#Tech Meets Taste

[nallamadras]

Meat the Future: Israel's 3D-Printed Culinary Revolution!

Israeli Company Pioneers the Future: Printing Meat! In the bustling landscape of technological innovations, Israel has always been at the forefront. This time, it’s not about cyber-security, AI, or drones but something that touches a basic human need – food. An Israeli company has created ripples in the culinary world by introducing a groundbreaking method to ‘print’ meat. Yes, you read that…

[10moonymhrivertam]

I haven't tried searching tags yet (I've mostly filtered by highest bookmarks, published after the Amazon episodes); but I've been jonesing for fics that really sink their teeth into Alastor's relationship with his Mom, or where he's somehow reunited with his Mom and has to face her opinions/scolding

[arminsumi]

Ahhh, student!Satoru, who's leaning into the palm of his hand, mouth concealed behind his pale hand, eyes stuck on you. And they've been stuck on you ever since he saw you first walk up the steps into Jujutsu Tech. Bright blue. Heart quivering. Fixed gaze.

He takes any excuse to be near you, even though he knows that you're annoyed by him — he's so cocky and full of himself. But don't you see that he's also just a lovesick boy? Look at the way he follows after you down the halls, long striding legs effortlessly meeting your quick pace.

You're just trying to get a cold soda from the vending machine after a long two hours of practicing martial arts with Satoru, Suguru and Shoko. And since Shoko promptly left with Suguru for a cigarette break, that left an overjoyed Satoru alone with you.

"Which flavor do you usually get?" he asks, grasping at any conversation starter he can think of. He just wants to talk to you, even if it's about something so dumb... even if it's while stood next to a vending machine.

"Uh, strawberry... it's my favorite."

He takes a mental note of that.

He's always trying to get your attention, even if he has to become a fool in order to earn a glance from you. Walking away, looking dumb, even his best friend shakes his head at him and tells him that he's way too downbad for a girl that doesn't even like him back.

But Satoru doesn't listen to anyone when they say that you don't like him back. He knows the chemistry is there, as awkward as it may be sometimes. He knows there's something connecting him and you, like an invisible thread.

He still brings you gifts on V-day. He still pesters you in class. He still shares one earbud with you on train rides. He still gets that accelerated heart beat when you so much as graze your hand over his while walking side-by-side.

So eagerly looking at your lips, Satoru pulls out lip balm and makes eye contact with you while applying it. He's always got chapped lips, he knows because someone made exactly 1 comment about it and now he's never forgotten to put a lip balm in his pocket.

"Whatchya starin' at my lips for? You wanna have a taste of strawberry?" he winks, puckering his kissable lips at you.

"Ough..." you cringe at him, "Satoru, it's no wonder you're single."

Okay, he has zero flirting skills. But he earns a smile out of you right then, so even if he's cringe, he's surely doing something right. Are the cogs turning in your head? Do you think he's cute? Do you want to kiss him should he lean into a kiss oh he's leaning into a kiss now aaand he nearly falls flat on his face, because you didn't notice that he was leaning in for a kiss and now he just has to play it off and look like a dumbass once again.

His feelings grow exponentially as the years pass.

You're always catching him staring and he doesn't even feel ashamed.

Though it's been on his mind all the time, it's not until after three years of knowing you that Satoru kisses you.

It happens one day during heavy rainfall. He runs to you with a grin, no umbrella, totally soaked, and like a bright-eyed bunny he bounces at your side.

He's unzipping his uniform jacket, hanging it over the two of you. The proximity has his heart thumping. Before he knows it, he's leaning down to kiss you, right there as the two of you are concealed from the world in your own little bubble — in reality, everyone knows that you two are liplocking under Satoru's jacket. Duh. His shoes click on the ground as he repositions himself, bending his knees and arching down to meet your lips, 'till his spine gets angry at him for falling for a short girl.

[sunshinesfreckless]

His Spoiled Girl

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Bang Chan x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bang Chan loves making full use of his Stray Kids leader money—especially when it comes to her.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, blowjobs, handjobs (you know… all the jobs), lingerie, daddy kink

A/N: Other members were requested! Lmk which Member you desire next.

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Han ୨ৎ Leeknow

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Bang Chan wasn’t just her boyfriend.

He was her provider. Her protector.

It didn’t matter that he was knee-deep in deadlines, producing tracks until sunrise, answering five calls at once, and coaching the younger members like a seasoned general—

────୨ৎ────

The fur coat was stunning. Hand-delivered from Milan.

Not just fur. Cruelty-free, custom dyed in her favorite shade, with a golden nameplate on the inside that read:

“For my queen. - BC”Real Fendi. Snow leopard print, soft as sin, the kind of thing only his girl could pull off. She hadn’t even asked for it—just sighed once at a photo on her phone—and now it was hanging in her closet like it had always belonged there.

“I just mentioned it once,” she breathed, stunned.

“You don’t mention things to me, baby,” Chan said with a lazy smirk from the doorway, sleeves rolled, veins prominent, eyes dark. “You make declarations. And Daddy listens.”

────୨ৎ────

He was at the studio when she sent him the mirror selfie. Her in the coat, nothing underneath but lace.

Chan nearly groaned aloud, biting his lip as he watched the photo load. It was late, everyone else had gone home, but he was still at the mixer, sleeves rolled up, chest heaving with the weight of his next verse.

And now? Now he was hard.

He called her immediately.

“You tryin’ to kill me, princess?” he murmured, voice already thick. “You really put that on while I’m here working?”

She giggled sweetly. “I missed you.”

Chan’s response was immediate. “Stay right there. Don’t take it off. I’ll be home in fifteen.”

When he got back, she was waiting.

She was lounging on their bed, that coat slipping off one shoulder, her lips glossy, eyes wide and waiting. Chan stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, watching her like he hadn’t seen her in weeks.

“Come here.”

She obeyed instantly, crawling to him on all fours, the coat dragging behind her like a queen’s train.

He caught her chin between his fingers when she reached him, lifting her face to meet his eyes. “You know what this coat means, don’t you?”

She nodded. “That I’m yours.”

“No, baby,” he corrected, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip. “That you’re my only. And I take care of what’s mine.”

────୨ৎ────

There were perks to dating the leader of Stray Kids.

Like when she wanted a quiet date night, and Chan rented out an entire theater. Not just the movie—they projected a montage of her favorite K-dramas, edited together by a professional team he personally directed.

While she sat curled up in her fur, eating popcorn from a crystal bowl, Chan lounged beside her in joggers and a tight black tee, arm around her shoulder, legs spread like he owned the whole damn city.

Because he did. When it came to her—he did.

“Everyone should know what kind of taste my baby has,” he murmured against her temple. “And no one gets to enjoy it but me.”

────୨ৎ────

Her nails were fresh.

Long, almond-shaped, with crushed diamonds embedded in a sheer pink base. Chan had flown in a nail tech from Japan who only did private celebrity sessions. She didn’t even ask. He just made it happen.

He watched her trace a finger down his chest one night, those expensive nails glinting in the warm bedroom light.

“You like them?” she whispered.

Chan didn’t answer with words.

He grabbed her by the wrist, pressed her palm flat against his abs, and dragged it slowly lower until her hand was resting right over the hard bulge in his sweats.

“I paid for those hands,” he growled, voice thick. “Now put ‘em to work, princess.”

Her fingers twitched against the heavy outline in his sweats. He was already hard, aching, and she could feel the heat through the fabric—how thick he was, how much he needed her.

She didn’t rush.

Instead, she trailed her nails—slowly, teasingly—up his length, letting the crushed diamonds scrape softly through the cotton. Just enough to make him hiss.

Chan’s jaw tightened. “Don’t play.”

But she only smiled, sinking to her knees between his legs, those glossy, dangerous nails curling under the waistband of his sweats and pulling them down with a drag so slow it felt like torture.

His cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, leaking.

And her breath hitched at the sight.

All that for her.

She wrapped one manicured hand around him—delicate, expensive fingers closing around his base like they were sculpted for this. He groaned low, head falling back, and the sound made her clench.

She stroked him slow. Luxurious. Worshipful. Letting her rings clink softly with every glide. Her thumb swiped across the tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum with a practiced motion, her other hand resting light on his thigh, nails biting down with each twitch of his hips.

He looked down at her, eyes blazing.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Spoiled little thing… working Daddy’s cock like a fucking jewel thief.”

She grinned—wicked and proud—and twisted her wrist just how she knew he liked it. Grip just right. Pressure perfect. The way only she knew how to do.

And when his hips started to stutter, when he cursed under his breath in three different languages, she leaned in and whispered, sweet and smug:

“Wanna come for me, Daddy? All over the hands you bought?”

His groan broke in his throat.

And seconds later, he did.

────୨ৎ────

Studio nights weren’t quiet anymore.

Sometimes, she came barefoot, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies and nothing else, curling up on the sofa while he clicked through beats. Sometimes, she sprawled across his lap, thighs bare, pressing lazy kisses to his throat while he adjusted synth levels like it was just another Tuesday.

“Need to focus, sweetheart,” he’d murmur—but his hand would already be gripping her thigh, stroking slow circles, letting her know she was welcome anywhere he was.

She slid under the console like she belonged there, eyes glinting in the dim studio lights, lips already parted.

He didn’t say a word. Just let out a breath and leaned back slightly in the chair, the hand not working the mixer dropping to the side—to her.

She unzipped him slow. Silently. Pulled him out with both hands like unwrapping a gift she already knew by heart.

He was half-hard already. That changed the moment her warm breath ghosted over the tip.

She started with his balls—because she liked to tease. Wet, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin. Tongue tracing slow circles. Gentle sucks, one after the other, until his thighs twitched and his breath caught in the mic.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

She giggled against him.

And then she moved up.

Took the tip between her lips. Swirled her tongue around it like candy. Then sank down in one long, greedy motion—until he hit the back of her throat.

Chan slammed his hand on the desk, pretending it was about a track beat.

In reality, he was struggling not to thrust into her mouth.

She set a rhythm—slow, wet, deliberate. Hands twisting at the base, spit dripping onto her fingers as she bobbed her head. Every time she hollowed her cheeks and moaned around him, his grip on the chair tightened.

“You’re insane,” he rasped, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m working—”

She pulled off with a pop. Whispered, “Then work, Daddy. I’ll just keep your stress levels down.”

And went right back down on him.

Deeper this time. No mercy. Her nails dug into his thighs while her tongue worked underneath, tip pressed into that sensitive spot beneath the head. She sucked like she was trying to milk him, and Chan was fucking losing it.

When she went back to his balls—licking, sucking, slurping—and stroked him at the same time?

That’s when he came. Hard. Into her mouth, into her throat, with his head thrown back and a low growl muffled by his sleeve.

She swallowed everything.

And when she came back up from under the desk, licking her lips like she’d just come back from brunch.

────୨ৎ────

When she missed him during tour, she didn’t cry. She waited—with full trust that he would make it up to her.

And oh, he did.

The moment he stepped through the door, he lifted her up, walked her straight to the bed, and unwrapped her like a present.

“My good girl,” he whispered, voice rough, eyes dark with hunger. “Waited so sweet for me.”

She moaned as his hands explored her body like it had been years, not weeks. His thrusts were punishing, praise spilling out between every deep stroke, his voice laced with so much heat and pride, it broke her open.

“Missed this pussy,” he growled. “Missed my perfect, spoiled baby.”

────୨ৎ────

Once, a stylist made the mistake of telling her she “looked expensive.”

Chan had overheard. And later that night, he chuckled as he kissed her bare shoulder and whispered:

“She is expensive. And I’m the only one who can afford her.”

────୨ৎ────

Chan knew she didn’t love him for the money. Not the furs, not the jewels, not the VIP service that followed her around like a shadow.

She loved him.

It was in the way she waited for him to get home, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, sleepy-eyed and soft. In the way she packed snacks for the studio because she knew he’d forget. In the soft kiss she left on his temple every morning before he woke up.

And God—when she showed up at the studio late at night, just to sit quietly and wait?

That did him in.

She’d curl up on the studio couch, that coat wrapped around her, half-asleep but still humming along to the beat he was mixing. No complaints. No demands. Just there for him.

That was why he spoiled her. That was why he had to.

Because she was more than his girl.

She was his Life.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

@sapphirewaves @bemyaehiweloveskz @velvetmoonlght

[tinyshyteacup]

• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…"  Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?"  Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

[hughes-your-daddy]

Idk if you listen to Sabrina but in good graces where she says “break my heart and I swear I’m moving on to your favorite athlete” and now popstar!reader is in a happy but private relationship with Quinn. Her ex thought he could win her back after buying backstage passes and thinks he’s lucky to also meet his favorite athlete backstage only to find out Quinn and reader are together and Quinn is lowkey pretty protective of her

good graces

pairing: quinn hughes x singer!reader

summary: requested above

warning: creepy ex, mild sa

“i’m excited to see you perform baby,” quinn smiles, thumb running over your knuckles as you drive to the arena in the uber.

you had been asked to perform at the nhl all star game at half time, so here you are arriving at the arena for a sound check, ahead of tonight’s performance.

a few of the hockey players would also be there to do some pr, but hopefully none of them should be watching. well, quinn has made it his mission to sneak a peek since he won’t be able to watch tonight.

you quickly arrive, hopping out and grabbing your bag. thankfully there isn’t any paparazzi yet so getting inside is easy. you get taken through to a dressing room area where you and quinn dump your stuff before he moves to meet some of the other players for their pr.

you meet your manager at the rink, seeing the stage set up ontop of the ice like it will be tonight.

“ok so we have a lineup of taste, good graces and espresso, we’ll just need to sound check good graces since it’s a new one.” the stage manager says as you nod, pulling your hoodie tighter around you as you step out onto the ice, uggs keeping your feet warm and stepping onto the stage.

you say a quick hello to your band before starting to check vocals a little bit, saving your energy for tonight you just stay by your mic stand.

you finish good graces and before the music cuts out you hear clapping. confused your eyes drift over to the side of the rink where a group of players are stood, quinn at the centre of them clapping.

you see his smile, wide across his face. as he cups his mouth sending a whoop your way. you giggle slightly at the group before going back to sound check mode, your manager speaking over your in ears.

“we good?” you ask down the mic, your sound desk man sending you a quick thumbs up. you give them one back before handing the mic off to a sound tech and hopping down heading over to quinn.

“you were great baby,” he smiles, pulling you in for a tight hug, pressing a kiss to your temple, “i love that new song,” he whispers making me chuckle.

“you like your line?” you ask seeming him grin wide, nodding his head.

“that’s my sister in law everyone.” you hear jack call out making everyone laugh.

quinn sends him a glare, luke knocking him over the head, as his teammates giggle. quinn hasn’t asked you yet, but there’s been subtle signs, from both of you even his family that you’re ready to take it to the next level.

you say a quick hello to all the other players before you heading back to the dressing room, quinn trailing behind.

“i’m gonna head back to the hotel, do you know how much longer you’ll be?” you ask, grabbing your bag and sliding quinn’s jacket on.

“probably an hour or so.” he smiles, coming up to wrap his arms around your waist, resting his heirs head in the crook of your neck. you let your hands come up tangling in the curls at the base of his neck.

“want me to grab you some lunch on the way back?” you ask, feeling his smile against your neck, nodding.

“that would be insane thank you.” he mumbles before pulling away pressing his lips to yours. you smile into the kiss letting your hands tangle further into his curls before pulling away.

“i’ll see you later baby.” he smiles before you press one more quick kiss to his lips and leaving. you stop by a small cafe on the way back getting two chicken salads and a smoothie before heading back to the hotel.

you decide to just lounge abit, watching a bit of netflix while eating and then showering, before your glam team arrive, starting to set up in the room. you change into a small tank top, easy to take on and off after your makeup and hair when quinn comes back.

“hiya baby.” he smiles pressing a quick kiss to your lips before heading off to the bedroom to have his pre game nap.

your makeup artists does your signature rosey glam, with your hair stylist doing some hollywood curls, setting them in place with some hairspray.

your hairstylist is just finishing your hair when quinn pops in, still half asleep from his nap.

“i’m gonna shower now babe, jack and luke are gonna come up so we can head down together.” he smiles as you nod.

“i just need to get my dress on so we shouldn’t be long.” you smile before he disappears to the bathroom, jumping in the shower.

your hairstylist finishes and your given your dress to change into. you quickly thank them before heading through to the bedroom, hearing the shower in the en-suite still running.

you take off your sweats and tank top, also removing your bra since you can’t wear one with your dress before jumping at the sound of a wolf whistle.

“jesus christ quinn.” you laugh, seeing him walk out with a towel hung low around his waist. he comes over, setting his hands on your waist, a few water droplets covering your chest.

“baby, i got to get ready.” you smile, pushing a few wet curls off his forehead to stop them from dripping.

“do we have to go?” he whines causing you to laugh.

“well i think your captain if you team and im performing under a contract so i think so.” you reply sarcastically before he pressing a kiss to your neck, nothing sexual, just loving since he knows he can’t actually kiss you because your makeup artist would kill him.

“hurry up and dry off so you can zip me up.” you smile, patting his chest as he laughs, moving away to get ready.

you change your panties as well, before moving across to slide your dress on. the gold slip dress, corseted top slides on over your body, opting for a strapless look.

“can you zip me up please.” you ask quinn through the mirror. he walks over, shirtless in dress pants, zipping up your dress before pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“you look beautiful baby.” he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist, letting his head rest on your shoulder, looking at you through the mirror.

“mmh, you should go for the shirtless look.” you giggle causing his to laugh before pulling away to finish getting ready.

you move back into the open area of your room, your stylist tying the corset before help you step into your loubiton heels.

you stand to take a few pictures before quinn comes out of the bedroom, dressed in a black suite, with a matching black tie, letting his curls breathe today, no beanie.

he stands back watching you for a bit before you motion for him to join you.

“just a few pictures babe?” you smile and he hesitates for a moment before joking you, letting you team take a few pictures before jack and luke are coming in, smiling when seeing both of you.

“hiya.” you smile giving each of them a hug.

“yous both look great.” jack smiles, pulling away as luke hugs you.

yous take a few pictures all together before your driver is ready to take all of you to the arena.

you head down to the lobby where there is a few paparazzi waiting outside the hotel since most of the players are staying here. you wave to a few, quinn’s hand staying on your lower back, offering a hand to help you into the car, before jack and luke hop in as well.

the drive isn’t too long and soon enough your stepping out heading onto the red carpet. you take a few solo pictures before quinn joins you, wrapping his arm around your waist, yours moving to the middle of his back, tapping your fingers gently, a little code you both have when in public situations.

he looks over to you, matching your smile before continuing to move down the line, jack and luke joining again for a group one before heading inside.

“love you baby, i’ll see you at half time ok?” quinn says, pulling you aside from the hustle and bustle, slipping into a side corridor.

“i did t get to tell you but you look really handsome tonight quinn.” you smile, a blush creeping on both your cheeks.

“not as hot as you though,” he smirks, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips, “can’t wait for tonight.” he mumbles against your lips before pulling away and heading down the corridor to the players room.

you giggle to yourself before heading down to your own dressing room where your glam team are setting up.

they help you out of your dress and get into some sweats and a shirt to wait in before having to get ready. you watch the game on a small monitor on the wall, before needing to get into your performance outfit, your team doing a few touchups and heading out to the arena.

you see the teams heading off before being escorted to the side of the stage which is being pushed onto the rink quickly by tech teams.

you begin performer “good graces” a new song with your back up dancers hearing the arena roar at “Break my heart, and I swear I'm movin' on with your favorite athlete.”

yours and quinn’s relationship hadn’t been quiet as such but you hadn’t made a big thing about it in public, simply just letting the public see whatever they see, you and quinn just being a regular couple, so hearing that line made the fans go crazy.

you finish up your set, waving goodbye to the arena, but one person catches your eye, someone who you thought you’d left 4 years ago, someone quinn saved you from.

your breath catches in your throat as his eyebrow raises at your eye contact before you keep your composure moving off the stage quickly walking through the corridors.

you space out, letting people move around you, someone taking your microphone, removing your mic pack before your free to go. you find your breath for a minute heading back to the dressing room, your glam team waiting outside.

“give me a minute yeh?” you say politely, flashing a small smile as they nod, letting you inside.

you quickly head in, leaning back against the door closing your eyes and taking a breath. you try to take a few calming breaths before jumping at a voice.

“very nice performance y/n.” he says, and you freeze, looking forward and seeing him, stood there, hands in pockets smirk on his face.

“that lyric huh? you knew hughes was a favourite of mine?” he asks, slowly walking over. your hand darts to the handle, but his is quicker grabbing your wrist.

“what do you want?” you ask, voice wavering of slightly, his grip tightening around your waist.

“i want you back, fuck that hughes boy.” he says getting closer, before he drags you away from the door, flinging you into the small sofa, your head hitting the wall, sending you into a dazed world.

he lets out a small chuckle before you see his blurry figure walk towards you again, towering over your figure.

“you always were good to me.” he says, leaving down, as you try to squirm away. you feel your breathing pick up, his grip tightening one again on each of your wrists, pining you down from moving. you feel tears well up and slowly fall, as your body starts to succumb to what’s happening.

“get the fuck off of her,” you hear a voice yell before he’s being pulled off of you by security, quinn wrapping you up in his arms, “baby, i’m here, breathe baby.” he soothes as you break in his arms, hear still half off from the break.

he holds you for a few minutes before you find your breathing begin to settle again, the room now empty of security, just you and quinn.

“that’s it baby, just keep breathing.” he says, grand brushing over your hair.

“i tried to get away quinn.” you whisper, his lips finding your temple, pressing a soft kiss to it.

“i know baby, but they’ve got him now,” he whispers, letting his head rest on yours as you pull away wincing, “baby, you hurt?” he asks, quickly pulling away at your flinching.

that’s when you realise how deep the ache is in your head.

“i hit my head, he through me against the wall,” you mumble, his hand coming up to check your head, his brows furrowing at the small bump starting to appear on the back of your head.

“i’m gonna get a medic to come check you baby.” quinn says, finger gently grazing over your head.

“don’t you have a game to play?” you ask, sniffling slightly, wiping your nose.

“they can go one without me, just an all star game, nothing serious.” he says sending you a soft smile, before moving to poke his head out the door calling for a medic.

they come in and check your head, doing a concussion protocol to see you have a very small one, nothing too serious but they tell quinn to keep an eye on you.

“let’s get you changed baby, we’ll head back to the hotel.” he smiles, moving across to your bag, pulling out your sweats and his hoodie, helping you get changed out of your outfit into some comfier clothes.

“give me 5 mins baby, im gonna go grab my stuff and ill be right back.” he says, pressing f a soft kiss to your forehead before quickly leaving, letting you rest against the couch, holding a small ice pack the medic gave you against your head.

as promised quinn is back in no time, hurriedly dressed in a hoodie and some shorts, sliders on, hair tossled from the sweat of the first game.

“ok baby, got an uber waiting outside, you think you can walk?” he asks and you nod, quinn moving to pack a couple things in your bag before slinging it on your shoulder and moving to help you up. he slides an arm around you waists before you walk out, security buzzing around the building each sending you a sympathetic smile as you pass.

quinn helps you into the uber before your back off to the hotel, your head falling to rest on his shoulder, as you drive back.

“you gotta stay awake baby.” quinn mumbles, gently nudging you as your eyes start to droop.

you manage to stay awake for the rest of the ride before you heading back up to your room, quinn swiping you room card and guiding you inside.

“lay down baby, i’ll order us some food, you’ve got to eat something.” he smiles, laying you down on your bed. you climb under the covers, letting your head fall back into the soft pillows.

you feel the bed dip beside you, your eyes fluttering open, moving to rest your head on his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

“they’ve arrested him.” he mumbles, you nodding against his chest, “gonna make sure he can never find you again ok?” he says, as you move to look up at him.

“that’s twice now you’ve saved me.” you say huffing out a small laugh, quinn copying.

“mmh, knight in shining armour.” he smiles, brushing your hair back, “i’ll always be here baby, but hopefully it’ll never happen again.” he says, hand moving to cradle your cheek, “i promise.” he says before leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips.

“relax baby, i’ll wake you when the food gets here.” he smiles before you rest yourself back against his chest, letting yourself relax a bit for the first time since he appeared.

[sugarwarachan]

touch starved shoji if you’d be so inclined 🫶🫶🫶

nonnie I AM so inclined, hope you enjoy!! this one kind of got away from me, in the best way possible ;) I really had to set the scene!!

touchstarved!shoji who’s been discriminated against his whole life and is rightfully apprehensive about meeting the newest member of his support team

touchstarved!shoji who finds himself melting around you, slowly opening up about his likes, his past, his goals. he always makes such focused eye contact when he listens to you, even if you don't notice his glance darting occasionally down to your lips

touchstarved!shoji who is grateful to his mask for hiding the fierce blush on his cheeks when you use his shoulder to steady yourself when you stumble near his desk

touchstarved!shoji who asks you to accompany him on a mission as tech support, asking around to make sure accomodations are to your taste

touchstarved!shoji who is absolutely SCRAMBLING when you both arrive at the inn and all the other rooms are booked

touchstarved!shoji who keeps a respectful distance from you in the only bed left, every cell in his body aware of yours

touchstarved!shoji who feels like he’s dreaming when you scoot closer to him, your thigh swinging over his, the scorching hot pulse of your pussy on his hip

touchstarved!shoji who feels like he’s dreaming when you scoot closer to him, your thigh swinging over his, the scorching hot pulse of your pussy on his hip

touchstarved!shoji who makes sure no part of your body goes untouched, unkissed, unmarked, “you’ve no idea how many times i’ve thought of this, darling - still nothing could have prepared me for how beautiful you are” (the sincerest dirty talk of all time)

touchstarved!shoji who has you fluttering around his thick cock, makes the end of one arm into a mouth to suckle at your clit until you scream

touchstarved!shoji who cradles you against him as you fall asleep, already planning out how he's going to ask you to marry him

other touchstarved! mha boys here.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DC xDP Fanfi idea: The End and Beginning

It starts off simple. The Fentons move to a new universe once the AntiEcto-Acts are accepted worldwide. It was a problem when the USA enacted the laws, but convincing the rest of the world to follow suit left a bitter taste in their mouths.

It also made them feel highly useless.

Their youngest was a half-ghost, and after meeting the clone and alternative counterpart of said son, the Fentons family now were half of what the Acts claimed had no soul.

They could fight against the country and escape into the dead of night, but there was nowhere to hide when the whole planet hunted them. Unless you had a portal that could send you far away from the government dogs.

This was good because said dogs had managed to build their own portal. Nothing with Fenton Works tech, but it didn't seem to matter. They had a way into the Infinite Realms and planned on sending bombs through to vanquish the ghosts once and for all.

Clockwork had warned the planet's governing units, appearing in their skies and speaking every language.

"If you do this, then your world will end. Your world is a flip of ours. Without one or the other, everything will be destroyed."

His warning only further fueled their hate, and mods flooded the streets chanting for the bombs to be set off. It was like the whole world had lost their minds.

The Fentons cowered in their homes, trying desperately to get people to listen, but their words fell on deaf ears. Clockwork's reputation puts him in a challenging position. His natural dedication needed to remain neutral in any situation, but his soft spot for Danny made it hard to allow time to run its course.

In the end, he appeared before the Fentons with a message. "You must leave this world in one week. Everything will come to an end."

His warning had the group moving. They reached out to all their friends and extended family. Begging them to flee with them. Only Sam and Tucker arrived at their house on the last day, eyes puffy red, bags packed, and a daunting lack of their parents.

Clockwork sent them a ship. It looked like a glowing cruise ship, with wooden planks creaking and groaning as they climbed aboard. They were to pick a room and take shelter, understanding that once they sealed the door, they could not reopen it until they arrived.

The ship would travel at alarming speeds, protected from their timeline with Clockwork's power, but it would take everything the ghost had to keep them safe.

The final moment came, with the seven people pilling together in the largest room- The VIP balcony cabin. Sam, Tucker, and Danny held each other while sitting in front of the glass windows overlooking the fleeing ghosts- their world was also ending.

Maddie, Jack, Jazz, and Dani were in a pile on the bed, eyes shut tight and hugging each other with all their might. Tears rolled down their faces, but no one called it out. They were all mourning.

Dan stood to the side, arms crossed over his chest and leaning on the door. Despite not saying it out loud, they knew he wanted to guard it in case a ghost figured out the cruise was an escape pod. If a desperate enough ghost attempted to break through the door, their deal with Clockwork would be voided, and Dan would never allow it.

The moment came without warning. Multiple portals ripped open among the green skies. Through them, the Fentons could see cheering humans, treating the bombings like a giant festival. Fireworks, waving banners, music that thumped with glee- it made them all sick.

The first three bombs were set off. The Realms' reaction was just as instant, collapsing into itself as the humans' joys reached new levels of glee- until the holes warped into black holes, swallowing up the portal and the area around it.

One right after the other. Large glowing lights, then swirling darkness yanking everything into a quick, meaningless nothing. The humans were no longer cheering- now they were screaming. They were cowering.

But there was nowhere left to run.

Clockwork appeared in front of the trio, smiling sadly at them as multiple cracks appeared on his being. He mouths a sentence, placing one broken hand on the glass, and then pushes the ship away. At a speed that is more light than movement, the Fentons and their guests rush away, watching with horrified eyes as Clockwork breaks apart completely.

He vanishes into dust that gets absorbed into a black hole. Dan and Danny's noise is gutted, ripped from somewhere deep in their cores.

The cruise crumbles around the pressure of the push. Wooden pieces are shaken off the ship, shattering from the effort to keep itself together, and fall into the void as they watch, unsure of Clockwork's power, which would be enough to withstand the breaking of a timeline. Soon, only their room remains; even that, it starts to show glowing green cracks on the wall.

Dan glares at them, never hating something as much as the sight of them, while his family and kid brother's friends start to sob. Suddenly, everything comes to a stop.

Or rather, a large being made entirely of light, taking the shape of a human man, catches their cabin. They all stumble, thrown from their positions as the glowing white human shape brings them to its large face. It's like looking into a marble statute with no distinctive face, only the barest of outlines that could count as a face.

"You bear Clockwork's mark, but he is not with you," The being says, blinking its large eye into the window. The swirling red of its pupils baths the humans and ghosts as they stare back open jaws. "How curious"

"Who are you!?" Dan demands, stepping away from the door. "How did you survive the destruction of the timeline?!"

The being eye's dim. "Clockwork is dead then. I told him I would welcome him into my realms, but he chose to send his kin instead. What a sentimental fool."

Dan's human features melt away, and his ghost forms burst from an explosion of flames. "Who are you!?"

"Your kind calls me Speed Force." It replies after a movement, sounding slightly amused, "And I grant you sanctuary as a favor to an old lover. Live well."

With a snap of its fingers, the group vanishes into a bright light, appearing in the middle of a blue sky. Gentle clouds float around, spread out like a mist. It a daunting change from the darkness and the screams.

The group gawks at the sight before gravity reaches up to grasp the broken remains of the cruise ship within its claws. It rips from them the sky, sending them into a downward spiral.

Dan's flames are smothered out as he desperately reaches for it "I can't go, ghost!"

"Me either," Dani screams, clinging hard to Maddie.

"Speed Froce took our powers." Danny realizes, clutching Sam and Tucker closer. "Everyone brace for impact!"

They hit the ground hard and flung around like rag dolls as the last of Clockwork's powers desperately tried to shield them. The glowing green cracks quickly spread until they resemble spider webs.

They hit the ground with a loud bang, sliding through a few layers of dirt. The group is flung against the wall, Dan grunting in pain when Sam slams against him from the force.

Ultimately, the wood can't hold itself together, and it shatters just as it crumbles to a stop. They all land with pain and cries against the hard ground, in a pile of limbs and confusion.

"Oh my," A woman says, standing on her porch overlooking the Fentons. Beside her is a wide-eyed man, one steaming mug in his hold. "Pa, I think I need to put more coffee. We have guests."

Above the couple is a wooden sign with faded but beloved letters. It reads Kent Farm.

[sunday-bug]

Happy Accident part 3

Pairing: Congressman Bucky x pregnant!girlfriend reader

These can be read as oneshots, but if you want to read in order, check out below ⬇️

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Epilogue

Word count: 1.3k

Content: smut, p in v sex, oral (f receiving)

Synopsis: Bucky and his girlfriend get an ultrasound and go home to spend some quality spicy time together.

Churning these out like butter. Hope you enjoy!

“How does our little guy look?” Bucky asks, eyeing the ultrasound technician.

“Wiggly right now,” she replies with a laugh. “But I’ll get a lot of pictures for you guys. We check over all of the baby’s anatomy at the 20 week scan.”

“I can’t believe we’re halfway there,” Bucky says, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

“Me too,” you say with a smile.

“Oh, look, there’s a good view of his face,” the ultrasound tech says, pointing to the grainy screen. “Let me put that in 3D so you can see better.” She pushes a few buttons on the machine and suddenly the picture changes to include more detail. Wow. Truly a mini Bucky.

“He’s so cute already,” you muse, looking up at Bucky. “He looks like his daddy.” Bucky squeezes your hand and you see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He’s holding back tears, but you don’t say anything, letting him enjoy the moment. The ultrasound tech continues her exam, confirms that the baby is definitely a boy, and you are sent on your way back to the waiting room before meeting with your doctor. It’s mid-July, and you see the heat waves rising off of the pavement in the parking lot through the office windows. Being pregnant in this heat was no joke, but Bucky has been doing everything to make you as comfortable as possible. He truly was the perfect boyfriend and was going to be an even more amazing dad. After your doctor’s appointment, you head home. You had both taken the whole day off of work for the appointment and to go shopping for baby stuff. Who knew that baby’s came with so much gear? Cribs, bouncers, swings… your place was going to be full of this stuff for years.

Bucky opens the front door for you while gazing at you darkly. That devilish look can only mean one thing. You feel heat rise up your thighs to your core. Bucky has always loved your body from the start of your relationship, but now that you are carrying his baby, he worships every inch of you. Relentlessly. Your hormones are already running on high, but knowing how much he needs you sends you over the edge. You are both so hungry for each other all of the time. As soon as he shuts the front door behind him, his hands are on you. On your bare thighs. The man loves sundress season. His flesh hand finds the edge of your underwear, and he swipes them to the side to rub slow circles around your clit.

“Yes,” you encourage him with a sigh while unbuttoning his pants. “Let’s go to our room,” you suggest. You lead him upstairs to your bedroom.

“Lie down, baby. Let me take care of you,” Bucky whispers, lifting your dress above your head. You start to unhook your bra, and remove it slowly, letting your full breasts come free. His pupils dilate even more at the sight. You lie back on the bed in just your underwear and watch Bucky undress at the foot of the bed. He removes his boxers and you bite your lip at the sight of him hard and ready for you. He crawls up from the bottom of the bed to you, hooking his fingers through your underwear and pulling them down your legs, tossing them over his shoulder. He places the tiniest kiss on your lower tummy before moving down and kissing your inner thighs. You used to love watching Bucky eat you out, but the past couple of months have made that difficult with your growing belly. You prop yourself up on your elbows and look down at him as you feel his tongue lapping into your core.

“You taste so sweet, baby girl,” he growls, looking up at you to meet your gaze and smiling lazily. You reach down to touch his face, silently inviting him up to you. He crawls up to lie down beside you, cupping one of your breasts with his vibranium hand. You feel goosebumps raise on your skin at the cool touch. You turn to kiss him and taste your arousal on his mouth. “I need to feel you, Buck,” you whisper into his mouth. You feel his cock twitch against your thigh at the comment. Certain positions are getting trickier with pregnancy, so you’ve been trying new things lately. You turn on your side so your back is against Bucky’s chest. The heat from his body against your back feels amazing. He guides himself gently inside of you and pumps in and out slowly and languidly, like you have all of the time in the world. His hand reaches down between your clenched thighs and finds your clit once again. “You feel so good, love,” he whispers into your hair. You let out another moan and put your hand over his, helping him find the perfect rhythm to circle your sweet spot. The tension starts to build between your legs, and you whine. “I can feel you squeezing me,” he says, kissing your neck.

“Don’t stop,” you encourage him. “I’m so close.” You reach behind you to grab his ass and press him deeper inside of you. He lets out a groan of pleasure and keeps up his delicious pace. His other hand makes its way to the base of your skull, fingers spreading into your hair and pulling gently so your neck is taut and bare. You feel his soft lips meet the hollow of your neck and his bites gently before exhaling. The sensation of his breath on your bare, sensitive skin is what sends you over the edge. You cry out his name as your orgasm ripples through you. Bucky doesn’t stop, letting you ride it out on him. As you come down from your high, you scoot away from him slightly so he’s not inside of you anymore.

“Mmm, come back,” he whines, reaching for you. You straddle one leg over him and he lays flat on his back. You feel his cock pressing at your entrance. “This is a great fucking view,” he says, gesturing to you straddling him. “Look at you,” he whispers, palming your breasts and trailing his hands down to your tummy. You start to ride on him, but don’t put it in yet. He grabs your hips and grounds you down into him harder, groaning. You put your hands on his chest and lift yourself slightly so he can put it in. You sit back down until you’re full of him.

“Fuck,” you whimper. It always felt so big when you were on top. You start to rock your hips back and forth. Bucky digs his fingertips into the flesh of your hips, pulling you into him even more.

“God, baby, you feel so good,” he says, “You look so pretty riding on my dick. Growing with my baby.” You love how much Bucky adores your baby bump. If he didn’t, you may feel self conscious from this angle. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

You reach behind you between his legs and gently grasp his balls while you ride him. He whimpers. You know just how much he loves it. You pick up speed and luxuriate in the sound of your intermingled pleasure: his moans, your breathiness, his hand slapping your ass motivating you.

“I need to feel all of you, Buck,” you breathe out.

“That’s all of it, baby,” he says with a laugh. You giggle in response.

“I mean I want you to cum in me. Please.” Almost at your command, you feel his warmth in your core at the same time he announces it.

Bucky sits up to kiss you, pulling you into his lap while he’s still inside you, “I’m going to take full advantage of the next few months and fill you up everytime. Don’t you worry.”

“I love you,” you say, nuzzling into his neck.

“I love you, too. Both of you. More than you’ll ever know,” he kisses the tip of your nose. “You want me to draw you a bath?”

“Mmm, that sounds amazing,” you reply. Bucky stands up and scoops you up into his arms, carrying you to the bathroom, blissed out and totally in love.

Check out part four here.

[cherrylibby]

Chasing the Storms

The Oklahoma sky was bruised with the colors of an oncoming storm—deep violets and angry grays swirling above the horizon. Tyler barely noticed. His heart was pounding harder than it had on any chase as he stood on your front porch, waiting for you to slam the door in his face.

But you didn’t.

You stood there, eyes burning with something between fury and heartbreak, your arms crossed like a shield against him. The years hadn’t dulled your fire—if anything, they’d made it sharper. And damn, if that didn’t hurt just as much as it made him miss you.

"You got some nerve showing up here, Tyler," you said, voice tight.

He nodded once. "Yeah. I do."

A bitter smirk pulled at your lips, but there was no humor in it. "What do you want?"

Tyler exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. "I need your help. There’s a storm system coming, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. We’ve got a solid team, the tech, but…" He hesitated. "No one tracks storms like you."

You scoffed, stepping back like he’d just insulted you. "Unbelievable. You disappear for years—no calls, no letters, not a damn word—and now you show up at my door because you need something? Do you even hear yourself?"

He flinched. He deserved that.

"It’s not just about the storm," he tried, but you weren’t having it.

"Oh, really? Then what is it about, Tyler?" Your voice cracked on his name, and that nearly broke him. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you only come back when it’s convenient for you."

His jaw tightened. "You told me you were done."

"You left!"

"You made me leave!" The words exploded out of him, sharp and desperate, cutting through the space between you. "You quit chasing, you shut down, and you looked at me like I was the worst thing that ever happened to you. I didn’t know how to fix that!"

You shook your head, eyes glistening, but you refused to let a tear fall. "You didn’t even try," you whispered.

Silence.

The wind picked up around you, rustling the old wind chimes hanging from the porch. The storm was rolling in fast now, but the one brewing between you and Tyler was worse.

"You think it was easy for me to walk away?" he asked, voice lower now, strained. "You think I wanted to leave you?" He took a step closer, and to his relief, you didn’t move away. "Every damn day, I thought about coming back. About calling you. But what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, sorry for nearly getting you killed—wanna chase another storm?’" He let out a rough laugh, shaking his head. "I left because I thought you’d be better off without me."

You swallowed hard, arms tightening around yourself like you were holding yourself together. "That wasn’t your choice to make."

Tyler ran a hand over his face. "I know." He let out a breath, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. "I know."

A long pause.

Then, softer—more vulnerable than he’d ever sounded—he said, "I never stopped loving you."

Your breath caught.

For a second, you looked away, blinking fast, but then you lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with that same defiance he’d always loved about you. "Then why did you leave me to love you alone?"

That shattered him.

His hand came up, hesitating just for a second before he cupped your cheek. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into his touch, just the slightest bit, and that was all he needed.

Before you could say another word, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful, wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate and raw, full of everything left unsaid over the years. His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and when your fingers tangled in his hair, he groaned into the kiss.

You tasted like the past and everything he’d ever wanted in the future.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, foreheads resting together, he whispered, "Come with me."

You exhaled shakily. "Tyler—"

"Not just for the storms. For us." His grip on you tightened like he was terrified of letting go again. "I screwed up. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve fought harder. But I’m here now, and if you tell me to leave, I’ll go. But I swear to God, I don’t want to run anymore. I just want you."

You stared at him, torn between every scar he’d left on your heart and the undeniable truth that you still loved him.

Outside, thunder rumbled, shaking the sky.

You sighed. Then, finally, finally, you muttered, "Damn it, Tyler."

He grinned. "I’ll take that as a yes."

You rolled your eyes, but when you pulled him down for another kiss, he knew he was finally home.

[yandere-wishes]

｡༺ 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮! 𝓣𝓲𝓶 𝓓𝓻𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝔁 𝓒𝓪𝓽𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵!𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻༻｡

｡༺ 𝓑.𝓞.𝓐.𝓣 𝓫𝔂  𝓔𝓵𝓲𝔃𝓪 𝓡𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓒𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵 ༻｡

Okay, so we've given all the Yandere batboys a "Cat Darling" except Tim.

[And like, could someone explain to me why people seem to hate Tim Drake?? He's literally the LOVE of my life]

Thinking her burglar name could be either StarCat or Kitten, your choice.

Anyway, his darling is probably the chronically online one. Literally iPad child. Her civilian personality is that of a semi-popular internet star, mostly in smaller niche circles like cosplay/fandom spaces/a few tech DIY spaces.

Also, this is going to sound so self-serving, but like, what if the reader had a Tumblr/AO3 where she posts  Red Robin x reader content? But after meeting him, she kinda gets stuck in a love-hate relationship with the guy...but her fics get progressively more detailed and specific. Cause like she hates him but the crush is still so obviously there!!😆😆

ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼•ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼

He's never been good at managing his obsessions. They always seem to fester fiercely within him, like tree roots feeding on hollow bones, bubbling over and spilling out from every crevice. He can't keep them inside, can't tame the infatuation, sadiate the fixation. Can't ignore the siren's calls or celestial pulls. 

No...

Tim's never been good at managing his obsessions. 

Especially this new one.

The stars seem so much brighter in your eyes. You lay spiraled out on the rooftop, leg dangling off the edge with your tablet held at an odd angle overhead. You mutter into your com-link "5 more seconds before security is down". As you chew on the end of your leather tail. 

You're the ace up Catwoman's sleeve. Her new protegee. The two of you have been hitting bank after bank. Licking up the precious gems the Gotham elite keep hidden. 

Tim's been sent to deal with you, while Batman takes out Catwoman downstairs. But he can't help but be mesmerized by your playful giggles, and sparking eyes. It's all a game to you, like playing Barbie's past bedtime. He can't help but find that almost endearing. 

You turn on your stomach, half crouched, half lying down. Like a kitten about to pounce on a toy mouse. "You're Red Robin" you squeal and Tim has to do a doubletake, knees weak at the sudden burst of attention. 

You jump, he readies his staff but the blows never come. Instead, you stand before him so close he can practically feel the heat from your body. "I'm your biggest fan!", for a second Tim thinks you're going to reach for his hand, his heart reverberates in his throat. You're cute, too cute.

"Any way I could convince you to give up your crime spree? You know since you're such a big fan and all..." You laugh, a light-hearted airy sound, and give him a clumsy twirl as you return to your edge. "Not a chance, I'm finally living my dream life!" 

You jump onto the edge eyes gleaming as they stare a him. No not him, Tim notes, the moment. You're entranced by this moment. 

The moon, the dark, the city lights, the masked man standing before you. For a second he almost sees his reflection cascading across your essence. You're him, little kid with dreams so big it's started to eat you alive. 

You tilt your head and pout your lips. Tim thinks you'd make one hell of an actress or an idol. Your clawed finger clicks your com, "All set boss!" you meow. You offer Tim a final bow before throwing yourself into the dark abyss below. Tim rushes to grab you but it's too late.

You're gone. 

His obsession only grows from there, raw and primal. He can taste nostalgia in the back of his throat every time he sees your picture. Thick and sticky like molten caramel. 

You're so much like him, so precious in your own right. Little girl playing superheroes, dancing across the night's sequence, basking in the ethereal of having the world below your feet. Disappearing into the dark, merging with the stars, high off the nectar-coated ideals behind your teeth. Savoring their melt upon your tongue. 

You'd have been best friends in the sandbox. Tim thinks. 

He's scouring the Batcomputer.

Ripping apart every inkling he finds. 

Who is this new Kitten? 

He sees you again in a sugar-spun ensemble stitched from lace and longing, draped in cascading frills and ribbons. Equal parts candygram and popcorn but ever only purple in shade. He recognizes the playful tilt of your head and the way you stare to the side when you're too deep in thought. Every move is woven in porcelain elegance. Little doll playing dress up. 

His hunch is proven right when he hears your voice.

"Do you think Red Robin would like this outfit?" you ask an invisible audience who answer hours later in the comment section, dedicating little hearts and kisses in agreeance.

His name spills from between your lips and Tim swears he sees stars. Your delicate cadence flutters through his veins pricking his heart till it dedicates every pump to you. 

Tim doesn't notice how hard he's biting his thumb. 

Doesn't notice the scarlet droplets marring the keyboard below. 

He's trying to keep you out of the Gotham National Bank's system, he can recognize your pattern anywhere. The little kitty cat errors that keep popping up. The stars that litter the screen forcing it to bluescreen. He's almost there, you're almost gone. 

Bruce, hollars commands into his ears. 

But Tim is too enthralled by the screen to notice

A single message glitches and gleams.

'It Was Fun Red Robin~♡'  

He has you caged beneath him. Fingers digging into your shoulders. You look so cute struggling to break free. So adorable that he just can't help himself. 

He presses his lips to your neck, pulling down the leather with his teeth and suckling on the ripe flesh. Stardust sprinkles into his mouth as his tongue traverses the length of your neck. Before ensnaring your plump perfect lips. His hands feel down your body memorizing every curve. He can feel you struggling. Kicking trying to break free. 

But he just can't let you get away. He needs you wholly, desperately. More than he's ever needed anything.

But he can't let you go. You taste like heaven on his tongue. Your claws melt into his back, tearing fabric and flesh. But the bloodletting feels like holy bliss from your hands, he'd gladly lick the blood from your claws and call it ichor. 

Your ethos haunts him.

He writes you love letters to you penned in his blood. 

Every quaver of his bones he dedicates to you. 

He's sprawled out on his bed reading your latest story. It's about him, as they always tend to be.  You call him such mean words all laced with a saccharinee undertone of idolization. You have him call you 'darling' and 'kitten'. Have him treat so roughly yet so lovingly. Is that how you want him to act? 

Did you really mean it when you said you're his biggest fan? 

ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼•ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼

There's also another delicious little inkling I want to leave you guys with. Imagine reader starts receiving PR from Janus Cosmetics. Imagine Roman starts to take note of the cute little kitten showcasing his company's newest products. Starts to relish in your babydoll act, enjoying you twirling around in your cute skirts and curling your hair around your finger. Imagine Roman Sionis falling for catgirl! reader as well. Imagine poor little reader trapped between Yandere Tim Drake and Yandere Roman Sionis...Poor little kitty cat, whatever will you do? 

[faun-the-fawn77]

GHOST

"Want them wearing leather begging, let me be your taste test."

Shadow x F!Human!Reader Word Count: 3.3k Warnings: SMUT, oral sex(f receiving), squirting, fingering, Shadow is the king of aftercare Desc: Living next to your older brother wasn't always ideal, considering the three chaos bringers he brought in decided to bug you at any given moment. Doesn't help that on the latest "Save the world" mission had them bringing along a new member to the chaotic household. And damnit, is he one handsome alien.

Notes will be at the end!

Request Info Here!!!

MDNI!!!! I won't hesitate to go and block y'all! Any blog with no age verification will be blocked!

ALSO!!! Shadow is a sentient alien! He knows what he's doing! He isn't an animal but, in fact, an alien! You also have the option of reading this with a mobian reader should that feel more comfortable for you!

Don't like? Don't read!

Today was a lot cooler in temperature. Fall was beginning to creep its way into the current season with temperature drops in the evening and the leaves starting to turn. You'd think living in Montana would be hell with the hot summers but the autumn and spring seasons made it worth the stay.

Plus, you get to live next to your older brother, Tom Wachowski. You thought you would be the only chaos in his and his wife's, Maddie, life. You were always up to some prank. Painting their house bright yellow, wrapping their car in saran wrap, or coloring their lawn neon pink.

Prank wars seemed to happen quite often between the two of you, so when Sonic crashed into Tom and Maddie's life, the chaos seemed to never end. Outnumbered and down a super-sonic alien, you called it quits. Tom never let you live it down.

Soon enough, your brother took in another two, who were now Sonic's brothers. Tails seemed to always be there for your tech problems and Knuckles was the best to help lift whatever needed lifting.

The kids were the best things to happen to the town. Always helping the community in one way or another. Their quirks and confidence infecting the residents of Green Hills, Montana.

When the latest mission had concluded, with the heart attack that was your brother ending up in the hospital, you didn't expect another stray to end up with your brother's growing family. You had prepared Sonic's 'Bearthday' party for the others that were coming back from the hospital. They had left on such short notice, you decided to be a 'good sister' for once and set up the party.

Humming to yourself while decorating the cake, you didn't expect a tap on your back. Whipping around to face the person, you looked to see a hedgehog you've never met before. He was black from head to toe with blood red highlights in his quills and around his eyelids. He was a bit less bulky than Knuckles but buffer than Sonic. And very, weirdly hot.

"Oh! You startled me! I- uh, how can I help you?" The frosting tube in your hand was leaking slowly, the blue treat threatening to drop onto the white tiled floor of the kitchen.

He looked you dead in the eye, his lips twitching in amusement. His eyes were a mesmerizing shade of burnt umber. They were full of curiosity and a bit of smugness. Probably because he managed to startle you.

"Sonic wished for me to introduce myself to you. I am Shadow." His voice was smooth like the richest of milk chocolate. If you could, you would bottle up the voice and have it replay in your head forever.

You held out your free hand to him, saying, "I'm (Y/N)! It's nice to meet you! Sorry that Sonic forced you to come introduce yourself to me. He is a little pushy but I've learned to deal with it, only because I know he cares deeply for his family."

He hummed, taking your small hand in his gloved one. Your heart was pounding a million miles a minute. Despite the gloves, he held your hand like it was the most fragile thing on this planet.

"I've noticed. He also failed to mention how beautiful you are," he spoke with a low voice. Your cheeks ignited in heat, the feeling creeping throughout your entire body. You could practically feel the smugness radiating from the dark hedgehog. Your hand was shaking in his hold, having failed to let his hand go.

A lump seemed to be stuck in your throat as you spoke, "I-um, thank you! You're very ho- handsome! Very handsome." Your voice was shaking. You weren't used to someone being this bold yet gentlemanly.

Now, Shadow was not a very bold or direct hedgehog when it came to feelings. In fact, romantic or sexual feelings were something he has never felt. Maria was his best friend and any female working at the horrid lab was always a sour sight. When he had first shown up with the strange family, he didn't expect Sonic to get excited and push the dark hedgehog to meet this '(Y/N)'. He honestly thought that this person was just as stupid and, perhaps, brave as the rest of them.

Walking into the brightly lit kitchen, he quietly took in the sound of her voice humming to a song he didn't know. Her back was to him so he could only see the curve of her hips and the curls of her hair crawling down her back. She was rather short for an adult human, especially compared to how tall Tom was.

He truly didn't mean to startle her but, the look of shock and the little gasp from her throat had the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. She was absolutely breath-taking. Her hair framed her rounded face perfectly. Eyes were bright and such a pretty shade of (E/C). And, oh her lips. Her bottom lip was a bit puffy from biting down on it while trying to frost the cake and they were shining in the fluorescent lights from licking them.

He knew what he was feeling was arousal. While Maria did show him the romantic comedies, Shadow sought out for more books or movies lying around in the lab. Some of those incompetent workers seemed to have good taste in literature. '50 Shades of Grey' was definitely one of the more interesting finds in the lab.

His flirting was subpar at best. Everything he knew was based from movies and books. Considering he also didn't have a grasp on human emotions or even his own, he couldn't tell right away how his words and voice were affecting the poor woman.

The smell of her arousal was what hit him first. His gaze snapped onto hers, seeing her pupils dilate. Her hands were sweating and shaking. Actually, her whole body was shaking.

"How about we go somewhere more private?"

Your bed couldn't have been further away at this point. The walk to your house would have been a long one but, luckily for you, Shadow can just teleport. A dizzying experience but very much worth it for what was about to happen.

Never, in your 20 something years of living, did you think you would be in bed with an alien who was definitely old enough to be your dad. While no man has ever seemed to catch your interest, you honestly wondered if it was time to give up on the whole dating thing. Tom had wanted you to find someone as well, especially now that he and Maria are married. you know he just wants you to be happy and not so alone all the time but, you were just fine with your life as is.

Looking at Shadow, who was now looking around your bedroom with interest at the posters and knick knacks you had, you could feel a smile creeping its way onto your face. Maybe, just maybe, this was a sign that fate didn't hate you. That you truly will not be alone for the rest of your life. You didn't even notice Shadow looking at you now, his gaze looking you up and down with a smile tugging at his own lips as well.

"Interesting room. I've always thought you woman preferred a more feminine touch to what's yours but, seeing how different you all are is truly a wonder. Maria had her room full of gadgets and dresses. Yours feels more...homely," his voice wavered at the mention of Maria. You didn't know who that was but you also knew that he or Sonic would explain it to you at some point.

You smile and walk over to the record player he was looking at with hidden curiosity. Gesturing him over, you flipped the lid open. The disc that was in previously was a Sabrina Carpenter album.

"Pick whatever seems interesting to you. We can play it while we...talk," your voice lowering at the end. Shadow looked from you to the records in the space under the table. Running a gloved hand over the cases, he finally chose a Chase Atlantic album.

You quickly put the record in and carefully laid the needle on the disc. The first few notes of 'Swim' came from the speakers. You grabbed the hedgehogs hand and pulled him to your queen-sized bed.

"Interesting choice of music, Shadow. Are you sure all you want to do is talk?" You were still holding his hand, your other now rested on his shoulder and slowly inching towards the back of his neck.

A shudder ran down his spine at the sensual touch. You could practically hear his heart pounding in his furry chest. Leaning your head by his, you whispered in his ear, "Or, would you rather try something new?"

And suddenly a flip was switched. Shadow had you on your back in seconds, his hands cupping your heated cheeks and kissing the life out of you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you brought him closer, pressing him more into you and reciprocating the heated kiss. You dragged your tongue along his bottom lip, the piercing in it causing a hum to purr through his chest.

Grinding hips together, arousal pooled in your panties. You didn't have time to feel embarrassed that you were dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt covered in years worth of different hair dye colors. Your underwear was at least cute enough for this. A lacy black thong and a black bra covered in a spider web design.

His hands made their way down your body, caressing you with such a gentle touch. It was almost like he was afraid to hurt you. His gloves were scratchy, preventing him from being able to feel just how soft your skin was. They were on your hips under your baggy shirt, lifting it slowly to reveal what you had hidden.

You grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back a bit. A bit winded from nonstop kissing, you gently led your hands down to meet his. Looking into his eyes, you murmured softly, "Can you take these off?" You tugged on his gloves. He seemed to still for a moment, thinking.

He sat back on your thighs, taking his gloves off. His hands were very paw-like with the pads on his fingertips and the palm of his hands. His claws were black with fading red nail polish, pointed and dangerous like him.

You grabbed his hands softly, feeling the fur, and putting them back on your hips which put him hovering over you again.

"Don't think too hard about this, Shadow. Do what you feel is right and I'll help." With that, he crashed his lips back onto yours. His hands, now uncovered, were roaming around your midsection and slowly going up towards your breasts. Lips trailed down from your mouth, to your jaw, to the crook of your neck. Love bites started to bloom in the areas he was nipping at. Moans escaped your throat at the thought of his marks being left in places for everyone to see for the next few days. His canines were grazing cautiously against your soft skin with each kiss and lick to your neck and collarbone.

Clenching a fist in his quills, you urged him towards your neck more, wanting him to pierce the flesh with his fangs. You didn't think he'd pick up the message but, boy were you wrong. He licked a little stripe in the spot a bit under your ear on your neck before sinking his canines into it. You shot a hand up to cover the borderline pornographic moan that just escaped your mouth. Shadow was quick to grab your wrist and remove your hand, wanting to hear the beautiful sounds you were making.

Running his tongue along the punctures, he pulled away and grumbled out lowly, "Don't even think about doing that shit again. I want to hear just how good I'm making you feel, sweetheart." And with that, he went back down, trailing his kisses from your sternum to right above the waistline of your sweats. His fingers curled around the edges of them, teasingly pulling at them.

You groaned, "Shadow, please."

He smirked, finally yanking down the baggy pants to reveal the sluttiest pair of panties he had ever laid eyes on. He stared for a second before, quite literally, ripping the raggedy shirt you had on to see you had a matching bra to go with. Never has he been this aroused, even during his ruts. You were breath-takingly gorgeous. You could've fooled him into thinking you were a goddess and not a human.

You watched as his umber eyes seemed to sparkle with awe at the sight of you. You never put much thought into your appearance, thinking you were just as average as every other 20-something year old woman on the planet. Apparently, Shadow thought much more about how you looked, muttering to himself about how you were a goddess and absolutely otherworldly.

Heat rushed to your cheeks at his staring. His hands finally decided to fall back on your hips, thumbs rubbing little circles on your skin. He leaned back down with his lips being dangerously close to the string of your thong.

His eyes locked onto yours, baring his teeth with a smirk and proceeding to grab hold of the lacy underwear to pull them down enough for access to your dripping pussy. The string of arousal connecting you to your underwear caused the heat from your chest to your cheeks to rise in temperature. His hands moved from your hips down to your thighs, gripping them hard enough for his claws to leave indents. He pried them open and immediately had his muzzle in front of your sensitive heat. His nose nudged against your throbbing clit eliciting another moan from your throat. Your hands grappled for his quills or ears or something to hold onto.

Just when you thought you were ready, his tongue licked a stripe from your opening up to your clit. Your hips went to lift up when he quickly moved an arm to hold you down. He made sure you weren't gonna move before he went back to slurping and lick at your dripping cunt like a man starved. This was definitely the best head you have ever gotten in your life. Lifting your hands shakily, you ran your fingers around his pinned ears, listening and feeling his purrs vibrate through him. The feeling made your incoming orgasm hit almost right then and there. Moans were leaving your lips like a prayer, his name being most of what Shadow could make out.

The hand that was still gripping one of your thighs had wandered up closer to your entrance, experimentally dipping a finger in. The moan from your mouth and the tugging on his ears seemed to be the response he was looking for. His lips moved up your clit, sucking and swiping his tongue around in motions that had you seeing stars. His index finger entered your drooling pussy with ease. He pumped it in and out slowly before adding his middle finger. The stretch was a a bit painful, more of a burning feeling, before it turned into pure pleasure. His mouth paired with his surprisingly skilled fingers had you gripping the ruined sheets beneath you.

You gasped at the feeling threatening to burst in your lower belly, moaning out, "Shadow, wait- I'm gonna-!"

He didn't even remove his muzzle from between you when your pussy squirted out it's juices from the intense orgasm you just had. Your thighs had him pinned in place from the best ending you've had in years. His hands were clutching onto the plush of your thighs, tongue still working you through your orgasm.

Your broken moans seemed to snap him from his pussy-drunk state. He lifted his head up, looking at you with lidded eyes and a mouth covered in your fluids. His tongue swiped along his lower lip with deliberate slowness.

You fell back on your bed, bringing a hand to your heaving chest. It almost feels like you ran a marathon in 100 degree weather with hoe burned your lungs were.

Shadow watched as you tried to catch your breath. His eyes darted from your glistening lips, to your chest greedily sucking in oxygen, to your ruined pussy. While he only learned this from reading the books the adults at the lab had lying around, he knew better than to leave you laying in your own pleasure.

It was a bit tricky trying to find what he needed considering he's never been to your house before this, he brought back a damp wash cloth and a glass of cold water. He was gentle with cleaning up your oversensitive areas, making sure you were clean enough that he could move you over a bit to gather the sheets and blankets. The pile of ruined cloth ended up in a heep by the overflowing dirty clothes basket at the door to your room. Shadow was lucky that you had some clean ones sitting in the chair by your vanity that he could use to cover you.

Your body seemed to calm down from the high you just experienced, now wanting to just sleep. You turned your head over to face the dark anthropomorphic alien and just watching as he took care of you.

"Shadow," he looked over at you. You gestured him over and lifted the blanket so he could cuddle up beside you if he wanted. The flicker of doubt in his eyes made you tense. Maybe he wanted this to be a on and done thing? Before your thoughts could start to spiral to worst case scenarios, he shuffled over and crawled up into your open arms. His head was smooshed into the crook of your neck, an arm under yours and around you.

A smile broke out on your lips, lowering your arm holding the blanket to settle around your cuddle buddy. His breath soon evened out as sleep , or exhaustion, had over come him. Pulling him in closer, you curled your naked from around him, tangling your legs with his.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what fate was saving for you.

"Hey, Tails? Knuckles? Have you seen Shadow? Or (Y/N)?" Sonic asked his brothers. The echidna shook his head while Tails just shrugged.

"Didn't you tell him to go meet her? Maybe Shadow locked himself in his room and (Y/N) forgot something for your party." Sonic didn't seem to convinced with Tails hypothesis. Before the blue blur could race off to find the missing members, Tom and Maddie came out the back door with s'more making ingredients.

"Who wants s'mores?!" Maddie gestured with the pan holding the stuff, walking up to the three kids only to see them with frowns on their faces.

Maddie set the pan down and knelt in front of Sonic, asking, "What's wrong, honey?"

Sonic turned away and muttered, "Where's (Y/N/N)? I don't wanna start without her."

Sucking in a breath, Maddie explained vaguely that you weren't going to be able to show up till tomorrow. When Tom and Maddie made it inside their house, Sonic's half-finished cake and the tube of frosting dropped on the kitchen floor let them know that you were gonna be gone for the night.

Tom was happy you found someone yet, with Shadow being that someone seemed to worry him to no end. It took Maddie having to calm him down and tell him that Shadow was definitely one of the better options for you that let him relax.

Sonic sagged at the fact that his favourite person wasn't gonna be able to attend his party. That's when he stilled and his brows furrowed. He turned to Maddie again, this time with a question that Maddie and Tom weren't gonna be able to explain.

"Well, then where's Shadow?"

Guys...I fell victim to the emo hedgehog. I have not stopped watching the hundreds of edits of this man on my fyp and its eating at my brain. this was just a scratch i had to itch. its all i could think about, day or night. I'm at work and its all i can think about.

He has me in a chokehold. Anyway! Im editing the fourth chapter of my series 'ceilings' when possible! Hopefully i can get a chapter out soon!

Thanks for reading! Here's the link to my Masterlist of all masterlists!

[fishbonex]

Sharp thoughts 1/2

Mel Medarda x fem!reader

Summary: Your friendship with Mel slowly begins to crumble.

Warnings: angst, unrequited love, suggestion of sexual acts.

Word Count: 1K

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

Mel was easily the best person you had ever met in your life. She was a spectacle in every way. Having her as your friend was comforting and opened many doors for you as an scientist and researcher.

Life seemed good for you, using a high-tech laboratory, with access to everything a scientist could want and thanks to Mel, contacts with several investors who might be interested in your work.

Unfortunately, Mel Medarda was too much for you.

You didn't notice when your heart started to swell when you thought about her, before you realized it, you could no longer think about her without letting out a sigh. Everything about her was... too much.

The delicate face, the graceful way she moves, the constant tinkling that is present due to her gold jewelry, the voice that seems to embrace you when she speaks to you.

You began to find yourself looking forward to her visits to your lab, or to going to see her in her luxurious quarters. This was why you worked so hard, because you loved your research, and so you had something interesting to show her. A reason to see her.

With that in mind, you stayed late in the lab, finishing a report on your latest research. You were going to show it to Mel and as a councilor, she was supposed to read it and debate whether or not to take your study to the next Council meeting.

Scanning quickly to make sure everything was okay, you stood up with a satisfied sigh. Mel's quarters weren't that far away.

You left the Academy building and walked quickly until you reached the large building where Mel's apartment was. Elora wouldn't be there at this time, and Mel had once said that you were welcome to visit her at any time. You entered the elevator and soon arrived in the lobby of the luxurious apartment. Feeling strange about the silence, you thought about calling her, but stopped when you thought you heard something. A sigh.

A moan.

You turned your head, towards where you knew Mel's suite was. You could have heard wrong, you were almost sure of that when you heard it again.

It was her voice. You were sure of it. Then she moaned again. A name this time. Jayce.

Jayce. Jayce Talis.

Your heart sank and your breath caught for a moment, until you realized you were invading her privacy. You turned and left, trying to do as little noise as possible.

You didn't see Mel for the next few days, not because you were trying to avoid her, but because you were busy working on something for Heimerdinger, and she was also working a lot, apparently.

That's why you were slightly startled when the door to your lab opened and the click of her heels was heard, followed by her melodious voice.

"Working so hard that you didn't have time to come see me?" she asked with a slight laugh in her voice. It irritated you.

"What do you mean?" you tried to focus on the project on your desk.

"I heard about the research you did, and that you gave it to Heimerdinger. Why didn't you bring it to me, like always?" she walked over to you and leaned against the desk.

"He was the first counselor I met when I finished, then." you lied, feeling the bitter taste in your mouth.

"Oh, so that's how it is." she let out a playful chuckle. "I thought we had an alliance."

Her presence felt too close, but you swallowed hard and lifted your face, meeting hers.

"Sorry, I just don't have much time to look for you." you sounded more irritated than you wanted.

Her relaxed expression faltered and she straightened her posture. "Hey, I'm just kidding." she brought one of her manicured hands to your forearm.

"Sorry." you shook your head and looked back at the notes on your desk. "I'm just... really annoyed with work."

"We all are. When you have some free time, why don't you come over to my place? I painted something new, I think you'll like it." she offered softly.

You nearly melted at her offer, the earlier irritation almost forgotten, “Sure, I’d love to.”

So that night you took the path you knew so well. The surprise this time wasn't as unpleasant as the last. Jayce was there again, lying down, his head in Mel's lap. She was comforting him about something. An intimate and tender moment. You turned around and left again.

Well, this time you were avoiding her. Leaving the lab at times when you knew she would visit you, avoiding the council building and staying away from her apartment. Elora even came to you, notifying you that Councilor Medarda wanted to see you, but you politely said that you were very busy.

Your irritation worsened when she appointed him as an advisor. It was at that moment that you knew you would never reach her level, no matter what you did.

Your favorite place to be away from the lab was the fountain in the park, with the purple leaves blowing in the wind. That's where you found yourself at the moment, absentmindedly playing with a pen in your hand, waiting for the time to pass.

"You told Elora you had too much work to take the time to see me." the velvety voice spoke from behind you, slightly irritated. "You don't seem very busy right now."

You turned your face to see her standing there, close to the bench where you were sitting.

"Counselor Medarda." you greeted politely. "Forgive me for the misunderstanding-"

"What joke is this?" she said more irritated than before, her serene face distorting into an angry expression. "What's gotten into you?"

"I have to work, Councilor, I'm afraid I'm not the richest woman in Piltover." you hinted. "I can't afford to lose my sponsorships."

"I work too, and at work I don't have many friends. That's why I value the few friendships I have." she walked up to you. "Like yours."

"Oh, you don't have any friends?" you scoffed. "And bed partners?"

"What?" she took a step back, her expression faltering.

"That's exactly what I witnessed when I went to you to deliver my research, counselor." you replied irritably. "But don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

Mel was silent, standing there as you walked back to your lab.

[slattlicker]

Schlatt has said in a chuckle sandwich ep that he buys expensive furniture (VERY EXPENSIVE)

and so imagine ted is at his place and he spills something on the couch and so schlatt gets really mad righttt

but later schlatts like fucking u on the couch and u cum/squirt all over it and you think he’s going to be really mad but he loves it and makes u do it again <3

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * visitation rights ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: he hires you to redecorate his condo. you hate the layout. he hates your attitude. the couch is the only thing worth keeping—so, naturally, you try to destroy it. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: inspired by a sinful little ask about furniture, bodily fluids, and schlatt being possessive. i may have taken... several creative liberties ♡ hope that’s okay.

warnings: explicit content (MDNI !!!) · hate sex · exes with unresolved everything · belt kink · oral (f & m) · overstim · degradation · possessive behavior · cumplay · ruined furniture · pettiness as foreplay

✦ note: post-scene behavior may look like aftercare, but it’s more possessive than nurturing. emotional resolution is not present—please tread carefully if you’re seeking softness or a happy ending. there isn’t one.

enjoy, pervs ♡

✧✧✧

schlatt's pov

the condo was a fucking disaster.

to be clear, it was massive—open floor plan, polished concrete, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a view of the skyline that probably made architects weep. it screamed luxury. class. money.

but whoever had picked out the furniture should’ve been tried at the hague.

there was a sectional couch in deep emerald velvet—opulent, sculptural, stunning—and it clashed with everything else in the room. a glass coffee table sat crooked on a synthetic cowhide rug, as if begging to be put out of its misery. the wall art? faux-motivational quotes in metallic cursive. one said, “hustle in silence. let your success make the noise.”

schlatt stood in the middle of it all with a hand on his hip, coffee in the other, wondering how the hell he let it get this bad.

it wasn’t like he didn’t have taste. he did. for watches. cars. whiskey. leather. things that were loud in quality, quiet in branding. but interior design? that was austin’s thing.

and it was austin who noticed. who took one look around the condo during poker night, laughed for five full minutes, and said, “you live like a divorced banker who just lost custody.”

“fuck off,” schlatt had said.

“seriously. you need help.”

“i’ve got a guy, actually,” austin had added, wiping his eyes. “she’s brilliant. brutal. you’ll hate her. but she’s the best.”

that was three weeks ago.

and now here he was. dressed like he had a meeting on wall street. two undone buttons. rolex peeking from his cuff. coffee in hand like he wasn’t pacing a condo that looked like a tech startup’s idea of cozy.

he heard the knock and exhaled slowly. calm. in control.

he opened the door.

and there she was.

her.

✧✧✧

y/n's pov

you had prepared for this meeting like any other: portfolio, mood boards, fabric swatches, and an ironed outfit that screamed competence. you wore black. structured. polished. earrings small. hair perfect. lipstick unforgiving.

professional.

because you were. this was your job. not therapy. not nostalgia. not a goddamn walk down memory lane.

still, when the door opened, you had to pause for a millisecond.

schlatt.

older. broader. hair a little longer, face a little sharper. he wore the same brand of cologne, though—you caught it faintly as he stepped back to let you in. warm. smoky. familiar.

you ignored it.

“hi,” you said crisply. “i’m here for the walkthrough.”

he blinked. “you’re the interior designer.”

“i am.”

“you’re austin’s interior designer.”

you gave him a tight smile. “that a problem?”

“no,” he said quickly, stepping aside. “no, just—didn’t realize. i mean. wow.”

you walked in without further comment, heels tapping against the hardwood. the place was just as bad as austin had warned.

“jesus christ,” you muttered, surveying the couch. “you let a computer algorithm decorate this place?”

“it came mostly furnished.”

“and you just… kept it like this?”

“i’ve been busy.”

you didn’t respond. you were already taking photos, opening cabinets, checking natural light.

he hovered.

“you’re not gonna—like—mention it?” he asked finally.

you glanced at him. “mention what?”

“that we… you know.”

you tilted your head slightly. “oh. that.”

“yeah. that.”

you offered a dry smile. “ancient history.”

he blinked.

you turned back to your notes. “let’s keep it that way.”

it hit him harder than it should’ve.

because for a second, when he saw you standing there, he thought maybe—

but no. of course not.

you were here to work. you had your clipboard and your laser measurer and your pressed slacks, and he was just the idiot who didn’t know how to buy a rug that didn’t scream cryptobro bachelor pad.

he cleared his throat. “right. yeah. totally.”

you didn’t look up. you just said, “let’s talk about that couch.”

the couch was the only thing in the condo with any real value.

not because of the color. or the fact that it was modular.

because they bought it together.

six years ago. when they still shared keys. and spotify playlists. and the occasional sunday morning worth remembering. it had cost more than some people’s cars—custom italian velvet, deep emerald, walnut trim and brass feet, imported from milan. schlatt had haggled for it like a man possessed.

he remembered how proud he was when it arrived. how the two of them arranged the pieces together, testing configurations, arguing about the chaise. how they broke it in like it was sacred. movie nights. lazy mornings. one disastrous attempt at assembling ikea drawers while tipsy.

it was the only thing he fought for during the breakup.

he’d let you take the espresso machine. the knives. the record player. the apartment.

but not the couch.

and now you were standing in front of it like it meant nothing. like it was just another piece of evidence in the case against his taste.

he watched you jot something down in your notebook, tapping your pen against your chin. you were muttering to yourself. pacing. taking measurements. referencing swatches against the fabric.

and then you said it.

"it’s the only thing worth saving."

you didn’t look at him when you said it. but it stuck. worse than a knife, sharper than pity. because you didn’t say it like it meant anything. you said it like a professional. like someone doing a job.

still, it caught him.

because now you were designing around it.

you’d said it was the only anchor in the entire mess. that everything else had to go. but not the couch.

you circled it like it was art. you built your palette around it. you asked if he remembered the name of the fabric—of course he did. you held up a swatch of slate velvet and murmured, "this might finally do it justice."

and schlatt—who hadn’t thought about milan or memory or what it meant to sit on something shared until this very moment—suddenly couldn’t think about anything else.

✧✧✧

schlatt's pov

it had been three weeks since the initial walkthrough, and schlatt had more or less surrendered the condo to her.

not willingly. not graciously.

because she hadn’t just taken over his space—she’d taken over him. breezed in with that smug little clipboard, those stupidly expensive heels, her swatches and her attitude, and acted like he didn’t even exist outside of her vision board.

now she was seated at his kitchen island, tablet propped up like a guillotine, swatches fanned beside her coffee like an art exhibit. her blazer was flawless. her ponytail severe. she looked like she’d sue someone for misusing a throw pillow.

“mr. schlatt,” you said without looking up, “i’ve mocked up revised layouts for the media room, living room, and bedroom. i’d appreciate your feedback before proceeding with orders.”

he squinted at you. “you’re calling me mr. schlatt now?”

“it’s our professional dynamic.”

“you used to call me ‘baby’ when you wanted something.”

you tapped your screen. “yeah. and you never delivered.”

the grin that tugged at his mouth was involuntary. but you didn’t acknowledge it. you just rotated the tablet toward him, like you were dealing with a difficult client and not your ex.

“this is the proposed media room,” you said flatly. “lighting balance, scale, acoustic layout. i’ve matched the walnut paneling to matte black fixtures and hidden storage. clean. sharp.”

he leaned in. “sharp’s one word for it. looks like i’m about to start monologuing to the avengers.”

you arched a brow. “is that a complaint?”

he shrugged. “it’s the first time this place has looked like it belongs to someone with an actual spine.”

that earned him a flicker of a smile. sharp-edged. pitying. “glad to hear you’re growing one.”

you clicked to the next render.

“for the living room, i kept the sectional. temporarily.”

he tensed. “temporarily?”

you didn’t look up. “it’s the only item in here with visual weight. but it doesn’t fit the palette long-term.”

his voice dropped. “you remember that couch.”

you finally looked at him. “of course i do.”

a silence passed. ugly. heavy.

and then, like nothing, you held up a swatch. “i’m pairing it with smoked oak, brass accents, and tobacco suede. you said you liked warm tones, right? still masculine. just not… depressingly so.”

he scowled. “you saying my place is depressing?”

“i’m saying it feels like a linkedin influencer who drinks four raw eggs for breakfast and thinks a quartz coaster is interior design.”

“jesus.”

you smiled, thin and mean. “i’m trying to help.”

he stared at you. “you’re trying to win.”

“i already did. six years ago.”

he barked a laugh. “you left. that’s not winning.”

you turned the tablet one last time. “here’s the bedroom mockup. layered neutrals. clean textiles. a space for someone who doesn’t wake up and immediately ruin his own day.”

he looked at it. then at you.

and for the first time in the conversation, he didn’t have a comeback.

you took a slow sip of your coffee. “you have until friday to approve the first round of orders. if you ghost me again, i’ll assume you’re too emotionally fragile to make choices, and i’ll do it all myself.”

he leaned back, voice tight. “you always did love being in control.”

“and you always loved being told what to do,” you replied smoothly. “especially if i said it with my hand around your throat.”

his jaw clenched. you smiled sweetly.

“see you friday, mr. schlatt.”

✧✧✧

the condo looked good.

too good.

it had your fingerprints all over it—every clean line, every muted tone, every stupidly perfect shelf styling. and he hated how much better it was. hated that you were the reason.

all that was left was the living room.

and the couch.

your couch. that he fought to keep. that he won.

he walked in expecting to see you fluffing throw pillows or straightening lamps like usual—but you were standing over the tablet with that look on your face. the one that meant you were about to do something calculated and pretend it was casual.

“you’re redoing the living room?”

you didn’t even look at him. “it’s the final piece.”

he stepped closer. “what piece?”

you turned the tablet.

a couch. not the couch. just… a couch. sleek beige leather, boring brass legs, the kind of thing you’d see in a hotel lobby pretending to be chic. it looked like it came with a name like 'angled nugget chaise' and a fake sustainability pledge.

he stared at it.

then at you.

“you’re replacing my couch.”

“it’s not yours.”

that was fast. sharp.

he blinked. “i bought it.”

“we picked it. together.”

“six years ago.”

“and?”

he scoffed. “so what, now you’re just gonna design the whole place to passive-aggressively erase me?”

you looked up, deadpan. “trust me—if i was trying to erase you, i’d start with the whiskey stains in the bedroom and the framed photo of your own car in the hallway.”

“oh, fuck off.”

“no, really.” you tapped the screen with a manicured finger. “this one actually matches the palette. it doesn’t scream ‘mid-twenties man who cried during Heat.’”

he stepped forward. “that couch is the only good thing in this entire room.”

“it was the only good thing,” you corrected. “until i fixed the rest of it.”

his voice dropped. “you’re just pissed you didn’t get to keep it.”

“please.” you laughed, humorless. “if i wanted to keep it, i would’ve. i let you have it.”

“bullshit.”

you folded your arms. “you think i was gonna drag a 700-pound milanese monstrosity up three flights of stairs in a walk-up just to remind myself of you every day?”

his jaw clenched. “you think it reminds me of you?”

“god, schlatt,” you snapped, voice low, venomous. “you live like a man still clinging to the best thing he ever had and fucked up anyway.”

silence.

searing. ugly. real.

you both stood there, frozen. the couch between you like a crime scene neither of you could stop revisiting.

you arched a brow. “still can’t handle being told the truth, huh?”

he looked at the tablet again. “that couch is fucking ugly.”

“so were you. i still slept with you.”

his eyes snapped back to yours.

and for a moment—just one—there was no condo. no layout. no job.

just you. him. and six years of quiet, rotting history embedded in green velvet.

then he laughed. dry. humorless. “i’m flying out tomorrow.”

“good for you.”

“gone four days.”

you tilted your head. “i’ll hold down the fort.”

he watched you—suspicious. silent.

then turned away, muttering as he headed down the hall, “don’t touch the fucking couch.”

you didn’t answer.

just smoothed your blouse, closed the tablet, and gathered your things like a professional.

like someone who’d made peace.

like someone who hadn’t just been given a four-day window and a very, very stupid challenge.

and when the door closed behind you—

you were already texting your movers.

✧✧✧

he noticed the second he stepped through the door.

not because the replacement was ugly. god, no. it was—objectively—beautiful. italian leather, camel-toned, butter-soft. sleek lines. deep seats. the kind of thing you’d see in a luxury showroom with price tags that didn’t use decimals.

but it wasn’t his.

it wasn’t theirs.

the couch was gone.

the emerald velvet. the walnut trim. the brass feet. the years of history sealed into the seams. gone.

he stood in the middle of his living room like someone had died there.

for a moment, he thought maybe he was losing it. that she’d just rearranged things. moved it to another room. he checked. bedroom: still the same. media room: untouched. storage: empty.

that fucking couch was gone.

✧✧✧

“austin.”

“hey, man! how was the trip?”

“austin. where does she live?”

there was a pause on the other end of the line. “…what?”

“the couch is gone.”

“oh.”

“she stole the couch.”

there was another pause.

then, cautiously: “schlatt. buddy. you’re the one who said she could take full creative lead.”

“i meant the walls! the bookshelves!”

austin sighed. “you’re calling me because your ex—who you kept hired—replaced the couch she probably still dreams about burning, and now you’re having a meltdown?”

“it’s our couch...she wouldn't burn it.”

“yeah...you remember that she left you six years ago, yeah?”

“i want her address.”

austin groaned. “god, it's JUST a couch!”

“austin.”

“fine. but i’m not bailing you out if this turns into a felony.”

✧✧✧

he shows up at your place just before sundown.

no warning. no text. no civility.

he knocks once, hard, and waits.

when the door opens, you look stunned for half a second—until your eyes flick to the man in front of you, and your mouth curls like you’ve been waiting for this.

“you took the couch,” he says.

you blink once. innocently. “i updated the layout.”

“you took the couch.”

you lean against the doorframe. “and replaced it with one better suited to the home’s color story and modernized atmosphere. i even upgraded the seating depth.”

“that couch is mine.”

you snort. “please. you barely noticed it in the shop window, you were so worried about being early to the Duomo. you just paid for it.”

he steps forward. “you had it removed while i was out of state. that’s premeditated.”

you fold your arms. “and what are you gonna do? call the cops? tell them your evil ex reclaimed the overpriced sofa you emotionally imprinted on like a fucking duckling?”

he scowls. “you don’t even want it. you just wanted to take it away from me.”

you smirk. “exactly.”

it hits him like a slap. because she’s not even denying it.

“you’re insane,” he says.

“you’re welcome,” you repeat, stepping back toward the door.

but instead of retreating like a normal person, he moves. fast.

“schlatt—”

he wedges his foot in the doorway and muscles his way past you like he owns the place.

“are you serious—?”

“i’m taking the fucking couch.”

“you are not taking the couch.”

“it’s mine!”

“you gave me control over the layout!”

“i didn’t say steal the one good thing i had left!”

he’s already halfway into the living room, arms braced against the back of the couch like he’s going to deadlift it out the door by sheer rage and spite.

you follow after him, seething. “do you have any idea how deranged you sound right now?”

“oh, i’m sorry, are you not the one who surgically extracted my soul-couch while i was 900 miles away?”

you whirl around the arm of the couch to face him. “you abandoned that couch to a fake cowhide rug and a hustle grind mindset poster. i fucking rescued it.”

“you kidnapped it!”

“you’re lucky i didn’t torch the rest of your awful furniture and salt the earth!”

he lunges. not at you. at the couch, like he’s going to hoist it right over his shoulder and walk out the door. it doesn’t budge.

you shove his arm. “get your hands off it!”

he shoves back. “get your hands off me!”

you stumble, nearly trip on the rug, and he instinctively grabs your arm—steadying you—and then—

there’s a beat.

just one.

the grip doesn’t loosen.

your face is close to his now. too close. breathing hard. cheeks flushed. chest heaving.

you hiss, “let. go.”

but you don’t move.

and neither does he.

his voice drops. rough. “you don’t even want the couch.”

your eyes flash. “no. i just want you to suffer.”

and then—

he kisses you.

hard.

rough and hot and furious.

your teeth clash. your hands push. pull. your mouths crash like something breaking. it’s not tender. it’s not sweet.

it’s years of resentment and want and what if all igniting at once.

you break for air, gasping, but don’t move away. he’s still gripping your arm, and your hands are fisted in his shirt like you might throttle him or yank him closer. or both.

“you’re such an asshole,” you breathe.

“you stole my fucking couch,” he growls back.

you grab his face. he kisses you again.

this time, it’s worse. this time, you moan into it.

and that’s all it takes.

something in him snaps—like your mouth unlocked a door he’s been holding shut for six years.

he pushes you backward without breaking the kiss, hands gripping your waist. you hit the back of the couch hard—the couch—and he crowds you against it like a man who’s been starving.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your mouth, lips slick, voice wrecked. “steal my shit, bait me into losing it—was that the plan?”

“no,” you gasp, shoving at his chest, only to claw his shirt back toward you. “i was just aiming to piss you off. the rest is a bonus.”

he huffs out a laugh, biting at your jaw, dragging his teeth across your skin until you shudder. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

“and you’re predictable,” you shoot back. “you think i didn’t know you’d come for it?”

his mouth is hot on your neck now, biting just hard enough to make you hiss.

“you always were a fucking brat,” he mutters.

you dig your nails into his back. “you always liked it.”

he growls—actually growls—and lifts you like it’s nothing. your back hits the couch cushions and he follows, mouth devouring yours, one hand already sliding up your thigh with zero patience, zero hesitation.

“gonna fuck you right here,” he murmurs, voice low and venomous. “on the couch you stole. gonna make it mine again.”

“you wish,” you breathe, grinding up against him. “you couldn’t handle me then.”

“oh, sweetheart.” his hand slips between your legs, and you gasp. “i can handle you just fine now.”

you arch under him, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. he’s kissing you like a man drowning—rough, relentless, with teeth and tongue and six years of anger slamming into every movement.

you hate him. you hate him so much.

but god, he still knows exactly how to ruin you.

your blouse gets shoved up. your bra pushed aside. his mouth is on you, sucking and biting hickies into your skin.

“you want it rough?” he mutters. “you want me to remind you what this mouth can do? what these hands used to do?”

“you owe me,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “you owe me six years of orgasms and a new espresso machine.”

he huffs a laugh, breathless. “fine. let’s settle the debt.”

and then he’s moving down.

fast. desperate. determined. you don’t even have time to be smug. you barely have time to breathe.

because the second his mouth hits you—

you go silent. eyes wide. breath caught.

his tongue is cruel. precise.

your hand flies to his hair before you can stop yourself—fingers curling in tight, nails scraping across his scalp like you’re staking a claim.

he groans into you.

it’s low. guttural. monstrous.

and he doubles down.

tongue dragging through you in slow, devastating strokes, nose brushing where you’re aching, lips sucking your clit into his mouth with a rhythm so deliberate it makes your toes curl.

“fuck—” you breathe, voice wrecked.

he doesn’t let up.

he doesn’t want to let up.

because this is about more than making you come—it’s about proving something. about punishment. about pride. about planting his name back into your skin with nothing but his mouth.

you pull his hair harder, tilting his head just so—and he lets you, humming against you like he wants you to take control just to prove he’ll rip it right back.

your hips twitch, buck, grind—and his hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place like you’re some desperate little thing he’s keeping pinned just to watch you squirm.

“stay still,” he mutters, voice muffled. “you wanted this.”

you don’t answer. you just tighten your grip in his hair and pull.

he grunts at that. nips at your clit in retaliation— enough to make your legs jerk as you yelp at the sudden pain.

your thighs are trembling. your grip on his hair is bruising. your head tips back against the couch cushions, mouth falling open, every breath a broken little sound you hate giving him—but you can’t stop.

not when he’s flicking his tongue just right. not when he’s groaning into you like he likes this. like he missed this.

he pulls back, spitting warm and lazy right onto your cunt—then spreads it with his tongue, slow and smug.

“still with me?” he mutters, thumb pressing hard at your inner thigh to hold you open.

you glare down at him. “barely.”

“good.” his mouth finds you again. “shut up.”

and you do. because the second he locks back in, there’s no room to talk. just heat. pressure. tongue working you over like he’s methodical about it, like there’s a pace he’s decided on and he’s not changing it for anything.

your hips twitch again. he slams a hand down on your stomach—flat, solid, grounding.

“don’t move.”

you’re barely breathing now. hands twisted in his hair like rope. mouth open but nothing coming out.

your head spins.

he hums against you, tongue flicking harder now. tighter circles. crueler rhythm. like he can feel how close you are and wants to make it hurt.

“fuck, schlatt—”

he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your thigh. not hard. not gentle. just enough to sting.

“don’t say my name like that,” he growls. “you know what to call me when i'm giving you everything you want.”

you bite your lip at that, the title stuck in your throat.

he notices.

his mouth curls into something slow. smug. dangerous.

“hm,” he says, tongue flicking once—deliberate, precise—right over the spot that makes your breath hitch. “thought so.”

you glare down at him, eyes glassy. your voice comes out low. strained. “don’t get cocky.”

he drags his mouth over your cunt again, slow and wet. “oh, baby.” another stroke. “i’m already there.”

you want to hit him. you want to ride him.

you want to wipe that look off his face with your thighs around his head and your fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re anchoring yourself to a sinking ship.

but right now, you’re boneless—wrecked—half-shaking and flushed all the way down to your chest.

he sits back on his heels, lazily licking his fingers like he’s tasting victory.

then he nods at you—chin tilted, tone cool. “on your knees.”

you don’t move.

he waits.

one beat. two.

you roll your eyes. “still bossy.”

“and you still like it,” he says, already reaching for his belt.

you hate that he’s right.

you push up slowly, legs unsteady, jaw tight—but you go. you kneel in front of him, still flushed, still breathing hard.

he pulls his pants down just enough, cock already hard, flushed, leaking at the tip.

you look up at him, glare sharp.

he tilts his head.

“what’s the word?” he asks.

your lips part. the word still burns. still chokes.

but the way he looks at you—like he knows you’ll say it, like he’s earned it—

your throat clicks.

“…sir.”

his breath stutters.

just for a second.

then it’s like a switch flips—his eyes go darker, his grip in your hair turns solid, possessive.

“fuck,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “there she is.”

the belt slides from his loops with that unmistakable hiss of leather, and you freeze—not scared. just…watching.

he holds it up. lets it hang between two fingers. then steps forward and wraps it around your throat. snug. not choking. not yet.

he pulls it just enough to lift your chin. make you look at him.

“keep your mouth open and your manners sharp,” he warns. “you know what to call me.”

you blink up at him, wide-eyed. lashes fluttering.

then your mouth curls.

and you murmur—soft, sweet, poisonous—

“yes, daddy.”

his expression snaps.

the belt tightens—not harsh, just a warning. his free hand grips your jaw.

hard.

“try again.”

you smile, all teeth. “master?”

his hand slams to your cheek—not a slap, not quite—but a sharp tap, a reset. his thumb pushes your jaw open.

“you’ve got one more chance to behave,” he growls. “say it right.”

you tilt your head just enough to test the belt's pull.

and purr, "sir."

his jaw clenches. nostrils flaring.

then his hand is back in your hair, belt still tight in his grip.

“open your mouth, since you’ve got so much to say.”

you do.

he feeds it to you inch by inch, slow and steady, keeping control with the belt as a leash—guiding you like he’s done this a thousand times.

you hollow your cheeks. he groans. head tipping back for a second before locking eyes with you again.

“that’s it. just like that.” he hisses between his teeth. “always took my cock so fucking well.”

you hum around him, eyes narrowed.

his hips twitch.

“fuck, don’t—don’t pull that shit,” he mutters, voice tight. “you hum again, i’m gonna come down your throat too soon, y/n."

you do it again.

harder.

and his hand tightens on the belt. yanking you forward just a little—not enough to choke, but enough to remind you who’s holding the leash.

“you’re such a fucking brat,” he growls. “look at you. on your knees. drooling all over me like this is what you were made for.”

spit’s already running down your chin. you don’t care.

you grip his thighs for balance, working your mouth over him, letting him hit the back of your throat and stay there.

he groans—deep. fucked. eyes fluttering. “goddamn.”

you bob your head, slow at first, then faster, messier—let your nose press to his skin, let your spit coat everything.

he’s cursing under his breath now, hand gripping the belt like he’ll lose it if he doesn’t have you tethered.

“good fucking girl,” he grits out. “look at you. letting me use your mouth like it’s mine. like you never left.”

you look up at him, eyes glassy, face wrecked.

his hips snap forward at a punishing pace.

you gag. swallow around him. don’t pull away, no matter how sore your throat is gonna be in the morning.

he groans—loud, uncontrolled. “shit, i’m gonna—”

you pull off with a loud, wet pop.

he looks ruined. flushed. chest heaving. belt still clenched in one fist like he’ll drag you back if you try to run.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

then smirk.

“missed this, sir?”

he stares down at you.

“get on the couch,” he says, voice like gravel. “hands and knees.”

you start to turn, blouse still bunched up beneath your arms, skirt hiked up, underwear somewhere on the floor.

he stops you with a tug on the belt.

“hold on.”

you glance back, breathless. “what now—”

rip.

the sound of fabric tearing cuts through the air like a gunshot.

you jerk as your blouse splits down the middle—threads popping, buttons scattering across the floor like shells.

“jesus—!”

he grabs the back panel, yanks again, and it comes clean off your arms, tossed over the couch without ceremony.

“you don’t get to look like you’re still in control,” he mutters, already reaching under you to pull the bra straps down. “not when you’re drooling all over my cock and soaking my couch.”

your bra barely holds on for another second before he snaps the clasp and peels it off like an afterthought.

you’re left in just your skirt, belt still looped around your throat, breath coming fast.

he steps back, takes you in—naked from the waist up, flushed, wrecked, trying to pretend you’re not into this.

then?

he rips the skirt at the zipper.

doesn’t even try to undo it.

just fists the fabric and pulls, and when it tears at the seam, he grins like it’s his favorite sound in the world.

you gasp, spinning halfway toward him. “that skirt was custom!”

he grabs your jaw, fingers digging in just enough to make you still.

"does it look like i give a fuck, dollface?"

then he turns you.

bends you over the couch like you weigh nothing.

hands and knees, belt still snug around your neck, chest bare, legs spread. what’s left of your outfit barely clings to you—torn, wrinkled, meaningless.

his palm lands hard on your ass once—twice—and then he’s lining up behind you, fist still wrapped in the belt around your neck.

“spread.”

you do.

you’re still catching your breath when he pushes inside you with a brutal thrust.

no warning. no easing in. just ownership.

your entire body jolts forward, hands scrabbling against the cushion.

“fuck!” you choke, back arching, walls clenching around him like your body’s trying to process the shock.

he groans—low, rough, like something primal just cracked inside him.

“still so fucking tight,” he mutters, fingers digging into your hips like he needs to ground himself. “six goddamn years, and you’re still perfect.”

you laugh—breathy, sharp. “don’t get soft on me now.”

he slams into you harder.

you yelp.

“that soft enough for you, sweetheart?”

you twist your head, glare over your shoulder. “i’m not the one simping.”

he growls and grabs the belt again, yanking your head up as he leans over you.

his voice is a rasp against your ear.

“say it again.”

“what?”

“say my name. right.”

you grit your teeth, spit pooling in your mouth.

“…sir.”

he groans, biting down against your shoulder—not enough to draw blood, just enough to make you jump.

“good girl,” he mutters. “knew you’d come back to me.”

“wasn’t for you,” you snap. “it was for the couch.”

his hips snap forward so hard the couch creaks under both of you.

you scream.

“liar,” he says. “i bet you planned this. you continued working for me...just to get fucked like this. to be ruined like this. and you know what?”

you’re gasping. shaking.

“just for that—you’re gonna come two more times,” he growls, “before i even think about pulling out.”

your laugh is wrecked. bitter. “what, trying to make up for six years of failure all at once?”

he grabs your hips tighter—slams in deep. you yelp.

“still running your mouth, huh?”

“still overpromising and underdelivering,” you bite back, breathless. “some things never change.”

he leans over you, the belt pressing against your throat as his body folds over yours. you feel him everywhere—skin, heat, teeth against your neck.

“say that again,” he hisses. “say it after you cum so hard you forget your own name.”

you whimper—but your tone’s still defiant. “bet you said that before you missed the launch party i wasn’t invited to.”

he stills.

his breath hits the back of your neck.

“you left,” he says, voice low. controlled. dangerous.

you shove back against him, grinding. “you let me.”

the next thrust is brutal.

you cry out, face pressed to the cushion, fingers fisting the ruined fabric beneath you.

“i told you i needed time after that promotion—”

“you vanished,” you spit, choking on the words. “you finally made it big, and i found out from a tweet.”

“you weren’t there at the party!”

“i wasn’t on the list, asshole.”

he growls and pulls the belt tighter—not choking, just enough to keep your breath on a leash.

“you think i just forgot about you?” he snaps. “that couch was the only fucking thing i kept because it mattered.”

your voice breaks. “you think that makes it better?”

“i think you wanted me to leave it. so i couldn’t have anything we built together.”

you twist beneath him, gasping, hate and arousal knotted together like wire. “i wanted you to look at it every day and remember you fucked it all up.”

“you think i don’t?”

his voice is wrecked now. too honest.

“i sit on this couch every goddamn night,” he mutters, thrusts slowing. “and all i think about is how you looked the day we bought it. that stupid smile. the fucking champagne. you remember that?”

your breath hitches.

“…yeah. i remember you spent half your paycheck on it.”

he slams back in—deep. angry.

“yeah. i fucking did.”

you’re trembling now—overstimulated, furious, close.

“schlatt—”

he growls, “try again.”

“…sir.”

“good girl.”

his hand drops to your clit—fingers circling fast, mean.

you sob through your teeth, legs shaking. “i’m—i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he snaps. “do it while i’m inside you. while you’re on this fucking couch we both worked and bled for.”

you cry out as it hits—sharp, brutal, a full-body collapse that steals your breath and leaves you soaked all over again.

he groans loud behind you, grip tightening, pace faltering. “one more.”

you shake your head. “i can’t—”

“yes you can. you will. you owe me.”

you try to speak. to push back. but he doesn’t stop.

not until you're twitching.

not until you're a mess of tears, spit, sweat, and slick.

you’re already coming—sharp, sudden, clenching around him so hard he chokes on his breath. you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open against the cushion as your whole body convulses.

but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

his rhythm stutters, then doubles down.

“uh-uh,” he growls, hand slamming back to your hip, cock still fucking into you without mercy. “we’re not done.”

you whimper. “schlatt—”

“sir.”

your voice breaks. “sir—please, i can’t—”

“yes, you fucking can.”

then he yanks you up.

one brutal pull, and your spine is flush against his chest, his arm locked tight around your waist to hold you upright. he keeps fucking you—deep, relentless—while your knees barely stay under you, every muscle twitching from the last orgasm.

his other hand grabs under your thigh and lifts, forcing one leg up and open across the couch cushion, wide and vulnerable.

you try to squirm, but he’s got you pinned—mouth at your ear, voice a low snarl.

“touch yourself.”

you hesitate, shaking.

“i said—” he thrusts in harder, hips slapping loud against your ass— “touch yourself.”

your hand flies down. fingers shaking, slick already everywhere. you circle your clit like he told you to, gasping, sobbing, overstimulated out of your mind.

“harder.”

you obey.

your other arm reaches back, blindly grabbing at him—fingers tangling in his hair like you need leverage just to stay conscious.

he groans, hips stuttering as your nails scrape over his scalp.

“that’s it,” he breathes. “fucking mess. just like i remember.”

you’re whining now—nonsensical, desperate, legs quaking.

his mouth is at your jaw, then your cheek, then your neck, biting hard enough to leave something.

“you wanna cum again?” he hisses.

you nod frantically. “y-yes—fuck, yes, sir—”

his pace slows—not softer. just calculated. controlled. cruel.

“then say it,” he growls. “say you’ll give me the couch back.”

you choke. “wh-what?”

“say it.”

his thrusts stay steady, thick and deep and devastating, hitting everything with no mercy.

you squirm in his grip, breath caught between a sob and a scream.

“c’mon,” he murmurs into your ear, voice almost sweet. “you’re not gonna make me ask again, are you?”

your hand’s still between your legs, rubbing fast, shaking. you’re right at the edge—vision blurred, body twitching.

“say it,” he commands. “say it and i’ll let you cum again.”

“okay,” you gasp. “okay, it’s yours—fuck—you can have the couch back—”

“louder.”

“i’ll give it back—fuck—sir, i’ll give it back—!”

that’s all he needed.

“good girl.”

his hand drops from your thigh to your clit, slapping it once—wet and mean—and you scream.

you come again like a flood.

like your whole body’s been wrung out, broken open, used. it splurges out from where you're still connected to him, hitting the couch with an audible squelch, and his groan is the loudest yet.

“fucking look at that,” he mutters, watching the mess spread under you. “you just squirt all over this thousand-dollar couch for me, huh?”

you can’t answer.

you can barely breathe.

and that’s when he lets go.

his arm slips from around your waist and you drop—sloppy, gasping, twitching—straight down into the ruined cushion.

your legs give out completely.

you collapse into the mess you made, thighs still shaking, cunt dripping, face flushed and slack. you try to push yourself up, but your arms aren’t listening.

he steps back and watches you. wrecked. ruined. leaking and twitching on a soaked designer couch like it’s your only purpose.

his hand wraps around his cock—wet from you, flushed, pulsing—and he starts to stroke.

fast. aggressive. claiming.

“look at you,” he mutters, panting. “fucking pathetic.”

you lift your head weakly, blinking up at him through your lashes.

he grips your hair with his free hand—pulls your face up, not gently, not tender. just enough to make sure you’re watching.

“you want it on the couch?” he breathes. “or on that pretty little mouth that won’t shut the fuck up?”

you can’t speak. you just open your mouth.

invitation.

his groan is pure filth.

“of course you do,” he mutters. “of fucking course you do.”

it doesn’t take long.

not with the image of you soaked and broken under him.

not after watching you come so hard you gushed for him.

he strokes faster, hips twitching—

“take it.”

—and he cums.

with a grunt, his cock twitches in his hand and ropes of hot cum paint across your lips, your chin, your cheek—everywhere.

you flinch, but don’t pull away. you let it happen.

you let him mark you.

he releases your hair. you slump against the cushion again, breathing hard, face sticky, thighs wet, skin flushed from hairline to chest.

there’s a beat of silence.

he tucks himself back into his pants, exhaling slow like he just wrapped a goddamn meeting.

then—without a word—he walks into your kitchen.

your kitchen.

like he’s done it a hundred times. like he never stopped knowing where everything is, even if he's never been here before. are you this predictable with where you keep everything?

you hear the fridge door open.

a cap twist.

the clink of glass.

you don’t even try to move.

you’re still sprawled out—soaked, twitching, your cheek stuck to the cushion. your legs feel like overcooked noodles and your brain is full static.

footsteps return.

he rounds the couch, drink in one hand, chilled water bottle in the other, paper towel tucked under his arm.

sits on the clean end of the couch like it’s a fucking chaise lounge.

and then?

he pulls you gently—almost absentmindedly—across his lap.

you end up draped over him, belt still around your neck, skin sticky and hot, face flushed with exhaustion and—fuck—humiliation.

he hums to himself.

sets the glass on the side table.

cracks the water open, holds it to your lips.

you sip automatically. you’re too stunned to do anything else.

then he sets the bottle down, takes the paper towel, and starts wiping his cum off your face like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

no rush. no embarrassment. just the kind of slow, self-satisfied care you give to something you own.

he undoes the belt around your throat, finally. tosses it beside him.

you don’t thank him. you don’t speak. you don’t cry.

but your eyes sting—because this isn’t about the sex.

it’s about the fucking couch.

you gave it back.

you promised him.

he sees it. sees you. the way your jaw tightens. the flicker of shame.

and he smiles.

soft. evil.

“y/n,” he says, taking another sip of his drink. “you can have visitation rights.”

you want to shove him off the couch. but instead, you lay there.

silent. face clean. body ruined.

couch: totally, utterly his.

[cinnamon7girl7]

"WHAT'S MINE IS YOURS"

Being married to Satoru Gojo didn’t just mean sharing a bed, a house, or a last name. It meant sharing your life with someone who loved you absurdly — someone who never understood, and never will understand, the concept of boundaries.

You had your own missions.

Your cursed technique.

A well-built life long before you ever met him.

But from the moment you stepped into his world, Satoru decided that no part of you would ever be alone again. Not your exhaustion. Not your hunger. Not even your most simple little preferences.

The first time you said your feet hurt after a mission, a week later you had a high-tech imported massage chair with a smart footrest and a robe with your name embroidered on it.

One night, he canceled a meeting with his clan elders just to come back home, crawl into bed with you, and wrap his arms around you.

—The only urgent thing on my schedule is you —he whispered, without even taking off his coat.

His gestures were constant, subtle... and sometimes incredibly ridiculous.

Other times, if he found out you’d had a rough night, he’d wake you up with a breakfast cooked by private chefs in his kitchen.

Once, he spent over six million dollars just so you could see snow on your birthday for the first time… in the middle of August.

He had an entire climate-control system installed at one of his properties in Dubai, imported realistic artificial snow from Japan, and had a fake alpine village built in the garden.

The team helping him included meteorologists, movie set designers, and a group of dancers dressed as penguins who showed up at the end with an igloo-shaped cake.

—You said you wanted “pretty snow, like in the movies” —he told you with a proud grin, while you cried in your thermal robe and bunny-ear slippers.

—And I want every birthday of yours to be better than the last. So… get ready.

If he noticed you were quiet or down, he would shut down five floors of a luxury shopping mall just so you could walk around in peace, no crowds, no noise.

—The world’s being annoying today, babe. So no world. Just you… and the window displays —he’d say, carrying your bags like they weighed nothing.

Sometimes he even paid millions so that an amusement park would open just for the two of you for one night. Not because you loved the rides… but because you told him you’d never been to one as a kid. That night, he let you ride the Ferris wheel a thousand times, just to see you laugh.

And if he noticed you were happy… he gave you even more reasons to be.

Once, he hired Chanel’s head designer to make you a custom dress in less than 24 hours, just because you said “nothing I have fits for tonight’s dinner.”

Another time, he decorated an entire room just because he heard you say “I need a space just for me.” You didn’t say anything when you saw the library with new shelves, the aroma diffuser, the soft blanket on the perfect chair. You just hugged him.

—You deserve to be comfortable. Always. I don’t like that you’re unhappy in our little home because… I want to give you that. All of it —he said.

By “little home” he meant, of course, his modest three-story mansion with a Japanese garden, heated pool, and a walk-in closet that looked like it came out of a fashion magazine.

Because for him, the size of the place didn’t matter if you didn’t feel at peace there. And if that meant gifting you an entire tower just for yourself, he would do it again without hesitation.

Not even when he replaced all the chairs in the private cinema because you once mentioned that velvet irritated you. The next day, the furniture was soft leather, with cashmere blankets and a sound system that made you feel inside the movie.

Not even when he ordered croissants from Paris, flown in by private jet, because you joked that “nothing tastes the same since I came back from my trip.”

You didn’t question it when he planted a whole garden of flowers that only bloom at night, you said nothing. He just took your hand one early morning and led you outside, under the moon, to show it to you.

Or when he had a perfume made that smelled exactly like your freshly washed hair. He didn’t tell you. He just wore it one night when he had to travel, and when you hugged him, you felt your own scent wrap around you like an invisible ribbon.

Not even when he reserved a planetarium just for the two of you and rearranged the constellations to spell your name.

—Because there’s no star I find more beautiful than you, darling —he said, in a voice so soft you almost didn’t hear him.

And he meant it.

Not out of obligation, but as a personal desire —and you knew you couldn’t stop him. Not even when he bought you 10 identical pairs of Louboutin heels just because “he didn’t know which color you liked more.”

Not even when he bought a private island just because you said you wanted to “sunbathe without hearing people talking nearby.” He furnished the whole place in two days, with exclusive chefs, an endless bar, and a 3-meter-wide bed just so you could sleep like a queen.

And much less when he installed a heating system in your studio because you said, half asleep, “I hate when my feet get cold while I’m working.”

One night, while the city lights shone through the tall windows of his office, Satoru was reviewing papers with a half-finished glass beside him.

His phone vibrated on the desk. He answered without hurry, without even looking at the number.

—Gojo?

—Mr. Gojo, good evening —said the voice on the other end—. We’re calling to confirm a transaction attempting to process from your joint account with Mrs. Gojo. The amount is four million seven hundred thousand dollars. Do you authorize it?

He smiled, leaning back in his chair.

—Of course I do.

—Are you sure?

—If she’s the one buying it, don’t even ask me.

And he hung up with that calm of his, as if approving a multimillion-dollar purchase was as easy as breathing.

Because for Satoru, it didn’t matter what it was. If it was for you, it was always worth it.

One afternoon you came back from an exhausting mission. Everything hurt, you didn’t want to talk, just sleep.

But when you opened the door, you found something that left you speechless.

Lilies.

White lilies. Blue lilies. Oriental lilies, in big and small vases, marble flower pots, crystal bowls, and even in a teacup on the table.

There were petals on the stairs, tall stems in the corners, bouquets gently swaying with the breeze from the open windows.

The scent was delicate, enveloping. Familiar.

You walked among them with wide eyes, your heart racing, as if you had been transported to another world. In every corner, a small note:

“Here I took your hand for the first time.” “Here I realized I never wanted to let go.” “Here I knew you were my home.”

Satoru appeared at the end of the hallway. Smiling, without glasses, messy hair, wearing a light blue shirt half unbuttoned.

—Happy anniversary of the first “click” —he said—. I don’t remember what we ate that day… but I perfectly remember how your hand fit in mine.

And since then, I haven’t stopped wanting to repeat it.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So you did the only logical thing: you threw yourself into his arms, among lilies, among notes with memories, and surrounded by the scent of a kind of love money can’t buy.

He held you like always: as if you were the only thing he’d ever let fall.

I’ll be posting a long feed about Streamer!Gojo tomorrow, so hope you enjoy this one for now!

[amethystarachnid]

SKY ROCKETS AND ROBOTS - part I

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff, some angst, a little bit of spicy

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Part 2

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 5k

ᯓ★ TW(s): Y/N's ex left her when she got pregnant, Tony is a softie here

ᯓ★ Timeline: before the Avengers were formed

ᯓ★ Request: Tony stark × reader! single mom please? With fluff and smut 😅😅💐 ( @binsan)

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

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

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests open)

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You were once a bright young engineer, fresh out of MIT with dreams as big as the sky. You had a passion for technology, a sharp mind, and a heart full of ambition. Then life happened, in ways you never expected. You met someone, fell in love, and things moved fast. Maybe too fast. A whirlwind romance turned into an unexpected pregnancy, and before you knew it, you were a mother to a beautiful baby girl named Lily.

But your partner? He wasn’t ready. He disappeared from your life, leaving you alone to figure things out. At first, it was overwhelming, balancing work, the responsibilities of motherhood, and the heartbreak of abandonment. But you pulled through. You took up freelance work, designing software and small tech solutions from home, juggling conference calls while nursing, coding through the night after bedtime. You got used to it, became stronger, more resilient. Now, your daughter is five, a bundle of energy and curiosity who’s inherited your love for science and technology.

You’ve come a long way since those early days of struggle, but there’s still a part of you that wonders if you’ll ever find someone who’ll love both you and Lily. Someone who won’t run at the first sign of difficulty.

And then one day, you meet Tony Stark.

🚀

You don’t expect your day to take a turn like this. It’s a warm Saturday afternoon, and you’re at a local science expo — a rare treat for you and Lily. She’s dragging you from one exhibit to another, her little hands pulling on yours with excited tugs. It’s moments like these that remind you why you push so hard. Seeing her wide-eyed and full of wonder makes every sleepless night worth it.

You’re at an exhibit featuring cutting-edge AI when you feel her stop abruptly.

“Mommy, look! That's Iron Man!” Lily’s voice is filled with awe as she points to the tall figure standing a few feet away, surrounded by a small crowd. You follow her finger, and your heart skips a beat.

Tony Stark.

There’s no mistaking him, dressed in a sharp blazer and sunglasses, exuding that signature arrogance and charm you’ve only ever seen on TV. He’s in the middle of a casual conversation with someone, but even from here, you can feel the aura of importance surrounding him.

“Yeah, that’s Iron Man,” you murmur, feeling a bit like a deer in headlights. You hadn’t expected to run into someone like him.

But Lily, being the fearless little adventurer she is, takes off running toward him before you can stop her. You’re quick on her heels, heart pounding as you call her name.

“Lily, wait!”

But it’s too late. She’s already tugging on Tony Stark’s pant leg by the time you catch up, looking up at him with those wide, curious eyes.

“Hi, Iron Man! I like your robots,” she says brightly, as if she’s talking to any random adult. Tony glances down, pulling his sunglasses off to reveal a pair of surprisingly kind eyes as he kneels to her level.

“Hey there, kiddo. You’ve got good taste.” He flashes a grin, and for a moment, you see why people love him so much. There’s something disarming about his easy confidence.

You finally reach them, feeling flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry—she’s… really into tech. She didn’t mean to—”

But Tony waves a hand dismissively, standing up to his full height and giving you a once-over. His gaze lingers just a fraction too long, and you suddenly feel like you’re under a microscope.

“No harm done,” he says, his tone surprisingly light. “She’s got a future, clearly. Knows how to pick role models.”

You chuckle awkwardly, still trying to process that you’re standing in front of the Tony Stark. Up close, he’s even more intimidating, but in a weirdly magnetic way. There’s a spark in his eyes that speaks of brilliance, mischief, and something deeper you can’t quite put your finger on.

“She loves Iron Man,” you say, trying to regain some composure. “She’s been obsessed with building things since she could stack blocks. I can’t seem to keep her away from anything mechanical.”

Tony arches a brow, glancing down at Lily who’s now excitedly talking about the miniature rocket she tried to build last week.

“Is that so?” he says, crouching down again, giving Lily his full attention. “A mini rocket, huh? Did it work?”

Lily shakes her head, her pigtails swaying. “It almost did. But it went boom.”

Tony chuckles, ruffling her hair lightly. “Sometimes that’s how the best inventions start. Next time, try using a lower combustion rate. Less ‘boom,’ more ‘whoosh.’”

You’re surprised by how gentle he is with her, how effortlessly he connects with a child, that you don't have the heart to tell him that it was you who did the major part of the building process. For a moment, you just watch them, your chest tightening at the sight of Lily’s joy. It’s rare for her to interact with anyone like this, especially someone who doesn’t treat her like a kid.

He stands up again, turning to you with a smirk. “She’s smart. Gets it from her mom?”

You flush slightly at the compliment, feeling a bit tongue-tied under his gaze. “I guess you could say that. I was an engineer before…” You trail off, not sure why you’re suddenly oversharing. Something about Tony Stark makes it hard not to.

Before you can say more, he interrupts. “Let me guess — you’re still an engineer. Just doing the mom-engineer thing now. That’s no small feat.”

You blink, caught off guard by how perceptive he is. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I know a thing or two about multitasking. Running a company and saving the world — it’s basically the same as raising a kid, right?”

You laugh despite yourself, relaxing a little. He’s not what you expected. Less distant, more… human.

“Sure, except your robots actually listen to you,” you quip, and Tony grins.

“Most of the time,” he admits. “So, any chance I could take a look at that rocket project? I’ve got a thing for fixing ‘booms.’”

Your heart skips again at the casual offer, but before you can reply, Lily pipes up, bouncing on her toes.

“Can we, Mommy? Please?”

You glance between her eager face and Tony’s amused expression. This is surreal. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at both of you — like he’s actually interested, not just humoring a fan. Like he sees you.

Maybe this isn’t a bad idea after all.

As you walk beside Tony Stark, weaving through the crowd, you can't quite believe what's happening. This kind of thing doesn't happen to people like you. Yet here you are, with Lily practically skipping ahead, chattering excitedly about rockets and robots, while Tony listens with genuine interest.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways at you, “what’s your theory on the combustion failure? Too much fuel or not enough stabilization?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical question. You’d been bracing yourself for more of his charm or sarcasm, but here he is, actually engaging with you on a deeper level. You’re impressed, though it makes sense—he is Tony Stark, after all.

“Stabilization, mostly,” you reply, falling into a rhythm of conversation. “The design was sound, but we didn’t account for the weight distribution. It shifted mid-launch and threw everything off.”

He nods thoughtfully, like he's analyzing every detail. “Classic mistake. I had a similar issue with one of my early suits—though, you know, a little less ‘mini rocket,’ a little more ‘metal suit crashing into a building.’ Same basic concept, though.”

You laugh at the mental image, feeling a bit more at ease. “Yeah, I imagine the stakes were a little higher for you.”

Tony shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, let’s just say property damage and I have a complicated relationship.”

Lily turns around, walking backward as she looks up at Tony with wide eyes. “Did you blow up a building?!”

He grins, glancing down at her. “A few, but mostly on purpose. Don’t try that at home, kid.”

Lily giggles, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She’s clearly in awe of him, and it’s hard to blame her. You feel a bit of that awe yourself, though you’re trying not to show it.

“So, where’s this rocket of yours?” Tony asks, glancing around like he's half-expecting it to pop out of nowhere.

You clear your throat, feeling a bit sheepish. “Oh, um… it’s back at our apartment. We didn’t exactly bring it to the expo. I wasn’t expecting to run into… well, you.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing more pronounced. “What, you don’t carry failed rocket prototypes everywhere you go? Amateur move.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Tony taps his chin, pretending to think hard. “Tell you what. Why don’t you two swing by my place later? I’ve got a full lab, and I’m sure we can find something that won’t blow up—at least not right away.”

Your heart skips at the offer. Is he serious? Inviting you to Stark Tower like it’s the most casual thing in the world? You glance down at Lily, who’s looking up at you with pleading eyes, clearly hoping you’ll say yes.

“Are you sure?” you ask, trying not to sound too shocked. “I mean, we wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “Intrude? Nah. Besides, I’ve been meaning to show off my new toys to someone who actually appreciates them. Kids are way better at that than most adults.” He glances down at Lily, then adds with a wink, “Plus, I’ve got juice boxes.”

Lily practically jumps up and down. “Mommy, can we go? Please, please, please?”

You hesitate for a moment, weighing the surreal situation. But something about Tony’s easy demeanor, the way he’s connected with Lily, and even the way he’s made you feel comfortable makes it hard to say no. It’s not every day you get a chance like this, and you know Lily will talk about it for weeks if you turn it down.

“Alright,” you say, giving in with a smile. “I guess we’re going to Stark Tower.”

Tony grins, looking genuinely pleased with your answer. “Great. Let’s make it a field trip.”

🚀

An hour later, you find yourself walking through the sleek, high-tech halls of Stark Tower. The whole place feels like something out of a futuristic movie, and you can’t help but feel a little out of place. But Tony, ever the showman, makes sure neither you nor Lily feel that way for long.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says with a grand gesture, like he’s introducing you to some royal palace. “I was going for ‘modest,’ but you know, things escalated.”

Lily’s eyes are practically bugging out of her head as she looks around, taking in the shiny surfaces, the impressive tech displays, and the overall coolness of the place. “This is so cool,” she breathes.

You can’t help but agree. “Yeah, this is… incredible.”

Tony leads you both to his lab, where holograms flicker in the air, and sleek machines hum quietly in the background. It’s every bit as impressive as you’d imagined—maybe more so. He walks over to a workbench, tapping a few buttons on a console until a holographic blueprint of a rocket hovers in front of him.

“Alright, kiddo,” he says, crouching down to Lily’s level. “Let’s see what we’re working with. Tell me about your rocket.”

Lily beams, launching into an enthusiastic explanation of her project, complete with wild hand gestures. Tony listens intently, nodding at all the right moments, occasionally throwing in a comment or suggestion.

You stand back, watching the two of them interact. It’s surreal, seeing Tony Stark—the Tony Stark—so genuinely engaged with your daughter. He’s patient, encouraging, and—despite his usual sarcasm—there’s a warmth in the way he talks to her that catches you off guard.

As Lily finishes her explanation, Tony stands up and looks over at you. “Sounds like you’ve got a real prodigy on your hands.”

You smile, feeling a swell of pride. “She’s pretty special, yeah.”

Tony taps his chin thoughtfully, then flashes you a grin. “You know, I don’t usually offer internships to five-year-olds, but I could make an exception.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Maybe in a few years.”

“Fair enough,” Tony replies, still grinning. “But seriously, if she ever wants a tour of the lab—or you do—just say the word.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the offer. “You’re full of surprises today.”

Tony shrugs, nonchalant. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy. Plus, I like hanging out with people who don’t try to sell me on their latest ‘groundbreaking’ invention every five minutes.”

The three of you spend the next hour tinkering with the rocket design. Tony gives Lily some gentle guidance, teaching her a few tricks of the trade while making sure to keep things light and fun. You can tell she’s having the time of her life, and honestly, so are you. You’ve never seen her this animated, this confident.

As the afternoon winds down, Tony walks you both back to the lobby, hands in his pockets, his usual easy smirk back in place.

“Well, that was fun,” he says. “I’ll have my people send over the specs we worked on. Maybe next time, we can tackle world domination.”

You chuckle. “I’ll let you know if we’re free for that.”

Tony winks at Lily, who’s practically buzzing with excitement. “And hey, kid—next time you’ve got a rocket that goes ‘boom,’ give me a call. We’ll fix it together.”

Lily grins, waving enthusiastically. “Okay! Bye, Iron Man!”

As you leave Stark Tower, you can’t help but glance back at Tony one last time. He gives you a casual wave before turning back toward his lab, and you can’t shake the feeling that today was more than just a chance encounter.

It feels like the beginning of something. Something new. Something… different.

And you can’t wait to see where it goes.

🚀

Over the next few weeks, your life takes on a surreal, almost dream-like quality as Tony Stark begins to weave his way into your world. What starts as a few casual meet-ups, mostly centered around Lily’s fascination with all things tech, turns into something much more.

The first time he invites you both back to Stark Tower, it’s under the pretense of helping Lily with her latest invention—a robot that she’s determined to build from scratch. You sit back, watching as Tony patiently explains complex concepts to your five-year-old daughter, all while making it fun for her. There’s a tenderness in the way he interacts with her that surprises you. Tony Stark, the world-renowned billionaire with a reputation for being difficult, is kind and patient with a child, in ways you never would have expected.

You’re impressed, of course. But more than that, you find yourself drawn to the man behind the Iron Man persona.

It starts with little things. The way Tony catches your eye when Lily says something particularly cute or brilliant, the small smirk he gives when he knows you’re trying to hold back a laugh. He makes a habit of throwing sarcastic comments your way, but you soon realize it’s his way of flirting—teasing you in that playful, witty way he’s known for.

"You know," he says one afternoon while you’re watching him help Lily with a mechanical arm for her robot, “I think I deserve some kind of award for this. ‘Best Teacher to a Mini-Engineer.’ Maybe a medal. Or a statue.”

You smirk, folding your arms across your chest. “Oh, absolutely. I’m sure the world’s been waiting for a bronze Tony Stark to grace Central Park.”

He grins, that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “I knew you were smart.”

It’s in these small moments that you find yourself opening up to him. You’ve always been independent, not allowing yourself to lean on anyone for help, but Tony’s different. He’s been through his own struggles, carried his own burdens, and while you’re still cautious, you find comfort in the fact that he gets it. He doesn’t judge you for being a single mom or for the sacrifices you’ve had to make. If anything, he admires it.

"Raising a kid and working as an engineer?" he says one night over dinner—yes, dinner. He’d invited you and Lily over for what he called "a Stark special," which turned out to be takeout pizza and some ridiculous dessert made by his AI assistant. "That’s a superhero gig right there."

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m pretty sure saving the world in a metal suit still beats making school lunches and fixing leaky faucets.”

“Hey,” Tony says, his tone light but serious, “you do both. No suit needed.”

That night, when you leave, you find yourself thinking about him long after Lily has fallen asleep. There's something about Tony that lingers. Maybe it's his charm, or maybe it's the way he looks at you like you’re more than just a mom balancing a million things—like he sees the person you were before all the responsibilities took over.

As time passes, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm. You, Tony, and Lily have your little routine now, with frequent visits to Stark Tower becoming almost a weekend tradition. What surprises you most is how seamlessly Tony has integrated into your life—and not just with Lily. He asks about your work, your passions, the things you’ve had to put on hold since becoming a single mom. He pushes you to take up some of your old engineering projects, even offering his lab space if you ever want to tinker.

“You could use the space when I’m not around,” he says one evening, nonchalant as ever. “There’s always room for another genius around here.”

You laugh it off, though your heart skips a beat. “I’m pretty sure one genius is enough.”

Tony arches an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “You’re right. With you here, we might be over capacity.”

As the weeks turn into months, you realize you’ve grown used to having Tony around. He’s no longer just the famous billionaire who showed up at a science expo one day. He’s become a friend, someone you can talk to, someone you can rely on.

But there’s more to it than just friendship. You feel it in the way your heart flutters when he leans a little too close during one of his sarcastic quips, or the warmth that spreads through your chest when he smiles at you—really smiles, with that soft, almost vulnerable look in his eyes. You find yourself looking forward to the moments when it's just the two of you, standing on the balcony of Stark Tower late at night, talking about everything and nothing while Lily sleeps soundly in the guest room.

One evening, after one of those long, late-night talks, something shifts. You’re standing on the balcony, the city skyline stretched out before you, the cool breeze brushing your skin. Tony’s beside you, quiet for once, just watching the city lights. There’s a rare stillness about him, and you feel the weight of it, like he’s on the verge of saying something important.

“You know,” he says after a long pause, his voice quieter than usual, “I didn’t expect this.”

You glance at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He turns to face you, and for a moment, he’s not the confident, sarcastic Tony Stark. There’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable. “This. Us. You and Lily.” He swallows, as if the words are difficult for him. “I’ve spent so much time being Iron Man, or the guy who fixes problems, that I forgot what it’s like to just… be with someone. To care about people who aren’t expecting me to save the world.”

Your heart skips. His honesty catches you off guard, but you can tell it’s not something he shares often. And suddenly, you realize that you feel the same way.

“You’ve been… different for us, too,” you admit, your voice soft. “I wasn’t looking for anyone, and definitely not someone like you, but…” You trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence. How do you explain that Tony Stark has become more than just a fixture in your life? That you’ve started to fall for him, for all his quirks and complexities, for the way he’s seamlessly become part of your world?

Before you can find the right words, Tony steps closer. His eyes hold yours, that familiar spark of mischief still there, but tempered with something deeper. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “you and I are a pretty good team.”

You smile, feeling the weight of what’s unspoken between you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “We are.”

And then, without another word, Tony leans in. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But when your lips meet, there’s a spark, an electric current that runs through you both, confirming what you’ve known for a while now.

This is real. This is something worth holding on to.

🚀

The decision to make your relationship with Tony Stark official doesn’t happen in a single moment—it’s a gradual shift, one that feels inevitable after months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and nights spent talking on his balcony. But when it does happen, it’s perfect in its simplicity.

It starts one morning in his penthouse, a few months after that first kiss. You’ve been spending more time there, with Lily (who Tony affectionately refers to as "the little genius") practically making his lab her second home. The three of you have fallen into a comfortable rhythm, a little makeshift family that somehow feels like it’s always been meant to be.

On this particular morning, you wake up tangled in Tony’s sheets, the warmth of his body pressed against your back, his arm draped lazily over your waist. You turn your head slightly, smiling to yourself as you hear the soft hum of his breathing. For a man who seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looks surprisingly peaceful when he sleeps.

As you shift to move, Tony tightens his arm around you, pulling you back against him with a sleepy grumble. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You chuckle, your voice hushed in the early morning quiet. “Trying to escape before your little apprentice wakes up.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck. “Let her tinker. She’s practically running the lab anyway.” His lips graze your shoulder as he speaks, and you feel a familiar spark of heat ripple through you at his touch.

“You’re terrible,” you murmur, though there’s no real bite in your words. You’ve gotten used to Tony’s brand of affection—playful, but with an edge of intensity that never fails to make your heart race.

“Mmm, terrible, but irresistible.” His voice is still thick with sleep, but there’s a hint of mischief in it, the same mischief that always makes your pulse quicken. He shifts slightly, his hand trailing from your waist down to your thigh, fingers brushing lightly against your skin in a way that’s both teasing and possessive.

You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze. His eyes are half-lidded, but there’s a familiar hunger there that sends a thrill of anticipation through you. “You’re definitely full of yourself,” you say, though your voice is softer now, breathier.

Tony’s smirk grows, his hand slipping beneath the sheets to pull you closer. “And you love it.”

Before you can respond, his lips capture yours, and any thought of protest melts away in the heat of the kiss. His hand grips your thigh, pulling your leg over his waist as he deepens the kiss, the familiar intensity building between you. It’s slow at first, a lazy sort of desire, but it doesn’t take long before you’re both lost in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Later, as the sun filters through the curtains and you’re both tangled together in the sheets, a comfortable silence fills the room. Tony’s fingers are tracing absent patterns on your arm, and you can’t help but smile at how natural it feels, how easy.

“Have you thought about… telling people?” you ask softly, your head resting on his chest.

Tony raises an eyebrow, though he doesn’t seem surprised by the question. “Telling people, as in the media?”

You nod, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable. Being with Tony Stark comes with a certain level of exposure, and while you’ve been okay with the low profile you’ve kept so far, part of you wonders what it would mean to go public.

Tony is quiet for a moment, then he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “Hey, I don’t care what they say out there,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “If you want to keep things private for now, we can do that. But if you’re asking if I’m ready to go public…”

His thumb brushes over your cheek, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Your heart flutters at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. “I don’t care about the media,” you admit. “I just… I want to make sure we’re ready. That Lily’s ready.”

Tony’s expression softens at the mention of your daughter. “Lily’s already got me wrapped around her finger. I’d be more worried about how I’m going to survive that.”

You laugh, but the sincerity in his words brings a lump to your throat. Tony’s relationship with Lily has grown in ways you never expected. He’s been patient, playful, and completely devoted to her. And seeing them together has only deepened your feelings for him.

“Okay,” you say finally, smiling at him. “Let’s do it. Let’s go public.”

When the news breaks, the media goes into a frenzy. The headlines scream about “Tony Stark’s New Flame,” and “Iron Man’s Mystery Woman.” Paparazzi photos of you and Tony walking hand in hand through Central Park with Lily are splashed across every tabloid and news outlet.

To your surprise, the response is largely positive. While some outlets speculate about Tony’s past relationships and his infamous bachelor reputation, most seem genuinely intrigued by the idea of Tony Stark settling down, especially with someone who isn’t from the celebrity world.

The tabloids nickname you “The Genius and the Heart” and seem fascinated by how “normal” your life is compared to Tony’s glamorous lifestyle. There are articles praising you for balancing being a single mom with your engineering career, while others focus on Tony’s softer side, now that he’s seen as a father figure to your daughter.

You try to ignore most of the noise, but Tony, of course, has fun with it. One morning, you catch him scrolling through a gossip site, shaking his head in amusement.

“They think I’m domestic now,” he says, pretending to be offended. “I mean, can you imagine me, Tony Stark, settling down with a family?”

You roll your eyes, sitting beside him on the couch. “You do realize you’re proving them right by reading that, right?”

He grins, tossing his phone aside before pulling you into his lap. “Let them think what they want. I’ve got everything I need right here.”

The moment you realize how much your relationship with Tony has changed comes one evening when you’re back at the penthouse after a long day. Tony’s in the kitchen with Lily, helping her with a science project that’s somehow turned into an impromptu baking session. The sound of Lily’s giggles fills the space, and you’re watching them from the doorway, a warm smile on your face.

Tony’s crouched down, talking to Lily as they decorate cupcakes—his version of “science.” You’re about to step in and join them when you hear it. Lily looks up at Tony, eyes wide with excitement, and says, “Can I put the sprinkles on, Daddy?”

Your breath catches. It’s the first time she’s ever called him that, and for a moment, you freeze, unsure how Tony will react.

But Tony doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles, ruffling her hair and handing her the sprinkles. “Go for it, kiddo. Just don’t get too carried away.”

Your heart swells, a mix of joy and disbelief washing over you. Lily’s words hang in the air, and when Tony glances up at you, there’s a softness in his expression that takes your breath away. He’s not just playing a part—he’s become a part of your life in ways you never imagined.

Later, when Lily’s asleep, you and Tony find yourselves curled up on the couch, the weight of the day settling into a comfortable silence. You rest your head on his chest, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm.

“She called you ‘Daddy,’” you murmur softly, still processing the moment.

Tony’s hand tightens around yours, his voice quiet but filled with warmth. “Yeah, she did.”

You glance up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you see is a man who has found his place—who has chosen to be here, with you and Lily.

“Are you okay with that?” you ask, your voice a little unsteady.

Tony looks down at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “I’ve never been more okay with anything,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m all in. With both of you.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but they’re tears of happiness, of relief. You reach up, cupping his face as you pull him into a kiss—slow, tender, and filled with all the emotions you’ve been holding onto for so long.

When you finally pull away, Tony brushes a thumb across your cheek, his smile soft but full of promise. “So, what do you say? Think you can handle me as part of the family?”

You laugh, your heart feeling light. “I think we’ve been handling you just fine.”

And as you settle back into his arms, you know that this—this—is exactly where you’re meant to be. Together. A family.

Forever.

okay, this was so cute to write <3 I love writing Tony as a softie, because I know deep down he is one.