#fic!

[mr-m-murdock]

REQ!! jealous nat x flirtatious r ?? reader that makes nat jealous on purpose.

fuck around and find out

warnings: idk. possessiveness?

a/n: jealousy? god tier. thank you anon (free beefy!nat crumbs for ya too)

The drink that the bartender sets down in front of you is pink and yellow, and there's a pink straw and a tiny cocktail umbrella lolling against the edge of the glass.

"Uh..." you say. "Don't think I ordered that, thanks."

"It's from the lady at the end, blue dress," he replies. He shrugs. "I can tell her to back off if you want." He can probably see Nat glaring at you from across the room. Or maybe he saw her making out with you on one of the couches less than ten minutes ago.

You shake your head. "Nah, thanks." You lift the glass in the direction of the woman at the other end of the bar, and she watches you take a sip with a smile on her face. So it's gonna be one of those kind of nights. You've already made up your mind, anyway - Natasha's been irritating you all evening. Taste of her own goddamn medicine.

You take a sip as the woman sits down beside you. It tastes strongly of pineapple. “Fruity,” you say, and you look her up and down. Her dress is stunning.

She laughs. "I've got an intuition for that kind of thing," she replies, and she shifts closer to you.

"You come here with anyone?" you ask. You don't usually play it deliberately obtuse, and she gives you an odd look.

"No," she says. "All alone." She's tall, all legs, and she's looking at you like she wants to take you home. You consider, if this were happening four months ago, would you let her? She's your type: confident in her dominance and ready for anything the second she set eyes on you.

Maybe.

She's still looking at you, not perturbed by your silence, and loose hair has fallen from behind her ear. You take another sip of your gifted drink.

You can see reflections shift in the mirrored bar top - time's almost up.

"So where are you from?" you ask, leaning forward, forearm on the smooth bar top. The woman grins at you.

"Chicago," she says. A shadow rears in the reflective counter.

"Oh really? Is it cold there?" You might as well be batting your eyelashes at her, but you can see the exact second the woman realises who's stepped up behind you.

Natasha's hand lands on your shoulder firmly.

You tilt your head back a little and look up at her: you can see the gold of her necklace glinting against her collarbone and a curl of red hair, but the rest of her face is lost in the bright overhead lights. Her shoulders are tight. "Hey, babe," you say. You lay your hand on top of hers and squeeze.

"Hi," she says. Her voice is masterfully clear and casual. "Who's this?" You can hear her eyebrows raise.

"I'm making friends," you reply, cheerful as what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it can be. The woman, in the corner of your eye, looks like she's about to on-god pass out.

"The taxi's just pulled up," Natasha says. You look up at her and she looks down at you: undecipherable. She's so good at it. You have such an urge to make her crack.

You frown. "It's barely past midnight, I haven't even-"

"I'm tired." She cuts you off - not sharp, but firm. She's situating herself in control, where she always is. Up in her seat with your head on her knee.

The woman turns away awkwardly. Natasha thumbs at your cheek, and it would be a sweet touch if you couldn't feel the edge of her nail dragging against your skin. Oh, she's so bored of you getting on her nerves. You want to push her further.

You shrug and detach yourself from her grip, turning to the bar and taking a careless sip of your drink. "I'll join you at home."

She laughs, out loud: and she must not mean to, because it's quiet and restrained. But she takes it in her stride. "Don't be an idiot, you have to be up tomorrow morning." She tugs at your hair affectionately.

"I'm a big girl," you say, feigning annoyance, and you pull your hair out of her reach and take another sip of your drink. It's intensely sweet.

When you look up at her again, straw still halfway into your mouth, she's searching your face. It's possible that she can't tell whether you're being deliberately obtuse and annoying, or whether you're more drunk than you seem and are actually insisting on staying. She must come to a conclusion: her expression closes off.

"I'm going home, then," she says. A test. How exciting.

"Okay." You pluck the paper umbrella from your drink and reach up to tuck it behind her ear. Then you give her a smile and you pull the straw into your mouth and suck.

She gives you a murderous look that slides quickly off her face.

Then she turns away and walks out.

You give it ten seconds before you can't do it any longer, unable to stop from grinning to yourself, and then you slide off your seat and make after her, leaving your drink at the bar.

She's already in the elevator; fuck, but she's fast in heels.

"Nat!" you say, quickening your pace. For a second, as she turns in the elevator to look at you, you think she's not going to hold the doors. But she does, waving a lazy, reluctant hand between them, and they bounce back open. You stagger in, a little windswept, and she crosses her arms at you.

You wait until the doors slide closed again.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all. "I was joking." You're not even trying to hide your smile now. "Are you really going home?"

"You're really fucking annoying," she says, through gritted teeth. All pretenses dropped. "I was having a nice time, for once."

"You didn't have to storm out," you say. Your smile is splitting your face now. She's so jealous. You step up to her and link your arms around her waist. In her heels, she's taller than you, and you can feel the muscles in her back when you twist your fingers into her dress. She looks down at you blankly. "Did you get a bit possessive?" you tease.

Natasha doesn't answer for a while. She just stares at you, mouth working ever so slightly. Then she steps forward, so forcefully you have to move back, and she backs you up against the wall of the elevator without even putting a hand on you. You feel the whine of machinery against the back of your skull. She presses her forehead down against yours and sets her palms against the wall either side of your head.

"You're very brave," she says, "to be playing games with me." Her teeth flash. You grin up at her, holding her close, relishing in the excitement her voice elicits in your belly.

"You're such a big bad wolf, huh?" you say. You run your fingers down her back and feel her shudder in response, her eyes momentarily closing. "So big and bad you won't even let your girlfriend talk to other women?"

"I'm not stopping you from doing whatever you want," Natasha says. She kisses your cheek, the promise of something worse beyond her lips. "I'm just reminding you that there are consequences." Those last words are spoken directly into your cheekbone.

"Big bad wolf," you say again, a whisper this time. "Woof, woof."

Natasha's lips move from your cheek to your neck, kissing you over the chain of your necklace. She takes it in her teeth and moves it aside. She presses another kiss, open-mouthed, over your pulse, then laughs when she feels the quick-set beat beneath your skin. You can't help it. She drives you crazy. "Oh, baby," she murmurs. "Do you get such a kick out of embarrassing me?"

"Yes," you breathe. The chrome of the elevator is hazy now. "You're so pretty when you're angry."

She doesn't answer you. Then you feel her teeth on your skin. More, more, until it's painful. She's right up against you, and one hand drops to creep up your thigh, bunching up your dress.

You take in a huge breath of air, but the vertigo of the elevator and the feel of her mouth at your neck is dizzying. "Oh, fuck," you whine. "Nat, we shouldn't do this here." You make a reluctant attempt at pushing her away and she growls into your neck. The other hand pushes at your breastbone, pressing you hard to the wall.

The bell goes for the first floor and she pulls away, leaving you panting against the wall. She inspects the side of your neck, ignoring the pitiful look you're giving her. The side of her mouth lifts up.

The realisation hits you. "Are you fucking kidding me?" you exclaim, as the elevator doors slide open.

Your head whips round. Tony Stark, with four other Avengers at his shoulders, stares at the two of you. "Oh," he says. He takes in your face, where you know a bright flush has spread, and the crumpled fabric of your dress, and the hickey Nat just gave you, and he starts to grin. "Romanoff, you dog," he says.

Words fail you. You're not sure they would have made anything better, with the way five superheroes are gaping at you. Bruce Banner is almost as red as you.

Nat takes your hand and tugs you forward. "Excuse me," she says, and she drags you right through the little crowd, purposefully shunting Stark aside, and into the bright foyer.

You follow, your burning face to the floor, and you wait until you're sat in the safe, dark confines of Natasha's passenger seat to turn and glare at her. You're still blushing, and that probably detracts from how angry you're trying to look.

"You look cute in that dress," she says, conversationally. The streetlights flicker over the smirk that's growing on her lips.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you exclaim, your voice hysterically high. "You asshole!"

"I don't think I know what you mean," Natasha replies, making a smooth right turn.

"Don't know what I mean my ass," you growl. "You marked me up and then paraded me past all your friends!" She grins at the windscreen and you groan and sink your face into your hands. "Oh, god, that was mortifying." Bruce Banner's face swims in your mind's eye.

You feel her hand, warm, land on your thigh.

"You are so making it up to me," you grumble.

Nat's laughing at you, quiet, just a triumphant little snicker. She fingers the hem of your dress, then pulls her hand away to flick on her indicator. "I'm not making anything up to you," she says. You glare at her through your fingers, and she's grinning at you. "You started it, sweetheart. This is how it ends." And with deft hands, she makes another turn. True to her word, she doesn't make it up to you. In the end, you make it up to her: and you're not sure how that exchange happened.

But really, it was your fault. You should have picked a less sadistic girlfriend.

requests | masterlist

taglist: @when-wolves-howl @fayhar  @maggieromanov  @transbi-spidey @romanoffscottage @blackxwidowsxwife @lizlil @screechcat @maddess @mellxa @haeva @diaryoflife @natashasilverfox @vicmc624  @strangegardentaco  @phantomvael @lorsstar1st  @blckrwidow @ima-gi--na-tion @paryl @picnicmic   @smalls-words @lainjupi  @d1s0nym @meimei-a @the-v01d @kqmui @s1ut4nat @btay3115  @natblackwidow2 @lokisjuicyass @mmmmokdok  @thorya22  @olicity-boo @iliketozoneout

[regulus-books]

Something new is coming soon, here's a sneak peak.

“Guess what I did in school today,” Harry prompts, being placed on the counter in front of James. “Did you…” James pretends to think, but of course, he knows what Harry did in school, all of the parents get emailed daily about what the kids did, “learn how to write your name?” Harry's eyes grow wide with wonder, and James chuckles in amusement. “How did you know?” Harry exclaimed, giggling.  “Did I get it right?” James picks the small boy up again, resting him on his hip. James brings Harry into the living room, placing him on the carpeted floor next to the table. Regulus already has out his crayons and paper so Harry keeps occupied. “Show me, baby.”  Harry smiles widely and picks out a worn down, blue crayon, drawing two slanted lines on the paper as James sits next to Regulus on the couch. Regulus smiles and places a hand on James’ thigh, resting his head on James’ shoulder. They sit in silence as Harry writes out his name, when he’s finished he pops up and runs over to his parents, flipping the paper over and holding it up with pride. Sure enough, written on the page in chicken scratch, is ‘Harry James Potter’.  “Wow, Harry!” James reaches for the paper, putting it in his lap as Regulus lifts Harry in between the two of them. “Such a talented little boy, hm? Looks like Papa’s handwriting.” James grins and stares at Regulus, who rolls his eyes. “You did very well, baby. This is Daddy’s name too, you know?” Regulus lifts a pale finger and underlines ‘James Potter’. Harry’s eyes widened once more, smiling up at his father. “Really? Me and Daddy match?”  “Yes,” Regulus strokes the back of Harry's head, coiling his finger around one of his curls, “and Daddy matches Grandpa.” Harry gasps. James wishes everyone could be as easily amused as their 5-year-old. 

[cowboyhorsegirl]

Not My First Rodeo (An 1872 SteveTony Fic Reclist🤠💫)

This reclist is a fill for the @stevetonygames bingo square "Consequence" and the Resolutions Challenge for Team Future :)

a slow ticking wilderness by @starvels (2.4k, M)

Three weeks ago, Tony burned his hands in his forge. Since then, he's been unable to use them, useless and listless. Relying on the kindness of strangers ain't exactly his expertise. Luckily, Sheriff Steve Rogers has good hands and a heart hale enough to keep offering bits of help and hope to Tony, no matter that he ain't all that good at accepting them.

RATING: Five out of five heart-happy cowboys, 🤠🤠🤠🤠🤠

What if I told you this was literally the first (The First!!!) 1872 fic I ever read, which may have been a mistake on my part because it simply set the bar too high, devastatingly high, stratospherically high! This fic feels like wrapping yourself up in a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer while you sit by a beautiful, roaring fire and drink a delicious cup of spiced hot cocoa. Please fulfill all your wildest h/c dreams and desires in the embrace of this lovely window into established relationship 1872 stevetony.

To Break the Bridle by @deervsheadlights (25k, M)

If anyone had told Tony a year ago that he would be herding cattle up on some god-forsaken mountain, in deep winter and out of his own free will, he would've laughed in their face. Were they to show him the blond and blue-eyed reason for his sudden lapse of judgement, however, he might've just understood.

RATING: Two cowboys who are frequently secretly very fond of each other + a new appreciation for the pavlovian potential of duck fat, 🤠🤠🦆

Everyone gather round and say thank you deervsheadlights!! Thank you deer for writing the 1872 Brokeback Mountain AU that we have all been begging for since the moment 1872 comics hit the shelves! This fic was another early 1872 find for me and I simply cannot recommend it enough: the slow burn, the hurt comfort, the romance-this fic does it all masterfully.

but come ye back by @s-hylor (1.2k, T)

When the night is cold and the sky is open, Tony goes to talk to the past Sheriff of Timely.

RATING: one broken cowpoke's heart, but the hurt is tempered by the knowledge that the love perseveres on, 💔

If you have yet to heal from the hurt of 1872 Issue 2, then this is the fic for you. This fic is the best deconstruction of emotion following the Sheriff's death that I have read yet, savage in both it's sadness and it catharsis, and I cannot recommend this highly enough.

A Handsome Stranger Called Death by @isozyme & @sheshopelesse (3.5k, M)

Steve Rogers was an optimist, and he had no sense for the limits of one man with a six-shooter and a strong will, but he was canny enough to know that he wasn’t getting any good done as pig food.

RATING: 10/10 shakes of a rattler's tail 🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍🐍

Close your eyes and imagine a story that combines Western gothic and desert mysticism and monsterfucking and domestic bliss and now open your eyes bc that fic exists and you're looking at it! The prose is gorgeous, the mythology is arresting, and the characterization is stunning. Plus! This fic comes complete with its own podfic, ready for your joint reading & listening pleasures.

Somebody's Darling by @laireshi (12.9k, T)

Steve wasn't always a sheriff, and Tony didn't always spend his days halfway down a bottle. They met long before Timely.

RATING: the best 1872 rom-com of all time, if rom-com was short for Romantic-Commentary on the Inherent Despondency of War

This fic!!!!!! Is wonderful and delivers a years-long sweeping arc of a wartime romance before dropping you off at the front door of 1872 canon. It's such a heartfelt exploration of love blooming amidst the chaos and tragedy of war, of the way two people keep getting drawn back to each other again and again, of second chances and third chances and fourth, all culminating in a freedom both precarious and precious to be found in the West.

The Strangers You Call Friends by Mireille (1.4k, T)

Stark frustrates Sheriff Rogers, but that doesn't mean he wants to see the man drink himself to death. Timely needs a blacksmith, after all.

RATING: two out of two prettiest blue eyes this side of the Mississippi, at least according to the cowboy locked in the Sheriff's cell for tonight 👀

An incredible pre-canon character study from the POV of Timely's favorite Sheriff. I feel as though this fic is so true to canon characterization and setting that it could honestly constitute the first page of an 1872 novelization. You really sink into Steve's mindset and his perspective on not just Tony's perennial drunkenness, but on his duties to the town as a whole.

Say My Name by citsiurtlanu (2.6k, G)

Steve reminds Tony that there's more to him than the war his weapons were used in.

RATING: a whole cowtown who has been irrevocably changed for the better by the love of two men, 🤠💞🫡🤠💞🫡🤠💞🫡🤠💞🫡

A beautiful canon-compliant fic that pulls at the thread of romance hidden in the rough, vibrant fabric of 1872. There's so much tenderness in this story, it aches in the best way :')

Paradise Blue in 1872 by @cowboyhorsegirl (oh hey that's me!) (500w, T)

Steve imagines this is what it feels like to commit blasphemy, looking at Tony Stark.

RATING: Sheriff Rogers' extremely Catholic-coded erection 🤨🤨

It's about!! the wretched devotion of love, the purgatory of the West, the discovery of a new God in the listless eyes of the saloon's resident patron! A bite-sized character & relationship study that slots itself very neatly within the first 5 pages of 1872 Issue 1 that I hope you read & enjoy :)

whistling dixie by @starvels (1.4k, M)

“Well,” Steve says, voice rough. He takes in another of those sharp breaths and when he exhales, Tony feels it like the forge, billowing heat out into his chest. “Mayhap you best keep that dry, Stark.” He sounds like molten metal, like the best slather of butter over a butt of bread, sounds fair peckish for something more than trail gruel and he’s looking at Tony like Tony’s the place he’s gonna get it. Yes, Tony thinks. It is. Take it. Take me.

RATING: one cowboy (me) who is so, so hungry for stew now 🤠🍲

A masterclass in the 'Food as a Metaphor for Love' ao3 tag, I recommend to all who are hungry for a bit of domestic Western romance or a hearty desert stew. At least one of these appetites will be satisfied by the end of the story, I guarantee!

Blacksmith's Hands by @everybodyilovedies (3.3k, E)

Based in Marvel's 1872 Western Universe, where Tony is a blacksmith and Steve is the town Sheriff. Blacksmith Tony hears Sheriff Steve's birth date is coming up, and decides to give him the present he deserves.

RATING: the number one best birthday present Sheriff Rogers has ever received 🤠🎁

The sweetest, tenderest and yet slightly rough around the edges 1872 PWP you will ever see. I adore Steve and Tony's banter in this fic, the dialogue at the beginning feels like it could have been ripped right out of the comic book panels. And!! There is simply nothing more delightful than the simple intimacy of going from "Stark" and "Sheriff" to "Tony" and "Steve" <3

Unseen, Unheard by @oluka (1k, M)

Tony and Steve have a furtive encounter. Tony wishes they could have more.

RATING: a Sheriff rougher to ride and wilder to tame than a stallion🐎

I could scream forever!!! about the parallels in this story between Tony's alcoholism and his addiction to Steve! The tug-of-war push and pull of their facsimile of a relationship, the hurt that Steve's internal shame over wanting a man inflicts on both him and Tony, the habitual way that Tony debases himself to play up the drunken act and protect him and Steve from any prying eyes. This fic does a truly masterful job of imagining what intimate encounters between Steve and Tony may have looked like within the real confines of the American West.

Going Blacksmithing by @bladeofthenebula27 (1.5k, T)

Blacksmithing only brings in so much money in a small town like Timely, so Tony has to make a little extra money through less respectable means. The Sheriff doesn't approve.

RATING: the prettiest cowpoke you ever did see 🥰🤠

Genderfuck!Tony with a side of possessive Steve all in the year of 1872, what more could one possibly want? There's absolutely nothing more that I love across the multiverse than SteveTony getting to explore their femininity, and this fic brings that dynamic to 1872 absolutely perfectly! :D

BONUS!!!

1872 Meta/Propaganda by @ghosthan

RATING: one out of one new, lifelong 1872 fan (me! 🤠)

An INCREDIBLE primer on the 1872-niverse, including panel screenshots as well as comparisons to 616 characterizations and backstories! I can personally say that this 1872 propaganda is extremely effective (after all, it convinced me to read!!), and gives you juuuust enough information on 1872 to acquaint you with the setting, the characters, and the dynamics at play without simply spoiling the series. In my opinion, this is a highly underrated resource for anyone interested in trying 1872 out, but unsure what to expect.

[melodiousoblivionao3]

Sonnett captains armband sohara would be so good as an idea!!

its HERREEEEEEEEEEEE

hope you all enjoy it and we can keep manifesting sonny as uswnt captain

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 1

Adverse effects | Unconventional restraints | "This wasn't supposed to happen"

Warnings: this is from the au equivalent of the Dumbarton scene, so there's reference to, and some description of rough, unpleasant sex. Plus drugs, plus violence (from slapping to uhhh knife-based skin art). Joleta is sixteen in the au, so legal in the UK but barely.

I didn't really mean to go so hard on day 1 of Whumptober but I did hit all three of the prompts in the one fic so. Yay?

--------------------------------------

By his head was a smashed lamp. Francis could feel shards of glass under his cheek, catching in his hair, sticking to his sweaty skin. He was lying on his back and there was a weight on his body - he thought of the ruined church in East Berlin and gasped, imagining he was trapped once more beneath the rubble. But when turned his face, he realised it wasn't stone and wood that were pressing down on his abdomen - it was another body, sitting heavy and brazen on his guts.

Joleta Reid Malett smiled down at him - a sight that half the population of Scotland would have killed to see for themselves. She was naked as a peach, her hair tousled by exertion, her lips swollen by kisses, strong and confident in her young body.

In her hand she held a pocket knife.

Francis' heart lurched - he realised he couldn't immediately remember the details of how he'd come to be there, naked himself but for the glass and the sweat, feeling like he'd been airdropped into the middle of someone else's nightmare. He moved to sit up, to push her off him, but there was resistance at his wrists, holding him back, and the minute he moved, Joleta lowered the point of the knife to his throat.

"I'm not finished yet!" she said, and a cold, wild look came into her eyes.

Francis stilled. He realised that his arms were both at an odd angle, pulled up above his head, and something stiff and plastic was wrapped tight enough round his wrists that his fingers were turning numb.

Joleta saw his eyes roving, trying to find out what was holding him, and with the knife still resting on his throat she smiled sweetly once more. "I used the lamp cable to hold you still. It's a simple design, but if I mess it up no one will know what it is."

Francis grimaced and tugged his arms for good measure, glaring up at her. The broken lamp didn't move - she'd tied the other end of its long power lead around the bed leg, looping it several times around his wrists along the way, using knots a sea scout would have been proud of. Between that and the knife held to his skin he couldn't struggle or fight her off.

He realised that something on his chest stung with new and fresh pain - the skin felt hot but there was a searing, cool agony at the centre of it, like a wound that was still wet.

How the fuck had he let this happen? The room was a scene of destruction and looked how he felt - bedding had been torn from the mattress, chairs had been tipped over, anything, it seemed, that could be picked up and thrown, had been picked up and thrown (and with force enough to damage the wallpaper and smash photoframes).

But he'd just come here to Dumbarton with a small band, just to play a set for Thompson, to get some information... Joleta hadn't even been on the line-up. He didn't have a record label that was going to pay for the room either - that was on him.

Francis' breathing had swiftly turned disordered and rapid. His chest rose and fell as, gently, without breaking skin, Joleta trailed the blade down his sternum like she was preparing to do an autopsy. Then she shifted her weight and Francis grunted as the air was forced out of him. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she leaned forwards; her round white breasts hung above him and he saw now that there were bruises on them - the prints left by rough handling and ungentle teeth. She shone with sweat like he did and it had made her mascara blur, so her eyes were rimmed with black smudges and she looked like she'd been crying. When he sought them out now, he saw the other marks of a fight: bruises and the little crescents of fingernail impressions on her thighs and waist, the way her cheek was coloured with waxy red lipstick that had been wilfully smeared away from her mouth. The dusting of white powder on her own breastbone and the way she scrunched up her nose and sniffed as she concentrated.

Cocaine. That partly explained it. Thompson probably explained the rest. Francis fought against the blacked out memories as he lay there, slowly becoming aware of the damage that had been done to his own body - his back itched against the carpet but he felt raw tracks on it too, like nails had clawed at him. His cheek felt tender, like he'd been slapped, and other parts of him, soft and sensitive skin, felt bruised, worn and over-worked.

Joleta moved the knife across to one of Francis' pectorals and, without warning, she pressed the point into the skin near where he'd identified the other, unexplained pain.

Francis yelled and swore and wriggled but Joleta increased the pressure and he felt the blade pierce through to the muscle.

"Get off me you crazy bitch!"

She sat up, but the blade was still in him, and she held the handle of the knife in her plump fist. Seeing the expression on her face, Francis feared she would draw her arm back and stab him with it as hard as she could. "Excuse me?" she said shrilly. "You said if I could catch you I could do what I wanted. Well you passed out and I caught you. So fucking lie still."

Francis clenched his jaw and tried to assess how far she would go by the glint in her aquamarine eyes. She was still high as a kite, and he supposed he must be too, which would explain why he was struggling to think of or articulate any plan to stop this from happening.

He fished around in the fog of his memories again and was rewarded with an authentic-seeming recollection, dredged up from the gloom like a rotting body.

"Not what you had in mind? But this is who I am, meine Schätzli..." He hadn't wanted to see her face so he'd pressed her against the bare mattress as she'd done all she knew how to in order to make him think she was enjoying herself.

He felt sick, and retched drily as the knife was removed from the wound. When she repositioned it, frowning thoughtfully at her handiwork, Francis began to remember more, and he knew he deserved this pain.

He was being too rough for her to keep up the pretence, and he'd known it. She'd hammered the words out, trying to sound seductive even with the weight of his body above her. "This is...nice...but why don't you let me on top for a bit? I could show you...real...good time..."

Restless from the amphetamines he'd taken, feeling like he was a long way from coming, bored and frustrated, he'd pulled out and rolled her onto her back. Her body was marked with red blushes where the mattress and her skin had rubbed together, her hair was splayed like gold brocade about her face.

"Shut up," he'd muttered, dragging her across the mattress to the edge of the bed, his hands on her hips.

The easy way he'd manhandled her must have clashed too hard with her own story of what they were engaged in, and she'd sat up and slapped him, hard. He had laughed. He had laughed at her and let her slap him again, then he'd picked her up in his arms, kissing her sloppily, biting her lips as she bit his, and he'd sat her on the sideboard as he fucked her again.

"You'll get your turn later," he'd said. He'd promised her that, all right, hadn't he? Even then, with the booze and the drugs lashing him, driving him to a cliff edge, he'd known it was too much and he would have to offer her some kind of recompense.

So let her mete out her vengeance for what he had done, he told himself. Let her carve her sigil so he'd never be able to do this again, so his body would always be a reminder of the dangers of letting himself lose control. He lay still and steadied his breathing as best he could, though he felt no pity for the girl herself, just a filthy measure of self-loathing. How many points had he proved that night, by taking Thompson's bet and then taking Joleta's too?

The next cut was a line or a curve, he didn't know how long the wound she made was, but he let his breath hiss out over his clenched teeth.

Joleta rubbed some of the fresh blood away with her thumb and then thoughtlessly swept a strand of her hair aside, so the evidence of his injury now streaked her round cheek. "It's not quite even..." she muttered, and the knife lowered again.

Pain on pain: Francis couldn't hold back his strangled cry, but he looked up at her when he was able to open his eyes and, though he didn't say it out loud, he let himself think an apology. This wasn't what was supposed to have happened.

Joleta sat back and smiled, flicking the knife playfully between her thumb and forefinger. "Ta da! Ready for me to write my masterpiece all over you..."

Francis dipped his chin to his chest to see the injury and, beneath dark, welling blood, he recognised a bass clef.

He looked up at her apprehensively, wondering if she intended to transcribe all of Henri O'Kelly's Polyorgane on his body. But Joleta seemed satisfied. "Now, how about I untie you and we do some more coke? The night is still young, Maestro, and I promised you everything..."

Francis smiled queasily back at her as she used her knife to cut his bonds. She bent to kiss him, and he prepared to betray her again: to throw her off him and clothe her and have her removed from his room. To stop this going any further than it had already gone.

First, he stroked her hair back and wiped his own blood from her cheek and murmured:

"June, what a chance you had—to be your best,

The fighting friend of Freedom in the West!

You could have said 'I'll give them placid seas,

Permitting nothing but an off-shore breeze...blue days...and not a cloud...'

Instead, sweet June, how sadly you have sinned..."

Joleta barely listened to the words - he was reciting poetry for her. She flushed, certain she had won her prize. Just as certain of success as Francis Crawford had been a handful of years ago, as he prepared to sign his life away to Margaret Douglas.

[bellafragolina]

okay fuck it im gonna write the bodyguard!reader short stories/fic. i have no idea how long it’s gonna be cause arceus knows im not good with writing short things, but idc i love the idea. im gonna do Leon, Raihan, and Piers for sure,,,and bc I was inspired by your bodyguard headcannons, is there a fourth person you’d like to see? :D

that's fantastic!! i'm so honored that you're writing something based off my work!! you'll send it to me once you're done won't you?? or tag me so i won't miss it if you post it!! ah, i'm so excited!!!

i'm good with just the main three boys!! this is so exciting!! good luck!! have fun!! i can't wait to see the magic you're going to bless us with!!

~Renee

[michbigbagofweird]

Fic rec! SteveTony. It’s a lovely story.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38808279

[bladetoblade]

legally blonde!obi-wan 🤝 dd!obi-wan

being a Really Good Lawyer

(who loves anakin 🥺)

[ladydorian]

[yeehawpim]

a comic about fix-it fanfics

[jackwolfes]

thinking about that post of people assuming ao3 has an algorithm and also about how bonkers persistent the view is that ao3 is social media lite. like with startling regularity I get comments saying something along the lines of "it's probably weird to comment on a fic this old--" no it isn't!!!! this is an archive I am literally just assuming you searched for a selection of specific tags or sorted by kudos or looked back on my pseud or any other number of completely normal ways to use an archive site ?? kill the tiktok ghost in your brain and comment on old stuff it's NOT weird

[mr-m-murdock]

If your requests are open ....needy Nat? Maybe in "only pretty faces" . Something about Natasha being only weak/needing for r

only girl in the world

| natasha x reader | only pretty faces |

warnings: none :) CUDDLES

Now that you don't need to watch her every move, it's suddenly become extraordinarily easy to observe her. Ironically.

She's all straight spine and eyes constantly on the move. If she'd let anyone catch sight of her in a crowd, even a child would notice the danger on her. Like the smell of gasoline. The aura of an ethanol fire in the dark.

Her hands are strong just like the rest of her. You've traced sinew and scar tissue blindly with your thumb so many times you could map her skin in your sleep. And sure, she's attentive and prowling when you're out, but when you're alone...

Right now, in the dimly-lit sitting room with the shutters closed at the windows, Natalia's face is tucked into the curve of your shoulder. She's loose. The slackened muscles of a leopard observing the ground from a high perch, perhaps, but loose all the same. Her eyes are closed, the light of the TV flickers on her cheeks. With a gentle snuffle, she falls deeper asleep.

It's almost a miracle. But if you think about it hard enough, you're sure you can recall the heavy weight of her head on your shoulder just like this, twenty five years ago. And you know you remember waking up with your cheek crushed against her t-shirt when you'd convinced yourself you hated her. Maybe the two of you were always meant to crawl back to each other like this, bone-tired. Maybe she was made to fit against your side like this.

But you know the truth. You were shaped by men who'd killed gods, with their syringes and their blank white stares. You'd morphed yourself to lie here with Natalia. You'd each carved pieces out of yourselves, in the privacy of dark rooms and the solitude of those arrow-sharp minds of yours, to fit the other into the cavity.

There's no fate. You choose to love her. She's chosen to shut her eyes, one hand fisted in the thigh of your sweatpants, and fall into the place you made for her, be it jagged and imperfect. Just for you.

requests | masterlist

taglist: @when-wolves-howl @fayhar @maggieromanov @waitingroom-pb @romanoffscottage @blackxwidowsxwife @lizlil @screechcat @maddess @natsaffection @haeva @diaryoflife @natashasilverfox @vicmc624  @strangegardentaco  @phantomvael @lorsstar1st  @blckrwidow @ima-gi--na-tion @paryl @aan-myouim @smalls-words @lainjupi  @d1s0nym @meimei-a @the-v01d @kqmui @s1ut4nat @btay3115   @idkjustliving2 @lokisjuicyass @mmmmokdok  @silentwolfsstuff  @olicity-boo @iliketozoneout

[noelledeltarune]

EVERY SINGLE DAY there are MILLIONS of characters in their late 20s who get falsely accused of being father figures to teenagers when in reality the description of "weird older cousin" or "step-sibling that moved out before you were born" is 1000000x more apt

[cowboyhorsegirl]

Favourite sineala fanfic

🔫🔪🔫🔪🔫🔪cruel and unusual to try and make me pick just one so here's five six (in no particular order)

Mercy in You

When Tony comes back from a very bad D/s date, in pain and abandoned by his dom, Steve offers to help Tony out and give him all the aftercare he so desperately needs.

How to Date a Robot

How do you date a robot? Even the twenty-first century doesn't have the answers to every question. Steve will have to figure this one out for himself -- after he politely rebuffs Mr. Stark's interest, of course. Sure, Mr. Stark is handsome, but Steve would rather be with his bodyguard. So when Iron Man agrees to go on a date with Steve, Steve couldn't be happier. He loves Iron Man with all of his heart, and their relationship rapidly grows serious. But why does Mr. Stark hate Iron Man so much? And why in the world is Mr. Stark trying to tear Steve and Iron Man apart?

Not So Secret Anymore

When Steve's laptop isn't working right, Tony offers to fix it for him, and he quickly discovers the problem: computer viruses. He also discovers a fairly large amount of porn. Gay porn. But that can't be Steve's gay porn, surely. Captain America doesn't have hundreds of gigabytes of gay porn. A virus must have put it there. Clearly the best thing to do is to delete all of this gay porn that doesn't belong on Steve's computer and then they'll never have to have a conversation about it and Steve will definitely never find out about the massive crush Tony has on him. Good idea. This plan is perfect. Right up until Tony gets an email from Steve, asking if he could please have his collection of homosexual pornography back now.

Never Too Late for Love

Steve has always believed that a soulbond is a blessing -- a rare and beautiful miracle, joining the thoughts and feelings of two people forever, from the first time they touch. Steve knows he's not going to be one of the lucky ones. He knows Gail isn't his soulmate. But he loves her, even if they're not soulmates, and he's going to do right by her. After the war's over, he's going to marry her, and they're going to settle down. They'll buy a house. They'll have children. He'll see his family again. Maybe Bucky will live next door. It's going to be a good life. He doesn't need a soulbond. He'll be fine without one. Then Steve wakes up sixty years in the future to find that his wonderful life has moved on without him. His family is long dead. His fiancée married his best friend. And the only purpose he has left is leading the Ultimates, a misbegotten team of superheroes with flaws too numerous to count. Steve hates everything about the future -- but most of all he detests Tony, flashy and flirtatious, who embodies everything Steve hates about a world he never wanted to live in. And, oh, yeah, Steve has a soulmate after all: Tony fucking Stark.

Thrust Issues (specifically chapter 8) ((more specifically the last half of chapter 8))

A battle gone wrong leads Tony to the unexpected and pleasant discovery that Steve is much more well-endowed than he could ever have imagined. But when Tony learns that Steve has never actually been able to sleep with anyone because of his size, Tony does what any good friend would do: he offers to relieve Steve of his virginity. Personally. Tony's determined, Tony's methodical, and Tony has a plan. He's going to get Steve laid. Tony just needs to make sure Steve never finds out that Tony's in love with him.

Man is a Wolf to Man (that's right it's capwolf time!!)

When Antonius is falsely accused and convicted of murdering an ambassador, he is condemned to death by the wild beasts of the arena. But the wolf sent to kill him is something rather more than he ever expected.

[whatsnewalycat]

Made this for u 💝

[mycroftrh]

Far worse, in my opinion, than the famous “he wouldn’t fucking say that” is “he WOULD fucking say that, as part of his facade, but you seem to think he would mean it genuinely”