#sweet Jesus I hope I sized these files correctly

[kiwis4lunch]

Some sketchy-sketches of Goosebumps fan art … more to come, but I hope these will be appreciated. (Subject the editing for the final post)

[cagestark]

-Proxy Chapter 2-

Chapter One | Chapter Two

Warning: for some reason not of my italics have transferred over from AO3. My heart aches. Now you can’t imagine the wild inflections in my voice, if I were narrating this to you. i’m truly sorry. Thanks

Read here on AO3.

-

Whatever the hell that was—Tony can’t seem to put it behind him. It should be easy. All he did was hook up the young man he’s mad for with a beautiful woman. That’s normal. People do that all the time. So what if he watched them suck each other’s souls out. So what if he saw the kid hard. Big deal. Not the weirdest thing to ever happen to Tony. Not by far.

But he can’t stop thinking about it. The number of inappropriate erections (and really, there is no appropriate erection when it comes to pining after your nineteen-year-old mentee and teammate) he’s found himself sporting at all hours of the day increases exponentially. The seedy part of his mind that files away Peter’s orgasmic sounds is now teeming with new data: the flash of the young man's pearly teeth, the glimpse of pink tongue, the whine—

Tony is having more wet dreams now than he has in the last fifteen years combined. He fixes that by not sleeping. Genius solution.

He almost convinces himself that it’s sleep deprivation on Saturday when Peter returns from university, when he raises his chin and sets his jaw and asks if Tony knows like, anyone who would be willing to have sex with him.

“FRIDAY—”

“No stroke, boss.”

“Is that crazy to ask?” Peter says, pulling at his hair. “Who am I kidding, that’s like, totally crazy. Oh my God. I’m so sorry Mr. Stark. Please pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“I’m actually not completely convinced that I heard you correctly in the first place, so run it by me one more time.”

“I just—the kissing lesson, it worked out really well. But, I’ve still got no other experience. I mean, obviously I’m a—a virgin,” Peter says. His face is red as a tomato. “There’s so much pressure! Everybody says that the first time has to be with someone special and it’s going to mean so much and all the build up has me so nervous I just want to be sick. I want to get it over with.”

“So.”

“So I was wondering if, you knew anybody who would be willing to be my…my first. Time. You know.”

Tony rubs at his forehead. Stroke or not, he’s getting a headache. His mind feels fit to bursting, and the whole thing makes him vaguely sick. What the fuck is he supposed to say to this? Part of him wants to tell Peter to go out the old-fashioned way: pick up a person at a fucking bar or something for God’s sake. But this is Peter. His Peter. Not his Peter—but totally his Peter. Does he want the kid in a bar, buying some stranger drinks? Does he want Peter’s first time (and yeah, maybe it’s not such a big deal as some people make it out to be, but it’s all relative anyway, and the point is that Peter feels vulnerable about it), does he want to leave it up to some fumbling college student?

“I—I’ll make a call.”

But ten seconds with his phone in his hand has him coming back into the room. He gets the briefest glimpse of Peter sitting hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, muttering something under his breath before the kid looks up, eyes wide and wild.

“What kind of genitals are we talking about?” asks Tony.

“What?”

“I literally don’t know how to be more straightforward than that. Gender—sex—personal preferences for genitals and orientations. Because, to be perfectly honest, right now Natasha is at the top of my list again. What do you think?”

“Actually, I—I want a man. A cis man, I guess—the, you know, the penis—”

“You want a penis.”

“I mean, yeah, ideally. I’m pansexual but, I kind of want to—” Peter trails off, mumbling.

“I’m getting old, Peter, speak up—”

“I want to bottom. Oh my God, could I like, drop dead right now? Please?”

Tony is wondering the same thing—about himself. Peter wants a dick in his ass. Okay. Nothing wrong with that. Not like Tony hasn't taken a few himself in his time. Tony has a perfectly functioning sex organ that could absolutely fit the parameters that Peter is looking to fill, but there’s no reason to bring that up. Because surely if the kid was interested in Tony, he’d come out and say something.

“And sex workers, are you yay, nay—?”

“I mean, MJ says that s-sex is a service—”

“Got it. Go get some water. Lay down. Are you about to pass out right now? Jesus, kid, take a breath.”

Tony makes some calls. Sex work is still illegal in New York City, but Tony knows plenty of people who indulge. As long as everything is safe and consensual, Tony could care less; he figures he has real crimes to worry about. A friend leads him to a friend who recommends a man closer to Peter’s age than either of them are to Tony, and the description is, well, everything Tony could hope for, for Peter’s partner: blonde, built, flexible (“and I mean that in many ways, Tony, many ways,” his friend had guaranteed), and talented enough.

He can be at the penthouse in two hours.

Upstairs, Peter is literally shaking.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tony says. “I can call him off. You can call him off, at any time. There’s nothing wrong with waiting, kid, and there’s nothing wrong with being nervous about your first time. That just means it’s important to you.”

“I’m not backing out,” Peter says. His eyes are ablaze, even if they can’t catch on Tony’s for longer than a few moments at a time.

Tony feels like he’s leading the kid to the gallows. He turns away to plant his hands flat on the glossy wood of the bar and berate himself. “This is not normal,” Tony mutters.

“Nothing about my life ever is,” Peter says. When Tony glances over his shoulder, the kid gives a smile that (while it is shaky) is genuine. It hits Tony then, that this young man he’s infatuated with is actually going to fuck someone else, thanks to Tony. Of all the stupid, convoluted plans that Tony has cooked up or carried out, this one is truly up there with the worst of them. His self-destructive strategies are downright legendary. This is one for the goddamn books.

“Boss?” FRIDAY says. “A Mr. Finch is here. Shall I direct him to the penthouse?”

Tony looks to Peter. Peter nods.

“Go ahead, baby,” Tony says to her.

He braces a hand on the kid’s shoulder, lest he blow away in the draft from the air conditioning vent. Peter leans into the touch. This is Tony’s life. He gets to put warm fatherly hands on the kid’s shoulder while the man who fucks him rides up in the elevator.

When the doors part, there is a very handsome twenty-eight-year-old on the other side. He is taller than Tony and Peter, obviously well taken care of: dressed nicely, groomed, with soft looking hair and eyes cornflower blue. His clothes are well tailored to display his fit body, and Tony stands them side by side internally, measures them up so he can see all the ways that he falls short. This is the best choice for Peter. Peter deserves someone like this, not some broken old man.

“I take it you’re Peter?” the guy says. He’s got a bag slung over his shoulder that he shifts to reach out and shake Peter’s hand, and the size difference between the two makes Tony swallow. The man flashes Tony a smile. He teases warmly: “I know who you are.”

“Most do,” Tony says. Tony ignores the outstretched hand. Still, he feels slimy. "Tony."

“I’m Daniel. Are you joining us?”

Tony nearly chokes. “No—just handing him off into your expert hands—”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says lowly. “Could I, could I talk to you about something?”

They leave Daniel on the sofa and convene behind the bar, standing close enough to whisper without being overheard. Tony literally can’t imagine what else Peter could want from him, maybe a blood oath, maybe Tony’s heart or head on a platter. But what the kid asks for is actually so, so much worse.

“Will you stay, Mr. Stark?” Peter looks at him with huge, swimming eyes. “I’m—I’m nervous. I’d just feel better if I wasn’t alone.”

“You want me to stay.”

“I mean. Yeah.”

“You want me to be in the room while you fuck Abercrombie and Finch over there?”

Peter groans, pressing his palm to his eyes. “Okay, never mind, you’re right, that’s way too much. You’ve already done so much for me, and of course you wouldn’t want to be there, that’s, like, that’s gross right? It’s just, I know you’d never let anything happen to me, and—”

The problem is that Tony can’t ever tell the kid no.

That’s how he ends up in the armchair of his largest guest bedroom watching Steve Roger’s Jr. and Peter sitting on the bed together, talking.

“A virgin? Oh, that’s awesome,” Daniel says. He's got a surfer vibe going to him, much better suited for Malibu than New York City.

“Really?” Peter asks flatly.

“Yeah. Virgins are really great partners: very teachable, very thoughtful. You get a guy who’s been having sex for years and they think they’re sex Gods or something, they think the way they’ve been doing it is the right way, just because they’ve been doing it for so long,” Daniel blathers. Tony squints. This punk isn’t talking about him, right? He’s not even glancing at Tony (except for sometimes, when he smiles soft and sweet). Surely, it’s just Tony’s own raging insecurities. He’s not like those people. He’s fucking Tony Stark. Adaptation is his middle name.

“That, actually that makes me feel a little better. Thanks,” Peter says. His hands are clasped in his lap, knuckles white. “Do we need to talk about anything else, like, like protection and stuff?”

“Condoms are a must, and I brought my own, I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course—”

“I’m down for giving or receiving oral and anal, down for any light kink. No means no—if one of us says no, we stop. You trust me to do that and I trust you, that’s what this partnership is all about.”

“That sounds fair,” Peter says. Tony agrees from where he’s wishing to become a ghost in the corner. He idly wishes that maybe the floor will open up and swallow him whole, but Tony has never been so lucky. “I kind of want to receive, I guess. If that’s okay.”

“Of course. Don’t worry, Peter, I’ll do all the heavy lifting. You just relax and have a good time. Do you want to get started?”

“I mean, okay.”

Daniel ducks his neck, takes Peter’s chin in his hand and kisses him. This is worse, so much worse than watching him be with Natasha, because at least Tony likes Natasha, knows and trusts her. At least Tony knows the kind of person she is and that she wouldn’t take Peter’s vulnerability for granted. This stranger doesn’t even know the kind of gift Peter is giving him.

Peter seems receptive enough. Tony can almost see the cogs in Peter’s mind working while he remembers everything he learned with Natasha. Delicately, his hand comes up to rest on Daniel’s jaw, and the blond man hums. Their heads turn more, cheeks hollowing as their lips part and tongues touch. Suddenly Peter breaks off the kiss, pulling back a little, eyes fluttering open. He goes back in—but then he breaks off again, a little furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Too much tongue,” Tony mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Daniel breaks the kiss, glancing over to the shadows where Tony is gathering dust like a perverted, decrepit vampire. The guy’s lips are slick and pink from how rough he’s been, and they’ve only been kissing for a minute or two. “Sorry, did you say something?”

Tony clears his throat. He waves a hand towards them. “You’re using too much tongue—the kid’s not into it.”

Daniel blanches. He looks to Peter who ducks his head, face red.

“It was great,” Peter says. “Just—wet.”

“Okay,” Daniel says, slow. “Less tongue. Got it.”

When they resume kissing, it’s obvious that the blond is taking Tony’s advice to heart. The kissing seems softer, more sensual, and Peter begins to shift on the lush bedspread like he’s antsy and can’t keep still. The erection he’s sporting might have something to do with that. Tony can’t help but be a little hard himself after a while, when the kid starts making these cute little noises in the back of his throat that Daniel swallows whole, when Peter shifts and kneels up a little until the two are equal height and Daniel pulls him onto his lap. He looks so tiny there, probably resting flush up against Daniel’s hard cock—because of course the guy will be hard, who wouldn’t get hard with such a sweet young man in their lap kissing them so feverishly?

Daniel coaxes Peter onto his back. His dark clothes blend into the dark bedspread, but Tony knows that when he’s naked (and okay, okay, somehow Tony didn’t even think of that, didn’t think that he’d been seeing the kid naked which now that he acknowledges it is quite obvious but also both terrifying and arousing), anyway, when the kid is naked, his skin is going to glow it will be so pale spread against the black sheets.

Tony lifts one leg to rest the ankle on his knee and hopefully obscure his hard on, because for some reason the kid keeps glancing over to Tony with this look on his face, like he’s wondering, Am I doing okay? Is this okay? Tony has no answers for those questions, because Daniel is pushing up the hem of Peter’s t-shirt exposing that pale midriff, the light pink nipples that are already pebbled from arousal. On his back like this, Peter’s erection is more obvious, a nice average sized bulge in his skinny jeans that makes him hiss whenever Daniel brushes against it.

The jealousy is intense. Worse is just the longing, the desperation to cross that room and push the blond aside and place the most sensual, sucking kisses along that torso, to feel the weight of the Peter’s cock against his palm.

This will ruin Tony; he knows it. There will never be a chance of recovery from this, not when he knows how the kid looks and sounds in the throws of passion.

This will change everything.

Daniel reaches Peter’s nipples and licks across one with the flat of his tongue. Peter keens, his hips jerking upward desperate for friction. God, Peter’s so sensitive (and couldn't Tony have already guessed that from 'senses dialed to eleven'?), tangling his fingers in the bedsheets, eyes squeezed shut, mouth fallen open just from someone tonguing at his nipples. Tony can’t help but watch his expression as he pants—but then the furrow between his flat brows is back, mouth pinching together. Tony flicks his eyes down to Daniel who is biting at what is surely one of Peter’s most sensitive places—

“Stop,” Tony says.

Daniel jerks back like he’s been stung, glancing over his shoulder at Tony, face exasperated. Beyond him, Tony sees Peter’s face though, and it is relieved. It is grateful. It is trusting, those whiskey eyes burning into Tony’s, mouth curling up a little. “What is it now?” Daniel asks.

“He’s sensitive—”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?”

“—just be gentler with him, look at him, he doesn't like it when you—”

“He’s liking it just fine,” Daniel says, reaching down to squeeze at Peter’s cock pointedly. The kid yelps.

Tony stands up, one heartbeat away from activating his suit, because that did not sound like a yelp of pleasure—the blond must see the expression on Tony’s face because his hands fly upwards. Stop, don’t shoot!

“I get it,” Daniel says quickly. “More gentle. Sensitive. Noted.”

Immediately Tony feels like a fucking idiot. What was he going to do, blow the guy away with one of his gauntlets? He resumes his seat, determined not to say another word. He’s just supposed to be here for moral support, a flower on the wall.

“I like it,” Peter pants. His face is bright red even in the dim lighting.

“You like what, baby?” Daniel asks. The guy glances over his shoulder at Tony, brow raised, a pointed see? that makes Tony want to light him up. “Me being a little rough?”

Peter blushes. “No—um. When Mr. Stark tells you how to do it.”

That revelation silences the room and holds it in anticipation for several long moments. Tony’s mouth goes dry, cock aching between his legs. Daniel looks baffled, glancing from Peter sprawled on the bed to Tony in the armchair with all the caution of a man walking a minefield.

“I—okay?” Daniel says. He looks to Tony, shrugging a shoulder. “You cool with that?”

Tony rubs at the space between his eyebrows. How to say that no he’s not fucking okay with it! but also, it's going to make him harder than he's ever been. He’s yet to perfect how to say two opposing things in the same breath, though. This is all too much, it’s crossing lines he never even imagined approaching (alright, there might have been some imagining, but certainly no concrete steps taken). As he opens his mouth to say no, he spots the look on the kid’s face: anxious, eager, imploring.

And he can’t tell this kid no.

“Alright,” says Tony.

“Are you sure, Mr. Stark?” Peter breaths. He’s still hard. “I know this is so, so weird.”

“It’s like you said, kid, our whole lives are weird. Okay—well—go on, I guess. Action?” Tony claps his hands like a fucking clapperboard.

Daniel’s mouth twitches. “What should I do? Mr. Stark.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Tony thinks. “Put your mouth back on his nipples, but be gentle with him this time. He’s sensitive. Whatever you’re thinking of as sensitive, you probably aren’t even close. It won’t take much just—” Daniel is following his direction, leaning down to lick a sweet, soft line over Peter’s left nipple. He takes it into his mouth and suckles at it, all soft and sweetness, and Peter whines, his hands coming up to clutch at the blond strands of hair. “There you go. See? That’s—that’s how he likes it.

“Switch, don’t overstimulate him too soon. He's likely to get overwhelmed by new stimulus. Use your hand to flick—yes, there you go. Gentle. He’s—” Precious, Tony thinks. He swallows. “He’s delicate.”

“Am not,” Peter moans, drawing the words out. His hips arch upwards, but Daniel is to the side of him and not looming over him, so there’s nothing for Peter’s aching cock to rub against.

“Shirt off,” Tony says. His mouth is so dry, he’d kill for a whiskey, neat. “It’s getting in the way.”

They sit up, puppets under his control. Let no one say that Tony doesn’t have control issues, that he doesn’t enjoy people following his explicit instructions, because all of this has him even harder than he thought himself possible to be without any physical stimulus, leaking precum in his pants, balls throbbing in time with his heart. Peter’s head disappears and then reappears as the shirt is tugged up and off, his curls rustled and messy. His eyes are heavy lidded—looking over Daniel’s shoulder at Tony.

“Kiss his neck,” Tony says, hopeful to get the kid to shut his eyes. That gaze is doing nothing healthy to him. “You know the drill. If you suck, suck softly. He bruises easily.”

Peter does shut his eyes, his head tilting back, mouth open in a silent sigh of pleasure. He shudders when Daniel kisses at the spot behind his ear, nipples beading to tiny aching points on his chest. “Please,” Peter breathes.

Tony inhales sharply. His hands are shaking where he clutches at the armrests of the chair to keep from palming his own cock. “Press him back down into the bed—lay over him. Give him something to grind up against. He’s needy.”

“What if he cums?” Daniel asks, already following instructions. Peter keens, his hips rutting up, ankles coming around to hook behind the older man's legs. Daniel mirrors him with a long groan, their hard cocks rubbing together, dry humping like two desperate teenagers instead of one. Meanwhile, Tony sits with the Eiffel Tower between his legs, trying to pretend like it isn’t even there.

“Hold off, Peter,” Tony says. His voice comes out a little harder than he intends it to, but the kid just nods furiously, eyes squeezed shut.

Peter whines unhappily, slowing his hips and letting his ankles come down from around the blond's legs until his feet are flat on the bed, toes curled. He shakes with the effort to hold himself still, teeth clenched. His eyes are misty and dazed when he opens them and searches for Tony’s face. “Yes Mr. Stark,” he says through his teeth. “I—I’ll try—”

Daniel snorts a little where he’s got his head in the crook of Peter’s neck, still placing wet kisses. “It really is like that, isn’t it?”

“What?” Peter breathes, distracted.

“You wish it was Tony Stark fucking you.”

Tony blinks. Peter shudders, eyes popping open.

“What?” Peter gasps. “I—what?”

Daniel resumes the grinding of his hips, the shock of his announcement waning the erection in the younger man’s pants. It’s simulated sex, the way he thrusts down, like they’re already undressed, like he’s stretched the kid open with his fingers and is balls deep inside him, thrusting to touch his belly button from the inside. The whole time, Peter’s eyes stare at the ceiling, wide and unseeing. “Yeah, that’s what gets you off, doesn’t it, baby? You like imagining dirty old men touching you and taking you, don’t you? It might as well be Tony fucking you right now, isn’t that right?”

Peter bursts into tears.

Tony crosses the room in three steps, planting a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and wrenching him off the bed. The younger man sprawls across the floor, tailbone thudding against the carpet, still dressed save for his shoes that he dropped off at the door. “Get out,” Tony says coldly.

“Jesus, man, you’re not allowed to touch me like that—”

“Get out, before I have you escorted off my property.”

“Fuck, I’m going. Christ. I don’t need all this Shakespearean bullshit anyway.” Daniel grabs his bag that he’d left at the foot of the bed, the one with the condoms and lube that he never got the chance to use. He gives Tony a cold look. “By the way, my fee is non-refundable. Don’t ever ask for me again.”

“Be thankful if it’s just the door that hits you on the way out,” Tony says.

Peter is sitting on the bed cross-legged, weeping into his hands. His shirt rests abandoned on the floor somewhere near Tony’s armchair. Carefully, he edges to the bed and gingerly sits on the dark bedspread. Jesus, what a shitshow this turned out to be, he thinks to himself. He goes to place a hand on the kid’s shoulder but thinks twice, not wanting to touch the bare skin, not after what Banana Republic said to upset him so much. “Peter—I won’t ask if you’re okay, because I do have eyes and clearly you aren’t, but—are you hurt?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony breaths a small sigh of relief.

“Want me to chase him down and let him kiss my gauntlet? I can have FRIDAY stop the elevator with him in it.”

Peter gives a wet laugh. He draws his palms away from his face, and his eyes are red and tender, cheeks damp with tears. Wiping at them with the back of his hand, he shakes his head again. “No—that’s illegal, Mr. Stark. He was just doing his job.”

“The offensive dirty talk? That wasn’t in his job description. I’m sorry, kid. He shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

The young man won’t even look at him, staring down at where his bare ankles cross, sniffing. “It wasn’t offensive,” Peter mutters, stopping Tony mid-sentence.

“Then—?”

“Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry,” Peter says, fresh tears dripping down his cheeks and off of his pointed little chin. He wrings his hands, knuckles white. “I really messed things up. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Peter, it’s okay,” promises Tony. “If anything, this is my fault. You just wanted more experience, and you trusted me to find someone—”

Peter looks him in the eye. There's a heat there, angry coals stoked back to blazing. “God, Mr. Stark. You’re so stupid. Natasha warned me, but I said there was no way you’d be this stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

“Daniel was right,” Peter says, voice raising with every word. “When, when I touch myself—I imagine it’s you. When I was with him, I just wanted to pretend he was you. When I asked you if you knew anyone who would help me with, with kissing and sex, I wanted you to offer, you dummy!”

[thesixthh0ekage]

fic previews

here are some of the things I have in progress-- y’all tell me what you’re feelin.

1. mile high club (t’challa x reader)

The sound of your feet pounding against the linoleum flooring is deafening but you can’t deny the odd sense of euphoria that’s been building since you tripped the alarm.

What had started as a quiet Wednesday afternoon with Tony down in the labs at the compound had then turned into a surprise visit from your boyfriend-- T’Challa Udaku, King of Wakanda and the Black Panther himself. However you would soon find out that this wasn’t a personal visit. The King had received intel from one of his many spies abroad regarding the whereabouts of one of Klaue’s former associates, and a small quantity of vibranium that had found its way into one of New York City’s swanky, high-rise offices. He’d stopped by the avengers compound with the hope of enlisting a certain spider’s help infiltrating the building, only to find out she was away on personal leave for the next few days.

T’Challa was prepared to scrap that plan and try sneaking in without any sort of distraction… that is until Okoye brilliantly suggested that you be the distraction instead. You’d jumped at the opportunity, though convincing T’Challa to let you help was another task in itself.

He wanted you safe, above all things, and he knew that allowing you to accompany him on this mission was certainly not conducive to such wishes. Not to mention the fact that he’d never hear the end of it if anything happened to you because of this-- you were Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes’ favorite-- read, only-- goddaughter, after all, never mind the fact that you’d never done anything of the sort in your life.

He had made that point to you-- several times in fact-- though in the end he was outnumbered. Your enthusiasm coupled with not only Okoye, but Shuri and Ayo’s insistence as well? The King never stood a chance against such odds.

So that’s how you ended up here, streaking through the halls of some stuffed-shirt CEO’s Manhattan penthouse-- and boy is it a long way down from the 60th floor.

You feel… giddy, despite the way your lungs burn with every breath, and suddenly you’re laughing out loud.  

Who knew running for your life could be this fun?!

“What is going on up there, mnadi? Do you have it?”

The sudden sound of T’Challa’s voice over the comms sends a jolt through you and you nearly trip over your own feet rounding a corner at full speed. You choose to ignore the sound of gunfire in the background.

“Oh yeah,” you huff, looking down at the map your kimoyo beads are projecting. Left at the next intersection. How the hell have you lived so long without these things?! “I most definitely have it!”

“What did I tell you, eh?!” Your face splits into a shit-eating grin when you hear Okoye chime in-- you practically feel T’Challa roll his eyes. “I knew she could do it!”

“Do not encourage her!” The King scolds, but despite his attempt to be firm you can both hear the amusement in his voice.  

“Oh it is way too late for that!” You quip, sassy even as breathless as you are. His hearty laugh echos in your ear, and the sound seems to light up your whole body. Your smile grows even wider.  “I’m clearly a natural!”

2. untiled thor fic

Okay, that’s another one done and only…  

You let the thought trail off and take a moment and survey the scene, counting softly under your breath as you tally up every manila folder and the huge number of unread emails on your computer screen. You make it to thirty-three before you decide that the whole exercise is pointless.

You’ve been cooped up in your office for hours, catching up on emails and sorting through the veritable mountain of paperwork that has collected on your desk in the last few weeks.

It really wasn’t your fault, though. Everyone’s work has suffered due to the whole Sokovia Accords fiasco and, between that and worrying about a certain norse god’s whereabouts, the disaster in your office had naturally taken a back-seat.

Now at the end of it all, you still haven’t succeeded in tracking down Thor and the team is down no less than seven avengers-- the amount of paperwork that came with that kind of scandal was staggering, not to mention the residual fallout from the accident in Lagos.

How the hell did you get stuck dealing with all this Department of Damage Control bullshit, anyway?! The Avengers compound is chaos these days, and lately you were the one people were looking to for answers.

A pained grunt rips through you, and you smack your head against the nearest pile defeat, making a mental note rip Tony a new asshole the next time you see him.

You lift your head from the of files, propping it on your fist instead as you went back to scrolling through your inbox, too fast to really see anything, more so to marvel at how quickly they’ve managed to pile up in the weeks since you’d last checked them.

“Hey, FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Miss?” the AI’s voice is patched through to the PA system immediately, filling your once silent office with much needed noise.

“I need some help getting through these emails,” you sigh, massaging your temples. “You up for it?”

“Of course,” is the instant reply, and with that the two of you set to work clearing your inbox of unwanted messages.

It’s boring work, but necessary, and having FRIDAY there to help seems to make the task much faster to complete.

Once the final file has been read and filed correctly, you push away from your desk with a heavy sigh, stretching your legs up off the floor and watching the ceiling spin above you while you try to let your mind settle for a moment.

FRIDAY finishes up an extremely long-winded and condescending email from General Ross’ office, and you throw your hands up in the air with an elated shout.

“Ugh, thank you Jesus that one’s over-- delete it, please! Tony can deal with that bullshit,” you say, propping your feet up on your-- now clean and tidy-- desk. “Alright, FRIDAY, last one. Let’s get this over with.”

You close your eyes as she begins to read, though your brow furrows as soon as you hear the subject line. “An electronic letter from…” FRIDAY hesitates from a moment before continuing, “Thor…?”

3. flipmode (erik stevens x reader)

“Oh fuck, Erik,” you whine, screwing your eyes shut as he continues to slam into you. You arc off the mattress, heels digging into his back in an attempt to bring him in even closer. “Ugh, please just--”

You’re cut off when a particularly powerful thrust sends a jolt up your spine, and stars dance across the back of your lids. The sound you make is pitiful, voice catching on a sob as you feebly struggle against him. Erik doesn’t even pause-- only presses your wrists more firmly into the bed as he continues to rock into you.

“You wanna cum, baby?” he asks, and if you didn’t feel so desperate to come you figure you’d feel some sort of pride over how wrecked he sounds. It’s hard to say exactly how long you’ve been at it-- though to you it feels like he’s kept you teetering on the edge for an eternity.

You open your eyes and find him staring down at you-- brown eyes bright and wild.

“Yes,” you say, your voice raw and ragged, “yes, please.”

Erik actually laughs, adjusting his grip on your wrists to hold them in one hand, while the other moves to wrap around your throat again. You clench around him at the feeling, your eyes fluttering closed. “Then you gon’ learn to stop calling me out my fuckin’ name,” he says, and your eyes fly open.

Shit!

He doesn’t give you a chance to defend yourself, or even apologize, before he’s pulling out of you and using the hand on your neck to roughly pull you up to a sitting position.

4. hot sugar (harley quinn x reader)

“What’s your name, sugar?” the sound of a syrupy-sweet voice draws your attention from playing with the rim of your glass, and you look up to find the woman you’ve been eyeing all night staring right back at you.

She bites the end of her straw when you finally meet her eyes, the sultry smirk spread across her face a bit wicked as well. You turn a bit in your bar stool, resting one arm on the bar and reaching out to her with the other.

You introduce yourself, gripping her hand firmly when she offers it to you and she leans forward to look at you through her lashes. “What’s yours?”

She laughs at that, raising one dark eyebrow at you. “I think you know who I am, sweet cheeks.”

You return her devilish smirk with one of your own. True, you’re pretty sure you know exactly who your mystery woman is. If her platinum-blonde hair and multicolored makeup are anything to go by. Well, that and the array of tattoos she has covering her body, most notably the ones on her face and chest, the one on her left shoulder reading Property of Joker. But even with all that you can’t be sure. Gotham is a strange place, and copycats are a dime a dozen in this city.

“I might,” you reply, releasing her hand and turning back to your own drink. “Still, it’s never good to assume, you know? I’d rather ask up front than make an ass of myself.”

In your peripheral you can see her shift closer to you, one of her hands moving to settle on your knee.

“Harley Quinn,” she says, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. You realize she’s sizing you up-- trying to determine whether or not you’d be down for the ride.  

“Really?” you ask, raising a brow, and an amused smirk settles on your lips.

She nods, leaning into you even more, her hand trailing a bit higher up your leg. “The one and only.”

5. the ex factor (digger “captain boomerang” x reader)

You freeze outside the door when you hear the first noise. You’d been rummaging through your bag with one hand, trying to find your keys, while balancing your grocery bags with the other, and you’d been so distracted that you hadn’t even realized the sounds were coming from inside your place until you’d been about to step inside.

Your first instinct is to be afraid, but as you listen you find that the sounds are quite different from what you’d expect to hear from someone sacking your apartment.

A/N: these are some (but not even all!) of the fics I have in progress. Some i have been working on longer than others, and I’m workin on eventually getting through them all. Which ones would you guys like to see first?