar of engines fading into the background, you turn to him, your heart racing.

"Thank you for bringing me here," you say, your voice low and earnest. "It's not every day I get to be a part of something so… exhilarating."

Lewis's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with something that looks suspiciously like pride. "It's nothing," he says, playing it cool. "Just a little taste of the world I live in."

Lewis flashed a cheeky wink while opening the door of his stunning Ferrari for you, saying, "I look forward to seeing you shine on the runway."

You slid into the car, the leather seats hugging your body as he settled in beside you. The engine purred to life, the vibration resonating through you, a silent promise of the speed and power waiting to be unleashed.

As he drove, you felt his eyes on you, his gaze lingering on your legs, exposed by the slit in your dress.

"You know," he began, his voice a velvet caress, "you look absolutely stunning in that Ferrari gear."

The car's engine hummed beneath you, a symphony of power and precision, mirroring the way your heart was racing at his words. The leather seats seemed to mold to your body, holding you in a seductive embrace.

Lewis's hand was steady on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with the effort of not reaching out to touch you again. The tension in the air was palpable, a living, breathing entity that seemed to pulse with every beat of your heart.

You leaned back into the luxurious leather seat, the hum of the engine a constant reminder of the power beneath you. The fabric of the Ferrari shirt was a second skin, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of liberation, as if you had shed the layers of your old life and were being reborn into something new, something thrilling.

Lewis's gaze was a constant presence, his eyes devouring the way the shirt hugged your curves. You felt his desire like a physical force, a magnetic pull that was impossible to ignore. The car was a cocoon of heat and passion, the very essence of your arrangement distilled into this single moment.

Eleven more months. The thought sent a shiver down your spine. It was a prison sentence and a promise of freedom all rolled into one. You had signed up for this, for the glamour and the thrills, but what you hadn't counted on was the man beneath the racing suit. . . .

3rd Februrary 2025

The sun had barely kissed the horizon as you stirred from your slumber, the insistent buzz of your alarm clock piercing the quietude of your Italian house.

You groaned, rolling over to silence it, your hand brushing against the cool, empty space beside you.

Throwing off the silk sheets, you slid out of bed and padded over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean.

The early morning light painted the waves in shades of pink and gold, casting a warm glow over the city that never sleeps. But for you, the day had started hours ago, your internal clock set to the rigorous schedule of a top model.

You walked through the sprawling apartment, the marble floors cool under your bare feet, heading towards the sound of gentle snoring. Roscoe, Lewis's bulldog, was sprawled out on a plush doggy bed in the corner of the room, his broad chest rising and falling in time with his deep, contented breaths.

You couldn't help but smile as you leaned down to pet his velvety ears. His eyes flickered open, and he greeted you with a sleepy yawn before nuzzling into your hand.

Leaving the dog to his slumber, you tiptoed into the master suite, the sanctum where the man you were married to, for all intents and purposes, lay in peaceful repose.

You felt a strange thrill at the sight of him, his features relaxed and boyish in sleep. The reality of your arrangement had not diminished the allure of this elusive, enigmatic figure who had stumbled into your life.

Lewis lay on his back, one arm thrown above his head, showcasing the tapestry of tattoos that adorned his bicep. The sheets had slipped down, revealing the contours of his chiseled chest, a sculpture of muscle and sinew that spoke of his dedication to his sport.

You felt a sudden urge to crawl back into bed with him but this was his space, his sanctuary, and you were merely an interloper in his world.

Instead, you retreated to the en suite bathroom where you began your meticulous skincare routine, the soft murmur of the faucet as you washed your face a comforting lullaby.

The feel of the cool water was a gentle caress against your skin, waking you up fully. You applied your serums and creams with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, each movement calculated to maintain the flawless complexion that had made you a household name.

The gym called next, the allure of the treadmill and the weights beckoning with the promise of endurance and strength. You pushed your body, the burn in your muscles a reminder of the discipline required to stay at the top of your game.

As you worked out, you couldn't help but think of Lewis, his own rigorous routine that would start in a few hours.

The day stretched before you, a canvas of potential and uncertainty. You were here, in the heart of Ferrari's world, a world that was as foreign to you as a catwalk was to him.

Yet, there was an undeniable thrill in the challenge of navigating the uncharted waters of Formula 1.

After your workout, you slipped into your robe, the soft terry cloth a gentle embrace against your damp skin. You paused in front of the mirror, taking stock of your reflection.

The hairdryer's roar filled the bathroom as you aimed it at your curly hair, the hot air a comforting warmth that danced through the damp strands.

You applied a generous amount of volumizing mousse, working it into the roots with your fingertips, feeling the cool gel sizzle against your scalp.

Each twirl of the dryer's nozzle brought your curls to life, a wild halo of fiery passion that framed your face.

You heard a knock, the sound echoing through the tiles. "Y/N? Are you in there?" Lewis' voice was muffled by the barrier of the door, but the anticipation in his tone was unmistakable.

You turned off the hairdryer, the sudden silence deafening. "Just a minute," you called out, your heart skipping a beat.

You took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the robe envelop you as you tied the belt securely around your waist. Your hair cascaded over your shoulders in a fiery waterfall, each curl perfectly in place.

You felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach as you prepared to face the day ahead, to face Lewis in his element, his world of speed and power.

With a final spritz of hairspray to hold the masterpiece in place, you stepped out of the bathroom, the plush rug underfoot a stark contrast to the cold marble.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, a domestic bliss that seemed almost incongruous with the adrenaline-fueled life you knew he led.

Lewis looked up from the stove, a spatula in hand, and your breath hitched at the sight of him. He was shirtless, his abs rippling with each movement, a testament to the countless hours he spent in the gym.

His eyes traveled up and down your body, a smoldering look that seemed to strip away the layers of the robe, leaving you feeling exposed and wanton.

"I'm making breakfast," he said, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate through your very bones. "Did you want the same, or anything different?"

You felt a flush creep up your neck as his eyes roved over you, taking in the way the robe clung to your body. The question hung in the air, heavy with innuendo.

"Surprise me," you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady. The air in the kitchen seemed to crackle with tension as he set the spatula down and approached you.

Lewis stepped closer, the scent of him mixing with the tantalizing smells of breakfast. His hand reached for your chin, tilting it up to meet his gaze.

The touch was featherlight, a stark contrast to the power you knew he wielded on the racetrack. His thumb traced your bottom lip, sending a shiver through your core.

"You're going to love it," he promised, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a wicked smile.

You nodded, taking a step backward. "I'll get changed," you said, walking past Roscoe who was half-asleep on the plush carpet, his snores a gentle reminder of the quiet moments you two shared amidst the chaos of Lewis' world.

In the bedroom, you slipped off the robe, the cool air kissing your flushed skin. You reached into the closet, the hangers whispering as you searched for the perfect outfit to face the day.

Your clothes arrived the day after your wedding. You fingered the garments, each one a carefully chosen piece of the puzzle that would shape your new identity as a Ferrari wife.

The dresses were bold and elegant, the fabrics whispering of wealth and prestige, and the lingerie, a tantalizing promise of the intimate moments you'd share with Lewis.

But today, there was no need for the grandeur of haute couture. You chose a simple white tank top and a pair of distressed jeans, the fabric kissing your skin.

A pair of black sneakers completed the ensemble, their laces untied and loose, inviting the casual ease that the day demanded.

As you descended the stairs, the aroma of fresh coffee grew stronger, the rich scent wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You found Lewis in the kitchen, his muscular back to you as he moved with an easy grace that seemed almost unreal for someone who pushed the limits of physics for a living.

He wore a pair of black sweatpants that clung to his thighs, leaving little to the imagination.

The breakfast spread on the table was a feast fit for a king, or perhaps a Formula 1 champion. The sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow on the plates of crispy bacon, fluffy eggs, and golden toast.

There was a bowl of fresh berries, their vibrant colors popping against the pristine white of the porcelain, and a small mountain of whipped cream that looked like it had been piped there by an angel.

The sight of the food made your stomach rumble with hunger, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for the calories you were about to indulge in.

But then again, you'd earned it, with the grueling workout and the emotional tightrope you'd been walking since you woke up.

Lewis turned to you, a plate of food in hand, the muscles in his arms flexing as he offered it with a flourish. "Here you go, gorgeous," he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Fuel for the day ahead."

You took the plate, the warmth of his hand lingering on yours. You took a seat at the breakfast nook, watching as he served himself and joined you. The way he moved, the confidence in every gesture, was intoxicating. You felt a sudden urge to reach out, to trace the taut muscles of his forearm, but you resisted.

The first bite of eggs was heavenly, the yolk running like liquid gold over the toast. You chewed thoughtfully, watching Lewis as he devoured his breakfast with a focus that was almost feral.

He looked up, catching you staring. "What?" he asked, a smear of ketchup on his bottom lip.

You leaned over, wiping it away with your thumb, your gaze lingering on his mouth. "Nothing," you said, your voice a soft purr.

"For someone who wants to keep it professional, you're very seductive," Lewis murmured, his eyes darkening.

You felt a blush creep up your neck as you sat across from him, the intimate setting of the breakfast nook suddenly feeling much smaller.

You took a sip of coffee, the heat of the liquid doing little to quell the fire that his words had ignited. "I'm just being me," you said with a shrug, trying to keep your voice light.

Lewis leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours. "And that's the problem," he said, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You make it very difficult for me to focus on anything else."

The room grew warm, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. You took a bite of toast, the crunch echoing in the silence. The butter melted on your tongue, a rich and decadent treat that seemed to mirror the situation unfolding before you.

Lewis' eyes remained locked on yours, the playful smirk on his face hinting at the thrill of the chase.

"You're only supposed to focus on me, you cheater," you teased, slapping his bare shoulder playfully.

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip. "And here I thought we were just having breakfast," he said, raising an eyebrow.

You felt your cheeks flush, the heat spreading down to your chest.

The way he said it, with that hint of challenge, made you want to prove him wrong. To show him that you were more than just a pretty face, that you could handle this world of fast cars and faster men.

"Is that so?" You replied, taking another sip of your coffee, feeling the liquid warmth slide down your throat. "Well, I suppose I'll have to be on my best behavior, then."

Lewis's smile grew wider, a playful spark in his eyes. "Best behavior doesn't suit you," he murmured, reaching across the table to take your hand.

You felt a sudden urge to lean in, to kiss the smugness from his lips, but you held back. This was a dance, a delicate ballet of power and passion, and you were determined not to trip over your own feet.

Roscoe's snores grew louder, the bass line to the symphony of your racing hearts. You watched as Lewis' thumb traced lazy circles on the back of your hand, the movement sending a cascade of sensations up your arm.

With a sudden jolt, Roscoe's eyes shot open, his sleepy gaze locking onto the two of you. He stretched, his stubby legs pushing against the plush rug, and let out a low, questioning whine.

The sound was like a pinprick to the balloon of intimacy that had filled the room, and you both laughed, the moment broken.

Lewis leaned down to rub Roscoe's belly, his muscles rippling with the movement. "Looks like someone's ready for breakfast," he said, his eyes never leaving yours.

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment as the spell was broken. But as you watched the dog wag his tail with excitement, you realized that maybe, just maybe, the interruption was for the best.

You had a day of pretending ahead of you, a day of smiles and nods and playing the part of the adoring wife. The last thing you needed was to get lost in the seductive pull of Lewis' gaze and forget where you stood.

Breakfast turned into a lesson in the art of flirting without crossing lines. You exchanged barbs and stories, each one a little more personal than the last.

The banter was easy, natural, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks. It was a dance you hadn't practiced, but one that you were surprisingly good at.

As you watched Lewis feed Roscoe a piece of bacon, you couldn't help but feel a strange kinship with the dog. He took the food from your hand with a gentle nip, his eyes never leaving yours, as if to say, 'You're part of this now.'

You leaned back in your chair, your eyes on the dog as he gobbled up the treat. "I think he likes you more than me," you said with a laugh.

Lewis grinned, his eyes never leaving yours. "Well, I am the one feeding him the good stuff," he replied, popping a piece of toast into his mouth.

The conversation turned to the day ahead, the upcoming event of you going to the USA while Lewis was doing intense training. You felt your stomach tighten with nerves.

But Lewis seemed unfazed. He talked about the new car, the team, the strategy for the season, his words a symphony of passion and knowledge.

As you finished your coffee, you took a deep breath, the caffeine jolting you into action. "I should go call Sarah," you said, standing up. "Make sure she's not too upset I couldn't be at her event today."

Lewis nodded, his eyes darkening with understanding. "I'll take Roscoe for a walk," he said, scooping the dog into his arms. "We'll be back before you know it."

You watched them leave, the sight of Lewis' strong arms cradling the pup bringing a smile to your lips. The door closed, leaving you in the quiet embrace of the apartment.

You picked up your phone, scrolling through to find Sarah's number. The call connected, and her voice, so familiar and soothing, filled your ear.

"Hey," you said, trying to keep the wobble out of your voice. "I'm so sorry I couldn't be there."

"Don't worry about it," she replied, her tone understanding. "We've got it all under control. How's life with the speed demon?"

You sighed, leaning against the marble countertop. "It's… intense," you admitted. "But he's not all bad."

Sarah's laughter filled the line. "Intense? That's an understatement if I've ever heard one. Of course, I wouldn't be complaining if I had a hubby like him," she joked, her voice teasing.

You couldn't help but smile, thinking of the way Lewis's muscles had flexed as he held Roscoe. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"So, do you like him?" Sarah's question was as direct as a bullet, piercing through the veil of your thoughts.

You paused, the phone pressed to your ear, your gaze drifting over the opulent kitchen, the aroma of Lewis's cologne still lingering. "It's complicated," you said finally, the words sticky on your tongue.

Sarah's laugh was understanding. "Well, when isn't it? But seriously, Y/N, I can tell he's different from the others."

You swallowed, the lump in your throat suddenly large. "It's just… we have to keep it professional," you said, hearing the waver in your voice.

"Professional," she echoed, the word sounding almost foreign in the context of the undeniable chemistry you shared. "But do you like him?"

You stared at the phone, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

You liked Lewis, of course you did. You liked the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed, the way his hands felt on your skin, the sound of his voice in the quiet moments when the world fell away.

But it was more than that, deeper than the superficial attraction that had drawn you to your previous flings. You liked the way he talked about his work, the passion that consumed him, the way his entire being seemed to come alive when he was behind the wheel.

You took a deep breath, the scent of Lewis' cologne still lingering in the air. "I do," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "But it's complicated."

Sarah was silent for a moment, and you could almost hear her mind racing on the other end of the line. "Okay," she said finally. "But remember, you're there for the experience. Don't let anyone tell you how to feel."

Her words echoed in your mind as you hung up the phone. You had agreed to this marriage for a year, a year of playing the role of the devoted wife, a year of navigating the treacherous waters of the Formula 1 world.

But what if the lines between reality and the role became blurred? What if the attraction you felt was more than just a spark, but a flame that threatened to consume you both?

You pushed the thoughts aside as Lewis and Roscoe returned from their walk. The dog was panting, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and Lewis had a smudge of mud on his cheek.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sight of them a welcome reprieve from the tumult of your thoughts.

"Looks like you two had fun," you said, gesturing to the mud on Lewis's face.

He grinned, a boyish charm lighting up his features. "Roscoe found a puddle," he explained, wiping the smudge away.

But you couldn't resist. You stepped closer, taking the napkin from his hand. "Let me," you murmured, your voice a soft caress.

As you reached up to wipe the remaining smudge of mud, your hand brushed against his cheek, the stubble grazing your skin like sandpaper. His eyes searched yours, the heat in them unmistakable.

You felt your breath hitch in your throat as you gently dabbed at the mud, your heart racing like an engine at full throttle.

When you had finished, you stepped back, the napkin still clutched in your hand. The silence between you was charged, a live wire humming with unspoken desire.

Lewis' gaze dropped to your mouth, his pupils dilating with want. For a moment, you thought he would lean in, claim your lips in a fiery kiss that would set the world ablaze. But he held back, the line between professional and personal blurring like the horizon on a race track.

You took a step away, needing the space to breathe. "I should… get ready," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis nodded, the heat in his eyes not dissipating. "I'll be waiting for you," he said, his voice low and thick.

You retreated to the bedroom, your heart pounding in your chest.

The walls of the luxurious suite seemed to close in around you, the weight of the unspoken moment heavy on your shoulders.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Lewis that lingered in the air, a tantalizing mix of sweat and cologne that seemed to cling to every surface.

The meeting for Milan Fashion Week 2025 was in a few hours, and you had to be prepared. You rummaged through your wardrobe, the fabric of your clothes whispering against your fingertips as you pulled out the outfits you had meticulously chosen.

Each piece was a deliberate statement, a declaration of your intent to conquer the fashion world. You slipped into a sleek black jumpsuit that hugged your body like a second skin, the material whispering sweet nothings of power and seduction as you zipped it up.

The low neckline was a silent challenge, the plunging back a promise of what lay beneath.

Lewis knocked on the door, his voice a gentle reminder of the world outside your cocoon of fabric and ambition. "Ready to go?" he called out, the anticipation in his tone palpable.

You took a deep breath, stepping into a pair of stiletto heels that made you feel like you could walk on air. "As ready as I'll ever be," you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of nerves raging in your chest.

He was waiting in the hallway, looking like a vision in his own right. His black Ferrari-emblazoned jacket and pants were a stark contrast to your all-black ensemble, the vibrant red of the logo standing out like a beacon of passion.

The sight of him made your heart stutter, a reminder of the electricity that sizzled between you.

"You look… wow," he breathed, his eyes drinking you in.

You couldn't help but blush under his scrutiny. "Thank you," you murmured, trying to keep the tremor of desire from your voice. "So do you."

He offered his arm, and you took it, feeling the warmth of his skin against your own. As you descended the stairs, the click of your heels echoed through the hallway, a seductive rhythm that seemed to sync with the pounding of your heart.

The drive to the meeting was a silent one, the tension in the car thick enough to slice through.

You glanced at Lewis, his eyes focused on the road, his jaw set in determination. You wondered if he was thinking about the race or about the way you looked in that jumpsuit.

When you arrived at the sleek Milanese building, a cacophony of flashbulbs and eager whispers greeted you. The paparazzi had caught wind of your presence, and they were like sharks in a feeding frenzy. You took a deep breath, ready to face the storm.

As you stepped out of the car, the cool Italian air kissed your skin, the fabric of your jumpsuit whispering sweet nothings of seduction and power.

You could feel Lewis's eyes on you, his gaze a warm embrace that made you feel invincible. You turned to him, a smile playing on your lips, ready to face the world together.

But as you leaned in to whisper a quick goodbye, his hand shot out, capturing your chin and tilting your face up to meet his. His eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging between you. And for a moment, you considered it.

But reality crashed in like a wave, and you stepped back, smoothing your hair with trembling hands. "I'll see you later," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis's hand fell away, his eyes lingering on your mouth before he nodded. "Good luck," he murmured, his voice husky with unspoken promise.

You turned away, the click of your heels echoing through the marble lobby as you made your way to the elevator. The doors slid open, and you stepped inside, the scent of his cologne still clinging to you.

As the elevator ascended, you couldn't help but think of the heat in his eyes, the way his hand had felt on your skin. You were married to him, but it was a marriage of convenience, a business deal with a very handsome and very tempting bonus.

The doors opened with a ding, and you stepped into the bustling office space, a stark contrast to the quiet tension of the car. The room was a flurry of activity, models and designers rushing to and fro, their voices a symphony of Italian and English.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the day ahead. You had a role to play, a performance to give. But as you walked into the conference room, the reality of the situation hit you like a sledgehammer.

You weren't just playing the part of the devoted wife; you were falling for the man who had bought you.

The meeting was a blur of fabric swatches and runway talk, but you couldn't focus. Your mind was a tumult of thoughts, racing like the engines of Lewis's beloved cars.

You nodded and smiled in all the right places, but your heart was elsewhere, tangled in the web of desire that had been spun between the two of you.

As the hours ticked by, you found yourself checking your phone, hoping for a message from him. Each time it buzzed, your pulse quickened, only to be dashed by another email about the upcoming fashion week.

"Y/N? Y/N!" A voice pierced through the din of the bustling office, and you looked up to find one of the staff members standing in front of you, his eyes wide and his hands slightly trembling. "Your husband is Sir Lewis Hamilton, am I correct?"

You nodded, still in a daze from the morning's events. The words seemed to echo in your head, a strange mantra that you hadn't quite come to terms with. "Yes, that's right," you finally managed to say.

The staff member's face lit up with excitement. "Oh, wow, I'm so sorry!" He exclaimed. "I didn't realize! I'm a huge fan!" He extended a hand for you to shake, and you couldn't help but feel a little thrill at the recognition.

It was strange, being married to someone so revered, so adored.

"Is it possible that Mr. Hamilton can attend Milan Fashion Week 2025?" He asked, his voice hopeful. "It would be such an honor for us to have him here."

You looked at the man, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I'll have to check with his schedule," you said, your mind racing. The thought of Lewis in Milan, surrounded by the glitz and glamour of the fashion world, was an intriguing one. "But I'm sure he'd love to support me."

The room grew quieter as the implications of your words sank in. A whisper of excitement rippled through the air, and suddenly, the fashion week meeting had taken on a whole new dimension.

The idea of Lewis attending, not as a tag-along, but as a legitimate guest, a man of style and substance in his own right, was tantalizing.

The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of fittings and discussions about the upcoming show. The designers were eager to dress you, their eyes lighting up at the prospect of having a Ferrari-affiliated superstar in their lineup.

But it was the thought of Lewis by your side that truly electrified the atmosphere.

The whispers grew louder as the rumors spread. The models, usually so self-absorbed, couldn't help but throw glances your way, their curiosity piqued by the potential presence of the Formula 1 legend.

You felt a strange thrill at being the center of attention, a thrill that was only magnified by the knowledge that it was all because of him.

"Are you almost done darling?" The message from Lewis appeared on your phone, jolting you out of your reverie. You looked down at the screen, his words a gentle caress amidst the chaos.

The endearment was simple, but it sent a warm shiver down your spine, a stark reminder of the intimate moment you had shared earlier.

You typed back a quick response, your thumbs hovering over the keys as you debated how much of your tumultuous emotions to reveal.

"Almost," you replied, your voice in your mind echoing with the same heat that had been in his gaze.

After what felt like an eternity, the last fitting was done, and the final fabric swatches were tucked away. The room cleared out, leaving you standing in the empty space, the echo of stilettos on marble a distant memory.

You took a deep breath, the scent of fresh coffee wafting in from the adjoining lounge area, and made your way to the balcony. The city of Milan spread out before you, a tapestry of rooftops and cobblestone streets.

As you leaned against the railing, the cool metal pressing into your skin, your thoughts drifted back to Lewis. You had told him you were finished from work, the words slipping from your lips with a casualness that belied the racing of your heart.

But when his car appeared, a sleek Ferrari, the sun glinting off its metallic paint, your resolve crumbled like a cookie under the pressure of a vise.

You watched as the engine purr grew louder, the sound resonating through your very soul, and then there he was, emerging from the driver's seat with the grace of a panther.

His eyes scanned the area, searching for you, and when they finally found you, the intensity of his gaze was like a physical touch.

Your stomach did a little flip as he approached, his strides long and confident. He was dressed in a tailored suit, the fabric hugging his athletic frame in a way that made your mouth go dry.

As he drew closer, you felt a breeze that seemed to carry his scent with it, the intoxicating blend of his cologne and the faint hint of engine oil that clung to him like a second skin.

It was a scent that had grown surprisingly familiar, a scent that was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

When he was a few feet away, he looked up, meeting your eyes with a smile that was both welcoming and challenging. The sight of him made you feel both vulnerable and powerful, like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump.

You stepped forward, your heels clacking against the marble, each step bringing you closer to the man who had turned your world upside down.

His eyes raked over you, his gaze lingering on the neckline of your jumpsuit, the fabric clinging to your curves like a second skin. You felt his eyes like a physical caress, a silent promise of what was to come.

The moment between you was charged, the air thick with unspoken words and unanswered questions. You wanted to lean into him, to let the heat of his body envelop you, to kiss him until the world fell away. But you held back, the professional facade still clinging to you like a second skin.

"Ready to go?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart stuttered in your chest. "Yes," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He offered his hand, and you took it, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver down your spine. As he led you to the car, you couldn't help but feel like you were being swept away by a tornado of passion and power.

Lewis opened the door for you with a flourish, his eyes never leaving yours as you slid into the low-slung seat. The smell of leather and luxury enveloped you, and you felt a strange sense of belonging.

You watched as he walked around the car, his movements fluid and precise, like a dance.

As he slid into the driver's seat, you noticed the way his fingers caressed the leather-wrapped steering wheel, a silent testament to his love for speed and power. The engine roared to life, the sound vibrating through you like a bass note from a symphony of desire.

"How was the meeting?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet cabin.

You took a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. "It was… interesting," you finally managed. "They're all eager to have you at Milan Fashion Week."

He shot you a look, one eyebrow quirking. "Me?"

"Yes, you," you said with a small smile. "They want the full package."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a knowing smile, and you felt your stomach flip. The car pulled away from the curb, the engine purring like a contented cat as it ate up the asphalt.

As you sat there, the leather seats molding to your body, you felt the tension from earlier slowly dissipate. The city flew by in a blur of lights and sounds, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his hand resting on the gear stick, so close to yours.

You couldn't help but glance over at him, his focus on the road unwavering as he navigated the twisting streets of Milan with ease. The setting sun cast a golden halo around him, his profile sharp and defined. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each gear change, a silent symphony of power and control.

Your hand itched to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin again, but you resisted, unsure of the game you were playing.

When you both got home, you two went inside to see Roscoe still awake, his bulldog's eyes blinking lazily as he watched you enter. He thumped his tail on the floor, his plush bed a testament to the comforts of your Italian house.

Lewis chuckled, reaching down to ruffle the dog's fur. "Someone's been waiting up for us," he said, his voice a gentle caress.

You couldn't help the smile that bloomed on your lips at the sight of your husband interacting with the animal. It was moments like these that made you question the nature of your arrangement. The domesticity of it all was a stark contrast to the glitz and glamour of your respective careers.

Roscoe stretched, his joints popping as he climbed to his feet and ambled over to you, his nails clicking against the marble floor. You bent down to pet him, his warm breath and soft fur a balm to your frazzled nerves.

"Looks like he's happy to see you," Lewis said, his hand resting on the small of your back.

You straightened up, your eyes meeting his, and in that moment, the air between you crackled with tension.

The apartment was quiet, the only sounds the distant hum of the city and the occasional rumble of Roscoe's contented sighs.

Lewis stepped closer, his hand sliding around your waist. "You know," he murmured, "I've never done this before."

Your heart raced, his words a confession that took you by surprise. "What do you mean?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper.

"Married life," he said, his eyes searching yours. "The whole pretending to be in love."

You swallowed hard, his honesty a knife that sliced through the armor you had so carefully constructed around your heart. "Neither have I," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Lewis's grin grew wider, a proud glint in his eye that sent your heart racing. "Well, I think we're doing a pretty good job of it, don't you?"

You couldn't argue with that. The way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he made you feel—it all seemed so genuine. Was it possible that the lines between pretend and reality had blurred?

"Maybe we're just really good actors," you said, trying to keep your voice light, but the tremor in your words gave you away.

Lewis's grin grew, the proud tilt of his head making your heart flutter. "Or maybe," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "we're just really good at being in love."

With a boldness that surprised even yourself, you reached up and cupped his bearded cheek, feeling the coarse hair against your palm. "Or maybe," you murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, "you're just a good flirt."

Lewis's grin grew even wider, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Only for you," he whispered, and before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you.

The kiss was gentle at first, a soft brush of his lips against yours, as if testing the waters. But when you didn't pull away, his grip on your waist tightened, and the kiss deepened.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, the taste of him a heady mix of coffee and something uniquely Lewis—a flavor that was becoming as addictive as the adrenaline rush of a race. . . .

6th February 2025

"Have a good flight, okay? Text me when you land," Lewis murmured into your hair, his arms tightening around you in a fierce embrace.

The airport was a cacophony of sounds—announcements, the hum of engines, the clatter of luggage wheels—but all you heard was the steady beat of his heart against your chest.

You nodded, unable to find the words to express the tumult of emotions swirling within you. "Yeah, I will. Make sure to train hard," you replied, trying to keep your voice light.

Lewis leaned back, his eyes searching yours, a hint of something unreadable flickering in their depths. "You know I always do," he said, his voice low and serious. "But I'll miss you."

The words hung in the air, a silent confession that seemed to resonate through every fiber of your being. You felt a sudden warmth in your chest, a strange mix of comfort and excitement.

"I'll miss Roscoe," you replied, the mention of his bulldog a gentle reminder of the domestic bliss that had become your reality.

"But you too as well," you grinned, the words slipping from your lips with surprising ease. The smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, a silent admission that the lines between friendship and something more were blurring.

The kiss you shared was swift and fiery, a silent promise of the passion that awaited you both when you'd reunite. The taste of him lingered on your lips as you made your way to the gate, the memory of his touch a warm brand against your skin. It was a kiss that had started as a playful gesture, a simple goodbye before the cameras could capture the intimate moment.

As you pulled away, you felt the chilly air of the terminal replace the warmth of his embrace, leaving you with an unexpected sense of loss. But there was no time for melancholy—you had a plane to catch.

Your heart raced as you handed your boarding pass to the attendant, the butterflies in your stomach doing somersaults. The kiss had been unexpected, a spark that had ignited a flame you hadn't known was there.

You found your seat on the first-class flight, the plush leather a stark contrast to the turmoil in your thoughts.

As the aircraft taxied down the runway, you couldn't help but steal glances out the window, watching as the world grew smaller and smaller, until it was just the two of you, a fleeting memory against the vastness of the sky.

The flight to New York was a blur of movies and overpriced champagne, your thoughts never straying far from the man you had left behind.

You played the kiss over and over in your mind, the feel of his lips against yours, the way his hand had cradled your cheek, the warmth of his breath on your skin.

As the plane touched down, the reality of your old life began to sink in. The bustling streets of Milan had been replaced by the towering skyscrapers and honking taxis of the Big Apple.

You felt a pang of longing for the quiet elegance of Italy, but also an excitement at the prospect of reconquering an old city.

You had hoped that your auntie was still alive and still living in the place as 20 years ago. It had been that long since you'd last seen her, a time when you were just a wide-eyed girl with dreams of modeling stardom.

The apartment was a tiny oasis in the concrete jungle, a place where you could escape to when the world felt too big and too scary. Now, as you hailed a taxi, you couldn't help but wonder if it had changed as much as you had.

The cab wove through the traffic, the neon lights of Times Square flashing by in a blur of color and sound. You watched the city pass by with a mix of nostalgia and detachment, the memories of your past like a distant echo.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the familiar brownstone, you felt a lump form in your throat. The building looked exactly the same—the ivy-covered bricks, the wrought-iron balconies, the scent of fresh baked bread from the bakery below.

You climbed out of the taxi, your legs feeling like jelly as you made your way to the front door. You hadn't told her you were coming, hadn't wanted to spoil the surprise.

The stairs creaked under your heels, each step taking you closer to a part of your life that had been buried under the glamour of Milan.

The door swung open at your knock, revealing the warm embrace of your auntie's living room, exactly as you remembered it. The floral wallpaper was a little more faded, the couch a bit more worn, but the love that filled the space remained unchanged.

A gasp escaped your auntie's lips as she took in your presence, her hand flying to her chest as she stumbled backward.

"Y/N, is that really you?" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock. Time had etched lines around her eyes and mouth, but the warmth in her gaze was as potent as ever.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing through the apartment like a song from your childhood. "It's me, Auntie," you said, stepping into the room and wrapping your arms around her. Her scent of lavender and vanilla was as familiar as your own heartbeat.

The embrace was tight, a silent acknowledgment of the years that had passed, the moments shared and lost.

Her body felt fragile against yours, a stark contrast to the robust figure who had once held you when you cried and cheered you on as you strutted down the runway of life.

You stepped back, holding her at arm's length, taking in the woman who had been your rock, your confidante, your escape.

Her hair had turned from a vibrant auburn to a soft silver, but her eyes remained a fiery amber, the same color as your own. "You're so beautiful," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

The words brought a warmth to your cheeks as you looked around the room, the memories flooding back like a tidal wave.

The piano where you had played your first notes, the bookshelves lined with the stories that had shaped your imagination, the dining table where you had shared countless meals and confessions.

You followed her into the kitchen, the walls lined with photographs of your modeling career, each frame a testament to the life you had built.

You felt a strange sense of pride and guilt as you studied the images, a stark reminder of the world you had left behind when you agreed to marry Lewis.

A pot of tea appeared on the table, the china cups clinking gently as she filled them. "So tell me, how's married life?" she asked, her voice light, but the question held a weight that made your stomach flutter.

You took a sip, letting the warmth of the tea chase away the chill of the city outside. "It's… different," you said, choosing your words carefully. "But good. Lewis is…" You paused, searching for the right word. "Interesting."

Your auntie's eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned in closer. "And the bedroom, dear? Is that interesting too?"

You felt the heat creep up your neck as you set your cup down with a clatter. "Auntie," you chastised, but the smile on her face was infectious, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm an old woman, not dead," she said with a wink. "Now, tell me about this kiss."

The memory of Lewis's lips against yours, the feel of his hands on your body, washed over you in a wave of desire. You felt your cheeks flush as you recounted the story, the words spilling out in a rush.

Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh, my sweet girl," she said, patting your hand. "I knew you had it in you. You just needed the right person to bring it out."

"Your brother, though," she said solemnly, the mood in the room shifting like a cloud passing over the sun.

You stiffened, not wanting to hear about him today. The thought of your brother was a sour note in an otherwise sweet symphony. "What about him?" you asked, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice.

"Well, he's been asking about you," she said, her voice filled with an unspoken concern. "He's worried about you, with everything that's been happening."

"Everything that's been happening?" you repeated, feeling the tension coil in your stomach. "What does he know?"

Your auntie squeezed your hand, her eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored your own.

"Your brother's been in some trouble," she began, her voice heavy with the weight of unspoken words. "He's gotten himself into debt with some unsavory characters. They're not the kind of people who accept 'no' for an answer."

You felt your chest tighten, the tea in your cup suddenly tasting bitter. "How bad is it?"

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Very. They've been to the house, asking for him. It's not safe for him here anymore."

You felt a coldness seep into your bones, the reality of the situation settling like a lead weight. "What do they want?"

Her eyes searched yours, a silent plea for understanding. "They want their money, and they're willing to do anything to get it."

You nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Your brother had always been the reckless one, living life on the edge without a care for the consequences. And now, it seemed, those consequences had come calling.

You kept quiet, the words sticking in your throat like a mouthful of sand. You hated him for it, for being the reason your father and older brother weren't here to share in your success, weren't here to see the woman you'd become.

Their deaths had been a tragic accident, one that had been laid at your brother's feet. His need for speed, his arrogance behind the wheel, had cost them their lives. The guilt had driven him to the bottle, leaving you to pick up the pieces.

The anger you had held onto for so long bubbled to the surface, a molten river of rage that threatened to consume you. You had worked so hard to escape the shadow of your past, to build a life that was yours alone. And now he was threatening to bring it all crashing down.

You took a deep breath, the scent of your auntie's kitchen—floral and comforting—helping to center you. "I'll talk to him," you said finally, the words leaving a metallic taste in your mouth.

The look of relief on her face was worth the lie. You had no intention of getting involved with him again. You had moved on, had built a new life, and you weren't going to let him drag you back into his mess.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of forced smiles and small talk, the weight of the conversation hanging over you like a storm cloud.

As you lay in the guest room that night, the creaks of the old house echoing through the darkness, you couldn't help but think of Lewis.

His touch, his kiss, the way he had looked at you as if you were the only woman in the world—it was a stark contrast to the cold, empty bed you found yourself in now. You hated that you missed him, that you craved the warmth of his arms.

But you knew you couldn't let your guard down. Your brother had a way of worming his way into people's hearts, of making them believe in the best of him, even when the evidence pointed to the worst. You had been down that path before, had seen firsthand the destruction he could cause.

And so, as you drifted off to sleep, you made a promise to yourself. You would keep your distance, would protect the life you had built with Lewis, even if it meant keeping your true feelings hidden behind a mask of indifference.

The next morning, you woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window, the scent of the city mingling with the sweetness of your auntie's perfume.

You stretched, the silk sheets a decadent luxury after the roughness of the last few days.

The shower washed away the last traces of sleep, the hot water a balm against the tension that had taken up residence in your muscles. As you dressed, you felt the weight of the ring on your finger, a reminder of the world you had left behind.

You took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts away. You had a job to do, a performance to give. And you were a pro at pretending. You had been doing it your whole life.

As you descended the stairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted you, along with the sight of your auntie bustling around the kitchen. She looked up, her eyes filled with hope. "How about some breakfast before you go?"

You nodded, unable to find the words to tell her the truth. You were going to have to keep your distance from your brother, no matter how much she hoped for reconciliation.

You sat at the table, the chill of the marble countertop sending shivers up your spine as you sipped your coffee. The rain outside painted a picture of your emotions, a tumultuous dance of joy and fear, hope and regret.

You felt a strange sense of peace in the chaos, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to escape your past, it was always there, ready to pounce when you least expected it.

With a heavy heart, you said your goodbyes to your auntie, the weight of her words and the unspoken fear in her eyes following you like a shadow as you stepped out into the rain-soaked street.

The cemetery was a short cab ride away, the journey a silent pilgrimage through the city that had borne witness to so much of your pain. The rain had eased to a gentle mist by the time you arrived, the cobblestones of the pathway glistening under the soft light of the street lamps.

You found their graves easily, the twin headstones standing sentinel in the quiet of the night. Your father's name was etched in strong, proud letters, while your brother's was a stark reminder of a life cut too short.

The flowers you had brought with you, a bouquet of your father's favorite roses and your brother's beloved lilies, seemed almost vulgar in the face of the cold, unforgiving stone.

You knelt beside their graves, the damp earth seeping into the knees of your pants as you arranged the bouquet with trembling hands. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a soft mist that clung to your skin and hair like a whispered secret.

"I've done it," you murmured, the words carrying on the wind. "I've made it in Milan. I've become someone." You felt the coolness of the stone against your forehead as you leaned in, the scent of the damp earth a stark contrast to the sweetness of the roses.

The silence was absolute, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the rustle of leaves. It was a cocoon of solitude, a place where you could be honest without fear of judgment.

"I'm married, but it's not what you'd think," you whispered, the confession a release of the pent-up tension that had coiled in your chest since the moment you'd stepped off the plane.

As you talked, the words flowed from you like a river breaking through a dam, the story of your whirlwind romance and the arrangement that had brought you to this point. The way Lewis's eyes had sparkled when he'd seen you, the thrill of the racetrack, the kiss that had set your world on fire.

You felt the warmth of a hand on your shoulder, and you jerked upright, spinning around to find your younger brother standing behind you. His hair was wet with rain, his clothes rumpled, and his eyes were filled with a sadness that mirrored your own.

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the years of anger and hurt hanging in the air like a thick fog. "What are you doing here?" you finally managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at his feet, his gaze shifting from the headstones to the flowers you had brought. "I heard you were back," he said softly. "I had to see for myself."

The sight of him, the reality of his presence, was like a slap in the face. You had hoped that the distance of time and the grandeur of Milan would have made you immune to his charms, but the pull was still there, a magnetic force that you hadn't anticipated.

"How did you find me?" you demanded, your voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear.

He shrugged, the movement of his shoulders sending a shiver down your spine. "It's not hard when you're a Ferrari wife," he said, the bitterness in his tone cutting deeper than any knife.

You stood, the earth sticking to your skin as you turned to face him fully. "What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging inside.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a plea that you hadn't seen since you were children. "I need your help," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're after me, and they won't stop until they get what they want."

The gravity of his words hit you like a ton of bricks. You had come to the cemetery seeking peace, hoping to find closure in the one place where you had always felt safe. But instead, you were faced with the chaos of your past, the demons you had thought you had buried with your father and brother.

You felt the ring on your finger, the coldness of the metal a stark contrast to the warmth of your brother's hand. "What have you done?" you breathed, the question heavy with accusation.

He swallowed, the muscles in his throat bobbing with the effort. "I borrowed money," he admitted, his eyes never leaving yours. "A lot of money. And I can't pay it back."

The world around you grew still, the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You knew the kind of people he was talking about, had heard the whispers and the threats that had haunted the edges of your childhood.

"How much?" you asked, your voice cold, the warmth of the kitchen and your auntie's words forgotten in the face of this new reality.

"Enough to get us both killed," he said, his eyes haunted.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had worked so hard to leave this world behind, to build a life that didn't involve the danger and the darkness that had claimed your family.

And now, here you were, knee-deep in it again.

You took a step back, the headstones at your back offering no comfort as the chilly mist of the night seeped into your bones. "Why are you telling me this now?" you demanded, your voice trembling.

Your brother's eyes searched yours, a desperate plea swimming in their depths. "Because I heard you married Lewis Hamilton for money," he said, the words hitting you like a sucker punch. "And I thought, maybe, just maybe, you could help me."

You felt the blood drain from your face, the coldness of the stone seeping through your clothes, through your skin, into your very soul.

The whispers of the cemetery seemed to amplify, a cacophony of judgment and accusation. "You don't get to visit Father and Gabriel," you screamed, your voice echoing through the quiet night, "without paying respect to them after what you did to them!"

The words hung in the air, a shrill rebuke that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth.

Your chest heaved with the effort of keeping the tears at bay, the anger a living, breathing entity that threatened to consume you whole.

Elijah took a step back, the reality of his transgressions etched into the lines of his face. "I know," he said, his voice hoarse. "But I'm desperate, sis. They're going to kill me if I don't come up with the cash."

"Don't you dare drag Lewis into this," you spat, the words bitter on your tongue. "He has nothing to do with your mess."

Your brother's eyes widened, the desperation in them replaced with something akin to fear. "I just thought," he began, his voice trailing off as you advanced on him, the damp earth sticking to your shoes with each step.

"Thought what?" you demanded, your fists clenched at your sides. "That I would just hand over the life I've built for you to throw away?"

Elijah's eyes fell to the ground, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I didn't mean it like that," he mumbled, the sound of his voice barely audible over the dampness of the night.

You stepped closer, the anger in your voice unwavering. "What part of 'you don't get to visit them' don't you understand?" you seethed, the words a hot knife slicing through the tension between you. "You think you can just waltz back into our lives and expect everything to be okay?"

He looked up, the rain mixing with the tears in his eyes. "I know I fucked up," he choked out, the weight of his confession hanging in the air like the mist that clung to the cemetery stones. "But I'm trying to make it right."

You felt the rage in your chest, a fiery beast that demanded to be heard. "By bringing that kind of shit into my marriage?" you shouted, your voice echoing through the quiet night. "Lewis is not a part of this, and you will not involve him."

The wind picked up, sending a shiver down your spine as the mist turned to a light rain. The droplets clung to your lashes, blurring your vision as the emotions of the past and present collided.

You took a deep breath, the scent of the rain and the fresh blooming lilies from your brother's grave grounding you in the moment. "I won't have you endangering Lewis," you said, your voice firm despite the tremble in your chest. "But I can't let you die."

With those words, you made a decision that would change the trajectory of your life once more. You reached into your bag, pulling out the envelope of cash that had been weighing heavily on your mind since your auntie had handed it to you.

You thrust it into his trembling hand. "Take it," you said, the finality in your tone leaving no room for argument. "But you promise me, on our father's and Gabriel's graves, that you will not go near Lewis."

Elijah's eyes widened, the desperation in them momentarily replaced with gratitude. He took the envelope, his hand clutching it as if it were a lifeline. "I promise," he murmured, the words a solemn oath that hung in the air.

The rain grew heavier, the drops now stinging your skin as you watched your brother turn and walk away, the envelope clutched to his chest.

You felt a strange sense of relief, the burden of his debt transferred from him to you, but the fear of what might happen if he broke his promise never leaving you.

As you turned to leave, the coldness of the night seeping into your bones, you couldn't help but feel the weight of your actions. You had made a deal with the devil, one that could cost you everything.

But you had also bought time, time to figure out how to keep Lewis safe from the storm that was your brother's life. . . .

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cutestarkersworld · 2 months ago

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been thinking about anxiety with starker so much lately (lightly based of this)

Tony could feel that familiar rising anxiety in his stomach that felt like a thousand buzzing bees. He hated Galas but he was always made to attend them for publicity's sake. It's not like Pepper was truly forcing him to go but he knew the benefits of his face showing to the cameras for at least a couple hours. He hated how everyone wanted to talk to him, how blinding the flashes to the cameras were, the loud yelling of the paparazzi. You'd think he'd be used to it or even enjoyed it a bit with his outgoing personality but honestly it made it feel hot and itchy. To make matters worse, Peter wouldn't be here until later tonight so he was forced to do this alone.

They'd been together for a couple years now and had recently come out publicly so Peter had been accompanying him to every outing since then. It didn't take long in the relationship for Tony to need the touch of Peter whenever he felt slightly off. Sometimes the urge to intertwine their pinkies during Avengers meetings was far greater than any urge he's ever felt before. Other times when they go out shopping together and Peter's pushing the cart, he feels that same need under his skin and he'll wrap his arms around the boy's waist to pull him in close. And every time like clockwork, it settles the growing pit in his gut.

Now though? Now Tony took in a deep breath as he sat in his luxurious car. Happy was waiting for the cue to get out but Tony was dreading the moment it had to happen. Fuck, why did he agree to this? His leg bounced up and down but he finally exhaled his breath and shook his seated body. He could do this. Tony puts on his infamous smile and gives Happy his signal before exiting the car.

His head feels like it's pounding but thankfully the chatter was low and he'd only been approached seven times tonight. He could hear his heart in his head and it was racing. He knew he couldn't hide out at this random table by himself forever, he had to make conversation soon. Maybe a drink would help some, yeah that sounded like a great plan.

He walks over to the bar and wipes his sweaty palms onto his slacks. Tony doesn't debate his order, having that under lock and key. He sips at his drink slowly, trying his best not to stare at the door but it doesn't work very well. His eyes kept falling back to the grand entrance in hopes that Peter would walk in but he's sure he'd hear the commotion from outside beforehand.

The anxiety was rising quickly, he could feel it coming up and spreading through his chest slowly filling his head. He clears his throat and quickly tips the rest of the drink back into his mouth, swallowing thickly before ordering a second round. He felt like he was on the verge of crying, why did he have to do this again? He wants Peter. He wants to feel his soft heated skin against his own, to comb his hands through the curly mess of hair, to taste his lips, to wrap his arms around the younger, to feel the soft breath puffing out of Peter's lips. He wants Peter.

And as if his prayers were being answered, he heard the loud yell of paparazzi outside and their rapid clicks of cameras. He hears the shouts of, ‘Peter! Over here!’ and his jaw is clenching further. Now that he was so close yet so far, it made him feel even worse? He just needed him now and he was taking his sweet time.

The doors are opened and in walks his gorgeous boyfriend, dressed in a maroon and black three piece that fit him perfectly. Tony sat his glass down and immediately raced over to the boy, “I missed you.” He says and once they are in touching distance, he reaches out to grab Peter’s waist and pulls him into his chest. The feeling of anxiety quiets down, settling back down his body until it was only a small reminder in the back of his head.

#starker #ironspider #mason's writing

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starkerfestivals · 1 month ago

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May is coming to an end! Thank you to everyone who participated in our little Mer-may event. And now... it's that time again!!

StarkerFestivals Summer Bingo– No wait! It's now:

StarkerFestivals Bingo 2025

We've decided to make some changes to how we do bingo and here they are!

This SF Bingo will run from June 1, 2025 to December 31, 2025

Because this is no longer strictly during the summer, we're just now calling it StarkerFestivals Bingo 💗

Cards will have a theme and maybe a few theme related prompts for fun. (You can always request a prompt change if any of the prompts aren't to your liking)

This year's theme is travel/resort vibes. 🌍✈️

What else has changed? Not much else tbh!

For anyone new or just needing a refresher, here are the basics:

StarkerFestivals Bingo 2025 is an event where participants will receive a personalized card with a 5x5 bingo of prompts. To fulfill a prompt, participants create content using the prompt.

Sign Up Opens: May 25, 2025 Cards will be sent out by June 1st. Anyone signing up after June 1 will receive cards within 1-3 days. Duration: June 1 - Dec 31 2025 What is allowed: Anything! Fics, art, moodboards, gif sets, anything Starker related and fills the prompt, we'll accept it Minimums: No minimums Exceptions: Only one prompt per fill, or one prompt per chapter for multi-chapter works Tags: #SFBingo2025 and on AO3

We're excited to welcome everyone, new and old, back to SF Bingo!

If you have any questions, feel free to send an ask to the blog or dm @the-mad-starker or @starkersparks

More info and FAQ under the cut

How Do You Play?

As a participant, fulfilling prompts can be done at your leisure. We want everyone to have fun, so whether you fulfill 1 or do the entire card, it's up to you! There is no obligation to "win" bingo, but for those who want to go for it:

To "win," you will need to get five in a row via horizontal, vertical, or diagonal means. You can also win by getting the free space and all four corners. Finally, you can get a blackout by completing every square on the board. Visual examples:

Free space is free prompt choice. You can write or draw anything you like as a fill. Just please make sure it follows the rest of our rules as they apply.

Please elaborate on the "one prompt per fill"/multi-chapters?

The only rule is that it is one prompt per fill. The exception would be multi-chapter fics (ex: the prompt "falling in love" can be claimed for chapter 1 and then a 2nd prompt, first kiss, can be claimed for chapter 2. Or you create an accompanying moodboard with the prompt "Falling in love" and the fic is used to fulfill "first kiss".)

Is there an age restriction to join?

All ages are welcome! The sign-up form will ask if you would like SFW, NSFW, or both. Only 18+ participants may receive a card with NSFW prompts.

Filling out the Sign Up form– What are the different sections?

Username: Where we'll send the card (can be tumblr or email)

Card section: where you select the type of prompts you want (SFW, NSFW, Both)

Likes: This will give us a general idea of what prompts to give you.

Triggers/DNWs (Do Not Wants): Please let us know any triggers or DNWs and these will not show up on your card.

Prompts section: is an area where you'd like to submit prompts to our prompt generator.

Additional comments: Anything you wanna tell us that isn't included in any of the previous questions.

Can I post outside Tumblr?

Yes! While StarkerFestivals is based on tumblr, participants are free to post anywhere they want- we only ask that it's not behind a pay wall.

Can I sign up for multiple cards?

You can only have one card active at any time. You may ask for another card after you have won your old one. As for a new card, you should receive it within 1-3 days.

Do fills have to be strictly Starker?

They do not have to be strictly starker, but we ask that the focus is Starker since this is a Starker bingo.

Can I use a work to fill both my Starker bingo prompt and another event's?

Yup! We're cool with that, just make sure the other event is also fine with it.

#starker #starkerfestivalsevents #SFBingo2025 #mod post

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isthepame · 2 months ago

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Football, fame, and solitude

In the emotional and thematic climax of the Neo Egoist League, Blue Lock concludes this arc not with shouts of victory, but with silences that resonate louder than any ovation. Chapter 301 presents a delicate counterpoint between the noise of fame and the echo of intimacy, and in that contrast, its true heart emerges: the insatiable desire that drives the players, and what is sacrificed in its name.

Kaiser and Ness: ruin, redemption, and the spell of affection

The first act of the chapter is a fall. Kaiser, broken, faces utter loss: not only of victory, but of the image he held of himself. His rhetoric is filled with self-loathing “I’m trash,” “I’m destroyed” as if his worth depended solely on winning. In front of him, Ness takes a step that subverts everything we’ve seen from him up until now: no longer a servant, but an individual who chooses to stay. “I’m not going to do what you say anymore,” he says, and it’s perhaps his most powerful line in the entire manga.

What follows is not a promise of success, nor a motivational speech. Ness speaks of a spell, a cure for the broken Kaiser. He speaks of affection, of humanity. What he’s trying to revive is not the player, but the human being. Until this point, football seemed to consume everything. But Ness reminds us that bonds when not based on dependence or manipulation can also be a form of resistance.

The parade of new heroes: masks of glory

The scene shifts abruptly, transporting us to a bus with the 23 players, still unaware of where they’re headed. There are jokes, anxiety, trivialities. The confinement in the bus recalls the early episodes of Blue Lock, when everyone was merely a number. But now, they’re about to face the other extreme: the public showcase.

The parade in Roppongi is the consecration of this transformation. The world applauds them, shouts their names, fights for their images. It’s the highest point of visibility they’ve ever experienced. Yet, Isagi’s monologue blankets it all with a disturbing haze of clarity: “With a single shot, you can become a hero or plummet.”

That line encapsulates the essence of the new football: there is no safety net, only the vertigo of the result. The spectacle is glorious, yes, but it’s also cruel.

Compared to the early days of the manga (that closed space, without windows, filled with psychological bars this parade is an external triumph). But internally, the bars remain. They’ve changed form: now they’re made of expectations.

The silence of Nagi: a world without football

And then, just as the noise reaches its peak, Blue Lock chooses to be silent.

The chapter ends with Nagi. Alone. At home. Facing his cactus, Choki, the same one that accompanied him before entering Blue Lock. His monologue is neither a celebration, nor a reflection. It’s a statement: “Nothing has changed. We’ve simply returned to the routine, to an empty everyday life.”

This ending contrasts with the frenzy of the parade. While everyone bathes in applause, Nagi returns to square one. There are no teammates. No football. Only the void. His “I’m back” doesn’t sound like victory; it’s a surrender, an acceptance that, without that competitive fire, the world loses its colour. Nagi represents the player whose motivation was external—the duo with Reo and now that that bond is broken, he seems to wonder if there’s anything left to fight for.

The comparison couldn’t be starker: while Isagi sees the summit as an abyss he must climb, Nagi looks at his surroundings as a desert he doesn’t know how to fill. One finds meaning in the vertigo; the other drowns in the silence.

Conclusion

The chapter doesn’t close with a coronation, but with an open question. What is left of the human being after submitting to a system that turns them into a hero? Is that recognition worth it when bonds, certainties, and even purpose crumble off-screen?

Blue Lock has often shown us that egoism can be a tool for greatness. But in this chapter, it suggests that it can also be an unbearable burden if not balanced with humanity, with meaning, with something beyond the result.

Because when everything fades away, when there are no stadiums, no applause, no rivals... the only thing left is silence. And not everyone knows how to live in it.

By @isthepame

#blue lock #bluelock #ブルーロック #bllk #isagi yoichi #itoshi rin #rin itoshi #糸師凛 #yoichi isagi #潔世一 #michael kaiser #alexis ness #seishiro nagi #nagi seishiro

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babybatscreationsv2 · 7 months ago

Text

Silk and Gold

Marvel | Starker

When a train robbery goes wrong, Peter takes the blame a man's death. Weeks pass while Peter hides out from Sheriff Stane and his men, but eventually it becomes clear that he'll never be able to go home unless he can get them off his back. Anthony Stark is notorious in the crime world and getting Peter out of trouble would be child's play for him, but he doesn't just give things like that away for free. Gold and silk mean little to a man who can take whatever he wants.

Rating: Explicit

Prompt fill for anon

Warning and tags below

Warnings/tags: romnoncon/coercion, humiliation, pain kink, first time, rough sex, face slapping, breed kink, size kink, minor character death, western AU

They knew the dynamite would give them away, they just didn't know how quickly the sheriff and his men would be on them. It took longer than Peter expected for the train to stop even as it crashed. It continued to skid an impressive distance, tearing apart the ground beneath it. Peter and his posse cheered as it finally came to a stop beside the blasted tracks. It was gonna cost the rail company a pretty penny to replace all of this. After they refused to hire Peter on for so many months and left him hungry and lost, he reckoned they deserved the trouble it got them.

Harry went right for the cargo while MJ went to fish the stunned conductor from the wreckage. He was banged up good, but alive. She tied his arms to his back and marched him away from the train in case it blew. Peter figured it was good for Harry to bring his wife along for jobs like this. Kept him righteous.

He joined his friend in the cargo car. Harry has the biggest smile on his face.

"Look at this! Nothing but fine jewelry and look!" He held up a sheer white scarf. "Silk all the way from China. Do you know what this is worth?"

"Hope it's worth as much as gold since that's what you promised me." Peter looked around the crates. They were chest high and stuffed to the brim with goods.

Harry scoffed and tossed him something. Peter caught it in his hands. The gold gleamed in the low sunlight. "A pocket watch? What's the point in making something like that out of gold?"

Harry laughed. "What you gotta learn, Pete, is that the people who have gold want to show it off. Leaving it in a vault for folk like us to break in and steal? Where's the fun in that? No, they want everyone to see what they've got and writhe with jealousy."

"Writhe?"

"Yeah it's like... squirming in pain. Writhe."

Peter nodded. He pushed open another crate and started digging in. Scarfs, skirts, watches, and necklaces all were stuffed into his bag. Then they heard MJ call.

"It's the sheriff! They're on us!" she shrieked.

They both jumped and ran to the door. Sure enough five horses were barreling their way. Peter looked for his own and found it far out of reach. If he whistled it would only reach him as the sheriff did. They might even shoot her down.

MJ appeared at the back of the train car, sitting atop her and Harry's horse. He climbed on behind her.

"Come on, Pete!" He offered his hand.

Peter looked at the horse, then back at the sheriff. She could handle the weight if only for a mile or two. They just needed to get away. He grabbed Harry's hand and jumped up behind him. He clung to his friend's chest as they both leaned in.

Bullets pinged off the metal of the train. Harry took out his gun and fired back.

"Don't hit them!" MJ warned.

"I'm not, I'm not," Harry soothed. "Just tryin' to keep them back."

"It's not working," she huffed.

Peter clenched his jaw. They were too heavy. The mare wasn't strong enough. The longer they drew this out, the weaker she would be. If he let go now, she might have enough in her for them to get away.

So he let go.

"Pete!" Harry called. He reached back for him, but Peter slipped back right off the horse's rear. Harry screamed his name.

Peter hit the ground and rolled as best as he could, but the angle was wrong and he still twisted his ankle. At least nothing felt broken. He sprinted for the nearby hills.

MJ turned the horse around. Peter waved her off, silently begging her to go. They'd follow the easier the target. Or better yet, they might split up. Either way, that horse was fast and she knew this area well. They'd be okay.

Peter could just make out her frustrated huff as Harry convinced her to go.

He kept running. A bullet struck the ground not far from his hip, but he didn't look back. There were two behind him, maybe three. They were gaining fast, aiming for his legs. But they didn't reach him before he reached the hills.

"Peter Parker! We know that's you, boy!" The sheriff called across the distance. "Stop now before this gets ugly!"

His anxious stomach didn't care for that idea, but he kept running anyway, right into the old mine shaft. It had been abandoned for only a few years now. The place was overrun with snakes and the miners had left after the third death. He couldn't be sure if they would follow him inside or that they wouldn't try to stake him out, but he couldn't outrun a horse.

The mine sloped down, blocking out the light from above. Peter slowed to a quick walk until finally he couldn't see past the end of his nose and he stopped. He squatted down in the dark and felt around in the dirt. His hands found the cold metal of an old mine cart. Careful not to make a sound, he crawled behind it.

"Parker!" the sheriff called as he reached the entrance. He heard one of the horses whinny.

"Careful, Sheriff. There's snakes in there. Horses can tell," one of his men said.

"The only snake in there is Peter Parker," he huffed. "And I ain't leavin without him."

Peter jumped as a loud sound came from not too far away. He felt the slightest tremble in the ground.

"What the hell?" someone said.

"Down there! The base of the mountain is smoking!"

"That damned Osborn. He set off an avalanche!" the sheriff said.

"What about the others? They could have killed them. They could need our help."

"Dammit!" They were quiet for a moment. "Alright. You stay here and wait for the boy to come out. We'll go and check it out. Do not leave until you have him. Ya hear?"

"Yes, sir."

Two horses galloped away. It was silent. Then he heard feet shuffling in the dirt and an irritated huff. Peter leaned his head back against the cart. No one seemed keen on following himself at least. He could rest for a few minutes. He hoped the others were okay. They'd probably done that for him. Too bad it would be for nothing if he couldn't get away.

He couldn't see any deeper into the shaft. There was only the light behind and slightly above him. He could feel a breeze coming up from below. Somewhere down there must have been a second entrance, but it was too dark to see and he'd never been that deep.

"Come on out already! We already know how this ends!" the man at the entrance hollered. "Either you get bit down there or you come crawling out and we drag you down to the jailhouse."

Peter didn't respond.

"Unless you've been bit already..."

He just breathed. Thinking. There had to be a way out of this. He'd done this plenty of times before. There was only one of them. The only problem was that Peter didn't have a gun. He didn't like the things. It seemed wrong to kill a man so impersonally. Killing shouldn't be easy. Not that he wanted to kill anyone.

He got an idea.

"Alright, you win!" he called up. "I'm coming out! Just don't shoot!"

"Why the change of heart?" he called back suspiciously.

"I heard something moving down there. I don't know what it is, but better a jail cell then a rattler!"

"Yeah? Come on out then."

Peter stood and shuffled his feet around in the dirt. After a moment he cried out.

"My foot! It's stuck! I stepped in a hole or something!"

"That ain't my problem. You got yourself in there."

"Please! There's something in here! I can't move!"

The man sighed. "Dammit... you better not be pullin’ my leg."

Peter stayed hidden behind the cart as he heard him approach. "Thank you! You're a good man!"

"Yeah yeah- holy hell..." the man stopped. Peter's heart sank as he heard it. A rattle.

"Aw fuck! You tricked me! You damned bastard! When I get ahold of you I'm gonna put on between your eyes and push right into the bottom of this mine. Stane won't know what happened to ya!"

"Shut up!" Peter hissed. "You're gonna piss it off. I didn't know it was there, okay? I was bluffing."

"You're a liar and a coward, Peter Parker!" The rattling stopped. The man took a step and it started up again. "To hell with this."

Peter flinched at the sound of a gunshot. There were two more. Then the man screamed. Peter closed his eyes. The gun shots stopped, but the screaming continued.

He peeked around the cart. He couldn't see much, just a shadow of something squirming. Slowly, he came out of his hiding place.

"You alright?" he asked.

The man sobbed.

Peter approached slowly. There was no rattling. No signs of any snakes. As he came close, he could see that the man was pale in the face. He clutched at his chest. There was a lot of blood. The thing had bit him multiple times on the legs and hands. As he came close, the man collapsed. He was still breathing, but he needed a doctor.

He could hear horses in the distance. There was no time for sympathy. Stane would find him and take care of him surely. He had to worry about himself for now. He'd be okay.

Peter ran from the mine. Behind him he heard the tell tale rattle, but nothing bit at his ankles. Lucky.

He found the deputy's horse a few paces from the mine. It must have balked when it heard the snake. It didn't mind Peter climbing onto its back and let him ride it back toward town. He rode for a while, sometimes doubling back, leaving a mess of tracks in the dry soil. Then he rode off into the pastures.

He managed to hide out for a few days before someone spotted him and sent Stane after him. He couldn't go back to MJ's farm while Stane was looking for him, so he left town altogether. Only to find that the next town over had already been alerted about the train robbery. And not just the robbery, but the dead deputy, too. Sheriff Stane blamed him. Despite the obvious snake bites and the fact that Peter was far from a snake charmer, he was still wanted for murder. Everyone was looking for him and once he was caught, he'd be hanged. He had nowhere to run.

The golden pocket watch bought him a room and some food and the silence of a gruff old man who didn't seem to care who he was or what he was up to. Then he was on the run again. But he couldn't run forever.

That's how he ended up back home. He kept his head down. The brim of his hat shaded his face. His heart pounded. He'd heard word that the sheriff and his crew were out dealing with bandits down by the mill outside of town. Even if someone recognized him and wanted to turn him in, they couldn't. So long as no one wanted to take the law into their own hands. But it wasn't as if he'd hurt anyone.

He'd hear whispers in his travels about a man thought of as a king among criminals. He'd never met Anthony Stark in person, but he was notorious in his town. Despite being a gangster, the law looked the other way when it came to Stark. If only because he owned the only brothel for miles around. Others swore he'd saved all sorts of criminals from fates as grim as the noose. Appealing to Stark might just be his only chance.

Peter entered through the swinging doors. Inside seemed nothing more than a dimly lit saloon. A woman tended the bar. She was beautiful with a face caked in paints and powders and her hair done up in curls that fell around her round face. She smiled kindly as he entered.

"Can I help you, mister?" she asked sweetly.

Across the room, a man played a soft and soothing tune on the piano. A patron was asleep with his head down on a table and four empty bottles beside his head. Peter approached the bar.

"Yes, ma'am, I hope so. I'm looking for Mr. Stark."

Her smile fell. Her eyes ran over him coldly. "A boy like you?" she tsked. "What'd he rope you into?"

Peter shook his head. "Nothing like that, ma'am. I just need his help."

She laughed bitterly. "Oh sure. I suppose you just need him to help you patch your momma's fencing." She rolled her eyes. "It ain't none of my business. I work up front so I ain't gotta know."

With her hands on the bar she looked at a door at the back of the room. "Let me just see if he's available, alright kid?"

"Thank ya, ma'am." Peter nodded his head politely. He leaned against the bar as she walked away. His heart raced. Sure, he was a criminal himself but that was largely out of necessity. He'd tried doing things the honest way. Stark was different. They said his father had been a gangster and his father before him. They were criminals before they'd even crossed the pond.

The woman returned to the bar. "He says he'll see you, but don't waste his time," she sighed. "He's been awful bored lately. Mind you don't piss him off. He'll take great pleasure in making you regret it. He might cure his boredom using you for target practice."

"Thanks." Peter swallowed, doing his best to shove his anxiety down with it. He walked past the bar and into the next room.

It was a large bedroom. As big as MJ's whole house. One massive bed sat against one wall along with a desk and a wardrobe. On the other side of the room was a couple of sofas in front of a fireplace. A man sat in a chair facing the door. On the table beside him was a book and a glass of whiskey with little more than a drop left at the bottom.

"Mr. Stark?"

"That's me," the man said. He crossed one leg over the other. His jaw rested against his knuckles as he examined him.

"It's nice to meet you, sir. My name's Peter Parker." He stepped forward and offered his hand, but the man didn't move so he let it fall.

"I know. Who else would be so desperate as to come to me?" He smiled. "I'm awful scary, ain't I?"

Peter smiled back. "You seem decent to me, sir. I hear you're someone to admire."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir. They say you're brilliant. But I didn't come here just to flatter you, sir." Peter opened up his bag. He froze as Stark pointed his gun at him. "I'm not armed, I swear."

"You just show me what you got, nice and slowly."

Peter nodded. Shaking, he pulled a silk scarf from the bag. "See? I took a few things from that train a couple weeks back. It's all yours if you help me."

"You did an awful lot more than rob a train. They say that deputy died quite a slow, awful, death. A bit of silk can't get you out of the pinch you're in."

"I know that. There's plenty more. I went and buried it, but I'll show you where if you promise to help me. Please, sir."

Stark didn't look impressed, but he put his gun away. His eyes seemed to roam Peter's body. Perhaps he was bored already.

"Listen, I have tons more silk, just like this one. And jewelry, too. Diamonds and gold, a pearl necklace..."

Stark rose from his seat and walked towards him, one heavy step at a time, as Peter babbled. His voice trailed off as they were nose to nose. Stark lifted his hand slowly like you might around a stray animal. His fingers dragged up his throat and up to hold his chin. With the other hand, he took the hat from his head and tossed it onto the bed.

"Baby, I don't want your jewels," he purred.

Peter swallowed. "Then what..." He shivered as he realized. He couldn't mean that could he? But those eyes, those dark and dilated pupils. The way he looked at him with more hunger than he'd ever seen in a man before. Tony's lips curled into a lazy grin as he watched his face.

His hand slid along his jaw to the back of his neck. Peter stood frozen in place as Stark leaned in and pressed their lips together. He'd always heard it was bad etiquette to kiss a whore. It's too intimate. Save it for your wife, they say. He understood why now. Stark kissed like he was savoring the taste of him as if he were the finest wine or the juiciest cut of meat. His lips felt so unexpectedly plump and so enticingly warm. Then they parted so slightly and the tip of his tongue teased the seam of his lips. Peter sighed, longing and deep. Pleasure flowed like whiskey through his blood. It made him feel warm and hazy and found himself reaching for him, kissing him back with a hand on his waist.

When realized what he was doing, where he was, and why. He pushed him back, taking a step back, himself.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark," he gasped, panic jolting through him. "I can't- I-"

"Do you want my help or not?" He looked at him, both eyebrows raised. His face was flushed. "I hate to ask twice."

Peter swallowed. He straightened his back. "No, sir. I'm sorry. I'll find some other way."

"Think you can bribe Stane with those pretty silks of yours? He can just take them off your corpse when they're done hanging you, sweetheart."

He took another step back. His heart pounded in his ears. "I'm sorry," he said again. Then he backed out the door. He ran through the bar and back outside.

The afternoon sun blazed against his face. He was still holding the scarf in one hand and people were staring. He stuffed it into his bag and hurried down the street. He had to find somewhere to hide for the night, get out of town in the morning. Maybe he'd be better off heading east. He could use the jewelry to buy a train ticket. He was mapping it all out in his mind, putting a new plan together when someone pulled a sack right over his head.

Peter lashed out, swinging his fists, but someone grabbed him around the middle.

"Just you hold still," they laughed.

"You ain't goin nowhere!" said another. They dragged him, kicking and fighting, down the dirt road. He couldn't see, but he felt it when his feet hit the wooden deck. They dragged him inside, out of the sun and into somewhere stuffy.

"Let me go!" he screamed.

"Alright, here ya go," someone mocked. He heard metal clanking. Someone yanked his bag off his shoulders and over his head. Then they shoved him.

He fell face first, catching himself on his hands and spraining his wrist. He yanked the sack off of his head and turned around to see three men slamming the cell door. They turned the key in the lock.

"You've got a lot of nerve comin' 'round here, Parker," one of them jeered. He looked scruffy and his clothes were spotted with sweat stains.

"Don't you know how much Stane is offering for ya? We're all takin’ our retirement tomorrow," another one said. This one had sun dark skin that was still peeling beneath his eyes. They didn't look any different than your average working men. They had a lot to gain from a bounty. He'd been an idiot to come into town.

"I didn't kill anyone! You're hanging an innocent man," Peter tried.

"That's too bad. We get paid either way. Doesn't matter what the sheriff does with ya."

"Are you sure?" One of the guys said. "What if he's really innocent?"

Another guy laughed. "Yeah, right. He'd say anything to get himself out of there."

The door opened and in walked Obadiah Stane. He smirked when he saw Peter in the cell.

"Nice work, fellas. Go and talk to Beck about your payment."

They hurried off without so much as a look back at Peter. Then it was just the two of them alone.

"Thought you'd got away with it did ya, Parker?"

"I didn't kill him. You know I didn't. You have to. You saw what that snake did to him."

Stane looked surprised, but Peter didn't buy it. "Snake? No, you hacked him up like the lunatic you are and dumped the pieces in the bottom of that mine."

"You can't do this! I'll tell the judge everything!"

"What judge?" Stane chuckled. "Don't ya know he's out of town? Been gone a week now already. Won't be back for a month or two. And I ain't waitin' that long. Not when I've got such a cruel, sadistic, killer on my hands." His lips spread into a wide, cruel grin. Then he burst into laughter so strong that he held his belly.

"Someone's gotta pay for this, kid. I ain't sorry that it's you. All you and those Osborns do is cause trouble. Only I can't bother them can I? The town'd have a fit if I messed with Norman's son. You, though, nobody will miss."

Peter swallowed. He was right. He should have thought about that back at the train. Not that he would ever willingly throw Harry to the wolves, but maybe they could have come up with a better plan. "What about the goods? All the jewels and silk that I took? I'll tell you where I hid them if you let me go."

Stane turned around and walked to the desk. He picked up Peter's bag and rifled through it. "There's more out there somewhere, that it?"

"I buried it."

Stane looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Now what would you do a thing like that for, son?"

"I'm not just gonna walk around with valuables like that on my person. I'm not an idiot."

"Aren't you just?" Stane chuckled. He patted the bag. "This'll do just fine. It's a steal for me either way. I get to hang the bastard that killed a dear friend and I get a couple of prizes."

"I didn't kill him, Stane!"

The sheriff shrugged. "It was your fault he was in that damned mine, wasn't it? Sounds to me like you killed him."

Peter clenched his teeth. There was nothing he could say and nothing he could do. He sat down on the bench against the wall. Stane left him alone. He kicked his feet up on the desk and took to reading the paper. He wasn't sure how he fell asleep, but a while later, he woke to the feeling of being watched.

The sun was low, now. Dawn or dusk, he wasn't sure, but it was dark. Stane wasn't at his desk, but someone else was looming outside his cell.

"Come to say I told you so?" Peter asked. He sat up on the bench and rubbed the sleep from his face.

Stark smirked. He leaned against the bars. "I didn't come to talk." He held up the key to Peter's cell.

Peter jumped up and ran to the door. "You're getting me out?"

"That depends on you, doesn't it? I know I said I hate to ask twice, but it's a damn shame to let such a pretty thing go without a fight."

Peter paled. He couldn't believe he was still asking, but dammit if he wasn't desperate enough now.

"What do you say, pretty boy?" Tony reached through the bars to pet the side of his face. Two fingers traced the shape of his lips. He had a curious look in his eyes. Peter watched him with a racing heart. Then those fingers pushed past his lips. He didn't know why, but he allowed it. He shivered when he tasted them on his tongue. They pushed back into his throat and Peter swallowed.

"Are you gonna be a good whore for me?" Tony whispered. He thought about telling him no, but the threat of the noose made his blood run cold. He'd do anything and he hated himself for it, but he would. Peter nodded, fingers still between his lips. "Yeah, you are. Look at you."

He took his fingers from his mouth. Peter swayed, off balance by the sudden movement. Tony unlocked the cell and stepped inside. Peter felt cornered as he approached.

"You ever been with a man, Pete?" Peter shook his head. Tony smiled. "Good. I like to play teacher."

Peter backed into the wall as Tony came closer. His fingers touched his lips again. "You seem like a smart kid. I bet you already know what a whore uses this for."

Peter's face grew hot. "Go on, sweetheart. What's it for?" His fingers brushed over his lips, tracing them in circles. Peter closed his eyes and shook his head. The back of Tony's hand battered the side of his face. A startled cry escaped him. His whole body tensed for a fight, but Tony grabbed him by the throat. Peter glared as Tony pried open his jaw and forced his fingers inside, stretching his mouth around four of them.

"What's this fucking hole for, Pete? Huh?"

Peter struggled. He tried to tell him to stop, but his mouth was stretched to its limit as Tony tried to fit his hand in wrist deep. He held it back as long as he could, but two of Tony's fingers brushed the back of his throat and he choked. Tony slapped him again.

"Come on, you're a smart boy." He jerked his arm back and forth like he was fucking his mouth with his fingers. His face was a mess of spit. As he tried to escape, Tony's hand left his neck to grab him by the hair instead. It was much more effective at keeping him still, forcing him to submit. When he stopped struggling, he realized it was much easier if he relaxed. He blinked back tears and looked at the man's face.

"That's a good boy," Tony cooed. "Tell me."

"For..." Peter tried to speak around Tony's hand. Smirking, Tony pulled his fingers out of his mouth and held his chin.

"For sucking your cock, sir."

"Very good," Tony purred. "You're gonna be a good student, aren't ya? You gonna make me proud?"

Peter blushed as he realized the man was waiting for an answer. "Yes, sir," he whispered.

"What was that?" Tony barely tapped his cheek, but Peter still flinched.

"Yes, sir," he said louder.

"Good boy. So where should you be?"

Peter's eyes widened, then they flicked to the floor. It wasn't that he'd thought he was joking, but if he had to go through with it, well, he hadn't counted on being an active participant in his own violation.

He slid down the wall to his knees. He stared firmly at Tony's thighs, hands refusing to move.

"Are you waiting for permission? We're well past that, cock sucker."

Peter pressed his lips together and swallowed down the insult. He focused straight ahead, pushing any singular thought to the back of his mind as he unhooked the man's belt. He slid it through the loops and unzipped his pants. Shame heated his skin, but still he wrapped his hand around Tony's cock and pulled it free, sliding his pants down just enough. He just had to get through this. Then he would be free. He started to pump his cock in his hand, breathing steadily, refusing to react. He could go back to Harry and MJ and finally take them up on that offer to be their farm hand. Even if it was a hand out. It was better than this.

Tony's hand connected with his face again. This time Peter glared up at him, body gone stiff on instinct. Tony grabbed him by the hair, capturing both of his wrists in one hand when he reached for his arm. He shook him, hair tugging at his scalp.

"You're here with me, kid. I don't want any glassy eyed 'close your eyes and dream of London' bullshit, you got me? If you're gonna do it, do it right."

"Sorry, sir," Peter cried. Tony let go of him. He was shaken. The fight fled his system leaving him docile, even tamed.

"Try again," Tony ordered.

Peter tried again, this time focusing on what he was doing. Shame twisted in his stomach like coiling snakes.

"That's much better," Tony praised. He ran his fingers through Peter's hair. "Open up, now."

He let Tony pull him in as he parted his lips. His cock was bigger than he'd thought, forcing him to open wider to take the head into his mouth. He shivered as the salty taste touched his tongue. At least it didn't taste too bad. He focused again before Stark could get mad at him again. He licked all around the head and traced the ridges with his tongue. He wasn't sure he was doing it right, but if he did a decent job, this could be over quicker. He tried sucking on it and running his tongue down the length. None of this seemed to get much of a reaction until he looked up. Their eyes met and he felt it as Tony's cock throbbed against his tongue. His hand tightened just a bit in his hair and he pushed into his mouth just a little bit more.

"Such a pretty thing," Tony sighed. With one hand he pet Peter's cheek. "You want to please me don't you? I can tell."

There was something to his words that made him blush. He tried taking more of him into his mouth, moving up and down his length, all while gazing up at him. It was embarrassing, but Stark seemed to enjoy it. He watched him with those dark, hungry eyes. Rich sighs and moans left his lips. Peter kept going, undeniably proud of himself as he puzzled out what the man liked. He didn't hate it. The friction, the fullness, it felt good. And he liked getting such reactions out of a man so powerful. A man with countless whores at his disposal, no less.

Tony grabbed his hair and stopped him. "Keep your mouth open," he ordered. Then he trust his hips, fucking into his mouth as if it were a cunt. Embarrassment burned even hotter under his skin. It was one thing to suck a man off, but it was another to have his mouth as if he wasn't even attached to it. But he sat, still and obedient, mouth hanging open. Drool ran over his chin and he ignored it. Tony's cock, forced open his throat, drawing obscene noises out of him, but only seemed to make Tony moan, so he didn't protest. He thought for sure the man was close to the edge, for sure it was almost over. And then he stopped and released him.

"Strip and get on the bed."

Peter stared at him for a moment as he tried to decipher what he was being asked. He wiped the drool off his face and stood. He yanked the laces on his boots and kicked them off. Then hesitantly, he started to unbutton his shirt until Tony smacked his hand.

"No. You can't please a man like that, sweetheart. You gotta work a little harder. Go slowly."

Face burning, Peter unbuttoned his shirt while Tony watched. "Good. Now let it roll off your shoulders. There now you can pull it off your arms."

Peter swallowed. The way he looked at him, at his body, felt violating. Almost more so than the way he'd brutalized his throat. He grabbed the back of his undershirt and pulled it over his head, going slowly in hopes of avoiding any more criticism. Right or wrong, Tony allowed it. He stood ogling Peter's toned chest down to his abdomen. His tongue slipped out, running over his bottom lip as he admired his narrow hips.

"Keep going."

He couldn't look at Tony, but he couldn't pretend he hated his eyes on him either. Coerced though he might be, the guy was still handsome, still powerful, still kissed as if he would devour him. He wanted that again.

Peter unhooked his belt and pulled it slowly through the loops. He unbuttoned his jeans and slowly dragged them down to his knees before he let them drop and pushed them aside along with his socks. Then he stood, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his underwear. Bravely, he looked up and met Tony's eye before he pulled them down and added them to the mess on the floor.

It startled him how fast Tony moved and how violently he grabbed him. His fingers dug into his arms and his neck. Their mouths latched together. His back hit the wall, but he didn't care. Tony was kissing him, making him gasp for breath, making him moan when their tongues brushed together. He pressed in closer, pushing Peter harder into the wall. His thigh was against Peter's groin and as he moved, Peter whined, his cock hard and overstimulated by the rough texture of his still open jeans. His hand squeezed his throat. Peter felt like he was melting. There wasn't a thought in his head beyond wanting more.

When Tony stopped, Peter ached for him. "Get on the bench," he ordered. He let Peter go and took a step back. He watched him with predatory eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt.

Peter swallowed. He slowly stepped to the side as he might startle a wild animal. He found the bench and bent over it, bracing himself on his arms. His heart raced. Surely it couldn't be that bad.

"Oh no, baby boy," Tony chuckled. "This is your first time. Lay on your back."

Face burning, Peter turned around and laid back on the hard wood. The bench wasn't long enough to stretch his legs out, forcing him to bend his knees. The embarrassment could have killed him. Tony looked down at him, ogling his body while he stroked his cock. He'd coated it in some kind of lubricant at least. It made a vulgar wet sound as he touched himself. Still it looked huge from this angle. Like it might truly break him in half.

"That's a good boy. I want to make this special for you, sweetheart. Just like a honeymoon." He stepped in between his legs and knelt on the bench. There was barely enough room for the both of them. Tony hiked one of his legs up and put it over his shoulder. Peter's hands went up to cover his face, but Tony pulled them back down.

"None of that. Can't have my beautiful bride hiding away." He winked.

A retort came to his tongue. Then Tony started to push his cock inside him and all Peter could get out of his mouth was, "Ah ah ah," he was split open.

Tony bent and captured his lips. Peter let him have whatever he wanted, following him in the kiss, entirely submissive to his whims. As easily as if he'd flipped a switch, he felt like he had no resistance left. He didn't know if it was the pain or the pleasure that had overwhelmed him, but he was done for.

Tony moaned against his mouth. "You like that don't you? I knew you would. I've got an eye for boys who need to be bred."

"Hurts," Peter gasped.

Tony chuckled. "Does it? Does it hurt, sweetheart? Or does it feel like the best fucking thing that's ever happened to you?" He moved his hip, just a fraction, but Peter wailed. It was good. It was so good. It burned and he felt stretched open and humiliated, but it felt so good. Blindingly good.

His cock just kept going deeper all while Peter could do nothing but moan in pain and pleasure. If you'd asked him, he would have sworn it was in his stomach.

"Look at that," Tony mused. "You're just the right size." He smacked his hips against Peter's ass. His eyes rolled back in his head and for a moment he saw spots. Peter gasped as his cock was touched. The shock of it made him half sit up, moving the cock inside him and melting his brain once again. Tony pushed him back down with a hand on his chest.

"Just relax, pretty boy. You're my playing thing now. I can touch whatever I want. Can't I?"

Peter stared up at him dumbly, words a million miles away. Tony's eyebrow twitched and he knew what was coming but he couldn't move to stop it. His hand struck his cheek. It brought him back to life, if only a little.

"Yes, sir," Peter gasped.

"Yes, sir, what?"

"You can... touch whatever you want... sir."

"That's a good boy." He leaned in closer, folding Peter in half. Peter's eyes widened and his lips fell open as he felt his cock go even deeper. It really hurt now and somehow he loved it. Somehow he wanted more. His fingers dug into the sides of Tony's jeans as he tried to pull him closer.

"You want to be full," he teased. Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm gonna fill you up right." His hand wrapped around his throat again. Then he started to move his hips. Peter didn't let go of his jeans though his grip was loose. That cock moving inside him was everything he didn't know he'd ever wanted. Whatever Tony wanted, he could have it as long as he kept fucking him. He'd take up walking on all fours and barking like a dog if he asked him to.

"You've got tears in your eyes, Pete. Did you find god hanging off my cock?" he teased. "You love it, don't you?"

"Yes," Peter gasped, only now, no shame followed the admission. He couldn't feel anything but pleasure. Greedy with it, he reached out and pulled Tony in for another kiss. He felt him grin against his mouth before giving him what he was asking for.

After a moment he stopped and grabbed Peter's wrist, pulling his hand away and pinning it beside his head. He grabbed Peter's hip with the other hand, holding him down as he fucked him hard, as deeply as he could get. Each thrust of his hips made him gasp, the sound of his own voice pitched higher each time, pleasure growing. He barely touched himself before he came, crying out, the sound echoing off the brick walls.

"That's my good boy," Tony purred. "You learn quickly don't you?" He moaned. He moved his hips faster now. It hurt as the pleasure of his orgasm faded, but just like the pain of his cock all the way in his stomach, it felt incredible. He only wanted more.

Peter whimpered, crying like an injured puppy, entirely shameless. He still wanted more. He needed it.

"That must hurt by now," Tony commented. "Don't tell me you like that, too."

Peter chewed his bottom lip. He didn't meet his eyes. Tony grabbed him by the hair, pushing his cock all the way in and holding him there like a fish on a hook.

"Tell me," he growled. He pulled so hard that his eyes watered.

"I liked it," Peter gasped. "I like the pain, sir."

Tony pulled harder and Peter moaned. "Fuck," Tony gasped. He let go of his hair to hold both of his hips. He fucked him like he wanted to snap his spine while all Peter could do was hold on. He slowed only enough to speak.

"Tell me you want me to breed you. Beg me for it."

Peter licked his dry lips. "Please, sir... breed me please," embarrassment broke his voice. "Please, Mr. Stark. I need it, sir." He wrapped his legs around the man's waist, caging him in. Moaning, Tony fucked him deep and finally came. Peter's eyes widened as he realized he could feel it. It was hot and wet and deep in his gut. He moaned and his own cock throbbed, begging for more. He stroked himself while Tony came inside him. When Tony realized what he was doing, he grinned lazily.

"What a little whore," he teased. "Keep going, sweetheart. Make yourself cum for me. Getting bred was more than you could handle, huh? Fucking cock hole." He grabbed him by the hair again and Peter moaned, cumming hard, his whole body shivering. He melted into a limp puddle beneath him.

Tony gave him another kiss. He almost wanted to cry as clarity returned to him. What the hell had he just done?

Peter cleared his throat. "Am I free now, sir? You'll get me out?"

Tony smiled. "Oh, you're free from the noose. I'll make Stane drop the charges against you."

Peter eyed him suspiciously. "What else do you want from me?"

"You're not finished with your end, Pete," he said as if speaking to a child. "That was just the trial run, sweetheart. I'm gonna take you somewhere nice and private for the real thing."

#starker #marvel #au fic #prompt fill #western au

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babystarker · 9 months ago

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how many of you are actively in the starker fandom still? for myself it waned a lot for about a year and now i’m back in it. i no longer write fics (unless requested, then i prompt fill) but i indulge in reading them ;)

#starker #max.txt

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babybatscreationsv2 · 2 years ago

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I hope it's cool if I also wrote something, only it's very short

"Open the fucking door, Peter!" The door slammed against the frame as his boyfriend, soon to be ex, beat against it. Peter curled into the back of the bathtub, but he didn't dare hide behind the curtain. His eyes were locked on the rattling door as Howard tore at the wood like he'd pound his way through it.

Peter rubbed his sore wrist. It was ringed with burst blood vessels. He was just glad it didn't seem broken, but his eyes were swelling up and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to see out of it. He put his head down against his knees and cried, choking down sobs that would only make his situation worse. This was the last time for sure. He'd said it before but he meant it now. He was done.

"Fucking bitch! You're gonna fucking regret this!"

He closed his eyes and imagined he was somewhere safe. That he had someone in his life who would protect him from assholes like this.

You ever need anything, kid, here's my number.

You serious? Thank you, Mr. Stark. I really appreciate it.

Peter sat up as he remembered the interaction. He was just a delivery boy. It wasn't even a real job, just some stupid gig app. Howard didn't like him to work, but he also wouldn't buy anything for him. Peter borrowed his retired neighbor's car during the day when Howard was gone to run a few orders. Mr. Stark tipped so well that he thought maybe someday he'd be able to get his own place.

He knew about Tony Stark. The guy was scary and dangerous and there was no way he'd meant he'd do Peter a favor out of the kindness of his heart. But Howard wasn't just going to let him go. Hell. He'd be lucky if he was safe leaving the bathroom for a few days at this point.

Luckily he'd managed to grab his phone without Howard seeing or he would be raging about that, too. He always thought Peter was cheating on him.

He called the number. It picked up after only the first ring.

"I wondered when you'd call," Tony purred over the line. He sounded so pleased.

"It's Peter. I'm so sorry to bother you, sir, but you said you would help me if I needed it. Wait- how did you know it was me? I didn't give you my number."

The man just laughed. "How can I help you-"

"Who the fuck are you talking to? That the bitch you're cheating on me with? You're such a pathetic fucking cock sucker you know that!" Howard raged.

Peter swallowed. He was shaking and his head felt light. But Mr. Stark would help him. Maybe he wasn't a good man, but he kept his word. That was what people said anyway.

"Who's that?" The cheery tone was gone from his voice.

"That's Howie," Peter whimpered. "Howard. He's my boyfriend. That's kind of what I need help with."

"Howard?"

"Open this god dammed door and give me that phone or I'm gonna break both your fucking legs! You cheating fucking whore!"

Peter watched the doorknob jiggle like it might break. It didn't open. Nothing broke. Howard went back to beating his fists against it. After a moment he walked away and Peter heard him breaking things in the living room.

"Please, Mr. Stark. I know it's a lot to ask, but I gotta get out of this apartment. If I open that door he's gonna kill me."

"Text me the address. I'm on my way."

"Thank you, sir," Peter sighed. Relief flooded his scattered brain. He sank down in the tub only to sit up again when the TV shattered against the floor.

"Now look what you did! You're gonna fucking pay for that!" Howard screamed.

"Are you hurt?" Tony asked.

"No, no. He's just breaking all the furniture. I'm okay. Just hurry please. Eventually he's gonna figure out how to kick the door down."

"Be there soon."

They hung up and Peter texted him the address. He sat holding his phone between his hands like a lifeline. He just hoped Howard didn't hurt Tony. Sure, he was a scary guy, but Howard was mean and he was going to assume Tony was sleeping with him. Heart pounding in his ears, he pressed the throbbing side of his face against the cool tub. He could only hope New York traffic was kind today. Which was just as insane of a hope as thinking a crime lord was going to save him from his violent boyfriend.

The breaking was still going on when the front door was kicked in. Peter jumped, adrenaline rushing through him once again.

"Who the fuck are you?" Howard screamed. Peter heard him hit the floor. He heard the grunts and groans of not fighting, but Howard absolutely getting the shit beat out of him. He heard the hum of a deeper, steadier voice, but he couldn't make out what was being said.

He almost felt bad.

Peter wrapped his arms around his legs and waited for it to be over. After a few minutes, a soft knock came at the door.

"Peter? It's me. It's safe now," Tony called.

Peter took a deep breath. He got up and opened the door. There the man stood, not a scratch on him. When he saw Peter's face his own moved from worry to disgust. His eye had swollen up pretty good. He'd forget about the bruises on his neck if it wasn't so miserable to swallow.

"He did that?" Tony asked. Peter just nodded.

"What did you do to him?" Peter rasped.

"You'll never see him again. Do you have somewhere to go?"

"This was kind of my apartment... I could stay with a friend, though."

Tony nodded. "I'll handle the landlord. You just get somewhere you feel safe."

Peter shook his head. "I can't ask you for that much, sir. I already owe you more than I can possibly afford."

"Nah, this one's on me."

"Seriously?"

"Yep." He looked down the hall at the wreckage. "Actually, you can do me a favor instead."

His stomach dropped. "What is it?"

Tony looked back at him. His tongue swiped over his bottom lip and a smile broke over his face like he was laughing at himself. "You can let me take you out this weekend."

Prompt:

Peter is Mob Boss Tony's favorite [ stripper/waiter/hotel receptionist/coffee/deli/newspaper delivery whatever person] so sure he offers to help Peter out if he needs him. Which we all know means you are gonna owe him a favor.

But as Peter is locked in the bathroom at his boyfriends apartment, nursing a bruised eye, busted lip and a sprained wrist.

He finally calls him to help him escape the bathroom. Maybe even have the threats toward Peter being over heard on the phone when he calls.

And cause I like dramatics.... wouldn't it it be funny that Peter's boyfriends name was Howard. And it gives Tony flash backs of his abusive dad???? Just maybe he will help out for free...

#starker #prompt fill #hurt/comfort #marvel

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lixy-u · 1 month ago

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Daily dose of Starker #5

What about an alternative universe where SIM!Tony and Tony share the same body like two souls trapped in a jar together ? SIM!Tony knew about Tony but Tony doesn’t know his other persona, they fell for the same certain spider but one wanted to kill him while the other wanted to beg for his love.

SIM!Tony x Muse!Peter x Tony Stark

This is post NWH where Tony is alive but half of his soul is damaged which leads to SIM!Tony (that defeated by Spider Man) got pulled from another universe to fill the gap in Tony’s soul.

Another note is OG avengers not dead in this fic.

____

Sometimes there was a hole in Tony’ memories but he pretended it was fine until he exhausted himself trying to catch up with Rhodey’ unknown discussion, Pepper’s concerns about the tabloids saying he's coming back to his old self, and Happy’s distant face.

It suffocated him so much.

Sometimes Tony found himself dozing mid day, it felt weird seeing his body move on his own, it was like watching a movie in a third person view where he was trapped between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Other times Tony just woke up in an alley where he definitely didn't know before, his body ached, lips busted, his mind all messed up and when his body went down from the adrenaline, he felt it instantly, the fatigue and the dizziness washed over him waves by waves. He almost collapsed on the ground seizing.

It was strange, to the point Tony felt like he's becoming insane.

From FRIDAY called him Superior to the new version of his arc reactor to a new substance called Extremis that heavily violated the ethical principles.

But one thing that stood out the most is…the boy.

The first time Tony saw him was not - person to person, but via a painting that hung on his bedroom (he didn't remember when he placed it there). He admitted it was a nice painting, the boy(again he didn't even know whether that person is a boy or not but somehow his mind said they're a boy) no older than 20, he stood there naked with this back facing the audience, white cloth draped over his lower body half hiding his smooth legs and covered up the hidden forbidden fruit, but what caught Tony's eyes the most was the huge spider tattoo on his back.

It was mesmerizing, something deep in his guts arose when he saw them.

From that moment on, everywhere he went, he saw the boy and everytime the spider tattoo made his brain go haywire.

In his labs, in his office, on his bed.

The draft for a spider emblemed suit ? A hand drawn sketch of the boy and more complicated equations for some substance. (That's weird, because he swears he never seen this before and further what's a sticky substance is going to benefit him)

One time, he even saw the boy laid beside him when he woke up in the middle of the night due to unrecognizable nightmares. The boy still got his back facing him, the moonlight peeks over his window draped over the figure, he can see the pretty and delicate shoulder blades, the spine, the bitable nape and-and the curls, my god the curls. He wanted to touch them but he's afraid the boy will disappear.

He didn't know the boy but somehow he can taste him. Yes taste, he felt it in his tongue, the softest on his lips, the sweetness of skin, the copper-like fluid on his palate.

Tony felt hunger. Like he was poisoned.

It finally gets to the point Tony couldn't ignore it no more, these strange things have been going on.

There were numerous reports about a new villain in town, the threat was evaluated to be between normal to Avenger level threat which is pretty concerning considering last time Avenger level threat was Thanos - Tony hates him.

The new villain was suspected to be hell of a genius (Tony didn't want to admit the guy is smart but he earned himself some credits) The villain possessed some kind of super soldier serum but not the same as Bucky or Steve, he also possessed Iron Man copy cat of armor with blue and white - that mother fucker, Tony’s gonna sue the fuck out of him.

Strange enough, the more he got reports from the new villain the more gaping holes in his memories became larger over time. Some days he… even forgot the mission. And the villain got away just in time before the Avengers could do anything like the guy knew what's they're gonna do.

Tony was not sure whether or not he's dreaming, he saw Cap throw his shield to the villain and he missed. God, Caps getting old, Clint is never going to shut up about his ‘ill never miss’ aim assist. In the corner of his eyes he saw Black Widow shouting something but it was completely inaudible, he saw James Buchanan Barnes - yeah the guy he had a hard time to get to an okay terms with, looked at him with sadness in his eyes and Bruce - his science bros, the one who he vented about the stupid villain technology, desperate synthesize something in the labs despite currently in fight with the villain which was not his usual move at all.

Bang !

That's fucking hurts.

Shit. He said that out loud ?

What the actual fuck ?! He saw Clint was aiming at the villain-?! Wait, this is not his suit. This cool and slippery feeling is not his suit at all, this is not how his nanites should be moving- THIS IS NOT NANITES. NOT HIS.

The suit engulfing his body suddenly moved on its own. It flew through NYC, the buildings, the people and its scenery flashed through his mind but he's too caught up with his mind.

WHERE IS SPIDEY ?

He flew across the question written on the wall of a random ass sandwich place.

Spidey ? As in Spider-Man ?

Who's Spider-Man ?

Who ?

He didn't realize the suit had stopped long ago until his feet touched the floor of his Tower.

He walked forward as if he was hypnotized.

In front of him was the boy…naked in a tube surrounded by water ? No the consistency is too thick to be water and the color ain't right too. Formalin.

A corpse.

He's dead ?

Tony felt like vomiting. The boy was preserved like some kind of exhibits animal.

“Welcome back, Superior”

“I'm back FRI”

His voice got out as he was pushed back.

What ?

“You must be surprised, Tony Stark. I guess everyone will when they see this”

He felt his body move towards a mirror. He still looked the same, no way.

Deadly blue eyes, a maniac grin splattered on his fucking face.

Not Tony, not Tony, not Tony-!

“No, no I am TONY STARK”

“It was kinda a shame that the only person who recognizes the real you first is dead huh ? Everyone else became suspicious after I intentionally revealed my true self, a little play here and there is enough to fool them all. Hell they even like me, everyone is grateful for a more powerful Tony. Everyone but that pretty boy, he got suspicious before I could even say hello. It was really a shame, he was so sweet looking at me with earnest love in his eyes, only to be crushed when he saw me.”

“That spider in every universe, could never stop causing me trouble. That pretty boy with a god sent ass always gets in my way, it was funny seeing him desperate on his knees trying to rationalize me in order to bring you back. He was so cute…”

His body moved towards the tube this time.

No,no,no.

“That I couldn't help but kill him”

“My muse … all pretty for me, for us.”

“Isn't that what you also want ? Stark ? For him to be forever in our grasp.”

____

I really like SIM!Tony, there's too much I want to write about this guy. He's a red flag but I'm blind.

#english is not my first language #ironspider #peter parker #starker #spiderman #iron man #marvel mcu #mcu #mcu fandom #tony stark #superior iron man #SIM!TonyStark #MCU!Tony #Post-NWH #OG!Avengers #no way home

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adnauseum11 · 1 year ago

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Unexploded Ordinance (John Price x Reader)

You and John navigate the process of moving in together. John is pleased you are home.

1.4k words

CW: swearing, explicit sex MDNI

If the end of this chapter feels a bit abrupt it's because I split it in two to keep it from being a ridiculous length. You can expect the next chapter to pick up where this one left off.

Still not completely happy with this chapter but in the interest of not circling the drain forever and moving forward I'm posting anyways lol yolo

feedback welcome!

When John hasn’t returned from his call before you are done eating your breakfast - and polishing off the last of the raspberries - you take yourself to the bathroom to shower. He’s waiting for you in the living room when you finally emerge, feeling a bit more like yourself. He’s clearly lost in thought, your hand on his shoulder finally knocking him back to the present.

John is easy to talk into moving more things today, on your impromptu day off. When you arrive back at the apartment, he checks the door before he lets you enter, satisfied it’s been undisturbed. You immediately bicker with him about your furniture and what pieces will stay or go. You can tell he’s pleased when he wins the debate between the couches, you being partial to your vintage re-upholstered and wildly heavy chesterfield sofa. It’s too short for John to lay down on, forcing him to bend his knees and isn’t very comfortable, truth be told. It’s a gorgeous deep green velvet that draws the eye but otherwise isn’t overly practical. You pout about having to give it up until he gives over on your books entirely. He’s consistently bitched about moving your personal library, filled with heavy anthologies from your university days. They’ve been dragged from pillar to post over the years and you’ve refused every less than subtle suggestion to sell them. He doesn’t even try to make you choose which ones to keep, sighing deeply in resignation and asking how many boxes you think it will take to pack them all. This earns him the hardest hug you can muster and a rain of kisses he has to crouch for, chuckling lowly.

You make a trip back to his place with your clothing, the colourful array of fabrics making John’s limited selections seem all the starker by comparison. It brings you up short, seeing your things beside his in the wardrobe. You get caught up wondering what the hell you are doing, agreeing to this. You don’t get very far in your spiral before John finds you, kneeling surrounded by folded t-shirts. You’re jealous of his ability to seemingly pick a course of action and execute it without the self-doubt that swamps you occasionally. If you hadn’t known him as long as you have you would say it’s something he learned in the military, but you’re pretty sure that’s all John.

His presence steadies you again and you end up making another trip to collect your hairdryer and various other products needed to make yourself presentable for work tomorrow. Most of your everyday use items and valuables are safely rehoused in John’s flat by the time you are ready to throw the towel in for the day. You agree to go to the pub around the corner for dinner, neither of you feeling like cooking. On the walk down, John’s big hand stays on your lower back, keeping you close as you wander down the street together. It’s quiet at the pub, early in the week meaning the clientele are mostly regulars. You get your choice of seats and John steers you to a booth against the back wall, tugging you to sit on the same side as him.

He questions your half-baked plan to quit your job while distracting you from giving an answer, his hand creeping over your thigh and shoulders, bracketing you against him. You finally cross your legs, pinning his warm hand between your thighs so you can formulate a coherent response. He presses a smirk against your temple and listens as you complain of your treatment this morning, and then just in general. You've had a volatile few days and vent your spleen accordingly.

He removes his hands from your body when the food arrives, creating a tiny sliver of space between you on the bench seat. John hums sympathetically at your complaints but finally convinces you to get through the rest of the week before you submit anything in writing, pointing out you should probably update your resume first at minimum. You grumble but reluctantly agree, his even-keeled approach to the situation a better tactic than your instinct for dramatics.

John’s level head only seems to extend to your choices because by the time you’re out the door and on the way home he’s truly unable to keep his hands to himself. Twice on the short walk back he’s pressed you up against the wall of a nearby building, his hands cupping your face as his eager mouth finds yours. You make out like teenagers until you can feel the cold creeping into the tips of your ears, a gentle push against his chest enough to back him off temporarily. You’re getting better at reading John in this state, how his eyes glaze with want and his focus narrows. You finally resort to threading your fingers with his to keep his hand from constantly drifting over your ass, wrapping yourself around his arm to make him behave.

You open the door using your key, John too preoccupied with working his hands under your jacket and shirt. His big body corrals you against him, kicking the door shut after wrestling you through it, almost not giving you time to get your key out of the lock.

“Fucking hell John.”

You breathe out as he spins you around, your arms going around his neck automatically. He kisses you hungrily, his palm cupping the back of your head. You feel the thump of the wall at your back, his hand leaving the back of your head to shove your coat off your shoulders. You wiggle out of it and push at the thick lambskin jacket he’s wearing, slipping your hands under it to grip his shoulders. He shrugs out of it, his lips finding yours again almost immediately. You can feel desire vibrating through his frame, his thigh working its way between yours. Before he can overwhelm you completely, you push back against his chest.

He's breathing hard, confusion mixing across his face as you flatten your palms against his chest and push, reversing your positions by backing him up against the opposite wall. You have to go up on your tip toes, gripping the back of his neck to tug him down to kiss you again. He’s got his hands full of your ass, too preoccupied to catch on to your intent until you're slipping out of his grasp, sliding to your knees in front of him. Your nimble fingers have his belt undone and his jeans open before he can process and stop you, hissing out your name as your fingers wrap around his twitching cock.

You smirk to yourself and wrench a deep groan from his chest as your lips close around the flushed head of his cock, your eyes locking on his face. His cheeks and throat are flushed with the same shade of red as his cock, his blue eyes now nearly black, his pupils dilated with desire. He looks so intense it sends a thrill through your belly that you’re capable of affecting him like this. You swirl your tongue over the head, tasting the salty pre-cum and slide your palm up the wiry hair of his firm abdomen, pushing his shirt up.

John growls lowly, his fingers burying into your hair, gripping close to the roots. He doesn’t try to direct your movements, content to let you work him over however you see fit but the gentle pull on your hair sends flashes of sensation down your spine. The muscles of his stomach jump at the drag of your fingers on his cock as you squeeze the base, sucking on the tip deeply, making John’s fingers clench in your hair. You lift off him and press his erection against his belly, running the flat of your tongue over the underside before teasing his balls with the tip of your tongue.

That has John rocking up onto his toes, hissing your name again followed by a curse. You can’t stop the pleased smirk that slides across your face and wrap your lips around the tip again, focusing your tongue on the sensitive spot on the underside. You can feel his cock twitching, the tension in his body ratcheting tighter with a moan. You let his shirt drop and cup his balls, lapping at the tip intently.

That seems to finally push John beyond his limit and he firmly tugs your hair to pull you off him. Your scalp tingles and you hum in disappointment but John’s already got a hold of your arm, lifting you to your feet again.

“C'mere love, I want to be inside you when I cum.”

He growls lowly, making you shiver, backing you down the hallway to the bedroom with predatory intent. The look on his face makes your stomach quiver in anticipation, your insides going molten.

Next Chapter

Tag list:

@deadbranch @cadotoast @beebeechaos @syoddeye @writeforfandoms @itr-00

#fanfic #call of duty #captain john price #john price x reader #john price cod #john price #friends to lovers #john price x f!reader #john price x you #moving in together #falling in love #fluff and smut #this work has smut

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maukree · 5 months ago

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Masterpost with all parts Yay, here we are. Part 2 of my *not quite Civil War (616)—The Messiest Divorce in Superhero History specifically (or Civil War, which is mostly actual Civil War just for this part, with very little winteriron)—where everything gets dark, painful, and incredibly shippable for so many ships. Not gonna lie, the whole point of these posts is for me to catch up before I start working on my MTH fill for the 616-canon-heavy winteriron fic, and also to have a convenient resource to link to if MCU-only fans actually choose to read it and want to know what happened in canon versus what is complete bullshit for my writing pleasure. That said—this event is a goldmine for all kinds of ships. So I’ve snagged the juiciest bits for your reading (and thirsting) pleasure because every ship is valid, and I don’t discriminate. (Though, I have my favorites, so they’re gonna stand out.) Now—Tumblr has a 30-image limit per post, and I am not about to split Civil War into multiple parts here, so there is a lot of ground to cover in this. There will be more parts after this, so you get one post for Civil War specially, with as much crammed into it as I can, laid out as simply as possible—for me, and hopefully for you too. P.S. While my cover image lists the overall timeline and which series I discuss in terms of winteriron, Civil War and this part here hits the fan right smack in the middle of Captain America and The Invincible Iron Man (they each get a few issues inside), but there’s a lot of other crap happening too elsewhere. I’m not about to unpack every superhero’s massive tie-in series here in equal detail, but I will mention others before the first BIG fight and how they pertain to Tony, Bucky, Steve and Peter—because, obviously, that’s who we’re here for, and Peter is in the middle... 'cause he is kind of important here. If you want the full, issue-by-issue breakdown of every tie-in, crossover, and emotional kick in the nuts that happened, and you didn’t like the five-hour video I sent you to in Part 1, Marvel’s got you covered with their Complete Guide to the Civil War Event (or which order to read it at, which I am following here, sort of.) *visuals are after each arc/issue covered. Fair warning: this has a lot of food for irondad or starker, but this is canon, so just deal with it. K, click that Read More button, and let’s goooo into “holy shit, why are they like this?”

If you read this part you will know where Tony, Bucky and Steve are just after 616 Civil War is won by one side.

What triggered Civil War for real / Was used as an excuse for registration? Basically, the U.S. government has been side-eyeing caped vigilantes for years—tolerating their sometimes helpful, sometimes catastrophic crime-fighting because, well, they weren’t technically employees. Things had been escalating for a while, but the final straw was when a group of young, reality-TV-era superheroes (The New Warriors) tried to do their thing, and—shocker—it went terribly. Some guy called Nitro (not part of the New Warriors, just a villain doing villain things) exploded next to an elementary school during a fight with that chirpy young group, killing over 600 people, including a lot of kids. There was a national outrage, and nothing gets the government’s attention quite like untrained superhumans causing massive collateral damage in broad daylight that people complain about. Suddenly, Congress, the media, and your grandma had an opinion on whether superheroes should be running around unchecked, which has resulted in the Superhuman Registration Act (SRA or, sometimes SHRA)—which most people are probably more familiar with from the X-Men movies and whatnot (where it was basically “Mutants, go register”), or as the comic book equivalent of the Sokovia Accords in the MCU. The SRA demanded that all superheroes:

Reveal their identities.

Undergo training.

Operate under official oversight.

Which… totally sounded reasonable to some people. But only some people. Sure, about half of the superhero community saw it as necessary law and order, but the other half saw it as the death of personal freedom. And that is how this Marvel Civil War came about in the comics. (They did have a second one waaaay later, but I am not getting into that.) The easy comparison with MCU here is:

Team Pro-Registration (led by Tony).

Team Anti-Registration (led by Steve).

Where it gets VERY different:

It has very little (nothing, but he's around) to do with Bucky.

It's long.

A lot of people are involved.

Fighters on each side die.

It gets twisted and very much downhill from here as far as Tony's bromance with Steve goes (or on the up, depends on how much you like your angst). And, yes, there is a possibility some of the characters would've remained alive (but, like, a lot of Marvel characters die and come back even more often in the comic books) if Tony and Steve had just fucked it out, honestly. The Amazing Spider-Man (1999): Mr. Parker Goes to Washington (#529-531) (Not actually released in 1999—the series itself started in 1999. Marvel’s way of naming shit and constantly renaming it will break your head, I swear.) This specific three-parter covers Tony dragging Peter into the most emotional relationship drama to ever drama. For clarity (and because I think I’m too funny and can’t resist commenting along), while Civil War is gearing up, Tony starts making deeply emotional decisions under the guise of strategy, and his first move is to recruit Peter and make sure he is on his side. Because obviously, if you’re about to start a massively controversial government-backed superhero initiative, the first person you want in your corner is the kid with no money, another tragic backstory, the worst luck in the history of caped crusading, but a very good sense of right and wrong. At this point in the timeline, Peter is living with Tony in the Avenger's tower, Tony is already acting like his chaotic billionaire stepdad while Peter is hitting it off with the Avengers on the daily. For real, Peter even calls him “Dad” once or twice, although mostly, he calls him “boss” and, what, do you know, he is actually his intern. MJ is staying with Peter, but you can ignore that. So what actually happens here relevant to Civil War beginnings: Tony takes Peter to Washington, D.C., where he’s testifying before Congress about superhero accountability. While in D.C., Tony gives Peter a new version of the Iron Spider suit (like two days after another new version ’cause he can’t stop spoiling him or, like, gearing him up for war or something, idk...) and starts laying the groundwork for making him his right-hand. There are a lot of father/son vibes, mentor/protégé vibes, and if you’re reading this through a Starker lens, well—Tony spends a lot of time complimenting Peter, and putting a hell of a lot of emotional weight on his presence.

Fact: Tony genuinely cares about Peter in here (not looking at it through starker lens right now, trying to think winteriron long game here), but he’s also desperate for allies as the political pressure builds. Because Peter is not just a good boy for Tony but good in general, he is clearly conflicted from the beginning about the government stepping in to control superheroes, but Tony reassures him that it’s the right thing to do and that he is actually working on stalling it and making sure it stays under control (he is being hella shady). Peter also trusts Tony implicitly (big mistake, buddy), and because this is the road to Civil War and not just Fun Congressional Trips With Tony and Pete, we also get some early signs of how badly this is going to go for everyone involved. So, Peter backs Tony up (as Peter, hiding his identity and later as Spider-Man, refusing to reveal his identity at the meeting), showing loyalty to Tony despite his own lingering doubts. This whole arc is really about Tony starting to make moves to secure the Pro-Registration side, and Peter—bless him—doesn’t fully grasp what he’s getting into yet. This is an awesome arc to read for anyone who likes Tony and Peter in any capacity, but it’s so clear that Tony doesn’t just care about Peter here—he needs him. He is also the guy who will, very soon, break Peter’s heart, and it’s very gutting. Like, they kick the whole event off with this, and you can feel your heart bleed in advance. Why this Matters for Civil War: Tony starts Civil War with Peter at his side, which will make it all the more painful when it inevitably falls apart. Peter’s trust in Tony is absolute at this point, and that will change—violently. Tony also secretly hires a bad guy to attack them in D.C. to make a point, and this should really be one of the many signs on how seriously Tony's starting here from the very beginning.

In Fantastic Four #536-537, Thor’s hammer crash-lands on Earth. This is a big deal because, at this point, Thor is 'not around', but everyone is trying to get their hands on his nutcracker. Naturally, Doctor Doom shows up, because if something cool falls from the sky, he’s contractually obligated to try and steal it. The reason the hammer is important is because Reed Richards is around for this, so while he’s not fully immersed in Civil War beginnings yet, he’s about to be. Also, Thor and his hammer specifically play a massive part in Civil War (stick a pin in that mental note). Doom doesn’t get the hammer, obviously, it just chills there because nobody can lift it. Following the Fantastic Four issues (but also technically happening before them—just go with it), we have New Avengers: Illuminati (2006) #1, which is basically a bunch of rich, powerful men sitting in a room and making decisions that will screw over everyone else. This issue gives us the Illuminati’s response to the SRA, aka a lot of self-important posturing. The Illuminati (Tony, Reed Richards, Namor, Doctor Strange, Black Bolt, and Charles Xavier) gather to discuss how this whole registration thing is about to go down. And—shocker—they do not agree. Everyone except Reed and Tony, who tend to agree on more things than people give them credit for, thinks that the SRA is a massive disaster waiting to happen. T'Challa is there too, and while he loves being complemented on how pretty his country is, he still tells them to fuck off. Politely. Namor flips off Tony too and nearly drowns him. It's a cool action sequence. So, nothing too exciting, but good to know. That said, this is side content I don’t personally care about, but will splash in here and there for basic understanding as needed, and not spend image limit on it (unless it extra cool).

Civil War (2006) #1 This is where things aren’t just leading to the breakup of Tony and Steve—this is where everything fully hits the fan. I’ve already covered the tragedy and the public outrage/last trigger for SRA, but let’s talk about a lovely parallel happening in the aftermath. During the funeral for the folks who died, Tony gets spit on. A grieving mother blames him personally for the deaths of all those children, since he's kinda bankrolling Avengers and stuff, and while Tony was not even remotely involved in this paticular Nitro-exploding and killing kids mess—just the cleanup—he takes it HARD. (Yeah, remember how badly he took everything in the movies? It's worse in the comics, and the woman is aggressive about it.) And regardless of whether it’s comic books or movies, if there’s one thing Tony cannot handle, it’s being told that his inaction led to innocent people dying. This is where his shady, kind-of-sorta “leaning” into supporting registration cements itself into a full send. Unfortunately for both sides of this war, Fury is nowhere to be found to smack some sense into people, because he pissed off the U.S. government (again) and is currently persona non grata. So instead, Maria Hill is running S.H.I.E.L.D, calls in Steve for a little chat, while a bunch of other heroes are off in various places having their “Should we let the government own our asses?” powwows. Hill, naturally, expects Steve to be the poster boy for the Superhuman Registration Act, because, you know, Captain America = America, right? Big mistake. Huge. I don’t know if it’s the way she talks to him in her “I’m in charge now, shut up and do what I say” tone, or the fact that she basically says, “Hey, so here’s the deal—there’s a new law coming down. You’re going to help us enforce it, and we’re going to use S.H.I.E.L.D. to make sure every superhero signs up. Cool? Cool.” Either way, Steve's response is HELL NO. Hill, in her usual charming manner, reacts to being blown off by trying to arrest him. Which is hilarious. Steve then proceeds to beat the crap out of some S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, escape the Helicarrier, and go underground. But not to hang out with Fury who pops up at a later stage. Just underground, officially becoming the face of the Anti-Registration movement. Now, I’m probably not being fair to Hill (I actually do like her), but I am also Switzerland when it comes to comic book Civil War (and MCU Civil War), because both Tony and Steve are being absolute fucking idiots about literally everything in either canon. Frankly, Bucky is the only smart one when this takes place, and mostly 'cause he’s nowhere to be seen yet after ghosting Steve in London. He’s out there somewhere, probably drinking whiskey in a safe house, brooding about his past crimes, cleaning his guns, and for now busy NOT giving a single fuck about what's going on. While the love of his life that he hasn’t met yet (reminder: this is a winteriron timeline) is going out of his way to become the most hated man in the superhero community. Sad.

She-Hulk (2005) #8 is mostly a pointless tie-in to Civil War in the context of what I am trying to do here, but we do get a peek at Tony’s methods and how he’s running his “Collect ’Em All” campaign for Pro-Registration allies. Jennifer Walters (She-Hulk), has a bunch of things going on somewhat related to the main event, but the only one you need to know here is that Tony makes an appearance to give her information she needs for a case she is working on—“for free, not asking for anything, no strings attached” of course (which, lol, sure, Tony). This is a good look at how Tony operates. He’s not exactly strong-arming people right away, but you’d have to be blind not to pick up on the “Pick a side or get picked for one” vibes. In general, his methods vary through the Civil War, but you have to give it to him, he is very creative and approaches each person in a wickedly unique way. Crafty. He's crafty. In Wolverine (2003) #42, Logan is seen catching some heat and getting the “You’re not welcome here anymore” treatment from randoms, demonstrating how the baseline folks are reacting to what’s going on (although, when does he not get this heat, honestly?). He gets into a few debates with fellow supers about how the SRA is giving Nazi vibes, all while side-eyeing the Sentinel parked outside the X-Mansion pretending to be a lawn ornament and suspecting it’s not actually there for their “safety”. Wolverine isn’t my favorite in general, but he slaps in this, because instead of sitting around and yapping about whose side he’s on, he’s one of the few people actually making sense and decides that Nitro—the asshole who kickstarted this and exploded all over the place, killing all the people—hasn’t been rolled over by an avenging tank yet and it should probably be done. Right? The man has a point. Avengers. Tony tells him to drop it because “we have bigger problems”, but Logan is like “Yeah, nah” and sets off on a mission to gut Nitro with a fork (or, well, six of them), since someone here has priorities and actually takes being an Avenger (which he has been for a few months only tbh) seriously. I am not gonna talk about Wolverine much after this, so feel free to hunt down his issues on your own.

Amazing Spider-Man (1999) #532 This is one of my favorite issues, honestly, because this is the moment Tony asks Peter for everything, and Peter realizes what his loyalty to Tony actually means. In short, they visit the White House together (Tony brings him along to all the cool places, as you can see), and Peter’s life as he knows it gets irreversibly fed. This issue is a massive turning point because Tony wants a lot. And I mean, a lot. Up until this point, every time Spider-Man’s identity has been revealed, it’s been because a villain unmasked him—never voluntarily. But now, with the SRA officially getting signed by the president, the rules are clear: If you don’t register, you and your entire family become fugitives. Your assets will be confiscated, your safety will be gone, your life will be over, etc. AND if you do sign up, you might also have to snitch on others and hunt them down. Like… tough. Very tough. Tony, being the dramatic bastard that he is, casually admits to the President that he is Iron Man right there in the Oval Office, while Peter is completely missing this historic moment because he’s looking for a bathroom, checking out Secret Service agents, and admiring priceless art. (I respect his priorities.) Then comes the Big Ask. Tony wants Peter to do the same—to stand beside him and publicly reveal that he is Spider-Man to the world. Peter, reasonably, is not down for this plan at all initially, but Tony, ever the master manipulator with a heart, leaves Peter with a choice. (Sort of. Which is really no choice at all, if you think about it, since, if Peter refuses, his entire life crumbles.) MJ and Aunt May (especially May) help him process the decision, and while they ultimately support him, Peter himself is still torn right up until the last second. Even when he’s about to go to Tony with a YES, he still considers running. He even makes the arrangements to run, but doesn’t. The issue ends with Tony and Peter standing side by side at a podium, about to make this announcement. This issue slaps for both irondad and starker, honestly.

Civil War: Front Line (2006) #1 While superheroes are busy picking sides, Front Line follows the journalists stuck in the middle, trying to cover this mess—specifically Ben Urich (Daily Bugle, professional shit-stirrer) and Sally Floyd (indie journalist, professional snarker). The two of them are trying to make sense of the SRA fallout, tracking how the government is spinning the Stamford disaster (all those dead kids). In the same issue, Speedball—one of the good guys who accidentally got a school full of kids blown up when he was fighting Nitro—gets arrested, which is awkward as hell and also the first time on the page where someone flashes their S.H.I.E.L.D. badge to start arrests, signaling that things are starting to get really serious. Speedball has a VERY bad time after his arrest and is often used to remind us all that the places where supers who didn't fall in line go are not a spa. At all. Since this is essentially a press room issue, it ends with the reveal of Tony’s identity—that same press conference where we last left him with Peter. And LOL, DUDE, you do not begin this shit with “Hello. I am Tony Stark, and I am an alcoholic.” This. Is. What. He. Says. YES. While Peter is next to him, shaking in his boots and waiting for his very private life get gutted into pieces to support Tony's agenda.

Civil War (2006) #2 Following the first arrest, things are properly rolling downhill now. More arrests, the first betrayals, and the first real punches are about to happen. Tony, still fully committed to the government’s golden boy arc, is working with S.H.I.E.L.D. to form his superhero task force to hunt down the noncompliant capes. Steve has been AWOL since flipping off Hill but there is a resistance going on. I mean… it sounds good, right? For now, Tony looks like a total dick, and Steve is the hero. As a note, however, Tony is not being a complete blind asshole here, and does struggle with hoping they are doing the right thing just before SRA officially becomes law. Because comics don’t release in a neat timeline, the end of this issue is also where we get some lovely art of Peter unmasking during that press conference (the art shifts between comics, enjoy it and deal with it).

At this point, Civil War is fully spiraling, and the “oh shit, this is getting worse” moments are stacking up. In Thunderbolts (2006) #103, Tony and his team sign up the Thunderbolts—a group of villains-turned-government-enforcers (not to be confused with the MCU version, and no, Bucky is not here yet). And what is their job is to hunt down villain holdouts and then recruiting them to hunt down more holdouts. Yes, the plan is literally “let’s get criminals to enforce the law.” Things are just getting plain weird and scary and in Civil War: Front Line (2006) #2, the press and civilians are starting to get real nervous about how Tony is taking down people who used to be on the side of good with very little prejudice for not complying. Essentially, the whole “this is about protecting people” argument is starting to look flimsy AF when actual normal people are watching buildings collapse and their heroes get thrown into Superhero Guantanamo. Nobody is having a good time at this stage, but, to lighten the mood, Peter gets fired from the Daily Bugle via headline: “YOU’RE FIRED!”

New Avengers (2004) #21 is where we properly get into Steve’s headspace, and IT IS HILARIOUS. This issue is basically Steve being alone and sad after flipping off Maria Hill and instantly regretting everything, including his own existence. He angsts for most of it, because of course he does, and at some point, Bucky makes a 0.5-second flashback appearance, because it wouldn’t be a Steve issue if he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself and reminiscing about people he’s lost. The vibe here is “I should draw my feelings or write a book” (multiple panels on him trying to do that), but instead of actually dealing with his trauma of being a fugitive, which he is very upset about, he just… keeps brooding. Then S.H.I.E.L.D. sends Dum Dum Dugan to bring Steve in, and that’s when the paranoia kicks in. Suddenly, Steve is feeling betrayal from all angles (fair), and even Falcon catches some suspicion, even though they are best buds in this, since Bucky is out there gallivanting somewhere, not getting involved yet. After Steve and Falcon reunite, they set off on a noble quest titled: “Let’s Make Civil War About Peter Parker, Because He’s the First Pick for Everyone.” They gently stalk Peter to see if he’d be down to join Team Cap, but they are very late. Steve is devastated, because Peter once called him cute, and now Peter is already firmly on Tony’s side, kinda-sorta-but-actually-yes. And if that wasn’t enough betrayal for one issue, Hank Pym tries to help S.H.I.E.L.D. to arrest Cap, which really just solidifies the whole “Steve is having the worst week of his life” situation. Maybe if Steve had actually talked to Peter instead of stalking him, Peter would have called him cute again, and Civil War would have ended right there, since our sunshine babydoll can make everyone see light. But alas.

As you probably picked up on already, Peter is right smack in the middle of this, as mentioned about 10,000 times. In Amazing Spider-Man (1999) #533, they fully cover how much his life went to absolute shit after that press conference. It wasn’t just getting fired. Everyone wants a piece of him now. Some people want to kill him, a lot of people want to fuck him, and the internet is absolutely losing its collective mind. (For real—his unmasking breaks the internet, including the porn sites. FACTS.) At the same time, Peter is deeply uneasy about everything, and Tony is “comforting” him while simultaneously sharpening his betrayal knife. The same knife where Tony does not ASK Peter if he wants to be part of his superhero-hunting strike force and instead, he just signs him up publicly without permission. Peter, already on his WTF is going on subplot, doesn’t even get time to process any of this properly before Tony cranks the drama to 11, piling on on top of his little 'favor' to reveal his identity and says: “Hold my beer, meet your new teammates, and get ready—because the dying is about to fucking start tomorrow.” Whelp.

Things don’t actually escalate to full-on hero-on-hero-we-give-a-crap-about murder aka THE BIG WTF MOMENT just yet (patience), but people are getting hurt just for trying to not pick a side, and crime is skyrocketing because, shockingly, when heroes are too busy planning on punching each other, villains thrive. In Fantastic Four (1998) #538 Johnny is in a coma because a mob beat him within an inch of his life just for existing as a super, the Fantastic Four are already crumbling and even Reed’s own family thinks he’s being a dick. (And they are correct.) He is so firmly on Tony’s side that it’s almost embarrassing, and I suspect some consensual touching is involved to be this stupidly on board with Tony, but I digress here too, since I don’t even know if this is a ship. There’s some setup happening for later events, but we’re not going Mariana Trench deep here, so let’s move on. Oh, someone does pick up Thor’s hammer. I wonder who that is. Over in Civil War: Front Line (2006) #3, the press is still deep in the trenches, and there is a lot of talking happening. Everyone is talking. Some folks are being interviewed. Nobody is doing shit. It's getting... boring. It's also getting very confusing.

BUT.

We are FINALLY, at least in this ‘brief’ (ah, who the fuck am I kidding here) recap, at the stage where I am mentally prepared to talk about The Great Civil War Standoff (aka, Please, Just Start Punching Already) and promptly skip to HOLY FUCK NOT THIS MUCH PUNCHING, boooooys, what are you doing??? (I rock myself in the corner.) As mentioned, the whole thing sorta stalls while each side is staring at each other with deep, unspoken yearning, waiting for the BIG fight, while smaller fights start breaking out all over the place. And because event comics are an actual nightmare, I am going to stop talking about the tie-ins here. I’ve set the scene, now just assume there’s a TON of random skirmishes happening, Cap and Spider-Man have already thrown hands (yo, this pretends to be a winteriron timeline, go look for your shippy business elsewhere, I am hungry), a bunch of unimportant extras are getting hurt or worse, and at this point, it’s just Tony vs. Steve and their twisted moral compasses playing an extremely violent game of chicken. I know, I know—I am taking a big skip after I just dropped an obscene amount of lore on you. But listen. Event tie-ins, and I cannot state it enough, are so messy and out of order while… being in order, sorta. You get to one good bit, and then Marvel chucks another 2,000 issues between you and the next good bit, and suddenly, you’re sitting there, waiting for the cliffhanger to be explained while trying to remember why the hell you should care what Quicksilver was doing five minutes before it happened and why you can’t just skip ahead to the yummy shit. Headache material, honestly. So, anyway. The scene has been set. Yay. Civil War is in progress. What we know now and what I am desperately trying to remember here:

Bucky is still in the wind.

Steve’s resistance is being annoying and resisting, but occasionally making sense, gaining traction, and also getting innocent people hurt left and right.

Tony is entering his “I am a very scary man” era and is also getting people hurt left and right, both physically and emotionally.

Peter is still with Tony but is having a minor existential crisis every five minutes on the account of emotional hurt, and barely any other Marvel issue in this timeline doesn't have an opinion on why he is still with Tony, is he sucking his dick or what, 'thought he was the good guy'/'ah yeah, this is why Tony needed him', etc.

The X-Men are staying out of it, mostly, because they’ve seen this movie before.

Deadpool and Cable, as well as about a gazillion other supers, have their own shit going on, but I refuse to get into that.

The Thunderbolts are being shady, surprise surprise, and they only get an honorable mention here ‘cause I’ve mentioned them earlier to demonstrate Tony’s spiral into being not just a bit of an asshole but very much an asshole.

Reed is so into Tony that he’s about to do something crazy. (I don’t even know if the touching is consensual at this point, since he is absolutely whipped by Tony, and it stinks of Stockholm syndrome.) So, now that we have decided on where we are and had a cup of tea/smoke, let’s have a look at the actual Civil War issues as they proceed, Captain America Civil War issues and Iron Man issues, skip a bunch of other important shit after, but ultimately, get to where we need to be before Part 3 of me posting (some other day) because I want to talk about Tony and Bucky and not about Civil War.

Civil War (2006) #3 Alright, we are finally here, because Civil War #3 is where shit gets real. Tony, being the tactical genius and emotionally constipated mess that he is, decides that it’s time to spring a trap on Team Cap. He and his Pro-Reg team set up a fake distress call because Steve is Steve, and if there’s even the slightest chance someone needs saving, he’s gonna show up. Boom. Steve does, of course, and Steve and his Underground Resistance walk straight into it. This finally gives us the most tense superhero standoff so far, with S.H.I.E.L.D. hovering overhead, a ton of supers on both sides locked, loaded, and ready to throw hands, and Peter right in the middle, not knowing how the fuck he got stuck with this lot. Tony, to his credit, tries to be the adult here. He actually reaches out, extends an olive branch, and tries to talk some sense into Steve before this escalates into full-out war (okay, okay, he tells him to chill the fuck out and comply, in slightly different words, but there is an actual amnesty Tony has worked out if Steve goes willingly, so he did try). Steve, being the absolute icon of stubbornness that he is, nods. Agrees to talk, at least. And immediately tries to take Tony down using some sneaky tech. Which gives us Tony vs. Steve, and it is GLORIOUS. These two beat the absolute crap out of each other, while everyone else on their respective teams also starts brawling (dozens/hundreds), with caped bodies flying, punches being thrown, and Peter still mostly blinking, but also fighting, while being upset that he failed to mediate between his two extremely stupid super dads and is not enjoying the whole “exhausted child of divorce” role they’ve been trying to pin on him. The fight between Tony and Steve is brutal, but Tony actually has an edge, since he’s Extremis-enhanced, a tech genius, years ahead in strategy, bla-bla-bla—so Steve is struggling. It goes on for a while, this fight, and then, the cliffhanger to end all cliffhangers. Because Thor (codename “Lightning”—this is important) shows up to backup Team Tony. Which shouldn’t be a big deal, right? We suspected it, since hammer and all, but... christ.

Civil War #4 is where we go from “Oh shit” to “OH FUCK NO.” The Thor that shows up at the end of Civil War #3 is not… actually Thor? Only in comic books, folks, since he’s a clone that Tony, Reed, and Hank Pym cooked up in a lab. While Team Cap is a bit shook, (they take Thor being a god of thunder seriously, he’s also been presumed dead for ages), Tony is trying to get Steve to give up, but Steve is having none of it. It seems largely (ha!) in favor of Team Tony right now, until Goliath (a massive giant person, can shrink down, used to be buddies with Thor, actually) shows up for Team Cap and Thor… kills the fuck out of his nice buddy, making everyone, Tony included, freeze in a “what the actual fuck just happened?” terror, since innocents getting hurt and extras getting hurt are sorta… whatever, but this is one of their own, technically, biting it. Team Cap calls for a retreat, very shook, and Reed’s Sue Storm is the first important superhero to straight-up bail on the Pro-Registration side right this moment because she is DONE with this bullshit and with Reed, who has been such an asshole to Fantastic Four, honestly—not giving a crap about Johnny being in a coma and possibly (at the very least emotionally) cheating on her with Tony. Sue is so done that she shields Team Cap long enough for them to get away, and after the fight writes Reed a dramatic “I’m leaving you, please feed yourself, there’s oily fish” note, and takes Johnny (who is no longer in a coma, yay!) with her to fight the good fight, or a fight, as long as it's not on Reed's side. And on both sides, folks on the sideline are starting to really question leadership and what kind of fight it really is. Peter is actually asking, “Wait… are we the baddies?” having massive doubts about Tony, and Steve doesn’t seem to give a shit how many of his friends get hurt, and it’s all very fucking gutting and not even a little funny. In general, this looks bad for both Steve and Tony, because Steve is throwing his side against Tony’s like cannon fodder and doesn’t seem to listen to anyone’s opinions on the fact that amnesty is at least worth discussing at this point, and Tony is after causing massive (ha!) death with a faulty clone, so a lot of superheroes are—if not outright bailing and changing sides now—at least considering it. Tony actually pays for Goliath’s funeral, since he was a cool guy and didn’t shrink down after dying. Had to buy him a massive amount of plots because, well… giant. Has a gutting interaction with his widow that tries to remind him what Tony is doing this for to begin with. For me this is a very important issue for Tony's character in this. He pays for Goliath’s funeral, because that’s who Tony is—he genuinely does care. But instead of acknowledging that this is the moment to stop, to rethink, to pull back, he keeps going, because, sadly, caring doesn’t stop him from marching forward and getting deeper and deeper into this.

Captain America (2004) #22 – The One Where Steve Gets Laid (and Sharon Gets Therapy for related reasons)

While Tony and Steve are busy emotionally wrecking each other on a public stage, we take a brief (very) detour into the mess that is Steve Rogers’ love life. Hill, who has been on a power trip ever since Fury went underground, decides that since Steve is still out there resisting like a stubborn bastard, someone needs to bring him in. And who better than his kinda-ex, kinda-current, definitely-in-love-with-him S.H.I.E.L.D. agent girlfriend?

Sharon is not thrilled because she’s really not here for the double standards. Like, Tony liaises (👀) with half of the superhero community, according to her, and the better half of S.H.I.E.L.D and nobody gives him shit, but the moment she has a little love crisis and starts questioning where her loyalty actually lies, suddenly, it’s a whole thing.

But fine. Mission accepted.

Sharon sets out to “bring Steve in”—by which I mean she tracks him down, immediately bangs him, and then quotes dead presidents at him in the post-coital glow. And because it's also Steve's love language, he also starts quoting dead presidents back. (If you’ve ever wondered what Steve’s pillow talk is like, now you know.)

Now, in case you were still wondering whether Sharon is truly down bad for Steve, let’s talk about how she sabotaged her own mission by giving the strike team (cape-killers) the wrong address. On purpose. So she could a) bang Steve and b) display her undying passion for those dead president quotes.

And this is why Sharon is in therapy. Because, as it turns out, this is how S.H.I.E.L.D. traditionally deals with traitors.

For those who remember what I talked about in Part 1 of this pre-civil war, here is something: Red Skull and Lukin are still out there, watching all of this unfold like it’s their personal Netflix binge, and they are THRIVING. They love that the heroes who should be stopping them are too busy punching each other instead. And because they are absolute dickheads, they are also actively manipulating Sharon’s emotions to make her feelings for Steve even stronger.

(Which explains the banging. Though, let’s be honest—she was into it.)

Amazing Spider-Man (1999) #535 (and half of the next Spider-Man-specific issue, sorta) – The One Where Tony Officially Breaks Peter’s Heart (And Ours) Alright, kids, this is it, and you should be thankful I made you crack a smile over dead presidents (hopefully), because this is crying-level shit.

This is where Peter starts realizing that maybe, just maybe, signing up with Tony was a colossal fucking mistake— and not just sorta feeling it.

Tony, still deeply entrenched in his “I Am the Government Now” phase, still has a soft spot for Peter (awww, tragic) and when Peter demands to see where the prisoners he is bringing in and not loving it are kept, Tony decides that it’s time to give Peter the full tour of the Negative Zone prison (a very dodgy place, tbh).

And our science nerd, all-around good guy, man with a conscience—takes one look at the absolute nightmare Tony has built and goes, “Wait. What the actual fuck is this? You can't be serious.” Tony: “Oh, yeah, this? This is where we’re locking up heroes who don’t register. Indefinitely. Without trial. In a literal alternate dimension, so no lawyer can ever get them out.” Peter, blinking hard, possibly resisting the urge to throw up: “…Excuse me?” Peter tries to confront Tony about it, he does, but very quickly catches on that Tony is not above implying he can do the same to him. Which is… whelp.

The whole conversation goes something like this, if you want a slightly longer version (see visuals for the full one): Peter: “Hey, Tony, quick question—what the fuck?” Tony: “Ah, Peter, my boy, don’t worry about it, this is for the greater good.” Peter: “The greater good? Again, what the fuck?” Tony: “You’re being dramatic.” Peter: “Am I? Am I though?” Tony: “Peter…” Peter: “Dad?” (happens) Tony promptly tries to ship Peter off on some other business to get him to cool off, but Peter is finally on board with the fact that this man has cracked, and he no longer feels safe around him. He doesn't even trusts MJ and Aunt May with Tony anymore (threats have been made) and tries to take them and go on the run. And then… He and Tony end up exchanging punches. God, it’s so bad and upsetting, you have no idea. I have no jokes for this, and ship it, don’t ship it, but this is the ultimate betrayal on Tony’s part. Peter is falling apart after, barely escaping, not knowing where to go, and Tony… is also feeling heartbroken, equally as gutted. I’m gonna leave this here for now, since we need to go into some other issues before we continue with this plotline. But you get me, yes? I need tissues when I think about this.

Captain America (2004) #23 - BUCKY!

Alright, everyone, take a deep breath. We are finally getting to the Bucky part of this winteriron timeline.

Bucky is officially entering the chat, and he is looking DAMN FINE while doing it, got a new hair-dew + arm and everything. He also has a lot of feelings while breaking into a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility to pull some spy shit for Fury, because of course he is, and I am devastated I am running out of image limit here soon.

He’s absolutely judging Steve for leading a resistance movement and somehow not inviting him... and sorta doing it the way he's doing it.

He’s also side-eyeing Tony for being a government stooge, even though that’s neither here nor there, since they don’t actually know each other at all (yet), but awareness is awareness, and it still doesn’t stop him from forming an opinion.

Bucky is, in fact, just generally pissed. And sexy. Always sexy. But the best part—and why Bucky really should be shaking hands with Peter here (another shoutout to winterspider)—is that Bucky is watching Steve and Tony’s breakup in real-time and judging both of them.

His basic thoughts on the matter boil down to “Wow, I left you two alone for five minutes, and this is what happens?” since while Steve and Tony are out here making Civil War everyone’s problem, Bucky is off-screen, forced into being hot and competent, actually doing something productive by hunting real villains.

He has zero actual desire to get involved in the war itself, though he does seem to be more pro-Steve, obviously, and is way more concerned about Red Skull and Lukin than he is about whatever the hell Steve and Tony are doing.

Speaking of villains, Red Skull, who we find out is using Doom’s tech but not actually working with him, is under the impression that the whole Civil War was his big, evil, successful plan. (It wasn’t, everyone contributed, but let’s humor him.)

On the slightly more angsty side—because Bucky never misses an opportunity for angst, picked it up from Steve—he does blame himself a little bit for Civil War, since some of the shit he did when he first got defrosted was cited as part of the long-ass list of “Why the SRA Needs to Exist.” Not that he’s spiraling over it, but he’s self-aware enough to recognize he helped fuel the fire. But mostly, he’s doing what Bucky kicks ass at—being hot in shadows, judging everyone, avoiding Steve’s nonsense, avoiding Tony’s nonsense, and handling actual problems. God, I want his babies.

Civil War (2006) #5

Where we swing back to Tony being a massive dick about almost everything—except for the fact that he loves Peter, one way or another.

At this point, they are sorta in the process of arguing/fighting (there is some timeline overlap), Peter is trying to run away from him, and when S.H.I.E.L.D. is about to take it too far, Tony absolutely panics because he cannot see Peter hurt.

But Peter is now technically a fugitive, and Tony’s side has recruited some deeply unhinged people, so it’s open season on Spidey, with very specific instructions that Peter is to be brought in alive and unharmed—no matter what.

That would have been great… except Peter is now running on pure panic and heartbreak, immediately realizes he is completely fucked, ends up in a stinky sewer, and gets his ass kicked into next week.

He almost dies but gets saved by Punisher of all people, who promptly brings him to Steve and the Resistance (where Sue and Johnny are pretending to be a married couple for a mission, which is weird—let’s not talk about it).

Meanwhile, Tony is spiraling. Again.

His entire strategy is falling apart, Sue Storm has already dumped Reed over this bullshit war, Steve is still out there leading his resistance, and now his own protégé—his son in all but name—has turned against him.

Tony is visibly wrecked over Peter’s defection, but since he has the emotional processing skills of a brick, he just channels all that heartbreak into “fine, let’s get Daredevil arrested next” energy, which he does—for which he is given a piece of silver and called Judas. (Brutal.)

That’s not to say Tony doesn’t care. He very clearly does, and this issue makes it obvious that he still sees Peter as a kid who needs protection, even when Peter himself doesn’t want it. But his way of showing it is, unfortunately, locking up Peter’s friends in a pocket dimension and putting a hit out on him (technically), so, uh… yeah.

Meanwhile, Steve is also getting more extreme, starting to questionably recruit people he normally wouldn’t, and letting Punisher into his little rebellion. (Which is definitely going to end well. Totally.) He is also over the moon Peter is on his side now and announces it to the others while... Peter is still unconscious. Now tell me both Steve and Tony are not simply fighting here over who gets to read him a bedtime story? Come on.

The Invincible Iron Man (2004) #13 & Amazing Spider-Man (1999) #536: (Tony’s Possible Career Change & Peter’s “Fuck You” Tour)

Alright, so The Invincible Iron Man (2004) #13 is technically Tony’s first solo Civil War issue, but fuck all actually happens.

It’s mostly a lot of “Tony, what the fuck are we doing?” meetings, brooding with some old friends, chatting to Happy while being deeply unhappy, and simultaneously spiraling, yet still, and committing war crimes in the name of national security. (Multitasking, sure.)

But one major thing does happen here, and while it’s just an offer at this point, it’s HUGE:

They start floating the idea of Tony taking over as Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

At this point, S.H.I.E.L.D. is still running itself into the ground under Maria Hill’s special brand of leadership, but someone suggests that maybe, just maybe, the guy who is single-handedly running the actual show anyway should just be in charge of the whole thing.

And while that doesn’t happen just yet, it changes EVERYTHING for what happens post-Civil War. When it finally comes, is going to be a game-changer for his relationship with Bucky later on. (Yes, we are keeping our winteriron priorities straight, thank you.)

So, while this is happening and I am yawning 'cause Tony's first issue is so fucking underwhelming, in the Amazing Spider-Man (1999) #536, we pick up from Peter’s dramatic escape and near-death sewer experience, and things are finally coming to a head.

Peter, now officially 100% done with Tony’s bullshit, does something that could not be a bigger middle finger if he tried.

He digs out his old, classic Spider-Man suit (because fuck the Iron Spider, fuck you, Tony, I called you Dad unironically, you were my family, WTF), goes on national TV, and gives a full speech dragging the entire SRA, the Civil War, and Tony himself.

And as a helpful reminder here… Peter is not a “friendly neighborhood Spider-Man” in these comic books—he is a fucking legend, a bright, shining beacon of good for so many people (while still a menace to others, of course), and what he says actually matters.

For all of my shippy jokes and the subtext, there is a real reason why both sides want him. And it’s not just because he’s hella adorable and can kick things really hard.

When he talks, people listen. And when he does start talking, he absolutely obliterates the SRA, calls it unconstitutional, publicly calls out the people supporting it, and tells the world that he refuses to be part of it anymore. Tony loses his shit.

Okay, okay, some food for thought here, for once not related to ships I see everywhere (I have a sick mind and you are somehow still reading this, so don't ask me what's wrong with me and I will not ask you what's wrong with you).

Now, before anyone grabs their pitchforks, this is not me defending Tony’s actions (man makes a LOT of mistakes, obviously), but it is also worth remembering that he’s not a total monster here. He genuinely believes that what he’s doing is necessary, and unlike in the MCU where it’s all “let’s get a leash because one building blew up and we might have destroyed a country” the 616 version of Tony actually has a more thought-out (if deeply flawed) reason for being on the Pro-Reg side.

So, what is Tony trying to sell people on here?

Superheroes need to be trained. The trigger event for the SRA was a bunch of untrained, reality-TV-era heroes going up against a villain way out of their league, and as a result, a school full of children exploded. From Tony’s perspective, this was preventable. If these heroes had been properly trained, those kids (and some other people, but I mostly say kids, this is me not being nitty-gritty accurate about everything) wouldn’t be dead. This is not entirely wrong, but his method of fixing it is basically turning superheroes into government employees and locking up anyone who doesn’t comply, which is… less great.

The public has lost trust in superheroes. And Tony, unlike Steve, actually cares about public perception, comes with his brand and all. He sees this as a way to restore faith in the superhero community by offering transparency and accountability. The problem is obviously the way it’s being enforced is, again, deeply flawed and increasingly authoritarian.

The alternative, in his mind, is worse. He is absolutely cracked as far as Peter is concerned (fair), but here’s where Tony’s futurist brain actually screws him over—because he is not wrong when he says that if the superheroes don’t regulate themselves, the government will do it for them, and it’ll be worse. He thinks he’s getting ahead of the inevitable, but instead of negotiating and making sure the law is fair, he enforces it like an actual jackbooted stormtrooper.

So yeah, Tony is still a mess, and he’s still doing a lot of fucked-up things, but his core reasoning isn’t as evil as some people paint it in here and maybe even not as bad as I paint it overall in this recap.

He truly thinks he’s saving lives and making the world safer. He’s just doing it in the most morally questionable, emotionally compromised way possible, and at some point, even he knows it’s spiraling. That doesn’t excuse the Negative Zone prison or bounty hunting his own allies, engaging in shady business and, Jesus Fuck, cloning Thor, but it does explain why he started down this path in the first place. Tony is also on the side of the law and, for the most part, public opinion here (mostly, since actual normal public is scared AF right now). The problem is, the law isn’t always right, and Tony, in all his genius, somehow keeps forgetting that.

Now let’s hop over to Steve (“Oh No, Babe, What Are You Doing?” should be the title of his entire movement) and talk about how his ideals are great but his execution is a trainwreck. Look, Steve is not wrong—but he’s also not right in the way he thinks he is. And the biggest issue with Steve in Civil War is that his entire approach boils down to “Fuck No.” That’s it. No. No compromise. No alternative plan. Just hardcore, unwavering, freedom-loving NO. Steve’s Core Beliefs in Civil War:

"This is about freedom." Steve believes heroes should have the right to make their own choices about when and how they act, and he fundamentally rejects the idea that they should be forced to register. (Fair point, buddy, but maybe think of a Plan B? No? Cool, cool.)

"If the government can force us to do this, what’s next?” Steve has read a history book before and is fully aware that government overreach never stops at just one bad idea. And considering how mutants have already been treated (X-men and mutants are a very persecuted group here), he is not about to wait around and find out what comes next.

“I will not be controlled.” Instead of seeing if there’s a way to meet halfway or at least slow things down, Steve immediately goes, “Fuck this,” ditches his government job, and starts an underground resistance movement.

Which brings us to Steve’s biggest flaw in Civil War. Where Steve Screws Up:

Steve doesn’t even TRY to negotiate. Tony, for all his shady billionaire manipulation tactics, at least pretended to be open to discussion. Steve refused outright. Instead of using his influence to propose a better system when he still absolutely can, he straight-up vanishes into the night like Batman with extra patriotism.

His resistance is a mess. Unlike Tony, who is (somewhat) organizing a structured system, Steve’s team is basically “whoever wants to punch the government in the face” with no real plan beyond “resist.” He takes Punisher in, for crying out loud. There are no rules, no real discussions about alternatives, and no clear path forward with Steve's movement at all. This means his resistance is a bunch of scared, desperate heroes who are putting civilians in danger while trying to evade capture and kinda... all want to go home.

He is willing to let people get hurt for his cause. People are getting hurt left and right, not just his own team but also civilians caught in the crossfire. Instead of adapting or trying to find a smarter way forward, Steve just keeps doubling down, because this man went all-in on a bad bet and refuses to walk away from the table.

He does not listen. To anyone. A lot of people would have been on his side if he had actually tried to talk about a solution instead of running headfirst into a guerrilla war. Even when his own people start to question him, he digs his heels in and refuses to budge. Fuck them and the horse they rode in on is basic response to any "Emm... dude?"

Steve vs. Tony: The Real Tragedy

Steve sees Tony as a sellout, Tony sees Steve as reckless and the reality here is that they’re both kind of right.

Steve is fighting for freedom, but his method is chaotic and ultimately very dangerous. Tony is trying to prevent chaos, but his method is authoritarian, ruthless, and deeply problematic. And this is why Civil War is what it is. And why it is a lot more fun than the MCU one, if you properly get into it. At the end of the day, comic book Civil War isn’t just about laws and the SRA—it’s about two men who genuinely believe they’re doing the right thing, both completely incapable of seeing the middle ground. And, well… it all ends in disaster, obviously.

Captain America (2004) #24: In which Steve takes a page out of Bucky's book and punches the right people (for, like, 5 whole seconds) for a change. Finally! A break from all the Civil War emotional trauma to remind us that, yeah, Steve is a hero first, war criminal second. I am gonna guess it’s because we’re getting close to the finish line here (you are nearly free, yay!), so they just had to show Steve fighting someone other than his own friends for once. Progress. For… reasons.

He’s still knee-deep in Civil War Resistance mode, but he remembers for one night that there are actual bad guys in the world and focuses on a real threat: Hydra. (Or Hydra-adjacent assholes. And explosions. Lots of explosions.)

So, in this quick issue, Steve teams up with Sharon, who is now secretly working with Fury (who is still underground being an off-brand James Bond with a cigar budget, doing his own resistance thing much better), and together, they take on some good ol’ Hydra goons. Well, Steve takes on Hydra goons by blowing them up (probably killing them, but let’s just say “off-screen unconsciousness” for the sake of the PG-13 rating), and Sharon rolls in with her flying car to rescue him from S.H.I.E.L.D.

And, oh yeah, Red Skull is still lurking in the background, thriving on the fact that the Civil War is keeping everyone too distracted to stop him. He’s over here cackling like a Scooby-Doo villain, making sure Steve and Tony stay too busy ruining each other’s lives to notice he’s playing puppet master behind the scenes. (Smart move, honestly. Props to him for being the one guy who actually planned his shit out properly.)

Look, the details might be fuzzy (it’s getting late for me here), but the core takeaway is this: Cap is actually being Captain America again for an entire issue—stopping real threats, foiling evil plans, and protecting people instead of just yeeting his side at Tony’s.

The Invincible Iron Man (2004) #14

A good Tony issue following a good Steve issue… I wonder why that is. Not a good issue in the sense that Tony’s thriving—oh no, this man is drowning in consequences—but good in the sense that we finally get a proper deep dive into the emotional wreckage that is Tony Stark, destroyer of friendships, king of bad decisions, and certified government tool (actual fucking tool, honestly, but I love him and he can have Bucky’s babies, though I am not into mpreg).

This issue is actually packed.

Happy is dying in a hospital bed, Steve is still actively resisting arrest, Peter is on a fugitive road trip, and Sue Storm is ready to rip Tony’s head off for ruining her marriage. The government is still offering him more power, because sure, let’s give the stressed-out man on the verge of a breakdown full control over the most powerful intelligence agency on Earth.

Anyhow… not to go into too much detail here, but Tony cannot resist one last chance to talk things out with Steve and arranges a stadium meeting with Cap. You might think, “Oh, good, they’re going to try reasoning with each other like adults!” HAHAHA, NOPE.

The meeting lasts about five seconds before it devolves into a fight, which Steve… starts again. The emotional tension is through the roof, Peter is there too (aww, hurts), and they’re not just fighting over the SRA, they’re fighting over their entire broken relationship. If someone played “It’s Time to Go” by Taylor Swift over this sequence, it would fit perfectly.

Though Tony actually mostly fights with Peter here and still manages to pay him a compliment in the process, giving us hope that not all is lost, which we desperately need. But overall, the whole thing is still a disaster. Life is fully kicking Tony's ass from all directions, the temptation to drown it in whiskey is creeping back in, he is considering hitting the bottle, and… Tony is at a crossroads. He’s losing everyone who ever mattered to him, his side is looking increasingly shady, and the weight of everything is crashing down on him. We actually get some raw, human, vulnerable Tony, instead of just “mustache-twirling villain” Tony. So yeah, finally, a good Tony issue.

In case you were wondering, Peter is in fact fully on team Cap now, not just for the stadium fight, and in the Amazing Spider-Man (1999) #537 still has his morals intact (bless him), and this issue is about reinforcing that.

So, Steve—who is now basically Peter’s new/old father figure, 'sits' him down and hits him with the big speech.

And, my GOD, does he deliver it.

He drops one of the most iconic Captain America monologues in all of comic book history:

“Doesn’t matter what the press says. Doesn’t matter what the politicians or the mob say. Doesn’t matter if the whole country decides that something wrong is something right. This nation was founded on one principle above all else: the requirement that we stand up for what we believe, no matter the odds or the consequences.”

And you just know this wrecks Peter emotionally, because this is exactly the kind of moral backbone that made him idolize heroes in the first place. This is the moment where Peter fully solidifies his stance. He’s not just on Team Cap because he got burned by Tony—he believes in what Steve is saying. Tony is having an emotional crisis over Peter leaving, which I completely understand, and... Peter also throws some flirty one-liners at the Cap, since our babe can't help it.

Civil War (2006) #6 and we are at maximum endgame (ugh, still hurts) mode now.

At this point in the war, neither side is even pretending to be civil despite moments of personal growth, slash remembering who they are, and both Steve and Tony have fully committed to their respective roles as Head of the Underground Resistance (Steve) and CEO of Government Overreach Inc. (Tony).

We start off with Tony and Reed in full villain arc, sipping coffee and talking about how crime rates are dropping (I have no idea how, since all the superheroes are busy beating the shit out of each other instead of fighting crime, but never mind me), and immediately move on to the Punisher deciding today is the day for homicide.

He sneaks into the Baxter Building (as one does) to steal information on “Number 42” which is not Tony’s latest suit model but instead the name for his prison in the Negative Zone where they’re throwing unregistered heroes indefinitely and that caused Peter and Tony to block each other on Facebook.

Totally normal, non-dystopian behavior, nothing to see here.

Sue Storm is out here making power moves too, pulling up to Atlantis and trying to convince Namor to get off his fishy ass and help Team Cap. Namor, in true “I am too sexy to care” fashion, basically shrugs and says, “Surface problems? Sounds like a you problem,” before dramatically flipping his cape and walking away. (Sue, girl, I admire the effort and only mention it, cause you are one of the very few truly likable characters in this Event.)

Back at Team Cap’s HQ, Steve unveils his master plan: an all-out raid on the Negative Zone prison to free their captured allies. The team is hyped, ready for action—until Punisher casually murders two villains in cold blood right in front of everyone because they dared to ask if they could help. Steve, who may be a war criminal but still has standards, absolutely loses it and beats the hell out of Frank before throwing him out of the rebellion.

Tony on his end is having an emotional meeting with Miriam Sharpe (aka, “Tony’s #1 Fan Who Also Made Him Feel Like Shit at That Funeral”). He throws some cash at a pretty garden with angels for the dead kids, she thanks him for all his hard work but also makes it clear that, yeah, this war is costing him everything. (Gee, thanks for the reminder, Miriam, I’m sure Tony didn’t notice he’s lost literally all of his friends by now.)

The issue ends with Steve pulling a classic Uno Reverse Card on Tony. The Pro-Reg forces think they’re about to stomp the rebellion once and for all, but—surprise, bitches!—Team Cap knew there was a mole in their ranks (Ragnarök, I’m looking at you, you Dollar Store Thor knockoff), and they had Hulkling impersonate Hank Pym to sneak in and free all the captured heroes before the fight even starts. So, yeah. Big-ass battle incoming, and I can nearly go to sleep.

Civil War (2006) #7 You’ve made it! (I low-key question if anyone actually did make it this far, but I am very into this now, so…)

This is the big one. The final battle. The moment where all this superhero divorce drama comes to a head, and oh my God, it is so much.

So, after about a million issues of emotional devastation, betrayal, and Peter collecting father figures like infinity stones, we finally get the massive all-out brawl between Team Cap and Team Tony. And when I say massive, I mean half the Marvel Universe is throwing hands in the middle of New York City. Superpowered beings are crashing through buildings, explosions are going off everywhere, and don't ask me why they thought “protecting civilians” and “obliterating the city” were compatible ideas.

Steve and Tony really do go at it like two exes who just found out they were sleeping with the same person (Peter, doll, what are you doing? Kidding, kidding).

Steve is beating the absolute shit out of Tony, and Tony—who is running on the fumes of guilt and exhaustion—lets him.

Because Tony is ready to die. That’s right. Tony, who has been holding onto control like his life depends on it (because it literally does), just gives up, drops the metaphorical gloves, and basically tells Steve: “Go ahead, finish it.”

And Steve almost does.

(Not to draw parallels here, but Bucky tried to pull the same move with him and proceed with murder-kill when he was brainwashed. What's Steve's excuse here?)

Like, Steve almost wins. The Resistance might not have, but Steve does. He is seconds away from beating Tony to actual death in the middle of the nightmare they’ve caused—but then. Civilians. Regular-ass, non-superpowered, completely terrified people tackle Steve to the ground.

They’re not protecting Tony (maybe a little, it's up for debate, see the panels)—they’re stopping Steve. Because holy shit, Steve. Look at what you’ve done. Steve does. Look. And finally sees it.

The destruction, the sheer chaos, the city that’s half in ruins because of this war. He sees the fear in their eyes and realizes that this isn’t about freedom anymore. He’s lost the plot. They’ve all kind of lost the plot, and someone has to give up, and he will not let Tony beat him to it.

So, Steve. Fucking. Stops.

He takes off his mask, drops his shield, and says, “It’s over.” He turns himself in. He turns Steve Rogers in specifically, essentially following the law, and Team Cap officially loses the war.

At the end of this, Tony—bruised, in desperate need of a good fuck (hey, Bucky, where you at?), and still internally monologuing about how the fuck his life turned into this—is appointed Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. And this is how, after so many words, christ, the Civil War officially, techically ends, and the winteriron timeline can properly begin. Happy tears, I am crying happy tears right now.

So, Part 3 of this ‘brief’ (lol) timeline is coming ASAP, and it does deliver on some juicy Bucky and Tony interactions—actual on-page moments, not just me connecting the angst dots with wishful thinking, promise.

And if you’re thinking things might slow down now—oh, my sweet summer child. We are only just getting to the fun part, since Captain America essentially becomes Bucky’s comic book. The stakes are different, the players have shifted, but Tony and Bucky finally start existing in the same space.

If Civil War was crazy, what happens next is the part where we go off the rails entirely in the best possible way.

To confirm, where we are:

Bucky is in the wind but possibly smoking cigars with Fury.

Bad guys who were ignored for this Event do have some plotty evil planned.

Tony is in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D. and he still has to keep hunting down anti-registration supers.

Steve is alive and in jail. For now.

And Peter—oh God, I have to mention this, because I must, and this just further confirms that some of the editors were shipping Peter with someone other than MJ.

So, Peter is an absolute disaster, thanks for asking. And if you know comic books and reading this just to laugh at me getting shit wrong and are wondering, “Wow, does she about to mention One More Day?”—yes. Yes, I am. And I don’t want to talk about it. But I will, just for a second.

One More Day (2007) is Marvel committing a crime against humanity.

It’s a four-issue arc where Marvel editorial decided Peter was too happy and needed to suffer more, so they erased his marriage to MJ from existence. (Ah, yeah, he was married to her this whole time, in case I didn’t mention it, but I was too busy pushing Starker on people if the winteriron angle didn’t work out.)

Basically, after Civil War, Peter’s life goes to absolute hell. He unmasked, so every villain with a grudge is coming for him, Kingpin puts out a hit, and Aunt May gets shot.

Peter, being the absolute hero of a man that he is, tries everything to save her. He begs Tony for help (doesn’t work). He tries to make a deal with Doctor Strange (doesn’t work). And just when it looks like May is going to die, the literal devil (Mephisto) shows up and is like, “Hey, Pete, what if I saved your aunt, but in exchange, I erased your marriage to MJ from existence so you two never got married and will never be happy together?”

And Peter and MJ actually say yes. BOOM. Years of character development and one of Marvel’s most iconic relationships is GONE, conveniently removing all that pesky guilt when Peter flirts with older men.

So, Aunt May lives, but now Peter and MJ were never married, and no one remembers he unmasked during Civil War. The comic book fandom hates it. The writers regret it. Everyone pretends it didn’t happen. Marvel did make a movie about this though, kinda. Also kidding. But for real, it’s one of the most infamous and universally despised retcons in Marvel history.

And on that cheerful and very nerdy note, thank you for reading.

Masterpost with all parts

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